kpop idol!reader, social media!au, fluff, secret relationship!au
SOOMPI EXCLUSIVE NEWS !
Nation’s Darling [Y/N L/N] Swept Up In International Dating Rumors with The 1975’s Matty Healy After Seen Wearing Matching “Couple” Shirts Raising Speculation?
Born into wealth and rot, you are tied to a family name that’s polished with champagne but corroded by blood. After the suspicious death of your beloved brother, you’re left at the mercy of a cruel stepfather and a mother who traded her grief for survival. You dream of spilled blood and vengeance but have never had the courage to act. Enters Matty Healy — the older, sharper and charming lawyer your stepfather hires for business who seems far more interested in peeling you open. Bound by lust, violence and the shared knowledge that neither of you are good, the two of you begin to plot the murder of your stepfather all while circling each other in a dangerous, intoxicating dance that promises either liberation or ruin.
OR ALTERNATIVELY, what’s more dangerous: the man you want dead or the man helping you kill him?
IS IT WRONG TO FIND SHELTER (IN YOUR ARMS?)
25k, college student!matty x ex-model!reader, reverse celebrity!au, forced proximity!au, housemates to lovers, angst, romance, smut 🔞
As an unassuming freshman student, Matty moves into the first cheapest house he had found close to his college, only to discover that he’d have to share the space with another person; a woman who lives downstairs. And not just any ordinary woman but you, an attractive ex-model who had taken an early retirement due to scandal and is now making his life hell.
CLUB TEASE
6.5k, boyfriend!matty, established relationship!au, smut 🔞
After seeing you wearing his favourite pair of black lace underwear underneath the sheer dress you’d opted to wear for the club night, Matty can not help but get on his knees and fuck out your bratty side.
SUCK IT AND SEE
1.2k, porn without plot, established relationship!au, smut 🔞
You thought batting your lashes at the barista for a free latte was harmless that was until Matty caught wind of it. Now you’re on your knees, grinding yourself stupid on his boot while he fucks your throat until you can’t breathe. Turns out free drinks do come with a heavy price.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
You thought batting your lashes at the barista for a free latte was harmless that was until Matty caught wind of it. Now you’re on your knees, grinding yourself stupid on his boot while he fucks your throat until you can’t breathe. Turns out free drinks do come with a heavy price.
WORD COUNT. 1.2k
GENRE. smut, porn without plot, established relationship!au
WARNINGS. 18+, explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), blow jobs, throatfucking, reader grinds on his boot, jealous!matty, degradation (slut, pathetic, etc), a little bit of humiliation kink, power play, hair-pulling, cum swallowing, dry humping, mild breathplay
You never thought a free latte would end with you choking on your boyfriend’s cock.
But here you are.
Your knees are already sore against the cold tiles of the Matty’s flat when he forces your head down again, his cock hitting the back of your throat with a brutal snap of his hips as one of his hands gets buried in your hair while he’s fucking your mouth like he owns it.
“Gag on it, sweetheart,” Matty hisses sharply, his hips jerking at a rapid pace. “You love this, don’t ya? Pathetic slut on her knees for me. Bet that loser dreams of seeing you like this.”
The only reply you’re capable of giving him is a moan around his length as tears run down your face from the merciless stretch inside your throat.
Your nails dig into his thighs, mascara running down your cheeks in teary streaks as you choke around him but he doesn’t ease up. If anything, he pulls harder, holding you down until your eyes water.
When he finally lets you up for air, there’s a string of spit that connects your swollen lips to his cock.
Matty tilts your chin up with his index finger, a smug smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re only good for this, you know,” he murmurs, sliding his wet tip across your cheek like a mark of ownership. “My pretty girl with nothing but her mouth full of my cock.”
His thumb presses hard against your spit-slick bottom lip, forcing your mouth open again as he sneers, “You think I didn’t see the way you were batting your lashes at that fucking barista? Acting cute for some free drink?” He drags his cock back over your tongue, slow and taunting now, watching your throat bobs up and down in anticipation.
“Matty, I–”
“You want free shit, doll?” He cuts you off, not even bothering to listen to you. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you every drop until you’re leaking with me.”
A whimper leaves your lips at his words and once again he has put his cock back in your mouth. You let spit pool at the corners of your mouth before eagerly hollowing your cheeks to suck him off. You try to breathe through your nose, but he shoves deeper, groaning at the way your throat convulses around him. Matty’s hand pushes your face even further down until your nose is brushing against his abdomen.
Matty caresses your tear streaked cheek with the back of his free hand that’s not fisted in your hair, smearing saliva across your cheek like warpaint. “Look at you. All fucked out and I’ve barely even touched you. You’re mine, doll. Only mine.”
The words spark something in you.
The need of relieving the ache between your thighs is now curling hot and low. Without thinking, you shift your hips, grinding down against the solid press of his boot between your knees. The ridges of his leather sole bite into your cunt through damp panties and you moan around his cock as you sink back down on him.
It takes Matty a moment to realise what you just did and when the realisation hits him, a disbelieving noise leaves his plump lips.
“Oh, fuck me–” Matty’s laugh is sharp, disbelieving, as his grip tightens in your hair, holding you down on his cock while his other leg shifts, deliberately pressing his boot harder against your cunt. “You’re humping my fucking shoe while choking on me? Jesus, you’re pathetic.”
You can’t even deny it. The filth only makes you wetter. Every thrust of his cock down your throat is matched by the drag of your clit against the ridges of his boot, slick spreading across the leather. You’re moaning around him, broken sounds muffled as tears blur your vision.
He rocks his foot up again, forcing you to rut harder against it.
“C’mon, baby, show me how bad you want it. Rub that needy cunt on me while I fuck your throat.” His hips snap forward again, cock bullying past your gag reflex while he watches you shamelessly grind yourself on his boot like you can’t help it. Every thrust down your throat earns a muffled, broken whimper from you, every drag of your clit over his shoe has your thighs trembling.
When he finally pulls you off him again, spit and precum drip down your chin, your chest heaving. He slaps his cock against your tongue, then against your cheek, smirking as he watches you rut continually and helplessly against his foot.
“That’s it,” Matty groans, snapping his hips shallow but fast against your tongue. “Grind that needy cunt on me. Show me what a desperate little whore you are for your boyfriend.”
The humiliation only pushes you closer, his boot shiny with your arousal, your throat raw from taking him this deep. Your thighs tremble violently as your grinding turns frantic, messy, chasing the edge. Matty’s foot flexes up, pressing right against your clit and just like that the sudden pressure shatters you.
“Hnngh– Matty, oh fuck fuck fuck–”
You come with high pitched mewls of his name as he forces his length in your throat, muffled cries spilling past him as your hips jerk uncontrollably against his boot. Slick gushes down your thighs, soaking into your panties, streaking the leather beneath you.
He yanks you off him just in time to watch the aftermath; your ruined face, your soaked thighs, the way you’re still rubbing yourself against his boot in aftershocks. His cock glistens with spit and precum, twitching in around your barely open lips.
And the obscene sight alone undoes Matty.
“Fuck—” Matty snarls, the sound torn straight from his chest as his hips snap forward one last brutal time, burying himself to the hilt down your throat. His cock twitches violently against your gagging walls before spilling hot ropes of cum straight into your stomach. The force of it makes you choke, throat spasming around him, but he doesn’t budge.
He holds you there, fingers tangled cruelly in your hair, pressing your tear-streaked face flush against his pelvis, forcing every drop down your throat whether you can take it or not. His groans rasp through clenched teeth, low and vicious, while you sputter and claw at his thighs. The more you struggle, the harder he keeps you there, relishing the way your throat convulses around him, milking him dry.
“You’ll swallow it,” he orders, voice rough and unsteady, “—all of it. Every fucking drop.”
When his release finally slows, he doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he leaves you there, gagging around his softening cock, drool and cum spilling from the corners of your mouth. Only when your chest convulses in a desperate, panicked gasp does he yank you back, strands of spit and seed snapping between your lips and his cock.
You collapse forward on your hands, gasping for breath, mascara streaked down your cheeks, throat raw and chest heaving. Spit and cum drip messily down your chin onto the cold marble, the air thick with sweat and sex.
“Came on my boot, swallowed my load…” he shakes his head in disbelief, breath still heavy.
Matty smirks down at you, thumb brushing over your spit-smeared chin lovingly before shoving into your mouth, making you suck it clean. His other foot flexes beneath you making you whine at the sensation of overstimulation and his grin turns sharp.
He cups your jaw, forcing your wrecked face up to his. “All of this because you wanted a fucking free drink.”
You thought batting your lashes at the barista for a free latte was harmless that was until Matty caught wind of it. Now you’re on your knees, grinding yourself stupid on his boot while he fucks your throat until you can’t breathe. Turns out free drinks do come with a heavy price.
WORD COUNT. 1.2k
GENRE. smut, porn without plot, established relationship!au
WARNINGS. 18+, explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), blow jobs, throatfucking, reader grinds on his boot, jealous!matty, degradation (slut, pathetic, etc), a little bit of humiliation kink, power play, hair-pulling, cum swallowing, dry humping, mild breathplay
You never thought a free latte would end with you choking on your boyfriend’s cock.
But here you are.
Your knees are already sore against the cold tiles of the Matty’s flat when he forces your head down again, his cock hitting the back of your throat with a brutal snap of his hips as one of his hands gets buried in your hair while he’s fucking your mouth like he owns it.
“Gag on it, sweetheart,” Matty hisses sharply, his hips jerking at a rapid pace. “You love this, don’t ya? Pathetic slut on her knees for me. Bet that loser dreams of seeing you like this.”
The only reply you’re capable of giving him is a moan around his length as tears run down your face from the merciless stretch inside your throat.
Your nails dig into his thighs, mascara running down your cheeks in teary streaks as you choke around him but he doesn’t ease up. If anything, he pulls harder, holding you down until your eyes water.
When he finally lets you up for air, there’s a string of spit that connects your swollen lips to his cock.
Matty tilts your chin up with his index finger, a smug smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re only good for this, you know,” he murmurs, sliding his wet tip across your cheek like a mark of ownership. “My pretty girl with nothing but her mouth full of my cock.”
His thumb presses hard against your spit-slick bottom lip, forcing your mouth open again as he sneers, “You think I didn’t see the way you were batting your lashes at that fucking barista? Acting cute for some free drink?” He drags his cock back over your tongue, slow and taunting now, watching your throat bobs up and down in anticipation.
“Matty, I–”
“You want free shit, doll?” He cuts you off, not even bothering to listen to you. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you every drop until you’re leaking with me.”
A whimper leaves your lips at his words and once again he has put his cock back in your mouth. You let spit pool at the corners of your mouth before eagerly hollowing your cheeks to suck him off. You try to breathe through your nose, but he shoves deeper, groaning at the way your throat convulses around him. Matty’s hand pushes your face even further down until your nose is brushing against his abdomen.
Matty caresses your tear streaked cheek with the back of his free hand that’s not fisted in your hair, smearing saliva across your cheek like warpaint. “Look at you. All fucked out and I’ve barely even touched you. You’re mine, doll. Only mine.”
The words spark something in you.
The need of relieving the ache between your thighs is now curling hot and low. Without thinking, you shift your hips, grinding down against the solid press of his boot between your knees. The ridges of his leather sole bite into your cunt through damp panties and you moan around his cock as you sink back down on him.
It takes Matty a moment to realise what you just did and when the realisation hits him, a disbelieving noise leaves his plump lips.
“Oh, fuck me–” Matty’s laugh is sharp, disbelieving, as his grip tightens in your hair, holding you down on his cock while his other leg shifts, deliberately pressing his boot harder against your cunt. “You’re humping my fucking shoe while choking on me? Jesus, you’re pathetic.”
You can’t even deny it. The filth only makes you wetter. Every thrust of his cock down your throat is matched by the drag of your clit against the ridges of his boot, slick spreading across the leather. You’re moaning around him, broken sounds muffled as tears blur your vision.
He rocks his foot up again, forcing you to rut harder against it.
“C’mon, baby, show me how bad you want it. Rub that needy cunt on me while I fuck your throat.” His hips snap forward again, cock bullying past your gag reflex while he watches you shamelessly grind yourself on his boot like you can’t help it. Every thrust down your throat earns a muffled, broken whimper from you, every drag of your clit over his shoe has your thighs trembling.
When he finally pulls you off him again, spit and precum drip down your chin, your chest heaving. He slaps his cock against your tongue, then against your cheek, smirking as he watches you rut continually and helplessly against his foot.
“That’s it,” Matty groans, snapping his hips shallow but fast against your tongue. “Grind that needy cunt on me. Show me what a desperate little whore you are for your boyfriend.”
The humiliation only pushes you closer, his boot shiny with your arousal, your throat raw from taking him this deep. Your thighs tremble violently as your grinding turns frantic, messy, chasing the edge. Matty’s foot flexes up, pressing right against your clit and just like that the sudden pressure shatters you.
“Hnngh– Matty, oh fuck fuck fuck–”
You come with high pitched mewls of his name as he forces his length in your throat, muffled cries spilling past him as your hips jerk uncontrollably against his boot. Slick gushes down your thighs, soaking into your panties, streaking the leather beneath you.
He yanks you off him just in time to watch the aftermath; your ruined face, your soaked thighs, the way you’re still rubbing yourself against his boot in aftershocks. His cock glistens with spit and precum, twitching in around your barely open lips.
And the obscene sight alone undoes Matty.
“Fuck—” Matty snarls, the sound torn straight from his chest as his hips snap forward one last brutal time, burying himself to the hilt down your throat. His cock twitches violently against your gagging walls before spilling hot ropes of cum straight into your stomach. The force of it makes you choke, throat spasming around him, but he doesn’t budge.
He holds you there, fingers tangled cruelly in your hair, pressing your tear-streaked face flush against his pelvis, forcing every drop down your throat whether you can take it or not. His groans rasp through clenched teeth, low and vicious, while you sputter and claw at his thighs. The more you struggle, the harder he keeps you there, relishing the way your throat convulses around him, milking him dry.
“You’ll swallow it,” he orders, voice rough and unsteady, “—all of it. Every fucking drop.”
When his release finally slows, he doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he leaves you there, gagging around his softening cock, drool and cum spilling from the corners of your mouth. Only when your chest convulses in a desperate, panicked gasp does he yank you back, strands of spit and seed snapping between your lips and his cock.
You collapse forward on your hands, gasping for breath, mascara streaked down your cheeks, throat raw and chest heaving. Spit and cum drip messily down your chin onto the cold marble, the air thick with sweat and sex.
“Came on my boot, swallowed my load…” he shakes his head in disbelief, breath still heavy.
Matty smirks down at you, thumb brushing over your spit-smeared chin lovingly before shoving into your mouth, making you suck it clean. His other foot flexes beneath you making you whine at the sensation of overstimulation and his grin turns sharp.
He cups your jaw, forcing your wrecked face up to his. “All of this because you wanted a fucking free drink.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
absolutely honoured that i was name dropped (well, anonymously-) and gave you the motivation to finish the newest chapter oh my days i can literally write an essay about how much i love this series ;-; the finsta (!) and mattys comments and just the way he acts is so inarguably him you’ve nailed the dynamic so well- i can’t wait to see where it all goes!!!! just know im checking all the time for the newest part LMAO
ahh tysm <3 it's always such a pleasure and a treat to read your feedback on peach gelato <3 hopefully the next chapter will be out soon ! love you <3
SOOMPI [BREAKING NEWS]
September 6, 20XX | by Kpop Writes
The rumors surrounding K-pop idol [Y/N] and British rockstar Matty Healy have taken a new twist after fans uncovered a series of shocking clues that suggest the two have been secretly dating for quite some time.
FACE CLAIM. kang seulgi
GENRE. social media au, fluff, kpop idol!reader, secret relationship au
NOTE. this is for the anon who requested the second part to my fav pairing <3 tysm for actually giving me motivation into finishing this in just a single day (˶ > ₃ < ˶) also i have now decided to make this into a series so if you want me to add you to the taglist lmk <3
PART 01 | 02 | 03
INSTAGRAM, september 16
❤️ by mattyhurty, rosieposie & 121 others
ynfinsta got myself a bouquet boyfriend 🌻💛
VIEW ALL 67 COMMENTS
mattyhurty oh caroline~~ you’re always on my miiiind 🎶
rosstheboss mate’s trying to be mr darcy with tesco points
ariananotgrande does he send you a bouquet for everytime he annoys you into blocking him 😭
➥ ynfinsta he says it’s his “unblocking strategy”
mattyhurty ALSO WAIT. YOU DYED UR HAIR???? orange???? on u???? i’m deceased
mattyhurty i go to sleep in england with a brunette girlfriend & wake up to a kdrama lead in seoul??? orange hair on YOU???
➥ ynfinsta you could’ve known earlier if u ever opened facetime 🙃
➥ mattyhurty facetime wouldn’t do justice. u look insane (in the best way). like... cinematic levels of insane
➥ mattyhurty how did i even bag you
➥ mattyhurty i’m actually on my knees right now 🙏🛐
➥ mattyhurty feeling like a victorian man who just caught a glimpse of his beloved’s ankles
➥ynfinsta please stop embarrassing urself
➥ georgexcx man’s having a religious experience in the comments 💀
kisscharlikiss is yn matty’s girlfriend or his celebrity crush, genuinely can’t tell
geegeehadid matty sounding like he’s about to drop a sonnet
➥ ynfinsta don’t give him ideas PLS
➥ mattyhurty too late i’m already halfway through “ode to the orange-haired angel i cannot hold (yet)”
➥ icarly long distance got matty typing like a wattpad author 😭😭
rosieposie gotta find me a rat boyfriend who sends me flowers from london to seoul everyday
hornybrina orange hair yn supremacy
➥ mattyhurty supremacy in my heart and in my bed WHEN YOU GET BACK HERE
➥ georgexcx oversharing again
➥ adamthebassist someone revoke his insta
@ bedforddanes75 added to their story
STORY REPLIES 📌
↩️ trumanblack um hello ?? my brother in christ you posted this on your main ??
↩️ trumanblack and also you know who 🫦
↩️ trumanblack bollocks i look ugly af
↩️ itsyn STOP HE LOOKS SO CUTE 🥹
↩️ itsyn MY FAVORITE LOSER MWAH MWAH
↩️ itsyn can you tell him i miss him sm and that i can’t wait to see him next week
bedforddanes75 replying to itsyn tell him yourself he’s literally texting you 😭 i’ve had enough of witnessing you two being so disgustingly in love
Speculation around [Y/N], affectionately known as the “Nation’s Darling” and The 1975 frontman Matty Healy has intensified after fans noticed several overlapping “couple clues” from identical shirts and jewelry to similar backgrounds in social media posts.
On September 15, [Y/N]’s agency, SM Entertainment, released an official statement addressing the rumors as below:
📢 [OFFICIAL STATEMENT]
“Hello, this is SM Entertainment.
Recently, there have been reports and speculations regarding our artist [Y/N]’s private life.
We would like to clarify that it is difficult to confirm details related to our artist’s personal matters.
We ask for your understanding and to refrain from making speculative reports that may cause unnecessary misunderstandings.
As always, we thank fans for their love and support for [Y/N].”
The vague wording of the statement has sparked even more discussion online, with many netizens pointing out that the agency did not explicitly deny the relationship.
Many international fans took to Twitter to show their reactions to the ambiguous statement:
“So… basically they’re not denying it 👀”
“HELP not dispatch getting out-scooped by a t-shirt and a fan account”
“Difficult to confirm is basically confirmed in Sm’s language”
“guys calm down, it’s her life, just support her”
“SM always denies these dating rumours RIGHT AWAY if they aren’t true”
Meanwhile the k-netizens shared their 50-50 mixed reactions and thoughts on online forums like Pannchoa and TheQoo:
(+590) “If it wasn’t true they would’ve denied it immediately.”
SOOMPI [BREAKING NEWS]
September 6, 20XX | by Kpop Writes
The rumors surrounding K-pop idol [Y/N] and British rockstar Matty Healy have taken a new twist after fans uncovered a series of shocking clues that suggest the two have been secretly dating for quite some time.
FACE CLAIM. kang seulgi
GENRE. social media au, fluff, kpop idol!reader, secret relationship au
NOTE. this is for the anon who requested the second part to my fav pairing <3 tysm for actually giving me motivation into finishing this in just a single day (˶ > ₃ < ˶) also i have now decided to make this into a series so if you want me to add you to the taglist lmk <3
PART 01 | 02 | 03
INSTAGRAM, september 16
❤️ by mattyhurty, rosieposie & 121 others
ynfinsta got myself a bouquet boyfriend 🌻💛
VIEW ALL 67 COMMENTS
mattyhurty oh caroline~~ you’re always on my miiiind 🎶
rosstheboss mate’s trying to be mr darcy with tesco points
ariananotgrande does he send you a bouquet for everytime he annoys you into blocking him 😭
➥ ynfinsta he says it’s his “unblocking strategy”
mattyhurty ALSO WAIT. YOU DYED UR HAIR???? orange???? on u???? i’m deceased
mattyhurty i go to sleep in england with a brunette girlfriend & wake up to a kdrama lead in seoul??? orange hair on YOU???
➥ ynfinsta you could’ve known earlier if u ever opened facetime 🙃
➥ mattyhurty facetime wouldn’t do justice. u look insane (in the best way). like... cinematic levels of insane
➥ mattyhurty how did i even bag you
➥ mattyhurty i’m actually on my knees right now 🙏🛐
➥ mattyhurty feeling like a victorian man who just caught a glimpse of his beloved’s ankles
➥ynfinsta please stop embarrassing urself
➥ georgexcx man’s having a religious experience in the comments 💀
kisscharlikiss is yn matty’s girlfriend or his celebrity crush, genuinely can’t tell
geegeehadid matty sounding like he’s about to drop a sonnet
➥ ynfinsta don’t give him ideas PLS
➥ mattyhurty too late i’m already halfway through “ode to the orange-haired angel i cannot hold (yet)”
➥ icarly long distance got matty typing like a wattpad author 😭😭
rosieposie gotta find me a rat boyfriend who sends me flowers from london to seoul everyday
hornybrina orange hair yn supremacy
➥ mattyhurty supremacy in my heart and in my bed WHEN YOU GET BACK HERE
➥ georgexcx oversharing again
➥ adamthebassist someone revoke his insta
@ bedforddanes75 added to their story
STORY REPLIES 📌
↩️ trumanblack um hello ?? my brother in christ you posted this on your main ??
↩️ trumanblack and also you know who 🫦
↩️ trumanblack bollocks i look ugly af
↩️ itsyn STOP HE LOOKS SO CUTE 🥹
↩️ itsyn MY FAVORITE LOSER MWAH MWAH
↩️ itsyn can you tell him i miss him sm and that i can’t wait to see him next week
bedforddanes75 replying to itsyn tell him yourself he’s literally texting you 😭 i’ve had enough of witnessing you two being so disgustingly in love
Speculation around [Y/N], affectionately known as the “Nation’s Darling” and The 1975 frontman Matty Healy has intensified after fans noticed several overlapping “couple clues” from identical shirts and jewelry to similar backgrounds in social media posts.
On September 15, [Y/N]’s agency, SM Entertainment, released an official statement addressing the rumors as below:
📢 [OFFICIAL STATEMENT]
“Hello, this is SM Entertainment.
Recently, there have been reports and speculations regarding our artist [Y/N]’s private life.
We would like to clarify that it is difficult to confirm details related to our artist’s personal matters.
We ask for your understanding and to refrain from making speculative reports that may cause unnecessary misunderstandings.
As always, we thank fans for their love and support for [Y/N].”
The vague wording of the statement has sparked even more discussion online, with many netizens pointing out that the agency did not explicitly deny the relationship.
Many international fans took to Twitter to show their reactions to the ambiguous statement:
“So… basically they’re not denying it 👀”
“HELP not dispatch getting out-scooped by a t-shirt and a fan account”
“Difficult to confirm is basically confirmed in Sm’s language”
“guys calm down, it’s her life, just support her”
“SM always denies these dating rumours RIGHT AWAY if they aren’t true”
Meanwhile the k-netizens shared their 50-50 mixed reactions and thoughts on online forums like Pannchoa and TheQoo:
(+590) “If it wasn’t true they would’ve denied it immediately.”
Born into wealth and rot, you are tied to a family name that’s polished with champagne but corroded by blood. After the suspicious death of your beloved brother, you’re left at the mercy of a cruel stepfather and a mother who traded her grief for survival. You dream of spilled blood and vengeance but have never had the courage to act. Enters Matty Healy — the older, sharper and charming lawyer your stepfather hires for business who seems far more interested in peeling you open. Bound by lust, violence and the shared knowledge that neither of you are good, the two of you begin to plot the murder of your stepfather all while circling each other in a dangerous, intoxicating dance that promises either liberation or ruin.
OR ALTERNATIVELY, what’s more dangerous: the man you want dead or the man helping you kill him?
WORD COUNT. 11.8k
GENRE. thriller, romance, smut, psycho!lawyer!matty, rich girl!reader, inspired by thoroughbreds
WARNINGS. 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap, sexual tension, power imbalance, dom/sub undertones, unprotected sex, phone sex, mutual masturbation, degradation, pet names (good girl, princess etc), daddy kink, somewhat graphic depictions of death, daddy issues, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, matty and mc both have a very questionable moral compass, NOT BETA READ YET!
NOTE. FINALLY IT’S OUT ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა okay so this fic is literally if american psycho, thoroughbreds and how to get away with murder had a threesome and then had a lovechild lol. i actually have so much planned for this particular especially psycho!lawyer!matty because the potential this character has me in a chokehold like i’ve already planned at least a dozen blurbs/oneshots for him. also this isn’t edited so sorry in advance for typos <3 enjoy mwah mwah!
PART ONE | PART TWO
“Let’s kill him. Let’s kill them all or they’ll kill us.” Your brother muttered in a frantic manner with his eyes darting all around like a trapped animal’s.
“Kill who?” You urged, desperate to understand and to anchor him, desperate to know what was wrong, why he was behaving like this. His hands trembled in yours. His breath came in short terrified bursts.
You wished you’d listened to him then. You wished you hadn’t brushed it off as paranoia or simple exhaustion. You wished you had believed him because maybe then he’d still be alive—
The rhythmic tap, tap, tap of Matty’s fingers against the wooden mahogany table was what snapped you out of your thoughts.
The feeling between you two was just like the two coffee cups in front of you. His was nearly empty with the dregs staining the porcelain, only the remnants of coffee were present in the cup that was placed in front of him whereas yours was untouched, coffee still steaming with bitter scent curling toward you like an accusation. Just like the coffee cups the postures you two were showing were also completely different. Your posture was rigid, spine iron-straight and shoulders locked. Matty, on the other hand, was sprawled like a king on his throne with one arm slung over the chair and his long legs crossed over one another with careless confidence. His eyes were hooded, face relaxed into an indifferent expression. From an outsider’s point of view, it would’ve seemed like you two were engaged in a one sided conversation with Matty being clearly bored and disinterested and maybe even half-asleep.
But you knew better.
Behind those half-lidded eyes, neutral expressions and slouched posture, there was utter attention lurking in those pretty brown eyes of his. You knew he was dissecting you. His attention was a like a scalpel — precise and unrelenting. You could easily observe the way he was regarding you with attention, something that made you satisfied, giving you the intuition that you had come to the right person.
“So you’re saying,” He began, his words were stretched in a lazy drawl, his mouth curling into something smug, “You need my help.”
Fucking bastard.
