IV. The Lacy Ones
A/N: Warning: these following passages DO contain more explicit depictions of a sexual relationship; this is indicated in the mature rating, but I like to warn beforehand anyway. CW degradation & daddy kink. If this needs to be taken down I may post a *censored* version with a link to the uncensored AO3 version. Pls enjoy!
Matt wasn't the type to kiss and tell, especially with a steady girlfriend. Call it class, call it courtesy, call it confidentiality; Matt didn't boast in the locker room about his sexual escapades like some other guys he knew. Just wasn't his style.
But God, dating Emily was some other fucking level. Part of him was lowkey so proud of it, so thrilled, so convinced all his friends would seethe with envy. As counterintuitive it might sound given that sentiment, Matt understood on a deeper level what it meant to experience such unique chemistry and intimacy with another human being. Maybe that was what made him want to talk about it, sing about it, write poetry about it. But he didn't. (Not publicly, at least.)
No, instead he savored every second, imprinted into his memories. He did his best to record every occasion in his mind's eye; they'd discussed actually recording some content (for private viewing) fairly soon, which made Matt so rammy his hips bucked just thinking about it. Again, Matt was not a sex-fiend, not in the least. Not to say he'd been abstinent before meeting Emily, of course. It was just…
It was the kind of sex that verged into transcendent territory. When the French said la petit mort, they weren't exaggerating. Matt must've slightly died and come back to life… well, the count was so high at this point he'd lost track, and that was an entirely novel experience for him when it came to relationships. Matt wasn't pushy with women. He could be aggressive and forceful when need be, but that just wasn't how he was raised to treat a lady.
No one prepared him for the possibility that some ladies kinda really liked being treated like fucktoys (consensually, situationally, privately) but he was, uh… learning to *acclimate* on a rapid scale. And Matt could be forgiven for having sex so heavily on the brain considering Emily was literally in the middle of giving him head. Emily's lips, gliding up and down, were… pure fuckin' ecstasy. Matt didn't ask for these often; each time was a special treat, a goddamn spiritual experience.
She didn't wear her hair in ponytails often—this wasn't even a real ponytail, this was Matt holding back the hair from her face so he could watch everything—and since he only associated it with these kinds of moments, the resulting Pavlovian response was something to behold (something Emily took careful note of, once she realized correlation and causation were one and the same).
True to form, Emily felt Matt growing stiffer and thicker. She moaned on his dick to let him know she liked making him feel good. Matt groaned back, then added (making her so wet it dripped through her lacy panties onto the floor): "Y…You're such a good little cocksucker, you know that?" More moans, more stilted breaths. "My cocksucker."
Emily couldn't quite explain why degradation got her so riled up. She loved being in control and in charge in every other facet of life; if someone tried just saying these kinds of things to her out of the blue, she'd literally rip their dick off and feed it to a bear. (She ran the show in pretty much every other aspect of the dynamic, after all.)
But something about a sweet meathead like Matty treating Emily like a dirty slut made her dumb levels of horny. They'd already fucked about two or three times today alone; this blowjob was something of a vanity project mixed in with a genuine desire to service her man. Emily got off on goading Matt, maybe more than anything. She liked feeling sexy. Desirable. Fuckable.
So what if she started drooling all over his dick whenever she went down on him? What of it?
(In all honesty, she made much of it.)
Emily knew Matt had no idea how loud he could get when they were in the middle of it. When it wasn't a security concern, Emily thrived off those sounds. That was a symphony, a personal concerto, of unbridled pleasure… and SHE was the maestro.
Matt was steaming hot in Emily's mouth, hard as a fucking rock. She bobbed up and down tirelessly, tasting precum but never quite working him up into a full orgasm. My jaw's fucking numb, she whined internally, but there was a solid method to play that off without coming off as a quitter. When Emily pulled her mouth away, Matt's pupils were so dilated she could see her own reflection swimming in those black pools. A bridge of spit from her lips to his tip kept them tethered. She smiled, spat the excess on his cock, and started stroking. His eyes practically rolled into his head. Emily, smug, chuckled deep in her chest; Matt's eyes trained on her like lasers.
"Wh…wh-what?" he gasped, legs trembling.
"Ohhh, nothing… you're just, such a messy boy…" Emily pumped faster, squeezing tighter right around his bell-end, "...and I know I'm gonna make you melt alllll over my fucking hands. You're gonna cum for me, aren't you?"
Matt's eyes flickered like flames. "Youuuu… ffffffuck, fuck—" He was getting so close. When she talked dirty like that… it drove Matt fucking wild.
