vivi

baby i can be your problematic bi wife requests: open

[gilbertscurls]

about me

victoria. 22. chaotic cancer who cries too much. english & media studies major.

english is not my first language, so bear with me <3

( masterlist ) ( wattpad ) ( spotify )

comment to be added to a tag list!! 🌺

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[gilbertscurls]

romeo, you good? — chris sturniolo

It was nearing midnight, and you were curled up in bed with a book, the window cracked open to let in the cool summer air. Your room was lit with a soft glow from a string of fairy lights, the distant sound of crickets lulling you into calm.

Until—

CLANK.

You jumped, startled by the loud metal-on-metal sound just outside your window.

Brows furrowed, you stood and tiptoed over to the sill, peeking out—only to see a sneakered foot wobbling precariously on your building's old drainpipe.

"Chris?!" you whisper-yelled, eyes widening.

“Heyyy,” came the strained voice of your boyfriend, grinning like an idiot, both hands clutching the pipe as he tried to climb up to your second-story window. “You said your parents were asleep, and I missed you.”

You gawked at him. “So you decided to scale my house like Spider-Man with a death wish?!”

He laughed nervously, one foot slipping slightly. “In my defense, it looked easier in the movies.”

“Chris, get down before—”

CLANG. THUD.

You winced.

He was now lying flat on his back in the flower bed below, surrounded by crushed daisies and the sheer weight of his bad decisions.

“Chris?!”

“I’m fine,” he groaned, one hand raised like a peace sign. “My pride is the only thing broken.”

You leaned halfway out the window. “Stay there, I’m coming down.”

By the time you ran outside in pajamas and socks, Chris was already trying to brush mulch off his hoodie. You grabbed his face and looked him over, heart pounding.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Yeah. Just… gonna feel that one in the morning. Worth it though.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. “You could’ve died, you dumbass.”

“But I didn’t.” He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “I live to fall dramatically for you another day.”

You smacked his chest lightly, then took his hand. “Come inside like a normal person next time.”

He smiled. “But where’s the fun in that?”

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss, @chrissturniolodailysluts

[gilbertscurls]

responsible — matt sturniolo

Matt didn’t notice it at first.

It started small—barely-there shifts in the way you looked at him, lingering glances you didn’t think he caught. But Matt had always been observant when it came to you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

He started connecting the dots the night you came over to the apartment and found him on the kitchen floor surrounded by a million unassembled IKEA parts. Chris and Nick had bailed on him hours ago, both declaring they “had better things to do” than decipher Swedish instructions. He was sweaty, frustrated, and halfway to throwing the Allen wrench across the room when you appeared in the doorway.

“Wow,” you teased, leaning against the frame, “domestic king.”

Matt rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “Shut up. This thing’s impossible.”

But then your gaze shifted—not to the instructions or the mess, but to him. More specifically, his hands as he carefully fitted two pieces together, brows drawn in concentration. And you just… stared.

It was subtle, but he caught it: the way your lips parted slightly, the way your fingers drummed against the doorframe, the way your voice came out a touch softer when you asked, “You’re… doing this all yourself?”

Something in your tone made his stomach flip.

“Yeah,” he muttered, trying to sound casual. “Figured I’d get it done before it turns into another one of those… Sturniolo disasters.”

You smiled, slow and a little lazy, like you knew something he didn’t. “Responsible and self-sufficient? Look at you.”

Your gaze flicked from the shelf to his hands, lingering there a second too long, and Matt caught it again. Your throat bobbed when you swallowed, your cheeks a little warmer than usual.

Interesting.

After that night, he started testing a theory.

The next time you hung out, you came over after a work, your voice raspy and tired. Without thinking, he filled up a glass of water, set it on the counter, and slid it toward you before you could even ask.

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide for a split second, before you whispered, “Thanks.”

He swore your cheeks were a little pinker after that.

Then came the real giveaway.

The next time was on a random Tuesday night. Chris and Nick were gaming in the living room, screaming loud enough to shake the walls, while Matt was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, towel slung over his shoulder.

You walked in mid-yawn, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, and stopped dead in the doorway when you saw him at the sink.

“You’re… doing dishes?”

Matt glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

You blinked, silent for a beat too long. “Like… voluntarily?”

He snorted, flicking water off his fingers. “Believe it or not, I know how to clean up after myself.”

“Since when?” you teased, leaning against the counter.

Matt rolled his eyes, but when he glanced at you again, you weren’t looking at the plates. You were watching him. Your gaze followed the flex of his forearm as he scrubbed, the veins in his hand when he turned off the faucet, the soft dip of his bottom lip when he bit it in concentration.

And then you blinked fast, like you’d caught yourself. “Right,” you mumbled, tearing your gaze away. “Cool.”

That’s when it clicked.

You liked this.

Not him being funny. Not him showing off. Not some grand romantic gesture. You liked him being… responsible.

It made no sense and perfect sense at the same time.

From then on, Matt couldn’t not notice it.

Every time he offered to drive instead of making you Uber, your pupils dilated.

Every time he reminded you to take your coat because it was cold, your lips curved in this soft, knowing smile.

Every time he picked up your coffee order without asking, you’d stare at him like he’d just hung the moon.

It was subtle, but to Matt, it felt loud.

And maybe—just maybe—he started leaning into it.

One night, you came over, hair damp from the rain, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole.

“You look exhausted,” Matt said softly, taking your bag off your shoulder before you even asked.

“I am,” you sighed, kicking off your shoes.

“You eat?”

You shook your head, scrolling through your phone lazily. “Was gonna order something.”

Matt frowned, grabbing his keys from the counter. “I’ll go. What do you want?”

You blinked up at him, startled. “You… you’ll go get it?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Text me what you want.”

You hesitated for a second, watching him, your fingers tightening around your phone like you were grounding yourself. “…Matt?”

He turned, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, biting back a smile.

But he caught it anyway—the way your chest rose and fell a little faster, the way you wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

When he got back twenty minutes later, you were curled up under his blanket, knees tucked to your chest, phone discarded on the couch.

He set the food on the coffee table, kneeling down so he was eye-level with you. “Hey,” he said gently. “Eat first, sleep after.”

You gave him this look—soft and unreadable and a little too warm—and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Why are you… like this?” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“So…” You trailed off, lips twitching as if you were fighting a smile. “So responsible.”

Matt laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” you said, eyes dropping to your lap. “I just—” Your voice caught for half a second, almost too quiet to hear. “—like it.”

Something in his chest tightened, a slow, spreading heat that had nothing to do with the takeout bag sitting between you.

He sat back on his heels, pretending to busy himself with unpacking the food, but the corner of his mouth curved upward despite himself.

“Good to know,” he murmured softly, handing you a container.

You raised an eyebrow. “Good to know… what?”

Matt just shrugged, lips twitching as he reached for his own chopsticks. “Nothing,” he said casually, but there was a glint in his eyes you didn’t miss.

And he didn’t push it.

Didn’t tease you outright.

Didn’t make you explain.

