#back at it with another mid story

[sematarygirls]

        KILLER!RAFE x BESTFRIEND!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ murder, gore, dark comedy, anatomy innacuracies probably, angst?, insane continuity errors with dna evidence, rafe and reader shower together

NOTES .ᐟ i watched this movie called tragedy girls with my mom, and it inspired me to write this. just two bestfriends who love hate to kill together <3 sorry it gets a little rushed at the end. i mostly wrote it for the perimortem banter

"Rafe," you whined, looking down at the blood that had spurted from the random kook boy's neck wound right onto you. "You got blood on my new top," you huffed. "I specifically told you to avoid the jugular, so it didn't cause such a mess!"

"Well, why did you wear your new top to a fuckin' murder scene then, huh, princess?" he scoffed, his fingers flexing around the knife handle as he waved it around for emphasis, the deep red blood glistening under the warm yellow lights.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "Because I look hot," you said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Now, give me the stupid knife. You aren't even doing it right!" You held out your hand, your stance alone radiating attitude.

He looked at you, a mix of amusement and frustration dancing in his blue eyes. "And you think you can do better?" he sneered. "I mean, for fuck's sake, he's dead. What more do you want, huh?" He complained but nonetheless, did as you said, flipping the knife handle first as he handed it over.

You wrapped your fingers around the handle carefully, ignoring his exasperation as you hummed thoughtfully. "You're just so... unimaginative," you replied, your tone a bit condescending as you eyed the boy's body at Rafe's feet, clearly mulling something over.

Rafe watched you carefully, his arms crossed over his chest—a clear sign of his quickly growing irritation—as he leaned against the wall. "Unimaginative?" he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What, are you gonna poetry read his fuckin' corpse or something?"

"Please," you scoffed, shooting him a look as you kneeled down beside the body. Your eyes sweeped over him thoughtfully, using the tip of the knife to brush a strand of hair from his face. "Stabbing is so 90s," you rolled your eyes. "It's not enough to just kill anymore. You have to be... creative," you explained, as if there was a section in Cosmo on being a teenage serial killer.

Rafe threw his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. "Oh, it's not enough to just kill anymore, we have to be creative?" he parroted, his voice going up an octave to imitate you in an unflattering falsetto.

"Local boy found stabbed doesn't quite have the same ring as local boy found gutted, now, does it, Rafe?" You scoffed, shooting an annoyed glare his way. "It's all about the optics."

"Oh, it's all about the optics," Rafe mimicked again, finding your pretentiousness both amusing and frustrating. You were like those insufferable film bros but with murder.

"Will you stop repeating what I'm saying back to me in that condescending tone?" You stood back up, turning to face him and crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn't work with him being the world's douchiest parrot right in your ear.

"Or what, princess?" Rafe asked, his voice low and mocking. "You gonna time out and have a little temper tantrum because I'm not taking your murder 101 lecture seriously enough?" He pushed himself off the wall, his eyes never leaving yours as he stepped closer.

"I oughta gut you next, you asshole," you threatened, pointing the knife at him for good measure. Although, you both knew that you'd never actually hurt him.

"Oh, yeah? And who's gonna clean up that mess, huh?" He smirked, leaning in close so that his breath was hot against your face. "You can't even handle a little blood on your shirt without whining about it."

You rolled your eyes at his arrogance. He was completely insufferable and annoyingly hot. "Shut up," you retorted sharply, getting back down to your knees next to the boy. You put the knife down for a moment, deftly unbuttoning the buttons of the boy's shirt.

Rafe watched you work with mild interest, his eyebrows raised. "What are you doing now, giving him a post-mortem fashion show?" He asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is why I stick to stabbing."

You ignored his remark, picking the knife back up and stabbing into his sternum. Blood splattered onto your face, your jaw clenching as you used all your strength to drag the knife down his body, cutting him open from his chest to just below his belly button.

Rafe flinched slightly as blood went flying. "Jesus Christ, warn a guy next time," he grumbled, wiping a stray drop from his cheek. He watched you work, a grimace on his face. "Remind me never to piss you off,"

"You already do," you deadpanned, curling your fingers into his skin and prying the flaps open to reveal his internal organs. "Literally every day."

"Ha ha, very funny," Rafe said dryly, his gaze flicking to the organs spilling out of the boy's chest cavity. "What the fuck am I even looking at right now anyway?" He squinted and tilted his head, clearly trying to decipher what parts of the body he was seeing beneath all that blood.

"I don't fucking know. Do I look like a doctor to you?" You looked up at him, shrugging. It wasn't like you'd researched how to mutilate a body prior to this. You were just sort of winging it.

"You look like an insufferable know-it-all who thinks they're better than everyone else," he quipped, crouching down beside you and looking into the body. "Is that... a lung?" He asked uncertainly.

"Didn't I just say I don't know?" You asked sarcastically, giving him an 'are you fucking kidding me right now' look before turning back to peer into the mess of blood, guts, and organs. You didn't really have a plan beyond cutting the poor guy open.

"Well, this is just fuckin' great," Rafe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was perfectly fine with just slitting his throat and leaving him, but nooooo you had to get all creative and worry about the optics like some kind of psycho Van Gogh."

"Will you calm the fuck down," you groaned, using the back of your wrist to brush a strand of hair out of your face and smudging blood on your forehead in the process. "I can't focus with you whining in my ear."

"Me? Whining?" Rafe scoffed, his eyes widening in offense. "I'm not the one covered in blood and guts, playing amateur butcher here." He shook his head, looking at you like you were the world's biggest idiot.

"I told you. This shit will make better headlines," you defended. "In the wise words of Tiffany, stabbings went out with Bundy and Dahmer," you quoted, tilting your head in thought.

"Great, so now you're quoting fuckin' Bride of Chucky to me?" Rafe rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Leave it to you to overcomplicate something as simple as killing someone.

You grinned, looking over at him as he recalled the exact movie you quoted. "Aww, you remembered?" You had forced Rafe to watch a shit ton of horror movies over the course of your friendship, but you never really thought he was actually paying attention to them.

"How could I forget? You made me sit through every single one of those god-awful films, complete with your annoying play-by-play commentary," Rafe grumbled, but deep down, he loved how excited you got about movies. Your jokes and ramblings were the only thing that made half those movies worth watching.

You turned back to the corpse, letting out a heavy sigh as you sat back on your heels. "Should we just... leave him like this?" You grimaced, not really wanting to touch any of his organs.

"What, you're done now?" Rafe rolled his eyes, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. "I thought you had some master plan to be the next Da Vinci of serial killers."

"Can you even name a Da Vinci painting?" You rolled your eyes, grabbing the knife and standing up, blood coating your clothes and skin. "Besides, I said we had to get creative. I never claimed to know what the fuck I was doing," you pointed out. Though, it was all semantics, really.

"Of course I can name a Da Vinci painting," Rafe huffed, though he couldn't actually remember any off the top of his head. "It's... uh... The Last Supper." He crossed his arms, glaring at you in annoyance. "And maybe the fuckin'... uh, who's that bitch with the brown hair? Oh, the Mona Lisa."

"You remembered The Last Supper before the fucking Mona Lisa—literally the most well known painting in history?" You asked incredulously, shaking your head in disbelief, having a normal conversation with him as if you weren't standing over a mutilated corpse.

"Who gives a shit about the Mona Lisa or The Last Supper for that matter," he scoffed, motioning to the dead body on the ground. "Now what the fuck are we gonna do with this guy, huh?"

You sighed, shrugging. "Fuck if I know," you looked from the corpse to him.

"Well, that's just great," Rafe said sarcastically. "We kill the guy, and now we have no idea what to do with the body. You're a real fuckin' genius, you know that?" He shook his head in exasperation.

"Okay, well, if you wanna get bitchy, technically, you're the one that actually killed him," you said stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest in annoyance.

"Oh, because slashing him open and rearranging his insides was just so innocent?" Rafe retorted, mimicking your stance and crossing his arms.

"Okay, I never said that I was innocent," you defended yourself, gesturing around with the bloody knife as you spoke. "I just said I wasn't the one that killed him."

"Semantics, sweetheart," Rafe drawled, his eyes rolling in annoyance. "Either way, we're both fucked if the cops find this body. So, come up with a plan already." He sighed heavily, looking around the room, as if expecting a solution to magically appear.

"You come up with a plan," you fired back. Why did you have to be the one to fix this mess? You were both royally fucked if shit hit the fan, so why was he putting all the pressure on you?

"Because you're the one with the goddamn imagination," Rafe growled, jabbing a finger at you. "You're the one who wanted to get creative with killing him. So now you get to be creative with getting rid of the body, too."

"You really gonna keep throwing that in my face?" You asked, the tension in the room growing with each passion second. "I was just trying to make things more interesting!"

"Well, congratulations, you succeeded in making things interesting," Rafe spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now we're up to our eyeballs in shit and you can't even come up with a basic fucking plan to dig us out."

"I have a plan, you dickhead," you shot back with a huff. "Just carry him to the bathroom," you ordered, motioning to the hallway with the bloodied knife.

Rafe's eyebrows shot up, disbelief written all over his face. "To the bathroom?" He echoed incredulously. "What the hell are we gonna do with him in there? Give him a bubble bath and sing him to sleep?" He threw his hands up in frustration.

"Just carry him to fucking bathroom, smartass," you rolled your eyes. Everything was always a fight with Rafe. He couldn't just do what you asked. No, he had to make a billion sarcastic and bitchy comments in the process. God, he was so dramatic.

"Fine, let's take the mutilated corpse to the fucking bathroom," Rafe grumbled, moving to grab the body. He grunted as he grabbed the boy under the arms "You better have a damn good reason for this, or I swear to God..."

"Do you always have to complain so much," you groaned, trailing behind him. As much as Rafe was being a shithead, you couldn't help but admire the view of his biceps flexing underneath his t-shirt as he dragged the body.

