(mdni) in which you spend a morning in your boyfriend’s shirt and nothing else. part of promptober75 2024 and the actress!reader au. 2912 words.
warnings: fingering, thigh riding, praise, mild degradation, use of 'bunny', spanking, pussy slaps, oral (f receiving), brief cockwarming
You’re alone in Matty’s bed when you wake up, but the mid-October sun is barely kissing at the horizon and his side of the bed is still warm. Stretching, you sit up, shivering a little in the chill, and get to your feet. You pull Matty’s flannel shirt off the floor and button it on, lifting the collar over your nose to inhale the smell of him, all cigarettes and sweet cologne. Slipping into a pair of his boxers, you rake your fingers through your hair, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as an idea forms in your mind. A pair of your thigh-high socks sit neatly folded on the dresser, and you quickly slip them on and pad downstairs in search of your boyfriend.
“Morning,” you yawn, greedily reaching for one of the steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. “Oh, come here, beautiful.” you murmur.
“You’re talking to the caffeine, aren’t you?” Matty grins, his voice rough with sleep and oh-so tempting. You half-nod around the mug already at your lips, and his eyes go wide when he takes in the sight of you properly.
After a beat of silence that seems to drag just a little too long, you wonder if you’ve miscalculated. Nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt, you bite your lip. “Sorry, I was a bit chilly when I got out of bed. Is this okay?”
Matty’s still staring at you, slack-jawed. “You look fuckin’— I’m— Jesus Christ,” he stammers, his heavy, lust-thick gaze on you making your head swim. His eyes are glued to your thighs where they spill over the tops of your socks, stuck on the sliver of skin left exposed by his shirt.
Giggling to yourself, you sip your coffee, waiting for Matty to snap out of it and make a move. Eventually, you set the mug down, rest your palms on his thighs and lean close. “Is this okay?” you repeat teasingly.
“You’re evil,” he breathes against your lips. “So fucking evil. And gorgeous, God, so gorgeous.” Teasingly, you pull at the hem of your shirt, revealing his low-slung boxers and a sliver of your hip. “Jesus, I’ve had wet dreams that start like this,” Matty blurts out, one hand digging into your hip.
“Oh, yeah?” you tease, lowering yourself into his lap. “What happens next?” you breathe, slowly rolling your hips against the muscles of his thigh and moaning under your breath.
Matty laughs softly, fingers sliding delicately into your waistband. “First, I make you cum all over my fingers,” he smirks, greedily swallowing your gasp as he brushes a circle into your clit. “Then, I bend you over and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Then, I clean you up with my tongue, ‘cause I’m a gentleman like that,” he adds, wearing a smug, lascivious grin and teasing your entrance with the tip of his finger. “You like the sound of that, angel?”
Grinding down against his fingers, you nod into his neck. “Mhmm. Yes. Please, Matty,” you whine, need creeping up your spine. A murmured good girl as he gently lifts your head has you dripping against his fingers, his lips meeting yours in a slow, loving kiss. Matty draws his fingers out of your underwear, his other hand pulling you down against his thigh so you can grind yourself against him. His tongue comes out to lick obscenely at his fingers, practically salivating at the taste of you.
“Shit, I wanna get my mouth on you,” he groans, pleasure tingling under your skin as you roll your hips down against his sweats. “God, I love this fucking pussy,” he adds, near-reverent.
“S’yours,” you say immediately. “S’all yours, baby. Can do anything you want with it, promise.” Matty practically whines, gripping your hip with one hand and sliding the other up your shirt. Your back arches when his knuckles brush a peaked nipple, sensation rippling through your body.
Your hips jerk, arousal dripping out of you as you rock against Matty’s thigh, head tipping back in ecstasy. “Good girl,” he coos. “That’s it, make yourself feel good. Need to make this pretty pussy cum f’me, okay?” Nodding, you whine as he slips his hand back into your underwear, circling your soaked hole and then filling you with two fingers in one breathless second.
Clenching your cunt around him, you whimper, melting against him as he sets a gorgeous pace, fast and punishing; designed to reduce you to a trembling mess in his lap. “Mmh, Matty, fuck,” you whine, head hazy with pleasure. Your lips meet his jaw, slight stubble against your soft skin somehow enough to set you buzzing as you kiss and bite at him. “Y’so fucking hot,” you moan, attacking his neck as he finger-fucks you into a daze.
“Such a sweet girl,” Matty murmurs, circling his thumb over your clit as pleasure arcs up your spine. “God. you drive me crazy, angel. Look so pretty in my clothes, thought I was still dreamin’ when you came downstairs like that,” he groans, letting you drive your hips down onto his fingers and clench around him wantonly. His hips twitch a little, the length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.
You’re dizzy with lust, high off knowing he wants you, dazed by his fingers still fucking in and out of you like it’s going out of fashion. “If I’d known you’d get so— mmm— hot and bothered, I’d have— fuck, fuck!— done it forever ago,” you gasp, choked out around moans. Obscene sounds fill the room, echo off the ceiling, rattle deliciously through your head.
“Y’always get me bothered, angel,” Matty laughs breathlessly. “Too fucking beautiful,” he sighs, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit and swallowing your moans as your body starts to tremble under his touch. “You ready to cum for me, darling?”
“Yes,” you whimper, choked with lust. Your orgasm crashes frantically over you, lung-crushingly intense as you gasp for air. Your cunt pulses around Matty’s fingers, his murmured praise going straight to your hazy head. His name falls from your lips in a dazed chant, body going slack as you melt into a puddle of pure desire against his chest.
You wince as Matty slides his fingers out of you, and he croons a soft apology into your hair. “Good girl,” he coos, rubbing his palm over your soaked cunt as you whine. He slaps your cunt harshly, sending a bolt of pleasure-pain rippling through you. “That’s my good little slut, baby. Shit, I need to be inside you, angel. D’you wanna be a good little bunny? Bounce on it for me?”
The nickname makes you dizzy, cunt throbbing with want. You look at him with need painted across your face, eyes wide and pleading. “Want it from behind, like you said. Please? Promise I’ll still be a good little bunny for you.” Matty’s eyes blow wide, pressing a messy, sloppy kiss to your lips and grinning against your mouth.
Detaching yourself from his lips with a whine, you stand and bend over the arm of the sofa, shoving Matty’s boxers down your legs so they puddle on the floor. You reach back to rub your clit with a moan, arching your back as Matty’s blunt nails dig into your hip and he frees his cock. “So gorgeous. Look how wet you are for me, bunny. Gonna look so good pumped full of cum, huh?” he adds, brushing the head of his cock over your clit as you whine desperately.
Torturously slow, Matty fills you, your back arching and cunt clenching with want. Twin moans fall from your lips as he bottoms out, his hips flush with yours. Your cunt pulses, desire flaring under your skin, and you try desperately to urge him deeper. “Please, need you to fuck me, Matty, fuck!” you whimper.
“Shh, bunny, shh. M’gonna give you what you need, promise. Don’t you trust me?” Matty says, low and rich and soothing, and you melt against the sofa cushions. He pulls out, all the way out, and you let out a needy, choked sob, cunt clenching around nothing. “Oh, sweet girl. You’re desperate, huh?” he teases, a touch cruel in a way that kisses deliciously down your spine. A hard smack against your cunt makes you scream, incoherent pleas dripping into the pillows under your head. “You’re dripping,” he coos.
“M’soaked,” you whine. “M’so fuckin’ wet for you, Matty, please stop teasing,” you beg. His hands tightening on your hips is all the warning you get before Matty slams hard into you. A sound that’s half-scream, half-moan, all lust tears free from your chest, sudden, intense pleasure balling tight in your chest.
Slick sounds echo obscenely loud around you, filthy and melodic; like Matty himself, somehow. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s my good little bunny, yeah? This pretty cunt’s takin’ me so well, darling,” he praises, stroking the curve of your ass gently. You brace for a slap that never comes, and you find yourself whining at the lack of it. “Oh, baby. You want spanked, s’that it, bunny?” You nod, whimpering his name, and he pinches your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure rocketing up your spine. “Words, darling. I know it’s hard when I’ve made you all dumb on my cock, but you gotta talk to me, yeah?” The condescending lilt to his words drips deliciously down your spine, pools between your legs.
“Please, Matty,” you murmur, voice thin and pathetically pleading. “Need you to spank me,” you add, cheeks flaming as the burn of humiliation turns to a tingle of arousal between your thighs. Matty’s hand comes down against your ass, heat spreading from every inch of his skin that touches yours. You moan happily, arching your back as Matty fucks into you between slaps.
His hand meets your ass, your thighs, even your hips, until the skin there is red and stinging and your cunt is practically gushing against him. Matty fucks you through it all, hips slamming against yours as you clench vice-tight around him. “So close, aren’t you, bunny?” You nod into the pillows, whining his name breathlessly. “You want one more?” he says, his grin audible. Nodding, you whimper out something that sounds enough like agreement to satisfy him, and he croons out a good girl.
In a split-second, he’s pulling out of you and slapping your clit so hard that the impact sends you toppling over the edge. Without warning, you’re cumming all over Matty’s fingers, your knees buckling with the weight of your orgasm. Your breath is coming in quick, short gasps, every exhale burning sweetly in your lungs. Pleasure floods your entire body, seeping into every bone, every muscle, your very nerves catching alight as you come and come. It takes you a minute to come to, and when you do, you’re laid delicately on the sofa; Matty kneels between your legs, gliding his palms reverently along the exposed skin at the top of your thighs.
“Hi, bunny,” he says, softly trailing one hand up to stroke your face, brush sweat-soaked hair out of your eyes. “That was intense, huh?” he can’t resist adding, a self-satisfied and shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
Your eyes flicker down to where his cock hangs between his legs, still hard and heavy, drooling and fucking soaked with your arousal. “You didn’t cum,” you say, frowning a little and reaching weakly for him.
Matty pushes your arm down with a soft laugh, leaning down to kiss you and slowly working his way down your neck to just above the spot where his shirt is buttoned over your chest. “Good thing this isn’t about me, then,” he smirks. “This is about you, bunny,” he adds, unbuttoning his shirt a little so he can press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “And how unbelievably, irresistibly, mind-blowingly fucking sexy you look wearing my clothes.” Matty punctuates every word with a wet kiss against your bare skin, your pulse rushing instinctively under his touch.
He unbuttons the shirt just enough that he can free your tits, seemingly desperate to keep you in the shirt this entire time. Wrapping his lips around your nipple, Matty sucks eagerly, teeth grazing slightly as his tongue flicks over you the same way he does to your clit. “Mmm, now who’s needy?” you giggle, sliding your hand into his curls and tugging gently, just enough that he pulls off your nipple.
“Always need you,” Matty answers instantly, honey-brown eyes meeting yours with a hunger so deep you feel it in your very bones. Then, he smirks, and a shivering thrill rushes over you. “D’you remember the third part of that dream I was tellin’ you about?”
You bite your lip teasingly. “Where you clean me up after?” Matty’s working his way down your body, your legs widening unconsciously to make room. “You made a real mess of me,” you challenge, whining when he kisses softly at your clit.
“Don’t worry, bunny. Don’t even think, okay? Gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, lapping hungrily at your cunt. Stubble scrapes deliciously against your thighs, and you resist the instinct to slam them closed around Matty’s head. Moaning as pleasure drips down your spine, you arch up against his mouth.
His tongue flicks back and forth over your clit, skilled muscle working you into a frenzy. Your hands dig into his hair, French tips scraping over his scalp as he moans into you. The sound vibrates through your body, settles as a low hum in the base of your skull, dizzying. “Don’t stop,” you plead, pressing his mouth harder against you.
Desire pulses thickly in your blood, weighs heavy on you, pins you still. You grind your hips up, your clit brushing his nose as he teases your soaked hole with the tip of his tongue. “God, I fucking love this pussy. So pretty, so good for me,” he coos, drawing back a little so you can see his face, eyes lidded and lust-blown and lips and chin soaked with you. “Whose pussy is this, really, bunny? Who does it belong to?”
“You,” you choke out. “S’yours, Matty, all yours,” you whimper, gasping as his calloused fingers come up to circle your clit.
“Fuck, say my name like that again,” he groans, sounding fucking wrecked. Obediently, you gasp out his name, over and over. Matty’s breathing goes ragged. He leans in, redoubled his efforts, licking at you with a hunger so voracious you aren’t sure he won’t swallow you whole — you aren’t sure you wouldn’t let him, either.
Chanting his name like it’s the only word you know, you writhe in pleasure under him. Matty’s nails dig into your hips, so deep they’ll bruise. You can’t bring yourself to care when your brain is so saturated with ecstasy that you’re sure you’ll never feel anything but bone-deep pleasure again. “Oh, my God,” you whimper. “I’m so close.” Every exhale is shaky, frenzied, pure bliss coiled so tight in your chest that it feels like panic, your heart racing faster and faster with every stroke of Matty’s tongue.
He doesn’t even have to speak, just buries his tongue deeper inside you, presses into your clit, moans against your dripping hole. The instruction is clear: cum for me. The fire in your chest erupts, rips free, burns you up and leaves melted strings of unending pleasure in all the places your body should be. You’re screaming his name, pulsing on his tongue, probably soaking everything in sight as the evidence of your ecstasy fucking sprays out of you.
“Fuck, darling, y’gonna make me cum,” Matty practically whimpers, crawling up your body to speak in the shell of your ear. “M’so close, I wanna cum inside you, fill you up. S’that okay, bunny? S’okay if you’re too sensitive, I just—” You’re still cumming, dizzy with the relief of it, as you reach wordlessly down to guide his cock into you.
The second he feels your soaked, tortured cunt throb around him, Matty’s cumming, covering your mouth with his in a messy, sloppy approximation of a kiss. You swallow his moans almost as greedily as you take his cum, milking him for every drop as he coats your insides. He slumps on top of you, still inside you, and grins dazedly. “You’re fucking incredible,” he vows.
“M’fucking exhausted,” you mumble, eyelids suddenly lead-heavy.
“Oh, darling,” Matty coos, propping himself up on his elbows to fuss over you. You wince as he pulls out, the loss bringing a pout to your lips.
You yawn. “Can you…” you trail off, reaching up to stroke his face. “Mmm, just put me to bed, n’then fill me up when you’re hard again? Don’t wanna fuck again, I just need you inside me.” You’re slurring your words, your exhaustion now a physical thing, weighing heavy on your consciousness.
Matty kisses you, soft and featherlight. “Fuck, s’not gonna take long if you keep talkin’ like that, bunny,” he murmurs, scooping you into his arms and carrying you to bed. You’re drawn tight into sleep, barely afloat when you feel him slide home, your cunt so soaked that it accepts him oh-so easily. “That’s it, bunny.” You can vaguely hear his murmur, barely kissing at the edge of your awareness. “Just go to sleep, I’m right here.”
And that you know, in your heart of hearts, to be the truest words you’ve ever heard.
day 12 of promptober!! just matty being boyfriend of all time, really. enjoy <3
“please, please, darling. i'll never ask you to do anything for me ever again.”
“that's a lie and you know it.”
“well, maybe. but still,” matty wraps his arms around you, hands clasping over your stomach and lips finding the sweet spot in the crook of your neck. underhanded. “come outside with me, sweet girl. just for a minute or so, that's all i'm asking.”
his kisses trail up to your temple; despite yourself, you sigh, cosy and content. and then the rain outside begins crashing down even harder, and the cosiness disappears in a flash, akin to the lightning that's forecast for later tonight. you gesture to the window, aghast. “in this?”
“what? s'just a bit of water.”
“matthew, love and light of my life - fucking torrential is what it is.”
your boyfriend sighs, hugging you tighter. “thirty seconds,” he murmurs into your hair. “less than a minute in the rain, and then we come back inside, and i'll warm you up and make you the best cup of tea you've ever had in your life. promise.”
“but it's so cold out there.”
“babe,” matty rests his forehead on your shoulder. “come on. i fulfilled your romcom cliché dream.”
“technically, i didn't ask for that-”
“yes you did, darling, you just don't remember because you were half-asleep,” he kisses your cheek, pouting into your skin. “are you saying you don't wanna kiss me? is that it?”
“oh, you're so bloody sneaky,” you spin in his grasp, clasping your hands behind his neck and playfully pulling at his hair. “what are the chances of you shutting up unless you get your way?”
“hmmm, slim to none.”
you exhale slowly. “you promise it'll only be thirty seconds?”
“yeah, thirty… ish.”
“matthew!”
“not my fault your kisses are so addictive, is it?” matty giggles; his face softens, and he tenderly rests his forehead on yours. “it'll be as quick as i can make it, darling. you won't get a cold, though, i guarantee that.”
“good. you're looking after me if i do, though,” you kiss his nose, smirking as you pull back. “and i'm gonna be so annoying if i get ill.”
“is this an agreement, then? you'll come out and kiss me in the rain?”
fuck it. you might as well. “i mean, you're kissing me. but yeah.”
matty cheers, pressing little kisses over your face; your smile widens with each one. “thank you, my darling,” his hands trail down your arms to grab your own, before tugging you into the hallway. “come on, get your shoes on.”
“i can't get changed?”
“the sooner we go, the sooner we're back in the warmth.”
“but i'm wearing shorts!”