Emily was all-too-aware of that fact. She relished holding such power, such influence, with nothing but her voice. And she was gonna make him finish, right here, right fucking now.
"Here. Cum in my hand." Emily cupped her left hand underneath Matt's glans. They made eye contact. Emily was not a girl who ever had to beg when it came to Matt, so it was something of a power reversal for him to watch her literally BEG him to release then and there. It was written plainly across her face: on the inward arch of her brows; in the pleading look of her eyes; in the biting of her lip, egging him on.
And then she said it. The secret trigger. The magic word.
"Please daddy?"
That was it. That was the final push. How he didn't burst earlier, Matt couldn't say; maybe after so much play, he was starting to get seasoned at sex? Either way, the build-up was… MORE than worth it. He came hard, spasms jolting through his body, hips trembling. Emily's palm filled up in no short order. She watched him convulsing with self-satisfied glee. She did that. She made him cum like a fucking fountain. He climaxed so hard he'd lost all semblance of the English language; Emily listened to his moan-and-groan music instead, impish and intoxicated.
When the strongest part of the climax petered off and Matt's pupils could focus again, he zeroed in on Emily. She was still kneeling in front of him, sloooowly massaging out every last drop of cum into her free hand. When Emily finally noticed him staring, her eyes lit up with mischief; never breaking eye contact, she took her white-stained hand and lifted it to her mouth. Matt's jaw hung slack. Emily giggled, winked, and tossed back his cum into her waiting hole without so much as a bat of an eye.
Matt's brain was broken. There could be steam coming out his ears, for all he knew.
She took care to lick every inch of her palm, sucking each finger, teasing Matt. It was just too much fun. Pushing his buttons. Turning him into a puddle. She recognized that look in his eyes: her man was so blissed out, he didn't even know his own name.
"Feel good Matty?" she offered, coy and cool. "It sure as fuck tasted good."
Matt grinned in a daze between gasps and reached out to cup her face in his hand. "Y-You… are fucking… in-inCREDible. Jesus…"
Emily smirked, kissed his hand and rose to her feet; she was still wearing her bra and panties, the lacy ones, but if she was going to venture into the hallway, she wanted to cover up just a teensy bit. His parents weren't home at the moment, but that was the thing about adults; they had a tendency of showing up EXACTLY at the worst possible opportunity. Spotting one of Matt's cleaner t-shirts (all thrown haphazardly around his bedroom), Emily tossed on the biggest (Boondocks-themed,apparently) and wandered into the bathroom.
There was a standard hygienic ritual here, of course, of washing hands and rinsing with mouthwash and making sure she was just clean. But sometimes, Emily took this solitude as a chance to stare into the mirror and just… kinda reflect on everything. Everything.
Emily knew she was smarter than Matt and dominated their relationship for the most part. No cruelty or mean spirit behind that fact; even if they ignored it, the distance filtered through in so many different facets. Matt's plans for college revolved entirely around (you guessed it) football AND football alone, from location to scholarship to mindset. Emily could actually respect that to some degree, that one-minded drive to achieve his goals no matter what. And it wasn't like Matty pretended he was a genius, after all; he was just correcting his life's course around his strongest abilities.
The kindest part of Emily (the rarely-seen one that she tried to show Matt the most) sincerely believed he'd become the next Heisman Hopeful, a future college ball prospect turned first round draft pick segueing into NFL superstardom. It wasn't impossible! It really wasn't. And yet… the practical part of her understood (maybe more than he) how one bad hit, one twisted ankle, one concussion meant the difference between his whole future and…
And…
Well, nothing. Because what the hell else would he do? He certainly never considered it; at least, not aloud, when Emily tried bringing it up in conversation (subtly and not so subtly alike—sometimes it came up organically, sometimes it was like pulling teeth). As far as she knew, he'd be entering his freshman year undeclared. Undeclared. How could he waste an entire YEAR of undergrad dicking around like that? Because, again, though Emily supported her boyfriend to no end, the simple fact remained: more often than not, high school football stars just couldn't cut it when it came to college ball. Even SHE knew that, and her biggest exposure to the sport consisted mainly of pop culture and the occasional 30 for 30 (which, surprising even her, she liked to tune in for; maybe it was the documentary narrative editing that made the boring parts of sports fade away in favor of the, like, Greek tragedy-level drama happening behind the scenes of the Colosseum?).
She'd have to start planning for him. (Should she? Was that overstepping boundaries? Was that love… or codependency?) Or, at least, guiding him into a headspace where HE could start planning alternatives.