Your initial thought was to slap him right and then for phrasing the sentence that way, for twisting your words as if you had that low of self respect that you would’ve come to him for help. You wanted to slap him hard enough to crack that mask, to wipe the smug smirk from his perfect face. But instead, you kept your cool and regarded him with an empty stare and a professional smile that screamed business.
“I’m afraid,” You replied smoothly, “If you phrase it like that, I’ll have to believe you’re looking down on me.”
You raised your cup with deliberate grace and took a slow sip before dabbing your lips with a napkin while holding back a grimace because of the bitter taste. Every movement of yours was rehearsed elegance even if there was an ugly beast of rage simmering inside of you. His eyes followed the sweep of your fingers, the press of the napkin against your lips. You were acutely aware of the fire in his gaze that smoldered under his feigned indifference. Men. You mentally rolled your eyes.
“Ah,” Matty exhaled lightly, waving a dismissive hand, a grin tugging at his mouth, “Nothing of the sort. After all...” He paused, theatrics bleeding into every syllable. “How could I, a mere servant of this business empire, ever look down upon the princess of it?”
Your grip on the cup tightened. You heard the venom in his voice disguised as charm. It was mockery. He was mocking you. He was mocking your loss.
And then, softly, almost wickedly, “How could I look down upon oneof the heirs of these industries.” Matty mused as if what he was saying was amusing to him. His eyes were shinning with mirth and a sinister grin was dancing on his lips.
Your chest went tight. You froze. His grin widened, eyes glittering with mirth that was anything but kind.
“I think I should leave.” You pushed back from the table, the scrape of the chair echoed sharply throughout his office. With your Chanel bag in hand, you turned, each step stiff with restrained fury. He had hit your weak spot and you knew if you stayed any longer, you’d do something you couldn’t take back. Long forgotten was the reason you had met with this wretched man in the first place, only the need to gouge his eyeballs out for even hinting at your dead brother was present.
But even as you were leaving, his voice followed, calm and cruel, slicing through the air: “Or should I say... the only heiress. Seeing as the other one is dead.”
The world narrowed.
What happened next was a whirlwind. And suddenly there was a glass of water in your hand that you had grabbed from in front of him. You were trembling, no, you were positively shaking in rage, eyes wild and lips in a sneer, everything contradicting to your previous facade.
The glass in your hand emptied before you realized what you’d done, water arcing through the air. It splashed against him, soaking his pressed shirt, plastering his curls to his forehead. Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just sat there, drenched, lips curling into a slow, satisfied smirk.
Your hands shook with rage. The façade was gone now. Your polished mask was shattered and it left something wild and feral behind.
Rage was a slave of emotions.
Matty was looking at you as if he had accomplished his mission of breaking your perfect doll-like facade. You were right, Matty Healy was no different than the other men in your life. Vile, sadistic and a bastard. But most of all, it was his damn smirk that was irking you. Like he’d won. Like this was what he wanted all along. The urge to slap the smirk off his wet face was forming back again and this time you didn’t hold back.
The sound of your palm cracking against his cheek split the silence. A sharp and violent punctuation. His head turned slightly from the force, water droplets scattering. But when his gaze slid back to yours; red cheek, wet hair and lips cut into that impossible grin, you knew he wasn’t affected in the way you’d wanted him to be.
No. Instead he was thrilled.
He blinked once and then pushed a water-damp curl behind his ear as if he’d been kissed, not struck. There was a kind of careless and delighted look on his face that felt like a dare, like you’d performed an amusing trick rather than dealt a wound. The contempt in his amusement scraped at something raw in you, making the world narrow to the distance between your chest and his grin. The sight of his thrill was a white heat crawling under your skin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. His smirk was gasoline and your fury was a match. You wanted to end him.
Your hand moved before your rationale could catch up, with your fingers curling around the steak knife resting idly beside Matty's untouched breadbasket that he’d called for with the coffee. The cold steel bit into your palm in a grounding manner. You raised it high, every nerve alight, ready to slash that smug expression clean off his face.
But he was faster.
In a blur, his chair screeched back, and suddenly he was on you. His hand clamped around both your wrists, crushing them together as though you weighed nothing. The knife clattered uselessly to the floor and he kicked it away with precision before you could even process it.
And then came the impact.
Your back hit the paneled wall of his office hard enough to rattle a picture frame. The air whooshed from your lungs, anger morphing into something jagged. He had you pinned against the wall. Trapped. Matty’s grip was tight above your head and there was a sharp edge of control in his strength. His body leaned close, not touching yet, but still near enough that you felt the heat radiating off him as your chest heaved against the cage of his restraint.
“Careful, princess,” He murmured, his tone low, almost mocking but rougher now like gravel dragging across velvet. “Wouldn’t want you to get accidentally hurt, now do we?”
Your teeth bared. “Let me go.”
He only smiled. That infuriating, deliberate smile. His free hand rose slowly, fingers ghosting along your clenched fist before prying the phantom of the knife from your grasp, theatrically gentle. He smoothed over your clenched fist until it was open and then he tucked the invisible weapon away as if to say: See? Even when you fight, you willing hand it all to me.
The silence between you two pulsed. His thumb brushed the delicate inside of your wrist, a mockery of tenderness that made your stomach knot.
“You think violence makes you dangerous.” His face dipped closer, lips at the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a murmur only you could hear. “But violence doesn’t frighten me.”
Your wrists burned under his grip as you thrashed against him, your body bucking, teeth bared, every curse you knew tearing out of your throat but at his words your breath hitched, rage colliding with something hotter, messier and thoroughly more consuming.
“And that,” Matty said, finally loosening his grip just enough for your wrists to tremble in his hold, “Is why you came to me.”
“Fuck you, you smug, empty—”
He only tightened his hold and then with an unbothered roll of his shoulders, his mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “Temper, temper. I expected better composure from you, princess.” Matty tuts. “Doesn’t father dearest teaches you manners?”
You snarled, lunging but his body pinned you back once again, effortlessly.
“Oh, right,” He went on in that same unbothered tone as if he wasn’t manhandling you right now, “Maybe you’ve just inherited his taste for accidents. Little mishaps. Like people slipping through the cracks, right?”
Your blood roared in your ears. He was goading you again.
“Or maybe...” His mouth dipped toward yours, taunting, cruel, “You enjoy being the tragic daughter, all rage and lipstick, hiding the fact that your brother saw it before you ever did. Maybe that’s why he died... because you didn’t listen.”
The words sliced through you like glass. Your vision blurred, the edges reddening until you couldn’t see his smirk anymore, only the shadow of your brother’s face flashing like a ghost behind him.
SPLAT.
And when the haze of anger, you realised that you had just spat on him.
Your spit landed sharp and wet across his cheek, some of it sliding into his mouth. He stilled. For one horrible, suspended second, the world went quiet.
Then his hand slowly moved. Matty released one of your wrist to drag his thumb across his lower lip, smearing your spit and saliva as his tongue darted out deliberately to taste it. A mock-thoughtful expression crept across his face as he smacked his lips. “Oh,” He mumbled softly, almost delighted. “I liked that.”
Your stomach lurched. Your pulse screamed.
Then he leaned closer, mouth open, teeth bared, whispering with that madman’s glee:
“Do it again.”
Something inside you snapped.
Your forehead cracked against his nose with a brutal thud. Pain shot through your skull but the satisfaction was instant as you heard the crunch and felt the warm spray of blood across your cheekbone.
Matty stumbled back, finally letting you go, laughter tearing out of him in manic bursts. Not wounded laughter. Not angry. But the wild and unhinged laughter that was now echoing off the walls like something feral had just been let loose. Red bloomed everywhere. Blood streamed down his nose, slick across his mouth, staining his teeth. It dripped down his shirt, onto the floor. And he laughed harder.
You stood there, chest heaving, his blood hot on your skin, every inch of you trembling with rage and something far more dangerous that you refused to name. You were still trembling, your chest heaving, when you realized his blood was all over you. Hot streaks splattered across your cheekbone, even staining over your blouse.
Matty straightened slowly, strands of his slicked-back curls now hanging loose into his eyes. His face was a mess; nose streaming blood, teeth red, his shirt collar ruined. But instead of fury, instead of retribution, he was grinning. Widely and wildly. A grin too big for his face, pulling his mouth bloody at the corners.
He looked like an unhinged psycho straight out of hell and you’d put him there.
The laughter came again, ragged and manic, until he finally clapped his hands together like you’d just finished performing. The sharp sound cut through the heavy silence, making you flinch.
“Alright then,” He announced, his voice hoarse from laughing, as if the headbutt had never happened. His grin softened into something wickedly pleasant. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
You blinked at him, disoriented, fury still burning through your bloodstream, unable to reconcile the gore smeared across his face with the breezy tone he’d just adopted. But he didn’t wait for you to respond. He simply brushed past, steering you back toward the plush chair you’d abandoned, one hand briefly touching your elbow like you were his guest and not his sparring partner. You let him, your body too rattled to resist and your mind trying to catch up to his whiplash pace. You lowered yourself back into the chair. Slowly. Stiffly.
He was already moving around the office, maneuvering with a predator’s ease even while pinching the bridge of his nose, crimson staining his knuckles. He grabbed a tissue, dabbing casually at the blood, checking the angle of the swelling in the reflection of his glass-fronted cabinet.
“Thankfully, not broken,”He mused, almost to himself, his voice calm and businesslike. Another tissue. A splash of water. A crooked sniff. And all the while, those sharp brown eyes never stopped flicking back to you, as if your every twitch was another data point in whatever calculation he was making.
Finally, he dropped into the chair opposite yours again, his shirt collar ruined, his nose still bleeding faintly but his smile was now razor-thin.
“Now,” He said, folding his bloodied hands neatly in front of him, “Tell me. Why are you really here?”
The way he said it made your throat dry. The blood between you was still wet. The violence was still humming in your veins. And yet, he sounded like the conversation had only just begun.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your body was still taut with adrenaline, every nerve screaming to leave, to never step foot in this blood-stained office again. But Matty’s calm and casual movements like folding his hands neatly on the desk, dabbing at his ruined nose like it was an inconvenience and not an assault kept you rooted.
Heavy silence stretched between you two.
He waited, eyes trained on you like a cat watching a bird hover just out of reach. Somehow, his patience felt like it was worse than his laughter.
When you didn’t speak, he leaned back in his chair leisurely, one brow cocked. “What’s the matter, princess? Lost your tongue? I didn’t peg you as shy.”
You still said nothing.
He tapped his fingers on the table, each knock a needle against your skin. “So what is it that you really need my help for?” He began when he realised you won’t speak. “Daddy cut you off? Or did your friends stopped answering your calls? Or maybe...” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “...Maybe you finally got bored of playing the grieving sister.”
Your jaw tightened but you still didn’t speak up, knowing that if you spoke out of necessity in front of this man, something like before would happen again. You didn’t speak because speaking had always been a gamble. Words slipped out once, and they’d been twisted, weaponized, used against you. With him, silence was your only shield, the one thing that kept pieces of you he didn’t deserve from falling into his hands. So you sat still, letting your quiet defiance do the talking. But then, keeping silent also seemed like a mistake because Matty had took it upon himself to make your mask of faux civility crack again. This time, under his own terms.
Matty smirked, “Tell me, when you close your eyes, do you see father dearest? Or do you see him? Your stepfather’s hands, your brother’s face... I wonder which one haunts you more?”
Your nails bit into your palms. You wanted to claw his eyes out, to scream, to run but you sat there like a stone.
Matty tilted his head, watching you like a puzzle. “No? Alright then. Let’s try simpler.” His smile was razor-sharp, cruel. “Do you fuck to forget or do you fuck to punish? Because I’m guessing—”
“Stop.” The word ripped from you, sharper than you meant.
“Ah. There you are.” His smirk widened.
Your breath was shallow, fury rattling inside your chest. He was circling closer, slicing with every word and akin to a helpless lamb in front of a wolf, you couldn’t stop it.
“Go on,” He coaxed, softly now, in a mock-gentle manner, as though you were a child. “Say it. What do you want? What do you need my help for?”
And before you could stop yourself, before you could shove it back down, you heard your own voice, ragged, ugly, raw. It teared itself out of your chest like an animal which was visceral for vengeance.
“I want to kill him.”
The words scraped out of your throat like broken glass, each syllable tasting like fire and ash. Your chest heaved, and for a moment, the air itself felt heavy, charged with the weight of everything you’d swallowed for years. Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but it was drowned out by something sharper like rage, pure and unsparing. Your jaw trembled, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table, and yet, even as the words hung there between you, you felt a flicker of something almost liberating. Saying it aloud made it real, terrifyingly real but also, somehow, it made you feel, finally, like yourself again.
Those five words landed between you and him like a gunshot.
Matty’s smile froze. Then, slowly, it spread even more. It was hungry, unholy and all-knowing. His bloodied lips parted, and his eyes lit with something terrible. A chill went up your spine as you stared at the man in front of you.
At last, he had you right where he had wanted.
“Good girl,” He praised you so softly, you almost thought you imagined it. Then in a louder and brisk voice, as though the confession of you wanting to kill your step-father was just another item ticked off his to-do list: “Alright. We’ll end this meeting here.”
Your head snapped up. “What—”
He was already reaching for a sleek card case and then he was sliding out a business card and laying it neatly on the table in between you two. The embossed letters gleamed under the lamplight: Matthew T. Healy, Corporate Finance Attorney. But before you could pick it up, he pulled a red pen from his pocket and with deliberate slowness, he scratched out the office number in a single, violent slash. Then, with that same pen, he scrawled ten digits in red ink across the white space.
His personal number.
“There,” He hummed in a pleased tone as he slid the card towards you with two fingers. “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. The old glasshouse off Hanover Square. Don’t be late.”
You blinked at him, still reeling from everything including the blood, the laughter, the confession you never meant to speak aloud. “That’s it? You’re not going to—”
But he was already standing, moving towards the door. “That’s it.”
It was so abrupt, so maddeningly anticlimactic, that you found yourself dazed, clutching the card like it was evidence in a crime.
Before you could slip past him, his hand caught your wrist again. This time his grip was not harsh but still firm enough to drag you back into his orbit. And you let him.
Matty tilted your face up, studying the streak of his blood across your cheek.
Then, with a grotesque parody of tenderness, he wet his thumb with his own spit and dabbed at your skin until the smear was gone. His touch lingered, warm against your jaw before he patted your cheek lightly.
“There,” He said, almost soothing. “Pretty again.”
He bent, retrieved your Chanel bag from the floor and handed it to you with a courtly flourish. Your mouth dropped open in a soft Oh as you realised you’d almost forgotten your bag there because of everything else that had happened in the past hour. Gingerly, you grabbed the bag and tucked in the card he’d handed you inside the bag. You were just about to step away from him when without waiting, Matty raised a hand and smoothed a strand of your hair back into place, fingers brushing along your temple, fixing you like you were a doll on display.
Only then did he open the door, ushering you out with a polite gesture, as though the last thirty minutes hadn’t been a descent into blood and madness.
The door shut behind you with a low click.
Inside, Matty exhaled, wiped the last of the blood from his nose, and chuckled low to himself.
“Well, look at that,” He muttered to himself, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Good breeding gone bad.”
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of lavender from the gardens as you made your way to the glasshouse Matty had told you about yesterday. It was a pretty building, tucked discreetly behind an ivy-covered wall off Hanover Square, its skeletal iron frame holding panes of glass that caught the sun and refracted it into fractured rainbows across the floor. Inside, brunch service was in full swing. Silver trays clinked with champagne flutes. The polite hum of laughter filled the air, underscored by the tinkling of piano keys.
You arrived exactly on time.
Your reflection followed you in the glass walls as you entered like a flawless mirage. You’d adorned a dress the color of bone-white satin that hugged your waist in a snug manner before spilling into a soft A-line fall that reached around your ankles. There was a delicate pearl choker at your throat paired with small diamond studs in your ears. Hair brushed sleek, parted with precision and tucked behind your ear like you were some obedient doll. Your lips were painted a muted cherry, not too brazen, not too coy. You looked like a woman who belonged to the brunch crowd, polished and perfect, the kind who never raised her voice, who never lost control.
But you both knew better. After all, the memory of yesterday was still fresh.
You spotted him immediately. Matty sat in the far corner where the sun spilled in most aggressively as it painted half his face in gold and leaving the other half in shadow. His curls were slicked back again, but unevenly this time as some rebellious strands still fell across his brow. His shirt was crisp, his blazer pressed but there was a faint swelling across the bridge of his nose from where you had headbutted him yesterday, a reminder of how violently the two of you had already touched each other. He looked like a man who had wrestled with someone and then gotten dressed for Sunday mass.
Matty’s eyes lifted the second he heard the precise click-clack of your heels as you walked towards where he was sitting.
The effect was instantaneous the moment you walked in. The hum of the brunch crowd dulled as though the air bent around your presence. Conversations halted momentarily, eyes tracked your every movement, half in admiration, half in hunger. These were the kind of looks you’d grown up with after being paraded like an ornament by your stepfather. But you didn’t falter. You didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your distaste. Instead, your lips tilted in a small, practiced and demure smile as you glided between tables as though this was your kingdom.
Matty watched it all, tapping one lazy finger against his champagne glass, his mouth curling into the faintest smirk. He saw what they saw: a doll, untouchable, porcelain perfection. But unlike them, he also knew what seethed beneath that façade of yours. He could still hear your snarl in his ears, still feel the sting of your slap on his cheek. His nose throbbed, a pulsing reminder of the animalistic violence that cracked had through your polished exterior a day prior.
When you reached him, Matty rose to his feet. But you knew him well enough to know that the action was not gallant neither was it courteous, just perfectly calculated to curate his image.
Matty’s gaze flicked down to your dress, lingered on the pearls at your throat and then met your eyes with insolent directness.
“You look like a walking funeral in Dior,” He drawled as he pulled out your chair for you. “Fitting.”
You sat without acknowledging the jab and smoothed your skirt following by crossing your ankles. You had masked your face with a mask of serenity. Only the flicker of your eyes betrayed your thought: Fuck you, Healy.
Once both you’d been seated, the waiter appeared with your champagne. Even though you didn’t as much as touch yours, Matty still raised his glass anyway, holding it in a mock-toast between you.
“To honesty and partnership.” He said and took a long sip.
You stared at him, the doll mask slipping for the briefest second. He wanted honesty? Fine. Inside, the memory of your brother’s shaking hands clawed at you, his words echoing like a curse: Let’s kill him, let’s kill them all.
Only if you’d known that the thirst for vengeance would throw you in front of a man like Matty. Now, here you were, in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by roses and polite laughter, dressed like a saint but bargaining like a sinner.
“Are you going to waste my time with theatrics,” You spoke up finally, voice precisely cutting through the soft clatter around you. Your tone was sharp and to-the-point, “Or are we going to address the real reason we’re here?”
Matty’s lips curled, slow and wolfish. He leaned back in his chair, eyes burning with that same terrible amusement as before.
“Of course, princess. Let’s get down to business.”
You held his gaze across the table, fingers lightly draped around the stem of your untouched champagne glass. You weren’t sure if the bile creeping up your throat was from hunger as you hadn’t eaten anything since last night or from the way he was looking at you like he’d already undressed your soul, picked through it and found something rotten enough to keep him interested.
“So.” Matty placed his elbows on the white tablecloth and leaned forward, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” You asked, though you knew deep down what he exactly wanted.
“How you’ve thought about killing father dearest.”
His words landed like a slap but his tone was gentle and coaxing as if he were asking about your favorite color. His fingers tapped idly against the table as though they had their own pulse, rhythmical, steady, lulling.
You swallowed hard, looking at anywhere but him and finally fixing your gaze on the sunlight fracturing across your glass. “I haven’t—”
“Don’t lie.” His interruption was swift. “Everyone who hates someone enough to declare the act of murder has imagined it at least once. Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured the bastard choking on his own tongue, or bleeding out in that ridiculous marble bathtub of his.”
A flicker passed through you. A memory. The bathtub. The way you once saw your stepfather sprawled in it, glass of scotch balanced dangerously on the porcelain rim, his chest hair matted with bathwater, his smug laughter bouncing off the walls when he caught you staring in disgust. You remembered how you had imagined him lying in the same bathtub but bleeding out from the slit in his neck and you watching as he choked on his own blood. A chill went up your spine as the memory resurfaced.
You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Matty tilted his head, studying you with that vulture’s patience. Then he leaned in closer and lowered his voice until it brushed against your skin like static.
“Shall I help you visualize, princess?”
Before you could answer, he began.
“Picture it. Him at his desk. His head snapping forward when the first blow lands. You don’t stop, of course, you can’t stop. His skull breaking under your hand, blood pouring down his smug little smile.” He paused once again, maybe for theatrics or maybe to take a breath before continuing, “Or maybe you’d prefer something slower. Like slipping something into his scotch, watching him claw at his throat while you sip yours.”
Your stomach twisted violently. To soothe yourself, you pressed a hand against it, nails digging crescent moons into your satin dress.
Matty saw it and immediately his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer. Then came the sound of the sharp tsk of his tongue against his teeth. He leaned back, sipping from his champagne, eyes glittering with cruelty as he watched your composure fray.
“If you can’t even imagine it...” His voice softened, coaxing again, almost tender. “...then you can’t do it.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass until you thought it might shatter. You met his gaze then, forcing yourself to hold it despite the bile rising like acid at the back of your throat.
“I can do it.” The words were low and venomous, dragged straight from the pit of your rage.
Matty’s expression shifted, just barely but the difference was enough. The smugness didn’t vanish rather it sharpened into something keener. He raised his glass again, once again mock-toasting you with a grin that was all teeth.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Spending your Saturday morning discussing ways to kill your father wasn’t exactly the ideal start to the day especially not with someone like Matty Healy. But alas, beggars can’t be choosers.
Matty toyed with the stem of his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers, the faint scrape of crystal on linen was loud enough to make your nerves hum.
“You know,” He began, eyes fixed on you, “I think you’d do well with something... intimate. Poison feels too clinical. Too detached. You’re not detached, are you?”
“I could be,” You shot back, voice clipped.
He hummed, low in his throat like he was humoring a child. Then without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward until the faint scent of his cologne( expensive, sharp, faintly medicinal) curled in your nose.
“Or maybe,” He continued, voice dropping an octave, “You’d like to use your hands. Wrap them around his throat. Feel the pulse kick against your palms while his eyes go wide as he begs you to spare him. You’d get to decide exactly when to stop. Or not stop.”
You froze, bile flooding your mouth but your pulse spiked all the same. The image seared itself into your brain, vivid and obscene. In some twisted way, the thought excited you and you hated Matty for it, hated yourself for not being able to tear your brain away from that scenario.
Matty noticed. Of course he noticed.
A slow grin unfurled across his lips, bloodied nose still faintly swollen, and he clicked his tongue again, mock-sympathetic. “What’s wrong, princess? Can’t stomach the thought? You can’t kill a man if you can’t even daydream about it.” He goaded you knowing well enough that you were getting a sick kind of pleasure from picturing yourself in a position of power over that wretched man.
Your nails dug into the satin at your thigh, deep enough to sting. “I said I can do it.”
“Then tell me.” His voice was like silk over a barbed wire. “How? How have you pictured it when you close your eyes at night? And don’t lie to me.”
You inhaled sharply, willing your voice not to shake. “I’ve imagined him... falling. Down the marble stairs. His skull cracking open like—” You cut yourself off, the grotesque image lodging in your throat.
Matty’s grin widened. He raised his champagne glass in lazy applause, the crystal catching the sunlight, spilling fractured rainbows across the tablecloth.
“There she is,” He murmured to himself.
And then, casually, cruelly, he pushed again. “Or maybe you want to watch him bleed out. A knife across the throat, arterial spray. Messy? Yes. But oh so satisfying. He’d never even see you coming.”
Your whole body lurched at the thought. Heat prickled under your skin. Revulsion, excitement, vengeance, rage and adrenaline all braided into one unbearable current.
Matty sat back, studying you with hooded eyes, his smirk curling wider when he noticed the way your breath hitched, the way your pupils dilated.
“You’re shaking.” His voice was gentle, mocking, coaxing. “Tell me, princess, is it from disgust... or excitement?”
You nearly slammed your glass down just to wipe that look off his face but you stopped yourself, clinging to composure like a drowning woman clings to driftwood. His gaze flicked to your lips, lingered there for a moment, then slid back to your eyes. He was enjoying this, turned on by it, by you, by the animal simmering just below your pearl-strung doll act.
Your stomach twisted violently, but the words came anyway, sharp and venomous: “Doesn’t matter how it happens but I will do it.”
For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and electric. Then Matty leaned back with a low chuckle, licking his bottom lip as though tasting something only he could savor.
“Good girl.” Matty wiped his thumb along the rim of his glass, studying the condensation bead down like a patient surgeon. “Fine then,” He said after two beats of silence. “Let’s plan.”
“Fine.” Your throat tightened but you nodded as you kept his stare from your end. You didn’t look away first, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand, that faint grin still clinging to his lips.
“Walk me through it. Step by step. Don’t think about the why. We already know the why. Think about the how. How would you kill him, if I wasn’t sitting here?”
You inhaled, lips parting, but no sound came. Your mind stuttered between flashes: marble floors slick with blood, the sound of a body tumbling down stairs, a bathtub stained red. You swallowed hard.
“I’d...” Your voice faltered. He arched an eyebrow, waiting. “I’d wait until he’s drunk,” You answered finally, the words forced through clenched teeth. “He always drinks himself stupid. I’d catch him when he stumbles upstairs. Push him. Make it look like a fall.”
Matty tilted his head, considering. “Hm. Clean. Plausible. But stairs are unpredictable. He might just sprain his neck. And then what? You’ll be in his debt forever, spoon-feeding him porridge like a nurse.”
The image made your stomach knot.
“Try again,” He said smoothly, taking a sip of champagne. “Think sharper.”
You glared at him but the bile in your throat had curdled into something else now. Adrenaline. Hate. “I could... I could poison him like you said before,” Your voice was lower this time. “His scotch. He never notices anything once he’s a few drinks in. He’d swallow death like water.”
Matty’s lips curled, exposing teeth. “Better. That’s the princess brain. Poison is neat. Elegant. But...” His eyes glittered. “It’s also cowardly. You wouldn’t get to watch him choke. And I have a feeling that you want to feel his demise.”
Your heart lurched in your chest at his words as you realised just how right he was. The air between you felt thick, heavy, charged. You realized your nails had left tiny half-moons in your palm.
Matty leaned back, stretching his legs beneath the table until one brushed yours in a deliberate action. “Tell me something, darling. Do you just want him gone or do you want him to suffer?”
Your chest rose sharply, lips parting before you could stop yourself. “...Suffer.”
“What was that? Couldn’t hear ya.” Matty tilted his head slightly to the side with a faux confused expression.
You clenched your jaw but spoke up louder than the last time, “I said, I want him to suffer.”
His grin spread, slow and wolfish, as though you’d given him the right answer.
“Atta girl,” He murmured again with a proud grin.
The air was thick between you now, your “suffer” hanging like poison, the unspoken plan coiling tighter around you both.
Just then, the waiter appeared with both of your food. Barely twenty, if that. His bow tie was slightly crooked, his cheeks still round with youth. He set down plates with trembling hands, sneaking glances at you like you were a starlet caught slumming it with mortals.
You rewarded him with a polite smile, soft and practiced. “Thank you,” You said, your voice pitched perfectly sweet. A stark contrast from how you’d been speaking with Matty. The boy’s ears turned pink and he nearly tripped over himself while retreating.
Matty didn’t miss a thing.
The second the boy was gone, Matty tipped his head towards you with a hooded gaze and a lazy smirk. “So polite,” He murmured. “Absolutely sweet. You almost had me fooled.”
You rolled your eyes, lifting your glass just enough to wet your lips. “Not everything is an act, Matty.”
“Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet, threaded with amusement. And then very subtly yet deliberately you felt the first brush of his shoe against your ankle.
You froze.
He didn’t.
The tip of his polished leather traced up your calf, slow and languid, as he cut into his Egg Benedict like nothing was happening. His eyes flicked down your neckline, then back up, smirk deepening as he slid his foot higher, over your knee, up till it reached the inside of your thigh.
Your pulse spiked as heat seared under your skin despite the disdain that still coiled in your gut. Your throat bobbed but you held his gaze, refusing to squirm, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted though your fingers tightened around your glass until you feared it would shatter for real this time.
Matty arched an eyebrow, pretending to study the food the waiter had set down, his expression composed, almost bored. Only the faintest curl of his lips betrayed the game.
“You play polite for the help,” He said lightly, running his shoe higher, pressing just enough to make you shift in your seat. “But not for me. I feel hurt, sweetheart.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to slap him again. You wanted to shove him away. You wanted, God help you, to let him keep going. There was a part of you that just wanted him to press his foot higher and higher until it reached that sweet spot between your panties.
Matty smirked as he bit into his dish, the faint swelling of his nose catching the sunlight. The same nose you’d bloodied. The same mouth that had dared you to imagine your stepfather’s death. And now you were sitting there fantasising about what else that mouth of his could do to you.
“Mmh,” Matty hummed as he chewed, withdrawing his shoe at last, leaving a ghost of pressure burning on your skin. “This is good. You should eat too. Planning patricide works up an appetite.”
Your fork trembled in your hand. You stabbed a bite of food just to prove you weren’t rattled but your throat was dry and your pulse thundered against the pearl choker at your neck and you were also pretty well aware and ashamed of the dampness in between your thighs.
On the other hand, Matty looked perfectly composed, as if he hadn’t just pressed his foot against the inside of your thigh in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by polite society.
“You’re awfully quiet now,” he murmured after swallowing, swirling his champagne. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t expect me to play with my food before eating it?”
Your fork hovered in midair, your lips parting with a sharp retort
“You’re disgusting,” You told him, even as your thighs pressed tighter together under the table, remembering the ghost of his shoe against your skin.
He dragged his tongue briefly over his bottom lip then chuckled almost idly.
You shifted in your seat, trying to hide the heat crawling up your neck. His words sank too deep, pressed too close to something you didn’t want to name.
You hated the way your body betrayed you. Every brush of his shoe against your skin, every low drawl of his voice as he called you sweetheart, all of it was pulling something out of you you swore you didn’t have.
By the second, your chest was tightening, thighs clenching, a shameful warmth beginning to curl low in your stomach. You dug your nails into your palm beneath the table. He was older, smug, unhinged, and it was making you—
No. Stop!
You snapped your gaze up, willing yourself to breathe. “Why?” You asked abruptly, voice too sharp, too sudden. At this point, you were desperate to distract yourself with anything. “Why are you even helping me?”
Matty stilled with his forked raised halfway to his lips. For a moment he looked amused that you’d tried to wrestle back control. He leaned back, swirling the champagne lazily, as though considering just how much to give you.
“Helping you?” He echoed, feigning innocence. “That’s a generous word.” His eyes glittered, studying your face. “I’m not a good Samaritan, darling. I don’t do helping.”
He tilted his head, grey strands of curls finally falling out of their slick, brushing across his forehead. “I just want to see him fall,” He admitted “Your stepfather. I want to watch the empire he’s built crack apart. Men like him, men with too much power, too much money and too little intelligence, they always think they’re untouchable. It’s boring.” He sneered, setting the utensil down with a clink. “I like proving men like him wrong.”
Your throat felt dry. “So it’s revenge?”
He smirked as his elbows came to rest on the table now. “Revenge, profit, fun. Take your pick. It’s all the same in the grand scheme of things.”
The waiter returned to refill your champagne; Matty didn’t look away from you once. When the boy stumbled over a compliment about your dress, you forced a polite smile but under the table you felt the sharp nudge of Matty’s shoe again. This time even forceful as it climbed higher.
“And then there’s you,” Matty murmured once the waiter was gone, his eyes narrowing, hungry. “Daughter of the house. A perfect porcelain doll with cracks already running deep. You’re not just a means to an end, love. You’re the delicious accident in the middle of the wreck.”
Your nails dug harder into your palm. He was too close, too honest, too obscene.
“Helping you?” He repeated again, softer this time, almost gentle. “No, princess. I’m helping myself. You just happen to be the prettiest weapon I’ve ever held.”
You nearly snapped your fork in half. He watched with that infuriating smirk, eyes glittering with the same cruel amusement as when he’d made you say suffer.
“It’s just my luck that you want your father to be punished,” He mused silkily, his voice threading under your skin like smoke. “And you want me to be the one who helps you kill him.”
Your stomach twisted violently. The pearls at your throat felt like a leash. You hated him. You wanted him. You hated how much you wanted him.
That was the trouble with girls like you who always ended up on older men’s laps with blood on your hands.
It was 2 a.m, the moon looked romantic, and unfortunately, so did the memory of Matty Healy’s shoe shoved between your thighs.
The moonlight fell pale and cold across your bedroom, spilling in through the sheer curtains. Everything about the space was curated from the ivory silk sheets to the crystal lamp on the bedside and the faint scent of roses lingering from the diffuser. You should have been at peace.
Instead, your pulse was a drum in your throat.
You lay back against the mountain of pillows, hair brushed to a shine, skin soft and faintly glowing from the hours-long nightly skincare ritual you never skipped. The silk camisole clung to your body, whispering against bare skin each time you shifted. A vision of perfection and elegance, just as you had been taught to be.
And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
You pressed your palms flat against the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut. His voice wouldn’t leave you. The smug lilt of “good girl”, the mocking timbre when he called you a doll with cracks, the deliberate slide of his shoe pressing into the softness of your inner thigh while he smirked into his champagne.
Your thighs pressed together.
“Goddamn it,” You whispered into the silence, as if cursing yourself could banish it. It didn’t. The shame only curled tighter, searing hotter.
Your hand drifted up, almost without permission, fingertips skimming over the swell of your breast through the silk. You gasped when you brushed the hardened peak of your clothed breasts, immediately squeezing your thighs tighter at the sensation while simultaneously trying to suffocate the ache instead of feeding it. It didn’t work.
You bit your lip, thumb and forefinger rolling over your nipple through the thin fabric. The jolt of sensation made your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat. You hated how much you craved the edge of pain Matty had teased out of you earlier, how you imagined his mouth wrapping around your breast instead of your own hand.
Heat pooled low, insistent, gnawing. You rubbed your thighs together again, desperate for any kind of friction. Your pajama shorts rode higher with each movement.
You shouldn’t do this. You knew you shouldn’t.
Thinking of him this way: Matty with his bloody grin, Matty with his cruel tongue, Matty who looked at you like you were nothing more than a weapon. It was vile. It was dangerous. But it was all you could think about.
You pinched your nipple sharply and the moan that spilled from you shattered every last barrier of shame.
Your body was already betraying you, aching for more.
Every nerve seemed strung too tight, thrumming with an anticipation you couldn’t ignore any longer. It was pure lust that crawled under your skin, leaving your hands restless, searching for release.
The silk was too soft, too yielding beneath your palm as it slid lower. You traced lazy, trembling circles over your stomach, hovering just above the hem of your shorts, as if taunting yourself with the hesitation. Your breaths came shallow, shallow and ragged, like even air had become too indulgent.
“Pathetic,” You muttered under your breath, your own voice hoarse, as if calling yourself out would stop it. It didn’t. Your hand slipped lower, resting over the heat in between your thighs, pressing down just enough to make your hips twitch.
Shame burned hotter than the arousal but you could not bring yourself to stop. Every brush of your fingers through silk made you imagine his hand instead. The image behind your eyelids was of Matty’s rings caressing your skin, his palm pressing you down, his voice in your ear, low and mocking: “Nasty girl. Can’t even keep those legs still, can you?”
Your legs parted before you realized it.
You dragged your hand higher again, deliberately slow, cupping the swell of your breast once more, thumb circling your nipple until it was aching. Then back down, fingertips teasing along the waistband, never dipping beneath. You gasped, biting your lip so hard it stung. The back of your mind hissed with self-loathing, but your body and rationale was already gone.
When you finally let your fingers slip under the shorts, the fabric dampened instantly. The slick heat made you groan, your head tipping back against the pillows. Two fingers traced through your folds, feather-light, almost unbearable in their teasing touch.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
You circled your clit lazily, deliberately shallow, the kind of touch that left you whimpering rather than sated. Because you weren’t touching yourself anymore, not really.
In your head, it was Matty.
His roughened thumb pressing against you, his cruel patience making you beg for more. You could see the smirk curling against his plush pink lips, hear the low chuckle vibrating in his chest as you writhed beneath him.
Your hips lifted into your hand, chasing the high pressure, chasing something you weren’t sure you wanted to admit. Your free hand tugged the camisole down, baring your breast to the cool air, fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until your back arched and pathetic mewls left your swollen lips.
The room was silent but for your gasps and the wet sound of your fingers sliding over your wet cunt sloppily.
“Matty,” You moaned before you could stop yourself. The name slipped out like both a confession and a sin (and maybe even a curse).
Your fingers pressed harder. With your free hand you pinched the neglected bundles of nerves that sent your brain into a hazy overdrive. Your thighs trembled. Bile and heat mixed in your throat. You were disgusted. You were aroused. But most of all, you were unraveling.
You teased your entrance with two fingers, circling, pushing in just barely, enough to feel the pulse of your own need to clench around them. The pace was maddeningly slow, each shallow thrust dragging slick across your folds, building, building, never breaking.
Your imagination betrayed you again. Once again, it was no longer your own hand but his. No longer your bedroom but his office with your back slammed against the wall and his mouth nipping at your earlobe. Matty’s voice threaded through your skull like barbed wire: “Filthy little doll. Look at you, huh. S'already wet.”
You bit down on your tongue, stifling a cry as your hips jerked up, chasing the release of an orgasm faster than before.
Your fingers were no longer teasing; they were thrusting inside of your cunt in a frenzy. Slick, needy and obscene sounds filled the quiet of your bedroom as you fucked yourself with your own hand, chasing the inevitable. The silk of your shorts was shoved down around your thighs, twisted and forgotten. Your other hand kneaded at your breast, pinching, rolling, tugging as if to punish yourself for every moan that slipped past your bitten lips.
You pictured Matty’s hand moving inside you, his thumb pressing down cruelly on your clit while he whispered filth into your ear. His laugh low and deranged, canines glinting as he grinned down at you.
“Matty,” You gasped, louder this time. “Matty, fuck, Matty—”
Your hips jerked violently against your hand, clenching around your own fingers, the orgasm rising sharp and unstoppable—
Until the shrill sound of your phone cut through the haze.
You ignored it, eyes clamped shut, hips bucking faster. But the ringing didn’t stop. Again. Again. Again.
It rang incessantly.
And it was driving you mad.
With a furious huff, you grabbed the phone off the nightstand, not even looking at the screen to see who’d called at this unholy hour. You pressed the phone to your ear, breath ragged, fingers still working between your thighs, slower now, softer, trying to keep yourself just on the brink.
“What?” You snapped into the speaker
And then you froze when the voice came.
“Now, princess...” The voice purred, smooth as sin, amused and cutting all at once. “That isn’t the way to speak to someone older than you.”
Fuck. It was Matty.
Your blood turned to ice and fire all at once. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, your hips stuttering mid-thrust. His voice hummed through the receiver like a current, low and lazy, as if he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Breathe, love,” He continued, his tone mock-gentle. “What has got you all worked up, hmm?”
Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it through the line. Your fingers hovered inside you, trembling. Your hand slowed between your thighs, shame and need tangling until you could hardly breathe.
“N-nothing.” It came out as a weak stutter and Matty hummed in response.
The vibrations of his voice went straight down to your throbbing pussy and you bit back a moan. Your fingers stuttered inside of your cunt before slowly starting to pick up the pace once again.
You should stop, you knew you should stop, but his voice slid down the line like your most vile fantasy and your body refused to obey.
“Where did you- you get my number?” You managed in between abusing your clit, breathless, your voice shaking. “I n-never gave it to you.”
Another low hum, vague and amused, buzzed through the receiver. “I have my ways.” He didn’t elaborate, of course. He never did. That was the worst part.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers resuming their lazy circles over your clit, dragging slick along your folds. His voice filled your ear, filled your head and it drowned out all the previous shame. You weren’t listening to what he was saying anymore. Instead you were listening to him, every cadence, every drawl, every sly little pause that scraped against your nerves like velvet-wrapped knives.
“Oh fuck— Matty...” You whimpered, hips bucking, head tilting back against the pillows as your fingers brushed against that sweet spot of your genitalia.
Immediately the line went silent.
The sudden absence of his voice made your stomach drop as you realised what you had just blabbered out loud. Mortification filled you instantly.
Then, a flat and serious voice, cut through the static:
“Are you fucking yourself?”
Your body went rigid. “W-what?”
“You are.” His tone didn’t lift, didn’t play. “Aren’t you?”
The words hit like a whip. You froze, humiliated and mortified, wishing the earth would swallow you whole. Your hand slipped away, hovering uselessly over your soaked thighs. You opened your mouth to stammer out an excuse, to hang up, to say anything to save yourself from more embarrassment.
But before you could’ve said anything, his breath came harsh through the speaker, a groan laced with disbelief and hunger. A curse hissed between his teeth.
“Fuck, princess.”
Your breath hitched.
“You are fucking yourself,” He repeated, voice low now, guttural, like he was talking to himself as much as to you. “You’re moaning my name, touching yourself to the thought of me—” A sharp inhale. A chuckle, rough, broken. “Christ, I can hear you.”
You squeezed your thighs together, shame burning down your spine but your hand betrayed you, sliding back down, pressing against yourself again because his voice, God his voice, was too much.
The line went quiet for a heartbeat, only his ragged breathing breaking it. Then, slow, deliberate, each word dripping with dark command:
“Send a picture.”
Your silence stretched too long. Your breath caught in your throat, panic lacing with arousal and you couldn’t get a word out.
On the other end, Matty made a low, disapproving noise. A sharp click of his tongue, then his voice dropped lower and rougher.
“Did I fucking stutter?” He tutted in a stern manner, the bite in his tone making your thighs clench. “I said send me a picture.”
Your stomach lurched. You scrambled, dropping the phone against your chest as you shifted on the bed, eyes darting to the ceiling mirror. A blessing and a curse. It was one of those stupid rich people luxuries you’d always sneered at. Now it was salvation.
You angled your body, legs parted just enough, camisole straps sliding further down your shoulders. The mirror caught everything from the glossy spill of your hair over the silk pillow to the flush of your sweaty sheen on your skin and the way your hand hovered between your thighs with fingers glistening with your arousal.
You snapped the picture, heart hammering, and before you could second-guess yourself, you sent it.
The phone buzzed immediately with his incoming breath. A low, guttural sound that made your stomach twist.
But you weren’t done. Not when his voice still rang in your head, not when shame and heat made your fingers move without thinking. You hooked your thumb in your discarded silk panties, dragging them into view on the bed, camisole bunched low to bare your breasts. Your other hand teased between your legs, fingers spreading slick just enough for the camera to catch.
Another photo. Sent.
Silence.
Then, through the speaker, a sharp, shuddering exhale. And then a wheezing laugh that was half broken, half unhinged.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matty muttered, his voice strangled, as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Look at you...” He trailed off, groaning. You could hear the scrape of his rings against the receiver, the shift of fabric, the unmistakable rasp of him palming himself on the other end.
“You’re going to ruin me, princess.”
And then you heard it. The sharp metallic clink of a belt unfastening. The rasp of leather sliding free. The rustle of fabric as trousers were shoved down.
Your heart lurched into your throat.
And then the unmistakable sound: Matty’s low groan; half-pained, half-pleasured, the wet sound of his palm dragging slow over himself.
“You hear that?” He murmured into the phone breathlessly, voice thick and labored, even as he tried to mask it with that same mocking lilt. “That’s what you did to me, princess.”
Your thighs clenched around your hand, your slick fingers pressing harder against your clit.
“Now,” He said, quieter, “Tell me. What were you thinking about when you were touching yourself?”
The shame hit you in a hot wave. You squeezed your eyes shut, lips trembling, throat tight. “I—”
“Don’t get shy on me,” He interrupted, voice sharp. The sound of him stroking himself punctuated every word. “I want to hear all of the things my nasty girl was imagining.”
Your breath hitched. “I was—” You swallowed hard. “I was thinking it was you.”
A strangled groan tore down the line. You imagined his head tipping back, curls falling in his face, jaw locked tight.
“That’s my good girl,” He rasped, the praise broken through gritted teeth. “What else? What did you want me to do?”
Your fingers were moving faster now, deeper than before as your hips stuttered. “I wanted—” You gasped as your hips bucked. “I wanted your hands. The way you touched me before. Rough.”
“Fuck.” His voice cracked, the slick sound of him stroking himself faster filling your ear. “Keep talking.”
You bit your lip until it stung, eyes rolling back. “Wanted you to pin me. Wanted you to keep me still, Matty—”
He cursed, loud this time, no longer in control. And then, through his groans, his voice dropped to a growl, commanding:
“Yeah? Touch that pretty cunt for me, princess.”
You bit back a moan at his words, your fingers slipped lower again, knuckles pressing tight against your pussy as you gasped into the phone. The sound of Matty’s ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make your head spin. You couldn’t hold back the moans now. The sounds kept spilling out one after the other as you worked yourself toward the edge.
“Are you close, baby?”
“Yes— Hnngh. I’m so so so close.” The words came tumbling out before you could stop yourself.
“Really?” The tone was faux sweet before his voice snapped sharp, cutting clean through your haze. “Don’t you dare cum.”
Your body seized.
The silence after was unbearable. You froze, fingers still buried inside you, chest heaving.
“Did you hear me, princess?” His tone was low, deadly calm. The slick sound of him stroking himself slowed but didn’t stop. “I said. Stop.”
Shame clawed through your stomach. You pulled your hand away with a shaky whimper, thighs trembling as the sudden lack of friction burned worse than fire. You murmured out a pathetic confirmation that you’d obeyed him.
“That’s better.” His sigh was dark, satisfied. “Now. You don’t get to touch that pretty little cunt until you tell me everything.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “I-I can’t. Please please please let me cum.”
“Yes, you can.” The clink of his ring against the phone was heard through the speaker as he shifted. “Good girls don’t touch themselves without permission, yeah? You want to be good, don’t you?”
Your breath caught. His voice wrapped around you like a noose.
“You want me to let you come, princess?” His groan bled into a laugh, twisted, breathless. “Then you’re going to tell me what you thought about. Every dirty little detail. Every way you imagined me fucking you.”
You whimpered, thighs clenching tight together, the ache unbearable.
“Say it,” He urged, his tone sharpening, desperate and cruel in the same breath. “What did you imagine? Was it my fingers? My mouth? Or was it my cock splitting you open?”
Your chest heaved, lips trembling as you imagined him thrusting into you. “All of it,” You mumbled, tears pricking your eyes. “I imagined all of it.”
A guttural groan tore down the line, raw and wrecked. He was losing control too, but his voice still lashed like a whip:
“Then fucking tell me how.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. Your thighs rubbed together desperately but you didn’t dare touch yourself again, not after his voice had dropped like that. Not after he’d made it clear you were his to control, even here, even now.
“Matty...” You whimpered, shame dripping down your throat. “Please.”
“Please what, princess?” His breathing was heavy, labored, his strokes rough enough you could hear the slick through the phone. “Use your words. You want to come? Then beg for it. Like a good girl.”
Your chest heaved, tears spilling hot down your temples as you writhed against the sheets. “I need it. Please, I need to—”
A sharp tsk. “Not good enough.” His voice was a growl now, dark and commanding. “Beg properly. Or I’ll hang up and then you’ll sit there dripping with a ruined orgasm.”
Your breath hitched on a sob. The shame was unbearable but the need worse. “Matty— Please, let me come. I-I promise I’ll be a good girl. I need it so bad. Please.” You choked out. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Just, Fuck! Please, I can’t—”
A low, satisfied chuckle rumbled down the line, broken by a guttural groan. “There’s my good girl. How can I refuse when you’re being like this?”
You sobbed in relief, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
“Now listen carefully,” Matty breathed out in between jerking off on the other side. “I’m going to tell you how to touch yourself, and you’re going to do it exactly how I say. Understand?”
“Yes,” Tou whispered, frantic. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” His voice softened but it only made it worse, so much worse. “Take those pretty fingers, the same ones you sent me in that photo and slide them back over your clit. Slow circles. Don’t rush. Make me hear the mess you’re making.”
You obeyed instantly, slick sounds filling the quiet of your bedroom and his groan in response told you he was listening, jerking himself off to the noise of you following his orders.
“Good. Now two fingers inside. Push them deep. Curl them up— Yeah, just like that. Fuck yourself for me. Let me hear how wet you are.”
A broken sob tore from your chest as your body obeyed, hips bucking into your own hand.
“That’s it,” He rasped, his voice unraveling with every word. “Fuck yourself like I would. Say my name while you do it.”
“Oh God! Matty..,” You cried, over and over, his name tumbling out again and again like a mantra. Your body was a complete mess of sweat and slick, thighs trembling as you fucked your fingers inside of you the way he told you. His voice was molten in your ear, rasping filth between grunts as he pumped himself on the other end.
“Yeah, that’s it, princess,” Matty growled. “Finger yourself nice and deep. Pretend it’s my dick splitting you open. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me fucking that tight cunt till you’re dumb and cockdrunk.”
“Nngh— Yes, fuck yes,” You mewled out, nails of your other hand pinching your nipples meanly. You shouldn’t say it, you knew you shouldn’t but your brain was fogged and your mouth faster than your coherent thoughts. “W-wish it was your cock, daddy.”
The sound that came from Matty was like a growl torn straight from his chest.
“Oh, you filthy little slut.” He sounded wrecked, voice darker than you’d ever heard. “You don’t even know what you just fucking did.”
Your heart hammered in your throat. “Matty—”
“No. Not Matty.” His tone was sharp, almost feral. You could hear the belt buckle again, the furious slick of him pumping harder, faster. “Say it again.”
You hesitated for a beat, thighs clenching.
“Say it again,” He snarled, guttural, every word dripping with lust. “Call me what you just called me.”
Shame burned you alive, but you were too far gone to stop. “...Daddy.”
He groaned so loud you had to pull the phone from your ear, the sound ragged, obscene. When he came back to himself, his voice was low, feverish, edged with danger.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My nasty girl. Spread yourself wide and imagine Daddy crawling over you, pinning those wrists like I did in my office. You remember that, don’cha? You wanted to stab me but really you wanted me to fuck you into the wall.”
You gasped, fingers shoving deeper, faster. “Aa-ahh, oh my God—”
“Not God. There’s no God here, love. Only me.” His laugh was crazed, unhinged, all teeth.
The filthy chorus of your moans tangled with the brutal rhythm of his grunts, phone hot against your ear. Your thighs shook violently, sheets sticking to your damp skin as you obeyed him, every nerve wired into his voice. Your lips moved just as relentlessly as your fingers as you kept blabbering out nonsense.
“That’s it. Fuck your fingers like the needy little whore you are.” His words came out strangled like he was losing the fight with himself. “Bet you’re dripping, huh? Bet you’re making a mess all over those expensive sheets. Daddy should be there lapping it up... Make you lick it off my tongue.”
“D-Daddy, please—,” You felt that pleasure building in your abdomen now, sweat streaking your temple, your hips rutting upward against your fingers desperately. “Haah, oh fuck,” You whimpered, and that was it. He groaned so loud it rattled your brain, the vibrations going straight down to your cunt.
Your hand was a blur between your thighs as your fingers curled inside you to hit that sweet spot while his filthy commands pushed you deeper and deeper. “Deeper, doll, fuck yourself deeper, ’kay. Imagine it’s my cock stretching you till you’re split wide.”
“Y-yes, daddy, please!” Your voice cracked, raw with need.
On the other end, you could hear him unraveling, the frantic slap of skin against skin, the guttural curses. “Fucking Christ, You’re ’re gonna kill me. My perfect doll fucking herself to my voice— God, I’m so close.”
You moaned his name over and over like a prayer, hips stuttering as the coil inside you finally snapped. The orgasm ripped through you in violent lurches. You blabbered and moaned into the phone, hands clutching at your sheets as you keep convulsing around your own fingers.
Matty came with you, a wrecked groan shattering into curses as his breathes stuttered. You swore you could hear him spill, could imagine the hot mess he was making of himself, undone by the thought of you.
The line went quiet except for the sound of you both gasping, trying to catch your breathes in your separate rooms but bound together in something far darker than lust.
“Knew you’d sound so pretty like that when you came...” Came his voice: hoarse, smug, still dripping with lust.“Sleep well, princess,” He added before hanging up just like that, leaving you trembling, sticky and absolutely wrecked in your bed.
The line cut dead, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breaths in the dark. The silence pressed in like a weight, and suddenly it hit you what you had just done.
You sat up on your bed, night suit clinging to your damp skin, hair sticking to your cheeks. Mortification crashed over you like a tidal wave. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, as if you could shove the moans, the begging, the desperate “daddy” back inside.
You’d just... touched yourself to him. To Matty Healy. Your stepfather’s not-so-loyal lapdog. A man you barely trusted, a man you should hate.
Your phone buzzed.
You froze, stomach dropping, shame curdling deeper. The screen lit up.
Unknown:
We’ll talk more about the plan tomorrow. I’ll bring something for you to read.
Your chest tightened. A breath of relief passed your lips as you read the tone of text that was professional and clean. Okay, maybe he was pretending this never happened. Despite the small pang of disappointment, you steeled yourself to do the same. Pretend you didn’t just—
Another buzz.
Unknown:
Next time, I’d prefer to fuck you myself.
Your throat closed. Heat raced through you, burning over the shame, twisting it into something worse. The message glared up at you, smug, filthy, undeniable.
And then, as if to kill you completely:
Unknown:
I do hope there’s a next time...
Your thumb hovered over the glowing screen, rereading the message until the words blurred.
A hollow laugh slipped from your throat, bitter and shaky, breaking the suffocating silence of your bedroom. You tossed the phone face-down onto the nightstand like it burned, pressing both hands into your face.
“...I’m fucked,” You whispered to no one, the words muffled against your palms.
The sheets clung to your skin, the ghost of his voice was still echoing in your ears, his commands wrapped around your body like a chokehold. Your body was still thrumming, restless, unsatisfied but your mind was screaming at you to get a grip.
You pulled the blankets over your head, hiding in darkness, as if it could smother out the truth.
You were supposed to be planning a murder.
Instead, you were fantasizing about fucking the man helping you do it.
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(mdni) in which you spend a morning in your boyfriend’s shirt and nothing else. part of promptober75 2024 and the actress!reader au. 2912 words.
warnings: fingering, thigh riding, praise, mild degradation, use of 'bunny', spanking, pussy slaps, oral (f receiving), brief cockwarming
You’re alone in Matty’s bed when you wake up, but the mid-October sun is barely kissing at the horizon and his side of the bed is still warm. Stretching, you sit up, shivering a little in the chill, and get to your feet. You pull Matty’s flannel shirt off the floor and button it on, lifting the collar over your nose to inhale the smell of him, all cigarettes and sweet cologne. Slipping into a pair of his boxers, you rake your fingers through your hair, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as an idea forms in your mind. A pair of your thigh-high socks sit neatly folded on the dresser, and you quickly slip them on and pad downstairs in search of your boyfriend.
