#The last time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

s1xthirty · 3 months ago

Text

the smallest man who ever lived

pairings : aleksander morozova x fem!reader

summary : someone from your past come back from the dead and knocks on your door with no warning and empty promises.

warnings : rules of wolves spoiler! slight details of the reader being a metamorphmagus.

A/N : please please pleasee, ignore all the grammar mistakes and errors! english isn't my first language. Buy me a coffee!!

He didn't know where to go. He hadn’t thought past the need to become whole again and finally return to himself. He doesn't exactly know who he is right now. He doesn't even have a plan yet—he doesn't know what his purpose is, but his mind keeps echoing your name.

He had pushed you away and left you behind back when his mother meddled with his plans to expand the fold. Maybe he doesn't want you to see him as the black heretic, but that's no excuse because you had seen him evil and you never once blink an eye on the way he did things for Ravka and its people. Yet somehow that wasn't enough for him because you are not what he was looking for—you are not the sun summoner.

What was he thinking abandoning you like that? You were the only one who understands his ways—the only one who understands him. You stayed when nobody could, but yet he still left you once his sun summoner tried to fight against him.

Something painful stirred in his ribs, a feeling he once knew all too well.

Without knowing it, his legs carried him to a beautiful cottage deep in the woods. Many winters ago, you had told him that you wanted to live somewhere far away from the world, somewhere peaceful. You've always believed that you'd be more than content with your own company.

A lot has changed since the last time he visited. The plant has caught up in time, it has sprouted and covered some spots of the stone wall of the cottage. Aleksander also doesn't remember the wildflowers being so lush, he can barely see the pathway to the front door.

His feet were already approaching the front door, but something in him hesitated.

Are you even gonna let him into your home after all these years?

A creek sound of the door snapped him out of his thoughts and his heart raced rapidly in his chest. He doesn't know why he was so anxious to see you. He was the one who left first.

The sight of a familiar man in front of your door made your heart almost leap out of your chest, making you drop the basket in your grasp. "Saints!" You gasped and froze on the door seeing Aleksander standing before you.

For a moment, Aleksander was starstruck. Your face was still beautiful just like the day you both met, it's like you haven't aged a bit. Though, your hair is darker— what happened to your blue hair?

Your eyes roamed through Aleksander's body, making sure you haven't seen a ghost. The last time you saw him, his face was covered in scars. He was weak and wounded, begging for a fix and once he was, he's back on his feet to get his little summoner and you haven't seen him since. You eventually stopped waiting for him.

"Ma?" a voice of a little girl came from inside the house, "Who's at the door?" the little girl came up to the door hiding behind you.

Aleksander could see a glimpse of the blue hair he'd always known but then it turned back to black when the little girl saw him at the door.

"Oh, it's just an old friend, dear." You managed to say, but Aleksander could sense the shake in your voice. "Would you mind collecting the strawberries for me, today?" You picked up the basket on the floor.

"Really?" the little girl lit up in excitement, her hair turning to yellow but then she quickly shook it off again to turn it to black.

"Of course!"

The little girl immediately grabbed the basket and left you alone. Once you were inside, Aleksander sat down by the couch. The atmosphere of your home doesn't change at all. The first thing Aleksander smelled when he first came in was sage and cinnamon. He would always ridicule your old-fashioned ways, but maybe it has rubbed off on him because right now he felt at ease as if he knew he'd be safe inside of your home.

You sat by the armchair facing him with eyes shooting daggers into his very soul. Aleksander could sense the anger that's boiling inside of you, but he knows you know very well how to keep it at bay.

"I thought you were dead."

"Everyone does."

"Exactly, Aleksander. And you're supposed to stay dead!" You hissed, not wanting to shout knowing your child was outside. All these years you thought that you were over him and you've made peace with whatever reason he left you for, but after seeing his face again, you can't help but be angry at him.

"You know I'd do anything to—"

"Save it. What do you want?"

Ravka back in his hand, people kneeling over the starless saint, the throne, to be feared. But that one voice somewhere inside of him said your name. "I wanted to see you," said Aleksander.

"Me?" You chuckled, "I thought you're busy changing the world with that sun summoner of yours."

“I was wrong.” Aleksander said firmly, “I was blinded with greed. I shouldn't have left you.”

