#Matty Healy Things

[girlbragging]

[lottiecrabie]

don’t fuck the line cooks. part two – matty healy

ever since that night in the walk-in, you can only think about the next time. hopefully if you push and prod him enough, you’ll get your way…

warnings: 18+, fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, masturbation, public sex, drug use, sex under the influence, degradation, choking, overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics, authority kink, problematic age gap problematic age gaping, sleazy man is even sleazier in this somehow

part two of two

18,294 words

You lick the salt off the back of your hand, shooting the cheap tequila, immediately wincing from the taste and worsening it with a bite of tart lime. You shake your head, hoping to flick acid off your tongue. 

“God,” you say for good measure. “I can’t seem to get used to this.”

Beside you, Veronica laughs, eating the lime off the rind. She gives you a green smile, features uncrinkled. She is used to this. “It’ll come with age.” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re only four years older than me.”

“Yeah, but you were severely stunted for the twenty-one first years of your life, so the difference is staggering.” 

“Ar-ar. You’re hilarious.” 

“I know.” She flicks the lime rind on the counter, a disheveled green skin rid of meat. She licks the leftover salt off her lips— with some of her bright red lipstick, too. She grabs your wrist next, shimmying her shoulders as she reels you from the bar. “C’mon. Let’s dance.” 

“My feet hurt,” you pout in mock-protest, but your limbs are loose from the booze and you’re easily whisked away to the dancefloor. 

The Darling is the nearest bar from the restaurant with the cheapest alcohol. It’s a dirty thing, drenched in obscurity and the occasional neon sign, smelling like sweat and cigarettes, and sticky to walk on. It plays the same songs over and over again— every night for the past decade, the same playlist booms from the speakers. You know the tunes by heart now, screaming the lyrics without a single title coming to mind. 

The Darling is where everyone crashes after shift drinks, itching for a bigger buzz and a dance. Your coworkers crowd the place, talking to the bartenders like old friends, familiarly finding the labyrinthine way to the toilets. (Find the bar, take a turn to your right, follow a dark corridor, beside the kitchen to the left.)

You’re sore and tired from a double, a neck vein nearly popped when a customer dared ask for—no, insist on a steak half rare-half medium on each side uncut. Dread filled you when you approached the kitchen, putting on a dazzling smile to transmit the ridiculous request. Sighs, and swears, and that shake of head that makes his curls bounce filled the room as he got to work, frustrated and pissed, but obedient still. 

Him. You spin on your feet, finding Matty still at the bar, sipping on a dark drink with George. You smile, eyes twinkling, detaching yourself from your friend as you sway towards him. You practically fall on his side— his hand catches you at your waist, near your hip, decidedly inappropriate, but instinctive. 

“Hullo,” you say in a poor imitation of their accents. George snorts. “Watcha drinking?” You ask Matty, scrunching your nose. 

He arches an eyebrow, sliding the glass towards you. “Have a taste.” You grab it without hesitating, knocking a mouthful and immediately regretting it. You cough, shaking your head. That’s straight liquor. Matty laughs, soothingly rubbing a hand on your back. “You okay?” 

“What is wrong with you?”

“Aw, princess,” he coos, taking a sip of his whiskey and not even twitching as the bitter taste washes his mouth. “You’ll like it when you’re older.” 

Again, you roll your eyes. Taking an easy dig at your age when he’s been between your thighs some nothing-days ago is hypocritical. The retort burns your tongue, but you bite it back for present company. Matty looks at you a little gleefully, like he knows, like it amuses him. 

You turn to George with a smile. “What about you? Are you drinking something sane?” 

He snorts. “Just a rum and coke, sweets. I’m afraid it’s not very special.” 

You reach for his drink anyway and he offers it gladly, metal rings around the cool glass. You tip it, smiling at the sweetness, licking it off your lips. “George, you have much better taste.” 

“Hey!”

“I know.”

“Order me a drink, will you?” You say, fluttering your eyelashes at him. As though you would even need the extra persuasion; he’s already shouting a drink at a bartender, putting it on Matty’s tab with a point of a thumb. 

Matty rolls his eyes beside you, his fingers digging into your waist in warning. Something low simmers between your legs. You smirk to yourself. You like the feel of that. 

“There you go,” George says, passing you the orange drink that’s been slapped on the counter. “A sweet drink for a sweet girl.” 

You smile gratefully at him, tasting it. It’s fruity and light; your lips stretch up. “Thanks, George.” 

“‘Course.” 

Ross crashes in your group, swinging an arm over George’s shoulder, clearly smashed. “Mate, they fixed the PacMan machine.” 

“No way. Is my score still on it?”

“DICKH3AD bright and red!” With a laugh, the two of them whisk away to the arcade game, off somewhere to the left, tucked between two tables. 

You’re alone with Matty now. A thrill resonates within you— it’s silly. It’s not like he’s gonna bend you over this bar and take you right this moment, in front of anyone. It’s not like he’s done anything of the sort since the walk-in fridge. Still, you spin to face him, arching an eyebrow, practically inviting him to. 

He sees the meaning tacked onto your eyelashes, clear as day, yet he does nothing but grin to himself, taking a sip of his awful whiskey on rocks. 

You huff, opting for another strategy. “Are you upset I asked George to order me a drink?” You try instead, hoping to prod and poke until he snaps again— finally. 

Matty smirks. “I’d have picked something lighter. Little girl like you can’t handle her liquor yet.” He pouts, “She’s just started drinking.” Your fingers grip around the glass, something hot and shameful dripping inside of you. 

“Why? Have plans for me I can’t be drunk for?” 

Matty leans back on his stool, properly looking at you. His gaze licks up your naked legs, your short skirt, your white top. Your heart beats twice as fast. Subconsciously, you straighten, needing to be taller, older, more mature. To satisfy, to excel. 

“If I said yes, would you not drink it?” His eyes flick to the orange glass between your clenched hands. It’s barely sipped, condensation running on your fingers. He meets your gaze next. There’s a game of chess, and you can’t seem to figure out what he wants. How to win. 

You want to win. You need to win. You feel it throbbing between your legs, that desperate urge. 

You drop the glass on the counter. It clinks on the wood, then settles, pretty and discarded. His turn. 

Matty smiles, satisfied. He stands from his stool, and a surge of excitement shoots up your spine. You don’t need the alcohol when you have him anyway.

Matty leans in, then pats your shoulder. “The boys are waiting for me.” He sidesteps you, then gets lost into the crowd. You watch him go, mouth parted in offense and disbelief. 

What a fucking dickhead. You make a low noise of annoyance, taking your glass and slurping half of it down in rebellion. You march to one of the empty booths, rage twisting your guts. 

You just want him to fuck you. It’s been five days. What is he waiting for? 

You slide into the sticky bench, ruminating in your anger as you chew on the plastic blue straw of your cocktail. 

“Hey,” Landon, a server, nods at you as he pulls into the opposite side of the booth. You nod back. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I’m growing tired of The Darling’s playlist.” 

“Take two shots. It’ll be back.” 

“Sage advice.” He tips his chin towards your drink. “Are you taking revenge for turtles or has this straw personally wronged you?”

You sigh, letting go of the plastic, pushing the glass away from you. “It’s killed my family. Arson, you see? It was brutal.” 

“I would offer my condolences, but that would mean my boss is dead, and I’m not the biggest fan of his. Would a muted hooray be acceptable?” 

You huff, smirking at him. “Bold of you to tell the boss’ daughter.” 

“Well, I’m quite drunk.” 

You smile. “I’ll cheer to that.” You knock your empty glass to his beer mug. 

Landon gasps. “In the eyes,” he chastises. “Or it’s seven years of bad sex.” You laugh, opening your eyes comically wide to cheer him next. You’ve just broken the curse. You’re not about to be pulled back into mediocre hookups now. “Better,” he nods, finally taking a sip of his beer.

You haven’t talked to Landon much before, nothing other than pleasantries and the quick quips exchanged between two tables. You quickly find that he’s funny, pulling snorting laughs out of your tipsy mouth as he recounts some of his worst customer stories like grand, epic tales. He offers sips of his beer graciously, then buys you your own when the supply is diminishing. You don’t even like beer, but you accept the gift nonetheless, letting the awful taste fizz in your mouth and slacken your head. 

A hand over your mouth, you half-hide your laugh as it bursts out of you. “I can’t believe you would say that!” 

“And I got fired for it,” Landon argues, screaming a defense. 

“Well, obviously—”

“What’s the funny story?” Both of you jump in surprise at the intruder. Turning towards the voice, you find Matty sliding in the booth next to you. 

Already, he takes his place like he owns it, spreading through the leather seats. His legs part comfortably, his thigh sticks to yours, his arm hangs over the back of the booth, tickling your nape. He wraps a hand around your beer, pulling it towards him, taking a sip shamelessly. He sits like he owns you. 

You roll your eyes, taking back your mug, though you hold it between your hands and don’t drink it. Silence reigns around the table. Neither you or Landon feel particularly inclined to talk. 

“C’mon,” Matty pokes, looking back and forth between the two of you. “I want to know the funny story.” 

“It’s just about this customer at my old job who was an asshole,” Landon laughs easily to his credit. “Bet you heard a thousand like it before.” 

“Yeah,” Matty nods, “I bet I did.” There’s something dark in his eyes, in the intensity of his gaze on Landon, like there is some hidden insult he’s supposed to catch. 

Matty’s eyes fall on you next, flicking to the beer and then back to your daggering glare, cocking his head condescendingly. “I didn’t know you liked beer.” He says it like some genuine question, but you know he knows the answer. 

“It’s okay,” you say tightly. 

“Mmh, yeah,” Matty smirks. “I’m sure Landon could give you a lot of okay things.” Your smile crisps on your face. The fucking asshole. 

“Landon,” you practically shout, turning towards him in a desperate attempt to ignore Matty. “I heard you were applying for the position of lead server?” 

Matty snorts. “Did your daddy tell you that?” 

You grit your teeth, “As a matter of fact, yes.” You smile at Landon. “He wanted my opinion. I’ll tell him I think you’d be great.” 

“Thanks,” he smiles at you genuinely. “I promise I won’t call anyone a raging hormonal grade A wanker.” 

You laugh. “Oh, please do if I ever need it.” You shake your head, twisting the beer in your hands, but still avoiding the aftertaste that would linger in your mouth. “Yesterday, I had a woman who—”

Matty’s hand rests on your naked thigh, cold from the glass and a smoke outside, rough in sinfully familiar ways, spreading over your leg like this, too, he owns. You stifle a gasp. The words die in your mouth. 

“Who what?” Matty encourages you, frowning at you like he’s not perfectly aware of what he’s doing under the table. 

As though he’s trying to entirely rob the words out of your mouth, he trails his fingertips up and down your thigh, raising goosebumps on the skin. You throw him a glance with some furious demand to quit it, but there’s a deeper need for him to do just the opposite. 

You rake your throat, flipping back to Landon. “She came in already pissed and prissy, telling me she’s never gotten a good experience here. Why she bothers to come back is completely beyond me. I mean, you would think she would give up then, because—”

Matty’s hand dips to your inner thighs and your lips hang open, mind shortcircuiting. Without even thinking, you spread them for him, giving him further space. He smirks at that, at the resounding blush on your cheeks as you realize what you’ve done. 

He presses into the meat of your leg, one finger at a time, so you’re so aware of him you might get dizzy. His pinky slips under the hem of your skirt, inching close to inappropriate. 

“Um, anyway,” you laugh awkwardly, desperate to get through this story. Your face heats up, the knowledge of Matty’s teasing under the table — in front of Landon — burning at your mind. Matty chuckles beside you. You rake your throat. “I try to do my best, you know— smile so fucking wide I could rip my cheeks— but she’s just asking me stupid question after stupid question like this is an interrogatory or something.”

Your eyes flicker between Landon and Matty, moving from amused eyes to a condescending nod, urging you on as a warm hand slips further and further up your thigh. Pleasure wakes up in your belly— just a little, just the idea of what it could be. God, you need him, and the worst is that he knows, staring at you so fucking cocky and proud. 

You stutter, “And— And she speaks to me like I’m the dumb one in this interaction! I mean, she’s asking me the size of our salad leaves because if they’re too big then I’ll have to cut them and yet—”

Matty’s finger meets the apex of your thighs. You jump, hips rolling into his hand, hand flying to your mouth to cover a moan you just barely avoid letting out. You need this story over. 

Matty seems to predict your plan to wrap it up, wasting no time to linger and tease and brush, instead rubbing his fingers up and down, pressing into your soaked underwear. You clamp around his hand, biting your lip. 

“So she pulled me every which way during my whole shift and—” He finds your clit easily, pressing on it through the cloth, making lazy circles that have your legs shaking under the table nonetheless. Pleasure rushes up them, burning with memory and apprehension. 

Your voice trembles as you continue, “—and I had to scream in the fridge so I wouldn’t lunge at her from the table—” You make the mistake of looking Matty’s way and he grins at you knowingly, the crow’s feet by his eyes denting as he licks mischief off his lips. His fingers push your underwear aside. 

You grip his wrist under the table, but he gathers a pool of your arousal still, as though to point out how much this little game is actually affecting you, no matter your useless protests. Your breath hitches. He pinches your bud meanly. Your head spins and spins deliriously. 

You focus on Landon, rushing out. “And then she tipped me 2%.” You grin at him cartoonishly big and fake, practically screaming, “Your turn!” 

“I think I remember that,” Matty cuts in before Landon can say anything. He teases your entrance and a jolt of ecstasy zaps through you. He smirks, “You screaming in the walk-in.” You glare at him, remembering being so wet and tired in the fridge you thought you might liquify and melt on the floor, holding onto his back for dear life as he thrusted inside of you, over and over, finding that perfect spot that had you screaming. 

You’re red and hot and fuck it. You stand up, his hand falling out of your skirt. “Actually, I need a smoke.”

Matty stands up beside you. “I have a pack.” You’re off before Landon can add anything, lost to the swallowing crowd of drunk service workers. 

You make a beeline for the bar. Matty catches up to you easily, knocking against your side, clearly so fucking pleased with himself. If you weren’t so turned on you think you could actually catch fire, you might tell him to fuck off. 

You turn to the right into a dark corridor. “He wasn’t flirting with me,” you say through gritted teeth because you would like to at least establish that. 

Matty snorts. “Don’t be naive. He fucking wanted you.” 

“It’s not because I have a conversation with a guy that we’re automatically about to get it on.” 

He scoffs. “I know guys, and I know that guy would have gotten it on with you right there on the fucking table if you had asked.” You roll your eyes, which only seems to piss him off. “And what were you doing giggling at him?” 

“Am I not allowed to laugh?” 

“Landon isn’t that fucking funny. The guy barely has enough wit to sustain a conversation.” 

“You don’t even know him,” you protest with a disbelieved laugh. Kitchen. To the left. 

“I’ve worked with the bloke for three years. If he’s told a joke in that time, I’ve yet to be around to hear it.” 

You push the bathroom door, giving him a prissy look behind your shoulder. “Well, you’re missing out. Maybe you should talk to people other than waitresses half your age—” The bathroom door slams behind the both of you. Matty grabs both your cheeks and crashes his mouth against your lips. He shuts you up with a heated tongue and sure, callused fingers on your skin, and it works. 

You part your mouth instinctively, kissing him back with fervor and unbridled need. Adrenaline shoots up your spine, alongside childish glee, the thrilled knowledge that this is finally happening. The argument is a faraway concept you don’t care about. 

Your hands dig into his back, clutching on the flimsy material of his washed-out white shirt, wishing to rip it off of him. He groans into your mouth, tilting his head and kissing you harder. 

Matty pushes you against the door, fixing you in place with a hand on your hip and another palming roughly at your breast. You moan in his mouth, lick into his with devotion. Your fingers hide in the mess of his curls, tugging. Hoping it makes him a little crazy— the instinct to poke and prod and tug for something still boiling inside of you. 

And it works. His fingertips dig into your hip, pressing meanly into the bone, and he shivers. He kisses you with abandon, stealing each breath from your mouth until you’re drunk on the lack of oxygen and him. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, and you kiss and kiss and kiss until your mind swirls lazily in your skull. 

He bites your lip, tugging it and releasing it with a smirk. You whine, so fucking wet it drips down your thighs, titling your hips in hope of finding some friction. You tremble between his arms and you know, desperately, deliciously, annoyingly, that he has you right where he wants. 

“Please,” you whisper in the dark of the bathroom, already pleading your case like you know you’ll have to. Matty licks his lips, digging under the risen hem of your skirt. “Please, please, please, Matty,” you rush immediately again, rolling your hips against nothing. 

“What do you want?” 

“You.” You take his wrist, puppeteering his hand up and up until it finds the wet patch of your underwear. You bite your lip, a gasp seconds away from spilling. “Your fingers.”

“Mine, huh?” He says, and indulgently slips your underwear aside. This time, nothing stops the resulting breathy moan. “Those fingers?” He brushes up your entrance, finding your clit and rubbing gently at it. 

You roll your eyes, letting your last hand fall to his shoulder and clutching it for support. “Yes.” As though satisfied with your answer, he rewards you with speed, circling and swiping at you until your face breaks open with a silent moan. Pleasure blooms in your belly. Finally. Every aching muscle in you sings in unabashed thrill. “Fuck, Matty.” 

He dips into your neck, kissing and licking at the delicate curve, climbing up your jaw. He’s unrelenting between your thighs and you simply grip his wrist, letting yourself be washed with euphoria. Those calluses might kill you one day.

“You’re so fucking desperate for me,” he says, and though the words are harsh, the tone is reverent. He looks down at you, at your body bending and parting just for him, at your pleading stare, at your red, panting mouth. Devours the sight. “Got you so fucking ready just from touching you under the table. Did you like it, princess? Liked being bad? Liked getting fingered in front of your little buddy?” 

You nod furiously. Pleasure loosens your head enough to lose the inherent need to be a rule-abiding, prim, moral girl. Yes to taboo, yes to indency, yes to anything if it’s him. 

“Bet he’d be so upset if he saw you now. Should we go get him? Give him a show?” Faintly, you shake your head, embarrassment and ecstasy spinning your mind. You moan into his neck, desperate. Your hips grind against his hand for more. 

He presses into your clit, making your eyes roll with a gasp. “He’d love to see you like this. Fucked out when I’ve barely even touched you. Making the prettiest sounds ever. God, I could fucking hear them all day. All desperate and whiney, like you can’t get enough of me.” He rubs at you twice as fast just to hear you whimper, muffled by a bite of his shoulder. His name drowns in the fibers, shirt wet by a slack mouth. 

“I can’t,” you admit, shaking in his arms.  

“Fucked the old, dirty man at work and now you can’t fucking live without his cock, right? What would they all think if they saw you, cockdrunk and fucking begging for it?” 

“Yes! Just— Fuck, just do something, sir.” 

“So fucking wet for me,” he coos, all proud and pleased. You grin, letting go of his shoulder to press kisses up his neck. He shudders. “We should show them, right? At least let them hear it.” Two of his fingers dip to your entrance and enter, slowly, letting the pornographic, squelching sound resonate through the quiet room. “There you go.”  

You’re too blissed out to care how it sounds, too busy getting used to the delicious stretch of his digits to fully notice how each thrust makes sopping, wet noises. You shiver, gripping his shoulder, biting wherever you can get your teeth into. Matty groans in your ear and you grin, happy. 

“No one can fuck you like this,” Matty whispers, and indulgently speeds up his movement, curling into you as a reminder. 

Euphoria coils in your belly, familiarly burning and tightening the strings of your body. You shake your head. “No one,” you agree, religious. 

“No one can get you off.”

Again, you grip his shoulders, promising, “No one.” And it’s true. Even your own hand has been a poor replacement to the art he can draw on your skin, making your body sing like his favorite instrument. His thumb rolls at you in tandem, a fast, harsh tempo. “Fucking hell,” you cry and scrunch your face. 

He smirks, whispering, “No one can see you like this.”

“No one, Matty. Only you.”

Matty kisses your cheek, a serpent smile on his lips. He coos in the shell of your ear, “Then why were you flirting with him?” He doesn’t want you to mistake his sweet tone: he pulls out of you. 

Your eyes flash open, fear gripping your guts. Your cunt already misses him, throbbing around nothing. The taste of pleasure lingers on your teeth, just out of reach. 

“I wasn’t,” you try to plead, but Matty’s already stepping away from you. Your arms fall to your side. Matty nods, but it doesn’t reassure anything in you, now hyperaware of the dangerous gleam in his eyes. “I swear, Matty. I didn’t— He just made me laugh.” You shake your head, chuckling, “Who fucking cares about Landon Williams?” 

Your hand reaches out, grabbing his and drawing it back under your raised skirt. You brush it against your soaked underwear, biting your lip as it makes contact. You whisper, “He doesn’t do this to me.”

Matty is unimpressed. “Of fucking course not.” He bites, pulling away. You pout, displeased, too empty to think. He crosses his arms before you get any other ideas. “Did you finish that drink, princess?” Your cheeks heat up and you look down, caught. He snorts meanly. “Say it.” 

“Yes, but—” 

He cuts you off, furrowing his eyebrows in a comical pout, as though speaking to a little child. “Where did my good little girl go? So fucking eager to please. Brought up with manners and all, right?” 

He takes a step, tilting your chin up with a strong thumb. You part your lips, readied and offered, pleading. “You taste like beer,” he whispers, and then offers a solution: two wet fingers, just out of reach. The message clicks. You don’t hesitate.

You get on your tiptoes, sticking your neck out to catch the digits and suck them between your lips. You roll your tongue around them, moaning with a full mouth, letting the tangy taste of you linger. You release him with a pop, grinning up at him proudly.

You keep it wide open, waiting, and he smirks at you. Knowing exactly what you’re asking for, he bends and spits in your mouth. Sick pleasure fills your mind and you moan, swallowing it, barely catching your breath that he’s muttering, “You’re so fucking dirty,” and falling on your lips. 

You kiss him back eagerly, trying to keep up with his angry, furious pace. You’re wound up so tight you might burst from any touch: just a brush, just a flick, just a thrust and you’d be screaming his name, falling apart on his callused hand. 

“Matty,” you beg between two kisses. You throb around nothing. 

“Taste much better, sweetheart,” he breathes.

He presses a kiss on your lips, then pulls away from you again. You’re whining before he’s even had time to unwrap you from his arms, release your tits from his palms. You frown at him. You’ve done everything he asked. 

“Let this be a lesson, princess.”

“Are you fucking serious?” You cross your arms, fuming. He’s really gonna leave now? Matty seems a bit too happy at your reaction, watching you like his favorite entertainment. 

He smiles, stroking your hair. “How else are you supposed to learn?” He pouts. “If I can’t have my good girl, I’ll make her.” He brushes the saliva and gloss off your lower lip, then opens the bathroom door. 

It falls close with a slam. You stare at the graffitied, dirty mirror and think you might murder someone.

—

Matty is sizzling some meat, twisting salt and pepper above it. The kitchen staff runs around him— they’re late, falling behind because of a missing aioli sauce. 

You wait for your plate and dagger him with a glare. You’re still sticky and unsatisfied from yesterday; you spent until the early hours of the day rubbing between your thighs, desperately trying to satisfy some itch. 

Matty’s eyes rise up as though feeling the handmark of your stare on him. They lock with yours, take in your displeased, furious look, and he smirks. Winks at you. You grab the hot plate sliding across from you with a huff. 

Walking away with a balancing tray, you secretly wish for him to tug you into the nearest bathroom until the whole restaurant knows his name. He doesn’t, of course, and you find your hungry guests with the fakest, biggest smile of all. 

—

The restaurant is eerily calm before the dinner rush, a few seated tables scattered across sections: rushed parents and elderly folks slurping soup. You have just enough of a break to chug the bottle of water you keep at the host stand, pestering Adam as you finally have a minute to quench your thirst. 

Veronica finds you at the stand, leaning both elbows on the wood as she smiles sickly sweet at you. Your eyes narrow in apprehension. “I just got asked something interesting.” You arch an eyebrow. “Landon wants to know if you and Matty are a thing. Said Matty practically pissed all over you two days ago.” 

Your lips don’t even twitch. “Okay.” 

Veronica gives you an expectant look. “Well?” 

Beside you, Adam turns to his computer and decidedly chooses to ignore this. “I am not part of this conversation,” he declares. 

You roll your eyes. “We’re not a thing.”

Veronica laughs. “Oh, come on. No one here is blind. You guys eyefuck so much sometimes we feel like we’re intruding just by picking up a plate.” Admittedly, your cheeks heat up slightly at that. You didn’t think you were that obvious.

She sighs, giving you a serious look. “Just be careful. I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into. He’s not like the little goody-goody boyfriends you’ve had. He’ll eat you alive.”

You flutter your eyelashes, faux doe-eyed. “Promise?”

“Reservations, tables, tables. Mmh, chairs.”

You give her a look, entirely ignoring Adam’s interjection. “I’m young, Vee, but I’m not stupid. I’m telling you there’s nothing going on. We’re just having sex.” You click your tongue. “And even then, we’ve only done it, like, once. Once and a half at most.” 

