pinterest whore. books before movies. seventeen. music enthusiast. hayden christensen 2023. permanently sad. coffee in a black mug. day dreaming. men 30 years older.
Heyy I donât know if you specified who you write for but Iâd genuinely love some Jordan huxhold content! If not thatâs fine!! Your writing is so good!
yess I wanna write for him so bad, I need to find some inspo asap
30 minutes later the three of you were sat in the living room, Pizza and soda in hand scrolling on Netflix. âOh! can we watch That one?â you asked excitedly pointing to yet another Romance movie. âWhat?! No! you picked last week!â Sam objected. You gave him a pouty look. James cleared his throat, âHow about this one? we will meet in the middleâ James suggested. âFine by meâ Sam shrugged, you nodded.
Torwards the end of the movie you were dozing off, Sam got up from the couch âIâm gonna go smoke real quickâ he leaned down and pecked your forehead before walking out the back door. You snuggled into the arm of the couch sleepily. James sat in the recliner sipping his beer, eyes on the TV screen. You yawn and stretch, James glances over at you and laughs âTired Princess?â he asks raising an eyebrow. You stand up âYeah Yeah,â you wave him off as you head up the stairs âGoodnight Jamesâ you yawn once more, He looks up the stairs âGoodnight sweetheartâ he calls after you.
the bed was creaking slightly. Your soft moans and whimpers could hardly be heard, but James heard them. His face reddened and he took a step back. His palms were sweating and for the first time in a long time, James Kelly was flustered. He hurried to the bathroom and quietly shut the door. It wasnât enough. Your soft moans could still be heard. James leaned forward palms on the sink trying to ignore the betrayal in his pants. He looked in the mirror and saw his flushed expression. He splashed some cold water on his face.
Jamesâs mind was racing he flipped the seat down and sat down on the toilet. The growing tent in his pants was obvious and he groaned. James hesitated before he reached his hand down in his pants. He wouldnât be able to sleep like this. He leaned his head back and palmed himself. Another moan could be heard from behind the wall and James sighed as he stroked himself again.
Before he knew it he was stroking himself in time with your moans. Faster and faster. He imagined your pretty face, your soft skin, your concentrated face as you chased your high. He imagined it was him on top of you with you withering and moaning beneath him. It only took a few more strokes before James quietly groaned as he released himself onto his stomach.
as he cleaned himself up your moans had stopped and he assumed you guys had finished. He splashed some cold water in his face once more and looked at his reflection âwhat the hell is wrong with me?â he thought in shame and disgust. You were his sonâs girlfriend for crying out loud. You were 20+ years younger than him. You were to soft. Too sweet and innocent for someone like him.
He quickly plopped them down onto a plate before turning around and handing it to you without a word. His expression was something you couldnât place. You took the plate before walking past him to the butter and syrup. Your shoulder brushed his arm and he quickly stepped back and cleared his throat, âI..um- Iâve got to get to work. See you later Sammyâ James said patting Samâs shoulder before walking out the door without another word. You arched a brow âWhatâs up with him?â you asked Sam as you poured syrup on your plate. Sam shrugged âI guess he didnât sleep wellâ he said taking another bite.
and indeed he didnâtâŠ.
ahh kinda nervous about this series! not sure where itâs going yet but let me know what team ur on so farâŠ
Sam just moved in next door to reader and she has a crush on him. She does anything to catch his attention like baking him cookies, stealing his mail and returning it, & changing in front of her window hoping heâll see. One night he catches her touching herself while moaning his name. He decides to help her out and confront her about her obvious flirting đ¶ maybe make him a little mean about it đ
The Neighbor
Summary: When brooding new neighbor Sam Monroe moves in next door, you become obsessed â baking him cookies, stealing his mail, and changing in front of your window just to catch his eye. But when he finally catches you moaning his name one night, the fantasy turns real â and filthy â as he takes control of your body, your pleasure, and every desperate little game youâve played to get his attention.
Heâs shirtless, dragging a battered suitcase across the dead grass between the cracked driveway and the front door of the run-down house next door. Thereâs a cigarette clinging to his lips, bouncing as he mutters something under his breath. His jeans hang low on his hips, paint-splattered and torn at the knees. His hairâs a mess, like heâs just rolled out of a week-long bender, and he looks like he doesnât give a single fuck about the neighborhood heâs just moved into.
Your throat goes dry.
You freeze, hands curled around your mug of coffee, fingers flexing as you lean in closer to the window without even realizing it. He pauses at the porch, straightens up, and stretches his arms over his head. The light hits his torsoâlean, inked, tanned. Scars and stories litter his body like theyâve been earned. You canât stop staring.
Who is he?
You donât realize your mouth is slightly open until he glances up, eyes cutting to your window with the kind of look that makes you flinch. He doesnât wave. Doesnât smile. Just stares.
And then he looks away. Just like that. Like you donât even exist.
You pull back like youâve been caught spyingâbecause you wereâand your heartâs hammering. Not with fear. Not even with embarrassment. But with something far worse.
Curiosity.
Noâcraving.
You peer again. Slower this time. Watching him shoulder the door open and disappear inside. You wait, biting your lip. One minute. Two. Three. No lights. No movement. Just silence.
The house had been empty for almost a year. You thought it was condemned, to be honest. Now suddenly he lives there?
You donât even know his name yet, but already heâs ruined every boring fantasy youâve ever had. You canât stop picturing him lighting that cigarette. Canât stop imagining the way he movedâlike everything annoyed him, like heâs been fighting the world since birth and losing didnât stop him from swinging. Thereâs something bruised about him. Something broken and hard and magnetic.
You find yourself staring at the driveway even after heâs gone. You stand there like an idiot until your coffee goes cold.
àœàœČ â± àœàŸ
That night, you tell yourself youâre just being friendly.
You throw on some mascara, a pair of cutoff shorts, and a tank top youâd never normally wear without a hoodie. You walk next door like itâs no big deal. You donât even knock at firstâyou rehearse it. Hover your fist near the door, heart thumping, listening for any sound inside.
You hear music. Loud, messy guitar. The windows are cracked. Someoneâs smoking.
You knock.
The music stops, but no one answers.
You knock again, firmer. This time you hear footsteps. Floorboards creaking. A pause. Thenâ
The door swings open.
There he is.
Shirtless again. Hair messier now. Eyes half-lidded, cigarette dangling from his fingers. He leans against the doorframe like youâre the one intruding, like this is already a waste of his time.
You blink up at him. Forget every line you practiced. âUm⊠hey. Iâm your neighbor.â
He just stares.
âI live right next door,â you add, trying to smile.
Nothing.
You clear your throat. âThought Iâd introduce myself.â
He lets the silence stretch out long enough to make your skin crawl. Then he shrugsâjust a lazy roll of his shoulder. âCool.â
Your mouth opens again, but heâs already turning away. Leaves the door open, like itâs up to you now. You step inside because what else are you supposed to do?
The house smells like smoke and dust and something sharp and male. Boxes are stacked everywhere. No furniture. Just a mattress on the floor in the living room and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside it. The blinds are drawn.
He lights another cigarette. Doesnât offer you one. âYou done?â he mutters, eyes still on his lighter.
âWhat?â
âYou said hi. Mission accomplished.â
Your stomach flips. You should leave. You should.
But instead, you lean against the wall, arms crossed. âWhatâs your name?â
He exhales a cloud of smoke, doesnât look at you. âSam.â
You say it in your head a few times like itâs a prayer. Sam. Sam. Sam.
âIâmââ
He cuts you off. âDoesnât matter.â
You blink. âWow. Okay.â
That earns you a glance, finally. His eyes are sharp. Tired. Kinda pissed. He looks at you like youâre the annoying pop-up on his screen he didnât ask for.
âYouâre not my type,â he says flatly. âSo if thatâs what this is, donât waste your time.â
Your throat burns. He walks back toward the kitchen like he didnât just say something that punched the breath out of your lungs.
You donât know why that makes you want him even more.
You leave, cheeks burning, practically shaking. Not with shame.
With adrenaline.
You slam your door harder than you mean to when you get home. Storm into your room, rip off the tiny tank top like itâs the problem. You look out the window again. Heâs outside now, barefoot, smoking on the porch with his head tilted back. You stare for too long.
And this time, when he looks upâ
He doesnât look away.
You bake the cookies from scratch.
Real butter, brown sugar, vanillaâthe works. You even drizzle dark chocolate on top like you saw in some TikTok recipe you saved months ago, thinking one day you might need it. Turns out, this is the day. The desperate, delusional day you try to win over your brooding, shirtless neighbor with warm cookies like youâre in some sick parody of a romcom.
They smell amazing.
You wrap them in foil and tuck them in a basketâa fucking basketâbecause apparently youâre going for full-blown âgirl next doorâ energy. Maybe heâll think itâs sweet. Maybe heâll say thank you. Maybe heâll finally look at you like youâre not some random annoying insect buzzing around his head.
You wear something cute but not too cute. Hair down. Glossy lips. No bra. You tell yourself itâs casual. Friendly. Kindness is sexy, right?
You march over to his house with your stupid basket of cookies and knock.
No music this time. Just silence.
You knock again. Then you hear itâthe unmistakable sound of footsteps, slow and heavy. The door creaks open andâ
There he is.
Still shirtless. Still beautiful. Still blank.
Sam Monroe stares down at you like heâs just woken from a nap he didnât want to end. Heâs got one hand on the doorframe, the other raking through his messy hair. His eyes skim from your face to your chest and back up like heâs scanning for danger.
You force a smile.
âHey,â you say, holding the basket up like a peace offering. âI, uh⊠made cookies.â
A pause.
You watch as his gaze drops again, this time to the foil-covered treats youâre offering like a sacrificial lamb. One eyebrow lifts just a little.
âCookies?â he says like the word personally offends him.
âYeah. Just⊠thought Iâd be neighborly.â You laugh, but it dies in your throat.
Another pause.
Then, finally, he takes the basket. Doesnât say thank you. Doesnât even pretend to look pleased.
You wait. For a smile. For a comment. For something.
Instead, Sam just nods once, turns, and starts closing the door in your face.
âOhââ you stammer. âThereâs, um⊠sea salt on top. It brings out the chocolate.â
But the door clicks shut.
You stand there for a few seconds too long, blinking at the grain of wood like it might open back up if you just wish hard enough. It doesnât.
You walk home, empty-handed and humiliated.
You tell yourself it was worth a try.
You tell yourself heâll love them.
You tell yourself you donât care if he doesnât.
Youâre lying.
That night, youâre brushing your teeth when you hear him through your window.
The walls are thin in this neighborhood. Crickets buzz, dogs bark, sprinklers click on and off. You recognize his voice nowâlow, dry, a little scratchy around the edges. You pause, toothbrush halfway to your mouth, because you hear him laughing.
And thenâ
âBetty Crocker neighbor,â he says, amused. A pause. âNo, Iâm serious. Brought cookies in a fuckinâ basket.â
Heâs on the phone.
You freeze.
âShe even did that little âoh no, I forgot to wear a braâ thing,â he adds. You can hear the smirk in his voice. âSwear to god. Itâs like I moved into a Hallmark movie and forgot to kill myself.â
Your face goes red. Your hands shake.
âShe made cookies,â he says again, laughing under his breath. âLike Iâm gonna fuck her just âcause she knows how to preheat an oven.â
You slam your bathroom door shut and slide down to the floor, toothbrush still in hand, breath catching hard in your throat.
You should hate him.
You should.
But instead, your thighs press together and your whole body lights up with a sick, warm heat.
You donât even know why.
Maybe itâs the humiliation. Maybe itâs the fact that he noticed everythingâyour lack of a bra, the basket, the smile you practiced in the mirror.
He laughed, yeah. But he saw you.
And maybe thatâs enough.
Later, curled in bed, you stare at his window.
Itâs dark.
But you imagine him on the other sideâshirtless, smoking, laughing at you with that crooked smirk. The idea of it burns your skin.
You whisper under your breath, mocking yourself: âSea salt brings out the chocolate.â
You should cry.
But instead, your fingers drift low under the covers.
You close your eyes.
And picture Sam Monroeâs mouth saying something far filthier.
àœàœČ â± àœàŸ
You didnât mean to take it.
Not at first.
The mailboxes are all crammed together at the end of the streetâthose sad, dented metal things with peeling paint and stuck locks. You were just grabbing your own stack when you noticed it: one envelope, bent and hanging out of Samâs box.
You stare at it for maybe three seconds too long.
His nameâs on it. Samuel Monroe.
Itâs nothing important. Just some bubble mailer from a random PO box in California. Probably junk. Could be a DVD. Could be porn.
Could be nothing.
You look around. The streetâs empty. And before you can stop yourself, your fingers close around the envelope.
Itâs in your hands. Youâre holding Sam Monroeâs mail.
Your heart pounds like youâve just shoplifted something criminal.
You slip it into your purse like itâs a dirty secret and walk back home pretending you didnât just commit a federal offense for the thrill of it.
You wait a whole day.
It sits on your desk while you eat breakfast, untouched, unopened. You wonder if he noticed. You wonder if he even checks his mail. Maybe heâs already suspicious. Maybe heâs already watching.
The thought alone makes you tingle.
So the next afternoon, you make your move.
You throw on a cute little sundressânothing too revealing, but short enough to draw attention if heâs looking. No bra. Again. Hair down. Gloss on.
You clutch the envelope like a piece of evidence and march over to his house with the calm of someone whoâs definitely not out of her mind.
He answers the door slower this time.
Same Sam. Shirtless again. A fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear. His jeans are slung even lower than usual, like heâs daring you to stare. And of courseâyou do.
You clear your throat and hold up the envelope.
âYour mail came to my box,â you say innocently. âWeird, right?â
He doesnât take it immediately. His eyes flick to it, then to your face. Then lower.
Way lower.
âDid it?â he asks, lazy, suspicious.
You nod. âYup. Just found it sitting there.â
Sam finally takes the envelopeâslowly, like heâs debating whether he should believe a word out of your mouth.
He turns it over in his hand. Doesnât open it. Doesnât thank you either.
âI thought people stopped using DVDs like ten years ago,â you say, trying to be casual. âStreaming exists.â
Sam lifts an eyebrow. âPeople with taste donât rely on Netflixâs garbage rotation.â
You blink. âSo⊠it is a DVD?â
He doesnât answer.
He just smirks.
You shift your weight, suddenly hyperaware of how short your dress is. Of how his eyes havenât moved from your thighs in over ten seconds.
He leans against the doorframe, studying you.
âMustâve been a real mix-up,â he says slowly, voice low. âFunny how your box and mine are five feet apart.â
You freeze. âIt was just⊠stuck, I think.â
âHuh.â
Another long, thick silence. He taps the envelope against his palm. The sound is quiet, almost rhythmic.
âYou always this helpful?â he asks, voice dry.
You give a little laugh. âOnly for my favorite neighbor.â
His gaze sharpens, lips twisting.
You regret the words the second they leave your mouth. But also⊠you donât.
Because that little line? That smile?
Itâs the first time he hasnât looked completely bored around you.
He finally pushes off the frame and steps back inside, tossing the envelope onto a cluttered table behind him.
âYou want something?â he mutters without looking.
Your throat tightens. âWhat?â
âYou brought cookies,â he says, offhand. âNow youâre hand-delivering my mail. So what is it? You want a thank-you card? A fuckinâ kiss?â
Your cheeks burn. âJesus.â
He shrugs. âJust askinâ.â
You take a step back. âForget it.â
Heâs already halfway to the kitchen when he glances back over his shoulderâlazy, amused.
