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ᯓᡣ𐭩 chris sturniolo x fem!reader

content warning: nsfw content. porn with plot. cheating (reader). dealer!chris. unprotected sex. cream pie. oral (m receiving). mentions of spit. dirty talk. heavy mentions of drugs. mentions of alcohol and weed. intoxication. slight angst. mentions of childhood. talks of shyness and insecurity.

word count: 5.9k

being a quiet kid never really had it’s perks, outwardly anyways. you grew up as what you felt like was a shadow to everything going on around you, faded perfectly into the back and just unnoticed enough. 

you played by yourself, sat by yourself, ate by yourself. it was never a result of not fitting in, or being denied, it was just your preference. you never went away for sleepovers, after the two times you tried and had to get some kids parent to call your mom to come get you in the middle of the night. you had friends, but those who were just as quiet as you. who liked to sit and not talk all the time, who kept to themselves in the presence of yourself and others. 

when your teachers and your parents realized it was a choice, the pressure let up somewhat. you were just a quiet kid. there was always encouragement there, but never more than just a suggestion which you always shrugged with little interest at. 

this was a perk in enough of itself for you though, gaining your comfortability from a more quiet life. your household was a middle ground, quiet mother who you took after, and a lively father who your older brother took after. 

you never understood it, the way your dads voice would literally echo off the walls when he spoke, and the way your mom would smile at him like she was falling in love with him all over again. ‘opposites attract’, she always told you. 

you were day and night compared to some other kids. sitting on the side of the playground, picking at rocks or watching the clouds while others squealed and screamed on the monkey bars. 

but every extrovert picks their introvert, and this is how you met chris.

 in fourth grade, when you were doing your time of waiting for recess to be over, perched on the wooden bench by the makeshift soccer field at your school. 

chris was the definition of extroverted, loud and boisterous, crooked teeth always on display. the soccer ball all the kids were playing with got kicked in your direction, and when he went to retrieve it he saw you in your toned down little world. 

and because chris’s mother drilled into his head all of his youth years, that the idea of ‘he’s just picking on you because he has a crush on you’ was wrong and only lead girls to accept a guy has to be mean to you in order to like you, he kicked the soccer ball back and plopped next to you on the bench. 

no teasing remarks, no questions about why you weren’t playing or why you were so quiet. he just sat with you, until you were called back for recess. 

it took him until about sixth grade to get you anywhere near cracked out of your shell. he never pressured but he never let up either. you were inseparable through all of middle school, and he balanced a perfect medium between his more social life and you. 

he played sports, had different friend groups, and had his brothers. your parents and his parents were in close contacts of course, because when you had mentioned a friend named chris your dad wasn’t even concerned it was a boy, they were just enlightened to learn that someone was getting through to you. someone who had a voice, someone who could get you out there. 

it didn’t make sense to you, or to others, why he found any gravitation towards you. you were shy, awkward, like everyone at that age. but once high school came, and everyone grew out of it, you seemed to stay that way. 

not nerdy, chris used to tell you to say smart instead of nerdy. not awkward, chris used to tell you to say shy instead of awkward. 

a natural drift happened during junior and sophomore year, more parties and more opportunities that chris took himself up on where you, you wanted to stay home. to watch a movie with your mom, to be in bed by nine. 

you didn’t have a fear of missing out, you had a fear of being there. it didn’t interest you at all, and when chris tried to encourage you to a party or a social gathering, you felt you had no place there. you told him to go alone. you don’t know if he outgrew you or if you had pushed him away, but by senior year there was no more than a happy birthday and happy holidays text between you and him. 

summer before your freshman year of college is when everything changed for you. were you really content in this quiet lifestyle you’ve immersed yourself in? were you about to miss out on the universal college experience because you liked to be in bed early? because you didn’t like talking to people? 

maybe. or maybe it was because your acne cleared up, your tits grew from only needing a sports bra to a cupped bra, you figured out how to do your hair to frame your face, your makeup to make your cheeks look defined and your eyes sharp. maybe because more girls tried to be your friend before you went off to college, or more guys showed interest in you. 

you tried to tell yourself it wasn’t this, that you were just tired of being quiet. 

but all in all, you felt like a poser. getting dolled up with girls you wouldn’t quite consider your friends, who couldn’t get through a conversation without mentioning alcohol or boys. flirting with guys who found your awkwardness cute rather than off putting. screaming and shouting the words to songs you don’t like at parties. 

