── .✦ published his first book at 20, now 22. has an adorable bombay even though he’s mildly allergic to cats. dancing in the rain kinda romantic. quiet nights. noise cancelling headphones on when writing. smells like something woodsy and dangerous. nature gives him inspiration. heartthrob but doesn’t have a girlfriend. blue-light glasses. charming smiles. meddle about by chase atlantic.
starring you as... florist!reader aka flora
── .✦ started working as a florist at 21, now 24. doesn’t have any pets but absolutely adores cats. would rather stay in during a rainy day. slow mornings. plays something slow and melodic on the speaker while arranging flowers. smells like something floral and alluring. reading books keeps her grounded. has a fwb who’s too obsessed. layered jewelry. eye rolls. glory box by portishead.
SYNOPSIS during a day off, you decide to visit the bookstore next-door to your florist shop. the air-conditioned store—smelling distinctly of books—is a stark contrast to the beating sun outside. a welcome change. the bookstore clerk, a young man in his early 20s, beams at you as you walk further in, calling out to you in that cheerful tone you’re quite used to hearing by now since he often comes over to get new plants and whatnot to place around the store. but what you aren’t used to is the man who’s already standing at the counter, talking to the clerk. he looks just like the clerk known as chris—yet he’s got a different aura around him that has your pulse quickening despite yourself. and when he smirks slightly, averting his undivided attention to you, you know you’re already falling into the depths of his ocean blue eyes.
FILMOGRAPHY
EPISODES
⟢ coming soon!
FILLER EPISODES
⟢ coming soon!
MISC.
⟢ coming soon!
Q&A
⟢ everything author!matt && florist!reader
---⭑ «tickets» 𓂃 «au navi» ⭑---
DIRECTOR’S SPEECH hi, um, new au... (٥↼_↼) i know, i know, i promise things and don’t write for them... i’m painfully aware. but i needed to make this au asap ’cause it’s author!matt and author!matt is very much real rn since matt’s releasing a book this august?! anyway, i’m gonna sleep now since i was so locked in making this that i didn’t notice the time and it’s morning already
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𝒪𝓇𝑒𝑔𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓊 🫎 matt s. x f!reader
pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂃 ⌗ мαтт & мαє
『 atmospheric romance 』
brief insight — Matt met Mae at his uncle’s mechanic shop in Cannon Beach, where he works. Salt air, pine forests, quiet. Mae’s deeply attached to Oregon, born and raised, while Mattt only moved there a few years back. Together, they try to navigate love, loyalty, and the quiet fear of losing the place that brought them together.
𝓛aur’s radio*** heyy! this won’t have a strict storyline built chapter by chapter beceause i apparently can’t keep up with those lol! instead, it’ll mostly be one-shots/drabbles where you get to know the characters, their dynamic, and the things they go through. there just won’t really be one specific timeline — it’ll feel more like pages being picked out of a book and not the entire picture.
p.s.Oregon will obviously be romanticized as fuck certain times :D
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𝒪𝓇𝑒𝑔𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓊 🫎 matt s. x f!reader
pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂃 ⌗ мαтт & мαє
『 atmospheric romance 』
brief insight — Matt met Mae at his uncle’s mechanic shop in Cannon Beach, where he works. Salt air, pine forests, quiet. Mae’s deeply attached to Oregon, born and raised, while Mattt only moved there a few years back. Together, they try to navigate love, loyalty, and the quiet fear of losing the place that brought them together.
𝓛aur’s radio*** heyy! this won’t have a strict storyline built chapter by chapter beceause i apparently can’t keep up with those lol! instead, it’ll mostly be one-shots/drabbles where you get to know the characters, their dynamic, and the things they go through. there just won’t really be one specific timeline — it’ll feel more like pages being picked out of a book and not the entire picture.
p.s.Oregon will obviously be romanticized as fuck certain times :D
i’m thinking weather i should just drop attempting to write series😭
like i love au’s but i think i’m so much more fit to write like independent blurbs/one shots and not actually linking them to a full story because i end up feeling stuck and unsatisfied and then i don’t wanna continue at all-
my vamp au only proved that point like i felt sm more comfortable and confident writing thoseee
Special Delivery
Chris X f! Reader
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
A package mix-up leads to a calculated flirtation with the observant brother, turning a simple errand into a deliberate betrayal of secrets while the house is empty.
Part 4
The California sun was a physical weight, pressing down on the roof, baking the pavement, making the air in your bedroom feel thick and still. You’d been sketching design ideas for your first project—a deconstructed slip dress in iridescent silk—when your phone chimed. A delivery notification. Finally. The special fabric you’d ordered had arrived. You practically bounced down the stairs, the cool tile of the foyer a relief on your bare feet.
You pulled open the front door, the heat hitting you like a wall. You scanned the porch. Nothing. A flicker of annoyance. You stepped out, looking left and right. Your eyes caught on a familiar brown box sitting plainly on the welcome mat of the house next door.
Of course.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. You were dressed for the oppressive heat in what you considered ‘home clothes’: tiny, soft pink booty shorts that hugged the curve of your ass and a simple white cropped top that exposed a strip of your waist. No bra. It was too damn hot for layers. You padded across the two strips of grass separating the townhouses, the sun warming your shoulders.
