malsothermind

[malsothermind]

⮱ finger sucking - matt sturniolo

1k words — drug use, suggestive, teasing, finger sucking, slow burn tension, language

a/n: this idea was bothering me for daysss omf

it’s late.

like really late. the kind of late where time stops mattering and everything feels soft around the edges. fuzzy, golden, too quiet except for the occasional rustle of chip bags and the slow pulse of the tv casting low light across the room.

matt’s sunk into your couch, hoodie half-off his shoulder, one leg tucked under him. the joint between his fingers burns low, glowing red every time he lifts it to his lips. you’re curled up beside him, sharing warmth, high enough that your limbs feel disconnected from your thoughts.

"these hit different when you’re stoned," he mumbles, licking cheeto dust off his thumb. his voice is hoarse and lazy, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

you glance over, your lips curving. "you always say that."

"’cause it’s always true."

he plucks a gummy from the bag in your lap, then pauses, holding it up like a peace offering. "open."

you roll your eyes, but you obey - parting your lips just enough for him to push it between them. his fingers brush your bottom lip. and then you do it.

slow.

deliberate.

you close your mouth around his fingers first, not the candy. your tongue grazes the tips, your eyes locked on his. you suck - just for a moment. soft, barely-there pressure. and when you pull away, there’s a little pop, like you wanted him to hear it.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. just stares.

you smile, chewing innocently. “what?”

his jaw tightens. “you tryna be funny?”

“no,” you say sweetly. “you told me to open.”

he blinks once. twice. then shifts on the couch like he's trying to hide the fact that his whole body just reacted.

“you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, more breath than voice, reaching back into the bag - this time without breaking eye contact. his fingers curl around another gummy, slow and intentional. “do it again.”

your pulse stutters.

“what if i don’t wanna?”

“then you shouldn’t’ve started,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “open.”

you hesitate - just long enough to be annoying - then part your lips again. this time, he doesn’t ease the candy in right away. no, matt slides two fingers past your lips without warning. gummy clutched between them, yes, but he doesn’t care about that.

you suck them in, mouth warm and slow around the tips, tongue dragging along the pads like you’re tasting him, not the candy.

his jaw twitches.

you hollow your cheeks just a little, enough to make him groan - a low sound from deep in his chest, like he wasn’t expecting you to go there.

you let go with a soft pop, then sit back like nothing happened, eyes fluttering up to meet his again.

“you good?” you ask, saccharine-sweet, voice dipped in honey.

he stares at you for a second, maybe two.

then he laughs - shaky, breathless, head tipping back against the couch.

“you’re gonna drive me insane,” he says, dragging a hand over his face.

“already do,” you tease, grabbing another chip and crunching into it like your mouth wasn’t just wrapped around his fingers.

matt watches you, tongue poking at his cheek, expression unreadable. there’s a pink flush creeping across his nose, and his hands are fidgeting now - knee bouncing, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them.

“you’re such a menace,” he mutters.

you grin, smug, proud. “me? you were the one who fed me like that.”

he snorts. “yeah, and you were supposed to just take the gummy. not turn it into a fucking porno.”

you giggle. “aww, did i make you nervous?”

“no,” he lies instantly.

you shift closer on the couch, knees touching now. “then why’re your ears red?”

he opens his mouth - maybe to deflect, maybe to deny - but then your hand slides over his thigh and his breath catches. a little tremble under your touch, like the bravado’s slipping.

“still not nervous?” you whisper.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, to your fingers playing at the hem of your shirt.

he swallows. “no.”

you swing a leg over and straddle his lap, slow and deliberate. the weight of you makes him shift back against the couch cushions, hands flying to your waist like instinct.

“liar,” you murmur, leaning in close, your lips just barely brushing his jaw.

“fuck,” he whispers.

your fingers trail up his chest, lazy, until they reach his mouth. you hold one up between your fingers, soft and taunting.

“your turn.”

his eyes flick to yours, dark and glassy, and then - without hesitation - he parts his lips and pulls your finger into his mouth.

hot. slow. deliberate.

his tongue drags up the length of it. sucks once. then again.

your breath stutters this time. his eyes never leave yours.

you freeze - not out of fear, but something thicker, sweeter. it coils up your spine when you feel his tongue swirl again, slow and lazy, around the pad of your finger.

your breathing stutters. the room feels smaller.

he drags his mouth back, letting go of your finger with a soft pop. his lips are shiny now, pink and slick and parted like he’s still tasting you.

“what?” he says low, teasing.

you blink. once. twice. your hand’s still hovering between you - helpless, trembling slightly, like it doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do anymore.

