mattstoneenjoyer - Tumblr blog

mattstoneenjoyer · 3 months

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Boy Next Door

matt stone x fem reader

i'm back. mabel finish a fic before starting a new one challenge i don't want to write Y/N anymore so for now i will use [name] as a filler LOL is that even worse? this was one of the first ideas i ever had and i'm sure its widely overused on here but i really loved writing this. will probably turn it into a series lol we'll see but at least one or two more parts to come xx

The removal of the sold sign and the influx of moving vans this past week was a dead give away that I now had a new neighbour. I seriously prayed for someone cool to move in, as I have an almost certain suspicion that the previous owners were drug dealers. I hadn't actually seen them yet and I wasn't planning on going over and introducing myself as my neighbourhood was notorious for keeping to itself. Unless you count that awkward wave you give to the person across the street when you're taking out your bins at the same time. It was a quiet place, all the more reason to love it. We were all living in synchronous harmony in our quiet, private little bubbles.

I had a routine of hitting the hay around 9:30pm, 10pm on a bad night, which in itself was a luxury. Tonight, I'd already set myself up. Fed the dog, fed myself, showered, watched a bit of telly, then got cosy in bed around 9pm. I turned off my TV, and that's when I noticed the repetitious bumping of heavy bass brought to life by the speakers next door. It's okay, I told myself, closing my eyes and trying block out the sound best I could. Is it getting louder? I suspected I may be paranoid or hyper focused on the sound because I have work at 6am. I ended up dozing off, thankfully.

Then the next thing I knew, I was being awoken by a loud smash of glass, and an even louder, "aw, come on, man! You're paying for that!"

I couldn't have been imagining it, because now instead of a steady thump of bass, I could now hear loud and clear the lyrics to MAAD City by Kendrick Lamar as if he were performing a live concert in my bedroom. I rolled over to check my phone. 11:45pm. That's it.

I - a bit dramatically, I must admit - threw my blankets off and threw on my dressing gown, storming out my front door in my stupid bunny head slippers. Despite the great choice of music, I was absolutely furious, the bass bumping so hard as I approached the door, I could feel it in my chest. I knocked on the door so hard my knuckles stung. No answer. I waited a moment, then proceeded to bash on the door with all my might. A few moments later, my hands on my hips and a scowl on my face that screamed, 'I don't care if you think I'm lame, you've royally pissed me off,' the door opened.

A man with kind of short, kind of long, curly brown hair stood before me with ugly oval rimmed glasses, an aquiline nose, and a bottle of beer in his hand. "...hello?" The look on his face almost read, do I know you?

"Hello. I live next door," I huffed, arms now tightly crossed over my chest. Don't get angry, compose yourself. "It's almost midnight on a Sunday. Could you please... tone it down a bit?"

“Oh absolutely, sorry, miss…?”

“[Name]”

"Well, nice to meet you," he reached his hand out to shake mine, which I begrudgingly accepted, a little gap in his teeth on display. "I'll turn it down right now." He pulled out his phone and showed me him pressing the volume down button repeatedly, the music complying.

"Thank you." I wasn't interested in chatting, instead I stormed back into my house with an emphatic sigh, slamming the door behind me. I shucked off my gown and climbed back into bed, grateful that now I'd hopefully get an okay sleep.

Nope.

Less than ten minutes later, the music is cranked back up and now theres a ball repeatedly hitting my fence. "For God's sake," I yelled to nobody, charging for the neighbours house barefooted.

I was so angry at this point, I didn't even care that I was in skimpy little Victoria's Secret pyjamas I'd owned since high school.

As I shamelessly bashed on his door, I tried to block out the little voice in my head that pleaded, just let it go, and, your actions have consequences. Absolutely livid, I waited, and waited. My fist inches away from punching a hole through the door, it opened once more.

The same curly headed man from earlier, this time more noticeably inebriated. Or high. Please, for the love of God, just be an occasional user and not a dealer. “Well, what a pleasant surprise! Decided to come party?”

