#switch!matty

“Don’t pretend you’re asleep. I know you’re awake,” he whispers it and smiles into your skin as he continues his assault on the back of your shoulder, sharply biting your soft skin in a mock attack. 

“Matty…” you smile lazily at the feeling of him…“I’m tired,” he stops and moves back immediately, much to your surprise. You don’t open your eyes, just wiggling your hips further back into him. “Uhh, I didn’t say stop.” You pull his hand back to your body, moving it under the t-shirt to your breast before letting go and leaving it to rest there, holding you in a comforting way. “Is it okay if I just enjoy this?” his small kisses on your neck resume again. “I just want to enjoy you.” 

“Give me a kiss first.” It’s awkward and fumbly as you twist to actually kiss him, with him half on top of you and you rolling onto your back. His silky curls dangle in your face as he leans down to press his chapped and bitten lips against yours, between yours, moving in unison with a gentle ferocity, like he’s holding himself back and being careful with you. His kisses make their way south from your mouth, under your chin, your neck, each one revealing a secret he’s kept for so long, too afraid of damaging you.

“You’re so beautiful.” He’s silently whispering sweet nothings against the crook of your neck between each new kiss. His hand moving from under your top to roll you over onto your side so he can spoon you again. “I love seeing you in my clothes,” another kiss, “but can I please take this off? It’s in my way.” 

Undressing in front of Matty had always come with overwhelming insecurity. The way his eyes roamed your body and landed on each curve and imperfection, stretch mark or missed hair. He saw it all, and it didn’t feel fully comfortable. Until right now. Until he pulled his t-shirt from your skin, and with each new centimetre exposed he kissed away the feeling of ever having anything wrong with you, and the memories of last night come back. The way his tears fell after defending you, the way he clung to you before leaving, how much tenderness there was as he cared for your wounds… how soft that first kiss was. How soft he is right now, still careful with you, as though you might break. It made for a change from the rough and ready fucks you’d had previously, the way he devoured you whole everytime he wanted you. The way he’d do what he wanted to your body and take you for all you were worth, or thought you were worth. But now he’s making you feel like treasure. All shiny and golden and worth something. Valuable in his eyes and in his arms. Pretty and made to be kept that way. Caring for you and handling you in a way that made you feel like you were supposed to last forever and a day, even if you were made from something as soft and malleable as pure gold. And just like gold, you were melting into a silky shimmering liquid with each of his heated touches. The fires from his fingertips turning you molten. 

His fingers are pulling at the hem of the t-shirt, up your body, skimming your stomach and the dip of your waist, awkwardly fumbling it over your head as you pull your arm through, attempting with very little grace to stay as close as possible to him. His hands are everywhere but where you want him. Your skin bristles with each touch and each kiss. His thumb brushes over your pebbling nipple, slightly pulling, in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat as you bite your lip to hold in the noises you so desperately want to make. You don’t stay quiet for long as his fingers slip between your legs, over the fabric of your underwear where he can no doubt feel how wet you are, and in turn, how much you need him. The soft moan you let out sends blood rushing straight to Mattys hardened cock. The evidence poking harder at your thigh with each little noise you make. 

He doesn’t make a cocky domineering quip like he might have done at one point, instead he just breathes slowly over the wet kiss marks on your shoulder and continues to tease you innocently, as though he has no idea quite what he’s doing to you. 

You let it go on for a while, doing as you said you wanted and just enjoying him, the feel of him and the way he wanted to touch you, until it becomes too much and you just need him. To feel him and hold him closer than you’ve ever wanted anyone. 

You roll over so you can face him and it’s awkward and fast and you almost whack him in the face and ruin the entire moment until he moves your arms around his neck and pulls you closer. Your naked chest to his, your leg wraps itself around his waist to try and show him quite how badly you need him with a kiss. 

The kiss though. 

The kiss is deep and longing and you pour every unspoken emotion and thought you’ve had for this boy into it. You try to tell him how much you want him, how much he is everything to you, how much he has you and you won’t go anywhere. He has your heart in a locked box and you’re willing to throw away the key and promise yourself to him forever. And for the first time, you think it could be the same for him. 

—

“You’re so beautiful”

“I need you”

“You’re worth so much more”

“You’re mine”

“I want you”

“I love the way you smile like that”

“Does this feel good?”

“Is this okay?”

“You’re doing so well for me”

Each new sentence slipping past his lips is another stitch in the broken-then-pieced-together tapestry you managed to create in your fantasy of you and him. He was sewing what you’d put together with each syllable. Finalising the design, with string like spider web, beautiful but delicate and fragile in human hands.

He pushes your underwear down your legs, followed by his own. When he settles next to you, you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. Dripping with precum but not pressing you for any more, not asking for any attention. He’s focused solely on you and what he can give you. His fingers resume their caresses on your inner thighs as you kiss, spreading your legs as an invitation for him to move his hand where you so desperately want him. Matty swallows your whimpers with another kiss as his fingers press inside whilst thumb gently brushes your clit, causing you to tense and relax all at once. 

“Fuck Matty,” your forehead rests against his as his fingers continue their work, each breath slowly making you warmer and more clammy, not that either of you care, both too lost in the feeling and sounds of each other. You don’t stop moving, wrapping your arms around him and digging your nails into his back to earn a hiss from the boy's mouth. You move your hands to his hair to pull his curls at the nape of his neck, tilting his head back to kiss him fully. The sweet and loving initial strokes of his hand building into a more intense rhythm. 

“I want you to cum for me baby, please. I need you.” He startles just for a second at his own words, almost getting away with not drawing attention to what he had said but he recovers in a split second with another sentence that makes your brain puddle as he works his fingers. “Need to see my… pretty… girl… fall apart… for me… please.” He was begging between kisses. Telling you the things he says in your dreamiest fantasies. The things you didn’t even want to consider happening. 

It’s a little bit longer before the pressure building inside you finally releases, with a whisper of Matty’s name as you pull him closer, unable to feel alone anymore. Desperate to feel like you are more than just yourself. Needing him. Only Matty could make you feel the way you need to right now. So you reach down to his hard cock and wrap your legs around his waist, positioning yourself just right so that when Matty moves his hips he can be inside you where you fiercely need him.

As he pushes inside of you, you bury your face into his neck. Inhaling his smell like a woman starved of oxygen. He’s exactly where you need him and he’s still, waiting for the go ahead to move, that it’s okay with you. Everything suddenly feels so very Matty. His sheets, his smell, his body. His mouth leaving sloppy lazy kisses down your jaw, biding his time until he can move. When you nod at him his hips slowly move, in and out, with more restraint than you were aware the boy was capable of. He’s taking you slow and deep and you’ve never felt so full, it’s almost painful. But above everything it's the pair of you, and as your hips move with him, you can feel his rhythm start to stutter and lose pace. You try to match his movements, work together to help him reach climax, but it’s awkward and fumbly and you’re not too sure it made a difference but it doesn’t matter because he’s about to cum. 

He pulls out when he does, and strings of white land across your stomach and the bed sheets. It's a little disappointing and you’re surprised at yourself for feeling like that, for wanting him to cum inside you, fill you up, connect you forever with a mini version of yourselves. How cute and small that child would be with his curls and your eyes. A little piece of yourselves tied up into one person, a reflection of you both. You would give Matty that if he asked, you would give him absolutely anything right now, in the haze of the post orgasm glow, with his words ringing in your ears. 

“My pretty girl” 

My…

His…. 

You’re all his.

—

You fell back asleep after having sex, in his arms. Not even bothering to clean up. Both of you still exhausted and mildly hungover and too blissed out to think about anything but dreaming together again. When you wake up, the bed is warm but empty. No Matty, but the telltale warmth lets you know he was here recently. Maybe he’s just gone to the bathroom. Your whole body aches as you climb out of the bed, your injured knee reduced to a dull throbbing. Not as bad as it had been, but definitely not good. 

The discarded t-shirt is on the floor, along with your underwear, the clothes from the night before in a dishevelled pile in the corner. Walking home in that outfit, in broad daylight, is a recipe for unwanted attention. Maybe Matty would lend you some of his? A pair of joggers and a t-shirt would do. But then you would have to explain to your mother why you are wearing boy’s clothes. At least she wouldn’t be able to see the injury to your knee. Even more, you are going to have to fake walking with no pain. Maybe Matty has some paracetamol lying around.

You felt bad rifling through his things, but it was just for some paracetamol. You weren’t trying to be nosy, and there wasn’t really anything to find. His passport with a smaller Matty in the greyed out picture, a nest of tangled wires and earbuds at the back, a grinder and loose papers and other paraphernalia, and a plastic bag full of guitar picks. But then you found it, a dog-eared, little notebook covered in biro doodles, and plastered across the front, in black biro lines so deep they left grooves in the cover

DO NOT OPEN. PRIVATE. 

Opening it would be a breach of his privacy. You’re not that sort of girl are you? When it clearly states not to. That he doesn’t want it to be opened. 

But here was Matty’s innermost thoughts, literally in your hands. 

Your thumb runs over the corner and you take a deep breath and look up.

There's a new poster on his wall since the last time you were in here. Another glimpse into Matty’s head. It's for a band you don’t know. It looks old, vintage maybe? Maybe one of his Dad’s favourites that he’s got into? Maybe that’s just what the band is going for. Faking their age as a way to gain credibility. Putting on a front to look more appealing to their target audience, to Matty. 

How fake. 

How relatable.

The book is heavy on your lap. The weight of the ink and secrets inside whispering their price for you to open it. But only if you get caught. 

The sudden noise of a shower running brings you out of the trance the cover of the book has on you, and you settle with putting it back into the drawer, carefully arranging the cover of drawer junk back over the top. 

After pulling the t-shirt and your underwear on you crack open the bedroom door to check for signs of life, namely anyone who isn’t Matty. You head for the bathroom where you can hear the shower and you can hear Matty’s voice too, in hushed tones.

“No mate, it's not like that. Nahhhh. You’ve got it wrong. She’s alright. I was just helping her, she was out of her mind.”

Silence

“Ross, like fuck I would sleep with her! I don’t go for girls like her. I dont know man she’s just… she’s a bit fucking weird isn’t she? She’s clingy as fuck too.” 

He laughs at something the other boy says down the phone. 

“I thought we could be mates or something… yeah friends. She needs them to be honest. Can’t stand up for herself, and mate I’m not being funny she can’t see threats from a mile off. Yeah and not just fucking Jackson. Just being nice. Taking pity y’know. Doing my community service.” 

—

Leaving Matty’s was easy when you had no reason to stay.

You stole the t-shirt. You stole a pair of his joggers. You found a carrier bag to stash the rest of last night's outfit and you left. Without saying goodbye. Without saying anything. 

Denise had seen you leave, tears in your eyes, apologies in hers. She didn’t stop you.

There was no need to make a scene. 

No need to overthink.

It was done.

It was warm on the walk home. Silver grey clouds hung low in the air, threatening rain, but not promising, just looming ahead. The humidity in the air creates dewy droplets of sweat on your skin. You don’t even have a hair bobble to pull the nest that had formed on your head, from the way Matty had his hands in your hair, away from your face. 

Don’t think about Matty. 

The tears start then, but you hold the sobs in till you’re in your own space. 

Why would he say that?

Don’t think about Matty.

How could he say that after everything?

Don’t think about Matty.

You pick at the loose thread of the pocket of the joggers, your own nail biting into your thumb with each pluck, focusing on the movement and the feeling instead of anything else, instead of Matty. 

Do not think about Matty.

The rolling Cheshire fields of green lined the walk home. Praying that your mum won’t be home to chastise you for being out all night, and returning home in a boy's clothes no less. You’ll have to hide as you come in, sneak around once again. You’re so tired of sneaking around. 

Your lungs are burning from holding your breath by the time you make it home. You were counting your steps before you allowed yourself a breath. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 ,9, 10 and then breathe and repeat. Focus on the number and you’re not focusing on Matty. Make it home. Make it home without thinking about Matty. Shower it off. Him off. Get rid of it all. Burn it all. Cry it all away. But not out in the open. Not 

Opening the door to your house slowly, praying the sound of the door handle was the only sound you would have to worry about. But no one is in the hallway, no one is in the house. She’s gone again.

