cw - 18+ smut, unprotected sex (don’t do), (i can’t be bothered writing warning just know it’s 18+
sabrina carpenter was playing from the speakers of the uber you were in. you were heading to a photoshoot for a towel and bathrobe brand. you were told there would be a male model there too but you didn’t know who the model was. once the uber dropped you off you headed inside. “hey!” a lady says to you. “you must be y/n.” “hi! yes that’s me.” you say smiling politely. the photographer and jordan are just through that door waiting for you.” she says cheerfully pointing to a door. “okay thanks.” you say. *jordan? it better not be my ex boyfriend jordan* you thought to yourself before walking in the door. “y/n your here!” the photographer says. you smile until you see jordan talking to someone in the corner. it wasn’t just any guy called jordan it was jordan huxhold, your ex boyfriend. you stood and stared as you watched him turn around to look at you. his face changed when he saw you. you both stared at each other for a while. “you guys know each other?” a lady asked holding some towels. “um yeah.” jordan says. “are you guys still okay to do the shoot?” the photographer says watching you stare at jordan. “uh yeah it’s fine.” you say. “okay perfect! i’ll get you guys your first outfits.” a lady says grabbing some bath robes. “here you guys go.” she hands you and jordan both a robe and points over to some changing rooms. once you were both changed they took you over to the first set which was a bed. “alright so i’ll get jordan to lay on the bed propping yourself up with your elbows.” a lady instructed. “and y/n can you lay on your stomach looking at jordan.” you did as she said laying down then looking at jordan. he was looking at you too. you felt your heart start to pound at the sight of him. the camera snapped and jordan looked away from you. “perfect!” the lady said leading you guys over to another set which was a bathroom. “jordan can you wear this towel around your waist please. and y/n wear it over your chest.” you and jordan both went to get changed again. once you stepped out of the changing room you couldn’t help yourself from staring at jordan’s abs. your eyes kept trickling down his body to the veins leading down lower. and he couldn’t stop staring at your either, the way your nipples poked through the fabric and how the towel stopped right after your ass. jordan was told to sit infront of the bathtub and lean against it while you were inside the tub. again you guys had to look at each other. you felt yourself getting wet. *fuck* you though *why am i getting wet from looking at my ex* you tried to stop the dirty thoughts but the ache between your legs wouldn’t go away. luckily this was the last shot they needed and you and jordan could now go home. you tried to leave as quick as you could but before you got to your car you heard your name being called. you turned around and it was jordan. “y/n” he said. “what?” you asked “can we talk?” he asked. “i’ll take you to my place and we can have a drink.” he said. “jordan i really shouldn’t.” you said. “come on, just a talk.” he said looking into your eyes. *fuck it* you thought. “okay.” you said to jordan getting into his car.
you guys were quiet for the drive. once you got to his apartment you walked inside to see payton on the couch. “hey jorda- y/n?” he said but jordan hurried you to his room before payton could say anything else. “jordan what are we doing?” you said. he just looked at you for a while until you couldn’t take it anymore. you kissed him hungrily sucking his lips slightly. “shit.” he said hands moving to your shirt to lift it off. you took his shirt off too. leaving hickies on his neck. jordan slipped his hand under your skirt teasing your underwear. your head fell back. “fuck jordan.” he smiled watching your reaction he pulled your skirt and underwear down at the same time as you pulled his jeans and boxers off. he pushed you under him onto the bed still kissing you. your hands tangled in his curls. he lined himself up with your pussy and pounded into you causing you to moan loudly. he moved his hand to your mouth. “shh baby, payton’s just outside remember?” you bit your lip trying to stifle your moans every time he pounded into you. “oh jordan.” you yelled out not able to control your noises. you could tell he was close as he started groaning and moving faster with desire. you held his sides watching his abs tense with every thrust. you felt his cock start to twitch. “fuck.” he moaned. “i’m gonna cum.” he said pulling out and laying against the bed whole body twitching as he came. the sight of him tipped you over the edge. you vision went blurry so overstimulated with pleasure. once you and jordan both came down from your highs jordan took you to his bathroom to get you cleaned up. “i shouldn’t stay.” you say grabbing your bag. “okay sweetheart, you better not ghost me though.” he says. “i won’t, bye jordan.” you say giving him a quick kiss before leaving. you stood outside the apartment door for a moment and you could hear jordan and payton talking. “jordan! that’s your ex girlfriend!” you heard payton yell. “we didn’t do anything.” jordan said which made you chuckle. “bitch i’m not deaf. all i could hear was “jordan oh jordan fuck i’m gonna cum!”” payton said. “shut up.” jordan replied embarrassed. “we gotta get soundproof walls.” payton said. “how do you think i feel when alicia’s over?” jordan says. you smile to yourself as you leave their apartment and you text jordan. “maybe come to my place next time i heard payton from in the hallway.” jordan replies almost instantly. “fuck payton we can do what we want.” you laugh to yourself before calling an uber to head home.
ivy’s note - first jordan fic ayyy did we like? i hope yall liked it cause i liked it he’s so yummy and ofc i had to add me boi payton in 😝
Fuck. There you were again—lying on your back taking in Chris’s dick. His rapid speed in which he fucked you was something that you would still have to get used to.
In and out—and out and in. Back and forth all over again constantly—Chris’s face was very flushed…but he almost seemed like he looked angry. Which you knew he was, you were the cause of it.
“Fuuck baby.”
Chris pulled his dick out of your tight pussy, with a steady motion of stroking the thick member up and down—he then spread your legs more.
“Shake that pussy for me—don’t fucking close your legs.”
Your body was already worn out from the first three orgasms he gave you with just his mouth alone. As you sat up a bit, Chris smirked as you begin to hold the back end of your thighs while simultaneously wiggling your hips. The movement allowed your thighs to gently clap as your pussy leaked.
“Mhm.”
Was all that left Chris’s wet pink lips as he slammed his dick right back into you. Earlier you had been unknowingly sitting a bit too close to Matt as you guys watched tv, this obviously annoyed Chris. The part that really riled him up was when, as you got up to leave(with Chris’s orders) Matt’s face was practically in your ass because of the short skirt you wore.
“Chris I said I was sorry—.”
You felt Chris’s dick slam deep inside so hard that it reached your cervix. As you tried to focus on your breathing due to being overwhelmed—Chris began to rub your clit but ever so slightly stopping when you almost came.
Chris flipped you over so now you rested on your stomach. He loved ass—he loves seeing the way your ass clapped hard as his dick pounded that tight hole. His hand reached down to grab ahold of your hair, making a fist while your body curled up against his chest.
“Yeahh?? Talk shit with dick in you.”
Your eyes started to water from how mean he was being even though you knew deep down you secretly enjoyed it. Chris smacked and smacked your ass till it felt like his hand print would be left behind. As he let go of your hair Chris would then wrap his large veiny hands round your neck.
“C-Chris…I wasn’t talkin—.”
This only made Chris let out a low laugh beside your ear before kissing your cheek. He knew you weren’t dissing him—he could feel how much you would tighten around his dick as he degraded you in some way. Chris started to kiss your neck softly—showing that he was still the same loving boyfriend you knew and had.
“Mmm right here. Shhhh shhh i’m here.”
Chris’s strokes were still fast as your ass clapped even hard but because of his soft spoken tone, paired with his gentle actions—you couldn’t do anything but cry and kiss him back.
You fell softly onto the bed again when Chris released your neck. The sounds of your pussy letting out wet queefs as Chris pumped slowly in and out of it only made him get closer to climax. Chris took his dick out every now and then to rub it between your ass cheeks and back of your pussy—stimulating you as your fucked our body laid there.