“Morning,” you yawn, greedily reaching for one of the steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. “Oh, come here, beautiful.” you murmur.
“You’re talking to the caffeine, aren’t you?” Matty grins, his voice rough with sleep and oh-so tempting. You half-nod around the mug already at your lips, and his eyes go wide when he takes in the sight of you properly.
After a beat of silence that seems to drag just a little too long, you wonder if you’ve miscalculated. Nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt, you bite your lip. “Sorry, I was a bit chilly when I got out of bed. Is this okay?”
Matty’s still staring at you, slack-jawed. “You look fuckin’— I’m— Jesus Christ,” he stammers, his heavy, lust-thick gaze on you making your head swim. His eyes are glued to your thighs where they spill over the tops of your socks, stuck on the sliver of skin left exposed by his shirt.
Giggling to yourself, you sip your coffee, waiting for Matty to snap out of it and make a move. Eventually, you set the mug down, rest your palms on his thighs and lean close. “Is this okay?” you repeat teasingly.
“You’re evil,” he breathes against your lips. “So fucking evil. And gorgeous, God, so gorgeous.” Teasingly, you pull at the hem of your shirt, revealing his low-slung boxers and a sliver of your hip. “Jesus, I’ve had wet dreams that start like this,” Matty blurts out, one hand digging into your hip.
“Oh, yeah?” you tease, lowering yourself into his lap. “What happens next?” you breathe, slowly rolling your hips against the muscles of his thigh and moaning under your breath.
Matty laughs softly, fingers sliding delicately into your waistband. “First, I make you cum all over my fingers,” he smirks, greedily swallowing your gasp as he brushes a circle into your clit. “Then, I bend you over and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Then, I clean you up with my tongue, ‘cause I’m a gentleman like that,” he adds, wearing a smug, lascivious grin and teasing your entrance with the tip of his finger. “You like the sound of that, angel?”
Grinding down against his fingers, you nod into his neck. “Mhmm. Yes. Please, Matty,” you whine, need creeping up your spine. A murmured good girl as he gently lifts your head has you dripping against his fingers, his lips meeting yours in a slow, loving kiss. Matty draws his fingers out of your underwear, his other hand pulling you down against his thigh so you can grind yourself against him. His tongue comes out to lick obscenely at his fingers, practically salivating at the taste of you.
“Shit, I wanna get my mouth on you,” he groans, pleasure tingling under your skin as you roll your hips down against his sweats. “God, I love this fucking pussy,” he adds, near-reverent.
“S’yours,” you say immediately. “S’all yours, baby. Can do anything you want with it, promise.” Matty practically whines, gripping your hip with one hand and sliding the other up your shirt. Your back arches when his knuckles brush a peaked nipple, sensation rippling through your body.
Your hips jerk, arousal dripping out of you as you rock against Matty’s thigh, head tipping back in ecstasy. “Good girl,” he coos. “That’s it, make yourself feel good. Need to make this pretty pussy cum f’me, okay?” Nodding, you whine as he slips his hand back into your underwear, circling your soaked hole and then filling you with two fingers in one breathless second.
Clenching your cunt around him, you whimper, melting against him as he sets a gorgeous pace, fast and punishing; designed to reduce you to a trembling mess in his lap. “Mmh, Matty, fuck,” you whine, head hazy with pleasure. Your lips meet his jaw, slight stubble against your soft skin somehow enough to set you buzzing as you kiss and bite at him. “Y’so fucking hot,” you moan, attacking his neck as he finger-fucks you into a daze.
“Such a sweet girl,” Matty murmurs, circling his thumb over your clit as pleasure arcs up your spine. “God. you drive me crazy, angel. Look so pretty in my clothes, thought I was still dreamin’ when you came downstairs like that,” he groans, letting you drive your hips down onto his fingers and clench around him wantonly. His hips twitch a little, the length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.
You’re dizzy with lust, high off knowing he wants you, dazed by his fingers still fucking in and out of you like it’s going out of fashion. “If I’d known you’d get so— mmm— hot and bothered, I’d have— fuck, fuck!— done it forever ago,” you gasp, choked out around moans. Obscene sounds fill the room, echo off the ceiling, rattle deliciously through your head.
“Y’always get me bothered, angel,” Matty laughs breathlessly. “Too fucking beautiful,” he sighs, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit and swallowing your moans as your body starts to tremble under his touch. “You ready to cum for me, darling?”
“Yes,” you whimper, choked with lust. Your orgasm crashes frantically over you, lung-crushingly intense as you gasp for air. Your cunt pulses around Matty’s fingers, his murmured praise going straight to your hazy head. His name falls from your lips in a dazed chant, body going slack as you melt into a puddle of pure desire against his chest.
You wince as Matty slides his fingers out of you, and he croons a soft apology into your hair. “Good girl,” he coos, rubbing his palm over your soaked cunt as you whine. He slaps your cunt harshly, sending a bolt of pleasure-pain rippling through you. “That’s my good little slut, baby. Shit, I need to be inside you, angel. D’you wanna be a good little bunny? Bounce on it for me?”
The nickname makes you dizzy, cunt throbbing with want. You look at him with need painted across your face, eyes wide and pleading. “Want it from behind, like you said. Please? Promise I’ll still be a good little bunny for you.” Matty’s eyes blow wide, pressing a messy, sloppy kiss to your lips and grinning against your mouth.
Detaching yourself from his lips with a whine, you stand and bend over the arm of the sofa, shoving Matty’s boxers down your legs so they puddle on the floor. You reach back to rub your clit with a moan, arching your back as Matty’s blunt nails dig into your hip and he frees his cock. “So gorgeous. Look how wet you are for me, bunny. Gonna look so good pumped full of cum, huh?” he adds, brushing the head of his cock over your clit as you whine desperately.
Torturously slow, Matty fills you, your back arching and cunt clenching with want. Twin moans fall from your lips as he bottoms out, his hips flush with yours. Your cunt pulses, desire flaring under your skin, and you try desperately to urge him deeper. “Please, need you to fuck me, Matty, fuck!” you whimper.
“Shh, bunny, shh. M’gonna give you what you need, promise. Don’t you trust me?” Matty says, low and rich and soothing, and you melt against the sofa cushions. He pulls out, all the way out, and you let out a needy, choked sob, cunt clenching around nothing. “Oh, sweet girl. You’re desperate, huh?” he teases, a touch cruel in a way that kisses deliciously down your spine. A hard smack against your cunt makes you scream, incoherent pleas dripping into the pillows under your head. “You’re dripping,” he coos.
“M’soaked,” you whine. “M’so fuckin’ wet for you, Matty, please stop teasing,” you beg. His hands tightening on your hips is all the warning you get before Matty slams hard into you. A sound that’s half-scream, half-moan, all lust tears free from your chest, sudden, intense pleasure balling tight in your chest.
Slick sounds echo obscenely loud around you, filthy and melodic; like Matty himself, somehow. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s my good little bunny, yeah? This pretty cunt’s takin’ me so well, darling,” he praises, stroking the curve of your ass gently. You brace for a slap that never comes, and you find yourself whining at the lack of it. “Oh, baby. You want spanked, s’that it, bunny?” You nod, whimpering his name, and he pinches your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure rocketing up your spine. “Words, darling. I know it’s hard when I’ve made you all dumb on my cock, but you gotta talk to me, yeah?” The condescending lilt to his words drips deliciously down your spine, pools between your legs.
“Please, Matty,” you murmur, voice thin and pathetically pleading. “Need you to spank me,” you add, cheeks flaming as the burn of humiliation turns to a tingle of arousal between your thighs. Matty’s hand comes down against your ass, heat spreading from every inch of his skin that touches yours. You moan happily, arching your back as Matty fucks into you between slaps.
His hand meets your ass, your thighs, even your hips, until the skin there is red and stinging and your cunt is practically gushing against him. Matty fucks you through it all, hips slamming against yours as you clench vice-tight around him. “So close, aren’t you, bunny?” You nod into the pillows, whining his name breathlessly. “You want one more?” he says, his grin audible. Nodding, you whimper out something that sounds enough like agreement to satisfy him, and he croons out a good girl.
In a split-second, he’s pulling out of you and slapping your clit so hard that the impact sends you toppling over the edge. Without warning, you’re cumming all over Matty’s fingers, your knees buckling with the weight of your orgasm. Your breath is coming in quick, short gasps, every exhale burning sweetly in your lungs. Pleasure floods your entire body, seeping into every bone, every muscle, your very nerves catching alight as you come and come. It takes you a minute to come to, and when you do, you’re laid delicately on the sofa; Matty kneels between your legs, gliding his palms reverently along the exposed skin at the top of your thighs.
“Hi, bunny,” he says, softly trailing one hand up to stroke your face, brush sweat-soaked hair out of your eyes. “That was intense, huh?” he can’t resist adding, a self-satisfied and shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
Your eyes flicker down to where his cock hangs between his legs, still hard and heavy, drooling and fucking soaked with your arousal. “You didn’t cum,” you say, frowning a little and reaching weakly for him.
Matty pushes your arm down with a soft laugh, leaning down to kiss you and slowly working his way down your neck to just above the spot where his shirt is buttoned over your chest. “Good thing this isn’t about me, then,” he smirks. “This is about you, bunny,” he adds, unbuttoning his shirt a little so he can press a kiss to the valley between your breasts. “And how unbelievably, irresistibly, mind-blowingly fucking sexy you look wearing my clothes.” Matty punctuates every word with a wet kiss against your bare skin, your pulse rushing instinctively under his touch.
He unbuttons the shirt just enough that he can free your tits, seemingly desperate to keep you in the shirt this entire time. Wrapping his lips around your nipple, Matty sucks eagerly, teeth grazing slightly as his tongue flicks over you the same way he does to your clit. “Mmm, now who’s needy?” you giggle, sliding your hand into his curls and tugging gently, just enough that he pulls off your nipple.
“Always need you,” Matty answers instantly, honey-brown eyes meeting yours with a hunger so deep you feel it in your very bones. Then, he smirks, and a shivering thrill rushes over you. “D’you remember the third part of that dream I was tellin’ you about?”
You bite your lip teasingly. “Where you clean me up after?” Matty’s working his way down your body, your legs widening unconsciously to make room. “You made a real mess of me,” you challenge, whining when he kisses softly at your clit.
“Don’t worry, bunny. Don’t even think, okay? Gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, lapping hungrily at your cunt. Stubble scrapes deliciously against your thighs, and you resist the instinct to slam them closed around Matty’s head. Moaning as pleasure drips down your spine, you arch up against his mouth.
His tongue flicks back and forth over your clit, skilled muscle working you into a frenzy. Your hands dig into his hair, French tips scraping over his scalp as he moans into you. The sound vibrates through your body, settles as a low hum in the base of your skull, dizzying. “Don’t stop,” you plead, pressing his mouth harder against you.
Desire pulses thickly in your blood, weighs heavy on you, pins you still. You grind your hips up, your clit brushing his nose as he teases your soaked hole with the tip of his tongue. “God, I fucking love this pussy. So pretty, so good for me,” he coos, drawing back a little so you can see his face, eyes lidded and lust-blown and lips and chin soaked with you. “Whose pussy is this, really, bunny? Who does it belong to?”
“You,” you choke out. “S’yours, Matty, all yours,” you whimper, gasping as his calloused fingers come up to circle your clit.
“Fuck, say my name like that again,” he groans, sounding fucking wrecked. Obediently, you gasp out his name, over and over. Matty’s breathing goes ragged. He leans in, redoubled his efforts, licking at you with a hunger so voracious you aren’t sure he won’t swallow you whole — you aren’t sure you wouldn’t let him, either.
Chanting his name like it’s the only word you know, you writhe in pleasure under him. Matty’s nails dig into your hips, so deep they’ll bruise. You can’t bring yourself to care when your brain is so saturated with ecstasy that you’re sure you’ll never feel anything but bone-deep pleasure again. “Oh, my God,” you whimper. “I’m so close.” Every exhale is shaky, frenzied, pure bliss coiled so tight in your chest that it feels like panic, your heart racing faster and faster with every stroke of Matty’s tongue.
He doesn’t even have to speak, just buries his tongue deeper inside you, presses into your clit, moans against your dripping hole. The instruction is clear: cum for me. The fire in your chest erupts, rips free, burns you up and leaves melted strings of unending pleasure in all the places your body should be. You’re screaming his name, pulsing on his tongue, probably soaking everything in sight as the evidence of your ecstasy fucking sprays out of you.
“Fuck, darling, y’gonna make me cum,” Matty practically whimpers, crawling up your body to speak in the shell of your ear. “M’so close, I wanna cum inside you, fill you up. S’that okay, bunny? S’okay if you’re too sensitive, I just—” You’re still cumming, dizzy with the relief of it, as you reach wordlessly down to guide his cock into you.
The second he feels your soaked, tortured cunt throb around him, Matty’s cumming, covering your mouth with his in a messy, sloppy approximation of a kiss. You swallow his moans almost as greedily as you take his cum, milking him for every drop as he coats your insides. He slumps on top of you, still inside you, and grins dazedly. “You’re fucking incredible,” he vows.
“M’fucking exhausted,” you mumble, eyelids suddenly lead-heavy.
“Oh, darling,” Matty coos, propping himself up on his elbows to fuss over you. You wince as he pulls out, the loss bringing a pout to your lips.
You yawn. “Can you…” you trail off, reaching up to stroke his face. “Mmm, just put me to bed, n’then fill me up when you’re hard again? Don’t wanna fuck again, I just need you inside me.” You’re slurring your words, your exhaustion now a physical thing, weighing heavy on your consciousness.
Matty kisses you, soft and featherlight. “Fuck, s’not gonna take long if you keep talkin’ like that, bunny,” he murmurs, scooping you into his arms and carrying you to bed. You’re drawn tight into sleep, barely afloat when you feel him slide home, your cunt so soaked that it accepts him oh-so easily. “That’s it, bunny.” You can vaguely hear his murmur, barely kissing at the edge of your awareness. “Just go to sleep, I’m right here.”
And that you know, in your heart of hearts, to be the truest words you’ve ever heard.
plsplsplsplspls update peach gelato lol like im honestly so hooked on that dynamic and its so rare to see!! stoked to see where it goes and would be so cute to see more of their texts + the soft launch bc she can’t help but post him and vice versa argh its too cute a concept lol
ommg i actually have SO much planned for the peach gelato universe, you bet dispatch is gonna be on their asses lol (╥﹏╥) and matty’s gonna be so INSUFFERABLE LMAO + i’m so glad you liked it <3
Born into wealth and rot, you are tied to a family name that’s polished with champagne but corroded by blood. After the suspicious death of your beloved brother, you’re left at the mercy of a cruel stepfather and a mother who traded her grief for survival. You dream of spilled blood and vengeance but have never had the courage to act. Enters Matty Healy — the older, sharper and charming lawyer your stepfather hires for business who seems far more interested in peeling you open. Bound by lust, violence and the shared knowledge that neither of you are good, the two of you begin to plot the murder of your stepfather all while circling each other in a dangerous, intoxicating dance that promises either liberation or ruin.
OR ALTERNATIVELY, what’s more dangerous: the man you want dead or the man helping you kill him?
WORD COUNT. 11.8k
GENRE. thriller, romance, smut, psycho!lawyer!matty, rich girl!reader, inspired by thoroughbreds
WARNINGS. 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap, sexual tension, power imbalance, dom/sub undertones, unprotected sex, phone sex, mutual masturbation, degradation, pet names (good girl, princess etc), daddy kink, somewhat graphic depictions of death, daddy issues, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, matty and mc both have a very questionable moral compass, NOT BETA READ YET!
NOTE. FINALLY IT’S OUT ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა okay so this fic is literally if american psycho, thoroughbreds and how to get away with murder had a threesome and then had a lovechild lol. i actually have so much planned for this particular especially psycho!lawyer!matty because the potential this character has me in a chokehold like i’ve already planned at least a dozen blurbs/oneshots for him. also this isn’t edited so sorry in advance for typos <3 enjoy mwah mwah!
PART ONE | PART TWO
“Let’s kill him. Let’s kill them all or they’ll kill us.” Your brother muttered in a frantic manner with his eyes darting all around like a trapped animal’s.
“Kill who?” You urged, desperate to understand and to anchor him, desperate to know what was wrong, why he was behaving like this. His hands trembled in yours. His breath came in short terrified bursts.
You wished you’d listened to him then. You wished you hadn’t brushed it off as paranoia or simple exhaustion. You wished you had believed him because maybe then he’d still be alive—
The rhythmic tap, tap, tap of Matty’s fingers against the wooden mahogany table was what snapped you out of your thoughts.
The feeling between you two was just like the two coffee cups in front of you. His was nearly empty with the dregs staining the porcelain, only the remnants of coffee were present in the cup that was placed in front of him whereas yours was untouched, coffee still steaming with bitter scent curling toward you like an accusation. Just like the coffee cups the postures you two were showing were also completely different. Your posture was rigid, spine iron-straight and shoulders locked. Matty, on the other hand, was sprawled like a king on his throne with one arm slung over the chair and his long legs crossed over one another with careless confidence. His eyes were hooded, face relaxed into an indifferent expression. From an outsider’s point of view, it would’ve seemed like you two were engaged in a one sided conversation with Matty being clearly bored and disinterested and maybe even half-asleep.
But you knew better.
Behind those half-lidded eyes, neutral expressions and slouched posture, there was utter attention lurking in those pretty brown eyes of his. You knew he was dissecting you. His attention was a like a scalpel — precise and unrelenting. You could easily observe the way he was regarding you with attention, something that made you satisfied, giving you the intuition that you had come to the right person.
“So you’re saying,” He began, his words were stretched in a lazy drawl, his mouth curling into something smug, “You need my help.”
Fucking bastard.
Your initial thought was to slap him right and then for phrasing the sentence that way, for twisting your words as if you had that low of self respect that you would’ve come to him for help. You wanted to slap him hard enough to crack that mask, to wipe the smug smirk from his perfect face. But instead, you kept your cool and regarded him with an empty stare and a professional smile that screamed business.
“I’m afraid,” You replied smoothly, “If you phrase it like that, I’ll have to believe you’re looking down on me.”
You raised your cup with deliberate grace and took a slow sip before dabbing your lips with a napkin while holding back a grimace because of the bitter taste. Every movement of yours was rehearsed elegance even if there was an ugly beast of rage simmering inside of you. His eyes followed the sweep of your fingers, the press of the napkin against your lips. You were acutely aware of the fire in his gaze that smoldered under his feigned indifference. Men. You mentally rolled your eyes.
“Ah,” Matty exhaled lightly, waving a dismissive hand, a grin tugging at his mouth, “Nothing of the sort. After all...” He paused, theatrics bleeding into every syllable. “How could I, a mere servant of this business empire, ever look down upon the princess of it?”
Your grip on the cup tightened. You heard the venom in his voice disguised as charm. It was mockery. He was mocking you. He was mocking your loss.
And then, softly, almost wickedly, “How could I look down upon oneof the heirs of these industries.” Matty mused as if what he was saying was amusing to him. His eyes were shinning with mirth and a sinister grin was dancing on his lips.
Your chest went tight. You froze. His grin widened, eyes glittering with mirth that was anything but kind.
“I think I should leave.” You pushed back from the table, the scrape of the chair echoed sharply throughout his office. With your Chanel bag in hand, you turned, each step stiff with restrained fury. He had hit your weak spot and you knew if you stayed any longer, you’d do something you couldn’t take back. Long forgotten was the reason you had met with this wretched man in the first place, only the need to gouge his eyeballs out for even hinting at your dead brother was present.
But even as you were leaving, his voice followed, calm and cruel, slicing through the air: “Or should I say... the only heiress. Seeing as the other one is dead.”
The world narrowed.
What happened next was a whirlwind. And suddenly there was a glass of water in your hand that you had grabbed from in front of him. You were trembling, no, you were positively shaking in rage, eyes wild and lips in a sneer, everything contradicting to your previous facade.
The glass in your hand emptied before you realized what you’d done, water arcing through the air. It splashed against him, soaking his pressed shirt, plastering his curls to his forehead. Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just sat there, drenched, lips curling into a slow, satisfied smirk.
Your hands shook with rage. The façade was gone now. Your polished mask was shattered and it left something wild and feral behind.
Rage was a slave of emotions.
Matty was looking at you as if he had accomplished his mission of breaking your perfect doll-like facade. You were right, Matty Healy was no different than the other men in your life. Vile, sadistic and a bastard. But most of all, it was his damn smirk that was irking you. Like he’d won. Like this was what he wanted all along. The urge to slap the smirk off his wet face was forming back again and this time you didn’t hold back.
The sound of your palm cracking against his cheek split the silence. A sharp and violent punctuation. His head turned slightly from the force, water droplets scattering. But when his gaze slid back to yours; red cheek, wet hair and lips cut into that impossible grin, you knew he wasn’t affected in the way you’d wanted him to be.
No. Instead he was thrilled.
He blinked once and then pushed a water-damp curl behind his ear as if he’d been kissed, not struck. There was a kind of careless and delighted look on his face that felt like a dare, like you’d performed an amusing trick rather than dealt a wound. The contempt in his amusement scraped at something raw in you, making the world narrow to the distance between your chest and his grin. The sight of his thrill was a white heat crawling under your skin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. His smirk was gasoline and your fury was a match. You wanted to end him.
Your hand moved before your rationale could catch up, with your fingers curling around the steak knife resting idly beside Matty's untouched breadbasket that he’d called for with the coffee. The cold steel bit into your palm in a grounding manner. You raised it high, every nerve alight, ready to slash that smug expression clean off his face.
But he was faster.
In a blur, his chair screeched back, and suddenly he was on you. His hand clamped around both your wrists, crushing them together as though you weighed nothing. The knife clattered uselessly to the floor and he kicked it away with precision before you could even process it.
And then came the impact.
Your back hit the paneled wall of his office hard enough to rattle a picture frame. The air whooshed from your lungs, anger morphing into something jagged. He had you pinned against the wall. Trapped. Matty’s grip was tight above your head and there was a sharp edge of control in his strength. His body leaned close, not touching yet, but still near enough that you felt the heat radiating off him as your chest heaved against the cage of his restraint.
“Careful, princess,” He murmured, his tone low, almost mocking but rougher now like gravel dragging across velvet. “Wouldn’t want you to get accidentally hurt, now do we?”
Your teeth bared. “Let me go.”
He only smiled. That infuriating, deliberate smile. His free hand rose slowly, fingers ghosting along your clenched fist before prying the phantom of the knife from your grasp, theatrically gentle. He smoothed over your clenched fist until it was open and then he tucked the invisible weapon away as if to say: See? Even when you fight, you willing hand it all to me.
The silence between you two pulsed. His thumb brushed the delicate inside of your wrist, a mockery of tenderness that made your stomach knot.
“You think violence makes you dangerous.” His face dipped closer, lips at the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a murmur only you could hear. “But violence doesn’t frighten me.”
Your wrists burned under his grip as you thrashed against him, your body bucking, teeth bared, every curse you knew tearing out of your throat but at his words your breath hitched, rage colliding with something hotter, messier and thoroughly more consuming.
“And that,” Matty said, finally loosening his grip just enough for your wrists to tremble in his hold, “Is why you came to me.”
“Fuck you, you smug, empty—”
He only tightened his hold and then with an unbothered roll of his shoulders, his mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “Temper, temper. I expected better composure from you, princess.” Matty tuts. “Doesn’t father dearest teaches you manners?”
You snarled, lunging but his body pinned you back once again, effortlessly.
“Oh, right,” He went on in that same unbothered tone as if he wasn’t manhandling you right now, “Maybe you’ve just inherited his taste for accidents. Little mishaps. Like people slipping through the cracks, right?”
Your blood roared in your ears. He was goading you again.
“Or maybe...” His mouth dipped toward yours, taunting, cruel, “You enjoy being the tragic daughter, all rage and lipstick, hiding the fact that your brother saw it before you ever did. Maybe that’s why he died... because you didn’t listen.”
The words sliced through you like glass. Your vision blurred, the edges reddening until you couldn’t see his smirk anymore, only the shadow of your brother’s face flashing like a ghost behind him.
SPLAT.
And when the haze of anger, you realised that you had just spat on him.
Your spit landed sharp and wet across his cheek, some of it sliding into his mouth. He stilled. For one horrible, suspended second, the world went quiet.
Then his hand slowly moved. Matty released one of your wrist to drag his thumb across his lower lip, smearing your spit and saliva as his tongue darted out deliberately to taste it. A mock-thoughtful expression crept across his face as he smacked his lips. “Oh,” He mumbled softly, almost delighted. “I liked that.”
Your stomach lurched. Your pulse screamed.
Then he leaned closer, mouth open, teeth bared, whispering with that madman’s glee:
“Do it again.”
Something inside you snapped.
Your forehead cracked against his nose with a brutal thud. Pain shot through your skull but the satisfaction was instant as you heard the crunch and felt the warm spray of blood across your cheekbone.
Matty stumbled back, finally letting you go, laughter tearing out of him in manic bursts. Not wounded laughter. Not angry. But the wild and unhinged laughter that was now echoing off the walls like something feral had just been let loose. Red bloomed everywhere. Blood streamed down his nose, slick across his mouth, staining his teeth. It dripped down his shirt, onto the floor. And he laughed harder.
You stood there, chest heaving, his blood hot on your skin, every inch of you trembling with rage and something far more dangerous that you refused to name. You were still trembling, your chest heaving, when you realized his blood was all over you. Hot streaks splattered across your cheekbone, even staining over your blouse.
Matty straightened slowly, strands of his slicked-back curls now hanging loose into his eyes. His face was a mess; nose streaming blood, teeth red, his shirt collar ruined. But instead of fury, instead of retribution, he was grinning. Widely and wildly. A grin too big for his face, pulling his mouth bloody at the corners.
He looked like an unhinged psycho straight out of hell and you’d put him there.
The laughter came again, ragged and manic, until he finally clapped his hands together like you’d just finished performing. The sharp sound cut through the heavy silence, making you flinch.
“Alright then,” He announced, his voice hoarse from laughing, as if the headbutt had never happened. His grin softened into something wickedly pleasant. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
You blinked at him, disoriented, fury still burning through your bloodstream, unable to reconcile the gore smeared across his face with the breezy tone he’d just adopted. But he didn’t wait for you to respond. He simply brushed past, steering you back toward the plush chair you’d abandoned, one hand briefly touching your elbow like you were his guest and not his sparring partner. You let him, your body too rattled to resist and your mind trying to catch up to his whiplash pace. You lowered yourself back into the chair. Slowly. Stiffly.
He was already moving around the office, maneuvering with a predator’s ease even while pinching the bridge of his nose, crimson staining his knuckles. He grabbed a tissue, dabbing casually at the blood, checking the angle of the swelling in the reflection of his glass-fronted cabinet.
“Thankfully, not broken,”He mused, almost to himself, his voice calm and businesslike. Another tissue. A splash of water. A crooked sniff. And all the while, those sharp brown eyes never stopped flicking back to you, as if your every twitch was another data point in whatever calculation he was making.
Finally, he dropped into the chair opposite yours again, his shirt collar ruined, his nose still bleeding faintly but his smile was now razor-thin.
“Now,” He said, folding his bloodied hands neatly in front of him, “Tell me. Why are you really here?”
The way he said it made your throat dry. The blood between you was still wet. The violence was still humming in your veins. And yet, he sounded like the conversation had only just begun.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your body was still taut with adrenaline, every nerve screaming to leave, to never step foot in this blood-stained office again. But Matty’s calm and casual movements like folding his hands neatly on the desk, dabbing at his ruined nose like it was an inconvenience and not an assault kept you rooted.
