Work Text:
Last time you saw the MySpace boy, he nearly sent you to heaven.
His words, "...and maybe next time you'll let me show you the full Matt Johnson experience," kept ringing in your head like a church bell.
What exactly did the full Matt Johnson experience entail?
He'd only given you a brief description.
"Home cooked dinner, a movie, and a solid twenty minutes before I blow it."
Not a lot of thinking needed to be done to conclude that you had to see it for yourself. It took a lot of self-control not to text him immediately. You didn't want to look desperate.
Thankfully, you didn't have to. He texted first.
MATT: hey, u there?
Minutes passed as you stood there, eyes locked on the small screen of your flip phone, before you finally worked up the nerve to reply.
YOU: yea
MATT: u want me 2 come over?
MATT: ik this is out of nowhere srry
Could this be the moment? It certainly felt like it. All it would take is a simple yes. One word sent back, and you'd finally have him right where you wanted him.
YOU: sure
YOU: i'm on X123 street, buzz 304
MATT: omw
You snapped your phone shut and immediately started moving. Three days of dishes in the sink. Laundry on the chair. The weird candle your roommate left that smelled like "autumn harvest" which you weren't sure Matt would even like. You had maybe twenty minutes.
By the time the buzzer went off you had done the dishes, lit the candle, and changed your shirt twice. You pressed the intercom button and said nothing, just let him up. You knew he'd fill the silence on his own.
He knocked four times in a row like a woodpecker. It had its own rhythm.
You opened the door and he was standing there in a jacket that was slightly too big for him, a tight greyish-blue T-shirt under, hands in his pockets, looking around the hallway and taking it all in.
"Hey." He looked at you. "Nice place."
"You were only in the hallway."
"Yeah, and it's a nice ass hallway." He stepped past you without being invited, which you expected. "So this is your place."
He was already walking through it slowly, nodding to himself like he was appraising real estate.
"It's, well— clean," he said, sounding mildly impressed.
"Most people's places are."
"Mine's not." He snorted, then turned around to face you. "But you already knew that." He grinned. "You still came over anyway. What does that say about you?"
"That I have low standards."
He pointed at you. "See, I— I don't believe that." He dropped onto your couch like he'd been sitting on it for years. "I think you just liked me too much to care."
You closed the front door. "You want something to drink or are you just going to keep being like this?"
"Both," he said. "Whatcha got?"
You listed off what was in the fridge. He made a face at most of it.
"You got juice?"
"Orange juice."
"Perfect." He made himself real comfortable on your couch. "Very continental."
You poured two glasses and brought them over. He took his without looking, already scanning the room again. His eyes landed on the bookshelf, then the TV, then the candle on the side table.
"Autumn harvest," he read off the label. "Bold choice."
"It's my roommate's."
"Sure it is." He leaned back into the couch cushions and looked at you, all calm-like.
You sat down on the other end of the couch and tucked one leg under you. He was doing that thing again where he just watched you without making it weird, or at least without seeming to notice that it was.
"So," you said.
"So," he echoed.
"You mentioned something." You kept your voice even. "Last time."
He tilted his head, waiting.
"The full Matt Johnson experience." You said it the same way he had, just to see what he'd do.
His whole face shifted into something between delighted and smug. He pointed at you slowly. "You've been thinking about that."
"I've been thinking about what it means."
"Same thing."
You gave him a flat look. He grinned.
"Okay." He set his glass down and stood up as if he'd just made a life-changing decision. "Dinner first. Kitchen, where is it."
You pointed. He walked in like he'd been there before, opened the fridge, and stood in front of it with his arms crossed and his chin up. The posture of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
He did not know what he was doing.
You could tell because he stood there for about fifteen seconds without moving.
"Yep," he said finally, mostly to himself. "Okay. Yeah."
"You good?"
"Great." He shut the fridge and opened it again. "Just. Taking inventory."
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him open three cabinets in a row, peer into each one for two seconds, and close them again. He found the chicken, set it on the counter, and stared at it.
"You have olive oil?"
"Above the stove."
He grabbed it. Then grabbed the garlic. Then stood very still for a moment, holding both, staring at the chicken.
"You're not going to ask me what I'm making?" he said.
"I'm waiting to see if you know."
