warnings: smut, p in v (not protected so wrap before you tap !), little bit of dirty talk, nicknames: darlin' / slvt, vampire bites, little bit of bleeding (heals fast !), and a little forbidden, 444 words !
you were just chilling in your coffin, with a special person... you weren't allowed to be together, basically forbidden. but here you guys are, doing it in your coffin. you know he shouldn't, baddest guy in this town, the one your family would never approve of, was in your coffin doing you. you know it's allowed, but like, what they won't know won't hurt right...?
but as much as you should tell him go get out, it's just, to good... but here you were with the baddest guy and most crushed on guy in town by every girl, doing you like there's no tomorrow, leaving big vampire marks on your neck, a little bit of bleeding, but heals fast because like, duh. but he was here making you feel so damn good and dirty talk that's even better.
"mhm, taking me so well darin'...", "yeah take it, you fucking slvt", "doing so well for me darlin', aren't you ?" and all those sorts, mix of sweet and dominance, like him. always had sweetness for you but is dripping of dominance, it's like his fragrance, and girls follow it. but parents always forbid it. but not like anyone ever cared, still doing it with him, because not only does he have the looks, he's also got something in other departments... that is another reason the girls chase, but guess who gets it more 👀 (you.)
but anyways, even after having just the roughest sex known to man, even known to vampires (not literally, figuratively.) the after care is like a whole new person, he's the sweetest guy ever like he didn't just call you a slvt a second ago. but, don't get it wrong, you love the damn rough sex, and also the sweet sweet after care... but after making you come like, so many damn times, he's giving you the sweetest after care, cleaning you up in the shower carefully, leaving little kisses on your shoulder while he helps clean you up, ironic.
but after the shower, he even helps you get changed and dry off, cause obviously, you lost the feeling in your legs due to him. but he's being so sweet with you, now just cuddling you (yes basically on top again cause the small coffin) just embracing each other's warmth / company, while kissing you, inhaling your scent.
"mhm, you smell so good darlin', i love you so much..." he says, making you smile but chuckle, bringing him into a small, soft kiss. "mhm, i love you to matt..." you say, before letting him snuggle into you, as you both drift into a soft slumber, just as the sun comes up...
authors note: okay, uh, a little shitty... but it's much better then my old vampire based fic here and this fic was based off my other post / poll and here it is since this won ! here
ILY
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
A late-night porch confession finally lays years of hidden letters bare, unravelling the quiet truth of what you’ve been running from all along.
Part 9 Part 1
Nick’s sigh cuts through the kitchen like a blade through fog.
“Of course,” he mutters, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “I leave you people alone for five minutes.”
Nick standing there with his typical deadpan expression, looking at four fully grown adults having a total meltdown, breaks the tension. Chelsea’s brow unfurrows. August’s shoulders drop half an inch. Even Matt, still staring at Chelsea’s hand intertwined with August’s like it’s a math equation he can’t solve, blinks.
Then Chris barrels through the doorway behind Nick, paper plate piled high with the puff pastry no one else was eating, and says, “Yo, did someone die? Why does everyone look like they’re at a funeral? Also, this pastry thing is actually fire, your aunt’s been holding out on us.”
A beat of silence.
Chelsea snorts. It’s undignified and sudden and she claps her free hand over her mouth, but the damage is done. August’s lips twitch. Nick shakes his head, the ghost of a smirk flickering across his face. And Matt... Matt’s wide-eyed bewilderment softens into something almost sheepish, the sharp edge of his jealousy crumbling under the weight of Chris’s complete and total obliviousness.
“Nobody died, Chris,” Nick says, stepping aside so his brother can fully enter the kitchen. “Just a minor misunderstanding. Very minor. Practically microscopic.”
“Misunderstanding about what?” Chris asks around a mouthful of pastry. His gaze bounces between the four of you. Matt stoic, you tear-streaked, August and Chelsea united and he shrugs. “Whatever. Mom wants to do the cake thing soon, so whoever’s having a crisis needs to wrap it up.”
The cake thing. Your birthday cake. The one your mom spent all morning decorating, the one with the candles she bought special, the one sitting on the dining room table waiting for you to make a wish. The normalcy of it, the sheer mundane reality that life continues, that cake must be eaten and candles must be blown out and family members must be entertained pulls you back into your body.
“Right,” you manage, your voice still shaky. “Cake. Yeah.”
Matt’s eyes find yours. They’re softer now, the desperate edge replaced by something quieter, something that looks a lot like relief. He still hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t needed to. The revelation that August is taken, that Chelsea exists, that the weeks of jealousy were built on a fiction, it’s still settling over him like morning light, slow and warm and disorienting.
“Cake,” he echoes, and his voice is rough but steadier than before. “Let’s do cake.”
The party reassembles itself around the dining table, a crowd of cousins and old friends and your mom beaming at the head of it all. The candles flicker. Someone dims the lights. The room swells with the off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday,” and you close your eyes, and you wish.
You closed your eyes to make a wish and tried hard. But your mind's completely blank. You just blew out the candles anyway.
The candles go out. Applause. Your mom’s eyes are wet again. Chris demands the corner piece with the most frosting.
And through all of it, Matt stays close.
Not hovering. Not obvious. But present. A hand on the small of your back as you lean forward to cut the cake. A glass of water appearing at your elbow without you asking. His shoulder brushing yours as the party slowly winds down, guests trickling out the front door with Tupperware containers of leftovers and promises to call soon.
He doesn’t try to be casual anymore. The mask is gone. Whatever performance he was giving, the easy smile, the friendly distance, the thanks for always being there card with the apology hidden in the postscript, gone. All of it has been abandoned entirely. In its place is something raw and unpolished. Something that looks a lot like a man who has stopped running.
August and Chelsea leave together around eight, Chelsea pressing a kiss to your cheek and whispering, “We’re talking about this later. All of it.” August hugs you tight, his eyes flicking to Matt over your shoulder, and when he pulls back there’s a knowing look on his face. Not protective anymore. Approving.
“He’s an idiot,” August murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “But I think he’s your idiot.”
And then they’re gone.
Nick and Chris are the last to leave. Chris hugs you with the same chaotic energy he does everything else, squeezing hard enough to crack your spine. “Best pickle balloon reaction of my career,” he says, and then he’s out the door, already scrolling through his phone.
Nick pauses at the threshold. His gaze moves from you to Matt, who’s lingering in the living room, pretending to examine the bookshelf. Then Nick looks back at you. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes. Something gentle.
“Don’t screw it up,” he says quietly. And then he’s gone too.
The door clicks shut.
The house falls silent.
Your mom has already retreated to her bedroom, exhausted from the hosting and the cooking and the emotional weight of watching her daughter turn another year older. The kitchen is clean. The leftovers are packed away. The pickle balloon bobs gently in the corner of the living room, a ridiculous reminder of the day.
And Matt is still here.
You find him on the porch.
The same porch where you’ve sat a hundred times before. The same steps where you’ve shared late-night conversations and comfortable silences, where he’d walk you home after movie nights and linger just a little too long, where the line between friendship and something more always blurred in the dark.
He’s sitting on the top step, elbows on his knees, staring out at the quiet street. The porch light casts long shadows across the wooden planks. Crickets are singing somewhere in the grass.
