evil ex!patrick who’s just so manipulative and convincing. you guys broke up before you left for college bc he’s a piece of shit which you’ve told him multiple times. one night you’re at a party with your friends and you see him across the room and immediately start to feel sick. you’re avoiding him at all costs telling your friends how awful he is with that weighted feeling on your chest. it’s only when he runs into you in the hall, that you’re thinking about spending just oneeeee more night with him😩 and he’s sooo mean about it when he’s fucking you. just manhandling and choking you all while making fun of how you talked so much shit only to let him in so easily.
complaining about how much you hate him to your friends while you are seething that his hand is on the small of another girl’s back. seeing his shirt ride up as he reaches for a bottle on top of the fridge to pour himself a shot and staring at his abs—did he get a tattoo? you’re drooling over him while telling everyone how thankful you are to have gotten away. and maybe you run into him as he’s leaving the bathroom and you’re trying to go in. you’re drunk and not thinking right and he smells just like you remember. smile lines deep and eyes kind yet tinged with bad intent. he looks town at you like you’re microscopic. that’s how you feel when you’re near him.
“hey—“ he begins, hand reaching to touch your arm.
you move away from him not because you don’t want him to touch you but just the opposite—you don’t want this to get out of control. to fall back into his trap.
“don’t start this.” you mutter, looking behind you. Patrick still blocks the entrance to the bathroom so you can’t go in.
“just saying hi.” he leans against the doorframe, no plans of moving anytime soon. “don’t need to make it a thing.”
he’s so fucking rude, too. he’s attention seeking and pathetic, obviously insecure all the while disgustingly self-absorbed.
“hi.” You offer, refusing to look him in the eye.
it’s when he tilts your chin up to force you to, that’s when you’re done. that you think that this is what your twenties are for. making dumb mistakes and never learning from them. Because his calloused thumb runs across your bottom lip and then you’re letting him shut the door to the bathroom behind you both and you’re all over him, pulling his shirt collar to get him closer, all the while tugging at the bottom to cue him to take it off. which he does, quickly. he’s tan and more muscular than you remember, dark hair smattered across his chest and abs and you whimper. Patrick smirks and bends you over the sink, lips attaching to the side of your neck as he shoves his pants down his legs and runs his cock through your folds. he watches you watch him through the mirror, eyes trained on how his lips part as he bottoms out, not noticing that yours have too, eyes drunk and hooded. fingers numb from holding onto the porcelain so hard.
“remember when you said you never wanted to see me again?” He snakes his hand around your throat and you look up at him, dumbly. Unable to think about what you’re doing or what he’s telling you, although you’re sure it’s snarky and manipulative.
“mmm.” is all you can muster.
He gives you a pitiful smile. “you’re a stupid little girl.” he whispers against the shell of your ear, punctuating a harsh thrust before he pulls out again just to hear you whine when you’re empty. “never doing what’s right for you. I thought i was so mean? Huh? but you’re letting me fuck this desperate little pussy? that how much you need me?”
you shake your head. can’t even think of anything to say to him.
“you don’t need it?” he stops moving, letting you feel his cock pulse inside you while your legs shake and your body preens for more; even if you said no, your body would clearly betray you. “then I’ll go. huh? We can just call it even.”
you whimper and grab at his bicep.
“hm? use your words. just say it and I’ll move.”
“I want it—“ It’s hard to talk when his hand is tight around your throat. “No, need it.”
“Fuuck,” his hips snap forward and he feels your pulse quicken under his grasp and one of your hand moves up to touch his. “C’mere,” and then he’s flipping you around to hoist you onto the sink, fucking into you as your fingers push into his mouth and your heels dig into his ass.
He holds me in his arms, it's no good trailerpark!au P1 - Matty Healy
Summary: You move into a trailer park, only to get close with one of your neighbors.
tags: matty healy x f!reader, age gap relationship (21/30), no mention of y/n, slight brat/brat tamer dynamic, toxic men, dubcon ? (i'm not actually sure if it counts but i'm tagging it just in case), p in v sex (unprotected), oral (f receiving), fingering, author does not know anything about making music---and lastly, as in all my fics so far (there have been two), matty kind of sucks and you'll want to hit him <3
words: 8197
If I was an angel
I’d be begging them to cut the wings off me
Just so I could be here with you, darling
And maybe that’s crazy of me
But it’s true
“Only Angels Have Wings,” Nicole Dollanganger
It was finally getting hot out, being the end of June. The flickering lights along the dirt path lit up the swarm of flies buzzing underneath, disrupting the thick, humid summer air. The walk from the diner you worked at always felt longer on the way home. You made peace with the fact that every journey would have to be on foot for the foreseeable future since you sold your car in order to help pay for your house. You didn’t mind, though. It gave you extra cash, and it was worth it to finally have something that was entirely your own. Your whole life, you’ve felt like someone’s object, whether it be an object of your parents, a boyfriend, or friends who never truly saw you as an equal. You’ve spent your life either on a pedestal or on your knees. Now, on leveled ground, you had your very own small corner of the world.