"Would you rather I be all smiles and sunshine while carrying a disemboweled corpse to the bathroom?" Rafe shot back sarcastically. He dropped the body unceremoniously into the porcelain bathtub. "Now what?" He demanded, turning to you with a glare.

"Okay, I did not disembowel him," you said, rolling your eyes at his dramatics as you turned the tub on, turning the temperature to its max. "All his organs are still in his body," you argued, waiting for the water to heat up, occasionally dipping your fingers underneath to test the temp.

"Oh, well, as long as his organs are all nice and cozy inside him, I guess that makes it all okay then," Rafe retorted, watching you carefully as you plugged the bathtub, letting the water fill up.

"The water should burn off any DNA evidence, or at the very least, make it extremely degraded," you explained, steam starting to billow up from the tub and fill the small room. "So, we can just leave him here for like, his housekeeper to find or something."

Rafe's eyebrows shot up, "Leave him for the housekeeper to find?" He echoed, "And what, we just waltz outta here, hand in hand?"

"Aww," you cooed, looking over your shoulder to grin at him. "You wanna hold my hand?"

"Fuck you," Rafe spat, but you could see the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly annoyed but not entirely displeased by the idea.

"You wish," you snorted, willing the tub to finish filling up. You were becoming increasingly aware of how sticky and uncomfortable the blood was on your skin, especially now that it had gone cold.

"In your dreams, maybe," Rafe shot back, though his eyes flicked down to your arms, taking in the crimson stains that painted your skin. "You're a mess," he commented gruffly.

"Well, murder isn't exactly a clean endeavor." You turned the water off and turned back to him, crossing your arms over your chest. Rafe had blood all over his hands and spatter across his face and shirt. He wasn't nearly as bloody as you, but he wasn't clean either.

Rafe looked down at his red-stained hands, flexing his fingers as if just now realizing how messy he was. He glanced back up at you, his expression unreadable. "We should clean up."

"What?" You asked, gaze darting to the glass shower in the corner. "You wanna hop in the dead guy's shower? Seems a little insensitive, don't you think?" You grinned, making a joke of the situation.

"Oh, ha ha," Rafe deadpanned, uncrossing his arms and moving past you to turn the water on in the shower. He turned to you, his expression serious. "We'll shower together."

Your eyes widened a little at his bold demand, but you couldn't deny that it was practical. "Yknow, normally, I'd say you just wanna see me naked," you teased him. "But, that's actually not a bad idea. It'll save time."

"Don't flatter yourself," Rafe scoffed, though his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary. "Less talking, more stripping," he said, pulling his shirt over his head.

You internally groaned at the sight of him shirtless. You'd seen it before, but the view of his toned chest simply never got old. You started to pull your own clothes off. "So, what are we gonna put on once we finish cleaning all this blood off?" You asked curiously, tugging your pants down your hips.

Rafe's jaw clenched as he took in your naked form, his eyes roaming over you appreciatively before he tore his gaze away and finished undressing. "There's probably a robe or something in here," he muttered, stepping into the shower and letting the warm water cascade over his head, falling down his broad shoulders.

You hummed, nodding as you stepped into the shower with him. It was a fancy ass shower with multiple shower heads and streams of water, which made washing up with another person much easier. You tried to keep your eyes North of the equator and not sneak a peek at his dick as you pumped some soap into your palm, lathering it in your hands.

Rafe watched you from the corner of his eye as he soaped up his own hands, his expression inscrutable. "You know," he said after a moment, "for someone who just helped me murder a man, you're awfully relaxed right now."

"You know, for someone who just let me help him murder a man, you're awfully relaxed right now," you grinned, mirroring his sentiment as you rubbed the soap on your body, trying to get rid of the blood staining your skin.

"Touché," he nodded, his hands roaming over his chest and arms, scrubbing away the crimson stains.

"Now, hurry up, so we can get the fuck out of here," you said, not wanting to be in the house any longer than necessary. Every minute that ticked by with you two in the room with your victim, was one minute closer to being caught.

Rafe finished washing himself quickly, his mind already on the task at hand—getting away from the scene of the crime. He turned off the shower and reached for a towel. He handed you one and took the other, both of you drying off in record time and pulling the soft, monogrammed robes on, you muttering something about 'fucking rich people' that had Rafe rolling his eyes—considering the fact that he also had monogrammed robes.

You collected your bloody clothes and the towels you had used, not wanting to leave anything behind before sneaking out of the house undetected and jumping into Rafe's truck parked a few blocks away. Once you were finally away from the house and certain you hadn't been seen by anyone, you let out a sigh, relaxing into the seat after you buckled yourself in.

Rafe started the truck and pulled out of the parking spot, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as he drove away from the house. He glanced over at you, noting the bloody clothes balled up in your lap. "We need to get rid of those," he said, his voice low and even.

"We'll burn them," you shrugged, your tone indicating that it was the most obvious thing in the world. You leaned your head back against the headrest. You were exhausted and oddly, starving. Who knew that murder took so much out of a person?

He nodded. "Let's head to my place. We can order some food and discuss what to do now," he laid out a plan or pieces of a plan rather.

"Sounds good to me," you agreed, looking out the window and watching as the Figure Eight mansions blew by. You couldn't believe that you has just killed someone, and more than that, you couldn't believe you had just killed someone with the kook king Rafe Cameron.

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @iheartjjmaybnk / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @xoxohoneymoongirl / @bradshawed / @fallbhind

[laugtherhyena]

The sad thing about the minecraft movie is that even if they listen to the outcry and change the designs i doubt that will actually make it good because a good art direction isn't enough save a movie if the story and writing is ass

[gothsuguru]

[anastacialy]

rewatching season one really has me angry for marina. she deserves so much better

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

I can’t find ur stories on ao3😭

that would be because i post under Anon 😅😅 so I, as a Tom Riddle x reader writer, dont have an official ao3 account to post my stories from, i post under anon under my actual ao3 account, cuz i posted very different stories under that account and i kinda wanted to keep my Tom stories disconnected from that version of 'me', so yeah, but ive posted all my Tom stories under the Tom Riddle/Reader ship tag, and usually tag it with 'that one anon writer', so they shouldnt be too hard to find, sorry for making you do work 😅

[nejackdaw]

Thinking about that time in our first campaign my character's dad (adoptive, a very important baron) almost died.

Apparently, he was supposed to. He was not supposed to survive contact with the lich. Don't even ask me how or why we got to the lich, genuinely all I remember is panicking because all of a sudden he had like five hit points and as the party schemer I had two thoughts that erased my awareness of everything else: (1) MY FUCKING DAD (2) THIS LICH IS GOING TO KILL US.

See, my job is finding ways to get us out of things, and as a wizard, I was well equipped to handle that. Except thought one, "MY FUCKING DAD," took priority over EVERYTHING ELSE. My little wizard was orphaned and down his only brother. This guy was all he had. His whole world. World's #1 dad.

... And the lich almost one shot him. He was collapsed on the ground and struggling for breath. This did not register as a cinematic moment to me because I was PANICKING. We roll initiative.

The lich rolls highest. I'm frantically looking through my notes to see what's available to me. Tries to kill me, too. Counterspell.

My turn. Throwing ALL CAUTION to the wind, plan only vaguely half formed, I run up to the baron and tell the DM I'm going to drag him back to the party.

"Your speed is halved from carrying him. You can't make it in 15 feet."

There's dead silence. Everyone is waiting for my response. Seconds of silence. "What are you going to do?" (DM speak for "please hurry up.")

"... I'm a tabaxi. I can make it in 30."

I double my movement speed and drag him back there anyway, to the confused relief of the party. Our sponsor (MY FUCKING DAD) is safe for right this second, but how are we going to fight a LICH?

"Anything else?"

"... I have a scroll of teleport in my bag. And I'm within 10 feet of everyone." Most importantly, I'd DUCKED BEHIND A WALL OF BARRELS AND CRATES so the motherfucker couldn't see me to counterspell.

There's dead silence for a few moments. The voice chat proceeds to blast my eardrums with excited cheering and laughing. The DM and I both pull up the spell. "Roll for it. Where are you going?"

"Home."

I roll a 99. We vanish from the lich's lair and are deposited, battered, bleeding, without guidance, in the charred, crumbled ruins of what had been the baron and I's residence. (It had not been that way until very recently. It was news to me.) There's relieved silence. There's an emotional reunion in what remains of our living room. I cast Tiny Hut in a defensible corner of the ruins after we all chat and we get what sleep we can.

(The DM would later confess that the baron wasn't supposed to survive and he had to change his plans now lol. We were supposed to be cut off from all resources at that point. My dad showed up in the final fight since he'd survived TWO murder attempts [ig the BBEG was the third lmao] and, well. I schemed then, too.)

[silverselfshippingchaos]

hmm... let's talk s.oulc.alibur characters

[newkiqx]

it's a shame that it's one of those faked composites of multiple videos spliced to mislead the viewer

As far as i can tell, it's actually three different videos

[bravernificationbeam]

okay SPEAKING OF Cunus, something that's on my mind a lot is what her saying (paraphrased) "you're so gay i can see it from SPACE! (which is why i came to see you specifically)" like. Means for the story.....like is lewis smith being gay the reason why all the deathdrives are there??? is the implication that One Guy's Crush brought devastation upon the earth,

[isaacathom]

because a pc died in a recent ttrpg session my brain has gone absolutely Ballistic and i have fun thoughts about my character in ways that both do and dont relate to that, which i should stop flooding my twitter timeline with, and thus,

so first of all! the character who died, Commodore Morgaan Vandervest, was the party leader. He was the head of the fleet, the leader of our little strike force forward troop, captain of the Pendagast. A man with a military background, he'd signed onto this whole trip largely to get away from his family.

my character, Naielle Odelia, was the Pendagast's navigator. In a confrontation with pirates, Naielle was required to navigate the sheep through a shallow reef, and nearly got the boat grounded. When the pirate ship was captured, Naielle was, for reasons still unclear to her, appointed to serve as its captain.

