#YES IT'S HERE

[lottiecrabie]

pray for my soul. part four – matty healy

sneaking around with matty healy might forsake you, but at least it’s fun.

warnings: 18+, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, joint fingering, masturbation, dry humping, mirror sex, thigh riding, restraints, roleplay, religious imagery, pfms typical desecration

part four of five

20,067 words

Matty’s grip on your thighs is brutal. He has to: your legs trash around the sheets wildly, bucking into his mouth. His tongue meets your clit with deadly accuracy. He rubs at it with the back of his tongue, a new trick that has you biting your lip until your chin is numb, tugging at the roots of his hair.

His nails dig into your flesh, crescent moon scars to cherish when he’s gone. There’s faded purple bruises all over your body, hidden under your clothes. Thank God for cardigans, for turtlenecks, for swallowing sweaters; all the modest clothes your mother buys in pretty shades of pastels are perfect smoke shows for the hickeys Matty litters on you religiously. 

You love to trace the imprints of him. On your hips, your waist, your legs. Pretty colors on the underside of your breasts, still burning with soothing after-kisses. In front of the mirror, you trail your fingertips over the temporary tattoos, feeling like his name is permanently engraved on you. 

That’s what he’s doing now, spelling M A T T Y on your bundle of nerves as his fingers fuck into you. You put the letters together with a moan, some vertiginous thrill at both the feel and the idea. He’s marking you. He’s ruining you. You’re letting him. 

“Matty, please,” you whimper, raking through his sweaty curls. He hums, delicious resonance on your clit. Euphoria shoots up your spine; you clench around his fingers, drenching them in your slick. “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so—” Your head rolls. A shattering orgasm threatens the edges of you— you know that now, know the telltale feel of it by heart. 

His mouth leaves your cunt. You whine, frowning at the sudden loss of feeling, bucking into his fingers with renewed fervor to make up for it. “Look at me,” Matty orders. “I want to see you when you fall apart.”

It’s an herculean effort just to open your eyes, but when you finally do, Matty dives back between your legs restlessly, rubbing at you with a frenzied rhythm. You struggle to keep your gaze locked with his, trying to muffle the desperate cries you want to release. 

You’re close again— right there, really. You don’t warn him. He knows the signs anyway, knows them probably better than yourself. His eyes darken at the sight of you, flushed and panting, shirt pulled off, bra cups lowered just enough to reveal your pebbled breasts, skirt bunched uselessly around your waist; a show you put on nearly every night. Just for him. 

His hips grind into the bed, unconsciously humping the covers, surely overwhelmed with the sight and the taste and the smell. You feel guilty. For all the time Matty has spent on his knees in the past weeks, you haven’t returned the favor. You think you should probably— Matty curls his fingers just so, and now you’re not thinking of anything at all, breaking apart on his tongue. 

He comes breathless out of your legs, grinning lazily like he’s just so proud of you for doing the easiest task of climaxing. He climbs up your body as you pant, kissing your stomach, your neck, your lips. 

His tongue slips into your mouth, holding the side of your face like you could shatter between his fingertips. He tastes like you. You don’t hate it. Matty is still hard between your thighs, pressing into you as he tilts his head, finding a better angle to steal the breath right from your lips. 

You break away, eyes still firmly closed, mind spinning languidly. “You can—” You open your eyes, searching his frowning stare. Eyebrows furrowed, Matty almost seems to fear your next words. “You can… you know.”

Worry spills away from his face, replaced by amusement. He smiles teasingly at you. “What?” 

You huff, blushing. “You know.” Your hands dig into his shirt, embarrassment spreading through you, shaking you out of the happy blur post-orgasms bring you. “Touch yourself,” you finally complete, looking away, because Matty is clearly unwilling to help, preferring watching you squirm instead. 

“Yeah?” He laughs, nosing your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, suddenly hyperaware of him, of how hard he is between your legs. You already feel ready for another go. “I wanna see you,” you whisper, choked. 

Matty’s head rises at that. Gone is any trace of teasing. He’s staring at you like he could eat through your flesh, like he could dig under your bones. Like he wants you— right now and then. Your head spins. You almost consider saying yes. 

He kneels above you, hovering, each knee siding your waist. Your hands find them shyly. He peers down at you with a smirk; his turn to give you a show. Unbuttoning his jeans, Matty lowers his boxers, revealing his hard, leaking cock. 

Fire burns down your veins. You swallow thickly, eyeing his red tip, the vein running down his underside. It’s different than seeing it between the latticed holes of the confessional— realer. 

Matty wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly, thumb wiping at his tip. He spreads the precum down his length. His lips part at the first touch, a smothered groan gracing his lips. He’s beautiful. 

Your fingers dance on his knees, tingling with envy. You want to reach out, to touch him, to feel him. More than that, though, you’re scared. Of doing it wrong, of being bad, of new things you don’t know. 

Matty doesn’t seem to mind, however. His strokes quicken, already done teasing himself, instead chasing after his earth-shattering end. Your eyes flicker between his cock and his face, never knowing which spectacle is better to look at, always distracted by a twisting motion or a low groan scrunching his face. You suddenly understand him, understand his unsteady and evermoving gaze when you’re moaning under him. How you want to splinter apart, see everything. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks, shortwinded. 

You nod, too fascinated to blush and shy at your own eagerness. “Yes. Yes.”

His hips fuck into his own fist, tip glistening with precum. He passes a hand through his curls, eyes rolling into his head. You smile cruelly, pinching his knees. “Look at me,” you repeat back to him, devious. 

Matty’s eyes snap open, his face falling forward to stare at you. His cheeks redden. You smile at that, power and thrill swirling inside your soupy brain. 

His strokes grow desperate and irregular; he must be close. Every time his thumb swipes at his tip, Matty jerks, biting on his lip, trying to swallow a cry. Your head cocks, grinning at him. “It’s not so easy keeping quiet, huh?” You tease. Finally he knows how it feels to bite back uncontrollable sounds, knows how it really is when there’s no grinding cunt muffling all the pretty noises he usually unashamedly lets out.  

A breathy laugh leaves his swollen lips. “Shut up.” His arm flexes, eyes scrunching close and then opening as he remembers your demand. “Shit,” he cries, shaking his head. “I’m gonna—” 

He makes a move to move off you, but you still him by his knees, pushing down the bunched fabric of your skirt to make room. You stare at him unflinchingly, a smile digging into your cheek. His eyebrows rise in surprise, lust glazing over his eyes, but then his head falls forward, face wrinkling as he comes with a fucked-out groan. Ropes of cum spill on your stomach, painting your belly white. 

Matty catches his breath above you, panting as he stares at the sinful sight of you. You peer down at yourself too, fascinated. With a curious finger, you wipe at his cum, sucking it into your mouth. Vaguely salty. Not terrible. 

“Fuck,” Matty moans. Your eyes snap to his to find him already watching you. You grin around your finger. 

Devilishly, you catch another string of cum, reaching up to his mouth with a smirk. “Open up,” you tease. 

Matty jumps, slapping your hand away with a disgusted sound. “Fucking gross.” 

You giggle, wiping your dirty finger on your stomach. Matty glares at you, clearly unimpressed by your pestering. He tucks himself back in his jeans, falling beside you on the bed, sweaty head on your pillows. He kisses the top of your hair, sighing satisfiedly. 

Your eyes flick to the clock. You groan, digging your face into his shoulder. “It’s dinner soon,” you lament. Not only do you have to go downstairs and sit around a table with your parents like you’re not still tingling with the memory of Matty’s hands on you, but your mother has convinced herself a diet is needed and now you can’t eat anything but overcooked vegetables and soup. 

“Well, I’ve already eaten.” You slap his stomach, rolling your eyes. He laughs. “Come on. It was right there.” 

“You don’t have to take every bait.” 

He grins down at you. “How else am I supposed to make you blush?” 

“Try a compliment, maybe.” 

A beat passes. Matty stares at you still, smiling and lighthearted, just as happy dazed by his own orgasm. Your heart slams against your chest with each passing second, stomach fluttering uselessly. “You’re very pretty,” he says, low and confessionally, unrushed. Of course, you feel a flush spread on your face. You look away embarrassed. “Well, would you look at that. It does work, too.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, as though the words aren’t still coiling around the wrinkles of your brain. Matty laughs again, something easy. 

You sit up, staring down at the mess of your body. “I have to get cleaned up.” 

Matty nods, getting off the bed, bending down to put his sneakers back on. It’s still light outside. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” you say, pretending your heart doesn’t pinch watching him go. “See you soon.” 

—

Sunday morning is a daze. You’re dozing off in church, limbs sore from Matty going down on you in the cramped spot of his passenger seat before driving you home after school. Your legs protest everytime you kneel, muttering back the prayers with a smothered gasp of pain. 

You pick your nails trying to not think of it. It feels almost too perfectly planned: Matty untethering all your connections to faith, dirtying them. A soiled confessional, a sullied bible, and now you sit in church and pinch at your thumb to stop imagining his fingers curling into you. 

It’s not very successful. Every passing thought has you throwing a guilty glance towards Matty’s unruly curls. He’s sitting diagonally from you, further up. How ironic that he seems to sail through church as you tangle yourself in the shadows. That you must look forward to find him in his pew, seemingly twiddling his thumbs as the sermon progresses on. 

You stand from your seat for the communion, following dutifully behind your parents. Matty doesn’t move. He stares straight ahead; so do you. Your heart races inexplicably in your chest as you walk the aisle, inching closer and closer to him; some vague buzzing thrill taught to react to his mere proximity. Soon, you’ll brush past him. Your cheeks grow hot. It’s silly— young and naive and innocent. 

He’s been between your thighs. He’s seen you naked. He’s licked your wetness off his lips. Yet you’re still flushing at the idea of a graze. 

He’s under your skin. 

You count the seconds between each step. You pinch at your thumb, trying to kill the growing excitement— or at least smother it. 

You bite your lip as you finally get to his pew. His hand rests on the armrest, bored. Your thigh could graze it if you swerved— it happens all the time. It’s not suspicious. People falter in their steps every day, get caught in their feet and bend into unsuspecting bodies. 

Your stare faces straight on, digging a hole in your father’s head. You won’t get distracted. Won’t be weak. Won’t indulge in your sinful thoughts where everyone can see.

It’s almost predictable. Matty reaches a hand out and tugs on your pleated skirt. You jump, spinning to him, the back of your thighs tingling from a graze of his knuckles. He stares straight on, head resting on his hand, grinning to himself. A giddy smile that cuts his lips up, impossible to wipe away. An innocent act you see right through.

Your heart races twice as hard, but you can’t tell if it’s from the public display anyone could have caught or from the mere sight of him. You’re twice as flushed when you turn back to the line, squeezing your thumb so hard it numbs. You feel slack on your bones, butter melting from the heat of him. You can’t stop thinking about him.

You finally reach the priest. Dazed, you open your mouth wide. He places the body of Christ on your tongue carefully. You bite it. 

—

The shower burns. It’s a boiling degree, like the heat could make you clean. You scrub at your skin and it seems to only make your mind dirtier; a perfect equilibrium of filth must always be balanced in your flimsy body. The soap lathers over the purples and now you’re thinking of Matty’s lips stretched into a grin, a serpent smirk, bending down to kiss you. 

Whispering some terribly reprehensible things that make you dizzy, make you grip onto his shoulders just to ground yourself to something tangible. Grazing down your chest, kissing each rib to watch your breathing speed up. Biting your hip for the surprised jump, a giddy giggle falling out of your mouth next. Licking a flat tongue up your folds to hear the laugh morph into a moan. 

The images are too vivid. You’re breathless, nipples pebbled under your soaping hand, growing embarrassingly wet between your thighs. Your body holds a memory of him even your mind can’t keep up with. His name crosses your brain and suddenly your cunt throbs, ready to welcome him in, practically begging for it. 

Your hips shift uncomfortably, feeling that typical heat that spreads through you whenever Matty throws you a dark look, promise catching in the sharpness of his smile. It’s the wrong thing to think about; now your belly flexes, everything in you pulled tight in preparation. Your body holds its breath. 

You groan, frustrated. You lower the temperature of the water, incapable of keeping up with the boiling fire this bathroom has caught on, lapping up the shower curtains. It’s at least a bit soothing on your hot skin. 

Though there’s still the problem between your thighs, of course. It doesn’t seem to satiate with the minute change, barely notices it. You sigh, grabbing the showerhead, hoping to wash away the wetness dripping down your thighs, the remaining filth on you. 

You angle the showerhead and— Oh. 

You jump, startled by the sudden feeling, heart racing. Wide eyes stare at the white tiles, blinking. You flick a look to the incriminating showerhead. You bite your lip, apprehensive as you slowly place it back between your legs. 

“Shit,” you cry, biting your lip to hold back the following moans threatening to come out. A hand on the wall holds you upright. You wrinkle your face, washed with burning ecstasy. Fucking shit. 

