she lays down

☽ // H E A D. C A R S. B E N D I N G // she/her

[cryiingoutloud]

can u write about matty, gabbi & a third girl who's fucked by them? i love to read it ;)

this one’s for you, my dear. thank you so much for the suggestion — always appreciated!

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only · explicit sexual content.

it started with drinks. it ended in something unforgettable. something that should’ve never happened — but did. a night that tasted like smoke and sweat and the sound of her name coming out of both their mouths.

w.c.: 2.9k

i saw them before they saw me. or maybe they saw me first and just waited, letting me feel like i was in control.

they were impossible to ignore — not because they were loud, but because they weren’t. they moved like they were in their own world, orbiting each other without touching. his hand rested on the back of the booth, fingers draped behind her neck. her leg was crossed tight over the other, boots swinging gently, lips glossed and smudged like they’d already been kissed too hard.

matty fucking healy and gabbriette. and yeah, i knew who they were. not just famous — infamous. the kind of couple that looked like they kept secrets and bruises and stories behind closed doors.

he was slouched, one boot resting on the edge of the table, cigarette hanging from his fingers. she was all bone and beauty and silence, sipping something clear and bitter, not looking at anyone until she did.

until me.

i felt it first. that pull — the weight of someone staring.

i turned, and matty didn’t look away. just tipped his head slightly, pupils blown, mouth parted like he was seconds from saying something filthy. but it wasn’t just him. gabbriette’s eyes met mine a second later, and there was something behind them — not curiosity. something more like intent.

i didn’t know what to do with that.

i went back to my drink, pretending not to feel it, pretending my skin wasn’t prickling in anticipation. but then the bartender set something new in front of me. “from over there,” he said.

i didn’t ask who. i already knew.

i picked up the glass. made my choice.

walked over.

“this yours?” i asked, standing at the edge of their booth.

matty smiled, slow and easy. “hers.”

gabbriette didn’t say anything right away. just looked at me for a long moment, then nodded once. “you looked thirsty.”

i wasn’t, but i took a sip anyway. something citrusy and sharp. cold all the way down.

matty moved over, giving me space that didn’t really exist. i slid in beside him. our knees touched. his thigh was warm. intentional.

“what’s your name?” gabbriette asked.

i told her.

she said it back like she was trying it on for size. then matty repeated it, voice lower, like he wanted to hear how it would sound with his hand between my legs.

“pretty,” she said. “pretty name for a pretty girl.”

i smiled, crooked and a little dangerous. “you guys always this forward?”

matty flicked ash from his cigarette. “only when we’re sure.”

“and you’re sure?”

“completely,” he said, without missing a beat.

gabbriette leaned forward a little, resting her chin on her hand. “we were watching you. for a while.”

“and?”

“and you stayed.”

i didn’t answer. didn’t need to. i was still there, wasn’t i?

she tilted her head, eyes dark and unreadable. “you’re not scared?”

i shook my head. “should i be?”

matty grinned. “probably.”

“but you’re not,” gabbriette said. “and that’s why we like you.”

my pulse spiked at the word we. something about it made heat slide low in my stomach. not just one of them — both. i was being chosen, bit by bit, moment by moment.

they didn’t touch me. didn’t need to.

they had me anyway.

their place was exactly what i thought it would be — dim, expensive in a careless way, full of empty wine glasses and half-burnt candles. the kind of place people fuck in before they think about what it means. or maybe they never think about it. maybe that’s the point.

matty unlocked the door and stepped aside to let us in, one hand hovering low on gabbriette’s back. she didn’t look at me when she passed, just dropped her coat on the floor like she wanted to be undressed.

i stood there, suddenly too aware of myself. of what i was doing. what i’d already agreed to without saying a word.

matty shut the door behind me. didn’t say anything.

i turned.

he was close.

“still not scared?” he asked, voice quiet, like he wasn’t trying to push — just check.

i shook my head.

he smiled. “good.”

he didn’t touch me yet. just looked at me like he already had.

from the other room, gabbriette’s voice floated back. “bring her in.”

he took my hand.

it wasn’t soft or slow. it was certain. fingers wrapping around my wrist like he was claiming something. pulling me forward through the hallway, past a row of framed photographs and a black leather jacket slung over a chair, until we reached the bedroom.

she was there. sitting on the edge of the bed. legs crossed. wine glass in one hand, red nails curled around the stem. like this was a ritual. like she’d done it before.

but the way she looked at me — that was new. hungry, but not rushed. like she was unwrapping something she wanted to keep.

“you look nervous,” she said.

“i’m not.”

“good.”

she set the glass down and stood.

walked over, slow and unbothered, until she was standing in front of me. matty stayed behind, still holding my wrist.

gabbriette reached up and touched my face. light. like testing the temperature of water before sinking in.

“you’re gorgeous,” she said. “even more up close.”

i didn’t breathe.

her thumb traced my lower lip. “we’ll be gentle.”

matty laughed behind me. low, breathless. “she’s lying.”

“i know,” i whispered.

gabbriette smiled. then kissed me.

nothing soft about it. she kissed like she wanted to leave a mark. her mouth hot and open, her hands sliding into my hair, tugging a little like she wanted to see how far she could go before i pushed back.

i didn’t.

i let her kiss me like she owned me.

and when she pulled back, matty’s mouth was at my neck.

“fuck,” he said. “this is going to ruin me.”

her lips were still wet when she pulled away. she looked at me like she was deciding where to start — or maybe how far she wanted to push me.

matty’s hands were already at my waist, fingers slipping under the hem of my top like he was done pretending to wait. he lifted it slowly, knuckles grazing skin, dragging it over my arms. the second it hit the floor, he had his mouth on my shoulder, biting down just enough to make me flinch.

“so fucking pretty,” he murmured, against my neck. “you’re gonna look even better with both of us all over you.”

gabbriette’s hands moved next. she unbuttoned my jeans like she’d done it a thousand times before, like undressing me was hers to do — not his. she tugged them down with a slow drag of her nails, her eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“matty,” she said, soft and steady, “get on the bed.”

he obeyed instantly, boots kicked off, shirt discarded like it offended him. he leaned back against the headboard, legs spread, cock already straining against his boxers.

gabbriette turned back to me and ran her fingers between my legs, over the damp cotton of my panties.

“fuck,” she whispered. “she’s soaked.”

my knees almost buckled.

“matty,” she said again, “look what you did to her just from watching.”

“wasn’t just me,” he said, grinning like a devil. “you kissed her like you wanted to eat her alive.”

gabbriette didn’t answer. she just dropped to her knees in front of me without a word. her eyes were on mine, dark and steady, while her hands hooked into the waistband of my panties. she didn’t rush. just dragged them down slowly, knuckles brushing the insides of my thighs as she went — until she was kneeling between my legs, panties around my ankles, and i was completely bare.

she looked up at me like i was a meal. like she was about to ruin dinner.

“you gonna let me taste you?” she asked, lips brushing skin.

i nodded, breath already broken.

“say it,” she said.

“yes,” i whispered. “fuck, yes—”

then — without breaking eye contact — she leaned in and dragged her tongue up the length of my slit.

i gasped, sharp and broken.

“fuck,” she muttered, like it hit her too. “you’re dripping.”

her hands slid up behind my thighs, pulling me forward until i was practically cradled against her mouth. she didn’t ease into it. no teasing. no slow warm-up. she just dove in.

her mouth was fucking obscene. tongue flat and wide, licking long, messy strokes that made my knees go soft instantly. every time i moved, she adjusted — holding me tighter, angling her face, burying herself deeper like she wanted to drown in me.

“matty,” she said, voice muffled against my pussy, “she’s shaking.”

he didn’t respond. i think he was too busy watching. breathing heavy behind me. probably fisting his cock while i was falling apart in his girlfriend’s mouth.

and i was. falling the fuck apart.

because gabbriette didn’t just eat pussy — she devoured it. her tongue circled my clit in tight, fast flicks before dropping down to fuck into me, licking deep, then sucking my lips into her mouth with these filthy, wet sounds that echoed through the room. she moaned against me like she needed it — like the taste of me did something to her.

every sound she made vibrated against my cunt, made me grind into her face without even meaning to. i couldn’t stop myself. my hands tangled in her hair, pulling hard, and she growled, low and rough, and sucked my clit into her mouth like she wanted to make me cry.

and i almost did.

my legs went, and matty caught me — dragged me back into his lap, my back against his chest, my thighs spread wide over his. i was soaked, trembling, already on the edge.

“you wanna come like this?” he asked, rubbing slow circles over my clit with two fingers. “in her mouth, on my fingers, soaking the sheets?”

i nodded, desperate.

“then do it,” gabbriette whispered. “do it for us.”

i shattered.

not soft. not silent. i came with a cry punched out of my chest, thighs clenching around gabbriette’s face, body jerking against matty’s. he kept his hand on me the whole time, stroking me through it, whispering filthy things in my ear while i gasped and writhed in his lap.

and gabbriette just looked up at me, mouth glossy with it, smiling like she’d won something.

“she tastes even better than i thought,” she said.

matty growled behind me. “then come here and kiss me.”

gabbriette climbed into the bed like a cat, slow and smooth, lips still slick from me. matty was hard beneath me, cock straining through his boxers, breath hot against my neck as he watched her move closer.

“kiss me,” he said again, voice rough, almost a command.

she grabbed him by the jaw and did it like she meant to devour him — her mouth hot and wet, tongue deep, the taste of me still fresh between them. i could see the way matty shuddered, the way his hand tightened on my thigh like he needed to touch something to stay grounded.

then she pulled back, breathless, and looked at me.

“take his cock out,” she said.

i didn’t even think. i reached down, slid his boxers low, and there he was — thick, flushed, leaking, heavy in my hand. matty groaned, hips twitching when i wrapped my fingers around him and gave him one slow, teasing stroke.

“jesus,” he hissed. “you’re fucking perfect.”

gabbriette knelt between us, one hand sliding down my back, her mouth brushing my shoulder.

“get on all fours,” she whispered in my ear. “let him see you like that.”

i obeyed. shaky and desperate, i turned in his lap, sinking to hands and knees, ass arched, tits swinging. i heard matty curse behind me — the sound of him spitting in his hand, slicking his cock — and then the blunt heat of him pressing against me, sliding through my folds, teasing the edge.

“you ready for me?” he asked, breath ragged.

“please,” i choked out. “fuck, yes—”

he pushed in slow, inch by inch, thick and burning, until he was buried to the hilt. my arms shook. my eyes rolled back. he didn’t give me time to adjust — just started to fuck. hard. fast. like he wanted to knock the thoughts out of my skull.

i moaned into the mattress, fingers gripping the sheets, every stroke punching sound out of me.

gabbriette was in front of me, watching every twitch of my mouth, every desperate cry.

“open your mouth,” she said.

i did. immediately.

she slid two fingers in, coated in my slick and her spit. i sucked them like they were his cock, like they were the only thing tethering me to reality.

“good girl,” she whispered, thumb dragging across my cheek. “such a good fucking girl for us.”

matty was losing it behind me — every thrust rougher, deeper, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

“look at you,” he groaned. “stuffed full of cock and begging for more. you were made for this, weren’t you?”

i nodded, mouth still full of gabbriette’s fingers. i couldn’t speak — didn’t need to. my body was saying everything.

she pulled her fingers out and cupped my jaw, dragging my face up to hers.

“you wanna come on his cock?” she asked. “right here, in front of me?”

i whimpered. “yes, yes, fuck—”

“then do it,” she whispered. “let him feel it. let me see it.”

i shattered again. harder this time. body shaking, cunt clenching around matty so tight he swore and pulled out at the last second, fisting his cock, spilling hot and messy all over my back with a groan that sounded like it’d been ripped out of his chest.

i collapsed into the sheets. used. shaking. breathless.

and they weren’t done.

not even close.

i was still on my knees, wrecked and dazed, matty’s cum cooling on my back, my thighs trembling, when gabbriette leaned in and whispered:

“lie down. but don’t touch yourself.”

her voice was sugar-laced poison. dangerous. addictive. i obeyed instantly — rolled to my side, eyes glassy, breath shallow, legs still spread without meaning to.

matty wiped me clean with a shirt off the floor, slow and gentle — the only soft thing about him. then he turned to her, still flushed, still hardening again with every second he looked at her.

“your turn,” he said.

she didn’t say anything. just smirked, stripped off her top, her skirt, everything — no hesitation, no modesty. she moved like she knew you were watching. like she liked it. gabbriette naked was unreal — legs long, skin like silk over steel, tits perfect, pierced. everything about her said don’t look away.

“matty,” she said, beckoning him closer. “on your back.”

he obeyed. again. he’d let her wreck him without a second thought. she climbed over him, straddled his chest for a moment, dragged her soaked cunt across his ribs just to tease — then moved back and sank down onto his cock with a sigh so filthy it made my stomach clench.

his head dropped back.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—gabi, holy shit—”

she rode him slow at first. hips rolling, grinding down in tight circles. hands braced on his chest. matty was a mess under her, eyes rolled back, mouth open, whispering her name over and over like a prayer he never learned the words to.

and me? i watched.

spread out across their bed, used and dripping and aching again, because it was the dirtiest thing i’d ever seen. not just the way they moved — but how they felt. like this wasn’t about fucking. like it was about possession.

gabbriette leaned back, one hand between her legs, fingers rubbing quick, desperate circles on her clit while she fucked herself down on his cock.

“you watching this?” she asked me, breathless, smirking.

i nodded, barely able to breathe. “fuck—yes, yes—”

“you wanna come again, you little whore?” matty asked, eyes half-lidded, voice wrecked.

“please,” i gasped. “i—please—”

“then beg.”

gabbriette laughed. a soft, cruel thing. she was close — i could tell. her rhythm stuttered, her thighs shaking, her breath catching.

“touch yourself,” she commanded. “but don’t come until i say.”

i obeyed. hand sliding between my legs, fingers slippery with slick and need. i rubbed hard, desperate, watching her fuck herself on his cock like she was made for it. she looked divine. dangerous. like a weapon mid-fire.

then she came. loud. raw. head thrown back, body trembling, hips stuttering. she clenched around him so tight matty cursed and grabbed her hips like he was trying not to fall apart.

and i was gone. i couldn’t hold it.

“fuck—i’m coming, i—”

gabbriette leaned over, gripped my chin hard, stared straight into my eyes.

“good,” she whispered. “fucking come.”

and i did.

again. for them. because of them. with them.

it was obscene. it was perfect. it was everything i hadn’t known i needed.

and when it was done — when we were all wrecked and panting and covered in sweat and spit and cum — gabbriette looked at me with that same unreadable expression from the bar and said:

“you ever tell anyone about this?”

i shook my head, lips parted, heart still pounding.

“good,” she said. “because no one would believe you.”

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 𝓯alling𝓯or𝔂ou — matty healy!reader.

part 1 : if you’re too shy ( 𝑙et me 𝓴now .ᐟ )

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

on tour, silence can be louder than love.

you were supposed to interpret his words—

not become the one thing he couldn’t say out loud.

warnings: explicit emotional themes · mutual pining · unresolved tension · hearing loss (partial) · slow burn · emotional repression · drinking · guilt · angst · one intense sex scene (in part one) · breakdown onstage · bittersweet ending · implied future connection

w.c.: 10k

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

the silence lasted longer than the sex did.

and that, somehow, felt fair.

𝔂ou had stopped crying two weeks earlier.

somewhere between brussels and vienna, your body had stopped allowing it. the sadness had calcified into something cleaner—something quiet.

you didn’t avoid matty. you didn’t glare. you didn’t snap.

you just did your job and so did he.

your paths had crossed a hundred times a day.

stage left. hotel lobby. van bench.

you passed him notes when the monitors buzzed too hot. you signed corrections mid-song, clipped and precise.

he glanced. nodded. didn’t thank you.

which was fine.

you weren’t there for gratitude.

not anymore.

he’d worn the same boots every day that week—untied, worn to hell, the soles flapping a little when he walked.

you noticed things like that now, instead of him.

the way he skipped breakfast. the new bruise under his eye from a mic stand jerk. the fresh cigarette burns along the edge of his forearm.

you didn’t ask. you didn’t flinch.

you just made sure your hands were steady when you signed the night’s setlist.

he watched your fingers.

he always watched your fingers, but never your face.

there were eight shows left.

you knew because you counted them down every night.

eight cities.

eight more mornings on a tour bus with curtains that never closed right.

eight more encores. eight more dressing rooms with bottled water and half-empty tequila.

and him.

always him.

in the corner. in the hallway. in your periphery.

it wasn’t the proximity that killed you.

it was how easy he made it look—pretending nothing had happened.

like you had just been another city.

one he left behind without unpacking.

george knew. he didn’t say much, but he watched the two of you the way someone might watch two dogs in a locked room—waiting for the bark, or the bite.

you’d caught him sighing when matty avoided you mid-question.

or when your hands flicked too fast with instructions matty wouldn’t meet your eyes to receive.

but george didn’t meddle.

not yet.

you’d told yourself you could handle it.

you’d told yourself you were stronger than this—than him.

but three days into the lisbon run, it had started to wear.

you woke up feeling brittle, like everything inside you was running on the last thread of professionalism and caffeine.

you signed like you were clocking in at a factory.

you avoided his reflection in mirrors.

you ate in bathrooms.

you stopped checking your phone.

because there was nothing on it.

not from him. not from anyone.

and one night, after a long soundcheck where he didn’t even glance at you once—not for timing, not for tempo, not for anything—you realized it.

this wasn’t distance.

this was punishment.

you stayed up that night in your bunk with your notes open on your laptop and your chest hollow.

by the time the sun rose over the back lot behind the arena, you knew what you were going to do.

you were going to quit.

not because you were angry, but because you couldn’t keep being the only one in the room who remembered.

you found george two days later, leaning against the loading dock outside the venue in madrid, squinting at his phone like it had personally offended him.

he glanced up when he heard the door shut behind you, but didn’t speak.

you sat beside him, pulled your knees up, and wrapped your arms around them.

the silence was almost peaceful.

except for what was clawing at your throat.

“george,” you said, quietly, “i’m leaving.”

he didn’t turn.

“like, leaving leaving?”

you nodded.

then realized he wasn’t looking, so you said it out loud.

“after barcelona.”

he was silent for a beat too long.

“does he know?”

you laughed. a small, dry sound.

“he hadn’t known a single thing since paris.”

george’s jaw tightened.

you looked down at your fingers.

your thumbs traced invisible shapes on your knuckles—signs without meaning.

like muscle memory. like mourning.

“i can’t stay. not when he looks at me like that didn’t happen. like i didn’t happen.”

george still didn’t look at you.

but his foot bounced—restless, frustrated.

“he’s just… scared,” he muttered finally.

“and i’m not?” you snapped. “you think i wasn’t terrified the second he kissed me back? when he touched me like i was the only real thing left in his world?”

your voice breaks.

you swallowed it down.

breathed deep.

lower.

“but i didn’t run.”

that quited him.

you felt something shift in the air between you—anger, maybe, but not at you.

he dragged a hand over his mouth.

muttered, “fucking idiot.”

you said nothing.

he finally looked at you.

“he hasn’t been okay since that night,” george said. “he’s been pretending, yeah. but he’s not…”

his voice trailed off.

he shrugged, helpless.

“he’s matty,” he finished. “he doesn’t know how to do any of this.”

you nodded.

“i know.”

you stood.

“but it’s not my job to wait for him to figure it out.”

he didn’t argue. he just said, “he’s gonna fucking regret this.”

you looked back over your shoulder before walking inside.

“he already does.”

later, in the green room, george found matty tuning the same guitar string for the fifth time.

his back was to the door.

he didn’t turn when george stepped in.

“barcelona’s her last show,” george said.

matty’s hand stilled.

“…what?”

“she’s leaving after that.”

he finally turned.

“why?”

“because she likes a little too much someone who treats her like a piece of tape on a setlist.”

matty scoffed. looked down.

“fuck off.”

but george wasn’t moving.

“you gonna say it’s not true?”

matty lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

“it’s complicated.”

“no,” george snapped, stepping forward. “it’s not. she opened up to you. you let her in. and then you shut the fucking door.”

matty exhaled smoke, slow.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“yeah, but you did.”

silence.

then, quieter:

“you still care about her?”

matty didn’t answer.

he didn’t have to.

george nodded once, then walked out.

the door slammed behind him.

matty stood there with the smoke curling out between his fingers and something sharp building in his throat.

he didn’t cry, but something inside him bent.

and it was about to fucking snap.

you stood side stage in barcelona, counting down the last cues you’d ever give.

your hands were steady.

your heart was not.

he hadn’t looked at you once since soundcheck.

not when you passed him the updated setlist.

not when you signed the time delay note from the crew.

not when you brushed past him in the hallway, accidentally, and his breath hitched like it hurt.

the crowd was already screaming.

you could feel it pulsing in your chest, a distant heartbeat trying to drown you.

but you didn’t go to him.

not anymore.

you stayed where you’d been that whole tour.

on the edge of things and waited for the end.

matty had been drinking since five.

you smelled it on his hoodie backstage.

heard it in his voice when he barked at the lighting tech over nothing.

saw it in the way he walked past george, didn’t say a word, then looped back five seconds later with wide eyes and an apology that never made it out.

no one stopped him.

no one ever did.

he took the stage wild-eyed, jaw tight, limbs loose like a puppet with its strings cut too short.

the crowd roared.

you stayed in the shadows.

the first two songs went smooth.

his voice was a little flat, timing a little rushed, but the audience didn’t notice.

you did. and so did george.

his eyes met yours mid-chorus, and you both knew it: he was slipping.

then it happened.

the first chords of fallingforyou.

he froze for half a second.

not visibly, not enough for the crowd to catch. but you caught it.

his fingers twitched on the mic.

his mouth parted like he was about to stop the band.

then—he sang.

and it broke.

it wasn’t just his voice.

it was the way he started slow, too slow, like he was dragging the words through molasses.

the way he slurred slightly, held syllables too long.

the pitch was off.

his left monitor crackled.

he grabbed at his earpiece like it was betraying him.

and through it all—he was looking for you.

not subtly, not quietly.

he stared straight offstage.

straight at you.

eyes glossy. mouth trembling.

he sang the whole thing like a confession.

like an apology with no language to hold it.

the crowd swayed. sang. unaware.

but you were frozen.

he sang the rest of the song like no one else existed. like maybe you were the only thing keeping him upright.

and then—he dropped the mic. literally.

it thudded against the stage floor.

he stumbled back.

george caught him. pulled him into the wings.

you were already walking away.

he found you after. or tried to.

but you weren’t in the green room.

not near the stage.

not even on the bus.

he found you in the loading corridor, one hand gripping your suitcase handle.

his voice was hoarse. drunk. broken.