“Almost there…thaaats it.”
You let out soft moans that almost sounded like whimpers—your voice was tired as you just knew that you had to just lay there and take Chris’s dick. He smacked your ass one last time before speeding up again—his dick started to make your body become stimulated from inside as your cunt rubbed into the bed which gave double stimulation.
“Chris…I can’t take it.”
Just as you said this, both you and Chris started cumming hard. He wore no condom this time because he was in such a rush to put you in your place and admittedly—you liked the feeling of his huge thick white dick feeling up your tight wet cunt with his kids.
You’d pictured your wedding ever since you were a little girl. People loved pretending they didn’t care about marriage—loved saying it was just a piece of paper or an outdated institution. Maybe there was truth in that. But if you were honest, you’d always wanted the white dress. The confetti. The kiss. The fireworks.
There was always someone who’d roll their eyes when you admitted you couldn’t wait to get married. Someone who’d laugh and say, “You’re just like every other girl.”
And maybe you were.
You didn’t mind being like the other girls.
What was so wrong with being like the other girls?
Your father basically knew everyone in town, which explained why, after only being back in Richmond for a few weeks, you’ve already received a wedding invitation. Family friend or friend of a family friend–you couldn’t remember–but it didn't matter. You were just excited to dress up.
Your mom knew how much you loved to dress up, especially when you were little. She’d invite all of your friends over, do your hair and makeup, let you rummage through her closet, and you’d dance to whatever mix she had made up for that night. You learned how to walk in heels at age six. Your father hated it, your mother said it was a good skill to have. You loved that, no matter how old you got, you could still have those moments with your mother.
“Honey? Can you help me zip up my dress?” Your mom says from across the room. She looked beautiful, dressed in gold with her hair up.
You tug the zipper until it settles at the nape of her neck, your eyes meeting in the mirror. Her eyes meet her reflection again, head tilting, smoothing out her dress, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“You look fine, Mom. This dress is beautiful.”
“Are you sure I don’t look like I’m trying to be young?”
It didn’t matter how beautiful a woman was. At some point, she’d stand in front of a mirror and wonder if she looked older than yesterday.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You look like you.”
She smiles.
Your Dad was an awful driver. Ever since you could remember, your Mom’s hand was tightly grasped around the car’s grab handle, yelling, “They’re breaking!”
He drove every single time, nonetheless.
You pull into the parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires, and you can feel it already. There is always such an energy that comes with a wedding, like a vortex that sucks you in and makes you forget all your problems, as if everything will work out in the end.
You could tell the bride’s mother had endless nights that ended at three a.m. with sore fingers from making sure the flowers looked perfect. You knew the bride had meticulous Pinterest boards that outlined every single thing she dreamed of. There isn’t a single blade of grass that is out of place. Each chair has white bows, and candles line the walkway. The bride and groom decided not to choose sides, letting everyone pick where they want to sit. You liked that.
Older couples sit together, reminiscing about their wedding day fifty years ago. Little kids get shushed by their mothers and their hands swatted when they reach for the candles. Single men and women scan the crowd for potential dance partners during the slow songs. You wondered if you had any potential takers.
The tears start immediately when the music swells. You get to watch the people loved the most by the bride and groom walk down the aisle. The parents who can’t seem to comprehend that this day has already come, that their babies are growing up and starting their own families just as they did. You watch friends of theirs walk down the aisle, all from different parts of their lives. Some knew them when they were in diapers, or when they got their first pimple, or their first heartbreak; others met them later in life, when they felt like it was impossible to make friends as an adult, until you meet someone who makes you wonder how you ever lived without them.
You clap along with everyone else as the groom finally kisses the bride, smiling ear to ear, salty tears running down your cheeks, the taste lingering on your tongue. You don’t care that you don’t personally know these people. You just know that everyone deserves love.
Everyone.
Chairs scrape as champagne is popped and the music resumes. You watch two people walk into their new life together, leading everyone to their next chapter.
Someone refills your glass with Riesling as you settle against the bar, your limbs pleasantly light, your attention drifting from one conversation to the next.
And then you hear it.
A name.
Chris’ name.
It could be any Chris. Chris is a popular name, but you can’t mistake that laugh. Boyish but still deep somehow.
Your stomach tightens before you even turn around.
Please don’t be him.
Please be him.
He knew weddings were always reunions. Old coworkers, high school friends, distant cousins—everyone suddenly pretended they remembered your name. It wasn’t that he didn’t like weddings; he wasn’t that cold-hearted or boring, but they were different now—a reminder of what could’ve been, what should’ve been. He had made peace with the life he’d chosen years ago; it wasn’t a fresh wound, but he couldn’t deny that sometimes something took a stitch out.
The beer sweats in his hand, and he adjusts the top of his suit, nodding along to whatever story he’s being told about something that happened twenty years ago. He knows he needs to shake himself out of it. Drink his beer. Catch up. Stop thinking.
“How’s your mama?”
“Oh, she’s good, man. She still gives my dad hell, even though he’s on the other side now. Still blames him for the dead grass because he set off fireworks once in the front lawn when she didn’t want him to. She complains every Fourth of July. Then I catch her smiling.” He grins.
“Good to hear she’s doin’ alright.”
Their beer bottles clink.
Chris smiles and takes a sip of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
His eyes drift, scanning the room before they stop.
He blinks.
God, he must be tired.
No.
It can’t be you.
He would’ve known if you were going to be there. Surely your father would have mentioned it.
His eyes leave yours for a second before finding yours again.
Fuck, you’re already walking over, and his suit suddenly feels entirely too tight on his neck.
This shouldn’t be anything.
This is nothing.
This is his best friend’s daughter walking over to him at a wedding. This is normal. This is okay.
It didn’t matter that he’d never seen your hair pinned up before. It didn’t matter that he’d gotten so used to seeing you in denim shorts and old t-shirts that the sight of you in a dress like that felt…wrong. He could tell that you’d been crying. Your cheeks were still a bit pink from crying, the tip of your nose matching them.
You looked…
Christ.
He wasn’t stupid. Of course, you were beautiful. Look at your parents, for example.
Your parents.
Your dad.
His best friend.
Your dad.
You’re smiling at him.
Why are you smiling?
Fuck it’s fine that you’re smiling, you’re just happy.
You’re a happy girl.
He knows that.
It’s a wedding.
Everyone is happy.
Everything is fine.
“Chris!”
He needs to open his mouth.
“I had no idea that you were going to be here. This place is fucking nuts, open bar too.” You grin widely.
His eyes catch on your lips first, still damp from the wine in your glass.
Then your eyes.
Bright.
Happy.
You’d done something different around your eyes.
He swallows, trying to remember where he usually looks when he speaks to people.
“Uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “yeah, they really outdid themselves.”
“You clean up nice.”
“Thanks.”
He shifts his weight.
“Uh… so do you.”
You smile like you always do.
His stomach tightens anyway.
He needs four more beers.
“So did you come with your dad or?”
“No, Chris, I moved here a few weeks ago and already got close with someone who invited me to their wedding.”
He rolls his eyes and lets out a little chuckle.
“Smart ass. Just surprised he didn’t tell me you guys would be here.”
“Hm, maybe the world doesn’t always revolve around you, Christopher.”
He flushes up his neck.
Christopher.
That is completely appropriate to say…
…because that is his name.
“Such a mouth on ya.”
“Yup.” You emphasize the “P” while he pretends not to notice how your lips look when doing that.
He watches you look around the room. He’s always noticed the way you watch the way you absorb the world around you like a sponge.
“You like weddings.”
“Love them. Don’t you?”