A pause. "Chicken," he said confidently.
"Wow."
"With garlic." He set the olive oil down and started opening more cabinets. "And whatever else you've got. It's an improvised recipe."
"Improvised."
"Yeah. Everybody knows that only the best chefs can improvise."
You watched him find a pan, examine it briefly like he wasn't sure which side was supposed to go down, and set it on the stove. He turned the burner on. So far so good.
Then he put the chicken in the pan without any oil.
"Matt."
"I know."
"You didn't put—"
"I know." He grabbed the olive oil and drizzled some in, which sent up a small spit of smoke. He took a half step back. "See? Controlled. That's technique."
"That's just.. smoke."
"Controlled smoke." He picked up the garlic and looked at it. "Do you have a... thing. For this."
"A garlic press?"
"Yeah. That."
"Drawer by the sink."
He found it, used it with more force than necessary, and then stood back and nodded at the pan as if anything was coming together. It was visibly not coming together. The chicken was sitting in lukewarm oil making very little noise.
"You've cooked for people before?" you asked.
"Tons of times."
"Like who."
"Jay."
"Does Jay have a choice?"
Matt opened his mouth. Closed it. "He's a picky eater," he said finally. "So it's basically the same as cooking for a real person."
You didn't push it. You just watched him poke the chicken with a spatula like that would help it cook faster.
"You can sit down, you know," he said without looking at you. "You're making me, like, nervous."
"I'm standing in a doorway."
"Yeah, like a supervisor." He pointed the spatula at you briefly. "Go sit. I'll call you when it's ready."
"I'm not leaving you alone in my kitchen."
"Why not?"
You looked at the pan. The chicken was starting to make noise now at least, but he hadn't seasoned it and the garlic was just sitting on top of it doing nothing.
"No reason," you said.
He seemed satisfied with that and turned back to the stove. You stayed in the doorway. He adjusted the heat twice in thirty seconds, going up then immediately back down, then looked in every cabinet again until he found salt.
"Do you want me to just—"
"No," he said. "I got it."
He salted the chicken. A normal amount, then a little more, then stopped himself. Then added a bit more.
"Matt."
"Seasoning is important."
"There's such a thing as too much."
"Not in my experience." He put the salt down and picked the spatula back up. Flipped the chicken. It was pale on the cooked side, not quite golden, but he nodded at it like it had exceeded expectations.
"Almost there," he announced.
It was not almost there.
You went and sat on the couch anyway.
Fifteen minutes later he appeared in the doorway holding two plates with confidence as if he were presenting a five course meal.
"Dinner is served."
You looked at the plates. It was chicken. Just chicken, sliced unevenly, with some garlic bits on top. He'd found the bread in your cabinet and put a slice on each plate, which you suspected was to make it look more like a full meal.
"There's bread," you said.
"For balance." He handed you your plate and sat down on the couch beside you, closer than he'd been before. "Go ahead."
You took a bite. It was fine. Salty, a little dry, but fine. You chewed and said nothing.
He was watching you.
"Well?"
"It's.. good."
He sat back, satisfied. "Told you."
"I said it's good. Not that you're a good cook."
"Same thing."
You took another bite. He started eating too, and for a minute neither of you said anything, which felt strange given that it was him. You glanced over and he was actually just eating, eyes on the middle distance, relaxed. He looked different like this. Less on.
"What," he said, without looking at you.
"Nothing."
"You're doing the staring thing."
"I'm just eating."
He looked at you sideways. "You're trying to figure me out."
"Maybe."
He gave a small smile, and went back to his food. "How's it going so far?"
You considered it for a second and smiled. "Jury's still out."
He laughed short, and knocked his knee against yours. He didn't move it after.
You kept eating. The candle flickered on the side table. Outside, a streetcar went by and rattled the window slightly, the way it always did, and for once you didn't find it annoying.
"So," he said eventually. "What do you actually, uh, do. Like. For work."
You told him. He listened, which surprised you a little. He asked one follow up question, which surprised you more.
"What?" you said.
"What what."
"You're actually listening."
He looked mildly offended. "I always listen."
"You talked for like thirty minutes straight last time."
"That's different. That was a monologue." He pointed his fork at you. "This is a conversation. I know the difference."
