#bels writes

Matty could not keep his hands still.

The entire evening, he had been fidgeting in some manner: picking at his nails, ruffling his hair, biting at his lips. But, nothing seemed to catch his attention like the dark tie around his neck. 

His suit was fitted and crisp, the type of getup a proper celebrity would be in. 

You had teased him before you had left for the award show, smoothing out the dents on his jacket.

‘Looking like a regular Mick Jagger, aren’t you, Healy.’

It was funny then.

You couldn’t think of anything less funny now.

The night was seemingly endless. Meaningless speech after speech, awards being passed around, and you and your boyfriend tucked away in a corner with him pulling at his tie and an ache between your legs.

It had started when he had pulled the knot a bit too tight, choking him ever so slightly. You had to take a sip of your drink and fake a cough to stifle the gasp that had been dragged to your lips.

Things only got worse when he started loosening the tie, flipping the thin fabric around his fingers and twirling the ends up and down.

You wanted to pull him in right there and then and have your way with him.

Matty, ever the observer, was all but oblivious to how he was affecting you. It certainly didn’t help that all night, he had been dropping not-so-casual innuendos, surely to try and knock you off your game.

Your dress was tight and slightly sheer. Short, and hugging your curves perfectly. Unbeknownst to you, the second Matty saw it, he had decided his own fate for the evening: driving you crazy so that you would put him in his place. Minx. 

“Y/N?”

Your attention is drawn from the incredibly boring ceiling and the droning voices to that of Matty beside you, your gaze narrowing instantly as you watch him fiddle with his tie.

“What, darling?”

Matty smirks.

“‘M bored.”

You smirk right back.

“I can tell.”

Matty raises an eyebrow, pulling down on his tie slightly.

“You’re fidgeting,” you add.

“‘M not,” he counters with a frown.

God, he was asking for it.

You look down, your eyes finding his fingers at the fabric, effectively stopping his movements with your gaze.

“Oh.”

You smile at his small, barely verbal admission.

“How can I help you, baby?” You ask, leaning in closer to his neck, voice low and sultry as to not be heard by the irrelevant guests at your table. “I want to make this evening fun for you, Mr. Rockstar.”

Matty swallows. Hard.

“Poor boy,” you whisper, “you’re so easy.”

Matty pouts, “‘M not.”

You bite your lip, “sure, baby.”

Your gaze leaves him momentarily as you scan the room, eyes landing on the dimly lit ‘WC’ sign. 

“Darling,” you motion gently with your head towards the sign, “c’mon.”

Matty, still pouting from your previous comments, drops his tie from his fingers and crosses his arms across his chest in protests. “No. I’m busy.”

You grin, leaning in closer. “Don’t be a brat. I said, let’s go.”

The word brat lingers with him. It tastes salty on your tongue, and you watch as he mirrors it right back. Somehow, you’re sure it’s sickly sweet on him.

“‘M not a brat.”

“Oh yeah?” Your hand finds his wrist, gripping firmly. “Then show me. Let’s go, Healy.”

That’s all it takes to get Matty on his feet, his wrist still trapped between your fingers. 

He’s so in for it.

The door to the restroom slams shut behind you, and in an instant your hands are on Matty. You free him from the confines of his suit jacket, leaving only his fitted button down shirt and that damn tie behind.

“You’ve been so fucking distracting all night,” you growl into his ear, pressing him back against the wall and slotting him between your thighs, “what did you think you were doing back there?”

“I wasn’t–”

“Don’t. Don’t be dumb, Healy.”

Matty’s sly smirk is entirely gone at the tone of your voice. You’re not messing around, and he knows it. 

His plan had worked perfectly.

You lean in close, your lips ghosting over his. He tries to meet you half way, but you shove him back harshly against the wall.

“Stay put,” you murmur against him.

And then, you kiss him.

Perhaps kiss is the wrong word. You lick into Matty’s mouth with aggression and passion, biting down hard on his lip.

Matty whines at the feeling, and you suck the noise right into your mouth. Matty’s at a loss for words, his breath coming is spurts. You pant into his open mouth, breathing for the both of you.

“Are you gonna be my good boy tonight?”

Matty grinds against your thigh at your words, desperately seeking friction. 

You smirk, “fuckin’ desperate, aren’t you? C’mon, answer me. What are you, darling?”

Your hand finds his clothed bulge, and oh fuck, he’s hard hard.

“I’m…fuck, please…I’m desperate. And I–”

You squeeze his bulge tightly, adding even more pressure to his already tight trousers and he whimpers into your mouth.

“Keep going.”

“I…I’m gonna be your– fuck! I’m gonna be your good boy.”

You smile planting a soft kiss on the tip of his nose as a reward, and as a distraction as you pull your hand away from him entirely.

“Good fuckin’ boy, baby. Good job using your words, just like we practiced, yeah?”

Images of nights spent with Matty tied up and begging flash across your mind, and you can’t help but smile at the thought. 

“Tell me what you want, baby. I wanna hear that pretty voice of yours beg.”

Matty’s head hits the wall once more as he grieves the loss of your hand, his body tensing as you slide your fingertips up his chest instead.

“I want…I want you to let me fuck you– please?”

You smile. It was cute to let him be vocal, as if he had any say in what would be going down this evening.

“Oh baby, that’s so sweet! You wanna make me feel good? You wanna make mommy feel good?”

Mommy.

It wasn’t the first time you two had used the word. Actually, far from it. Many nights had been spent with him choking around your fingers, begging for his mommy, and tonight would be no different. Well, maybe slightly different.

“Yes, yes– I wanna make mommy feel good, please.”

You rub a gentle finger over his cheek, your other hand stopping at the end of his tie, gripping it tightly in preparation.

“You wanna feel good too, darling?”

Matty’s eyes light up, desire and need flashing across his face.

“Yes– yes! I need it. ‘Wanna feel good so bad, please, Mommy.”

You smirk deliciously. No one ever said tonight would be easy fun.

“Oh, well, that’s too bad, baby,” you watch as Matty’s expression falls, “maybe you should have thought of that before you were a fucking brat at the table, yeah?”

You watch the wheels turning in Matty’s brain as he realises what is about to happen; he was going to make you get off and be left with nothing.

“But–”

“Shhh,” you press a harsh finger to his lips, tugging on his tie as he stumbles forward slightly, your body now pressed flush against his. “Don’t mouth around. I don’t wanna hear anything except ‘yes mommy’, alright?”

Matty looks utterly destroyed, and hell, if you don’t love it. His lips are puffy from your biting, his tie tight against his neck as you pull on it again. A small sound escapes his throat, and you’re sure it's as much of a moan as it is a yelp.

