thechratt-twins

[thechratt-twins]

GET ON THIS LIST FOR REALZZZ!!! -- The Matt Girl

I just spent like 15 minutes looking for a loser!matt x sexlineworker!reader only to realize you dropped that AU 5 days ago.... so im sorry for getting irrationally mad at you without you knowing but alsooooo when is the first part dropping and can I get on that taglist!?!?!? 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

-- The Matt Girl

lol it's okay! i've been super busy lately and haven't had the chance, but hopefully soon! and you'll be the first tag!

[thechratt-twins]

-- The Matt Girl

PRANK CALL

matthew sturniolo x reader

in which: you and your friends prank call your ex matt (who you still absolutely love to death) and he recognised it was you just by your breath.

contains: unresolved love, toxic friendships (kinda), emotional realism, angst, reconciliation, mature themes, emotional vulnerability, reconnection. emotional intimacy, soft but deeply passionate love making ,soft smut at the end (not very detailed but very mature emotional and physical content, detailed sensuality).

It started off stupid.

A bottle of wine. Someone’s speaker blasting an old SZA song. The warmth of being surrounded by friends who didn’t know the whole story but liked to pretend they did.

You’d been good lately—at pretending. Smiling when someone asked about him. Laughing when someone said you were better off. You learned to hold your breath every time someone said his name, like it was some word with too many sharp edges.

But tonight, the girls wanted to play a game. A dumb one. “Prank calls but make it emotional.” Someone dared you. Someone who didn’t know how deeply you were still bleeding under all the silence you wore.

“He won’t even answer,” one of them said, scrolling through her phone. “Guys like that don’t pick up random numbers anyway.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve walked out the room. Should’ve told them that calling Matt wasn’t a joke. That he used to memorize the pattern of your heartbeat with his cheek pressed to your chest. That he once whispered “I’d die loving you” after a fight so big it left you both shaking.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just took your friend’s phone from her hand, clicked “Hide Caller ID,” and hit the number your fingers still remembered by muscle memory alone.

The call connected in one ring.

“Hello?”

You froze. His voice sounded tired. Deeper than you remembered. But still his.

Nobody said anything. You didn’t even mean to breathe, but a sigh slipped out—a fragile little thing, barely audible.

“…Y/N?”

He said it so softly it felt like a wound reopening. You felt your chest tighten so hard you thought your ribs would crack.

“Yo, fuck you,” one of your friends blurted out suddenly, voice full of fake courage and cheap alcohol.

Another one joined in. “Why do you still got girls’ names memorized, you weirdo?”

Matt’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t snap back.

“Can I talk to her?” he asked. “Please. Just put her on.”

His voice cracked a little on the last word. You could hear the exact moment he realized it was you. The ache underneath it.

“Let me talk to her, I know she’s there.”

You looked at the floor. Your throat burned. You hadn’t heard his voice in months, but he still knew the shape of your silence. Still knew the sound of your breath.

“Y/N,” he said again. It broke you.

Before you could even reach for the phone, one of them ended the call.

The screen went black.

And it felt like something inside you shattered.

A little later

You left the apartment without a word, stumbling into the street like it was muscle memory. It was drizzling, your jacket forgotten somewhere on your friend’s couch, but none of it mattered. You stood under a flickering streetlamp and finally let yourself cry.

You weren’t angry at them. Not really.

They didn’t know that Matt used to sit outside your building at 2AM just to make sure you made it home safe from work. They didn’t know that you wore his hoodie to sleep for a year after the breakup. That sometimes you still did.

They didn’t know you broke up not because you stopped loving each other—but because life got in the way. Family fights. His career pulling him away. Your anxiety eating you from the inside. The way you both stopped talking about the hard things and pretended you were okay.

They didn’t know how often you replayed the last time you saw him. How he kissed your forehead and said, “If it ever stops hurting, that’s when I’ll be worried.”

They didn’t know he still picked up calls from unknown numbers. Just in case it was you.

Your phone buzzed.

A text. Unknown number. But you knew who it was.

“I knew it was you. I always do.”