“you’re such a fuckin’ tease,” you whisper, voice raw.

matt leans in until his nose brushes yours. you can feel the edge of his smirk against your mouth. “you started it.”

you inhale sharply as his fingers skate under the hem of your shirt, featherlight, tracing the bare skin of your stomach, like he’s daring himself to keep going. like he’s barely holding back.

his hands shake just a little.

yours do too.

“we’re still high,” you murmur, barely audible.

he presses a kiss under your jaw, slow and warm. “so?”

“so this could be stupid.”

“feels pretty fucking smart to me.”

his mouth moves to your throat, open and hot, then lower, a trail of heat down your skin. his grip tightens on your waist.

“matt,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

and then his voice breaks against your collarbone, soft and wrecked and starving -

“please let me have you.”

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© zenithsturniolo

[malsothermind]

ꜱᴜᴄᴋʟᴇ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘣𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘬

smut, boob sucking, begging, messy, praise kink, sub!chris, teasing, hips bucking, mentions of cumming in pants, sore tits

word count - 700ish

You’re lying across Chris’s chest, your body slotted perfectly over him, grumbling halfheartedly against his hoodie.

“My boobs are killing me,” you sigh, shifting a little. “They get so sore right about now. Stupid period.”

Chris immediately perks up underneath you, hands tightening on your hips. His voice is breathless and full of that quiet, impatient energy he gets when he’s all worked up in the middle of the day. 

“Hey,” he says, thumbing at the hem of your shirt. “Let me help. Please, want… wanna make it better.”

You bite back a giggle at how eager he sounds, but you sit up a bit anyway, letting him tug your shirt up as you straddle his waist. He pushes it high enough that your breasts are bare, soft and heavy, hanging naturally over his face as you cradle his head.

Chris lets out a tiny, shaky breath, the sight alone enough to knock the wind out of him. His hands hover at first, before he cups the sides of your chest by your upper ribs, thumbs brushing tenderly over your nipples, making you shiver.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty. So perfect.”

Before you can even tease him, he’s pulling you closer, mouth latching onto you with a soft, hungry groan. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, but buries his face in the underside of your breast, nuzzling, dragging his tongue over the soft slope in long, wet licks like he’s savoring it.

You curl your fingers into his messy hair, scratching him gently as he mouths at you, his tongue lapping broad and slow over your skin. He shifts his mouth higher, dragging more of your breast into his mouth, like he’s trying to fit as much of you in as he can. His lips seal around a mouthful of you, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks deeply, not even bothering to be neat about it.

It’s filthy, the way he moves. Sucking more of you into his mouth, then pulling back until it’s just your nipple between his lips. Then he does it again, more desperate each time, messily wetting your skin with spit as he moves between mouthfuls of soft flesh and delicate licks at your peaked nipple.

You hear tiny broken sounds rumbling in his chest, like little whimpers he can’t hold back, and it makes your thighs tighten around him instinctively.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you murmur, stroking his hair, and he whines against your skin like the praise is too much. You lean down to kiss his forehead, letting your lips rest there before peppering kisses along his hairline and scalp, drawing him even closer to you.

Chris presses his face even closer in response, sucking harder, wet and noisy. His hands tremble where they grip your waist, but he doesn’t move them yet, too focused on your chest, on the weight of you in his mouth, the soft, warm skin he’s practically devouring.

It’s only when you feel his breathing hitch… when his hands tighten almost painfully on your hips… that he starts bucking up against you, slow at first, then with more urgency, little jerky thrusts like he can't help it.

You pull back slightly to check on him, and the sight nearly knocks the air out of you: his flushed face, glazed-over eyes, mouth shiny and swollen from how hard he’s been sucking. His hips rock up again helplessly. Chris whimpers, his chest now rising and falling rapidly. 

“Mmh, I… I need to, I need... more... please.”

“Shh, Christopher,” you coo, voice soft and teasing. You brush the sweaty hair off his forehead, cradling his face for a second as you kiss his forehead again. “No rushing, baby. You’re okay.”

He whimpers brokenly, hips stuttering again, so you guide his mouth back to your breast with a gentle push.

“There you go,” you whisper sweetly. “Just keep sucking for me.”

Chris makes the softest, almost desperate sound, burying his face against your chest again, his mouth sealing around your nipple and sucking with even more need, greedy and messy and whimpering against your skin.

You smile softly, running your fingers through his hair once more, soothing him.  “If you’re good,” you murmur, “I’ll let you cum in your pants.”

thank you @bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

a/n: this is all i think about. christopher sturniolo suck my tits please!!

