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You weren’t exactly born to be a college girl. Your grades in high school were mediocre— mostly passing, though you had flunked out of Calculus more times than you could count— and studying was never where your passions lie. By the time you were 18 and graduated, you were working a well-paid job at a local boutique. Over that post-graduation summer and fall, while you had attended a million going away parties to wish your friends good luck at their numerous colleges and universities, you had climbed up the ranks at your job, ending up secure as an assistant and hiring manager.
This all laid out the groundworks for you to change your “gap year” into “gap decade”. Maybe one day you would end up back in college, but for now, you were happy. Your job was happy with you, your parents were a little concerned but mostly happy, and you were happy with yourself.
There was one thing that bothered you, though. With most of your high school friends gone— there wasn’t *really* a local college in your town, the closest being two hours away— you were bloody *lonely*. Living by yourself, with most people your age up and gone, was difficult, to say the least.
Your only hope was your older brother. Sam was 22 and in his senior year of his undergrad, studying something or other that made him happy. He typically came home once a month and now, sat on the sofa in your parent’s house with him, you had a question for him.
“Listen,” you start. You know it’ll take a lot just to get him to do that.
He sighs and pauses whatever video he’s watching on his phone, setting it down on the armrest of the sofa. “Dude, *what?*”
You roll your eyes at his sarcastic demeanour before you continue. “I think you should take me to one of your college parties.”
He snorts. “Absolutely not.” He picks his phone back up, shaking his head.
“No, wait, Sam,” You say. In a brash moment, you grab his phone, and he yelps out a ‘hey!’ as you tuck it the one place he won’t reach for it— your bra.
He scowls and wrinkles up his nose. “Ew, dude,” he mumbles, before saying louder, “Okay, fine. I’ll hear you out. But you’ve got a minute before I get up and make mom yell at you like you’re five.”
You waste no time. “I don’t have a social life here. All of my friends are in different counties, hell, different countries. I need to meet new people or I feel like I’m going to go insane. I’ll be out of your hair the entire time, I promise, I just need an excuse for why I’m the girl nobody recognizes there. Please, Sam? Please?”
“I’m not convinced.”
“I’ll buy you weed. And a bottle of vodka.”
He considers it for a moment, but you know by the way he perked up at word *weed* that you’ve got him. “How much weed?”
“Three grams.”
“Sold.”
You smile at him, happy to have found a compromise— though you’re stressing on where you’ll get the weed from. “When’s the next party you know of?”
“Mmm…” Sam hums for a moment, thinking about it. “My roommate’s friend’s birthday is coming up, and he throws stupid fuckin’ parties out of his parents house. They live in a mansion up on Kent Street,” he says, though you have no clue where ‘Kent Street’ is. “Next weekend, probably next Saturday night. You down for that? Keep your schedule clean?”
You nod, searching your mental notes on your schedule, though you know you keep your Saturdays open. “Yeah, of course I will.”
“Great,” he says, though his tone is less than convincing. “Can I have my phone back now?”
-
The rest of the week is mild at best. You work nine to five, Monday through Friday, and you truly feel like a Dolly Parton song by the time you clock out every day. You spend one dinner of the week, Tuesday, with your parents, and another, Thursday, with a friend that had come back from whatever prestigious university for the week, but besides that, your entertainment is the TV on your wall and the phone in your hand.
You find yourself periodically wondering about this party. What the people will be like. You have to remind yourself that Sam is four years older, and that this is his roommates friend hosting it, who you can only assume is of similar age. Will anyone be close to your age? Or will you be the singular teenager in a swarm of 20-year-olds?
It’s not like there was technically anything wrong with that. Your 19th birthday was close, and you’d been legal for months at this point. And it’s only 4 years, right? What difference could it make?
Your mind spun one night while thinking about it before you slept. You had never really been with men older than you more than a year or so. You had never really been with men, period— just a few unserious high school relationships and one or two hookups since you’d turned 18.
Not that you were necessarily going to meet guys at this party. But, who was kidding— the main part of a college party is to get laid.
When you fell asleep, you dreamt of a guy kissing you against a brick wall, cold air messing up your hair. He tasted like beer and shame.
-
That Saturday, you had thrown on a cute enough outfit, though nothing that would make you stand out too hard. A simple short black skirt that hugged your hips and blue camisole with a thrill of lace was enough, plus a pink cardigan incase you were cold (you knew you would end up leaving it in your brother’s car).
Your hair was done in twin plaits, and your light makeup was enough to make you smile to yourself in the mirror.