“Y-yes mommy.”

“Good boy,” you praise, pulling tighter on his tie. You’re practically choking him now, the fabric so tight around his neck that his face is going a bit red. Out of fear for his wellbeing, you loosen your grip ever so slightly and watch as he gasps for air.

“You’re doing good Matty,” you praise, “taking it so well after being such a brat, yeah?”

Matty nods, brain practically melting out of his ears at the combination of praise and degradation. 

“How about this,” you pull on his tie again, jerking him forwards, “since you’ve been good, I’ll sit on your face. How does that sound?”

Matty nods frantically, desperate to be of service to you.

You grin madly at the sight of him, so fucked out already. “Fuck baby, you’re a fucking wet dream for me, you know that?”

“Yes mommy,” Matty gargles through choked breaths.

You smile, pulling him down by his tie. He gasps as his knees hit the tile, his neck red from being pulled around. And fuck, he loves it.

You hike up your dress above your hips, spreading your legs and settling over him. You watch as he begins to grind his hips into the floor, chasing and relief to his raging hard-on.

“Tell me what you’re going to do, darling,”

You pull sharply on his tie to signal him to speak. “I’m gonna– fuck, I’m gonna eat you out, mommy.”

You grin, patting the top of his curls twice, and allowing for a bit more slack around his neck.

“Good boy, baby. So smart for me.”

You pull his mouth towards you by his tie, and his hands find your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, nope,” you scold, wiping his hands away, “no touching, only your mouth, baby.”

Matty pouts, but does as he’s told, leaving his hands to fall behind his back, and his mouth resting against your clothed cunt.

His eyes are blown wide at the sight of your drenched underwear, and honestly, you’re a bit surprised too. You had been so focused on him, that you had forgotten just how affected you were getting. 

Matty’s breath fans over the sopping fabric in hot streams.

“Fuck, baby– Need you to be good and eat mommy’s cunt, just like you said, alright?”

“Mhm, okay, mommy.”

Matty looks up at you through hooded eyes, and you’re done for. You pull him in by his tie and his mouth goes straight to work. He licks and sucks over the lace, biting gently at your clothed clit as you let out a soft moan, stabilising yourself with a hand against the wall behind him. The other stays tightly wrapped by Matty’s tie, pulling him impossibly closer into you. 

He laps at the fabric, tongue swirling around your clit, and you feel yourself falling closer and closer to the edge. 

Before you can let go, you yank him back by his tie, allowing him gasps of breath as you pull down your panties. The fabric pools between your legs and you step out of it, leaning down to grab them and toss the lacy scrap aside atop of Matty’s discarded jacket. You’re sure he will find a way to sneak the pair into a coat pocket, and you’ll surely have to go without for the rest of the evening. But, you’re not complaining.

“You’re doing so well for me, darling. ‘Gonna finish the job? ‘Gonna make mommy cum on your face, baby?”

“Yes, yes– please, wanna taste you,” Matty begs frantically, trying to lean in to get a taste of your glistening core, but you hold him back by his tie.

“I want to hear you beg.”

“Mommy, please, please, please I wanna’ make you cum, please let me, please–”

Before he can finish, you’re yanking him in by his tie, his mouth colliding with your soaked core.

Matty laps at your entrance like a man starved, licking up every last taste of arousal and swallowing desperately.

“F-fuck, baby…so fucking good,” you moan your free hand falling from the wall and rooting in his mess of curls, “don’t stop–”

Matty hums around you, licking with a new found fervor at the praise. He directs his attention up to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with his tongue rapidly.

You can feel yourself being dragged closer and closer to the edge with each lap at your cunt, Matty’s tongue now fucking into you speedily.

“I’m gonna cum, baby– fuck! I’m gonna–”

Without finishing your sentence, you’re falling apart on Matty’s tongue, body spasming as he licks you through it. The aftershocks hit you hard as he sucks a final time on your clit, just the way you had taught him.

“You did so well for me baby, you’re so fucking perfect. My good boy,” you ruffle Matty’s hair as you pull him away by the strip of fabric, eyes mapping over his face, sparkling with your arousal. “Open up, baby boy.”

Matty does as he’s told, sticking out his tongue, coated in your milky cum.

“Swallow.”

 The word is a command and Matty knows it. He quickly does as he’s told, making a show out of swallowing down your release.

“Oh, good boy. You’re perfect, baby. You did so perfectly,” you pull Matty up by his tie, his knees as wobbly as yours.

You raise an eyebrow, your eyes flashing down to a new, dark spot on his trousers.

“Did you…?”

Matty blushes, hiding his face away in his hands. 

You wipe his hands from his face, holding his chin with your own palms.

“It’s okay baby, you did what you were supposed to and made yourself feel good. That’s because my boy is so smart, he figured it out all on his own, all while making mommy feel so good.”

Matty preens at the praise, the flush in his cheeks turning a perfect, rosy pink.

“Thank you mommy.”

★

Your body lay limp on the couch in preparation. Every muscle relaxed, every tendon unflexed. Your mind was thoroughly wiped, left only with thoughts of him, of what was about to become of you. 

George got this look in his eye on nights like these. Lust wasn’t the right word– lust wasn’t enough.

It was a sheer, unrequited need. A desperation that exceeded a physical desire. It was mental, spiritual, molecular. His body ached for yours as much as yours ached to be changed by his. To be loved is to be changed, after all.

And, change you he would.

George was beside you before you could process it fully, the couch dipping under his weight.

“Baby,” he mutters, voice heavy and low, “are you okay?”

You nod softly, a lazy smile finding your face. Your brain was hazy, sure, but you were sure of one thing at least: you wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted him to bend you and stretch you and fill you and break you. You needed it.

“‘M okay,” you lean up on the back of your forearms, “just need you, George.”

George tsks, taking one of his large hands and placing it between your breasts, pushing you down into the couch. 

“Nope, don’t sit up, love. Let me take care of you. Let Daddy take care of you, alright?”

“O-okay.”

“Yeah, good girl, using your words. Thank you for letting me do this, baby.”

Your brain is melting out of your ears at his words, at his touch against your bare skin. The sight was sinful: you, naked and flushed against the dark fabric of the sofa, and him, fully clothed, eyes dark and pupils blown. He looked like he wanted to devour you. And, if his first touch to your chest was any indication, he very well might.

His hands were big, much bigger than your own, and you knew for a fact that wasn’t all. Compared to you, he was giant, almost scarily so. 

You let out a small gasp as his hand finds one of your peaked nipples, his thumb rolling over the sensitive bud. You let out a sharp gasp at the sensation, sparks of pleasure and need going straight to your core.

