A/N- I hope everybody loves this as much as i do!! iâm so so extremely excited. Thank you so so much to my girl @chriss-slutt for doing the entire first page! Youâre amazing i love you.
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A/N- I hope everybody loves this as much as i do!! iâm so so extremely excited. Thank you so so much to my girl @chriss-slutt for doing the entire first page! Youâre amazing i love you.

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The Preachers Son
Warnings- very much nothing!!
Word Count- 2.3k
Chapter 01: Transfer Student
The first thing Ezekiel noticed was the silence.
Not the comfortable kind of silence that came from being alone in his room, reading until his eyes grew heavy. Not the peaceful silence of early morning mass when the church was empty and the candles flickered in the dim light. No, this was the silence that came from something ending. The hollow, suffocating silence that followed a door closing for the last time.
His Catholic school had been standing for over fifty years. The brick building sat on a hill overlooking most of town, its stained-glass windows glowing like jewels whenever the sun hit them just right. Every classroom smelled faintly of old books and furniture polish. Every teacher knew his name. Every student knew his face.
Everybody knew his name.
Everybody knew his father.
And now it was gone.
Funding cuts. Low enrollment. Declining interest in religious education. Whatever the official reason was, it didn't matter. The doors were locked. The halls were empty. The school was closed. And Ezekiel was being forced to attend public school.
The thought alone made his stomach twist into knots so tight he could barely breathe.
He stared out the passenger window of his father's truck as they rolled through town. The familiar streets of his childhood passed by in a blurâthe corner store where he bought candy after school, the park where he used to play, the church where his father preached every Sunday. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt the same. Everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
"You'll keep your head down," his father said, his voice carrying that familiar tone of authority. The one that brooked no argument.
Ezekiel sighed softly, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
The lecture had started fifteen minutes ago. It hadn't stopped.
"You'll remember who you are."
"Yes, sir."
"You'll remember whose son you are."
"Yes, sir."
His father tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. He was trying to protect him. Ezekiel knew that. He always knew that. But sometimes it felt less like protection and more like a cage.
"Public schools are different."
Ezekiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His father couldn't see him anyway, but the gesture felt rebellious. Dangerous. The kind of thing that would earn him a long lecture about respect and honor and carrying himself properly.
"They're schools," Ezekiel said quietly.
"They're filled with distractions."
A pause. His father's voice dropped lower, heavier.
"Drugs."
Another pause.
"Sex."
Another pause.
"Parties."
Ezekiel stared out the window harder, watching the houses blur past. His reflection stared back at himâblonde hair, blue eyes, the silver cross hanging around his neck. He looked like a good boy. A perfect boy. The kind of boy parents approved of.
"People who don't care where their lives end up."
The truck stopped at a red light. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight.
"And stay away from Nicolas Sturniolo."
That got Ezekiel's attention. He glanced over, frowning. "What?"
His father's jaw tightened. "Nicolas Sturniolo."
The name sounded vaguely familiar, like something he'd heard whispered in passing. Maybe in the hallways. Maybe at church. He couldn't quite place it.
"Who?"
"A troublemaker."
The light turned green. His father drove forward, his expression dark.
"He smokes."
Ezekiel blinked. Okay.
"He skips class."
Alright.
"His hair is ridiculous."
That felt less serious. Almost funny, actually, but Ezekiel knew better than to laugh.
"Teachers can't control him."
His father continued, his voice growing more animated. More urgent.
"He has no respect for authority. None. I've heard stories from parents in the congregationâthis boy is trouble, Ezekiel. Pure trouble. He's the kind of person who drags everyone around him down. You stay far away from him. Do you understand me?"
By the time they pulled into the parking lot, Nicolas Sturniolo sounded less like a person and more like a criminal mastermind. Some dark figure lurking in the shadows, waiting to corrupt innocent souls. Ezekiel expected somebody terrifying. Some giant delinquent with tattoos covering his arms and a motorcycle idling menacingly behind him. Someone with a sneer and a cruel laugh and danger written all over his face.
Instead, when he stepped onto campus, he mostly saw normal teenagers. Groups laughing, people running late, students carrying backpacks. Nothing looked dangerous. Nothing looked evil. Nothing looked like the apocalypse his father had described. The public school looked exactly like a schoolâjust louder. Messier. More alive.
Still, his stomach hurt.
He adjusted the silver cross hanging around his neck. A habit. One he'd had for years. Whenever he was nervous, his fingers found it, tracing the familiar shape. A comfort. A shield. A reminder of who he was supposed to be.
"You'll be fine." His father placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You know right from wrong. You've been raised properly. This is just...a test. A temporary test."
Ezekiel forced a smile. The same smile he'd been using for years. The perfect one. White teeth, friendly, reliable. The smile that made people trust him. That made teachers adore him. That made everyone believe he was exactly as perfect as he appeared.
"Of course."
His father nodded, satisfied. Then he climbed back into the truck and drove away. And just like thatâ
Ezekiel was alone.
The hallways were loud. Aggressively, overwhelmingly loud. His old school never sounded like thisâstudents walked in orderly lines, spoke in hushed voices, followed the rules that had been drilled into them since kindergarten. This was chaos. Students crowded every corner, lockers slammed with jarring metallic crashes, people shouted across the hallway at each other, music played somewhere in the distance. Ezekiel felt like he'd been dropped into a completely different world.
He hated it immediately.
He followed the map the office had given him, clutching it tightly in his sweaty hands. Room 204. American Literature. Simple. Easy. He could survive one day. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.