You looked at him for a second. "Do you..?"
"I'm listening right now, aren't I?" He leaned back. "Ask me what you just told me."
You asked.
He repeated it back correctly.
You didn't have much to say to that, so you just took another bite of the dry chicken and let him have it.
After dinner, he volunteered to do the dishes, which you let him do because you were curious how that would go. It went fine, mostly. He left one pan soaking "to deal with later" which you both knew meant never, but you didn't say anything.
He came back into the living room drying his hands on his jeans and looked at the TV.
"Movie time."
"You're not going to ask what I want to watch?"
"I already know what we're gonna watch." He dropped back onto the couch. "I hope you have it. You got a VHS?"
You stared at him. "No."
"DVD?"
"Yes."
"Okay." He looked at your shelf. Got up, went over to it, and crouched down to look through your DVDs with the same focus he'd given to your fridge. You watched him pull one out, look at it, put it back. Pull another one out.
"This one," he said, holding it up.
You looked at it. "I haven't even seen that."
"Perfect." He was already opening the case. "First time experience. That's better anyway."
"Why does that matter."
"Because you'll associate it with tonight." He said it completely casually and slid the disc in before you could respond.
He came back to the couch and sat down. Closer than before, which you noticed but didn't comment on. The movie started. He was quiet for approximately four minutes, which felt like a record.
"Okay so this guy," he said, pointing at the screen.
"We just started."
"I know but this guy, you can already tell he's gonna be the problem."
"You've seen this before."
"Once. Maybe twice." He leaned back. "Don't worry about it."
You looked at him.
He snapped his fingers in the direction of the TV as if calling over a cat. "Eyes on the screen," he said.
You turned back to the TV. A few minutes passed. He shifted beside you, getting more comfortable, and his arm ended up along the back of the couch behind you.
You didn't say anything about it.
The movie kept going. At some point you'd drifted closer without meaning to, or he had, and his arm had moved from the back of the couch to your shoulders. Still casual. Still like neither of you were going to acknowledge it.
"You cold?" he said, without looking at you.
"No."
"Okay." He didn't move his arm.
On screen something loud happened and you shifted slightly into him without thinking. He turned his head and looked at you for a second, and you looked back, and the movie was still going but neither of you were watching it anymore.
He opened his mouth.
"Don't say anything," you said.
He closed it. Then smiled. Then leaned in.
It was slower this time. Less like he was trying to prove something. His hand moved from your shoulder to the side of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you turned toward him the rest of the way without thinking about it.
He pulled back after a moment and looked at you. Up close like this his eyes were doing that thing where he was no longer performing and was just himself.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He kissed you again, softer, and you felt the tension you'd been carrying around all week start to loosen somewhere in your chest. His other hand found your waist and you shifted closer, one hand on his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of that stupid grey shirt.
The movie was definitely still going. Neither of you cared.
He pulled back again after a minute and rested his forehead against yours, breathing a little slower than normal. You stayed like that for a second, noses almost touching.
"So," he said quietly.
"So."
"Twenty minutes."
You laughed, short and involuntary, and he grinned against your forehead.
"I'm being serious," he said, not seriously at all.
"You're always serious."
"I am." He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. "I told you how this goes. Dinner, movie—" he tilted his head. "You're gonna make me beg aren't you."
"No."
"No?"
"No." You held his gaze. "But I'm not doing it on the couch."
He stared at you for half a second. Then he stood up so fast he nearly knocked the remote off the cushion.
"Okay," he said. "Yeah. Makes sense. Bedroom. Where."
You nodded down the hall. He grabbed your hand and pulled you up off the couch in one motion, and you laughed despite yourself as he towed you toward the hallway, pausing only to glance back at the TV still playing in the living room.
"Should we turn that off?" you said.
He looked at it. Looked at you.
"It'll be fine," he said, and pulled you the rest of the way down the hall.
Your bedroom was tidier than his. He noticed immediately.
"You made your bed," he said.
"I always make my bed."
"For me specifically, though." He was already looking around, taking inventory the same way he had in the living room. His eyes landed on your nightstand, your bookshelf, the lamp in the corner casting everything in low yellow light.
"Matt."
"Yeah." He turned around.
