last one in the office | c.s

— workaholic! chris sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: angst, fluff, emotional guilt, established relationship, mild marital tension

The hallway is so quiet you can hear the low buzz of the vending machine down the corridor. Every other office is dark, blinds drawn tight, chairs pushed in for the night.

Except his. Light spills from the crack under the door, a warm rectangle against the carpet. You stop there for a moment, hand on the handle, listening. The faint scratch of a pen. Paper shuffling. A tired sigh.

You open the door without knocking.

Chris is bent over his desk, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair falls forward as he reads, one hand braced against the desk, the other scribbling notes in the margin of a document thick enough to be a phonebook. The desk lamp casts him in gold, making the shadows under his eyes look deeper. He doesn’t look up until you speak.

“Rescuing you,” you say simply, holding up the takeout bag in your hand.

His brows lift in surprise, but the expression softens almost instantly. That warm look you love flickers in his eyes—until it falters.

“Oh… baby,” he says, almost like it hurts, “as much as I want to…” His eyes drop to the bag, linger for a beat, then slide back to the paperwork in front of him. “I have to work, sweetie.”

You step farther in, setting the bag down on the edge of his desk and leaning against it so he has to notice you.

“You also have to eat. And breathe. And maybe remember you have a wife who misses you.”

His pen slips from his fingers and lands with a dull clink. He swallows but doesn’t meet your gaze, jaw tightening like he’s bracing for a hit.

“I know,” he murmurs finally.

“You know,” you echo, voice softer now, “but you’re still here. Again.”

The silence stretches. You glance at the clock on his wall—10:42 p.m.—and feel something tug sharp in your chest.

“Chris… when was the last time you came home before dark?”

He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean for it to be this late,” he says, almost to himself. “I just… lost track. And then one thing led to another…”

“And another. And another.” You push the takeout bag closer to him, the smell of his favorite food filling the space. “If I didn’t come here, would you have even eaten tonight?”

He hesitates, lips parting like he’s about to say yes—but your look cuts the lie before it leaves his mouth.

“Baby, I can’t—”

“You can,” you cut in gently. “You just won’t. And I’m starting to feel like you’d rather stay here with these papers than come home to me.”

That lands. His eyes close for a beat, his shoulders sinking. When he looks back at you, guilt is written in every line of his face. He glances at the stack of documents, then at you, like weighing them against each other.

“You know that’s not true,” he says quietly.

“Then prove it.” Something in him caves. You feel it in the way his hand comes up to cover yours when you cup his cheek, in the way he leans into your touch like it’s the first real pause he’s had all week.

“I hate that you had to come here,” he admits, voice thick. “I hate that you’ve been waiting at home alone. You didn’t sign up for that.”

You smile faintly, leaning down to kiss his temple. “I signed up for you. And that means I’m gonna drag you out of here when you’re being stubborn.”

He looks at the papers one last time, then pushes them aside in one firm motion.

“Alright,” he concedes. “Let’s go home.”

The drive is quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. His hand stays on your thigh the whole time, thumb brushing slow, absent circles over your jeans like he’s reacquainting himself with you. At every red light, you catch him glancing over—soft, searching, like he’s trying to say something without words.

When you walk through the door, you expect him to head straight for the shower. Instead, he sets the takeout on the counter and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His face finds the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in for a long, quiet moment.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin. It’s not hurried—it’s the kind of sorry that’s been sitting on his tongue for days.

You turn in his arms, cupping his face. “I know.”

His lips part like he wants to argue, but instead, he just leans in and kisses you. It’s not the rushed, distracted kiss you’ve been getting before work—it’s slow, lingering, almost desperate. The kind that says he knows exactly how much time he’s lost with you and is trying to make up for it.

When you pull back, his eyes are darker, softer.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs. “No work. No phone. Just… us.”

You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I think I can live with that.”

You curl up together on the couch under a blanket, his head on your chest, your fingers in his hair. He doesn’t check the time. He doesn’t think about the papers still sitting on his desk. For the first time in weeks, Chris looks like a man who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

A week later the next Friday, you’re curled on the couch with a book when you hear his key turn in the lock. You glance at the clock—6:17 p.m.

He’s early. Chris steps inside with a paper bag from your favorite bakery in one hand and a sheepish grin on his face. His tie is loose, hair a little mussed but eyes clearer. He drops the bag on the coffee table, kicks off his shoes, and walks straight to you.

“Told you I’d try,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss you.

You arch a brow. “One early night doesn’t erase months of late ones.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep making it up to you.” He gestures to the bag. “That’s step one. Step two…” His smile softens as he brushes your hair back. “Step two is making sure you never have to show up at my office to remind me what matters.”

You laugh, letting him pull you against his chest. And in that moment—warm, safe, the smell of pastries mingling with his cologne—you realize he’s not just saying it to ease his guilt.

He means it. For the first time in a long time, you believe him.

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matt x reader

face riding ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

inspired by ! nsfw ! twitter post

warnings ⊹₊⟡⋆ smut! oral (f receiving) finger sucking, mutual masterbation, english not my first language.

“Ride me. Nice and slow.”

puppy!reader x sugardaddymatt , dry humping, in the tour bus, petnames such as pup and good girl, his brothers are sleeping in the next room 18+

The bus was dim and swaying gently, the soft hum of the road filling the silence. All the bunks along the narrow aisle were drawn shut, the steady sound of Nick and Chris breathing in their sleep seeping through the thin curtains. You were tucked against Matt on the little couch, his hoodie warm against your cheek. You should have been asleep too but Matt’s hand had other plans.

It started with lazy circles on your thigh. Then a slow squeeze. Then the lightest brush under the hem of your shorts.

“Matt…” you whispered, giving him a look that said don’t even think about it. He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “They’re out cold. Relax.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you easily across his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. Even through his sweats, you could feel him hard and heavy beneath you.

“Matt—” you tried again, glancing at the bunks just across the aisle.

