lovelysturnx

[lovelysturnx]

OH…hey chris its nice to see you again.

(i’m wet)

[lovelysturnx]

OH…hey chris its nice to see you again.

(i’m wet)

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮＥ ＭＯＲＥ ＴＡＳＴＥ

in which..⋆˚꩜｡ chris is a starving man

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖒𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖍 𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖎𝖘, 𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖚𝖙, 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙, 𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Chris has always been good with his mouth—but tonight, he’s on a different level. He’s on his knees like a man starved, hands locked tight around your thighs, holding you open like you’re something sacred, something he needs to worship. His mouth is relentless, tongue stroking and curling, lips wrapped around you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against you, the vibrations making your spine arch off the sheets. “You taste so good. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had. Can’t stop… don’t want to stop.”

Your fingers thread through his messy hair, tugging, desperate. Your body’s trembling—overstimulated and stretched taut like a live wire.

“Chris—oh—please, I can’t,” you gasp, hips twitching against his grip. “I can’t anymore, it’s too much…”

But he doesn’t even pause.

“Yes, you can,” he growls softly, licking a slow stripe up your center before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Just a little longer, baby. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

You moan loud, head falling back, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but he doesn’t let you. He pushes them apart again, firmer this time, like your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’s chasing something he’ll never get enough of.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh between strokes. “Don’t hold back baby, come for me.”

“Chris,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning. But your fingers tighten in his hair again and your hips roll toward his mouth like your body’s betraying you—craving more even as you beg him to stop.

“I know, baby. I know. Just let me have it—one more. Give me one more.”

And you do—helpless under his mouth, undone by the way he eats like he’s addicted, like you’re the only thing in the world that will ever satisfy him.

But even when you come again, shaking and breathless, Chris doesn’t let go. He licks you through it, slow and tender now, but just as greedy—whispering against your slick heat..

“I could do this forever.”

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- first blurb !!

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮＥ ＭＯＲＥ ＴＡＳＴＥ

in which..⋆˚꩜｡ chris is a starving man

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖒𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖍 𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖎𝖘, 𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖚𝖙, 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙, 𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Chris has always been good with his mouth—but tonight, he’s on a different level. He’s on his knees like a man starved, hands locked tight around your thighs, holding you open like you’re something sacred, something he needs to worship. His mouth is relentless, tongue stroking and curling, lips wrapped around you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against you, the vibrations making your spine arch off the sheets. “You taste so good. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had. Can’t stop… don’t want to stop.”

Your fingers thread through his messy hair, tugging, desperate. Your body’s trembling—overstimulated and stretched taut like a live wire.

“Chris—oh—please, I can’t,” you gasp, hips twitching against his grip. “I can’t anymore, it’s too much…”

But he doesn’t even pause.

“Yes, you can,” he growls softly, licking a slow stripe up your center before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Just a little longer, baby. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

You moan loud, head falling back, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but he doesn’t let you. He pushes them apart again, firmer this time, like your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’s chasing something he’ll never get enough of.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh between strokes. “Don’t hold back baby, come for me.”

“Chris,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning. But your fingers tighten in his hair again and your hips roll toward his mouth like your body’s betraying you—craving more even as you beg him to stop.

“I know, baby. I know. Just let me have it—one more. Give me one more.”

And you do—helpless under his mouth, undone by the way he eats like he’s addicted, like you’re the only thing in the world that will ever satisfy him.

But even when you come again, shaking and breathless, Chris doesn’t let go. He licks you through it, slow and tender now, but just as greedy—whispering against your slick heat..

“I could do this forever.”

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- first blurb !!

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

god, i’m so gay for her.

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮ ＴＨＩＮ I ＣＥ

pairing: y/n x matt sturniolo

summary: You lost everything the day the ice broke beneath you—your dream, your confidence, your spark. But when hockey player Matt Sturniolo shows up with quiet strength and his own scars, he might just teach you how to stand again.

warnings: fear

part 1 part 2

𓍯

The arena hallways were always cold this early. The kind of cold that snuck through your sleeves and settled against your skin like memory. The hum of the fluorescent lights above blended with the faint sounds of blades on ice echoing from the main rink—sharp, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

You pulled your jacket tighter and shifted the weight of the bag you were carrying on your shoulder. It was filled with training gear—cones, resistance bands, pucks—random equipment your dad had asked for mid-practice. The hallway felt endless and quiet, your boots echoing slightly off the concrete floor as you made your way back toward the rink.

Your eyes were down, lost in thought. You weren’t thinking about where you were walking—not really. You were thinking about how it felt to be here. The weight of it. The scent of ice and rubber and old sweat. Familiar, yes, but also like standing too close to a flame you used to love, only to feel it burn.

You turned around corner too fast and your shoulder collided softly into someone else’s.

You gasped, stumbling back a half-step. The bag slid slightly off your shoulder.

“Oh, sorry!” you blurted, blinking up.

The person in front of you took a step back too, instinctively raising his hands as if to steady you. “No, that’s my fault,” he said quickly.

Your breath caught in your throat when your eyes met his. Even through the soft lighting of the hallway, you recognized him instantly.

