#gonna leave this verse up in the air for now

[keen-li]

"Forget the song...focus on your health"

Idol au, y/n is an Idol

.......

Youve been quite stressed and unwell because comeback season is soon and the finishing up of your album is killing you. You're currently working on a song with straykids. You've never written a song with them and you're really excited. You've never interacted with straykids much, only saying hellos and HIs at award shows. You've also expressed to each other how much you really want to work on a song together, which brings you to now.

You're sat on the couch as changbin sits in the chair instructing han on his verse. Today it's just you, 3racha and one other producer.

Chan's on his phone next to you on the couch as you wait your turn in the booth. The headache you've been feeling for sometime decides to remind you of its existence as a sharp throbing pain hits your head. You've haven't been feeling too well lately, nausea and constant light-headedness have plagued you not forgetting the said headache. You've been eating well. Sleeping well, well not really, but you've been eating well that should be enough.

But its not enough. You've been having them for like two weeks or more, you haven't counted. You've only been taking pills to sooth the pain, not going to the doctor assuming it will be fine and it will just go away, just like the other times. Have you told anyone? Well your friend, but you just shrugged it off as stress and told them not to worry.

But now you think it's otherwise as you feel a wave of heat rush over you even though the air in the room is cool. Your vision goes blurry as your head starts to slightly spin. You grip the arm rest of the couch and rub your temple.

Chan notices your behaviour and scrunched up facial expression and turns from his phone.

"Are you okay?" He asks

"Yeah yeah" you smile weakly at him, "I think I've just been tired lately"

"Understandable" chan chuckles and smiles at you still a little concerned as you turn and try to focus in your phone screen.

For a few minutes your strong enough to endure but as the minutes go by the feeling gets worse then unbearable unlike usual. You wish you could get in the booth, sing your verse and go home. But you're very sure that you won't be able to enter the booth and do a good job.

It's getting unbearable as your temperature rises and you feel yourself boiling, you could just strip. You try and stay a little stronger cause you don't want to embarrass yourself during your first session with straykids in the studio. You feel bad that you know you won't be able to record today and that you're gonna set everyone back.

You decide to stand and maybe go rinse your face in the bathroom. As you do you stumble a bit but it goes unnoticed. You walk through your spinning vision and mind, you can barely pinpoint where the door is. This has to be the worst you've felt ever. Your steps are slower and you begin to breathe a little deeper. You're trying your best to go unnoticed but nothing goes unnoticed when you're legs give in and you fall hitting your head on the stand by the door and finally you hit the floor. You barely feel anything cause your mind goes blank and your eyes shut, darkness your only scene.

Everyone's attention is quickly on you as chan who's closest rushes to you, lifting your head off the ground. You're not bleeding, but he notices You're unconscious and your skin is burning hot.

Changbin who was on the chair now standing by chan looks over you, concerned and worried. He pulls out his phone to call an ambulance as chan calls out your name multiple times, worry engraved in his tone. He holds you in his arms like a little fragile egg as his eyes don't leave your face. He watches your unconscious face, you look relaxed. Chan uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the little droplets of sweat on your face. Your cute face he thinks. He noticed that your weren't okay, he should have acted on his intuition when he could've maybe you wouldn't have fainted. That isn't true you would've fainted anyways cause you've been neglecting yourself.

Changbin's a little worried whether you're breathing or not, but chan reassured him that you are after he checked, multiple times.

Soon enough the paramedics arrive and take you to the hospital as discreetly as possible. Chan should've just driven you to the hospital himself, but he knew they'd say no to him.

Chan, changbin and han were worried sick about you. Chan has been in contact with your friend through your phone. And when they heard that you were awake and in recovery they were relieved.

"Why are you still worried I'm fine" you say through the phone not sounding fine to chan at all.

"I'll have to come visit you myself to believe" he says softly "cause you don't sound fine."

You laugh through the phone and it lightens chan's heart to hear you laugh.

"You wanna come visit me?" You ask seriously

"Yeah, I care." You blush at that.

"Anyway the doctor said I can be out in a week" you inform, cause your situation was bad you had to stay a little longer.

"After that we can work on finishing the song" chan sighs as you say that.

"Don't worry about the song"

"Right now focus on your health. Get better the song can wait" he comforts you and you feel a little less guilty now.

"The boys said, they hope you get better and their gonna said you some gifts"

You smile even though he can't see it.

"That's not necessary, but thank you"

"Try telling that to a worried changbin and han" you both laugh at that.

"They wouldn't take no as an answer" you say wanting to cough but holding it in so that chan doesn't hear.

"Anyways" his voice lowers as he runs his hands through his hair, though you can't see it.

"What do you want me to bring when I come see you?"

............

Wrote this cause I'm awfully sick🤧

#bang chan #bangchan fluff #bang chan x reader #bangchan x reader #bangchan x y/n #bangchan imagines #idol au #christopher bang #bangchan fanfic #straykids fluff #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz fluff #skz bang chan #straykids bangchan #fanfic

[lottiecrabie]

galatea, take one – matty healy

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.”

#who had third random thing on their lottiecrabie bingo card #i refuse to set this in matty's cement shrine Btw so imagine any other place please #to my rileybear<3 #galatea take one #matty healy imagine #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy #matty healy fic #matty healy fanfic #the 1975 fic #the 1975 smut #smut #writing #imagine #fanfiction

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Miguel Feeling Guilty For Accidentally Scratching You

Miguel “Spider-Man 2099″ O’Hara X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, Miguel has nightmares, suggestive themes, slightly spoiler-y, steamy

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) I wasn’t expecting to go see Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse and leaving with a new crush. But here we are and I could not NOT write something for Miguel. Yep count me amongst the fangirls. So here is my offering to this specimen of a Spider-Man (I’m pretty sure it’s the fangs and claws. I’m a sucker for those not gonna even lie.). Hope the rest of the fangirls enjoy it! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Mild Spoilers Below for Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse

Miguel’s story broke your heart the first time he had finally opened up and told you. It’s what broke the ice that remained between you both and let your relationship move a little further along. Deep down you knew you could never replace the family he once had and you never wanted to. But you did want to help him through the pain and find joy once again. Though life brought bitterness there was light in every situation. You wanted to be that light for Miguel. 

You stroked your fingers through his hair as Miguel let himself be lulled into sleep. He’d been restless here lately and he couldn’t sleep well. He put so much pressure upon himself that you were afraid it would drive him mad. The exhaustion wasn’t helping him either as the bags under his eyes only deepened. Plagued by nightmares, you had to beg for Miguel to try and get some rest. He finally; but begrudgingly, gave in and now he found himself wrapped up in your warmth floating away as sleep began to drag him under. You continued to stroke his hair, until you too fell asleep.

Miguel felt himself in a familiar place, his family playing and laughing in the park he brought them to regularly. His daughter scampering around, her giggles echoing in the air. He turned around, taking it all in when the world shattered around him with the sound of screams. Blood splashed the playground equipment and once again his family was gone. He held the lifeless form of his little girl, screaming his pain and anguish to the darkening sky.

Miguel thrashed, waking you from your slumber. His claws and fangs glinting in the moonlight. Without thinking of your own safety you grabbed onto the struggling man. Pressing him tightly into your chest and calling out his name.

“Miguel,” you called while tears trailed down your cheeks. “Please wake up it’s a dream!”

He snarled before jolting awake, finding you in the darkness. With his cheek pressed against your breast, his chest heaved as his sweat soaked into your shirt. Though he couldn’t see your face he could smell the salty tears of your grief in the air.

“I’m alright now,” he grunted trying to pull away but you wouldn’t allow him.

“Stop for a minute,” you ordered. “Just relax and then I’ll let you go.”

He gave in, letting himself lay in your arms while listening to your steady heartbeat. With your soothing pulse, he began to calm down. When you were finally satisfied you loosened your hold. Miguel couldn’t see your face, but the tension was evident in the stiffness of your body.

“Bad dream,” he said before reaching for the lamp. 

You grabbed his hand, stopping him from turning on the light. If he saw what he had done to your cheek, it would only make the situation worse.

“What’s wrong,” he asked while trying to free himself from your grasp.

“We don’t need the light on,” you replied. “Just try to go back to sleep. You’re exhausted Miguel.”

“I can’t right now, just let me turn the light on.”

You still held tightly, causing a slight twinge of annoyance to shoot through Miguel, until he scented a twinge of blood in the air. The metallic tang was unmistakable and his heart sank. Using his strength he ripped away from your grip and switched on the lamp. The light revealing what you didn’t want him to see. Your cheek had three slices in the skin, the wounds dribbling blood. Though not life threatening, Miguel felt guilt crushing him. He never wanted to hurt you with his powers and he feared he had just scarred you because he couldn’t control his mind. Reaching up he smeared away the crimson, only streaking it worse on your beautiful skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Miguel growled the rage at himself barely contained.

“Cause I knew you would torture yourself with guilt,” you sighed.

“I’m a monster.”

You sighed again, “Here we go again. You are not a monster.”

You cupped his cheeks, making Miguel look you in the eye. His eyes darted from yours back to the wounds he caused, still dripping blood.

“You are my handsome Miguel O’Hara and these,” you pointed to your face, “will heal. Stop beating yourself up and get some rest you’re going to kill yourself if you don’t.”