The classroom was already half full when he walked inside. The teacher looked up from her desk, and Ezekiel immediately noticed the worn patches on her cardigan, the comfortable shoes, the reading glasses perched on her nose. She looked kind. That was something, at least.
"Oh," she said, and suddenly every head in the room turned toward him.
Wonderful.
The teacher smiled warmly. "You must be our transfer student."
Forty pairs of eyes landed on him. Forty faces stared at him with open curiosity. Ezekiel wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He wanted to disappear into the floorboards and never be seen again. Instead, he smiled. The perfect smile.
"Yes, ma'am."
The teacher practically melted. Of course she did. Adults always did. Ezekiel had blonde hair. Blue eyes. Perfect grades. Perfect manners. Perfect smile. He was basically designed in a laboratory to make teachers happy. He knew exactly how to behave. Exactly what to say. Exactly how to charm anyone who held authority over him.
"Why don't you introduce yourself?"
His soul left his body. It floated somewhere near the ceiling, watching his body go through the motions.
"Hi." Fantastic start. "I'm Ezekiel."
A few girls immediately whispered to each other. Wonderful. Even worse.
"I'm sixteen."
Pause.
"I like reading."
Longer pause. God, this was painful.
"This is awkward."
A few students laughed. The sound wasn't cruelâit was almost friendly. Almost. But Ezekiel couldn't relax. He couldn't let his guard down. The perfect smile was still firmly in place.
The teacher pointed toward an empty desk near the back. "You can sit there."
Ezekiel turned.
And froze.
Because somebody was asleep. Actually asleep. Head down on the desk, arms folded underneath, completely unconscious to the world around him. Dark hair fell across his face, hiding his features. A black hoodie covered his upper body. Black boots stuck out from under the desk. And a guitar pick hung from a chain around his neck, catching the fluorescent light.
The teacher noticed his confusion. "Oh, don't mind him." Several students snorted.
Ezekiel looked back at the sleeping figure. Something about him was familiar. The way he took up space. The casual disregard for everyone around him.
"That's Nicolas."
The entire class laughed. Ezekiel blinked. Nicolas? As inâNicolas Sturniolo? The world's most feared teenager? The boy his father spent twenty minutes warning him about? The danger. The distraction. The trouble.
He was asleep.
Drooling slightly.
Ezekiel sat down slowly, carefully, like he was approaching a wild animal. The sleeping boy suddenly opened one eye. Blue. Sharp. Annoyingly pretty. Ezekiel immediately looked away, his heart doing something strange in his chest. Something he didn't want to examine too closely. The eye closed again. And the boy went back to sleep.
But Ezekiel couldn't stop thinking about those eyes. The way they had looked at himâsharp, knowing, almost amused. Like Nicolas had seen right through him. Like he knew exactly who Ezekiel was and found him fascinating.
Or ridiculous.
Probably ridiculous.
Lunch was somehow worse.
Ezekiel sat alone at a table in the corner, trying to make himself as small as possible. Not because nobody invited him anywhereâactually the opposite. Three different groups had tried to wave him over. A few girls had smiled invitingly. People kept calling out to him.
But Ezekiel didn't know them. He didn't trust them. He couldn't risk letting anyone see past the perfect mask. So he sat alone. Eating fries. Staring at the table. Thinking.
And then somebody dropped into the seat across from him.
Without asking. Without any acknowledgment that Ezekiel might want to be alone. Justâslid right into the chair like he owned it.
Ezekiel looked up.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Black nail polish. Black hoodie. Guitar pick swinging gently against his chest. Nicolas Sturniolo.
"You're the church kid," Nicolas said, his voice carrying an edge of amusement.
Ezekiel stared. This was the danger? This was the criminal mastermind?
"You're the church kid," Nicolas repeated, stealing one of Ezekiel's fries right off his tray. The audacity.
"I'm Ezekiel," Ezekiel said firmly, trying to regain some control of the situation.
"Church kid." Nicolas smirked, popping the fry into his mouth.
"My name is Ezekiel."
Nick shrugged, stealing another fry. "Same thing."
Ezekiel frowned. This was infuriating. This boy he'd never met, who had no right to sit at his table, who had no right to steal his food, was looking at him like he was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all day. And the worst partâthe absolute worst partâwas that Ezekiel couldn't stop looking at him. At the sharp line of his jaw. At the way his hair fell across his forehead. At the blue of his eyes, so vivid they almost seemed to glow.
He was so stupidly, annoyingly, ridiculously hot.
And Ezekiel hated him for it.
Hated him immediately. Instantly. Completely.
"You always steal people's food?" Ezekiel asked, trying to sound annoyed rather than flustered.
"Only when they're staring at me." Nicolas's smile widened, like he knew exactly what effect he was having.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Ezekiel hated the way Nicolas's voice dropped on that last word. Hated the way his stomach did a strange little flip. Hated the way he couldn't stop looking at those blue eyes. Hated everything about this moment.
Nicolas leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Ezekiel forced himself to look away. Forced himself to breathe.
"So," Nicolas said.
"So?"
"You gonna tell me why your dad hates me?"
Ezekiel nearly choked. His face flushed red. Nicolas burst out laughingâactually laughing, head thrown back, absolutely delighted.
"I knew it," Nicolas said, grinning.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure." Nicolas started counting on his fingers. "Let me guess. Drugs." One finger. "Skipping class." Two fingers. "Bad influence." Three fingers. "Probably Satan." Four fingers.
Ezekiel looked away, his face burning. How did he know? How did this stranger know exactly what his father had said?
Nicolas started laughing harder. "Oh my God. He actually said that stuff, didn't he? You thought I was Satan? I'm personally offended."