“George! Please…”

George pulls his hands from you entirely, leaving your nipple sore and aching.

“N-no…please, why?” You whine at the loss, trying to push yourself closer to him once again. 

George stops you effortlessly, pushing you back into the sofa with two hands this time, one against each of your shoulders.

“Don’t move, be good.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he presses a finger against your lips, effectively quieting you.

“Don’t wanna hear anything out of that pretty mouth of yours until you address me properly. None of that “George” shit. Do you understand me, sweet girl?”

You nod, body shivering at his reprimanding. 

“I understand…”

“You understand, what?”

“I understand, Daddy.”

“Oh, good girl,” his hands find your nipples again, this time alternating between rubbing and pinching, sending waves of pleasure-pain through your body. “Knew you could be good for me.”

“Daddy…need more, please,” your voice is hushed and airy, but your tone is clear: desperate.

George flashes a smile before letting one hand drop lower, down to right below your navel.

“Want Daddy to fill you up? Is that it?”

You nod quickly, lashes fluttering.

“Words, sweet girl.”

“Y-yes…please Daddy.”

George nods, pressing down on the sensitive skin.

“Gonna fill you up so good, you’ll feel Daddy right here,” he presses hard on your stomach, making sure that you feel it. “You’re gonna feel my cum for days, baby. ‘Wanna make sure it sticks, yeah?”

You close your eyes at the idea, imagining his cum dripping out of your used cunt– imagining him re-arranging your guts, leaving you marked with something only he could give you.

“Yes Daddy, yes, please– want you so bad.”

“Okay sweet girl, I hear you. Begging so good for Daddy.”

George makes quick work of unbuttoning his trousers, freeing himself in one, swift motion. His cock is red and angry, practically throbbing with need. You try to hide the lick you do to your lips at the sight, but you’re sure you saw George smirk.

George leans down, spreading your soaked folds between two thick fingers.

“Holy shit, love– you’re dripping…”

You squirm under his hot breath, the contrast with the cold air delicious.

“All for you, Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know…” George coos as he begins to line himself up with you, tapping the head of his cock once, twice before pushing inside in one, fluid motion.

“F-fuck!!” You practically scream at the feeling. Full was an understatement. He had taken you, body and soul; penetrated every inch of your being. “Daddy!”

“Language, sweet girl,” George punctuates his sentence with a deep thrust, his tip kissing your cervix perfectly. “Be” thrust “my” thrust “good” thrust “girl” thrust, thrust, thrust.

Your body had turned to jello under him, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he railed into you over, and over, and over again. Your gelatin muscles contrasted the ever-tightening rubber band buried in your stomach, getting stretched tighter with each tap to that godly spot inside of you.

George releases your hip from the clutch of his right hand, reaching to brush a strand of hair away from your face.

“I can feel you clenching me so tight, baby. Y’close?”

Words form in your head, but don’t seem to meet your lips, getting caught somewhere between the loud sound of skin slapping against skin and the squelch of your drenched cunt.

“I know,” he babies you, “I know, sweet girl. I can feel it, don’t even need to say anything at all.”

You nod, or at least try your best to, before your face is distorted in pleasure once more as George lifts your leg above his shoulder, ramming into that spot that makes you see stars.

“I need you to come for me, alright? C’mon, give me all that you’ve got. I know you can, baby.”

His words are all the permission you need before your used cunt is spasming around him, milking his cock as you cum around it. You let out a near pornographic moan as you cum, letting your body melt as pleasure consumes you.

You have been thoroughly changed.

George isn’t far behind, and god, you can feel it. His dick twitches inside of you as your spasms subside, his pace increasing as he chases that desperate edge.

“Fuck– gonna, shit, gonna make you a mum, yeah?” His hand finds your hip again, stabilising you as he uses your body, “gonna fuck this cum into you and give you a baby in your stomach, alright sweet girl? Just say the word, just tell me, love.”

“Y-yes–” you croak, voice spent from moaning, and body limp from your mind-shattering orgasm.

In a moment's time, George is cumming deep inside of you, his milky sperm latching on to every last curve of your cunt.

“God, thank you baby, thank you.”

George collapses against you, his head resting on your shoulder, your hair sticking to his forehead.

“You were so perfect for Daddy.”

★

Cool tendrils of condensation dripped from the glass rhythmically, as if they were painting a map onto the hardwood of the table.

Matty sat across from you, his cola half forgotten, yours nearly gone. Afternoon light spilled in from the windows, some old vinyl he had picked up last month spun on his overpriced record-player. Everything about the room was familiar. Domestic, even. It shouldn’t have been exciting. But, then again, he was there.

The heat had woven itself into his home, breaching concrete walls and settling in a slick sheen of sweat across his skin. He brushed back a drip of saltiness into his salt and pepper curls, letting a strand fall loose in front of his eyes.

Your vision danced lower, to his spread legs, jean-clad thighs open just enough where you could comfortably slot yourself between the–

“You’re staring.”

His voice came suddenly, tearing your gaze from the apex of his legs and back to his face. You felt a crimson flush seep through your cheeks, your fingers scrambling to find something to make you look occupied, They landed on the near-empty glass in front of you, only reminiscents of what once was a full drink left. You silently curse yourself for downing it so fast. Suddenly, the heat of the room didn’t seem comparable to the one that was growing as his eyes stayed on you/

“Sorry,” you mutter into the straw, sucking on it and letting the sound of nothing being sucked up into the plastic linger in the room.

“No you’re not.”

His eyes stay glued to you as he watches you hollow your cheeks around the straw, desperate to suck any liquid up.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You pause, letting the plastic fall from your mouth. 

“Drinking?”

You let out a small laugh, matched with a smile. Matty doesn’t so much as grin. If anything, his expression hardened more, eyes blown with something that resembled much more than simply interest. It was the same look he had given you each and every time before he had torn you to pieces: pure lust.

“Nah, you’re not,” his voice drops, “‘think you’re just tryin’ to get my attention.”

You pout slightly, playing into his game in the role you knew drove him mad. It was silly, sure, but it always seemed to get you the results you desired. Namely, handprints on your ass and his cum dripping down your thighs.

“‘M not. Swear.”

“Liar.”

His voice was swift after yours, not leaving any room for argument in the thick, humid air.

“I was just thirsty, that’s all.”

Matty smirks at that and the sight is sinful. He leans back in his seat, his thighs spreading even more as he grins wickedly.

“Clearly, love.”

You frown.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, well,” his voice is soft and condescending, rewriting your words as you speak them, “I think ya’ did.”