you toughed it out though, landing yourself what most would call a consistent friend group, even though they all talked shit about each other anyways. you started drinking, started smoking, and through some coercion, even started taking drugs at parties. only sometimes though, when you wanted to revert to being quiet. it was hard to be quiet with an upper shoved in your face. 

you’ve also landed yourself a boyfriend. besides your education, he’s the realest thing about your college experience. now it’s junior year, and you feel like aside from your classmates, he’s the only one in your ‘inner’ circle that you can have a conversation with. 

it’s tough at times, because it’s not anywhere near the depth of the intellectual conversations you wish to have. and truthfully, it makes you feel a bit guilty. parading around with this frat guy because sometimes he makes sense. because he brings your stock value up. 

sometimes you think you’re doing your old self a favour, leaving behind everything you once valued and enjoyed. but sometimes you miss it, you get tired of the sound of your own voice, looking in the mirror and seeing someone you feel you don’t recognize at times. 

this is one of those times. the times where you feel like you don’t belong and you feel like everyone can see it. even though you’ve been playing this role for so long that sometimes it feels natural, even to you. 

perched on your boyfriends bed in the frat house, his room adorned with different sports posters you could care less about, beer brand memorabilia hung and scattered across the room in a way that makes your skin crawl. he’s puttering around, on and off the phone with different members of the frat getting ready for a party that’s going on at the frat tonight. 

you’re stressed listening to him, even though you’re doing your part of sitting on his bed looking pretty. you’re fine with this, because even though he’s paying you no mind, you just get to sit. observe. be quiet. 

you force the thought from your head, basking in it instead before your pretty girlfriends show up and you have to squeal and unfortunately dumb yourself down to converse with them. your boyfriends voice fades in and out of your ears, occasionally tuning it to just hear the tone of the conversation. 

he always got stressed planning these parties, they had a large turn out so the accommodation he felt that he had to provide felt extreme, considering ninety percent of college students are just looking for a roof over their head and a place to get fucked up. 

with the accommodation factor in mind, your boyfriend also dabbled in selling ‘party favours’, as he liked to call them. you wouldn’t let your brain classify him as a drug dealer, because he wasn’t doing types of daily runs to students who had a habit. he just picked up from the same guy whenever he hosted a party, purchasing a small amount to redistribute to whoever at the party was willing to pay. 

this was the point of contention for the day. the guy he usually picked up from decided to take a step back from dealing because he had too many close calls with being caught, leaving your boyfriend with no supply for the night. 

kegs were purchased, mass amounts of alcohol and mixers, but no ‘party favours’, so to speak. after many heated phone calls, cursing and yelling, he emerges from his bathroom. running a stressed hand through his hair, he moves to his dresser to rifle through the top drawer. 

you shift on the bed, reluctantly. your moment of silence has been stripped from you, now you have to talk. 

“did you get everything figured out?” you ask softly, watching as he pulls wads of cash from his sock drawer. he turns to you, flashing you a quick smile before looking at the stack in his hand. 

“yeah babe,” he murmurs, sifting through the cash with his thumb, “got a new guy comin’ in a few. never bought from him but the guys say he’s got good shit.” 

you nod, a sigh escaping your lips. it was cutting it close, the party was close to starting, or people were about to be arriving at least. you’re already ready, dressed up in a shirt you want to put a hoodie over, and a skirt that’s going to disintegrate in your fingers if you tug at it any longer. 

his phone buzzes, and with a quick glance he mumbles a ‘be right back,’ before slipping out of his bedroom, presumably to let in this dealer. you expect to see what you’re used to, some guy who’d make you want to walk on the other side of the street if you came across him in public. someone who just looked sleazy. like they weren’t someone you’d want to be involved with. 

you’d never expect chris sturniolo to walk through the door. grown up, but still mostly the same in his looks. sharp jawline, light stubble scattered across his chin. dark circles, a shade or two darker than they were in highschool. his hair is shorter now, you notice when he pulls his hood down and it splits down the center and falls over his forehead and curls at the nape of his neck, opposed to the mop of curls he used to have. 

he doesn’t even notice you, setting a black bag on your boyfriends bed, right to the side of where you sat. this by itself tells you he must do this often, they way he unloads the contents of the bag, laser focused on the different joints, bags of bud, bags of powder, colourful pills, you know this is business to him. 

your throat is so dry, you couldn’t speak if you wanted to. you want to call out to him, to just make him see you, but you can’t. that’s one thing your boyfriend always said; when these guys come by, you don’t speak to them. 

together, they’re pointing and discussing the different bags set out on the bed. it’s clear chris brought everything, not knowing what your boyfriend typically purchased for these parties. after brief words you don’t entirely understand, your boyfriend flicking through the cash he has, calculating look on his face, you hear him exchange a ‘one second’ before leaving the room. 

the click of the door shutting is deafening, and you hold onto your not speaking agreement until chris breaks the silence, not even looking up from the array on the bed. 