You sit down beside him. Not touching.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
“I thought I was going to lose my mind,” Matt says finally. His voice is quiet. Rough at the edges. “At the villa. Seeing you with him. The dress. The dancing. The way he looked at you like—” He stops. Swallows. “Like you were the only person in the room.”
“He was being a friend,” you say. “That’s all.”
“I know that now.” His jaw tightens. “But I didn’t know it then. And I handled it terribly. The things I said to you. The way I cornered you in your room. I was—” He shakes his head. “I was so angry. Not at you. At myself. At the fact that I’d spent years ignoring what was right in front of me, and the moment someone else saw it, I wanted to tear him apart.”
The confession hangs in the air. Raw. Unpolished. Honest in a way Matt has never been with you before.
Your heart is beating too fast. “I wrote about it,” you say quietly. “In one of the letters. The night after the pool party. I wrote about how you pulled me out of the pool and put your hoodie over me and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. How your hands felt on my arms. How I hated you for making me feel like that and then going back to her.”
Matt turns his head. The porch light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dark of his eyes. “I never went back to her,” he says. “After that night. I couldn’t. Every time I looked at her, I saw your face instead.”
The words land somewhere deep in your chest.
“That’s what you said,” you murmur. “In my room. You said you couldn’t touch her because all you saw was me.”
“Because it was true.”
He shifts on the step, angling his body toward you. His knee brushes yours. The contact is small, incidental, but it sends heat spiraling up your thigh.
“When I found those letters,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, “I didn’t sleep for three days. I just sat in my room and think about them. Over and over. And the whole time I kept thinking, she was right there. The whole time. Writing these things. Feeling these things. And I was too much of a coward to notice.”
“You weren’t a coward,” you say. “I was hiding. That was the point. I didn’t want you to know.”
“Why?”
The question is simple. Direct. And it deserves an honest answer.
“Because I was terrified,” you admit. “Of losing you. Of making things weird. Of being just another girl you had to let down gently.” A shaky breath escapes you. “You showed me other girls all the time. Girls who were confident and put-together and exactly your type. And I’d look at them and think—I’m not that. I’ll never be that. I’m just the one in the oversized hoodie who helps you write DMs.”
Matt flinches. “I was so stupid.”
“You weren’t. You just didn’t know.”
“I should have known.” His voice cracks. “I should have seen it. The way you looked at me. The way you were always there, no matter what. The way you—” He stops. Presses his palms against his eyes. “God. All those years.”
Silence stretches between you. The crickets fill it. The distant hum of a car somewhere.
Then Matt drops his hands and reaches into his back pocket.
“I wrote you something,” he says. “Before the party. I was sitting in the car outside your house for twenty minutes, trying to decide whether to give it to you.” He pulls out a folded piece of paper. Small. Creased. His handwriting bleeding through the back. “I chickened out. Gave you the Sandy card instead. Told myself it was better to keep it light. Keep it safe.”
He holds the paper out to you.
Your fingers tremble as you take it.
My Homegirl,
The nickname, the one he’s used for years, the one that always felt like a label you couldn’t escape. But then the rest of the letter unfolds, and the words blur and sharpen and blur again.
I’m writing this because I’m a coward who can’t say things out loud. You’d think after everything, after the rain, after the villa, after finding those letters and reading every word that I’d have the guts to just tell you. But here I am, sitting in my car, writing on a piece of notebook paper like a teenager.
I don’t want to be your best friend anymore.
Not the way I was. Not the safe, comfortable guy who shows you other girls and asks for your help. I don’t want that label if it means hiding how I actually feel. And how I actually feel is this: I’m in love with you. I think I have been for years. I think I was just too scared to admit it.
I love the way you laugh at my stupid jokes. I love the way you crinkle your nose when you’re thinking. I love the way you always know what to say, even when I don’t. I love the way you look in my hoodies. I love the way you look in that green bikini. I love the way you looked in that black dress at the villa, even though I wanted to punch August in the face for standing next to you.
I love you.
If you still want to just be friends after everything, I’ll respect that. I’ll learn to live with it. But I needed you to know. No more hiding.
— Matt
P.S. I’m not sorry for the rain. I’m not sorry for the shower. I’m not sorry for any of it. I’m only sorry it took me this long.
The paper shakes in your hands.
When you look up, Matt is watching you. His expression is open. Vulnerable. Terrified. The same expression he wore in the kitchen, backed against the counter, the mask finally gone.
“I thought I could do it,” he says quietly. “Play it cool. Be the best friend. But then August gave that toast and I couldn’t—I just couldn’t sit there and pretend I wasn’t dying inside.”
“He’s with Chelsea,” you whisper.
“I know that now.” A laugh, short and humorless. “Apparently everyone knew except me.”
“Nick knew. Nick absolutely knew and said nothing.”
“You know Nick, he doesn't like to meddle.”
The laugh that escapes you is watery and fragile, but it’s real. The tension between you cracks, just a little. Matt’s shoulders drop. His hand, resting on his knee, turns palm-up. An invitation.
You don’t take it. Not yet.
“Wait here,” you say.
You stand up. Your legs are unsteady, but your mind is clear. You slip through the front door, into the quiet house, past the dim living room where the pickle balloon floats, up the stairs to your bedroom.
The closet door creaks. The old blanket rustles. And then the box is in your hands. Heavy. Familiar. The cardboard worn soft at the corners from years of being opened and closed, opened and closed, a ritual of longing performed in the dark.
You carry it downstairs.
Matt hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the top step, his back to you, his silhouette framed by the porch light. When he hears your footsteps, he turns.
His eyes drop to the box.
“Is that—”
“All of them,” you say. Your voice is steadier than you expected. “Every letter. Every confession. Every single thing I never had the courage to say out loud.” You set the box down on the porch between you. The wood creaks under its weight. “Read them. All of them. Every page. And then—once you know the full, unvarnished truth of how deep this goes—we can talk about whether you still feel the same way.”
Matt stares at the box.
His jaw tightens. His hands, resting on his knees, curl into fists and then release. He looks from the box to you and back again, and something flickers across his face. Awe. Regret. Something heavier.
Slowly, carefully, he reaches into the box.
The letter he pulls out is one of the oldest ones. The paper is yellowed at the edges. The ink has faded to a soft blue. You recognize it immediately—the movie theater letter. The first one you ever wrote. The one where you described the way he made sure you had the right popcorn, the way he took the long way home, the way he walked you to your porch and lingered like he didn’t want to leave.
Matt unfolds it. The paper crackles. His eyes move across the words.
The porch falls silent. The crickets sing. The porch light hums.
You watch him read. Watch his expression shift. Softening, tightening, cracking open. You can’t do it anymore. Can’t sit here and watch him absorb years of your hidden feelings in real time. The vulnerability is too much. The exposure is too raw.
You stand up.
“Goodnight, Matt.”
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
But you’re already turning toward the door, your heart aching, your throat tight, your hand reaching for the knob—
His fingers wrap around your wrist.
Firm. Warm. Stopping you mid-step.
You turn back.
Matt is on his feet now, the letter still clutched in his other hand, his eyes shining under the porch light. Not crying. Not quite. But close. Closer than you’ve ever seen him.
“I don’t need to read the rest,” he says.
His voice is steady. Certain. The kind of voice that leaves no room for doubt.
“Matt—”
“I already know what I feel.” He steps closer. His hand slides from your wrist to your palm, fingers interlacing. “I’ve known for a long time. I was just too scared to admit it. Too scared of losing you. Too scared of ruining everything.” A breath. “But I’m not scared anymore.”