You shift in your seat, your bare thighs sliding over one another, desperate to relieve any of the pressure that had been building since the conversation had begun.

You have another go at your drink, shifting around the ice to try and get any liquid, but the attempt is futile. Just as soon as you’ve lifted the straw to your lips, Matty is pulling the glass away entirely.

“Stop that,” he snaps, placing the glass on the wood where it will surely leave a ring, “looking so fuckin’ desperate.”

You melt at his voice, at the sheer strength and force of it. It makes your stomach roll over and your veins run hot. The syllables had punctured every inch of your skin, injecting themselves into your veins and seeping into your bloodstream. You were addicted to the high, all you had to do was play along.

“Hmm? Don’t know what you mean,” You say softly, doing your best doe eyes at him through your lashes.

He looks down at you with a half-smirk half-scowl, “Oh please, love. You know exactly what you’re doin’”.

Matty takes your wrist in his hand, not bothering to lace his fingers with yours. Rather, he pulls you forward as he shifts back. 

Your body flows with the motion of his as Matty sits back in his chair, pulling you onto his lap. Any attempt by you to be graceful is lost as he yanks you forwards, his fingers finding the curve of your waist as he pulls you down onto him.

“Suckin’ on your drink like that,” he whispers low and dirty in your ear, placing a kiss right below your earlobe, “actin’ like such a little slut.”

You suck back a whimper as he bites at the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands venturing higher, up over your clothed tits.

“Matty…” you whine as he soothes the bite with his tongue. Your body was putty in his hands. The heat in the air made the rub of his rough denim jeans delicious over your bare thighs, skirt riding up as you bracketed them.

“Shhh, darlin’”, Matty palms at your chest, watching attentively as you arch your back, “I’m not done tellin’ you off, yeah?”

Your brain swims with hazy desire, only emphasised by every touch of his fingers against your chest, and every gentle move of your hips, each one generating addictive friction that shoots straight to your core.

You get a bit more brave with your movements, experimentally rolling your hips deeper before Matty catches your waist with his steady hands, effectively stopping you entirely.

A whine escapes your lips instinctively, body mourning the loss of stimulation all together.

“Ohh, is my poor girl feelin’ needy?” 

Matty’s voice is dripping with condescension, and damn, if he doesn’t wear it well.

A smug grin paints his face, skin moist with sweat and humidity, every curl perfectly out of place.

“Of course you are. Always so needy, yeah?”

You divert your gaze, a sudden flush washing over you in a wave of embarrassment. You had been called out, after all. Maybe, you should have been embarrassed. After all, here you were, getting off on the way he was manhandling you into his lap. But, then again, he was the one who pulled you into his lap after seeing you sucking on a goddamn straw. 

Before you can retort, Matty’s hand is squeezing your face, his thick fingers pulling your chin so your eyes are level with his.

“C’mon, love,” he murmurs, pupils blown, “wanna hear you say it.”

Never in your life have you felt like such a walking contradiction; your chest bloomed with a deep burgundy flush, embarrassment creeping up your spine as need swirled in your stomach, your panties suddenly seeming a whole lot wetter than they were ten minutes ago.

“Say it.”

Matty squeezes your face again, and you’re snapped back into reality.

You open your mouth, tongue fumbling with letters that had seemingly lost all rhyme or reason under his demeaning gaze. 

“I– uh…”

Matty gives a final squeeze to your cheeks before dropping his hand back to your waist and gripping meanly.

“Tell me you’re being a needy little slut,” he mutters, breath heavy against your cheek, “and maybe,” he squeezes your waist, “I’ll give you what you’re clearly so desperate for.”

You whimper at the rasp of his voice against your skin, cheeks painted pink with a mix of desire and embarrassment.

“Say it,” he utters, and you know right there and then that he’s not asking.

You suck in a shallow breath, air barely hitting your lungs, “I–I’m a needy…” Your words trail off as Matty pulls you down, letting your hips roll against his navy jeans. “F-fuck Matty…please…”

Matty smirks, stilling your movements, “keep talkin’ or I’ll stop.”

You nearly whine, body seeming to melt even more, like wax to a flame.

“Keep goin’.”

You nod softly, mind having gone to cotton under his fingertips.

“I’m a n-needy slut…”

Matty smiles, gripping your waist tightly and rubbing you on his thigh. “Good fuckin’ girl. You’re so nasty, gettin’ off on this. Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic.”

A noise that resembles a squeal, but seems to be much closer to a moan escapes you. The friction is delicious against the fabric of his jeans; your flimsy cotton panties hidden under the edge of your skirt are thoroughly soaked through, and you can feel it with every forceful roll of your hips.

“Oh baby,” Matty rasps, “‘bet you’re makin’ such a perfect mess on me, yeah?”

You can’t manage a response, voice catching in your throat as he pulls you down for a particularly deep roll of your hips.

“Can’t even think straight when I’m making you feel good, can you?” He doesn’t wait for a response, in fact, he doubles his efforts, pulling you closer and closer to the edge of a mind-melting release. “‘S all you’re good for, meltin’ for me like this.”

Matty’s right hand slips from your waist up to your cheek, gripping the skin tightly with his digits. His left leaves your waist simultaneously, snaking beneath your skirt and rubbing gentle circles into the clothed skin just above your clit. The contrast is devastating: his right hand grips meanly at your face, his thumb coming up to part your lips. His left hand makes quick work of pulling your drenched panties to the side, parting your other lips.

“Oh darlin”, he smirks as you accept his finger into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit and cheeks hollowing, “you’re soaked everywhere. Do you just stay wet like this whenever I’m around? Hm?”

His voice is punitive; degrading. He looke up at you as if you were hundreds of meters below him, and you fucking love it. “Mhm,” you gargle around his finger as he begins to circle your sopping hole. He pulls a gasp from your mouth as his fingers move north, rubbing tight figure-eights into your clit with your own wetness. “Always for you.”

“Mmmm, that’s right, darlin’,” Matty grips your chin with his free fingers, squeezing in a tight tempo as you suck on his thumb. “Baby? Can you stay still f’me? Wanna try something.”

You nod, a smile forming around his finger as he pulls it from your mouth with a wet popping noise. At the same time, his left hand leaves your clit, dragging a trail of your slick with his fingers. His two hands swap places, his right finding your cunt as his left reaches your mouth. 

“Ready?”

“Mhm…please…”

“Ya’ don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for,” he laughs, “you’re so cute when you’re ruined.”

Matty pushes four fingers in you all at once: two in your mouth, coated in your juices, and two in your aching cunt. The stretch is delicious, and you go from positively empty, to utterly and completely full.