Matt Sturniolo.

You’d seen him earlier that morning—out on the ice alone, moving like he belonged there more than anyone. The new player on your dad’s team, the one who trained earlier than anyone, stayed later than most, and seemed to carry a silent fire wherever he went.

Now he stood in front of you, slightly flushed from skating, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair damp with sweat, strands falling over his forehead. He blinked at you, expression flickering from surprise to something warmer.

“Coach’s daughter, right?”

You nodded, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Matt.”

He extended a hand.

You hesitated, just for a second, before reaching out to shake it. His glove was off, and his hand was cold but steady. There was a callus on his palm that brushed against yours. Something about that grounded you.

“I’m Y/N,” you said.

He smiled. It wasn’t smug or charming—it was soft. A little curious. Like he didn’t quite know what to make of you yet, but was willing to try.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, still holding your gaze.

“Nice to meet you too.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

And then, from the other end of the hallway, your dad’s voice echoed faintly, like a reminder: “Y/N! Come on!”

You pulled your hand back, already stepping around Matt with a small smile. “I should get back.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “See you around?”

You gave a slight nod, and your eyes lingered for half a second too long before you turned the corner again.

But that moment stayed with you.

When you returned to the edge of the rink, your dad was already out on the ice again, clipboard in hand, waving players into position. You stood at the edge—right where the rubber stopped and the slick white surface began.

You didn’t even need to think about it anymore. Your body just… refused. Your feet stayed planted firmly on the rubber mat, your breath tightening slightly in your chest as you looked across the surface.

It didn’t matter that you were just standing there. It didn’t matter that the ice was empty near you. It still felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

“Dad,” you called softly. “I got your stuff!”

He looked up and immediately skated over to the boards. His expression shifted the moment he saw you standing there—half-off, half-on. Stuck in the in-between.

“Sorry, kid,” he said as he stepped off the ice and took the bag from your shoulder. “I forgot for a minute.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine.”

But the knot in your stomach was there anyway. Same as it always was.

Your dad offered a soft, knowing smile. One that didn’t try to fix it. Just acknowledged it. And then he skated back to his players, yelling instructions as they returned from a water break.

You moved back to the benches, curling your coat tighter around you and sitting quietly. You watched the ice like someone staring at an old photograph—something beautiful that no longer belonged to you.

Matt was easy to spot.

He had that natural presence, the kind of confidence that didn’t ask for attention but drew it anyway. You watched the way he skated—how each stride was fluid and sharp, how he communicated with his teammates without saying much, how he pushed himself even when no one else was watching.

It made your chest ache.

You looked away and busied yourself with something simple—picking up sticks left behind from earlier drills, wiping down tape, organizing spare gear. You just needed to move. To do something that didn’t make you feel like you were frozen in time.

And then, without you even noticing, he was there again.

“Hey,” Matt said gently.

You turned, startled slightly by how close he was.

He stood near the bench, one glove off, helmet tucked under his arm, strands of dark hair damp against his forehead. There was a quiet energy about him—not cocky or smug, just grounded. Present.

You raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be out there?”

“They’re fine without me for five minutes,” he said with a slight grin. “You always clean up after us?”

You shrugged. “Someone has to keep this place from becoming a disaster.”

He laughed—short, low, and genuine. “That’s fair.”

You looked back down at the stick in your hands, running your fingers along the taped grip. Silence settled between you. Not awkward, but… expectant. Like something unspoken was waiting just beneath the surface.

Then, after a pause, Matt spoke again—quieter this time.

“You used to skate, right?”

Your hand froze on the stick.

The question was gentle. Not invasive. But it still pierced something in you.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t speak. You just nodded—once, quick and quiet.

Matt didn’t ask more. He didn’t press, didn’t prod at the silence like most people did. He just nodded back, like he understood something in that one simple gesture.

The whistle blew again. Practice was shifting.

He glanced toward the ice, then back at you. “I should get back.”

You nodded, still not trusting your voice. “Good luck.”

He smiled at you again—just a flicker of it this time. “You too.”

Then he was gone, skates clicking against the rubber mat before slicing back onto the ice.

You watched him go, heart heavier than before, but not in a painful way.

In a way that felt like maybe… maybe something new was beginning.

Even if it was small.

Even if it was slow.

Even if you were still afraid of the ice.

𓍯

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮ ＴＨＩＮ I ＣＥ

pairing: y/n x matt sturniolo

summary: You lost everything the day the ice broke beneath you—your dream, your confidence, your spark. But when hockey player Matt Sturniolo shows up with quiet strength and his own scars, he might just teach you how to stand again.

warnings: fear

part 1 part 2 part 3

𓍯

The arena hallways were always cold this early. The kind of cold that snuck through your sleeves and settled against your skin like memory. The hum of the fluorescent lights above blended with the faint sounds of blades on ice echoing from the main rink—sharp, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

You pulled your jacket tighter and shifted the weight of the bag you were carrying on your shoulder. It was filled with training gear—cones, resistance bands, pucks—random equipment your dad had asked for mid-practice. The hallway felt endless and quiet, your boots echoing slightly off the concrete floor as you made your way back toward the rink.

