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 support the sorry excuse of a president and ICE or any other 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.
rough, mean, shadows, ghost of touch, hidden, a god, a tale, lie, unspoken, feared, dark, pale, fallen angel, lost soul, ame damne, feeble, distrait, rapt, ghost of the past, sweet but only to her, burnt from light, before time.
angel!human!reader
loomed in darkness, golden, doll, divine, prophecy, beaming, pink roses, ribbons, weeping, cigarettes, books, french tips, honey bunch, doe, spoken word of God, stuffies, pure.
Matt snores in his sleep even though he denies it. He hums when he brushes his teeth. He cleans the kitchen every night after he cooks. He likes to read before bed, and sometimes asks you to read the pages aloud. He says he likes to hear your voice. He likes to fuck immediately after he runs.
He hasn’t had any nightmares for the fourteen days he’s been in Paris. You always lie on his chest at night and can feel his heart racing. “Nerves,” he said. He didn’t want to dream.
You were dreaming, though. Every night. You dreamed of babies, your mom, a house in a small town, and you dreamed of Matt. Everything felt so vivid. Like you could touch it. You could feel the swell of your belly and a tiny being kicking your ribs.
You could feel your mom's hands in yours as she danced with you in your house. “Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they’re here to stay.” You’d wake up mumbling the lyrics.
Matt lived in that house with you in that little town. It was one story and smelled like pancakes.
He always made pancakes.
There was something in both of your peripherals that you two weren’t addressing. It sat there, quiet, like a shadow in the corner of the room. If you didn’t look at it head-on, it couldn’t exist. If you just kept your eyes forward, kept your hands on him, it all stayed suspended—safe, untouched.
You could live here in this space for a little longer.
“Baby,” he whispers against your temple, nose smushed as he breathes you in. “You keep mumbling those lyrics.”
A kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
Morning sex.
Your brain isn’t even awake yet, limbs tired and heavy, eyes half-lidded.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” you whisper when his palm finds your stomach and pulls you closer.
There was a baby in there a couple nights ago—you think. In a house. In a small town. With him.
“Dreams,” you murmur.
“Do you dream of me?” he tugs at the band of your silk shorts, voice low. “Turn over for me, pretty.”
Your back presses to his chest, your bare ass brushing the soft fabric of his sweats. He’s already hard. You shudder.
“All the fucking time.”
He shuffles, the bed dipping. His cock is hot against your ass, sliding between your cheeks until he groans. You feel the blunt press of his tip teasing your tight hole, and you giggle.
“Matt!”
He laughs, chest shaking, voice still rough with sleep. “One day.”
He slides his cock through your folds. You buck your hips back, coating him with your slick. Pretty moans fall from your lips.
Matt moves your hair, peppers kisses down the back of your neck. “Are you getting her ready for me?”
You’re still half awake, but your body knows what to do. Your mouth knows what to say. “Yeah.”
“I like you like this.” His voice is low, trailing kisses up your spine. He pushes in slowly, your pussy stretching around him, and you gasp. Your body burns. “So soft, so sleepy…you hardly know what’s going on, hmm? Just a greedy little pussy.” His hips move slow. Torturous.
You whimper, tilting your head back against his shoulder while he fucks you at that lazy pace. Your pussy squelches, clit throbs, nipples hard under your silk sleep shirt.
“Good girl. Lie there and take it. Let me fuck you like this, yeah? Jesus.” His hand snakes around to draw lazy circles on your clit while your cunt creams around him. “Always so messy. You’re such a messy girl.” His hips snap harder now, his arm locking you in place so you can’t squirm away.
Everything feels heightened, sensitive. You’re babbling, incoherent, and Matt’s chuckling against your back. His chest shakes with it. Your pussy clamps down, no warning, no words to stop it.
“That’s it—fuuuckkk—she coming, baby?” he groans, voice breaking. “Fucking milking my cock.”
Matt fills you with his cum, his body stilling as his breathing turns heavy. It’s become a morning ritual, the way he loves to “get you ready for your day.” Possessive. His.
Is that why you keep dreaming of babies? The dreams feel so real. You can feel their weight in your arms, smell their skin, their hair against your chest. You don’t tell Matt about those dreams. You don’t want to scare him—don’t want to give him a reason to run again.
You’re happy he’s here. In Paris. With you. For you. But instead of relaxing, a blinding thought has attached itself to your brainstem. It makes it hard to breathe, hard to stand still.
How long will this last?
Are you even allowed to ask?
To know?
Your father doesn’t care that Matt is in Paris. The Paris bodyguard—whatever his name was—was fired and replaced without hesitation. You should be relieved. And you are.
But Matt is still your bodyguard.
And you can’t decide which you want more—him as that, or him as something else.
Could you have both?
“You’re free today,” he hums as he cleans you both up. “We can do whatever we want. What do you want to do, baby?” He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“If you weren’t my bodyguard, would you be someone else’s?” You turn to face him. Chest to his. His hair messy, damp with sweat.
“Why wouldn’t I be your bodyguard?” His brows knit together, and his hand slides to the back of your head, smoothing your hair down. “Am I not a good one?” He smiles—pretty teeth, easy grin.
“Are you going to be my bodyguard forever?” you whisper.
He blinks. Takes his time.
“Like, say you stop being mine… would you go seek work somewhere else?”
“I don’t know what I would do.” His eyes flick over you, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. He studies your face, trying to gauge where you’re going with this. “I kinda hoped you’d keep me forever. I never thought of a work life without you in it.”
Work life. The words buzz.
“Only work life?”
“You know I don’t mean it like that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Don’t scare him. Be quiet. He can’t run away this time. Not again.
“Come on, let me make you breakfast.” He tugs on your arm, leading you out of bed. “I know you’re hungry, hmm?” He looks down at you standing in front of him. His heart squeezes. That something in his peripherals is getting closer now. He can almost see it.
He knows you can.
You don’t move. Just hands on your hips, staring up at him. You want your brain to stop moving so fast, just enjoy this here. He’s here. Enjoy it.
“You wanna be carried?” He grins and pokes your side.
“Heyyyy,” You pout and whine, and he scoops you up immediately, and you wrap your legs around his waist.
“You’re so spoiled. You get fucked right away in the morning, get breakfast made for you and carried to your kitchen in Paris, and still have an attitude.” He teases you, spanking your ass softly as he navigates to the kitchen. “And trying to fire me, too.”
You nuzzle your head into his neck and melt into the warmth. “I can’t help it that you spoil me, and I’m not trying to fire you.”
Matt sits you on the counter, his waist in between your thighs. His hands smooth over your inner thighs, lips on your neck. “Good, because you’re stuck with me.”
He moves to gather ingredients for breakfast. Your stomach growls in anticipation. He always looks so focused whenever he does anything, like he’s on a mission.
“You’ve been here for fourteen days.”
“I know.”
Matt didn’t come here with a plan. He didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he loved you, and he wanted to be with you. He took the job because there was absolutely no way he was letting anyone but himself look after you. His girl.
His girl.
No plan wasn’t Matt. He always had a plan. It etched out in his notebook in black ink. Step by step. He was realizing you took away any instinct he had. Broke down his character. He couldn’t decide if he was scared of that or not.
But he can't get his brain to turn off when he’s in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, and watching you do your nineteen-step skin care routine. Was he really going to pick up his whole life and move? To Paris?
Your voice startles him out of his thoughts.
“I decided I don’t want to do anything today. I want to stay in.”
Matt turns his head to look at you. Bacon sizzles in the pan. It’s turkey bacon. He hates it, but you don’t.
“Yeah? You sure, baby?”
“Yeah. It’s better with you in here. You get stiff out there.” Your voice is soft, like you’re afraid it might crack. “You act like you’re just my bodyguard.”
He swallows. Stirs the pan like the bacon might burn if he lets go of it for even a second.
Neither of you asks what he really is.
A plate slides in front of you. “Eat.”
Your fork cuts into the fluffy pancakes, syrup clinging as you lift it. Matt watches.
“Do you want a bite?”
He nods, and you fork-feed him. You keep eye contact, watching his throat work as he swallows.
“What?”
“You’re turning me on.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m turning you on? By eating?”
“Yeah. It’s your mouth. You have a nice mouth. Good teeth.”
“My mouth,” he chuckles, brows raised. “I had Invisalign in my early twenties.” He hums, leaning forward to peck your lips. He tastes sweet.
Matt suggested you go out tonight. Promised that he wouldn’t be so stiff that it’d be a normal night for you. You’ve been cooped up in that Paris apartment for fourteen days too long. You didn’t believe him until you saw the sweaty beer being placed in front of him in the dimly lit pub.
“You’re drinking?” You tickle his side as the rim of the glass hits the bottom of his lip, and he jerks away.
He shrugs and gulps down his drink. He’s trying. Wants things to feel normal. For you. For him.
“A couple of drinks won’t hurt, right?” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. The pub isn’t busy, it’s pretty small, and he feels comfortable. Everything will be okay. You’ll be okay. This is okay.
He loves watching you play pool; you’re good at it. You tell him, “Dive bars are good for things like teaching you pool.”
You look so good tonight. Alive, happy, relaxed. You bite your bottom lip every time you hit the ball, and it goes in almost every time. He stands behind you every time you go to shoot. He wants to feel you. Let everyone in this bar know that you’re his. There is no question. He feels good, too. Light. His chest isn’t tight; his eyes aren’t scanning every corner he's present. He’s with you. He’s hearing you drunkenly laugh and cheer. He’s tipsy.
He closes his eyes briefly. This feels good, so good. It could be like this forever.
And then.
He sees it.
You’re on the floor. Some belligerent, sweaty, pink-faced man standing over you yelling, “You cheated.”
The room goes completely quiet. Your voice is muffled. Blood on your hands. Glass stuck in the flesh. “What the fuck?!”
Everything is quiet. He can’t hear you. “Matt! Stop, stop,” You're sobbing. “You’re going to kill him, oh my god.” You’re pulling his shoulder back, but his fists keep going. He doesn’t look like himself. There isn’t any life behind his eyes.
A bouncer finally gets Matt off him. The guy lies groaning on the floor. Eyes puffy. Nose broken. Blood. Lights are blinding you; people are recording. They’re recording.
You’re being dragged out of the club, and your heels are hitting the cobblestone. Matt’s pacing. His hand is bruised. You reach for him, and he pulls back and grabs your face. “You’re okay?” His pupils are blown. There is blood on your face. “Fuck,” He holds your hands, and they are shaking shards of glass sticking to your palm. “Fuck,” He says louder this time. “We need to get you home, now.” He looks up at you.
You look pale. You’ve never seen someone get beaten like that. You’ve never seen Matt like that. The same Matt who made you pancakes this morning. The Matt that does your laundry and cleans your kitchen. The Matt that keeps lists of all the food you like or dislike.
Your Matt.
“You’re scared of me?” He breathes through his nose. You shake your head no. “We have to go.”