“Fuck!” you gargle as you clench down, barely colding on to any composure. Matty’s thumb finds your neglected clit once more as his fingers scissor inside of your mouth and spongy walls in tandem.

You can taste yourself on his fingers– heavy and sweet and sinful and heavenly.

“Open wide, darlin”, and god, you do. “So willing,” he breathes, “just takin’ whatever I give you. Good girl, yeah.”

Your mouth is wide open for Matty as he presses harshly on your tongue with two fingers, nearly making you gag. Before you can close your mouth, he leans his head back, collecting a wad of spit in his throat, and spits it into your mouth. It's hot and thick and it tastes like cola and ice and him.

“Augh– please!” You rasp, mouth full of your own arousal and his sickly sweet spit, punctuated by the lingering taste of the cola he had been sipping on.

“If you were so damn thirty for that soda, then drink.”

He taps his wet fingers against your throat twice, and it’s all the instruction that you need. You swallow the mixture in one gulp, feeling as the liquid moves down your throat, soar from gasping around his hands.

“Oh, such a good slut, fuckin’ hell”.

Matty presses his lips against yours, and you taste him once more. All while, his right hand never lapses in its torturously quick circles on your clit. As the tension in your stomach increases, you’re sure you're close. After he had dragged you mere inches away from the edge on his thigh, you’re desperate for the release.

“Please, Matty– ‘m close, so close…”

Matty smirks as he kisses you again, his tongue dancing with yours as his taste seeps into your mouth all over again. You swear it’s nearly enough to make you cum on the spot.

“I know, I can feel you squeezin’ me, so tight, babe,” Matty groans as you clench around his fingers over and over, your stomach beginning to spasm as he drags you over a cliff of pleasure. “Let go f’me, come on, give me all that you’ve got.”

You come in a wave of red hot lust and release, a sharp moan shooting from your mouth and immediately being caught in his. Your body shakes and shutters around him in flutters of your cunt and your eyelids. Every inch of you is affected, and hell, if he doesn’t know it.

“So good, fuck. You’re makin’ it so damn hard for me to hold my composure, you know that?”

You smirk as you collapse into his shoulder, “this is you with composure?”

Matty just smiles, stroking your hair. He pulls you back, wiping a lingering line of his spit from the corner of your mouth. 

★

01:17 - 21. December, 2018 – London, England

“Fuck– you can’t just leave! I’ll get it together, I’ll get clean– shit, I’ll throw it all away right fucking now,” your throat grew tighter with each word spewed out in Matty’s raspy voice, eyes stinging with tears, “just, just stay. Please. I can’t do it without you.”

You swallow hard, taking a step back– dropping his hand. 

The small Christmas tree in the corner of the room glimmered with tiny white fairy lights. They were new; the ones you had used before had burned out. They had only been twelve quid at the Sainsbury’s down the road. Maybe, the price would have made you smile another year. Maybe– if he had showed up that night. The star that sat atop of the peak was slightly off center, a product of where you weren’t tall enough to reach on your own. 

Matty got home at four in the morning the evening you set up the tree. As he crawled into bed, smelling of burnt something and hot bodies, he didn’t even mention the addition to his living room.

The tree seemed to stare at you now as a tear dripped down your cheek. The table next to it, the short coffee-table that you and Matty had picked up at some posh Restoration-Hardwear bore your neatly packed duffle bag, stuffed with clothing and a toothbrush, and whatever-the-fuck else you may need to survive; to live. Beside it, half ripped and crinkled was a clear, plastic bag, home to baby-blue tourniquets and metal spoons and baggies of white powder and needles that you could only pray were clean. 

It wasn’t the first time you had seen that bag.

It started haunting your vision at parties.

Then at the studio.

Then at home.

It wasn’t a secret, per se. Maybe, that made it worse. He didn’t lie about it; it was just private.

His business. His to control.

He made it abundantly clear it wasn’t your place to speak about it. He was doing what he had to do to survive, after all.

Everything in you, from the tips of your toes to the frayed bottoms of your strands of hair pray this will be the last time you have to lay eyes on the sack of plastic.

06:32 – 12. May, 2019 – Kyoto, Japan

You never did like hotels.

You never liked the way the beds were always too soft or too firm.

You never liked the way every room felt the same, with the same decor and same eerie temporary feeling.

You never liked the way there were millions of stories that had been made within the walls of your rectangular room, and no matter how much you wanted to, you would never get to know them.

It was a secret.

You would never know what it was like for them.

Sunlight hits the sheer skin of your eyelids before you can register that it’s morning time.

You had only landed in Japan six hours ago, but you had been awake for nearly four times that in the hours prior. 

You had landed late– or early. You weren’t entirely sure. It didn’t make much difference anyways. You were there.

You should have been excited.

You had waited your whole life to do exactly what you’re doing now: travel alone, see the world, be bound to nothing– to no one.

That was the plan.

So, why did his side of the bed feel so empty?

Your head swirls with aches and sensations that can only be described as your skin being stretched too thin over your skull.

The sheets were cool and thin. They cocooned you as if the slim hours of rest you had received would leave you to emerge as anything close to a butterfly. 

You, rather, felt particularly sluggish as you slid out of bed, moving around the room blindly in the low light to find a coffee machine.

You pull out two cups, setting them side by side and turning back to observe the sleeping figure tucked under the sleek cotton. Your retinas mapped the room as it once was– a mop of messy brown curls peaking out from pillows, a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, your black lace bra thrown across the room and latex wrapped in tissue, at your discretion, tucked carefully into the bin. 

But, the bed was empty.

You didn’t need two cups.

It was just you.

It has been just you for six months now.

For a moment, your eyes refused to adjust– refused to give into reality.

Your heart couldn’t take it, so your pupils caught up. 

The body keeps score. The body protects.

You drink your coffee alone, but you don’t dare get back in bed.

The rest of the morning is spent quietly. After the cool wash of caffeine sets in, you shower, dress, and paint your face with the life you lack. It’s oddly familiar. It’s strange how a place so brand new, so foreign, can hold all of the same routines. You wonder who else had applied lipstick at that very vanity. You wonder if they had done it alone. 

Had someone been there to kiss it off of them?

09:47 – 2. October, 2018 – Paris, France

You had snuck out of bed early. 

Well, perhaps, early wasn’t the correct word. 

The thick, silver wristwatch Matty had discarded next to the ancient-looking box television set told you it was nearly ten o’clock. 

But, Matty wasn’t awake; that meant it was early.

The tour was finally over, after months on the road and on planes and everywhere in between. 

