mattslutt

[mattslutt]

HE COULDN’T BREATHE - m.sturniolo

in which: you and matt have been constantly fighting so you decide to break up but its no use when he reached out the same night and the next too, begging you to come back.

contains: angst, hurt/comfort, swearing, intense emotional distress, codependency themes.

His room used to smell like comfort.

Like cologne and fresh laundry and him. Now it just smelled like something was ending.

Your hands were shaking as you folded a hoodie—his hoodie—and tucked it into your duffle bag. It wasn’t even yours, but you didn’t think you could walk out without taking a piece of him. Something to hold when it all hit you later.

Matt stood leaning against the doorway, arms hanging loose at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes were red, not puffy, not glassy. Just… empty. You had never seen him like this. He usually kept shit to himself, acted like nothing got to him. But not now.

Now he just looked wrecked.

The silence between you had weight. Weeks of fights, tears, raised voices, cold shoulders, and desperate attempts to fix what was already broken—it all sat in the air like smoke.

You zipped the bag.

The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.

You stood up and avoided his eyes. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your chest felt like it had been hollowed out, like something was physically being ripped from it. You had made this decision together. You’d both admitted it wasn’t working anymore. But why did it feel so wrong?

You brushed past him, the air between your bodies still charged with something unspoken. He didn’t move.

He just watched you.

You walked down the stairs slowly, afraid your legs might give out. He followed behind you, silent at first, his footsteps careful like he was scared he might say the wrong thing and make it worse—like anything could be worse than this.

Then, just as your hand touched the front door, his voice broke behind you.

“Are you really leaving?”

You froze.

His voice… it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It cracked mid-sentence, like it couldn’t hold itself together.

You turned halfway. He was standing halfway down the stairs, one hand on the railing, looking at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

You saw the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, trying to hold it in. But he wasn’t holding anything in now. He wasn’t pretending to be okay.

“You’re really gonna walk out that door,” he said. “After everything?”

You looked down.

“I don’t want to, Matt.” Your voice was quiet, honest. “But we’re not… we’re not good anymore.”

He let out this small, bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. “So that’s it? That’s how we end? After all the shit we’ve been through, after everything we swore we’d never do to each other—we just give up?”

“I’m not giving up. I’m letting go.” You looked at him, finally. “There’s a difference.”

“No, there’s not,” he said quickly, walking down the rest of the steps. “You think I don’t feel it too? That I don’t hate waking up knowing we’re not okay? You think I don’t lie awake every fucking night replaying every argument, every word I wish I could take back?”

“I do the same thing,” you whispered.

He stopped in front of you. You were close now, too close for this to be happening. His eyes were glassy, but he wasn’t crying. He looked like he wanted to. Like if he blinked too hard, it’d all come pouring out.

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because loving each other isn’t enough anymore,” you said, and your voice cracked this time. “We keep hurting each other, Matt.”

He shook his head, like he couldn’t accept it.

“I still love you,” he said, like that was supposed to change everything.

And it did. It made everything worse.

“I still love you too,” you said, and then you broke. “But we’re not happy.”

He stepped back like your words physically hit him. His jaw clenched. He turned away for a second, ran a hand through his hair, exhaled like he was trying to keep from screaming.

“I didn’t think it would end like this,” he murmured. “Not with you.”

You nodded, your vision swimming.

“I know.”

You turned back toward the door.

“Wait,” he said again, desperate now. “Just… one more thing.”

You looked at him, already breaking all over again.

He stepped closer, gently pulled the strap of the duffle bag off your shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Then he leaned in, slow, and pressed his forehead to yours.

His hand was trembling on your waist.

“Don’t say goodbye,” he whispered. “Just… don’t say it.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You pulled away, picked up your bag, and opened the door. The air outside felt different. Colder.

He didn’t follow you this time.

He stood there in the doorway, barefoot, arms limp at his sides, watching the person he loved walk away—this time, for real.

And you didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to leave.

You didn’t cry on the drive home.

You didn’t cry when you walked into your apartment, dropped your duffle bag in the hallway, or curled up on the couch in the dark. You didn’t cry when you replayed the way Matt’s voice cracked, or the way he looked at you like he was losing the only thing that ever made him feel whole.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

You pulled it out without thinking, expecting maybe a message from a friend checking in—or maybe silence. But your lock screen lit up with the same name, over and over and over again.

Matt.

Two-hundred missed messages.

And counting.

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your phone.

The first few texts were spaced out.

Matt: please

Matt: are you there

Matt: i can’t do this

Matt: i can’t fucking do this

And then… they became more frantic. Short. Disjointed. Like he couldn’t even find full sentences anymore.

Matt: come back

Matt: i miss you

Matt: everything hurts

Matt: i love you

Matt: i love you

Matt: i love you

Matt: please

Matt: baby

Matt: baby please

Matt: talk to me

Matt: it’s so quiet without you

Matt: i feel like i’m going insane

Matt: are you crying too

Matt: i hope not

Matt: i’d do anything

Matt: anything

Matt: tell me what to fix

Matt: i’ll fix it

Matt: just say something

Matt: i’m so sorry

Matt: i hate myself

Matt: i didn’t mean any of it

Matt: i’m sorry i didn’t fight harder

Matt: i’m sorry i let you leave

Matt: i love you

Matt: i love you

Matt: i love you

It kept going. A stream of messages that didn’t stop. Some were just one word.

Matt: baby. please. im so heartbroken.

Matt: shattered

Matt: aching

Matt: drowning

Matt: you

Matt: us

Matt: why

Matt: whywhywhy

Your chest cracked open. You didn’t even realize you were crying until the phone slipped from your hand onto your lap, screen still glowing, his words still pouring in.

A choked sob left your throat as you bent over, clutching your stomach like the pain was physical. You curled into yourself, shaking with every breath.

That boy fucking loved you.

He loved you with everything in him. And it was real. And it was raw. And it was too big to handle sometimes. Too loud. Too messy. But it had always been love.

And now it was slipping through both of your fingers like water, and neither of you knew how to stop it.

You picked up your phone with trembling hands. More texts.

Matt: are you asleep

Matt: do you hate me

Matt: i’ll never forgive myself

Matt: please don’t forget me

Matt: you were the best thing

Matt: i still feel you here

Matt: i still love you

Matt: i’ll always love you

You didn’t respond.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because if you did…

If you let even one word slip through…

You knew you’d drive right back to him.

And this time, you might never leave again.

The next night was worse than the first.

You hadn’t slept.

You laid in bed with the pillow pulled over your head, trying to block out everything. The silence. The way your heart thudded hollow against your ribs. The ache of wanting to go back while knowing why you left.

You’d read every one of Matt’s 200 texts at least five times. You hadn’t answered a single one.

Because you didn’t know how to answer them.

But when your phone lit up at 1:42 a.m., and his name appeared across the screen—Matt calling—you didn’t even hesitate.

You answered it without thinking.

“…Hello?”

There was no sound at first. Just quiet breathing. Uneven. Rough.

“Matt?” you said gently.

A shaky inhale. Then—

“I—I’m sorry,” he said, his voice completely broken. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be calling, I just—I can’t—I can’t fucking do this anymore, I—”

His voice cracked so violently that your throat physically clenched.

“Breathe,” you whispered. “Just—Matt, slow down, okay? I’m here.”

A choked, guttural sound came through the line. He wasn’t crying in that dramatic movie way. It was quiet, ugly—like he was trying to keep it in and failing miserably.

“I can’t fucking breathe without you,” he said. “I wake up and I reach for you and you’re not there. And I—I hate it. I hate this.”

You shut your eyes, tears already slipping past them.

“I know.”

“I didn’t eat today,” he mumbled, like he was confessing something shameful. “I didn’t get out of bed. I didn’t even open the fucking blinds. I just—I just stared at the ceiling and hoped it’d stop hurting.”

You sat up in bed, pressing the phone harder against your ear like it would pull you closer to him.

“I hate myself for letting you go,” he whispered.

“Matt—”

“No, please,” he begged, his voice suddenly rising in a frantic panic. “Don’t tell me it’s for the best. Don’t say that again. I’ll lose it. I have lost it.”

Your lips trembled. You didn’t know what to say.

“I still hear you laughing,” he went on, softer now, like he was already fading. “Like, in the kitchen. Or in my fucking car. Or when I walk past the bathroom and remember you brushing your teeth and dancing to whatever stupid song was in your head.”

You brought your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob.

“Everything reminds me of you,” he said. “I walked past your mug and I fucking broke down. A mug, Y/N. A fucking mug. I’m not okay.”

You whispered his name.

“I know we fought. I know it got bad,” he said. “But it wasn’t all bad. We had good too. So much of it. And I swear to God I’d do anything to go back and fix it. I’d shut my mouth more. I’d hold you tighter. I’d let the little shit go. I wouldn’t make you question if I loved you. Because I do. I always fucking did.”