Another one came through.

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to answer. I just… I never stopped hoping you’d call.”

You sank down onto the curb, clutching your phone like it was the only real thing left.

Then another message.

“Are you okay?”

And that was the one that ruined you.

Because you weren’t.

You were not okay.

And the only person who ever really knew how to hold you through that wasn’t yours anymore.

You didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Not really.

You didn’t have it in you. Not yet.

But you saved the number.

And you cried all the way home—because even now, even after everything, he still knew the sound of your breath.

And you still loved him with the kind of ache that never fully leaves.

It was 2:37 a.m.

The world was quiet—except for the chaos in your chest. You’d stared at your ceiling for hours, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his number.

Your heart kept whispering, Call him.

Your pride kept whispering back, Don’t.

But you were too far past pretending now.

You pressed the number and held your breath.

It rang once.

Twice.

Click.

“Hello?”

He sounded like he hadn’t slept either. His voice was raspy, soft—laced with hope and ache and disbelief.

“It’s me,” you whispered, your voice already breaking. “It’s really me.”

There was a pause.

And then a shaky exhale.

“I knew it,” Matt said, voice cracking. “I knew it was you earlier. I felt it. That breath—I knew it.”

You wiped your cheek, even though the tears were just beginning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “That wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t want them to call you. I didn’t want—fuck—I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care how it happened,” he said, immediately. “You called. You’re here. You called.”

Then, silence again. But not empty—full.

Full of everything that had gone unsaid for months. Years.

“I miss you so much it makes me feel insane,” you admitted, voice cracking on the last word. “I keep trying to be okay without you, and I’m not. I’m just not.”

You heard a choked noise on the other end. Then a sniff. Then—

“Jesus, Y/N,” Matt whispered. “I’ve been trying to live around this fucking hole in my chest since the day you left. I’ve dated, I’ve traveled, I’ve done everything people say you’re supposed to do, and none of it ever shut you off in my head.”

Your lips trembled. “I can’t believe you still… remember how I breathe.”

“I remember everything,” he whispered. “Your voice when you’re tired. Your laugh when you’re trying not to cry. The sound you make when you try to stop yourself from saying ‘I love you.’”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your sob broke through the phone line and into the hollow space between you.

“I love you,” you said. “I never stopped. I didn’t know how.”

Another pause.

And then Matt’s voice, low and breaking:

“Give me your address.”

Thirty minutes later, headlights swept across your living room wall.

You stood in your doorway, barefoot, in the soft oversized hoodie you always wore when you missed him most.

The second you opened the door and saw him—real, solid, eyes rimmed red—you couldn’t breathe.

Neither could he.

He stepped in without a word.

You locked the door behind him.

Turned on the night alarm system.

Flipped the switch for the security floodlights.

Bolted the latch.

Checked the windows.

All the things you did every night to feel safe.

But tonight, none of it mattered.

Because the moment your hand fell away from the lock, he opened his arms.

And you fell into them.

You collapsed into him like he was gravity and you’d spent too long floating without air. He caught you without hesitation, wrapping you up, pressing your head into his chest, letting you sob against him like the past year had never happened.

“I got you,” he murmured, over and over. “I got you, I got you.”

Your fingers gripped the back of his sweatshirt like it might disappear. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t let go,” you choked.

“Never again,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

And then, silently, he bent down and lifted you off your feet like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your face buried into the curve where his shoulder met his throat. You could feel the slight shake in his hands.

He carried you upstairs without a word.

Under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you lay down together.

Fully clothed.

Just you, Matt, and years’ worth of ache wrapped under the same blanket.

You tangled your legs with his. His shoes were kicked off at the end of the bed. Your bodies curved into each other like puzzle pieces trying to remember what they were.

He touched your face like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked too long. And when you leaned in and kissed him—soft, trembling, slow—he didn’t pull away.

You cupped his face in your hands. His cheeks were damp. His nose was red.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Little pecks. One to the corner of his mouth. One to his nose. One to the place where his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed.

He kissed your forehead in return. Then your cheeks. Then pressed his lips to yours like he was giving you air.