Your parents would call your new home scrappy. It was small and narrow, sitting on the outer edge of a sea of identical white trailers, though each occupant somehow made it their own. Your neighbor across from you, Mrs. Pomfrey (though she insisted you just call her Marlene—Mrs. Pomfrey was her “old hag” mother, as Marlene so kindly put it), was 65 years old with gray hair, crows' feet by her eyes, and a smoker's rasp in her voice. She had been living there for decades, accumulating baubles and trinkets that littered her front lawn and filled her house, enough to stock a home decor store. Multicolored beads hung from her windows with reflective rainbow pinwheels stuck in the dry earth underneath.
Julie and Eddie were a couple of a similar age to Marlene, who lived right next door to you and liked to keep their Halloween decorations up year-round. They both had easy smiles, and despite being almost old enough to be your grandparents, they loved with the same passion and affection they had for each other when they met in high school—laughing and cuddling and teasing each other like teenagers. You always saw at least one of them sitting on the lawn chairs under their canopy, right behind the cracked polystyrene gravestones and skeleton parts peeking through the sunburnt grass.
Tonight, you waved at the both of them as you walked up to your door, reaching for your keys. Ed was reading while Julie sipped lemonade from a glass that dripped with cold condensation.
“Not seeing Matty again tonight?” Julie called from her chair, though it always sounded a bit more like a heckle coming from them. A loving heckle. “I’m sure he’s been lonely with you gone all day, working lady.” She smiled sheepishly from behind her glass while her husband chuckled next to her, not looking up from his book.
And then there was Matty. He lived two houses down from Marlene—the front of his home entirely bare, aside from the red Chevy truck parked up front that looked like it had been scratched and banged up by one angry cat or a vengeful ex-girlfriend. It took everything in you to not look over towards his house, knowing he was likely leaning against his porch railing, chain-smoking, and watching you.
You shrugged at your neighbors in response, grinning. You’d like it better if people minded their own business, wanting to keep whatever was happening with you and Matty secret, but you knew they’d seen you all but skip past their house on the way over to Matty’s at odd hours of the night several times since you moved here, back in the beginning of May. Your face always betrayed you too, smiling and blushing at any mention of his name.
You looked back at your door, noticing a ripped, lined piece of paper tucked into the edge of the window of the flimsy screen door.
“Tonight. Mine. 11:30.”
He always had such a beautiful way with words, you thought sarcastically as you pushed the piece of paper into your pocket and looked at your watch.
“11:32”
Well, he’s just going to have to wait a bit longer.
You weren’t going to see Matty after an eight-hour shift without showering beforehand, no matter how irritated he’ll be when you knock at his door a half hour after he expected you to be lying half-undressed in his bed. Still, his likely displeased reaction to seeing you at his door (which would only get angrier with each passing minute of your lateness) was enough to make you take possibly the shortest shower you’ve taken in your entire life and walk up his steps with your wet hair still dripping onto your shirt.
You had only knocked twice, about to knock a third time before his screen door flung open.
“You’re late,” Matty said monotonely.
He stepped forward, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his tattooed chest. His look and stance alone were suffocatingly condescending. But maybe that was simply because he left you breathless.
“Sorry. Had to shower,” you responded just as dryly. You expected him to be angrier. You were almost disappointed, hoping your tone would be enough to poke the bear. But Matty just nodded, eyes vacant, and stepped even closer, wrapping a hand around the back of your head, fingers combing through your hair. He pushed your head towards him only slightly. Just enough to plant a kiss on your forehead. Soft and gentle.
It made your blood boil.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for him to give you the smallest drop of affection, knowing it never lasted. If his attention was temporary, his love was even more fleeting, gone so fast you could never tell if you imagined it or not.
You think that Matty might know you too well, somehow sensing your transient heartache, because your thought of getting even madder was immediately forgotten when he took his hand from around your neck to lift your chin and crash his lips into yours. Deep and hungry. His left hand found your waist while his right remained gripping your jaw as he took your bottom limp in his teeth, pulling it, and pulling a moan out of you simultaneously.
He let go momentarily, only to do the same with your top lip. You brought your hands up to rake through his curly hair. Silver strands progressively replacing what once was an entirely dark brown mop of curls. You pulled on his hair, making his face lift in the direction of the ceiling of the porch, though he resisted almost immediately, never letting you exert even the smallest bit of power and control over him. You wanted to roll your eyes.
“Why aren’t you mad?” You asked, pushing him away. You wanted the game. You wanted the challenge.
“’Course I am,” Matty muttered, forcing your hand away from his chest that was attempting to hold him at a distance in favor of stepping in deeper and kissing you again. It was too passionate. Too loving, even.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” you mumbled against him.
“’Nough with the lip. Already kept me waiting a whole goddamn night.”
“Well, someone’s gotta be making the money around here,” you teased. He glared at you, yet pulled you inside by your arm.
The two of you didn’t need small talk. When you visited him late at night, there was a purpose. A goal. A mutual itch to be scratched, a hunger to be satiated.
The door closed behind you as Matty pushed you against it. You slid your fingers into his belt loops, pulling him closer to you as he planted fast, sloppy kisses along the base of your jaw and down your neck. His hands slid down your back, bending down to grasp your thighs, picking you up as your legs wrapped around his waist. He gripped you harshly, nails digging into your skin while you combed through his hair with your fingers, pulling on it slightly. You could feel him hard against you. You guessed he’d been pent up long before you knocked on his door.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he said, confirming your suspicions and licking a long stripe up your neck. “I think you should quit that job. It’s keeping you away too much. Need you here.” He used his bottom teeth to roughly graze your skin from your collarbone to your jaw, eliciting a small squeak out of you at the sudden pain.
