Blood is on your tongue as well as your hands.
⚠️ 18+ ONLY. EXPLICIT CONTENT
TW: Toxic relationship, substance abuse (cocaine), extreme manipulation, aggressive/rough sexual content, dubious consent/dubcon, breath play/choking, gun mention, verbal abuse, degradation, marking/biting, blood play (biting lip, swallowing blood), extreme violence, domestic abuse, bruising, physical restraint.
Pairing: Matty Healy x Fem!Reader
Summary: You are in a relationship with a lethal, controlling dealer who doesn't tolerate betrayal. When Matty discovers you got gear that didn't pass through his hands, paranoia and rage take over. Amid lines of white powder, violence, and submission, he reclaims you in the most savage way, reminding you through pain and euphoria that your body, your addiction, and your life belong only to him.
The echo of the slammed door still vibrates through the flat’s walls when you hear his heavy footsteps thudding across the living room. There are no lights on; only the flickering glow of the muted tv illuminates the line of white powder left on the coffee table. You didn't have time to clean it up. You didn't have time to hide the trace of your betrayal.
Before you can even stand up, Matty’s hand clamps around your throat. His grip is iron—cold and lethal—forcing you backward until your spine cracks violently against the wall. The impact knocks the wind right out of you, but your heart is doing triple-time, accelerated by the bootleg gear running through your veins and the addictive panic of having him pinning you down. You hear the heavy, metallic click of a weapon. Out of his waistband, he pulls a compact handgun—small, sleek, but terrifyingly lethal. He doesn’t hesitate. He presses the freezing metal of the barrel directly under your chin, forcing your head up at a sharp angle. Slowly, deliberately, he drags the gun upward, the cold steel scraping a cruel path along your jawline, trailing over your lips until it forces them apart. With a brutal nudge, he shoves the barrel straight into your mouth, resting it heavy against your tongue.
"Look at me," his voice is a low, gravelly growl, pressed right against your ear. "Take a proper look at it, love. Feel how heavy it is. It's fully loaded, and the first bullet inside it is meant for the next bastard who dares to sell you rubbish behind my back."
He stares down at you, his dark eyes completely blown out, searching your face for a lie to tear apart. He twists the barrel slightly against your teeth, making you taste the oil and steel before he violently yanks it out of your mouth.
"Whose is it?" he snarls, the rage boiling over. He carelessly chucks the gun, letting it thud heavily onto the sofa nearby. His hands fly straight back to your body. "I asked you a bloody question. Whose fucking gear is that?"
Your hands claw at his wrists, not to pull away, but to anchor yourself to him while your toes barely scrape the floor. Matty isn’t just your boyfriend; he’s your keeper. He’s the one who decides when you get high and when you crash, and you’ve just let another man into his territory.
"You weren't back..." you manage to gasp, a broken smirk slipping out from the sheer euphoria of the rush. "You took too long, Matty."
That snaps it. A muffled curse slips from his lips and, with a brutal twist, he spins you around, slamming your chest flat against the wall. You feel the crushing weight of his body pinning you, rendering you useless. With one hand, he keeps your head shoved hard against the cold plaster, while his other hand starts tearing at your clothes, rifling through your pockets, shoving his rough fingers under your fabric to see if you’ve got any more of the gear that didn't pass through his hands.
"If I find out that bastard put a finger on you, I’ll bury him alive," he snarls, ripping the collar of your top to check down your chest. "And you, I’ll lock you away so you never see the bloody daylight. You’re mine. Have you got that? Mine."
It’s in that savage yank, as the fabric gives way and your trousers drag down a fraction, that he stops dead. Matty’s breath hitches, turning into a sharp, animal huff against the nape of your neck. His hand, which a second ago was roughing you up with relentless force, freezes. The elastic of your knickers is exposed, and right there, on the high curve of your hip just above your arse, the dark, purplish bruises stand out—the perfect shape of his large, possessive fingers. It’s the map of last night. The physical proof that he claims you until it breaks you.
You feel the furious tension in his body mutate into something else. Something thick, hot, and a thousand times more dangerous. Matty lets out a low groan and slides downward, dropping to his knees on the floor behind you. Your legs shake, weakened by the coke and the sudden rush of heat flooding your spine at the feeling of him so low, so utterly ruined by his own chaos. His hands, strangely slow now, settle onto your thighs to keep you steady as he leans into your skin. The first kiss he presses against the bruise is almost a punishment; he digs his lips in hard, making you let out a strangled whimper from the sharp sting of the soreness. But straight after, the tip of his tongue traces the mark, licking the injury with a sick sort of devotion, as if he’s trying to cure you or taste his own property.
