saintormentor

[saintormentor]

full masterlist

matthew bernard sturniolo & christopher owen sturniolo

matthew bernard sturniolo christopher owen sturniolo

[saintormentor]

matthew bernard sturniolo & christopher owen sturniolo

smut 𝜗𝜚 fluff 𝜗ৎ angst ౨ৎ

tag teamed 𝜗𝜚

[saintormentor]

matthew bernard sturniolo

nothing to see here . . .

[saintormentor]

christopher owen sturniolo

smut 𝜗𝜚 fluff 𝜗ৎ angst ౨ৎ

tapes 𝜗𝜚

deep throat 𝜗𝜚

meanie 𝜗𝜚

wetter than rain 𝜗𝜚

pussy training 𝜗𝜚

other woman 𝜗𝜚

missed this 𝜗𝜚

[saintormentor]

tapes c. s

in which . . . rapper!chris takes some tapes for the road

content warnings . . . exhibitionism, consensual non-consent ( CNC ) tone, degradation + praise, creampie ( implied + oral + external ), choking ( light, consensual ), spit play, gagging / deepthroat / oral sex, filming during sex ( voyeurism kink ), overstimulation, slight possessive/obsessive behavior, bodily fluids / cumplay / cumshots, dirty talk / explicit language, breathplay ( mild ), forced eye contact / control kink, slight objectification ( in a consensual kink context ), throatfucking / use kink, light physical restraint / wrist-holding / mounting, multiple positions / rough sex / intense penetration, power imbalance ( consensual D/s ), camera POV / voyeur, sex tape

tape #1 . . .

chris had the nerve to smirk while setting the phone down, screen tilted just right—angled low enough to catch the mess of limbs, your face, your thighs draped over his shoulders.

“just for safe keepin’,” he muttered, voice low, lips brushing the inside of your knee. “gonna miss this when i’m on the road.”

you rolled your eyes, but the flush in your chest betrayed you.

he was leaving in the morning. tour bus call time was 5am. and still, here you were—bare beneath him, back arched into the mattress, and his chain cold against your skin as he kissed down your stomach like he was trying to memorize you.

the red light blinked. recording.

“look at the camera, mama,” he breathed, sliding two fingers down the seam of your folds. “wanna see that pretty face when i rewatch this in chicago.”

your breath hitched, thighs twitching as he dragged his tongue right after his fingers, slow and taunting. the mattress squeaked under the pressure of his grip. you reached for the sheets, but he slapped your hands down.

“nah. keep ‘em there. wanna see you take it.”

and god, did you.

chris took his time, lips soaked, eyes flicking from your face to the camera every few seconds, proud of the way you whimpered and whined just for him. when he finally pressed in, cock thick and aching, your back bowed, and he bit his lip at the sight.

“fuck, yeah,” he growled, rocking into you. “that’s my girl. stretchin’ so good for me. gon’ make this my screensaver.”

you slapped at his shoulder but cried out when he went deeper.

“y’think i’m playin’? you don’t get it, baby. m’gonna be on that bus wishin’ it was your throat, your pussy, your voice in my fuckin’ ear.”

he angled his hips, rough and precise, until the sound of skin against skin echoed through the room.

the camera caught everything—the way he kissed your shoulder while he fucked you slow, the way he whispered, “mine,” into your neck, the way you came shaking around him, tears slipping down your cheeks from the overstimulation, the way he finished with his hand around your throat, forehead to yours, panting.

he reached over, stopped the video.

“safe keepin’,” he repeated, brushing your hair back.

you just laid there, dazed and wrecked.

he smirked, already saving the file to a locked folder.

tape #2 . . .

his hotel room was too nice. high floor. skyline view. all sleek glass and cold lighting and a minibar full of overpriced shit he’d never touch.

but you?

you were bent over the edge of the velvet couch, cheek pressed to the cushion, camera angled steady on the coffee table.

he flew you out. first show of the tour sold out.

and he hadn’t even taken off his chain yet.

“you been good?” he muttered behind you, pushing his sweats down just enough, eyes glued to the way your ass arched up.

you nodded, but it wasn’t enough. not for him.

“nah. words, baby. you know the rules.”

“…yes.” your voice shook. “been good. missed you.”

“missed me?” he cooed, cockhead dragging through your folds, catching at your entrance, not pushing in just yet. “show me then.”

you reached back, fingers shaky, spreading yourself open for him, face burning when you heard the soft click of the camera zooming in.

he groaned at the sight.

“fuckin’ beautiful.”

and then he sank in. all of him.

you gasped—loud—and he laughed under his breath, palm sliding up your spine until it wrapped around the back of your neck, keeping you still as he fucked into you, slow but mean. deliberate. deep.

“don’t hide your face,” he warned. “camera needs to see what i do to you.”

your moans were wrecked. your eyes rolled. your legs trembled. but you obeyed.

you always did for him.

he pulled out just to slap the tip against your clit—taunting, cruel—and you whined from the loss.

“y’sound hungry for it,” he muttered, tugging your hair so your face turned slightly toward the lens. “look at it, baby. smile for daddy’s highlight reel.”

he pushed back in and you nearly collapsed.

the couch creaked under his thrusts. the city lights spilled across your bodies, and the red light blinked, catching it all: the way he smacked your ass until it bounced, the slick that coated his thighs, the choked sob you gave when you came without permission.

“you needed that, huh?” he whispered, kissing the back of your shoulder. “needed to be reminded who fuckin’ owns you?”

you were too gone to answer.

he grabbed your jaw, tilted your head back, kissed you deep and messy, hand still between your thighs.

and when he came—pulling out to cum all over your back, rubbing it in with a palm full of filthy love—you heard the camera click one last time.

tape #3 . . .

it started with a text: “door unlocked. camera’s already rolling.”

you stepped into his penthouse, heart thudding, thighs already aching with memory.

he wasn’t even in the room.

no—he was in the bedroom, reclined back against the headboard, sweatpants low, chain still on, phone in hand watching the live feed from the camera in the corner of the living room.

he watched you take your shoes off. watched you tug your coat off slow, eyes darting around like you could feel him even when he wasn’t touching you yet.

when you got to the doorway, he grinned.

“took you long enough.” your breath caught.

he set the phone down and beckoned with two fingers. “get over here. on your knees.”

the camera followed. always did. mounted now, above the bed. steady and silent.

you crawled up to him, hand reaching out to stroke him through his boxers.

“no.” he gripped your wrist. “mouth first. just how i like it.”

you obeyed. lips parting, tongue already out, taking him in slow, messy. spit dripping, throat tight, eyes glassy.

“fuck, yeah,” he groaned. “look at that mouth. missed this mouth. camera did too.”

he held your head, didn’t thrust—just let you do it yourself, slowly sinking until your nose was buried in his skin and your moans vibrated around him.

“you gon’ let me film you beg again?” he rasped, eyes low, voice thick. “that cute lil’ cry you make when i keep you full?”

you whined around him, nodded.

he pulled you up and flipped you over with ease, yanking you to the edge of the bed like you weighed nothing.

the red light blinked.

he lined himself up and spit on your pussy before sliding in without warning.

“say hi to the camera, baby.”

you barely managed a word—already limp, already shaking, already biting your lip so hard you tasted blood.

he didn’t slow down. this one wasn’t soft. it wasn’t romantic.

this was filth. he grabbed your throat.

“what’s your name?” you whimpered it.

“what’s mine?”

“ch—chris—”

“louder.”

“chris!”

“who fucks you like this?”

“you do— oh my god, you do—”

he angled deeper, rougher, one hand between your legs while the other pressed against your stomach, feeling how deep he reached.

the camera caught the moment you shattered. mouth wide open, whole body twitching, drool sliding down your cheek.

he fucked you through it.

“don’t tap out on me now,” he growled in your ear. “this the finale. give ‘em a show.”

he pulled out again, flipped you onto your back this time, legs on his shoulders.

when he came, it was everywhere. messy, raw, thick across your chest, dripping between your breasts while he stared down like he’d just made art.

he grabbed the camera from the mount.

filmed a close-up of your ruined face. of the cum.

of his fingers spreading your pussy open just to watch it twitch.

“fuck.” he said lowly, panning across your chest. “best one yet.”

and when he set the camera down again, still recording, he crawled over your body with a smirk.

“let’s start bonus footage.”

a / n . . . no. i need to stop.

[saintormentor]

deep throat c. s

in which . . . chris fucks your throat raw. this is a consensual power-exchange dynamic. contains rough content, viewer discretion advised.

content warnings . . . dom!chris, oral sex ( m!receiving ), deepthroating / throatfuck, gagging / choking ( consensual ), tears from oral, degradation, praise kink, rough use / use kink, spit / drool / bodily fluids, hair pulling, use of mouth as a “ reward ” or release, creampie ( oral ), cum swallowing, minimal aftercare, power imbalance / D/s dynamic ( consensual )

his voice was low the second the door shut behind him.

“on your knees.”

you didn’t even speak. didn’t need to. your body moved before your brain did, legs folding beneath you on the living room floor, still in that little sleep shirt he liked so much—the one that barely covered your ass and clung to every soft inch of you.

chris looked wrecked from the day. hair messy from the wind, jaw tense, eyes dark. the tie around his neck was already loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease a sliver of his chest.

he stood over you and palmed his cock through his pants, watching the way your lips parted already, like you knew what he needed. what you were—a release. a reward. a toy. his.

“open wide, baby. i’ve had a fuckin’ day.”

your mouth obeyed instantly. the second he pulled his cock free, thick and already hardening from just looking at you, he was tapping it against your tongue, smearing precum on your lips before gripping the back of your head.

“you know what i like,” he muttered, thumb dragging along your jaw as you hollowed your cheeks. “all that drool… yeah, that’s it. that’s my girl.”

he didn’t ease into it. didn’t ask. just slid deep, the weight of him heavy on your tongue, until the head hit the back of your throat and your eyes watered.

but fuck, he loved that.

“look at you—fuck—you’re already crying for me.”

he started to thrust. slow at first. then rougher. more desperate. hips snapping forward as your spit coated his cock, your throat tightening around him each time he bottomed out. you gagged, a choked moan bubbling up around his length, and he groaned deep.

“don’t pull away,” he warned, fist tightening in your hair. “stay right there. let me fuck that throat raw.”

his pace turned punishing. balls slapping your chin. tears streaking your cheeks. you dug your nails into his thighs for balance, jaw aching but pussy soaking. he growled through his teeth every time you whimpered.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this. ruined just from sucking dick. you were made for this, huh?”

you couldn’t respond. only gagged, swallowed, let him use you. let your tongue cradle his shaft and your nose bury into the rough hair at his base.

he came with a hiss. one deep thrust, cock buried down your throat, and his warm release spilled straight down it. he held you there as he twitched, hips pressed to your face, groaning low.

“don’t waste a fuckin’ drop.”

and you didn’t.

you stayed there, obedient, until he slipped out—your chin slick, lips swollen, his cum thick in your chest.

he knelt after, tugging you onto his lap, thumb stroking your jaw with a softness that contradicted everything.

“such a good girl,” he whispered. “always take care of me.”

and you did. every. single. time.

a / n . . . beautifully filthy.

[saintormentor]

tag teamed m. s & c. s

in which . . . matt suggests a threesome with his brother chris, which made you hesitant at first. key word: at first.

content warnings . . . threesome ( zero incest. that’s disgusting. ) dizziness, oral, p in v, roughness, basically hardcore smut

matt brings it up one night, voice barely above a whisper. it’s late—way past midnight—and the sheets are tangled around your legs, his arms warm and clumsy around your waist. you’re scrolling through your phone, half-listening to him mumble, until he says it.

“would you ever… like… i don’t know. like a threesome?”

you turn your head. “with who?”

“me,” he swallows, “and chris.”

you blink. “your brother?”

“i mean—only if you wanted to! you don’t have to, like, it was just a thought i—i don’t know, i shouldn’t’ve said anything, it’s stupid—”

it takes another full week for it to become real. because matt is sweet and soft-spoken, because he second-guesses himself even while kissing your throat. but chris? chris is the opposite. cocky. unapologetic. he hears about the idea and shrugs like it’s already happening.

“you sure you can handle that, pretty girl?” he asks when matt brings it up again in front of him. you can’t tell if the question’s for you or matt.

they don’t rush. you thought it would be fast, wild, messy—but it starts gentle. because matt needs it to be. because he looks at you like you’re made of something delicate, and chris lets him take the lead even if he clearly wants to wreck you first.

you’re on the bed in matt’s room, soft light casting gold shadows over everything. matt’s mouth is warm on yours, tentative, like he’s still scared to do this wrong. chris leans against the door, arms crossed, watching like it’s a private screening.