“And how am I supposed to believe your words after everything you put me through?” you seethed. “That day, I was planning on telling you, but you left so sudden without telling me a single thing. You could've told me you wanted to go after your summoner—I would've told you right then immediately. Instead, I had to pull myself together while also carrying a baby, all alone!”

"Was that little girl.. ?"

You said nothing, only looking out through the window trying to ignore the way your throat is starting to tighten up. That little girl is Aleksander's child. You haven't been able to tell the kid about her father yet. You couldn't. Not when his father is now resurrected from the dead.

"What is her name?" asked Aleksander,

"Lea."

“She's beautiful.”

“She looks so much like you, it makes me forget how much I hate you for leaving me.” Hell, was he so fixated on being feared than seeing what was actually important in front of his eyes?

Maybe Alina was right, it's not too late for me. Maybe Aleksander could make up for lost times and actually do better—not for ravka, but maybe for Lea.

“Does she know?” He asked,

“What do you think?” You snapped, “She can't know, Aleksander. How do you think she'll react after knowing her father is probably one of the most hated men in the country?”

“I'm willing to stay. For her—for you.”

“No,” you shook your head, “I'm not falling for your stupid games anymore.”

“Please,” He begged and you almost melted from how sweet your name was on his lips, but you know you can't. You've made a promise to yourself that you'd never go back to whatever you had with him. You'd never put yourself in that position again. This is the last time.

You shook your head, “Get out of my house.” The words came out a little more sharper than you intended, but to your surprise, Aleksander didn't fight anymore. He just looked into your eyes for one last time and left.

Buy me a coffee!!

#aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova smut #aleksander morovoza #the darkling x reader #the darkling #the darkling angst #aleksander morozova angst #ben barnes fluff #ben barnes imagine #ben barnes x reader #shadow and bone #fanfiction #the smallest man who ever lived #the last time #aleksander morozova x reader

95 notes · View notes

lottiecrabie · 2 years ago

Text

the last time – matty healy

five months after your break up, you fall into bed with Matty again. but it’s the last time, for real.

warnings: 18+, oral (f receiving), protected sex, bit of praise, angst

4761 words

You’ve been broken up for five months when you fall into bed with Matty again. You feel a little guilty at the fact, guts knitting together as he passes your shirt above your head, untangling it from your hair. You laugh as you tuck the rebel strands away from your face, shy and awkward like you never used to be with him.

You want to be impossibly sexy and attractive— don’t want to go through the mortal ordeals of catching into the neck of your shirt or having scattered hair on your legs. You want to melt his mind out of skills, want to catch the drip from his ears with a coy smile.

Last time you fucked, you didn’t know that it was. The last time, you mean. You didn’t get to enjoy it, didn’t get to bathe in the overwhelming feel of him, didn’t get to make it memorable. It was something quick and shallow between two meetings of his. Three days later, you were packing your bags, wiping the tears from your eyes before he could see them. I’m sorry, you kept saying as Matty watched you from the door frame with trembling shoulders.

This last time, you’ll make it worth something. Let the memory of you stick to his skin like a branding iron— irregular and scarred.

Matty breathes heavily, kissing the skin of your collarbone, grazing his lips over the top of your breasts. Your head falls backwards, watching the ceiling as you pant for the sky. You’re afraid of looking at him, of making it real. Afraid you’d cry, or perhaps refuse to leave.

“You’re beautiful,” Matty whispers, hands finding the small of your back. His fingers spread across your ribs. You shake your head. He can’t say things like that anymore.

He doesn’t seem aware of the pain it causes you, some stabbing in a beaten heart. He plays your spine like his favorite guitar, familiar calluses over the bumps of bones. Counts them as he climbs your back, undoes your white cotton bra. You’d have worn something sexier if you had known this was coming. You mentally curse yourself as it falls apart.

You have an instinct to cover your breasts up, blushing as he steps away to peer at you. You feel shy against his devouring stare, self-conscious of what he sees. You hate that you do.

You hate that it’s the same; you hate that it’s different.

Matty’s thumb finds your nipple, rubbing slow circles on it. A shudder coils down your back. You bite your lip, panting. “Gorgeous.”

A crooked smile cracks on your face. You’re glad you still please him.