“wait.”

you turned.

his face was flushed.

his shirt was damp.

his pupils were wild.

“i fucked it all up,” he said. “i know.”

you didn’t speak.

he stepped closer.

wavered.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you. i just—i couldn’t—i thought if i let myself want you, it would mean—”

he stopped. swayed.

“—it would mean it’s real.”

you signed, slow: “it was.”

he flinched.

you added: “but i can’t keep being the only one who remembers that.”

he reached for you, but you stepped back.

“it’s okay,” you said out loud, quiet. “but i still have to go.”

and this time, he didn’t follow.

you left before sunrise.

no fanfare.

no last look back.

just your suitcase rolling behind you across damp hotel tile and the sound of a phone alarm that no one heard.

no one knew except george.

he was the one who hugged you quietly in the lobby.

no words, just one hand firm on the back of your head like he could hold you together for a second longer.

“text me when you land,” he said, voice rough.

you nodded.

neither of you mentioned matty.

you didn’t ask if george told him.

you didn’t want to know if he cared.

the airport was a blur of soft music and weak coffee.

you didn’t cry. you thought maybe you’d cried too much too early.

instead, you sat at gate b23 with your headphones in, forehead against the cold glass, and let the ache settle in like a second skin.

he wouldn’t come.

you knew that.

he’d had his chances.

and you?

you were done waiting for people to choose you too late.

you were halfway through boarding when it happened.

a noise behind you—shouts, fast footsteps, a scuffle.

and then—

“wait!”

his voice.

ragged. real.

you turned, and he was running.

not dramatic. not romantic.

desperate.

sweat down his back, hoodie zipped wrong, shoes half-on, eyes bloodshot but clear.

he reached you just as the attendant asked for your passport.

you didn’t move.

neither did she.

he stopped two feet away.

chest heaving, hands on his thighs, bent over like he might be sick.

then he looked up, and everything was in his face.

not the swagger. not the front.

just fear. and maybe love.

“i know i’m too late,” he said. “i fucking know.”

you blinked.

he stepped closer.

“but don’t get on that plane thinking i didn’t care.”

your throat tightened.

“i’ve never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “i just didn’t know how to say it. not with everything else falling apart. not with my fucking head screaming static and my body forgetting how to feel anything that wasn’t noise—”

he stopped.

inhaled.

“but you made it quiet.”

your mouth opened.

nothing came out.

he swallowed hard.

“i don’t want to fix it all right now. i just want a second chance to try.”

your bag slipped from your hand.

you stepped forward.

he closed the space.

and when you kissed him—finally, god, finally—it wasn’t sweet.

it was relief.

it was grief.

it was every word he never said, every sign you’d stopped making.

you pulled back just enough to breathe.

he whispered, “please.”

and you nodded.

not because you were sure, but because you wanted to be.

you didn’t speak much after the kiss.

he walked you back to the gate.

he didn’t let go of your hand the whole way—just held it like he could keep the moment from ending.

your name was called for final boarding.

you didn’t move.

he looked at you like it was the last time he ever would.

“you’re still going,” he said. it wasn’t a question.

you nodded.

he swallowed hard.

you could see it—how badly he wanted to ask you to stay.

but he didn’t.

instead, he said: “can i write to you?”

you smiled. tired. real.

“you can try.”

he leaned in, kissed you once—forehead, not lips.

like he was trying to be better now, not braver.

“i mean it,” he said. “i want to do this right. someday. if you let me.”

you didn’t promise anything, but just before you walked away, you touched his face gently.

“we’ll see.”

three months later, you were in a small flat in london, kettle hissing, your phone lighting up.

one new message.

no name. just the number.

you recognized it anyway.

found a little place in paris i want to show you someday.

don’t worry. not yet.

but i hope you’re well.

i think about you all the time.

– m.

you stared at the screen.

you didn’t answer. not yet.

you let it sit there, glowing in the quiet.

and for the first time in weeks—you smiled.

[cryiingoutloud]

hi just need to say that last fic you wrote was so fucking incredible it hurt to read. I had to put my phone down and just walk around my room for a bit to process🥲🥲

The way you write is just so beautifully descriptive in the simplest yet most genius way

WOULD DIE 4 A SECOND PART THX I’M ENTHRALLED

y’all are too sweet!! 😩😩

thank you thank you for the feedback and your kind words.

part 2 is almost ready, so stay tuned hehe

[cryiingoutloud]

I LOVE YOUR FICSSSSS you're killing it. I've been dying for more Matty stuff on the TL so I'm glad I found you ❤️

-xstarkillerx

omg this is so sweet i can’t 😭 you’re too kind.

i want to be more active and post more often, but work really kills my creativity — it leaves me exhausted and drains the energy i need to write something original and enjoyable.

now that summer is almost here, i hope i’ll finally have the chance to do so.

i also want to take this opportunity to remind you that if you have any requests, or something specific you’d like to read, new ideas are always welcome! and if i feel i can develop them properly, they’ll show up sooner or later.

mwah!

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 if you’re too shy ( 𝑙et me 𝓴now .ᐟ ) — matty healy!reader.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

what begins in silence becomes something neither of you meant to touch.

a slow, sharp unraveling between distance and desire.

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only · explicit sexual content · slow burn · emotional repression · hearing loss (partial) · grief and frustration related to disability · jealousy · rough communication · one emotionally intense sex scene · creampie · crying · angst · mutual longing · unresolved tension.

w.c.: 10k

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

𝓱e didn’t speak to you for the first four days.

not once.

not hello, not thanks, not even a nod when you signed his name at the airport curb.

he just stared at you, then walked right past.

his right ear ruptured mid-set in atlanta.

a bad monitor mix—too loud, too close, wrong frequency.

he felt the pop. a short, sharp sting. like a firework behind his eye.

and then a rush of silence, sudden and blinding.

he finished the song.

pretended he hadn’t flinched.

but after that night, everything shifted.

ringing that didn’t stop.

dullness like pressure underwater.

his voice started sounding foreign—slurred, delayed. sometimes he couldn’t tell if he was shouting.

doctors called it acoustic trauma.

partial hearing loss, possibly permanent.

he called it bullshit.

he said he was fine.

then blew off the ENT follow-up, drank through the vertigo, and tried to rewrite the setlist in ways that avoided anything with pitch reliance.

but even then, he missed things.

tempos. cues. words he used to sing without thinking.

he hated asking for help.

he hated people watching him stumble.

and he hated—loathed—the moment management said they were flying someone in.

you showed up in salt lake city.

black hoodie. quiet voice.

no clipboard. no smile.

he didn’t care what your name was.

as far as he was concerned, you were just a walking reminder that something inside him had broken—and everyone else had noticed before he did.

the first time you tried to speak to him, it was on the bus.

he was sitting at the back table with his head in his hands, the sleeves of his jumper rolled up and a cigarette burning in the ashtray even though he wasn’t allowed to smoke indoors anymore.

you stood a few feet away.

“matty?” you said. soft.

he didn’t lift his head.

so you tried again—this time with your hands. “are you okay?”

he looked up.

looked at your hands.

then your face.

then scoffed.

“yeah, i’m fucking great,” he muttered.

then stood and walked right past you without another word.

you didn’t take it personally.

you’d been warned.

he was proud. self-destructive.

used to control and allergic to asking for help.

they told you not to push, and you didn’t.

but god—it still stung a little.

every time you raised your hand to sign something and he turned away.

every time he mumbled something at soundcheck and missed his own cue, then glared at you like it was your fault.

you weren’t here to fix him, you knew that.

you were just here to help him survive the thing he wouldn’t admit was happening.

the first time he looked at you—really looked at you—it was because he thought you weren’t watching.

it was early.

hotel lobby, day five.

you were sitting near the window waiting for the van, reading something on your phone, your hand resting absently on your knee.

he walked in with george, dropped his bag with a grunt, and looked up—and for a second, his eyes settled on your face.

his expression didn’t soften.

but it stopped being hard, just for a blink.

then the van pulled up, and he was gone again.

he was angry on stage.

louder than usual.

less polished.

you could tell he hated missing pieces of the mix, the way the monitors warped his own voice, the delay he kept overcorrecting for.

and the crowd… they screamed so loud he could feel the vibration in his teeth but couldn’t hear the words.

you started noticing the clenched jaw.

the way he gripped the mic stand tighter when he was off beat.

the way he’d look to you—just once, mid-song—and wait for your hands.

you signed the name of the next track.

you shaped the word “break” for the bridge he always rushed.

he never acknowledged it.

but he followed you.

two weeks in, he still hadn’t thanked you.

but he stopped turning away.

he’d let you finish now.

watch your hands all the way through before ignoring whatever you said.

and once—just once—he corrected himself before you even moved, like maybe he’d actually read your lips.

you didn’t comment.

but you caught the corner of his mouth twitch when you didn’t.

the turning point wasn’t big.

it was late, chicago.

the crew had gone out, the venue was dark, and you were sitting on the floor of the side stage sorting through notes, trying to prep for the next show without bothering anyone.

you didn’t know he was there.

he’d come back for something—cigarettes maybe. a cable. an excuse.

he stopped in the doorway.

you felt it before you saw him.

when you looked up, he was already looking down.

not at your face.

at your hands.

they were moving without you realizing.

your fingers tracing signs unconsciously. rehearsing words.

you froze.

went still.

his eyes flicked up to yours.

and this time—this time—he didn’t look away.

he just stared at you for a beat too long, then walked off without saying anything.

but something in you shifted after that.

you didn’t know what yet.

you just knew it wasn’t hatred anymore.

not entirely.

he started watching your hands more.

not with kindness. not curiosity.

just… attention.

like if he stared long enough, he could find a way to hate you again.

you didn’t talk unless you had to.

you relayed the essentials—timings, transitions, questions directed at him when his back was turned or when someone forgot to face him.

you never raised your voice, never exaggerated your signs, never treated him like a project.

you were a presence, not a problem.

and that might’ve been the problem.

he wasn’t sure when it started—the sense that your silence was more familiar than anyone else’s noise.

he knew your rhythm now.

the way your fingers flexed before you began signing.

how your jaw tensed when he ignored you.

how you never flinched when he was sharp.

you didn’t take things personally.

he didn’t trust that.

he caught himself thinking about you during soundcheck.

you always stood offstage right, just out of view from the crowd but close enough for him to glance over.

and he did. often.

he told himself it was for cues.

but when he missed one and you corrected him with a raised brow and a clean sign, he felt something twist in his gut.

not embarrassment. not quite.

more like shame wrapped around something warmer.

something he refused to name.

one night, he followed you outside without meaning to.

vegas. crew bar. neon headache in every direction.

you slipped away early—too loud, too crowded.

he saw you slide out the side door and waited five minutes before doing the same.

you were sitting on the curb behind the venue, knees pulled up, eyes on the sky like it had answers.

he lit a cigarette.

stood ten feet away.

you didn’t look up.

he watched the way your fingers curled over your knees.

how still you could be.

how you didn’t move even when you knew he was there.

he didn’t say anything and neither did you.

but something shifted that night.

something settled.

you didn’t feel like the enemy anymore.

not to him. just someone who hadn’t asked for this either.

he started answering you.

only in private.

only with half-mumbled words.

but still—answers.

you’d sign a question.

he’d grunt or nod or toss a single syllable over his shoulder, eyes somewhere else.

but he didn’t shut down.

not completely.

and sometimes—when no one else was around—he looked at you like he’d forgotten how to be angry.

you were the only person he didn’t lie to.

not because he trusted you, but because you never gave him a reason to pretend.

he didn’t have to perform.

didn’t have to smile.

didn’t have to talk at all.

and weirdly, that made you feel like the most honest thing in his orbit.

berlin was the first time he noticed your mouth.

you were laughing.

not at him—just something the lighting guy had said.

you were perched on a stack of cases, legs swinging gently, sipping something from a paper cup.

your lips parted, your head tilted back just slightly, and for a second— he forgot how fucking pissed he was at the world.

he watched the line of your neck.

the shape of your smile.

the way your hands hovered like they were used to speaking but didn’t need to just yet.

he looked away before you noticed.

but it stuck with him.

lingered.

and that night, when he lay in bed and couldn’t sleep because the silence pressed too loud against his skull, he thought about the way you didn’t force it.

you just let things be quiet.

you helped him with in-ears the next morning.

not because he asked—but because he was clearly fumbling, and no one else knew how to step in without getting barked at.

you didn’t speak.

you just stepped up beside him, took the cable gently, signed “may i?” without waiting for permission, and fixed the tangle at the back of his collar.

your fingers brushed his neck.

he froze.

but he didn’t stop you.

when you were done, you stepped back.

no smile. no comment.

just nodded.

he stared at you for a full beat before walking off.

you didn’t know what it meant and neither did he, but it was the first time your skin touched his, and he didn’t flinch.

paris looked good on him.

slick black blazer. shirt half-unbuttoned. chain peeking at his throat.

he looked expensive. dangerous. bored.

you hadn’t seen him in three days, aside from glances during load-in and one wordless wave when he passed you in the lobby.

things had shifted again—after berlin, after that touch at his neck, after the second he didn’t pull away.

you’d thought maybe it meant something.

but then he closed up again. tighter than before.

now, he barely looked at you.

and when he did, it was with something you couldn’t read.

the rooftop was crowded.

industry types, local press, friends of friends.

you kept to the edge, glass of wine in hand, ankles crossed, back against the railing.

you were tired.

you were trying not to watch him.

but it was impossible not to notice when he laughed a little too loud at something a red-lipped girl whispered in his ear.

or the way his hand rested on her lower back when they slipped past you for another drink.

he didn’t look at you.

not once.

but your chest felt like it was splintering open anyway.

you left early.

you weren’t dramatic about it.

just slid your jacket on, nodded to george, and made your way to the stairwell.

he caught you two flights down.

“where are you going?” voice rough, out of breath.

you turned.

he looked wrecked.

sweat at his temples, jaw clenched.

you signed carefully: “tired.”

he stepped closer.

“don’t do that.”

you frowned.

“do what?”

“treat me like i’m some… broken fucking dog,” he snapped.

you stiffened.

“i’m not.”

his eyes narrowed.

“you pity me.”

your hands moved faster than usual:

“no. i don’t. you just make it hard to—”

“to what?” he cut in. “to care about me? to be around me? to fucking like me?”

the air shifted.

you stepped back. just a little.

he watched it. saw it. hated it.

“what, is it easier to care when i’m quiet?” he hissed. “when i’m just staring at your hands like a pathetic fuck with a dead ear and a god complex?”

your stomach dropped.

you didn’t sign anything.

you didn’t move.

he took one more step.

then stopped.

then said it, quieter this time.

“do you even like me?”

your throat tightened.

you answered the only way you could.

you grabbed the lapel of his blazer and kissed him.

it wasn’t gentle.

you didn’t mean for it to happen.

but the second your mouth touched his, he folded.

his hands came up—gripped your waist like he’d been waiting weeks.

his mouth opened under yours, hot and breathless.

he kissed like he was starving. like he didn’t know how to stop.

you backed him against the wall.

his fingers slid under your jacket, palms dragging up your back.

you broke the kiss first—gasped, forehead pressed to his.

he whispered: “come with me.”

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t have to.

you just followed.

his hotel room was dark.

you barely made it through the door before he was on you again.

mouth at your neck, hands yanking your shirt over your head.

your hands shook as you undid his buttons.

he shoved the blazer off. kissed you like he wanted to crawl inside you.

you pulled him toward the bed.

he didn’t push you down.

he stopped.

breathed hard.

looked at you.

you signed it slow: “i want this.”

his shoulders dropped. just slightly.

and then—he laid you down like you were something sacred.

he didn’t fuck you like a rockstar.

he didn’t fuck you like a man angry at the world.

he fucked you like someone who thought this might be the only time.

he went down on you first—face buried, tongue deep, hands locking your thighs open when you tried to close them.

you came shaking. breathless. his name half-spoken, half-signed into the pillow.

when he finally slid inside you, you gasped—tight, full, deep.

he groaned against your shoulder.

he didn’t speak much.

but he kept watching your face, and you kept touching his.

you pulled his hand to your chest.

placed his palm over your heart.

he kissed your mouth and thrust slow.

kissed your cheek and thrust hard.

he came inside you with a strangled sound and stayed there.

you didn’t move.

neither did he.

you didn’t need words, not right then.

you woke up sore.

not from pain—just… used.

your thighs ached.

your chest felt bruised from the way he’d held you, pressed his forehead there like he could hear your heartbeat if he stayed still enough.

his arms were still around you.

bare skin, tangled sheets, heat between you like a secret.

you didn’t move.

you didn’t want to be the first one to.

but you could feel him waking up too—his breathing shifting, hands tightening, then easing again like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

you opened your eyes.

he was already looking at you.

something passed in that glance.

you didn’t know what.

and then he looked away.

just like that, the moment was over.

you dressed in silence.

he didn’t speak. didn’t sign.

just sat on the edge of the bed, cigarette between two fingers, jaw tight like he was grinding it into dust.

you waited.

not begging. just… letting the air thicken.

finally, you said—quiet, careful: “do you want me to stay?”

he exhaled.

smoke curled from his mouth.

“you shouldn’t have come up last night.”

your stomach dropped.

you signed—sharp: “you asked me to.”

he looked at you.

eyes flat. cold now.

“yeah. i know. doesn’t mean it was right.”

you stepped back like he’d hit you.

but he wasn’t done.

“you’re not supposed to be part of this. you’re just—” he cut himself off. shook his head.

“just someone who makes it easier to pretend i’m still whole.”

it landed like glass in your throat.

you nodded once.

no tears. not yet.

you walked to the door.

his voice came low, almost cracked: “don’t take it personally.”

you paused.

“too late.”

and left.

you made it as far as the stairwell before your knees gave out.

you sat, right there on the concrete.

face buried in your arms, shoulders shaking, sobs ripping out silent.

it wasn’t the sex.

it wasn’t the rejection.

it was the way he’d looked at you when it ended.

like he’d already forgotten how your hands had trembled when you signed that you wanted him.

like your mouth hadn’t said his name like it meant something.

he stood in that room for a long time after you left.

cigarette long out. clothes still undone. your warmth still on his skin.

he looked at the door.

walked to it, put his hand on the knob.

paused.

he could still catch you.

he could fix it.

but he didn’t.

he leaned his forehead against the door and broke.

quietly.

ugly.

alone.

#. author’s notes :

would you like a part 2? let me know !! 👀

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 don’t you mind? — matty healy!reader.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You come back for your things.

Matty’s still Matty—barefoot, bitter, and impossible to leave clean.

What happens next isn’t forgiveness.

It’s something worse.

And maybe something better.

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only. post-breakup sex. angst. rough sex. unprotected PIV sex. oral (m. receiving). hair pulling. spanking. choking. orgasm control. degradation. marking. spit. face fucking. pain kink. possessive behavior. matty is very mean.

w.c. : 10.1k

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It’s been twenty-three days since you last saw him.

Not that you were counting.

You told yourself you’d send someone else to grab your things. Let Jamie do it. Let someone else deal with Matty—his moods, his smirks, his sideways looks that always knew how to find your soft spots and dig into them.

But here you are.

Third floor. Same black door. Same dent in the wall where his guitar case cracked the plaster last year. You hold the spare key in your hand like it’s burning your skin.

It’s stupid, maybe. A little weak. But you knock anyway.

Three short, sharp raps.

No answer.

You knock again. Harder.

This time, you hear movement. Footsteps. A muffled curse. Then the sound of the deadbolt sliding, the chain rattling.

When the door opens, he’s standing there in a pair of low-slung sweatpants and nothing else.

His curls are flattened on one side, like he’s been passed out on the couch. Eyes bloodshot. A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, still burning.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The silence is thick.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he mutters, stepping back and letting the door fall open.

“You don’t check your texts.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you meant it.”

You step inside without asking. The apartment smells like stale smoke and leftover curry. There’s an open bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter. An ashtray overflowing on the coffee table. A hoodie tossed over the lamp. Two guitars leaning against the wall like forgotten toys.

It looks like he’s been living inside a hangover.

You don’t comment.