“you okay?” matt whispers into your lips. you nod. he swallows again. “i just want you to feel good.”

his fingers are slow. familiar. they ghost over your skin like he’s mapping every breath, and when you arch into his palm, his eyes flutter shut. he doesn’t even realize chris is moving closer until you both hear his low laugh.

“you gonna keep her all night, or am i allowed to touch too?”

matt doesn’t answer. but he nods.

chris kisses you different. like he wants to leave a mark, make a memory, brand your body so you know the difference. his hands are everywhere—faster, rougher—and he doesn’t ask permission before sliding your legs apart and mouthing at the inside of your thigh.

“so fucking sweet,” he says against your skin, voice thick. “clearly you’ve got matt wrapped around your finger.”

matt’s behind you, holding your hand while chris works you open. his face is flushed pink, but his eyes never leave yours. he kisses your temple and murmurs, “tell me if it’s too much, okay?” he means it. he would stop. he would ask.

chris doesn’t stop. not unless you tell him to. and you don’t.

you’re on your hands and knees now, the room hazy with heat and sweat and low moans. chris is behind you—in you—and every stroke is deliberate, hungry. his grip on your hips is bruising, but it only fuels the slick heat building in your core. he’s got one hand tangled in your hair, the other spread across your lower back, pinning you exactly where he wants you.

“fuck, you feel insane,” chris groans, hips snapping forward, cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. “makes snese why matt’s always so fucking whipped for you.”

matt’s in front of you, lying back on the bed, flushed and shaky, his thighs spread. his cock is hard and twitching under your tongue, every lick making him whimper. he’s got both hands on your head but isn’t guiding—just holding, grounding himself, fingers trembling as you take him deeper.

“baby,” matt gasps, eyes locked on yours, “fuck—you’re so perfect like this—”

chris thrusts deeper at that exact second and your moan vibrates around matt’s cock. his hips jerk, and he almost pulls away, but you keep him there, hollowing your cheeks, eyes watering with the stretch. spit pools at the corner of your mouth, your throat fluttering around him.

behind you, chris gives a dark laugh. “look at her,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “messy little mouth, taking him so sweet, dripping all over my dick. you like this, huh? being used by both of us?”

you nod, choked moan muffled by matt’s cock. matt’s already close—you can feel it, the way his thighs are tense, how his fingers twitch in your hair. but he doesn’t want to finish yet. he pulls out with a gasp, breathing hard, cock flushed and wet.

“wait,” he pants. “i want—i want to be inside you too.”

you barely have time to process before chris pulls out with a filthy smack and grabs your chin, turning your face up. he kisses you hard—rough, greedy—and tastes the salt of matt’s skin on your tongue.

“switch,” he says, low.

matt kisses your cheek as he guides you down to lie on your back, whispering your name like an apology. his hand strokes between your thighs, tender where chris was rough. he lines himself up and slides into you slowly, watching every inch disappear inside. your walls clench around him, slick and overstimulated, and he groans into your neck.

“still so wet,” he breathes. “you feel even better than i remembered—”

chris kneels beside your head, cock hard and leaking. he rubs the tip across your lips, and you open for him like instinct. his voice is a low growl. “yeah… just like that.”

matt moves gently, hips rolling slow and deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your breath stutter. he keeps one hand on your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to keep you open. his eyes are locked on your face—watching, memorizing every twitch and gasp as chris begins to fuck your mouth.

they don’t touch each other. (‘cause that’s fucking disgusting.)

but they both fuck you.

your body is shaking. your throat full. your cunt pulsing tight around matt as his rhythm stutters. he whispers your name again, voice breaking.

“i can’t—fuck—i’m gonna come—”

you pull back from chris, gasping for air, spit stringing from your lips to the head of his cock. your nails dig into matt’s shoulders and your hips arch up, crying out as he pushes in deep one last time and spills inside you with a trembling moan.

he doesn’t pull out right away. just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“thank you,” he whispers. “i love you.”

chris chuckles low from beside you. “you done?” he asks matt, already fisting himself. “’cause i’m not.”

your eyes flutter open—exhausted, raw, but greedy—and chris catches your look and smirks.

“that’s what i thought.”

he flips you over like you weigh nothing, presses your face into the pillows, and fucks you so hard your voice breaks.

and still—matt stays close. holds your hand. kisses your shoulder. watches you fall apart again.

between them, you’re everything.

and you’ve never felt more wanted.

a / n . . . nothing to see here

[saintormentor]

p u s s y t r a i n i n g c . s

i n w h i c h . . . chris comes home frustrated, and the only thing on his mind is fucking the anger away.

w a r n i n g s . . . smut, p in v, fem receiving oral, male receiving oral, pressuring, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, gagging, crying, creampie, aftercare, pussy spanking, rough language and handling, derogatory language (slut, whore, etc.)

it was unusual for chris to be annoyed with you, let alone be annoyed by your sounds. it was long day. it was clear in the sharp set of his jaw, the stubble decorating his cheekbones, and mostly the way his fingers twitched. oh, not to mention he nearly slammed the apartment door off its hinges. he was itching to take his anger out on something, and you sitting there all pretty drew in his attention.

it made your stomach turn—not with fear, but with a kind of electricity. because even though chris was quiet when he was angry, there was a weight to it. a pressure. like the air shifted. like your body instinctively braced, not because you thought he’d hurt you, but because you knew exactly what he needed.

he didn’t say hi when he walked in. didn’t kiss you like he usually did. just kicked his shoes off with a grunt and tossed his keys onto the counter so hard they skidded. his chest was rising fast. he paced once, twice, before his eyes cut to you on the couch like you were the one thing in the room still breathing too calmly.

you blinked up at him, lips parted, legs tucked underneath you, the blanket slipping off your shoulder.

“gonna look at m’like that?” his voice was low. rough. dangerous in a way that made heat pool in your stomach.

you swallowed. “like what?”

his jaw ticked. “like you want me to fuck y’dumb.”

your breath caught.

then—like a switch—he was walking toward you, slow but certain. a shadow of something wild in his eyes.

you didn’t move. couldn’t. didn’t want to.

“long fuckin’ day,” he muttered, stopping just in front of you. his hand slid into your hair, gentle for half a second before gripping tighter. “and you’re sittin’ here making those little sounds like you don’t know what that does to me.”

your thighs clenched. “i didn’t mean—”

“yeah, you did,” he snapped. but not angry with you. angry at everything else. and needing you to fix it.

he pushed the blanket off you fully, let his eyes drag over your bare legs, the tank top you wore without a bra, the softness of your skin. he exhaled like it hurt to hold back.

“you just gonna sit there,” he whispered, “or you gonna help me feel better?”

you bit your lip, heart pounding. “what do you want me to do?”

his answer was immediate. raw.

“get on y’knees.”

and you did—slowly, letting him see the way you obeyed, the way you ached to be good for him. he watched you, his hands fisting at his sides, chest heaving. his hoodie fell to the floor. the zipper hit the tile. his belt followed.

he stepped closer. tilted your chin up with two fingers. “open your mouth,” he breathed.

he paused his movements, brushing his thumb against your lips, which instinctively wrapped around it. “fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

you stayed still, let him press his thumb deeper until it brushed the back of your throat, until tears pricked in your lashes and your thighs rubbed together because the helplessness—the need—was already simmering through you.

then, finally, he undid his jeans.

you heard the clink of the buckle, the sharp hiss of fabric dragged down fast. his cock was already hard, flushed at the tip, and when he wrapped one hand around the base and stroked, just once, you could see the tension ripple down his forearm like he was barely holding it together.

“gonna let me use your mouth, baby?” he rasped, voice darker now. “i don’t even wanna think about today.”

you nodded, breath shaky, lips parting again.

he didn’t ask again. didn’t hesitate.

the first thrust was shallow—just the head, just enough to feel your lips wrap tight around him, to hear the wet click of spit when he pulled back. but the second? deeper. his hand cradled the back of your head and he fed it to you inch by inch, slow and deliberate. punishing in its control.

“that’s it,” he grunted, watching your eyes. “take it. open up for me.”

you hollowed your cheeks, let him slide deeper, let your tongue flatten underneath. he groaned, low and guttural, head tipping back for a split second before he looked down again, eyes locked on yours.

your hands gripped his thighs for balance, fingers digging into the denim around his knees. spit was already beginning to drip down your chin, and he fucking loved it—his hips rolled forward, just once, deeper than before, until you gagged around him.

“fuck, baby—just like that. let me use you.”

he didn’t stop.

he fucked your mouth like he needed it. like it was therapy. rough, rhythmic thrusts that made your eyes tear up and your core ache with every single pass of his cock over your tongue. you could hear yourself—wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet apartment along with his ragged breath and the muttered curses he kept spitting through clenched teeth.

“such a pretty little mouth. made to suck cock, huh?” he groaned.

you whimpered around him—both from the intensity and the way your thighs were soaked now, squirming for relief. and he noticed.

he pulled back suddenly, letting his cock slide free with a thick, wet sound. a string of spit stayed connected between you, and he wiped it away with his thumb, smearing it across your bottom lip like it was something holy.

you were gasping, flushed, mouth swollen. and still so fucking needy.

“get on the couch,” he said. “spread your legs. i’m not done with you.”

you scrambled back onto the couch, heart racing, legs shaking a little as you reclined against the cushions. chris’s eyes never left you—dark and glassy, like he was barely hanging on.

you pulled your tank top off first. no bra. his gaze dragged over your chest, the way your nipples were already hard from how wrecked he’d gotten you with just his voice and the weight of him in your mouth. he looked possessed.

“shorts too,” he muttered. “now.”

you shimmied them down, no underwear beneath. he groaned when he saw the slick mess between your thighs—your folds glistening, the soft little quiver in your thighs as they spread wider, like your body was begging for him.

“jesus christ,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face before climbing between your legs on the couch. “you dripping for me already, baby? all that from sucking my cock?”

you nodded, breathless. “please—chris, i need—”

but you didn’t get to finish. because his mouth was on you.

no teasing. no warning. he dove in like he was starved, tongue dragging a thick stripe up your slit before his lips closed around your clit and sucked hard enough to make your whole body jolt. your back arched off the couch, a desperate cry ripping from your throat as your fingers shot into his hair, holding on.

he groaned into you—deep and filthy—as he licked, sucked, devoured you like he was mad about it. like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him after a shit day. and when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your thighs snapped around his head like instinct.

“fuck—chris, please—”

“shut up.” he didn’t stop. didn’t even slow. his fingers fucked into you fast and deep while his tongue circled your clit in tight, hungry patterns. you could hear the slick sounds between your legs, feel the obscene heat building in your gut, your whole body trembling under the force of it.

you were gonna come. and he knew it.

he pulled back just enough to speak—his mouth shiny, chin wet, voice low and raw.

“you gonna come for me, baby? on my fuckin’ face?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes, chris—please, i’m gonna—”

“then fuckin’ come.”

and you did. hard.

your legs locked around his head, your body convulsing with it, loud and desperate and messy as everything cracked open inside you. he didn’t stop until you were twitching, whimpering, pulling at his hair to make him stop because it was too much.

but even then—he didn’t give you a break.

he climbed up your body, still hard, still leaking. lined himself up and looked at you like he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“you want me to fuck you now?” he rasped.

you nodded, dazed, soaked, spent but aching for more. “please.”

and then he was inside you.

no condom. no pause. just a deep, brutal thrust that had your eyes rolling back as he buried himself to the hilt. you felt everything—the way he stretched you open, the way he filled you so completely you could hardly breathe.

he started to move—deep and punishing, slow at first just to watch the way your face crumpled, then faster, rougher, fucking you like he owned you.

“tight as ever,” he growled into your ear. “so fucking wet. you needed this, whore? needed me to fuck it outta you?”

“uh- uh huh.” you whimpered, a little too loud for comfort.

“too loud,” he cooed, voice laced with mock sympathy as his hips drove into you again, deeper this time. “be a little quieter.”

and sure, you tried.

and sure, you failed. miserably.

because how could you be quiet when he was fucking you like this? when your back was arched, legs hooked over his shoulders, his cock slamming into you so perfectly, so brutally, that your vision blurred? every stroke knocked another breath out of your lungs, dragged another sound from your throat—whimpers, gasps, cries that bordered on sobs.

“mm-mm,” he tutted, not slowing at all. his hand slid up your throat, not choking but holding, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw as your head lolled back. “you don’t listen. always so fuckin’ loud when i tell you to be good.”

your mouth hung open, but no words came—just a broken little moan as he shifted his angle and hit something dangerous inside you. your nails clawed at the cushions, your hips twitching against his grip.

