#part 2 is Significantly longer And sluttier i promise

[wreckedandpolemic]

she's got a boyfriend anyway - matty healy

part i - the night's like a whirlwind, somebody's girlfriend

yes u read that right its a series babey!! we love u cheatersss!!

warnings: not technically 18+ but the series will be, cheating, drinking, smoking

You clutch your plastic cup of wine like a lifeline, your pulse thundering in your throat to the beat of the song playing over the speakers. Snatches of indistinct conversation float around you, too intangible to grasp. You can’t hear your footsteps on the kitchen tile — are you even really there? It doesn’t seem like it. You bump into people and they don’t even notice, like you’re a ghost. The relief is palpable on your face when you step out of the crowded, close heat of the house into the cool night air. You slide the glass door shut, muffling the violent bass shaking the building. The cold metal of the chair you sit on bites your thighs, revealed by your too-short dress riding up.

A soft clicking sound accompanied by a brief flash and a frustrated scoff catches your attention and you turn to see a silhouette. His face is shrouded in shadow, the spark of the lighter illuminating him just long enough to catch pretty, almost feminine cheekbones and long, messy curls.

Matty turns to you. “Hey,” he says, lifting his chin at you. “You don’t have a light, do you? This thing’s a piece of shit.” He waves his empty lighter at you and pulls out the chair opposite, taking a seat across from you. Resting his elbows on the table, he props his chin up on his hands coquettishly and looks you up and down.

“Yeah, giz a sec,” you reply. You hate that it’s so awkward between you — you haven’t spoken in months, not since you left for uni, and neither of you reached out when you got back last week. You’ve missed him, and you miss him more acutely now he’s within your grasp and yet still so far. If you reached out, you think he would dissipate, shimmering, like a mirage. The sound of his fingers drumming impatiently on the table makes you remember his request and you wrench your gaze away from his hands, rings sparkling in the low light. You don’t miss the way his eyes latch onto your tits, spilling out of your low-cut dress, as you dig in your bra for your lighter. It’s warm in your hand as you pass it to him, something flickering between you when your skin brushes his.

You’ve always been each other’s forbidden fruit, polarising magnets circling each other for years but never colliding. The time was never right; there was always something in the way — his girlfriend, your studying, the band, work. Then, when you were packing up for uni, you told him it had to be over for good, no more dancing around each other, prodding at boundaries to see if they’ll give. It was easier to tell him over the phone, and you got to hide from the fallout in London for a few months. You even have a boyfriend, a sweet, loving, devoted boyfriend, and you’ve not (okay, barely) thought about Matty since. Until now, and the realisation hits you like a bucket of cold water that it isn’t over, because it never will be.

“Thanks,” he says, low voice muffled by the cigarette and cutting through your thoughts and reminding you with a bump that he’s there, in front of you, close enough to reach out and touch. You have to restrain yourself from brushing a stray curl out of his eyes.

You shrug. “Anytime.” Matty lifts the lighter up, illuminating the soft planes of his face for a second. You watch, fascinated, as he hollows his cheeks, filling his lungs with smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange. Smoke pours from his mouth when he exhales, and a familiar itch buzzes under your skin.

“Giz a cig,” you say, leaning forward and swiping his pack from his front pocket before he can protest. “I’m dying for one.” You pluck a cigarette from the pack and twirl it between your fingers, reaching for your lighter.

Matty snatches it away with a grin. “Cheeky,” he teases. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still a thieving little bitch. Thought London might straighten you out, but no luck.”

You grin, easily slipping back into that oh-so-familiar playful, flirty banter. “In your dreams, Healy,”

“Oh, every night since you left, princess.” His words strike a bolt of sinful lust through your body. You want to crack that pretty head of his open, see exactly what he dreams about, live it through his eyes, feel it through his body.

“Is that so?” you grin, leaning forward, the part of your brain warning you against him growing quieter and quieter with every passing second. Matty nods, inching closer as if entranced by you, that magnetic pull overtaking him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, delicious and red and tempting. While he’s distracted, you make a grab for your lighter, but he’s still faster.

“Not so fast,” he grins, lifting it just out of your reach. “Come here,” he says, returning his cigarette to his mouth and beckoning you. You have to stand just a little for your cigarette to touch his. “Deep breath,” he instructs, as if you don’t know how to light a cigarette. From anyone else, you’d find it horribly patronising. You pull obligingly, though, the embers catching your cigarette alight and flooding your mouth with smoke. It’s intimate, a kiss without touch.

A deep inhale sends the nicotine buzzing through your blood, your head going fuzzy for a second before everything clicks into even sharper focus. “Thanks,” you murmur faintly, dragging on the cigarette again before you trust yourself to speak.

He leans back, eyeing you, scrutinising your guarded expression. “How come you came out here all alone? Bored of your fit friends?”