You knocked on the sleek black door. A few seconds passed, filled with the distant hum of a lawnmower. Then it opened.
It was Matt.
He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed in the best possible way. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and he wore a simple black ribbed tank top that stretched taut over his chest and shoulders, putting the intricate sleeves of dark ink on his arms on full display. He held a glass of iced coffee, condensation beading on the side. His eyes, the same shade as Chris’s but somehow darker, more observant, took you in with a slow, deliberate sweep that felt entirely different from his brother’s playful grins.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. He didn’t sound surprised.
“Hey. Sorry to bother you. I think my package got delivered here by mistake.” You gestured to the box at his feet.
He glanced down at it, then back up at you, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Saw the label. Was tempted to open it. See what kind of stuff you’re into.”
The comment was casual, but it carried an edge. A test.
You smiled, shrugging. “Just fabric. For school.”
“Fashion design, right?” he said, as if filing the information away. He finally straightened up. “It’s a furnace out here. You want something? Water? I’ve got more cold brew.”
The invitation was unexpected. You hesitated for only a second. The heat was intense, and the quiet, cool darkness of the house behind him was inviting. “Sure. Water’s good.”
He stepped back, holding the door open for you. You walked past him, catching a faint, clean scent of sandalwood and soap. The interior was surprisingly tidy, modern, and quiet. Unnervingly so.
“Where is everyone?” you asked, following him past the living room toward the open-concept kitchen.
“Chris and Nick had a meeting with some brand rep downtown. Some collab thing.” He pulled a glass from a cabinet and filled it with filtered water and ice from the fridge door. The cubes crackled. “Won’t be back for a couple hours.”
He said it plainly, handing you the glass. His fingers brushed against yours. The subtext hung in the silent air: We’re completely alone.
“Ah,” you said, taking a long drink. The cold was a shock to your system. “That explains the quiet. Chris called you the quiet one once.”
Matt’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back against the kitchen island, mirroring his earlier pose in the doorway. “Someone has to pay attention to the details,” he said, his gaze steady on you. “Chris gets the big picture. Nick’s the dreamer. I notice the small things.”
“Like what?” you asked, setting your glass down on the quartz countertop.
“Like the way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking.” His eyes dropped to your mouth for a heartbeat. “Like how you haven’t looked at that box once since you walked in here, even though you supposedly came over just for it.”
Your breath hitched. He wasn’t just observant. He was watching. And he was telling you he’d been watching.
He pushed off the island and took a single, slow step toward you. Then another. He invaded your personal space without urgency, a predator confident its prey wouldn’t run. You could see the fine lines of his tattoos up close, the dark stubble along his jaw. He stopped when he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Chris has a habit,” Matt murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “of claiming things. Loudly. Before he really knows how to appreciate them.” His eyes held yours, unblinking. “He sees something shiny, he wants it. He doesn’t always take the time to… savor the finer details.”
Your heart was hammering against your ribs. This was no longer a simple case of mistaken delivery. This was a line, drawn in the sand of this sterile kitchen, and you were standing right on it.
“And you do?” you heard yourself ask, your own voice softer than you intended.
“I like to appreciate what’s in front of me,” he said. Then he moved.
He didn’t grab you. He simply stepped around behind you. You froze, your eyes staring straight ahead at the sleek stainless steel fridge. You felt his hands first, settling on your waist. They were warm, large, his fingers splaying possessively over the exposed skin between your top and your shorts. Then you felt the scratch of his beard as he rested his chin on your bare shoulder. The tattooed skin of his forearm was a stark, dark contrast against the white of your shirt.
“I’ve enjoyed watching you,” he breathed into your ear, his voice a vibration against your skin that raised goosebumps all down your arm. “In the morning, when you go for your run. The way the light hits you.” One of his thumbs stroked a slow, idle circle on your hip bone. “I admire the fact that you haven’t tried to leave yet.”
The confession was a bolt of pure, undiluted heat that shot straight to your core. This wasn’t a mistake or a blurry moment of confusion like at the gym. This was deliberate. A choice he was making, and a choice you were making by staying perfectly still, by leaning back just a fraction of an inch into the solid wall of his chest.
You felt the steady, strong thrum of his heartbeat against your back. You let your head tilt slightly, giving his lips more access to the column of your neck. A silent answer.
A low, approving hum rumbled in his chest. He pulled you back more firmly against him, and you felt it then—the hard, thick line of his erection, semi-hard but undeniable, pressing against the curve of your ass through his soft sweats and your thin shorts. The contact was electric. He’d been hard. This whole time.
He nuzzled his beard against the sensitive spot behind your ear, and a full-body shudder wracked you. His hands tightened on your waist, holding you in place as he ground against you, once, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that promised so much more. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip the edge of the countertop for support.
This changed everything. This thing was no longer a secret thing between you and Chris. A second, more complicated, more dangerous thread had just been woven into the tapestry. The power balance, the unspoken dynamic between the brothers, had just shifted with that one, deliberate grind of Matt’s hips.