“And a half?” Adam pipes up, then seems to remember who you’re talking about. He raises one hand, shaking his head, defeated. “I don’t even want to know.” He practically bends over the stand to see the computer, as though if he just got close enough to the screen, he could be sucked into its world. 

“I’m leaving for college in less than two months,” you continue. “I’m not trying to date him, or whatever other tragic ways you think he’s gonna break my heart.” You smirk, shrugging, “I just find the gray hair hot.” Veronica snorts at that. 

Still, there’s something relieved in her eyes. Maybe even proud. She smiles at you, then turns to Adam. “And what does Matty have to say about it?”

“No comments.” 

She gasps, facing you with an excited grin. “That means he’s talked about you!” You bite your lip. Could he have? What did he say? 

Veronica is already on it. She pokes Adam’s arm, forcing him to look up at her. “What has he said? C’mon.” She gives him a solemn look, holding her heart. “This is a safe space.”

“That it’s none of my business,” Adam deadpans. “And neither is it yours, brat.”

Before Veronica can add anything, a family of four enter the door, wiping off their sweaty, red foreheads. They laugh as they approach the stand, mentioning the weather. Adam practically jumps to greet them, begging them to follow him. 

“I’m sitting them in your section. That’ll give you something useful to do,” Adam hisses at Veronica, and she pokes her tongue out at him. 

She waits until he’s just out of earshot to trail, “Now that he’s gone…” She faces you with a smirk, rounding the stand and joining you. She gives you a teasing look, biting back a grin. “How was the sex?” You can’t stop the smile shining on your face. It breaks your cheeks. She gasps. “Oh, I knew it. Julia said he was the best sex of her life, too.” 

“She didn’t lie,” you admit, flushed. You cock your head. “You haven’t slept with him?” You’re almost surprised. For all her don’t fuck the line cooks warnings, you had assumed she must have been burned before. 

“Nah,” she shakes her head. She trails, teasing, “I was too busy with Ross.” 

“Hypocrite!”

“I never said anything about bartenders!” But before you can tease her more, Adam calls her name and Veronica’s off with a spin and four menus, blowing you a kiss.

—

It’s dark outside. The street lamps slope over cars, bathing the street in semi-obscurity. You cross your arms, some pretend at a shield. The crew has long left for The Darling while you finished up your closing duties. You wiped your forehead and found yourself too tired to handle another boozy, dancy night, to wake up the next day still a little drunk and off-kilter for a grueling Saturday shift. 

Something catches the corner of your eye. Your head turns, squinting to be sure you’re not mistaken. No, it really is Matty’s car parked in the alleyway. You’d recognize the dirty, beat-up thing anywhere for all the rides it has given you—not in the sense you would like. At least you can ask for one now, avoid the stressful walk home, clenched and quick, holding keys between your fingers. 

You dip into the dark alleyway, walking the cigarette butts-lined path. The car is smoky, a gray curtain to the outside world. You frown, knocking on the window of his backseat. Matty opens the door, bloodshot eyes staring at you, eyebrow arching. He holds a joint in one hand and the door’s handle in the other. The earthy smell attacks your nostrils; you scrunch your nose. 

“Don’t let the smoke out,” Matty chastises, sliding away to leave a spot beside him. 

Your brain throbs in your head. Flashes of grand preachy speeches given to friends as they passed bongs at parties come back to you. Embarrassingly, you flush and step into the car, closing the door behind you. 

Matty grins at you, pleased, taking a hit of his joint and blowing the smoke into the car. The air is heavy and thick, pressing against your skin. This is such a bad idea. 

“What are you still doing here?” You ask. He pointedly looks at the joint as though obvious. You roll your eyes. “You could do that at home.”

He shrugs, “Didn’t want to.”

“Are you gonna drive?” 

“Was planning to, yeah.” Your lips part for a scathing, moralizing reply, but he cuts you off, repeating in that same tone of yours, “Are you gonna give me a sermon?” 

You scowl. “Was planning to, yeah.” Matty chuckles. He knows you far too well already. 

“I’d leave if I were you, princess. This car’s becoming a hotbox.” 

You should, of course. Weed has carcinogens, and causes lung damages, and slows development, and wrecks the body’s natural nutrient reserve, and all the other priggish arguments you’ve known and repeated by heart. 

But Matty has a loose grin you find a little adorable. Gray-streaked hair flops as he leans his head on the backseat, lips drooping with the weight of the joint. The shape of them is addictive, a perfect O as he blows smoke out, just like he would on the inside of your thighs to get you to jump and squirm for him. 

Your breath is heavy. You feel stuck to the leather seats, skin gluing you in place to watch and rewatch the show he gives you. 

And, really, you’re a little curious about what weed is. Your friends have all indulged at some time or the other; your dormmate used to crack a window, light a candle, and infest the room with the earthy smell as if it would cover any of it up; even your mom would laugh and wave smoke away when you caught her off the clock with her coworkers back in LA. 

Matty laughs, languid and slack and, fuck, it’s such a pretty sound. “You don’t want to, do you?” He teases. Your cheeks heat up. “It’s okay, princess. Don’t even need to smoke it. Just breathe the air and save your pretty pink lungs. You can even do your little speech to me if it’ll make you feel better.” 

“Don’t condescend me,” you say, as though there’s not something sick in you that enjoys when he does it. Matty raises two arms in a show of innocence, cheeky as they fall down. He knows you like it, too. 

“My apologies, darling.” In complete contradiction, he spreads his knees and looks down at his lap, telling you, “Come sit on my knee.” And in complete contradiction to your warning, you do just what he asks. 

You don’t even think about it; you’re scooping yourself up and dropping on his knee, biting your lip as you settle over his tough jeans. His hand loosely holds your hip, looking at you pleased. 

Now that you’re on his lap, close enough to count his eyelashes, to lick the smoke off his lips, you feel yourself growing needy. The memory of a stolen orgasm in a dark bathroom comes back to you in hot flashes. You have to think about stilling your hips to stop you from grinding on his knee. 

“Are you serious about this?” He asks, arching an eyebrow. You’re not sure what he’s referring to, but the answer’s the same anyway;

“Yes.” 

He taps your hip. “Open your mouth, princess.” You’re flushing as you do so, imagining him spitting in it, slipping two fingers and making you slobber your sermon around them. Instead, he takes a hit of his joint and blows it into your mouth. You inhale as he’s taught you. “Good,” he grins. “You remember how.” 

“It’s not rocket science,” you bite, deadpan. 

“You’re right. Smart girl like you. This is nothing at all.” It hits true, strumming the right chords inside of you. You shift on his knee, holding back the shameful groan that threatens to spill out at the friction. It’s really not fair that he makes you sit here, close enough to kiss and rub and grind until you’re dripping on his lap, and not do it. 

Maybe you’re starting to feel something. Your body is light and slack, a pleasant buzz resonating through you. You feel relaxed, more than you have in years, always strung high, clenched and straight-backed. A giggle threatens out of you. 

Maybe it’s why you say, “I think you should fuck me.” Though, really, it’s all just an excuse for the fact that it’s all you’ve thought about for the past week, ever since that night in the walk-in fridge. You should do it again. Right now. Please. Over and over, like the beating drums of an earworm song. 

Matty smiles, indulgent. “Is that so?” You nod frantically. His fingers dig into your hip. He takes another hit, ever casual. “D’you think you deserve to?” 

“Yes.” 

“How so?”

“I—” You huff. Well, yes, maybe you haven’t really been anything but a brat recently, wearing low-cut tops and winking at other line cooks in hopes of riling him up. But it’s really his fault for getting you so fucking ready you’re begging for him, then walking off. You pout at him. “Please.”

“Ah-ah,” he says, tugging on your lip with his thumb, smearing your lipgloss. “None of that.” Being cute won’t seem to work this time. 

“I’ll earn it,” you say desperately. 

“How?”

Your mind scrambles. An idea sparks in your mind. You rise from his knee, then you get on yours in the cramped spot of the backseat. 

You look up at him, blinking innocently, hand traveling up his thigh. Matty takes the joint to his lips, but you can see from the way his chest rises and falls in quick succession that he’s worked up. Good. You fucking have him. 

You might be inexperienced, an unknower of pleasure, but if there’s one thing you can do, it’s a fucking blowjob. 

“Go on, then,” Matty says, choked. “Earn it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your greedy hands finally find his waistband. You undo the button, fingers frantic as they work his jeans down enough to reveal his half-hard cock. You lick your lips, staring up at him while you wrap around his length. 

He hisses, bucking into your fist. His dark eyes are locked in yours, barely willing to move away from your face to take a good look at the little show your hand is giving him. It’s like he wants to see you, pupils wide and lips swollen, so fucking turned on and ready just to suck his cock. 

You slide up, swiping your hand up to his tip, collecting the precum and spreading it down. It’s a slow pace, meant to tease, to beguile him. Get him so ready for you he’s begging for once. 

You repeat the motion over and over, never in any kind of repeated rhythm for him to really get used to anything. His cock hardens in your hand until it’s standing proud and ready. Matty breathes heavily, letting a low sound out every time you brush his tip. You smirk every time, teasing your nails on his sensitive skin. 

“Stop teasing,” Matty warns. His hips fuck into your fist every time you slide down, silently begging for more. 

You cock your head, blinking up at him innocently. “Where are your manners?” 

“Careful,” he says with a dangerous tone. His eyes gleam. “You don’t want me to teach you another lesson.” 

You giggle. You dip your head down, kissing his tip. A moan spills out of him and you flash your teeth at him. You lower a little, pressing another kiss, then again, and again, until his whole cock is covered in tacky lipgloss. 

Your tongue sticks out to lick a stripe up his length, rounding his tip. Just when he’s ready to feel your warm mouth embrace him, you give him another sweet kiss. He curses under his breath. “You think you’re funny.” 

You lick mischief off your lips, staring up at him with a cheeky grin. “Say please.” 

His hand free of the joint rakes through your hair, grabbing a handful of it and tugging until you look up at him. Pleasure sparks from your head to your toes, reveling in the sensation. He sees right through you. 

He lets go of your hair, soothing the sting as he travels down your temple, your cheek, your chin, pushing a thumb between your lips and parting them. Thrill gathers in your belly. Your mouth hangs wide open, breathing harshly. “Do it or I will.” 

It’s his turn to be cocky, spotting how you shift on your knees at the graphic images he puts in your head. His hands in your hair, sure and strong as he fucks up into your— No. You want to show him what you can do, prove you’re not just some lost little girl. 

You laugh, sucking around his thumb then releasing it. Saliva coats it, and it dries on your cheek as he caresses it. “You’re no fun,” you tease, pouting. 

“Shouldn’t fuck a crass man if you wanted pleases and thank yous,” he retorts. “But then, you wouldn’t enjoy it, would you? Need to be railed dirty to get off, right?” 

Instead of answering— too proud to give him the yes he’s right to expect, you suck his tip into your mouth. He makes a low whine, patting your hair, swearing under his breath as you roll your tongue around him. “That’s a good girl,” he coos. “Take me in now.” 

There’s the instinct in you to do just the opposite, the born and bred need to be difficult, but you give in anyway, a bigger want to be extra good for him. You push him past your lips, lowering until he hits your throat. “Fuck,” he chokes. You smile around him, then bob your head. 

You set a steady pace, stroking what you can’t fit with your fist. The car fills with wet, gagging noise and those puffy breaths he takes. Your tongue sticks out, licking his length as it passes him, making him shiver under you. 

“Give me your hand,” he demands. You offer it without thinking, reaching up towards him palm-out. 

He takes your wrist and spits on your hand. Saliva drips on your palm as he lowers it back to his cock. He wraps your fingers around him, pumping himself once, then twice, then releasing you. You keep going to the same pace he set, cursing around his length, somehow more turned on now. 

Your hand works in tandem with your mouth. You leave his cock just long enough to spit on it yourself, spreading the saliva until he’s wet and messy, then bringing him back between your swollen lips. Precum and drool sticks to your chin, but you bob with a mission, uncaring of the sopping sounds that come out of your mouth. 

“Ah,” he groans. His head falls back on the seat, spreading his thighs as if to give you more space. You quicken your moves in response, trying to coax more pretty sounds of him. “Shit. Fucking hell,” he laughs. 

His eyes roll back, and he takes a hit of his dwindling joint. You stare at his lips as he does so, still as sickly fascinated by him smoking as you’ve always been. The car drenches in smoke, an added mix to the condensation dripping on the windows. 

Matty’s face pulls down to look at you, right as you swallow him up with an especially deep trust. He makes a whine, caresses your hair. Sees the way your eyes are dark and aroused for him, obsessed. “D’you want another hit?” He asks, cheeky. 

You release his cock, out of breath. “Yes.” Your hand continues to jerk him as you smile at him. 

“Magic word?”

You scoff. “Coming from you?” 

He laughs. “C’mon. How many tutors taught you all those good girl manners? Can’t destroy all that hard work. I don’t want to corrupt you too much.” Your eyes narrow at him. Your thumb swipes on his tip, stroking him quickly. He jumps at that, moaning. Matty shakes his head, hair flopping with it. “Minx.”

“Please,” you say, because you know it’s a lost battle to do anything but. You brush his tip on your lips, kitten-licking him, like some added argument. He smiles proudly. 

“Of course, princess.” The joint comes to you, end faced towards you, just enough out of reach that you have to kneel up to wrap your lips around it. You take a drag, tipping your head back as you blow it out. 

Your body feels hazy, tingling pleasantly throughout. There’s a loose smile on your lips as you bend down to swallow him back in your mouth. Euphoria twists in your mind, pulling at the strings of you, and you double in efforts eagerly, happily. 

You bob quicker, deeper, moaning around his length. You breathe through your nose, trying not to gag every time he hits the back of your throat. It’s all worth it for the swears he mutters under his breath, low groans filling the car. Every fucked-out praise shoots you straight to the core. You’re dripping on the floor, wet and empty and begging for him. 

“My perfect girl,” he praises, a whiny, worshiping sound. “So pretty on her knees for me. Fucking drooling everywhere.” You laugh at that, feeling saliva drip down your cheeks. “You were made for my cock, weren’t you? Made for me.” 

You try to agree, but it’s a slobbering mess around his dick. The vibrations are enough; his eyes roll back into his skull, his hips jump. You choke on his length, releasing him with a cough, then diving back to work. 

“Can’t fucking get enough of me,” he says. His hand caresses your hair, a soothing motion. “D’you want more?” 

You nod around him. He smiles, gripping a hand in your hair. The sting gives you the same reaction as before; you moan around him, toes tingling. He pushes your mouth deeper around him. This time, you expect it; breathing through your nose, you welcome him in your throat. 

“There you go,” he whines. He can’t stop looking at you, at the mess of your mouth. “So fucking filthy.” Again, he presses you down. A moan spills out of him. You grip his knee with your free hand. 

Matty controls your head, pushing it deeper and deeper around his cock, making the most fucked-out noises from the feel of it. You pump him with your hand every time he pulls you up to his tip, stroking back to the base as he lowers you down. He does it quicker and quicker, setting a fast pace. Again, you shift on your knees, trying to soothe away that burning need between your thighs. 

Matty spots it immediately. “Are you wet?” He taunts, though it’s a little ridiculous when he’s out of breath and on the edge of a moan. You nod around him, a little whine coming out, and he smirks. “Soaked ‘cause you’re sucking my dick, huh? If I knew it got you going like this, I would have had your mouth around me every single fucking day, darling.” And it’s not like you would have objected, considering you’re the one who’s been practically chasing him for the past week. 

“Dirty girl. They all think you’re so innocent, but I know.” He smirks. “Bet your father would love to know what I’m doing to his precious girl.” Need and shame burn inside of you, and you can’t figure out which one makes you flush and your mind spin. Cockiness drips from his tongue as he trails, “‘S not my fault his daughter loves my cock, right?” You don’t know whether to nod or shake your head, instead moaning around him. 

Matty reaches the joint out, telling you, “Hold that.” You frown. It’s unlit by now, useless, and he could certainly throw it anywhere in the backseat to fish it out later. It’s not like his car is clean; trash litters it, cigarette burns scar the leather, and the smell of weed is permanent. Still, you don’t question it, unwrapping your hand from his cock to take the joint. 

It becomes apparent, then, why he asked you. Raking two hands through your hair, he keeps your head in place as his hips fuck up into you. With your hand gone and occupied, he thrusts deeper into your mouth. You gag around him, and he releases you just enough to catch your breath, before pumping past your lips again. 

He groans at every stroke, burying your nose in the faint hair scattering up his belly. Pleasure blooms on his face. He’s so pretty, so vulnerable and fucked out, face wrinkling and lips panting. 

His head falls down to look at you again. He makes a whine from the back of his throat. “Fuck, you’ve got spit everywhere.” It’s true, chin wet as slurping sounds resonate on the steamy windows. 

If your ex-boyfriend had even tried to lose a hand in your hair and push your head down, you’d have bit him with a vengeance. But kneeling like this with Matty using you only brings a sick pleasure out of you. You feel your core throb, thighs sticky with need. You don’t know what he’s doing to you, don’t understand how he manages to ruin you so thoroughly. 

Your nails dig into his knee, the other hand pinching the joint. Your eyes water at every thrust until tears roll down your eyes, mixing with the wet of your cheeks and chin. 

Matty awes, sickly amused as he sings, “Are you crying?” You feel suddenly embarrassed, attempting to shake your head, deny the proofs streaming down your cheeks. “Is Daddy’s dick too big for you?” The nickname strikes through the daze, shock and arousal coursing through your veins. 

Matty doesn’t even realize what he’s said, too gone to mind any words. A string of curses  comes next as he bobs your head. Still, it’s all you can think about, playing back the word in that filthy head of yours. 

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he promises. “Just a little bit more.” His hand strokes your cheek, wiping at the runaway tears. “Gonna make me come so hard. D’you want my cum?” You nod vaguely. He grins at that. “Yeah? Wanna fucking swallow it?” You hum around him, excited. He moans, “Fuck. You’re such a slut.” 

Again, there should be outrage, should be a dramatic tear off his dick as you tell him off, but he says it in such a reverent way, like a compliment, a praise, and you find yourself whining around him instead. Your cunt throbs, empty and lonely, and maybe you are a slut after all. You’ve been nothing but a needy, begging mess for him anyway. If it gives you this much pleasure in exchange, is there really something wrong with it? 

Matty senses the way you preen under the name. He smirks, fucking up faster, chasing an end. “My little slut. So perfect, made for me. Would spend her days on her knees, wouldn’t she? Till she’s all bruised and fucked out.” His thrusts grow erratic. “I’d take care of you, princess. I’d put you in the best bed and I’d pump you full of my cum until you’re dripping with it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Like being my little fucktoy?” A yes comes out garbled out of your mouth. “All those smarts, gone for a dirty man like me. Fucking ironic, isn’t it?” 

You hollow your cheeks, run your tongue, hope to finish him. Hear his pretty cries, see his scrunched, coming face, taste his cum. Let it be your turn. 

You take back charge as Matty gets too hazy to make sense of anything, much less the furious tempo he’s set. You bob up and down with abandon, slobbering everywhere. His hips stutter, meeting you halfway. His cock twitches in your mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Matty cries. His fingers dig into your hair, pulling vengefully. “Shit, princess, I’m—” With a scream, he comes on your tongue. 

His body shivers as the tangy taste of white ropes spill down your throat. You swallow everything, watching his face as it grows peaceful. A slack, happy smile shines on his lips. He strokes your hair, as if an apology. 

Only when he softens do you pull out of him, saliva stringing from his tip to your lip. You lick it off, chuckling. Show off your empty mouth. His cum is all gone. 

“Good girl,” Matty praises, out of breath. He tucks his cock back in his jeans. “What do we say now?” 

“Thank you.” 

He hums. “I think you deserve a reward for doing so well for me.” You grin at him, childishly excited. He laughs, taking both your hands and raising you off your knees. “You want that, don’t you?” You bite your lip.

As soon as you’re up, he digs under your skirt, pulling off your underwear. You gasp as the air hits your bare skin. He rubs a thumb on the wet patch of the pink fabric, arching an eyebrow for you. “So fucking ready for me just from sucking my cock.” 

“Not just from sucking your cock,” you say. “I’ve been ready for you all week.”

“Is that so?” Matty flips you around, sitting you square on his lap, your back against his chest. This close, you can smell the sweat and weed on him. Each leg hangs from the sides of his knees. He parts them, spreading you wide, putting you on display. 

There’s the knowledge that anyone could see you tugging at the back of your mind. No matter the smoke, and the fogged up windows, and the dark of the night, it’s still a public alleyway. They could walk in on you, cunt out, wet and throbbing. It’s nasty, and it’s hot, and now you’re grinding against nothing, hoping for friction. 

Thankfully, Matty indulges you, wrapping his arm around your waist and teasing two fingers over your swollen clit. You jump, already oversensitive, moaning at the little contact. He rubs in slow circles. 

“I could have had you any time, then?” He whispers in your ear. “Could have pulled you in the dry storage and had my dirty way with you?” 

“Yes.” 

His touch becomes faster, pressing harder, zeroing in on your bud with a middle finger. You scrunch your face, already so close. A little pout comes on your face. You don’t want to finish without his fingers inside of you, not when you’ve been this eager for them. Your pussy clenches around nothing, unsatisfied. 

“Any day, any time, anywhere?” His hand ghosts at your entrance, gathering a pool of your dripping juices. 

“Yes,” you repeat, almost frustrated he doesn’t get it. You need him all the time. He seems satisfied by your answer, dipping two fingers inside your cunt. 

You gasp, wrinkling your face with the overwhelming euphoria that spreads through you. The stretch is delicious. You’re already rolling your hips into his fingers, begging for more. 

He bites at your earlobe, licking down your neck. Husky and gravely, he teases, “You would scream my name so the whole restaurant knows whose cock is fucking you this good? So they know that little princess likes to get railed filthy by an old, sleazy man?” As though to demonstrate, he pumps his fingers quicker into you. Sopping sounds resonate with your answering whines. 

It’s a silly question. As if you haven’t had that exact fantasy before, playing over and over as guests criticize your every move. You insist, “Yes, Daddy.”

Matty’s fingers freeze inside of you. His heart races, the rhythm drumming on your back. Your eyes snap open, scared you’ve done something wrong. He’s the one who— A flush spreads up your cheeks. You’re so disgusting, using that nickname while he— 

“Say it again.” He’s choked and out of breath. Turned on. You smirk, victorious. 

You grip his wrist and make him pump inside of you again. You let your head fall on his shoulder, moaning, “Daddy, please, make me come.” 

“Fuck.” It’s all the incentive he needs, apparently, because now he’s thrusting and curling inside of you, finding that magical spot each time. The heel of his hand rubs at your clit, making jolts of pleasure spark through you. His other hand snakes around your chest and paws at your breast, digging under your shirt to rub the nipple. 

Every sensation works perfectly together to get you buzzing with ecstasy. You feel drunk— or high— mind swirling inside your head until all you know is his name. Your core tightens, toes curling and uncurling. 

“Come on my fingers,” he demands, voice low and hoarse. “Fucking drench Daddy’s hand. I wanna taste you.”

There’s something so desperate in his voice that makes you even needier. You throb around his digits, eyebrows furrowing, strings thinning. He pinches your nipple. You open your mouth with a silent cry, shaking all over. 

“That’s it,” he coos. “I got you, baby. You’re right there.” You nod frantically. “Just come for me. Come. Come—” Just like he demands, your body breaks and you shatter on his fingers. 

Euphoria spreads through you, that overwhelming sense of relief. His name burns your tongue, over and over, a plea and a reverence and a worship. He continues to slide in and out of you, slowly, tenderly, until you’re done shaking and throbbing. 

Your body hums pleasantly, bone-deep happy. You practically melt on his body, each limb letting go and settling into him. You sigh, satisfied. Finally haunts your head. Yet, you’re already looking out for next time. 

Matty pulls out of you. He brings his wet fingers to his mouth; you hear the pornographic moan he makes as he cleans them. You flush, too tired to make a chastising comment. 

“Best meal in town,” he says, cheeky. You half-slap him, half-giggle. 

His hand falls from your breasts, but wraps around your waist instead, pulling you even closer, trapping you in the heat of his arms. He kisses your cheek. “We can stay like this for a little while. I’ll drive you home after.” 

You crack an eye open. “Are you high?”

He scoffs. “No.” He grins against your cheek, teasing, “You’ve sobered me up.”

Being cute does not distract you. You hum, unconvinced. “What’s the alphabet backwards?”

“Are you fucking kidding—” He blows air from his nose. Resigned, he recites, “Z, Y, X—”

—

It’s fifteen past ten and the house is empty. Groceries linger on the kitchen island and you could, theoretically, put them all together yourself. Though it’s just not quite the same when you have to do the work under the orange light of the kitchen hood, alone except for some sad blues and a bottle of white and the sizzling sound of the pan. 

In your hand, an apologetic text flashes at you. You bite on a humus dipped carrot, bitter. You understand, you say, and pretend you believe him when he swears he’ll make it up to you. You take a long sip of your wine glass. 

You stare at the lonely apartment. An idea tickles the back of your mind. It would be a waste of wine, and space, and freedom if you dutifully went to bed now. Your hand lingers on his contact, then press on the picture of Matty’s frown, cigarette hanging between his lips. 