You squint at him. “They’re your friends too.” Then you shrug, pondering his question. You wonder if, subconsciously, you were looking for him. “Just wanted a fag, didn’t I? Plus it’s loud as fuck in there,”

Matty gives the barest hint of a nod. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it as if thinking better. But, of course, he never thinks better for long. “Not brought your boyfriend, then?” he asks, disparaging tone making no secret of what he thinks of him. They’ve not even met, all he knows is what he’s seen on the Internet and what your friends have told him. But then, he’d find a way to condescend anyone you were dating, even if he were a consecrated saint.

You roll your eyes. He’s such a boy. You can tell he wants you, it’s written all over his face, but he won’t say it. He wants you to be the one to make the leap, he wants you to feed his ego by throwing your morals aside for him, dirty up your hands until the stain of infidelity clings under your nails. “Nah,” you say, leaning back and watching him wait for elaboration you won’t give. “But I can call him.” You pause. A vein jumps in his forehead. “If you want,”

“Go on, then,” he says, smoke billowing around him. He’s calling your bluff, and six months ago he would have been right. But he doesn’t know you inside and out anymore. You’re sharper now, a thing with corners and shadows to hide in, and you don’t make empty threats.

You pick your phone up from where it rests on the table, unlocking it and navigating to your contacts. Your finger hovers over your boyfriend’s name, and you quirk an eyebrow at him, giving him one last chance. Matty doesn’t move, so you pick up the phone and lift it to your ear. It rings once, twice, then his hand shoots out to snatch it from your grasp. He hangs up, stabbing the button violently, then surges forward.

He crashes into your waiting mouth, sending fireworks rocketing through your body. The kiss is intense, years of pent-up want and longing flowing between you. Kissing your boyfriend has never felt like this.

Wait.

Your heart stops and you pull away, flickering your eyes over his wet mouth and heaving chest before forcing yourself to look down at the table. It’ll be easier to force the words out without looking at him. “I…” You swallow thickly. “We can’t. My… I’ve got a—”

He presses two fingers to your lips to shut you up. “Love, I don’t give a fuck about your boyfriend.” Your eyes track him as he walks around the table, coming up behind you and turning you around. He’s so close to you. Danger, your mind screams, vision pulsing red, but your body calls out to him and you press closer. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Against your better instincts, you kiss him again, burying your hand in his soft curls the way you’ve wanted to for years. Matty grips your waist, nails digging like you’re something precious he’s caught and can’t release. His tongue sweeps your mouth, tasting of cigarettes and orange gin and some underlying taste that’s uniquely Matty, and it’s addictive. You kiss harder, rocking your body against him, open-mouthed whines escaping you. “You’re right,” you admit, his hands on your body making it feel like something sacred, a prayer instead of confession. “I don’t give a fuck about him. Not if I can have you,”

Something that sounds suspiciously like a moan escapes him, and he presses his lips to yours one last time before pulling away with a smug grin. “If you’re throwing him away for a kiss, imagine how much better I fuck.” You still, your body betraying you. He gasps, that infallible smirk stealing back onto his face. “Oh, poor baby. Is that it? Your pretty boyfriend can’t make you come?”

You shudder. How did he know? Encounters flash in your mind, every time he’s rolled off you with a grunt, leaving you with nothing, every time you’ve faked it just to get it over with, and Matty watches your face as if your memories are flickering in your eyes. “...No,” you admit, cheeks heating. He brushes a thumb over your cheek, sparks tracing in his wake.

“I could,” he murmurs, breath warm in the cold night air. “I could make you fall apart with my hands, in my mouth, on my cock. I’d fucking worship that gorgeous body of yours, princess.” You’re panting into his mouth, the mental images so vivid you can practically feel him inside you. “Do you want me to?”

Every nerve in your body screams out for him. The air between you is thick with lust, a plea balanced delicately on the tip of your tongue. “I—” The door clatters open and you bite back a frustrated scream, shoving Matty off you.

“There you are!” gasps the host, a high school friend named Rebecca. Then she catches sight of your compromising position and smirks knowingly. “Well, don’t you look cosy?” You freeze, a dozen explanations springing to your lips, all of them faulty and insufficient. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She mimes zipping her lips shut, then darts out of the kitchen and seizes your arm. “Now, come on! We’re doing shots!”

You let her drag you away, as much as you’d rather stay with Matty, because it is her party, after all. Several rounds of shots later, your mind is fuzzy from drink and you’re stumbling around with the singular goal of finding Matty again and finishing what you started. After a few minutes of hunting high and low, someone tells you he’s gone home. You pout; it’s not like him to leave a party so early. Then, someone presses another glass of wine into your hand and drags you off to dance and you forget all about him until you make it home.

You lay in bed, face clean and painkillers dissolving in your belly, and your thoughts turn back to Matty. His warm breath on your face, hands tight around your body, dirty words staining your memories. Closing your eyes and clenching your thighs, you ignore the pang of guilt and let your mind wander to the promises he made, replaying those vivid pictures over and over.

God, you are utterly and completely fucked.

#matty healy x reader #matty healy #matty healy imagine #the 1975 #the 1975 fanfic #she's got a boyfriend anyway #mmcht this isnt that good But i wrote it all today #part 2 is Significantly longer And sluttier i promise #writing