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cayleeuhithinknott · 2 days ago

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✿ — borderline . . . matt sturn

in which . . . you keep pretending you don’t want matt—but you keep showing up at his door anyway.

warnings . . . making out , slight dry humping , mutual pining (but only one actually admits to it) , not proofread

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #10

you show up late. not that late, but late enough that matt opens the door looking half-asleep, hair tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed past his wrists like he’s been pacing. like he knew you’d come.

you stand in the doorway, unsure. jacket sleeves fisted in your hands. eyes darting anywhere but him. your lips part like you’re about to explain yourself—why you’re here, why now—but nothing comes out.

matt leans on the doorframe, tilts his head just a little. “you lost?”

he says it casually, but his voice is lower than usual. heavier. your stomach flips.

“no,” you say softly, barely audible.

“then come in.”

you do.

the door clicks shut behind you, and it feels louder than it should. like it seals the night in place.

you don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you—like he’s reading your every twitch, your hesitation, the way you cross and uncross your arms. you sit on the edge of the couch. he doesn’t sit right away. he just watches.

you’ve been doing this dance for weeks. pretending you don’t want him. brushing him off. giving him nothing but sideways glances and careful space.

he never pushed.

but he’s never walked away either.

“you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?” he asks finally.

you look down at your hands. they’re shaking. you hate that he can probably tell.

“i don’t know,” you mumble.

matt walks over, slow and quiet. he crouches in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees. when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “you sure?”

you blink down at him, heart pounding.

“you always act like you don’t want this,” he says, and it’s not accusing. it’s not bitter. just true. “but you show up. every time.”

you swallow hard.

he’s so close now. and still not touching you.

“i’m not playing games,” he says, voice dipping lower. “i know what i want.”

you nod, barely.

his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “and i think you do too.”

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. the way you’re leaning into him now says everything.

his hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing your knee first—just a light touch, barely there. then up, tracing along your thigh over the fabric of your pants, pausing just before it gets bold enough to actually mean something.

he studies you carefully. no pressure. no rush. just watching the way your breath catches.

then, finally, his hand rises to your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear and letting his thumb rest just barely under your jaw. your eyes flutter.

“not gonna kiss you,” he murmurs. “not until you ask.”

and for a second, you want to.

you want to so badly your lips part on instinct, your eyes drop to his mouth, your whole body leans in without thinking.

but you stop.

you look down, chest rising too fast, like you need a second to hold yourself back.

matt just exhales. like he gets it. like he’s been here before—with you, exactly like this. because he has.

he stands, slow and sure, and this time when he sits next to you, his thigh presses against yours like he’s not letting you second-guess it. you don’t move away.

your eyes close for just a second—just to breathe, just to gather yourself. when they open again, he’s already watching you.

and this time…you kiss him.

no words. no hesitation. just lips pressing to his, soft and unsure at first, but real.

he doesn’t waste a second.

asshole. completely contradicting himself.

his hand slips behind your neck, pulling you in deeper. your hands curl in the front of his hoodie, gripping like you’ve wanted this longer than you’ll ever admit.

the kiss turns heavy fast—urgent, slow, open-mouthed. like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. like he’s trying to prove something.

his tongue brushes yours and you gasp against his mouth, and he groans—low and soft, like he wasn’t expecting you to give in like that.

you break away first, lips swollen, breathing shallow, forehead pressed to his.

“why haven’t you given up on me yet?” you whisper.

his voice is just as quiet. “because you always come back.”

you don’t answer. but your fingers tug at the hem of his hoodie, like you need to hold onto something before you fall apart. he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper—and shifts just enough to pull you into his lap.

you go willingly.

you straddle his thighs, settling there like you’ve done it a hundred times before. like you belong there. his hands slide up under the back of your shirt, palms warm and steady against your spine.

his hands stay respectful.

his mouth doesn’t.

he kisses you like he’s starving—lips everywhere, dragging down your jaw, then to your neck. he lingers there, right below your ear, his breath hot and uneven. he nips lightly, then soothes it with his tongue. you squirm.

he exhales, voice low and raspy against your skin. “you drive me insane.”