“what’s that?” he whispered, leaning closer so his lips brushed your ear. “gonna come again?”

you nodded frantically, body trembling, throat too tight to speak.

“huh. ‘course you are.” he gave a sharp thrust that made you cry out again. “can’t even help yourself, can you? so fuckin’ needy. you like this? getting ruined on my cock while you make all those pretty little sounds?”

you sobbed out a yes, not even caring how pathetic you sounded. you were gone—fucked dumb, so deep in it your body barely felt like your own.

his grip tightened around your throat.

“come then,” he growled. “and keep your eyes on me while you do it.”

and somehow, somehow, you managed it—staring up at him with tears on your lashes and his name breaking on your lips as your whole body shattered beneath him. your muscles clamped around his cock, spasming hard, your moans spilling out no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

and he loved it.

because a second later, he was losing it too—hips stuttering, a filthy groan dragged from his chest as he spilled into you, deep and hot, holding you open with both hands as he came with a force that left him trembling.

he stayed there for a moment, still inside you, breath hot against your cheek.

“you really don’t know how to shut up,” he murmured, smirking against your jaw. “guess i’ll just have to keep fuckin’ you ‘til you learn.”

you took in deep breaths, trying to blink the stars from your vision, your body still twitching from the aftershocks. every nerve felt like it was on fire. every breath tasted like chris.

but just when you thought you’d come down from your high—

smack.

a hard slap landed square against your already soaked, overstimulated pussy. the sound echoed off the walls, sharp and wet, and your whole body jolted with a strangled cry.

“fuck!—chris—” you gasped, hips twitching away instinctively, only for his arm to hook around your thigh and yank you right back where he wanted you.

“mm-mm, shhh,” he hummed, low and dangerous as he knelt between your legs, his voice thick with post-orgasm haze but laced with something hungrier now. “gotta train this pussy to be quiet.”

he ran two fingers through your folds—slow, almost gentle—and you whimpered at the contact. you were so sensitive you couldn’t think straight. he watched your hips jerk, your thighs tremble, and his grin deepened.

“look at this messy little cunt,” he muttered, dragging your arousal—his cum—down to your clit, circling it until your back arched off the couch again. “still so fuckin’ wet. still leaking for me.”

“chris—too much, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said calmly. “and you will.”

and then his mouth was back on you.

no mercy. no patience. just relentless, obscene suction on your clit while two fingers curled deep inside you again, stretching your swollen walls and dragging moans from your lips that you couldn’t even begin to hold back.

you thrashed, breath catching, tears slipping down your cheeks from how intense it was—your thighs trying to close, your hands scrambling for something to grip, something to ground you.

but he held you open. forced you to take it.

“you said you’d be good,” he growled against your skin. “so fucking be good.”

your body betrayed you. despite the overstimulation, despite the ache—your orgasm was already building again, terrifying in its speed, the pressure crushing.

“no—chris, i’m gonna—i can’t—please—”

“shut up. yes. yes you can,” he snapped, rubbing hard circles over your clit while his fingers fucked you fast and deep and relentlessly. “you’re gonna come for me again. right now.”

and you did.

you came harder than before—louder, wetter, your entire body locking up as a gush of release flooded his hand and the couch cushions below. you sobbed through it, shaking uncontrollably, legs twitching as he kept going just a second longer, milking it out of you, letting you writhe and cry and fall completely apart.

only then—only then—did he slow, pulling his fingers out, slick and glistening, before sucking them clean with a low, satisfied hum.

he leaned over you, gaze molten, his voice barely above a whisper.

“that,” he breathed, “was for making all those sounds.”

your whole body was trembling, soaked and flushed, your chest rising in frantic little pants as you tried to ground yourself—but chris wasn’t done.

not even close.

you barely had time to blink before he grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over—face pressed into the cushions, ass up, legs spread wide.

“look at this mess,” he muttered, dragging his fingers down your slick folds again, letting your wetness drip down your thighs. “you’re fucking dripping. ruined my couch already.”

you whined into the cushion, heat blooming in your cheeks at how wrecked you were, at the way your body was betraying you—still aching, still needy.

he gave your pussy another hard slap.

smack.

“quiet. stay just like that,” he growled. “don’t fuckin’ move.”

you nodded, barely managing a broken little yes before the blunt head of his cock was back at your entrance. he didn’t ease in this time—he slammed into you, hard and deep, making you cry out into the pillow, your body jolting forward from the sheer force of it.

“fuck, yes,” he groaned, gripping your hips so tight you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow. “this pussy’s never felt so good. all wet and twitchy for me. greedy fuckin’ thing.”

you couldn’t speak. you could only moan, every sharp thrust driving you higher again, overstimulation and desire colliding until you felt like you might explode.

he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, one hand coming up to fist in your hair and yank your head back, forcing you to arch.

“you like getting fucked like this?” he rasped against your ear. “like a little toy? used until you can’t think?”

you whimpered—yes, a thousand times yes—but all that came out was a gasping, wrecked little moan.

“that’s what i thought,” he muttered, pounding into you harder. faster. the couch creaked beneath you, the wet sounds between your bodies obscene. “you’re fucking perfect. made for this. made for me.”

he reached around, fingers finding your clit again, and you screamed—your whole body jerking, pleasure sparking up your spine like lightning.

“no, no—chris, i can’t—”

“shhh. it’s okay. you can,” he growled. “one more. give me one more.”

you were sobbing into the cushions, eyes rolling back as your body spiraled out of control. every nerve was on fire, every part of you begging for relief. he rubbed tight, relentless circles over your clit while his cock pistoned into you, deeper and harder and faster.

“come on, baby,” he grunted. “be a good fuckin’ girl. come for me.”

and you did.

your orgasm hit like a fucking bomb—your body clenching around him so hard he shouted, thick ropes of cum spilling into you as he fucked you through it, your legs trembling, your voice hoarse from screaming his name.

he collapsed over you, still buried deep, breath ragged against your neck.

your bodies were a mess of sweat, slick, and sex—his cum leaking down your thighs, your skin sticky with heat and every inch of you raw from how good it felt.

you stayed like that, both of you catching your breath.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

not because you didn’t want to—but because you couldn’t.

your body was limp, twitching with the last echoes of your orgasm, and chris’s weight on top of you was grounding in a way that made your heart ache. your breath came in short, shaky bursts, your cheek pressed into the cushion, legs splayed open, thighs sticky with slick and cum and sweat.

then, slowly, he softened inside you and let out a quiet, exhausted breath.

you felt him press a gentle kiss to your shoulder blade. another to your spine. then he whispered, “you okay?”

your throat was dry, but you nodded. “mmhmm.”

he was already moving—slipping out of you carefully, fingers brushing down your sides like he didn’t want to let go just yet. he helped you shift, cradling you gently into your back as your body trembled, and when he looked at you, the cocky edge was gone.

now, it was just him.

your chris.

the one who made sure you were breathing. who checked your pulse. who brushed the hair from your damp forehead with the back of his hand and kissed your temple like it was the only thing keeping him calm.

“too much?” he asked softly, voice thick with something real now—guilt, maybe. or just love.

you shook your head, curling into him.

he exhaled like he needed to hear that. then he stood, only for a second, disappearing into the bathroom. you heard the faucet run, the sound of a towel being soaked, rung out. he came back and knelt beside the couch, warm washcloth in hand.

“spread for me,” he said, but this time, there was no demand. no teasing.

you did, cheeks flushed, and he cleaned you gently—every swipe careful, reverent. he wiped away the mess between your thighs, his cum dripping down your skin, and kissed your knee once he was done.

“you’re so good,” he murmured. “such a sweet girl.”

you smiled, hazy and warm, and reached for him. he wrapped you up in his arms, pulling the blanket over both of you, burying his face in your neck like he wanted to disappear into your skin.

“sorry i came in all pissed n’ shit,” he said after a minute. “you didn’t deserve that.”

you carded your fingers through his messy hair. “you didn’t take it out on me. you let me take it from you.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you.

and then he kissed you—soft, slow, open-mouthed. nothing hungry now. just grateful.

“you always do,” he whispered.

“i always will,” you promised. he held you tighter.

he couldn’t even remember why he was mad earlier.

a / n . . . if this flops theres no point to live on

[saintormentor]

[saintormentor]

m e a n i e c . s

i n w h i c h . . . chris prolongs your release when you whine, and then gives you four more.

w a r n i n g s . . . orgasm prolonging, multiple orgasms, smut, stomach bulge, degradation, crying, comfort

the sex felt mindless. detached. it was frankly pissing chris off, his movements sloppy and lazy.

your body was trembling, every nerve frayed from how close you were — how unfairly close — when he pulled out without warning. just like that. gone. empty. aching.

you gasped, eyes snapping open, chest heaving as your thighs instinctively tried to close, to hold onto something that wasn’t there anymore. but all you got was the sting of abandonment and the unbearable throb of denied pleasure.

“what the fuck,” you breathed, voice shaking more from betrayal than from exhaustion. “are you serious right now?”

he just stared down at you, dark and unreadable, his chest rising and falling like he was the one on edge. like he was the one about to break.

“you think you get to come that easy after the shit you pulled?” he muttered, low and cutting. his voice was calm — terrifyingly so — and it made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

your jaw dropped. “i didn’t even—”

“exactly.” he leaned in, nose brushing yours, that stupid, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t do anything. didn’t apologize. didn’t beg. didn’t even say my name the way i like.” he tilted his head. “why would i let you finish?”

your hands clenched the sheets. tears of frustration welled in your eyes — not from hurt, but from the sheer tension knotted in your stomach, throbbing between your legs like a cruel punishment. “you’re such an asshole.”

“mhmm.” he pressed a single kiss to your lips. “but you like that.”

“i hate you.”

“no, baby,” he cooed, thumbing your swollen bottom lip. “you hate that you need me to cum. and i’m not gonna give it to you.”

you stared at him, burning, furious, unbearably needy — and he was already backing away, wiping himself off like he hadn’t just wrecked you without mercy.

“chris,” you warned, voice breaking. “don’t you fucking walk away.”

he paused at the door. glanced back.

“then don’t give me a reason to,” he said simply, and disappeared into the hallway.

you screamed into the pillow. and shit, you hated how much you still wanted him.

you laid there for a long moment, body still trembling, thighs clenched so tight it hurt. the silence in the room was deafening — not peaceful, not calm, but taunting. it mocked you. echoed your pulse. pulsed in sync with the empty ache between your legs.

your hand twitched at your side. you considered finishing yourself — just out of spite. just to feel something other than the shameful burn of need.

but it wouldn’t be the same. it never was. not after chris. so you didn’t.

you wrapped the sheet around your chest and stumbled off the bed, legs wobbly and weak, more from rage than anything. padding into the hallway, you found him in the kitchen — shirtless, sipping water like he hadn’t just ruined you on purpose. like he hadn’t just played god with your orgasm and walked away whistling.

“you think that was funny?” your voice cracked. you hated that it cracked.

he didn’t even look at you at first. just set the glass down and turned, slow, deliberate, leaning back on the counter. “wasn’t meant to be funny,” he said. “meant to teach you a lesson.”

“about what?” you hissed. “about how to become a fucking lunatic? congrats, chris. i’m there.”

his eyes flicked over you — the sheet, the flushed cheeks, the unsteady posture. “lesson about how actions have consequences,” he said smoothly, walking toward you. “and that maybe next time, you’ll think twice before pretending you don’t care.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but he was already there, tilting your chin up with a single finger.

“you came in here looking to argue. as usual.” he said, voice low, “but all i see is someone who still wants to cum, huh?”

you slapped his hand away. “you don’t get to control me like this.”

“i’m not controlling you,” he murmured. “i’m making you honest.”

and before you could reply — before you could say another word — he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and bent you over the counter.

“chris—” you gasped, the sheet slipping off your body, heat flooding every nerve.

“you think i don’t want you?” he growled into your ear. “you think it doesn’t kill me not to cum in this messy cunt?”

he pushed just the head in, slow, punishing, and you whimpered.

“this time,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’ll fucking scream for it.”

he didn’t move.

just the tip — barely nestled inside, stretched enough to ache but not enough to satisfy. your fingers gripped the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles turned white, breath coming in sharp little gasps as your thighs trembled.

“chris,” you whimpered, trying to push back against him, just enough to take more, to pull him deeper.

his hand came down hard across your ass. a sharp smack. you yelped.

“don’t,” he warned. “you don’t get to set the pace.”

he rocked his hips — shallow, infuriatingly slow — just enough for the head to slip in and out, dragging against that first ring of resistance. you choked on a moan, back arching, your body betraying you completely.

“this is what you wanted, right?” he murmured, voice low and cruel. “wanted to be put in your place. wanted to be reminded who you belong to.”

