melly!

warnings: cursing, mention of a fleshlight

⋆˙⟡┊ ⤿ 🥂🔧 ⌗ ⌞ uptown! reader x downtown! matt ⌝

⤑ in which.. you graciously return something of his that he left at your estate

It’s been a few weeks, Not that you’re counting.

The fridge was fixed. The truck drove away. Your mother said it was “for the best”—as if your heartbeat wasn’t still playing tug-of-war with your ribs every time a low engine rumbled near the driveway.

No one mentioned him again. Not the staff, not your parents, not the neighborhood ladies who wore perfume like armor and spoke in hushed, judging tones. And yet, you kept catching yourself glancing out the window. Listening for the familiar growl of his engine. Wondering if he’d left anything behind.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him. But one late afternoon, while wandering the property, you remember the sunhat you left in the old garage during that dreadful family brunch.

It’s the kind of heat that glues silk to skin. Honeysuckle-sweet, thick, the sun hanging low and mean. You make your way to the far end of the property, heels clicking against the stone path as if trying to make your presence known. As if daring anyone to stop you.

The garage creaks when you open the door. It smells like dust and old wood, still and hot inside. Light filters through the slats, soft and gold. The sunhat sits on a hook near the door, forgotten.

And beside it, against the far wall—his toolbox. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. His. It’s unmistakable. The handle is worn in a way that says it’s been used. A few tools lie nearby like they were set down with the intent to return.

You pause. You could leave it. Let someone else deal with it. Call someone from the staff, pretend you never saw it. Pretend he never existed.

You don’t. You walk over, crouch carefully, and pick it up.

Downstairs, your mother is having tea on the terrace.

“Darling, where are you going with that dreadful thing?” she asks, eyeing the box like it might stain the marble.

You don’t answer right away. 

“Returning it.”  She sets her cup down, chin lifted in warning. “A woman like you doesn’t chase a man like him. You never, ever pursue a man who belongs in a garage. You are not a hobo off the street. You are a woman of class.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not chasing.”

You leave before she can stop you.

Two hours later. You don’t know what possessed you. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was the scent of pine and gasoline still haunting your memory like a ghost.

But here you are. Downtown. In your car, parked outside a narrow brick building that smells like motor oil, metal, and faint cigarette smoke.

It’s louder here. A different kind of loud. Horns and bass and kids shouting from across the street. Graffiti snakes up the alley walls. Someone blasts music from a porch stereo. A dog barks nonstop.

And you don’t look away. You grab the toolbox from your passenger seat, heart pounding like a warning bell, and step onto the sidewalk.

The garage is open. Music buzzes low from inside—a gritty rock song that sounds like it’s lived through three decades and three divorces.

And he’s there. Matt. Bent over a motorcycle, back damp through his shirt, silver chain catching a flicker of light beneath the collar. Grease stains his arm. His curls are pushed back by a backwards cap. He wipes his hands on a rag without looking up.

You pause, heart stupid in your chest. Then he turns. His brows lift slightly. “Well, well.”

You hold up the toolbox. “You left this.”

“Did I?” he asks, slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought I might’ve.”

You step closer, trying not to flinch at the oil under your shoes. “I figured I’d return it.”

He nods, taking it from your hands. His fingers brush yours—brief, electric. “You didn’t have to come all this way, princess.”

You shrug. “I was bored.”

“You get bored in a palace like that?” You glance around the space. Tools, wires, a folding chair. The humming fridge in the corner.

“Sometimes,” you admit. He leans against the bench, towel slung over his shoulder. “You gonna hover, or you want a drink?”

Your lips twitch. “Do you always offer sparkling water to surprise guests?”

“Only the ones wearin’ designer heels in my shop.” You roll your eyes but sit. He pulls a Coke from the fridge—glass bottle, ice cold, no label.

You sip. He returns to the bike. It stretches between you, the silence. After a while, he breaks it. “You ever ride?”

You raise a brow. “Do I look like I ride?”

He grins. “You look like you haven’t had fun in a long time.”

Your stomach twists. He keeps working. Eventually, he speaks again. “You watching for fun? Or you tryin’ to learn something?”

You tilt your head. “Are those my only two options?”

He glances over his shoulder. “You haven’t looked at your phone once.”

You blink. You hadn’t noticed.

You set your drink down, watching him with a tilt of your head and a spark of amusement behind your lashes.

“I don’t think I’ve formally introduced myself,” you say, placing your hand lightly over your chest, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “How unprofessional of me. I’m Y/N. In case you were wondering.”

Matt turns slightly, smirking as he catches your eye. “Y/N, huh?”

You nod. He tosses the rag on the counter, wipes his palms on his jeans. “Well, hell. Guess I should clean up, now that I’ve got royalty in the room.”