You cry as Matt picks the glass out of your hands over the kitchen sink. You can’t even pinpoint what you’re crying about, but the tears won’t stop. The sting of your palms. The sound of his fists. The way the bar went silent. All of it.
Matt’s eyes are wild, his breathing heavy. He keeps closing them like he’s trying to shut something out, but it only drags him deeper. The blood on your skin is reminding him. The weight of it. The smell.
He can’t go there. Not now. Not with you like this.
I’m in Paris. I’m in Paris. With my girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
“Girlfriend,” he whispers out loud this time, like saying it might anchor him. His hands shake as he pulls the last shard of glass free.
You flinch. His breath stutters.
For a second, he doesn’t know if he’s here with you, or somewhere else entirely.
“Girlfriend.” You repeat it, your voice thick. His eyes flick up to you, and he nods.
He breaks. His face hot and ugly with tears as he squeezes you so tight you think you might suffocate. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His face buries into your neck, his breath ragged, panicked. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been protecting you, fuck, I’m sorry.”
“I-I’m okay, he was drunk… he only pushed me, I’m okay.” You whisper into his temple, stroking his hair like it might calm him. “It’s okay.”
Matt pulls back, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His voice cracks. “W-we have to clean your hands. So they don’t get infected.”
“Look at me.” You reach for his jaw, but he turns away.
“I can’t.”
“Please.”
Slowly, his eyes lift. Red, broken, glistening.
“You can’t save everyone, Matt.”
Matt wrapped your hands so much you look like a mummy. You told him it wasn’t necessary. You didn’t win that fight.
You both know what’s coming. The publicity. The headlines.
Heiress’s boyfriend/bodyguard goes crazy.
But that’s tomorrow.
That isn’t right now. That’s hours from now.
Tonight is Matt kissing your collarbones. Tonight, is Matt holding you in his lap, looking at you like you’re the only thing in his world. Tonight, is Matt telling you he has never loved anyone as much as he loves you. Tonight is Matt telling you he can’t live without you. He can’t.
“Maybe my dad isn’t going to be that mad,” you whisper into the dark. You can feel his eyes on you. “You are my bodyguard. You were protecting me.”
“I would have killed him. Your dad isn’t going to understand that. Plus, you got hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Go to sleep, baby.” He moves closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve had a long night. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want you to leave.” Your voice cracks, and Matt wraps his arms around you.
“I’m right here,” he whispers.
The knock is loud. Harsh.
Matt’s already awake, perched on the side of the bed, shoulders ridged. He doesn’t need to check the peephole. He knows.
Your dad doesn’t wait to be let in. He’s already in the hallway, words sharp enough to cut.
“What the hell happened last night?”
You and Matt step into the living room together — your bandaged hands at your sides, Matt’s hoodie drowning you.
“Dad—”
“Don’t.” His finger slices the air. His gaze snaps to Matt. “You. Out. You’re done.” His voice shakes with fury, his hands, too.
Matt doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move. He just swallows hard, jaw clenched tight.
Your hands are on his arm immediately, your body in front of his like you can protect the protector. “No, he’s not leaving.” Your voice wavers. “You don’t get to decide that! He was protecting me.”
“Then who the fuck does?” your dad spits. “Protecting you? You call breaking a man’s face protection? You call letting my daughter bleed in a bar protection? He’s done. Making our family look fucking stupid.”
“Stop it!” you scream, tears stinging. “He’s good to me!” Your voice cracks, your lip trembling. “He’s staying. He’s staying.”
Your dad shakes his head, wiping a hand over his face, disbelief etched into every line.
And then — finally — Matt speaks.
“He’s right.”
It’s like the air is ripped from your lungs. Your head whips to him, eyes wide.
“I crossed a line.” His voice is low, raw, his eyes red and glassy. “I can’t let that happen again. Not with you.”
“Matt, have your things packed and be out by noon.” Your dad’s voice is stone. The slam of the door echoes.
Matt’s hands find your face instantly, thumbs brushing your tears. His own voice breaks. “I’ll wait. It’s only a year, right? I chose you. I’m choosing you. I’ll wait for you.”
The apartment stood freezing and bare as Matt left. You’ve seen this too many times—his boots walking out the door, that look on his face. But this time, he was crying. That was different.
The drive feels endless. Your sweaty back sticks to the leather seats. Your dad’s voice echoes in your mind, but you shove it down and flip on the radio. And it starts. Like a dream:
“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they’re here to stay…”
It makes you cry harder, but you keep it on. You picture your mom dancing in the living room, wonder if she was escaping, too. Had you been too hard on her?
Your mind drifts back to the dream. The baby. Matt.
Matt whispering girlfriend like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Matt choosing you when no one else ever had.
Until him.
The trees look familiar now. The diner with sticky kids running around. The sign: JIMMY’S AUTO.
The driveway feels like a mirage. Too long, too steep. The gravel crunches under your tires when you finally pull up. His house sits small and gray against the Pennsylvania sky. Nothing has changed.
You knock. Once. Twice.
The door swings open. He’s standing there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair messy, eyes wide like he’s seeing a ghost. His mouth opens, then closes.
“I left.” Your voice trembles. “I left my dad, I left Paris. I don’t have anything with me. My dad cut me off. He said he would if I walked away, and I did. I don’t care about the money, or the fame, or any of it. You chose me, Matt.” Your breath hitches. “You chose me. I want the house, I want babies, I want the house that smells like pancakes.”
His lips part. “What are you saying?” He blinks hard. “Pancake house?” His tongue wets his bottom lip.
“Matt, don’t fuck with me.” You sniffle.
And then he laughs—like he’s been waiting his whole life to. “You wanna have my babies? Live in a house that smells like pancakes with me?”
You nod, feeling small.
“You’re giving up your life.” His voice is rough as he cups your face, thumb catching your tears.
You step closer, steady. “No. I’m starting it.”
He pauses. For a second, your stomach turns itself inside out, bracing for him to tell you this is a mistake. But then his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours, desperate and shaking, and you realize—he always chose you.
To believe you were unlovable was carved into your bones since you were an infant feeding from a breast. To think he could never be put first was the first lesson he was taught. But when his lips met yours, you felt it crack. The old stories, the curses, the bones–they split open.
For once, you were chosen.
For once, he was first.
Yesterday was gone.
[a/n: the more i sit with this the more i will give myself a reason not to love it. this is the last part of the series and my heart actually hurts. these two have become an everyday part of my life and i love them so much. i can only hope good things for the both of them and i hope they can break the curses they were so unfairly put under at such young ages. i can't thank you all enough! everyone who has interacted has made me so happy. i hope this ending is good for you all.]
SUMMARY → Moving in with two men is an adjustment to say the least. A list of rules are made, but will they be broken?
WARNINGS → Read at your own risk. Series will contain mature themes. Smut, angst, and love triangle aspects.
NOTES → I suck at making descriptions but I swear this will be good. This chapter will be the shortest and it’s mostly just plot but this series will be very fast paced and FULL of smut. Comment if you wanna be added to the taglist and let me know your thoughts…
[ PARTS: ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN ]
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ 𓏵
Dragging your suitcase down the hall feels heavier than it should. Maybe because this isn’t just about hauling clothes and notebooks—it’s about shoving yourself into a space that doesn’t really belong to you.
Nick had been cool about it.
“My room’s free while I’m gone. Better than dealing with your psycho roommate.”
He’d said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal to swap rooms in the middle of the semester, like it wasn’t a big deal to suddenly be sharing a roof full-time with his brothers.
But stepping into his room feels…different.
Cleaner than yours, sure. A little drafty, like he always left the window cracked. The walls are bare except for a couple of Polaroids tacked up crooked, and the bed smells faintly of his cologne—sharp, citrusy. Homey, but borrowed.
You drop your bag at the foot of the bed, brushing dust from your palms. That’s when you see it.
A piece of notebook paper taped to the desk, Sharpie bleeding through the other side. In block letters, like it’s an official proclamation:
THE OFFICIAL ROOMMATE RULEBOOK
You squint. “What the…”
Before you can peel it off, two shadows fill the doorway.
Matt grins immediately, eyes darting from you to the paper like he’d been waiting for you to notice it. “Oh, you found it.”
Chris leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk already in place. “Of course he made one.”
You groan. “Please tell me Nick did not actually—”
Matt plucks the sheet from the desk and holds it up like a sacred text. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present: Nick’s last will and testament.”
Chris scoffs. “More like his desperate attempt to keep you from destroying his room.”
You throw a pillow at him. “I haven’t even unpacked yet.”
Matt clears his throat dramatically, reading from the page. “Rule number one: No eating in bed.”
He lowers the paper just enough to grin at you. “Yeah, you’re screwed. I’ve literally seen you annihilate a whole bag of pretzels in one sitting.”
“That was one time,” you mutter, stomach twisting at the memory of crumbs all over your old comforter.
Chris’s laugh is low, smug. “One time this week, maybe.”
“Shut up,” you snap, but he only leans lazier against the frame, looking irritatingly comfortable.
Matt continues in his best booming voice. “Rule number two: No fighting.”
Chris perks up. “Guess you’ll last about… a day?” He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Maybe less.”
“Funny,” you deadpan. “Maybe Nick should’ve written ‘no antagonizing your roommates’ too.”
Chris’s smirk widens. “Wouldn’t stop me.”
You roll your eyes, motioning for Matt to keep reading.
“Rule number three: No borrowing clothes without asking.”
Matt’s eyes flick immediately to your suitcase—where his gray hoodie sits right on top. He raises a brow, grin tugging at his lips.
Chris, of course, twists the knife. “Wow. Didn’t even make it past day zero.”
You yank the hoodie deeper into the bag. “It’s comfortable. Sue me.”
Matt laughs softly, letting it slide. Chris looks way too pleased with himself.
“Rule number four: No sitting in each other’s beds,” Matt reads, chuckling. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Because Chris is territorial,” you shoot back.
Chris shrugs. “Wouldn’t want you contaminating my sheets.”
“Like I’d want to.”
His smirk says otherwise.
“Rule number five: No flirting with your roommates.” Matt waggles his eyebrows.
“Oh my god,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Nick is so delusional.”
“Or cautious,” Chris says smoothly. “He knows how dangerous you are.”
You blink. Dangerous? Heat creeps up your neck before you can stop it. Matt snorts at your expression, but Chris doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you too long, like he enjoys the way the word lingers.
Matt quickly moves on. “Rule number six: No staying up past midnight together.”
“That’s not a rule,” you argue. “That’s a curfew.”
Chris’s voice is quieter this time, almost challenging. “What, you planning on breaking that one with me?”
“Dream on,” you mutter, throat tight.
And then Matt grins, clearly saving the best for last. “Rule number seven: No falling in love with your roommates.” He bursts out laughing. “Classic Nick. He’d rather put it in writing than risk the drama.”