The letter flutters to the porch floor. Forgotten.
“The past doesn’t matter,” he says. “The years of hiding. The letters. The jealousy. None of it matters now. What matters is this. Right here. You and me. No more pretending.”
His free hand comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, tracing the path of a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.
“I love you,” he says. “I’m in love with you. And I don’t want to waste another second pretending I’m not.”
The night air is cool. The crickets are singing. The porch light casts gold across his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the dark of his eyes, the vulnerability he’s finally, finally letting you see.
And then he kisses you.
It’s different from the rainstorm. Different from the frantic collision in your bedroom. Different from the desperate, tear-stained kiss in the kitchen. This kiss is slow. Deliberate. A period at the end of a very long sentence. His lips move against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of them. His hand tightens in yours. His other hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.
You kiss him back. You pour everything into it, the years of silence, the box of letters, the longing and the fear and the hope. He takes it all. Absorbs it. Gives it back tenfold.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His eyes are still closed.
“No more hiding,” he whispers.
“No more hiding,” you echo.
The box sits open on the porch behind you. The letters shift slightly in the breeze. Years of secrets, finally exposed to the open air.
Matt pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet. His smile is small and crooked and utterly, completely real.
“Happy birthday, homegirl,” he murmurs.
And in the quiet of the porch, with the night wrapped around you and the box of letters finally open to the world, you laugh. A real laugh. The kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and unexpected.
And Matt laughs too.
The key turns in the lock with a satisfying click.
Matt pushes the door open with his shoulder, one hand still wrapped around the handle of his duffel bag, the other reaching back to find yours. His fingers interlace with your own. Casual. Automatic. The kind of gesture that would have sent you spiraling into overanalysis months ago. Now it just feels like breathing.
"Go look at the view," he says, dropping the duffel in the entryway. "I'll grab the rest from the car."
You kick off your sneakers and pad through the beach house. It's all white walls and weathered wood, nautical stripes and driftwood accents, the kind of place that shows up on Pinterest boards titled Coastal Getaway. But the back wall is entirely glass, sliding doors that open onto a deck, and beyond the deck—
The ocean.
Endless and dark and glittering under the late afternoon sun. The sound of it fills the house. Rhythmic. Constant. The deck has two beach chairs and a small table already set for dinner, plates and wine glasses catching the golden light.
Matt's voice floats in from the front door. "Found the kitchen yet?"
"Found the deck," you call back.
His footsteps approach. Arms slide around your waist from behind, his chin settling on your shoulder. He smells like sunscreen and the faint cologne he's been wearing since you can remember, the familiar scent of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.
"One month," he murmurs against your ear.
You turn in his arms. "Is that why we're here? Our one-month anniversary?"
The tips of his ears go pink. Actually pink. Matt Sturniolo, who pinned you against a door and called you his, who carried you out of the ocean in the rain, who read years of your secret letters and kissed you on the porch until you couldn't breathe—blushing. Shy to admit to his romance.
"Maybe," he says.
"Matt."
"What? It's a milestone." He's full-on blushing now, the color creeping down his neck. "One month of not being an idiot. That deserves celebration."
"One month of us," you correct.
His expression softens. "Yeah. One month of us."
The dinner he cooks is your favorite meal. He remembered. He's been planning this for weeks, he admits, ducking his head when you call him cute. The candles on the deck table keep blowing out in the ocean breeze, and he keeps relighting them with increasingly dramatic sighs until you're both laughing too hard to care about ambiance.
"One month down," he says, raising his glass, the flame finally holding steady, "and a lifetime to go." You both laugh at his cheesiness.
The wine is cold and crisp. The food is perfect. The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and lavender, and Matt's foot finds yours under the table and stays there.
After dinner, you kick off your sandals and step onto the cool sand. The beach is empty. Completely private. The house sits on a stretch of coastline with no neighbors, no lights, no signs of civilization in either direction. Just the two of you and the dark, vast ocean.
A wave of bravery washes over you.
You look back at Matt, still sitting at the table, watching you with that soft expression he gets when he thinks you're not looking. You smirk.
"Race you in."
"In where?"
You don't answer. Instead, you reach for the hem of your sundress and pull it over your head. It drops to the sand. Your bra follows. Your underwear.
Matt's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Are you—"
"The water, Matt. Keep up." You're already backing toward the water, naked under the moon, the sand cool beneath your feet. "Unless you're scared."
"Scared," he repeats. "Of the ocean. Right."
But he's already standing. Already pulling his shirt over his head. Already fumbling with his belt.
You don't wait to see the rest.
The first wave hits your ankles and steals your breath. Cold. Bracing. You shriek, laughing, and plunge forward into the dark water. The sand drops away beneath your feet. The waves roll against your thighs, your stomach, your chest.
Then you're swimming.
The water is cool and alive, pulling at your limbs, filling your ears with its endless roar. You surface, gasping, and hear him splashing in behind you.
"You're insane," he calls out, his voice carrying over the waves. "The water is freezing."
"Worth it."
He moves toward you in the dark water. Pale shoulders. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. The moon catches the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his grin. Then his hands find your waist under the water, pulling you flush against his chest, and the cold doesn't matter anymore.
"You," he says, "are trouble."
His mouth finds yours.
The kiss starts playful. Wet and laughing and salty. But then his hands slide lower, gripping your hips under the water, pulling you harder against him, and the laughter fades into something heavier. Something hungrier. The rhythm of the waves matches the deep, insistent way he kisses you. Push and pull. Rise and fall.
His teeth graze your bottom lip.
Your legs wrap around his waist.
Under the water, you feel him. Hard. Ready. The contrast of the cool ocean and the heat of his body pressing against you makes your head spin.
"Matt," you breathe.
"Inside." His voice is wrecked. "Now."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms slide under your thighs, lifting you, and the water streams off your bodies as he carries you out of the sea. Across the sand. Up the deck stairs.
He sets you down briefly at the edge of the deck, grabbing the mounted hose to rinse the salt and sand from your skin—the cool mist making you shiver until he sprays himself down, hooks it back, and scoops you right back up into his arms. Through the sliding glass doors, which he kicks shut behind him, the sound barely registering over your own thundering heartbeat.
Water drips onto the hardwood floor. A trail of it. Footprints of water leading straight to the bedroom.
The king-sized bed swallows you both.
The sheets are white and cool against your wet skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Matt's body as he settles over you. His mouth finds your throat. Your collarbone. The hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse beats frantic and wild.
"This month," he murmurs against your skin. His lips move lower. "Best month of my life."
Your fingers slide into his wet hair. "Matt—"
"I mean it." He lifts his head. His eyes are dark and earnest, water droplets still clinging to his lashes. "Every day. Every minute. Best of my life."
The words settle somewhere deep in your chest. Somewhere the letters used to live. But the box is empty now. The secrets are told. There's nothing left to hide.
"Show me," you whisper.
He does.
His mouth moves down your body with deliberate slowness, lips and tongue tracing paths of fire across your damp skin. The salt of the ocean lingers on your breasts, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. He tastes it. Tastes you. His beard scrapes gently against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your back arches off the mattress.
"Still cold?" His voice is rough.
"Not anymore."
His laugh vibrates against your skin.
