do you have any wips that you haven’t posted anything about yet but are super excited for? 👀 give me crumbs PLEASE 🙏
- mercyfics <3
Knuckle Velvet - Crumbs
WC: ~1.1k
CW: Sub-DLID!Matty x Dom-Fem!Reader, smut, body writing, marking, BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD, allusions to sex, Matty cums kinda pathetically, Matty is just a bit pathetic overall in this, tiny allusion to smoking, angsty, like no dialogue omg, so unbelievably short, DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO SEE SEMI VIOLENT BODY MARKING!!!
A/N: @mercyfics hi babe!!! You asked for crumbs, and crumbs you shall receive! This will be a full fic I promise, but it has been living in the good doc for a while so it finally sees the light of day! Also, this might be absolutely insane and freaked out so sorry in advance. This is like three words long but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Also, the title and fic idea comes from 'Knuckle Velvet' by Ethel Cain!! Thank you for the ask, lovely!!
The water of the creek was mirror-like under the stars. It was almost eerie, you thought. It stood still– too still. The liquid was dark. Innately, it was. Even if it hadn’t been hours past dark, and the two of you hadn’t turned off the headlights of Matty’s dad’s beat up beamer, and the shadows of the trees hadn’t warped themselves into the puddle-like body.
The water was dark.
It held secrets, you were sure of it.
Maybe they were held in the blood that had been sucked from the limbs of innocent teens who had ventured to swim in it and ended up with leeches.
Maybe it was in the blue flag iris that had woven its way between the blades of grass. Maybe it whispered to the marsh marigold and they all laughed with the cardinal flowers.
Maybe, but probably not.
You were almost sure you knew where the secrets were; where they came from.
They were in the smoke that had been passed between your mouth and Matty’s.
They were in the messy kisses you had pressed into his unruly curls as you came down from your highs; basking in the bright afterglow that reflected off of the water just as easily as the stars above.
They were in the cum that you had washed away in the creek as you washed the sunrise.
They were spewed from the mouths of deer who had seen too much and come back to tell stories like war heroes who had just narrowly survived the hunters that had taken over their woods.
They were in the slow, methodical drip of crimson down Matty’s back.
It hadn’t hit the water. No, not yet.
It hadn’t been returned back to the world yet.
That meant it was still yours.
That meant he was still yours.
“F-fuck…hurts…” Matty groans under your fingertips, facedown and utterly helpless against the grass, “hurts s-so good…”
You smirk, pressing your sharpened nails into the meat of his back once again.
You’re not entirely sure how the evening began.
Well, maybe that was a bit of a lie.
It had begun just as most evenings with Matty did.
A call.
His tires in the gravel of your driveway.
Sparkly lip gloss against the pale skin of his neck.
Teasing whispers poured into his ears about the boner that he had developed far too soon considering the circumstances.
A drive down to the creek where you had grown up learning the route to.
A ruined orgasm and a needy whimper that escaped his mouth.
That’s when things changed.
Part of you thinks the creek willed it to be so– it must have.
Afterall, it held all of those damn secrets, all of those sacred stories and promises woven into the very fibers of your souls.
As he lays under you now, tears staining his face and the grass below, one singular stream of blood trickling down from the apex of his shoulders from where you had dug too deep, you remember what he said said to you.
Maybe you would have felt guilty if it wasn’t for the tone of his voice.
The sparkle in his eyes; it was shinier than any eyeshadow you had ever seen on the shelves of the stores you spent your paychecks at.
“‘Want you to make it hurt.” He had said, voice so quiet you could have easily mistaken it for the rustle of the wind, or the snap of a branch under a deer’s hoof. “‘Need you to make it hurt. P-please.”
“Okay baby,” you had cooed back to him, stroking his hair as you sat in his lap, stroking him slowly with one hand, the other running up and down his chest, tracing soothing circles into his skin, “just let me take care of you, yeah? I’ll give you what you need, I know what you need.”
That is exactly how he ended up here.
And, god, you’re certain he had never looked so beautiful. Stained and red; punctured and marked.
You dragged your nail up and down across the now-maroon flesh; two high peaks with low tails.
‘M’
One, straight line. You press deeper.
‘I’
One more peak and a long stripe downwards. Matty’s back arches, he whimpers in pain and grinds against the muddy ground, eliciting a muffled moan from his grass-kissed mouth.
‘N’
“One last one for me, yeah? ‘Know you can take a bit more,” you press an open mouth kiss into the back of his neck as his noises alternate from sobs to moans, mind writhing between pain and pleasure. “You look so pretty for me, doing so well.”
You drag your pointer finger across the make-shift canvas, into a long straight line with three tallies across.
‘E’
“Done,” you lean back, pressing a flat hand over the wounds. One begins to bleed a bit more and you begin to worry if you may have gone too far. You pull your hand back and Matty hisses at the lack of contact.
“Mmmhhh– ahh! Please…”
The moment that your eyes lock on the writing, all remnants of worry or disdain for your actions dissolve and melt right into the creek beside you.
‘MINE’
“Shhh, my pretty baby did so well, yeah?” You pull Matty back up, moving him to face you.
Your bodies press flush against each other as he sobs into your shoulder, his back crimson and flaming and dripping with love.
Every last drop is love that will be returned to the creek. Love that you can’t get back.
The creek will feast on secrets tonight; you mouth a ‘you’re welcome’ to the midnight pool as Matty heaves in overstimulation.
You hadn’t even realised that he had finished all over himself in the process. The thought suddenly crosses your mind that he may fear that you’re upset that he didn’t ask. Worry washes over your face as you pull his head from the crook of your neck.
“Hey, hey– you did so well, my love. You’re so perfect, you know that?”
Matty lets out a noise that can only be described as a hiccup; his eyes still teary and his expression fucked out and hazy.
“I-i did good?” Matty looks at you like you were God– as if your fingers weren’t the smoking gun that had shot him with such perfect aim– given him the mercy of agony that he had begged so sweetly for.
“Of course, perfect boy.” You kiss his forehead, tasting the salt of his skin and the earth that lingered there from being pressed into the dirt.
“Absolutely perfect.”
You run your palms over his still-bare back as he melts further into you.
Your hand begins to feel wet– sticky, almost. You pull it back and are met with a thin sheen of red over your fingertips. You let out a small gasp.
“Why does Flippy wear his military uniform even though he has ptsd FROM the military?”
This isn’t a stupid question, but it’s simply because the characters don’t talk. They need visual storytelling in place of verbal storytelling. He probably wouldn’t wear one in an AU, though.
For example: Flippy only wears white shirts and black gloves because the color of his own fur is a trigger.
Why? Because the color green is deeply ingrained into the army. Think Camo, night vision, tanks, grenades etc. it’s all green, though of different hues. He doesn’t even look at himself while he showers because it’s so bad.
Was this an excuse to rant about my version of Flippy? Yes. BUT: to summarize, he wears his uniform so the audience knows he’s a veteran.
he did just hold on TWICE btw. once on night 1 with our close personal friend steve aoki and once on night 2 as a stripped-down acoustic version during his own set. lives were changed. timelines were altered. worlds were shattered and repaired anew
Witches of Tumblr and Fae enthusiasts I have a question —
So you’re fae, and therefore have to follow fae rules (can’t lie, etc.), you also have ridiculous IBS that you are keeping secret for some reason. The cashier at your local Costco starts to notice that you buy a ridiculous amount of toilet paper, and one day asks you about it. You *really* don’t want them to know about your IBS so you say you have cats at home, therefore implying that your cats simply destroy everything ever — including toilet paper. You aren’t lying, but you also don’t answer the question.