But from that night on, he noticed the way you looked at him a little differently—and maybe, just maybe, he started leaning into that too.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss, @chrissturniolodailysluts  

[gilbertscurls]

five times you and chris had totally 'platonic' sex (and one time it wasn’t) — chris sturniolo

The Drunk Mistake That Didn’t Feel Like One

The first time it happened, you were drunk. Both of you. Maybe too drunk. Maybe not enough.

It was after someone’s birthday party. You honestly couldn’t remember. What you did remember was stumbling into Chris’s apartment at 2 a.m., laughing about the guy who tried to flirt with you using a knock-knock joke, and the way Chris kept pushing your shoulder with that easy, lopsided grin.

Then, somewhere between teasing him and crashing on his couch, your mouth found his. Just found it—like it had been waiting there all this time, no directions needed.

The kiss turned to more.

And in the quiet aftermath, with your body curled against his and his hand lazily tracing your spine, you said, “That was… surprisingly not awkward.”

Chris laughed, soft and sleepy. “Right? Weirdly… chill.”

You both promised not to make it a thing.

You also didn’t leave until noon the next day.

The Lonely Night After a Breakup

You’d just broken up with someone.

Nothing dramatic—just one of those endings that leaves your chest hollow and your bed too cold. You showed up at Chris’s apartment in sweats, holding a bottle of wine and wearing the kind of defeated look that said, please don’t make me be alone right now.

He didn’t ask questions.

You watched a dumb movie. He made you pasta. He let you cry on his shoulder for a minute, then told you something so deeply stupid it made you laugh through tears.

And then, somehow, somewhere between that and the first light of dawn—you ended up in his bed again.

It wasn’t wild or passionate. It was soft, slow, careful. A quiet kind of comfort.

Afterward, he brushed your hair out of your face and said, “Still friends?”

You nodded.

Still friends.

Totally.

The Vegas Oops

You were in Vegas.

There were neon lights, a hotel room with a minibar, and a thunderstorm of bad decisions that started with “just one drink” and ended with you riding Chris’s thigh in a hotel bathroom while someone knocked on the door yelling, “Hurry up!”

Neither of you spoke of it the next day. You both just kind of… moved on. Until three weeks later when you accidentally texted him a photo meant for someone else, and he replied:

“You trying to start Round 2, or…?” You: “Shut up.” Him: “I mean, I’m free Friday.” You: “...what time?”

You both claimed it was just a fluke.

But flukes don’t usually last two nights.

The Dry Spell Pact

“You ever get so horny your air conditioner starts looking good?”

Chris choked on his soda. “What the fuck?”

You shrugged from your spot on his couch, flipping through a magazine. “Just saying. It’s been a minute.”

“Same.”

And that’s how it started.

The Dry Spell Pact, as Chris named it. If neither of you got laid in a month, you’d help each other out. Just physically. Just for release. No feelings. No drama. Easy.

The sex was efficient. Honest. Weirdly natural. He knew how to touch you like he’d done it a hundred times—and honestly, at this point, maybe he had.

“Remind me why we don’t date?” he asked once, wiping sweat off his brow with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Because we’d kill each other.”

He nodded, eyes closing. “Fair.”

But he never kicked you out after. Not even once.

The “We’re Just Blowing Off Steam” Hookup

It was after a fight.

Not with each other—but with the world. Life was hard. Work was harder. You were both pissed off and needed something to feel good.

He picked you up in silence. You didn’t speak as he unlocked the door to his place. He barely looked at you before he kissed you, all teeth and tongue and frustration.

You clawed at each other like it meant something. Like it had to.

You both came undone too fast and too hard for it to be casual. You lay side by side after, breathing like you’d run a marathon.

And then Chris whispered, almost too quietly to catch, “This should probably stop at some point.”

You nodded.

Neither of you meant it.

+1. The Time You Caught Feelings (And Couldn’t Uncatch Them)

You should’ve known it would happen.

You should’ve known when you started looking forward to his texts more than anyone else’s. When you caught yourself smiling just because he walked into the room. When his stupid, annoying laugh started to sound like your favorite song.

You should’ve really known the night you stayed over without having sex at all.

You were just… tired. Emotionally wrecked from a bad day. You didn’t want to be alone.

And Chris—he didn’t touch you like a body. He touched you like a person. He made tea. Put on music. Let you fall asleep on his chest without a single move. Just… held you.

That was the night it all shifted.

And when he said, “You good?” the next morning, you looked up at him with eyes you were sure gave everything away.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But your heart had already flipped.

No pact, no Vegas accident, no lust-fueled excuse could undo the truth:

You were already his.

And whether or not he knew it yet—you had a feeling this whole thing had never really been casual. Not for you.

Maybe not for him, either.

You were just waiting for him to figure it out.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

everything but — matt sturniolo

warnings: smut, edging, teasing, dirty talk, light restraint, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, sensory play, soft power

The night starts like it always does.

Matt’s hoodie draped around your shoulders, the sheets warm, your body half on top of his. His hand is under your shirt, warm against the bare skin of your back. He smells like clean laundry and skin and something boyish and delicious. His eyes are dark already.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “and I’m not gonna make it through this movie.”

His thumb drags up your spine. “Who said we’re finishing the movie?”

You bite your lip. “So cocky.”

“Not cocky,” he says, voice low. “Just know what I do to you.”

And then he flips you onto your back.

Not rough. Slow. Measured.

He leans over you, hands braced on either side of your head. His mouth brushes your jaw.

“You’re already breathing faster.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, squirming.

He dips lower, lips grazing your neck. “I haven’t even touched you yet. And you’re this worked up?”

His hand slides down to your thigh, pushing it aside so he can slot his hips between yours. You gasp when you feel how hard he is.

“I could do anything right now,” he murmurs into your ear. “Anything. And you’d let me.”

You nod.

But he doesn’t move.

He just kisses you — slow and soft — while his fingers tease along the edge of your panties. Not inside. Not even under the waistband. Just brushing, feather-light, until your hips are bucking up into nothing.

“Matt…” you whisper, already shaking.

“Shh,” he says, almost sweet. “We’ve got time.”

And then he starts teasing for real.

It’s torture.

His fingers never go where you need them. They trace the edges of your thighs. Stroke the curve of your waist. Dance just under your shirt.

He gets your panties wet from the outside, rubbing small, slow circles over the fabric, just enough to feel good—but never enough to finish.

“You’re soaked,” he says with a crooked smirk. “Just from this?”

You glare at him. “I swear to God—”

He kisses your inner thigh, teeth grazing. “Swear to me instead.”

You almost scream.

He pulls your panties aside and just stares.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “Look at you. Dripping. Fucking glistening for me.”

“Then do something about it.”

He looks up at you with that smug, stupid, perfect smirk. “Nah. Not yet.”

He dips down, tongue sliding beside your clit, avoiding it completely.

You sob.

He keeps you like that for what feels like hours.

Hands gripping the sheets. Writhing under him. Every nerve in your body lit up.

He gets so close — mouth open on your cunt, fingers ghosting over your entrance — then pulls back. Again and again and again.

And when you finally gasp, “Matt, please, I’m gonna cry—”

He grins.

“Good.”

