she/her. australian. twenty three. aries. I love my girlfriend. carebears. sturniolo triplets. matt girl. rain. winter. autistic. shy. age regressor. stuffed animals. byler stan.
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warnings: smut 18+, petplay, Oral (m receiving), semi public (on call with his brothers)
You’re tucked under Matt’s desk in the dimly lit room, knees on the soft rug while he sits in his gaming chair wearing headphones. The Discord call with Chris and Nick is lively, trash talk flying as they play a few rounds of whatever competitive shooter they’re obsessed with tonight.
Matt’s trying to focus, controller in hand, voice mostly steady as he calls out positions. “Yeah left, LEFT, LEFT!”
That’s when you decide he’s too composed. You slide your hands up his thighs, tug his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his half hard cock, and wrap your lips around the tip without warning.
Matt jolts, a sharp inhale cutting through his sentence. “Shit uh, guy just jumped out at me.”
You smile around his length and sink deeper, taking him into your warm mouth in one slow glide. His cock twitches hard against your tongue as you start sucking, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head with practiced rhythm.
You pull back just enough to whisper against his slick skin, voice low and teasing so only he can hear: “Good puppy… stay nice and quiet for me.”
“Matt, you good bro?” Chris asks, suspicion already in his voice. “You sound kinda weird.”
“Yeah- yeah, I’m fine,” Matt replies, voice a little too tight. He bites his lip hard as you swirl your tongue around the head, sucking on the sensitive underside. A tiny, involuntary whimper escapes him.
You hear Nick laugh. “Did you just whimper? The fuck, dude?”
“Shut up, I got ah—hit,” Matt stammers, trying to play it off. His free hand drops under the desk, fingers threading into your hair. You hum softly around him in approval and whisper again, lips brushing his cock, “Doing so well, puppy. Keep it together while I take care of you.”
You don’t let up. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his pelvis, then pull back with a wet sound. You repeat the motion. long, slow sucks mixed with quick flicks of your tongue, while your hand strokes what your mouth doesn’t reach.
Matt’s breathing is getting ragged. “Fuck—behind you, Chris, behind you!” His voice cracks as you hum around his cock again, the vibration making his thighs tense.
You pull off for a second, stroking him firmly as you whisper hotly against his inner thigh, “Such a good puppy for me. Listening so nicely even when your cock is down my throat.”
Chris snorts. “You dying over there? Your shots are trash right now.”
“I’m—ngh—focused,” Matt lies, biting down on his knuckle to stifle a moan as you swallow him again, sucking him messily and eagerly. Saliva drips down his shaft. His hips twitch once and you press down on them, whispering right against his pulsing cock
“Down, puppy. No moving. Behave and I’ll let you cum nice and quiet.”
Another soft, needy whine slips out before he can catch it.
“Matt, what the hell was that?” Chris asks, laughing now. “You sound like you’re getting railed or something.”
You smile wickedly and whisper, “They have no idea how hard my puppy is trying not to moan for me.” Then you’re back on him, bobbing faster, one hand gently massaging his balls while your mouth works relentlessly.
Matt’s head tips back against the chair, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m just concentrating, asshole. Stop talking and play.” His voice is strained, breathy.
You pull off briefly to tease, “Doing so good, pup. Listen to how desperate you sound… but you’re still my perfect boy.” You lick a long stripe up the underside before taking him deep again.
You can feel him getting close..thighs trembling, cock twitching wildly. You suck harder, faster, and whisper between breaths when you pull back for air: “Gonna swallow every drop like a good owner. Cum for me, puppy, but stay quiet.”
Matt’s control cracks. His hips jerk once as he cums down your throat with a choked, muffled groan that he tries to turn into a frustrated game yell. “Shit!— uh he got me!” He says playing it off
You swallow every drop, milking him through it with slow, gentle sucks and soft whispers of praise: “Good puppy… such a good boy.” Only then do you pull off, pressing a soft kiss to his softening cock before tucking him back into his pants and resting your cheek against his thigh.
Matt slumps in the chair, panting quietly, face flushed crimson.
“Finally,” Nick says after a moment. “You actually got a kill. What the hell got into you?”
Matt lets out a shaky laugh, fingers still tangled in your hair. “No idea….”
You smile to yourself under the desk, already planning what you’ll do to your sweet puppy once the call ends.
FWB?
Matt x Bestfriend f!Reader
Mature | Smut | MDNI
An intense, sun-drenched encounter in the rain changes everything between you and Matt.
Part 3
The merch drop happens on a Tuesday.
You're at home, curled up on your couch in sweatpants and the black hoodie you still haven't given back, when your phone starts vibrating. Then again. Then again. A flood of notifications that makes it buzz across the cushion like it's possessed. You grab it, thumb already swiping, and freeze.
The photos are live. The ones Matt took.
You open Instagram and your breath catches somewhere in your throat. They picked the shot where you're looking off to the left, chin tilted, the baby tee clinging to every curve. The lighting makes your skin glow. The comments are already in the hundreds.
okay but WHO is she??
the way matt sturniolo shot these... the way he was LOOKING at her
new crush unlocked holy shit
y'all i'm down bad for a girl i've never met
You scroll, heart hammering, as the numbers climb. TikTok notifications start pinging next, edits, already! Someone set the photos to a slowed-down version of some trending song, zooming in on your face, your waist, the way the shorts hit your hips. The caption reads: the triplets' secret weapon??? who is this mysterious girl and why is she serving harder than anyone at this party
Your DMs are flooded. Guys you've never heard of, some with verified checkmarks, some just bold, sending variations of the same thing. Hey. Love the new merch. You single? One of them, a guy with a surf brand and too many shirtless photos, sends a voice memo. You don't listen to it.