His eyebrows raise, and the bottle stops at his lips, and he shrugs.
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re one of those people.” He watches your eyes roll.
“I’m not, I’m not. I like ‘em too.”
“You never got married.”
He knows you’re just making an observation. He knows you don’t realize you’ve pulled at one of those stitches he’d spent years tying back together.
He can tell that you notice the surprised, slightly hurt look on his face.
“-Not that there is anything wrong with that.”
Stitch it back, Chris.
“God, kid. I’m just an old guy who gets no pussy to you, huh?”
He watches you choke on your wine.
“Probably shouldn’t have said the P word.” He blushes, shaking his head, clearly embarrassed by how his mouth is getting away from him. “I’m a little drunk.”
You roll your eyes. “Was just a little surprised, but I’ve heard the word pussy before, Chris. I’m an adult.”
His eyes dart around the room. “Okay, we have to stop saying pussy.”
He jumps out of his skin when he hears your mom calling you over for a family picture.
“Ugh, gotta go. Don’t get too drunk.”
“Won’t make any promises and tell your dad I said fuck off, since when doesn’t he tell me shit?”
He watches you giggle before his eyes follow you as you walk away. A smile is plastered on his face, and his cheeks feel hot.
His head turns, and the floor underneath him is no longer there.
His smile disappears before he even realizes it’s gone.
Something deep inside him pulls tight.
Another stitch comes loose.
“I’m so sorry I’m late! My flight got delayed. God, you look stunning.”
He watches her hug the bride.
He turns.
His legs reach the bar, but his head is a few feet behind him.
Years behind him.
She still talked with her hands.
Still tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed.
You feel your heartbeat finally start to settle as you finish taking pictures with your family so your mom can post them to Facebook for all of your great aunts to see.
Chris looked…different.
You’d gotten so used to seeing him in worn T-shirts, faded jeans, and work boots that the black suit almost felt like it belonged to someone else.
Then he smiled.
And somehow that made it worse.
He looked so…
…shit.
Had his fucking sleeves rolled up, too.
You finish half of your glass in one sip.
You make your way to the dance floor, dancing with your mom just like you did when you were little. You feel light and free, giggling and tripping over your feet a bit, even though you know how to walk in heels.
You’re tipsy.
And you have a crush.
Your eyes scan for Chris in the crowd. You know he wouldn’t come up to dance with you, but you secretly hope he does. You hope that he spins you away from your mom and gives you that cheesy smile he always has. You wonder what it would feel like when his hand settled at your waist.
You see your dad over at the bar with Chris, your Dad’s hand on Chris’ shoulder, but something’s off. It doesn’t look like he’s giving your dad shit for not telling him you guys would be there. His forehead is creased, and his lips turned down into a frown. Not a cheesy smile. He looks pale, like he saw a ghost. Your dad is whispering in Chris’s ear over the loudspeaker, but Chris isn’t saying anything.
Your eyes follow Chris as he pushes the doors out onto the back patio.
“I’m gonna go get some air.” You yell to your mom over the music.
Before you realize you’re doing it, your feet are already carrying you toward the patio doors.
You see him before he sees you. The same beer hangs loosely from his hand as he stares out into the dark.
“Hope you didn’t take me too seriously when I said don’t get too drunk.” The words coming out of your mouth sound far away. Not confident.
He jumps a bit before turning to look at you. He exhales out of his nose. “Don’t see ya with a drink either.”
“Fast drinker.”
“Hm.”
“You okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
He laughs.
“Something like that.”
It’s quiet.
You can hear the rustling in front of you as the crewman sets up the fireworks.
You watch Chris’ fingers work on the beer bottle. Peeling back the damp paper. He’s stopped making eye contact. Just staring out.
“Seemed like you were having fun before.” Foreign, again.
Chris closes his eyes briefly.
“Just saw someone I didn’t think I’d ever see again.”
Quiet.
“Somehow my ex is in that room even though she moved thousands of miles away from me.”
Your heart thuds against your ribcage.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even that I want her back or anything, I don’t. It’s just… I don’t know-”
“-You just feel whiplashed.”
Chris lets out a dry laugh at that. “Exactly.”
“What happened?” It comes out before you can stop it.
Chris takes a long sip of his beer.
“She wanted more from life. Work was important to her; she wanted to move, and I didn’t. I grew up here, I love it here, this is my place, ya know? And I wanted it to work, hell, I wanted it to work, but I couldn’t give her the life she wanted. So she left after years together. One day I woke up, and she was packed up, and that was that.”
“I don’t think wanting different things means you weren’t enough.”
Chris turns his head to look at you.
Really looks at you.
Chris can feel his chest open up when he sees your face, only being lit up by the lights behind you.
You should be inside.
You should be dancing with your mom.
Instead, you’re out here with him.
The music sounds muffled from the inside now.
Little feet pitter-pattering while they run inside the venue with glow sticks.
The fireworks are still being set up, wheelbarrows weaving through the grass, carrying explosives that are too heavy to carry.
Chris feels sick. Not from the beer. Not from his ex.
The realization hits hard enough that he has to steady himself against the railing.
He watches you rub your arms as you try to gather some heat.
This wasn’t just about tonight.
This wasn’t just seeing your hair up or seeing you in that dress.
It’s been there.
Waiting.
It’s been the smile on his face every time his phone lights up from your name.
It’s been the diner.
It’s been the flea market.
It’s been the fishing trip.
It’s been every Saturday.
His hands move before his brain catches up. He wraps his jacket around you to warm you up, and he watches your eyes lift to his face.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
He feels your hand on the collar of his shirt.
He can’t get his feet to move.
He feels your lips on his and his eyes flutter for a second before it’s over.
He watches your eyes search his face like you’re waiting for him to tell you you’d made a mistake.
Every decent part of him knows he should step back.
Quiet.
He should apologize.
He should walk away.
He should tell you this can’t happen.
He should walk through those doors right now and confess to your dad.
“... Fuck, kid.”
Instead, he’s leaning down to kiss you again.
The fireworks explode in front of you, and the doors break open, letting out a swarm of people who are completely unaware that his life had just changed.
Chris pulls back immediately.
“Chris…”
He lets the crowd take you back.
There was no stitching this one back together.
𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎… oooo i hope that the pov switching was not confusing !! also is this like too long or
ⁱⁿ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ staring at dealerᵎᵎchris’s gun tucked in the waistband of his pants had your thoughts running 100 mph.