“trust me, i've noticed,” matty kneels, tying his own shoelaces before holding one of your trainers out. “come on, cinderella.”
you smile as he helps you into your shoes, tying the laces into bows and pressing kisses to your thighs before he stands and kisses your head. “you're very cute, healy.”
“i try. you ready?”
“yeah.”
your boyfriend presses a final kiss to your head, grabbing a set of house keys from the guitar-head hook and gently tugging you out the front door of the flat. the cold from outside is apparent even in the stairwell, growing stronger and rain growing louder as you get closer to the external door, and if not for matty's warm hand fully clutching your own you'd definitely be running back up to the warmth of the flat and the blankets on the sofa.
you almost do, actually, when matty opens the door and you're properly face to face with the downpour; the rain hits the pavement at a diagonal, and the cold hits you so strongly you genuinely feel nauseous for a moment. matty seemingly has no such qualms, dropping your hand and stepping onto the (deserted, because everyone else is sane and indoors) road; he turns to you, arms open and face gleeful. “come on, sweetheart,” he shouts, baggy t-shirt beginning to stick to his lean body. “it's lovely out here!”
sucking air in through your teeth, you dart out onto the road after him, shrieking as the icy water hits you. “jesus christ!”
matty only laughs, pulling you into his arms for a hug. any and all body heat he had seems to have evaporated in the autumn air, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. “hey,” he tilts your chin up so he can look at you, and your heart skips several beats at just how beautiful he is right now, droplets of water on his eyelashes and hair practically plastered to his head and eyes shining with total adoration as they look into your own. “i love you.”
“i love you,” you tenderly brush a raindrop from his cheekbone with your thumb; it's immediately replaced by another, but you don't care. you don't care about anything right now, actually, except the beautiful boy holding you in his arms and looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing in the world. logically, you mustn't be, soaked to the bone and shaking and probably lacking in pallor, but it's impossible not to feel like you are around matty. “kiss me?”
your boyfriend leans in, smiling the exact same smile that got you into this state in the first place. “magic word?”
his lips are mere millimetres - actually, more like nanometres - from your own; when you reply, he practically swallows the word. “please.”
“sweet girl.”
your boyfriend's lips meet yours, and you question why you haven't kissed him in the rain like this before now - matty's kisses are always head-spinning, sending a flush of heat through your body that culminates in both your heart and your underwear, and the cold water running down and between both of you only sharpens the sensations, has you melting into him and wishing you could stay like this forever. but your matthew is a man of his word, and retracts his tongue from your throat with disappointing urgency; he holds your face a millisecond longer, though, murmuring “my dream girl. thank you” before leading you back inside.
ironically, like earlier, it's only in the stairwell that you properly comprehend the cold of the afternoon - your teeth begin to chatter as the door closes behind you and the draught follows, and matty’s sweet enough to speed up his leading you back into the flat in response. it's mercifully toasty in there, heating on full blast, and the rain doesn't seem half as bad when it's only hitting off the windowsills and not you. still, the way it lingers in your clothes and weighs them down is not a nice feeling at all; you're unaware that you've automatically started to take them off until you hear a choked gasp from your boyfriend's lips. you turn to him, smirking as you pull your sodden t-shirt over your head and dropping it on the hardwood floors. “what?”
“you…” matty's eyes are glued to your bare chest. “aren't you cold?”
“not after getting out of these wet clothes, no,” you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear, still looking at your boyfriend. “wanna come and feel how warm i am?”
he blinks, huffing out a laugh and wandering slowly over to you. “still need me to warm you up?”
“always,” your fingers tease the hem of matty's t-shirt. “can we do it in the shower?”
“fuck,” matty nods, pulling the t-shirt over his head before pulling you into a bruising kiss. “if i ever refuse a shower with you, darling, get me to the gp, yeah? obviously it means i've gone insane.”
“you're so weird,” you giggle, trailing your lips down his neck; you pause to whisper in his ear. “but i still want your fingers inside me.”
he doesn't reply. instead, he scoops you up and carries you into the bathroom, sitting you on the counter before reaching in to turn the shower on; his lips find yours while he scrambles to undress, and you can't help but smile against him as he almost trips over himself in haste to get ready for you. presumably, he reaches back to test the water at some point, because you soon find yourself under the warm stream, your back pressed against matty's front. it's a perfect scenario - well, almost. “could do with the water being a bit hotter, baby.”
“absolutely not, you lunatic. it's fucking scalding!” matty sighs into your neck. his right hand creeps across your thigh to the honey between them, calloused fingertips brushing almost non-existently light across your clit and making your breath hitch. “besides, you'll be feeling the heat soon enough.”
“that's maybe the worst thing you've ever sai- oh,” you moan softly as matty's fingers brush through your slit, catching the wetness pooling there and teasing your hole. “inside me, baby,” your voice cracks. “please.”
he smiles against you. “whatever my sweet girl wants.”
angel boy that he is, matty obliges, slowly sliding two fingers into you while he coos soft praises into your ear; almost instinctively, they hook upwards to meet your g-spot, and the combo of that with the heel of his hand against your clit has you whining into thin air. he repeats the motion, over and over and over, and with every movement of his hand you fall deeper and deeper into bliss. your brain is turning more to mush with every passing second, but somewhere in its recesses you think about how you used to touch yourself the way matty's touching you now, imagining the way those fingers of his would feel inside you - both of those things pale in comparison to the real thing, without a doubt. after all, there's no way you could get yourself to that peak of pleasure as quickly as he has, vision blurring and legs shaking and moans falling from your lips just as the warm water falls from the showerhead onto you and the love of your life.
who, coincidentally, you don't even need to tell that you're about to cum. his free arm tightens around your waist, teeth grazing a hickey into the back of your shoulder. “that's it, sweetheart,” matty whispers, voice barely audible over the shower and you (moans and wetness alike). “cum for me, my girl. give in.”
your mind is too hazy to think straight, but your body obeys him - something inside your stomach tenses, then just shatters, sending pleasure rocketing through your vascular and nervous and whatever other systems control the various functions of your body. crying matty's name in broken sobs, you sink back into him as he holds you through your orgasm, groaning “oh, baby, my perfect girl, i love you so much" into you. when the aftershocks subside and your legs aren't quite so shaky, he turns you around, coaxes you into a hug far more tender than one might expect from the guy who's just finger-fucked them, and speaks into your hair. “you feeling a bit warmer now?”
“yeah. thanks,” you smile into his chest. “i love you, matty.”
“i love you, gorgeous.”
you hum happily. “can i return the favour?”
“can do anything you want to me, to be honest.”
“oh, i intend to,” your face is smug. “but first… i think someone mentioned something earlier about making the other the best cup of tea they've ever had in their life?”
matty laughs, and the sun shines. “come on, then.”
The rain has been going all night. A steady, relentless tapping against the windowpane, mixing with the occasional rumble of thunder. You can hear the wind pick up, whistling through the slightly open window. The air in the room is cold—sharper than it should be—but you’re half-awake, cozy, and not quite ready to move.
Beside you, Matty shifts, pulling the duvet closer to his face. You feel the warmth of his body disappear as he scoots further under the blanket.
A soft shiver runs through him, followed by a small, muffled groan.
You open your eyes slowly, squinting in the dim light. Matty’s buried so deep under the duvet that only a tuft of his messy black hair is visible.
"Cold?" you murmur, a grin tugging at your lips.
"What do you think?" His voice comes out all muffled from under the blanket, like he’s trying to make himself small. "I’m freezing."
You blink, then laugh softly, remembering the window. "Oh, right. I might’ve left the window open."
He peeks his head out just enough to narrow his eyes at you. "Might’ve?"
"Yeah, maybe."
Matty huffs, retreating back under the blanket like a sulking cat. "You’re literally trying to kill me."
"Come on, it’s not that bad." You tug at the edge of the blanket, trying to pull it off of him, but he grips it tighter.
"Nope. You don’t get any of this now. You gave me hypothermia."
You roll your eyes, still grinning. "Hypothermia? Matty, you’re being ridiculous."
He peeks out again, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep and irritation. "Ridiculous? I’m an icicle, babe."
"You're being a bit of a baby, don't you think?"
"You try sleeping in an arctic tundra and see how you feel," he shoots back, nose scrunching up adorably.
"Okay, okay, I’ll close it." You get out of bed, feeling the cold air hit your bare legs immediately, and move to the window. The rain is still pouring outside, trees swaying in the wind.
As you shut the window, you hear Matty's voice from the bed. "Finally, some mercy, thought you want to punish me for something.”
“D’you think you need punishment?” You smirk.
"Nah, I’m best behaved," he says, popping his head out fully now, a lazy smirk on his lips. "Still freezing though.”
You climb back into bed, rolling your eyes as you slide under the covers. "Poor thing," you tease, but your hand reaches out to find his under the blanket, pulling him closer.
He immediately tucks himself against you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his cold nose against your neck. "You’re warm," he mumbles, sounding a little more content now.
“Am I?”
“Mhm, s’nice.”
You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his head as you savor his scent.
“Yeah, then come closer.”
He shifts slightly, and you feel it-him, pressed against you, his hard length stirring an immediate arousal within you.
There is an undeniable allure to morning intimacy, especially with Matty.
"Are you still cold?" you whisper into his tousled hair, your fingers trailing gently along his scalp.
“Mhm, very,” he preps slow kisses along your jaw.
You trace soothing circles on his back with your other hand. After a while, you start to slowly grind against him, earning a soft whimper that escapes his lips, betraying his arousal.
“Need me to warm you up?”
"Mhm..." he replied, his voice still heavy with sleep.
Matty only nods against you, his eyes shut again. He would’ve slept way longer if he wasn’t woken up by the cold, you feel a bit sorry. But only a bit.
“Yeah? I need words, Matty,” you tease.
“Please, darling. Warm me up.”
"Okay," you chuckle softly, feeling a surge of affection for him as you reach your hand between your bodies, gently caressing the skin above his boxers.
“Fuck, please,” he pleads once more, his eagerness evident in his tone.
“Are you cold or just needy?” You laugh.
“Ehm,” he chuckles, “not my fault, babe.”
You dip your warm hand under the waistband, firmly grasping his hard cock, eliciting a breathy exclamation from him.
"fuckin’ hell," he gasps, his voice muffled against your chest.
"That feels good?" you inquire softly, seeking confirmation.
"Better then good, keep doin’ that," he murmurs in response, his breath warm against your skin.
As you continue to stroke him, you reach for his hair, gently playing and pulling, adding another layer of sensation to the intimate moment.
Placing tender kisses on his forehead, you feel your hips instinctively beginning to move, responding to the rhythm of your shared desire.
It is irresistible, especially with Matty softly moaning and whimpering against your hot skin, his lips brushing against you, and the warm breath escaping his lungs tickling your skin, intensifying the intimacy of the moment.
“Jesus,” he sighs.
You revel in the feel of his length in your hand, delicate yet powerful. "I can feel you already getting warmer," you watch as his lips part, barely glistening with saliva, and his whimpering growing louder.
Starting with your thumb against his slit, you apply pressure, eliciting a moan from his lips, before moving to the pre-cum pooling on the tip. Smearing it along the bottom vein, you use it as a guide as your hand begins to move up and down, utilizing the small amount of lubrication present.
“Baby, baby-“ he repeats as you pick up the pace, his body responding eagerly to your touch. You twist your hand, using your nails to tease the head of his cock, causing him to tense uncontrollably.
“Look at you, Matty. Want it so bad it hurts?”
“Please,” his eyes are shut tightly as your hand continues its relentless motion. “Fuck- m’so close, darling. So close.”
His head turns to nuzzle into the pillow, his moans muffled as he nears his orgasm.
"Come on, baby, finish for me," you urge, and Matty complies, his loud groans filling the room as his release coats your hand, warm and sticky.
He goes limp against you, his hands bringing you closer as if he couldn't bear to be apart from you. You soften, stroking his hair with your free hand after helping him come down from his high.
“How’s that?” You ask, kissing his cheek, “better?”
“A lot,” he turns to you capturing your lips in a kiss, “thank you, love.”
“Don’t thank me just yet.”
Matty cocks his eyebrows up, “why, love? What have you got planned?”
You let your tongue slip into his mouth, your hand squeezing his soft cock, the feeling making Matty let out a muffled moan, hands tightening on your hips to ground himself as you explore his mouth, your warm tongue sliding against his, the whole thing so messy and wet, a mixture of yours and Matty’s saliva trickling down his chin.
“You can give me one more, can you?”
“I’ve got no choice, have I?” He asks rhetorically, watching as you trail kisses down his neck to his chest until you stop at his lower stomach, leaving bites softly.
“I mean it.”
He mewls, gasping and arching his back as you wrap your hand around his sensitive tip, purposefully paying extra attention just to watch him squirm and hear him whimper.
“Yes, yeah, I can give you one more.”
“Good. Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Your tone is low as you spoke, your words making him whine as his hips stutter away from you, your brutal touch on his oversensitive tip making him writhe under you, pathetic cries ripped from his throat as tears welled in his eyes.
“Fuck, love, hurts.” Matty gasps, his cock throbbing in your hand as you pump his length at a fast pace, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he pants and whimpers desperately, his hands gripping your thighs as tears spill down his flushed cheeks, the overstimulation completely overwhelming him.
“Matty, you’re alright, baby.”
He wants to talk but the moment your mouth got onto he shuts up.
"Fuck, okay. darlin’ I can’t," he cries, the sensitivity from the previous round still linger fresh.
You look up at Matty through your damp lashes from the feeling of his touch. Swirling your wet tongue around his tip, one hand soothing up his thigh and the other pumping whatever you can’t take.
Matty looks so pretty like this, eyes screwed shut, whimper and whines falling from his mouth, various strands of hair sticking to his forehead.
“Shit, s-so good.”
Coming off his tip with pop you continue to pump him, his previous arousal being enough to act as a lube.
"What was that, babe?" you ask, still looking up at him. Wanting to hear that magic word again.
"ple-"
You frown, hands instantly removing themselves from Matty’s body. His hips buck upward at your retreat.
"Bab-“
"You open your eyes when you speak to me. Right, Matty?" you cut him off.
"Yeah."
You hum at his response. "Why are your eyes still closed then?"
Matty’s eyes instantly shoot open, big, droopy, and hazy. You smile.
"That’s better.”
“Yeah, s’ just knocking the shit out f’ me.”
"I know but, tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”
Matty’s breath hitches, you return to slowly pumping him again and you begin to kiss up his shaft, proud to see that by the time you reach his tip to look back at him he's still still looking at you.
"Go on, baby. tell me what you want. Say the magic word." you encourage.
"Please, i- i need your mouth on me. Need to cum, please?" his last please comes out trivial and his brows furrow from the increase pumping on his cock.
"So good." is all you say before you attach yourself back onto his length. Bobbing your head to take as much as him as you could.
Drool is spilling from the corners of your mouth and all in this moment you just want to make him cum, and by his increase in pitch of his whimpers and the frequency of his please, he is getting close.
"please-ah, fuck. m' gonna." His body finished before he can end his sentence.
Swallowing his load and wiping the drool from off your mouth, you take in Matty’s exasperated state.
You pull his boxers up from his thighs letting the band snap against his lower stomach making Matty hiss and squirm once more.
“That was mean,” he says, jutting out this bottom lip.
“Sorry,” you giggle, “forgive me.”
You lean forward to kiss his pout off of his lips and he tiredly hums against you.
“Already forgiven.”
“Good. Is my boy warm now?”
The nickname makes matty blush and pull you closer, his leg between your thighs. “Fuckin’ hot. Thank you, my darling.”
You smile which turns into a repressed moan when Matty pushes his thigh more forward.
“M’ too exhausted now. Get off on my thigh and then I’ll thank you?”
Bump in the Night (Promptober) // George Daniel x Reader
A/N: First time dropping a George oneshot and of course it had to be dad to be George. I'm just a ball of emotions rn 😭 (thanks to @abiiors for the effort you put into the prompts as usual xx)
W/C: 1,300
C/W: None xx
The night was cold, but inside the bedroom, the warmth of the blankets and the soft glow of the streetlamp outside the window created a peaceful cocoon of comfort. Still, despite the comfort, sleep was elusive. You shifted again, groaning softly as your hand slid over the growing bump of your belly. The baby was active tonight, kicking and squirming in a way that made it hard to settle into any position. You turned to your side again, adjusting the pillow beneath your head, trying to find a more comfortable way to lie.
But it was no use. Every time you closed your eyes, the baby gave another little jab—one just below your ribs this time, and it was enough to make you wince. The gentle weight of the growing bump, coupled with the increasing discomfort in your back, was making sleep feel like a distant dream. You couldn’t help but let out a sigh, the sound barely above a whisper in the stillness of the room.
You glanced over at the clock: 2:30 AM. A part of you wanted to wake George, to tell him what was going on, but another part of you didn’t want to disturb his sleep. He was up late most nights with music, ideas, and the constant hum of creativity in his mind. The thought of pulling him away from that—especially on a night like this—seemed unfair.
But then, just as you were about to shift again, you heard a soft rustling beside you. The bed dipped, and you felt the warmth of George’s presence as he shifted close to you. His voice, husky from sleep, was soft but filled with concern.
“You still awake?”