âI never forget anything,â he says. âEspecially not weird shit.â
Then heâs gone, door wide open behind him like he wants you to walk in.
But you donât.
You go home. Slam your door. Lock it. And pace.
Because fuckâhe knows.
Or maybe he doesnât. Maybe heâs bluffing. Maybe he just likes making you squirm.
Either way, itâs working.
That night, you canât sleep.
The heat of his voice still lingers in your ears, low and cutting. That smirkâlike heâs already figured you out.
You stare out your window and wait. And sure enough, there he is.
His light flickers on sometime after midnight.
You see the silhouette of his body moving through the room, tall and lean, cigarette glowing red at the tip. He doesnât bother closing the blinds.
He knows youâre watching now.
Maybe he wants you to.
Your fingers curl in your sheets, thighs pressed tight. You shouldnât touch yourself.
You shouldnât.
But you do.
And you wonder if heâd still smirk if he knew how many times youâve moaned his name into your pillow.
Or if heâd finally give you what you want.
You didnât plan to do it.
Not really.
You just happened to be changing. And your window happened to be open. And the light happened to be on. And you happened to not draw the curtains. Again.
Itâs not your fault Sam Monroeâs bedroom window faces yours like some sick cosmic joke.
Itâs not your fault he moved in next door and ruined your ability to think straight.
And itâs definitely not your fault that every time you close your eyes, you see himâshirtless, scowling, smoke curling from his mouth like a fucking demonâand feel that sick, hot pulse between your legs.
Tonight, you stop pretending.
You stand in front of your mirror wearing nothing but a lacy little bra and the matching panties you only bought because they made you feel dirty.
Your bedroom light is on full blast.
The window is wide open.
And across the way, Samâs blinds are half-open, dark behind the glass.
You canât see him.
Not yet.
But you feel him.
You move slowly, deliberately, peeling the bra straps off your shoulders one at a time. You keep your eyes on your own reflectionâon the way your nipples harden, on the little tremble in your breath.
And then you glance at the window.
Still dark.
You sigh. Disappointed. Maybe heâs out. Maybe heâs asleep. Maybe he doesnât fucking care.
You hook your thumbs into your panties.
You start to slide them down.
And thenâyou freeze.
Because across the way, his light turns on.
A click. A warm yellow glow. A figure moves behind the curtain.
Your breath catches.
Heâs there.
You see the silhouetteâbroad shoulders, lean torso, a shadow moving toward the window. You donât move. You donât breathe. Your panties are halfway down your thighs and your pulse is thunder in your ears.
Then, slowlyâslowlyâyou see it.
The red glow of a cigarette. A tiny ember, flaring in the dark.
Your body goes ice-cold, then burning hot.
Sam Monroe is standing in his window.
Watching.
He doesnât look away.
He doesnât fucking blink.
You straighten, panties still low, bare chest rising and falling as you meet his shadowy gaze. You donât smile. You donât cover up.
You let him watch.
You tug your underwear all the way off and toss them somewhere behind you. You turn to the side, giving him the full silhouette. You know exactly what you look likeâback arched, skin glowing in the yellow light, chest soft and high.
Your heart is slamming. Youâre wet. You feel it already.
Still, he doesnât move. Doesnât wave. Doesnât acknowledge you in any way.
Just stands there, smoking. Watching.
You reach for your dresser, pretending to pick out pajamas, but really? You just want to bend over.
You want him to see everything.
You hold the pose a little too long.
Still no movement.
God, heâs good at this.
Your fingers twitch. You think about touching yourself. You want to. So badly.
But not yet.
Instead, you slowly pull on a big, oversized teeâone that barely brushes the tops of your thighsâand glance back at the window.
Heâs still there.
The glow of his cigarette is a silent response.
And maybe youâre imagining it, but⊠you swear you see the shadow of his hand move.
You swear heâs palming himself through those low-slung jeans.
Your whole body clenches.
You crawl into bed like a girl with nothing to hide, pulling the covers halfway up, legs splayed just enough for him to wonder whatâs underneath. You prop your phone up on your chest and pretend to scroll.
But all youâre doing is watching that glow. That silhouette. That stillness.
The way he just lets you put on this show.
Or maybe heâs the one putting on a show. Maybe heâs hard right now. Maybe heâs touching himself. Maybe heâs imagining you crawling onto his lap and thanking him for every second of attention.
You donât know.
You donât even care.
You just know youâre not stopping now.
àœàœČ â± àœàŸ
You sleep like shit.
Your dreams are full of smoke and smirks and Samâs rough hands pinning you down.
In the morning, you wake up wet and aching, thighs sticky, cheeks flushed.
You half-expect him to show up at your door.
He doesnât.
He doesnât text. Doesnât knock. Doesnât even leave a note.
You go about your day pretending youâre normal. Like you didnât perform a whole naked routine for your neighbor last night.
But you feel him watching.
Every time you pass your window. Every time you get undressed.
You keep the curtains wide open now.
You want to be seen.
Because that red-glow silhouette is becoming an addiction.
And youâre not done teasing yet.
You try to ignore it.
The ache. The burn. The sick little obsession thatâs taken root in your stomach and spread like rot.
But you canât.
Not after what happened last night.
Not after he watched you.
Not after that cigarette glow stayed lit long after you turned out your light, long after you pressed your thighs together and tried to fall asleep with your heart still pounding in your ears.
You saw his silhouette.
You know he saw you.
And now?
Now youâre spiraling.
The next night is worse. You try to read. Try to scroll. Try to eat. But nothing works. You check the window. Once. Then twice. Then every five minutes like youâre addictedâand maybe you are.
But tonight, his window stays dark.
No silhouette. No glow. No movement.
Itâs torture.
Your whole body is buzzing with it. With need. With frustration. With this horrible hot little obsession you canât shake. You feel it building all day like pressure under your skin, rising up your throat, tightening in your chest.
By the time the clock hits 11:43pm, you snap.
You throw your sheets off and sit up in bed, heart racing.
Youâre done waiting.
Youâre done pretending.
You crawl across the mattress to your windowâwearing nothing but a little cotton tank and panties so thin they barely count. You crack it open halfway. Just enough. And you check again.
His window is still dark.
You donât care.
You reach down between your thighs, fingers shaking.
Youâre already soaked.
You drag your hand slowly, lazily over your underwear, pressure building immediately. Your breath hitches. Your head falls back. You try to bite your lip but it slips out anyway:
âFuckâŠâ
You imagine his voice. His hands. The way heâd smirk, so cruel and cocky, if he knew you were touching yourself because of him.
Your other hand grips the sheets. Your back arches.
Your fingers slip under the waistband.
And then it starts.
Low. Soft. Just for you.
âSamâŠâ you whisper, cheeks burning.
You circle your clit, slow and perfect. You press harder. You move faster.
Your legs fall open. You donât care who sees.
You imagine him catching you.
You want him to.
âSamâŠâ you whine, louder now. âGod, pleaseâŠâ
Youâre panting. Desperate. Fingering yourself with your bedroom light still on, tank top riding up your stomach. The night air is cool against your skin, but your body is flushed, overheated, burning.
âSam⊠fuck⊠Samââ
You donât hear the footsteps.
You donât notice the creak.
Not until a voice cuts through the night like a blade.
âAre you seriously that fuckinâ desperate?â
Your eyes fly open.
You scream.
Heâs there.
Standing in your room.
Sam.
At your window. Inside. Your windowâs openâyou forgot to lock it.
His voice is low and lethal, thick with disgust⊠or maybe something worse.
Desire.
You scramble up, yanking your blanket over yourself like it matters, heart pounding, throat dry.
Heâs watching you like a predator watches a wounded thing.
Like youâve finally gone too far.
Or maybe not far enough.
He takes a step closer.
âYou touching your pussy with the window open like that?â he asks, voice gravelly and cruel. âHoping your neighbor would catch you?â
You donât speak. You canât.
You canât breathe.
Heâs not even angry. Not really.
Heâs⊠entertained.
His eyes are wild, dark with something dangerous. His jaw tightens. His arms flex. He hasnât even shut the window behind him.
âYou moaning my name like that?â he adds, slow and mean. âJesus Christ. Youâre fucking pathetic.â
Your body shudders.
You should feel humiliated.
But youâre dripping.
His gaze drops to the blankets in your lap. To the place your fingers just were.
And he smiles.
Not nice.
Not kind.
But cruel.
Dark.
Hungry.
âYou want help, sweetheart?â he asks, cocking his head. âIs that what this is?â
You nod.
Barely.
His smile grows wider.
âThen say it,â Sam growls. âSay you want the guy next door to come over and help you get off like a proper little slut.â
Your mouth opens.
But nothing comes out.
Not yet.
Because youâve never been this turned on in your entire life.
You swallow hard.
Your mouth is dry.
Heâs in front of you nowâclose enough to smell the smoke on his hoodie, the sweat on his skin. His arms are crossed, but the way heâs looking down at you is nothing short of vicious. You expect him to be pissed. Furious.
But heâs smirking.
âJesus,â he mutters, laughing under his breath. âYou really are fucking desperate.â
Your cheeks burn.
You canât respond. Your body is too busy buzzingâheart pounding, thighs trembling, core throbbing so hard it aches. Because yeah, heâs mean. Heâs cruel. But youâve never been this turned on in your life.
âYou think I didnât notice?â he asks, pacing a slow, terrifying circle around your bed. âThe cookies. The mail. Standing in your window half-naked every night like a fucking cam girl. Youâve been begging for it.â
You suck in a breath.
He leans in close to your ear.
âMoaning my name while you rub that pathetic little pussy,â he whispers. âWhat were you expecting, huh? That Iâd climb through your window and make your princess fantasy come true?â
Your body jolts.
Your thighs squeeze shut.
Sam laughs again, a little sharper this time.
âI should walk out right now,â he says. âLeave you here to finish what you started. Wouldnât that be sad, baby?â
Your breath stutters.
He watches you squirm, watches your fingers clutch the sheets like theyâre going to save you.
Then his voice drops, low and dangerous.
âOr,â he says, âI could help.â
You look upâeyes wide, mouth parted.
He cocks his head.
âYou want that?â
You nod.
He raises his eyebrows.
âNuh-uh,â he says. âUse your words, pretty girl. You had no problem moaning my name with your legs spread. Say what you want.â
Your throat clenches.
âIâŠâ Your voice cracks. You try again. âI want you to help me.â
âHelp you what?â
You hesitate.
He narrows his eyes.
âSay it.â
You exhale, shaky and embarrassed and so fucking wet you can barely think.
âI want you to help me come,â you whisper.
Sam hums like heâs considering it. Then he leans in, hand braced beside your head, mouth inches from yours.
âYou touch yourself when I say so,â he murmurs. âYou come when I say so. You want to be a little slut, you do it my way. Got it?â
You nod againâfaster this time.
He grabs your jaw.
âI said,â he growls, âGot it?â
âYes,â you gasp. âYes. PleaseâSamââ
âGood girl.â
And then, finally, finallyâ
He kisses you.
Hard.
His mouth crashes onto yours with zero hesitation, all teeth and tongue and filthy intention. You moan into it, melting, clawing at his hoodie, already dizzy from the taste of him. He shoves the blanket down. Doesnât ask. Doesnât wait.
His hand slips under your tank top and cups your breast roughly, thumb swiping over your nipple until youâre arching into him like a live wire.
âYou been dreaming about this?â he mutters against your neck. âMe showing up, ruining you?â
You nod frantically. âYes. Yes. Fuck, Iââ
He pulls back just enough to yank your tank top over your head and toss it to the floor.
Then he looks.
And grins.
âCute tits,â he says casually. âWasted on someone so fucking pathetic.â
You moan.
Like that word feeds you.
His mouth drops to your chest, hot and wet, sucking a mark into your skin while his hand slips between your thighs. He doesnât ask before yanking your panties down. Doesnât ask before dragging his fingers through the slick mess he already knew would be there.
âFucking knew it,â he mutters. âDripping wet. Just from me watching.â
You whimper. âPleaseâŠâ
He pulls his hoodie off in one motionârevealing that familiar, lean, body youâve been dreaming about for weeks. His abs flex as he kicks off his jeans, still half-hard and bulging in black boxers.
You try to reach for him.
He grabs your wrist.
âNot yet,â he says, voice like smoke and sin. âYouâve waited this long. You can wait a little longer.â
Then he shoves you back on the bed and climbs on top.
You gasp.
You spread.
You surrender.
And Sam Monroe smirks down at you like heâs already won.
Because he has.
He doesnât fuck you.
Not yet.
He lays you back, legs spread, soaked and trembling, and just stares.
Like he owns you.
Like youâre not even realâjust some desperate little fantasy girl who moaned his name loud enough for him to come claim you.
Sam hovers over you, bare chest heaving, eyes dark, jaw clenched. He drags his knuckles down your ribs, down your stomach, slow enough to make you squirm.
You try to lift your hips.
He presses them down.
âEasy,â he says, smirking. âLook at you.â
Youâre gasping. Chest flushed. Thighs shaking.
And he hasnât even touched you properly yet.
âPoor baby,â he coos, mocking. âAll that teasing. All those little stunts. You really thought I wasnât gonna notice?â
You canât speak.
He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear.
âThe cookies,â he murmurs. âThe mail. Standing in your window at night like some cheap little exhibitionist.â
You whimper.
He grabs your chin, tilting your face up.
âYou think I donât know exactly what kind of girl you are?â
You shake your head, but he cuts you off.
âNo?â he says. âYou sure? Because the way you were moaning my name with your fingers stuffed between your legs⊠kinda screams pathetic slut to me.â
Your whole body convulses.
It shouldnât turn you on.
It shouldnât.
But God, it does.
âSay it,â he snaps. âSay youâve been trying to get my attention like a desperate little whore.â
Your lips part. âIâIââ
His fingers slide down, between your legs, two thick digits pressing through your wetnessâbut not in. Not yet.
He circles your clit slowly.
âIâm not asking again.â
You cry out. âIâve been trying to get your attention!â
âLike what?â
âLikeâlike a slut,â you choke. âA desperate slut. Please, Samââ
He slaps your pussyânot hard, but enough to make you yelp and gasp.
âFucking right you have.â
He pushes your legs wider, then grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, holding you there with one hand while the other slides between your thighs againârubbing, teasing, not giving you what you need.
âYou thought this would be sweet, didnât you?â he taunts. âSome romantic shit where I fall for the cute girl next door just âcause she bakes?â
You shake your head, but he doesnât stop.
âYou thought if you got my attention, Iâd play nice?â
He leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing.
âWell, you got it, sweetheart,â he whispers. âSo now you get me.â
He lets go of your wrists and moves lower, his mouth tracing down your stomach, his hand gripping your hip as his breath ghosts over your thighs.
Youâre trembling.
Youâre soaked.
Youâre fucking begging without saying a word.
Sam spreads you open with his fingers, eyes locked on the mess between your legs like itâs his reward.
âLook at this,â he mutters. âSo wet itâs dripping.â
Your eyes roll back.
âBet you practiced this,â he continues. âLying here, legs open, pretending it was me.â
He flattens his tongue against your clit.
You scream.
He doesnât stop.
