↳ NO SHOES? NO PROBLEM! — MR73 .ᐟ ꨄ︎ ⋆˚.⋆
summary… note to self: wearing brand new shoes out to the club is not the greatest idea. luckily, matt has a decent solution [1.8k].
becca’s notes… seen too many tiktoks like this and i ask the audience when it’s MY turn !!
masterlist ⋆˚࿔ likes + rbs appreciated lovelies
whoever penned the phrase ‘beauty is pain’ had clearly never endured six straight hours of dancing in a pair of platform boots that haven't yet been broken in.
it had seemed smart, at the time. pull on a pair of boots that you’d never worn before, and hope the combination of alcohol and several hours of dancing would have them fit to wear by morning, minimal pain required. you’d look hot and break in your boots at the same time, two birds with one stone.
your raw skin and the promise of blisters on your ankles bears the unlucky truth; it was a stupid plan, and now you’re suffering the consequences.
the whole thing wouldn’t have been so bad, had matt not perfectly predicted the outcome of your stylistic choices earlier in the night. before the two of you had left his place, he’d raised the concern that your feet would start bothering you very quickly, but you’d brushed him off instantly, assured him you’d be totally fine.
now not only were you in pain, you were also battling with the niggling annoyance of being wrong.
every raise of matt’s brows, each pointed ‘you okay?’, seems like an ‘i told you so’ in disguise, a chance to flaunt his foresight in your poor, suffering face. the more rational part of you knows that he’s just genuinely checking in on you, but you take the opportunity to get a little huffy anyways.
to your credit, you last a good portion of the night, maybe even morning, now, before caving.
despite the height boost your boots provide, you still have to push up onto your toes a little to speak into matt’s ear, wanting to be heard easily over the pulsing music of the club without straining your voice too much.
“so…” you start, voice dripping with sweetness. “how pissed would you be if i asked to call it a night?”
matt merely laughs, shaking his head as though he saw this coming a mile off. matter of fact, he did. the half-finished drink in his hand is quickly discarded, placed onto a nearby sticky tabletop with little concern.
“not pissed at all,” he assures.
his speech is slightly clumsy, like he has to try a touch harder to wrap his mouth around the words in his tipsy state.
“c’mon. let’s get you and your poor feet home, hm?”
by ‘home’, he means his apartment, but you’re both veering a little too close to drunk to dwell on the implications of his words, a promise looming somewhere within the casual declaration.
matt is quick to lead you out of the club, large hand settled comfortably on your lower back as he weaves through the crowd with a surprising amount of grace for someone his size and stature. you think he only bumps into a handful of people, apologies falling from his lips with every step, and that in and of itself is an achievement.
his apartment is a mere fifteen minute walk from the club, and your stubborn self refuses to battle to get an uber on a busy saturday night, and then have to spend god knows much to go a few minutes down the road. matt may have hockey-player-money right now, but you’ll be damned if you let him spend it on stupid things just because.
walking it is, no matter how hard your feet try to protest.
“you’re not seriously gonna walk back in those death traps, are you?” matt asks, eyes fixed pointedly onto your shoes as though they’ve personally wronged him, mottled his feet instead of your own.
“you know my stance on overpriced cabs,” you counter, the cold air against your bare arms distracting you momentarily from the throbbing pain of your feet. “what do you want me to do? crawl?”
matt’s expression shifts in a way that indicates he’s gearing up to make some sort of lewd joke, eyes glinting with mischief under the low streetlights. acting preemptively, you swat at his arm before he can even think about getting the words out.
“ow,” he whines dramatically, rubbing at his bicep as though he hasn’t taken far harder hits with little-to-no reaction.
“drama queen,” you chastise. “if anyone should be complaining about being in pain right now, it’s me.”
incidentally proving your point, you hiss as the leather of your boot rubs against your skin once more, though you stubbornly refuse to give in and stop walking, for whatever reason.
it’s painful for matt to watch, honestly. each step you take causes your pretty features to curl up in a wince, and it makes his heart squeeze in sympathy. desperate to somehow take away your pain, matt assesses the situation.