“damn kid what you doin be careful” chris said as you sat on his lap directly on the gun resting in his waistband, his words went in one ear and out the other as you place soft kisses on his neck slowly grinding down onto the gun. moving his arm to remove the gun from his pants you halt your movements gripping his arm "keep it there" Chris lets out a breathy scoff looking at you "keep it there?" "please Chris" you whine grinding down harder letting your head fall onto his shoulder. Chris was in awe at the sight, never seeing this side of you before, looking so fucking pathetic."fuck baby look at you" he breathes out digging his fingers in your thighs helping your sloppy movements. it felt so good. your head going fuzzy as soft moans left your lips "please" you whine not even 100% sure what you were begging for. you just needed more. "please what hm? im gonna need more than that baby" "need you to touch me so bad please" you breath out a whiny moan the hard gun resting in his pants rubbing against you perfectly. chris lets out a hum and lays you on your back on the couch, placing soft kisses on your inner thighs teasingly "chris stop teasing..want you to touch me with your gun" you mumbled the last part quietly, not sure how chris would take it. but he heard you. and he was more then happy to agree to the idea "you sure mama?" you nod quickly letting out a string of quiet begs. Chris smirks pulling the gun from his waistband and unloading it, throwing the clip to the side. slowly tracing the gun up your thighs and brushing it over your thin silky shorts that Chris loves so much. you whine bucking your hips making chris's smirk grow "aw look at you baby,can see how wet you are through your shorts." Chris pulls your shorts down mouth watering at the sight of your glistening cunt before gently placing the cold tip of the gun flat against your clit causing you to let out a gasp 'o-oh" Chris is enjoying every second of this. the way your mouth is hung open, the way your hips bucked into the gun. it was enough to make him cum in his pants right there. choked moans left your lips as he circled the cold tip around your clit slowly. he couldn't help but grind his hips into the couch at the sight. you looked to pretty. "m..more please" Chris could barely understand you, taking a min for it to really process before he's back to smirking like an idiot rubbing the tip of the gun teasingly over your entrance "such a pathetic slut" he breathed out before slowly sliding the tip of the gun into you looking up at your face to make sure he wasn't hurting you. once he seen nothing but pure pleasure on your face he looked back down at your dripping cunt before moving the gun in and out of you causing your back to arch and choked sobs to leave your lips. chris continued to grind into the couch as he watched the tip of 𝒉𝒊𝒔 gun sliding in and out of 𝒉𝒊𝒔 girl. it was the prettiest sight he has ever seen "such a pathetic girl look at you all fucked out on my gun hm" he knew you were close with your body spasming "come on baby let go for me you can do it" he licks his lips before he's sucking and lapping at your clit adding onto the pleasure of his gun sliding in and out of you "just let go mama." your stomach tightened as your pleasure built up mumbling mindless babbles and curses as your orgasm crashes over you. "atta girl" chris slowly slides his gun out of you before bringing it up to your lips watching you lick around the tip of it "fuck baby your gonna have to use your mouth on me like that next."
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who isn't to big on pda. if you’re walking in a crowd, he’ll hold your hand tight or rest it on the small of your back so you don’t get separated.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who speaking of hand holding, always holds your hand. no matter where you guys are, holding your hand just grounds him.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who gets jealous quietly if someone’s talking to you too much, he’ll just slip his arm around your shoulders and pretend like it’s casual. and then he'll pretend he’s not jealous, but his face immediately gives him away.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, despite not being a fan on pda, is 100% attached to your hip in private.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, speaking of being clingy, when he’s needy, will just flop into your lap, mumble “hi” and close his eyes like a koala bear.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO whose love language is quality time. he doesn’t care if you’re cleaning, doing your makeup, driving, or napping— he just wants to be there, with you.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who insists on driving you everywhere. but if you start taking too long getting ready, he'll honk the horn dramatically to mess with you.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, when you’re cold, doesn’t just give you his hoodie, he’ll zip it up on you himself like it’s a ritual.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who steals your chapstick but denies it with the worst poker face imaginable.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, when you fight, gets quiet. he’ll just sit there, lips pressed, clearly stewing.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who hates yelling, he’d rather step outside, cool down, and then come back with a quiet, “okay…can we talk now?” and the minute you start crying, it’s game over. his whole stubborn act crumbles and he’s holding your face, whispering, “no, no, baby, i’m sorry.”
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who loves back hugs he’ll bury his chin in your shoulder and sway you side to side.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, if he falls asleep before you, unconsciously searches for you in bed, like full-on frown, hand patting around until he feels you next to him.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who loves when you play with his rings or hoodie strings while he talks. secretly lives for that absentminded affection.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who loves late-night drives with music, they're a must. he has playlists just for you two.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who makes fun of you for ordering the same thing every time at your favorite place, but if they’re out of it, he’ll literally protest on your behalf.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who tries to teach you how to parallel park, but it always ends with him laughing and saying, “okay, move over, i’ll do it.”
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who saves every random photo and mini snapchat vlog you send him— even the blurry “look at this raccoon” ones.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who kisses your hair more than your lips sometimes. it’s comforting to him.
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who, if you’re sick, will complain about how gross it is but then he’s making you soup and tucking you in and kissing you goodnight
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who says “i love you” in small ways, like “text me when you get home” or “eat something before you leave.”
BOYFRIEND MATT STURNIOLO who sometimes just stares at you for a while, shakes his head with that tiny smile, and goes, “you’re so pretty, it’s stupid.”
cw: toxic relationship dynamic, sub!chris x dom!reader, drug use (coke and weed), mentions of cheating, rough sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, degradation, dacryphilia, scratching, blood, mention of safe word (not used), overstimulation, chris is desperate as fuck
credit: gif by @hotelstares
You don’t plan it. You never do. It happens the same way every time: a restless evening that tastes like spoiled sugar, a playlist you shouldn’t have pressed play on, and a text you swore you’d never send again. Your thumb hovers, then betrays you.
bring me some coke. and a little weed.
if you're close by.
Three dots bloom and disappear like they’re ashamed of themselves. When his reply finally lands, 'on my way', you feel the tiny, traitorous flare of satisfaction you always hate yourself for.
While you wait, the apartment hums like a partially remembered song. The AC rattles. A cracked mug sweats on the coffee table. You sit cross-legged on the rug, sweatshirt sleeves shoved over your fists the way you used to when you’d steal his hoodies and he’d whine about never getting them back. You tell yourself you’re calm and in control. And you are, for the most part. Still, the old film reel flickers when you close your eyes. First night, first joke, first kiss in the back stairwell when the party was too loud and he kept looking at your mouth like you were the only real thing left in the building. After that, it was all gasoline. Fast, bright, and too much oxygen. You were ridiculous together, dizzy and mean with how hard you wanted. He called you ‘his problem' and you laughed because he was right.
The end was ugly in that ordinary way heartbreak always is. No screaming, just the sound of something trusted collapsing. A photo you weren’t meant to see. A girl you didn’t know in a bathroom you’d recognize by the ugly tile alone. He stammered excuses that sounded like static. ‘I was— I was messed up. I know you gave me just one chance, and I—‘ He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. ‘I had one chance and I fucked it up. I was fucked up.’ He said it like an incantation might undo itself if he said it softly enough.
You didn’t forgive him. And you still don’t. But there he is, every time you call, your ex-boyfriend like a stray orbiting your doorstep, gravity and guilt braided tight. You don’t have to offer anything. You don’t even have to try and be nice. He comes anyway, like a penance he can carry in paper bags and folded bills.
Headlights rake across the ceiling. You stand, smoothing your sweatshirt, and feel that familiar click somewhere behind your ribs, the place where power sits when you decide to keep it.
He knocks once and then doesn’t come in until you say, “Door’s open.”
Chris steps inside with a little plastic bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other. He’s wearing a plain black tee you want to wrinkle and a jacket you want to make him take off just to prove you can. The air shifts, an old ache, a new rule.
“Hi,” he says, voice small around the edges. He doesn’t look at the couch. He looks at your face like there’s a test written on it.
You let your eyes drag over him, slow and uninterested on purpose. “Put it on the table.”
He obeys immediately, sets the baggies down next to your mug. His fingers linger, then draw back like you burn. He smells like nights you don’t talk about. Cologne and rain and the inside of an Uber with the windows down.
“I can get more if you—” He catches himself, rubs the back of his neck. “If you needed more. I can get it for free.” The words come out in a rush, apologetic and proud at once, like he’s offering proof he still knows how to be useful.
“Mm.” You make a noncommittal sound and watch him squirm.
He hates that you’re good at silence. He always did. You used to weaponize it in fights, now you use it like a leash. He fidgets, glances at your mouth, then away. You lean your hip against the table, the picture of calm, and tear the top corner of the bag open just because you know he’ll feel it.