Then his tongue finds you, and you stop thinking entirely.
The sound of the ocean fills the room. The open windows carry the salt breeze, the crash of waves, the distant call of a night bird. But all you can hear is the wet, hungry sound of his mouth working against you. All you can feel is the slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers curling inside you.
Your hands fist in the sheets.
Your thighs tremble against his shoulders.
He doesn't rush. He draws it out, builds it slow, pulls you to the edge and holds you there until you're gasping his name and gripping his hair and begging in words that don't quite form. Only then does he push you over.
The pleasure rolls through you like the tide.
Before you can come down, he's moving up your body. His mouth finds yours. You taste yourself on his lips, salt and wine and something darker. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and heavy, and you reach down to guide him.
"I love you." The words fall from his lips like they've been waiting there all night. All month. All the years you spent hiding. "I love you so much."
He pushes inside.
Slow. So slow. Inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, the full length of him as he fills you completely. Your breath catches. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, pulling him deeper.
"I love you too," you whisper.
His forehead drops to yours. "Say it again."
"I love you, Matt."
He moves.
Slow at first. Deep and deliberate. Each thrust grinding his pelvis against your clit, each stroke dragging pleasure from somewhere primal. The bed creaks beneath you. The ocean crashes outside. The moonlight spills through the window, painting his skin silver, illuminating the muscles flexing in his shoulders as he braces himself above you.
"You have no idea," he breathes, his rhythm building, "how long I've wanted this. Even when I didn't know I wanted it. Even when I was too stupid to see what was right in front of me. It was always you."
Your nails drag down his back. "Always you."
His pace quickens. The slow, deep thrusts shift into something more urgent. More desperate. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room. Sweat and seawater mingle on your skin. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher, changing the angle, and the new depth makes you cry out.
"Right there," you gasp. "Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping." His voice is strained. "Never stopping. Never letting you go."
The pressure builds. Coiling tight. His name becomes a mantra on your lips, a prayer, the only word you remember how to say. Matt. Matt. Matt.
He buries his face in your neck. His hips piston faster. "Come for me. I want to feel you."
And you do.
The climax tears through you, arching your spine off the bed, pulling a sound from your throat that's half his name, half something wordless. Your inner walls clench around him, pulsing, and he groans against your throat, his rhythm faltering.
"I love you," he gasps, the words breaking apart as his own release crashes over him.
He spills inside you, hot and deep, his body shuddering against yours. His weight settles over you, heavy and warm, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him there.
For a long moment, the only sound is breathing. Ragged. Synchronized.
Matt lifts his head. His eyes are soft and dark and utterly open. The way they were on the porch, when he kissed you and told you no more hiding. The way they've been every day since.
He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. The sheets are a tangled mess of salt and sweat. The open window breathes ocean air across your cooling skin. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder blade.
The click of the door shutting lands harder than any slam ever could. Because he had seen you slam doors before, he had seen you lose your temper in ways that he never knew he could come back from. But this was different.
The only sound in the bedroom were Matt's faint breaths, trying to process everything you had just said. Your broken voice echoed in his mind, the way you fought to hold your tears back, how you didn't raise your voice—not because you didn't care, but because you cared too much.
The next morning, Matt woke up in his bed, but it didn't entirely feel like his. His arm stretched out, hoping to find you warm and soft next to him, hoping that it had all been a nightmare. But when his hand skimmed over the dull sheets, his stomach dropped. It was too cold, too empty, too corrupted with the words you said last night.
'I always end up alone,' replayed in Matt's head like a taunt as he forced himself out of bed. The vinyl floor was cold beneath his feet, but not as cold as the space beside him.
Matt felt his stomach churn as he looked around the room, your clothes scattered on the floor, a pile of hair ties on your nightstand, and the vanilla scented candle dropping him straight back into last night.
The cold plates, the puddles of wax on the dining room table that had once been candles. Your trembling hands, the way you made yourself so small. All because of him.
Matt passed the couch on the way to the kitchen, the blanket crumpled in the corner just as you had been the night before. The fabric was still tear-stained and damp, where your tears had soaked through.
He couldn't stop looking at it.
Because it wasn't just a reminder of last night, but of every night leading up to it. Of everything he could've done.
Your hear him as he comes into the kitchen. But you don't look up. You don't have the strength to face him right now. So instead, your eyes stay glued to the mug in front of you, the teaspoon clinking against the ceramic, although now it sounded more like nails scraping against a chalkboard.
Matt slips past you, the tension thick enough to create a gap between you, one which would usually be filled with a soft kiss to the shoulder, or a his hand brushing against your waist, but it never came. Matt wasn't sure he had the right.
He opens the cabinet, eyes landing on his mug, the one you had prepared every morning, the one with the chipped paint and cracked handle, the one you should've thrown away months ago but never did, all because he swore the tea just tasted better from that mug.
Something about it sitting there, looking at him from it's place on the shelf hurt in a way he knew it wasn't supposed to.
He took a breath as he reached for the mug, his eyes flickering to you for a fraction of a second, like he might scare you away if he looks too closely.
"A conversation? A conversation I've tried to have with you a million times, but now because you feel guilty, all of a sudden, you wanna talk?" You asked rhetorically, shaking your head slightly, holding back a scoff of your own.
Matts eyebrows furrow as he watched you move around the kitchen, trying to find anything other than him to look at. He takes a small step forward, careful not to invalidate your space, but close enough that you could reach him. "No- what? I wanna talk because I care about-"
"You care about me?" You scoffed, finally looking at him. He paused for a moment, visibly defeated as he takes in the sight of your puffy cheeks and bloodshot eyes, the remnants of last nights tears barely concealed.
"Because you really could've fooled me." Your voice had returned back to that small vulnerable crack, the exhaustion heavy in your words as you took a deep breath, eyes dropping back down to the floor. "Seriously, Matt, I don't have time for you."
Something about the way you said that struck a nerve in him.
I don't have time for you.
His mind went blank as he watched you grab your keys, his lips parted as if to speak but no words came out. You slip past without so much as another word. No kiss. No 'have a good day.' Just a cold tone and barely a glance.
[💌] uhh hey! surprise i guess?? I know i said i was never gonna write again, (and technically i haven't) but this has been sitting in my drafts for a longgg time, so i thought id actually post it... mostly just to add it to the archive that is this blog <3 i hope you're all doing amazing, you're all the best!
Warnings: P in v, smut, shower sex, touching each other, kissing
Summary: you and Matt have fun in the shower after your first night at the cabin.
Read the rest, HERE.
You and Matt had barely spoken when you both headed inside, the air thick with the scent of pine and earth. The shower called to both of you at the same time.
Steam filled the small bathroom as the water heated up. Matt stepped in first, his broad shoulders glistening under the spray, and you followed right after. The moment the water hit your skin, his hands found your waist, pulling you close. Your lips met his under the cascading water, soft at first, then deeper, tongues sliding together with growing hunger.
Matt’s fingers traced down your back, gripping your hips as he pressed you gently against the tiled wall. His cock hardened against your thigh, thick and insistent. You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, stroking slowly while he groaned into your mouth. He kissed along your jaw, then lower, sucking lightly at your neck as his hand slipped between your legs. His fingers parted your folds, finding your clit and rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.