Heavy silence stretched between you two.
He waited, eyes trained on you like a cat watching a bird hover just out of reach. Somehow, his patience felt like it was worse than his laughter.
When you didn’t speak, he leaned back in his chair leisurely, one brow cocked. “What’s the matter, princess? Lost your tongue? I didn’t peg you as shy.”
You still said nothing.
He tapped his fingers on the table, each knock a needle against your skin. “So what is it that you really need my help for?” He began when he realised you won’t speak. “Daddy cut you off? Or did your friends stopped answering your calls? Or maybe...” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “...Maybe you finally got bored of playing the grieving sister.”
Your jaw tightened but you still didn’t speak up, knowing that if you spoke out of necessity in front of this man, something like before would happen again. You didn’t speak because speaking had always been a gamble. Words slipped out once, and they’d been twisted, weaponized, used against you. With him, silence was your only shield, the one thing that kept pieces of you he didn’t deserve from falling into his hands. So you sat still, letting your quiet defiance do the talking. But then, keeping silent also seemed like a mistake because Matty had took it upon himself to make your mask of faux civility crack again. This time, under his own terms.
Matty smirked, “Tell me, when you close your eyes, do you see father dearest? Or do you see him? Your stepfather’s hands, your brother’s face... I wonder which one haunts you more?”
Your nails bit into your palms. You wanted to claw his eyes out, to scream, to run but you sat there like a stone.
Matty tilted his head, watching you like a puzzle. “No? Alright then. Let’s try simpler.” His smile was razor-sharp, cruel. “Do you fuck to forget or do you fuck to punish? Because I’m guessing—”
“Stop.” The word ripped from you, sharper than you meant.
“Ah. There you are.” His smirk widened.
Your breath was shallow, fury rattling inside your chest. He was circling closer, slicing with every word and akin to a helpless lamb in front of a wolf, you couldn’t stop it.
“Go on,” He coaxed, softly now, in a mock-gentle manner, as though you were a child. “Say it. What do you want? What do you need my help for?”
And before you could stop yourself, before you could shove it back down, you heard your own voice, ragged, ugly, raw. It teared itself out of your chest like an animal which was visceral for vengeance.
“I want to kill him.”
The words scraped out of your throat like broken glass, each syllable tasting like fire and ash. Your chest heaved, and for a moment, the air itself felt heavy, charged with the weight of everything you’d swallowed for years. Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but it was drowned out by something sharper like rage, pure and unsparing. Your jaw trembled, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table, and yet, even as the words hung there between you, you felt a flicker of something almost liberating. Saying it aloud made it real, terrifyingly real but also, somehow, it made you feel, finally, like yourself again.
Those five words landed between you and him like a gunshot.
Matty’s smile froze. Then, slowly, it spread even more. It was hungry, unholy and all-knowing. His bloodied lips parted, and his eyes lit with something terrible. A chill went up your spine as you stared at the man in front of you.
At last, he had you right where he had wanted.
“Good girl,” He praised you so softly, you almost thought you imagined it. Then in a louder and brisk voice, as though the confession of you wanting to kill your step-father was just another item ticked off his to-do list: “Alright. We’ll end this meeting here.”
Your head snapped up. “What—”
He was already reaching for a sleek card case and then he was sliding out a business card and laying it neatly on the table in between you two. The embossed letters gleamed under the lamplight: Matthew T. Healy, Corporate Finance Attorney. But before you could pick it up, he pulled a red pen from his pocket and with deliberate slowness, he scratched out the office number in a single, violent slash. Then, with that same pen, he scrawled ten digits in red ink across the white space.
His personal number.
“There,” He hummed in a pleased tone as he slid the card towards you with two fingers. “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. The old glasshouse off Hanover Square. Don’t be late.”
You blinked at him, still reeling from everything including the blood, the laughter, the confession you never meant to speak aloud. “That’s it? You’re not going to—”
But he was already standing, moving towards the door. “That’s it.”
It was so abrupt, so maddeningly anticlimactic, that you found yourself dazed, clutching the card like it was evidence in a crime.
Before you could slip past him, his hand caught your wrist again. This time his grip was not harsh but still firm enough to drag you back into his orbit. And you let him.
Matty tilted your face up, studying the streak of his blood across your cheek.
Then, with a grotesque parody of tenderness, he wet his thumb with his own spit and dabbed at your skin until the smear was gone. His touch lingered, warm against your jaw before he patted your cheek lightly.
“There,” He said, almost soothing. “Pretty again.”
He bent, retrieved your Chanel bag from the floor and handed it to you with a courtly flourish. Your mouth dropped open in a soft Oh as you realised you’d almost forgotten your bag there because of everything else that had happened in the past hour. Gingerly, you grabbed the bag and tucked in the card he’d handed you inside the bag. You were just about to step away from him when without waiting, Matty raised a hand and smoothed a strand of your hair back into place, fingers brushing along your temple, fixing you like you were a doll on display.
Only then did he open the door, ushering you out with a polite gesture, as though the last thirty minutes hadn’t been a descent into blood and madness.
The door shut behind you with a low click.
Inside, Matty exhaled, wiped the last of the blood from his nose, and chuckled low to himself.
“Well, look at that,” He muttered to himself, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Good breeding gone bad.”
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of lavender from the gardens as you made your way to the glasshouse Matty had told you about yesterday. It was a pretty building, tucked discreetly behind an ivy-covered wall off Hanover Square, its skeletal iron frame holding panes of glass that caught the sun and refracted it into fractured rainbows across the floor. Inside, brunch service was in full swing. Silver trays clinked with champagne flutes. The polite hum of laughter filled the air, underscored by the tinkling of piano keys.
You arrived exactly on time.
Your reflection followed you in the glass walls as you entered like a flawless mirage. You’d adorned a dress the color of bone-white satin that hugged your waist in a snug manner before spilling into a soft A-line fall that reached around your ankles. There was a delicate pearl choker at your throat paired with small diamond studs in your ears. Hair brushed sleek, parted with precision and tucked behind your ear like you were some obedient doll. Your lips were painted a muted cherry, not too brazen, not too coy. You looked like a woman who belonged to the brunch crowd, polished and perfect, the kind who never raised her voice, who never lost control.
But you both knew better. After all, the memory of yesterday was still fresh.
You spotted him immediately. Matty sat in the far corner where the sun spilled in most aggressively as it painted half his face in gold and leaving the other half in shadow. His curls were slicked back again, but unevenly this time as some rebellious strands still fell across his brow. His shirt was crisp, his blazer pressed but there was a faint swelling across the bridge of his nose from where you had headbutted him yesterday, a reminder of how violently the two of you had already touched each other. He looked like a man who had wrestled with someone and then gotten dressed for Sunday mass.
Matty’s eyes lifted the second he heard the precise click-clack of your heels as you walked towards where he was sitting.
The effect was instantaneous the moment you walked in. The hum of the brunch crowd dulled as though the air bent around your presence. Conversations halted momentarily, eyes tracked your every movement, half in admiration, half in hunger. These were the kind of looks you’d grown up with after being paraded like an ornament by your stepfather. But you didn’t falter. You didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your distaste. Instead, your lips tilted in a small, practiced and demure smile as you glided between tables as though this was your kingdom.
Matty watched it all, tapping one lazy finger against his champagne glass, his mouth curling into the faintest smirk. He saw what they saw: a doll, untouchable, porcelain perfection. But unlike them, he also knew what seethed beneath that façade of yours. He could still hear your snarl in his ears, still feel the sting of your slap on his cheek. His nose throbbed, a pulsing reminder of the animalistic violence that cracked had through your polished exterior a day prior.
When you reached him, Matty rose to his feet. But you knew him well enough to know that the action was not gallant neither was it courteous, just perfectly calculated to curate his image.
Matty’s gaze flicked down to your dress, lingered on the pearls at your throat and then met your eyes with insolent directness.
“You look like a walking funeral in Dior,” He drawled as he pulled out your chair for you. “Fitting.”
You sat without acknowledging the jab and smoothed your skirt following by crossing your ankles. You had masked your face with a mask of serenity. Only the flicker of your eyes betrayed your thought: Fuck you, Healy.
Once both you’d been seated, the waiter appeared with your champagne. Even though you didn’t as much as touch yours, Matty still raised his glass anyway, holding it in a mock-toast between you.
“To honesty and partnership.” He said and took a long sip.
You stared at him, the doll mask slipping for the briefest second. He wanted honesty? Fine. Inside, the memory of your brother’s shaking hands clawed at you, his words echoing like a curse: Let’s kill him, let’s kill them all.
Only if you’d known that the thirst for vengeance would throw you in front of a man like Matty. Now, here you were, in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by roses and polite laughter, dressed like a saint but bargaining like a sinner.
“Are you going to waste my time with theatrics,” You spoke up finally, voice precisely cutting through the soft clatter around you. Your tone was sharp and to-the-point, “Or are we going to address the real reason we’re here?”
Matty’s lips curled, slow and wolfish. He leaned back in his chair, eyes burning with that same terrible amusement as before.
“Of course, princess. Let’s get down to business.”
You held his gaze across the table, fingers lightly draped around the stem of your untouched champagne glass. You weren’t sure if the bile creeping up your throat was from hunger as you hadn’t eaten anything since last night or from the way he was looking at you like he’d already undressed your soul, picked through it and found something rotten enough to keep him interested.
“So.” Matty placed his elbows on the white tablecloth and leaned forward, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” You asked, though you knew deep down what he exactly wanted.
“How you’ve thought about killing father dearest.”
His words landed like a slap but his tone was gentle and coaxing as if he were asking about your favorite color. His fingers tapped idly against the table as though they had their own pulse, rhythmical, steady, lulling.
You swallowed hard, looking at anywhere but him and finally fixing your gaze on the sunlight fracturing across your glass. “I haven’t—”
“Don’t lie.” His interruption was swift. “Everyone who hates someone enough to declare the act of murder has imagined it at least once. Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured the bastard choking on his own tongue, or bleeding out in that ridiculous marble bathtub of his.”
A flicker passed through you. A memory. The bathtub. The way you once saw your stepfather sprawled in it, glass of scotch balanced dangerously on the porcelain rim, his chest hair matted with bathwater, his smug laughter bouncing off the walls when he caught you staring in disgust. You remembered how you had imagined him lying in the same bathtub but bleeding out from the slit in his neck and you watching as he choked on his own blood. A chill went up your spine as the memory resurfaced.
You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Matty tilted his head, studying you with that vulture’s patience. Then he leaned in closer and lowered his voice until it brushed against your skin like static.
“Shall I help you visualize, princess?”
Before you could answer, he began.
“Picture it. Him at his desk. His head snapping forward when the first blow lands. You don’t stop, of course, you can’t stop. His skull breaking under your hand, blood pouring down his smug little smile.” He paused once again, maybe for theatrics or maybe to take a breath before continuing, “Or maybe you’d prefer something slower. Like slipping something into his scotch, watching him claw at his throat while you sip yours.”
Your stomach twisted violently. To soothe yourself, you pressed a hand against it, nails digging crescent moons into your satin dress.
Matty saw it and immediately his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer. Then came the sound of the sharp tsk of his tongue against his teeth. He leaned back, sipping from his champagne, eyes glittering with cruelty as he watched your composure fray.
“If you can’t even imagine it...” His voice softened, coaxing again, almost tender. “...then you can’t do it.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass until you thought it might shatter. You met his gaze then, forcing yourself to hold it despite the bile rising like acid at the back of your throat.
“I can do it.” The words were low and venomous, dragged straight from the pit of your rage.
Matty’s expression shifted, just barely but the difference was enough. The smugness didn’t vanish rather it sharpened into something keener. He raised his glass again, once again mock-toasting you with a grin that was all teeth.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Spending your Saturday morning discussing ways to kill your father wasn’t exactly the ideal start to the day especially not with someone like Matty Healy. But alas, beggars can’t be choosers.
Matty toyed with the stem of his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers, the faint scrape of crystal on linen was loud enough to make your nerves hum.
“You know,” He began, eyes fixed on you, “I think you’d do well with something... intimate. Poison feels too clinical. Too detached. You’re not detached, are you?”
“I could be,” You shot back, voice clipped.
He hummed, low in his throat like he was humoring a child. Then without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward until the faint scent of his cologne( expensive, sharp, faintly medicinal) curled in your nose.
“Or maybe,” He continued, voice dropping an octave, “You’d like to use your hands. Wrap them around his throat. Feel the pulse kick against your palms while his eyes go wide as he begs you to spare him. You’d get to decide exactly when to stop. Or not stop.”
You froze, bile flooding your mouth but your pulse spiked all the same. The image seared itself into your brain, vivid and obscene. In some twisted way, the thought excited you and you hated Matty for it, hated yourself for not being able to tear your brain away from that scenario.
Matty noticed. Of course he noticed.
A slow grin unfurled across his lips, bloodied nose still faintly swollen, and he clicked his tongue again, mock-sympathetic. “What’s wrong, princess? Can’t stomach the thought? You can’t kill a man if you can’t even daydream about it.” He goaded you knowing well enough that you were getting a sick kind of pleasure from picturing yourself in a position of power over that wretched man.
Your nails dug into the satin at your thigh, deep enough to sting. “I said I can do it.”
“Then tell me.” His voice was like silk over a barbed wire. “How? How have you pictured it when you close your eyes at night? And don’t lie to me.”
You inhaled sharply, willing your voice not to shake. “I’ve imagined him... falling. Down the marble stairs. His skull cracking open like—” You cut yourself off, the grotesque image lodging in your throat.
Matty’s grin widened. He raised his champagne glass in lazy applause, the crystal catching the sunlight, spilling fractured rainbows across the tablecloth.
“There she is,” He murmured to himself.
And then, casually, cruelly, he pushed again. “Or maybe you want to watch him bleed out. A knife across the throat, arterial spray. Messy? Yes. But oh so satisfying. He’d never even see you coming.”
Your whole body lurched at the thought. Heat prickled under your skin. Revulsion, excitement, vengeance, rage and adrenaline all braided into one unbearable current.
Matty sat back, studying you with hooded eyes, his smirk curling wider when he noticed the way your breath hitched, the way your pupils dilated.
“You’re shaking.” His voice was gentle, mocking, coaxing. “Tell me, princess, is it from disgust... or excitement?”
You nearly slammed your glass down just to wipe that look off his face but you stopped yourself, clinging to composure like a drowning woman clings to driftwood. His gaze flicked to your lips, lingered there for a moment, then slid back to your eyes. He was enjoying this, turned on by it, by you, by the animal simmering just below your pearl-strung doll act.
Your stomach twisted violently, but the words came anyway, sharp and venomous: “Doesn’t matter how it happens but I will do it.”
For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and electric. Then Matty leaned back with a low chuckle, licking his bottom lip as though tasting something only he could savor.
“Good girl.” Matty wiped his thumb along the rim of his glass, studying the condensation bead down like a patient surgeon. “Fine then,” He said after two beats of silence. “Let’s plan.”
“Fine.” Your throat tightened but you nodded as you kept his stare from your end. You didn’t look away first, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand, that faint grin still clinging to his lips.
“Walk me through it. Step by step. Don’t think about the why. We already know the why. Think about the how. How would you kill him, if I wasn’t sitting here?”
You inhaled, lips parting, but no sound came. Your mind stuttered between flashes: marble floors slick with blood, the sound of a body tumbling down stairs, a bathtub stained red. You swallowed hard.
“I’d...” Your voice faltered. He arched an eyebrow, waiting. “I’d wait until he’s drunk,” You answered finally, the words forced through clenched teeth. “He always drinks himself stupid. I’d catch him when he stumbles upstairs. Push him. Make it look like a fall.”
Matty tilted his head, considering. “Hm. Clean. Plausible. But stairs are unpredictable. He might just sprain his neck. And then what? You’ll be in his debt forever, spoon-feeding him porridge like a nurse.”
The image made your stomach knot.
“Try again,” He said smoothly, taking a sip of champagne. “Think sharper.”
You glared at him but the bile in your throat had curdled into something else now. Adrenaline. Hate. “I could... I could poison him like you said before,” Your voice was lower this time. “His scotch. He never notices anything once he’s a few drinks in. He’d swallow death like water.”
Matty’s lips curled, exposing teeth. “Better. That’s the princess brain. Poison is neat. Elegant. But...” His eyes glittered. “It’s also cowardly. You wouldn’t get to watch him choke. And I have a feeling that you want to feel his demise.”
Your heart lurched in your chest at his words as you realised just how right he was. The air between you felt thick, heavy, charged. You realized your nails had left tiny half-moons in your palm.
Matty leaned back, stretching his legs beneath the table until one brushed yours in a deliberate action. “Tell me something, darling. Do you just want him gone or do you want him to suffer?”
Your chest rose sharply, lips parting before you could stop yourself. “...Suffer.”
“What was that? Couldn’t hear ya.” Matty tilted his head slightly to the side with a faux confused expression.
You clenched your jaw but spoke up louder than the last time, “I said, I want him to suffer.”
His grin spread, slow and wolfish, as though you’d given him the right answer.
“Atta girl,” He murmured again with a proud grin.
The air was thick between you now, your “suffer” hanging like poison, the unspoken plan coiling tighter around you both.
Just then, the waiter appeared with both of your food. Barely twenty, if that. His bow tie was slightly crooked, his cheeks still round with youth. He set down plates with trembling hands, sneaking glances at you like you were a starlet caught slumming it with mortals.
You rewarded him with a polite smile, soft and practiced. “Thank you,” You said, your voice pitched perfectly sweet. A stark contrast from how you’d been speaking with Matty. The boy’s ears turned pink and he nearly tripped over himself while retreating.
Matty didn’t miss a thing.
The second the boy was gone, Matty tipped his head towards you with a hooded gaze and a lazy smirk. “So polite,” He murmured. “Absolutely sweet. You almost had me fooled.”
You rolled your eyes, lifting your glass just enough to wet your lips. “Not everything is an act, Matty.”
“Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet, threaded with amusement. And then very subtly yet deliberately you felt the first brush of his shoe against your ankle.
You froze.
He didn’t.
The tip of his polished leather traced up your calf, slow and languid, as he cut into his Egg Benedict like nothing was happening. His eyes flicked down your neckline, then back up, smirk deepening as he slid his foot higher, over your knee, up till it reached the inside of your thigh.
Your pulse spiked as heat seared under your skin despite the disdain that still coiled in your gut. Your throat bobbed but you held his gaze, refusing to squirm, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted though your fingers tightened around your glass until you feared it would shatter for real this time.
Matty arched an eyebrow, pretending to study the food the waiter had set down, his expression composed, almost bored. Only the faintest curl of his lips betrayed the game.
“You play polite for the help,” He said lightly, running his shoe higher, pressing just enough to make you shift in your seat. “But not for me. I feel hurt, sweetheart.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to slap him again. You wanted to shove him away. You wanted, God help you, to let him keep going. There was a part of you that just wanted him to press his foot higher and higher until it reached that sweet spot between your panties.
Matty smirked as he bit into his dish, the faint swelling of his nose catching the sunlight. The same nose you’d bloodied. The same mouth that had dared you to imagine your stepfather’s death. And now you were sitting there fantasising about what else that mouth of his could do to you.
“Mmh,” Matty hummed as he chewed, withdrawing his shoe at last, leaving a ghost of pressure burning on your skin. “This is good. You should eat too. Planning patricide works up an appetite.”
Your fork trembled in your hand. You stabbed a bite of food just to prove you weren’t rattled but your throat was dry and your pulse thundered against the pearl choker at your neck and you were also pretty well aware and ashamed of the dampness in between your thighs.
On the other hand, Matty looked perfectly composed, as if he hadn’t just pressed his foot against the inside of your thigh in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by polite society.
“You’re awfully quiet now,” he murmured after swallowing, swirling his champagne. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t expect me to play with my food before eating it?”
Your fork hovered in midair, your lips parting with a sharp retort
“You’re disgusting,” You told him, even as your thighs pressed tighter together under the table, remembering the ghost of his shoe against your skin.
He dragged his tongue briefly over his bottom lip then chuckled almost idly.
You shifted in your seat, trying to hide the heat crawling up your neck. His words sank too deep, pressed too close to something you didn’t want to name.
You hated the way your body betrayed you. Every brush of his shoe against your skin, every low drawl of his voice as he called you sweetheart, all of it was pulling something out of you you swore you didn’t have.
By the second, your chest was tightening, thighs clenching, a shameful warmth beginning to curl low in your stomach. You dug your nails into your palm beneath the table. He was older, smug, unhinged, and it was making you—
No. Stop!
You snapped your gaze up, willing yourself to breathe. “Why?” You asked abruptly, voice too sharp, too sudden. At this point, you were desperate to distract yourself with anything. “Why are you even helping me?”
Matty stilled with his forked raised halfway to his lips. For a moment he looked amused that you’d tried to wrestle back control. He leaned back, swirling the champagne lazily, as though considering just how much to give you.
“Helping you?” He echoed, feigning innocence. “That’s a generous word.” His eyes glittered, studying your face. “I’m not a good Samaritan, darling. I don’t do helping.”
He tilted his head, grey strands of curls finally falling out of their slick, brushing across his forehead. “I just want to see him fall,” He admitted “Your stepfather. I want to watch the empire he’s built crack apart. Men like him, men with too much power, too much money and too little intelligence, they always think they’re untouchable. It’s boring.” He sneered, setting the utensil down with a clink. “I like proving men like him wrong.”
Your throat felt dry. “So it’s revenge?”
He smirked as his elbows came to rest on the table now. “Revenge, profit, fun. Take your pick. It’s all the same in the grand scheme of things.”
The waiter returned to refill your champagne; Matty didn’t look away from you once. When the boy stumbled over a compliment about your dress, you forced a polite smile but under the table you felt the sharp nudge of Matty’s shoe again. This time even forceful as it climbed higher.
“And then there’s you,” Matty murmured once the waiter was gone, his eyes narrowing, hungry. “Daughter of the house. A perfect porcelain doll with cracks already running deep. You’re not just a means to an end, love. You’re the delicious accident in the middle of the wreck.”
Your nails dug harder into your palm. He was too close, too honest, too obscene.
“Helping you?” He repeated again, softer this time, almost gentle. “No, princess. I’m helping myself. You just happen to be the prettiest weapon I’ve ever held.”
You nearly snapped your fork in half. He watched with that infuriating smirk, eyes glittering with the same cruel amusement as when he’d made you say suffer.
“It’s just my luck that you want your father to be punished,” He mused silkily, his voice threading under your skin like smoke. “And you want me to be the one who helps you kill him.”
Your stomach twisted violently. The pearls at your throat felt like a leash. You hated him. You wanted him. You hated how much you wanted him.
That was the trouble with girls like you who always ended up on older men’s laps with blood on your hands.
It was 2 a.m, the moon looked romantic, and unfortunately, so did the memory of Matty Healy’s shoe shoved between your thighs.
The moonlight fell pale and cold across your bedroom, spilling in through the sheer curtains. Everything about the space was curated from the ivory silk sheets to the crystal lamp on the bedside and the faint scent of roses lingering from the diffuser. You should have been at peace.
Instead, your pulse was a drum in your throat.
You lay back against the mountain of pillows, hair brushed to a shine, skin soft and faintly glowing from the hours-long nightly skincare ritual you never skipped. The silk camisole clung to your body, whispering against bare skin each time you shifted. A vision of perfection and elegance, just as you had been taught to be.
And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
You pressed your palms flat against the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut. His voice wouldn’t leave you. The smug lilt of “good girl”, the mocking timbre when he called you a doll with cracks, the deliberate slide of his shoe pressing into the softness of your inner thigh while he smirked into his champagne.
Your thighs pressed together.
“Goddamn it,” You whispered into the silence, as if cursing yourself could banish it. It didn’t. The shame only curled tighter, searing hotter.
Your hand drifted up, almost without permission, fingertips skimming over the swell of your breast through the silk. You gasped when you brushed the hardened peak of your clothed breasts, immediately squeezing your thighs tighter at the sensation while simultaneously trying to suffocate the ache instead of feeding it. It didn’t work.
You bit your lip, thumb and forefinger rolling over your nipple through the thin fabric. The jolt of sensation made your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat. You hated how much you craved the edge of pain Matty had teased out of you earlier, how you imagined his mouth wrapping around your breast instead of your own hand.
Heat pooled low, insistent, gnawing. You rubbed your thighs together again, desperate for any kind of friction. Your pajama shorts rode higher with each movement.
You shouldn’t do this. You knew you shouldn’t.
Thinking of him this way: Matty with his bloody grin, Matty with his cruel tongue, Matty who looked at you like you were nothing more than a weapon. It was vile. It was dangerous. But it was all you could think about.
You pinched your nipple sharply and the moan that spilled from you shattered every last barrier of shame.
Your body was already betraying you, aching for more.
Every nerve seemed strung too tight, thrumming with an anticipation you couldn’t ignore any longer. It was pure lust that crawled under your skin, leaving your hands restless, searching for release.
The silk was too soft, too yielding beneath your palm as it slid lower. You traced lazy, trembling circles over your stomach, hovering just above the hem of your shorts, as if taunting yourself with the hesitation. Your breaths came shallow, shallow and ragged, like even air had become too indulgent.
“Pathetic,” You muttered under your breath, your own voice hoarse, as if calling yourself out would stop it. It didn’t. Your hand slipped lower, resting over the heat in between your thighs, pressing down just enough to make your hips twitch.
Shame burned hotter than the arousal but you could not bring yourself to stop. Every brush of your fingers through silk made you imagine his hand instead. The image behind your eyelids was of Matty’s rings caressing your skin, his palm pressing you down, his voice in your ear, low and mocking: “Nasty girl. Can’t even keep those legs still, can you?”
Your legs parted before you realized it.
You dragged your hand higher again, deliberately slow, cupping the swell of your breast once more, thumb circling your nipple until it was aching. Then back down, fingertips teasing along the waistband, never dipping beneath. You gasped, biting your lip so hard it stung. The back of your mind hissed with self-loathing, but your body and rationale was already gone.
When you finally let your fingers slip under the shorts, the fabric dampened instantly. The slick heat made you groan, your head tipping back against the pillows. Two fingers traced through your folds, feather-light, almost unbearable in their teasing touch.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
You circled your clit lazily, deliberately shallow, the kind of touch that left you whimpering rather than sated. Because you weren’t touching yourself anymore, not really.
In your head, it was Matty.
His roughened thumb pressing against you, his cruel patience making you beg for more. You could see the smirk curling against his plush pink lips, hear the low chuckle vibrating in his chest as you writhed beneath him.
Your hips lifted into your hand, chasing the high pressure, chasing something you weren’t sure you wanted to admit. Your free hand tugged the camisole down, baring your breast to the cool air, fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until your back arched and pathetic mewls left your swollen lips.
The room was silent but for your gasps and the wet sound of your fingers sliding over your wet cunt sloppily.
“Matty,” You moaned before you could stop yourself. The name slipped out like both a confession and a sin (and maybe even a curse).
Your fingers pressed harder. With your free hand you pinched the neglected bundles of nerves that sent your brain into a hazy overdrive. Your thighs trembled. Bile and heat mixed in your throat. You were disgusted. You were aroused. But most of all, you were unraveling.
You teased your entrance with two fingers, circling, pushing in just barely, enough to feel the pulse of your own need to clench around them. The pace was maddeningly slow, each shallow thrust dragging slick across your folds, building, building, never breaking.
Your imagination betrayed you again. Once again, it was no longer your own hand but his. No longer your bedroom but his office with your back slammed against the wall and his mouth nipping at your earlobe. Matty’s voice threaded through your skull like barbed wire: “Filthy little doll. Look at you, huh. S'already wet.”