He finally relented knowing that you were right. He was tired of feeling so burdened and weighed down by his failures. He removed the distance between you both and captured your lips with his. You melted against him, his large arms encircling your figure, letting him press you against him. Miguel grew desperate at your taste as he couldn’t get enough. His fangs elongated in his excitement, eyes drawn towards your wound once more. You were about to tell him forget it when his tongue darted out quickly, lapping at your blood. You shivered at the  caress of his tongue against the skin of your cheek. But with his help the blood finally stopped. 

Before you could thank him, Miguel captured your mouth once again. Letting himself fall into the trance that only you could bring. He moaned laying you back down without breaking apart from you. You held tightly, letting him do whatever he needed to ease himself back down. You buried your fingers in his thick hair, scratching at his scalp. Miguel deserved so much love as he had lost so much and you wanted to be that person for him. You kissed him back, not wanting him to do all the work until once again he was satisfied. Without a word he collapsed back on his side of the bed, his chest heaving. You nuzzled in closer, laying your head on his bare chest. Your body heat and gentle touches finally had Miguel falling back into sleep. The only difference this time was the nightmares left him alone this time, letting him get the much needed sleep he needed. 

#Miguel O'Hara X Reader #Miguel O'Hara / Reader #Miguel O'Hara #Spider-Man 2099 #Spider-Man Across The Spider-Verse #Miguel O'Hara Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing

[mazeinthemiroh]

Hi! First, I want to say I really love your writing ❤️

Can I request an Ateez reaction to catching their S/O singing and dancing to an Ateez song (maybe right when its their part as well)? ❤️

ateez catching their s/o singing/dancing to their songs

genre: insanely fluffy like idk what to do with myself, obviosuly louds of crack as well because it's funnnnnn

word count: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of being drunk in woo's

a/n: i took the liberty of doing a little scenario for this ask because i thought it was just super cute and funny! hope you enjoy <3333

hongjoong

hongjoong lent against the door-frame and grinned to himself as he watches you getting ready to go out. oblivious to your boyfriend watching, you swung your hips to the rhythm of the music, humming to yourself.

it was only when 'TO THE BEAT' started playing did you gasp in excitement, clearly in your own little world as you braced yourself to do hongjoong's rap.

he held a laugh back as he continued to watch, listening to your.... attempt at rapping his verse. he couldn't tell whether he found it adorable or utterly hilarious. once you had finished your boyfriend's verse, you swirled proudly around in a flourish, before coming face to face with your grinning boyfriend.

"nooooo how long were you watching," you whined, covering your face with both of your hands in embarrassment. you swatted a hand at his chest as he threw his head back with laughter.

"long enough" he answered in amusement, still smiling as he pulled you in for a sloppy hug as you tried to pull away playfully, "hey, you may not be the best rapper, but you're definitely my favourite!"

seonghwa

you were waiting for seonghwa to join you at the park. you had set up a little picnic date for the both of you, and the park was very nearly empty, with the occasional dog walker or cyclist enjoying the fresh air.

on waiting for your boyfriend to make an appearance, you decide to play your summer playlist out loud, since you wouldn't be bothering anyone near you.

swaying gently to the music, you smile and pull down your sunglasses as 'Eternal Sunshine' started to play. the song definitely suited the weather; the sun's rays shone persistently down, kissing your glowing skin gently.

you sang softly and gently to the melody you knew so well, watching the breeze tickle the leaves of the trees. you didn't hear the footsteps of your boyfriend behind you, clearly entranced by the scenery.

"you sound so pretty," his gentle voice spoke as he sat down next to you, his hand finding your waist. you give him a shy smile in return.

"not as pretty as you, park seonghwa" you grinned and leaned into his touch, "so pretty that i will forgive you for being late!"

yunho

you were waiting for your boyfriend to get home from work. he always arrived a little bit later than you did, and so you had a few hours to be able to do whatever you wanted before spending time with him.

right now, you had your music blasted and echoed around the corners of the house. you thought you would get ahead on the household chores. you usually did the vacuuming and dusting while yunho did the ironing and washing up.

so there you were, dusting the over the surfaces, when you heard 'WIN' start to play. you smirked to yourself, your body moving to the beat of the song.

"heyyyyyyy, we are gonna win" you sang, your body doing what you thought were the correct dance moves (you knew they probably weren't.) when it came to the dance break at the end though, you twerked like your life depended on it. it just felt right!

and yunho was glad that he came home when he did to see you like this, the dance machine you were! your flustered face told was one that is now permanently ingrained in his memory as he laughed hysterically.

yeosang

you had the tendency to sing in the shower. when you were alone in the house, you sang at the top of your lungs. but when your boyfriend was there, you tended to tone it down a bit.

there you were in the shower again, your phone just outside and turned up just enough for you to hear it over the pouring water.

as soon as 'HALAZIA' started to play, you gasped this was your moment. grabbing the bottle of shampoo and grasping it in your hands like a microphone, you weren't aware how loud you were actually singing.

you did in fact wake your boyfriend up out of his light sleep. he smiled slightly at the sound of your voice and went to investigate some more, his curiosity overtaking him.

he didn't have to press his ear up against the bathroom door to know what you were singing. he could hear you attempt to sing his lower verses before clearing your throat. he let out a tiny giggle, an adoring smile growing on his face as he left you to sing your heart out.

san

well, you got bored when waiting for your boyfriend to get changed after his dance practice. you loved supporting him, but he took so damn long to get showered and ready afterwards.

as you waited for him, you had the whole practice room to yourself. you thought that you might as well make use of it.

so getting up, you played 'HALA HALA' on the sound system. the music bounced off the walls as you stretched half-heartedly, getting ready to do the choreography you had seen so many times.

you didn't notice your boyfriend come in, an amused look on his face as he watched your intense, concentrated expression. he was impressed that you remembered so many moves!

it was only until the very last move where you were supposed to grab your head and twist it like you were cracking your neck that actually caught you off guard; your neck actually made a loud crack sound and you thought you'd died for a second.

san was concerned at first but as soon as he saw you were okay, he burst into laughter at your perplexed and shocked expression.

mingi

getting ready in the mornings was fun with you because you always played music in order to get ready efficiently and on time. it also gave you a bit of a boost to start the day.

mingi was still in the shower when 'Rocky' started playing. you were just putting your underwear on, wiggling your butt to the music. this was your favourite ateez song yet, it was hard not to sing and dance along to it.

you didn't hear your boyfriend come out of the shower so you kept getting ready, fluently belting out the lyrics as if your life depended on it. but your favourite part was yet to come.

mingi could hear you singing and grinned, peering his head through the crack of the door as you shouted "let's start the second round, fix on!" not able to contain his laughter, he chuckled loudly at your immense enthusiasm. at first, you didn't notice but when you did?

"mingi!" you pushed the door fully open to your boyfriend almost in tears "why are you laughing oh my gosh." you huffed and folded your arms over your chest. "you're just jealous that i'm a better rapper than you!"

wooyoung

you don't know how you ended up in a karaoke bar with your friends. perhaps your friends pressured you into singing. or perhaps you were too drunk to be affected by insecurities you once had before.

whichever it was, all you knew is that you were on the mini stage, your friends the only ones really paying attention and cheering you on loudly.

your chosen song? 'WONDERLAND', of course. thank goodness your boyfriend wasn't here to see you make a complete fool out of yourself, and all whilst singing one of his own songs, right??

well, i wouldn't get your hopes up because mid-song, your charming boyfriend wooyoung had entered the same bar with a couple of his friends. he was laughing hysterically at your off-beat singing and unnecessarily sexy dance moves. it was too funny not to record this on his phone.

when your... special performance ended, you could hear an all-familiar shrill laughter somewhere in the club. when you turned in that direction, your eyes met with your boyfriend's. and you knew at that moment he was never going to let you live this down.

jongho

the producers at kq entertainment would sometimes let you into the studio and mess around, just because you were friends with them as well as the partner of their beloved maknae. you did get certain privileges for being jongho's significant other and you were going to take advantage of that!

at one point, when things weren't so busy, you asked if you could have one of the studios to yourself while waiting for your boyfriend to finish his vocal practice.

you thought you would have a little vocal practice yourself. shoving the headphones over your ears, you could only hear yourself now. you hummed to yourself, wondering what you wanted to sing.

'Utopia' came to mind, and without a second thought, you started singing into the microphone. you were impressed by your own vocals, particularly when it came to jongho's lines.

you didn't notice him even enter the producer's booth on the other side of the glass, but he could hear your beautiful singing. he watched and listened intently, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.

#ateez #atz #kpop #ateez reactions #ateez reacts #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #hongjoong #kim hongjoong #yunho #jeong yunho #san #choi san #jung wooyoung #wooyoung #choi jongho #jongho #song mingi #mingi #kang yeosang #yeosang #park seonghwa #seonghwa #atz scenarios #atz imagines #atz reactions #kpop reactions #kpop reacts #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines

[sturn777]

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴍᴀꜱʜ! ᴘᴛ2

chris sturniolo x naomi west

outfit | pt1

warnings - smut, no protection, mentions of male being hard, fucked dumb, male x female smut, never written smut before so sorry if its bad, cant think of anything else

tags: @st7rnioioss @its-jennarose @timmyscomputer @kriissy4gov @liz-stxrn @sunrisemill @mattssluttywaist @riasturns @mx0qin @junnniiieee07 @alorsxsturn @annasturn0lo

Chris had left the tent whilst Skies prepared to perform on stage - so to waste time him and Matt decided to go watch Playboy Carti.