I have my place all to myself. Do you wanna come? You hit send before you overthink it. A rush of anxiety swipes through you. 

He’s quick to answer. depends. do i get to cum anywhere? You roll your eyes. He’s truly insufferable sometimes. 

Invitation retracted. 

i’m on my way

You can’t control the pleased grin on your face, but there’s no one to see it anyway. You can indulge a little in the childish thrill that blooms inside your stomach. You feel sunshine from the inside-out. 

He’s ringing your doorbell the next time you hear of him. By then you’re already a little flushed with wine, practically running to the door to buzz him in. 

A knock resonates just a few minutes later. You swing the door wide open. “Hi.” Again, you can’t seem to control your giddy smile. 

“You shouldn’t open the door just like that. I could’ve been a bad man.” 

“You are.” Matty snorts. You move out of the doorframe, gesturing for him to step inside. 

He walks your flat with confidence, though he hasn't been here since that fatal night and, even then, it had been a quick in and out thing. He lingers a little to take in the set-up. The open floor plan, the L leather couch, the massive dining table and the kitchen island that hasn’t seen any action in months. It’s a shame for a family of chefs how little you use it. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him outside of a work setting, either a grueling shift or the drunk aftermath. He’s cleaner; white shirt rid of stains, jeans unburdened by an apron. He still sports a stumble, ever lazy to shave it off, but his hair sprouts in soft curls from his head. There’s a lack of gloomy energy, like what you thought was a permanent tired look was, in fact, reserved for the restaurant. He looks good is what you mean.

Matty stares you up and down shamelessly, taking in your off-duty outfit as well. A collared shirt buttoned conservatively, tucked into a black skirt, leather heeled loafers and white socks at your feet. Your hands shine with silver rings. You are, admittedly, much cleaner than him. Matty seems to dig your preppy look anyway, licking a gaze up and down your legs, rubbing his smirk away with two of his fingers. 

You side-step him, making your way to the kitchen. Matty follows behind you, taking the time to gaze at the paintings dotting your walls. Pretentious things your father bought because he was told by other people they were masterpieces, they were technical, they were touching. You get to the cabinets, searching for a matching wine glass.  

“Why’d you invite me?” Matty asks, seemingly an afterthought. He peers at your half-empty glass, raising it to examine the wine. 

“I was supposed to have dinner with my dad, but he’s too busy today after all.” You turn to Matty with a glass in hand. “There’s some sort of important event with investors that just came up. He couldn’t untangle himself,” you press. You don’t know why you feel the need to rehash your father’s excuses, as though you had to defend him to Matty. It’s silly; he doesn’t even care, instead bringing your wine glass to his nose and giving it a swirl.

“It’s a Chenin Blanc.” You say as you uncork the bottle, pouring him his own glass. You slide it his way, tsking regretfully, “It was gonna pair beautifully with the seared scallops.” There’s a tinge of bitterness in your voice, and you try your best to smooth it. You can’t sound annoyed. 

“Served with what?” 

“Baby spinach and spiced pomegranate glaze.” 

“Damn,” Matty shakes his head. “That does sound good.” He takes a seat at the dining table, shamelessly making himself at home. He cocks his head, bringing the glass to his lips. “So, what? You invited me to cook it for you instead?”

Your lips twitch. “I’ve already eaten actually.” A mismatch of carrots, humus, swiss cheese and chocolate-covered blueberries eaten standing up at the kitchen island, but a meal nonetheless. 

Matty hums. He leans back on his chair, smirking to himself. “You know, I feel a bit peckish myself.” 

Your arch an eyebrow, playful as you drawl, “Is that so?” The cheeky, knowing look on his face wakes the heat in your belly. You clench your thigh; he spots it, amused. “There’s food in the fridge.” 

“A miracle! She has more than kraft dinner.”

“I didn’t specify which food. Maybe mac’n’cheese is all that’s waiting for you.”

Matty smiles. “I think I’m craving something else.” His hand reaches out, grabbing yours until you stumble into him. 

You grip his shoulders to balance yourself, both legs siding one of his knees. He looks at you with those dark, dangerous eyes that announce nothing but trouble. You tower over him, see him blinking his spiderleg eyelashes up at you. His lips part, pretty and red. A rush of excitement shoots through you. Your breath hitches. 

“Wow,” you say, mocking. “You just got here and you’re already trying to bend me over the table. Didn’t even ask me about my day.” 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, faux-apologetic. His hands dig into your thighs, picking you up and hoisting you on the table. You sit before him, blush as he spreads your legs out for him. With a cheeky, shit-eating grin, he looks up at you and says, “How was your day, princess?”

You up your nose, ignoring his bait. “It was good. I—” His hands rise up your thighs, brushing against your silky smooth skin. You can’t stop the shivers. “Fuck, I went to the library and—” 

He bends down, peppering sweet kisses where his fingertips had been. Your breath hitches at the ghosting touch, teasing and tickling and lighting you up. He looks up at you, face nearing where you need him most. “Mmh, and what?” 

“Just— shit.” He spreads your legs further apart, giving him ample access to bite and suck at your thigh, which he does with worshiping abandon. He soothes away the hurt with a tongue. You pant, moaning lowly, “I started early on my first week readings for—”

Matty snorts. “Nerd.”

“It’s actually really essential to—” He slips your underwear aside, finding your clit and thumbing a lazy circle on it. “Ah, fucking hell, Matty!” 

He smiles, so fucking proud. His finger speeds up. “What book did you read?” 

“Well, the textbook. It was— It’s about—” Words escape your mouth when his tongue is burning your skin, getting closer and closer to where his thumb is hard at work. Euphoria shakes in your stomach. You bite your lip, gripping the edge of the table. 

“Yes?” He blinks up at you, condescendingly begging, “Please, educate a poor, simple plebeian.”

You bite your cheek, teasing, “I don’t know if I can. He’s really only good at fucking.”

Matty rolls his eyes. “You’re missing the other reason I’m good with my hands.”

And he makes it easy to forget all about his cooking skills when he dips two fingers inside your wet entrance, pumping you slowly on the dinner table. God-given hands, made to bring you to the very edge and back. You curse, gripping the wood under your palms even harder. 

“I’m waiting.”

You huff. “It’s microeconomics. It’s comparing comparative averages and absolute advantages of high.” 

He grins. “Well, which one wins?”

“Comparative. It’s always better as you lose because the opportunity cost is smaller and— Oh, fuck—” Your legs tremble, your face scrunching as he hits the sinful spot inside of you that has you singing. You pant to catch your breath, groaning, “It’s better when you— Matty—”

“My smart girl,” Matty praises, curling his fingers inside of you just so. “You learned all of this already. Don’t even need to study that you’re fucking moaning it for me.” He plants a kiss on the top of your thigh. “It’s better when…”

Your mind is languid, euphoria pumping inside of you with the rhythm of his hand. You try to blink to conscience, peering down at him. “It’s better when the opportunity cost—” He makes rapid swipes at your clit and pleasure jolts through you. You shake your head. “You know what? You don’t need to know all this. You can just be dumb and pretty and warm my bed all day. Be my trophy husband.”

He snickers. “Yeah? Gonna make me your little housewife?” 

You grin, volleying back, “Keep you cooking and fucking all day while I earn the big bucks, babe.” One hand rises up to his hair, digging into the mess of it. You smirk. “But you’d have to be very good for me. Keep me satisfied at all times.” 

“Oh, don’t worry.” His fingers quicken, thrusting in and out of you until you’re whining for him. “I’d fill you up every night and leave you sticky and happy.” The wet sounds of your cunt fill the kitchen. You don’t doubt him for one second. 

Your breath leaves in puffs out of your mouth. You tilt your head back, moaning for the ceiling, eyes wrinkled shut. Your hand tugs at his hair, rejoicing in his pathetic little groans. You fall back, smiling mischievously at him. “I thought you were hungry.”

His eyes flash. “Fucking famished.” He bends down and licks your cunt. 

You jump, rolling your hips into his face, chasing those delicious reverbs. He licks at your clit with a pointed tongue, pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves until honey ecstasy is spreading through your veins. 

One hand fucks into you with calculated efficiency; hard and fast, just like you like it. The other holds your red underwear aside, fingers pressing into the meat of your thigh, leaving fingertip prints to remember him by. 

“Matty!” Pleasure boils inside of you. You’ve missed his tongue, missed the way he tastes at you: starved, diligent, fucking slurping the last drop. You cry his name over and over, a sweet chant that encourages him on. 

Thank fuck for his hands. They slide wetly inside of you, searching for hot ecstasy and pulling it out of you in drowning moans. You tug at his hair, grip the table, try to attach yourself to something as you;

“Matty, I’m—” He knows, of course, because you’re throbbing around his fingers. He circles your clit with his tongue, swiping at it, adding enough sinful pleasure that you feel your orgasm grow and grow. It expands in your belly, threatens your limbs; “I’m gonna—”

You come with a scream, falling apart on his tongue. He doesn’t slow yet. His mouth is hard at work, his fingers pumping into you still. He chases your orgasm until the end, until you’re shaking and whimpering from the intensity. You push his head, and only then does he release you, smiling up at you with sticky cheeks. 

“Good?”

You brush his curls back, smiling happily. “You might earn yourself a weekly allocation if you keep it up, babe.” 

“I’m the luckiest trophy husband in the world.” 

You twist one of his curls around his finger, so light and elated that you feel no shyness or shame to say, “D’you want to see my room?” 

He half-grins. “Yeah.” 

You jump from the table, grabbing his hand. He lingers by the table just long enough to shoot back half of his wine glass in one gulp, slamming it down on the table with a satisfied sigh. It stands there with a stain of your slick in the shape of his lips. 

You deadpan him. “Good wine shouldn’t be wasted,” he defends. 

“I don’t even think you let it stay on your tongue long enough to taste it.” 

You regret your choice of words as soon as you say them. Cursing, you already expect the joke when he quips, “Didn’t want to disrupt the other taste that’s in my mouth right now, you see?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s down the hallway,” you say, and tug at his hand until he follows. 

You push the door into your childhood bedroom. It’s a clean, organized place, but it maintains its youthful element, like a time capsule. Matty steps in, intrigued. It’s the first time he’s ever been and he paces it with curiosity. 

The shelves are decorated with childhood trophies; debate, math, punctuality. Even a participation medal from fifth grade soccer hangs on the corner. Thick, leather books mix with colorful cracked spines of YA literature on the bookshelf, along with fake plants and gaudy trinkets. The walls host picture frames of dental braced friends smiling wide. You have awful bangs in some of them and you stick your tongue out at the flash. On the bed, Mr Snuffles — a leopard plushie — lays like a king. 

You flush. You hadn’t realized how childish your bedroom at home still was. You’ve got an uncomfortable need to tear it all down and build it back as a refined, clean look..

“Cute,” he says, and you want to bury straight into the ground. He taps a picture of prom where you hold the arm of a visibly nervous teenage boy. “Was that your little boyfriend who couldn’t make you come?”

“No, that was my friend. I wasn’t interested in dating back then. I was a very serious girl.” 

He chuckles, turning back to you. He jokes, “Hard to believe now.” You shake your head, pretending to be bothered. He eyes the photograph once more. “You look pretty.” 

“Thanks.” It comes squeaked out of your lips. You really didn’t expect the compliment. 

He continues to inspect until you grow tired of it. You huff, deciding to go on the offensive until he takes a hint. “You know, I’ve actually never had any guy here before.” 

Matty flips to you, grinning. “No?” 

“No.” Your fingers fly to your collar and slowly start unbuttoning the top one, a silent invitation. 

“Very, very serious girl.” Matty watches your fingers, devouring the skin you unveil for him. The cups of your red bra peek in view. His eyes grow dark, though he still doesn’t move to do it himself. 

“I was very studious.” 

You get to your very last button. The shirt parts, a cracked door vision into your needy body. Matty drawls, slow and nonchalant, unrushed, “Must’ve spent a lot of time with your hand between your legs, then, if no one’s been here before.”

You try not to grow embarrassed. You have spent a lot of time doing so, mostly in recent weeks. You push the shirt past your shoulders and it drops at your feet. Matty’s eyes immediately fall to your breasts, rising with panting breaths for him. 

“Maybe,” you whisper shyly. You bend down to slip off your shoes, sliding your socks off your feet. 

“Thought about me a lot during it?” He asks, cocky. 

You straighten up again. You dig in your cheek, feeling both of them heat. “Maybe.” You find the zipper at your side and draw it down slowly, teasingly. Your skirt falls limply around your hips and you shimmy it down your legs. 

It seems you’ve found yourself half-naked to a very much dressed Matty again. His gaze devours every inch of your skin, licking up your legs, biting your hips, teasing your navel. You grow wet between your thighs just from the promise in his eyes. 

Your hand reaches behind yourself to your bra, but Matty tuts. “That’s mine,” he says, and there’s an air of danger in his voice. Your arms fall back to your sides, burned. You stand a bit straighter for him, aching deep inside yourself. 

Matty takes long, slow steps towards you, letting the need boil and bubble inside of you. He stands before you, looking down into your eyes. Your lips part, your heart screams his name. He grazes two fingers along your waist, snaking to your back, and kisses you. 

You respond with an eager tongue, opening your lips up to him and kissing him back. He still tastes like you, like your slick that dried on his cheeks. You shiver at the thought. 

His hands find the small of your back, heavy and pressing into you, so fucking present you feel your mind twists on itself. You travel yours up his arms, finding his shoulders and sneaking into the hair at his nape. 

He tilts his head to change the angle and your legs clench. He draws out all your wanton needs with his skilled tongue, makes you putty and malleable. You’re ready for him, for anything. 

His fingers dance on your spine, climbing up each vertebrae until they catch on your bra band. Your breath hitches. He unhooks it. Matty stops kissing you to pull the bra off your arms. 

Your breasts lay in view, pebbled and peaked. He takes a good look at them, then bends down to catch a nipple into his mouth. “Fuck, Matty!” Your hands twist at his curls, tugging and patting as he sucks and nips your tits. 

He leaves bites on the underside, your sternum, kissing and licking down your stomach until he knees before you. You moan, still unused to the sight of him. Each hand hooks to a side of your underwear and he pulls it down and off your legs. You keep a stabilizing grip on his hair as you step out of it. 

Matty comes back up to you, breathing harshly. He kisses your lips one last time, then draws you on the bed. You’re laying on the purple sheets for him, naked and wet and flushed. Every body part is aware of him and looks it. 

Still, Matty takes a step back. “Show me what you do when you think of me.” You stare at him in shock. You’re naked for him, laying on your bed in godly offerance like a fucking daydream, and he wants you to finger yourself? 

Matty laughs. “Come on, princess,” he teases. “Show Daddy.” The nickname jolts you. Tiny, electrical shivers run down your spine and you bite your lip, brushing a hand down your stomach. 

You waste no time, too drunk on pleasure and want to bother teasing yourself. You part your legs and rub two fingers on your swollen clit, jumping at the sudden feeling. You bite your lip, cracking your eyes open to find Matty’s

His eyes watch you with obsession. You make a low whimper for him, circling your bundle of nerves, arching your back. A tantalizing show, hopefully enough to get him to touch you. You want him so deeply you’re shivering for him, hot and dripping all over. 

You’re efficient and quick; you know all the spots of yourself and press them just so. Pleasure is not something you draw out, pumping and rubbing until you develop carpal tunnel. You’re in and out, wiping your fingers clean on your thigh. 

It’s why you’re already dipping your digits inside yourself. You cry at the stretch, though never as delicious and fulfilling as his. Still, ecstasy runs through your body. 

“Matty,” you moan, and once again hope the breathy, needy shape of his name in your mouth is enough to get him to replace your hardworking fingers. 

“I’m right here, baby,” he says, transfixed by your hands, your mouth, your panting tits. You see his gaze and smirk, grabbing your breast and twisting the nipple. A low whine leaves you. “Fuck. Does that feel good?” 

You nod furiously. Your fingers slide quickly in and out of you. “Not as good as you, though,” you pout. 

Matty grins, cocky and a dick about it. “‘Course not.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. You let yourself be taken over by the euphoria swimming through you. Your mouth calls his name like it was him making you feel this way and not the three fingers fucking into you. In a way, it’s the fact that he’s here that draws this overwhelming pleasure out of you. It’s never been this intense with yourself. 

“What do you think of when you’re in your head?” He whispers, sounding affected by the spectacle you give him. 

You bite your lip, trembling. “You. You on your knees for me behind the bar. You bending me over the sink of the bathroom in the middle of two guests. You letting me suck your dick on the staircase of the alleyway. You fingering me at The Darling in front of Landon until I fucking come all over the booth.”

“All these nasty thoughts while you’re tucked tight in your little bed?” 

You nod. “I replay that night in the kitchen over, and over, and over. I know every little detail, everything you've done to me—” Behind your eyelids, graphic images of you pressed into the ground, giggling and coming, flash to you. It’s too much; you snap. Your eyes flash open. “Fuck me, Daddy. Please.”

“You need it?”

“I need it so, so bad.” Your wrist is tired between your legs. Still, you work, feeling the intensity build to an impossible degree. “Need you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“Shit,” he groans. You see the tent in his jeans and know he’s just as ready as you. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll give it to you.” A grin shines on your face. You clench around your fingers in excitement. “Just as soon as you come for me.”

You pout. A whiny cry comes out of you. “It’s not the same without you.” 

“I know, baby,” he pouts, faux-broken over it as if he wasn’t the one putting you through this torture. “You’re doing so well for me. I wanna see you come now, though. Can you do that for me?”

Your stomach tightens and you know that you can, that you will. You’re still a little bitter, holding back as though in just a few seconds Matty was gonna get to his knees and finish you off yourself. 

“Your clit’s feeling a little neglected, isn’t it?” You moan, pressing into your bud like he silently demanded. Your legs kick at the sensation. You arch your back, crying to the ceiling. “That’s it. You’re so close.” You rub and fuck until you can taste the ecstasy. Goddammit. 

“You’re right there,” he says, and makes it true. You feel your orgasm threaten the edges of you. “Just a bit more. Come on, fuck yourself. Think of me, of my cock. That’s right, princess.” You scream, staring into his eyes. He devours each inch of you, so fucking eager. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Right now. Come for Daddy.” With a mewl, your climax crashes through you. 

Your body slackens, pleasure swooping through you in one grandiose wave. Relief washes you, and then the slight bitterness that it was all your own doing. Barely reeling from the orgasm and you’re already needing more. 

You don’t ride out the climax; Matty rips your fingers out of you and sucks them into his mouth. You sigh at the sight as he rolls his tongue around your digits. It’s sinful the way he moans, like the best fucking meal of his life. 

He releases them with a pop, then kisses your palm. “So good, babe. You did amazing.” He kisses your wrist. “You’re my little princess, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you pout. His lips trail up your arm, tickling your sensitive skin. You shiver, moaning as he brushes your shoulder and licks up your collarbone. 

“How do you want me? Since you’ve been thinking about it all the fucking time.” He kisses your neck. You moan, fluttering your eyelashes. 

“I wanna ride you,” you breathe out. 

Matty smirks against your skin. “Yeah? Gonna get yourself off on Daddy’s dick?”

You grin, nodding eagerly. “Gonna make you feel so good, too.” 

He smiles. “Alright then, baby.” He rolls onto his back, pulling you on top of him. You sit on his lap like a throne. “Make me feel good.”

You shake your head, pulling his shirt up his chest. “Get naked first. I wanna see you.” 

“She’s demanding.”

“It’s my fantasy.” Matty chuckles. Still, he tugs his shirt off his shoulders, throwing it beyond your bed. 

You had been so drunk on his cock the first time it happened, you hadn’t been able to really get a good look at him. This time, your eyes lap up every inch of his skin, especially the tattooed ones. You draw the outlines of them with the tip of your fingers. He shivers at the feeling as you dance on his hip, his happy trail, his chest. You press a hand there, holding yourself up. 

“Pants,” you order. You have a finely tuned demanding voice; you’ve led many school projects with an iron fist and an unarguable tone. Still, you know Matty only humors you when he obeys, kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning his pants and pushing them off. 

His cock slaps his stomach. It’s hard and leaking, and your mouth waters at the sight. You feel your sticky thighs beg for him. Cunt fluttering, you take him in your fist, jerking him slowly. Matty moans as his head falls back on the pillows. Oh, you will like that. Already, the power rushes to your head, loosening it drunkenly. 

You hoist yourself on your knees, then hesitate. Quickly, you grab your leopard plushie and turn him around until he faces the other way. 

Matty stares at you in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” 

“Mr. Snuffles doesn’t need to see that!” You cry out, defensive. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to shag in a bed with a stuffed toy right there.”

You raise your eyebrows, cocky. “Don’t get it wrong. I’m shagging you.”

Matty’s hands travel up to your hips, spreading over the bones possessively. He smiles up at you. “Do it, then. Fuck me.” You smile, taking his cock and leading it to your dripping cunt. 

You line it up, then slowly slide down on his length. Loud, relieved moans leave your and Matty’s mouth. A shared song drumming up both your spines in harmony. You bottom out and think fucking finally. 

“Oh, God,” you breathe, eyes rolling back. You take a second there, immobile, reveling in the heavenly moment. The way he fills you up so perfectly, stretches you in the most delicious ways. Your cunt throbs around him, eager. 

He makes a low curse, digging his nails into your hips. You sense his becoming restless, the insistent way he presses into your skin, as though physically stopping himself from holding you in place and fucking up into him. Indulgently, you begin moving. 

You haven’t been on top very often. You always used to find yourself sore and tired and bored after a few minutes, begging to either roll onto your back or end it right there. This time, however, there’s a practically all-consuming need to succeed. You want to fuck him, to permanently engrave his brain with the memory of you. 

You come at it like schoolwork; focused, diligent, persistent. You attempt experimental thrusts at first, getting yourself used to how deep he hits you. It’s slow, tentative things; you try different angles, sliding in and out, frowning as you analyze the different ways pleasure blooms under your skin. 

Under you, Matty groans, puffing out breaths. “I can hear you thinking. Stop it.”

You arch an eyebrow. “It was ‘what a smart girl’ thirty minutes ago, but now it’s ‘turn off your brain’?”

“Exactly. Want you to be fucked stupid now.” 

You snort. “That’s not gonna happen.” 

He hums, smirking. “Don’t give me a challenge.” You roll your eyes. 

You settled on a rocking rhythm, something that hits all the perfect places inside of you. Your hair sticks to your nape, effort trembling your thighs already. You moan, roll your head back. “Like that?” You breathe out. Euphoria begins to prickle at your skin and your smile slackens your mouth. 

“Yeah, baby,” Matty nods. “Just—” His hold on your hips is strangling. His hands clench, begging you to give something mindnumbing. “Go faster.” 

You ignore his request, continuing that slow, teasing pace. You love feeling every inch of his cock as you buck on it, love to hear him grow desperate for you for a change. Every pathetic, quiet groan he makes resonates straight to your core. Head still rolled back to the ceiling, you rock stubbornly, smiling to yourself. 

A particularly artful stroke has your nails digging into his chest. He shivers under you. “Fuck, faster,” Matty pants.  

You smirk down at him, cheeky. “What’s the magic word, princess?” 

Matty rolls his eyes. “Don’t get bratty,” he says, then gives your ass a warning spank. You jump at the sting, bucking on his cock. Low heat simmers through you. You bite your lip, quickening your thrusts dutifully. Matty smirks at you, all-knowing. 

You speed up, falling back on his length again and again until the slapping sounds of your skins fill the room. You sense the resonating ecstasy pull at your stomach. You’re aware, unfortunately, that he’s right. It’s better, stronger. 

“That’s right,” he says, and you want to slap that shit-eating grin off his lips. “Fucking faster.” You obey like some deep-seated instinct, bouncing above him. 

A part of you wants to slow to a snail pace and teach him a lesson — get him reciting all those patience proverbs he’s so keen on — but a bigger part of you melts and drips at the ecstasy pulsing through you. Speedy, deep rolls have you shaking, moaning his name like a worship. You’re irrationally convinced you might die if you even try to slow down, like losing the pleasure he’s coaxing out of you right now would be a fatal crash. 

Again, he gives you that teasing, devilish stares that tells you he’s well aware of the burning heat he causes you. His lips stretch up into a smirk, and he parts them to talk some more. You slap a hand over his mouth instead. “Shut it,” you warn. He laughs under your palm, too happy at your reaction. 

His tongue sticks out, licking your hand childishly, and you release him. “You only like my mouth for one thing,” he says, pouting at you. 

“Don’t give me ideas.” 

“Want to sit on it again, huh?” He teases, cocking his head. “Maybe when you’re done fucking me.” He licks his teeth. “Though I doubt you’ll have the energy to sit up then. I’ll have to lay you down and clean you all up. Would you like that, baby?” 

“Anything that doesn’t involve you talking.”

Matty hums, and you sense the danger in his tone. You’ve pushed him just a bit too far, and the low thrum of thrill resonates in your stomach. You hold your breath, sick apprehension bringing you sinful pleasure. 

“You’ve got a mouth on you today,” he says. “Should’ve filled it up before I gave you what you wanted. Wouldn’t have so much to say if you were drooling and crying for my cock.” You wonder if that’s exactly what he’ll do; pull you off by your hips and onto your knees for a lesson. 