The phone keeps buzzing. You set it face-down on the couch cushion and press your palms against your thighs, trying to breathe.
Three days later, Chris insists on lunch.
The restaurant is one of those bright, plant-filled places in Silver Lake, all white tile and hanging ferns. You slide into the booth across from Nick, who's already nursing a Slurpee, while Chris flags down the server with the energy of a golden retriever who just spotted a squirrel.
"The internet is obsessed with you," Chris announces, phone already in hand. "Obsessed. Like, clinically. I think you've broken TikTok."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic. I'm factual." He scrolls, grinning. "Oh, oh, wait. This one's my favorite." He clears his throat theatrically and reads aloud: "'If the hot merch girl and Chris don't start dating immediately, I'm deleting my account. Like the tension in those bts shots is actually illegal.'" Chris slaps the table, delighted. "See? The people have spoken. You and I. Ship name: C—" He pauses, frowning. "Wait, what even is our ship name?"
Matt's voice cuts in from your left, dry and flat. "That's two comments, Chris. I just found ten shipping her with me."
You turn. He's slouched in the booth, one arm draped over the back of the seat, scrolling his own phone with practiced disinterest. His jaw flexes slightly when he glances up at his brother.
"Ten? Okay, show me the receipts."
Matt tilts his screen. "'The way he adjusted her collar... that's a man in love, your honor.' 'Chemistry. Period.' 'If you don't see the heart eyes Matt was giving her in that bts footage, you're blind.'" He recites them without inflection, like he's reading a grocery list, but his eyes flick to yours briefly before returning to the phone.
Chris snorts. "Cherry-picked. I could find fifty that ship her with me. Look—" He taps furiously. "'Chris and the mystery girl were so cute in the bts, the way he was cheering on her??? Friends to lovers pipeline, I'm calling it now.'"
"That's one."
"I'm still scrolling."
Nick sets his drink down with a deliberate clink. Both brothers pause. Nick holds up his phone, expression utterly serene. "The audience has spoken," he says. "And by 'the audience,' I mean a statistically significant sample size." He swivels the screen toward the table. It's a fan-made poll. Who should the merch girl end up with? Matt has 34%. Chris has 25%. Nick has 41% with the label the stable choice in bold.
Chris gapes. "The stable choice?"
Nick shrugs, the picture of modesty. "People appreciate emotional maturity. And good candle taste. Pretty nails too."
You burst out laughing—a real, surprised laugh that bubbles up from your chest. Nick's lips twitch with satisfaction. You raise your palm and he meets it with a crisp high-five, the sound echoing off the white tile.
"Finally," you say, "someone with taste."
Matt doesn't laugh. He doesn't add a dry comment or roll his eyes. He just watches you and Nick with his jaw set tight, thumb frozen over his phone screen, as still as a photograph.
The check arrives. Chris glances at his phone and his eyes go wide. "Shit. Meeting. Across town. Twenty minutes."
"What meeting?" you ask, pausing with your drink halfway to your mouth.
"We're meeting with a distributor," Nick says. "Chris and I are planning a new project together, and if we miss this window, we're screwed for the month."
"We're not gonna make it," Chris says, already sliding out of the booth and grabbing his keys.
"We'll make it if we don't hit traffic."
"Done. I'm driving," Chris says, already jingling the keys.
"You are driving, but I’m navigating," Nick says flatly, snatching the copilot spot before Chris can even unlock the doors.
In the parking lot, the four of you pile into the car. Chris backs out of the space while Nick pulls up the map on his phone, checking the traffic before glancing back at you and Matt in the rearview mirror. "Okay, Chris, if you drop them at the turnoff before the highway ramp, it’s like three blocks from the house. You guys good to walk from there?"
You nod. Matt shrugs.
Chris pulls over at the corner of a quiet residential street, the kind lined with old oak trees and cracked sidewalks that lift at the edges. You and Matt climb out, Nick already leaning forward to mess with the aux cord, and the car peels away before you've even fully closed the door.
Silence settles. Not the uncomfortable kind. The easy kind. The familiar kind that reminds you of years of afternoons sprawled on couches, of late-night drives and lazy mornings. You fall into step beside him, shoulders almost brushing, and the world feels startlingly normal.
"Can't believe Nick's the stable one," you say, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. "I always had him pegged as the wildcard."
"Nick is a menace. Those polls are rigged."
"Sure, sure."
He bumps your shoulder lightly with his. "Chris is gonna be insufferable about this for weeks."
"Like he isn't already."
Matt laughs—low and genuine, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. You let yourself sink into the sound. Into the easiness. Into the way his hand swings close enough to yours that you could reach out and thread your fingers through his if you were brave.
"So," you say after a moment, "how are things going with the Instagram girl? She still talking to you?"
The question feels safer than it should. Distance from the topic, maybe. Or just the old, familiar armor of the wingman.
Matt shrugs, eyes ahead. "We haven't really talked since she cancelled on the shoot."
"Wait, what? I thought you guys were hitting it off at the pool party."
"I guess she's busy." He says it without weight, without the wistful sigh he used to carry when talking about her. Like the information is incidental. "Enough abot her. What about you? Your DMs must be insane right now."