Your eyes were down, lost in thought. You weren’t thinking about where you were walking—not really. You were thinking about how it felt to be here. The weight of it. The scent of ice and rubber and old sweat. Familiar, yes, but also like standing too close to a flame you used to love, only to feel it burn.

You turned around corner too fast and your shoulder collided softly into someone else’s.

You gasped, stumbling back a half-step. The bag slid slightly off your shoulder.

“Oh, sorry!” you blurted, blinking up.

The person in front of you took a step back too, instinctively raising his hands as if to steady you. “No, that’s my fault,” he said quickly.

Your breath caught in your throat when your eyes met his. Even through the soft lighting of the hallway, you recognized him instantly.

Matt Sturniolo.

You’d seen him earlier that morning—out on the ice alone, moving like he belonged there more than anyone. The new player on your dad’s team, the one who trained earlier than anyone, stayed later than most, and seemed to carry a silent fire wherever he went.

Now he stood in front of you, slightly flushed from skating, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair damp with sweat, strands falling over his forehead. He blinked at you, expression flickering from surprise to something warmer.

“Coach’s daughter, right?”

You nodded, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Yeah.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Matt.”

He extended a hand.

You hesitated, just for a second, before reaching out to shake it. His glove was off, and his hand was cold but steady. There was a callus on his palm that brushed against yours. Something about that grounded you.

“I’m Y/N,” you said.

He smiled. It wasn’t smug or charming—it was soft. A little curious. Like he didn’t quite know what to make of you yet, but was willing to try.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, still holding your gaze.

“Nice to meet you too.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

And then, from the other end of the hallway, your dad’s voice echoed faintly, like a reminder: “Y/N! Come on!”

You pulled your hand back, already stepping around Matt with a small smile. “I should get back.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “See you around?”

You gave a slight nod, and your eyes lingered for half a second too long before you turned the corner again.

But that moment stayed with you.

When you returned to the edge of the rink, your dad was already out on the ice again, clipboard in hand, waving players into position. You stood at the edge—right where the rubber stopped and the slick white surface began.

You didn’t even need to think about it anymore. Your body just… refused. Your feet stayed planted firmly on the rubber mat, your breath tightening slightly in your chest as you looked across the surface.

It didn’t matter that you were just standing there. It didn’t matter that the ice was empty near you. It still felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

“Dad,” you called softly. “I got your stuff!”

He looked up and immediately skated over to the boards. His expression shifted the moment he saw you standing there—half-off, half-on. Stuck in the in-between.

“Sorry, kid,” he said as he stepped off the ice and took the bag from your shoulder. “I forgot for a minute.”

You shrugged. “It’s fine.”

But the knot in your stomach was there anyway. Same as it always was.

Your dad offered a soft, knowing smile. One that didn’t try to fix it. Just acknowledged it. And then he skated back to his players, yelling instructions as they returned from a water break.

You moved back to the benches, curling your coat tighter around you and sitting quietly. You watched the ice like someone staring at an old photograph—something beautiful that no longer belonged to you.

Matt was easy to spot.

He had that natural presence, the kind of confidence that didn’t ask for attention but drew it anyway. You watched the way he skated—how each stride was fluid and sharp, how he communicated with his teammates without saying much, how he pushed himself even when no one else was watching.

It made your chest ache.

You looked away and busied yourself with something simple—picking up sticks left behind from earlier drills, wiping down tape, organizing spare gear. You just needed to move. To do something that didn’t make you feel like you were frozen in time.

And then, without you even noticing, he was there again.

“Hey,” Matt said gently.

You turned, startled slightly by how close he was.

He stood near the bench, one glove off, helmet tucked under his arm, strands of dark hair damp against his forehead. There was a quiet energy about him—not cocky or smug, just grounded. Present.

You raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be out there?”

“They’re fine without me for five minutes,” he said with a slight grin. “You always clean up after us?”

You shrugged. “Someone has to keep this place from becoming a disaster.”

He laughed—short, low, and genuine. “That’s fair.”

You looked back down at the stick in your hands, running your fingers along the taped grip. Silence settled between you. Not awkward, but… expectant. Like something unspoken was waiting just beneath the surface.

Then, after a pause, Matt spoke again—quieter this time.

“You used to skate, right?”

Your hand froze on the stick.

The question was gentle. Not invasive. But it still pierced something in you.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t speak. You just nodded—once, quick and quiet.

Matt didn’t ask more. He didn’t press, didn’t prod at the silence like most people did. He just nodded back, like he understood something in that one simple gesture.

The whistle blew again. Practice was shifting.

He glanced toward the ice, then back at you. “I should get back.”

You nodded, still not trusting your voice. “Good luck.”

He smiled at you again—just a flicker of it this time. “You too.”

Then he was gone, skates clicking against the rubber mat before slicing back onto the ice.

You watched him go, heart heavier than before, but not in a painful way.

In a way that felt like maybe… maybe something new was beginning.

Even if it was small.

Even if it was slow.

Even if you were still afraid of the ice.