“I never stopped being yours,” you whispered. “Even when I tried.”

“I knew,” he said, hoarse. “Because neither did I.”

You tucked yourself into his chest. He held you tighter.

The world outside your room spun on, indifferent.

But in here—in this bed, in this moment—time finally softened.

The room was dim. The only light came from your bedside lamp, low and gold, soft like candlelight. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore—it was sacred. The kind of silence where nothing needed to be said, because the ache in both your bodies spoke loud enough.

Your fingers traced Matt’s jawline, and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to cry or kiss you again.

He chose the latter.

The first press of his lips was familiar—gentle and reverent. But when you kissed him back, slower, deeper, with your hand curling into his hoodie, the air shifted.

Matt exhaled shakily into your mouth. You could feel the tremble in his chest when your lips opened slightly to his, when your tongues touched in that slow, exploratory way that said we’ve missed this—but let’s not rush it.

His fingers slid up to cradle the back of your neck, and you could feel how badly he was trying to keep his composure. But there was nothing casual about the way his mouth claimed yours this time. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a homecoming. A desperate, aching reunion.

You moved closer under the blankets, your leg sliding over his hip, his body pulling you flush to him. Fully clothed but feeling everything.

“I shouldn’t still want you like this,” Matt murmured into your mouth, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours. “But I do. I always do.”

“I want you,” you whispered back, tears brimming again. “Just… don’t be careful with me. Not tonight. Just love me like I’m still yours.”

A pause. His hand slipped under your hoodie, not in a rush—just resting over your bare back, fingers warm and open, anchoring you.

“I never stopped thinking of you like mine,” he said, low and broken. “So I’m gonna touch you like I never lost you.”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Okay.”

The kiss deepened again—this time hungrier. His hand slid from your back to your hip, tugging you tighter against his body, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. There was something so tender in the way his tongue moved with yours, and yet desperate in the way he moaned softly into the kiss when your nails lightly scraped up the back of his neck.

You pulled away just enough to whisper, “Take it off.”

He stared at you for a second, breath ragged, then lifted your hoodie over your head and tossed it aside like it was something sacred. His eyes swept over you slowly—your chest rising and falling, the thin bralette beneath—and his breath hitched.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, like it physically pained him. “I don’t know how I let you walk away.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered back. “We both did.”

He kissed you again—this time slower. His hands ran over every inch of your skin like he needed to re-learn it. As if touching you was his last chance to memorize you forever. Your shirt followed, and then his.

The warmth of skin-on-skin sent a ripple through both of you, a sharp reminder that this was real. That this wasn’t a dream.

He kissed down your neck, chest, stomach. Not rushed. Not rough. Just full of reverence, like each kiss was an apology. Like every inch of you deserved to be worshiped for the pain you carried and the love you still held.

You tugged him back up to you. He hovered over you, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen and eyes glossy.

“I want you inside me,” you said, voice soft but unwavering. “But I don’t want to forget this. I want it slow.”

Matt’s eyes closed like your words physically affected him. He nodded.

“I want to feel everything,” he whispered. “I want to give you everything.”

When he finally pushed into you, it was so slow you gasped. He held your face, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like a prayer. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting—aching—for this moment. And maybe it had.

He didn’t move right away. Just held still inside you, trembling slightly, overwhelmed. You cupped his cheeks, brushed your thumbs over the damp edges of his eyes, and kissed him so deeply you both forgot where one body ended and the other began.

When he started to move, it was like being rebuilt.

Every thrust was a conversation your mouths had been too afraid to speak. Every moan was an echo of all the times you missed him in silence. Every kiss between movements was a promise: I’m still here. I still love you.

You cried softly when he wrapped your hand in his, laced your fingers together above your head. He kissed your cheek, then your lips, whispering “I love you” in between.

Your bodies moved together as if no time had passed. And when you came—slow, shattering, wrapped in his arms—you clung to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

He came soon after, face buried in your neck, voice breaking with your name and a soft, raw moan. He didn’t pull out right away. He just collapsed onto you, wrapped you up, and held you while both of you shook in the aftermath.