Your brother, being the impatient ass he was, didn’t even bother to come grab you from your apartment— he just parked on your side of the building and honked until it caught your attention.
By the time you made it to his car, standing outside his open passenger window, he was muttering and rolling his eyes at you. “You’ve better got the stuff you promised me, or I’ll kick your ass,” he says, looking over you, “and you better go put on some sweatpants, or again, I’ll kick your ass.”
You freeze. *Fuck, the weed. The booze*. “It’s still in my apartment,” you mumble quietly, wincing when you realize you’ve forgotten it there.
He sighs heavily, hitting his forehead against his steering wheel before he looks back at you. “Go get it, then,” he says, making a waving motion with his hands that says *hurry*.
You turn on your heel and walk-run back to the front door of your building. “And seriously, change!” He shouts out the window, “I will *not* have my college friends staring at my little sister’s legs.”
-
It’s a few hours later when he parks his car along the grass next to a ridiculously sized house. You had gotten the weed and the vodka for him quickly, and you had thrown a pair of grey sweatpants on— and your skirt in your purse. By the looks of this house, you could change once you got inside and he would be none the wiser.
Before you get out of the car, Sam turns to you. “Alright, ground rules,” he says.
You don’t listen. He says something about not flirting with his friends. You don’t care to pay attention, really. You just want to get inside.
You eagerly nod, happy to agree to whatever terms he sets out. You would nod like this if he said a term was *you are only to eat raw beef for the next three weeks*. You’re just excited to be here, to be at a college party, maybe the only one you’ll ever be at. “Sure, sure,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt and opening up the door.
“I’m warning you,” Sam shakes his head, “Do *not* flirt with my friends.”
-
“Oh, Sam, ey?”
Well, shit. Sorry, Sam.
With a drink in hand, some fucked up combination of vodka, rum and Pepsi, your head was light and airy. The music was loud, but in this quiet corner of a hallway under a half-assed chandelier, it wasn’t that bad.
The person you had chosen was a boy you couldn’t exactly place. He looked sweet enough, but the tattoos littering his skin threw you off.
“Yeah, he’s my shithead of an older brother,” you repeat, rolling your eyes playfully at the boy in front of you. You run your hands through your hair, trying to fix it, but it was so hot inside that, even outside, you were sweating and your hair did *not* do kindly to that. “How do you know him?”
“We were roommates freshman year,” he nods. Subconsciously, watching you do it yourself, he runs his free hand through his own hair, tight, unruly curls, nearly black but with a glistening of brown when the fluorescent yellow lights hit it. “How much younger are you than him?”
“Four years,” you shrug, taking a sip of your drink, resisting the urge to make a face. It tasted… well, questionable. “I’ll be 19 February.”
“Makes me feel old,” he mutters under his breath. He says that, but you can’t help but notice the way he stares at your legs. With your skirt back on, they’re nearly totally exposed. “Well… does Sam’s sister have a name?”
You blush slightly, realizing you’ve stood here for two minutes and completely forgotten to mention it. You say it, and his eyebrows raise, his tongue clicking. “Pretty,” he breathes.
“Does Sam’s old roommate have a name?” You tease back, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling you get when he calls your name pretty.
“Matty,” He says, and immediately you recognize it. Sam used to come home from college a lot more than he does now, and he would talk about a boy named Matty often— Matty did this, Matty got another tattoo and I don’t know how he affords them, Matty got too drunk to do his dishes, Matty smoked too much weed and tried drugs you hadn’t have even heard of when you were 14.
You don’t mention that you recognize it. You don’t feel like talking about your young, innocent self in front of a man four years your senior that you can’t deny is *cute*. His eyes, chocolatey brown and delicious, dart all over you, and you watch them trail over your chest, over the exposed parts of your cleavage.
He clears his throat. “Well, I’ll see you ‘round, right?” He asks, sipping at his beer like it’s Cherry Coke.
“Sure, Matty,” You say, giving him a warm smile. You’re not nearly drunk enough for this. You push yourself off the wall you’ve been leaning on and walk past him, though not before squeezing his shoulder, your fingers curling around it a second too long.
As you walk away and back inside to the blaring music and sweaty bodies, you can’t help but hear the wood underneath his feet creak as he turns on his heels to look at you. You feel warm eyes on your back, and your face heats as you turns your head around, tossing him a look.
“See you,” you call out to him, and he raises his right hand in a small wave.