𓍯

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮ ＴＨＩＮ I ＣＥ

pairing: y/n x matt sturniolo

summary: You lost everything the day the ice broke beneath you—your dream, your confidence, your spark. But when hockey player Matt Sturniolo shows up with quiet strength and his own scars, he might just teach you how to stand again.

warnings: fear, anxiety, pain, sadness

part 1

𓍯

The world was still cloaked in the pale blue-gray light of dawn when you stepped out of the car, your breath swirling in soft clouds that quickly vanished in the cold morning air. The rink was just a few blocks from your childhood home, but it felt like a different world—one you hadn’t wanted to visit for a long time.

Your dad reached over and squeezed your shoulder gently. “Ready to see the team practice?” His voice was calm, steady like he always was when he wanted you to feel safe.

You swallowed, nodding. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be there. You just weren’t sure if you could face the ice again. Not after everything. The memories bubbled beneath the surface, raw and jagged—the sharp crack of your fall, the dizzying spin, the impossible silence that followed. The ice had once been your sanctuary, but now it felt like a frozen prison you’d locked yourself inside.

Together, you walked through the heavy double doors and the familiar scent of ice, fresh-cut wood, and resin wrapped around you like a bittersweet memory. Your fingers curled tighter inside your coat pockets as you took in the rink’s bright white surface, shimmering under the harsh overhead lights.

In the center of it all, alone and unwavering, was Matt Sturniolo. The new hockey player your dad had been coaching since the start of the season. You had heard plenty about him—his skill, his fierce dedication, but seeing him now, moving across the ice with such controlled power, something inside you stirred.

He was like a force of nature—alone, focused, pushing every muscle, every breath, every movement to the limit. The sound of his skates cutting into the ice was sharp and clean, slicing through the quiet stillness of the morning like a heartbeat.

You watched how he shifted his weight, how he dipped low in a sudden sprint, and how his body balanced perfectly even as he spun and changed direction. It was like watching a dancer or a skater, and in a strange way, it reminded you of yourself years ago, before the injury. You wondered if he felt the same kind of joy, the same burning passion for the ice that you once did. Or maybe it was something else—something harder, more urgent.

Your dad’s footsteps echoed behind you as he came to stand beside you. “He’s always like this,” he said quietly. “The guy’s got fire. Doesn’t matter if it’s six in the morning or midnight he’s always out there trying to be better.”

Matt’s eyes suddenly flicked toward the entrance where you and your dad stood. He hesitated, then stopped mid-stride, slowly gliding toward the edge of the ice. Your heart jumped as he locked eyes with you—dark, sharp, and a little unreadable.

You looked down quickly, cheeks burning, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. Your fingers gripped the fabric of your jacket, nails digging in just enough to remind yourself to breathe. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition—or maybe curiosity in his gaze, but then he was gone.

“Let’s go,” your dad said softly, taking your hand and guiding you toward the stands. “Sit here and watch.”

You slid into the cold metal seat, your body still tense from the brief encounter. The rink’s chill seeped through your jeans and sweater, but your heart was anything but cold. You found your gaze drifting back to Matt as he disappeared behind the glass and headed into the locker room.

The room felt suddenly too big, too empty. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the sudden surge of emotions swirling inside. You wanted to hate this place for what it took from you. But watching Matt move on the ice—so confident, so alive—stirred something deeper. Something like hope.

Practice began in full force, the rest of the team joining Matt on the ice. The rink erupted with the thud of sticks hitting pucks, the scrape of blades, and the shouts of players urging one another on.

Yet, you couldn’t take your eyes off Matt. The way he swung his body with such effortless passion, even when surrounded by others, it was like he was in his own world. That kind of fire was magnetic—almost painful to witness when you felt so frozen yourself.

You allowed yourself a quiet, secret dream: to be out there again, gliding smoothly, fearless, free. But the thought also tightened your chest—the memory of the fall, the pain, the endless rehab, the crushing fear that had followed you off the ice and into your life.

You shifted in your seat, shivering despite your layers. The cold was physical, but the warmth in your chest, that spark, was new. You didn’t know if it was hope, or something else. Maybe it was just watching Matt—watching someone who was still chasing a dream you thought was gone forever.

For the first time in a long time, the ice didn’t feel quite so empty.

And maybe, just maybe, neither did you.

𓍯

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- i accidentally deleted part 1 :( so here it is again. hope it will have the hype again.

[lovelysturnx]

ＯＮ ＴＨＩＮ I ＣＥ

pairing: y/n x matt sturniolo

summary: You lost everything the day the ice broke beneath you—your dream, your confidence, your spark. But when hockey player Matt Sturniolo shows up with quiet strength and his own scars, he might just teach you how to stand again.

warnings: fear, anxiety, pain, sadness

part 1 part 2 part 3

𓍯

The world was still cloaked in the pale blue-gray light of dawn when you stepped out of the car, your breath swirling in soft clouds that quickly vanished in the cold morning air. The rink was just a few blocks from your childhood home, but it felt like a different world—one you hadn’t wanted to visit for a long time.

Your dad reached over and squeezed your shoulder gently. “Ready to see the team practice?” His voice was calm, steady like he always was when he wanted you to feel safe.