You laugh dryly. "Oh, yeah. Some surfer guy sent me a voice memo. I haven't listened to it."
"You should. Maybe he's profound."
"Maybe he's a serial killer."
"Worth the risk." He glances at you sideways, mouth quirking. "Girl goes viral and suddenly she's too good for random DM guys."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying. You've got options now."
"Don't want options," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. The words hang in the air a beat too long, and you rush to fill the silence. "I mean, it's funny. That's all. I don't really care about any of it."
Matt doesn't respond, but something in his posture shifts. Subtle. A slight straightening of his spine. A barely-there curl at the corner of his mouth.
One moment you're walking in the bright, golden afternoon light, and the next, a crack of thunder fractures the air overhead, loud enough to make you jump. But the sky doesn't darken. Instead, the bright blue sky unzips all at once, letting a torrential downpour hit onto the pavement while the sun keeps beating down. It's immediate, heavy, and blinding, the rain so thick and sudden it feels like a giant bucket tipped over directly through the sunlight.
You scream.
Actually scream, a startled, laughing shriek, and then you're running. Your sneakers slap the wet pavement, ponytail whipping behind you, rain plastering your shirt to your skin in seconds. The triplets' house is visible now, their front porch a beacon in the gray sheets of water.
You make it to the porch and collapse against the door, gasping, dripping, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.
And then you turn around.
Matt is still on the sidewalk. Walking. Not running. Not hurrying. Just walking with the same casual, long-legged stride he always uses, his dark hair flattened against his forehead, his white shirt already transparent and clinging to the lines of his chest. He looks utterly unbothered, as if the sky hasn't just declared war on the entire block.
"What are you doing?" you shout over the roar of the rain. "You're insane! Get over here!"
He reaches the porch steps but doesn't climb them. Instead he stands there, looking up at you with water streaming down his face, and smiles. It's a slow, unguarded smile. One you haven't seen before.
"It's just rain," he says.
And then he takes your hand.
His fingers wrap around yours, warm even through the cold wetness, and he tugs. Gently. Pulling you off the porch and back into the downpour. You stumble forward, your bare feet landing in a shallow puddle on the sidewalk, and when you look up at him he's still smiling.
Then he lifts your joined hands high toward the sunlit sky as he tilts his head back. His eyes close, entirely yielding to the downpour.
Slowly, you copy him. You close your eyes and tilt your face upward, letting the heavy, rain drops wash over your skin. The two of you just stand there on the sidewalk, completely soaked, breathing in the rain, suspended together in the middle of the sun-drenched storm.
He puts your joined hands down and you open your eyes.
Matt's face is inches from yours.
The rain frames him like a photograph, dark lashes clumped with water, a droplet tracing the sharp line of his jaw, his lips slightly parted. His hands release yours and find your face instead, palms warm against the cold of your cheeks, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth.
He kisses you.
His lips press against yours, rain-slick and soft, and your mind goes entirely blank. No thought. No nothing. Just the sensation of his mouth on yours, the warmth of his hands cupping your face, the roar of the storm around you.
He pulls back.
A fraction. A heartbeat. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and searching, and you can feel his breath against your wet lips. The question is there, unspoken, hanging in the space between your mouths.
He kisses you again.
This time, you kiss him back.
Your hands grip the sides of his soaked shirt. Your lips move against his, slow, learning, pressing and releasing in a rhythm that feels like a language you didn't know you spoke. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and a sound escapes your throat, something between a gasp and a sigh. The rain keeps falling. You don't care. You don't care about anything except the heat of his mouth and the solid presence of his body against yours.
What is happening, you think, the words distant and foreign. What is happening. What is happening.
He breaks the kiss and you both stand there, breathing hard, rain still sheeting down. His forehead presses against yours.
"We need to get inside," he says, voice rough. "Shower. Before we get sick."
You nod, not trusting your own voice.
He leads you into the house by the hand, dripping a trail across the living room floor, up the stairs, down the hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzes on overhead. Matt turns the shower knob, steam already curling into the air.
His hands find the hem of your soaked shirt.
"Arms up," he murmurs.
You raise your arms. He peels the fabric over your head, and it lands on the tile with a wet slap. His eyes travel down your body—your bare shoulders, the simple black bra, the goosebumps rising on your skin—and something in his expression flickers. Hunger, maybe. Or wonder. Something you've never seen directed at you before.
Your hands move on their own, unbuttoning your jeans, pushing the wet denim down your legs. You step out of them, kick them aside. Matt's shirt is already off, and your gaze catches on the lean muscle of his chest, the way water still clings to his collarbones. He's in just his black boxer briefs now, the fabric clinging in a way that leaves very little to the imagination. You swallow hard.
He opens the glass shower door. Warm steam billows out, fogging the mirror.
You step in first. The water hits your skin and it's perfect—hot enough to chase away the chill of the rain, to loosen the knot of tension in your shoulders. You tilt your head back, letting the stream soak your hair, run down your neck and back. For a moment, you forget he's behind you.
Then his hands grip your waist.
He turns you, slowly, until you're both under the water. The stream cascades over his hair, plastering it to his forehead. One rivulet traces the line of his nose, curves around his lips. He's so close. So close you can count his wet eyelashes.
He kisses you again.
Deeper this time. Slower. His hands slide from your waist to your back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra. A pause. A question in the way his fingertips rest against the hooks.
"Okay?" he breathes against your mouth.
"Okay."
The clasp comes undone. He draws the straps down your shoulders, freeing your breasts, and the fabric falls forgotten to the shower floor.
His hands cup you. Gentle at first, just holding, as if memorizing the weight and shape of you. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your head falls back. A moan slips out before you can stop it.
"God," he whispers.
Then his mouth is on you.
He kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. When his lips close around your nipple, slow and warm and startlingly wet, your hands fly to his hair. You grip the dark, soaked strands and hold on. He sucks gently, tongue tracing a slow circle, and the sensation travels straight down to your core. Your knees threaten to buckle.
"You're—" you start, but the word dissolves into another moan.
He switches to your other breast, equally slow, equally deliberate, and you feel like you're floating. The steam surrounds you. The water pounds against your back. His mouth works against your skin with a patience that makes your head spin.
Then he turns you around.
Your palms press flat against the wet tile. The cool of the shower wall contrasts with the heat of him behind you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he drags them down your legs. You step out of them.
His body presses against your back. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin just below your ear. And lower, much lower, you feel him. The hard, insistent press of his cock against the cleft of your ass. Even through the fabric of his briefs, the heat of him is unmistakable. The size of him.
"Can I?" he whispers. The words are barely audible over the shower, a vibration against your skin.
"Yes."
He shifts. One hand leaves the tile beside yours, and you hear the rustle of wet fabric. Then he's there again, closer now, skin against skin. He guides himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and for one suspended moment your whole body stills.
He pushes inside.
Slow. Inch by deliberate inch. The stretch is immense, a fullness that makes your mouth fall open and your nails scrape against the tile. He feels huge. He feels like he's claiming territory, marking space inside you that no one else has ever touched. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Are you—"
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He doesn't.
He moves inside you with long, deep strokes, his hands finding your breasts again. His thumbs circle your nipples as his hips press forward, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. Broken sounds fall from your lips, half words, half pleas, and the rhythm builds until it's the only thing you can feel.
His hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach. Lower. His fingers find your clit.
The touch is electric. He rubs slow circles, matching the pace of his thrusts, and the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your vision narrows. The water sounds distant. The world shrinks to the point of contact between his fingers and your body, the steady drive of him inside you.
"I'm—" The word fractures. "Matt, I'm—"
"Let go," he murmurs against your ear. "I've got you."
The orgasm hits like a wave. No—not a wave, something sharper than that. A chord snapping. A light switching on so bright it whites out everything else. Your body clenches around him, pulse after pulse, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the shower walls.
Three more thrusts. Four. Then he pulls out with a ragged groan, and you feel the warmth of him spilling against your thighs. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, his chest heaving against your back.
He turns you around.
Kisses you. Soft this time. Tender. His hands cup your face just like they did in the rain.
Neither of you speaks.
He reaches for the soap. Lathers it between his palms and begins to work it across your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You do the same for him—your hands sliding over the planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, his tattooed arms. It's intimate in a different way. Careful. Devoted. He smiles at you, tentative and wondering.
You smile back.
Wrapped in towels that are far too large, he leads you to his bedroom. The room smells like him, that same cologne, fabric softener, the vague warmth of electronics. He pulls open a drawer and hands you a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His. Both swallow your frame.
"Laundry," he says, gesturing to the pile of wet clothes in your hands. "I'll throw them in. Be right back."
He disappears through the doorway. You're alone in his room, standing barefoot on the carpet, wearing his clothes.
Your mind spins. What just happened. Did that happen. Is this real. Is this a dream. Are we still friends. Are we more than friends. What do I even say now. Do I bring it up. Do I pretend we didn't just—
But when he returns, you don't say any of it. You don't want to ruin the moment. This fragile, impossible moment that feels like it could break at any second.
He climbs onto the bed and opens his arms. You crawl into them.
He pulls you against his chest. Your head finds the hollow of his shoulder, the same place it's been a hundred times during movie nights and lazy afternoons. His arm wraps around your back. His chin rests on top of your head. The silence settles, comfortable and familiar, and you realize: this is what you always did. Being quiet together. That was the foundation of everything.
Your eyes grow heavy.
When you wake, the light is still golden outside the window. Late afternoon, maybe. Your clothes—folded neatly on the dresser. Dry. Warm.
Matt is still asleep beside you, one arm draped across the empty space where you'd been. His face is relaxed, mouth slightly open, breathing deep and even. You watch him for a moment, memorizing the way his lashes rest against his cheeks.
Then you slip out of bed. Quiet. Careful. You gather your clothes and change in the bathroom, and then you're walking out the front door, leaving only the faint scent of his shampoo behind.
The second you get home, you rush to your room. You kick off your shoes, grab a pen, and pull your notebook off the desk. Throwing yourself onto the bed, you sit cross-legged, pen in hand, the blank page staring up at you. You are desperate to write everything down but your thoughts are a hurricane, spinning, colliding, refusing to settle into anything coherent.
You wrote beautiful letters on napkins. On receipts. On the backs of old confessions. But this?
Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The pen scratches aggressively across the paper, no preamble, no greeting, no carefully crafted sentences.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT MATT???
You stare at the scrawl. Jagged letters. Ink bleeding slightly at the edges where you pressed too hard. It's not elegant. It's not romantic. It's the most honest thing you've written in years.
It's been hours of staring at the almost blank page, thinking what else to tell him when the phone rings.
You jolt, glancing at the screen. Chris. You pick up.
"Hey."
"Where you at? We're going out to dinner. You're coming."
"I—"
Nick's voice cuts in, distant at first, then closer as he takes the phone. "We're putting you on speaker. Get dressed. We're picking you up in twenty."
"There's this new place downtown," Chris adds. "Supposed to be incredible. I already called dibs on the truffle fries."
"I don't know, I'm sort of—"
Then you hear it.
Her voice. Bright, confident, unmistakable. "Oh my god, tell her to come! I've been wanting to meet her properly. The photos were gorgeous."
The Instagram girl. Matt had shown you enough of her reels for you to remember her voice. She's with them?
Your heart drops. A physical plummet, a sickening lurch in your chest that makes your stomach clench. She's there. At the house. With Matt. The same Matt who just hours ago was inside you, his mouth on your breast, his hands cupping your face in the rain.
A sneeze. You fake it from somewhere deep in your panic, sharp and sudden into the receiver.
"Oh, shoot. Scuse me." you say, voice deliberately hoarse. "I think I'm coming down with something. Probably from getting caught in that rain earlier. I'm sorry, guys, I should probably stay in."
A pause. Then Matt's voice, urgent and immediate. "You're sick? Are you okay?"
The concern in his tone is a knife. You feel it slide between your ribs.
"I'll be fine," you say, the words coming out too fast. "Just need rest. You guys have fun, okay? Bye."
You hang up before anyone can argue.
The phone falls onto the mattress. Your hands are shaking. Your eyes burn. You grab the notebook again, flip to the same page as before, and press the pen so hard the tip nearly tears through.
How could you do this to me? Don't ever look at me again. Don't talk to me.
Don't you dare act like you care if I'm okay.
I'm done.
A tear falls. It lands on the page, smearing the fresh ink, blurring the word done until it's almost illegible.
@sleepysturns Happy Three Months baby! It’s crazy to think that sending that dm was what got this whole thing started but it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you sm baby🩵. I love our sleep calls and the sound of your voice. I love how you’re always there…I love you🤭.
Three months of hogging each other's screen time and i wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy 3 months to my beautiful girl @lolaslolli, you make my world so much brighter. I love you infinity🩷💙
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a forbidden love story staring nurse!matt and patient!reader
Chapter 8 - Trouble
The clock on the wall read 2:15 AM. For the first two hours of his shift, Matt had tried to be a professional. He had checked his other patients, answered calls, and organized the supply closet.. anything to distract himself from the magnetic pull of the door at the end of the hall.
But the temptation was too strong.The terrifying stakes of life and death had finally lowered, leaving room for the raw, unspoken tension that had been building between you for weeks.
When he finally slipped into your room under the pretense of a "routine check," you were sitting up in bed, waiting for him. You weren't the fragile, terrified patient from a few nights ago. You looked radiant in the dim blue light, a playful spark in your eyes that challenged him the moment he closed the distance to your bedside.
"Checking my vitals again, Nurse Matt?" you had teased, your voice a low, sultry challenge in the quiet room. "Or are you just making excuses?"
Matt had huffed a soft laugh, setting his clipboard down on the tray table with a deliberate clack. "I’m always... doing my job."
"Is it your job to look at me like that?" you countered, your eyes dropping to his lips before rising back to meet his gaze.
That was the breaking point. The weeks of professional distance, the careful touches during dressing changes, the lingering glances at the nursing station, it all evaporated. Matt didn't answer with words. He took a single stride forward, reached down, and took your hand, pulling you slightly forward.
"No," he whispered, his voice thick and rough. "This part isn't the job."
You didn't pull away. Instead, your fingers tightened around his, your breath hitching as he leaned in close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his skin. The playful banter vanished, replaced by an intoxicating, heavy gravity that pulled both of you under. "Matt," you murmured, your heart rate already starting to rhythmically accelerate on the monitor behind him. "If anyone walks in—"
"They won't," he broke in, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak even while sitting. He reached over with his free hand, his fingers sweeping across the control panel of the heart monitor, skillfully turning the audible alarm volume down to absolute zero. He didn't want the machine interrupting what was about to happen.
He stepped out of his shoes, letting them drop silently to the floor. Then, he moved the heavy wooden door, pushing it firmly until the latch clicked into place, locking out the rest of the hospital. The door was shut. Not cracked, not left on the latch, but fully closed a reckless, silent declaration of privacy that violated every fire code and hospital policy in the book.
He was leaning over the bed, his large frame cast in a sharp silhouette by the blue glow of the ventilator display. His hands, usually so calculated and precise when handling needles or tubing, were tangled in your hair, his fingers gripping the strands with a quiet, desperate intensity.
The kiss wasn't soft, and it wasn't a gentle promise of a future outside the hospital walls. It was heavy, heated. His lips pressed against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger, while your hands locked into the fabric of his dark blue scrubs, pulling him down until his chest crushed against yours.
"Matt," you breathed against his mouth, a tiny, fractured sound that was immediately swallowed by his lips molding over yours again.
He groaned softly, a low vibration in his throat, his knee climbing onto the edge of the narrow mattress to anchor himself closer to you. He shifted his weight, his hands sliding down from your hair to cup your jaw, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones as he tilted your head to deepen the kiss. The static electricity of the thin hospital blanket hummed between you, matching the frantic, irregular rhythm of your pulse.
