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CAMERON “CAM” film major twenty party girl cigarette smoker jazz dances on the side surprisingly a lightweight casual david bowie sparkles orange hazy nights sex as cope loves reading big smile hardest worker wants to be a director from new orleans
CHRIS AND MATT business majors twenty one extrovert & introvert frat brothers not youtubers drinkers chris is a slacker & matt tries too hard annoy each other hate being confused both involved with cam player & lover
A MATT STURNIOLO BLURB — MATT AND YOU CAN’T MAKE UP FROM AN ARGUMENT VERBALLY
WARNINGS: MINORS DNI! SMUT, MAKEUP SEX, BEWARE!
✶
YOU AND MATT didn’t argue often. it was a rare occurrence, and 90% of the time it was over the most ridiculous shit possible either way. but this time? woah. it was serious. he was mad. to start from the beginning, you decided to go out drinking with some of your friends. no biggie, matt trusted you. sure, it bothered him a tad bit that the rest of your friends were all single, but you still have him to go home to.
but then you called him at one in the morning slurring into the phone. "baby, i need you to pick me up…" you whined. your voice was hushed but he could still hear the rowdy party atmosphere behind you. "i don't feel so good and i don't know the way home and—"
he cut you off, voice sharp. "where the fuck are you?" his tone was clipped. already reaching for his keys. already pulling on jeans. already running a hand through his hair in that agitated way he did when he was trying not to blow a fuse. "who's there?" he pressed, tone darkening. "you said your friends. which friends? are any of them— look, are any of them guys? because if any of those motherfuckers think they can—" he cut himself off again, taking a deep breath. "nevermind. doesn't matter. where are you? i'll be there in ten."
he pulled up to the address you sent, immediately spotting you standing outside looking green around the gills. alone, thank god. but there were a bunch of guys milling around and one of them had his hand on your back, steadying you. his eyes narrowed as he watched the guy laugh at something you slurred out. jealousy and anger flared in his chest. he got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. he marched over, gently pushing the guy's hand off your back. "i got her," he snapped.
"can you even stand?" he asked gruffly, wrapping an arm around your waist. you stumbled slightly, leaning into him. he sighed, scooping you up into his arms. "nevermind. i got you." the walk to the car was a blur. he practically poured you into the passenger seat, muttering something about "can't even keep your shit together." but his touch was careful—unbuttoning your top so you could breathe easier, grabbing water from the glove box, adjusting the AC.
as he backed out, one of the guys called out, "yo, she coming back?" matt flipped them off without looking.
the drive was tense. he kept one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh—not a sexual thing, just grounding. making sure you didn't slide off the seat. you were muttering nonsense under your breath about how "the floor is spinning" and "matt why are there two steering wheels." he let out a long groan. "because you're drunk off your ass, baby," he muttered softly, glancing at you. your hair was a mess, makeup smudged under your eyes. you looked like shit, honestly. "should've stayed home." he added pointedly as he pulled into the driveway.
he killed the engine but didn't move. just sat there staring straight ahead. hands still on the wheel. jaw tight. "how much did you drink?" his voice was low. you were staring at your reflection in the visor mirror, trying to figure out why your face looked "weird." fuck, was he mad. he knew from the second you left something was off. and he was going to give it to you tomorrow, once you sobered up. he carried you inside like a child, depositing you on the bed. he stripped off your heels, socks, pants—leaving you in just your tank top and panties. you tried to help but your hands were wobbly and you kept giggling at nothing.
he grabbed a trash can, put it next to the bed. then he walked out. not a word. you laid there for a bit, feeling nauseous and dizzy. the room was spinning and you could hear matt in the kitchen, slamming cabinets and murmurung. after a while, you heard the couch creak and the TV turn on. he wasn’t coming back to bed. you were asleep within minutes. woken up the next morning by a pounding headache and the sunlight streaming through the window. you groggily lifted your head, squinting at the bright light. your mouth was dry as the sahara desert and your bladder was screaming.
you stumbled to the bathroom, practically living there for the next twenty minutes. when you finally emerged, face washed and teeth brushed, you found matt on the couch. still in last night's clothes. coffee in hand. eyes glued to the TV like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. he didn't look at you. not even when you cleared your throat. you hovered awkwardly for a minute before realizing he wasn't going to acknowledge you. okay, so he was really mad. like, silent treatment mad. you knew that look—he was processing and probably plotting what he wanted to say.
