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#discarded rhyme:
larrylimericks · 2 years
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7Jun22
Stunt-blue sweats and beanie of green, A disgruntled blueberry was seen “Househunting” with her— They need closets bigger For her merch and his queerness, it seems.
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redrobinridinghood · 2 years
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Fall to dust
We need to return to dust
with our cities reduced to rust
Reduce it all to ash,
Discard the world like trash,
Forget about it all,
And into darkness we will fall
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sitarawrites · 4 months
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Y/n in the multiverse of Gojo
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Synopsis : A curse brings back teen , kid and baby Gojo to the present timeline , all of them obsessed with y/n
Warning : Suggestive at end
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Gojo could swear he had never met a curse more annoying than this one . For the past 10 minutes he had been waiting for the curse to evaporate but all it did was silly dances as if mocking him. 
He was annoyed , very displeased when Yaga on such a beautiful Saturday morning when his beloved wife y/n and his students were going to have a picnic, asked Gojo to take on a mission and kill the special grade curse that was troubling the sorcerers for the past few weeks.
Thus here he was in front of a curse trying to wait until it completely evaporated after exorcising it. When Yaga told him about the curse he thought it was a very strong dangerous looking curse that could even function in broad daylight.
He was surprised to see a jelly like midget dancing and spraying some sort of perfume in the forest while singing nursery rhymes
Of course he easily exorcised it , being the strongest , but while the curse was moments away from completely evaporating he started laughing
“ You have stepped into this forest and let your guard down , I have cursed you for a day , he he he he. Get ready to share someone you don’t want to” and with that stupid laugh he evaporated completely .
 What the hell was he even talking about? Paying no attention to it, Satoru went to the car and asked Ijichi to drive him to his estate. He had to get there on time or y/n would leave him and go to Jujutsu Tech with the students and enjoy her time. 
So mean of her right ? To leave her husband of 3 years for the students. He reached his estate entering the main gate in his garden. He was surprised to see shoes outside his door.
A pair of shoes that he wore in high school that he had discarded way back and a pair of Pikachu printed sneakers that were very small that he wore when he was 5. What was going on ? 
Curious, he went inside, into the living room only to find something that was so unbelievable that he had to take his blindfold off . Y/n was standing near the sofa dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a  pink tank top with the one year old version of himself cuddling in her arms ,smiling in his sleep.
 Not only that , the five year old version of him was hugging one of her legs , sticking out his tongue towards the 18 year old version of him who was standing on her left side while he wrapped an arm around y/n’s waist. 
What was going on ? Satoru couldn’t believe his eyes. How can he see younger versions of him , wait was it the curse’s doing .Now did he realise what that curse meant , the curse brought him back from the past years and the person he had to share was you.
“ Toru , what is going on here ? I came into the living room to get the picnic basket and all I see is you from different ages” 
As soon as the word "Toru" left your lips , everyone’s ears perked up. They looked at the 28 year old Gojo and literally tightened their hold on you. 
The one year old started to cry to get your attention whereas the 5 year old started staring at Satoru with such a look of disgust as if he had just seen some piece of shit.
 The 18 year old version of him who was the cockiest of them all ; actually kissed your cheek leaving you there all shocked and red faced whereas he looked at the 28 year old with a shit eating grin.
Gojo could swear he felt his blood boil. He went straight towards you as he took the one year old from your arm and placed him on the sofa while pulling you away from the hold of the other two.
Wrapping an arm around your waist and another just around your shoulders he declared , kissing the spot that was just kissed by the 18 year old “ Stay away from my wife”. 
“ Aren’t you getting too full of yourself , Mr Oldman , that was my girlfriend before your wife . Hands off her” the 17 year old Satoru replied with  arrogance
The 5 year old declared “ No you two get away from her , I promised to marry her just a few days back” 
Even you were surprised at how those 3 were bickering over you. The three of them tried pulling you towards them . The 18 year old and 5 year old on one side and present Satoru on the other.
 You were pulled once to your left ,then to your right , then left, then right. Having enough of them you yelled “ Hands off me now , you three !”
Instantly all 3 of them released you .
All three of them felt betrayed when you went to the sofa and picked up baby Satoru who was crying and held him in your arms. His head resting on your shoulder as he smirked at the other three
“ Baby Toru in my arms is Toru 1 , you little brat are Toru 2” you looked at the 5 year old
“ You are Toru 3” you looked at highschool Gojo and then at present Gojo “ you are Satoru ” 
“ No fair , I want to be Satoru ” the 5 year old yelled stomping his feet while he was pushed back by the high school one “ No I’m Satoru  because you were mine first” he declared
 28 year Gojo made a beeline towards you and again wrapped an arm around you “ Nah I am Satoru because she is my wife”
All three of them started arguing again while the little one rested in your arms. You pecked his cheek which caught the attention of the other three , jealous of him.
“ All three of you , silence ! Listen here now. What I said is final , now Satoru and i’ll be leaving and Toru 3 , 2 and 1 will stay back at home until we come back” 
Satoru flashed them his signature cocky grin as he suddenly grabbed your waist and kissed your lips , to show them that you were his. This infuriated the others and baby Satoru, displeased by him, bit his arm to which he winced in pain. 
“ You know I can just throw you in trash , you already are compact size”
“ As if y/n will let you” kid Gojo looked at you with puppy eyes “ He is bullying baby Satoru”
“ Me too “ teen Gojo who was standing near the window gave you puppy eyes too
“ All three of you just leave , go outside and wait until I come” now you were frustrated. You were supposed to reach at 10 am and it was already 9: 40 am 
“ Carry the stuff and keep it in the car , if I see anyone slacking off I’ll leave you in the middle of nowhere during the car ride” .
With that you went upstairs to take some stuff with baby Gojo in your arms , resting his head on your shoulders. He looked at the 3 and smiled as if telling them ‘ she is mine , losers’. 
 Of course he was the younger version of Satoru and if compared the most clingy version of him
“ Why does he get to be so close to y/n and not me , I’m young too” kid Gojo pouted 
“ Because you’re stupid” teen Gojo mocked him and then looked at Satoru and smirked “ Carry the stuff , I’m not doing it”
“ You dare refuse y/n , well let us see how highly she’ll think of you if she finds out your lazy ass doesn’t want to work” . He called your name “ Y/n-” 
“ Ok Ok , I’m doing it. You little brat , with me now” he looked at the 5 year old.
It seemed like Teen Gojo and kid Gojo were teaming up against him
After even more arguing it was decided where one would sit. Satoru sat on the co driver seat with baby Satoru in his lap , near you, who was driving and much to their displeasure the other two sat in the backseat
The whole drive the 3 kept arguing whereas baby Satoru kept looking at you and you only with his bright blue eyes, with a gaze of love. He kept looking at you to which Satoru smiled internally. Well it's justified that all three versions of him want you , ever since he was a child he had loved you.
He still remembers how he would look forward to clan meetings so he could meet you , even though he hated them. He was so happy when you came to Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. You were the one who was by his side all this time.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when kid Gojo yelled “ Stop staring at her !” to which he replied with his signature cocky tone “ Yeah and what will you do if I don’t , you little brat”
“ Toru keep quiet , he is a kid but should you also behave like a 5 year old ?” you interrupted them , eyes still on the road
“ Oooooooooooh , Toru got scolded by his wife” teen Gojo mocked him which earned him your death glare through the rear view mirror to which he silenced. 
“ Toru number 2 , no, don’t lean out of the window” but that little brat didn’t listen. Typical behaviour of his since childhood. You pulled the window up and locked it to which he looked towards you and pouted
“ I want to look outside”
“ You can without leaning out of the window”
“ No I can’t”
“ Want me to give your sweets to Toru no. 3” to which teen Gojo grinned at kid Gojo.
“ Fine but only because you said”
“ Good” 
Satoru was observing everything. The way kid and teen and even the baby version of him acted around you. All of them were obsessed with you , which was justified because ever since he has his memory he has always loved you. 
He would purposefully try to act stronger and smarter around you and still you would never pay much attention to him. God knows how many times he went to those boring clan meetings just to be able to see your face and spend time with you. Every gift that you gave him on his birthday is still kept in a box neatly. 
 When you were at jujutsu tech he’d always try to get you to hangout with him. Almost everyone around you knew that he had a crush on you, even Yaga. Suguru and Shoko would literally get tired of him ranting about his fictional romantic scenarios with you. 
When you and Satoru started dating Shoko was like “ At least he got somewhere. I was thinking he would never be able to confess to you and you’d probably marry someone else and he’ll just spend his whole life like Snape from Harry Potter” 
As if Satoru would let that happen. Deep down he always knew that someone would steal you away from him and make you theirs if he didn't, that’s why he always wanted your attention so desperately ever since he was a child. And after losing Suguru you were the only one who understood him.
This is what he was seeing in the younger versions of himself now from the perspective of adult Satoru who is lucky enough to have you as his wife. The desperation to be yours and to make you his was visible in the younger versions of himself. If you’re not there with him he feels like a lost puppy. 
He looked at you as you were driving , your eyes on the road. You glanced at him for a brief moment and then again focused on the road
“ Is there something on my face ?”
“ Yes, its beauty”
“ You’re really cheesy”
“ You married this cheesy person” he lifted his hand to show the wedding ring
“ I don’t regret marrying a cheesy idiot like you” you smiled
Teen Gojo looked at you two. So this was his future. He was going to marry you , his beloved girlfriend. He didn’t act like it but deep inside he was really happy to come into the future and know that one day you were going to marry him.
He was relieved to know that you’d actually survive till this day in this dangerous Jujutsu world and not leave him. He made a mental note to treat you like a princess , no , like his queen so that  the future doesn’t change and you still stay by his side . Because at the end of the day all he wanted was you, to be yours.
You reach Jujutsu Tech. Kid Gojo hops from the car , his shoelaces untied now. You also got out of the car and noticed it . Crouching down in front of him you tied his shoelace. You very well remember that even at the age of 5 Satoru was not able to tie his shoe lace. You noticed the shoes he was wearing. The Pokemon printed sneakers that you gifted him on his fifth birthday.
“ These are my favourite shoes” he told you 
“ Why so ? Because it has Pokemon” you smiled at him
“ No , it's because you gifted it me . Your mother told me that you actually searched a lot of stores to get me this one. They were limited edition and hard to find but you found them for me” he smiled at you back , his cheeks visibly red.
Oh , you just remembered. When you were 5 Satoru had invited you to his birthday. You wanted to gift him something he liked and you remembered how he wanted Pokemon sneakers with Pikachu on it. You went to multiple stores with your mother and finally found them. You had gifted them to Satoru and he kissed your cheek as a thank you and you giggled.
Now that you think about it , you really never thought that he kissed you because he loved you. You were always oblivious to your own feelings and very bad at taking hints. Until you guys were practically adults you hadn’t ever taken Satoru’s flirtings and his efforts as something he did because he loved you , instead he was the guy who you had permanently kept in your friend zone.
The guy who you never thought of as a romantic interest. Now that you think about it , how much it would’ve hurt him when you’d clearly ignore his romantic attempts and keep him on hold for so many years.
You gently patted kid Gojo’s head and went to the trunk to get the basket where you found Satoru already taking it out with baby Satoru in his arm. Baby Satoru made grabby hands towards you and you took him in your arms.
You stood there admiring Satoru. Just how effortlessly handsome he looked. His black shirt perfectly showing his broad shoulders , his muscular arms flexing and his sunglasses low on his nose showing a peek of his gorgeous blue eyes. Suddenly you went towards him
“ Love , are you sure this is….” he was cut off by you grabbing his collar and putting your lips against his. Satoru was surprised for a  split second but he returned the kiss  holding you close with an arm around your waist. 
Baby Toru in your arms didn’t like it at all. You were supposed to give him attention , not that old man. He started to whine in your arms which led you to break the kiss.
“ What happened , love ? Couldn’t resist me ?” he teased
“ Can’t deny it , you’re hot” and with that you grabbed the sunscreen from the basket and went under the shade of a tree where teen Gojo had spread the blanket.
You sat there as you placed baby Gojo in your lap and applied some sunscreen on his face and arms. He started giggling and tried calling your name in his baby voice. You placed him on the blanket and when you turned to another side you saw teen Gojo sitting in front you 
“ Me too”
“ Me too, what ?” you asked
“ Put sunscreen on my face too” he demanded
“ Aren’t you old enough to do it yourself”
“ But I want you to do it” 
You sighed “ Fine , you big baby”
You took the sunscreen and gently dotted it all over his face and gently rubbed it. This was the year Satoru was the most depressed you had ever seen him. It was when Satoru matured a lot. It wasn’t much visible to others but as his girlfriend and as someone who knew him as a child , he had matured. 
You were happy that he matured but at the same time he didn’t have to. He was just a high schooler who should’ve enjoyed his youth , rather than be burdened with the duty of protecting others.
You squished his cheeks to which he got flustered. His slightly shy expression was always something that made your heart skip a beat. How could you be so oblivious in your younger days? 
You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard the first and second years coming. All 6 of them visibly confused when they saw 4 Gojo
“ Y/n sensei I’m not hallucinating right ?” Nobara asked
Yuji pinched Megumi’s hand “ Oii idiot , you’re supposed to pinch yourself not others”
The second years looked at the situation in front of them with an expression that even you didn’t understand. 
“ Don’t worry I’ll explain”
Satoru said while sitting down on the blanket close to you.
Teen Gojo also sat next to you whereas baby Gojo crawled into your arms and kid Gojo sat in front of you. This really overwhelmed you.
Satoru had his arm around your waist while Teen Gojo was trying to remove his arm but he didn’t budge. 
As Gojo explained the situation he had his usual smile on his face but you could tell how badly he was itching to throw all other versions of him out this universe. You found it quite funny , how he was jealous of his own younger self. 
If your younger versions came and went after Satoru you’d probably let them get close to him , just to see his flustered expression.
“ So this all happened because Gojo was reckless on his mission , nothing new” Megumi remarked. One Gojo was already annoying for him but now 3 extra Gojo , ugh he hated it. Especially that teen version of him , the cockiest of them all.
As if teen Gojo sensed his discomfort he went and patted Megumi’s head just like he did when he was a child “ Oii ! hands off me” Megumi pushed his hands off
“ You’ve grown taller Megumi , I thought you’d stay a midget” he laughed
“ I’m out” Megumi grabbed a sandwich and went somewhere else , not wanting to stay in his presence. Having to deal with not one , not two, but a total of 4 Gojo is not something he can do.
When teen Gojo turned around he saw your displeased expression and he raised his brows questioningly “ Did I do something wrong ?”
“ Well yes ! You chased away my students with your jackass behaviour” 
Teen Gojo turned around to look at them and yes , he did chase them away. Yuji left with Megumi and Nobara joined Maki , even those two not strong enough to deal with his insufferable ass. Inumaki poked a stick into Panda’s belly as Panda lay down on the grass.
“ Now go get them back and if you don’t , I’ll give this homemade Kikufuku mochi to Satoru”
 “ As much as I love you y/n , you should know you can’t cook or bake. It's me who cooks and bakes so those Kikufuku mochi probably taste……" This earned Satoru a smack on his head to which his overdramatic ass made him act as if he got a concussion from that light hit.
Well it was true though. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t cook very well and it was Satoru who did the cooking. But at least you could drive properly unlike him who was your passenger princess. God forbid he ever drives. You both would end up damaging your cars.
Finally after a lot of threatening from you to make them behave you brought all your students back.All of them sat on the blanket while snacking on the delicacies that were prepared by you , actually by the chef in your house but it doesn’t harm anyone to say that you made it , right ?
Almost everyone felt sleepy after eating like they have been hungry for years. Yuji felt sleepy and leaned on Nobara and Nobara leaned on Megumi. Megumi shifted causing both of them to fall on the blanket but they were too sleepy to react.
Panda laid on the blanket flat and on his belly slept Maki , Inumaki and kid Gojo. Baby Gojo slept in the big picnic basket that was empty.
You felt sleepy too . You leaned against teen Gojo. His face got red , even though you were his girlfriend back in his timeline he couldn’t stop feeling that way. He was going to caress your hair until adult Gojo pulled your head gently over his shoulder.
“ Brat , you already have your gf , don’t you think you’re cheating on her ?” Gojo remarked.
He knew that this statement of his would definitely make teen Gojo back off. Gojo knew himself very well. Any action that would make you question his loyalty , he wouldn’t do that. 
It actually worked and teen Gojo did back off but in his defence he said “ I’m not cheating on her , they’re literally the same person. I’d never cheat on y/n. I love her way too much to ever hurt her”
The sunlight directly falling on your face irritated you so you laid down on the blanket and buried your face in Satoru’s lap , which made both of them smile. Satoru stroked your hair gently.
“ Take care of her ok ? She might have been too oblivious to understand your feelings earlier but now that you guys are dating , she’d not leave you till the end. Yeah she might be less clingy compared to you but her love is true. Just make sure to stay by her side. She might not say it often but she loves us way more than we think”
“ I will , you don’t have to tell me. I love her very much and I’ll always take care of her. I will also marry her when the right time comes. You don’t have to worry.  But will I have memories of this future trip ?”
“ Probably not , because it can alter the timeline which is not good for any of us”
Teen Satoru hesitated a bit but Satoru noticed his expression which made him finally ask his question
“ Did Suguru change ? Did he come back to us ?”
Satoru smiled sadly “ I can’t tell you that , but wherever he is , he's at least in peace”
Satoru laid on the blanket cuddling you into his chest , closing his eyes. He couldn’t tell him that he’d have to kill Suguru in the future . It would be too painful for him to bear. Satoru remembers how he couldn't sleep for many days after that incident. His 18 year old self would get affected even more deeply .
Teen Gojo also laid next to you. 
“ I’ll always be by your side” he whispered before dozing off.
After sometime Baby Gojo got up , searching for you . He got out of the basket and crawled towards you , getting between your arms as he also fell asleep again.
Kid Gojo got off Panda and seeing all others near you he slept close to you hugging your leg.
Everyone was asleep for hours. Well the jujutsu world is stressful and days like this are probably one of the few days where one can relax.
You felt the weather getting slightly cold and woke up. The sky was in a beautiful shade of red and orange , it was probably evening.
You looked around and didn’t see the other Gojos.
Satoru also woke up as he stretched . He looked at your sad face and noticed that the younger versions of him were gone.
“ Looks like they went back”
“ But I liked their presence. It was as if I got all those beautiful memories of our youth back in real life” you looked at him and smiled sadly
Satoru hugged you “I’m still here you know”
You hugged him back tightly “ Don’t you dare try to leave me”
You two stayed in that position , your hug not even loosening slightly
“ Now as much I’d like to be hugged by you , you need to realize that your hugs are very strong and I might break a rib”
" Then break one , you can do that much for your wife"
You pulled back seeing the others wake up.
You got up from the blanket and stretched as everyone else packed the stuff back into the basket.
Looking at the sunset and everything so peaceful around you , you wished for everything to stay just like how it is. Your students and your husband , safe and happy.
Everyone got back to their respective dorms while you and Satoru went to your car.
“ You look sleepy , shall I drive? Don’t worry I’m not that much of a bad driver , that you think”
“ And I’m not that much of a bad cook that you think” you tossed him your car keys as you sat in the co driver seat
Satoru sat on the driver seat and buckled your seat belt while leaning close to you “ Well you just need some tutoring from your husband with great culinary skills”
“ Just say that you want to fuck me in the kitchen”
He pulled your cheeks “ Naughty girl ! Such talks only in the bedroom”
With that he started the engine and started driving. You were halfway to your home when he said“ I love you y/n”
He glanced at you and found you asleep. Well it was tiring for you to deal with 3 menaces today. 
“ Sleep well love” he said with a smile driving back home.
( you guys reached home safely , you and the car both safe )
Meanwhile Teen Gojo in his timeline
“Y/n likes Tatsu from the anime ‘The way of the househusband’ . I must also learn how to cook for her since she can’t cook” said Gojo while chopping some onions 
“ See your mean comments everyday made me cry Y/n” he said as he wiped his tears
“ You idiot , wash them in cold water before cutting and who said I can’t cook !” you yelled
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Part 2 Gojo in multiverse of y/n
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mamoriitai · 1 year
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What does your heart look like?
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𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡: Your heart burned so fiercely that it burnt itself out, leaving horrible scars in its wake; scars inside your chest and on the hands of those who touched you, the hearts of anyone who got close enough to connect to yours. The person you are now is no longer recognizable, burnt up by your own anger and passion and love. The injuries can never be fully erased, but they can be soothed with time and trust and forgiveness.