Instead, his hand pinches your nipple, then snakes up your chest, your collarbone, spreading over your throat. You clench around him, lust flashing in your eyes, and he smiles at you. “My little slut,” he coos. “You’d let me do anything.” 

You rock on him furiously, humping his lap to get rid of that building pressure in your core. Your mouth hangs open, pathetic whimpers spilling out every time your clit rubs on his pelvis. “Yes, Daddy,” you say in that sweet tone he knows is nothing but trouble. 

“Touch your clit,” he orders, and you’ve got a hand flying between your thighs, swiping on the bundle of nerves with abandon. You mewl in his lap, fucking and rubbing until you’re dripping on him. When you’re halfway through a moan, pussy clenching around his cock, Matty presses into your neck. 

The moan dies in your throat, mouth hanging open as a rush of adrenaline spreads through you. Your head swarms with silence, a sort of calmness buzzing and tingling under your face, and you feel every thrust of his cock he pumps up into you like a true hit of ecstasy. You whine, suspended in the moment. 

“My pretty girl,” he whispers. You roll your eyes. “My girl.”

His fingers release your throat and the sudden breath of air buzzes through you. The world sharpens; you sense his cock, his skin under your palms, his hand still around your neck— like he owns you. Your cunt tightens at the idea, something pretty stringing up your spine. Pleasure intensifies, practically breathing with you, until your brain rushes with endorphins.

“There she is. So good for me now,” he says and your lips stretch up with a proud grin. You’re lazy on your bones, letting him rock you on his cock without a care. “You wouldn’t do this for anyone, would you?” 

You shake your head fervently. “Only you.” 

“That’s right,” he nods. “Only me.” He sneaks a thumb to your clit, pushing away your slack hand and working at it himself. “No fucking guy can make you feel like this.” 

“I know,” you whine, and there’s the faint heartbreak of it tugging at the back of your mind. Nothing tangible, just the knowledge of what you’ll spend the rest of your life mourning and missing once he’s gone. Once you’re gone.

He lets go of your neck, dropping it to your waist, and you whine at the loss. It quickly turns into a moan as he uses both hands to guide you on his length properly. A quick, hard tempo sets, shaking your legs with growing pleasure. You feel him in the deepest part of you, hitting again and again that sweet spot as he puppeteers your freely given hips. 

“God, Matty.”

He smirks. “That was redundant.” You roll your eyes, half from pleasure and half from annoyance. He chuckles at that, happily giving a deep stroke that has you purring for him, as though to prove his point. 

You hold your weight up with a hand beside his head, drooping into the mattress. You tilt your hips, angling yourself perfectly for his drilling cock. Your face breaks open with a moan, but you shake your head. You force your eyes open to take in his face; sweaty and flushed and overwhelmed with pleasure and work. You lick your lips. Pleasure swirls in your belly, tightening and tightening until you have to believe you’ve driven yourself mad. 

“Daddy,” you whine for him. Your free hand flies back to your thighs, rubbing at your clit until your lungs catch on fire. “Make me come,” you plea. “I need you. I need—” You press into your bud, groaning at the rush of ecstasy. 

Matty laughs and the mean sound only drives you further into lust. You grip the sheets, trying to catch on fire. “Thought you were gonna shag me,” he mocks. “Thought you were gonna get off all on your own.” He tsks, bucking into you wildly, sounding out of breath as he adds, “But you need Daddy to make you come, don’t you?” 

You shake your head, as if the evidence wasn’t dripping all over his cock, spilling from your lips in incoherent slurs. “No?” He says, again just as merciless in his taunting. He halts inside of you and you cry, shaking your head. “Do it, then,” he laughs. 

He raises his hands up your waist, dancing on the ribs. He gropes your tits, circling the nipples. It becomes apparent to you that he’s not joking. You pout, finding your balance again and rising to your knees, falling back with thunderous force. Your legs shake; you’re exhausted and sore, whiny as you obey him. 

“That’s it, princess,” he praises. It’s enough to spark some motivation. You furrow your eyebrows, bouncing on his cock, puffing breaths falling from your lips. Sweat pearls on your forehead, but you continue, undeterred. “God, you’re so fucking filthy.”

You mewl, redoubling efforts. You find something close to those quick, harsh thrusts Matty was giving, just slightly poorer. You fuck mindlessly, not bothering to rub your clit on his pelvis or find that delicious spot inside of you. Pleasure fills your mind anyway. 

“Doing so well,” he moans. His fingers play with your nipples; your head pulls back, crying out. “Use my cock. Ride it ‘till you come all over it.” You whine, nodding fervently. “Need to feel you again,” he pants. “Need to feel that cunt as it fucking squeezes me.” 

Ecstasy swarms through you. You moan, digging your claws into your sheets. You squeeze around him, over and over, a clear-tell warning. His name and a string of curses come out of your lips broken. He pinches your nipple. 

“I’m gonna—”

“Ask,” he groans, a choking sound that rips out of him. 

“Can I—” Your body trembles, the taste of climax spreading under your skin. You scrunch your face. “Daddy, please, can I—” You finish it with a moan, losing your train of thought.

“Use your big girl words,” he taunts, climbing one hand up. Your breath catches as he nears your neck; a swirling hit of excitement so true it makes you lightheaded. Still, he doesn’t linger, instead cupping your jaw and sticking his thumb in your mouth. 

Your hips are artless and loose, sliding and rolling and thrusting without any reason. It’s wild, brutal strokes that have you drooling around his finger. 

“C’mon, princess. I wanna hear you.”

He doesn’t slip his thumb out. You speak around his digit, drooling and slurring, incoherent. “Pleashe, pleashe, pleashe, Daddy, let me come. I want to come. I’ve been so good, I’ve— fuck, I’ve needed it for so long. Just—” You cry, shaking your head. “You’re so fucking deep in me.”

You take his hand away from your jaw, feeling spit drip down your chin as you spread it over your belly instead. “Fucking love you inside of me. Where you belong,” you moan. 

“Fuck, yeah.” He pushes on your stomach, making you feel his cock sliding into you. Your mind rolls inside your skull, drunk. “Made for this cunt.”

“Made to make me come.” He nods again eagerly. Your hips stutter, exhausted. “Please, then,” you say, hopeful. “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplea—”

“Come for me, princess.”

“Ah—” You convulse, dropping on his chest, a scream drowning in his shoulder as your climax hits you in one drowning wave. Ecstasy sparks under your skill, overwhelming. 

Matty holds you in place with one soothing hand on your spine. Ruthlessly, he continues to fuck up into you, riding the end of your mindnumbing orgasm. “Fuck, I got you. Ride it out, princess. Ride it out on my cock. That’s it— Shit, I can fucking feel you.” 

Your fingertips buzz pleasantly, and there’s the distant shape of his words in your ear. You grin, loose and happy, heart filling up with his name. “D’you feel good?” He asks, kissing your cheek. You nod, humming. “Yeah? Came so hard for me?”

“Yeah.” You moan, his cock still thrusting inside of you slowly, waking you up again. Your legs shake. You tilt your hips slowly, ever so slightly rolling them. Matty grins against your cheek, kissing it again and again. 

He caresses your back, soothing away all those leftover shivers. “So fucking pretty when you come,” he promises. “The best girl. My best girl.” He grips your back, choking out, “Can you turn around for me?” 

You whine, tired, but still straighten up on his lap. You hoist up with great efforts, turning around with shaky knees. He coos some congratulations, hooking an arm around your belly and laying you back up on his chest. You practically melt on it, back against his stomach, head tucked in the crook of his neck. Each thigh hangs from his knees and he spreads you wide open for him again. 

“Don’t have to do anything, baby,” he breathes out, snaking a hand down your body to grab his still hard cock. “Let Daddy take care of you.” You groan, nodding in agreement. He likes himself up with your dripping entrance, then slides into you. 

He allows you a single slow thrust to get used to the stretch again, then wastes no time mercilessly ramming inside of you. You grip the arm around your waist, digging your nails into his tattoos, barely holding on from the brutal pace between your thighs. You mumble a strange mix of his name and the word Daddy, blurring out of you with all those pathetic sounds you shamelessly let out. 

You can tell he’s close too, chasing his pleasure with abandon, practically using you to get off. The knowledge makes burning heat spread through your lower belly. You throb around him, wanting him to come, to fill you up. Wanting him to feel as good as he makes you. 

Matty smirks against your cheek. “Oh, are you gonna come again?” His hips snap quickly, taunting. You stutter a response, biting down a scream. “What’s that? Can’t hear you when you mumble.”

“Shit,” is all you manage to say, already feeling pleasure grow inside of you again. He’s delighted to find this, grabbing a pebbled breast and playing with it. “I— Fucking, I’m—”

He hums, licking your neck. “Does Daddy’s cock make you forget how to speak?” You tremble in his arms, hot shame filling up your mind, a strange, sinful heat that has you yelling out absurdities. Matty’s relentless between your thighs, knowing exactly how to prove his point. 

His knees fall further on the bed, spreading your thighs wide open for him. He snakes a hand to your clit, rubbing at it with his palm. You jump in his arms, shaking your head. “Can’t—” It’s too much, too soon. You feel the edges of you unspool, unwind. 

“Can’t what?” He teases, merciless. “Can’t think? It’s okay, baby. Just lay there and take it. I’ll do the rest.” 

You practically buzz, incapable of taking in the pleasure that he’s already fucking and rubbing some more out of you. You choke, giving him some empty pleas, unsure of what exactly you’re even asking for.

“My dumb little slut,” he coos, kissing your cheek. “Fucked all stupid, as she should be.”

He dips his head in your neck, nipping and licking at the skin, peppering it with sweet love. It drowns your mind, makes it sticky and happy. You claw at his arm, desperate. 

Matty’s legs shake under you. You know he’s growing tired too, ready to burst anytime. The knowledge pokes at your mind, hot and eager. You grind on his palm. 

“Come in me,” you beg. You’ve completely relinquished the control of your tongue. “I’m on the pill now. Please.” Matty twitches inside of you. 

“Fuck,” he groans in your neck, choked. “That right? Got on the pill specifically for me?”

You did, searching up doctors and prescriptions, belly humming with the idea of him not pulling out this time. “Yes.”

His hand leaves your breast, climbing up to your neck. You throb around him, reveling in his presence around your throat, the silent mark that he owns you. “Needed me to fill you up that fucking bad? To have my cum dripping out of you.” 

“Yes,” you scream, wrinkling your face. 

“Gonna come for me first, though, right? Be my good little girl and come.” Though the words trigger something in you, you shake your head stubbornly. You’re almost afraid of letting go, as though the building euphoria inside of you could crush you to death, could blow your skin off your bones. It’s safer here, just on the edge of the fatal. 

His cock slams into you and his hand presses into your clit, driving you wilder and wilder. You choke a scream, feeling your limbs tighten in apprehension. You’re there, just there, and still you refuse. 

All the sensations are too much. You call his name, the only word you seem to know. Pressure presses against your skin, threatening to burst. You feel yourself begin to cry. 

Matty shushes you soothingly. “Oh, princess,” he says, kissing away your tears. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m right there. I’ll catch you.” 

You pout, shaking your head, sobbing from pleasure. It’s a useless fight; Matty presses into the sides of your throat and suddenly the world catches on fire. You’re flying into orbit, imploding with ecstasy, screaming his name and all the curse words you know in worship. 

“Did so well,” Matty screams. “Fuck. Look at you coming all over my cock. What a good girl.” He releases your neck just when you come down from your high, shooting you up in another rush of pleasure. You moan, melting on him. “Gonna fill you up, now,” he warns. His words sound desperate, stretched thin. “Gonna come so deep inside of you, you’ll feel me for days. D’you want that?” 

“Yes!” 

His hips stutter. He twitches inside of you. “Say it— Shit.”

“Fill me up, Daddy!” 

“Ah, fucking hell—” He comes inside of you with a cry of your name, shaking under you. He groans, shaking, washed with pleasure. He continues fucking into you mindlessly, slower and slower, until he’s stopped, panting. His hold on you is murderous; it’s like he’s afraid you’ll slip away from him in his most vulnerable state. 

You watch him, observe his solemn face as he lingers in ecstasy, eyes shut and smile wide. Your chest warms, a grin teasing your own lips. Sweat and tears and drool dries on your face.

Matty softens inside of you. His cock slips out, cum spilling out of you. You moan at the feeling, getting on your elbows to watch the spectacle. Still laying down and catching his breath, Matty plunges two fingers inside of you, pushing his cum back in your cunt just so you can watch it fall again. You shiver, falling back on him with a sigh. 

“God,” he says. “I’m too old to fuck in twin beds.” You laugh in surprise and he snickers with you, his chest drumming against you. “You’re rich. Why don’t you have a king sized bed and feather pillows or some shit?” 

“I’m sensible,” you say, sticking your tongue out. You roll to your belly beside him, finally letting him take a full breath. He stretches on your mattress, taking up almost all the space. It’s a little ridiculous, this man in your childhood bed. 

You smirk, traveling down his chest and stopping near his soft cock. You lick the length, sucking him into your mouth to clean the mix of your wetness and his cum. He jumps, sitting up to push you anyway. “Fucking— Do you want to kill me?”

You laugh, falling back on the pillows, cheeky. “See? Not so easy.” 

“Well, you’re young and healthy. I expect more of you.” Matty opens his arm, inviting you to tuck your head in his shoulder. Your arm drapes over his chest, halfway across his tattoo. “When’s your dad gonna be back?” He yawns.

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s always up in the air; often, you don’t know he even came back until you wake up to the strong smell of Ethiopian coffee and the ghost of him in the flat. You shrug, “You could always sneak out if he’s there in the morning.”

Matty rubs his face. “Ugh, I feel like a teenager.” 

You rest your chin on his shoulder, teasing, “Shouldn’t fuck such a young, innocent girl, then.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Innocent? You’ve seen the things you’ve done on my dick?”

“Shut up.” Quieter, you mumble, “I don’t think Mr. Snuffles’s ever gonna be able to unhear tonight.” His laughs rocks you, resonating against you. You grin on his skin. 

You nuzzle further into his warmth, exhaustion settling in your bones. His arm warms your waist, pulling you further into him. You know you need to clean yourself up soon, but you allow yourself a short moment to relish the shape of him. 

He tugs you out of sleep by piping up, voice sticky-tired, “If you want, I know the best fucking scallop place in town. We could go tomorrow.”

Halfway asleep, you say, “I’d like that.”

[yeahyouremedicine]

he is so boyfriend coded❤️‍🩹

[ughgoaway]

Snapshots

a/n; This is kind of half a blurb and half a fic?? Idk, it's just horny thoughts expanded tbh. now, this is NOT sanitary at all. PLEASE do not do this without thoroughly cleaning the shoe first. You are asking for a yeast infection and a UTI otherwise. But this is fiction, so let's all pretend he did a little sterilising beforehand! however, that's not hot to read, so im not gonna write it, but let's play pretend!! Thank you, ily <3

Content warnings; boot grinding, d-word, degradation, jealousy, bratty behaviour, dom matty, spit, swearing, and teasing. But I think thats it?? I'm so sorry if I'm missing some!

word count; 2.1k ish

(shout out to Kirke @nowshesdoingitallthetime for once again causing this. you are my fav little devil on my shoulder encouraging this behaviour...)

✿❀✿✿❀���✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿

*click* *click* *click*

“Okay and now look to the left!” You hear the photographer shout. matty turns his head exactly as she asks. But apparently, it's not quite right, judging by how she walks over to him and poses his body.

you can feel the jealousy in every fucking nerve when her fingers graze the edge of Matty's jaw, adjusting his head half a centimetre. The move was so small it was completely unnoticeable to anyone else, but what was noticeable was the sly smirk on the photographer's face as her fingers lingered on Matty’s skin.

Your boyfriend remains completely oblivious, as he has been all day. You, however, noticed it as soon as you walked in together. You weren't planning on coming to play jealous girlfriend, you were prepared to be silently supportive.

But when she spent 40 minutes trying different outfits on Matty and showering him with compliments, you knew something was up. 

You studied her every move from then on. The way she “adjusted” Matty’s hair after almost every take, running her fingers through every strand in a way that had Matty practically purring.

You look at the way she pulls at his clothes, untucking and tucking in his shirt multiple times. and you also watch her eyes dart down to his exposed stomach every. fucking. Time. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in her head when she catches a flash of the rose tattoo on his hip.

Every joke he makes, she laughs just a little too hard. Matty is funny, but making a shitty pun is not worthy of doubling over and acting like you're at a standup show. Yet, every vaguely funny comment he makes has her cackling and wiping tears that are streaming down her cheeks.

So you were fuming. Partially at her, Matty had introduced you as his girlfriend at the start of the session. Which had earned him an unimpressed hum from her and you a petty wave. she didn't seem to take too much notice of that fact, though, judging by the way she's stroking his cheek right now.

But you're also pissed at Matty for playing right into her hand. 

You knew he was egotistical, but the way he was practically turned into a giggling schoolgirl over the shoot drove you insane. His attention whore actions usually make you laugh, probably because they're normally aimed at you. as soon as you start rambling about how much you love him, matty becomes a child star, immediately glowing at the praise.

But it's remarkably less entertaining when he's lapping up the attention of a woman who is practically getting on her knees in front of you.

And maybe you took it too far, walking over to him mid-conversation and grabbing his face, pressing your lips onto his harshly, you take advantage of the gasp that leaves his lips to press your tongue into his mouth, licking inside and moaning excessively loud.

Matty pulls you off once his logical brain overtakes his horny one, but you can still see he's slightly dazed when he goes back to chatting with the photographer. The haze in his eyes and the pink flush on his cheeks take a few minutes to fully fade, especially when your hand slides onto his thigh and grips his skin possessively. 

You hang off his arm for the rest of the break and move closer to the set when they start up again. Every adjustment she suggests you swoop in and make before she can, punctuating each one with a peck on Matty’s lips and a glare her way.

Matty knows what you're doing, and after you lingered a little too long on one kiss, he pulls you in with a hand around the base of your neck.

You feel his breath on your ear before he starts talking, “I know what you're doing. Behave.”

You don't listen to his demands. Why should you when he's been gagging for every piece of attention this stranger gives him? So you play it up even more, determined to beat this woman at her game.

whilst you might win that war, you certainly don't win the one waging with matty judging by his tense shoulders and rolling eyes.

✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿❀✿✿

The ride home is full of tension, Matty's knuckles are white from how hard he's gripping the steering wheel, and the hand that usually lives on your thighs is firmly stuck on the gearstick.

You cant deny that the mix of his palpable anger now and how fucking good he looked at the photo shoot had riled you up. Every tick of his jaw makes your thighs tighten. And you swear you see a smile cross Matty's face as you cross and uncross your legs for the 20th time, desperate to relieve some pressure.

As soon as you get in the door, Matty is barking orders at you. 

“Follow me. And be quiet. You've done enough talking today.”  Any bratty behaviour left simmering inside you was gone. You trailed behind Matty silently, walking into the front room and starting to sit down on the sofa beside him.

“Nope, floor,” Matty says bluntly.

... no, he's joking. Surely.

“What?” you tilt your head at the man in front of you as you speak, assuming this is another one of his unfunny jokes (but you're sure the photographer would be fucking cackling at it.)

“You heard me, Don't play dumb now, baby. Kneel.” You don’t know whether it’s the intensity of his eyes or the assertiveness of his voice, but you do exactly as he asks. Sinking to your knees like you had done for him so many times before.

Your hands start to move to his fly instinctively, assuming you'd be apologising the only way you know how, letting Matty fuck your throat until you cant speak. But his hands smack yours away before you can even touch the denim of his jeans.

“Thats not gonna cut it today, baby. i need a proper apology this time.” Matty's foot slides between your legs, his boot sitting between your thighs as you hover just above it.

“I want you to grind on my boot, sweet girl. Put on a proper show for me, yeah?” Matty nods at you, and you don't even think before immediately nodding back, sinking down on his boot below you. in your mind, you know you should be scoffing at him and rolling your eyes, but your body moves without you telling it to.

You can already feel wetness pooling in your panties, throbbing at the idea of being so powerless under him. You gasp as soon as the cool leather of the boot touches your core, goosebumps blooming over your skin.

Your hips start rutting against the leather, sliding your hands around Matty's calf as you experimentally grind down on his shoe. Matty feels your fingers tighten around his leg as you clit brushes agaisnt the leather, the slight scratch of the boot making your head spin.

You rock your hips dumbly against Matty's shoe, arching your back when it brushes harshly over your bundle of nerves. Your ruby red nails dig into Matty’s leg through his jeans as you cling to him desperately.

One of your hands slides behind you so you can rock your hips even deeper on his boot, laying your palm flat the ground and canting your hips up desperately. Your thighs burn with every rock you make, but the burn in your core is stronger than anything else.

“thats it. now stick your tongue out, fuck. that's it angel,” Matty palms himself over his jeans as he stares down at you, groaning as he watches spit drip from your tongue and fall on the boot below, making every move you make slicker and more dizzying.

Matty looks pretty fucked out for someone who hasn't been touched, a thin sheen of sweat sits on his skin, his dick straining in his jeans as he watches you like a hawk. He studies your every movement like he is watching a cinematic masterpiece, taking in every move you make and committing it to memory. 

His jaw clenches as he fights every urge in his body to grab you by the hair and pull under him. Visions cross his mind of him jackhammering his hips inside you until you're screaming his name, watching the bluge in your stomach as he pumps fucking every inch of himself inside you. But he stays strong, keeping his eyes trained on you with every move you make.

“Thats it, shine my boots with your cunt. Good girl” Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Matty drags out his words and pushes his boot up, the pressure against your clit making the world around you fall into a haze. 

A flush covers your cheeks and chest, and Matty smirks at how blissed out you look.

Fucking you dumb is something that will never fail to amaze him, watching a smart girl become a babbling mess because of him does wonders for his ever-growing ego. It's not like he needed the boost, but your brain melted out of your ears as soon as he starts talking to you like he owned you.

You can't help but squirm as you start moving closer towards the edge, the pressure building inside you slowly becoming too much. Whimpers and whines fall from your lips as your hips speed up, pleading with Matty to let you cum without saying it. Luckily, Matty has seen you fall apart under him enough times to know exactly what you're asking.

“You getting close, baby?” Matty smirks as he speaks, “‘course you are. Filthy girl wants to cum all over daddy's boots.” your jaw drops at the nickname, and you nod as best you can, whimpering with every circle of your hips. 

“Beg." he demands

"Tell me you're fucking sorry and beg to cum,” Matty's jaw drops when he sees tears start falling down your face, desperation filling your every nerve. Soon, you're sobbing and begging Matty for mercy, your hips bucking wildly.

“Please. I’m so- fuck- im so sorry, Daddy. Please let me cum, ill be so good, I promise. Just- ah! let me cum. Please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you fight to hold in your orgasm, but every rut of your hips is making pushing you closer.

“So good for me, such a dirty slut. Okay, angel, cum for me.” As soon as the words leave Matty’s lips, your cumming, the rubber band inside you snapping.

White spots dance across your vision as you push even harder down on Matty’s boot, letting the tough leather push you through your orgasm with every circle of your hips. Your chest heaves, and your jaw shakes as your orgasm drags on, intense pleasure wracking your every nerve.

Your thighs grip tightly around his boot as you reach your peak, but soon enough they're going lax, your hips slowing down until you’re motionless sitting on Matty's shoe, panting wildly and fighting to catch your breath. His fingers move from his lap and grip your chin, forcing you to stare at him as he speaks.

“Don't leave a mess. clean it up for me baby, be a good girl.” Matty nods at his boot, looking at you expectantly with a sick smile covering his face.

You sink further down on the floor below you, ignoring the way the cold concrete scratches your knees as you slide. Dark brown eyes meet yours as you hold eye contact with Matty. staring up at his as you stick your tongue out, and start to lick the leather covered in your slick. An exaggerated moan falls from your lips at the taste, and Matty’s jaw drops as he watches your tongue lap at his shoe.

After a few more seconds of you swiping your tongue over the leather, Matty is dragging you into his lap, gripping your hips harshly as you settle on top of him. He can't help smirking as you hover over him. Your cheeks are pink as you stare at him. The same pretty pink covers your lips. undoubtedly from desperately bitting at them to try and dampen your needy whimpers.

“Don't be so selfish now, princess, give daddy a taste,” you smirk at Matty before gripping his jaw, watching in awe as his mouth drops open and his tongue falls out.

Power skitters up your spine as you lean forward and let a drop of spit fall from your bottom lip, watching it drip and fall onto your boyfriend's tongue. A grin immediately pulls at your lips when you hear the groan that is ripped from his chest. 

As soon as Matty tastes the mix of your slick and spit, he's dragging you deeper into his lap, forcing his tongue in your mouth to desperately lick every trace of your release from the inside of your mouth.

Needy hands grip each other's skin, groping every piece you can get your hands on. Eventually, Matty pulls away from your lips, his eyes dropping to watch a string of spit spread between you. His head falls back against the sofa behind him, staring at you in awe.

“I'm booking another photo shoot with her,” he teases, his chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air to his lungs.

“The fuck you are.” You surge forward and capture his lips again, smiling as you feel his lips turn up as soon as your skin touches his. 