“Shhh.” His voice was low, commanding. “Ride me. Nice and slow.”

Your breath hitched, but his hands were already on your hips, pulling you down until your core was flush against him. The friction was immediate, sending a spark straight through you.

You rocked forward instinctively just once, testing him before his grip tightened. “Uh-uh. Slow. I want to feel every second of it.”

It was torture. The fabric between you made everything hot and aching but not enough, forcing you to grind in this agonizingly slow rhythm that had you swallowing back tiny sounds.

Matt leaned forward, his mouth brushing your ear. “That’s it… keep going. Don’t you dare speed up.”

The bus swayed, making your movements uneven. Every time you slipped and pressed harder into him, his hands would slow you again, controlling your pace like he had all the time in the world. Your thighs were already burning, your clit throbbing from the drawn-out friction. “Matt—please—” you breathed.

“Not yet, pup,” he murmured, dragging you forward so your clit caught perfectly over the ridge of him. “You’ll come when I say you can.”

You could feel your slick soaking through your panties, the heat building until your hips started moving faster without permission. His grip clamped down instantly, holding you completely still.

“Nah-uh,” he whispered, smirking at your frustrated whine. “You’re gonna sit here and feel me for a little longer. Maybe let my brothers hear how desperate you are.”

Your cheeks burned at the thought they were right there, inches away behind those curtains. You shifted restlessly, every tiny movement sending little shocks of pleasure that made it harder to keep quiet.

After what felt like forever, his control slipped. His hips pressed up into you, harder, the slow grind turning into something deep and deliberate. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he rasped.

“Yes—god—please—”

His breath hitched. “Then cum for me. But be quiet.”

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, your orgasm crashing over you as you shook against him, thighs trembling. Matt’s head dropped to your neck, his own release muffled against your skin.

When you finally caught your breath, he pulled you close, lips ghosting over your ear.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Now get back in bed before I wake them up and make you finish in front of them.”

You stumbled toward your bunk, heart still racing and you swore swore you heard a quiet muffled laugh from one of the bunks.

reel love | m.s

— matt sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: fluff, domestic dad! matt, family time, great outdoors... and thats it <3

The dock groaned in that familiar way—old boards weathered smooth from years of summers, smelling faintly of cedar and sun. You sat cross-legged near the edge, your bare toes just brushing the cool water. A dragonfly zipped past and landed on the railing, its wings catching the afternoon light.

Matt was already crouched down by the side, his backwards baseball cap shading his eyes, curls spilling out beneath it in lazy, sun-kissed waves. He was showing your youngest how to hold her tiny fishing rod, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that made her listen without even realizing it.

“Keep your hands right here,” he murmured, wrapping his larger hand gently over hers. “And when you feel a little pull, don’t yank right away. Give it a second.”

Her bucket hat, pale blue and slightly too big, wobbled when she nodded seriously. “Okay, Daddy.”

Down the dock, your son was already in full fishing mode—knees bent, rod wedged between his thighs, brows furrowed in concentration. Every so often, he’d cast a quick look at Matt, waiting for a nod of approval before going back to his line.

You leaned back on your hands, watching the three of them with a smile you didn’t even try to hide. “You’re very convincing,” you teased.

Matt shot you a glance, lips twitching into a grin. “I’m a professional fish whisperer.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, tilting your head.

“Mm-hmm. It’s how I caught you, remember? Lured you right in.”

You laughed, giving his calf a playful nudge with your foot. “Pretty sure you just wouldn’t leave me alone until I said yes.”

“That too,” he admitted, eyes sparkling as he looked back at the water.

The wicker picnic basket between you creaked as you flipped open the lid—inside were juice boxes, crackers, grapes, and gummy worms. Half of the worms were for bait. The other half were for “Dad tax,” as Matt called it, snatching a couple whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

“Snack break?” you offered, holding out a juice box.

“Not for me. I’m busy training a future champion here,” he said, nodding toward your daughter, who had started whispering to her fishing line like she could sweet-talk the fish into biting.

The sun shifted in the sky, painting the lake in shades of gold and rose. You could hear the faint rustle of leaves in the trees along the shore, and somewhere farther down the dock, the creak of a rope against a moored boat. The whole world seemed to slow to match the rhythm of your little family.

Suddenly, your son’s voice cut through the stillness. “Dad! I think I’ve got one!”

Matt was on his feet in an instant, crouching beside him. “Alright, buddy, nice and easy… don’t let the line go slack.” His hand settled over your son’s, steadying him as they reeled together. For a second, you thought they might actually pull something up—but the hook came up empty, dripping water back into the lake.

Your son groaned in disappointment, but Matt just ruffled his hair. “That’s alright. The fish are just playing hard to get.”

“They’re mean,” your daughter huffed, flopping backward so her hat nearly covered her whole face.

Matt laughed, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Nah, they’re shy. Probably intimidated by how cool you look in that hat.”

You reached for your phone and snapped a quick photo of them—Matt barefoot and tan, curls tossed by the breeze, the kids leaning against him like he was their anchor. You didn’t need the picture to remember this, but you knew you’d want it later.

For a while, you all just… stayed. Matt sat beside you, lines drifting in the water while the kids chatted about what they’d name their first fish. His arm found its way around your shoulders, pulling you against his side.

“You happy?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, your cheek brushing the soft cotton of his shirt. “Yeah. This is perfect.”

He looked at you for a long moment, as if memorizing your face in this light. “Good,” he said softly. “Then let’s stay here a little longer.”

The sky deepened to a dusky pink, the lake reflecting the colors like a watercolor painting. Eventually, Matt reeled in both lines and stood, offering you his hand. The kids trailed behind, chattering sleepily.

By the time you reached the cabin, your daughter was dozing in Matt’s arms, her hat slipping sideways. He caught your eye over her head and smiled—tired, warm, and content.

“You know,” he murmured as you unlocked the door, “I think I did catch the best thing in the lake today.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You,” he said simply, pressing a kiss to your temple before carrying your daughter inside.