You moaned, arching into his touch. He lifted one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, and positioned himself at your entrance. With a steady thrust, he slid inside you, filling you inch by inch. The water poured over both of you as he moved, gentle, deep strokes that built a steady rhythm. Your bodies pressed tight, skin sliding against skin, his cock stretching you perfectly with each push. He kissed you again, passionate and unhurried, swallowing your gasps as his hips rolled against yours.
Matt’s hand cradled the back of your head while he fucked you with that same tender intensity, every thrust sending sparks through your core. You clenched around him, pleasure coiling tighter until it broke. Your orgasm washed over you in waves, your pussy pulsing around his cock. He followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling hot cum inside you with a low, drawn out groan.
Afterward, you both rinsed off, bodies still humming. Towels wrapped loosely around you, you moved to the bedroom. The sheets felt cool as you climbed in, Matt settling behind you. He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, making you the little spoon. His arm draped over your waist, holding you close. Soft kisses trailed across your shoulder, his lips warm and lingering, pressing gentle affection into your skin as the night settled around the cottage.
HBD
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
Trying to force himself to just be your best friend as you requested, Matt cracks under a wave of intense jealousy.
Part 8 Part 10
The phone buzzes at 7:14 AM.
You’re still barely awake from a dreamless sleep, the kind that comes after days of emotional exhaustion finally catch up with your body. The vibration rattles against the nightstand, sharp and insistent, and your hand fumbles blindly across the wood surface until your fingers close around cold phone.
One new message.
Your thumb swipes across the screen before your brain fully registers what you're doing. The brightness sears your eyes. You blink. Refocus.
Matt: OK.
Two letters. No punctuation beyond the period. No follow-up. No explanation.
The phone slips from your fingers and lands face-down on the mattress. Your heart, which had lurched into your throat at the sight of his name, now sinks somewhere deep into your stomach. OK. Just OK. The letter you poured yourself into, the desperate plea to salvage your friendship, the raw admission of your cowardice, all of it met with two letters and a period.
Your fingers are already typing before you can stop yourself.
You: OK?
The response comes immediately. So fast you know he must have been staring at his phone, waiting.
Matt: The letter from Nick, i read it. OK.
No capitalization on the I. No warmth. No indication of what's going on behind those dark eyes. Just a confirmation of receipt. A digital nod. Message delivered. Contents noted. Have a nice life.
You stare at the screen until the words blur. Then you lock the phone and roll over, pulling the blankets up to your chin. The ceiling is the same ceiling you've stared at for the past week. The same cracks in the plaster. The same dust motes floating in the morning light. Everything is exactly the same, except now you have two letters and a period to add to your collection of things Matt has given you that you don't know how to interpret.
You don't reply.
The conversation dies right there, buried under the weight of mutual confusion, two people who have spent years talking around the thing that matters most, now reduced to single syllables and lowercase letters.
The next three days pass in a haze of forced nothing.
You don't leave the house. You don't answer texts beyond the bare minimum required to keep people from showing up at your door. The group chat buzzes constantly. Chris, doing what Chris does best, filling the silence with nonsense.
Chris: yo did anyone else see that pigeon outside the studio today
Chris: it was HUGE
Chris: like genuinely concerningly large
Chris: nick said it was normal sized but nick is a liar
Chris: anyway we're filming tomorrow if anyone cares
Chris: which you should because the concept is actually sick
Nick sends a thumbs-up emoji. Matt sends nothing.
You send nothing.
The chat goes quiet for a few hours, then Chris starts again.
Chris: update: the pigeon is back
Chris: i think it's watching me
Nick: It's a pigeon, Chris.
Chris: a MENACING pigeon
You read every message. You don't respond. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard more than once, but what would you even say? Hey guys, just so you know, your brother and I had sex and then he found years of obsessive love letters I wrote to him and now we're not speaking and I'm pretty sure our friendship is irreparably damaged. Anyway, what time is filming?
The phone stays locked. The silence stays heavy.
Your birthday arrives on a Saturday.
You wake up to the smell of something baking downstairs. Your mother, already in full event mode, has been planning this for weeks. "It's not every day my baby turns another year older," she'd said, ignoring your protests that you didn't want a party, that you didn't want a fuss, that you just wanted to survive the week without completely falling apart.
The house transforms by noon. Folding chairs appear from the garage. A tablecloth you've never seen before gets draped over the dining table. Your mom enlists two of your cousins to hang a banner that reads Happy Birthday! in gold script, and someone produces a truly alarming number of balloons.
You move through the preparations like a ghost. You smile when people talk to you. You accept hugs from aunts who comment on how thin you look, how tired, are you sleeping okay? You lie and say you're fine. Just busy. Just stressed. Just anything other than what you actually are, which is a woman whose entire emotional existence has been reduced to two letters and a period.
The doorbell rings at 2 PM.
Chris bursts through the door before you can even reach the handle. "BIRTHDAY GIRL!" His voice echoes through the entryway. In his hands is a massive foil balloon, it's a giant green pickle wearing a striped party hat. The text on the body of the pickle reads, in bold letters: Another Birthday? NO BIG DILL!
A laugh tears out of you. Genuine. Surprising. The first real laugh in days.
"Chris," you manage, "where did you even find this?"
"The internet is a beautiful place." He grins, shoving the balloon weight into your hands. "Also, you're welcome. I spent actual money on this."
Nick slips past his brother, shaking his head with the long-suffering patience of someone who has spent his entire life dealing with Chris's antics. He's holding a neatly wrapped present, rainbow paper with a silver bow. "Ignore him. Happy birthday." He pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other keeps the gift carefully balanced.
His voice drops to a whisper against your ear. "Are you okay?"
The question, so simple, so direct, almost undoes you. You swallow hard. Nod against his shoulder. "I'm okay," you whisper back. And for a moment, pressed into Nick's steady, grounding presence, you almost believe it.
Then you look up.
Matt is standing in the doorway.
He's wearing dark jeans and a simple white box crop tshirt. His hair is the same. His face is the same. Everything about him is exactly the same, except for the careful, deliberate distance in his eyes. The way he's holding himself back. The way he's watching you watch him.
And then, like someone flipped a switch, he smiles.
It's his classic smile. The easy one. The best-friend smile. "Hey," he says, stepping forward. "Happy birthday." He hands you a wrapped present with a card tucked under the ribbon, and his fingers don't brush yours. He pulls back before they can.
The card features Sandy Cheeks winking inside her scuba dome on the front, arched beneath the words howdy partner happy birthday. Inside, his handwriting, familiar, the same handwriting you've read on set lists and grocery notes and the back of receipts for years fills the page.
Homegirl,
Happiest Birthday. All the best! Thanks for always being there.
— BBF Matty
P.S. I'm sorry.
Your eyes catch on the postscript. The rest of the message is so casual, so flippant, so perfectly constructed to sound like nothing has changed. But those three words at the bottom, tucked under his signature like an afterthought, undo the entire performance. I'm sorry. Not sorry for the card being late or sorry I forgot to wrap it better. Just I'm sorry. Vast and vague and devastating. Also you couldn't help but notice the subliminal messaging, Sandy, Spongebob's iconic girl best friend.
You look up. Matt is watching you read, his expression carefully neutral. But his jaw is tight. The muscle at the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Thank you," you hear yourself say. "This is really sweet."
"Of course." His voice is steady. Performed. "You know I've got you."