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sixosix · 6 months
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summary your attention is elsewhere and scara gets sad. not that he would admit it, though.
or, scara shows his true colors when he’s missing you.
warning 1k words, profanity, calling wanderer ‘kunikuzushi’, you and him are in mondstadt!! clingy and pathetic scara… fluff!
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what else could i talk about? you gaze at the empty sheet while your thoughts are running miles and miles ahead. you’ve been clutching your head pitifully for far too long that lisa is starting to send worried glances.
this one is no good either. you crumple and toss it to the growing pile on the edge of the table.
maybe another metaphor. about the sky and the wind? he would love that. maybe something else that would rhyme with love. would venti appeal to your poem even more if you talk about wine? he would.
the slender shape of the wine glass, the alluring shade of dandelion wine, its sweet aroma—it would be your worst work out of all the ones venti discarded, but perhaps he wouldn’t be able to refuse this one. kaeya would applaud if he were to hear this right now.
ink stains the sides of your palms. you heave a sigh, fingers getting to work on the dreaded worship poem about venti’s favorite wine. what else could you make out of this? you’re getting desperate. you just need to finish this last poem, and you will be freed from venti’s insistent clutches and your own stubbornness to see this to the end.
“boo.”
a hand slaps over your mouth before you can disturb anyone else in the library.
your first instinct is to tear this person’s limb off; however, the gloves, along with the unnaturally smooth and fair skin is distinctively familiar. you bat the arm away and face him; wanderer’s hand lowers to your hips instead.
“asshole!” you hiss with a frightening scowl. wanderer’s grin widens as if you’re the cutest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. “i told you to fuck off elsewhere while i finish this—why are you back so early?”
“it’s boring,” he says.
“weren’t you the one to suggest we explore mondstadt?” your jolt earlier caused a huge streak of ink to run across the page, entirely ruining your wine-revering poem.
“i said ‘we’, didn’t i? you, me, together. you kicked me out and left me to explore by myself.”
“you’re the wanderer. isn’t that your whole thing?” sighing helplessly at his unimpressed stare, you crumple the poem and throw it to his face. he doesn’t flinch nor blink, letting it slide off his face and land on the floor. “besides, it’s only been, like, five minutes.”
“just leave his stupid class,” wanderer hisses, glaring with disdain at your small pile of other failed poems.
“no, venti is so nice to me. unlike you.”
he rolls his eyes, plucking the quill pen from your grasp. you frown, reaching out to take it back, but he continues to pull it away, drawing your faces closer together. “ditch it and come with me,” he says.
“no. i said i’m joining and i will finish it.”
“stubborn shit,” wanderer groans, ignoring your quick ‘learned from the best’. “why are you even so persistent with learning poetry? since when did this happen? you trying to impress that kaedehara guy?”
“what if i said i was?” you flutter your eyelashes to piss him off.
it works: he bristles like an aggravated cat, irritation flashing on his face. “don’t even joke about that.”
you burst into laughter and playfully reach out to pinch his cheek. it’s a testament to how far you’ve come in building his trust when he doesn't swat your hand away from his flawless face. “you’re the one who brought it up,” you coo.
“hey, you two.” you pair stiffen at lisa’s deceivingly sweet voice from behind. “do you mind flirting loudly elsewhere?”
both of you find yourselves outside the building, shoulders slouched, resembling kicked puppies. he has his arms full of your discarded poems, a few of them slipping away as he strides ahead. you struggle to trail behind as you try to stick your quill in your pocket with your hands occupied with a stack of blank papers.
“we weren’t even flirting,” you huff.
wanderer pauses before the trash bin, dumping all of them ceremoniously.
you’re about to comment on how nice he is when he suddenly gets all up in your face, his eyes narrowed and his hand on the small of your back.
“she couldn’t tell with the bedroom eyes you were giving me, clearly,” he says, wordlessly taking the stack of paper from you and tucking it under his arm.
he is being awfully kind today, which, of course, happens nearly never. you want to comment about that, too, but you find yourself silent as you follow after him and watch his side profile. the smoothness of his skin, unblemished, untouched; the length of his lashes, rivaling the shogun herself; then his unrelenting need to have his hands on you no matter what.
thinking about all this makes your heart flutter, picking up pace in a way you haven’t felt the entire day.
then comes the brilliant idea. “kunikuzushi, what if i just write about you instead? will that satiate your ego enough to keep you from bothering me?” it’s not like it would be too difficult to write about the person you’re harboring feelings for.
he doesn’t look appalled by the idea, yet still, he isn’t pleased. “i’m not bothering you for the sake of it. i don’t like how this is the first you’ve talked to me all day.”
“so you are bothering me for the sake of it.”
“idiot.” he flicks his hand, and a gust of wind pushes you against his chest. “look at me.” you obey, and only then do you notice the way tension seems to have left his shoulders the moment you do.
a sly smirk tugs on your lips. “were you feeling lonely without me?”
“no shit,” he says, which was far from the response you were expecting.
startled, you turn to him, only to find that he’s pulled his hat down to cover his face. “kuni,” you say slowly; when he doesn’t reply, you try again, “kuni, kunikuzushi.” he is completely still, so you take it upon yourself to sneak beneath his hat to steal a glimpse of his face.
he lets out an undignified noise, looking away immediately. it was a fruitless attempt—you already saw how red his entire face was, spread from his ears to what you can see from his neck.
“stop,” he breathes, too embarrassed to push you away.
you laugh softly, encircling your arms around his neck to coax him into making eye contact with you. “i didn’t know you were the clingy type.”
“you’re just a handful,” he spits, though it’s not as intimidating as he’s trying to make it out to be—not when his face is the same shade of windwheel asters, and his bottom lip is trembling from shame.
“and you’re so cute when you’re so in love with me.”
eventually, his hand settles on your face, and he pries you off him, pointedly ignoring your delighted laughter.
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A/N put a hold on the lyney fics to come back to this guy. i love writing for him he is so fun.
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lottiecrabie · 9 months
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galatea, take one – matty healy
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matty produces your sophomore album. it's summer. you fall in love like you were always gonna do.
(based on the lorde and jack antonoff melodrama love affair)
warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, cheating, author doesn't know anything about music or writing music
17833 words
June 16
There’s a banging in the back of your head, cool and consistent. You’re monstrously hungover, vestiges of a blurry night in West End, but something in you knows this isn’t a vodka-lime headache. Perhaps fear, or nerves, or prophetic destiny banging at your temple, begging you to turn away. 
You pass a hand through your hair, trying to make yourself look presentable. Sweat sticks to your nape. It’s an uncharacteristically hot day of June and you feel aflamed even in your sheer tank top and cutoffs. That, too, will later feel like some higher sign you brushed away. 
Raking your throat, shaking your head, you finally ring the doorbell. 
Matty Healy opens the front door wide. His hair sprouts from his head like his ideas— without order, overeager and overflowing. His face practically breaks with a grin. You think, pretty. That is the third sign you ignore. 
“Hi,” Matty says, stepping away to free the door. “Come in.” 
Three warning bells, knocking at the back of your head. You raise your sunglasses to the top of your hair, narrowing your eyes at the sudden overwhelming sun, smiling back at him. You step through. 
That is how it all starts. 
June 18
Matty scratches the acoustic guitar mindlessly, head thrown back on the couch pillows. He frowns at the ceiling, humming along as though that would be enough to make a melody bloom out of scattered nothings. 
You play with the strands of the carpet, sitting on the ground, watching him. Something in you almost believes that it could happen— that he’d snap back to you with a grin and those wide, puppy eyes and declare the newest summer hit. You’re afraid of looking away, of missing that fatal microsecond. You want to see when the world breaks apart for Matty Healy. 
A discarded cherry coke rests beside you. It’s lukewarm now, innocent collateral damage to the hot summer air. Matty doesn’t have AC in his apartment. The air sticks to you, weighting against your skin. You leave his house and feel like he’s still lingering on you. 
“How about this?” Matty says, plucking a few chords. You hum non-committedly. “You don’t like?” 
“I don’t know,” you admit plainly. There’s already some unsaid understanding between you; truthful and tackless. You like that you don’t have to filter your thoughts. “I don’t know if it sings to me,” you finish. 
Matty smiles rakishly, digging his cheek. “If it sings to me,” he repeats. “I like that.” You smile, proud. 
June 21
Making an album is like breaking your ribcage open and bleeding on the pages. You’ve always been guarded with your lyrics, afraid of showing scattered words before they’re fully assembled. You have this beaten up sketchbook you use as a notebook, scribbling down all your incoherent wordvomit then slamming the pages close before you try taking them back. Matty finds it funny. That you write where you should draw. He calls it a meta blurring of art. You call him pretentious. 
You hold the sketchbook close to your chest, peering down at it just to recite some verses out loud. Matty nods, repeating them over with delicate care. He changes words, tweaks turns of phrases. He smiles, declares his understanding of them. He’s so precise, so careful and pointed with his words. He uncovers you under the theatrics of rhymes. 
You bleed and bleed. Shit. 
June 22
“What d’you reckon the album is about?” Matty asks, nursing a beer between his hands. It’s late in the evening, later than you should stay. You’re both on the balcony, sitting on white plastic chairs. Your red-toed feet rest on the railing, long naked legs licking up to your trusty jean shorts. 
You exhale your cigarette smoke. You cock your head, pondering over his question, still staring persistently at the sky; not quite asleep, but some darkened blanket thrown over the city. “Heartbreak,” you decide. 
Matty does a little huffing sound, mulling over that sure answer. “Anyone in particular?” He asks, throwing you a side glance, taking a sip of his beer. 
You tap the ashes over the balcony, stretching in your chair. “My ex-boyfriend,” you answer simply. 
“How long has it been?” 
You breathe in. It’s a little uncomfortable to delve into still, some unhealed bruise you feel on your ribs. It might be why the album is coming out clunky and untethered right now: something in you refuses to dive into the emotions again, afraid that maybe you’d stick in the syrup. Choke on it. 
“Five months.” 
“Shit.” Matty shakes his head. “Sorry.” 
“Nah, it was for the better.” You take a drag of your cigarette, shaking your head. “Fucking dickhead.” 
It had been five years of your life, which is the most inconceivable part of this whole affair. The thing that you can’t fully wrap your head around, can’t accept. Five years. It feels bigger than life, grander than the twenty-three years you’ve accumulated. Maybe that’s why you clung on longer than you should, claws digging in his stomach, feet dragging on the carpet: if you left now, what would those five years have been for? 
“Yeah?” Matty asks, reaching his hand out. You give the cig over to him, trying not to shiver as your fingers graze his. He sticks it in his mouth without hesitation. It feels strangely intimate, seeing his lips where yours have been. You have to look away. “What was he like?” 
Gray smoke pours out of his lips. He hands it back to you. “Just,” you gesture vaguely, groaning in distaste. “An artist.”
Matty snorts. “And we’re not?” 
“An insufferable one,” you precise, throwing him a pointed look. 
He smiles boyishly at that. “And we’re not?” 
You roll your eyes. “A different kind of insufferable. A worse one.” You tsk, “He was good, but he just— he didn’t think anyone understood him, you know? And, really, he didn’t want us to. He was smarter, and more brilliant, with grander ideas. We just couldn’t get him at all.” You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Now I wonder if he even had anything to say.” 
How it used to infuriate you, the way he would dangle his supposedly genius thoughts just out of reach. You’re too small, love. Too young. Too dumb. You just wouldn’t get it. He’d speak of them in hushed tones— because he just couldn’t stop referencing them, self-obsessed— but never unmasked what those phantoms haunting him, taking hold of the brush were. 
There’s no words for it, he would say. And as someone who made a career out of language, you call bullshit. 
“A lot of his paintings are of me,” you continue, because now that the faucet has been opened you can’t seem to stop thinking about it. “He wouldn’t call me pretty, he would call me raw. I thought he meant it as real, as tangible. I liked that, liked having an artsy boyfriend, kept saying that he found me more than beautiful. How naive I was, boasting to everyone that my boyfriend didn’t think I was hot.”
Your tongue feels ashy in your mouth, and it’s not because of the cigarette. There’s smoke in the air. There’s been smoke for five years. You’ve never been good at pinpointing warning signs until it slaps you in the face, until the fire has already climbed up your legs. Matty stares at your side profile, quiet. 
“I think he meant it as unfinished, actually,” you continue, eyes facing the sky pointedly, searching for hidden stars. You’re afraid your lips will tremble if you look at Matty, afraid your eyes will water. You couldn’t take the embarrassment. “When he painted me, he thought he was completing me.” You snort, sour and mean. You’ve bittered over the months, lost some sugary quality. You linger unpleasantly on tongues now, wrinkling noses. “Fuck being a muse.” 
You take a drag, shoving the cigarette between your lips and hoping it chokes the words threatening to spill out. Fuck being a muse. Fuck five years of your life wasted sitting perfectly still, flashing a smile just to have the teeth rearranged on the canvas. Fuck the man who only knew how to paint you blue. You exhale the smoke, breathing out the building frustration. Fuck watercolors. You want to be made of blood. 
You can feel Matty watch your side profile. It unnerves you. How deeply he looks, how much he seems to see. Even when you don’t let him. Even when you don’t want him to. (Is that how he walks through galleries? Lingering around paintings, analyzing lines and colors and shadows, staring them down until they reveal their secrets.) Your leg shakes. You avoid his eyes purposefully. They dig in your cheek, leaving you bloody and open, leaving you to scab.  
“I think you’re pretty,” Matty says simply with an air of finality. You can’t help but blush, even if you know he doesn’t mean it as a line. He views beauty as this neutral, overflowing thing. Everywhere around, bigger than humans, bigger than sex and romance. 
A fellow artist that appreciates but doesn’t touch. You promised yourself to steer clear from those. Your cheek burns.
“Thanks,” you nod, putting out the cig on the railing. You drop it in your empty beer bottle at the legs of the chair. You can’t lock eyes with him still. 
Matty doesn’t say you’re welcome. It’s not a compliment, it’s a statement. 
“Let’s write about it, yeah?” He says, standing up, opening the glass door. 
You should really get home. It’s late, and you’re a little tipsy, and you’ve made promises. Still, you follow him through, and you don’t know if it’s guilt or excitement pumping in your veins. 
June 24
“Mint and chocolate does not taste like toothpaste!” Matty’s eyebrows furrow in offense, lips gaped wide. 
You giggle at his theatrics, trying to handle the strawberry cone melting on your fingers. You bend down, licking at the pink drops, the stickiness still gluing to your hand. Matty was smarter, taking his green monstrosity in a bowl. “It’s like I’m brushing my teeth.” 
You’re walking down a touristy street of London, wearing cliche sunglasses to shield your eyes. Every step, your shoulders knock together. It leaves your skin burning— you feel a sunburn coming on. 
“You have the taste of a six year old,” Matty declares with a huff. He dips his spoon in his ice cream, scooping it in his mouth, visibly twirling his tongue around it. It’s because of the sun too that your cheeks redden. 
You’re glad for the specs. He doesn’t see the way your eyes follow his lips, enchanted. 
You shake your head. Your shoulders brush together. “You have no taste at all,” you tease, eyes dancing. Matty chuckles. 
June 27
You flip through Matty’s extensive collection of vinyls stored in wooden boxes. It’s almost preposterously him. Kneeling on the scratchy carpet, you awkwardly drape your skirt to not reveal a flash of your underwear. A glass of red rests on his coffee table without a coaster.
It smells smokey in the apartment; Matty is making pork chop, but you’re not entirely sure he’s doing it right. The kitchen and the living room are one open space, stretching the dwindling sunlight from the windows. His back faces you, some washed-out shirt draping nicely over him. 
You hum, running your fingers over the titles. Your hand freezes on the next album. You gasp, grinning from ear to ear. “What?” Matty calls from the kitchen.
“You’ve got The Runaways,” you declare, raising it up like some second coming of Christ. “In mint condition, too. Man, I played that album to the ground.” 
“Why am I not surprised?” 
You stand up excitedly, running to the turntable. You lay the vinyl on the platter, side B up. The needle scratches, Lovers blooming out of the connected speakers. A gleeful sound leaves your lips. 
You nod your head to the rhythm, moving your hips, twirling to your discarded glass of wine. 
I want something bad and nice - hot love
The red sloshes dangerously. You jump, hair flying around, shimmying your shoulders. Matty turns from his skillet to watch you, amused. You dance to him, rounding the island with a laugh. 
“I want a kiss wet and real - strong love,” you sing in his face. Matty shakes his head, chuckling, but it quickly becomes this sort of headbanging dance move. His feet tap to the beat. 
You take his hand, twisting him to face you, pushing and pulling him away like a ragdoll. His body follows gleefully, discombobulated. He’s boneless, running through the short space between the counter and the island, the strip of land you’ve made yours. The pork sizzles in the pan. 
“Make me scream hey what’s your name,” he sings back to you— yells, more. You throw your head back, shoulders shaking with a laugh. 
We lovers never say goodbye
We lovers never die
We stop and go quietly
Cold lovers fade away
June 28
Delilah comes back from her modeling shoot June 28. 
You come in with two iced coffees filling your hands and you’re faced first with a gorgeous, tall, leggy blonde flipping a magazine on the couch. You stop in your tracks, heart falling to your feet. Right, you think, lips thinning. You take a deep breath, soldier readying for war. 
“Hi,” you say, overly cheery. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Delilah, right?” 
The girl looks up at you, grinning wide like an old friend finding a familiar face through a crowd. Your heart rips, guilt spreading through the muscle. It’s worse that she’s nice. “Oh, hello!” Delilah says, standing up to greet you. She has a posh accent. 
“Sorry, I should have knocked. I must have given you a fright.” 
She laughs, waving your worries away easily. It’s a crystalline sound. Musical. You wonder if that’s just how Matty is like— so in love with melody he dates the closest thing to it. “Not at all. It’s nice to finally meet you. Matty talks about this album all the time.” 
Your face crisps. “Yes. Well, yes— it’s a mess.” 
Delilah’s eyebrows rise to her forehead. “That’s not what he says.” Now you wanna know what he does say when you’re not there to catch the words. What your ears have lost to Delilah Prescott. 
But you’re afraid of what your face would reveal if you do ask and she does say. You’re frenzied and electrified just at the mere possibilities. You imagine it in his accent, It’s good. No, no. He would say something more like, It’s fucking good. Mental. It’s a postmodern juxtaposition of art and heartbreak— whatever that means. It’s gonna be the fucking album of the year. It’s gonna be great.
The thoughts finally catch up to your overeager brain. You flush in embarrassment. You’re really crafting compliments from his mouth like song lyrics; tweaking words and chords until it sounds right to your ear. As though you have any rights to puppeteer his own locution and feelings. As though his girlfriend isn’t right there, in front of you, pretty and sweet and smiling so fucking wide. Your eyes pull down, avoidant. 
Your heart jumps, staring at the two coffees in your hands. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t think to buy you one.” You look around as though you would find a third iced coffee hidden under your clothes. Coming back empty, you hand one towards her. “Here, take mine. There’s milk and vanilla syrup in it.” Too sweet, Matty always says, wrinkling his nose when you order. 
Delilah takes it, smiling at you. There’s a chic gap between her front teeth. “Thanks. That’s very sweet.” Too sweet rings in your head again. “Matty will be here any second. He’s finishing up in the shower.” She falls back down on the couch, stretching her infinite legs on the coffee table. “Don’t worry,” she winks at you, smirking like you’re friends, like you’re conspirators. “I’ll make myself scarce when you’re writing. It’s not my first rodeo.” 
You nod at her, wordless. What a cruel faith for a writer. 
Something rattles in your brain at the thought, hand tingling to pull out your sketchbook and write it down. You don’t want to do it in front of Delilah. You don’t know why.
She sits on her boyfriend’s couch, in her boyfriend’s shirt, at her boyfriend’s apartment, but she’s drinking your coffee. Your lips curl. There’s an injustice there, and you can’t pinpoint where.
June 30
“Come do shots,” Bree screams at you, tugging on your glittery black dress. Her lipstick stains her teeth and there’s something awfully poetic about it: too gone to care about the mess; artfully unmade; tactfully improper. You scratch the thought on your brain, hope you remember the dents enough to note them down tomorrow. 
You laugh, brushing her hands away. “I have to make a phone call.” 
“It’s my birthday,” she pouts again, this time holding onto your ring finger. “You can’t say no on my birthday.” 
“It’s 1:24AM, bitch. It’s not your birthday anymore.” 
She gasps, letting go of you in faux-offense. “I was born at ten. My twenty-four hours aren't even up yet.” 
You roll your eyes. “I’ll do a shot after,” you promise to placate her. She smiles, leaning into you to smack your cheek. “Yeah, yeah. I’m the best.” 