And just like that, you knew you’d never forget this day.

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lexi makes the best fluffs omg

( ✿. blurb )

⌗ 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄!𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 x 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐆𝐅!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ♡

obsessive!chris originally by @/bernardsbendystraws !! i have gotten consent from this creator to use their au, please go to them yourself first before using.

part one here, could also be read as a stand alone

𝒹ivider 𝒸redits not proofread

chris shivered as he dipped his warm body into the cool water of the pool.

it had been so hot in LA, what he needed was to take a nice swim in the pool that him and his brothers all went in on to pay for.

it was peaceful. he was alone, he got to relax, he was no longer tense and stressing about work, it was great.

he went underwater, wetting his freshly washed hair that he would now have to wash again. he came up from the water, pushing his hair back, getting the water out of his eyes, and that’s when he saw it.

he looked up, spotting you in the window of yours and matts shared bedroom. what he saw was something he probably shouldn’t be seeing, but not something he hasn’t seen before. his once relaxed shoulders were now tense.

you were sitting on your heels on top of the bed, matt sitting behind you. his hands groped your breasts through your pink lace bralette, but not just any bralette of yours. the same exact one that chris had just jerked off with almost a week beforehand.

his throat felt like it was closing up at the sight as his cock hardened. not only were you wearing the bralette, but the matching panties too, ones chris had never seen before.

he imagined what you would look like up close and not through the dirty window, he imagined how you would moan in his ear just like you were doing matt as he played with your breasts.

his hand slowly dipped beneath his swimming trunks, grasping his rock hard cock in his large hand. he slowly pumped himself as he watched matt pull your panties to the side before lining his tip up with your hole.

chris groaned when your mouth fell open, he couldn’t hear your moans now, but he could remember how you sound—he could remember the pretty moans you would let out while he watched matt finger you from the crack of his door.

he gripped onto the edge of the pool, his finger running over his tip as he whimpered “fuck sugar..”

matt pressed his fingers to your clit, making your orgasm approach even quicker than before. you gasped, your eyes shooting open at the pleasure added.

your eyes immediately landed on chris.

chris froze, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from yours, and you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. he had been watching you be fucked dumb by his brother, your boyfriend.

you hated it, but it brought you more pleasure. you liked the thought of him watching you and you weren’t sure why.

you clenched around matt, and he noticed you looking out the window. he looked as well, your eyes were on chris. but he didn’t see what you saw. he saw chris going underwater, getting his hair wet while he faced away from you.

“mm- my dirty girl, y’like knowin’ that you could be caught bein’ a little whore at any second, huh?” he wrapped his free hand around your throat “y’like knowin’ that he could turn around and see you bein’ fucked so good, hm?”

if only he knew what you just saw…

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ᯓ✎ hamptons . . . c.s

SUBMARINE . . . writing marathon fic ⌗2

the beach house still held the last heat of the day, the kind that settled into your skin and refused to leave. you stood by the open sliding door, the salty breeze tousling your damp hair, carrying the faint crash of waves. chris was behind you, drying his hair with a towel, the quiet creak of the floor beneath his feet blending with the soft hum of the radio.

you peeled off your tank top slow, skin still flushed and sticky from sun and salt. your bare feet left soft marks on the worn wood as you moved toward him. chris caught your eye, lips quirking up in that lazy, easy way that always made your heart quicken without even trying.

his hand brushed your shoulder, cool from the ocean, but as soon as he touched you, warmth bloomed from where his fingers pressed. “fuck,” he murmured low, voice rough, “you feel like you just walked out of the sun.”

you smiled, tugging at the hem of your shorts. “more like a damn lobster.” he laughed, then pulled you into his side, lips pressing to your temple with a softness that made you shiver.

together you moved toward the bathroom, steam already fogging the mirror from the hot shower Chris had started. the water poured over you both, warm and heavy against sun-kissed skin. chris wrapped his arms around you, steadying you as the grit of the beach washed away.

his hands slid beneath your bikini top, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on the bare skin of your ribs. your breath hitched as his mouth claimed your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. his hips pressed against yours, steady and insistent, a promise you didn’t want to resist.

you reached up, hands cradling his face, thumbs stroking over the sharp line of his jaw. your lips met in a slow, searing kiss — salty, sweet, utterly yours. water ran down your backs, but time melted away in the tight space you shared.

wrapped in towels that still smelled faintly of salt and sun, you settled on the wide windowsill. outside, the sky was streaked with deep pinks and oranges — the kind of golden hour that holds you in its arms.

chris pulled you into his lap, hands sliding over the curve of your waist, fingers exploring beneath the towel with a hunger that made your pulse race.

his lips moved to your collarbone, trailing feather-light kisses that set your skin on fire. One hand slipped lower, fingers warm and sure as they slipped beneath the fabric, finding your bare core still flushed from the sun. Yyu caught your breath, hips pressing into his touch, aching for more.

the world shrank until it was just you and him, breath mingling in the quiet room. his fingers slipped between your folds, teasing your clit, coaxing, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

when his mouth found yours again, it was slow, tender — but filled with a hunger that made your knees weak. your fingers tangled in his damp curls, pulling him closer as your hips rolled against his hand, matching his slow, deliberate pace.

he whispered against your lips, voice rough and needy. “so fucking good for me, baby. god, you’re driving me insane.”

you gasped as his fingers slid deeper, slick and slicker against your pussy, curling just right, sending a wave of pleasure that made your body arch against his. his hand gripped your hip, steady and grounding, as he leaned into you, hips grinding hard beneath your touch.

you tugged his hair, breath ragged. “don’t stop, chris. please.”

he obeyed, sliding his fingers along every sensitive spot, pressing, curling, coaxing you closer to the edge. his mouth captured yours again, teeth grazing your bottom lip as you trembled, building and building.

when you finally came, it was soft and overwhelming — a flood that left you gasping against his mouth, nails digging into the skin of his shoulder.

chris groaned low in your ear, his body shuddering as he pulled you flush against him. slowly, he pushed your towel aside and lined his cock up at your entrance.

