#chris angst

"Make me," he challenged. Then, his grin widened into something really bratty. "Please, mommy? Make me behave."

The clicking of the keyboard stopped instantly.

It seemed like everything just stopped. You didn't move for a long beat, letting the silence fall upon him like a dense weight. When you finally turned your head to look down at him, your expression was unreadable—cold, steady, and entirely unamused.

The grin on Chris’s face slowly fell. He’d expected a laugh, or maybe a playful shove. He hadn't expected the silence to be so consuming.

"Don't," you said, your voice low with a warning. "Call me that again."

Chris gulped nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. "I—it was just a joke—"

"I’m not laughing." You snapped the laptop shut and set it on the nightstand with a definitive thud. “I’m your girlfriend, not your mother.”

You moved so fast he didn't have time to scramble back. In one fluid motion, you were on top of him, pinning his wrists to the pillows on either side of his head. The dominant advantage he usually held was gone; you were the one over him now, your shadow absorbing him.

"You want to play games, Chris? You want to see how far you can push me before I take control?" You leaned down, your lips hovering just inches from his. "Well, you found the line. And now, the game is over."

Chris’s breath stuttered, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements. The joking was gone, replaced by a wide-eyed sort of focus. He looked shocked, trapped under the pressure of your gaze and the sudden realization that he’d finally pushed you exactly where he secretly wanted you to be.

"From this point on," you whispered, your grip on his wrists tightening just enough to let him know you weren't letting go, "you don't speak. You don't move unless I tell you to move. And you definitely don't get to choose the names we use tonight."

You let one hand go, tracing a slow, agonizing line from his jaw down to the center of his chest, feeling his heart beating like a drum.

"Do you understand me?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but you cut him off with a tense look.

"Don't speak," you reminded him, your voice falling to a dark, commanding purr. "Just nod."

For a moment, Chris just stared up at you — mouth tight, pride flickering behind his eyes like he was still deciding whether to fight it. Then, slowly, something in him gave way. He gave a single nod, hardly noticeable, his breath unsteady. The glaze crept into his eyes only then, like a tide finally coming in — reluctant, but inevitable.

"Good boy," you whispered, your hand sliding lower, hooking into the waistband of his shorts. "Now, let’s see just how quiet you can stay while I show you exactly who’s in charge."

You held his gaze as you slowly pushed his shorts down, unhurried. You smiled, it was the type of smile that made his breath catch all over again. You kissed his jaw softly, then let your hand travel down until your palm pressed against his cock through the thin fabric. "Seems someone likes being the submissive one for a change, hm?"

Chris whimpered — a small, helpless sound that pulled a low hum from your throat. “Does this feel good, baby?” you whispered, keeping the same slow, rubbing rhythm. “Maybe I should just... keep doing this. Until you’re begging.”

His eyes were hooded now, lips parted, soft pants slipping out with every motion of your hand. You held his gaze and squeezed his cock. “Tell me, Chris. Want me to keep going?” He shook his head desperately, hips bucking up into your touch, another broken whimper escaping before he could stop it.

You smirked, kissing down his body and pressing your lips just above the waistband of his boxers, barely a kiss, more of a tease. Then, slowly, you pushed them down. You stopped just short, the fabric pulled tight, hovering right above his cock. Close enough that the slightest movement would free him. You didn’t move.

“Tell me what you want,” you spoke softly against his skin as you kissed it. “Beg for it, sweet boy.”

The silence stretched. Then, “F-fuck, baby. I need— I need you to make me feel good. I’ll be good, I swear, just— please.” His voice cracked on the last word, eyes wide open and glassy, hips lifting, chasing friction you hadn’t given him yet.

You let the moment stay just a second longer. Just enough to feel him squirm, before you finally pulled the boxers down and freed him. A deep breath left him the moment the fabric was gone. You wrapped your hand around his cock slowly, starting with strokes so soft they were almost punishing.