“You’re okay.” You snort a laugh, shaking your head. Bree smiles, pleased. “God, it’s nice to fucking see you. You’re holed up in fucking London. I almost forgot your face.” 
“It’s only been two weeks,” you say, oddly defensive all of a sudden. The past two weeks have been spent in an idealistic dreamscape, strumming guitars and sketching ideas down and drinking sparkling wine on the balcony. A carved moment out of reality. You’re allowed, you think, to want to protect it. 
“What? And you can't Facetime?” You roll your eyes. She pouts. “I just miss you,” Bree says, poking your stomach. “Don’t forget me for Matty Healy.” 
“I’m not—” You blush. “It’s not like that.” 
“Not like what?” 
You swallow thickly, cornered. Thankfully, someone puts on a Britney Spears song. Bree, scattered and easily distracted,  screams a squeal and twirls away in her boa and slinky dress. You breathe a sigh of relief, entering the bathroom and slamming it shut behind you. 
Locking the door, you reach for your phone. His contact is the first on your most recent list. You cringe a little at that, dialing it. The ring amplifies against your ear. You sit down on the toilet seat cover. 
“Hey. Everything okay?” Matty whispers, voice low and rough, scratching against his throat, clearly pulled from the depths of sleep. 
You scrunch your face. “Shit. Time difference.” 
He laughs. The sound pianoes down your spine. “Yeah, it's 6AM here. You’re enjoying New York, I gather?” 
“Yes. It’s lovely,” you answer in habit, although you haven’t so much seen New York as Bree’s flat since you arrived. You twist your fingers around the hem of your dress, biting your lip. “I’m sorry for waking you.” 
“It’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You’re lying.” 
“Shamelessly, too.” You snort, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. Delilah tried to bite my head off, but I think that’s more to do with my ringtone of choice than you.” 
You bite your lip. You shouldn’t. He’s just— He’s just mentionned his fucking girlfriend, for Christ’s sake. “What’s your ringtone?”
You can practically hear the shit-eating smirk. “Lovers.”
Your heart slams in your chest. At the wrinkled hem of your dress, your fingers freeze. There’s moments in life where you can tell the world spins semi-seconds slower. In the depth of your chest, you can feel time resonate off-beat. 
“Not a big The Runaways fan?” You manage out, strangled. 
“Not at 3AM, apparently.” Springs resound on his side of the line. You imagine him falling on his couch, making himself comfortable to talk to you. You’re flushed— it has to be the alcohol. “So, what’s up?” 
You rake your throat, manually blinking. “Right, yeah. I— I had this idea.” You shake your head, trying to gather your dispersed thoughts to some form of coherence. “About this song. A Galatea concept— y’know, from the myth of Pygmalion? The sculptor who fell in love with his statue and asked Aphrodite to bring it to life?”
“I know.” Your chest flutters. “Go on.” 
July 2
Matty smokes a cigarette on the balcony, glass sliding door open wide. He turns to the side to blow out the smoke, but it still smells inside. You sit on the piano bench, hitting at the keys, frowning at your sketchbook laying precariously open on your lap. 
“I think,” you say, changing notes with a huff. “I want the first verse to be messier. Like you’re not quite sure if you’re listening to the point of view of Pygmalion or Galatea as they talk about some grand masterpiece and some grander love. I want to blur them.”
Your fingers hit the same five keys, the beginning of a melody that has been haunting your mind. You can’t quite pin it down like a butterfly yet; its wings flutter away from you, cruelly evasive. 
“And when you finally get that it’s Galatea talking, you understand that by making her, Pygmalion is creating her love for him.” You twist to Matty, arching an eyebrow. “Does that make sense?” 
“He kisses it and thinks his kisses are returned,” Matty recites, making the words sound divine. He has a knack for it, for breathing musicality into common life. “How can she truthfully want him if she wasn’t made to desire anything else?” 
“Forever object,” you nod. “Metamorphosis, Ovid. You’ve done your research.” He cracks a crooked smile, throws his cigarette beyond the balcony. 
He steps through the apartment, sliding the door close behind him. “When a girl calls at 3AM to talk about Galatea, you look into it. Don’t wanna embarrass yourself.”
You like, secretly, that he says Galatea and not Pygmalion. It’s her tale for a sinful, myth-bending moment in time. More than statue, bigger than marble, she gets a story between these four walls.
“D’you have lyrics?” Matty asks, sitting on the piano bench beside you. 
His shoulder brushes yours, heat spreading down your arms. You keep it tense, frozen in place, afraid that a micromove would make him scoop away. You don’t want space to breathe. You don’t want him to leave you alone. 
“Vaguely,” you say, peering down at your sketchbook. Matty plays your melody, repeating the rhythmic beginning of a song you’ve been toying with. 
His hand reaches across the keys with ease. Long fingered, spindly and agile. You blush, looking away. 
You rake your throat. “Marble skin with paper thoughts.” Matty nods encouragingly. Your heart drips on your ribs. 
July 3
Matty lays in the golden sun, eyes blissfully closed, a hand tucked behind the wild flowers of his hair. It’s terribly hot outside, especially in the unshadowed part of the park. His shirt is off, green grass surely tickling his skin. 
You devour the sight of him greedily. The slender frame; the planes of his stomach breathing slowly; the tattoos inking his skin; the strong shoulders. You lick your lips, biting the end of your pencil. You’re burning under your flesh, fingers tingling to reach out and sink your claws into him. To bruise him up, just to make sure he’s real. 
Matty asked you to draw him in that sketchbook of yours — make a real use of it, love — but you’ve barely done anything other than self-indulgently stare. You wonder if he knows even with his eyes closed. If he feels the languid gaze on his chest. If he likes it. 
You shake your head, peering back down to your sketchbook, drawing out some more messy lines to form the mess of his mane. Biting your lip, you quickly scribble around him spinning ideas like constellations of words to his center of gravity. He lets me through like soft butter. Leaves me sticky with syrup. He bleeds on my palms. I think I’m stained with him. They overlap with his arm. You sigh, shading his chest again. 
July 6
“Carve me down to bones. I don’t need muscles to love. What is a heart if it belongs to you?” You repeat again, singing softly, frowning at the pages. “What is my heart if it belongs to you.” You mule on the change of word, but something still rings off. “Make me a heart to belong to you.”
“I like that,” Matty declares, tuning his guitar. Plucking the strings, he sings back as though to try the taste of the words on his tongue, “Make me a heart to belong to you.”
He sits on the floor while you splay lazily on his couch. Your eyes flutter, sleep calling to you. It’s technically morning now, the late hours of the night stretching dementally far. The sky lays dark above the house. Inside, the only source of light is a red lamp drenching the apartment in mood lightning. It does nothing for the exhaustion digging its claws into your already fuzzy brain. 
“It doesn’t sound right,” you shake your head. “Something’s off.” 
“It doesn’t sing to you,” Matty completes, nodding wisely. 
Your eyes flip to him, heart soaring up your throat. It’s nothing— really, there’s no need to blush, some unkillable glee spreading through your veins. You bite your smile down. So what he remembers some small phrase you’ve told him before. It’s Matty. Pretty words hook to his brain and refuse to be shaken off. It’s probably beyond him. 
You yawn, sitting up. “I should really go. Think I’ll drop on the way home if I don’t leave.” 
“You can stay here if you want,” Matty says, staring down at his strumming fingers, throwing away the sentence carelessly like it doesn’t ivy up your spine. 
“What?” 
Matty looks up to you. “We’ve got the guest bedroom all installed. Why don’t you just crash here?” He grins casually. It all comes so easy to him. “It’ll avoid being found passed out in the street.” 
You chew on your lip, hesitating. You want to. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want it too much. It should be easier to say yes. Less like being tempted to some dangerous sin, less like guilt spreading through your belly, less like saying yes to more. 
But you’re selfish. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” A grin cracks your face. You can’t stop the guilt as the damning words graze your teeth. “That’s really nice.” 
A smile blooms on his mouth. It does nothing to squash down the growing feeling of doing something wrong. “It’s nothing.” He discards his guitar, standing up. “D’you want a shirt to sleep in, too?” 
Your heart drums on your ribs. You sit up, swallowing thickly, mustering a mirroring smile. “That’d be neat.” 
“Of course.” Matty leads you to the bedroom. In another world, you would allow yourself to dream. 
July 8
70s rock music booms from the speakers. Pretty, drunk people twirl in the living room, screaming out the lyrics off-key. In the kitchen, you feel a sort of daze; otherworldly and calm, tucked away from reality with Matty. 
He makes you an espresso martini, your favorite drink, after boasting about his masterful ability to. You stick to his side as he describes each of his steps, as though he’s not just assembling a bunch of liquid in a shaker. You giggle at his antics still, the sound burying in his shoulder. There’s the vague thrum of a dance resonating in his bones. 
For a lack of martini glasses, Matty pours his concoction in the plastic cups the host gave you with a sharpie to annotate. It makes you feel like a teenager again, makes you imagine a life in which you meet Matty several years younger, when you’re still blossoming out of your chunky glasses and braces, getting plastered on straight peach schnapps. 
(What if it was him you had met at a café in downtown New York, fresh off a summer tan and your eighteenth birthday. What if he had chatted you up about his favorite songs and you had listened, mesmerized by the depth of his thought, yearning for a similar complexity in yourself. Would the five years have ended up the same?)
“Here,” Matty says with a slack, drunk smile as he offers you up his own blue, plastic cup. MATTY is written on it in scratchy handwriting, the T and Y with an odd space between it. 
You take the cup and tip it between your cherry glossed lips, tacking the rim of the glass as you taste the rich, boozy espresso. It’s a mature café day in New York, but it’s coffee all the same. 
“How is it?” Matty asks and it seems his grin keeps stretching on excitedly. You fear his face might never snap back in its original form, that he’ll be stuck with a vodka grin forever, eyes shining bright just from looking at you. 
You blink at him shyly. You realize, now, how close he is. You hum at him. “Good.” 
“Just good?” 
You roll your eyes. “It’s great. You narcissist.” 
The playful dig doesn’t seem to register to Matty. He smirks, shrugging. “Told you.” 
You lean against the counter, but Matty doesn’t move up. He breathes in your space. Your skin feels alight, warm and tingling. What would it be if he touched it? Would it groove grossly from the fire? 
Without a word, you raise the glass to his lips, tipping it into his mouth. He swallows the espresso martini dutifully. His eyes meet yours over the rim, dark and intense, rich coffee irises digging into yours.
You release. He licks his mouth and you follow the movement, shameless. “It’s fucking tremendous,” Matty declares. You laugh, throwing your head back. 
Matty seems to get closer to you, or perhaps the room spins around you, deluding your sense of space and time. He’s there, with red, plump lips that will taste of coffee and smoke, and he’s close enough to kiss. You stand straighter. Your eyes flick to his mouth as though it was calling your name. 
When you look back, his own gaze is deeply plunged on your smeared lips. You wonder if he imagines the taste of them himself. If he licks his own like he could get the lingering aftertaste. Your heart races. You could do it. You could— He’s practically inviting you to. 
The plastic glass hangs between the two of you. You don’t kiss. 
July 9
One blue and one red Gatorade stand on the coffee table, intermittently sipped between the pained moans and groans. Matty and you lay on the couch, the world rocking nauseatingly under its feet. The hot hair sticks to your sweaty skin, but you’re too lazy to do anything about it. 
“Rough night?” Delilah asks, coming into the flat with perched sunglasses, a knowing smile and three coffees. She looks like sunshine itself, radiant and happy and definitely not morbidly hungover. 
Matty groans vaguely at her as an answer. She laughs, walking up to him, kissing his forehead as she makes a coffee appear magically in front of his eyes. A grin shines on his face as he spots it, gripping it between greedy hands and dipping his head back to thank her. 
You should have never drank as much as you did last night. Delilah brandishes your coffee next, smiling at you. You think you might throw up. 
July 11
Matty tunes his guitar, relying on your monotone piano notes. You stare at your sketchbook, frowning a little, pressing a key at his demand. You’ve put Galatea on the back burner, incapable of getting past the first few verses without cringing. Something about the song is inherently wrong, and you don’t know how to fix it without unrooting it. 
Instead, you throw yourself into new music, fresher and more palatable, easier to chew and digest. A perfectly catchy breakup song lays nearly finished in a file on Matty’s computer. Some angry lyrics you feel from faraway; you remember writing the words carpet-burnt feet from letting you drag me, but you don’t much remember the sentiment behind. 
Again, you’ve cowarded in front of Galatea, a celestial beast you don’t dare to take on after your last failings. You flip through the pages of your book instead, trying to find a lyric that sparks, something to cling onto and knit and knit from. You chew on your lip. 
“Hey,” Matty speaks, and you jump, suddenly remembering his presence. You twist around to look at him. “Are you ever gonna let me take a look at that sketchbook?”
He’s asking if you’re willing to rip your ribs open and show them off to him. If you’d accept to string your guts out like a comically long clown scarf. If you’d consider cracking your skull and letting him take a peak of your naked brain. 
You hum. “I don’t know. Maybe one day.” 
Matty grins. “I’d like to see.” There’s no rush to it. No demand. Just a fact, a wish. A thought he’s telling you. 
You blush, but you can’t tell why anymore. 
July 12
You tiptoe out of the room, navigating the cracking floorboards expertly. Your feet avoid the planks like sidewalk cracks; a childhood terror of killing your family transformed into waking up the slumbering couple. 
You dip into the kitchen. Light blooms out of the open fridge, Matty’s frame bent into the door. He looks up when he hears you, smiling. “Midnight snack?” 
He’s shirtless, fridge light illuminating him like some divine Apollo. Shadows contour his muscles, draping over his chest tattoos. Your mouth feels dry. You nod, a bit too slow. 
“Think we only have Delilah’s fancy cheese,” he sighs, digging into his fridge to find some hastily wrapped brie. 
“That’s fine.” 
Instinctively, you tiptoe to him, shoulders brushing his as he lays the cheese on the marble counter. Matty opens it up carefully, rummaging in a drawer for a knife. 
Standing side by side in a quiet kitchen, you alternately cut yourselves pieces of cheese, biting into them until there’s nothing left but crumbs, comfortably silent. 
July 15
You wipe the sweat off your forehead, opening your fridge to find some leftover beer at the back of it. It’s some pretentious microbrewed thing your friend Julian left behind when he came to visit. You’re sure Matty will like it. 
“Sorry,” you tell him as you join him on the electric blue 70s couch— you don’t even want to think of the life it’s seen. “Slim pickings. I’m not here much.” 
Matty takes the beer graciously, smiling at you. He tucks it in his mouth, opening it with his teeth, spitting the bottle cap out. Your head grows fuzzy. He reaches for your beer too, repeating the same practiced ritual. You can’t stop following his lips, red, pulled from the bottle, condensation sticking to them. You swallow, throat dry— God, you need that fucking beer. 
Matty hands it back to you with a proud grin. You nod at him, too off-quilter to manage words. “We really are always at the flat.” 
“Well, this AirBnB isn’t nearly as chic.” 
He snorts. “Oh, it’s for the decorations, is it? Not the fact that I have at least a damn guitar?” 
You shrug teasingly, settling further into the cushions of the couch. “Eh.” Your skin sticks to the velvet. It seems you can’t stop gluing to things, leaving parts of yourself everywhere you go. “It’s really the minimalist hipster shit that does it for me.” 
“I’m glad.” Matty scratches at the beer label. “You know, if you wanted, you could stay over. You already use the guest bedroom every other day. There’s no need to waste your money on all this.” All this, he says, like it’s some chateau and not a profoundly tacky, barely functional flat.
Your heart beats in your chest. It’s too good— too unreal. Living there, in his books and his vinyls and his band tees. Walking the floorboards, draping the covers, perusing the fridge. Brushing your teeth beside him, using his soap—smelling like him. Crawling in his bed, tucking yourself into his side, sneaking a hand under—
You stop your spinning mind. 
“What about Delilah?” 
Matty shrugs. “She wouldn’t mind. She’s barely home anyway.” He smiles playfully, “‘Think she’d like some female company.” 
No. That’s the correct answer. The smart one. No. No, we can’t. No, it’ll end badly. No, don’t do this to me. You know I want to. You know I want—  
“Sure.” You wash down the nausea with a mouthful of beer, some vertiginous shock from your own answer. Shit shit shit shit shit. 
His eyebrows rise, face lighting up. “Yeah?” 
You laugh, though it’s entirely constructed. You wonder if he can tell. He always seems to see everything about you.
But he looks up at you so hopefully, so giddily, so genuinely. You’re weak to your core. 
“Yes,” you smile. “Let’s do it.” 
July 16
Your whole life in three very large suitcases, and now it’s being moved to Matty Healy’s residence. You packed more hastily than when you left from New York, throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them; you’ll be unpacking in less than twenty minutes anyway, the wardrobe of the guest bedroom entirely emptied just for you. 
Matty picks you up. He stares at you struggling to direct three suitcases to his waiting car, staying perfectly seated with an amused smirk. 
You huff, hair falling in your face. “A little help?” You ask pointedly. 
Matty snorts, opening his car door. “Thought you were all about that feminism,” he says, grabbing two of your suitcases and throwing them with ease in the backseat. Your eyes follow his arms as he does so, genuinely impressed by their feat. 
You blink away before he sees, burned. 
When Matty turns back to you, his eyes have grown dark. You swallow, suddenly feeling caught, glued to the spiderweb. He walks towards you and thrill pumps in your veins with each nearing step. Your heart beats loudly in your chest. You fear he might hear it— especially if he keeps slithering closer.
He has to stop. When will he stop? 
Matty towers over you, barely inches away. Your breath hitches, entirely caught in your throat. Fuck breathing. Fuck everything but him, but the heat radiating off him. You don’t need the sun when he’s standing this close. 
Matty’s hand grazes yours. It swallows the handle of your suitcase, tugging it out of your fingers and throwing it in the backseat. Your eyes widen, cheeks heating at being so stupid. What did you think was gonna happen? 
Matty grins at you, ruffling your hair. “I’m glad you’re coming,” he says. 
You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Thanks again.” 
He waves you away, opening your door. “‘S no problem. It helps me if anything.”
You sit down. His car smells like weed and a cheap car scent dangling from the rearview mirror, and him, faintly. You hate that you recognize the smell. 
Matty enters the opposite side, flicking the pine car scent, then turning the keys. He drives down the road maniacally fast. You’re not even five minutes in and already you’re thinking God, this is an awful idea. 
Wind brushes your hair. The car smells like him. He’s singing beside you, twisting the speaker higher. It’s an awful idea, and yet you’re still buzzing, hiding a gleeful smile behind the palm of your hand. 
July 17
“What are you doing?” Matty asks, leaning above your shoulder to watch your hands. 
“I’m stress-baking.” 
He laughs, sidling to rest his hip on the counter, staring at your hands as you whip your batter with perhaps too much anger. “What are you stressed about?” 
You huff, doubling in harshness of whip. “This stupid song that I can’t fucking get right that is now haunting my dreams. You know, I had a nightmare last night that I was performing it for the Grammys. There was every single one of my heroes in the room — and my childhood bullies, for some reason — and I had this whole choreography and I took the mic and I opened my mouth and— nothing. Not a single lyric out of my mouth. That’s right. I am waking up in cold sweat terrified of this fucking awful, stupid fucking song.”
“Woah,” Matty says, resting a hand on your arm. You finally stop, throwing the whip in with a sigh. He forces you to look at him, smiling reassuringly. “Hey. It’s okay. You know it can take months to finish a song. Years, even. You have your whole fucking life to write about muses.” 
Your heart skips a beat. It’s the first time either of you really acknowledges the main theme of the song. You’re almost relieved that he’s ripped the illusions, taken off your careful mask. Made it explicitly clear he saw you. 
“Maybe you‘re just not wise enough to say what you want to say yet. Maybe you need more experiences— more time to reflect. It’s been six months, darling. Give yourself time to process that shit.” 
You take a deep breath, staring at your runny batter pitifully. “You’re right.” 
Matty grins. “‘Course I am.” He dips his finger in the batter, licking it clean. 
You gasp, slapping his shoulder as he laughs mischievously; a boy licking the cream off his lips. You try not to focus too hard on the shape of them around a finger, sucking, when you mutter, “Pig. Leave my batter alone. It’ll already be a pisspoor cake.” 
“I’m sure it’ll be great.” 
This time, when he dips his finger, he flicks the batter on your nose. You wrinkle, shaking your face away as he chuckles happily. “Gross,” you lament, wiping your nose clean, but joy blooms under your chest anyway. 