Vandervest was a complicated leader for the crew. He was illsuited to the complicated political and diplomatic incidents he had to engage in, in ways which often wrankled against the more diplomatically minded crew. He also gave orders that were... harsh is the wrong word, but were coming from a more ruthless perspective, which particularly wrankle the generally polite and conflict avoidant Naielle. She wasn't alone in her dislike for the commodore's actions, but she only acted against his orders twice. "only", huh! other people were planning mutiny, on a variety of grounds.

BUT. Naielle would consider him a good leader. Not suited to his task, necessarily. She had many disagreements. But she trusted him to make those decisions honestly. And she took her appointment by him extremely seriously, despite her misgivings that she herself wasnt suited to the post.

Vandervest's background, being from a tiefling bloodline cursed centuries ago, meant that the majority of individuals in a given generation do not live past 80 or so. The Blight, as it's so called, will claim them before that point.

He was 63.

He hid the effects from everyone as best he could once they manifested, some month or two ago in-game. He slipped only rarely, and refused to be babied by the understandably-concerned crew. He didn't tell them. He told only his personal spy, who helped him arrange his affairs. Despite his condition, he didn't stop going into the field with the party when the situation demanded it. When he was knocked unconscious in battle against a corrupted dragon, multiple members of the party pulled out the stops to rescue him, even against things he wanted to happen - a chain devil had arrived to ferry his body away, and was prevented from doing so by three separate interventions. He was given the chance to explain himself, in brief, with what power he had left. And then he was gone.

He was 63.

Naielle has. a great deal to unpack in the Commodore's death. There's the issues in the immediate, the sudden gulf of leaderlessness that is being filled reluctantly by another party member, appointed by the dying Commodore with no fore-knowledge of his eligibility. Led or not, the dynamic has changed. There's the loss of his presence on the battlefield, the space in which he is most present, most skilled, most suited.

And there's other things. Naielle sees in the death of the Commodore the death of a cousin of her, Vincent Gerner, who died 7 or so years ago of a recurrent illness. Vincent was similarly stubborn and refused help as far as he could. Perhaps unluckier than the Commodore in a sense, that he lacked the nigh-supernatural strength to keep fighting until 11:59.

Vincent is the one who got Naielle her job as a navigator.

Vincent looked at Naielle, exiled from her home and wallowing in despair in his mother's spare room, and he told her that was not living. That she couldn't just let life come to her, couldn't just wait out the result she wanted, but had to grab it. And if she couldn't? If what she wanted wasn't available? Seek something else. Live, for fucks sake. He gave her that job, through his guild connections, and he got her on her feet.

It wasn't love. It's not love. It's bitter pragmatism. It's the knowledge of a dying man that he is doing his best to Live, and that everyone should, however they define that. And that what she's doing couldn't possibly be it, even by her own standards. If she'd refused, he would have let her. But he gave her that glimmer of hope, without love, and she seized it.

Vandervest is the one who gave Naielle her position as captain.

She doesn't know what motivated him to do it. She had just floundered in her role as navigator. She had failed the Pendagast. And, she supposes, and she can only suppose, he saw her skills lying elsewhere. Thought she might better suit command, a higher level perspective. Thought it was an opportunity for her to redeem herself and not wallow in her failures. Had faith, and she hopes it was faith, that she would succeed.

She doesn't know if she has. She hopes she has.

Like her job or not, she has considered it worthwhile. Command has forced responsibility on Naielle that she has avoided much of her life, and while she has not grasped it eagerly, she has sought to pay off his faith. She has gained confidence from his action.

In a letter she wrote to him, intended to be read after her own death and instead delivered after his, she told him:

For what I can only assume was faith that I could rise to the challenge, I have to thank you. Given the circumstances, I think anyone else would have thought that a foolish notion - had I half the confidence then as I do now, I would have said so myself.

And she was sincere. She meant it. She did not want the job, but she didn't want to let him down, and it's only now, months into her station, that she has the confidence she would have needed to tell him as much.

She owes both men a great deal. Neither man will ever really, truly know the depth of Naielle's gratitude to them.

She will repay them for what they did for her, whether they understand it or not.

All her unspent wages will go to Vincent's mother, who so graciously housed her in her exile, and to Vincent's daughter Josefien, a woman close in age to her who she might, sometimes, consider like a sister.

She can't pay Vandervest. She certainly wouldn't pay his family - all evidence suggests he wouldn't want that. But she can keep going. She can continue in her role, unwanted or not, and rise to the challenge he gave her all those months ago. She can hold true to who she is, and she can maybe, maybe, make his trust worth it. She can not disappoint a ghost.

-----

There are things she wanted to talk to Vandervest about, but was never going to.

Naielle is a warlock to the star Alcor, a forgotten glimmer in an elven sky. He is the reason for her exile, 20 years before the campaign began. Naielle's sister Mariela is a warlock to him too, unwillingly, brought into the fold by accident on Naielle's part. Long story, that.

Recently, Naielle learnt the reason she was made a warlock.

From her perspective, she had entreated the stars for help on her research project - knowledge, that old card. And the stars responded, and said she would have that and more.

That more was that she would serve in distant battlefields against Aboleth, and that she would reach apotheosis and join the star in the sky.

The former she had done with some acceptance, unaware at the time that this was all by design. She felt it her moral duty to intervene, to aid, to repell.

To give over herself to the divine is a concept she fears.

A fragment of her patron gave her options for how she might move forward:

Forsake her pact entirely, losing all knowledge and power gained therein. This would, not in totality but in effect, wipe 20yrs of memory from her. She would remember why she was here, and some details, but large sections would be utterly erased.

Declare her pact complete at a moment of triumph - no minor triumph, but grand. The death of an aboleth. To rid her sister of the pact, she must also be present.

Declare herself unfit to discharge her duties as high priest of Alcor, and nominate another as successor - her only option is Mariela, the sole other adherent.

Commit wholly, in the knowledge that manifesting the power of a great celestial may be what separates victory from defeat, the beating back of the aboleth threat from the complete destruction of the plane they invade. To reach for the stars.

Naielle fears her options. She considers the first utterly untenable, even in the face of her sister's suggestion that such a revocation would remove that which caused her exile, and would potentially permit her return home. As much as she wants it, she could not tolerate betraying the party in such a way. To be so selfish, without qualification, so as to remove herself entirely from the field of play.

But the remaining options, she struggles to pick between. She fears each in their own way, for the consequences for herself, and for her sister.

She would have liked to talk to Vandervest about them. She was never going to.

Regardless of the Commodore's weaknesses, Naielle trusted him. Naielle wanted his faith in her, as she saw it, to not be misplaced. She never went against an explicit order made of her - a measely distinction, but one she would make. She may have undermined orders of his made to others, but she followed her own.

She could not have spoken to Vandervest, Captain to Commodore. Any input he made would be an order.

She could not have spoken to him, peer to peer, one warrior against the aboleth to another. Any input he made would be a strong suggestion, something she might treat as though it were an order, no matter how he qualified it.

She would have liked his insight, even if she likely would have disliked the results. Frankly, she feared the idea of telling him she'd made a certain decision, and what reaction he might have.

Maybe it's for the best that he died before she made a choice.

-----

There are, arguably, two Naielles.

There's the Naielle that is Captain of the Xistina, Navigator of the Pendagast, a level-headed if anxious soul with a good heart and a desire for peace. A person reluctant to volunteer for a difficult task, but will commit with gusto should the duty fall to her, because others rely on her. A person who thinks and overthinks and triplethinks over anything she can see coming, who only acts when the situation demands immediacy, who might otherwise think herself into a hole. A self-described coward.

And there's the Naielle who steps onto the battlefield, Warlock and Reluctant High Priestess of Alcor, avatar of his power on the material plane. A healer and ranger spellcaster, who, in an instant, will ignore her backrow position to sprint forward to support her melee crew. A woman who hates to fly who considered leaping from a building to rescue someone. Someone who would take any action, make any decision, if it would save another. Someone who has to be reminded her own life is at risk in order for her to take it into account.

These are the same person. It's the same person forced to act.

If left to her own devices, Naielle will think and think and fret, and she will not act. Vincent and Vandervest, in their own ways, forced her to act on a particular scale, but in the micro she is often still there, worrying.

She can't afford to on the battlefield. So the first thing she drops, the first thing she leaves behind when the chips are down, is herself.

She often regrets it. Her breath will slow and the adrenaline ebb, and she'll realise she crossed a mortal boundary. Her head will return to earth and find it riddled with blood.

It's not that she doesn't know what's she's doing. It's not a barbarian rage, insensible and disconnected from the self. It's just that, in the moment, what she wants is the first thing to go, and the first thing to come back.

She acquired a mindflayer sword, a grotesque weapon intended to subjugate and control. She took it reluctantly, and said that she would make use of only specific abilities - the ability to cast forbiddance, the ability to cast gate, the ability to cast planeshift. Traits for which her party could find unambiguously positive use. A spellcasting implement.

And then, in a fight against a paladin of Asmodeus, who had blackmailed the fleet's Admiral with a contract over him and his son, Naielle used the sword to enthrall him.

She robbed him of his free will, even if only for a time. Demanded he rescind the contracts. And when clarity returned to his clouded eyes, she killed him. A man disarmed and restrained.

She knew what she was doing. It wasn't an order, either. She volunteered it, reluctantly even in the moment, as a solution to the problem. It was a tool at her disposal, and in a crisis, she will use any tool.

And after the crisis, she will weep.

Apotheosis is a tool. The fragment of Alcor did not refer to it in those terms, but it is the manner in which she understood it. An act ultimately to benefit the celestial, by allowing it a brief material manifestation, a means through which to empower itself and spread its will. And, in so doing, potentially fell Aboleth, first and father of all.

It's a tool. An option the Naielle of the battlefield would seize.

And Naielle of the ship fears it.