You know I've got you. The words land somewhere deep in your chest and ache. He's being normal. He's being exactly what you asked for in the letter, the best friend, the safe one, the one who doesn't talk about what happened or what he read or what he said when he pinned you against the door and called you his. He's giving you what you asked for.
So why does it feel like a knife between your ribs?
The party swells around you.
Your mom has outdone herself. The dining table groans under the weight of food. Sandwiches cut into triangles, a cheese board, a vegetable platter, something involving puff pastry that your aunt brought and everyone is politely not eating. Your cousins have taken over the living room. High school friends you haven't seen in months circulate with paper plates and cups of punch.
You move through it all on autopilot. Smile. Hug. Thank you. Yes, another year older. No, I don't feel different. Yes, the pickle balloon is ridiculous, Chris picked it out.
Matt stays in your orbit but never enters it. Every time you glance across the room, he's there, talking to someone, laughing at something, sipping his drink. But his eyes keep finding you. Brief glances. Quick cuts. Like he's checking to make sure you're still there. Still real. Still his, even if he's pretending you're not.
The doorbell rings again past 4 PM.
August is standing on your porch with a bouquet of flowers. Simple. White daisies and yellow roses, wrapped in brown paper. His smile is warm and easy and completely unaware of the emotional minefield he's walking into.
"Happy birthday," he says, handing you the flowers. "Sorry I'm late."
You hug him. It's natural. It's what friends do. But over his shoulder, across the crowded living room, you see Matt's expression flicker. The mask slips for half a second. Something dark and sharp flashes in his eyes.
Dinner is a loud, chaotic affair.
Every seat at the table is filled. Your mom has dragged in the extra chairs from the garage, the mismatched ones with the wobbly legs that no one ever uses. You're wedged between one of your cousins and Nick. Across the table, Matt sits next to Chris. August at the far end.
You're halfway through your second plate of food when August stands up.
He taps his fork against his glass. The clinking sound cuts through the chatter. Conversations trail off. Heads turn. Your cousin elbows you and grins.
"Alright, alright," August says, his voice carrying that easy confidence he always has. "I'm not big on speeches, but I couldn't let today pass without saying something."
Your stomach tightens. You glance at Matt. He's perfectly still, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"I've known this one for a long time," August continues, gesturing toward you with his glass. "And I've watched her be the most selfless, most loyal, most quietly incredible person in every room she walks into. She's the kind of friend who shows up. Every time. No questions asked. No thanks needed."
Your cousins are swooning. One of your high school friends makes a teasing "aww" sound.
"She deserves the world," August says, his eyes finding yours. "And I'm so lucky to have her in my life. Happy birthday. To the best."
Glasses raise around the table. Voices chorus, "To the best!" Someone claps. Your mom dabs at her eyes with a napkin.
You force a smile. Force a thank you. Force yourself not to look at Matt.
But you feel him. You feel the exact moment he pushes his chair back from the table, the scrape of wood against wood. You feel the silence that follows as he stands, as he walks out of the room, as the door swings shut behind him.
The empty chair gapes at you. Accusing. Awful.
Nick catches your eye from across the table. His expression is carefully blank, but something flickers there. Something that looks a lot like confirmation. Like he's been waiting for this particular shoe to drop all afternoon.
You stare at Matt's half-eaten plate. At the fork resting on the edge of the porcelain. At the napkin crumpled beside it.
The green-eyed monster has finally reared its head.
You excuse yourself five minutes later.
"Just need to grab more napkins," you say, to no one in particular. To everyone. To the void where Matt used to be sitting. No one stops you. Your mom is already deep in conversation with your aunt about some neighborhood drama. Your cousins are arguing about something on their phones. The party has swallowed the moment whole, moved on without noticing the absence of one person.
The kitchen door swings shut behind you.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant laughter from the dining room, muffled now by the wall. The bright overhead light reflecting off the countertops. And Matt.
He's standing by the sink, his back to you, his hands braced against the edge of the counter. His shoulders are tight. His head is bowed. He doesn't turn around when you enter.
"Hey." The word comes out smaller than you intended.
"Hey." His voice is rough. Worn at the edges.
The silence stretches. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the dining room, Chris laughs loudly at something. The sound feels like it's coming from another planet.
Matt turns around.
His face is unreadable. That careful blankness he's worn all afternoon, all week, all the long days since he walked out of your bedroom and left the spare key on your nightstand. But his eyes are different. His eyes are burning.
"This is what you wanted, right?" He asks it quietly. Not accusing. Just tired. Just hollow. "To just forget about everything. For you to have your best friend back."
You stare at him. Your brain snags on the words. What you wanted. He's talking about the letter. The letter Nick delivered. The letter where you begged him to pretend the box had never been found, the sex had never happened, the confession had never left his lips. You asked him to forget. You asked him to shove everything back into a box and lock it away.
And he's been trying. All afternoon, with the easy smile and the casual card and the deliberate distance, he's been trying to give you exactly what you asked for.
Tears prick at your eyes. Hot. Immediate. You can't let him see. You can't let him watch you break again. You turn around, facing the counter, pressing both palms flat against the cold surface. The chill grounds you. The smoothness of the granite. The faint smell of dish soap.
"Maybe this will be better for both of us." Your voice trembles. You can't stop it. "I don't know, Matt. Maybe better for the friendship—"
The words die in your throat.
Heat. Sudden, solid heat pressing against your back. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest. His face buries into the side of your neck, his breath warm and ragged against your skin.
"I tried."
His voice cracks on the word. Shatters. The pieces of it scatter across the kitchen tiles.
"I tried, but I can't anymore. I can't fake it."
Your hands are still pressed flat against the counter. Your knuckles have gone white. His arms tighten around your waist, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go.
"You have no idea how selfish you were." His lips move against your neck, barely a whisper. "Keeping all those letters to yourself. All those years. All those things you never said."
"I'm sorry." The apology chokes out of you, wet and broken.
"Don't be." His grip tightens. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry for not looking at you. For not seeing what was right in front of me."
A shaky breath shudders through his chest. You feel it against your spine, the rise and fall of it, the way his body is trembling almost imperceptibly.
"Finding that box, those letters" he continues, his voice low and rough, "completely flipped my world. I didn't—I had no idea. All this time, I thought I was the only one struggling. The only one with these messy, confused feelings that I didn't know what to do with. And then I found those letters and realized you were doing the exact same thing. In the dark. By yourself. For years."
His face presses deeper into your neck. You feel the scratch of his beard. The wetness that might be tears or might be your own or might be both.
"You were right there," he whispers. "The whole time. Right in front of me. And I was too stupid to see it."
He turns you around.
His hands slide up from your waist, over your ribs, until they cup your face. His thumbs brush the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping them away even as new ones fall. His eyes are dark and wet and unbearably open.
Then he kisses you.
It's different from the rainstorm. Different from the frantic, desperate collision in your bedroom. This kiss is slower. Deeper. A confession pressed into your lips, your tears mixing together, salt and heat and the faint taste of the punch he drank at dinner.
He pulls back, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours. His thumbs are still stroking your cheekbones.
"Seeing you with him," he breathes, "I can't take it."
You blink through the tears. "Who? See me with who?"
The kitchen door swings open.
August steps inside. His expression shifts instantly, the easy smile evaporating as he takes in the scene. You, crying. Matt's hands on your face. The tension in the air thick enough to choke on.