You wish you could bottle his laugh up, make the sweetest song out of it. 
July 19
“Don’t buy that off-brand shit,” Matty says, taking the juice out of your hand and back on the shelf. He walks a few steps away, reaching up for the brand name and putting it in your already full cart. 
Your mouth hangs playfully open at this interaction, thoroughly amused. “You’re a snob,” you say, more like a happy realization than an accusation. 
Matty scoffs. “Nah. It’s just better.” 
“It tastes the same.” He shakes his head again, walking off a new alley as you quicken your walk to catch up with him. “You really are a rich kid.” Matty throws you an unimpressed look. “Really,” you insist again. “When I was young, we were lucky if we even had juice in the house.” 
Matty takes a box of spaghetti, which you swap behind him for penne. “Uh-huh. And you had to walk two miles to school every day.” 
“Back and forth! Without shoes!”
“I bet.” You see that he tries to bite back a smile, a failed affair when he hears your giddy giggle. His chin jerks in a faraway direction. “Go get the mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
You stare at him. “Now, you know I won’t do that.” 
He sighs. “Get an ice cream.” 
Grinning happily, you twist on your heels and head off to the frozen section. You grab a tub of neapolitan ice cream, but then your eyes linger on green horror. Sighing, you take a pint of it too. 
July 20
You stare at Matty expectantly. The guitar still rings in the room from your last note. Space holds its breath, waiting beside you. “What do you think?” 
Matty has a slight dent between his eyebrows. He takes more time to reflect, more time than he’s ever taken. Worry digs in your guts. He hates it. He hates it. Fuck, what is he gonna say to Delilah? “It’s good. It’s just—” Matty cocks his head, frowning further. “It’s a love song.” 
Your cheeks heat at his comment. You look down in your sketchbook, reading over your lyrics. “I mean— I don’t know, I guess.” 
Matty grows even more confused. “But that’s not what you wanted to say. It’s like— There’s not even a criticism of anything anymore. Galatea and Pygmalion just love each other.” 
Your heart pinches in your heart. You feel yourself grow defensive. “Is that so wrong? The myth is originally a love story. Maybe that’s all there is to say.” 
“That's not all there is to say. You’ve given me more in versions you’ve thrown away without a second glance than this. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant lyricism, but it’s empty.” The words lash at your cheeks. You feel them redden. 
Truthful and tactless, that’s what you had decided. Maybe you’d like a bit of velvet after all.  
“It’s an almost completed song, though. More than I’ve managed to say when I complicate it with all that muses shit.” 
Matty stares at you. “You struggle because you care. Because you’re mindful of your words. Because it’s raw, and it reminds you of you. ‘My man of flesh, my heart of stone.’ That doesn’t fucking say shit to you.”
You turn your face away, digging your glare into his empty wall. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to think of him. Your heart runs up your throat, ready to throw it up on the strings of your guitar. Your lips tremble.
Matty sighs. “I’m sorry.” 
“You don’t know what things say and don’t say to me.” 
“I know.” He walks to your corner of the couch, vaguely hitting your shoe. “Hey, I’m sorry.” 
Weakly, you meet eyes with him. He smiles down at you, sure and reassuring. You melt on your bones. “It’s fine.” You’re a weak little girl; you’ve always been. 
“But I think this song could be more. The way you talked about it— it means something to you. Don’t take the easy way out. You can write dozen fucking songs about love. Only one about Galatea.” Here he goes again, calling it Galatea, centering her. It leaves you raw this time. 
“You’re right,” you whisper. You sigh, shaking your head, righting yourself. “Yes, of course you’re right. It’s— It was silly.” 
Matty grins, satisfied. He falls on the couch beside you, stealing your guitar. “Well, let’s write a proper love song in its place, then.” 
July 21 
The café is atrociously hipster and pretentious. You’d have gouged your eyes out at the price of a single latte if Matty didn’t insist on paying for it. You pretended to struggle, rummaging your bag for your wallet, but you let the battle last long enough for him to swipe his card. 
Taking your mismatched mug, you make your way to the sugar packets, grabbing three of them. When you sit down at the table, Matty stares at you, typical playful disgust on his face. 
You grin at him mischievously, shaking then pouring the three of them in your coffee. Matty shakes his head, tsking, “Too sweet.”
July 23
Bree wipes the lipstick off her teeth, looking in the mirror. She turns her head right, left, scrutinizing her makeup. Her hair flies wildly around her shoulders. She’s got a Moscow mule sitting on the counter. 
The door knocks loudly. “Hurry up! People need to go to the bathroom!”
“Two seconds,” Bree screams back. She meets your stare in the mirror and rolls her eyes. A small smile teases your lips. 
You nurse your espresso martini quietly. You don’t linger on the taste of coffee. 
“How’s the album going?” Bree asks, scrunching her hands through her curls to achieve her perfect, flawlessly messy hair. 
“Good, good,” you nod. She seems to wait for more, but you don’t offer it. It’s halfway written, still awfully raw. Recorded, then scratched, then regurgitated. It feels like an open wound to you. 
There’s as much love songs as breakup songs, now. You don’t dwell on that fact. I wanna watch how the world breaks open for you, starts one of them. Brown eyes follow me, sings another. If my ribs rip, will you like what you see, hauntingly repeats a third one. You hope Matty dwells on them even less than you do.
“Matty’s cool?”
“Yes.”
“I should meet him sometime.” You hum non-committedly. “What is he like?” 
“I don’t know,” you laugh lightly, looking at her confused. She’s never asked for descriptions of your friends. “He’s— He’s very passionate. And open. He listens a lot, which is surprising because of how much he talks, too. But, still, he listens, and he looks at you, and he makes you feel like you’re the first person who’s ever uttered words.”
Bree stays quiet. You think, Listen to me helplessly chatter, make me the first speaker to ever speak. Another lyric you scratch into your brain and hope it sticks until you have it written down, yet pray it leaves it right after, too. 
“Cool.”
You swallow thickly. Your cheeks heat. “Yeah.”
Bree grabs her drink, reaching out aimlessly towards your hand. “Let’s go dance!”
July 25
Jazz music plays in the house. The lights are pulled low. There’s a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Your stomach drops to your feet; you kick it when you walk further in, leaving your suitcase by the door. 
Matty cooks. Sizzling sounds ring under the moody music. Delilah drips on his side, her chin resting on his shoulder. They laugh, whisper secrets you can’t make out. 
She has smudged red lipstick. She smiles. 
“Hey,” you say. “Smells good in here.”
“Oh,” Delilah calls happily when she spots you, tearing away from Matty. “We’re making dinner. Join us!”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” you laugh, but it’s strained out of your throat. Your cheeks are sore from smiling this much. 
“Please,” Delilah insists. She walks towards you and grabs you by the hand, tugging you to the working counter. Trapping you. Your cheeks stab at you now. 
Matty nods as a greeting. You nod back. 
“Matty, tell her we’ve got enough food for three.”
He smiles at you conspiratorially, as though you were grand accomplices, making a silent joke about Delilah. “We’ve got enough food for three.”
“The rumors are true,” you try to jest, but it sounds off. 
“Come on,” Matty pokes at your side with his finger. “Eat with us. Tell us about your trip. We’ve missed you.” 
He says we, but you morph the letters around until it sounds like I to your ears. 
“Okay,” you say finally. “Because it smells so good.” 
Delilah claps near you, but it’s a faraway sound when Matty looks at you like that, digging into your soul and coming out satisfied. 
July 26
You sit on his balcony, smoking. The sun is silky, sweet and smooth as it wakes up. The birds sing, the cars drive by, the people talk; you think of recording it, hiding it in a song called Morning. 
“‘Morning,” Matty says, yawning. You snort to yourself. 
“Hello,” you say. 
When you turn to look at you, you fall on Matty’s shirtless frame, gray sweatpants hung low on his hips. You swallow, putting the cig to your lips to stop yourself from parting them pathetically. It doesn’t stop you from gawking, unfortunately. 
Matty spots it and smirks. He digs into the fridge, finds his precious brand name juice and drinks it from the carton. 
“Delilah left this morning?” 
“If you can call it that,” Matty groans. “Fucking three AM.” 
“No tearful goodbyes that early, I imagine.” 
Matty laughs. “It’s hard to cry when you’re half asleep.” 
You finish your cigarette, squashing it on the floor of the balcony. Ashes linger beside your thigh. “I hope she has a good shoot. She told me the concept; it seems pretty cool.”
“It does,” Matty nods, though he doesn’t seem that interested. He gets out his bread, rummaging in the cupboards for his jam. 
“Do you ever think—” You bite your tongue. 
Matty halts his movements, sticking out of the cupboard door to look at you. He smirks, mischievous. “What?”
“Just—” You shake your head, laughing, preparing the groundwork for how silly it will be. Matty walks closer to you, fatally curious. “I wonder how Delilah feels about being a muse. Because that’s what models are, right? A canvas. Something to add onto.” You cock your head. “D’you think she’ll like Galatea?” 
Matty shrugs. “I don’t think she’s thought much about it.”
“Maybe not all muses suffer. It’s a compliment, right? For some people?”
“I think so,” Matty nods. “But it’s different for you, isn’t it? Her photograph isn’t in love with her. He’s not her lover— he hasn’t promised to accept her as she comes. It’s fine if he wants to finetune her. If he wants to make her up. They don’t owe each other anything.”
You mull over that answer. “So it’s love, you think, that rots musedom?” 
Matty rustles a hand through his hair. It makes his arm flexed, his bicep tattoo flashing at you. “I don’t know. I think it’s complex. I think it’s why you’re writing about it.” 
You hum in vague agreement. Matty turns back to his bread and jam, but stops, staring at you. “She’ll love Galatea. Everyone will. You’re gonna write the fucking song of the year.” 
You grin. Something familiar rings in your ear. “Make me a toast, too?”
“Sure.”
July 28
You sit on the couch beside Matty. He’s making you watch some convoluted New Wave movie. You frown at the TV, not understanding the French they fall into randomly, not understanding the plot at all. 
Matty is enthralled beside you. You watch him instead. He’s better art; more entertaining, more profound, more beautiful. You smile when he does. You smile because he does. 
He flicks his eyes towards you. You look back at the TV, straightening your shoulders, wrinkling your eyes to look deeply concentrated. Matty chuckles beside you. It hides in your hair, tickling up your neck to bury in your ear. Your grin widens. 
You lean into him, joking, “This is my favorite part.” You gesture vaguely at the screen. 
Suddenly distracted by the movement near him, Matty grabs your hand from thin air. You still. 
He climbs up to your knuckles. Presses against the bones. Plays with your rings. Twists them on your fingers. Your breathing is caught in your chest. You don’t dare move. Your skin is electrified. 
He rests your hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs at your palm. His finger circles the metal, bumping on the stones. You repeat the sentences over and over, trying to wrap your mind around it. He rests your hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs at your palm. His finger circles the metal.
Tentatively, you let your head drop on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even tense. You smile, settling into his body, leaving your hand slack for him to play with it. 
July 29
The toothpaste is Matty’s. There’s a part of you that is aware, somehow, that when you’re fresh off a teeth brushing, you taste like him.
You lean your hip against the bathroom sink. Matty stares into the mirror, setting a needlessly furious tempo, wrecking his gum. You laugh as white foam drips from the corner of his mouth. He makes a little embarrassed chuckle, catching it with a finger and rinsing it off. 
You bend over the sink and spit out the toothpaste. When you straighten up, Matty spits right after you. You wash it down the faucet. 
“We should bring in violins for the Circe Circus bridge,” Matty says as you sip on water, swooshing it around and spitting again. “Make more of an impact.”
“Wouldn’t it be a little convoluted? We already have a lot of noise.”
Matty shakes his head. “No, no. It’s supposed to be unnecessarily grand, isn’t it? It’s a bit of a ridiculous caricature of love.” It’s how he interprets it, at least. You’re not quite sure what you were trying to say, just knew the words sounded right and pretty on the page. “We can try it out tomorrow.”
“Sure,” you shrug. You arch an eyebrow. “After the Basquiat exhibit at the Barbican?” 
“It’s a plan,” Matty promises. You ignore the fact that he says plan and not another four lettered word that slithers around your brain. His eyes meet yours. He smiles. “Okay,” he finally breathes. “Sleep well.”
You lick your teeth. “See you tomorrow.”
July 30
Drunk off red wine and Matty’s laugh, you stumble through the hallway. His hand warms yours. You’re a collection of calluses rubbing on skin; it should hurt, but it’s silky sweet. 
Your steps are loose. You trail your free fingers on the wall, guiding you, grounding you. You stop in front of the doors.
The way forks into the master and guest bedrooms. You twist to face Matty, so does he. You grin. Your hand warms, lit up from the mere presence of his between your greedy fingers. They feel alive at your wrist. Aware of him. You wait.
“Goodnight,” he finally breathes. His eyes stare into yours.
“Yeah, goodnight.” 
He doesn’t move, neither do you. Your heart speeds terribly fast. Your lips stretch up. 
Matty looks down at them. Openly. Shamelessly. He doesn’t flicker an evermoving glance, he lingers. You feel your body light up, feel warmth descend to the tip of your toes. A surge of nerves and thrill shoots down your spine, finding home in your knitted guts.
Time hangs in the air. You hitch your breath. His hand burns in yours. 
He tugs you closer to him. A small, ghost move, and you gasp. You feel him breathe against your skin; he’s real. Matty’s eyes fly to yours. They lock meaningfully as his head cocks in defiance. It’s a challenge. It’s an invitation. 
You’re a paper girl. You fold. 
You rise onto your tiptoes, cup his cheek, and kiss him. A soft, delicate thing. A press of lips. A cursive love. Thrill loosens your head from your neck, unscrewing it. He tastes like cigarettes and red wine, and there’s no trace of bitter coffee. You’re glad. 
You pull away almost immediately. Your heart races, trying to catch up with this new world you bathe in. You breathe in his mouth, eyes closed, mind spinning deliriously. You kissed Matty Healy. You kissed Matty Healy. 
Matty makes a low sound from the back of his throat, then hooks his arm around your waist and draws you in, catching your lips with a new feverish kiss. 
He’s not soft or sweet, instead lets himself be puppeteered by the passion, by the raw fucking need. There’s a thing between you pulsing alive for weeks, and you feel it burst at the seams, imploding through your flimsy flesh. It’s fucking inevitable— It’s prophetic. 
His tongue swipes at your lips, coaxing inside your mouth. You moan, gripping his cheek until you could shatter it. Constellations of stars dance behind your eyelids; he’s the center of all of them, a flash of teeth and brown eyes as the shining sun. 
You drip in his arms, and he catches you. Takes all the wax and kisses it harder, tilting his head to better meet you. It’s a head twisting tempo. He’s everywhere around you, under you, seeping in. He exists too vividly. You feel faint at the thought, at the rush of feelings. 
His own hand digs in the curve of your back. He’s tangible, he’s alive and breathing, he’s against you. He’s real. He’s sinfully fucking real. (You wonder, secretly, if he’s finally made real because you kiss him.)
Matty is the one to break away this time. His forehead falls on yours. He pants harshly, eyes closed, as though he needs a silent moment of contemplation. He looks religious for a split moment— bartering with God. 
You don’t take the solemn pause. Don’t want to listen to any chastising, guilting above. You watch him, biting your lip at his flushed skin, at his swollen lips, at his spider lashes on his cheekbones. You kissed him. You can’t believe it. 
His eyes open all at once. You look into them and try to find the leftover scar of some permanent change. “Goodnight,” Matty repeats, this time choked. You laugh. Smacks a kiss on his lips just because you can. 
Matty parts from you difficultly. He straightens, rakes his throat. He lets you out of the trap of his arms with much inner debating, waiting until he’s feet away before dropping your hand. You clench it to feel the phantom shape of his.
“Dream of me,” you say boldly.
“It’s all I do,�� Matty whispers back, and then he’s into his room. 
You let your own bedroom door close behind you. You make a stupid, pathetic little happy dance, falling on your bed afterwards. A content sigh slips past your lips.
Rolling to take your sketchbook from your bedside table, you click a pen open. You hit your lips — still burning with the feel of his, with the heat of his tongue — in concentration. 
You try to think of pretty, poetic words, but all you come up with is he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.
July 31
You walk out of your room weightlessly. Everything seems sweeter; the sun doesn’t burn, the birds don’t scream, the flowers don’t wilter. The world exists in technicolors. Shades of black and white become deep maroon, pretty pink. You step from the hallway into the kitchen with light feet, humming to yourself. 
Matty sits at the counter bar with a bowl of cereal and the papers. His eyes flick to yours as he hears you. He smiles. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
“You’re the best,” you declare, practically running to the pot and serving yourself a steaming cup of coffee. You search his cupboard for the sugar, pouring yourself a healthy dose. Finally, you take a sip and make a happy, satisfied moan. 
You approach Matty. You peer over his shoulder to read the latest music article. Your side leans into him; he doesn’t move. It’s all so natural, so domestic. Your heart sings. 
Taking a new sip from your mug, you then lean your head on Matty’s shoulder. His own rests against yours. Your lips hang from your cheek like a clothesline, your teeth scattered white shirts pinned in place. You want to kiss him again, want him to wipe it off of you with his tongue.
“I wanna write a happy song today,” you declare. 
Matty grins against your scalp. He whispers, because it’s as loud as he needs to be for you to hear, “Okay.”
August 1
Matty rolls the blunt, licking the waxy paper and wrapping it shut. You follow his tongue as it sticks out, practically blushing. He takes a blue lighter to flame the tip of it. It burns red. He inhales one hit, then blows it. Smiling at you, he hands the blunt like a precious gift. You graze his fingers purposefully when you grab it. 
It’s stronger than you usually smoke back in New York, but you’ve gotten used to the grassy taste. You don’t cough anymore, don’t even feel it scratch down your throat. The smoke pours out of your lips.
It takes one more hit for your fingers to start tingling. Your body relaxes; your mind enters some sort of daze. You sigh contently, giggling just from the inherent joy swirling in your head. Matty laughs at you, poking your cheek. “You’re already flying, lightweight.” 
“I don’t know why you expect differently.” 
Matty hums. “One day I’ll get you to three.” Your heart rushes. It spreads through your body, like the muscle was suddenly finely tuned with every limb, singing a call-and-response song.
You lay on your back, draping yourself lazily on the scratchy carpet. Your head rests on Matty’s thigh. You look up at him, trying to make sense of him from his dark, sprouting halo, falling downwards as he watches you. You grin, loose and languid, dripping down your cheeks. “Promise?” You say, teasing. 
Your head rolls on his thigh. Matty takes another hit, shaking a laugh off his teeth. “I promise, love.” You don’t even have to morph the letters of that.
August 2
You walk through the up-and-coming art exhibit Matty dragged you to. Your feet linger on small, dreamlike images dotting the white walls. They nag at you with their innate sense of time. A flash of life, captured on a canvas, made permanent against their will. 
What do they mean? It’s always the burning question now. What are you saying? Please, what are you saying? You wonder when you’ll stop feeling like a little girl. When you’ll stop staring at paintings and wish you understood them better, clearer. When you’ll get art intrinsically, when you’ll be deeper than the blank, smooth surface of watercolor papers. 
You lost Matty in the white rooms, breathing through the space at a different pace. He analyzes paintings meticulously. His feet stop with purpose, taking roots in the wooden planks, deliberately stilling. He stares at them and you wish you could know what he’s thinking about for such long moments. Wish you could know how they move him, how they strum his heartstrings. Maybe you could learn the chords on the guitar. 
You stop in front of a papier-mache sculpture. It’s bent in different shapes, an awkward and senseless movement, painted over in white. You can tell the texture through the coat, can see its unruly, unsmoothened topography. Your head cocks.  
It’s not really anything. Or, at least, if it is, you will never figure out what the artist meant it to be. But to you, it’s got a body through its shape. A leg that extends, one that curves in itself. A stomach emptied. An arm that rolls around, protective. One that sticks out. A neck, dainty and vulnerable, bared freely. Headless.
You wonder if anyone posed for this. You wonder how they felt, sucking in their stomach, pinpricks of pain stabbing at their limbs. If they tried on odd positions. If they were naked. If they kissed the artist afterwards; if they thought, it’s enough. If they saw the wet paper build up on the grotesque armature and made themselves repeat, I am made of bones. I am made of bones. 
Your lips tremble. You clench your fists. Your nails dig into your palms, crescent moons of promises. You’d tear through the skin if it meant leaving bloody, leaving human. 
That is where Matty finds you, still staring at the sculpture, robbed of words. He lingers beside you, impossibly close. It’s all he does these days, air with plausible deniability. Real and unreal, present and far, far away. He knocks his shoulder against yours. 