“you look fuckin’ ridiculous,” he mutters, picking up a little baggy of white pills, brushing his thumb over the plastic. 

the silence stretches on, and you’re at a loss for words. back to silence. just how he knew you. 

he looks up finally, giving you a once over that feels judgemental, and he scoffs. “new life treatin’ you good?” he asks, and you can feel how condescending he’s being like smoke wrapping you up. 

“chris-,” is all you can breathe out before your boyfriend reenters the room, more cash in hand. 

“here, bro.” he says, handing the cash to chris. chris gives a dismissive hum, thumbing through it as he counts in his head. when he seems satisfactory with the amount of cash, he stuffs it into his pocket. with a huff, he packs up the substances your boyfriend decided not to purchase, placing them intricately back into the bag before zipping it up. 

“have fun tonight,” chris murmurs, slinging the bag over his shoulder. your boyfriend provides some thankful response, and even though chris is speaking to him you felt the insincerity in his dismissal. he turns to shut the door, giving you a second and final glance. and there’s two things you see. 

recognition. and then it’s all swept away by disappointment, his jaw setting and you swear he rolled his eyes before the door fully shut. 

you can’t get the look on his face out of your head all night. it gets worse even, the louder the party gets, the more drinks you consume. you feel caught. could he still see through you after all this time? what you’re even more confused about, is how it seems both of your lives have taken turns in the opposite directions, and he has the nerve to be disappointed in you. 

it’s a strange feeling, the way you blink and his face is there. the party dims out, three or four o’clock in the morning and you go home, where you’d normally stay with your boyfriend. some lame excuse he took with no convincing about how you didn’t feel good. you wanted to sleep in your own bed. 

you dream all night about when you were kids. chris’s contrasting volume to your quiet nature, how he seemed to have always wanted you this way. maybe not entirely, but he was always comfortable and content with how you were. now that the shell was gone and buried, you felt more exposed than ever. that single look he gave you was more telling than any time he had ever looked at you.

a week or so has gone by since you saw chris, mulling about your “life” as usual. going to class, keeping up your grades because that’s all you really count on anymore. your boyfriend has checked in as usual, but you keep up the promise that you’re just busy with school and can’t hangout. 

not that you just witnessed your childhood best friend pull out copious amounts of drugs you couldn’t even name and sell them to your boyfriend, right in front of your eyes. 

that someone who you were under the impression just disappeared off the face of the earth, who you told yourself might’ve just went to college out of state. maybe chose to live a quiet life, just resurfaced right where you left each other, both in significantly different positions. 

after nights of losing sleep, the internal debate weighing your mind, it didn’t take you long to find his phone number. intentionally mentioning to some of your friends that your boyfriend bought from “some chris guy”, watching who’s faces changed with recognition. gossip was typical, and they all thought you were just recalling your boyfriends party duties. 

when one girl almost lit up, you asked if she knew him. she nodded, a bit sheepishly. “he sells really good molly.” the girls all erupt with giggles, like the girl who knows him is just so quirky for doing molly. 

you ignore the cringe that you know is already visible on your face, asking if you could maybe have his number. she has a knowing look on her face when she pulls out his phone, like you’re about to go buy some hard drug from him. 

that was your next problem. would he really see you if you just texted him and asked to talk? what was his process? this is the most out of your element you’ve felt through your entirety of college, trying to trick a drug dealer into having a conversation with you. 

you debate it. all day. all through your classes. all through your study sessions. you don’t go home at the end of the day, the quiet of your apartment allowing for too much extra thought. for once you avoid quiet. 

you go to a small cafe by your apartment, so when your boyfriend calls to ask you to come over he can hear the clatter of coffee mugs and people talking in the background. so he knows you’re not avoiding him. 

you’re not avoiding him, you tell yourself. but you are. something just felt off about watching him buy drugs off someone who used to know you so well. who very well knew this wasn’t the life you wanted to be living. what you were meant for. 

someone who you used to know so well. 