"Is everything okay in here?" August steps forward, his posture straightening, his shoulders squaring.
Matt drops his hands from your face. The warmth disappears. The cold rushes back in.
He turns around.
Walks right up to August.
Almost chest to chest. Eye to eye. The height difference is negligible. The tension is not.
"Yeah, dude." Matt's voice drips with defensive venom. "Everything's okay."
The air crackles. Neither of them moves. Neither of them blinks. You're frozen against the counter, your back still pressed to the cold granite, your hands still shaking.
The door swings open again.
Chelsea walks in. "What's up?" She glances between the two men. Her brow furrows. Then, as if deciding the testosterone standoff isn't worth her attention, she walks right past both of them.
"Happy birthday, babe. I'm sorry got caught up with work." She wraps you in a hug, her sundress rustling, her perfume light and floral and completely at odds with the chaos of the moment. She pulls back, studying your face. "You okay?"
You nod. Numb. Automatic.
Chelsea turns around. Walks right up to August. Throws her arms around his neck. Rises onto her toes.
And kisses him, a peck on the lips.
Soft. Brief. The kind of casual peck that comes from years of intimacy. "Babe," she says, her hand resting on his chest, "is everything okay?"
August's posture softens immediately. His hand comes up to cover hers. "Yeah," he says, his eyes still on Matt. "Everything's fine."
The kitchen goes silent.
Matt stands frozen. His eyes are wide. His mouth has fallen slightly open. He's staring at Chelsea's hand on August's chest. At August's hand covering hers. At the easy, obvious intimacy between them that he has somehow, impossibly, completely misread.
You watch the realization crash over him in waves. The furrow of his brow. The slight shake of his head. The way his eyes cut to you, confusion and disbelief and something that looks terrifyingly like hope all tangled together.
"Wait." His voice is barely a whisper. "You two are—she's your—"
"Girlfriend," August says. Flat. Direct. "Chelsea. My girlfriend." He pauses, and understanding dawns across his face. Understanding of exactly what Matt has been assuming this whole time. "Did you think—"
He doesn't finish the question. He doesn't need to.
Matt's face crumples.
All the jealousy. All the rage. All the sleepless nights and the desperate confrontations and the who the fuck is he and the are you sleeping with him and the way he's been tearing himself apart watching you with August. All of it, built on a foundation of absolutely nothing.
"Chelsea," you manage, your voice still shaky, "this is Matt. Matt, this is Chelsea. August's girlfriend."
Chelsea extends her hand. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
Matt doesn't take it. He's still staring at August. Still processing. His jaw works, like he's trying to form words and failing.
Then he looks at you.
And the expression on his face is so raw, so utterly exposed, that it steals the breath from your lungs. He looks like a man who has just been handed a pardon at the gallows. Like someone who spent weeks drowning only to realize the water was three feet deep.
The kitchen door swings open again. Nick pokes his head in, his eyes scanning the scene—Matt frozen, August and Chelsea united, you pressed against the counter with tear-streaked cheeks—and sighs.
"Of course," he mutters. "I leave you people alone for five minutes."
Summary: you go to brunch at Madison’s and meet a bunch of people, including the triplets. You talk a little more with Matt than anyone else.
Read the rest, HERE.
Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains of the Airbnb, warming the room long before your alarm had the chance to go off. You were already awake. Excited was an understatement.
You reached over to your nightstand, unlocking your phone to see the text Madison had sent the night before with her address and the brunch time. A smile spread across your face.
Yesterday you knew absolutely nobody in Los Angeles. Today you were heading to brunch at Madison Beer’s house. Life was weird.
You climbed out of bed, making yourself a quick breakfast before wandering over to your suitcase. After staring at your clothes for far too long, you finally settled on a red gingham top and your favourite pair of relaxed blue jeans. Casual. Cute. Not trying too hard. Exactly what you were going for.
You curled a few loose pieces of hair around your face, kept your makeup soft and glowy, slipped on a pair of white sneakers, grabbed your purse and headed downstairs just as your Uber pulled up.
The drive over felt different than last night. Instead of nerves about walking into a room full of strangers, it was excitement.
Maybe today would be the day you actually started building a life here. The Uber pulled into a quiet neighbourhood lined with modern homes and perfectly trimmed hedges. Your stomach fluttered. “You’ve arrived,” the driver smiled. You thanked him before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Taking one deep breath, you walked up the driveway and knocked. Only a few seconds passed before the door swung open. “There she is!” Madison smiled.
“I’m so glad you came.”
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“Come in.”
The smell of fresh pancakes, coffee and bacon immediately filled the air. Laughter echoed from somewhere further inside the house. You followed Madison into the kitchen before your eyes widened slightly. There had to be fifteen people there. Some were gathered around the island. Others sat around the large dining table. Music played quietly from a speaker in the corner while conversations overlapped one another. You instantly recognized a few faces from social media. Tara. Gabi. Josh. You tried your best not to stare. Madison gently touched your arm. “Come on.”
She began introducing you one by one. “This is Tara.”
“So nice to meet you!”
“This is Gabi.”
“It’s nice meeting you!”
“And Josh.”
“Welcome to LA,” Josh smiled.
One by one everyone greeted you so warmly that the nerves you’d carried all morning slowly melted away. Eventually, Madison led you over to three familiar faces standing together. “And these three..” she laughed.
“are Chris, Nick and Matt.”
She pointed to each of them individually as she spoke. You smiled. “Hi.”
“Hey,” all three answered almost in sync.
You looked between them for a second before laughing. “Wait.. You guys are the Sturniolo triplets, right?”
Nick grinned immediately. “Of course.”
Chris laughed while Matt simply smiled to himself. “I’ve definitely seen you guys online before,” you admitted.
“We’re honoured,” Nick joked dramatically, placing a hand over his heart.
Madison laughed. “I’ll let you guys introduce yourselves properly.”
She wandered off to continue greeting another guest. You chatted for another minute before everyone slowly began making their way toward the dining table. You grabbed a plate, helping yourself to fruit, pancakes and eggs before scanning the table for somewhere to sit. Only one chair remained. Beside Matt. He noticed you looking around. “I think that’s your spot.”
You laughed. “Looks like it.”
Sliding into the chair, you placed your plate down. Conversation filled the room almost instantly. People talked over one another. Someone was telling an embarrassing story from the week before. Someone else was trying to defend themselves. It felt loud but comfortable.
“So..” Matt spoke beside you.
You turned toward him. “So..”
“You knew who we were?”
You smiled. “I mean, yeah..”
“How many videos have you watched?”
You pretended to think. “Enough.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not really an answer.”
“I don’t know,” you laughed. “They’d pop up on my TikTok.”
Nick looked over immediately. “Hear that?” He pointed between you and his brothers. “She said they.” He gasped dramatically. “She doesn’t even know which one is which.”
You laughed. “I do.”
“Oh?” Nick folded his arms. “Prove it.”
You pointed across the table. “You’re Chris.”
Chris nodded. “Correct.”
You pointed to the person beside him. “You’re Nick.”
Nick grinned. “So far, so good.”
Finally, you looked beside yourself. “And you’re Matt.”
Nick threw both hands into the air. “She passes.”
Matt laughed quietly beside you. You looked at him. “I was hoping you’d tell us you had absolutely no idea who we were.”
You smiled. “Sorry to ruin your ego.”
He smirked. “You just made my ego bigger.”