Ezekiel hated how funny it was. Hated the way laughter bubbled up in his own chest. He pressed his lips together, fighting it.
"You know what's funny?" Nicolas leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.
"What?"
"You listened." The words hit harder than they should have. "You actually listened to him. And you're still sitting here with me anyway."
Ezekiel opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because it was true. He had been warned. Warned and warned and warned. And yet here he was. Sitting across from Nicolas Sturniolo. Allowed himself to be drawn in. Allowed himself to be curious. Allowed himself to be interested in something his father had told him not to do.
Nicolas's grin faded slightly, replaced by something softer. Something that looked almost like understanding. Like he'd noticed something deeper. Like he'd seen the cracks in Ezekiel's perfect facade.
And for the first time all dayâsomebody wasn't looking at Ezekiel like he was perfect. Somebody was looking at him like he was trapped. Like he was struggling. Like he was just as lost and confused as everyone else.
Nick stood up, stretching. "See you around, church boy."
Then he walked away. Ezekiel watched him go, his eyes tracing the line of his shoulders, the easy swing of his hips, the way his boots thudded against the floor. He was beautiful. Annoying and infuriating and beautiful. And Ezekiel couldn't stop staring.
He was in trouble.
Real trouble.
The kind of trouble his father had warned him about.
But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Which was probably the beginning of all his problems.
A/N- i hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter <:
everybody tell @chriss-slutt to shut up cause iâm trying to watch my show ready
123 go
NO STOP IM UPSET MY SON IS CRYING
ok so itâs shane btw and youâre constantly calling shane sexy so may i just say youâre a weirdo
ok so actually i never said shane was sexy i said HUDSON was sexy. biggggg difference. same thing as ilya and connor actually
so actually that one scene shane looks extremely sexy
okay well yes

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everybody tell @chriss-slutt to shut up cause iâm trying to watch my show ready
123 go
NO STOP IM UPSET MY SON IS CRYING
ok so itâs shane btw and youâre constantly calling shane sexy so may i just say youâre a weirdo
ok so actually i never said shane was sexy i said HUDSON was sexy. biggggg difference. same thing as ilya and connor actually
everybody tell @chriss-slutt to shut up cause iâm trying to watch my show ready
123 go
NO STOP IM UPSET MY SON IS CRYING
need to know
You've babysat for families before, but never for Matt. That's what made you say yes when he calledâwell, that and the money. He'd been polite on the phone, a little rushed, explaining that his wife was out of town and he just needed someone to keep an eye on his daughter for a few hours. Nothing complicated.
When you showed up at his door, though, polite went out the window.
He's taller than you remembered from seeing him around the neighborhood. Broad shoulders, light brown hair that falls over his forehead a little. Wearing a simple henley that stretches across his chest when he leans against the doorframe to greet you. His smile is easy. Warm. The kind that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.
"Right on time," he says, stepping aside to let you in. His voice is low, casual, but his eyes drag over you onceâjust onceâbefore he turns away.
You tell yourself you imagined it.
He gives you the tour. Kitchen. Bathroom. His daughter Lily is already camped out on the couch with a tablet, barely looking up. "She's easy," he says, shrugging on a jacket. "Bed by nine. Don't let her talk you into staying up laterâshe's got a tell."
You laugh. He smiles at the sound, holding your gaze a beat too long.
"Help yourself to anything," he adds, grabbing his keys. "Wine's in the fridge. I'll be back by midnight."
Then he's gone, and you're alone in his house, trying not to think about the way he said help yourself like he meant something else.
The night is easy. Lily goes down right at nine, just like he said. You watch TV, scroll your phone, eat some of their expensive crackers. By eleven, you're starting to think he'll be late. By eleven-thirty, you're wondering if you should text him.
Then you hear itâkeys in the lock.
The door opens slower than you expected. Matt steps inside, and you can tell immediately. He's not wasted, not stumbling, but there's something different about him. His movements are loose. His eyes are slightly glassy. He smells like whiskey and cold air when he passes the couch.
"Hey," he says, voice rougher than before. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over a chair, running a hand through his hair. "Everything okay?"
"She's asleep," you say. "Was fine."
"Good. Good." He nods, but he doesn't go upstairs. Instead, he walks over to the couch. Drops down on the other end. Then shifts closer.
Your heart starts beating faster.
"Long night?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
He turns his head to look at you, and his gaze is different now. Heavier. His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second. "Long enough. Kind of glad to be home, actually."
"Glad I could help."
"Yeah." He says it like he's not talking about the babysitting at all. His hand rests on the cushion between youâclose enough that his pinky grazes your thigh. "You look comfortable."
You swallow. "Just watching TV."
"Mm." He tilts his head, studying you. The air between you feels thick, charged. He's not moving his hand. You're not moving away. "You always this pretty when you babysit, or is tonight special?"
Your breath catches. "Mattâ"
He smiles, slow and lazy. "What? I'm just saying."
You should stop this. You should stand up, get your stuff, tell him to go to bed. But his thumb is brushing against your leg now, back and forth, and you can't make yourself move.
"You have a wife," you finally say. Quiet. Almost a warning.
Matt's smile doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens. His fingers press in just slightly, and his voice drops lower.
âSo what?â
So what.
The words hang there between you, and something in your chest dropsâor rises, you canât tell anymore. His fingers are still on your thigh, light but sure, and heâs looking at you like heâs already decided how this ends.
âMatt,â you try again, but it comes out breathier than you want.
âSâjust a word,â he murmurs. ââWife.â Doesnât change whatâs happening right now.â
His hand slides up, just an inch. His thumb grazes the hem of your shorts.