“I never doubted that,” you said through a tear-soaked voice. “I doubted if we were good for each other.”

“I don’t care if we’re not good—I want you,” he said, raw and harsh. “I want you when it’s easy, and I want you when it’s hard, and I want you even when we’re driving each other insane.”

The line went quiet for a few seconds.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m not okay without you.”

Your chest ached in a way that felt lethal. You couldn’t swallow around it.

“I’m not either,” you finally admitted.

He exhaled like he’d been underwater.

“I miss you so much it fucking burns.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see.

“I know.”

“Please come home,” he said, broken. “Even if you just sit on the other side of the couch and don’t say a word—I just… I need to know you’re real. I need you here. Please, Y/N. Please.”

You were crying again. Hard. Because he wasn’t just sad.

He was unraveling.

And some part of you—no matter how badly it hurt—was still tethered to him in a way you couldn’t cut off.

Not completely.

Not yet.

“Matt…”

You closed your eyes.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

You heard him breathe again—like he hadn’t since you left.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

Neither of you hung up.

You just listened to each other breathe.

It wasn’t fixed.

But it was something.

And maybe that was enough—for one more night.

A/N: i love writing angst.

[mattslutt]

SWEET TOOTH - c.sturniolo

in which: fuckboy!chris toys innocent!reader with a lollipop.

contains: oral (f receiving), lollipop play, teasing, dirty talk, consensual control, bondage (a bit later), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy drunk chris.

He was trouble from the moment you met him—messy hair, cocky grin, that slouched swagger like he owned every room he walked into. Chris was the kind of guy mothers warned daughters about. And yet, somehow, you ended up alone with him tonight, tucked away in the back of his place—his room dimly lit, music low, your heart pounding loud enough to drown it all out.

You sat on the edge of his bed, knees together, wearing the soft dress you thought was just cute enough. He stood in front of you, shirt half-unbuttoned, sucking lazily on a red lollipop like he hadn’t been staring at you like he was starving for hours.

“Y’know,” he drawled, pulling the candy from his mouth with a wet pop, “you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t…” you started, but your voice betrayed you—breathy, uncertain.

Chris smirked. “Don’t what, baby?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He stepped between your knees, fingers under your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “That’s the whole fuckin’ point.”

And then he kissed you.

It started soft—teasing. But it didn’t stay that way. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting, coaxing, demanding. By the time he pulled back, your thighs were already pressed together, and he knew it.

“You trust me?” he murmured, that edge in his voice like velvet wrapped around steel.

You nodded. Slowly. Nervously.

His grin deepened. “Good girl.”

And then he had you on your back—completely bare, panties peeled off with slow, torturous precision. Your breath hitched when you felt the cool air hit your soaked folds. Chris looked down like he was admiring art.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he muttered, licking his lips. “You want me to teach you how this goes?”

You blinked up at him, your body already trembling with anticipation. “Y-yeah.”

He pulled the lollipop from his mouth again. Sticky. Shiny. Slick with spit.

“Ever had one of these… somewhere else?”

You shook your head.

He grinned like the devil himself. “Then lucky me. First lesson.”

And then he slid it down.

You gasped—legs trying to clamp shut, but he spread you open with ease. The cool, wet surface of the candy traced through your folds, drawing slow circles around your clit, down to your entrance. You whimpered, hips jerking when he gently pushed the rounded tip inside.

“Relax,” he said, voice gravel against your neck. “I’ve got you.”

He began to slide it in and out—slow at first, then deeper, letting the lollipop coat in your slick, dragging over your most sensitive places with unbearable pressure.

You arched, mouth open, moaning without shame now.

Chris watched, jaw tight, eyes glued to where your body took the candy. “Look at that… you’re fuckin’ dripping. You like being used like this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was whimper, nodding furiously, your legs shaking.

And just when you were right there—panting, needing, desperate—he pulled it out.

You almost cried out from the loss.

But then he dropped between your legs and devoured you.

His mouth was hot, hungry, wicked. Tongue fucking into you like he needed it to breathe, lips sucking on your clit until your thighs clamped around his head and you were sobbing his name. He moaned into you—like he loved the taste—and it only made you spiral faster.

And then—

He pulled back, spit-slick and glistening, and shoved the lollipop into your mouth.

Your lips parted instinctively, tasting yourself, tasting him. It was sweet and obscene and filthy—and you moaned around the candy, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

Chris looked wrecked.

“Fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he growled, rubbing himself through his jeans with a pained expression. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

And you?

You didn’t want him to be.

Within moments, your wrists were bound above your head—Chris had tied them with the black silk tie he’d pulled off his nightstand, looping it through the headboard slats and knotting it tight enough to hold, but gentle enough not to hurt.

You tested it once. There was no give. No escape.

You were completely exposed—naked, trembling, stretched out across his bed, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you looked down at him.

He was on his knees between your thighs again, bare chest gleaming with sweat, mouth already red and slick from earlier. He looked up at you like he was starving. Like your pussy was his fucking religion.

“You thought I was done?” he murmured, voice thick and wrecked. “Baby… I haven’t even started yet.”

He dragged two fingers slowly through your folds, then sucked them into his mouth with a filthy groan. “Still so sweet. So fucking perfect. Bet I can get at least three more out of you before you beg me to stop.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, thighs already twitching. “Chris, I—I can’t—”

He smirked, dark and mean. “You can. You just don’t know it yet.”

And then his mouth was on you.

He licked like a man possessed—tongue flat and wide at first, long slow strokes that made your toes curl. Then faster. More precise. He zeroed in on your clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth hard enough to make your back arch off the mattress.

You cried out, wrists tugging helplessly against the tie.

“Fuck, yes… that’s it,” he growled, breath hot against your swollen folds. “Come on, baby, give me another.”

You didn’t have a choice.

Your second orgasm hit like a fucking train—your thighs clamping around his head, your voice breaking into high, desperate moans as your body convulsed beneath him. But Chris didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.

If anything, he got hungrier.

“That’s my girl. So fucking good for me. Let me take what I want, just like that.”

You were sobbing now—pleasure mixing with overwhelming sensation. Every flick of his tongue on your raw, overstimulated clit made your body jolt. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as your thighs tried to twist away, but he held you down—one strong arm hooked over your hips, keeping you spread and still.

“Chris—fuck—please—too much—”

But he just groaned into you, tongue thrusting inside you now, wet and obscene. He was pussy drunk, completely gone, like the taste of you was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Your third orgasm rolled in fast and brutal—blinding, searing, completely out of your control. You screamed his name, legs trembling violently, face soaked in tears, body shaking like you were falling apart.

Finally—finally—he pulled back.

Your chest was heaving, throat raw from crying, wrists aching from how hard you’d pulled. And Chris just stared at you—lips shiny, chin wet, his hair messy and his eyes wild with lust.

You looked wrecked.

Absolutely ruined.

And he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

He crawled up over your trembling body, cupping your flushed, tear-streaked face with both hands. Kissed your lips—softly this time, reverently.

“You did so fucking good,” he whispered against your mouth. “So perfect for me.”

Your body was limp, boneless, but you smiled faintly through the tears. “You’re insane.”

He smirked. “For you? Every time.”

A/N: since yall seem to love fuckboy!chris, here’s another one for yall 😘😘

[mattslutt]

PINNED DOWN - m.sturniolo

in which: matt fingers you while making out which makes it harder for you to kiss him back.

contains: NSFW - heavy kissing, fingering, teasing, soft dominance, praising, pet names.

based on: this

The living room was dimly lit, just the soft flicker of the TV casting a dull blue light across the couch. You couldn’t even remember what show had been playing. You’d both been needy since the moment you woke up — stolen glances over breakfast, subtle touches while brushing past each other, and now this.

Matt was on top of you, your back pressed into the cushions of the couch, your fingers tangled in his soft hair. His mouth moved feverishly against yours, like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t breathe unless it was through you. His thigh was slotted perfectly between yours, pressing against you just enough to make your hips twitch on instinct.

“Mmm,” you whimpered softly into his mouth, the friction sending heat curling through your stomach.

Matt grinned against your lips, breath heavy. “You’ve been actin’ needy all day, sweet girl. You want it that bad, huh?” His voice was teasing, low and full of heat.

You didn’t answer — couldn’t. His mouth was back on yours before you could form a thought, sucking on your bottom lip just enough to make your eyes flutter shut. Your hips shifted again, seeking more of his leg, more friction. You weren’t subtle about it, and Matt definitely noticed.

“Thought so,” he mumbled, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck, where you gasped and clung tighter to his shoulders. “God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then you felt it — his hand slipping between your thighs, the pads of his fingers dragging up the soft inside of your thigh, slow and confident. You pulled back from the kiss just slightly, panting, but Matt didn’t stop. He was watching your face now, that smug smirk tugging at his lips like he was already winning something.