Chris moaned, his hips rolling up on instinct, chasing more. You pressed a firm hand to his hip and pinned it down without a word, just a look. He stopped immediately.

“No,” you said quietly. Not harsh. Just final. “We do this my way. You wanted to play games, remember, baby?” You dragged your thumb slowly over the tip, spreading the bead of wetness there. “Then we’re playing games.”

His whole body shivered. You kept the pace slow and relentless, watching every reaction pass across his face. Then you leaned up, cupped his jaw, and kissed him. Deep and unrushed, tongue and teeth, your bottom lip catching his in a way that made him groan into your mouth.

“Such a good fucking boy,” you breathed against his mouth. You pulled back just enough to look at him, flushed, undone, waiting. “Makes me want to taste you.” You held his gaze. “Would you like that?”

Chris nodded fast, a breathless whimper slipping out. “Please. I need it, I won’t call you that again. Just — fuck — please, [Y/N].”

You smiled against his skin and started working back down his body. A kiss here, a graze of teeth there. You paused at his hip and pressed your mouth to the soft skin, sucking until he moaned. There’d be a mark there tomorrow. You moved lower, mouthing at the inside of his thigh, and he let out a broken moan, his hand moving into your hair before he could stop himself.

You looked up slowly. “Hands,” you said. Just one word.

His fingers loosened immediately. He dropped his hand to his side, chest pounding, eyes dark and needy. The kind of look that made it very hard to keep your own composure. But you held it.

“Smart choice,” you spoke softly. “That deserves a reward.”

You dragged your tongue slowly up the underside of his shaft, then kissed the tip, soft and affectionate for a second. “Want me to, baby?”

He was staring at you, flushed and completely unraveled. He nodded gently. “Y-yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

You took him in slowly, what didn’t fit, you wrapped your hand around, stroking in time with your mouth until you found a pace that had him gasping. His hands found your hair, gathering it back as he watched you. “F-fuck, [Y/N],” he moaned softly. “Thank you — God —”

You looked up at him, holding eye contact as you took him deeper. The look on your face was so intentional and euphoric that Chris had to glance away before he lost it entirely. You moaned around him, and he groaned low in response. You quickened the pace; his grip tightened in your hair, whimpers spilling out between shallow breaths. “B-baby — fuck — you’re going to make me cum if you don’t stop.”

You gently slapped his hands away and pulled off him with a soft pop, a thread of precum and spit catching on your lip. He reached up with his thumb and wiped it away, his hand shaking lightly.

"Why..." He gulped hard. "Why did you stop? I was being good for you."

You smiled and stood to look at him. "Because I want to fuck you," you said firmly. "And remind you what it feels like to be completely out of control."

You climbed back on top of him and kissed him, letting him taste himself on your lips. He made a low, helpless sound in your mouth. Your tongues tangled together as you ground down slowly against him, his cock rubbing between your slick folds, and a soft moan escaped from you before you could stop it. “Fuck, Chris, I need you now.”

You grabbed his jaw, tilting his face up to yours. “No condom,” you said quietly. “Tonight you’re completely mine. Understood?”

He nodded fast, hips already lifting, chasing contact you hadn’t offered yet. You pressed a single finger to his hip — a warning. “Patience. Rush me, and I walk out of this room. Don’t test me on that.”

“Hands stay at your sides,” you said. “No touching. Not until I say so. Understand?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a soft, shaky whimper, eyes roaming your face.

“Christopher.” Your voice dropped, quiet and commanding. “Do you understand?”

Something in him snapped into focus. “Yes,” he spoke quietly. “I — yes, baby. I understand.”

You looked at him for a long moment — flushed, chest heaving, hands flat against the sheets — and felt something quiet and certain settle in your chest. Then you leaned down and kissed him softly. “Good.”

You reached down and guided him to your entrance, then sank down slowly on his cock — feeling every inch as he stretched you open, breath catching in your throat. You didn’t rush it. When you finally settled fully onto him, you held still for a moment, just breathing.

“You good?”