Instead, you walk straight to the hallway closet. The one you used to keep your coats in. Your shoes. Your umbrella he always “accidentally” borrowed.

“Just here for the rest of my shit,” you say over your shoulder.

“Didn’t realize you had any left.”

You shoot him a glance. “You packed any of it?”

“Nope.”

Of course not.

You kneel and start sorting. A pair of heels. A scarf. The leather jacket he used to wear more than you did. You bundle it all quickly, trying not to breathe too deep, trying not to think about the way everything still smells like you.

Behind you, you can feel him watching.

You ignore it.

“So,” he says, voice flat. “You seeing someone?”

You pause. “Really?”

“Just making conversation.”

You stand. Turn to face him.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, ringed with shadows. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but the smile pulling at his mouth is still sharp. Still that same grin he wore the first night he told you he liked how mean you got when you were horny.

“I’m not here for small talk, Matty.”

“No, you’re here to punish me. Right.”

You toss the scarf in your bag. “I’m here to get what’s mine.”

“You already did that when you left.”

The words cut. Not because they’re clever—but because they’re true.

You look up at him. “If you wanted to keep me, maybe you should’ve given a fuck while you had me.”

He laughs—bitter and hollow. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t act like I’m the only one who fucked up.”

“I’m not acting. I left, remember?”

“Yeah. You walked. But you still show up. Still knock on my fucking door like you want me to do something about it.”

You’re across the room now. Face to face. Too close.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice drops, cruel and quiet. “You don’t come back for a pair of boots. You come back because you want to be fucked.”

The silence that follows is violent.

Your breath hitches. His eyes flick down to your mouth. Your fists clench at your sides.

And for a second—

Just a second—

You wonder what would happen if you slapped him. Or kissed him. Or told him you dreamed about his mouth last week and woke up soaked and furious.

Instead, you say: “Get out of my way.”

But he doesn’t move.

He just looks at you with that sharp little smirk.

The one that says I know you hate me. I like it that way.

He still hasn’t moved.

You’re standing inches from him now, your bag slung over one shoulder, breath catching hard in your chest. The apartment feels too small, too loud with silence, and all you can smell his skin, his sweat, the smoke still curling from the cigarette in his fingers.

“Move,” you say again, voice sharp.

“Make me,” he says, without blinking.

And just like that, something snaps.

“You know what?” you spit. “This is exactly why I left.”

Matty raises a brow, casual like always. “Because I wouldn’t jump when you said so?”

“Because you didn’t listen. Ever.”

“Oh, I listened,” he says, stepping closer. “I listened to you bitch and moan and slam doors like that was going to fix either of us.”

Your mouth twists. “You didn’t want to be fixed. You liked being broken. It gave you a fucking excuse.”

“Better than pretending I was fine just to make you comfortable.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

You shove past him, hard enough that his shoulder hits the wall. He lets it happen, laughing under his breath.

“You think you were some kind of savior? Just because you cooked twice a week and sucked my cock when I was too drunk to ask for it nicely?”

You whirl around. “You think you deserved nice? You were a fucking mess, Matty. You treated everything—me—like it was disposable.”

“And you kept coming back for more,” he snarls. “Don’t act like you didn’t love it. The chaos. The late-night fights. Me making you come so hard you cried.”

“Fuck you.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it.”

His eyes flare.

You stare each other down, chests rising and falling fast. You don’t realize your fists are clenched until your nails dig into your palms. He doesn’t realize he’s dropped the cigarette until it hits the floor and burns out between his bare feet.

He steps forward. Close. Closer.

You don’t step back.

“You want to hit me?” he murmurs. “Go on. Do it.”

You grit your teeth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He smiles. “You were never scared of hurting me. You were scared of needing me.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You were scared of how much you liked it when I choked you and told you not to come,” he adds, his voice low and filthy. “You were scared of how much you begged for it.”

Your breath catches. That sharp, bitter twist low in your stomach.

“I hated you,” you whisper.

“No, you didn’t.” He leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “You came for me.”

You slap him.

Hard. Across the face.

The sound rings through the room like a fucking gunshot.

His head jerks to the side. His cheek burns red instantly.

And then—

He laughs.

Low. Dark. Fucking feral.

He turns his head back to you, tongue running over his lip like he’s tasting blood.

“There she is.”

You don’t even know who moves first.

All you know is you’re suddenly against the wall, your back hitting it with a dull thud, his hand gripping your wrist, mouth hovering over yours but not kissing. Never kissing.

“You want this?” he growls. “Tell me to stop.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Your lips tremble—not with fear, but fury. And need.

You don’t say a word.

His hand slides up, wraps around your throat, fingers pressing just enough.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“So are you,” you bite back.

He smirks. “Still wet for me?”

“Still hard for me?”

A low sound escapes his throat—half growl, half groan.

Then his grip tightens. “Get on your knees.”

You don’t move.

He steps back half a step. Not letting go, not backing down. Just giving you enough space to decide.

You stare at him. Your mouth is dry. Your thighs are soaked.

This isn’t love. This is need.

And it’s about to ruin both of you.

He says get on your knees like a fucking dare.

And for a second, you think about slapping him again.

But instead—your breath hitching, your blood boiling—you drop.

Hard.

You kneel on the wooden floor, your bag sliding off your shoulder with a thud, your eyes never leaving his. There’s no softness in your expression. No shame.

Just heat.

Just fury.

His jaw ticks, eyes locked on yours like he can’t believe you actually did it. His sweatpants are hanging low on his hips, already tented with how fucking hard he is.

“Of course you obey,” he says, tone cruel, smug. “Even now. Even when you hate me.”

Your lip curls. “I don’t hate you. I hate that I still want to choke on your cock.”

His chest rises. Sharp. Violent.

And then he grabs a fistful of your hair.

Not gently.

Not for show.

He uses it—pulls you forward until your face is an inch from his crotch.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” he hisses. “Mouth full of me. Nothing else to say. No arguing. Just gagging.”

Your eyes flash, but you don’t answer. You just slide your hands up the back of his thighs, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, and bite the waistband of his sweats.

He hisses. “You’re such a fucking bitch.”

You smirk, tugging his pants down with your teeth, then your hands—rough, no teasing. His cock springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and you don’t give him the satisfaction of a long look.

You take it.

You spit on the tip, just to be cruel. Just to watch him twitch.

Then you slide your mouth over it—fast, messy, all the way until your throat closes around it and he groans like he’s being strangled.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, hand gripping your hair tighter, rocking into your face like he owns it. “There’s that pretty mouth. Knew you couldn’t stay away from this.”

You choke, just a little. Let him feel it. Let him hear it.

His hips jerk. “God, I fucking missed this.”

You pull off with a slick pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“This is why you’re alone,” you spit, voice ragged. “You fuck like you’re punishing people.”

He grabs your face, thumb dragging across your spit-slick lips. “And you love it.”

He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, spins you around, and bends you over the dining table in a second flat.

Your cheek hits the cold wood. You yelp, but not from pain—from shock. From how fast he still knows your body. From how much you want it.

“Still dress like a fucking tease,” he mutters, dragging your skirt up your thighs. “Bet you wore this thinking I’d fuck you against a wall.”

“No,” you hiss. “I wore it so you’d choke on the idea of touching me again.”

He yanks your panties down so hard the elastic snaps. “Mission fucking accomplished.”

You try to push up, but he shoves you back down with a firm hand between your shoulder blades. You’re bent over now, ass out, cunt exposed, dripping down your thighs—and he stares.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, fingers sliding between your legs. “Pathetic.”

You whimper. You hate how it sounds.

“You miss this cock, baby?” he coos mockingly. “You miss the way I split you open, made you scream into the fucking mattress so your neighbors heard?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re about to.”

He spits between your thighs, slicking your cunt with it. Doesn’t prep you. Doesn’t ease you in.

He shoves two fingers inside—fast and deep.

You cry out, body jerking.

“Shut up,” he snarls, curling them inside you. “Take it. You used to be able to handle more than this.

He fingers you like he’s trying to prove something. Fast, brutal, angled just right to make your knees go weak. Your hips buck, but he slaps your ass so hard the sound echoes.

“I said fucking take it.”

You grit your teeth, back arching, throat raw with half-screams.

“You’re such a fucking mess for me,” he grunts, watching his fingers disappear into your cunt again and again. “You leave me and you still end up dripping all over my hand like a whore.”

He pulls them out suddenly, and you gasp—empty, aching.

Then his cock presses to your entrance.

“No condom,” he mutters.

“I don’t care.”

He pauses.

You twist to look back at him.

“I said I don’t fucking care, Matty.”

His eyes go dark.

And then, he slams into you.

He slams into you like he’s trying to split you in half.

No warning. No slow thrusts to get you used to the stretch. Just one brutal drive of his cock, filling you to the hilt in one move that knocks the fucking air out of your lungs.

You cry out—loud, raw, ugly—and he groans right behind your ear.

“Fuck,” Matty grits. “You’re still so fucking tight. Like your cunt knows who owns it.”

You reach forward, gripping the table, nails scratching down the worn wood as he starts to move.

Not slow. Not smooth.

Rough. Brutal. Mean.

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, your body jerking forward each time he slams into you. He grabs your hips, hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into your skin like he’s holding on out of spite.

“You left me,” he hisses, teeth at your ear. “You fucking walked out and thought you’d be fine without this?”

You try to speak, but the words die in your throat—he’s hitting so deep, so hard, you can barely breathe.

“Answer me,” he snaps, yanking your hair back so your neck arches.

“I—I didn’t want—” you gasp.

“You didn’t want what?” He fucks you harder. “Didn’t want to crawl back just to get ruined again? Too late.”

You moan—loud—when he slaps your ass again, the sting shooting through you like fire.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarls, watching his cock disappear into you over and over. “You hate me, and your body’s begging.”

“I do hate you,” you spit.

He laughs, breathless. “Good. Hate me while I’m buried in your fucking guts.”

He pulls out suddenly—your body trembling from the loss—and flips you over onto your back in one savage movement, lifting you up onto the table like you weigh nothing.

Your legs spread for him without thinking.

He growls.

“Look at that,” he says. “Still open. Still dripping. You want me to fuck you like this.”

You glare up at him. “Shut the fuck up and do it, then.”

He smirks.

Then grabs your throat, hard, and shoves himself back inside.

You scream.

The sound bounces off the walls.

He fucks you with one hand around your neck, the other gripping your thigh, driving into you like he’s possessed. Sweat drips from his chest, his curls sticking to his forehead, his teeth gritted as he watches your tits bounce with every brutal thrust.

“You look ruined,” he growls. “Just like I fucking like it.”

You whimper, lips parted, eyes glassy.

And then he slows.

Stops.

Your brows knit in confusion as he reaches behind him—for the jeans he tossed to the floor. He digs through the pocket.

Pulls out a cigarette.

And a lighter.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” you rasp.

He lights it. Inhales slow. Exhales through his nose.

“Dead fucking serious,” he says, voice low, deadly. “You want me to stop?”

You stare at him. Chest heaving. Cunt throbbing.

You don’t answer.

He takes another drag. Steps closer between your legs again. Brings the cigarette down.

And presses it to your hip.

You scream.

The burn is white-hot—sharp, real—but brief. Controlled. A second, maybe two.

He pulls it away.

Blows smoke in your face.

“Now you’ll remember,” he mutters. “Now no one else can fuck you without seeing what I did.”

You’re shaking. Trembling. Tears sting your eyes.

But you’re soaked.

He kisses the spot. A soft, filthy contrast.

And then he fucks you again.

Harder than before.

You’re crying out—half pain, half pleasure—gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

He’s relentless.

“You feel that?” he pants, fucking you with abandon. “Feel how deep I am?”

“Yes—yes, Matty—”

“You’re gonna fucking come on this cock,” he growls. “And you’re gonna say thank you.”

You’re close. So close your whole body is shaking.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say thank you.”

You choke out a sob. “T-Thank you—fuck, thank you—”

“That’s right, baby,” he pants. “Cry for me. Show me how much you fucking need it.”

Your orgasm hits like a fucking explosion.

Your vision goes white. Your back arches. Your cunt clenches around him like a vice and you scream so loud it hurts.

Matty grunts, buries himself deep—and comes with a broken, guttural noise that sounds like pain and heaven all at once.

His head drops to your chest.

You’re both shaking. Dripping. Fucking wrecked.

And that burn on your skin?

Still hot. Still stinging.

Still his.

The room is silent now.

Except for your breathing. His. The drip of sweat down your temple. The throb between your legs. The sting on your skin where he marked you.

Matty pulls out slowly. You flinch.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he pretends not to.

You sit up, legs trembling, still bent back against the table, your dress bunched around your waist, your panties torn and useless on the floor. You’re not sure how long you sit there like that—wrecked, still wet, still open—but eventually, you reach for your bag.

When you glance at him, he’s staring at the wall. Not at you. Nowhere near you.

His chest is rising hard. His fists clenched at his sides.

You open your mouth.

“Don’t,” he says.

You pause. “Matty—”

“I said don’t fucking talk to me.”

The slap of his voice hits harder than anything else he did to you tonight.

You blink, stunned. “Are you—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He turns on you, suddenly wild-eyed, suddenly full of fire again—but it’s not the fire that fucked you. It’s the one that burns down houses.

“You need to get your shit and go,” he snaps, voice raised now. Shaky. Unhinged. “I’m not doing this. I can’t—fuck, I can’t look at you right now.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heart’s beating too fast now, but not from sex. From something else. Something worse.

“You were the one who started—”

“And now I’m ending it,” he cuts you off, stepping back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Take your fucking bag and go. You said you came for your things? Great. Now fucking leave.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He looks away.

You don’t move.

His hand slams against the table. “NOW, goddamn it.”

You flinch like he hit you.

But he didn’t. He didn’t touch you at all.

And somehow that makes it worse.

You pull your dress down, scoop up your scarf and coat. You don’t look at him again.

You walk out, one foot in front of the other like you’re in a dream.

When the door shuts behind you, it feels like the end of something important. Something holy and ugly and unforgettable.

You make it halfway down the stairs before it hits you.

Not the sex. Not the burn on your hip.

But the sound of his voice, telling you to go like it meant nothing.

Your legs give out. You sit down on the steps, hand gripping the railing so hard your knuckles go white.

And then you cry.

Not pretty. Not poetic.

It’s ugly, broken, gasping sobs. Shoulders shaking. Eyes stinging. Your whole chest aching like your heart is too big for your fucking body.

Inside, Matty hasn’t moved.

He’s staring at the door, jaw clenched, knuckles white.

He can still smell you in the room. Still feel your body on his skin. Still taste you in the back of his throat.

He can hear your footsteps on the stairs. Then he hears them stop.

He steps forward.

Slow.

Reaches for the doorknob.

He wants to follow. Wants to run down those stairs, wrap you up, say fuck, I’m sorry, stay, please, I didn’t mean it, I never meant it, I love you—

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

His fingers rest on the door, trembling. His forehead presses against it, eyes squeezed shut.

And then he sinks.

Drops to the floor like someone cut his strings, back against the door, legs sprawled, hands gripping his hair.

And finally—finally— he cries.

Not the kind of cry you hide.

The kind that wrecks you. That hollows you.

He shakes with it. Silent at first. Then ragged. Then broken.

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he lost you…

Or because he let himself.

[cryiingoutloud]

that new church fic hello?!? that was insane, you get me, thank you 🫶🏻

i’m glad you liked it 🙂‍↕️👊🏻

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 God has entered my body — matty healy!reader.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You weren’t supposed to end up alone with Matty Healy in a church-turned-recording-studio, especially not late at night. Especially not wrapped in his hoodie with his breath on your neck.

But there’s a confessional booth in the corner. And he wants to know what you’d say inside it.

What you’ve thought about.

What you’d let him do.

And once you start confessing—he won’t stop until he’s on his knees, dragging every filthy, aching, perfect sound out of you.

This isn’t forgiveness.

It’s worship.

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only. submissive reader. dominant matty. oral (f. receiving). finger fucking. confessional booth smut (yes, really). voice kink. degradation&praise. religious imagery kink. power play. consent-focused but dark-edged. filthy as hell (literally).

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It was colder than you expected.

Even inside, the air still clung to the bones of the old church. The kind of chill that slipped into your sleeves and made your skin prickle. You rubbed your arms as you walked through the main hall, boots echoing against the cracked stone floor.

This was where he made music now.

A hundred years ago, this was where people knelt and whispered prayers. Now the pews were shoved aside to make room for cables, guitars, ashtrays, and a tangled nest of sound equipment. Candles burned low in stained glass sconces. A half-empty bottle of red sat next to an ancient Bible, warped and dust-covered.

The only thing that hadn’t changed? The confessional booth in the far corner. Still intact. Still ominous.

It was beautiful, in a strange way. Sacred and desecrated all at once.

You dropped your bag beside a couch and sat, sinking into it like you hadn’t slept in days.

Matty was somewhere in the back. You heard music faintly playing—a loop of something half-finished. Low drums, ambient noise, a few clipped guitar chords. It sounded like him: moody, hungry, and a little fucked up.

You weren’t strangers. Not exactly.

You’d met through mutual friends last year at a party in London. There’d been alcohol. Banter. A cigarette passed between your lips and his. He’d said something smart and cruel and made you laugh so hard you spilled wine on your shirt. He never apologized for staring.

Since then, it had been the occasional dms, a drunken call at 1am you ignored, a photo he reacted to with just the eye emoji. A few missed connections. A few near-kisses.

And now, this.

Jamie had said you could stay at the studio for a few nights while you figured out your next move. You hadn’t realized Matty would be the only one here. That the “studio” was this fucking place. That he’d look like that when he opened the door—shirtless, dazed, voice thick from whiskey and sleeplessness.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had he.

But the way his eyes had flicked down your body like a slow lick told you everything you needed to know.

Now, hours later, the music stopped.

You looked toward the hallway.

Footsteps.

Then he appeared.

Leaning in the archway, cigarette hanging from his lips, curls messy, hoodie zipped halfway down over his bare chest.

“You comfortable?” he asked.

You nodded. “Kinda freezing.”

He grinned, stepped forward, and tossed a blanket at you. “It’s a church. Cold as God’s cunt.”

You snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“I know.” He sat beside you, not touching, but close. “You staying up?”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then: “Want a drink?”

You hesitated. “One.”

The wine was cheap and lukewarm, poured into mismatched mugs. He didn’t offer a glass, and you didn’t ask for one.

You sat cross-legged on the old couch, swaddled in a blanket that smelled faintly like him—tobacco, cedar, something darker. Matty lounged beside you, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, fingers tapping absently against the upholstery like he was counting seconds.

The church hummed with silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged.

“So,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Why’d you really come?”

You looked at him over your mug. “Jamie said I could crash here.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve picked his place. Or any of the others. You picked mine.”

You shrugged. “It’s not like that.”

He gave you a long look. “Isn’t it?”

You took a sip, let the wine coat your tongue before swallowing. “Are you always this suspicious?”

“Only when I want to fuck someone.”

You almost choked.

He didn’t laugh. He just smirked, slow and dangerous, eyes still on you like he was waiting for something. A flinch. A retreat. But you held your ground.

“Then you’re either paranoid,” you said, “or projecting.”

“Oh, I’m definitely projecting.” He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.”

There it was. The line.

Not crossed. Just drawn. Daring you to step over.

You shifted under the blanket. Your skin felt tight, flushed. He hadn’t even moved, and you were already thinking about his hands. His mouth. What he’d do if you asked him.

You didn’t say anything.

He let the silence stretch, like he liked the tension.

“You cold?” he asked eventually, softer.

You nodded.

“Come here, then.”

You looked at him.

He patted the space between his legs. “Just for warmth. Promise.”

You stared.

Then moved.

You settled with your back against his chest, blanket still around you both, the heat of his body immediate and dizzying. His thighs bracketed yours. His arms didn’t wrap around you—but they almost did. You could feel the ghost of a touch, just there, just waiting.

“Better?” he murmured near your ear.

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

The words sent a shock through you. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He didn’t say anything else either, just exhaled slowly, letting the moment sit.

The candles flickered. Somewhere, a pipe groaned in the walls. You heard the faint click of his lighter as he lit another cigarette and breathed in deep.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” His voice was low, casual, like he was asking what time it was.

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about fucking in a church?”

Your breath caught.

You felt him smile against the back of your neck.

“No judgment,” he said. “Just curious.”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you looked at that confessional booth like it owed you something.” He paused. “And because you’re letting me hold you like this, and your pulse is going nuts.”

You didn’t answer.

He let the silence hang, then added, “I think about it sometimes.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Not in the ‘naughty Catholic schoolgirl’ way. More like… I dunno. The idea of someone being that turned on in a place like this. Whispering filth where people used to pray. Makes you wonder what gets people off, doesn’t it?”

You shifted in his lap. He noticed.

“You’re wet, aren’t you?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

Your cheeks burned. “Matty—”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s just us. No one’s listening. Not even Him.”

You should’ve pulled away.

Instead, you let your head fall back against his shoulder.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing your jaw. Just that—soft, featherlight—but it made you shiver.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”

You bit your lip.

“I…” Your voice was barely audible. “I touch myself to things I’d never admit.”

He stilled behind you.

“Go on.”

You shut your eyes. “Sometimes… I think about being told what to do. Made to do things I shouldn’t want.”

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “What kind of things?”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he said, firmer now. “Say it.”

You hesitated.

“I think about being watched. Told to strip. Told to beg.” You exhaled. “Sometimes I think about being in a place like this. On my knees. Told to confess everything.”