“No, I did not come to party!” I snapped, my anger seemingly unleashing itself in the form of a foot stomp, similarly to how a spoilt 5 year old would. “I want you to have some respect and turn this shit down! Or better yet, off!”

One of his friends appeared in the doorway, eyes half lidded and probably the same shade of red as my face currently. "That's not party attire," he snorted, being pulled away by someone in a... Spiderman costume? What kind of party is this?

I sighed deeply, pinching the upper bridge of my nose with eyes screwed shut as tightly as my fist. I was on the verge of tears, and I think he noticed by the way he quickly dropped his act.

“Okay, okay. I'm turning it off right now.” He must've realised how much of an inconsiderate dick he was being. He reached into his pocket and turned off the music, sighing down at me. I heard a few short lived groans from the other side of the door. An annoyed, “duuuude that was my song,” before the drunken chatter quickly resumed.

“Thanks,” I muttered, yawning into my hand (for dramatic effect, of course).

“Matt, bring the lady in,” one guy slurred against the door frame as if I wasn't even there. “Wanna play basketball with her,” he professed, before stumbling back into the house.

“Oh, yeah, if that ball hits my fence one more time I'll tear it down and beat you with the wood.” I walked away after this, feeling quite proud of myself, actually. We should normalise occasional temper tantrums in adults.

Thankfully, the music remained off as I got back in bed, almost immediately drifting off.

BANG. Then that fucking ball hit my fence again, followed by followed by my new neighbour scolding someone indistinguishably. Then, in a slightly louder voice intended for my ears, “sorry, [name].”

Due to my disrupted sleep last night, I nearly slept in. I confess, I am a bit of a princess with my sleep. I spent my morning racing around like a headless chicken, spilling coffee all over my white blouse, having to change, which pushed me back another minute. I rushed out to my car, only to find, to my demise, I've been blocked in. Some random vehicle, probably belonging to one of the degenerates next door, hanging 3/4 over my driveway.

Almost with a feeling synonymous with deja-vu, I flounced to the neighbours', determined to fuck his shit up, to put it plainly. I pounded on the door impatiently with both fists, tapping my foot while I waited. A random man clad in a t-shirt depicting a stick figure humping the word 'IT' answered the door.

“Excuse me, who’s car is this?” I pointed to the car blocking my driveway, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Fuck, dude, I was sleeping,” he groaned, and I didn't even try and hide my eye roll. Karma, I thought. “I don’t know,” he rubbed his eyes like a child, thinning my already impossibly thin patience.

“Where is Matt?”

“Probably sleeping, man, it’s like, barely even morning yet.”

I was painfully close to losing my temper. To avoid combusting on the spot, I sighed and pushed past the potentially still drunk guest. Or maybe other new neighbour. I sure hope not.

I scrunched my nose up at the state of his place - beer bottles strewn everywhere, the stale smell of cigarettes and weed clinging to the furniture, guests were passed out in each corner of the living room. I hugged my handbag close to me and stepped over the scattered limbs like a contortionist dodging laser beams, adamant on disrupting Matt's slumber like he had mine. I navigated his long hallway, pushing open every door, scoffing at the half naked bloke with two naked women clinging to either side of him. I near shuddered in disgust, wanting nothing more than to disinfect my entire body after being in the war zone of his house. Maybe I was only being so judgemental because I was irrevocably angry. Maybe.

I eventually found his room, which to my surprise, was almost compulsively clean and ordered with Patrick Bateman level precision. I stood before his bed with folded arms and wondered to myself if maybe he'd think I had some kind of bone disfigurement that kept my arms bent across me. I quickly relaxed them at my side.

"Matt," I spoke sternly. He didn't even stir. I bent down close to his face, raising my voice this time. "Matt."