It hits your clit just right, incessant pressure practically attacking it. You roll your eyes, head falling backwards, pleasure building inside of you. Your legs spread further apart, upping the water pressure, biting back a scream. You follow the motions Matty usually licks on your bud; circles, up-and-downs, side-to-sides, shaking at the consequential new feelings 

You might very well tear your lips apart trying to keep quiet. Your forehead falls on the tiles, afraid of crumbling to the ground. Euphoria waves through your limbs, warning bells ringing in your mind. You slap a hand on your mouth in preparation, keeping the showerhead still as— 

You come apart with a muffled scream. The shower nulls into inexistence, water barely an existing concept as pleasure washes you. His name tingles your tongue. You swallow it.

You drop the showerhead as soon as your climax ends, overwhelmed and sensitive. You breathe harshly, staring as the water runs down the bath. You laugh to yourself, raking a hand through your wet hair. 

It’s the first time you’ve come without him. First time you’ve— a moment in the confessional passes through your mind, taunting you to use the word— masturbated since the last time, the one that brought you sticky deep into this mess. 

You came into the shower to wash yourself and you’ve managed to make it dirty. Still, as you step out, the bathroom drenched in heated smoke, you feel strangely clean. You wrap a towel around your flushed body, a slack, relaxed smile on your lips. 

—

The sheets are sweaty and sticky on your skin. You push them off, then feel oddly exposed, throwing them over your body again. You huff, twisting, laying on your back as you throw a glance at the clock. He’s not coming. 

It’s fine. Something must have come up. Perhaps he remembered a very important test for tomorrow and threw himself nose first in his studies. Perhaps his mother started noticing his cracked bedroom window and sealed it shut, preventing him from sneaking out to crash in her bed nearly every night. Perhaps he’s bleeding out in the streets somewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s not like you have to see him anyway. You can sleep without his cheeky goodnight, your eyelids droopy and your thighs sticky as he gets dressed in a hurry. 

It’s just— Well, there was a bit of teasing today; grand, dirty promises whispered in the crook of your ear; ghosting touch as he passed you; heavy looks that made your hands shake as you solved an equation on the blackboard; kisses that never went to more. Now you’re keyed up, jittery and awake, and he’s not coming. 

You sigh again, passing two hands though your hair, trying to ignore the ache throbbing between your thighs. You purse your lips. The cross stares at you, chastising the inkling thought tugging at your mind. 

You shut your eyes and let a hand travel down your stomach. You near the hem of your underwear, hinting at the possibility. Your thighs clench in anticipation. You frown, trying to remember all the reasons you shouldn’t as your fingertips dig under the fabric and cup yourself. You’re already wet. 

It’s not like it would be the first time. What is one more in the grand scheme of things. It’s surely not gonna be that that forsakes you, of all the things. You dip one finger in, hitting your clit. You jolt and bite your lip, pleasure striking through you.

You start with slow circles. Relief immediately seeps down your stomach. You open your thighs further, giving you space as you attempt to hit your clit like he does. Your finger lacks the roughness of a callus. You make a low noise of frustration.

That damn callus and its filthy trail on your skin. On your collarbone as he nears your cross, rubbing the cool metal like he had to remind himself of your faith while kissing you. On your breast as he grabs, circling a nipple until you’re putty in his arms. On your stomach as he takes his sweet time traveling it down just to tease you. On your thighs as he grips them and keeps them apart for him. On your neck as he presses until you’re rolling your eyes and gasping. On your clit finally —finally— as he draws the letters of his name on it. 

You make a sound of pleasure. You copy him, rubbing M A T T Y on your bundle of nerves as if he was there in the room, as if it was his hand in your underwear and not your own. Thrill hits you. You rub harder, trying to find half the ecstasy he naturally coaxes out of you with knowing eyes and a sweet, devil tongue. You can’t seem to. 

Last time you touched yourself— properly touched yourself— you didn’t know what pleasure could be. Now, with the vivid memory of Matty’s hands and tongue in your mind, everything feels a little shortcoming. You try to speed up, but you can’t match the pace he does. 

Impatiently, you push the covers off your chest, grabbing your tits and palming them like him. Low heat boils under your skin and you shift your hips, glad to see that something is finally working. 

Matty in your bed. Matty fingering you. Matty licking his digits clean. Matty in the confessional with that low, implacable voice. Matty asking you to pray for him. Kneeling in front of him, hands clenched together. Matty tugging at his jeans’ button. Matty’s hand on your chin as he pushes it open for him. Matty—

“Hey, sorry I’m late I was—” You open your eyes in a panic, pulling your hand out of your underwear like you’ve been burned. Your heart races as you turn to the intrusion with a panicked look. 

Matty is at your window, staring at you with two arched eyebrows. A slight, devilish smirk rises on his lips. He knows. Cheeky, he takes a step towards the bed, voice dancing as he asks, “What are you doing?”

Your fingers are wet by your thigh, laying on the white sheet under the covers. You bite your lip. “Nothing.” He gives you an unimpressed look. 

“Show me your hand.” 

“No.”

His smile breaks his face. “Why’s that?” You scrunch your nose, shaking your head. He snickers at you, taking another step until he’s reached the bed. “D’you wanna know what I think?” Your breath hitches. He has that low, teasing voice that turns you on. “I think you were— what did we call it again? Being ‘impure with yourself’? Is that it, angel?”

You lick your teeth, your cheeks heating up. “Maybe.”

He clicks his tongue. “Couldn’t wait for me to get home, huh? Had to relieve that little ache inside of you right now? Burning and dripping for me all alone in bed? Fucking begging for it but there’s no one to help?” 

You pout at him. “Yes. You were late.” 

“I’m sorry, love. Family dinner got forcefully extended. Couldn’t wrangle out of it if I tried.” 

Matty turns around and walks away from the bed. You frown, resting on your elbows as you watch him go. He sits on your desk chair, facing you. He looks like he wants to eat you up. His chin nudges towards you. “Go on, then. Give me a show.” 

You flush, falling back on your pillows. You shake your head. “I can’t. ‘S not the same without you.” 

“What? You can’t touch yourself like I can? Can’t make you come like me?” You shake your head again, more fervent, more pleading. Matty coos, “Oh, poor little baby. If I’d known.”

He stands up and walks back to the edge of the bed. You’re surprised as he grabs your hand and tugs you out of it, making a noise of confusion. Still, you follow when he directs you to the full-length mirror. His front presses against your back, his breath heavy on your neck. You shiver. 

“I can’t let my perfect girl stranded like this again,” Matty whispers, dragging his knuckles down your arms. He reaches your wrist, swallowing your hand with his own. “C’mon, let me show you how.” He takes your hand to his mouth, sucking on your wet finger. Your breath hitches. He smirks around your digit. 

He wants to— You meet eyes with him through your reflection. He releases your finger with a pop, licking its length for good measure. It’s dirty, and you feel the hot resonance low in your belly. God, you want him.

You grab his wrist before he can move, puppeteering his hand down your stomach— that damn callus— and in your underwear. He indulgently lets you. “Can’t you just do it?” You whine. 

“What if I’m late again? What if I can’t come that day?” He nips at your cheek, husky and tempting as he whispers in your ear, “What if I want you to give me a show? What’ll you do then?” 

You press his index finger between your folds. You shift your hips slightly, rubbing yourself on his offered digit. Your head drops on his shoulder, moaning. Matty groans behind you. “I just want you,” you plead. “Touch me, please.” 

You can feel him pant against your back, his chest upping in quick, deep successions. His fingers dig into your hip, possessive and tempted, and then he pulls the hand from your underwear. You make a pained sound, missing him. 

“Just be patient,” he says, working you down while he tugs your panties from your legs. 

Your knees hit the fluffy pink carpet. He spreads your thighs open, giving the two of you a clear view of your cunt dripping for him. You blush, shy and embarrassed, turning to hide into his shoulder. 

Matty tuts. “Look at yourself, love,” he demands, pushing your head with a finger until you’re facing your reflection again. Your nipples are hard through your flimsy,  silk shirt. Your hair is tangled and sweaty. Your face is pulled tight in pleasure. Your pussy is wet, clit swollen and begging. You look fucked out and he hasn’t even done anything yet. You moan. It’s not the worst sight. 

“Show me what you were doing.” 

You don’t have the instinct to hesitate, already shoving your hand between your thighs. You bite back a moan as your finger hits your clit. Your head falls on his shoulder. You make artless circles, slow and lazy. 

“Good,” Matty praises in your ear, though he adjusts two fingers over your bud, pressing them in. The sensation is immediate, euphoria blooming under your skin. You wonder if it really has anything with technique or if your body just recognizes that it’s him. “That’s it, darling.”

He creates a rhythm, circling and swiping incessantly, getting your wrist used to the shapes. You follow dutifully, mewling for him, your cunt throbbing around nothing. You miss his long, spindly fingers, miss the way they curl into you. 

“Matty,” you whine and hope it’s enough. For good measure, you lock eyes with him in the mirror, fluttering your eyelashes at him. “Touch me.” 

He laughs in your hair, shaking his head. “You’re so greedy.” It should feel wrong, should feel shameful, but you giggle happily, feeling quite satisfied as he tugs your camisole up your chest. Your breasts are on display for him and he pinches one of your hard nipples. “Is that better?” 

“No,” you say, brain so hazy you forget good girls should never speak their mind— or even open their mouths for that matter. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Matty smirks at you, raising his fingers from your peaked breasts and slipping them in your panting mouth. His ring tastes like iron on your tongue, like blood. It should feel foretelling, prophetic, but you just moan around them. He chuckles as he takes them out. Wet with drool, he rubs on your nipples again. “How about that?” 

You pout at him. “You’re doing it on purpose.” 

“You don’t need me,” he says, and his own hand draws yours lower, hinting at your entrance. You hold your breath, fluttering with need. “Female independence and all,” he teases. 

You shake your head vigorously. “I don’t want independence. I want you.” 

He snorts. “What? You want to be my little housewife?” This time, you nod, though just as fervently. He coos, rubbing your knuckles. “Want to lay in bed all day and wait for me to come home to eat you out? Bake me a pie so I’ll keep you happy and cockdrunk all year?” 

“I’m more inclined to you fingering me at the moment.” 

“Yeah?” His hand presses into yours and two of your fingers slide in. You gasp, straightening your back, getting used to the stretch. Only when you’re inside to your last knuckles that he whispers, “Sorry, love. I’m a feminist.” 

You throb around yourself. It’s an easy fit after having known his fingers. You don’t reach far, but it’s something. With delicate care, Matty makes you slide out, and you shudder against him. 

“Just like that,” he coos. “Slow at first.” You nod, thrusting in and out yourself. “Curl your fingers,” he demands, and you obey, biting your lip at the resulting feeling. “Perfect.”

He sets the pace with a sure, decisive hand. He picks up speed slowly, ignoring your thrilled wish to go faster, makes you thrust as deep as you can go, rubs your clit with the heel of your hand. You’re drenched to your knuckles, fucking yourself until euphoria spins your mind. 

“Look,” Matty demands, and you open your eyes. You stare at the filthy image of your cunt swallowing your fingers, over and over. You moan just like he knew you would. “So pretty. Aren’t you?”

“Y—Yeah.” 

“What are you thinking of? When you touch yourself, what do you think of?” 

“You,” you answer truthfully, still entranced by the show. 

He smirks. “I know.” Does he have to be so cocky? “But what?” 

“It depends.” He speeds up and your thighs shake with pleasure. Your wrist is growing sore, but you follow like a soldier marching to war. Anything for sweet release.

“Right now. Right before I arrived. What were you thinking of?” 

You’re drowning in pleasure, your neck slack on his shoulder. He pinches your nipple meanly, slowing your fingers, and you understand. You jolt awake, finding his dark, unflinching eyes in the mirror. Your reflection stares back, flushed and sweaty and gone, a mess just for him.

“I thought of you in the confessional. I thought of you making me pray, and me getting on my knees for you. You nudging my chin down, sweet in the gesture but rough on the fingertips, making my mouth wide open for you to—” Brain catches up to your tongue. You stop, suddenly embarrassed. 

Matty pants behind you. “What?” There’s no hint of teasing anymore, just raw need. You clench around your fingers at the sight, desire ravaging your stomach. 

Your lungs are on fire. He’s too close, and too there, and you can’t say. Good girls don’t speak. Good girls don’t finger themselves. Good girls don’t let dirty boys show them how. Good girls certainly don’t— Your cheeks heat. 

“What?” Matty repeats, presses. “Tell me, please.” As though to bargain, two of his own fingers slide into you. You gasp at the stretch, him there while you— Your room spins and spins around you. Your eyes focus on the spectacle, seeing your four fingers working together. 

You clench and clench around them, not used to the tight fit but so turned on and wet you barely register it. “Is this what you wanted?” Matty asks in your neck, pumping the four of your fingers in and out of you. You bite your lip so hard you might make it bleed trying to stop yourself from screeching. 