“Oh yeah? You gonna pay me then?”
“Mhm,” he chuckled against your neck. “Not in money though.”
“Oh, of course not. You’d have to have some first.” He pinched your hip for that.
Matty smelled like old cigarettes and cologne, a smell you found yourself fantasizing about throughout your day. You hated thinking like that. You hated how addicting he was, feeling withdrawals when you’d go too many days without seeing him, and catching glimpses of older, disheveled men coming into the diner for their lunch break, and feeling your heart palpitate when your brain would trick you into thinking it was Matty.
However, this was one of the good days—the days when he made you feel like he wanted you, like he needed you. His desire, so messy, insatiable, consuming, that it made up for all the bad days. The rainbow after the storm. You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck. Matty never really hugged you, so you did it yourself in times like these, when he was too caught up in himself and getting what he needed to notice you clinging onto him like a life raft. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, while he grinded against you, imagining you were coming home to him after your long day, and he would envelop you in his arms, letting you melt against him, decompressing. And he would tell you that he missed you and he’d ask about your day. He’d hold you for the sake of holding you, expecting nothing more. He wouldn’t need to be inside of you to consider you worthy of his affection.
But just as you're almost able to disassociate into this fantasy, Matty had to awaken you from your dream, carrying you away from the door towards his bed. He dropped you onto the mattress and climbed on top of you, fitting perfectly between your legs.
“Some old guy came into the diner today,” you said between pants. “Same gray hair, thought it was you.”
“Watch it,” he grumbled, sliding your shirt up over your head and immediately coming back down to kiss down your chest and paw at your tits. You stared at the ceiling, twirling his hair in your fingers absentmindedly, while he licked and sucked and sucked and licked, seemingly trying not to keep a single bit of skin on your chest dry. He rubbed circles onto your nipple with his thumb as he nipped at your skin.
You clearly hadn’t given him the reactions he desired because minutes later, without warning he had stopped his movements and urgently lifted himself off you as though he’d been shocked. You furrowed your brows in confusion.
“Are you seriously starfishing me right now?”
“Am I what?” You laughed incredulously at him.
“You’re barely moving, you’re not making any noise. Might as well be groping a corpse.”
You shrugged, looking up at the ceiling, suppressing a smile. “We’ve done all this a million times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not entertaining enough for you.” Matty rolled his eyes exasperatedly before leaning down again, nose touching yours, raising his hand to hold your cheek, and saying more quietly: “Don’t be a child. Use your words. Tell me what you want.”
You couldn’t tell him what you really wanted, though, so you frowned slightly, trying to come up with something to say while he studied you, eyes narrowed.
You took too long to answer him, and you barely had time to process his next movements—so swift they blended together. Matty got up suddenly, kneeling over you, adjusting his position so he could flip you onto your stomach. Instead of lying on top of you, with the two of you collapsed on the bed while he’d kiss the back of your neck (a position you regularly found yourself in each late night spent in his bed), he remained kneeling on top of you in a straddle, collecting your hair in his fist, pulling it taut, and bringing your head up to his so you were both kneeling and he could whisper in your ear.
“I’m boring you? You’ve gone fucking mute, and I’m boring you? Stop acting like a brat.” He brought his hand up to hold your neck, easing the hold he had on your hair.
You hummed in response, a small smirk on your face. Shame he couldn’t see. You liked to tease him, get him all riled up. If you didn’t make it a challenge, Matty would simply take what he needed for himself, and you’d be walking out the front door fully dressed within ten minutes, fifteen if you were being generous. He could be quite selfish when he wanted to be.
“Well, you should stop acting like I’m not doing you a favor, coming here, letting you fuck me. Could easily find a guy my own age…” Despite his reactions, you knew Matty liked it whenever you brought up your age gap. He liked being so much older than you. It made him feel strong, like no other boys your age would know how to treat you right, how to please you. It was all in his head, of course; your boyfriend throughout your years at college taught you that much, but you liked watching Matty’s ego inflate, knowing he’d praise you for it later.
“Don’t think I’m the charity case here, darling.” He murmured in the crook of your neck, the hand that was holding your neck sneaking down to cup you between your legs, rubbing you through your shorts. You sucked in a breath and bit your lip, careful not to let any other noise slip out to remind him that he could so easily regain the upper hand, but he noticed you tense up nevertheless and chuckled into your ear. “Look at you,” Matty said, feigning pity, “can already feel you soaked through your clothes.”
You couldn’t come up with a retort, letting Matty back up behind you to pull your shorts and underwear down your thighs, not bothering to slip them entirely off your legs. His hand pressed on your bare back, pushing you down on all fours. Behind you, you heard him hastily unbutton his jeans and pull himself out of his boxers. He stroked himself a few times while lining himself up before reaching forward and pushing two fingers into your mouth and down your throat. You gagged, pooling up enough saliva for him to retract his arm and coat his tip with your spit.
In the beginning, Matty would ask: “You ready?” “You alright?” “Gonna be a big stretch, ok?”
He didn’t ask anymore, just pushed himself in. He knew you didn’t care. It’s happened enough times for you both to know the regular procedures by now. You still tried to pretend as if this proved the strength of your relationship, if you could even call it that. Oh, but he knows you so well that he doesn’t even have to ask. You two are just meant to be. Whatever voice inside of you that knew that wasn’t true was ignored, stuffed into a glass bottle and thrown out to sea.