“you’re such a dick,” you gasped, eyes stinging from frustration, from pleasure that refused to peak.

he leaned down, chest against your back, one hand wrapping around your throat as he pushed in just a little deeper—then pulled out again.

“and,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “you’re dripping all over me.”

you could feel it — the mess between your thighs, the humiliating slickness he was smearing all over with nothing more than the head of his cock. every time he rocked forward, it dragged through you, hot and swollen and soaked.

“please,” you breathed, and hated how desperate it sounded. “chris, please.”

he stilled. stayed right at the edge. unmoving. cock twitching against you.

“you gonna be good?” he asked.

you nodded furiously.

“say it.”

“i’ll be good,” you whispered. “i’ll be so fucking good, i swear—”

but he didn’t move.

he just pulled out again, rubbing himself through your folds like he wasn’t wrecking you slowly, deliberately.

“you think you deserve it?” he asked, now lazily trailing the tip up toward your clit and back down again.

“yes—“

he pressed the head in again. just the head. you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

“you haven’t earned it yet,” he said simply, cruelly, and god—you might’ve cried.

he was merciless.

he didn’t push in. didn’t give you what you were aching for, what your body screamed for. no — all he gave you was the thick, swollen head of his cock, nudging just barely past your entrance, then pulling out again. slow. calculated. cruel.

“c’mon,” he murmured, thumb brushing the base of your spine as he kept you bent over the counter. “you’re the one who said you didn’t need me.”

you were shaking, chest pressed to the cold marble, cheek turned, lips parted as you panted. “chris,” you whimpered, the name leaving you like a sob. “please—i can’t—”

“you can.” his voice was low, cruelly gentle. “you will.”

he rocked forward again, just enough for the tip to slip in, warm and thick and teasing right against that oversensitive entrance. he held it there, hands gripping your hips so tight it left bruises.

and then he started to move.

not fully — just that inch, back and forth, shallow thrusts that barely scraped at your walls but somehow still had your legs buckling. the friction built fast. too fast. too much.

“fuck,” you moaned, high and broken, your voice echoing in the kitchen. “it’s not enough—”

“then why are you already close?” he growled.

his grip on your hips tightened, and he kept that brutal rhythm — shallow, deliberate, precise. the tip hit just right, again and again, your swollen, aching walls gripping for more that never came. but it didn’t matter. it was too much and not enough all at once.

he reached forward and slipped his fingers between your thighs, finding your clit with practiced ease. rubbed tight circles, slow and filthy, while his cock teased you open just barely.

“gonna come just like this,” he muttered. “just on the tip.”

“i c-can’t—” your whole body was shaking, voice trembling as tears pricked your lashes. “chris, please—”

“look at you,” he cooed, “crying over a cock that’s not even inside you.”

and that broke you.

your body seized, thighs quivering as the orgasm hit — sudden, sharp, and humiliatingly intense. you cried out, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open and trembling as your walls clamped down around nothing. around just the tip.

he held you through it, fingers working you through every last wave, until you were a gasping, twitching mess against the counter.

and still — he didn’t push in.

“that’s one,” he said softly, brushing your hair from your damp face. “now beg me for the next.”

your breath caught on a sob, your thighs trembling, your core still pulsing around the emptiness he left inside you — or worse, almost inside you. it felt cruel, unnatural, unbearable. you couldn’t stop shaking, body still wracked with aftershocks that hadn’t fully ebbed, and he hadn’t even given you more than the tip.

and now he was standing behind you again, lazily stroking himself, your slick still shining on his skin.

“you feel that?” he whispered, running the head along your overstimulated folds, dragging slow. “you’re still soaking. messier than before.”

“chris,” you whimpered, face turned against the cold marble. “don’t—don’t make me beg.”

“i’m not making you do anything,” he murmured, leaning in. his lips ghosted over your ear, slow and low. “but if you want to come again? you will beg. and if you want me to fuck you—really fuck you? you’ll forget your pride.”

you stayed quiet.

and he pulled back.

“wait—wait!” you gasped, twisting around, reaching for him, tears in your eyes now. frustration, yes. but more than that. shame. need. aching need. “please,” you whispered. “please, chris. i need more. i can’t take just the tip anymore, i swear—i’ll do anything.”

he tilted his head, eyes dark with something mean and satisfied.

“then show me,” he said simply.

you dropped to your knees.

your palms hit the kitchen floor. knees spread, forehead pressed to the tile. it was humiliating. it was desperate. it was exactly what he wanted.

“good girl,” he breathed, stepping behind you again. he dragged himself along your folds one more time, the swollen head catching your entrance. “stay just like that.”

and he did it again.

just the tip.

back in, slow and shallow. dragging, teasing. and now you were so sensitive, your whole body twitched with every motion.

you let out a noise — something between a moan and a cry — as he picked up the rhythm, still not fully inside you, but fast enough to drive you insane. his fingers dug into your hips. your knees started to slide. the sounds were obscene.

“you gonna come again?” he asked, and you hated how proud he sounded. “gonna fall apart with just this?”

you nodded, face still against the floor. “yes—yes, chris, i’m—”

your voice caught again.

this one was even worse than the first. you shattered with a scream, legs collapsing, body going limp as wave after wave tore through you. and still he didn’t push in. still he didn’t finish.

you were crying now. overwhelmed. destroyed.

he leaned over you, kissed the back of your neck.

“that’s two,” he whispered. “you still want the rest?”

you nodded, broken.

he smiled, slow and wicked.

“then get back on the counter.”

your legs barely worked. they shook beneath you, slick with sweat and tears and everything he’d pulled from you without even giving you what you needed. your body throbbed with overstimulation, your thighs sticking together as you tried to move. but you did. because you had to. because when chris told you to get back on the counter, there wasn’t another choice.

you reached up, pulling yourself onto the marble, chest heaving, arms trembling under your weight. your cheek pressed to the cold surface, and your legs dangled, spread open behind you as you barely managed to stay propped on your knees.

you heard him behind you. the quiet smack of skin against skin as he stroked himself, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

he came closer.

his hand smoothed up your spine. his other gripped your hip, guiding you into place. “look at you,” he murmured. “ruined. still begging.”

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

and he didn’t wait.

this time, there was no warning. no teasing. no more mercy.

he slammed into you in one sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt — and your scream was raw, high-pitched, completely involuntary. your back arched, body locking up as the stretch hit like lightning. finally. he was inside. thick, deep, pulsing.

“there she is,” he groaned into your ear, his hand fisting your hair. “this what you needed? is this what you begged for?”

you sobbed out something that might’ve been a yes, your hands scrambling for grip on the counter as he pulled back and rammed into you again. and again. and again.

his pace was brutal. merciless. all control was gone now — his, yours — and he fucked into you like he had something to prove.

your body, already sensitive, couldn’t handle it. everything was white-hot. your vision blurred. your skin flushed. and the noises — the slick, filthy slap of skin on skin, the way you couldn’t stop moaning his name, the way he kept whispering how tight you were, how good you felt around him — it all pushed you higher.

“chris, i—i’m—” you choked out, tears running down your cheeks. “again, i’m gonna—”

“good,” he growled. “you’re not done ‘til i say you’re done.”

and then he brought his hand to your throat again, pulling you up by it, your back pressed to his chest now as he fucked you from behind, fully in, deep and fast and relentless.

your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.

your scream echoed through the kitchen, loud and desperate and cracked, as your body convulsed around him, squeezing him so tight he cursed under his breath.

he didn’t stop.

not even when you collapsed onto the counter.

not even when you begged.

he just leaned over you, lips at your ear, and said—

“that’s three. now take one more for good measure.”

his hand slid from your throat, down your chest, over your stomach — hot and firm, fingers splayed as he pressed, slow and deliberate, right over that soft, swollen bulge.

“feel that?” he murmured darkly against your ear. “that’s me. that’s how deep i am.”

your eyes rolled back, a guttural moan escaping your lips as the pressure made everything worse — or better — you couldn’t tell anymore. your stomach twitched under his touch, your body already so wrecked you didn’t know where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

he pushed a little harder, palm digging in, and you felt it — the way his cock nudged something deep inside you, the faintest resistance, the unbearable fullness. it was obscene. intimate. wrong, maybe — but your body responded with a helpless clench around him anyway.

“look how far you’re letting me in,” he whispered, lips brushing your neck, his hips still snapping into yours, slower now, but deeper. filthier. “you’re taking all of me. like you were made for it.”

you sobbed something — a yes, maybe. a plea. a prayer.

his thumb circled the spot on your stomach, watching how your body tensed every time he pressed down and moved his hips in sync. like he owned your insides. like you were his to rearrange.

and god, he was so fucking deep.

“i can feel myself inside you,” he groaned, pressing just a little harder. “right here. stretching you out from the inside.”

you were gone. eyes unfocused. jaw slack. nothing in you had the strength to pretend anymore — not to fight, not to protest, not even to beg.

and he knew it.

he slid his other hand between your legs again, two fingers working your clit as he pushed up into you with a devastating roll of his hips, thumb still holding that soft bulge in your belly like he could mark you from the inside.

“one more,” he murmured. “you can give me one more. i want you to come while you feel how deep i am.”

and with his cock buried to the hilt, his hand pressing against your belly, and his fingers rubbing perfect circles over your clit — you did.

your body shattered around him, trembling and clenching and sobbing as the orgasm hit you harder than any before, your thighs twitching, stomach jumping beneath his palm. and even as you screamed, even as your body went limp — chris was still fucking you through it.

your body gave out before your voice did.

you were sobbing — not dramatic or performative, just real, guttural, raw. it tore from your chest before you could stop it, hiccuping around your breath as your limbs trembled against the counter, your face wet with tears, your body wrecked in every way imaginable.

“chris,” you choked out, broken and small. “i can’t—i can’t anymore.”

and instantly, everything changed.

his rhythm stilled. the grip on your waist loosened. and then, so gently it made the tears come harder, he slipped out of you and caught you before you could fully collapse.

“shhh,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you as he lowered both of you to the floor, letting your back rest against his chest. his hand cradled your head. his lips pressed to your temple, over and over. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you, baby.”

you sobbed into his shoulder, hands clinging to his arms like you were afraid he’d disappear. your body still trembled, overwhelmed and spent, but now the ache was emotional — too much, too fast, too deep.

he rocked you slowly, whispering soft apologies, his voice a stark contrast to the one that had ruined you minutes ago. “i’m sorry. i pushed too far. i’m so sorry.”

you shook your head against him. “no… i just… i don’t know why i’m crying.”

“it’s okay,” he murmured. “you don’t have to know. you don’t have to explain anything.”

he pulled a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around both of you, tucking you into his lap like something fragile. his hand smoothed over your thigh, your back, your ribs — grounding you with touch.

“you’re okay,” he said softly. “you’re safe. i’ve got you now. you did so good.”

you hiccuped. “i felt everything. it was too much—”

“i know,” he whispered. “i know, baby. you held it in for so long.”

you curled into him tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, like a balm. and for a long, long while, he just held you. no teasing. no games. just warmth and steady breath, chest to chest, skin to skin.

and when your tears finally started to slow, when the trembling dulled into something quieter, he kissed your damp cheek and whispered again—

“i love you,” he said, barely audible. “even when i have to be mean. even when you cry.”

and somehow, that made you cry a little more. but it didn’t hurt this time.

not with him holding you like that.

you didn’t answer at first.

you couldn’t.

you just let yourself melt into him, boneless and quiet, his warmth pressed against every trembling part of you. your breath hitched now and then, like your body hadn’t fully caught up to the calm. your eyes were sore, your cheeks flushed, and your thighs still ached from how hard they’d clenched. but none of it mattered now. not with the way he was holding you — like you were glass and he hated himself for even nudging a crack.

“say something,” he whispered, voice hoarse, nose buried in your hair.

you swallowed hard.

“you love me?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

his arms tightened instantly. he shifted just enough to pull you fully into his lap, both of your bodies tucked into the oversized blanket now. he looked down at you with eyes that weren’t cocky or taunting — just stripped. open. bare.

“yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “i do. even when you drive me crazy. even when i get in my own head and pull shit like that.”

your lip wobbled. “you… you were so mean.”

he closed his eyes. exhaled sharp through his nose. “i know. i was trying to prove something. trying to get you to feel how much i need you, even when i don’t know how to say it.”

you pressed your cheek to his chest. “there are softer ways to say it.”

his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “i’ll learn ‘em. if you let me. i just—i get scared sometimes. scared you’ll stop needing me back.”

you looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “chris. i don’t think you realize what you do to me.”

“i didn’t cry because you hurt me. i cried because i couldn’t handle how much i felt. because you don’t just fuck me, you undo me.”

something in his expression broke — softened. he reached up and cradled your jaw, brushing his thumb along your cheek like he needed to memorize every part of you.