He kisses your thigh again. Then your hip. Then your belly.

“Beg for it.”

You do.

God, you do.

You tell him you need it. That you’ll be good. That you’ll do anything if he just lets you come.

And finally — finally — he pulls your legs over his shoulders, pins your thighs apart, and devours you.

Tongue on your clit. Fingers deep inside. No more teasing. Just filthy, wet, relentless pleasure.

You come so hard, you sob into your hand, shaking under his mouth.

He doesn’t stop.

Another one crashes over you. Then another.

You lose track of your own body. Your mind goes white.

When he finally crawls up beside you, he’s got the softest, cockiest little smile on his face.

“You okay, baby?”

You can’t speak. You just nod, dazed.

He kisses your temple. “Next time, I’ll make you beg longer.”

You almost want to punch him.

Almost.

But instead, you let him wrap you in his arms, his fingers lazily stroking your skin while your heart tries to slow down.

You’re still dripping. Still aching. Still a little ruined.

And he’s so proud of it.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[walshpilled-deactivated20251104]

I am not trying to be disrespectful but sometimes you use big/sophisticated words in your cowboy fic (it's the first one I have read of yours and I am enjoying it a lot!) and it makes me think you use AI or something similar. Again, I do not mean this to be rude but I'm curious if you do.

i use 'big words' because i have a law degree.

[gilbertscurls]

nsfw alphabet — matt sturniolo

A = Aftercare

Matt is big on aftercare. He needs it as much as he gives it. After sex, he clings—pulls you against his chest, presses forehead kisses to your skin, traces gentle fingers along your back. Whispers soft little things like, “Was I good for you?” or “You okay, baby?” He thrives when you stroke his hair and praise him, and he’s not above whining if you try to move too fast. Expect cuddles, water, a hoodie tossed over your shoulders, and his hands laced with yours while you both come down from the high.

B = Body part

On himself? His hands. Not in a cocky way—he just likes the way they make you feel. The way you gasp when his fingers slide between your legs, or how tightly you hold onto them when he’s working you open.

On you? Your thighs. He’s got a thing for burying his face between them, holding them apart or over his shoulders, or watching them shake when you come undone. Bonus points if you wrap them around his waist and squeeze when he thrusts deep.

C = Cum

He’s not the kind of guy to be obsessed with cum, but he’s definitely vocal about it in the moment. Groans in your ear when he’s close. Tells you “I wanna cum inside, can I?” even if it’s a fantasy. He likes the intimacy of finishing inside you, even if it's with protection. Watching it drip out? Yeah… he stares.

D = Dirty secret

He’s fantasized about you calling him your good boy while riding him—before it ever happened. He used to jerk off to the idea, completely wrecked by the thought of your voice soft and teasing, praising him while you used him for your own pleasure. The first time it actually happened? His brain short-circuited. He came embarrassingly fast. He’s never lived it down.

E = Experience

Not wildly experienced, but not clueless either. Most of what he knows, he learned through curiosity, porn (the more respectful kind), and actual attentiveness. He’s the kind of guy who listens—to your moans, your breaths, the way your body reacts. He might not have a long list of partners, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm and a real desire to please.

F = Favourite position

Missionary—but not in a boring way. He likes being on top, the closeness, the eye contact, the way your legs wrap around his waist. He loves watching your face and hearing your breath hitch when he hits that perfect spot. Bonus: he can lean down, kiss your neck, let you whisper filthy things in his ear. Also? Loves when you pull him in closer and tell him to go deeper. That does things to him.

G = Goofy

He’s not goofy in bed. At all. The usual sarcastic Matt disappears the moment things get hot. He’s intense. Focused. But—after sex, when you’re naked and tangled up in each other, he’ll crack a little grin and say something like, "You’re lucky I didn’t pass out on top of you."

H = Hair

Matt keeps it trimmed but natural. He doesn’t shave everything, but it’s tidy. He probably does it more for comfort than vanity. Chest? A little. Happy trail? Yes, and you love it. He smells clean all the time (a mix of cedarwood and something warm and spicy). He doesn’t really care about body hair on you either—he thinks it’s hot however you feel best.

I = Intimacy

Matt’s naturally intimate. He’s soft, attentive, and makes you feel seen. Every time you’re with him, it feels like a moment. He’s not the type to jump straight to fucking without kissing you like you’re the only thing that matters. Even during rougher sex, there’s always a hand on your cheek or a whispered “you feel so good” against your skin. He doesn’t just want your body—he wants you.

J = Jack off

He absolutely jerks off thinking about you—especially when you’ve worn something that drives him wild or when you’ve been teasing him all day. He’s not super vocal when he does it alone, but he does grunt your name under his breath. And if you’ve called him a good boy recently? That echo in his head is enough to send him spiraling.

K = Kink

Oh, praise kink. Deep. Embedded in his soul. He lives for being told he’s doing good. Being called a good boy makes him whimper—literally.

Other honorable mentions:

Light dom/sub dynamics (with you in charge or switching it up)

Overstimulation (he loves when you keep going after he comes)

Teasing (edging him until he’s begging is his version of heaven and hell)

Marking (he likes hickeys, both giving and receiving—subtle, hidden under his hoodie)

L = Location

Matt loves the bedroom—it’s his comfort zone. But if he’s feeling bold? The backseat of the car, late at night. Music playing, your moans swallowed by the bass. It’s messy, a little risky, and intimate in a whole different way. There’s something about the closeness that turns him on so much.

M = Motivation

Your voice does it for him. The way you say his name, especially when you’re needy. Soft, whiny, breathless? Game over.

Also: sitting in his lap, even innocently. Stroking his hair. Wearing his clothes. You don’t even have to try hard—he’s half in love with you all the time anyway.

N = No

Matt’s not into degradation. He doesn’t want to be called names or insulted—not even playfully. It knocks him out of the moment fast. Also, he’s not a fan of anything that feels too performative or rough to the point of discomfort. He’s about mutual pleasure, trust, and connection.

O = Oral

Giving? Obsessed. He’ll spend ages between your thighs, tongue slow and precise, eyes locked on your face because he lives for your reactions. He moans into it, grips your thighs tighter the closer you get.

Receiving? He’s shy about it at first. The first time you dropped to your knees, he literally asked, “Are you sure?” But once he’s used to it? His head falls back, hands in your hair, eyes fluttering shut. He’s vocal, responsive, and always tells you how good it feels.

P = Pace

Matt is versatile.

When he’s feeling soft and romantic? It’s slow, deep, full of eye contact and whispered I love you’s.

When you’re teasing him or he’s worked up? He can get desperately fast. Not rough, exactly—more frantic, needy. He chases the high, especially if you’re encouraging him.

Q = Quickie

He’s down, but only in the right mood. Before going out? Probably not—he’d rather take his time. But if you straddle him on the couch and whisper in his ear while everyone’s distracted in the next room? He’s so game.

R = Risk

Matt’s open to trying new things with you. He might not initiate the wildest ideas, but if you suggest something, he’ll consider it. He just needs trust, eye contact, and the freedom to say “no” if it gets overwhelming. But once he feels safe? He’ll surprise you with how far he’ll go. Especially if it involves your pleasure.