“Just go slow, Matty. Just this time,” you said softly, as he pressed at your entrance. You were slightly embarrassed to break from the typical fantasy you performed for him.
Matty’s hips faltered briefly, but he didn’t respond, just gave you a small squeeze. Your body clenched slightly, trying to prepare itself, unsure if he’d actually listen to you or not. But, he pushed into you so slowly it made you dizzy, feeling him steadily stretch you out inch by inch. He pressed your face into his deflated pillow. You smiled against it.
***
You met Matty the first day you moved in while unpacking all your belongings into the meager trailer. Every time you moved in and out of a dorm room, you regretted how many things one girl could accumulate, but seeing most of your measly possessions laid out on the floor of your new home made you feel so out of place, and you wondered if this was the right choice at all. You supposed this feeling was normal, having purposely made the drastic change of moving out of your parents' perfect three-story, white-picket-fenced house into a trailer park two towns over. But you needed to get out—out of their incessant nagging to find a real job after college and not at a diner in the outskirts of the city. You had no idea what you wanted to do with your life. You felt like this was a good place to start.
“Need any help?” Someone called behind you. You turned in the direction of the voice and froze temporarily. A scruffy-looking man walked over to you. He was older than you, maybe in his early thirties. He wore a band T-shirt over white long sleeves and baggy jeans that were splattered with grease stains. There was one heavy box left in your trunk. You figured you’d let the man do the heavy lifting—it was already getting humid out. You nodded at him, unable to find your voice.
“You seem a bit young to move into a place like this. Running away from home?” He added the last bit mockingly, reaching into your car to pick up your things.
“I’m twenty-one.” You squinted at him in the sun. Through the bright glare, you still noticed the way his gaze trailed down your exposed legs and back up to the shirt that your mom had called much too tight and much too see-through.
“Didn’t answer my question.” He smiled slyly at you before turning to walk up the steps of your new home.
Up close, you could see that his eyes were brown, and his smile was sweet and shy when not patronizing. He had stubble up his neck, along his jaw, and across his upper lip, and his hair was messy even though you could tell he tried to comb it back and make it stick with gel. You followed him up the steps.
He set your box on the counter and turned around to lean against it, standing as though he owned the place instead of you.
“I’m Matty, by the way. I live a few houses down.”
You told him your name in response, and he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He peeked into the box behind him, rifling through your things.
“Why is everything you own pink?” He asked, looking back at you, his hand still elbow-deep in the cardboard box.
“Not everything.”
He looked you up and down. You were wearing a light pink tank top and a jean skirt. You rolled your eyes. “Proves nothing,” you shrugged.
He continued looking through your other boxes next to the one he placed on the counter, snooping, remarking on the things you owned. Despite being older, his candor was childlike. He was so open, so charismatic. Even when he made fun of you for your excessive amount of boxes filled to the brim with clothes, you couldn’t help but keep smiling.
“You’re like a racoon. Gonna eat all my food next?” You teased.
“I would, but I assumed you have nothing in your fridge yet,” he quipped back, drumming his fingers against the countertop. You smiled meekly at each other, as if there was a separate conversation happening telepathically. He was trying to figure you out; you were doing the same.
“You smoke?” Matty asked, reaching into his pocket to pull out a beat-up carton of Marlboro Reds as he pushed himself off the counter in the direction of your door.
You didn’t, but, afraid of appearing even more childlike to him, you nodded.
“Sometimes,” you said. You watched him smirk as you followed him outside. Your voice must not have been convincing enough to him.
“How long have you lived here?” You asked as he lit up the cigarette, hypnotized by the way he blew out the smoke from the side of his mouth.
“Few years now. Moved around a lot, lived in the city for a bit,” Matty shrugged and passed the cigarette to you. “Don’t like living with roommates though. I like the privacy here.”
You would’ve asked more had you not been transfixed on the way his fingers held onto the burning cigarette. You could see each vein in his hand, wishing you could see them extending to his forearm.
“What about you? Why’d you move in?” He asked, several beats later, taking another puff from the cigarette before passing it to you.
“I like being alone too,” you said, quietly. “And I needed a change of scenery, I guess.” He nodded, accepting your vague answer just as you’d accepted his. An unstated mutual agreement to not pry about each others’ pasts.
You hadn’t smoked since your sophomore year of college. Having lost the familiarity, you coughed a bit at the sting of your throat. You stifled it as much as possible, but he noticed, trying to suppress a smile himself. He seemed to notice everything, always staring so intensely.
“You’re gonna need some decorations,” Matty said, motioning to the bare white walls of your trailer. “Gotta make the place your own, right?”
That’s all I want, you thought. It was like he read your mind. “Which place is yours?” You eyed the other trailers. “I’m only gonna take advice from an expert.”
He smiled at the ground bashfully. “I like to keep a bit of a minimalist aesthetic on the outside.” He stepped back, inviting you to come with him towards his house. “The inside though?” He looked back up at you, eyebrows raised. “Also quite plain.”
You laughed at him.
“It’s cool though. It’s home,” Matty said, occasionally looking back at you to make sure you were still following him. He put the cigarette out in an ashtray on his railing—so full of old cigarette butts making you assume that he spent a great deal of time out on his porch, with a blanket of smoke above him like a constant cloudy day. He didn’t move when he opened the door, just motioned for you to walk under his arm and lead the way into his house. You brushed past him with as much of your body as you could get away with casually, feeling him tense up at the contact.