[alwyswnadie]

i will never recover from this

[wreckedandpolemic]

58 & 61 for white and gold matty when u get a chance, my beautiful friend !!!

- molly 🤍🤍🤍

(ilysm)

felt like a kiss - matty healy

(mdni) in which matty finds a new punishment for you. part of the white and gold universe. 2291 words.

warnings: daddy kink (duh), heavy degradation, mean mean dom!matty, impact play (belt), overstimulation, mild cumplay

Logically, you know that the situation you’re in right now is entirely your own fault. Nothing good ever comes out of teasing Matty, especially not when he’s already tightly-wound and ready to snap at any second. But he makes it so fun. It’s like a game to you, seeing how much you can make his jaw clench and his nostrils flare, his every movement a threat. That, and you fucking begged him to be meaner to you, stomach twisting in anticipation as anger radiates off him.

Matty doesn’t even kiss you when you get home, just grabs your jaw punishingly and forces your eyes to meet his. “Filthy slut,” he spits. “Should fuckin’ slap you for the way you behaved today.” Excitement tangles with fear under your skin. “Take your fucking clothes off, get on the bed and wait. Got it? Or are you too dumb for a simple fucking instruction?”

You pout. “No, Daddy. M’not dumb,” you say sulkily, folding your arms and scowling.

His dark laugh makes you shiver, catching some misstep you don’t even know you’ve made. “Not dumb, huh? So you chose not to fuckin’ listen to me today?” He clicks his tongue. “Oh, baby. You really wanna let yourself in for it, huh?” Your breath hitches. “Go on, on the bed and wait. Daddy’s gotta decide what to do with his dirty little slut, yeah?”

It’s phrased like a question, but the way he’s breathing hard against your mouth and glowering down at you has your knees melting into jelly. “Yes, Daddy,” you murmur, stumbling slightly when Matty shoves you away from him. A flare of sick arousal sparks to life in your gut.

The waiting is part of the torture, and you know it, wet and restless as you toss and turn on your sheets. But you have no idea how long Matty’s gonna leave you unsupervised, and you can’t help yourself as you slide a hand between your legs, arousal dripping over your fingers. You bite hard on your lower lip to swallow your moans, circling your clit and picturing Matty’s hands in place of yours. Grasping at your tit, you rock your hips up against your hand, illicit pleasure creeping in your veins.

Two fingers dip into your cunt, your legs widening and back arching as a silent gasp escapes your lips. You slide the fingers of your free hand into your mouth, keeping yourself silent as you fuck yourself, cunt pulsing with need. Quickly, you realise your fingers aren’t enough, reaching into one of your drawers for a vibrator. A burst of pleasure scatters under your skin as you press it to your clit, your eyes fluttering closed and your thighs tensing.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Matty’s voice cuts through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind, and your eyes snap open. You must look as panicked as you feel, heart hammering, because he smirks down at you. “Did I give you permission to do that?” You shake your head. “Didn’t think so. My little whore’s just begging to get punished, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you moan, desire pulsing hard in your chest with every thud of your heart. “Been a bad girl, Daddy.” You press the vibrator insistently against your swollen nerves, moaning quietly. “Gotta punish me ‘til I’m good again.”

Matty groans, unbuckling his belt and loosening his tie, but he doesn’t undress further. He covers your hand with his and pulls the vibrator away, letting drop onto the mattress as you whine at the loss. “Don’t be fuckin’ pathetic, princess.” The nickname drips with condescension as he speaks. “Naughty girls don’t get to feel good. Now get up and bend over, okay?”

With your heart racing, you obey, slick coating your thighs as you widen your legs and brace your elbows on the bed. Nerves twist in your gut. “Daddy, I—”

“Shh, darling, it’s okay. Daddy knows what brats like you need, yeah? Can you take it if I hit you with my belt, princess?”

Fuck. You feel a gush of arousal drip from your cunt, moaning into the sheets. “Yes, Daddy. Promise I can.”

Matty pinches the flesh of your ass, the brief stab of pain spiralling sweetly through you. “God, you are such a fucking whore,” he groans like it’s a complaint, but you can hear the appreciation in his tone. “It’s not a punishment if you like it, princess.” He picks up your vibrator and retrieves a length of ribbon you usually use to tie up your hair. “Gonna keep this on you, and if you cum, s’gonna be worse for you. That okay?”

“Mhmm. Yeah. Won’t cum, promise,” you say dizzily, sinking into submission like a stone dropped in honey.

“Good little slut,” Matty coos, your entire body shuddering when he ties the vibrator against your leg, sparks shooting through you as it meets your clit. “You ready?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan, your muscles tight with anticipation as you hear Matty slide his belt into his palm. Without your permission, your hips shift down against the vibrator, chasing the steady pulse of ecstasy curling in your belly. Leather cracks against the flesh of your ass, a sound that’s half scream, half moan ripping from your chest as pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt bunches tight in your muscles.

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, breath stolen from your lungs to feed the flames. The vibrator is sickly insistent against your clit, legs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up. “God, look at you,” Matty says scornfully. “Fuckin’ dripping all over yourself from getting spanked with my belt. Shit, can’t believe I found such a perfect girl to ruin. M’so lucky, baby,” he croons, the praise perfectly soothing over the sting of cruelty.

Whimpering, you arch your back in a silent plea. Matty swipes you with the belt again, the snap of leather against skin obscenely loud in the still quiet of your room. Stinging pain blooms under your skin, an agonising throb that falls straight to your swollen, dripping cunt. You can feel the telltale tugging low in your belly, delirious with pleasure as your orgasm starts to build in every corner of your body. The third strike has tears pooling in your eyes as you fight not to cum, squirming in an attempt to knock the toy loose and away from you.

By the fourth, tears are flowing freely and the flesh of your ass is flaming, and you know you’ll be coated in pretty, purpling bruises by the morning. “You okay, princess? What’s your colour?”

“M’green, Daddy. Soo green. Feel like m’floating,” you say dreamily, hiccuping through your tears as Matty presses a flat palm against your screaming skin.

You scream when he hits you again, openly sobbing into the sheets and writhing desperately. Your nerves are alive with sensation, his hands a match and your pleasure an accelerant, setting a wildfire raging in your chest. “Cry all you want… I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this,” Matty says, cruel as the flames leap higher.

You’re dizzy, vision blurred and limbs shaking, ecstasy so hot in your belly that you’re sure you must be glowing with it. “Fuck, m’gonna cum, Daddy, oh my God!” you gasp, trembling as your arms give out and your wet face presses into the sheets.

“Hold it,” Matty orders. The pit in your stomach only grows as you buck against the confines of his impossible request. “If you cum, you’re not getting my cock, okay? I don’t fuck greedy little whores who can’t do as they’re told.”

Truly, that sounds like a worse punishment than the spanking, a helpless moan of protest escaping you as you writhe against the heat rolling through your blood. “Daddy, I can’t— I’m gonna— oh, fuck,” you cry, your orgasm ripping savagely through your body. Pleasure burns near-painfully through you, a whining scream clawing its way out of your throat. Your body crumbles, burns to ash, reforges in pure ecstasy; your mind is wiped clean as tears and drool pool below you on the mattress.

Disoriented as you come to, you moan incoherently and try to squirm away from the vibrator. “You with me, princess?”

“Daddy, it hurts,” you whine.

“Darling, do you need to safeword? It’s okay if you do, m’not gonna be mad, promise,” Matty says carefully.

You shake your head. “M’okay. Like when it hurts,” you confess, muttered through Egyptian cotton, but Matty hears you just fine, smacking your thigh with an open palm.

“Christ, but you’re a filthy fucking whore. Good girls don’t cum without permission, yeah?” You hear his zipper lowering and squirm, crying out when he slaps your thigh again. “Don’t be greedy. Told you I wasn’t gonna fuck you already.” His calloused fingers swipe through your soaked cunt, coating them in your slick, and you hear the familiar groan as he wraps his hand around his cock.

You’re practically numb, barely feeling the vibrator still on your clit as the last dregs of your awareness drift towards Matty. “Wanna watch,” you pout, frankly unsure how your legs are still supporting your weight at this point.

“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” Matty says, almost conversational. “You didn’t care what I wanted when I asked you to stop being a fuckin’ slut in public, did you? I wanna see your pretty ass all bruised and covered in my cum, so be a good girl and hold still, okay?”

Shuddering, you murmur an affirmative. “Can I— Can I just get on the bed properly, Daddy? Promise I’ll stay on my knees for you, s’just that my legs are hurting.”

“Yeah, go on, baby. M’not gonna hit you anymore, get comfy, okay?”

Relief floods your body and you struggle into the bed, soft cotton glorious under your knees as your aching muscles sag and relax. The movement shifts the vibrator away from your clit, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from crying out gratefully. “Thank you, Daddy,” you mumble, syrup in your veins as Matty moans above you. You close your eyes, soaking in the lewd sound of him pleasuring himself.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby. My pretty girl. Look so gorgeous like this, all bruised up for me. God, I love your sweet little ass,” Matty praises, still pumping his cock as you imagine him vividly. It doesn’t take long before he’s cumming with a groan, painting white over your red, tender skin. “Shit, looks so gorgeous, my darling. Made you all mine.”

“Was already all yours,” you say instinctively, twisting your neck to look up at him. “Can I see?”

Matty smirks. “Yeah, darling, hold on.” You hear the shutter sound of his camera as you slowly slump until you’re lying prone, bone-deep exhausted.

The picture is obscene, ropes of cum dripping over angry, crimson skin, your cunt sopping. “I look pretty,” you murmur. “Are you gonna get off looking at that, Daddy?”

“God, every fuckin’ chance I get, princess.” Even though you know he gets himself off thinking about you, the reminder that you’re the star of his fantasies always turns you on beyond belief. “My perfect girl. Did so well, darling, took it so fucking well. Couldn’t ask for a better, sweeter, more gorgeous girl to ruin like this.” You glow at the praise, finding yourself unable to move even an inch without your muscles screaming in protest.

Somehow, Matty senses that without having to be told, carefully lifting you onto the pillows, avoiding your sore skin. “Love you,” you mumble.

“I fucking adore you, my girl. I love you so fucking much. Are you feeling alright? That was a rough one.”

You giggle. “That’s one word for it,” you say, making grabby hands at Matty until he lays next to you, the comforting heat of him soaking into your skin. “M’okay. Hurts, though. Want the princess treatment ‘til I’m healed.”

Huffing a laugh, Matty combs his fingers gently through your tangled hair. “Of course, princess. Nothing less. Do you need anything?”

“Some water would be nice. Then cuddles. M’sleepy.” You whine when Matty gets up, the loss of him like a physical sting. Your lower lip trembles in the brief minutes you’re alone, slowly sinking into the familiar guilt that comes after nights like these.

“Oh, darling,” Matty murmurs, finding you sniffling quietly into your pillow. “It’s okay, m’here. Not goin’ anywhere, promise.” He sets a glass of water thankfully within reach on your nightstand, crooning soothingly down at you. “Just gotta get you cleaned up, okay?” Nodding warily, you close your eyes as he runs a cool cloth over your ass. “I know, princess, I know it hurts,” he coos when you whimper softly, stinging pain shooting up your spine. “I’m sorry, darling. Just a little more, being such a good girl. My sweet girl. There, all done.” He runs his hand over the loose, liquidy muscles of your back. “You comfy, princess?”

“Mhmm,” you hum, voice thick with sleep.

Matty slides a pillow under your hips, and the shift in angle lets you rest more comfortably against the pillows, eyelids drooping as you gaze adoringly at him. “Can’t fall asleep on me yet, angel. Gotta make sure you’re feeling good first.”

He doesn’t let you go to sleep until you’ve talked through the whole night, kissing you reverently and murmuring reassurances exactly when you need them. You sleep through the whole morning, awoken by the smell of coffee and a soft kiss to your forehead. “Hi,” you grin, staring up into the face of the love of your life, and despite the ache in your muscles and the bruising on your ass screaming out in protest, you can’t think of a time you’ve been happier.

[cellvphanehvuse]

little baby

[tooforwardtotease]

bro my brain is so fucking rotted i saw this and my immediate thought was “my cutie patootie sweetie pie boo-boo bear” THAT IS A GROWN MAN WITH DICK AND BALLS !!!!!!!!! LOG OUT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[sundrownsthehouse]

please i am begging you to listen to what i found I'M CRYING

[girlbragging]

[lottiecrabie]

galatea, take one – matty healy

matty produces your sophomore album. it's summer. you fall in love like you were always gonna do.

(based on the lorde and jack antonoff melodrama love affair)

warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, cheating, author doesn't know anything about music or writing music

17833 words

June 16

There’s a banging in the back of your head, cool and consistent. You’re monstrously hungover, vestiges of a blurry night in West End, but something in you knows this isn’t a vodka-lime headache. Perhaps fear, or nerves, or prophetic destiny banging at your temple, begging you to turn away. 

You pass a hand through your hair, trying to make yourself look presentable. Sweat sticks to your nape. It’s an uncharacteristically hot day of June and you feel aflamed even in your sheer tank top and cutoffs. That, too, will later feel like some higher sign you brushed away. 

Raking your throat, shaking your head, you finally ring the doorbell. 

Matty Healy opens the front door wide. His hair sprouts from his head like his ideas— without order, overeager and overflowing. His face practically breaks with a grin. You think, pretty. That is the third sign you ignore. 

“Hi,” Matty says, stepping away to free the door. “Come in.” 

Three warning bells, knocking at the back of your head. You raise your sunglasses to the top of your hair, narrowing your eyes at the sudden overwhelming sun, smiling back at him. You step through. 

That is how it all starts. 

June 18

Matty scratches the acoustic guitar mindlessly, head thrown back on the couch pillows. He frowns at the ceiling, humming along as though that would be enough to make a melody bloom out of scattered nothings. 

You play with the strands of the carpet, sitting on the ground, watching him. Something in you almost believes that it could happen— that he’d snap back to you with a grin and those wide, puppy eyes and declare the newest summer hit. You’re afraid of looking away, of missing that fatal microsecond. You want to see when the world breaks apart for Matty Healy. 

A discarded cherry coke rests beside you. It’s lukewarm now, innocent collateral damage to the hot summer air. Matty doesn’t have AC in his apartment. The air sticks to you, weighting against your skin. You leave his house and feel like he’s still lingering on you. 

“How about this?” Matty says, plucking a few chords. You hum non-committedly. “You don’t like?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit plainly. There’s already some unsaid understanding between you; truthful and tackless. You like that you don’t have to filter your thoughts. “I don’t know if it sings to me,” you finish. 

Matty smiles rakishly, digging his cheek. “If it sings to me,” he repeats. “I like that.” You smile, proud. 

June 21

Making an album is like breaking your ribcage open and bleeding on the pages. You’ve always been guarded with your lyrics, afraid of showing scattered words before they’re fully assembled. You have this beaten up sketchbook you use as a notebook, scribbling down all your incoherent wordvomit then slamming the pages close before you try taking them back. Matty finds it funny. That you write where you should draw. He calls it a meta blurring of art. You call him pretentious. 

You hold the sketchbook close to your chest, peering down at it just to recite some verses out loud. Matty nods, repeating them over with delicate care. He changes words, tweaks turns of phrases. He smiles, declares his understanding of them. He’s so precise, so careful and pointed with his words. He uncovers you under the theatrics of rhymes. 

You bleed and bleed. Shit. 

June 22

“What d’you reckon the album is about?” Matty asks, nursing a beer between his hands. It’s late in the evening, later than you should stay. You’re both on the balcony, sitting on white plastic chairs. Your red-toed feet rest on the railing, long naked legs licking up to your trusty jean shorts. 

You exhale your cigarette smoke. You cock your head, pondering over his question, still staring persistently at the sky; not quite asleep, but some darkened blanket thrown over the city. “Heartbreak,” you decide. 

Matty does a little huffing sound, mulling over that sure answer. “Anyone in particular?” He asks, throwing you a side glance, taking a sip of his beer. 

You tap the ashes over the balcony, stretching in your chair. “My ex-boyfriend,” you answer simply. 

“How long has it been?” 

You breathe in. It’s a little uncomfortable to delve into still, some unhealed bruise you feel on your ribs. It might be why the album is coming out clunky and untethered right now: something in you refuses to dive into the emotions again, afraid that maybe you’d stick in the syrup. Choke on it. 

“Five months.” 

“Shit.” Matty shakes his head. “Sorry.” 

“Nah, it was for the better.” You take a drag of your cigarette, shaking your head. “Fucking dickhead.” 

It had been five years of your life, which is the most inconceivable part of this whole affair. The thing that you can’t fully wrap your head around, can’t accept. Five years. It feels bigger than life, grander than the twenty-three years you’ve accumulated. Maybe that’s why you clung on longer than you should, claws digging in his stomach, feet dragging on the carpet: if you left now, what would those five years have been for? 

“Yeah?” Matty asks, reaching his hand out. You give the cig over to him, trying not to shiver as your fingers graze his. He sticks it in his mouth without hesitation. It feels strangely intimate, seeing his lips where yours have been. You have to look away. “What was he like?” 

Gray smoke pours out of his lips. He hands it back to you. “Just,” you gesture vaguely, groaning in distaste. “An artist.”

Matty snorts. “And we’re not?” 

“An insufferable one,” you precise, throwing him a pointed look. 

He smiles boyishly at that. “And we’re not?” 

You roll your eyes. “A different kind of insufferable. A worse one.” You tsk, “He was good, but he just— he didn’t think anyone understood him, you know? And, really, he didn’t want us to. He was smarter, and more brilliant, with grander ideas. We just couldn’t get him at all.” You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now I wonder if he even had anything to say.” 

How it used to infuriate you, the way he would dangle his supposedly genius thoughts just out of reach. You’re too small, love. Too young. Too dumb. You just wouldn’t get it. He’d speak of them in hushed tones— because he just couldn’t stop referencing them, self-obsessed— but never unmasked what those phantoms haunting him, taking hold of the brush were. 

There’s no words for it, he would say. And as someone who made a career out of language, you call bullshit. 

“A lot of his paintings are of me,” you continue, because now that the faucet has been opened you can’t seem to stop thinking about it. “He wouldn’t call me pretty, he would call me raw. I thought he meant it as real, as tangible. I liked that, liked having an artsy boyfriend, kept saying that he found me more than beautiful. How naive I was, boasting to everyone that my boyfriend didn’t think I was hot.”

Your tongue feels ashy in your mouth, and it’s not because of the cigarette. There’s smoke in the air. There’s been smoke for five years. You’ve never been good at pinpointing warning signs until it slaps you in the face, until the fire has already climbed up your legs. Matty stares at your side profile, quiet. 

“I think he meant it as unfinished, actually,” you continue, eyes facing the sky pointedly, searching for hidden stars. You’re afraid your lips will tremble if you look at Matty, afraid your eyes will water. You couldn’t take the embarrassment. “When he painted me, he thought he was completing me.” You snort, sour and mean. You’ve bittered over the months, lost some sugary quality. You linger unpleasantly on tongues now, wrinkling noses. “Fuck being a muse.” 

You take a drag, shoving the cigarette between your lips and hoping it chokes the words threatening to spill out. Fuck being a muse. Fuck five years of your life wasted sitting perfectly still, flashing a smile just to have the teeth rearranged on the canvas. Fuck the man who only knew how to paint you blue. You exhale the smoke, breathing out the building frustration. Fuck watercolors. You want to be made of blood. 

You can feel Matty watch your side profile. It unnerves you. How deeply he looks, how much he seems to see. Even when you don’t let him. Even when you don’t want him to. (Is that how he walks through galleries? Lingering around paintings, analyzing lines and colors and shadows, staring them down until they reveal their secrets.) Your leg shakes. You avoid his eyes purposefully. They dig in your cheek, leaving you bloody and open, leaving you to scab.  

“I think you’re pretty,” Matty says simply with an air of finality. You can’t help but blush, even if you know he doesn’t mean it as a line. He views beauty as this neutral, overflowing thing. Everywhere around, bigger than humans, bigger than sex and romance. 

A fellow artist that appreciates but doesn’t touch. You promised yourself to steer clear from those. Your cheek burns.

“Thanks,” you nod, putting out the cig on the railing. You drop it in your empty beer bottle at the legs of the chair. You can’t lock eyes with him still. 

Matty doesn’t say you’re welcome. It’s not a compliment, it’s a statement. 

“Let’s write about it, yeah?” He says, standing up, opening the glass door. 

You should really get home. It’s late, and you’re a little tipsy, and you’ve made promises. Still, you follow him through, and you don’t know if it’s guilt or excitement pumping in your veins. 

June 24

“Mint and chocolate does not taste like toothpaste!” Matty’s eyebrows furrow in offense, lips gaped wide. 

You giggle at his theatrics, trying to handle the strawberry cone melting on your fingers. You bend down, licking at the pink drops, the stickiness still gluing to your hand. Matty was smarter, taking his green monstrosity in a bowl. “It’s like I’m brushing my teeth.” 

You’re walking down a touristy street of London, wearing cliche sunglasses to shield your eyes. Every step, your shoulders knock together. It leaves your skin burning— you feel a sunburn coming on. 

“You have the taste of a six year old,” Matty declares with a huff. He dips his spoon in his ice cream, scooping it in his mouth, visibly twirling his tongue around it. It’s because of the sun too that your cheeks redden. 

You’re glad for the specs. He doesn’t see the way your eyes follow his lips, enchanted. 

You shake your head. Your shoulders brush together. “You have no taste at all,” you tease, eyes dancing. Matty chuckles. 

June 27

You flip through Matty’s extensive collection of vinyls stored in wooden boxes. It’s almost preposterously him. Kneeling on the scratchy carpet, you awkwardly drape your skirt to not reveal a flash of your underwear. A glass of red rests on his coffee table without a coaster.

It smells smokey in the apartment; Matty is making pork chop, but you’re not entirely sure he’s doing it right. The kitchen and the living room are one open space, stretching the dwindling sunlight from the windows. His back faces you, some washed-out shirt draping nicely over him. 

You hum, running your fingers over the titles. Your hand freezes on the next album. You gasp, grinning from ear to ear. “What?” Matty calls from the kitchen.

“You’ve got The Runaways,” you declare, raising it up like some second coming of Christ. “In mint condition, too. Man, I played that album to the ground.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” 

You stand up excitedly, running to the turntable. You lay the vinyl on the platter, side B up. The needle scratches, Lovers blooming out of the connected speakers. A gleeful sound leaves your lips. 

You nod your head to the rhythm, moving your hips, twirling to your discarded glass of wine. 

I want something bad and nice - hot love

The red sloshes dangerously. You jump, hair flying around, shimmying your shoulders. Matty turns from his skillet to watch you, amused. You dance to him, rounding the island with a laugh. 

“I want a kiss wet and real - strong love,” you sing in his face. Matty shakes his head, chuckling, but it quickly becomes this sort of headbanging dance move. His feet tap to the beat. 

You take his hand, twisting him to face you, pushing and pulling him away like a ragdoll. His body follows gleefully, discombobulated. He’s boneless, running through the short space between the counter and the island, the strip of land you’ve made yours. The pork sizzles in the pan. 

“Make me scream hey what’s your name,” he sings back to you— yells, more. You throw your head back, shoulders shaking with a laugh. 

We lovers never say goodbye

We lovers never die

We stop and go quietly

Cold lovers fade away

June 28

Delilah comes back from her modeling shoot June 28. 

You come in with two iced coffees filling your hands and you’re faced first with a gorgeous, tall, leggy blonde flipping a magazine on the couch. You stop in your tracks, heart falling to your feet. Right, you think, lips thinning. You take a deep breath, soldier readying for war. 

“Hi,” you say, overly cheery. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Delilah, right?” 

The girl looks up at you, grinning wide like an old friend finding a familiar face through a crowd. Your heart rips, guilt spreading through the muscle. It’s worse that she’s nice. “Oh, hello!” Delilah says, standing up to greet you. She has a posh accent. 

“Sorry, I should have knocked. I must have given you a fright.” 

She laughs, waving your worries away easily. It’s a crystalline sound. Musical. You wonder if that’s just how Matty is like— so in love with melody he dates the closest thing to it. “Not at all. It’s nice to finally meet you. Matty talks about this album all the time.” 

Your face crisps. “Yes. Well, yes— it’s a mess.” 

Delilah’s eyebrows rise to her forehead. “That’s not what he says.” Now you wanna know what he does say when you’re not there to catch the words. What your ears have lost to Delilah Prescott. 

But you’re afraid of what your face would reveal if you do ask and she does say. You’re frenzied and electrified just at the mere possibilities. You imagine it in his accent, It’s good. No, no. He would say something more like, It’s fucking good. Mental. It’s a postmodern juxtaposition of art and heartbreak— whatever that means. It’s gonna be the fucking album of the year. It’s gonna be great.

The thoughts finally catch up to your overeager brain. You flush in embarrassment. You’re really crafting compliments from his mouth like song lyrics; tweaking words and chords until it sounds right to your ear. As though you have any rights to puppeteer his own locution and feelings. As though his girlfriend isn’t right there, in front of you, pretty and sweet and smiling so fucking wide. Your eyes pull down, avoidant. 