You had gone from London to Beijing to CDMX and not once had it felt like you had left home.

Your home was wherever he was. You knew he felt the same way.

That’s why he had proposed this trip to Paris, after all. Right? To be ‘home’ with you?

This was day three. 

You had seen the Left Bank and heard Matty’s endless rambles about Hemingway and Fitzgerald and how they were the ‘ultimate expressions of an introspective realism laced with the romanticisation of all that was nonsensical in a logical manner’. You didn’t have the mind to argue. He was older than you– wiser, surely. He was the artist. You were more than happy to entertain his literary wet-dreams whilst you soaked up the early-autumn Parisian atmosphere. 

The last two mornings had mirrored this almost exactly. Matty had been uncharacteristically tired lately. The hyper-active man from before the tour had seemingly melted down and hardened once more. ‘What the fuck did you expect, Jesus!’, he had told you when you had begged him to go dancing with some friends on a Friday evening. ‘I’ve just done a world fucking tour and put out an album. All I want is to sleep, alright?’ 

You had listened– made yourself small when he was going on his rants, and even smaller when he was angry. You made yourself big again when he was crying– shaking in your arms with a bandage in the crook of his elbow that you pretended not to see.

‘He knows what he’s doing’, you told yourself day after day as you listened to him sing for crowds of thousands and then barely speak a word to you in your hotel room. Maybe, your audience of one just wasn’t enough.

You weren’t stupid. Maybe he knew that. Sometimes, you wondered if he didn’t.

You had seen the tin foil crumpled into balls.

You had heard him puking in the morning time.

He no longer slept lightly, as if he was wistfully moving in and out of dreams.

He slept like a dead man: eyes sunken and limbs devoid of life entirely.

But, now, you were in Paris.

And, it was his idea to come. 

Matty stirred in his sleep, his body moving although you were sure his mind was entirely still.

He would want coffee when he was awake, and honestly, it was the least you could do. He paid for the hotels, took you shopping, paid for food. Coffee was easy. That was your job.

You took one of the ornate ceramic mugs that had been carefully painted with the initials of the hotel in gold lettering.

You begin the short walk over to the coffee machine just as the sound of a siren blared suddenly from outside the large, curtain-clad windows.

The ring was sharp and startling, however, not nearly as startling as the sound of glass shattering across wood.

You had dropped the fucking mug.

In a state of panic, you fall to your knees, collecting the shards with your bare hands. Small, shallow cuts and streams of blood appear across your knuckles; you curse under your breath.

“What the fuck happened?”

Matty’s voice is rough and painted with remnants of sleep. It’s sharp around the edges. It reminds you of the class currently populating your palms. It’s nothing at all like the voice he used to use whilst whispering into your ear in the morning times. There’s none of that left there.

“Sorry– I, shit– I dropped the mug and it shattered.”

Matty knits his eyebrows together, running a heavy hand over his face, letting his eyelids and lips be pulled downwards by the force of his hands.

“Of course you fuckin’ did. I was trying to sleep, Y/N.”

You pause for a moment, looking up at him. Rage and confusion and hurt pool in your veins. ‘Of course’? 

“Jesus, I said I’m sorry. It’s not like I meant to. I was trying to make you coffee and–”

“Well, you didn’t. No use in getting defensive now. ‘M just saying I’m not surprised.”

You cock your head slightly, narrowing your vision before shaking your head softly and returning to cleaning the broken mug off of the paneled floors. Even without a mirror, you were certain that your face was painted in regret and guilt. You had fucked up. You just just shut up and take it.

“You just…” you pause, choosing your words, “you didn’t have to be an ass about it, Matty.”

Matty sucks in a breath, clearly trying to push down the words that sat so easily on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah, fuck, you’re right. I’m sorry babe. Y’alright?”

Matty dips down from the bed, meeting you where you are squatted on the floor.

“Shit– looks like you got cut. Let me handle it, love. Go get cleaned up, yeah?”

Matty’s words were no longer that same bitter tone that they were only moments ago. In their place, his syllables were sickenly sweet. Kind, almost.

You didn’t deserve it.

You knew you didn’t deserve it.

He knew you didn’t deserve it.

Tears blended with blood in the bathroom sink.

What exactly didn’t you deserve?

13:08 – 13. May, 2019 – Kyoto, Japan

Delicate, red archways surround your head and your body. The path to the gardens was narrow, even more so than the passageways in the temple had been.

Your legs ached from climbing seemingly endless staircases.

Your head pounded from lingering jet-lag and a simmering sake hangover the night before.

How glamorous that would have seemed to you a year ago– drunk in a foreign country. All that is left of that stolen luxury is the memory of you ordering your third shot last night. Maybe, it wasn’t so glamorous to be cut off.

Your round sunglasses stay glued to your face despite the looming clouds above.

You had narrowly called this whole excursion off to lay around in bed. Honestly, you probably would have if it wasn’t for the flood of messages on your instagram story of people asking for more pictures of your ‘Big Spring Japan Trip’.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see the so-called must-see sights of the country you had been dying to see for years. It’s just that you didn’t really feel as though you were seeing them at all.

Your body was there, sure. But, that’s all.

Crowds of seemingly American tourists, mixed with the occasional local, flooded around you. For all of the history that this place held, it really did play as quite the perfect backdrop for some meaningless feed-fillers.

After nearly an hour you were done. With your body and mind equally exhausted, and thankfully, no one of any importance to you around to judge, you plopped down on a bench and pulled out your phone to call an uber.

Unfortunately, your plan lasted all of thirty seconds before you realised that there was absolutely no connection in the middle of…wait? Where were you again? Right. The temple. Focus. 

Your eyes scanned through the crowds of families with young children and couples with shiny new engagement rings that sparkled like the ponds that covered the grounds across the property until they landed on a weather-beaten pay phone.

Desperate, you found yourself shoving through bodies and slipping a coin into the machine moments later. You had the name of a local cab company written on a small slip of paper, along with emergency numbers, that stayed folded in your wallet in case of need. Dialing the digits, you waited for any sound on the other side.

“はい、京都タクシー輸送でございます。どのようなご用件でしょうか。”

The moment the man on the other end began to speak, you quickly realised that the few weeks of audio tapes and workbooks you had used to learn ‘enough japanese to get around’ were not nearly enough.

You let out an unstifled sigh, suddenly finding yourself quite irritated by your lack of ability to handle this situation.

“S-sorry…english?”

“Oh, yes. How can I help you?”

You close your eyes, saying a silent ‘thank you’ that the man on the other end was more language-competent than yourself.

“I need a taxi from Fushimi Inari Taisha, please.”

“Right, okay. Three-thousand yen.”

Already drained from a millisecond-long attempt at translating conversion rates, you accept the cost, hanging up with a last ‘thank you’, and a promise of a ten-minute wait.

The phone slammed heavy onto the metal hook, the plastic scraped and paint torn.

The booth seemed out of place in the beautiful temple; a sore thumb amongst pristine architectural wonders.

It felt familiar. Maybe, you could relate.

There’s a tap on your shoulder, and you swivel around on your feet to find a man motioning to the phone.

With a quick apology, you step aside, watching as he quickly dials up a number.

“こんにちは、愛しい人。”

The man speaks fast– far too quickly for you to pick up anything of substance. 

Except for one thing. 

‘愛’. 

‘Love’.

It’s as if sparks had been sent across your otherwise muddled and foggy brain; a series of electric charges informing your synapses with information.

This man was talking to a lover.

All of a sudden and all at once, shame prickles up your spine that you had been listening at all. However, said shame is punctuated with something else: desire.

What is he saying? Is he angry? Sad? Does he miss his lover? Are they new? Old? Secret? Separated? Married?

Millions of narratives paint your brain with colourful, vivid stories.

They could be everything and nothing.

They could be together and apart.

You imagine what it would be like to receive a call like that; to make one.

What would you tell a lover now?

23:49 - 1. January, 2019 – London, England: Royal Public Phone Transcripts 

“You are now connected with Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Hello?”

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Matty.”

“Oh.”

“I’m on a payphone.”

“Are you okay? Did you…”

“No– god, no. I’m fine.”

“Okay. I’m glad.”

“Are you…”

“No. Jesus, I’m not high.”

“I miss you.”

“I fucked up. I know I fucked up–”

“Matty–”

“No, love. Please. Let me talk. Please?”

“I fucked up. I’m an addict. I’m  a mess. I’m a shitty fucking peron and I treated you like you were nothing. But, listen: I’m sober! I’ve been sober for a week, and I’m not going back, and I’m never doin’ that shit again. I swear, Y/N. Just…come home. Please? I don’t think I can do it without you. I’ll be better. I’m better. Just, come home. Come home and I’ll be the man you want me to be. I promise you, baby. I promise…” 

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you come home?”

“Matty…”

“Please.”

“I can’t.”

“...”

“Matty?”

“I wrote you a letter.”

“Huh?”

“A letter. I wrote you a letter the day that you left.”

“I don’t–”

“You don’t have to read it. But, I sent it.”

“O-okay.”

06:24 – 14. May, 2019 – Kyoto, Japan

The flick of your lighter was loud in the silent room.

The lights lay dim, only a singular curtain drawn back to reveal the early morning light.

Your legs were crossed on the windowsill– pane cracked open to allow smoke to filter out.

The nicotine reached your head before the smoke had a moment to exit your lungs, billowing out in a cloud of grey that matched the landscape beyond the glass.

The paper was no longer as crisp as it was when it arrived.

The edges were not sharp.

They had been stacked and shipped and stamped and opened. Opened, but never read.

They had been hidden away in drawers, safe from the sharp knife of your gaze.

They had been crinkled and bent by piles of clothing in your suitcase, carried across the pacific and left to sit in the room for days.

And now, they were sitting beside you. Four corners of the envelope. Your name scribbled across the center.

It sounded silly to say, even in your own mind, but you had dreamt of this moment– the one when you would finally understand why he did what he did; why he didn’t reach out for help. The moment where you would see the world through his eyes. The moment when you would swallow your pride and forgive him.

You wouldn’t have realised how long you had been sitting there just looking at the letter if it werem’t for the fag that was burning low between your fingers. You took a last, long drag before tossing it over the threshold; it was the same small habit that you had always scolded him for.

You ran a slender finger over the letter, feeling the papyrus scratch at the pad of your digit.

The pristine white had faded into a yellowed-beige, as if it was an artifact– some sought after primary source of a historical event that you would sit through lectures about and inevitably fall asleep.

But, it wasn’t.

It was to you.

And yet, it felt like something you weren’t meant to see.

He had told you that you didn’t have to read it.

That you didn’t have to.

As if he could oblige you to do anything at all.

As if he owned you.

Your stomach flipped at that thought, your head growing woozy at the reminder of how his words sounded; how they felt.

But, you came to Japan for a reason. You were sure of that now. You may not have known exactly why, or exactly how it would help, but you knew that it would.

It would help because it was clean.

Untouched by Matty.

He couldn’t reach you here; couldn’t hurt you.

You couldn’t hurt him

Every fight,

Every tear,

Every drop of blood,

Every sleepless night,

Every every comatose day,

Everything you gave and everything that you took-- it was gone now. A memory.

And, once you left this hotel, another guest just like you would inhabit it. They would play pretend and dance around the city with a smile on their face. Or, maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would come alone, for work, or for a funeral, or to meet a partner.

Maybe– but you would never know.

And, they would never know you.

Your story was nothing more than one of many, now.

All that was left of him was that damn letter.

You flick the lighter on once, twice.

01:19 - 21. December, 2018 – London, England

“I’m sorry, Matty,” you managed to get out between choked sobs. You couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes; you were sure you would see his heart snapping within his pinpoint pupils. You were sure you would see his lifeless body laying on the bathroom tile. You were sure you would see the needle still sticking out of his arm. You just couldn’t do it. “I–I have to. You know I have to. It’s the only way you’ll get better, Matty. Please, see that.”

Matty’s expression hardens, you’re sure of it even without your eyes on him. His voice is colder now; meaner.

“If you’re so sorry, then don’t fucking leave,” he spits, “who else is going to help me get better? You think I have anyone else, Y/N?”

“Matty–”

“Shut up! God, I’m fuckin’ talking, okay?”

You let out another choked cry. Of everything that you had seen in these past months, the fighting had to be your least favourite part.

“I mean, it’s like you want to see me die. Is that it? You want me to overdose tonight?”

Your eyes stay glued to the floor, salty streams painting your reddened face.

“You know that’s not what I want,” you say softly.

“Oh yeah? You think I can fuckin’ believe that when you’re leaving when things get hard? Do you even fuckin’ love me? Do you care if I die?”

You’ve heard it all before.

You heard it in Paris when he was strung out at museums and was falling asleep inside you.

You heard it when you took him to visit your mum and he was slurring his words the entire trip.

You heard it the first time you had to call the ambulance for him– when his heart beat slowly and his breathing came more in shallow bursts than steady breaths.

That was the sickening part: you had heard it so many times before, that it had stopped hurting all together.