Chris swallows. “You, uh—you doing okay?”
You lift an eyebrow. “We’re doing wellness checks now?”
“No, I just—” He exhales. “You look…you look good.”
“You look nervous.”
A miserable smile. “Yeah.” He nods once, honest to the bone in the ways that don’t matter. “You got me fucked up.”
You let the line hang there, thick and sweet. It’s unfair how much you like hearing it. “I know.”
Something loosens in his shoulders, like acknowledgment is the only mercy he was hoping for. You don’t give him more. You don’t give him anything he didn’t earn.
He digs in the paper bag and pulls out a lighter without being asked. You take it from him, your fingers not touching his on purpose. The joint you roll is muscle memory. Your hands didn’t forget how to do any of it. Smoke curls up like a question.
He stands there with his jacket still on, waiting for instruction. That’s new, kind of. That’s not who he was when you were together. Then, he was loud and thoughtless and the center of every room. Now, he’s a cautionary tale with a heartbeat.
You tilt your chin toward the hook by the door. “Jacket.”
He moves fast, shrugs it off, hangs it neatly, like if he’s careful enough the past won’t clatter to the floor. When he turns back, you’re looking at him the way he once begged you to. Openly, unkindly, like he’s yours to appraise. The attention hits him like a touch. He shivers.
“Why do you keep coming when I call?” Your voice is soft, but you’re not kind. “You don’t even ask what it’s for.”
“I don’t—” He stops, searching for an answer that won’t embarrass him. Fails. “I don’t wanna tell you how I feel.” He laughs at himself, a breathy, broken sound. “But you know.”
“Say it anyway.”
He licks his lips. The truth wobbles. “I…I could be whatever you want me to be.” He meets your gaze and doesn’t look away. “I could do whatever that you wanted from me.”
Heat prickles under your skin. Not lust, but power. The memory of what it felt like when you didn’t have to wonder if he’d listen, because he never did. You take another drag, slow enough to make him watch your mouth, then thumb ash into the tray.
“You think that fixes what you did?” You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. “You think doing tricks earns you back a seat at my table?”
He flinches. “No…no. I just—I want to make it right. However you’ll let me.”
You study him for a long second, long enough that the nervous twitch in his jaw starts and stops twice. The truth is ugly. The want is still there, mean and undeniable. It always lived in the quiet moments anyway. The ride home with the windows down, the way he’d hold your thigh under restaurant tables, the rasp of his voice when he’d lean in and tell you to come here. You smother that memory under your heel like a spark in dry grass.
“Take off your shoes,” you say.
It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does, because he does it without a sound. He tows them neatly to the mat, folds himself smaller in a way that makes the room feel bigger around you. When he straightens, he doesn’t step closer. He waits.
“This isn’t a date.” You flick your gaze from his mouth back to his eyes. “You come when I need something. You leave when I’m done. That’s it.”
He nods, throat working. “Okay.”
“You don’t touch me unless I say.”
Another nod. “Okay.”
“And you don’t look at me like that unless you can afford it.”
That takes him a second. The corner of his mouth lifts, helpless. “What’s the price?”
“You don’t get to ask that.” You tip your head toward the couch. “Sit.”
He does, hands on his knees like he’s afraid to wrinkle your cushions. You set the joint down, pick up the baggie, and tap a neat line onto a coaster just to make him watch. You’re aware of the performance you’re putting on, the way slow movements read like promises. You’re not promising anything. You’re proving a point. He watches, breathing a little loud in the quiet. When you lean over the coffee table, he instinctively leans back to give you space. You could laugh, but you don’t. You drag a knuckle under your nose and breathe in. There are a dozen lines you don’t cross sober. You intend to keep them.
He wets his lips. “Do you want—I can—” He gestures, offering to cut, to line, to serve, to be the pair of hands that always shake a little less than yours.
“No.” You slice the word thin. “You can sit there and be good.”
Color climbs his cheekbones. He’s beautiful when he’s humiliated. You hate that you remember that. He stares at your fingers until you tuck your hand back into your sleeve.
He breaks first, voice quiet. “Can I say something without you…without you taking it as me trying to—” He flails for the word. “Get something?”
You narrow your eyes. “Try.”
He takes a breath that shakes. “I know I don’t deserve to be here. I know that.” His hands flex on his knees. “But I’m—I’m better at being near you than I am at being away from you. Even like this.” He swallows. “Especially like this.”
There it is. The soft center of him, messy and unguarded. The part that makes you meaner because it makes you weak.
“You’re not here for you,” you say.
“I know.” He nods quickly, relief and dread shivering together. “I’m here for you. However you need.”
You step closer then, just enough that he has to tip his chin up to keep your eyes. You look down at him the way you’ve taught him to love, measured and merciless. His lashes flicker. His breath hitches. Your shadow cuts his collarbone in half.
“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”
You don’t touch him. You don’t have to. The room knows who’s holding the leash. Behind your ribs, something warm and ugly purrs. It sounds like victory. It sounds like an old door opening on rusted hinges. You’ll decide how far to let him go. For now, you let him sit there and want, and you let yourself like the wanting.
He looks up again, not quite managing bravery. “If you…if you wanted more—”
You tilt your head, slow as smoke. “You’ll do whatever I want.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. “Whatever you want.”
“Good,” you say again, tasting the word. You pick up the lighter, flick it just to hear the sound. His eyes follow the flame like it’s a star.
“Stay,” you tell him, finally turning away to fetch a glass of water you don’t need. The command is casual as a shrug. It makes his shoulders drop like you’ve just given him air.
“Okay,” he whispers, like a vow he’s relieved to keep. Then, softer, as if he forgot he wasn’t allowed words like this, “you got me fucked up.”
You smile where he can’t see it, small and cruel and yours alone. The night stretches ahead, long and pliant. You decide you’ll shape it when you’re ready.
You sip your water slow, throat working while Chris sits perfectly still on the couch like a dog waiting for the next command. When you set the glass down, his eyes dart to your hands, then away again like he’s ashamed of being caught watching.
You lean against the counter. “So that’s it? You just bring me whatever I want, don’t even ask what it’s for?”
Chris shifts. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw flexes. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’d rather not know. I just—” His voice hitches, low and rough. “I could do whatever you want me to do. Doesn’t matter what it is. No questions asked.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, you push off the counter, pace a few steps closer. He watches your feet like they’re dangerous.
“You don’t even ask for money,” you remind him. “Not even gas money. Not even for this—” you nudge the little baggie with your knuckle, “and you expect me to believe you’re not still trying to buy me back?”
His throat bobs. “I’m not—I’m not expecting anything. I don’t want you to think—” He breaks off, rubs a hand over his mouth, voice muffled. “I just want to be here. However you’ll let me,” he repeats.
The ache behind his words is real, raw. You hate that it cuts through you, sharp as glass under bare feet. You can’t let him see that, though. You smirk instead, cruel and practiced. “Pathetic.”
His head bows. He doesn’t argue.
The silence hums, heavy. You move closer until you’re standing right over him, forcing his chin up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, breath unsteady.
“Do you remember,” you murmur, tilting your head, “the night you fucked it all up?”
He flinches, like you’ve struck him. “Yes.”
“You should,” you say. “Because that’s the night you decided a bathroom quickie with some stranger was worth more than everything we built.”
“I was—” His voice cracks, desperate. “I was fucked up. You don't know how fucked up I really was. I wasn't in the right state of mind. I know I fucked it up, okay?” The same words he says anytime you mention that night. His words spill out like confession, like prayer. He stares at you as if absolution might slip from your mouth if he begs hard enough.