You bit down on your tongue, stifling a cry as your hips jerked up, chasing the release of an orgasm faster than before.
Your fingers were no longer teasing; they were thrusting inside of your cunt in a frenzy. Slick, needy and obscene sounds filled the quiet of your bedroom as you fucked yourself with your own hand, chasing the inevitable. The silk of your shorts was shoved down around your thighs, twisted and forgotten. Your other hand kneaded at your breast, pinching, rolling, tugging as if to punish yourself for every moan that slipped past your bitten lips.
You pictured Matty’s hand moving inside you, his thumb pressing down cruelly on your clit while he whispered filth into your ear. His laugh low and deranged, canines glinting as he grinned down at you.
“Matty,” You gasped, louder this time. “Matty, fuck, Matty—”
Your hips jerked violently against your hand, clenching around your own fingers, the orgasm rising sharp and unstoppable—
Until the shrill sound of your phone cut through the haze.
You ignored it, eyes clamped shut, hips bucking faster. But the ringing didn’t stop. Again. Again. Again.
It rang incessantly.
And it was driving you mad.
With a furious huff, you grabbed the phone off the nightstand, not even looking at the screen to see who’d called at this unholy hour. You pressed the phone to your ear, breath ragged, fingers still working between your thighs, slower now, softer, trying to keep yourself just on the brink.
“What?” You snapped into the speaker
And then you froze when the voice came.
“Now, princess...” The voice purred, smooth as sin, amused and cutting all at once. “That isn’t the way to speak to someone older than you.”
Fuck. It was Matty.
Your blood turned to ice and fire all at once. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, your hips stuttering mid-thrust. His voice hummed through the receiver like a current, low and lazy, as if he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Breathe, love,” He continued, his tone mock-gentle. “What has got you all worked up, hmm?”
Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it through the line. Your fingers hovered inside you, trembling. Your hand slowed between your thighs, shame and need tangling until you could hardly breathe.
“N-nothing.” It came out as a weak stutter and Matty hummed in response.
The vibrations of his voice went straight down to your throbbing pussy and you bit back a moan. Your fingers stuttered inside of your cunt before slowly starting to pick up the pace once again.
You should stop, you knew you should stop, but his voice slid down the line like your most vile fantasy and your body refused to obey.
“Where did you- you get my number?” You managed in between abusing your clit, breathless, your voice shaking. “I n-never gave it to you.”
Another low hum, vague and amused, buzzed through the receiver. “I have my ways.” He didn’t elaborate, of course. He never did. That was the worst part.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers resuming their lazy circles over your clit, dragging slick along your folds. His voice filled your ear, filled your head and it drowned out all the previous shame. You weren’t listening to what he was saying anymore. Instead you were listening to him, every cadence, every drawl, every sly little pause that scraped against your nerves like velvet-wrapped knives.
“Oh fuck— Matty...” You whimpered, hips bucking, head tilting back against the pillows as your fingers brushed against that sweet spot of your genitalia.
Immediately the line went silent.
The sudden absence of his voice made your stomach drop as you realised what you had just blabbered out loud. Mortification filled you instantly.
Then, a flat and serious voice, cut through the static:
“Are you fucking yourself?”
Your body went rigid. “W-what?”
“You are.” His tone didn’t lift, didn’t play. “Aren’t you?”
The words hit like a whip. You froze, humiliated and mortified, wishing the earth would swallow you whole. Your hand slipped away, hovering uselessly over your soaked thighs. You opened your mouth to stammer out an excuse, to hang up, to say anything to save yourself from more embarrassment.
But before you could’ve said anything, his breath came harsh through the speaker, a groan laced with disbelief and hunger. A curse hissed between his teeth.
“Fuck, princess.”
Your breath hitched.
“You are fucking yourself,” He repeated, voice low now, guttural, like he was talking to himself as much as to you. “You’re moaning my name, touching yourself to the thought of me—” A sharp inhale. A chuckle, rough, broken. “Christ, I can hear you.”
You squeezed your thighs together, shame burning down your spine but your hand betrayed you, sliding back down, pressing against yourself again because his voice, God his voice, was too much.
The line went quiet for a heartbeat, only his ragged breathing breaking it. Then, slow, deliberate, each word dripping with dark command:
“Send a picture.”
Your silence stretched too long. Your breath caught in your throat, panic lacing with arousal and you couldn’t get a word out.
On the other end, Matty made a low, disapproving noise. A sharp click of his tongue, then his voice dropped lower and rougher.
“Did I fucking stutter?” He tutted in a stern manner, the bite in his tone making your thighs clench. “I said send me a picture.”
Your stomach lurched. You scrambled, dropping the phone against your chest as you shifted on the bed, eyes darting to the ceiling mirror. A blessing and a curse. It was one of those stupid rich people luxuries you’d always sneered at. Now it was salvation.
You angled your body, legs parted just enough, camisole straps sliding further down your shoulders. The mirror caught everything from the glossy spill of your hair over the silk pillow to the flush of your sweaty sheen on your skin and the way your hand hovered between your thighs with fingers glistening with your arousal.
You snapped the picture, heart hammering, and before you could second-guess yourself, you sent it.
The phone buzzed immediately with his incoming breath. A low, guttural sound that made your stomach twist.
But you weren’t done. Not when his voice still rang in your head, not when shame and heat made your fingers move without thinking. You hooked your thumb in your discarded silk panties, dragging them into view on the bed, camisole bunched low to bare your breasts. Your other hand teased between your legs, fingers spreading slick just enough for the camera to catch.
Another photo. Sent.
Silence.
Then, through the speaker, a sharp, shuddering exhale. And then a wheezing laugh that was half broken, half unhinged.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matty muttered, his voice strangled, as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Look at you...” He trailed off, groaning. You could hear the scrape of his rings against the receiver, the shift of fabric, the unmistakable rasp of him palming himself on the other end.
“You’re going to ruin me, princess.”
And then you heard it. The sharp metallic clink of a belt unfastening. The rasp of leather sliding free. The rustle of fabric as trousers were shoved down.
Your heart lurched into your throat.
And then the unmistakable sound: Matty’s low groan; half-pained, half-pleasured, the wet sound of his palm dragging slow over himself.
“You hear that?” He murmured into the phone breathlessly, voice thick and labored, even as he tried to mask it with that same mocking lilt. “That’s what you did to me, princess.”
Your thighs clenched around your hand, your slick fingers pressing harder against your clit.
“Now,” He said, quieter, “Tell me. What were you thinking about when you were touching yourself?”
The shame hit you in a hot wave. You squeezed your eyes shut, lips trembling, throat tight. “I—”
“Don’t get shy on me,” He interrupted, voice sharp. The sound of him stroking himself punctuated every word. “I want to hear all of the things my nasty girl was imagining.”
Your breath hitched. “I was—” You swallowed hard. “I was thinking it was you.”
A strangled groan tore down the line. You imagined his head tipping back, curls falling in his face, jaw locked tight.
“That’s my good girl,” He rasped, the praise broken through gritted teeth. “What else? What did you want me to do?”
Your fingers were moving faster now, deeper than before as your hips stuttered. “I wanted—” You gasped as your hips bucked. “I wanted your hands. The way you touched me before. Rough.”
“Fuck.” His voice cracked, the slick sound of him stroking himself faster filling your ear. “Keep talking.”
You bit your lip until it stung, eyes rolling back. “Wanted you to pin me. Wanted you to keep me still, Matty—”
He cursed, loud this time, no longer in control. And then, through his groans, his voice dropped to a growl, commanding:
“Yeah? Touch that pretty cunt for me, princess.”
You bit back a moan at his words, your fingers slipped lower again, knuckles pressing tight against your pussy as you gasped into the phone. The sound of Matty’s ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make your head spin. You couldn’t hold back the moans now. The sounds kept spilling out one after the other as you worked yourself toward the edge.
“Are you close, baby?”
“Yes— Hnngh. I’m so so so close.” The words came tumbling out before you could stop yourself.
“Really?” The tone was faux sweet before his voice snapped sharp, cutting clean through your haze. “Don’t you dare cum.”
Your body seized.
The silence after was unbearable. You froze, fingers still buried inside you, chest heaving.
“Did you hear me, princess?” His tone was low, deadly calm. The slick sound of him stroking himself slowed but didn’t stop. “I said. Stop.”
Shame clawed through your stomach. You pulled your hand away with a shaky whimper, thighs trembling as the sudden lack of friction burned worse than fire. You murmured out a pathetic confirmation that you’d obeyed him.
“That’s better.” His sigh was dark, satisfied. “Now. You don’t get to touch that pretty little cunt until you tell me everything.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “I-I can’t. Please please please let me cum.”
“Yes, you can.” The clink of his ring against the phone was heard through the speaker as he shifted. “Good girls don’t touch themselves without permission, yeah? You want to be good, don’t you?”
Your breath caught. His voice wrapped around you like a noose.
“You want me to let you come, princess?” His groan bled into a laugh, twisted, breathless. “Then you’re going to tell me what you thought about. Every dirty little detail. Every way you imagined me fucking you.”
You whimpered, thighs clenching tight together, the ache unbearable.
“Say it,” He urged, his tone sharpening, desperate and cruel in the same breath. “What did you imagine? Was it my fingers? My mouth? Or was it my cock splitting you open?”
Your chest heaved, lips trembling as you imagined him thrusting into you. “All of it,” You mumbled, tears pricking your eyes. “I imagined all of it.”
A guttural groan tore down the line, raw and wrecked. He was losing control too, but his voice still lashed like a whip:
“Then fucking tell me how.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. Your thighs rubbed together desperately but you didn’t dare touch yourself again, not after his voice had dropped like that. Not after he’d made it clear you were his to control, even here, even now.
“Matty...” You whimpered, shame dripping down your throat. “Please.”
“Please what, princess?” His breathing was heavy, labored, his strokes rough enough you could hear the slick through the phone. “Use your words. You want to come? Then beg for it. Like a good girl.”
Your chest heaved, tears spilling hot down your temples as you writhed against the sheets. “I need it. Please, I need to—”
A sharp tsk. “Not good enough.” His voice was a growl now, dark and commanding. “Beg properly. Or I’ll hang up and then you’ll sit there dripping with a ruined orgasm.”
Your breath hitched on a sob. The shame was unbearable but the need worse. “Matty— Please, let me come. I-I promise I’ll be a good girl. I need it so bad. Please.” You choked out. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Just, Fuck! Please, I can’t—”
A low, satisfied chuckle rumbled down the line, broken by a guttural groan. “There’s my good girl. How can I refuse when you’re being like this?”
You sobbed in relief, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
“Now listen carefully,” Matty breathed out in between jerking off on the other side. “I’m going to tell you how to touch yourself, and you’re going to do it exactly how I say. Understand?”
“Yes,” Tou whispered, frantic. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” His voice softened but it only made it worse, so much worse. “Take those pretty fingers, the same ones you sent me in that photo and slide them back over your clit. Slow circles. Don’t rush. Make me hear the mess you’re making.”
You obeyed instantly, slick sounds filling the quiet of your bedroom and his groan in response told you he was listening, jerking himself off to the noise of you following his orders.
“Good. Now two fingers inside. Push them deep. Curl them up— Yeah, just like that. Fuck yourself for me. Let me hear how wet you are.”
A broken sob tore from your chest as your body obeyed, hips bucking into your own hand.
“That’s it,” He rasped, his voice unraveling with every word. “Fuck yourself like I would. Say my name while you do it.”
“Oh God! Matty..,” You cried, over and over, his name tumbling out again and again like a mantra. Your body was a complete mess of sweat and slick, thighs trembling as you fucked your fingers inside of you the way he told you. His voice was molten in your ear, rasping filth between grunts as he pumped himself on the other end.
“Yeah, that’s it, princess,” Matty growled. “Finger yourself nice and deep. Pretend it’s my dick splitting you open. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me fucking that tight cunt till you’re dumb and cockdrunk.”
“Nngh— Yes, fuck yes,” You mewled out, nails of your other hand pinching your nipples meanly. You shouldn’t say it, you knew you shouldn’t but your brain was fogged and your mouth faster than your coherent thoughts. “W-wish it was your cock, daddy.”
The sound that came from Matty was like a growl torn straight from his chest.
“Oh, you filthy little slut.” He sounded wrecked, voice darker than you’d ever heard. “You don’t even know what you just fucking did.”
Your heart hammered in your throat. “Matty—”
“No. Not Matty.” His tone was sharp, almost feral. You could hear the belt buckle again, the furious slick of him pumping harder, faster. “Say it again.”
You hesitated for a beat, thighs clenching.
“Say it again,” He snarled, guttural, every word dripping with lust. “Call me what you just called me.”
Shame burned you alive, but you were too far gone to stop. “...Daddy.”
He groaned so loud you had to pull the phone from your ear, the sound ragged, obscene. When he came back to himself, his voice was low, feverish, edged with danger.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My nasty girl. Spread yourself wide and imagine Daddy crawling over you, pinning those wrists like I did in my office. You remember that, don’cha? You wanted to stab me but really you wanted me to fuck you into the wall.”
You gasped, fingers shoving deeper, faster. “Aa-ahh, oh my God—”
“Not God. There’s no God here, love. Only me.” His laugh was crazed, unhinged, all teeth.
The filthy chorus of your moans tangled with the brutal rhythm of his grunts, phone hot against your ear. Your thighs shook violently, sheets sticking to your damp skin as you obeyed him, every nerve wired into his voice. Your lips moved just as relentlessly as your fingers as you kept blabbering out nonsense.
“That’s it. Fuck your fingers like the needy little whore you are.” His words came out strangled like he was losing the fight with himself. “Bet you’re dripping, huh? Bet you’re making a mess all over those expensive sheets. Daddy should be there lapping it up... Make you lick it off my tongue.”
“D-Daddy, please—,” You felt that pleasure building in your abdomen now, sweat streaking your temple, your hips rutting upward against your fingers desperately. “Haah, oh fuck,” You whimpered, and that was it. He groaned so loud it rattled your brain, the vibrations going straight down to your cunt.
Your hand was a blur between your thighs as your fingers curled inside you to hit that sweet spot while his filthy commands pushed you deeper and deeper. “Deeper, doll, fuck yourself deeper, ’kay. Imagine it’s my cock stretching you till you’re split wide.”
“Y-yes, daddy, please!” Your voice cracked, raw with need.
On the other end, you could hear him unraveling, the frantic slap of skin against skin, the guttural curses. “Fucking Christ, You’re ’re gonna kill me. My perfect doll fucking herself to my voice— God, I’m so close.”
You moaned his name over and over like a prayer, hips stuttering as the coil inside you finally snapped. The orgasm ripped through you in violent lurches. You blabbered and moaned into the phone, hands clutching at your sheets as you keep convulsing around your own fingers.
Matty came with you, a wrecked groan shattering into curses as his breathes stuttered. You swore you could hear him spill, could imagine the hot mess he was making of himself, undone by the thought of you.
The line went quiet except for the sound of you both gasping, trying to catch your breathes in your separate rooms but bound together in something far darker than lust.
“Knew you’d sound so pretty like that when you came...” Came his voice: hoarse, smug, still dripping with lust.“Sleep well, princess,” He added before hanging up just like that, leaving you trembling, sticky and absolutely wrecked in your bed.
The line cut dead, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breaths in the dark. The silence pressed in like a weight, and suddenly it hit you what you had just done.
You sat up on your bed, night suit clinging to your damp skin, hair sticking to your cheeks. Mortification crashed over you like a tidal wave. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, as if you could shove the moans, the begging, the desperate “daddy” back inside.
You’d just... touched yourself to him. To Matty Healy. Your stepfather’s not-so-loyal lapdog. A man you barely trusted, a man you should hate.
Your phone buzzed.
You froze, stomach dropping, shame curdling deeper. The screen lit up.
Unknown:
We’ll talk more about the plan tomorrow. I’ll bring something for you to read.
Your chest tightened. A breath of relief passed your lips as you read the tone of text that was professional and clean. Okay, maybe he was pretending this never happened. Despite the small pang of disappointment, you steeled yourself to do the same. Pretend you didn’t just—
Another buzz.
Unknown:
Next time, I’d prefer to fuck you myself.
Your throat closed. Heat raced through you, burning over the shame, twisting it into something worse. The message glared up at you, smug, filthy, undeniable.
And then, as if to kill you completely:
Unknown:
I do hope there’s a next time...
Your thumb hovered over the glowing screen, rereading the message until the words blurred.
A hollow laugh slipped from your throat, bitter and shaky, breaking the suffocating silence of your bedroom. You tossed the phone face-down onto the nightstand like it burned, pressing both hands into your face.
“...I’m fucked,” You whispered to no one, the words muffled against your palms.
The sheets clung to your skin, the ghost of his voice was still echoing in your ears, his commands wrapped around your body like a chokehold. Your body was still thrumming, restless, unsatisfied but your mind was screaming at you to get a grip.
You pulled the blankets over your head, hiding in darkness, as if it could smother out the truth.
You were supposed to be planning a murder.
Instead, you were fantasizing about fucking the man helping you do it.
Born into wealth and rot, you are tied to a family name that’s polished with champagne but corroded by blood. After the suspicious death of your beloved brother, you’re left at the mercy of a cruel stepfather and a mother who traded her grief for survival. You dream of spilled blood and vengeance but have never had the courage to act. Enters Matty Healy — the older, sharper and charming lawyer your stepfather hires for business who seems far more interested in peeling you open. Bound by lust, violence and the shared knowledge that neither of you are good, the two of you begin to plot the murder of your stepfather all while circling each other in a dangerous, intoxicating dance that promises either liberation or ruin.
OR ALTERNATIVELY, what’s more dangerous: the man you want dead or the man helping you kill him?
WORD COUNT. 11.8k
GENRE. thriller, romance, smut, psycho!lawyer!matty, rich girl!reader, inspired by thoroughbreds
WARNINGS. 18+, explicit sexual content, age gap, sexual tension, power imbalance, dom/sub undertones, unprotected sex, phone sex, mutual masturbation, degradation, pet names (good girl, princess etc), daddy kink, somewhat graphic depictions of death, daddy issues, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, matty and mc both have a very questionable moral compass, NOT BETA READ YET!
NOTE. FINALLY IT’S OUT ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა okay so this fic is literally if american psycho, thoroughbreds and how to get away with murder had a threesome and then had a lovechild lol. i actually have so much planned for this particular especially psycho!lawyer!matty because the potential this character has me in a chokehold like i’ve already planned at least a dozen blurbs/oneshots for him. also this isn’t edited so sorry in advance for typos <3 enjoy mwah mwah!
PART ONE | PART TWO
“Let’s kill him. Let’s kill them all or they’ll kill us.” Your brother muttered in a frantic manner with his eyes darting all around like a trapped animal’s.
“Kill who?” You urged, desperate to understand and to anchor him, desperate to know what was wrong, why he was behaving like this. His hands trembled in yours. His breath came in short terrified bursts.
You wished you’d listened to him then. You wished you hadn’t brushed it off as paranoia or simple exhaustion. You wished you had believed him because maybe then he’d still be alive—
The rhythmic tap, tap, tap of Matty’s fingers against the wooden mahogany table was what snapped you out of your thoughts.
The feeling between you two was just like the two coffee cups in front of you. His was nearly empty with the dregs staining the porcelain, only the remnants of coffee were present in the cup that was placed in front of him whereas yours was untouched, coffee still steaming with bitter scent curling toward you like an accusation. Just like the coffee cups the postures you two were showing were also completely different. Your posture was rigid, spine iron-straight and shoulders locked. Matty, on the other hand, was sprawled like a king on his throne with one arm slung over the chair and his long legs crossed over one another with careless confidence. His eyes were hooded, face relaxed into an indifferent expression. From an outsider’s point of view, it would’ve seemed like you two were engaged in a one sided conversation with Matty being clearly bored and disinterested and maybe even half-asleep.
But you knew better.
Behind those half-lidded eyes, neutral expressions and slouched posture, there was utter attention lurking in those pretty brown eyes of his. You knew he was dissecting you. His attention was a like a scalpel — precise and unrelenting. You could easily observe the way he was regarding you with attention, something that made you satisfied, giving you the intuition that you had come to the right person.
“So you’re saying,” He began, his words were stretched in a lazy drawl, his mouth curling into something smug, “You need my help.”
Fucking bastard.
Your initial thought was to slap him right and then for phrasing the sentence that way, for twisting your words as if you had that low of self respect that you would’ve come to him for help. You wanted to slap him hard enough to crack that mask, to wipe the smug smirk from his perfect face. But instead, you kept your cool and regarded him with an empty stare and a professional smile that screamed business.
“I’m afraid,” You replied smoothly, “If you phrase it like that, I’ll have to believe you’re looking down on me.”
You raised your cup with deliberate grace and took a slow sip before dabbing your lips with a napkin while holding back a grimace because of the bitter taste. Every movement of yours was rehearsed elegance even if there was an ugly beast of rage simmering inside of you. His eyes followed the sweep of your fingers, the press of the napkin against your lips. You were acutely aware of the fire in his gaze that smoldered under his feigned indifference. Men. You mentally rolled your eyes.
“Ah,” Matty exhaled lightly, waving a dismissive hand, a grin tugging at his mouth, “Nothing of the sort. After all...” He paused, theatrics bleeding into every syllable. “How could I, a mere servant of this business empire, ever look down upon the princess of it?”
Your grip on the cup tightened. You heard the venom in his voice disguised as charm. It was mockery. He was mocking you. He was mocking your loss.
And then, softly, almost wickedly, “How could I look down upon oneof the heirs of these industries.” Matty mused as if what he was saying was amusing to him. His eyes were shinning with mirth and a sinister grin was dancing on his lips.
Your chest went tight. You froze. His grin widened, eyes glittering with mirth that was anything but kind.
“I think I should leave.” You pushed back from the table, the scrape of the chair echoed sharply throughout his office. With your Chanel bag in hand, you turned, each step stiff with restrained fury. He had hit your weak spot and you knew if you stayed any longer, you’d do something you couldn’t take back. Long forgotten was the reason you had met with this wretched man in the first place, only the need to gouge his eyeballs out for even hinting at your dead brother was present.
But even as you were leaving, his voice followed, calm and cruel, slicing through the air: “Or should I say... the only heiress. Seeing as the other one is dead.”
The world narrowed.
What happened next was a whirlwind. And suddenly there was a glass of water in your hand that you had grabbed from in front of him. You were trembling, no, you were positively shaking in rage, eyes wild and lips in a sneer, everything contradicting to your previous facade.
The glass in your hand emptied before you realized what you’d done, water arcing through the air. It splashed against him, soaking his pressed shirt, plastering his curls to his forehead. Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just sat there, drenched, lips curling into a slow, satisfied smirk.
Your hands shook with rage. The façade was gone now. Your polished mask was shattered and it left something wild and feral behind.
Rage was a slave of emotions.
Matty was looking at you as if he had accomplished his mission of breaking your perfect doll-like facade. You were right, Matty Healy was no different than the other men in your life. Vile, sadistic and a bastard. But most of all, it was his damn smirk that was irking you. Like he’d won. Like this was what he wanted all along. The urge to slap the smirk off his wet face was forming back again and this time you didn’t hold back.
The sound of your palm cracking against his cheek split the silence. A sharp and violent punctuation. His head turned slightly from the force, water droplets scattering. But when his gaze slid back to yours; red cheek, wet hair and lips cut into that impossible grin, you knew he wasn’t affected in the way you’d wanted him to be.
No. Instead he was thrilled.
He blinked once and then pushed a water-damp curl behind his ear as if he’d been kissed, not struck. There was a kind of careless and delighted look on his face that felt like a dare, like you’d performed an amusing trick rather than dealt a wound. The contempt in his amusement scraped at something raw in you, making the world narrow to the distance between your chest and his grin. The sight of his thrill was a white heat crawling under your skin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. His smirk was gasoline and your fury was a match. You wanted to end him.
Your hand moved before your rationale could catch up, with your fingers curling around the steak knife resting idly beside Matty's untouched breadbasket that he’d called for with the coffee. The cold steel bit into your palm in a grounding manner. You raised it high, every nerve alight, ready to slash that smug expression clean off his face.
But he was faster.
In a blur, his chair screeched back, and suddenly he was on you. His hand clamped around both your wrists, crushing them together as though you weighed nothing. The knife clattered uselessly to the floor and he kicked it away with precision before you could even process it.
And then came the impact.
Your back hit the paneled wall of his office hard enough to rattle a picture frame. The air whooshed from your lungs, anger morphing into something jagged. He had you pinned against the wall. Trapped. Matty’s grip was tight above your head and there was a sharp edge of control in his strength. His body leaned close, not touching yet, but still near enough that you felt the heat radiating off him as your chest heaved against the cage of his restraint.
“Careful, princess,” He murmured, his tone low, almost mocking but rougher now like gravel dragging across velvet. “Wouldn’t want you to get accidentally hurt, now do we?”
Your teeth bared. “Let me go.”
He only smiled. That infuriating, deliberate smile. His free hand rose slowly, fingers ghosting along your clenched fist before prying the phantom of the knife from your grasp, theatrically gentle. He smoothed over your clenched fist until it was open and then he tucked the invisible weapon away as if to say: See? Even when you fight, you willing hand it all to me.
The silence between you two pulsed. His thumb brushed the delicate inside of your wrist, a mockery of tenderness that made your stomach knot.
“You think violence makes you dangerous.” His face dipped closer, lips at the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a murmur only you could hear. “But violence doesn’t frighten me.”
Your wrists burned under his grip as you thrashed against him, your body bucking, teeth bared, every curse you knew tearing out of your throat but at his words your breath hitched, rage colliding with something hotter, messier and thoroughly more consuming.
“And that,” Matty said, finally loosening his grip just enough for your wrists to tremble in his hold, “Is why you came to me.”
“Fuck you, you smug, empty—”
He only tightened his hold and then with an unbothered roll of his shoulders, his mouth curved in that infuriating grin. “Temper, temper. I expected better composure from you, princess.” Matty tuts. “Doesn’t father dearest teaches you manners?”
You snarled, lunging but his body pinned you back once again, effortlessly.
“Oh, right,” He went on in that same unbothered tone as if he wasn’t manhandling you right now, “Maybe you’ve just inherited his taste for accidents. Little mishaps. Like people slipping through the cracks, right?”
Your blood roared in your ears. He was goading you again.
“Or maybe...” His mouth dipped toward yours, taunting, cruel, “You enjoy being the tragic daughter, all rage and lipstick, hiding the fact that your brother saw it before you ever did. Maybe that’s why he died... because you didn’t listen.”
The words sliced through you like glass. Your vision blurred, the edges reddening until you couldn’t see his smirk anymore, only the shadow of your brother’s face flashing like a ghost behind him.
SPLAT.
And when the haze of anger, you realised that you had just spat on him.
Your spit landed sharp and wet across his cheek, some of it sliding into his mouth. He stilled. For one horrible, suspended second, the world went quiet.
Then his hand slowly moved. Matty released one of your wrist to drag his thumb across his lower lip, smearing your spit and saliva as his tongue darted out deliberately to taste it. A mock-thoughtful expression crept across his face as he smacked his lips. “Oh,” He mumbled softly, almost delighted. “I liked that.”
Your stomach lurched. Your pulse screamed.
Then he leaned closer, mouth open, teeth bared, whispering with that madman’s glee:
“Do it again.”
Something inside you snapped.
Your forehead cracked against his nose with a brutal thud. Pain shot through your skull but the satisfaction was instant as you heard the crunch and felt the warm spray of blood across your cheekbone.