it’s when you see it, that you think this all has to be a game. big, leather jacket. backwards fitted cap. long, slender fingers wrapped around a white paper cup. of fucking course he’d be ordering a coffee at like, 7pm. 

you’re packing your things before you can stop yourself, eyes locked on his form like he’d dissipate if you looked away. you’re chasing after him as he walks away, the sound of the bell at the door sounding before you grab the fabric of his jacket. 

he turns around, brows drawn together as he looks down at you. “chris,” you breathe fully this time, “i wanna buy some mo-,”

now he’s yanking you, out of the door of the cafe “shhhh, shut up,” he grits, looking down at you like you’ve just asked him to buy drugs in public. because that’s exactly what you just did. 

your cheeks flush red with embarrassment and shock, and he looks around as if someone had heard you. you sputter out an attempt at an apology, and he silences you further, eyes wide and almost begging you to just shut up. 

“just-,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, “just come with me.” and he’s already dragging you through the streets. 

his apartment is not what you expected. you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. it’s pristine, almost. you can tell he lives here, it’s furnished but the only incriminating thing is a small rolling tray on the living room table, a buster but no visible weed. 

he tosses his keys on the counter, noticing your almost lost expression. “i don’t keep any of it here,” he mumbles, “know you don’t actually wanna buy anything, anyways.” 

you don’t even know where to start, what to ask or say. he plops on the couch, interrupting your racing thoughts. his eyes scan over you, pointing to your outfit. 

“where’s your lil’ skirt?” he asks, making you aware of the drab outfit you have on; sweatpants and a hoodie that are likely two sizes too big for you, a stark comparison to how you were dressed before the party the other night. you shift, tugging the cuffs of the hoodie down over your hands.  

it’s clear he doesn’t actually want an answer, the way he leans forward to crack open the buster, dumping some grinded up weed onto the rolling tray before pulling a pack of rolling papers from his pocket. 

“what happened to you?” you blurt, hating how patronizing you sound. it’s short lived when he scoffs, shaking his head. 

“what happened to you?” he rebuttals, pausing the meticulous construction of his joint to actually look at you. “your new friends and your little boyfriend might be fooled, but from what i knew you were far more than content with a book and just a few words.”

you feel seen. exposed. you don’t know why you feel like you’ve just had your walls stripped down, identity exposed. that’s all chris knew you as, and maybe it was the real you. but no one currently knew that. 

“people change,” you reply weakly, watching as his nimble fingers return their work around the joint. 

“yeah, and if you truly believed that you wouldn’t be here askin’ me why i’m sellin’ drugs and shit.” he mumbles. 

you don’t know why your frustration is mounting, maybe because he’s right. it is because he’s right. you can never be this new version of yourself when there’s people out there who know you. know you like chris does. 

“those people don’t care about you, y’know.” he starts up again, and it pisses you off not only that you already know this, but also that you want to hear what he has to say. he knows the look in your eyes, so he takes his cue to continue. 

“do you really think they would’ve stuck around if you didn’t act like this crazy party girl? weren’t willing to stay up late, drink, do drugs? whatever the fuck it is that you do?” he asks. 

“think that boyfriend of yours would want or flaunt that little shy version of you? the girl who willingly sat alone at lunch all through middle and highschool? the girl who had a bedtime by choice until she was eighteen?” 

you knew this. it’s ringing in your head that you already knew this, but chris voicing it with so much disappointment laced in his voice makes it real. and it makes it hurt. 

“i just wanted a change,” you mumble, pleading tone to your voice to make him believe, just like everyone else. 

“no you didn’t.” he bites back, twisting off the tip of his joint, “and i didn’t either. you think i spent all those years trying to get you out there because i wanted to corrupt you or something?” he asks, and you freeze, not knowing what he’s getting at. 

he scoffs “i liked you the way you were. i only ever tried to get you to go out because i wanted to be around you. no matter where i went or what you did i wanted to be with you. i would’ve been with you early nights and all, for you.” he gestures to you, features strained, “and now you’ve become something you’re not for people who don’t know you at all.” 

the vulnerability hangs heavy in the air, and he shakes his head like he’s confused by his own words. 

“i’m sorry,” you whisper out, cursing your younger self for being so blind to his care. 

he shrugs, flicking a lighter to light the end of his joint, hauling off of it before blowing a soft tendril out into the space in front of him. “s’whatever. you were always too caught up in that head of yours to believe anyone could actually like you for who you were anyways.” 

it should sting. but it doesn’t. that same feeling he always provided for you, feeling seen without being loud or noticeable at all. as if he can sense the change in the air from confrontation to admittance, he clears his throat. 