You turned to face him, the glow from the window casting his face in a soft, pale light. His eyes, though tired, were filled with a quiet kind of attentiveness that you always adored.
“Yeah,” you whispered, giving him a small smile, though your discomfort was evident in your voice. “The baby’s kicking. I can’t seem to get comfortable.”
He frowned, leaning over to rest his hand on your belly. The warmth of his palm was immediate and soothing, even though the baby inside you wasn’t showing any signs of quieting down. It kicked again, this time more insistently, just beneath your ribs, and you winced.
“Poor thing,” George murmured, his thumb stroking your skin softly. “You okay?”
You nodded, though the discomfort was starting to build, a dull ache spreading across your back and hips. “I’m just... really uncomfortable. It’s hard to get comfortable with all this going on.”
George propped himself up on one elbow, now fully awake. He studied your face, his dark eyes searching yours, not needing words to understand how tired and frustrated you were.
“I’m gonna help you, yeah?” His voice was gentle, but there was an air of determination in his tone that made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
You didn’t even have the energy to argue. You wanted his comfort, wanted him to be close, and you didn’t want to fight it anymore. You’d gotten so used to carrying this little life inside you, but it didn’t make nights like this any easier.
George moved carefully, shifting so he could wrap his arm around your waist and pull you closer. You let out a small sigh of relief as you rested your head on his chest. The rhythmic beating of his heart beneath your ear was grounding. His warmth wrapped around you, and for a moment, the ache in your body seemed to lessen.
“Is this better?” he whispered, his fingers lightly brushing against the small of your back, applying gentle pressure to relieve some of the tension there.
You nodded, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Much better.”
The baby gave another strong kick, this time accompanied by a soft, involuntary groan from you. It was like the little one had decided that tonight was a good night for an all-night dance party.
George chuckled softly, the sound low and soothing in the quiet room. “I can feel that. It’s like you’ve got a football player in there.”
You laughed softly, the sound barely more than a breath. “I think I’ve got a whole fucking team, never mind a single player.”
He smiled and kissed the top of your head. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be tired soon. I’ve always said you’re the toughest person I know.”
You snorted softly, shaking your head. “I don’t feel that tough right now.”
“You are,” George insisted, his hand still gently massaging your back. “You’re doing something amazing, and I’ll be right here the whole time. We’re in this together.”
You glanced up at him, your heart swelling with love. His gaze was soft, his eyes glimmering in the dim light, and you could tell how much he cared—about you, about the baby, about this whole experience. There was something incredibly calming about him, something that always made you feel safe no matter how turbulent everything else felt.
Another kick came, this time lower down, and your expression shifted as you winced slightly.
“Let me try something,” George said. He carefully repositioned himself, moving from your back to your side so that he was facing you fully. His hand slid under your belly and lifted slightly, as if offering gentle support. “How’s that?”
You let out a breath, your body instinctively relaxing under his touch. It was better, much better. The pain in your back seemed to lessen, and the baby’s movements weren’t as jarring now that George’s hands were providing support.
“Better,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as a wave of relief washed over you. “Thank you.”
“Anything for you,” George whispered back. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand never leaving the gentle support beneath your belly. “Just try and relax. Let me take care of you tonight.”
You smiled, your lips curling softly as you felt your muscles begin to loosen under his touch. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was comforting, almost hypnotic. For a moment, the world outside the bedroom seemed to fade away—the autumn wind brushing against the window, the darkened streets, the chill of the night. All that mattered was the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.
The baby gave a final nudge, a little less intense than before, as if it had finally tired itself out. You let out a relieved breath, your body relaxing further into George’s embrace. The ache in your lower back began to subside as well, and you could feel the tension in your muscles slowly easing.
“Better?” George asked, his voice soft but filled with a thread of hope.
You nodded, a small, contented smile spreading across your face. “Much better.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Now, try to sleep, yeah? I’m not going anywhere.”
You pressed closer into him, your head resting against his chest once more. His hand never left your belly, gently caressing it as if to reassure both you and the baby that everything was going to be okay. His warmth wrapped around you like a soft, reassuring blanket. The night felt quieter now, less overwhelming. The baby was still there, still moving, but it was different now, more comforting than discomforting.
As your body finally gave in to the growing need for rest, you felt George’s lips press a tender kiss to your forehead. You whispered, barely above a breath, “I love you.”
He kissed your temple, his voice soft as he responded, “I love you too. And I love this bump more than anything.”
You smiled sleepily, your hand resting on your belly, feeling the faintest flutter of the baby as it settled down. The night outside continued its slow, rhythmic dance of autumn winds and leaves rustling, but inside, it was calm. It was safe. It was home.
The two of you drifted off together, your bodies intertwined, wrapped in warmth, comfort, and love.
(one whole year since i have been doing this oh my god!!!)
hello, hello!! we're back with the autumn/spooky themed prompts 🧡 last year was so much fun and i hope it goes just as well this time??
i’m releasing this well in advance so people can decide which ones they want to plan + write etc. the fics are to be posted in the month of october 💜
anyway, i hope you guys participate again and i would absolutely love to see your fics so pls tag #promptober75 if you use these ♡︎♡︎♡︎
typed list of prompts under the cut
1] turning of the leaves
2] oktoberfest
3] bad weather
4] autumn carnival
5] family dinner
6] sweater weather
7] sweet pumpkins
8] haunted house
9] corn maze
10] folklore
11] flannel shirt
12] rain showers
13] creatures of the night
14] abandoned
15] jack o’ lanterns
16] apples
17] blood red lips
18] constellations
19] witching hour
20] movie marathon
21] bump in the night
22] under the full moon
23] caffeine overload
24] death & decay
25] witch’s brew
26] chilly mornings
27] cabin in the woods
28] matching costumes
29] beginning of the end
30] trick or treat
31] heaven & hell
(ps: i made these for me and my mutuals in the 1975 fandom but if you want to use these for other fandoms, please feel free to do so :) however i’d really appreciate if you didn’t use the promptober75 tag 🤍)
A/N: First time writing Ross, could be the last time too! It's long (7k), it's smutty and it's a day late (sorry @abiiors). This is part of Promptober '23 and I'm not sure if I've written it right as it's set in November (as you can tell it's going well lads).
***
November 23 2023.
Six hours and forty-seven minutes.
It made sense for him to fly straight into Glasgow. It shaved almost two hours off the red-eye flight in comparison to London and another twelve hours in the car to get you to your destination.
This airport and this place weren’t something foreign to him either, he found himself popping up here more often than not just to get some advice. At times he knew he could pick up the phone, but nothing beat an actual, in-person conversation with his big brother in a normal pub with a cheaply priced pint without any pretence.
As he walked to the carousel to grab his bag, he slid the second strap of his backpack onto his arm and immediately followed it with pulling up his hood. He was knackered, body achy from the cramped flight and blinking heavy from the lack of sleep.
His glasses-covered eyes silently followed the black tracking as it moved bag after bag past him. Inside his mind, he began to ridicule himself for not just flying with hand luggage. He didn’t need the extra items, only staying here for seventy-two hours before he would be back in America.
Utah he thinks, or was it Oregon? He made a mental note to figure it out before he left.
Subliminally, he felt himself perk up when he saw his beat up silver luggage push through the black rubber flaps at the start of the carousel. Rather than waiting for it to meet him, Ross went to meet it dragging himself to the other side of the carousel.
Plucking up the item with ease, his gaze quickly scanned the case. He made sure to spot the battered dragonfly sticker that represented one of his favourite bands, therefore knowing he was picking up the right case. Last thing he needed was to be on the phone to Glasgow Airport sorting out their mistake (or maybe it would be his).
Wheeling the case through the airport was easy, even at this hour. Hood still up, he was able to keep himself to himself as he headed towards border control.
The queue shuffled along quite nicely, and he couldn’t help but smile as he read your texts that had been sent throughout his flight. The last one saying, “I’m standing beside the massive Christmas tree, it has mistletoe x.”
He was dying to kiss you, mistletoe or not. He didn’t need an excuse.
Passport scanned and stamped, he softly smiled at the lady on the desk before letting his feet take him to you. His ears perked up at the sound of the accent around him, one that always filled him with the warmest of emotions. It reminded him of the soft lilt his nephew was beginning to pick up.
Walking past W H Smith’s, he weaved around what he perceived to be a couple greeting each other and let his eyes scan over the crowd milling around him.
Christmas tree, Christmas tree, Christmas tree.
He actually spotted you first, regardless of the size of the tree that you were next to. All flannel shirt (which he was sure was his), leather leggings (which he definitely knew were yours) and black boots. Ross gently smiled to himself, taking you in.
You hadn’t noticed him, too engrossed with turning around to look at the flight board that was placed over your left shoulder and reading whether there was any delay with his flight. Truth was the stupid board wasn’t updating so it wasn’t the latest information and you couldn’t be anymore in the dark if you tried to be.
It was almost like slow motion when you turned back around, this sea of hair moving behind you as you looked through the crowd and found him. You knew your smile was megawatt, as you ran your gaze over his entire being; biting it away when you saw the way he had embraced his miserable, emo self and pulled his black hood up.
You couldn’t blame him.
Part of you could already see the heavy tiredness in his body, even though he was at least two yards away from you. Guilt was the heaviest emotion in you, relief was the second. You knew it should be happiness, and god it was there as a close third, but your thoughts were so strongly filled with how much he must love you to do these kinds of things for you.
Flying red eyes. Fucking his body clock up even more to see you for three days. Only to pack his shit up and do it all over again.
Ross closed the gap between you both easily; long and strong strides making the most of his 6’4 stature. When he was in front of you, your hands found his abdomen with ease. Arms sliding underneath his hoodie, desperate to feel as much of his warmth on you now that he was here.
Your head buried itself into his neck, and his arms immediately anchored you to him; hand sliding up to gently cup at the back of your neck. Staying in silence allowed you to really breathe him in, he even smelt tired if there was a way to describe it.
“Where’s this mistletoe then?” He queried, voice wrecked from his time in the air, his lips at your temple.
“Any excuse,” you playfully murmured, as you nudged your head back to look up at him.
“I think you’ll find, you text it to me,” he jested, eyebrows raised as he looked down the bridge of his nose at you. You always loved when he looked at you with such a roguish expression, dimples framing his closed lipped smile.
People often thought of him as sensible and he was, but the times that you saw his eyes light up in this way were some of the most alive times of your life.
“Details,” you whispered, as he pulled you up to him with a know-it-all hum and a mumbled “I’ll give you details” leaning down the rest of the way to meet you.
You’d missed his beard, that was the first musing that came to mind. It’s juxtaposing bristle and softness, always something that distracted you in the best way.
His lips were of course a close second, especially in that moment as they tenderly plucked at yours in a way that heavenly sighed god, I’m glad to see you.
This contented hum left you as he pulled away gently, his lips not done as they nipped at your jaw before he buried his face into your neck now. He started to sway the two of you as you hugged, your hands sliding up his back and gripping to the worn band tee that he donned.
“How was the flight?” you asked, voice slightly strained due to your head being tilted upwards.
The question hung around in the air for a while, before he lifted himself and pressed his lips in sponging kisses to yours once, twice and three times once more.
“Shit,” he let the word linger at your mouth as you heavily sighed, “but ‘s fine.”
With a deep breath, Ross raised to his full height once more, chest puffed out as he stretched, before asking, “Where’s the keys?”
“I’m driving,” you replied, quickly. He eyed you, right hand rubbing at his chest. You hated driving, especially in Scotland. He knew it, you knew it. The times you’d let out the girliest of screams when picking him and Rob up from Murrayfield were far too embedded into his mind to not tease you religiously about it.
It was almost like you could hear his thoughts, reminding him of all the moments you’d panicked when on the roads up here.
“I’m driving, Ross,” you stressed, cutting the thoughts dead. You knew he meant well but there was no way he was going to complete the almost six hour drive that you had on your hands after being sat uncomfortably on a plane for six hours himself and most likely only running off fumes.
His lips quirked, amused at your tone which was so heavily laced with reprimand. “Alright,” he conceded. “After you, darlin’.”
***
He had fallen asleep to Dreams by Fleetwood Mac about an hour and thirty minutes into the drive. You had assumed it to be because you had hit the A82 which was such a large stretch of road which you had to drive along for such a long period of time that it had bored him enough to nod off.
As you had slowed in traffic, you took the time to admire him while he slept. His glasses hung at the neck of the tee, never far away so that he would be able to see almost instantly when he woke rather than panic trying to find them.
His arms were folded across his chest; his neck awkwardly propped up by his bunched up hoodie made into some makeshift pillow and placed between him and the car door. You knew he would regret it later - his body was about to remind him that he was a thirty-four year old man who needed a proper bed to rest in - but regardless you were glad that he had given in to his need to sleep.
A soft smile lifted at your lips as you took in his slightly rounded chin, you just knew a double chin was hidden by his impressive beard and it filled you with such affection that you wondered if you needed an intervention at this point.
Eyes back on the road, you lifted your hand to turn down the music even further, not wanting anything to disturb him during his slumber, and concentrated on the journey ahead of you.
“What a dickhead,” you muttered after a while, pressing the break harder than you liked and watching the navy car to your right almost cut you up without a care in the world.
“He had right of way.”
Turning your face to the left, you blinked in silence over at Ross, whose face was far too amused for your likening. He did not just wake up and berate your driving. How long had he been awake?
“Easy to say when you’ve been asleep for just over four hours,” you commented, pulling off and taking the next left onto a road you didn’t catch the name of. “Must’ve needed the beauty sleep.”
The laugh that he gave you was sudden and hearty. He wasn’t afraid to let you know he was amused by your previous comment which was heavily petulant in its delivery.
“M’necks fuckin’ killing me,” he broke the silence.
“Karma.”
He meowed at you then, communicating he was heavily aware of your cattiness towards him. You cut your eyes to him, infuriated by the way his gaze sparkled before he winked at you to try and soften you up.
Next his right hand moved to brush your hair behind your shoulder. He could feel the tension sitting at the back of your neck and across your shoulders without really touching you.
“Ross,” you mithered, “I’m trying to drive.”
“Pull in ‘ere, let me do the last bit.”
“Sweep in and take the glory, true United fan.”
“No,” he spoke, voice level. “I can feel your apprehension, and I want you to relax. Pull in.”
Sighing, you felt your fingers reach for the indicator before you could stop them, signaling that you were moving to the curb. His belt was off him before you had actually stopped, an annoying beeping sound filling the car to signify someone wasn’t wearing their seatbelt as it was still in operation.
You undid your seat belt slowly, watching him wait at the front of the car as traffic moved around. When it became clear, he rounded the car to your side, opening your door for you and giving you space to get out.
“Any CDs in the glove compartment?” He asked when you were stood in front of him. “Driver's choice.”
You rolled your eyes knowing you were about to endure some scream-o band from the early noughties with heavily distorted guitar sounds and tons of drum snare.
“On you go, Passenger Princess. I’m not changing my mind.”
You squinted your eyes up at him, as he patted twice at your backside.
Watching him in your car, fixing the seat for his long legs always did things to you. It felt like an age since you had last seen him drive, hands moving smoothly over the steering wheel and placing the gear stick into first to pull off.
The finesse he showed was always far more attractive than it should be and you always remembered so vividly the first time he had taken you on a drive in America in this fancy old car that just wasn’t responsive.
You had felt on edge the entire time. Ross? He was so calm. So in control. Taking it all in his stride. Not at all bothered about driving on the opposite side of the road than when you were both home.
It weirdly comforted you. Made you feel safe, secure. Here was a man who was exactly everything you had ever wanted. A little bit geeky, a whole lot manly. Able to act the fool when he felt it, but sweep in and put the pieces back together when needed.
Grateful is what you were.
He must’ve felt it too, because as he pulled out back onto the road and got comfortable, his left hand found its spot atop your thigh. You quickly encased it with both of yours, weaving the fingers of your right hand through his before using your left to gently stroke at the top of his hand, knuckles and forearm.
“Woah, what’s this wanker doing ‘ere?,” he broke the silence with his high pitched and incredulous tone, followed by “ya could fucking indicate, mate!”. You watched as Ross turned the wheel with his right hand alone and looked through his mirrors, almost asking himself silently if those around him could actually drive.
“Doesn’t he have right of way?”
“No, he fucking does not.”
The delivery of his response was so deep and astute you bit back your laugh, before lifting his hand to your lips; giving in and chuckling against his skin.
Of course, he didn’t!
(He absolutely did).
***
The Isle of Skye was renowned for its beauty. A hidden gem of sorts within the Scottish islands. Known for its rugged landscapes, picturesque fishing villages and medieval castles, the largest island in the Inner Hebrides was to be your home for the next seventy-two hours.
The feeling you got when you drove over to the coast via the bridge that connected it to Scotland’s northwest was like no other. You heard Ross chuckle under his breath at the way you let go of his hand and clambered for your phone so you could film the scenery around you, mountains and hills that were awash of oranges and browns, with the odd bit of greenery clinging on even though you were fully in the throes of autumn.
Panning your camera across the car, you filmed his profile as he drove with poise along the bridge, barely any cars in front of you giving an open road feel. He looked at you from the corner of his eye when he felt you filming him, this devilish grin lifting at his mouth as you watched him through the camera lift your hand to his lips then placing it against the side of his face.