You rolled your eyes. “I can tell.”
Chris laughed from across the table. “She’s funny.”
“She is,” Nick agreed.
The conversation naturally drifted elsewhere, but every now and then you and Matt somehow found yourselves talking again. About Canada. About LA. About music. About how different the weather was. The conversations weren’t deep. Just easy. At one point you absentmindedly took the last sip of your orange juice before setting the empty glass beside your plate. Matt noticed almost immediately. “You want another one?”
You looked over. “Oh sure, if you’re already getting up.”
“No problem.”
He grabbed your glass without hesitation before walking toward the kitchen. You watched him disappear for a second.
“He does that.” Nick’s voice interrupted your thoughts.
“Hm?”
“He notices stuff.”
You smiled slightly.
A few moments later Matt returned, setting the fresh glass down beside your plate. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The brunch carried on for another couple of hours. Stories became funnier. People became louder. Every burst of laughter somehow ended with your eyes meeting Matt’s. Each time one of you looked away first. Neither of you seemed to acknowledge it.
Eventually people began collecting bags, saying their goodbyes and thanking Madison for hosting. You hugged Madison before promising you’d see her again soon. “It was so nice meeting everyone.”
“You’ll definitely be seeing us again,” she smiled.
As everyone slowly filtered toward the front door, you stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunshine. “Bye, guys!”
A chorus of goodbyes followed you as you walked toward your waiting Uber.
Back inside the house, Nick casually bumped Matt’s shoulder. “You talked to her longer than you’ve talked to me all week.”
Matt frowned. “Did I?”
Nick couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”
Matt looked toward the front window just in time to see your Uber pulling away from the curb. Nick just laughed to himself. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they’d be seeing the Canadian singer.
Warnings: suggestive (just a bit tho), poly relationship (implied), spoilers for the last few episodes
Hope this is good I got so exited to write this that I probably made SO MANY MISTAKES I’m really bad at fluff 😭. Anyway, hope this is good
-S
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You remember when Mello first told you he was leaving. He confided in you for everything: Near’s wins, his losses; everything. He came to you the day news of L’s death was revealed. He was second in line to be L’s successor, just behind Near. He hated it. He truly believed that you were his only constant, always ready for him.
”I can’t anymore, I need to leave.” He was crying when he told you, allowing himself to break down only for you. He wanted to stay the night in your room, but Roger would never allow it.
”Come with me. None of this matters. L is gone. Roger wants Near and I to work together, but I can’t. I just can’t. Near can do it just fine without me!” he said into your shirt. You held him close, hoping he wouldn’t try anything stupid. You knew he would get emotional like this often, but never like this. He looked up at you, hope in his eyes. You moved some of his hair out of his face, letting your hand linger for nothing longer than a mere few second.
”Please come with me. We could leave, far away from here. We could have our own life. No Near, no Roger. It would just be us. Please,” he begged. You didn’t know if leaving was a good idea, but a promised future with Mello wasn’t an awful thought.
”If you want to come along, pack your things and wait at your window for me. We’ll leave tonight.”
That was five years ago. Now, he’s on his own in America. He joined the Mafia to catch Kira. Of course, you went with him. Nobody dared hitting on you if it meant getting in the way of Mello. Everyone knew he had feelings for you. You used to think he might have back at Wammy’s, but now? Now you just assume he doesn’t want you gone since you're all he has.
Everything came together once Matt joined. Mello had asked him for help on a mission to kidnap Kiyomi Takada. He came a few months early, DS in hand and goggles over his eyes. You hugged him, excited to see your other childhood friend for the first time in what felt like forever.
”I missed you Matt,” still holding him. He pulled back, kissing you on both cheeks.
”I missed you too. Where’s Mello?” Mello happened to be a few meters away, glaring at Matt for blatantly kissing you in front of him. He had told him his feelings for you back at Wammy’s, so he sure was brave to pull this stunt right in front of him.
The next month followed with the three of you living together. Mello never made a move on you, nervous to be rejected or make it awkward. Matt however, was not afraid to get physical with you. You knew he was simply joking around, but Mello didn’t. For example, one morning you made coffee for yourself. Matt came out, shirtless with a cigarette in his mouth, and grabbed you from behind.
“Good morning,” he said, kissing your hair.
”Shut up, Matt,” you said, giggling at his antics. He led you to the couch, the sound of his DS turning on filled the room as he sat you on his lap.
“Wanna watch me play, doll?” You adjusted yourself before watching his quick hands maneuver the game. That’s when Mello came in.
”You guys gonna actually come help plan this or am I gonna have to listen to you two making out while I’m working?” He took a bit of his chocolate, jealousy written on his face. Matt let you up from where you sat.
”Easy, Mel. We were just having a bit of fun. If you want her back, you can have her.” You walked over to Mello, Matt following behind you.
”Can I have some?” You asked Mello, pointing to his chocolate. He took another bite before kissing you, giving you the piece of chocolate he just bit off. He thought about doing that for a while now, but he was always too nervous. That was, until he realized he had to be better than Matt, who was practically undressing you with his eyes.
”Heyyy, can I have some of that too, Mel?” Matt asked. Mello glared at him. Matt shot his hands up.
”Woah. Don’t make that face at me. Do you wanna share? We can share if you want.” Mello didn’t hate the idea, but he still had to prove himself better. And if you liked him too? Then he wouldn’t mind sharing you with Matt.
That night while you weren’t around, Mello stood alone with Matt outside as Matt lit his cigarette.
”Have you decided yet?” Matt asked, trying to get the lighter to hold its flame long enough to light one.
”Yeah. I don’t mind the idea of sharing. I just don’t want her getting hurt. It’s already risky having her with us. What if something happens to us on this mission, and she doesn’t know.” Matt nodded.
”Well then we won’t let that happen. Even if one of us is caught by the cops they’ll only want information. They won’t shoot unless it’s necessary. And you’ll have Takada, therefore ransom. So we’ll be fine.” That’s when they saw you inside, wearing Matt’s shirt and eating a piece of Mello’s chocolate, looking for them. Mello nodded towards you. Matt, getting the idea, followed him and they both silently walked you to Mello’s room, which was the largest out of the three of you and had the largest bed.
The next morning you woke up, still in Matt’s shirt. To your left was Matt, who was still asleep, shirtless, and grabbing onto your waist. Mello was awake, dressed, and standing before you. Today would be the last day you would see Mello for a while, since this would be the start of the mission. If successful, Kira’s identity would be revealed, and you would be safe.
”Guess we have a few hours left,” you said, wishing you had more time.
”Yeah…” He paused. “Come here for a second.” You got up, every step feeling like walking through snow. You took his hands, looking him in the eyes.
”I have something I want to tell you, but I don’t know how,” he said.
”Tell me, Mello. I think I already know.” He wrapped his arms around your shoulders as he kissed you; better than Matt, better than anyone. This wasn’t just a goodbye, this was an I love you. You pulled away a few minutes later, flustered and wide eyed as Mello still held you close.
”In the rare chance I come back from this, I want to marry you.” That’s when you heard Matt behind you, clapping and whistling.
”Finally got it out of your system, huh Mello.”
———
Hope this was good I’ve never written a full length fic for Death Note before so I hope I can write more. If you want a pt 2 with more angst over their deaths LEMME KNOW BC THAT SOUNDS SO FUN TO WRITE.