He devours youâslow, filthy licks, two fingers sliding inside without warning, curling perfectly while his mouth works you like heâs doing it just to prove a point. You writhe, moaning his name, fists tangled in the sheets.
He pulls back just as your orgasm builds.
Your body jerks in protest.
âDonât come,â he growls. âNot unless I say so.â
You whine. âPlease, IâI canâtââ
âYou will,â he snaps. âOr I stop. And I walk out. And you can finish yourself off like the desperate little freak you are.â
You cry out.
You clench.
You wait.
And finallyâfinallyâhe goes back down.
Tongue flicking, fingers fucking you rougher now, faster, until your back arches off the bed.
âNow,â he orders. âCome for me. Let me see how bad you need it.â
You explode.
Itâs blinding.
Shaking. Sobbing. Gasping his name over and over again as he drags it outânever stopping, not for a second, until youâre twitching and spent beneath him.
And when he finally pulls away, mouth wet, eyes dark?
He grins.
âYeah,â he mutters. âThatâs what I thought.â
Youâre limp. Panting. Completely fucked without even being fucked.
Sam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
Then he crawls up beside you, settles back against your pillows like he lives here, like he owns this bedâand you.
He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and glances down at your ruined body.
âYou still want more?â he asks, exhaling smoke slowly.
You nod.
Youâre not even embarrassed anymore.
You want him.
All of him.
Sam smirks.
âGood,â he says. âBecause Iâm not done with you yet.â
Youâre still shaking.
You havenât moved. You canât move.
Sam lies beside you, shirtless, his arm slung behind his head like he didnât just ruin you with his mouth. A thin trail of smoke curls from his cigarette. He hasnât looked at you in minutesâbut you feel him watching you all the same.
Like prey.
His voice slices the silence.
âYou ever touch yourself again without my permission,â he says calmly, âIâll make you wait a month before I even look at you again.â
Your breath hitches.
You turn your head toward him. âSamââ
He cuts you off with a glance.
âNew rule,â he says. âNo touching. Not without asking. Not even if youâre dripping all over the fucking sheets.â
You blush.
But God help youâyou nod.
He flicks ash into a glass on your nightstand, his lip twitching into something between amusement and threat.
âGood girl.â
Heat rolls down your spine.
He leans over suddenly, snuffs the cigarette out, and climbs over you againâhis body heavy, warm, fully in control. You open your legs instinctively, already aching again.
But he doesnât touch you.
Not yet.
He grabs your chin insteadâfirm, demanding.
âYou want this?â he asks.
You nod too fast.
He squeezes. âNo. Use your words.â
âYes,â you breathe. âI want you.â
âI know you do,â he murmurs. âYouâve been begging for weeks. Dressing up for me, flashing me through your little window. You made yourself mine before I even touched you.â
You squirm beneath him.
âAnd now that I have touched you?â he continues. âYouâre gonna play by my rules.â
You nod again.
âI mean it,â he says, lower now. âYou want more of me? You earn it. No sneaky shit. No more pretending to be innocent.â
âIâm not pretending,â you whisper.
He laughs, cruel and soft.
âYou are,â he says. âAll that cookie-baking, mail-returning, âoops I dropped my DVDâ good-girl bullshit.â
He dips down, his lips brushing your throat. âBut I know what you really are now, donât I?â
Your heart pounds. âWhat?â
He lifts his head. Smirks.
âYouâre my little slut.â
A strangled sound escapes your throat.
Sam leans in again, this time letting his teeth graze your neck.
âSay it.â
You hesitate.
He slides his hand down your chest, your stomach, stopping just above where youâre wet again.
âSay it,â he growls.
âIâm your little slut.â
He smiles like heâs won something.
Like he always wins.
âGood,â he whispers. âNow letâs make sure you remember the rest.â
He moves off you and sits back against your headboard, legs spread. You sit up slowly, breathless, flushed.
He gestures lazily to the space between his thighs.
âCome here.â
You crawl over, settling between his legs.
You look up at him. His eyes are half-lidded. Lazy. Dangerous.
âYou want me hard again?â he asks.
You nod.
âThen take it out,â he says. âWith your mouth.â
Your fingers tremble as you undo his fly.
You tug his jeans down just enough, freeing himâand you almost whimper at the sight of him, already semi-hard and big. Thick veins, flushed tip, that same cocky curve to the left.
You glance up.
âDonât look at me,â he snaps. âEyes on it.â
Your eyes drop instantly.
âOpen your mouth.â
You obey.
He slides in slow, letting you feel the weight of him, the taste, the heat. One hand fists in your hairânot guiding, just holding you there. Making it clear youâre his now.
You hollow your cheeks, tongue tracing every inch of him, desperate to please.
He groansâlow, rough, from the chest.
âYou want my cock now?â he taunts. âBeg for it.â
You pull back just enough to speak.
âPlease⊠Sam, please, I want it. Iâll be good, I swearââ
âYouâll be what I make you,â he cuts in. âThatâs rule number three.â
You moan around him.
He pulls you off suddenly, his cock glistening, your lips swollen. He grabs your chin again, tilts your head up.
âYou follow my rules,â he says, voice low and serious now. âYou come when I say. You touch when I allow. You open that pretty mouth only when I want to hear you beg or moan my name.â
You nod, eyes wide.
âAnd if I ever catch you parading around your window like that againââ
âI wonât,â you whisper. âNot unless you tell me to.â
He smirks.
âThereâs my girl.â
He shoves you gently back onto the bed.
Climbs over you again.
âYou keep behaving,â he says, stroking himself slowly as he looks down at you, âand maybe Iâll let you come twice next time.â
Your thighs squeeze together instinctively.
But you donât touch yourself.
Not unless he says so.
Because you belong to him now.
And Sam?
Samâs going to make sure you never forget it.
Youâre lying on your back.
Breathless. Trembling. Spread wide on your bed like a present.
And Sam Monroe is looking at you like heâs already unwrapped you.
He hasnât even taken his jeans off. Just the shirtâtossed somewhere near the window. His beltâs still on, hanging open. He hasnât touched you again since laying down the rules.
Youâre naked.
Panting.
Soaking the sheets.
You want him.
God, you want him.
âSay it again,â he murmurs, standing at the edge of the bed, hand slowly palming the bulge in his jeans.
âPlease,â you whisper, biting your lip. âI need you, Sam.â
His expression doesnât change. Still dark. Still unreadable.
âNeed me how,â he says. âBe specific.â
You swallow hard.
Your voice is barely a breath. âI need you to⊠fuck me.â
He tsks. âIs that how you ask?â
You whimper.
His voice lowers. âWhat happened to âIâll do anything, Samâ?â
You flush hotâremembering the way youâd said it last night, half-crying under his tongue.
He was teasing then.
Now? Heâs not smiling.
He wants control.
âIâll do anything,â you repeat softly, eyes locked on his. âJustâplease. I need you inside me.â
He walks slowly toward the bed.
Drops to his knees.
Spreads your thighs apart with his hands, and you nearly come undone right there.
âI know you do,â he says. âYouâve been fucking dripping since I walked in.â
He leans inânose brushing your thigh. You twitch, needy.
But he doesnât touch.
Instead, he talks.
âYou been thinking about this for weeks, huh?â he mutters. âSitting in your little bedroom, playing with your pussy, moaning my name like a desperate whore.â
You let out a choked gasp. âYesâŠâ
He smirks darkly. âWhat did you imagine Iâd do to you?â
You blink at him, breath ragged.
âTell me.â
You hesitate.
Then whisper: âI imagined youâd⊠push me against the wall. Pull my panties down. Say Iâm yours.â
He exhales slow.
âAnything else?â
You nod, cheeks burning.
âSay it.â
âI imagined youâd choke me a little,â you whisper. âCall me a slut. Make me say how much I want you.â
His fingers flex against your thighs.
You see the heat in his eyesâbarely restrained.
âAnything else?â he growls.
You look up at him.
Daring.
âI imagined youâd come inside me.â
His eyes flash.
Thatâs all it takes.
He rises.
Pulls his jeans down just enough to free himselfâthick and hard and already glistening from how fucking ready he is.
You open your legs wider.
He climbs over you, nudging your thighs apart with his knees. Grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.
âYou want all that?â he says low, cock pressed against your slick heat.
You nod helplessly. âYes. God, yes.â
âYou sure?â he murmurs. âBecause once I fuck you, sweetheart⊠Iâm not gonna stop.â
You stare up at him, pupils blown wide.
âI donât want you to stop.â
His gaze is fire.
âSay youâre mine.â
âIâm yours.â
âSay youâve been mine since the day I moved in.â
âIâve been yours, Sam,â you whisper. âSince the moment I saw you.â
He leans down, lips grazing yoursâsoft, almost gentle.
Then he thrusts in deepâslow but unforgivingâand your back arches off the bed.
God. Heâs big.
You cry out, nails clawing at the sheets.
Sam doesnât move at first. Just lets you feel it.
Lets you stretch around him.
Lets you realize youâre finally full of the man youâve been fantasizing about every night.
You look up at him, jaw slack.
He smirks.
âBetter than your fingers?â
You nod frantically.
He starts to moveâslow, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs.
One hand closes around your throatânot choking, just resting there. Possessive. Dominant. Hot.
You moan louder.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear.
âYouâre mine now,â he whispers. âYou come when I say. You moan when I want. You exist to be fucked like this.â
You whimper something between yes and fuck and he fucks you harder, pinning you down like you were made for him.
You are.
Youâve never felt anything like it.
He stays half-dressed the whole timeâjeans around his hips, belt hanging loose, hair falling in his face.
Youâre a mess beneath him.
Crying. Pleading. Ruined.
And itâs only the first time.
He kisses your neck as you fall apartâslow and deep and dominant.
âNext time,â he whispers darkly, âIâm fucking you against the window.â
Summary: Your mom asks your best friend Sam to take you out for the night â which is how you end up in his friendâs closet, playing "Seven Minutes in Heaven".
Pairing: Sam Monroe x best friend f!Reader
Word Count: 4,6k
Warnings: explicit sexual content, fingering, dirty talk, language, light power dynamics, public/party setting, mutual teasing, sexual tension, voyeuristic undertones
Note: I experimented a little with my writing style. It's nice to know what you think about it!
The last rays of sunlight spilled into the room through the window just above your desk. It was getting close to the time you usually curled up in bed, found your most comfortable position, and put on your favorite show to watch for the next few hours.
This time, however, your plans had been derailedâand not by choice. In your head, you could still hear your motherâs soft, almost sing-song voice:
âYou canât just stay in your room all the time and never see anyone.â
You hadnât even had the chance to come up with an argument before she added, as if it were already decided:
âI asked Sam to drag you out of the house. Heâll be over tonight.â
Sam Monroe. Your so-called best friendâat least, thatâs what everyone else seemed to call him. Sure, youâd spent a lot of time together in the past. Especially when you were kids, back before you decided to become something of a recluse.
Your parents had known each other long before either of you were born, so your lives were tied together from the very start. You grew up side by side, went to the same class, the same extracurriculars. Every family gatheringâthere you were, together.
You wouldnât exactly call Sam your best friend, though. Not for a lot of reasonsâbut the biggest one was simply the way he treated you.
Youâd always known Sam was different. He had his own dark, brooding style: messy black hair, smudged eyeliner, silver piercings, and a wardrobe made almost entirely of black. And with that image came a personality to match.
Sam was usually rough, sarcastic, and arrogant. That was just how he was with everyone⊠though, with you, it always seemed a little more pointed. He loved calling you out, mocking your clothes, your hobbies, or something youâd just said. Around him, you always felt a little stupid, a little flusteredâlike your confidence could crumble with a single look.
It was no secret that you were a nerd. You did well in schoolâmuch better than Samâloved comics and TV shows, and wore oversized glasses that he never missed the chance to make fun of. You dressed in cute, pastel skirts and dresses, wore colorful hair clips and ribbons. It made you feel good about yourself, even if you knew Sam would be the first to tear it down.
And tonight was no different. Youâd been sitting at the edge of your bed for several minutes now, dressed in a powder-pink skirt and a white turtleneck. Two pale blue ribbonsâmatching your knee-high socksâwere pinned in your hair.
Your thoughts had drifted far from the world outside, lingering on the uncomfortable truth that youâd have to leave your roomâthe only place where you felt truly safe and at ease.
Then the doorbell rang. You quickly called out, âIâll get it!ââjust to keep your mom from striking up any sort of conversation with Sam. The fact that sheâd even contacted him in the first place, asked him to drag you out of the house, was enough to make you shudder. How patheticâat least, thatâs what you kept telling yourself.
Leaving your room and heading down the stairs took only a few seconds. Slightly out of breath, you opened the door, swallowing hard.
There he was.
Sam Monroe.
Best friendâsupposedly.
He stood in the doorway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his loose black shorts, the fabric intentionally torn in several places. A gray band tee clung perfectly to his lean frame. Sam wasnât muscular, but he wasnât skinny either. His shoulders looked a little broader than the last time youâd seen him. Had he been working out?
Your gaze drifted up to his face. Of course, there was the familiar smudge of eyeliner on his lids, slightly smeared like heâd rubbed at it without care. His brows were drawn together, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth held that faint, almost imperceptible grimaceâthe kind that could send shivers down your spine. A silver lip ring caught your attention, as it always did. It was safer to focus on that than to risk meeting his eyes.
You noticed, not for the first time, how full and soft his lips wereâlips that always turned downward, never upward, as if smiling might actually hurt him.
âReady?â he asked at last, breaking the silence.
âReady for what?â you muttered, your fingers curling around the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric nervously in your fist.
âFor a party.â The corner of his mouth twitched upwardânot a smile, more like the shadow of one. Mocking, almost.
âA party?â you repeated, as if maybe youâd misheard.
âYour mom asked me to keep you company, soââ
âIâm sure she didnât phrase it like that,â you cut in, your tone sharper than you intended.
âDoesnât matter. I agreed to take you out, so youâre coming with me. Just a small group of my friends. Theyâre not gonna eat you alive.â His low chuckle was more of a rumble than a laugh. As he said it, his eyes traveled slowly from the top of your head to the tips of your shoes, lingering in a way that made it obvious he found something about your outfit worth judging.
âWell, I hope they donât,â you muttered back.
Sam turned on his heel without another word, heading for his car parked out front.
You didnât say anything else either. You simply shut the door behind youâharder than you meant toâand hurried after him.
Climbing into the passenger seat, you were instantly hit with a familiar scent. Thereâd been a time when you rode in Samâs car almost every dayâafter school, on the way home, whenever your routes happened to overlap. Back then, it had felt⊠almost comfortable. And in some strange way, it still did.
The old Ford coughed to life with a deep, throaty roar when Sam turned the key. The moment he pressed the gas, you felt yourself sink just a little into the seat. The cracked leather beneath you looked even rougher against the pastel pink of your skirt, a contrast you couldnât ignore when you glanced down.
You never really knew where to look in moments like thisâcertainly not at him, tempting as it was.
The ride was silent until Sam finally flicked on the radio. The car filled with the heavy pulse of alternative rock, the bass thrumming through the air between you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of his hand resting on the gearshift, the black nail polish on his fingers chipped halfway off. Typical Sam.
âSo⊠this is like a social party?â you murmured, your voice catching slightly.