You take a slow breath, reach down, and fist the front of his shirt. Tug just hard enough to pull him forward, to make him stumble to his knees at your feet. He doesn’t resist. He never does anymore. You look down at him, savoring the view, Chris kneeling, jaw tight, eyes wide with shame and want.
“That’s right,” you say softly. “You fucked it up. And now you get to live with whatever I give you.”
Your words send chills down his spine.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The word rushes out of him, breathless.
The corner of your mouth lifts, slow and dangerous. You tug his shirt harder, seams straining under your grip. “Good. Because I haven’t even started yet.”
You pause, eyes locked on his, grip unrelenting. “You remember your safe word?”
His throat bobs as he nods quickly, voice wrecked already. “Yeah.”
“Tell me,” you demand.
“Yes. I remember.” His voice cracks, but the certainty in it is clear.
The fabric gives with a satisfying rip, a jagged sound that splits the quiet room. His shirt hangs loose at the collar now, threads frayed where your fist tore through. Chris gasps, eyes darting up to yours, caught between shock and hunger.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.
“You already ruined yourself,” you remind him, and hook two fingers under the torn edge, yanking again. The neckline splits wider, exposing the slope of his shoulder, pale skin begging for your teeth.
He swallows hard, hands flexing against his thighs. He doesn’t move. You haven’t told him to.
“Take it off,” you say finally, low and sharp.
Chris obeys instantly, tugging the shirt over his head and balling it in his fists before realizing he doesn’t know where you want it. He hesitates. That hesitation is its own kind of gift.
“Floor,” you instruct.
He drops it, fabric pooling at your feet. His chest rises and falls quick, nerves and anticipation carving lines down his torso. You let your gaze linger deliberately, dragging your eyes over him.
“You’re still so eager,” you murmur, stepping closer until your knees nearly brush his shoulders. “After everything, you still kneel here like you’re waiting for scraps.”
Chris shudders, looking up at you through his lashes. His voice is ragged. “I could be whatever you want me to be. Anything you want.”
The words are almost pitiful. Almost. You reach down, grip his jaw, tilting his head back until he’s forced to hold your gaze. His breath comes faster under your touch, mouth parted.
“You’ll be what I make you,” you tell him. “That’s the only thing you’re good for now.”
A broken sound slips out of him, half whimper, half laugh, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.
You push him back, firm, until he topples onto the couch. He sprawls there, caught off guard, hair mussed, lips swollen from biting them. Before he can catch his breath, you straddle his lap, pinning him with your weight. His hands twitch like they want to grab your hips, but you slap them down against the cushions.
“Did I tell you to touch?”
“N-no.” His voice cracks.
“Then keep them there.” You grind down once, slow and punishing, watching his head tip back against the couch. He lets out a strangled groan, thighs trembling under you.
Chris whines low in his throat, nodding frantically. His chest rises and falls under you, breath catching every time you grind your hips down, slow, deliberate, punishing.
“You want this that bad?” you press, leaning in until your lips ghost his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your mouth, desperate. You bite down just enough to make him flinch, then soothe the mark with your tongue.
He shudders under you, his head tipping back against the couch, a broken groan spilling free.
“Every time you come here,” you whisper against his skin, “you hand yourself over like you’re nothing. Like you’d rather bleed than let me go.”
His nails dig into the couch cushions, knuckles white. You drag your nails down his chest, this time sharp enough to leave angry lines in your wake. He arches beneath you, breath catching, a sound of both pain and relief tearing out of him. You smirk, pulling back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. He’s wrecked already, and you haven’t even decided how far you’ll take him tonight.
“Good boy,” you say softly, cruelly.
You keep him pinned beneath you, straddling his hips, watching the tension ripple through his chest as he struggles to stay still. His wrists twitch against your grip, instinct begging him to touch you, but he doesn’t dare. You can feel it, the way he’s straining not to disobey.
“Look at you,” you murmur, voice heavy with disdain. “I barely touched you and you’re already shaking.”
His jaw clenches. He tries to swallow down a sound, but it leaks out anyway, low and needy. You smirk, rolling your hips slow against his lap. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, and you know he feels how deliberate you are, how cruel you can be. You drag your hips once more, the pressure sharp enough to make him gasp.
“Please…” he manages, voice ragged.
“Please what?” You tilt your head, pretending not to understand. “Be specific.”
His mouth opens and closes, embarrassment burning across his face. His eyes flick up to yours, glassy, pleading. “Please—just let me—”
You grind down harder, cutting him off with a sharp gasp of his own. His whole body arches beneath you, desperate for relief he isn’t allowed to chase.
“Pathetic,” you breathe against his ear. “All it takes is a little pressure and you fall apart.”
He shudders. “I’m sorry—”
The apology makes you laugh, cruel and sharp. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything. You think saying that word erases what you did?”
His eyes squeeze shut, shame written across his face. “No.”
“Exactly.” You release his wrists and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back so he has no choice but to look at you. “But maybe,” you add, slow and deliberate, “I’ll let you make yourself useful.”
Hope flickers in his eyes, fragile and bright.
“Back on your knees.”
Chris scrambles to obey, sliding off the couch until he’s kneeling in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’s been starved. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, trembling with restraint. You spread your knees, lean back against the cushions, and watch his breath catch when he realizes what you’re offering.
“Go on,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Earn it.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls your cotton shorts to the side, his mouth on you instantly, hot and eager. You let your head fall back against the couch with a sigh. His tongue moves frantically at first, desperate to please, until you yank his hair hard enough to make him still.
“Slow down,” you snap. “You don’t get to rush this. You’ll take your time, exactly how I want.”
Chris whimpers against you, muffled and raw, but he obeys. His tongue drags slow now, deliberate, and you reward him with a sharp tug of his hair that makes him moan into you.
“That’s better,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded as you watch him. His face is flushed, jaw tense with effort, hands fisted tight against his thighs as if he’s holding himself back from grabbing you.
Every few moments, he looks up at you, desperate for approval. You give him nothing but silence, forcing him to work harder, to keep guessing. When his tongue finally hits the right rhythm, you let out a soft moan that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.
“Yes,” you murmur, grinding against his mouth. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your toes curl. You pull his hair harder, forcing him closer, until he’s choking on the pressure but refusing to pull away. He’d suffocate before he’d disappoint you, and the thought makes heat flare through your chest.
When you’re close, closer than you mean to be, you yank him back abruptly, ignoring his muffled protest. His lips are swollen, chin slick, and he looks wrecked already.
“You think you deserve my cum?” you snap.
He shakes his head instantly, panting. “No.”
“Exactly.” You wipe your thumb across his mouth, slow and mocking. “You don’t get that yet.”
The desperation in his eyes is intoxicating. He’s trembling, every inch of him begging, but he won’t move without permission. You lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, watching pretty red lines bloom across his skin. His breath catches, a whimper spilling free, and you smirk.
“Get back up here,” you order.
Chris scrambles onto the couch again, hovering nervously, waiting for instruction. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. You straddle him once more, pressing your mouth to his neck, sucking hard until a bruise blossoms under your lips. He moans, hips bucking helplessly against you, but you press down harder to keep him pinned.
“You don’t move,” you hiss into his ear. “Not unless I tell you.”
“I—I won’t,” he promises, voice trembling.
“You better not.” You drag your nails down his back, sharp enough to make him arch. “Because if you do…I’ll leave you like this.”
The threat makes him whine, pathetic yet sweet, his breath hot against your shoulder. And you smile, because you know he’d let you ruin him and come crawling back for more.
You drag your nails down his chest once again, harder this time, watching him twitch beneath you. His breath hitches as more lines rise red on his skin. His hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, and you slam your palm against his shoulder to pin him flat.