When you find your way back into the main part of the party, you find another cute boy, making conversation with him. But you can’t help yourself but to think about Matty as this new guy talks, how his lips curled, how his hair fell over his eyes.
*For fuck’s sake.*
-
The night, overall, was uneventful. The guy you had found after Matty turned out to be a complete fucking bore who just wanted to get into your pants, and you spent most of the night with a few old high school friends you had found that went to this school, dancing and drinking too much and helping people when they inevitably vomited all over their shoes.
Back in the car with your brother, you were comfortably drunk, a fun buzz in your head but not too much that you felt the need to crawl into a bush and die.
Sam raises an eyebrow at you, noticing the delirious smile on your face as you lean your head on his headrest. “What’s got you all happy?” He asks as he starts the car, kicking it into drive and pulling away from the spot on the lawn.
“Good to see my old friends,” You say, turning your head to look at Sam. You realize you’re slurring a bit; you hope he hasn’t noticed. “Cute boys at your college, Sam.”
“Fuck off,” He scoffs, “I hope you didn’t kiss one.”
“Didn’t,” You shrug, “But I really, really wanted to.”
-
It’s a month later when you convince Sam to take you to another party. Only with the added promise of more free weed does he give in.
This new one is at a smaller house, one of those mega neighbourhoods where all the houses look the same and have way too much land around them. At least the neighbours will have trouble hearing the music that’s going to blare tonight.
When you get inside, you know exactly who you need to find. You break from your brother immediately and start beelining it around, looking for a tall boy, curly hair, simple clothes, nursing a beer. It’s hard to see above the crowds of people, and it’s so dark in here, and the music is so loud…
You feel something, somebody bang into your back, and you whip around, ready to berate whatever fuckhead can’t look up from their phone, but then you see it—
Tall boy, curly hair, a white Clash t-shirt and dark denim jeans, beer in hand.
“Matty,” You mutter, taking one step, two step back from him. You look up at him and laugh a little. “Good thing it’s you running into *me*, or you’d never hear the end of it.”
“(Y/N),” Matty sighs, a little smile on his face as he looks down at you. “It’s good to see you. I was beginning to think you did something horrible and Sam would never bring you back.”
“Oh, trust me, it took a lot for him to bring me here,” You complain. You grab his shoulder, get on your toes, and whisper into his ear, “I bought him *so much weed*, he’ll be high for months.”
Matty laughs at that, and his laugh is *beautiful*— rounded and light and music to your bloody ears. “You did, huh?” He asks, taking in the scent of you, of the vanilla shampoo you use.
“Mhm,” You pull back from him, staying close but not too close. You want him to see that you’ve worn the same top as last time (though this one is a pale yellow, not blue). You want his eyes to trail a fire over your chest again, and when you feel his hot gaze on you— well, there’s nothing you can do but smile a little, placing your arm over your cleavage casually, grabbing your opposite shoulder, and watching him become visibly distraught at the sight.
Trying not to miss a beat, Matty leans in to you this time, his lips gently touching your ear as he whispers, “You got any of that weed left?”
You shrug, playing coy with him, though you’re sure it’s visible how much your face is on fire from his soft lips on your skin. “Well, I don’t know. What do I get out of it?”
Matty hums slightly, tapping his finger to his chin as if he’s thinking about it. You notice that he’s got a moustache now; it’s light, but it’s there.
“You can smoke it with me,” Matty offers, a smile you want to wipe right off his face when he realizes that’s what will get you to agree.
You try your hardest to play hard-to-get, but the idea of smoking with a boy a couple years older than you, a boy that you want so carnally, a boy you hadn’t stopped thinking about for a month…
“Sure,” You grin, “Is your car parked near here?”
-
Matty’s car is parked on a deserted street a couple of blocks away and typical of a college boy. Older, a little beat up, and you swear that if you open up the glove box, there will be more than enough condoms in there, ‘just in case’. His backseat is a mess, papers and extra clothes and books piling up, empty cans of Redbull in the side door pockets.
He slides into the driver’s seat when you slide into the passengers, and you can’t help yourself but to smile at him. “Well?” He asks, not missing a second.
“You act like you’ve been starved,” You laugh, shaking your head a little. You reach into your bra and pull out the small plastic baggy of weed, watching how Matty’s eyes never fall off of you, how they glue onto your hand hungrily.
“It’s been a while,” He admits, taking the bag from you.
You raise your eyebrows. “I hope you’ve got papers, or we’re screwed.” You never bought rolling paper or filters yourself— Sam bought those. You were only ever expected to supply the weed.