“ready, baby?” his voice was rough, a promise and a warning all at once.

you nodded, trembling. he slid in slow and deep, stretching and filling you, every inch a delicious ache. you clung to him, fingers clutching his shoulders as he moved—slow at first, savoring every moment, every reaction.

his hands slid around your waist, pulling you tighter as his pace picked up, hips grinding hard against yours. his breath hitched on your skin, soft curses spilling from his lips as he buried himself deeper with each thrust.

you matched him, rocking your hips, gasping and moaning, feeling the steady burn of pleasure coil tighter and tighter between you.

he kissed your jaw, your neck, whispering praises that made your head spin—words rough with want, but tender beneath it all.

when you came again, harder this time, your walls clenching around his cock, you cried out his name, breath shuddering in his mouth.

chris followed moments later, groaning deep and low, filling you completely as his body trembled against yours.

after, you stayed tangled together, the golden light fading to dusk. His hand cradled your head as you rested against his chest, heartbeat slow and steady.

⋆˙⟡ sage's note: this song is so cute. i actually wrote this so quick im surprised. stay tuned for 12 more!

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©sagesturns☆

we don’t talk about nick enough in this pic.

ᩘ: | ⋆  𓂅 ﹒ ⌗ sturnentries ⌇ ❛ 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇, 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐓 ❜ ──── a dom!bsf!matt && sub!bsf!reader prompt ݂ ֔ . ⋮ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 :: sexual tension and dialogue, suggestive proximity, more. ゛⁴⁴⁴

𝜗℘. ꒰꒰ requested by anon . . .

You’d known Matt for years—long enough to have seen every version of him. The loud, reckless side that thrived in a crowd. The quiet, almost contemplative version that only showed up during late-night talks. The side that knew your bad days before you even said a word. He’d been in your kitchen more times than you could count, crashed on your couch after too many late movie nights, and learned the way you liked your coffee without ever having to ask.

But friendship had a strange way of blurring at the edges, especially when nights stretched long and the air grew quieter. The kind of quiet where you could hear the subtle shift in his breathing, where the space between you felt smaller than it was. You’d never crossed that line before—not really—but lately, it felt like every moment alone with him sat right on the edge of something neither of you wanted to name.

The night had settled into that rare kind of stillness, the kind where every creak in the house feels louder than it should and the ticking of the clock blends with the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The TV sat on the far side of the living room, its screen dark and reflective, the two of you having abandoned whatever you’d been watching in favor of simply existing in the same space. A single lamp glowed from the corner table, casting its warm light across the couch and the carpet, softening the edges of everything it touched.

Matt was slouched at one end of the couch, legs stretched out so his knee nearly brushed yours. He had his phone in one hand, thumb lazily scrolling, but his attention wasn’t entirely on the screen. Every so often, you’d catch his eyes flicking upward—quick glances that didn’t quite hold long enough to be obvious, but lingered just enough for you to notice.

Your own posture mirrored his in a way—not rigid, but not collapsed either, like you were both tuned into an unspoken frequency that kept you hovering in that in-between space. The air between you was comfortable but heavy, the kind of quiet where a single sentence could tip it into something else entirely.

You leaned back deeper into the couch, your gaze finding him more often than you meant it to. The way the lamp caught in his hair, the shadows stretching along the sharp line of his jaw, the slow way he shifted in his seat—it was all too easy to focus on him and nothing else.

He noticed. He always noticed. His eyes flicked up again, this time catching yours, and for a moment neither of you looked away. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like he was testing whether you’d hold his stare. You did.

“What?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if speaking louder might break whatever was holding the moment together.

You shrugged, a faint tilt of your head. “Nothing.”

The smallest pause, the faintest shake of his head, and then he looked back at his phone—but not for long. His knee shifted closer until it brushed yours, casual enough to be passed off as nothing, intentional enough to feel like everything.

The silence returned, but it was sharper now, edged with something else. You could feel the words pressing at the back of your throat, the unspoken truth sitting just a little too close to the surface. You knew exactly what you wanted to say, and you knew exactly how he’d react—but that was half the reason you wanted to say it in the first place.

You let the quiet drag on, the clock ticking in the background. Every second felt deliberate, stretching itself out like the air was thickening between you.

Finally, you leaned forward slightly, your arm draped along the back of the couch so you could face him more fully. His eyes lifted without hesitation, like he’d been expecting you to do exactly that.

“I want you,” you said.

You didn’t bother softening it or dressing it up. No preamble, no laughter to undercut the truth. Just the words, hanging in the still air, sinking into the space between you like they belonged there.

Matt froze for a fraction of a second, his thumb hovering above the phone screen. A breathy laugh escaped him, quiet but edged with surprise. “You want me?” His head tilted, his gaze fixed on you in that lazy, deliberate way that made it hard to think.

You held his stare. “Yeah. I do.”

He smirked faintly, leaning back into the couch as if giving himself more room to look you over. “What’dya want?” His voice was softer now, almost coaxing, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

Your lips parted, your voice low but steady. “I want you to touch me like you’re starving for it. I want you to pull me closer, have your mouth on mine until I can’t think about anything else. I want you to keep going until I can’t remember my own damn name. Don’t stop until you’ve had enough of me.”

His eyes darkened almost instantly, the faint smirk fading into something heavier. He didn’t move yet—didn’t even blink for a moment—just let your words settle into the quiet between you. Then, slowly, he set his phone down on the cushion beside him, turning his body fully toward you. One arm draped along the back of the couch, his hand grazing the fabric just behind your shoulder.

“You don’t hold back, do you?” he murmured, his tone low but not without a hint of amusement.

You tilted your head, letting the faintest smirk pull at your lips. “Not when I know what I want.”

