tia, minor, she/her, matt sturniolo’s and jamie campbell bower’s #1 defender, pasta muncher, glasses matt, may child, wicked games, vanilla scented, probably romanticizing, calico cats, house of balloons...
masterlist (contains aus and blurbs) taglist
⋆.˚ ★— est. may 2025
inbox open to questions, reccomendations, but not doing requests as of now!
credits: weeknd edit from tt, dividers from anitalenia
let's make a few things clear before i actually do log out:
Fuck ICE.
Fuck trump.
Fuck racists, fascists, sexists, nazis- fuck them all.
Fuck israel.
Free Palestine.
Free Sudan.
Free the Congo.
All lives matter.
No one's illegal on stolen land.
I love queer people and people of color and immigrants.
Abortion isn't a crime.
if you somehow support the sorry excuse of a president and ICE or any organization/people that are going against human rights and doing inhumane acts to other humans and abusing their authority please unfollow me or block me. i don't fuck with you one bit.
and if you're choosing to stay quiet, you are a part of the problem.
⤷ previous scene & all scenes
⤷ cw . . . power imbalance, implied sexual content/past sexual work (non-explicit), drinking . . .
ONE YEAR AGO...
Celeste had been working as a maid for a few months now. A quiet job away from the neon lights of PARADISE, the strip club she’d finally walked out of. She’d quit that life the moment she got the offer. It came from a friend backstage, whispered between the strippers and dancers.
“Look… if you’re really sick of this place, there’s this job opening. But it’s top secret. You can’t tell anyone if you take it.” At first, Celeste thought it was a scam. Then she learned the truth, it wasn’t a scam. It was the mob.
The job posting never hit a website or a newspaper. It passed from hand to hand, dancer to dancer, only to people they trusted not to talk. Celeste had thought about it for days.
The pay was too good, suspiciously good. The benefits were unbelievable. Protection, security, a roof over her head, and a salary that could’ve changed her life years ago. But the catch was simple: If she accepted, she was theirs. There would be no going back.
She had to sign an NDA and was informed that she was obligated to work for them until her contract expired. After the contract ended, she was still required to keep her mouth shut, but she wasn’t under them anymore. In the end, she said yes. With the life she’d been through, she knew exactly how to keep her mouth shut.
That’s when she met him. Christopher Sturniolo. A wrathful man who was the head of the underground mob world. When they had met, he'd looked her over once, then glanced at the clipboard in his hand, and nodded.
Just like that, she was hired. Alongside ten other women, Celeste stepped into working for men whom most people in the city feared to even whisper about. And she had no idea that one of those men… she’d already met before.
She remembered that certain night all too well. All the maids were required to work the evening shift, because their boss was hosting “special guests.” A private dinner gathering with the worst men in the city.
Celeste’s job was simple. Greet them at the door, smile, and pretend she didn’t know exactly what kind of deals these men were making as they overdrank their brandy.
But then he walked in.
A certain mister with a sharp jawline and tattoos that can be seen peeking on his neck. The instant their eyes met, her breath died in her throat. Her heart didn’t just skip; it froze. She had the overwhelming urge to turn around and run. She knew exactly who he was, but the question was… did he?
She knew exactly who he was. The only question was… did he recognize her? Before he could say a word, she cleared her throat, forcing her voice steady. What was his name again?
“Right this way, sir,” she said, stepping aside. “Mr. Sturniolo is in the dining room.” The man smirked.
“Mr. Sturniolo?” he repeated with a scoff. “That’s what my brother has you ladies calling him.” He tilted his head toward the man behind him. Same face, same eyes. The other brother. “You hear that, Nick?”
Right, Nick.
Then who was he?
Celeste kept her expression neutral, though her mind was racing. Good. He didn’t seem to recognize her. Or so she hoped. The cruel irony hit her then, almost laughable if it didn’t make her stomach twist.
The man she used to give lap dances to, the man she used to ride for money, had been part of the mob the entire time. Suddenly, it made sense.
Why he’d always been the highest tipper.
Why he never hesitated.
Why he always looked so untouchable.