And then—the distinct sound of a car engine cutting off right outside. Tires on gravel. A car door slamming.
Shit.
Matt went rigid behind you. In an instant, the spell was shattered by cold, hard reality. He released you so quickly you swayed on your feet. He was already walking away, towards the hallway, without a backward glance. “Your box is right there,” he said over his shoulder, his voice back to its normal, detached tone, as if the last three minutes had never happened.
You stood there, dazed, your skin buzzing where he’d touched you, your mind reeling. The front door opened.
Chris’s voice, bright and familiar, filled the foyer. “Hello? Matt?”
You grabbed the brown box from the counter, holding it in front of you like a shield as you turned toward the front door. Chris was walking in, dropping his keys on a side table. He saw you and stopped, his handsome face morphing into confusion.
“Hey? What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes flicking from you to the box in your arms.
“My package was delivered here by mistake,” you said, your voice thankfully steady. “Matt gave it to me.”
Chris looked past you, into the empty kitchen. “Where is he?”
“He, um, he said it was on the counter and left,” you said, sticking to the technical truth while omitting every crucial, heart-pounding detail. “I was just leaving.”
Nick ambled in behind Chris, giving you a quick, easy smile. “Hey, neighbor.” He didn’t stop, heading straight for the stairs. “Gotta piss. Later.”
As Nick’s footsteps faded upstairs, Chris’s eyes returned to you. The confusion was gone, replaced by a warm, focused intensity. He took a step closer. “You in a rush?”
The memory of Matt’s hands, his whisper, his hard length against you, was still scorchingly fresh. It should have complicated things. Instead, it felt like it had dialed every one of your senses to a fever pitch. You looked at Chris—his playful eyes, his sharp jaw, his body that was so like his brother’s yet so uniquely his—and felt a surge of pure, wanton need.
“No,” you said, a slow smile spreading on your own lips. “No rush.”
That was all the invitation he needed. He closed the distance in two strides, his hand snapping out to circle your wrist. His grip was firm, purposeful. He didn’t say another word, just turned and pulled you behind him, down the hall, past the living room, upstairs, and to a door at the end. His bedroom.
He pushed the door open, pulled you inside, and kicked it shut with his foot. The room was dim, blinds drawn, neat but lived-in. A large bed dominated the space. In one fluid, decisive motion, he turned you and pushed you forward.
You fell onto the soft comforter, landing on your stomach with a soft oomph. The package tumbled from your hands onto the floor. Before you could even think of moving, his weight settled over you. He knelt between your spread legs, his hands immediately grasping the firm curves of your ass through the pink shorts.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice already thick with lust. He squeezed, kneading the flesh. “Your ass looks so fucking yummy in these. Been thinking about it all day.”
You could hear the rustle of clothing, the sound of his belt buckle, the zip of his pants. He shifted, and then he was on top of you again, his body covering yours, his chest to your back. He was naked from the waist down. You could feel him—the hard, hot, heavy length of his cock, still soft but rapidly filling, grinding against the seam of your shorts, right against your ass. The motion was an echo, a perfect, taunting mirror of what Matt had done just minutes ago in the kitchen. The comparison sent a dizzying jolt through you.
He rutted against you, his breathing harsh in your ear, as he grew fully, impressively hard. The friction, even through the layers of fabric, was maddening. You pushed back against him, a needy little grind of your own.
He let out a choked sound and knelt up again. His hands went to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers slipping underneath to touch your skin. “This okay?” he asked, the words a rough growl.
“Yes,” you panted, turning your head to the side. “Yes, Chris, okay.”
He didn’t need more. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and peeled your shorts and your panties down in one swift, efficient pull, baring you to the cool air of the room. Instinctively, you arched your back, lifting your hips, presenting yourself to him. The submissive pose felt natural, right.
“Good girl,” he praised, his voice dripping with dark approval. The words, so similar to what he’d said in the car, now felt like a brand.
Then his hands were on you again, spreading you open. And his mouth… his mouth was on you.
There was no gentle teasing. This was claiming. His tongue laved a broad, wet stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you cried out, your fingers fisting in the comforter. He groaned against you, the vibration exquisite, and then he dove in, eating you out with a focused, hungry intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. The feel of his stubble on your sensitive skin gave you a flash of an image in your mind of Matt's beard on your neck. Then Chris's tongue speared inside you, then circled your clit, then plunged deep again, a relentless, masterful rhythm. His hands gripped your ass, holding you open, squeezing and kneading as he devoured you.
The sensations were too much, too intense, layered over the lingering ghost of Matt’s whispered confession. The coil in your belly tightened with shocking speed. You were panting, whimpering, pushing back against his face. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them, stroking that perfect spot while his tongue stayed glued to your clit.
“Chris… I’m gonna…” you tried to warn him, but the words dissolved into a moan.
He just growled, sucking harder, fucking you faster with his fingers. The climax ripped through you, a violent, shaking wave that made you see stars. You screamed into the bedding, your body convulsing around his fingers as he worked you through it, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess.
He pulled away, and you heard him spit. Then the tear of a foil packet. You were still gasping, floating in the aftershocks, when you felt the blunt, slick head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance.