Finally, his eyes flung open and he jumped, clamping a hand over his chest as if to stop it from bursting through his skin. “Fuck!” he panted softly. I rolled my eyes at him as he caught his breath and pulled away. As if deliberately oblivious, he stretched and spoke halfway through a groan, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Who’s car is parked over my driveway?”

“I have no clue,” he breathed as he smooshed his face into his pillow, voice still thick and croaky with sleep. His hair was unruly, but his glasses were neatly folded on his bedside table beside a glass of water and a packet of Advil.

“I’m going to be late for work,” I exclaimed as calmly as possible, though I was on the verge of a tantrum. I was oddly self conscious that he'd only seen me furious. “Whoever it belongs to, it needs to be moved. Like, five minutes ago.”

“Alright,” he sighed, groggily pushing the blanket from his body and sliding his glasses on, only clad in pyjama pants with m&m’s printed all over them.

He lead me through the dormant chaos of his house, even scrunching up his face from the mess. Or maybe the smell. He pushed a blind to the side and glanced out onto the street, seeing the culprit; a silver Mitsubishi Lancer. He then walked over to the supposed owner, kicking him softly in the side where he was laying on the floor. “Move your car, dude.”

The man just groaned and patted his jean pocket, face smushed into the little couch cushion beneath him, weakly handing the keys to Matt. He just rolled his eyes and trudged out the front, and I followed close enough behind that I almost nicked his heels with every step.

He clambered into the drivers seat with the air of a zombie, pulling the car onto the side of the road. I wasted no time getting into my car, reversing out of the driveway and rolling down my window, pulling up beside him. “Thank you,” I smiled with genuine appreciation, watching him run a hand through his hair in my rear view as I drove away.

#omg #i like this already 🤓

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mattstoneenjoyer · 6 months

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Provocateur

matt stone x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, mature

summary: both trying to advance in the hierarchy of journalism, two sworn enemies will do anything (and anyone) to sabotage one another.

word count: 3.7k

cw: none really besides alcohol drinking. this is more an introductory chapter ❤️❤️ future chapters will be 18+

Her auburn hair shone under the stage lights as she answered questions at the podium. She had rather… interesting style, but that was a given considering she was the hottest artist in action right now. She wore a maxi dress made entirely from pages of her favourite books, mixed and matched poetry on frayed pieces of paper. With every step she took, you could hear the paper crinkle, and in no way was she comfortable. You couldn’t even wrap your mind around her Lady Gaga-esque fashion statements, or even the practicality of how her pieces worked. Albeit, you were completely and utterly fascinated by her. She was beautiful and had a cult following that would surely advance your career if you got the chance to write your article about her.

So that’s why you were here at the Metropolitan Museum of Arts in New York. You’d recently moved to a new prestigious journalism firm in the area, and you were more than prepared to step on some toes if you had to, determined to write your next piece on her. She went by the title Madame Provocateur, and by God, was that name perfect for her. She was here today to display her new artworks, selling for close to half a million dollars each. The artworks ranged from paintings depicting controversial opinions regarding war, to provocative nudist pieces, some even involving casts made of her and her partners’ genitals. As an art lover yourself, you were absolutely captivated by the sheer emotion of her pieces, especially when the overriding theme was rebellion and female liberation.

You dressed the part today, a long black faux leather coat that reached the back of your knees, matching faux leather books that hugged your calves. Your hair was slicked back, simple but dark makeup accentuating your features. You wore a beautiful - far too expensive - black dress underneath, sticking out like a sore thumb among the sea of people in bright colours.

As she stepped off the podium, you thought to yourself, this is my chance. You fixed your posture and casually approached her, the textbook definition of confident in your stature. As you opened your mouth to introduce yourself, a tall figure in an obnoxious emerald green suit slinked in front of you. What is that material? Velvet? You internally cringed, velvet was your least favourite texture.

“Madame,” he spoke cooly, extending his hand for her to shake. “It’s an honour to meet you, I’m a huge fan of your work. My name is Matt Stone, I’m a journalist.” You fought back the urge to roll your eyes as he continued babbling; the poor woman couldn’t get a word in if she tried. You took a glass of champagne from the waiter holding one of the trays like you see in the movies. This place was fancy.