You laugh. “Too late for that.” He grins.

“Good. I don’t clean up well anyway.” The moment stretches, just a little too long.

“Shouldn’t you get going, princess?” he asks. “I thought you’d be busy with country clubs… or whatever fancy thing it is you do.”

You raise your brow. “You think I golf in heels?” 

He grins. “Wouldn’t put it past you.” You take another sip. Slowly. Then set it down.

“I’m not really in a rush.” His eyes meet yours again.

“You sure this is your crowd though? Grease. Noise. Boys with dirty hands—”

You cut him off. “Maybe I like the mess.” His smile is slow. Dangerous. “Yeah? Then maybe you should come back.”

Your throat goes dry. “I might,” He picks up the wrench again. You make it halfway to the door before he calls after you.

“Hey.” You pause.

“You looked good up there,” he nods toward the stool. “Sittin’ pretty in my garage like you belonged.”

You don’t answer, but your cheeks burn the whole drive home.

immaqulate's notes ✎ᝰ.ᐟ.. 🤭 i was literally so giddy writing this part THEY'RE SO CUTE

her body arched into his touch, the sound of her breathless moans filling the room as his hands slid lower, lower, until-

your jaw went slack, half scandalized, half... well, turned on.

you weren’t snooping. not really. matt had just gone downstairs for a drink, and the paperback sitting half-tucked under his pillow was practically begging to be picked up.

and the page that was folded in the corner, as if he’d wanted to make sure he could find this exact part again, wasn’t subtle.

“holy shit.” you whispered to yourself, staring at the worn cover like it had betrayed you.

your boyfriend, the same one who refuses to say even the medical terms for body parts, was apparently devouring pages of not-so-innocent scenes in his free time.

you knew deep down matt had a dirty side, and you couldn’t wait until he finally showed it to you.

though you can only imagine what that’s like. he’s too damn shy to initiate anything, but you bet he knows exactly what to do with those fingers..

by the time you heard his footsteps coming, the book was safely back under his pillow.

matt appeared in the doorway, holding his apple juice like he owned the world.

a slight smirk was on his face as he flopped back onto his bed, head hitting right against the book tucked under the pillow.

“oof- oh, right,” he mumbled, reaching behind him. “forgot to put this back on the shelf.” he tossed it aside like it was the most innocent book ever.

but the only thing going through your mind was:

damn. he’s so horny.

valentine!reader bumps into physicsmajor!matt for a second time...

you burst through your apartment with a little more force than needed, letting your heavy bag slip off your shoulders the the floor with a thud. you can still feel the dried coffee on the front of your shirt, sticky and a bit stiff.

sage is on the floor of the living room of your shared apartment, hunched over in an unfortunate position with a paintbrush in her hand to get the perfect stroke.

she looks up from the canvas in front of you, gives you a once over before looking back down, “what happened to you?” she questions, almost teasing as she adjusts her grip on her paintbrush.

“i met the love of my life today,” you sigh dramatically, scrubbing an uneasy hand over your face “not before i spilled his fucking coffee all over him though.” you continue, throwing your head back with a groan.

she snorts softly, shaking her head, “how did you manage to do that?” she prompts again. she has a good idea, you’re the clumsiest, most unaware person she knows. she just wants the details.

“i don’t even know,” you admit, almost whining. “i was late to my creative writing class so i was rushing, but i swear i was watching where i was going!” you defend before sage can even have the opportunity to ask “i turned a corner and he was just there. out of nowhere. i didn’t even see his face before i slammed right into him, and then his coffee was everywhere and i tried to apologize as much as i could before he basically waved me off.”

“but he was cute?” she asks, looking up with a quirked brow to gauge your facial expression

“not even cute,” you huff, flopping onto the couch dramatically, “he was beautiful, sage. i’ve literally never seen a guy that perfect before. and if i ever see him again he’s gonna run the other way.”

she rolls her eyes fondly, unscrewing the cap to a tube of paint, “you’re too hard on yourself.” she teases, but there’s a note of truth in her voice. you see love in everything but somehow never see it for yourself.

you grumble some dismissal, chewing the inside of your cheek as your mind wanders back to the guy you bumped into. the sharp set of his jaw, how the color of his eyes would probably turn you to stone if you looked at him long enough. you think he had light stubble adorning his jaw but you aren’t sure if that was real or part of the blur in your vision from how fast you were moving.

you huff again, pushing yourself up off the couch and immediately moving to the kitchen.

“are you craving anything?” you ask sage, and she shrugs.