“so, you gonna pay me for my time or what?” he asks, joint dangling from his fingers “was supposed to be out on a deal, but here we are.” 

your eyes widen slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear “you should’ve told me you had somewhere to be,” you say quietly, sheepish that you’ve put him out of work for the night. 

he shrugs, and you remember by the volume of drugs he pulled out the other night that it couldn’t have been a deal he truly missed out on if he’s still sitting here with you. 

“got another idea on how you can make it up to me though,” and he sinks back into the couch, pushing his hips forward to manspread. your throat runs dry at the implication, dry, broken laugh falling from your lips. 

“chris, i have a boyfriend.” you say, and he tilts his head.

“after today? i don’t think you do.” 

the boyish smile that you’ve missed for years forms on his lips, tongue slightly between his teeth and the sight alone almost sends you crawling between his legs. he was right, after the harsh reality check he gave you while simultaneously making you feel okay about being who you are, your friends and boyfriend would probably be dropped by the end of the week. 

“you just gonna stand there or are you gonna come put those pretty lips around my cock?” 

your feet are carrying you to him like you’re in a trance, sinking to your knees in front of him onto the plush rug he has in his living room. he puts the joint between his lips to free up one of his hands, lifting his hips to tug his sweatpants and boxers down his thighs. you take over once they’re down far enough, pulling them to his ankles. 

his cock springs against his stomach, heavy and leaking with precum, tip aching and red. you lean forward, grabbing his base with one hand to flick your tongue over his slit, kitten licking as you watch him take a long hit off his joint. 

his eyes are lidded and red, lips already stuck in a permanent part, never closing even after he exhales. his hand not holding the joint, comes to brush his thumb tenderly along your cheek, sliding immediately into your hair when you wrap your lips around him fully, moaning softly as the taste of his precum coats your tongue. 

“shiiit,” he breathes out, head falling back against the back of the couch, but his eyes don’t move from you. “who knew that quiet little mouth could get so filthy?” 

his hand in your hair is hardly guiding, not fisting the strands but holding them out of your face as you work the length of his cock. the sight and sound of him only encourages you, spit dribbling from the corners off your mouth, down your chin and onto his balls. 

a little too enthusiastically, you take too much of him. sputtering off his cock with a gag, heaving for breath as you pull off of him, thick strands of spit connecting your lips to his cock. 

“good,” he breathes, leaning forward on the couch, reaching over you to stub the joint out on the rolling tray behind you, “that’s good.”

as he leans over you, he grabs your chin, tilting your head back to take your lips in a messy kiss. your head is craned back as you still sit on your knees, him slightly standing over you. once the joint is practically crushed, both of his hands free, he sits back. 

still kissing you, his hands travel down your sides and to your hips, guiding you to stand. he breaks the kiss when you have a height advantage on him, kissing down your stomach to the top of your sweatpants. 

he tugs your sweatpants to your mid thigh, exposing your panties to which he immediately latches his lips over your clit through the material, the sensation of his tongue pushing the lace fabric against the bud making your knees buckle. 

noting how sensitive you already are, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to meet your sweatpants to tug them both off you entirely. 

hands back on your hips, he flips you both, your back landing on the couch with him looming over you. his trip prods your entrance, jaw falling slack as he gathers your slick onto his tip, rubbing his tip through your folds. 

“look at this perfect pussy,” he breathes, eyes flicking to yours as he continues the slow drag of his tip through your folds “s’all for me, yeah?” 

when you answer with a broken whimper, his free hand grips your jaw, fingers squishing your cheeks together, “you’ve spent all this time pretending you’re not quiet, you can pretend a little longer,” he murmurs “so, who’s this sweet pussy for?” he asks again. 

“you,” you hiccup, garbled speech as his fingers squish your cheeks. 

he smirks, knowing “that’s right,” he coos “all for me.” 

you gasp, unfiltered and raw as he presses just the tip in. he chuckles lowly when you already clench around him. he pushes into you slowly, always drawing back out until just the tip is nestled inside of you before pushing back in just a bit further than the last time. 

he’s watching intently, the way your pussy practically swallows his cock with every thrust, the way your tummy twitches and how your hips jump for more. once he’s flush to the hilt, his hand leaves your jaw to press on your lower tummy. the pressure makes you jump, clenching around him. 