“You’re already soaked, baby,” he murmured with a low chuckle. “Is that all for me?”

Your cheeks burned, but the desperate ache inside you was louder than your embarrassment. “Yes,” you breathed out, hips already twitching when his fingers brushed over your clothed core.

“That’s my good girl,” he cooed, sliding his fingers beneath your waistband and into your panties. “Always so ready for me.”

You gasped, hands gripping his hoodie tighter when his fingers finally touched you properly — warm, calloused fingertips circling your clit before sliding down and pushing one finger inside you, slow and deep. Your head fell back into the couch cushion, your lips parting on a moan that he instantly swallowed up with another kiss.

Trying to kiss him back was impossible. His mouth was everywhere — your lips, your chin, your neck — and the way he curled his finger inside you made your brain short-circuit. When he added a second finger, moving them in slow, deliberate strokes, your hips arched against him.

“Having trouble kissin’ me back, sweet girl?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, teasing. “Too much for you?”

You whimpered, trying to speak, but only a strangled moan left your lips as he picked up the pace, his fingers hitting that spot that made your thighs tremble.

“Aw, baby,” he whispered, kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips again. “You sound so fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me.”

He loved watching you like this — gasping against his mouth, eyes fluttering half shut, lips trying to meet his but never quite keeping up because of what he was doing between your thighs. He pumped his fingers steadily, his thumb pressing tight circles against your clit now, his chest pressed to yours so you could feel every low groan he made into your skin.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered, voice heavy with need, his lips grazing your ear. “Come on, baby. Let go. Be my sweet girl.”

The coil in your stomach tightened, your body trembling under him as his name spilled from your lips in broken gasps. His kisses never stopped — soft and praising as he helped you through it, fingers slowing but never leaving you.

“There she is,” he whispered, kissing you softer now, sweetly, like he wasn’t still inside you, still rock hard and needy himself. “God, I love makin’ you fall apart.”

You blinked up at him, breathless, completely gone for him — and the heat in his eyes told you he was nowhere near finished.

“Think we’re done, baby?” he grinned, already kissing you again. “Nah. I’m just gettin’ started.”

A/N: ugh i miss posting on here but been busy with work and studies and work

[mattslutt]

SAY IT, BABY - m.sturniolo

in which: after a long month apart, Matt returns from tour with his beard more grown out.

contains :pussy drunk matt, oral (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, lots of praise and gentle possessiveness.

You didn’t even wait until the door fully shut behind him. As soon as Matt stepped into your apartment — hoodie slung over his shoulder, duffle bag in hand, and that stupidly grown-out beard shadowing his jaw — you launched into his arms.

“Baby,” he chuckled lowly, his voice scratchy with exhaustion, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you slightly off the ground. “Missed you so much.”

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling him. Warm hoodie. Airport. Cologne. Him. His beard scratched against your cheek, and you felt your thighs clench involuntarily. God. It suited him too well. He was already hot, but this? This was unfair.

“You grew it out…” you murmured, shyly brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He smirked. “You like it, pretty?”

You swallowed. Blinked up at him. “…A little.”

He knew. The look in his eyes told you everything. That lazy tilt of his mouth, that cocky glint under his lashes. He knew what he was doing to you, and he liked it.

Matt kissed your forehead, then your temple, whispering, “Let’s do movie night, yeah? I’m dying to just lay with you.”

You nodded quickly, already grabbing the blankets and throwing on your favorite comfort movie, though there was no way you were going to pay attention.

He settled next to you on the couch, arm draped around your shoulder. You curled into his side, trying so hard to focus on the screen and not the way his beard tickled your forehead every time he kissed your hair. Or the way his hand traced light circles on your hip. Or how he kept glancing at you with that smug, slow smile.

“You good, sweetie?” he murmured, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “You keep starin’ at me.”

Heat bloomed in your face, shamefully obvious. “Just missed you…”

His smile deepened. “Mhm. Missed me or missed somethin’ else?”

You opened your mouth, closed it. Too shy. The ache between your thighs made you squirm slightly, and his eyes definitely caught it. His voice dropped.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

You blinked up at him.

“Go on,” he said, softer this time. “I know what you need.”

Your breath hitched as you laid back against the couch cushions, heart pounding. Matt followed, kneeling between your legs, palms running up your thighs slowly — deliberately — dragging your shorts down in the process. You whimpered softly when the cold air hit your soaked panties.

“Oh, sweetie,” he murmured, voice warm and loving. “You’re soaked for me already?”

You hid your face in your arm, heat rushing to your cheeks. His fingers brushed up your inner thigh, featherlight, making your whole body twitch.

“Shy now?” he teased, voice deep and amused, beard brushing your thigh as he kissed closer. “No need to be, pretty. I got you.”

And then — finally — his mouth pressed over the fabric of your panties. You gasped, hips jerking, the textured scrape of his beard igniting something feral deep inside you. You’d dreamed about this. Woke up aching for it. But it was so much better than you imagined.

Matt pulled the soaked fabric aside with his teeth and groaned, low and hoarse. “Fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

Then he dove in.

His tongue was slow and purposeful at first, lapping between your folds like he had all the time in the world. His beard scratched your thighs with every movement, sending sparks shooting up your spine. It was rough, warm, him. His lips sealed around your clit with gentle pressure, and your legs tensed around his shoulders.

“Matt—ohmygod—” you whimpered, your voice breaking.

He moaned into you, the vibrations making your back arch off the couch.

“You taste so good, sweet girl,” he murmured against your dripping heat, his beard soaked and glistening. His grip on your thighs tightened possessively. “Been thinking about this the whole tour. Dreamt of it. Woke up hard every night.”

You could barely breathe, let alone respond. Your fingers twisted into the cushion beneath you, body arching into his mouth as his tongue slid through your folds again. Slow. Purposeful. Tasting you.

He moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever put in his mouth.

Then you felt one of his fingers slip down, rubbing your entrance gently before easing in — just one. Long and slow.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, watching your reaction. “So warm. So tight, baby.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as he curled it just right, brushing against that spot that made your legs jerk.

“Feels good?” he asked softly, tongue flicking your clit again. You nodded, panting, too wrecked to form words. “That’s it, sweetie. Just relax for me. Let me make you feel good.”

He worked that finger in and out at a teasing pace while his tongue circled your clit—until your hips started to roll on their own, chasing more.

You were getting close again. Too close, too fast.

“Matt—” you gasped, voice shaking. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he said firmly, almost lovingly. “You’re gonna come for me again, pretty. I’m not stopping ’til I have every bit of you.”

A second finger joined the first, stretching you open. His tongue never let up. He moved faster now, messier, hungrier — like he couldn’t get enough of you. The wet sounds of his mouth, the slick of his fingers, your breathy whimpers — it was filthy. Perfect.

When your second orgasm crashed through you, it hit hard. Your legs thrashed, but Matt just held you down, arms wrapped around your thighs, forcing you to ride it out on his mouth.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered hoarsely, mouth still against your overstimulated center. “You’re doing so fucking good.”

You tried to squirm away, overwhelmed, oversensitive — but he wouldn’t let you.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head as his mouth found you again, licking you through it. “You don’t run from me, baby. I’ve waited a month for this. I’m not even close to done.”

You cried out when he curled his fingers again — slow and deep — and then sucked your clit right back into his mouth like he was starving. Your body jolted, back arching so high it felt like your spine might snap. It was too much. But also, not enough.

“Matt—please—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmured, breath hot and ragged. “Be a good girl and come for me again. Let me feel it.”

He started fucking you with his fingers harder now, deep and rhythmic, mouth dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses all over your folds, sucking your clit between every breath. Your legs were shaking, heels digging into the couch.

Then your third orgasm ripped through you like a wave breaking — loud, body-arching, blinding. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard, and Matt groaned, rutting slightly into the couch like he was getting off on just devouring you.

“Fuck, you’re unreal,” he rasped. “Look at you, baby. You’re shaking so much. Let me give you one more. Just one more.”

You tried to protest — breathless, barely coherent — but he was already diving back in, kissing your soaked, spent core like it was the most important thing in the world.

Your hands pushed weakly at his shoulders. “I can’t, Matt—please—”

“Yes you can,” he cooed, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You’re gonna give me one more. Gonna be my good girl, yeah?”

His voice. His mouth. His fingers still fucking into you—faster now, more desperate. He was obsessed. Addicted. His beard was soaked, chin glistening, eyes locked on your fluttering, ruined body.

Then he flattened his tongue over your clit, humming softly, and that was it.

The fourth orgasm hit you like a scream trapped in your throat — silent and earth-shattering. Your whole body went stiff, thighs clenching around his head, breath caught as every muscle seized.

He didn’t stop. Not until your trembling hand finally pulled him up, breathless and broken.