He didn’t ask this time. He just pushed.
He filled you in one deep, smooth, stretching stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside you with a guttural groan. The feeling was incredible—the fullness, the slight burn, the absolute rightness of it. He held himself there for a moment, both of you catching your breath.
Then he pulled back and slammed home again.
And that was the pace he set. Relentless. Punishing. Perfect. He fucked you in deep, driving strokes, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, his ragged grunts, your choked-off cries. He leaned over you, his chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back, his mouth finding your ear.
“You feel so fucking good,” he snarled. “So tight. All mine.” He punctuated the last word with a particularly vicious thrust that made you sob.
You were already building toward another peak, the friction of his pistoning cock, the possessive words, the sheer animalistic heat of it all dragging you back to the edge. You met him thrust for thrust, pushing back against him, taking all of him. He reached for your tits and cupped them.
“Chris,” you chanted, a broken mantra. “Please…”
“Gonna cum,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Gonna fill you up. You wanna feel it?”
“Yes!” you begged, the word ripped from your throat.
With a final, brutal thrust, he seated himself deep and stilled. A raw, ragged shout tore from his lips as he came, and you felt the hot pulses of his release through the condom, the throbbing of his cock inside you triggering your own second, shattering orgasm. It was less intense than the first but longer, a rolling wave of pleasure that left you weak and boneless beneath him.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor, his breath hot and fast against your neck. You both lay there, spent, the only sound your gradually slowing panting.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of you. He rolled off, disposing of the condom. He came back to the bed with a pack of wet wipes on hand, lying on his side next to you, propped up on an elbow. His eyes, dark and sated, scanned your face, your body, the red marks his hands had left on your hips. Using a wipe, he started cleaning the part of your body where he made a mess with.
He reached out and traced a finger down your spine. “You’re mine,” he said, the words quiet but absolute, leaving no room for argument or the memory of another’s hands on your skin.
in the new video when nick was talking about a lemur climbing a woman, chris asked him “did you let anything climb you” and he said he didnt play those types of games, matt said like lowkey with a smirk “i love those games”
imagine him making you hold yourself up on him while having sex like reverse wall sex… omg i need this as a fic 😵💫😵💫
oh em gee
i wish i felt the capacity to write this but unfortunately i don’t atm😭😭
contains — suggestive, dark romance (vampire), some praise, masochism, power imbalance, self destructive tendencies, mention of vampire feeding at the end
There was nothing beyond a feeling that left you expecting him on this night.
The curtains whispered and breathed with the wind, as if the room itself were waiting.
It was like the night itself spoke to you.
Like the dark wasn’t empty.
As though it carried him in its depths, drawing closer with every passing second.
There was simply a presence to it all, too prominent to not notice.
Despite the cold breeze that stung against your skin, you left the long, narrow window open. An invitation.
And you hoped to be reasonable by doing so.
After a long while of nothingness, you trembled under your blanket from the chill. But you didn’t want to give up.
You decided to slip out of the warmth of your bed, the last traces of heat clinging to your skin as you pressed yourself off of it.
As you make your way towards the window, the moonlight effortlessly drapes your figure in a pale, silver glow. Your short sleep dress stirred at once, caught in the quiet command of the wind, similarly to the flames of your pearl, lit-up candles at your bedside.
You peered into the darkness, searching for anything.
Your teeth clattered softly, a shiver rippled through you, as goosebumps rose in a fine, unbroken layer across your skin.
But there was nothing.
You didn’t want to believe it, you were so sure.
You turned around, your back facing the peaking night.
You stood there and began to surrender to the thought that this was nothing more than a delusion that you’d projected onto yourself—a trick of your own longing.
But only then, the tension, already strung tight, snapped into something even sharper. Heavier.
You froze.
You closed your eyes, waited and practically prayed for Matt’s appearance—but at this point you did know this wasn’t any sort of delusion anymore.
And then it came—
a single, sharp fracture in the stillness.
The air snapped behind you, sudden and precise. It rushed past in a cold sweep, threading through your hair, tugging at the thin fabric of your dress.
As if the night had slipped inside the room…and taken form.
You saw him, there on the floor, a shadow behind you, joining yours.
The air thickened from his presence before he even touched you.
Then, his breath finally fanned over your shoulder. He was close.
Very close.
His hand reached the side of your face, fingertips slipping beneath a chunk of your hair, drawing it back slowly, his fingers grazing your temple.
His grip on your hair grew firmer as he breathed in your scent, burying his nose in it and inhaling deeply.
Your eyes slipped shut as you sank into him, unable to resist the weight drawing you to him. Your back came into contact with his chest and you let out a sigh.
You felt so small before him. So vulnerable, but so willing.
His nose traced beneath your hair now, lingering over the pulse at your neck. He kept there, inhaling deeply, paying careful focus to the satisfying rhythm of the hot blood that rushed through your veins—to the only thing that made him lose himself in this world.
He pulled your hair further, making your head tilt back, putting more of your neck on display for him.
“I knew you were coming.” You sigh, as his nose continues tracing the curves of your neck.