“I was hoping to get your permission to write an article on you and your dedication to provoking controversial conversations in an ever advancing world.”

Oh please, you thought to yourself. Wonder how long he spent studying the thesaurus for that one.

You decided to interject, stepping toward the two of them. You didn’t even bother to acknowledge… what did he say his name was? Mark? Doesn’t matter, you pretended he wasn’t there. No time like the present, right?

“So sorry to interrupt, Madame,” you smiled, extending your hand to her as the other journalist did. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I won’t bore you with a thousand words, but I’m also a journalist and would love nothing more to write my article about you.” You placed a hand over your chest sincerely, pretending not to hear the scoff that came from the other journalist. “I’ve loved you since I was a teenager, it’d really mean the world to me.”

She looked between the two of you, seemingly unimpressed. She sighed before speaking, “I wonder how many others will ask me the same thing. I get this a lot, you know,” her French accent was thick, and her stare was painfully intimidating to say the least.

You finally looked to the man beside you, who shifted uncomfortably in his place. “But I suppose any press is good press,” she shrugged, looking between the two of you with pursed lips. “Write your little hearts out,” she feigned a smile, stepping away from the two of you.

You both stood there, absolutely shocked as you watched her disappear into the crowd.

He cleared his throat before turning to you, “didn’t catch your name. You are?”

“Y/N,” you looked up to him. Very handsome, short curly hair, peculiar oval shaped glasses.

“And your firm?”

“New York Times,” you grinned, still quite proud that you landed this position. “Trying to advance my position so, I really need this one.”

“Huh… never seen you around.” He rutted his jaw slightly before continuing, “I’ve been there for five years. I’m actually looking to advance as well so… I need this one.”

“Five years, huh? Never heard of you,” you stifled a grin as he clenched his jaw, starting to walk off. He followed close behind, exiting the museum with you. “Well, I’m doing this story. Sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure something else will come up for you.”

You bit your tongue to hold yourself back from arguing, hailing a cab from the street.

“Well, I am too,” you smiled sweetly, a cab pulling up to the curb. “May the best journalist win.”

“You’ll be okay,” he smiled back this time, stepping toward your cab. “I’m sure you’ll get used to losing. Or maybe you already are.”

You were shocked at his confidence, staring into the cab as he climbed in, jaw slack. “You getting in?” He smirked, patting the free seat beside him.

“Not with you,” you deadpanned, blood boiling at the way he shrugged and closed the door. You watched the cab pull away, arms folded over your chest like a spoilt child.

You climbed into the next cab, still in disbelief at what just unfolded with your supposed new coworker.

———

It was Friday morning the following day, and you walked into work with newfound confidence. You made your way into the large building, taking the lift to the highest floor to meet with your boss. Today he was setting you up with your own workspace and wanted to discuss what your next article would be. You knew your article would impress him, knowing the traction a story about Madame would bring. You scheduled your meeting extra early, hoping to be the first journalist to share your idea.

Once you reached his door, you knocked softly, awaiting his permission to enter.

“Come in,” you heard echo from the other side of the door, entering with a soft smile.

“Good morning,” you chirped, approaching his desk. His office was massive and had the most beautiful view of Manhattan.

“It is, isn’t it?” He smiled back, gesturing for you to sit before his desk. “We’re glad to have you on board.”

“Thank you, I’m so grateful for this opportunity,” you beamed, unable to contain the joy you felt. You hadn’t felt so excited in a long time, especially not for work.

“Speaking of opportunities, I see you’ve applied for our promotional position, yes?” He peered up at you through square framed glasses, his computer opened on what you presumed to be your file.

“Yes, sir,” you nodded, folding your hands over your lap. “I chose the topic for my article. Madame Provocateur, the French artist. She’s been the centre of a lot of controversy lately, I feel like she’ll bring us a lot of attention.”