As she led them down the hall, she could feel his eyes on her back. Something about her had caught his attention, and she was a hundred percent convinced he recognized her.
As she led them down the hall, she could feel his gaze burning into her back. Whatever it was, something about her had caught his attention, and Celeste was almost certain he knew exactly who she was.
Dinner dragged on with conversation. From her place along the wall with the other maids, she caught him glancing her way every few minutes. Never obvious. Never long enough to be called out. But enough to make her gulp. She stayed where she was supposed to, hands folded neatly in front of her, watching them eat and talk, ready to step in if anyone so much as lifted a finger.
“Matthew,” one of the men leaned back in his chair, his tone filled with respect, “the docks situation is handled. Your name carried more weight than we expected.” Celeste’s breath faltered. Matthew. Her boss said that name all the time.
Then Chris spoke, “Yeah,” he said, cutting in. “That’s Matt’s side of the city. He runs that shit. Anyone surprised is a fucking idiot.”
Matt.
So that was him.
Her boss said that name all the time. He was always saying things like I’m going to Matt’s. Tell Matt this. Report it to Matt now. Always spoken with urgency and respect. Makes sense, that was his brother.
When she’d met Matt at the club all those years ago, he’d never given her a name. She’d called him mister, and he ran with it. Encouraged it, even. God… she used to call him daddy, for fuck’s sake. The thought made her stomach twist.
There was no universe where she could look him in the eye now. Not after that. Not after realizing who he really was, and what kind of power he held. So she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, willing herself to disappear into the background.
When she finally made it back to the kitchen, her heart was still racing—but Celeste refused to let it show. She busied herself beside the other maids, shoulders squared, expression neutral, doing everything she could to look untouched.
That lasted all of thirty seconds.
Because mister mob Matthew decided to stroll straight into the kitchen.
Her stomach dropped. She turned her face away immediately, focusing on anything but him, half-hoping he’d stop one of the other girls for whatever he wanted and leave her alone. But he didn’t. Footsteps stopped behind her. Then a light tap on her shoulder. She turned slowly.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, voice steadier than she felt. He smiled, almost amused. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Sturniolo”—he drew the name out mockingly “—is asking for his fine liquor.”
Celeste nodded quickly and slipped past him before her nerves could betray her. In the liquor room, her hands shook as she grabbed a couple of bottles, forcing herself to breathe. In and out. Just do your job.
When she returned, she handed them to him without meeting his eyes. Matt glanced at the labels, clearly satisfied. Then he looked back at her.
“I didn’t know angels worked for my brother.”
She froze. So did the rest of the kitchen. A few heads turned. Someone dropped a utensil. Matt noticed and smiled wider at her flustered stillness.
“And what’s your name, angel?”
Is he serious?
“Celeste.”
“Heavenly?”
Her brow furrowed, confusion breaking through her nerves.
“Your name,” he explained calmly. “Celeste. It means heavenly.” His gaze lingered, thoughtful. “Guess I gave you a pretty spot-on nickname then.”
She let out a small, unsure smile that was still flustered. Did he really not know who she was? She was confused, very confused. It was impossible to read those stunning eyes of his.
Matt chuckled softly, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said, almost playful. “Didn’t mean to fluster you.” He shifted the bottles into one hand and took a step back, but not before his eyes dragged over her face one last time.
“Take care, angel,” he added, voice lower now, teasing. “Don’t work too hard for my brother.”
Then he turned and headed out of the kitchen. A few of the maids pretended not to stare as he passed, though none of them quite managed it.
Celeste stood there long after he was gone, heart pounding, fingers curled tight at her sides. Because whether he knew who she was or not… he had somehow managed to come across and flirt with the same girl once again.
One of the maids broke the silence with a grin.
“Well,” she drawled, “I didn’t know angels worked for his brother.” Another snorted. “Yeah, Celeste—since when are you getting personal nicknames disgustingly handsome men?”
Celeste felt heat rush to her face. “Oh my God, stop,” she muttered, busying herself with the counter, though her hands were still trembling. A third maid leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t just flirting—that was interest.”
Celeste shook her head, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re all reading into it. He was just being… weird.” The girls all rolled their eyes playfully. “Sure,” the first maid said knowingly. “Weird men don’t call you angel and look you up and down like that.”