“Yes,” you admit, scrunching your face 

“Then give me what I want.” 

“I thought of sucking your cock,” you hurry out. Your brain is so liquidy with pleasure you can’t muster any shame anymore. “On my knees for you, and you pushing into my mouth, and gripping my hair, and your moans, and— Oh, fuck—” He curls your fingers in, hitting the spot you’ve been missing perfectly. The heel of your hand still rests on your clit and rubs sinfully. Your head falls on the mirror as you barely hold back cries. 

He rolls his thumb on your nipple. You’re overwhelmed with feeling, euphoria most of all, pleasure dancing and dancing around you. Matty fucks quick and hard— a reward. For speaking. You’ve never had that before. Something builds inside of you. You flutter around the joint digits, panting against the mirror, fogging up the glass. 

“Are you gonna come for me?” He breathes. You nod vaguely, too busy on the tension thinning inside of you. “Come on our fingers. Make a fucking mess.” 

“I—“ You wrinkle your eyebrows. Your skin buzzes and buzzes. “Matty—” The thread snaps. You straighten with a moan, shoving your free hand on your mouth to hold it in as ecstasy razes through your body. His arms tighten around you. He’s real and comforting as you crash from your high. “God,” is all you manage to say after it, a small giggle slipping from you. 

Matty kisses your cheek, then your neck, tickling. You wrinkle your nose, laughing some more. “Perfect girl. Soon you won’t even need me.” 

You roll your eyes. “That’s not true.” 

“This’ll be weird,” he warns, then slides the four fingers out of you. You groan, a little uncomfortable. You feel empty without the mess, clenching around nothing. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. He pulls the camisole back over your breasts, though it does nothing to straighten out the fucked out look your reflection offers back. How strange to see what he sees. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers. You stand up on shaky legs. On the fuzzy carpet, a wet patch lays. 

—

You stare at Matty from opposite sides of the cafeteria. His friends talk loudly around him, throwing pieces of food at each other with rumbling laughs. He doesn’t partake, locking eyes with you, sucking on the spoon of his pudding indecently. He sticks his tongue out, licking it. You can’t stop following his mouth with a heavy gaze. His eyes are teasing. He knows the effect it plants inside of you. 

You throw one leg over the other, clenching your thighs to silence the feeling. Your friends talk about math class and the way Julia’s red lipstick makes her look like a whore, but it is null to your ears. Matty kisses his spoon. You stand up in a rush. “Sorry, I— I just remembered homework. I have to go.” 

“Oh,” Fanny says. “Okay.” You’re practically running out of the cafeteria before she finishes her single-worded sentence. You give a look back at Matty. He’s throwing his spoon on his tray, standing up. You grin, pushing the doors, thrill racing inside of you. You know he’s following. 

—

Some rock music you don’t know plays from Matty’s radio. You straddle him in the back of his van, a flowery sheet thrown over the seat. There’s carpet on the floor, and the smell of weed stuck in it. Hands buried in his hair, burning lips meeting his with frenzied need, you’re afraid of melting on him. It wouldn’t be your fault: his tongue is too skilled; his hands are too warm, tucked under your school uniform, teasing at the band of your bra; his hard cock is pressed too deliciously between your thighs. It’s a miracle you’re not burning already, candle wax dripping on his poor open hands. 

“Just a little bit more,” you pant against his mouth. “Then I really have to get to youth group.” 

Matty nods eagerly. Anything to crash back against your mouth, find your bubblegum lip balm again. “Of course,” he says, already leaning in. 

Your youth group is presently gathered at the Fischer’s house, speaking bible verses and missionary statements, lettered bracelets around their wrist. They’re licking complimentary chocolate off their lips as you bite Matty’s, tugging it before releasing it with a smirk. The groan he lets out resonates between your thighs. You grip his hair tighter, shifting your hips on him, desperately trying to get as close to him as possible, as though you could step into his skin. 

You should pull away. Should brush through your now messy hair. Should unwrinkle the shirt he’s tugged on and sneaked under. Should drive to youth group. Should listen intently, bible heavy in your hands. Should recite holy words. Should repent, or at least try to. should should should should should. It’s all that seems to be spinning in your mind these days, yet you never listen. 

Instead, you let Matty push your bra cup off one of your breasts, grabbing a handful of it. You moan in his mouth as he twists the nipple. He grins against your lips, does it again. You buck on him eagerly, and, oh, isn’t that interesting? You do it again, and again, surprised at how it hits your bundle of nerves, how it reverberates through your body. You make artless rolls, sloppy and slow, just to chase that euphoric zap. You let another whine out. 

You wait for the guilt to eat your stomach, climb up to your heart, devour through the flesh. Wait for it to be strong enough to shake you out of this haze. But if pleasure feels like this —flames licking your limbs, insides droopy around the wick— then it’s not a surprise catholic guilt isn’t enough to keep you on the holy path. 

All it took was some filthy whisper in your ear while you organized your backpack, tugging at your ponytail with two raised eyebrows and a grin, and you were walking five steps behind him, making sure no one wandered around the parking lot when you stepped into his beat-up car, following him in all the deliciously sinful places he brought you to head first, mind second. I have youth group, you warned, as though that meant something. He smirked. I’ll give you a ride. 

One of Matty’s hands drops to your hip. He clutches the material of your skirt, as though that would be enough to rip it from your body, make it unreal. The bass thumps through the van, shaking the floor. It echoes in you, travels to your head. You grind your hips to the rhythm. 

And it is a delicious rhythm. Euphoria waves and waves inside of you, a dance to the drowning song. You whine in Matty’s mouth. You practically drip on him, sticky wet to your core. 

“What’s the song?” You breathe against him, high-pitched and shortwinded. 

Matty’s head drops to the wall of the van, staring up at you through his spiderleg eyelashes. He rubs at your nipple, makes your face scrunch and break with a silent plea. Distracted that he is, he manages to answer, “Palisade by Mineral.” 

“I like it.”

“Yeah?” His fingers dig in your hip, making you rock a little quicker on him. Still, he looks a little delighted at your answer. Childishly glad. 

You nod. “It reminds me of my favorite band.” 

A crooked smile hints on his lips. “What is it?”

“Flyleaf.”

He cocks his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “Don’t know them.” Matty seems genuinely confused at that, as though his brain was a dictionary of band names, and the lack of yours didn’t compute. 

You twitch your lips. “It’s a Christian band.” It feels wrong to even say the word when you’re rubbing yourself on Matty, flesh pleasures rippling under your skin. His hand is still on your breast, pawing lazily at it under your shirt, for Christ’s sake. 

Matty has a breathy laugh, half-choked by the low sounds he makes. “Don’t mock,” you whine, though humor still lingers in the words. “They do rock.” Again, he laughs. There’s something beautiful about it, about the softness of his eyes and the openness of his mouth, vulnerable, almost throat-bared. You want to grab his cheeks, hold him in place like he never is and really, really look at him. 

His laugh is contagious. You giggle, defending, “I’m serious. My parents don’t even want me listening to them.” Teasingly, you add, “Say it’s gateway music to harder things, like regular rock’n’roll.” 

“Your parents are right. They’re all devil worshippers and bisexuals.” You snort, knocking your forehead with his. 

Matty’s fingers fall from your shirt. He grips your hips with both hands, taking control of the awkward movements you roll on him. Quick, precise things, pressing into him. Everything snaps into place. Heat blooms under your skin. Your head falls back, a groan spilling from you. 

“Matty,” you moan. 

He smiles at that, kissing your jaw, then leaning back on the wall of the van to look at you. “How do you know Flyleaf then?”

You frown a little, trying to make sense of your thoughts while this pleasure swims through you. “My friend Jade has the CDs. When I go to her house, I can listen to them.” 

He licks his teeth. Amused, and perhaps a little condescending, he asks, “Do you jam out, then?”

“Yes,” you answer primly. 

His hands leave your hips, spilling down your thighs. Long fingers swallowing them up, rubbing at the fading hickeys as if to bring them back to life. Without Matty’s assistance, you rock on him. You emulate him as best as you can, circling and bucking. He groans under you and victory spins in your mind, a little inkling of pride beside the drowning ecstasy. 

The stitching of your underwear rubs at your clit in the most perfect way and you bite your tongue; a force of habit as the threat of your parents are miles away. He’s rock hard between your thighs. It always tugs at your mind, how real it feels. He presses into you, and you wonder how it would be like if— how it would feel when— 

Matty is not done teasing you. His hands slip under your skirt, grabbing your ass and speeding up your movements. You moan, digging your nails in his shoulders. Cheeky, he trails, “Do you dance around in your little pajamas? Scream-sing? Make the floors shake from how much you’re jumping? Do you have choreographies?” 

“Something like that.”

He huffs, a little grin teasing his lips. “I’d like to see that.” There he goes again, vulnerable and open and pretty. You have the urge to bite him to the core. 

You laugh. You look down at the sticky, bucking mess where you meet. “Now?” 

“Yeah,” Matty says. You twist your hips on him and he stutters, clenching your ass, groaning.  “Or— Or, you know what, maybe right after.” 

A giggle blooms out of you. You bend down to kiss the middle of his throat, right over his Adam’s apple; because it’s there, because he offers it so freely. Something in you aches to bite him, swallow him up. “Get me a Flyleaf CD. Maybe then.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” You roll your eyes.

Your thighs tremble from the effort, but you continue with just as much fervor, as much eagerness. You’re undeterred, single-minded— anything for the low thrumming building inside of you. A familiar feeling tingles in your toes, slowly licking up. You roll harder, pleading, hopeful. 

Your fingers move from Matty’s shoulders to his neck, hungry to get some skin. You dig into them, half-scratching. His head rolls on the wall. His face scrunches with a moan, pouty lips parted for you. 

A new song drums from the shitty car radio. It slashes through the blur of pleasure, takes hold of your liquefied brain. “What’s this one?” It comes out breathless. 

Matty opens his eyes, as though he needed all his senses to make sense of the song. “When You Sleep, my bloody valentine.” 

“I like it even better.” 

He smiles, warm and honey. “It’s one of my favorites, too.” You do a particularly artful buck and he cries, his head falling on your shoulder. “Fuck.” 

Euphoria buzzes up your limbs in warning. “I really have to get to youth group,” you pant. Though you do not slow, and even less stop, instead a renewed fervor to your moves. 

Matty tilts his head, kisses your neck. “Just a little bit more.”

“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing,  “just a bit.” Just a little bit, just a tiny, small, inconsequential bit, just more. There’s no wrong in it. His hand flies back to your breast, rubbing the nipple. You bite your lip, screaming, “Shit, Matty.” Your back shivers. 

You’re desperate, rocking on him with abandon. You don’t care for technique, just sheer speed, following the throbbing, screaming need inside of you that is just there. 

“I think I’m gonna—” You shake your head, pleasure too grand to make sense of the next words. 

Matty straightens from your neck, staring directly at you, panting. “I know. Me, too.” He pinches your nipple. You cry. Your toes curl. Pleasure thrums louder, following the dizzying music of the car. “Come for me,” Matty pleads. “I want to see you. Please, angel, just—” 

Your entire body shakes as you crash down from your high. You scream his name, a high-pitched cry, tongue loose in your mouth. Euphoria sings through you. All your limbs loosen and a slack, happy smile falls on your mouth. 

Your hips halt, exhausted from the effort, but Matty grips them and makes a few more sloppy rolls before whining, “Ah, fuck.” He comes with a shiver, and your name hot in his mouth. 

You stay there, unmoving, catching your breaths in the crooks of each other. He’s warm under you, around you. A known feeling, breathing. 

You giggle, dazed-happy. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Dry humping?”

“Yeah. Just without touching like that. It’s kinda—” You stop, embarrassed, suddenly not wanting to say. 

“What?” Matty trails, amused and curious. 

“Kinda like sex,” you whisper, flushed. The position, the feeling, the closeness. It really is almost sex. Though, you remind yourself, not sex at all. Of course. Matty doesn’t have time to answer that you add, “Does it feel good for you too?”

He snorts. “Yes.”

You chew your lip. Smaller, lower, you wonder, “Am I good at it?” 

Matty straightens, meeting your eyes. “I have come an embarrassing amount of times in my pants for you to not be.” 

You smile, proud. Glad. You lean in to kiss his nose. “Drive me to youth group?”

He pats your hip. “Alright.”

You attempt to straighten your clothes in the front seat, trying to iron out the wrinkles of your shirt with the palm of your hands. It’s a wasted effort, but you manage to look somewhat presentable by the time you’re a few houses from the Fischer’s. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell Matty, cheeky, and he snickers. You leave him with a wink, throwing your school bag over your shoulder. 