You felt his cock twitch behind you. Hard. Real.

He let out a shaky laugh. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You turned your head slightly, looked at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were dark. Blown.

“I want to show you something,” he said.

He didn’t wait for your reply.

He stood, took your hand, and led you across the cold stone floor—barefoot, in his hoodie and joggers, candlelight dancing across his face—toward the confessional booth.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Then looked back at you.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Your heart hammered.

You stepped in.

The door creaked shut behind you.

The wood creaked beneath you as you sat, the small bench barely wide enough to hold your thighs. It was tight in the booth. Close. Lit only by the flickering glow of candles outside, leaking through the cracks.

Matty shut his side of the booth gently.

You couldn’t see him—just a silhouette through the tiny screen between you. But you could hear him. Breathing slow. Steady.

“You okay?” he asked, softly.

You nodded. Then remembered he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

“You sure? You can leave anytime. Just say the word.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Good.” His voice deepened, a slow shift. “Then we’re not playing anymore.”

You froze.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say we’re not playing.”

“We’re not playing.”

“Atta girl.”

Silence again. Except for your pulse, thudding in your ears.

“Do you know what this booth is for?” he asked, slow and smooth.

You nodded again. “Confession.”

“Exactly. You come in here to admit what you’ve done. And what you want to do.” A pause. “So let’s start there.”

You licked your lips. “Start where?”

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

You hesitated.

“Tell the truth,” he said, softer now. “That’s what this is for.”

You exhaled shakily. “I want you.”

A quiet chuckle behind the screen. “Yeah? You’ve got me.”

“No,” you said. “I want you to tell me what to do. I want to not have to think. I want to be told where to put my hands. When to open my legs. When to come.”

A sharp inhale from his side. “Jesus Christ.”

“I want you to use me,” you whispered. “Just for a little while.”

The silence stretched.

Then, softly: “Take off your panties.”

Your breath caught.

“Right now. In the booth. And don’t make me say it again.”

You moved slowly, hands trembling as you reached beneath the hem of your dress, fingers curling around the waistband. You slid them down, legs shifting, panties dragging over your thighs, your calves, until they dropped to the floor in a soft heap.

Matty exhaled hard.

“Are you bare now?”

“Yes.”

“Open your legs.”

You hesitated.

He didn’t.

“Wider.”

You obeyed.

“Fuck.” His voice was barely more than a breath now. “You wet already?”

“…Yes.”

“Show me.”

You paused. “I—what?”

“Put two fingers in,” he said. “Let me hear it.”

Your hand trembled as you slid it between your thighs. The moment your fingers touched your cunt, you gasped—soaked. Your fingers slipped in easily, wet and hot.

You let out a soft whimper.

“Atta girl. Just like that.”

You could hear him shifting on his side, the sound of his breath getting faster. The edge in his voice sharpened.

“Now rub that messy little clit for me. Slowly. I want to hear how desperate you are.”

You obeyed, hips twitching as your fingers circled your clit in tight, slow spirals. The pressure was unbearable, the tension from earlier tightening into something sharp, something electric.

“You ever fucked yourself in a confessional before?”

“No,” you breathed.

“You ever shown anyone how you come?”

You moaned softly. “No.”

“Good,” he said, voice turning darker. “I want to ruin it for everyone else. I want to be the only one who knows what you look like when you’re about to fall apart.”

You were panting now. Heat building. Muscles twitching.

“Faster,” he said. “Sloppier. Don’t be polite about it. I want you to fuck yourself like you’re ashamed of how bad you need it.”

You did.

You rubbed faster, breathless, hips rolling against your own hand like you were chasing something violent. Something sinful. You felt dirty. Wrong. Perfect.

“Are you close, baby?”

“Yes—please—”

“Not yet,” he snapped. “Take your hand off.”

You let out a broken cry. “No—please, Matty—please—”

“I said off. Now.”

You pulled your fingers away, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around nothing.

“You listen so fucking well,” he murmured. “God, I love how obedient you get when you’re this wet.”

You whimpered.

“Open the door.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Open. My. Door.”

Your hand moved without thinking, reaching for the latch on his side. It creaked open—and he was already on his knees in front of you.

Dark curls messy. Mouth parted. Eyes wild.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Now let me give you what you deserve.”

He leaned in.

You gasped as his mouth met your thigh, soft and wet, tongue dragging up slowly.

Then higher.

Then home.

Matty didn’t start with your cunt.

That would’ve been too easy.

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it was holy, like he was memorizing it. Lips dragging along your skin, breath hot and uneven. His hands gripped your knees and pushed them further apart, spreading you wide like a fucking offering.

And he looked.

Really looked.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. It’s dripping, sweetheart.”

You squirmed under his stare, but his grip tightened.

“No. You stay open for me. Let me see what a filthy little thing you really are.”

He moved in slowly, lips so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of his breath, but he still didn’t touch you where you needed him.

“You teased yourself so pretty in there,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All pink and swollen. Just aching for it.”

“Please, Matty…”

He smirked.

“‘Please,’” he mocked, dragging a knuckle up your slit—barely grazing—just enough to make you twitch. “You think begging’s gonna make me merciful?”

You whimpered. “No—”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No slow build-up. No testing the waters. Just devouring.

His tongue flattened against your clit, hot and slick, then circled it in tight, maddening spirals. He moaned into you like he was fucking starving, like the taste of your pussy was better than any high he’d ever had—and he’d had plenty.

You cried out, hips jerking, but he grabbed them, slammed them back down against the bench, and growled, “Don’t fucking move. You take it.”

You obeyed, panting, legs trembling around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he muttered between licks. “Be a good little mess for me.”

His fingers slid up your slit, teasing your entrance, and you clenched down empty, desperate for him.

“God, you’re tight,” he hissed. “Bet you’d choke on my fucking fingers.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He pushed one in.

Then two.

They slid in easy—your cunt so wet, so desperate, that it welcomed him with a filthy squelch. He groaned.

“Listen to that,” he said, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. “You hear how wet you are? How your pussy’s singing for me?”

You were already close.

The pressure was unbearable—his mouth sucking your clit, tongue flicking just right, fingers curling inside you like he was tuning you to the perfect frequency.

“Matty—fuck—please, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

He pulled back.

You sobbed, cunt clenching around nothing, thighs shaking.

“Why—why—”

“Because I said so.”

He looked up at you, mouth and chin slick with your mess. He licked his lips slow, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t come until I say. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Then earn it.”

He dove back in.

This time was worse. Better. Brutal.

He fucked you with his fingers hard and fast now, angling just right, mouth latching onto your clit and sucking—sloppy, obscene, relentless. You were gasping, twitching, clawing at the sides of the booth, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“You gonna fall apart for me?” he growled, voice vibrating through your cunt.

“Yes—yes, please, Matty, please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

And you did.

You came with a scream, body locking up, muscles convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. It was violent. Messy. Your cunt gushed around his fingers, your thighs trembled against his head, your voice broke into something raw and high and real.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, groaning like he couldn’t get enough. His fingers fucked you through every aftershock, wet and filthy and perfect.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wrecked—mouth red and glistening, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes blown wide.

He looked at you like you were fucking sacred.

“You just came like it was your first time,” he said, voice hoarse.

You couldn’t speak.

“Let me tell you something,” he added, crawling up between your legs, face inches from yours. “I’ve played a lot of dirty games in my life.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“But that?”

He kissed your jaw.

“That was fucking divine.”

Your legs were still open.

Panties forgotten on the floor. Dress rucked up to your waist. Breathing ragged.

Matty didn’t move at first. Just rested his head on your thigh, arms draped over your hips, face still pressed close to the mess he made. Like he was claiming it. Or catching his breath. Or maybe both.

You ran your fingers slowly through his curls, still dazed. “Jesus Christ.”

He laughed. Low and hoarse. “He wasn’t invited.”

You huffed a shaky laugh, your head falling back against the wooden panel behind you. The booth creaked under both your weights, like it might give out at any second. Fitting, really.

Matty finally looked up.

His mouth was wet. His cheeks flushed. But his eyes—those fucking eyes—were soft. Something unreadable curling in them.

“Come here,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. “What?”

“Let me hold you for a second. Don’t make it weird.”

You didn’t argue.

You slid off the bench, your legs jelly, your body still twitching with aftershocks. He caught you easily, helped you down, guided you into his lap with an ease that made your throat tighten. Like he’d done this before. Like he knew what to do with you.

You curled into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, one hand rubbing your spine in lazy circles. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Your breath synced up slowly. His heartbeat thudded under your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did I push too far?”

You looked up at him. “No. You… you asked.”

“I did.” He smiled a little, but there was something behind it—something unsure. “Just making sure.”

You paused. “Why’d you stop me the first time?”

He raised a brow.

“In the booth. When I was close. You said no.”

Matty exhaled, looking at the stained-glass window across the room. “Because I wanted to take it from you myself. Not let you give it to your fingers. That make sense?”

You nodded, a slow flush spreading in your chest.

He looked back at you. “I wanted to ruin it my way.”

You smiled. “Mission accomplished.”

He laughed, bright and boyish. Then leaned in and kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tasting of you and smoke and wine. It wasn’t filthy. It wasn’t rushed. It was just… real.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “You’re dangerous, you know.”

“You’re the one who dragged me into a confessional.”

“And you followed.”

You grinned. “Like a lamb to slaughter.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t look very slaughtered. You look smug.”

“I look satisfied.”

He laughed again. “Same thing.”

The candlelight flickered. Somewhere in the building, the ancient pipes groaned again. You sat there, tangled up with him on the cold stone floor of an abandoned church-turned-studio, bare and spent and weightless.

Eventually, he said, “Stay the night.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “Don’t read into it. Just stay. Warm bed, clean sheets. Minimal sin.”

You smirked. “Minimal?”

“Well.” He leaned in again, nipped at your bottom lip. “Depends if you’re still wet in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re awful.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you fucking love it.”

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 an encounter ( matty healy x reader )

in which you are an extra in a music video, and an ordinary day of work turns into a scorching encounter with the frontman of the band.

warnings: 18+, oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, masturbation, needy matty aaah, like he can’t shut the fuck up for a second. wc: 11.4k

the studio was a hive of activity, humming with an energy that felt almost suffocating. bright spotlights hung from rigging high above, casting harsh white light over the massive set. everywhere you looked, people rushed about with clipboards and headsets, shouting instructions over the pounding bass of the track that played on a loop.

you stood awkwardly near the edge of it all, feeling completely out of place. just an extra— a last-minute addition to fill space in the background shots. the director’s assistant had told you to “mingle casually,” but that was easier said than done when everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing. you felt invisible, and maybe that was a good thing. no one would notice if you just stayed out of the way.

but someone did notice.

he was lounging in a director’s chair near the center of the chaos, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. matty healy. you didn’t need to be a fan to recognize him— the messy black curls, the tattoos peeking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, the devil-may-care smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face. he looked every inch the rockstar, exuding a kind of casual arrogance that made him impossible to ignore.

you hadn’t expected him to be so magnetic in person. photos didn’t do him justice. there was something about the way he carried himself, the way he leaned back in his chair like he owned the room, that made you hyperaware of his presence. and then his eyes met yours.

it was fleeting— just a quick glance as he took a drag from his cigarette. but it was enough to make your pulse quicken. you told yourself it meant nothing. he probably wasn’t even looking at you. you were just part of the scenery.

but then it happened again. and again.

by the third time, you couldn’t pretend anymore. matty healy was looking at you.

the hum of activity on set didn’t falter for a second, but to you, it felt as though the noise had dulled. the air shifted every time matty’s eyes landed on you, his dark gaze sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the chaos and pinning you in place. you tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence. maybe he was bored. maybe he was zoning out and just happened to be looking your way.

but then his gaze turned deliberate. calculated. his lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a quiet acknowledgment. a dare.

you crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you felt in this crowd of strangers. you didn’t belong here— not among the carefully curated glamour of the other extras and certainly not in his world. you looked away, fixing your attention on a grip carrying a massive piece of equipment, but the feeling of his eyes lingered, a weight you couldn’t shrug off.

you didn’t realize how close he was until you caught the scent of him— cigarettes, leather, and something faintly spicy that clung to his skin. when you glanced up, he was standing only a few feet away, talking to the director. his body language was loose, casual, but there was an edge to the way he moved, like he was aware of the way every set of eyes followed him. he said something low to the director, and the older man nodded, glancing around the room.

“her,” matty said, his voice carrying just enough for you to hear. the word hit you like a jolt of static. you didn’t process it at first, not until the director’s gaze followed matty’s finger— pointed directly at you.

your breath caught in your throat. no, surely he didn’t mean—

“you,” the director called out, his tone brisk and impatient, like he didn’t have time for hesitation. “come here.”

you froze. your mind screamed at you to move, but your feet refused to cooperate. the director frowned, gesturing sharply with one hand, and before you knew it, someone was nudging you forward, pushing you into the spotlight. every instinct told you to shrink back, but there was no escape. not when matty’s gaze was fixed on you like a spotlight of its own.

when you finally stepped into the center of the set, you felt small, out of place under the weight of so many eyes. matty, however, looked utterly at ease. he stood just a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted as he watched you approach. the corners of his mouth curved upward in something resembling amusement.

“relax,” he said, his voice low and rich, cutting through the buzzing anxiety in your head. “i don’t bite.”

the director clapped his hands, already moving on to instructions. “we need something raw, something spontaneous. the last scene fell flat. a kiss, unscripted, unplanned— it’ll be perfect.”

your stomach dropped. a kiss?

before you could form a coherent thought, matty took a step closer. he was tall - taller than you expected - and the sharp angles of his face seemed even more pronounced up close. his curls fell messily across his forehead, and his dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something dangerous.

“you’re okay with this, yeah?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost gentle. the question caught you off guard. it didn’t match the intensity of his presence, the raw magnetism that seemed to radiate from him.

“i—” you swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how dry your throat had become. “yeah. i guess.”

his lips twitched into a half-smile, but he didn’t say anything else. he just waited, watching you with a patience that felt somehow more unnerving than the chaos surrounding you.

“all right, places, everyone!” the director called out, his voice snapping like a whip. the crew bustled around you, shifting cameras, adjusting lights, barking last-minute instructions. you barely registered any of it. all you could focus on was matty— on the way he stood so still amidst the motion, like a storm gathering in the eye of a hurricane.

“action!”

the word rang out, and before you could even process it, matty was moving.

he closed the distance between you in a single, unhurried step, his hand lifting to cradle the side of your face. his touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and then his lips were on yours.

the kiss wasn’t what you expected. you thought it would be quick, perfunctory, something to get the shot and move on. but matty kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nothing else in the room worth paying attention to. his mouth was soft yet firm, coaxing rather than demanding, and the taste of cigarettes lingered faintly on his lips.

your body froze at first, overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy, but then his other hand found your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against your hip, and something inside you cracked. you kissed him back without thinking, your lips parting slightly as he deepened the connection. his tongue brushed against yours, a teasing flicker that sent a shiver down your spine, and your hands moved of their own accord, gripping the fabric of his shirt as though to steady yourself.

the world around you blurred. you couldn’t hear the director shouting for another angle, couldn’t see the camera operators adjusting their lenses. all you could feel was matty— his heat, his scent, the way his body seemed to mold perfectly against yours.

and then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended. matty pulled back, his lips lingering against yours for a fraction of a second before he stepped away. his hands dropped to his sides, and his expression shifted back into something unreadable, the intensity in his eyes shuttered behind a veil of practiced indifference.

“cut!” the director yelled, his voice jolting you back into reality. the room buzzed with activity once more, but you felt like you were moving through molasses, your limbs heavy and your thoughts sluggish.

“not bad,” matty said, his voice low and smooth as he leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against your ear. “you might’ve even enjoyed that.”

before you could respond - before you could even process the low, teasing lilt of his words - he stepped away, disappearing into the crowd of crew members and equipment as though nothing had happened.

you stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“not bad,” you muttered under your breath, still reeling. it felt like the understatement of the century.

you spent the next hour trying to focus on anything but him. the director barked out instructions, moving extras into new positions, setting up shots that required wide angles and sweeping camera movements. it should have been easy to lose yourself in the crowd, just another nameless face blending into the backdrop. and for a while, you managed it.

until you felt him again.

matty was impossible to ignore. even when he wasn’t near you, his presence lingered like static in the air, crackling faintly against your skin. you tried not to look at him, but every time you did, he was already watching. his gaze wasn’t subtle— it was deliberate, steady, a pull you couldn’t resist no matter how much you tried. and he knew it. the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

he wasn’t keeping his distance, either. between takes, he wandered the set with a casual sort of purpose, his strides loose and unhurried. once, he passed close enough that his arm brushed yours, and even that fleeting contact sent a spark shooting down your spine. he glanced back over his shoulder as he walked away, like he was waiting for you to react. you refused to give him the satisfaction, but your heart betrayed you, hammering against your ribs so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

the first time he spoke to you again, it was barely more than a whisper.

“doing all right?” he asked, his voice curling around the words, low and smooth.

you turned to find him standing just behind you, far too close for comfort. he leaned in slightly, his dark eyes flicking over your face with lazy curiosity, like he was cataloging every detail. his proximity was disarming— his body warm, his scent all-encompassing. you swallowed hard, willing yourself not to lean into him.

“i’m fine,” you said, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

“good.” he didn’t move back. if anything, he leaned in closer, his voice dipping even lower. “wouldn’t want you to feel… overwhelmed.”

the emphasis on the word sent a flush creeping up your neck. he was teasing you, testing your boundaries, and the smug tilt of his lips told you he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.

“i’m fine,” you repeated, sharper this time. “thanks for checking.”

his grin widened, but he finally stepped back, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “message received.”

by the time the director called for a short break, you were desperate for a moment to collect yourself. the lights were too hot, the noise too loud, and matty’s relentless teasing had left you feeling frayed, stretched thin by a tension you couldn’t shake. you slipped away from the set, weaving through the maze of equipment until you found a quieter corner— a storage area cluttered with spare cables, cases, and forgotten props.

leaning against the wall, you took a deep breath, letting the relative silence wash over you. your pulse was still racing, and no amount of logic could calm it. this was ridiculous. he was just some musician. a man. you’d kissed him, sure, but it was for work. it didn’t mean anything.

“found you.”

the voice startled you, low and smooth, cutting through the stillness like a blade. you turned sharply, your breath catching as matty stepped into the room. his presence filled the small space immediately, the sharp angles of his face cast into shadow by the dim overhead light. he wasn’t smirking anymore. his expression was something else entirely— intent, focused, like he’d just found exactly what he was looking for.

“you’re not supposed to be back here,” you said, your voice unsteady.

“neither are you,” he countered, leaning casually against the doorframe. “guess that makes us even.”

you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to put some kind of barrier between you and the weight of his gaze. “did you follow me?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he took a step closer, closing the distance between you with an ease that made your pulse jump. he stopped just short of your personal space, tilting his head as he studied you.

“you ran off earlier,” he said finally, his tone soft but pointed. “didn’t even stick around to hear if the director liked the shot.”

you shrugged, trying to appear unaffected. “figured it wasn’t my business.”

“hmm.” his gaze flicked over you, lingering on your lips for just a fraction of a second too long. “seemed pretty personal to me.”

your heart stuttered, your skin prickling with heat. “it was just a scene.”

“was it?” the question was barely above a murmur, but it carried the weight of something heavier, something dangerous. he took another step forward, and this time, you didn’t move back. “because it didn’t feel like ‘just a scene’ to me.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. the air between you felt thick, charged with something you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. every nerve in your body screamed at you to step away, to put some distance between you, but you couldn’t move. not when he was this close, his breath warm against your cheek, his dark eyes holding you in place like a magnet.

“tell me i’m wrong,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, rough and intimate. “and i’ll leave you alone.”

your throat tightened. you wanted to say it. you wanted to push him away, to break whatever spell he’d cast over you. but the words wouldn’t come. instead, your silence hung heavy between you, louder than anything you could have said.

matty’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a quiet acknowledgment of victory. he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

“you’re not going to say it,” he murmured, and there was something almost tender in his voice, a softness that made your chest ache. “are you?”

the words hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. matty’s hand lingered on your jaw, his thumb brushing a feather-light stroke along the curve of your cheek. you felt the press of his gaze, dark and intent, pulling at something deep in your chest. but instead of shying away like you might have earlier, you met his stare head-on.

and you smiled.

it wasn’t much at first - just the faintest curve of your lips - but it was enough to make matty falter, his expression shifting ever so slightly. his brows knit together, like he wasn’t sure he’d seen what he thought he did. that hesitation was all you needed.

“who says you’re not wrong?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady, laced with just enough bite to let him know you weren’t going to back down.

the corner of his mouth twitched, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough for you to feel the heat of his skin. “am i?”

you tilted your head slightly, forcing his hand to drop away. “maybe you are,” you said, stepping out of the shadow he’d cast over you. “or maybe you’re just trying too hard.”

matty let out a soft laugh, low and rough, but there was a spark of something behind it— surprise, maybe, or curiosity. you’d caught him off guard, and you weren’t about to let him recover so easily.

“trying too hard?” he echoed, straightening. “is that what you think?”

you shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your heart pounded in your chest. “you’re laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think? all the staring, the brooding— it’s very… obvious.”

his lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond, but instead, he let his gaze rake over you, slow and deliberate. when his eyes met yours again, the playful smirk had returned, sharper this time. “you don’t seem to mind.”