Her own plans for the future? That was a binder, a portfolio, a PowerPoint presentation, and a TED Talk all on its own. Emily was GOING to become a top-tier fashion magazine editor, hopefully for something like Vogue or ELLE or Vanity Fair. There were a myriad of options and a labyrinth of potential flight-paths she'd mapped out for YEARS. She even had backups in case, for some inexplicable reason, her fashion career didn't take off; law school and public policy alike were viable options, the kind Emily wouldn't mind reading on her diploma someday. Not that her BFA in Fashion was in any jeopardy. All her college choices were heavily-vetted, verging into Ivy territory on the most prestigious side of the scale. That 4.0 Honor Roll Gifted Kid lifestyle brought on an excess of personal problems in the long run, no doubt about it, but when it came time for her graduation, Emily was SET.
Wait. Why was she even thinking about all this right after sex?
Emily paused, the faucet still running water over her soapy hands.
That actually WAS a good question. Where'd this tangent come from? Why was she trying to destroy a positive vibe with such nitpicky thoughts? Finding issues where none had sprung?
Emily took a deep (spaced out) breath and splashed some of that cold water onto her face. This was the self-destructive part of her mind worming its way in, trying to fuck up all the fun. This was the serrated blade, the picking nail, the oozing scab in her brain; this was the bite scar on her shoulder, the memory of a gun's barrel, the sound of crunching metal as she screamed out Matt's name.
No. No no.
Not that. Not right now.
Emily gripped the sink and watched her reflection morph into a caricature, a wailing mask, Kabuki face-paint. Wendigo.
A vision of her eye shot out. Gore. Blood trickling down her skin.
Nausea. Pit in her stomach. Toilet right there.
Let it out. Let it all out.
Wipe the lips. Gag again.
So sudden.
Why was this happening?
A knock at the door almost made Emily shriek. From the other side she heard a muffled Matt call out her name.
"WHAT?" she cried out. She didn't mean for it to come out that way. Stress was filling up her mind with smoke, paralyzing her lungs; Emily's rational brain acknowledged that the sensation of not being able to breathe was directly tied to her worsening panic attack (and thus a construct), but that meant jackshit to her body's violent response. She started wheezing and heaving.
"EMILY? Open the door! Please!" He pounded on the wood, not angry, but frantic. Emily fought the wave of nausea churning in her gut and crawled over to the door, clawing at the doorknob until it clicked loose. Matt practically burst in seconds later, a fireman ready to rescue.
He looked down and saw Emily curled up in a ball on the floor; pale, sweaty, and clearly embarrassed, she averted her eyes and pulled her knees even tighter towards her chest. She was trembling. He heard her labored breathing. Fuck.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. It's—it's okay, Em. It's okay." Matt gingerly hoisted Emily so she sat upright, then wrapped her carefully into his arms (the tightest embrace she'd ever known). She clutched onto his arm like a vise.
"FUCK. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck…" Emily tried to remember Dr. Dyatlov's instructions: In through the nose, out through the mouth. Four in, hold for six, out for eight. Just keep doing that & your heart will be forced to calm down. Ground yourself. "Help me—help me breathe, M-Matty…"
Matt wasn't certain how to follow through with that request initially, so he followed his intuition. He started by rubbing her back, slow and wide in range. She couldn't verbalize it at that exact second, but the comfort of that motion was the first thing to truly break through her panic attack. He listened, counted the beats, and realized she was trying to count out her breaths. Following her cue, he listed them out loud: "1-2-3-4… hold it, 1-2-3-4-5-6… out, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8." Over and over. As many times as it took. As much as she needed, until she was okay again.
Eventually, Emily's heart went back to normal. Her lungs hadn't collapsed, but her knees still felt like jelly. This was mortifying.
The first proper thing she articulated (in typical Emily style) was: "God, I can't believe like TWO minutes ago I was a sexy bitch and now I'm just—" she wiped some spittle from her chin, "—a messy bitch. Shit."
"Two minutes?" Matt sounded perplexed.
"Uhhh yeah? I like, JUST walked in the bathroom. It was all so fucking fast…"
Matt shook his head. "You were in here for like… ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes Em. No joke. I was knocking for awhile. Was it… another episode?"
Shit, it was that long? It only felt like five minutes, tops. Fuck. FUCK. "OBVIously it was another episode M—" Emily paused. Another measured breath. Not being fair. Not being kind. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Yeah, it… I was… yeah."
Matt grimaced. Emily was not the type of soul who lost her words often. Something triggered her; he couldn't know what exactly yet, but if Matt did his best to support and care for her, he might find out later on. Ultimately, the cause didn't matter much. He needed to tend to her needs, like a good boyfriend.