Matt’s eyes stayed on yours like he was trying to see straight through you, his gaze slow and deliberate, taking you in piece by piece. The air between you had shifted, no longer just quiet—it was thick, almost electric, every inch of it charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

His hand moved first, a subtle drag of fingertips along the back of the couch until they found your shoulder. He didn’t grip, didn’t pull—just rested there for a moment, close enough that the heat of his skin bled through the thin barrier of your shirt. His other hand lifted from his knee, brushing over your thigh with the lightest touch, almost like he was testing whether you’d lean into it.

You didn’t just lean—you stayed perfectly still, letting him come to you.

His eyes flicked to your mouth, the faintest shift in his breathing betraying him before his gaze returned to yours. He leaned in slowly, closing the gap one careful inch at a time, until you could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of whatever soap or cologne clung to his skin.

“That what you’ve been thinkin’ about all night?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hummed in acknowledgment, your lips parting just slightly. “Every second.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smirk this time—his expression was too focused, too intent. His thumb brushed against your leg in a slow, deliberate line, and the motion sent a shiver crawling up your spine.

He was so close now that every breath he exhaled skimmed against your lips. You could feel the restraint in him—the tension sitting in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed just slightly against your thigh as if holding himself back.

Matt’s gaze dropped to your mouth again, lingering this time. His head tilted a fraction, the tip of his nose brushing yours for the briefest second before he stopped.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word thick with warning but not without a pull of curiosity. “You start somethin’ like that with me, m’not stoppin’ until I’ve had enough.”

You didn’t move away. “That’s the point.”

His lips curved just enough to show he’d heard you, but he didn’t close the last inch—he left you there, suspended in that moment, your pulse hammering in your ears, knowing full well you’d be thinking about it until he decided to act.

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──── @fmalewokk ⸝⸝ @lyingonchris ⸝⸝ @macsangel

Chris is deep inside you, thick and hot, stretching you open as you ride him slow, he’s got a full view of your arched back, your hands gripping his thighs for balance. Every grind of your hips draws a groan from his lips. “Fuck,” Chris mutters. “You are unreal.”

You moan in response, head tilting forward, body flushed with heat, but then you feel Matt’s presence in front of you, his hand gently curling around your throat. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, stroking himself slowly, eyes on you while you’re full of Chris. He’s gripping your waist, fucking up into you with slow, hungry thrusts but the second Matt touches you, your focus shifts

“Eyes up,” he says, voice soft but commanding.

You obey instantly. You look at him like gravity’s pulling you

Matt leans in and kisses you. Soft. Sweet. Gentle enough to make your chest ache.

“You’re doing so good for us,” he whispers against your lips. His fingers slide under your chin, guiding your mouth open. “So perfect like this.”

Chris thrusts deeper, making you cry out but Matt swallows the sound with another kiss, his forehead pressing to yours before he lets the head of his cock brush your lips.

“Open f’ me,” he says again, quieter this time. “Let me feel you.”

You take him in slowly, tongue circling the tip, moaning around him as your hips keep rocking on Chris, slow and sensual. Chris groans beneath you, his hands squeezing your thighs.

“She’s clenching a lot,” he mutters. “You teasing her.”

Matt smiles down at you, tender but smug. “She can take it.”

He holds your face, thumb stroking your cheek as you suck him, your body trembling from the push and pull of pleasure.

“You feel good, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low. “Stuffed full, being such a good girl for both of us?”

You moan around him, eyes glassy, locked on his.

Chris thrusts up a little harder. “Fuckk, keep moaning like that”

Matt keeps his touch light, his praise softer now. “You feel how deep he is inside you?” he whispers, brushing hair from your face. “Feels good right? Just remember to keep your eyes on me while you ride him”

Your eyes flutter.

Matt slides a little deeper into your mouth, not rough just enough to stretch your lips and feel your tongue flatten under him. He watches the way your eyes water and your thighs shake from how slow and full Chris is fucking you.

He leans closer, voice warm in your ear. “.I want you to cum just like this. Riding his cock, mouth full of mine.”

Chris groans, thrusts slowing down into a rhythm that presses against every sensitive spot inside you. “Oh, She’s close. I can feel it Matt”

You’re whimpering now, your mouth dripping with spit around Matt’s dick, your body coiled tight. You try to focus on both of them Chris’s rougher hands, Matt’s sweet control but it’s Matt’s voice that tips you over the edge.

“That’s it,” he breathes, stroking your jaw as you fall apart. “You can cum babe no one’s stopping you.”

And you do. Hard.

You shake as you cum around Chris, sobbing softly against Matt’s cock, holding onto both of them like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

Chris groans, hips stuttering as he finishes deep inside you, muttering curses under his breath. “Holy fuck.”

Matt groans as he pulls away a bit and cums all over your chest, he kisses your forehead, “That’s my girl.”

A/N: You asked for it so you got it!! Here’s more Chratt content for y’all 🤍

Taglist: @nialler-lover @httpssturns @bernardsbendystraws @lovingchrissposts @theowensturniolo @courta13 @xoxochrissgf @sturnsoftt @sturnililio @sturns-mermaid @izzylovesmatt

FAWKING FAWK?!!?

He needs to stop being so sexy before i actually lose my mind

silver jewelry

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains ➛ ⋆ fingering ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ praising ⋆ sensory play (?) ⋆

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1.3k

you’d never actually asked him about it. the bracelet. thick, silver chain. worn and softened over years, dulled just slightly with use but still catching the light in quick flashes when he moved. it sat snug on his wrist like it belonged there, like it was part of him.

you didn’t know when he got it or why he never took it off. but it was always there. and you noticed it.

always.

you noticed it when you were in bed, curled against him, his arm draped lazily over your waist. the cool metal pressed to your skin through the sheets. you noticed it when he ran his fingers through your hair, combing slow and gentle, the faint clink of chain barely audible but enough to make your stomach flutter.

but the times you noticed it the most—were when he touched you like that.

your back was pressed to the headboard, legs spread open over his lap. you were already wet—had been since the moment he kissed you, deep and slow, until you melted. and now his hand was between your thighs, working you open with two long fingers, pumping in a steady rhythm that made your hips rock without you even realizing it. the sound of your moans filled the room, breathless and desperate, mixing with the wet schlick each time his fingers slid in and out.

and over it all—barely noticeable at first—was the faint jingle of his bracelet.

every time his hand flexed, every time his wrist shifted just enough for the chain to move, the sound threaded through your haze of pleasure. you didn’t even mean to moan at that—but you did.