S = Stamina

More than you’d expect. One round and he’s panting, shaky, totally blissed out—but give him a few minutes? He’s back, hard again, and even more sensitive. You love how wrecked he looks by round two—blush high on his cheeks, lower lip swollen from biting, pupils blown wide. He can usually go two or three rounds if you push him.

T = Toys

He doesn’t have a drawer full, but he loves using them on you. Bullet vibes, clit suckers, or toys that let him watch you come while he kisses you through it. He’s so curious about mutual toys—especially ones that let you ride him while vibrating. Anything that makes you louder? Instant favorite.

U = Unfair

He teases without even realizing it. That lazy smirk when he pulls his shirt off? The way he brushes his hand down your spine before pulling your underwear off? Yeah. On purpose.

But when you tease him? He gets flustered fast. If you edge him? Whisper how good he’s doing? Tell him he can’t come yet? He melts. Whimpers. Begs. He loves the torture.

V = Volume

Matt is a whiner. Not loud, but expressive. Breathless little gasps, broken “fuck”s, and soft, desperate moans when he’s close. You can hear how good it feels. When you praise him? He lets out the prettiest sounds—shaky whimpers, whispered “please”s, little grunts as he comes. He’s musical in bed, and you adore it.

W = Wild card

Matt loves when you ride him while pinning his wrists above his head. He won't say it out loud at first, but the second you do it? His brain short-circuits. He lets you take control, melts into the bed, eyes wide and dazed, and just whimpers while you fuck him slow. Call him your good boy while you do it? He’ll come on the spot.

X = X-ray

Average length, but thick—and curved just enough to hit the right spot. Not flashy, but very effective. Feels amazing when he’s deep inside you, especially in positions that let him grind. He gets hard fast, and stays hard for a while. Slight upward curve, just a little veiny. Pretty pink head. Bonus: he adores when you talk about it. His cheeks go red.

Y = Yearning

High drive, but not overwhelming. He doesn’t need it every day, but he thinks about you constantly. Craves your touch, your voice, the way you kiss him. He’s down anytime you are, and he’s always ready to make it about you. If he had his way, you’d wake up wrapped around each other daily.

Z = Zzz

Post-sex? He’s clingy, sleep-drunk, blissed out. Will fall asleep with his head on your chest, or curled around you, still inside you if you don’t move. But only after the aftercare. Once he knows you’re okay, that you came, that you’re holding him? He drifts off with a smile on his face, breath warm against your skin.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

office hours — matt sturniolo

professor!matt in honor of my graduation from university today!! ✨

You could tell something was off the second you stepped into the seminar room. Not the usual Monday morning kind of off—the tired eyes, the too-loud gum popper two rows down, the flickering light no one ever bothered to report. No, this was different. Thicker. Like the air was holding its breath.

Your friend leaned in immediately, her voice hushed and conspiratorial.

"Did you hear about the new teacher?"

You blinked. “What new teacher?”

“Professor Wilson's out. Health thing. Someone new’s filling in, and apparently…” she glanced around, lowering her voice even more, “he’s young. Like, young. And scary.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “It’s an English Lit course. What’s he gonna do, haunt us with metaphors?”

But the joke barely left your mouth before the door opened, and the room went dead quiet.

Boots echoed softly on the old tile floor. Your gaze lifted—and then stalled.

He walked in like he owned the moment. Not with arrogance, but with a kind of quiet indifference that somehow hit harder. Black button-down, sleeves rolled, forearms inked faintly beneath pale skin. His hair was messy in a way that suggested it was intentional, and his expression was unreadable—cool, distant, clinical.

He didn’t look like a professor.

He looked like the mistake you swore you’d never make twice.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and smooth and cut from steel. “I’m Mr. Sturniolo. I’ll be teaching this course while Professor Wilson recovers. You can call me that—or not at all.”

A quiet chuckle from someone near the back. He didn’t smile.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve focused on the empty notebook in front of you. But something in you buzzed—low and slow and crawling just beneath your skin—as his eyes swept across the room.

And stopped.

On you.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to mean anything.

Too long to mean nothing.

The weeks that followed blurred into a pattern of growing frustration and fascination.

Mr. Sturniolo didn’t believe in coddling. No PowerPoints. No review days. No hand-holding. He didn’t ask you to participate—he expected it. When he spoke, he did it like he knew more than you, like he dared you to prove otherwise.

You hated how much it worked.

Every word he said made you lean forward, made you want to scribble down thoughts faster than your pen could keep up. He quoted obscure authors you’d never heard of and dragged your favorite ones through the dirt, challenging interpretations like it was a game he always won.

He never looked at you for long. But when he did, it felt like being pinned to the wall by something you couldn’t name.

And then came the assignment.

It was simple. Too simple. An extra-credit paper “for those falling behind,” he said, his tone lined with disdain. Most students rolled their eyes. You rolled yours harder. But you wrote it anyway—tight, clean, and clever. A throwaway paper. Nothing special. You were aiming for A+.

The next day, he returned the assignments. No announcement. No ceremony. Just quiet footsteps between the rows.

He placed yours face-down on your desk. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t say a word.

Your chest tightened. You flipped it.

F.

A bold, cruel red. Circled like a bruise.

Your breath caught. You never got Fs. You reread the paper, heart pounding. His comments were minimal. A few scribbled notes in the margins. Unfocused. Surface-level. Lazy.

Around you, soft giggles and whispered celebrations. One girl waved her A+ in the air, smiling toward the front of the room.

And that’s when you knew.

This wasn’t about the paper.

This was about you.

You waited until the room emptied. Waited until the low chatter faded down the hall and the only sound left was the soft click of his keyboard.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Just said, “May I help you?” like you were another mildly annoying interruption in his afternoon.

You dropped the paper on his desk. “You failed me.”

He finally looked up. Slowly. Like he was choosing to. Like he already knew what you were going to say and just wanted to watch you squirm your way to it.

“No,” he said simply. “You failed yourself.”

You scoffed, heat flooding your cheeks. “There was no rubric. No warning. That paper was—”

“Safe,” he interrupted, folding his glasses and setting them down, his eyes never leaving yours. “Predictable. You’re capable of more than clever phrasing and recycled ideas. I don’t reward potential. I grade performance.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You couldn’t breathe for a second.

“You think I turned in something mediocre on purpose?”

“I think,” he said, voice dropping, “you’re used to being told you’re brilliant for doing the bare minimum.”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to throw something.

Instead, you stood there, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You don’t know anything about me.”

A beat of silence. Then—his voice quieter now, but sharper than ever—

“Not yet.”

Something in your chest snapped. Or shifted. You couldn’t tell.

After that day, something changed. The tension that had hovered in the background lit like a match struck too close to dry kindling.

Every class felt like a sparring match. You’d offer answers you knew were bold, knowing he’d push back. He’d ask the kind of questions that made your brain burn. You spoke too often. He never told you to stop.

Sometimes, he lingered after class. Sometimes, you did.

And those moments—quiet, charged, fragile—began to stack.