“oh, i didn’t say i minded,” you said, your tone sharper now, a teasing edge creeping in. “i just think it’s funny. you don’t have to work so hard, you know.”

matty tilted his head, studying you like he was seeing you for the first time. “you’ve got some fight in you after all,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

you crossed your arms over your chest, the movement deliberate, designed to draw his attention. it worked. his eyes flicked down, just briefly, before snapping back up to your face. “were you expecting me to swoon?” you asked, arching a brow. “sorry to disappoint.”

his laugh this time was louder, rougher, and it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “i don’t know if ‘disappointed’ is the word i’d use.”

“good,” you said, your voice dropping just slightly, enough to make him lean in closer. “because i’d hate to let you down.”

the shift in your dynamic was almost palpable. where you’d been shy and unsure before, now you had the upper hand, and you weren’t afraid to wield it. matty, for all his bravado, seemed thrown by your sudden confidence, though he hid it well behind his usual smirk. still, you noticed the way his posture changed, the way his eyes lingered on you just a little too long, like he was trying to figure out exactly what had shifted.

and then you pushed it further.

“you’re staring again,” you said, the words slipping out before you could think better of them. they were bold, teasing, but you didn’t regret them. not when they made Matty’s smirk falter for just a split second.

“am i?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

“you are.” you took a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark eyes. “i’m starting to think you have a staring problem.”

matty tilted his head, his curls falling messily across his forehead. he looked at you for a long moment, his gaze heavy, calculating. “and i’m starting to think you like it,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “what if i do?” you asked, letting the words hang between you like bait. “what are you going to do about it?”

something in his expression shifted— an almost imperceptible change, but enough to make your breath catch. his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and his hand twitched at his side like he was stopping himself from reaching for you. he took a step forward, and suddenly, the air between you felt thick, suffocating in the best way.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, his voice so low it sent a shiver down your spine.

“and you’re not?” you shot back, tilting your chin up just slightly, enough to make him notice. enough to make him react.

he did.

matty’s hand shot out, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him. the movement was so sudden, so sure, that you barely had time to process it before you felt it - him - hard and undeniable, pressing against your thigh. the realization sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, and your breath hitched despite your best efforts to remain composed.

“still think i’m trying too hard?” he asked, his voice rough, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel the heat of his breath.

you opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. instead, you looked up at him, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst. his eyes were darker now, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide with something that made your stomach flip.

“i—” you swallowed hard, struggling to find your voice. “you’re definitely trying.”

his lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the intensity of his expression. “and?”

you knew what he was asking. you could feel the tension coiling between you, thick and electric, begging for release. part of you wanted to push back, to keep playing the game, but another part - a louder, more insistent part - wanted to see how far you could push him.

“and,” you said, your voice steady now, bold, “it’s working.”

that was all it took. matty let out a low sound that was somewhere between a growl and a laugh, his grip on your waist tightening as he shifted his hips just slightly, pressing himself more firmly against you. the movement drew a soft gasp from your lips, and his eyes lit up at the sound, his smirk returning in full force.

“you’re full of surprises,” he murmured, his free hand lifting to brush a strand of hair away from your face. the gesture was almost tender, but there was nothing soft about the way his eyes raked over you, his gaze smoldering with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“i could say the same about you,” you managed, your voice breathless but still sharp enough to draw another low laugh from him.

“yeah?” his hand slid up from your waist, his fingers grazing the curve of your ribs, and you had to bite your lip to keep from letting out another sound. “what’s surprising about me?”

your breath caught as he shifted again, the pressure of him against your thigh sending a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “that you’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

that earned you a grin, sharp and wolfish. “you’re lucky i like a challenge.”

“am i?” you asked, leaning in just enough to make him chase you, to make him close the final gap between you.

“very,” he said, his voice a low growl, his lips brushing yours in a way that was maddeningly light, teasing, almost cruel.

matty’s lips hovered just a fraction of an inch from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that his breath fanned over your skin with every shallow inhale. his hand lingered on your waist, his fingers pressing into the curve of your side with just enough pressure to remind you how much control he could take— if he wanted to.

but he didn’t. not yet.

“i’m not smooth?” he repeated, his voice low, teasing, like he was tasting the words as he said them. his thumb traced a lazy circle over your ribcage, sending a ripple of heat through your body. “that’s a bold accusation.”

you smiled, your breath catching as you felt him shift again, his hips pressing more firmly against your thigh. the hard, unmistakable evidence of his desire was searing even through the layers of clothing, and you swallowed hard, your cheeks flaming despite yourself. still, you held your ground.

“bold, maybe,” you said, your voice softer now, but steady. “but accurate.”

matty let out a low hum, tilting his head as he regarded you. his gaze flicked over your face, lingering on your lips before sliding back up to meet your eyes. the weight of it was enough to make your knees feel weak, but you refused to back down. you wanted to see how far you could push him, how much you could unravel that tightly wound self-assurance he wore like armor.

“you’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmured, his smirk returning, sharper this time. “i like that.”

“i bet you do,” you shot back, leaning in just slightly, enough to make him close the distance between you. it worked— his breath hitched, his hand tightening on your waist, and the flicker of surprise in his eyes sent a surge of satisfaction through you.

for the first time all night, you felt like you had the upper hand.

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone low and rough, the words more accusation than question.

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you let your hands drift down to rest lightly on his chest, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt. his breath caught, and you felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the tension coiling tight just beneath the surface. you dragged your fingers lower, just to see what he’d do, and the way his jaw clenched sent a thrill racing through you.

“maybe i am,” you said finally, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “why? is that a problem?”

matty let out a low laugh, his hands sliding to your hips and pulling you closer, the movement so smooth and fluid it made your heart stutter. “not for me,” he said, his voice a low growl. “but you might regret it.”

you arched a brow, refusing to let him intimidate you. “i doubt that.”

“is that right?” his smirk widened, but there was something darker in his expression now, a heat in his eyes that sent your pulse racing. “you think you can keep this up, do you?”

“why not?” you asked, your voice dipping just slightly, enough to let him know you weren’t backing down. “you’re not exactly hard to figure out.”

the moment the words left your mouth, you saw the shift in his posture, the subtle flicker of something predatory in his gaze. he leaned in, his breath brushing over your cheek, and you braced yourself for whatever sharp retort he was about to throw at you.

but he didn’t speak. instead, he rolled his hips forward, pressing himself against you more deliberately this time, the hard line of him dragging against your thigh in a way that made your breath catch.

you felt the heat rush to your face, but you refused to look away, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. instead, you let your hands drift lower, your fingers brushing the waistband of his trousers in a move that was just bold enough to make him tense.

“careful,” he murmured, his voice rough and low, like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will. “you’re playing with fire.”

“maybe i like fire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words landed with the force of a challenge.

matty’s lips twitched, his smirk giving way to something darker, something hungrier. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“don’t i?” you asked, tilting your head. you dragged your fingers along the waistband of his trousers again, slower this time, just to see how far you could push him. “you don’t seem like the type to hold back.”

his breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips as his head dipped lower, his curls brushing against your cheek. “i usually don’t,” he admitted, his voice rough and raw. “but you’re making it difficult.”

“good,” you said, your lips curving into a smile that you knew would drive him mad. “i’d hate for this to be too easy.”

for a moment, he didn’t respond. he just looked at you, his gaze heavy, searing, and you felt the weight of it in every inch of your body. his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing the bare skin beneath your shirt, and the deliberate slowness of his movements made your breath catch.

“you’re trouble,” he said finally, his tone low and almost amused. “i knew it the second i saw you.”

“then maybe you should’ve left me alone,” you shot back, the words bold, reckless, but they made him laugh— a low, rough sound that sent a thrill racing through you.

“not a chance,” he murmured, his head dipping lower until his lips were just a breath away from yours. “not when you look at me like that.”

the chaos of the set melted away the moment matty grabbed your hand. he didn’t ask, didn’t explain— just laced his fingers with yours and pulled you through the maze of equipment and crew, his grip firm and insistent. you barely had time to catch your breath as you followed him, your pulse racing and your skin buzzing from the electricity crackling between you.

when he finally pushed open the door to his changing room and pulled you inside, the sharp click of the lock sliding into place seemed to echo in the small space. the air was different here— still heavy with tension but quieter, more intimate, as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for you both to arrive.

the space was simple but messy, the telltale signs of matty’s presence scattered everywhere: a leather jacket draped carelessly over the back of a chair, an ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette still smoldering, makeup and hair products cluttering the vanity. the faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of cigarettes and something faintly earthy— something that was entirely him.

you barely had a chance to take it all in before matty spun you around and pressed you against the door, his body flush against yours. the solid weight of him was grounding and overwhelming all at once, and your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, his grip firm and possessive.

“been driving me fucking crazy,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, the words spilling out against your neck as his lips found your skin. “all night. watching you, teasing me…”

“teasing you?” you shot back, your voice shaky but teasing. “you’ve been staring at me like i’m the only person here.”

“you are,” he said simply, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. the blunt honesty of his words sent a jolt of heat through you, and you let out a soft gasp as his lips trailed lower, kissing and biting a path down your neck.

your hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you upright. his touch was everywhere - his lips, his hands, the heat of his body pressing into yours - and you felt yourself melt into him, your earlier boldness giving way to the raw, desperate need he’d ignited in you.

“matty,” you breathed, the sound of his name spurring him on. he groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding up your sides to tangle in your hair as he pulled your mouth to his.

the kiss was searing, all teeth and tongue and barely contained hunger. he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to devour you whole, and you gave as good as you got, your fingers tangling in his curls as you pulled him closer. his lips moved against yours with a deliberate intensity, and when he nipped at your bottom lip, you let out a soft moan that made him press harder against you, his hips rolling into yours in a way that left no question about what he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, his voice rough and strained. “you’re—”

he didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t have to. the way his hands roamed your body, his fingers skimming the curve of your waist before gripping your hips, said more than words ever could. he lifted you just slightly, pinning you more firmly against the door, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding onto him like your life depended on it.

the heat between you was unbearable, each kiss and touch stoking the fire that threatened to consume you both. when matty finally pulled back, his breathing ragged, his pupils blown wide with desire, you felt like you might collapse without the support of the door behind you.

“we need…” he trailed off, glancing around the room like he was searching for something. his eyes landed on the vanity, cluttered with makeup brushes, compacts, and an open water bottle. he smirked, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs. “come here.”

before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you the few steps to the desk and setting you down on its edge. the scattered items clattered as he pushed them aside, but neither of you cared. his hands were back on you in an instant, gripping your hips as he stepped between your legs, his body fitting perfectly into the space you’d made for him.

“you’re trouble,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “i fucking love it.”

you didn’t have a chance to respond before he kissed you again, his mouth hot and demanding as his hands roamed over your thighs, squeezing and caressing in a way that left you trembling. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and the low groan he let out at the contact sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

matty’s hands slid higher, his fingers brushing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it to explore the bare skin of your waist. the rough pads of his fingers against your soft skin were intoxicating, and you arched into his touch, your head falling back as his lips left yours to trail down your neck.

“fuck,” he muttered again, his voice muffled against your skin. “you feel so good.”

“matty,” you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair as he kissed his way to your collarbone, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. the combination of pain and pleasure sent a shiver down your spine, and you tightened your legs around him, grinding against him in a way that drew a strangled moan from his throat.

the sound was addictive, and you wanted more. you wanted to see just how far you could push him, how much you could unravel that carefully cultivated control he carried like a shield. you slid your hands down his back, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it upward. he pulled back just enough to let you strip it off, the fabric catching briefly on his curls before falling to the floor.

your breath caught at the sight of him, his lean frame littered with tattoos, each one a story you wanted to unravel with your fingertips. you reached out, your hands roaming over the smooth planes of his chest, the hard lines of his stomach, and he shuddered under your touch, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you were sure you’d bruise.

“jesus,” he muttered, his head falling forward to rest against yours. “you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

you smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of a tattoo on his ribs. “good.”

he laughed, the sound low and rough, before pulling you into another kiss. this one was slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. his hands slid to your back, pressing you against him as his lips moved against yours, and you felt like you might come apart under the weight of it all.

the edge of the desk dug into your thighs, but you didn’t care. all you could think about was the way matty’s body felt against yours, the way his hands explored you like he couldn’t get enough. when his lips left yours to trail lower, kissing and biting a path down your neck to the hollow of your throat, you let out a soft moan that made him groan in response, his fingers digging into your hips.

“say my name,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and pleading. “i need to hear it.”

“matty,” you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair as he kissed his way to your collarbone. the sound of his name seemed to spur him on, his lips and hands growing more insistent as he claimed every inch of you he could reach.

you didn’t know how much more of this you could take, the tension between you stretching so taut it felt like it might snap at any moment. but you didn’t want it to end. not yet.

not when it felt this good.

matty’s lips trailed lower, his kisses growing hotter, wetter, and more insistent as they mapped out every inch of your neck, your collarbone, the delicate line of your throat. his hands gripped your hips tightly, his thumbs brushing over the bare skin just below your shirt, and every touch, every press of his mouth, sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

your head fell back, hitting the mirror lightly as you let out a soft moan, your fingers tangling in his dark curls. he groaned at the sound, the vibration of it humming against your skin, and the edge of his teeth as he bit gently into your collarbone sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“you’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin. his fingers slid lower, brushing against the hem of your skirt, and his grip tightened as his lips moved back to your mouth, capturing you in another searing kiss. this time, there was no hesitation, no careful build-up— just pure, unrestrained hunger.

his hands, warm and rough, slipped under the fabric of your skirt, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs. the feeling was electric, and you gasped into his mouth, your hips jerking involuntarily toward his touch. that reaction seemed to spark something in him, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes heavy with lust as they locked onto yours.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, but there was an edge to it, a tremor of barely contained desire that made your stomach flip. his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you saw the exact moment he felt how wet you were.

he froze, his breath hitching sharply as his fingers pressed more firmly against the damp fabric. “fuck,” he whispered, his voice low and strained, like he was barely holding himself together. he looked up at you, his eyes blazing. “you’re already this wet for me?”

you opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. instead, you nodded, your cheeks burning under the intensity of his gaze. his smirk returned, sharp and dangerous, and he let out a low, rough laugh that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

“you’re gonna drive me fucking insane,” he muttered, his fingers hooking under the fabric of your underwear. his movements were slow, deliberate, as though he was savoring every second, but the tension in his body told you he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.

and then he snapped.

with one sharp tug, he tore the flimsy fabric down your legs, his movements rough and impatient. you gasped at the suddenness of it, your thighs clenching instinctively as the cool air hit your heated skin. matty, however, seemed completely oblivious to anything but the scrap of lace now dangling from his fingers.

he brought them to his face, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled deeply. the sound he made - a low, guttural moan that seemed to come from deep in his chest - was almost obscene, and it sent a shiver racing through your entire body. his fingers tightened around the fabric, and he looked at you with a kind of raw, unfiltered hunger that made your heart stutter.

“fuck, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick and unsteady. he pressed the fabric to his face again, his eyes slipping shut as he let out another moan, his hips twitching slightly as though even the scent of you was enough to push him closer to the edge.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him, couldn’t process the raw, shameless way he was indulging himself. it should have embarrassed you, but instead, it sent a rush of heat straight to your core, your thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache building between them.

matty noticed, of course. his lips curved into a wicked grin as he tossed your underwear to the floor and dropped to his knees in one fluid motion.

he looked up at you from his position on the floor, his curls disheveled, his lips parted, and his eyes heavy-lidded with lust. the sight of him - so shameless, so utterly consumed by his need for you - made your breath catch.

“spread your legs for me,” he said, his voice rough and commanding but laced with a kind of reverence that sent a shiver down your spine.

you hesitated for only a moment before obeying, your thighs parting slowly, deliberately, as you leaned back on your hands for balance. matty’s gaze never left yours, but you could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

“good girl,” he murmured, the words soft but heavy with praise, and the sound of them made your cheeks burn. he slid his hands up your thighs, his palms warm and rough, and the deliberate slowness of his movements made your skin prickle with anticipation.

when he reached the apex of your thighs, his thumbs brushed over your slick folds, and you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped your lips. matty groaned at the sound, his eyes flicking down to where his fingers were exploring you, and the heat in his gaze was almost unbearable.

“look at you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “so fucking perfect. so wet.” he spread you open with his thumbs, his breath hitching as he took in the sight of you, and you felt like you might melt under the intensity of his stare.

and then his mouth was on you.

the first touch of his tongue was soft, almost tentative, as though he was testing your reaction. you let out a shaky breath, your hips jerking slightly, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you firmly in place as his tongue moved over you with slow, deliberate strokes.

you let out a low moan, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched into his touch. he groaned in response, the sound vibrating against you, and the sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through your entire body.

“fuck, matty,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

he didn’t respond, didn’t look up— he was too focused, too intent on making you fall apart. his tongue moved with maddening precision, tracing every inch of you, teasing and exploring until you were trembling under his touch. he alternated between soft, languid licks and sharper, more insistent movements, his lips and tongue working together in a rhythm that had you gasping for air.

when he finally found your clit, his lips closing around it in a gentle suck, you let out a loud, broken moan, your thighs clenching around his head. matty growled, the sound low and primal, and his hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as he worked you with an intensity that left you dizzy.

his tongue circled your clit, his movements slow and deliberate, and you felt the pressure building with every stroke. your hips bucked against his mouth, desperate for more, and he groaned in response, his hands sliding up to grip your hips as he pulled you even closer.

“you taste so fucking good,” he muttered against you, his voice muffled and wrecked. he didn’t wait for a response— just dipped his head lower, his tongue slipping inside you as his nose brushed against your clit.

the sensation was too much and not enough all at once, and you let out a choked moan, your fingers tugging at his curls as your thighs trembled against his grip. he fucked you with his tongue, the movements slow and deliberate, before pulling back to focus on your clit again, his lips and tongue working together in a way that made your vision blur.

“matty, i’m—” you didn’t finish the sentence; you couldn’t. the pressure inside you was building too quickly, too intensely, and all you could do was hold onto him as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

he seemed to sense it, his movements growing more focused, more insistent, as though he was determined to pull you apart. his tongue flicked over your clit, his lips sucking gently before releasing, and the alternating sensations sent you spiraling.

when you came, it was with a loud, broken cry, your body arching off the desk as the wave of pleasure crashed over you. matty didn’t stop, didn’t slow— he kept working you through it, his tongue and lips coaxing every last aftershock from your body until you were trembling in his hands.

finally, he pulled back, his lips glistening with your arousal as he looked up at you, his expression equal parts smug and reverent.

“good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “you look so fucking beautiful when you come.”

you couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but stare at him, your chest heaving and your skin flushed as you tried to catch your breath. matty smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning up to kiss you again, and the taste of yourself on his lips sent a fresh wave of heat through your already spent body.

matty rose from his knees slowly, almost reluctantly, his hands sliding from your trembling thighs as he stood. his face was flushed, his lips swollen and glistening, and the hunger in his dark eyes hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. if anything, it burned brighter, sharper, like he was fighting to keep himself in check.

you were still catching your breath, your thighs trembling against the edge of the vanity as the aftershocks of your orgasm rolled through you. your head felt light, your body boneless, but the heat in your belly hadn’t fully subsided. if anything, the way matty looked at you - his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving - rekindled the fire almost instantly.

you reached for him instinctively, your hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders. your fingers brushed against the soft skin of his neck, and you could feel the rapid pulse beneath your touch. he groaned softly, leaning into your hands, his lips parting as though he was going to kiss you.

but then you moved lower.

your fingers drifted down to his stomach, brushing the waistband of his trousers. you felt the hard line of his erection pressing against the fabric, and when you let your palm graze over it, his entire body tensed. a low, guttural sound escaped him, his hips jerking slightly into your touch.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough and strained. His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could go any further. “don’t.”

you looked up at him, your lips parting in surprise. “don’t?” you echoed, your voice breathless and confused. “i want to—”

“i know,” he said, cutting you off with a shake of his head. his grip on your wrist softened, but he didn’t let go. instead, he leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours as he took a deep, steadying breath. “i want you to, but… not now.”

his words were quiet, deliberate, but there was a rawness in his tone that made your stomach flip. he was holding himself together by a thread, and you could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

“i need to feel you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “i’m too fucking close. i can’t wait anymore.”

the honesty in his words, the way his voice broke just slightly at the end, made your heart stutter. you nodded, your breath hitching as his hand slid from your wrist to your waist, his fingers curling around you as he lifted you effortlessly from the vanity.

matty carried you across the room like you weighed nothing, his grip firm but careful, and you clung to him instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck. he set you down gently on the plush couch, his hands lingering on your hips as he stepped back just slightly, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“you’re still shaking,” he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with something darker, something that made your breath hitch.

“i’m fine,” you said, though your voice betrayed you, shaky and breathless as you tried to collect yourself.

matty’s lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no teasing in his expression now— just raw, unfiltered want. he let out a soft hum, his hands sliding down to your thighs as he knelt in front of you once again.

“you’ll be fine,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “but not yet.”

before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing over yours in a kiss that was slower, softer, but no less consuming. his hands moved to your hips, gripping you firmly as he guided you back against the couch, the plush fabric cool against your skin.

when he pulled away, his dark eyes locked onto yours, he shifted to sit back on the couch, his long legs sprawled slightly apart, his body relaxed in a way that was entirely deliberate. one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other rested on his thigh, and he tilted his head as he watched you with a smirk that was equal parts lazy and commanding.