“Who do you think I am, darling?” Matty chuckles. He pops open the centre console box, and when you look inside, there’s a plethora of things that make your body flush; rolling papers, little filters in a baggy, cigarettes, lighters, even a box of matches tucked in at the bottom.
He pulls the baggy of filters and the papers from the box before shutting it.
“So… will you…?”
Matty looks at you, and those big brown eyes of his crinkle up. “Yes, (Y/N), I’ll roll the joint,” He says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
The entire time he rolls it, you’re entranced by him. The way his fingers, skilled and long, smooth out the weed on the paper; how he rolls it up and his tongue pokes out to lick at the glue on one side of the paper; how his fingertips grasp at the end of it and twist. How casually he does it, as if it’s as easy as tying your shoes.
He holds the finished joint between his thumb and forefinger. “Good enough for you?” He asks, nudging your side with his elbow.
“I want the first drag,” You mutter, taking it with your own fingers. He could put up a fight, but he doesn’t; he lets you take the joint without protest, amused by your actions, by you.
Matty pulls a lighter from his pocket and flicks it on. With the joint between your lips—which he cannot seem to take his eyes off of— he lights the end and lets you inhale.
You pass the joint off to him so he can have a drag as well. He watches the smoke billow from your lips, leaning your head back against the headrest, eyes closed, happy. “You make a good one,” You tell him, looking over at him.
You watch how he smokes, perfect and composed, eyes shut, eyelashes over his eyelids. He’s a bit like a statue there; elegant and fine as he holds the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. “Not bad, huh?” He asks, holding the joint between his fingers.
There’s a lull as you’re waiting for the weed to kick in; you know it won’t be long. “What’re you studying?” You ask him.
“Music,” he says, giving you a lazy, weed-filled smile. His car is beginning to get clouded with the smoke coming from the end of the joint. “Probably useless in the end, but I’ve got a band and we aren’t doing too bad for ourselves.”
“Oh?” You ask, half-interested in what he has to say, more interested in the joint withering away between his fingers and the curls of hair flopping over his hazy eyes. “Better than me, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” He nods, and when he looks over at you and takes another drag, butterflies flap in your stomach. The lazy smile he gives you; the dramatic curls all over his head; the knobbly fingers that spread slightly when he inhales, and wrap back around the joint when he pulls it from his lips. As he exhales he passes it to you, and you take it from him, his fingertips against your knuckles.
You’re fairly certain you won’t be able to breathe soon, between the smoke and the skunky smell of the weed and the way Matty keeps his eyes locked on you. His stare is relentless; doe eyes all over your face, your neck, your chest, hands, fingers. He doesn’t even seem to mind when you catch his gaze.
You take another drag— what was this, your second, third?— and when you exhale, you notice those eyes haven’t left you. “You’ve got a staring problem, haven’t you?” You ask sarcastically, and he shrugs, cheeks a little rosy, though from what you wouldn’t know.
Without asking, Matty takes the joint from between your fingers, but at this point your entire body feels floaty and calm and you couldn’t be bothered to care. He sucks on it and, annoyingly, catches your eye contact and refuses to let go as he does, smooth grey smoke wisping away into his hair and his clothes.
Matty clears his throat. “Come here.”
“Huh?”
“Get closer. I want to test something.”
Not one to argue, you shuffle your body closer to his side of the car, until your left leg is half up on the centre console. Matty places his right hand on your cheek; the gesture is enough to make you swallow hard, his fingertips hot on your chin.
He circles his thumb over your chin before sliding it over your bottom lip. “Open,” he murmurs, and immediately you know exactly what he’s going to do.
Before you even register how that soft but commanding voice made you feel, your lips are parting and he’s taking a hit of the joint. He lets the smoke rest in his lungs before he leans in close and, with just inches between your lips, blows the smoke into your mouth. You drink it up, greedily, inhaling what you can (though what effect that has, you don’t really know).
You don’t really care, either. The action alone is enough to get you to the clouds.
“Well done, darling,” Matty coos, a smile on his face that just says *I know exactly how that made you feel.* “Wish I could smoke this like a cigarette,” he complains under his breath, “do you want another hit?”
When you shake your head no, too stunned to speak, he reaches behind his seat and puts out the flame on an ashtray in a cup holder, letting the rest of the joint rest there.
And before you even have time to process any of this his other hand encompasses your face and he’s kissing you, hard, harder than you’ve ever been kissed. It takes the breath out of you for a moment, and you short circuit and don’t know what to do before your body kicks in and you’re desperate for him, hot lips moving in tandem with his.