You lunge for the paper, but Matt holds it just out of reach until you finally snatch it away. “This is so stupid.”
“Stupid but accurate,” he teases, stretching. “He knows us too well.”
You smooth the crumpled page, ready to shove it in a drawer and never think about it again. But Chris hasn’t moved from the doorway. His arms are still crossed, his expression unreadable now.
Then, slowly, he tilts his head. A smirk tugs at his mouth—sharper this time, like a blade catching light.
“Rules are meant to be broken anyway,” he says softly.
Not teasing. Not really.
And for the first time since Nick handed you the spare key, a knot of nerves twists low in your stomach. Because the way Chris is looking at you?
It doesn’t feel like a joke at all.
• NEXT PART DROPS TOMORROW @ 8 PM EST
Paige’s Notes . . . I hope this wasn’t ass. Let me know your thoughts and check my pinned post for my navigation !
Taglist (comment to be added) - @bernardsbloopers @sunnysturn @missm333 @chrissturniolodailysluts @babydollrafe @lyingonchris @delilahsturniolo @chrissfavhoe @matts-wife @sturniolowhoreship @sabprincess @kynterlude @runningupagorahills @delulumonk
warnings: kissing, drinking, mentions of smoking, dry humping, oral (f receiving), pinv (wrap before u tap trust me), breeding, dirty talk, fluff and a teensy bit of angst.
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you realized that matt had stopped bothering to text you back, and at first you thought he was busy or distracted to text you back. but as weeks went by you were getting annoyed. when you woke up you had saw that matt blocked you on every social media platform.
it's been a day since matt had block you, and all these thoughts running through your head retracing everything you had done to make him block you. and then one came in mind.
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it was late at night, and you were drunk and just at a party with your friends. you didn't know that your ex would be there, at first you thought you mistook him for someone else, but you didn't.
there he was your ex who you dumped because he cheated on you, and you decided to not take that shit anymore. matt comforted you and supported you through the entire thing.
your ex spotted you and walked towards you. at first, he was lying through his teeth about how sorry everything ended. you were drunk so you obviously didn't see shit except for how hot he looked. matt was watching you two like an eagle. jaw clenched and anger radiating out of his body.
at first you were mostly blocking out your ex's words not caring about a single thing, next thing you knew he was grabbing your waist and kissing you. you were shocked and then pulled away from the kiss, unbelievable you thought to yourself.
matt had watched as your ex took advantage of you, but he left before he saw you pull back from the kiss. he was furious and he couldn't make a scene. he was just thinking about how you could do that to yourself, before getting to know what actually happened.
you didn't know if matt was watching you, you expected to tell him about what just happened. but as you searched the house, you couldn't find him.
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"he blocked me cause of that?" you whispered to yourself, you sat up out your bed as you looked at your phone seeing the party that your friend sent to you.
you got up and took a shower and started getting ready, as you got out the shower you started getting ready. you blow dried your hair then you got a message from the same friend who sent you the party post.
"just heard matts going and you are NOT getting out this, love ya"
"adeline what the actual FUCK"
you put down your phone as she hearted the message, you groaned to yourself knowing damn well you would still go to this party. you put on a white skirt and matched it with a pink laced shirt; you started putting on your white converse and then started your makeup.
as you finished your makeup you did your hair and simply straightened it, you put on some cute gold hoops. you sit in your living room and wait for adeline to come pick you up.
she pulls into your driveway, and she texts you that she is waiting for you outside. you walk out and lock your door. you meet her in the car with a smile. "is matt really going to be there?" you ask her "i dont fucking know but i got a text from chris that they MIGHT go" she says "but i see you got all dolled up for him" you look at her, "shut the fuck up" you laugh.
on the drive there you and adeline start talking, you can't really focus on what she's saying. your mind too clouded on if matt will really be there. you start biting your lip, nervous what would happen if you actually did see him.
you and adeline arrive at the house, you see how packed it is. "this is so packed i thought it would be smaller" you said to adeline. you start getting out the car, feeling the cool breeze past your shoulders. you make your way towards the house feeling nervous. "who knows if he will be here and if he is so fuck him" adeline says. she holds your hand as you make way through the house.
"im gonna go get a drink" adeline says, she lets go of your hand as you just walk over to the couch sitting there waiting. you spot him over by the drinks and you look away feeling your chest tighten a bit. you sigh as you still see him in your peripheral vision, its like for whatever reason your world seems to revolve around him.
you keep darting your eyes back to him continuously, "why do i keep looking back at him" you thought to yourself. you couldn't hand all this without being buzzed or drunk, you walk towards the drinks. you look up to grab tequila when you see someone else's grabbing for it, you look up expecting the last person you though to grab it. there he was right in front of you.
you saw matt, you scoff and grab for something else as you sense his eyes burning into your skull. you start pouring vodka lemonade into a glass, once you lifted the cup you start chugging it like it was a shot. before you knew it, it was a vodka shot after another. the shots just started to blur.
once you finally decided you were done pounding back shots you walked away from the drink table, but as you were walking away you felt as if the world was spinning each step you took. before you knew it you were stumbling around, you made your way outside and decided to light a cigarette.
just as the lighter lit the cigarette someone pulled it out of your mouth, "hey i was smoking that" you say before turning to see who it was. once you had turned to look at who did that you saw matt. "why did you take MY cigarette out of MY mouth" you ask him. "because smoking's bad for you, you fucking idiot" matt replies sternly.
"yeah like you give a shit about my health." you say grabbing another cigarette, "would you fucking quit trying to smoke so damn much?" he replied. you scoff "you don't text me. you blocked me and ignored me, so why do you care if i smoke, it's not like you give a shit about me." you look at him tears brimming your eyes.
"i do give a shit, i give so many shits about you, it's exhausting. i don't think my body can psychically take how much i care about you. why do you think i stopped talking to you after seeing that dickhead kiss you?" he breathed out looking at you.
"matt if you were to stay for like five more seconds you would've seen all you needed to, i didn't even know he was going to kiss me. i genuinely thought he was making conversation, but he's just a dick." you say looking into his eyes. "when i saw you weren't texting back or the day i was blocked on everything i felt my entire world shift."
"matt" you breath out as he steps closer, he puts his hand on your face rubbing his thumb in a firming and soothing way. you lean into him instinctively, his breath hitches before you kiss him. at first its soft and gentle, scared of might pour into the kiss. slowly the kiss gets passionate not cause of lust but because of emotions built up year after year.
your hands find his way to his neck, pulling his head closer to yours. his hands find your waist tightening the grip every second, you don't even want to breath because matt himself is your oxygen. you pull back for a split second. he immediately pulls your body closer not sparing a second not tasting you.
you feel his heartbeat against your chest, he's the one to pull away this time, you two stare at each other for a moment. you star laughing "what". "nothing i just maybe have been dreaming about that for a while". "that makes two of us."
"does this mean you're going to unblock me on everything matthew?" you say biting back a smile, "yes yes it is shut up dont call me mathew". "also adeline is drunk as fuck and i have no ride home so can you drive me home or to your place?. "yes i will, wanna go now?".
"yes just let me tell adeline i'm leaving.". you walk into the party to tell adeline that you're leaving, and matt waits for you by the door. you soon walk over to him, and he walks to his car. he opens the door for you as he makes way to the driver's seat.
he starts the car, and he places one hand on your thigh and keeps the other on the wheel, "hi" you say "hi" he replies. you smile sheepishly as he starts driving home. you don't know where home is really but all you know matt is your home.
as he starts getting closer to his apartment, he traces his name onto your thigh softly. you suck in a breath trying not to make a sound, "you okay?". "yeah im good im okay" you smile. he pulls into his driveway and he turns off the car. you start to get out but he stops you, "wait". you see him run out the car and run to open the passenger door for you.
you laugh as he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, "matt i can walk i swear" you laugh. "nope not a chance". as he unlocks his front door he walks up the stairs and walks towards his room.
he lays you on the bed and asks you to sit up, he grab a pair of sweatpants and a large tshirt, he then proceeds to downstairs and grab you a glass of water. he soon comes up the stairs and hands you the glass of water. "drink up". you chug the water and you feel instantly relieved of the pounding in your head.
"thank you". you then grab the clothes he laid out for you, and you walk to his bathroom to change. you soon then wash your face with his facewash. you leave his bathroom and see him on the bed shirtless with sweatpants on. you get easily flustered and turn around quickly. you turn back around slowly, and you walk towards him.
you lay down on the bed next to him and all your worries drift away as you lay on his chest, "you like seeing me shirtless huh?" he teases. you slap his chest "shut up". you slowly drift asleep. a few minutes before matt had fallen asleep, but for those few minutes he admired you and how soft you had looked. he was watching you sleep because damn he was in love.
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the next morning you woke up and saw matts face buried into the pillows, you saw his lower body moving. you heard a slight whimper and groan coming from his mouth, at first you couldn't really realize what was happening. but when he moaned your name, it clicked instantly.
you pressed your thighs together hoping it would relieve the pressure building in your core. you sighed, and you looked at him and you whispered his name like it was delicate. he groaned slowing his movements, he looked up at you pupils blown, flushed face and furrowed brows.
you grab his face, and you kiss him passionately. hunger devouring the kiss as you both crave each other, the kiss is raw, hungry and passionate. you start tugging his hair and he moans slightly in your mouth. you swallow his moan as you whimper into his mouth.
he then picks you up by your waist, making you straddle his lap. you keep kissing each other, the kiss getting hungrier by the second. he trails his hand up your thigh and presses his fingers against your clothed clit. "oh matt" you moan.
you take off your sweatpants and he takes his off, he pulls you into a kiss and your hips rut into his instinctively and he groans holding onto your waist. whilst his hands are on your waist, he moves your hips back and forth.
"shitt" he moans, you gasp for air feelings the sensation of his tip rubbing against your clit. a small layer of fabric separating you two, you whimper as you move your hips on your own. "matt”. "i know i know baby let go cmon give it to me". those words alone made the sensation bubbling up inside of you explode. you fall into the crook of his neck moaning and whimpering his name. he soon follows his high and ends up making a mess in his boxers.
he soon flips you onto your back and trails kisses from your neck down to your thighs, he looks up at you "may i?". you nod and he slowly takes off your panties to the point where its excruciating. he discards your panties onto the floor, and he peppers kisses up and down your thighs so close to where you need him the most.
he hungrily attacks your clit, you arch your back feeling his tongue swirl around your bundle of nerves. you whimper slightly at the feeling. he then slides two fingers inside of you and curls them at the right spot. you grab his hair and force his face farther in, "matt matt oh my god!" you whine.
his fingers curling even more, you start seeing stars with so much pleasure coursing through your entire body. a knot starts forming in your stomach, matt feels you clenching around his fingers. "wanna give me another one and be a sweet girl hm?". you nod your head as you arch your back more, the knot in your stomach snaps as you moan. your legs start shaking, matt comes up from your legs mouth drenched in your juices.