Still tangled. Still trembling.

Minutes later, still breathless, he rolled to the side and pulled you into him again. Legs tangled, chests bare, sweat cooling between you.

You cupped his face again. Pressed soft, lingering kisses to his lips. And he kissed you back like nothing in the world existed outside this bed.

“We still fit,” you whispered.

He smiled through wet lashes. “We always did.”

A/N: gang all i do lately is write angsty smut bye guys 🦀🦀

likes and reblogs are always appreciated:)

[thechratt-twins]

solid line dividers ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

[ don’t forget to credit if you use them! (in the post or in the tags): @hyuneskkami ]

— red .ᐟ

— orange / yellow .ᐟ

— green .ᐟ

— blue .ᐟ

— pink .ᐟ

— purple .ᐟ

-> more

[thechratt-twins]

okay thats it. we gotta know…

there is only ONE correct answer

— The Chratt Twins

[thechratt-twins]

whatttttttt… nooooo…

(absofuckinglutely)

— the chris girl

have i mentioned i’m secretly in love with you?

— the chris girl

.. so you wanna make out 🤨🤨 (😘)

[thechratt-twins]

never "look inside" yourself btw i just tried it and there was already someone in there looking back it was so awkward

[thechratt-twins]

you guys should umm idk, send in asks? about The Deathborn Heir or just random shit…

— The Chratt Twins

[thechratt-twins]

— the chris girl

you scare me

which one?

— the chris girl

[thechratt-twins]

Reblog for my sister... -- The Matt Girl FOR The Chris Girl

EVERYTHING HE WASN’T

christopher owen sturniolo fanfic

in which: after the break up with chris who was your golden retriever, you run into him at a club, except that he wasn’t him anymore. he was completely different.

contains: alcohol and drug abuse, degradation, emotional instability, drunk/causal sex, explicit content, exes with unresolved feelings, heavy emotional smut, angst, toxic coping mechanisms, reader being a bit mean due to hurt.

Chris was the kind of boyfriend people made playlists about.

Not the depressing ones, not the rage-filled post-breakup anthems. The kind that made everything feel a little warmer, a little less heavy. Like things could actually be good.

You used to call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Because he was.

Happy for no reason. Always leaning into you. He’d smile when you walked into a room like he forgot the rest of the world existed. Lose his train of thought just watching you do something dumb like put on lip gloss. He used to kiss you three times—forehead, cheek, lips—before he even said hi. Like it was a habit he never questioned.

And then you left.

Not because you stopped loving him. Not because something awful happened.

Just… life. Quiet, slow tension. Cracks you both ignored until they weren’t small anymore. It wasn’t dramatic. No one screamed. No one cheated.

It just ended. Quietly.

So he imploded.

It started slowly. One party. One hit. One drink.

Then two. Then five. Then ten nights a week.

Soon it became routine. Girls in his DMs. Girls at the club. Girls in his bed. Ones he couldn’t remember the names of. Ones who wore your perfume. Ones who cried after, because they wanted more than what he had to give.

Chris didn’t even flinch anymore when the door shut behind them.

He didn’t care who saw him high out of his mind, shirtless on someone’s kitchen counter, smoke curling out of his mouth like a ghost he was trying to exorcize. He didn’t care that he’d become someone else entirely—someone who spoke in sarcasm, whose laugh sounded foreign even to himself.

He was mean now.

Rough around the edges. Sharp-tongued and always a little pissed off.

You’d barely recognize him.

He didn’t want you to.

Because if you saw what he’d become, maybe you’d hate him enough to finally forget him.

He figured that was better than hoping.

One night, after another party ended in someone else’s bathroom, Chris sat slumped in the driver’s seat of his car, parked two blocks from the club. It was 2:04 a.m. The street was dark. His phone glowed in his hand.

He was drunk—his third club of the night. His teeth felt numb, and his brain was moving slower than his fingers as he scrolled through his photo album.

Every swipe was a stab.

You smiling at a beach you dragged him to.