“Well, you might have some competition,” he pursed his lips, checking the time before continuing, “our own Matthew Stone has taken an interest in her as well. He should actually be here soon.”

That motherfucker.

“May I ask what his article is specifically going to be about? Like, what topics will he cover?”

“Hm, I’ll be honest, he likes to stir the pot,” he chuckled, and you fought off a scoff. “He’ll likely be writing an exposè piece as he typically takes that route.”

You sucked your teeth, sinking back into your chair. Well, fuck. You definitely have competition.

“I’m happy for the two of you to discuss your articles, the last thing we need is interpersonal conflict.“

You heard an abrupt knock on the door, followed by none other than Mr Stone walking through the door wearing a well fitted grey suit.

You fought against the muscles in your eyes, forcing yourself not to roll them. I’m going to have a good day, you told yourself. My piece is going to be better, I am better.

“Good morning,” he grinned, taking a seat beside you. He took one look at you and his smile was wiped clean. “Oh… hello.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, shifting your eyes to your hands. The tension in the room grew thick immediately, the feeling comparable to hands around your throat.

“Do you two know each other?” Your boss spoke up, gesturing between you both.

“Nope,” you spoke up, flashing the best fake smile you could muster. You turned to face him, putting your hand out for Matt to shake. “Y/N, you must be Matthew? It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Yeah, likewise,” he gave you an equally fake smile, squeezing your hand a bit too hard. You winced silently, pulling away.

“Matthew, Y/N is writing a piece on Madame as well.”

“Oh, is she?” He turned to you, jutting his jaw as he had the night before.

“I want you to be adults about it. You’re both located in block B, so I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to discuss.” Your boss gestured to the door, silently kicking the both of you out.

“Uh, block B, sir?” Matt questioned, tilting his head like a confused puppy would.

“Just for the time being,” he dismissed, eyes going back to his computer. “Your office is being renovated over the weekend, did you forget?”

“Oh, right, yeah.” He nodded, standing from the seat. He leaned forward and shook the bosses hand. Giving you one last look before leaving the room.

You followed suit, thanking your boss before following after the tall brunette. His steps were so large, you struggled to keep up. He got in the elevator and you had to practically run to make it in. He just laughed under his breath while you stared him down with daggers.

“So what’s your plan, huh?” You finally broke the silence between you both, immediately annoyed at the drawn out sigh he released. “An exposè?”

“Controversy sells,” he shrugged. “You’ll learn that after you get more… experience.”

You scoffed, following him out of the elevator to the B block of cubicles. “You know, I was gonna write the same thing.”

“Oh, really?” He asked, though it was more rhetorical sounding, as if it went in one ear and out the other.

“Mhm,” you followed him to two empty desks, one presumably yours as he took a seat at the one to the right. You took your seat, setting down your belongings, leaning on your elbows before continuing, “I have some connections.”

“Connections?” He scoffed, shaking his head before logging into his computer.

“I know where she’s headed this Saturday.” You spoke matter-of-factly.

“Mhm, the Little Red Door,” he looked up to you, mocking the surprised look on your face.

“How did you-“

“Look, kid. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it would be smart for you to pick a new topic.”

“Maybe I should,” you feigned a sigh, turning to log into your own computer. He seemed pleased with himself, patting you on the back before leaving his desk. This guy clearly got too much praise from mummy and daddy and genuinely believed the sun rose every morning for him. There was no way you were letting him upstage you. Somebody needed to knock him down a few pegs, and you were the perfect person to do so.

It was 5pm now, your eyes were going all blurry from staring at the screen all day. You jumped when you felt a big hand clasp your shoulder, turning to see none other than Matthew.

“Sorry, jumpy,” he laughed, gesturing to the clock on the wall. “It’s 5pm on a Friday. I’m not spending another minute longer in this building. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go?” You scoffed, logging off your computer and grabbing your things. He was still standing there… waiting for you?