Aside from the guitars, amps, and pedals set in the corner of the living area, his place was almost entirely bare as if unlived in. The couch was worn, the fabric ripped, but the walls were empty aside from a TV on a wooden table. You looked around, unimpressed, and he laughed at your expression. You were always bad at hiding the feelings on your face.
“Like I said, pretty minimalist…Bedroom’s a bit nicer, though,” he said after waiting for you to finish looking at everything, which did not take long because there really wasn’t much to look at.
You heard the voice in your head that told you not to follow Matty to his room, that this was just a trick to get you into his bed. You followed him anyway, preferring to listen to the other voice in your head that wanted to be in his bed desperately.
He opened the door in the same way, facing you, and letting you walk under his arm.
“That was pretty smooth,” you said, pinching his hip and hearing the smallest squeak in the back of his throat that he attempted to mask with a small cough. It was bold of you to assume he had some ulterior motive bringing you into his bedroom, but judging from the way he looked at you, so intensely, so hungrily, you were almost certain you were right.
There were band posters on the wall, and the desk was cluttered with odd keyboards and a large computer monitor. His bed was unmade, with navy sheets and a thick blanket pushed so far off the edge that he had most definitely kicked off during the hot night.
“It’s nice,” you nodded, eyeing the floor by his desk that was littered with wires. “You a musician?”
“Mhm. I’m in a band. We’re gonna play at Old Paul's on Saturday night, ‘s a pub like ten minutes from here. You should come, cheer us on.”
“Oh, I know Old Paul’s—I went there with my friends in high school. We used our fakes for the first time there. I’ll see if I can get off work.”
“So you’re from here, then?”
“My parents live a couple towns over. I’m just trying to get away from them, to be honest.”
His eyes twinkled. “So I was right, then. You are running away.”
“Maybe a little bit,” you conceded, walking closer to the side of the desk to examine the peculiar technology. Matty followed you, coming up behind you slowly, touching your hips, and pressing himself against you gently. You shuddered at the contact.
“What’s that?” You pointed at a small odd-looking keyboard.
“Just a mini keyboard. Those are called MPC pads.” Matty leaned down slightly, almost bending you over, to point at the little squares. “You can program them with your own sounds and create harmonies and stuff, and those little rotary knobs,” he pressed you down further, “let you individualize them even more.”
You hummed in response as Matty stood up. He pulled you upright with him and turned you around by your hips. As soon as your head turned to face him again, he kissed you, a hand resting against the side of your head.
Once you could process what was happening, you kissed him back, even more fervently. You smiled into his mouth. He ran his tongue along your bottom lip as if asking for permission. You accepted, opening your mouth, letting his tongue slide in. Keeping his lips on yours, he reached behind you, tossing things aside haphazardly to make room for you. Matty’s hands found your waist, and he lifted you onto the desk. You spread your legs wide enough for him to slot himself in between them. Only when you pulled apart to breathe did he speak.
“Sorry, I just kind of pounced on you there,” Matty let out a breathy laugh, looking down and wiping his lips.
“It’s ok,” you reassured him, smiling, not wanting to make it too obvious that you wanted him from the moment he spoke to you.
“Just needed to do that. Second I saw you, I needed to do that,” he whispered softly. Maybe he could read your mind. You pulled him in again, sucking on his top lip, and he kissed you back with even greater force. His tongue inside your mouth like he wanted to consume you. And you would let him.
Matty’s lips moved from your jaw, down to your neck, in a mix of sucking and nipping at your skin. His hand moved upwards on your thigh under your skirt that had ridden up so high, leaving you almost completely exposed. He tugged at the strap of your thong, asking permission again. You didn’t say anything, just reached down and helped him pull it down your legs. He bunched the skirt around your stomach, causing your wet core to make direct contact with the cool wood on his desk. You whined, knowing you were soon going to be dripping onto its chipped paint.
Matty pulled you forward to the edge of his desk. He held the back of your head as he leaned down on top of you, taking his left hand and running his fingers back and forth along your inner thigh. You whined again, attempting to grab at his hand and bring it to where you needed it, but he clicked his tongue and grabbed your wrist in retaliation.
“Gonna give you what you want, baby,” Matty laughed at you. “You’ve just gotta be pa—”
You cut him off, kissing him again, not wanting to hear the rest of his sentence. He wasn’t patient, so why should you have to be? You took your hand away from his grasp, reaching down your stomach, towards your clit, about to do the work yourself. You just needed the friction, the pressure. However, Matty noticed quickly, swatting your hand away, looking stunned as if no one had ever dared to break his arbitrary rules before.
“What made you think you were allowed to do that?” He asked, cradling the side of your head. His tone was soft, but there was venom behind it.
“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” You shot back.
Matty laughed at you, eyebrows raised, like your attempt at provocation had been a pitiful joke. “So fucking desperate. You want me inside of you that badly?” He leaned in to grab your bottom lip in his teeth. Before you could nod, he pushed two fingers inside of your cunt. You couldn’t pick which sensation to focus on—the sharp pain of his bite on your lip or the sudden stretch around his fingers. Matty let go with his teeth for you to suck in a sharp breath, letting it out in a wanton moan against his open mouth. He moved his fingers back and forth, going deeper each time until he was knuckles deep, and then he curled his fingers just slightly before he pulled out of you completely.