Chris’s jaw was tight, face flushed deep, the effort of keeping still written all over him. He nodded once. “Y-yeah,” he managed, just above a whisper. “Fuck — you feel so good.” Like if he spoke any louder, the restraint would shatter. You smiled at that.

“You’re being so fucking good for me,” you murmured. “Maybe that earns you another reward. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

You planted your hands on his chest and started to move — rolling your hips at first, finding the right angle, then lifting until his cock was almost out of you before dropping back down. Slow and purposeful. His breath froze every time you came back down. The sounds you pulled from each other were involuntary. You felt his hand jerk against the sheets and covered it with yours without breaking pace. “Not yet,” you said quietly.

Chris looked up at you with blown-out eyes. “Please,” he breathed. “I need to touch you, baby. This is hell.”

You held his gaze and kept moving. Completely in control. You could feel how wet you were getting, and from the way his breath caught, so could he. You leaned down slowly, lips touching the outside of his ear as you picked up the pace just slightly.

“This is my cock,” you whispered. “And no one else gets to have you like this. Remember that.”

He nodded, a moan breaking through before he could swallow it. “It’s yours,” he breathed. “Fuck — all yours, baby. Please, let me touch you.”

You took his hands and guided them to your chest.

His fingers found your nipples immediately — pinching, rolling, pulling sounds out of you that you hadn’t planned on making. The pace you’d set had shifted without you realizing, deeper and faster, wet and filthy sounds filling the room. “Oh god, Chris,” you moaned, not caring even slightly who heard. “Such a good fucking boy.”

Chris’s head tipped back. “Fuck,” he gritted out. “You feel so good — so wet — you’re gonna make me cum [Y/N].”

Your hand wrapped around his throat without thinking — light pressure, just enough. You smirked down at him. “Gonna cum?” you breathed. “Want to fill me up? Make it up to me for those little games you tried to play earlier?”

He groaned at the pressure of your fingers against his throat, eyes fluttering. The words came out wrecked, barely held together. “Please, baby. Want to cum in you so bad — let me make you feel good, please.”

You leaned down and kissed him — quick and soft. “Cum in me,” you said against his lips. “Show me who you belong to.” You squeezed his throat one last time.

Chris’s eyes shut tight, a broken string of whimpers and moans spilling out as his orgasm washed over. You felt him pulse inside you, deep and warm, and slowed your movements to ease him through it. When the last shudder left him, you stilled and settled against his chest. You smiled and pushed his hair back from his face.

“You ok?” you whispered, something calmer coming over you. “Was it too much?”

Chris found your eyes and smiled — completely blissed out. “That was so fucking hot,” he murmured. “Please do that more often.”

You laughed and kissed all over his face. “No promises. But maybe every once in a while.”

He smirked and stroked your cheek gently. You let the silence sit, warm and unhurried, his thumb moving against your skin. You were the one to break it. “If you ever call me 'Mommy' again, I will literally murder you. Gross.”

He burst out laughing. “Heard loud and clear, baby.”

You barely shifted before his arms were around you, lifting you up. You looked at him. He just smiled — soft, private, like it was only ever meant for you — and carried you to the shower without a word.

M yaps: TF DID I JUST WRITE AHH.. oh sub Chris how I love you.

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As always: Have a great day, be kind -M

Chris always told you everything.

Who he kissed. Who he touched. Where his mouth had been and why he didn’t text her back after. The messes he made and the lies he told. You never encouraged him, never congratulated him like his boys sometimes did, but you never judged him either. You just listened. Called him out when he needed it. Stared at him like he was both ridiculous and heartbreaking, like you could see something beneath all that cocky, unbothered swagger.

You never thought he’d break your heart without even touching it.

But here you were, sitting on his lap, straddling him on his bed, bare legs folded over his black sweats, because he let you do his skincare. Because Chris Sturniolo, fuckboy of all fuckboys, let you gently rub moisturizer into his cheekbones with the pads of your fingers while he blinked up at you with half-lidded eyes, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You okay?” you asked softly, tilting his chin.