You pulled him in by the front of his tight little shirt and kissed him before he could say anything else. He made a small surprised sound and then caught up fast, hands finding your waist, walking you back toward the bed without breaking it. The backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sat down, pulling him with you.
He hovered over you with that look on his face, the one that was more real than his usual performance, and tucked a strand of hair back from your face. It was such a quiet gesture coming from him that it almost caught you off guard.
Then he opened his mouth.
"Okay so," he said. "Full disclaimer."
You closed your eyes briefly. "Matt."
"No, listen." He held up one finger. "I said twenty minutes. I want to be upfront that I think I oversold that a little."
You stared at him. "You're doing this right now."
"I'm managing expectations. That's mature." He tilted his head. "It's gonna be good though. Like genuinely. I just don't want you counting."
"I wasn't going to count."
"Good. Don't." He pointed at you. "And don't look at the clock either."
"I wasn't—"
"Eyes on me the whole time. That's the rule."
You opened your mouth to say something and he kissed you before you could, which you suspected was intentional. His hands slid under the hem of your shirt and you stopped thinking about what you were going to say.
He was less frantic than the first time. More deliberate, which surprised you. He took his time, fingers tracing slow along your sides as he kissed down your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. You exhaled and he hummed against your skin as if he'd been waiting for that.
"There you go," he murmured.
"Don't narrate."
"I'm not narrating. Just commenting."
"Literally the same thing."
He laughed softly against your collarbone and kept going.
By the time he actually got anywhere you were considerably less composed than you'd intended to be. He'd taken his sweet time getting there — kissing down your stomach, nipping at your hipbones, dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh until you were squirming.
When he finally settled between your legs, he spread you open with his thumbs and gave you one long, slow lick from your entrance up to your clit, like he was tasting something he'd been thinking about for hours.
You twitched hard. He noticed and said nothing, which somehow felt worse than any cocky comment. He just looked up at you once, eyes dark and pleased, then lowered his head again like he had all night.
His tongue was warm and deliberate. He circled your clit with lazy, precise strokes, alternating between broad, flat licks and the pointed tip of his tongue flicking just under the hood. Every time your hips tried to chase his mouth he pressed you back down with a firm hand on your lower stomach, holding you open for him. When he slid two fingers into you, curling them just right, you couldn't stop the broken sound that left your throat.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair.
He groaned against your pussy — deep and vibrating. The sound traveled straight through you. He slowed down, sucking your clit gently between his lips while his fingers stroked that perfect spot inside you in a steady rhythm. The wet, filthy sounds of his mouth filled the quiet room.
It didn't take long after that.
Your thighs started trembling around his ears. He felt it and doubled down, sucking harder, tongue working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his fingers curled and pressed. You came with a sharp cry, back arching hard off the bed, your hand tight in his hair as your whole body locked up. He didn't stop. He worked you through it with slow, greedy licks, drawing it out until your grip loosened and you collapsed back into the mattress with one long, shaky exhale.
He finally pulled back, lips shiny and chin wet, and rested his chin on your sternum, looking up at you with that smug, slightly dazed expression. His hair was a complete disaster. That might've been better than last time.
"Okay," he licked his lips. "I have a, um— request."
You looked down at him, out of breath. "What?"
He held eye contact. Said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows once.
You stared at him for a second. "You're not going to say it out loud?"
"I feel like you know what I'm asking."
"I want to hear you say it."
He dropped his head for a second, laughing quietly against your stomach. Then he looked back up at you.
"Can I please fuck you now?"
"Was that so hard?"
"Incredibly." He climbed up beside you and propped himself on one elbow, looking down at you with his hair still a mess. "Well?"
You looked up at him. He was doing the real look again, less grin, more just waiting. It was the version of him you were starting to think not many people got to see.
"Yeah," you said.
His whole face shifted. Not the golden retriever thing this time. Something quieter than that.
"Cool," he said, like he was trying to play it off, and kissed you before you could see him smile properly.
The kiss started soft but quickly turned deep, his tongue sliding against yours with a low hum of satisfaction. You could taste yourself on him. He shifted fully over you, settling between your legs, and you felt the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh through his pants. You reached down and palmed him, squeezing lightly, and he broke the kiss with a sharp inhale.