"Mine," he mutters against your skin again, his voice vibrating right through your bones while his fingers dig into your flesh right beside the old marks. "It hurt, didn't it? It hurt, and you still went and found someone else. You know you drive me fucking mental. You know if you leave, I’ll burn this whole bloody city down with you inside."
Your hands press flat against the wall to keep from collapsing, arching your back, surrendering completely to the erotic degradation of having the street's worst monster on his knees, kissing your wounds, trapped in the exact same addiction as you.
He lets out a dark, ragged breath against your skin before standing up. The sudden lack of his body heat leaves you shivering against the wall, your cheek pressed flat against the cold, rough plaster. You can hear him moving behind you, the frantic, sharp rustle of plastic. He’s digging into his jacket, pulling out his own reserve—the pure stuff he keeps only for himself, the gear he never sells to the street.
Before you can even turn your head, his hand gripping your jaw from behind forces your face right back against the wall. His fingers dig into your cheeks so hard it hurts, pinning you flat.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping to a dangerous, jagged whisper near your ear.
You strain your neck, your cheek still scraped against the cold wall, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. Matty has poured a heavy mount of the white powder directly onto his thumb. His hand is steady, but his eyes are wild, completely consumed by a desperate, toxic need to reclaim what’s his.
"You want to get high so badly, love? You want to look for it elsewhere?" he snarls, his chest heaving against your back as he shoves his coated thumb right under your nose, forcing it against your lips. "Inhale. Take it from me. Every single fucking drop of it comes from me from now on. Sniff it."
Your heart batters against your ribs like a trapped bird. Driven by the sheer dependency and the intoxicating terror of him, you breathe in sharply, taking the hit straight from his skin. The rush is instant, a burning, chemical wave that hits the back of your throat and fires straight to your brain, making your vision blur.
But Matty doesn't give you a second to process the high.
The moment the powder leaves his skin, his hand flies back to your hair, fisting the strands to tilt your head back at a brutal angle. He leans in, completely desperate, completely feral, and buries his face in the crook of your neck.
He doesn't just kiss you; he bites.
His teeth sink deep into the sensitive flesh of your shoulder and neck, biting down so violently that a sharp gasp of pain and pleasure rips from your lungs. It’s too hard, borders on agony, but it’s the exact brand of ruin you crave. He holds you there, pinning your lower body with his hips, marking you bloody, while the fresh gear takes over your senses, blurring the line between the pain in your neck and the euphoria in your head.
"You’re going to ruin me," Matty whimpers against the bite, his teeth still grazing your pulse point as his hands slide back down to your hips, gripping the bruises he made before. "You're going to bloody ruin me, and I'm going to let you."
The fresh gear is burning through your veins, but the heat radiating off Matty is a thousand times more suffocating. You feel his desperation mutate into a violent, almost animal urgency. From behind, with quick, clumsy movements loaded with a savage anxiety, his hands drop back down to your hips. His fingers hook into the elastic of your knickers that was already exposed, ripping the fabric all the way down in one sharp, brutal yank. He discards the obstacle entirely, leaving you completely bare while he keeps pinning you, smashing his hard pelvis right against your arse.
You hear the heavy metal rattle of his fly zipping down. There is no foreplay. No gentleness. Matty shoves one of his heavy boots between your feet to force your legs apart, and with a rough, desperate thrust, he buries himself inside you all at once, straight against the wall.
A shattered gasp rips from your throat as your body is completely filled by him. The initial sting melts instantly into the electric rush of the cocaine, blurring your mind. Matty begins to hammer into you with a relentless force—a fast, merciless rhythm that scrapes your chest and your cheek against the cold plaster of the wall with every single impact.
"Fucking whore... you’re my fucking whore," he growls into your ear, his breath ragged, completely out of his mind. His words are filthy, violent, meant to break you. "You like it when I ruin you like this, don't you? You love it when I treat you like absolute rubbish. Open those bloody legs wide for me. No one else touches this body, do you hear me? No one. If another bloke looks at you, I’ll kill him, and if you let him touch you, I’ll break you first. You’re mine until you fucking die."
The rush has you so high that you try to turn your head, trying to form a word—maybe to provoke him further, maybe to scream his name. But Matty doesn't let you. His free palm clamps straight over your face, catching your jaw in an iron grip and forcing your head back, stretching the muscles of your neck out to the side at a painful angle that forces your mouth open for him.
He leans over and destroys your mouth with a kiss. It’s a filthy, desperate, incredibly wet kiss. Your tongues clash and tangle with pure fury, a mess of spit and possession while his hips keep slamming into you from behind, driving into you without mercy. The rhythm is chaotic, deafening. And right there, in the dead middle of the frenzy, the madness takes over you completely. You sink your teeth deep into his bottom lip, biting down until the skin splits wide open.