You walk into the room breathless and apologetic, already rambling. “Sorry I’m late. I was tutoring this kid and he wasn’t understanding the material and— it just lasted longer than I thought it would. I’m so, so sorry”

Betty smiles at you, benevolent. Guilt twists in your heart, but it’s distant. “No problem. We were just getting started on Lamentation.”

It hurts your cheek to grin so wide. “Great.”

—

You take demure bites out of your dinner, chewing and chewing until your jaw aches. It’s better for digestion, apparently. Passes straight through. Your mother sends you periodic looks, making sure you follow her advice. 

The chicken is dry and tastes like ash in your mouth. Still, you chew, trying to hide a grimace. Your stomach growls, but you wash it all down with water. 

“Did you hear about the Montgomery girl?” Susan, a neighborhood friend of your parents, exclaims. Her neck is flushed red from the wine.

Your father shakes his head, a somber expression on his face. “Such a shame.” 

“I don’t know what I would do if my Jade acted out like this,” Susan continues on, clicking her tongue in judgment. You frown. “I heard she was caught in the car.” 

“Surely not,” your mother says, clutching her pearls appropriately. There’s a sick tone of glee sticking to her teeth nonetheless. “In public?”

“Sexual deviants,” your father mutters. “It’s that damn TV. No one shows good Christian values anymore.” 

“Very true. People aren’t raised with the same standards these days. They just let kids act however.” 

“Now,” your mother starts, “Let’s not go shaming poor Sharon. She did what she could. Bailey just isn’t a very good girl.” 

“Rotten,” your father adds. “Remember when she was, what, 8 years old? At the birthday party? She practically ate all the cake.” 

“Devoured it!” 

“Sin starts young,” Susan snorts. “Gluttony isn’t treated with enough severity. It might seem like just a cake at first, but it quickly falls into premarital sex.”

“Who said?” You ask. The three adults turn to you, startled to hear you speak. 

“What?” 

“Who said she had premarital sex?” Your mother’s eyes practically bulge out from hearing you say the word. 

“Her mom came to the pastor looking for guidance,” Susan answers curtly. 

“And the pastor said Bailey was having sex in a car?” Your mother gasps, calling your name in reprimand. You ignore it. You stare at the neighbor, awaiting her answer.

Susan pinches her red neck, hand draped over her pearls. “Well,” she says, a little embarrassed. “No. Georgia said.”

“How did Georgia know?” 

“She heard it from someone.” 

“Who?”

“Well, aren’t you just a curious little thing?” Though Susan says it with a smile, it rings like a bother. You understand the underlying tone. It means shut up. It means you’re pushing. It means be good. 

You stare at Susan until she grows even more unsettled, unsure. Until she straightens in her seat, tries to play a confident front. You lick your teeth, shrugging. “It just sounds like we’re shaming her for something we know nothing about.” 

A heavy, tense silence crowns the room. Your parents look at you like you’ve grown a second head, like they itch to inspect your body until they find the devil’s birthmark; a concrete proof you’re a demonish changeling. You stand your ground. 

Your father rakes his throat. “We’re not shaming her. We’re concerned.”

You cock your head. “It’s not really our business, though, is it?” He purses his lips. You finally smile, digging your fork in your plate. “I’m just saying.” 

Your mother stutters. Susan takes a long sip of wine, staining her teeth. You bite the plastic chicken, swallowing without chewing. It goes offly down your throat. Everything does these days. Your parents’ teachings most of all. 

—

Your hands are buried deep inside of Matty’s dark mane. He tastes like cigarettes; smells like it too, the gray cloud lingering around him even when he’s done. Maybe it’s some sort of alarm call, some holy smoke signals. Maybe you should listen. 

You don’t, of course, licking into his mouth instead, lips meeting in a torturous frenzy. The bell will ring soon. You’re on a time limit. 

Matty has you pressed against the wall of some unpopulated corner of school, an awkward detouring staircase no one takes. Still, there’s a thrill humming in your veins. That someone could. Lost students, walking aficionados, fellow dirty make-out enjoyers. That they would find you, good, Christian girl, lip-locked with resident atheist Matty Healy, his hand on your tits. 

He gropes it unabashedly, his other hand digging into your hip. His knee presses between your thighs, just slightly, more to fix you to the wall than try to get you off. You feel a familiar heat build in your belly nonetheless, grinding into him every time his palm rubs your nipple. 

Thank God for skirts. Yours rised up your thighs, uncovering inches of silky skin, up to fading hickeys Matty devotedly left you. One in particular lies precariously low, always in danger of being exposed with one strong gust of wind. You wonder if he’s done it on purpose, if he wants to teeter that fatal edge, if something in him yearns to brand you and let it be known. 

“There’s got to be an empty classroom somewhere,” he says, leaving your lips just long enough to grunt the words before diving back. 

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’ve got choir in ten minutes.” 

He makes a displeased noise, groaning, “Fuck that.” 

“Come over tonight,” you breathe into his mouth, then tilt your head for another dirty kiss. 

His hand pinches your hip. He breaks away, licking your jaw, then saying, shortwinded and regretful, “Can’t. I’ve got a party. My mates’ll kill me if I miss another one.” He’s back to leaving wet kisses down your neck, rubbing his thumb over your peaked nipple masterfully. 

“Oh.” Your lips pull down. Disappointment digs into your heart. 

It’s fine. You can take care of the problem he’s growing inside of you yourself. Sure, your fingers never reach quite as far, never fill you up quite as deliciously, never work quite as efficiently, but it’s fine. It’s not as though you’ll miss him or anything. 

Matty’s head rises from your neck, seemingly sensing the shift in mood. He stares at your pout, though it might be more about the swollen, red mess he’s made of your lips then the shape of them. 

“You can… come too,” he says hesitatingly, perhaps even a bit shy. “If you want,” he immediately adds. 

You snort. The mere idea is a ridiculous concept, some clownesque farce. The girl that’s never had a lick of alcohol partying with his rowdy friends? That’s a likely sight. 

“That’s silly,” you say, but at least your lips don’t frown anymore. A smile spreads across them instead. “Can you imagine me at a party?” 

“Yeah,” Matty says seriously. 

You’re startled by his genuineness. You tilt your head at him, frowning. “And what would I do?”

He shrugs, grinning now. “Whatever you want. Drink, smoke, hang tightly in a corner doing neither.” You roll your eyes. “Hang out with me,” he adds bashfully, voice low in his voice. That idea is strangely appealing, your belly swooping at the thought of his tipsy frame leaning into yours, whispering his complex, drunk thoughts on the shell of your ear. “I might even let you kiss me.” 

You deadpan. “You’re too generous.” 

“I know,” he smiles, mischievous. He pokes your side. “Come on. Come. At least you’ll know what you’re staying away from.” 

You bite your lip. You shouldn’t find the proposition this tempting— but again, there’s many things in your life you shouldn’t find tantalizing. The boy holding you in his arms, unruly hair in the cracks of your fingers, most of all. 

“How would I even get there? I’ve got a strict bedtime.” Which he is well aware of, considering your mother interrupts your messing arounds like clockwork. 

“Sneak out,” Matty says easily. “I’ll pick you up.”

Sneaking out. It’s terribly wrong. Your parents trust you. Have put several thought out rules for a reason. It’s years of education that you would be breaking through. Years of character— good, tame, obedient— that you would wreck. 

But then, you’ve already started, haven’t you? What’s one more night? 

As though to convince you while you deliberate in that overthinking head of yours, Matty bends back into your neck, spreading open-mouthed kisses on your collarbone. He climbs up the bone, tugging your cardigan aside, revealing inches and inches of skin slowly, carefully. The white bra strap doesn’t deter him; he pushes it off your shoulder, tenderly pressing his lips to the red mark it left. 

His hand grabs at your breast, his knee grinding ever so slightly against your underwear, like a promise of what he could do. A small moan escapes your lips, eyes closing in pleasure. He smirks against your skin. 

“Come on, angel,” he whispers. “Please.”

An amused laugh breaks through the euphoria. You feel impossibly giddy. “Fine. Since you said please.” 

His head snaps up, grinning at you. He’s so happy you think you might melt from the sight. “Yes?” 

Your eyes dance. “Yes.” 

Matty bends down to kiss you, smile still crowding his mouth, eyes zeroing on yours. “Well, I believe we still got five minutes.” He tastes like cigarettes and honey; your favorite sugar. 

—

“How great is our God, sing with me.” The voices ring all together, some angelic, melodic music accompanied with soft piano. You clutch your hands behind your back, harmonizing, trying to remember the lyrics as your mind still scrambles from the heavy kiss mere minutes ago. 

Your stare swipes across the bored looks. You find Matty’s almost instantaneously; it’s scary that you do, that you spot him so easily in a crowd. As though you were always subconsciously searching for him. As though you were two magnets attracting, attracting, attracting. “How great is our God, and all will see.” 

He grins at you knowingly, teasingly, as if you’re sharing a secret. You can’t help smiling back, trying to bite back a laugh. The taste of him still lingers in your mouth. He winks at you and your heart sings. 

“How great, how great, is our God.”

—

You wait anxiously by your window, throwing furtive glances to the cross still reigning over the room. You bite your nails, walking in circles, trying to soften your steps so they don’t ring all the way to your parents’ room where your mom surely has a fretful sleep. A pebble knocks on the glass. 

You straighten, opening the window with shaky fingers. You stick your head out, peering down to Matty’s smiling face, a few more rocks in his hands. Glee is written all over him.

“How do I get down?” You whisper. 

“Use the trellis.”

The ivied wood looks like an unsound structure, but it has held Matty’s weight numerous times. Looking up to mutter a quick prayer— a habit more than a decision— you stick your leg out, perilously swinging it until your foot hits the wood. 

The rest of your body follows awkwardly. With a death grip, you claw at the trellis. You descend slowly, step by step, heart racing in your chest. You’re electrified. 

You jump the last couple of feet, landing on the muddy grass. It stains brown your Mary Janes; you’ll have to clean them when you get home, make sure your mother doesn’t see. 

You twist around with a proud grin as though to show yourself off. All in one piece, breathing and alive and out of your house. You feel like a reinvented Rapunzel. 

Matty smiles at you. He rakes his eyes over your body, coming back up with a teasing smirk. “Cute outfit,” he says, reaching a hand out to tug at one of your bows. 

You scowl. You tighten your pretty pink bow on the left. You wear your regular church skirt, rolled-up at the waist to show off the lace at the top of your white thigh-high socks. It’s what all the bad girls do with their school uniform, collecting detentions in return. 

Most importantly, you dusted out your frilly, lacy white top with spaghetti straps. It made your mother nearly collapse when she first saw it, claiming the stripe of collarbones and cleavage uncovered as unchaste, demanding you throw it away. You promised to do so, but shoved it in the back of your closet instead, behind boxes of old childhood stuffed toys. You’re still not sure why you kept it. Perhaps, in a way, you knew you would need it eventually. 

It’s the most scandalous thing you own. 

“Is it not a party outfit?” You say, self-conscious, peering down at your attire. You do contrast ridiculously with Matty and his ripped jeans and leather jacket; drenched in black, looking like caricatural danger. 

“No, no. It’s just— very clean.” It’s strange to be described like this. Your thoughts tumble with the word dirty and all its synonyms, yet Matty doesn’t seem to notice the filth caked on you. Something in your chest warms. “It’s, you know, a party. You might have a beer thrown on you.”

“Well, I’ll fit in, then. Rowdy and dirty like the rest of them.” 

Matty chuckles. He slings his arm over your shoulder and guides you to his car parked several houses away. “Sure will, angel.”

You finally get to Matty’s dirty van. It’s more of a dangerous box on wheels than anything else. You step into the passenger seat and immediately get a whiff of weed. There’s something reassuring about the smell, something familiar. It hits your nose, you see the brown carpet, and suddenly there’s the knocking idea to make out with Matty in the back of it, like a trained reflex. 

You buckle your seatbelt neatly. Matty presses play on the stereo. All Around Me rings through the car. You grin, looking at him with this pathetic glee. “You bought the CD?”

“I made a promise.” 

“D’you like them?” You bite your lip with the eagerness of a puppy. There’s something elated to have him see you. 

“They’re not bad,” he admits. “Real close to real rock’n’roll. I can see why your parents are terrified.” He shrugs, “Bit horny too.”

You gasp, slapping his shoulder. “Matty.”

“What?” He laughs. “I feel you on my fingertips? I can see you all around me? Thickening the air I breathe?”

“You make everything dirty.”

“It’s in the text, darling.” You roll your eyes, though, you have to admit, he’s not entirely wrong. 

Matty spreads his hand on your thigh. His palm warms you up, two callused fingers dipping in the inner side. You flush, dormant heat waking up from his ghost touch. “Are you ready?” He asks, suddenly serious. 

You laugh, “It’s a little late for that. I’m already out of the house.”

“No,” Matty shakes his head. “We could go back in if you want. I could eat you out until you pass out.” 