“greedy,” he hums, starting a slow pace, still mesmerized as he watches “just like i thought she’d be.” 

your breath hitches every time he thrusts into you, and you can see the smugness grow on his face the longer you become antsy, thighs twitching and your hands squirming like you don’t know what to do with them. 

“something you need?” he asks, mock concern in his voice as his eyes meet yours. “use those words you’ve been so familiar with.” 

“more,” you breathe out, hips shifting to try and get something, anything. “want more, please.” 

his arms slip under your back, lifting you slightly by the small of your back “good girl,” he whispers, angling your hips upwards “i can give you more.” 

you almost regret asking, your gasps and moans nearly cancelled out by the sound of his hips slapping against yours, balls slapping against your pussy. he grinning down at you, watching your brows pull together and lips fall open, hands clambering around his biceps for purchase. 

he hisses when your nails dig into the muscle of his arms, his fingers tightening around your back. your head tips back against the pillow behind your head, his mouth dipping down the mouth sloppily at the expanse of your neck and chest. 

you squeal when he flips you both suddenly, sitting you back down into his cock, straddling him as he resumes his position of sitting on the couch from earlier. your hands grip his shoulders, using them as leverage as his hands grip your waist, guiding you to set your own rhythm just to catch his breath. 

one of his hands leaves your waist to rip the hem of your tank top down, your tits spilling out of the top of it. his bottom lip draws between his teeth, large hands coming to cup the bottom plush of your tits, watching them bounce in his hands as you move up and down the length of his cock. his thumbs occasionally brush across your pebbled nipples, groaning when you mewl from the contact. 

when your hips start to falter, rutting and swirling instead of bouncing, combined with the way your walls clench around him, he knows you're close. 

“gonna cum?” he coos out, “can feel your lil’ pussy squeezin’ around me.” 

you nod, desperately as your forehead falls against his, hot breath fanning across his face. he contemplates making you work for it, wanting to see how needy you can get. what you’d look like and how you’d move just to cum. 

but he wants you coming back for more. so, he scoots down the couch slightly, planting his feet more firmly on the ground. his hands grip the flesh of your ass, lifting you so there’s space for him to thrust relentlessly up into you. 

the noises are obscene, skin slapping against skin, your moans and cries getting cut off with each hard thrust. he fucks you exactly like this through every tremble of your orgasm, until you’re a shaking mess, clinging to him and hiding your face in the crook of his neck. 

this won’t do, he isn’t done. his fingers find the hair at the nape of your neck, sweaty and clinging to your skin. he pulls you back so that your heavy eyes are meeting his, his thrusts slow and calculated 

“now,” he pants “are you gonna let me cum in that pussy, hm? let me fill you with who you should’ve been filled with all this time?” 

you’re nodding before he’s even done talking, fucked out pout and hooded eyes locked on his face, “please.” you whisper. 

“fuck,” he breathes. he doesn’t falter, eyes fluttering as he spills into you, letting your walls milk him for every drop he has to offer “this is all for you,” he whispers against your lips. his hands roam your body as you sit in his lap, comforting fingers massaging the flesh of your sides, thighs and ass. 

a sigh slips from his lips eventually, tapping your hip gently in what you can only assume is cue for ‘get off of me’. you slip off of him, thighs clenching together and his cum already threatens to spill down your thighs. you gnaw on your bottom lip as he immediately stands, putting his clothes on. 

your cheeks burn as you reach for your own, but you freeze when his voice cuts through the air. 

“what’re you doing?” he asks, like you’re wrong for putting your clothes back on too. 

“oh, um-,” you shrug, holding your panties and sweatpants up “getting dressed, i thought- thought that was my cue.” 

he laughs, tugging his sweatpants back on to sit low on his hips. “nah, you don’t gotta get dressed.” he murmurs, grabbing your pants from you to toss them back on the floor. 

“i got a drop to go to really quick, won’t be long.” he says, running his fingers through his messy hair in a half assed attempt to fix it. 

his phone flashes on the coffee table, and your curious mind gets the best of you as he looks to see who it is. your boyfriends- or you suppose ex boyfriend, name pops up on the screen, and when you look up at chris he’s already smiling. 

“yeah,” he murmurs, hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, cupping your cheek “about to go sell to your ex boyfriend, with your cum all over my dick. you want me to tell him you guys are done or, you gonna spare him until tomorrow?” 

you swallow thickly, embarrassed but not shameful. “i’ll tell him tomorrow.” you whisper. 

he hums, pleased, before picking up his phone and slipping it into his pocket.