You swallowed, nodding. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be there. You just weren’t sure if you could face the ice again. Not after everything. The memories bubbled beneath the surface, raw and jagged—the sharp crack of your fall, the dizzying spin, the impossible silence that followed. The ice had once been your sanctuary, but now it felt like a frozen prison you’d locked yourself inside.

Together, you walked through the heavy double doors and the familiar scent of ice, fresh-cut wood, and resin wrapped around you like a bittersweet memory. Your fingers curled tighter inside your coat pockets as you took in the rink’s bright white surface, shimmering under the harsh overhead lights.

In the center of it all, alone and unwavering, was Matt Sturniolo. The new hockey player your dad had been coaching since the start of the season. You had heard plenty about him—his skill, his fierce dedication, but seeing him now, moving across the ice with such controlled power, something inside you stirred.

He was like a force of nature—alone, focused, pushing every muscle, every breath, every movement to the limit. The sound of his skates cutting into the ice was sharp and clean, slicing through the quiet stillness of the morning like a heartbeat.

You watched how he shifted his weight, how he dipped low in a sudden sprint, and how his body balanced perfectly even as he spun and changed direction. It was like watching a dancer or a skater, and in a strange way, it reminded you of yourself years ago, before the injury. You wondered if he felt the same kind of joy, the same burning passion for the ice that you once did. Or maybe it was something else—something harder, more urgent.

Your dad’s footsteps echoed behind you as he came to stand beside you. “He’s always like this,” he said quietly. “The guy’s got fire. Doesn’t matter if it’s six in the morning or midnight he’s always out there trying to be better.”

Matt’s eyes suddenly flicked toward the entrance where you and your dad stood. He hesitated, then stopped mid-stride, slowly gliding toward the edge of the ice. Your heart jumped as he locked eyes with you—dark, sharp, and a little unreadable.

You looked down quickly, cheeks burning, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. Your fingers gripped the fabric of your jacket, nails digging in just enough to remind yourself to breathe. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition—or maybe curiosity in his gaze, but then he was gone.

“Let’s go,” your dad said softly, taking your hand and guiding you toward the stands. “Sit here and watch.”

You slid into the cold metal seat, your body still tense from the brief encounter. The rink’s chill seeped through your jeans and sweater, but your heart was anything but cold. You found your gaze drifting back to Matt as he disappeared behind the glass and headed into the locker room.

The room felt suddenly too big, too empty. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the sudden surge of emotions swirling inside. You wanted to hate this place for what it took from you. But watching Matt move on the ice—so confident, so alive—stirred something deeper. Something like hope.

Practice began in full force, the rest of the team joining Matt on the ice. The rink erupted with the thud of sticks hitting pucks, the scrape of blades, and the shouts of players urging one another on.

Yet, you couldn’t take your eyes off Matt. The way he swung his body with such effortless passion, even when surrounded by others, it was like he was in his own world. That kind of fire was magnetic—almost painful to witness when you felt so frozen yourself.

You allowed yourself a quiet, secret dream: to be out there again, gliding smoothly, fearless, free. But the thought also tightened your chest—the memory of the fall, the pain, the endless rehab, the crushing fear that had followed you off the ice and into your life.

You shifted in your seat, shivering despite your layers. The cold was physical, but the warmth in your chest, that spark, was new. You didn’t know if it was hope, or something else. Maybe it was just watching Matt—watching someone who was still chasing a dream you thought was gone forever.

For the first time in a long time, the ice didn’t feel quite so empty.

And maybe, just maybe, neither did you.

𓍯

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- i accidentally deleted part 1 :( so here it is again. hope it will have the hype again.

[lovelysturnx]

I think I just creamed, someone help me.

[lovelysturnx]

I Ｎ ＴＨＥ ＳＭＯＫＥ ＡＮＤ Ｓ I ＬＥＮＣ E.

𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽.. ⋆˚꩜｡ matt is always there for you, just in silence.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖈𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖘, 𝖘𝖍, 𝖉𝖗𝖚𝖌𝖘, 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙, 𝖋𝖑𝖚𝖋𝖋 (𝖎 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙’𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖑)

𓍯

the smoke curls like ghosts from your lips, barely visible in the dying light. it’s dusk again. your favorite hour. everything is quiet. soft. forgiving. you sit on the cold step in the backyard, legs drawn up, hoodie pulled low. in one hand, the cigarette burns a slow hole in the evening. in the other, the cutter rests between trembling fingers. you can feel the weight of it like guilt — light, but absolute.

it’s not the first time. not the hundredth.

you don’t even remember the first time you did it. maybe it was after the funeral. maybe it was after your dad slammed the door and didn’t come back. or maybe it was just a Wednesday, and you needed to feel something that wasn’t shame or static.

drugs were easy. cigarettes easier. the cuts? they were quiet. secret. each one mapped out a moment you couldn’t explain.

when the laughter got too loud,

when silence screamed,

when your own reflection made you flinch.

sometimes it was rage. sometimes it was just fog. but most days, it was nothing. a dull nothingness that wrapped around your ribs and made everything else feel… pointless.