He works at the button of your jeans. Your underwear doesn’t match, but he doesn't mention it as he works the legs down, fingers grazing your skin and raising your hair as he does it. You hold onto his shoulder to balance yourself as you finally step out of them. He feels stronger than he was, firmer. Maybe your palms have just forgotten the shape of him— and isn’t that just the worst thought.

You don’t let yourself linger on it, afraid it’ll make you cry. You rack a hand through his curls instead— thankfully the same. You brush them back as Matty kisses your thighs. It’s feather kisses, not even to tease or burn, just to worship.

“Matty…” It slips out of you. It sounds sad to your ears. Perhaps the consonants have changed in your mouth in the past five months, perhaps that’s just how you say his name now, letters dropping at the end like he had cut up your tongue on the way out.

His hand finds the apex of your thighs, tossing your underwear aside, rubbing against your wet entrance. Pleasure climbs up your spine. You bite a moan, immediately clutching a handful of his hair, clenching your thighs to trap him. Like he would leave. Like your body knows he has.

He gathers some of your wetness, swiping lazily at your clit. Matty knows your body like his favorite song. He could whisper the tectonic spots of you that make you scream like worshiped lyrics, the curves and dips and scars of you like the rugged grooves of his overplayed vinyls. He could get you off in under five minutes with minimal effort— in fact he has. Still, Matty takes his time.

Fire pools in your stomach. Your fingers dig into his nails, perhaps meanly, perhaps vengefully. Matty thumbs at you, dipping one finger in the molten pot between your thighs. He coos gently at your breathy moans, encouraging you.

He finally picks up in pace, waves of pleasure crashing against your limbs as another finger enters you. Your legs feel unsteady, the ground rippling under you, and you can’t trust yourself to stay upright. “Can we—” Your chin jerks to the hotel bed.

Matty nods, standing up. He grabs your chin between two trembling hands, slick drying on your jaw as he kisses you. It’s a tender affair, pressing the words he can’t speak on your lips, to fall down your tongue and plant in your throat.

You feel your eyes swell up with tears— how you want him to say it, how you want to say it back, how you want him to kiss you and not at the same time. Emotions pull you every which way; it’s a dizzying rollercoaster, half burning ecstasy and half wretched pain.

You rip away from him; it’s too much. His head rests on your forehead, eyes solemnly closed— like he knows, like he’s sorry. He exhales. You watch Matty guiltily. The spiderleg eyelashes falling on his eyebags; the red, swollen lips; the cut of his jaw. You wish he’d be unrecognizable so it wouldn’t break your heart in half just to see him and know him.

Matty walks you backwards to the bed. You fall on it, scooping yourself up. Your head hits the pillows. Something in you is sad it’s some nameless hotel room and not his house or your flat. It makes this holy meeting banal, like New York was set in the middle of Ohio.

Matty, towering over you, racks your last piece of clothing down your legs. He’s still completely dressed and it makes you feel just a little dirty to be laying naked for it. He watches you again, taking his time to unravel you in his mind. Perhaps he’s memorizing you, which you’re a little glad for. Remember me, you want to beg. You should have shaved your legs.

You tug a hand out for him. His fingers cross through yours, letting you draw him over your body. He nestles easily between your thighs.

His free hand finds your clit again, but you shake your head shyly. “Can you—” You gesture down, embarrassed to say it.

Matty cocks his head, but you can tell in the dancing light of his eyes that he understands you. Shit-eating smile shining on his face, he says, “Can I what?”

You offer him a deadpan look, but something in you pleads to say, Don’t change. I want you just like this. “Can you eat me out?” His proud victory, amused eyes twinkling at you and all, is short-lived. You feel the need to add, “Since it’s the last time and all.”

Matty freezes above you. It’s the first time either of you mentioned it. You curse yourself, face wrinkling in guilt. What a great time to bring it up.

He rubs gently between your eyebrows, forcing you to unfrown your forehead, to open your eyes and look at him. His eyes are soft, syrupy sweet. “Darling, I would love to eat you out.” You blush, but your legs clench in excitement.

Matty starts his slow descent down your body, lips dancing over your bare skin. You shudder as he passes sensitive spots knowingly, pressing a wet kiss. You feel muted pain near your hip, and you know he’s left a hickey. You shake your head to yourself: always need to leave his mark.