“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling the absence of his fingers and clenching around nothingness.
“Open up,” Matty commanded.
You did as you were told this time, letting him put his fingers in your mouth. Tasting yourself, you moaned quietly, bobbing your head around his knuckles and licking between his fingers.
“You’re a fucking wet dream.” His breath shaky as he took his fingers out of your mouth in favor of lifting your chin to look up at him.
You smiled, pleased, peppering kisses on his cheeks. Matty laughed, letting himself be kissed before catching your lips in his and kissing you softly. His mouth worked its way down your neck once more, but he didn’t stop there, lifting up your shirt to kiss down your stomach.
When he got down on his knees, he pushed you towards him more, so that you were practically hanging off the edge of the desk. He went back and forth, trailing kisses along your legs, and then blowing cool air softly on the apex of your thighs. You combed your fingers through his hair, and he hummed against you. As if in reward, Matty licked a long stripe between your folds before using his fingers to spread them apart.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmured, so quiet he might’ve been only talking to himself. You squeezed your legs against him at the compliment, and he took that as a sign to lick you again, a flat tongue pressed against your clit. He licked you softly, focusing on the bundle of nerves, and your legs couldn’t help but shake around him. It was taking every ounce of strength in you to keep yourself propped up on your elbows. You wanted to lie back and writhe against the desk as his kitten-licking progressed to sloppy open-mouthed kissing, using the same moves he used on your mouth on your clit. You wanted to close your eyes and shut off the world around you to focus exclusively on the touch of Matty’s tongue and nothing else. You couldn’t, though. You couldn’t take your eyes off the way his head bobbed as he licked you up and down. And when he looked up at you, making sure you were paying strong attention to him, only to catch you already staring, he’d smirk against you, and you’d feel the overwhelming urge to push his head closer in, grind against his face, and tighten the grip of your thighs on his head to keep him still and never let him go.
Abandoning their place, digging into your thigh, Matty brought his two fingers back to your hole, caressing his thumb around the outside before pushing his middle and index finger deep inside you. You whined loudly and uncontrollably, and you were sure anybody outside would hear you through the open window. Matty only needed to pump his fingers in and out of you a few times before you were falling apart around them, clenching around them spasmodically. Your whole body shook as you felt all your energy drained from you. You couldn’t help it; your elbows gave out.
You had no energy to get up, despite your head resting uncomfortably on the keyboard. It humored Matty, who got up chuckling, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Poor baby,” He pouted at you when he saw you collapsed on the desk, however, unable to hide the teasing smile.
You brought your hands up to your face, hiding your eyes. “I can’t believe I met you an hour ago,” you groaned into your palms. You pulled them away, wide-eyed. “I’ve never done anything like this before, just to be clear.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Matty teased, leaning over you to wrap you in his arms and lift you up. “‘m just irresistible, aren’t I?”
“I’m serious,” you said, playfully whacking his arm as he set you onto his bed. “This is a new record for me. By, like, an incredible margin.”
“You think I’m gonna judge you for being easy. I jumped you, didn’t I?”
“Mmm, right. Bet you get off corrupting the young, huh? What are you, thirty-five, forty?”
“I literally just turned thirty, thank you very much.”
“See? Ancient.”
He let out a bark of a laugh before smiling and shaking his head. “As much as I would love for you to stay in my bed and accuse me of being a predator of twenty-one-year-old girls, I do have to be at practice in,” he checked his watch, “five minutes ago.”
You giggled, getting up and fixing your skirt. You both walked over to his front door in comfortable silence.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Matty said quietly, giving your hand a small squeeze and kissing your forehead. You beamed up at him, grabbing his face and kissing him excitedly one last time.
When you let go, you were both giggling.
“Cutie,” he said, his smile erupting across his face. “See you later, yeah?” He rubbed his thumb along your bottom lip.
“Possibly.” You spun from side to side on the heels of your feet, looking up at him through long eyelashes.
“Oh! Wait, here,” he took out a pen from his pocket. “Write your number.”
You grabbed the pen eagerly and wrote your number across his forearm.
“I’ll call you,” he winked. He waited until you had walked down his front steps to close the door.
***
On your return home from work, you were giddy, practically skipping. You had spoken to one of your coworkers about covering your shift on Saturday night. When she agreed, you could’ve hugged her. You were desperate to see Matty again, having gone to bed that Thursday night, unable to sleep because you couldn’t stop smiling from the interaction you had hours earlier. You tossed and turned in your bed, replaying every moment.
You took the long way on your walk back home, passing by Matty’s house, hoping you’d see him on his porch. Maybe he’d invite you in again, show you a song he had worked on the day before, ask you how work was. You didn’t think he was going to call you last night after he had gotten back from practicing with his band. Yet, you waited by your phone anyway.
As you were walking in the direction of both of your houses, you saw a head of dark curly hair leaning off the railing, a cigarette lit in his hand. You hiked up your skirt.
“Hey, Matty,” you said sweetly, walking by. You had practiced it on your walk over, careful to avoid even the smallest hint of eagerness.
He looked at you and nodded, quickly averting his eyes. His gaze was vacant. You could’ve been a stranger, as if your greeting was simply a polite neighborly formality and not a beg for his attention. You walked away, your stomach in a knot.