“Eyes on the road, Romeo,” you replied to his non-verbal action, stroking his cheek with your thumb, before gently turning his head away to look through the windscreen.
The rest of the drive had been quite a damp one, the heavens opening and rain battering down onto your car. With about fifteen minutes to go, you wrapped yourself up in Ross’ hoodie, glancing over at him to see him sat further forward in his seat as he wiped at the inside of the window which was misting up.
You fiddle around with the blowers to help him, blasting them up to the highest they would go and seeing the way the hot heat helped clear the windscreen slightly.
The sat nav told him to take the next right, the car dropping down to 15mph due to the narrow streets that he was driving around and then it was the next left to take you to the cottage that was nestled in the village of Elgol.
The beauty of Elgol was something the two of you had discovered and became captivated by over his short and sweet summer break after attending a wedding of his brother's friend.
During those four days, you had spent time exploring the breathtaking coastline and ventured on scenic walks through the landscapes that were so often talked about when it came to Skye.
When you had last been there, you had been able to experience the perfect balance of seclusion and adventure, which was exactly what you and he had been after for the longest time.
“We’re going to be rained off,” he mumbled, a little agitated as he pulled the car to halt outside your cottage for the next three days.
“You say that as if there isn’t plenty for us to do inside.”
It was meant to be suggestive and you appreciated that he had picked up on it immediately, this smug smile plucking at his lips; the kind that was absolutely driven by a dirty thought or two.
“I know how much you love a game of chess, babe.”
He glanced over at you unamused, as you laughed in such a dirty way, you were almost shocked a sound like that could leave you.
“Just love it, me.”
His deadpan was second to none. It was definitely one of your favourite things about him: made the list of the top five favourite things ever.
“Getting really good at it.”
“And who’s told you that?” He dropped his head back against the headrest and rolled his face to the side to look at you. He was currently on a losing streak, truth be told.
“Hey, Waughy and I talk. Usually when I’m waiting for you to reply to my text but you’re too hungover to pick your head up off the pillow.”
“Oh, I see how it is, fraternising with the enemy. Giving him all my tricks.”
You rolled your lips into your mouth, breathing deeply through your nose. “Not all of them.”
Those words were weighty.
There were some things John didn’t need to know about his friends. Things that were for only you and Ross.
A silence fell over you both, filling the car. You kept your eyes on each other, Ross’ occasionally falling over your features and dropping to your lips. He’d stare at them for a while, before they’d lift and he’d start the process all over again.
He did this a lot when he was away, sometimes in person like now after he had dared to take the flight, or other times through the phone when FaceTiming from California, or New York, or Perth. It was like he needed to memorise you in some way, just in case you changed by the time he got home.
You took him in too, his usual hair less sleek as flyaways made their presence known thanks to the damp moisture in the air. His skin wasn’t as perky as usual, a little sallow in colour but regardless he was still the most handsome man you knew.
Under his loving gaze, you shivered. It was probably more from the cold than anything, but that didn’t stop the light blush invading.
“Best get you inside and warm,” he spoke. “Gonna have to make a run for it.”
You giggled to yourself as you opened your door, breath catching in your throat when the cold splashes of rain hit you. You turned briefly to see Ross using his long stride to his advantage, jogging to the blue front door of your cottage and moving from side to side to keep himself from going numb as the November cold whipped around him.
Car door slammed behind you, you held your bag in your hand and ran to stand next to him, both trying to cram yourself into the alcove under the thatched room.
Your hands shook as you fiddled with the keys. Trying your best to align it with the lock. He watched from the side of you as you shivered on the front door step, all-natural radiance and slightly sodden, swaying from side to side as you tried to keep warm.
“Come ‘ere,” his deep voice chuckled, unable to watch you struggle any longer, gently taking the keys from you and pushing them into the lock. “How are you so fuckin’ freezing and you’ve even nicked my jumper?”
You didn’t answer him, instead opting to push the door open the minute he’d unlocked it and prayed that the owners had left some kindle for the open fire so that Ross would be able to sort it immediately.
***
One warm shower later, you stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge, eyes moving over the scene in front of you. Hair thrown up in a messy bun atop your head, the tartan pyjamas you had purposely packed were loose against your frame.
Ross has disappeared into the bathroom about thirty minutes ago now to wash away the travel, his rendition of And She Was muffled but still present over the sound of the shower.
You’d spent that time going through the welcome pack that was filled with freshly baked bread courtesy of the owners, a burgundy white wine which boasted buttery tastes of peaches and citrus zest, and of course a bag of coffee that sounded completely to Ross’ fancy.
With the bottle uncorked, you poured yourself a glass, quickly placing it into the fridge to keep it chilled. Regardless of it edging closer to winter by the day, there was nothing worse than room temperature wine.
Shoulder pressed to the door jamb, you sipped at the alcohol and rested the cool glass against your lips.
The Nest as it was known, was definitely romantic. All thatched roof and spectacular panoramic views which overlooked Knock Castle and across the Sound of Sleat to the Knoydsrt mountains.
Inside it was all vintage French fabrics and fine linen. With its sheepskin rugs and real wood fire stove, the cottage was described as the “perfect getaway for couples looking to explore and return to comfort after a day walking in the hills and mountains”.
While your exploring had only consisted of you carrying your items from the car and into the cottage, you were definitely ready to get cosy next to the fire and relax in the lived-in space.
“Forgot my clothes,” he spoke in a hushed tone not wanting to break the serene silence when he spotted you across the room. His voice slowly tapered off as he took in the particular tartan pattern that you were donning, recognising it to be that of his own family name.
The smirk that lifted at his lips, and the flare of his nostrils as he inhaled deeply let you know he had caught on. As tribal as it was, you didn’t mind the way his eyes ravaged you.
Your eyes ran over him without shame in return, his hair wet and sitting against his shoulders, lines of water dripping down his hairy chest and over the tops of his broad shoulders. The delicate chain that he always wore was decorative against his neck.
His right hand held a white towel securely at his hips, clenching at the fabric as he glistened and walked closer to you.
“Any of that going spare?” He nudged his head towards the wine, causing you to peel your eyes away from him and down to your own glass. When you looked back at him, he was so close to you you had to tilt your head back slightly.
“Depends,” you started, watching his eyebrow quirk up at you with intrigue. “Are you planning on sitting around in that towel, or covering yourself up?”
The crackle of the fire cut through the room and your question.
“How’d you want me?”
***
Ross opted for clothes, which meant he had to pour his own glass of wine when he came back from getting dressed. Rather than giving him a verbalised answer earlier, you’d flirtatiously tugged at his right wrist trying to get him to drop the towel.
“Towel stays on babe,” he had whispered against your lips, wet hair moving to almost curtain around you. “This cold won’t do anything for my ego.”
You rolled your eyes at him bringing up “winter penis”, which if you recalled correctly had been a topic of conversation a few nights ago when he had called you from Toronto. A conversation that had started with the guys, and one he thought fitting to continue with you.
It wasn’t, but you’d rolled with it. Mainly because at the time of the call you could hear the stage whisky fuelled slur and wanted to humour him.
You had fawned over him in that moment, openly discussing the size of his dick and before you knew it you were engaged in particularly erotic dirty talk while you sat and ate your Weetabix. Time zones were fucking bizarre, but you did what you had to to survive tour. That’s just how it was.
“You know the other morning when you phoned me and started talking about your dick,” he hummed, wanting you to continue. “I was eating breakfast-“
“Was it any good for you?”
“The Weetabix? Ten out of ten.”
He laughed, his head falling back against the cushions as he sat on the floor with his back resting against the bottom of the sofa.
“Cheers,” he bit back in good humour, looking at you upside down.
You let your fingers run gently across his brow, thumb stroking at his forehead as you softly smiled. “You know how I feel about your dick,” you whispered.
“Do I?”
You hummed your response of “yes”, voice light and airy.
“Why are we whispering?” He asked. You shrugged. “They deliver cocktails to this cottage, did ya know that?”
You hummed again, watching him flip through the menu he was holding. His fingers tapping at one of the cocktail names, “Reckon I’d like this one.”
Leaning down and looking over his shoulder you read the title.
Highland Fling. How predictable.
You chose to stay silent as you read the few lines explaining it underneath its bolded title.
The Highland Fling cocktail is a bold, robust and a slightly sweet drink with a flavour of citrus. The smoky and rich flavours of the Scotch whisky are balanced by the sweetness of Drambuie and tart lemon juice. Mixed together they create a complex and satisfying taste experience.
The cocktail is a popular choice among whisky enthusiasts and those who appreciate the rich history of Scottish culture.
“Technically we’re not in the Highlands,” you paused, glancing over at him and seeing his rich eyes were already on you. “For someone who likes to think they’re Scottish, you’ve fucked it there.”
He raised his eyebrows. Touché.
“Spoilsport.”
You leant forward to soothe him with a peck to the lips, whispering against his mouth, “Get four of ‘em.”
***
Before you knew it you were both a few cocktails deep, glasses lined up either side of you on the floor where you sat.
As he looked over at you, he knew you were at the very least buzzed by the soft flush that littered your cheekbones. He had zoned out at whatever it was you were talking about, too engrossed by the way you shone as you talked to him.
He knew he was fucked, in more ways than one. Hopefully literally, at least later on, but that thought could wait for another hour or two. Loving someone and being in love were different things, and in that moment he knew he was in love with you. He knew a lot of things actually; like he knew he needed to ask you to marry him before the tour was out.
He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when but he knew he had to make it happen.
Maybe he could find some time in the new year, whisk you away somewhere warm to fight away the January blues. At least that’s what he would tell you.
With your feet in his lap, you leant back on your right hand as you sat on the floor, left holding your fifth cocktail to your lips. It was something pink and fruity - watermelon or strawberry based, he couldn’t quite remember - but the way it was staining your lips was all too satisfying.
“I actually think he has a soft spot for me now,” you spoke softly, humming and closing your eyes as you felt his hands move to massage your feet.
“Who?”
You spoke the name of his eldest nephew, seeing the way his eyes smiled at the mention of his brother’s son, when yours fluttered open and looked back at him.
“He’s always liked you,” he reassured, hand rubbing gently along your calf. He liked you talking about his family so breezily, even if you were showing a need to be liked by his three year old nephew in this scenario.
You shook your head, biting down at your lip. “No one compares to Uncle Ross.”
“Uncle Ross, is really fucking cool that’s why.”
He widened his eyes to emphasise what he was saying, wondering how he wasn’t cringing at describing himself as cool.
“Pretty fit too.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glass as he stalled his movement to drink; holding your eyes with his he let his lips encase the rim of the glass. They were dark and smouldering, never leaving your face. There was no chance he didn't know what he was doing; he didn’t need to verbalise how much he wanted you at that moment.
“How fit we talking?”
You breathed deeply, a blissful sigh leaving you on exertion. “So fit.”
He laughed down his nose, the additional sip of his cocktail he had taken now swallowed.
“Really eloquent.”
“I know,” you played along, voice breathy. “The most eloquent, but tell me I’m wrong.”
In goading fashion you pressed your foot gently into his stomach, feeling his hand clasp around the top from your action.
“Behave.”
“Make me.”
Ross pulled at your leg then, hand curling under your knee, needing you closer. Your joyful squeal turned into a throaty laugh as you threw your head back and somehow found yourself in his lap.
He was back against the sofa then, hands sliding up the back of your pyjamas and gripping gently to the nape of your neck. He guided your face down and towards him. His mouth smiled against yours, the two of you too happy to engage in a proper kiss.
Giving up, he slid his lips across your cheek and underneath your chin as you tilted your head back and breathed his name. He gently nipped at your throat, tongue licking and tasting your skin which was slightly salty due to the heat within the room from the roaring fire.
Your fingers were woven into the hair at the nape of his neck, pushing upwards underneath where his hair tie sat, to try and loosen his bun. His hair was still damp from where it had been tied up after his shower hours earlier, and the cool strands felt delightful to your fingertips.
“I fucking love you in this,” he confessed, face buried in your chest as he finally acknowledged you wearing his family tartan. His right hand had a strong hold on your back, hand splayed between your shoulder blades as you leaned back.
His left was fumbling with the buttons of your pyjama top, desperate to rid you of the clothing item. Your mind was telling you to help, but you were too engrossed by the feeling of his lips suckling at your sternum.
“Babe,” you gasped, when you felt him nudge the fabric away with his nose, mouth wet along the top of your boob before he enclosed his lips around your exposed nipple. A satisfied moan left you, as you stroked down the back of his neck and lightly grazed your nails over his skin.
His fingers were firm, deftly plucking at the remaining buttons of your top like the strings of a bass as he grew confident. Top now sat open, his hands were quick to encourage you to move yours from around his neck, so he could slide the sleeves off.
Ross was so immersed in you, the smell of your skin and the way your breath got caught in your throat as he lapped at your nipple.
“Your tits are incredible.”
The comment was boyish and almost lost against your skin. It made you smile, teeth biting down at your bottom lip as he switched boobs.
“I missed you too,” you replied, humour lacing your words.
From your response you felt him lightly trace his nose against your breastbone, he tilted his face back to look up at you, his chin resting at your chest. Your hands moved to gently cup at his face, Ross turning slightly to press his lips to the inside of your palm.
His eyes were imploring as they looked up at you, silently watching you slide your top off completely and aimlessly throw it away before welcoming you back to him by sliding his hands up your bare back and applying a small amount of pressure to your shoulder blades to pull you down to him.
He had missed you. He didn’t need to voice it literally at that moment. It was in his gaze, his touch, the way his fingers dug into your skin as he held you.
You cupped his cheeks, the sound of both your inhales mixing just before your lips met and his face became blurred to you. He started off delicately, almost allowing you to process the feeling of his beard beneath your right hand, and his lips against yours. It wasn’t long until a fervent, urgent need overtook, building from this graduation of intensity that had you clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in your ever-changing world.
Ross’ mouth was insistent as he parted your lips and it evoked a sensuality within you that you had missed the minute he had parted from you all those months prior. His tongue slipped inside your mouth, gentle but demanding, causing a swimming giddiness to overflow your being.
You smiled at the smacking sound of your lips audible, like two teenagers necking on. Faltering lips and a low and muffled moan omitting against your mouth from him as you curled your fingers in his hair and lightly pulled.
Fighting a losing battle, Ross’ lips moved messily down your chin and to your neck. He paused momentarily, holding you against his body before moving to lay you back against the sheepskin rug. It felt sleek and inviting against your skin and you looked down your body at him waiting on his next move.
“Thought about you fucking me on this carpet when I booked this place,” you softly voiced like it was some lewd confession and not one you were sharing with your long term boyfriend.
This wicked glint flickered across his gaze and the smuggest grin you had sworn he had ever worn lifted at his lips; slowly he sat back on his haunches and started to unbutton his top. His eyes were everywhere; at your bare chest, on the sea of hair that haloed above you.
“Did ya?”
Looking down at him, you nodded happily wearing your soft blush and lifted your hand to try and reach for the bottom of his shirt to help him remove it quicker.
“Lured me here under the pretense of wanting a nice little getaway,” he teased. “Really just wanted to have your way with me.”
His eyes took in the way you looked at him, all doe-eyed and biting gently down on your bottom lip. You weren’t going to deny it; why would you?
You instead reached for his hand. The heat and wetness between your legs felt all too inviting, desperate for his touch. He palmed you over the top of your underwear so easily, dexterous digits swiping at your clit in the right way.
“Don’t start without me,” he paused, as your eyes started to close from the feel of his fingers. His lips pressed to your warm cheek when he continued, “Let me go get some condoms.”
As he rose to his feet, he quickly stripped his lower half leaving him naked, unphased and all bare bottom as he walked away. It wasn’t lost on you the use of the plural.
Starting without him was exactly what you needed, fingers caving and picking up where he left off: gently rubbing at yourself and spreading your wetness over your clit.
“Hands,” his chided when back in the lounge, hearing a soft whine escape you and seeing your hands move to easily rid you of your pyjama trousers. When you returned to your place on the floor, you watched the strip of condoms bounce to the carpet next to you, from his relaxed throw.
“Someone’s confident,” you casually commented, gazing up at him through hooded eyes and taking in the open wrapper that was placed between his teeth. He smirked around it, head dropped and looking down at his hands as they adeptly rolled the latex over his erection.
Joining you back on the floor, Ross leant over and pressed a kiss to the inside of your left knee, his eyes finding yours from under his brow. He mumbled, “Some would say prepared…”
He stalled his words, lips now at your right knee. “…. Safe.”
“Sexy.”
“How’d you want me?” He queried in return, feeling your hands pulling at him.
“You decide. Just want you.”
He moved so effortlessly between your legs, them pliant in his hands and accommodating. His weight above you was always welcomed, comfortingly looming and imperturbably virile.
“Put me in,” he spoke, voice low and caught in his throat as slipped his tip between your folds. You whined around your bitten lips, reaching up to pull him down closer from where he was hovering over you.
His lips were heavy on yours once more, all tongue and hungry. He groaned against your mouth as you stroked him over the condom that he wore, hands sliding down your waist and angling your hips.
“S’yours, you know.”
You slowly smiled at his slurred and barely audible words, mouth dropping open and head falling further into the carpet as he slid into you with no resistance, bottoming out in one long, smooth stroke and the manliest “fuck me”.