She doesn't think she'd regret it in the moment. That she'd acknowledge, even afterwards, that to make that commitment, to declare herself Alcor incarnate, would be the correct decision. But it means the loss of her individual personhood, her chance to live a life she has long craved with her wife, with her family. Isolated from all of them. Even if her decision was the deciding factor in their success, she thinks she might regret that.

So she wants to remove it. Naielle of the ship sees a tool that will kill her, no ifs ands or buts, that will take from the people she holds dear and deny her the satisfaction of victory.

And Naielle of the battlefield would see it as a decisive tool against evil. As a way to protect what she holds dear, to ensure that they all get to live their lives full and without fear. A way to allow others like Naielle their happy ending, at the cost of her own. A small price.

And the two are not reconciled. Maybe they never will be. Maybe Naielle of the ship will dither and delay, and deny herself any out, and Naielle of the battlefield will win. Or Naielle of the ship will be decisive, and she'll remove it from the board, and Naielle of the battlefield will regret its absence.

And both Naielle's, I think, wrestle over the idea of whether the self matters more than the group. And they'll keep wrestling until the storm envelops of them all.

[mikkeneko]

In case there's anyone still on the fence about this: please keep in mind that if you really want to leave constructive criticism, the time to do it is when the story is under construction. Which pretty much limits this category of feedback to beta-readers and other writing buddy types, not the general audience.

Very, very, very few times is an author interested in pulling down and reconstructing their story once it's up. If you are leaving your criticism after the story is finished and published, it is too late. Now it's destructive criticism.

I just saw a Tik Tok that said writers on AO3 are not looking for constructive criticism in their reviews. I have no audience on this platform so I have to know if this is true? I've always left my pros and cons when reading a fic and now I'm concerned that the authors didn't like that.

Yeah writers are Not looking for criticism, constructive or otherwise. Unless they specifically ask for it, it’s considered rude and honestly a bit hurtful. In the least bitchy way possible, don’t do that. It’s unwanted.

[friendshiptothemax]

I was on a plane this weekend, and I was chatting with the woman sitting next to me about an upcoming writer’s strike. “Do you really think you’re mistreated?” she asked me.

That’s not the issue at stake here. Let me tell you a little something about “minirooms.”

Minirooms are a way of television writing that is becoming more common. Basically, the studio will hire a small group of writers, 3-6 or so, and employ them for just a few weeks. In those few weeks (six weeks seem to be common), they have to hurriedly figure out as much about the show as they can -- characters, plots, outlines for episodes. Then at the end of the six weeks, all the writers are fired except for the showrunner, who has to write the entire series themselves based on the outlines.

This is not a widespread practice, but it has become more common over the past couple of years. Studios like it because instead of paying for a full room for the full length of the show, they just pay a handful of writers for a fraction of the show. It’s not a huge problem now, but the WGA only gets the chance to make rules every three years -- if we let this go for another three years and it becomes the norm? That would be DEVASTATING for the tv writing profession.

Do I feel like I’m mistreated? No. I LOVE my job! But in a world of minirooms, there is no place for someone like me -- a mid-level writer who makes a decent living working on someone else’s show (I’d like to be a showrunner someday, but for now I feel like I still have a lot to learn, and my husband and I are trying to start a family so I like not being support rather than the leader for now). In a miniroom, there are only two levels -- the handful of glorified idea people who are already scrambling to find their next show because you can’t make a decent living off of one six-week job (and since there are fewer people per room, there are fewer jobs overall, even at the six-week amount), and the overworked, stressed as fuck showrunner who is going to have to write the entire thing themselves. Besides being bad for me making a living, I also just think it’s plain bad for television as an art form -- what I like about TV is how adaptable it is, how a whole group of people come together to tell a story better than what any of them could do on their own. Plus the showrunner can’t do their best work under all of that pressure, episode after episode, back to back. Minirooms just...fucking suck.

The WGA is proposing two things to fix this -- a rule that writers have to be employed for the entire show, and a rule tying the number of writers in the room to the number of episodes you have per season. I don’t think it’s unreasonable. It’s the way shows have run since the advent of television. It’s only in the last couple of years that this has become a new thing. It’s exploitative. It squeezes out everyone except showrunners and people who have the financial means to work only a few months a year. It makes television worse. And that is the issue in this strike that means everything to me, and that is why I voted yes on the strike authorization vote.

[honeyncherry]

taste me now - bfb!rafe

summary in which rafe can’t help himself around his little sister’s best friend, especially after what happened last week

content 18+, suggestive

masterlist

Sarah’s laugh rang out across the backyard as the two of you sat by the pool. She was mid-story, something about Kiara’s latest terrible date, or maybe it was JJ’s? You weren’t sure. Her words blurred together, punctuated by exaggerated hand gestures and little bursts of laughter. 

You were doing your best to listen — really, you were.

But you could feel him. 

Rafe was up on the deck, leaning against the railing like he had all the time in the world. A cigarette balanced between his fingers, the faint trail of smoke curled lazily into the air drifting in soft, spiraling ribbons. And while his gaze stayed mostly fixed on the horizon, you knew better.

He wasn’t looking at you, not overtly, at least. But the occasional flick of his gaze in your direction was enough to make your stomach twist.

The memory of that kiss burned hotter than the relentless summer sun. You’d told yourself it was a mistake. An impulsive, heat-of-the-moment lapse in judgment. You were Sarah’s best friend, for goodness’ sake!

There were rules about these things. 

Rules you’d shattered the second his lips touched yours.

And yet, even now, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the way his hand had lingered on that sliver of exposed skin between your top and too-short skirt, his touch leaving a trail of warmth that refused to fade. How his other hand settled at the curve of your jaw, his thumb grazing your cheek with a quiet, consuming intensity. As though he were mapping every contour, committing it to memory. And most of all, the way he’d breathed out your name, his voice deep and reverent, like it was something sacred. Something meant to be cherished by him alone.

You shifted in your chair, skin prickling under the weight of your own thoughts. The guilt coiled tight in your chest, its grip almost suffocating. You told yourself again and again that you shouldn’t be looking at him. You shouldn’t even be thinking about him.

But you couldn’t stop.

“Ugh, one sec,” Sarah said suddenly, cutting through the haze in your mind. She glanced at her phone, frowning. “It’s Wheezie. If I don’t answer, she’s gonna call like, five more times.”

She stood, her hair swaying behind her as she made her way toward the house, already pressing the phone to her ear. “I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

You nodded mutely, not trusting yourself to speak. The moment she disappeared inside the backyard seemed quieter somehow. All sounds around you faded into an oppressive stillness.

You focused in on the pool, trying to steady your breathing while watching the water ripple in the light breeze. Trying to remind yourself that there was nothing to worry about.

But you felt it before you saw him.

A shift in the air. A weight pressing down on your senses. The faint smell of smoke lingering even though the cigarette had been long gone.

His sudden presence made your pulse quicken, and you wondered how he’d gotten so close without you noticing. “Hey baby,” he husked, his voice soft and hurried as he glanced behind him, checking to make sure Sarah wasn’t returning.

“Rafe—” you started, your voice faltering as you looked up. But he didn’t let you finish.

He leaned down abruptly, one hand gripping the armrest of your chair, the other sliding to the back of your head in one swift, almost desperate motion. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck without hesitation, and before you could utter another word, he pulled you toward him, his lips crashing into yours.

Once again, you found yourself succumbing to Rafe Cameron far too easily. The kiss was reckless, charged with the heat and tension that had been brewing between you for weeks. Rafe’s teeth teased your lips, his breath warm and beyond intoxicating.

Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. Instead, they froze, clawing at the fabric of your chair as if anchoring yourself would somehow steady the whirlwind inside you. Your heart clenched, and a shaky exhale escaped against his lips.

Your heart raced, its pounding so fierce it silenced everything else, leaving the world around you a distant blur. Guilt clawed at your mind even as your body betrayed you, leaning ever so slightly into him, just enough to feel his hard chest brushing up against your tits. Rafe groans, pulling away and looking down as they spill out from your bikini top.

He licks his lips, glancing up and shooting you a sleazy grin. He stares just long enough for the both of you to catch a single breath, before muttering two words that would echo in your mind for the next week: “Missed this.”

He kisses you again, lips and tongue all over you. Your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. They move frantically from your ear to your neck. You gasp as a new flood of emotions crashes over you, threatening to pull you under while your hands reach up to grab him. To touch him. To feel him.

“Rafe,” you whispered again, this time more of a plea.

But he’d already pulled back. His movements were measured, almost like he was savoring the moment.

His smirk lingered, curling at the corners of his lips like he knew exactly what chaos he was leaving behind. His gaze flicked to your lips one last time, a shadow of something unreadable crossing his face before he turned his head.

He glanced over his shoulder, pausing for the briefest moment as Sarah’s voice floated faintly from inside the house.

Then, with maddening composure, he straightened. Every movement exuded an infuriating sense of calm, as though nothing just happened.

With his hands slipping casually into his pockets, he turned and headed toward the docks, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his profile before he disappeared from sight.

You were frozen in place, breath hitched in your throat. Leaning slightly forward, you were still caught in the lingering pull of where he’d held you just seconds ago. Your fingers brushed against your lips, as if needing proof that it had really happened… again.

A weight pressed against your chest, the same dangerous pull from last week, but now it hit harder. It was stronger, deeper, and even more impossible to ignore.

The sound of Sarah’s footsteps jolted you back to reality. Your gaze snapped toward the house just as she stepped outside, phone in hand.

“Ugh, finally,” she groaned, dropping into her chair with a dramatic sigh. The legs scraped faintly against the concrete as she slouched back, completely unaware of the storm still raging inside you. “Wheezie wouldn’t shut up about this jacket she found on sale. I swear, I’m blocking her next time.”

She trailed off, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed the air. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the space around you, “wait. Does it smell like smoke out here?”

No.

Your body went rigid, heart slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break free. “Uh, I don’t think so?” 