Your heart jumps, staring at the two coffees in your hands. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t think to buy you one.” You look around as though you would find a third iced coffee hidden under your clothes. Coming back empty, you hand one towards her. “Here, take mine. There’s milk and vanilla syrup in it.” Too sweet, Matty always says, wrinkling his nose when you order. 

Delilah takes it, smiling at you. There’s a chic gap between her front teeth. “Thanks. That’s very sweet.” Too sweet rings in your head again. “Matty will be here any second. He’s finishing up in the shower.” She falls back down on the couch, stretching her infinite legs on the coffee table. “Don’t worry,” she winks at you, smirking like you’re friends, like you’re conspirators. “I’ll make myself scarce when you’re writing. It’s not my first rodeo.” 

You nod at her, wordless. What a cruel faith for a writer. 

Something rattles in your brain at the thought, hand tingling to pull out your sketchbook and write it down. You don’t want to do it in front of Delilah. You don’t know why.

She sits on her boyfriend’s couch, in her boyfriend’s shirt, at her boyfriend’s apartment, but she’s drinking your coffee. Your lips curl. There’s an injustice there, and you can’t pinpoint where.

June 30

“Come do shots,” Bree screams at you, tugging on your glittery black dress. Her lipstick stains her teeth and there’s something awfully poetic about it: too gone to care about the mess; artfully unmade; tactfully improper. You scratch the thought on your brain, hope you remember the dents enough to note them down tomorrow. 

You laugh, brushing her hands away. “I have to make a phone call.” 

“It’s my birthday,” she pouts again, this time holding onto your ring finger. “You can’t say no on my birthday.” 

“It’s 1:24AM, bitch. It’s not your birthday anymore.” 

She gasps, letting go of you in faux-offense. “I was born at ten. My twenty-four hours aren't even up yet.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’ll do a shot after,” you promise to placate her. She smiles, leaning into you to smack your cheek. “Yeah, yeah. I’m the best.” 

“You’re okay.” You snort a laugh, shaking your head. Bree smiles, pleased. “God, it’s nice to fucking see you. You’re holed up in fucking London. I almost forgot your face.” 

“It’s only been two weeks,” you say, oddly defensive all of a sudden. The past two weeks have been spent in an idealistic dreamscape, strumming guitars and sketching ideas down and drinking sparkling wine on the balcony. A carved moment out of reality. You’re allowed, you think, to want to protect it. 

“What? And you can't Facetime?” You roll your eyes. She pouts. “I just miss you,” Bree says, poking your stomach. “Don’t forget me for Matty Healy.” 

“I’m not—” You blush. “It’s not like that.” 

“Not like what?” 

You swallow thickly, cornered. Thankfully, someone puts on a Britney Spears song. Bree, scattered and easily distracted,  screams a squeal and twirls away in her boa and slinky dress. You breathe a sigh of relief, entering the bathroom and slamming it shut behind you. 

Locking the door, you reach for your phone. His contact is the first on your most recent list. You cringe a little at that, dialing it. The ring amplifies against your ear. You sit down on the toilet seat cover. 

“Hey. Everything okay?” Matty whispers, voice low and rough, scratching against his throat, clearly pulled from the depths of sleep. 

You scrunch your face. “Shit. Time difference.” 

He laughs. The sound pianoes down your spine. “Yeah, it's 6AM here. You’re enjoying New York, I gather?” 

“Yes. It’s lovely,” you answer in habit, although you haven’t so much seen New York as Bree’s flat since you arrived. You twist your fingers around the hem of your dress, biting your lip. “I’m sorry for waking you.” 

“It’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You’re lying.” 

“Shamelessly, too.” You snort, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. Delilah tried to bite my head off, but I think that’s more to do with my ringtone of choice than you.” 

You bite your lip. You shouldn’t. He’s just— He’s just mentionned his fucking girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. “What’s your ringtone?”

You can practically hear the shit-eating smirk. “Lovers.”

Your heart slams in your chest. At the wrinkled hem of your dress, your fingers freeze. There’s moments in life where you can tell the world spins semi-seconds slower. In the depth of your chest, you can feel time resonate off-beat. 

“Not a big The Runaways fan?” You manage out, strangled. 

“Not at 3AM, apparently.” Springs resound on his side of the line. You imagine him falling on his couch, making himself comfortable to talk to you. You’re flushed— it has to be the alcohol. “So, what’s up?” 

You rake your throat, manually blinking. “Right, yeah. I— I had this idea.” You shake your head, trying to gather your dispersed thoughts to some form of coherence. “About this song. A Galatea concept— y’know, from the myth of Pygmalion? The sculptor who fell in love with his statue and asked Aphrodite to bring it to life?”

“I know.” Your chest flutters. “Go on.” 

July 2

Matty smokes a cigarette on the balcony, glass sliding door open wide. He turns to the side to blow out the smoke, but it still smells inside. You sit on the piano bench, hitting at the keys, frowning at your sketchbook laying precariously open on your lap. 

“I think,” you say, changing notes with a huff. “I want the first verse to be messier. Like you’re not quite sure if you’re listening to the point of view of Pygmalion or Galatea as they talk about some grand masterpiece and some grander love. I want to blur them.”

Your fingers hit the same five keys, the beginning of a melody that has been haunting your mind. You can’t quite pin it down like a butterfly yet; its wings flutter away from you, cruelly evasive. 

“And when you finally get that it’s Galatea talking, you understand that by making her, Pygmalion is creating her love for him.” You twist to Matty, arching an eyebrow. “Does that make sense?” 

“He kisses it and thinks his kisses are returned,” Matty recites, making the words sound divine. He has a knack for it, for breathing musicality into common life. “How can she truthfully want him if she wasn’t made to desire anything else?” 

“Forever object,” you nod. “Metamorphosis, Ovid. You’ve done your research.” He cracks a crooked smile, throws his cigarette beyond the balcony. 

He steps through the apartment, sliding the door close behind him. “When a girl calls at 3AM to talk about Galatea, you look into it. Don’t wanna embarrass yourself.”

You like, secretly, that he says Galatea and not Pygmalion. It’s her tale for a sinful, myth-bending moment in time. More than statue, bigger than marble, she gets a story between these four walls.

“D’you have lyrics?” Matty asks, sitting on the piano bench beside you. 

His shoulder brushes yours, heat spreading down your arms. You keep it tense, frozen in place, afraid that a micromove would make him scoop away. You don’t want space to breathe. You don’t want him to leave you alone. 

“Vaguely,” you say, peering down at your sketchbook. Matty plays your melody, repeating the rhythmic beginning of a song you’ve been toying with. 

His hand reaches across the keys with ease. Long fingered, spindly and agile. You blush, looking away. 

You rake your throat. “Marble skin with paper thoughts.” Matty nods encouragingly. Your heart drips on your ribs. 

July 3

Matty lays in the golden sun, eyes blissfully closed, a hand tucked behind the wild flowers of his hair. It’s terribly hot outside, especially in the unshadowed part of the park. His shirt is off, green grass surely tickling his skin. 

You devour the sight of him greedily. The slender frame; the planes of his stomach breathing slowly; the tattoos inking his skin; the strong shoulders. You lick your lips, biting the end of your pencil. You’re burning under your flesh, fingers tingling to reach out and sink your claws into him. To bruise him up, just to make sure he’s real. 

Matty asked you to draw him in that sketchbook of yours — make a real use of it, love — but you’ve barely done anything other than self-indulgently stare. You wonder if he knows even with his eyes closed. If he feels the languid gaze on his chest. If he likes it. 

You shake your head, peering back down to your sketchbook, drawing out some more messy lines to form the mess of his mane. Biting your lip, you quickly scribble around him spinning ideas like constellations of words to his center of gravity. He lets me through like soft butter. Leaves me sticky with syrup. He bleeds on my palms. I think I’m stained with him. They overlap with his arm. You sigh, shading his chest again. 

July 6

“Carve me down to bones. I don’t need muscles to love. What is a heart if it belongs to you?” You repeat again, singing softly, frowning at the pages. “What is my heart if it belongs to you.” You mule on the change of word, but something still rings off. “Make me a heart to belong to you.”

“I like that,” Matty declares, tuning his guitar. Plucking the strings, he sings back as though to try the taste of the words on his tongue, “Make me a heart to belong to you.”

He sits on the floor while you splay lazily on his couch. Your eyes flutter, sleep calling to you. It’s technically morning now, the late hours of the night stretching dementally far. The sky lays dark above the house. Inside, the only source of light is a red lamp drenching the apartment in mood lightning. It does nothing for the exhaustion digging its claws into your already fuzzy brain. 

“It doesn’t sound right,” you shake your head. “Something’s off.” 

“It doesn’t sing to you,” Matty completes, nodding wisely. 

Your eyes flip to him, heart soaring up your throat. It’s nothing— really, there’s no need to blush, some unkillable glee spreading through your veins. You bite your smile down. So what he remembers some small phrase you’ve told him before. It’s Matty. Pretty words hook to his brain and refuse to be shaken off. It’s probably beyond him. 

You yawn, sitting up. “I should really go. Think I’ll drop on the way home if I don’t leave.” 

“You can stay here if you want,” Matty says, staring down at his strumming fingers, throwing away the sentence carelessly like it doesn’t ivy up your spine. 

“What?” 

Matty looks up to you. “We’ve got the guest bedroom all installed. Why don’t you just crash here?” He grins casually. It all comes so easy to him. “It’ll avoid being found passed out in the street.” 

You chew on your lip, hesitating. You want to. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want it too much. It should be easier to say yes. Less like being tempted to some dangerous sin, less like guilt spreading through your belly, less like saying yes to more. 

But you’re selfish. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” A grin cracks your face. You can’t stop the guilt as the damning words graze your teeth. “That’s really nice.” 

A smile blooms on his mouth. It does nothing to squash down the growing feeling of doing something wrong. “It’s nothing.” He discards his guitar, standing up. “D’you want a shirt to sleep in, too?” 

Your heart drums on your ribs. You sit up, swallowing thickly, mustering a mirroring smile. “That’d be neat.” 

“Of course.” Matty leads you to the bedroom. In another world, you would allow yourself to dream. 

July 8

70s rock music booms from the speakers. Pretty, drunk people twirl in the living room, screaming out the lyrics off-key. In the kitchen, you feel a sort of daze; otherworldly and calm, tucked away from reality with Matty. 

He makes you an espresso martini, your favorite drink, after boasting about his masterful ability to. You stick to his side as he describes each of his steps, as though he’s not just assembling a bunch of liquid in a shaker. You giggle at his antics still, the sound burying in his shoulder. There’s the vague thrum of a dance resonating in his bones. 

For a lack of martini glasses, Matty pours his concoction in the plastic cups the host gave you with a sharpie to annotate. It makes you feel like a teenager again, makes you imagine a life in which you meet Matty several years younger, when you’re still blossoming out of your chunky glasses and braces, getting plastered on straight peach schnapps. 

(What if it was him you had met at a café in downtown New York, fresh off a summer tan and your eighteenth birthday. What if he had chatted you up about his favorite songs and you had listened, mesmerized by the depth of his thought, yearning for a similar complexity in yourself. Would the five years have ended up the same?)

“Here,” Matty says with a slack, drunk smile as he offers you up his own blue, plastic cup. MATTY is written on it in scratchy handwriting, the T and Y with an odd space between it. 

You take the cup and tip it between your cherry glossed lips, tacking the rim of the glass as you taste the rich, boozy espresso. It’s a mature café day in New York, but it’s coffee all the same. 

“How is it?” Matty asks and it seems his grin keeps stretching on excitedly. You fear his face might never snap back in its original form, that he’ll be stuck with a vodka grin forever, eyes shining bright just from looking at you. 

You blink at him shyly. You realize, now, how close he is. You hum at him. “Good.” 

“Just good?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s great. You narcissist.” 

The playful dig doesn’t seem to register to Matty. He smirks, shrugging. “Told you.” 

You lean against the counter, but Matty doesn’t move up. He breathes in your space. Your skin feels alight, warm and tingling. What would it be if he touched it? Would it groove grossly from the fire? 

Without a word, you raise the glass to his lips, tipping it into his mouth. He swallows the espresso martini dutifully. His eyes meet yours over the rim, dark and intense, rich coffee irises digging into yours.

You release. He licks his mouth and you follow the movement, shameless. “It’s fucking tremendous,” Matty declares. You laugh, throwing your head back. 

Matty seems to get closer to you, or perhaps the room spins around you, deluding your sense of space and time. He’s there, with red, plump lips that will taste of coffee and smoke, and he’s close enough to kiss. You stand straighter. Your eyes flick to his mouth as though it was calling your name. 

When you look back, his own gaze is deeply plunged on your smeared lips. You wonder if he imagines the taste of them himself. If he licks his own like he could get the lingering aftertaste. Your heart races. You could do it. You could— He’s practically inviting you to. 

The plastic glass hangs between the two of you. You don’t kiss. 

July 9

One blue and one red Gatorade stand on the coffee table, intermittently sipped between the pained moans and groans. Matty and you lay on the couch, the world rocking nauseatingly under its feet. The hot hair sticks to your sweaty skin, but you’re too lazy to do anything about it. 

“Rough night?” Delilah asks, coming into the flat with perched sunglasses, a knowing smile and three coffees. She looks like sunshine itself, radiant and happy and definitely not morbidly hungover. 

Matty groans vaguely at her as an answer. She laughs, walking up to him, kissing his forehead as she makes a coffee appear magically in front of his eyes. A grin shines on his face as he spots it, gripping it between greedy hands and dipping his head back to thank her. 

You should have never drank as much as you did last night. Delilah brandishes your coffee next, smiling at you. You think you might throw up. 

July 11

Matty tunes his guitar, relying on your monotone piano notes. You stare at your sketchbook, frowning a little, pressing a key at his demand. You’ve put Galatea on the back burner, incapable of getting past the first few verses without cringing. Something about the song is inherently wrong, and you don’t know how to fix it without unrooting it. 

Instead, you throw yourself into new music, fresher and more palatable, easier to chew and digest. A perfectly catchy breakup song lays nearly finished in a file on Matty’s computer. Some angry lyrics you feel from faraway; you remember writing the words carpet-burnt feet from letting you drag me, but you don’t much remember the sentiment behind. 

Again, you’ve cowarded in front of Galatea, a celestial beast you don’t dare to take on after your last failings. You flip through the pages of your book instead, trying to find a lyric that sparks, something to cling onto and knit and knit from. You chew on your lip. 

“Hey,” Matty speaks, and you jump, suddenly remembering his presence. You twist around to look at him. “Are you ever gonna let me take a look at that sketchbook?”

He’s asking if you’re willing to rip your ribs open and show them off to him. If you’d accept to string your guts out like a comically long clown scarf. If you’d consider cracking your skull and letting him take a peak of your naked brain. 

You hum. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.” 

Matty grins. “I’d like to see.” There’s no rush to it. No demand. Just a fact, a wish. A thought he’s telling you. 

You blush, but you can’t tell why anymore. 

July 12

You tiptoe out of the room, navigating the cracking floorboards expertly. Your feet avoid the planks like sidewalk cracks; a childhood terror of killing your family transformed into waking up the slumbering couple. 

You dip into the kitchen. Light blooms out of the open fridge, Matty’s frame bent into the door. He looks up when he hears you, smiling. “Midnight snack?” 

He’s shirtless, fridge light illuminating him like some divine Apollo. Shadows contour his muscles, draping over his chest tattoos. Your mouth feels dry. You nod, a bit too slow. 

“Think we only have Delilah’s fancy cheese,” he sighs, digging into his fridge to find some hastily wrapped brie. 

“That’s fine.” 

Instinctively, you tiptoe to him, shoulders brushing his as he lays the cheese on the marble counter. Matty opens it up carefully, rummaging in a drawer for a knife. 

Standing side by side in a quiet kitchen, you alternately cut yourselves pieces of cheese, biting into them until there’s nothing left but crumbs, comfortably silent. 

July 15

You wipe the sweat off your forehead, opening your fridge to find some leftover beer at the back of it. It’s some pretentious microbrewed thing your friend Julian left behind when he came to visit. You’re sure Matty will like it. 

“Sorry,” you tell him as you join him on the electric blue 70s couch— you don’t even want to think of the life it’s seen. “Slim pickings. I’m not here much.” 

Matty takes the beer graciously, smiling at you. He tucks it in his mouth, opening it with his teeth, spitting the bottle cap out. Your head grows fuzzy. He reaches for your beer too, repeating the same practiced ritual. You can’t stop following his lips, red, pulled from the bottle, condensation sticking to them. You swallow, throat dry— God, you need that fucking beer. 

Matty hands it back to you with a proud grin. You nod at him, too off-quilter to manage words. “We really are always at the flat.” 

“Well, this AirBnB isn’t nearly as chic.” 

He snorts. “Oh, it’s for the decorations, is it? Not the fact that I have at least a damn guitar?” 

You shrug teasingly, settling further into the cushions of the couch. “Eh.” Your skin sticks to the velvet. It seems you can’t stop gluing to things, leaving parts of yourself everywhere you go. “It’s really the minimalist hipster shit that does it for me.” 

“I’m glad.” Matty scratches at the beer label. “You know, if you wanted, you could stay over. You already use the guest bedroom every other day. There’s no need to waste your money on all this.” All this, he says, like it’s some chateau and not a profoundly tacky, barely functional flat.

Your heart beats in your chest. It’s too good— too unreal. Living there, in his books and his vinyls and his band tees. Walking the floorboards, draping the covers, perusing the fridge. Brushing your teeth beside him, using his soap—smelling like him. Crawling in his bed, tucking yourself into his side, sneaking a hand under—

You stop your spinning mind. 

“What about Delilah?” 

Matty shrugs. “She wouldn’t mind. She’s barely home anyway.” He smiles playfully, “‘Think she’d like some female company.” 

No. That’s the correct answer. The smart one. No. No, we can’t. No, it’ll end badly. No, don’t do this to me. You know I want to. You know I want—  

“Sure.” You wash down the nausea with a mouthful of beer, some vertiginous shock from your own answer. Shit shit shit shit shit. 

His eyebrows rise, face lighting up. “Yeah?” 

You laugh, though it’s entirely constructed. You wonder if he can tell. He always seems to see everything about you.

But he looks up at you so hopefully, so giddily, so genuinely. You’re weak to your core. 

“Yes,” you smile. “Let’s do it.” 

July 16

Your whole life in three very large suitcases, and now it’s being moved to Matty Healy’s residence. You packed more hastily than when you left from New York, throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them; you’ll be unpacking in less than twenty minutes anyway, the wardrobe of the guest bedroom entirely emptied just for you. 

Matty picks you up. He stares at you struggling to direct three suitcases to his waiting car, staying perfectly seated with an amused smirk. 

You huff, hair falling in your face. “A little help?” You ask pointedly. 

Matty snorts, opening his car door. “Thought you were all about that feminism,” he says, grabbing two of your suitcases and throwing them with ease in the backseat. Your eyes follow his arms as he does so, genuinely impressed by their feat. 

You blink away before he sees, burned. 

When Matty turns back to you, his eyes have grown dark. You swallow, suddenly feeling caught, glued to the spiderweb. He walks towards you and thrill pumps in your veins with each nearing step. Your heart beats loudly in your chest. You fear he might hear it— especially if he keeps slithering closer.

He has to stop. When will he stop? 

Matty towers over you, barely inches away. Your breath hitches, entirely caught in your throat. Fuck breathing. Fuck everything but him, but the heat radiating off him. You don’t need the sun when he’s standing this close. 

Matty’s hand grazes yours. It swallows the handle of your suitcase, tugging it out of your fingers and throwing it in the backseat. Your eyes widen, cheeks heating at being so stupid. What did you think was gonna happen? 

Matty grins at you, ruffling your hair. “I’m glad you’re coming,” he says. 

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Thanks again.” 

He waves you away, opening your door. “‘S no problem. It helps me if anything.”

You sit down. His car smells like weed and a cheap car scent dangling from the rearview mirror, and him, faintly. You hate that you recognize the smell. 

Matty enters the opposite side, flicking the pine car scent, then turning the keys. He drives down the road maniacally fast. You’re not even five minutes in and already you’re thinking God, this is an awful idea. 

Wind brushes your hair. The car smells like him. He’s singing beside you, twisting the speaker higher. It’s an awful idea, and yet you’re still buzzing, hiding a gleeful smile behind the palm of your hand. 

July 17

“What are you doing?” Matty asks, leaning above your shoulder to watch your hands. 

“I’m stress-baking.” 

He laughs, sidling to rest his hip on the counter, staring at your hands as you whip your batter with perhaps too much anger. “What are you stressed about?” 

You huff, doubling in harshness of whip. “This stupid song that I can’t fucking get right that is now haunting my dreams. You know, I had a nightmare last night that I was performing it for the Grammys. There was every single one of my heroes in the room — and my childhood bullies, for some reason — and I had this whole choreography and I took the mic and I opened my mouth and— nothing. Not a single lyric out of my mouth. That’s right. I am waking up in cold sweat terrified of this fucking awful, stupid fucking song.”

“Woah,” Matty says, resting a hand on your arm. You finally stop, throwing the whip in with a sigh. He forces you to look at him, smiling reassuringly. “Hey. It’s okay. You know it can take months to finish a song. Years, even. You have your whole fucking life to write about muses.” 

Your heart skips a beat. It’s the first time either of you really acknowledges the main theme of the song. You’re almost relieved that he’s ripped the illusions, taken off your careful mask. Made it explicitly clear he saw you. 

“Maybe you‘re just not wise enough to say what you want to say yet. Maybe you need more experiences— more time to reflect. It’s been six months, darling. Give yourself time to process that shit.” 

You take a deep breath, staring at your runny batter pitifully. “You’re right.” 

Matty grins. “‘Course I am.” He dips his finger in the batter, licking it clean. 

You gasp, slapping his shoulder as he laughs mischievously; a boy licking the cream off his lips. You try not to focus too hard on the shape of them around a finger, sucking, when you mutter, “Pig. Leave my batter alone. It’ll already be a pisspoor cake.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be great.” 

This time, when he dips his finger, he flicks the batter on your nose. You wrinkle, shaking your face away as he chuckles happily. “Gross,” you lament, wiping your nose clean, but joy blooms under your chest anyway. 

You wish you could bottle his laugh up, make the sweetest song out of it. 

July 19

“Don’t buy that off-brand shit,” Matty says, taking the juice out of your hand and back on the shelf. He walks a few steps away, reaching up for the brand name and putting it in your already full cart. 

Your mouth hangs playfully open at this interaction, thoroughly amused. “You’re a snob,” you say, more like a happy realization than an accusation. 

Matty scoffs. “Nah. It’s just better.” 

“It tastes the same.” He shakes his head again, walking off a new alley as you quicken your walk to catch up with him. “You really are a rich kid.” Matty throws you an unimpressed look. “Really,” you insist again. “When I was young, we were lucky if we even had juice in the house.” 

Matty takes a box of spaghetti, which you swap behind him for penne. “Uh-huh. And you had to walk two miles to school every day.” 

“Back and forth! Without shoes!”

“I bet.” You see that he tries to bite back a smile, a failed affair when he hears your giddy giggle. His chin jerks in a faraway direction. “Go get the mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

You stare at him. “Now, you know I won’t do that.” 

He sighs. “Get an ice cream.” 

Grinning happily, you twist on your heels and head off to the frozen section. You grab a tub of neapolitan ice cream, but then your eyes linger on green horror. Sighing, you take a pint of it too. 

July 20

You stare at Matty expectantly. The guitar still rings in the room from your last note. Space holds its breath, waiting beside you. “What do you think?” 

Matty has a slight dent between his eyebrows. He takes more time to reflect, more time than he’s ever taken. Worry digs in your guts. He hates it. He hates it. Fuck, what is he gonna say to Delilah? “It’s good. It’s just—” Matty cocks his head, frowning further. “It’s a love song.” 

Your cheeks heat at his comment. You look down in your sketchbook, reading over your lyrics. “I mean— I don’t know, I guess.” 

Matty grows even more confused. “But that’s not what you wanted to say. It’s like— There’s not even a criticism of anything anymore. Galatea and Pygmalion just love each other.” 

Your heart pinches in your heart. You feel yourself grow defensive. “Is that so wrong? The myth is originally a love story. Maybe that’s all there is to say.” 

“That's not all there is to say. You’ve given me more in versions you’ve thrown away without a second glance than this. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant lyricism, but it’s empty.” The words lash at your cheeks. You feel them redden. 

Truthful and tactless, that’s what you had decided. Maybe you’d like a bit of velvet after all.  

“It’s an almost completed song, though. More than I’ve managed to say when I complicate it with all that muses shit.” 

Matty stares at you. “You struggle because you care. Because you’re mindful of your words. Because it’s raw, and it reminds you of you. ‘My man of flesh, my heart of stone.’ That doesn’t fucking say shit to you.”

You turn your face away, digging your glare into his empty wall. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to think of him. Your heart runs up your throat, ready to throw it up on the strings of your guitar. Your lips tremble.

Matty sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t know what things say and don’t say to me.” 

“I know.” He walks to your corner of the couch, vaguely hitting your shoe. “Hey, I’m sorry.” 