You consider him. It’s not a bad plan, far from it, but there’s something about his readiness to do so that makes you want to please him. You give him a cheeky smile. “I didn’t climb that trellis for nothing. Let’s go.”

“Alright,” Matty says, but his smile practically breaks his face. He turns the key and drives down the road. 

—

You stand neatly on the porch with a straight back. You’re in your church pose, something strict and firm, spotless to defend early against criticism. Your finger reaches for the doorbell, ringing it. 

Matty spins his car key around a digit. He laughs. “Oh, you’re so cute.” He opens the door, stepping in. You flush and follow inside. Your heart races.

Music attacks you, some loud, drum-filled thing that blasts through cheap speakers. The house smells of smoke. You wrinkle your nose. People are scattered everywhere, blue solo cups in hand, rolled up paper hanging loosely from the tip of their fingers. The floor is sticky. At least you don’t feel guilty for your muddy Mary Janes dragging on the floorboards. 

There’s a carefreeness to the scene, to the bodies dancing in a corner of the living room, to the lips meeting frantically against a wall in plain sight, to the limbs splaying and knotting and draping on a couch like some four-headed monster. 

You wrap your arms together behind your back, terribly aware of how out of place you are. Your silly outfit is not just in contrast to Matty. Everyone has something black, or ripped, or wrinkled. Dirty shirts and short skirts and combat boots. You’re a splotch of white in this infernal painting.

“Are you okay?” Matty says, dipping into you so you can hear him over the music. You nod faintly. He opens his mouth to say more, but someone interrupts, screaming;

“Matty! Shit, mate, I didn’t fucking think you’d make it.” A tall man approaches, catching Matty’s hand to smack their chests together. 

“No faith in me,” he tsks. “I said I’d be there.” 

“Well, you haven’t been the most reliable recently.” His eyes find you. He grins, narrowing in on you until you feel pinned in place. “And you must me why.” 

Your eyes widen. Behind your back, your fingers pick at your skin. “C’mon, Ross, give it up,” Matty rolls his eyes, and you’re a little glad he answered for you. 

“Nice to meet you,” you nod, reaching a hand out, ever polite. Manners drilled into you ever since you were young, impossible to disentwine from you, even when it’s ill-fitting. And it clearly is, because Ross makes a little amused snort as he shakes your hand, asking your name. 

“You must be thirsty,” Ross says, though mostly to Matty. There must be something written on your face, something hinting that you don’t partake in such activities. “C’mon. Everyone’s in the kitchen.” Ross jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen, then turns around. 

Matty rests a loose hand on your back, guiding you in the crowd. Your skin lights from his merest touch. You tilt your head to watch him, fluttering your eyelashes at him. He catches your look, smirking. He faces straight ahead, but his tongue digs into his cheek, smug. You have to bite back a laugh when you emerge into the kitchen. 

A few people gather on the counters, sitting on the marble or mixing a free pour drink. The room is quieter, shaken up with laughs instead of bass. A blunt is being passed around. You wrinkle your nose at the smell. It vaguely reminds you of Matty’s van. 

“Here he finally is,” someone exclaims when they spot you. It’s another tall guy, cigarette tucked behind his ear, boozy cup in his hand. He’s got a loose smile on his lips. His eyes dance with amusement. “Nice of you to show up.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Matty rolls his eyes. “Ross said the same.”

He presents each of them to you, spotting his best friends George and Adam out of the crowd. You’ve seen them vaguely before, familiar faces hanging around him and a cloud of smoke. You grin at them, trying to mutter some sense of aloofness. It comes offly on your lips, a see-through mask.

You reach your hand out, and there’s the same amused look on their face as Ross as they move their cups out of the way, taking yours and firmly shaking it. They hum your name when you tell them, tasting its sweetness, memorizing it. Their eyes trail up and down your outfit, resting on the two bows on your hair. You regret them almost instantly, finding your thumb and pinching it instead of ripping them off. 

Matty gives them those easy handshake-hugs men seem to fall into. There’s a sense of pieces fitting together when Matty greets all of his friends. The room makes place for him, embracing him amongst the small crowd. He pulls the kitchen together, makes the sticky solo cups carnage a righteous war painting. Makes it make sense. 

“I got you your fucking wine,” George says with a hint of disdain. 

He picks a bottle of red wine out of the bridge, holding it out for Matty. It’s just as ill-fitting as you, misplaced in this sea of cheap beer and vodka-soda. There’s something comforting to the idea, to Matty’s carelessness as he grabs the bottle by the neck. 

He twists the screw top wine and takes a deep mouthful of the wine under the cheers of his friends. He licks his red lips clean, chuckling as he catches the droplets rolling off his chin. “Do you want anything to drink?” Matty asks you. The wine lingers vaguely in your direction. 

You wrinkle your nose. “Just water,” you say, and you hold your breath for some eyeroll or deserved grumble. Nothing comes. Matty nods. He opens a cupboard of the kitchen familiarly, grabbing a glass. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Adam nods at you. You jump, almost surprised to be acknowledged and not blurred into the background. 

Your lips up. “Thanks. You, too.” You take the glass of water when Matty comes back. He stays near you, a protective presence lingering, though he doesn’t even touch you. 

George takes a sip of his beer. “So how did you two meet?” 

You clench your hand around your glass. “Um. At church.”

Laughter roars through the crowd. You stand tight, awkwardly staring at them. Matty sighs beside you. The laughs die, a sort of shared incredulous look taking its place instead. Beady, multicolored eyes pin you in place. 

“Oh, shit,” George finally says. “You’re serious.”

Ross shakes his head, tsking, “Only Matty would manage to pick up chicks in church.”

Matty makes an offended noise, slapping his shoulder. “I’m not fucking picking up chicks in church.” 

“What’s this then?” Adam pingpongs his eyes from you and Matty, lingering in the space between. Or the near lack of it, shoulders brushing, an instinctive closeness. 

Matty opens his mouth, then closes it, staring at you. Waiting for you to declare this strange, unnatural thing between you. Give it a name. Make it real. Your heart races. “We’re friends,” you finally settle on. And it’s not untrue. Still, you take a sip of water right after, washing down the bitter taste. 

“See,” Matty comes back to his mates. “Friends.”

“Uh-huh,” George snorts, clearly seeing through both of you. “Sure.”

“You’re all a bunch of dickheads,” Matty says, and once again suffers the resounding snickers. There seems to be something brewing still, taunts and mockeries until they draw the confessions out of you. You ready for the impact.

Thankfully, a girl comes in and saves you from what surely is a line of further questioning, bursting into the kitchen to ask, “Beer pong?” The boys cheer, following after her. Matty stays with you. 

“They’re not usually this annoying,” he assures. “They’re even great sometimes.” 

“It’s okay,” you laugh, brushing his concerns away. You’d like them even if they were usually this annoying. Because they’re his friends. Because they’re his. Because he has this soft, wonder look in his eyes when he talks about them, to them. You don’t think you’d defend any of your friends to anyone. You don’t think you have friends at all. 

Though, of course, you have Matty now. Decretated it to a party and everything. It seems you’re more stuck together than you thought. 

—

His lips are stained red from the wine, pulled in a loose smile as he tipsy-giggles. There’s a freeness to his limbs, a jointlessness the alcohol strings out of him. He’s flushed in the cheeks. He’s pretty. Matty takes a swig of his bottle, licks it off. You want to kiss him. 

You stand alone in the kitchen, your own small cocoon away from reality. Out there, beyond the walls, there’s a heated Olympics of beer pong, cheers and cries and the swoosh sounds of balls falling into liquid resonating back to you. Even further away, the consistent noise of rock music thumps back faintly. An underwater resonance, almost unreal.

Matty leans against the island counter. He makes you laugh, draws out those embarrassing snorts out of you. His eyes grow proud every time he does, talking and talking until he gets another hit, as though placing the needle of the turntable at the fated vinyl groove of a favorite song over and over again. 

Another swig. You follow the movement, intrigued. Matty arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” He asks, annoyingly knowingly. 

You’ve finished two glasses of water, but there’s an unquenchable thirst inside of you, grumbling beside the everexisting hunger, the scary desire. 

You know you shouldn’t let yourself get tempted by sins. It’s already bad enough that you indulge in Matty, that you allowed to get talked into coming to a party. Wine is your savior’s blood, and nothing else. 

Still, you bite your cheek, feeling them heat. “Maybe,” you admit slowly. It’s embarrassing to go back on your words, but there’s a sense of safety when it’s just you and him, when there’s none of his friends who would surely be a little too amused at your drunk church girl act. 

Matty draws a hand out for you. You catch it, letting yourself get pulled towards him. He smiles down at you and your chest warms. Comfort settles in your bones; you grin back, tipping your head up. 

“Just a taste,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. Just a dip of lips, innocent and inoffensive. Like the communion wine, tasted and licked off. 

Matty smirks at you. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, tugging you even closer. Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at his lips as he takes another mouthful of his wine, parting your own instinctively. Your belly somersaults. Fuck the wine. You want him to kiss you. You want him so thoroughly it scares you sometimes. It thrills you the other half. 

Matty dips his head into you, nears his lips, parts them, and lets the wine fall into your mouth. You gasp, tasting the dark flavor, tasting him. Your mind spins dizzyingly. It’s sharper than the eucharist; realer, better. Droplets fall from your lips, but you just catch his, careless, hungry. You lick the leftover taste of wine from his tongue. You want to swallow it whole, swallow him whole. Heat plants in your belly, blooming and blooming. 

Matty parts from you with a laugh. He catches the runaway drops of wine with his thumb, wiping your chin and dipping it in your mouth to clean. You do so instinctively, dutifully, sucking around his finger. Your stare meets his dark eyes. You feel faint. 

His hungry look falls to your rising chest, the inkling of cleavage you’ve uncovered for this party, panting for him. His eyes zero in on the cross, everpresent, evertainted. He clicks his tongue. “Sorry. I’ve stained your little outfit.” 

You look down at your top. Bright red drops on your white shirt. You won’t be able to wash it off, won’t get rid of this night, of him. You already plan the place you’ll hide it in your closet; because you know, secretly, you won’t want to throw it away. Not when it’s now intimately attached to this memory, to his cloudy eyes, to the bitter taste of wine and him on your tongue. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Now I fit in.” 

He huffs a laugh. “Sure, angel.” His arm falls loosely around your waist. He takes a step in your direction and you do the opposite.

“Don’t call me that,” you say petulantly. “They’ll see right through me.” Your back hits the counter. 

“But you’ve got those wine drops. They couldn’t possibly mistake you for a good girl with stains on your shirt.” His hand catches your hip and he hoists you up on the counter, sliding between your spread thighs. Your skirt rises up dangerously, but you don’t bother straightening it. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the silky skin before, hasn’t touched and licked and bit it. There’s still the faint shape of bruises on them because of him.

“You don’t think I fit in?” You ask him, fluttering your eyelashes at him, comically pouty. 

Matty’s hand falls to the uncovered skin of your thigh, pinching there. His eyes dip to your pouty lips, as though an invitation he’s difficultly resisting. “You’d stand out anywhere, love.” 

“You’re a charmer.” 

He tsks. “I’m charming,” he corrects you. He raises the bottle of wine, letting the cool glass rest on your naked thigh. You jump at the cold feeling, shivering. “What did you think of your taste?” 

“I don’t know,” you whisper conspiratorially, amusement dancing in your eyes. “I’d need another one to really decide.” 

Matty smirks at you. “Anything you want.”

—

“There’s no way you’re making it! Give up already!” 

Your eyes narrow on the blue solo cup, ignoring the insulting cries around you hoping to get you down. They’re aiming for your head, to sneak under your skin and get you to mess up. Truthfully, they don’t need any trashtalking to throw you off your game. You’re three downed beers in and the circle of the cups seem to narrow each throw. You haven’t made a single shot since the very first cup. 

“Don’t listen,” Matty breathes in your ear.  “C’mon. Prove them wrong. You can’t let them be right.” You shake the stress off your shoulders. “Do the shot.” He gets louder, chanting, “Do the shot. Do the shot. Do the shot.” Spectators join in, singing with him, drumming on the table. 

You purse your lips, tilt your wrist, and throw. 

The ping-pong ball falls neatly in the cup. Swoosh. George bends down to blow on it, but it’s useless. You’re already screaming in victory. The party rumbles with shocked cheers, half of your chanting supporters not ever believing in you. You throw yourself in Matty’s arms with a happy cry. His grin hits your cheek. He lifts you up, sways you around. You hear your laugh over the boos of the competing team. 

“I fucking knew it,” Matty says, light and excited. “I fucking knew it.” The laugh bubbles out of you, easy and familiar. 

You won’t win the game, but this goal is enough. 

—

Your hands hook around Matty’s neck, loose and sloppy. You move your hips to the rhythm, let your arms flurry around you. You jump to the drum-heavy parts, looking like scattered limbs pushed around. People knock against you, never apologetic. Sweat sticks to your skin. You grin at him, knock your forehead on his shoulder. 