As the two of them walked up, the song Carti was jumping around to finished and he began announcing something through the microphone. “Yo! I wanna bring somebody out for this song, Naomi get your ass out here!”

As he said the girls name fans screamed from the mass of a crowd - Chris smiled as he would be able to watch her. He didn’t listen to Naomis’ music religiously but he still appreciated it.

He watched as she jogged out onto stage, now in a different outfit than the joggers she was wearing when he had first met her. Matt puled out the camera and recorded the stage for a minute before shutting it off again. Allowing Nars to pull him off to another section.

Chris bopped his head to the music, watching as Naomi danced around laughing with Carti. He listened as the beat changed up, watching as she grinned and prepared for her verses.

He stood off to the side as the crowd bounced up and down to her bars, the rhymes flowing smoothly. The large crowd sung along word for word.

As there was a gap in Naomi’s verse, Carti rapping for a while she turned around and began to twerk - earning screams to ring throughout. Chris could feel the tent appear again, the way her back moved and-

Gross, you just met her Chris.

He watched as she stood up, laughing brightly before rapping her shared verse. Dancing around stage with Carti once again.

——

Chris couldn’t focus the entire time he was on stage, barely getting the lyrics out his mouth as he jumped around stage with his idol. It didn’t help he had scrolled through Naomis instagram before hand either.

After saying goodbye he, Matt and Nars checked what was happening - hearing an after-party was happening. They decided they would go and leave if they didn’t like it.

In the ride there Matt pulled the camera out, allowing Chris to narrate. As soon as his brother put the camera back down a ring came from his phone, and a smile appeared on his face from the notification.

Naomi 💋🤍: you going to the after party?

Chris chuckled at the emoji’s Naomi had added to her own name earlier on.

Chris 😍: Yeah are you?

Naomi 💋🤍: yeah js wondering if u wanna meet 🙃

Chris 😍: Bet, I’ll tell you when I get there

He put his phone back into his lap and grinned, doing everything in his power to not think about the girls instagram posts.

——

As they walked into the house, music blared loudly throughout. Chris quickly texted Naomi and she told him she was near the stairs.

“Matt, I’m gonna find the bathroom. I’ll find you whenever.” he shouted into his brother’s ear who just nodded and walked off with the others.

Chris wandered through the crowds, occasionally dapping up somebody who knows him. He noticed the girl near the stairs, sharing a blunt with Carti before he took the last hit and walked off with the girl that was wrapped around his arm.

He watched as Naomi blew the smoke out of her mouth, it twirled gracefully before evaporating into the air that was hot from the amount of bodies.

He exhaled, gaining confidence before tapping onto Naomis shoulder. “You good, ma?” he teased, looking into hed low and droopy eyes. She nodded with a grin. “So what you tryna do?” he smirked.

One of his arms came and rested on the stair railing, trapping Naomi in slightly which she couldn’t help but blush at. She shrugged confidently, “Up to you baby.”

Chris’ eyes flickered over her features before he leaned in, his nose brushing hers before their lips connected roughly. His hands quickly found the girls hips whilst Naomis wrapped around his neck. “Wanna find a bathroom or something?” Naomi suggested, pulling away slightly out of breath.

Chris nodded, leading the girl down the hallway as she giggled. He pulled her in, locking the door after them and immediately connected their lips once again.

Stepping forward he caused the girl to step back, leaning her up against the wall. His hands found her hips again, one tapping her ass.

Taking the hint Naomi jumped up, straddling his waist as he pressed her into the wall. His lips travelled down her jawline and under her ear - hitting the sweet spot to which her back arched into him.

“Please, just” Naomi panted, a hand steading herself on his shoulder and the other tugging on his wavy hair. Chris nodded as he understood. Sliding her dress up and unbuckling his belt.

“Use your words ma.” he instructed, pausing his sloppy kisses, waiting.

Naomi whined at the loss of contact, giving in to speaking. “Fuck me please Chris.” the brunette nodded, muttering a ‘yes ma’am’ before going back to marking her neck with dark bruises.

Using a hand he slid his jeans off along with his boxers, looking at the girls screwing up face. He wish he could see that more often. Her panting up again the cold tiles, the marks he left scattered along her neck even dipping down to her covered chest.

“You sure ma?” he asked once again, earning a rapid nod from the girl. Using his hand again he moved the lacy thong out of the way of Naomis heat, seeing it soaked already.

Chris kissed the girl again before pushing himself inside, earning a loud moan and grunt as they adjusted to each other. Chris waited until Naomis grip has loosened on his shoulders slightly before continuing. “Tell me if you need to stop ma.” he grunted, pushing himself further inside causing her to nod her head with a whimper.

Naomi dug her head into his neck. He was way bigger than she expected and she was already fucked dumb. Chris smirked at the thought of that, thrusting faster each time he went, hair nails gripping harshly at his shirt.

The bathroom became hot, the small mirror and window steaming up as the air felt tight and had the smell of sex. Chris’ thrusts slowly began to become sloppy as both him and Naomi reached their ends.

“Imma, ‘m…” Naomi slurred slight, Chris nodding encouragingly as he too felt the pit in his stomach.

“Whenever you’re ready ma.” he soon felt her tighten and relax, riding her through it before releasing his own onto her thigh. “You’re so pretty, you know that?” he panted, pushing his hair back and chuckled, her following. Chris kissed her shoulder before grabbing a washcloth from underneath the sink.

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #jake webber x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #summer #lyrical lemonade #matt sturniolo fanfic #get to know me #masterlist #matt #matthew sturniolo #nick sturniolo fluff #nick sturniolo fanfic #nate doe #sturniolos #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #smut

[bowandcurtsey]

{1700 event}

tw: smut / nsfw / lemon / minors dni / unchecked works

okay I'm excited for this one because it's the ABO verse (alpha / beta / omega) And we have imprinting AND SMUT HOLYYYYYY. I'm kinda rusty at smut so please, just forgive me.

Settings: modern world / ABO universe

Licht x f! reader

You took a deep breath of the fresh air and enjoyed the gentle sea breeze. Finally, you were starting your long awaited solo vacation.

A long island iced tea in one hand and your phone in another, you lay on your beach chair and decided to take a video to upload it to your socials.

Someone walked into the frame of your video, covering the view of the beach.

“Oh, pardon me.” He quickly hastened his pace.

His gentle voice forced your attention to break away from your phone to the direction of the voice.

At the moment you both made eye contact, you felt sparks shivering down your entire body.

A handsome young man, pale skin with ash grey hair pulled back into a tiny man bun, stared right back at you with golden orbs. Despite his lean build, his stare gave you such authoritative vibes that it make your knees go weak.

He was an alpha, no doubt.

He wasn't sitting too far from where you were, so you stole glances every now and then, checking him out.

You sneakily tried to take a picture of him and wanted to send it to amy, your best friend.

bbg.. this man's sooooo fine, check him out

A figure loomed over you, shading you from the sun. You jumped up from your seat seeing that it was the man you were texting Amy about.

"hi." his eyes maintained contact with yours, making your heart race.

"h-hi..?" you squeaked under his intense presence, you could feel some changes in your body and it was starting to get hotter.

"you've been checking me out for some time, do I know you?"

A wave of embarrassment crept up on you as your tongue turned gibberish; unable to produce the right words to say. Damn this alpha being so sleek and confident about himself!

"My name's Licht, what's yours?"

"y/n. sorry I mistook you for someone else." you said lamely.

"oh. alright." he shrugged, and you thought that was it, he was gonna go away and everything was just gonna be over.

But he pulled in closer, his breathe warm on your cheeks, whispering into your ears,"but it seems I have imprinted on you, so I'm not gonna let you go so easily now, omega."

imprinted?? on you? is that even possible? You figured that he just wanted to get into your pants and have probably done so before in the past.

He smiled a smile that looked so soft and gentle on the outside but left shivers running up your spine.

"y-you're crazy!" you quickly pushed him away before you lost control of yourself and got up. You gathered up your things hastily but as you were about to grab your bag and go, Licht held onto your hand.

"I thought you said I was fine? in your text to your friend?" he smile again, this time you swore you saw a little glint in his eyes.

"This is invasion of privacy!" your face was feeling hot.

"I mean, you just took a picture of me without my permission, you know?" he gave you a little wink, sending butterflies running amok in your stomach.

"can i treat you to dinner, y/n? as an apology for everything today. I genuinely want to get to know you."

"No, i'm good." you said and left for the public showers.

---------------------

God had to be seriously playing a damn prank on you when you went on heat while in the showers. You made sure to wrap yourself up even though it was a hot day out to suppress your scent as much as possible.

But as an omega, you always gave off very strong pheromones while in heat and it always attracted unwanted alphas.

"hey pretty doll, where are you headin? need a ride?" a redhead came up to you the moment you were out. "you're giving off a really sweet scent~"

"go away!" you barked at him

"fiesty, but thankfully, we redheads love a little spice, baby girl."

"leave her alone," Licht appeared once again.

"hey, I got to her first." the redhead tried to size licht up.

With a light push, the redhead was thrown into the walls as you stood there, mouth agape. He turned around to look at you with the same mysterious smile again.