your fingers fist in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, needing something—anything—to ground you. the friction between your bodies builds with every breath, every shift of your hips against his. the fabric between you makes it worse. better.

your hips move on instinct, slow and tentative at first, and matt’s grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying not to lose it.

you bury your face in his neck. he smells like soap and weed and something warm that’s always been him. his hoodie rides up your back, and you let it. you don’t care anymore.

one of his hands slides down, gripping your thigh, then trailing back up again, fingers digging in just slightly. not too rough. not yet.

he breathes your name.

and you whisper his back, soft and desperate.

he pulls you in again, mouths meeting fast and messy, like neither of you can get enough now that it’s finally happening.

you lose track of time—minutes, maybe more—kissing like it’s all you know how to do. like if you stop, the moment will break.

and maybe it will.

but for now, it doesn’t.

you melt into him, lips parted, hearts racing, hands roaming in careful places that still feel too good.

you know you’re not ready to give him everything. not yet.

but you’re giving him something. letting him see the softest, rawest parts of you. letting him hold them without asking questions. without expectations. just need.

you’re not crossing the line tonight, but you’re not holding back either. you’re moving against him, gasping into his mouth, flushed and dizzy and weightless.

and when he kisses the corner of your lips—tender, reverent—you realize you’re not just toeing the edge anymore. you’re tangled in the tension. pressed to the heat. caught in the middle of wanting and waiting.

right at the borderline.

author’s note . . . this sucks and i’m sorry i keep being late but i didn’t prewrite these and i’ve been dealing with mental health stuff along with taking care of my beautiful awesome perfect amazing mother

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

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cayleeuhithinknott · 1 day ago

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✿ — better off . . . chris sturn

in which . . . chris wants more, you can’t give it, and somehow you both keep ending up here anyway.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , public sex (party bathroom) , creampie , angst , emotionallyunavailable!reader , kinda mean!reader , unrequited love , alcohol consumption

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #11

the music is too loud. the air smells like cheap vodka and weed. the lights are too dim, and chris shouldn’t even be here—should’ve stayed home, should’ve ignored your text.

but he didn’t.

he never does.

you’re across the room, laughing at something someone said, half-empty drink in your hand, that same unreadable smile on your face. you look like you’re having fun. like none of this means anything to you. like you haven’t spent the last three months calling him at midnight and crawling into his bed just to leave before the sun comes up.

he hates that he’s watching you.

he hates that he’s waiting for you to notice him.

and worst of all—he hates that the second your eyes finally flick over to him, his stomach flips like he’s sixteen again and seeing you for the first time.

your gaze lingers just a little too long.

then you smile. lazy, slow. like you know exactly what you’re doing.

he watches you slip through the crowd, drink still in hand, swaying a little more than you need to as you make your way toward him.

“didn’t think you’d come,” you say, voice light, casual. like it doesn’t matter.

chris shrugs, leans against the wall like he’s not dying inside. “yeah, well. didn’t have better plans.”

you smirk. “lucky me.”

it’s always like this. flirty but empty. close but never close enough.

you take another sip, eyes dragging over him slowly. the alcohol’s making you bolder tonight. chris swears there’s a lazy warmth in your stare, something softer underneath. but just for a second.

“you look good,” you say finally, like it’s an afterthought.

he swallows hard. “you always do.”

you don’t respond to that. you just step closer, close enough for him to smell your perfume. close enough that your hip brushes his when you lean past him to set your cup on the table.

it’s subtle. intentional. cruel.

he grits his teeth. “you drunk?”

you shrug. “mmm…tipsy.”

he narrows his eyes. “you always get handsy when you’re tipsy.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you murmur, but there’s a teasing smile on your lips now. dangerous and sweet.

before he can answer, your hand curls around his wrist light and fleeting, but enough to get your point across.

“come with me.” you say.

and like always, he follows.

you drag him down the hall like it’s nothing. like this isn’t some twisted routine you both keep falling into. like this doesn’t mean anything.

he barely has time to process before you’re pushing open the bathroom door, shoving him inside, and locking it behind you.