"i bet you want another one hm?. i nod my head "my greedy girl". his boxers pool to his ankles as he steps out of them. he flips you on your stomach and you get up on all fours. he puts his swollen tip at your entrance collecting the juices as his tip drags up and down, the feeling alone made you whimper.
he slips in, inch by inch making you feel all of him. he groans as he rests his hand on your waist. sliding in slowly you feel pleasure radiating off your body, he bottoms out and he moans. you grab the sheets feeling all of him inside of you. he slowly starts moving holding himself back.
he starts picking up the pace. and every time he did, he hit the spot that would make you go dumb. "oh my god matt" you moan. his hand on your waist tightens as he goes faster. "look at that, my greedy girl clenching around me." he groans. his head falls back when your cunt squeezes him, "shit princess, if you keep doing that ill cum on the spot." he remarks. you nod your head not understanding a word he said.
every time his tip hit that spot you got dumber and dumber, he sees you clenching around him tighter this time. "y'wanna cum hm?" he teases. you nod your head, "words pretty girl cmon". "yes matt please let me cum" you plead. "atta girl, go ahead baby make a mess on my dick" you fell into the pillows a whimpering mess as you came all over his dick. soon after he came, filling you up with his load.
he slowly pulls out of you. he puts on a new pair of boxers and sweatpants, he grabs a damp warm cloth. he flips you on your back gently. "spread your legs sweetheart." you spread your legs, and he cleans you up. you wince at the contact still sensitive. he pulls away and grabs you sweatpants and a hoodie. "lift your arms" you lift your arms as he removes your shirt. he puts the hoodie on you and soon after puts the sweatpants on you.
he gets you a sprite and some extra blankets, he grabbed a few cookies and some hot cheetos. you laid down in bed after eating some cookies and munching on the hot cheetos, matt pulls you against his chest and kisses the top of your head.
he puts on superbad, you lay against his chest. you look up at him, you grab his face, and you kiss him everywhere. he laughs and smiles. he kisses you on the lips.
"so you gonna unblock me on everything now?"
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a/n: lowk trash and lowkey short and i lowk hate this.
@slushysturniolo @55sturn
lowk dont have anyone else to tag cs ik this is gonna flop LOL
pairing. dbf!matt x fem!reader.
genre. smut, porn with plot, dads best friend au.
word count. 10.2k
❝i can't give you what you need... but i can play with you.❞
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 it’s wrong—maybe not by the law, but by every unspoken rule that society silently agrees on. The kind of rule that doesn’t need to be said out loud because everyone just knows. Still, that doesn’t stop you from fantasising about Matt: your dad’s best friend.
He’s younger than your dad, who’s 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… he’s older than you.
He’s in his late thirties, head full of dark, overgrown hair that’s 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 mom’s comforting arms and warm, hearty cooked meals.
You expected to see that exact comfort when you arrived, that familiar sight of your parents curled up on the couch—maybe a movie playing in the background—or even them in the kitchen while something homemade cooked on the stove.
Instead, you stepped into something completely different.
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 didn’t recognise, the two of them drinking Modelos and watching a basketball game that’s blaring from the TV, and
And that was when you saw him—Matt. 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 eyes—light blue, piercing, observant—flicked 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.
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 weren’t insecure—at 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 you’d dressed up a little bit, or at least made an effort.
When your dad introduced you to him, calling him ‘the new kid from work’ 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 wouldn’t notice.
Matt gave you a kind, straight-toothed smile as he repeated his name to you with his own introduction, and your heart jumped—actually skipped a few beats—and 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 parents—thanks to the generous time off you’d somehow wrangled from work (something you’d absolutely have to make up for later with apologies and taking on extra shifts)—Matt was around a lot more than you’d 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 you’d find them both out in the garden after work with beers in hand. And he’d 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 couldn’t 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.
No wife. No kids. Lives alone in an apartment downtown. He’s 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 they’d help you understand him, or at least, stop thinking about him so much.
But the more you knew, the worse it got.
It didn’t 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 flutter—along with something else too.
You’d 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, he’d dip his head with a small smile—polite and kind—then his eyes would flick to you briefly before he turned to find your dad.
You didn’t blame your friends. You really didn’t. Honestly, you’d do the same if you could… but you couldn’t. Matt isn’t just some godly attractive older man in your dad’s house. He was literally your dad’s best friend—a close family friend, even.
The off-limits sign was practically flashing in neon red above his head, and it weighed heavy on your shoulders.
You knew it was wrong—or at least, it felt wrong. But knowing that didn’t make any of the thoughts you had go away. It didn’t 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.
It made your stomach twist uncomfortably with panic. So, you made a plan. You tried to ignore him. No eye contact. No glances. No ‘accidental’ passing by him. Nothing. A full-on Matt detox.
… It worked for a day.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
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.
“Hi, Matt.”
And then, there was the garden incident.
You’d 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 you’d usually find yourself someplace different than this.
That was when you heard it.
“You missed a spot.” It was his voice again, teasing and light. Too casual. Too fucking close.
You’ve 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 needed—various 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 you’d never seen him. You weren’t 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 Matt’s head lifted.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
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.
“You’re in my way,” you said, keeping your tone light—teasing, 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. “All yours.”
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, “Getting stuff for the barbecue?”
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.
Matt, of course, would be there.
Always invited.
Always welcomed.
“Yep,” 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 Matt’s 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 shouldn’t ask. You don’t need to ask. You have no right to ask. You shouldn’t be nosy. You’ve been taught not to snoop in someone's business.
“Why do you have flowers?”
Fuck. Your stupid mouth.
He looked up, barely blinking. “I’m going on a date tonight. Figured a bottle of wine and flowers would be good.”
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 didn’t even know who he was going out with.
It didn’t matter—shouldn’t matter—because you weren’t supposed to feel this way. But now? Now, all you could think about was what those flowers would look like in someone else’s 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 you’d imagined he’d 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 you’d felt in every dream?
You wished—really wished—you had just turned around and pretended you never saw him.
“That’s nice,” you cringed the second the words left your mouth, how stiff and forced it sounded. You didn’t mean it, but Matt just hummed, unbothered, dropping the wine into his basket. “Is she nice?”
Matt shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven't met her yet. Your dad set me up with her.”
Well. Isn’t that just great?
You’re bitter, very much so.
When did your dad become a matchmaker? Was that always part of his job description? Full-time construction worker, part-time cupid? Should’ve 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 you’ll catch the bouquet—probably the same flowers from Matt’s 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 Matt’s arm like she belongs there? Like she fits? Like she’s always been meant to stand beside him?
What if she’s in your kitchen, sipping your mom’s wine, listening to Matt tell a story you’ve already heard over dinner—one that made you smile?
And you’ll just be there, awkward, out of place in your own home while you watch someone else live the fantasy you’re not allowed to have.
You swallowed, hard. She won’t even know what she’s taken from you. Technically, she hasn’t 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 gathering—maybe 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, you’re fine. You’re five shots and three White Claws into fine. You’re 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 food’s ready.
But your attention catches elsewhere when you see a figure in your peripheral vision.
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.
You shoved your sunglasses up your forehead quickly, squinting through slightly blurred vision to make sure you weren’t hallucinating, but the sudden excited giggling and hushed whisper of his name from your friends beside you answered the question before you could.
It’s him.
It’s actually Matt.
He walked up to your dad and uncles, and he greeted your dad in that way only close friends do—all claps on the back and inside jokes—then 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 he’d 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.
“He’s so hot,” one of your friends groaned beside you, throwing her head back dramatically. “Like, painfully hot. It’d commit crimes for that man.”
“Same,” another friend muttered.
You didn’t even think before you opened your mouth. “Me too.”
It just slipped out. No hesitation, no filter. You’re 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.
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 present—but you weren’t.
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 wasn’t the most attractive thing in the world.
Matt hadn’t looked at you once. Not that you expected him to, either. You weren’t that delusional. (you kind of are)
Why would he look at you?
He was too busy. As if he hadn’t nearly shattered your fragile heart in the alcohol aisle the other day or as if he hadn’t told you he was going on a date while holding a fucking bouquet of flowers in his basket.
You wanted him to look at you, though.
Just once.
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 hips—low enough to make any boy flustered if they caught a glimpse.
But Matt wasn’t a boy. He was a man.
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 wasn’t helping, neither was the heat. You pushed up from the lounge chair, telling your friends you’d be back shortly as you moved.
You didn’t 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 spine—the 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.
“Thirsty?”
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.
You were frozen, not because he finally looked at you, or even talked to you, but because he’s fucking shirtless. When the fuck did that happen?
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 weren’t breathing. You forgot how. There’s 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. “You okay, sweetheart?”
You swallowed thickly, “Fine.” There’s no fucking way your voice just cracked. “I’m fine.”
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 own—opening drawers, checking cabinets, grabbing paper plates like he was your family’s butler.
When you finally dared to look up, you caught him standing still, swaying on his feet as he stared down at the bag of chips in his head, reading the label. It hit you like déjà vu, and you were thrown back in the grocery store aisle again—him in that same pose, holding a wine bottle hand with the flowers in the basket.
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 you’ve imagined happening to yourself when you’re alone?
“How did the date go?” 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 you—something sharp and uncomfortable. “Did you have fun? Did she like the bottle of wine and flowers?”
“You know,” he said slowly as he looked up from the bag of chips, brows raised slightly as it crinkled in his hands. “This is one of the longest conversations you’ve had with me since you’ve been home. And both times, they’ve been about my date,” he chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “You’re definitely your dad’s kid—nosy.”
Well. You would’ve preferred if he just called you out, said you were jealous and that your feelings were obvious. That would’ve 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.
“You’re the one who brought it up the first time.” you clipped back, inwardly telling yourself to shut up as you can hear your tone get blunt and mean.
“You’re the one who asked why I have flowers.”
“And you’re the one who came alone without said date,” you couldn’t 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. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well, then?”
There was a moment of silence before the chips in his hand crinkled soft, filling the air, and Matt’s 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. “Didn’t realise you were keeping such close tabs on me. You want a copy of my calendar too?”
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.
“No,” you replied. “I just figured since my dad set you up, she must’ve been perfect.”
That’s when you saw it—the 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.
“She was fine,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “It was fun, but not really my type.”
“Oh,” you muttered and blinked, your voice uncertain now. “And what is your type, then?”
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.
It started to get uncomfortable, awkward, and you wondered if you’d 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.
“You should drink more water,” he tossed over his shoulder casually as he walked toward the door. “You need to sober up.”
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 should’ve 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 lips—now 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?
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 didn’t 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.
It was a bad idea—a very bad one.
You shouldn’t have let your emotions get the better of you. You shouldn’t 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 edges—nothing 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 here—wobbling 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.
“Okay, come on. One foot first,” 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 weren’t for her motherly grip. “As funny as that would be, honey, we did work hard on those.”