You don’t look at him. “What do you see?” You breathe. 
Matty takes a moment of silence. He thinks, surely. Analyzes lines, composition, materials. Takes it apart in his head to find the solution. You want to see the process, want to catch the bricks he rips as he throws them over his shoulder. 
Matty hums. “It kinda looks—” His head cocks, as though to make sure. “Human.” 
Your heart drops to your stomach. You swallow thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so, too.” And you wonder how long he’d stare at it if you didn’t hook your arm around his, tugging him away. If he’d look at it enough to scream, where are my bones, where are my bones.
August 3
You tiptoe to his door. It’s always firmly closed when Delilah is over, but slightly ajar when you’re two in the flat. It’s felt like a nagging invitation for weeks. You knock on it, a soft, nonexistent noise, like leaving yourself the chance to backtrack. To not mean it. 
“Yes?” Matty calls from inside, squished and drowsy. 
You peek your head through the door. His room has gotten messier over the Delilah-less days. Clothes hang on the ground, half-finished mugs make castles on his desk, CDs tower precariously. He lays in his bed, on the right side, his face crushed in his pillow. A cover drapes over him, but naked shoulders peek through. The light is too low to make sense of them, but you can faintly tell there’s familiar inked lines drawn onto the skin. 
“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 
“I wasn’t sleeping.” He mutters. Relief spreads through you. You don’t know if he’s lying or not, but both possibilities please you. You didn’t actually wake him; he cares enough to tell you otherwise. 
“Okay, good.” You bite your lip. “I— Do you mind if I stay here tonight? I can’t get any sleep in my room.” Your heart drums on your ribs. It’s all so fucking existent, suddenly. Meaningful. 
Matty peeks one eye open. He gives you a glance, then raises his arm, opening the covers for you. You don’t even hesitate, running to the entryway like a promised oasis. You slip inside— like a fantasy, like a dream— and settle into the cocoon. It’s warm, and the sheets smell of him. You roll, getting closer. 
You don’t dare touch him, but you get as near as you can. It’s useless anyway; Matty throws an arm over you and tugs you into his side. You might choke from the heat, and the weight, and the vertiginous knowledge that Matty is ivying around you, but you finally sleep nonetheless.
August 4
You hang up on Bree after drawn out goodbyes. She’s tried to get you to play her some of the album, but you remain purposefully elusive. You wiggle out of her grasp, promising to send her some demos soon. Her pursed lips were dissatisfied, but you can trust your distracted friend to forget it before the night nears its head. 
You walk to the living room. Matty’s shirt falls on your shoulder, something you already plan to shove in your suitcase when it is time to part ways. The thought leaves you frayed, uncomfortable, and you don’t like to think about it more than this. 
Matty is scratching his guitar on the couch when you come in. He sings low, mournful words you can’t make out. You drop beside him, bouncing on the pillows. He smiles at you, stops playing. 
“How was Bree?” 
“Still alive.” 
“Good for her.” 
Your chin jerks to his fingers. “What were you playing?” 
Matty hums noncommittally. “Just this song I’m writing.” 
You sit primly on the couch. You nod at him. “Let’s hear it.” Again, he hesitates. Your mouth hangs open. “Come on! I’ve had to lay my soul bare for you plenty of times this summer. Your turn.” 
Matty sighs, readying his fingers for a chord. “It’s unfinished,” he warns. You roll your eyes at his delays, gesturing for him to go on.
He strums once, twice. It’s truly unfinished— he mutters randomly strung syllables instead of saying lyrics for half of it, just the idea of what the shape of those words could be. But there are words. Yearnful, confused, loving. He uses that dry, direct sense of style, that gloveless prose. Still, you’re once again left wondering what he’s trying to say. What thoughts haunt his mind. 
How you want to know him, brick by brick. 
“It’s beautiful,” you whisper once he rings his last note. He grins to himself, satisfied. “Sing it to me sometime when it’s done.” 
Matty flashes his teeth to you. “It’s a date.”
August 5
You flip through your sketchbook absentmindedly. It feels like you’ve already seen everything, like every word has already been used and discarded. How many times do you repeat yourself, going on and on about the mouths of lovers. You make a small noise of frustration. 
Matty eyes your book. You can tell he’s curious, can see him peer over your shoulder and scan the messy words and messier drawings before you slam it close. You look at him, at his silent plea. You sigh. 
You hand the book out to him. “There,” you say. “I can’t keep reading it. I know it too well.” 
Matty’s eyes widen. “Really?” 
“Find me some pretty words.” 
He grabs it from you without another hesitation. His eyes are hungry, skimming through the pages, flipping the spirals. You watch him as he uncovers you, one paper thin layer at a time. Your heart splashes against your ribs. Blood drips on the bones. You feel awfully like a heart attack. 
“There,” Matty says. He hands you back the book, grinning conspiratorially. “This sings to me.” But you can’t shake off the idea that it’s you that sings to him.
August 6
“Yes, Spain was lovely,” Delilah says, sipping on some Spanish white wine. She’s tanned and freckled, sunshine itself peering through the dark of the evening. She changed the room when she left, and she changes it back now, bursting through the flat again. Beside her, an arm thrown over the back of her chair, Matty drinks his usual glass of malbec. “Barcelona most of all. God, I just love the culture there. It’s so vibrant.” 
A lazy, callused finger twirls in Delilah’s hair. She leans into it subconsciously. Your teeth grind on each other. You clench your fist around your fork, biting on the chicken. “Did the shoot go well?” You manage out, but it’s bitten and bitter. 
Delilah laughs, that bright, musical sound that rings offkey to your ears. She takes a bite of her salad and her lipstick doesn’t smudge. “Fantastic. It was such an amazing concept!” She goes on some more about the visionary genius of the photograph, but it is null to you. 
Your eyes zero in on that fatal arm around Delilah, sure and protective, ownership. Your brain beats in your skull, the tune of a song humming along your cranium. You glance at Matty next. He doesn’t look back. 
You grip the white wine and take a long, heavy mouthful. It’s fruity and light. For the first time in your life, you think, too sweet. 
August 8
The house is quiet. No music hummed from the speakers. No guitars strummed. No dishes washed. No steps walked. No cigarettes smoked. The world is drenched in silence. 
It’s an uncanny feeling, sitting in Matty’s flat alone. As if it’s not supposed to exist without him. As if it should blink out of existence, evaporate out of thin air. As if you should sit in a blank room, staring at white walls, realizing you had made it all up in your head. 
Matty and Delilah are off visiting his parents up North. You play with your fingers, the silence resonating in your chest. It feels suffocating to be alone. 
You grab your phone, typing, how’s manchester? He doesn’t answer it until the next day. 
August 11
Matty’s eyes are bright red. You laugh at them, holding his cheeks between your soiled hands. You know the shape of his jaw, know where it digs and cuts into your palms, and there’s cheesy sonnets running in your mind about it. 
“I’m hungry,” you tell him, leaning into him like it’s a secret, a confession. “Make me that chocolate mugcake again?” Your flutter your eyelashes at him, attempting some innocent, pleading pout. 
Matty hums. He takes your hand by the wrist, puppeteering it to his lips. He kisses the tips of your fingers, then your palm. “What do I get?” He asks, finally looking at you. You feel dizzy. 
Your lips open, but you can’t think of a single word anymore. It doesn’t feel as cruel; it’s merciful, blissful. To finally not think like your life is being threatened, like you have five seconds to come up with a saving solution. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  
Matty arches an eyebrow at you. He crowds your face, less than inches away, so close you feel like you breathe with him. “Nothing?”
“Mmmh,” you whisper back. Your eyes descend to his lips. “What do you want?” 
With a smirk, Matty catches your lips. He swipes his tongue in, licking into your mouth. You moan against him. Your hand moves to his hair and you grip it, holding him there, kissing him harder, faster, deeper. 
Buzzing spreads through you. You’re not hungry anymore. 
August 12
The raucous sound of low, heavy laughs resonates through the open floor. It shakes up the foundations of the flat from their grandeur, their depth. You take a glance at the three overexcited men, drinking beers and taking the piss out of each other, and they feel like boys for a split second in time. You wonder, privately, how you would have fit into their puzzle if you had met them earlier. 
Matty washes the dishes in the kitchen sink. You dry the plates, throwing secretive glances to the rest of the boys. You don’t know how it would have been years ago, but it’s near perfection now. You stare at the scene outside of your body and you can’t see the seams, can’t find where the stitches of you would be. How you want to stick around, become permanent. 
“They loved you,” Matty says conspiratorially, leaning into you. He hands you a wet plate, a bit of soap still lathered on it. 
You smile at him, gleeful and unashamed of it. Your chest brightens, shining through the skin. “I love them,” you answer.
Ross comes in with the leftover glasses, dropping them in the soapy sink. He ruffles Matty’s hair, gives you a grin. “We need to do this again soon. I haven’t seen you in forever, mate.” He moves to the fridge. 
“Bit busy,” Matty says, bashful. 
He sticks out of the fridge, two beer bottles in hand. “Making the album of the year and all, I heard,” Ross says. Again, he gives you a smile, like you’re old friends, like you’re conspirators. Your lips stretch up. “Still, don’t hide away together. I missed you.”
“‘Course. We’re almost there, anyway.” Your grin freezes on your cheeks. You hate the idea of the after, of the end. You put away the plates in the cabinet.
August 14
The wind blows your hair back. You lean your elbow onto the open window, resting your head as you watch the road blur past you. Matty drives with sunglasses on, and it makes you want to stare at his side profile and etch it into your brain. 
You’ve bickered over the radio station, eventually settling over some blues, bobbing your head quietly to the blasted music. It’s the middle of the day, and yet it seems like the hours announce themselves to stretch on forever. You can taste eternity on your tongue. 
You’re driving to the festival you’re performing at and there should be a typical wreck of nerves in your stomach, tying and knotting and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until you want to cough your guts out. It’s usually what the idea of public singing does to you, sending you into a mess of anxiety until you’re on that stage, watching your people, and finally feeling right. 
Yet, in this car with Matty, serenaded by vaguely familiar tunes, you find yourself at peace. 
August 15
Matty engulfs you in a hug. He squeezes, as if trying to make sure you feel every particle of him, make sure you know he’s solid. The mic sits between your bodies, awkward and painful amidst the embrace. “Knock them dead,” Matty whispers in your neck. 
You laugh, brushing off your nerves. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll try.”
“You will.” He releases you. Stares into one eye, then the other. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll watch as long as I can before I have to get ready for my set.”
“Thanks.” You smile, looking down to hide your blush. “Good luck to you, too. Or break a leg. I don’t know what you believe.” 
“Eh, I don’t need either.” He grins, so fucking smug and cheeky, and you roll your eyes at him. A chuckle slips out of his lips. He mediates, “Thank you. I’ll cash in on that good luck when I need it.” He hugs you one last time, kisses your cheek, and then sends you off on stage. 
You’re off kilter when you approach the crowd, but the sight of it, of them, sunburnt and screaming and loving, makes all your worries melt away like butter. You grin, screaming into the mic, “Hello, everyone!”
August 16 
The world is distorted; colors brighter, sounds clearer, time slower. You lay on the grass and feel each strand tickling at your skin. You giggle, turning to stare at Matty. Your hands hang between the two of you, met in the middle. 
The shrooms glued a slack, happy smile on his face. He looks around the festival tent, the shadows of a tree outside drawing inky chimeras over the plastic tarp. You wonder what he sees. You wonder if it’s prettier than your own vision, the way you bend and rearrange lines until the traces of a human shape drapes over you. 
His head falls to the side, watching you in return. You squeeze his hand; he squeezes back. “I’m happy,” you tell him. “I’m really, really happy.”
“Me, too.” 
A strand of hair falls on his forehead like a lightning bolt. You tighten your grip again. “I want to kiss you,” you whisper. 
Matty inhales slowly. His eyes dig into yours, though he doesn’t move, stilled in time like a statue. You take a mental photograph. Click, you think, and now he’s forever. 
“Then do it,” he answers back, just as secretive, practically tempting you. 
You roll to your side, scooping yourself up until your face nears his. You brush your lips against him, just a graze, and still bliss coils around your brittle bones. It’s not really a kiss, but it’s enough nonetheless. 
But Matty kisses you, crashing his lips against yours and snapping this moment into the hot, burning tangible. His hand blisters your cheek as he takes it, angling you, meeting you better. Euphoria drums in your heart. Boom. Boom. Boom. 
You grip his free hand, placing it over your beating muscle, making him feel the racing tempo he brings out of you. This is you, you want to tell him. This is all for you.
Matty misunderstands your message, instead grazing his hand down your chest, gripping your breast. You moan into his open mouth, shocked by the sudden pleasure. His thumb rubs your nipple expertly. He smirks against you. 
“Matty,” you say, and it’s a plea and a warning. He pushes you to your back. “Fuck,” and it is just a wordless beg.
His hands are everywhere, greedy and eager to discover. He brushes every inch of your skin, climbing under your shirt, raising it over your head. His mouth finds your neck and leaves wet kisses in the crook of it, mapping his way down. You whine in his hair. Your breathing speeds up, quicker and quicker as he palms your tits, as he grabs your waist, as he teases the waistline of your shorts. 
You mutter his name into the air. Everything blurs around you, a happy daze existing only in this tent, only between his arms. You bury your hands in his curls. “Please, Matty,” you whisper. 
“What do you want?” He asks against your collarbone, pressing his lips on it after. You feel him hard between your thighs. The knowledge makes your mind droopy. 
You giggle like it was all silly, all unbelievable. It’s never about what you want; too much, too soon, too real. “What about you?”
Matty hums. He pushes your bra cups, revealing your breast. He parts away from you to take a good look at them. You flush, feeling shy suddenly. 
Matty kneels up. He pants, staring at the mess of you, half-naked and flustered and hot, practically vibrating out of your skin under him. He thumbs your nipple, smirking. “I want this.” 
“Yeah?” You arch an eyebrow. Matty nods, eager. You trail your fingers down his mane to the neckline of his shirt, greedily tugging on it. He obliges and lets it fall off his shoulders. 
Your stare laps at his naked chest with none of the usual shame. Take in every muscle, every tattoo, until Matty Healy himself is blushing under your carnivorous stare. You reach out to touch the ink at his hip, grabbing it between guitar-callused fingers, making sure you’re not imagining the whole thing. 
It has to be the trip. You have to be hallucinating, making sweet visions out of the grass and white. 
“Can you fuck me?” You say, bold and uncaring. If it’s a dream, you can be whoever you want. Can say whatever fancies your mind; even the scary, even the galactic. (Though you don’t, because admitting it just to yourself is already too momentous.)
Matty swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I can definitely do that.” You laugh, at him or at you or at the sheer fucking joy. It’s contagious; soon he’s giggling too, bending back down into you to suck at your breasts, working on your jeans. The laugh reverberates on your skin. You moan, melted wax in the grass. 
He takes the shorts down your legs, then your underwear. His hungry gaze devours you, taking in every inch of you like he’s realizing you’re real. “Better than I imagined.” You like the sound of that; it hums in your heart. 
“You, next,” you say, pleading. Matty undoes his belt dutifully. It takes some time; his fingers are trembling. 
But then he’s naked in front of you. A wiry frame, inked and scarred, with a hard, leaking cock. He’s better than a Greek god. 
Your hand reaches out for his. He takes it, crosses your fingers together, rests it beside your head as he drapes over you. Dark, coffee eyes meet yours and you get the strange sensation of having your soul bared for him, too. His lips graze yours but he doesn’t kiss you, as though he wants to hear you when he finally pushes in.
You roll your eyes into your skull. Your hand tightens in his, moaning his name. There’s a fucked-out groan coming from him, too. He lays into your neck as he thrusts in and out, slowly, like he was still adjusting to the idea of it. 
“You’re perfect,” Matty whispers. Every particle of you sings his name. You clench around him. “Shit, love, do that again.”
A proud grin breaks on your face. You throb around him. He’s buried so deep you feel him in every nerve ending, yet you still need him. Your free hand digs into his back. You want him under your skin. 
“Faster,” you say. Matty nods in agreement. He bucks his hips into yours. You strangle his hand with a deadly grip, holding back screams of his name. You moan it instead, in the crook of his neck, sticking your tongue out to lick them off after.
It’s better than it’s ever been with anyone. Your body buzzes, ecstasy swooping in your belly. You’re not sure if it’s the drugs or him, and neither answer seems satisfying. 
You can’t tell where you start and he begins, but it’s not a new feeling. He can be rooms apart and you still sense the edges of him, subconsciously, deludingly. He’s there, now, fucking inside of you, bringing you to insanity. 
“Oh, God,” you say. “Fuck.” You don’t think you’ll last long if he keeps going. Matty seems to realize, feeling the way you flutter around his cock, begging and pleading for a release. 
Matty shakes your hand off, using his now free one to rub dizzyingly fast at your clit. Your face scrunches, you moan his name, your hand flexes with the phantom shape of his hand. You snap your eyes open, meeting his, when you break and fall apart. 
It’s been a long time coming, building and building since that fateful day of June 16, but it still takes you by surprise. Your mind wipes clean, relief overtaking every attuned nerve, and all you can think is finally.
Matty follows behind you soon after, shutting his face as his lips part in abandon. A grunt slips past him, his eyebrows wrinkle, his shoulders tremble under your hand, and suddenly he’s spilling into you. 
He falls on you, sighing contently. A vague hand passes through your hair soothingly. You stare at the ceiling in shock. He came inside of you.
It’s fine, you tell yourself. I’m on the pill, you reassure yourself. And he’s clean. Just me— Just me and Delilah. 
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Matty laughs, realizing. He slides out of you, his cum leaking out. Though he does sound apologetic, he still stares at it in mesmerism. Ownership.
“‘S fine,” you mumble lazily. 
Matty grabs his discarded shirt, wiping your inner thighs, cleaning you up. It’s strangely domestic, in some way. You close your eyes and imagine a world where he does this often, humming. 
Matty falls back beside you, tugging your head into his shoulder, holding you close. You grin satisfiedly, loose and relaxed, a syrup girl dripping on him, sticking to him. 
Finally, you sing. Everything feels absolute. 
Your eyes flutter shut, exhaustion seeping through your body. Your face nestles into him deeper. Squished against his shoulder, you ask him, “Do you like me?”
He laughs as if it was silly to ask. “Of course I like you.” 
And do you love me, you want to ask, but you bite your tongue and swallow it down. For now it’s enough. 
August 17
Delilah runs into Matty’s arms. He catches her slackly, a loose arm around her waist as she peppers kisses over his face. Her smile shines bright. The world spins nauseatingly around you. 
Your heart fends in the middle. You stare at the two of them like a car crash, sick to your stomach yet unable to look away. You still remember the feel of his arm around you, the way he held like he was afraid you might blow away with the wind, melt into the grass. The way he gripped.
Matty meets your eyes above Delilah’s shoulder. He seems overrun, robbed of words. You have a few you believe he should be saying, should be thinking, but he doesn’t. There’s an apology in his gentle look. You want to throw up on their shoes. 
You’re a paper girl — fragile, volatile, unsettled, dancing with the wind of feelings — and he’s a rock — sure, confident, stubborn, and staying with his fucking girlfriend. 
August 19
You sit side by side with Matty on the piano bench. You peer in your sketchbook, angled away to hide from him. In his phone’s notes app, he writes the most recent verse’s ever moving state. “D’you have anything else?” He asks, as you’ve discarded the past few editions. 
You hum, skimming through the pages. Your eyes settle on a drawing of constellations, a ghost of a boy smiling in the grass. Your heart punches. You look over the words. “How about—” You shake your head, trying to discard the doom feeling in your chest. “How about she bleeds on my palms, I think I’m stained with her?” 
“Oh, I like that,” Matty nods, quickly scribbling it on his phone. “After all the marble talk, it shows we really are talking about a real person, and that they are left bloody and scarred from being carved away to fit his fantasies.”
You swallow thickly. Your heart speeds. “Yeah— Yes. Sure.”
August 20
Matty blows out his cigarette. He looks almost theatrical in the night; standing on his balcony, leaning on the fence, pouring smoke from his lips, drenching himself in telltale gray. You sit on a plastic chair and get the nagging feeling that you should be having some sort of realization, a lesson of some kind. 
Your hand reaches out for him. Instinctively, he gives you the cigarette. The paper burns in your hand. It’s not what you wanted. 
You place it between your lips. It feels so fucking obvious when smoke lingers around you.