Only then did Matt finally, finally crawl up your body, his mouth and beard were soaked, and he looked completely wrecked. Eyes dark, lips swollen, and still smirking.

He leaned in to kiss you — deep, slow, messy. You tasted yourself on his tongue.

When he pulled away from the kiss to look at you, you were limp beneath him, wrecked beyond recognition, and he cradled your face like you were something fragile.

“Proud of you, sweet girl,” he whispered against your lips, brushing your sweaty hair back. “You took it so well. So perfect for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and teary.

“You always get this shy when you’re desperate?” he teased, crawling up your body more closer than possible and kissing you gently. “Kinda cute.”

You hid your face again, and he laughed softly.

“Nah, don’t hide,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “You’re my baby. Let me take care of you.”

He curled into you on the couch, one hand on your waist, the other stoking your cheek .

Matt smiled down at you, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand. “Next time, you better not be shy,” he whispered. “You ask when you need something, baby. I’ll always give it to you.”

A/N: matt the munch save me👅👅👅

[mattslutt]

FACE FIRST - c.sturniolo

includes: nsfw, smut, pet names, degrading, teasing, oral (f!receiving), chris the munch, fingering.

in which : fuck boy chris messes with the naive nerd after school.

You have no idea how you ended up in this situation.

Well—you do. Chris smirked at you in the hallway, leaned down real close and said, “Hop in. I’ll take you home.” And like a dumb little thing with a crush, you did.

Now your glasses are lopsided on the seat, your thighs are thrown over his shoulders, and your skirt’s bunched around your waist like a fucking invitation. His mouth is on you like he’s dying—devouring—and you’re sobbing.

“Aw, baby,” he mutters against your soaked cunt, tongue dragging slow and lazy over your clit. “You cryin’? That little pussy too much for you already?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Your hips are twitching, thighs trembling, eyes glassy. You’ve never been touched like this—never been touched at all—and now Chris Sturniolo, the popular, cocky asshole who every girl in school wants, has his face buried between your legs like you’re his last meal.

He groans like he means it. Like he’s grateful for every drip.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he growls. “Knew you were a filthy little thing underneath all that shy shit. Quiet in class, scared to talk to me, but sittin’ here sobbing on my tongue like a fuckin’ slut.”

Your hands tangle in his hair, trying to pull him back, but he grabs your thighs hard, pinning you down.

“Uh uh,” he smirks, lips slick. “No running, angel. You asked for this the second you looked at me like I couldn’t break you.”

He spits on your pussy, then licks it right back up.

You gasp, whimpering his name like it’s a prayer. “Chris… it’s—it’s too much…”

“Aww,” he pouts mockingly, fingers sliding into you slow and deep, “too much for my sweet little nerd? My shy baby can’t handle a little tongue? Thought you were smart, ma.”

Your cunt clenches around his fingers hard, and he fucking grins.

“There she is. Bet this tight little pussy’s never been stretched, huh? Never been eaten till you’re cryin’ in someone’s backseat like a cockdrunk slut that you are.”

You whimper. Loud. Embarrassed. Desperate.

Chris just hums, tongue flicking fast and messy, fingers curling until your whole body jolts.

“This your first time?” he teases, licking up your slick like it’s candy. “Course it is. Fuck, you taste so good, baby. Could make you cum on my mouth every fuckin’ day.”

You sob again, thighs shaking, the coil in your belly snapping hard as you fall apart—pussy fluttering, back arching, hands clawing at the leather seats.

Chris doesn’t stop. Not even when you squirted all over his mouth. He doesn’t even pause.

He licks through your orgasm like it’s nothing. Like he’s entitled to it.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes against your wrecked cunt. “That’s it. Cum all over my fuckin’ face like a good little slut.”

You’re twitching, overstimulated, still leaking, and he kisses your thigh sweetly. Almost innocent.

Then?

He grins, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at you with that same smug, perfect face.

“Next time, baby,” he says, voice low and cocky, “you’re riding my face ‘til you scream. But you gotta earn that shit first.”

You looked at him with those wide innocent eyes, he just looked down at you and chuckled, grabbing your chin softly and leaning his head down to kiss you, tongues tangling and him clearly winning the tongue fight.

When he pulled back, he whispered in your ear with that sexy rapsy voice of his. “And maybe.. I’ll fuck you properly next time if you’ll be a good girl for me, mkay?”.

You’re still shaking when he climbs back into the driver’s seat like nothing happened—like he didn’t just ruin you in the school parking lot while people walked by.

A/N:

do we like fuckboy!chris or no? let me know yall, more fics incoming with him if yall do ;)

[mattslutt]

clara. seventeen. she/her. infp. biggest chratt girl. smut blog. some fluff and angst won’t hurt. poems. writing. music. editing. green tea enthusiast. soul belongs to ariana grande. dm’s always open. blog is a safe place :)!

masterlists

NO hate will be tolerated towards me or my friends or the triplets in general. in the most simple way you’ll be blocked. if you don’t have the strength to send hate or accuse me of something off of anon ill just block you and won’t even bother stressing about it.

[mattslutt]

Where the Road Ends - c.sturnuolo

in which: gangsta chris falls for the innocent girl.

The bass of the party’s music thumped through the walls, vibrating beneath your feet. Colored lights flashed wildly, cutting through the smoky, crowded room. You weren’t even sure why you’d come. Your friends had dragged you along, promising a night of fun. But now, lost in a sea of strangers, you felt more alone than ever.

Until you saw him.

Chris Sturniolo stood near the kitchen doorway, laughing with his usual messy group — boys you’d heard rumors about, whispers of trouble and danger. But Chris was different. You didn’t know how you knew that — you just did. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper beneath the smirk he wore.

You tried to ignore him, but it felt like every time you looked away, your gaze was pulled back to him. Until finally, those blue eyes caught yours, and the world seemed to slow.

It started so simply. He’d noticed your uncomfortable fidgeting and had somehow materialized beside you, offering you a drink with that casual confidence that made your heart race. He was charming, making you laugh despite your nerves. And then he’d pulled you outside, away from the chaotic energy, the two of you leaning against the back fence beneath the moonlight.

“Parties aren’t your thing, huh?” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.

You shook your head, hugging yourself against the chilly breeze. “Not really. Too loud. Too many people.”

“I get that,” he admitted, surprising you. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s just pretending. Like they’re all just… empty.”

You stared at him, taken aback by his honesty. “Yeah… exactly.”

From then on, it became a habit. Parties became your meeting places, not because you loved them, but because you knew he’d be there. Sometimes you’d barely speak, just sharing a comfortable silence on a quiet balcony. Other nights, he’d talk — really talk — peeling away that reckless, cocky exterior to reveal the boy beneath.

You learned about his messy group of friends, how they dragged him into their chaos, even though he tried to keep his distance. He never admitted the worst of it directly, but you weren’t naive. The dangerous rumors surrounding Chris weren’t just rumors. But he wasn’t just that darkness — he was kind, surprisingly gentle, and underneath it all, so very lost.

“I hate them sometimes,” he whispered one night, his head resting on your shoulder, his voice rough and tired. “But they’re all I have.”

“You have me,” you whispered back, almost afraid of how true it felt.

And he did. Even though you came from two different worlds — your loving family, your small circle of friends who cared, versus his fractured, chaotic life — you somehow became his safe space. A secret he kept all to himself.

He called you Princess. Gorgeous. Baby. Names that made your heart stutter even though you knew you weren’t his. You weren’t anything. Just two teens, both a little broken, desperate to feel something real.

Your first kiss was an accident — or maybe it wasn’t. One night, when the world felt too heavy for both of you, his lips found yours, soft and searching, tasting like desperation and longing. It was messy, a little too fast, but so honest that it made your chest ache. And when you pulled away, he just rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

But you didn’t care. You never had.

Now, as you sat beside him in the quiet of your room, his head resting in your lap, his breathing slow and steady, you carded your fingers through his hair. The boy who was feared by so many looked so small here, so fragile.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just run away with you,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath.

Your heart ached at the way his voice cracked. “Then let’s go,” you whispered, even though you both knew it wasn’t that simple.

His hand found yours, squeezing tightly, as if afraid you might disappear. “You’re the only thing that feels real, princess. Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t,” you promised, even though the world outside your little bubble seemed determined to pull you both apart.

TIMESKIP TO LATER….

The hum of the engine was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. The dark highway stretched endlessly ahead, the glow of streetlights fading in the rearview mirror. Chris’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles pale against the darkness of the night. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were wild — desperate, almost feverish.

You sat curled up in the passenger seat, your knees pulled to your chest, staring out at the blur of the night. The thrill that had sparked when he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward his car, had long since dulled. Replaced by a growing ache in your chest, a gnawing fear clawing at you.

What were you doing?