One late afternoon, you stayed behind, alone, under the excuse of clarifying a grade. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting casually against his jaw as he watched you talk. His eyes didn’t wander. They pierced.

You called him out. He pushed right back. The arguments started to feel like foreplay—though nothing ever crossed the line. Not physically.

Not yet.

But when you stood to leave, and his eyes followed you just a second too long, you felt it.

And you knew he did, too.

The semester dragged and flew all at once. You became sharper. Braver. You wrote like you had something to prove—and maybe you did.

You hated how much you wanted his praise.

You hated how good it felt when you got it.

And then, on the last day of class, you handed him your final paper. The best thing you’d ever written.

You didn’t wait for your grade.

You didn’t expect a compliment.

But when he passed you in the hall a week later, he slowed, just enough.

No one else around. Just a moment suspended in the noise.

He said your name. Quietly.

You turned.

He held your paper in his hand.

On the top—A+.

And beneath it, a note in his handwriting.

“Finally.”

You looked up. His eyes were unreadable, but not cold. Not this time.

“I knew you had it in you,” he said.

Then he walked away.

And you stood there, pulse thrumming, fingers tight around the paper.

The F didn’t matter anymore.

Because whatever this was between you—this fire, this tension, this slow, dangerous pull—

It wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

press x to love him — matt sturniolo

 “Are you sure about this?” Matt asked, half-smirking, half-skeptical as he handed you the controller.

You sat cross-legged on his bed, the loading screen already glowing across the computer. “Nope. Not even a little.”

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” he said quickly, scooting closer on the mattress. “I know Fortnite’s not really your thing.”

You tilted your head at him and gave him a soft smile. “Yeah, but you are.”

Matt blinked, the teasing grin faltering for just a second before it morphed into something softer. “Okay, that was… dangerously cute.”

You shrugged. “Dangerously patient, too. I hope you’re ready to explain every single button on this controller twice.”

“I will literally give you a full tutorial, complete with fun facts and probably too many jokes,” he said proudly, adjusting the headset on his neck. “Also, if anyone dares to shoot you in-game, I’ll avenge your death immediately.”

“Romantic,” you said, deadpan.

“Ride-or-die, baby.”

He helped you pick your skin — you went for something that looked vaguely chaotic, mostly to amuse him. He made a comment about how adorable you looked holding the controller like it was a foreign object, but he was surprisingly sweet and gentle while teaching you.

The match started. You dropped too early, landed in a tree, and accidentally threw a grenade instead of drinking the shield potion.

Matt laughed so hard he had to drop his own controller. “You’re a natural,” he wheezed.

“Shut up, I’m trying my best!”

“You’re doing great,” he said through a grin, “and honestly, it’s cute watching you try.”

Somehow, you lasted longer than either of you expected. Mostly because Matt built little forts around you anytime someone came close.

When the game finally ended, you slumped back onto the bed, sighing dramatically. “I think I lost three brain cells.”

Matt looked at you, eyes soft. “Yeah, but I gained a whole new reason to love you.”

You blinked. “What, because I suck at Fortnite?”

“No,” he said, setting down his controller and scooting closer. “Because you cared enough to try something for me.”

You bit your lip, smile creeping in. “You’re really soft when you’re not yelling at twelve-year-olds online.”

“And you’re perfect when you’re not throwing grenades at your own teammates.”

You both laughed, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before stealing the controller back. “Rematch?”

“Only if we’re on the same team. I don’t trust you not to shoot me.”

Matt grinned. “Deal.”

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

parental guidance — matt sturniolo

You had survived many things in life:

A 10-page essay with a 12-hour deadline.

The time your sister cut her own bangs and blamed you.

A near-death experience involving a rogue shopping cart at Costco.

But nothing, nothing, could have prepared you for the emotional rollercoaster of meeting Matt Sturniolo’s parents.

It started with what Matt called “a chill lunch.”

Just “grab a bite with my parents,” he said.

“Nothing serious,” he said.

“You’ll love them,” he said.

And because you were in that disgusting stage of new relationship happiness where you’d agree to go on a 4am hike if Matt asked with a smile, you said yes.

You’d tried to prepare — emotionally, mentally, spiritually — but the moment you stepped out of the car, your brain short-circuited.

Matt, on the other hand, was as chill as ever. "You'll be fine," he said, patting your back with one hand and texting Nick with the other, probably about something deeply important like if they still had that box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the pantry.

"You say that," you whispered, "but what if your mom hates me and your dad challenges me to a duel?"

Matt blinked. "Okay, first of all, this isn’t Bridgerton. Second, even if my dad did challenge you to a duel, it would probably be over whose meatballs are better. You’d win if you brought garlic bread."

Comforting.

You took a deep breath and followed Matt up the steps. MaryLou opened the door before he could even knock.

"Hi honey!" she beamed, immediately pulling Matt into the kind of mom hug that could repair broken bones and emotional trauma. Then her eyes landed on you. “Matt told me so much about you. He said you were beautiful, and he was right. He really loves you.”

Cue internal panic.

He what now?

You glanced at Matt, who was suddenly very interested in the bread basket. The man looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

“Uh—” you stammered, because, what was the protocol here? “T-That’s so sweet. I—I love him too— I mean— not that I— I like him! Very much. Like. Deeply. In a non-threatening way.”

Matt physically winced.

MaryLou, however, was glowing. She had zero chill and all the warmth of a Christmas Hallmark movie. She gave your hand a pat-pat like you were a nervous puppy.

“Oh honey,” she smiled, “you’re adorable.”

She pulled you in for a hug, and for a second, it felt like you had passed the final boss of a video game. You were in.

The house smelled like a bakery and looked like Pinterest exploded in the best way. There were seasonal dish towels and a “Live Laugh Love” sign in the kitchen that seemed to stare into your soul. Jimmy was leaning against the counter, sipping coffee like he was about to offer life advice or a dad joke. Possibly both.

He shook your hand, strong and warm. “You must be the girl Matt won’t shut up about.”

You blinked. “He talks about me?”

“Oh yeah,” Jimmy grinned. “Says you’re smart, hilarious, keeps him in check—though I’m still not convinced he listens to anyone—but most of all,” he winked, “he says you’re beautiful.”

Your heart did a double backflip.

“And he was right,” Jimmy added sincerely. “He really loves you.”

You stared at him, stunned, while Matt choked on his water behind you.

“DAD.”

Jimmy ignored him, still smiling at you like this was a completely normal, casual Tuesday.

You turned to Matt, your cheeks on fire. “You told them that?”

Matt was red. “I mean... yeah? I wasn’t gonna bring you around if I didn’t—like—y'know—”

“If you didn’t what, Matt?” MaryLou said, crossing her arms and enjoying the show. “Say it.”

Matt groaned. “Oh my god.”

“She already knows you love her,” Jimmy said helpfully. “She just found out ten seconds ago.”

“I’m going to hide in the basement,” Matt muttered, grabbing a cookie from the counter like it was a survival ration and retreating toward the stairs.

“So,” A while later, MaryLou leaned in with the gentle intensity of a therapist who knew you were hiding something, “how did you and Matt meet?”