Matty’s laugh resonates. He puppeteers you, spinning you around his finger, throwing you off a joint hand and wrapping you back in his arms. He scream-sings the lyrics in your ears. Sounds bury inside of you.

You sway to the piano, grinning so wide it might rip your cheeks. His hands are warm on your lower back. Your fingers greedily dig up into his hair, burying home. An imprint of you on him; he leaves the dancefloor unruly, with the shape of your hands in his curls. Your name branded, secretly. You like it. 

—

“Sprite,” you say, impossibly solemn. 

George nods, twisting the Sprite bottle cap with equal seriousness. He splashes it out, then looks at you for confirmation. You’re implacable. He pours some more until you nod decidedly. 

“I found orange juice,” Adam says. He digs out a bottle from the very back of the fridge, coming back towards the sticky counter with his treasure. 

“That’s my mum’s, and it’s mango-passion fruit juice.” 

Adam shrugs, uncaring. “Eh. It’s fruit.”

“In the cup!” You shout, pointing towards the glass with a ridiculous amount of different liquids. You’re making the perfect drink, allegedly, but it’s more a collection of tastes than any attempt at mixing. Really, there’s a growing chance that it will be entirely awful. 

George, dutiful, pours the juice in the cup. “Where’s the grenadine?” He asks. 

“It needs more rhum,” Adam suggests. 

“Sprite!” 

—

You sit on Matty’s lap, practically dripping on him. Your back melts on his front, your head dipped on his shoulder, your legs hanging from his spread thighs. You’re an eight-legged monster you caught a glimpse of when you first entered the party, frowning at the agglomeration until you finished the bottle of red wine and understood. You’re giggly and spacey now, but most importantly needy, practically clinging on Matty. 

You drink a vodka-juice, and you reach it out for him instinctively, though he always refuses, restating he’s driving. Matty put grenadine in it to make it pink and sugary for you. His free hand warms your hip, spreading possessively over the bone.

His friends are a cacophonic orchestra around you, screaming over the music, talking over each other, laughing at a joke from three people away. You don’t care what you look like in front of them, a secret glimpse of everything unsaid in your friend declaration. Your skirt has risen up enough to reveal a flash of hickeys, but you don’t have the overthinking, overbearing mind to fret over it, tugging at the skirt. You doubt it really matters to them anyway; they must have seen much grander things than a hickey. 

You like them. They’ve got the same humor as Matty, the same cadence to their words. There’s a melody to their stories, an inherent rhythm. You like it, like that they sound like him. 

“So,” Adam starts, sounding even goner than you. “Church?”

You snort at his introduction. “Yeah.”

“How’s he like?” Adam adds, vaguely gesturing towards the two of you. There’s a morbidly interested look to his friends; everyone waits for the answer. 

You giggle giddily. “He’s a poor Christian,” you confess. 

“I’m not a Christian,” Matty repeats, his fingers digging into your flesh as a warning. You roll your eyes. Your skin buzzes pleasantly. 

“He’s a great atheist,” you correct for his sake. “He laughs and snorts at all the inappropriate places.”

His hand rises up to your stomach, tightening his hold on you. “They’re laugh-worthy,” Matty explains to you, and you shake your head dutifully, the religious example. 

“You liked Song of Solomon perfectly well,” you tell him, upping your nose. 

“That’s because it’s dirty.” Matty tightens his fingers, digging his stare into you. His words are dangerous as he says, “And I loved Genesis.” A memory of his fingers curling into, bringing you impossibly close to a cliff, as his melodic voice told the fatalistic story of Adam and Eve flashes back to you. You stare up at him, smirking. 

A girl steps into the living room, falling on the couch beside Ross. She drops her head on his shoulder, pouting. 

“Are you okay?” Ross laughs, clearly seeing through her pity act. 

“Delaney’s not coming,” she explains. The crowd resounds with regretful noises. You frown. 

“Who’s Delaney?” You ask, gone enough to be uncaring of what you look like. Out of the loop, ill-fitting. Delaney means something to everyone but you. 

“She’s our friend. Really cool girl,” the girl explains helpfully. “But she’s busy with her stupid job today.”

George smirks, flicking his eyes towards Matty. “She gave him that insane blowjob.” The hair rises on your skin. You freeze. 

Matty makes a clicking sound. “Shut up.”

“That’s what you said,” George defends, throwing his arms in the air. You relax in Matty’s arms. He doesn’t seem to care much about her, even if she supposedly gave him head worth telling about. You wonder when she did. If it was recently. 

The girl rolls her eyes. “She’s more than a fucking blowjob. She said she might come by late if the party was still going.”

“It will still be going,” George assures, confident in his hosting skills. 

The girl shrugs, less assured. “We’ll see.” 

An argument seems to be brewing, but Matty taps your thigh. He declares, “I need a fag.”

You stand with him, following him before he even asks you. Three feet apart and you might crack and die from the distance. Still, you think, he’s just your friend— plus the unsaid, of course.

—

The smoke lingers around you. You steal the cigarette from Matty, pulling your lips around the stick, inhaling in. Suck it like a straw, you remember him saying. Or, follows right after, leaving you flushing. You follow his command anyway, breathing out gray smoke without the hint of a cough. 

You hold it out for him after, which he takes as he peers unhappily at you. “You shouldn’t be this used to it,” Matty explains. “It’s bad for you.”

“You shouldn’t have taught it to me, then,” you retort cheekily. 

“I barely did.”

“Shouldn’t have made it so tempting,” you volley back easily, just as smug. “Every time I kiss you, you taste like cigarettes. You can’t expect me not to be already a little bit addicted.”

“You make it sound like you’re addicted to me,” Matty breathes out. His gaze devours you, like he knows. Like you don’t even have to confirm his hypothesis, like he’s well aware of your strange obsession with him. Like he can see the filthy thoughts flying in your mind any time he dares exist near you. 

You hum noncommittally, acting nonchalant. “Maybe,” you give in. “Maybe I just like the headrush.” You take another drag, letting the nicotine adrenaline bloom up your head, buzzing and buzzing. It’s a boneless feeling, something that leaves you grinning helplessly. 

Matty gets scared of your shivering body in nothing but your camisole. He takes his arms out of his leather jacket, pulling it over his shoulder. You clutch it gratefully; you hadn’t realized you were cold until you held it over your body. 

Your eyes fall back on him as the rush subsides. You reach your hand out to him; he grabs his Marlboro cigarette, sticking it back where it belongs: his mouth. It wraps around it. You tilt your head. 

“How was it like?” You ask, filter truly gone. 

“What?”

“The insane blowjob,” you answer easily. Matty chokes on his cigarette, coughing out smoke. You wait it out, watching as he smacks his chest. 

He rakes his throat, hesitant. “Fine.”

“Come on,” you laugh, “You can give me more than that.”

“This feels like a trap.”

“I’m genuinely curious,” you defend. “I don’t—“ You flush. “I don’t really know any of this. Sex. Pleasure. I’m just— It’s a lot of void. For me.”

“So you want to know how it felt?”

You stare at him, unflinching. “I want to know how she did it.”

A shudder passes through Matty. He licks his lips. Rests his cigarette between them, takes a long drag. Finally, he settles his gaze on you. 

“It was— It was a bit like this, I guess.” Matty takes your wrist, puppeteers two fingers out, and sucks them inside his mouth. 

Your breath hitches. Your free hand clutches his leather jacket, pulling it tighter over your shoulders. You stare at his red lips as they stretch over your digits. 

Matty licks his tongue on your fingers, sucking his cheeks in, bobbing his head. It’s a wet, pornographic sound. Your cunt clenches around nothing, ready for something you’ve never known. You feel heat droop in the deepest parts of you, staring at him, shortwinded. 

Matty’s dark eyes catch yours. He’s shameless, swallowing around your fingers. He releases them with a pop sound, kissing the tips of them delicately. Your skin flushes. 

“There,” Matty finally says, satisfied. “That’s how you do it.”

Your heart races, calling for him, for it. Your eyes narrow on his lips, crashing against them before you have the sense to think. You catch his waist, drawing him closer, kissing him harder. Matty answers eagerly, a low groan in the back of his throat. 

He’s everywhere. Climbing up your sides. Licking into you. Biting your lip, drawing it out. Whining in your mouth. Your body sings for him, utterly ready. 

“I want you,” you whisper against him. Matty mumbles, catching your mouth with a renewed hunger. “I—“ You start again between two breathless kisses, tongue mixing perfectly, “Matty, I need you.”

The words resonate. Matty’s fingers dig in your waist, impatient. He breathes suggestively,  “George has a guest room.”

Your smile breaks your face. “Let’s go.”

—

You burst into the guest room. The door slams against the wall as Matty devours your lips. His hands are in your hair, pushing the leather jacket off your shoulders, falling down your back, gripping your waist, clutching your hips, drumming up your ribs. A savage, desperate tempo takes your flimsy bodies. He licks into your mouth with a hungry tongue. Your heart races, thrill buzzing up your legs. 

You sneak a hand under his black shirt, clawing at the skin of his back. You trace the ridges of his spine with your fingertips, up and down, and Matty shivers in answer. You fall to his waist, gripping his side, pulling him into you more. You hope your handprints will brand him somehow. 

He pushes you against the wall. A moan resonates from you that he hurries to swallow up. His hand grabs a handful of your ass over your skirt. Another low sound slips from you. You part your legs; his knee settles in instinctively, like a return home. It hits your clit, denim rubbing faintly, and a hot coil of pleasure swoops in your belly. He bites your lip and tugs it. 

“Pretty girl,” Matty whispers roughly at your whines. He leans away from your mouth to stare down, catching an eyeful of your heaving breasts. He smirks, teasing as he says, “But what’s a good girl like you doing with stains on her top? Let me fix you up, darling…”

Cheeky, he slips under the hem of your camisole. Calluses dance on your skin; your hair rises, hyperaware of him. He gets near your first rib, showing off your midriff, before you push his hand down. 

You know what it would lead to if you let him take it off. He’d lick at your tits, kiss down your sternum, and fall to his knees for you. He’d lap and nip and fuck until your brain was putty in your skull and coherent, multisyllabic words were a faraway concept, and then he’d wipe his chin and drive you home. Which would be good, of course, and you’d go to sleep tingling and happy, bone-deep satisfied, but you wouldn’t have touched him. 

That’s what you want— what you need. For all the little fears and insecurities that the idea brings you, the desire to please him, to say thank you, to learn is greater, beating in your chest. You want to give him the best blowjob he’s ever had, want to blow all the other girls he’s met out of his head. Be the one, the only one. 

Matty is too enthralled in you to catch your subtle hint, leaving wet kisses on your neck as he now trails his hand up your thighs. He starts at the lace of your socks, finding your smooth skin and stopping at your underwear. His hand palms the wet patch with a pained grunt, lazily rubbing at your clothed clit. You bite your lip, panting in the quiet of the room. 

The floor shakes from the speakers downstairs. Music lulls under the floorboards, a strange background to the quick and hot breaths filling the room. You push Matty’s hand against all your screaming, begging judgements. Curse him for always being so talented at driving you wild. 

“Remember that fantasy I had? I want to do it,” you say, pushing off the wall and walking into him. He steps back to leave you room, frowning a little. “I want to see you. To feel you.”

The back of his knees hits the desk chair. You push him on it, falling neatly on his lap next. You stare him down, confident, certain.  “I want to suck your dick.”

His hands find your hips easily. Matty’s dark eyes devour you. They linger on your swollen lips, leveled with him, practically inviting him. His breaths quicken. You brush two hands through his hair, pouting, blinking condescendingly in mock-act of him. “Will you let me do that?” 

He makes a choked sound from the back of his throat. “Fuck— Yeah. Yeah, whatever you want. Please.” He catches your lips again with a groan. 

You kiss him back eagerly. It’s safe, to be in his lap, to grip his hair, to tilt your head and meet his mouth. Known. A learned and practiced thing, so inherent you could close your eyes and make up the shape of his lips from memory. You would know; you think of them on your late nights when he can’t sneak out, hot and sweaty and bothered, two fingers dipped inside of you. You imagine his lips, and his tongue, and his fingers, and all the spots of your body that miss them, and it’s so real you’re almost surprised he’s not smirking up at you when your eyes part open after an orgasm that’s just not quite what you needed. 

Matty slips under your skirt, grabbing a fistful of your ass again, dragging you closer in his lap. You grind against his hard-on; a moan falls from your mouth and plants down his throat. He smirks against your lips, does it again. 

“Matty,” you trail in warning. Though it transforms into a groan as he puppeteers your hips just so while you say it, losing its edge.

“Just a bit,” he promises, but there’s something cheeky in his tone. Your head falls back as he bucks you on him. Pleasure drums up your ribs. 