Chris’s hand had been so warm when it took yours, his voice urgent, almost pleading. “Let’s just go. I don’t care where. I just… I need to be away. With you.”

And you had followed him. You always did. But now, as the world you knew faded further behind you, your heart twisted painfully.

Chris glanced at you for a split second, catching the way your face was half-buried against your knees, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. His breath hitched.

“Princess?” he whispered, voice rough, uncertainty cracking through the reckless urgency that had driven him this far.

You didn’t answer, and that shattered something inside him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his mind spiraling.

What was he doing? Dragging you away from everything you knew, just because he was desperate — desperate to escape, desperate to keep you close. But now he saw it, your crumpled expression, the regret you were trying so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out suddenly, voice breaking. Without another word, he slammed his foot on the brake, the car skidding slightly on the empty road before he twisted the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn.

“Chris?” you whispered, looking up, confusion and relief swirling in your eyes.

“We’re going back,” he whispered, jaw clenched, a thousand emotions warring in his gaze. “I’m so sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have… I just… I was being so fucking selfish.”

You didn’t know what to say, but when his free hand reached out, shaking slightly, you grabbed it, squeezing tightly. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the rough pad against your soft skin sending a shiver through you.

“I thought… I thought maybe if I got away, if I just had you… I’d finally feel like I wasn’t drowning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But all I did was drag you down with me.”

Tears spilled over your cheeks, but you shook your head, squeezing his hand even tighter. “You didn’t… I just got scared. I— I didn’t know… where we were going, or what we were gonna do. But I wasn’t scared of you.”

Those words seemed to break him. His shoulders sagged, and a trembling breath escaped his lips. “You should be. You should be scared of me, princess. I mess everything up.”

“No, you don’t,” you whispered, leaning closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “You’re just lost. We both are.”

His fingers laced with yours, his touch so warm, grounding you. He didn’t say anything, but you saw it — the way his breathing slowed, the way his grip on the steering wheel softened. The desperation bled out of him, leaving behind just the boy you knew — the boy who was scared, who was hurting, but who, for some reason, always found his way to you.

The lights of your town appeared in the distance, the familiar roads winding beneath the moonlight. Chris’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing gentle, soothing patterns on your skin.

“I won’t make you run away with me again,” he whispered as he pulled up outside your house, the engine’s rumble fading into a quiet hum.

“Maybe one day,” you murmured, your heart aching but steady. “When we’re ready.”

He looked at you then, a soft, broken smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… one day.”

You leaned over, brushing your lips against his cheek, lingering for just a second longer than a simple kiss would allow. His eyes fluttered closed, leaning into your touch.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you whispered.

“Always,” he promised.

And as you slipped out of the car, watching him drive away, you didn’t feel the crushing loneliness you once did. Because you knew he’d be back. He always was.

TIMESKIP TO LATER..

The rain was relentless, pounding against your window, streaking the glass with silver trails. You sat curled up on your bed, the dim glow of your bedside lamp casting soft shadows. The quiet hum of your thoughts was a familiar comfort — a space you retreated to whenever the world felt too loud.

But tonight, it wasn’t enough. Not with the ache in your chest, the empty, gnawing feeling that always seemed to linger whenever Chris wasn’t around. You hadn’t seen him in weeks — not at parties, not around town. No texts, no late-night calls. Silence.

You tried not to spiral, but the fear was always there — the thought that maybe this time, he was gone for good. That maybe his darkness had finally swallowed him whole.

Your phone buzzed, the sudden noise breaking through the quiet. You grabbed it without thinking, heart skipping a beat when his name flashed on the screen.

Chris :

“Outside.”

You didn’t even hesitate. You were on your feet, grabbing your hoodie, rushing down the stairs. The front door swung open, and there he was — soaked to the bone, standing in the downpour, his chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

“Chris?” you breathed, stepping onto the porch, the rain misting your face. “What have you been and what are you—”

“I can’t do it anymore,” he cut you off, voice rough, eyes wide and desperate. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. I can’t keep running away. I can’t keep—”

“Chris—”

“I can’t keep losing you,” he whispered, and suddenly, he was on the porch, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. “I thought I could just keep you on the edges of my life, like some… some escape. But you’re not an escape. You’re the only real thing I’ve ever had.”

Your breath caught, his words crashing over you like the rain. “You don’t have to lose me,” you whispered, your own voice cracking. “I’m right here.”

“But for how long?” he asked, and you saw it — the fear, the raw vulnerability in his eyes. “I keep dragging you down. I keep pulling you into my mess, and one day, you’re gonna realize you deserve better.”

“Don’t you dare decide that for me,” you snapped, grabbing his wrists, grounding him. “Don’t you dare.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his lips crashed against yours, desperate and aching, his hands slipping to your waist, pulling you closer. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in his wet hair, the cold rain forgotten in the warmth of his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I love you,” he whispered, the words tumbling out like a confession, like a plea. “I’m so in love with you, and I’m so fucking scared.”

“I love you too, Chris,” you whispered, a soft, teary laugh escaping. “I’m scared too. But I’m not leaving.”

He let out a shaky breath, a mix of relief and disbelief. His arms tightened around you, his face burying in the crook of your neck. “I won’t run away. I swear. Not anymore. Not without you.”

And you believed him.

Because in the rain, with his arms around you and his heart laid bare, his desperate but sweet mouth on yours and you knew — this wasn’t just another escape. This was something real.

This was where the running stopped.

A/N: we love gangsta chris, anyway, hope yall enjoy this :))) this is something very different that im not used to writing so i hope yall like it.

[mattslutt]

WORSHIP YOU - m.sturniolo

in which: : your boyfriend matt is obsessed with your thighs and always makes sure you feel worshipped and loved.

Matt’s voice is muffled through the bathroom, something about making dinner together, but you barely process it. You’re sprawled across the bed, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling—a dangerous habit, you know. But today, the algorithm is relentless, shoving image after image of toned bodies, lean legs, impossible proportions right in your face.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, and then you catch your reflection in the black mirror of your phone—a frown, a furrowed brow. Without thinking, your hand moves to your thigh, fingers pressing into the softness, feeling that familiar twist in your stomach. You hate how easy it is for the doubt to creep in.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice Matt until the bed dips beneath his weight, and suddenly, warm hands are gripping your legs, dragging them over his shoulders as he all but buries himself between them. His cheek presses against the plush of your thigh, and you feel his lips—soft, barely-there kisses—trailing across your skin.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice low, a little muffled. He squeezes your thighs, almost like he’s testing the feeling of them in his hands, and there’s a hint of a groan in his voice, like he can’t help himself. “God, I missed these.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, the spell of self-critique cracking just slightly. “You saw me like an hour ago, Matt.”

“Yeah, and it was too long.” His grip tightens, and his eyes—half-lidded, a little dazed—flicker up to yours. “You know, you could suffocate me with these, and I’d say thank you.”

Your cheeks burn. “Matt—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, the playful tone slipping just a bit, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles over your thighs, his touch feather-light, but enough to leave a trail of warmth in its wake. “I don’t think you get it. I’m obsessed. These legs, these thighs—” He presses another kiss, this time lingering, his lips hot against your skin. “I love them. I love you.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and you instinctively try to pull your legs away, but his hands are already gripping tighter. “Nope. Not going anywhere,” he insists, his lips still brushing against you with every word. “You can keep thinking whatever you want, but just know I’m gonna keep doing this. Forever. Okay?”

Your heart stutters, the familiar doubt flickering weakly before fading under his touch, his words, his devotion. You reach down, your fingers slipping into his messy hair, and he hums, leaning into your touch like a cat starved for attention.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice a little shaky, a little overwhelmed. “Forever sounds good.”

“Good,” he mumbles, already pressing another kiss to your thigh, his voice going softer, almost sleepy. “Because I’m not letting go. Ever.”

Matt’s lips are still against your thigh, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, and his voice drops to a low, almost sleepy murmur. “Softest thighs I’ve ever touched,” he whispers, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles. “Could live right here. Your skin’s perfect. So warm, so soft.”

“Matt—” you try to protest, a nervous laugh bubbling up, but his hands just tighten, pulling your legs even closer around his shoulders.

“No, I mean it,” he continues, voice edging on desperate, like he needs you to understand. “You don’t get it, do you? You could wear anything—shorts, dresses, those leggings I love—and I’d just lose my mind. Sometimes I see you and forget how to talk. I just wanna touch you, kiss you—”

Your face burns, your fingers instinctively tugging at his hair, trying to distract him. “Matt, stop—”

“Not a chance,” he breathes, pressing another kiss, this one wetter, his lips lingering. “I’d spend hours here if you let me. I love the way you feel, love the way you look. I love how soft you are. How perfect.” His voice is a low, steady rhythm, each word sinking into your skin, carving away every ounce of doubt.

“Matt—” you try again, but he looks up, his blue eyes dark and serious, and your voice falters.

