✧ fwb!chris, ex-fwb!chris, jealousy, oral sex (m receiving), drunk party, reconciliation, rough sex, possessive chris, dirty talk, creampie, mutual pining
✧ summary: six months ago, you ended your "friends-with-benefits" relationship with chris, convinced you could finally move on. then you end up at the same frat party. three vodka cranberries in and somehow he has you bent over a couch and begging to let him prove he loves you.
the party is already bleeding into the walls by the time you arrive, bass thumping through the floorboards of some house you don't know, owned by someone you've never met.
your friend drags you through the door with her nails digging into your wrist, already three drinks deep and glitter smeared across her cheekbones.
"you need this," she yells over the music, shoving a red cup into your hands. you peered into the cup, the smell of vodka making your nose crinkle. "you've been moping for six months. enough."
you haven't been moping. you've been healing. there's a difference, even if it doesn't look like one from the outside.
the drink burns going down.
the house is packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, the air thick with sweat and cheap perfume and the sticky-sweet smell of different alcohols.
you drift through the rooms smiling at people, laughing at jokes you don't hear, letting your friend introduce you to people.
you're in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with your third drink, when you feel it.
the prickle on the back of your neck. the weight of someone's gaze.
you don't want to look, but you turn anyway.
chris is standing in the doorway, half-shadowed by the frame, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
he's wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, the veins standing out beneath his skin. his hair is longer than it was, falling into his eyes in a way that makes your fingers itch to push it back.
you force yourself to look away. force yourself to smile at the guy next to you. tall, blond, and forgettable. he's been trying to flirt for the last ten minutes.
"so what's your major?" the guy asks.
"english," you say, tilting your head back to drain your cup. "boring, i know."
"i'm sure nothing about you is boring."
it's a line. a cheap one at that. but you laugh anyway, letting your hand brush his arm, letting your eyes flutter up at him through your lashes.
it's harmless. it's nothing. it's a distraction from the heat building in your core, the way your body already knows chris is watching.
by 12am, the party is already loud enough to shake the walls, bass thumping through the floorboards of some house in the hills owned by someone from nick’s film class.
chris didn't want to come.
he's been avoiding parties since it ended, since you walked out of his apartment with your bag over your shoulder and your eyes dry and your voice steady when you said, "i can't do this anymore, chris.”
six months. six months of radio silence. six months of watching your instagram stories from a fake account like a fucking creep. six months of waking up reaching for you in the empty sheets.
he grabs a beer from the cooler and leans against the wall, scanning the room. nick is somewhere with his friends. matt is flirting with some girl by the speakers. and chris...chris is looking for you without admitting he's looking.
you’re in the kitchen, wearing that skirt. the black one that used to be his favorite, the one that rides up when you sit down, the one he used to push up around your waist while he fucked you against his bedroom door. you’re laughing at something some blond guy is saying, your head tilted back, your hand resting on his arm.
the beer bottle almost cracks in chris's grip. he doesn't realize he's moving until he's already crossing the room, shoving through bodies, his vision narrowing on you.
six months ago, you had rules. no sleepovers. no breakfast. no catching feelings. just sex, whenever you wanted it, convenient and hot and uncomplicated.
except it was never uncomplicated. not from the first time, when you showed up at his door at 2am with wine-stained lips and tears in your eyes because your date had stood you up.
he'd meant to comfort you. he'd ended up with your legs wrapped around his waist, your back against the wall, your moans in his mouth.
after that, he couldn't stop. you would text him "come over" and he'd be there in twenty minutes. he'd find you in his bed when he came home, waiting.
he told himself it was casual. he told himself he didn't care when you left at 3am, pulling your clothes on in the dark, whispering a, "see you around." he told himself he wasn't falling in love every time you fell asleep on his chest and he lay awake memorizing the sound of your breathing.
and then you asked for more. you sat up in his bed one morning—you’d stayed the night, breaking rule number one—and you looked at him with those eyes, and you said, "what are we doing, chris?"
"having fun," he'd said, his stomach clenching.
"i want more," you whispered.
he'd panicked. he'd said something stupid about not being ready, about not wanting to ruin the great sex they had, and you nodded like you’d expected it, like you’d prepared herself for the blow. you dressed quietly and walked out.
he didn't chase you. he's been regretting it ever since.
you feel him before you see him move.
the air shifts and then he's there, right behind you, close enough that you can smell him, his cologne that used to live in your sheets for days after he'd left.
"hey," the blond guy says, confused. "we're talking here."
"you're done," chris says, and his voice is quiet, controlled, but there's something underneath it that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
chris doesn't look at him. his eyes are fixed on you, dark.