He grabbed your hand this time, with a firm hold, as if he's not gonna let you go unless you followed him.

"I'll send you home." he said after seating you into his tesla.

He leaned over to buckle your seat belt for you, his close presence make your body shiver from his alpha scent, your legs involuntarily crossed each other so you could clamp your thighs together tightly to get some sort of ease from the painfully growing heat in your groin.

You couldn't help but steal some glances at the man in the driver's seat. His long slender fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, his eyes that seemed to hold the sun peeking from underneath the sunglasses.

Even from the jacket he was wearing, you could see that he was well-built, despite his lean figure. And his crotch-

There was a tent.

Right, he was an alpha that just imprinted on you and you were an omega in heat right now. Your scent was overbearing in this small space.

You were touched at his level of self control; a normal alpha like your ex would have just pounced on you, whether you were willing to or not. This man still managed to make small talks with you, but all you could look at were his adam's apple throbbing up and down his throat, thinking about how sexy it was.

You peeked at his "tent" a few times, it was already massive from under the fabric, and you couldn't help but wonder about the size when it was unraveled..

You felt your inner thighs getting sticky from your lustful thoughts and uncomfortably switched legs to cross.

Licht's hands gripped onto the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He stepped on the accelerator hard and reached your place quickly.

"t-thank you." you unbuckled your seat belt.

"Welcome. Be careful of Alphas when you're on your heat."

"why did you imprint on me?" you asked suddenly and quietly. You really wondered, how did this handsome, perfect man could ever fall for someone like you.

"falling in love and imprinting on someone is not really by choice, I just have an urge to protect you, mark you and mate you." he said it flatly.

The idea of being marked and mated with Licht sent your body into overdrive, the heat in your arousal becoming unbearable as your breathing started to get laboured. You curled your toes and clenched your thighs tightly together.

Licht leaned in towards you, one hand reaching out to press against the door on your side, caging you in the passenger seat, "why does it seem that you liked what I just said?"

"n-no..." you mewled.

"you sure..?" he leaned closer to your ears, voice turning into a whisper, "don't think I didn't notice you looking at my dick."

He stroked the tip of your earlobe with his tongue, causing you to whimper.

He gave a small chuckle hearing your whimper and placed his palm on your knees, drawing small and gentle circles on your skin, "your body is giving out so much pheromones that it's almost choking me, sweetheart."

His touch made your body yearn for a release so much that the pain in your below started to get more unbearable. Your mind was getting hazy and you felt like you were about to pass out.

Curse you and your omega type, your bad timing heat AND your indecent thoughts on this man. Your hand reached out to tug on his forearms, "h-help me.."

His teeth gritted together as he swallowed slowly, pulling all of his strength together to not tear off all your clothes and rut crazily into you at this instant.

His hands glided up your knees and up your thighs as your other hand fist onto his shirt. He reached to your inner thighs, feeling your arousal on them.

"You're that soaked? or you've already cummed from your dirty thoughts of me?" he pulled back a little to question you, but your face was already bright red with your mouth slightly agape.

Your reaction made Licht yank you into a passionate kiss, pressing you down against the leather seats. His fingers finally reached your crotch, trying to get access.

"Help me out here, baby girl. Spread out for me."

Your hand let go of his shirt and reached out to pull your fabric to one side as you parted your legs so he could reach into you easily.

"so wet, jesus." he commented as his fingers touched your soaking hole.

You moaned impatiently as you felt the tip of his fingers brush against your entrance. Your hand that was on his forearm pulled him closer to you, begging for intrusion.

He put two digits into you with ease, filling up your cunt with his long slender fingers. Your walls gushed against him, swallowing and clenching against his fingers.

His thumb swirled against your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you, forcing out cries and lewd moans from your throat. Your hips tried to rub against his hand, desperate to find your release.

You finally found the knot growing in your stomach and your moans started to get louder, not giving a care in the world about anyone that was outside of this car.

Licht suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, earning a cry from your mouth.

"Sorry sweetheart, I can't take it anymore," he unbuckled his pants and freed his member.

You stared. It was indeed huge.

He wrapped his fingers around himself, giving his penis a good few pumps. You could see his arousal forming at the tip of his sword.

"come," he beckoned for you to sit on his lap, "take all you want sweet thing."

Your gaping hole wanted him, seeing his member made you want to rut crazily on his cock.

You crawled on top of him with all your strength, straddling him, hovering your entrance above his dick.

Licht pulled your thighs further apart, so your hold opened wider as he slowly guided you to lower yourself.

His tip pierced through your entrance, electrifying your senses, pushing against your gummy walls.

You slowly but impatiently sat on him, swallowing his huge cock to it's hilt, whilst your body froze and your mouth was slightly agape in silence at the intensive pleasure.

You finally sat down fully, mewling at his tip pressing against your deepest spot. You could already feel the knot in your abdomen arising again as you naturally rocked against his hip.

"That's it, good girl." he coaxed you, as he reached into your shirt and underneath your bra to fondle with your nipples.

"ahh~" you cried out again, "cumming.. m cumming!"

"mhmm, good girl, cum by yourself on my dick,"

you bounced up and down, letting his tip kiss your cervix again and again until you felt a wave of pleasure tipping over.

Licht felt it too; your walls clamping so tightly against him, your bouncing getting weaker, so he steadied you with both his arms and rutted mercilessly into you.

The stimulation and the sudden speed sent you into your climax suddenly, bursting all kinds of pleasure nerves in your body as your body froze for seconds.

Your walls pulsate against his dick violently as you felt fluid squirting out of you. Your mouth was in a silent o while you were stuck in your euphoria.

You screamed at the overstimulation when he continued pounding into you as you came down from your high.

"bear with me.." he said through gritted teeth as he continued his rampage.

With one last hard thrust, he emptied himself into you.

You collapsed against him, catching your breath as he stroked the back of your hair.

"Be my mate and let me mark you." he said in between breaths, "I want to knot you over and over so you can have litters of my kids."

#aine's 1700 event #licht black clover x reader #black clover licht x reader #licht black clover #black clover licht #black clover headcanons #black clover imagine #black clover x reader #black clover scenarios #black clover fanfiction #black clover imagines #black clover smut #smut #lemon

[fungifanart]

Subzero Sonata

Characters: Male reader, Yuu!reader, Vil, Epel, Lilia, Malleus, Silver is mentioned

Word Count: 888

CW: Violence. The reader can sing. Also, the reader can use magic. (I'd recommend not thinking about it too much)

Notes: *Slaps Word document* This thing can fit SO much self-indulgence in it! I wrote this as part of a TWST Halloween collab organized by @twistedchatterbox. So, uuuhhh, sorry I'm late. I've been working a new job recently on top of class, so I haven't been able to sit down and write much.

(In case you were wondering, this is the song)

--------------------------------------------------------

You feel your determination solidify inside of you as you face down an army of possessed students and as the group splits up to take on each threat, you move towards the crowd and call out to the others, "I can help you guys with crowd-control, but I need you to cover me!"

"What? What are you gonna do??" Epel questions.

"Hey Vil! Remember how you said I'd make an excellent opera singer?" You ask as the man in question looks at you with wide eyes, "Well, you're about to get your wish!"

—--------------------------------------------------------

The sound of a ringing bell echoes throughout the hall, as if signaling the coming of the frigid wind that is now blowing across it.

The Prefect kneels in the center of the protective circle Vil and the others have formed as a flurry of ice and snow swirls around him and the first notes of a song echo from seemingly nowhere.

The music builds as the flurry disperses into cold mist, revealing the Prefect in a completely new outfit, going from a white shirt, white sweatpants and a white faux fur shawl, which Vil had only begrudgingly approved of, to a fine-tailored suit reminiscent of an opera virtuoso's accentuated with delicate snowflake patterns along the sleeves and rims, all topped-off with a pure white parasol.

Vil stares in awe as the Prefect begins to stand up and speak as the music swells, "Good evening, masters. Is this the new recital stage?" He says while giving a small bow.

The music gains more orchestral instruments and fully begins as the Prefect closes his parasol and walks forward, "Oh my! Such a large audience! I'd better jump into the chorus then!" He says before clearing his throat and releasing a powerful high note in time with the music that sends out a wave of pure ice magic into the air, forcing nearby ghosts to abandon their host bodies and leaving any stray ghosts in its path on the ground, frozen solid.

The Prefect keeps singing as the air grows colder and Vil turns back around to focus on fighting. However, as he does so, he sees more blasts of ice magic being shot at the possessed students with each new note the Prefect hits.

Vil tries to keep his focus, he really does, but hearing the Prefect’s voice repeatedly go up and down musical scales with such elegance and precision that he didn't think the other man possessed makes it extremely difficult.

However, with the Prefect’s help, they've managed to hold their own so far, and with Vil getting only slightly distracted by the beautiful singing happening behind him, just for the Prefect to stop singing as the song progresses to the next verse. Hearing this, Vil glances behind himself to ensure he's okay and sees a burst of icy mist call forth large snowflakes that dance around the Prefect as he stands firm with perfect poise and posture before opening his mouth to continue singing.

Things are seemingly going well as the Prefect sings…until Lilia takes notice and jumps completely over both defensive lines made by Silver and Vil's groups, razor-sharp nails trained perfectly on the Prefect’s neck.