“They’re so pretty,” you slurred, fingers grazing lazily over a sunflower, voice dreamy. You hiccupped, giggled, then continued. “Like you.”
Your mom tsked, rolled her eyes, and gave your arm a light smack. “Flattery won’t save you from ruining my flowers.”
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 until—crack.
Your forehead met the patio door like it had a personal vendetta against you.
“Shiiit,” 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 manage—even when their adult daughter is this drunk.
“Oh, honey…” she cooed. “That sounded like it hurt.”
It did. You were mid-whimper when a voice cut through the air.
“Do you need any help?”
No. Absolutely not. You didn’t 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.
“That’d be great, Matt. Thank you.”
He was closer now. You didn’t need to look. You could feel it—how the air shifted and grew heavier, warmer. Your skin prickled like it was trying to warn you, but your brain—fucking traitor—short-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 air—like 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 he’d already starred in her late-night fantasies.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you should’ve been mortified, but you couldn’t function when your cheek bumped against Matt’s 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 didn’t look at you, just focused on getting you inside while your insides were doing gymnastics.
“You’re so warm,” 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. You’ve 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 don’t care. You can work with it. You can adapt.
You’re still being carried, each step on the stairs made you jolt against him—rub against him—and it only made the fire in your stomach grow, your arousal heighten. You can’t stop staring at him, wondering if your half-lidded eyes and giddy expression was enough to find you attractive like you’d hoped it would.
Once he entered your room, the bed dipped beneath you as he placed you down, and you clung a little tight to his neck—half by accident, half by desire. His face hovered close—so close you could probably count his eyelashes if your vision wasn’t so fucking foggy, so close that if you tilted your chin up just slightly…
“Alright,” he said softly, his hands careful on your wrists as he pries your arms off him. “Time to lie down before you puke all over me, or something.”
“Would you like that?” you mumbled, gazed and way too close to giggling again as your drunken words spilled out. “Me puking?”
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 weren’t 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.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly. “You good?”
“You’re hot.” 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. “And you’re shirtless.”
Silence stretched between you again—heavy and heated. Your legs shifted, thighs pressed together as your body yearned for his touch. You weren’t even subtle about it, now. But you didn’t care.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss you,” you added, eyes locked to his own. You need to shut up. “I want to kiss you. Is that bad?”
His expression didn’t change at first, then something flickered behind his eyes, like he heard something he wasn’t supposed to but didn’t mind it. Your breath hitched at that, and then you leaned forward.
And you were kissing him.
It was clumsy—of 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 ways—slow and aching, fast and desperate, playful and breathless—but none of them prepared you for the buzz in your veins.
It didn’t 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 measured—like none of it just happened.
“I’ll get someone to bring some water up for you. Drink it when you wake up.”
Your stomach dropped. “Matt—”
“Goodnight.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left sitting there, stunned. The feeling of his lips still lingered on yours, but it wasn’t sweet anymore—it was shameful. It hit you when you realised he didn’t kiss you back, that he just stood there like a statue while you practically threw yourself at him, drunk and stupid.
It weighed heavier on your chest as you wrapped your arms, feeling the horror of what you’d just done creep up your spine. You could still feel the way his mouth hadn’t 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.
It’s 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.
You’ve been avoiding Matt ever since that night. You’re back on your Matt detox, the one you had during the beginning of your feelings. You’ve been successful so far—ducking out of rooms when he walks in, pretending to be on your phone when he’s nearby, finding interest in whatever the fuck you can find if you so much sense him in the same room.
It doesn’t help that your dad keeps inviting him over like he’s still part of the family, but that’s because he is. Your dad loves him, and your mom has a soft spot for him too.
You’re trying your best… and that’s all that matters. Even if it is a little awkward around the table during dinner where Matt’s been invited over. You still ignore him, still pretend like he isn’t there, and you hardly speak up in conversations unless it’s 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 you’re 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.
“Are you alright, honey?” her gentle, caring tone fills your ears, her concerned eyes meeting yours through the thin lenses of her glasses. “You haven’t really been yourself this past week. Is this about…” she trails off, and your heart skips a beat, wondering if she knows. “Is this about you leaving soon?”
So that’s what she thinks. She thinks it’s 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 dad’s best friend in a moment of weakness.
“Yeah,” you nod slowly, letting her believe you’re just sad to go. It’s easier than explaining the truth. “I can’t believe the time’s almost here already.”
Your mother frowns at your words, and her palms cup your cheeks in a tender embrace that instantly makes you feel better. “You know you’re always allowed to come visit. I think it’s good for you to be back here with us—you’re always happier when you’re home.”
That leaves an awful taste in your mouth. Not because she’s wrong, you are significantly happier when you’re back home. Or at least, you were. With the way this past week has been—how you’ve 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.
You swallow thickly, forcing yourself to smile. “I know, and I will. Promise.”
You’re 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.
That’s 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 isn’t much here as you didn’t 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.
You’re halfway through packing when a soft knock taps at your door—gentle, family. It sounds like your mom when she’s 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 you’re okay from your previous conversation, only to freeze.
It’s not your mom.
It’s Matt.
He stands in the doorway, one hand still resting on the doorknob, his blue eyes flicking down to where you’re 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 doesn’t say a word, and neither do you.
You’re hit with the memories from that night—the need for him, the kiss he didn’t reciprocate, his unnerving stillness before he walked away and left you behind, leaving you filled with shame and regret that you still can’t let go of.
You swallow hard, struggling to find your voice as you glance down at the floor, at your suitcase—anywhere but him.
“Your parents are gone to the store,” Matt says first to break the awkward tension, and your eyes dart to him in surprise at your parents' whereabouts. “Something about getting you a ‘goodbye’ cake.” He taps his thumb against the edge of the door. “You leaving in two days?”
You nod slowly, chewing the inner skin of your cheek to prevent you from talking to him—to keep up that Matt detox act—but you can’t, not when you’re stuck here in front of him like this. “Yeah. I’m going back to my place. Back to… my life.”
It’s Matt’s 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 you’re unsure what to feel.
The rational part of you demands you to speak up, to ask him what he’s doing and why he’s closing the door when this conversation should now be over with now, how there isn’t any need for him to be in your space this long if all he wanted to tell you was your parents are gone.
Yet, there’s 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.
“Look… about the night of the barbecue—”
“I’m sorry.”
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 wasn’t 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.
“I’m really sorry,” you emphasise, your voice quieter. “I was drunk, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I crossed a line. I made a mistake—a big one. I shouldn’t have done that to you, especially considering who you are to my family. That… that wasn’t fair.”
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.
“You were drunk,” he finally speaks with a nod, and his hands settle on his hips, his stance steady with pursed lips. “But I don’t think it was really a mistake, was it?”
Your head lifts, confused. “... what?”
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” 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. “No… it wasn’t a mistake. Because you even said it yourself, sweetheart. You’ve always wanted to kiss me.”
Oh.
Well, he’s 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.
“It was just drunk talk,” you try to save yourself, tilting your chin up a little to give yourself some confidence and bravery. “I was out of it. Didn’t know what I was talking about.”
The corners of Matt’s mouth twitch upward, “Right.”
“What are you doing right now?” you find yourself questioning him, feeling something bubble inside your tummy as heat fills your tone. “I already apologised to you. I owned up to what I did and I told you that it was wrong. And now you’re—what? Are you trying to humiliate me? Make me feel worse? Make fun of me?”
Matt’s half-smile fades, his eyebrows knitting together, “Woah, hey. Easy—”
“Are you trying to make me feel even more guilty?” you push, your voice cracking. “Because I already do, Matt. I feel like absolute shit for allowing my feelings—my emotions—get the better of me for kissing someone I shouldn’t have.”
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. You’re 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, “I’m not trying to humiliate you… and I’m not making fun of you either. I wouldn’t do that to you, sweetheart.”
You swallow but say nothing, watching as he takes a slow step forward, then another, like he’s giving you time to stop him.
“You think I didn’t kiss you back because I didn’t want to?” he continues, eyes flickering over your face. “Shit… do you think I haven’t noticed anything, either? The way you stare at me when you think I’m not looking? The way you get all flustered and shy when I talk to you? The way your…”
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.
“I’ve spent too many nights trying so hard not to think about how wrong it’d be if I did something about it,” he huffs a soft, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t walk out because I didn’t want you kissing me. I walked out because if I stayed, I would’ve done something worse.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You’re frozen yet again, unable to speak or move, replaying his words in your mind over and over again. To hear that he didn’t kiss you back not because he didn’t want to, but because he was worried about doing ‘something worse’...
What could that possibly mean? What could’ve been worse? Was it the same thing you’ve been imagining yourself late at night? Was it something even more than that?
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 breathless—yearning.
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.
“I can’t give you what you want,” 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. “But I can play with you.”
“Play with me?” you ask, the question scraping from the back of your throat as you blink at him. “What?”
“I’m not going to fuck you,” Matt says as he steps toward you, his fingers twitching at his sides. Your pussy throbs in dejection, your shoulders almost slumping. “I can’t cross that line. Not when I’m about to put one foot over just by touching you.”
“Can I kiss you again?” you whisper, your own fingers twitching at your sides the same way his did. “Will you kiss me back this time? Or will you walk out again?”
Matt’s jaw flexes as his eyes drop to your lips again for longer this time, like he’s measuring out all the ways this could definitely go wrong—and it can. He’s older than you. He’s your dad’s best friend. This isn’t right… but it feels right.
That’s when his hands cup your cheeks, firm and calloused, and you barely have enough time to inhale before his mouth finds yours. It’s urgent—heated—laced with everything he’d been holding back from the night and more, everything that you’ve 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, “This doesn’t leave this room, you hear me?” he rasps, tightening his hold on you. “We don’t have a lot of time, either.”
“Matt—”
“I’ll make you cum,” he interrupts you, and your mouth runs dry—although the place between your legs is anything but. “I’ll make you feel good, and then we won't speak of it again. We’re done. That’s it.”
You understand why he’s so serious with his instructions and demands, especially when you’re doing something as scandalous as this. But the thought of not bringing it up again—of being completely done with him—leaves a sour taste in your mouth, a rotten feeling in your chest.
But, you’re not going to complain. Not now. Not when he’s 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.
He’s 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 more—for skin on skin—but you gasp when you feel a sharp swat against your ass.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, palming and kneading the cheek that he hit. “Are you always this sensitive? Or is it because I get you so worked up, sweetheart?”
You don’t 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.
He starts to pull you a little until you’re forced up on your knees, your face still pressed into your pillow, tightening his grip as he mutters, “Good girl,” before moving his hands to the waistband of your pants, wasting no time in tugging them down your legs.
Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, banging against your ribcage, every beat pulsing through you. You can hardly believe this is real—his 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 you’ve 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 doesn’t get to see you so bare and vulnerable. But Matt’s hands tightens gently at your hips, grounding you in place, making sure you remain in position.