“be good for me while i’m gone. jus’ wait patiently and we can do this allll over again as soon as i get back, if you don’t have that dumbass bedtime of yours anymore.”

caroline speaks: if you actually read through all of this im kissing u through the screen right now !! i also tried my best to proof read this but sometimes lil spelling mistakes just go over my head. sorry for the super plot heavy fic i just wanted to write something with a bit of a back story. i am sensing a flop.

©cinnamonsturns

#DOWNBAD ◞ @/CHRISTOPHERSTURNIOLO sub! chris, use of pocket pussy, dirty talk, use of “mommy”

The second Chris closed the door behind you, his composure cracked like glass under pressure. He’d sat there with you on his bed just minutes before, feigning calmness while his entire body burned with tension. You hadn’t given off the slightest indication that you wanted anything more than conversation tonight, and Chris, observant as ever, had taken the hint without a word.

He’d tucked his hands safely against his own thighs, had leaned back and smiled at you like his chest wasn’t tight with need, like he wasn’t struggling to keep his hips still every time you shifted beside him. He’d done what he always did—controlled himself, no matter how desperate he was for you.

But now you were gone. And that restraint, that self-control, evaporated the moment his door shut. His body throbbed with pent up hunger, the kind that had him nearly stumbling as he stripped out of his clothes, tugging his shirt over his head and shoving his sweats down to free his aching dick. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything he hadn’t let himself show you.

He wasn’t supposed to want like this, not this badly, but it was impossible to ignore when the ache sat so deep it made him shake. His gaze flicked toward the corner of his room—toward the toy he’d tucked away. His jaw clenched, and then he moved, grabbing it with a shaky urgency that betrayed just how close he was to breaking.

He threw himself back onto the mattress, settling flat against the sheets as he dragged the toy onto his lap. His dick strained upward, red and slick at the tip, already leaking from the tension he’d held inside.

He lined himself up with the hole of the silicone toy, one hand gripping the its hips to hold it steady, and then he bucked up into it with a strangled moan. His head tipped back, curls sticking to his damp forehead, eyes fluttering shut as the wet heat enveloped him.

“O-oh, shiiitt, y’feel so—oh my god. So tight and w-warm around me,” he gasped, hips driving up again, faster this time. His back arched hard off the bed, thrusts snapping sharp and desperate, his body moving like it already knew exactly how to chase you. Each upward grind made his abs flex, sweat glistening across his skin as he clung to the toy, fucking up into it like he was buried deep inside you.

“F-fuck, mommy, I’ve been holdin’ back all night,” he whined, the plea spilling broken from his lips. “Couldn’t even touch you, jus’ sat there while you looked so—so perfect. C-can’t—can’t take it anymore, need you so bad.” His thighs trembled beneath the strain, his rhythm messy and uneven, his moans tumbling higher as he lost himself completely in the fantasy.

“Please—please let me cum,” he begged, head tossing side to side, curls damp with sweat. “I’ll be good, mommy, I p-promise. Jus’ f’you, s’only you, fuck—”

The edge snapped. His whole body bowed off the mattress, hips jerking violently upward as his release tore through him. A guttural cry ripped from his throat, loud and unrestrained, as hot ropes spilled inside the toy, his dick pulsing with every frantic spasm. He held the toy tight to his lap, rutting weakly up into it as the aftershocks dragged him through, leaving his thighs quivering and chest heaving.

When it finally slowed, he collapsed against the sheets, slick in sweat, heart hammering. Shame and satisfaction tangled in his chest, leaving him boneless and wrecked, still clutching the toy as though it were you.

ON THE ROAD ◞ @/CHRISTOPHERSTURNIOLO sub! chris, oral, semi-public, use of “mommy”

The sun is high and sharp through the windshield, the kind of light that makes everything look clearer, brighter—like there’s nowhere to hide. It streaks across Chris’s profile as he drives, one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped lazily against his thigh.

The two of you are coming down from the buzz of your date, laughter still echoing in your bones after rounds of arcade games and bowling. But now, in the steady hum of the car, all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw flexes when he shifts lanes. The casual sprawl of his body in gray sweatpants and a hoodie.

Your hand drifts over before you can think better of it, brushing his thigh, fingers creeping higher until you palm him through the soft cotton. Chris startles with a sharp inhale, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

His head tilts just slightly toward you, voice breaking with the weight of a nervous laugh. “What’re you doin’?” The words are strained and careful.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your hand squeezes lightly, feeling him stir under the fabric. He bites his lip hard, his breath hitching when you slip past the waistband, curling into the thin barrier of his boxers before finally pulling him out.