Maybe he had called you today while you were at work—offended that you hadn’t picked up and giving you the cold shoulder as retribution. You hated the way you thought about him. Anxious and obsessive. You decided you’d go to the bar tomorrow night to see him play. Give him one more chance to grow up before accepting that he ghosted you just like the boys your age do.
You paced back and forth in your narrow hallway. Now, you couldn’t just show up to the bar alone, because then it would look like you were only there for him. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction.
The phone purred in your ear as you rang up one of your closest friends from high school, Elle. Being separated each year for college did not stop you both from coming back to each other every summer. Like magnets, the two of you.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Elle gasped over the phone after you had retold the events from the past two days.
“It’s genuinely making me sick to my stomach.” You lay back on your bed, the cord of the phone stretching as far as it could go.
“You haven’t been like this over a guy in years!”
“I know, I know! But I need you to come out with me tomorrow. He told me to come to a bar to see his band play and—”
“Oh my God, he’s in a band too? How old is he, thirty? He’s a man-child! Does he have a real job?”
“Don’t know, actually.” It had occurred to you just then that you truly didn’t know anything about him. Everything you’ve been fantasizing about, every gap in his story you tried to fill, was entirely fabricated. You were too eager. Did he sense that? Was that why he’s keeping his distance?
God, you might as well be sixteen all over again.
***
It felt different, walking into Old Paul’s without needing a fake for the first time. Even though each time you had to use it, you’d been sick to your stomach with anxiety, it was still a thrill. Now there wasn’t any thrill or any feeling at all, having been to bars practically every weekend in your college town. You’d rather have the butterflies than the emptiness.
With the colleges having let out for the summer, an endless stream of people fell in and out of the bar, which was packed with sweaty bodies of all ages. Matty hadn’t told you what time his band was playing, so you got there at eight, just in time to see them setting up.
Elle ordered shots for the both of you, downing them immediately. The taste of rubbing alcohol burning your throat as you heard Matty play the first chord and the sounds of shrill screaming that followed.
They were electric. The ringing, repetitive downward strum of the guitar was piercing, bouncing off the walls and bodies that crowded up front to see the band. Most of them were young women, you noticed from your place by the bar. You could see a hint of a smug grin on Matty’s face as he sang the first lines, glancing down at the girls occasionally to wink or pick one girl to stare at while he sang and turn her legs to jello. He fed off the attention. It was obvious. You felt like your stomach was folding in on itself, with a tightening and constriction in your gut. Were you just like them? Just another twenty-something girl vying for his attention? His head had been between your legs just over seventy-two hours ago, yet you didn’t feel like you won any competition. You decided you weren’t going to be one of them, another girl he could use to inflate his ego.
Elle was trying to say something, or, more accurately, yelling in your ear. Her words were white noise, though, all your senses preoccupied with staring at the lead singer. You wanted to rip your eyes away from him. Like a Band-Aid, you just had to do it quick. But you wanted him to see you. You wanted to see the moment of realization on his face when he saw that you had come to see him after all, as if that would make him want you more. He never did look at you, though, eyes focused on the girls clamoring on top of each other in front of him.
Their set ended at eight-forty-five, and by that point, your bladder was full of three shots and a hard soda. You made a beeline for the bathroom, making yourself as small as possible to weave through bodies and duck under arms. You hated bar bathrooms, with their ten-person lines, broken stall doors, and floors coated in a thin layer of alcohol and piss.
When you walked out of the bathroom, what felt like half an hour later, drying your hands on your shorts, you stopped dead in your tracks.
About ten feet in front of you stood Matty, practically towering over another girl. You had no claim to this man, so what gave you the right to seethe with jealousy? You contemplated purposely bumping into him as you walked by, slamming into his shoulder, but that would be the immature thing to do, you decided. And if Matty was choosing to behave like a cowardly teenager, you were going to be the adult who had better things to do than waste her time on a man like him.
And then he kissed her.
You had nothing in your stomach, so what the hell did you feel rising in your throat? You thought about turning back to the bathroom. The girls in line always moved aside for another girl clutching her stomach, pale-faced, and gagging. You were sure that would be you at any second.
You didn’t know how long you stood there, watching them, but your trance was disrupted when they broke apart, and Matty’s eyes looked up to find yours. When you saw concern flash across his face, you brought a hand up to your cheeks only to find it coming away wet. You swore at yourself. So much for not caring anymore.
You felt angry. You felt betrayed. You felt used. You felt so fucking stupid. You stormed past him, blinking away tears, ignoring the voice in your head that swore you heard him say your name as you walked by.
When you approached the bar, you tugged on Elle’s arm. Taking one look at you, she gasped. “Oh my god, did you throw up? Are you ok?”
All you could do was shake your head.
***
You woke up to Elle’s arm around you. You don’t remember how you got back to bed that night. You were never black-out drunk, but the emotional exhaustion mixed with the alcohol may have been enough to make your brain block everything else out.
In an attempt to not think about Matty at all over the next couple of days, you simply went numb all over, mind on autopilot. You went to work, took orders, cleaned. You came back home, showered, read your book, stared at the ceiling. Food tasted like nothing, and every chew took energy that your brain was never supplying enough of. The sinking feeling in your stomach never really left, just got easier to ignore once you got used to it. You hated how much power Matty had over you. How after one interaction, he could plague your body and mind for days afterwards. You hated how this made you feel like you were eighteen years old again, starting college and becoming nothing but a prop in men’s lives, a body with no brain attached. You didn’t grow at all, it seemed. You thought you did.