Humming deeply, Ross bit around his smile as he started with shallow, teasing thrusts. A series of strokes that you found frustratingly sexy but knew as ones he wouldn’t be able to keep up due to his own insatiable desires.
“More,” you craved to feel the power you knew he held.
He listened, thrusts more measured - slow, hard and deep - knowing what you wanted and needed. Undulating and determined.
He jutted his hips forward, knocking your body with more force as you lay relaxed below him, arms above your head and boobs bouncing with each swift jolt of his thrusts as he fucked into you.
“Yes, fuck me,” you breathily moaned, head pushed back further into the floor beneath you, hands moving to the rug upon which your lay, fingers grasping at the soft material.
To think that all those hours earlier, you thought that neither of you were going to get warm. Now you almost choked around the thick air that consumed you within the room and from the roaring fire.
Ross’ thrusts kept their measured in pace, more forceful than before and you couldn’t help the blissful sighs and heavenly cries that left you lips as he devoured your sweaty skin, licking and sucking at the curve between where your shoulder and neck met.
The feeling of his touch let you know how sure of himself he was. You couldn’t disagree as your body welcomed him, receptive and pliant and willing.
He frowned along with you when he felt you begin to go taught. When you breathily gasped his name, he scooped you into him and held you against him.
Your orgasm had crept up on you, causing you to cup the back of his neck and bring his face back to yours. He was muttering words of approval into your skin, something that you couldn’t decipher that had you opening your legs wider for him.
He knew you liked it when you couldn’t quite figure out what filthy things he was saying to try and get you there. It summed up the mystique that peppered throughout your relationship.
As you shook, he sloppily fucked you through your release, hand tilting your hips up as you become slack.
“God, I love you,” you desperately gasped when you came to, face flushed and feeling clammy from the mixture of the heat from the naked flame to your right and pure exertion.
“‘Think you love fuckin’ me,” he roughly spoke, his right hand seeking yours and lacing your fingers together against the rug. You looked at him with desperate eyes, a shake of your head to his words. “No?” He sniggered down his nose, his own skin taking on a pink flush.
His other hand wound underneath your lower back, as you arched slightly, liking the way he wanted to drag it out; to roll his heavy hips into yours this entire time and making it so your clit rubbed against his pelvic bone on every thrust.
He watched your eyes roll back and your chin lifted upwards, him finding your spot once more causing you to clench around him. Ross groaned your name, begging you to look at him. Your hazy eyes found his shortly after he aired his request, hips snapping forward when you silently begged him with fucked out eyes to fill you up.
“Fuck, ‘m comin’.”
The sound of his voice was watery; choked as he groaned causing you to blissfully sigh when you felt him drop down to you, your arms enveloping his body and holding it to yours.
You ran your fingertips lightly down his back, listening to his breathing even itself out, you pressed a fluttering kiss to his temple and purred, “Welcome home, baby.”
Everyone in the city was doing their best to find a quick buck, to make something of themselves, to be greater than even they thought possible. That's why she never really paid much attention to the television when the advertisement featuring four English boys, who looked more like a band than a ghost hunting agency, appeared.
Sorry, not ghost hunters.
Ghostbusters.
13,497 words.
Edited by @stardust-speckles.
She's seen their ads late at night when she can't sleep and wants to unwind in front of the television. She's no stranger to the never-ending hustle culture that is the United States of America, but New York seems to be its own beast.
The first time she'd seen the tarps laid on the ground, covered in hundreds of "genuine fake" designer bags surrounding the blocks of Times Square, she couldn't believe her eyes. Then she'd seen her neighbour leave their building in the morning, wearing a suit and tie, looking every bit the Wall Street professional, to then come home and change his outfit at the end of the day, ready for a shift of food delivery driving.
Everyone in the city was doing their best to find a quick buck, to make something of themselves, to be greater than even they thought possible. That's why she never really paid much attention to the television when the advertisement featuring four English boys, who looked more like a band than a ghost hunting agency, appeared.
Sorry, not ghost hunters.
Ghostbusters.
~~~
She'd moved to the city to find herself and to discover some sense of purpose or meaning for her life, leaving her family and friends behind in Australia. So far, all she's done is cause more heartache for herself, and the answers hadn't come as easily as she'd hoped they would.
Five days a week, she took the subway back and forth between the New York boroughs, temping at offices, working as an assistant to founders of tech startups, or waitressing at high society events. There was no job that she couldn't do, but there didn't seem to be even one that she could see herself doing as a career.
Well, that's a lie. She'd gotten to spend a day as an assistant to a music producer in Manhattan. Those kinds of jobs didn't come up often, as high-profile clients usually had their own set of people they'd request from the agency she worked at, but she'd miraculously been rostered one day at Electric Lady Studios during her first week in the city.
She'd learned more about music with Jack, the producer, in those 10 hours than she had in her whole life. Her time with him didn't finish until after dark, but she'd stayed back to talk, sharing stories about their favourite live shows and what certain songs meant to them.
The next day, she'd gone to a flea market in Brooklyn at his recommendation and found a gorgeous piano. It had seen better days, but she could tell by the markings on the wood that it had been well-loved and cared for. Getting it back to her apartment had been a nightmare, and she'd anxiously waited for the moment she'd see her own face appear in a viral video, pushing the darn thing up the street.
So, that's the story of how she thinks she might have found her new purpose.
~~~
After living in the city for a month, she thinks she's going insane. She's a very organised person but keeps losing her keys every day. There's a bowl that she keeps on her TV stand, into which she places the keys every night after she steps through the door, but every morning, they disappear. After tearing apart her place, they always appear on the kitchen bench, in plain sight, once she's running late.
Then there have been times when she's woken up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water, and her front door is wide open. She's not an idiot; she lives in New York City. She shuts the front door when she gets home, deadbolting it and sliding the chain across the latch for extra protection. (If someone wants to break in, they will, but this will at least buy her a few extra seconds to scream bloody murder and hope that her neighbours have dialled 911 in time.)
Her heating is on the fritz too. Parts of the living room heat up, and it's lovely, but the corner behind her TV is always freezing, as well as some parts of her bedroom. She just assumes that the air ducts are blocked in those spots and really wishes the building maintenance would get on it sooner rather than later.
She realises how shitty her building is when the electricity goes out next. A lamp in her living room always flickers, even once she unplugs it from the wall, and the stereo in the kitchen blares every night at 2am. Her neighbours hate her, she's sure of it, but she unplugs the damn thing, and somehow, every night, it's back in the wall socket and playing some god-awful song for the entire city to hear.
Her final straw comes when she gets out of the shower, and it looks like someone has left nonsensical messages in the fog on the mirror. She wraps herself in her towel, uses her hand to wipe it away, and tries to ignore the sense of terror ebbing through her veins. She dresses in her dirty clothes, afraid that someone has broken into her apartment, but when she leaves the bathroom, the steam billowing out of the open door into her cold bedroom, there's nobody around.
After checking that the locks are still secured on the front door, she changes into a clean pair of pyjamas and gets ready for bed. Lifting the blankets, something flutters to the floor. Crawling onto her hands and knees, she pulls a few square cards from underneath the bed frame and realises they're Polaroid photos. (Another find at the Brooklyn flea market. She's thrifty. Sue her.)
Turning the cluster over in her hand, her stomach drops, and she calls the police.
~~~
"I don't know what to tell you, kid," the officer doesn't seem to give a shit, and he's making her feel stupid for calling them in the first place.
"There's no forced entry, there's nothing on the security footage, nothing on CCTV from across the street. I don't know what more you want us to do." He gives her a sympathetic smile, but it does nothing to placate the panic inside her.
"Someone came into my apartment, took photos of me while I was sleeping, and you're telling me there's nothing more you can do? Isn't it your job to deal with this?"
It sounds bratty even to her own ears.
"Something came into your apartment, and we're very sorry, but unless you've got more for us than rattling pipes and faulty wiring, there's not a whole lot we can do here."
The way the officer says "something" instead of "someone" sets off alarms inside her head, and her case is closed for now until new evidence appears. Another detective, dressed in a charcoal suit with a tie loose around his neck, takes pity on her. He passes her a crumpled business card with phone numbers meticulously printed on it. Along the bottom, in smudged blue ink, was a set of numbers that didn’t belong and an address for 55 Central Park West.
~~~
She can't sleep. Something is stopping her, and whenever she does manage to close her eyes for more than a few minutes, she wakes up screaming. Her skin is crawling within the sheets of her bed, and she can't lay there any longer. She's at her wits' end, paranoid and exhausted, when the goofy ad appears on the television again. The four English boys point towards her through the screen, telling her to call or visit them now, and she feels completely delusional when she jots down their address.
The streets of Manhattan in the middle of the night feel safer than whatever is lurking in her apartment, and when she approaches the old firehouse, the business card with smudged blue ink in hand, her mouth drops at its size. It may be decrepit and probably condemned, but she's envious of all the space they have to themselves. She's sure if their stereos went off in the middle of the night, they wouldn't have anyone banging on their door to yell at them.
Stepping through their front door, she notices the car straight away. The logo on the side is impossible to miss, a cartoon ghost with a red general prohibition sign across it. It's effective in portraying exactly what their business does, but it makes the moment feel more comical than it should. Her shoes echo across the concrete floor as she approaches the front desk, and she breathes in the faint scent of cigarettes and car oil.
There's an appointment book open on the desk that's empty, the dated pages left blank with a cold cup of tea next to it. A few postcards are stuck to a set of lockers with some beige janitor suits hanging haphazardly inside. After a few more moments of looking around (and judging the bikini model calendar tacked to one of the walls), she smacks the bell and waits for someone to finally attend to her.
A squeak of skin against metal sounds from above, and she watches a boy with curly hair slide down a fireman's pole. She wonders, not for the first time, if she was making a mistake by coming to an agency that seemed to not take themselves seriously. His easy smile puts some of her anxiety away, and she doesn't know why she thought somebody else would be helping her. Despite the ad featuring him and three of his friends, she had pictured older men, weathered by their hard lives, working on her case.
"Sorry if you had to wait long," he apologises, and she's instantly reminded that he's English; his accent drips around his words like honey. "How can I help?"
He's wearing dark jeans with a white t-shirt that fits him so nicely it's like he's just left a rock show or a date. She wishes she’d thought to throw on something cuter instead of wearing her plaid pyjama shorts and tiny tank top.
(It’s the middle of the night, she hasn’t slept properly in weeks and she’s worried about her outfit. Kill her now.)
As his hungry eyes travel up her bare legs, pausing for the briefest of seconds on her chest, she thinks maybe what she’s wearing is fine.
"Yeah," she swallows before finally saying aloud the words she was afraid of. "I think I'm being haunted."
~~~
She's pulled into their office, if you could even call it that. A few desks are spread around the room and judging by the layer of dust on all the surfaces, they clearly didn't use the space that often. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, one of the boys, Adam, she thinks he said his name was, sticks diodes to her temples that connect to an "Aura Analyzer."
Bright colours illuminate the screen, indicating that it was working, and she cannot for the life of her begin to understand why this test is necessary. She feels stupid and kind of like she's being taken for a ride and that this was a scam.
Matty, the curly-haired boy who'd slid down the fireman’s pole earlier, hands her a cup of tea and asks her to recount everything that has happened since things started going bump in the night. Her hands shake as she tells her story, trying to remember every instance of something strange or unsettling.
"Could be Djinn?" Ross wonders.
"Does she look strung up and being pumped for blood?" George dismisses with a scoff.
Her stomach turns at the thought, and the more they bicker amongst themselves, the less confidence she has. She thought they'd listen to her story and then storm her apartment. She thought they'd throw salt around the room, say a few prayers, and the thing would be banished.
(The basis of her knowledge stems from watching Supernatural reruns when she was sick, and honestly? Maybe these boys would benefit from watching it too. At least Sam and Dean pretended to know what they were doing.)
"Why don't I take you home and check you out?" Everyone turns to Matty with wide eyes. George looks amused, the edges of his lips quirking into a smile that he hides behind his hand.
"Check your apartment out, I mean," Matty corrects with a toothy grin.
~~~
She's kind of embarrassed to pull up to her building in the Ghostbusters car. It's loud, and she thinks maybe Matty is trying to impress her when he flashes the lights and turns on the sirens to get them through the traffic. The drive is awkward because she doesn't know what to say to him, doesn't know how to fill in the silence of the ride, and doesn't know how to explain how anxious she is to be returning.
Matty follows her up the stairs, and she's suddenly very conscious of her outfit as he trails closely behind her. He pulls out a heavy device from his pocket that she initially thinks is a walkie-talkie, and she's immediately reminded of how dumb this whole night has been when it suddenly lights up. Two arms spread from the sides of the unit, and Matty wanders around her apartment waiting for something to happen.
"It's a P.K.E. Meter," he explains. "It tracks psychokinetic energy. Adam made it."
She nods and tries to be respectful, but it looks like a toy with flashing lights. He walks slowly through her cramped living room, carefully inspecting every nook and cranny for god knows what. He rummages through papers she's left on the coffee table and opens cabinets in her kitchen, helping himself to some of the biscuits in the canister next to the tea bags and sugar.
"This is where the worst of it normally happens," she says quietly after pointing him in the direction of her bedroom.
"Boyfriend that bad, huh?" He doesn't even look at her when he says it, and she's grateful that he can't see the blush covering her cheeks. She really set him up for that punchline, and he looks pleased with himself.
(She also knows exactly what information he's fishing for with that statement, and she's smart enough to not bother dignifying it with an answer.)
She expects the machine to light up like the fourth of July, but instead, it remains dormant, and she wonders if he can feel the change in energy like she can though. The weight of invisible eyes on them and the heaviness of something in the darkness, even with the lights on.
He waves the reader over her bed and closet, pausing over one of the drawers she hadn't fully closed. He pulls at the handle, and she quickly rushes over to slam it shut.
"I don't think there's a ghost hiding in my underwear drawer," she huffs.
"You never know. That's why you hired the professionals."
She rolls her eyes, and the innocent grin that covers Matty's face makes her feel the most at ease within the four walls of her bedroom that she's felt in a long time.
"There's nothing out of the ordinary here, but we can do a more thorough investigation if you like?" He puts the P.K.E. Meter back in his pocket and pulls out an envelope instead, handing it to her after she nods.
The contract is about as standard as she'd expected. Simple, but with infinite clauses in fine print that hurts her eyes as she reads over it. "The Ghostbusters take no ownership of any damage caused" and "The Ghostbusters cannot be held responsible" etc.
There's a list of checkboxes that Matty must have filled out when she wasn't looking. Some items that are ticked off are "Aural Analyzer test" and "initial inspection performed", and then there's the "pretty girl discount" with a checkmark that makes her brows raise.
"Most of the time, it's for the little old ladies we deal with," he shrugs, leaning against her kitchen bench and snacking on more of her biscuits.
"And the other times?"
"Aren't you lucky you don't have to find out." The cockiest smirk she's ever seen coats his lips, and she laughs in disbelief.
He's smooth, she gives him credit.
She signs her name along the dotted line at the bottom of the page and hands the contract back to him. Matty offers to leave a few cameras around the place, one in the living room and another in the bedroom. He offers to put one in the bathroom too after she tells him about the drawings in the fog, and he seems genuinely concerned enough that maybe he didn't realise how pervy he sounded.
When he'd gone back down to the car to get everything, she's embarrassed to admit that she did indeed fluff her hair in the hallway mirror and put a smear of lip balm on. The spritz of perfume was probably a step too far as now her whole bathroom smells unsubtly like sweet vanilla, but all he does is smile knowingly when he steps back through her front door.
As he's fiddling with wires and checking the camera connections, he points out the tiny piano in the corner of her bedroom.
"I'm trying to learn," she explains. "I'm not very good."
"You probably haven't had the right teacher then." He puts a tiny screwdriver into his mouth to hold as he adjusts the focus on the lens.
"I'm self-taught."
"That explains it then," he laughs.
"I'm sorry, is this you offering your services?" Her brow arches. "Ghostbuster by night, piano prodigy by day?" She quips.
"Yeah, something like that."
His smile sets off the butterflies in her stomach, and she fiddles with the tea bag in her mug to give herself an excuse to look away from him.
"Alright, I'm all done here."
He pockets the last of his tools, brushing invisible lint off his pants, and she almost feels disappointed. They'd been getting along well, chatting about music and shows they wished they'd been able to see. They shared more in common than she'd anticipated, and now she kind of wishes he could stay a little bit longer.
"Do you need me to tuck you in?" The cocky smirk is back, and she's more than happy for him to leave now.
He promises to call her in a few days, and she has to bite her bottom lip to keep her smile from becoming too wide. He leaves a card with his number on it and tells her to call him if she needs him, no matter the time, day, or night. It feels like he means more than just to talk about ghosts, but she's never been good with being forward.
Crawling into bed, she attempts to sleep even though she can still feel the eyes of the entity and the now the cameras on her.
~~~
She lasts all of two nights before she makes her way back to the Ghostbusters' office. She can't take it anymore. Things are getting steadily worse; the contents of her kitchen cabinets are spilling onto the floor in the middle of the night, her piano starts playing randomly, a few keys playing some disjointed melody she's never heard. She feels like she might go insane if she doesn't get a decent night's sleep soon.