You’ll wake up tomorrow and you’ll find the purple like a temporary handprint on your skin. You wonder what you’ll think of it; if you’ll want to scrub it off; if you’ll cherish it, mourn it when it’s gone.

“Fuck, I’ve missed the taste of you,” Matty says, then runs his tongue across your folds.

Pleasure strikes through the daze around you. Your senses sharpen; you gasp, rising your hips to meet him. His palm spreads across your hipbone, pinning you back on the mattress. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing at you as he licks your pussy.

He’s diligent. Hardworking and hungry, lapping with abandon as you moan for him. His nails dig into your hip. You drop your thighs open, offering yourself up for him willingly. Matty tongues your pussy, wet sounds ringing through the room as you drip on his chin. You’d feel a little shy at the pornographic melody — sopping noises and muffled screams and the reverberating moans of Matty as he devours you — if you weren’t so busy melting with the fibers of the sheets.

Your entire mind is floating near the ceiling. You feel disconnected from your body flapping around wildly, pressed firmly on the bed by a merciless hand. Waves of ecstasy go through your trembling hands. Pressure builds in your stomach. You fist the sheets uselessly, grabbing a handful of your own tits, only to bury home in the mess of his hair.

You lose your hands in his mane; you always lose all parts of yourself in him.

You scream his name, back arching away from the mattress, gripping his curls like a lifebuoy. The bedroom eclipses. You fall apart on his tongue, and as Matty climbs up licking his lips, you wonder what parts of you you’ve left behind on his tongue.

“Good?” Matty asks. He knows it was, but he looks at you openly, craving validation.

You smile lazily, still combing through his sweaty hair. You rub at his jaw. “Great.”

“Yeah?” His cheeks pink. It’s a little adorable, like this was the first time and not the last. The reminder digs into your lungs. Your breath catches, as though it was news all over again.

Matty kisses you, tasting like you. Your hands find the hem of his shirt, dipping under the stretched material. You find the familiar planes of his stomach, stroking a silky touch over it. He gasps in your mouth, stomach tensing beneath your fingertips. You raise it over his head, find his lips again with a grin.

He’s hard between your thighs, grinding into you. Your legs are limp from the previous orgasm, but he’s managing to bring you back to that dripping edge easily. He licks at your jaw, whispering dirty nothings in the crook of your ear, twisting a nipple. “So fucking wet for me,” he says. “Tastes so good. Wanna feel you. Wanna bury myself in you and never leave.” Your thighs clench, moaning.

Matty unzips his jeans, pushing them past his hips and kicking them off. He palms his bulge, groaning. Your fingers hook in the hem, and he watches you religiously, short-winded, as you start pulling them down. He freezes under your touch, head snapping up. You frown at his sudden polar reaction.

“Sorry,” he winces, stepping off the bed and rummaging for his pants. You rest on your elbows, watching him curiously. He digs into his pocket, fishing out a condom.

Oh, you think. Smart. Of course, none of you know where the other has been recently. You yourself have had a very brief affair with a redhead, although you didn’t manage to go very far with him before ending in puffy sobs. It’s not the same, it’s not the same, it’s not the same, it will never be the same, you remember thinking over and over, biting your palm to stop yourself from crying until it’d been too much.

It’s responsible to put a rubber. Safe. Matty probably doesn’t even know if you’re still on the pill.

But don’t you just hate the idea that you have to. That this, the last time, will be spent with a latex barrier between you. That you won’t feel him entirely, warm and pressing into you. That it’s not the same, even with him. That it will never be the same again.

That he’s walking around the city with a condom in his pocket, with the possibility of other women in his mind. That it wasn’t reserved for you, that anyone could be in his hotel room right now, that you just happened to meet him at the bar like all the others.

Tears prickle at your eyes. Matty grimaces again, repeating, “Sorry.”

“No, no,” you shake your head immediately, trying to fight off your watering look. “It’s smart.”

“It’s just—”

“No, I get it,” you cut him off, afraid he’ll start overexplaining and get into what he’s been up to without you. The girls he’s seen, the things he’s done with them. Do they come on his tongue, linger in his throat for days?

Does he think of the taste of them when he kisses you?