You’re hot and buzzing and ecstasy sweeps inside of you. A low, known thrumming resonates. Your clit rubs against him, over and over, and you know the mind-melting orgasm you can get from it. It’s been your favorite recent activity: the closeness, the reciprocity, the power, the moans he makes, the fact that it’s almost, seemingly, more. A veil of sex, with half the damnation. 

Matty’s fingers twist in the band of your underwear, clenching around it as he moves you faster, harsher. There’s a focused look in his eyes and you know he doesn’t really mean it when he says just a bit. 

You take his wrists, ripping them away from you and in the air. Matty holds them palms up, a virtuous sign of innocence, with the smug, amused look to contradict it. You pant. Your body bemoans, your betraying hips tingling to move and chase that pleasure again. 

“You’re not very good at listening,” you chastise. 

Matty clicks his tongue. “I’ve always been a do-what-I-want guy.” 

An idea prickles at the back of your head. You stand up from him slowly, ignoring your uncomfortably wet underwear. He pouts at you. You take a step back, and he tries to reach for you again, but you hold him away by his wrists. 

“I’ll just have to make you listen, won’t I?” 

Matty loses his smirk. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even procure another cheeky comment. He waits, the moment hanging in the air. Waits for your next move. Waits for the new game board. Waits for a footing of some kind. Tension sparks between you. 

You let go of one hand, reaching up to your own hair and pulling out the left pink bow. The satin tickles your skin. You smirk at him. 

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“What I want.”

You round the chair, bending down to your knees. You draw his wrists together behind his back and wrap the satin ribbon around them. You tie a pretty bow, perfect loops and tails, all proportionate. You smile, wishing he could see. 

You crawl on your knees around the chair, back in front of him. Your eyelashes flutter at him. “Fuck,” he whines.

He pants, staring down at you unblinking, as though each second missed would kill him. As though he’s engraving the sight in his brain. You smile. Your hands graze his thighs. He shivers, makes another low noise. 

You know that he could take it off easily. It’s flimsy material, and it’s a poor knot, and it’s a ribbon. But he stays there, hands in place, giving you free range, and there’s something about the vulnerability to do so that makes you want to please him even more. Give him some sort of reward, a worthy thank you. 

He’s always honest, and open, and willing. You guard your heart fearfully, hold your thoughts under your tongue like your mom always told you to do. But he waits, open-palmed, throat-bared, hands-tied. 

It’s a tragic story. Almost biblical. 

But as much as you want him —in your hands, in your mouth— you still— you don’t really know how to do any of it. Your knowledge of blowjobs stops at a stupid, graphic joke Jake Finn made sophomore year and Matty showing you on the balcony just now. 

Your lips twitch. Your head falls on his thigh, an innocent look he should be able to see right through in your eyes. “Father,” you whisper with a hint of mischief. Matty’s breath hitches. “I need guidance.” 

Matty breathes from his nose harshly. He attempts to gather himself. Gravelly, he says, “Get me out of these.” His wrists tug on the restraint, though not enough to break it. 

You shake your head, scrunching your nose at him. “I can do it alone.” You raise your head, tilting it to kiss his thigh. His head falls back with a pained noise. You giggle. “Please, please, Father. What should I do?” 

He looks back at you with dark eyes. You smirk. You’ve got him. 

There’s an implacable sense of authority in his voice. For all his rebellions, he plays the role quite well. Grand and solemn and holy, of all things, he says, “Are you gonna be good for me?” 

A spark of excitement hits you. You lick your lips, nodding at him eagerly. “Yes,” you assure. You shift on your knees. “The best, Father.” You mean it in more ways than one. It’s pride, and it’s hubris, and it’s a grandiose speech. But you need it nearly as much as you need him, need to blur all those other girls from his mind. 

“Good girl,” Matty coos, and the praise hits true. You clench your thighs, biting back a low moan. Matty smirks knowingly as he adds, “Always so devout.” There’s a sick thrill at being called pious when you’re kneeling for a profane man. The juxtaposition slicks your underwear, spins your mind. You’re anything but, but he manages to make the words true by saying it. He reinvents the universe from the flick of his tongue; maybe he really is a God.  

“Take me out,” Matty says. It rings as an order, sure and lashing. You shiver.

You climb your hands to his hips, unbuttoning his black jeans. Your fingers shake as you do so, sloppy and imprecise. Your heart beats in your skull, the knowledge of what is coming knocking at your brain. You draw him out. 

His cock stands hard and up in front of you. You’ve seen it before, of course, but never from so close. Your lips part in fascination. Precum leaks from his tip and there’s something filthy about the sight. You want to catch the drip with your finger and suck in your mouth, but you don’t dare do it. You’re not sure what the next move should be, what ways to touch. 

You flick your eyes back to him, silently asking. This time, he’s much more gentle when he offers, “Wrap your hand around the base.” 

Your fingers fly to his cock. You circle his length. You’ll replay in your mind the gasp he lets out as soon as you make contact for a long time. Oh, you decide suddenly. You’ll have fun with that. 

Before he suggests anything else, you draw your hand up. A tantalizing, torturous pace. Matty twitches in your hand, moaning. “Start slow,” you whisper. You jerk back down. “I know that.” It’s a knowledge engraved in the back of your mind, reminded in the raspy sound of his voice when he first said it. 

“Yeah—” He nods for fault of finishing a sentence. You pass your thumb over his tip like you’ve seen him do. His hips jump, a hiss slipping from his mouth. “Fuck, that’s—”

“Father, you shouldn’t swear. It’s not godly.”

Matty meets your eyes, seeing right through the teasing smirk you offer him. Here you are speaking of God with his hard cock in your hand. “You’re right,” he breathes. “What example am I giving my— Shit, fuck.” You’ve sped up your movements at the most inopportune time, it seems. 

You tsk. “You’re just not learning your lesson.”

“I’m a bad example.” 

“If you keep going, I might come out of this unholier than when I came in.” Mischief tacks your tongue.

“We couldn’t have that, could we?” Matty tries to volley back, but it’s more a pant than a taunt. You lick your teeth, satisfied. 

You stroke him with a sure hand. The precum glistens, spread down his length. His curly hair flaps over his forehead, sweaty and flowing wildly. He pulls his face down with furrowed eyebrows as you jerk him. Your mouth waters. Every choked moan he makes for you makes you shift on your knees, try to quiet the growing need inside of you. He’s too pretty. 

You’re decided, desperate. You need him, a sick, demanding thrill hazing your mind. Your head bends down, narrowing in, but he tuts, “Ah ah.” You freeze, flicking your eyes up at him in question. He’s cocky as he presses, “Shouldn’t you say Grace?”

Your eyes fall to his dick, understanding. You don’t even have the time to think that you already let go of him. You join your hands together, resting your elbows on his knees, closing your eyes as you recite, “God is great and God is good. Let us thank Him for our food; by His blessings, we are fed. Give us Lord, our daily bread.” You open your eyes, meeting his hot gaze. He watches you, heavy breathing. A smirk hints on your lips. “Amen.” 

Before Matty has time to retort a cocky quip, to regain control of the situation, you bend down again and wrap your lips around his tip. A gaspy, choked sound comes from the back of his throat. His hips jump, pushing into your mouth. You suck on it. His head throws back as he moans. You giggle, licking the tip, finally circling your hand around his base again. 

“What now, Father?” You whisper, stroking him with a lazy hand, kitten-licking him. 

“God,” Matty whines as his head slams back forward, watching you with disbelieved eyes. 

You hum. “Mmh, what does he want?” 

Matty makes a breathy laugh. “Open your jaw more.” Dreams of him pulling your chin down, readying your mouth for him flash back to you. You shake your head, keeping focused. You know if you free his hands, you’ll lose control. 

“Is that his holy message?” 

“Yeah.” You open your mouth as wide as you can, thrusting him deeper and deeper with each bob. You try to remember the feeling on your fingers, try to imitate his droolful explanation. You run your tongue on the underside of his cock like he did, grinning proudly at his groan. “You look so fucking hot.” 

Your eyes lock with his, happy to your bones. It can’t be true— you feel spit and precum run down your chin. Still, you double your efforts eagerly, trying to be the bestest and prettiest girl for him. 

His breath is labored, coming out in whiney huffs. “Move your hand—”

He hasn’t finished his sentence that you’re already stroking him lazily. You pop him out of your mouth, saliva stringing to your lips, to ask, “Like this?” 

“In synch with— Fuck.” You suck him back into your mouth, moving your hand in tandem with your head. He pants harshly. His hips rise to meet you, and you gag, releasing him. He throws you an apologetic look. “Sorry.” 

“Should I go deeper?” 

“Yes— Yeah.” You laugh, bending back to swallow him up. His shoulders flex, as though he aches to touch you, pass a soothing hand through your hair. Instead, he says with wonder, “Whatever you want, angel.” You moan around him, shifting on your knees. Matty smirks. “You like when I call you that?” His eyes flick down to the mess of your mouth. He groans from the back of his throat, choked as he revels, “While you’re swallowing my cock?” You smile at him. You do like it, no matter what you usually argue. 

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you widen your jaw. You keep your hand at the base of his cock, trying to fit him even deeper in your throat. He hits the back of it and you gag again, pushing him out. You jerk him quickly as you catch your breath. 

“You’re drooling everywhere,” Matty coos. You laugh, wiping your chin clean, spitting the rest on his cock. You jerk it down his length. He moans. “Shit. You’re like a fucking wet dream.” 

“I want to be good for you.” 

“You’re always good.” It’s not true. You’ve been nothing but immoral these days. But the way he says it, sure, flicked off his tongue like there wasn’t even a place for debate, makes your head spin. His hips rise again, this time no apologetic look as he begs, “Deeper.” 

You suck on his head, giggling. “Magic word?”

“Please.” 

You hum. “We might make a decent man out of you yet, Matty.” He laughs, but then you open your head wide and take him into your mouth, and now he’s more whining than anything else. You try to keep your gag reflex under control, stroking what you can’t fit with your hand. 

“That’s it,” he moans, rolling his eyes back in pleasure. “My perfect girl. I like you like this.” His head dips to look at you properly. “Do you like it? Like being on your knees for me?” 

“Yes.” And it’s true, no matter how filthy it makes you. There’s power to it. There’s a strange lust to see how much it affects him. You affect him.  You flutter your eyes at him, licking his tip. “Father, I fear I’ve been corrupted.” 

He laughs. “Yeah?”

“There’s this boy,” you say teasingly. “He just won’t stop making me naughty. You’d be ashamed of the way I act for him.” 

“I hardly believe that.” His hips thrust up into your hand. “Not when you’re so pretty like this.” 

“I’m being a very dirty girl,” you shake your head, and for once, there’s none of the usual guilt about it. Being forsaken is a faraway concept. In this room, the only thing that matters is the shade of your knees when you’re done. 

“Good. I think you should be even worse.” 

You giggle, swiping your thumb over his tip. “Is that your penance?” He nods, out of breath. You tilt your head, cheeky as you tease, “And how do you suggest I do that?” 

“Suck me again,” he demands, but you stare at him unimpressed, slowing your hand down in warning. He jumps. “Please.” 

You hum, licking across his length, then sucking indulgently on the tip. “Like that?” His eyes are dark. He flexes and unflexes his arms, reminding himself of the bow tying them. You snicker. For all his usual teasing, laughing and cooing at you, he doesn’t seem to enjoy his own medicine. “Use your words,” you taunt just to add oil to the fire. 

“In your mouth, please.” You could keep going, speed up and slow and lick and never give him what he wants until he’s shaking under you, but you miss him in your mouth, too. Greedy and starved, you push him past your lips. 

You bob your head quickly, suddenly eager to see him unravel. For you. Because of you. He hits the back of your throat over and over, but you breathe through your nose, blinking away the prickling tears. Pornographic, sopping sounds ring through the room. One hand settles on his knee, gripping it. It shakes under your fingers. 

“Ah, shit,” Matty cries, meeting you halfway. He can’t seem to look away from you, dropping his head back then being jolted with realization of what is going on, immediately dipping to watch you. His lips are swollen from licking them so much, his cheeks flushed. He looks ready to burst from his skin. 

You giggle, sucking your cheeks in like he did on your fingers, maintaining a steady pace. He bucks into you wildly, spilling pretty noises from his mouth shamelessly. They burrow in your ears, strike directly to your burning core. Your knees are sore but you continue, undeterred, focused on undoing him completely. Make him feel what he does to you. 

He twitches in your mouth. “Fucking hell,” he says, sloppily fucking into you. “I’m— Shit, I’m close. I’m gonna—”

You pull away from him. He cries in protest, looking down at you with a pained frown. You lick from his base to his tip. “Beg for it.” 

Matty doesn’t even think. “Angel, please, I need—”

“No,” you smirk, and there must be mischief written all over your face because he stares apprehensively. “Not to me. To God.” 