He blinked a few times. “I feel kinda out of it.”

You laughed. “Tired from all that pussy-slaying?” you teased.

He snorted. Then fell quiet. Looked at you differently. A little too long.

“Promise you won’t judge me?”

Your hands paused on his jaw. “Uh oh,” you murmured with a little grin. “What did you do to Cierra?”

Chris didn’t laugh.

He didn’t flinch either.

He just said it like it was nothing. Like it was truth.

“Cheated on her.”

The silence was loud. Deafening.

You blinked. Slowly pulled your hands from his face, your thighs tensing over his lap. Your body shifted like your stomach had flipped. You weren’t even with him—never had been—but you liked him. Of course you did. You liked the version of Chris only you seemed to see.

You climbed off him.

He stood up immediately, like the space between you was made of fire.

“Wait, wait—fuck—I didn’t mean—It wasn’t like that, I swear,” he rushed out. “It wasn’t even—we weren’t even—Cierra and I—we weren’t serious.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t care,” you snapped.

He shut up.

His hands fisted at his sides. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

You didn’t even know where the slap came from—maybe frustration, maybe heartbreak, maybe because he looked too pretty and too sorry and it made you angry how badly you wanted to kiss him. You didn’t think. You just slapped him. The sound cracked the air like a whip.

His cheek turned. His head stayed low. But he didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

He blinked, jaw clenched. Then looked at you like you’d just given him something he needed. Like punishment made sense.

“I deserved that.”

“Yeah,” you choked out. “You fucking do.”

And then you bolted. Your eyes burned. You couldn’t cry in his room. Not there. Not when he was still looking at you like you were some fragile halo hovering in front of him. He always called you angel. And it always messed you up inside.

You hit the stairs, heart pounding, but his voice followed:

“Look at me.”

You paused.

Something in you cracked when you turned. His face wasn’t smug. Or ashamed. It was scared. Like he knew.

And fuck, he did. He knew from the second your bottom lip trembled and your eyes dropped to the floor.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “I fucking knew it.”

You were shaking.

He stepped down slowly, one foot after the other like he was afraid you’d run.

“I always thought—maybe I was wrong—but I knew something was there. You always looked at me like you knew how fucked up I was but didn’t care.”

“I do care,” you whispered. “That’s why I’m mad.”

His mouth parted.

“I’m mad because you keep giving pieces of yourself away to girls who don’t even see you, and I’m just—sitting here. Watching you waste yourself.”

Chris closed the gap between you in two steps and pulled you into his chest like it was instinct. His arms wrapped around your body tight, like he wasn’t afraid of squeezing too hard. Like he needed to.

You buried your face in his hoodie and let the tears fall. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. But everything broke loose.

“You’re so stupid,” you cried. “So fucking dumb.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath into your hair. “I know.”

His forehead pressed to yours. Eyes closed. Noses brushing.

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs wiping tears, holding you like you were glass and everything he wanted to hold onto.

And then, slowly, he tilted his head. Just a bit.

You felt the change. The shift.

Your breath caught. Your fingers curled into his hoodie.

“Chris…” you whispered.

He stopped.

Your eyes opened, blinking into his, and your voice cracked when you said, “I can’t.”

You stepped away. Just a few inches. But it felt like a canyon.

And you turned.

And left.

Day 1 after you walked out:

Chris didn’t panic. Not yet. He figured you’d cool off. That you’d be mad for a bit, but eventually text back with a sarcastic, “Hope you apologized to Cierra too, dumbass.”

But you didn’t.

You didn’t text anything.

And the silence? It sat in his chest like a brick. He kept checking your profile picture on Instagram like it would change something. He sent you a DM you didn’t open. He watched your story like it was a lifeline and rewatched it four times even though it was just a photo of your coffee and a paperback book.

It took three days for him to admit to himself that maybe he’d really fucked it this time.