"you heard me," chris says.
the blond guy looks at you, waiting for you to intervene, to tell chris to fuck off, to claim that you were free to do what you wanted, but your mouth is dry, your heart hammering against your ribs, and you can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but stare at chris and remember.
remember his mouth on your throat at 3am. remember his fingers inside you while you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.
remember the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered...right up until you asked for more and he pulled away like you'd burned him.
"whatever," the blond guy mutters, and disappears into the crowd.
chris doesn't step back. he's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that if you leaned back an inch, you'd be pressed against his chest.
"that was rude," you manage, your voice steadier than you feel.
"was it?" he asks, and his hand comes up, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. you shiver, unable to help it. "did you want him?"
"that's none of your business."
you meet his eyes, defiant. "maybe. maybe i wanted him to take me upstairs and fuck me until i couldn't walk. maybe i wanted someone who actually wants me back."
his jaw tightens. his fingers slide from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm.
"you think i don't want you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow cuts through the noise of the party. "you think i haven't been going out of my fucking mind watching you? watching you laugh at other guys' jokes, watching you move on like what we had was nothing?"
"it was nothing," you lie, and your voice breaks. "you said so yourself. just sex. just fun. don't catch feelings, remember?"
"i remember." his thumb strokes the side of your neck, maddeningly gentle. "i remember everything. i remember the sound you make when you're about to come. i remember the way you taste. i remember falling asleep with my hand on your stomach and waking up with you still there, and thinking—" he stops, swallows hard. "thinking i didn't deserve it. thinking i'd fuck it up."
"you did fuck it up," you whisper.
"i know." his eyes are so soft, so open, stripped of all the walls he used to keep between you. "i know i did. and i've been trying to fix it, trying to find the right way to say it," he laughs, humorless. "and then i see you with him, letting him touch you, and i can't think, i can't breathe, i just need—"
he stops. his hand is shaking against your throat.
"you need what?" you ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds, how much you still want to give him everything.
"you," he says, simple and broken. "just you."
you grab chris's wrist and pull him through the kitchen, down the hallway, past closed doors and laughing voices. he follows, his fingers threading through yours, holding on.
you find a door at the end of the hall, some kind of home-office, desk and bookshelves and a couch that looks like it came from a thrift store. you push him inside and lock the door behind you.
the room is dim, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the blinds. chris stands in the center of it, watching you, waiting.
"you don't get to do this," you say, your voice trembling. "you don't get to disappear for six months and then show up acting like you own me."
"i don't own you," he says quietly.
"then what was that out there? the whole possessive thing?"
he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. he reaches up, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch. "you want me to apologize for being jealous? fine. i'm sorry. but i'm not sorry for wanting you. i'll never be sorry for that."
his mouth is inches from yours. you can feel his breath, warm and quick, smell the beer on his breath.
"we're not doing this again," you say, but you're already leaning in, already drowning. "i'm not your convenient fuck when you feel like it. i want more or i want nothing."
"more," he breathes against your lips. "i want everything. i want—"
you cut him off, kissing him hard and desperate, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him against you. he groans into your mouth, his arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you slightly so you're pressed against him from chest to thigh. you can feel him, hard and thick against your stomach, and you whimper, your hips rocking instinctively.
"shit," he gasps against your mouth. "couch. fucking floor. i don't care. i need you."
you push him toward the couch, your hands shaking as you work at his buttons. he helps, quickly unbuttoning the shirt.
his chest is exactly as you remember, lean muscle and scattered hair and the scar on his ribs from when you both got too drunk and he tried to climb a fence.
you kiss your way down his throat, his collarbone, dropping to your knees in front of him. he looks down at you, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving.
"you don't have to—" he starts.
"i want to," you interrupt, and you do, god, you do. you've missed this, missed him, missed the weight of him on your tongue and the sounds he makes when you take him deep.
you undo his belt, his zipper, and free him. he's heavy in your hand, hot and throbbing, already wet at the tip. you look up at him as you lean in, holding his gaze, and lick the pre-cum away.
"shit," he chokes out, his head falling back. "shit, baby,"
you take him into your mouth, slowly, letting yourself adjust to his size, the familiar stretch of your jaw.
he groans, long and low, his hands coming to rest on your head, not pushing, just holding, his fingers trembling in your hair.
you work him with your tongue, your hand wrapped around the base, finding the rhythm you know he likes. his hips jerk forward involuntarily, then he catches himself, forcing himself still.
"look at me," he rasps. "please. i need to see you."
you tilt your eyes up, meeting his gaze, and the way he's looking at you makes your core clench with need. you moan around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening in your hair.
"stop," he pants after a minute, pulling you back gently. "stop, i'm close, and i want, fuck, i want to be inside you when i come. want to feel you."
you let him pull you up, your mouth swollen, your chest heaving. he kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he's turning you, bending you over the arm of the couch.