You can feel the roughness of them, the ‘I’m a boy and I forget to put on chapstick’. They’re raw and beautiful and, in this moment, yours. As he kisses you, your hand reaches up and finds his hair, coiling a curl around your index finger and tugging. He makes a little pleased noise at the tug; if you could talk right now, you’d be saying *something* about that.
When he eventually breaks from you, he’s breathing hard and you notice how red his eyes are. “Come here, love,” Matty mumbles again, but this time he’s patting at his thigh, running his other hand through his wild hair.
You do your best to be agile about it and crawl over the centre console, landing eventually to be straddling his lap, legs on his hips. The heat of him is intoxicating; he smells of weed, first and foremost, but also of strong cologne, and of something smokey and beautiful. His hand comes and rests of your back, and you get closer to him as it does.
Without waiting another second, you kiss him again. This one is even more intense; your tongue finds his and your hand locks in the roots of his hair, tugging a little, knowing it’ll rile him.
His hand slowly moves from the small of your back, down over your hips, and then rests on your ass, squeezing protectively. You can’t help but moan so subtly into his mouth, and he perks up at that, mouth moving fast and harder, kisses getting messier.
When he can’t breathe he breaks from you and kisses your chin before pulling away for a minute, your pants the only sound in the smoke-filled car. “You’re a good kisser,” Matty remarks like a teenage boy, and you roll your eyes at him. He’s enthralled by you.
He leans and presses a kiss to your nose and then your jaw, trailing them up the side of your face until he reaches the lobe of your ear. He kisses at it, wet and messy, making you giggle a little from the tickling sensation. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he mutters hoarsely into your ear as he kisses around the perimeter of it, holding you tight while you try to squirm in his lap, “wanna take you all right now.”
Your hand that isn’t in his hair claws at his faded t-shirt, bunching up the fabric in your fist as he kisses and licks relentlessly at your ear. His words warm your already overheating body and you whine lowly. “Please,” you whisper, and it’s like a flip’s been switched; you don’t have to tell him twice.
He moves back to kissing your lips as he wraps his fingers around the bottom hem of your camisole and tugs down, then up, bringing the thin, lacey fabric up and over your head when there’s a small break in your kisses. He takes a minute to stare down at your chest, unashamed, hands groping at your sides, your hips. There’s a pulse between your legs from how he looks at you.
You need to feel his skin, so you finally pull off his shirt as well, and the sight of his chest covered in all those pretty tattoos leaves you winded. His body is warm and you press your ear to his chest for a second, listening to his heart pound against his ribcage.
Matty mumbles into your hair, “Do you want me here, or do you want to get into the backseat?”
The thought of either option— bouncing in his lap or his body weight on top of you— makes you lightheaded, but eventually you tell him, “Backseat.”
He nods, kisses the top of your head, and opens up the driver’s side door, letting you climb out first. It’s fucking *cold* in just your bra, and you’re glad there’s no one around before you open up the back door, hastily shove everything on the seats onto the ground before crawling in.
You’ve barely got time to flip onto your back before Matty is getting on top of you, straining behind him to shut the door. He crawls up your body until his lips meet yours, careful of how much he’s resting on you, not wanting to hurt you. He kisses you wildly, moaning into your mouth when you let your hands rest on his back, nails pressing into his skin ever so slightly and leaving gentle crescent-shaped marks.
He breaks the kisses from your lips and, as he kisses down your jaw and your neck, you realize how desperate your body’s become for him. Your thighs press together when he meets your chest; lips attacking your exposed skin, teeth grazing against you.
He sucks on the top of your breast and leaves a swollen red bruise, a reminder of him that won’t go away for days. You moan at that, and pulls his mouth from you to grin. “You want another one, darling?” He asks, voice full of sex, gravelly and daring. When you nod like a starved woman, he leaves an opposite one on your other breast, like two twin markings of him.
“Matty,” You whimper, “Stop bein’ a tease— I need you, right now.” You’ve never been more desperate for a man than at this moment, as he rolls his tongue over your nipple, making you writhe in place. His hands press you into the seat, locking your hips onto the fabric, trying to find space for each other in the cramped car.
“Yeah, darlin’?” He breathes, right hand keeping you pinned while his left slowly crawls from your side, across your hip, and lays flat over your crotch, feeling the warmth emanating from the area. “You want this? You want me? Tell me yes, baby.”