You bury your face in your palms, allowing yourself one indulgent moment of dark. You hope it can rewire your brain, wipe those filthy images of him with strings of faceless girls, licking and sucking and biting.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Matty asks. You snort meanly. As if you ever were okay before this. Doesn’t he know that he— that it— that you’re wrecked? Unraveling in the streets, unspooling in the underground, the yarn of you catching in the cracks of pavement. You’re half a woman and it’s only been five months.

You peek through the cracks of your fingers. He’s standing in the middle of the room, half-naked, clutching his condom. His eyebrows are furrowed, watching you like a hawk. As though you’d disappear in front of his very eyes if he didn’t. He looks worried. Perhaps he should be.

Moreover, he looks small. He’s lost all the Matty bravado you usually associate him with, falling through crowds and screaming a laugh. He seems quiet. Pretty, too, with his muscled shoulders and his rising chest. There’s a new tattoo near his hip, but you don’t linger on that.

Sighing, you rack your hands through your hair, sitting up. “I’m fine,” you say decidedly, as though you would make it true just by speaking it. Matty still looks at you unsure. “I swear I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he nods. Takes a vague step back towards the bed. Falters. “We don’t have to…”

“No, no,” you’re quick to jump in, drawing a hand out to catch him. “I want to.” You tug him back to you. He follows carefully.

Matty kneels above you. You suddenly feel overheated, melting just from his proximity. Your fingers trail over his stomach, adventuring down to his briefs. You pull them down, keeping heavy eye contact with him. His lips are parted, eyes volleying between your hands and your face, unsure of where to settle on.

His cock springs free. Hard and glorious, you lick your lips. How you missed it. How you missed him.

You wrap your hand around the base, stroking up to the tip. You gather some of the precum, lathering it down. A sinful groan leaves his lips. His fingers bury in your hair, racking to your nape to tug you into a kiss.

Your heart swoons. You beg it to grow quiet, but it smashes against its bone prison, begging to be let out. To go with him when he inadvertently leaves again.

“I want you,” you say against his lips. He grins, flushing, laying you back down on the bed.

He ruffles with the condom. You purposefully avert your eyes away, prentending it's not real. Finally, he lays over you, nosing your cheek.

His hips align with yours. He grips his cock, lining it up, bending down to press another fiery kiss to your lips. You open your mouth as you’ve always done, slipping your tongue in his. His tip teases your entrance. You hold back a moan.

It’s not a good idea. You told him as much when you kissed him at the bar, licking the vodka and lime off his lips. He didn’t agree or disagree, didn’t do much except coax your mouth open with a hungry tongue. You wonder what he really thinks about it now, but you were too occupied to ask back then.

You have half a thought of doing it now, but you’re too scared of what his answer might be. It seems neither one is right. What’s the point of giving him a loaded gun? The bullet would lodge between two ribs either way. You’re tired of bleeding out.

Slowly, Matty thrusts into you. You gasp in his mouth, breath stolen from your lips as your walls rearrange for him. A delicious tingle spreads up your spine. It’s been forever. You’d almost forgotten how galactic it feels to join him.

“Fuck,” Matty moans, head falling on your temple, as he bottoms out. “Fuck, finally. Finally.”

You bite your lip, arching your back, silently begging him to move. He doesn’t seem to be getting the message, or at least is decidedly ignoring it. He lingers in a private moment of silence, as though mourning the last first trust, as though eloging it.

“I missed this,” Matty admits, moving out of you. You nod in agreement, neck slack from the burning pleasure already building inside of you.

He’s slow and lazy, taking his sweet time. Each second is necessary, each trust purposeful. Matty is hardworked to make it last as long as possible. You’re glad. You’d stretch it into some impossible forever if you could. Exist only in this moment for the rest of time.

You roll your hips with him, finding him in the middle. He groans against your cheek, pressing kisses between each stroke. Your hand grips his shoulders, trying to accommodate to the shape of them, to memorize all the new parts of him. You drip down his back, running a finger up just to watch him shiver in bliss.

“You’re perfect,” Matty coos in your hair, jaw slacked. You grin, digging your nails into his back. “You’re so good.”

I love you burns on your tongue. You bite it just to make sure it doesn’t spill, grinding into him. Your clit hits his pelvis perfectly, making you whimper. Keeping this heavenly angle, you rub yourself against him, clawing at his back each time a delicious wave of bliss wipes through you.

“Pretty, little noises,” Matty revels, seemingly more to himself than you. “Perfect.”