no one ever noticed. they saw the version of you, you let them see.

a smile with cracked edges.

jokes like armor.

clothes just loose enough to hide everything.

except him..matt.

he always noticed.

he never confronted you. never bothered you with pamphlets or concerned eyebrows. he never made you feel like you were a broken thing that has to be fixed. he didn’t tell anyone. didn’t push. he just… stayed.

when you were too far gone to text back, he’d show up and sit outside your door with a bag of fries and his hoodie tossed over his shoulder. when you disappeared from school for days, he’d leave his class to bring you lecture notes and a scribbled “dumbass” in the corner.

he watched you spiral and didn’t try to tie you down. he didn’t reach for the cutter. he didn’t yank the cigarettes out of your hand. he just made space.

you hated him for it. hated how seen you felt.

𓍯

and now here you are, in the backyard with a body that feels more like a war zone than a home. the cold bites at your skin, but you don’t move. the cigarette is almost done, the cutter waiting for its turn. the world is muted. distant. the sun is already below the trees, and the sky is that deep bruised purple.

you don’t even notice the door crack open. you don’t look up when you hear his steps on the wooden deck.

matt doesn’t say anything at first. he just sits down beside you, knees pulled up like yours, his shoulder barely brushing yours. the silence stretches between you like a held breath.

and then, softly — so soft it almost doesn’t reach you — he says: “i love you,”

no panic. no pleading. no fix-it words. just that.

like it’s the simplest truth in the world. like it’s always been there, waiting.

and something in you breaks.

not the kind of break that cuts or burns — but the kind that lets light in. the kind that makes you realize your chest still rises and falls. that someone still sees you, even under all the ruin.

you let the cutter fall to the grass. your cigarette burns out between your fingers.

and then his arms are around you. just like that. no questions. no conditions.

not because you are fixed. not because everything’s okay now. but because maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

and in that moment, held in his arms, warm and complete — you don’t feel like a burden. you don’t feel like damage.

you just feel… here.

alive.

and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

𓍯

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- I’ll try to be more active :)

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

ＮＥＲＶＯＵＳ ＨＡＮＤＳ，ＬＯＵＤ ＨＥＡＲＴ

in which ⋆˚꩜｡ reader and chris got closer to eachother

part 1 part 2 part 3

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖋𝖑𝖚𝖋𝖋, 𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊 𝖇𝖎𝖙 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖈𝖞?

𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔭𝔬𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔯!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

the hallway was loud and fast and full—the kind of chaos that always made you shrink into the edges, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

you kept your eyes down, just like always.

that’s probably why you didn’t see the foot sticking out from the side. not until it was too late.

your ankle caught, balance snapped—and you went down hard.

the worst part wasn’t the fall. it was the silence that followed. that awful hush where people stared and no one moved. your books were scattered across the floor, papers fluttering like they were embarrassed for you.

you didn’t look up.

not until a shadow crouched beside you.

“hey, you okay?”

your heart sank.

Chris.

he was already reaching for your notebook—the one with the worn-out corners and your name written too small in the corner.

you blinked, stunned, as he started helping you without hesitation. no teasing. no smirk. just… helping.

someone laughed behind you, but Chris didn’t even look up.

he held out your pen. “is this yours?”

you nodded quickly, fingers trembling as you took it. “t-thank you,”

then he knelt beside you, holding out the rest of your books. his hand brushed yours—warm, brief, and unintentional—but it sent a wave of heat through you.

his voice dropped a little. “you still tutoring me today?”

your eyes met his, surprised. he actually sounded like he wanted to be there.

“in the library? after class?” he asked.

you nodded again, shyly. “o-okay,”

and just like that, he stood and walked off, leaving you on the floor with your heart pounding in your ears, cheeks burning.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

he was already waiting when you walked into the library. hoodie off this time, sleeves pushed up, your spot saved with a second chair and a closed book sitting in front of it.

you paused, surprised. he didn’t look up until you were almost beside him.

“hey,” he said casually, but there was a softness under it.

you sat down slowly, still confused. “you’re early,”

“didn’t want to be late again,” he said, like that explained it.

this time, when you opened your notebook and started explaining, he leaned forward.

he actually listened. watched the page. followed your words like he wanted to understand—like it mattered.

he was close. so close his knee brushed yours under the table. his shoulder nearly touched yours. you tried not to flinch, not to fidget, not to let your brain melt into useless noise.

then you turned the book slightly, pointing to a problem on the page, and leaned forward to explain.

he did the same.

and your foreheads bumped.

thunk.

soft.

startling.

you gasped and winced, covering your face. “sorry, i—i wasn’t—”

Chris pulled back fast, rubbing his forehead, then looking at you. “no, that was me. i wasn’t watching—are you okay?”

you nodded, face burning. “mmhmm. i just—didn’t mean to get that close.”

something shifted in his expression. just for a second.

he didn’t lean away this time. he was still close. still looking at you.