“not overly but-,” she looks up at the creak of one of the cupboards. you’re already grabbing flour and sugar, the measuring cups and a baking tin, “i’m assuming you’re making something regardless.”

sage is all too familiar with your tendency to bake when you’re stressed, and while it’s a blessing to always have treats in the apartment - she’s running out of suggestions for you.

you glare at her over the counter, pressing for a more definitive answer with your eyes.

she thinks for a moment, a knowing smile pulling at her lips “cinnamon buns?” she asks, too much hope in her voice for someone who just claimed they weren’t craving anything.

“knew you were gonna say that.” you grumble fondly.

not long after you pulled the cinnamon buns from the oven and engulged in one (maybe two), you’re in a fresh change of clothes, perched on an old rolling chair at your evening shift at the campus library.

it’s decent money for a student, and you really don’t have to do much. just check in peoples books and check them out. simple work, and considering you’re an english major you love to see what people come in to take. most times they’re for classes, sometimes they’re for personal use.

it’s a slower night, with it being the start of the year, people are trying to find out their booklists and what they actually need. you appreciate this job because in your downtime you’re able to work on your own schoolwork, tucked behind the counter until someone comes up to the desk.

you’re working on a stupid math question you can’t comprehend for some dumb mandatory class you have to take when a heavy book gets dropped on the counter in front of you, causing you to flinch.

it doesn’t cause you to flinch as hard as when you look up and it’s him. the love of your life - no. the guy you spilled coffee on earlier. yup. he got better looking in the last 7 hours.

you freeze, looking up at him like you’re literally starstruck. he regards you for a moment, and you think he doesn’t recognize you. he huffs when you just stare, begrudgingly pulling his wallet from his pocket to pull out his library card, sliding it across the counter.

“right-,” you sputter, picking up the card and the book before picking up the little handheld scanner. you firstly note his id card, burning ‘matthew sturniolo’ into the back of your eyelids forever. you scan it, moving to scan the book and notice that has some galaxy looking image on it and is simply titled ‘cosmos’.

you place a fresh, sticky label on the front of it and stamp it with the red ink that has the return date on it before sliding it back over the counter to him with his id placed on top. your mouth moves before you can stop it.

“i owe you a coffee,” you say softly, eyes widening at your own stupid voice before giving him a sheepish smile. he looks at you blankly for a moment, but you can now tell he recognizes you. he picks up the book and his id, shrugging lightly.

“told you it wasn’t a big deal.” he mumbles, swinging his backpack around his shoulder to push the book inside. you hate yourself for speaking, until he turns around to face you again.

“you’re doing that question wrong, by the way.” he says, nodding down to the notebook that displayed your thousand step math question “the x goes outside of the bracket.” he corrects, and you swear you see the faintest smile pull at the corner of his mouth before he’s pushing open the double doors and exiting the library entirely.

he recognized you. and did he just help you with homework? or was he condescendingly correcting you as some sort of power play? now you're praying sage has another baking suggestion when you get home.

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authors note: ok this was really short and boring i know!!! i just need to get some of the plot out of the way and had to make them meet formally hehehehe. sage!reader and psychologymajor!chris up next yipppeee

ⁱⁿ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ exᵎᵎmatt sends your annoying boyfriend a video of him fucking you.

whimpers and the sounds of the bed creaking fill mats room. you know what your doing is wrong, you just came to get your things back and leave. but matt knows what to say to get to you, and he takes that to his advantage. hence why your legs are currently slung over his shoulders as his slow sloppy thrusts hit your spot over and over again. "tssk look at you mama such a mess" matt coos brushing his thumb over your bottom lip where you started drooling, all you could do was let out more choked babbles, to fucked out to form a sentence. this has been going on for a while now, matt fucking into you sloppy and heavy, putting his bodyweight into each thrust, but everytime that band in your stomach was about to snap matt pulled out. "oh i know baby i know im so mean huh" his voice laced with fake sympathy, but matt didn't feel bad at all. your fucked out expression, the way you claw at his arms looking for some support, he was enjoying all of this. matt grabbed your face as more incoherent babbles left your mouth "cmon sweetheart speak up f'me" he was messing with you. each thrust more forcefull as the words left his mouth. you were begging, barley audible but matt heard it. his girl was begging to let go. "y'wanna cum baby hm?' matt smirked at how eagerly you nodded your head, before grabbing your phone and hitting the record button, he wanted your boyfriend to see how he had you, to see that he will never make you feel as good as matt does. "go ahead baby cameras all on you" he coos panning the camera down to his hips snapping into you before moving it back to your face, capturing your eyes rolling back and your body shaking, that band in your stomach finally snapping, pornographic moans left your mouth."loook at that mama" matt whispers bittersweet, showing the camera your soaked cunt before stopping the video and quickly pressing send.

@overlygoin

actually making one: