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mattsdillion · 3 days ago

Text

Holy shit.

heatwave | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: you and matt find a way to entertain yourselves during the east coast heat wave.

warnings: smut; unprotected p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; hand job; squirting; cream pie; dirty talk; overstimulation if you squint; established friendship (duh); 18+

notes: this may or may not be heavily inspired by an encounter i had yesterday (i've never ever used real sexual experiences as a structure for my very fictional writing but that d was fire tbh). i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i did LMAO i love u all very very much <333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Boston is sweltering, and Matt’s room is a sealed oven — windows cracked but useless, blinds drawn to block the sun, a fan wheezing like it’s dying a slow death in the corner. The two of you are sprawled across his bed — limbs loose, clothes clinging to clammy skin, the sheets kicked to the end of the bed hours ago.

You’re lying flat on your back, one leg bent, the other outstretched; your tank top stuck to your ribs in damp patches. Matt’s beside you, lying the wrong way across the mattress, one arm flung off the side like he’s trying to melt through the floorboards.

“Why is this place a furnace?” You groan, dragging a hand down your sweaty face, “I feel like I’m being slow-roasted alive.”

“You’re dramatic,” He says, not even opening his eyes.

“Well you’re delusional.” You shoot back.

He tilts his head slightly toward you, lips curved into a lazy smirk. “Take your shirt off, then.”

You blink at him, letting your head roll to the side, “What?”

He shrugs, the sheen of sweat on his forehead glistening under the light, “It’s hot. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m being nice,” He brings both hands up and covers his eyes, palms flat to his face, “I won’t even look. Scout’s honour.”

You huff a laugh, biting back your smile, “You were never a scout.”

“No, but I’m very honourable. And sweaty. You are too, so, shirt off. Live a little.”

You watch him for a moment, amused. His mouth twitches like he can feel you staring. There’s a bead of sweat at his temple. He’s a mess — hair sticking up, shirt of his own long discarded. You shake your head, “You’re such a freak.”

But the heat is unbearable. And he really wasn’t looking. You hesitate just a second longer before grabbing the hem of your shirt and peeling it up, the fabric sticking stubbornly to your back as you tug it over your head. You drop it somewhere by your side, now left in nothing but a bra and shorts. Still sticky and flushed.

Matt’s hands stay right where there are, fingers splayed like he really is shielding his vision. For a few seconds, he’s perfectly still — dramatically obedient with his mouth locked in a tight smile like he’s resisting every natural impulse. You watch him, amused, for a moment. Then, just as you shift your weight on the bed, you catch the slightest flicker — a single eye glinting through the sliver between his fingers. You can’t help but burst out laughing, “Matt!”

He flinches like he’s been caught red-handed, slapping his hands fully back over his face with a theatrical groan. “You saw nothing,” He mutters into his palms.

“Right,” You laugh.

“I was just checking on you,” He insists, muffled, “For safety reasons.”

“Oh, I see. In case I passed out mid-shirt removal?”

“Exactly,” He says, briefly lowering one hand just enough to wink at you, “What if you got tangled?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re still laughing. You nudge his bare shoulder with your foot, “Creep.”

He grins wider, then finally drops his hands and turns his head toward you. His gaze travels down your body, playful but lingering. He wiggles his eyebrows in a mock-seductive flourish, “Much better.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms lightly over your chest, “Pervert.”

“Saviour,” He corrects, and leans back into the mattress like he’s done something heroic.

You both lay in silence for a little while, focused on lowering your body temperatures. No movement besides the occasional shift of a leg or the tilt of a head. After a lull, Matt glances over. “You cooling down?”

You snort softly, “Not really.”

He’s quiet for a second, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head. After a moment, he sits up abruptly. “Wait, I have an idea. Stay here.”

“Where else would I go?” You mumble, watching him slip out of the room in search of whatever brilliant plan he’s concocted. A minute or two passes. The fan hums uselessly, blowing stale recycled air in your face. Sweat trickles down the side of your neck. Then he returns — triumphant, holding a plastic cup brimming with ice. You lift an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

“I’m a genius,” He says, settling back onto the bed beside you, “I come bearing salvation.”

He plucks one cube from the cup and rolls it between his fingers. You eye him warily.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

You do. Once your eyes flutter shut, the ice touches your forehead and your whole body shudders in response. It’s a shock — biting, electric — and then it begins to melt, cooling the skin it traces. Your breath hitches. Matt drags the cube down your temple, across your cheekbone, down the column of your neck, and then back up again in slow, fluid strokes. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Too soon, the ice cube melts to nothing in his hand.

There’s silence. You open your eyes to find him staring at you. Something about the air has changed — impossibly thicker, slower, hotter. He pulls his eyes from you and grabs another cube. This time, it presses to your cheek again, trailing down. Past your jaw. Down your throat. And then lower, to the swell of your chest. You inhale sharply.

His fingers keep moving, steady and smooth, gliding the ice across your skin, circling your thin bra, skimming the tops of your tits. The cube slides between them, slipping into the dip of your sternum before melting again. Your whole body is awake now — flushed, chilled, aching. He pulls his hand away, and you catch his wrist gently. Your other hand drifts to his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his shorts. When you look up at him, there’s nothing casual about it. He sees it — his throat bobs.

“More?” He asks softly, voice low and rough, like he already knows your answer and what it actually means. Still, you nod. He doesn’t say anything else — just reaches for a third cube. It’s pressed to your tit first — right at the curve — and then lower, bolder, tracing the edge of your bra. The chill is unbearable in the best possible way. Your back arches, hips shifting slightly as your body reacts on its own.

Through hooded lids, Matt watches you. Watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter. He takes his time letting the melting ice drag slowly beneath the cup of your bra now, sending cold water in thin, shocking rivers across your pebbled nipples. You gasp, hand tightening on his thigh. He brings the ice lower again, this time over your stomach, tracing a path past your ribs, across the soft skin of your belly, toward your waistband. You bite your lip as the ice stops at your hip, and you almost tell him — say it out loud, give him permission. But you don’t need to. You lift your hips instead, just a little. Barely a tilt, but enough to signal to him exactly what you need.

He tugs gently at the waistband of your shorts, easing them down over your hips with a softness you weren’t expecting from him. Your friendship with him was usually filled with quick wit and crooked smirks, but now his fingers are slow and careful and almost cautious — as though he wants to take his time in this moment.

The shorts slip past your knees and you kick them off lazily, still sprawled across his sheets in nothing but your bra and thong. He sits back slightly, ice cube in hand, eyes flicking over you and your goosebumped skin. He leans in, and this time the ice touches the top of your thigh.

You gasp again, sharper this time, and Matt lets out a laugh — low and breathless, the sound of someone who’s trying very hard not to lose control. He drags the cube up along the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. You feel every nerve ending flicker awake; your core flooding with a heat much more pleasant than what you have been experiencing all day.

“You’re insane,” You whisper, but there’s no weight behind it. Just the heat of your breath and the sharp contrast of the cold.

“And you’re melting,” He murmurs, voice closer to your hip now, “I’m just doing my part.”

The ice skims higher, fraction by fraction. You hold your breath, body vibrating with desire. The cube stops a breath away from the edge of your thong. He glances at you with a look of finality, as if to say: this is it. This is your last chance to stop this thing that will change our friendship forever.

You nod again, even faster than before. The next second is quiet. He presses the cube to the thin fabric between your legs, and your whole body jolts. A sound slips from you, embarrassingly real, and his mouth curls at the edges like he’s not trying not to smile too much.

“Still hot?” He teases.

“Shut up,” You whisper. But it’s breathless, and he knows you don’t mean it. The cube disappears even quicker than the last two — leaving only a slick trail behind — and his fingers follow, brushing lightly over the edge of your lace underwear, right where the ice had been. They linger there, fingertips barely brushing the dampened fabric. Just curious and waiting, but there is an energy in the way that they tremble that lets you know he needs this as bad as you do.

Without a word, you shift your hips again and widen your legs, offering more. His gaze darkens with lustful disbelief — as though he hadn’t let himself imagine this far ahead, as though he thought you would eventually tell him it’s all a joke. He blinks into a swift recovery. And then slowly, carefully, he hooks his fingers around the waistband and begins to pull.

Your breath hitches as the warm air caresses more of your skin, as the thin fabric slips over your thighs, your knees, your ankles, and finally off entirely. He tosses them somewhere and then he’s still again, just sitting beside you, taking in the sight of you laid out across his bed like some impossible offering. Sweat-slicked, yet goosebumped. A perfect paradox.

A gritty sound escapes his lips as he takes you in. You don’t say anything, just reach behind your back to unclasp your bra. The straps fall like silk down your arms. You let the fabric slide off and drop beside you on the bed. There’s a beat of silence where he doesn’t move, eyes on your bare tits. “Well, you’re definitely hot.”

His lame joke makes a laugh burst out of you, startled and breathless. “You’re such a loser.”

But he’s already leaning down, grinning as he kisses the curve of your knee. Then up your thigh. Then again, higher. Your body tenses, breath rising fast. He shifts on the bed so that he’s right in front of you now, body so close you can feel the anticipation radiating off of it. “Don’t worry,” He murmurs, voice raw, “I’ll cool you down.”

His hands are warm and sure as they slide over your thighs, coaxing them apart even more. His thumbs trace slow, wide arcs on your inner thighs, not quite approaching your centre yet — and the anticipation makes your skin tingle, makes your breath catch. Then he shifts lower, flattening himself against the bed, lying fully between your legs. His face hovers just above your glistening core — close enough that you feel the heat of his brooding breath across your slick skin. He’s staring, openly now, no jokes left in him. You can see it in the way his eyelids droop, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something but can’t quite find the words.

His breath continues to fan over you in an unhurried way that makes you twitch in anticipation. And then, just as you are about to pout, his mouth is on you. Not right where you need it yet. No, he’s still taking his time. His lips find the inside of your thigh first, the soft flesh kissed and then kissed again. A slow trail of heat and patience. He hums against you, the sound low and lazy like he’s easing himself into this — like he wants to remember how every part of you tastes. It makes your hips tilt, chasing his mouth.

He chuckles softly, lips still pressed to your skin. Then finally, finally, he shifts just slightly, and his mouth meets your folds. In an instant your body jerks at the contact. His tongue is slow at first — too slow. Flattening against you and drawing a long, deliberate strip through your slick heat like he’s savouring something sacred. You feel the first roll of pleasure hit deep in your belly — sharp and liquid and sudden — and your spine arches off the bed involuntarily.

“Oh my God,” You gasp, one hand flying instinctively into his hair, fingers twisting tight. He groans in response, a rich, appreciative sound that vibrates deliciously against you. Like he’s agreeing with you, like he wants to say the same thing — Oh my God — but he’s too preoccupied. His mouth works with more focus now, his lips wrapping around the delicate bundle of nerves at your centre with maddening precision, his tongue flicking and pressing in just the right way, just the right rhythm.

You’re really melting now. Every part of you feels like it’s been plunged into heat and ice at the same time. Your thighs threaten to close around him, but his hands are there — steady, anchoring — one splayed across your stomach, the other curling around your thigh and dragging upward, brushing so close to where you need him most that you whimper. Then his fingers find your entrance. Not yet entering you, but pressing softly, as if to feel how ready you are for him. You’re soaked, you know it. He knows it, too, and his groan confirms it.

Your head tips back against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut, every muscle singing under his touch. And he’s listening to you. He’s watching you. He’s adjusted his movements to your reactions. The way your legs twitch. The way your breath skips. The way your hips rock in tiny, desperate pulses. Every movement of his mouth is tuned into the sounds that leave your lips. He learns you fast — adjusts, adapts, deepens. Sucks harder when your fingers tighten in his hair. Flattens his tongue when your hips vibrate.

Your thighs begin to tremble beneath his grip, your back arching higher now, neck exposed, lips parted in soft, uncontrollable moans that sound nothing like you, and he knows — he can feel it. He tightens his grip on you and keeps going, keeps coaxing, keeps drawing sounds from your lips like he’s performing an exorcism.

“F-fuck Matt— I’m g-gonna—”

He doesn’t let up. In fact, he groans again, as though your words are the trigger he’s been waiting for. The vibration against your swollen bud tipping you over the edge. You come apart beneath him, everything in you buckling, curling, unfolding. Your hips jerk, hands flailing against his head and shoulders, and for a moment you forget how to breathe. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out until the wave crests and you sob his name. His crazed tongue doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, whimpering, pushing at his shoulders — too much, too sensitive, too hot. Only then does he pull back.

His lips are swollen, chin wet with you, eyes dark and blown out as his chest rises and falls like he’s been the one undone. He looks at you like he just did something unspeakable, but also unmistakably like he wants to again. Your skin is thrumming, flushed and oversensitive, but every nerve feels lit, alive, and reaching for more. You feel the slow drag of his body as he travels up yours. His mouth brushes across your hipbone in a lazy kiss. Then your stomach, where the warm press of his lips leaves invisible stains across damp skin. You shudder when he pauses at your ribs, nose nuzzling the underside of your tit, and your hand finds his hair again, fingers curling gently through the strands. He groans faintly when your nails graze his scalp.

The next kiss lands just above your heart — soft, but lingering. His breath is still uneven, matching yours. And then his face is level with yours. You look up at him — chest rising, eyes hazy, lips parted — and he’s already watching you with that same wild, unreadable expression. His hand comes up to your face, knuckles brushing along your cheek, and then he kisses you. Gentle, at first. But in an instant it slips into something urgent and achingly slow, like he’s trying to devour you without losing control.

His swollen lips fit over yours perfectly, parting just enough to taste, to tug, to ask. You open for him instinctively, and the low sound he makes in the back of his throat lights a new fire in your core. His tongue strokes against yours — cautious at first, exploratory, like he’s testing you — but when you respond, when you meet him with equal hunger, he sinks into the kiss fully.

His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as his mouth moves against yours in slow, wet, desperate waves. His body hovers just above yours, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand skating down your ribs, across your waist, gripping the curve of your hip. Your whole body arches into him in response. You moan softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed between your lips, and you feel him shiver, even in the heat.

His hips press closer — just enough that you can feel how hard he is against your thigh — and you whimper at the sensation. He responds with another kiss, messier this time, lips dragging down to your jaw, your throat, sucking gently at your pulse point as his fingers dig tighter into your skin. Everything feels swollen. Your lips. Your chest. Your heat. The tension has shifted — pooling low in your stomach all over again.

When he returns to your mouth, the kiss is slower but no less intense. He kisses you like he wants it to last forever — like he can never get enough of your taste. You feel yourself melting again, hips rolling up toward his without thought. He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard, forehead pressed against yours as though he’s trying to hold himself together.

Your hands drift from his face to his shoulders, fingers curling around his muscles, pressing into the warmth of his skin. He’s solid above you, and yet he trembles when you touch him like that — a subtle, involuntary twitch beneath your palms that thrills you. You let your hands roam farther. Over his inked arm. Across his chest. Down his back, your nails grazing along the soft dip of his spine. He shudders again, exhales sharply against your cheek, and his hips rock forward in just a way that makes his cock press against your clit.

Without a thought your hand drops lower. Fingers drifting between your bodies, you reach down, tracing the line of his stomach, past the sharp dip of his hip and the waistband of his pants, you find him — hard, hot, pulsing in your hand. He groans when you wrap your fingers around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, lips pressing into your neck like he’s trying to hold on to something

“Fuck,” He breathes, barely there.

You stroke him slowly, learning the shape and weight of him. Your thumb brushes over his tip, slick and already beaded with precum, and his hips twitch against you like he can’t help it. His whole body jerks, his breath dragging ragged against your collarbone. You feel drunk on it — how much he wants this. He lifts his head again, mouth finding yours, kissing you harder now — mouth open, a little messy, like he can’t quite keep himself in check anymore.

He shifts his weight onto one arm and his other hand slides between your legs, fingers trailing through the slick mess he made of you earlier. The sound it makes — wet and unabashed — draws a gasp from both of you. It’s embarrassing and exhilarating all at once, that undeniable evidence of your desire. He lingers there for a second, fingers gliding through your folds, collecting your arousal, spreading it slowly, deliberately, with slow circles that make your breath catch.

“So wet,” He murmurs, almost to himself, “Jesus.”

Then, with a swift push, two fingers curl inside of you. You cry out softly from the sudden fullness. The way you stretch around his digits, the slow glide of his knuckles as he sinks in deep. Your body rolls into his contact, seeking more, and he groans again as your walls flutter around his fingers. He begins to move — slow and steady at first, learning the angle, the rhythm matching your own hand on his cock. His fingers curl just right, finding that perfect pressure on every stroke, and it sends a ripple of heat through your core that makes your legs tremble. Your mouth falls open around a whimper, body moving with him now, chasing the sensation. His thumb brushes your clit in a lazy circle and you nearly sob out loud.

“M-Matt—” His name is a barely coherent sound.

He kisses you again, swallowing your noises, and his fingers pump into you deeper, faster now. You cling to his shoulders, his back, free hand digging into his skin. Every muscle inside you coils tighter, your body inching closer to the edge with every curl of his fingers. And he knows it — you can tell. He watches your tight expression with awe in his eyes. The tension in your lower stomach is exquisite, almost unbearable.

“D-don’t stop,” You gasp, “Matt—p-please—”

He doesn’t. He keeps pushing his fingers into you, twisting them just enough to make your legs shake. Keeps circling your clit in perfect, devastating passes. He whispers something against your cheek, but you don’t even hear it — all you know is the pressure, the slick glide, the fullness, the heat. You’re going to cum again.

He grabs your hip, holding you in place while you writhe. Your hand freezes around his length, incapable of movement of your own. “Right there,” You gasp, “Don’t stop, don’t—”

And that’s when it hits. You clamp around his fingers, your entire body tensing before it explodes outward, a burst of white-hot pleasure tearing through you so completely you forgot your own name. Your legs shake, your back arches. You cry out, eyes squeezed shut, and Matt just guides you through it, pulling back just enough to watch as the pressure in your lower stomach collapses into a gushing puddle against the mattress, dripping down his fingers, down his wrist. You tremble around him, and you’re still gasping when he finally eases his fingers out of you, hand slow and careful.

Your eyes flutter up to his slowly, blinking up at him through the blinding haze, and he’s watching you again — flushed and wild, chest rising fast. His fingers glisten in the light, and he brings them to your mouth, eyes alight with fiery desire as you wrap your lips around them and suck — the sweetness of you melting against your tongue as it swirls around the digits. He swallows hard, then whispers almost desperately, “I need to be inside you.”

Your breath catches. The urgency in his voice ignites you. It matches the ache deep in your core, the ache his fingers had only just began to quiet. You nod without hesitation, but your body says it louder — the way your fingers pull down his shorts, the way you wrap your thighs around him, inviting him in.

“I want that,” You whisper, “So fucking bad.”

He kisses you again, that slow kiss that tells you he’s holding himself back. You can feel how badly he wants this, not just in the way he moves, but in the tension humming through his entire body — like a taut wire ready to snap. He cups your face in one hand as he does, thumb stroking just beneath your jaw. His other hand moves between you, and you feel the soft rustle of him reaching down, the glide of his fingers as he lines himself up.

You’re still so wet from your last release, your inner thighs sticky, the air thick with the addictive scent of it, but the stretch of him pressing at your entrance makes you gasp again. The raw, unfiltered heat of him a promise that makes your body pulse. He pauses — just barely resting inside you — and lifts his gaze to yours.

“Okay?” He asks, voice strained and barely more than a breath.

You nod, lifting your hips a fraction to urge him forward. His eyes stay on yours as he pushes himself in; slowly, exquisitely. You feel his thick head slide deeper, a tight, stretching burn that blurs into something molten, something impossible to define. Your lips part on a soft moan as your body opens for him inch by inch, yielding to him as he parts you. He goes slowly, as if he’s trying to feel everything. And you are, too. You feel every ridged inch of him as he sinks deeper, your walls fluttering around him, welcoming him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging. You don’t know if you’re pulling him closer or just holding yourself together.

His breath breaks above you in a low groan, and your mouth falls open in a soundless moan against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the fullness, the pressure, the weight of him sinking inside of you. Finally, he bottoms out with a shudder, buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours. For a moment, neither of you move. Your foreheads are pressed together, your breath tangled, your bodies locked in a silence more intimate than anything either of you could say. And you feel it everywhere — the pulse between your legs, the tremble in your limbs, the way your body molds to his, takes him in like it was made to.

“You feel so good,” He whispers, “So fucking tight.”

You whimper, involuntarily pulsing around him, and he groans again like he’s barely holding on. Then he draws back — not all the way, but enough to make you feel the absence — and pushes back in with a slow, steady roll of his hips. You gasp at the stretch, the fullness, and you swear you can feel him rearranging something inside of you. He finds a rhythm almost immediately, each thrust unhurried but deep and deliberate. Every motion presses up into your g-spot, makes your mouth fall open, makes your fingers claw down his back and clutch at his waist.

You arch beneath him, chasing every moment, and the angle of his body, the way he so completely fills you, starts to build another aching knot low in your belly. You feel slick, swollen, stretched, perfect. He kisses you again, open-mouthed and distracted, one hand still against your face while the other slides under your back, lifting your chest toward him. Your tits press against his own chest, flushed body to body, and the friction of your nipples brushing his skin sends a ripple of sensation through you.

“Faster?” He asks, his voice gritty and uncertain. Like he wants it desperately but won’t push. You nod, eyes glassy and blown out. “Y-yes, please.”

His hips snap harder now — deeper, faster — and the rhythm punches a moan from your throat. You meet him eagerly, hips rising to meet every stroke, gasping as the friction and fullness begin to spiral tighter again. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room, wet and obscene. You’re drowning in it. In the feel of him. The scent. The pressure building low and hard in your stomach.

You moan openly now, voice raw and desperate, every sound torn from your throat without permission. He grits his teeth above you, his face — dripping in sweat — twists with restraint as he fights not to finish too fast. But your body around him — your heat, your wetness, the way you tighten on every thrust — is undoing him by the second. Your body trembles and he buries his face in your neck, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher over his hip so he can fuck you deeper.

You whimper at the angle, at the sudden pressure against your spongey core. It shatters your thoughts. Your hands tangle in his hair, your back arches off the bed, and the pleasure crests sharp and sudden in your gut. You’re coming apart already, faster this time, your body raw and open from the waves that still echo in your limbs. He can feel it, your exposed nerves communicating with his own.

“Give me another,” He pants, forehead pressed to yours, “Needa feel you around me. Come on— fuck— give it to me—”

There’s a desperation in his voice that sets you aflame. This is Matt, who’s unraveling above you, who can barely hold himself together, who’s chasing your pleasure like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. His thrusts are erratic now, messy and deep, like control is slipping through his fingers and all he can do is chase the feeling of you tightening around him, the sound of your moans, the heat, the wetness, everything all at once.

You’re there. You’re right there. You look up at him through hooded eyes and your breath catches. His dark hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed red and glowing. His mouth is parted, jaw tense, eyes wild and dark and locked on your own. You’ve never seen anyone look like this. Like they’re about to come undone just from watching you fall apart.

“There you go,” He coos, encouragement thick with desire, “That’s it, baby.”

All at once, your body clenches around him in frantic, uncontrollable waves, wet and tight and pulsing. You cry out — his name, or just a sound, you’re not sure — as the orgasm rips through you. It seizes you completely, head tipped back, fingers clawing at his arms, your legs trembling around his hips. It’s a violent, full-body surrender. A deep contraction from somewhere unreachable inside of you, like your core itself is pulling him in and refusing to let go.

And Matt feels it. He chokes out a groan, deep and raw, and you feel the shift in him — the exact second he begins to lose control. His rhythm falters. His breath punches out of him in short, desperate grunts. One thrust, another. Then a sharp jerk of his hips, and suddenly he’s still — his body locking above you like something has snapped inside him. You feel him throb between your walls. The twitch of his cock, thick and urgent, is followed by a guttural sound you’ve never heard from him before. Like a growl broken in half, cracked by sensation.

His head drops to your shoulder, his arms shaking where they cage you in, his entire body shuddering. Then you feel the heat of him spilling into you. Rope after rope, thick and hot, pulsing into your already aching body. It’s overwhelming — not just the satisfaction of being filled, but the knowledge that he’s coming because of you. That you alone did this to him. That your body brought him to the edge and held him as he fell.

He stays inside of you, buried to the hilt, as the last few waves pulse through him. You feel every one. Every throb, every flicker of his release as it fills you. His breath is ragged against your throat, his whole body weight pressing into you now, heavy and real and shaking. You don’t mind, even in the humidity of the room. You need the weight of him. It pins you to the moment, keeps you from floating off somewhere. Because your whole body is humming — sore, raw, alive — and your mind hasn’t caught up yet with what just happened.

You wrap your arms around his back, fingers dragging gently up his spine. He’s soaked in sweat, heaving beneath your palms, and you can feel his heart hammering where his chest is pressed to yours. Neither of you can speak yet. There’s only breathing. The soft, broken rhythm of lungs searching for air. The thundering in your ears. The quiet twitch of your walls still fluttering around the softening length of him, like your body hasn’t quite figured out it’s over.

You don’t even realize you’re practically suffocating until Matt slides carefully out of you and collapses on the bed to your left, chest rising and falling in sync with your own, both of you gasping like swimmers who misjudged the distance to the surface. The bed feels disgusting beneath you — damp, sticky, top sheet clinging to your back like wet paper. Every inch of your skin is slick with sweat. The heat presses in like a second body. It’s even hotter now than before you started, like the room itself is exhaling with you.

Matt groans, throwing one arm over his eyes. “Okay,” He says, voice raw and hoarse, “In hindsight? Probably the worst possible activity for a heatwave.”

You let out a breathless laugh, turning your head toward him, “Yeah, I noticed.”

He doesn’t move — just lies there, limbs spread like he’s trying to make contact with any available patch of cool air. Eventually, he turns his head toward you, eyes squinting in the light, hair matted to his forehead. “You good?”

You nod, small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You?”

He lifts one lazy hand and gives a crooked thumbs-up before letting it flop back to the bed. Silence drapes over you again, but it’s comfortable. It’s the stretch of space after something monumental, when your body is still remembering and your brain hasn’t quite caught up. Matt rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His fingers reach for your hair — pushing it back gently. You close your eyes at the comforting feeling of his knuckles skimming your temple, dragging sweat back into your hairline.

“Wanna take a shower?” He mumbles, brushing a damp strand off your cheek.

“Yes,” You reply, though it comes out more like a sigh.

Neither of you rush it, though. You just stare at the ceiling for another moment, slippery legs braiding together mindlessly. Eventually, you both drag yourselves up. The floor is hot beneath your feet. The hallway even hotter. When you reach the bathroom, Matt leans over the tub and fumbles for the cold tap. He doesn’t speak, just waits, listening to the rush of water hit the tile. You lean against the wall beside the closed door, arms crossed under your bare chest. “You gonna keep your hands to yourself?”

He blinks at you in the mirror, then gives a lopsided grin. Holds two fingers up, “Scout’s honour.”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hmm. That sounds awfully familiar.”

He pretends to look scandalized. “Are you accusing me of being untrustworthy?”

“I’m accusing you of being full of shit,” You say sweetly, stepping around him to test the water. It’s ice cold, thankfully. “I believe you very recently said the same thing. Then proceeded to melt an ice cube on my tits.”

“That was purely for heat stroke prevention,” He explains.

You snort, “Then you fucked me.”

“Touche.”

You step into the spray first. The cold shocks your system, but it feels so good — almost as good as your last orgasm, who’s aftershock still sits low in you. Matt steps in behind you a moment later, groaning dramatically as the water hits him. He stands a respectful distance away, but you can feel the heat of him still. It’s silent for a moment as you shampoo your hair, rinsing it out and letting the suds run down your body.

“Are you cooled down enough yet?” His voice comes from behind you. You turn around and find him standing with his arms crossed, goosebumped skin and blue-tinged lips. You laugh at the pitiful sight, letting the water run slightly warmer.

“You could’ve waited.”

“You may have died of hypothermia in here unsupervised.”

You snort. “Supervised? What are you, a lifeguard?”

He pauses for a moment, playful smile toying with his lips in the way it does when he’s coming up with a clever response.

“I prefer the term wetness consultant,” He finally says, and you nearly slip from how hard you began to laugh.

“You did not just say that to me.”

“It’s true,” He tilts his head beneath the spray, flicking water from his lashes, “I stand by it. I’m providing a service.”

“A public one?” You retort.

He rolls his eyes, smirking, “Nah. Usually private one-on-ones.”

You shake your head, stepping forward to reach for the body wash. His gaze drops automatically to your tits, and you catch it. “Eyes up here, creep.”

But his gaze has intensified, and brows pull in just slightly with focus. “You just,” He says, voice low, words half-lost beneath the rush of water, “Have something—”

Before you can ask what, his hands rise and settle at your waist, thumbs brushing your wet skin. His touch is so light it feels almost imagined. You lean back slightly, instinctively, and the chill of the tile wall hits your spine like a warning. But his body moves with yours, crowding just enough without forcing space. His eyes flick down again. You follow his gaze and see a single line of suds, clinging to the curve of your tit, delicate and iridescent in the light.

One of his hands travels up your side and cups your breast, and he swipes a thumb across your nipple to clear away the shampoo in a single, fluid motion. It hardens under the contact, and you groan internally at the way your pulse began to race. His lips part as he watches it react, and he leans down, wrapping his mouth around your nipple and sucking delicately. You close your eyes, the cold washing over you in unison with rippling desire, and try not to think too hard about the distinguishable heat still burning dangerously beneath your skin.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

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