Chris reached for the book again, his fingers brushing yours just briefly. “show me that part again?” he asked.

you nodded, trying to breathe evenly as your heart pounded. as his eyes stayed on yours a little too long.

neither of you said anything about it.

but something hung there.

not quite a question.

not quite an answer.

just… almost.

almost something.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- i actually like this one :)

- be kind to others, w love k. <3

[lovelysturnx]

matt is this an excuse to show us this picture? like just take your pants off at this point

[lovelysturnx]

ＮＥＲＶＯＵＳ ＨＡＮＤＳ，ＬＯＵＤ ＨＥＡＲＴ

in which ⋆˚꩜｡ chris realized how much is reader helping him

part 1 part 2 part 3

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙 (𝖎 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙’𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖑)

𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔭𝔬𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔯!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Mr. Carrow’s voice was already sharp when you stepped into the classroom after lunch. he didn’t even give you a chance to sit down.

“i don’t see any improvement,” he said, arms folded, tone flat and disappointed. “none.”

you stood there, still holding your notebook, like that would somehow defend you. your fingers gripped the edges too tightly.

“he still has an F. he bombed the last quiz,” Mr. Carrow continued. “and if this is what you call tutoring, i’m not sure it’s doing either of you any good,”

you opened your mouth, then shut it again. your voice caught in your throat like it always did when people were watching. Like it did when you were trying not to cry.

“i…i’m trying,” you finally managed.

Mr. Carrow gave a long sigh, tired and worn, like he’d already written both of us off. “then try harder. he’s wasting his time. don’t let him waste yours.”

he turned back to his desk. dismissed.

and even though the weight in your chest felt heavier than it should, you nodded and left the room.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

the library was quieter than usual—which made it worse. every sound echoed. the shuffle of your notebook sliding across the table, the creak of your chair when you sat down, the tick of the ancient wall clock overhead.

you laid out your pens in a neat little line—black, blue, red, and green—more out of habit than hope.

Chris was late. again.

you checked the time. twelve minutes this time.

you told yourself you weren’t surprised.

still, it stung.

when the doors finally opened and he wandered in, it was like he wasn’t even walking toward something. just…through it. like the library was a hallway and you were a stop he hadn’t meant to make.

he flopped into the chair across from you, dropping his bag with a loud thud that got you a glare from the librarian. he didn’t even notice.

“hey,” you said, too quietly. then louder: “you’re late,”

Chris didn’t look at you. just pulled out his phone and shrugged. “yeah..and you’re still annoying,”

you blinked. your stomach dropped a little, but you didn’t say anything. not at first.

then you thought about Mr. Carrow’s voice in your ear. the warning. the disappointment. the you’re wasting your time of it all.

“i talked to Mr. Carrow,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “he said nothing’s changed. you’re still failing,”

he didn’t react.

“i mean—he’s right. you don’t even try,” you said, the words starting to shake. “you don’t listen. you’re always late. you never bring anything. and you don’t even think you care,”

Chris let out a sigh and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “it’s math. i don’t care,”

“i do,” you said—and this time, you surprised both of you with how firm it came out.

his eyes flicked to you.

“i care,” you repeated, quieter now. “because i actually work hard at this. because you’re not just failing math—you’re dragging me down with you,”

he said nothing.

you pulled the book toward him anyway, flipping to the same chapter you’d tried twice already. “this is factoring. it’s actually simple if you’d just look for a second—”

Chris looked through the book. not at it. not at you.

you watched him slump further, tug at the sleeve of his hoodie, his foot tapping restlessly under the table.

it wasn’t even anger you felt then. just… emptiness. a quiet kind of exhaustion.

you closed the book.

that made him look up.

“i’m done,” you said, standing. “you don’t care? fine.” you shoved your notebook into your bag. “then you can fail on your own.”

you turned before your voice could break, walked fast toward the back shelf where you’d grabbed the extra textbook earlier. your hands were shaking. your throat felt tight. but you didn’t look back.

and you wouldn’t have—

if he hadn’t spoken.

“wait,”

you froze.

Chris’s voice was different this time. quieter. not lazy or bored or full of whatever fake coolness he liked to wear like a hoodie.

you turned around slowly.

he was standing now, one hand gripping the spine of the book you’d left behind.

“is this yours?” he asked, but then his gaze flicked up to mine. “you were showing me something… about factoring?”

you stared at him.

his expression wasn’t mocking. not annoyed. just…uncertain. like something had shifted and he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

you walked back toward him, slowly.

when you reached him, he held the book out.

you took it from his hand, but you didn’t break eye contact. not right away.

it wasn’t electric. it wasn’t romantic. it was just still.

like the moment stopped breathing.

you gave a tiny nod. “yeah,” you said softly. “that’s the one,”

then, quietly, almost nervously—

Chris asked, “so… where do i start?”