You should stop him but you donât.
Instead, you watch his faceâthose blue eyes gone dark around the edges, that light brown hair falling over his forehead. Heâs close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and sweet. Close enough that when he speaks again, his lips almost brush your ear.
âYou been thinkinâ about it,â he says. Not a question. âSaw you lookinâ at me earlier. In the kitchen.â
Your face heats. âI wasnâtââ
âSâokay.â He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his smile is lazy, knowing. âMânot mad. Kinda like it.â
His hand moves again, palm flat against your thigh now. You feel every finger. Your pulse is pounding somewhere low and deep.
âTell me what you want,â he says.
Your mouth opens. Closes. âIââ
âDonât be shy, baby.â The word baby hits you like a match to gas. âYou heard what you heard, didnât you? Friend of a friend. Talkinâ âbout me.â
Your eyes widen. He laughs soft, low in his throat.
âYeah. I know what people say.â His hand squeezes your thigh once, firm. âWanna find out for yourself?â
Youâre nodding before you can think. His smile sharpens.
âThatâs what I thought.â
He kisses you like heâs been waiting all night. One hand tangles in your hair, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer until youâre half in his lap. His mouth is hot, a little messy from the drinks, and it makes everything spin faster. You make a sound against his lipsâsurprise, want, youâre not sureâand he swallows it.
âShh,â he breathes. âLilyâs asleep upstairs. Gotta be quiet, yeah?â
You nod again, dizzy. He kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing that spot that makes your back arch.
âMatt,â you whisper.
âMâright here.â His voice is rougher now, strained. âMânot goinâ anywhere.â
He stands, pulling you up with him. Your legs feel shaky. He noticesâsmiles againâand hooks a finger into the waistband of your shorts, tugging you toward the hallway.
âNot the bedroom,â he murmurs. âThatâs hers. Couchâs fine.â
The couch. The one youâve been sitting on all night. He pushes you down gently, then follows, hovering over you, one arm braced by your head. The lamp light makes his eyes look almost silver.
âYou still got time to change your mind,â he says, but his hand is already sliding up your shirt, palm flat against your stomach.
You pull him down by the neck of his henley.
âShut up,â you whisper.
He laughs againâlow, darkâand then his mouth is on yours, and his hand is moving lower, and thereâs nothing left to say.
His fingers find the button of your shorts, pop it open one-handed. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, teeth catching your bottom lip.
âTold you,â he murmurs against your skin. âGotta be quiet.â
You bite your lip hard. He watches your face as his hand slips inside, fingers dragging slow through the slick heat of your folds. His eyes go half-lidded.
âJesus,â he breathes. âThat for me?â
You canât answer. His thumb circles once, twice, and your hips roll up on their own. He makes a soundâlow, satisfiedâand dips his head to your neck again, biting down just hard enough to make you see stars.
âWanna feel you fall apart,â he says, voice muffled against your skin.
His fingers push inside youâslow, deliberateâand your back arches off the couch. He shushes you gently, lips brushing your ear.
âThatâs it, baby. Thatâs it.â
You grip his shoulders, his arms, anything you can hold onto. His pace picks up, his thumb working in tight circles, and you can feel it buildingâthat hot, sharp coil low in your belly.
âLook at me,â he says.
You force your eyes open. His blue gaze is locked on yours, intense, hungry.
âWanna see your face when you come,â he says. âCâmon. Give it to me.â
And you doâquiet, shaking, your mouth open in a silent cry as he works you through it, his fingers never stopping, his eyes never leaving yours.
He leans down when you finally go limp, kissing the corner of your mouth.
âGood girl,â he whispers. âBut weâre not done yet.â
His hands go to his belt. The metal clinks softly in the dark.
And from the way heâs looking at youâlike youâre something heâs about to devourâyou know he meant every word.
His belt slides free with a soft hiss of leather. You watch his fingers work the button of his jeans, and something about the way he does itâslow, unhurried, like he's got all nightâmakes your thighs press together.
Matt notices. Of course he notices.
"None of that," he murmurs, hooking his hands behind your knees and pulling you flat again. He spreads your legs open, settling between them, and the weight of him thereâstill clothed, still barely touching youâmakes your breath stutter.
"Look at you," he says, voice low and rough. His eyes drag down your body, stopping where your shorts hang open, where your chest is still heaving from the first orgasm he ripped out of you. "Already a mess. And I've barely started."
He pushes your shirt up higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs. His palm slides up your skin, rough and warm, until he reaches your breast. He squeezes onceâfirm, almost too muchâand your back arches into his hand.
"Mattâ"
"Shh." He leans down and sucks your nipple into his mouth, hard, and you bite your lip so hard you taste copper. His tongue flicks over the peak before he pulls off with a soft, wet sound. "Told you. Quiet."
His hand drops to your shorts again, tugging them down your hips. You lift your ass off the couch to help, and he laughs under his breathâa dark, appreciative sound.
"Eager," he notes. "I like that."
Your shorts hit the floor. Your panties follow a second later, discarded somewhere behind the couch. Cool air hits your slick skin and you shiver.
Matt sits back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and just looks at you.
It's almost unbearableâthe way his gaze drags over your bare thighs, the soft swell of your belly, the place between your legs where you know you're glistening. His jeans are undone, the top of his boxers visible, and there's a dark patch already soaking through the gray fabric.
"Christ," he breathes. He reaches out, one finger dragging through your foldsâjust one, light as a whisper. You jolt. "You're soaked."
Your face burns. He smears your wetness up to your clit, circling lazily, and your hips twitch.