“I wish you could see what I see,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “How gorgeous you are. I watch you walk around, and I just—” He lets out a low, breathless laugh. “I can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe I get to touch you. I’m so obsessed, baby. So, so obsessed.”

You feel the heat crawling down your neck, spreading across your chest, and you try to squirm away, embarrassment making you lightheaded. “Matt, please—”

“Please, what?” he teases, but there’s a gentleness to it. “Please keep going? Please keep kissing you?” His lips find a new spot on your thigh, his stubble grazing against your skin, sending a shiver through you. “I will. I’ll never stop. Not until you believe me. Not until you understand how much I love every single part of you.”

Your heart is racing, the mixture of embarrassment and something warmer, something more addictive, flooding through you. You try to cover your face, but Matt’s hand catches your wrist, pulling it gently away.

“No hiding, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice a low promise. “Not from me. Never from me.”

A/N:

as a curvy girly myself, im very insecure and have been feeling way more insecure recently so i wrote this to feed my delusions but also make myself feel better LMAO.

[mattslutt]

MATTSLUT MASTERLIST

matthew sturniolo

ONESHOTS

He Couldn’t Breathe

BLURBS

Worship You

Say It Baby

Pinned Down

chris sturniolo

ONESHOTS

Wrong Place, Perfect Time

Where The Road Ends

BLURBS

Slow Burn

Face First

Sweet Tooth

chratt

ONESHOTS

nothing yet…

BLURBS:

nothing yet…

[mattslutt]

SLOW BURN - c.sturniolo

in which: dealer chris fucks his innocent friend.

The room smells like smoke and sweat—dim light, low music, a half-burnt blunt still between Chris’s fingers as he leans back on the couch, shirtless, his chain glinting against his chest.

You’re spread out in his lap, thighs draped over his, back pressed to his chest, and his free hand already down between your legs. He’s high as hell, body relaxed, eyelids heavy, but his fingers? Still sharp. Still slow. Still driving you fucking crazy.

“Damn, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and lazy as his fingertips slide through your folds. “You’re so wet. This all for me?”

You whimper, hips twitching, and he grins, breath hot against your neck. His fingers don’t rush. They drag—teasing, circling, slipping just barely inside before pulling back to stroke your clit with maddening pressure.

“Shit…” he breathes, kissing your jaw. “You feel so fuckin’ soft, ma. Could play with this pussy all night.”

Your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. “Chris—please…”

He chuckles, the sound deep, lazy, stoned. “Nah, baby, don’t beg yet. I like how needy you get.” His middle finger presses in deeper this time, slow and stretching. “I’m high as fuck and you’re sittin’ here makin’ me harder just from the way you fuckin’ drip.”

You moan, thighs shaking, and he groans right back, his cock thick and twitching beneath you.

“Open your legs for me, ma. Let me see you fall apart.” His thumb rubs tight, slow circles, two fingers now sliding in and out, soaked and curling just right.

“Goddamn,” he whispers. “This pussy’s mine.”

You’re already close, panting, trembling—and he knows it.

“You gonna come just from my fingers, baby? From me fuckin’ you like this, high and slow?” He kisses your shoulder, his voice a haze of smoke and sin. “Do it. Let me feel it.”

And when you do—legs shaking, breath caught, pussy clenching around his fingers—he groans like it’s his release, too.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, licking into your neck, still moving his fingers through the aftershocks. “You’re a fuckin’ drug.”

And right now, he’s hooked.

“Damn, look at this mess,” Chris mutters, fingers dragging slowly through your slick again, lazy and precise, like he’s studying every reaction.

You’re still sprawled in his lap, legs wide, your back arched and your head falling back against his shoulder. He’s high and unbothered, the blunt now half-dead in the ashtray—but his focus? It’s all between your thighs.

“You’re so sensitive,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. His fingers—slick and slow—slide up to your clit again. He doesn’t rub fast. He doesn’t rush. He circles it. Gentle, steady, cruel.

You whimper, hips twitching. “Chris—fuck, please—”

He chuckles, voice deep and dragging like molasses. “Please what, ma? Huh? You want me to fuck it or just keep teasin’ this sweet lil’ clit ‘til you cry for it?”

You gasp, thighs shaking, and he moans at the way your pussy clenches even though he’s barely touching you.

“Goddamn, baby,” he groans, two fingers dipping back in slow. “So fuckin’ tight. She’s suckin’ me in like she needs me.”

Then—his thumb brushes your clit while his fingers curl inside. Your whole body jerks.

“There it is,” he breathes. “Yeah. That spot. That’s the one, huh?”

Your legs try to close, overwhelmed, but he uses his thigh to keep them spread, his arm locking around your waist. “Nuh-uh. Open for me, baby. I ain’t done.”

He pulls his fingers out, spreads your folds with two fingers and stares—like he’s in a trance.

“Look at this pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he mutters, voice almost reverent. “So wet I could slide my cock in without even tryin’. But nah… I like her like this. All puffy and twitchy ‘cause I’m just playing.”

He taps your clit once. Sharp. Your breath catches.

“Yeah. You like that, don’t you?”

You nod, eyes glassy, breath gone.

Chris smirks. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you’re drippin’ down my fuckin’ hand.”

And then he’s back to it—fingers fucking you slow and deep, thumb rubbing lazy circles, his voice low and slurred against your neck.

“Gon’ make you come again, baby. Nice and slow.“

You’re gone. Floaty. Wrecked.

And he’s loving every second of it.

Your legs are spread wide, trembling, laid open across Chris’s lap. His back’s against the couch, blunt forgotten, sweat glistening on his chest as his heavy-lidded eyes watch your pussy stretch around three thick fingers—then four.

“Look at her,” he mutters, eyes locked on where he’s slowly pushing into you. “She’s takin’ me so good, baby.”

You’re panting, gasping, nails digging into the couch cushions. Your pussy’s soaked—dripping—from how long he’s been playing, working you open like he’s got nowhere else to be, like this is the only thing in the world that matters. His fingers curl inside you, slow and brutal.

“Ma, she’s fuckin’ beggin’ for more,” he groans, voice slurred and hazy with weed and lust. “You feel that stretch? Fuck…”

You whimper, legs twitching. You’re so full already—but he doesn’t stop.

His pinky presses in, stretching you wider, slow and steady. You gasp, the burn making your toes curl—but your cunt is greedy, soaking his whole damn hand, clenching around him like she needs it.

“You want it all, baby?” he breathes against your neck. “Wanna feel my whole fuckin’ hand inside this tight lil’ pussy?”

You nod, broken and desperate, and that’s all he needs.

“Yeah… that’s it, ma,” he groans, pushing deeper. His knuckles stretch you wide, then slip in, thick and unforgiving. “Take it. Take it all for me.”

You cry out—raw and overwhelmed—as his hand slips all the way in, wrist-deep, buried to the base. His fingers flex inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Shiiit,” he growls, kissing your shoulder.

Your body’s shaking, soaked, stuffed full, and he just holds you there—his thick hand flexing, palm dragging slow pressure against every inch inside you. You can’t think. You can’t breathe.

“I can feel your heartbeat in here, baby,” he murmurs, groaning at the tight pulse of your walls around him.

You’re gasping, sobbing his name, eyes rolling back, and he’s grinning against your ear, so high and so in love with the way you come apart around his hand.

“Come for me, ma,” he growls. “Come while I’m fuckin’ you with nothin’ but this hand.”

And when you do? It’s devastating. Your whole body seizes, cunt clenching around his wrist, soaking his palm as you scream his name and fall apart.

Chris holds you through it, still inside you, whispering:

“Good girl. That’s my fuckin’ baby.”

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls his soaked hand out of you, strings of slick stretching between your thighs and his palm. Your pussy flutters, wide and messy, still pulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, lips swollen, hole clenching around nothing—empty now.

But not for long.

Chris groans under his breath, staring down at the soaked mess between your legs, his cock twitching hard against his stomach.

“Fuckin’ ruined, ma,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “You see this shit? Look what I did to you.”

He shifts you like you weigh nothing, flipping you over onto your stomach, ass up, face pressed into the couch cushions. You barely register the move—still dazed—until you feel the thick, hot weight of his cock drag through your slick folds.

You moan, hips pushing back, desperate.

“You want it that bad, baby?” he taunts, grinding his tip against your stretched-out hole. “Even after I stuffed you full’a my hand, you still need this dick?”

“Please, Chris,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “Need it. Fuck me.”

He doesn’t answer.

He just slams into you.

You scream into the cushions, back arching as he sinks in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The stretch is obscene—your pussy still fluttering and open from the fisting, so he slides in too easy, too deep. You can feel him in your stomach.

“Shit—fuck,” Chris growls, hips stuttering. “Baby, you’re perfect.”