“Are you—” Disbelief is written all over his face. “Are you kidding me?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head, letting your lips trail back and forth over his tip. He makes another pained noise, blinking to keep from being overwhelmed with pleasure. “Ask Him.” 

Matty breathes harshly from his nose. He considers you, considers your mouth just an inch away from where he desperately needs it, and throws his head backwards. “God,” he starts. You laugh again, delighted. He ruins your faith, you ruin his. It’s only fair. “Hi, God. Sorry I don’t talk often. Can I please fucking come? I’m gonna fucking burst if you don’t let her— Oh, my God.” 

His head throws forward as you swallow him up. Your bobs are sloppy. You’re tired and sore deep in your bones, spit and drool and precum spilling everywhere between you. Your hand is drenched, your cheeks red with runaway tears. Still, you dedicate yourself to please him, running your tongue on his underside until he cries. 

“Oh, my God, fuck!” He repeats, shaking, and then comes with a scream. 

You’re surprised when he spills, pulling away with a gasp. The ropes of cum hit your chin instead, landing on your chest next, spreading down your skin. Only when he’s done, moans quieting slowly, do you kiss his tip just like he showed you. You put him back in his jeans. 

You look down at the mess. Your pretty camisole is stained again. Between your collarbones, your golden cross is coated in white. 

Matty catches his breath difficulty. You stare up at him. Catching his eyes, you take your cross between your lips, licking it clean. It’s salty on your tongue. You spit it back out glinting, drool dripping from it. Spotless. Cumless. He whines at the sight. 

“I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers. “You did so well for me. My best girl.” 

His best girl. You grin proudly. “Was I really the best?” 

“Yeah, you fucking— You’re like a fucking dream, angel.” 

You tsk. “I just had your cock in my mouth and you’re still calling me angel.” 

“Only because you like it.” Well, you can’t argue with that. 

You stand on trembling legs. Your knees crack, thighs burning in complaint, sticky and wet with your juices. Now that you’re free to think just a little more clearly, you realize how much you need him. To your core, to the beating muscle in your chest begging for him. 

“Let me show you how good you felt,” Matty says lowly. “Get me out of these.” His hands pull on the bow, still careful not to break it. 

You smirk, climbing your hands up his shoulder. “I remember you saying you wouldn’t even need them.” 

His eyes grow dark. “C’me here.” He spreads his thighs, leaving you a pretty perch to settle on. 

You straddle one, wasting no time to rock on it. You’re wet and needy, so fucking turned on you think you might boil under your skin. You won’t last long at all. 

The leg and the soft material of your underwear is heavenly on your swollen clit. He flexes under you and you moan, dropping your head on his shoulder, panting. Everything in you buzzes. You feel like you’re going insane. 

“Doing so well for me, baby,” he coos. “Fuck yourself on my thigh. Use me.” You whine, rocking faster. 

He’s warm under your fingertips. He’s tough, and real, and you miss him even when he’s right there. You want to seep under his skin, sleep tightly between his heart and his rib. You lick at his neck, kissing and nipping. A red splotch looks back at you once you pull away. There. Your mark on him, like a delible I was here. There’s a possessive thrill shooting up your spine. Maybe you finally understand why he bruises your thighs so much. 

Your movements speed up. You straighten, throwing your head back. Everything is intense, but nothing is enough. Matty dips to your chest. He licks and sucks at your cleavage, cleaning the cum off your skin. You moan at the feeling, at the knowledge. “Matty—”

“You’re so close,” he promises, nipping right above the hem of your camisole. You’re overheating. “Just a bit more.” What a lie. 

“It’s not the same,” you whine, bucking on his thigh desperately, finding growing need, but not release. Your eyebrows furrow. Your hips grow sloppy. “I can’t do it like you.” 

“Let me out.” He’s deadly serious. You vaguely shake your head. You’re in control. “Please, please, angel. Let me out. Let me please you. Let me make you come.” He makes a noise of frustration, flexing and unflexing his thigh underneath you. “I’ll make you scream. I promise. You know I will. Just let me out. I’ll give you what you need.” You pout, mulling on his suggestion. He narrows in on the weakness. “I need it. I need to see you. Come on, love. I just want to please you.” 

With a huff, you bend to your side, reaching behind him to undo the bow. The ribbon falls to the ground. Matty grips your hips the next instant. 

It’s fast and hard in a second, a delirious pace he settles you on. Your cunt drags over his thigh, wetting his jeans. You can’t stop moaning and, for once, you let the sounds leave your mouth freely. He seems eager to hear them, licking your chin and catching your lips for a head-twisting kiss. 

Matty pulls away to reach for your camisole. He pulls it down to uncover your chest, bending back to continue his artwork, sucking and licking at your nipples. You cry. Your hands bury in his hair. 

“Fucking drench me,” he begs. His hand sneaks between your legs, pulling your underwear to the side. He moves his fingers away quickly after, as though he had something to prove. 

Your clit hits the rough denim directly. It’s a sharp strike of pleasure each time. You buck wildly, trying to find that ravaging euphoria you need. Each furious stroke gets you closer. His hand burns your hip. Everything in him makes you hot and sticky. 

“Matty, I’m—”

“Come for me,” Matty pleads, running his tongue on your hard nipple. Ecstasy threatens the edges of you. “Fuck, come on my thigh. Fucking make a mess.”

“I’m—” Your mouth drops open with a silent cry and you come. You shudder against him. Pleasure waves through you, unreleasing that aching need. It hazes your mind more than the alcohol you just drank, more than a hit of cigarette, more than listening boredly in church. You’re tingling from your very tips, alive. 

“Oh, God,” you say. You blink the blur away, finding him grinning at you, sweaty and flushed and fucking delighted. 

“Told you I only needed my thighs,” he bites, cheeky. You grin. It was entirely true. You regret turning down his pleading request that day in church. You laugh, holding both of his cheeks with glee. 

“I can’t believe I did that,” you admit. You lower your thigh-high socks just to see the bruise on your knee, prove it’s real. You gasp suddenly, worry seeping in, “Oh, no,” you breathe, hand covering your mouth. “Will George be mad?” 

Matty laughs, throwing his head back. “He’s done worse in my room.” His hand rubs at your hip, soothing. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I can’t let you walk out with wine and cum stains on your top. That’s too much bad, even for me.” You giggle, nosing his cheek, then stand up. There’s a wet patch on his jeans and you flush when you spot it, though he only grins proudly. 

You’re jelly on your feet. You’re sticky-happy. Matty’s hand warms yours as he tugs you out of the bedroom and into a bathroom.

—

The road comes to a stop. A single street lamp lights you, drooping over Matty’s car. You stare up at it, then at him. His dark curls falling wildly around him, his red cheeks, his plump lips; everything invites you in, draws you to your doom. There’s a lesson to learn, to memorize, humming faraway. You prefer to indulge, to be caught red handed and shamed. As long as the before thoroughly drowns it out. 

Matty’s taste faintly lingers on your tongue.Your legs are loose and slack from another thunderous orgasm. He’s everywhere, and still you want him closer, deeper, longer. 

The identical houses stretch on infinitely. You recognize yours by the broken step you fell on when you were five, a vestige of you, a way to prove you exist. Matty kills the gas. 

“I hope you had fun,” he declares. You give him a purposeful onceover, smirking. Matty rolls his eyes, though pride still hangs in them. “More than that.”

“I had fun,” you agree. “I like your friends.”

“I like them too.” It’s so easy for him, so inherent. He loves his friends and he doesn’t even have to question the meaning of it, doesn’t have to overanalyze every interaction and how safe it can be to question a tweak of sentences. He gets to declare it, gets to mean it. You’re envious, faraway somewhere. 

“I like you,” you say, because you mean it, because vodka and wine still linger somewhere inside of you. Matty flushes.

“I do, too.”

You grin at the whisper, at the confirmation. He hasn’t known you for very long, yet he means it all the same. A friend, a more than. How you like him. 

Emotion overwhelms you. Your heart races, beating and beating against its bone prison, begging for something you can’t quite figure out. You don’t try to, instead listening to the familiar thrill fluttering inside of you. You unclasp your seatbelt, throw a leg over the console, settle on his lap. 

Matty doesn’t seem surprised that you straddle him, instead resting his hand lazily on your waist. It swallows your skin, big and sure, meant to dip and dig and curl. You shiver just at the thought, at the possibility.

I like you, hangs in the air. And more…

You give him a fiery, needy kiss. There’s a burning desire to consume him, to keep him firmly lodged in your throat as you walk the path to church. You kiss him like it, gripping his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, his hair. Anything you can get your hands on, anything to make him tangible. 

Your tongue is hot as it meets his. You tug on his hair, tilting your head, meeting him better. He tastes like cigarettes and you, and the knowledge makes you burn. You want him so deeply you might choke from the lack of him. He needs to be closer, deeper. You make an unsatisfied groan, dropping your hands to his belt. 

Urgently, you paw at his pants, trying to get it off with shaky fingers. Your insides throb and clench around nothing, pleading for him. You’re tired of fighting inherent instincts, of battling guilt and morals. You want to feel good— great. Want to eclipse any doubt. 

Matty breaks from your lips, but you’re undeterred, licking down his cheeks as you unbutton his jeans. You bite and suck at his neck, leaving your very own purple bruise, marking him the way he always seems to do you. Different. Changed. 

Matty’s head drops on his seat. He sighs desperately, makes a low groan, and pushes you away from him. You pant, hungrily pulling at the hem of his shirt. He stops it with a heavy hand. 

“Not here,” Matty says, shortwinded. His dark eyes almost seem regretful to say so. “Not for the first time.”

You catch your breath slowly, deeply. You wipe at your mouth. Nod faintly. “Right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no—” You laugh. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t—” You grimace. “I wouldn’t want to do it in a car. For the first time.” Matty nods. 

“Soon, maybe?” Matty whispers nonetheless, a promise and a beg. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Maybe soon.” The words hang in the air, meaningful. 

You open the driver’s door, falling out of it gracelessly. You straighten with a proud smile, flash your teeth at him. Your white outfit is still stained; an opposite mirror of his. “Goodnight, Matty.”

“Night, love,” he says, amused. 

You turn around and run to your house. The trellis ivies up terribly— terrifyingly— far up. You stare at it convinced, taking a step with a purpose. 

[bimoonphases]

Marlene’s eyes flashed in Dorcas’s mind, her ears echoing with the moans she had heard her make the night before, even if for too short a time.

“If that was the world, I wouldn’t change a thing about myself,” she heard herself say.

“I thought so,” Pandora’s voice came as if through a deep fog. There was a pause. “Does Marlene know that?”

Dorcas snapped back from her thoughts running around in her head, chasing after a new version of the world, one where she would be alright.

“What?” she said.

“It’s quite clear you’re attracted by her,” Pandora smirked. “And she by you.”

Dorcas felt her cheeks heat up.

“I’m a hostage,” she said. “Your captain’s rules states I’m off-limits.”

“That’s true. But we’re pirates,” Pandora got up, brushing grass from her dress. “What are rules after all?”

We Chose the Sea by BiMoonPhases

Chapter 10, I Used to Rule the World

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

License to Kitty.

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[potatofu-art]

"The Hermit stands alone on the top of a mountain. The snow-capped range symbolizes his spiritual mastery, growth, and accomplishment. He has chosen this path of self-discovery and, as a result, has reached a heightened state of awareness."

[fineapple20]

Portraits

Retouched this set from last year, because it was haunting me laying there 80% finished

[transannabeth]

if you opened discord’s april fools day loot boxes how long did it take you to get all the items? it took my friend 18 boxes but me 65 and i want to see how bad my luck is

[edlucavalden]

Learning to eat with your hands.

[soaked-doors]

pirates and their unconventional weddings (marines crashed it seven times)

[canonkiller]

but you can't keep holding on like this.

[13thpythagoras]

Power To Love (Live)

[coquettefawn]

[thatonedudeinthecorner]

Okay but Stan is ALSO trans and has yet to tell either of them so it’s fine (as soon as you put he/him in your bio you become horrible at communicating I fear)

[mynnthia]

was talking with a friend about how some of dunmeshi fаndom misunderstands kabru's initial feelings towards laios.

to sum up kabru's situation via a self-contained modernized metaphor:

kabru is like a guy who lost his entire family in a highly traumatic car accident. years later he joins a discord server and takes note of laios, another server member who seems interesting, so they start chatting. then laios reveals his special interest and favorite movie of all time is David Cronenberg's Crash (1996), and invites kabru to go watch a demolition derby with him

[edge-oftheworld]

5sos bridge bracket part 17

🌉🌉🌉

refreshers under the cut

youngblood:

you push and i push and i'm pulling away pulling away from you

i give and i give and i give and you take give and you take

running around and i'm running away running away from you

from you (drums)

ghost of you:

to young, too dumb (ahhh)

to know things like love

to young, too dumb (ahh)

(instrumentals)