“You’ll give me some complex,” you tease, although you can’t deny the coil of pleasure spinning around your brain at the praise.

Matty chuckles, shaking his head in your neck. “If I didn’t give you one before, I never will.”

You hold him by his cheeks, forcing him to look you in the eyes. Of course, his stare is momentarily distracted by your swollen lips. “Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough,” you whisper playfully.

He smiles, thrusting into you harder, watching with delight as your eyes roll in your skull. “You’re being a brat.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, choked by another moan. “Come on, Matty,” you cheer, caressing his jaw. “Tell me I’m the most beautiful.”

“Of course you’re the most beautiful.” There’s even a roll of his eyes, as though you were silly just for implying otherwise.

You smile fondly, feeling your stare softening. Your finger trails to his lips, drawing the shape of them. “I feel my ego swelling already.”

“Don’t let it. There can’t be two of us.”

“‘Course not.” You smirk teasingly, looking at him through your eyelashes, finger slowing on his top lip. “How about you degrade me then?” You used to love it, choking from a strong hand around your throat, moaning as he whispered my pretty little slut in the crook of your ear. Your pussy flutters at the idea, making Matty gasps.

Still, he shakes his head. “Don’t want to,” he whispers gently. Your breath catches, heart dizzyingly twisting on its aorta. The last time. To be cherished. To be loved.

Your finger continues its pattern on his lips, slow and admiring. Matty parts them, letting it dip into his mouth, sucking on it. Drools stick to it as you exit, finding your clit. You rub a head-twisting rhythm on your bud.

Matty’s head bends to watch you. His own hips snap quicker into yours, reveling in the spectacle. “It’s not like this with anyone else,” he says, something akin to worship in his tone.

Your heart stops. Anyone else is all that rings inside your head, cruel and mean. You know he’s been with other people. Know that he will. But— Fuck, you don’t want him to.

Matty is yours. Your legs wrap selfishly around his waist, trapping him in. He’s always been yours. You’ve walked a sure path all your life just for you to knock seamlessly into him. It’s what you were made for. You know this. You know this.

(Girls sucking on his fingers, dropping their legs open, moaning around his cock, grinning lazily as—)

You push his shoulders, rolling the both of you until you sit squarely on his lap. Matty finds your hips, gripping them hard enough to bruise. Good, you think, make it permanent.

You line his cock again, slipping him back into you. A shared groan of relief leaves both your mouths. You snap up and down, losing that sickly slow rhythm, languid and loving. You’re angry, trying to force away those wretched images invading your brain by blissing your brains out.

You play with your clit again, swiping furiously, jaw-slack as sloppy moans spill out of you. Your legs are already growing sore, but you power yourself on sheer will, riding him fast and hard. You screw your eyes shut, letting yourself get washed away by pleasure.

Matty doesn’t know what to do with himself, holding onto your hips, your thighs, your ribs, your tits. He travels through your body, leaving your skin burning as he grasps another pleading part of you. Your heart swells. Bliss teeters around the edges.

“Fuck, Matty,” you scream. “I’m close. Shit, I’m—”

He rolls you back under him, stealing your climax from your fingertips. Your eyes snap open, offense clear in the lines of your faces. “What—”

“I wanna see you,” Matty shrugs, fucking into you slow again. “Look at me.”

Annoyance at your stolen orgasm lingers in your limbs, but it’s quickly melted away as he twists a nipple, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck. Pressure builds in your stomach again, quicker than you’d have thought. Of course, you should have seen it coming. It’s Matty— he always knows how to get you trembling under him, begging for him in under a few minutes.

“Matty…” There you go, whining for him.

His head snaps up from your neck, propping himself on an elbow to properly watch you. He lets go of your breast, finding your limp hand instead, interlocking your fingers. He’s so pretty— curls messily falling over his forehead; lips raw for you; dark eyes twinkling with light.

Everything feels so intense all of a sudden. Your skin is electrified. You're hyperaware of him, of where he connects between your thighs. You roll your head, nuzzling your hair in his arm, practically purring. He smiles at you.

“Are you gonna come?” You nod faintly. Matty kisses you, thrusting faster.

Pressure grows and grows and grows. A deathgrip on his poor fingers. You cry in his mouth. Hot white blurs your vision. You fall apart, the last strings of you snapping clean cut. You’re a discombobulated puppet, screaming and crying and trembling under him.