August 23
You pass Matty’s room on mousy feet, making your best efforts not to wake anyone up. The master bedroom door is firmly shut. A couple snores a few feet away, surely entangled in each other’s limbs, a position as known as breathing. The hallway falls into you, knocking against your frail body. You’re squeezed until your chest might burst. 
There’s a yearning in your bones you can’t unroot. It makes you wonder where the flowers of love come from; if the blooming is just weeds. 
August 24
You lay on your stomach, kicking your legs in the air. A raw feeling lingers on your skin, like it was skimmed off on cement, burning and reddening. You hold your breath. 
“I like it,” Bree exclaims, slow and lagging from Facetime. She’s a blurry image, earphones in, seemingly at some trendy New York café you would hate. “I love the chorus. It’s so— so raw, and painful, and real. It’s like— It’s like I’m sixteen again, being manic pixie dream girled by indie, older boys.” 
You smile at that, happy that it reverberates, that it hits home. “Any criticism? We’re still fine tuning it.”
Bree hums. “Maybe make the speaker clearer? It’s a bit convoluted if it’s Pygmalion or Galatea’s point of view.” 
You’re raw. An open wound, poked and prodded and salted, and you can’t seem to finally scab. You grin slackly at Bree. “I see what you mean. Thanks.”
“It’s really a great song, though. That’s just nitpicking.” 
You nod, but it’s faint and unconvinced. You’re not sure being a good song justifies all of it. Breathtaking oil paints never seemed to make you any less blistered. 
August 26
Matty’s hair flops over his forehead. His lips are red and plump, stained from the wine. He’s grinning loosely, a bit tipsy on espresso martinis and merlot. He looks like a poem. 
Your heart softens and melts like toffee, sticking to the bones as it dribbles down your ribs. It calls for him, sings, even. 
Try as you might, you can’t stop wanting him. It breathes with you. 
August 28
“I think we’ve finished,” you declare. You stare at the lyrics of Galatea, messily put down over brand new paper with a fountain pen. You go over each word in disbelief. “I think— Fuck, this is actually it.”
“Yeah?” Matty calls, looking at you all giddy, biting his lip. 
Your smile breaks your face. An addictive rush of glee spins your mind. You can’t contain the joy. “Yes.”
“Yeah?” He repeats, hyping you up. You stand from the bench. His arms open in instinct; you run into them, colliding against his bones. You’re surprised you don’t find the rubble at your feet. 
“Fucking yes,” you whisper in his neck, and you might cry from the bone-deep relief. From finishing a song that has been haunting you with a vengeance. From being in his arms. From smelling his detergent.
“You did it,” he says back, low and emotional. You squeeze him harder. 
“We did it.” Matty tries to humble-wave your words away, but you pull back enough to stare at him. “I’m serious. I couldn’t have done it without you.” And it’s true; too true. This song would have never been what it is now, never had its shape, if you had never met Matty Healy. 
He smiles at you, touched. “The song of the fucking year.” You laugh, throwing your head back. You think of kissing him and you hope he thinks of it too, though he doesn’t do it. 
August 30
You step through the glass doors. Sunglasses rest on the top of your hair. You’re sunburnt on the tip of your nose, a touch of deep color. At least the inside is cool. Faraway, the laughs of Matty’s friends track you. 
You find the fridge, sticking your head inside and sighing in relief. You grab a beer on the way. You rest it on your nose. The condensation drips on your skin, tickling; you scrunch it. 
Matty’s nursing a soft drink as he stands in front of the fan, eyes closed, shirt unbuttoned. You smile at the vision of him, sticky and sweaty, sinfully familiar. 
“Scoot over,” you demand, nudging him. Matty obliges, scooping himself to offer you half of the fan. You moan as the air hits you. Truly content, you open your bottle of beer.
“I like the sound of that,” Matty says. You arch an eyebrow, offering it to him. He snorts. “No, no. Not in that sense. Designated driver, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t such a passenger princess.” 
“Hey,” you frown, faux-offended. “I just haven’t gotten my driver’s license yet.”
“And how old are you?”
“Very, very young still.” You up your nose. 
Matty makes a grimace. “Don’t say that.” The image of that day in the grass, moaning in his mouth, filled up so perfectly, flashes in his eyes. You smirk, sipping on your beer. 
“What did you mean, then?” You ask. You jerk your chin in the direction of the can when he cocks his head in question. 
Matty shrugs. “Just that it sounds satisfying. There’s something almost— I don’t know, rhythmic, about opening a can of beer. Tssh.” You snort at his impression. 
“We could put it in a song maybe,” you offer. “To start it. Maybe Sunburnt? It’s kinda summer-y.”
“I like that.” Matty sighs, “Though I don’t like that we’re talking work on our day off.”
“It’s never really work, isn’t it?” You scrunch your nose. “Not when it’s us, our insides.” 
“Careful,” Matty drawls, teasing. “You’re sounding like an insufferable artist.”
He leans into you. His eyes are light, dancing, and you want to catch the breathtaking sunrise. Want to catch it on camera, show it off to whoever. He’s too pretty. 
You lean into him. Your gaze zeroes in on his lips. The can of beer rests by your side, tucked away. Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve missed him. Missed his mouth.
Matty stares at your lips, offered and tempting, then pulls away. He makes an awkward laugh, shaking his drink. “Need a refill.” He’s off in a second. 
You stand in front of the fan, air blowing and blowing and blowing, and you can feel the traces of him artificially leaving with the wind. 
August 31
August 31, you drop a nuclear bomb. “When are you gonna break up with her?” 
You don’t know what takes over you. He’s vaguely organizing his bookshelf, picking up books and getting lost in the pages and putting them back just a little bit more to the right, and you’re sitting on your piano bench, haphazardly hitting the keys, when it bubbles out of you. The need to know, the need to be safe. 
Time decelerates to a near stop. Silence hangs in the room, heavy, filling up every crevice. The floorboards droop with its weight. Your heart races. 
Yesterday plays in your mind religiously. The near kiss, dodged and avoided, laughed off. How it left you raw, bleeding, how you spun and spun in that overthinking head of yours until you thought your skull might break from the pressure. 
You stare at Matty’s back, glaring into the muscles, tearing through the shirt. You wish him to turn around. You will him to smile. Fear grips your guts. Please. You beg him to answer right. 
Matty sighs. Twists to you slowly, carefully. Your breath hitches, readying. “I don’t know.” 
Shrapnel bursts into your skin. A bomb that reverberates, that obliterates. Your fingers shake; you clench them, willing yourself to be strong, to camouflage the bleeding out. 
Your lips tremble but you straighten them. “You don’t know when or—” Your blood beats in your skull. You keep giving him bullets and finding yourself surprised when it ricochets into you. You swallow thickly. “You don’t know if you will.” 
Matty sighs. There’s an apologetic look in his face and it makes you want to vomit. If only he had the mercy to be cruel, to rip your spine and throw it away. Give you a reason to hate him. “I can’t give you an answer. I just—” He makes a little frustrated noise, annoyed with himself for not having the words. “I need time to think.” 
You give him an incredulous look. “Time to think?” Anger digs into you, and it feels better. Something to latch onto, something buoyant over the currents of pain you’re battling against. Something to clench that jaw, narrow those eyes. “So you haven’t yet? At all?”
Matty makes a noise to speak, to sweeten, sounding like the saccharine letters of your name, but you cut him off. “No,” you say, and it is dry and sure, lashing. “No, I’ve been waiting for you all summer. We’ve—” You let out a laugh of disbelief, crazed and pathetic. “We’ve kissed, we’ve had sex, we’ve been on basically fucking dates, and you haven’t thought about if you wanna be with me?” You hate how your voice sounds wet when you push out, “I’ve thought about you every fucking day this summer.” 
Matty makes an offended face, crying, “Of course I’ve thought about if I wanna be with you.”
You don’t give him time to take it back, twist its meaning, already pleading, “Then what’s the issue?” 
“Because I don’t know!” Again with those three little words, never the right ones, never the ones you breathe from his mouth. He softens, and suddenly the sugary gaze looks like pity to you. “I like you. I really like you, and I care for you, and I don’t want to hurt you.” 
The words ring in the room. Though you want to bury them in your chest, let them bloom and grow until they’ve taken on a whole new face, you don’t. 
You hear the fatal word coming after, see it in his overwhelmed look. “But I care for her too.” You take it like a bullet. “We’ve been together for three years. And I’ve only known you for what? Two months? What if it shits between us? What if it’s not as great as we made it out to be?” 
He makes the worries solid, gives them a physical form, and you want to beg him to let the marble go, knock the paints from his hands. Don’t make it real. Don’t make it possible. 
Dejected, lips trembling, he begs, “Can’t I be a little confused?” 
You breathe out. “Of course you can be confused.” You frown, desperate when you add, “But you cheated on her. Physically, emotionally.” You let the words hit home. A guilty look draws on his face and it’s worse, somehow. “And you’re just gonna go back to her?”  
He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I know I haven’t gone about this the right way.” 
You blink at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 
Gone about this the right way, like he didn’t take hearts and forget them on his piano keys, rotting on the ivory.
“Look, it was fucked. I didn’t think—“ Matty shakes his head. For a poet, he always has the wrong words. “I just wanted you, and I did it, and I know I shouldn’t have—” 
“You’re fucking selfish.” 
He’s selfish, you think, and you scroll back through your memories trying to find the telltale moments you missed, you ignored. If the signs waved over your head and you squinted away, slack, happy smile rising over your cheeks. 
He winces. “I’m sorry.” 
“You’re sorry?” You arch an eyebrow. “You’re apologizing now?” 
Matty huffs. “What do you want from me?” 
You make a disbelieved laugh. How does he not get it? How does he not see? You want to shake his shoulders, but you’re afraid of the marble dust that would linger on your hands. 
“I just want you to choose me,” you cry, like it was so fucking evident. You want him. You want him to want you. 
Matty opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s overrun. 
All those tiny moments; those throwaway smiles, those purposeful glances, those lingering touches, those words, understanding and uncovering and loving— how much of them are real? The curse of being a creator: you make stories in your head. 
He wants to say I don’t know. That’s all he has in his head. 
You nod faintly. Breathe in. Let go. The moment hangs in the air. “You’re not going to, are you?” 
Matty shrugs. That hopeful, sick muscle in your heart beats seconds slower; off-key with the world, with reality. “I don’t know.” 
Your eyes close. Everything snaps back all at once; gravity is heavy, oxygen is ashy, colors are dull. You purse your lips. Try not to cry. 
“God,” you laugh, “what the fuck have I done?” 
The curse of a creator: creating. 
He’s crumbled at your feet. He’s made of blood, and flesh, and he’s bruised and blue. You wonder how much of it is from chisel-martelling him. 
Watercolors, marble, words; it’s all the same. 
Matty frowns. He’s gentle, soothing. “Don’t say that.” 
You throw a hand up. “I’m gonna sleep at a hotel tonight.” Your stare is ice, leaving not a possibility to argue. “Stay with your girlfriend if you want.” 
Matty makes a frustrated sound. “I’m not saying I don’t want you. I’m saying I don’t know yet. I— I just need to figure it out.” 
“It’s not enough.” His face winces: bullets. Something in you is a little gleeful, hopes the metal bites into his skin. Maybe if he bleeds you, mourns you, it’ll all be a little easier to digest.
“Have a goodnight, Matty.” There's a world in which you say those words and then breathe out a soft I love you. He says it back, worshiping and happy. His arms are heavy around your waist. You roll over in bed and go to sweet sleep, satisfied. It’s not this one. You can’t keep trying to make it be.
When you leave his flat, all you can think is, God, I really should have seen this coming. 
September 1 
You adjust the earphones on your head, getting used to the soothing quiet. The microphone lingers near your mouth, inviting you. 
“Ready?” Matty asks from the booth. 
Your eyes snap to his. He’s tired, clearly. Dark circles digging under his eyes, lips bitten raw, stubble unshaved. There’s an air of unmadeness about him, and a yet-to-die need to write about it. Words start coagulating in your mind already, but you don’t let it stick. It’s just an instinct; it’ll be gone soon. 
You give a thumbs up. In the microphone, you whisper, refusing to break eye contact. “Galatea, take one.”
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seabirdtxt · 9 months
Text
Event batch 3
all three of these were requested by the lovely @littlemistermedly 😊
��� Check out my other event requests! 🩵
"The ways that they love you" Spinoff of Glitch!AU but can be read as standalone. fluff and smut. everyone involved in this is AFAB yes even the puppets, he/him still used for all three of them though 1. Kabukimono | pillowfort building / frottage, clothed sex 2. Wanderer | falling asleep in class / sub!Wanderer, toy usage. reader wears a strap 3. Scaramouche | PWP, oral (reader receiving), brat!Scara for like 2 seconds
🔞 18+ below the cut!🔞 By clicking "Read More" you acknowledge the above tags/warnings and agree that you are both over 18 and accept responsibility for your own media consumption.
----- ⚘ -----
Kabukimono: Man on the Moon
The sweet puppet holds you gently, sitting with your back leaning against his front as the both of you are squished together by a mountain of pillows and blankets that were generously provided to you against your other roommates’ wills. The pillow fort you’d constructed with the pilfered cushions hide you and Kabukimono from the rest of the world, fitting you both into a little bubble of quiet intimacy.
His chest thrums with the vibrations of his voice box as he hums a little song in your ear, gently smoothing his hands up and down your arms and shoulders. 
As his song comes to an end, he wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your head, sighing contentedly.
“That was a nice song, Kabu,” you tell him, putting your hands over his. “Where did you learn that?” 
“It’s a nursery rhyme that the aunties in Tatarasuna taught me when I watched the village children!” He smiles gently, chest warming as he closes his eyes and purrs at the memory. “I don’t remember the words anymore, but the tune always makes me feel better.” 
“Aww,” you coo, reaching up and running your fingers through his hair. “That’s so cute, Kabu! You must’ve been the favourite of all the aunties.” 
“I- I wouldn’t go that far…” You can feel Kabukimono’s temperature rise again as he fights off the flustered expression he makes. You tilt your head back and look at him, catching a glimpse of his shaky smile. 
“I’m sure you had mobs of aunties offering you their sons’ and daughters’ hands in marriage,” you grin, poking his cheek as he pointedly looks away, covering his mouth with his hand. “Am I wrong? You’re so pretty, I just know everybody wanted a piece of this.” 
“Stop it! Now you’re just teasing me.”
You wriggle around so that you’re facing him, pressing down into his rumbling chest with your entire body. It’s a shame the puppet bodies don’t blush in the same way as humans, because you’re sure he would be beet red right now.
You lean in close and squish your cheek against his, nuzzling into the soft hair that frames his face. You begin to hum, doing your best to imitate the song, a little bit off-key and not quite as confident as Kabukimono’s version, but recognizable all the same. Kabu drops his hand from his face and his smile widens, a touch of softness easing the corners of his eyes.
“That was perfect,” he says to you quietly. “Just the same as I remember.”
 ---
“Okay, so, I read about this one in a book,” Kabukimono tells you, and you can’t help but be endeared by his excited nervousness. You and he have mostly undressed by this point, only left in your underwear, your other clothes long since discarded as you’d indulged Kabukimono’s growing curiosity. 
You let him manipulate you as he takes your legs and parts them, settling in the space between and pauses, eyes darting back and forth in a way that tells you he’s searching his memory for the next step.
“We can just keep doing what we usually do,” you tell him, using your heel to knock against his lower back. “It doesn’t have to be complicated or anything.”
“But I want to try other things!” Kabukimono protests. “How else am I supposed to expand on existing knowledge?”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way,” you let him manipulate you again, this time moving so he’s partially straddling you, slotting your legs together. Suddenly, you have a feeling you know where he’s taking this.
He drops his clothed crotch onto yours unceremoniously, face scrunched in concentration. For a second nothing happens, and he looks like he’s about to be incredibly disappointed, so you take a bit of initiative and cant your hips just a tad.
Kabu freezes and a cut-off squeak escapes his mouth as you grind your clit against his. You do it again, and his eyebrows climb into his bangs. 
“Oh!” He exclaims, rolling his own hips experimentally. A grin of delight comes over him as he comes to the realization.
You’re unprepared for how quickly he takes to it, bending toward you to roll your clothed cunts together, and you sink further into the pile of cushions from the force of it.
“This is great,” he gasps, wonder playing on his face. You laugh breathlessly and reach up to stroke his cheek with your thumb. “Ah- I can’t believe how good this feels, how good you feel.”
You briefly lament the distance between the two of you due to this position, wishing you could wrap him in your arms and eat his pleasure whole. He’s purring so loud that you can feel the vibration of it where your bodies connect. 
It doesn’t surprise you too much that Kabu comes first, his thighs tensing around yours as he soaks through both layers of underwear between you. He whines and bites back a sob as he continues to grind against you, overstimulating himself as he chases your peak. 
The wet friction of the cloth and the sight of him biting his lip to stifle the rest of his noises is what does it for you. You tumble headlong into your orgasm, and you feel him give a valiant twitch against you again.
You give in to your desires and pull him down into your embrace, and he follows along gladly. He collapses onto you, causing you both to exhale with the impact, and wraps his arms around your torso. He buries his face in your shoulder as you bring one hand up to stroke his hair.
“Is that what you were hoping for?” You ask him, your heartbeat racing as you come down from your high. He nods against you, cheerfully sucking a mark into your neck.
“Mhm,” he agrees wordlessly, and after a minute or so he props himself up on his elbows, his body never leaving yours. You hook your ankles over his, holding him in place.
He looks down at you, considering. “So there’s this other thing I read about…”
----- ⚘ -----
Wanderer: Pick up the receiver, I'll make you a believer
The lecture is so indescribably boring that you’ve begun doodling all over your notes, filling every empty space with little cats and plants and stick figures with swords.
Beside you, Wanderer rests his head in one hand, elbow resting on the desk, his other hand lazily flipping his pen. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, holding back a snort as your eyelids and your own slowly begin to droop. He glances around quickly, ensuring nobody else is looking in this direction, then reaches out to you with his mind.
It takes no effort at all to impress the subtle thought of taking a nap into your tired brain. Within moments, you’ve begun to slump over, eyes closed and breathing softly.
 Wanderer’s arm reaches around you and pulls you just enough so that you are leaning on him as you sleep. With his other hand, he takes your pen and puts it aside before it can leak all over your notes. Curiously, he peeks at your drawings.
Wanderer doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing. There's stick figures of himself, Kabukimono, and Scaramouche in little scratchy renditions of the trio’s daily mishaps. He didn’t realize Scaramouche ended up the most unfortunate of the three of them, having been the butt of the joke most often.
Taking his own pen, Wanderer decides to add a bit of embellishment to some of the doodles. Satisfied with his work, he sits back and listens to the rest of the lecture.
You wake up an hour later thanks to the cacophony of the lecture hall as students pack up their belongings, announcing the end of the lesson. You push off of your temporary pillow with a half-coherent noise, feeling the indent his clothes made on your cheek.
You grab your own notebook, intending to put it away as well, when you notice the new addition to your drawings, and you laugh loud enough to scare yourself fully awake.
Wanderer had drawn giant cartoon dicks onto your stick figures of him. 
“What,” Wanderer says, smirk audible in his voice. “You don’t like it? I think it suits me.” 
“You are SO lucky this wasn’t the notebook that we have to hand in to the professor,” you wag your finger at him playfully. “Do you know how much work it would be to recopy all of my notes into a fresh book?”
“Maybe don’t fall asleep somewhere where I can draw in it, then,” Wanderer counters, slinging his book bag over his shoulder. He takes your hand as you finish packing your own bag, and you begin the journey home together.
“Thanks for letting me nap, by the way,” you smile gratefully at him, swinging your clasped hands between you.
“No problem, you can just pay me back later,” Wanderer shrugs. You squint at him suspiciously.
“How do you want me to pay you back?” you ask, already not liking where this is going.
Wanderer’s smirk widens at your predictable reaction. “How about you top, tonight?”
“Nooo!” You wail in despair, dropping his hand like it’s on fire. You stomp ahead, and you can hear Wanderer’s cackles behind you. “This is why I never ask you for anything!”
“Come on, you always make me top, though,” Wanderer needles you in a sing-song voice as he jogs to catch up.
“You do that out of your own choice, bossy!”
 “Can’t you do it for one night?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes that you definitely don’t melt at.
“But I wanna be lazy…” You pout and cross your arms, denying him from taking your hand again. Instead, he puts his hands into the pockets of his shorts and nudges you with his shoulder.
“Should’ve thought of that before you took a nap,” he states simply. “Since you’re sooo well rested, now, I guess you have more energy than I do. Especially since I took all the lecture notes for today, and maybe I’ll share them with you if I’m in a good mood.”
You don’t drop your pout, but you do lean into him as the pair of you walk. 