“What’s an uptight girl like you get up to on a Friday night, hm?” He walked with his hands in his pockets, seemingly only bringing his phone and car keys to work. Douche.

“Oh, where to begin?” You joked, stepping into the elevator with him.

“I’m heading out for a drink if you wanna come,” he suggested, eyes scanning your face. Was he seriously asking you out?

“Maybe another time,” you shrugged, trying to maintain the attitude that you didn’t care. Or at least make him believe that. “Got a lot of research to do tonight. This guy at work stole my idea so uh, while he’s wasting time at the bar, I’ll be getting closer to my promotion.”

“I stole your idea?” He laughed incredulously, shaking his head at you. “I knew you were young but I didn’t think you were so immature.”

“Geez, sorry. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve,” you studied his face, the way his eyebrows knitted together when he was frustrated, the way he lazily leaned against the rails in the elevator. The way his dress shirt hugged his biceps so nicely. Stop, you scolded yourself mentally. “You don’t get rejected often, do you?”

He just shrugged, staring ahead at the elevator doors. “You might be pretty, but your looks don’t mean anything if you’re a bitch. I was just trying to be nice.”

You stood there, a bit speechless. This guy confused you on every level. First he was an arrogant asshole, then didn’t speak to you all day, then asks you out for drinks?

“I’m a bitch because I don’t want to go out with you? Get over yourself,” you scoffed for what felt like the thousand time that day, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he stepped through the elevator doors, walking away as he continued, “enjoy your ‘research,’” making air quotes with his fingers.

Why was I so rude? Wait, was I even rude? I’m allowed to say no. You were left again, conflicted and rendered speechless with one underlying thought.

He thinks I’m pretty.

When you got home, you followed your very structured routine. Feed the dog, shower, have dinner, then you could relax. You tried to do what you set out to do, pulling out your laptop to start your research.

All you could think about was Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. He plagued your brain; his pretty eyes, warm, deep voice, the way your stomach flipped when you kept replaying the moment he asked you for drinks.

Why did I say no? You mentally cursed yourself, deciding to crack open a bottle of red and try enjoy yourself. Truth is, you wanted to say yes. But something was holding you back. Maybe if you softened once you’d let him walk all over you? Maybe being nice was his way of throwing you off your game? Too late now.

You fought the thoughts of him the best you could, but eventually, you were overcome with curiosity. You reluctantly opened facebook, typing in his name. Turns out Matt Stone was a very common name. You eventually found him, seeing you had a few mutual friends.

Funny, when he wasn’t scowling or laughing at your expense, he was actually very handsome. Like… gorgeous. Aquiline nose comparable to a Greek God, the sharpest jawline you’d seen in a long time. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled, and his lips curved up revealing a small gap in his front teeth. You continued to scroll through his pictures, getting deep enough to see pictures from his early twenties. Woah. Big hair. Lots and lots of curls, and those oval framed glasses he seemingly always had.

You learned a bit about him. He was roughly 5-10 years older than you. He went to college in Colorado, but must’ve dropped out. He clearly thought he was hot shit, judging by the hundreds of photos on his timeline. He was unbelievably handsome, but you’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing you thought that.

By the time you’d finished the whole bottle of wine, the liquid courage coursed through your veins, controlling your fingers, adding him as a friend.

Shit, what if he thinks I was stalking him?

He added you back almost immediately so… too late. You tried to ignore the giddy feeling you got when you got the notification, opting for blaming it on the alcohol.

———

You had a somewhat productive day, having written the beginning of your article and feeling pretty good about it. Tonight, Madame was going to be at the Little Red Door; a small-ish bar located in downtown Manhattan. It was quite exclusive, but luckily, you had connections. It was relatively cold in Manhattan you’d grown to learn, so you put on a mid length, beige Burberry coat, with a fitted black dress underneath for once the alcohol heated you up. Your black stilettos clacked along the wooden floor in your apartment as you grabbed your handbag and headed out. It was approaching 7pm, and this was around the time Madame was expected to show.