Matty chases his orgasms, forehead pressed against yours. You feel nothing but the edges of him. He screams, hips faltering, spilling into the condom. “I love you,” Matty groans. You flinch. “Fuck.”

You keep your eyes firmly closed, breathing heavily, afraid of what the world will look like when you dare open them. What the room will be without the blurry daze of lust. What clarity release will bring. You focus on breathing. On forgetting how he lays still between your legs. Him, Matty Healy.

How long will he love me? Five months, and he still does. But the clock will turn, and the calendar will rip, and soon he won’t.

And what if— What if he doesn’t already? What if he said it in the middle of sex, like so many dazed men before him, high on the sweat and the moans and the head-shattering orgasm? What if you really were just a warm body met at a bar? Someone to use that fucking condom with?

“Hey, hey,” Matty whispers, wiping at your cheeks. He envelops your body with his limbs. “Shh,” he tucks a sweaty strand of your hair behind your ear, rubbing a thumb on the apple of your cheek, “don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

Shit, you didn’t even realize you were crying. You turn your head shamefully away from him, trying to hide your pathetic sniffles. So much for blowing his mind with tantalizing aloofness. How fucking embarrassing.

“It’s okay,” you say to appease him, but it comes out wet and watery. You wipe at your own cheeks, pushing his soothing fingers away, hiding behind your palms. “It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” It’s tender, almost cooing, like trying to coax a cat from a very high branch. You shake your head, still refusing to come out and brave the world, see his face. “Fuck, I hate seeing you like this.”

“Yeah, well…” The word trails on, catching in the dents of your palm lines. Yeah, well, it’s all I’ve been lately. Your lips tremble. You choke back a cry. Yeah, well, you haven’t been around to see.

Matty sighs. His presence is grounding, heavy and warm around your shivering body. You’ve missed feeling him like this, reattaching you one string at a time to reality. He plays with your hair, trailing a finger over the shell of your ear, rubbing the stress lodged in your jaw. “It’s okay,” he whispers in your neck. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m sorry.”

It’s all you guys seem to be, sorry. Like that fixes anything.

With a deep breath, you push your palms away from your face, offering him a smile, grotesque in its obvious fakeness. He chews on his bottom lip, frowning at you. “I’m sorry,” he repeats— insists, really.

You half-want to rip him apart. “Me, too,” you say instead.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

A strike to your bruised heart. You feel it beat slower, like recovering from a punch. “No,” you agree quietly.

Matty watches you, clearly with something on his tongue. You wonder if he’ll speak it, what it could be. Instead, he slips out of you, running to the bathroom to throw the used condom. You sit up in bed, peering over the end of it, trying to situate your scattered clothing. Time for your walk of shame.

Matty walks back in the room, naked and still standing proud. Your heart pinches, a ghost of a smile hinting on your lips. He’s so known. Too known.

“You don’t have to go,” he says, frowning at you.

“It’s okay,” you reassure, pushing the sheets off of you. Your underwear is right there, thank God.

“I’m serious,” Matty insists. “I don’t— I don’t want you to go.”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “And what are we gonna do? Cuddle?”

He blubbers. “Yeah— Yeah, maybe.”

You sigh. “Do you really think it’s a good idea?” Loaded gun, grip offered first.

Matty opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyebrows furrow further. “No, but—” Your breath catches. The bullet lands in your heart, exploding into specks of iron, catching in the tissue and blood. You wonder, almost cheeky, almost cruel, how you’ll recover from that one. “But I want to. Just tonight.”

It’s not a good idea. You knew it from the start. It’ll be even harder to leave tomorrow. Harder than it is tonight. Harder than it was five months ago. Your heart is wretched apart, bleeding on the bones.

But Matty looks at you, open and vulnerable and begging, and you never knew how to resist him. You bite on your lip, sighing. You turn back to the bed, burying under the sheets.

Matty climbs beside you. He takes your waist, tugging you into his warmth. You nestle into him, smiling, hoping he doesn’t see.

“Just tonight,” you whisper.

“The last time,” he whispers.

#i did not make this too sad for y’all softies out there #matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #matty healy x reader #the 1975 #the 1975 smut #smut #imagine #writing #the last time

818 notes · View notes