Weakly, you meet eyes with him. He smiles down at you, sure and reassuring. You melt on your bones. “It’s fine.” You’re a weak little girl; you’ve always been. 

“But I think this song could be more. The way you talked about it— it means something to you. Don’t take the easy way out. You can write dozen fucking songs about love. Only one about Galatea.” Here he goes again, calling it Galatea, centering her. It leaves you raw this time. 

“You’re right,” you whisper. You sigh, shaking your head, righting yourself. “Yes, of course you’re right. It’s— It was silly.” 

Matty grins, satisfied. He falls on the couch beside you, stealing your guitar. “Well, let’s write a proper love song in its place, then.” 

July 21 

The café is atrociously hipster and pretentious. You’d have gouged your eyes out at the price of a single latte if Matty didn’t insist on paying for it. You pretended to struggle, rummaging your bag for your wallet, but you let the battle last long enough for him to swipe his card. 

Taking your mismatched mug, you make your way to the sugar packets, grabbing three of them. When you sit down at the table, Matty stares at you, typical playful disgust on his face. 

You grin at him mischievously, shaking then pouring the three of them in your coffee. Matty shakes his head, tsking, “Too sweet.”

July 23

Bree wipes the lipstick off her teeth, looking in the mirror. She turns her head right, left, scrutinizing her makeup. Her hair flies wildly around her shoulders. She’s got a Moscow mule sitting on the counter. 

The door knocks loudly. “Hurry up! People need to go to the bathroom!”

“Two seconds,” Bree screams back. She meets your stare in the mirror and rolls her eyes. A small smile teases your lips. 

You nurse your espresso martini quietly. You don’t linger on the taste of coffee. 

“How’s the album going?” Bree asks, scrunching her hands through her curls to achieve her perfect, flawlessly messy hair. 

“Good, good,” you nod. She seems to wait for more, but you don’t offer it. It’s halfway written, still awfully raw. Recorded, then scratched, then regurgitated. It feels like an open wound to you. 

There’s as much love songs as breakup songs, now. You don’t dwell on that fact. I wanna watch how the world breaks open for you, starts one of them. Brown eyes follow me, sings another. If my ribs rip, will you like what you see, hauntingly repeats a third one. You hope Matty dwells on them even less than you do.

“Matty’s cool?”

“Yes.”

“I should meet him sometime.” You hum non-committedly. “What is he like?” 

“I don’t know,” you laugh lightly, looking at her confused. She’s never asked for descriptions of your friends. “He’s— He’s very passionate. And open. He listens a lot, which is surprising because of how much he talks, too. But, still, he listens, and he looks at you, and he makes you feel like you’re the first person who’s ever uttered words.”

Bree stays quiet. You think, Listen to me helplessly chatter, make me the first speaker to ever speak. Another lyric you scratch into your brain and hope it sticks until you have it written down, yet pray it leaves it right after, too. 

“Cool.”

You swallow thickly. Your cheeks heat. “Yeah.”

Bree grabs her drink, reaching out aimlessly towards your hand. “Let’s go dance!”

July 25

Jazz music plays in the house. The lights are pulled low. There’s a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Your stomach drops to your feet; you kick it when you walk further in, leaving your suitcase by the door. 

Matty cooks. Sizzling sounds ring under the moody music. Delilah drips on his side, her chin resting on his shoulder. They laugh, whisper secrets you can’t make out. 

She has smudged red lipstick. She smiles. 

“Hey,” you say. “Smells good in here.”

“Oh,” Delilah calls happily when she spots you, tearing away from Matty. “We’re making dinner. Join us!”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” you laugh, but it’s strained out of your throat. Your cheeks are sore from smiling this much. 

“Please,” Delilah insists. She walks towards you and grabs you by the hand, tugging you to the working counter. Trapping you. Your cheeks stab at you now. 

Matty nods as a greeting. You nod back. 

“Matty, tell her we’ve got enough food for three.”

He smiles at you conspiratorially, as though you were grand accomplices, making a silent joke about Delilah. “We’ve got enough food for three.”

“The rumors are true,” you try to jest, but it sounds off. 

“Come on,” Matty pokes at your side with his finger. “Eat with us. Tell us about your trip. We’ve missed you.” 

He says we, but you morph the letters around until it sounds like I to your ears. 

“Okay,” you say finally. “Because it smells so good.” 

Delilah claps near you, but it’s a faraway sound when Matty looks at you like that, digging into your soul and coming out satisfied. 

July 26

You sit on his balcony, smoking. The sun is silky, sweet and smooth as it wakes up. The birds sing, the cars drive by, the people talk; you think of recording it, hiding it in a song called Morning. 

“‘Morning,” Matty says, yawning. You snort to yourself. 

“Hello,” you say. 

When you turn to look at you, you fall on Matty’s shirtless frame, gray sweatpants hung low on his hips. You swallow, putting the cig to your lips to stop yourself from parting them pathetically. It doesn’t stop you from gawking, unfortunately. 

Matty spots it and smirks. He digs into the fridge, finds his precious brand name juice and drinks it from the carton. 

“Delilah left this morning?” 

“If you can call it that,” Matty groans. “Fucking three AM.” 

“No tearful goodbyes that early, I imagine.” 

Matty laughs. “It’s hard to cry when you’re half asleep.” 

You finish your cigarette, squashing it on the floor of the balcony. Ashes linger beside your thigh. “I hope she has a good shoot. She told me the concept; it seems pretty cool.”

“It does,” Matty nods, though he doesn’t seem that interested. He gets out his bread, rummaging in the cupboards for his jam. 

“Do you ever think—” You bite your tongue. 

Matty halts his movements, sticking out of the cupboard door to look at you. He smirks, mischievous. “What?”

“Just—” You shake your head, laughing, preparing the groundwork for how silly it will be. Matty walks closer to you, fatally curious. “I wonder how Delilah feels about being a muse. Because that’s what models are, right? A canvas. Something to add onto.” You cock your head. “D’you think she’ll like Galatea?” 

Matty shrugs. “I don’t think she’s thought much about it.”

“Maybe not all muses suffer. It’s a compliment, right? For some people?”

“I think so,” Matty nods. “But it’s different for you, isn’t it? Her photograph isn’t in love with her. He’s not her lover— he hasn’t promised to accept her as she comes. It’s fine if he wants to finetune her. If he wants to make her up. They don’t owe each other anything.”

You mull over that answer. “So it’s love, you think, that rots musedom?” 

Matty rustles a hand through his hair. It makes his arm flexed, his bicep tattoo flashing at you. “I don’t know. I think it’s complex. I think it’s why you’re writing about it.” 

You hum in vague agreement. Matty turns back to his bread and jam, but stops, staring at you. “She’ll love Galatea. Everyone will. You’re gonna write the fucking song of the year.” 

You grin. Something familiar rings in your ear. “Make me a toast, too?”

“Sure.”

July 28

You sit on the couch beside Matty. He’s making you watch some convoluted New Wave movie. You frown at the TV, not understanding the French they fall into randomly, not understanding the plot at all. 

Matty is enthralled beside you. You watch him instead. He’s better art; more entertaining, more profound, more beautiful. You smile when he does. You smile because he does. 

He flicks his eyes towards you. You look back at the TV, straightening your shoulders, wrinkling your eyes to look deeply concentrated. Matty chuckles beside you. It hides in your hair, tickling up your neck to bury in your ear. Your grin widens. 

You lean into him, joking, “This is my favorite part.” You gesture vaguely at the screen. 

Suddenly distracted by the movement near him, Matty grabs your hand from thin air. You still. 

He climbs up to your knuckles. Presses against the bones. Plays with your rings. Twists them on your fingers. Your breathing is caught in your chest. You don’t dare move. Your skin is electrified. 

He rests your hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs at your palm. His finger circles the metal, bumping on the stones. You repeat the sentences over and over, trying to wrap your mind around it. He rests your hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs at your palm. His finger circles the metal.

Tentatively, you let your head drop on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even tense. You smile, settling into his body, leaving your hand slack for him to play with it. 

July 29

The toothpaste is Matty’s. There’s a part of you that is aware, somehow, that when you’re fresh off a teeth brushing, you taste like him.

You lean your hip against the bathroom sink. Matty stares into the mirror, setting a needlessly furious tempo, wrecking his gum. You laugh as white foam drips from the corner of his mouth. He makes a little embarrassed chuckle, catching it with a finger and rinsing it off. 

You bend over the sink and spit out the toothpaste. When you straighten up, Matty spits right after you. You wash it down the faucet. 

“We should bring in violins for the Circe Circus bridge,” Matty says as you sip on water, swooshing it around and spitting again. “Make more of an impact.”

“Wouldn’t it be a little convoluted? We already have a lot of noise.”

Matty shakes his head. “No, no. It’s supposed to be unnecessarily grand, isn’t it? It’s a bit of a ridiculous caricature of love.” It’s how he interprets it, at least. You’re not quite sure what you were trying to say, just knew the words sounded right and pretty on the page. “We can try it out tomorrow.”

“Sure,” you shrug. You arch an eyebrow. “After the Basquiat exhibit at the Barbican?” 

“It’s a plan,” Matty promises. You ignore the fact that he says plan and not another four lettered word that slithers around your brain. His eyes meet yours. He smiles. “Okay,” he finally breathes. “Sleep well.”

You lick your teeth. “See you tomorrow.”

July 30

Drunk off red wine and Matty’s laugh, you stumble through the hallway. His hand warms yours. You’re a collection of calluses rubbing on skin; it should hurt, but it’s silky sweet. 

Your steps are loose. You trail your free fingers on the wall, guiding you, grounding you. You stop in front of the doors.

The way forks into the master and guest bedrooms. You twist to face Matty, so does he. You grin. Your hand warms, lit up from the mere presence of his between your greedy fingers. They feel alive at your wrist. Aware of him. You wait.

“Goodnight,” he finally breathes. His eyes stare into yours.

“Yeah, goodnight.” 

He doesn’t move, neither do you. Your heart speeds terribly fast. Your lips stretch up. 

Matty looks down at them. Openly. Shamelessly. He doesn’t flicker an evermoving glance, he lingers. You feel your body light up, feel warmth descend to the tip of your toes. A surge of nerves and thrill shoots down your spine, finding home in your knitted guts.

Time hangs in the air. You hitch your breath. His hand burns in yours. 

He tugs you closer to him. A small, ghost move, and you gasp. You feel him breathe against your skin; he’s real. Matty’s eyes fly to yours. They lock meaningfully as his head cocks in defiance. It’s a challenge. It’s an invitation. 

You’re a paper girl. You fold. 

You rise onto your tiptoes, cup his cheek, and kiss him. A soft, delicate thing. A press of lips. A cursive love. Thrill loosens your head from your neck, unscrewing it. He tastes like cigarettes and red wine, and there’s no trace of bitter coffee. You’re glad. 

You pull away almost immediately. Your heart races, trying to catch up with this new world you bathe in. You breathe in his mouth, eyes closed, mind spinning deliriously. You kissed Matty Healy. You kissed Matty Healy. 

Matty makes a low sound from the back of his throat, then hooks his arm around your waist and draws you in, catching your lips with a new feverish kiss. 

He’s not soft or sweet, instead lets himself be puppeteered by the passion, by the raw fucking need. There’s a thing between you pulsing alive for weeks, and you feel it burst at the seams, imploding through your flimsy flesh. It’s fucking inevitable— It’s prophetic. 

His tongue swipes at your lips, coaxing inside your mouth. You moan, gripping his cheek until you could shatter it. Constellations of stars dance behind your eyelids; he’s the center of all of them, a flash of teeth and brown eyes as the shining sun. 

You drip in his arms, and he catches you. Takes all the wax and kisses it harder, tilting his head to better meet you. It’s a head twisting tempo. He’s everywhere around you, under you, seeping in. He exists too vividly. You feel faint at the thought, at the rush of feelings. 

His own hand digs in the curve of your back. He’s tangible, he’s alive and breathing, he’s against you. He’s real. He’s sinfully fucking real. (You wonder, secretly, if he’s finally made real because you kiss him.)

Matty is the one to break away this time. His forehead falls on yours. He pants harshly, eyes closed, as though he needs a silent moment of contemplation. He looks religious for a split moment— bartering with God. 

You don’t take the solemn pause. Don’t want to listen to any chastising, guilting above. You watch him, biting your lip at his flushed skin, at his swollen lips, at his spider lashes on his cheekbones. You kissed him. You can’t believe it. 

His eyes open all at once. You look into them and try to find the leftover scar of some permanent change. “Goodnight,” Matty repeats, this time choked. You laugh. Smacks a kiss on his lips just because you can. 

Matty parts from you difficultly. He straightens, rakes his throat. He lets you out of the trap of his arms with much inner debating, waiting until he’s feet away before dropping your hand. You clench it to feel the phantom shape of his.

“Dream of me,” you say boldly.

“It’s all I do,” Matty whispers back, and then he’s into his room. 

You let your own bedroom door close behind you. You make a stupid, pathetic little happy dance, falling on your bed afterwards. A content sigh slips past your lips.

Rolling to take your sketchbook from your bedside table, you click a pen open. You hit your lips — still burning with the feel of his, with the heat of his tongue — in concentration. 

You try to think of pretty, poetic words, but all you come up with is he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

July 31

You walk out of your room weightlessly. Everything seems sweeter; the sun doesn’t burn, the birds don’t scream, the flowers don’t wilter. The world exists in technicolors. Shades of black and white become deep maroon, pretty pink. You step from the hallway into the kitchen with light feet, humming to yourself. 

Matty sits at the counter bar with a bowl of cereal and the papers. His eyes flick to yours as he hears you. He smiles. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

“You’re the best,” you declare, practically running to the pot and serving yourself a steaming cup of coffee. You search his cupboard for the sugar, pouring yourself a healthy dose. Finally, you take a sip and make a happy, satisfied moan. 

You approach Matty. You peer over his shoulder to read the latest music article. Your side leans into him; he doesn’t move. It’s all so natural, so domestic. Your heart sings. 

Taking a new sip from your mug, you then lean your head on Matty’s shoulder. His own rests against yours. Your lips hang from your cheek like a clothesline, your teeth scattered white shirts pinned in place. You want to kiss him again, want him to wipe it off of you with his tongue.

“I wanna write a happy song today,” you declare. 

Matty grins against your scalp. He whispers, because it’s as loud as he needs to be for you to hear, “Okay.”

August 1

Matty rolls the blunt, licking the waxy paper and wrapping it shut. You follow his tongue as it sticks out, practically blushing. He takes a blue lighter to flame the tip of it. It burns red. He inhales one hit, then blows it. Smiling at you, he hands the blunt like a precious gift. You graze his fingers purposefully when you grab it. 

It’s stronger than you usually smoke back in New York, but you’ve gotten used to the grassy taste. You don’t cough anymore, don’t even feel it scratch down your throat. The smoke pours out of your lips.

It takes one more hit for your fingers to start tingling. Your body relaxes; your mind enters some sort of daze. You sigh contently, giggling just from the inherent joy swirling in your head. Matty laughs at you, poking your cheek. “You’re already flying, lightweight.” 

“I don’t know why you expect differently.” 

Matty hums. “One day I’ll get you to three.” Your heart rushes. It spreads through your body, like the muscle was suddenly finely tuned with every limb, singing a call-and-response song.

You lay on your back, draping yourself lazily on the scratchy carpet. Your head rests on Matty’s thigh. You look up at him, trying to make sense of him from his dark, sprouting halo, falling downwards as he watches you. You grin, loose and languid, dripping down your cheeks. “Promise?” You say, teasing. 

Your head rolls on his thigh. Matty takes another hit, shaking a laugh off his teeth. “I promise, love.” You don’t even have to morph the letters of that.

August 2

You walk through the up-and-coming art exhibit Matty dragged you to. Your feet linger on small, dreamlike images dotting the white walls. They nag at you with their innate sense of time. A flash of life, captured on a canvas, made permanent against their will. 

What do they mean? It’s always the burning question now. What are you saying? Please, what are you saying? You wonder when you’ll stop feeling like a little girl. When you’ll stop staring at paintings and wish you understood them better, clearer. When you’ll get art intrinsically, when you’ll be deeper than the blank, smooth surface of watercolor papers. 

You lost Matty in the white rooms, breathing through the space at a different pace. He analyzes paintings meticulously. His feet stop with purpose, taking roots in the wooden planks, deliberately stilling. He stares at them and you wish you could know what he’s thinking about for such long moments. Wish you could know how they move him, how they strum his heartstrings. Maybe you could learn the chords on the guitar. 

You stop in front of a papier-mache sculpture. It’s bent in different shapes, an awkward and senseless movement, painted over in white. You can tell the texture through the coat, can see its unruly, unsmoothened topography. Your head cocks.  

It’s not really anything. Or, at least, if it is, you will never figure out what the artist meant it to be. But to you, it’s got a body through its shape. A leg that extends, one that curves in itself. A stomach emptied. An arm that rolls around, protective. One that sticks out. A neck, dainty and vulnerable, bared freely. Headless.

You wonder if anyone posed for this. You wonder how they felt, sucking in their stomach, pinpricks of pain stabbing at their limbs. If they tried on odd positions. If they were naked. If they kissed the artist afterwards; if they thought, it’s enough. If they saw the wet paper build up on the grotesque armature and made themselves repeat, I am made of bones. I am made of bones. 

Your lips tremble. You clench your fists. Your nails dig into your palms, crescent moons of promises. You’d tear through the skin if it meant leaving bloody, leaving human. 

That is where Matty finds you, still staring at the sculpture, robbed of words. He lingers beside you, impossibly close. It’s all he does these days, air with plausible deniability. Real and unreal, present and far, far away. He knocks his shoulder against yours. 

You don’t look at him. “What do you see?” You breathe. 

Matty takes a moment of silence. He thinks, surely. Analyzes lines, composition, materials. Takes it apart in his head to find the solution. You want to see the process, want to catch the bricks he rips as he throws them over his shoulder. 

Matty hums. “It kinda looks—” His head cocks, as though to make sure. “Human.” 

Your heart drops to your stomach. You swallow thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so, too.” And you wonder how long he’d stare at it if you didn’t hook your arm around his, tugging him away. If he’d look at it enough to scream, where are my bones, where are my bones.

August 3

You tiptoe to his door. It’s always firmly closed when Delilah is over, but slightly ajar when you’re two in the flat. It’s felt like a nagging invitation for weeks. You knock on it, a soft, nonexistent noise, like leaving yourself the chance to backtrack. To not mean it. 

“Yes?” Matty calls from inside, squished and drowsy. 

You peek your head through the door. His room has gotten messier over the Delilah-less days. Clothes hang on the ground, half-finished mugs make castles on his desk, CDs tower precariously. He lays in his bed, on the right side, his face crushed in his pillow. A cover drapes over him, but naked shoulders peek through. The light is too low to make sense of them, but you can faintly tell there’s familiar inked lines drawn onto the skin. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I wasn’t sleeping.” He mutters. Relief spreads through you. You don’t know if he’s lying or not, but both possibilities please you. You didn’t actually wake him; he cares enough to tell you otherwise. 

“Okay, good.” You bite your lip. “I— Do you mind if I stay here tonight? I can’t get any sleep in my room.” Your heart drums on your ribs. It’s all so fucking existent, suddenly. Meaningful. 

Matty peeks one eye open. He gives you a glance, then raises his arm, opening the covers for you. You don’t even hesitate, running to the entryway like a promised oasis. You slip inside— like a fantasy, like a dream— and settle into the cocoon. It’s warm, and the sheets smell of him. You roll, getting closer. 

You don’t dare touch him, but you get as near as you can. It’s useless anyway; Matty throws an arm over you and tugs you into his side. You might choke from the heat, and the weight, and the vertiginous knowledge that Matty is ivying around you, but you finally sleep nonetheless.

August 4

You hang up on Bree after drawn out goodbyes. She’s tried to get you to play her some of the album, but you remain purposefully elusive. You wiggle out of her grasp, promising to send her some demos soon. Her pursed lips were dissatisfied, but you can trust your distracted friend to forget it before the night nears its head. 

You walk to the living room. Matty’s shirt falls on your shoulder, something you already plan to shove in your suitcase when it is time to part ways. The thought leaves you frayed, uncomfortable, and you don’t like to think about it more than this. 

Matty is scratching his guitar on the couch when you come in. He sings low, mournful words you can’t make out. You drop beside him, bouncing on the pillows. He smiles at you, stops playing. 

“How was Bree?” 

“Still alive.” 

“Good for her.” 

Your chin jerks to his fingers. “What were you playing?” 

Matty hums noncommittally. “Just this song I’m writing.” 

You sit primly on the couch. You nod at him. “Let’s hear it.” Again, he hesitates. Your mouth hangs open. “Come on! I’ve had to lay my soul bare for you plenty of times this summer. Your turn.” 

Matty sighs, readying his fingers for a chord. “It’s unfinished,” he warns. You roll your eyes at his delays, gesturing for him to go on.

He strums once, twice. It’s truly unfinished— he mutters randomly strung syllables instead of saying lyrics for half of it, just the idea of what the shape of those words could be. But there are words. Yearnful, confused, loving. He uses that dry, direct sense of style, that gloveless prose. Still, you’re once again left wondering what he’s trying to say. What thoughts haunt his mind. 

How you want to know him, brick by brick. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper once he rings his last note. He grins to himself, satisfied. “Sing it to me sometime when it’s done.” 

Matty flashes his teeth to you. “It’s a date.”

August 5

You flip through your sketchbook absentmindedly. It feels like you’ve already seen everything, like every word has already been used and discarded. How many times do you repeat yourself, going on and on about the mouths of lovers. You make a small noise of frustration. 

Matty eyes your book. You can tell he’s curious, can see him peer over your shoulder and scan the messy words and messier drawings before you slam it close. You look at him, at his silent plea. You sigh. 

You hand the book out to him. “There,” you say. “I can’t keep reading it. I know it too well.” 

Matty’s eyes widen. “Really?” 

“Find me some pretty words.” 

He grabs it from you without another hesitation. His eyes are hungry, skimming through the pages, flipping the spirals. You watch him as he uncovers you, one paper thin layer at a time. Your heart splashes against your ribs. Blood drips on the bones. You feel awfully like a heart attack. 

“There,” Matty says. He hands you back the book, grinning conspiratorially. “This sings to me.” But you can’t shake off the idea that it’s you that sings to him.

August 6

“Yes, Spain was lovely,” Delilah says, sipping on some Spanish white wine. She’s tanned and freckled, sunshine itself peering through the dark of the evening. She changed the room when she left, and she changes it back now, bursting through the flat again. Beside her, an arm thrown over the back of her chair, Matty drinks his usual glass of malbec. “Barcelona most of all. God, I just love the culture there. It’s so vibrant.” 

A lazy, callused finger twirls in Delilah’s hair. She leans into it subconsciously. Your teeth grind on each other. You clench your fist around your fork, biting on the chicken. “Did the shoot go well?” You manage out, but it’s bitten and bitter. 

Delilah laughs, that bright, musical sound that rings offkey to your ears. She takes a bite of her salad and her lipstick doesn’t smudge. “Fantastic. It was such an amazing concept!” She goes on some more about the visionary genius of the photograph, but it is null to you. 

Your eyes zero in on that fatal arm around Delilah, sure and protective, ownership. Your brain beats in your skull, the tune of a song humming along your cranium. You glance at Matty next. He doesn’t look back. 

You grip the white wine and take a long, heavy mouthful. It’s fruity and light. For the first time in your life, you think, too sweet. 

August 8

The house is quiet. No music hummed from the speakers. No guitars strummed. No dishes washed. No steps walked. No cigarettes smoked. The world is drenched in silence. 

It’s an uncanny feeling, sitting in Matty’s flat alone. As if it’s not supposed to exist without him. As if it should blink out of existence, evaporate out of thin air. As if you should sit in a blank room, staring at white walls, realizing you had made it all up in your head. 

Matty and Delilah are off visiting his parents up North. You play with your fingers, the silence resonating in your chest. It feels suffocating to be alone. 

You grab your phone, typing, how’s manchester? He doesn’t answer it until the next day. 

August 11

Matty’s eyes are bright red. You laugh at them, holding his cheeks between your soiled hands. You know the shape of his jaw, know where it digs and cuts into your palms, and there’s cheesy sonnets running in your mind about it. 

“I’m hungry,” you tell him, leaning into him like it’s a secret, a confession. “Make me that chocolate mugcake again?” Your flutter your eyelashes at him, attempting some innocent, pleading pout. 

Matty hums. He takes your hand by the wrist, puppeteering it to his lips. He kisses the tips of your fingers, then your palm. “What do I get?” He asks, finally looking at you. You feel dizzy. 

Your lips open, but you can’t think of a single word anymore. It doesn’t feel as cruel; it’s merciful, blissful. To finally not think like your life is being threatened, like you have five seconds to come up with a saving solution. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  

Matty arches an eyebrow at you. He crowds your face, less than inches away, so close you feel like you breathe with him. “Nothing?”

“Mmmh,” you whisper back. Your eyes descend to his lips. “What do you want?” 

With a smirk, Matty catches your lips. He swipes his tongue in, licking into your mouth. You moan against him. Your hand moves to his hair and you grip it, holding him there, kissing him harder, faster, deeper. 