“seriously?” he says, but it’s already breathless.

you just smile—lazy and slow—and then you’re on him.

hands on his chest, mouth pressed to his like you’ve been starving for him. it’s not sweet. it’s hungry. messy. like you’re trying to shut him up before he can ask what this is or why you’re doing this again.

his hands find your waist on instinct, pulling you closer.

you taste like liquor and lip gloss and every single bad decision he’s ever made. because almost all of them involved you.

you moan into his mouth when he backs you against the wall, and it shoots straight to his head—makes him groan low in his throat, makes him bite at your bottom lip harder than he should.

but you don’t stop.

you kiss him deeper. let your nails drag down his neck. let your thigh slip between his legs like you’re trying to rile him up on purpose.

“you’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your mouth, half-laughing but not really joking.

you smile like you don’t care. “you already let me.”

your hands slide under his shirt, cold against his skin, and he hisses when your fingertips dip low enough to make him tense.

he’s trying to pace himself.

trying to remind himself that you’ll leave again.

that you’ll pull away and smooth your dress back down and act like none of this happened.

but when you twist your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug him toward the counter, it’s like every ounce of self-control snaps.

he spins you fast—bending you over the sink without thinking, one hand gripping your hip, the other fisting in your hair to tilt your head back just enough for him to kiss your neck, hard.

your breath catches.

your hands scramble for balance on the edge of the counter.

and when he drags his mouth down your shoulder, growling low and desperate—he knows there’s no going back.

not tonight.

not with you like this.

and as his hands slip lower, making you arch back against him with a soft gasp, he knows exactly where this is going.

he knows he should stop.

but he won’t.

not when you’re standing here—half drunk, half laughing, flushed and gasping for him—bent over the counter like you’re daring him to take you apart.

like you want this just as bad.

like you’re giving him one more chance to forget how this always ends.

and when his fingers slip beneath your dress, dragging slow and possessive up your thigh…he stops thinking altogether.

he grabs the hem of your dangerously short dress, lifting it up to bunch it around your hips. he’s met with the sight of your ass, barely covered by your panties. the dark cadet blue adorned with prints of white carnations, the hem decorated with delicate white lace.

he knew they were your favorite. of course, you didn’t know he knew that. but he cared that much. he always had.

he smooths his hand over your fabric-covered skin, admiring you. when you push your hips back against him, he snaps out of his trance. “chris, c’mon…”

chris hooks his fingers under the lacy waistband, pulling them down until they drop to your feet, pooling around your ankles. he softly groans at the sight before him. your rounded, bare ass bent over the counter for him. one thing he knows is for him.

he squeezes your plump flesh softly, earning a hushed moan from you. he fumbles with his belt, the sound of the buckle filling the bathroom. you hear the weight of his belt and jeans falling to the floor. he immediately pulls down his calvin klein boxers, his hardened dick tapping his lower abdomen as it springs out of the constricting fabric.

chris’s hand dips between your parted thighs, feeling the wetness between your folds. “god, you’re soaked…” he mumbles.

he runs his fingers through it, coating them before bringing his hand to his stiff cock and stroking it a few times. once he thinks he’s lubed enough, his hands grip your hips, steadying you. you look up at him through the mirror, noticing how he’s staring down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing this world has ever known.

chris drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds, lingering at your clit before trailing himself back to your entrance to line himself up. you feel the pressure, and your gaze locks with his in the mirror. your head drops, forehead hovering above the counter.

“you ready?”

you nod, bracing yourself for him. chris is big. you both know that, which is he’s pushing himself very slowly. the heat of your cunt wraps around him, your walls squeezing him as he eases himself inside of you. your legs wobble, matching the poor stability of your breathing.

you let out a soft whine as he bottoms out, feeling him in the deepest places you didn’t even know possible. “tell me when, baby.” the word slips out of him soft and easy—like it means everything. and maybe it does. but to you? it’s just a word. another thing he gives too much weight to. another thing you’ll forget by morning.

you feel full. brutally full. he starts slowly easing himself in and out of you, grip tightening on your hips. you’d have bruises for sure. you feel each of his veins drag against your velvety walls, your cunt greedily sucking him in with each thrust.