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[malsothermind]

HOUSE ARREST - c.sturniolo

contains: age gap (18 & 24), unprotected sex (don’t do it yall), pet names.

summary: your parents are going on a month long trip, and they definitely do not trust you alone in their house. you begged for them to let you stay alone, but they are set in stone to hire someone to keep an eye on you

____________________________________________

Your parents didn’t even trust you for a month.

One month without them, and they acted like you’d burn the house down.

It was insulting.

You spent days pleading, begging, even promising you’d send hourly texts — but it was pointless. They were terrified of leaving you alone, and determined to hire someone to “keep an eye” on you. Like you were five.

Now they were on the way to the airport.

And you were stuck at home, sulking, when the knock came at the door.

You padded down the hallway, yanking it open — and froze.

The guy standing there wasn’t what you were expecting.

You had pictured some middle-aged woman. Maybe a family friend.

Instead, it was him.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Serious blue eyes that pinned you in place.

Messy, dark hair falling over his forehead.

A black T-shirt stretched tight over arms that could probably throw you over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.

Your heart thudded.

“Hi.”

His voice was low, smooth, a little rough around the edges.

“I’m Chris. I’ve been hired to look after you for the next month.”

You just stared at him for a second too long.

He smiled a little — barely there — like he was used to the reaction.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

You blinked yourself out of it and stepped aside quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Uh — yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He stepped inside, the door closing with a heavy click behind him.

And just like that, you were alone with him.

For a month.

____________________________________________

At first, it was simple.

Chris was professional.

Sort of.

He stayed out of your way — mostly on his phone, answering emails, reading on the couch.

He didn’t act like a babysitter.

He didn’t treat you like a kid.

But he was always there — a quiet, steady presence, watching you with those serious eyes whenever you moved around the house.

And you couldn’t stop watching him right back.

You started noticing things.

The way his shirts clung to his chest.

The way his hands flexed when he typed.

The way he smelled when he passed you in the hallway — clean laundry, mint, something warm and masculine.

It drove you crazy.

It shouldn’t have felt this intense.

But it did.

At night, it was worse.

You would hear him moving around downstairs, the soft creak of the floorboards.

Sometimes you swore you caught him pausing outside your door.

Sometimes you wondered if he could hear you, tossing and turning under your sheets, wishing — aching — for something you couldn’t have.

You started pushing it.

Little things.

Dropping something and bending down slowly to pick it up when he was looking.

Wearing tiny shorts around the house.

Leaning too close when you asked him questions you didn’t really care about.

Chris noticed.

He definitely noticed.

You caught the way his jaw would clench, how his hands would curl into fists at his sides.

But he never broke.

He stayed cool, steady, untouchable.

It made you desperate.

____________________________________________

One night, everything cracked open.

You were sitting on the couch, watching a movie you weren’t paying attention to.

Chris was across the room, a beer bottle loose in his hand, one ankle crossed over the other.

You kept stealing glances at him.

Every line of his body was pure temptation.

You shifted on the couch, frustrated.

You weren’t even subtle anymore.

Chris’s eyes flicked to you.

Held.

Something dark passed over his face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed.

Nodded.

“Yeah. Just… hot,” you lied, tugging at the neckline of your shirt.

You watched his eyes flicker downward, just for a second, before he forced them away.

“You should go to bed,” he said tightly.

You didn’t move.

You just sat there, heart hammering, knowing you were about to do something stupid.

“Chris,” you whispered.

His whole body went still.

He didn’t look at you.

“Chris, please look at me,” you said, softer.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Those bright eyes locked on yours, heavy, unreadable.

You licked your lips.

Nervous.

Desperate.

Needing something you didn’t have a name for.

“You’re not supposed to want this,” he said, voice like gravel.

“But you do,” you breathed.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

He set the beer down — hard — and crossed the room in two strides.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands were on you — gripping your waist, backing you up against the wall.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said roughly, mouth inches from yours.

“I do,” you whispered.

“You’re just a kid.”

“I’m eighteen.”

He swore under his breath.

His forehead dropped to yours, his body pressed against yours — hot, solid, overwhelming.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.

You shook your head.

“Don’t.”

His mouth crashed into yours, and this time there was no holding back.

Chris kissed you like a starving man — deep, messy, devouring.

Your head spun, your body already arching into him, desperate for more.

You whimpered against his lips, feeling his hands everywhere — rough palms sliding up under your shirt, over the soft swell of your breasts, squeezing just a little too hard.

“Chris,” you gasped against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at him, needing him closer.