“I said, don’t move.”
“I—I’m sorry,” he gasps, shame and arousal tangled in every word. His hands go back to clenching the cushions, desperate to hold on.
You grind down against him deliberately, rolling your hips with punishing slowness. The friction makes him choke out a groan, head tipping back, throat bared. You nip at it, hard enough to make him gasp again, then soothe the sting with your tongue.
“You’re already so close,” you murmur against his skin, cruel and mocking. “Pathetic. I could make you come in your jeans if I wanted.”
He whimpers, face flushed, thighs trembling beneath you. “Please…please don’t—”
“Don’t what?” You sit up, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t ruin you yet? Don’t make you humiliate yourself before I even let you inside me?”
He shudders, words stumbling. “I’ll be good. Please. I’ll be good.”
“Prove it.” You yank his jeans down rough, shoving them past his hips. He groans in relief, already straining, leaking, pathetic. You climb off him only long enough to strip yourself down, deliberate and unhurried, making him watch. His eyes devour you, wide and reverent, and you smirk.
“You don’t get to touch,” you remind him as you climb back onto his lap, your hand wrapping around him once, just enough to make his whole body shudder. “You sit there and take it.”
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, anything.”
You line him up, dragging the head of his cock against you slow, teasing, and his breath stutters like he’s about to break. “Please,” he begs, voice ragged, “I need—I need you.”
You sink down in one smooth, brutal motion, taking him all the way in at once. His cry tears through the room, raw and desperate, his nails clawing into the couch cushions as his hips buck up against your weight.
“Fuck,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Oh my god—”
“Stay still,” you hiss, gripping his shoulders hard. “Don’t you dare move.”
He bites his lip so hard you’re sure it’ll bleed, trembling violently under you as you grind down slow, making him feel every inch. His eyes roll back, chest heaving, sweat shining at his hairline. You ride him deliberately, pace slow, drawing it out until he’s sobbing with the effort of holding still. Every roll of your hips makes him gasp, every squeeze makes him whimper.
“You feel that?” you taunt, leaning in close, your mouth hot against his ear. “That’s what you ruined. This is what you threw away.”
His whole body jerks under you, broken moans spilling out. “I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’m so sorry—please, I can’t—”
“You don’t get to cum until I say.” You rake your nails down his back, even harder this time, leaving fresh welts. He cries out, the sound shattering, but his hips stay pinned, obedient despite the shaking.
“Good boy,” you breathe, mocking and sharp. “Maybe you’re not completely useless.”
The praise breaks him further. He keens, eyes glassy, begging incoherently. You grind harder, faster now, feeling the tension coil tight between your thighs. Your fingers dig into his hair, yanking his head back so you can bite at his throat again, marking him as yours.
“Say it,” you order, breathless. “Say what you are.”
“I’m—” His voice cracks, tears spilling into the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours. I’m nothing without you. Please—”
The confession makes you clench around him, dragging a sob from his chest. You ride him harder, using his body, taking what you want. He writhes beneath you, wrecked and pliant, every sound pouring out like worship.
When you finally allow yourself to tip over, it’s with your nails sinking deep into his shoulders, your body trembling as waves crash through you. You ride it out mercilessly, grinding down on him as he sobs under the force of it, begging for release.
You pull back just enough to look at him, flushed, shaking, tears on his cheeks, mouth open in broken pleas. You decide to grant him mercy. “Come for me,” you command, sharp as a whip.
He doesn’t last a second. His whole body arches off the couch, hips jerking helplessly as he spills inside you with a cry that sounds like both agony and salvation. You ride him through it, squeezing every drop from him until he collapses, boneless and shaking beneath you. His eyes stay fixed on you, glassy and adoring, like you’re both the executioner and the only thing keeping him alive. You lean back, catch your breath, and smirk down at him. “Pathetic,” you whisper again, just to watch him flinch and melt at once.
His head falls back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks ruined, glassy-eyed, lips swollen, trembling under your weight. But you don’t climb off. Instead, you shift your hips and start moving again.
His eyes fly open, panic and pleasure colliding all at once. “W–wait—” he gasps, voice wrecked. His hands twitch against the cushions like he doesn’t know if he should fight or surrender. “I— I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, your tone sharp enough to slice through the air. You roll your hips deliberately, grinding down on him until his whole body jerks with a strangled moan. “You’ll take it. You’ll give me what I want.”
He whimpers, head tipping back, exposing his throat. “It’s too much—”
“Good.” Your nails bite into his shoulders for balance as you ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His whines turn broken, incoherent, every thrust pulling him apart a little more. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and you smile at the sound of his voice breaking.
“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please, I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you snap. His cry fills the room, raw and guttural, and the noise only spurs you on.
You grind down harder, pace unrelenting, your own climax building fast. You cling to him, pressing your mouth against his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise as the heat coils in your belly.
“I’m not done,” you pant against his skin. “I want to come again. You’re going to make me.”
His eyes roll back, tears slipping free, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He nods frantically even as his body trembles under the relentless pace. “Anything,” he chokes. “Anything you want—”
Your nails dig in deeper, sharper, until you feel the thin skin of his shoulders break under your grip. Hot blood beads beneath your fingertips, streaking red down his back. His whole body seizes at the sting, a sob tearing out of him, and then he’s gone. He convulses under you, crying out as his second orgasm rips through him, messy and uncontrolled. His release pulses inside you again, thick and hot, his body twitching violently as the overstimulation drags him to pieces.
The sight of him undone, the tears on his cheeks, blood under your nails, his body jerking helplessly, pushes you over the edge. Your climax crashes down, raw and brutal, your nails digging deeper into his torn skin as your hips grind hard against him. You ride out every wave, using him, taking what you want while he sobs beneath you.
When you finally slow, breathless, you stay seated on him, your nails still pressed into the welts you carved. He’s a wreck. His chest soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around broken whimpers. Blood smears across your fingertips, bright against your skin, and you trail them down his chest just to watch him shudder.
“Look at you,” you murmur, cruel and satisfied. “Bleeding for me. Falling apart for me. Twice.”
Chris blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, tears still clinging to his lashes. He looks wrecked. He looks worshipful. He looks like he’d let you do it all over again if you asked. You smirk, leaning down until your lips graze his ear. “Pathetic,” you whisper, and feel him shiver under the word like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
You stay on him until the twitching stops, until every last pulse of his release fades into trembling silence. Then you climb off slowly, deliberately, ignoring the way his body sags in relief under you.
Chris collapses against the couch, a boneless wreck. His chest heaves, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, red lines slashed across his back, chest, and shoulders where your nails left him open. He’s still hard, still leaking, but too spent to move. You don’t look at him. Instead, you bend to grab the paper bag he brought, pluck a preroll from the bottom, and light it with the cheap lighter. The first drag fills your lungs, smoke curling out of your lips like a sigh. When you finally glance at him, he’s watching you like you hung the moon, wrecked and worshipful, blood streaked down his spine, tears drying at the corners of his eyes. He looks ruined. He looks addicted.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you say flatly, exhaling smoke in his direction.
He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and cracked. “I can’t help it.”
You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch, joint balanced between your fingers. “Pathetic.”
He takes the word like a knife to the gut and a kiss on the mouth at the same time. His lips part, trembling, and then he says it again, the thing he always says, the thing you’ll never let him forget. “You gave me one chance, and I fucked it up.” His voice breaks, chest rising fast. “I was fucked up. I ruined it. I ruined us.”
You take another drag, hold the smoke in your lungs until it burns. When you blow it out, the cloud drifts between you like a wall. “You’re right.”