They laughed, nudging her playfully as they went back to work,
already spinning theories. Celeste smiled along, but her chest felt tight. Celeste tried to shake off the teasing, but her mind was elsewhere.
Wait…
Matt hadn’t said a word that hinted he remembered her. Not her face. Not her voice. Not the fact that she used to dance for him. That means…he didn’t know.
She had assumed he knew the girl he tipped the most, rode him the hardest, called him fucking daddy—was the same one standing in front of him now. But he didn’t.
It was just… a coincidence. Fate, maybe. Her stomach twisted. Relief mingled with fear. Relief that he didn’t know that girl. Fear that he was still Matt Sturniolo, and she had absolutely no idea what would happen if he one day did realize.
She shoved the intrusive thoughts away. She wasn’t a stripper anymore. That life was behind her. Even the version of herself from just months ago was gone. She didn’t feel ashamed of her past, but for some reason, the idea of Matt knowing made her skin crawl.
God… this job was supposed to be her escape from PARADISE, not make her come face to face with their most loyal customer.
comment here to be added to taglist
💌 a/n: finally!! I love you all, mwah!
This is how they met. CW for drugs, alcohol, rude men, lap sitting, and very very VERY suggestive content !!
This party sucks. Beer and smoke clouds the air, your lungs protesting with every inhale you took to try and calm your nerves.
You shouldn’t be here. Nothing about this made you feel content in any sort of way. Darren insisted ‘stopping by.’ But the promise of only a couple minutes had long been broken.
“Are you almost done? I really don’t like it here…”
The man shrugs you off. There’s a slight sting of pain in your chest, the anxiety of the room tumbling on top of the rejection you feel from his ignorance.
You thought he’d actually ask you to officially be his girlfriend tonight. Although he didn’t seem to be your best match, you figured time would make you two closer. Plus you were too much of a wimp to call things off.
What were you supposed to even say? That you didn’t feel the spark?
Honestly you weren’t sure if whatever ‘spark’ actually even existed anymore.
“Just a couple more minutes, babe,” he says, his hand landing awkwardly on your thigh.
Your face scrunches. His movement had dragged your cotton dress upward. You pull down the fabric, the modesty bringing you some sort of comfort in the chaos.
As you look around, your eyes find his — the guy Darren had bought some substances from.
Of course, you hid behind Darren, waiting impatiently while shrinking into yourself. But you had felt the man’s eyes on you.
Matt.
You heard Darren acknowledge him by that. But Matt hadn’t really acknowledged Darren at all. He simply nodded his head when your shitty date asked if it was the usual price.
Usual price made something in your gut sink.
Darren never told you he did substances. He actually claimed he was heavily against drugs.
Yet another instance of him being a liar.
“Darren, I need to go to the bathroom. Can we please leave?” you ask, gnawing on your inner cheek.
In all honesty, you didn’t need to use the bathroom. You just needed an excuse — something to motivate him to take you away from this awful event.
“It’s probably just down the hall. Just keep your phone on you.”
Dick, you think.
Deciding you’ve had enough, you get up. There’s no chance in hell you’re ever going out with this man again, let alone waiting here another second.
You cross your arms over your chest. Walking through the sweaty air with shoulders continuously bumping into you.
Before you can even reach the hallway, you get shoved hard enough to fall — right onto the couch where Matt is sitting.
“Ah — sorry!” You stammer over your words, trying to get up.
Another body collides with you.
This time, it makes you tumble even harder, making your butt land right in Matt’s lap.
This can’t be happening. But it is. And Matt’s got a shit-eating grin on his face as he realizes how nervous you are.
The smile fades after a second, before you can even notice it. He replaces the expression with a calm facade, rolling his eyes as you try to lift yourself off his lap once again.
“What’re you—“
You shriek as he keeps you in place on his lap. His hands are tight, possessive, almost.
Before you can analyze any further, you feel his voice whispering against the back of your ear; “Unless you wanna keep falling back onto my lap, look before you get up.”
He’s right.