He’s already thick and heavy in your hand, the heat of him pulsing against your palm as you stroke him slowly, deliberately, just to watch him crumble. Chris’s lips part around a shaky breath, his chest rising hard beneath his hoodie.

The traffic rushing past outside seems like background noise compared to the stifled sounds slipping out of him. “Please… mommy—don’t tease,” he murmurs, but his hips betray him, jerking up into your fist.

You lean down without hesitation, your tongue tracing the underside of him before taking him into your mouth. The effect is immediate—Chris jolts, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other flying up to brace against the door as if he needs to hold on for dear life. His voice comes out strangled, words falling apart the second your lips slide lower. “F-fuuck, momm— oh my god.”

The car swerves just slightly, and he curses under his breath, forcing his focus back on the road, but it’s useless. You set a steady rhythm, bobbing along his length, your hand working what you can’t take.

He’s already a mess, thighs trembling, breath stuttering. “Please, I—mm, I can’t…” His words dissolve into a choked groan when you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, the sound of it pulling him closer to the edge.

His release hits fast and hard, spilling hot into your mouth as his body goes rigid, a broken moan tearing out of him. He grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, eyes squeezed shut for a beat before flicking nervously back to the road.

You're at some party, in somebody's room, skirt hiked up, bent over his knee. Your panties are bunched up by your ankles. It's the perfect view for Chris to handle your little attitude problem.

You're squirming—whining—everytime his hand meets your ass. You were sorry a long time ago, truthfully. You apologized for how bratty you were being, but Chris isn't that forgiving.

Especially when it comes to flirting with some guy right in front of him. Acting like he wasn't even there.

"Stop fuckin' moving before I start actually being mean," He growls, "You want me to spank this pussy next?"

You shake your head desperately, still moving despite the warning. "That's too bad," He coos, "Cause' she's loving this."

You let out the most pathetic you've ever heard as his rough, hand slaps your clit. "Msorry!"

"At least one of you knows your place." Your pained gasps are replaced with breathy, soft moans when his fingers begin massaging your bundle of nerves. "Feels so good, doesn't it?" You attempt to moan out a breathy, "yes."

"Know it fuckin' does, you're drenching my hand, mama." You whine out of embarrassment, wiggling in grip. He laughs, "Aww, baby..."

"You're about to cum, aren't you?" And you want to deny it, want to act like you're not clenching around nothing, but your eyes are rolled into the back of your head. You're so close you can taste it.

"Cmon, ma. Make a mess allllll over my hand."

©LILOLEBAMBI

viv's thoughts. . . i'm so drunk 😭😭😭😭 dealer!chrissssss😭😭😭

christopher sturniolo blurb

in which: chris fucks you so good that afterwards you can’t even walk straight.

contains: : rough sex, pet names (baby, sweet girl), wrist pinning, wet neck kisses, teasing, soft degradation, big dick!chris, dirty talk, orgasm control, creampie, aftercare + aftercare teasing

[hold on, wait a minute]

in which: chris is eating you out too good | dividers: @enchanthings

“god, chris,” you moaned, grabbing the armrest on the couch. “you’re doing so good, baby.” chris groaned, making your toes curl as he continued eating you out, shaking his head like a starved man. he had a tight grip on your legs that rested on his shoulders, cock painfully hard.

you came hard, your whole body jolting as you gripped his hair tightly, his lips pulling back, all wet and nice. he rubbed his lips, shoving his fingers in his mouth. “mhm, you taste just like candy.” he dipped his head down again, his eyes lined up at your swollen clit. “i just can’t help myself, mama.” he attached his lips to your sensitive bud, rolling his tongue around it.

you closed your legs tightly around his head, but he opened them wide, knees bend, holding them beneath the knee. he sucked, spit, shaking his head back and forth. usually that would be something that you didn’t like, shaking his head, but man, he made it feel so good you could care less.

“alright,” you whimpered, trying to push his head away. “chris, hold on wait a minute.” but he just locked eyes w you, a silent as of permission as you nodded, throwing your head back. and it was too sensitive to the point where it almost hurt.

he pulled away quickly. “yea, ma, cum all over m’face.” he placed his mouth back on your sopping pussy, and before you knew it, you were coming all over his face, your legs closing instantly. he pulled away, letting your legs fall, pulling you to the edge of the couch, him on his knees before you.

“tell me what you want, mama,” chris said, smirking.