you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, nursing it as you sat down on the kitchen counter. you watched as he flipped through the channels, muscles tense. he was quiet. too quiet. finally, he spoke up. "head hurts?" his tone was neutral. almost cold. not even looking at you. just asking a question like he'd ask any other day. but you knew better. the tightness around his eyes gave him away. he was still pissed. just trying to keep it together. "yeah," you answered miserably, taking a swig of water. you waited for more. some sort of response or complaint or whatever he was supposed to say after you drank yourself into oblivion last night. but he just kept flipping through channels, giving you the cold shoulder. great. just what you needed. an attitude to deal with on top of the hangover.
"don't look at me like that." he spoke finally, eyes never leaving the television. "don't give me that shit." he set the coffee mug down hard enough that it clicked against the coaster. his jaw was set, that specific muscle jumping. "we're gonna talk about last night. when your head stops pounding." you sighed internally. you knew what that meant. when your head stopped pounding. when he felt like speaking to you again. when he decided you'd had enough time to process how stupid you were. he was going to lay into you. and you didn't blame him. you deserved it. “fine."
he nodded once, sharply. like that was the end of it. he went back to his silent treatment, sipping his coffee and watching TV. you stayed on the counter, nursing your water and your hangover, feeling miserable and guilty.
an hour passed before he finally spoke again. "come here." you eyed him suspiciously. 'come here' usually meant trouble. especially when he used that tone. but you swung off the counter anyway, head throbbing with every movement. you shuffled over, stopping a few feet away like you were approaching a stray cat that might bite. he was still facing the TV, jaw tight, coffee mug cradled in one hand.
"sit." he said the word flatly. no room for argument. you didn't argue—too hungover for it. you'd kicked off your flip-flops and sat on the armrest of the couch, watching him. he finally looked over. those sharp eyes flicked across you, scanning. not exactly gentle. judging. checking for something? "head still hurts?" his tone was softer now. gentler than before. he set the coffee mug down and finally turned his body towards you. one leg on the couch, one foot on the floor. his arm rested on the back of the couch, fingers drumming lightly against the cushions.
"yeah," you admitted weakly, bringing your knees up to your chest. you felt like absolute shit. physically and emotionally. the guilt was eating at you because you knew how reckless you'd been last night—and you could tell he was trying to hold himself back from ripping into you. "i'm sorry," you mumbled, looking down. he scoffed softly, almost a humorless laugh. "you're sorry." it wasn't a question. it was a fact he'd already decided. he uncrossed his legs, putting both feet on the floor. still not looking at you. staring somewhere past you.
"do you even remember what happened last night?" his voice was low, controlled. he was trying not to raise it and not to lose his temper right then and there. you shook your head slightly, still looking down at your knees. no, you didn't remember everything clearly. "you called me at one in the fucking morning," he said slowly, like he was reciting a script he'd already memorized. "slurring. stumbling. asking me to pick you up because you didn't know the way home." he paused, jaw tightening. "and some guy had his hands on you. oh! oh, and mind you, i had called lucy three times trying to figure out what bar you were at since you didn’t pick up the phone!”
"and when i finally found you, you were leaning against some stranger, laughing too loud, drinking who knows what," he continued, his voice rising slightly as he stood up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "ooooh, and let's not forget the fact that you were wearing—" you cut him off, voice carrying disbelief (and a little hurt), “are you calling me a slut right now?” “no!” he threw his hands up in frustration. "i’m not calling you a slut! god, no. but that top was barely there and you were wasted and some guy had his hands on you and- and- i didn't know what was going on!"
"i didn't know if he was taking advantage of you or if you were actually interested in him!" he snapped. "so yeah, i'm kinda pissed off about it! because you're my girlfriend and you're out partying with other guys and i’m over here worried sick, and then you get in the car and you're all giggly and happy and drunk and you're trying to kiss me and i’m just trying to keep my eyes on the damn road and make sure you get home safe!” you felt tears pricking at your eyes against your will, you knew he was right, but you also could never handle being yelled at. “i’m– fuck– i’m sorry, i’m sorry,”
"fuck, don't cry," he muttered, immediately regretting his harsh tone. he ran a hand through his hair again, this time in exasperation rather than anger. "i’m not trying to yell at you." he stepped closer but didn't touch you yet. "just... fuck." your tears were spilling now, hot and angry at your own helplessness. you'd been reckless. you'd put yourself in a position where some random guy could touch you. but he was also yelling at you. and you couldn't handle that. he watched as you cried, face buried in your knees now, shoulders shaking. he sighed heavily, reaching out to gently tug your wrists away from your face. “stop crying,” he said gruffly. “please.”
“baby, i’m not tryna be the insecure, overbearing boyfriend. i care about you. i want you to be safe. i’m sorry for yelling. i…i’m…i don’t want you to cheat on me, i guess.” you blinked up at him through tear-streaked cheeks, catching your breath. that was... not what you expected. you thought he was gonna keep ripping into you, make you feel worse. he avoided your gaze, his thumb now rubbing circles on your wrist. he looked almost embarrassed by his admission, his usual aloof facade cracking a bit. “i mean... you were all over that guy last night. it's...” you hiccupped, pulling your hand away to wipe your nose with the back of your sleeve. "i don't—" you shook your head, sniffling. "i didn't even know who he was. i don't even remember his face. i was just... fucking stupid. i'm so sorry."
"i don't want anyone else," you whispered, voice cracking. he stood there, studying you. the way your shoulders were still shaking, how you looked so small huddled there with tear-stained cheeks and a red nose. god, he was still pissed, but seeing you like this softened his edges. he took a deep breath, his jaw clenching before he spoke. "then don't give me a reason to worry." you shifted, nodding slightly. “well, can i make it up to you?” you asked, voice less watery than before.
he glanced away, jaw clenching as he processed the offer. it was a dangerous question to ask. because whatever the answer was, it was going to involve effort and he wasn't sure he could handle that yet. not when he still felt like he needed to punch something. "what does that even mean?" he finally muttered, looking back at you with guarded eyes. you swallowed hard, trying to be vague but still to the point. “i think you know what i mean, matt. just to make you feel better. to make me feel better.”
he hesitated, torn between his anger and his desire. it felt manipulative, using this to get something he wanted. but damn, he was so fucking frustrated right now. and you were offering. the silence stretched on, heavy with unspoken tension. you watched him process the offer, his jaw working, his eyes darkening. he knew exactly what you meant. it was a proposition. a chance to turn your guilt into pleasure, to make it up to him in the way that always worked. but was it fair? using sex to smooth over a fight?
he ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. he was still mad— furious, honestly. but you were sitting there with tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes, offering him something. god, he wanted to say no. he should say no. but he also wanted to punish you for last night. just a little bit. without a word, he stepped closer, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to your feet. he was silent as he led you out of the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom. he didn't speak until he had you inside, the door slamming shut behind you.
he advanced on you, backing you up against the wall without touching you. “you want to make it up to me?" he mumbled, his voice low and dangerous. “fine." he reached out, grasping your waist and lifting you up suddenly, setting you roughly on the edge of the dresser. he stepped between your legs, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck.
"you’re gonna make me feel better," he murmured darkly, his lips brushing against your exposed throat. "you're gonna make yourself feel better." his teeth grazed your pulse point, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you shiver. "but we're doing it my way." his grip in your hair tightened slightly. "understand?" your breath hitched as you looked down at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw frustration practically vibrating through your body. but you nodded. "yes." his lips were still pressing against your throat, feather light but firm. your hands hovered over his shoulders, afraid to touch, afraid of where this was going.
he didn't kiss you. not your lips, anyway. instead, he trailed a line of biting kisses down your neck, his hands gripped your thighs possessively, spreading them wider. he pulled back suddenly, breaking the contact. his chest heaved with unspent anger and something else. he unbuttoned his shirt roughly, throwing it aside. his eyes were wild, his jaw clenched. he was practically shaking with the effort to contain himself. “knees,"
he watched as you slowly slid off the dresser, sinking to your knees before him. his eyes darkened, taking in the sight of you on the floor, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips. he unbuckled his belt slowly, deliberately. "open your mouth," he pulled his cock free from his boxers, hard and thick. he stroked it once, twice, watching your eyes. he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, guiding it towards your open mouth. he didn't push in immediately; instead, he rubbed the head against your lips, coating them with precome. “suck," he commanded roughly, finally pushing forward until the tip slipped past your lips.
he held your head steady with one hand on your hair, not forcing it deeper but not letting you pull away either. he watched you carefully, his breath heavy. "just like this. slow." he was trying to make a point. this was what you'd offered. this was what 'making it up to him' meant. and god, it felt so good—too good. he groaned quietly, his head falling back as you wrapped your lips around him and sucked gently. he could feel your tongue pressing against the underside of his dick, and fuck, it was perfect. “look up at me," he demanded suddenly, his voice strained. you did as he asked, looking up at him through your lashes. his face was contorted with pleasure and anger, his eyes narrowed. he gripped your hair tighter, pulling your head forward just enough to sink deeper into his mouth. good girl," *he panted out, the insult clear.
he was being rough on purpose, thrusting into your mouth slowly but deeply, hitting the back of your throat. he wasn't being gentle like he usually was during blow jobs. this was punishing, using your mouth to relieve his frustration. “fuck," he moaned, his hips moving in short thrusts. he was getting closer, and he hated how good it felt. he hated that you were making him feel good when he was supposed to be angry. "take it," he demanded, holding your head steady as he fucked into your mouth. you choked on a sob, gagging slightly as he pushed deeper. your eyes watered, tears streaming down your cheeks. he held your head in place, forcing you to take him deeper than was comfortable. "swallow," he panted out, his hips moving faster now. "swallow it all." he came with a low groan, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he emptied himself down your throat. he held you there until he was done, his hand still tangled in your hair. when he finally pulled out, you coughed and sputtered, tears still streaming down your face.
he watched you cough and sputter, feeling a pang of guilt at the sight of your tear-streaked face. but he also saw that glint in your eyes and your eagerness. plus, he was too mad to apologize. instead, he turned and grabbed a towel, throwing it gently at you. "wipe your face." you wiped your face, swallowing the last of him. he watched you, his chest still heaving. he wanted to be mad— furious even. but, fuck, you'd made him feel so much better. he threw the towel back onto the dresser, still not looking at you fully. his anger was dissipating, replaced with a messy mix of relief and lingering frustration. "get up," he ordered roughly, turning away slightly. "come here." his hand was held out, waiting for you. you got up slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. you stepped closer, taking his outstretched hand. he pulled you against his back, keeping his face turned away. his other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tight against him. "you're still in trouble," he muttered, his voice slightly gentler now.
you sniffled softly, making small soothing sounds that made his anger dissipate even more. he hated how you had this effect on him. one minute he wanted to yell at you, the next minute he just wanted to hold you and make you feel better. "shh," his arm tightened possessively around your waist, pulling you flush against his back. he could feel your small body pressing against him, hear your soft sniffles. it was making his heart ache, his anger completely forgotten. without thinking, he murmured, “i’m not mad at you." you immediately melted against him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your head between his shoulder blades. the action made him soften completely. he sighed, turning around to face you. his hands framed your face gently, thumbs wiping away the remaining tears.
he pressed his forehead against yours, inhaling shakily.* "I'm mad at myself," he admitted quietly. "for getting so fucked up over nothing. for being the one who makes you cry." his thumbs traced your cheekbones. "i'm sorry, baby." you looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed but softened. he couldn't help but notice the slight swell of your pout, the way your lips were still a bit swollen from sucking him. he brushed his thumb over them, his voice softening completely. “you did good. better than i deserved." he tilted your face up, kissing your forehead, then each closed eyelid where tears had fallen. he kissed your nose, then your cheeks. he kissed every spot he could reach, murmuring soft apologies and compliments between each press of his lips. he kissed you like he wanted to erase every tear you'd shed because of him. "i'm sorry," he kept saying softly. sleep claimed you both soon after, and tonight his side of the bed wasn’t cold.
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hi! i’m imogen and i’m eighteen! i love to write and i write generally 24/7. i started writing for the triplets’ last year but have just gained the courage to bring my work onto tumblr. i’d love to make friends and explore more of this space!
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