"What can I do for you?" (WikiHow said this was a solid go-to question for friends and loved ones in distress; Matt perused WikiHow articles more often and for more reasons than he ever felt confident sharing with another living soul) "Meds? Water? Besos?"
In spite of herself, Emily managed a half-smile. "My uh… Xanax prescription is in my purse, if you could grab it for me?" Then, before Matt could unlatch and rise, she pulled him into a (soggy, sniffly) kiss. "Thank you, Matty. Really."
"Anytime, princess," he purred. There'd been a time where he spat that title at her like bile; here, it was reverent, soothing, like a salve for her wounded thoughts.
Maybe there was an inequality in the brains department, but times like these reminded Emily that she wasn't just leaning on Matt because he was the closest pair of arms. He was genuinely sweet. With Mike this would've been… well, some sort of seductive ploy to get back to business.
Enough about that. Emily didn't want to think about him right now. Not when she had a man like Matt standing beside her. Or, as it were, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, holding out a pill bottle. He moved so swiftly she barely registered him leaving the room. Then again, Emily's sense of time in general was verifiably wonky at this junction; she'd tripped out staring into that mirror (a detail she wouldn't be sharing with Matt yet) for FAR longer than how she experienced it.
It was like… a freak storm, on a sunny day. Here one minute, gone the next. She felt COMPLETELY normal again now, like it was a daydream.
If only.
And here was this… this fantastic guy, her boyfriend, grabbing a glass of filtered water from the kitchen for her to toss back some Xanax. A guy she'd been indirectly calling dumb and unprepared in her head not too long ago. She… she didn't deserve this. Deserve him.
A strange urge was forming in her chest. A pull, a tug. She needed to ask an important question.
"Hey… Matty?"
He sat back down next to her, handing her the water cautiously. "What's up, Em?"
She gulped back the waver in her voice. "You don't… you don't only love me because of how much we fuck, right?"
The dumbfounded expression on Matt's face belied no trace of backtracking, covering up, attempting to lie; that's how Emily believed in him when he replied: "Are… are you joking? You think I only like you because we fuck around?" A distinct tinge of sadness dripped into his tone. "You're worth so much more to me than that."
"I don't know," sniffed Emily. "I know you liked me before we ever got this horny with each other, it's just… I know I wasn't the best girlfriend, all right? Before… all that happened. Okay? Like I do, I know I was pushy, and bossy, and honestly like—" Judas tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, "—not nice to you, and ever since we got through all that, I've been… ugh GOD, I've been so FUCKING into you, you have no fucking idea Matty, but I'm so worried sometimes that one day that flame might go out for whatever reason and then we're just… gonna be left standing here, naked and cold in the dark. Like, things got fucked with me and Mike after the lust wore off, and I DON'T want that for us. And I like, actually care about you? And it's… it's fucking frightening, Matt. It scares the shit outta me."
Matt soaked in Emily's words, sponging up as much as he could of her emotions and perspective. "That's… a lot to take in, Em." Her heart sank. Mistake. All a mistake. Shut down now, recoup all losses— "But I get it. To be honest I… I was kinda getting worried you only liked me because you liked fucking me, maybe. We really took off with it, you know? And… and maybe, yeah, you weren't the nicest girl at times. Maybe… maybe I was a bit jealous, on my own end. But we're both different people now than we were three months ago. We're not the Matt and Emily that walked up that mountain. And I like that. I like us. It kinda scares me too, but like… I dunno, I think it's worth taking that chance." Then, gently taking Emily's hand in his own, Matt added: "I almost lost you once. I'm not doing that again."
"Matty…" Emily cared a LOT, a lot about Matt, but even with Mike, saying I love you was a testament to their relationship really entering a new stage. Emily didn't just toss those words around. (Neither did her parents.)
But something about the doey look in his (adorable) eyes when he gazed up at her, filled with utter warmth and adoration… she barely even heard what he said: "What's up, honey?" No, it was already locked and loaded behind her lips.
"I think I fucking love you," Emily declared.
Matt cheesed wide, his face bright. It didn't take him long to fire back, "I kinda sorta think I fucking love you too."
They shared a smile, then a kiss, then the kind of hug that could last for hours. And Emily thought she just might just max it out this time. No letting go, not while she had the calming rhythm of his heart to wrangle her own. She imagined in her mind's eye Matt was a plush, carnival-sized teddy bear.
For his part, Matt cleared his mental landscape to focus entirely on Emily and her well-being; the only thing on his mind was the pace of her breath and the flow of tears. After enough time, both came back to baseline. He knew they would, of course; that didn't stop him from holding her fast and steady in his arms for long after.
He let her down before, once. Watched her fall into a pit like a helpless fuckhead.
Never again.