The sun was still up when you walked up to your house after your shift, your car still parked up front. You were going to need to find someone to sell that to, you thought, and then your attention shifted to the flowers by your doorstep. They stood out against your plain, colorless house.
They must be a welcoming gift from one of your neighbors. You had met a few of them after your first interaction with Matty, when you were still riding a high of bliss and contentment. It radiated out of you in that moment, giving you the courage to talk to anyone in your eyeline and introduce yourself.
As you got closer to your door, you realized they were, in fact, four small potted plants, blooming in shades of pink. They were similar to the ones in your family’s garden, you noted, identifying the drooping lilies and begonias in the colors of a cotton candy sunset.
“You like them?” Someone called from behind you. You recognized the voice and felt the familiar sense of dread and despair loom over you as you hesitantly turned to face him.
“What are you doing here?” Your tone dripped with annoyance and fatigue.
“Wanted to apologize,” Matty said, walking over to you slowly, hands shoved in his pockets.
“For what?”
“I think I hurt your feelings.” Again, he spoke to you like you were a child, with hints of his patented mock sympathy. But even if he was right, that was the last thing you’d ever want to admit.
“What makes you think that?” You turned from him again, kneeling to pick up the small pot and examine the flowers.
“Saw you crying at the pub.”
“I was upset for different reasons.” You made a point not to look him in the eye, afraid you’d lose all trace of indifference if you did.
“Oh, come on. I know you were upset cause I never called you. I know you saw me kiss that girl.”
Well, there goes the theory that he was angry you didn’t pick up the phone while you were at work. You knew it wouldn’t be true, but you wanted to believe it, that all of this was his retaliation for hurting him first. At least that would mean he still cared.
“Do you hear yourself?” You asked, looking up, losing the nonchalant facade you were working so hard to put on. “Yeah, why the fuck wouldn’t I be upset?”
“Never said you shouldn’t be, but don’t keep on denying it. That’s just immature.”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to stomp your feet and pull your hair out. You wanted to hit him. Who was he to lecture you about maturity? You placed the plant back on the steps, afraid you’d smash it on the ground. Or throw it at him.
“Maybe this is what happens when you fuck girls ten years younger than you and then decide she’s a stranger the next day.”
He stalked forward, eyes narrowed, hunched slightly, like he was trying to get down to your level. He had no fucking right to be pissed off at you. “Oh, baby, you can’t just pick and choose when to play the innocence card.” His smile had no touch of compassion. It was mean. It was nauseating.
“You’re always so fucking patronizing, you know that?”
“You’ve known me for less than a week, darling.” Matty was towering over you now, just like he had with the girl at the bar.
“Go fuck yourself,” you spat, looking up at him.
“Gladly, but I’d much rather you do it for me.”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes, starting up your steps. “Take your plants, I don’t want them.”
“Hey, hey, hey, hold on,” he followed right after you, putting an arm out to grab your hand. “I said I was sorry. I was being honest. I had a good time with you. Let me just… let me make it up to you.”
And this was why it was dangerous to look in his eyes. They were warm and pleading. Bedroom eyes that made you want to melt on the spot. He gave your hand small tugs, trying to pull you towards him but not forcing it. It was a beg.
“And how would you do that?” You crossed your arms from a step above him, making him break the hold he had on you. Well, the physical hold, at least. Even with the extra height, you were still shorter than him. He thought for a moment, eyes searching your face, looking for a hint.
older rich patrick is everything to me and more 😵💫
your college class got canceled last minute so now you’re knocking on his office door wearing the shortest summer dress known to man carrying lunch (paid by him ofc), calling out “mr zweig?” in a ridiculously sweet high pitched voice before opening the door for your surprise entering. he immediately sends everyone else out, pretending to be soo exhausted and drowning in work, giving you a ridiculous pout before you finally offer to make it better by letting him bend you over his desk, your panties long gone under the dress, cava bowl’s forgotten in the paper bag, tan, big, veiny hand clasped over your mouth, eyes rolling into the back of your head
big exec older!patrick who is a scary boss and in charge of a lot of big decisions but you’re his light and his soft spot. seeing you makes his heart beat faster and his dick jump in his extremely expensive starched trousers. he could be right in the middle of a meeting and he’ll send everyone out just because he makes eye contact with you as you “stop by” for lunch. wearing a teensy little sundress with a bikini underneath because you were getting some sun before this.
says cheesy stuff like “what did I do to deserve this?” As he’s untying your string bikini top and pushing your dress up so he can run his thumb over your clit. pushes that same thumb into your mouth and tells you to be quiet for him but he makes it hard to on purpose—pushing in all at once and angling his hips just right so he hits that spot inside you that knocks the wind out of you.
his computer shakes and rattles on the desk; papers are strewn all over the floor as he fucks you and you almost can’t breathe because his hand is so big it covers your mouth and your nose. everyone pretends not to notice that your hair is awry and your bikini top which was tied as a bow under your dress is now in a knot. Patrick’s shirt is wrinkled and your lip gloss, while clear, leaves a glow on his neck when he’s under the fluorescent office light just right.
prguitarman
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
origamiaround
titsay
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