You nod vigorously, whining, “Please, please, *please*.”
But that isn’t enough for Matty. He pushes a finger under your chin and lifts your head up, until you’re staring at him straight on. “I know you’ve got better words than that,” he chides, “use them, baby. Use your fuckin’ words. Tell me you want me.”
You whine out, your bones crimson. “I want you, Matty. Yes. Yes. Fuckin— ah— touch me, fuck me, I don’t care, do anything to me. I just need it. Real bad.”
Matty gleams at that, a soft yet demanding look in his eyes. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, hands lifting your skirt. He takes it upon to look at your undergarments and groans. “Fuck, baby. Look at how pretty those are,” he croons, a single digit running between your wet folds. Despite the separation of skin via fabric, you groan softly, hips thrusting against the movement. “All that lace, just for me, yeah?”
You’re so embarrassed and desperate that you don’t have anything smart to say. He’s sucked all the wit out of you and you know it.
His fingers move to his fly and he undos the button and yanks the zipper. It’s only then that you realize how hard he is, and, more alarmingly, how big he is. You swallow thickly as you watch him pull his jeans off, gently stroking himself through his black boxers with a strained moan.
“Gonna fuck that pretty little pussy, aren’t I?” You’ve never heard something so vile, so direct come from someone’s mouth. And you adore it. “Gonna take it so well for me, hm?”
“Uhuh,” you nod, brainless. “Matty, I’m— I’m clean. I’m on the pill. Are you—?”
He already knows what you’re asking. “Clean,” he responds, and there’s something about how he switches his demeanour to serious that makes you take his word. “What’re you suggesting, princess?”
Of course, he knows what you’re suggesting. He’s not stupid. He just likes to toy with you. “Y-You don’t have to waste a condom,” you mumble, “jus’ fuck me like you are. Wanna feel all of you.”
“If you say so,” he breaths, fingers moving down to rub circles over your clit through your panties, making you gleam. Your mouth hangs permanently open as you cry out for him, fingers wrapping around his biceps.
“Come on,” you whine dramatically, “just fuck me already.”
It’s like he doesn’t have to hear anything else, because in an instance, he’s ripping the fabric of your panties— mumbling he’ll but you a new, even prettier pair— and rushing to pull his boxers off. With his cock free, you spend a second appreciating how truly big he is. You try not to panic as you think about how all of it is going to fit inside you.
He leans over your body, his right hand in yours against the seat while his left aligns himself with you. “Alright?”
You barely have time to nod before he’s pushing inside you with a groan. Sweat is already starting to bead on his forehead, but you hardly notice. Your vision is blurred with tears— the way he’s stretching you hurts so much, but it feels exhilarating, delicious.
“Fuck, princess, you’re so tight,” he mutters, moving his hips further and further into you. You can feel the stretch, pain and pleasure rippling up your spinal cord as he bottoms out, balls deep inside you.
All you can do is sit there and grip at his hair, breathing heavy as you wait. And wait. And w—
Maty has absolutely no mercy. No patience. No adjustment time. When he’s ready, he’s ready, thrusting into you like you’re the last person he’ll ever fuck. His hands grip your body so hard he leaves red marks on you and he’s not afraid to be loud as he fucks you, moans emanating from his lips.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he repeats between strangled moans, “such a good girl, fuck me…”
Your moans get loud as the pain fizzles away and is replaced by pure desire, every thrust hitting that spot inside you so well that your legs are shaking three seconds in. “Matty, Matty, *Matty*,” you cry as he fucks relentlessly, thrusts speeding up with every passing second. “*Harder*.”
Harder he does, fucking you like you’re a doll, practically (or maybe literally) dragging himself against your cervix as he does. His mouth is agape as he does so, eyes shut in bliss.
Moments later, in the heat of shared moans and whines, he opens his eyes and shoves a thumb in your mouth. Greedily, without being told, you suck, his thumb meeting the back of your throat. He presses himself around in there, thrusts getting sloppy as he feels your gums, your teeth, your tongue.
“Stupid fuckin’ slut,” he demeans, his eyes kind but mouth evil. “Look at you, taking me so well. Don’t even have to be asked to suck, do you? You know your job well, princess. Open your mouth.”
You do as you’re told, and seconds later, his spit is in your mouth. You swallow, eyes shiny with tears. “*Matty*,” you cry.
“What, baby? Can’t handle it? Too fuckin’ bad,” he laughs, gasping for air between moans. “You’re gonna take every last inch, and you’re gonna love it.”