“You did. Because I wanted you to know.”
His unoccupied hand wandered up your front, sliding over your abdomen and settling on your chest. His palm layed flat over it, pressing you into him even more. His touch carried that familiar possessiveness that made you heat up to the core.
“Kept the window open,” he began, and licked a slow stripe up your neck, making you gasp lightly.
“Such a good girl.” He continued, then began to leave loud, wet kisses on the sensitive flesh.
You moaned for him as his lips sucked on a spot just below your ear, while his hand lowered to palm your breast firmly.
He noticed how tense you were, how you kept on squirming under his touch, how your thighs pressed together, so he let his hand wander all the way to your clothed cunt.
His fingers ghosted over your heat, as if only to test how wet you really were. You practically let out a cry, seeking the friction.
He turned you in a single, fluid motion—a snap so swift it stole the breath from your lungs.
The world seemed to stutter as you faced him.
He watched you with quiet, intent focus, observing the slow dilation of your pupils—under that gaze, it felt as though he saw beyond flesh and bone, straight into the hidden corners of your soul.
His gaze rested upon you with careful focus, those icy blue eyes contrasting the paleness of his deathly skin—alluring, compelling as ever.
Your mouth fell slightly agape as you grew more and more entranced by him. You hardly realized he’d started taking steps forward, coaxing you to move backward. Your eyes never tore from his as you took the slow steps, you couldn’t have done it if you wanted to.
The back of your knees struck the edge of your bed and needles to say anything, you layed down, all on display for him.
A restless shiver moved through you at the sight of him above you, making you squirm in your spot a little.
He did not rush. He never did. He simply watched, the weight of his presence somehow becoming even more intense.
At last, he lowered himself. His hands found your exposed thighs, and you gasped, the cold of his touch sharp as ice against your skin. He traced upward, and would pause at the harsh marks he previously left behind, gently caressing the scarred flesh.
It had always been that paradox—he savored the pain he caused, then he’d ‘kiss it better’’, almost as if he could take it back, as if he was sorry…
But you knew he wasn’t. It was just…his way.
His gaze lifted slowly to your face, shadows clinging beneath his eyes where faint veins traced their way through pale skin—an unmistakable sign. It was time.
“The sting that never stays…” he murmured against your skin, voice low, as though it was to steady you.
His hand slid beneath your thigh firmly, as his predatory focus settled on the spot he had chosen to target.
“Please…” you breathed—half a plea, half anticipation for that all-too-familiar ache.
Then his eyes slowly drifted away…and the distance vanished in an instant.
A sharp intake of breath—and his fangs finally pierced your skin.
ᝰ.ᐟ why have i never seen that picture of matt i used in the heading before????
New Neighbor
Chris X f! Reader
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
Your new in town and you meet your next door neighbor in an interesting way.
The Los Angeles heat was a sticky, oppressive blanket, even at night. Your aunt’s townhouse was beautiful, a blessing, but the air conditioning in your room seemed to wage a personal war against the summer. After a week of trying to sleep in damp pajamas, you’d given up. Tonight, you wore nothing but a thin, black cotton tank top and a pair of simple black panties. No bra. The fabric was soft against your skin, clinging lightly to your petite curves as you moved.
You sat at the desk by the window, the university campus map spread out before you. The curtains were drawn wide, the glass closed. Outside, the neighbor’s house was a dark silhouette, its driveway occupied by a car that hadn’t budged since you arrived. Empty, you’d assumed. A low, rhythmic R&B track pulsed from your phone, filling the quiet room with a lazy groove. You’d been studying for an hour, your back starting to ache from hunching over.
You stood, arching your spine, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The music swelled, a smooth bassline you couldn’t ignore. You let your hips sway, just a little. A slow roll, then a gentle dip. It was innocent, a private moment of stretching into a dance, your arms lifting, your head tilting back. You closed your eyes, feeling the air on your bare arms, the tank top brushing against your nipples. A small, unconscious smile touched your lips.
When you opened your eyes, you glanced out the window.
A faint, cool blue glow shone from the second-story window of the dark house across the way. A phone screen, you thought. You didn’t stop. You turned, letting the music guide you, your hands running through your hair. You faced the window again.
The blue glow was gone. Now, the room was lit by a dim, purple haze—strip LED lights, you guessed. And in the center of that purple glow stood a man.
He was wearing only dark boxer shorts. His torso was bare, lean and defined. He was just… standing there, facing you, watching.
Your body froze mid-motion. Your breath caught.
He smiled. A slow, easy grin. Then he waved.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. Embarrassment washed over you, hot and sudden. You scrambled to the curtains, yanking them shut with a frantic pull. The fabric swished, blocking the world. You stood there in the sudden darkness, your skin prickling. He saw me. He saw everything.
After a minute, curiosity prickled. You crept forward, parting the curtains just a sliver, just enough to peek.
The window across was dark again. The man was gone.
You let it go. You fell into bed, the image of him—his smile, his bare chest—lingering in your mind until sleep finally took you.