Buzzing spreads through you. You’re not hungry anymore. 

August 12

The raucous sound of low, heavy laughs resonates through the open floor. It shakes up the foundations of the flat from their grandeur, their depth. You take a glance at the three overexcited men, drinking beers and taking the piss out of each other, and they feel like boys for a split second in time. You wonder, privately, how you would have fit into their puzzle if you had met them earlier. 

Matty washes the dishes in the kitchen sink. You dry the plates, throwing secretive glances to the rest of the boys. You don’t know how it would have been years ago, but it’s near perfection now. You stare at the scene outside of your body and you can’t see the seams, can’t find where the stitches of you would be. How you want to stick around, become permanent. 

“They loved you,” Matty says conspiratorially, leaning into you. He hands you a wet plate, a bit of soap still lathered on it. 

You smile at him, gleeful and unashamed of it. Your chest brightens, shining through the skin. “I love them,” you answer.

Ross comes in with the leftover glasses, dropping them in the soapy sink. He ruffles Matty’s hair, gives you a grin. “We need to do this again soon. I haven’t seen you in forever, mate.” He moves to the fridge. 

“Bit busy,” Matty says, bashful. 

He sticks out of the fridge, two beer bottles in hand. “Making the album of the year and all, I heard,” Ross says. Again, he gives you a smile, like you’re old friends, like you’re conspirators. Your lips stretch up. “Still, don’t hide away together. I missed you.”

“‘Course. We’re almost there, anyway.” Your grin freezes on your cheeks. You hate the idea of the after, of the end. You put away the plates in the cabinet.

August 14

The wind blows your hair back. You lean your elbow onto the open window, resting your head as you watch the road blur past you. Matty drives with sunglasses on, and it makes you want to stare at his side profile and etch it into your brain. 

You’ve bickered over the radio station, eventually settling over some blues, bobbing your head quietly to the blasted music. It’s the middle of the day, and yet it seems like the hours announce themselves to stretch on forever. You can taste eternity on your tongue. 

You’re driving to the festival you’re performing at and there should be a typical wreck of nerves in your stomach, tying and knotting and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until you want to cough your guts out. It’s usually what the idea of public singing does to you, sending you into a mess of anxiety until you’re on that stage, watching your people, and finally feeling right. 

Yet, in this car with Matty, serenaded by vaguely familiar tunes, you find yourself at peace. 

August 15

Matty engulfs you in a hug. He squeezes, as if trying to make sure you feel every particle of him, make sure you know he’s solid. The mic sits between your bodies, awkward and painful amidst the embrace. “Knock them dead,” Matty whispers in your neck. 

You laugh, brushing off your nerves. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll try.”

“You will.” He releases you. Stares into one eye, then the other. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll watch as long as I can before I have to get ready for my set.”

“Thanks.” You smile, looking down to hide your blush. “Good luck to you, too. Or break a leg. I don’t know what you believe.” 

“Eh, I don’t need either.” He grins, so fucking smug and cheeky, and you roll your eyes at him. A chuckle slips out of his lips. He mediates, “Thank you. I’ll cash in on that good luck when I need it.” He hugs you one last time, kisses your cheek, and then sends you off on stage. 

You’re off kilter when you approach the crowd, but the sight of it, of them, sunburnt and screaming and loving, makes all your worries melt away like butter. You grin, screaming into the mic, “Hello, everyone!”

August 16 

The world is distorted; colors brighter, sounds clearer, time slower. You lay on the grass and feel each strand tickling at your skin. You giggle, turning to stare at Matty. Your hands hang between the two of you, met in the middle. 

The shrooms glued a slack, happy smile on his face. He looks around the festival tent, the shadows of a tree outside drawing inky chimeras over the plastic tarp. You wonder what he sees. You wonder if it’s prettier than your own vision, the way you bend and rearrange lines until the traces of a human shape drapes over you. 

His head falls to the side, watching you in return. You squeeze his hand; he squeezes back. “I’m happy,” you tell him. “I’m really, really happy.”

“Me, too.” 

A strand of hair falls on his forehead like a lightning bolt. You tighten your grip again. “I want to kiss you,” you whisper. 

Matty inhales slowly. His eyes dig into yours, though he doesn’t move, stilled in time like a statue. You take a mental photograph. Click, you think, and now he’s forever. 

“Then do it,” he answers back, just as secretive, practically tempting you. 

You roll to your side, scooping yourself up until your face nears his. You brush your lips against him, just a graze, and still bliss coils around your brittle bones. It’s not really a kiss, but it’s enough nonetheless. 

But Matty kisses you, crashing his lips against yours and snapping this moment into the hot, burning tangible. His hand blisters your cheek as he takes it, angling you, meeting you better. Euphoria drums in your heart. Boom. Boom. Boom. 

You grip his free hand, placing it over your beating muscle, making him feel the racing tempo he brings out of you. This is you, you want to tell him. This is all for you.

Matty misunderstands your message, instead grazing his hand down your chest, gripping your breast. You moan into his open mouth, shocked by the sudden pleasure. His thumb rubs your nipple expertly. He smirks against you. 

“Matty,” you say, and it’s a plea and a warning. He pushes you to your back. “Fuck,” and it is just a wordless beg.

His hands are everywhere, greedy and eager to discover. He brushes every inch of your skin, climbing under your shirt, raising it over your head. His mouth finds your neck and leaves wet kisses in the crook of it, mapping his way down. You whine in his hair. Your breathing speeds up, quicker and quicker as he palms your tits, as he grabs your waist, as he teases the waistline of your shorts. 

You mutter his name into the air. Everything blurs around you, a happy daze existing only in this tent, only between his arms. You bury your hands in his curls. “Please, Matty,” you whisper. 

“What do you want?” He asks against your collarbone, pressing his lips on it after. You feel him hard between your thighs. The knowledge makes your mind droopy. 

You giggle like it was all silly, all unbelievable. It’s never about what you want; too much, too soon, too real. “What about you?”

Matty hums. He pushes your bra cups, revealing your breast. He parts away from you to take a good look at them. You flush, feeling shy suddenly. 

Matty kneels up. He pants, staring at the mess of you, half-naked and flustered and hot, practically vibrating out of your skin under him. He thumbs your nipple, smirking. “I want this.” 

“Yeah?” You arch an eyebrow. Matty nods, eager. You trail your fingers down his mane to the neckline of his shirt, greedily tugging on it. He obliges and lets it fall off his shoulders. 

Your stare laps at his naked chest with none of the usual shame. Take in every muscle, every tattoo, until Matty Healy himself is blushing under your carnivorous stare. You reach out to touch the ink at his hip, grabbing it between guitar-callused fingers, making sure you’re not imagining the whole thing. 

It has to be the trip. You have to be hallucinating, making sweet visions out of the grass and white. 

“Can you fuck me?” You say, bold and uncaring. If it’s a dream, you can be whoever you want. Can say whatever fancies your mind; even the scary, even the galactic. (Though you don’t, because admitting it just to yourself is already too momentous.)

Matty swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I can definitely do that.” You laugh, at him or at you or at the sheer fucking joy. It’s contagious; soon he’s giggling too, bending back down into you to suck at your breasts, working on your jeans. The laugh reverberates on your skin. You moan, melted wax in the grass. 

He takes the shorts down your legs, then your underwear. His hungry gaze devours you, taking in every inch of you like he’s realizing you’re real. “Better than I imagined.” You like the sound of that; it hums in your heart. 

“You, next,” you say, pleading. Matty undoes his belt dutifully. It takes some time; his fingers are trembling. 

But then he’s naked in front of you. A wiry frame, inked and scarred, with a hard, leaking cock. He’s better than a Greek god. 

Your hand reaches out for his. He takes it, crosses your fingers together, rests it beside your head as he drapes over you. Dark, coffee eyes meet yours and you get the strange sensation of having your soul bared for him, too. His lips graze yours but he doesn’t kiss you, as though he wants to hear you when he finally pushes in.

You roll your eyes into your skull. Your hand tightens in his, moaning his name. There’s a fucked-out groan coming from him, too. He lays into your neck as he thrusts in and out, slowly, like he was still adjusting to the idea of it. 

“You’re perfect,” Matty whispers. Every particle of you sings his name. You clench around him. “Shit, love, do that again.”

A proud grin breaks on your face. You throb around him. He’s buried so deep you feel him in every nerve ending, yet you still need him. Your free hand digs into his back. You want him under your skin. 

“Faster,” you say. Matty nods in agreement. He bucks his hips into yours. You strangle his hand with a deadly grip, holding back screams of his name. You moan it instead, in the crook of his neck, sticking your tongue out to lick them off after.

It’s better than it’s ever been with anyone. Your body buzzes, ecstasy swooping in your belly. You’re not sure if it’s the drugs or him, and neither answer seems satisfying. 

You can’t tell where you start and he begins, but it’s not a new feeling. He can be rooms apart and you still sense the edges of him, subconsciously, deludingly. He’s there, now, fucking inside of you, bringing you to insanity. 

“Oh, God,” you say. “Fuck.” You don’t think you’ll last long if he keeps going. Matty seems to realize, feeling the way you flutter around his cock, begging and pleading for a release. 

Matty shakes your hand off, using his now free one to rub dizzyingly fast at your clit. Your face scrunches, you moan his name, your hand flexes with the phantom shape of his hand. You snap your eyes open, meeting his, when you break and fall apart. 

It’s been a long time coming, building and building since that fateful day of June 16, but it still takes you by surprise. Your mind wipes clean, relief overtaking every attuned nerve, and all you can think is finally.

Matty follows behind you soon after, shutting his face as his lips part in abandon. A grunt slips past him, his eyebrows wrinkle, his shoulders tremble under your hand, and suddenly he’s spilling into you. 

He falls on you, sighing contently. A vague hand passes through your hair soothingly. You stare at the ceiling in shock. He came inside of you.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. I’m on the pill, you reassure yourself. And he’s clean. Just me— Just me and Delilah. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Matty laughs, realizing. He slides out of you, his cum leaking out. Though he does sound apologetic, he still stares at it in mesmerism. Ownership.

“‘S fine,” you mumble lazily. 

Matty grabs his discarded shirt, wiping your inner thighs, cleaning you up. It’s strangely domestic, in some way. You close your eyes and imagine a world where he does this often, humming. 

Matty falls back beside you, tugging your head into his shoulder, holding you close. You grin satisfiedly, loose and relaxed, a syrup girl dripping on him, sticking to him. 

Finally, you sing. Everything feels absolute. 

Your eyes flutter shut, exhaustion seeping through your body. Your face nestles into him deeper. Squished against his shoulder, you ask him, “Do you like me?”

He laughs as if it was silly to ask. “Of course I like you.” 

And do you love me, you want to ask, but you bite your tongue and swallow it down. For now it’s enough. 

August 17

Delilah runs into Matty’s arms. He catches her slackly, a loose arm around her waist as she peppers kisses over his face. Her smile shines bright. The world spins nauseatingly around you. 

Your heart fends in the middle. You stare at the two of them like a car crash, sick to your stomach yet unable to look away. You still remember the feel of his arm around you, the way he held like he was afraid you might blow away with the wind, melt into the grass. The way he gripped.

Matty meets your eyes above Delilah’s shoulder. He seems overrun, robbed of words. You have a few you believe he should be saying, should be thinking, but he doesn’t. There’s an apology in his gentle look. You want to throw up on their shoes. 

You’re a paper girl — fragile, volatile, unsettled, dancing with the wind of feelings — and he’s a rock — sure, confident, stubborn, and staying with his fucking girlfriend. 

August 19

You sit side by side with Matty on the piano bench. You peer in your sketchbook, angled away to hide from him. In his phone’s notes app, he writes the most recent verse’s ever moving state. “D’you have anything else?” He asks, as you’ve discarded the past few editions. 

You hum, skimming through the pages. Your eyes settle on a drawing of constellations, a ghost of a boy smiling in the grass. Your heart punches. You look over the words. “How about—” You shake your head, trying to discard the doom feeling in your chest. “How about she bleeds on my palms, I think I’m stained with her?” 

“Oh, I like that,” Matty nods, quickly scribbling it on his phone. “After all the marble talk, it shows we really are talking about a real person, and that they are left bloody and scarred from being carved away to fit his fantasies.”

You swallow thickly. Your heart speeds. “Yeah— Yes. Sure.”

August 20

Matty blows out his cigarette. He looks almost theatrical in the night; standing on his balcony, leaning on the fence, pouring smoke from his lips, drenching himself in telltale gray. You sit on a plastic chair and get the nagging feeling that you should be having some sort of realization, a lesson of some kind. 

Your hand reaches out for him. Instinctively, he gives you the cigarette. The paper burns in your hand. It’s not what you wanted. 

You place it between your lips. It feels so fucking obvious when smoke lingers around you.

August 23

You pass Matty’s room on mousy feet, making your best efforts not to wake anyone up. The master bedroom door is firmly shut. A couple snores a few feet away, surely entangled in each other’s limbs, a position as known as breathing. The hallway falls into you, knocking against your frail body. You’re squeezed until your chest might burst. 

There’s a yearning in your bones you can’t unroot. It makes you wonder where the flowers of love come from; if the blooming is just weeds. 

August 24

You lay on your stomach, kicking your legs in the air. A raw feeling lingers on your skin, like it was skimmed off on cement, burning and reddening. You hold your breath. 

“I like it,” Bree exclaims, slow and lagging from Facetime. She’s a blurry image, earphones in, seemingly at some trendy New York café you would hate. “I love the chorus. It’s so— so raw, and painful, and real. It’s like— It’s like I’m sixteen again, being manic pixie dream girled by indie, older boys.” 

You smile at that, happy that it reverberates, that it hits home. “Any criticism? We’re still fine tuning it.”

Bree hums. “Maybe make the speaker clearer? It’s a bit convoluted if it’s Pygmalion or Galatea’s point of view.” 

You’re raw. An open wound, poked and prodded and salted, and you can’t seem to finally scab. You grin slackly at Bree. “I see what you mean. Thanks.”

“It’s really a great song, though. That’s just nitpicking.” 

You nod, but it’s faint and unconvinced. You’re not sure being a good song justifies all of it. Breathtaking oil paints never seemed to make you any less blistered. 

August 26

Matty’s hair flops over his forehead. His lips are red and plump, stained from the wine. He’s grinning loosely, a bit tipsy on espresso martinis and merlot. He looks like a poem. 

Your heart softens and melts like toffee, sticking to the bones as it dribbles down your ribs. It calls for him, sings, even. 

Try as you might, you can’t stop wanting him. It breathes with you. 

August 28

“I think we’ve finished,” you declare. You stare at the lyrics of Galatea, messily put down over brand new paper with a fountain pen. You go over each word in disbelief. “I think— Fuck, this is actually it.”

“Yeah?” Matty calls, looking at you all giddy, biting his lip. 

Your smile breaks your face. An addictive rush of glee spins your mind. You can’t contain the joy. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” He repeats, hyping you up. You stand from the bench. His arms open in instinct; you run into them, colliding against his bones. You’re surprised you don’t find the rubble at your feet. 

“Fucking yes,” you whisper in his neck, and you might cry from the bone-deep relief. From finishing a song that has been haunting you with a vengeance. From being in his arms. From smelling his detergent.

“You did it,” he says back, low and emotional. You squeeze him harder. 

“We did it.” Matty tries to humble-wave your words away, but you pull back enough to stare at him. “I’m serious. I couldn’t have done it without you.” And it’s true; too true. This song would have never been what it is now, never had its shape, if you had never met Matty Healy. 

He smiles at you, touched. “The song of the fucking year.” You laugh, throwing your head back. You think of kissing him and you hope he thinks of it too, though he doesn’t do it. 

August 30

You step through the glass doors. Sunglasses rest on the top of your hair. You’re sunburnt on the tip of your nose, a touch of deep color. At least the inside is cool. Faraway, the laughs of Matty’s friends track you. 

You find the fridge, sticking your head inside and sighing in relief. You grab a beer on the way. You rest it on your nose. The condensation drips on your skin, tickling; you scrunch it. 

Matty’s nursing a soft drink as he stands in front of the fan, eyes closed, shirt unbuttoned. You smile at the vision of him, sticky and sweaty, sinfully familiar. 

“Scoot over,” you demand, nudging him. Matty obliges, scooping himself to offer you half of the fan. You moan as the air hits you. Truly content, you open your bottle of beer.

“I like the sound of that,” Matty says. You arch an eyebrow, offering it to him. He snorts. “No, no. Not in that sense. Designated driver, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t such a passenger princess.” 

“Hey,” you frown, faux-offended. “I just haven’t gotten my driver’s license yet.”

“And how old are you?”

“Very, very young still.” You up your nose. 

Matty makes a grimace. “Don’t say that.” The image of that day in the grass, moaning in his mouth, filled up so perfectly, flashes in his eyes. You smirk, sipping on your beer. 

“What did you mean, then?” You ask. You jerk your chin in the direction of the can when he cocks his head in question. 

Matty shrugs. “Just that it sounds satisfying. There’s something almost— I don’t know, rhythmic, about opening a can of beer. Tssh.” You snort at his impression. 

“We could put it in a song maybe,” you offer. “To start it. Maybe Sunburnt? It’s kinda summer-y.”

“I like that.” Matty sighs, “Though I don’t like that we’re talking work on our day off.”

“It’s never really work, isn’t it?” You scrunch your nose. “Not when it’s us, our insides.” 

“Careful,” Matty drawls, teasing. “You’re sounding like an insufferable artist.”

He leans into you. His eyes are light, dancing, and you want to catch the breathtaking sunrise. Want to catch it on camera, show it off to whoever. He’s too pretty. 

You lean into him. Your gaze zeroes in on his lips. The can of beer rests by your side, tucked away. Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve missed him. Missed his mouth.

Matty stares at your lips, offered and tempting, then pulls away. He makes an awkward laugh, shaking his drink. “Need a refill.” He’s off in a second. 

You stand in front of the fan, air blowing and blowing and blowing, and you can feel the traces of him artificially leaving with the wind. 

August 31

August 31, you drop a nuclear bomb. “When are you gonna break up with her?” 

You don’t know what takes over you. He’s vaguely organizing his bookshelf, picking up books and getting lost in the pages and putting them back just a little bit more to the right, and you’re sitting on your piano bench, haphazardly hitting the keys, when it bubbles out of you. The need to know, the need to be safe. 

Time decelerates to a near stop. Silence hangs in the room, heavy, filling up every crevice. The floorboards droop with its weight. Your heart races. 

Yesterday plays in your mind religiously. The near kiss, dodged and avoided, laughed off. How it left you raw, bleeding, how you spun and spun in that overthinking head of yours until you thought your skull might break from the pressure. 

You stare at Matty’s back, glaring into the muscles, tearing through the shirt. You wish him to turn around. You will him to smile. Fear grips your guts. Please. You beg him to answer right. 

Matty sighs. Twists to you slowly, carefully. Your breath hitches, readying. “I don’t know.” 

Shrapnel bursts into your skin. A bomb that reverberates, that obliterates. Your fingers shake; you clench them, willing yourself to be strong, to camouflage the bleeding out. 

Your lips tremble but you straighten them. “You don’t know when or—” Your blood beats in your skull. You keep giving him bullets and finding yourself surprised when it ricochets into you. You swallow thickly. “You don’t know if you will.” 

Matty sighs. There’s an apologetic look in his face and it makes you want to vomit. If only he had the mercy to be cruel, to rip your spine and throw it away. Give you a reason to hate him. “I can’t give you an answer. I just—” He makes a little frustrated noise, annoyed with himself for not having the words. “I need time to think.” 

You give him an incredulous look. “Time to think?” Anger digs into you, and it feels better. Something to latch onto, something buoyant over the currents of pain you’re battling against. Something to clench that jaw, narrow those eyes. “So you haven’t yet? At all?”

Matty makes a noise to speak, to sweeten, sounding like the saccharine letters of your name, but you cut him off. “No,” you say, and it is dry and sure, lashing. “No, I’ve been waiting for you all summer. We’ve—” You let out a laugh of disbelief, crazed and pathetic. “We’ve kissed, we’ve had sex, we’ve been on basically fucking dates, and you haven’t thought about if you wanna be with me?” You hate how your voice sounds wet when you push out, “I’ve thought about you every fucking day this summer.” 

Matty makes an offended face, crying, “Of course I’ve thought about if I wanna be with you.”

You don’t give him time to take it back, twist its meaning, already pleading, “Then what’s the issue?” 

“Because I don’t know!” Again with those three little words, never the right ones, never the ones you breathe from his mouth. He softens, and suddenly the sugary gaze looks like pity to you. “I like you. I really like you, and I care for you, and I don’t want to hurt you.” 

The words ring in the room. Though you want to bury them in your chest, let them bloom and grow until they’ve taken on a whole new face, you don’t. 

You hear the fatal word coming after, see it in his overwhelmed look. “But I care for her too.” You take it like a bullet. “We’ve been together for three years. And I’ve only known you for what? Two months? What if it shits between us? What if it’s not as great as we made it out to be?” 

He makes the worries solid, gives them a physical form, and you want to beg him to let the marble go, knock the paints from his hands. Don’t make it real. Don’t make it possible. 

Dejected, lips trembling, he begs, “Can’t I be a little confused?” 

You breathe out. “Of course you can be confused.” You frown, desperate when you add, “But you cheated on her. Physically, emotionally.” You let the words hit home. A guilty look draws on his face and it’s worse, somehow. “And you’re just gonna go back to her?”  

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I know I haven’t gone about this the right way.” 

You blink at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Gone about this the right way, like he didn’t take hearts and forget them on his piano keys, rotting on the ivory.

“Look, it was fucked. I didn’t think—“ Matty shakes his head. For a poet, he always has the wrong words. “I just wanted you, and I did it, and I know I shouldn’t have—” 

“You’re fucking selfish.” 

He’s selfish, you think, and you scroll back through your memories trying to find the telltale moments you missed, you ignored. If the signs waved over your head and you squinted away, slack, happy smile rising over your cheeks. 

He winces. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” You arch an eyebrow. “You’re apologizing now?” 

Matty huffs. “What do you want from me?” 

You make a disbelieved laugh. How does he not get it? How does he not see? You want to shake his shoulders, but you’re afraid of the marble dust that would linger on your hands. 

“I just want you to choose me,” you cry, like it was so fucking evident. You want him. You want him to want you. 

Matty opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s overrun. 

All those tiny moments; those throwaway smiles, those purposeful glances, those lingering touches, those words, understanding and uncovering and loving— how much of them are real? The curse of being a creator: you make stories in your head. 

He wants to say I don’t know. That’s all he has in his head. 

You nod faintly. Breathe in. Let go. The moment hangs in the air. “You’re not going to, are you?” 

Matty shrugs. That hopeful, sick muscle in your heart beats seconds slower; off-key with the world, with reality. “I don’t know.” 

Your eyes close. Everything snaps back all at once; gravity is heavy, oxygen is ashy, colors are dull. You purse your lips. Try not to cry. 

“God,” you laugh, “what the fuck have I done?” 

The curse of a creator: creating. 

He’s crumbled at your feet. He’s made of blood, and flesh, and he’s bruised and blue. You wonder how much of it is from chisel-martelling him. 

Watercolors, marble, words; it’s all the same. 

Matty frowns. He’s gentle, soothing. “Don’t say that.” 

You throw a hand up. “I’m gonna sleep at a hotel tonight.” Your stare is ice, leaving not a possibility to argue. “Stay with your girlfriend if you want.” 

Matty makes a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t want you. I’m saying I don’t know yet. I— I just need to figure it out.” 

“It’s not enough.” His face winces: bullets. Something in you is a little gleeful, hopes the metal bites into his skin. Maybe if he bleeds you, mourns you, it’ll all be a little easier to digest.

“Have a goodnight, Matty.” There's a world in which you say those words and then breathe out a soft I love you. He says it back, worshiping and happy. His arms are heavy around your waist. You roll over in bed and go to sweet sleep, satisfied. It’s not this one. You can’t keep trying to make it be.

When you leave his flat, all you can think is, God, I really should have seen this coming. 

September 1 

You adjust the earphones on your head, getting used to the soothing quiet. The microphone lingers near your mouth, inviting you. 

“Ready?” Matty asks from the booth. 

Your eyes snap to his. He’s tired, clearly. Dark circles digging under his eyes, lips bitten raw, stubble unshaved. There’s an air of unmadeness about him, and a yet-to-die need to write about it. Words start coagulating in your mind already, but you don’t let it stick. It’s just an instinct; it’ll be gone soon. 

You give a thumbs up. In the microphone, you whisper, refusing to break eye contact. “Galatea, take one.”

[sugar-coat-it]

thinking about a mutually inexperienced first time with DLID era Matty. Him and girlie are so incredibly eager even though they don't fully know what they're doing, they just want to make each other feel good and it's kind of sloppy but he just loves her SO fucking much, he's so excited and determined to make her cum that he straight up forgets to breathe

[365-partygirl]

having appropriate thoughts ❤️❤️

[meandthemist]

I looked at this, took a screenshot and said “yeah this one’s going on the blog” because what the FUCK

[tote-bag-chic]

feeling giffy today 😌

[oh-bonerline]

📷: pics.by.dana