On the monitor behind his shoulder, the heart rate numbers climbed.. 98, 105, 112 the little green line spiking in jagged peaks. Matt chuckled. And turned the volume down.
Your lips parted, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as Matt’s mouth moved down from your lips, trailing a line of burning kisses along your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. A soft sigh escaped your throat, your fingers tightening convulsively on his shoulders, burying into the cotton of his uniform.
"There gonna notice your gone," you whispered into the dark, your voice thick and breathless, though your body was arching up into his touch, completely contradicting the warning.
"Oh well" Matt murmured, his voice a rough rasp against your skin. He pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the hollow of your collarbone, his thumb smoothing over the edge of your hospital gown, sliding it just slightly off your shoulder. "I don't care. I don't care about anything else right now."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and entirely unguarded. His chest was heaving, his mouth swollen from yours, a stray strand of his mussed hair falling across his forehead. He looked completely unraveled, stripped of the clinical armor he wore like a shield every single day. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to stay professional”
He leaned down to capture your mouth again, his hands sliding down to wrap firmly around your waist, lifting you slightly off the pillows to bring you flush against his chest. The kiss turned deeper, more urgent, the heat in the room rising until the sterilized air felt thick and suffocating.
Click. The lock unlatched.. The sound of the heavy wooden door handle compressing was like a gunshot. Matt froze instantly, his entire body rigid as iron. Before his brain could even process the movement, his clinical instincts took over, and he wrenched himself backward, his feet hitting the floor with a heavy, uncoordinated thud as he staggered away from the bed.
The door swung open, the harsh, bright light from the hallway flooding into the room like an accusation.
Standing in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, was Sarah. The charge nurse's face was cast in a mask of absolute, freezing stone. Her sharp eyes darted from the off center hospital bed, to your flushed face and tangled hair and finally to Matt, whose scrubs were wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and his jaw covered in the phantom flush of your skin.
The silence that followed was absolute, heavier than any flatline. Sarah didn't yell. She didn't make a scene. She simply looked at Matt, her eyes narrowing into a look of profound, professional disgust. She reached out, her fingers wrapping around the edge of the doorframe.
"My office, Matthew," Sarah said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper that cut through the room like a scalpel. "Now."
She turned on her heel and walked away, her clogs clicking a steady, ominous rhythm down the hall. Matt stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the IV pole to steady his shaking hands. He looked back at you, his eyes filled with a sudden, crashing panic, before he smoothed down his scrubs, grabbed his shoes, and stepped out into the blinding light to face the end of his world. “Shit.. Matt? What’s gonna happen”
He turned back to you “I’m not sure.. but I’ll handle it… get some rest.” he said before heading to the office where Sarah was already sitting behind the desk, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. "Sit down, Matt."
He sat. The room was silent, expect for the hum of the air conditioning. "I’ve been looking over the logs for Room 412," she began, her voice professional and devoid of emotion. "You’ve spent forty percent more time in that room than any other patient on your rotation. You’ve been seen entering without a medical purpose. You’ve been seen exiting at times that don't align with your schedule."
"She’s a high risk patient," Matt began, but Sarah held up a hand.
"She is a stable patient who is showing remarkable improvement," Sarah corrected. "Which makes your extra care look less like clinical necessity and more like a personal attachment? There have been rumors Matt. And the cameras don't lie even if the footage is grainy at 3:00 am I’ve catched multiple times you entering her room despite being off shift. "
Matt opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? That he loved the way you smiled when you were half asleep? That he couldn't stand the thought of you waking up in the dark alone?
"You are a stellar nurse, Matt. One of the best we have," Sarah said, her tone softening just a fraction. "Which is why I’m giving you a choice. I’m not filing a formal report with the board… yet. but as of tomorrow, you are being moved to the Surgical Recovery ward in the South Wing. You are to have zero contact with the patient in 412. No visits, no 'checking in,' and certainly no midnight rescues."
The South Wing. It was on the other side of the hospital. He wouldn't hear your alarms. He wouldn't see your smile. He wouldn't be the one to hold your hand when the world felt too big.
"Sarah, please," Matt said, his voice cracking. "She’s just getting her strength back. A change in the care team now could-"
"A change in the care team is exactly what she needs to maintain her professional boundaries," Sarah snapped, her patience finally wearing thin. "If I see you anywhere near this ward after 3pm today, I will personally see to it that your license is revoked before the sun goes down. Do I make myself clear?" Matt stared at her, his vision blurring with a mixture of rage and grief. "Clear," he whispered.
He walked out of the office, his world crumbling around him. He had one hour left on his shift. One hour to say goodbye without actually saying it. He didn't go back to the station. He walked straight to Room 412. He didn't go inside. He couldn't. Sarah was watching.
He stood at the small glass window in the door, his hand pressed against the cool surface. Inside, you were still asleep, a plush bear he brought you form the gift shop was tucked under your arm. You looked so peaceful, so full of the future they had whispered about in the dark. He stayed there for a long minute, his breath fogging the glass.
"I’ll always look out for you" he mouthed to the empty air, before turning away and walking toward the South Wing, his heart breaking in a way that no medicine could ever fix.
To everyone of my followers in the community, whether you’re out to the world, still closeted or quietly questioning, you are accepted here. Your journey is yours alone and it’s valid.
You are seen. you belong. You are valued. You are loved. 🏳️🌈💖
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To everyone of my followers in the community, whether you’re out to the world, still closeted or quietly questioning, you are accepted here. Your journey is yours alone and it’s valid.
