rockstar girlfriend – matty healy
tired of being treated like the girlfriend and not like the rockstar, you decide to pull a very rock move in the studio
warnings: 18+, oral (male receiving), fingering, soft dom!matty, praise, bit of degradation, drug use
2696 words
The New York Times calls you ‘everyone’s favorite rockstar’s girlfriend’. Twitter fan accounts gather a curated four picture reel of your best candids and caption it ‘rockstar bf it girl gf’. E!News’ periodic articles updating the world on all your recent outings read ‘Matty Healy and his girlfriend’. (Matty Healy and his girlfriend enjoy a steamy kiss outside a club in Manchester. Matty Healy and his girlfriend spotted in New York City with Coppola Cafe to-go cups. Matty Healy and his girlfriend hold hands as they wait for the London underground.) MusicoCritics title their deep dive on you ‘Matty Healy’s girlfriend’s album is a surprising masterpiece’.
Nevermind that it’s your fourth critically acclaimed album. Nevermind that your living room shelves — clustered with flower-pressed poetry books, esoteric trinkets found in thrift stores worldwide, potted plants on the edge of death — hold multiple well-earned awards. Nevermind that you’ve been singing for fifteen years, scribbling incoherent lyrics in the corner of books for longer than that.
Nevermind that you’re a fucking rockstar yourself.
You are Matty Healy’s girlfriend; you are the appendix of a musician. Your boyfriend’s name collects apostrophes while yours dust away, forgotten under aliases, rotting from underuse.
And, well, you’re fucking pissed. An entire career, fifty-seven songs, countless of voice-killing concerts, and it pales to practical inexistence for a nine months relationship.
Not that you don’t love Matty. It’s just— You want to be more, you want to be whole.
You’re in your rented studio, sitting on the dirty couch, reading countless Reddit comments asking ‘who’s Matty’s gf’ and ‘i didn’t knwo she made music lol’, fuming. You should be working on your fifth album, the idea of a ballad lingering in a corner of your brain, but you are too busy driving yourself nearly insane. Injustice grips your guts, twists up around it. You want to scream.
Matty sits beside you, lighting up a joint. His hair is unmade, falling messily around his head. Smoke pours out of his lips. “Stop reading that bullshit,” he says, not unsmartly.
Your lips purse. “I know, I know.” You groan, head falling on the back of the couch. “Fuck, I just can’t help it. This is actually fucking shitty.”
In an effort to distract you, or perhaps loosen you up, Matty passes you the joint. He has two rings, silver and chunky, and chipped nail polish. There is something incomprehensibly attractive about his hands, callused and masculine; long, dexterous fingers around waxed paper. Desire pools in your stomach. You lick your lips, looking away, taking a hit.
“You should go crazy. Be a fucking cliche rockstar just in spite.” Matty grins. “Smoke a ton, do even more drugs. Destroy your voice. Show up late. Be too drunk to play.”
You snort. “Fuck groupies.”
“I might have something to say against that.”
“Die young.”
“You’re already past 27. You’ve lost your chance.”
A smoky laugh leaves your lips. Still, you consider his words, cocking your head. An idea half-blooming somewhere in you. “I think you’re onto something.”
“What?”
“I should make a rock album,” you say. “Be super fucking obnoxious about it, too. Make all these references, interpolate all the greats.” You smirk, giving him a teasing glance.
A curl of hair falls over his forehead. His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a drag of his joint, cheeks digging it, brown eyes closing in ecstasy. He’s so fucking hot. You’d tell him if it wouldn’t go straight to his head, blow it up until he couldn’t fit through the door at all.
Cheekily, you throw a leg over his legs, straddling his lap. He welcomes you easily, a lazy hand holding onto your hip. “I’ll be the rockstar. You can be my eye candy,” you continue, fingers hungrily climbing to his shoulders.
“Is that so?” His fingers tighten, dragging you closer to him. Your hips roll over him with precision, clever hand working you at just the right angle. Your mouth parts, a strike of pleasure climbing up your spine. You stare at him through your eyelashes. He’s entirely too casual, too pleased. Cocky as he watches you, makes you rock your hips again.
“Yeah,” you nod, breathless.
You grind slowly, teasingly. As soon as you try to speed up, a powerful hand halts you. A puppet to a cruel man who smiles as you fail to get any real action going. The pace is torturous, lighting up your body until all parts of you are aware of him, of his hardening cock. You feel him most of all in the ache between your thighs, in the absence of him.
Frustratingly, your hands dig in his shoulders, clawing at the cotton. It’s unfair how little he reacts, how put-together he seems in his white button-up shirt, watching you grow desperate. Brattily, you add, “Yeah, you’re almost pretty enough.”