“i don’t ever want to make you cry unless it’s from feeling too much love,” he whispered.

you let out a soft, tired laugh. “then you succeeded. idiot.”

he kissed you then. slow. grounding. nothing like earlier — no dominance, no teasing. just lips against lips, like an apology and a promise rolled into one.

you sighed into it, and when he pulled back, you stayed close.

“you want a bath?” he murmured. “or to lie down?”

“just you,” you whispered. “for a little while. just this.”

he nodded, resting his forehead against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your body. “then you’ve got me. all night.”

and this time, when your eyes welled again, it wasn’t from pain or frustration or overload.

it was relief.

[saintormentor]

me next

ugh the way he moves his fingers is turning me on

[saintormentor]

w e t t e r t h a n r a i n c . s

i n w h i c h . . . even so early in the morning, outside isn’t the only place with puddles.

w a r n i n g s . . . smut, p in v, multiple orgasms, no foreplay, morning sex, leakage, pet names, waking up to an erection

you stirred awake, startled at the lack of light. the morning was dark and rainy. dark, rainy, and ugly. you knew you wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. chris was awake already. you noticed by the needy bulge pressing into your back.

you didn’t move at first. didn’t say anything either. just laid there, blinking into the gloom, barely able to make out the heavy gray clouds bleeding across the window. thunder grumbled low in the distance. the apartment smelled like rain, dust, and the worn-in warmth of both of your bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

but that press at your back—

you couldn’t ignore it.

chris’s hips shifted ever so slightly, just enough to remind you he was there. hard. aching. the heat of him burning through thin boxers and the threadbare fabric of your sleep shorts.

“you awake?” he mumbled, voice rough and gravelly from sleep.

you didn’t answer. only arched your back a little, the motion subtle but intentional, grinding back against him.

he hissed. his palm slid over your waist, warm and wide and grounding. then lower, fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down just enough to expose the swell of your ass.

“fuck,” he breathed. “been like this for twenty minutes. you were whimperin’ in your sleep.”

you flushed. but you didn’t stop him.

his mouth found your shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your skin. lazy at first, but getting hungrier, wetter, like he couldn’t help himself.

your legs parted a little. his thigh slipped between them. his fingers ghosted down the front of your panties, tracing the seam, the damp spot that betrayed how badly you needed him too.

“mmm,” he muttered. “already soaked?”

you whimpered at the friction when he pressed down, slowly circling his fingers over your clit through the fabric.

the angle wasn’t perfect, but he knew your body too well by now. it was slow. unhurried.

the kind of morning where there was nowhere to be, and all the time to ruin each other.

“turn over,” he whispered against your neck.

you did. sluggish and pliant. sleepy-eyed and needy.

his eyes were dark when they met yours, hair sticking up in messy tufts, jaw shadowed with stubble. he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. like he was going to take his time with you.

and then he kissed you. not soft. not slow.

deep and hot and possessive, like he was trying to climb inside your mouth.

you moaned into it, fingers curling into his hair as he rolled on top of you, the weight of him sinking you deeper into the mattress.

his cock pressed right against your core now, still covered by his boxers, and he rutted once—shamelessly.

“gonna fuck you slow,” he whispered. “deal with it.”

your breath hitched.

“yeah?” he grinned against your mouth. “you want that, baby?”

you nodded, lips parted, unable to find words.

his hand slid between your bodies, tugging his boxers down just enough. and then he was there, hot and thick and dragging through your slick folds.

he eased in slowly, carefully, filling you inch by inch until you were trembling underneath him.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he groaned. “always so ready for me.”

the first thrust was deep. the second was devastating.

the sound of skin on skin filled the dark room, soft and rhythmic, the wet, obscene slide of him moving in and out of you slow and relentless.

his hand slipped between your bodies again, finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing slow circles as he fucked into you like he wanted to memorize how you broke apart.

“look at me,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

your eyes fluttered open. and when you met his, you nearly fell apart.

his gaze was heavy with it—need, hunger, something dangerously close to love.

“this what you needed?” he asked, punctuating the question with a deeper thrust. “wakin’ up to this?”

you nodded helplessly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt. from how much you missed this kind of soft ruin.

he didn’t tease. didn’t speed up. he just stayed there—deep, slow, grinding his hips until you were gasping, moaning his name like a prayer.

and when your orgasm hit, it rolled over you like thunder—hot, aching, drawn-out. your body tensed around him, legs shaking, mouth falling open in a silent cry.

“that’s it,” he rasped, fucking you through it. “that’s my girl.”

his rhythm stuttered then. his jaw clenched. breath went ragged.

he buried his face in your neck, cursed low and breathless as he came, hips jerking against yours, cum spilling hot and deep inside you.

neither of you moved for a long moment.

just breathing. just holding.

his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly.

your fingers tracing lazy circles against his spine.

the rain outside didn’t let up. but inside the bed, everything was still and safe.

“you okay?” he whispered, eventually, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.

you nodded against his chest, voice hoarse. “yeah.”

he kissed your temple. then your cheek. then your mouth—soft this time. almost shy.

“stay in bed with me today,” he said.

you didn’t even need to answer.

your legs were still trembling.

your chest felt too full.

and the only place you wanted to be was here, wrapped up in him, while the world outside stayed ugly and gray.

he didn’t pull out. not right away. not even after the tremble in your thighs faded.

instead, he just stayed there—still inside you, the tip of him resting warm and snug against the deepest part of you, like he belonged there. his thumb lazily brushed the curve of your cheek. your heartbeat finally slowed. but your body still pulsed around him, greedy and needy despite the orgasm that had already left you boneless.

“you’re still clenching,” he whispered, smiling a little. “you want more, huh?”

you blinked up at him, dazed.

he shifted his hips—just an inch. it made you gasp, your back arching instinctively.

“fuck, that’s hot,” he groaned. “you’re gonna let me fuck it into you again, baby?”

you nodded, dumbly. shamelessly.

his lips brushed your jaw. “yeah? make you take all of it. fill you up again till you feel me for days.”

and he started moving. not the slow grind this time—

but a steady, deeper rhythm. sharper. more deliberate. like he was chasing something now.

your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer, deeper, until the sound of his hips slapping yours echoed louder than the rain.

he was louder too.

his breath was ragged in your ear, filthy praises spilling from his mouth with every thrust:

“so fuckin’ tight.”

“take it.”

“so wet for me—shit.”

“you love it when i fill you up, don’t you?”

you were already close again, your body clenching down around him, writhing under the weight of his body. every thrust knocked the breath from your lungs, made your vision blur at the edges.

he sat up a little, grabbing your thighs and pushing them up, bending you nearly in half. the new angle made you cry out, eyes rolling back as he fucked into you harder, deeper.

“look at that,” he murmured, watching where his cock disappeared into your slick, swollen folds. “so pretty like this. stuffed full. dripping.”

you whined—high and desperate—and your whole body locked up as your second orgasm ripped through you.

your nails dragged down his back. your legs trembled violently. and this time, you cried out loud—his name over and over, like it was the only word you knew.

chris grunted, hips stuttering again. he was close. you could feel it.

“gonna fill you again,” he choked out. “you want that? want me to cum inside this pretty pussy?”

“yes,” you whimpered, clinging to him. “yes, please—please—chris—”

he slammed in once more, buried to the hilt, and came with a low, broken moan. his body trembled above yours, breath catching in his throat as he spilled inside you all over again. you both stayed there, a sticky, shaking mess. your breath mixing. your bodies slick with sweat and slick and satisfaction.

and then—finally—he eased out of you, gently, carefully, his cum leaking from your swollen entrance.

he watched for a second, taking in a deep breath before snapping out of it.

“hold on,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “i’ll clean you up.”

he disappeared into the bathroom for a second. came back with a warm, damp towel and soft kisses. wiped between your legs with slow, careful strokes, murmuring sweet nothings every time you flinched.

“did so good for me,” he whispered, climbing back into bed once you were clean. “my sweet girl.”

you were already half-asleep, tucked into his chest.

but you smiled.

outside, the rain still fell. but inside, you were warm again.

safe. full. his.

a / n . . . woah. chris come over it’s raining 😩

please don’t flopuhhhh🤞

[saintormentor]

p u s s y t r a i n i n g c . s

i n w h i c h . . . chris comes home frustrated, and the only thing on his mind is fucking the anger away.

w a r n i n g s . . . smut, p in v, fem receiving oral, male receiving oral, pressuring, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, gagging, crying, creampie, aftercare, pussy spanking, rough language and handling, derogatory language (slut, whore, etc.)

it was unusual for chris to be annoyed with you, let alone be annoyed by your sounds. it was long day. it was clear in the sharp set of his jaw, the stubble decorating his cheekbones, and mostly the way his fingers twitched. oh, not to mention he nearly slammed the apartment door off its hinges. he was itching to take his anger out on something, and you sitting there all pretty drew in his attention.

it made your stomach turn—not with fear, but with a kind of electricity. because even though chris was quiet when he was angry, there was a weight to it. a pressure. like the air shifted. like your body instinctively braced, not because you thought he’d hurt you, but because you knew exactly what he needed.

he didn’t say hi when he walked in. didn’t kiss you like he usually did. just kicked his shoes off with a grunt and tossed his keys onto the counter so hard they skidded. his chest was rising fast. he paced once, twice, before his eyes cut to you on the couch like you were the one thing in the room still breathing too calmly.

you blinked up at him, lips parted, legs tucked underneath you, the blanket slipping off your shoulder.

“gonna look at m’like that?” his voice was low. rough. dangerous in a way that made heat pool in your stomach.

you swallowed. “like what?”

his jaw ticked. “like you want me to fuck y’dumb.”

your breath caught.

then—like a switch—he was walking toward you, slow but certain. a shadow of something wild in his eyes.

you didn’t move. couldn’t. didn’t want to.

“long fuckin’ day,” he muttered, stopping just in front of you. his hand slid into your hair, gentle for half a second before gripping tighter. “and you’re sittin’ here making those little sounds like you don’t know what that does to me.”

your thighs clenched. “i didn’t mean—”

“yeah, you did,” he snapped. but not angry with you. angry at everything else. and needing you to fix it.

he pushed the blanket off you fully, let his eyes drag over your bare legs, the tank top you wore without a bra, the softness of your skin. he exhaled like it hurt to hold back.

“you just gonna sit there,” he whispered, “or you gonna help me feel better?”

you bit your lip, heart pounding. “what do you want me to do?”

his answer was immediate. raw.

“get on y’knees.”

and you did—slowly, letting him see the way you obeyed, the way you ached to be good for him. he watched you, his hands fisting at his sides, chest heaving. his hoodie fell to the floor. the zipper hit the tile. his belt followed.

he stepped closer. tilted your chin up with two fingers. “open your mouth,” he breathed.

he paused his movements, brushing his thumb against your lips, which instinctively wrapped around it. “fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

you stayed still, let him press his thumb deeper until it brushed the back of your throat, until tears pricked in your lashes and your thighs rubbed together because the helplessness—the need—was already simmering through you.

then, finally, he undid his jeans.

you heard the clink of the buckle, the sharp hiss of fabric dragged down fast. his cock was already hard, flushed at the tip, and when he wrapped one hand around the base and stroked, just once, you could see the tension ripple down his forearm like he was barely holding it together.

“gonna let me use your mouth, baby?” he rasped, voice darker now. “i don’t even wanna think about today.”

you nodded, breath shaky, lips parting again.

he didn’t ask again. didn’t hesitate.

the first thrust was shallow—just the head, just enough to feel your lips wrap tight around him, to hear the wet click of spit when he pulled back. but the second? deeper. his hand cradled the back of your head and he fed it to you inch by inch, slow and deliberate. punishing in its control.

“that’s it,” he grunted, watching your eyes. “take it. open up for me.”

you hollowed your cheeks, let him slide deeper, let your tongue flatten underneath. he groaned, low and guttural, head tipping back for a split second before he looked down again, eyes locked on yours.

your hands gripped his thighs for balance, fingers digging into the denim around his knees. spit was already beginning to drip down your chin, and he fucking loved it—his hips rolled forward, just once, deeper than before, until you gagged around him.

“fuck, baby—just like that. let me use you.”

he didn’t stop.

he fucked your mouth like he needed it. like it was therapy. rough, rhythmic thrusts that made your eyes tear up and your core ache with every single pass of his cock over your tongue. you could hear yourself—wet, obscene sounds filling the quiet apartment along with his ragged breath and the muttered curses he kept spitting through clenched teeth.