“now,” he said, his voice low and rough, “take care of this for me.”

you followed his gaze to where his erection strained against the fabric of his trousers, the outline of him unmistakable, and your stomach tightened at the sight. the sharp line of his hips, the way the waistband of his trousers dipped just slightly, the bulge pressing against the zipper— it was all enough to make your mouth go dry.

your hands trembled slightly as you reached for him, sliding over his thighs and stopping just short of the waistband of his trousers. his breath hitched, and when you glanced up, his eyes were locked onto yours, his smirk faltering as you dragged your fingers slowly over the taut fabric.

“you’re teasing me,” he muttered, his voice rough and strained.

“am i?” you asked, your tone deliberately innocent, though the way your fingers lingered over his zipper betrayed your intent.

“don’t play with me,” he said, his voice dipping lower, his fingers curling into the couch cushions as though he was trying to hold himself back. “you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“oh, i think i do,” you said, your lips curving into a small smile as you finally slipped your fingers under the waistband of his trousers. his hips lifted slightly, a silent plea for you to continue, and you took your time, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately, just to watch the way his jaw clenched.

when you finally freed him, pushing his trousers down to mid-thigh, you let out a soft gasp, your breath hitching at the sight of him. he was big, the length of him curving slightly upward, the tip red and glistening with precum. the sheer size of him made your stomach flip, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring, from taking in every detail.

matty groaned softly, the sound rough and needy, and when you looked up, his head had fallen back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut as he dragged a hand through his messy curls.

“fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained. “you’re killing me.”

you couldn’t help but smile, the sight of him - so utterly wrecked, so shamelessly undone - filling you with a rush of confidence. you let your thumb drift over the head of him, brushing against the bead of precum and spreading it slowly. the movement was soft, almost tentative, but it was enough to make him hiss sharply, his hips jerking into your touch.

“fuck,” he said again, his voice tight as his head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

you didn’t answer— not with words, at least. instead, you let your thumb brush over him again, slower this time, and the way his entire body tensed beneath your touch sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

your thumb grazed over the slick head of his cock again, this time with a little more pressure, and the sharp hiss that escaped matty’s lips sent a shiver down your spine. his hips jerked involuntarily into your touch, his breath catching in his throat as you wrapped your fingers around him, your grip firm but teasing. the weight of him in your hand, the heat of him, made your pulse race, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip as you slowly began to stroke him.

“jesus,” he muttered, his voice low and wrecked. his head fell back against the couch, his curls spilling over the cushions, and his chest heaved as his hands gripped the edges of the seat. “you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

you smiled, your confidence growing with every broken sound that spilled from his lips. your strokes were slow, deliberate, and you tightened your grip slightly, your thumb brushing against the sensitive underside of his tip. his reaction was immediate— a guttural groan tearing from his throat as his hips bucked into your hand, seeking more.

but just as you started to pick up the pace, he stopped you.

his hand shot out, gripping your wrist with enough force to make you freeze, your movements halting as you looked up at him in surprise. his dark eyes were wild, his pupils blown wide, and his expression was so desperate, so raw, that it made your breath catch.

“no,” he said, his voice hoarse, almost pleading. “i told you, not like this.”

you blinked, your lips parting to speak, but he shook his head, his grip on your wrist softening but not letting go.

“i need to feel you,” he said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. he leaned forward, his free hand cupping the side of your face as he pressed his forehead to yours. “i need you. now.”

the sheer need in his voice, the way his body trembled beneath your touch, sent a wave of heat rushing through you. your heart pounded in your chest, your skin buzzing with anticipation as his words sank in. he wasn’t asking— he was begging. and the realization made your head spin.

you kissed him then, slow and deliberate, pouring every ounce of your own mounting desire into the press of your lips. matty groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pulled you closer, his body pressing into yours with an urgency that left you breathless.

when you pulled back, your breathing ragged, you didn’t hesitate. you rose to your knees, your thighs bracketing his hips as you positioned yourself over him. the heat of his cock, hard and heavy against your inner thigh, sent a jolt of anticipation through you, and you bit your lip as you reached down to guide him to your entrance.

matty’s breath hitched as the tip of him brushed against your slick folds, and his hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like he was holding himself together by a thread. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained. “you’re so fucking wet.”

you couldn’t respond, couldn’t find the words to express the way you felt as you shifted your hips, pressing yourself down slowly. the slightest pressure was all it took— your body yielding to him with an ease that made you both moan, your wetness allowing him to slip inside you in one smooth, effortless motion.

you settled over him completely, your thighs bracketing his hips as his cock stretched you impossibly full. he was buried deep, every inch of him, and you could feel him throb inside you, hard and slick from your wetness. matty’s head fell back against the couch, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as his hands gripped your waist almost too tightly, like he needed the anchor to keep from losing himself.

“fuck,” he groaned, the word drawn out, desperate. his fingers flexed against your skin as his hips twitched, pressing deeper, testing the limits of what you could take. “you’re— jesus, you’re so tight.”

the overwhelming stretch and fullness made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders for balance. he filled you so completely it bordered on too much, but the delicious drag of his cock against your walls had your head spinning. you shifted slightly, rolling your hips experimentally, and the way he groaned- a low, guttural sound that made your stomach flip - spurred you on.

“you’re so big,” you murmured, your voice breathless and shaky. the words weren’t meant to tease, but matty’s reaction was immediate. his eyes snapped open, locking onto yours, and the hunger in his gaze sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

“don’t,” he warned, his voice hoarse, strained. his grip on your hips tightened as you rolled your hips again, slower this time, testing his resolve. “don’t fucking start.”

“why not?” you asked, tilting your head as a faint smile played on your lips. you rolled your hips again, and the way his jaw clenched, his head falling back against the couch, made satisfaction bloom in your chest. “you don’t like it?”

“too much,” he muttered, his voice rough and wrecked. his hips jerked upward instinctively, and the sharp thrust made you gasp, your thighs trembling against him. “fuck, you’re too much.”

you leaned forward, your hands bracing against his chest as you began to move in earnest, slow and deliberate. every rise and fall of your hips drew a broken sound from his throat, his head snapping up to watch you, his dark eyes wild and heavy-lidded with lust.

“look at you,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven as his hands slid from your hips to your thighs, gripping tightly. “you’re fucking perfect. riding me like that, looking so— fuck.” his words cut off as you sank down on him again, grinding your hips just slightly, and his entire body tensed beneath you.

the sheer size of him, the way he filled you so completely, made your breath hitch, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped your lips. “you feel so good,” you murmured, the words spilling out before you could think to stop them. “so fucking good.”

“yeah?” matty growled, his voice low and wrecked. his hands slid back to your hips, his grip firm as he guided your movements, his hips bucking up into you with sharp, deliberate thrusts. “you’re so fucking wet. squeezing me so tight— i’m not gonna—” he stopped himself with a sharp hiss, his jaw clenching as he fought to hold back. “shit, i’m not gonna last if you keep—”

“don’t hold back,” you said, your voice shaky but teasing as you braced your hands against his chest, matching his thrusts with your own. “i want you to lose it.”

“you’re evil,” he muttered, his voice rough and wrecked. his head fell back against the couch as he fought to keep up with your pace, his thighs tensing beneath you as he pushed up into you with every roll of your hips.

the rhythm between you grew frantic, your bodies moving together in a desperate, almost primal rhythm. the sharp snap of his hips, the way his cock dragged against your walls with every thrust, sent sparks of pleasure racing through your body. you were dizzy with it, drunk on the feeling of him inside you, the sound of his broken groans and curses echoing in your ears.

“fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” matty growled, his hands sliding up your back as he pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck. his lips brushed against your skin, hot and wet, as his thrusts grew sharper, harder, his restraint unraveling with every second. “you’re so fucking perfect. so tight, so wet, so— jesus christ.”

you clung to him, your fingers tangling in his messy curls as you buried your face in his shoulder, muffling the sounds spilling from your lips. the tension between you was unbearable, every thrust and grind building the pressure higher and higher until it felt like you might break under the weight of it.

matty was trembling beneath you, his body taut with tension as he fought to hold himself together. “i’m close,” he muttered, his voice rough and strained. his hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as his hips snapped upward again, harder this time. “too fucking close. shit, i can’t—”

“hold on,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you leaned back, your hands bracing against his chest to steady yourself. “just hold on a little longer.”

“fuck, i’m fucking trying,” matty growled, his dark eyes locking onto yours as his grip on your hips tightened almost painfully. “but you’re— jesus, you’re fucking perfect. i can’t—”

“matty,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he thrust up into you again, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. “just hold on.”

your body trembled as matty thrust into you, each movement raw and desperate, the slick heat of his cock dragging against your walls in a rhythm that had your head spinning. his hands gripped your hips like a lifeline, his fingertips pressing into your skin as though holding you there was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“fuck, i’m coming,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, strained. his dark eyes were half-lidded, his curls damp with sweat as he stared up at you. the desperation in his expression was palpable, his lips parted as he panted for breath, every muscle in his body taut with tension. “i— fuck, i’m gonna—”

you leaned forward, your hands bracing against his chest as you kissed him deeply, swallowing his broken moan as you slowed your movements. the kiss was messy, hungry, your lips and tongues tangling as you rode him slower, deeper, until you felt him twitch inside you, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back.

“let me,” you murmured against his lips, your voice soft but commanding. “let me take care of you.”

his groan was raw, guttural, and he dropped his head back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands slid from your hips. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “do whatever you want. just— just don’t stop.”

you smirked, leaning back slightly as you placed your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms.

Your eyes drifted downward, and you bit your lip at the sight of his cock, still buried inside you, glistening with your wetness. the tip was flushed an angry red, a bead of precum dripping from the head, and you could feel him throb inside you, his body begging for release.

“look at you,” you murmured, your voice low, almost teasing as you lifted yourself slowly, letting him slip out of you. he groaned at the loss, his hips twitching upward instinctively, but you pressed a hand against his stomach, keeping him still. “so desperate.”

“fuck,” matty muttered, his voice rough, his hands fisting in the couch cushions as you wrapped your fingers around him again, stroking him slowly. “you’re fucking killing me.”

you smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his jaw as your hand worked him, your grip firm but deliberate. his cock was slick with your arousal, making every stroke smooth and effortless, and the sounds he made - the sharp gasps, the broken curses, the low, desperate groans - sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

“don’t hold back,” you murmured against his ear, your voice soft but insistent. “i want to see you.”

his breath hitched, his hands gripping your thighs as his hips bucked into your hand. “i can’t— fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” you said, your voice firmer now as you kissed your way down his neck, biting gently at the sensitive skin there. “let go for me.”

that was all it took. matty’s entire body tensed, his hips jerking upward as his cock twitched in your hand. “fuck,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his release spilled over your fingers, painting his abdomen in hot, thick ropes of white. his head fell back against the couch, his mouth falling open in a silent moan, and his entire body trembled with the force of it.

you didn’t stop, your hand working him through the waves of his orgasm, drawing out every last drop until he was panting beneath you, his chest heaving and his thighs trembling. his cock twitched in your grip, still sensitive, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him— utterly wrecked, his hair sticking to his forehead, his body glistening with sweat and the evidence of his release.

“fuck,” he muttered again, his voice barely above a whisper. “you’re— jesus fucking christ.”

you didn’t answer. instead, you leaned back, your eyes drinking in the sight of him. his release coated his stomach, dripping down his skin, and the sight made your mouth water. you licked your lips, your gaze flicking to his as you shifted, sliding down his body.

“what are you—?” matty’s question cut off with a sharp gasp as your tongue darted out, licking a broad stripe up his stomach. his cock twitched against your wrist, still leaking, and the broken sound he made as he watched you clean him with your tongue sent a fresh rush of heat pooling low in your belly.

“fuck, you’re insane,” he muttered, his voice shaky as his hands found your hair, gripping it tightly. “you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“good,” you murmured, glancing up at him through your lashes as you licked another drop of his release from his skin. his cock twitched again, harder this time, and you smiled against his stomach, your tongue swirling over the sensitive skin just above his navel.

matty groaned, his head falling back against the couch as his fingers tightened in your hair. “you’re fucking evil,” he muttered, but his voice was thick with arousal, his body trembling beneath your touch.

you took your time, your tongue tracing every line of his abdomen, cleaning every drop of his release until his skin was glistening, slick with your saliva. his cock jerked again, leaking another bead of precum, and the sound he made - a low, desperate whimper - sent a shiver racing down your spine.

when you finally finished, your lips trailing up his chest to his neck, matty pulled you close, his hands fisting in your hair as he kissed you deeply. his tongue swept into your mouth, tasting himself on your lips, and the kiss was so raw, so consuming, that you felt your knees go weak.

he groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down your back as he pulled you closer, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. when he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours as he held you tightly.

“jesus,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “you’re fucking unbelievable.”

you smiled, your fingers brushing through his messy curls as you caught your breath. “you’re not so bad yourself.”

he laughed softly, the sound low and warm, and his arms tightened around you, pulling you against his chest in a way that felt almost protective. the silence that settled between you was heavy but comfortable, your bodies pressed together as you let the heat of the moment slowly fade.

“can i see you again?” matty’s voice was soft, tentative, and it caught you off guard. you pulled back slightly, your eyes meeting his, and the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache.

you smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. “i think i’d like that.”

his answering smile was slow, lazy, and it made your stomach flip. “good,” he murmured, his hands sliding up your back as he kissed you again, softer this time but no less consuming. “because i don’t think i’m done with you yet.”

[cryiingoutloud]

do you like writing smut , fluff or angst the most?

i love writing smut. i love creating tension between my characters before venting my perversions through them (lol). so i’d say smut comes first.

but i intend to write some fluff, especially now that the holiday season is approaching, i have some ideas in mind with this background.

but there will be no shortage of angst on this account; heart out pt. 2 is coming soon! eheh

[cryiingoutloud]

hi I love ur writing I hope u write more :)

thank you so much sweetie! i just started this account, there is a lot more coming of course! also, if you have any suggestions / there is anything you want to read in particular, i would love to hear them. <3

[cryiingoutloud]

I just read all your work and omg. Heart Out was especially gorgeous. You're so so talented wow!!!! SO glad u joined 75blr and I'm so excited to read whatever you post next <3

-Belle (sugar-coat-it)

this made my day, omg. T.T

thank you so much, my darling. <3

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 we might as well just fuck ( matty healy x reader )

warnings: 18+, jealously, oral sex (f&m receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, spanking, slight degradation, matty is a little mean in this, sorry.

wc: 6k of pure filth.

the door flew open, slamming against the wall with a crack that reverberated through the quiet apartment. the sound echoed in your ears, drowning out the relentless thrum of your pulse. you barely registered the ache in your hand from twisting the handle too hard or the fact that you’d left the door ajar, cold november air seeping into the warm, smoke-laden room. all you could focus on was him: matty. sprawled on the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world, the faint glow of a cigarette in his hand punctuating his nonchalance.

he looked up slowly, his head tilting lazily to the side, curls falling across his forehead in a way that would’ve been disarming if you weren’t already burning alive. his dark eyes flickered with mild curiosity, as though you were just another annoyance in his evening. and then his mouth curved into that infuriating smirk— the one that always managed to set you off, even before a single word left his lips.

“well,” he drawled, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled in the dim light. “if it isn’t my favorite fucking nightmare. to what do i owe the pleasure tonight? did i forget to grovel the last time we spoke, or are you here to remind me how much you hate me again?”

his voice was low, roughened by the cigarette, and dripping with mockery. each word was a deliberate jab, meant to pierce, to provoke, to stoke whatever fire had driven you here. but you were already past the point of reason. you didn’t even flinch.

“who the fuck is she, matty?” the words erupted from you, sharp and venomous, reverberating with a ferocity that surprised even you. you stepped inside fully now, shoving the door shut behind you with enough force to rattle the frame.

matty blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second before recovering, the smirk widening into something sharper, more deliberate. he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him, moving with infuriating leisure as though you hadn’t just barged into his home like a hurricane.

“sorry, you’re gonna have to narrow that down for me, sweetheart,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “who’s who?”

“you know who i mean,” you snapped, your voice cutting through his feigned ignorance like a blade. you could feel your chest heaving, your fists clenching so tightly at your sides that your nails bit into your palms. “the blonde. the one you’ve apparently been screwing all week. don’t act like you don’t know exactly what i'm talking about.”

his expression shifted slightly then, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before it was quickly masked by the same infuriating calm. he leaned back into the couch, spreading his arms along the top of it in a display of deliberate ease, his gaze raking over you with slow, measured disdain.

“and if i have been?” he said finally, his voice softer now but no less biting. “what’s it to you?”

your stomach twisted, heat blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the humiliation curling at the edges of your fury. you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as your resolve threatened to waver.

“i don’t give a shit who you fuck,” you bit out, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. “but don’t think for a second i'm going to sit back and watch you throw yourself at some basic barbie doll like she’s worth a damn.”

that did it. the faint smirk on his lips faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation, sharp and quick. he stood then, unfolding himself from the couch with deliberate slowness, and suddenly the room felt smaller. the shift in his height, the weight of his presence, the way his eyes bore into yours with a predatory intensity— it all made your breath hitch despite yourself. but you refused to back down. not now.

“do you even hear yourself right now?” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone that made your skin prickle. “you come stomping into my house, screaming about some girl you don’t even know, and i’m the one who’s pathetic? jesus, you’re unbelievable.”

the words stung, even though you’d come here expecting nothing less. you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your body taut with the kind of tension that always seemed to linger between you two. it was like a live wire, crackling and sparking with every word, every glance. and now, with him standing so close, you could feel the pull of it as strongly as ever.

“fuck you, matty,” you spat, though your voice wavered, betraying the storm of emotions bubbling beneath your anger.

his mouth quirked into something darker, crueler. “oh, you’d love to, wouldn’t you?” he sneered, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of space between you. his eyes raked over you, taking in every inch with a scrutiny that made your skin burn. “maybe that’s why you’re really here. couldn’t stand the thought of someone else getting what you want so badly.”

your breath hitched at his words, at the way his voice dipped, rough and taunting. it was infuriating. it was intoxicating.

“you’re such an asshole,” you hissed, your voice low and shaking, whether from fury or something darker, you couldn’t tell. without thinking, your hands flew to his shirt, twisting the fabric in your fists as if grounding yourself in the confrontation— or in him. the material was warm under your palms, worn and soft, like it had been lived in, much like him.

matty’s smirk didn’t falter. if anything, it deepened, his eyes flickering with something dangerous, something primal that sent a shiver racing down your spine. he didn’t move away; he didn’t even flinch. he simply stood there, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint scent of smoke and something faintly musky curling in the space between you.

the silence was deafening. the air thickened, charged with an energy that had nowhere to go. his eyes locked on yours, dark and piercing, refusing to let you look away. for a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room the shallow, uneven breaths you couldn’t seem to control.

and then his hands came up— slowly, deliberately. he grasped your wrists, prying your fists from his shirt with infuriating ease, his grip firm but not rough. his touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you hated the way it made your knees feel weak. he held your wrists for a moment, his thumbs brushing lightly over the pulse points there, and his lips quirked, like he could feel the way your heart was racing under his fingers.

“you’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with mockery. “i thought you were angry. what’s this, then?”

“fuck you,” you snapped, jerking your hands free, but you didn’t step back. couldn’t. your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot as his eyes raked over you again, taking in every detail. the heat in his gaze was unmistakable now, no matter how much he tried to mask it with disdain. it burned, searing into you, unraveling every thread of self-control you had left.

he leaned in then, slowly, deliberately, until his face was inches from yours. his breath was warm against your cheek, his lips so close they brushed the air between you when he spoke.

“you can’t stand it, can you?” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly taunt that made your stomach twist. “the thought of me touching her. kissing her. fucking her.”

your breath hitched, your jaw tightening as his words landed like blows, each one hitting its mark with precision. you wanted to shove him, to yell, to do something - anything - but your body betrayed you, frozen in place as his lips hovered just shy of yours.

“say it,” he whispered, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. “say you don’t want me, and i'll let you go. walk away. pretend you never came here.”

the challenge was clear, and it lit a fire in your chest, your anger colliding with the undeniable pull between you. you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing you admit it, but your silence was answer enough.

his lips finally brushed yours, featherlight, a teasing graze that sent a shiver racing down your spine. he didn’t kiss you— not fully. instead, he pulled back just enough to leave you chasing the contact, your body leaning into his of its own accord.

“that’s what i thought,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, smug and infuriating.

and then he kissed you.

but it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t soft. it was all teeth and heat and fury, the kind of kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and left your head spinning. his hands found your waist, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises as he pulled you against him. his teeth scraped your bottom lip, a deliberate bite that made you gasp, and he swallowed the sound with a low, guttural noise of approval.

your hands were in his hair before you could think, tangling in the dark curls and tugging hard, earning a sharp inhale from him that made something inside you twist in satisfaction. he retaliated by pressing you back against the door, the wood cool and solid against your spine, his mouth relentless as it claimed yours.

the kiss was chaos, messy and desperate, every ounce of anger you’d walked in with pouring into the way your lips moved against his, the way your bodies collided like magnets. it wasn’t just a kiss— it was a war, a clash of egos and emotions and everything you’d been too stubborn to say.

when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathing hard, your chest heaving as you struggled to find air. his eyes burned into yours, dark and wild, his lips swollen and red, a mirror of your own.