âSocial?â Sam actually laughed, a low, amused sound. âDo you really think my friends are a bunch of pastel nerds like you?â
âIâm notââ
âSunshine, youâre like a porcelain figurine,â he cut in, smirking faintly. âAnd to answer your questionâitâs just a regular party for people like me. Booze, weed, loud music.â
You didnât reply. Instead, you turned your head toward the window, pretending to be absorbed in the scenery passing by. In reality, you just wanted to hide the flush spreading across your cheeks.
It was fully dark by the time you arrived. Sam parked in front of someoneâs house, the warm glow of a porch light cutting through the shadows. You caught a glimpse of the house number in its yellow beam.
He killed the engine and climbed out without waiting for you. You sat there for a moment, frozen, until he was halfway to the doorâthen scrambled out after him, moving with the skittishness of a cornered animal.
To your surprise, heâd actually stopped just short of the porch, waiting. One quick glance from him was all it took for him to read youâwide eyes, tense shouldersâyes, you were nervous. But he didnât say anything about it. Instead, he turned away and grabbed the doorknob.
The moment you stepped inside, the air hit you like a wall: sharp, smoky, with something unmistakably herbal beneath it. You pressed your hand to your nose as it began to itch, your eyes stinging, your throat catching. You didnât even have time to wonder what it wasâbecause the answer presented itself instantly.
A guy, about Samâs height, stepped into view. Same dark, grungy style, a few piercingsâthough in different placesâand in his hand, a glass piece swirling with smoke and packed with something⊠green.
Weed. Of course.
âSam! You brought your princess?!â the guy called out, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that made your stomach tighten with discomfort. Instinctively, you shifted closer to Sam, half-hidden behind his shoulder.
âDonât worry about her. She wonât cause trouble,â Sam replied in a tone far different from the one he used with youâcooler, sharper, edged with authority.
The guy nodded at Sam, winked at you, and wandered off. Sam looked down at you then, something flickering in his expressionâalmost protectiveâbefore he tipped his head toward the next room. You followed without question.
âLetâs get a drink,â he said.
âYou mean⊠juice? Or water?â you asked hopefully.
âNo, dumbassâbeer.â He snorted, snatching two cans from a low table in the living room. One was tossed to you as if there were nothing strange about it. Neither of you was legally old enough to drink. And while you knew this was exactly what most people your age did at parties, you still couldnât shake the uncomfortable knot in your chest.
Still, you took the can from him. Popping it open almost cost you a nail, and you lifted it slowly to your lips. The moment the rim touched your mouth, the bitter, hoppy scent hit you.
Your eyes flicked toward Sam. He was already drinking, tilting his head back, swallowing like he needed it.
âSam⊠youâre driving,â you said softly, almost as if you werenât sure whether you meant to say it aloud or just think it.
âItâs just one beer,â he replied quickly, rolling his eyes. âIâve got a strong head, and itâs a short drive. Donât panic.â
You glanced down at the can in your hand as if you were the one whoâd have to drive the car later.
âGo on, take a sip,â Sam said, leaning lazily against the wall, looking like he was already getting bored.
âI⊠Iâve never had beer before. I donât know if I can handle it, andââ
âJust try it. No oneâs telling you to get wasted, princess.â His voice was low, slightly rough around the edges, cutting clean through your panicked ramble.
You let out all the air in your lungs, only to take in a deep, bracing breath. In one decisive motion, you pressed the cold can to your lips, tipped it, and took a small sip.
The bitterness hit you instantly, curling your mouth into a grimace. A dozen questions exploded in your mind, but one rose above the rest: How do people drink this willingly?
You set the beer down on the same table Sam had grabbed it from and lifted your gaze to meet his bright blue eyes.
âYouâre so innocent it makes me want to puke,â he muttered.
Heat rushed to your cheeks. That familiar wave of shame rolled through youâheâd done it again. Commented on you like it was the most normal thing in the world, as if it didnât cut, as if you werenât supposed to take it personally.
At some point, you drifted away from each other. Sam disappeared into the crowd to talk with his friends, and you ended up in the kitchen, where the music was softer, the crowd thinner, and the air felt a little less dangerous. You poured yourself a glass of colaâliterally the only drink on the entire table that didnât reek of alcohol.
So there you sat in the corner, sipping your soda slowly, trying to take up as little space as possible. But even then, people tossed unpleasant comments your way as they passed.
âWhatâs with the freak?â
âSheâs probably a virgin.â
âI wanna see her tits.â
It was impossible to pretend their words didnât sting.
You finally decided to leave the kitchen, but before you could make it out, someone blocked your path. A tall guy with dark eyes and shoulder-length hair placed a hand on your shoulder, his fingers slowly kneading into it.
âWhere you headed, sweetheart?â he drawled.
His tone made your stomach churn. There was nothing friendly in it.
âPlease move. I want to go,â you said, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor.
But he didnât move. If anything, he stepped closer, and the sharp, herbal smell of weed hit you full-force from his clothes.
âBack off, idiot.â
The voice cut through the noise like glass. One you knew immediatelyâSamâs.
You looked up to see him gripping the guyâs collar in one fist, his expression dark and dangerous, the kind of look that made it entirely possible he might actually hurt someone.
âRelax, man, I was just talking to her,â the guy protested.
âThen donât talk to her again.â Sam released his shirt with a shove, leaving a crumpled mark where his hand had been.
When his gaze turned to you, you braced yourself for irritation, for him to scold you somehow. But what you saw instead was⊠concern.
He gave a short nod toward the door, wordlessly telling you to follow him.
You trailed behind until you both ended up in the living room. People were sprawled on couches and the floor in a loose circle, laughter cutting through the music.
âSeven minutes in heaven!â someone shouted.
Sam looked at you, his expression calm, almost unreadable.
âCome on, weâre playing.â It wasnât a question. You didnât have a chance to answerâlet alone refuseâbefore heâd already dropped down onto the edge of a worn leather sofa.
With no other choice, you sat down beside him.
The game started quickly. An empty liquor bottle was set in the center of the floor and spun in a blur.
It was your first time playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. You didnât really know what it was about â no one had bothered to explain the rules. Apparently, everyone else already knew how it worked. Everyone but you.
Each time the bottle stopped, the chosen pair would get up and disappear into a small room that looked like it used to be a closet. Seven minutes later, theyâd return to the circle laughing, hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with whatever had just happened in there.
It didnât take you long to figure it out.
You were lost in your own thoughts when you suddenly became aware of the silence⊠and the fact that everyone was staring at you.
You glanced around quickly, but instead of answers, you caught whispers â murmurs exchanged just loud enough for you to know they were about you.
Your gaze landed on Sam. He was already looking at you, face calm, almost unreadable. Or maybe⊠maybe there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, like a smile he wasnât admitting to.
Without warning, he stood. He tugged at the waistband of his low-slung shorts, which barely clung to his hips to begin with, and without breaking eye contact, extended his hand toward you.
âOur turn,â he said, with complete certainty in his voice.
A whistle from somewhere in the group confirmed what was happening.
You stood up, pretending at confidence youâd lost long before. Only now did you notice your legs felt like cotton, each step strangely unsteady. Still, you managed to keep pace with him, following as he led you toward the same cramped closet the others had used.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. The air smelled of old wood and something like dust mixed with faded traces of perfume. The space was small enough that every movement seemed to echo. You could still hear the music from the living room â muffled by the walls, but pulsing through your chest like another heartbeat.
You froze where you stood, feeling him move past you. Even in the half-darkness, you could make out his shape â loose and casual, but holding that quiet tension you always felt when he was near.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes fixed on you in a way that made your stomach tighten. You looked away.
âSo⊠do you want me to, um⊠you knowâŠâ you mumbled, letting your eyes wander over the tiny space, anywhere but his.
âI donât know what you mean. Say it straight,â he replied â and you could have sworn there was a trace of mockery in his tone.
âYou know⊠do you want me to touch you?â The words scraped out of your throat, your mouth dry, swallowing almost impossible from the nerves.
Sam laughed.
Heat bloomed instantly in your cheeks. Had he just laughed at you? Youâd known him forever, and youâd never seen him like this. You couldnât put your finger on exactly what had shifted â maybe it was the alcohol in his system, maybe something else entirely.
âNo,â he said at last. âI donât want you to jerk me off. Wel..."
The room fell into a heavy silence. And then, as if some invisible force pried your lips open, you heard yourself ask the one question you probably shouldnâtâŠ
âWhy are you always so mean to me?â you blurted. At that moment, you were sure your whole face was red. Your first beer â ever â had definitely gone straight to your head.
âWhat?â he asked, almost in a whisper.
âYou know⊠youâre always making comments about what I wear, what I say⊠you laugh at me and youâre just⊠mean.â
âBecause Iâm fucking in love with you.â
Before you could even react, Sam was on you.
His mouth was hard, deliberate, and so hot it stole the breath right out of your lungs. In one motion, your back was against the cool wall of the closet, his hand at your waist pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
Your whole body tightened like a wire. There was no gentleness in it â he kissed you like it was the first and last time heâd ever get the chance. Like he was making up for all the years he could have but didnât.
You tasted the bitter edge of beer on his lips, mixed with the faint smell of smoke that clung to his clothes. Instead of pushing you away, it pulled you in deeper.
His tongue found yours without asking for permission, like it had always been his right. Your hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before settling at the back of his neck, fingers threading into his dark, slightly messy hair.
He only broke away for a second to catch his breath, looking at you with such intensity it felt like he could see every single thought in your head.
âSee?â he rasped. âIâm not so mean when I stop holding back.â
âIn that case⊠donât hold back.â
At your words, Samâs mouth crashed back onto yours â deeper this time, harder, until your knees almost gave out beneath you.
âWeâve still got time,â he murmured, voice unexpectedly soft. âCan I make you feel good?â
For a moment you just stood there, silent, your thoughts stalling completely. You didnât know what to say, how to move, how to breathe. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt, your breaths coming shallow.
âI⊠neverâŠâ The words caught in your throat, but Sam only raised an eyebrow, giving you a small smile â no mockery, no teasing. Just understanding.
âI know,â he said calmly, cutting you off. âThatâs why I want to go slow.â
You didnât have time to protest before his hand slid down to your thigh, just above the hem of your short, powder-pink skirt. His fingers brushed lightly over the fabric of your knee-high socks, sending goosebumps racing over your skin.
âLook at me,â he said quietly. You lifted your head â and there it was. That look. Intense, but gentle. The kind that told you you were the only thing that mattered right now.
His fingers began to slide slowly beneath the hem of your skirt. The snug knit of your turtleneck hugged your chest, and you suddenly realized you were breathing faster than you should be. Sam noticed immediately â his lips curved into the faintest smile, but this time there was no edge to it.
When his hand touched your bare thigh, you couldnât hold back the soft breath that escaped you. It was such a simple touch, but it sent a ripple of tension through you. Samâs fingers moved slowly, patiently, as if every second was deliberate.
âSo soft,â he murmured, more to himself than to you. âYou donât even know what youâre doing to me.â
Your gaze darted away, unable to withstand the weight of his eyes. But then his fingers slid closer, until you could feel the heat of his hand on the inside of your thigh. Your body jolted instinctively.
âEasyâŠâ His voice was soft, almost hypnotic. âIâm not going to do anything you donât want.â
You didnât answer with words, but when his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear, you didnât move away. The fabric was pale, delicate, trimmed with lace, and Sam traced his thumb over it as if testing its texture.
âIt suits you,â he said quietly. âSweet and innocent.â
Slowly, almost as if asking permission, he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric. You felt his touch where no one had ever touched you before â warm, confident, and yet careful. Your body tensed instantly, your breath catching in your throat.
âBreathe,â he reminded gently, even as one finger glided over your most sensitive spot. It was like a sudden jolt â pleasure, but so unfamiliar that you didnât know whether you should pull away or lean in.
Your hips moved, just barely, all on their own. Sam noticed, and the faint smile on his lips deepened.
âSee? You already know how good it can feel.â
When his finger began tracing slow, deliberate circles, your knees nearly gave out. You braced yourself against his shoulder to keep from collapsing. He drew you in closer until you were almost sitting on his knee.
âYes,â he whispered, watching your face as if he wanted to memorize every twitch, every reaction. âThatâs exactly how I want to see you.â
The pressure on your body became steadier, more rhythmic. Every movement of his fingers sent waves of heat rolling deep into your stomach. You had no idea your body could react like this, could be this sensitive.
âSam,â you breathed, his name breaking apart on your lips, your thoughts dissolving into the overwhelming sensation.
His smile was faint but there â you could see it even through the haze in your eyes.
âMhmâŠâ he answered softly, as if to say he heard you, that everything happening to you now was exactly what he wanted.
His fingers moved with unhurried precision, every stroke sinking deeper into your senses. Your thighs trembled, refusing to stay still. Your breathing came shorter, quicker, and your throat kept spilling out soft, sweet sounds you didnât even bother to hold back anymore.
âYes⊠just like that,â he murmured right against your ear, his breath warm against your skin. âI like when you react like this.â
Your fingers clenched around his shoulder, nails digging through the thin fabric of his shirt as his touch pressed harder, his movements just slightly quicker. Your hips, completely beyond your control, lifted and fell in the rhythm he set.
âSam⊠Iââ You tried to speak, but your words melted into another moan.
âI know,â he whispered. âDonât hold back.â
His finger found exactly the spot you needed, and your body reacted instantly â the tension in your stomach began to rise rapidly, a wave of heat spreading further and further through you. You could feel every muscle inside you bracing for something inevitable, something about to crash over you, and still Sam didnât stop.
âLook at me,â he ordered softly, and with effort, you forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, locked entirely on you, and deep within them was something that both intimidated you and pulled you closer all at once.
Suddenly, your body trembled harder, your hips jerking forward on their own, and a louder moan escaped your lips before you could stop it.
âOh GodâŠâ you breathed out, the words slipping free before you could catch them.
âAlmost there,â he murmured, his fingers moving in a perfect, unbroken rhythm that drove you right to the edge.
The tension reached its breaking point â your back arched sharply, your fingers digging into the back of his neck, your head tipping back. A cry of relief and pleasure tore from your throat as release hit you in waves so intense your legs could no longer hold you.
Sam kept you against him, supporting you, never stopping until your body slowly began to come down, your breath trembling and uneven.
âEasy⊠Iâve got you,â he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Your heart was pounding wildly, your skin flushed and hot, and inside you was a strange mix of weakness and euphoria. You knew only one thing â nothing like this had ever happened to you before.
You took a shaky breath, still feeling the aftershocks ripple through your body. You lifted your hand â at least, you meant to â but by accident, you brushed it across Samâs crotch, feeling the unmistakable hardness straining beneath the fabric of his shorts.
You froze instantly, embarrassment flooding you. Still, something in you pushed out the one, foolish question you couldnât hold back:
âDo you⊠want me to⊠return the favor?â you mumbled, avoiding his eyes as much as possible.
âNo, princess. You donât have to.â Sam chuckled at your flustered reaction. âAt least now you know what you and those sweet little moans of yours do to me.â
Those words made your face burn even hotter.
Before you could say a word, a voice called from outside the door, letting you both know that your seven minutes were up â though you could have sworn it had felt like forever, as if the world had stopped spinning for a while.
Sam moved toward the dressing room door and pulled it open. You, however, didnât step out right away â first you adjusted your skirt far more times than necessary.
Just stay calm. Pretend nothing happened, you kept repeating in your head.
You quickly closed the distance between you and Sam, grabbing his arm like he might shield you from the rest of the world. He glanced back over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as if the blush still painted across your cheeks was some kind of trophy to him.