The next morning, you woke early, determined to shake off the strange encounter. You put on your running gear and hit the pavement, the California sun already warming the gated community’s streets. Thirty minutes of pounding rhythm cleared your head. By the time you returned, you felt normal again. You cleaned up the kitchen, a small thank-you to your aunt and uncle, then gathered the recycling and trash bags.
The community’s waste disposal area was a neat alcove around the block. You lugged your bags there, the morning quiet except for the distant hum of a lawnmower.
Someone was already there.
A guy, bending over to sort bottles into the bin. He turned as you approached.
It was him. The same face from last night. The same easy smile. He looked older than you, maybe mid-twenties, with a sharp jawline and eyes that held a glint of mischief even in the morning light.
“Hey,” you said, offering a polite smile of your own.
“Hey,” he replied, his voice relaxed.
“I’m… the niece living next door,” you offered, feeling a little awkward. “S-Sorry about last night. Didn’t know anyone lived over there.”
He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “Last night?”
Before he could answer, another voice cut in from behind you. “No worries. I didn’t mind at all.”
You turned. Another man stood there, holding a trash bag. He looked exactly like the first one. Same height, same build, same features, but his expression was different—a wider, more deliberate grin played on his lips. This was the one who had waved.
He reached out a hand. “Chris.”
You shook it, his grip firm and warm. “Nice to meet you.”
“Matt,” the first guy said, finally introducing himself.
You noticed how tall they both were, towering over your petite frame. Then a third voice, gruffer and impatient, called out from the path. “What’s taking you dumbasses so long?”
A third man approached, carrying a box. Another triplet. Identical, yet his demeanor was sharper, more focused.
Chris chuckled. “This is Nick. The grumpy one.”
Nick shot Chris a look but then nodded at you. “A new neighbor?”
“Yeah, my aunt and uncle own the house next door,” you explained quickly, feeling suddenly surrounded by three identical, handsome faces. “I’m just here for college.”
“Cool,” Matt said, smiling warmly.
“We just got back from Boston,” Chris added. “House was empty for a bit.”
“Right,” you said, feeling the need to escape the sudden, intense attention. “Well, I’ll… let you finish. See you around.”
You hurried back, your mind spinning. Triplets.
That night, you found yourself at the desk again. The heat was still present, but you’d dressed differently—a thin white tank top and white panties, a mirror of last night’s black but feeling somehow more exposed under the white fabric. You were reading the university handbook, trying to focus on rules about campus access.
The purple glow lit up the window across the way.
You looked.
Chris walked into the room. A towel was slung low around his waist, his chest and stomach bare, droplets of water still glistening on his skin from a shower. He moved with a casual confidence, his muscles flexing as he walked to the center of the room. He turned, facing away from you.
Then, with a nonchalant drop, he let the towel fall to the floor.
Your eyes locked on him. On the smooth, strong curve of his bare back, leading down to the perfect, sculpted hemispheres of his ass. They were firm, defined, pale in the purple light. He stood there for a second, completely naked, before bending slightly to pick up a pair of black boxer briefs from a chair.
He pulled them on, the fabric snug against his skin, molding to his form. Then he turned.
His eyes met yours instantly. That same smile. He waved.
You, this time, didn’t flee. A strange boldness, fueled by the day’s encounter and the late-night confidence, took hold. You waved back.
He disappeared from the window for a moment. When he returned, he held a sheet of paper. On it, written in clear block letters: “Number?”
A laugh bubbled in your chest. You grabbed a notepad, scribbled your digits, and held it up to the glass.
You saw him pull out his phone, typing. A minute later, your own phone buzzed on the desk.
Enjoying the show?
You typed back, a smirk on your lips. What show?
His reply came fast. I enjoyed your little show last night. Was trying to return the favor.
You smiled at the window, where he now stood, phone in hand, watching you. You deliberately stood up, letting him see the full view of you in the white tank and panties, your petite frame outlined clearly against the light of your room. You made sure he saw the way the fabric clung to your breasts, the curve of your hips.
Then you closed the curtain.
You texted him. Have to sleep now. Goodnight.
He didn’t let you.
Sleep is boring, he replied. You’re new in town. I’m back in town. Talk.
And so you talked. Text after text, the conversation flowing easily into the night. You learned he was twenty-two, three years older than you. They’d moved from Boston for work—some kind of digital content thing he didn’t elaborate on. You told him you were nineteen, starting college in two weeks, studying fashion design. He asked about your sketches, your favorite designers. You asked about his brothers, the dynamic between Matt’s quiet warmth, Nick’s sense of humor, and his own, as he described it, “chaotic energy.”
It’s a mess, he wrote. But it’s fun.
The texts became more personal. He asked about your life before LA, your family. You asked about his, the move, being identical. It’s weird, he admitted. People stare. But it’s cool having two other dudes who get you completely.
The hour ticked past midnight, then past one AM. The spicy undercurrent of the earlier “show” lingered in the gaps between sentences. A flirtation threaded through the talk.
You looked good in white, he sent at 1:30.
You looked good in… nothing, you replied, biting your lip.
Not nothing. Briefs.
Briefs are close to nothing.
You wanna see nothing?