Matty laughs, but you can tell he’s a little peeved; overblown ego shot down with your cheeky smirk. He adventures a hand under your band tee, pinches your side, digs his nails into your back, encouraging your hips to rock faster with a rough, ruthless hand. Victory feels like a wave of toe-curling pleasure. Heat spreads under your skin, tightening your muscles. A small, self-indulgent whine leaves your mouth.
A grin breaks his face, cocky and pleased. How quickly the upper hand slips from you. Huffing, desperate to wipe it off, you crash your lips against his, swiping it away with a greedy tongue.
The kiss leaves you hungrier. Matty has always known how to coax the wanton need from you. How to leave you rocking furiously against him, hot and desperate, thoughtless except for the overwhelming need to get off. Throbbing and uncomfortably wet, a high-pitched moan slips into his mouth.
You break away to pant in his parted lips. Your hands hide in the mess of his hair, tugging at the roots, vengeful, careless. Still, Matty groans, rolling his head backwards. You smile too, just as cheeky, just as proud. He puts out the dwindling joint on your sofa, throwing it thoughtlessly in the studio. Finally free, he slips under your shirt, grabbing a handful of your breast.
You bury yourself in the side of his neck, licking and biting under his jaw. With expert fingers, you undo the buttons of his shirt until pearls of breathy, pained moans spill out of him. It sounds like a song, like the rhythm of your favorite melody. You’d bottle it up if you could, burn it on a CD to listen for later.
You sit up, spine straightening, practically ripping your mouth from him. The movement is so sudden you feel it reverberating in your head. Your hips still as thoughts spin in your soupy brain. Matty whines unhappily, hand digging in your back.
It takes five seconds. Once the idea fully forms, you look back at him with a mischievous smile. You start your rolls again, tantalizingly slow. You whisper, half to him but more to yourself, “I’ll be the rockstar, alright.”
Matty frowns. Out of breath, he says, “What?”
You don’t bother explaining. Instead, you stand up, leaving another moan to fall from his lips. Hands tumble from your shirt. Turning around to your mixing board, you hit the record button.
He’s even more confused when you come back to him, standing between his open legs. You take your time, racking two hands through your sweaty hair. Towering over him, you feel power gather around you, a heady mixture leaving you wetter than before.
You’re drunk on him, on the taste of weed and toothpaste, on the look of his thoroughly destroyed hair, of his red, swollen lips hanging onto your every possible word. His chest rises up and down in quick succession. A tempting tent in his slacks draws your eyes lower.
You ignore the throb. You ignore the need. You ignore the coil of building tension. You say, “I’m gonna make you scream.” You fall to your knees.
His legs widen, hips rising in excitement. “Fuck,” he groans just from the sight of you. Mesmerized, he watches in sacred silence as you work on his belt buckle. “Fuck, love, look at you.”
Matty’s own hand helps at his pants, ring twinkling in the low light. Finally, you manage to free his cock, hard and up, begging. You stare at it for a second, appreciating its glory. Your eyes snap back to his.
You follow every expression as it overwhelms his face when you first wrap your hand around it, allowing one slow stroke. His eyes close, his lips part, his head falls. He’s an atheist experiencing religion for the first time. He’s breathing your name, he’s worshiping it.
You smile. Your lips wrap around his tip, sucking on it. His hips jump in surprise. Matty’s eyes snap open, staring at you with a gasp. Exactly what you wanted.
“I want you to look at me,” you say, licking up his shaft. “Don’t stop looking at me.”
You could tease him. A part of you wants to, hand burning to slow down. A bigger part of you wants to ruin him.
You swallow him down. Matty’s breath comes out in heaving puffs amidst the scattered moans. You feel his thighs flex under your hands; his open shirt reveals a taut, tattooed stomach, muscles rippling with ecstasy.
You bob up and down, an electric pace that has you swallowing back a gag. Whatever you can’t fit, you stroke with deft fingers, twisting your wrist just like he likes. Feeling particularly devilish, you moan around his length just to hear him mutter a pained, “Shit.” His hips rise, but you push him back pointedly. Payback is salty and lingers on your tongue.
Feeling yourself choking, you release him, spitting on his dick to lube it up. Matty thrusts up in your hand, eyes rolling back until he remembers your order.
You lick at his tip, swirling your tongue around it, before taking him back in your slick and swollen lips. “You’re so pretty,” Matty says, voice hoarse. “Fuck, you were made for this, weren’t you?” You moan in agreement. “Yeah, that’s right. Made to be drooling on your knees for me.”
Perhaps embarrassingly, you feel a pool of arousal gather in your stomach from his words. Your thighs clench, hips rolling against nothing in hope of relieving that burning ache between them. Your clit feels criminally ignored.