chris lets out a shaky breath, followed by a groan as he starts to pick up his pace. he sets a steady yet fast rhythm, just the way you both liked.

chris always remembers what you like. down to the smallest, stupidest things. he knows how you take your coffee. he knows what songs make you roll your eyes and what ones make you sing along.

he even knows what flowers you like—like he’d ever be in any position to get you flowers. like that would ever be something you’d let him do.

and still, here he is. fucking into you like he’s got something to prove. like memorizing you wasn’t already enough. like this will be the thing that makes you stay.

he’s so deep in it, too—silent for once, teeth clenched, hands tight on your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. lost in his own head. too caught up thinking about you—about how even now, even like this, he can’t stop wanting more.

he doesn’t snap out of it until you moan soft and wrecked, followed by: “chris…”

the sound hits him like a punch to the chest.

his hips stutter, breath catching, and before he can stop himself, he grips your flesh harder and fucks you deeper, chasing the sound again.

“fucking—shit—“ chris grunts, hips stuttering slightly before gaining back the steady pace. he drills into you, pouring all his feelings into his thrusts. the head of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you with a sickeningly delicious pressure, tightening the knot in your gut.

your legs tremble beneath you, your body completely relying on chris’s hands on your hips and the counter you’re bent over.

one of his large, veiny hands snakes around your waist, splaying itself on your lower tummy and applying a sweet, momentary pressure. the feeling goes just as quick as it came as his hand trails down to your cunt, his fingers finding your swollen clit to lavish it with attention, the pace of his hips never stuttering once.

you borderline shriek, grip tightening on the edge of the counter. “fuck fuck fuck!” you repeat, warm walls clamping down on chris’s length. he’s so beyond fucked.

chris feels his balls draw tight, his hips slapping harder against the reddened flesh of your ass. “m’gonna cum, chris, i—“

“go on.” he assures you. and as soon as the words leave his lips, you fall over the edge. your vision flashes white, a hot, fiery feeling violently trembling through your body.

when chris feels you constrict around him, your creamy release coating his length, he can’t take it anymore. his hips stutter, his own high crashing into him like a tidal wave, his seed painting your walls warmly white, mingling with your own release.

after a few moments, he pulls out with a quiet curse, breath heavy, hands still lingering on your hips like he’s reluctant to let go.

you don’t look at him.

just adjust your dress like this was always the plan. like you weren’t just coming apart on his dick less than two minutes ago. you smooth the fabric down over your thighs, tugging it back into place. no blush on your cheeks. no softness in your eyes. just that same casual, detached nonchalance you always put on after.

chris breathes out slow, dragging his boxers and jeans back up. the metal of his belt clinks softly as he fastens it, and it feels…final somehow. like the end of another round in this game you keep playing.

you grab some toilet paper, sliding it between your legs, cleaning yourself up with the same tired efficiency like you’ve done this before. because you have. no ceremony. no care.

chris wipes himself off with a wad of paper towel from the counter, tossing it in the trash with a low sigh as he watches you pull your panties up beneath your dress. for a second, he just leans against the counter, watching you silently like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your shoulder, the way you fix your hair in the mirror like nothing happened.

he watches you swipe at your neck and chest with a paper towel, like you’re scrubbing him off you.

you catch him looking.

“what?” you ask, flat, like you’re annoyed he’s still staring.

he shakes his head. “nothing.”

you huff out a little laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “don’t look at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like this means something, chris.”

it guts him a little, the way you say it so easily. like he’s the idiot here. like he’s the one making it complicated.

you grab your purse from the sink, slipping the strap over your shoulder like this was just another hookup with some guy whose heart you aren’t busy breaking.

before you leave, you pause at the door, glancing over your shoulder just once. “don’t wait up.”

he swallows hard, nodding like it’s fine. like he’s fine. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

the door shuts behind you. he stares at it for a long time.

and god, he knows he’s better off without you.

but knowing that never stopped his heart from aching like this.

never stopped him from loving you.

even when you’ll never love him back.

author’s note . . . sorry chris…😞

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