"Fuck— okay, wait," he muttered, sitting back on his knees. He yanked his shirt off in one quick motion, then shoved his pants and boxers down his hips. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip. He kicked the rest of his clothes off the bed and came back to you, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wider.
He looked down between your bodies for a moment, eyes dark. "You're so fucking wet," he said, almost to himself. His fingers brushed through your folds, collecting slick, and he stroked his cock once, twice, spreading it over himself.
You hooked a leg around his hip and pulled him closer. "Matt."
"Yeah. Yeah, I got you."
He braced one hand beside your head and guided himself to your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock up and down your slit before pressing in. The first inch made you both moan. He went slow, letting you feel every thick inch as he sank into you, stretching you open until his hips met yours.
"Shit," he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel so fucking good."
He stayed there for a second, buried deep, just breathing with you. Then he started moving — long, deliberate strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. His rhythm was steady. Every time he bottomed out he rolled his hips in a little circle, grinding against your clit.
You slid your hands up his back, nails digging in when he hit a particularly good angle. He made a low, wrecked sound and picked up the pace, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
"Look at me," he said suddenly, voice rough.
You met his eyes. That real look was back — unguarded, a little desperate. His hair was falling into his face, lips parted, cheeks flushed. He held your gaze as he fucked you harder, one hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips up.
"Right there?" he asked, voice tight.
You nodded frantically. "Don't stop— fuck, just like that."
He didn't. He kept that exact angle, driving into you with focused, perfect thrusts until your thighs started shaking again. When you came the second time, it hit harder than the first — clenching around him, back arching, a broken moan tearing out of you.
Matt fucked you through it, pace faltering as your walls squeezed him. "That's it— fuck, you're squeezing me so tight."
He lasted only a few more strokes before he pulled out with a groan, stroking himself fast. Hot stripes of cum landed across your stomach and chest as he came, head tipped back, lips parted on a quiet, shaky curse.
For a moment the only sound was both of you catching your breath.
Matt looked down at the mess he'd made on your skin, then back up at your face. A slow, lazy grin spread across his mouth.
"Okay," he said, still a little breathless. "That was… yeah. Ten out of ten. Would recommend again."
You laughed despite yourself and shoved at his shoulder. He caught your wrist, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the inside of it before climbing off the bed.
"Don't move," he said, padding toward your bathroom. "I'm getting a towel. Then we're doing that again in like… fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. I'm generous tonight."
"Matt. I don't think— I don't think I can go any longer," You called out.
He came back with a damp towel and cleaned you up without making it weird, which you hadn't expected. He tossed the towel toward the hamper — missed, left it — and bent down to fish his boxers off the floor. He stepped into them, glanced around for his shirt, didn't find it immediately, and gave up. He dropped back onto the bed beside you.
He stared at the ceiling. You stared at the ceiling.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "Fair enough."
You turned your head toward him. He was lying on his back with one arm behind his head, completely unbothered, looking at the ceiling like it had something interesting on it.
"You're not leaving?" you said.
He glanced at you. "Do you want me to leave?"
You didn't answer right away, which he let sit without filling it.
"No," you said finally.
"Okay then." He looked back up at the ceiling.
Another beat passed. Outside the streetcar went by again. The lamp in the corner was still on, casting everything the same low yellow as before, and the movie was probably still playing in the living room. Neither of you moved to do anything about any of it.
"That was the full experience," he said.
"The dinner was dry."
He paused. "The rest of it was good though, eh?"
"The rest of it was good," you agreed.
He smiled at that, small, to the ceiling.
You were quiet for a while. At some point his hand found yours between you on the mattress, not grabbing it, just resting there. You didn't move yours away.
"Hey," he said.
"What."
"Nothing." He paused. "Just hey."
You looked at him. He was already looking at you, that real expression, the one with no performance behind it. It sat on his face for a second too long to be casual and you both knew it.
He looked back at the ceiling first.
"You should let me cook for you again sometime," he said. "I'll do better."
"You'll do the same."
"Yeah probably." He turned his head toward you. "You'll let me anyway though."
You looked at him for a second.
"Jury's still out," you said.
He grinned. Slow and genuine, nothing performed about it.
"Yeah," he said. "It always is with you."
He didn't let go of your hand.