You walked in, being greeted by the bartender you occasionally hooked up with. Whoops.

“How’s my favourite lady?” He beamed, already preparing your drink without you having to order.

“So so,” you smiled, tilting your hand side to side. “And you?”

“Better now,” he grinned, sliding the martini toward you. “This one’s on the house. Talk soon, okay?”

You nodded, blushing a bit as you found a table to sit at. He was handsome, tall, dark features, tattoos completely covering his arms. He was nice enough too, had a nice place, nice car. He was a bit of a coke head though, so you reserved your time with him for strictly sex only.

Fifteen minutes passed and still no Madame. You were halfway through your second martini when Matthew walked in. You knew he would be here, part of the reason you spent extra time on your makeup tonight.

You watched him order, deciding whether you should approach him or act like you didn’t see him. He seemed to have made his mind up, walking straight past you to an empty booth. Your heart accelerated when you saw him. Dressed more casually than at work, but still, he looked so clean. A black fitted t-shirt with black slacks. He had a silver chain on and his usual watch. He watched the band performing live music as he sipped on his beer, tapping the table along to the song.

Either he actually didn’t see you, or he was pretending not to. There he goes stealing my idea again. You decided to bite the bullet, taking a deep breath before grabbing your drink and approaching his table. He finally acknowledged you as you walked over, eyeing you up and down, righting himself in his seat.

You slid into the booth, blank expression. “Matt.”

He cleared his throat, bringing his gaze to your eye level.

“Jumpy,” he nodded toward you, taking another sip of his beer.

“I want to apologise for being rude to you,” you couldn’t meet his gaze, always having a weird reaction to sincerity. “You were just trying to be nice and I was being salty. Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he smiled slightly, looking to his hands on the table. “Shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”

You sucked your teeth, only nodding in response. It was slightly awkward considering you only met two days ago and you’d already gone through the emotions of despise and lust for this man.

“I don’t think she’s coming,” you broke the silence, fiddling with the toothpick in your martini.

“That’d be my luck,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair.

Again, awkward silence. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Want another drink?”

He nodded, eyes glued to the band playing across the bar. Asshole. Whatever, you were gonna leave after this drink anyway.

You wandered back up to the bar, ordering a drink for you and your coworker.

Your occasional friends with benefits bartender looked almost offended, looking in the direction of Matt. “You on a date?”

“Him? Oh god no,” you shook your head incessantly, scrunching your face up in distaste. “Co-worker. We just happened to run into each other, I guess. He’s a prick.”

“Want me to spit in his drink?” He laughed, and you laughed too for the first time tonight. You shook your head again, taking the drinks from him.

“Thank you,” you smiled, walking away still giggling. Matt’s eyes were trained on you as you approached the booth again, sliding the drink to him.

“Weird, you must have a funny side,” he murmured, taking the drink from you.

“Are you gonna thank me, or?” You deadpanned, both of you in a staring competition now.

“Thank you,” he smiled, eyes still glued to you. “So who is that guy?”

“Just a friend,” you shrugged, eyes finally leaving his.

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” he pursed his lips, toying with the neck of his bottle. “Are you fucking him?”

You snapped your head around at this, sure your ears were deceiving you. “‘Scuse me?”

“C’mon, you’re obviously screwing each other.”

“I- wh- that isn’t any of your business, Matthew,” you stuttered, tripping over your own tongue as your cheeks reddened. His face lit up at your implicit admission, a little bit surprised.

“Guess you aren’t as uptight as I thought,” he chuckled, and you threw him a glare.

“Like you’ve never had meaningless sex before,” you rolled your eyes, unamused by the mischievous look on his face.

He shrugged, still grinning. “Touché. I wanna hear more about this. Wanna do some shots?”

#omg i love this already!#so excited for the next part <3 #matt

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