“The only thing I care about is you not dying, Matty. But, you’re not going to get better if I’m here. And, I’m angry. Okay? I’m fucking angry,” you run your hands over your face, pulling the skin with your fingers, “I want to fucking kill you most days for putting me through this, and sometimes…sometimes I think you do too.”

Matty lets out a humourless laugh. It’s dry and dark.

“Bullshit. That’s fuckin’ bullshit, and you fuckin’ know it!” He runs his fingers through his unruly hair, curls no longer coiled and styled like they once were. Your eyes practically burn a hole into the floor. Your body stills entirely, so much so that you are sure you can hear your heart beat. A million possibilities of words run through the highways of your mind, all screaming at the very tops of their lungs.

You wanted to call him a fuck-up.

You wanted to call him your boyfriend.

You wanted to call him an addict.

You wanted to call him an angel.

You wanted to tell him just how much seeing him like this was killing you. How one more day and you might just have died inside.

“Fuck, just– why won’t you fuckin’ look at me?” His voice is strained and pitchy. It cracks around the edges and blends into sounds that you thought were reserved for bedsheets and empty corridors. “Look at me! Look at me, God! I’m right fuckin’ here and you wont even look at me!”

Before your mind can register the sensation, his hand is gripping your chin, pulling your eyes to meet his. Your body moves faster than your brain, slapping his hand away and backing towards the door.

“Don’t…” you gasp out.

“What? Are you scared of me? Is that it?” Matty looks as if you might cry: eyes puffy and lips bitten red from anxiously ripping apart flesh.

It’s not that you were scared of Matty.

Matty would never hurt you.

Matty loved you.

But, that man, the one standing in front of you with pupils as small as the eye of a needle, and shaky hands– that was not Matty. That was a shell of the man who had held you through the night; a withered corpse with a narrow frame and sunken eyes of the boyish laugh and sun-like smile that had won you over.

“This is over, Matty. It’s over.”

Matty takes a step back as if he had been physically pained by your words. He no longer looks like the older man who had spotted you backstage at a gig and taken you home. He no longer looks like the rockstar who had sold out arenas around the globe. He no longer looks like your boyfriend who had been screaming in your face only moments before. Hell, he doesn’t even look ill. He looks hurt. He looks scared. As if for the first time, he is realising how real this is; that he is losing you for real this time, that you’re not coming back.

“I love you.”

The words hit your eardrums before you see his lips even move. They’re short and sweet and sharp and ugly. They say nothing and absolutely everything.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Please, Jesus– if you are listening, just please forgive me. Please look away. I promise I’m still good.

“So fucking good,” Matty groans as he lines himself up with you, “always takin’ me so well, yeah, angel?”

You let out a soft gasp in response as Matty pushes in, his hips staggering as he bottoms out.

His hands, calloused and rough, dig at the soft flesh of your hips. Your ribs ache from being bent over a pew, your scalp stings as Matty weaves a free hand between the threads of your hair and yanks back.

The pain is sinful.

But, then again, don’t you have to suffer for God’s love? Isn’t this what you deserve? Isn’t that what Father Healy always said?

“Fuck– angel, you’re sqeezin’ me so tight, God…”

“Father…please…need– ah!”

“Shhhh…quiet for me, Angel. I’m tryin’ to preach, yeah? Need you to be still for me.”

You wanted to laugh.

You wanted to cry.

You wanted to cum.

You wanted to crawl out of your skin and let your bare flesh burn under the hottest water you could find. You still wouldn’t be clean of him.

Has he corrupted you? Damned you?

Perhaps, you had corrupted him.

It was you who had initiated it, afterall.

Maybe that was the most sinful part.

That Sunday three months ago had been hotter than usual; a taste of the hell you were sure that you were destined to see.

Your dress was white. 

Your hair fell easily over your shoulders.

You had asked for a meeting alone with him after Mass.

You had slipped into the confessional box without thinking twice.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago.”

You shift in your seat, a flush already creeping up your chest. You shouldn’t have been nervous. You had done confession with Father Healy hundreds of times since you were young. This shouldn’t have been different. Except that it just was.

“I’ve been…uh…I don’t know exactly how to say this…”

You hear Matty clear his voice, and you can see the faint shadow of him through the intricately designed barrier of metal and wood. It wasn’t enough.

“You’re worried.”

“What?”

“You’re worried,” he repeats, voice steady and deep, “I can hear it in your voice.”

You swallow, crossing a leg over the other. It was true. You hate that he knew it. You hate that his voice made your stomach twist. You hate that he was the reason you had this sick, twisted confession in the first place.

“You don’t need to worry. It’s just you, me, and God. This is meant to cleanse you, so be honest. I’m listening.”

You squeeze your thighs together. You pretend it’s subconscious. 

You suck in a breath as you run a finger over the carved wood in front of you, your eyes focusing on the leaves carved into it. Your finger traces higher, running over the oak tree and flowers that adorned the booth. You turn your head slightly and find that the vines surround you. The garden is beautiful, heavenly, even. 

It would have been so easy to lie. To say that you hadn’t done what you had. 

Things could have been good that way. Easy.

You never would have known the way that Matty tasted of wine off the altar and cigarettes, even though he swore he quit years ago.

You never would have known that his chest was painted in ink spiraled into words and pictures of elk and of flowers.

You never would have known what it would be like to sink your teeth into his bottom lip and pull out the sweet, sweet juices of red.

Blame it on the heat.

Blame it on the garden.

Blame it on the smell of his cologne that snaked through the metal opening and slithered around your exposed skin.

If you called it what it sounded like, it would have been lust.

If you called it what it was, it would have been hunger.

You took a bite and knew you could simply never go back.

“I’ve been touching myself.”

You hear Matty suck in a breath, and what sounded like fabric shifting.

“Why?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Who makes you want that?”

“Father–”

“God wants to know.” He pauses, neither of you speak. “I want to know.”

“I can’t–”

“You can. C’mon, angel.”

The pet-name misses your ears and sinks straight to your cunt, each letting a wave of need through you.

“Y-you do.”

White spots danced across your vision as Matty’s hand fell from your hair and snakes between your bodies, his thick thumb rubbing practiced circles on your swollen bundle of nerves.

Your eyes stay glued to the cracking stone floors as he thrusts deeper into you, leaning forward to whisper trails of sweet nothings into your ear.

“I’ve got you, Angel. So precious, God– made for me, yeah? Fuckin’ made for this cock, aren’t you?”

“We are all made perfectly in God’s image.” Matty had been preaching only the hour before.

Was this God’s plan for you all along?

Matty would know better than you. He was the closest you had gotten to seeing God; to touching him.