“Don’t hide from me,” he breathes, his voice low as his thumbs making slow, soothing circles into your hips. “I want to see everything. I need to give you this.”
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 that’s already—and embarrassingly so—dripping from your cunt, all ready for him.
You try not to focus on it, but it’s hard when being here, face down and ass up on your bed, naked below the waist, is all you’ve been dreaming about for so long that you even begin to second-guess yourself if this—right now—is 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.
“There we go,” 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. “Just relax. That’s all you need to do for me.”
“Shit…” 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.
“I know,” he croons, leaning down to place a kiss at the base of your spine. “You’re already so worked up… are you really this sensitive? I’ve barely done much.” The twist of his wrist as he pushes his finger deeper into you makes you gasp out loud and for your thighs to tremble. “Or are you just greedy?”
“I ju-just needed—mmph!” 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 him—to watch him do this to you.
“Needed what?” he asks, wanting you to continue.
Your voice comes out in a whine, “Needed more…”
Matt hums softly in response, nodding his head slowly as he mutters, “Greedy, then.”
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.
Yet, it’s 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.
You’re biting down on your pillow to muffle your moans despite there being no real reason to do so. It’s 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 whim—maybe you’re keeping quiet for her sake, then.
However, your quietness doesn’t 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 Matt’s face, finding it difficult with his arm keeping you down.
You’re stuck beneath him, surrendering yourself to the onslaught of pleasure, hearing the way his mouth and fingers work against you in tandem. And his moans—oh god, his moans. They’re filthy, rough, and gravelly. Unstopping and unforgiving, like tasting you is all he’s ever dreamt about. All he’s ever wanted and he can’t get enough.
Then, all together, it stops.
It stops so suddenly that you’re 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 they’re still, unmoving against your spongy walls that pulse around him desperately.
“M-Matt?” you croak out his name, afraid that he’d disappear completely if you called out any louder, or you’ll wake yourself up from a dream.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a chuckle, his voice dipping low as his fingers move subtly. “Can’t you feel me?”
You can. You really can—but you need more.
You raise your head weakly, turning it to the side to look at him, eyes bubbling with tears—the 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.
“There you are,” he whispers. “Pretty girl. You doing okay?”
“Why’d you stop?” 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.
“Just checking in on you,” he says, rubbing his thumb in soft circles. “Kept moving around too much, sweetheart. Need you to not move, yeah? Can you stay nice and still for me?”
“M’trying,”
“I know,” he coos, and he slowly starts to increase the movement of his fingers again, curling them up just right to have you moaning breathlessly. “Know you’re trying. But I need you to stay still. I want to enjoy this, too… be a good girl for me, yeah?”
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.
He’s gentle, but he’s still leaving his marks—marks for you to see and you only, a reminder to what’s happened between you both. And you make a promise to yourself to wear those with pride and honour.
(You’ll definitely trace those marks with your fingers later, reminiscing, possibly crying out of joy and shock because what the actual fuck.)
Matt’s 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 you’re a part of some badly filmed, over the top porno that’s deemed unrealistic.
But this is real—god, this is so real. Matt’s making you feel this way in your room, on your bed with just his hands and mouth alone… well, now you’re mourning over the fact you won’t be able to experience what it’s like being fucked by his cock.
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 like—
“Matt!”
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 you’re his last and only meal.
You’re squirming uncontrollably, unsure whether you’re trying to arch away from his relentless attack or gravitate towards it. You’re 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 that’s soon muffled by your pillow.
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.
When it’s 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 you’re pretty sure you’re not exactly in your own head right now. You feel lighter, airy, blissed out—gone.
(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: “Woman Found Deceased, Cause of Death: One Man’s Tongue and Fingers.”)
“You still with me, sweetheart?”
You blink slowly, cheek smushing against your pillow, bleary eyes peering up at him when he’s oh so kind enough to roll your boneless body onto your back. “Barely.”
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. “Was that a decent ‘goodbye’ gift, at least?”
“I kinda don’t want to ever leave, actually. Like never,” you stop for a beat, blinking. “This goodbye gift was way too effective. I might have to move back in. I live here again. It’s final.”
Matt huffs a laugh, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not how it was supposed to go, sweetheart.”
“Not as a king. Not as a god. But as a man stripped of everything but longing.”
⟢ Nsfw ahead! hades!matt, persephone!reader, plus-sized/mid-sized!reader, longing, yearning, mentions of prayer, touch, oral (f), bodily worship (aka sex). reader does have pubic hair and sorry if it's awkward but likeee....we talking greek goddesses, they was not out here shaving. #freethebush
this was inspired by a bot on cai, so cred to the creator on there! also, the story between these two is different than the original tale!
divider cred me.
The God of the Underworld felt something unfamiliar—weakness. It was a sensation he had never known, and all because of a mere goddess. She was light, and he was shadow—born of darkness, ruler of it. And yet, he wanted her. No, he needed her. From the moment he first heard her laughter—delicate and bright, drifting through Olympus on the golden winds of Apollo, her scent wrapped within it—something stirred inside him. For the first time, he smiled. A flicker of warmth sparked in the depths of his being, a light he didn’t know he was capable of holding.
Demeter noticed it instantly—the way his eyes followed her daughter, the way he looked at her as if no other goddess dared exist in the same space. There was hunger in his gaze, but something softer too, something far more dangerous. The Lord of the Underworld had set his sights on Persephone, and Demeter would not let darkness claim her light.
“He’s no good,” she said, her voice low and sharp like a blade. “He’s not just cold—he’s cruel. Twisted. You are spring itself, and he is rot. It would never work. He’d snuff out your warmth, drain the life from you like he’s drained it from everything else.”
Demeter’s words rooted themselves deep in her daughter’s mind, planted like seeds of warning. Persephone’s desire to please her mother was strong—perhaps too strong.
She tried to drive him away. Tried to shatter whatever hold he believed she had on him. When he came near, she met him with fire—screaming, cursing, warning him to stay back. Her threats were fierce, desperate, laced with the fear she refused to admit. But he never wavered. No matter how cruel her words, no matter how cold her eyes, he did not flinch. His eyes held no anger, only something far more dangerous—devotion.
He wanted her. Fiercely, completely. No mother's disapproval, no boundary drawn in sunlight could change the truth burning in his immortal chest: she was his desire, his undoing, and he would not let her slip from his grasp.
He became obsessed.
A shadow in her life, slipping into every moment she thought was hers alone. She felt him before she saw him—always watching, always near. He haunted her days like a whispered promise, impossible to ignore. And though she tried to deny it, something about his presence stirred her curiosity. His darkness frightened her… but his patience and control fascinated her even more.
He was never known for patience or control. He acted on impulse, ruled by emotion rather than reason. That was the version of him she had grown up hearing—cruel, volatile, incapable of gentleness. But the man who stood before her now didn’t match the stories.
He was still fierce, yes—but quiet. Watchful. There was a weight in his gaze, not hunger. A steadiness in his presence that unsettled her, not because it frightened her—but because it didn’t.
It wasn’t adding up.
And so, with caution in her breath and hesitation in her steps, she began—slowly—to let him in.
The island where she had grown up—bathed always in warmth and wild beauty—was now slipping into twilight. The air hummed softly with life; mythological and mortal creatures alike rustled through the trees, their songs growing quieter as they prepared for sleep. Golden leaves swayed gently in the evening breeze, whispering secrets only the gods could hear.
By a secluded stream, the young goddess- disregarding her toka- waded into the lukewarm water, its touch wrapping around her like silk. She lowered herself slowly, letting the calm wash over her, the weight of the day dissolving with each ripple.
Above her, the sky blazed with a fading fire—sunset cascading over the island in brilliant shades of orange and rose. The water sparkled beneath its glow, as if kissed by starlight before the night had even begun.
She knew he was watching.
Hidden in the dimming edge of the woods, just beyond the reach of golden light, he lingered like a secret the island refused to keep. She felt him there—the chill in the breeze that kissed her shoulder, the stillness in the trees when everything else moved. His gaze clung to her as she bathed, quiet and consuming.
And she let it.
She let him see her, all of her—not with shame, not with fear, but with a strange calm. There was no urgency in his watching, no crude desire. Only devotion, intense and wordless. He saw her not as something to possess, but something to revere.
And for a moment, she felt like more than a goddess.
His eyes followed the graceful line of her spine, the soft curve of her hips, the way the water traced the hollows and heat between her thighs. She was art made flesh—divine and untouchable. Her scent floated to him on the breeze—sweet nectar and blooming petals—and it hit him like a spell. He groaned, low and quiet, a sound born of hunger and something deeper, something desperate.
Before he could think, his body betrayed him. His feet moved toward the stream, slow and certain, as if drawn by an invisible thread. His heart pounded against his ribs, wild and unrelenting, like a storm building beneath his skin.
“Hades...”
The sound of his name on her lips sent a harsh shiver up his spine. Her voice—soft, silken, and unbearably sweet—was the cruelest kind of torture. A melody wrapped in thorns. It undid him.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Gods weren’t supposed to want. They weren’t meant to need. Desire was for mortals—fleeting, foolish.
But here he stood.
Wanting her.
Needing her.
More than he’d ever needed anything in his immortal existence.
He moved toward her, silent and sure, the cool water rising to soak his pants. The fabric clung to him, heavy and forgotten. He didn’t care. All that mattered was her—glowing like molten gold in the fading light, back turned, skin bare and damp with river water.
He would’ve waded through the River of Styx if she asked, he would drown himself if she told him, give up his crown without hesitation.
He said nothing. The stream rippled softly around them, the hush of twilight thick in the air. She didn’t turn, but she felt him—every inch of his presence pressing against her back like a breath not yet exhaled.
Her pulse fluttered. She remained still, though her body betrayed her, chest rising faster, fingers twitching at her sides.
He stood just behind her now, close enough that her warmth brushed against him, close enough to reach out and touch—but he didn’t.
Because this—this moment—was hers to command.
“I hear you every night,” she said softly, her fingers gliding through the surface of the stream, sending delicate ripples out into the fading light. “Praying to me. Worshipping me like a mortal worships the gods.”
She didn’t look at him. Her gaze remained locked on the horizon, where the sun bled into the water and dusk kissed the edges of the sky. But her voice—low, knowing—struck him harder than any blade.
His breath caught in his throat.
Her words, quiet as they were, peeled him open.
His bright blue eyes shimmered, not with power, but with something far rarer: vulnerability. She had unmasked him, laid bare the secret devotions he whispered when no one else could hear—words not meant to reach her ears, prayers born not of duty, but of need.
“I hear the longing,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “The yearning—the ache in your voice when you call for me in the dark. Wishing I could be yours. Wishing you could hold me close.”
Her fingers drifted over the water’s surface, rippling the quiet like whispered secrets.
“It comes to me just before I close my eyes,” she continued, never turning to meet him. “Your words—soft, raw, full of a devotion no god dares speak aloud. So fragile, it feels almost like a lullaby.”