“such a pretty little mouth. made to suck cock, huh?” he groaned.

you whimpered around him—both from the intensity and the way your thighs were soaked now, squirming for relief. and he noticed.

he pulled back suddenly, letting his cock slide free with a thick, wet sound. a string of spit stayed connected between you, and he wiped it away with his thumb, smearing it across your bottom lip like it was something holy.

you were gasping, flushed, mouth swollen. and still so fucking needy.

“get on the couch,” he said. “spread your legs. i’m not done with you.”

you scrambled back onto the couch, heart racing, legs shaking a little as you reclined against the cushions. chris’s eyes never left you—dark and glassy, like he was barely hanging on.

you pulled your tank top off first. no bra. his gaze dragged over your chest, the way your nipples were already hard from how wrecked he’d gotten you with just his voice and the weight of him in your mouth. he looked possessed.

“shorts too,” he muttered. “now.”

you shimmied them down, no underwear beneath. he groaned when he saw the slick mess between your thighs—your folds glistening, the soft little quiver in your thighs as they spread wider, like your body was begging for him.

“jesus christ,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face before climbing between your legs on the couch. “you dripping for me already, baby? all that from sucking my cock?”

you nodded, breathless. “please—chris, i need—”

but you didn’t get to finish. because his mouth was on you.

no teasing. no warning. he dove in like he was starved, tongue dragging a thick stripe up your slit before his lips closed around your clit and sucked hard enough to make your whole body jolt. your back arched off the couch, a desperate cry ripping from your throat as your fingers shot into his hair, holding on.

he groaned into you—deep and filthy—as he licked, sucked, devoured you like he was mad about it. like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him after a shit day. and when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your thighs snapped around his head like instinct.

“fuck—chris, please—”

“shut up.” he didn’t stop. didn’t even slow. his fingers fucked into you fast and deep while his tongue circled your clit in tight, hungry patterns. you could hear the slick sounds between your legs, feel the obscene heat building in your gut, your whole body trembling under the force of it.

you were gonna come. and he knew it.

he pulled back just enough to speak—his mouth shiny, chin wet, voice low and raw.

“you gonna come for me, baby? on my fuckin’ face?”

“yes,” you gasped. “yes, chris—please, i’m gonna—”

“then fuckin’ come.”

and you did. hard.

your legs locked around his head, your body convulsing with it, loud and desperate and messy as everything cracked open inside you. he didn’t stop until you were twitching, whimpering, pulling at his hair to make him stop because it was too much.

but even then—he didn’t give you a break.

he climbed up your body, still hard, still leaking. lined himself up and looked at you like he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“you want me to fuck you now?” he rasped.

you nodded, dazed, soaked, spent but aching for more. “please.”

and then he was inside you.

no condom. no pause. just a deep, brutal thrust that had your eyes rolling back as he buried himself to the hilt. you felt everything—the way he stretched you open, the way he filled you so completely you could hardly breathe.

he started to move—deep and punishing, slow at first just to watch the way your face crumpled, then faster, rougher, fucking you like he owned you.

“tight as ever,” he growled into your ear. “so fucking wet. you needed this, whore? needed me to fuck it outta you?”

“uh- uh huh.” you whimpered, a little too loud for comfort.

“too loud,” he cooed, voice laced with mock sympathy as his hips drove into you again, deeper this time. “be a little quieter.”

and sure, you tried.

and sure, you failed. miserably.

because how could you be quiet when he was fucking you like this? when your back was arched, legs hooked over his shoulders, his cock slamming into you so perfectly, so brutally, that your vision blurred? every stroke knocked another breath out of your lungs, dragged another sound from your throat—whimpers, gasps, cries that bordered on sobs.

“mm-mm,” he tutted, not slowing at all. his hand slid up your throat, not choking but holding, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw as your head lolled back. “you don’t listen. always so fuckin’ loud when i tell you to be good.”

your mouth hung open, but no words came—just a broken little moan as he shifted his angle and hit something dangerous inside you. your nails clawed at the cushions, your hips twitching against his grip.

“what’s that?” he whispered, leaning closer so his lips brushed your ear. “gonna come again?”

you nodded frantically, body trembling, throat too tight to speak.

“huh. ‘course you are.” he gave a sharp thrust that made you cry out again. “can’t even help yourself, can you? so fuckin’ needy. you like this? getting ruined on my cock while you make all those pretty little sounds?”

you sobbed out a yes, not even caring how pathetic you sounded. you were gone—fucked dumb, so deep in it your body barely felt like your own.

his grip tightened around your throat.

“come then,” he growled. “and keep your eyes on me while you do it.”

and somehow, somehow, you managed it—staring up at him with tears on your lashes and his name breaking on your lips as your whole body shattered beneath him. your muscles clamped around his cock, spasming hard, your moans spilling out no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

and he loved it.

because a second later, he was losing it too—hips stuttering, a filthy groan dragged from his chest as he spilled into you, deep and hot, holding you open with both hands as he came with a force that left him trembling.

he stayed there for a moment, still inside you, breath hot against your cheek.

“you really don’t know how to shut up,” he murmured, smirking against your jaw. “guess i’ll just have to keep fuckin’ you ‘til you learn.”

you took in deep breaths, trying to blink the stars from your vision, your body still twitching from the aftershocks. every nerve felt like it was on fire. every breath tasted like chris.

but just when you thought you’d come down from your high—

smack.

a hard slap landed square against your already soaked, overstimulated pussy. the sound echoed off the walls, sharp and wet, and your whole body jolted with a strangled cry.

“fuck!—chris—” you gasped, hips twitching away instinctively, only for his arm to hook around your thigh and yank you right back where he wanted you.

“mm-mm, shhh,” he hummed, low and dangerous as he knelt between your legs, his voice thick with post-orgasm haze but laced with something hungrier now. “gotta train this pussy to be quiet.”

he ran two fingers through your folds—slow, almost gentle—and you whimpered at the contact. you were so sensitive you couldn’t think straight. he watched your hips jerk, your thighs tremble, and his grin deepened.

“look at this messy little cunt,” he muttered, dragging your arousal—his cum—down to your clit, circling it until your back arched off the couch again. “still so fuckin’ wet. still leaking for me.”

“chris—too much, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said calmly. “and you will.”

and then his mouth was back on you.

no mercy. no patience. just relentless, obscene suction on your clit while two fingers curled deep inside you again, stretching your swollen walls and dragging moans from your lips that you couldn’t even begin to hold back.

you thrashed, breath catching, tears slipping down your cheeks from how intense it was—your thighs trying to close, your hands scrambling for something to grip, something to ground you.

but he held you open. forced you to take it.

“you said you’d be good,” he growled against your skin. “so fucking be good.”

your body betrayed you. despite the overstimulation, despite the ache—your orgasm was already building again, terrifying in its speed, the pressure crushing.

“no—chris, i’m gonna—i can’t—please—”

“shut up. yes. yes you can,” he snapped, rubbing hard circles over your clit while his fingers fucked you fast and deep and relentlessly. “you’re gonna come for me again. right now.”

and you did.

you came harder than before—louder, wetter, your entire body locking up as a gush of release flooded his hand and the couch cushions below. you sobbed through it, shaking uncontrollably, legs twitching as he kept going just a second longer, milking it out of you, letting you writhe and cry and fall completely apart.

only then—only then—did he slow, pulling his fingers out, slick and glistening, before sucking them clean with a low, satisfied hum.

he leaned over you, gaze molten, his voice barely above a whisper.

“that,” he breathed, “was for making all those sounds.”

your whole body was trembling, soaked and flushed, your chest rising in frantic little pants as you tried to ground yourself—but chris wasn’t done.

not even close.

you barely had time to blink before he grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over—face pressed into the cushions, ass up, legs spread wide.

“look at this mess,” he muttered, dragging his fingers down your slick folds again, letting your wetness drip down your thighs. “you’re fucking dripping. ruined my couch already.”

you whined into the cushion, heat blooming in your cheeks at how wrecked you were, at the way your body was betraying you—still aching, still needy.

he gave your pussy another hard slap.

smack.

“quiet. stay just like that,” he growled. “don’t fuckin’ move.”

you nodded, barely managing a broken little yes before the blunt head of his cock was back at your entrance. he didn’t ease in this time—he slammed into you, hard and deep, making you cry out into the pillow, your body jolting forward from the sheer force of it.

“fuck, yes,” he groaned, gripping your hips so tight you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow. “this pussy’s never felt so good. all wet and twitchy for me. greedy fuckin’ thing.”

you couldn’t speak. you could only moan, every sharp thrust driving you higher again, overstimulation and desire colliding until you felt like you might explode.

he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, one hand coming up to fist in your hair and yank your head back, forcing you to arch.

“you like getting fucked like this?” he rasped against your ear. “like a little toy? used until you can’t think?”

you whimpered—yes, a thousand times yes—but all that came out was a gasping, wrecked little moan.

“that’s what i thought,” he muttered, pounding into you harder. faster. the couch creaked beneath you, the wet sounds between your bodies obscene. “you’re fucking perfect. made for this. made for me.”

he reached around, fingers finding your clit again, and you screamed—your whole body jerking, pleasure sparking up your spine like lightning.

“no, no—chris, i can’t—”

“shhh. it’s okay. you can,” he growled. “one more. give me one more.”

you were sobbing into the cushions, eyes rolling back as your body spiraled out of control. every nerve was on fire, every part of you begging for relief. he rubbed tight, relentless circles over your clit while his cock pistoned into you, deeper and harder and faster.

“come on, baby,” he grunted. “be a good fuckin’ girl. come for me.”

and you did.

your orgasm hit like a fucking bomb—your body clenching around him so hard he shouted, thick ropes of cum spilling into you as he fucked you through it, your legs trembling, your voice hoarse from screaming his name.

he collapsed over you, still buried deep, breath ragged against your neck.

your bodies were a mess of sweat, slick, and sex—his cum leaking down your thighs, your skin sticky with heat and every inch of you raw from how good it felt.

you stayed like that, both of you catching your breath.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

not because you didn’t want to—but because you couldn’t.

your body was limp, twitching with the last echoes of your orgasm, and chris’s weight on top of you was grounding in a way that made your heart ache. your breath came in short, shaky bursts, your cheek pressed into the cushion, legs splayed open, thighs sticky with slick and cum and sweat.

then, slowly, he softened inside you and let out a quiet, exhausted breath.

you felt him press a gentle kiss to your shoulder blade. another to your spine. then he whispered, “you okay?”

your throat was dry, but you nodded. “mmhmm.”

he was already moving—slipping out of you carefully, fingers brushing down your sides like he didn’t want to let go just yet. he helped you shift, cradling you gently into your back as your body trembled, and when he looked at you, the cocky edge was gone.

now, it was just him.

your chris.

the one who made sure you were breathing. who checked your pulse. who brushed the hair from your damp forehead with the back of his hand and kissed your temple like it was the only thing keeping him calm.

“too much?” he asked softly, voice thick with something real now—guilt, maybe. or just love.

you shook your head, curling into him.

he exhaled like he needed to hear that. then he stood, only for a second, disappearing into the bathroom. you heard the faucet run, the sound of a towel being soaked, rung out. he came back and knelt beside the couch, warm washcloth in hand.

“spread for me,” he said, but this time, there was no demand. no teasing.

you did, cheeks flushed, and he cleaned you gently—every swipe careful, reverent. he wiped away the mess between your thighs, his cum dripping down your skin, and kissed your knee once he was done.

“you’re so good,” he murmured. “such a sweet girl.”

you smiled, hazy and warm, and reached for him. he wrapped you up in his arms, pulling the blanket over both of you, burying his face in your neck like he wanted to disappear into your skin.

“sorry i came in all pissed n’ shit,” he said after a minute. “you didn’t deserve that.”

you carded your fingers through his messy hair. “you didn’t take it out on me. you let me take it from you.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you.

and then he kissed you—soft, slow, open-mouthed. nothing hungry now. just grateful.

“you always do,” he whispered.

“i always will,” you promised. he held you tighter.

he couldn’t even remember why he was mad earlier.

a / n . . . if this flops theres no point to live on

[saintormentor]

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐂 '𝐒

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 (𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝), 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭, 𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠!

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

chris tried to break it off with her. at least, that’s what he was telling you. you were doing an adequate job at hiding your anger, aside from the occasional dagger that your eyes would shoot him. contrary to your belief that his girlfriends a bitch, you were sick of being the other woman. you were sick of being the one he called when she didn’t want to fuck. but you weren’t sick of the sex, so, of course you stayed around.

he sat on the edge of your bed like it wasn’t a graveyard for all the things he never gave you. like this wasn’t where he always came to hide from the life he’d built, then regretted. his hands were in his lap, clasped tight like prayer would fix any of this.