Matt visibly froze mid-sip of water.

You grinned. “Well, technically, I almost hit him with a door.”

Jimmy blinked.

MaryLou gasped. “No!”

“Oh yes,” you said. “He opened it too fast, I panicked, and accidentally whipped my smoothie at him.”

Matt nodded solemnly. “It was mango. It burned.”

“I offered to buy him a new hoodie,” you added. “And somehow, he agreed to go on a date with the person who mango-assaulted him.”

MaryLou clutched her heart like this was the plot of Titanic.

“That’s— that’s so romantic,” she whispered.

“Romantic?” Jimmy said. “She assaulted him with produce.”

“It was a liquid fruit-based accident,” you clarified.

“Sounds like love at first pulp,” Matt muttered, and you kicked him lightly under the table.

For the next hour, it was a whirlwind of questions, stories, and MaryLou pulling out photos of Matt as a baby that absolutely no one asked for.

“He was such a serious baby,” she said, showing you one where Matt stared directly into the camera like he was about to declare war.

“Bro looked like he was already paying taxes,” you whispered.

“He was born with a furrowed brow,” Jimmy added. “We thought he’d come out quoting Nietzsche.”

You were laughing so hard, you nearly choked on your water.

Eventually, as the meal wound down, Matt finally spoke up. “So... not a total disaster?”

MaryLou reached across the table and took your hand again, eyes warm.

“You’re funny, you’re charming, and you clearly care about my son,” she said. “I can see why he fell for you.”

Matt cleared his throat and looked down, cheeks pink.

Jimmy looked between you and Matt. “You roast him regularly, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” you said.

“Good,” he nodded. “He needs that.”

As you stood to leave, MaryLou hugged you like you’d just passed a sacred rite. Jimmy gave you a firm handshake and a nod of approval. And Matt?

Matt walked you to your car and stood awkwardly by the door.

“Sorry about the whole... ‘he really loves you’ thing,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

You smiled. “You told your mom I was beautiful.”

“I mean... yeah.” He shrugged. “You are.”

“And you love me?”

He groaned, but didn’t deny it. “Can we pretend I said it in a less intense way?”

“Nope.” You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “But I love you too, mango-boy.”

He blinked, then beamed so hard, you almost saw sparkles.

And just like that, meeting the parents wasn’t so scary after all.

(Although you were slightly traumatized by Baby Matt in a diaper and sunglasses. Some images never leave you.)

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

in the quiet between buttons — chris sturniolo

You’re both late.

Not by much—just enough to feel the tick of the clock pushing against your back like a hand between your shoulder blades. The hotel room still smells like warm cologne and the clean steam of your shared shower. Chris stands in front of the mirror, trying to loop his tie with distracted fingers, brows furrowed in frustration. You, behind him, half-dressed in a black slip dress that’s still unzipped halfway down your back, watch him with soft amusement as you fasten an earring.

“You’re doing it wrong,” you murmur, stepping up beside him.

Chris sighs, letting the ends of the navy tie fall limp against his chest. “I knew I should’ve looked up the YouTube tutorial again.”

“You’ve tied it like… three times already.”

He meets your gaze in the mirror and shrugs with that lopsided grin that always makes your heart tilt. “Yeah, well. I’m nervous.”

You pause, earring forgotten. “Why?”

Chris’s eyes flit to yours in the mirror, then away, suddenly bashful. “Because you look like that. And we’re going to this big thing with everyone we know, and you’re—you.” He laughs quietly, then scratches the back of his neck. “Makes me feel like I forgot how to function.”

Warmth crawls up your chest, slow and fond. You set your earring down on the dresser and move to stand in front of him, eyes focused on the crumpled tie.

“Come here,” you say gently. He does. You smooth the fabric between your fingers, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat just beneath where your hands brush his chest. The two of you are quiet for a while as you loop the tie around, cross and pull and tighten it until it’s snug beneath his collar.

“You know,” you say softly, not looking up, “I could get used to this.”

His hands find your waist lightly. “What? Me being helpless with basic adult tasks?”

You smirk, finally glancing up at him. “No. Helping you get ready. Tying your tie. Watching your face in the mirror while you sneak glances at me when you think I’m not looking.”

He flushes—beautifully. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

You reach behind and guide his hands to the zipper on your dress. The fabric is silky under his fingers, the zipper delicate and almost shy in the quiet of the room. You turn around slowly, your back to him now, bare skin brushing his knuckles as he starts to pull the zipper up, slow and careful.

“You sure about this one?” he murmurs, voice low in your ear, like it’s not about the dress at all.

You turn your head, catch his reflection in the mirror. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He finishes the zip, lets his fingers linger just a second too long at the nape of your neck, like he doesn’t want to let go. You turn to face him again, the dress now molded to your body, his tie perfectly in place.

“Let’s be fashionably late,” he says, eyes locked on yours.

You grin, grabbing your clutch and lacing your fingers through his.

“You mean hopelessly in love and pretending it’s just coincidence?”

Chris chuckles. “That too.”

And when you walk out into the night, the world doesn’t know how intimate it is, the simple act of dressing together. But you do. And that quiet, sacred softness lingers between you long after the zipper’s been pulled and the tie’s been knotted.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

you're literally the problem — matt sturniolo

You wake up feeling like you got hit by a truck.

A very hot, annoyingly smug, Matt-shaped truck.

Your thighs ache, your back is a war zone, and your voice is hoarse from what was either screaming his name, cursing him out, or maybe both. You're not entirely sure. The details are a haze of messy sheets, breathless laughter, and him whispering “just one more, baby” for the sixth time in a row like a liar.

The room is quiet—sunlight spilling in through half-closed blinds, dust dancing lazily in the light. You roll onto your side with the grace of a grandma and immediately regret it. Everything hurts.

Matt walks in, fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling at the ends. He’s got that stupid, innocent look on his face—like he didn’t just go full WWE on you seven hours ago.

He tosses you a Gatorade and a granola bar.

“Yo, why do you look dead?”

You blink at him, stunned. “I am dead.”

He squints. “Wait, seriously? You good?”

You sit up, groaning like you’re ninety. “Matt. Matthew. Matthias—”

“That’s not my name—”

“—You folded me in half like a lawn chair. You put my legs over your shoulders and said ‘let’s see how deep this goes.’ You cannot look me in the eye and act confused about why I’m limping.”

He stares. Then shrugs. “Okay but like… you were into it.”

You throw a pillow at him. “That’s not the point!”

He catches it, grinning like the menace he is. “I’m just saying, you were really flexible last night. Honestly, I’m impressed.”

You bury your face in your hands. “This is not the aftercare I deserve.”

He walks over and flops onto the bed beside you, still warm from the shower. He wraps an arm around your sore waist and pulls you into his chest like a smug furnace.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he says into your hair. “Eggs? Pancakes? Ice pack?”

You groan. “Spine realignment, maybe.”

Matt kisses your temple. “Okay but… wanna go again tonight?”

You lift your head, eyes narrowed. “If you ever want me to walk straight again, the answer is no.”