The question hung in the digital space between you. Your skin grew warm, a flush spreading from your chest down. You were in your bed now, the phone glowing in the dark.
Maybe, you typed, the word feeling dangerous and thrilling.
Maybe’s a yes with a safety net.
You didn’t answer that. Instead, you asked, What are you doing right now?
Lying in bed. Thinking about your dance.
It wasn’t a dance. It was a stretch.
It was a dance. And it was hot.
You shifted in your bed, the thin sheets feeling too heavy. Your panties felt tight against your skin. A slow, aching pulse began low in your belly, a response to his words, to the memory of him bare in the purple light, to the imagined weight of his gaze.
What’s hot about it? you asked, pushing further.
You. In that little black top. No bra. I could see the outline. And how you moved. Slow. Like you were feeling the music in your body.
His description was precise. It made it real. He hadn’t just seen you; he’d observed you. He’d noted the details.
Your breath shallowed. You typed, You watched closely.
I couldn’t stop.
The confession sent a shiver through you. You pictured his room, him standing there in his boxers, his eyes fixed on your window. On your body.
What would you have done if I hadn’t closed the curtain? you ventured.
Kept watching.
And then?
Maybe texted you. Like I did.
And then?
He paused. The seconds stretched. Then his reply appeared.
Asked you to keep dancing.
The pulse between your legs intensified. You were touching yourself now, not consciously, but your hand had drifted to your stomach, then lower, resting on the outside of your panties. The cotton was damp. You were wet.
I might have, you whispered into the phone, typing the words.
You should now.
Now?
Yeah. Open the curtain. Dance for me.
The proposition was direct, electrifying. You looked at your bedroom window. The curtain was closed. The house across was dark.
It’s late, you argued, but your body was arguing otherwise.
It’s late for sleeping. Not for other things.
You sat up in bed. The room was dark. You could do it. You could get up, open the curtain, stand in the white tank and panties… and dance. For him. Knowing he was watching. Knowing he was lying in his bed, thinking about you, wanting to see you.
You’re in bed? you asked.
Yeah. Phone in hand. Waiting.
Your decision trembled in the air. You stood up. The floor was cool under your feet. You walked to the window, your heart a rapid drumbeat in your chest. Your fingers touched the curtain fabric.
You parted it.
The window across was still dark. No purple light. No Chris.
Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pricked you.
Then your phone buzzed.
I see you.
A light flicked on across the way. Not the purple strips. A softer, golden bedside lamp. And in its glow, you saw him. Chris. He was sitting up in his bed, the sheets rumpled around his waist. He wore no shirt. The lamp light played over the planes of his chest, his shoulders. He held his phone, looking directly at you.
He smiled. That slow, knowing grin.
Go on, he texted.
You stood there, exposed in the light from your room. He could see everything—the white tank tight against your breasts, the way your nipples were hardened, pressed against the fabric. The white panties, hugging the curve of your hips and the swell of your ass.
You took a step back, into the center of your room, where the light was brightest. You felt his gaze like a physical touch, warm and heavy on your skin.
You lifted your phone, your fingers trembling, and found the same R&B track from last night. You pressed play.
The smooth bass filled your room again. You closed your eyes for a second, letting the sound wash over you. Then you began to move.
It was slow at first. A roll of your hips, a shift of your weight. Your arms lifted, your fingers tracing the air. You turned, letting him see your back, the way the tank top dipped low, revealing the bare skin of your spine. You swayed, the music guiding you into a deeper rhythm.
You opened your eyes and looked at his window.
He was watching, intently. His phone was down now. He was just looking. His expression was focused, hungry.
You turned to face him fully. Your hands came down, sliding over your own body—over your ribs, your stomach. You let your palms glide over the thin fabric of the tank top, feeling the stiff peaks of your nipples beneath. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped your lips as you touched yourself, for him.
In his window, you saw him move. He shifted on the bed. His hand went to his own chest, then lower, beneath the sheets. You couldn’t see clearly, but the movement was unmistakable. He was touching himself, too.
The realization sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You were dancing for him, and he was… responding.
Your dance became more deliberate. You let your hips sway wider, your legs parting slightly as you moved. You ran a hand through your hair, then let it trail down your neck, over your collarbone, to the swell of your breast. You cupped yourself, lightly, through the fabric, your fingers tracing the shape.
His gaze burned.
You stepped closer to your own window, so he could see every detail. You placed your hands on the glass, leaning forward slightly, your body arched. The white tank stretched tight. Your breasts pressed against the cool pane.
Across the distance, you saw him sit up fully. The sheets fell away. He was wearing only his boxer briefs again. He stood up from the bed, walking to his own window. He stood there, mirroring you, his hands coming to rest on his glass.
You were panting now, your breath coming in soft gasps. The arousal was a live wire inside you, sparking with every move, every shared glance. Your hand drifted from the window down to your own stomach, then lower, to the front of your panties. You pressed your palm there, against the damp cotton, against the aching swell of your clit.
His eyes followed your hand. His own hand moved to the front of his briefs, pressing against himself. You saw the outline of his erection through the dark fabric, firm and substantial.