However, before anyone can react, the Prefect reaches an elongated high note that he aims directly at Lilia, buffeting him with a concentrated storm of ice magic that sends him flying back towards Silver's group, covered in frost that hinders his mobility to ensure he won't be making a jump like that again.

The Prefect’s song continues as the biting cold encroaches on the enemy with each note, forcing more and more ghosts out of their mortal hosts and eventually drawing Malleus's attention, who sends a barrage of green fireballs at Vil's group from his place at the pipe organ, all of which are neutralized by the Prefect’s ice.

Finally, the song reaches its climax, which is signaled by the Prefect’s voice going up an octave, causing Vil to have to resist the urge to stop fighting and pull up a chair just to watch the rest of the performance. Which he may well be able to do at this point with how many possessed students have been saved now, but Vil decides not to leave anything up to chance and continues fighting as the ice and frost on the floor creep their way up the platform where Rook's group is still engaging with Malleus, the heat from his fire attacks being the only thing that stops them from overtaking him.

However, any remaining heat in the air quickly disappears as the Prefect reaches a note so high for him that it causes Vil's heart to skip a beat while sending a torrent of sub-zero temperatures across the entire hall, liberating the last of the possessed students and coating every surface in the grand hall with a solid layer of permafrost.

The song ends with one final high note from the Prefect before he holds his parasol above his head once again as his outfit reverts back to what it was before.

And, despite his disappointment about the Prefect’s outfit, Vil can only stand there, enthusiastically applauding the other man's performance and silently hoping that his makeup can sufficiently mask the heat he feels blossoming on his face in spite of the overwhelming cold encompassing the area.

#why is this mushroom writing fanfics? #twisted wonderland #twst #twst yuu #twst mc #twst vil #vil schoenheit #twst x reader #twst x male reader #vil x reader #vil x male reader #twst epel #twst lilia #twst malleus

[persephonewritessometimes]

Moon Song / part three: and you might be dying

Summary: Hotch and Y/N are on a break...for a few days. Things get complicated when they're on a case together.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x (AFAB) Reader

Word Count: 4058

Warnings: BLOOD, GUNSHOT WOUND, slight PANIC ATTACK, DRINKING, distressed!reader, arguing, toxic!hotch, slightly toxic!reader, lots of emotions, infidelity, mentions of cheating/adultery

Playlist: Link

This work is meant for readers aged 18 and over. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

-2 Weeks Later-

         Our “break” lasted all of a week. He caved first, showing up at karaoke night at the bar to hang out with the rest of the team, but I knew why he was there. He corners me as I come out of the bathroom.

         “Y/N, can we talk please?”

         “I’m not sober enough to talk to you right now,” I mutter, but I don’t hesitate to follow him when he grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd and out the door into the chilly late November air.

         “I can’t do this.”

         “Do what? Date me or not date me. Because you give mixed signals sometimes.”

         He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t not date you. I need you. You…you make me happy.”

         Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Hotch, we both know how this ends. We fuck, then we fight, then we both get hurt and agree not to do this again, and guess what, we do it again. I’m getting tired of this. Unless you leave Haley, I’m not interested.” I turn and head back inside, head now pounding from the confrontation and alcohol running through my body.

         “You okay?” Penelope asks when I make my way back into the bar.

         “Yeah, just hot.”

         “Yeah, you are girlfriend!” She shouts, and I let out a laugh.

         “I’m gonna sing a song, I think.”

         “Please, grace us with your voice, Y/N! I’m getting sick and tired of listening to middle-aged men butcher every song.” Emily groans. JJ agrees with her, and I make my way to the woman running the karaoke machine. I ask if she has a specific song, and she says she does. It queues up and I get on the small stage, taking the mic out of the mic stand. The opening chords start, and I sing:

         “Step one, you say we need to talk. He walks, you say sit down, it’s just a talk. He smiles politely back at you; you stare politely right on through. Some sort of window to your right, as he goes left and you stay right. Between the lines of fear and blame, you begin to wonder why you came. Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.” I’m singing with all the emotions that are running through my body, singing about him even though he’s probably left already. I get to the second verse, glancing over at the table our team had commandeered and almost stutter when I see Hotch standing there. He’s watching me with an almost sad expression. I watch as JJ and Reid look at each other, then at him. He doesn’t notice, just continues watching me. I finish the song and the bar is in an uproar, asking for an encore, which I politely decline and hop off the stage. As I approach the table, Hotch blinks hard a few times, like how I do when I’m holding back tears.

Oh. Oh. That’s when I decide to take pity on him. I need him. As much as I want to deny it, I need him too. And he needs me too.

“I’m heading out for the night, walk me home, Hotch?” He looks at me, surprised, but nods, offering me his hand after I slide my coat on.

The walk home is quiet, neither of us wanting to disturb the temporary peace that had been established. I unlock your door and say,

“Listen. Okay. I need you too. But I will not be your side piece. If you want me, you have to leave her. I’m sick of feeling dirty and used.” He’s quiet, looking down at me.

“Okay.”

I shake my head in surprise. “What?”

“I’ll leave her.” He must see the confusion written all over my face because he says, “Come on, don’t look so surprised. We’ve been seeing each other for eight months now, obviously, I would come around to the idea at some point.”

“I – huh, what the fuck is going on right now?” I ask, flustered by his answer and the alcohol.

“Now, can I come inside or not?” He’s smiling now, looking for approval. I nod, still in disbelief. I’m happy, but I feel like the other shoe will drop at some point. I’ll take what I can get until then though.

-3 Days Later-

         “Okay team, we’ve got a case. Multiple murders in Front Royal, all young women. No other connection other than the fact they’re all in their mid to late twenties.” Hotch says, handing us each a file.

         "Great,” I mutter. I just love when I fit the description.

         “Front Royal? That’s like only an hour and a half from here.” Reid says. “Curious that there have been multiple murders only an hour from our headquarters.”

         “Exactly. There were two weeks between the first and second kill and only two days between the fifth and sixth. We need to catch this guy before he devolves.” Hotch says. “We’re driving, no need to fly. We leave in 30 minutes.” And with that, he leaves the room.

         We all get up, gathering our go-bags and anything that would be of importance, and we’re ready within 15 minutes. As we wait for Hotch in the parking lot, Reid comes over to me.

         “Walk with me?” I nod and follow him as he walks a little way from the group.

         “You and Hotch okay?” He asks, side-eyeing me. “You seem happier than usual.”

         “Gee, thanks for noticing. And yes. He told me he’s leaving Haley.” Reid looks at me in surprise now, eyebrows raised.

         “Oh! That’s um – that’s good?”

         “Why did that sound like a question?” I ask, grabbing his arm.

         “It’s just…do you think that it’s the best decision? I’m not trying to make assumptions here, well, maybe I am, but do you really think you and Hotch are good for each other? One minute you’re fighting, the next you’re in love. It’s just a lot, emotionally speaking.” He trails off towards the end.

         “I – don’t know,” I whisper.

         “Has he told you he’ll leave Haley before?”

         “Never directly, but yeah.”

         “So why is this time any different?”

         I have no answer for that, but Hotch shows up and we all pile into two cars and head off to Front Royal. I’m with Hotch, JJ, and Emily in the backseat. Rossi is driving the other car, and Derek and Reid are with him.

         “Sorry, you got saddled with us girls,” I say, poking fun at Hotch.

         “Yeah, well, after the last time you drove, I don’t exactly trust you in any vehicle.” He jokes back.

         “It wasn’t my fault! There was a squirrel in the road, and that light pole came out of nowhere.”

         “Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night, Y/N.” He smiles at me, and I feel butterflies in my tummy. Despite that, I still think about if Reid is right or not. I’m lost in thought most of the drive there, making a pros and cons list in my head. My phone chirps. It’s JJ.

         JJ: What are you thinking so hard about up there?

         Y/N: Just something Spencer said to me. It’s not a big deal.

         JJ: You look like you’re about to explode from how hard you’re thinking.

         I let out a quick laugh, Hotch glances at me, confused.

         “Oh, it’s my sister.” You say, waving the phone.

         Y/N: How dare you make me laugh.

         JJ: Someone’s got to! Now take a deep breath, you can think about whatever you’re thinking about later. Okay?

         Y/N: Okay mom.

         JJ laughs.

         “Okay, are you two texting each other? Because you can just talk, we’re all in the same car.” Emily says a laugh in her voice.

         “Wow, way to call us out Emily!” I say.

         Before long, we pull up to the police station and pile out, Hotch introducing himself to Chief Montgomery, a tall woman in her late forties, long brown hair graying towards the roots. She’s gracious and welcomes us in, giving us the conference room to work the case. We get set up, each getting assigned tasks. I’m tasked with organizing the information as it comes in, stuck at the police station.

         “Come on, Hotch, everyone else gets to go out and actually do something and I’m stuck here.”

         “Yes, you are. I won’t risk sending you out in the field when you’re in his target demographic.” He lowers his voice. “I can’t lose you, okay?” I just nod at that, resigning myself to the conference room as he leaves.

         It’s slow for an hour or so, then the rest of the team comes in waves with loads of information. It’s like a race trying to put it all together and finish it. We’re getting close when Hotch’s phone rings. He excuses himself to answer it. I don’t know why, but I trail him out of the conference room.