You cooking breakfast in his hoodie.

You half-asleep on his chest, mumbling about hating Mondays.

He should’ve stopped.

But he didn’t.

He kept swiping. And deleting. One by one. Like burying pieces of his own fucking heart.

And then she opened the passenger door.

A girl from the club. He remembered her vaguely—tight red dress, pouty mouth, fake lashes so long they could fly her to hell and back. She smelled like peach vodka and desperation. She leaned in, saw the tears in his eyes and the bottle in his hand, and misread all of it.

“You okay, baby?” she purred, sliding into the seat beside him.

He didn’t answer.

She unzipped his pants anyway.

“imma make you feel so much better, baby. just relax”, she slurred on her own words.

Chris let it happen.

His head dropped back against the leather seat. Her mouth was wet and fast and impersonal.

He came in under a minute. Didn’t even touch her.

He didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t ask for her number.

Just waited until she got out and shut the door again, then stared at the ceiling of his car until his heart stopped racing.

He wasn’t proud. Not even a little.

But in that moment, it felt right.

Because it hurt.

And pain, at least, still felt real.

Two weeks later, he saw you.

It was another Friday night. Same club. Different drink. Different girl on his arm. But he’d already forgotten her name by the time his eyes landed on you—lit by purple strobes, standing at the bar in black heels and sheer stockings, the kind that hugged your thighs like a second skin.

Your shorts were tiny. Your top was little more than lace and strings. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, tendrils falling around your neck like you didn’t care you were the most beautiful fucking person in the room.

Chris froze.

Mid-sentence.

Mid-sip.

Everything dropped out of him. His stomach. His lungs. His ego. The fake personality he’d built like scaffolding around the crater you left behind—gone.

You didn’t even see him at first.

But when you did… God, the look in your eyes.

It was like looking at a grave.

He stumbled over before he could stop himself. His buzz was already strong, but your presence pushed him over the edge. He could barely string a thought together. But he needed to be near you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, voice thick with alcohol.

You turned slowly, taking him in like you weren’t sure if he was real or just a memory come back to mess with your night.

“Didn’t think they’d let people drink themselves into a coma in public,” you said, calm. Distant.

That landed harder than it should’ve.

He gave a half-smile—nothing like the one you remembered. It sagged at the edges, tired and out of place.

“You look… good,” he said. Then quieter, “You always did.”

You held his gaze. “You don’t.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

You ended up talking longer than either of you planned.

The music got louder. The lights harsher. Chris leaned against the bar like it was the only thing holding him up, fingers twitching through his curls every few seconds. He wasn’t subtle about how much it wrecked him to be this close to you.

“You still around here?” he asked eventually, trying to sound light, like he was just making conversation.

You paused. You should’ve lied.

But you didn’t.

“Loft’s a few blocks from here.”

He nodded once, like he was thinking too fast and not thinking at all.

“Take me with with you. Please”

Your loft hadn’t changed much.

Warm lighting. Clean kitchen. Plants by the window. It still smelled like you—vanilla and sandalwood. That same soft, comforting scent that once clung to his pillowcases for days after you left.

He walked in slowly. Like he didn’t want to scare it away. Like he was stepping back into a version of himself that might still exist here.

Chris leaned against the counter, silent for a moment, staring at the little photo strip still magneted to your fridge. One from years ago. The kind you didn’t have the heart to throw away.

“Why’d you come with me?” you asked, finally.

He didn’t look at you.

Just said, quietly, “Because I forgot what peace feels like.”

You crossed your arms. “You’ve been trying pretty hard to forget everything.”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. Well. The forgetting part comes easy when you’re drunk off your ass and fucking a stranger in your car while deleting photos of the only person you’ve ever loved.”

The silence that followed was violent.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away.

You just blinked. Once. Twice.

And then:

“You really did that?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t even feel anything. Felt numb.”

A long breath.

You moved toward him.

“You hate yourself that much?”

He laughed. It sounded like choking. “I want you to hate me too.”

“I don’t.”

He looked up, eyes glassy. “Why the fuck not?”