It’s empty.

It’s cold. 

The sobs came in the shower. Body wracking sobs. So you sat cross legged and let the water flow over you as the tears came. Alone you could be as loud as you wanted. So you did, until you stopped crying and the water ran cold and your bones and muscles ached and your head pounded and being awake was too much.

You didn’t charge your phone. You didn’t get dressed. You didn’t think. You just functioned. Finished your shower, dried yourself, left your hair wet, and crawled under the heavy duvet that would definitely be uncomfortably warm through the night. 

And you realised you were right 

It was too good to be true 

It was too nice

It was too perfect

It did come crashing down

You did care. 

It does matter.

—

The next day you crawled out of bed. Too hot, hungry, exhausted and achey. The carpeted floor was rough on your bare feet as you traipsed your way to the bathroom to remove the evidence of Matty’s clothes. You sit on the toilet staring at the uneven lines of paint between the wall and the ceiling, the dust covering the vent, the messy towels on the railing, chipped tile flooring. Slowly falling apart. 

The next job would be looking for food and praying your mother left some before she disappeared again, or at least some money to go get some. 

The fridge was bare; off milk, cheese, two eggs, and a pepper. The cupboards proved slightly more fruitful with some chocolate biscuits and a bag of crisps you were certain she must have forgotten about. It would do for now. You nibble on the dry goods, stomach still rolling from hunger. 

The crisps filled the gap a little, but there was an aching and gnawing sensation in your torso that wouldn’t leave. A hole in your chest that was new and raw. Where you’d ripped your heart out and locked it in a box for Matty. Thrown away the key for Matty. 

Would it fester? This new lingering wound. Would it make you rot from the inside out? Eat away at everything you thought you were and could have been? Turn you into some unrecognisable and bitter monster, intent on turning everything you touch into a reflection of your own acrid self. 

Or would it turn cold and empty, and in turn would you? Drifting through life with little thought or care for yourself or body. Translucent, loveless and lost in a sea of happy, laughing people. 

You would rather be either a monster or a ghost than someone's community service. Even if the someone was Matty. Even if he was supposed to be the one person who didn’t hurt you. He had. He had whispered sweet nothings and cried over your pain and kissed your injuries and made you feel whole. He hadn’t needed to steal your heart, you had willingly offered it up, cut it out yourself and locked it away by choice. There was no elaborate distraction or heist, just soft whispers and gentle caresses and you had done the hardest part for him.  

Even when you thought there was another girl, even when you thought he was using you, you stayed. Pathetically you had stayed. Warning signs aplenty- you had stayed.

And when he cried… you had hoped.

—

Matty texted you 4 times and rang twice before he stopped trying. The 5th text was a week later asking if you were going to tell anyone. You text back a simple “no” and blocked his number. 

Really, you were worried you would forgive him. It took 2 days to realise you would, if he said the right words. You would go back to him and forgive him and hate yourself for it. Nothing could excuse what he had said, but you would manage to if he was given the chance. 

You had successfully avoided most people from school, including him. No one was there to force you to go to college for two days, you faked being sick for another three and had successfully avoided Matty for over a week. The following week you turned up for classes and hid in stairwells, left as soon as you weren’t needed. Walked the other way when he showed up. You made it your mission to never speak or acknowledge him. You didn’t need to. 

He never tried to stop you, talk to you. If anything you stopped seeing him more, like he was avoiding you too. You wanted to believe it was because he was respecting your clear wishes but it was more than likely he was doing it for his own selfish reasons. Because he couldn’t face that he might be the one in the wrong. 

It was much easier to make sure you didn’t cave and go back and talk to him if you made him more of a villain. A narcissist, and selfish and cruel. If you could lie to yourself well enough, maybe you’ll start to believe it. 

— 

It's another month of ignoring him when Denise turns up to see your mum for a coffee. You can hear them talking downstairs. Conversations ranging from celebrities to the price of milk and how strawberries taste different this year. You sit and eavesdrop from the stairs, picking at the carpet with your head pressed against the bannisters. Maybe Denise will mention Matty. Maybe you will hear something about how he is. What is going on with him. 

You’re about to give up when you hear your own name called by Denise. She’s putting her coat on at the dining table and she has a large boxed cake next to her on the table, no indication of why she’s called you down. She wouldn’t tell your mum. Right? After everything that she had said. You did walk away from Matty with no contact, she might hate you for it. She probably does. Even if she knew. 

Matty was her son. Her whole world. 

As he had been yours. 

She smiles at you when she sees you. 

“Help me with the cake to the car love?” 

“Uh, sure.” 

The two older women make their goodbyes as you carry the cake out.

—

Once the cake was in the passenger seat Denise wrapped you in a hug, away from your mothers eyes. 

“I’m sorry about him love.” There are tears in her eyes as she apologises to you. 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. He’s my son. I know he has a kind heart…somewhere in there. I thought I’d raised him better than that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

Denise holds you by the shoulders, looking you up and down with those piercing blue eyes and her knowing gaze before moving behind you and grabbing a blue carrier bag from the backseat of her car.

“I told Matty I would do this. Not that he deserves it. But he asked me to give you this.”

You take the bag from her and stare at its contents. 

It’s the battered and scribbled book from his bedside table and a small envelope. 

“Uh… thank you.”

“Make sure you’re looking after yourself,” it wasn’t a question but a command. And with that she left. 

You stood on the driveway for a while, holding the book and the envelope. 

Matty had finally found a way to talk to you, gotten past the defences you had put in his way. In your own way. 

The book looked exactly the same, scratched and marked and well loved. Abused and taken for all its worth as Matty was wont to do with things he felt he owned.

The little envelope had your name on the front, and the pen was smudged making it harder to read. There was an inky thumbprint in the top right corner. The back was sealed, not tucked in. He didn’t want anyone but you opening this. This was private. 

These words were yours alone. 

What could he possibly want to say to you after a month?

Do you care?

Does it matter?

Professor and mentor relationships were strictly forbidden but that didn’t stop the pair of you. It just meant you had to keep it a secret. You aren’t exactly his student, but he isn’t your equal in the eyes of the university. There was a fine line, and you were definitely walking it. 

Currently you were both outside the glass building he held his lectures in, he had lit up a smoke and you were struggling to resist the temptation to ask for one. The grey hairs on the top of his head stood out against the dark ones, lit up slightly orange by the street lamps. You know it was probably wrong of you to want a man 9 years your senior when you’re 25, but you can’t help who you fall for, and it didn’t help that every interaction you had was soaked in sexual tension. Even before you really knew each other.

“Hold this for me will you? Just need to run inside. Be two minutes” He passes you the cigarette and tugs on the bow in your hair gently as he passes behind you. 

If he’s going to get you to keep hold of his damn cigarettes, you might as well enjoy the thing. You wrap your lips around it, where his lips have just been, and inhale deeply. The nicotine gives you a rush you’ve been successfully avoiding for two months now. Fuck it. 

You realise the mistake you’ve made slightly too late. The sticky mango lip gloss covering the tip of the cigarette reflects the sunlight back at you. This was not going to be a secret just between you and God then. 

When he comes back, now with a satchel in tow, he takes the cig from your fingers and sits on the bench beside you, legs spread wide and resting his elbows on his thighs. 

“You had some of this?” He gestures with the cig between his fingers. You nod. “It tastes good… sweet. I like it, it’s sticky.” You dart your tongue out to slightly lick your lips as your heart hammers in your chest at the implications of his words. Nervous reflexes go to pull the ribbon in your hair tighter. He watches you as you do it, leaning back on the bench, legs still spread wide. You wonder what it would be like to be between those thighs. What he has between his thighs. How it would feel if you sat on one and wrapped your arms around his neck lowering your face to his as he holds your waist, his fingers dipping under your skirt, tracing up your bare thigh… 

The conversation turns to academia. He’s asking for your advice on some research paper he’s working on. Looking for a reference that’s applicable to his current working theory. You just so happen to have a book that would be perfect for what he needs. 

“Have you got anything I can use as a bookmark?” He shakes his head. 

“Darlin’, I’ve barely got a working pen.” He chuckles at his own joke as you shake your head and smile at him. Reaching up to pull the ribbon out of your hair, letting it cascade down your back with its slight curls at the ends. You lay the baby pink ribbon along the page he needs and pass him the book. 

“Here, this is what you need. I want that ribbon back though.” He’s staring at you with wide eyes. Wide pupils. God he’s pretty when he looks at you like that. Would he look at you like that if he was between your thighs, pressing his tongue against your clit, getting to lick and suck at you until you call his name and come on his tongue. You think that that is exactly what he would look like. Maybe he’d be a little more shiny and wet around the mouth though. 

“Yeah of course, I’ll get it back to you tomorrow. 

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

Tomorrow came and went, and you still hadn’t seen Matty. Then the next day, and the next, Before you knew it, it was Friday and the man still hadn’t returned the book or your ribbon, it was time to go find it yourself. 

You approached his office with caution. Despite it being past when everyone had left on a Friday his office hung a “Meeting in Progress” sign on the door. Odd considering he didn’t take any meetings on a Friday anyway, possibly a mistake. Instead of knocking you decide to press your eye to the gap between the small window and the blind that did its best to block the rest of the world out, to give the illusion of privacy. 

The sight that met you was not what you were expecting, sending waves of arousal down to your underwear and soaking your thighs when you rubbed them together. 

Matty was in there, in a sort of personal meeting. His eyes were closed as his head was thrown back, curly hair hanging over the edge of his chair. The usually tight trousers had the fly open and they were spread wide showing off his black boxers. They did nothing to hide his growing erection, twitching under the fabric as he grew more turned on. 

The really, truly dirty thing though, wasn’t even the physical evidence of his arousal in his pants, it was what he was doing with what was in his hands. The baby pink strip of fabric rubbed between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the silkiness and slipperiness of it as it dragged faintly over his clothed cock, teasing himself with it. It didn’t take him long to get impatient with himself. You couldn’t tear away. Watching this man touch himself with feminine strip of silk. With your silk.

When it’s in your hair does he think about pulling it out and doing this with it? Does he think about doing this with you? Letting you tease him with your variety of coloured silks until he comes for you?

Your breath hitches when he wraps the silk around his fist, takes his hard cock out of his underwear and rubs the pads of his thumb over the slit, collecting the precum that’s there and turning the baby pink silk to a dark blush, much like the one covering your face. 

You pull away from the door. You either walk away, forget about the ribbon, definitely keep your job, and live with the knowledge that Matty thinks about you in this way a complete secret. Or. You open the door and confront the situation with the man you had already touched yourself thinking about. More than once. 

No one else was here, it was too late at night, wrong time of year. You could do this with him if you wanted, and oh God, you do want it. 

You take the scarlet ribbon in your hair currently, out. Pulling at the threads so it’s about twice the length of your arm when it’s not tied. 

You open the door as quietly as possible and that’s when you hear it. 

His moans were small. Restrained. He lets out a breathy version of your name. He was trying so fucking hard for you, bless him. Such a good boy and he doesn’t even know yet, and thinking about you too. 

You start off by coughing lightly, before walking around to the small 2 seater sofa opposite his desk. He’s jarred and immediately stops, pulling his wheeled office chair under the desk to try and cover his oh-so-obvious hard on and fiddling quickly with his trousers. 

“Fucking hell what are you doing?” he starts, a hand runs through his hair as the tell tale signs of what he was doing become even more obvious. Flushed face going down his neck, heaving chest from heavy breathing. The pink ribbon is laid on the desk, stripes of dark and light material. You cross your legs, playing with the red material in your hands. 

“Looked like you were having fun, thought I might come and watch what you’re doing with my property,” you nod at the desk. He’s speechless. “I know you’re supposed to be a big scary man, but I don’t think you are. Not when I catch you playing with pretty silks. Thinking about me whilst you’re doing that?” His eyes are wide, betraying his incredulity. “Need some help?” 