Sarah turned sharply, her gaze locking onto you. “Are you sure?” she asked, leaning in closer.

The moment stretched unbearably, your pulse roaring in your ears as you forced a shrug, silently begging her not to see the guilt etched across your face.

“Well, whatever,” she said at last, leaning back in her chair with a dismissive wave. “I swear, Rafe stinks up the whole house when he smokes. So gross.”

You swallowed hard, your tongue brushing over your lips. The faint taste of smoke lingered there, branded on your skin.

You hated how much you liked it.

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[gaysindistress]

Things that I feel like would happen when you’re in a relationship with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley masterlist

1. First off he hates the word ‘boyfriend’.

Maybe it’s because he’s in his mid thirties or something but he can’t stand being called your boyfriend. He’s more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each other’s bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and you’re each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when he’s home and a necklace with the ring that’s totally not a wedding band when he’s working. Price has seen the chain once or twice and smirks, shooting him a knowing look but never says a word.

Simon cannot stand it when people get nosy and want to know what your relationship status is. You’re together and that’s all that matters. No one needs to know that you’re the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that he’s put you on all of his accounts. No one needs to know that he buys you anything you want but has only ever bought you two rings; a thin gold band with a flower engraved on it and its twin a matching emerald ring. No one needs to know that when he gifted them to you, there were tears and promises of safety, love, and happiness whispered against feverish skin. No one needs to know that he has your name woven into his chest tattoo.

No one needs to know any of that because your relationship is between him and you only.

2. You are not some submissive little house wife. You are a strong independent woman and he prefers it that way.

I know this one goes against what most people say but hear me out on this. Simon has been independent since birth practically. He’s only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, he’s only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, he’s the only one who’s going to get himself out alive.

The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He can’t even fathom what it would be like to look at another person and fully trust them in that way. Half the time he feels like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself let alone another human. In theory a sweet docile housewife is great with the meals and clean house but not for him. He needs to know that you can hold your own. He needs to know that you can be independent and carry on without him if something happened while he was working. He needs to know that you will be okay if he doesn’t come back.

You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.

Like I said before, he’s made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows you’ll be set financially but that’s not enough. He’s made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. He’s made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because it’s Simon who’s asking but you’d tell anyone else to fuck off.

In addition to all of that, he’s installed the best security system the government has to offer in your house. You have a very expensive and large safe in your shared closet that he’s instructed you to only open if you feel unsafe. While you might not like it, you agree to go shooting with him so he can sleep at night knowing that you could protect yourself if he’s not home. He’s gone as far as to make sure you have all of the licenses and certificates that are needed to legally own firearms in the UK.

He’s not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your ‘safety checks’, as he calls them, taken away.

3. Simon Riley is a godless man…until he meets you.

Now this is entirely my own headcannon with no evidence to support it so bear with me.

Simon had a shitty childhood where his mom would pray to a god who never listened and his dad would shout verses at him when he was drunk. God was a mythical figure that he was told stories off with nothing to show for it. He did believe at one point but then his dad never got better, his mom wore bruises of every shade, and his brother found comfort in drugs.

He found himself praying when he was being tortured by the Mexican cartel. Between the flashbacks of his abusive past, he prayed to a god who had failed him so many times before to help him. He prayed again as he dug himself out of that Texas grave with the major’s jaw bone. He wailed his prayers when he found his family executed after Sparks tried to kill him.

After that he deemed himself a Godless man. Years of praying had passed with nothing. This god had decided that Simon was not worthy of a miracle so why would he continue to worship him?

That was until he met you. He finds himself praying before every mission, every time he has to leave you, every time he’s on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s praying for other than for you to be there when he gets back.

He whispers his prayers to an absent god against your skin as he worships your body, soul, and heart. He promises to be devoted to you until his last breath and vows to find you again in whatever afterlife awaits you. He pledges to find solace in you and only you when his haunting nightmares return. He makes an oath to your heart that it will never weather another storm alone again for his will take whatever beating that comes your way. He shows you that he will love you in the same manner as a Hozier song; putting you above all else because you have become his religion, his faith, his beliefs, his life.

You have become all that he is and he thanks the god he once believed in for you. He prays again but to you, his heart, his love, and his beacon through the enteral storm of life.

[ch0llies]

EARNED IT | MATTHEW STURNIOLO

brothersbestfriend!matt x innocent!reader

You’re an 18-year-old high school senior, the innocent little sister of Matt’s best friend. Which means off-limits in every way. But 22-year-old college hockey player, Matt can’t ignore the way you cling to him, asking dangerous questions with trusting eyes. You don’t understand the fire you’re playing with- but Matt does. And he’s burning to teach you what happens when you get too close.

story warnings: heavy make out, lowkey corruption kink (if u squint), brothers best friend, pet names (sweetheart, angel), age gap (four years), etc. all characters are of age. If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 7k

a/n: i didn’t go into this with the intention of creating a similar story but as i read it over I’m realizing it’s very similar to an @ariestrxsh fic with the same trope. click here to read the first chapter of that! it’s very good and I recommend strongly!

You stand in front of the hallway mirror, tugging at the hem of your navy-blue dress, smoothing the fabric with your palms. The dress fits snugly, a little more mature than what you’re used to, but tonight isn’t just any night. It’s the sports award banquet. Your brother and Matt’s banquet. And your dad only let you tag along under the condition that you “stay out of trouble.”

But it wasn’t exactly you who he was worried about.

A sharp knock echoes from the front door.

“Get the fuckin’ door!” your brother shouts from upstairs.

“Okay, okay!” You huff, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor as you rush to answer.

When you unlock it, the bitter January air bites at your exposed skin, sending a chill down your spine. Matt stands in the doorway, hand raised mid-knock, his dark brows lifting when he takes you in.

His smirk is slight but enough to notice. “Well, don’t you look all grown up,” he muses, voice low and teasing. Then, without warning, he reaches out and ruffles the top of your freshly styled hair.

You scrunch your nose but let him, even though you just spent the better part of an hour curling it.

“Jesus, Matt,” you huff, stepping aside so he can come in. The cold air follows him as he shrugs off his coat, revealing a navy-blue suit, just a shade darker than your dress. You swallow, watching through the mirror as he tugs at his tie.

“You coming with us?” His voice is lighter now, curious but knowing.

“Yep! Daddy said I could tag along if I behave.” You smile, turning back to your reflection, smoothing your hair again.

Matt exhales a quiet chuckle, stepping closer behind you, his presence warm despite the winter air still clinging to him. You watch as he adjusts his tie in the mirror, his fingers long and practiced.

“You gonna behave then, sweetheart?” His eyes flick to yours in the reflection, amusement flickering behind them.

You nod, standing up straighter, suddenly aware of the way he towers over you. It’s always been like this. Him looking down at you, you looking up. The age gap was something your brother had always made a big deal about. ”Too old for you.” “Off limits.”

But Matt never seemed to care about that.

Your breath catches when his hand moves again, messing up your hair on purpose this time.

“Matt!” you whine, swatting his arm as you twist away. “I just fixed that.”

He grins, tongue running along his front teeth as he watches you pout. “Relax, kid, you still look pretty.”

Your stomach flips at that.

Before you can say anything, your brother’s voice rings out from upstairs. “Matty B! Get your ass up here!”

Matt sighs dramatically, shooting you one last glance before jogging up the stairs. You watch him go, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric of your dress.

The banquet hall is grand, chandeliers casting a warm glow over round tables covered in crisp white linen. The clinking of glasses and laughter fills the air as athletes and their families mingle, celebrating another season of victories. You follow closely behind your brother and Matt, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you take in the scene with wide eyes.

Your brother spots your dad near the head table and heads off with a wave. “Don’t get into trouble,” he mutters over his shoulder.

“I never do,” you chirp back, but he’s already gone.

Matt stays beside you, his hand hovering at your lower back in a way that feels protective, almost possessive, but he never actually touches you.

“You stick with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the room. “Don’t need you getting eaten alive in here.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

But before he can answer, a familiar voice interrupts.

“Damn, Y/N.”

You turn to see Jackson, one of your brother’s teammates, grinning at you like he’s just won something. “Didn’t know you cleaned up this nice.”

Matt stiffens beside you, but you don’t notice, too busy beaming at the compliment. “Thank you, Jackson! You look nice too.”

Jackson smirks, stepping closer. “You should let me take you out sometime. We could grab dinner, maybe see a movie, head back to my place?”

Before you can answer, Matt shifts slightly, his broad frame stepping just enough into the space between you and Jackson to make it clear. “She’s not interested,” he says casually, though there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice.

Jackson’s smirk falters. “She can answer for herself, can’t she?”

You glance between them, feeling a little lost. “I mean… I do like movies.”

Matt exhales sharply, running a hand down his face before placing it firmly on your lower back, actually touching you this time. “C’mon, angel. Let’s find our table.” His grip is gentle but insistent, steering you away before Jackson can say anything else.

As you walk away, you glance up at him. “That was kinda rude.”

Matt scoffs. “No, sweetheart. That was necessary.”

You frown but don’t push it, too distracted by the sight of the massive dessert table at the far end of the room. “Ooh! Can we get something sweet?”

His jaw clenches, but he nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Before you even make it halfway there, another one of your brother’s teammates- Tyler- sidles up beside you, grinning.

“Hey, Y/N,” he drawls, eyes trailing over your dress in a way that makes Matt’s fingers twitch against your back. “Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”

“My daddy let me come,” you say cheerfully. “It’s so fun! I didn’t know it’d be this fancy.”

Tyler smirks. “Your daddy, huh? You look real good all dressed up. Bet you’ve got guys falling all over you tonight.”

You blink. “Huh? Oh no, I just came with Matt and my brother.”

Matt sighs, long and slow. “Yeah, and she’s leaving with us too. Right, sweetheart?”

You nod, completely missing the way Matt glares daggers at Tyler. “Yep! Daddy said I had to go home when they do.”