"All soaked for me, hm?" His voice is almost sweet, which makes it worse. "Was it the kissin'? When I had my fingers inside you? Or were you like this before I even walked through the door?"
You can't answer. His finger keeps moving, slow and torturous, not giving you enough pressure to chase anything.
"I asked you a question," he says, and his other hand presses down on your hip, pinning you to the couch. "Were you wet earlier? While you were sitting on my couch, waiting for me to come home?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, okay? Iâfuck, Mattâ"
"Yeah." He sounds satisfied. His finger dips lower, tracing your entrance, not pushing inâjust circling, teasing, making you ache. "I know. Saw the way you looked at me when you got here. All wide-eyed and polite like you weren't imagining what my hands would feel like on you."
He pushes one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, then pulls it back out. You whine.
"Thought about it, didn't you?" he murmurs. "What I'd do if I came home drunk and found you alone in my house."
Another finger circles your entrance. Slips in slightly. Withdraws.
"Maybe you wanted me to do this." He pushes both fingers in this timeâslow, deepâand your head falls back against the couch cushion. "Maybe you were hoping."
Your hands grab at his wrist, but not to stop him. To hold him there. He laughs soft and dark.
"That's what I thought."
He fingers you slow at first, knuckle-deep, watching your face. Your mouth falls open. Your hips try to move but he holds you down with that firm grip on your hip, controlling the pace entirely.
"Sounds pretty," he murmurs, and you realize he's talking about the wet noise your body is making. "Fuck."
He pulls his fingers out entirely and you almost sob. But then he's sitting back, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you see himâthick, hard, the head flushed and leaking.
Your mouth waters.
"See something you want?" he asks, stroking himself once, slow. His eyes never leave yours.
You nod.
"Use your words."
"Yes," you whisper. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me, Matt."
He moves over you, one hand braced by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. You feel him thereâthe blunt heat of him pressing against your soaked foldsâand your whole body tenses in anticipation.
He pushes in just an inch. Stops.
"Look at me," he says.
You do. His blue eyes are nearly black in the dim light, his jaw tight.
"This what you wanted?" he asks, voice strained. "When you came over tonight?"
"Yes."
"Good." He thrusts forwardâone hard, deep stroke that buries him to the hilt. Your back arches off the couch, a cry tearing from your throat before you can stop it. He slaps a hand over your mouth, not hard, but firm.
"Quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear. "Or I'll have to stop."
You shake your head frantically. He smiles.
"Didn't think so."
He pulls back almost all the wayâjust the head of him stretching your entranceâthen slams back in. The couch creaks beneath you. His hand stays over your mouth, muffling your gasps as he sets a brutal paceâdeep, fast, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
"Fuck," he grits out. "Feel that? Feel how tight you are? Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. He's so deepâdeeper than you expectedâand every stroke hits something that makes your vision blur.
He shifts his angle, hips driving harder, and the sound of itâwet skin, his low groans, your muffled criesâfills the dark room.
"You like it rough, don't you?" He's not really asking. His hand moves from your mouth to your throatânot squeezing, just resting there, thumb pressing into the hollow of your collarbone. "Like when I take what I want."
You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He leans down and licks one off your cheekbone.
"Good girl."
He pulls out suddenlyâso suddenly you whimper at the emptinessâand flips you onto your stomach. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, pushing your face into the couch cushion.
"Hands behind your back," he says.
You obey. He grabs your wrists with one hand, holding them pinned, and kicks your legs wider apart with his knee. You feel him at your entrance againâslick, readyâand then he pushes back inside you in one long, brutal stroke.
The new angle makes you see stars. He's deeper like this, hitting a spot that makes your toes curl, and with your hands trapped behind you, you can't do anything but take it.
"That's it," he groans, fucking into you with hard, steady strokes. "That's it, baby. Take all of it."
His free hand grips your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The couch is rough against your cheek. You're drooling onto the cushion, every thrust pushing a broken sound out of your throat.
"Knew you'd be like this," he mutters, pace quickening. "Knew you'd take it so good. All that sweet politeness just hiding a dirty little thing underneath."
He lets go of your wrists. Before you can move, his hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.
"Open," he says. You do. He shoves two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck."
You close your lips around his fingers, tasting salt and skin and something that might be you. He groans, hips stuttering.
"Fuck, yeah. Just like that."
He fucks you harder nowârougher, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet houseâand you can feel yourself getting close again. Your fingers claw at the couch cushions. His grip in your hair tightens.
"You gonna come again?" he asks, voice ragged. "Gonna soak my cock like a good little babysitter?"
You moan around his fingers. He pulls them out of your mouth and wraps his arm around your chest, hauling you up against him. You're on your knees now, back pressed to his chest, and he's still inside youâso deepâone hand splayed across your stomach, the other gripping your jaw, turning your head so he can bite your shoulder.
"Come for me," he growls in your ear. "Now."
The command breaks you. You come with a silent scream, body shuddering, clamping down around him so hard he curses. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, his hips slamming into yours with desperate, uneven thrusts.
"Fuckâfuckâwhereâ"
"Inside," you gasp. "I'm onâI'm on the pill, justâ"
He groans, low and wrecked, and you feel him pulse inside youâhot, thick, filling you as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there, shaking against your back.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then he exhales, slow and shaky, and presses a kiss to the back of your neck. Almost tender.
His arms loosen. He pulls out carefully, and you feel the warm trickle of him sliding down your inner thigh.
"Stay," he murmurs. "I'll get something to clean you up."
You collapse onto the couch, legs trembling, and listen to his bare footsteps pad toward the kitchen.