Someone crashed right into another person right in front of you guys. If you had gotten up again, you would’ve fallen even worse.
“Oh. Sorry…” you mumble, unsure as you hold yourself stiff as a board in his grasp.
“It’s fine. But now you gotta make it up to me.”
Make it up to him? You make a confused sound. Matt can’t help but feel his heart pummel faster at the noise.
He wants to hear it again but in a different context.
“You sat in my lap uninvited. And I saved your ass from getting knocked over,” he explains.
You nod. He leans in, his lips brushing against the rim of your ear. A tingle of sparks flow up your spine. His hand lazily rests on your hip bone as he speaks;
“I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do. But just know… I can feel how much you like my hands on you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your legs had started squeezing together subconsciously. Immediately you try to relax them, but it’s too late. He’s already made the observation.
“I can take care of it. The ache… I mean, I can make it go away if you want, hon.”
.
.
.
NAV on my pinned post.
Paige’s Notes: FIRST FIC FOR THEM. HOW WE FEELIN CHAT 🙈
Honey, or as Matt likes to call her Hon, is a sweet girl. She can be a bit much at times, but she always has good intentions. Like the golden liquid, she tends to stick — being needy, naive, and too caring.
Matt does not hold the same qualities. He can be cold & reserved. His motives are almost never pure. But maybe she can change that… if he ever gives her the chance.
They’re stuck in a sticky situation. There’s no labels or titles, but she’s his.
But is he hers? She doesn’t know.
FIRST FIC WILL BE OUT SOON !! — Read here.
NAV
Paige’s Notes: Thank you to @sturncoast & @devotedlyteenagemusic for hyping me up with this AU 🙈
“sit still,” she warned, pressing her thumb softly against his cheekbone.
“i am being still,” chris said though the mischievous glint in his blue eyes betrayed him. he was stretched out on his couch, one arm draped over the back, looking entirely too smug for someone about to get eyeliner drawn on him.
his girlfriend sat across his lap, straddling him carefully, her eyeliner pen in hand. “you keep smirking. that counts as moving,” she said.
“then stop saying things that make me wanna smile.”
“i literally haven’t said anything,” she muttered with an eyeroll , leaning in closer.
“yeah, but you’re sitting here talking about my eyes like you’re writing me a love song,” he teased.
she groaned, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself. “i just said i like your eyes. they’re blue and they’re pretty. big deal.”
“oh, a big deal,” he repeated, voice dipping low as his hands slid around her waist. “so you think about them a lot then?”
“stop distracting me,” she said quickly, trying to keep her hand steady.
he grinned, leaning into her touch just enough to make her flustered. “i’m not distracting you, i’m helping. this is a really good bonding experience.”
“bonding experience my ass,” she murmured, just as his hands dropped to her hips then a little lower his palms settling on her butt with easy familiarity.
“chris!” she gasped, trying not to laugh.
“what? you said not to move,” he said innocently, squeezing lightly. “this helps me focus.”
she swatted his arm but didn’t move off his lap. “you’re ridiculous.”
“ridiculously hot in eyeliner, probably,” he shot back.
“we’ll see about that,” she said, biting back a grin as she leaned in closer, her breath brushing his cheek.
for once, he actually went quiet—his eyes flicking between her focused expression and her lips only inches away. the teasing smirk softened. he tilted his chin up slightly, like he was trying not to mess her up, but also like he couldn’t help watching her.
“okay,” she whispered after a moment, “blink.”
he did, lashes fluttering so long they almost brushed her fingers.
she sat back to admire her work, and her jaw dropped a little. “holy crap,” she whispered. “you look so—”
“so what?” he asked, smirking again.
“so unfairly hot.”
his grin turned boyish then, and before she could say anything else, he tugged her forward by the waist and kissed her once—quick and soft, his lips curling into a smile against hers.
“you think eyeliner made me hot?” he murmured when he pulled back.
she blinked, dazed. “i mean— it didn’t hurt.”
he laughed quietly, fingers tracing circles over her hips before slipping down again, giving another playful squeeze. “maybe i should start wearing it all the time if it gets me that reaction.”
“don’t push it,” she teased, but her voice was softer now.