You are seen. you belong. You are valued. You are loved. 🏳️🌈💖
summary: you and Matt discuss childhood memories on your wedding day. this story has a lot of flashbacks so flashbacks will be written in this light grey.
requested here also inspired by the song “it’s nice to have a friend”
A soft glow casted over you from the string lights draped across the ceeling. Laughter rippled through the small crowd as the last notes of your first dance faded. You were still wrapped in Matt’s arms, forehead resting against his, when the clinking of forks against glasses began. Matt smiled down at you, that same quiet, steady smile he’d had since you were kids. “They’re not gonna let us sit down until we kiss again.”
You laughed, rising onto your toes to meet him. The kiss was soft, familiar, and still made your chest flutter like it did the first time.
From the head table, Chris stood up first, tapping the mic with a grin. Nick was already smirking beside him, adjusting his tie. “Alright, alright,” Chris started. “For those who don’t know… which is impossible because we’ve told this story a million times… these two have been glued at the hip since they were like, twelve.”
Nick leaned into the mic. “Actually, it was 4th grade so they were 9... I remember because Matt came home soaked and tried to hide the fact he walked a girl home in the snow.” A ripple of laughter went through the guests. You glanced at Matt. He was already looking at you, eyes warm with the memory.
The final bell rang and you pulled your coat tighter around yourself. Snow had started falling halfway through last period, fat flakes that stuck to everything. You were halfway down the sidewalk when you heard sneakers crunching behind you. “Hey? Wait up!” Matt jogged to catch up, cheeks already pink from the cold. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, scarf loose around his neck like he’d thrown it on in a rush.
“You’re going this way, right?” he asked, falling into step beside you. “Can I walk with you? I don’t wanna walk alone” You’d only had a few classes together, but he was the quiet kid who always shared his notes when you forgot yours. “Yeah,” you said, a little shy.
You walked in comfortable silence for a while, the snow muting the world around you. At one point your foot slipped on ice. Matt’s hand shot out instantly, catching your elbow. “Oh no! Careful” he murmured, not letting go until you were steady “oh you lost your glove.. here you can burrow mine.” the time you reached your street, your fingers were numb but your chest felt warm. He waited until you were safely on your porch before giving you a small wave. “Wanna play sometime?”
“Yeah!”
Nick took the mic again. “Fast forward a few years and these two idiots were still pretending they were just friends. We all knew. Chris and I had a betting pool on when they’d finally admit it.” Chris snorted. “I lost twenty bucks because Matt’s emotionally constipated.” Matt groaned, burying his face in your shoulder while the crowd laughed. You rubbed his back, giggling.
One summer night, you both were on the roof your legs dangling over the edge, sharing a pair of earbuds. Matt was quieter than usual, picking at the label on his soda can. “You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?” he asked suddenly. “Doing what?”
“Just… being there. For each other.”
You looked at him. The streetlight caught the side of his face, highlighting the way his jaw had sharpened over the last year. “Yeah,” you said softly. “All the time.”
He swallowed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words hung there, heavier than they should’ve been for two best friends. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You wanted to say something, anything, but the fear of ruining what you had kept you quiet. Matt turned his head. For a second, his eyes dropped to your lips.
Then Chris yelled from inside the house, “stop making out you too, and come play Mariokart with us!” and the moment shattered into laughter and embarrassed silence.
Chris was speaking again, “Matt’s always been the quiet one but with her… he lights up. She’s been his safe place since day one. We’ve watched them go from walking home in the snow to… this.” He gestured at the two of you. “It’s beautiful.”
Nick nodded, taking the mic. “To the girl who’s been putting up with our brother since high school, and to Matt who took forever to admit. We love you both. Now let’s stop being sappy and start the party.” Glasses raised. Cheers rang out.
Matt pulled you closer, lips brushing your temple. “They’re not wrong,” he whispered. “I was an idiot for a long time not admitting earlier.” You smiled, squeezing his hand. “We both were.”
The confession happened during a school camp.. of course. You were arguing about something stupid… college choices and the fear of growing old. “I can’t keep doing this,” Matt said, water dripping from his hair. “Pretending like I don’t—"
“Don’t what?” you challenged, heart in your throat. “Like I don’t love you,” he finished, voice breaking. “Not just as my best friend. I’m in love with you. I think I have been for years.” You stared at him, rain mixing with the tears on your cheeks. Then you kissed him. Messy, desperate, perfect. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious. When you pulled back, he was smiling so wide it made your chest ache. “Took you long enough, Sturniolo.”
The present came back into focus as the DJ announced it was time for the speeches to wrap up. Chris and Nick hugged you both tightly. “Welcome to the family officially,” Nick said. “Though you’ve been stuck with us for years.”
Matt’s hand found yours again as you sat back down. The cake was brought out, soft music playing in the background. You leaned into his side, his arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. “Remember when we were just kids walking home in the snow?” you asked.
He hummed, pressing his lips to your hair. “Yeah. Best decision I ever made was catching up to you that day.” You looked up at him, eyes shining. “It’s nice to have a friend.”
Matt’s smile was soft, full of years of love finally spoken out loud. “It’s even better to have a wife.”