The house is quiet again.
Lily is still asleep upstairs.
And you're already thinking about next weekend.
A/N- I hope everyone enjoyed @chriss-slutt said this was the best smut iâve ever written so 𼚠letâs hope itâs up to everyone expectations. Any likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated if anyone has any requests please send them in!!
INTRODUCING . . .
PREACHERS!SON X ALTERNATIVE!NICK
ÝáŞŕź Ezekiel. 16. seen as a sweetheart. always trying to make his dad proud. big mommy issues. never takes off his cross. popular but not in a good way. extremely nerdy. tries to rebel but canât help but feel guilty.
ŕ°ď¸ Nicolas. 17. super ânonchalant.â plays the electric guitar. loves late night drives. smokes a lot of weed even tho Ezekiel hates it. overly defensive. gets jealous easily. a little to observant. softens the blow a lot.
a/n- this is not meant to hurt anyone or offend anyone itâs just a series!! i hope you guys enjoy!!
đŚđ˛ đŚđ¨đ§đ¤đđ˛đŹ đ- @chriss-slutt @httpssturns @mattsdivaa @ribbonlovergirl @lyingonchris @strnilolover @alwaysiconick @thechratt-twins @lilssturns @chrismakesmewet @bamboonick @angelicchris @sturniolo-szn2 @stevielovesmatt @satiivadreams @conspiracy-ash @courta13 @kaybugga @sturniszn @vampzah @angelysturns @le4hsblog @drcamin @notdanixx @delilahsturniolo @owensbabygirl @sturnskiss @wesj11 @devotedlyteenagemusic @aaliyah-sturns @angelicameron @chrisfavgirl @immaqulate @mykinkischris @sturni-olii @heartsformattybsturns @nerdysturnz @mattssweetheart @privately-owned-t @savmattsfavmattgirl @glndacore @kier-with-a-k @rithiisbetter @b3rry-blue @milliesturns @maryrsposts @bunnyxslutt
no its fine you just hate me
no stop
no i think you do

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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no you donât
@chriss-slutt
no i dont đđ
top 3 most embarrassing things iâve had to do
1. send sarahâs 6 year old cousin a vm of me meowing cause she asked
2. send sarahâs 6 year old cousin a vm of me meowing cause she asked
3. send sarahâs 6 year old cousin a vm of me meowing cause she asked
@chriss-slutt
it was very cute, she appreciated it quite a lot
WEAKNESS ââ CHRIS STURNIOLO
⤡ masterlist ✠previous scene ⤡ cw . . . crying, anxiety, implied depression & ocd tendencies/compulsions, family pressure, self-worth issues, emotional vulnerability . . .
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chris's weaknesses (2) : : @angelk159 @randomgirlwithanobsessiob @amandapanda2 @addieeesturn @kksturns @addieeesturn @natalieheyya @sturnsfluff @sturniololuvz @boibuttdu @sturn-fan @brooken19 @savmattsfavmattgirl @chriss-slutt @magicaldice @nessabarrettlover101 @rbykitttt @cherriesformatt @urmm0m2111 @twirlotushazeling @b3rry-blue @urmm0m2111 @guessv @bava1408 @madsireds @vanillastqurn @mamaagirlbehindu123 @acidvizions @babciaala13 @christurnsmeon @rithiisbetter @bambigirl4444 @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @sti-ng @kenxbajr @headzgonewest @angel-alii
WEAKNESS ââ CHRIS STURNIOLO
⤡ masterlist ✠previous scene ⤡ cw . . . alcohol use, implied unrequited feelings, two idiots in denial about what's going on between them . . .
ę° comment on this post to join series taglist ęą
chris's weaknesses (2) : : @angelk159 @randomgirlwithanobsessiob @amandapanda2 @addieeesturn @kksturns @addieeesturn @natalieheyya @sturnsfluff @sturniololuvz @boibuttdu @sturn-fan @brooken19 @savmattsfavmattgirl @chriss-slutt @magicaldice @nessabarrettlover101 @rbykitttt @cherriesformatt @urmm0m2111 @twirlotushazeling @b3rry-blue @urmm0m2111 @guessv @bava1408 @madsireds @vanillastqurn @mamaagirlbehindu123 @acidvizions @babciaala13 @christurnsmeon
WEAKNESS ââ CHRIS STURNIOLO
⤡ introduction ✠masterlist ⤡ cw . . . slight tension, other than that enjoy the first scene . . .
ę° comment on this post to join series taglist ęą

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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SHOULDâVE TEXTED
Word Count- 1.6k
Warnings- smut. smut. smut. (do not interact if youâre not comfy!)
Fuckboy!Nick X Fratboy!Xavier
âI texted you,â Xavier says, not even looking at him, just tossing it out like itâs nothing.
Nickâs leaning back on the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, phone loose in his hand. He doesnât look up right away. âYeah.â
âYeah,â Xavier repeats, glancing at him now. âThatâs it?â
Nick shrugs, finally lifting his eyes. âI was busy.â
Xavier lets out a quiet, dry laugh. âYouâre always busy.â
âSometimes,â Nick says, easy, like it doesnât matter.
It shouldnât matter.
But it does.
Xavier shifts his weight, crossing his arms. âYou couldnât just say that?â
âI did,â Nick replies, calm as ever. âJust⌠later.â
âThatâs not the same thing.â
Nick tilts his head slightly, studying him now, slower. âYouâre mad.â
âIâm not mad,â Xavier says immediately.
âYou are.â
âIâm not.â
Nick huffs a soft breath through his nose, not arguing, just watching him with that same low, unreadable look.
ââŚokay,â he says after a second, like he doesnât feel like pushing it.
That almost makes it worse.
Xavier scoffs under his breath, shaking his head, turning away like heâs done with it. âWhatever.â
âHey,â Nick says, not sharpâjust enough to stop him from fully walking off.
Xavier pauses but doesnât turn back.
Nick sets his phone down on the cushion beside him, slow, unbothered, like heâs got time.
Then he leans forward.
Not rushed. Not tense.
Just deliberate.
His hand finds Xavierâs wrist first, fingers loose but sure, tugging him back a step before he can drift too far.
âCome here,â Nick murmurs.
Xavier exhales, already irritated. âDonâtââ
Nick doesnât really listen.
He pulls him in anyway, closer, until Xavierâs standing right between his knees, close enough that the tension shifts into something elseâsomething warmer, heavier.
âStill mad,â Nick says quietly, like itâs an observation, not an accusation.
Xavier looks down at him, jaw tight. âI saidââ
âYeah, I heard you.â
Nickâs hand slides from his wrist to his waist, settling there like it belongs, thumb brushing once, absentminded but grounding.
Xavier doesnât move away.
Doesnât lean in either.
Just⌠stays.
Nick watches him for a second longer, then leans forward, slow enough that Xavier could stop him if he wanted to.
He doesnât.
Nickâs mouth doesnât go to his lips.
It drifts to the side of his neck instead.
Close firstâjust his breath, warm against Xavierâs skin.
Then a soft press.
Not rushed, not messyâjust a slow, deliberate kiss right below his jaw.
Xavier inhales, sharp, shoulders tightening before he can stop it.
âNickââ
âShh,â Nick murmurs, barely even a sound, more breath than word.
His hand tightens just slightly at Xavierâs waist, pulling him in closer, steadying him there as his mouth brushes his skin againâslower this time, lingering.
Another press.
Then a softer one, just beneath it.
Like heâs taking his time on purpose.
Xavier exhales through his nose, tension still there but slipping, little by little.
âYouâre still annoying,â he mutters, weaker now.
Nick hums lightly against his skin, like he heard it but doesnât care.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âI know.â
His lips drag just slightly this time, not quite a kiss, not quite notâjust enough to make Xavierâs breath hitch again.
âShouldâve texted you,â Nick adds, low, easy, like it costs him nothing to admit it. âMy bad.â
Xavier doesnât answer.
But he doesnât pull away either.
Nick takes that for what it is.
His thumb shifts at Xavierâs side, tracing once, absentminded, grounding him there while his mouth presses againâslower, warmer, a little more deliberate now.
âDonât be mad,â he murmurs.
âIâm notââ
Nick huffs the faintest breath of a laugh against his skin, like he doesnât believe that for a second.
âYeah,â he says softly. âYou are.â
Another slow kiss, just under his jaw.
This one lingers.
Thenâ
âCâmere,â Nick murmurs, quieter now, pulling him in just a little more.
A pause.
Then, low against his skinâ
âLet me make it up to you.â
Xavier doesnât answer. Not with words, anyway.
Instead, he lets out a breathâshakier than he wants it to beâand Nick feels it, warm against his own lips, because he hasnât pulled back yet, still pressed close to Xavierâs neck.
âYeah,â Nick murmurs against his skin, like heâs answering something Xavier didnât say. âThere you go.â
His hands slide down, just slow, settling on Xavierâs hips, thumbs pressing into the bone there. Not forcing. Just holding.
Xavierâs hands come upâhesitant for half a second before gripping Nickâs shoulders like he needs something to hold onto.
âYou always do this,â Xavier says, voice quieter now.
âDo what?â
âMake it⌠easy.â
Nick pulls back just enough to look at himâdark blue eyes, calm, the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth. âThat a complaint?â
Xavier stares at him. Swallows.
ââŚNo.â
Nickâs smile doesn't widen. It just stays there, sure and slow, like he already knew the answer.
âDidnât think so.â
He leans in again, but this time his mouth finds Xavierâsânot hard, not desperate. Just firm enough to feel real, slow enough to make Xavierâs fingers curl tighter into his shirt.
Xavier makes a small sound, half sigh, half something needier, and Nick drinks it in like itâs nothing specialâbut his hand tightens on Xavierâs hip like it is.
They don't rush.
Kiss breaks. Then another. Then Nickâs thumb traces along the waistband of Xavierâs jeans, teasing more than asking.
âBedroom,â Nick says quietly. Not a question.
Xavier nods before he even thinks about it.
They don't make it far. The bedroomâs right there, door already half open, and Nick backs Xavier toward the bed like heâs got nothing but time. Xavier sits first, then Nick is above him, knees bracketing Xavierâs thighs, looking down at him with that same easy control.
âYou wanna ride me?â Nick asks, low and plain, like heâs asking if Xavier wants water.
Xavierâs breath catches a needy whimper leaving his lips as he nods.
Nick hums. âGood.â
He doesn't strip them both in a rush. Jeans come off slow, Nick working Xavierâs down first, then his own, kissing him between each movement like heâs not even trying to be efficient.
When theyâre both down to just boxers, Nick reaches for Xavierâs hand, guides it to his own cock through the fabricâhalf hard, warm, and Xavierâs fingers curl around him instinctively.
âThere you go,â Nick murmurs.
Xavierâs thumb drags over the head, feels the damp spot already there, and his own breath stutters.
Nick watches him, patient.
âSpit,â Nick says after a moment, voice easy. He holds his palm out.