Not that he had to tell you twice. Your legs were seriously shaking now, head and stomach hot as you edged to your orgasm. It was amazing how quickly he was getting you here. “Close,” you whine, trying your best to warn him.
“Already?” He asks incredulously, speeding his movements up in wanton bliss. “Stupid girl. Go on then, baby. You gonna cum on my cock? Go ahead. Come on my cock, darlin’.”
There’s literally nothing better he could’ve said right now. You try to warn him one more time, but it gets caught in your throat and released as a loud moan as your muscles contract fully and then released, eyes blinded with a brain-numbing orgasm.
All you feel is body heat. Body heat and Matty’s hands pressing into the seat beside you, shifting his weight as he fucks you. “Good girl, good fuckin’ girl,” he praises, earning an exhausted yet desperate moan.
But he’s not done. Your body starts to shake as he continues to fuck you, almost faster, definitely harder, chasing his own orgasm. “Sit still and let me use you,” he commands, pinning you again with shaking hands, trying to get you to stop shaking.
“Can’t, can’t,” you beg, in tears, but he just chuckles.
“Yes you fuckin’ can,” he laughs meanly, shaking his head as his thrusts get messy. “You want me inside, baby? You want me to cum inside? Want me to fill this tight pussy of yours?”
The nod is all he needs for him to finish inside you, loud groans of your name falling from parted lips as he lets go. You feel the warm feeling of cum inside you, filling you to the brim, seeping out through tiny cracks.
As soon as he’s done, he collapses on top of you, chest rising and falling fast, still buried inside. “Fuck,” he moans, head falling onto your chest. His mop of brown hair is slick with sweat, forehead glistening as you stare down at him.
You lie motionless for a moment, but your hands find his hair eventually, slowly twirling curls with tired fingers. “You’re good at that,” you murmur, the high of sex fading into just the high from the joint you’ve smoked.
“You think so, princess?” He murmurs, heart racing against your body. He looks up at you, eyes crinkling on the sides as he gives you a half-hearted smile. “ ‘Think that was all you. Felt so good, fuck me.”
You shake your head, ignoring his comment, though it fills you with pride. “Should probably throw our clothes on,” you suggest. Though this street is dead— like, dead dead— and his windows are tinted, the thought of someone walking by and seeing you naked…
He nods and slowly lifts himself on to his knees. Gently, he pulls out of you, half soft already; he hisses, watching his cum drip out of you. He can’t help himself but to run a finger between your folds, gathering some on his digit. “Look at that,” he whispers, “so fuckin’ pretty.”
He helps you dress first, pulling your shirt over your head and your panties back up your hips, flipping your skirt down. You try to ignore the fact that, if you dare to sit up, his cum will drip down your thigh. He pulls on his t-shirt next, but with a sigh he tosses his jeans to the ground and keeps just his boxers on— he can’t be bothered with the jeans now.
The two of you lay together on the backseat, Matty still trying to gain his breath back as you play with his hair, curls bounding. You take a minute to appreciate his face— those dark brown eyes, big nose, thicker lips. He’s like a porcelain doll, frozen in time, beautiful and soft and warm.
Some old Fall Out Boy song is playing when Matty asks, “you want to come back to mine?”
There’s nothing better he’s ever said in his life.
-
The drive back to his apartment is quiet, soft music playing as he’s got his left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. Matty assures you he’s a good driver, even high— you try to take his word for it, though there’s a few corners he takes that have you gripping at the side of the door.
His apartment is located deeper in the city, in a slightly shady area, the building a little run down, but functioning. He parks haphazardly before shutting off the car and rushing to get to your side. You giggle as he opens the door for you.
“You’re dramatic,” you tease, gathering your things as you get out of the car. He shrugs.
He brings you inside the building, typing some long code into the security box and fishing his key out of his pocket. His apartment is on the third floor, and the stairs never seem to end, though once you’re on the floor, it’s the first door to the right.
As soon as you’re inside, the smell of smoke floods your brain. Yeah— Matty’s not getting his deposit back. It’s fairly clean, with a little bit of clutter here and there, simple and small but comfortable. Matty takes you straight to the bedroom after you shrug off your jacket and shoes by his front door.
His bedsheets are a sage-y green and soft, and surprisingly, his bed is made. You sit down on the end, looking at him expectantly, smoothing out wrinkles on the bedspread.
Matty takes the few steps to meet you, something dark swirling in his irises. “Look good on my bed, princess,” he comments, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.