Never again.
\/\/\/
S: hey em, what's up? how've you been?
E: Fanfuckingtastic.
S: oh
S: well that's sarcasm
S: so, what's goin on? fr?
E: Too much to get into rn
E: I appreciate you though
S: nw
S: you & matt doin ok?
E: 😈
E: We actually ARE fanfuckingtastic
S: oh shit, look at you two
S: proud of u em, you picked a good one
E: Girl you have NO idea
E: Like literally, you've been single forever by now
E: We gotta get you some dick ASAP
S: OOOK WELL THEN
S: not where i was tryna go w this but lmao
S: dw em i'm good, legit
E: You *think* you're good but sweetie
E: You need to fuck out the bad juju from this year
S: I'M GOOD
S: i'm good.
S: pls i stg
E: Suit yourself. But when you get desperate?
E: You know my number
S: what, you gonna date me?
E: 😏 You wish!
E: Did you need something, btw?
S: need? nah
S: why, what made you think that?
E: Idk, I feel like people ask how you're doing when like
E: They want something from you?
S: that sounds… rly sad ngl
S: no i was just checking in
S: 3 months ago man
E: …
S: oh man you typed out the ellipses
S: my b
E: Actually, it's not your bad
E: Today kinda makes more sense now
E: Tiny freakout
S: ah shit, i'm sorry
S: do you need anything? like fr
E: No I'm ok 3
E: I have Matty
E: Wait, are YOU good? Is that what's up?
S: naw naw, dw bout me
S: i've just been checkin up on ppl
S: i feel like we should all like, meet up
S: check in, chill out, maybe fuck shit up
S: you in? no rush too, need to finish the semester
E: Yeah same here tbh
E: …You're inviting EVERYone?
S: yup. lookin for our magnificent 7
E: …I'll have to think about it
S: ay, fair. lmk when ya can tho
E: I actually will, not just saying that
E: Tbh, I'm sure Matt'll want to see everybody
E: Just make sure Hagatha Christie behaves herself
S: lmao i'll do my best. ttyl
/\/\/\
Was it in a Wendigo's nature to explore its surroundings? This particular beast didn't know. This one, in fact, was subtly convinced it shouldn't even be able to ponder and reflect on anything this much. There were times where the monster slouched into the Wendigo spirit heavily—heat of the hunt, survival mode, ignorant bliss—but then the echo of a past life came calling time after time, and before he knew it, the Wendigo was half-man once more.
That was the part that scribbled on cave walls, and held butterflies, and fled from game (instead of hunting like his gut craved). Maybe that was it. Maybe Makkapitew roamed, trying to find fresh meat. Nothing more than that greedy spirit, hungering for its next meal.
Then why, why did he keep remembering the girl with the flaxen hair, trying to find her among the craggy mountsides? La fille aux cheveux de lin? Goldilocks? Sam. Sam. He might write it again, when he crawled back to his hole, just to make sure the Wendigo never forgot those three letters.
What did they mean, even?
What did they mean…
Josh remembered a heartbeat. His own. Fast, so fast. The smell of fresh-cut grass and flowers, the sound of running sneakers squelching on a high school track, the smooth touch of delicate hands grabbing his arm for support. When they were young, she was Sammy. (He was the only one who could still call her that.)
One night, during a game of hide and seek, they found refuge in the same spot. This was later grade school—hormones on the horizon—on a firefly-thick summer night. Talk about premier hideouts: this one was expertly hidden, enough to keep them tag-free for hours upon end. Not exaggerated kid hours, actual hours. And after talking about enough TV shows and movies and songs and video games, after joking around and funny voices and rock paper scissors… Josh remembered looking into her hazel eyes, marveling at how they made his ears pound with the echo of his racing heart, and leaning forward without thinking about it. At first, her brows furrowed; Josh froze instead of drawing away, which gave her the opportunity to (cautiously) meet him halfway. It was no steamy makeout session, no Clark Gable contender, but Josh kinda liked that more. An innocent kiss. …Kisses, actually; though neither one was brave enough to try tongue for their first time, the pecks they shared were lingering, meaningful… loving, even.
And that was all. Nothing more. Nothing fresh. Nothing like the fantasies that played against the dark of his eyelids as they grew older, indulged in his teenage bedroom (with one hand down his pants).
If only he'd had the gall even four, five months ago…
The Wendigo swore he heard Debussy resonating through the province.
Would the towheaded angel bless his garden filled with snow again someday?
No one could know.
No beast could know.
The Wendigo was… ashamed. Furious. Sick. Depressed. Aroused. Hungry.
Hungry. Hungry. Hungryhungryhungry.