“Noted,” he says, clearly not noting it at all. “But just so you know, you did say I could ruin you any time I wanted.”

“That was a moan, Matt. Not a legal contract.”

He grins, boyish and unbothered. “Too late. I took it as a verbal agreement.”

You glare. He winks.

And despite everything—the soreness, the chaos, the trauma to your inner organs—you laugh. Because he’s ridiculous. And beautiful. And yours.

Even if he is the reason you’ll need a heating pad and a chiropractor.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

this is fine (it’s not) — chris sturniolo

It starts off innocent.

You and Chris are hanging out with the others in the living room, music low, snacks everywhere, some show playing in the background that no one’s really paying attention to. Your legs are tired, the couch is crowded, and there’s just… nowhere else to sit.

So without thinking—truly without even a single thought—you step over to where Chris is lounging and gently lower yourself onto his lap.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you say, casual as air.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Mostly because his brain has just bluescreened.

What. Is. Happening.

His hands are suddenly very aware of themselves. Where should they go? On the couch? On your hips? No, absolutely not. Too bold. He settles for awkwardly placing one on his own knee like a nervous Victorian child and tries to act like he’s totally chill about this.

You, oblivious to the internal screaming happening beneath you, are focused on the show now, leaning back slightly to get comfortable. Your shoulder brushes his. His breath hitches. No one notices. Thank God.

You shift slightly, adjusting your weight.

Chris internally combusts.

Okay, he tells himself, okay, this is fine. Totally normal. Just your crush. On your lap. Casual. No big deal. People do this all the time. This is a thing. This is normal.

Meanwhile, on the outside, he hasn’t moved a muscle.

“Chris?” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “You good?”

He blinks up at you like he’s just returned from war. “Me? Yeah. Totally. Great. Perfect.”

You tilt your head. “You’re kind of stiff.”

Stiff. Why would you say that word. He swallows hard. “Just—just trying not to disturb the moment.”

You laugh softly and lean back against him, your head resting near his shoulder now, impossibly close. “You’re cute.”

Chris’s soul ascends to another plane of existence.

He nods slowly, trying not to smile like an idiot. “Thanks.”

But inside?

DEFCON ONE. CRISIS MODE. TOTAL SYSTEM OVERLOAD.

He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his teeth. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t ruin it. Just lets you stay there, warm and relaxed in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world—while he dies quietly, the happiest man ever to be so profoundly undone.

And when you eventually fall asleep against his shoulder, your breathing slow and steady, Chris finally lets himself exhale. One hand rises carefully to rest against your arm, featherlight.

His heart is still racing.

But for once, he doesn’t mind the chaos.

Because you’re here.

And he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

the family maker — matt sturniolo

It’s a dumb TikTok trend. That’s what you told yourself.

You weren’t planning anything serious. Not trying to seduce him. Not really. It was just funny. Cute, even. Something to tease him with.

And Matt was the perfect target.

He was lounging in his usual spot—your bed, where he spent at least half his time, it seemed. Hoodie half-zipped, hair messy from the hoodie hood, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle like he owned the place. The lazy kind of pretty that didn’t try, didn’t have to. He was on his phone, scrolling, earbuds in, totally oblivious to the trap you were setting up.

Your phone was balanced against a stack of books on your dresser, already recording. You checked the frame once, then again, then hit record when he looked the other way.

Then the beat started.

"I did the butcher."

You chopped your hands through the air with exaggerated flair, facing Matt, body loose and casual.

"I did the baker."

You mimed stirring something in an invisible bowl, hips bouncing with the rhythm.

Matt looked up at the sound, one earbud dangling from his ear, a lazy smirk already tugging at his mouth. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept going.

"I did the home—"

You traced the shape of a little house in the air with your fingers, stepping closer to him.

He laughed under his breath, watching you with that amused, skeptical glint in his eye. “You’re such a weirdo.”

"And the family maker—"

Your hands came down from the rooftop and curved into a round motion in front of your belly, miming a baby bump. It was slow, drawn out, exaggerated. Deliberate.

And that was when Matt froze.

Like—froze.

Not the playful, exaggerated freezing he’d do when you scared him or made a joke that landed too well. No, this was real. His face went still. His eyebrows raised a fraction. His gaze dipped, dragged across your hands, your belly, your hips. Then back up—slow, like he didn’t want to, like it was work to look away.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" he muttered, mostly to himself, and you knew exactly what part got to him. His gaze dropped to your belly, once again, then flicked back up to your face. Color bloomed along the tops of his cheeks. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh, speak, or throw himself out the window.

"I did school girl fantasies—"

You gave your hips a playful sway, spun around once, ponytail bouncing, skirt fluttering (strategically chosen), then landed facing him again with a smirk.

And Matt still hadn’t moved.

His lips were parted. His phone, forgotten. His eyes—fixed. And his throat—God, the way he swallowed, like it hurt.

You stopped the recording with a flick of your finger. “So?” you asked, feigning innocence. “Did I nail it or what?”

Matt blinked, still somewhere ten seconds in the past. “I—” He blinked again, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell was that?”

You cocked your head. “A dance trend. I told you, TikTok—”

“No, I mean…” He pointed vaguely at you, then at the air, then at your stomach like he couldn’t find the words. “That. The family maker move.”

You bit your lip, grinning. “Did that one get you a little worked up?”

His jaw clenched. “You could say that.”

Your smile widened. “Wait, seriously?”

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice tight, words edged with something darker, deeper, thicker. “You did that stupid little move and—boom. Gone. My brain went straight into hell. No filter. Just… you. Pregnant.”

The way he said it. Rough. Raw. Embarrassed but not apologetic. Like he was confessing to a sin he’d commit all over again.

You stepped closer, slow. Deliberate. “And…?”

His gaze snapped to yours. Something primal underneath, buried but rising.

“And now I can’t stop seeing it,” he said, almost breathless. “Like, in my head, it’s just there. You. Belly all round, walking around in one of my hoodies, telling me I’m late for the doctor’s appointment. Laughing at me when I cry at ultrasounds. You. Pregnant. With my kid.”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t speak. That was more than you expected. Way more.

“Matt…”

He shook his head, sitting up straighter on the bed, hands braced on his thighs like he was grounding himself. “Sorry. That was—too much. I know. I just—”

You were already moving before he finished, crawling onto the bed, knees on either side of his lap. His eyes widened when you sat over him, barely any space between your bodies.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that,” you whispered, “but I’m not sorry it worked.”

Matt’s hands came up to your hips, fingers digging in just slightly, his voice low and wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you smiled. “But at least I’ll look hot doing it.”

He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving, but then his voice dropped again. “You’d look insane, actually. Gorgeous. Glowing. You’d drive me crazy. Just the thought of you—" He bit his bottom lip hard, then exhaled. "Carrying my baby? Fuck.”

You kissed him then.

Hard. Deep. Slow. The kind of kiss that says we've never admitted this out loud before, but we’ve both known. That kind of kiss. All heat and promise and tension, melting all the space between you.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads resting together, your breath mixing with his, you whispered, “Should I post the video?”