“you’re fucking insane,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but there was no venom in it now. just heat.

“so are you,” you shot back, though your voice was softer, shakier.

he smirked again, but this time it was different. darker. more dangerous. “you have no idea.”

his hands were still on your waist, the grip tightening as if he was daring you to try and pull away— not that you would. the heat of his body pressed against yours was almost suffocating, but the way it made your skin tingle and your chest tighten was addictive. his thumb slid under the hem of your shirt, brushing against bare skin, a tease that made your breath hitch. he noticed, of course, because his smirk grew sharper, his eyes darkening with a glint of something wicked.

“you came all this way just to yell at me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. “but that’s not why you’re really here, is it?”

you opened your mouth to argue, to snap back with something scathing, but the words died on your tongue as his hands slid lower, hooking into the waistband of your jeans. his touch was firm, almost possessive, and it sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

“admit it,” he pressed, his voice a taunting whisper against your ear. “you couldn’t stand the thought of me with someone else. it drove you fucking crazy, didn’t it?”

you glared at him, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, but the way your body betrayed you was answer enough. the slight arch of your back, the way your nails dug into his shoulders— it all told him everything he needed to know.

“thought so,” he muttered, and before you could react, he spun you around, pressing your front against the door. the movement was so sudden, so commanding, that it left you breathless. his body crowded yours from behind, one hand braced against the door beside your head while the other slid up your side, under your shirt, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin just below your ribs.

“matty,” you started, but your voice was shaky, betraying the mix of anticipation and frustration twisting in your gut.

“shut up,” he snapped, his tone low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. his hand moved higher, his fingers brushing against the lace of your bra before he tugged your shirt up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it somewhere behind him. the cool air against your skin made you shiver, but his warmth was back a second later, his lips grazing the curve of your neck, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.

“you talk too much,” he murmured, his voice a taunting rumble against your skin. “maybe that’s why you’re here, so i can remind you how to shut that pretty mouth of yours.”

his words sent a flush of heat straight to your core, and you bit your lip, hating the way your body responded so easily to him. he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to push your buttons and unravel you piece by piece.

his hand slid down your stomach, dipping below the waistband of your jeans but stopping just short of where you wanted him most. his fingers toyed with the button, and he chuckled darkly when you shifted against him, a silent plea for more.

“desperate already?” he taunted, pressing his lips to your ear. “pathetic.”

the word stung, but it only made the ache between your thighs worse. you hated how much you loved it; hated how much you loved him like this, sharp and cruel and utterly in control.

when he finally popped the button on your jeans and slid his hand lower, his fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your panties, a soft gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it. he laughed again, low and dark, the sound vibrating through you.

“look at you,” he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric. “you’re already soaking, and i haven’t even touched you properly. maybe that blonde wasn’t the problem after all. maybe you’re just needy.”

you clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, but the way your hips bucked against his hand betrayed you. he hummed in approval, his free hand moving to grip your hip, holding you firmly in place as he pressed harder against you.

“you don’t get to hide from me,” he muttered, his voice rough with a mix of command and desire. “not tonight.”

and then he yanked your jeans down in one swift motion, leaving you in nothing but your panties. his hands were back on you in an instant, gripping your thighs, your waist, everywhere, like he couldn’t get enough. his lips returned to your neck, sucking and biting in a way that you knew would leave marks, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“you’re going to remember this,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a promise, a threat. “you’re going to feel me tomorrow, and you’re going to know exactly who you belong to.”

“turn around,” he commanded, his voice sharp and low, leaving no room for argument.

your body moved on instinct, twisting to face him, your back pressing against the cold surface of the door. his eyes raked over you hungrily, taking in the sight of you— your chest heaving, lips swollen from his kiss, jeans bunched around your knees. the way his gaze darkened sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and you hated the way it made your legs feel weak.

“good girl,” he muttered, his lips curving into a smirk as his hands found your hips, tugging your panties down in one swift, deliberate motion. he let them fall to the floor, his hands brushing down your thighs as he knelt before you, the movement so deliberate, so commanding, that your breath caught in your throat.

your knees wobbled slightly as he settled on the floor, looking up at you like he was about to devour you whole. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you firmly in place as his thumbs brushed the soft skin there, dangerously close to where you needed him. his lips parted slightly, his warm breath ghosting over you, sending a shiver racing up your spine.

“look at you,” he muttered, his tone rough and mocking. “already shaking, and i haven’t even started yet. you’re so easy, aren’t you?”

“shut up,” you shot back, though your voice was breathless, trembling with anticipation.

he chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to the inside of your thigh. “you’ve got a smart mouth for someone who’s about to fall apart for me,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

before you could retort, his lips brushed against you - lightly, barely more than a tease - and your words dissolved into a sharp gasp. your hands flew to his curls, tangling in the dark strands as your hips jerked involuntarily toward him, but his grip on your thighs tightened, pinning you in place.

“patience,” he murmured, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. “i’m going to take my time with you.”

and he did. his tongue moved with maddening precision, teasing and exploring every inch of you, never giving you quite enough to tip you over the edge. every flick, every deliberate pause, sent sparks racing through your veins, leaving you trembling, your nails digging into his scalp as you tried to pull him closer.

but he was relentless in his control, holding you exactly where he wanted you, refusing to let you take what you needed. every gasp, every whimper that escaped your lips only seemed to fuel him, his movements becoming sharper, more deliberate, as if he was determined to draw every ounce of desperation from you.

“matty,” you breathed, your voice breaking on his name, a mix of frustration and need.

“what?” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. his lips were glistening, his eyes dark and wild, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “already begging? That’s pathetic, even for you.”

“fuck you,” you spat, though the words lacked any real venom.

he laughed softly, his fingers digging into your thighs as he leaned back in, pressing his tongue flat against you in a way that made your knees buckle. his arm shot out, wrapping around your waist to hold you steady, his grip firm and unyielding.

“oh, you will,” he muttered against you, his voice low and rough, vibrating against your skin. “but not yet. not until i’m done with you.”

the coil in your stomach tightened with every movement of his mouth, every flick of his tongue, every sharp nip of his teeth that sent jolts of pleasure-pain racing through you. he was merciless, driving you closer and closer to the edge only to pull back at the last second, leaving you trembling, your body aching for release.

“please,” you finally whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

his movements stilled, his lips hovering just shy of where you needed him most as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “what was that?” he said, his voice soft, taunting.

you swallowed hard, your hands tightening in his hair. “please,” you repeated, your voice barely more than a whisper.

his smirk widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing one final, searing kiss against you before pulling away completely. the loss of his touch left you reeling, your chest heaving as you stared down at him, dazed and desperate.

“that’s better,” he murmured, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. his hands found your waist, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you to the couch, dropping you onto the cushions with a deliberate roughness that made your breath catch.

he hovered over you, his knees bracketing your hips as his hands gripped the back of the couch on either side of your head. his eyes burned into yours, dark and hungry, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk.

“now,” he said, his voice low and commanding, “let’s see if you’ve learned how to behave.”

your body was still trembling from the release he had so mercilessly dragged out of you, your legs weak and unsteady as you tried to catch your breath. but matty wasn’t done— he never was. his presence loomed over you, dark and commanding, as he pushed himself off the couch, standing tall in front of you.

“lie back,” he ordered, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument.

you obeyed instinctively, your body sinking into the cushions as your gaze followed him. his hands went to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers deftly unbuttoning and tugging the fabric down his narrow hips with a practiced ease. the sight of him - exposed, unapologetic, and utterly in control - sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.

he stood there for a moment, his eyes fixed on yours, daring you to look away. slowly, deliberately, he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice, his movements lazy, measured, like he had all the time in the world.

“keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, his tone low and taunting. “don’t look away.”

your breath hitched as his hand moved again, sliding up and down his length with a languid precision that made your mouth go dry. he was hard, impossibly so, the flush of his arousal stark against the pale skin of his hips. his thumb swiped over the tip, spreading the slickness there with a low hiss that sent a shiver racing through you.

“see what you do to me?” he muttered, his voice rough, dripping with mockery. “you come in here, throwing your little tantrum, and now look at you. wrecked and desperate. and me?” he chuckled darkly, his hand moving faster now, his grip tightening as he began to fuck into his fist, the sharp, deliberate movements making your pulse race. “i’m just getting started.”

you couldn’t tear your eyes away, couldn’t stop watching as his strokes grew rougher, more frantic, the muscles in his forearm flexing with every movement. his head tipped back slightly, his lips parting as a low groan escaped him, the sound raw and sinful, making your thighs press together involuntarily.

“enjoying the show?” he asked, his voice rough with lust, his eyes flicking back to yours. the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk, and before you could respond, his free hand shot out, tangling in your hair.

the sharp tug made you gasp, your scalp prickling as he pulled you forward, forcing you onto your knees in front of him. the shift was so sudden, so commanding, that your body moved on instinct, your hands bracing against his thighs as you knelt between them.

“you’re going to make yourself useful,” he said, his voice a low growl, his grip on your hair tightening as he tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “open.”

the word was sharp, cutting, leaving no room for hesitation. your lips parted before you could think, your body responding to the raw authority in his tone. his smirk widened as he guided himself to your mouth, the weight of him heavy against your tongue as he slid in, slow at first, deliberate, like he wanted to savor the moment.

“good girl,” he muttered, his voice softening just slightly, though the edge of mockery remained. “that’s more like it.”

his hand didn’t leave your hair, holding you firmly in place as he began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, measured rhythm. the sensation was overwhelming— the heat of him, the way he filled your mouth, the roughness of his grip as he kept you exactly where he wanted you.

“look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. “i want to see those pretty eyes while i fuck your mouth.”

your gaze flicked up to meet his, and the sight of him - dark curls falling across his forehead, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with desire - made your stomach twist with a mix of arousal and anticipation. his movements grew rougher, his control slipping as he began to thrust deeper, his hand tightening in your hair to hold you steady.

“you can take it,” he muttered, his tone both taunting and reassuring. “i know you can.”

the sound of him - the low groans, the sharp curses that spilled from his lips - filled the room, blending with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth working to keep up with him. your hands gripped his thighs, your nails digging into his skin as he pushed deeper, his pace quickening.

“fuck,” he hissed, his voice breaking on the word. “you look so fucking good like this. on your knees, exactly where you belong.”

his words sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, and you moaned around him, the sound vibrating against him and earning a sharp inhale. his hips stuttered, his grip faltering for a moment before he steadied himself, his movements growing rougher, more erratic, as he chased the edge.

but then, just as suddenly as he’d started, he pulled away, leaving you gasping for air, your lips swollen and your chest heaving. he stared down at you, his gaze dark and wild, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

“we’re not done,” he said, his voice low and rough, a promise that made your stomach twist with anticipation. “get up.”

“up,” he repeated, his voice sharp and unyielding. he took a step back, giving you space to move, though the heat in his gaze told you exactly what he wanted.

your legs felt shaky as you stood, your body still reeling from the way he’d just used you, but there was no time to collect yourself. matty’s hands were on you again, rough and demanding as he spun you around and pressed you against the back of the couch.

“on your knees,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. his hands gripped your waist, guiding you down until you were bent over the cushions, your knees sinking into the plush fabric. he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest lower, your cheek smushed against the couch, while his other hand slid down your spine, tracing the curve of your back.

“you look perfect like this,” he muttered, his voice rough, almost reverent. “so fucking pretty.”

you felt exposed, vulnerable, but the weight of his gaze and the heat radiating from his body behind you only heightened the ache between your thighs. his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he leaned over you, his lips brushing against your ear.

“you’re going to take me,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “every inch. and you’re not going to complain, are you?”

“no,” you managed to gasp, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and desperation.

“good girl,” he muttered, and then you felt the blunt press of him against your entrance, hot and insistent. he didn’t wait, didn’t ease you into it— he pushed forward in one rough, deliberate thrust that stole the air from your lungs.

a sharp cry escaped your lips as he filled you completely, the stretch almost too much, but the pleasure that followed was instant and overwhelming. he gave you no time to adjust, pulling back only to slam into you again, his hips snapping against yours with a force that left you breathless.

“fuck,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your soft gasps and moans, the obscene noises only spurring him on.

his hand left your hip, sliding up your back before tangling in your hair, pulling your head back slightly as he leaned over you. “so fucking loud,” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and amusement. “you like this, don’t you? being used like this?”

you whimpered, your body arching into him despite the sharp pull on your hair. “yes, fuck, yes,” you gasped, the word spilling from your lips before you could think.

“of course you do,” he growled, his grip tightening as he slammed into you harder, the force of his movements making the couch creak beneath you. “you fucking love it.”

his other hand moved then, sliding down to your ass, where he delivered a sharp slap that made you cry out, your body jolting forward from the impact. the sting bloomed immediately, hot and sharp, but the pleasure that followed was undeniable, the heat pooling low in your belly intensifying.

“you sound so pretty when you scream,” he murmured, his tone almost mocking. he slapped you again, harder this time, and the sound of your cry seemed to echo in the room. “look at you, taking it so well. my good girl.”

the words sent a fresh wave of heat racing through you, and you moaned loudly, your hands gripping the cushions beneath you as his pace grew even more relentless. his hand left your hair, pressing between your shoulder blades again to pin you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he continued to fuck into you with a ferocity that left you trembling.

the sharp crack of his hand against your ass filled the room again, the sting making you gasp as your body arched beneath him. he didn’t stop, delivering slap after slap until your skin burned, the sensation mixing pain with pleasure in a way that made your head spin.

“you’re so fucking loud,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, each word punctuated by a sharp thrust. “you like it, don’t you? being spanked like this?”

“yes,” you gasped, your voice shaky, your body trembling beneath him. “i love it.”

“good,” he growled, his hand squeezing the tender, burning skin before slapping it again, harder than before. “because i’m not fucking stopping until you’re begging for it.”

“god, you’re mine,” he growled, his hand tightening its hold on your hair as he yanked your head back, forcing your cheek into the cushions. his hips slammed into you with a force that left you breathless, every thrust knocking the air from your lungs. “say it. say you’re my fucking slut.”

the word sent a shiver racing down your spine, your thighs trembling as you choked out a broken response. “i’m yours. i’m your slut.”

“damn right, you are,” he sneered, his free hand gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “this is all you’re good for, isn’t it? taking my cock like a good little cumdump. tell me how much you fucking love it.”

“i love it,” you gasped, the words spilling out between ragged breaths. “i love it— fuck, matty—”

“louder,” he snapped, delivering a sharp slap to your ass that made you cry out, the sting radiating through your skin and making your entire body jolt. “i want everyone to fucking hear how much you love being ruined by me.”

“matty,” you cried, your voice high and desperate as his pace grew brutal, relentless. his cock slammed into you again and again, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you. your hands clawed at the cushions, your body arching beneath him as the pressure inside you built to an unbearable intensity.

“such a desperate little slut, screaming for me like this. you don’t even deserve my cock, do you?” he muttered, his voice thick with mockery.

“no, i don't” you whimpered, your voice breaking, but your hips bucked back against him, chasing the pleasure that bordered on pain. “please, matty, please—”

“please what?” he taunted, his hand coming down on your ass again, harder this time, leaving a burning imprint that made you yelp. “you want me to let you come? you think you’ve earned it after the fucking scene you made?”

“yes,” you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure mounted, the tension in your core winding tighter with every punishing thrust. “please, i need it—”

“you don’t get to need,” he snarled, his hand sliding down to your clit, his fingers rubbing harsh, messy circles that made your thighs quake. “you get what i give you. and right now, you’re going to fucking take it.”

his pace grew erratic, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with your cries and his rough, guttural groans. the force of his movements shoved you further into the couch, your cheek pressed into the cushions as your nails dug into the fabric, your body teetering on the edge of release.

“that’s it,” he growled, his grip on your hip tightening as he drove into you harder, deeper, his cock hitting spots that made you see stars. “come for me, you slut. show me how much you fucking love being used.”

his filthy words were your undoing. the coil in your stomach snapped violently, pleasure tearing through you in a wave so intense it left you trembling, your cries muffled against the cushions as your body clenched around him.

“fuck,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release, his cock throbbing inside you as your body milked him. but then he pulled out suddenly, his hand still gripping your hip as he yanked you upright.

“you don’t get to keep it,” he muttered, his tone rough, almost cruel. “not after the shit you pulled tonight.”

before you could respond, his hand slid down to your lower back, pressing you forward until your chest was flush with the couch cushions again, your ass high in the air. you felt the heat of him behind you, his cock brushing against your skin, and then he was stroking himself, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“look at you,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. “bent over, dripping for me, like the fucking mess you are.”

he grunted low in his throat, his hips jerking as he spilled himself across your ass, the hot, sticky sensation making you shiver. his hand stayed on your back, holding you in place as he rode out his release, his breaths ragged and uneven.

when he finally stepped back, the weight of his hand disappeared, leaving you slumped against the couch, your body trembling from the aftermath. he let out a low chuckle, dark and satisfied, as he pulled his jeans back up, fastening them with infuriating nonchalance.

his palm smoothed over the curve of your ass, spreading the sticky warmth he’d left there before sliding lower, between your thighs, to where you were still throbbing, wet and oversensitive. without warning, he brought his hand down hard against you, the sharp smack landing squarely on your swollen, sensitive pussy.

you cried out, your hips jerking forward instinctively, the sting radiating through you in a way that left you gasping. the burn of the slap was almost unbearable, your body trembling from the overwhelming mix of pain and lingering pleasure, but the satisfied grunt he let out only spurred the heat in your belly further.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough, low, as his fingers trailed over the spot he’d just struck, teasing, lingering, before pulling back. “look at this mess. you’re dripping all over the couch like the filthy little whore you are.”

your chest heaved, your cheek pressed into the cushions, as you tried to catch your breath, the words hitting you as sharply as the slap had. he stepped back, finally releasing his hold on you, leaving you trembling and exposed, your skin burning where he’d touched and marked you.

“clean yourself up,” he ordered, his voice sharp, though the satisfied smirk on his face made it clear he was enjoying the sight of you sprawled and ruined. “and next time you come here with that fucking attitude, remember how you ended up.”

[cryiingoutloud]

okay so... i wrote a thing... and it's filthy, very filthy... it's coming today eheh

[cryiingoutloud]

heart out was amazing! Would love a part 2 when you have time <3

thank you my darling! part 2 is on the way, coming asap. <3

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 heart out ( matty healy x reader ) pt. 1

warnings: none. just two dickheads who can't express their feelings. wc: 3.4k

the air outside was cold, the kind that bit at your skin and sent shivers down your spine even beneath layers of clothing. the streetlights above bathed the world in a dull amber glow, flickering every few moments as if they too were exhausted by the hour. it was 3 a.m., the hour when most of the world slept, but you were awake, barely standing on the pavement outside the bar, swaying slightly with every breath. a sharp gust of wind sent your hair into disarray, but you barely felt it, your vision hazy, the world spinning just out of reach.

you fumbled with your phone, your fingers clumsy, almost numb from the alcohol coursing through your veins. the city felt too big, too loud, yet strangely silent, except for the hum of distant cars and the soft echo of your thoughts— your regrets. the glow of matty's name on the screen made your heart stutter. you didn’t know why you were calling him; maybe you did. he always came. he always picked you up. no questions. no judgment.

the phone rang once, twice, and then you heard his voice, thick with sleep and concern. you could picture him now, his messy hair sticking up in every direction, his eyebrows furrowed as he glanced at the clock. "hello?" his voice was soft but alert. "are you okay?"

you tried to respond, but the words felt heavy on your tongue. instead, a broken laugh slipped out, followed by a string of nonsensical mumblings. "matty… i— i need… i can't—" you stammered, your body leaning dangerously to one side.

there was silence on the other end, and for a brief moment, you thought he might hang up, might be too tired to come, might—

"i'm coming," he said, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. his tone was firm, decisive. "stay where you are."

and just like that, he hung up. you clutched the phone to your chest, a strange warmth blooming inside you. even in your drunken haze, the knowledge that he was coming, that he was always there, made the world feel a little less daunting, a little less cold.

fifteen minutes later, his car pulled up at the curb, headlights cutting through the foggy darkness. you could see him through the windshield, his silhouette framed by the glow of the dashboard. his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his jaw tight as his eyes searched for you.

when he stepped out of the car, the look on his face nearly broke your heart. his eyes, those deep, soulful eyes, were filled with worry and something else, something unspoken. he didn’t say anything as he walked over to you, just reached out and caught your arm gently, steadying you.

"come on," he whispered, his voice low and careful, as if he were afraid you might shatter if he spoke too loudly. his hand slid down to intertwine with yours, grounding you, pulling you back to the present moment, to him.

you leaned into his touch, your legs barely functioning as he guided you toward the car. the warmth of his hand felt like home, like safety, like everything you’d been too afraid to acknowledge all these years. you stumbled, and he caught you without a second thought, his arm wrapping around your waist to keep you upright.

