we're all just the same, what a shame

the screen of your phone has warmed to the temperature of your cheek where it sits in the crook of your ear and shoulder and you know you could just as well put him on speaker, but there's something lovely about having him close; feeling the vibrations of his voice against your skin.

he's on about letting you go when it happens — getting some rest, while he goes about his day various miles and timezones away. 

“it's ok. won't be sleeping yet, anyways.” 

it's a little too much information, probably, but you'll blame it on the hour. really you just don't want him to hang up.

he makes a curious little noise, a little absent-minded, and it eggs you on. your heart is so high up in your throat you've half a mind it'll come tumbling out onto the sheets.

“gotta tire myself out a bit more first. so, uh - unless you wanna stay on the line for that—” you trail off into sheepish laughter.

there's a long pause down the line. you can picture him shrugging when he speaks. "could do."

“what? fuck off, are you high?"

“no. just thought - ‘f you wanted a hand,” he explains, ever casual. your heart races in your chest. you've about ten seconds to weigh up the consequences. getting off with your incredibly hot friend over the phone at his own suggestion. maybe its temporary insanity, or the heat pooling in your stomach, but you're failing to find a downside.

more than anything, you know he's expecting you to tell him to fuck off, and maybe that's why you don't.

“okay.” 

“okay?” 

“you can stay. on the line."

you fiddle with the string of your pyjama pants — wonder how far you can push this. "do you wanna um. touch yourself too?” 

there's a little muffled sound of pain then. the tangled mess of nerves in your belly spikes close to boiling point.

“jesus christ. yeah, alright. you want me to?” 

you key into the stilt of his breathing, the way his voice has dropped an octave. it's too easy to rile him up, really. you've already thought the words before.

“please, matty. wanna hear you."

a soft, strained groan tumbles down the line. his voice is thick when he speaks again. “fuck. fuck. say that again.” 

“what?”

“my name, christ-”

“you’ve heard me say your name a thousand times, why are you so worked up about it-”

he’s quick to response, growing frustrated. 

“sounds different when you say it like that.”

“like what?” you know. he knows you know.

“y’know. all breathy and porny.” there’s a little pause - the huff of laughter, and you can tell he’s about to mock you, the way you’d just borderline moaned into his ear. 

“fuck off, please don’t—”

the little moment of laughter between you only stokes the fire. only now it reaches the tips of your ears and warms a lovely little spot next to your heart, too.

“do anything you want if you keep saying my name like that.”

there's a bit of shuffling then, like he's thrown the phone down beside him on the bed and wriggling around for something. then — the unmistakable sound of him spitting into his hand.

“fuck.” he huffs. “what y thinkin’ about?” 

your hands still halfway down your stomach. the truth of it would be taking it too far, you think. that all you've been getting off to for months was the thought of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against you when you hug. best to let him set the tone.

“we don't have to do this if it's like, weird, y'know? just thought it could be fun and we could stop wondering."

"how'd you know i'm wondering, hm?"

"wishful thinking." you laugh. then, "what are you thinking about?”

“your tits.”

“oh.” you pause, suddenly a bit breathless. “think about them a lot?”

he laughs, dark and sort of pathetic. “course i do. have you fucking seen them?"

what the fuck.

you're always a little flirty with each other, but this is something else. matty - lovely, stupid matty, thinks about your tits on a regular basis. you might die. 

“news to me.” you manage. your hands breach the waistband of your pants.

“not the kind of thing you tell your mates, is it?”

“s’pose not. don’t usually get off with your mates either, though.”

there’s still an air of something giddy, disbelieving in your voice - the ghost of laughter. you don't know how he's gotten past it so quickly.

“oi. play nice. i've literally got my dick in my hand. giggling ‘n that.”’

the mental image sends heat growing between your legs. you wouldn't dare laugh now.

“wish—," you start, gasping as your fingers hit the second heartbeat between your thighs. "—wish it was mine.”