Matt huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Only if you want half the internet knowing I’ve got a pregnancy kink now.”

You giggled. “Noted.”

Then you rocked your hips forward—just enough to make his breath hitch again—and grinned against his cheek.

“And hey,” you added, voice soft, “if you ever want that family-maker thing to be more than a dance move…”

Matt groaned, hands tightening at your hips, like he couldn’t take any more.

“Jesus Christ, woman.”

“What?” you laughed, feigning innocence.

He looked at you like you hung the moon. “You keep teasing like that, and I’m gonna start shopping for cribs.”

Your lips found his again, sweet and slow this time.

And honestly? That didn’t sound half bad.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

scruff and hunger — matt sturniolo

warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), face sitting, beard kink, overstimulation, dirty talk, hair pulling, whimpering

When Matt first showed up with that scruffy, grown-out beard, you barely recognized him.

The clean-shaven boy you knew? Gone. Replaced by this rugged, rough version with dark whiskers shadowing his jaw, cheeks, and that perfect throat you wanted to press your lips to.

Your jaw drops.

He raises a brow. “What?”

You blink. “What the fuck is that?”

He scratches his cheek, like it’s casual. “Didn’t feel like shaving.”

You stare. “That is not ‘didn’t feel like shaving.’ That is I’m going to eat you alive and leave beard burn on your thighs.”

He grins.

“Say please.”

Two minutes later you’re straddling his face.

His back is flat on your bed, hoodie still on. His wrists are gripping your thighs, guiding you forward like he’s been waiting for this moment all damn day.

“You’re—fuck—you’re serious about this, huh?” he asks, voice muffled beneath you.

You plant your knees on either side of his head and look down.

“I want your beard between my thighs, Matt. Make it count.”

He groans like it physically hurts him. “Jesus Christ.”

Then he drags you down.

His tongue is already inside you. Slow and deep. Lapping you up like he’s starving.

But the beard — the beard is the star of the show.

It’s rough. Scratchy. Deliciously irritating.

It drags against the soft skin of your thighs, rubs up against your clit every time he shifts, and burns in the best way when he presses in harder.

You grind against his face. He lets you.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard. He groans into your cunt, the vibration making you moan so loud it echoes off the walls.

“Matt—fuck—your face—”

He chuckles. Then sucks your clit so hard your vision whites out.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp. “I’m—holy fuck—”

And he just keeps going.

He holds you there — thighs trembling, hips twitching — as he keeps licking and rubbing his beard against you, overstimulating you until you’re writhing above him, dripping down his chin.

You come again. Harder. Louder.

Your legs give out. You collapse forward, twitching, crying into the pillow as he keeps licking you through it.

“Still hate the beard?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, mouth still soaked.

“Don’t you dare shave it,” you whisper.

He smiles.

And pulls you back down for round three.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss

[gilbertscurls]

feel anything — matt sturniolo

It’s 3:47 a.m. and Matt’s lying on his bedroom floor again.

The lights are off. The ceiling is spinning. Or maybe it’s just him.

His phone’s face-down on the carpet. Has been for hours.

He hasn’t checked it.

He won’t check it.

Because if your name’s not there, it’ll break him. And if it is?

It’ll break him worse.

There’s a sickness inside him. Not the kind with fevers or coughs. Something quieter. Colder. The kind that seeps in behind your eyes and sits on your chest until it feels normal not to breathe right.

Matt doesn’t tell anyone how bad it’s gotten. Not his brothers. Not his friends. He keeps it neat and folded behind his back, wears a tired smile and makes the jokes people expect from him. But under the surface, it’s all quicksand. No footing. No peace. Just that constant, aching hum:

What is wrong with me?

Because the truth?

He loved you. God, he loves you.

He sees you in everything.

In the way the rain sounds on the roof.

In the way his hoodie still smells faintly like your shampoo.

In the way silence doesn’t feel safe anymore — it just feels empty.

But love never fixed him.

And that’s the part that scares him most.

There were moments — little glimmers — when he almost believed he could do it. Be yours. Be whole. Be happy. You made it look so easy. So possible. You had this gentle way of looking at him like he wasn’t a burden. Like the pieces didn’t scare you. Like maybe, if he let you, you’d help him carry the weight.

But that’s just it.

He didn’t want you to carry it.

He wanted to be the guy who held it for you.

And every time he faltered—every time the anxiety choked him, every time he lashed out or pulled away or shut down completely—it was like a mirror to his worst fear: that he would ruin the one beautiful thing he’d ever been given.

So he made the choice for both of you.

He walked.

Quietly.

Painfully.

Cowardly, maybe. But completely.

Some nights, he dreams of you.

Not the good memories — no, those hurt too much.

It’s the ones that could’ve been.

The mornings you never got. The vacations you planned but never took. The versions of him that existed only in your hope — stable, smiling, steady.

He wakes up drenched in sweat, grief rising like bile. Not because the dream ended, but because it was never real to begin with.

There’s a journal on his desk with your name on the first page.

He hasn’t touched it since the week after he left.

But he knows what it says, word for word:

Even though I love her so much, I can’t be with her. Because I can barely be with myself. And I’d rather she hate me than ever feel like she has to fix me.

He thought he was doing the right thing.

Thought walking away was noble.

Thought hurting you was better than destroying you, piece by piece, over years of his own self-hate.

But now, alone in this echo chamber of regrets, he’s not so sure.

Depression doesn’t just make you sad.

It makes you distant.

It makes you paranoid. Tired. Apathetic.

It convinces you that the people who love you are better off without you — even when they’re right there, arms open, saying otherwise.

Matt still hears your voice in his head. Soft, patient, pleading.

“Let me in.”

But he couldn’t.

Because the room inside him wasn’t safe.

It had too many sharp edges. Too many secrets. Too many ghosts.

And maybe he could’ve tried harder.

Maybe he could’ve fought.

But when you’re drowning, you don’t always see the hand reaching in to save you. You just see the water. And the weight. And the terrifying, silent promise of peace if you just... let go.

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

He goes to therapy sometimes. Not regularly — not yet — but enough to know that what he’s dealing with has a name. Enough to know it’s not your fault. Or his. That trauma lives in the body. That love can’t always outrun pain. That healing is slow and nonlinear.

But still, at 3:47 a.m., with nothing but the sound of his own breath and your memory clawing at the walls, all Matt knows is this:

He misses you.

He loves you.

And he hates himself for not being able to stay.

If he could say one thing to you now—really say it—it wouldn’t be “I’m sorry.”

It would be this:

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I left because I thought you deserved better. Not realizing that you thought I was better, just by loving you. I never wanted to lose you. I just didn’t know how to keep you and survive myself at the same time.”

And maybe one day—maybe—he’ll knock on your door again.

Not because he wants to be saved.

But because he finally learned how to save himself.

But until then, Matt lives in the aftermath of a love he couldn’t hold, and the war inside his head he’s still learning how to fight.

Because even though he loved you more than anything…

He couldn’t be with you.

Because he couldn’t be with himself.

Not yet.

Not then.

But maybe… someday.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris, @ivysturnss