Tyler chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s a shame. If you ever wanna have a little fun after curfew, you know who to call.”

You tilt your head. “Fun? Like… Games or…?”

Tyler lets out a loud laugh, but before he can respond, Matt steps in front of you completely, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Walk away, Tyler.”

Tyler holds his hands up in mock surrender, still grinning. “Relax, man. Just messing around.”

Matt doesn’t budge. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

Tyler’s grin fades slightly before he turns and disappears back into the crowd.

You tug on Matt’s sleeve, pouting. “Why are you being so mean tonight?”

Matt exhales through his nose, looking down at you with something unreadable in his expression. “I’m not being mean, angel. Just looking out for you.”

You huff but let it go when you finally reach the dessert table, distracted by a chocolate fountain. “Oh my gosh! Look at this!”

Matt watches as you grab a skewer and dip a marshmallow into the melted chocolate, completely oblivious to the attention you’re getting from half the room.

His jaw tenses as he glances around, making sure no one else even thinks about coming near you.

Your brother would kill him if he knew how he was feeling right now. But as you happily hum while licking melted chocolate from your fingers, utterly unaware of the way his entire body is locked up with restraint- Matt knows he’s in trouble.

Big, big trouble.

The banquet is in full swing as the night goes on, the energy in the room buzzing with excitement as awards are handed out. Your brother wins MVP, grinning as he walks up to accept his plaque, you and the rest of the crowd erupting in applause. Matt wins Best Defensive Player, and when his name is called, you clap so enthusiastically that he shoots you a look- amused but slightly exasperated.

“Calm down, angel,” he murmurs as he sits back down, placing his award on the table.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, grinning.

Matt shakes his head, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he nudges your knee under the table.

Throughout dinner, glasses of champagne are passed around, and even though Matt gives you a warning look, you take one anyway.

“It’s just one,” you assure him, lifting the flute to your lips.

“That’s not just one,” he mutters as you reach for another a little while later.

But you don’t listen. The bubbles tickle your throat, making you giggle, and before long, there’s a slight warmth settling over you, your limbs loosening, the room feeling lighter, happier.

Matt groans when you sip your third glass. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Your brother, too busy celebrating with his teammates, doesn’t even notice.

Matt does, though. Matt always notices.

By the time the banquet winds down, you’re giggling at everything, eyes bright as your dad rounds everyone up to leave.

The ride home is quiet, the hum of the car filling the space. Your dad drives, your brother is on your left, and Matt is on your right. Somehow, you’ve ended up in the middle seat, legs tucked under you, your body loose and relaxed from the champagne.

You lean against Matt’s shoulder, sighing dramatically. “M’so sleepy.”

Matt stiffens, his whole body going rigid.

“You shouldn’t have had all that champagne,” he murmurs, voice low, almost strained.

You ignore him, nuzzling into his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “But it tasted so good.”

Your brother snorts. “You’re such a lightweight.”

You pout, shifting slightly, pressing even closer to Matt. You don’t realize what you’re doing, the way your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns on his forearm, the way your cheek presses against the fabric of his jacket, how warm he is.

Matt notices.

His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. He keeps his hands firmly planted on his thighs, muscles tense as he stares straight ahead. You’re touching him like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t mean anything. But to him?

It means everything.

Your fingers graze his wrist, and he exhales through his nose, shifting slightly in his seat, trying to put some distance between you. But you just follow, draping an arm over his bicep, your cheek now resting against his shoulder.

“You smell so nice,” you sigh, voice hazy, drunk and sweet.

Matt swears under his breath.

Your brother doesn’t notice. He’s too busy scrolling through his phone, occasionally grumbling about some play he should’ve gotten more credit for.

But Matt? He’s suffering.

Because you’re all soft touches and sleepy sighs, completely unaware of the fact that every innocent little move you make is driving him insane.

You shift again, snuggling impossibly closer. “You’re so comfy, Matty.”

Matt groans so quietly only you hear it. “Jesus.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed. “Hmm?”

“Nothing.” His voice is tight.

You smile, resting your head against his shoulder again, your fingers still tracing those mindless little patterns on his arm. “You’re so nice to me.”

Matt closes his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply through his nose.

If only you knew.

When you get home, the house is quiet, the air thick with the lingering chill of the winter night. Your dad mutters something about heading to bed, your brother and Matt trudging up the stairs after him.

You follow, still tipsy, still warm from the champagne, your limbs loose and slow as you move.

Matt is staying over, just like he always does after big game nights or events. He and your brother disappear into his room while you shuffle to yours, sighing as you peel off your dress, trading it for an oversized t-shirt- one that falls mid-thigh, barely covering your underwear. You tug on a pair of thigh-high socks, cozying up against the cold air before slipping on your blue light glasses, needing something to steady your still-spinning vision.

You head to the bathroom, flipping on the light, humming softly as you brush your teeth.

The door creaks open, and Matt steps in, rubbing his face tiredly before freezing in place when he sees you.

His eyes sweep over you, taking in your messy hair, the oversized tee hanging off your frame, the way your socks cling to your thighs. His jaw ticks, but he says nothing, just clears his throat before stepping toward the sink.

“Didn’t know you were in here,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion- or maybe something else.

You shrug, toothpaste foaming at the corners of your mouth. “S’okay. I don’t mind.”

Matt huffs a quiet laugh, turning on the faucet to wash his hands. “You should be in bed, angel.”

You lean against the counter, tilting your head. “Matt?”

He grabs a towel, drying his hands before meeting your gaze in the mirror. “Yeah?”

You blink at him, expression slightly dazed. “Why were all those guys acting weird tonight?”

He stiffens slightly. “Weird how?”

You frown, thinking. “Like… they kept talking to me. Saying things that didn’t make sense.” You pause, then look up at him, brows furrowed. “What did they want?”

Matt exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They were flirting with you, sweetheart. They thought you were pretty.”

Your nose scrunches. “Oh.” You tilt your head. “But you flirt with me too, right?”

His fingers flex against the counter. “Not like they do.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think I’m pretty too, right?”

Matt lets out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the sink. “Yeah, angel,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “I do.”

You blink, processing. “Then why does it matter?”

Matt turns, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing over his broad chest. His gaze is steady, dark in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Because they don’t just think you’re pretty,” he says carefully. “They want to sleep with you.”

You stare, heart skipping. “Oh.”

Matt watches your expression shift, your lips part slightly as realization starts to settle.

“They-” You swallow. “They wanted to… have sex with me?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah, angel. That’s what they wanted.”

Your cheeks burn instantly, your fingers gripping the hem of your oversized t-shirt. “Oh.”

Matt studies you, the way your breath hitches slightly, the way your eyes flicker down before snapping back up.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks, voice gentler now.

You shake your head quickly. “No, I- I just thought they were being nice.”

Matt exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

Your fingers fidget with the fabric of your shirt, your face still warm. “I didn’t- ” You hesitate. “I don’t really… talk about this kind of stuff.”

“I know.” His voice is soft, understanding.

You shift on your feet, gnawing at your lower lip. “I mean… I know what it is. But I don’t-” You trail off, exhaling sharply. “I don’t get it.”

Matt tilts his head slightly, his gaze heavy but patient. “What don’t you get?”

You chew on your lip again, hesitating before blurting, “Why do they want to?”

Matt blinks. “What?”

You huff, flustered now. “Like… why do guys want to do that so much? I don’t get it.”

Matt runs a hand down his face, clearly trying to stay composed. “Because it feels good.”

You inhale sharply, your face burning hotter. “Oh.”

Your heart stammers in your chest, something thick and unfamiliar sitting heavy in the space between you.

You grip the counter. “Have you…” You hesitate, then force the words out. “Have you done it?”

Matt’s lips twitch slightly, amused despite himself. “Yeah, sweetheart. I have.”

Your stomach flips, something strange curling in your gut. “Oh.”

He smirks. “That bother you?”

Your face flames. “N-no! I just-” You fumble, shaking your head quickly. “I just… I didn’t know.”

For a second, neither of you move. The space between you is thick with something you don’t quite understand, something unspoken but heavy. His gaze lingers, his expression unreadable, and it makes you fidget.

Your fingers play with the hem of your oversized t-shirt, twisting the fabric nervously. You don’t even realize that it hikes up slightly, exposing more of your bare thighs, the soft curve of them accentuated by your thigh-high socks. But Matt notices.

His eyes flicker down for the briefest second before snapping back up.

You hesitate, then softly say, “Matt?”

His jaw tenses. “Yeah?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the way your fingers pull at the fabric of your shirt. “Does it… really feel good?”

Matt’s breath is slow, measured. “Yeah, angel,” he murmurs. “It does.”

You shift on your feet, heat creeping up your neck. “Like… how?”

His lips part slightly, and for the first time tonight, he looks caught off guard. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to gather himself.

“It’s- ” He stops, searching for the right words. “It’s different for everyone, but it’s… intense.”

You swallow, your fingers still gripping your shirt. “Intense how?”

His eyes darken slightly, his voice dropping a little lower. “It’s a kind of pressure. A build-up. And then… release.”

Your stomach flips, your whole body suddenly feeling too warm. “Oh.”

Matt watches you carefully, taking in the way your breath has gone a little shallower, the way your fingers fidget with your shirt again, lifting the fabric another inch before you even realize it. His eyes flicker down, then back up, something sharp flashing in them for a second before he schools his expression.

“Angel,” he says slowly. “You ever… thought about it before?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Thought about what?”

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sex.”

Your breath catches, your entire body heating at the way the word rolls off his tongue so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t make your knees feel weak.

“I- ” You shift on your feet. “I mean, I know about it.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Matt murmurs.

You feel like your face is on fire. “I don’t- ” You bite your lip, exhaling shakily. “I don’t think so.”

Matt hums, tilting his head. “You don’t think so?”