Xavierâs face flushes, but he does itâgathers saliva, lets it fall into Nickâs open hand. Nick doesn't smile smugly. He just nods once, wraps his hand around himself, strokes slow, spreading it, watching Xavier watch him.
Xavierâs mouth parts.
âYeah,â Nick says quietly, like heâs just confirming something. âLike that.â
He shifts, pulling Xavierâs boxers down the rest of the way, then his own. The room is dim, quiet except for their breathing.
Nick leans back against the headboard, pulls Xavier up and over himâXavierâs knees on either side of Nickâs hips, hands braced on Nickâs chest.
âWhenever youâre ready,â Nick says, hands resting light on Xavierâs thighs.
Xavier reaches down, lines Nick up, and sinks slow.
Itâs tight at first, even with the spit, and Xavierâs jaw goes slack, a whimper slipping out before he can stop it.
Nickâs hands tighten on his thighsânot pushing, just grounding.
âEasy,â Nick says. âYou got it baby.â The nickname slipping out before he could stop it.
Xavier sinks lower, breath hitching, until heâs full, and he has to pause there, eyes shut, fingers curling against Nickâs chest.
Nick doesn't rush him. Just rubs slow circles into his skin.
âThatâs it,â Nick murmurs. âFeel good?â
Xavier nods, swallowing hard.
âThen move,â Nick says, quiet but sure.
Xavier doesâslow at first, rolling his hips, experimental. Nick groans low under him, not loud, just enough that Xavier feels it vibrate through his own chest.
Xavierâs rhythm stutters once, then finds its pace. Itâs not frantic. Itâs lazy, rocking, both of them watching each other through half-lidded eyes.
âFaster,â Nick says after a minuteânot demanding, just suggestive.
Xavier tries, but his thighs are already trembling, and he whimpers again, higher this time.
Nickâs hand slides to Xavierâs hip, guiding him, taking over just enough to keep him steady.
âThere you go,â Nick breathes.
Xavier leans forward, forehead nearly touching Nickâs, and Nick kisses himâopen-mouthed, slow, swallowing every small sound Xavier makes.
Precum smears between their stomachs, warm and slick, and Nick groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching up once.
âYouâre doing so good,â Nick murmurs against his lips. âThaaats..it, good boy.â
Xavier shudders, pace faltering. âNickââ
âI know,â Nick says. âIâve got you.â
He wraps an arm around Xavierâs lower back, holds him close, and starts moving for both of themâslow rolls of his hips, steady, deep, each one pulling a softer, needier sound from Xavier.
âDonât stop,â Xavier whispers, wrecked.
Nick doesnât.
He just holds him, fucks up into him lazily like he had all the time in the world, and lets Xavier fall apart right there in his armsâwhimpering, shaking, face buried in Nickâs neck.
When Xavier comes, itâs quiet and sudden, a broken exhale and a full-body tremble.
Nick follows a few strokes later, groaning low into Xavierâs hair, holding him through it.
They stay like that for a whileâsweaty, tangled, no rush to move.
Nickâs hand traces slow lines down Xavierâs spine.
âStill mad?â Nick asks eventually, voice rough but warm.
Xavier laughs weakly against his shoulder.
ââŚShut up.â
Nick smiles into his hair.
âDidnât think so.â
đŚđ˛ đŚđ¨đ§đ¤đđ˛đŹ đ- @chriss-slutt @httpssturns @mattsdivaa @ribbonlovergirl @lyingonchris @strnilolover @alwaysiconick @thechratt-twins @lilssturns @chrismakesmewet @bamboonick @angelicchris @sturniolo-szn2 @stevielovesmatt @satiivadreams @conspiracy-ash @courta13 @kaybugga @sturniszn @vampzah @angelysturns @le4hsblog @drcamin @notdanixx @delilahsturniolo @owensbabygirl @sturnskiss @wesj11 @devotedlyteenagemusic @aaliyah-sturns @angelicameron @chrisfavgirl @immaqulate @mykinkischris @sturni-olii @heartsformattybsturns @nerdysturnz @mattssweetheart @privately-owned-t @savmattsfavmattgirl @glndacore @kier-with-a-k @rithiisbetter @b3rry-blue @milliesturns @maryrsposts @bunnyxslutt
presenting âWEAKNESSâ ââ christopher sturniolo
ââ â when she thinks they're fighting, he thinks they're flirting. but if thatâs the only way sheâll keep talking to him, then heâll let her think sheâs winning every damn argument . . . â
â đđđđđđđđđ ââ bella rosa .á
twenty-six heiress director of marketing & brand strategy at her fathers company big reputation beauty & brains ivy league graduate deans list & top of her class elegant elusive known as jen to her friends glossy red lips self-doubt beneath confidence secretly hates her job hates feeling like shes second best to him thinks chris is the most insufferable man shes ever met (but does she really?) . . .
âseriously, christopher, do you ever take anything seriously? . . . â â â. . . only when youâre talking, bella.â â â. . . chris, just stop it. please. i can't do this.â
â đđđđđđđđđđđ ââ nuisance .á
thirty self-made chief executive officer of cybersecurity company numbers & code come easy big reputation controlled calculated worked hard for everything he has made his way to the top three steps ahead quiet presence boxing intimidating confident doesn't forget where he came from rarely repeats himself yearner thinks jen is the most insufferable woman he's ever met (he doesn't) . . .
âif you think for a second that i've hated you all this time, i'm afraid you don't know me at all rosa . . .â â â. . .what are you talking about? you want me to believe you hurt me for fun?â â â. . . i've hurt you?â
new series coming soon, more info will be provided in masterlist!
Š đđđđđđđđđđđđ đđđ. đđđ 'đđ