Matty’s hands fly to your hair, racking through the mess he’s made of it. “Show me your tits,” he orders. Your eyebrows shoot up, but he’s only peering down at you with challenge.
Releasing him with a bop, saliva stringing from your lip to his dick, you take your shirt off. You can’t bother to unhook your bra, lowering the cups down and grabbing one of your nipples with your free hand. You pinch meanly, just like he would, and the pleasure spreading through you feels heavenly. A broken groan leaves your lips. “That’s it,” he breathes. “What a good girl, giving me a show.”
You whine. You can feel the control slipping from your hands with every ticking second, but your thighs are so sticky, your clit so swollen, your climax so far.
He gathers a handful of your hair, bringing you to his dick. Your head stings, but you welcome him back with an open mouth. This time, you do none of the work, letting him thrust himself in your throat. Your eyes water as he goes deeper.
“Shhh,” he sighs as tears stain your cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re doing so good, baby.” You nod, coaxing a desperate groan out of him. “What a good, little slut. Taking my dick so well.” Again, you nod, mouth full. Your hips shift, moving left and right uncomfortably. You can’t seem to get any real friction going, but you feel your insides throb against nothing.
“Poor baby,” Matty coos. “You want to come too?” Needy screams muffled by his cock. Matty sneaks his booted foot between your thighs, pressing so deliciously against your clit you cry out. “There you go, baby. Grind.”
And so you do, furiously rocking against his boot. Your hand not busy playing with your nipples wraps around his leg, gripping his calf. The pleasure is so pure your eyes roll back in your skull.
“Eyes on me,” Matty’s rough voice rings through the room. You open your eyes, locking with his darkened ones. “That’s right. I want you to look at me.” His face breaks with a victorious grin. Payback probably tastes like sweat and sweet moans to him.
You can feel both of you grow frantic. Matty bucks into you with a merciless, frenzied pace. His hold onto your head is ruthless; his fingers dig into your scalp, but you only scream more. Your hips follow his rhythm, each leather drag over your cunt making sweet euphoria grip your stomach.
“Gonna come for me?” He thrusts with abandon, practically choking you. Tension builds in your core, pussy clenching. “Gonna come all over my boot?” Bold words coming from a man just on the edge of an orgasm.
To prove your point, you hollow your cheeks, watching with glee as cries break out of his throat, eyes scrunching tight, cum spilling out of him. You suck on his tip indulgently as he comes in your mouth, cock still pulsing while strings of incoherent promises fall out of him. He strokes your hair tenderly as he slowly comes to himself.
Matty cracks an eye open. He falls out of your mouth and you swallow his seed, watching him as you promised as you lick your lips. Another rough moan leaves him, half stitled by a chuckle. Ringed finger swipes your chin, gathering a forgotten rope of cum he shoves back in your mouth. You suck on it.
He seems to realize then you still haven’t come. Face grimacing in shame, he grabs you by the armpits, putting you back in his lap. “Poor baby. You’re so close, aren’t you?”
“Please,” you whine.
Matty pouts, nodding indulgently. “It’s okay. I got you.”
He sneaks two fingers in your pants. You should be ashamed by the amount of wetness; sticking thighs greeting him home. You’re too gone for that, of course, just sighing happily as he rubs tight circles on your clit.
Your head falls on his shoulder. “I know,” he says, imitating your spineless whine, thrusting two fingers inside of you. You’re so wet there’s not even any resistance, cunt opening to let him in easily.
His thumb continues his drawings on your bundle of nerves. He fucks his fingers into you, rapid and wild. You’re close again before you have time finishing a coherent thought, moaning in his open mouth.
“Right there,” Matty encourages. “Come for me.”
Your body shudders as you scream. You finally lose the tyrannical strings holding your body together. Euphoria spreads to each limb, making your head fall back as the edges of the world blur around you. Tension leaves your body in wiping waves. You flutter around his fingers, clenching and unclenching as you cry out his name.
It takes you a few moments to come back to Earth. Matty takes his fingers out of you, wiping the wetness on the couch. You slap at his shoulders, but he simply laughs. “I love you,” he whispers in your hair, bending down to kiss you.
When you finally regain control of your legs, you stand up to reach your mixing board. Hitting pause, and then play, Matty’s needy groans fill the studio. You throw him a look over your shoulder, but not even a pornographic recording of him could make Matty Healy blush.
And, maybe your fifth album features a song named Blow You. Maybe deep, masculine sounds of pleasure accompany the chorus — just out of reach enough for people to be incapable of pinning it down. Maybe countless news outlets try to figure out, articles upon articles attempting to elucidate if it really is your boyfriend, Matty Healy, moaning on the track. Maybe they call you by your name. Maybe they even call you a genderbending, masterful, classic rockstar.