“yeah?” he huffs, all breathy and sort of broken. you've never heard him like this. his breathing stops and starts oddly; in the pause between two jagged inhales, you can actually hear him; glossy, lewd noises through the speaker. your stomach flips violently. 

“fuck. me too."

he’s sort of shyer than you imagined. maybe he's just tired. maybe it's because it's you. the thought makes you burn from the inside out.

"i think about you, too." you confess, spurred on. your hips chase the heel of your palm as you press down; begin working at yourself with two fingers.

"what about me?"

you try to imagine how he’d touch you if he were here — whether he'd like it fast or slow, whether he'd kiss you while spreading you open. sweat prickles behind your neck.

“how you'd touch me. i want to do it like you’d do it. i can't stop thinking about it.”’

matty inhales sharply through his teeth.

“tell me how you'd do it, please. so i can stop wondering.” 

“fucking hell. alright. ok. christ.” 

to his credit, it is easy to imagine they’re his two knuckles flush to your entrance, his thumb working sweeping circles at your clit, as he curses and groans into your ear through the speaker. heat scorches your every nerve, hips shoving forward and up. still, lack of stimulation crowds you in frustration - you want him, hot and heavy on top of you. 

you tell him so, and he moans like he's been stabbed.

“think about it all the time." he pants. "what y’ face would look like while i fuck you.”

it's honestly ridiculous, how he manages to still be a sap while he’s talking dirty. it makes your head spin. “yeah?" you start, breath caught in your throat. it feels like you’re sitting at the top of a rollercoaster. “come home and you can find out.”

“oh, fuck, baby-”

distantly, you hear matty make a strangled noise in the back of his throat. you’d like to swallow it whole. 

the knot in your stomach grows tighter still as you work yourself over to those throaty little noises — but it’s still not enough. blood rushes in your ears, thighs tensing and untensing.

“keep talking t’ me, please.” you half-beg. 

“yeah? wanna know what else i think about?” he grits, voice high and tight, totally wrecked.

“you're always fucking thinking – makes me crazy. wanna—fuck— wanna make you cum so hard you can't string a fuckin' sentence together."

you have to strain to hear him over the sound of your own ragged breathing.

“matty- oh god, fuck me, please—.” 

just as it had set him off, it's the sound of his own name from your lips that's his undoing. he’s true to his reputation as a man of many rambling words when he cums, though you can't make out the better half of them.

“gonna cum—” he sputters. “oh, fuck-”

you can see it so clearly, his face pinching into bursting pleasure and his hips bucking on the mattress and it’s that mental image that sets you off, twitching through your own hot wave of pleasure.

very quickly you realize you have no clue what to say — what to do with the growing silence of shame and embarrassment as the stifling heat that'd filled the room is smothered cold.

matty fills it with ease. “fuck.” 

“fuck.” you agree. 

“can’t believe i’ve heard you cum and i haven’t kissed you yet.”

yet. the word ricochets wildly around the inside of your skull. there's a sick grin spreading across your face that you smother into the side of your hand. “ladies and gentlemen, he’s a romantic.”

“piss off, ‘m serious.”

he’s right, as usual. alone in your room, you don’t quite know what to do with your hands. your neck hurts, and there’s nowhere to hide from the embarrassment, the awareness that seeps back into your body post-orgasm. you think fondly of the crook of his neck, the wide expanse of his chest. 

“i wish you were here.”

“don’t start. i’ll cancel the gig and get on a plane right now.”

though intangible, his voice, the mutual desperation in it, settles you further.

“when do you get back?”

“a week friday." he pauses. "what y’ doing saturday?"

"eager.” you tease, flipping over and tucking yourself properly into bed. this part is always easy.

“oh, i’m sorry, forgive the enthusiasm—"

you laugh again now, warmth swelling in your chest. the cold hadn't lasted long.

“idiot.” he huffs. you can hear the smile behind it. there's another wide, sleepy silence.

"you really think about my tits when you wank?"

"fuck. that was a bit lech, wasn't it?"

"completely." you beam. "should do it on them next time instead."