“too late,” he said, stealing another kiss. this one was slower, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. when she tried to laugh against his mouth, he caught it with a grin and whispered, “you’re supposed to be concentrating, babe.”
“i was,” she said breathlessly.
“yeah, but now you’re distracted,” he said, laughing when she shoved him lightly in the chest.
“whose fault is that?” she challenged.
“definitely yours,” he said, hands still very much on her butt as if proving a point.
“you’re the worst,” she mumbled, leaning in to kiss him again anyway.
“mm,” he hummed, smiling against her lips, “you don’t seem to mind.”
later, when she got up to grab makeup wipes, chris caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. he blinked once, leaned in closer, and then laughed softly under his breath.
“okay,” he called out, “i kinda get the hype now.”
she turned, towel in hand. “the hype?”
he pointed at his reflection. “yeah. i mean— tell me that’s not art.”
she rolled her eyes, walking back over. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet,” he said, looping an arm around her waist when she got close, “you still wanna kiss me.”
“only because you look like extra extra hot right now,” she teased, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
he grinned. “right now? babe, i’m hot all the time.”
she laughed, shaking her head as he kissed her again, smudging the liner slightly.
“now look,” she scolded softly, “you ruined it.”
he shrugged, pulling her back against him with another grin. “worth it.”
The bass thrummed against the brick, a low, insistent pulse that vibrated through Matt’s sneakers even from a block away. The frat house, a garish beacon of red solo cups and questionable decisions, receded behind him, its raucous laughter swallowed by the cool night air. He peeled off his sweat-dampened Hawaiian shirt, the garish floral pattern a testament to his earlier, less inspired mood. The campus clock tower chimed twice, a somber echo in the quiet. Two AM. Perfect. He wasn’t looking for trouble, not exactly, but he wasn’t avoiding it either. A restless energy gnawed at him, a familiar itch that frat parties never quite scratched.
He cut across the manicured lawn, a shortcut past the library, its dark windows mirroring the sky. Then, a sound, faint at first, drifted on the breeze. Not the usual campus hum of distant traffic or the lonely chirps of crickets. This was different. A piano, a delicate, haunting melody that seemed to weave itself into the moonlight. It pulled him, a silent siren song, drawing him towards the Performing Arts Building, a place he’d only ever seen from the outside, its grand, arched windows always dark, always silent. Tonight, a soft glow emanated from one of the upper studios.
The music grew louder with each step, wrapping around him, a complex tapestry of notes that spoke of longing and grace. He pushed open the heavy double doors of the building, the sound of the piano now vibrant, alive, echoing through the empty marble lobby. He followed it, up the wide, carpeted stairs, the music growing clearer, more defined. It wasn't just a melody; it was a story unfolding.
He found the studio, its door ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. He peered inside.
You were there, a solitary figure bathed in the soft glow of a single stage light, a pale yellow against the dark polished wood. You wore a leotard the color of a winter sky, a soft blue that seemed to absorb the light, and a flowing skirt, white like freshly fallen snow, that billowed with each movement. Your hair, the color of rich honey, was pulled back in a neat bun, but a few tendrils had escaped, framing a face lost in concentration, in emotion. The music wasn’t just guiding you; it possessed you. Your arms sculpted the air, long and fluid, like willow branches swaying in a gentle breeze. Your legs, impossibly long, moved with a silent power, each plié, each arabesque, a brushstroke on an invisible canvas. You moved with an effortless grace, a dancer’s ethereal beauty, completely unaware of the world beyond the music.
Matt leaned against the doorframe, forgotten. His usual swagger, his quick wit, all of it evaporated. He just watched, breath held tight in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar quiet settling over him. He’d seen plenty of beautiful women, sure, but this… this was different. This was raw, untamed artistry, a soul laid bare through movement. He felt like he was witnessing something sacred, something he shouldn’t even be seeing. He couldn't tear his gaze away.
The piano swelled, a crescendo of emotion, and you spun, a blur of white and blue, your arms reaching, your head thrown back. Your eyes, wide and luminous, suddenly met his.