And then you stepped closer. Pressed your palm to his chest.

“You were my light, too, Chris.”

He shattered right there.

Your mouths slammed together—no hesitation, just the blunt taste of whiskey and stale smoke. You fisted the front of his half-buttoned shirt and steered him down the hall, both of you stumbling like you couldn’t get close fast enough.

In the bedroom he shoved trembling hands under your sheer top; the moment he felt bare skin, his breath hitched hard.

“God,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Still you.”

You pushed him onto the mattress and climbed over his hips. He traced the tops of your stockings, knuckles skimming lace. Under better light you might’ve blushed; tonight you just watched him watch you.

“I thought about this every night,” he groaned, grinding up into you. “You. Like this.”

You lifted your hips, pulled your bodysuit aside and slid his jeans down just enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

“Condom?” you whispered.

He reached for his wallet. You grabbed it. Tore it open with your teeth. Rolled it onto him.

And then you sank down.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was pain and love and guilt in the shape of sex.

You rode him like you wanted to ruin him. He let you. Gripping your waist, his head thrown back, begging under his breath.

“Please, baby—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever leave again—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth, bouncing harder. “You don’t get to ask that.”

He nodded against your palm, eyes full of tears.

“I’ll be better,” he choked when you let go. “I swear—I’ll be—fuck—you feel so fuckin good. Please—”

Your hips slowed—

From furious rhythm to a soft, aching sway.

Chris’s head had tipped back against the pillow, jaw tight, brows pulled together like it hurt to be inside you. But not because of pleasure. Not anymore.

Because of grief.

You felt it suddenly.

That break in him.

The way his hands shook where they gripped your waist.

The way he whispered things under his breath like he couldn’t help it. He didn’t even know why was he apologising. After all, you were the one who left, but somehow, he still felt like it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I ruined everything.”

Your chest caved a little.

So instead of driving him into the mattress like you had been, you leaned forward. Slowly. Intentionally. Rested your forehead against his, letting your eyes fall shut for a second just to feel him again. Skin against skin. Heat against heartbreak.

Then you opened your eyes—

And so did he.

His were glassy. Red. And fucking pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice cracking. He cupped your face with both hands like he was scared you’d vanish mid-thrust. “I’m so sorry I let you go. I’m so sorry for the club, and the car, and the—fuck—I didn’t even feel alive, I didn’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, quiet and warm against his mouth.

Your hips rolled slowly, grounding him.

“You don’t have to beg,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I hear you.”

He let out a shaky breath. Something between a moan and a sob.

You kissed his forehead, soft and sure.

Right between his brows.

And he broke.

Chris came instantly, with a trembling gasp and a full-body shudder. His arms wrapped tight around you, face buried in your neck as you rode him through it—still slow, still grounding, still holding him like he was something real.

You stayed like that for a moment. Let him breathe. Let him exist.

After you slid off him, you moved gently. Careful hands. Warm washcloth. Soft words. You cleaned him up first, then yourself, keeping the lights dim so it didn’t feel like a hospital room, didn’t feel sterile or pitiful.

He lay on his back the whole time, eyes on the ceiling. Silent. Barely blinking.

When you finally slipped back into bed beside him, he turned his head.

And looked at you like you weren’t real.

Like you were some dream his wrecked brain had conjured after one too many pills. Like he didn’t dare speak in case you vanished again.

You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, voice barely audible.

“Are you okay, Chris?”

He blinked.

Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he whispered, eyes never leaving yours. “I mean—I know drunk sex isn’t always…”

“Yeah,” you said gently, “it’s not always good.”

“It was good,” he breathed. “But only ‘cause it was you.”

You nodded softly. Scooted in closer. Let him wrap himself around you.

“I missed you,” he said again, barely awake now. “I missed you so fucking much. You were my only light.”

And then—

He fell asleep in your arms.

Like he used to.

Like maybe, somehow, he still could.

A/N: chat, do we fw this or nah? anyway :3

[thechratt-twins]

what the freak!? what did i do???

— the chris girl

you scare me

which one?