"chris," you gasp, as he shoves your skirt up around your waist.
he pulls back, his hands sliding down your spine, over the curve of your ass. he finds your underwear, black lace, and hooks his fingers in the waistband.
with one sharp tug, he tears them, the fabric ripping like paper, and you gasp at the sudden exposure, at the cool air against your wetness.
"look at you," he murmurs, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness. "soaked. been like this all night, haven't you? since you saw me?"
"yes," you admit, your face flaming.
he pushes one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it just enough to make your knees weak. "you've been walking around like this? dripping for me? while you let that guy put his hands on you?"
"yes," you sob, pushing back against his hand. "yes, i've been wet for you, i've been thinking about you,”
he adds a second finger, stretching you, his thumb finding your clit and circling lazily. you cry out, your hands gripping the couch cushions, your hips bucking.
"please," you whimper. "chris, please, i need—"
"what do you need?" he asks, his voice cruel and soft. "tell me."
"i need you inside me," you choke out, tears pricking your eyes, your body trembling on the edge. "please, chris, please fuck me, i can't-i've been missing you for six months, please, i need you to fill me,"
he groans, the sound torn from his chest, and then he's lining himself up, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, bumping against your clit, making you sob with frustration.
he thrusts into you in one hard, deep stroke, and you scream, your back arching, your nails tearing the couch fabric. he's big, thick, filling you up exactly how you remember, stretching you in that perfect burn.
"fuck," he groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder, his body shuddering. "fuck, you're so tight, so perfect, god, i missed you,"
he starts to move, slow and deep at first, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, hitting places inside you that make your vision blur.
but then he speeds up, his grip on your hips tightening, his thrusts becoming harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
"is this what you wanted?" he grunts, his hips snapping against yours. "to be fucked like this? to be reminded who you belong to?"
"yes," you moan, pushing back to meet him, taking him deeper. "yes, chris, please—"
he wraps one hand around your throat, pulling you up, arching your back against his chest. the angle changes, his cock dragging against you with every thrust, and you cry out.
"you feel so good," he pants against your ear, his voice wrecked. "so fucking good. i've missed this. i've missed you."
"i missed you," you sob, tears pricking at your eyes, your body overwhelmed, oversensitive. "i missed you so much, i thought about you every night, i touched myself thinking about you,"
"did you?" he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm. "did you make yourself come thinking about my cock?"
"yes," you gasp. "yes, but it wasn't the same, it was never,"
he shifts his angle, his thumb coming up to circle around your clit and your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, your body convulsing around him.
"that's it," he groans, fucking you through it until you're sobbing, limp, unable to support yourself. "come for me. milk my cock, baby, that's it,"
but he doesn't stop. he pulls out, flipping you over, manhandling you onto your back on the couch.
he pushes your knees up, spreading you wide, and slides back into you, his eyes locked on where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you.
"look at me," he commands, his voice rough. "look at me while i fuck you."
you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. he leans down, his mouth finding yours, kissing you filthy as he thrusts into you, his rhythm becoming desperate, his body trembling.
his hand slides between you, finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that make you jolt, oversensitive and desperate.
"again," he demands. "come with me this time. let me feel you,"
"i can't," you whimper, but your body responds to him like it was made for this, for him.
"you can," he breathes, his thrusts becoming shallow, quick, his cock swelling inside you. "you will. come on, baby, let go,"
he shifts his angle again, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and your second orgasm rips through you harder than the first, your back arching off the couch, your scream swallowed by his mouth.
he groans, long and low, and thrusts deep one final time, burying himself as he comes, pulsing inside you, hot and thick.
he collapses against you, his weight pinning you to the cushions, both of you shaking, sweating, gasping for air.
for a long moment, neither of you moves. you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, his breath hot and heavy in your hair. slowly, carefully, he pulls out.
he doesn't move away. he shifts, gathering you into his arms, pulling you onto his lap on the couch. he wraps his arms around you, tight and trembling, his face buried in your neck.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice broken. "i'm so sorry. i love you. i've loved you for so long. please. please let me prove it."
you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, feeling his tears hot against your skin, matching your own.
"okay," you breathe, pressing kisses to his hair, his temple, his jaw. "okay. we're okay. i've got you."
outside, the party keeps going, muffled behind the walls. neither of you says anything.
you just stay there, his arms around you, listening to his heartbeat.
✧ taglist: @joelmillrenthusiast @sturn1uver @icravechratt @courta13 @lovesturni0l0s @angel-sturn1 @luvvrubii @amandapanda2 @rainyyy-weather @mattsxbitch @whore4chris @savmattsfavmattgirl @billiesf4v @mamaagirlbehindu123 @ravenloveslotus @mollyjunebugg @bittenbymatt @sweetangelwishes @valentinasturn @ribbonlovergirl @sturnsburna @squiword7 @rygirl27 @chrisssiren