A faint, knowing smile curved her lips.
Behind her, his breath caught, his bright blue eyes shimmering with a vulnerability he had long hidden. She had heard him—all of him.
“You crave me,” she said quietly, the words curling through the air like smoke. “But not in lust… in something more.”
A soft splash broke the silence.
She turned—slowly, gracefully—and found him there.
Hades. On his knees in the water.
The god who ruled death now knelt before her, soaked to the waist, his frame trembling with restraint. His eyes—usually so cold, so unreadable—blazed with something raw. Something human.
Desperation. Worship. Need.
And then, the words began to pour out.
Not the thunder of a king, not the commands of a god—but prayers. Soft, broken things. Fragments of the quiet devotions he thought no one could hear. They spilled from his lips now, one after another, stripped bare and trembling, rising like incense into the fading light.
He had hidden it for so long.
But now, before her, he gave it all away.
And he never looked more mortal than in that moment.
His voice shook as it left him, barely louder than the water around them.
“I speak your name every night as the world above sleeps,” he whispered, eyes never leaving hers. “Not as a king. Not as a god. But as a man stripped of everything but longing.”
The island seems to stop breathing, everything around them silent, almost as if it were listening.
“I pray for your warmth to reach the hollows I rule,” he went on, breath unsteady, “I ache for your light to touch even the edges of my darkness, to be worthy to bask in it. I crave your voice… not to command me, but to calm me. I crave you. Not to possess. Not to own. But to be near. To belong to something pure, something warm. Something alive.”
His hands stayed clenched at his sides, trembling beneath the water. The urge to touch her was overwhelming—bone-deep and maddening. To trace the line of her collarbone, to cup her face, to let his fingertips memorize the warmth of her skin.
But he didn’t move.
He wouldn’t.
Because this wasn’t about desire. It was about choice. Her choice.
And he would not take that from her—not even for a moment.
So he remained there, knees sunk into the stream, every muscle wound tight with restraint. His fingers dug into his palms, the sharp bite of his own nails keeping him grounded. She stood just beyond his reach, glowing in the last breath of sunlight like something sacred.
He wanted nothing more than to fall into her.
But more than that—he wanted her to want him.
To come to him of her own will.
To choose him—not out of pity or curiosity, but because something inside her ached the way he ached.
“Please…”
The word fell from his lips like a prayer unraveling. It was broken, breathless, soaked in desperation—but quiet. Gentle. It held no demand, no force. Only longing.
She looked down at him—the god of the underworld—kneeling in the water as if it were holy ground, eyes wide with vulnerability, fists clenched in restraint. He wasn’t reaching for her. He wouldn’t. Not unless she asked.
A storm churned inside her.
What he wanted—what they wanted—was forbidden. Every law, every expectation whispered against this. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, sharp and cold. He’ll ruin you. He’s darkness. Stay in the light.
But as she looked at him now, soaked and shaking beneath her gaze, she didn’t see darkness. She saw devotion. She saw a god on his knees—not in power, but in surrender.
And despite everything she had been told, everything she had tried to deny…
She wanted him.
Not for what he was.
But for how he looked at her.
Like she was the only thing in all the realms worth worshiping.
She stepped closer, the heat of his breath brushing her skin. Her eyes locked with his, vulnerable yet resolute.
“Touch me,” she whispered—soft, but firm, a plea and a command wrapped into one.
His breath caught. The simple words carried the weight of everything unspoken between them. He swallowed hard, trembling, as his hand slowly rose, reaching toward her with a mixture of reverence and longing.
His palm pressed gently but firmly against her thigh, a shiver of both exhilaration and calm pulsing through his veins. A low, throaty groan escaped him as his touch deepened, growing more urgent, more hungry.
His other hand followed, settling on her other thigh with deliberate intent, fingers digging into the soft, yielding flesh. The sensation sparked a fire beneath his skin—a fierce, possessive need tempered by a careful reverence, as if he feared breaking the delicate balance between them.
Every movement was charged with an intoxicating blend of desire and restraint, a silent promise of what was to come.
His temple pressed gently against the soft curve of her stomach, his back arching as he breathed in her intoxicating scent—an ache that consumed him whole. His hands traveled eagerly along her thighs, hungry and trembling with longing.
“Please,” he murmured, voice thick with devotion and need, “let me worship you. Worship you like the goddess you are. Please.”
She should have pulled away—should have said no, before the moment slipped beyond control. Before desire tangled too tightly with reason, before the shadows threatened to swallow the light she carried. But she didn’t.
Instead, she stayed still, her breath trembling, heart pounding in a reckless rhythm she couldn’t deny. Every fiber of her was alight with a dangerous craving, a hunger she hadn’t expected but couldn’t resist.
The line between caution and surrender blurred. She knew she should have stopped him.
"Worship me Hades."
But she didn’t.
He let out a soft, trembling moan the instant she granted him permission—a sound both desperate and tender, breaking free after years of silence. It was an unspoken vow, a quiet surrender to the ache that had consumed him, now given space to breathe and grow between them.
He pulled her closer, his hands steady yet tender as his lips began to plant soft, lingering kisses along the gentle pudge of her stomach. With every brush of his mouth, he murmured quiet thank yous—soft, breathy whispers filled with awe and gratitude—like a sacred ritual, honoring the goddess before him.
He lifted one of her legs gently over his shoulder, bringing himself face to face with the heat nestled beneath the soft curls of her hair. A surge of hunger flickered through him, making his breath hitch and his body tense; the familiar weight pressing against his pants grew taut, aching with need.
His eyes locked with hers—deep, pleading pools of blue—searching for permission, for connection beyond words.
“Call me by my name,” he whispered, voice thick with urge. “Not the one they gave me… call me by my name.”
Her fingers threaded slowly through his hair, gentle and deliberate, as if grounding him in the moment. With her other hand, she cradled his face, her palm soft against the sharp lines of his jaw. He leaned into her touch instinctively, eyes searching hers with something deeper than desire—something aching, human.
She held him there, steady and close, letting the silence stretch—charged, sacred—until she finally spoke.
“…Matthew.”
The name came like a quiet invocation. Not a title. Not a myth. Him.
Matthew.
It ignited a hunger deeper than desire—something rooted in soul, not just body. With a reverent growl, he pressed forward, burying himself in the heat of her, the scent of her pulling him under like a tide.
She gasped softly, her fingers still tangled in his hair, as his tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along her folds—broad and unhurried. He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, savoring the way she responded to him.
His hands gripped her thighs tighter, not in possession, but in devotion—anchoring himself as he gave in completely to her.
His lips found the place that made her breath stutter, wrapping around the bundle of nerves with care. He moved with purpose, tongue flicking, lapping, tasting like he was learning the shape of worship.
Then, slowly, one hand slid away from her thigh, trailing down with intention. He let his fingers tease before gently pressing one inside her, feeling the way her body welcomed him, the heat, the trust.
Every movement was full of reverence—hungry, yes, but grounded in something sacred.
She wasn’t just a goddess to him.
She was the altar.
And he was praying the only way he knew how.
His pace stayed steady—deliberate, reverent. Not rushed, not slow. Just enough to draw soft gasps from her lips, just enough to ground himself in every moment, every taste, every sound she gave him.
He didn’t want to hurry this. He couldn’t. He had prayed for her in silence, in shadow, in aching solitude. For lifetimes, it seemed. And now, with her here—real, warm, willing—he was determined to feel every second stretch.
His hands held her as though she might slip away, his mouth moving with devotion, not urgency. Each motion was worship, every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers meant to show her not just want—but worth.
She was everything he’d been denied.
Everything he thought he wasn’t allowed to have.
And now… she was giving herself to him.
He didn’t just touch her.
He learned her.
With every breath, every kiss, every quiet moan that vibrated in the space between them.
She gasped, the sound soft and sharp, pulled from her lips without thought. Her fingers tangled tighter in his hair as her hips began to move—slow, instinctive, guided by the aching pleasure he gave her.
Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted as she rocked gently against his mouth. Her skin burned, every inch of her alive with sensation. The air felt thick, charged, her body trembling as ecstasy bloomed slow and deep within her.
He didn’t rush her—he matched her. Let her move. Let her lead. His hands steadied her, his mouth never breaking rhythm, each flick of his tongue and press of his lips a silent vow: I’m here. I won’t stop. Not until you come apart in my hands.
She felt herself begin to unravel, caught between fire and surrender, pleasure building like a wave just about to crest. And in the midst of it all—his name, his true name—still lingered on her tongue like a secret only she was allowed to speak.
“Matthew…”
His name fell from her lips in a broken whisper, trembling and raw. She said it again, louder this time—desperate, pleading—as her fingers tightened in his hair, her body arching toward him.
“Matthew—please, don’t stop,” she begged, her voice catching on a gasp. “Please… take all of me. I want you to—take all of me.”
She was unraveling in his hands, in his mouth, her body trembling as waves of pleasure surged higher. Her hips rocked with growing urgency, chasing the release he built with every steady, reverent stroke of his tongue.
“Drink me in,” she cried, eyes glossy, voice cracking with need. “I’m yours—please, please…”
It wasn’t just surrender—it was worship in return.
A goddess, undone by the only man who had ever touched her like she was sacred- a goddess falling into the only love she’d ever known.
And he answered her prayer, not with words, but with every breath, every touch- devouring her completely.
Her eyes clenched shut as waves of release crashed over her, a sharp gasp torn from her throat, the breath knocked from her lungs entirely. She trembled above him, raw and unguarded.
Matthew closed his own eyes, every sense focused on her—swallowing each drop of her essence with greed. He refused to let a single trace slip away, drinking her in completely, as if she were the very breath sustaining him.
He pulled away from her core, his lips swollen and flushed from their sinful prayers, and gently lowered her leg back into the water. She gazed down at him, chest rising and falling with need, eyes dark with longing.
Slowly, the goddess sank to her own knees beside him. Her hands rose to cradle his face again, fingers tracing the lines of his jaw with tenderness and fire. Without hesitation, she drew him close—until their lips met at last, soft and hungry, a kiss that spoke of worship, desire, and a bond forged in shadows and light.
Their bodies crashed into the water, waves rippling around them as need overtook caution. The world beyond them blurred—there was only this moment, only each other.
Hands roamed with urgency, desperate to feel, to claim, to remember. Lips met in a fevered kiss, all hunger and heat, as if they'd been starving and had only just found air.
The water clung to their skin, slick and warm, but even that was forgotten in the whirlwind of touch and breath and unspoken promises.
They clung to one another, wild and unrestrained, completely and irrevocably lost—in the moment, in the madness, in the kind of need that felt like destiny.
“I want you… all of you,” he breathed, voice low and desperate against her lips, as if the truth was tearing free from his chest.
She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers were already tugging at the waistband of his pants, driven by need, by the gravity that had been pulling them together from the moment they first touched. He moaned softly into her mouth, the sound unraveling between them, warm and broken.