Matty stumbled back, finally letting you go, laughter tearing out of him in manic bursts. Not wounded laughter. Not angry. But the wild and unhinged laughter that was now echoing off the walls like something feral had just been let loose. Red bloomed everywhere. Blood streamed down his nose, slick across his mouth, staining his teeth. It dripped down his shirt, onto the floor. And he laughed harder.
You stood there, chest heaving, his blood hot on your skin, every inch of you trembling with rage and something far more dangerous that you refused to name. You were still trembling, your chest heaving, when you realized his blood was all over you. Hot streaks splattered across your cheekbone, even staining over your blouse.
Matty straightened slowly, strands of his slicked-back curls now hanging loose into his eyes. His face was a mess; nose streaming blood, teeth red, his shirt collar ruined. But instead of fury, instead of retribution, he was grinning. Widely and wildly. A grin too big for his face, pulling his mouth bloody at the corners.
He looked like an unhinged psycho straight out of hell and you’d put him there.
The laughter came again, ragged and manic, until he finally clapped his hands together like you’d just finished performing. The sharp sound cut through the heavy silence, making you flinch.
“Alright then,” He announced, his voice hoarse from laughing, as if the headbutt had never happened. His grin softened into something wickedly pleasant. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
You blinked at him, disoriented, fury still burning through your bloodstream, unable to reconcile the gore smeared across his face with the breezy tone he’d just adopted. But he didn’t wait for you to respond. He simply brushed past, steering you back toward the plush chair you’d abandoned, one hand briefly touching your elbow like you were his guest and not his sparring partner. You let him, your body too rattled to resist and your mind trying to catch up to his whiplash pace. You lowered yourself back into the chair. Slowly. Stiffly.
He was already moving around the office, maneuvering with a predator’s ease even while pinching the bridge of his nose, crimson staining his knuckles. He grabbed a tissue, dabbing casually at the blood, checking the angle of the swelling in the reflection of his glass-fronted cabinet.
“Thankfully, not broken,”He mused, almost to himself, his voice calm and businesslike. Another tissue. A splash of water. A crooked sniff. And all the while, those sharp brown eyes never stopped flicking back to you, as if your every twitch was another data point in whatever calculation he was making.
Finally, he dropped into the chair opposite yours again, his shirt collar ruined, his nose still bleeding faintly but his smile was now razor-thin.
“Now,” He said, folding his bloodied hands neatly in front of him, “Tell me. Why are you really here?”
The way he said it made your throat dry. The blood between you was still wet. The violence was still humming in your veins. And yet, he sounded like the conversation had only just begun.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your body was still taut with adrenaline, every nerve screaming to leave, to never step foot in this blood-stained office again. But Matty’s calm and casual movements like folding his hands neatly on the desk, dabbing at his ruined nose like it was an inconvenience and not an assault kept you rooted.
Heavy silence stretched between you two.
He waited, eyes trained on you like a cat watching a bird hover just out of reach. Somehow, his patience felt like it was worse than his laughter.
When you didn’t speak, he leaned back in his chair leisurely, one brow cocked. “What’s the matter, princess? Lost your tongue? I didn’t peg you as shy.”
You still said nothing.
He tapped his fingers on the table, each knock a needle against your skin. “So what is it that you really need my help for?” He began when he realised you won’t speak. “Daddy cut you off? Or did your friends stopped answering your calls? Or maybe...” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “...Maybe you finally got bored of playing the grieving sister.”
Your jaw tightened but you still didn’t speak up, knowing that if you spoke out of necessity in front of this man, something like before would happen again. You didn’t speak because speaking had always been a gamble. Words slipped out once, and they’d been twisted, weaponized, used against you. With him, silence was your only shield, the one thing that kept pieces of you he didn’t deserve from falling into his hands. So you sat still, letting your quiet defiance do the talking. But then, keeping silent also seemed like a mistake because Matty had took it upon himself to make your mask of faux civility crack again. This time, under his own terms.
Matty smirked, “Tell me, when you close your eyes, do you see father dearest? Or do you see him? Your stepfather’s hands, your brother’s face... I wonder which one haunts you more?”
Your nails bit into your palms. You wanted to claw his eyes out, to scream, to run but you sat there like a stone.
Matty tilted his head, watching you like a puzzle. “No? Alright then. Let’s try simpler.” His smile was razor-sharp, cruel. “Do you fuck to forget or do you fuck to punish? Because I’m guessing—”
“Stop.” The word ripped from you, sharper than you meant.
“Ah. There you are.” His smirk widened.
Your breath was shallow, fury rattling inside your chest. He was circling closer, slicing with every word and akin to a helpless lamb in front of a wolf, you couldn’t stop it.
“Go on,” He coaxed, softly now, in a mock-gentle manner, as though you were a child. “Say it. What do you want? What do you need my help for?”
And before you could stop yourself, before you could shove it back down, you heard your own voice, ragged, ugly, raw. It teared itself out of your chest like an animal which was visceral for vengeance.
“I want to kill him.”
The words scraped out of your throat like broken glass, each syllable tasting like fire and ash. Your chest heaved, and for a moment, the air itself felt heavy, charged with the weight of everything you’d swallowed for years. Fear prickled at the edges of your mind, but it was drowned out by something sharper like rage, pure and unsparing. Your jaw trembled, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table, and yet, even as the words hung there between you, you felt a flicker of something almost liberating. Saying it aloud made it real, terrifyingly real but also, somehow, it made you feel, finally, like yourself again.
Those five words landed between you and him like a gunshot.
Matty’s smile froze. Then, slowly, it spread even more. It was hungry, unholy and all-knowing. His bloodied lips parted, and his eyes lit with something terrible. A chill went up your spine as you stared at the man in front of you.
At last, he had you right where he had wanted.
“Good girl,” He praised you so softly, you almost thought you imagined it. Then in a louder and brisk voice, as though the confession of you wanting to kill your step-father was just another item ticked off his to-do list: “Alright. We’ll end this meeting here.”
Your head snapped up. “What—”
He was already reaching for a sleek card case and then he was sliding out a business card and laying it neatly on the table in between you two. The embossed letters gleamed under the lamplight: Matthew T. Healy, Corporate Finance Attorney. But before you could pick it up, he pulled a red pen from his pocket and with deliberate slowness, he scratched out the office number in a single, violent slash. Then, with that same pen, he scrawled ten digits in red ink across the white space.
His personal number.
“There,” He hummed in a pleased tone as he slid the card towards you with two fingers. “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. The old glasshouse off Hanover Square. Don’t be late.”
You blinked at him, still reeling from everything including the blood, the laughter, the confession you never meant to speak aloud. “That’s it? You’re not going to—”
But he was already standing, moving towards the door. “That’s it.”
It was so abrupt, so maddeningly anticlimactic, that you found yourself dazed, clutching the card like it was evidence in a crime.
Before you could slip past him, his hand caught your wrist again. This time his grip was not harsh but still firm enough to drag you back into his orbit. And you let him.
Matty tilted your face up, studying the streak of his blood across your cheek.
Then, with a grotesque parody of tenderness, he wet his thumb with his own spit and dabbed at your skin until the smear was gone. His touch lingered, warm against your jaw before he patted your cheek lightly.
“There,” He said, almost soothing. “Pretty again.”
He bent, retrieved your Chanel bag from the floor and handed it to you with a courtly flourish. Your mouth dropped open in a soft Oh as you realised you’d almost forgotten your bag there because of everything else that had happened in the past hour. Gingerly, you grabbed the bag and tucked in the card he’d handed you inside the bag. You were just about to step away from him when without waiting, Matty raised a hand and smoothed a strand of your hair back into place, fingers brushing along your temple, fixing you like you were a doll on display.
Only then did he open the door, ushering you out with a polite gesture, as though the last thirty minutes hadn’t been a descent into blood and madness.
The door shut behind you with a low click.
Inside, Matty exhaled, wiped the last of the blood from his nose, and chuckled low to himself.
“Well, look at that,” He muttered to himself, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Good breeding gone bad.”
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of lavender from the gardens as you made your way to the glasshouse Matty had told you about yesterday. It was a pretty building, tucked discreetly behind an ivy-covered wall off Hanover Square, its skeletal iron frame holding panes of glass that caught the sun and refracted it into fractured rainbows across the floor. Inside, brunch service was in full swing. Silver trays clinked with champagne flutes. The polite hum of laughter filled the air, underscored by the tinkling of piano keys.
You arrived exactly on time.
Your reflection followed you in the glass walls as you entered like a flawless mirage. You’d adorned a dress the color of bone-white satin that hugged your waist in a snug manner before spilling into a soft A-line fall that reached around your ankles. There was a delicate pearl choker at your throat paired with small diamond studs in your ears. Hair brushed sleek, parted with precision and tucked behind your ear like you were some obedient doll. Your lips were painted a muted cherry, not too brazen, not too coy. You looked like a woman who belonged to the brunch crowd, polished and perfect, the kind who never raised her voice, who never lost control.
But you both knew better. After all, the memory of yesterday was still fresh.
You spotted him immediately. Matty sat in the far corner where the sun spilled in most aggressively as it painted half his face in gold and leaving the other half in shadow. His curls were slicked back again, but unevenly this time as some rebellious strands still fell across his brow. His shirt was crisp, his blazer pressed but there was a faint swelling across the bridge of his nose from where you had headbutted him yesterday, a reminder of how violently the two of you had already touched each other. He looked like a man who had wrestled with someone and then gotten dressed for Sunday mass.
Matty’s eyes lifted the second he heard the precise click-clack of your heels as you walked towards where he was sitting.
The effect was instantaneous the moment you walked in. The hum of the brunch crowd dulled as though the air bent around your presence. Conversations halted momentarily, eyes tracked your every movement, half in admiration, half in hunger. These were the kind of looks you’d grown up with after being paraded like an ornament by your stepfather. But you didn’t falter. You didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your distaste. Instead, your lips tilted in a small, practiced and demure smile as you glided between tables as though this was your kingdom.
Matty watched it all, tapping one lazy finger against his champagne glass, his mouth curling into the faintest smirk. He saw what they saw: a doll, untouchable, porcelain perfection. But unlike them, he also knew what seethed beneath that façade of yours. He could still hear your snarl in his ears, still feel the sting of your slap on his cheek. His nose throbbed, a pulsing reminder of the animalistic violence that cracked had through your polished exterior a day prior.
When you reached him, Matty rose to his feet. But you knew him well enough to know that the action was not gallant neither was it courteous, just perfectly calculated to curate his image.
Matty’s gaze flicked down to your dress, lingered on the pearls at your throat and then met your eyes with insolent directness.
“You look like a walking funeral in Dior,” He drawled as he pulled out your chair for you. “Fitting.”
You sat without acknowledging the jab and smoothed your skirt following by crossing your ankles. You had masked your face with a mask of serenity. Only the flicker of your eyes betrayed your thought: Fuck you, Healy.
Once both you’d been seated, the waiter appeared with your champagne. Even though you didn’t as much as touch yours, Matty still raised his glass anyway, holding it in a mock-toast between you.
“To honesty and partnership.” He said and took a long sip.
You stared at him, the doll mask slipping for the briefest second. He wanted honesty? Fine. Inside, the memory of your brother’s shaking hands clawed at you, his words echoing like a curse: Let’s kill him, let’s kill them all.
Only if you’d known that the thirst for vengeance would throw you in front of a man like Matty. Now, here you were, in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by roses and polite laughter, dressed like a saint but bargaining like a sinner.
“Are you going to waste my time with theatrics,” You spoke up finally, voice precisely cutting through the soft clatter around you. Your tone was sharp and to-the-point, “Or are we going to address the real reason we’re here?”
Matty’s lips curled, slow and wolfish. He leaned back in his chair, eyes burning with that same terrible amusement as before.
“Of course, princess. Let’s get down to business.”
You held his gaze across the table, fingers lightly draped around the stem of your untouched champagne glass. You weren’t sure if the bile creeping up your throat was from hunger as you hadn’t eaten anything since last night or from the way he was looking at you like he’d already undressed your soul, picked through it and found something rotten enough to keep him interested.
“So.” Matty placed his elbows on the white tablecloth and leaned forward, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” You asked, though you knew deep down what he exactly wanted.
“How you’ve thought about killing father dearest.”
His words landed like a slap but his tone was gentle and coaxing as if he were asking about your favorite color. His fingers tapped idly against the table as though they had their own pulse, rhythmical, steady, lulling.
You swallowed hard, looking at anywhere but him and finally fixing your gaze on the sunlight fracturing across your glass. “I haven’t—”
“Don’t lie.” His interruption was swift. “Everyone who hates someone enough to declare the act of murder has imagined it at least once. Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured the bastard choking on his own tongue, or bleeding out in that ridiculous marble bathtub of his.”
A flicker passed through you. A memory. The bathtub. The way you once saw your stepfather sprawled in it, glass of scotch balanced dangerously on the porcelain rim, his chest hair matted with bathwater, his smug laughter bouncing off the walls when he caught you staring in disgust. You remembered how you had imagined him lying in the same bathtub but bleeding out from the slit in his neck and you watching as he choked on his own blood. A chill went up your spine as the memory resurfaced.
You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Matty tilted his head, studying you with that vulture’s patience. Then he leaned in closer and lowered his voice until it brushed against your skin like static.
“Shall I help you visualize, princess?”
Before you could answer, he began.
“Picture it. Him at his desk. His head snapping forward when the first blow lands. You don’t stop, of course, you can’t stop. His skull breaking under your hand, blood pouring down his smug little smile.” He paused once again, maybe for theatrics or maybe to take a breath before continuing, “Or maybe you’d prefer something slower. Like slipping something into his scotch, watching him claw at his throat while you sip yours.”
Your stomach twisted violently. To soothe yourself, you pressed a hand against it, nails digging crescent moons into your satin dress.
Matty saw it and immediately his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer. Then came the sound of the sharp tsk of his tongue against his teeth. He leaned back, sipping from his champagne, eyes glittering with cruelty as he watched your composure fray.
“If you can’t even imagine it...” His voice softened, coaxing again, almost tender. “...then you can’t do it.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass until you thought it might shatter. You met his gaze then, forcing yourself to hold it despite the bile rising like acid at the back of your throat.
“I can do it.” The words were low and venomous, dragged straight from the pit of your rage.
Matty’s expression shifted, just barely but the difference was enough. The smugness didn’t vanish rather it sharpened into something keener. He raised his glass again, once again mock-toasting you with a grin that was all teeth.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Spending your Saturday morning discussing ways to kill your father wasn’t exactly the ideal start to the day especially not with someone like Matty Healy. But alas, beggars can’t be choosers.
Matty toyed with the stem of his glass, turning it slowly between his fingers, the faint scrape of crystal on linen was loud enough to make your nerves hum.
“You know,” He began, eyes fixed on you, “I think you’d do well with something... intimate. Poison feels too clinical. Too detached. You’re not detached, are you?”
“I could be,” You shot back, voice clipped.
He hummed, low in his throat like he was humoring a child. Then without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward until the faint scent of his cologne( expensive, sharp, faintly medicinal) curled in your nose.
“Or maybe,” He continued, voice dropping an octave, “You’d like to use your hands. Wrap them around his throat. Feel the pulse kick against your palms while his eyes go wide as he begs you to spare him. You’d get to decide exactly when to stop. Or not stop.”
You froze, bile flooding your mouth but your pulse spiked all the same. The image seared itself into your brain, vivid and obscene. In some twisted way, the thought excited you and you hated Matty for it, hated yourself for not being able to tear your brain away from that scenario.
Matty noticed. Of course he noticed.
A slow grin unfurled across his lips, bloodied nose still faintly swollen, and he clicked his tongue again, mock-sympathetic. “What’s wrong, princess? Can’t stomach the thought? You can’t kill a man if you can’t even daydream about it.” He goaded you knowing well enough that you were getting a sick kind of pleasure from picturing yourself in a position of power over that wretched man.
Your nails dug into the satin at your thigh, deep enough to sting. “I said I can do it.”
“Then tell me.” His voice was like silk over a barbed wire. “How? How have you pictured it when you close your eyes at night? And don’t lie to me.”
You inhaled sharply, willing your voice not to shake. “I’ve imagined him... falling. Down the marble stairs. His skull cracking open like—” You cut yourself off, the grotesque image lodging in your throat.
Matty’s grin widened. He raised his champagne glass in lazy applause, the crystal catching the sunlight, spilling fractured rainbows across the tablecloth.
“There she is,” He murmured to himself.
And then, casually, cruelly, he pushed again. “Or maybe you want to watch him bleed out. A knife across the throat, arterial spray. Messy? Yes. But oh so satisfying. He’d never even see you coming.”
Your whole body lurched at the thought. Heat prickled under your skin. Revulsion, excitement, vengeance, rage and adrenaline all braided into one unbearable current.
Matty sat back, studying you with hooded eyes, his smirk curling wider when he noticed the way your breath hitched, the way your pupils dilated.
“You’re shaking.” His voice was gentle, mocking, coaxing. “Tell me, princess, is it from disgust... or excitement?”
You nearly slammed your glass down just to wipe that look off his face but you stopped yourself, clinging to composure like a drowning woman clings to driftwood. His gaze flicked to your lips, lingered there for a moment, then slid back to your eyes. He was enjoying this, turned on by it, by you, by the animal simmering just below your pearl-strung doll act.
Your stomach twisted violently, but the words came anyway, sharp and venomous: “Doesn’t matter how it happens but I will do it.”
For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and electric. Then Matty leaned back with a low chuckle, licking his bottom lip as though tasting something only he could savor.
“Good girl.” Matty wiped his thumb along the rim of his glass, studying the condensation bead down like a patient surgeon. “Fine then,” He said after two beats of silence. “Let’s plan.”
“Fine.” Your throat tightened but you nodded as you kept his stare from your end. You didn’t look away first, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand, that faint grin still clinging to his lips.
“Walk me through it. Step by step. Don’t think about the why. We already know the why. Think about the how. How would you kill him, if I wasn’t sitting here?”
You inhaled, lips parting, but no sound came. Your mind stuttered between flashes: marble floors slick with blood, the sound of a body tumbling down stairs, a bathtub stained red. You swallowed hard.
“I’d...” Your voice faltered. He arched an eyebrow, waiting. “I’d wait until he’s drunk,” You answered finally, the words forced through clenched teeth. “He always drinks himself stupid. I’d catch him when he stumbles upstairs. Push him. Make it look like a fall.”
Matty tilted his head, considering. “Hm. Clean. Plausible. But stairs are unpredictable. He might just sprain his neck. And then what? You’ll be in his debt forever, spoon-feeding him porridge like a nurse.”
The image made your stomach knot.
“Try again,” He said smoothly, taking a sip of champagne. “Think sharper.”
You glared at him but the bile in your throat had curdled into something else now. Adrenaline. Hate. “I could... I could poison him like you said before,” Your voice was lower this time. “His scotch. He never notices anything once he’s a few drinks in. He’d swallow death like water.”
Matty’s lips curled, exposing teeth. “Better. That’s the princess brain. Poison is neat. Elegant. But...” His eyes glittered. “It’s also cowardly. You wouldn’t get to watch him choke. And I have a feeling that you want to feel his demise.”
Your heart lurched in your chest at his words as you realised just how right he was. The air between you felt thick, heavy, charged. You realized your nails had left tiny half-moons in your palm.
Matty leaned back, stretching his legs beneath the table until one brushed yours in a deliberate action. “Tell me something, darling. Do you just want him gone or do you want him to suffer?”
Your chest rose sharply, lips parting before you could stop yourself. “...Suffer.”
“What was that? Couldn’t hear ya.” Matty tilted his head slightly to the side with a faux confused expression.
You clenched your jaw but spoke up louder than the last time, “I said, I want him to suffer.”
His grin spread, slow and wolfish, as though you’d given him the right answer.
“Atta girl,” He murmured again with a proud grin.
The air was thick between you now, your “suffer” hanging like poison, the unspoken plan coiling tighter around you both.
Just then, the waiter appeared with both of your food. Barely twenty, if that. His bow tie was slightly crooked, his cheeks still round with youth. He set down plates with trembling hands, sneaking glances at you like you were a starlet caught slumming it with mortals.
You rewarded him with a polite smile, soft and practiced. “Thank you,” You said, your voice pitched perfectly sweet. A stark contrast from how you’d been speaking with Matty. The boy’s ears turned pink and he nearly tripped over himself while retreating.
Matty didn’t miss a thing.
The second the boy was gone, Matty tipped his head towards you with a hooded gaze and a lazy smirk. “So polite,” He murmured. “Absolutely sweet. You almost had me fooled.”
You rolled your eyes, lifting your glass just enough to wet your lips. “Not everything is an act, Matty.”
“Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet, threaded with amusement. And then very subtly yet deliberately you felt the first brush of his shoe against your ankle.
You froze.
He didn’t.
The tip of his polished leather traced up your calf, slow and languid, as he cut into his Egg Benedict like nothing was happening. His eyes flicked down your neckline, then back up, smirk deepening as he slid his foot higher, over your knee, up till it reached the inside of your thigh.
Your pulse spiked as heat seared under your skin despite the disdain that still coiled in your gut. Your throat bobbed but you held his gaze, refusing to squirm, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted though your fingers tightened around your glass until you feared it would shatter for real this time.
Matty arched an eyebrow, pretending to study the food the waiter had set down, his expression composed, almost bored. Only the faintest curl of his lips betrayed the game.
“You play polite for the help,” He said lightly, running his shoe higher, pressing just enough to make you shift in your seat. “But not for me. I feel hurt, sweetheart.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to slap him again. You wanted to shove him away. You wanted, God help you, to let him keep going. There was a part of you that just wanted him to press his foot higher and higher until it reached that sweet spot between your panties.
Matty smirked as he bit into his dish, the faint swelling of his nose catching the sunlight. The same nose you’d bloodied. The same mouth that had dared you to imagine your stepfather’s death. And now you were sitting there fantasising about what else that mouth of his could do to you.
“Mmh,” Matty hummed as he chewed, withdrawing his shoe at last, leaving a ghost of pressure burning on your skin. “This is good. You should eat too. Planning patricide works up an appetite.”
Your fork trembled in your hand. You stabbed a bite of food just to prove you weren’t rattled but your throat was dry and your pulse thundered against the pearl choker at your neck and you were also pretty well aware and ashamed of the dampness in between your thighs.
On the other hand, Matty looked perfectly composed, as if he hadn’t just pressed his foot against the inside of your thigh in a sunlit glasshouse surrounded by polite society.
“You’re awfully quiet now,” he murmured after swallowing, swirling his champagne. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t expect me to play with my food before eating it?”
Your fork hovered in midair, your lips parting with a sharp retort
“You’re disgusting,” You told him, even as your thighs pressed tighter together under the table, remembering the ghost of his shoe against your skin.
He dragged his tongue briefly over his bottom lip then chuckled almost idly.
You shifted in your seat, trying to hide the heat crawling up your neck. His words sank too deep, pressed too close to something you didn’t want to name.
You hated the way your body betrayed you. Every brush of his shoe against your skin, every low drawl of his voice as he called you sweetheart, all of it was pulling something out of you you swore you didn’t have.
By the second, your chest was tightening, thighs clenching, a shameful warmth beginning to curl low in your stomach. You dug your nails into your palm beneath the table. He was older, smug, unhinged, and it was making you—
No. Stop!
You snapped your gaze up, willing yourself to breathe. “Why?” You asked abruptly, voice too sharp, too sudden. At this point, you were desperate to distract yourself with anything. “Why are you even helping me?”
Matty stilled with his forked raised halfway to his lips. For a moment he looked amused that you’d tried to wrestle back control. He leaned back, swirling the champagne lazily, as though considering just how much to give you.
“Helping you?” He echoed, feigning innocence. “That’s a generous word.” His eyes glittered, studying your face. “I’m not a good Samaritan, darling. I don’t do helping.”
He tilted his head, grey strands of curls finally falling out of their slick, brushing across his forehead. “I just want to see him fall,” He admitted “Your stepfather. I want to watch the empire he’s built crack apart. Men like him, men with too much power, too much money and too little intelligence, they always think they’re untouchable. It’s boring.” He sneered, setting the utensil down with a clink. “I like proving men like him wrong.”
Your throat felt dry. “So it’s revenge?”
He smirked as his elbows came to rest on the table now. “Revenge, profit, fun. Take your pick. It’s all the same in the grand scheme of things.”
The waiter returned to refill your champagne; Matty didn’t look away from you once. When the boy stumbled over a compliment about your dress, you forced a polite smile but under the table you felt the sharp nudge of Matty’s shoe again. This time even forceful as it climbed higher.
“And then there’s you,” Matty murmured once the waiter was gone, his eyes narrowing, hungry. “Daughter of the house. A perfect porcelain doll with cracks already running deep. You’re not just a means to an end, love. You’re the delicious accident in the middle of the wreck.”
Your nails dug harder into your palm. He was too close, too honest, too obscene.
“Helping you?” He repeated again, softer this time, almost gentle. “No, princess. I’m helping myself. You just happen to be the prettiest weapon I’ve ever held.”
You nearly snapped your fork in half. He watched with that infuriating smirk, eyes glittering with the same cruel amusement as when he’d made you say suffer.
“It’s just my luck that you want your father to be punished,” He mused silkily, his voice threading under your skin like smoke. “And you want me to be the one who helps you kill him.”
Your stomach twisted violently. The pearls at your throat felt like a leash. You hated him. You wanted him. You hated how much you wanted him.
That was the trouble with girls like you who always ended up on older men’s laps with blood on your hands.
It was 2 a.m, the moon looked romantic, and unfortunately, so did the memory of Matty Healy’s shoe shoved between your thighs.
The moonlight fell pale and cold across your bedroom, spilling in through the sheer curtains. Everything about the space was curated from the ivory silk sheets to the crystal lamp on the bedside and the faint scent of roses lingering from the diffuser. You should have been at peace.
Instead, your pulse was a drum in your throat.
You lay back against the mountain of pillows, hair brushed to a shine, skin soft and faintly glowing from the hours-long nightly skincare ritual you never skipped. The silk camisole clung to your body, whispering against bare skin each time you shifted. A vision of perfection and elegance, just as you had been taught to be.
And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
You pressed your palms flat against the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut. His voice wouldn’t leave you. The smug lilt of “good girl”, the mocking timbre when he called you a doll with cracks, the deliberate slide of his shoe pressing into the softness of your inner thigh while he smirked into his champagne.
Your thighs pressed together.
“Goddamn it,” You whispered into the silence, as if cursing yourself could banish it. It didn’t. The shame only curled tighter, searing hotter.
Your hand drifted up, almost without permission, fingertips skimming over the swell of your breast through the silk. You gasped when you brushed the hardened peak of your clothed breasts, immediately squeezing your thighs tighter at the sensation while simultaneously trying to suffocate the ache instead of feeding it. It didn’t work.
You bit your lip, thumb and forefinger rolling over your nipple through the thin fabric. The jolt of sensation made your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat. You hated how much you craved the edge of pain Matty had teased out of you earlier, how you imagined his mouth wrapping around your breast instead of your own hand.
Heat pooled low, insistent, gnawing. You rubbed your thighs together again, desperate for any kind of friction. Your pajama shorts rode higher with each movement.
You shouldn’t do this. You knew you shouldn’t.
Thinking of him this way: Matty with his bloody grin, Matty with his cruel tongue, Matty who looked at you like you were nothing more than a weapon. It was vile. It was dangerous. But it was all you could think about.
You pinched your nipple sharply and the moan that spilled from you shattered every last barrier of shame.
Your body was already betraying you, aching for more.
Every nerve seemed strung too tight, thrumming with an anticipation you couldn’t ignore any longer. It was pure lust that crawled under your skin, leaving your hands restless, searching for release.