“Fine, I guess,” you relent with a sigh, not really as disappointed as you’re pretending to be. “Can I use the purple toy?”
“Sure,” Wanderer leans over and gives you a quick peck to your cheek. “Whatever you want, babe.”
---
Whatever your hang ups with topping, it’s all worth it to see Wanderer shaking and moaning under you so prettily. With his elbows braced against the table, head resting on his forearms, the view of his toned back flexing with every movement you make against his sweet spot is incredible.
You run your fingertips over the fabric of your strap where it connects with the purple toy you chose, marveling at just how wet it is. You push into Wanderer again, grinding your own clit against the back of the textured material.
“Maybe you’re right,” you pant, smug as you pound into his greedy hole. “I should top you more often, this is awesome. Who knew you could get this loud?” 
Wanderer makes a valiant attempt to look over his shoulder and scowl at you, but another snap of your hips has him swallowing whatever snarky remark he was about to make at your expense. Another loud whine pulls from his throat, and he bites his own arm to stifle the rest.
You have no idea how many times you’ve made him cum, though you count at least twice based on the growing puddle beneath you. Maybe three. (Very, very distantly, you hope you don’t slip on the wet floor. You’re not sure you could take the embarrassment.)
Another full-body shudder runs through him, and one arm reaches behind himself to grab at your fingers where they’re holding his waist in a grip that would bruise if he were able to. With an airy laugh you bat his hand away. 
“What’s wrong? You asked for this.” You remind him, using both hands to pull him backward onto your toy. You hum lowly as the movement causes the base to rub against you, urging you closer to your own orgasm. 
“Ugh, if I’d known-” he cuts himself off with a reedy cry. You take pity on him, allowing him to slump onto the table. You press into him one more time, remaining still as he fights the overstimulation, twitching around the toy buried inside. “ Ah- if I’d known you’d be this into it, I would've made you do it a lot more.” 
“Sorry, did you say more?” Your smile turns devious as you pull out, to his weak protests, and push back in slowly, building your rhythm again. The squelching noises leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, if anyone were to walk by your room right now.
Wanderer thinks he might be in for a long night.
----- ⚘ -----
Scaramouche: Moment’s Silence
Out of the three of them, you would've expected Scaramouche to be the least tactile. As it turns out, you couldn’t be more wrong. He just doesn’t show it well. Or nicely.
During the day, and in front of anyone else, he remains the grouchy, taciturn puppet you’ve come to know and love. However, when the lights dim and everyone retreats to their respective rooms, his clingier side comes out to bother you.
Which is why you’ve been here for the past thirty minutes, splayed out on your back in the middle of your bed, trying to read one of the many books in your inventory, with the Balladeer on his stomach between your legs doing his utmost to distract you from getting into the plot.
Another jolt of pleasure shakes your concentration, and you lift the book to give a halfhearted glare at Scaramouche, who’s tongue still flicks lazily against you.
“Do you mind?” You huff, nudging him with your leg, to which he responds by grabbing your knee and pushing it back down roughly. “H- hey! If you’re not going to get on with it, can you at least let me finish reading?”
“Shut up,” Scaramouche snaps at you, baring his teeth irritably. “This isn’t about you.”
Despite his harsh demeanor, the next swipe of his tongue is heavy and languid, dragging up the cleft of your sex. You gasp and arch under his touch, and he takes advantage of the moment to slide his hands beneath your back, holding your hips to his face.
“I would say- ah- that you’re eager to please,” you tease him, reaching down to stroke his hair, fingers curling in his indigo locks. “But you always look like- hah- like you have a gun being held to your head when you do this.”
In retaliation, he gives a harsh suck to your swollen clit, quickly followed by him turning his head away (you have to hold back a whine at the loss of stimulation) to bite into the meat of your inner thigh. 
“Ouch! Why?!”
The glare Scaramouche gives you could freeze a hot spring.
 “In what universe would I do something like this if I didn’t want to?” He demands, pulling one of his hands out from beneath you to pinch your sensitive nub, rolling it between his pointer and thumb as you fight and fail to snap your legs closed around his head. 
Without waiting for a response, two of his fingers breach your entrance and slowly spread apart, baring your soft insides to his scrutiny. 
“Why shouldn’t I take advantage of everything you present to me?” He asks, tone reverent as he leans back down and his tongue delves into your cunt. You shiver at the feeling of him licking every slick crevasse, the noises that reach your ears causing you to flush with embarrassment. 
He groans into your skin as he feels you clench around his tongue, the vibrations causing you to squeal and thrash in his grasp. The sheets beneath you are positively soaked with your fluids and his saliva. He twists his fingers inside you just so, and you drop your book with a choked gasp. 
“You taste amazing, I can’t believe you think I don’t want this,” he mutters, his hot breath tickling the insides of your thighs. Your hand in his hair tightens, and you’re not sure if you’re pulling him closer or pushing him away.
“I… I…” 
Your lack of response seems to amuse him and he chuckles against your wet hole. He gently takes his fingers out and uses his slick-damp hand to hook behind your knee and push it up, opening you more to him.
“Such a good boy. Are you close?” He looks up at you through his lashes, licking a heavy stripe from your hole to your clit, sucking the twitching bud between his lips teasingly. “Cum for me, pretty boy. Show me how well I did.”
You’re unable to formulate words as he pushes you over the precipice, throwing your arms over your face as you cry out, hips jerking against his clever tongue. Never once have his eyes left your trembling form.
You’re panting like you’ve just run a marathon, still spasming with the aftershocks, when you feel Scaramouche crawling up the length of your body. You watch through your post-orgasm haze as he licks the mess from his lips and hand. 
“Is that it?” He teases, caging your head with his arms as he leans down, breathing into your space. “I thought you wanted me to ‘get on with it’.”
Your brain is still in the process of rebooting, and he laughs mockingly at your fucked out expression. Your head falls back as you try to catch your breath, and you feel more than see him as he shucks his own shorts off, grabbing the headboard with both hands as he straddles your shoulders.
“Come on, where’s your manners?” He croons, voice hitching as your eyes finally come into focus, greeted by the sight of his own slick, fluttering hole. “I think you know how to say ‘thank you’.”
No need to be told twice. Your hands come up to hold his waist, thumbs rubbing circles into the divots at his hips. You watch with rapture as his expression changes as you slowly pull him down to your mouth.
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spiegelgestalt · 19 days
Text
En en/Yao is a condensed form of the relationship Mao Mao can imagine with Jinshi (Spoilers until LN 9)
One of the frustrating things as a Jinmao shipper is that Mao Mao is let's say subtle in her affection for Jinshi. Most of the romantic affection comes from Jinshi and it's mostly Dubcon (consider this your content warning) Does Mao Mao even love him? A question for Jinshi and a question for the reader because Maomao is deeply deeply in denial of her own feelings. She is so much in denial she isn't even thinking them. (And this is confirmed in the novel - Mao Mao will refuse to think about stuff that makes her uncomfortable) So how can an author show that there is something there: Through parallels of course:
In comes the lesbian pair En'en/Yao
En'en is very open about her affection for Yao. She loves Yao so much that she goes wherever Yao goes, is dismayed and loses all will to live when they are separated, finds excuses to touch Yao (like preparing only one umbrella), spends all her money for ingredients for good food/stuff she thinks will help Yao in the long run. She loves Yao so much it becomes controlling and uncomfortable sometimes. It has also a slightly sadistic edge. (giving Yao frogs to grow her breasts, enjoying it when Yao struggles). So parallels - En en is Jinshi right? The love, the separation anxiety, the overstepping of boundaries - it all fits. Yaos name even rhymes with Mao Mao.
WRONG! En'en is parallel to Mao Mao. They are both geniuses, they are smart, they don't care what others thinking, the have a certain ruthlessness to them. They even look a bit alike. And Yao is a lot like Jinshi: she is a sheltered young person, who tries to escape the control of a male relative who wants her to take over a role she doesn't want. She is described as beautiful and hard working. She doesn't know a lot about the world but she's trying very hard. She even is as childish as Jinshi.
And here comes the interesting thing: Mao Mao looks at En'en/Yao and describes their relationship as the perfect Servant/Master relationship. Even though she describes En'ens devotion as twisted, she says it's okay because Yao isn't reciprocating. En'en can love Yao freely without having to fear that Yao might love her back. That's how Mao Mao sees it. This is a love Mao Mao is comfortable with. Because it's a hopeless. Mao Mao doesn't see herself as a loving person. She sees her special interests and believes that she will always choose them over people and because she cannot love correctly she wants to be used instead. she wants to be a tool that can be discarded so that noone ever gets the idea of sending fingers in the mail just because she hasn't loved them enough. But when this safety is established she can love freely. She can have sexual fantasies about Jinshi being ravished (fantasies that stop immediately when she discovers that she is the object of his sexual desires), she can take care of all of his needs. En'en is devoted to her mistress, but a lot of claims Mao Mao makes about En'en read like projection from Mao Maos side to me. Here again is a save space where she can fantasize about completely taking care of a master without the terrifying ordeal of that master wanting her back.
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lapithae · 8 months
Note
This is embarrassing but I don’t fully understand the whole “Oberon doesn’t like Merlin due to how they both perceive your story” thing. Could you explain how each views Ritsuka’s story?
I wouldn't call 'not getting something' embarrassing, but anyways the simple answer is this:
Merlin enjoys ongoing stories, but loses interest in them when they end. That's the main reason why he's so invested in Chaldea (or so he says), as it presents an interesting ongoing narrative for him- but as soon as it's over, Merlin will just move on to the next one. Proto Merlin has a similar stance, but she's much more blunt about it.
Oberon also enjoys stories, but doesn't like them when they're discarded. Because his entire essence is 'fiction', the idea of 'moving on after a story ends' is devastating for him. That's why he hates Chaldea- because the Lostbelts were also 'stories' that Chaldea 'ended and moved on from'. He sees Merlin as someone who throws away books when he's done with them, which he finds disgusting, so he dedicates his power to make sure he's not perceived by Merlin- as a way to not be that sort of 'entertainment' for him.
This is also part of his dichotomy with Nursery Rhyme. They're both 'fiction', and see the 'lives' of the stories that are told as important- but while Oberon prioritizes the 'happiness of the fiction' over the 'reader', Nursery Rhyme prioritizes the 'happiness of the reader' over the 'fiction', which ultimately makes them incompatible.
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friendsoup · 3 months
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Could I perhaps request Dikke/Tennant with a reader who’s overly emotional/burnt out and cries a lot? (Currently happening to me and they’re like my comfort characters) thank you in advance 🫶🏻
Your Strength
Recipe: Dikke's can be read as romantic or platonic, Tennant's can be platonic if you squint, GN! Reader, Reader is called beautiful (many times), my dove and love, Both Tennant and Dikke are bad with genuine emotions, But they both Really Really care about You, Comfort fic, Shamelessly Indulgent WC: 1,998 (SO CLOSE) Chef's Note: AHHH I tried to get to this one as quickly as I could!!! I hope it's in time to make you feel better, anon :[!!!! Hopefully my work can brighten your day, at least a little bit :]! As always, thank you for the request!
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Dikke has never been “in tune” with her emotions. Emotions were something strange and distant to her, they came and went as they pleased, leaving her feeling empty in their absence. To some, she came across as apathetic. That wasn’t exactly true, though. Her emotions simply never reached her face, despite how fiercely they roared in her chest. She could never quite tell how she was feeling. Though she could list symptoms of an emotion, she was never quite able to put a name to it, no matter how hard she tried.
The emotions of others were worse. She knew the basics. A frown meant sadness, a raised voice meant anger. But human emotion had so many intricate working pieces, an entire depth to them she couldn’t begin to understand. Sometimes a frown was meant jokingly. Sometimes a raised voice meant excitement. These little things made Dikke’s head spin.
So when you came into her room, and curled yourself into a ball on her bed, she didn’t know what to do.
The two of you had been seeing each other for quite some time now. Dikke didn’t put any labels on the relationship, and you didn’t mind that as long as you could keep her company. She was a strong shoulder to cry on, and though she was hesitant and awkward with your crying fits, you could always tell she cared.
Initially, Dikke didn’t look up from her blade. You entering her room was not a special event, you did this often regardless of how you felt. She greeted you, then continued to polish her sword, her eyes transfixed on it’s silver gleam. 
When you didn’t respond, a pang of worry hit her. Even at your worst, you always managed to mutter a hello.
She spoke your name softly, turning to you to gauge a reaction. When you did not move from your spot on the bed, her heart began to race. What had happened to you? Were you okay? Had she done something wrong? Had someone hurt you?
She spoke your name again, louder this time, worry dripping from her voice. 
Again, you did not respond.
Dikke put her blade down, discarding it on her desk without much thought. Her mind could not comprehend anything other than panicked thoughts about you. She stood, cautiously moving over to where you sat. 
She didn’t know what to do. Emotions were something so vague and strange to her. It killed her inside, but she knew she wasn’t best suited for the job. She was a hero of justice, meant to serve harsh judgements. She was never meant to be soft or kind or comforting. It wasn’t in her nature.
Hesitantly, Dikke reached out a hand, placing it on your shoulder. You shook beneath her touch, fighting back every emotion in your body. Dikke gave your shoulder a squeeze, as other knights had once done for her. 
“I’m no poet.” Dikke began, slowly scooching towards you. “I cannot sing you ballads of your beauty, nor write sonnets declaring my love.” She was sitting shoulder to shoulder with you now, her hand still resting on your arm. “I could try, if that’s what you wanted, but my voice was not built for anything but battle cries, and my rhymes would all come across as cheap.” When her words gained no reaction, she sighed. Usually, her attempts at jokes gained some sort of smile from you. “But, as a soldier, I can tell you how strong you are.” Her gaze settles on something far in the distance, her shoulders sinking, as if under some heavy weight. “I have seen only a fraction of the things you battle. I know only what you’ve shared with me, and the things we have fought together. Some, you will tell me with time. Others, I will never know.” “And that is fine. I do not need to know the extent of your war to know the strength of your character. I have seen great men fall to what you are fighting. Their minds unable to handle the stress their heart gives. You hold so much love, that it is painful to keep it all in your chest.” You lift your head, trying to form some sort of argument, but Dikke does not leave room for an answer. “Your love takes different forms,” She tells you, “Grief, guilt, anger. You torture yourself with the burdens of others. You try to carry the weight of the world, then grow frustrated when your shoulders grow sore, and your legs weak. You are not Atlas, my dove.” Her eyes flutter over to you, catching yours. “Some things are out of your control. Some things, you do not have to carry.”
“...But I do.” You argue, the words coming out too quick. “If I don’t care, nobody will. I need to prove myself worthy.” You sputter. Warm tears race quickly from the corners of your eyes, staining your cheeks.
“Worthy of what?” Dikke asks, her eyebrows drawn up in concern. “Of life. Of love. Of everything I’ve been given.” You can’t control your sobs now, they escape your lips, leaving you shuttering. “I need to make up for the fact that I exist.”
In one swift movement, Dikke pulls you to her lap. She wraps her arms around you, and you can feel her strength in her embrace. She doesn’t squeeze you hard, just enough to provide pressure. You can tell she’s holding back, as if worried she’ll break you.
“Please don’t say such cruel things to the person I love.” She begged, burying her face in your hair. “Please, be kind to them.” You were unable to say anything now, clinging onto Dikke with an intense desperation. You sobbed into her, unable to pull yourself together again. It was as if something inside you had broken, and now everything was pouring out. For so long you’d managed to keep yourself upright, yet Dikke had managed to destroy any wall you’d put up around yourself.
The two of you stayed there, tangled in each other for an hour. You, crying, and Dikke, muttering lovely words into your ear. Eventually, you grew tired, and fell asleep in her arms. Dikke was exhausted as well, yet she didn’t want to let go of you just yet.
Collapsing onto her bed, she cuddled into you, holding you tighter than she’d ever had before.
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Your Beauty
“Genuine” had never been Tennant’s style.
She was a conwoman, who always got what she wanted from her clients. She used any tactic necessary to reach into their pockets. She’d been a lover, a mother, a friend, and an advisor to a wide variety of people. Never did she mean a word she said. It was all a game to her, her prize being the end goal. She didn’t care how she won it, in the end. As long as it was hers.
If you had been another noble lady, appearing on her doorstep in tears, she would have whisked you inside and poured you a glass of red wine. She would listen to your woes, but no matter their contents, she’d have the same solution. Treat yourself with diamonds, wear something nice to fight off the sadness. Show him how much you’re really worth by donning something shiny and expensive. By the end of the night, you would have been under her spell, and deep in her debt. But you were far from a noble lady.
Tennant had no idea how to act around you. She’d been a conning for so long, she forgot how to forge a connection with another human being. So, she treated you the only way she knew how. Soft flirting and batting eyelashes, wrapping you in her arms, but never staying long. The only difference between you and a client, is that she kept her free hand out of your wallet.
So when you showed up on her doorstep in tears, she had no idea what to do. Her mind instantly went to how she could bend the situation to gain your trust, which she hated, as she wasn’t trying to earn anything from you. Yet she didn’t know how to act in anyone else’s benefit. She was completely lost, trying to find some small glimpse of humanity in her heart.
She spoke your name once, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. Her touch was light, almost as if she was afraid, as she gently pushed you into her room. “What happened?” She asked, casually. You took a seat on her couch, trying your hardest to muster any words. “It’s so much…” Was all you could say, between choking on sobs and sputters.
Tennant hummed, putting a kettle on heat. As long as she had something to do with her hands, she figured, you wouldn’t see how nervous she really was.
“I’m making tea.” She told you, no question if you wanted it or not. “I’ll make it sweet, for you.” She winked towards your direction.
When her flirt made no difference in your behavior, she grimaced. It was the only thing she knew how to do in this situation. How else was she supposed to get across that she wanted you to be okay? The two of you sat in relative silence. Her, fidgeting with the tea. And you, sobbing on the couch. Eventually, the kettle sang, and Tennant made a glass for both you and herself. Forcing a smirk back onto her lips.
She placed the tea cup down in front of you, and began to drink from her own. The warm cup bringing some comfort during this uneasy interaction. You sniffled, trying to pull back your tears for long enough to drink. When you managed through a shaky breath, you picked up the cup and began to drink. Tennant was right, she did make the tea sweet for you. It was the perfect amount, however. Not enough to rot your teeth, but enough to taste nice. The tea warmed the both of you, making it easy to find some tranquility. When you’d both finished your cups, the two of you sat there, unable to find any words.
You sniffled again, rubbing your sleeve over your nose. You were out of breath, your eyes red with tears, and your entire body shaking with emotional exhaustion. Tennant watched you, observing you closely. This was a private moment, she realized with great alarm. You did not show this face to just anyone. This was you at your lowest, at your most emotional. You were showing her something special, these were not just some pretty tears in order to gain sympathy. 
“You’re beautiful.” She said, without realizing the words were escaping her lips. Her eyes were wide, watching you with great admiration. 
“Right now?” You questioned. “I highly doubt it.” You almost laughed, confused by her sudden change in demeanor.
“Are you kidding?” Tennant spoke, suddenly breathless. “This is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen you.” Your face grew hot at the attention, as you focused on fidgeting with your hands. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” You argued. 
Tennant shook her head, reaching forward for your cheek. She guided it gently, until the two of you were locking eyes. “Right now, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. More than diamonds, more than gold. You are a work of art, brilliant and bold. You are something to be marveled at.” “You have me at a loss. I don’t know if I want to keep this expression all for myself, or display your true beauty to the world.” Tennant’s gaze was so intense, you felt yourself melting underneath it. “Your tears are worth diamonds, I can only imagine what worth a genuine smile from your lips would bring.”
You looked away, the ends of your lips quirking up from the compliments. Tennant gasped, dragging a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Better than I could have ever imagined. Priceless.” She whispered.
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cvlutos · 1 year
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"FOUND"
✦ | Posted: 03.06.2022 | WC: 1.2K | Rating: Mature |
✦ | Rook Hunt X GN!Reader | {Howl's Moving Castle Inspired}
✦ | Characters 18+ | Fluff | Poetic | Confessions | Smut | Loving | Forbidden Relationship | French Lang. | Etc | Proceed with Caution, my love.
✦ | Synopsis: A strange man appeared upon your balcony only uttering that he's found you.
✦ | Notes: To the lovely @pinkskytwst & @v-anrouge |
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“You must be quiet.”
A gently frosty wind blows through the trees, gently wrapping around your form and pulling you deeper into the untravelled woods. Your hand tightly and gently entwined with the man before you as he leads you. Easily navigating through the moonlit forests, knowing every turn, dip, and curve. Knowing where every branches laid, where every fallen log rested. And if you asked—he could utter into your ear where every bird built it's nest and where every bunny hid.