“yeah?” his voice was low, amused, like he already knew what was going through your head. “you like that?”

you could only whimper, hips jerking when his thumb pressed harder against your clit. the bracelet jingled again, sharp in your ears over the mess he was making between your thighs. you didn’t have to answer—he already knew.

another night, another mess.

you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips, trying to take him all the way down but struggling—because fuck, he was big. his hands gripped your hips, steadying you, guiding your movements. and you could feel it. the bracelet. cool against the soft skin of your waist, shifting with every push and pull of his hands as he helped you grind down on him.

each time you sank lower, the metal grazed you, sending little sparks up your spine that had nothing to do with his cock buried inside you—and everything to do with him. the way he wore it like it was part of him. the way it was touching you just as much as he was. you clenched around him without meaning to, earning a sharp groan from deep in his chest.

“so fuckin’ tight, shit,” he muttered, hands squeezing harder.

the bracelet pressed harder into your skin. you didn’t know if he noticed the way your breathing hitched because of it. you didn’t know if he realized it made you grind harder, faster, chasing that burn. but you had a feeling he did.

and then there were nights like this.

when he had you face-down, ass up, the mattress dipping under your weight as he fucked you from behind—hard enough that the slapping of skin was loud, sharp, echoing in your ears with each thrust. his grip on your hips was unrelenting, dragging you back to meet him each time.

and still—over the sound of your moans, over the slap of his hips against your ass—you heard it.

the bracelet.

louder than usual this time, the jingle sharp each time his wrist moved with the force of him pounding into you. it was driving you crazy. you moaned into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets so tight your knuckles ached.

“fuckin’ love this pussy,” he groaned, the bedframe creaking with the pace he set.

your ass stung from the slap of his hips, the stretch of him inside you making your legs shake—but that sound—his bracelet—was like a trigger, each jingle winding the coil inside you tighter and tighter.

you didn’t tell him. you never did. you never told him that it turned you on more than it should. that you thought about it when you were alone, imagined that sound paired with the feel of his hands on you.

and you didn’t have to.

because chris? chris knew.

you felt it in the way his hand slid up your back mid-thrust, the bracelet dragging across your skin on purpose this time. you heard it when he adjusted his grip just to make the chain shift, just to let you hear it.

and when you came, hard, trembling, body clenching around him, you swore you heard the faintest chuckle in his breath. he never asked. never brought it up. but some nights, when you were laid out under him, still shaking, his bracelet cool against your overheated skin, you thought maybe you didn’t need him to.

[say please]

“so are you gonna stand there or are you gonna fuck me, matt? which one is it?” you laid down in his bed, legs bent, pussy on display, but he wouldn’t move a muscle, just watching you closely like you’re gonna beat him up or something.

“you keep on forgetting one word,” matt said, “and to think that i’m rewarding you when you’ve been bratty all day.”

“what are you talking about?” you asked, seriously not getting the hint by now. matt hovered above you, elbows besides your head as he huffed, sighing in disappointment.

“you gotta say please, baby,” said matt, his hand getting lower and lower until it was hovering over you sopping hole. “why aren’t you saying please? you think i’m gonna reward you when you’re not respecting me?”

you moaned, looking him right in those blue eyes. your face contorted when he finally slide his middle and ring finger in you, your toes curling at the sensation.

“that feels good, yea?” matt said, biting his lip at how wet you are. “say please for more.”

“please..”

matt moved a little faster, still not the pace you wanted, but this was good too. “say it again, baby.” he quicken his pace, almost the same pace that you loved.

“please..”

matt grinned as he finally found that pace you loved. you moaned throwing your head back w pleasure. that made matt’s heart swell w pride, knowing he is the only one who can make you feel this way. he kept that pace, enjoying watching you come undone. finally you were getting close and matt knew that look on your face.

“‘m gonna cum!” you exclaimed, fingers digging in his back.

“say please.” matt insisted. his arm was staying steady as his arm was feeling a little tired. but he wanted to see that look on your face. and you gave him that look.

“please, matty, lemme cum!” you exclaimed. and he did, calling you pet names and softly letting you come from your high. matt picked himself up, pulling his sweats down.

“you’re gonna be saying please all night, baby girl.” matt said, lining himself to your hole.

I feel so awkward trying to make friends on here like what if I ask someone to be my friend and they say no? I’d cry.

or what? | m.s

— obsesed ex! matt sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: smut, toxic ex energy, fingering (f! receiving), mirror sex, rough sex ( manhandling, dirty talk), jealousy kink/territorial behavior, crying during sex (overstimulation + feelings), emotional whiplash, post-breakup tension, “say it” kink, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it plz), use of y/n

you shouldn’t have come tonight. You told yourself that in the mirror before you left the house, repeating it like a prayer.

Chris said it would be chill—just a game night with the boys, no pressure, no tension. No Matt. That was the promise.

And yet he walked in late, hoodie sleeves pushed up, silver chain glinting as he ran a hand through those curls that used to fall against your neck, your thighs, your fucking soul.

His eyes found you instantly like they always do. And you should’ve left. But instead… you stayed. Now you’re on the couch, pretending to care about the round of whatever card game Chris is narrating like a talk show host. Everyone’s laughing. Except Matt.

You can feel him. That lazy, coiled energy. Like a lion waiting for the cage to swing open. Chris groans and waves a hand. “Alright. No laughing this round. Be serious, for once.”

Nick smirks. You hide yours behind your glass.

And then. “Or what?”

The words are low, crazy, challenging. Your heart skips.