Walking around the desk, red ribbon still in your hands, you pull his chair out and move between him and the table. Perching yourself on the edge, legs between his thighs, fly still open and cock unbelievably hard now. The wet patch on the front of his black underwear gives everything away. “So pretty for me. Didn’t know I had a thing for men and silk. Maybe it’s just you though Professor Healy? Maybe it’s the thought of you with this around your neck that really gets me wet.” You lean forward, his voice is still caught in his throat. He looks like a deer in headlights. Too scared to make a move in case it’s the wrong one. In case you stop. 

“Do you want this? I’ll stop if I’m taking this too far.” It’s hushed, trying not to break what you’ve started, but he hasn’t said a word and you need to know this is okay. 

“Fuck yes, please dont stop. I’ll do anything.” Exactly what you wanted to hear. 

You tie the red ribbon around his neck. The contrast between the rich colour of the silk, the olive tan of his neck and his dark features is beautiful. 

“You are so pretty, all wrapped up with a bow for me.” He still hasn’t actually done anything since you started this. He’s sat still as a statue, waiting for you to give him instructions you realise. There are so many things you could do. “I want to watch what you were doing before I walked in. I want to see what you were about to do with my pretty ribbon here.” You pick up the pink one by its end and move over to the man, the other end dangling over his skin. 

“Shit okay. Yeah okay.” It’s all he’s managed to gather the ability to say. Comprehension failing the usually articulate man. It’s an empowering feeling being able to reduce a clever man to a moaning thoughtless mess. 

“Undo your shirt.” He does. Strong fingers working at the buttons as fast as he can without just ripping the clothing off his body. You chuckle at his desperation before lowering the ribbon to gently ghost over his skin. Once again he lets his head rest on the back on the chair, breathy moans escaping his mouth as the silk glides over his chest. Tracing the outlines of his tattoos with the end, the dark patch hovering in the middle still. “Take it out Matty. I wanna tease you.” 

“You already are. Feels so fucking good.” He pulls his cock out of the boxers now, pumping his hand up and down for some relief. It’s prettier upclose than it was from outside the room. Head all red and swollen, begging for any sort of stimulation you’ll give it. You swat his hand away with the ribbon.

“Answer my questions Professor and I’ll give you a reward. That sound okay?” The guttural moan is enough to answer you. “Good boy.” You move the ribbon over the tip of his cock as a way to evidence that you mean what you say. You will reward him if he’s good. “Tell me what you were thinking about when I walked in.” You remove the ribbon entirely.

“You. I was thinking about the other morning, when you had the pink one in your hair, the way you walk as you tighten it. Fuck it’s hot.” You lower the ribbon back down, circling it around his whole length and pulling a little so it skimmed the sensitive skin, the motion causing Matty to buck his hips up. 

“You get off to me a lot?” He nods. You lean in and kiss the skin of his neck, just barely, above where the red ribbon is sitting on his collarbone. It’s the first physical contact you’ve had and it sends electricity down your spine and to your underwear. 

“Did you have any intention of giving this back to me? Or were you just gonna keep it and use it for your own filthy pleasure? Hmm Sir?” the title does something to him. His eyes fill with fire and they’re looking you up and down like he’s going to devour you. Like he wants to eat you whole. You would let him. 

“There was no fucking way you were gonna get that ribbon back darlin’,” he moves his hands fast, snatching the pink one from your fingers and wrapping it around his hand, leaning forward and spreading your thighs apart. “I think it’s my turn now? I’ve answered your questions,” 

“How long were you standing outside that door for?” His finger tips are tracing up the insides of your legs grabbing the soft flesh and moving your foot to between his thighs on his chair. His lips slowly making their way up the length of your pale skin, to your clothed core.

“A few minutes. Enough to know what you were doing,” 

“Naughty,” he nips at the sensitive skin before sucking. Leaving a purple mark where no one else would be able to see it. “Do you think about me when you’re all alone the way I think about you?” His fingers have resumed their work. His right hand has the pink ribbon wrapped around it still. The difference in textures from his calloused fingertips to the slippery silk is driving you wild. Goosebumps rise on your skin. His fingers are teasing around your underwear, skirt flipped up to your waist. 

“Yes. When I’m home alone, in bed, I think about you.” He pulls your underwear down, pocketing them in the process. The fingers from the ribbon clad hand teasing you, not giving you the stimulation you need, just brushing ever so lightly around your clit. “Please, Matty. I need it. I need you to touch me.” That does it for him. Finally giving into what you need and ignoring his own throbbing cock. He fucks you with his hands. Two fingers inside you, curled up to your g-spot setting a relentless pace. You can feel your wetness dripping down his wrist, soaking the ribbon around his hand. More fingers join in at your clit, setting a rhythm that works well to build you to orgasm, its repetitive and strong and he really fucking knows what he’s doing. 

“Such a good girl for me. Making those pretty little noises. Come for me Darlin’,” you squeeze your eyes shut, as he curls his fingers inside you. So close. It takes a few more pumps of his wrist before you release around him with a scream of his name, whimpering as you come down from the orgasm high. It’s not the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had but it was definitely one of the most memorable. 

It takes a few minutes before you realise he’s taken the red ribbon off his neck and tied it around your thigh, over the top of the hickey he’d left earlier. Wrapped like a gift he’d left you. 

He’s touching himself to the image of you now. Hand stroking up and down his hard cock, still wrapped in the soaking pink ribbon. 

“You gonna come for me Sir?” You reach out to cup his face with your hand, his eyes flutter close at the feeling of you. He presses a kiss to the palm of your hand and his hand continues to jerk himself off. “Gonna come all over my pretty ribbon and your hand. Show me. I wanna see.” His face looks pained as he finally comes. Shooting white liquid over his fist and covering the silk in the sticky mess. "So fucking pretty for me."

“Fuck,” he’s panting as his head leans forward and comes to rest on your ribbon clad thigh. You run your hands in his curls, pulling at them slightly. Until he leans back to look at your fucked out face. He looks like he’s going to kiss you. It seems funny now that you’ve done all this and you are still yet to kiss the man. 

‘Give me your hand,” he does as you ask. 

“There’s tissues just behind you if you wouldn’t mind…” his sentence drifts as you dip a finger into the white mess and swirl it around with the ribbon. Watching how it coats his skin and the material still between his fingers. You bring the mess to your mouth and lick it, swallowing his cum. His eyes are burning again.

“I just wanted to see how it tastes. Tastes good.” 

“You are nothing like what I expected. You’re better.”

“And you Healy, owe me a new ribbon.”

“You’re my only real competition and… I dunno Matty.” You would reply. Blushing cheeks as you pulled the sheets up to try and cover your modesty, even if he’d been unrestrained and animalistic in the way he touched your naked body only minutes before. 

—

It started accidentally. Your mums had become friends through necessity and you used to go round Matty’s house in the evenings after school to do homework before you could be collected. He didn’t talk much to you in school, he was nice enough, never mean or cruel like some of the other kids could be, you just weren’t actually friends. It stayed this way for years. Knowing each other fairly well, intimately almost, and ignoring it, since the age of 11 till now, 18. Final year of sixth form. Free of it all soon. Free of them all soon. 

But yeah, it started as an accident. He’d walked in on you in the bathroom of his house at a party. You were crying silently after one of the lads downstairs had taken the piss that you were still a virgin, it didn’t really bother you, what bothered you was the way the other boys started looking at you because of it. Sizing you up, as if to see whether you're pretty enough to be worth the effort it would be to try and take your virginity. How much they were willing to sacrifice for the sake of fucking you. Would they try and date you just to get in your pants or were you only worth a vulgar suggestion, a sly wink and a fumbling grope? You could feel their stares on your ass and your tits and your face. One of the lads oh-so-generously offered his services. “Here, I’ll take one for the team and fuck her. Reckon she’d be a lot nicer to deal with if her mouth’s too busy with my cock, and who knows? Maybe she’ll be a different woman once she learns what an orgasm is? Less fucking uptight y’know?” You’d slapped him round the face and come upstairs to hide, leaving the sniggering partygoers behind. Matty had followed up after 10 minutes, telling you he’d kicked him out and that you didn’t deserve it. 

He cupped your face and brushed the hair out of your eyes as he spoke in hushed tones. “You’re too beautiful to cry.” Drunken words that melted your sadness and left you feeling like you were aglow, renewed with energy and bravery. Enough to ask him to be the one to do it, to get rid of your virginity like it was some shameful weight you had tied to your ankle, unable to chop it off without doing yourself severe and incapacitating damage. But here was a boy who had a key to your freedom, and so, you begged him for it.

—

Waking up in his bed is never a good start. The sheets are soft and heavy against your skin. Brushed cotton that he’s probably had too long and it’s started to bobble a little. They smell of him, the whole room does. Presumably you do too now. Covered in that boyish scent that leaves your legs weak when he walks past you in the college corridors. 

You’re not supposed to stay over. Your mum is going to be wondering why you haven’t come down for breakfast yet and it’s still a 30 fucking minute walk away, not to mention the chances of being seen by someone as you’re doing the walk of shame. Now that would get people talking. 

The bed is pushed up against the wall and Matty is pushed up against you. His arm lazily over your stomach and his hard on pushing into your arse. You’re trapped between the cold and rough paint of the wall and the heat of the boy behind you. It’s comfy. Comfort is bad. Comfort means stillness and familiarity and you can’t afford to not be on the move right now and this isn’t an arrangement you can afford to become familiar with. He will leave. You will leave. The world will turn. You must stay moving. 

“Matty fucking wake up, my mums gonna have an aneurism. Oi fuck face. You’re gonna have to give me a lift.” You swing your leg over him trying to get out of the bed, he’s seen you naked enough that you shouldn’t be as embarrassed as you are trying to cover up your chest. The chest that’s covered in purple bite marks he only gave you 5 hours ago. You pull on the black t-shirt and jeans you’d worn to walk over in when he’d text you at half past midnight with the classic “You awake?”. No one could say he wasn’t a man of tradition… or cliche in this circumstance. “Matty fucking wake up now.” You chuck the leftover glass of water in his face. 

“Fuck yeah I’m up I’m up. Jesus, was there any need for that?” You stare at him as he drips onto the sheets sat bolt upright from the shock. “Yeah okay, two mins. Be quiet, you’re gonna wake my mum up.” He’s rubbing the little bit of water out of his eyes and from his curls. 

Matty’s in the bathroom when you decide to try and sneak downstairs and out to the car. Much to your unfortunate surprise, his mum comes round the corner from the living room as you are on the last step. 

“Hiya love,” shit. 

“Oh, morning Denise,” She’s looking you up and down. She knows. 

“Matty taking you home, yeah?” You nod at the woman, not really trusting what little sound your voice can make right now. “Good, the least he can do. You might want to turn your top the right way round before you get home and your mother kills you, and please stop sneaking in at 1am, you make more racket trying to be quiet than if you didn’t try at all.”

“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry,” the blood rushes to your cheeks and flushes your face. Brilliant. Now there’s a physical reminder of your embarrassment too. 

“Look I don’t know what’s going on,” she sighs. “But is he being good to you?” You nod. Speaking isn’t an option. “If he isn’t you let me know. I’ll give him a walloping.” You manage a weak smile at her large one, but honestly you think you’re going to vomit from how awkward you feel right now. The nausea hits like a freight train and if it wasn’t for the blood in your cheeks you’re fairly certain you would be green. 

“Denise I-” your hands are bunched up in the sleeves of your jumper. 

“I’m not gonna tell your mum.” 

“Thank you,” you can hear Matty padding down the stairs behind you before he quietly mumbles a curse. 

“Morning son,”

“Mum,” he nods, a little apprehensive to the situation he’s walked in on. 

“I’ll talk to you when you’re back, Matty.” He nods, grabbing his car keys and opening the front door. Denise turns to the kitchen as Matty grabs you by the arm quite forcefully and rushes you into the car. 

“Fuck sake, did she hear you coming down?”