Smacking the bell at the front desk, she waits for someone to slide down the fireman's pole. After all of three seconds, she smacks it again. Then again. Then again, and again, and again until she can hear stomping boots on the second level and a muffled "alright, enough already!"
Matty slides down the pole, his hair a mess, and his shirt rumpled. She thinks maybe she's woken him up.
Good.
"Brittany Jackson. Amateur piano player and alleged level one ghostly presence."
He stands next to her instead of going behind the counter like she thought he would, close enough that she can smell the last of his cigarette that he must have been smoking earlier and can see what she thinks might be red wine stains down the front of his top.
"What can I do for you?" He wonders, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest.
This cocky bastard.
"You can kill the ghost in my apartment," she deadpans. "What's the holdup? Are you scared or something?"
"Oh, I ain't afraid of no ghost," he smirks. "And we don't kill them."
"Bust the fucking thing, then! Sort it out!" She's angry and exhausted, but he just looks amused by her outburst.
"Have you got a boyfriend?"
She's so caught off guard that all she can do is drop her jaw. She wonders if this is his weak attempt to flirt with her. (She wonders why she's not more put out by the thought.)
"What?"
"A boyfriend? Someone who can stay in your apartment with you to ward off the critters." He tilts his head. "Why? What did you think I meant?"
This motherfucker.
"No, I don't have a boyfriend."
"That's too bad." She doesn't believe him for a second.
He pushes off the counter, walking behind it and grabbing his coat before she can say anything else. "Come on, I'll walk you home and I'll check things out."
~~~
They wander slowly through the streets, talking idly as they carefully navigate around people pouring out of bars at the late hour. Matty always puts himself between her and the other people on the sidewalk, a casual hand along the small of her back as he guides her back and forth, away from the road. He reveals he's watched some of the footage from the cameras in her apartment, and when she makes a face, he's quick to mention it's only from when she's been asleep or at work.
"There hasn't been much of anything." It's disappointing to hear. "I do believe you, though, if it makes you feel any better?"
Funnily enough, it does.
"We don't exactly get people beating down our door and smashing the bell at reception every day, you know?"
He smiles shyly at her, and their quiet walk almost feels like the end of a date. Their hands brush as they sway once, twice, three times before Matty puts his hands in his pockets. He looks kind of mad at himself, though, so she thinks maybe he just wasn't brave enough to grab her hand. It's sweet.
He asks her a little more about her building and when she moved in, picking her brain about her life outside of ghosts and demons.
"An Australian, living in the States, hiring a Brit." He laughs as he scuffs his shoes on the sidewalk. "Why New York?"
"Why not New York?"
"Answering a question with a question..." he trails off.
Normally she wouldn't fall for the charm, but there's something about him that makes her open up. His stare that sees her instead of straight through her, his smile that makes her want to start talking and not stop. She spills all her secrets, her somewhat secret desire to be a musician, but her fears as she lacked the training. How she always dreamed of something more for herself but doesn't exactly know what "more" looks like just yet. She tells him about some of the funnier jobs she'd been assigned with her agency.
(She was once an assistant to a racehorse for the day. The owner wanted her to talk directly to the animal, asking it any questions she had and making sure that all its needs were met. At the end of the day, the horse apparently decided that it liked her and tipped her heftily.
She'd walked away from the job in a daze with a thousand dollars cash in her pocket, nervous she'd get robbed on the subway home.)
Matty holds the security door open with an arm above his head, allowing her to walk through first, and she wonders how easy it would be to convince him to stay the night. He trails behind her up the stairs, and when he steps through her front door, he sucks in a breath.
"Here, ghosty," he whistles sharply like what he would for a dog, but nothing happens.
He performs the same checks he did last time he was there, opening and closing cupboard doors and waving around the P.K.E. Meter. He also steals more of her biscuits from the tin on the counter, but at least he looks guilty about it this time when he sees her face.
"Still sure you don't want me to tuck you in?" He smiles, thumb pointing to her bed, and she's frustrated now.
"Can you at least pretend to take me seriously?" She asks quietly, wrapping her arms around her middle.
Matty's whole demeanor changes, the joking smile slips from his lips, and his face straightens out.
"I'm taking it seriously, but there's nothing here yet." He steps away from the kitchen, coming closer to her. "I can stay the night if you want. I can sleep on the couch?" His thumb points in the direction of her lumpy Ikea sofa, and she sighs.
"Can you just kill this thing already?" She whispers.
He guarantees to bring the rest of the boys the next day, and she looks down at her shoes.
"You gonna be okay tonight?" His hand grips her upper arm, his thumb moving soothingly across her skin. She nods and quietly utters "until tomorrow" when he presses a kiss to her temple before leaving. He throws her a wink as he jogs down the stairs, and her heart races with anticipation.
When she closes her front door, she can't help but fall back against it with a soft thud, letting the grin that had threatened to break out ever since Matty's lips touched her skin free. It feels like her face is going to crack in half, and it feels like high school. That never-ending freefall when you develop a crush on someone. The butterflies, the flirty looks, and longing glances. It's intoxicating and thrilling and—
The deadbolt slides into place behind her without her touching it.
Her eyes pop open, and she looks around the room. It's eerily silent, and she'd gotten so lost in everything Matty that she'd almost forgotten all about her invisible, insidious roommate.
It's like it knows what she's done and exactly who she's brought over because suddenly every piece of glass in her apartment shatters into a thousand pieces with a boom, raining down on her like tiny knives. She covers her face with her hands, drops to the floor and waits for it to be over.
This is new.
The ghost, or entity, or whatever you want to call it has never done anything other than play tricks on her. It's never caused her physical harm until now, and suddenly she's terrified.
An unearthly roar sounds, and the floor rumbles beneath her as her body is slammed into the living room wall by an invisible force. The shattered glass pierces through her skin, and she can feel the slice in the back of her bicep and blood soaking through her shirt. The plaster sheeting cracks with the force of her body, and she has to quickly roll out of the way to avoid being killed by the heavy painting falling from above her.
Another roar sounds, and it feels like the beginning of an earthquake. Her books rattle on the shelf along with her trinkets, the piano keys in her room play a disjointed melody, and all the items in her kitchen cabinets fall onto the tiled floor of the kitchen.
She closes her eyes when the rumbling feels like it's going to break her chest apart. She can feel it in her lungs with every breath, and her ribs contract as she tries to suck in air. Her hands are grabbed tightly, and she's pulled from the floor. Her stomach goes haywire as she becomes vertical, but when she opens her eyes, all she sees is Matty.
He's kicked down the front door. The wood lies splintered across her entryway, and they have to step on it to rush out of the building. She can still hear the roaring as they storm down the staircase and spill onto the street.
Matty doesn't falter, dragging her away with fast steps and not letting her stop to breathe. Not letting her stop to think about what just happened.
It's only when they're a block away that he pauses in the middle of the sidewalk. He turns to her, brushes the hair out of her face, and pushes the sleeve of his sweater against a cut on her forehead. It stings, and his eyes dart over her skin, assessing her without really seeing her before he grabs her hand so they can quickly keep moving.
She's coming back to reality, grounded by his fingers between hers and the distance between them and the evil that lies within her building. Whatever happened doesn't seem to have affected anybody else. There are still a million people in the street, the usual guys hawking their "genuine fake" designer bags and shoes. There are still the hot dog carts and the stand that sells the driest soft pretzels you've ever tasted to unsuspecting tourists.
Matty pulls her through the main door of the firehouse, guiding her through it with his hand on the small of her back. It's nice, comforting even. He sits her down in their kitchen/living/dining room, and it's hard to imagine firefighters ever residing in this building with all the band posters and ghost hunting gear spread over all the surfaces.
(It's also obvious that only boys live there. Chinese takeout boxes litter the dining table, there are dishes piled in the sink, and their version of home décor consists of empty red wine bottles neatly lined up along the top of the cabinets.)
Matty does his best to clean off the blood from her face, wiping a damp cloth gently over her skin and placing little butterfly band-aids over the cuts that are a bit deeper. An ice pack sits on her shoulder lazily, and he wraps a little blue bandage over the slice on one of her palms where she'd pressed her fingernails through the skin.
The first aid kit is overflowing with bandages and alcohol wipes. There's an old blood smear along the front of the container that nobody ever bothered to clean off, and she flinches when he accidentally presses a little bit too roughly against the cut on the back of her arm.
"Sorry," he whispers, softening his touch.
He looks disappointed in himself as she watches him over her shoulder. He's been quiet since they sat down, clearly carrying around guilt for some unknown reason. Tonight wasn't his fault, and she wonders if he knows that.
"How did you get into this anyhow?" Her voice doesn't sound like her own. It's raspy, and her throat is dry from screaming in absolute terror.
Matty frowns and gets her a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off and passing it to her before sitting down opposite her again. He pulls her chair so that she sits closer to him, between his legs, as he inspects how deep the slice in the back of her bicep is.
"We came out here for music," he tears open a new packet of disinfectant wipes, pressing the square against her skin, catching the droplet of blood before it rolls down her elbow. "We were doing alright for ourselves, made an album, sold a bunch of records, but the money wasn't great."
"We stayed at this awful motel in Los Angeles. Seriously, horrible." He laughs through his words, and his smile is infectious, causing the split in her lip to reopen when her lips spread.
"There were obvious signs of ghosts there, and we set traps for fun, like the kind of shit we'd seen in movies. The whole salt in a circle thing, and we bought holy water from the church across the street. We thought we were just gonna kill some time before our next gig, but we ended up catching spirits."
He wipes at her lip one last time before throwing the leftover supplies back into the kit, closing the lid and throwing the rubbish into the bin in the corner.
"The motel let us stay for free, paid us five grand for our troubles and then asked us to check out another motel in the area that was infected. We hadn't seen that kind of money, ever. So we quit our gigs so we could save up and buy new instruments and equipment and whatever the hell else we wanted."
He seems kind of sad as he speaks, looking forlorn as he wraps a cloth bandage tightly around her bicep. She realises the next part of his story is where he's going to tell her that he gave up on his dreams to help others out of their nightmares.
"You ever think about quitting?" She asks quietly.
"Every day."
"Why don't you?"
"Because then I wouldn't get to meet pretty girls like you."
If she felt any weaker, she's sure she'd blush at the compliment. Instead, she rolls her eyes with a scoff and pushes at his shoulder.
"Aren't pretty girls a rock star's bread and butter?"
He snorts, sitting back in his chair. "Take the compliment, Britt."
Now she blushes.
They stay up a bit longer, drinking tea and talking. She's exhausted, but she wants to stay up with him, learning everything she can. He's mystifying and intelligent, quoting obscure references from books he's read and reciting lyrics from his favourite musicians.
He tells her about how one of the boys, Adam, was great with computers and science. He made a whole ghost containment unit that's fully sustainable. George was the level-headed one of them all, a natural leader. He took charge during most of their cases and reined them in when they got too overexcited. Ross was fearless, charging into rooms and practically daring any ghost to mess with him.
They end up moving to the lounges on the other side of the room, sitting close and watching the sun peek through the clouds. With drooping eyes, she tells him her reasons for moving to the city, mirroring his – she wanted to make something of herself.
"Most successful at your high school reunion, huh?" Matty jokes, and she tells him very seriously how true his statement is.
When the sound of traffic starts to drown out the sound of the birds singing, he pulls her from the couch and drags her down the hallway.
"Come on, you can sleep in my bed."
She stands there with her eyes closed, too tired to open them, as he fluffs the pillows and pulls the sheets back. He grabs her arm when she's practically asleep on her feet and helps pull her sweater off. Her hair gets all messy as her head pops through the neck hole, and Matty smiles at the wild strands, smoothing them down with the palms of his hands and tucking them behind her ears.
"You're staying with me, right?" She asks through a yawn.
He hesitates before answering. "I can stay."
"Good."
She unbuttons her jeans, sliding them down her legs before crawling into his bed. She's honestly too tired to realise that it's probably not appropriate. She's only known Matty a few days, but something shifted tonight. She trusts him. Trusts that he'll deal with whatever is lurking in her apartment and trusts that he'll take care of her.
He pulls his shirt over his head, and she notices the tattoos littering his skin. They're both practically naked, her in a tiny tank top and her underwear, and Matty just in his boxers. If they weren't so tired, she'd probably make a move.
She's asleep by the time he lays down on the empty side of the bed, next to her.
~~~
Brittany doesn’t dream of monsters trying to get her for the first time in a long time. She doesn’t wake up screaming, gasping for breath after feeling some invisible force holding her down and trying to sink into her bones. In her dreams, she isn’t sprinting down her apartment building staircase that doesn’t seem to have an end, or stuck running in the same spot while shadows draw closer to her.
Instead, she dreams of a two-story house in a town she’s not familiar with. Snow falls gently around her, and she lets herself become mesmerised by the golden lights of the Christmas tree in the front bay window twinkling softly. It’s nice, comforting even. It feels familiar and safe, and she lets herself relax in the beautiful home that feels like somewhere she might’ve stayed in another life.
When she opens her eyes, she instantly forgets.
~~~
Matty's room isn't what she expected. Now that she's actually managed to sleep through the night (and most of the morning), she's able to take in her surroundings. There's a dark wood acoustic guitar sitting on a stand in the corner. There's no dust over it, so it must still get a good amount of use. A blue sweater hangs off the back of a chair sitting by his desk with stacks of black leather journals mounted on top, and she wonders if he writes his own music.
She notes the absence of the sickly feeling in her stomach. She'd been the walking dead lately, too exhausted to do anything other than exist. More than once, she'd fallen asleep on her feet while on the subway, and it's honestly a miracle that none of her belongings were stolen.
(Frankly, she was more pissed that she missed her stop more than once and had to double back. It meant that her journey home took twice as long, and it was already enough of a slog going between Brooklyn and Manhattan every day.)
Sunlight streams into the room through a break in the curtains, and she stretches languidly. His sheets hold the scent of him, wine, and cigarettes, and the butterflies in her stomach flap their wings. Her bare feet hit the floor with a light thud, and she pulls on her jeans, left in a messy heap on the floor. Her shoulder aches from the collision the night before, but she feels so much better than she has recently that it's a pain she's more than happy to deal with.
Exiting the bedroom, she follows the sound of a dog collar jingling and the clash of dishes. She can hear the muffled conversation through the door, and she knows they're talking about her and her situation. Pushing it open, she waits for them to notice her.
"I thought you said this wasn't anything to worry about?" One of the guys, George, pushes the dog off his lap with a grunt, and it moves onto the next person, begging for scraps with a wagging tail and its tongue hanging out of its mouth.
"I didn't think it was! Nothing came up on the P.K.E. Meter when I went there. Fucking thing is probably broken.”
“Don’t blame the technology!” Adam snaps.
Matty throws a dish towel over his shoulder and leans against the bench with his arms crossed over his chest. The sink is filled with dirty dishes, and the drying rack is overloaded with plates and cups. Water has slopped over the sides of the basin and onto the floor by his feet, leaving dirty footprints in its wake.
"So, what? You're thinking a poltergeist?" Adam pipes up, handing the dog the crumbs from his lunch.
"I don't know, maybe." He scratches behind his ear, and she can see that his fingers are pruney. "After last night, I'm not particularly fond of the idea of going back there until we figure out what it is."
"Can't you use the cameras instead?"
They all look at her as she enters the kitchen. Ross gets up from his chair, offering it to her, and Matty pushes off from the bench, grabbing a mug off the shelf. He places it in front of her before sliding the pot of tea that's already been brewed and passing a little sugar container across the table.
George pulls at her arm to inspect the large slice covering the back of her bicep, and the other boys tell her their plan to rewatch the footage from the night before. Adam leaves the room to connect the tapes to the flat-screen television downstairs, and Ross gathers their dirty plates, dumping them into the sink, splashing Matty, who flips him off.
"It's going to scar," George says gently. "You probably need stitches, but it seems to be holding up alright for now."
She smiles sadly, and he lets her go, leaving the room so that it's just her and Matty again.
"There's, uh," he drops a plate with bubbles still all over it on the drying rack and points to one of the cupboards. "There's bread and stuff if you want something to eat."
He won't look at her.
He's being weird.
"You're being weird."
He sighs deeply, and she wonders if this is the part when he tells her that they don't know how to bust the ghost in her apartment, or worse, that he’s not interested.
"I had a really nice time last night," he admits. “Before you almost died.”
Oh.
Now she feels stupid.
"I had a really nice time too."
Matty grins at her from across the kitchen, and it feels absurd to have this kind of conversation the morning after a ghost tried to kill her.
"Matty!"
Adam's voice booms from downstairs, and they both rush out of the room. Following him through the maze of hallways and doors, they stop where the other boys are fixated on the flat screen. Ross hits the rewind button on the remote, and she watches herself fly from one side of her apartment to the other in the blink of an eye.
The footage starts over again from the moment Matty left. Her head drops against the front door as she sighs, letting the goofy smile break out onto her face before all the glass in her apartment explodes.
It's weird seeing her apartment from this angle. She's noticing things she'd never seen before, like how she thought the beginning was the deadbolt sliding into place, but really, whatever was haunting her had crept its way across the room in a smoky sort of haze from her bedroom. At least, that's how it appeared on the screen.