He kissed you again, while the lights glow and your friends cheered. every step had led here and it was perfect.
im baaaackkk, exam season is keeping me in lock down, but it calmed down a bit so i wanted to request something.....if that's ok
i was wondering if you could please write a childhood friends to lovers with matt, based on the song 'its nice to have a friend' by taylor swift? could be in their wedding and they remember different memories of them based on the lyrics, like how they met in winter walking home from highschool, when they realized how they felt about each other, their confession, when they took the first step into a relationship and how they got to get married. (would love some interaction with chris and nick too, like them giving grooms speech and stuff).
totally cool if you dont want to write it tho 🩷🩷
-🐞anon
hello ladybug!! I hope your exams are going well. Here is the fic!!
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · our story · summary: you and Matt discuss childhood memories on your wedding day. this story has a lot of flashbacks so fla
You and Matt are curled up on the couch in the glow of the TV, some steamy rom com playing that’s clearly getting to him. His breathing has been uneven for the last ten minutes, and you’ve caught the way he keeps shifting his hips, trying to subtly adjust himself in his sweats. The obvious bulge is impossible to miss.
You smirk, pausing the movie. “Aw, what’s wrong, puppy?” you coo voice sweet as you turn to face him. “Did the movie make my pup all excited?”
Matt’s face flushes, his eyes darting away. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, but the way he presses his thighs together says otherwise.
You click your tongue. “Don’t lie to me.” You reach over and grab the black leather collar from the side table, along with the matching clip on dog ears. Matt’s expression twists a little.
“Come here, pup. Sit.”
He hesitates for half a second before sliding off the couch and onto the floor in front of you, kneeling. You lean forward and fasten the collar snugly around his throat, then clip the floppy black ears onto his hair. He looks so pretty like this. “Good boy,” you praise, running your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly on the ears. “Now… look at me.”
Matt lifts his gaze, embarrassed but clearly aching. You spread your legs slightly and pat your thigh. “Closer, puppy. Come.” He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s between your legs, hands resting on his own thighs like the obedient pet he is. You cup his jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. “You’re so hard it hurts, huh? Poor thing. You want my help?”
He nods quickly.
“Use your words, pup.”
“Please…” His voice is already breathy. “Please help me.”
You smile, reaching down to palm him through his sweats. He twitches hard at the contact, letting out a shaky exhale. “Beg properly.”
Matt’s cheeks burn darker. “Please… I need it. I’ll be good, just please help me.”
“Better.” You tug his sweats and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already leaking and flushed. Your hand wraps around him, stroking slowly from base to tip. Matt groans, head tipping back slightly. You pump him with steady, teasing strokes, watching every reaction. The second his hips lift, chasing your fist, you pull your hand away completely.
“Ah, down puppy,” you scold gently, pressing your palm flat against his lower stomach to push his hips back down. “If you don’t behave I can’t help you. stay still.”
Matt whines, the sound pathetic and needy. “Sorry, I’ll stay still. Please don’t stop…”
You click your tongue again but reward him by wrapping your fingers back around his cock, stroking a little faster this time. His thighs tremble with the effort of keeping his hips planted on the floor. Every time he slips up, every tiny involuntary thrust makes you stop again, sometimes squeezing the base to keep him right on the edge without letting him tip over.
“Down,” you repeat firmly when he bucks again. “If you’re going to cum you gotta like a good puppy or not at all. Stay.”
Matt’s breathing is ragged, little whimpers slipping out as you edge him over and over. The collar shifts against his throat every time he swallows hard, and the dog ears move with every frustrated shake of his head. “Please… I’m trying so hard,” he pants, voice cracking. “I’ll be still, I swear. Just let me cum, please—”
You lean down, kissing his forehead right between the ears. “That’s my good pup. Now keep those hips down and I’ll give you what you need.” Your hand starts moving again, slick and relentless, while Matt bites his lip hard, fighting every instinct to thrust into your fist like the desperate puppy he is. Matt’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly under the collar. The little silver tag on it jingles softly every time he shifts.
“That’s it, puppy,” you murmur, voice low and sweet. “Stay nice and still for me. Good pup.”
Matt nods frantically, biting down on his lower lip. His thighs are trembling with the effort of keeping his hips pinned to the floor. You twist your wrist on the upstroke, thumb brushing over his leaking tip, spreading the precum down his length. Matt’s eyes flutter shut, soft gasps and whimpers spilling from his lips as he fights to keep his hips still, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of his eyes.
Finally, when he’s a trembling, whimpering mess you decide to take pity.
“Alright, sweet pup,” you coo, stroking him fast and steady. “You’ve been so patient. You can cum now but keep those hips down.”
Matt nods desperately, whispering broken thank yous as your hand flies up and down his cock. His whole body is wound tight, fighting every instinct. You lean down and kiss between the dog ears. “Come on, puppy. Cum for me.”
With a choked cry, Matt finally tips over the edge. His cock pulses hard in your grip as he cums in thick ropes over your hand and his own stomach, hips twitching but managing barely to stay planted on the floor. You keep stroking him through it until he’s cries from overstimulation, then slow to gentle pets along his length. You wipe your hand on his thigh and scratch behind the clip on ears.
“Good boy,” you praise softly. “Such a good puppy for me.”
Matt slumps forward, resting his flushed cheek against your thigh, panting heavily. The collar and ears still on him as he nuzzles into you, spent and obedient.
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I love you baby🩵. I’m so happy I sent that dm! I’d don’t know what I would do without you. You’re so understanding and you’ve helped me see myself in a different light. I’m never afraid with you and there’s literally nothing I don’t tell you. I love you sm😘. @sleepysturns