The moment you stepped back into the living room, the noise, loud music, and thick haze of smoke hit you like a sudden blow. Every head seemed to turn your way, every pair of eyes following you. People leaned into each other, whispering, no doubt speculating about your time in the dressing room with Sam â or maybe just about you.
âWeâre out,â Sam said curtly to the guy who had greeted you with weed when youâd first arrived. You saw his face twist in surprise, his lips parting like he was about to say something â but Sam didnât give him the chance. He tugged your hand, which you hadnât even realized heâd been holding this whole time, and led you straight toward the door.
The fresh night air hit you immediately, sending a soft shiver down your spine. Without hesitation, the two of you slipped into his car.
Samâs gaze fixed on you. He reached out, his large hand cupping your face gently, turning it toward him until your eyes met â and just like that, your cheeks flushed all over again.
âThat,â Sam said suddenly, his voice low and certain, âwas the best seven minutes of my life. Like heaven.â
heyy!! i was wondering if u can make like a matt sturniolo fluff oneshot based on the song save your tears - the weeknd, where they meet again after time apart and they talk through their misunderstandings, how matt regrets hurting her, but in the end they make up and end up tgt? idk if this makes any sense but yeah đ have a lovely day!!
hi sweet angel, apologies for the very overdue response, but Iâd love to write that. i just need to find time (about in 2ish weeks) and Iâll start posting more frequently.
pairing. fratboy!chris x shy!reader.
genre. smut, frat au.
word count. 2.6k
âi... i've been practicing something for you.â
content warning. explicit content, porn with plot, slight mentions of insecurities and anxiety, awkward sex, unprotected sex, riding, creampies.
authors note. i dont usually do small fics like this for my aus, but i thought this would be fun for a small bday special. this is for my fratboy!chris and shy!reader au which, if you're new, you may need to read other prompts just to understand their dynamic.
Youâve always been the type of person who always goes way overboard for someone's birthday, wanting to find the perfect gift(s) to show your love, appreciation and gratitude toward the person who is celebrating their special day.
In the past, you've splurged on expensive gifts that left your bank account in shambles. You've made personal gifts from scratch, leaving your hands and fingers littered in paper cuts that are way too small to have that much of a painful effect. You've wandered through countless stores, pacing aisles from sunrise to sunset to find the perfect gift.
But this specific gift? the one youâre planning for Chris?
Yeah⊠this one is different. maybe extreme, even. the kind of gift that has your face burning up just thinking about it.
It started as a passing thought. Then, you overthink it, repeating his words in your head over and over again from the last time he brought this specific thing up to you. and that's when you started doing researchâway too much of it, by the way.
Video after video, article after article, you were consuming so much information that you even had to pause what you were watching just to collect yourself and have a breather, reaching for a glass of water with trembling hands as anxiety swam through your veins.
And when you brought it up to Bee and Kitty?
Big mistake.
... Okay, maybe not that much of a mistake considering they were supportive and giving you suggestions like you asking for guidance on how to ride Chris wasn't a big deal. You must've spent half of the conversation hiding your face behind your palms, too embarrassed to even look at them.
Nonetheless, you took it all in, drilled their words into your brain, and you arrived back home to practice on your pillow. Your thighs burned from strain, your hips ached and you embarrassingly came onceâmaybe twiceâwhile doing so, and it made you rethink the entire birthday surprise while sitting in the bath with a deep frown on your lips.
But you can't back out now. You can't be a quitter on thisânot when you've already come this far.
So, you're going through with it the best you can... hopefully.
On the big day, you take your time getting ready, needing every second to hype yourself up. you slip into your prettiest dress to help make you feel just a little more confident, even though your heart is rattling in your chest like crazy.
You drive to the rented house early with Kitty, Bee and Nate, your fingers wrapping tightly around the steering wheel to calm the shakiness from your nerves. and when you get there, you realise most of the frat brothers have arrived already.
They're tossing balloons across the floor, stringing up strobe lights, and setting up the speakers for the music while shouting over each other.
The coolers are already halfway full with ice and fresh drinks too, so you busy yourself by helping hang up banners instead, trying your best not to check the door every five seconds... you fail, by the way. you spot Matt's car rolling up the driveway just before he turns in.
You don't even get the chance to greet the trio when they walk into the house, the people immediately swarming them, popping confetti cannons and shoving shots into their hands while screaming 'happy birthday!' at the top of their lungs.
Nick beams happily. Matt pushes through everyone to get to Kitty, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her like he hasn't seen her in the last twenty-four hours. and Chris? Chris is scowling, swatting Nate's hands away and threatening him as the latter tries to shove the goofy party hat on top of his head.
You wait for a moment for the chaos to settle, and you take your time in giving matt and nick their little gift bags you made before you even dare to step in Chris' direction. and when you do, you swallow thickly when you see him alreadyâand not surprisinglyâsurrounded by his regulars.
Taking a deep breath, you make your way over, giving yourself an internal pep talk with each step. Once you're close enough, you reach out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt before tugging lightly at his arm to get his attention.
"Chris?" you say his name, voice barely above a whisper. "can... can i talk to you for a second?"
He furrows his brows, looking at you. "What? Right now?" he gestures toward the group with a flick of his head. "M'busy here, kid."
"Just for a minute?" you press, hoping that he'll give in so you don't look like a fool. "Please? I um... I left your gift upstairs.."
"Upstairs?" he stares at you, clearly not believing a word that has just slipped past your lips. "The fuck kinda gift you've got hidin' upstairs?"
"It's... private."
Chris stares at you again, unmoving, his gaze flat and sceptical. you shift under the weight of it, your fingers nervously curling and uncurling at your sides. Finally, Chris lets out a sharp and exasperated huff, nodding his head as he agrees to follow you.
You quickly turn around and start walking ahead of him, weaving through the crowd, doing everything you can to stay calm even as your stomach churns with each ascend up the staircase. You don't look back, but you can feel him close behind you, following your steps.
Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause at the hallway, the lump heavy in your throat as you take a quick glance at him over your shoulder, pointing at one of the many guest rooms available.
"It's in here..."
Chris raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he just exhales sharply and pushes past you to open the door to the guest room. You follow close behind, shutting the door quietly, the click of the latch feeling loud in the silence that settles between you both.
He stands in the middle of the room, arms folded and unimpressed. "Well? Where's it at, kid?"
You hesitate, your pulse racing and hands fidgeting at your sides. Then, you take a few steps toward him, your hands pressing against his firm chest, grabbing the fabric of his shirt to hold it. Chris doesn't move, he doesn't pull away either, but he watches you with his eyes narrowed.
You give a soft, uncertain push at that, urging him toward the bed until the backs of his legs bump the mattress. He drops down, legs spread, leaning back on his palms as he tilts his head up to look at you.
"Y'serious?" he asks. "Dragged me away from mâbusiness to hookup?"
You open your mouth, then close it again, face heating up with embarrassment. You're ready to bolt straight out of this room.
Chris runs his tongue across his inner cheek, his voice dipping low. "If you wanted to fuck me, bun. jus' lead with that next time."
"It's not just that, Iâ" you choke on your words, swallow thickly again, hands trembling as you move them down to reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. "I... I've been practicing something for you."
"Practicin'?" he repeats, barely lifting his arms to help you take off his shirt, and you toss it to the side gently. "Practicing what? undressin' me or somethin'?"
"No," you pout a little at his mocking tone, your hands moving lower to his belt. you fumble with the buckle onceâtwice, fuckâand Chris sighs sharply, annoyed but still letting you try.
"Then what?" he pressed, tilting his head to the side and watching you. You finally manage to undo the belt, pulling the denim down his hips and he lifts them lazily to help, letting his jeans fall in a heap around his ankles.
Your voice is barely audible as you speak, the usual shyness seeping back into your tone. "To... ride you."
Chris blinks at you, silentâalmost stunnedâfor a brief moment. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smirk, letting out a soft, disbelieving scoff as he drags his hand through his hair with a slow shake of his head.
You sort of knew he'd react like that, especially because he's made comments before: how awkward and clumsy you are moving above him, how you always get cramps and aches, how it's better if he does the work because watching you try to ride him like 'watching a baby deer try to walk on ice.'
The words still sting, even now.
But still... you want to try. to prove him wrong and show him that you can do it... and maybe even impress him a little.
Chris leans back some more on his palms, his eyes dark and unreadable. And then, finally, he gives a small shrug, tipping his chin up. "A'ight. Show me what you've been practicin', bun."
You take a deep breath as you prepare yourself, reaching for his boxers, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his abdomen as you tug the fabric down, gazing at his cock that's already half-hard and leaking with precum.
You're surprised to see him like this already, but that still doesn't calm the butterflies in your tummy as you pull your panties down your legs, stepping out of them and neatly placing the fabric to the side before you move forward, carefully perching yourself on top of his lap.
You feel the heat of his body beneath yours, your heart pounding against your ribs as his cock brushes against your folds, twitching and hardening to full mass. You don't dare to look at him, not when he's staring right into your soul as you take him in your hand, stroking him softly like you've seen in the countless video tutorials you had consumed as you line him up with your entrance.
You sink down bit by bit, trying to stifle a whimper as you adjust to his size that stretches you out, hearing him inhale sharply, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. Itâs a lot to take in alreadyâwhich is the normâbut you refuse to give in to discomfort this quickly as you begin to roll your hips, experimenting with different motions as you try to find a rhythm that works for you.Â
The sensation of Chrisâ cock searing you open is intense, bordering on painful at times with awkward angles, but thereâs an underlying feeling that makes you want to keep going. Your still inexperienced attempts cause you to wobble slightly as you try to bounce, your breasts moving beneath your dress which catches Chrisâ attention, gaze dipping down to follow their movements.Â
You struggle to maintain a steady pace, often making minor mistakes which you hope Chris isnât noticing, beads of sweat glistening across your forehead as your arms hesitantly wrap around his shoulders for balance.
Yet, once holding him, youâre able to find a rhythm.Â
Your hips begin to move with slight confidence, rolling and grinding against Chris in a way that seems to secretly please him based on the low growls that vibrate in his chest, his lips parting as his breathing grows subtly heavier. His hands lift from the bed to slide around your hips, moving south to grip your ass, squeezing the plump flesh as he wets his bottom lip.
âAm I⊠am I doing okay?â you ask quietly, your voice breathy from exertion. You search Chrisâ expression for any hint of approval or enjoyment, desperate for anything from him, wanting to know if youâre meeting his expectations as your inner walls flutter around his cock, gliding up and down steadily.Â
Chris doesnât answer right away, he just stares, unreadable as always. Then, he humsâa low sound followed by the subtlest nod. Itâs barely even there, but itâs something. You feel really happy, good, encouraged, and you lean back slightly to change the angle again, gasping softly at the new wave of pleasure that trickles down your spine as his cock grazes the sensitive spot inside of you.Â
You add twists of your hips and shallow rolls to mix things up, and the changes now seem to affect Chris outwardly as his grip tightens on you, quiet moans escaping his lips. You can feel your own arousal building, a tingling pressure coiling low in your tummy as you begin to hump him erratically, ignoring the burning sensation in your thighs as you mewl and whimper uncontrollably.
Now, Chris seems stuck frozen in blissâmouth ajar with harsh pants and dazed eyes as he watches your greedy pussy ride him, slick glistening around your puffy folds, dripping onto his balls.Â
His mind reels from the sudden sensations overwhelming him, every nerve ending in his body is on fire with each glide of your pussy that slides up and down on his throbbing cock, his eyebrows pulled together like heâs confused at the feeling.
âF-fuckâŠâ he rasps, his voice hoarse and strained. âShiiitâwhat the fuckâŠâ
Whether he means to or not, his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open wider to suck in deep breaths, and feeling his body tense beneath yours, you immediately realise heâs close too.Â
You wish you could feel a sense of pride right now, having worked so hard to get to this point, but youâre too cock drunk to even take time in basking in your success, slumping weakly against his chest despite your hips still moving, clinging to him embarrassingly tight as you cry out in his ears.Â
Chris lets out a loud, guttural moan, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside your pussy with thick ropes of cum, his cock twitching and pulsing with each spurt as he empties himself inside of you. Your pussy clamps down on him, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his skin as you wail, cumming around him in an instant.Â
It takes you longer than necessary to regain yourself, and you make the first move by slowly sliding off him, wincing as your muscles protest the movement and pussy ache as he slips out. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you collapse onto your side, the room spinning slightly as you try to catch your breath, forcing yourself to glance at Chris.
Chris just sits there, chest rising and falling steadily, cock laying limp against his thigh. His brows remained furrowedâsurprisingly, not in annoyance. More like confusion or contemplation.Â
But you donât like how quiet it is, though. Itâs almost too quiet.
You open your mouth to speak, to apologise for god knows what, but Chris cuts in. âDonât.â
You blink. âDonâtâŠ?â
Chris turns his head just enough to look at you. Is⊠does he look impressed? âWasnât bad.â
Youâre stunned into silence as you wait for the follow upâsome sarcastic dig to make you feel all embarrassedâbut it never comes. You canât help the quiet flutter in your chest as a tired smile threatens to spill across your lips, finally proud of yourself. You actually did it... you really did it.
Chris stretches out, exhaling through his nose as he reaches for the ground to grab his discarded boxers, âGuess all that practice wasnât of waste of time, kid⊠good job.â
Your stomach flips with something closed to exhilaration at the praise. You canât remember the last time he said anything even close to âgood jobâ to youâyou truly donât think he ever has.Â
âYou can do that shit more often fâme now.â
The flutter in your stomach crashes hard, deflating all at once as your shoulders slump in defeat. Well thatâs⊠not an exhilarated feeling.
pairing. dbf!matt x fem!reader.
genre. smut, porn with plot, dads best friend au.
word count. 10.2k
âi can't give you what you need... but i can play with you.â
content warnings. explicit content, porn with heavy plot, age gap (reader is in her early twenties, matt is in his late thirties), hints of bluecollar!matt, a lot of comical themes, alcohol consumption, brief mention of puke, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, praise, dom/sub undertones.
You know itâs wrongâmaybe not by the law, but by every unspoken rule that society silently agrees on. The kind of rule that doesnât need to be said out loud because everyone just knows. Still, that doesnât stop you from fantasising about Matt: your dadâs best friend.
Heâs younger than your dad, whoâs already showing signs of his age: a salt and pepper beard, streaks of silver threading through his short hair, faint wrinkles etched around his eyes and forehead. There are old scars on his face too, each one with a story from his childhood to current adulthood.
But Matt⊠heâs older than you.Â
Heâs in his late thirties, head full of dark, overgrown hair thatâs shaped into a messy mullet, and a layer of fine stubble that gives him a rugged look. His jawline is sharp too, enough to catch you off-guard whenever he turns his head or tilts it to the side when listening intently to whatever is being said around him.
You first met Matt when you decided to visit your family home after spending countless agonising weeks working at your job, running on caffeine, feeling exhausted and drained returning to your small one-bedroom apartment each night. You had no social life for a while, your phone was silent more often than not, and you were definitely craving for your momâs comforting arms and warm, hearty cooked meals.Â
You expected to see that exact comfort when you arrived, that familiar sight of your parents curled up on the couchâmaybe a movie playing in the backgroundâor even them in the kitchen while something homemade cooked on the stove.
Instead, you stepped into something completely different.Â
Your mom was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in one hand and one of her favourite novels in the other, while your dad was sitting in the living-room with a man you didnât recognise, the two of them drinking Modelos and watching a basketball game thatâs blaring from the TV, and
And that was when you saw himâMatt. A stranger, but not for long.
You could barely tear your eyes away from him, even as your mom spotted you and wrapped you in one of her infamous hugs, all warmth and love with the hint of that soft perfume. His eyesâlight blue, piercing, observantâflicked toward you just as your dad stood up from the couch with a wide grin, pulling you into his usual, rough affection hug and giving your hair that familiar ruffle.Â
You were embarrassed, all you could think about was your appearance. Wearing an oversized sweater, worn-out jeans, your face bare and hair not washed. You werenât insecureâat least, not always. You were usually comfortable enough in your own skin⊠just maybe not today of all days.
Not when you were standing in front of someone so attractive that it made you wish youâd dressed up a little bit, or at least made an effort.
When your dad introduced you to him, calling him âthe new kid from workâ and mentioning how they bonded over shared interests, you had limited time to process the words before Matt set his beer on the coffee table and stood up from the couch, offering you his hand to shake.
You took it, inwardly cringing at how awfully clammy your palms felt, but you could only hope he wouldnât notice.
Matt gave you a kind, straight-toothed smile as he repeated his name to you with his own introduction, and your heart jumpedâactually skipped a few beatsâand you could barely manage to say your own name until you had to force it out.
But then he repeated it, and just like that, you were doomed.
Hearing your name on his lips made your breath catch, heart pounding loud and fast in the ears, and you mentally curse at the way your body immediately betrays you: sweaty palms, shallow breathing, the heat crawling up the back of your neck.
That sounded too good coming from his lips.
You wanted him to say it again, and again, and again.
Over the next few days of staying with your parentsâthanks to the generous time off youâd somehow wrangled from work (something youâd absolutely have to make up for later with apologies and taking on extra shifts)âMatt was around a lot more than youâd expected.
He joined you all for dinner on some nights, lingering at the table with your dad, talking about whatever the topic of discussion was. Sometimes youâd find them both out in the garden after work with beers in hand. And heâd stop by whenever he had spare time, hanging around like it was second nature, like your home had become a part of his routine too.
Throughout this, you still couldnât seem to find your voice around him. Any time you tried to start a conversation, the words caught in your throat, struck with nerves, feeling so shy and flustered even with having one of your parents in the room.
Still, you learned about him through the grapevine of casual family conversations.Â
No wife. No kids. Lives alone in an apartment downtown. Heâs one of a set of triplets, something that made your eyebrows raise the first time you heard it, trying to picture three of them together. And he has an older brother with a kid, which technically makes him an uncle.
You tucked those details away as if theyâd help you understand him, or at least, stop thinking about him so much.Â
But the more you knew, the worse it got.
It didnât help that your childhood friends from the neighbourhood brought him up every chance they got. Matt this, Matt that. How hot he was. How the tattoos inked along his arm made them salivate. How just the sound of his voice made them weak in the knees and their stomachs flutterâalong with something else too.
Youâd even caught them acting differently when they visited your house and he happened to be there, giggling like schoolgirls, subtly adjusting their tops or skirts to show off enough skin, greeting him with flirtatious, coy smiles and sweet-toned words.
And every time, heâd dip his head with a small smileâpolite and kindâthen his eyes would flick to you briefly before he turned to find your dad.Â
You didnât blame your friends. You really didnât. Honestly, youâd do the same if you could⊠but you couldnât. Matt isnât just some godly attractive older man in your dadâs house. He was literally your dadâs best friendâa close family friend, even.Â
The off-limits sign was practically flashing in neon red above his head, and it weighed heavy on your shoulders.
You knew it was wrongâor at least, it felt wrong. But knowing that didnât make any of the thoughts you had go away. It didnât stop your eyes from following him around when he moved, or your mind from wandering places it had no business going in the middle of the night with your hand shoved between your legs.
You wondered if how you felt was obvious to him. If somehow he had the magical power to know exactly what you were thinking day-in and day-out, to have the ability to unravel every secret you tried to keep buried.
It terrified you, because if he could see it⊠maybe your parents could too. Maybe your mom had already caught on to the way your eyes lingered too long, or your dad had picked up on how nervous and flustered you got whenever Matt was around.Â
It made your stomach twist uncomfortably with panic. So, you made a plan. You tried to ignore him. No eye contact. No glances. No âaccidentalâ passing by him. Nothing. A full-on Matt detox.
⊠It worked for a day.
âHey, sweetheart.âÂ
He had greeted you one morning while you sat at the breakfast bar, halfway through your fool proof Matt-free plan. Your shoulders tensed as you peeked over your shoulder and saw him walking in, swinging his truck keys around one finger.
Not helping. So not helping.
âHi, Matt.â
And then, there was the garden incident.Â
Youâd been helping your mom with her plants, crouched at an awkward angle with your gloves deep in dirt, patting down the soil around a new plant. Sweat clung to your neck, hair frizzled from the heat, and your back was arched in the kind of position youâd usually find yourself someplace different than this.
That was when you heard it.
âYou missed a spot.â It was his voice again, teasing and light. Too casual. Too fucking close.
Youâve never jerked upright so fast in your life, swearing you heard your spine crack. Your head whipped toward the driveway to see Matt standing there, his eyes squinting slightly against the sunlight, the unreadable grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he nodded toward some smudges of soil staining your shorts, then disappeared into the garage without another word.
You did think you were safe one afternoon when your mom sent you to the grocery store with a handwritten list in her perfect, loopy cursive. You grabbed a basket, moved through the aisles, scanned the shelves and displays, and you picked what you neededâvarious fruits, veggies, meat, pasta, bread, and snacks for later.
You were halfway through the list when you reached the back of the store, but your steps faltered when you spotted Matt standing by the refrigerated shelves, one ringed hand wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle as he read the label.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing off the tattoo along his forearm. His jeans hung low on his hips, dirty and ratted from working in construction all day, much like his boots, and a backwards cap sat on his sweaty hair, keeping it out of his face.
You considered turning around, just turning around and acting like youâd never seen him. You werenât ready for this. But the list in your hand disagreed with you⊠because you needed to get exactly where he was standing.
The words alcoholic beverages and water stared up at you from the list like they were mocking you, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. You forced your feet to move, stepped forward, and apparently that was all it took to get his attention as Mattâs head lifted.
âHey, sweetheart.â
You have a love-hate relationship with that pet-name. Love it because it sounds so good coming from him, and that because it was directed at you. Hate it for the exact same reasons.
âYouâre in my way,â you said, keeping your tone lightâteasing, hopefully. But the truth clung to your words. You meant it.
He chuckled, that low sound that made your stomach flip, and nudged his basket with the toe of his boot, letting it slide along the floor before following after it. âAll yours.â
You stepped into the space he left for you, trying to focus on grabbing a bottle of wine for your mom, beer for your dad, and a few bottles of water for hydration under the sun.
His eyes flicked to your basket, âGetting stuff for the barbecue?â
Ah. The annual family barbecue. The whole day of lawn chairs, grilling, music, alcohol, dipping in the enormous steel-framed pool your dad bought this year on a whim⊠and Matt.Â
Matt, of course, would be there.Â
Always invited.Â
Always welcomed.
âYep,â you nod, grabbing a bottle of red wine and dropping it into your basket without bothering to double-check the label. Your fingers tightened around the handle as your gaze drifted toward Mattâs basket.
It looked similar to yours. Meats. Veggies. Chips. A six-pack. A bottle of wine, and flowers.
Your eyes lingered too long.
Flowers.
Flowers?
You shouldnât ask. You donât need to ask. You have no right to ask. You shouldnât be nosy. Youâve been taught not to snoop in someone's business.
âWhy do you have flowers?â
Fuck. Your stupid mouth.
He looked up, barely blinking. âIâm going on a date tonight. Figured a bottle of wine and flowers would be good.â
You actually feel sick to your stomach. Your body was still, but your mind had combusted into a thousand little pieces, echoing that one word over and over again. Your chest felt tight, and you didnât even know who he was going out with.Â
It didnât matterâshouldnât matterâbecause you werenât supposed to feel this way. But now? Now, all you could think about was what those flowers would look like in someone elseâs hands, how his voice might sound when he said her name instead of yours.
Would he call her sweetheart too? Would he kiss her the way youâd imagined heâd kiss you if given the chance? Would his hands rest on her waist? Would he cup her face gently? Would he touch her hard and rough like youâd felt in every dream?
You wishedâreally wishedâyou had just turned around and pretended you never saw him.
âThatâs nice,â you cringed the second the words left your mouth, how stiff and forced it sounded. You didnât mean it, but Matt just hummed, unbothered, dropping the wine into his basket. âIs she nice?â
Matt shrugged. âDonât know. Haven't met her yet. Your dad set me up with her.â
Well. Isnât that just great?Â
Youâre bitter, very much so.Â
When did your dad become a matchmaker? Was that always part of his job description? Full-time construction worker, part-time cupid? Shouldâve slapped that on his business card.
You resist the urge to scoff, imagining your dad just casually handling Matt off, packaging him like some man-shaped prize and sending him straight into the arms of some lucky woman.
How wonderful. Maybe you could be the flower girl at their wedding. Maybe youâll catch the bouquetâprobably the same flowers from Mattâs basket, which makes it so much worse.
Then, your bitterness disappears and gets replaced with something heavier.
What if she comes over? To your family house? What if she shows up at the barbecue, all pretty and perfect, hanging off Mattâs arm like she belongs there? Like she fits? Like sheâs always been meant to stand beside him?Â
What if sheâs in your kitchen, sipping your momâs wine, listening to Matt tell a story youâve already heard over dinnerâone that made you smile?Â
And youâll just be there, awkward, out of place in your own home while you watch someone else live the fantasy youâre not allowed to have.
You swallowed, hard. She wonât even know what sheâs taken from you. Technically, she hasnât taken anything. He was never yours to begin with.
When the family annual barbecue finally rolled around, you did your best not to think about who might be showing up with Matt when he inevitably arrived. The fact that his stupidly handsome had yet to show up made your thoughts spiral, and you started to believe that he had ditched your family gatheringâmaybe he decided to spend the day with his, potentially, new girlfriend instead.
How dare he do that to your dad? Your poor old man, waiting for his best friend. Definitely not poor you. Nope. Not at all.
In fact, youâre fine. Youâre five shots and three White Claws into fine. Youâre dressed in your prettiest pair of summer shorts and bikini top that conveniently shows off everything it needs to, lounging on a lawn chair in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, somewhat locked in half-drunk conversations with your friends.
The smell of burgers and hot dogs filled the air, and your stomach growled in protest, begging to be fed. You lazily turned your head toward the grill, watching your dad joke around with your uncles, trying to mentally estimate how much longer until someone yelled the foodâs ready.
But your attention catches elsewhere when you see a figure in your peripheral vision.Â
You blinked once, twice, then again for good measure, certain that your alcohol induced brain was playing tricks on you. You must be drunk. You had to be. Because there was absolutely no way Matt, your Matt (okay, not your Matt, but still), was actually rounding the corner into your backyard, a case of beer under one arm, burger rolls, hot dog buns and more meats tucked in the other.
Alone.Â
You shoved your sunglasses up your forehead quickly, squinting through slightly blurred vision to make sure you werenât hallucinating, but the sudden excited giggling and hushed whisper of his name from your friends beside you answered the question before you could.
Itâs him.Â
Itâs actually Matt.Â
He walked up to your dad and uncles, and he greeted your dad in that way only close friends doâall claps on the back and inside jokesâthen made his way down the line, offering handshakes. The uncles welcomed him like he was one of their own, clearly fucking ecstatic by the extra beer and food like heâd just solved every problem in the world.
Matt laughed, and you hated how it made your heart feel. He dropped the beer into the cooler, set the food off to the side, and headed toward your mom with a hug that made her smile the way she only did with people she liked.
âHeâs so hot,â one of your friends groaned beside you, throwing her head back dramatically. âLike, painfully hot. Itâd commit crimes for that man.â
âSame,â another friend muttered.Â
You didnât even think before you opened your mouth. âMe too.â
It just slipped out. No hesitation, no filter. Youâre shameless, and you blamed the alcohol coursing through your system for that while your friends break into a chorus of snorts and giggles, one of them even whacked your arm.Â
You tried to refocus after your slip-up, tried to nod when your friends spoke about something, tried to laugh when they did, tried to pretend you were presentâbut you werenât.Â
Your body was here, lounged in the sun, but your mind? Your mind was standing ten feet away, flipping burgers with your dad, sipping a beer with your uncles like it wasnât the most attractive thing in the world.
Matt hadnât looked at you once. Not that you expected him to, either. You werenât that delusional. (you kind of are)Â Â
Why would he look at you?Â
He was too busy. As if he hadnât nearly shattered your fragile heart in the alcohol aisle the other day or as if he hadnât told you he was going on a date while holding a fucking bouquet of flowers in his basket.Â
You wanted him to look at you, though.Â
Just once.Â
You wanted him to glance over and notice the way your bikini top clung to your chest, maybe notice how your summer shorts hung nice and low on your hipsâlow enough to make any boy flustered if they caught a glimpse.Â
But Matt wasnât a boy. He was a man. Â
Did he have good self-control? Would it be noticeable if he was turned on? Would he let it show?
You needed to get your mind out of the gutter. Immediately.
You shook your head like it could help with the wandering thoughts, shove them to the back of your mind. But the alcohol wasnât helping, neither was the heat. You pushed up from the lounge chair, telling your friends youâd be back shortly as you moved.Â
You didnât wait for their replies.
Your bare feet padded across the grass, onto the patio, and when you stepped inside, the cold marble kitchen floor sent a shock straight up your spineâthe sudden change in temperature almost sobered you up.
You wobbled slightly, just enough to remind yourself how deep you were into the drinks, and you made a beeline for the fridge. You yanked it open, grabbed the first bottle of water you could find, twisted the cap off and chugged half of it in seconds, the cold burning down your throat.
âThirsty?âÂ
The voice hit you like a punch to the gut, and you jolted, some water spilling from your lips, trailing a cold line down your chest as you turned around too fast. Matt stood by the cabinet, grabbing an extra stack of red solo cups, the ones everyone was using outside.Â
You were frozen, not because he finally looked at you, or even talked to you, but because heâs fucking shirtless. When the fuck did that happen?Â
You blinked. Once. Twice. Nope, still there. Just standing there with no shirt, those dirty worn-out jeans, that familiar backward cap that pulled his hair out of his face. His tattoos on full display, the muscles in his back and shoulders moving as he reached up for the cups.
You werenât breathing. You forgot how. Thereâs no oxygen in your lungs right now.
He turned back to you, his eyes flicking briefly to the wet patch down your front, before he met your gaze. âYou okay, sweetheart?â
You swallowed thickly, âFine.â Thereâs no fucking way your voice just cracked. âIâm fine.âÂ
You grabbed a napkin from the side and dabbed at your chest to get rid of the water droplets, trying not to think about Matt who was still there. You could hear him move around the kitchen like it was his ownâopening drawers, checking cabinets, grabbing paper plates like he was your familyâs butler.Â
Did she get the wine? Did she get the flowers? Your throat tightened. Did she get more than that?
Your gaze wandered down before you could stop yourself, trailing along the curve of his spine to where his jeans now rested dangerously low on his hips due to his swaying, his boxers peeked out just enough to show the brand name.