Day 5:

Chris got high just to sleep. Slept through two calls from his brother and one missed FaceTime from a girl he used to hook up with.

He didn’t call her back. He didn’t want her. Not anymore.

Not when his brain was so full of you.

Not when he’d wake up hearing your voice in his head:

“You give pieces of yourself away to girls who don’t even see you.”

It echoed, loud and cutting. The worst part was that you weren’t wrong. He just never thought it would hurt to hear it from you.

Day 8:

He tried to distract himself. Went out with Nick and Matt. Dressed nice. Laughed at dumb shit. Pretended.

Came home to an empty bed.

The kind of silence that screamed.

Pulled up your contact. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

Paused.

Sent it anyway.

“I know I don’t deserve to miss you. But I do.”

“Come over. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just sit with me.”

No response.

Not even a dot.

Day 11:

He looked through his messages with other girls. Threads filled with nudes, heart eyes, lazy flirting. It made his skin crawl.

He blocked them all. Every single one.

Except yours.

Because he couldn’t delete you. You were the only thing that didn’t feel fake.

That night, he stared at his ceiling for so long, the shadows moved with the sunrise. He picked up his phone. Opened your thread. Didn’t think. Just needed you.

“Please.”

“Come over.”

“I miss you.”

“I need you to do my skincare again. You always make me look less dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Angel.”

“Please.”

“I hate this.”

“I hate not talking to you.”

“You’re the only person I never want to lie to.”

Still nothing.

He threw his phone across the room. Didn’t even flinch when it hit the wall.

Day 14:

Chris hadn’t shaved in a week. His hoodie smelled like your hair because he hadn’t washed it. He didn’t care. He hadn’t posted anything, hadn’t replied to texts from friends, hadn’t even left the house except once to buy cigarettes—which he didn’t even smoke—just to hold something between his fingers so he wouldn’t text you again.

He sat on his bedroom floor, phone in his hand. Thumb hovering over your name.

He didn’t send anything this time.

He just stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.

The silence didn’t feel passive anymore. It felt deliberate.

Like maybe… this was the part where you chose yourself over him.

And that terrified him.

Because he didn’t just miss you.

He wanted you.

And not in the way he’d wanted the others. Not in the quick, easy, low-effort way that came with no risk. He wanted you entirely—in the way that cracked his chest open and made him scared of what was underneath.

The truth was…

He’d been falling for you quietly. For a long time.

He just didn’t think you’d walk away before he said it out loud. You weren’t doing great either without him. You tried to be tough. Act like you don’t care. Like you don’t need him. But you were lying to yourself. You wanted & needed to see him again. So you did.

It was almost 1 a.m. when you stood outside his front door.

Two full weeks of silence.

Two weeks of missed calls, unread messages, sleepless nights, and everything you’d tried to bury rising back up in your chest like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

The lock clicked under your fingers like muscle memory. Chris always hid the spare key in the mini vase close by the door.

The living room was quiet, dimly lit by the glow of a TV playing something no one was watching. A blanket half on the couch. A hoodie slung over the armrest that you swore was yours.

You moved through the house like a ghost. Like someone who used to belong here but didn’t anymore. Your heart thudded against your ribs, loud enough you almost turned back.

Until you heard it.

The creak of the floorboard at the top of the stairs.

You looked up.

Chris.

Standing at the end of the hall, barefoot, hoodie halfway off one shoulder, sweatpants hanging low, curls flattened on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed. He looked… soft. And tired. And stunned.

Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

You didn’t say anything either. You just looked at him.

It was the first time in 14 days you’d let your eyes really land on him.

And that’s when it broke.

He walked toward you, slow at first. Then faster. His breath was shaking by the time he hit the stairs, and when he got to the bottom step, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t grab or hold or pull.

He just stood there.

Eyes wide. Voice cracking.

“I didn’t know what it felt like to miss someone who’s still breathing until you left.”

The sentence hit the space between you like a confession he’d been choking on.