The hot, metallic taste of his blood floods your mouth instantly. Far from scaring you, a twisted, sick, deeply toxic smirk spreads across your stained lips as you pull back a single millimetre. You look at him out of the corner of your eye, savouring it, showing him that you can play just as bloody rough. Matty goes rigid, but he doesn't pull away. Quite the opposite. A savage grin distorts his face, and he lets out a low, gravelly laugh that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.
"Is that what you want? You want to play dirty, you little slut?" he spits, and as he opens his mouth you can see his tongue completely coated in blood, dyed the thick red currently welling from his torn lip.
Before you can even catch your breath, he forces you right back into the kiss. He smashes his mouth against yours, dragging his bloody tongue against your own, forcing you to swallow his blood while sharing the metallic taste of his own pain. The kiss becomes a slick, viscous, red disaster; blood runs down your chins, staining your neck, your chest, and the hands you have pressed flat against the wall, while he keeps fucking you with a rhythmic violence that feels like it’ll never end. You are trapped in a loop of flesh, gear, and blood, utterly destroying each other in the dark of the flat. The cocaine makes the rush a thousand times more volatile, turning your nerve endings into live wires. Inside, you are completely dripping, slick and overflowing against his thick length. As Matty hits you at that relentless, punishing angle, the friction triggers an electric swell deep in your core. The orgasm is building fast, threatening to shatter you from the inside out, and because he’s buried so deep, he can feel your slick walls starting to ripple and contract around him, tightening like a vice.
He groans into your mouth, a desperate, feral sound. While his teeth keep mauling your lips, his bloodied thumb breaks away from your jaw and shoves right into your mouth. He rakes his thumb in and out against your tongue, mimicking the brutal pace of his hips, smearing his thick, hot blood all over your lips, your chin, and your cheeks, painting your face in his own violence while he devours you.
Suddenly, he tears his mouth away from yours. With a sharp, aggressive movement, he forces your arms back behind you. He is so much bigger than you, his massive frame towering over your petite body as he easily gathers both of your tiny, slender wrists into the palm of a single hand. He squeezes them together, his grip completely engulfing your thin bones, and pulls upward with such ruthless force that it wrenches your whole upper body forward. Your face slams hard against the cold wall. Your breasts are crushed flat against the rough plaster, the friction burning your skin, while your nose and forehead take the brunt of the impact.
He clamps his thick fingers tighter around your wrists, deliberately crushing the purple bruises he’d left on your fragile skin the night before, leaving them angry, throbbing, and bright red.
The sharp burst of pain combined with the overpowering rush of the gear causes a tear to slip from your eye, cutting a clean line through the blood smeared across your cheek. But you don't sob. You don't beg. Instead, a breathless, broken laugh bubbles up from your chest, and your lips curl into a wide, venomous smile against the drywall. You love the weight of him crushing you. You love the agony of it.
"Is that... all you've got, Matty?" you wheeze out, your voice laced with pure, unadulterated malice and ecstasy. "You're fucking weak."
The moment the words leave your mouth, you tilt your head down just enough and spit. A thick, dark glob of his own blood splatters onto the dusty floorboards right beneath your face, a visceral, crimson stain marking your defiance.
That completely snaps the last thread of his sanity. Matty lets out a roar, a sound of pure, unbridled fury and desperation. While keeping both of your tiny wrists pinned helplessly behind your back with one hand, his other hand shifts, reaching up to fist itself brutally into your hair. He uses his grip on your strands to yank your head back at an agonizing angle, exposing your throat while his hips begin to batter into you with a speed that makes the room spin.
Your hips hitch frantically against the wall, your clit buzzing, on the absolute precipice of a violent release. Matty feels you trembling, feels the heat pouring out of you, and his grip on your wrists goes completely rigid as his own climax hits him like a freight train.
"You're twitching, love... you're fucking choking me," he snarls against your neck, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural rasp, thick with filth and malice. He rams his pelvis hard against your arse, pinning you so deep you can barely breathe. "Yeah, take it. Take every fucking drop of it. I’m going to fill you so full of my fucking cum it’s going to leak down your thighs, you hear me? I’m going to coat your insides, breed you like the dirty little whore you are, and mark you so deep you’ll never get the fucking smell of me off you."
He gives one last, massive, depraved shove, his hips slamming flat against you as his own release rips through him.
"That tight little cunt belongs to me now," he growls, pulling your pinned wrists up higher until you gasp, your vision going black at the edges. "It’s mine. Broken, ruined, and dripping with my fucking seed. You’re never going to be clean again."