“okay, no. nope. hold on a minute.”
gently grabbing your arm, matt prompts you to stop walking for a second. you don’t even get the chance to ask what he’s doing before he’s crouching down, fiddling with the zipper that runs up the side of your shoe.
one hand cradles the back of your calf, thumbs tracing lazy, soothing circles against the bare skin as he carefully wrestles the boot from your foot, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. he grunts a little as the thing finally comes off, the ordeal clearly taking more effort than he’d anticipated, and he gives your now freed foot a soft squeeze before moving onto the other one.
you shiver a little as your bare skin comes into contact with the cold sidewalk, and matt glances up at you from where he’s stooped down, amusement dancing across his features at your visceral reaction.
“sorry, baby,” he apologises, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “i’ll be quick.”
the second boot is pried off a lot quicker, and matt carefully guides your foot back onto the ground before rising back up to his full height. your eyes follow him as he does so, leaving you peering up at him through your lashes, grinning stupidly despite your freezing, aching feet.
your boots hang limply in his hand, brandished lamely like a sort of prized fish, and he returns your expression with a smile that’s equally as fond, a little lopsided and toothy.
brain clouded by a thick fog of intoxication, you’re only half grossed out by the concept of your bare feet making contact with the streets of new york, but any worries you have are quickly extinguished when you register all too late that your feet are no longer on the ground at all.
wordlessly, matt braces his free arm around the backs of your thighs, just below your ass, and scoops you up into his hold like it’s nothing. a soft squeal escapes your gloss-sticky lips, and your arms come to wrap around his neck for stability. thanks to your mutual tipsiness, it’s a little clumsy, and you fear for your life as matt adjusts his grip.
“relax, i’ve got you,” he teases, squeezing you closer to his chest in way of silent reassurance. “i’d fall flat on my ass before even thinking about dropping you, you know that?”
and you do.
after all, it wouldn’t be the first time matt had sacrificed his own safety for your wellbeing. hell, the last time you two had gone ice skating, he’d used his body as a human crash mat in order to break your fall more times than you could count.
mind put to rest, you feel yourself relaxing, actually starting to enjoy the feeling of being carried through the streets like a drunken damsel in distress. you let your head flop backwards, and after battling through the initial dizziness, take in the world from an upside-down perspective, the twinkling city lights acting as man-made stars for you to gawk at.
you kick your feet from where they dangle over matt’s arm, and he huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he peers down at you.
“having fun there?”
“so much. this is like that lana del rey song."
“you’re ridiculous,” he scolds, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
“and you love me,” you tease, voice overly cheerful as you release your vice-like grip on his neck for long enough to flick the tip of his nose.
“a disgusting amount, yes.”
the light teasing and familiar back-and-forth continues the whole way back to matt’s place, and it’s more than enough to distract you from the horror-show that your feet will most definitely be when you finally decide to tend to them.
even when matt pretends to drop you, loosens his grip and lets you fall barely an inch before capturing you in his strong hold once more, you can only feign anger for thirty seconds, maximum.
as the familiar sight of your boyfriend’s apartment complex comes into view, you expect matt to set you back down onto your feet, the hard part of the journey now complete. what you don’t expect is for matt to fumble with his grip on your boots, punch the lobby code into the keypad, and waltz right into the building like it’s just another evening.
“i can walk, you know,” you point out, wondering if matt hasn’t realised how ridiculous he’s being, or if he simply doesn’t care.
“i know,” comes his response.
still, he doesn’t put you down.
no, matt only sets you down when you’re actually inside of his apartment, and he can lower you onto his mattress, ensuring that you don’t have to walk a single step for the rest of the evening.
it’s not the first time you’ve stayed over at his place, and you’re thankful now more than ever that he'd insisted on granting you a ‘drawer’ – or, more accurately, three drawers – to contain a large collection of your things.
matt makes quick work of bringing some makeup remover and one of his shirts over to where you’re sitting on the bed. a pair of fuzzy, stripy socks are tucked into the crook of his arm, and you can’t help but smile at the ridiculous sight.
whilst you scrub at your face, matt pulls the fluffy socks onto your feet as though he’s a medical professional applying a gauze, mumbling about ‘stupid boots’ and ‘poor ankles’. half of you thinks he's going to continue to lecture you, but as the alcohol slowly begins to wear off, a blanket of drowsiness seems to ensnare both of you in its grasp.
night quickly turns into day, and even when the sun rises, matt still refuses to let you walk, carrying you everywhere lest the twenty steps from his kitchen to the living room cause your poor, bruising feet to fall off.
for all of your eye rolls and huffy complaints, deep down, you get a thrill out of the princess treatment.