He laughed once, hollow and soft. “You were always right here. I thought you always would be. And then you weren’t. And it felt like everything got… too quiet.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Chris…”

“I deleted everyone,” he whispered. “All of them. Gone. You’re the only name left in my phone.”

Your eyes burned.

He laughed again, like it was pathetic. “That night, when you left… I stood in that hallway for so long. I just stood there. I thought if I stayed still enough, you’d come back. Like maybe you’d feel it. That I needed you to turn around.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until he stepped down and reached for your hand. He didn’t even touch it fully—just hovered his fingers near yours, hesitant, reverent.

“You’re the only person who never wanted anything from me. You just… cared. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

You sniffled and shook your head, voice cracking. “I thought you were gone too.”

“I was never gone,” he said softly. “I was just stupid. Scared. And used to people leaving before I could lose them.”

You stepped forward slowly, until your chest brushed his. Your head tilted up.

Chris’s hand moved to your jaw, cupping it gently like you were still something sacred. Like this time, he knew what it meant to hold you.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted. “But if you walk away again, I don’t think I’ll come back from it.”

You leaned into his palm.

And when he kissed you—it wasn’t wild. Or rushed. Or cinematic.

It was quiet. Slow. Honest.

Years of tension breaking open.

Your hands twisted in his hoodie. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush to him like you’d slip away if he didn’t anchor you.

And neither of you let go.

Not for a long time.

Because both of you wanted each other so desperately, it was hard to pull away. You didn’t plan to stay.

You had no bag, no toothbrush, nothing but your keys in your hand and the ache in your chest that started when Chris kissed you and hadn’t let up since.

You ended up on his couch—somehow. Still fully clothed. Your knees brushing. His thumb tracing lazy circles over your hand.

The kiss had broken once you both realized you were breathless. But the gravity between your bodies hadn’t let up.

Not even close.

Chris sat turned toward you, leg folded up under his thigh, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You hadn’t seen him look this unguarded in years. Maybe ever.

You swallowed thickly. “Why does this feel like more than just a kiss?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers brushed your chin, tilted it up gently. He studied your face like it was familiar and brand new all at once.

“Because it is,” he said quietly.

And then he leaned in again. Slower this time.

The kiss was needier now. Not rushed, but hungry. The kind of hunger that comes from being too full of silence, too full of missing someone.

Your hands curled into his hoodie. His lips parted against yours, tongue tracing slow, teasing strokes that made your breath hitch. His hand cupped the back of your neck like he needed to feel that you were real, right here, not going anywhere.

You shifted closer. His arm wrapped around your waist instinctively, pulling you flush to him on the couch until you were straddling his lap.

When you pulled back slightly, breathless, his eyes were darker now. Glassy.

“Do you… wanna stay the night?” he asked. Voice low. Shaky.

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

“I want to,” you whispered.

Chris didn’t say anything.

He just exhaled like a weight had left his chest, then lifted you like it was second nature—your legs wrapping around his waist as he stood. Your fingers tangled in his hair. You could feel his heart pounding under your palm.

He carried you up the stairs, slow, steady.

His bedroom was still dim from earlier. He nudged the door open with his foot, kissed your cheek when he set you down on your feet.

“I’m lighting a candle,” he said. “It’s stupid but… I don’t want this to feel like all the other times.”

You blinked, then nodded. Your heart hurt in your ribs in the best way.

He lit it. Vanilla and musk. Soft light flickered in the corner.

Then he walked over to his desk, clicked open a playlist. Cigarettes After Sex started to play.

He turned to you, and his voice was so soft when he asked, “You sure?”

You nodded.

But that wasn’t enough.

“I need to hear it, angel,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I want you,” you said, voice cracked but firm. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Chris stepped toward you slowly, hands finding your waist again. His forehead rested against yours.

“Then let me show you how long I’ve wanted you too.”

He kissed you slow, again. Backed you gently toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge and you sat, legs hanging off. Chris stood between them, looking down at you like you were something precious.