You froze mid-turn, a startled gasp catching in your throat. Your arms, moments before soaring, dropped to your sides, your body stiffening, the ethereal grace vanishing in an instant. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, a soft flutter of fabric.
"Shit," Matt muttered, pushing off the doorframe, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Sorry. Didn't mean to… scare you." He ran a hand through his perpetually messy dark hair. "You just… wow."
You didn’t speak, your gaze fixed on him, wide and uncertain. A faint blush bloomed on your cheeks, spreading down your neck. You took a small step back, almost imperceptibly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
"I heard the music," he offered, gesturing vaguely towards the piano, which had mercifully fallen silent. "It pulled me in. Couldn't help it." He took a step further into the studio, his eyes still on you. "What were you doing? That was… insane."
You finally found your voice, a whisper, barely audible. "Practicing." Your eyes flickered around the room, anywhere but him.
"Practicing?" He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "That wasn't practice. That was… magic. Seriously." He took another step closer, his dark eyes sparkling. "I'm Matt, by the way." He extended a hand, then remembered you were probably still recovering from the shock. He let it fall, shoving it into his pocket instead. "Frat boy extraordinaire, apparently."
Your gaze darted to his hand, then back to his face. "I… I know who you are." Your voice was still a thread.
His grin widened, a flash of white teeth. "Oh, do you now? Heard all the juicy stories, I bet." He winked. "They're mostly true, by the way. The wild ones, I mean." He paused, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at you. "But you… I've never seen you around. Or maybe I have, and I was just too busy being a dumbass to notice." He took another step, closing the distance between you. "So, 'I know who you are' doesn't really tell me your name, Swan."
Your eyes widened at the unexpected name, a soft gasp escaping your lips. "Swan?"
"Yeah," he nodded, his eyes tracing the line of your neck, the elegant curve of your shoulders. "You looked like a swan. All graceful and… elegant. Beautiful, even when I totally startled you." He gestured with a hand. "The way you move, it's like you're floating. Seriously. Like a goddamn swan."
A tiny, hesitant smile touched your lips, a fleeting thing. "My name is…" You trailed off, your voice barely a breath, your cheeks flushing a deeper rose.
"Yeah?" he prompted gently, a surprising patience in his tone. "Don't leave me hanging, Swan. I need a name to go with the magic."
"It's… Y/N," you finally managed, your voice a little stronger, though still quiet. You looked down at your pointed feet, then back up at him, a flicker of curiosity in your eyes. "Why are you here? It's… really late."
"Oh, you know," he shrugged, leaning against a barre, "Ditched a frat party. Too much cheap beer and bad decisions. Needed some air. And then… I heard you." He pushed off the barre, moving closer until he stood just a few feet from you. "Best decision I've made all night, ditching that party, I mean." His gaze lingered on your face, a warm intensity in his dark eyes. "So, Y/N. You come here often, after hours?"
You shook your head slowly. "Not usually. Just… sometimes the music calls." You gestured to a small portable speaker on the floor. "I had a lot on my mind."
"Yeah? What's got a swan like you stressed?" He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Boy trouble? Or just the usual existential dread of being a brilliant artist?"
You let out a soft, almost soundless huff of amusement. "Just… rehearsals. And classes. It's a lot."
"Tell me about it," he said, though his own 'stress' probably involved choosing between two different brands of instant noodles. "So, ballet, huh? That's what that was?"
You nodded. "Yes."
"Man, I thought ballet was all tutus and tiaras," he mused, a genuine wonder in his eyes. "But that… that was something else. Fierce. Powerful. You really put your whole self into it."
"You… you really think so?" Your voice was still quiet, but there was a hint of surprise, a fragile hope in your tone.
"Think so? I know so." He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, then stopping, hovering in the air between you. "I mean, I'm just a dumb frat boy, right? What do I know about art? But I know what I saw. And what I saw was breathtaking." His eyes held yours, unwavering. "You're incredible, Y/N."
A deeper blush bloomed on your face, and you looked away again, a small, shy smile playing on your lips. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for telling the truth," he said, his voice soft. "So, what's next? More swan magic?" He gestured around the empty studio. "Or do you just vanish into the night now that your audience has arrived?"