The wall shakes when her limp body hits it, and she realises just how close she was to having her head cracked open by the painting in the heavy frame that was once on the wall. The front door is kicked in, pieces of wood flying everywhere as Matty comes to save the day, grabbing her off the floor and dragging her outside.
It all happens in less than thirty seconds, but at the time it had felt like she was stuck in the moment for ages.
Adam takes notes, moving the video back to certain points and zooming in on different areas of the room. George lines up the video from her bedroom next, connecting the time frames together and comparing the two lots of footage. Ross starts packing some gear into his bag, confident now that they have a ghost to bust. She watches them run around the ground floor of the firehouse, filling the trunk of their car with everything they think they’ll need and charging up their proton packs.
There are a few hours until sunset and the boys head to their rooms to catch some sleep, bidding her goodnight. She supposes she can just hang around the building until they return, watching television, or reading one of the many books stacked on every flat surface. Matty doesn’t head to his room, though. Instead, he laces up his shoes, grabs the dog lead and looks at her with a raised brow, like a challenge.
“Coming?”
~~~
They make it all of one block before Matty slips his hand into hers, twisting their fingers together, and she blushes the entire time they stroll through the New York streets.
~~~
After they quickly eat a few slices of greasy, cheesy pizza for dinner (extra olives for Adam, no pepperoni for Ross), the boys slip on their suits and get ready to head out. She straightens Matty’s collar as he pulls the boiler suit over his shoulders and slowly pulls the zip up to cover his clothes. There’s a moment where his hands cover hers, and she thinks he might kiss her, but then he must think better of it because he pulls her fingers off gently and awkwardly waves goodbye at her as they leave the safety of the firehouse.
When the garage door closes, she’s completely alone, and it's terrifying.
She spends the first hour sitting impatiently in the chair behind the reception desk, waiting for their return. The following 30 minutes she spends seeing how fast she can spin around three times. After that, she stands at the top of the fireman’s pole and attempts to be brave enough to try sliding down it because it looks like fun, but when she realises how high she is, the novelty wears thin.
After more than two hours, the incessantly ringing phone is driving her so mad that she answers it after the third call in a row. She jots down a few bits of information, including the name and contact number of the person on the other line, and hangs up with a sigh of relief. Her newfound enjoyment of the silence lasts all of 10 minutes before the phone rings again.
She’s hanging up the phone again as the garage door opens, and the red flashing lights of the Ghostbusters vehicle illuminates the building as they pull in. She can hear them whooping and hollering inside the car, so she thinks it's safe to assume her apartment is no longer haunted. Matty pushes open the passenger door, grinning from ear to ear as he lets the dog jump out.
“We came, we saw, we kicked its ass!” he cheers.
George steps out of the driver's side, holding a white towel to his nose that still seems to be gushing blood. Ross looks a little bit worse for wear, his hair in disarray, and Adam is the only one who seems completely unscathed. Even Matty has a tear in his coveralls at his shoulder and a purple jaw from where the ghost undoubtedly tried to smack the smirk off his face.
“It’s really gone?”
She can’t even keep the awe out of her voice. She’s in disbelief that the thing that has kept her up every night is currently contained in what could only be called a metal shoebox.
“Standard, run-of-the-mill poltergeist,” Matty triumphantly informs her. “Brittany Jackson, your apartment is now ghost-free.”
It feels like the right time to kiss him, so she does, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. Just as he slips his tongue into her mouth, the reception phone rings again, and she groans before picking up the old receiver.
“Ghostbusters. What do you want?”
She untangles herself from Matty, and he smacks her ass before heading upstairs.
“We do the hard work, and he gets the girl? Typical,” Ross grumbles as he heads down the stairs, into the basement, holding the still smoking trap at arm's length away from himself.
~~~
She finds the boys in their kitchen/dining/lounge room, going over the footage in her apartment, laughing raucously as they watch themselves get thrown around her living room. Her living room rug is literally pulled from beneath George's feet, causing him to fall flat on his face, which explains his nose. Ross gets up from his spot next to Matty, pulling her arm gently and making her sit down just in time to see Adam trip over the plug to her lamp. No ghostly presence this time, just his own clumsiness, and they all laugh hysterically.
Turning in her seat, she looks at Matty, who's already looking at her with a raised brow. He looks tired and sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead, but he looks happy. His arm is lazily slung behind her back, his fingers fiddling with the belt loops on her jeans, twisting the material around before letting it go again. The other boys cheer when their proton packs light up her apartment in the footage, and they're so caught up in reliving their victory that they don't even notice her and Matty slipping out the door.
They barely make it to his room in time before he throws her against the back of the door. His mouth presses against hers in a heated frenzy, and her hands run over his bare skin, her eyes darting quickly over the tattoos on his torso as she grips his arms. Pushing his blue sweater that she’s apparently borrowed over her shoulders, he buries his face in her neck, inhaling the last of her perfume.
“Do you wanna go out sometime?” He pants, nipping at the underside of her jaw.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she gasps, crossing her arms in front of herself and peeling her shirt off.
~~~
"Explain it to me again."
They’re in her apartment the following morning, and he’d be lying if he said he was anything less than absolutely exhausted. She’d kept him up almost the entire night (he’s not complaining), but after being thrown around her tiny-ass apartment and having to run up and down her stairs all night, grabbing more gear from the car because the ghost in her apartment kept breaking their shit? Yeah, he’s absolutely knackered.
“You like all this vintage crap, right?” He gestures around her room from his spot, reclined on her bed after she’d changed the sheets. “It was probably attached to something.”
He’s supposed to be taking down the cameras and collecting payment from her, but he can’t be bothered. Stifling another yawn, he watches her pick clothes up off the floor and place them neatly back on the freestanding rack. He’s noticed a few short dresses that he’d like to see more of and some boring collared shirts that he assumes she wears for work.
“Well, how do I know if something is haunted?” She frowns.
“You don’t,” he can’t stop his jaw from widening as a yawn escapes him. “Not until they make themselves known.”
She picks up a yellow PVC coat with a feathered collar and he can’t help but comment.
“That’s definitely haunted.” He sits up, moving down the edge of the bed, lazily attempting to pull it from her hands and grabbing her hips instead. “I’ll take it back to the firehouse and get rid of it.”
She drops the coat on the floor and wraps an arm around his neck, grinning down at him. Her fingers play with his hair, and if his eyes weren’t falling out of his head, he’d probably make a move.
“My hero,” she offers with a sarcastic laugh, and he loves the sound. With a quick press of her lips against his own, she picks up the coat and goes back to organising her belongings again.
Laying back on her pillows, he wonders what she’ll be like now that there’s no ghost keeping her tethered to him like some kind of invisible string. He’s already noticed the brightness that she seems to exude now that she’s finally slept, and her eyes don’t look so dark anymore, no longer swimming with fear and anxiety.
He likes watching her putter around her apartment, likes seeing how she lives. He finds it cute that everything has a place, but then there are little cracks in the surface, like how she’s incredibly put together, but her nail polish is chipped. Or how all the vinyl records on her shelf are organised alphabetically, but the discs inside each sleeve are from a different record.
“What?” She laughs when she’s caught him staring.
“I really like you.”
Fuck.
He didn’t want it to spill out like that.
He didn’t want to—
“I really like you too.” She bites her lip, and her cheeks flush.
Oh.
Oh.
“Do you wanna go out sometime?”
She tilts her head and looks confused. “Didn’t you ask me that last night?”
He closes his eyes and cringes internally, exhaling out of his nose sharply.
“I forgot,” he admits. “But that's not an answer either.” He looks at her pointedly, and she laughs.
“I’m just messing,” she laughs. “Yes, I’d love to go out with you.”
They make loose plans for the following evening, and just as he’s about to fall asleep in her bed, she asks one final question.
“Are there any kind of nepo baby perks when you go out with a Ghostbuster?”
The laugh that bursts from his chest surprises them both and makes her downstairs neighbour bang their broom handle against the ceiling.
~~~
He doesn’t want to, but he goes home. He’s technically on the clock from sundown and needs to catch a few more hours of sleep in his own bed. Brittany’s apartment is great, but everything is just too noisy, and he’s not used to the sounds. The most frustrating of them all was the piano in her bedroom, whose keys were too loose and kept playing notes just as his eyes would droop.
Plus, he also knows the look in Britt’s eye; he’s seen it once or twice in his lifetime. It’s a look that every man becomes familiar with, the look of a woman who wants to be thrown against a wall and be thoroughly had. He’d love to be that guy right now, but he hasn’t got it in him to take care of her as well as she deserves. He still kisses her hard at her door though, so at least she’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the night, hopefully.
They text sparingly throughout the rest of the day; she keeps him informed overnight about the lack of ghosts in her apartment, and he drafts and deletes messages based on all the filthy things he wants to do to her. Their upcoming date the next day feels like a formality. Of course, he wants to take her out and spend time with her in a romantic setting, but he knows she’s about to be his. It just feels too soon to be able to say so without taking her out for dinner and maybe a movie.
That doesn’t stop him from ironing his shirt, spraying some cologne his mum bought him for his last birthday, and picking up a bunch of flowers along the way to her place. He wants to make a good impression, wants her to know how serious he is about her.
The security door at the base of her building is propped open as removalists carry furniture to the truck parked along the curb (mostly in the bike line, he notes with a frown). He runs up the stairs, skipping every few, ignoring the burn in his thighs before knocking on her door. His heart beats quickly as he waits for her to answer, and he runs a hand through his hair nervously. His palms are beginning to sweat around the plastic wrapping of the bouquet, and he’s beginning to think she’s forgotten about their plans when there’s a shatter of glass from inside her place, and the door swings open suddenly.
Brittany stands in the doorway, looking otherworldly.
No. Seriously. She looks insane.
She looks possessed.
Her eyes have a glow to them as if they're lit from beneath her skin, and she moves as if she’s a newborn foal, with gangly legs and slinky arms. She bares her teeth and questions his presence in the doorframe with a voice he’s never heard come from her before. His stomach sinks at the thought that whatever he and the boys caught a few nights earlier wasn’t the problem.
“Do you know John?”
She’s propped against the doorframe like a doll, and her voice is completely emotionless, but deep enough to scare the life out of him. Whatever they caught in her apartment was not the only thing lurking in the shadows, waiting to get her. If anything, the poltergeist was probably somehow protecting her from whatever big bad had snuck its way into her body.
“I might know John,” he plays along.
Brittany’s body saunters across the apartment and drapes itself onto the sofa listlessly. Her head rolls around on her shoulders, and he thinks back to all the minimal times they’ve dealt with possession. This scenario isn’t new to him, but it's not like he’s got plenty of experience with it either. Stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him, he takes a calming breath and tries to remember the basics.
Keep calm, follow along with whatever the entity requires until they find the source that keeps its presence trapped on their earthly plane. Simple. Most of the time. He doesn’t figure today is going to be one of those days, though. Dropping the flowers next to her keys on the TV unit, he shrugs out of his jacket and gets to work.
First things first, he needs to alert the boys and then clear the building. The moment whatever is inside Brittany realises that he’s going to try and remove it, it’ll just jump to the next warm body, and they’ll be chasing it all over town as it causes chaos. The best thing he can think to do is pull the fire alarm, but not before doing some due diligence.
“Where’s John?” She moans, and he slides onto the coffee table, facing her.
“He’s on his way,” he lies smoothly. “What's your name?”
Her body groans indelicately, but it comes out more like a demonic roar that's so loud that he has to manually remind himself to breathe to keep his heart rate down and his mind focused. She’s wearing one of the dresses she’d been rehanging the day before in her room, and he wonders if this was the outfit she’d planned to wear on her date with him before she’d become what she is now.
“My name is June.” Her eyes brighten again, like it knows something he doesn’t, and it's unnerving.
She slinks off the couch like a serpent and fiddles with the vinyl records on the bookshelf. While she’s not looking, he shoots a text to George with the address and “911” before slipping his phone back into his pocket. Whatever is in Brittany’s body is getting frustrated with the record player, probably another one of her vintage finds at a flea market somewhere in the city because it's beaten up as hell, with scratches all over it, and the needle is bent. He quickly gets the music to play, and even though it skips every few seconds, she relaxes again, falling onto the couch and closing her eyes.
As she’s not looking, his eyes rove around the apartment, trying to find things out of place. Everything seems to be in its correct spot, so he slowly moves towards the bedroom. The door is closed slightly, but as he inches it open, he can see the remnants of what looks like a burglary. He creeps inside the room, his blood pumping furiously through his veins. The tall mirror she’d had propped against the wall is shattered, the mattress is barely on the frame, and her pillows have been ripped apart, feathers laying across every flat surface.
It’s clear something sinister occurred in the space, and the darkness that drips from every corner is enough to make his lungs feel tight. He backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. The living room is silent, and when he turns to look at the sofa, Brittany’s body is gone, and the front door is wide open.
“Shit.”
He runs out of the apartment, looking over the railing of the staircase. He can hear quick footsteps, so he bolts after them as quickly as he can. He gets stuck behind the removalists as two burly guys haul a stupidly large dining table through the ground floor, and he knows he’s lost her. By the time he gets onto the street, the Ghostbusters car pulls up and the boys file out, fully geared up. He appreciates the timely manner in which they arrived, but they’re all too late now.
~~~
“You’re sure she said nothing?”
He’s just about sick of George asking the same stupid question.
“I’m bloody sure. She said nothing to me about anything important!”
With no other options, they’re back inside her apartment trying to find something they may have missed, a hidden clue that would help point them in the right direction. So far, it was a bust, and he’d retraced his steps too many times trying to make sense of everything.
“It’s all important!” George barks. “You need to tell us everything that was said from the moment you walked in the door!”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead, and begins telling the story all over again. How he’d come into the building, knocked on the door, and known instantly that things weren’t right.
“How’d you know?” Adam pressed.
“Because I know her, and whatever that was, wasn’t it.”
“You’ve only known her for a bit,” George reminds him. “Maybe she’s just letting you down easy?”
“By acting like a psycho? Use your head, G.”
He keeps going, trying to remember all the small details, but he can’t think straight because Ross is messing around with the out-of-tune piano in her bedroom that remarkably remained unscathed in all the drama.
It instantly feels like the puzzle pieces sliding into place.
"My radio blasts every night at 2am, and it's not even plugged in."
"Sorry, I need to get it fixed. The keys are too loose, or something, so it randomly plays all the time."
"I bought this beautiful old piano from the Brooklyn flea market. It cost me more to get it back to Manhattan than it did to buy the bloody thing."
Pushing Ross aside, he moves the sheet music, and there it is, inscribed on the underside of the lid, the answer they'd been looking for.
"For my June bug. May our love be everlasting in this life and every other. Love, your John."
"The piano is the source," he states, and George stares at him, waiting for the explanation.
~~~
Adam gets to work finding out all the information he can on the piano while Ross wheels it into the living room.
“This thing weighs a fucking ton,” he moans, sweat glistening on his forehead.
George throws him the keys to the car, and he sets off, attempting to find Brittany in the streets of Manhattan. He cruises by slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the traffic in front of him while he scans every face he comes across. The walkie in the passenger seat blares white noise every other minute as the connection comes and goes.
There’s a crowd forming outside of a building in Gramercy Park, and he thinks it's either going to be some sort of Frankenstein-ed baked treat (a bloody doughnut-muffin or a croissant-cake), or he may have just stumbled upon the body that is supposed to contain Brittany Jackson. Pulling the car up, he slides out of the driver's seat and makes his way across the street.
"Come in, Matty? Over.”
“What do you have? Over.” He waits for a response on the other side, pushing his sunglasses onto his head.
“Turns out the piano was custom-made by one John Davis for his wife June. They used to live in a building over in Gramercy-”
“Near 3rd Avenue?”
He lifts his head to follow the eyeline of the crowd and is stunned for a moment by what he sees.
“What? Yeah, somewhere close to–”
“I got it. Over.”
Pushing his way through the crowd of people formed on the sidewalk, he bursts through the door of the building. He pushes the elevator button repeatedly until the doors open, and once he's inside, he selects the top floor.
~~~
“Ok, so Viking goodbye?” Ross scratches his beard as they contemplate the best way to dissolve the last of the spirit from the piano.
“We can’t set it on fire inside an apartment building,” George scoffs.
They stare down the cause of their latest problem before Adam breaks the silence.
“How did she even get it in here?!”
~~~
Wind quickly whips by his head, whistling in his ears as Matty opens the door. He swears the clouds are close enough to touch as he looks around the deserted rooftop until he finds what he was looking for. His heart sinks into his stomach as he watches Brittany Jackson’s body dance along the edge of the building, her bare feet tip-toeing the edge and her dress rippling in the breeze.
“I’ve got eyes on her,” he whispers into the walkie-talkie.
Her body looks over at him, angry at the intrusion, with narrowed eyes and teeth bared.
~~~
“We need more time,” George pants, scrambling for his walkie-talkie that had fallen by the wayside after an invisible force viciously shoved them all back, away from the piano.
It was as if it knew they were trying to destroy it. His nose is pouring blood again from the impact, and he has to use the sofa to pull himself up to a standing position. Ross stands on the kitchen bench, clutching his ribs as he holds a lighter to the smoke detectors until the alarm starts blaring obnoxiously.
They needed to clear the building.
~~~
Slipping the walkie-talkie into his back pocket, he slowly inches closer.