“i told her,” he said. “i told her it’s not working.”

you didn’t look at him. just stared at the floor like it had all the answers you’d never get from his mouth. but he looked at you, eyefucking you from across the room.

“you tell her that before or after you fucked me?” your voice was flat, not accusing, not bitter—just tired. he sighed. rubbed a hand down his face. “i didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

you finally looked at him. “but it is.” he didn’t argue. couldn’t.

you wondered if he ever looked at her the way he looked at you when your legs were wrapped around his waist and he was saying things he didn’t mean. you wondered if she ever caught the scent of you on his clothes and chose not to ask. you wondered if any of this made you a bad person, or if he’d already taken care of that by dragging you into his mess and calling it love.

“i don’t want to do this anymore,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. not because you were afraid. because part of you still wanted him to fight for it. but he didn’t. he just nodded. slow. like he already knew this was coming and hoped if he ignored it long enough, it would go away.

you hated how easy it was for him to leave. but you hated yourself more for wishing he wouldn’t.

you sat there for a while after the door clicked shut behind him, like the silence might offer something his presence never did—clarity, maybe. or peace. but it didn’t. it just sat with you, heavy and unmoving, pressing down on your chest like a reminder that you were always left picking up the pieces of what he broke.

the bed still smelled like him. you hated that. hated how your body ached in all the places he touched, like his absence had hands of its own, dragging across your skin just to remind you what you’d lost—even if you never really had it to begin with.

you weren’t crying. not yet. you were too angry for that. anger was easier. it was sharp and loud and self-righteous. it made you feel like maybe this time you’d actually mean it when you said you were done.

your phone lit up from across the room. his name.

you stared at it.

then let it go dark.

you were tired of being second. tired of being the half-truth he only told when it suited him. tired of swallowing your pride just to keep his lies company. and maybe you were finally tired enough to walk away.

but you still hadn’t moved.

your eyes drifted to the window, the street below, headlights washing gold against the wet pavement. a couple walked by, their laughter carried through the glass. you couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were smiling. holding hands. they looked like they trusted each other. you tried to remember the last time you felt like that.

the phone lit up again. another message.

chris from work

11:49 PM | don’t be like that pls

11:54 PM | i miss you already baby

you read it. reread it. let it sink in and poison you a little. because you did too. fuck, you did.

it was a cycle, you knew it was.

chris from work

11:49 PM | don’t be like that pls

11:54 PM | i miss you already baby

come over | 11:59

the message sat unsent on your screen for a long time. your thumb hovered over the send button like it weighed a hundred pounds. maybe it did. maybe it carried every broken promise, every drunk 2 a.m. voicemail, every time he said she doesn’t mean anything and you almost believed him. but your body remembered him. your loneliness remembered him louder.

you hit send.

“come over”

the second it delivered, you hated yourself a little. not enough to take it back. not enough to pretend you didn’t want his hands on you again. but just enough to feel the sting of it. the heat of weakness curling up your spine. fifteen minutes passed. then headlights flooded the window.

you didn’t move to greet him. didn’t even check the mirror. you already knew how this would go. the knock was soft, familiar. like he didn’t want to admit he was here again either.

you opened the door and he looked at you like he was relieved. like your message had saved him. like he wasn’t the one who set this fire in the first place.

“you sure?” he asked, voice low, hesitant. you didn’t answer. just stepped aside, let him in. he walked past you like he knew the way. because he did. because he’d been here enough times to make this place feel like a second home, even if he never stayed the night.

you shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second. let the weight of this choice settle over your skin like smoke. he turned to face you. he looked tired. not just the kind of tired that sleep fixes—deeper. like he’d been pretending to be someone else for too long and forgot how to stop.

“i meant what i said,” he offered. “i told her. she cried. i didn’t lie.”

you looked at him then, really looked. and for a moment, you wanted to believe it. wanted to believe he’d finally chosen you, not just the space between his guilt and her cold shoulder. you crossed the room, slow, until you were close enough to feel the heat off his skin. your fingers brushed his jaw.

and just like always, he kissed you like he needed saving.

his mouth found yours like it always did—hungry, hurried, laced with that specific kind of desperation that only showed up when everything else fell apart. his hands were already on your hips, pulling you into him like the space between you was a mistake. maybe it was. maybe all of this was.

you didn’t stop him. you didn’t want to.

his jacket hit the floor. yours followed. it wasn’t love, not really, but it was something. something hot and reckless and familiar. something that made you forget how much you hated yourself for letting him back in.

you stumbled back toward the bed, his lips never leaving your neck, your collarbone, the place behind your ear he always found when he wanted you to forget that you were just a habit. and it worked. it always worked. it was as if someone dusted cocaine on his lips, and she was a junkie for it.

he made quick work of your pants, throwing them off for you to find the next day or two and probably cry over. one of his hand moved to rub your thigh comfortingly, and it did just that. his other moved to trace over the wet spot on your panties, because even a grin on his face could make your folds sticky.

you let out a quick whine, hips hopelessly bucking to try and get more out of him. a small smile formed on his perfect lips, “y’so pretty.” he mumbled, pressing his thumb down on the wet spot, drawing out a small whimper from you.

his gentle pulled your panties to the side, blue eyes darkening at the sight of your glistening folds. his breath was cold, and it fanned out on your entrance. you squirmed, “cold.” he hummed, “sorry, sweet girl.”

he opened your folds with his thumb, licking a stripe from your entrance to clit. your fingers lazily grip at his curls anchoring yourself to the moment as his mouth moved over you with a precision that was almost cruel in how well he knew you.

his tongue swirls around your clit, fingers digging into your thighs so hard it could leave marks.

your back arched off the mattress, breath catching in your throat, and he only chuckled against you, low and smug. the vibrations buzzed against your clit, making your jaw fall slack and your head softly smack the pillow.

“missed you like this,” he murmured, voice thick with want.

you wanted to hate him for how easily those words hit. how easily you believed them. but all you could do was nod, helpless to the way your body answered for you.

two of his fingers reach up to circle her puffy entrance, before plunging inside. your eyes roll back, a long moan spilling out of your lips.

“there she is.” he mutters, eyes locked on his slender fingers pumping in and out of you. “what do y’want, baby? can ya’ use your words and tell me? hm?”

his fingers curled against your gummy walls, your eyes rolling back once more. “you.” you whined, back arching in frustration, wanting him to go faster.

“nah, baby. that’s not what i’m asking and you know it.”

you huff in frustration, knowing he wasn’t gonna let you off that easy. the knot in your lower tummy was ready to snap, but you knew better than to let it go without his permission.

“…dick-“ you stumbled out, the word falling out of your mouth.

he grinned. “i can give you that.”

his fingers pulled away, and you whine in loss of contact, which he ignored.

“y’know what you gotta do first.”

you eagerly shuffled off the bed, crawling down to your knees.

chris pulled off his shirt, tossing it somewhere. he dropped his sweatpants next, wriggling them off his ankles. he tugged off his boxers, hard cock slapping up against his pelvis before bobbing back down.

“mmm…” you hummed, stroking him slowly, your finger running over his slit to spread the precum.

“fuck.” he mumbled, his hands carding through your hair to grip it, firmly but not painfully.

you licked over the slit, lapping softly.

he groaned, head falling back.

you sucked on his reddened tip, seeing him so pleasured arousing you further. your fingers twitched, and your free hand stalked down to rub between your legs.

chris’s eyes returned to yours, nudging his hips forwards so you’d take all of him, which you did. his tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag softly and your eyes burn.

“knew you’d tell me to come over,” he rasped out. “cockslut.”

you moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him twitch. your fingers circled your clit, and he just picked up on it.

“wouldya look at that, hm? touchin’ your pretty little pussy with cock in your mouth? fuck, such a whore.” he taunted, fingers running through your hair as his hips moved in time with your mouth.

your hips grounded down on your fingers, and you squirmed a bit. “nah, stay still. i’m only lettin’ ya do that ‘cause you deserve it.”

you whined in frustration around his cock, pleading eyes looking up at him, hopefully he won’t tell you to stop.

his groans get more frequent, and he holds your head where he wants it. “stay still. boutta cum, ‘kay?” he breathed. “mmhm.” you hummed. his head falls back, and hot, thick ropes of cum spills down your throat.

your fingers movements on your pussy never stilled, and seeing the look of ecstasy on his face, jaw slacked and eyes closed, shoved you over edge, making you cum on your fingers.

his breathing returns to normal, and when you begin to choke, he pulls away from your mouth.

and then his fucking phone rings.

the dumb bitch is calling. the one he said he ended it with.

you jump up from your knees, even with shaky legs. he stumbles but catches himself, reaching for his phone. he shoots you a sympathetic look, but you return with a sharp one. he answers, and you can hear her screaming on the other line.

he was talking her down, though it wasn’t working well, and by the time he hung up, you were getting dressed.

“seriously?” he groans.

“get dressed and go home, chris.” you mutter.

“i don’t know why she called, baby. i broke it off with her, i told you.”

“just go. please?”

he sighed, shrugging on his shirt and shorts. he slipped on his slides, and shot a glance back at you, his face somber. he sighed again, heavier, and you hear the door slam behind him.

later that night, your head races. you can’t sleep.

you decided to get up and maybe get some water? you didn’t eat, other than his cum.

you sighed and stood, but you had stepped on a warm piece of cloth.

you squinted in the dark, bending to pick it up. it was gray calvin klein boxers. his boxers.

it felt pervy to keep them, but it felt wrong to get rid of them.

is it crazy to…keep them?

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐚/𝐧 - this is part one, i’m fucking stoked.

cheater!chris and naive!reader is crazy

[saintormentor]

i want a kiss

[saintormentor]

"𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬." 𝐂 '𝐒

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 . . . 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 , 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 . . . 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 , 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 , 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯 , 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 , 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐢-𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 , 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐱 , 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 .

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 .ᐟ

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

sickening. that’s what chris is being.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

the smug, easy way he leans back against the wall, drink in hand, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

that cocky fucking grin; like he knows something you don’t. like he always does. you want to slap it off his face, but part of you also wants to be the reason he’s smiling like that again.

and you hate yourself for it.

it’s not even his fault, not really. you knew coming to this party would hurt. you hesitated before saying yes to taylor and kiara. you thought maybe if you stayed home, you could keep pretending you didn’t care anymore.

but then the idea of him being here—being seen, being wanted by someone else— ate at you until you were curling your lashes and pulling on a skirt that was probably too short.

chris is everywhere. still. a year after the breakup, and you’re not hung up on him, but you’re not over it either. you tell yourself you’ve moved on. you’ve said it out loud—plenty of times.

but the lump in your throat watching him now, the way your chest tightens just seeing his arm brush against some girl’s shoulder—

it says otherwise.

you sip your drink with taylor and kiara at your sides, both of them watching you too closely. chris is just across the room, talking to a girl who’s practically leaning into his mouth.

your stomach twists. you avert your eyes, pretending to care about what kiara is saying, but taylor catches you. she always does.

“girl, it’s been a year,” she says, not even trying to hide the judgment in her voice. you roll your eyes. “i know. i just… wanna see.” it sounds pathetic. you hear it, and so do they.

“weren’t you just gloating like, two hours ago about how you’re done with him?” kiara snorts, brushing a curl off her shoulder like she’s swiping away your excuse. “i am, thanks,” you snap, your voice dipped in sarcasm, trying to claw back some dignity.

taylor gives you that look. the one that says, ‘cut your bullshit’. you mumble something about “observing,”

but your eyes are back on chris before the word finishes leaving your lips.

that’s when he turns. his eyes meet yours, and your breath catches. for a second, you think you imagined it. maybe he’s looking past you. but then the grin fades just a little, sharpening into something darker.

something pointed. like he knows you’ve been watching him all night. you snap your eyes away and down your drink too fast, throat burning.

“i need air,” you mumble to your friends.

“want us to come?” taylor asks, already moving.

“no. i’ll be two seconds.” you slip out onto the back patio, where the music is muffled and the crowd has thinned. the night air hits your skin like a slap—cool, grounding. you lean against the railing, closing your eyes for a moment.

you barely register the sound of the door behind you opening.

“i thought you hated these kinds of parties,” comes a voice. familiar. deep. you turn, and there he is.

chris.

up close, he looks different. more tired. older, maybe. or maybe just… colder. his blue eyes scan your face, unreadable.

“i do,” you say simply. “then why are you here?” he asks, leaning against the railing beside you.

he doesn’t look at you when he says it, just stares out at the yard like he’s having a conversation with the air. you pause, unsure how to answer.

“my friends wanted to come.”

“but you didn’t,” he says, turning to face you now.