The silk was too soft, too yielding beneath your palm as it slid lower. You traced lazy, trembling circles over your stomach, hovering just above the hem of your shorts, as if taunting yourself with the hesitation. Your breaths came shallow, shallow and ragged, like even air had become too indulgent.
“Pathetic,” You muttered under your breath, your own voice hoarse, as if calling yourself out would stop it. It didn’t. Your hand slipped lower, resting over the heat in between your thighs, pressing down just enough to make your hips twitch.
Shame burned hotter than the arousal but you could not bring yourself to stop. Every brush of your fingers through silk made you imagine his hand instead. The image behind your eyelids was of Matty’s rings caressing your skin, his palm pressing you down, his voice in your ear, low and mocking: “Nasty girl. Can’t even keep those legs still, can you?”
Your legs parted before you realized it.
You dragged your hand higher again, deliberately slow, cupping the swell of your breast once more, thumb circling your nipple until it was aching. Then back down, fingertips teasing along the waistband, never dipping beneath. You gasped, biting your lip so hard it stung. The back of your mind hissed with self-loathing, but your body and rationale was already gone.
When you finally let your fingers slip under the shorts, the fabric dampened instantly. The slick heat made you groan, your head tipping back against the pillows. Two fingers traced through your folds, feather-light, almost unbearable in their teasing touch.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
You circled your clit lazily, deliberately shallow, the kind of touch that left you whimpering rather than sated. Because you weren’t touching yourself anymore, not really.
In your head, it was Matty.
His roughened thumb pressing against you, his cruel patience making you beg for more. You could see the smirk curling against his plush pink lips, hear the low chuckle vibrating in his chest as you writhed beneath him.
Your hips lifted into your hand, chasing the high pressure, chasing something you weren’t sure you wanted to admit. Your free hand tugged the camisole down, baring your breast to the cool air, fingers pinching and rolling your nipple until your back arched and pathetic mewls left your swollen lips.
The room was silent but for your gasps and the wet sound of your fingers sliding over your wet cunt sloppily.
“Matty,” You moaned before you could stop yourself. The name slipped out like both a confession and a sin (and maybe even a curse).
Your fingers pressed harder. With your free hand you pinched the neglected bundles of nerves that sent your brain into a hazy overdrive. Your thighs trembled. Bile and heat mixed in your throat. You were disgusted. You were aroused. But most of all, you were unraveling.
You teased your entrance with two fingers, circling, pushing in just barely, enough to feel the pulse of your own need to clench around them. The pace was maddeningly slow, each shallow thrust dragging slick across your folds, building, building, never breaking.
Your imagination betrayed you again. Once again, it was no longer your own hand but his. No longer your bedroom but his office with your back slammed against the wall and his mouth nipping at your earlobe. Matty’s voice threaded through your skull like barbed wire: “Filthy little doll. Look at you, huh. S'already wet.”
You bit down on your tongue, stifling a cry as your hips jerked up, chasing the release of an orgasm faster than before.
Your fingers were no longer teasing; they were thrusting inside of your cunt in a frenzy. Slick, needy and obscene sounds filled the quiet of your bedroom as you fucked yourself with your own hand, chasing the inevitable. The silk of your shorts was shoved down around your thighs, twisted and forgotten. Your other hand kneaded at your breast, pinching, rolling, tugging as if to punish yourself for every moan that slipped past your bitten lips.
You pictured Matty’s hand moving inside you, his thumb pressing down cruelly on your clit while he whispered filth into your ear. His laugh low and deranged, canines glinting as he grinned down at you.
“Matty,” You gasped, louder this time. “Matty, fuck, Matty—”
Your hips jerked violently against your hand, clenching around your own fingers, the orgasm rising sharp and unstoppable—
Until the shrill sound of your phone cut through the haze.
You ignored it, eyes clamped shut, hips bucking faster. But the ringing didn’t stop. Again. Again. Again.
It rang incessantly.
And it was driving you mad.
With a furious huff, you grabbed the phone off the nightstand, not even looking at the screen to see who’d called at this unholy hour. You pressed the phone to your ear, breath ragged, fingers still working between your thighs, slower now, softer, trying to keep yourself just on the brink.
“What?” You snapped into the speaker
And then you froze when the voice came.
“Now, princess...” The voice purred, smooth as sin, amused and cutting all at once. “That isn’t the way to speak to someone older than you.”
Fuck. It was Matty.
Your blood turned to ice and fire all at once. Your mouth fell open in a gasp, your hips stuttering mid-thrust. His voice hummed through the receiver like a current, low and lazy, as if he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Breathe, love,” He continued, his tone mock-gentle. “What has got you all worked up, hmm?”
Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it through the line. Your fingers hovered inside you, trembling. Your hand slowed between your thighs, shame and need tangling until you could hardly breathe.
“N-nothing.” It came out as a weak stutter and Matty hummed in response.
The vibrations of his voice went straight down to your throbbing pussy and you bit back a moan. Your fingers stuttered inside of your cunt before slowly starting to pick up the pace once again.
You should stop, you knew you should stop, but his voice slid down the line like your most vile fantasy and your body refused to obey.
“Where did you- you get my number?” You managed in between abusing your clit, breathless, your voice shaking. “I n-never gave it to you.”
Another low hum, vague and amused, buzzed through the receiver. “I have my ways.” He didn’t elaborate, of course. He never did. That was the worst part.
You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers resuming their lazy circles over your clit, dragging slick along your folds. His voice filled your ear, filled your head and it drowned out all the previous shame. You weren’t listening to what he was saying anymore. Instead you were listening to him, every cadence, every drawl, every sly little pause that scraped against your nerves like velvet-wrapped knives.
“Oh fuck— Matty...” You whimpered, hips bucking, head tilting back against the pillows as your fingers brushed against that sweet spot of your genitalia.
Immediately the line went silent.
The sudden absence of his voice made your stomach drop as you realised what you had just blabbered out loud. Mortification filled you instantly.
Then, a flat and serious voice, cut through the static:
“Are you fucking yourself?”
Your body went rigid. “W-what?”
“You are.” His tone didn’t lift, didn’t play. “Aren’t you?”
The words hit like a whip. You froze, humiliated and mortified, wishing the earth would swallow you whole. Your hand slipped away, hovering uselessly over your soaked thighs. You opened your mouth to stammer out an excuse, to hang up, to say anything to save yourself from more embarrassment.
But before you could’ve said anything, his breath came harsh through the speaker, a groan laced with disbelief and hunger. A curse hissed between his teeth.
“Fuck, princess.”
Your breath hitched.
“You are fucking yourself,” He repeated, voice low now, guttural, like he was talking to himself as much as to you. “You’re moaning my name, touching yourself to the thought of me—” A sharp inhale. A chuckle, rough, broken. “Christ, I can hear you.”
You squeezed your thighs together, shame burning down your spine but your hand betrayed you, sliding back down, pressing against yourself again because his voice, God his voice, was too much.
The line went quiet for a heartbeat, only his ragged breathing breaking it. Then, slow, deliberate, each word dripping with dark command:
“Send a picture.”
Your silence stretched too long. Your breath caught in your throat, panic lacing with arousal and you couldn’t get a word out.
On the other end, Matty made a low, disapproving noise. A sharp click of his tongue, then his voice dropped lower and rougher.
“Did I fucking stutter?” He tutted in a stern manner, the bite in his tone making your thighs clench. “I said send me a picture.”
Your stomach lurched. You scrambled, dropping the phone against your chest as you shifted on the bed, eyes darting to the ceiling mirror. A blessing and a curse. It was one of those stupid rich people luxuries you’d always sneered at. Now it was salvation.
You angled your body, legs parted just enough, camisole straps sliding further down your shoulders. The mirror caught everything from the glossy spill of your hair over the silk pillow to the flush of your sweaty sheen on your skin and the way your hand hovered between your thighs with fingers glistening with your arousal.
You snapped the picture, heart hammering, and before you could second-guess yourself, you sent it.
The phone buzzed immediately with his incoming breath. A low, guttural sound that made your stomach twist.
But you weren’t done. Not when his voice still rang in your head, not when shame and heat made your fingers move without thinking. You hooked your thumb in your discarded silk panties, dragging them into view on the bed, camisole bunched low to bare your breasts. Your other hand teased between your legs, fingers spreading slick just enough for the camera to catch.
Another photo. Sent.
Silence.
Then, through the speaker, a sharp, shuddering exhale. And then a wheezing laugh that was half broken, half unhinged.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matty muttered, his voice strangled, as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Look at you...” He trailed off, groaning. You could hear the scrape of his rings against the receiver, the shift of fabric, the unmistakable rasp of him palming himself on the other end.
“You’re going to ruin me, princess.”
And then you heard it. The sharp metallic clink of a belt unfastening. The rasp of leather sliding free. The rustle of fabric as trousers were shoved down.
Your heart lurched into your throat.
And then the unmistakable sound: Matty’s low groan; half-pained, half-pleasured, the wet sound of his palm dragging slow over himself.
“You hear that?” He murmured into the phone breathlessly, voice thick and labored, even as he tried to mask it with that same mocking lilt. “That’s what you did to me, princess.”
Your thighs clenched around your hand, your slick fingers pressing harder against your clit.
“Now,” He said, quieter, “Tell me. What were you thinking about when you were touching yourself?”
The shame hit you in a hot wave. You squeezed your eyes shut, lips trembling, throat tight. “I—”
“Don’t get shy on me,” He interrupted, voice sharp. The sound of him stroking himself punctuated every word. “I want to hear all of the things my nasty girl was imagining.”
Your breath hitched. “I was—” You swallowed hard. “I was thinking it was you.”
A strangled groan tore down the line. You imagined his head tipping back, curls falling in his face, jaw locked tight.
“That’s my good girl,” He rasped, the praise broken through gritted teeth. “What else? What did you want me to do?”
Your fingers were moving faster now, deeper than before as your hips stuttered. “I wanted—” You gasped as your hips bucked. “I wanted your hands. The way you touched me before. Rough.”
“Fuck.” His voice cracked, the slick sound of him stroking himself faster filling your ear. “Keep talking.”
You bit your lip until it stung, eyes rolling back. “Wanted you to pin me. Wanted you to keep me still, Matty—”
He cursed, loud this time, no longer in control. And then, through his groans, his voice dropped to a growl, commanding:
“Yeah? Touch that pretty cunt for me, princess.”
You bit back a moan at his words, your fingers slipped lower again, knuckles pressing tight against your pussy as you gasped into the phone. The sound of Matty’s ragged breathing in your ear was enough to make your head spin. You couldn’t hold back the moans now. The sounds kept spilling out one after the other as you worked yourself toward the edge.
“Are you close, baby?”
“Yes— Hnngh. I’m so so so close.” The words came tumbling out before you could stop yourself.
“Really?” The tone was faux sweet before his voice snapped sharp, cutting clean through your haze. “Don’t you dare cum.”
Your body seized.
The silence after was unbearable. You froze, fingers still buried inside you, chest heaving.
“Did you hear me, princess?” His tone was low, deadly calm. The slick sound of him stroking himself slowed but didn’t stop. “I said. Stop.”
Shame clawed through your stomach. You pulled your hand away with a shaky whimper, thighs trembling as the sudden lack of friction burned worse than fire. You murmured out a pathetic confirmation that you’d obeyed him.
“That’s better.” His sigh was dark, satisfied. “Now. You don’t get to touch that pretty little cunt until you tell me everything.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “I-I can’t. Please please please let me cum.”
“Yes, you can.” The clink of his ring against the phone was heard through the speaker as he shifted. “Good girls don’t touch themselves without permission, yeah? You want to be good, don’t you?”
Your breath caught. His voice wrapped around you like a noose.
“You want me to let you come, princess?” His groan bled into a laugh, twisted, breathless. “Then you’re going to tell me what you thought about. Every dirty little detail. Every way you imagined me fucking you.”
You whimpered, thighs clenching tight together, the ache unbearable.
“Say it,” He urged, his tone sharpening, desperate and cruel in the same breath. “What did you imagine? Was it my fingers? My mouth? Or was it my cock splitting you open?”
Your chest heaved, lips trembling as you imagined him thrusting into you. “All of it,” You mumbled, tears pricking your eyes. “I imagined all of it.”
A guttural groan tore down the line, raw and wrecked. He was losing control too, but his voice still lashed like a whip:
“Then fucking tell me how.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. Your thighs rubbed together desperately but you didn’t dare touch yourself again, not after his voice had dropped like that. Not after he’d made it clear you were his to control, even here, even now.
“Matty...” You whimpered, shame dripping down your throat. “Please.”
“Please what, princess?” His breathing was heavy, labored, his strokes rough enough you could hear the slick through the phone. “Use your words. You want to come? Then beg for it. Like a good girl.”
Your chest heaved, tears spilling hot down your temples as you writhed against the sheets. “I need it. Please, I need to—”
A sharp tsk. “Not good enough.” His voice was a growl now, dark and commanding. “Beg properly. Or I’ll hang up and then you’ll sit there dripping with a ruined orgasm.”
Your breath hitched on a sob. The shame was unbearable but the need worse. “Matty— Please, let me come. I-I promise I’ll be a good girl. I need it so bad. Please.” You choked out. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Just, Fuck! Please, I can’t—”
A low, satisfied chuckle rumbled down the line, broken by a guttural groan. “There’s my good girl. How can I refuse when you’re being like this?”
You sobbed in relief, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
“Now listen carefully,” Matty breathed out in between jerking off on the other side. “I’m going to tell you how to touch yourself, and you’re going to do it exactly how I say. Understand?”
“Yes,” Tou whispered, frantic. “Yes.”
“Good girl.” His voice softened but it only made it worse, so much worse. “Take those pretty fingers, the same ones you sent me in that photo and slide them back over your clit. Slow circles. Don’t rush. Make me hear the mess you’re making.”
You obeyed instantly, slick sounds filling the quiet of your bedroom and his groan in response told you he was listening, jerking himself off to the noise of you following his orders.
“Good. Now two fingers inside. Push them deep. Curl them up— Yeah, just like that. Fuck yourself for me. Let me hear how wet you are.”
A broken sob tore from your chest as your body obeyed, hips bucking into your own hand.
“That’s it,” He rasped, his voice unraveling with every word. “Fuck yourself like I would. Say my name while you do it.”
“Oh God! Matty..,” You cried, over and over, his name tumbling out again and again like a mantra. Your body was a complete mess of sweat and slick, thighs trembling as you fucked your fingers inside of you the way he told you. His voice was molten in your ear, rasping filth between grunts as he pumped himself on the other end.
“Yeah, that’s it, princess,” Matty growled. “Finger yourself nice and deep. Pretend it’s my dick splitting you open. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me fucking that tight cunt till you’re dumb and cockdrunk.”
“Nngh— Yes, fuck yes,” You mewled out, nails of your other hand pinching your nipples meanly. You shouldn’t say it, you knew you shouldn’t but your brain was fogged and your mouth faster than your coherent thoughts. “W-wish it was your cock, daddy.”
The sound that came from Matty was like a growl torn straight from his chest.
“Oh, you filthy little slut.” He sounded wrecked, voice darker than you’d ever heard. “You don’t even know what you just fucking did.”
Your heart hammered in your throat. “Matty—”
“No. Not Matty.” His tone was sharp, almost feral. You could hear the belt buckle again, the furious slick of him pumping harder, faster. “Say it again.”
You hesitated for a beat, thighs clenching.
“Say it again,” He snarled, guttural, every word dripping with lust. “Call me what you just called me.”
Shame burned you alive, but you were too far gone to stop. “...Daddy.”
He groaned so loud you had to pull the phone from your ear, the sound ragged, obscene. When he came back to himself, his voice was low, feverish, edged with danger.
“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My nasty girl. Spread yourself wide and imagine Daddy crawling over you, pinning those wrists like I did in my office. You remember that, don’cha? You wanted to stab me but really you wanted me to fuck you into the wall.”
You gasped, fingers shoving deeper, faster. “Aa-ahh, oh my God—”
“Not God. There’s no God here, love. Only me.” His laugh was crazed, unhinged, all teeth.
The filthy chorus of your moans tangled with the brutal rhythm of his grunts, phone hot against your ear. Your thighs shook violently, sheets sticking to your damp skin as you obeyed him, every nerve wired into his voice. Your lips moved just as relentlessly as your fingers as you kept blabbering out nonsense.
“That’s it. Fuck your fingers like the needy little whore you are.” His words came out strangled like he was losing the fight with himself. “Bet you’re dripping, huh? Bet you’re making a mess all over those expensive sheets. Daddy should be there lapping it up... Make you lick it off my tongue.”
“D-Daddy, please—,” You felt that pleasure building in your abdomen now, sweat streaking your temple, your hips rutting upward against your fingers desperately. “Haah, oh fuck,” You whimpered, and that was it. He groaned so loud it rattled your brain, the vibrations going straight down to your cunt.
Your hand was a blur between your thighs as your fingers curled inside you to hit that sweet spot while his filthy commands pushed you deeper and deeper. “Deeper, doll, fuck yourself deeper, ’kay. Imagine it’s my cock stretching you till you’re split wide.”
“Y-yes, daddy, please!” Your voice cracked, raw with need.
On the other end, you could hear him unraveling, the frantic slap of skin against skin, the guttural curses. “Fucking Christ, You’re ’re gonna kill me. My perfect doll fucking herself to my voice— God, I’m so close.”
You moaned his name over and over like a prayer, hips stuttering as the coil inside you finally snapped. The orgasm ripped through you in violent lurches. You blabbered and moaned into the phone, hands clutching at your sheets as you keep convulsing around your own fingers.
Matty came with you, a wrecked groan shattering into curses as his breathes stuttered. You swore you could hear him spill, could imagine the hot mess he was making of himself, undone by the thought of you.
The line went quiet except for the sound of you both gasping, trying to catch your breathes in your separate rooms but bound together in something far darker than lust.
“Knew you’d sound so pretty like that when you came...” Came his voice: hoarse, smug, still dripping with lust.“Sleep well, princess,” He added before hanging up just like that, leaving you trembling, sticky and absolutely wrecked in your bed.
The line cut dead, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breaths in the dark. The silence pressed in like a weight, and suddenly it hit you what you had just done.
You sat up on your bed, night suit clinging to your damp skin, hair sticking to your cheeks. Mortification crashed over you like a tidal wave. You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, as if you could shove the moans, the begging, the desperate “daddy” back inside.
You’d just... touched yourself to him. To Matty Healy. Your stepfather’s not-so-loyal lapdog. A man you barely trusted, a man you should hate.
Your phone buzzed.
You froze, stomach dropping, shame curdling deeper. The screen lit up.
Unknown:
We’ll talk more about the plan tomorrow. I’ll bring something for you to read.
Your chest tightened. A breath of relief passed your lips as you read the tone of text that was professional and clean. Okay, maybe he was pretending this never happened. Despite the small pang of disappointment, you steeled yourself to do the same. Pretend you didn’t just—
Another buzz.
Unknown:
Next time, I’d prefer to fuck you myself.
Your throat closed. Heat raced through you, burning over the shame, twisting it into something worse. The message glared up at you, smug, filthy, undeniable.
And then, as if to kill you completely:
Unknown:
I do hope there’s a next time...
Your thumb hovered over the glowing screen, rereading the message until the words blurred.
A hollow laugh slipped from your throat, bitter and shaky, breaking the suffocating silence of your bedroom. You tossed the phone face-down onto the nightstand like it burned, pressing both hands into your face.
“...I’m fucked,” You whispered to no one, the words muffled against your palms.
The sheets clung to your skin, the ghost of his voice was still echoing in your ears, his commands wrapped around your body like a chokehold. Your body was still thrumming, restless, unsatisfied but your mind was screaming at you to get a grip.
You pulled the blankets over your head, hiding in darkness, as if it could smother out the truth.
You were supposed to be planning a murder.
Instead, you were fantasizing about fucking the man helping you do it.
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September 3, 20XX | by Kpop Writes
Nation’s Darling [Y/N L/N] Swept Up In International Dating Rumors with The 1975’s Matty Healy After Seen Wearing Matching “Couple” Shirts Raising Speculation?
FACE CLAIM. kang seulgi
GENRE. social media au, fluff, kpop idol!reader, secret relationship au
NOTE. this is purely a self indulgent fic because there aren’t many matty smaus and like almost none with poc (especially asian) mcs so i wanted to make something like this for a long time. might even convert this into a small series depending upon how well it’s received because i love this pairing so much hehe <3
INSTAGRAM, september 01
❤️ by trumanblack, m.by_sana & 1.2M others
itsyn 냠냠 ☕️🥨
(translation. yum yum)
VIEW ALL 191,122 COMMENTS
user05 thank you for blessing us with healing visuals today, mother 🙏🛐
user44 did i save these photos or did these photos save me?
user16 这件米奇的衣服也太萌了吧 !
(trans. that mickey shirt is way too cute!)
user27 there’s a reason why she’s called THE darling of korea
➥ user78 oh fr she’s the blueprint for all the girlfriend/boyfriend coded idols nowadays
➥ user34 yn aka the og kpop gf 😩
user33 아침 드라마에 나올 법한 비주얼이야 ♡
(trans. you look like you came out of a morning drama)
user89 wait... am i tripping or is that matty fucking healy lurking in her likes 😃
➥ user11 you’re not tripping 😭😭 it is him
user24 민낯 맞아? 진짜 요정이네 🧚♀️✨️
(trans. is this barefaced? you’re literally a fairy)
user12 i am sorry but THAT MICKEY SHIRT LOOKS FAMILIAR 👀
➥ user06 wait hold on… isn’t that…
➥ user45 LMAOOOOOO I JUST REMEMBERED THE RADIO 1 INTERVIEW WHERE MATTY WORE THIS
➥ user76 👁️👄👁️
➥ user11 STOP he’s also in the likes 💀
➥ user58 if this is real idk how to process it HELP
➥ user33 디스패치 벌써 준비하고 있을 듯 ㅋㅋㅋ
(trans. dispatch is probably packing their cameras already LOL)
user46 currently sending thoughts and prayers to yn’s fanbase cause i know they need them
Beloved K-pop soloist idol and global sensation [Y/N L/N], often referred to as the Nation’s Darling for her bright bubbly image and charming personality, is currently making headlines for finding herself at the center of unexpected dating rumors — this time not with a fellow idol, actor, or national athlete but with the British musician Matty Healy, frontman of the band The 1975.
The buzz began after [Y/N] uploaded a seemingly innocent Instagram photo late last night. In the photo, the idol is seen posing cutely with a coffee mug during her vacation in London, wearing an oversized Mickey Mouse graphic T-shirt. Fans quickly noted the shirt looked oddly familiar. Shortly after, fans and netizens began pointing out that the shirt strongly resembled one worn by Matty Healy in a past broadcast appearance.
Netizens with sharp eyes soon dug up a past Instagram story of Matty Healy, in which he was wearing what appears to be the exact same Mickey Mouse shirt while taking a mirror selfie in a lift.
[Left side: Y/N’s post | Right side: Matty’s story]
“It’s not just similar. It’s literally the same shirt. Look at the faded print on the sleeve,” one fan commented on Twitter. “Dispatch, do your thing,” another added, as speculation quickly spread across online communities with phrases such as “Couple Shirt” and “Nation’s Darling Dating Rumors” started trending both domestically and internationally.
While some fans argue that the similarity may simply be coincidence saying “It’s just a shirt, people” others believe the shirt indicates a closer relationship between the two stars.
Representatives for [Y/N]’s agency, SM Entertainment, have yet to release a statement, while The 1975’s management has also remained silent.
While [Y/N] is known for her squeaky-clean, girl-next-door image, Healy’s reputation could not be more different — a rockstar famous for his controversial stage antics, gritty lyrics and unapologetic personality. Fans are torn between shock, excitement, and concern.
Some international fans expressed disbelief:
“There’s NO WAY the Nation’s Darling is dating Matty Healy of all people.”
“Opposites attract?? This is insane if true.”
“I never thought I’d see K-pop Twitter and The 1975 fandom collide like this.”
“What if it’s just a similar shirt yall not everything is deep 😭”
“Matty Healy dating [Y/N] would actually be the most random crossover of all time”
Meanwhile, Korean netizens have mixed feelings:
“She’s our sweetheart but he seems too wild for her.”
“If she’s happy, I’ll support it.”
“It’s just a shirt... RIGHT ㅠㅠ please tell me it’s just a shirt”
“If this is real, then this is the worst day for Korean men nationwide.”
“First the shirt… what’s next? Couple rings? Airport photos? ㅋㅋㅋㅋ”
Neither SM Entertainment nor The 1975’s representatives have released statements yet, but Dispatch sources say the shirt connection is too coincidental to ignore.
With one Instagram post, [Y/N] has managed to spark one of the year’s most unexpected dating rumor cycles. Although their respective agencies haven't confirmed anything, what are your thoughts on this? Let us know if you ship this couple or not!
Could this be the start of a fairytale romance or just a fashion coincidence?
Source (1) (2) (3)
👤 I can’t believe my fave is possibly dating Matty Healy out of everyone
👤 dispatch WISHES they had this eye for detail lmao we clocked it in 0.2 seconds
👤 I can’t imagine these two personalities together but I’ll admit this combo is interesting.
👤 usually i find these matching couple things dating rumors bullshit but that shirt ACTUALLY looks like it’s the same 😭🙏
👤 i just know y/n’s male fanbase is in shatters
👤 IT’S JUST A FUCKING SHIRT LMAO
👤 [translated] I acknowledge this couple ㅋㅋㅋ
👤 so you’re telling me [Y/N], KOREA’S DARLING, is possibly dating mr. 1975 himself????
👤 never did i thought i’d see matty healy and kpop in a single sentence but here we are
👤 praying for matty rn cause her male fans are a different breed 💀
👤 Not him... ANYONE but him...
📝 So Y/N posted a selfie yesterday and netizens noticed the shirt she was wearing is the exact same one Matty Healy from The 1975 wore recently.
Soompi already wrote an article about it.
Her agency, SM Entertainment, hasn’t said anything yet but... the male fans are losing their minds in the comments section ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
TRANSLATED COMMENTS
[+987, –19] No... This can’t be real. I literally bought tickets to her concert yesterday ㅠㅠ
[+911, –45] She once said she liked ‘guys who can play guitar’ I should’ve practiced harder
[+870, –82] I’m so embarrassed right now. My coworkers keep laughing at me because they know I’m her fan ㅠㅠ
[+811, –44] Guys calm down, it’s not confirmed yet... but my chest feels tight.
[+750, –32] Matty Healy..? Oh my, the world is so unfair ㅜㅜ
[+705, –15] The moment I saw that shirt, my heart sank.
[+700, –11] Can she PLEASE stop devastating us with her beauty AND now her dating life
[+688, –39] I need to log off... my chest hurts.
[+596, –10] Matty doesn’t know but he’s actually competing against the entire male population of Korea ㅋㅋㅋ
[+550, –71] If they’re happy, then okay I guess
[+528, -4] I’m not even mad, I’m just devastated
📝 We all know male fans are dramatic but this is next level ㅠㅠ Honestly the bloodbath in the comments is funnier than the dating rumor itself but give them 3 days, they’ll calm down and buy more merch. Meanwhile, the female fans are finding this meltdown funny and are busy clowning them. Some of the comments in reply to the above comments are:
[+479, –67] Enlistment jokes in 2025 are still going strong lol ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
[+356, –22] Y/N is not your girlfriend...
[+302, –45] She deserves love too, oppas please calm down ㅠㅠ
[+99, –10] Imagine losing your dream girl to the guy who sang Chocolate ㅋㅋ
