#sub matty

Matty's on one and he's doing your head in with his childish antics. 3062 words. matty x fem reader Warnings - sliiight shame kink/power play, minor substance use, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, romantic choking?? passionate hate fucking, mostly a lot of torturous grinding like teenagers I have ten years' worth of Matty thoughts in my head. Please be kind this is my first fic! My friend made me publish this and I ended up accidentally deleting my 12-year-old blog trying to make a sub-blog so I hope it's worth it, that thing was my entire identity. Feel free to leave me your thoughts xx

He’d been on one since the Brits. Riled up from the backlash with the podcast, the stress of leaving the house in public after all the bashing from the press, and then having to be in the same room as the very people that spend their whole careers criticising him, it’s all compiled to Matty pacing around your house for days on end. But Yungblud’s newest show was it for him. He won’t sit down, he won’t talk about anything else. And it was starting to drive you mental.

“Who the fuck does he think he fuckin’ is? It’s not enough he fucks my old misses and steals my entire persona and aesthetic, covers my fuckin’ song and then smears me on the fuckin’ internet for nowt, now he’s gone and stolen my fuckin’ stage show?”

You breathe deep. Let it go. Let him get it off his chest.

“Yeah, babe. He’s so annoying.” You placate him monotonously, not taking your eyes off your phone. Scrolling meaninglessly through your Instagram feed.

“What a fuckin’ loser he is.” He huffs and leaves the room.

You relish the moment of silence however fleeting it is before he’s back in the room holding his stash box, and rolling another giant spliff in his hands as he sits right beside you on the couch when he starts again.

“I just don’t believe it, babe, honestly who the fuck does he think he is?”

You watch as he licks the edge of the rollie paper to enclose it and twists the top in his nimble fingers, your phone now discarded on the coffee table forgotten. Watching almost in slow motion as he drags his tongue across the paper. The action alone causing a light flush to heat the back of your neck, picturing the last time that tongue was pressed against your very core.

He takes you out of your reverie by lighting the spliff and handing it to you, an unspoken habit of his that you get first drag. Matty envelops himself around you on the couch, taking up your personal space and getting as close as possible. Usually an action that you enjoy, but he’s so irritating, so grating, at the moment that your skin crawls at the closeness. You breathe deep, toking the weed into your lungs, inhaling most of it and hand him back the spliff; which he takes deep into his own lungs so close to your ear you hear the draw he makes. Spurred on by his perception of your silence to mean you’re listening intently to everything he has to say, every thought racing around his head, he continues ranting. But you’re not paying attention. Instead, the growing irritation of him being so caught up on Yungblud, Halsey, and the press, whatever else the fuck he’s ranting about that you’re not following along with because he. Just. Won’t. Stop.

Pushing your anger down more, you snatch the spliff out of his hands and claim the rest as your own while he gets his phone out inspired by both his high and his anger and opens his Instagram. You watch off to the side while he goes on a rant on his Instagram stories, impersonating Dom’s accent. You watch his exaggerated expressions, his lips moving in a way they don’t usually, and the horrendous but accurate impression of Yungblud’s ridiculous accent. While otherwise entertaining, the pettiness and ridiculousness is suddenly almost rather ugly to you. Annoying in the very least. It’s a side of him you’ve seen before many a time, sardonicism being a language and humour you both share, but it has never put you off quite like this.

The more he speaks the more you want to scream at him.

You draw yourself from his side and stand up from the couch, deciding a cup of tea is all you need. Spliff still in hand, you reach into your cupboard and pull out your favourite tea mug, the kind almost the size of a soup bowl that was perfect for rainy days and shitty moods, and turn the kettle on. Between the final drags of the spliff, you butt the smouldering empty roach out in the filling ashtray on the counter and pull out a bag of lavender destressing tea from the pantry and place it in your mug. You can hear him still ranting in the loungeroom, saying something about “the underrated youth, fucking, generation” and even in the muffled distance it adds to the annoyance.

You take a deep breath and turn and face the kettle now hissing at boiling point from its dock. The throbbing in your skull grows louder as you focus on pouring the boiling water into your mug when you hear him shuffle into the kitchen behind you, feet dragging on the floor like a petulant child. Another deep breath and you take your first scalding hot sip, too annoyed to wait the minute for it to cool down as you usually do. If the weed isn’t calming you down, this tea is your last hope. He just stands there, up against the kitchen sink looking at you, clearly expecting you to initiate conversation so when it doesn’t come he speaks again because he can never let the silence linger. Can never let there be a moment of silence in his own mind. You’re never allowed a single moment of fucking peace.

“Have you seen it, babe? Watch this git-“ you cut him off, slamming the full mug on the bench and scalding your hand, but you’re too livid to notice and turn around to face him seething and ignoring the searing pain of your now-burning flesh.

“Do you ever shut the FUCK up? You’re so fucking obnoxious, Matthew!” Face flushed and eyes wide, your breathing deepens until your chest is heaving with the rage you’re feeling, the audible breaths filling the room. Unable to hold your ire back from the unwitting man in front of you.

He’s never seen you this angry before and for a moment he shrinks into himself, made several sizes smaller from the accusation and his own face flushing, before he steps up to you, toe-to-toe, face closer and eyes ablaze in mutual anger.

Finally silence. You’re practically nose-to-nose staring each other down intensely, looking for something in each other's eyes and finding only fire.

Until he snatches you by the neck pulling your face forcefully into his own. You kiss each other with such burning passion you become a mess of tangling limbs, clutching at his hair and pulling harshly, trying to get closer to him. He pushes you up against the counter, never removing his mouth from yours, hips grinding forcefully into yours allowing you to feel just how your intensity has him riled up as well. A growing heat between you as you gasp for the air he allows you to steal between tongues lashing. He wants to taste your anger, steal the breath from your lungs, feel you wreathing beneath him. You move together, two comets ablaze crashing into each other. His hands roam your body under your rising shirt, never landing in the same place while still grinding his body into yours impossibly close. He kisses down your neck open mouth eliciting a sinful groan to slip from your lips from the combination of his mouth, his hands, his body. Him.

You feel your control of the moment slipping further away. The control you need to satiate your anger truly. So you take it back bringing his mouth back to yours and push against him off the counter and steer your entwined bodies to the lounge. He stops you in the doorway to the loungeroom and pushes you up against the cool cement wall and takes back the control he briefly relinquished. Continuing his vicious attack to your neck, your collarbone, below your ear. Unrelenting lips, teeth, tongue, claiming your skin and setting you on fire further. Moan's slip from both of your mouths, his shuddering breaths against your skin, hot and wet.

You break your shared silence, between struggling for air and giving over to the sexual deviant he never fails to bring out of you. Tired of always letting him guide the moments you share, you flip your positions so he’s against the wall and clutch his jaw, bringing him to look you directly in the eyes again and relinquish his claim from your body, your other hand pushing him further into the wall. He doesn’t fight the position from the shock of the unexpected change of momentum. He’s never seen this side of you before. Dominant. Domineering. Taking possession of him.

“So, you can shut up.” You sneer, red and swollen lips curling in minor disgust. He groans at your tone and the position of helplessness he’s in, entirely enraptured by your fierceness. A shame kink he’s never expected to get off on emerging in the back of his mind. He wants to give in to you but his stubbornness tries to win him over again and he grabs your wrist holding your hand in place.

“You’ll have to make me.” He grunts back.

And that’s all it takes for you to pull him back into you and stumble the rest of the way to the couch, lips attached with fervour and fire. You draw away briefly, “Shirt and pants off. Now.” You demand. He complies, now free of all but his boxers he stands in front of you, reaching for you again but you step away and push him down to the couch with just enough force he doesn’t fight. You stand above him as he lies on the couch, taken aback for a second again, his own chest heaving, breath heavy and eyes hooded from lust before he drags you on top of him. Hands clutching your own shirt and tearing it off your body, buttons flying. You give him this, but only this, wanting to rid your hot flesh of the material clinging to your skin. It’s not what you want touching you. Not what you need touching you right now.

Your pants and now decimated shirt join his clothes on the floor. You join mouths again, lips and teeth resume clashing in a heated awkwardness you both ignore in your shared desperation. Hands roaming each other more, grinding like sexually repressed teenagers, edging but never quite relenting to ecstasy when his hands roam to your hips and clutch you against him, guiding your movements and force. Each clothed stroke brings a pant from his mouth you draw into your own mouth. He kisses down your neck again, his favourite spot. You take your newfound freedom to give him your next demand.

“If you really want to use that mouth as much as you insist, at least put it to good use.”

You take your body off his, him groaning from the movement and sudden disappearance of pressure where he wanted it most, and you lay back against the couch cushions expectant and waiting. It doesn’t take him long to clue onto what you’re asking and in a lithe move he shifts position and leans over your body, attaching his lips to your chest, your stomach, drifting lower and lower while drawing his hands up your legs enticingly. Inching closer and closer, drawing goosebumps over your skin. The feeling he brings you, even in your bad mood, is elating and you feel yourself slowly give over to his hands, his lips, and his gentle and worshipping touch. The exact opposite of what you want right now.

Between sighs and gentle brushes of his hair, your newfound dominant side kicks in again and you’re pulling the hair at the nape of his neck again. “Touch me properly, Healy.”

His breath hitches where he’s working on worshipping your stomach, every inch of your torso kissed and nuzzled by his face, taking in the scent of your skin when he finally runs his palm over your core. Feeling the sticky wetness pooling in your underwear already. Something primal snaps within him as he tears the remaining clothing from your body and attaches his lips to where you need him most. All lips, and tongue, and nose, and gentle fingers working themselves to satisfy you, he palms your now free breasts with his other hand. He eats you out like a man starved, barely coming up for air. Eventually adding a long and callused finger to your slick cunt, coaxing pants out of you and a slowly arching back.

You stroke his curls as he works, cajoling him. “I love it when you’re quiet. Such a. Good. Man when you’re not talking shit.” Your panting turns to moans as he circles your clit with his tongue, taking it in turns to suck, to lick, to bite. Equal parts humiliation and encouragement spur him on as he adds another finger to your soaking core, gentle spasms begin to surface from your well-attended clit. Your stomach tenses as his tongue and fingers work in unison to build you to a crescendo. The hand tending faithfully to your chest slowly moves down your torso back to its place at your hip, securing you in place firmly. Spurred on by the growing sensation in your belly, you clasp your legs around his head and begin moving your hips in response, riding his face from below. Your right leg hooked around his strong back, muscles rippling under your calf from the tensing of his movements, heel digging in, toes curling. Encouraging him further. He grows in pace and determination.

He will bring you to the edge. He will throw you off that cliff of ecstasy and then plunder your bones for his own sweet release. He adds a third finger, tormenting your g spot he drags from your body every shuttering ounce of orgasm that’s ever been drawn from you by anyone ever before. Earth-shattering raptures of bliss take over your body and mind, releasing from your consciousness the anger you felt for the very man that brought you to your current state. He laps your divine juices in his mouth, not wasting a drop of his reward for good behaviour. He kisses his way back up your overstimulated body still responding from his work, pulsing, undulating, and so very o-drunk, he takes advantage of your blissed-out state to reassert his own control. He kisses you deeply and you taste yourself on his lips. You thank him wordlessly, forgiving him momentarily.

“Am I forgiven, baby? Did I do well?” He asks into your mouth, grinding into your oversensitive core to remind you that work is yet to be done to bring him his own deserved release. You nod, mewling in response. You bring a hand to his cheek and stroke it as he kisses your neck again. “So good to me, Matty. So attentive.” He groans again, your words stroking his need to be appreciated, to be validated.

With your senses slowly coming back to you through shared kisses and soft touches, you trace your own way down his body and free his rock-solid cock from its cotton prison. The intensity of your tryst has bought him close to the edge multiple times without you having to touch him where he needs you to most, the desire to satisfy and appease you first is enough motivation to both fulfil and distract him from his own burning urges. Your feather-light touch to his engorged penis sends a whole body shudder through him in his position above you. If you continued to touch him so sinfully he’d come undone in your hand.

Gasping he takes your hand in his shaking grip, “Babe, if you keep touching me while looking like that I’ll cum right here. I need to be IN you.” And who are you to deny a man on the edge his only wish? You take a moment to lightly stroke his penis against your still-soaking entrance and make eye contact with him hooded eyes to hooded eyes, both of you with blown-out pupils from shared euphoria.

You both sigh as he enters you, taking a moment once he’s bottomed out, the base of his shaft against your labia. Hip to hip. With one hand, he grasps your throat tenderly, your hand holding his wrist to encourage his movement. Eyes still locked, nose to nose, he starts moving his hips encouraging your own slow movements with his other hand back in place on your hips. Breathing through the other's mouths, lips barely touching in anticipation, sharing moans and mewls and groans, he picks up pace forming a steady rhythm. The pressure and force building with hips bumping off the others, pants and moans filling the air, each other’s sweat coating your bodies. Neither of you can tell where he begins and you end. Joined as one, you wrap your legs around his body to keep him close, your free hand drawing blood down his back trying to grasp for something, anything. The rapture he’s causing your body is intense again, places he’s never reached before in his many explorations of your body have been tormented and punished. He elicits a scream from your chest, his name falling from your lips like a curse, like a song. Toes curling again, you pant, you cry out. “Yes, Matty. Yes! YES! UGH!”

And that’s enough for him to let go with a grunt and pant. Sapping him of all energy, you feel his warm sperm fill you up as he collapses across your body, still inside you, pulsing. He draws his arms around your body in a tender embrace and leaves a soft kiss on your still-heaving chest. You both lay like that for a moment, just breathing. You playing softly with his hair and him drawing circles on your cooling skin.

He finds the strength to push himself up from you and remove himself from your vagina and then laying back in your arms and kissing his way back up to your lips.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” He asks in disbelief. Shock crosses his face when he comes to. And you both start laughing as the intensity of what just passed you both sets in.

Also I LOVEE ur work!! ❤️❤️