"i’m sorry," you mumbled, your voice cracking. "i always… i’m always getting into trouble, and you… you’re always so…"

"shh," matty hushed you, opening the passenger door and gently helping you into the seat. "it’s okay. we’ll talk later."

but it wasn’t okay. nothing about this was okay, and yet, you wanted to believe him. you wanted to believe that just by being here, by taking care of you, matty could make everything better.

the drive was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. you leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. every now and then, you would steal a glance at matty, his profile sharp against the dim light from the dashboard. his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his hands gripped the wheel a little too tightly.

there was something fragile between you two, something that had always been there, unspoken but undeniably real. you were both too scared to break it, to cross that invisible line that had kept you tethered to each other in this strange, beautiful way.

you swallowed thickly, the taste of guilt rising in your throat. "matty… i—"

"don’t," he said softly, his eyes never leaving the road. "just… don’t."

you bit your lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. it wasn’t fair. he was always so good to you, always there when you needed him, and what did you do? you got drunk, got into trouble, and called him at three in the morning like he had nothing better to do. he deserved more than this, more than you.

when he finally pulled into his driveway, the weight of everything settled in your chest like a stone. the world outside was still and quiet, as if even the universe was holding its breath. matty turned off the engine, but he didn’t move, didn’t say anything. he just sat there, his hands still gripping the wheel, his knuckles white.

you wanted to say something, to apologize, to tell him how much you cared, how much he meant to you. but the words wouldn’t come. they were lodged in your throat, choking you, suffocating you.

after what felt like an eternity, matty finally sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "let’s get you inside."

he got out of the car and came around to your side, opening the door and helping you out. you leaned heavily on him as he guided you up the steps to his front door, fumbling with his keys before finally getting the door open.

the warmth of his house hit you like a wave, and you stumbled inside, the familiar scent of his home: his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint smell of cigarettes, wrapping around you like a blanket. you’d been here a thousand times before, but tonight, it felt different. everything felt different.

in his bedroom, the soft glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the walls, and you collapsed onto the edge of his bed, burying your face in your hands. you were a mess, physically and emotionally, and you hated it. you hated that matty had to see you like this, that he had to pick up the pieces every time you fell apart.

matty stood in front of you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes filled with an unreadable expression. he wasn’t mad, he never got mad, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest tighten.

"you should lie down," he murmured, his voice so soft, so gentle. he knelt in front of you, carefully taking your shoes off, one by one. you didn’t stop him. you couldn’t.

"i don’t deserve you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the lump in your throat.

matty looked up at you then, his eyes widening for just a second before softening, his fingers pausing mid-movement. his hands lingered over your ankle, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, that he might deny what you’d just said, tell you how wrong you were.

but he didn’t. he just let out a quiet sigh and resumed his task, pulling off your second shoe with deliberate care. when he stood up, there was a heaviness to him, a weight in his shoulders that he was trying to hide but couldn’t quite manage.

"you’re tired," he said instead, like that was the only thing that mattered right now. not the gnawing guilt that was tearing you apart, not the tension that hung thick in the air between you both. "you should get some sleep."

he took a step back, like he was giving you space, but the distance only made the ache in your chest grow sharper. you didn’t want space. you wanted him. you wanted to close the distance, to reach out and—

"i’m always tired," you mumbled, sinking further into the bed, your fingers clutching at the edge of the comforter. your heart felt like it was splintering into a thousand pieces, and you didn’t even know why. maybe it was the alcohol loosening your tongue, or maybe it was the fact that you were so tired of pretending. tired of keeping your feelings locked up in the dark corners of your heart. "tired of being like this. tired of being a mess. tired of being someone you always have to save."

you didn’t expect the sob that followed. it came out of nowhere, rising up from your chest and spilling into the quiet room, a sound so raw it startled even you. before you could stop yourself, you were crying, really crying, the tears falling fast and hot down your cheeks, the weight of everything you’d kept bottled up finally crashing down.

matty froze, his face etched with concern, but there was something else there too, something deeper, something that made his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

"you’re not a mess," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper as he stepped closer again, his hand reaching out but hesitating just before it touched your shoulder. "you’re not someone i have to save, okay? that’s not why i come."

his words were meant to comfort, but they only made the tears fall harder. because that was just it, wasn’t it? he was always saving you, always coming to your rescue, and you were always the one who needed saving.

"i don’t deserve you," you repeated, your voice cracking. "i don’t. you’re always there, matty. always. and i just… i just keep messing up."

this time, he didn’t hesitate. he knelt down in front of you again, his hands reaching for yours, pulling them gently away from your face. he held them tightly, his touch grounding you, but his eyes were filled with so much pain it nearly broke you.

"stop saying that," he said, his voice rough around the edges, like it hurt him to hear those words from you. "please, stop. you have no idea how much you mean to me, do you?"

the words hung in the air between you like a confession, a secret slipped out in the dead of night, too raw, too vulnerable. your breath hitched, your vision blurry from the tears, but you could see the truth in his eyes— the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in this world.

and that’s when it hit you. the weight of it all. the realization that this thing between you two had always been more than just friendship. you’d been tiptoeing around it for years, both too scared to say anything, too afraid to ruin what you had. but now… now it was all out in the open, bare and exposed, and there was no going back.

he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, catching the glistening trail of a tear as it slipped down. he leaned in, his touch impossibly gentle, as he pressed a soft kiss against the salty dampness, letting his lips linger just long enough to warm the skin beneath.

“you know,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, “you always remind me of the ocean.” his words floated between you like a memory come to life, a phrase he used to say so often in those younger days when everything felt simpler, when he knew just how to calm the storm inside you.

he gave a soft, almost wistful smile, as if the years between then and now dissolved in that moment. back then, he would kiss away your tears just like this, pulling you close and making the world feel small, safe. and even now, with all the weight of time and change, he knew exactly how to piece you back together, one kiss at a time, as if he'd never stopped being your anchor.

he brought his hand to your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. “the ocean isn’t just waves and salt,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your jaw. “it’s depth, strength— a whole world no one else can see. just like you.”

his words broke something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, tasting salt and regret and years of unspoken feelings. it was a quick kiss, just a fleeting brush of lips, but it was enough to make your heart race, to make the room feel like it was spinning all over again— but this time, it wasn’t the alcohol. it was him. it was always him.

matty froze beneath your touch, his breath hitching as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. when you pulled back, the shock on his face mirrored your own, his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise.

for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. neither of you breathed. the silence stretched, heavy and charged, as if the whole world had tilted off its axis.

then, without thinking, you leaned in again, your hands reaching for him, desperate to close the gap, to feel him, to make sure this wasn’t some dream. the alcohol made you brave, reckless even, and you wanted him so badly you could barely think straight. it wasn’t a soft kiss. it was desperate, a burst of emotion that had been suppressed for far too long, and for a second, you were terrified he wouldn’t kiss you back.

but then, matty moved.

his hands, which had been hovering, hesitant, suddenly found your face, cupping your cheeks as he kissed you back with a hunger that matched your own. it was as if a dam had broken inside him, and all those years of careful restraint, of denying what you both knew was there, came rushing to the surface. his lips were warm and demanding, and you could feel the heat of him against you, pulling you in, pulling you under.

you gasped softly against his mouth, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear. but he didn’t. he was right there, closer than he’d ever been, and for a moment, it was everything you’d ever wanted.

his hands slid down from your face, tracing the curve of your neck, his thumbs brushing over your jawline, almost reverent. and then, lower still, his fingers fanned out over your waist, pulling you against him. his touch was gentle, hesitant at first, but the longer the kiss deepened, the more that hesitation melted away, replaced by something raw, something real. his breath hitched as your hands moved up to his hair, tangling in the messy curls, and he groaned softly against your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

for that brief, electric moment, nothing else mattered. there were no boundaries, no unspoken rules, no fear of what would happen next. it was just you and matty, tangled together in a mess of longing and need. you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. the air between you was thick with years of tension finally unraveling, the pull between you two undeniable, magnetic.

and then his hands. one slipped under your shirt, just at the hem, his fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist, tentative but craving more. you gasped again, a quiet sound that made him pull you even closer, his kiss growing more insistent, more fervent. he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this his whole life. in that moment, you were his, and he was yours.

your fingers trailed down to the collar of his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer, and you could feel him tremble beneath your touch, feel the way his body reacted to you. everything in you screamed for more, to let this moment consume you, to let the world outside disappear.

but then, just as suddenly as it had begun, matty froze.

his lips stilled against yours, his hands stopping their exploration of your body. you could feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tensed, the way reality came crashing back. he pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

"fuck," he whispered, his voice low, tortured, and full of regret. he kept his hands on you for a moment longer, his fingers trembling against your skin like he didn’t want to let go but knew he had to. "we… i can’t. not like this."

his words hit you like a cold shock, and you blinked up at him, your heart still racing, your mind still foggy with the remnants of the kiss. "matty…"

"i want this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, and you could hear the raw truth in it, the pain of having to stop himself. "god, i want this. i want you. but not like this. you’re drunk. i—" he broke off, his voice cracking with the effort it took to hold himself back. "i’ve waited so long, and this… it can’t be like this. i don’t want to ruin it."

you could see it in his eyes, the battle he was fighting with himself, the way his body was screaming to ignore the logical part of his mind. his hands dropped from your waist, and you felt the loss of his touch like a physical ache. he pulled away, sitting up straighter, creating a distance between you that felt like a chasm, even though he was still right there.

your lips were still tingling from his kiss, your skin still burning where his hands had been. it felt wrong to stop now, to let this moment slip away, but you knew he was right. even in your alcohol-induced haze, you could see the truth in his eyes— how much this meant to him, how much he was holding back for your sake.

you swallowed hard, your heart aching as you realized the weight of his words, of his restraint. he wasn’t stopping because he didn’t want you. he was stopping because he did, because he cared too much to let it happen like this.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. you weren’t even sure why you were apologizing— maybe for starting it, maybe for putting him in this position, maybe for everything that had led up to this moment.

matty shook his head, his eyes full of regret, but also something softer, something deeper. "don’t apologize. please, don’t." his voice was thick with emotion, and he reached for you again, this time pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you in a way that felt both comforting and agonizing. "just… rest. we’ll talk in the morning, okay?"

your head rested against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your ear. his fingers stroked through your hair, gently, soothingly, but there was a tension in the way he held you, like he was barely holding himself together. like he was scared to let you go.

you nodded, too exhausted and emotionally spent to argue, though you weren’t sure you believed him. the morning felt so far away, and you weren’t sure if you could face what would come with it. but in this moment, with his arms around you and his fingers in your hair, it was enough. it had to be enough.

but matty didn’t sleep. he lay there, holding you close, his heart heavy with everything that had just happened, everything that had almost happened. he stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing, his body still aching with the need he’d pushed down, the need he couldn’t let himself indulge. and the fear - god, the fear - of what would happen when morning came.

would you remember? would you still want this, want him, when the alcohol was gone and the clarity of daylight returned?

matty didn’t know. and that uncertainty gnawed at him, keeping sleep far out of reach, even as he held you close, as if by holding you, he could somehow keep the world from crashing down around him.

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 brushstrokes of desire ( matty healy x reader )

warnings: 18+, mostly sexual tension, soft smut at the end. english is not my native language, be kind & enjoy <3 wc: 2.6k

you’re in your studio, working late into the night as the soft hum of the city outside fades into the background. the space is alive with color: splashes of vibrant reds, muted blues, and earthy tones smudged on the walls and floor. your brushes, canvases, and palettes are scattered around like the aftermath of a creative storm. the air smells faintly of paint and linseed oil, grounding you as your hands glide across the canvas, lost in the flow of creation.

you’re wearing a pair of matty’s sweatpants, soft and oversized, hanging loosely off your hips, along with an old white t-shirt, now more paint-splattered than pristine. you feel cozy, relaxed, though a little aware of how ridiculous you must look in your makeshift work outfit. but matty? he’s perched on a low chair behind you, his arms resting on his knees, watching you with an intensity that makes the air hum between you. you catch glimpses of him in the corner of your eye, his dark curls slightly tousled, his lips curved into a lazy, dreamy smile as if he’s amused by something only he understands.

his gaze, though silent, feels weighty, and you can sense it without turning around. it’s the kind of stare that warms you from the inside out, and the fact that he’s just sitting there, observing you, sends a thrill through you because you know he finds this version of you, the one covered in paint, entirely absorbed in your art, irresistible. he hasn’t said a word for a while now, content to just watch, but you know him well enough to sense what’s going on in that head of his.

you try to focus on the canvas in front of you, keep your brush steady, but the awareness of him sitting behind you is palpable. you’re working on a new piece, but the paint under your fingertips feels almost secondary to the weight of matty’s presence filling the room. his gaze feels like a touch, soft and deliberate, like he’s painting you in his mind with each passing second.

finally, you hear the faintest shuffle of movement behind you, and before you can process it, you feel his hands slide around your waist, gentle but firm. his fingers brush the exposed skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants, and a shiver runs through you at the touch. he pulls you back against him, his warmth pressing into you as he rests his chin against your shoulder, watching your hand move across the canvas.

"you're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your neck, his voice a low rasp that sends a spark of heat straight through you.

you pause, trying not to lose focus, but it’s impossible. his hands drift to your hips, his thumbs brushing slow circles over the fabric of the sweatpants, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. it’s a delicate touch, but it carries a weight that’s impossible to ignore. your hand falters on the canvas as he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, just below your hairline.

"you’re distracting me," you whisper, your voice breathless as you try - unsuccessfully - to keep painting.

he laughs softly against your skin, the sound sending another shiver down your spine. "good," he mutters, his lips grazing the sensitive spot just behind your ear. "i like distracting you."

you try to stay focused, but his hands are roaming now, one trailing up under your shirt to brush against your stomach, the other still holding your hip, pulling you closer against him. you can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of your clothes, and it makes concentrating on anything else a near impossibility.

"matty," you murmur, your voice a mix of warning and need.

he hums in response, his mouth still tracing soft, teasing kisses along your neck, and his hands - god, his hands - are making it impossible to think straight. you set your brush down, the paint on the canvas forgotten as you give in to the sensation of his touch, the way he’s effortlessly unraveling you.

you turn around in his arms, your hands finding their way into his curls as you pull his mouth to yours. the kiss is slow, languid, a mix of tenderness and simmering heat, like neither of you is in a rush but both of you know exactly where this is heading. his lips are soft, warm, moving against yours with an almost lazy hunger, like he wants to savor every second.

your hands slide down to his shoulders, then to his chest, feeling the solidness of him under your fingertips, the way his body reacts to your touch. his breath hitches when your fingers graze the hem of his shirt, tugging it up just slightly, and that’s when the idea hits you, suddenly, all at once.

you pull back slightly, your lips inches from his, and he looks at you with those dark eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust and something softer, more adoring, lingering beneath the surface.

"i want to paint you," you say, the words slipping out in a breathless rush.

he blinks, surprised for a moment, but then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "yeah?" his voice is rough, but there’s a playful note to it, like he already loves the idea. "what are you thinking?"

you smile, excitement bubbling up in your chest. "let me use you as a canvas."

he doesn’t need more convincing. he steps back slightly, his hands falling away from your hips as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. your gaze follows the movement, and your breath catches again at the sight of him. his bare chest, the way his muscles ripple with every movement. he watches you with that same smirk, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

"you gonna paint me, love?" he teases, his voice low, dripping with suggestion.

you nod, your pulse quickening as you grab a fresh brush, dipping it into a pot of deep blue paint. "turn around," you instruct softly, and he does, his back now facing you. the muscles there shift under his skin as he moves, and the sight alone sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

you step closer, your eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, his spine, the curve of his waist. you reach out and run your fingers lightly across his skin, and he shivers at the contact, goosebumps rising where your fingertips have touched. you smile to yourself, loving how responsive he is to you.

with a deep breath, you press the tip of the brush against his back, the coolness of the paint making him tense for a moment. you begin to drag the brush in slow, deliberate strokes, painting abstract shapes and patterns, your mind following the rhythm of his breath, the rise and fall of his body. the blue spreads across his skin in soft waves, and you add hints of white, blending the colors like the sky meeting the sea.

every stroke of the brush seems to draw out something deeper, a tension that hums in the air between you. you can feel it building with every pass of the brush, the way his muscles tighten under your touch, the way his breath becomes more labored. he shifts slightly, his head dropping forward, exposing more of his neck, and you can't resist brushing a kiss against his nape, feeling him shudder in response.

the room feels smaller now, the silence heavy, punctuated only by the sound of your breathing and the soft drag of the brush across his skin. you move closer, your body nearly pressed against his as you work, your fingers occasionally brushing against his bare skin as you adjust your strokes.

"fuck," he mutters under his breath, his voice strained. "you're killing me."

you smile, but you don’t stop, your hand moving lower, tracing the curve of his lower back with the brush. his breath hitches again, and you can feel the tension in him building, coiling tighter with every passing second. you’re not just painting him, you’re teasing him, driving him slowly out of his mind with every careful stroke.

the room feels thick with heat, the air charged with a tension so palpable it makes your heart race. you can feel it in the way he’s holding himself so still, like he’s barely keeping it together, and you know that he’s close to snapping.

you pause for a moment, stepping back to admire your work, and the sight of him bare, painted, his skin a canvas of blues and whites, muscles taut and quivering under your touch sends a wave of desire crashing through you. you want him. now.

but before you can make a move, he turns around suddenly, his eyes dark and wild, and in one swift motion, he pulls you to him. his mouth crashes against yours, hot and demanding, all of the tension from before exploding between you in a rush of need.

your hands find his bare chest, fingers smearing the paint as you cling to him, and he groans into your mouth, the sound deep and guttural. the kiss is messy, desperate, a clash of tongues and teeth as you both lose yourselves in the heat of it. you barely register him guiding you down to the floor until your back hits the soft sheets covering the studio floor, the fabric crumpling beneath you.

his hands are everywhere: gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt, tugging it over your head, until you’re both bare, your skin flushed and slick with paint. he presses you down into the floor, his body hovering over yours, and the feeling of his skin against yours, still wet with paint, is almost too much to bear.

"god, you’re beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough and breathless as his eyes rake over your body, taking in every inch of you.

his words send a shiver through you, and you reach up, your hands finding his face as you pull him back down to you. his lips are on yours again, but this time the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as though he’s savoring the taste of you. his hands roam your body with a kind of reverence, fingertips tracing lines over your bare skin, dragging through the smears of paint. the feeling of his touch, mixed with the slickness of the paint and the heat between you, makes everything feel heightened, every sensation magnified.

his lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw, across the line of your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses to your collarbone. you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as his mouth moves lower, painting your skin with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. the contrast of the wet, cool paint and the heat of his mouth sends sparks through you, each touch leaving you aching for more.

you feel the tension building again, thick and heavy in the air between you, each breath you take filled with anticipation. your hands glide over his back, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling them tense and shift beneath your touch. he shivers under your hands, his breath hot against your skin as he works his way lower, his mouth worshiping every inch of you.

"matty," you breathe, your voice a soft plea, and he pauses, lifting his head to meet your gaze. his dark eyes are blown wide with desire, his lips swollen from kissing you, and the sight of him like this, completely undone, completely yours, sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core.

he doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with that intense, almost reverent gaze, and then he’s moving again, pressing his body flush against yours. you gasp at the feeling of him, hard and ready, pressing against your thigh. the friction between your bodies, the way his skin slides against yours, slick with paint and sweat, makes everything feel electric, like every nerve in your body is on fire.

"are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against your ear, even though you can see the barely controlled hunger in his eyes, the way he’s struggling to keep himself in check.

you nod, your heart pounding in your chest, your body aching for him. "yes," you breathe, your voice shaky but sure. "i want you."

that’s all he needs to hear. in the next moment, he’s positioning himself between your thighs, his body pressing down against yours, and then he’s inside you, filling you completely. you both gasp at the feeling, the connection between you so intense, so overwhelming, that for a moment, neither of you moves. you’re both suspended in that perfect moment, the air around you buzzing with energy, with the raw, undeniable connection you share.

and then he’s moving, slow at first, his hips rolling against yours in a steady, measured rhythm that has you arching up into him, desperate for more. his hands are on your hips, holding you steady as he rocks into you, each thrust deeper, harder, more deliberate than the last. your bodies move together in perfect sync, the friction between you sending waves of pleasure crashing through you with every movement.

"god, you feel so good," he groans, his voice tight with pleasure as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

you can’t form words, can’t do anything but cling to him, your fingers digging into his back, leaving smears of blue paint across his skin as you hold on for dear life. the heat between you is unbearable, the tension building and building with every thrust, every breath, until it feels like you might shatter from the intensity of it all.

his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more frantic, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back, trying to make this last. but you’re both so close, teetering on the edge of something explosive, and it’s all you can do to keep up with him, your body trembling with need, with anticipation.

"matty," you moan, your voice desperate and breathless, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

with a low, guttural groan, he surges into you one last time, his body tensing as he comes, his release triggering your own. the wave of pleasure that crashes over you is intense, overwhelming, and you cling to him as your body shakes with the force of it, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the world around you seems to blur into nothing but him, his body, his touch, his love.

for a long moment, neither of you moves, both of you spent and breathless, your bodies tangled together on the paint-streaked sheets. his chest rises and falls against yours as he catches his breath, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, still in sync with your own.

slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, and the look in them is so full of tenderness, of affection, that it makes your heart ache. he smiles, soft and lazy, and leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, the heat between you simmering down into something quieter, more intimate.

"you’re incredible," he murmurs against your lips, his voice soft, reverent.

you smile, feeling warm and light and utterly content. "so are you."

he chuckles softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "we should do this more often," he teases, his voice playful now, and you laugh, feeling a sense of ease and happiness settle over you.

as you lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside the studio seems distant, irrelevant. all that matters is this moment, this connection between you, this love that feels almost too perfect, too real to be true.

but it is real, and it’s yours. and as you drift off in the warmth of his embrace, surrounded by the smell of paint and the lingering heat of your passion, you can’t help but feel that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.