He lifted your shirt inch by inch. You let him.

Your chest rose and fell under his gaze. He ran his hands up your arms first, slow and reverent, then under the hem of your shirt—thumbs brushing your ribs, your sides, until he peeled the fabric off completely and dropped it to the floor.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The look in your eyes said thank you. Said finally.

He leaned down, kissed the dip between your collarbones, then lower, his mouth warm on your skin. Every touch of his lips felt deliberate—like he wasn’t just kissing, he was memorizing.

He pulled off his hoodie next, revealing the ink you’d once traced with careful fingers under the excuse of applying moisturizer.

Now you were touching him with no excuses.

Your palms slid over his chest, and he shivered.

“Lie back,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.

You did.

He climbed on top of you, slowly, bracing himself on his forearms. His mouth ghosted over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. You arched into him without thinking. The heat between your legs started to pulse, throb, and Chris noticed.

His mouth moved to your ear.

“I wanna take my time,” he whispered. “I want you to remember this.”

You whined when he kissed your stomach, when his fingers toyed with the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down with patience that made you want to cry.

You were already soaked.

His gaze darkened when he saw.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “For me?”

You nodded.

“Let me taste you. Please”.

You let out a breathy yes before you even thought.

He spread your legs gently, pressed soft kisses to your inner thighs. And when his tongue finally dipped between your folds, slow and deliberate, you gasped.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t pornographic. It was intimate.

His mouth moved like he cared about every twitch, every moan, every little sound you made when his tongue circled your clit just right.

He held your hips down with firm hands.

“Doing so good, angel,” he murmured into your skin. “So fucking sweet.”

You came on his mouth, gasping, thighs trembling around his head. And he held you through it. Didn’t stop until your fingers tugged his curls and begged him up.

He kissed your lips, slow, mouth shiny with you. You tasted yourself and didn’t care.

“Let me make love to you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded.

And this time, he undressed fully. Took his time.

He was hard—thick and aching—but he wasn’t rushing.

He lined himself up and paused.

“You okay?”

“I want you,” you breathed. “Chris… I want all of you.”

He pushed in slowly, eyes locked on yours. You gasped at the stretch, your body shaking, hands gripping his arms, but his voice soothed you the entire way.

“You’re doing perfect.”

“I got you.”

“Breathe, baby. Just like that.”

When he was fully inside, both of you stayed still—just feeling.

And then he moved.

Slow. Deep. Intentional.

Not just fucking. Loving.

His hand cradled your head. His lips found yours again, over and over.

“I never touched anyone like this,” he confessed, voice cracking. “I didn’t know I could feel this much.”

You moaned his name like it was the only word your brain knew.

The way he moved—slow thrusts that hit just right, that made you feel every inch—made you come again, clenched around him, gasping into his mouth.

And when he came, he buried his face in your neck, body shuddering.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you. Wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

And for the first time in years…

He didn’t feel empty afterward.

Just full.

Of you.

A/N: i might have entered my angst smut writing era bc this is all i keep writing currently.

his hugs weren't the same anymore, it was killing you, you just wished he wouldn't do it this slowly.

you'd spent nights wondering when did the love stop feeling the same, why did it stop?

your friends warned you, told you not to get with him, but did you listen? no. being with him felt so right, so perfect, the love was unlike any you'd experienced, until it didn't.

maybe he'd planned it this whole time, fall in love, take it away, leave you heartbroken. Maybe he liked it, seeing you hurt.

you spent nights asking yourself how could there be so much love and him just take it away? and how long had you been blind to him taking it away like it was never there. how long had it taken you to relize the spark was gone?

the night you called it quits felt like your heart being ripped out, but also gaining respect for yourself again, and while it wasnt right to wish bad on people you couldn't help it, you wished one day he'd feel what you felt near the end.

that night you learned that as much as you loved him, your wouldn't stay and let him break you heart over and over again. not when his didn't look at you the same anymore.

toritalks💌- might do a series of the mirada album for chris atp