You frown slightly, trying to collect your thoughts, but your mind is a mess, spinning, hazy from champagne and the weight of this conversation. “I just don’t really-” You shift again, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “I don’t get it.”

Matt watches the movement, his throat bobbing slightly before he lifts his gaze back to yours. “What don’t you get, angel?”

You hesitate, feeling impossibly small under his gaze. “Why people want it so much,” you admit, voice softer now, almost unsure.

Matt exhales slowly. “Because it feels good, sweetheart. It’s the closest you can get to someone. And when it’s with the right person…” He trails off for a second, then looks at you intently. “It’s really good.”

You shiver, despite the heat curling in your stomach. “What does it feel like?”

Matt’s fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to do something with them but won’t let himself.

“You really wanna know?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher.

You nod, swallowing hard.

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It starts slow,” he murmurs. “Your body gets all warm, all needy.” His eyes flicker down to the way you’re fidgeting with your shirt, how your thighs shift slightly where you stand. “You feel it everywhere. The pressure, the tension. And then when you finally get what you need-” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “It’s like relief. Like every nerve in your body is completely relaxed all at once.”

You stare at him, heart hammering, your fingers tightening on your shirt as you shift again, a deep, unfamiliar heat curling in your stomach.

Matt notices. Of course he notices.

He tilts his head slightly. “You ever been kissed before, angel?”

Your breath hitches. “What?”

His lips twitch slightly, but his expression remains unreadable. “You heard me.”

Your cheeks burn. “I- I mean, yeah.”

His gaze sharpens. “Yeah?”

You swallow hard. “Once.”

Matt hums, like he’s not entirely convinced. “And did you feel anything?”

Your stomach twists. “I… I don’t know.”

His jaw clenches slightly. “If you don’t know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, rougher, “then the answer is no.”

You press your thighs together again, your whole body suddenly feeling strange, tingly, like your skin is too tight. “Oh.”

Matt’s gaze doesn’t waver, dark and knowing, like he’s seeing right through you.

“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you?”

Your breath catches. “W-what?”

He exhales through his nose, his voice dropping lower, slower. “The first part.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over you. “Warm and needy.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “I- I don’t- ” You shake your head quickly, even as your skin burns, your thighs press together again, your grip on your shirt tightening.

Matt takes a slow step toward you, his presence impossibly big in the small bathroom. “You are feeling it,” he murmurs, eyes locked onto yours. “Aren’t you, angel?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, your face scorching hot. “How can you tell?” you whisper.

He smirks, slow and lazy, but his voice is still rough, still tight. “You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

Your breath stutters as realization hits you.

Your thighs- pressed together.

Your fingers- clutching at your shirt, pulling it tighter, twisting the fabric.

Your breathing- short, shallow.

You feel like your body isn’t your own, like every nerve is suddenly hyperaware of the space between you and Matt, the way he’s looking at you, the way you can feel the heat radiating off of him even though he’s still an arm’s length away.

He takes another step closer.

Your stomach flips, your heartbeat a frantic staccato against your ribs.

His voice is lower now, softer, but it makes your entire body tingle. “Where are you feeling it?”

Your throat dries. “What?”

His gaze flickers down, then back up. “Where do you feel it the most, angel?”

You swear the air in the room disappears. Your skin prickles with heat, embarrassment flooding you so fast that you physically shrink back.

“I- I…” Your voice barely works, breathy and unsure.

Matt hums, his eyes flickering over you again, watching the way your fingers still grip your shirt, how your weight shifts between your legs.

You do feel it. Everywhere.

Your cheeks burn hotter, your head spinning. You don’t even know what you’re supposed to say.

Matt watches you, his expression unreadable, his body still tense. His eyes flicker over your flushed skin, the way you’re gripping the hem of your oversized t-shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. He exhales slowly, shaking his head slightly before tilting it, his voice dropping back to something softer, more careful.

“Tell me about that kiss you had.”

You blink up at him, still flustered, your brain barely catching up. “What?”

“The one you said you had. The only one.”

You shift uncomfortably. “I- uh. What about it?”

Matt’s gaze sharpens. “How did he touch you?”

Your stomach flips. “Touch me?”

He nods once. “Yeah. His hands. Where were they?”

You frown slightly, thinking back, but there’s nothing to think about. “He… didn’t.”

Matt’s brows lift slightly. “Didn’t?”

You shake your head, feeling a little embarrassed now. “I mean… he just kissed me. That’s it.”

Matt’s jaw ticks, his fingers flexing against the edge of the counter. “How long?”

You swallow. “Like… a second? Maybe two?”

Matt exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And what did it feel like?”

You bite your lip, thinking. “Nothing.”

Matt’s lips press into a thin line. “Nothing?”

You shrug. “I mean… it was just… a kiss.”

Matt takes another slow step toward you, his voice quieter now, rougher. “That’s not what it’s supposed to feel like, angel.”

Your breath catches, your fingers twitching against the hem of your shirt. You look up at him now, the air between you impossibly thick.

“…Then what is it supposed to feel like?”

Matt scans your body, his gaze dragging from the top of your head down the length of your frame- your messy hair, your parted lips, your bare thighs still pressed together slightly. He glances toward the open bathroom door, his jaw tightening before he reaches out, gripping the handle and slowly pushing it shut.

The click of the latch echoes in the silence.

When he turns back to you, his expression is darker now, his voice impossibly low.

“That warm and needy feeling?” His eyes lock onto yours, steady and intense. “It should feel like it’s on fire.”

Your stomach flips violently. “What do you mean?”

Matt steps closer, towering over you, his scent wrapping around you like something heavy and intoxicating. He leans down, just enough for his breath to brush against your lips.

“Like this.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow and intentional. His lips press against yours softly at first, like he’s giving you a chance to process, to pull away if you want to. But you don’t.

You can’t.

The second your breath hitches, he deepens it, his hand lifting just slightly like he wants to touch you but stops himself. His lips move against yours, slow and deliberate, and warmth spreads through your entire body. It’s thick and pulsing and burning.

Your fingers tremble as they clutch your t-shirt, your body melting before you even realize it. This is different. This is new.

This is what he meant.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless, dazed, your lips tingling from the weight of his touch. Your wide eyes meet his, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“…Oh.”

Matt’s jaw is tight, his breathing slow, controlled. His hand twitches at his side like he’s restraining himself, his eyes searching yours.

“Now tell me, angel,” his voice is rough, nearly a whisper.

“Did that feel like nothing?”

You swallow hard, shaking your head slowly. “…No.”

Matt’s lips twitch, his gaze darkening slightly. “Where did you feel it?”

You shift on your feet, feeling impossibly small under his stare. “I- I don’t know.”

Matt hums, stepping closer. “No?” His hands lift, slow, careful, fingertips ghosting over your cheeks as he cups your face gently. His thumbs brush against your skin, warm and grounding. “Did you feel it here?”

You inhale sharply, lips parting slightly, but shake your head. “Not… really.”

His hands move down, skimming over your shoulders, gripping them lightly. “Here?”

You shake your head again, heart pounding.

His hands trail lower, skimming down your arms, barely touching you. You shiver, exhaling shakily, but still, you shake your head.

Matt watches you, his movements slow, deliberate, as his palms skim over your waist, his thumbs pressing lightly into the soft curve of your stomach.

Your breath stutters.

His hands move lower.

Your fingers twitch against the hem of your oversized t-shirt as he settles them just above your hips, his touch firm, grounding. “What about here?”

You swallow, feeling lightheaded, but shake your head again.

And then his hands drift lower, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your lower stomach, right above where that deep, pulsing warmth sits heavy between your thighs.

Your body stiffens. Your breath catches.

Matt’s lips part slightly, his eyes locked onto yours, watching, waiting.

You nod, the smallest movement, barely even noticeable.

But he notices.

“Yeah?” His voice is softer now, rougher. “What’s it feel like, angel?”

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, your skin burning under his touch. “I don’t know,” you stammer, breathless.

Matt hums, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. “You sure?”

You nod quickly, but your body betrays you, shifting slightly into his touch.

Matt’s lips twitch again, something knowing behind his dark gaze as his hands slide down, fingertips trailing over the tops of your thighs before dragging back up, slow, teasing.

You shudder.

“Does it feel like a pulse?” he murmurs. “Like a throb?” His fingers trace the sensitive skin just above your knee, then glide up, his palms warm as they press lightly into the soft flesh of your thighs. “Almost a little wet?”

Your entire body jerks slightly, heat flooding your face, your stomach twisting violently in the most delicious way.

“Matt,” you whisper, mortified, shaking your head quickly.

His hands squeeze your thighs gently. “Hmm?”

You shake your head harder, but your body is betraying you again, shifting into his touch, your knees wobbling slightly as warmth pools deep in your core.

Matt watches you, eyes dark and knowing. Then, after a beat, he pulls his hands away, stepping back slightly.

Your body feels cold without his touch.

His gaze lingers on you, studying every little movement, every breath, every tremble. Then he asks, “Do you like that feeling?”

You hesitate, lips parting, but finally, finally, you nod.

Matt exhales slowly, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides before his lips twitch into something almost smug. “It can feel even better.”

Your breath catches. “It… gets better?”

Matt chuckles, low and deep, shaking his head slightly. “So innocent,” he murmurs.

You frown slightly, embarrassed, shifting on your feet again.

But then his hand lifts again, fingertips brushing against your cheek before sliding into your hair, tilting your chin up slightly.

His gaze flickers over you, slow, measured.

And then he whispers, “Wanna see?”

Your breath stutters. Your pulse pounds. Your stomach twists in the most confusing, exhilarating way.

And then before you can even think- you nod.

Matt doesn’t hesitate.

His lips crash against yours, hotter this time, hungrier. His hands cup your face, tilting you exactly where he wants you as his mouth moves against yours, coaxing you into something deeper, something that makes that pulsing heat between your thighs turn into something more. It turns into something desperate, something dangerous.