“so why’d you really show up?”

you cross your arms, defensive. “why do you care?”he shrugs. “i don’t. just curious.”

the silence between you hums with tension. a car passes on the street beyond the fence. somewhere inside, someone yells out the chorus of a song.

“you seem good,” you say, before you can stop yourself. chris’s head tilts slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah. looked like you had fun.”

he watches you carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re complimenting him or accusing him.

“i am. or maybe i just pretend better than you do.”

that stings.

“i’m not pretending anything,” you snap. “you sure?”he steps closer now, and your breath hitches. “because from where i’m standing, it looks like you came here hoping to see me. hoping i’d notice you.”

you bristle. “god, you’re so full of yourself.”

“maybe. but i’m not wrong.”

you take a step back, but the railing stops you.

he’s close now, closer than he’s been in a year, and it’s disarming how much your body still remembers him. the smell of his cologne, the tilt of his smirk.

the pull in your chest is maddening.

“you think i came here for you?”

he doesn’t answer. just watches you. waiting. and you hate that he’s right. a gust of wind brushes your bare legs, and suddenly you feel way too exposed.

“i should go back in.”

chris doesn’t move. “you could. or you could come with me.”

“where?” you ask, heart skipping.

he nods toward the driveway. “my car’s out front. thought maybe we could talk.”

you hesitate, searching his face for a motive.

“we don’t have to do anything,” he says quietly, reading you like a book.

“i just wanna talk.”

you look back toward the house, where taylor and kiara are no doubt watching through the windows. then you look at him.

he hasn’t changed—and yet everything about him feels different. and despite everything, your feet are already moving. you hate yourself for it. but the door swings shut behind you anyway, and the air in your lungs feels tighter now.

outside, his car is already unlocked. the passenger door open like an unspoken promise.

you pause, hand on the doorframe, looking over at him. “you’re quiet,” he says, voice lower now. rougher. “not like you.”

you rest your hand on the top of the open car door, not stepping in just yet. the interior light spills out onto the dark driveway, catching the hesitation on your face.

chris watches you closely, thumb grazing the edge of his pocket like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you. “i don’t owe you anything, you know,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes.

he leans against the driver’s side, folding his arms.

“didn’t say you did.”

“but you think i’m here because i want you.”

he doesn’t smile. not yet. “you tell me.”

you inhale sharply, trying to cool the heat that’s been rising in your chest since the second your eyes met his inside the party.

“you really think you still have that kind of hold on me?”

“i know i do,” he says simply, like it’s not even a question.

“you wouldn’t be out here if i didn’t.”

you hate how sure he sounds. hate it even more that he’s not wrong. you glare at him, but your body betrays you when your fingers tighten on the edge of the door and you slide into the passenger seat anyway.

the door shuts with a soft thunk, and the silence inside the car is deafening.

it’s that same old silence—the one that used to sit between you when you were both too proud to apologize, too stubborn to leave. it’s familiar. dangerous.

chris gets in slowly, deliberate, and the second the driver’s side door shuts, it’s just the two of you and the weight of everything unsaid. he doesn’t start the engine.

doesn’t even touch the keys. “so what now?” you ask, staring ahead at the windshield, refusing to look at him. “you just get off on screwing with me? making me feel like i’m still wrapped around your finger?”

“i didn’t ask you to follow me out here,” he says, voice cool. “that was all you, baby.” you clench your jaw, shaking your head. “don’t call me that.”

his gaze flicks to you then, sharp and searching.“why not? you didn’t mind it before.”

“that was before,” you snap.

“and yet here you are,” he says quietly, eyes on you now.

“wearing the perfume i like. eyes all over me. short little skirt. that shits for me.”

you finally turn to him, anger rising to the surface.

“you don’t get to say shit like that to me like you still know me.” his jaw ticks.

“but i do still know you.”

you go still.

he leans closer. not enough to touch. just enough to make the air between you crackle.

“you can lie to them. to taylor. kiara. to yourself, even. but you don’t lie to me. you came to that party because you knew i’d be there. you stayed because you wanted to see if i still look at you the way i used to.”

your throat tightens. “you want to know if i still want you,” he says, softer now. “and you want to know if you still want me.”

silence.

the kind of silence that has you gripping your knees to keep from shaking. you hate that he can still talk to you like that. that he still feels like this.

“you’re so sure of yourself,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “i was never wrong about you,” he replies, voice low and steady. “you never stopped wanting me. not really.”

your eyes sting.

not with tears—yet—

but with frustration. fury. longing.

all tangled up into a tight knot in your chest.

he reaches out, slowly, giving you time to stop him.

you don’t. his hand lands on your thigh, warm and familiar. his thumb draws soft circles again, just like earlier, only now it feels worse—more dangerous.

it feels like memory. “say the word,” he says,

“and i’ll back off. no games. get out of the car, go back to your friends, and we won’t do this again.”

you turn your head toward him, slowly. your lips part.

but the words don’t come out.

because you don’t want him to stop. you want to say you’re over him. you want to scream it. but instead, you just sit there—

tense, heart pounding, breath caught—

and say nothing.

and chris knows silence better than anyone. he smiles, faint and satisfied. “that’s what i thought.”

his thumb keeps circling your thigh, slow and maddening. the car is warm now, too warm,

or maybe it’s just you—

your skin buzzing under his touch, your breath catching at every little movement. you still haven’t spoken, but you don’t need to.

your body is already betraying you. he sees the flush creeping up your neck. the way your legs shift slightly under his hand.

he’s always known how to read you—

how to get to you.

chris leans in, slow, not rushing anything. he wants you to close the gap. and you hate that you want to. that you crave the familiar way his breath ghosts against your cheek,when he speaks low into your ear.

“you can pretend like you’re not here for this,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw,

“but your body’s saying something else.”

you let out a shaky breath, your fingers clenching the hem of your skirt. you look out the window, it’s dark, and you can hardly see the house across the street that you were just in through the tint of his windows. it settled the nerve of someone seeing, but still. “this is a bad idea,” you whisper,

though you don’t pull away.

“it’s the worst idea,” he agrees, and still, his hand slides higher.

his palm is warm on your skin, moving just under the fabric of your skirt now, brushing over the thin lace of your panties. your thighs clench instinctively,

he chuckles, low and rough and way too self-satisfied. “i missed this,” he says, his lips pressing to the curve of your jaw now, trailing downward.

“missed you.” you tilt your head without meaning to, giving him more access, your body remembering everything he used to do to you, how he used to touch you like you were something precious,

even when the words between you were anything but. “i hate you,” you breathe, but it’s not convincing. not even to yourself. chris hums, amused, his lips now grazing your neck. “liar.”

his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing the skin there,

but not giving in fully—

not yet.

you gasp softly,

and he takes the sound into his mouth,

kissing you now.

finally.

the kiss is heated, greedy, like neither of you can pretend anymore. like the months of space, silence, and resentment have all been building to this—

something reckless and wrong and inevitable. his hand cups the side of your face, pulling you deeper into him,

and you find yourself climbing into his lap without thinking.

your thighs straddle him easily,

your knees pressing into the seat on either side of his hips. he groans low in his throat,

his hands moving to grip your waist, pulling you down against him.

“god, i forgot how good you feel,” he mutters,

dragging his mouth along your collarbone.

“how warm you get for me.”

you rock against him, your breath hitching as the friction sparks something electric between you.

your fingers tangle in his hair,

tugging gently,

and he bites back a sound that sends heat rushing through your core.

“you don’t get to do this,” you whisper against his lips. “you don’t get to leave and come back like nothing happened.”

chris pulls back slightly,

just enough to look you in the eyes.

“i didn’t forget what happened. i remember everything. every fight. every night you wouldn’t talk to me. every time i walked into a room and felt like a stranger.” you freeze. his voice is raw now,

cutting through the lust like a knife.

“but i also remember the way you used to look at me. like i was the only person who ever really got you. you still look at me like that.”

your heart thunders. the truth of his words wraps around you like a vice.

“i never stopped thinking about you,”

he says.

“even when i tried to.”

the moment slows. his hands are still on your waist, his breath warm against your lips, but the air between you has shifted—

heated and tender all at once. and even though you know this is messy and probably doomed,

your lips find his again. slower this time. softer.

you rock against him, harder. the kiss swallows his groans, and his tongue traces your bottom lip.

you open your lips.

his tongue slips in, tracing the contours of your mouth.

his fingers are still in your panties, his thumb rubbing up and down your folds. the touch drawing a whine out of you, your hips pressing down for more of his cold fingers.

his broke the kiss, catching his breath.

“have you had to touch yourself with out me, baby? rub that pretty pussy and pretend it was me?” he cooed, finally rubbing quick, little circles on your clit. your head fell back, resting against the top of the steering wheel.

your mouth opened to responded, but the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan.

“that feel good, sweet girl?” he placed little kisses on your jaw, his free hand rubbing wide circles on your trembling thighs.

“mhm…mmm…” you hummed, heading moving forwards and resting on his shoulder.

his hand shifted, his thumbing working your puffy clit as two more digits circled your entrance.

before plunging in.

“mmm…chris…h-holy…fuck…” you moaned against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

his eyes flash with that familiar gaze as he curls his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that always makes you whine.

a smirk plays on his lips against yours as he starts a slow, deliberate pace.

"mmm, is this what you've been missing? these fingers, instead of your own?"

“yes…yes…oh my god-“ you choke on a moan.

he increases the pace slightly, his thumb circling your clit with more pressure while his fingers curl deeper inside you.

“i bet you've been so wet for me.”

“i know you played with yourself, thinking about how much better i could make it feel, yeah?”

your hips buck up against his hand.

“that’s…all…i think…about…mmm…” you whine out, the knot in your tummy tightening painfully.

he leans in to nip at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin. "such a dirty girl. so fucking horny without me. did you come thinking about my cock instead of your fingers?"

“uh huh.” you hummed, that idea filling your mind.

his fingers move faster, pressing harder against that sensitive spot inside you. "fuck, you should've just called me.

“‘m gonna…gonna cum…can i? chris? can i?” your hips grounded hard on his fingers, nails gripping into his shoulders for relief.

he groans as you grind harder, his fingers curling even deeper inside you. he wraps his free arm around your waist to hold you in place, his voice low and husky. "fuck yeah, you can. cum all over my fingers."

you eyes roll back in your head, the knot snapping.

he watches you intently as you fall apart, your pussy clenching around his fingers. he swallows your whimpers and moans with his kiss.

his thumb still works your sensitive clit through your orgasm. as you come down, he slowly removes his fingers, bringing them to his mouth.

he lips his fingers clean, his eyes locked with yours, a clear challenge in his gaze.

“mmm, so sweet.” he hummed.

he grabs your hips, pulling you tighter against his obviously hard bulge.

"the things i want to do to that pussy right now."

his hand moves to your thigh, squeezing possessively.

“why don’t you show me?” you tease, pulling off your tank top, your tits falling out.

His eyes darken as he takes in your bare chest, his hands immediately going to your breasts, kneading and squeezing them roughly. "missed these so much.

you giggle breathlessly, biting into your bottom lip, drawing a bit of blood.

he moved you a bit farther towards his knees, tugging off his belt.

he tosses his belt in the backseat shoving his jeans and boxers down to his knees.

his cock springs out, smacking against his abdomen, the tip red and leaky.

he slid your skirt and panties the rest of the way off, spreading your legs how he wanted them.

his eyes locked between your legs.

“so pretty.” he mumbled.

he runs a finger slowly along your slit, watching how you squirm at his touch.

he lifts you a little bit, rubbing his leaking tip through your folds, spreading the precum all over your sensitive flesh.

you whined, “please. i’ve been waiting.”

he smiled, “i know you have, baby.”

he pushes the head inside you slightly, watching as you groan and push your hips down to take more.

he slowly rolls his hips, working more of his size into you, your pretty face contorting in pleasure.

he groans, pushing deeper inside you. he thrusts harder, bottoming out inside you. little tears of pleasure prick at your eyes, the moans coming out of your mouth borderline pornographic.

his hips snap up, his pelvis slapping against you, filling the car with lewd sounds.

his thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in fast circles.

your legs tremble, the orgasm coming quick.

he hits a spot, making you scream in pleasure.

“there she is,” he coos, hitting the same spot again until you cum.

he doesn’t stop, though.

the feeling of your gushy walls clenching around him makes him cum.

white, hot spits coating your walls.

he stills, and the two of you catch your breath.

“we…we should go back to mine.”

the next morning, you wake up, wrapped up in chris. your phone dings, it’s from taylor.

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

taylor | 10:34 AM

> that was a long time to go get air?

delivered

⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣⌣

𝐚 / 𝐧 . . . this took a while! i know this is unrealistic, but i’m ovulating and i miss my ex so bad 𝜗𝜚

masterlist