         “Hey, sweetie? What’s up?” My stomach drops. “Mhmm, yeah, of course. It should only be a couple of days and then I’ll be back home. I miss you too. Love you.” He hangs up and turns around to see me standing there, arms crossed, pissed as all get out. “Oh fuck. Y/N, it’s not, just, please - ”

“I thought you were going to leave her,” I say quietly, still coming to terms with the fact that I am not enough for him. I don’t think I ever will be.

He sighs, “Y/N, it’s complicated.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? What does that make me, your mistress? I can’t keep playing this game Hotch.”

“I care about you, Y/N. You have to believe me.”

“Then fucking show me! Why are you still with her? She treats you like shit and you know she’s cheating on you.” My voice gets louder, and I swallow the shakiness down.

“And what am I doing with you?” He hisses, getting in my face. “You’re as willing a participant as I am, we’re both to blame here.”

I look up at him, letting the fire in my eyes shine bright. “You never should have kissed me.” He blinks, and regret flashes over his face. “I will not be someone you fuck around with just to get back at your wife. I’m a person too, I have feelings too.”

“What do you want me to do? She’s the mother of my child, Y/N. And last time I checked, you aren’t.” I take a step back as if he had physically pushed me. He should of, it would have hurt less. Tears fill my eyes; I say nothing as I turn and walk back into the conference room.

“Oh, fuck no, I’m not letting this one slide.” JJ spits out, walking out of the conference room and slamming the door behind her. “How dare you?” I watch as she points a finger in his face now, his own treatment turned on him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t act stupid, Hotch, we all heard you. I think half the fucking precinct heard you. What a nice show you put on for everyone there.” JJ stares him down and I watch Hotch as he starts to look sheepish. Everyone is staring at the scene going down right outside the not-very-soundproof glass.

“I - ” He starts.

“She miscarried your baby. Two weeks ago. At her birthday party.” The color drains from Hotch’s face. “Just thought you should know.” With that, JJ turns and walks back into the conference room.

I’m not mad she told him. It would have come out eventually. I feel a hand on my shoulder, it’s Rossi.

“I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. I’m over it now.” I say quietly, starting to dig through the mounds of paper we had acquired. Everyone watches. “Okay, does everyone want to stare at me or do we want to catch a murderer?” I spit out, and after that everyone jumps into action. Hotch doesn’t join us, I glance back and see him sitting in a chair, just staring at the wall.

-

I run into JJ in the bathroom, and she says, “Hey, I’m sorry I told him, I just couldn’t see him treat you like that.”

“It’s okay, JJ. He would have found out eventually. He looks shellshocked though, do you have any smelling salts?” I grin at her.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” I ask, confused.

“Crack jokes after everything. It’s like, you’re so full of light and life and laughter despite everything. I don’t know how you do it.” She says, shaking her head as she grabs some paper towels to dry her hands.

“I don’t know. I guess, yeah, I’ve had some shitty things happen to me, but there are so many good things that are gonna happen in the future. I focus on that.”

“You are so different from him.” She says, looking me over. “I’ll never understand it.”

“Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever understand it either. We just click, yeah, we fight, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Ever. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by emotions. Reid… asked me earlier if I think Hotch and I are good for each other. I’m still not sure of the answer, but I know, that wherever I go, somehow, my path always leads back to him. That has to mean something, right?” I smile at her.

“You deserve to feel loved, Y/N, without restraint and without regret. I hope someday he figures that out.” A lump forms in my throat.

“Yeah, me too,” I say, and we exit the bathroom.

We walk back into the conference room and see everyone in their bulletproof vests.

“While you two were gossiping in the bathroom, we found a possible suspect. Get your vests on.” Rossi says, and JJ and I rush to get our vests on. We pile into the cars, this time I ride with Rossi, Reid, and Derek. Reid rides in the back with me and pats my hand as we speed away.

“You okay?” He whispers.

“I’m fine. Let’s just catch this guy so I can go home.” I say. We pile out of the cars downtown, it’s seedy here, with lots of broken windows, graffiti, and alleys.

“Everyone split up in pairs, Y/N you’re with me,” Hotch says, his gaze leaving no room for argument.

We split off in pairs, JJ tagging along behind Hotch and me, but keeping a healthy distance away.

“Why didn’t you - ” He starts, and I cut him off.

“Hotch. We are not doing this right now! We have something more important to do. So please, shut the fuck up, and let’s do our job.” I stride past him. “I’ll take the left side; you take the right.” I give him no time to argue and turn down the alley on the left. It’s damp here, and as I round the corner, I hear the click of the safety being turned off on a gun. I slowly turn around to see a gun leveled at my head. “Johnathan, you don’t want to do this.”

“No, no, I think I do.” He says, cocking his head. Everything slows down, it feels like I’m stuck in a vat of molasses – there’s no getting out of this for me. I glance at the hole in the building right beside us. “No one’s coming to save you. It’s just us.”

“I know why you did it.” He pauses.

“All these years women have rejected you, so what better thing to do than deal the ultimate rejection – killing them. Then they’ll never reject you again, will they?” I’m scrambling for anything at this point.

“You think you’re so smart because you’re in the FBI, you’re just like every bitch I’ve killed. Pretty, young, and clueless.” He takes a step closer; I swallow hard and close my eyes. If I’m going out this way I’m not going to watch while it happens. I hear the trigger pull and flinch waiting for the impact – it never comes. Instead, I hear a second gunshot and I’m shoved to the ground, and open my eyes to see the unsub dead, and Hotch unconscious on the pavement.

“No, no, don’t do this to me, Hotch. Please, I can’t do this without you. I’m sorry, please just wake up.” I’m shaking his shoulders, but he doesn’t rouse. I start methodically checking for a gunshot wound, and see blood blooming across his lower abdomen. “HELP! PLEASE! WE NEED HELP HERE! OFFICER DOWN!” I scream, pressing my hands into his stomach to try and stop the bleeding. JJ rounds the corner first.

“Oh fuck.” She says, but everything sounds like I’m underwater. I’m sobbing, begging anyone who is in the great big sky who’s listening, please don’t let him die. Don’t let him die. Don’t let him die. He coughs and groans, a hand coming up to grab my wrist.

         “Hotch? Oh my god, thank god. I thought I lost you.” The words fall out of my mouth. He grimaces, still lost between the lines of conscious and unconscious.

         “I love you.” He whispers and then loses consciousness again.

         “No, no, no, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!” I’m chanting. The paramedics show up and move me out of the way to compress the wound and get him in an ambulance. I get in the back with him, holding his limp hand despite his blood covering them.

         We barrel our way towards Warren Memorial Hospital, Hotch never regaining consciousness the entire ride. They start a blood transfusion; my hands are shaking as they ask me questions. I answer them as succinctly as I can, never taking my eyes off him. They wheel him immediately into surgery when we get there, and I’m not allowed in the OR. The rest of the team shows up a few minutes later, Derek staying behind to take care of the unsub’s remains and give a report to the police. I sit in the ER waiting room for thirty minutes, not talking to anyone, not letting anyone touch me. Covered in his blood and mute, I sit. Waiting for any news.

         “Anyone here for an Aaron Hotchner?” A doctor asks, walking out. I stand up quickly.

         “Me. I mean, we are.” I say.

         “He’s out of surgery, bullet came out easily, just needed some minor repairs and stitches. One person can come back and see him right now, he’s still unconscious.” I glance back at the team.

         “Go, Y/N. It should be you.” JJ says, and tears spring to my eyes. I follow the doctor through the maze-like hospital until he drops me off at Hotch’s room. He’s lying on the bed, his head slightly inclined. He looks so pale against the stark white of the hospital sheets. I walk over, pull up a chair, and take his hand.

         “You are sick, and you’re married, and you might be dying,” I take a shuddering breath, “But you’re holding me like water in your hands,” I say nothing more, simply resting my head on the bed, and I fall asleep. I’m awoken a little while later by JJ sticking her head in the door.

         “Y/N. Haley is on her way up. You need to go.” I nod and get up as quickly as my still sleep-addled brain will. I kiss the back of his hand before placing it gently back on the bed, I turn to go, but I’m not fast enough. Haley is standing in the doorway watching me with narrowed eyes.

         “So, you’re the bitch who’s fucking my husband.” I freeze – I was so close. I almost made it out, through the doorway that she’s now standing in, blocking my only exit.

         “I’m sorry,” I say plainly, and she blinks. “If you move, I’ll be gone for good. I promise.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes.

         “I assume the bullet was intended for you, and he jumped in front of you?” She asks quietly.

         “Pushed me to the ground is more like it,” I say, toying with the bandage on my elbow that I had landed on.

         “He must really be in love with you to do that.” Now it’s my turn to blink in surprise. I’m not sure if she meant to say that out loud. “Look,” she sighed again, “We’ve been on the rocks for a while now. I’m just glad he has someone to go to, even if that’s not me.” She steps aside and I make my way toward the now-free doorway. She grabs my arm before I’m out. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at him. Don’t let him punish you for what happens between us.”

         “It’s a little too late for that,” I say. “Our…relationship is far from healthy. It’s a fucked-up mess if I’m being honest.”

         “So, he’s managed to fuck up not one, but two women.” She gives me a sad smile and releases go of my arm.

         “Can I ask you something?” I say timidly.

         “I’m an open book. Unlike him.” She smiles again.

         “Do you love him?” She pauses in contemplation.

         “I think a long time ago, I used to love him, but no, I don’t love him anymore.”