“No. Think she heard me come in,” Matty runs his hand through his curls and you remember the way you pulled at them last night as he thrust inside you, calling you every name for beautiful under the sun. There’s been a change in temperament since then. “She told me to stop sneaking in. Said she would rather I just come in, make less noise that way. I think she’s known for a while.” The skin around your nail is sore from where you pick at it to curb your anxiety. The carpeted floor of the car is suddenly much more interesting than anything else in your surroundings, laden with dust and dirt and 2 empty coca-cola cans, the red against the black standing out quite starkly. 

“Right.” The conversation was over with that. Matty does not want to talk about it anymore. 

You need to stop staying over really, it was getting out of hand. It’s always an accident but it causes absolute chaos the morning after when you’re too far away to get back in time. The way you fall asleep is always nice though. He lets you be little spoon as he lays behind you with his arm under your head and other hand resting over your breast. It’s not sexual, more like comforting and reassuring of each other's presence. Once, he gave you one of his t-shirts to wear, but you prefer it when you’re both topless. You can feel his skin against yours and it reminds you you’re real, he’s real, and he wants you. At least he wants you for sex. Then and there, it’s you he’s thinking about, you he messages, you he calls his good girl. 

You don’t want to be with him but absolutely nothing is as breathtakingly painful as the idea of him with someone else, or as breathtakingly electrifying as the idea of belonging to him. His favourite toy to bring out and play with as he pleases. You know it’s wrong and it’s just going to end up hurting you but it’s okay if it’s only yourself you’re doing this to. It’s not like he actually has feelings for you. 

—

This time was different. This time, he’d asked in advance.

Hey, empty house, wanna crash? 

Sure

After college? 

I’ll be there

You’d woken up an hour earlier than normal just to shave and wash and prime and prep and preen. Plucking every hair from your body you could reach, and then all the ones you couldn't. Once your face was perfect, a sort of careless look, slightly smudged eyeliner and a skirt, you headed off, praying your look would last the day. 

Matty’s house wasn’t far from college. He didn’t have a class last period so you walked there by yourself. Probably for the best considering who would have questions if they’d seen you walk together. 

You’d been exceptionally lucky with the weather on the walk, the temperature remaining pleasant and with minimal humidity. The birds had sung in the trees you passed, green leaves bending over the path to provide you with some needed shade from the sun along the asphalt path. You sprayed yourself with perfume when you were around the corner and corrected your outfit as best you could, twisting the skirt on your hips and adjusting your bra to make your tits sit better, prettier, bigger? It's a cheap move but it’s a surefire way to get his attention. 

The painted wooden door swings open to reveal Matty, still in his jeans from college but the shirt now a couple of buttons undone revealing that thin chain and his lean chest and collarbones. His hair is messy, extra curly today and getting longer. He keeps saying it needs to be cut, but it's just extra for you to grab and pull on. Secretly, you don’t want him to change it. No longer, no shorter, just right exactly like this. 

“You coming in then or just gonna stay standing in my front door?” He steps aside for you to get in the house. He offers you a drink as you slip your shoes and cardigan off. Shedding the layers you’ve only worn to remain modest for the excuse of an educational facility you’ve been trapped in all day. You can feel his eyes on you as you undress. You’re not wearing anything too revealing, nothing that constitutes a look like the one in his eyes. Hungry and wanting. 

“I’ll take that drink if you’re offering?” 

“Umm yeah.” 

You’re looking in his fridge for some sort of fruit or snack when you feel his hands on your hips. Electricity shooting through you when he leans up to reach the grapes. That smell that’s so distinctly Matty filling your nostrils as he does so. You’re already damp between your legs just from that. Suddenly a skirt feels like both the best and worst decision you’ve ever made. 

“Open up,” he commands, pinching the tart berry between those long fingers. You do as you're told as he turns you around to press you into the kitchen worktops as he pushes the grape into your mouth, thumb pulling your bottom lip slightly as he takes his fingers away. The juices in your mouth feel pornographic as you bite down, through the flesh of the fruit and let it burst around your tongue. Sweet and sharp as you swallow. “There’s my good girl.” And he kisses you. Hands back on your hips as he lifts you onto the counter. Mouth never leaving yours as his fingers begin to wander your skin. Wrapping your legs around his slim waist to pull him closer to your burning core. His fingers find your torso, pulling your t-shirt off and breaking your kiss. “Fuck I missed this.”

“Yeah?” His lips are working their way down your jaw, neck, collarbones. Nipping slightly and causing you to moan as you tip your head back to give him easier access. “Matty please,” you beg. It won’t be the only time tonight. 

His mouth is leaving small purple marks as it descends down your chest, his fingertips brush over your nipple, it hardens under the lacy excuse for a bra you chose. You reach behind you to unclasp it, letting the thin material fall to the floor as his tongue works over the bud with a mixture of sucking and little licks. You mewl. Your hands gripping that hair of his you love oh-so-much. Pulling and raking until you earn a groan from him against your flesh. He pinches your other nipple in retaliation before continuing his attack of kisses further down your torso until his hands grab your hips from under your skirt and push you further onto the counter. When he pulls away he takes your underwear too, discarding them with the forgotten bra until you’re left in just your skirt. He steps back for a second to appreciate the sight of you; undressed, flushed, heavily breathing and your eyes half closed with lust and need. You reach out to pull him in for a kiss, but he swats your hand away easily, before moving his own to the back of your neck and taking all the air out of your lungs with a kiss. 

“I’m gonna fucking ruin you tonight pretty girl,” it’s mumbled against your lips, nearly inaudible. His eyes read like he’s been thinking of nothing but this for days on end. Like he’d die if he didn’t taste you right now. He bends down to hook one of your legs over his shoulder, holding your thighs with a firm grip and kisses slowly down, leaving more bruises on your skin, marking you as his. Each one marking his journey towards where you so desperately want him. No, where you need him. 

When he finally, fucking finally, lowers his mouth to your wet pussy, you practically scream at the feeling. His tongue is working in slow motion. Little licks over your clit and big slow strokes at the right time. Sucking a little when you need it. When he’s sure your leg isn’t going to move from his shoulder he uses his other hand to tease your entrance. 

“So wet for me. You been thinking about me?” You nod vigorously. Lip between your teeth in an attempt to stop yourself making animalistic moans at the feeling of his fingers filling you up and curling up towards that spot that makes you want to sob. “Use your words. Come on, you’re a smart girl.” 

“Yes. Fuck yes. I’ve been dreaming of it.” You arch your back in an attempt to try and get his fingers deeper inside you. 

“Fuckkk, that’s so hot. Do you want me now?”

“Yes.” You’re grinding on his hand now. You’re fairly sure your juices are dripping down his wrist and onto the worktop but that is a problem for later. 

“Beg for my mouth beautiful.”

“Please Matty. Please. I need you. I can’t stop thinking about your mouth. How good it feels…” you’re mid desperate ramble when he finally lowers his mouth back to your clit as his fingers move in and out of you. Creating a perfect rhythm with his tongue and how he’s sucking. You can feel the orgasm approaching. A little more, just a little more, fuck just, nearly, almost…. 

And it’s shattering. You come around his hand and mouth with a noise so animalistic you aren’t sure it came from you at all. Although that could also be from the ringing in your ears. 

When you catch your breath Matty stands up, cleaning his fingers with his mouth and leaving one for you. You wrap your lips around the digit and take it in, all the way to the back of your throat without breaking eye contact. He audibly gulps as his cheeks flush. 

“My room. Skirt off. I’m not done with you yet.”

—

“You going to that party on Friday?” You’re still naked in his bed. Still coming down from the post orgasm high. Sweaty and sticky between your thighs. He’s got you nestled in his side so you can see the rise and fall of his chest that’s dusted with fine hairs. His thumb is rubbing numbing circles into your upper arm, round and around ever so slowly. 

“I’m thinking about it. Clara’s not going though so I’d be by myself. Dunno if I fancy that.” 

“You know people there though,” you sigh at his argument. If he asked you to go with him you would probably say yes. But Matty won’t do that. He doesn’t want you like that. He might shout your name like a man possessed when he comes inside you, but he doesn’t feel like that in the post-orgasm reality of it all. Matty is using you for your body and that’s fine. You’re using him too. Or you did? You’re not too sure anymore. “You’ll know me and the lads.”

“What the dickheads from school? I dunno Matty, they’re not exactly nice to me?” You start returning the circles on the bottom of his chest, drawing in time with him and you can see his breathing falter at your mirrored touch. 

“No, the band. We’re performing at the pub and then going. You could come if you wanted?” The band is alright. Matty and three lads. You don’t know them that well, they’re still from your school just different years and classes. You’ve seen them around now and then and they’d say hi but they’re not exactly your friends. 

“Do you want me to?” He sighs at your question, thumb stilling on your skin. You still too. He holds his breath slightly before speaking.

“You do what you wanna do.” He doesn’t want you.

“Yeah okay, I’ll come.” Does it matter? 

—

The pub is warm and crowded and you’re fairly sure that most of the people there are underage and sneaking vodka in flasks so they can just buy a coke and get on with their night. The dickhead lads from your year are there, standing on the opposite side of the room, clad in baggy jeans and shitty off-brand hoodies and trainers. The one that said he’d take one for the team is eyeing you up again before his mate steals his attention with a whispered joke that makes him laugh obnoxiously. Fucking prick. You focus on your drink, watching the ice swirl in the clear lemonade before necking half. The alcohol is a welcome burning feeling in comparison to the heat of embarrassment in your cheeks. 

When the band starts they’re different to how they normally are. They’re laced with confidence and a buzzing energy that no one would expect from who they knew at college. Matty’s got some stupid graphic tee on and the others are dressed like how you’d expect 19 yr old boys to dress, badly. It’s almost funny until they start playing. It’s angsty and angry and honestly you knew Matty was a bit of an egotistical prick but the lyrics aren’t helping his case. His performance though… that was something else. You can’t help but watch him, completely entranced with the way he throws himself around the stage. His body practically collapses in on himself as he plays the guitar with more passion and emotion than you’ve ever seen him have outside of the bedroom. Music is his call to God, not whatever you thought it was when you were together in bed. 

The girls are gathering around the stage, dancing and singing along to the words that they know somehow. Matty is paying attention to one blonde in particular, he’s pointing and winking at her as the rest of the band continue. The red wine in his hand is sloshing a little, spilling on the floor of the stage and his white shirt, it’s almost psychotic but it’s completely impossible to tear your eyes away from the performance. It gets to the end of the last song of the set and Matty pulls the girl onto the stage with him, he’s singing to her. The microphone wire wrapped around his hand as his free arm wrapped around her waist pulling her in. She has her arms wrapped around his waist now, he moves his hand to her hair. The song is rising to a crescendo, all of the instruments about to crash together in a drop you can feel in your veins. He drops the mic. His hand in her hair, his hand on her neck. They’re going to kiss. He’s going to kiss her. As you’re sitting there watching, invited by him, only there because of him. The girl he shags in secret, forced to watch as he gets off with a blonde nobody, on stage in front of a hundred people. 

You watch anyway. Fingers gripping the glass so your knuckles go white. 

The song ends. 

They didn’t kiss. 

He held their foreheads together. Mouths so close, she tried to kiss him but he would pull her hair away everytime she tried to move her mouth. Smirking at her as he did. Cocky twat. 

—

You're leaning against the brick wall outside the pub, half your drink in one hand, a cig in the other. The door slams open as a bunch of lads come out, jostling and aggressive. It’s the boys from the party including the one who declared he would “take one for the team” by fucking you. You’ve come to learn his name is Jackson since the party. You stay quiet but you don’t move to make yourself smaller. Why should you? He’s the prick in this situation. He’s talking about how he’s fucked half the girls in school already, definitely a lie but not one the other boys are going to challenge him on. Jackson’s spotted you. 

“Oh look, she’s a grown-up now. Drinking and smoking. Anyone taken pity and fucked you yet?” He moves towards you, one arm stretched out to rest his palm on the rough wall next to your head. The smell of alcohol on his breath was mixed with a stronger funkier smell causing bile to rise in your throat. You take another drag of your cig to try and cover the rancid odour. 

“Why do you care so much about what’s going on in my jeans?” Eye contact is key. Stare him down. Don’t show weakness. He leans in, nearly pressing himself against you, leaving just enough distance that he isn’t actually touching you.  

“Oi Jackson mate. Leave off,” he ignores the friend that’s trying to stop him from whatever he’s about to do. 

He grabs your hip over your clothes. “Bet you like it when they hurt you a bit? Don’t deserve anything but that anyway,” he whispers in your ear before shouting back to the boys, “not worth my time anyway lads.” When he pulls away from your body you breathe in a lungful of fresh air, but his arm is still next to your head. “Reckon she’s give it up for half the town at this point anyway. Probably catch something just breathing on her.” He starts to walk away from you. 

“If I’ve given it up to half the town with an STD, and you’re shaggin’ half the girls in school, do the maths. You might wanna go get tested, Jackson.” His face twists into the beginnings of intense rage. You brace yourself for a slap, or something with more knuckles, but it never comes. 

“Hey, you coming?” It's Matty. You didn’t think he even knew you were here. He turns to the boy with the fists by his sides, face all red. “Oh fuck off Jackson, are you being a cunt to her again? Anyone would think you’re obsessed.” He grabs your hand and you drop the half smoked cig. His touch is like lightning through your body. Even if it was just on that other girl's neck. Even if it was in her hair and now you’ve imagined those fingers undoing her jeans and feeling her thighs and…

“Is it Healy that’s fucking you then?” Jackson taunts. Matty drops your hand immediately. “Oh it is... Tell us mate. What’s she like?” 

“You want it for your wank bank later mate? Struggling to pull that bad you’re asking me for my sex stories? Shame I don’t have any to give you. I’m not fucking her.” Matty turns around and pulls you inside at that. Your drink sloshing over the sides and down your arm making it all sticky. He’s pulling you round the corner into the bathroom. 

“You okay?” One hand has rested on your hip, pushing you against the tiled counter slightly, his other is under your chin. His calloused fingertips tipping your face up to look at his, it’s painted in concern and anger. 

“Yeah I’m fine. He’s just being a cunt.” You pull your face away from his hand, this is too intimate, even if you are both drunk. He’s just very loudly exclaimed how much he isn’t fucking you. In a way that sounded like the idea was disgusting to him. Funny how convincing an actor he can be when normally he’s moaning your name into your neck as he thrusts inside you. Sure he finds you disgusting then. 

“Come with me and the lads? We’re just gonna drop the gear off at mine and then take the van to the party. Don’t have to risk it with that lot out there then.” His hand that you’d pushed away has dropped to your hip, rubbing small circles into the skin there. You sigh a deep and almost regretful noise. 

Would you regret going with him? 

Does it matter?

---

So you wrap your arms around his neck. You give in to his command and the all-consuming feeling of being in his arms and being wanted by Matty, and you let go of him letting you down so you don’t feel guilty for wanting to feel his lips against yours once again. You jump. 

Matty’s hands lift you onto the sill as his mouth lowers to yours. His bottom lip in between yours. You can feel how plump it is, taste the wine he’d been drinking on stage, all earthy and rich on his breath. Fuck. Your tongue is licking at his lip, trying to savour the sweetness of the alcohol and its tang, begging for more of it with little flicks. 

Your hands have woven their way into his curly hair, nails scraping the nape of his neck as your mouths move against each other. Matty lets a small moan fall into your mouth as you tug on his hair just a little. His grip on your hips is still loose, more like his hands are there for comfort than anything else. He’s not letting this get anymore heated than it already is, even when you manage to wiggle a thigh between his legs. He steps away when you start pressing your leg against his crotch. 

Does he not want you? Was he lying before? Has he changed his mind about everything he’s said to you when you’re alone in bed? Is he just another boy that uses a girl for a few easy lays and then ditches with no explanation? 

“I really wanna but we can’t. Not here.” The door swings open at that and the blond one from the band walks in. George, the drummer. His face is shocked, but not at you being there, or with Matty, just that he thinks he’s walked in on something much worse than heavy kissing. 

“Van’s packed when you’re ready, Matty.” George looks between you and Matty, one hand on the handle of the door. “Uhh, I actually really need to piss if you guys wanna fuck off?”

— 

You and Matty had been shoved in the back of the van. Two of the four boys were riding up in the front, then George and another girl you didn’t know very well in the middle, which left you and Matty at the very back, packed in with all the equipment pressed up against the pair of you. Matty’s not touching you, his long fingers are picking at a rip in his skinny jeans, pulling on the thread and wrapping it around his finger, turning it slightly purple before letting it slack so the blood flows again. He’s talking at the same time as he’s repeating the action, a little anxious tick that gives him away under all the comedy and bravado and ego. Matty’s nervous. His voice is loud as he asks the boys a question and honestly you’ve zoned out of the conversation entirely, too focussed on the colour of Matty’s fingertip to care what they’re joking about, not realising that Matty had fallen quiet and was now looking at you. 

The drum is pressing into your shoulder in a way that hurts, it’s forcing you to twist so your knees are pressed hard against his and every jolt of the van forces you to hunch slightly more until eventually Matty whispers a quiet “come here” into your ear and undoes your seatbelt, pulling you onto his lap. His hands are on your legs, squeezing your thigh over the top of your jeans. He’s rubbing those circles again, into the fleshy part of your leg. The van bumps suddenly and nearly sends you flying, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck to catch your balance. 

“You good?” He whispers into your ear this time. 

“Yeah, yeah. All good. You?” He smirks at the blush that’s crept its way into your cheeks from the near fall. 

“I’ve survived Ross’s driving before.” The smirk turns into a shit-eating grin pretty quickly when you roll your eyes at him. 

“‘Survived’ isn't a word that bodes well. You’re the one that told me to get in this death trap, Healy.” 

“Yeah? You don’t have to listen to me, y’know?” He cocks an eyebrow. You do know. You also know that it’s a veiled threat. A reference to a night in bed where he told you that you could have everything you want as long as you were a “good girl” and listened to him. As long as you did what you were told. He’s messing with you now, once again toying with you like his little plaything. The butterflies in your stomach from his words are starting to spin into something much stronger. It's unfair how easily this boy can wind you up with a stroke of a finger on your skin, a condescending raise of his eyebrow or a couple of words that promise praise and pleasure. 

It’s impossible to say anything without it being overt to everyone else. Without giving up the little secret of whatever you and Matty are, and the fantasies of what’s possible for the pair of you. So you resort to unwrapping your arms around his neck and placing one on his crotch, out of sight from anyone else. Matty’s face starts to get flushed, a blush he so rarely sports slowly painting its way across his face and down his neck. You trace your fingertips over the top of his clothed cock, pressing hard enough so he knows what you’re doing but not giving him anywhere near enough for pleasure. He’s already semi-hard but the sensation of you touching him, maintaining eye contact as you do, means you can feel him get rock hard in his jeans. His pupils are blown wide and he’s gripping onto your thigh when he mouths a silent “stop” at you. You move your hand, but not before replying with a barely audible whisper of “I thought I didn’t have to listen to you?”

—

The music inside the party was blaring. The bass travelling through the walls of the house and into your bones. Nothing compared to the sound of the boys earlier, but this was a tinnier more distinctly “house party speakers” sound. Matty had walked close, bumping shoulders with you as you headed in. The promise of something leaving you feeling high and dizzy when you’d got out of the van. 

There had been a couple of almost-kisses, secret touches, longing stares when he wasn’t looking, since you’d arrived. It was when you were standing next to each other in the kitchen, each having separate conversations, that you felt his hand on your skin. Searching for yours as your backs were turned from each other. He couldn’t see you, see the way it made you inhale a small gasp and blush a little more than the alcohol had already done to your cheeks. You had zoned out of the conversation the two girls were trying to have, you hadn’t really been engaging in it anyway. Some inane topic of conversation about a celebrity you didn’t have all that much interest in. You probably would engage a little more if Matty’s little finger wasn’t searching for yours, brushing against your hand and sending a thrilling electricity up your arm until you felt his familiar hand right against yours. His fingers warm and a little sweaty but here he was searching for comfort from you, so close to being caught. So close to people seeing and starting conversations that would last decades. Even when you and Matty had long forgotten the little summer tryst you’d had as teenagers and you settled with your separate families, people would still talk. It’s in the middle of this jarring and horrifying thought of a future without Matty that the worst happens. The blonde from the stage walks into the kitchen and the second she makes herself known, he lets go. Warm goes cold. Hand empty. Unreiprocated longing and yearning returning to your heart and making its home there once again.

His little finger is no longer wrapped around yours. 

It hurts. 

Does it matter? 

—

That’s how you find yourself in the back garden with a cigarette between your lips and a can of something sweet and strong in your hand. It’s not your first drink at the party, or your second, or even your seventh. Honestly? You’ve lost track of how many it’s been now, but this one is warm and sticky and settles in your stomach on top of the rest with its syrupy viscosity. 

“Matthew Fucking Timothy Fucking Healy. Matty Healy. Matty. M for Man. M foooooor… moron? M for… makes me feel like fucking shit.” You throw the cig onto the paved floor of the back garden and crush it under your shoe, watching the embers get bright before they extinguish. Sucking in all the oxygen, breathing, before they choke out and die. Ironic really, and fucking stupid too, how you can relate to a crushed out cig on the dirty ground of a middle class house in the Cheshire countryside. 

“You need another one?” The voice is low, gravelly. Not one you recognise. You turn to face the man who’s intruded on your indulgent drunk self-loathing. He’s pretty, but that could be the alcohol. Just another generic male. Hair that curls. But not like Matty’s. Lighter than Matty’s, a mousey brown over his rich chocolate. He’s got blue eyes too. Deep like an ocean after a storm, and the way they’re looking at you. Oh God, he’s looking at you. He asked you a question, didn’t he?

“Sorry, what did you say?” You tip more of the drink into your mouth, sweet and sickly. It’s starting to leave a horrible feeling on your teeth and tongue. 

“Do you want another cig?” You contemplate it before noticing the two cans in his hand. 

“No thanks, but,” You drain the last of your can, the liquid hitting your stomach all at once, “I will nick one of those cans you’ve got though.” 

“It’s all yours.”

—

The conversation was good with him. You’ve forgotten his name. Possibly begins with a T or a D. David or Thomas or something weirdly English and traditional and boring. He’s brought you multiple drinks, the pair of you sat outside sharing stories, well more him telling you his and you making a cutting quip with a sly smile every now and then. You knew you were flirting, barely, but it was an attempt, and he seemed to like it too. He’d return your jibes with equal venom until it was more like you were gently bullying each other than actually talking anymore. 

You were already quite drunk when T/D turned up offering you one of his cigs. It’s probably the only reason you’re still talking to him, it’s not like you have much to say to any of the other boys in your life. Other than Matty. Even then, do you actually talk to Matty that much? Post-sex secrets and revelations, high on endorphins and complicated emotions that bring carefully maintained walls crumbling down easier than anything else. Matty probably knows you better than anyone in the world. But does he know you just because you’ve told him the most about yourself? If nobody on the planet knows anything about you, and one person knows that you like the colour of the sky, do they know you?

—

The party inside was clammy and loud. There were now enough people crammed into the house that you were fairly invisible as you made your way over to the kitchen island. Back to where Matty had held your hand and then let it go. You’d only gone in to get more drinks for you and the boy outside. The selection had changed since you arrived. More spirits and less mixers. Some cheap vodka and tropical fizzy drink, cola and cherryade, all from the corner shop you suspect. You don’t even know if the cups are clean, but they’re cups and they’ll do to hold the shitty red concoction you’ve managed to make. Probably more vodka than mixer given your lack of coordination right now. Who fucking cares anyway? Not you. Not the guy outside. Certainly not Matty.

Where even is Matty? The boy invited you to this stupid fucking party and then doesn’t say more than 3 fucking sentences to you since you walked through the door. Your eyes scan the room for any sign of his curly hair and skinny frame. Listening for that obnoxious and infectious laugh that was unmistakably his, and that’s when you spot him. Sat with her across his lap. The blonde girl. Again. She’s got her hand in his hair, pulling at his curls the way you do. If she did it a little harder he’d probably moan. One hand is around her back, it could be on the arm of the sofa but it looks like it’s on her waist. Probably feeling the heat on her back, the way she vibrates as she laughs. He’s not even looking at her. Focused on what one of the other lads is saying in their little group. But her leaning down to whisper something in his ear is what really makes you leave. Self-flagellation is not something you want to make a habit of. 

If he was going to kiss other people, in front of you, the girl he was fucking… If he was going to have that little respect for you, why should you have any for him? Clearly he didn’t care. Clearly it doesn’t matter to him. You don’t actually matter to him. Whatever little fantasy you had deluded yourself of, was finally catching up to you. You knew it would happen. You knew he would eventually move on, and you would be let down and disappointed and cracked open from the inside and left to pour all of your guts out. You didn’t think it would be in this kitchen and all over the sticky, alcohol soaked floors in some stranger's house though. How very obvious. How very pathetic. 

—

T/D has moved a little closer now and honestly, you’re a little apprehensive about kissing him. Maybe it would make things with Matty hurt less? That searing pain in your chest would dull a little. Maybe you’d stop thinking about that blonde girl with the long legs and the way Matty’s hand touched her on stage and how yours felt when he’d let go. 

His hand is on your thigh. It’s warm, not clammy. T/D is too self assured to be nervous about touching you, maybe he’s older than you. Actually, he’s definitely older than you. How did you not see the stubble earlier? The light shadow around his face. He’s at least 23. A few years older than you.

Is that a bad thing? 

Does it matter? 

The sudden feeling in your stomach is turbulent. You’re alright for this second but one more sharp movement and that's it. The sweat is sticking to your brow bone and the back of your neck, down your spine under your clothes. Your vision is starting to swim a little and the turbulence is quickly becoming the feeling of bile making its way up your throat, accompanied by too much of that sickly fizzy drink. 

Then it all happens at once. 

He leans in to kiss you. The door to the house opens. You stand up and run to the flower bed at the bottom of the garden to vomit, leaving the man hanging for his kiss. You don’t feel overly guilty about it, not with the stinging taste of bile and alcohol in your throat and mouth. The leftover sickly sweet drink from earlier and cherry and tropical mixers making you feel sick all over again.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with her?”

“Who the fuck are you?” 

You’re still vomiting. The poor flower bed. Talk about scorched earth. Nothing will grow here for a long time. 

“I’m her mate.” 

“Left her alone for an awfully long time. Not that much of a mate, are ya?” 

“Didn’t realise she needed saving.”

“Oh and what are you? Her knight in shining armour? Bit skinny for that.”

Your belly was empty but your vision was now swimming and the brief flash of pain you felt, as you heaved the contents of your stomach onto the bed of innocent peonies below, was suddenly not brief and instead an incredibly painful throbbing in your temples had begun.

“Matty stop.” You choked out. “He’s not even done anything.” You’re swaying as you walk back over to the two boys. 

“I’m taking you home. Now.” 

---

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

Matty was tired. He was going to snap. The blue ribbon in your hair and the way your lipgloss, that fucking mango lipgloss, stuck to the rim of the wineglass, showing where you’d pressed your lips to take a drink each time. He was jealous of a fucking wine glass. The way your neck arched as you took a sip. He wanted to be the wine down your throat. The way your shorts hugged your hips and rode up between your thighs just slightly. God, could he be your shorts? Ride between your thighs where he knows you're already soaking just from the videos you sent him in class earlier. Jealous of the seat that gets to feel your arse everytime you adjust. He’d be your seat right now. He’d do anything you asked. He was all of one whisper of his name from your lips away from whimpering. And you were with people. Not just people, students.

—

The University mixer day had been long and arduous in your company but it was nearly done. The last dinner was nearly over and he could get rid of another pesky student who had done their “absolute utmost to earn their place at the table”. You being at the mixer was a cruel twist of fate from the head of the department, deciding that students should also get to know any mentors that were currently working with the classes, and that meant you. An informal event but plied with alcohol to help everyone relax a little, students getting to know each other, it was a social event after all, where you were all supposed to get to know each other and get on. Hard when you can’t focus on what the boy at the end of the table had been talking about for the last 10 minutes due to the way you were having to actively concentrate on keeping your legs clamped together. 

Your thighs were wet and you were trying hard not to let it be noticeable. He’d worn his glasses today and his hair was curlier than normal, the strands of grey standing out against the dark brown mop he usually has. All you can think about is how he felt when he fucked you on his desk two days before, how your hands were in his hair, pulling at the roots and scratching his scalp as his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking and licking as he fucked up into you, or the night before that when he fingered you in his car on the way to a staff party, or maybe even that first time you caught him with one of your ribbons and his hand between his legs. God, what you would give to be able to sink slowly down onto his cock right now. It’s beyond uncomfortable how wet you are.  

You had slowly learned each other's wants and needs over the last month and a half. He didn’t let you be in charge very often, normally wanting to focus on you and your pleasure, trying new things each time. New names and ways to touch you, and you were finding you liked things you’d never thought of before. Right now though, all you wanted was for him to bend you over this table and make you cum, audience be damned. 

When the last student had left and you were able to go, no longer beholden to your employers will to keep you at work, you left together. None of the other staff had picked up on your little tryst yet and you were grateful. Having to explain to anyone that you were fucking Matty, the man who was basically your boss, would be painful and awkward. He’s helping you with your research, and in return you are the mentor for his classes. Required to be there, lingering in the corner, watching and listening to him talk about what he’s most passionate about multiple times a week, for hours at a time. How were you going to survive this job? Your own wetness will drown you if you’re not careful. 

In class, Matty was different from what he was like in private. To you, this man would give you the world, only raise his voice when you wanted him to, never hurt you, listen and take care of you after he’d finished fucking you like a whore. He sends you his favourite jokes and song lyrics that remind him of you, tongue in cheek comments about how badly he needs you when you’re not there and what you do to his body, silly videos of restaurants or day out ideas with a text that says “we should do this???”. 

In class Matty was different. Stern and demanding, only wanting excellence for his students and unwilling to take any less from them. He was known as a scary teacher to have. If you had Professor Healy, the other students would look at you gravely and apologise. He has quite the reputation for being a scary hardars, unafraid to tell you when and where you’ve fucked up and how badly. That firmness worked wonders in your favour in the bedroom though. Once you knew that he wasn’t going to relinquish control to you for a little while, you fell into a much more submissive role in the relationship. Letting Matty take care of you and fix things around your shitty flat, cook and clean, as well as taking you out for dinners. If you ached he would rub it away, if you cried he would kiss the tears, if you laughed his eyes would crinkle and he’d try to keep it going until your eyes sparkled. It was very domestic for a relationship that you hadn’t spoken about being a relationship. Matty is still your boss, and you are still under his power in the eyes of the university. It was dangerous and it was thrilling and it felt so fucking good. 

So now you were in his car as he drives you both home. His jaw is tense and you badly want to ask him, beg him, to put his hand on your thigh, touch you, make you feel anything at all but the stress in his face tells you that doing so would be a bad idea. He looks 1 sentence away from snapping. So you do the next best thing, and rest your hand on his thigh. 

“Are you trying to make me crash the fucking car?” It’s said through grit teeth, both hands on the steering wheel, knuckles going white from how hard he’s gripping it. “Behave. We’ll be home soon and then you’re going for a shower,” you grin at that. The idea of showering together was appealing. Matty naked behind you, his cock up against your ass, soapy hands playing with your nipples before moving to your hair and bending you over and- “you’re showering alone. I can see that look in your eyes baby.” You pout and the rest of the drive is done in silence. 

Your hand is still on his thigh though. 

—

When you got back to the house, Matty had wrapped you in his arms before sending you off for your shower. Pulled at the ribbon in your hair and kissed your neck, slowly working his lips down the side of your neck as his hands moved over your body, grabbing anywhere he could reach. The shorts between your legs were starting to be too much. Riding so your thighs rubbed together in an almost painful way. You groaned at the feeling of Matty behind you, reaching up to tug on his curls behind you. 

“You need to go for a shower and get all clean baby,” he pulls away and you gasp at the loss of contact. The distance, whilst not what you want, leaves you so wet you feel it pool in your underwear. 

“Definitely not showering with me?” You cock your head to the side and start to pull your clothes off in his hallway, walking backwards towards the bathroom. 

“You can strip for me all you like baby, but no, I have some things to finish. Don’t you think it’s so much better when you’re patient and good for me?” In reality, Matty was surprised he hadn’t given in. He wanted to bend you over the stairs and fuck you right here, take what was his and make you scream it for the whole world to hear. He wanted noise complaints from his neighbours and judgmental looks when he left the house, you on his arm. His pretty young thing and covered in purple marks he’d left on your body. He wanted everyone to know, and away from work it wasn’t as much of an issue. He shifted his cock in his trousers, being this hard all fucking day was not comfortable. “Plus, I think you’re gonna need to get cleaned up after those videos you sent me. Dirty girl.” He turns away and into the kitchen. 

—

You take your time in the shower, if he’s going to make you be patient, you’ll be very fucking patient. You spend time scrubbing every inch of your skin, lathering with soap and scrubs and oils, shaving every inch of your body just to kill time. Trying to keep the ends of your hair dry takes effort, they keep catching the water and you can feel them get heavier the longer you’re in there. Eventually you give in and decide that you should climb out before your fingertips go wrinkly. You lather your legs in moisturiser, and spray your hair with perfume, running a comb through your locks so they were soft and down. You wrap the blue ribbon you’d had in your hair all day around your neck. Wrapping yourself up, ready to untie like a present for the man in the house. The white towel is soft as you wrap it around your body, adjusting your tits so they sit pretty under the fabric, no underwear underneath. Reaching under the towel and feeling how wet your cunt is still even post shower. The thoughts of Matty unable to get out of your head. 

You find him in his bedroom, shirt half unbuttoned, chain hanging around his neck. He’s changed his trousers to a more comfortable pair of joggers and his hand is down the front, not moving, but touching his hard cock. His phone is in his other hand but you can’t tell what he’s concentrating on.

“What you looking at there, Professor,” he jumps at the unexpected intrusion, and you smile at him from the doorframe. “Something naughty?” You stride across to the bedside table and pick his glasses up, putting them on. He’s not particularly blind but they do distort your vision slightly, he finds it hot when you wear them though. Like you can see the world through the same eyes for a second, even if you definitely aren’t. 

“Just you actually,” he turns the phone to show you the video you’d sent him earlier. “Been thinking about you all day actually,” he moves across the bed to be laid on his back, head hanging off the side. One hand reaches to pull you closer by the towel. 

“Matty what are you doing?” you giggle at his actions. Confused but letting him pull you closer to him. His head is tipped back but cushioned by the mattress, the chain around his neck resting on his adams apple, the slight stubble visible there. 

“Just come here. I’ve needed you all day.” The towel drops to the floor and your nipples harden as the cold air hits them. Goose bumps covering your flesh as he pulls you the last step forward, the bed the exact right height for you to spread your legs and Matty to not need to move that much to lick your dripping pussy. “God you’re so fucking wet.” You gasp at the intrusion. He’s buried his face in you to the point there is no way he can breathe. Lapping at your entrance and fucking you with his tongue before moving to your clit. Hard flicks and little sucking motions making you double over at your hips, being careful not to let your legs give way as he brings his hands to your thighs to take some of your weight. The calloused fingers pulling at your flesh. Your first orgasm hits harder and faster than you expect, no warning as your wetness covers his mouth and nose. Matty doesn’t let up. 

“Matty…” you’re breathless. “Matty please, I came.” He relents his grip and pulls his head out from between your thighs, righting himself on the bed as you stand up, legs wobbly but staying strong. 

“I’m not done with you,” he shrugs his shirt off, and kneels on the bed, meeting your height and leaning forward to take his glasses off of your face, folding them and putting them back on the nightstand. “Come here.” He pulls you into the bed, lays you down on your back. 

“You’re so pretty baby,” you blush. “My pretty girl,” he pushes your hair out of your face and lowers himself down to kiss you, your legs spreading wider to let him closer to your body. His tongue is warm and his mouth tastes like you, coffee and cigarettes. Soft lips against yours, lazy and wanting, slowly putting more of his weight on your body. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, lazily stroking the nape of his neck with your finger nails, pulling on his hair gently until he groans into your neck and shifts his hips so he can rock his clothed cock on your naked core, getting desperate for any sort of friction. When you start rocking your hips back that’s when he stops. “I told you I wasn’t done with you.” He pauses for a moment and his eyes dart over you, in a way that makes you feel self conscious, slightly vulnerable. Here you were, fully naked under him, your cum still covering his face, and he’s half dressed on top of you, having his way with you. You cover your chest with your arms in an effort to hide slightly, feeling the sudden need to protect your modesty. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t hide from me.” 

You slowly move your arm away from yourself to hold his waist, tracing his tattoos across his chest and moving lower. Fingertips gliding over his skin, this was intimate. More intimate than anything you’d done so far. He was letting you really look at his body, see him, every flaw and line and crevice. When you got to the waistband of his joggers you looked into his eyes, begging for permission to touch him where you knew he wanted you. You wanted to wrap your hand around his cock, feel the weight of him in your fist as you moved your hand up and down, cup his balls the way he likes so he cums faster, rub your thumb over the tip and collect the precum that is almost definitely there. You stare into his eyes. “Not yet baby, I’m not done with you.”

—

You’re handcuffed to the bed. They’re quick release and you can definitely get yourself out of the flimsy fluffy things, but they’re cute and they definitely give the illusion that Matty is entirely in charge, that you can’t do anything about what he’s about to do to you. 

“This is for sending me those videos when I was standing in front of a class of 40 students. Your students too might I add.” His fingers roam over your stomach, down your thighs and you can feel them tensing at the almost-contact. 

“Please Matty. I need you.” His hands grip your thighs and pull them apart. 

“Come on, that’s not what you call me. What was it? Sir? Professor?” 

“Please Sir,” his fingers move to the inside of your thigh, tracing through the sticky spots where your arousal had managed to spread to. This man was relishing in what the thought of him did to your body. Your stomach taut and tense, breathing shallow and strained, all of your muscles clenched in apprehension of the next touch he would give you, the next words that will leave his mouth. 

“I’ve got you baby. Don’t worry, I promise, I’ve got you.” The words relax you slightly, comfort you weren’t expecting to receive when you thought you were being told off for your earlier actions. You definitely don't regret it and will be doing it again if it leads to this though. 

The bed shifts as he clambers back between your legs ungracefully. Kissing the inside of your thighs and nibbling slightly as he sucked. Leaving butterfly shaped purple bruises up the soft skin. “You’re not gonna be able to wear those shorts as long as you have these.” He leaves another one. “If you ever wear those shorts to work again, I’m taking you home and tying you up and never letting you go.” You shut your eyes at the feeling of his mouth. 

“Is that a threat or a-” your words catch in your mouth as his fingers find your clit, spreading you open and rubbing gentle circles on the already sensitive spot. 

“Finish your sentence.” He stops. 

“Is that a promise?” He doesn’t answer you, he just goes to feel how wet you are by moving two fingers through your pussy and bringing them to his mouth, tasting you again. 

“God you taste so fucking sweet darlin’. I can never get enough of you. Want you at the end of each meal and for my breakfast too.” His fingers go back to your entrance and you gasp at the initial stretch as they push into you slowly. Too slowly. You move your hips trying to fuck yoursle on his hand. Matty smirks at the movement and tuts at you before holding you down by the hip. He curls his fingers up as he finally gets all the way inside, hitting that spot that feels too good to be true. When you gasp, he lowers his mouth to your clit again. 

Matty brings you to orgasm twice more, by the third one you’re about to cry, sore and swollen and honestly you just need to be full of him, feel him inside you. 

“Matty please, I can’t. I need you. Please.” 

“One more for me, pretty girl. You’re okay, I’m here. You can take it, baby.” He’s right, you can do it for him. You let out a little sob. “Shush for me, you’re doing so good for me. It’ll be good.” He starts again, it’s intense and it almost hurts but not quite. His fingers coaxing yet another orgasm from inside of you, as his tongue gently licks your clit, sucking softly. Your thoughts are slowly melting into one, one desperate need for the man between your legs. Need him inside you, surrounding you, everywhere. 

“I’m so close,” you sob. Matty doesn’t do anything but hum around you and move his hand to press down on your lower stomach. That’s what does it. That’s what tips you over into blankness, feeling something and everything and nothing all at once. Your face is wet. Are you crying? Definitely crying. Your thighs are extra wet, the sheets are too. “Matty. Need you. Please.” You feel your arms release from the handcuffs and strong rough hands start to rub your shoulders as Matty rests next to you. 

“I’m here baby,” he coos. “I’ve got you.” 

“Need you inside me. Fill me up, please.” You close your eyes as Matty struggles to pull his joggers off. 

“Anything you need, baby, but keep your eyes open. Look at me.” He’s looking straight into your eyes as he’s on top of you. Adjusting so he can fill you up. “Gonna cum inside and make you all mine baby. Get you all full with my cum.” He’s inside you in one smooth motion. “Gonna move now okay?” You nod. “Use your words pretty girl.”

“Yes, please. I want that. Make me yours,” he moans into your ear as he fucks you. Feeling so full of him. 

It doesn’t take long for him to get to cumming, he’s been pent up all day and spent ages working on you. He would be ashamed of it if you weren’t already so fucked out yourself. 

“Close baby, gonna fill you. Look into my eyes as I fill you up with my baby, my pretty girl. All mine.”

“Hold my hand. Hold my hand Matty please.” He grabs your hand and pulls it to his chest, over his heart, holds it there as he cums. Shouting your name loud enough that the neighbours will definitely hear. “Shit, shit baby.” He pulls out and you feel the loss. Almost enough to make you cry again. 

You reach down to feel his cum slipping out of you, sensitive to touch, but not enough that you stop. You bring it to your mouth. 

“How do we taste?” He asks. 

“So good.” He wraps you up in his arms and lets you nuzzle into his neck. “Can I stay here tonight?” 

“Wasn’t gonna give you the option to leave. Need you too bad.” He wiggles his hips against your body. 

“Mate,” Matty cringes at the implication. “I think she knows who she’d rather be going home with.” T/D smirks at his own words. They are condescending, with a cocky self assurance you weren’t aware he had in regards to how certain he was you would be leaving with him. You weren’t even sure you’d leave with him. Kiss him? Yes. Leave? No. It’s pissed you off. What right does he have to you?

“I don’t need either…” you point at the two boys, one finger outstretched as your arm moves unsteadily between them. You can feel your knees wobble as the ground moves beneath you. You pause to right yourself a bit, still not quite recovered from your vomiting episode moments earlier. The acrid taste lingers in your mouth and burns your throat. You need water. “I don’t need either of you two boys… to do anything with me.” You’re pointing at yourself now. You don’t remember making the decision to point at yourself. Nevermind. You take a step forward. Wobbly again. “Now if you’ll both excuse me.” You go to move your foot and you can feel the grass bend unevenly under your weight, not helping the unsteadiness in your legs. Your whole body honestly feels heavy and tired, weighed down by the alcohol in your veins and frankly, you just want to sleep now. Get out of this hellhole of a party and rest. Maybe have some water first. Yeah… water would be good. 

As you go to move, Matty’s arm’s come out to try and help you balance. You don’t need it. You don’t need him. He can go back to his pretty blonde that’s allowed to sit on his lap in front of others, allowed to openly gawk at his stupid fucking pretty face. You swat his arms away. 

You. Don’t. Need. Him.

Not even when he looks at you with his head tilted like a sad puppy. When his own half-lidded, drunk eyes meet yours with a cocktail of confusion and anger and hurt. You’ve pushed him away and rejected his help. Matty’s help. You’re making a pointed statement of offence, meant to be cruel to him. You want him to hurt. 

“I’m walking you home,” T/D announces with a step towards you. 

“Over my dead fucking body are you going anywhere near her,” Matty doesn’t even look at him. Just focuses on you and how you’re moving, the way your legs are wobbling and how if you take one more wrong step your ankle is gonna twist. Not that you can see it in your current state. But you can think about how his face is still a patchwork of emotions. Hurt you caused, anger with ‘the stranger who’s not a stranger to him’, concern for you, and another one you don’t quite recognise. “If you even think about it mate,” he spits the word with a sarcastic venom for the other man. “You won’t be able to show your face round here ever again,” T/D ignores him but sniggers at the threat and crosses his arms over his chest, Matty snaps. “And when the police come knocking on your Mums door, don’t be fucking surprised.” T/D stopped then, his face a picture of shock and trepidation. A usual predator that’s been tricked out of its prey, still hungry and working out whether the fight is worth the effort. You’re the prey. Just a meal. Something else to be consumed. Eaten whole and not even savoured. Torn with his teeth, like flesh from bone. 

Matty’s threat was more than real. T/D made his decision. He was not the biggest predator here. You weren’t worth it. 

Matty continues. “Yeah, I fucking know. Now get the fuck out of here before I ring them myself.” 

“It’s always the quiet ones.” T/D nods at you. “Shame… you would’ve been an interesting fuck.” And that’s what does it, what finally makes you realise why this guy has been talking to you all night. Should have expected that. 

It’s not like Matty wants you for a different reason. He only wants you to have someone to touch and get him off. But it’s different when this stranger says it. You feel everything inside crack all at once, and you lunge, arms outstretched and ready to claw his boring eyes from his uninteresting, plain, normal face. But that’s not what happens. What happens is too fast for you to see it all. T/D moves back, escaping the vice like grip you would have had on his neck, expecting the prompt attack. Matty’s arms are around your waist, but you parry and slip in the grass, knees buckling under you and breaking your fall. The alcohol drowns the pain. Nonetheless you get back up, eyes focused on the man who’s laughing at you. 

“Baby. Stop.” Matty’s warning you. He’s even using his pet name for you. It doesn’t quite register. 

“Oh ‘Baby’… so you’re fucking her? She was gonna kiss me you know, before you came out here. Your girl. Not really yours, is she Healy? Here I was, thinking she was all innocent,” Matty doesn’t pay attention, too busy focusing on you not hurting yourself with your own drunken idiocy. But he is hearing it, and you can tell, because his nostrils flare and his shoulders round a bit and his eyes are getting watery. Matty Healy crying over you? Unlikely. But Matty’s seen the hesitation and he takes his opportunity to make sure you aren’t going to continue your attack. 

“Matty let me fucking go. I don’t need…” you try to wriggle around him, with no luck, except now he’s got your arms pinned behind your back and he’s standing just slightly taller than you, your head pressed against his chest. You can feel his heart beat against your temple as you both try to catch your breath. The patch of grass under your shoes is torn up from the scuffle. Streaks of mud run through the uniformed lawn. Yet another perfect thing you’ve marred and ruined.

Somewhere in the fight T/D had made his escape. Fucking cunt.

Matty’s still got you pinned. Unable to move and stuck against his chest. The fabric of his clothes rubbing against you. The rise and fall of his chest uneven and shaky, something wet falling on the top of your head and dampening your scalp, but it’s not raining. The bitter taste in your mouth isn’t from the stomach acid anymore. It’s just guilt and regret. 

Matty was crying. 

Matty was crying and all you could do was cling onto him as the world got spinny again and the adrenaline wore off, leaving you aching, bruised, drunk and nauseous. He lets go of your arms and the only thing you can do is wrap them around his slim waist and squeeze. Feel his body calm under the pressure of your hug. So you just stand there, head on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat, squeezing the tears out of him, and even when there’s no more, you stay there and just hold on. When you try to let go, you realise Matty is clinging to you harder than you ever were to him. His thin arms vibrate against you with each breath and you know that he’s trying to stop, that he’s trying to control himself 

In the back garden of a middle class house in the Cheshire countryside you begin to wonder if maybe Matty Healy does have feelings for you after all. 