Your fingers lift, gripping onto his shirt, needing something to hold onto as your legs feel weak beneath you.

He deepens the kiss, pulling you even closer, his hands firm as they slide from your face down to your waist, gripping you like he doesn’t want to let go. His lips are hot, insistent, moving against yours in a way that makes your head spin, your entire body buzzing with arousal.

His hands tighten around your waist, and before you can even register what’s happening, he lifts you effortlessly, gripping the backs of your thighs and setting you onto the cool bathroom counter. The contrast between the cold surface and his warm touch makes you shiver, your legs instinctively parting just enough for him to step between them.

And then- asound escapes your throat.

It’s soft, barely there. Nothing but a breathy little whimper as he tugs you closer, his hands gripping your thighs.

But it’s enough.

Your entire body locks up as realization sinks in, heat rushing to your face as you abruptly pull away, eyes wide with embarrassment. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

Matt’s breathing is heavy, his lips swollen from kissing you, but his eyes- his eyes are dark, focused, hungry.

He tilts his head, his hands still holding you firmly in place. “It’s normal, angel,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly low, deep enough to send shivers down your spine.

You swallow hard, still mortified. “But-”

He shakes his head, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your thigh. “It just means you like it,” he explains, his voice warm, coaxing. “Means it feels good.”

You shift, heat curling in your stomach again. “Still-”

“And it makes me feel good too.”

Your breath catches.

Matt’s eyes flicker over your face, his expression unreadable for a moment before he adds, “Makes me feel warm and needy, just like you.”

Your stomach flips, your fingers tightening against the edge of the counter.

Your voice is quieter now, unsure. “Then… why don’t you make any sounds?”

Matt stills, his lips twitching slightly, but it’s not amusement- it’s something else. His fingers flex against your thighs before dragging slowly up, fingertips pressing lightly into the fabric of your oversized t-shirt, tracing just under the hem.

He leans in, so close that his lips ghost against yours when he speaks.

“You want me to?”

Your pulse stutters.

You should probably say no.

But you don’t.

Instead, you nod.

Matt exhales through his nose, his smirk finally breaking through. “Yeah?”

You nod again, slower this time.

His hands slide up, gripping your waist, and then he kisses you again.

But this time, it’s different.

It’s slower and deeper. His tongue tracing against yours in a way that makes your head spin, your body arching slightly toward him before you even realize you’re doing it. His hands slide over your thighs, gripping them, pulling you forward until your legs wrap loosely around his waist.

A low sound rumbles from the back of his throat.

It’s quiet, but it’s there, vibrating against your lips, making your stomach flip and your entire body heat.

You gasp softly, your fingers gripping his shirt as the sound sends something dangerous pulsing between your thighs.

Matt must notice, because he groans again, this time a little louder, his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s holding himself back.

The tension is unbearable now, your skin hot, your breaths short, every little movement making your head spin.

His hands gripped you tight, pulling you flush against him. His fingers trace slow, teasing patterns against your thighs, sending shivers up your spine. Your entire body is warm, buzzing, that unfamiliar but intoxicating feeling creeping higher and higher until a soft, breathy moan slips past your lips.

Matt freezes for a fraction of a second, his entire body tensing like a live wire, his hands gripping you tighter. And then he groans, deep and low, like the sound did something to him, like he needed to hear it.

His hands move before he can stop himself, sliding up your sides, fingertips teasing beneath the hem of your oversized t-shirt, skimming your bare skin as he pushes the fabric up, his palms warm and making you skin tingle in ways you’ve never imagined were possible.

A sudden, sharp knock on the door.

You barely stifle a yelp, but Matt is quicker.

His palm immediately covers your mouth, his other hand gripping your hip as he tenses, his head snapping toward the door. His light eyes flicker back to yours, and he puts a single finger to his lips, signaling for you to stay quiet.

Your heart is pounding.

“Yo, Matt,” your brother’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “You seen my sister? She left her laundry downstairs, and it’s hogging the dryer.”

Matt exhales slowly, his hand still over your mouth as he tilts his head toward the door, his voice calm, casual, like he hasn’t just had his hands all over you.

“Nah, dude. No idea where she is.”

The doorknob rattles.

You flinch.

Matt’s grip tightens on you instinctively, his hand pressing a little firmer against your mouth, his other hand flexing against your waist.

Your brother sighs. “Bro, unlock the door. I gotta brush my teeth.”

Matt’s jaw clenches, his eyes locking onto yours, something sharp flashing behind them before he whispers, so low you can barely hear it-

“Fuck.”

For a split second, you don’t know what he’s going to do.

Then, without hesitation, he lifts you again, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, and moves.

You barely have time to process before he’s setting you down into the bathtub, your back pressing against the cool surface. He leans in close, eyes serious, his hand brushing over your cheek for just a second.

“Stay quiet,” he whispers.

You nod quickly, heart hammering.

Matt exhales sharply, stepping back, adjusting himself. You blink, watching as he tugs his waistband up, shifting awkwardly, like he’s hiding something.

Your brows furrow slightly. “What are you-”

Matt immediately puts a finger to his lips again, shaking his head. “Shh.”

You shut your mouth, still confused, still burning from everything that just happened.

Before you can think too hard about it, Matt pulls the shower curtain closed, hiding you from view just as he unlocks the door and swings it open.

Your brother steps in, rubbing his face tiredly. “Dude, what took you so long?”

Matt shrugs, leaning casually against the sink, like he hasn’t just shoved you into the bathtub to keep you hidden. “Was taking a piss.”

Your brother makes a face. “Long ass piss bro.”

Matt just smirks, crossing his arms, his body perfectly positioned to block any possible view of the tub. “Long ass piss for a long ass dick, what can I say.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, grabbing his toothbrush. “Whatever.”

You hold your breath, praying he doesn’t notice anything, praying he doesn’t hear the way your breathing is still uneven, the way your body is still buzzing from Matt’s touch.

Matt’s hand twitches against the sink, his knuckles flexing. His jaw is tight, his body still tense. Like he’s just barely keeping himself under control.

After a few minutes of tense silence, the sound of running water and your brother brushing his teeth fills the room. You stay completely still in the tub, pressing your lips together to keep yourself from making a sound, even though your heart is still racing from what had just happened.

Finally, your brother spits into the sink, wipes his mouth, and mutters, “Alright, I’m going to my room.”

Matt doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I’m just gonna wash my face, I’ll meet you there.”

Your brother hums in response, the bathroom door creaking as he steps out. The moment you hear his footsteps retreating down the hall, Matt quickly shuts the door, locking it again before exhaling heavily. His shoulders relax slightly as he pulls back the shower curtain, his gaze landing on you, still curled up in the bathtub.

“Alright he’s gone.” he murmurs, stepping forward and reaching for you.

You let out a breath, still a little dazed as his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you up effortlessly. He sets you back down, steadying you on your feet before his hands settle on your waist.

You look up at him, eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

Matt chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Relax, angel. He had no clue.”

You exhale shakily, running your hands through your hair. The room is still heavy with everything that had happened, and while part of you is still flustered and embarrassed, the other part- the part that’s still warm, still needy- doesn’t want the moment to be over.

Matt watches you carefully, and for a second, you think he’s going to lean in again, that he’s going to pick up where you left off. But then, he sighs, smoothing his hands over your sides.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “We can’t go further right now. Your brother’s waiting for me, and he’s still looking for you.”

You sigh, deflating a little. You know he’s right, but still, the heat swirling in your stomach doesn’t quite go away. “Okay,” you mumble, chewing on your lip.

There’s a brief pause before something else pops into your head, something you don’t quite understand. “Matt?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. “What were you… doing? With your… you know…?”

Matt blinks, then raises an eyebrow. “My cock?” he asks bluntly.

Your entire face burns. “Matt!”

He smirks at your reaction, but instead of answering immediately, he reaches down, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants. You watch confused until he untucks himself, and suddenly, the thick outline of him is tenting out his grey sweatpants prominently.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You stare.

It’s… big.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a deep, unfamiliar curiosity curling in your stomach. Without even thinking, your hand twitches forward slightly before you stop yourself at the last second, pulling your hand back quickly.

“Sorry,” you blurt out, embarrassed.

But Matt shakes his head immediately, stepping closer. “No, sweetheart. Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, coaxing. “Please do.”

Your lips part slightly, your heart hammering in your chest.

“It’ll make me feel good,” he adds, his eyes locked onto yours.

You swallow hard, hesitating just a moment longer before you slowly reach forward again, your fingers lightly wrapping around him through the fabric.

Matt exhales sharply, his head tilting back slightly. “Fuuuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your fingers tighten slightly, gripping him a little more firmly.

His hands flex at his sides before one of them lifts to grip the counter. “This,” he breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, “this is another way of knowing that I like it.”

You stare at him, your breath short and quick. “I did this to you?” you whisper.

Matt groans quietly, nodding. “Yeah, angel.”

You blink, still gripping him through his sweatpants, still feeling the heat of him against your palm. You squeeze slightly, watching as his jaw tenses, his breath stuttering.

Your voice is quieter now. “Is it like… how i feel…wet?”

Matt exhales, his fingers twitching against the counter. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. When you get wet, my dick gets hard.”

Your cheeks burn. “Why does it do that?”

Matt leans in then, his breath warm against your ear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s your body getting ready for me to be inside you.”

Your entire body locks up, heat flooding your core so intensely that your thighs press together on instinct. Your fingers twitch around him, squeezing his clothed length a little harder.

Matt groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath ragged.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice strained, “I’m gonna cum if you do that. You’re making me crazy.”

You freeze. “Wait- what?”

Matt lifts his head, exhaling heavily before he leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll explain to you another time,” he murmurs. “But for now? Get to bed.”

You nod slowly, still reeling, still confused, still burning. “When will you show me?”

Matt smirks as he watches you hesitate, his voice softer now as he nudges you toward the door.

“Whenever you earn it.”

PT.2 HERE💙

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