He pulls back and drives in again, harder this time—skin slapping skin, the sound loud and filthy in the room. You’re a mess underneath him, hair clinging to your face, arms trembling, juices dripping down your thighs.

And Chris is gone.

High as fuck, dick buried deep, eyes locked on the way your ass bounces every time he thrusts back in.

He grabs your hips, drags you back into him like he owns you. “Take this dick, ma. Just like that. That’s it. Let me fuck this ruined little pussy how she needs it.”

You moan—long, high-pitched—and he laughs breathlessly.

“You hear yourself?” he pants, fucking into you harder now. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ cryin’ for it.”

Then he leans over your back, one hand slipping under your belly to rub your clit, his chest pressed to your spine.

“I got you, baby,” he whispers into your ear, voice surprisingly soft between the filth. “You’re safe with me. Gonna make you come again, and again, and again. Long as you let me.”

You gasp his name, fingers curling in the cushions as he pounds into you now—hips snapping, thumb circling your clit, cock dragging against your walls like he was made for this.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say whose pussy this is.”

“Yours,” you cry. “Yours, Chris—fuck—it’s yours.”

He groans, loud, and you feel his rhythm falter—just a second—before he fucks into you harder, chasing both your highs like he needs it to breathe.

You’re trembling, right there, clenching so tight around him it’s impossible to hold back—

“Come on, baby,” he growls. “Come all over this dick. Now.”

And you do—screaming, body locking up, pussy spasming around him, soaking him all over again.

Chris slams in one last time and spills inside you, groaning, forehead dropping to your shoulder, cock pulsing as he fills you up, deep and messy and fucking endless.

For a moment, all you hear is breathing. Sweat. The thud of your pulse.

Then Chris presses a kiss to your spine and mutters, still high and wrecked:

“Shit, baby… I ain’t ever lettin’ this pussy go.”

You’re boneless.

Face buried in the cushions, thighs twitching, body limp and leaking from where Chris just fucked you full. Your pussy’s swollen, dripping, twitching from aftershocks—but he’s not done.

Not even close.

“Don’t run, baby,” he mutters, voice dark and low from behind you. “I ain’t finished.”

You gasp as he pushes your thighs apart again, exposing your soaked cunt to the cool air. The mess between your legs is filthy—slick everywhere, your folds glistening, his cum leaking out in slow drips. Your body shudders as you feel him stare.

Then he dives in.

His mouth is hot and wet and fucking ruthless. Tongue dragging through your folds, licking up every bit of slick and cum like it’s his favorite flavor. You cry out, thighs trying to snap shut—but he grabs your hips, strong and sure, pressing you down against the couch.

“Chris—fuck, it’s too much—!”

“Nah, ma,” he growls into your pussy. “You said you needed it. So take it.”

He devours you—tongue flicking, circling your clit, dipping inside you and slurping up the mess he left. He moans into you like he’s starving, like he’s high off the taste of your pussy and losing his mind with every flick.

And when you try to squirm away, shaking, gasping, overwhelmed—he grips your hips tighter, fingers digging in, locking you in place.

“Stay the fuck still,” he mutters, voice soaked in hunger. “Let me fuckin’ eat.”

You sob into the pillow, your body trembling, nerves raw, every nerve ending firing as his tongue moves faster, lips sucking your clit into his mouth before he presses two fingers back in—hard, deep, curling perfectly.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “This pussy’s fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

Your whole body jerks as the pressure builds again—too fast, too soon, but he doesn’t care. He wants it all.

He needs to make you break.

His fingers pound into you now, messy and relentless, his mouth locked to your clit. You’re crying, begging, choking on your own moans, but Chris is locked in, drunk on you.

“Gon’ come again, ma,” he grits. “Gon’ gush all over my fuckin’ face. I want it, baby. Give it to me.”

You scream—loud, raw—as your body explodes.

Your pussy clenches, floods, gushes into his mouth as you collapse, twitching, crying his name. And still—still—Chris keeps going, tongue lapping up everything, groaning like he could live between your legs forever.

“Fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, lips shiny with your slick. “Can’t get enough of this fuckin’ pussy.”

You’re spent. Ruined.

But he’s still licking.

Still holding you down.

Still saying your name like a prayer.

_______

You’re both quiet now.

Your body’s trembling, twitching with the echoes of everything he just did to you—fucked out, overstimulated, and barely able to keep your eyes open. Chris is on his side, curled around you, one arm slung heavy over your waist, his thumb stroking lazy, grounding circles on your skin.

He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder. Then another. Then one at the back of your neck.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, still laced with that soft haze from the high.

You nod slowly, turning your face just enough for your cheek to brush his. “Mhm. Just… floatin’.”

He chuckles softly, forehead resting against you. “Yeah. You took it all like a fuckin’ champ, ma.”

His tone’s different now—no teasing, no filth—just warm pride and low affection. You smile sleepily, reaching down to intertwine your fingers with his where they rest on your stomach.

Chris shifts closer, pulling the blanket over your bodies, wrapping it around you both. You feel the weight of his chain against your back, the heat of his chest pressing into you, the slow, steady beat of his heart against your spine.

“You make me feel…” you start, voice barely above a whisper. “Safe. Wanted. Like I’m yours.”

He exhales slow, tucking his face into your neck. “That’s ‘cause you are mine.”

Silence settles. His arms tighten just a little.

“Don’t nobody touch you like I do. Don’t nobody get this part’a you.” His lips brush your ear. “Only me. Always me.”

You shiver, not from the cold—just from the way he says it. Like it’s a promise.

Then, a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I’ll run you a bath in a bit,” he mumbles, half-asleep. “Get you cleaned up… kiss you all over again if you let me.”

You hum, content. “Only if you hold me after.”

“Always,” he whispers. “Ain’t lettin’ you outta my arms tonight.”

And with that, the two of you fall into the quietest kind of peace—skin to skin, breath to breath—wrapped in each other, and in the afterglow of something deeper than just the high.

A/N:

this is freaky.

[mattslutt]

WRONG PLACE, PERFECT TIME - c.sturniolo

in which: your ex chris fucks you in the university library.

You were not prepared for this.

It was a normal day — humid, the buzz of early fall excitement hanging over campus like a tangible mist. You’d just pushed through the heavy library doors when you smacked directly into a wall of muscle. Your books spilled. Your bag slipped off your shoulder.

“Shit, sorry—” a familiar voice said, and your heart stopped.

Chris.

Your ex Chris.

Standing there like a ghost you hadn’t asked to see. Tanned from the summer, taller somehow, a little more scruffy, wearing that old hoodie you used to steal when you stayed over. His smile broke out the second he realized it was you, and damn it, your body betrayed you — your stomach flipped, your breath hitched.

“Hey,” he said, low and teasing, as he bent down to gather your books.

“Hey yourself,” you muttered, heart hammering, nerves snapping like frayed wire.

You hadn’t seen Chris since the breakup. Messy, stupid — two people who loved too much and fought even harder. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It was that maybe you cared too much.

And now he was here. On your campus. Your college. The same one you’d worked your ass off to get into.

“Didn’t know you were coming here,” he said, handing you your notebook — the one with your doodles of little hearts in the margins. You saw his eyes flick to it, his mouth twitching.

“Didn’t know you were either,” you shot back, feeling the burn creep up your neck.

You stood there, stupidly close, the magnetic pull of you and Chris still so goddamn alive it was like the universe hadn’t gotten the memo that you were supposed to be done.

He chuckled — low, dangerous. “Guess fate wants to mess with us, huh?”

You raised an eyebrow, trying — failing — to smother the grin tugging at your lips. “Or maybe it’s giving us a second chance to hate each other in a new setting.”

“Hate’s a strong word,” Chris said, voice dipping, flirt sliding in way too easy. “You sure that’s what you feel?”

You should have walked away. You should have.

Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “You’re still cocky as hell, I see.”

Chris stepped closer, like he could taste the challenge in your voice. “You used to like that about me.” His fingers brushed your wrist under the guise of handing you your bag — slow, deliberate.

Your pulse jumped.

“Used to,” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through, making it sound anything but convincing.

He smirked like he knew. Like he felt it too — the wild, reckless thing clawing up between you.

“Still do,” he said, voice low, rough. “Admit it.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to surrender, you didn’t even know — but Chris was already moving. Walking backwards, keeping his eyes locked on yours like he dared you to follow.

“See you around,” he called over his shoulder, cocky as ever.

You hated him.

You missed him.

You needed him like a drug.

And it wasn’t over. You knew it wasn’t over.

It happened again a week later.

Late night, library almost empty.

You reached for a book. So did he.

Your fingers brushed. You both froze.

Electricity crackled like a live wire between you.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Chris said, voice rough with something heavy — something hungry.

“Maybe you should stay out of the library then,” you whispered, stepping closer when you should have run.

He smirked — but there was a crack in it now, something breaking underneath.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

The tension snapped.