The music pulsed. You moved your pressing hand, rubbing slowly through the fabric. A soft moan left your lips, too quiet to carry across the distance, but your face showed it. Your eyes closed for a moment, pleasure rippling through you.
Then you hear a knock on your door. Panicked you turned off your lights and covered yourself in bed. "Sweetie, could you lower your music please?", your aunt. You said "Okay. I'm sorry. Didn't know you could hear it," you reply. "No worries dear, goodnight." Your heart was beating fast, when you looked back at him his lights were already off.
"Sorry, my aunt knocked." you text him. You waited for his reply but your heavy lids took over and you fell asleep.
introduction: a spring writing special with a twist. a place where you can take a seat, relax and feel the sea breeze. what can I get started for you?
evie's note: must be mutuals to order anything & must be 18+ to order alcohol !! this special was inspired by @cinnamonsturns & @filthgf 's similar concepts. I also took large inspiration from @/rafeslvbug. they have since deactivated, but please know this was not an original idea. this writing special has no end date, and I will take my time working on these requests. each piece will vary in length from 0.5k -1.5k words.
when ordering: please view the menu below and include any details you would like me to write about in my inbox, the more detail the better 🫧 your order will be delivered via a separate masterlist post once it has been completed.
🍹 M E N U 🌺
non-alcoholic beverages
shirley temple - chris sturniolo fluff
virgin piña colada - matt sturniolo fluff
alcoholic beverages
want smut? ask for it blended 𓇼 want angst? ask for it on the rocks
long island iced tea - chris sturniolo
spicy margarita - matthew sturniolo
specialty drinks
rum & cola - linecook!chris
old fashioned - record store!matt
whiskey sour - gas station!matt
still don't see what you're looking for? ask to enjoy your drink with your favorite trope! whether that's fratboy!matt, dealer!chris, or best friend!matt, we serve them all!
──IN LOVE WITH THE ONE WHO HOLDS THE GUN . . . 𓉸ྀི
synopsis — like a prologue to the vamp!matt fantasy
contains — angst, dark romance (vampire), toxic relationship dynamics, power imbalance, self destructive tendencies, mentions of vampire feeding and masochism
You were his sacred little thing.
Even before, when he wasn’t all that nice, that is.
You were empty before him. Not in the dramatic way people spoke of in poems or tragedies—just…hollow.
Unclaimed. Unnoticed.
You drifted through life like something misplaced, something no one ever thought to look for.
Then came the night that rewrote everything.
The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and laughter, a sea of silk and gold—but you stood apart from it all. Draped in a long, shimmering gown, a glass of red wine cradled loosely in your hand, you lingered at the edge of the world as though you didn’t quite belong in it.
And that was when he saw you.
Matt.
He wasn’t drawn especially to beauty—there was plenty of that. He wasn’t drawn to joy—he despised it, if anything.
He was drawn to absence.
To the quiet vacancy behind your eyes.
That’s why he picked you.
When he revealed his secret, instead of scaring away, you leaned closer. Then and there he knew—you were the one.
That was the beginning of your undoing.
You didn’t just stay—you needed him.
Every touch, every quiet moment, every glimpse into his darkness made you cling harder, like he had become the only thing anchoring you to existence.
And he let you.
Because he liked it.
Matt wasn’t cruel in the obvious ways. He didn’t shout. He didn’t strike. His voice was often soft, his hands careful, his presence almost tender.
But there was something colder beneath it all.
He used you. Fed off of that lost, wandering, innocent soul of yours.
He liked the way you depended on him, the way your world narrowed until it was nothing but him. The way you looked at him—not with fear, but with devotion.
He’d appear from time to time like a shadow, feed, then dissapear.
Sometimes it would be days, other times weeks.
You never knew.
There came a point by which you’d start to cry each time he was about to leave you again.
“Please, Matt..” you’d mutter while clinging onto his shirt.
But it didn’t change anything.
He would study your face, taking in all your pending despair.
“My poor, poor baby.” he’d coo, satisfied.
His palms would come up to press against your cheeks and sometimes he’d actually kiss you. Slow and deep, as a way of saying goodbye and to give you some sense of a reward.
Other times he’d just brush his thumb over your pouty, plush lip and vanish.
He quite literally drained the life out of you and yet, the most alive you felt was when he was there.
You didn’t like it when he was gone—
You missed the way he’d kiss you softly, the way he’d stroke your hair, the way he’d carry you to bed once it all became too much.
Even the pain, you missed. The feeling of his teeth sinking into your flesh like you were his only lifeline.
Similarly to how he was yours.
You missed the after.
The brush of his lips against your neck, softer than before, as if he were trying to erase what he’d just done. The way he would press a quiet kiss over the mark he left behind, then soothe it with slow drag of his tongue.
It was as though you were something to be cherished once the damage was already done. His voice would drop, low and almost warm, murmuring soft praise against your skin—calling you his good, sweet girl, like you had done something right by giving yourself over so completely.
And you held onto that.
Not the ache, not the fading strength—but those fleeting, fragile moments where you might’ve meant as much to him too.
ᝰ.ᐟ i blame nessa all the way for the wave of inspo for this whole concept
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
stormborns
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