His hands are on your shoulders in seconds, pushing you down to your back, a soft surprised moan emanating from your lips as he crawls on top of you. His body weight is suffocating, deafening— in the best way possible.
His hands fly to your skirt as his lips smush against yours, hastily kissing you, as if the last time he kissed you was forever and he’d kiss you again never. He fully tugs off your skirt this time, but with the simple elastic bottom, it’s not exactly hard.
You feel so exposed on his bed like this; the remnants of his cum on your panties, lace and skin to the world. He pulls his lips from yours for a second to admire you, groaning softly. “So pretty,” he murmurs, “what do you want, baby?”
You’re a little more level-headed this time— you stare at him, devilish smile licking at your lips. “Surprise me.”
He wastes no time, fingers hooking into your lace and pulling them off, again, taking a moment to admire you, again. He dips his head down, pressing soft kisses to the exposed parts of your stomach, trailing them down, down, down…
He slides off the bed and situates himself between your legs properly, on his knees on the floor in front of you, and dives. His tongue meets your clit within seconds, licking and sucking like a starved man, surviving off your skin. Your hands fly to his hair, digging into his skull with your nails.
“Fuck, Matty,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the feeling, legs squeezing his head softly. He takes it as encouragement and continues, licking stripes between your folds, unable to contain himself.
A stray finger glides up your thigh and, after he adjusts his angle slightly, inside you. He curls it up to touch your g spot and within a millisecond you’re moaning with wonton lust, body shaking.
His moustache tickles as he eats, eyes closed to focus on making you, and only you, feel good. His finger works in tandem with his tongue, pressing shapes into your clit with the tile of his tongue while he furls and unfurls the digit, making your hips buck unconsciously.
“Matty,” you pant, moans breathy as he devours you, roughly pulling at his hair, “Where’d you— fuck— where’d you learn to be so good at this?”
He just shakes his head a little and continues to fuck you with the finger, determined to make you cum again. It’s wet and nasty and so delicious that you find yourself keeling, desperate for more, more, more.
He peers up at you as he eats, buried in a mound of you as his dark eyes stare into yours. He looks like he’s having the time of his fucking life. His moustache is damp with your juices, and it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.
“I’m close,” you warn, whimpering uncontrollably, pornographically. “Matty— Matty—“
There’s nothing you can do when he shoves another finger inside you. The little stretch is what throws you full-force over the edge, unable to control yourself as you cum on his face, legs squeezing uncontrollably around his face. He drinks you in greedily as you cum, eyes shut in bliss.
When you’re finally, really finished, he crawls onto the bed beside you, laying foot on his back, face still soaked in you. He looks over at you, a little smile on his face. “You’re cute when I’m eating you,” he murmurs, “we should do that again.”
“Maybe after I sleep for ten hours,” you reply, wanting to get this itchy camisole off your body. Matty can sense what you want without you having to vocalize it; he gets up and finds an old band t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the smaller side, handing them to you.
You worry briefly if you should find his bathroom and change there, but realize quickly there’s no point. You pull your camisole off and Matty, completely unapologetically, stares as you unhook your bra.
“Look at those hickeys,” he hums, referring to the matching dark bruises he’s left on your upper chest. “So pretty.”
“Fuck off,” you mutter, pulling his t-shirt over your head. It’s big on you and smells of him, with some faded design on the front. You tug your skirt off and replace it with his sweatpants; again, big, but they’ll do.
All you want to do is crawl into bed. You collapse onto his pillows, and he quickly follows, tossing his jeans for pyjama pants as he curls up with you.
Matty pulls you close, so close that his breath tickles your ear. You’re enveloped by him, by his presence, his smell. He’s sweet as honey and as mean as a bear and he’s absolutely everything right now.
“Did such a good job for me, princess,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, pressing a wet kiss there. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
“You’ll have to convince Sam to bring me back, first,” you murmur, before drifting off.
-
In the morning, you wake up to about 10 million missed calls and texts from Sam, and the rest of your family. But mostly Sam.
They start out asking where you are. They devolve into anxiety over just wanting to get you home safe. And then;
sam: someone told me they saw you leave the party with Matty Healy?
sam: my freshman roommate??
sam: someone got it in the background of a video.
sam: i’m glad you’re not beat and dead now, because you certainly will be when you come home
sam: at least i can trust matty. but holy shit. you’re so dead.
You groan into your pillow, stirring Matty awake.
This is going to be one hell of a three hour drive back to your apartment later.