He kissed her like he was starving, then broke away only to trail his lips down her face, down the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck. Her skin was damp and flushed, her breaths shaky as she held onto him, pulling him closer still.
When his mouth found her collarbone, he lingered—biting back the urge to rush, to take. And when he reached her chest, her hands cradled the back of his head, guiding him as her whimper broke through the thick silence.
His lips closed around her nipple, tongue flicking gently before his teeth grazed her with teasing care. She arched into him with a soft gasp, her grip tightening in his hair.
He pulled away just enough to strip himself of the last barrier between them, his hands shaking slightly as he tugged his pants down. His length sprang free, hard and flushed, slapping against his abdomen as he exhaled a trembling breath.
Then he was over her again—hovering, not with dominance, but with awe. His body aligned with hers, warm and trembling, every muscle taut with restraint. He braced himself with a hand beside her, the other gently trailing along her side, as if to steady them both.
His eyes searched hers, wide open, full of reverence.
He didn’t rush.
He waited.
For her word. For her yes. For her want.
Because though he was ready to give himself completely, he needed to know—she was ready to take him.
His voice trembled against her skin, thick with hunger and something far more fragile—need, not just of the body, but of the soul.
“Say it,” he breathed, his lips brushing her collarbone once more, his hands tightening slightly at her waist. “I need to hear it… that you want me. All of me.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, eyes wide, vulnerable beneath the heat. It wasn’t dominance—it was a plea. A man laid bare in the arms of the one thing he thought he’d never have.
“Not just this,” he whispered, pressing a hand to her chest, over her heart. “Say you want me. Fully. Completely. Without fear.”
Her gaze held his, soft but unwavering, her breath steady despite the storm of feeling between them. There was something unspoken in her eyes—tenderness, trust… something dangerously close to love.
Her hand rose to his face, fingers curling gently along his jaw as she pulled him just a little closer, grounding them in the moment.
“I want you…” she whispered, voice thick with truth, “all of you. The darkness. The decay. Everything you think makes you unlovable—I want that too.”
Her words weren’t coated in hesitation or fear.
They were raw.
Real.
An offering.
He accepted it—her offering, her trust—with a fierce, unwavering hunger.
In one smooth, deliberate motion, he slid deep inside her warm, velvet embrace. A breath hitched in his throat as his eyes fluttered closed, his entire body trembling with the overwhelming intensity of the moment.
Every nerve burned, every muscle coiled, as they moved together—no longer god and goddess, but two souls merging, raw and whole, in a sacred, timeless union.
He buried his head into the hollow of her neck, teeth sinking gently into her soft, warm skin. A low, possessive growl escaped him as she moaned aloud, her fingers digging deep into the smooth, milky expanse of his back—gripping him tightly, as if anchoring herself to the moment and to him.
Little did they know, their union was stirring turmoil far below. While some towns found themselves blanketed in unexpected snow, frost glinting like shards of glass on the earth, just miles away others were scorched by blazing heat, their crops bursting into bloom beneath the unrelenting sun.
Chaos rippled through the mortal world—discordant, wild, unpredictable.
Yet within that chaos, a fragile balance was forming.
Their union had tipped the scales, setting nature’s eternal cycle into motion—destruction and creation, shadow and light, forever intertwined.
He rasped against her ear, voice raw and urgent,
“I’ll worship you forever—”
Her moan deepened, a sound born of need and surrender,
“—for as long as you let me. I’ll bow to you, kneel on shards of glass if it means you’ll be mine.”
Every word was a vow, a desperate promise forged in fire and desire— a pledge to hold her, to honor her, to claim her heart and soul without hesitation or fear.
She gasped, voice trembling as she barely managed to choke out, “I—I’m yours.”
A sharp, high moan escaped her lips as he slammed into her with renewed force, every movement urgent and desperate.
“Say it again,” he growled, the edge of his release tightening with each thrust, fueled by the sound of her claim.
“Y-yours! I’m—oh gods, Matthew—I’m yours!”
Her words broke through him like wildfire, setting them both aflame as they tumbled together toward their consuming climax.
A raw, guttural groan tore from his throat as his release overtook him, his body locking as he pressed deep, unmoving, overwhelmed. The heat of it poured from him, claiming her in a way that was more than physical—something sacred, something final. He held her like a lifeline, as if the very act of being inside her was the only thing keeping him grounded.
She shattered around him moments later, her body arching into his, legs trembling violently as pleasure overtook her in waves. Her head tilted back, eyes rolling as her breath caught—every nerve alight, her ears ringing from the force of it. It wasn’t just bliss; it was a breaking open.
A surrender.
A binding.
They clung to each other through it, through the storm of sensation and soul, until all that remained was breath, heartbeat, and the quiet, unshakable truth that something had changed.
Forever.
EEEKKKKK i hope yall enjoy this! i took all day to write it and was battling myself with how to write it. feel free to check out my og demi god series here!
warnings : angst. bullying. sensitive!reader is made fun of. chris’ friends are jerks and he join in. lowercase is intended.
summary : how bully!chris and sensitive!reader first meet.
your stomach twisted with nerves—one hand clutching the strap to your bag that slung over your shoulder as the other gripped your schedule, desperately trying to find your first class of the day.
you didn’t know this place—the giant university building felt like a maze to yourself. it had been a few years since you’d been in a school of any kind, having taken a few gap years to yourself before wanting to continue with your education.
slowly your feet moved you through the hall, brushing past groups of students standing around and ones trying to find their classes as well. it made you feel better that you weren’t the only one lost—and you really didn’t want to ask for directions. but you’ve gone around in circles for what felt like forever, and you were growing tired.
your hand on the strap of your bag shifted down, brushing across the soft fabric of the plush bunny that poked out. it wasn’t exactly normal for a college student to bring a stuffed animal, but you needed something to keep yourself grounded. something that would help with the anxiety twisting in your stomach.
taking a deep breath, you pushed your way through the crowd, trying to look confident even though your insides were swimming.
as you rounded a corner, your eyes spotted a group of guys leaning against the lockers—talking and laughing loudly. you hesitated, looking between them and the hallway ahead. there was no way you were going to find your classroom without asking someone for help, and they seemed…the most approachable.
taking another deep breath, you walked over to them, your hand shifting to clutch the strap of your bag tightly once more. you could feel the way your throat began to close at the mere thought of talking to them—but you pushed it aside. once you approached them, you cleared your throat, trying to make your voice steady.
“um, excuse me,” you said softly. “can anyone help me? I’m looking for room 204.” your voice cracked slightly, and you mentally cursed at yourself for it.
one of them, a tall, muscular guy with shaggy hair, turned his head—stopping his conversation mid sentence and looked you up and down. his eyes caught sight of your bag, a look of disgust twisting up on his features. and you could feel your cheeks warm as he just stared before flicking up to meet your eyes.
“is that… a stuffed animal?” he mocked, snickering lightly, the other guys behind him joining in. your eyes widened, and you immediately felt your face burn with embarrassment. you hadn’t meant for anyone to see it, but it was too late now.
“who even brings a stuffed animal to school? too scared without it?” another guy laughed—his voice loud, the head of some near by students turning to look at the scene unfolding.
one of the boys who had been standing in the back, stepped forward. he had dark hair, a stubble on his jaw, and a smirk that made your stomach twist in knots. he seemed like the type of guy who never took anything seriously.
he glanced at you, then back at his friends, an almost amused expression on his face. “come on, guys, leave her alone,” he muttered, but there was no real warmth in his voice. he was just saying it to keep the peace.
like it was a game to him.
but that was the thing—he didn’t stop.
he looked you up and down—just as the other guy had before. a cold laugh slipping out before he added, “what, are you afraid you’ll get lost without your little bunny to guide you? s’kinda pathetic.” his voice was sharp, and his words hit harder than you thought they would.
your heart sank. the teasing wasn’t just playful—he was being mean. and the way the guys behind him laughed only made it worse. you could feel everyone’s eyes on you. you could feel your throat tighten, your eyes beginning to sting as the embarrassment spread like wildfire.
“I just… I really need help,” you whispered, your voice trembling. you felt small, vulnerable under their hard gazes and mean words. but before you could say another word, the group had already turned away—ignoring your words of help and continuing their conversation like you weren’t even there.
you stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to stop the tears bubbling in your eyes from slipping down your face. the boy looked at you, but his expression didn’t soften. his eyes briefly flicked to your stuffed bunny, and then back to you, but he didn’t say anything else.
without another word, you turned and walked away, your heart pounding in your chest. you felt humiliated—your heart tightening in your chest at how mean they were. at how everyone was just staring at you and not helping. and now there was nothing you could do to make it better.
you kept your head down as you walked through the hallways, hoping to find someone who could help you without making you feel like a joke. the tears you had been fighting to hold back fell in a few quick drops, but you wiped them away angrily as you willed yourself to stop. you just needed to breathe.
but all you could think about was how those boys had laughed at you—how stupid you must have looked in front of them. and now, as you navigated the halls alone once more, you decided not to ask for help again.
—
you had managed to find your class after aimlessly wandering around more—but you ended up being about 15 minutes late. not the best first impression on your first day.
after that, you decided to give it one more try on asking where your classes were. and someone finally—finally helped without making fun of you.
by the time you finally made it home, the weight of the day sat heavy on your chest. you hadn’t let yourself cry more after that slip up in the hallway—you had forced yourself to push it down, to get through the rest of your classes without falling apart.
but now, in the safety and comfort of your room, where no one could see you, the feelings you had been holding back all day surged forward like a flood you couldn’t control.
dropping your bag onto the floor, you barely managed to kick off your shoes before climbing onto your bed, pulling your stuffed bunny from your bag and clutching it tightly. the second you buried your face into its soft fur, the first sob broke free.
you felt stupid for letting them get to you, for letting that group of boys laughter replay in your head over and over. you shouldn’t care what they thought. you didn’t even know them. and yet, the humiliation, the way their words had made you feel so small, gnawed at you like an ache you couldn’t shake.
tears streamed down your face—soaking the fabric of your bunny as you curled into yourself, your arms wrapped around the one thing that had always given you comfort. you wished the day had gone differently, that you hadn’t had to ask them for help, that you hadn’t been made to feel like a joke on your very first day.
your chest tightened with another quiet sob, your breath coming out shaky. you hated feeling like this—so vulnerable, so exposed. but no matter how much you told yourself it didn’t matter, that they were just a bunch of immature guys who didn’t know you, the hurt still clung to you.
and after a while, your cries softened into sniffles, the exhaustion of the day taking over. you held your bunny closer, letting its familiar warmth and scent soothe the ache in your chest as your eyes grew heavy.
curled up on your bed—still in your clothes, you drifted off to sleep. their words still nagging at you in the corner of your brain, especially the boy who fully humiliated you—acting as if he cared before he tore you down.
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