You hear the distant call of your name, demanding you return, yet the tugging of your hand and the gently kisses upon your knuckles reminds you why you left to begin with. Dressed still in your pajamas, clinging onto a cloak you randomly grab in a hurry of frantic kisses and giggles as you planned to leave for the night. Even if you'd be in a world of trouble when you returned.
You shouldn't be with him, you shouldn't be following him—holding his hands as he whispers in your ear to be careful, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. Feeling every leaf and twig crunch beneath your steps. You feel a flurry of emotions, a flurry of desires you once thought impossible for you to feel until you met him. Standing up on your balcony, only a darkened outline as he offered a hand. You were afraid, scared of this man—this stranger who only spoke in gently riddles and rhymes—speaking only in a language you couldn't understand. “Je t'ai enfin trouvé.” His voice a gently whisper like the night wind. Soon fear turning into curiosity, who is he?
Why is he here?
He's not familiar, with bright green eyes and blonde hair often pulled into a ponytail as a brown hat sits up on his head with a pristine white feather. Dressed in clothes that you're sure aren't from here, not your little town, he's different.
And you like it.
“Once again you are swept away by your thoughts, my love.” His gloves hand gently caresses your face, his thumb gently brushing over you bottom lip, bring your gaze to him. He has a small smile, eyes staring down at you curiously, his earring peeking through his hair of blonde. “It happens often, I wish to know what captivates your mind so.”
“I was thinking about alot of things—like why you appeared upon my balcony.”
His lips curl and he places a gently kiss to your forehead, “Why does the sun rise in the east and not the west? It is merely destined to be.” He tilts your chin upward, pressing a chaste kiss to the bridge of your nose.
Destiny. Fate. Like forever entwining strings that lures and lures, brings two together with such a unshakable hold that any and all should and shall succumb. And you will. You know you will, nor shall you deny such.
As he leads you to a clearing. One of full moon and full stars, perfectly hidden from world view. The grass ticking the bareness of your ankles and legs, shaking the trees leaves in a gently like melody, that dances around you as your hands hold his shoulders, facing the man before you fully and dancing. He hums into your ear, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Swaying—dancing with slow tiny steps. “My love…” A mummer, his hands dragging over your waist, thumbs gently pressing into your sides, silently undoing the string of your cloak, his lips gently pressing against yours, grazing with half lidded eyes.
The large piece of fabric flutters to the ground, his hands cupping your face as he gently lowers your body to the ground. “Oh, comme je te désire…” He whispers into your skin, carefully removing his clothing and discarding it ascending, pressing a flurry a tender kisses along you neck and collar, warm hands exploring the expansion of your bare skin.
Listening intently to every breath and sigh, feeling every shuddering of your skin, stuttering breath. Groaning at the merely feeling of your nails dragging along his back, feeling your breath fan against his shoulder and neck, clinging onto him. His hand slipping between your thighs, his lips pressing against yours, his tongue slipping past your lips. His thumb gently swipes at the corner of your lips, collecting any saliva that threatens to slip past.
“J'ai envie de vous tous.”
Words that you don't understand, words that drip of his lips like sweetened honey, that has you losing your very breathe, back arching, and hands blindly—desperately clinging onto the man above you. The wind cool against your naked form, him drawing you closer to the very edge, to th very point in which all lead to this moment. This moment that has you choking, crying out in utter bliss has your juices coat his hands, making a mess upon your skin. That he without hesitation licks up.
Destiny lead you to this moment, to this man above you, face flushed red, green eyes half lidded, and gently sliding between your legs. All written and designed—beyond your control and yes, you should feel like that of a puppet, with no control. But—
“Je vous aime.”
Feeling him fill you, face burden within your neck, breathless, as he holds you. Who are you to deny such a gift fate has given you, that fate has lead to your balcony, that has lead him between your thighs, to gently love your body more than anything else? What are such odds? Such a chance beneath thousands of stars and a moon that looks aside shyly. Nails digging into flesh, hips melting and molding together. Pieces that fit so perfectly. You feel him shudder against your, desperately holding onto you.
“My love—my love—my love…” He repeats, chanting it like a prayer, afraid that it'll go unheard. Emerald green dazed eyes staring at you in pure, utter love.
Love.
Which is your very winding and very undoing, your arms desperately wrapping around his neck, pressing your forehead against his. Eyes struggling to remain open as pleasure ran along you spine, every fiber of your being. You love him, your voice feels hoarse as whines, whimpers, cries lips past shamelessly, each sound he adores.
Adoration.
He lets out a hot high-pitch gasp the molds into a whine, his thrust slowly turning sloppy and uncoordinated, juices mixing and splattering across his thighs and your skin. His hands entwining with yours longingly. Your body rocks with his, feeling him push his cum deeper, clenching his teeth, forehead pushing against yours, eyes watching the sloppy mess, as your legs rest on his hips. “Rook—” You mummer his eyes name, his hips snapping against yours, forcing a moan from your lips, your body tensing and back arching, shots of pleasure taking over you and for a moment blindly. You watch his eyes widen, letting out a hot exhale.
“Mon nom... Vous vous êtes souvenu de mon nom…” His hands move to gently cup your face, thumbs swiping gently over your cheeks. “My name…. I thought you had forgotten…” There's sudden fondness that seems more apparent before, more than little glimpses that disappears just as fast as you saw it. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, his hair ticking your face gently.
“… Forgotten…?”
“Je t'ai enfin trouvé.. It means I've found you. Finally found you.”
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ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
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metorea · 3 months
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Drabbles ; Omnisis Gaunt × GN!Reader ; Sebastian Sallow × Implied F!Reader
smut below the cut! all characters aged up!!!
Sebastian Sallow
Sebastian knew from the moment he saw you in defense against the dark arts that one day, you would be his. He wouldn't have it any other way, he couldn't bear it.
So when the two of you began dating, he was very careful not to screw it up.
He was the perfect gentleman. Holding doors, pulling out chairs, insisting on paying with what little money he had. He was on his best behavior for you.
The first time you kissed him, he was floored. His mouth hung agape for a moment, eyes unable to open as he tried to gather his thoughts. Once he did, he felt as though someone had put an imperious curse on him, the way he had to resist the urge to kiss your lips raw.
From there, your relationship blossomed, and got more and more … advanced. What began as kissing in the corridor became kissing in a locked closet, which sooner or later, became kissing in his dormitory. Then kissing on his bed. That leads us here.
Sebastian would look down at you with the most love you'd ever seen in someone else's eyes as he utters the question. “May I?” He'd ask, the slightest shake in his hands as they hover above the hem of your skirt. The very moment you said yes, his lips were on yours, and his hands were roaming like mad. He seemed to be trying to commit every inch of your skin to memory, as if he wanted nothing more than to remember it all forever. Your clothes were discarded before you could even begin working on his, and he was staring at you like a man starved at a feast.
“Merlin,” He'd whisper to himself, running his hands down your sides and settling them on your hips. He met your eyes then, his own wider than you'd ever seen them.
“You're sure?” He'd ask, but your insistent tugging at his pants would tell him all he needed to know.
Omnisis Gaunt
Ominis never thought he'd feel this way for another person. He'd been horny before sure, but never for anything real. Usually it was just a passing feeling that came and went, and he dealt with it as it did. There was no rhyme or reason to it. But since your arrival at Hogwarts, this has changed. He found himself distracted in class by the smell of your shampoo beside him. Found himself unable to sleep, or worse, waking in the night with a wet spot in his boxers. It was unbecoming of him- how insatiable he'd become. So, he dealt with it the only way he knew how. On his own.
You had just answered a particularly difficult question in Charms the moment the teacher asked like it was nothing, and he simply couldn't take it anymore. The moment the class ended he was out the door and in a broom closet, rubbing against his hand as if his life depended on it.
Fortunately, you happened to see him walk inside. Spurred by curiosity and concerned for his wellbeing you decided to follow- only to see the usually so put together boy falling apart with your name on his tongue. He stopped the moment he heard the door open but it was too late. You stepped into the broom closet and shut the door behind you. Unlike him, you had the forethought to lock it behind you.
“Ominis,” You began, but he cut you off.
“What the hell are you,” but you were done with interruptions. You'd wanted him as long as he'd wanted you, and now was your chance. You leaned in and kissed him, hard, before pulling away.
“Do you want to do this?” You'd ask, voice low. His face would flush deeper than you thought possible, but after a moment's contemplation, he would agree.
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netherworldpost · 7 months
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I think about this literally every single day.
via Letters of Note who provided all text below:
In 2006, a group of students at Xavier High School in New York City were given an assignment by their English teacher, Ms. Lockwood, that was to test their persuasive writing skills: they were asked to write to their favourite author and ask him or her to visit the school. It’s a measure of his ongoing influence that five of those pupils chose Kurt Vonnegut, the novelist responsible for, amongst other highly-respected books, Slaughterhouse-Five; sadly, however, he never made that trip. Instead, he wrote this wonderful letter. He was the only author to reply.
November 5, 2006
Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:
I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.
What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.
Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!
Kurt Vonnegut
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triple-asstro · 9 months
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west coast - miles morales x reader
a/n: hey guys, this past two weeks have been quite awful. writer's block and imposter syndrome are hitting hard. it feels like motivation is slowly dripping out of me through my breath i hope this story makes your day slightly better and i love you all <333
Nauseousness. It’s a feeling everyone experienced at a point in their lives. It’s a feeling that lingers within you. Once you feel it, it’s hard to discard. That froggy feeling that stays in your throat, one that churns your stomach and leaves you overwhelmed. 
You remember tossing and turning in your bed, trying to suffocate yourself so you couldn’t feel anything else but the touch of your own skin and your blanket. Always changing your pajamas, going to the bathroom and spraying heaps of lavender mist anywhere you were planning to slam your head into. 
Nauseousness turned into frustration, cursing your own mind for refusing to infuriate itself to sleep. Everyone else in your family was asleep, so why weren’t you? You felt confined, trapped in a prison to where you can’t call for help; to be tormented by the sound of your own mind for eternity. Your room resembled one too. Magazines and clothes were strewn across the ground, your guitar propped against your bed. Its metal pegs glistened in the moonlight, along with the new callouses adorning your palms. 
Your instinct inched you to get up from your bed and reach your phone, the blue light stinging your eyes. The lockscreen with you and Miles hanging on a park bench behind one of the numerous buildings while he stared at you with lovesick eyes. The time flashed out, one twenty-six, as you groaned in annoyance. You approached your dresser, staring at the person in the mirror gazing back at you. Your hair was a mess, your eyebags grew darker with every passing day, and your pajamas were slumping down your figure. 
Fuck it. 
In one fluid motion, you flung open your drawers, picking whatever clothes grazed your hand and draping them on your body. Then, you hauled your bag over your shoulder and jumped through your window, landing harshly on the metal floor. Paying no mind, you continued rushing up the stairs, feet tapping on stair after stair. Sounds of heavy traffic and buzzing electric lights flooded your ears, even through your headphones. 
You reached the rooftop. There was barely anyone up there, except for some loose garbage and poorly-discarded receipts. Pressing the tiny button on your headphones, they played a small startup sound before playing a sweet melody in your ears. It was the song you were working on previously on your guitar, and now seemed like a perfect time to brainstorm lyrics. 
“Ain’t he a doll?
Well, he’s stuck with me,
 My heart echos his beat,
He’s a… what rhymes well with a doll?” you muttered, scribbling down on your notebook while scrolling through your photos. It’s been a tried-and-true method that you’ve been using ever since you started songwriting. You kept scrolling, spotting photos of Miles, Gwen, Pavitr and even one you captured with Hobie and his partner.  They were both sporting spiked bracelets while reading a comic book they’ve found lying around. They’d been a mentor for you, both logically and personally. 
“Oh Cass, where are you? Could really use your genius here…” you uttered. “Wait- no, I've got a better line: 
My heart echos his beat,
A tune I will always repeat, 
Yep that’s good.” 
As you closed your notebook proudly, you attempted to start the next verse, emphasis on attempt. Every tear, every scribble only drove you farther into frustration. This was supposed to be your outlet, so why was it being so annoying? 
“You write songs, why is it hard for me to do the same?
A crash cut your thought track, flying right past you and into the fire escape door. The scent of smoke filled your nose as the actual physical smoke cleared. A figure lay against the door, one dressed in a black full-bodysuit with thin stripes. The mask, which had wide eyes, was slightly tattered, showing small glimpses of its skin.
“Are you okay?” 
“Huh?” the voice groaned. His eyes blinked periodically as you approached closer. When he finally caught the sight of your face, the eyes on his mask grew wide as he darted to the right. 
��Hey, wait- Spiderman?! Are you okay?” 
He spun around, one foot stuck to the ground, and faced you, pounding on his chest before speaking again. His voice was low, comically low. “Ah yes, hello fellow citizen who I know nothing about. What are you doing here?” 
“What am I doing- what are you doing here? You just came out of nowhere!”  
“I can assure you, I am completely fine,” he said. He only took one step, before stumbling on his leg, kneeling onto the ground with a huff. 
“How about you just take a seat over here, okay?” you suggested, gesturing over to the ledge. He reluctantly followed, sitting on the ledge as his legs dangled off it. You sat down next to him, tucking your notebook behind your back. There wasn’t any chance you were going to show Spiderman your amateurish songwriting. 
“So…how’s your day going?”
“Uh..quite okay! Y’know, the usual patrols. It’s hard being Manhattan’s number one hero.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 
“I imagine, if you’re crashing into things like that on the regular. Not that you’re bad at it!” 
“Well, I don’t do that all the time…”
“Just now?”
He sheepishly faces away from you. “...Occasionally.”
“Christ, y’know you remind me of my boyfriend. Everytime I see him in the hallways at my school, which by the way has awful hallway management, he always either trips on his feet or on, get this, air. Air!” 
“...Does he always do this?” 
“Yes! It’s adorable though, and I don’t tell him that I think it is. It’s like a little game we have.” 
“I won’t, because I do not know who this boyfriend is. …Who is he?” 
“His name is Miles, and he’s…he’s something.” 
Silence echoed between you two before an idea sprouted in your head. 
“Hey, can you help me with something?” 
“Uh, sure… What is it?”
“I’m trying to write a song for him; it’s supposed to be a piece for him about how I feel, but I’m unsure about the lyrics. He makes me feel so extraordinary and it’s hard to express exactly how much I care about him.” 
“...maybe just tell him.” 
You arched your eyebrow towards him. “What?”
“Uh, what? Nothing, I said nothing!” he said, reverting back to his comical voice. You giggled in response, opening your notebook. Then, you started humming. 
Always thought of the love that was on TV,
Never thinking that could happen to me,
Tuesday nights shift Friday blues
Vision restored in your sights
His smile shines brighter
Than I could imagine
I hear the high-fives, 
Beckoning me away
Oh, ain't he a doll?
Days turn to weeks,
and the thought of you makes me scream,
You always say winnin me 
was like winning the lottery
Yeah, 
Ain’t he a doll?
Well, he’s stuck with me,
 My heart echos his beat,
A tune I will repeat, 
Miles couldn’t believe what he was hearing, was his hearing even working? He didn’t feel the world stop around him, only himself. His heart practically thrashed against his ribcage, minute tears pooling in his eyes. He was in utter awe, that's the only way he could explain it. Any remarks or witty quips died on his tongue. 
When you stopped, you felt a familiar nauseousness flood you. It wasn’t the nauseousness that curdled your stomach until it felt like hurling or the nauseousness that fogs your brain and lets the words melt onto your tongue. This, this was the nauseousness that feels weightless, hovering in the vast emptiness in your midsection while your thoughts run a mile a dozen. 
You placed your notebook down, rubbing the tips of your fingers together. “So…what do you think?” 
“It…It’s really good. Y’know, you should play that for your boyfriend.”
“You think he’d enjoy it? He’s much more artistic than me.”
“Of course I - I mean- he would, it’s amazing! I think it could be an actual song!” 
“You think so?”  
He placed his hand on your shoulder. “Yes, I know so.” 
“…you couldn’t tell that was Miles?”
“At the time, …no?” 
Hobie cackled, slapping his hand on his knee. It’d been two weeks since that incident, and since then, you haven’t been able to live that moment down. When you told Cass about your experience shortly after, they called you an idiot for not ‘catching the signs’. Looking back, you should’ve caught the signs earlier but, in the moment, you were as blind as a bat. The concert music echoed from the stage as the rockstar graced her fingers on the guitar. You watched in awe from the sidelines as sweat glistened down her forehead, flicking across the stage with a wide grin. The crowd cheered as she swung her arm down, shredding the last chord. 
Hobie’s eyes softened, his jaw slightly agape. “Aw shit, looks like I'm next.”
Cass waved across the crowd before hopping backstage, ruffling your hair with a beaming smile. Her presence was enough to send a wave of confidence through the room, one that you would climb mountains to obtain, as many others would. “What’d you think of that?”
“It was cool.” 
“I think you mean exceptional. You alright, love? Ignore the kid…”
“Yeah, I’m alright.” Cass said, shaking her sleeveless jacket. Hobie picked up his guitar, resting his foot on the step. 
“I’m on next, wish me luck, alright?” 
She gave a quick peck on his lips, his hand trailing to her neck, pushing her deeper. 
You groaned. “Ew..” 
Cass giggled, parting away from him and patted him on the shoulder.
“Alright, go on. Destroy them out there.” 
Hobie tilted down his imaginary cap and gave you a small cheeky point. He ascended onto the stage as Cass sauntered over towards you.
She trapped you in a headlock, ruffling your hair even more. “Any reason you’re being extra silent today?”
“Sometimes I’m quiet.”
“Yeah, but not this much. What’s on your mind?”
“Do you think Miles will tell me? That he's Spiderman.” 
“I think, Miles being Miles, he’ll stall to protect you. Speaking from Spider-experience. I can be there if you want to talk to him about it.” 
“Maybe… It’s just - I’m worried he’s gonna worry that I’m a new target. He’ll have to worry about himself and me.”  
Cass darted her eyes to the side like an annoyed teenager beginning their obligatory eye roll. She understood quite well the thought process. “Okay, I understand your worries, but there’s no need. You’re extremely capable of defending yourself against any brutes and remember, it’s not about what you can do to prevent it, it’s more about what you can do to pick yourself back up. Your response is much more important than your situation.” 
“Okay.” 
“Now, it looks like your band’s calling you home. I’ll see you later, alright?” 
You glanced down. The screen on your watch was blinking rapidly. “Right, see you later.”
You twisted the knob as the wind swirled behind you. You glanced behind to see a hexagonal portal, layers and layers of different hues warping in your sight. You looked back, giving Cass a small salute as you stepped inside. 
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mirakurutaimu · 2 months
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yo, I dunno if this is weird to say, but ho lee fuck. when i see that little "Mirakurutaimu is live: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA".. well boy howdy, i guess u could say, it cheer me up a whole lot sometrime.. but also fuck you. all i wanted was a bless you... not a cum mention
poem discarded. doesn't even rhyme. 0/10. see me after class
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Roses are red
Violets are blue
This doesn't rhyme but
Legacy discovering the wip drawer of a songwriter s/o and volunteering to help them finish the songs together 🥺
oh my goodness i was just listening to La Vaguelette, this is PERFECT
your work-in-progress drawer is filled to the brim with papers old and new; full sheets, folded pages, and torn corners scrawled with ink, the newest drafts on the top and the old, discarded songs that you'll never finish buried at the bottom, never seeing the light of day. it's the one drawer in your office not related to your day job, yet Foul Legacy still sees you spending hours poring over the papers, writing and rewriting and crossing certain words out with a frown. occasionally you'll grin and put down your pen, picking up the parchment to stare at the lyrics in satisfaction, a proud glimmer in your eyes, and other times you'll crunch the paper into a tiny ball and shove it into the drawer, almost like you're ashamed
the next time he catches you with a crumpled paper in your hand he gently catches your wrist, cooing softly and nudging his forehead against your shoulder, urging you to smooth out the parchment. his crystalline eye reads the smudged words written there, clicks and trills falling from his fanged maw as he does, and you tilt your head in confusion. isn't the song awful? aren't the words clunky and jagged, like a patchwork puzzle that no one wants to complete? but Legacy simply chitters, placing the paper into your hands and pushing your pen towards you. as you slowly begin to write again, he hums a tune, voice low and rumbling, chin nestled against your shoulder as he watches a lovely song take form in the ink and a small smile spread across your face again
you offer to sing it with him later, once it's complete, and your two voices fill the house in peaceful harmony
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