His breath stutters. He swallows hard, looks down at his ruined hands, fisting the couch cushions. “I’d do anything,” he whispers. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just to stay here.”
The desperation in his voice grates against something soft inside you, and you crush it quick. You stub the joint out in the ashtray, lean forward, and press your palm against his chest. He startles at the touch, eyes darting up, but you shove him back down into the cushions with a smirk.
“You don’t get to stay,” you tell him. “Not unless I say. You come when I want something. You leave when I’m done. That’s all this is.”
Chris nods quickly, frantic, even as his eyes shine with something heavier. “Okay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” You stand, tugging on your sweatshirt like nothing happened, like you didn’t just rip him open with your nails and take him apart twice over. You head for the kitchen, refill your water glass, and leave him sitting there, ruined and quiet.
When you return, he’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, waiting for scraps. You hand him his shirt from the floor. The collar is ripped, the fabric streaked with sweat and a smear of blood. He clutches it like it’s a gift. You sit back down, cross-legged on the couch, glass of water in one hand, joint in the other. You look at him like he’s nothing. You look at him like he’s everything.
“Go home,” you say finally, voice soft but sharp.
For a moment, you think he won’t move. Then he nods, slow and heavy, tugging his ruined shirt back on. He winces at the sting of fabric against the fresh scratches, but he doesn’t complain. He never does.
At the door, he pauses, fingers tight on the handle. He glances back once, eyes glassy and wrecked. “You know I’d bleed for you,” he says quietly.
You exhale smoke, let it drift toward him like a wave goodbye. “I know,” you murmur, and turn your head away before he can see that some part of you loves it.
The door clicks shut, and the apartment hums again. You sit in the haze of smoke and silence, heart beating steady, skin still buzzing, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. You don’t let yourself think about what it means. You don’t let yourself admit that you’ll call him again. You already know you will.
Senior year. Fluorescent hallways, backpacks slung over one shoulder, him pretending he didn’t care about anything when he actually cared too much. He used to lean against your locker and hum nonsense songs while you tried to focus on your homework. You’d roll your eyes, but you loved it. You loved him.
He was softer with you than he was with anyone else. Matt noticed first. Said Chris looked stupidly in love. Nick never shut up about how whipped he was. And his mom, God, his mom adored you. The first girl she ever pulled into a real hug and whispered, I hope you stay.
You did.
You stayed through graduation. Through his first big fights with his brothers. Through the nights he felt small and insecure and you’d sit on his bedroom floor with him, telling him he was more than his worst thoughts. You memorized the way he looked when he was vulnerable. The way his voice dropped when he said he loved you like it scared him how much he meant it.
You built your whole future around him without even realizing you were doing it.
The first time he cheated, he swore it was a mistake. He cried in your lap like a child. Said he didn’t know why he did it. Said he hated himself. You believed him because you loved him. Because you were eighteen and thought love meant enduring.
The second time, it hurt worse. The third time, something inside you started going quiet.
But you stayed.
You told yourself people grow. You told yourself he would wake up one day and realize you were the only one who never left. You told yourself that if you just loved him hard enough, he’d stop chasing whatever emptiness he kept trying to fill with other girls.
Meanwhile, your own emptiness started growing.
You didn’t tell him about the nights your chest felt too tight to breathe. You didn’t tell him how the anxiety started to hum under your skin constantly, how every time his phone buzzed your stomach dropped. You didn’t tell him how the depression felt like a shadow stretching longer and longer behind you.
You just kept smiling at family dinners. Kept laughing at Nick’s jokes. Kept sitting next to Chris on the couch while his mom looked at you like you were already her daughter.
You became very good at pretending you were okay.
Tonight isn’t dramatic at first. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, the same one you used to curl up on after school. The same one where he used to kiss your forehead and promise you forever.
You found the messages an hour ago.
He hasn’t even denied it. He just keeps saying it wasn’t what it looked like. Like that’s supposed to make it better.
You don’t start screaming right away. You just ask him why.
He shrugs at first. Shrugs. Like this isn’t the same wound reopening for the hundredth time. Like your heart isn’t visibly fraying.
You remind him you’ve been here since the beginning. Since before anyone cared about him. You remind him you defended him when your friends told you to leave. You remind him you forgave him when you probably shouldn’t have.
His jaw tightens. He says you’re acting like he’s a monster.
You laugh, but it sounds hollow. You tell him you don’t think he’s a monster. You think he’s selfish. You think he’s addicted to attention. You think he keeps breaking the one person who never fucking broke him.
His voice rises. He says you’re not perfect either. That you’re always sad lately. Always anxious. That it’s hard to deal with.
That’s when something inside you splits open.
You tell him you’re sad because you never feel safe. You’re anxious because the person you love keeps proving he can’t be trusted. You tell him you’ve been fighting your own head for years and still choosing him every single time.
Your voice starts shaking. You try to steady it but you can’t.
You tell him you wake up every day already tired. That loving him feels like dragging something heavy behind you. That you keep waiting for the version of him who swore he’d protect you, but he’s the one hurting you instead.
He swears under his breath. Says you’re twisting it. Says he’s human. Says he makes mistakes.
You finally snap.
You tell him a mistake doesn’t happen over and over again. A mistake isn’t texting someone behind your girlfriend’s back while she’s at home convincing herself she’s crazy for feeling insecure. A mistake isn’t looking someone in the eye and saying I love you after you just betrayed them.
You’re crying now, and you hate that he can see it.
You tell him you thought he was the one. That you pictured marrying him. That you defended him to Matt when even his own brother was disappointed. That you stood there while Nick avoided eye contact because he knew you deserved better.
You tell him you gave him every fucking chance.
He tries to step closer and you step back.
You tell him every time he cheated, it felt like you swallowed something toxic. Like you kept ingesting poison and pretending it didn’t burn. You kept thinking if you just held it down long enough, it wouldn’t kill you.
But it did.
It’s killing you.
Your voice cracks so violently you have to grab the dresser to steady yourself. You tell him you’re exhausted from loving someone who treats your loyalty like it’s guaranteed. You tell him you’ve been drowning quietly for years and he never noticed because you were too busy keeping him afloat.
He finally looks scared.
He says he didn’t think you’d actually leave.
That breaks something fundamental inside you.
So he kept pushing. Because he thought you’d stay no matter how much it hurt.
You’re sobbing now, full-body shaking, the kind of crying that makes it hard to breathe. You tell him you’re not dramatic. You’re not crazy. You’re just tired of being the only one fighting for this relationship.
You tell him you loved him in a way that ruined you.
He starts crying too, apologizing without the usual excuses this time. Saying he’s fucked up. Saying he didn’t realize how deep it went. Saying he never meant to make your mental health worse.
You look at him through blurred vision and whisper that intent doesn’t erase damage.
You tell him you can’t keep sacrificing yourself for someone who keeps choosing temporary validation over permanent love. You tell him you feel like you’ve been rotting from the inside while pretending everything was fine.
The room feels suffocating. Years of history pressing down on both of you.
You say you love him. Because you do. And that’s what makes it unbearable.
But you can’t survive him anymore.
There’s a long silence. His breathing is uneven. Yours is worse.
And then, bitter and defensive and wounded, he shakes his head and mutters that you’re impossible to please. That nothing he does is ever enough. That maybe you just like being miserable.
You stare at him, stunned.
And then he says it…
You’re sick y/n, you’re fucking sick.
Not worried. Not gentle. Not concerned.
The word hangs in the air between you like a final betrayal.
And for the first time since high school, since lockers and humming and promises, you feel something colder than heartbreak.