You glanced at the speaker, then back at him. "I… I should probably go. It's really late."
"No, don't," he blurted out, a genuine plea in his voice. "Just… one more. Please? For me?" He took another step, his hand lightly touching your arm, a warm, unexpected touch that sent a jolt through you. "Just one more dance, Swan. I promise I'll be quiet this time. No more startling you."
You hesitated, your eyes searching his. There was an earnestness there, an appeal that surprised you, coming from the legendary Matt. The stories about him were all about chaos, about fleeting encounters, about a swagger that never faltered. But here, now, with you, he seemed… different. A little vulnerable, perhaps. And his touch, though brief, was gentle.
"Please?" he repeated, his thumb lightly stroking your arm, a feather-light touch. "I've never seen anything like it. And I really, really want to see it again."
You looked down at his hand on your arm, then back up at his expectant face. The music was still echoing in your head, the story unfinished. "Okay," you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips. "One more."
A wide, triumphant grin split his face. "Yes! Thank you, Y/N. Seriously. You won't regret it." He pulled his hand away, but the warmth lingered. He backed up, giving you space, settling himself on the floor against the wall, crossing his legs. "Alright, Swan. Your stage awaits."
You walked over to the speaker, your movements still a little stiff from the surprise, but the music, a different piece this time, a more melancholy, flowing melody, began to play. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, letting the notes wash over you, letting them seep into your bones. The shyness receded, replaced by the familiar embrace of the dance.
Matt watched, completely still, mesmerized once more. Your body unfolded, a blossom opening in slow motion. Your arms became wings, your legs extensions of the music itself. You moved with a quiet intensity, a graceful power that belied your delicate frame. He saw the story in your movements, the yearning, the quiet strength, the profound beauty. He saw why he’d called you Swan.
You danced, lost to everything but the music, until the final, lingering note faded into the silence of the studio. You stood still for a moment, chest heaving gently, then slowly opened your eyes.
Matt was still there, sitting exactly where he’d been, his gaze fixed on you, a profound admiration in his dark eyes. He didn't applaud, didn't speak, just looked at you, a silent reverence.
"Wow," he finally breathed, the single word loaded with emotion. "Just… wow, Y/N." He pushed himself up, walking slowly towards you. "You're… you're something else." He stopped in front of you, his eyes searching yours. "Seriously. I've never met anyone like you."
You looked down, your cheeks flushing again. "It's just… ballet."
"No, it's not 'just ballet'," he countered, his voice firm. "It's you. Pouring your soul out. That's not 'just' anything." He reached out, and this time, his hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. "You're incredible, Y/N. Truly."
Your breath hitched at his touch, a shiver running through you. You leaned into his hand, just slightly, a silent acknowledgement. The stories about Matt, the fuckboy, the wild card, the chaos, all faded into the background. In this moment, under the soft glow of the studio light, he was just Matt, and he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"I… I really should go," you whispered, though you made no move to pull away from his touch.
"I know," he said, his thumb still stroking your cheek, his eyes holding yours. "But I don't want you to." He paused, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes, something you hadn't expected from him. "Can I… can I walk you back? Or wherever you're going?"
You hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay."
A genuine smile, less of a smirk and more of a tender expression, spread across his face. "Good." He slowly removed his hand from your cheek, but his fingers brushed yours as he did, a lingering touch. "So, Swan. What's your dorm? Or do you have some secret lair where all the magic happens?" He winked, but it was softer this time, less brash.
You actually laughed, a quiet, melodic sound that surprised even yourself. "My dorm. It's… just the usual one."
"Lead the way, then, Y/N," he said, stepping back slightly, gesturing towards the door. "Show me the path to the swan's nest." He watched as you gathered your things, your movements still graceful, even as you packed away your speaker and water bottle. He found himself wanting to know more, wanting to see more, wanting to understand the quiet magic you held. He, Matt, the guy who never stayed in one place, who never looked back, found himself utterly captivated by a shy ballet dancer in the quiet hours of the night. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't want the night to end.
an: this is just a night they met if you guys have any question about them pls lmk! Ill come out with their own individual mood boards later today!