— the chris girl

[thechratt-twins]

you scare me

which one?

— the chris girl

[thechratt-twins]

WHY DOES IT HAVE EYES???

— the chris girl

[thechratt-twins]

💩

thank you for your thoughtful input, Shakespeare. 😊

— the Chris girl

[thechratt-twins]

𐔌introducing loser!virgin!matt… 𐦯

best paired with sex line worker!reader

“benny,” twenty-one. weed n cigarettes. painted nails. tattoos. small friend group. baggy jeans. prescription glasses. “virgin” because his first time was shitty. mean but not on purpose. icy blue eyes. baggy jeans. dirty converse. silver jewelry. not rich but not poor. always has money. smart enough to be in uni but not smart enough to try. lesbian carabiner wearer.

[thechratt-twins]

Finally found an AU thats ME?!?!?! -- The Matt Girl

⋆ ˚ 📚 ꩜ ｡ ꜝ INTRODUCING . . . BOOKSTORE OWNER!MATT

⤷ best paired with insomniac!reader.

NOW PLAYING: BLESSED ─ DANIEL CAESAR ❝ yes, i'm a mess, but i'm blessed to be stuck with you... ❞

;ଓ tiny bookstore tucked into the cut. comforting. a little unorganized. shelves stacked to the ceiling. smells like old paper and cinnamon oil he keeps behind the counter. worn rugs. soft knit sweaters. black coffee. black glasses on the desk he never wears. plays old records on a dusty player in the back—mostly soul and r&b. a sleepy tuxedo cat curled into the display window. annotated poetry books with post-it notes stuck between every other page. smart. emotionally intelligent. sweetheart. lonely, but used to it. can put reader to sleep with ease.

﹙ 🗯️ ﹚huuuugggeeee shoutout to @sturnsblogs for letting me talk her ear off and confirm that my ideas are good :((( but please send in asks and let me know if anyone has done anything similar so i can give proper credit !!

﹙ 🔗 ﹚@japblogs @courta13 @sturnsblogs @sturniolo-szn2 @theowensturniolo @jvngle18 @chrisgirltilidie2 @urfavvbilliemunch @devotedlyteenagemusic @vxmp42o @sturnsflirt @chriss-slut @oopsiedaisydeer @fawnsprings @mattsd0llfac3 @matthewswifeyy @chrisbambi @mivogjk @adorechris @evansturn @skibidisturniolo

[thechratt-twins]

For later -- The Matt Girl

I HATE YOU ࣭ ⭑ ( ｡ featuring . . . matt sturniolo

. . . ex!matt, toxicity, light degradation, light choking, fingering, power imbalance, etc.

you and matt haven't been together for months now, but it never really feels like it. not with the way he still shows up, still talks to you like you're his, still fucks you like he never lost you to begin with. tonight was another one of those nights—some stupid argument over the phone that turned too loud too fast. you were in the middle of cussing him out when he hung up on you, and you hadn't even had time to scream at your phone before your front door creaked open fifteen minutes later and he walked in like he lived there.

you're curled up on the couch, blanket half-draped over your legs, scowl already carved into your face. god, you should've locked the door. matt doesn't say anything at first—just strolls in and drops down beside you like this isn't a problem. you shoot him a glare and stand to finally go lock the door, annoyed and tense and hot with frustration. he stretches out on the couch behind you, all casual, like your silence isn't boiling.

"why are you here?" you ask over your shoulder, sharp and irritated as you make your way back toward the couch. he barely looks up, one arm draped over the back of the cushion. "to put'cha pretty ass in y'er place since you wan' argue so bad."

you don't even get the chance to roll your eyes before he's grabbing you, rough and smooth at the same time, pulling you into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. your back lands against his chest, his thighs warm beneath you, and before you can protest, matt adjusts his posture, settling you properly between his legs. he pulls you flush against him and his arm slides around your torso, his left hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat. he tilts your head, just slightly, exposing the soft slope of your neck—and his mouth is on you before you can breathe out another insult. hot, slow kisses. sharp, claiming sucks. his teeth scrape along your skin, dragging warmth straight down your spine, and you squirm without meaning to, your body already remembering what it means to be touched like this by him.