Did she get to see what during the date? Did he take her home? Did they have the date in his home? Did he let her touch him? Did he take her upstairs and press her into the bed and fuck her like youâve imagined happening to yourself when youâre alone?
âHow did the date go?â you asked out loud, and you blamed the heat and the alcohol in your system for letting the question spill out so suddenly. You tossed the napkin to the side as something bubbled inside youâsomething sharp and uncomfortable. âDid you have fun? Did she like the bottle of wine and flowers?â
âYou know,â he said slowly as he looked up from the bag of chips, brows raised slightly as it crinkled in his hands. âThis is one of the longest conversations youâve had with me since youâve been home. And both times, theyâve been about my date,â he chuckled under his breath and shook his head. âYouâre definitely your dadâs kidânosy.â
Well. You wouldâve preferred if he just called you out, said you were jealous and that your feelings were obvious. That wouldâve been easier to swallow than hearing that.
It hit a nerve, made you feel like some nosy little girl asking questions about things she had no business thinking about, and your brows pulled together, and the corners of your mouth twitched into a tight line.Â
âYouâre the one who brought it up the first time.â you clipped back, inwardly telling yourself to shut up as you can hear your tone get blunt and mean.
âYouâre the one who asked why I have flowers.â
âAnd youâre the one who came alone without said date,â you couldnât stop now even if you wanted to. Something had cracked open, and you felt the heat rise in your chest as your nails pinched your palms when you closed your fists. âIâm guessing it didnât go well, then?â
There was a moment of silence before the chips in his hand crinkled soft, filling the air, and Mattâs smile flattened slightly. He looked like he was trying to read behind your words, or at least was wondering where all this was suddenly coming from.
Then, Matt leaned against the counter and fiddled with the bag in his hand, his head tilted and his mouth curved. âDidnât realise you were keeping such close tabs on me. You want a copy of my calendar too?â
You hated how amused he seemed. You hated how he was so calm and collected while you were seconds away from launching yourself out the kitchen window.Â
âNo,â you replied. âI just figured since my dad set you up, she mustâve been perfect.â
Thatâs when you saw itâthe flash of something in his expression when the muscle in his jaw twitched and his smile thinned out. That made you feel a hint of guilt, but you stood your ground and kept your chin high.
âShe was fine,â he said, shrugging like it didnât matter. âIt was fun, but not really my type.â
âOh,â you muttered and blinked, your voice uncertain now. âAnd what is your type, then?â
There was another moment of silence, the one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight with the way he looked at you. It was like he was trying to see beneath the surface, to read between every line of your expression and peel back the layers one by one without actually laying a single finger on you. Â
It started to get uncomfortable, awkward, and you wondered if youâd gone too far and said the wrong thing. You opened your mouth, the apology and the need to brush it off laid on the tip of your tongue, but the words never made it out as he pushed off the counter, grabbing the chips and cups he came in for.
âYou should drink more water,â he tossed over his shoulder casually as he walked toward the door. âYou need to sober up.â
And then he was gone, leaving you stood alone in the kitchen that felt twenty degrees hotter. Your heartbeat thudded erratically in your chest, faster than it shouldâve been as his words echoed in your head. You need to sober up? Your brows furrowed, and you glanced down at your half-empty water bottle, licking your lipsânow dry.
Sober up, your ass. What was that supposed to mean? Was he mocking you? Scolding you? Patronising you like some drunk, bratty, nosy kid who got in over her head?Â
A scoff pushed past your lips as you left the water bottle on the counter and stalked out the door back into the yard. You didnât hesitate as you made a straight-line for the cooler, yanked it open, and grabbed your fourth White Claw of the day.
If you were going to be drunk and ridiculous, you might as well commit.Â
It was a bad ideaâa very bad one.
You shouldnât have let your emotions get the better of you. You shouldnât have let the bitterness and frustration and whatever the fuck else drive you to drink yourself silly. But you did, and now you were drunk, dizzy, disoriented, and a little fuzzy around the edgesânothing particularly good.
Most of your family had cleared out after the barbecue while a few lingered behind, loitering near the neck with half-empty cups and plates. Your friends were gone too, they had stumbled back across the street an hour ago with slurred goodbyes.
You, however, were still hereâwobbling like a baby deer, wearing a giggly, lopsided grin as your mom, bless her patience, had one arm looped tightly around you as she tried to steer you toward the house, her laugh half-scolding, half-sigh.
Your dad? Mr. Hospitality. Still tended to the remaining guests.Â
âOkay, come on. One foot first,â your mom urged as she guided your stumbling feet toward the back door. You veered a little too hard to the left, nearly face planting into the beloved flower bed if it werenât for her motherly grip. âAs funny as that would be, honey, we did work hard on those.â
âTheyâre so pretty,â you slurred, fingers grazing lazily over a sunflower, voice dreamy. You hiccupped, giggled, then continued. âLike you.â
Your mom tsked, rolled her eyes, and gave your arm a light smack. âFlattery wonât save you from ruining my flowers.â
You giggled again, leaning your full body weight against her side. She stumbled with a short laugh and wobbly self, trying to keep you steady on her heels. You barely registered the way her balance faltered untilâcrack.
Your forehead met the patio door like it had a personal vendetta against you.
âShiiit,â you hissed, clutching your head, your face scrunched in pain as you leaned forward with a whine. Your mom winced beside you, immediately reaching up to rub the sore spot with her palm, her fingers gentle and motherly in that way only moms can manageâeven when their adult daughter is this drunk.
âOh, honeyâŠâ she cooed. âThat sounded like it hurt.â
It did. You were mid-whimper when a voice cut through the air.
âDo you need any help?â
No. Absolutely not. You didnât need help. Especially not from the man who that voice belonged to. But your mom, ever so sweet, nodded without hesitation, completely oblivious to the way your spine went rigid and whimpering stopped.
âThatâd be great, Matt. Thank you.â
He was closer now. You didnât need to look. You could feel itâhow the air shifted and grew heavier, warmer. Your skin prickled like it was trying to warn you, but your brainâfucking traitorâshort-circuited the second his scent hit your nose. Sun, sweat, woody aftershave⊠him.
When his arm slid around your back, you tensed, a shiver rippled straight through you and all the way down your spine to your bare toes. Then the other arm swept under your thighs, and suddenly, you were in the airâlike some damsel in distress, being carried off like a fairy-tale princess by the one man who had, seemingly, absolutely no idea who many times heâd already starred in her late-night fantasies.Â
Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you shouldâve been mortified, but you couldnât function when your cheek bumped against Mattâs shoulder and your arm slung ungracefully around his neck for balance⊠not when his hand gripped the back of your thigh so securely you felt the heat forming between them.
You hated it.
You loved it.
No. You hated that you loved it.
Your lashes fluttered, eyes heavy-lidded as you peeked up at him, getting a close-up of his sharp jaw and stubble. He didnât look at you, just focused on getting you inside while your insides were doing gymnastics.
âYouâre so warm,â you mumbled drunkenly, voice dreamy once again.
Was that a chuckle that vibrated his chest? Did he just laugh at you?
You wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. Maybe both. No, you really want to kiss him. Youâve always wanted to kiss him, to feel his lips on yours, to know exactly how he operates when he kisses people. Rough or gentle, you donât care. You can work with it. You can adapt.Â
Youâre still being carried, each step on the stairs made you jolt against himârub against himâand it only made the fire in your stomach grow, your arousal heighten. You canât stop staring at him, wondering if your half-lidded eyes and giddy expression was enough to find you attractive like youâd hoped it would.Â
Once he entered your room, the bed dipped beneath you as he placed you down, and you clung a little tight to his neckâhalf by accident, half by desire. His face hovered closeâso close you could probably count his eyelashes if your vision wasnât so fucking foggy, so close that if you tilted your chin up just slightlyâŠ
âAlright,â he said softly, his hands careful on your wrists as he pries your arms off him. âTime to lie down before you puke all over me, or something.â
âWould you like that?â you mumbled, gazed and way too close to giggling again as your drunken words spilled out. âMe puking?â
He blinked at you, brow lifting. You just smiled. Wide and stupid, not understanding how truly weird and disgusting your failed attempt at drunken, teasingly flirting sounded. He stared at you, and you werenât too sure if he was about to laugh or grimace. But your gaze fell to his lips anyway, and suddenly, the idea of puking was very far from your mind.
âYouâre staring,â he said quietly. âYou good?â
âYouâre hot.â No hesitation. None. Just brutal honesty spoken in the drunken haze of want and need. Your fingers twitched against the sheets like they were trying to reach out for him. âAnd youâre shirtless.â
Silence stretched between you againâheavy and heated. Your legs shifted, thighs pressed together as your body yearned for his touch. You werenât even subtle about it, now. But you didnât care.
âIâve always wanted to kiss you,â you added, eyes locked to his own. You need to shut up. âI want to kiss you. Is that bad?â
His expression didnât change at first, then something flickered behind his eyes, like he heard something he wasnât supposed to but didnât mind it. Your breath hitched at that, and then you leaned forward.
And you were kissing him.
It was clumsyâof course it was. You were drunk, alcohol and nerves swimming in your blood. But it was real. You moved on instinct, lips pressing harder to his with eagerness and desperation. You had imagined this moment a thousand different waysâslow and aching, fast and desperate, playful and breathlessâbut none of them prepared you for the buzz in your veins.
It didnât matter how messy or sloppy it was. It was happening. It was everything.
But then it was gone.
He pulled away and backed up, cold air rushing into the space where his body had just been. You blinked up at him, dazed and confused, your lips still parted in silent question. He turned away, his hand curling around the handle as his voice came out measuredâlike none of it just happened.
âIâll get someone to bring some water up for you. Drink it when you wake up.â
Your stomach dropped. âMattââ
âGoodnight.âÂ
The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left sitting there, stunned. The feeling of his lips still lingered on yours, but it wasnât sweet anymoreâit was shameful. It hit you when you realised he didnât kiss you back, that he just stood there like a statue while you practically threw yourself at him, drunk and stupid.Â
It weighed heavier on your chest as you wrapped your arms, feeling the horror of what youâd just done creep up your spine. You could still feel the way his mouth hadnât moved against yours, how stiff he was. The guilt sank in deep, and your stomach churned violently, the bile creeping up your throat.
You were definitely going to puke now.
All that leads you to now.
Itâs been a week since the barbecue. A week since you threw yourself at Matt like some love-drunk, desperate idiot. You still feel sick when you think about it, how the reminder of him not kissing you back lingers in your chest every minute.
Youâve been avoiding Matt ever since that night. Youâre back on your Matt detox, the one you had during the beginning of your feelings. Youâve been successful so farâducking out of rooms when he walks in, pretending to be on your phone when heâs nearby, finding interest in whatever the fuck you can find if you so much sense him in the same room.Â
It doesnât help that your dad keeps inviting him over like heâs still part of the family, but thatâs because he is. Your dad loves him, and your mom has a soft spot for him too.
Youâre trying your best⊠and thatâs all that matters. Even if it is a little awkward around the table during dinner where Mattâs been invited over. You still ignore him, still pretend like he isnât there, and you hardly speak up in conversations unless itâs your parents talking to you.
Your mom is the first to catch on to your odd behaviour as she stops you one afternoon, just as youâre about to disappear upstairs when you spot Matt in the garden with your dad. Her hand wraps gently around your elbow, her touch warm but firm enough to stop you.
âAre you alright, honey?â her gentle, caring tone fills your ears, her concerned eyes meeting yours through the thin lenses of her glasses. âYou havenât really been yourself this past week. Is this aboutâŠâ she trails off, and your heart skips a beat, wondering if she knows. âIs this about you leaving soon?â
So thatâs what she thinks. She thinks itâs about you packing up your things and saying goodbye to your family home again, about heading back to your apartment and to your job, to your real life. Back to being a functioning adult rather than feeling off because you got drunk and made a mistake by kissing her dadâs best friend in a moment of weakness.
âYeah,â you nod slowly, letting her believe youâre just sad to go. Itâs easier than explaining the truth. âI canât believe the timeâs almost here already.â
Your mother frowns at your words, and her palms cup your cheeks in a tender embrace that instantly makes you feel better. âYou know youâre always allowed to come visit. I think itâs good for you to be back here with usâyouâre always happier when youâre home.â
That leaves an awful taste in your mouth. Not because sheâs wrong, you are significantly happier when youâre back home. Or at least, you were. With the way this past week has beenâhow youâve allowed your thoughts and feelings to completely overpower you because of some man which resulted you into doing something stupid.
That happiness you originally had has completely fizzled out into nothing but embarrassment, guilt, regret and, of course, humiliation.Â
You swallow thickly, forcing yourself to smile. âI know, and I will. Promise.â
Youâre unsure how long you can keep that promise for.
The second the back door opens, Matt and your dad step into the room from being out in the garden, you finally manage to peel away from your mom and disappear upstairs as quietly as you can without drawing attention to yourself, letting the door close shut with a soft click.Â
Thatâs when you decide to busy yourself, taking a deep breath in before you get to work on packing your suitcase ready for when you leave in two days. There isnât much here as you didnât bring much with you to begin with, but seeing all the pieces of yourself you left behind from your last visit, you were definitely bringing them back with you.
Youâre halfway through packing when a soft knock taps at your doorâgentle, family. It sounds like your mom when sheâs bringing in the laundry or coming to check in on you, so you call back to her absentmindedly as you fold another t-shirt into your suitcase. The door creaks open, and you glance over your shoulder half a half-smile, ready to reassure her that youâre okay from your previous conversation, only to freeze.
Itâs not your mom.Â
Itâs Matt.Â
He stands in the doorway, one hand still resting on the doorknob, his blue eyes flicking down to where youâre kneeling on the floor, surrounded by your belongings. Your body goes rigid, causing you to stumble a little as you scramble to your feet, your heart leaping into your throat, the sound pulsing in your ears.
The silence is deafening as he doesnât say a word, and neither do you.Â
Youâre hit with the memories from that nightâthe need for him, the kiss he didnât reciprocate, his unnerving stillness before he walked away and left you behind, leaving you filled with shame and regret that you still canât let go of. Â
You swallow hard, struggling to find your voice as you glance down at the floor, at your suitcaseâanywhere but him.
âYour parents are gone to the store,â Matt says first to break the awkward tension, and your eyes dart to him in surprise at your parents' whereabouts. âSomething about getting you a âgoodbyeâ cake.â He taps his thumb against the edge of the door. âYou leaving in two days?â
You nod slowly, chewing the inner skin of your cheek to prevent you from talking to himâto keep up that Matt detox actâbut you canât, not when youâre stuck here in front of him like this. âYeah. Iâm going back to my place. Back to⊠my life.â
Itâs Mattâs turn to nod slowly this time, taking in your words, pressing his lips together in a thin line as he takes a step forward, fully entering your room. The click of the latch makes your stomach flip, and youâre unsure what to feel.Â
The rational part of you demands you to speak up, to ask him what heâs doing and why heâs closing the door when this conversation should now be over with now, how there isnât any need for him to be in your space this long if all he wanted to tell you was your parents are gone.
Yet, thereâs the other part of you. The one that still gets shy and flustered when he walks into the room, when his attention is solely on you. The one that still wants to kiss him stupid despite everything that happened. The one that still has that need for him in more ways than one, and the one that still has that throbbing sensation between her thighs when she thinks about him.