One second you were standing there, breathing the same air, pretending you weren’t drowning.

The next, he was backing you into the dusty shelves, mouth crashing onto yours like he’d been starving.

It was messy. Desperate. Soaked with every argument, every apology you’d never said out loud.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you back together.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of his hoodie, yanking him closer.

He kissed you like he hated you for leaving.

You kissed him like you hated yourself for still needing him this much.

Chris groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped up the back of his neck, sending a shiver through his body.

You barely noticed when your back hit the shelves.

You barely cared.

His hands were everywhere — pushing under your jacket, sliding over your ribs, tugging you up against him like he could never get enough.

And you weren’t much better — your hands clutching at his shirt, your mouth chasing his, teeth grazing his bottom lip just to hear the ragged sound he made.

“Missed you,” he growled against your skin, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck where he bit just hard enough to make you gasp. “Missed you so fucking bad.”

“Chris,” you whimpered, hating the way it broke in your throat.

You didn’t say it back.

You didn’t have to.

The way you pressed your body into his told him everything.

The way you tugged at his belt, fumbling, desperate, told him more.

“Here?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

“I don’t care,” you breathed out. “I just need you.”

That broke something in him.

“Fuck, baby,” Chris muttered against your lips, voice wrecked. “You have no idea how bad I want you right now.”

Your fingers fisted the front of his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer. You could feel him — hard against your stomach, thick and straining against his jeans.

“You miss me, pretty angel?” he rasped, trailing kisses down your jaw, to the sensitive spot behind your ear that made your knees wobble.

“Yes—” you gasped, hating how easily you gave yourself away.

He grinned against your skin, cocky and dark and so Chris it made your head spin.

“Knew you would,” he whispered, nipping your throat. “My sweet girl. My pretty little angel. Never belonged to anyone else.”

His words — filthy and reverent all at once — shot straight between your thighs.

You whimpered when he grabbed your hips and lifted you onto a low shelf like you weighed nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, locking him in.

Chris groaned when you rolled your hips into him, the friction so delicious it ripped a curse from his mouth.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tugging your shirt up, palming your bare waist like he wanted to memorize it. “So fucking pretty. All mine.”

You moaned when he ducked his head, kissing and sucking bruises down your neck like he wanted to mark you — claim you.

His hand slid under your skirt, fingers rough and greedy.

“God, baby, you’re fucking soaked,” he growled, voice full of wrecked wonder as his fingers slipped against your panties. “Dripping for me already? Huh?”

“Chris—” you whimpered, desperate, nails clawing at his back through his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes wild.

“You need me to make it better, pretty girl?” he teased, voice gravel and silk. “You need my cock that bad?”

You nodded helplessly, grinding against his hand, chasing any friction you could get.

He grinned — dark, victorious — before yanking your panties to the side. He unzipped his jeans, enough to free himself, thick and hard and aching for you.

He hissed when he lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds.

“Been dreaming about this,” he muttered. “Dreaming about fucking you open again, baby. No one else ever touched you like I did, huh?”

“No—no one,” you gasped, dizzy with need, nails digging into his shoulders.

He pushed in, slow but relentless, a guttural sound ripping from his chest as you clamped around him.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, thrusting in until he was buried to the hilt. “My perfect fucking angel.”

You cried out — overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of him inside you again.

He gave you a second to adjust, kissing your forehead — tender in a way that wrecked you even more — before he started moving.

Hard, deep strokes that rattled the shelf behind you.

Each thrust punched little gasps and moans from your lips, and Chris ate up every single one like he was starving.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised, filthy and sweet. “Taking me so good. Always so good for me.”

Your head tipped back against the shelf, pleasure burning hot and fast under your skin. Chris kissed down your throat, murmuring filth into your skin between bruising thrusts:

“You were made for me, pretty angel. Only me. This little pussy’s mine, you hear me?”

“Yours,” you gasped, legs tightening around him as he fucked you harder.

He grinned against your neck, dragging his teeth over your skin.

“Damn right.”

Your climax built fast, overwhelming, the coil tightening in your gut until you were gasping his name like a prayer.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, voice rough and desperate. “Wanna feel you cum all over me. Wanna see my pretty girl fall apart for me.”

It only took a few more brutal thrusts, a few more filthy praises whispered into your ear, and you shattered — clenching around him so hard he cursed and slammed into you once, twice, before following you over the edge with a broken moan of your name.

You clung to each other, trembling and gasping, the world tilting and narrowing down to just you and him and the way you fit together like nothing had ever changed.

Chris buried his face in your neck, pressing lazy kisses to your skin as you both tried to catch your breath.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered again, softer this time. “My pretty little angel.”

And you smiled through the haze, knowing you were so fucking ruined — and not caring at all.

You lost yourself in him — the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him everywhere.

And Chris kissed you like he was drowning and you were the air he’d been aching for.

Later, tangled up in a forgotten corner of the library, skin flushed and hearts still racing, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Guess fate really was fucking with us.”

And you smiled, because maybe this time, it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

You were still shaking when he pulled back — just enough for his lips to leave your neck, but his hands stayed on you. Everywhere. Fingers tight on your waist, holding you in place while your chest heaved with every breath.

“That was fucking insane,” Chris murmured, his voice rougher than it had been before, still low and hungry. He kissed your cheek, dragging his lips down to your jaw, then your throat, each touch feeling like a promise. “I can’t get enough of you.”

You shuddered under him. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” you breathed, your voice cracked, a little delirious from the aftermath.

He grinned, that smug, cocky grin you hated — and secretly loved.

“You’re mine,” he growled, eyes dark and wild as he lowered his mouth to your ear. “You always have been.”

Before you could say anything, before you could even think about pulling away, he was on you again.

This time, his kiss was hard, bruising, desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, owning you with every lick.

“Chris—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your breath coming in sharp, needy pants. But he wasn’t done. No, not by a long shot. He was pulling at your shirt again, tearing it off you this time, his hands more urgent than before. His lips followed the path of skin he revealed, biting down on your collarbone just hard enough to leave a mark.

“God, baby,” he whispered, his hands rough on your skin. “Look at you. So fucking perfect for me. Just mine, always. Fuck, I’ve been dying to get my hands on you again.”

You whimpered when his mouth trailed lower, your body tightening in anticipation. You wanted him again — you needed him, even though you were still aching, still sensitive from before.

“Please, Chris,” you begged, lifting your hips into his as you arched your back.

He paused, his eyes flicking up to yours, dark and predatory. “Please what, baby?” he teased, voice dripping with lust. “You want more of me? You want me to make you mine again?”

“Yes,” you panted, already losing control. “I want you. I want you inside me, now.”

He groaned at that, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Such a good girl,” he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. “You really do like being fucked by me, don’t you?”

You nodded, your head falling back against the shelf, your mouth open in a breathless gasp. The words from his lips, the filthy way he spoke to you, were driving you insane. It was too much.

Chris didn’t need any more encouragement. He slid his cock back into you in one rough thrust that had you gasping.

“Oh God—” you cried out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he began to move, slow at first, deep and deliberate, drawing out each stroke so you felt every inch of him.

“You feel so good,” Chris muttered, his lips brushing against your neck as he started to pick up the pace. “So tight and warm. You’re mine, baby. Just mine. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” you breathed, your nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the stillness of the library.

Your body burned with need, every inch of you on fire as he pounded into you, the friction between you two sending shockwaves through your body. You were lost in him — his touch, his scent, his voice, and the way his cock stretched you open so perfectly, you could barely think.

“You like it when I fuck you like this, huh?” Chris murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his pace grew relentless. “You like how I fill you up? How I make you mine, over and over again?”

“Yes, oh God, yes!” you cried, your body rocking against his with every thrust. “Please, don’t stop, I need you…”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with something dark and hungry. “Tell me you’re mine, pretty angel,” he ordered, his voice demanding.

“I’m yours,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “Only yours. Always yours.”

Chris groaned at that, the sound rough and deep as he slammed back into you. “That’s right, baby. You’re fucking perfect for me. And I’m never letting you go again.”

The raw, desperate need in his voice sent you flying over the edge. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, the force of it ripping through your body, making you scream his name.

“Chris!” you gasped, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you, clenching around him.

Chris wasn’t far behind. He buried his face in your neck, a low growl vibrating from deep in his chest as he followed you, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled his release with a groan.

“Fuck, baby, you’re everything,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours as you both came down from the high, breathing heavily in the quiet library.

You clung to him, desperate to stay connected as the tension in your body slowly unraveled.

“We’re not done yet,” Chris said, his voice low and thick with desire as he pulled you even closer. “I’m not letting you go. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You smiled, feeling a wave of warmth rush through you. This wasn’t just a night. This was more. And you had a feeling that neither of you was going to be able to walk away from this again.

A/N:

is this sexy or nah 😔…