you hate him. you hate him. but you can feel him hardening under you, feel the way your hips roll ever so slightly, already chasing that pressure. you let out a quiet, broken sound, barely audible, and he groans into your neck. "i hate you,” you whisper, spiteful and soft all at once.

he smirks against your skin, voice rumbling low. "yeah? hate me?" you nod without looking at him, stubborn. your body betrays you the second he speaks again. "why are you so soaked if you hate me then?"

his right hand slips under the waistband of your shorts like he owns the space there. he doesn't even need to ask. he finds you without effort—fingers sliding past your panties, right to where you're dripping for him, just from his voice, his mouth, his presence. he runs his fingers through the mess he's already made, circling your hole, coming back up to press lazy circles into your clit.

he hums. it's quiet, satisfied. he doesn't say anything else—just keeps touching you, slow and knowing, his other hand keeping your leg pinned up against your chest. you try to close your legs, try to twist away from the heat rising in your core, but he holds you in place.

"mm-mm, keep 'em open. and go ahead, tell me everything you hate about me, since you hate me so much." you swallow hard, breath shaky as you try to hold it together. his fingers are warm and familiar, slipping through your slick like it’s second nature.

"i… i hate the way you talk to me—like you own me." he curls his fingers deeper and you gasp, clinging to his forearm for balance. "and… fuck—i hate that you think you can just show up and—" his thumb drags over your clit and you break off, voice hitching. "f-fuck, matt—stop that—i'm talking—"

he chuckles behind you, smug and unbothered, and thrusts his fingers harder into you. your hips twitch and he groans softly, adjusting his hold to keep you where he wants you. "i hate… hate how you always make it about you—" you jolt in his lap, lips parting in a moan that you barely catch. "nngh—god, and the way you touch me like you know what i'm feeling—" his mouth grazes your ear, breath hot and heavy. "i don't—i don't even like you, matt—"

"nah," he breathes, his pace steady, unforgiving. "but you like this. you fuckin' need this." you're falling apart, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers drag out slow, only to push back in with that perfect rhythm that always fucks up your thoughts. his hand leaves the back of your thigh just long enough to press against your hips, forcing you to stop lifting up for more friction.

"you just can't stay fuckin' still, hm? go ahead, keep goin'. continue what you were sayin'." you whimper as he pulls his fingers out again, dragging them through your soaked slit, teasing your entrance before sliding them back in. you choke on a breath, hips stuttering in his lap.

"hate me all you want," he murmurs, lips pressed to your temple, "but i know this pussy doesn't. she's so greedy. suckin' my fuckin' fingers in." his voice is strained now, low and hoarse. you can feel him pulsing beneath you, hard and aching through his sweats. he’s rutting up into you slowly, like he can't help it. the sounds coming from you aren't soft anymore—they're cracked, desperate, high and fast as you fall over the edge right there in his lap. your cunt clenches around his fingers, soaking his hand as your moans spill out helpless and broken.

he keeps going through it, slow now, coaxing it all out of you. when he finally pulls his fingers out, they glisten in the low light. he lifts them to your lips and you take them without thinking, tongue swirling around the mess he made of you. "you don't hate me, pretty girl," he says, mouth close to your jaw as you suck his fingers clean. "you hate that i know you."

and god, he's so fucking right.

𖥔﹒ 💌 ˇ ⋆ ╱ did you miss me? i know you did.

taglist ;ଓ @japblogs @courta13 @sturnsblogs @sturniolo-szn2 @theowensturniolo @jvngle18 @chrisgirltilidie2 @urfavvbilliemunch @devotedlyteenagemusic @vxmp42o @sturnsflirt @chriss-slut @oopsiedaisydeer @fawnsprings @mattsd0llfac3 @matthewswifeyy @chrisbambi @mivogjk @adorechris @evansturn @skibidisturniolo

[thechratt-twins]

literally us…?

— the chris girl

twin bitches