He’s not even looking at Chris when he says it. His eyes are on you. Like he’s daring you to laugh. Daring you to look back. Daring you to remember what happens when you push him.

Your thighs press together instinctively. You hate that he still has this hold on you. Chris chuckles awkwardly, waving him off. “Dude, shut up.”

Matt’s jaw tics. Slowly, he stands up, card falling from his fingers like an afterthought.

And he walks... Not away, but down the hall. Toward the guest room, the one that locks. The air shifts. The tension crackles.

You don’t move. But he looks over his shoulder once—just once—and lifts his chin. A wordless dare. Your breath catches and chest tightens.

Goddamn it..

You go.

The door clicks shut, and before you can breathe in—your back hits it. He's already there. Towering. Unrelenting. The look in his eyes, the one that says: I never forgot what you taste like.

His hands slam against the door on either side of your head, caging you in.

“You know what you do to me?” he whispers, voice rough. “You walk in wearing that little fucking dress like you don’t remember what it’s like to have me buried inside you.”

“Matt, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he growls, hands slipping down to grab your hips like they belong there. “Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t remind you what you left behind?”

You gasp when he presses his body flush against yours, his thigh slotting between your legs, his lips ghosting your neck.

“You walked away,” he breathes. “But you never really let go, did you?” His hand cups your jaw, turning your face toward him. His thumb brushes your bottom lip.

“Tell me to stop.” But you don’t. You can’t.. because you remember.

You remember the way he used to fuck the fight out of you. The way he used to obsess over the way you moaned his name. The way he’d look at you like he wanted to tear you apart and then put you back together—piece by piece—with his hands, his mouth, his voice.

“Say it,” he mutters, voice shaking now. “Say you don’t want this. Say I don’t make you feel alive.” Still nothing, but his grip tightens. “Fucking say it,” he snarls. But instead, you kiss him.

Hard. Desperate, like the last few months apart never happened.

He groans into your mouth, hands already dragging your dress up as your fingers twist in the front of his hoodie. It’s messy. Sloppy. Teeth clashing. Tongues fighting. Like two people who know they’re bad for each other and still can’t help but burn.

His mouth breaks from yours only long enough to growl, “Bed. Now.” But you yank him back down by the hoodie strings, lips brushing his.

“Make me.”

And fuck if that doesn’t snap something in him.

Before you know it, your back hits the mattress. Dress bunched up around your waist, your panties already discarded on the floor like he couldn’t stand them in his way.

Matt’s on top of you—hoodie flung, chain dangling against his throat, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

“You think you can walk around like that,” he mutters, dragging two fingers up your slit, spreading you open with a slow, filthy groan, “look at me like that—and not get ruined for it?”

His voice is guttural. His fingers—slick and unforgiving—slide in without warning. Deep. Fast. Curling immediately.

“Fuck—Matt—”

“That’s right,” he hisses. “Say my fucking name. Say it while I’ve got you open like this.”

Your back arches, mouth falling open as he pistons his fingers in and out of you with rough, calculated pressure. His thumb circles your clit, slow and punishing.

“Still so fucking tight,” he growls, eyes locked on your pussy like it’s his goddamn religion. “Still made for me. Jesus, baby, you’re dripping.”

He leans down, licking a stripe up your neck, breath hot against your ear.

“You miss this?” he whispers. “Miss having me here? Knuckle-deep while you beg me not to stop?” You’re panting now, thighs shaking. Your orgasm’s already building, fast and hot.

“Say it,” he commands, voice low. “Say no one makes you cum like I do.” You whimper. He stops. Fingers still inside you, but frozen.

“Y/N,” he growls, warning in every syllable. “Say it.”

“I—I miss you,” you choke out. “I still want you. I still want this.” And he breaks.

In one motion, he’s flipping you over, yanking you up onto your knees, pressing your chest down into the mattress. “Fucking finally,” he mutters.

You feel the blunt head of his cock rub through your folds—wet, thick, heavy. Then—he slams in. One brutal, claiming thrust.

You scream. “God, look at you,” he hisses. “Tight little pussy choking me out. You fucking need this, don’t you?”

He pulls back and slams in again, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room. Your hands scramble for something to hold, your body shaking with every thrust.

“Never—” slam.

“fucking—” slam.

“leave me again.” You sob, gasping into the sheets, half from the stretch and half from how good it feels to be this full again—by him.

His cock buried deep, dragging against every nerve-ending you forgot existed. And then—he stops again. Your whimper is guttural.

“Eyes up.” You blink, dazed.

He grabs your jaw, turning your face toward the mirror across the room.

“Fucking look.” You do. And what you see makes your whole body seize. You— ruined. Hair a mess, mascara smudged, mouth open. And behind you, Matt—wild and flushed in the mirror—watching you unravel, like he planned it.

He slams into you again. “Look at yourself,” he pants. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

He grabs your hips, snapping into you harder now, deeper. You cry out as your climax builds—your body locking up, breath hitching.

“You gonna cum, baby?” he whispers, slowing just enough to make you twitch. “Gonna cream all over my cock?”

“Please—Matt—I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can,” he breathes. “You fucking will. You need it.”

One hand slides around your stomach, pressing firm as he fucks up into you with relentless force, hitting that spot inside you over and over again.

“Give it to me, y/n,” he grits out, right against your ear. “Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum on me.”

Your orgasm hits hard. Violent. Your whole body convulses, loud sobs tearing from your throat as your legs threaten to give out.

Matt groans—deep and broken—as you clamp down around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—fuck—you’re gonna take it,” he pants. “You’re gonna fucking take it.”

You barely register the frantic rhythm of his thrusts before he’s groaning loud into your shoulder and spilling inside you.

He stays inside you. Deep.. still, arms around your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish again. And maybe you would.. if your heart wasn't already breaking all over again.

“I hate how much I still love you,” he finally whispers.

And all you can do is cry.