“Where’s John?” She snarls, cautiously watching his every move like a predator eyeing its prey.
He sucks in a breath. The boys need more time. He can do that.
“I’m right here.”
It’s instantaneous, her reaction. Her lips stop curling into a growl and transform into the brightest smile he’s ever seen from her. Her hair stops whipping around in the breeze and starts dancing lightly along her shoulders, the curls at the ends bouncing lightly along the top of her dress. She jumps off the ledge towards him, rushing over quickly in her heels. He tenses as she throws her arms around his neck and smashes her mouth to his.
~~~
George had managed to chip the edge of the piano lid with an unused frying pan in the kitchen (the thing still had the tags on it), and Adam had somehow dislocated his shoulder when he was thrown against the wall. It’s safe to say that they weren’t exactly busting this ghost with ease.
Their proton pack blasts ricocheted off the piano like a basketball against a backboard. Desperation was beginning to set in, and they were running out of ideas. They could sit by it, could run their hands over it, but the moment they lifted a finger to cause damage, it flung them back violently.
Ross shakily gets up from the kitchen floor, peeling his back gently off one of the now crumpled cabinet doors with a wince. He can feel tiny splinters attached to his boiler suit, and as he stands, he spots some inspiration as he looks back to assess the damage. Reaching into the sink for one of the dirty water glasses that miraculously hasn’t shattered yet, he begins to fill it with the unused, brand new olive oil in the pantry.
With shaking hands, he walks slowly across the apartment, ignoring George’s curious gaze and Adam’s confusion. Sitting at the bench seat, he channels Matty’s parents and tries to give the acting performance of a lifetime.
“Oh, I am so thirsty,” he clears his throat and carries on. “Perhaps I will sit right here and have a drink, and then – oh no!”
With fumbling hands, Ross knocks the glass over. The oil spreads across the wood, the glossy liquid dripping over the sides and splattering to the floor. Standing up, he heads back towards the kitchen, searching through his pockets for his zippo when he feels the sharp ridges meet his fingers. Rolling it between his fingers, he ignites it, the flame burning brightly as he tosses it towards the piano.
“Ross, don’t!”
~~~
“Come with me, be with me!” The ghost of June Davis, currently inhabiting Brittany Jackson, downright begs him to get on the ledge of the building. “We’ll be together forever, and you’ll never have to spend a second without me again!”
Tears flood her eyes when he doesn’t answer quickly enough. Her hands grip his arms with unnatural strength, squeezing his biceps painfully under her nails.
“Don’t you want me anymore? Don’t you love me?”
Standing this close to the girl that had invaded his every thought since she’d first stormed her way into the firehouse all those nights ago, it was hard to remember that she was currently possessed. Her eyes were still blue with flecks of green, her hair was dark with a few strands that were lighter than the others. She still had the tiny little scar on her forehead from when she’d had chicken pox as a kid and she’d scratched too hard.
“I want you to stay here with me, just for a bit longer.” He pleads, gripping her waist and stopping her from pulling them any closer to the ledge than necessary.
“But you don’t love me.” Her fingers unclench, and her arms drop by her sides.
“I–,” he stumbles on his words. “I didn’t say that.”
Before he even realises it, she’s ripped herself away from him and is climbing up onto the ledge again. By the time he reaches her, she’s already standing on the precipice, holding out her hand to him.
“Then be with me!”
Taking her hand, he tries to pull her off the ledge.
“Britt, get down from there!”
Her lifeless fingers begin to tighten around his hand, squeezing until he can feel his knuckles pop beneath his skin.
“That’s not my name.” She growls, her voice becoming distorted. “You’re not John.”
~~~
The apartment was nothing more than inferno. As soon as the lighter had hit the piano, it had blasted everything in its path away in a vicious fury. Fire licked the walls and the demonic vessel screeched and wailed as its body burned cruelly. The keys played a disjointed tune, trying with all its might to breathe life back into itself before becoming engulfed in the flames.
Crawling tiredly through the smoke, George tries to find the other boys in the haze. The last thing he’d seen before his head collided with the wall was red flying towards Ross in the kitchen. He can hear Adam coughing on the other side of the room, somewhere towards the door, and knows that he’ll be fine without extra help.
“Ross!” He bellows.
~~~
"I am John," Matty attempts to convince the presence in front of him, but the ghost of June Davis seems to have him completely figured out.
"Liar!"
The demon growls, a malevolent roar, and the earth shakes beneath his feet. Although June's grip on him doesn't falter, something ominous begins to take place. Her shoulders quiver, and a gust of wind starts to howl around them, whipping through the air. Her once-piercing eyes roll back into her head, leaving him to wonder if the other boys had somehow found a way to intervene.
Matty yanks her away from the ledge, pulling her back to safety. He holds her tightly as she begins to scream in agony, an unearthly wail that seems to screech through the city. Black smoke billows from her mouth, pouring out in thick tendrils as her skin sears and crackles as if she was being licked with invisible fire. Her body convulses, and he feels helpless.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stops.
"Britt? Hey!" Matty gently places her on the ground, urgently tapping her cheek, waiting with bated breath for some kind of reaction. "Wake up!"
There’s no response, and his trembling fingers press urgently against her neck to feel her pulse. Panic grips him when he can’t find it. He’s never had to do CPR before; normally, George or Adam took care of it, and he regrets never bothering to learn. It was just pure laziness – he never thought he’d need to know, and now, of course, he was the only one around, and this woman who had turned his life upside down might die because of his stupidity.
Pinching her nose and tilting her head back, he breathes strongly into her mouth before beginning chest compressions. He berates himself when he doesn’t even know how many he’s supposed to do before breathing into her mouth again. He ignores the tears that drip solemnly from his eyes and continues to push down repeatedly.
Suddenly, Brittany Jackson returns to life with a horrified gasp, followed by a hacking cough as she rolls onto her side. He can't help but crowd over her, gently sweeping her hair off her face and pressing grateful kisses onto her shoulder after he pulls her up against his chest.
“You’re ok,” he promises, his voice trembling with relief. “I’ve got you.”
Her eyes close, and he gets her to just focus on breathing. With every lungful of air, the tension eases in his own lungs, and he holds her tightly, keeping her grounded against him.
“Worst date ever,” she manages to croak out.
~~~
George pushes open the double doors to Brittany Jackson’s building with a bang and strolls outside, lighting a cigarette and feeling a new spring his step. Ross and Adam shuffle out behind him, groaning, and they ignore the fire brigade shoving past them, making their way inside to deal with the flames currently taking over the building. They’re covered in soot, blood, and sweat, but the relief is evident on their faces.
A detective makes their way over to them, and a crooked smiles breaks out on his face. “I thought you boys might make an appearance at this one.”
“You knew?” Adam asked, a brow arched in surprise as he shakes Detective Venkman’s hand.
“Who do you think told her to call?” Another officer calls him over, and he bids them goodbye, promising to come by the firehouse later for a statement.
~~~
Matty hates hospitals, he despises how they smell like death, and that there are always a million people running around. He doesn’t know how anyone can rest enough inside the clinical walls to recover from whatever illness put them there in the first place, but sitting in the waiting room, his arm around Brittany’s shoulders, she closes her eyes.
She’s poked and prodded for the rest of the night by doctors testing her reflexes and asking her insane questions that she can only provide nonsensical answers to. Matty holds her hand when she’s hooked up to an intravenous drip, and he wipes the tears from her lashes when they do a blood test. Her head rests against his shoulder when she looks away as red liquid pours from her arm into the tube, and he whispers more calming sentiments.
Brushing his fingers across her scalp, she’s finally beginning to fall asleep. They’ve been there for hours at this point, and he knows she’s frustrated, tired, and wants to leave. Her breaths even out, and he’s stopped catching himself counting the rises and falls of her chest.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he sees George’s name flash across the screen.
“G, you good?” He answers, standing from the uncomfortable chair next to her bed and leaving their little curtained-off area.
“Yeah, we’re good. You?”
Looking around the hospital, he’s hit with the realisation of how much worse things could’ve been.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
They fill each other in on the events of the evening, working through some of the questions they still had when George drops another bombshell.
“We accidentally burned down Britt’s apartment.”
“Fuck off.”
“It’s not our fault. The fucking thing fought back!”
Rubbing his forehead, he doesn’t know what to do with the information, or how to break it to the girl laying in the hospital bed behind the curtain. Her entire life was inside that shitty one-bedroom place. She’d taken great pride in showing him all her little knick-knacks when he’d come over to help put the place back together after they’d caught the poltergeist.
“Matty?”
A gravelly voice softly calls out, and he hangs up the phone quickly, sliding through the gap in the curtain and sitting beside her once again.
“Sorry, baby.” He intertwines her fingers with his own, kissing her knuckles.
~~~
George wasn’t lying. The next day, after she’s checked out of the hospital and gets discharged wearing Matty’s spare boiler suit that was in the back of the car and her heels, they inspect what's left of her apartment. The piano is nothing but ivory keys and ashes that she doesn’t want to touch, and her vinyls are all melted together. Her couch is a pile of soot, and all her clothes are burnt to a crisp (except for her yellow coat, which Matty seems thrilled about).
Her arms are folded over her chest, and she doesn’t say anything as she looks around at the remains of her life. Kicking the corner of her coffee table that miraculously still stands on all four legs, she tries to keep the tears at bay.
“Can you explain it to me again?” She looks at him, biting her lip and taking a shuddering breath.
“June Davis passed away from illness, and her husband John went not long after. He died from a heart attack,” Matty begins.
“More like a broken heart,” Brittany sighs, holding Matty’s hand and carefully stepping over the charred remains of her bedroom door.
“John bought June the piano because she loved music, but she never learned how to play it. According to their neighbours, who still live in the building that you almost nose-dived off, she always had guilt for never learning,” Matty says, watching her shuffle around the room. “That’s probably what kept her spirit anchored to Earth.”
Britt nods as she lets the information roll around in her mind.
“They were happy though, right?” She wonders sadly.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Turns out the piano had been causing the same problem every few years. The new owner would purchase it from a market somewhere in New York, they’d manage to hold onto it for a while before becoming possessed with the ghost of June Davis. The story unfortunately always ended the same, the possessed would fall off the apartment building in Gramercy Park that June and her husband, John, had once lived in, and the piano would go on to be sold again.
“Can we go?”
There’s nothing left to salvage, so he nods, grabbing her hand, and leaves the crumbling apartment behind.
~~~
Brittany moves into the fire station. She promises that she’ll only stay until she finds a new apartment to move into, but somehow, the real estate pages of the newspaper keep disappearing. It’s like a ghost keeps taking them.
Matty won’t allow her to pay any kind of rent or board since they literally burned down her apartment, and when she reminds him of the contract she signed, he pretends he has no idea what she’s talking about. To ease her own guilt, she answers the reception phone during the day and organises all their invoicing into a better system than what they previously had, which was none. At night, Matty teaches her how to play more instruments; her favourite out of his collection is an old, dark-stained acoustic guitar.
(When everyone’s gone to bed for the night, he makes her heart, body, and soul sing as his calloused fingers play her instead, her back arching off the bed, and eyes rolling as his lips make her come undone.)
As much as she feels anger about what happened to her and all the chaos that was caused, Brittany thinks about June Davis fondly sometimes. She can still recall some of the love-driven thoughts that had occupied her mind when June was in possession of her body, the longing the woman had felt for her husband.
It almost feels serendipitous because without June Davis, she wouldn’t have been kept up late at night from all the supernatural disturbances. Without all the supernatural disturbances, she wouldn’t have called the police, who ended up giving her a business card telling her exactly who to call.
A/N: sorry about the delay. Todays been hectic. This is day one of promptober
Prompt: meet cute
Warnings: none
——
“Jesus- fuck!! Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Matty hissed, reflexively pulling his hand away, and dropping the remainder of the half empty coffee cup that had not spilled all over him in a splat against the pavement. He leaned against the car, his coffee-soaked gym clothes adhering to his skin.
“Good morning- umm, you need some help?”
He heard a bright voice from behind him and instantly make an effort to put on a smile before turning around. He’d assumed the young lady with the hefty-looking tote bag hanging off her shoulder was a fan. Probably coming over to ask for a quick selfie or an autograph before she’d caught him cursing under his breath. He never wanted his mood or mental state to ever taint a fans experience of him or rub off on anyone else. So, with open arms and deep breaths, he approached her, ready to put aside his troubles and be present in the moment.
“No, I’m just English, and…it’s October. Los Angeles weather makes no sense to me, and-“ when she looked puzzled, stepping away as he got closer, Matty realized she had no idea who he was. “Oh, god. Sorry. I’m a fuckin idiot, aren’t I?”
“I…don’t know you well enough to answer that.” She laughed. “But it does seem like you’re having a morning.”
“It’s just that I’ve rented this car. And it won’t turn on. And I went to pull out my phone, you know, to call the agency but- the coffee shop over there was out of lids, and-“ he gestured vaguely in the air.
She nodded along sympathetically. “Sounds awful; I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, I’ve got…hmm” she glance down at her phone, “fifty minutes. Okay that’s not bad. Let me help you out.”
“You don’t have to. It’s fine I’ll call someone and-“
“I’ve got somewhere you can get cleaned up and I know a guy who’s good with cars. C’mon.” She began walking up the street, taking for granted that Matty would follow her. So, he did.
***
“Let me- umm- help” Matty attempted to hold her tote bag for her as she wrangled her key into the door, but he was too late. She’d pried it open and walked inside.
“Welcome to my humble business.” She announced, feeling around the wall for the light switch. “We don’t behind open for another 45 minutes so please shut the door behind you.”
Matty made sure the “closed” sign was facing outwards before pushing the door shut.
“Alright, let’s see the damage that we’re working with here.” Her eyebrows raised, her head nodding towards his t shirt.
He pulled it over his head, slowly revealing his toned, tattooed torso. She couldn’t help but let her eyes linger for a moment, blushing involuntarily. He was beautiful.
“Thank you for this.” He muttered awkwardly.
“You bet.”
***
She’d finally emerged from the kitchen area of her bakery, smiling as she watched Matty pace around the room nervously. “You can sit down, you know.” She pointed towards one of the serving tables that still hand the chairs hanging upside-down from. “So, I have your t shirt soaking for a bit. I’ll dry it near the oven when it’s ready. But here you go. This is the car guy.”
“Thank you, really. You didn’t have to do all this.” Matty lowered a chair off the table, sinking into it and dialing the number she’d given him.
“Can I get you anything while you wait?”
Matty smiled, genuinely, for the first time this morning. “I could use some coffee actually. You know, one that isn’t being absorbed through the skin of my chest.”
She giggled. “How do you take your coffee? We’ve got fall flavors if you’d like a pumpkin spice.”
Matty rolled his eyes.
“Oh are you one of those men? You think pumpkin spice is girlie or gay or something? Lemme guess….you take your coffee black? Alright, grinch. One black coffee coming right up.”
By the time that she’d brought out his beverage, Matty had finished making his phone call.
“Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you- the grinch is for Christmas by the way. This is autumn.”
She giggled. “Whatever you say, grinch.”
“I never said I hate pumpkin spice.” Matty was on the defensive now. “I love it! It’s just- LA feels like summer. This…is not pumpkin spice weather. Feels wrong.”
“Okay so, you’re English. You hate LA. You…do jiujitsu- your stained shirt? It had the name of a martial arts academy printed on it - what else? You’re not actor are you?”
Matty sipped on his coffee. “Not an actor, no.”
“Thought so. You don’t look like one.”
Matty’s brows furrowed, he set down his coffee mug, resting his elbows on the table as he leaned in. “What’s that supposed to mean? Should I be offended?”
She chuckled, throwing her head back. “No. Trust me. You don’t wanna look like an actor in LA. They’re all over the place.”
“And you? Pumpkin spice is your full time job?” Matty winced at his own words. “Sorry that came out wrong. I’m a nice person, i promise. It’s the heat!”
She shook her head, smiling. “I’m really passionate about pumpkin spice.” She glanced down at her phone, then at the block-long line forming outside.
“Fuck! Oh shoot, shoot, shoot!!!” She jumped to her feet, rushing into the kitchen. “Unlock that door and let people in, would you?”
***
A shirtless Matty had found himself the host of LA’s finest caffeine- deprived bakery customers, eventually settling into his role by finding an apron to cover his nipples with, and working the cash register.
“Thank you for coming, enjoy that muffin, Pamela.” He smiled as the ancient lady with the cane eyed him from head to toes, winking at his biceps. “Watch your step now. Don’t want you falling. You’ve had enough knee surgeries for your age.”
He walked away from the counter once the first morning rush had died down, going into the kitchen. “I don’t think the scones are selling too well. Should I- I think we could start giving some away. With a purchase of large sized beverages.”
She stared at him, her mouth agape. It was difficult to focus on being dumbfounded by him when all she could think about is how beautiful his hair was, and how tightly that apron wrapped around him.
“I’m Matty, by the way.” He stuck his hand out for a handshake.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced- like, officially.”
***
“Here you go. T shirt is now coffee free. And wearable again.”
“Sick!”
To her great disappointment, he undid the apron, pulling it off his body and replacing it with his original t shirt.
“Thanks for helping out. I feel bad though. Cuz, like, you could’ve been out there. Dealing with your car situation.”