         “Then why are you still together?” My voice cracks on the last word and her eyes soften.

         “Habit? Familiarity? Hell if I know. I think just because of Jack. But god knows what kind of influence he’s getting when his parents are too busy yelling at each other to pay attention to him.” She pushes her hair behind her ears nervously. “I don’t know where to go from here.” A rare moment of vulnerability from the woman who had just called me a bitch a few moments ago.

         “There are only two ways to go: forward together, or forward separately. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, I make it out of the room, ignoring JJ calling my name and sprinting to the elevator, making it barely inside before I’m breaking into gasping sobs. I run into Rossi while leaving the hospital – I’m sure a look a mess, covered in blood, eyes puffy and red, bewildered.

         “I need a break.” I gasp out, and he regards me with sad eyes.

         “However much time you need, Y/N. Come back when you’re ready. If you want to come back at all. No one would blame you if you left for good.” He would.

         “Thank you. Now give me the keys.”

         “I don’t think you’re in any state to be driving, Y/N.” He says kindly.

         “I’ll take her,” Reid says, stepping out from beside one of the cars. “You’re FBI-sanctioned taxi driver is here.” He says, extending a hand to me. I let out a broken laugh and take it, Rossi hands him the keys and we barrel back towards Quantico. I call my sister on the drive.

         “I’m coming home for a little while.”

         “Oh, thank god. How soon?”

         “I’ll be on the first flight I can.”

         “Is everything okay?” I can hear her worried tone through the phone.

         “Everything is…fucked up. I just need some time away.”

         “Of course, Y/N. Let me know when your flight is, I’ll come with Bobby to pick you up from the airport.” I hang up the phone, looking at my hands. Hotch’s blood has dried under my nails. I start to feel like I’m suffocating like the air is crowding in my throat.

         “Reid. Pull over at that gas station please.” He doesn’t ask questions, just immediately puts the turn signal on, pulling into the closest parking spot. I sprint inside and into one of the bathrooms, turning the water on as hot as it will go, and sticking my hands in the stream of water. I don’t notice the heat. I feel numb. I’m gasping, wheezing, trying to get my breath out as I’m scrubbing relentlessly at my hands desperately trying to get the blood off of them. My vision starts to black out and I stumble back, into someone’s arms. It’s Reid.

         “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it all out, I’m here.” I turn and bury my face in his chest, trying to remember what it felt like before I met Hotch.

---

part four: smoke signals missing my heart

---

TAG LIST (want to be added? click here!): @morgthemagpie @rousethemouse @hausofwhores @stxlemate @ssamorganhotchner @art-and-thoughts @sebastiansstanswhore

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #moon song hotch

[nhasablogg]

Now gracefully strung by your hand

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Characters: Derek/Spencer

Anonymous said: Prompt (fits in your existing ‘verse if you want): Spencer Reid on a low-effort case getting distracted by the others' hands while they work bc he’s thinking lee thoughts. Mayhaps Morgan or one of the others notices and does something about it 🥰

A/N: References this fic!

Words: 1.2k

Derek noticed more now. It was thrilling, in a way, to look back on past interactions and pinpoint exactly when Spencer could think of nothing but tickling, even for just a fleeting moment. And Derek knew he probably wasn’t misreading the moments, especially now that he knew exactly how Spencer was like when the thought suddenly gripped him. The lee mood, as he’d learned it was called (and which his usage of always made Spencer embarrassed in the best way). He probably didn’t associate handcuffs with it, being in the FBI and all, but Derek could remember one particular instance where he’d been joking around with him, way back when, and had asked to cuff him to see how well Spencer would survive if the need ever arose.

“I’ll be gentle,” he’d told him, and Spencer had blushed in a way Derek hadn’t yet understood.

“You thought I was gonna tickle you, weren’t you?” he asked him one day, having remembered it.

“No.” Spencer was bright red then too, but he seemed honest as he met his gaze. “I thought of it, but it- it wasn’t just that.”

“Oh?” Derek grinned. “Was it me holding you down over the table that distracted you?”

Spencer shifted in his seat, eyes now on the wall behind him. “You’re terrible, Derek Morgan.”

“Mm, you love it.”

The most innocent and captivating display of Spencer being caught up in this type of mood Derek noticed accidentally. Spencer seemed to be zoning out, staring at something for so long that Derek was certain he wasn’t paying attention to what he was watching, until he realized it was hands. And then he kept noticing it. Spencer’s gaze innocently on Hotch’s flexing hand pointing to a map. Spencer’s gaze following Emily’s fingers leafing through a case file.

He found him in the conference room one day, where Garcia was showing him something on the computer. Clicking, pointing, tapping, all the while Spencer was watching the blur of her wiggling fingers. Derek could imagine what he was thinking, caught up in it without meaning to, all wide eyed, all innocence.

“Were you watching her hands?” he asked with a laugh and Spencer jumped, face pinkening so quickly in that delicious way Derek adored.

“She has nice nails,” he said, and maybe Derek would leave it at that had he not understood what exactly that meant.

“Mm, they’re long. I bet it would tickle like crazy if she ran them over your belly.”

“Derek, oh my god, not here.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Derek let out a laugh. “I do know why. I just like seeing you get flustered.”

Spencer huffed, but there was no coming back from that blush.

*

“Do you ever watch my hands?”

Spencer didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. “Sometimes. A lot of times.” He flushed and averted his eyes. “Most times.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t help it.”

“Well, you do know exactly what these hands can do.”

“Derek.” He said it softly, more out of habit than a plea for him to stop. They were alone. Spencer could indulge.

Derek too.

“Do you picture them running up your spine?” Derek demonstrated by stroking the air, index finger slightly extended, moving slowly over something invisible. “Or maybe-” He flipped his hand over and wiggled his fingers. “-gently stroking your chin? Tell me.” Spencer was bright red now, but he wasn’t looking away. “Do you ever tickle yourself and pretend it’s me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. It pleased him. “Even when you’re around.”

Derek faltered. “But you could just ask me.”

“I know, I just-” Spencer shrugged, pulling at his sleeves. “Sometimes I feel silly asking. And sometimes I don’t really want the entirety of it anyway. Sometimes just the idea is enough.”

“I see.” Derek had to admit the image of Spencer lying in bed with Derek watching tv and slowly tracing his fingers over his own sensitive skin was kind of hot, to put it boldly. “If you ever want me to be quick and gentle, I can. Or if you want me to air tickle you.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I just-” Spencer let out a laugh, something soft and slightly panicked. “I’m still not used to talking about it so casually.”

“I can make an event out of it, don’t worry. July 16th. Caught Spencer looking at Garcia’s hands.”

“Shut up.”

“July 18th. Got him to admit he tickles himself.” Derek laughed as Spencer shoved him, fingers automatically going for his ribs. “Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to steal your job.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You love it when I’m annoying.”

Spencer huffed, but didn’t deny it. Derek reached out experimentally and stuck a finger into Spencer’s neck, earning a giggle, shoulder rising to stop him. “H-hey.”

“You really think I was gonna leave you alone? I’m in a ler mood.”

“Oh my god, please shut up-”

“Shh, let me tickle you. Please.”

Spencer was still giggling from the fingers on his neck. “F-fine.”

“Thank you so very kindly for your sacrifice.” He pulled his hand free, wiggling the fingers in front of Spencer’s face. “Watch them.”

“Derek.”

“Just for a moment, and imagine what they will do, okay? Because they love the attention.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. Derek knew he would probably kill him one day. He was fine with it.

*

Watching Spencer watch hands calmed Derek down, too. He noticed it on the jet one day, feeling anxious and exhausted after a draining case, and so he’d turned toward Spencer like he usually did and found that Spencer was already watching him. Or watching his hands, gaze flickering between them and Derek’s face and while he did a good job of not flushing Derek caught the telltale sign of him being embarrassed in the way his body shifted. He wondered if Spencer longed for him to wash the week’s hardships away with his fingertips on his ribs, or if he was simply so used to watching certain parts of people that it had become a habit.

Derek relaxed under the gaze either way, wiggling his fingers experimentally and being rewarded with a kick to his leg as Spencer looked away without a word. Hotch sent him a questioning look as Derek laughed, seemingly out of nowhere.

Most times he caught Spencer watching other hands, though. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel jealous about it, but he didn’t. He found it cute. And entertaining. Thanks to the case which had brought them together in the first place everyone knew that tickling was a topic for Spencer. A sensitive topic, maybe because he’d gotten captured by the tickle UnSub, or maybe because he’d known more about the topic than they’d expected him to. Derek hadn’t talked to anyone else about it, because frankly he respected Spencer too much, so he wasn’t sure if anyone had pieced it together. But no one really tickled him, other than Derek. Maybe they found they couldn’t after the case. Maybe they felt it was Derek’s job.

But Spencer kept watching, maybe not on purpose, maybe dreaming more than paying attention. But each time Derek caught him earned him a blush. And how could Derek not love that?

#tickling #ticklish!spencer reid #moreid #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #n writes #now gracefully strung by your hand

[romancomicsnews]

My Adventures with Superman brings Hope back to the Man of Steel - REVIEW Ep 1 & 2

*Spoilers for the first two episodes, now streaming on Max!*

Growing up, Superman always came off to me as a very nothing character. White bread. Good for the sake of good. Not funny like Spider-Man, not dark and cool like Batman, and too powerful to be in any real danger.