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ROUND OF AFUCKINGPLAUSE LADIES AND GENTS

more tokens, please! | m.s

— husband! matt sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: none! just fluff and domestic! dad matt

gif cred @hotelstares | dividers by @hyuneskkami

You’re halfway through a sip of your slushie when you hear it.

The telltale squeak of little sneakers sprinting across the neon-speckled arcade carpet. The unmistakable jangle of empty token cups. And your son’s voice, way too loud and way too dramatic for a child holding two plastic tickets in his hand:

“DADDDD. I RAN OUT.” You look up just in time to see him barrel full-speed toward Matt, waving the token cup in one hand like it’s a white flag.

Matt turns around slowly—striped polo slightly wrinkled, backwards cap tilted, chewing on a Sour Patch Kid like he’s been through battle. He blinks at your son, then raises one eyebrow.

“Already?” he asks, voice flat, but his lips twitch into a smirk. “Didn’t I just give you, like, twenty?”

“Yeah but the dinosaur game took ten! And then the racing one didn’t even work! And then I accidentally played basketball twice. Soooo…” He blinks up at Matt, puppy-eyed. “More tokens, please?”

Matt crosses his arms, leans down to your son’s level with mock seriousness. “Hmm. I don’t know, man. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule—one cup per kid per hour.”

Your son gasps like it’s a felony. “That’s not FAIR.”

You finally make your way over, slipping an arm around Matt’s waist and nudging your son’s shoulder. “Maybe if you say please like a normal human and give your dad a kiss, he’ll change his mind.”

Your son dramatically groans but complies anyway—puckering up and planting a sloppy kiss on Matt’s cheek. Matt pretends to grimace.

“Ew,” he mutters, wiping it off with the back of his hand, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

Then, with a huff of fake annoyance, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out more tokens, dropping them into your son’s palm with a loud clink.

“Don’t spend these all in ten seconds.”

Your son squeals and takes off again, yelling, “THANK YOU DAD YOU’RE THE BEST I’M GONNA WIN A STUFFED BANANA.”

You both watch him sprint toward the claw machine like it’s the Olympics. You’re smiling. Matt’s biting back a laugh.

“I feel like I just got hustled,” he says.

You lean up to kiss his cheek. “You did.”

“Little gremlin’s just like you.”

You smile sweetly. “Flattering, really.”

Matt grins and pulls you closer. “Next time, I’m hiding the tokens in my sock.” You pat his chest. “He’ll find them. He always does.”

And sure enough—barely ten minutes later—your son’s back, empty cup in hand, breathless and beaming.

“OKAY LISTEN,” he pants, “this time I accidentally played air hockey alone, but it still counts because I WON—”

Matt sighs, handing you his wallet without even blinking. You’re barely two sips into your second slushie when he comes running again.

Hair flopping. Sweat on his brow. The gleam of pure, childish determination in his eyes.

“GUYS,” your son pants, practically sliding to a stop in front of you and Matt like a tiny action hero. “IT’S TIME.”

Matt looks at him like he’s about to launch a mission to Mars. “Time for what?”

“The banana,” your son says solemnly, pointing across the arcade like it’s a holy shrine. “I’m gonna win it.”

Matt turns to you slowly. “The banana?”

You nod with a tight-lipped smile. “He’s been talking about it since we walked in.”

It’s hideous, really. A giant, smiling banana with sunglasses, dangling behind the glass of the claw machine like a smug little celebrity.

Matt crouches down to his son’s level again, arms resting on his knees. “Okay, little man. You sure you’re ready for this?”

Your son nods. “I’ve been training.”

Matt squints. “Training?”

“Yeah. I watched two YouTube videos and took a deep breath.”

You nearly snort out your drink. Matt holds up the token cup like a sacred offering. “Then may the odds be ever in your favor, champ.”

Fifteen minutes later, your son is dramatically draped across Matt’s lap, groaning.

“I WAS SO CLOSE. It LIFTED it.”

Matt is gently fanning him with a paper ticket. “I saw. It twitched.”

“It twitched,” your son repeats, whispering it like it was a betrayal.

You’re sitting on the bench beside them, shaking your head. “Babe. You have to do it.”

Matt looks over at you in panic. “Me?”

“Tag in,” you whisper. “Be the hero.”

He stares at the claw machine. Then at the banana. Then down at the tired kid in his lap. With a sigh of fake reluctance and the gravitas of a man going into battle, he stands.

“Alright. Operation Banana is a go.”

One attempt. One perfect grab.

The banana ascends slowly from the pile like it’s being chosen by the heavens themselves. Your son gasps. “HE’S DOING IT.”

You grip your son’s shoulder. “Shhh, don’t scare it.”

And when the claw lets go and the banana drops perfectly into the chute—your son screams.

“LET’S GOOOOOOOOO.”

Matt lifts it up with a smirk, spinning dramatically before presenting it like Simba from The Lion King. You snap a photo. Obviously.

By the time you’re walking out of the arcade, your son is slumped on Matt’s shoulder, completely knocked out, his little fingers tangled in the banana’s fuzzy sunglasses like he’s protecting it in his sleep.

Matt shifts him gently, careful not to jostle him too much. “He’s out cold,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your son’s hair. “Dreaming of redemption.”

You smile, unlocking the car. “He’s going to wake up and ask where the banana went.”

Matt chuckles, opening the back door and lowering your son into his booster seat with practiced ease. The banana gets carefully tucked in beside him—seatbelt and all, of course.

“He’s gonna try to bring it to breakfast tomorrow,” Matt says, sliding into the passenger seat.

You smirk as you start the engine. “He better not ask you to butter it.”

Matt snorts, tipping his head back against the seat, one hand already resting palm-up on the center console until you slide your fingers into it.

“You’re a menace,” he mumbles.

You squeeze his hand. “You love it.”

His thumb brushes over yours. He looks at you, soft and a little sleepy, voice dropping low.

“I love you more.”

You don’t even need to respond. Just drive—windows down, music low, your son softly snoring in the back, banana still gripped in his lap.

Home is only ten minutes away, but it already feels like you’re there.

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