He groaned low in his throat — the sound vibrating through your whole body — and grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head against the wall with one hand.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he growled, voice wrecked, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Then take me,” you whispered, breathless.

Something in him snapped.

He yanked your shirt up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

You were bare under it — no bra — and Chris cursed low and filthy under his breath.

“Fucking beautiful,” he muttered.

His hands roamed rough and greedy over your skin, squeezing your breasts, flicking your nipples until you were squirming, gasping.

He dropped his mouth to them next — biting gently, then soothing the sting with his tongue.

You whined, arching into him helplessly.

“Sensitive,” he murmured, lips curling against your skin.

“I like that.”

You tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel him, and Chris yanked it off impatiently, revealing broad shoulders, hard muscles, and tattoos you wanted to trace with your tongue.

But he didn’t give you a chance.

He hauled you up again, your legs wrapping around his waist, your panties soaking against his bare stomach.

He carried you through the hall upstairs, not even breaking the kiss, until he dropped you onto your bed.

You bounced slightly, looking up at him — flushed, breathing hard, hair a mess.

Chris stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself.

“Waiting for me. Needing me.”

You whimpered, thighs squeezing together, desperate for friction.

Chris chuckled low and dark.

“Uh-uh, baby. Open those legs. Let me see how bad you need it.”

Blushing, you obeyed — spreading yourself wide for him.

The thin scrap of your panties was useless, soaked through.

Chris let out a long, shaky breath.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he rasped.

“All for me?”

“All for you,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He hooked his fingers into your panties and ripped them off, tossing them aside without a care.

You gasped, feeling the cool air hit your wet folds.

Then his mouth was on you.

Chris licked a slow, filthy stripe up your center, making you cry out and buck against his face.

He pinned your hips down easily, one hand splayed wide across your stomach, holding you there like you weighed nothing.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmured against your skin.

“Let me taste you.”

And he devoured you.

Long, slow licks.

Gentle sucking on your clit.

Then faster, rougher, tongue fucking into you until you were shaking, sobbing, clutching the sheets.

You grabbed his hair, tugging hard, but Chris just groaned like it turned him on even more.

When you started to tremble, close to the edge, he pulled back — smirking when you whined in protest.

“Not yet,” he said, voice dark with amusement.

“I want you to cum on my cock.”

You barely had time to think before he was climbing up the bed, settling between your legs again.

You felt the blunt, thick head of him nudging at your entrance.

Chris cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“You sure, baby?” he asked, voice ragged.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m sure,” you breathed.

“I need you, Chris. Please.”

He kissed you — slow, deep — and then pushed in.

The stretch was intense.

He was big — thick, hard, splitting you open inch by slow inch.

You gasped, nails digging into his biceps.

“Shh, baby,” Chris murmured, peppering kisses over your face, your neck, your chest.

“I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for me.”

When he was fully seated inside you, he held still — giving you a moment, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled, voice shaking.

You whimpered, clenching around him, needing him to move.

Chris kissed you again — deep, messy — before he started thrusting, slow at first.

Each stroke hit deep, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, clinging to him, helpless against the onslaught of pleasure.

“You were made for me,” he whispered against your ear.

“Made to take my cock. Nobody else, baby. Just me.”

“Just you,” you sobbed, overwhelmed.

He growled and started moving harder — faster — driving into you with rough, desperate thrusts.

The headboard slammed rhythmically against the wall.

Your moans filled the room, broken, breathless, uncontrollable.

Chris caught your wrists again, pinning them above your head with one hand, his other hand reaching down to rub your clit in tight, dirty circles.

“Cum for me,” he commanded, voice like gravel.

“Cum on my cock, baby.”

You shattered.

You screamed his name, legs locking around his waist, body spasming helplessly as pleasure ripped through you.

Chris cursed — a wrecked, broken sound — and fucked you through it, his pace stuttering as he chased his own release.

“Fuck — gonna fill you up,” he groaned.

“Take it. Take all of it.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

With one last deep, rough thrust, Chris spilled inside you, moaning low and filthy, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, his arms bracketing your head.

For a long moment, you just breathed together — hot, sweaty, shaking.

Then Chris kissed you — soft and slow now, full of something almost too big to name.

“My girl,” he whispered against your lips.

“My good fucking girl.”

You smiled weakly, pressing your forehead to his.

“Yours,” you whispered back.

Always.

____________________________________________

look who came back from the dead guys. i think that i MIGHT be back. i wont be SUPER active but i will get back to writing. hope yall enjoy this ;)

[malsothermind]

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[malsothermind]

𖦹✮⋆˙dividers requested by @courta13 !

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