But then you remember the blonde.

“Matty? I need to get myself some water. I’m gonna vomit again. I feel so fucking dizzy.” 

“I’ll grab you some, but then we’re going.” There was no room for argument in his tone, so you whisper your thanks and lean against the rough red brick of the building and pray that you’re drunk enough for the headache to take its time to arrive. 

—

The walk home was long and for the most part quiet, except for your heavy breathing and the roar of blood in your ears. Your skin felt strangely numb against the night air and the only thing you could really feel is the sweat on your forehead and the growing pain in your knee from when you hit the ground. It’s probably bleeding but you can’t see it right now. The stars and moon are not quite enough to do anymore than light up the road to walk home without tripping or falling into the thorny bramble hedges that line the pothole poxed country road. 

Matty was watching you like a hawk without actually looking at you. You could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. Peripherally you could see his arms jolt every time it seemed like you might stumble or were at risk, and the longer it went on for the more you felt like glass just waiting to shatter. You were dizzy and the surrounding patchwork of empty fields really weren’t helping. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was long enough. The sound of Matty’s lighter breaks the silence. 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” You don’t turn to look at him as you pose the question, just focus on the lights of the houses in the distance. Your goal. Your endpoint. Rest.

“Not really much to talk about,” he inhales at the end of the sentence and holds the drag in his lungs. 1…2…3… Exhale. You breathe out with him and watch the gloomy clouds of his smoke drift away over your head, into nothingness. It’s odd thinking about that air having been in his lungs, closer than you could ever be to him. Inside him, in his veins and next to his muscle and brushing past his heart. You could never be the smoke in his lungs but its temporary place within his body seems strangely comparable, and not for the first time that night, you find yourself relating your feelings, identity and purpose to that of a cigarette. 

“Alright then.” If Matty didn’t want to talk, you wouldn’t force him. Doesn’t matter how many questions your head was reeling with, you would get answers eventually. Just maybe not now when a low throbbing has just started in the back of your skull and your temples. You probably deserve the pain that is coming to you. 

It takes another 15 minutes of walking in your drunken haze, it feels like longer in the silence, before you realise that you’re walking to Matty’s house and not your own. It takes another 30 seconds before the panic sets in about what your mother was going to think when she realises you’re not in your house. 

“I thought you were taking me home? I have to go home, Matty. My mum…” You go to turn around, nearly slipping on the stone driveway before Matty’s arm is around your waist and holding you back…again. 

“Your mum won’t even notice you’re not there. You can tell her Clara got ill and you stayed at hers to look after her.”

“Matty…” you want to protest. You want to be angry at his behaviour earlier, angry about the blonde, the way he chucked you aside when you got to the house. Angry about how he lured you back in just to drop your hand the second that girl walked into the room. Even if he was right about T/D, he shouldn’t have done what he did, he had no right. You’re not his girlfriend. You want to push him away and stand your ground and prove to yourself and him that you won’t just be at his every beck and call.  That you can rely on your own two feet to get you home and look after yourself. That you aren’t a slave to his attention and words and touches. But then you see his eyes glittering in the street lamp, and you think about how he held you tight as his tears landed on your head. Maybe the way he dealt with T/D in the wrong way, but he was doing it for you. Because somewhere in that enigma of a personality, Matty Healy cares, and he cares about you. 

“Will you just come in the house and stop being so fucking stubborn? Please?” His arm is still around your waist, fingers skimming the bare skin at the edge of your top on your hip, the heat that rushes to your face betrays your anger. He’s holding you up like that, protecting you from your own drunken clumsiness, even if the dizziness has stopped now. So you sigh and breathe in his smell through his clothes. Let it fill up your lungs till they sting, and you hold him in there until you’re sure there is no way he isn't in your bloodstream and coursing through your veins and permeating your muscles, spreading through you until you’re more Matty than you are yourself. 

“Okay.” 

—

He takes you into the kitchen and sits you down by the table in the corner. The ceiling lights aren’t helping the dull ache in the back of your head and they very quickly force you to realise the place in your journey from inebriated to sober, which is somewhere in the awful inbetween of drunk but violently hungover at the same time. Even the sound of the water hitting the sink bowl as Matty runs it through before pouring you a glass, is too loud. His slim fingers gripping onto the wet tumbler, the way he’s staring at the water. He’s purposely not looking at you, intently focused with a set jaw on each little task he’s set himself. You can almost see the list in his head forcing him to move between each area of the kitchen. Open the bread. Into the toaster. Push the toaster down. Go to the fridge. Open the fridge. Take the butter out. Close the fridge. Find a knife… It was exhausting to watch, so you busy yourself, focusing on the pain getting stronger from your knee. You can see the blood through the fabric on your legs and pick at the denim. It’s actually much more painful now you’ve stopped walking. The ache is spreading across your skin and you wonder quite how badly you’ve torn the flesh with your own stupidity and naïvety. It feels like it’s a bad one, the sting from the split in the skin is growing stronger, letting you know how badly it needs cleaning, and soon, to try and stop infection. You should really take care of yourself. You ignore it. 

The harsh brightness that’s coming from the big light in the kitchen, is showing you quite how badly you had managed to deck it in that back garden. You’re starting to think if Matty hadn't caught you and softened the blow it might have been a trip to A&E. He doesn’t need to know. You don’t need him having yet another reason to not trust you by yourself. You don’t need a knight in shining armour. He doesn’t need to know that you’re half convinced it needs stitches. He doesn’t even need to know its bleeding still. 

The throbbing knee and hangover headache, paired with the guilt and frustration, is a killer combination for you just wanting the night to be over and to go to bed. God, why didn’t you just go back to your own bed?

“Have you got any painkillers?” You break the silence. You didn’t want to be the one to give in, to show him he was right in bringing you to his home, but between your knee and head you are choosing relief over your dignity and pride. He tosses you a foil packet and you swallow two with the cold water, praying they’ll stay down and you won’t throw them up in 20 minutes. You don’t think you can throw up anymore. The toast will help. 

“Are you okay?” He’s eyeing you differently to normal. There’s something new in his eyes. Disbelief, anger, frustration. All explainable from tonight, but the hurt and betrayal there, that was not what you expected, and it cut like a knife to your chest, slowly dragging down. The fact you are the one who made that expression possible, is salt on the wound.

Never mind the blonde girl. Never mind his possessive claim over you earlier. Never mind if he didn’t have any right to it. 

Every fibre of your brain was fighting, wanting you to get to your knees and force apologies out of your throat and beg for forgiveness for mistakes you aren’t even sure you have made. The idea of being without Matty, of making him mad, of hurting him… that hurt as much as the idea of him and the blonde girl. 

“I’m good. I’ve just got a headache. But I’m fine Matty.” He cocks an eyebrow in questioning. He doesn’t believe you. You pick at your knee. “Really I am. Can we go to bed?” 

You go to stand up and make the mistake of making eye contact just as you put pressure on your bad knee. He raises one eyebrow. 

“Just a headache?” 

“Just… a headache.” He holds one hand out to you, slender fingers with rough calluses from his guitar at the tips. A peace offering that you probably don’t deserve. You take it anyway. 

—

Being in Matty’s bedroom alone is always an odd feeling. The posters that line the walls are more of an insight into his head than anything he could ever actually say to you. His words are a cloak to hide his feelings, a wall to protect his heart. You could never uncover and you could never scale. You’re shut out. So you rely on the posters.

But then he cried, so maybe that’s not true anymore. 

He’s not even looked at you once since the kitchen. He led the way up the stairs, holding your hand lightly until you reached his room, where he stole it back to open the door. Now yours is cold by your side as you stare at the posters and try to figure out what they mean about Matty. How the music he listens to has shaped him, how his idols have affected who he is, his beliefs and theories on the world and religion and politics and God and sexuality and well… everything. 

This is not the thought to be having now, with your throbbing headache, and every time you bend your knee the injury becomes more apparent, stinging and distracting you from your ponderings about the foundations of Matty’s personality.

You begin to peel your clothes off. Top first so you’re clad in just your bra. It’s not like Matty hasn’t seen it before. Then the denim comes down, clinging to you like a second skin and pulling at your knee as you move them over your injury carefully. The sharp gasp you let out through your teeth is timed perfectly with Matty’s re-entry. Now you both can see the damage you’ve done to yourself. He doesn’t even say anything. No comfort. No look of care. Nothing. He just moves to his wardrobe and fishes through for a minute before chucking a large faded red band t-shirt at you. 

He looks drained. You hadn’t seen it in the kitchen, but his face had gone a ghostly colour and the bags under his eyes looked extra prominent in the dim bedroom light. 

“Put that on. Sit on the edge of the bed. Do not move. I’ll be back in a second.” and he leaves the room once again. Your stomach is in a whirl from how commanding his instructions were and your brain confused at his apathy to your condition and worried about why he suddenly looked so… ill? 

He returns after a few minutes, and you tried to clean up the mess after you spent the time he was gone trying your best to clean up your battered knee using the tissues from the box on his nightstand. 

“Stop. Stop it’s okay, I’ll do it.” He kneels down in front of you in his boxers and his stupid graphic tee that’s slightly too big. Big brown eyes focused on the little first aid kit he had with him.

He doesn’t say anything.

Maybe this is a night for saying nothing. 

It feels like maybe you don’t have to say anything. 

Because Matty is on his knees in front of you, fiddling with a wipe, in his stupid boyish attempt at nursing you back to health. His very Matty way of taking care of you. 

“This might hurt,” he gently dabs around the cut, cleaning away the blood with tenderness and care. You aren’t watching his hands, but staring at his face and the way he concentrates. 

“I can see you staring at me, you know?” He doesn’t look at you, just keeps concentrating on cleaning your knee before he opens another wipe. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like it when you stare.” 

“I mean I’m sorry about this.” His soft jaw hardens and his eyes narrow slightly. 

“Just…” he sighs, and closes his eyes as he shifts his weight on his knees. “Just don’t start with that.” 

He finishes wiping your knee clean, and there’s definitely going to be blood around it tomorrow but the cut itself is fine now. He brings out a tube of antiseptic and applies a little to his finger before looking at you in warning as he applies it. It doesn’t hurt. The plaster he applies, he smoothes over a few times, letting his fingertips linger over where the waterproof covering and your skin meet. 

You’ve not seen this Matty before. You’ve never even dreamed of this version of Matty. Soft and Caring Matty. A Matty who cares enough to clean you up, to bandage your injuries, and warn you of the pain he might cause in doing so. The last thing you would have thought Matty would do, is lean forward and plant a sweet kiss over the top. Your heart flutters and your stomach flips and you’re reminded once again that maybe Matty does have feelings for you. 

He’s looking up at you from his knees on the floor. Eyes all wide and fearful. Like a deer in headlights, frozen and waiting for catastrophic impact. You push one of your hands through his hair, the curls pulling between your fingers with no resistance. He raises himself on his knees so he’s at the same height as you, even if you are sitting on the bed, and lets his fingers trace down the side of your face. Like he’s trying to memorise the outline of you. 

The kiss is slow and starts off gentle. Soft lips against each other and his hand resting on your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. He moves his hand to the back of your neck, and you move your arms around his shoulders, his other on your waist. He’s still slightly lower than you so you pull him closer to try and deepen the kiss. You want him nearer, against your skin. He falls slightly as the weight shifts and you both stop and giggle. 

“Wanna get into bed?” He’s smiling as he asks, some of his colour returning to his face and you nod in reciprocation. 

You spent the next half an hour lazily making out, nothing more. Matty declared he wouldn’t have sex with you given the amount you had drank at the party and to be honest, you didn’t want to either. So you kissed, and you touched and you fell asleep on his chest with his hands in your hair. 

It should have scared you. It should have been a warning sign. It should have lit your mind up with flashing red lights and foghorns. But instead, you let yourself be taken by the gentle lull of warm emotions, and let yourself drift off into a dreamless slumber. 

It was too good to be true. 

It was too nice. 

It was too perfect. 

It was going to come crashing down. 

Do you even care? When it feels like this?

Does it matter?