ᴄʜʀɪS’S ᴘᴏᴠ:

Chris didn’t care.

that’s what he kept telling himself.

it was easier to pretend that math didn’t matter—that this quiet girl in glasses with her color-coded notes and her soft voice didn’t matter either.

she was the kind of girl who probably never skipped class.

he didn’t get her.

didn’t want to.

but when she snapped—when she actually raised her voice, even just a little—something cracked open. like he wasn’t just failing math—he was hurting her.

and that was new.

that didn’t sit right.

so when she stood up and walked away without a word, something twisted in his chest. he didn’t like the silence she left behind.

and without even thinking why, he stood up too. picked up the book she left.

and for once—no jokes, no playing cool—he just asked.

because somewhere in that quiet space between them, he realized:

she saw something in him no one else had bothered to.

and maybe, just maybe…

he didn’t want her to stop.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

- i wanted to post this ealier, but i didn’t have any time. life is being bussy last weeks

-be kind to others, w love k.<3

[lovelysturnx]

ＮＥＲ V ＯＵＳ ＨＡＮＤＳ，L ＯＵＤ ＨＥ A Ｒ T

in which ⋆˚꩜｡ reader tutors chris

part 1 part 2 part 3

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙?, 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊

𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔭𝔬𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔯!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 (maybe new moodboard?)

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

you sat at the far end of the library, the quietest corner you could find, surrounded by tall bookshelves and the faint smell of old paper. your notebook was already open, pages neat and full of formulas, diagrams, and color-coded tabs that probably made you look more like a machine than a person. Three pens—black, blue, red—lined up perfectly in front of you.

you djusted your glasses and checked the time again. five minutes late.

then six.

then ten.

he wasn’t coming. of course not.

you exhaled, chewing on the end of your pen and pretending it didn’t matter. you could just leave. you could tell Mr. Carrow that Chris hadn’t shown, and that you had tried, really. after all, you didn’t ask for this—to tutor Chris Sturniolo, the Chris Sturniolo. the guy who barely knew your name, even though you’d shared math class for months. the one who wore the same worn leather jacket every day and had that perfect, careless smile girls practically tripped over themselves for.

and yet here you were, sitting in a library at 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday, because you had said “sure” before you could even think about it. because Mr. Carrow had looked at you like you were some sort of math robot who could save even the most hopeless case. because some stupid, quiet part of you wanted to be near Chris Sturniolo—even if he never noticed you at all.

then, the sound of footsteps. loud. confident.

you looked up, and your heart immediately began doing that ridiculous fluttery thing it always did when you saw him.

Chris.

he didn’t walk—he strolled, like the air bent around him. hoodie unzipped, a smirk already forming like he knew he was late and didn’t care.

“hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“h-hi,” you replied, your voice catching in your throat. you looked down so fast you probably seemed rude, but it was either that or stare at the curve of his jaw. “you’re, um… late,” he shrugged. “coach held me up. or maybe I just forgot,”

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you went back to your notes, focusing on the page like it was more interesting than the way his knee was now bumping yours under the table.

“so,” you began, voice trembling slightly, “we’re supposed to start with quadratic functions. do you…know what those are?”

Chris didn’t answer. you peeked up—he was staring at his phone, thumbs lazily scrolling. no book, no notebook, not even a pencil. just him, slouched in the chair, radiating boredom like it was a perfume.

you cleared your throat softly. “they’re, um… equations that look like ax squared plus bx plus c equals zero. and there’s factoring and the quadratic formula. it’s not hard if you practice, really…”

he sighed. not a word—just a long, drawn-out groan like he was already exhausted by your existence.

still, you pushed forward. because you always did. because numbers were easier than people. because if you just focused hard enough, maybe you’d forget how his hair fell into his eyes like it was trying to drive you insane.

“i…i think i forgot to get the practice problems in the book,” you mumbled, standing quickly. “i’ll go grab it.”

the bookshelf loomed like a tower, and of course, the book you needed was at the very top. you reached on your tiptoes, fingers barely brushing the edge, trying not to wobble. it was stupid. you should’ve asked a librarian. or brought a stool.

then, you heard it—another sigh. footsteps behind you. and before you could turn, Chris was there.

he didn’t say a word as he reached past you, arm stretching over your shoulder. you froze. he was close—so close you could feel the heat of him behind you, smell that faint trace of cologne and something warm, like sun and laundry and a bit of trouble.

he grabbed the book like it weighed nothing, and for a second, he didn’t move. neither did you.

then he handed it to you, holding it out without looking at you, like it was no big deal.

but when you turned to take it, your eyes met.

and everything stopped.

his fingers brushed yours, just barely. your breath caught. his eyes weren’t distant or amused or disinterested. they were locked on your, steady and unreadable, and for a terrifying, thrilling second, you couldn’t move.

you swallowed hard.

“th-thanks,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t exist.

he blinked, and then stepped back like it never happened. like that moment hadn’t shaken the ground under your feet.

you sat down again quickly, clutching the book like it was life support. your cheeks burned, and you didn’t dare look at him.

“o-okay,” you said, flipping pages too fast. “so… back to tutoring,”

chris leaned on his elbow and looked at you—not with boredom this time, but something slower, more curious.

you lowered your eyes, pretending to study the page, though you couldn’t read a single word.

and for the first time, you didn’t know if the heat in your cheeks came from embarrassment…

or if you were just nervous.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

if you want to take inspiration, please ask me first. thank you <3

-be kind to others, w love k <3

[lovelysturnx]

something about this day holy fuckkkk

[lovelysturnx]

The slutty mirror pics in the bathroom