You clench your jaw, hating yourself for your inner dilemma and being so weak-minded.
âLook⊠about the night of the barbecueââ
âIâm sorry.âÂ
The apology flies out of your mouth before he could even have the chance to finish whatever he was about to say, and his eyes widen by a fraction, blinking at you like he wasnât expecting you to suddenly come out with that. Your arms cross tightly around your stomach, taking a deep, shaky breath as you way nervously on your feet.
âIâm really sorry,â you emphasise, your voice quieter. âI was drunk, and I wasnât thinking clearly. I crossed a line. I made a mistakeâa big one. I shouldnât have done that to you, especially considering who you are to my family. That⊠that wasnât fair.â
Silence fills the air between you both as he stares at you, probably repeating your apology in his head over and over again. Your eyes dart back to the floor, your stomach knotting with regret, wondering if you had done the wrong thing yet again.
âYou were drunk,â he finally speaks with a nod, and his hands settle on his hips, his stance steady with pursed lips. âBut I donât think it was really a mistake, was it?â
Your head lifts, confused. â... what?â
âI donât think it was a mistake,â Matt repeats, firmly this time. He shakes his head once, pushing his hair back from his eyes, the sleeves of his shirt stretching across his muscles. âNo⊠it wasnât a mistake. Because you even said it yourself, sweetheart. Youâve always wanted to kiss me.â
Oh.
Well, heâs not wrong. You did say that, and you meant every single word. You wanted to kick yourself for admitting something like that to him in the moment of your drunkenness, to curse yourself out for allowing yourself to get that drunk that you spill one of your darkest secrets.Â
âIt was just drunk talk,â you try to save yourself, tilting your chin up a little to give yourself some confidence and bravery. âI was out of it. Didnât know what I was talking about.â
The corners of Mattâs mouth twitch upward, âRight.â
âWhat are you doing right now?â you find yourself questioning him, feeling something bubble inside your tummy as heat fills your tone. âI already apologised to you. I owned up to what I did and I told you that it was wrong. And now youâreâwhat? Are you trying to humiliate me? Make me feel worse? Make fun of me?â
Mattâs half-smile fades, his eyebrows knitting together, âWoah, hey. Easyââ
âAre you trying to make me feel even more guilty?â you push, your voice cracking. âBecause I already do, Matt. I feel like absolute shit for allowing my feelingsâmy emotionsâget the better of me for kissing someone I shouldnât have.â
Matt rolls his tongue across his teeth with an exhale, his shoulders rising and falling as you stare at him, waiting for some sort of response. Youâre not sure you even want a response from him, but anything is better than him staring right back at you.
His jaw tightens for a second before he speaks, âIâm not trying to humiliate you⊠and Iâm not making fun of you either. I wouldnât do that to you, sweetheart.â
You swallow but say nothing, watching as he takes a slow step forward, then another, like heâs giving you time to stop him.Â
âYou think I didnât kiss you back because I didnât want to?â he continues, eyes flickering over your face. âShit⊠do you think I havenât noticed anything, either? The way you stare at me when you think Iâm not looking? The way you get all flustered and shy when I talk to you? The way yourâŠâÂ
His voice trails off, gaze darting down for a moment before meeting yours. You immediately knew what he meant, and the warmth rose up your neck quickly.
âIâve spent too many nights trying so hard not to think about how wrong itâd be if I did something about it,â he huffs a soft, humourless laugh, shaking his head. âI didnât walk out because I didnât want you kissing me. I walked out because if I stayed, I wouldâve done something worse.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
Youâre frozen yet again, unable to speak or move, replaying his words in your mind over and over again. To hear that he didnât kiss you back not because he didnât want to, but because he was worried about doing âsomething worseâ...Â
What could that possibly mean? What couldâve been worse? Was it the same thing youâve been imagining yourself late at night? Was it something even more than that?Â
The heat curls through your belly, settling deep in your chest before zipping down below, leaving an ache behind in your cunt. The desire to have him take you right then and there immediately overwhelms you, to have his body mount yours, to feel him deep inside in any way possible, left you feeling breathlessâyearning.
You force yourself to move, taking a step closer to him, but he raises his palm up, causing you to falter slightly with a frown tugging at your lips. You wondered if you had read it all wrong, like you just imagined those words coming out of his mouth when in fact it was something completely different.
âI canât give you what you want,â he confesses, his voice almost sounding a little pained. Your lips part in surprise, a sense of rejection washing over you like cold water. His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering for just a split second, then looks back up at you with something darker in his expression. âBut I can play with you.â
âPlay with me?â you ask, the question scraping from the back of your throat as you blink at him. âWhat?âÂ
âIâm not going to fuck you,â Matt says as he steps toward you, his fingers twitching at his sides. Your pussy throbs in dejection, your shoulders almost slumping. âI canât cross that line. Not when Iâm about to put one foot over just by touching you.â
âCan I kiss you again?â you whisper, your own fingers twitching at your sides the same way his did. âWill you kiss me back this time? Or will you walk out again?â
Mattâs jaw flexes as his eyes drop to your lips again for longer this time, like heâs measuring out all the ways this could definitely go wrongâand it can. Heâs older than you. Heâs your dadâs best friend. This isnât right⊠but it feels right.
Thatâs when his hands cup your cheeks, firm and calloused, and you barely have enough time to inhale before his mouth finds yours. Itâs urgentâheatedâlaced with everything heâd been holding back from the night and more, everything that youâve been wanting for so long. You feel like you could cry in bliss, your fingers sliding into his tousled hair, his cap falling off his head as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed.
When you break for air, you stare at each other, both of you panting heavily as Matt speaks up, âThis doesnât leave this room, you hear me?â he rasps, tightening his hold on you. âWe donât have a lot of time, either.â
âMattââ
âIâll make you cum,â he interrupts you, and your mouth runs dryâalthough the place between your legs is anything but. âIâll make you feel good, and then we won't speak of it again. Weâre done. Thatâs it.â
You understand why heâs so serious with his instructions and demands, especially when youâre doing something as scandalous as this. But the thought of not bringing it up againâof being completely done with himâleaves a sour taste in your mouth, a rotten feeling in your chest.Â
But, youâre not going to complain. Not now. Not when heâs suddenly turning you around and pushing you down onto the bed.
You let out a quiet huff, jolting on the mattress from the shove, a little disoriented with dizziness as you try to lean up, only to be pushed back down again with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck.Â
Heâs holding you in place against the pillows, and your skin prickles as his other hand trails down your spine over your shirt. You whine softly, the simple touch already making goosebumps rise, and you arch your back, desperate for moreâfor skin on skinâbut you gasp when you feel a sharp swat against your ass.
âDonât move,â he murmurs, palming and kneading the cheek that he hit. âAre you always this sensitive? Or is it because I get you so worked up, sweetheart?âÂ
You donât get to use your voice when you feel him loosen his grip on the back of your neck, a low, rumbling hum emitting from his throat as he shifts behind you. His hands move, gently running down your sides and to your thighs, rubbing the plush skin with his fingers before moving to grab at your hips.Â
He starts to pull you a little until youâre forced up on your knees, your face still pressed into your pillow, tightening his grip as he mutters, âGood girl,â before moving his hands to the waistband of your pants, wasting no time in tugging them down your legs.Â
Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, banging against your ribcage, every beat pulsing through you. You can hardly believe this is realâhis voice, his hands, the heat rolling off his skin and burning yours. It feels so surreal, making you wonder if this is actually your reality right now, the one youâve been fantasising about for ages.
Your stomach flutters and your face burns at the thought, and instinctively, you begin to lower yourself, intending to turn curl away from him so he doesnât get to see you so bare and vulnerable. But Mattâs hands tightens gently at your hips, grounding you in place, making sure you remain in position.Â
âDonât hide from me,â he breathes, his voice low as his thumbs making slow, soothing circles into your hips. âI want to see everything. I need to give you this.â
The way he says it makes your breath catch and your knees weak, and all you can do is nod your head into the pillow, feeling his hands move from your hips. Your lips part when his fingers make contact with your puffy folds, spreading the wetness thatâs alreadyâand embarrassingly soâdripping from your cunt, all ready for him.
You try not to focus on it, but itâs hard when being here, face down and ass up on your bed, naked below the waist, is all youâve been dreaming about for so long that you even begin to second-guess yourself if thisâright nowâis real.
But it is, because when you feel him slip a finger into your wetness, the callouses pressing right against your spongy walls as he curls them up, has a pathetic little mewl leaving your lips and goosebumps trickling down your spine.
âThere we go,â Matt murmurs, his tone quiet as he continues pumping his finger in and out of your pussy, his other hand still keeping a light grip on the back of your neck to make sure your face is still pressed against the pillow. âJust relax. Thatâs all you need to do for me.â
âShitâŠâ the word slips from your lips like a breathless whisper, panting softly as your inner walls flutter around his moving digit, saliva wetting your mouth as you greedily push back into his hand. You need to feel him deeper. You need more.
âI know,â he croons, leaning down to place a kiss at the base of your spine. âYouâre already so worked up⊠are you really this sensitive? Iâve barely done much.â The twist of his wrist as he pushes his finger deeper into you makes you gasp out loud and for your thighs to tremble. âOr are you just greedy?â
âI ju-just neededâmmph!â your words get muffled by the pillow as you shove your head further into it, drooling onto the fabric as his thumb rubs slow circles on your clit. Your wispy lashes flutter against your cheeks as you struggle to keep them open, wanting to turn your head and look at himâto watch him do this to you.
âNeeded what?â he asks, wanting you to continue.
Your voice comes out in a whine, âNeeded moreâŠâÂ
Matt hums softly in response, nodding his head slowly as he mutters, âGreedy, then.â
You let out a shaky breath when his finger leaves you, and despite the empty feeling, you allow your body to relax for a second, trying your best to control your breathing and your shakiness just from a few measly pumps and clit stimulation.Â
Yet, itâs completely useless when Matt suddenly presses you flush against the bed, holding you down with his heavy arm and sliding not one, but two fingers into your pussy, thrusting them in and out of you at a pace that has your mind reeling.Â
Youâre biting down on your pillow to muffle your moans despite there being no real reason to do so. Itâs just you and him, alone, house empty apart from yourselves, nobody around⊠unless you count your nosy neighbour who likes to stick her nose in your business whenever she catches you on a whimâmaybe youâre keeping quiet for her sake, then.
However, your quietness doesnât last long when you feel something warm and wet pressing against your folds, lips sucking on your clit while his fingers work wonders inside your cunt. Your mouth drops open, strained whines and whimpers flowing freely as you feebly rock back against Mattâs face, finding it difficult with his arm keeping you down.Â
Youâre stuck beneath him, surrendering yourself to the onslaught of pleasure, hearing the way his mouth and fingers work against you in tandem. And his moansâoh god, his moans. Theyâre filthy, rough, and gravelly. Unstopping and unforgiving, like tasting you is all heâs ever dreamt about. All heâs ever wanted and he canât get enough.
Then, all together, it stops.
It stops so suddenly that youâre positive a few tears have spilled down your cheeks, crying pitifully as your hips lift to chase the feeling of his mouth that's pulled away from you. His fingers remain buried deep inside, but theyâre still, unmoving against your spongy walls that pulse around him desperately.Â
âM-Matt?â you croak out his name, afraid that heâd disappear completely if you called out any louder, or youâll wake yourself up from a dream.Â
âIâm here, sweetheart,â he murmurs with a chuckle, his voice dipping low as his fingers move subtly. âCanât you feel me?â
You can. You really canâbut you need more.
You raise your head weakly, turning it to the side to look at him, eyes bubbling with tearsâthe good kind, you figured, from the dual stimulation your body received moments prior. He smiles at you when he meets your gaze, his free hand reaching out to softly cup your cheek, wiping away any stray tears left.
âThere you are,â he whispers. âPretty girl. You doing okay?â
âWhyâd you stop?â you find yourself responding to his question with your own, and Matt smiles wider, stroking your cheek once, twice, before moving his hand south, finding home on your hip, squeezing the meaty flesh gently.
âJust checking in on you,â he says, rubbing his thumb in soft circles. âKept moving around too much, sweetheart. Need you to not move, yeah? Can you stay nice and still for me?â
âMâtrying,â
âI know,â he coos, and he slowly starts to increase the movement of his fingers again, curling them up just right to have you moaning breathlessly. âKnow youâre trying. But I need you to stay still. I want to enjoy this, too⊠be a good girl for me, yeah?â
You gleam at his choice of words, a shiver shooting down your spine, and Matt catches that with a grin. He leans back in, trailing kisses around your inner thighs, his stubble scratching against your skin and teeth nipping down.Â
Heâs gentle, but heâs still leaving his marksâmarks for you to see and you only, a reminder to whatâs happened between you both. And you make a promise to yourself to wear those with pride and honour.
(Youâll definitely trace those marks with your fingers later, reminiscing, possibly crying out of joy and shock because what the actual fuck.)
Mattâs mouth is back on you in seconds, tongue hot on your slit, lapping greedily at your clit while his fingers move. In and out, in and out, in and out. Curling, stroking, finding that particular spot that has you moaning loudly like youâre a part of some badly filmed, over the top porno thatâs deemed unrealistic.
But this is realâgod, this is so real. Mattâs making you feel this way in your room, on your bed with just his hands and mouth alone⊠well, now youâre mourning over the fact you wonât be able to experience what itâs like being fucked by his cock.Â
Is it huge? Is it more girthy or lengthy? Both? Is he a grower or a shower? Will you feel the burn of the stretch when he pushes inside you? Or will your cunt welcome him home likeâ
âMatt!âÂ
His name spills from your lips in whiny, breathless gasps as he twists his fingers a certain way, his mouth hot and eager against you, slurping you up messily and hungrily as if youâre his last and only meal.Â
Youâre squirming uncontrollably, unsure whether youâre trying to arch away from his relentless attack or gravitate towards it. Youâre stuck between a maddening push and pull that only heightens everything. And then you snap, pulsing as you cum, a strained but pathetic scream ripping through your throat thatâs soon muffled by your pillow.Â
Shuddering, Matt works you through the aftershocks, humming against you as he licks you through it, moving his fingers in gentle motions to help you come down from the intensity that is your orgasm.Â
When itâs over, he withdraws his fingers and pulls his tongue away, causing you to slump against the bed, panting heavily. Your legs feel like jelly, your cunt is pulsating, your throat is raw, and youâre pretty sure youâre not exactly in your own head right now. You feel lighter, airy, blissed outâgone.
(Is this an outer body experience? Did you fucking die from the best orgasm of your life? Oh god. You can see the headlines now: âWoman Found Deceased, Cause of Death: One Manâs Tongue and Fingers.â)
âYou still with me, sweetheart?â
You blink slowly, cheek smushing against your pillow, bleary eyes peering up at him when heâs oh so kind enough to roll your boneless body onto your back. âBarely.â
Matt chuckles above you, smug and calm and entirely too composed for someone who just literally ruined your soul. He licks his lips as he shifts beside you, the bed creaking behind his weight as he moves. âWas that a decent âgoodbyeâ gift, at least?â
âI kinda donât want to ever leave, actually. Like never,â you stop for a beat, blinking. âThis goodbye gift was way too effective. I might have to move back in. I live here again. Itâs final.â
Matt huffs a laugh, a smile tugging at his lips. âThatâs not how it was supposed to go, sweetheart.â