He was just there as the original cape and tights. He was important because he did it first, but that didn't make him interesting.

As I got older, and I read and saw him in more media, I realized the fun of Superman comes from the kindness. The hope he brings to those around him and that stable positive force is essential to the world and the Justice League. While he is the most powerful person in the room, because of who Clark is and his values, he's the person you fear the least.

He's gonna save your cat, he's gonna stop that burning building, and he's gonna get the bad guy, as unharmed as possible.

This is where the DCEU lost me, and where I think most Superman content does. That hope, that kindness, the gentle giant that Clark is has somehow been lost in translation.

While Henry Cavill is a great actor and can play the hopeful side, setting the tone of the movies as so dark and serious drained Superman of his charm.

Superman and Lois has done a good job bringing Clark's hopefulness back in moments, but the Zack Snyder DCEU feel coupled with the CW drama still keeps Superman and Lois pretty dark and dire.

While Hoechlin is a fantastic Superman, the world he inhabits has kept me wanting a true representation of the character I love.

Which is why My Adventures with Superman is such a breath of fresh air.

Let's start with Jack Quaid. Using such a pure sounding soul like Quaid to embody Clark was a stroke of genius. While he is known for playing good-ish characters like Hughie in The Boys and Peter Parker/ The Lizard in Across the Spider-Verse, Quaid does not coast on his past charms for Clark.

This character equally feels fresh, different from Quaid's past characters, and like a kid who is transitioning into the Man of Steel.

Whether he is struggling to flirt, scold Lois for lying, or fight a robot, Clark feels genuine, kind, and strong.

As Superman, Clark does not change into a scary, super powered god. Instead, he is trying to help the bad guy, clean up the messes, and rescue kittens from trees. While we only get a glimpse of his true Superman form at the end of episode 2, it is enough for me to get so excited that I'm typing this all out. This is the Superman I've been waiting for!

Rounding out the cast are Alice Lee and Ishmel Sahid as Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen.

Lee has a quality not always perfectly emulated for Lois in my opinion, which is spunk. Moxie. She is so clearly the leader of the team for the Daily Planet. Couple that with her comedy timing and clear chemistry with Quaid, this may be the blueprint for Clark and Lois in the future.

While usually Lois is a made journalist by the time Clark shows up, starting them at equal footing is an interesting development. I'm hoping they use this to show just how quickly Lois Lane can rise the ranks against others.

While Sahid is utilized the least so far, conspiracy theorist comic relief Jimmy is equally charismatic and likable. He is a character I think the DCEU and CW didn't quite understand the value of, but this show clearly does. My hope is this character goes on to go on as wacky adventures as he does in the comics.

The chemistry between the three characters is very strong for the first couple of episodes. So much so I don't know if I'm more excited for more Lois and Clark romance, Clark and Jimmy bafoonery, or Lois and Jimmy investigating.

While the villains leave something to be desired in the first two episodes, the inclusion of overarching villains Deathstroke, Amanda Waller and General Lane lead me to believe they hope to build out this universe, at the very least into Batman.

If that is true, I am so in.

I can see a world where we have 3-4 different anime shows introducing key members of the Justice League, all leading up to an anime style movie where they fight Brainiac, with Jack Quaid's Superman at the center of it.

But perhaps I am getting way ahead of myself.

All in all, My Adventures with Superman has me excited for Fridays to come. It has heart, it has comedy, and it seems to understand the Last Son of Krypton better than most pieces of media.

This should be the blueprint for Superman Legacy.

A Superman who brings donuts for all his coworkers.

If you'd like to support me you can:

Follow me at www.facebook.com/romancomicsnews

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#my adventures with superman #superman #jack quaid #man of steel #kal el #zack snyder #dceu #dc universe #anime #anime and manga #alice lee #lois lane #lois and clark #jimmy olsen #superman legacy #james gunn #krypton #justice league #deathstroke #slade wilson #task force x #suicide squad #ishmel sahid #adult swim

[steves-strapcollection]

Gerry's WIP Wedneseekend!

This was hugely helpful for me last week in just getting Words Down for the strap!verse which has now become an actual fic rather than a series of smutty one-shots oops so now I'm gonna do this to focus on my fics for Lex's Summer Challenge!

DISCLAIMER: I am only calling it WIP Wedneseekend because it stresses me out to "limit" myself to one day and I think it's fun!! Please do not feel like you also have to do a whole thing too if you're tagged or see this.

The Rules

I post the two prompts I claimed as a poll

Y'all vote in the poll and send me asks requesting a snippet of the fic of your choice

For every vote a fic receives, I will commit to writing 100 words on that fic. For every ask I receive, I will commit to writing an additional 100 words. (So if one gets 10 votes, and 5 asks, that's 1500 words)

At the end of the weekend, I will have completed fics to prepare for posting by the end of the month!

I will post a snippet of what I wrote and tag everyone who requested a snippet!

The Snippet - "Can I braid your hair?"

“Can I braid your hair?” Eddie blinked over at Steve, eyebrows high on his sweaty forehead while he held his hair up off the back of his neck. He could swear he felt heat pouring out of his head. Summer had descended on Hawkins with a vengeance, as if in retaliation for the brief handful of weeks in the Spring when the portals to a frigid hell dimension opened up and attempted to take over their world. Granted, summers in Hawkins tended to be hotter than Satan’s taint, especially around Independence Day, but Eddie figured he was allowed to be noisy and bitchy about it if he wanted. He almost died—first at the hands of a town full of angry, scared hicks, then by a swarm of demobats—and this was his first summer officially free of Hawkins High, the other frigid hell dimension in that shitty town. If Eddie had to spend the summer in the sweaty armpit of America because of dumb bullshit like “recovery” and “physical therapy” and “being under observation,” he was going to bitch and moan and throw all the tantrums he wanted. It helped that all the stupid bullshit (like recovery, and physical therapy, and being under observation) meant that Eddie got to spend a lot of time with Steve outside of the apocalypse. They were both lucky enough to be Under Observation together, courtesy of both of them being the favoured chew toys for the demobats. From there, Steve just started staying close to Eddie, taking him to and from physical therapy, helping him with his exercises at home, coming over when Eddie was in too much pain to get up to use the bathroom, let alone get up and locate painkillers and take them. It had been a while since Steve had to help him on a particularly bad pain day, at least one that extreme, but Steve still came over almost daily. Usually, they would just hang out and eat junk food, smoke a bit of pot sometimes, usually watch whatever movie Steve brought over from work. Sometimes, Steve would suggest they go for a drive and they would just do that, make like they would leave completely. “We could get out of here, never look back.” Worded like a comment, spoken like an oath. “You wanna run away with me, Stevie?” Tone teasing but lined with a hollow desperation. The air in the Beemer would change the moment that question fell from Eddie’s lips, the way Steve’s arms flexed as he squeezed the steering wheel captivating. Most of the time, Eddie doesn’t hear an answer from Steve, other times he hears a quiet but teasing, “Of course, Eds.”

The (no pressure) Tags

These are mostly just so people can vote if they want ;p

@scarcrossdlvrs @patchworkgargoyle @stobinesque @inairbinad @legitcookie @thefreakandthehair @sidekick-hero @yournowheregirl @judasofsuburbia @wynnyfryd @steddieas-shegoes @pizzaqueen @starryeyedjanai @starrystevie @scoops-stevie @lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus @xenon-demon

#wip wednesday #wip weekend

[da-awesom-one]

This Is The Thanks I Get?! (Jack Frost Version) - Chris Pine

*DISCLAIMER: These lyrics are fan-made lyrics of a song created and owned by Disney for a character that is owned by Dreamworks. No money is being made off of this. This was solely written for recreational purposes.*

sing = siiing

-

Jack shook his head in disbelief, and then shook it towards the moon. "That's it. I've had it! I've had it with your silence, and I've had it with everybody and their mother giving me the cold shoulder!" He ran a hand through his hair, scoffing again. "I mean, what's it gonna take?!"

Frost began to count off from his free left hand. "I've started snowball fights, not that they ever let me in on them considering I'm invisible! I've even frosted some windows over to write them messages, and lemme tell ya, those were not the reactions I was hopin' for!"

"I mean, what do I gotta do, huh?!" he groaned, throwing his arms up into the air. "Do I actually have to spell it out for them, o-or sing it out loud to get them to hear me?!"

He was grimacing when he said this. But as the words registered in his head, his expression became pensive as he considered his remark.

In truth... he hadn't tried that.

Jack rubbed his chin in thought as he pondered this new development, his eyes darting left and right like clockwork. Was he really that desperate? Would he really stoop so low? Debase himself in such a way?

...It turned out that yes. Jack was that desperate.

"...Oh, what the heck."

(VERSE 1)

I can’t help it… if no one can look my way.

It’s a curse, I tell ya! 

Can’t stop it no matter what I do or say!

Peep the name, son! It’s Jack Frost!

I’m THE rebel without a cause!

I’m free-spirited! My own kind of boss!

HOW COME EVERYONE WANTS ME TO GET LOST?!

“Ahem! Lemme explain…”

I’d give the cloak off my own bare back,

If you really needed that.

I’d be the first one to volunteer myself!

If your igloo were to crumble, or if you were in trouble.

(PRE-CHORUS)

I’d cancel all your school days.

Be the friend that suggests fun stuff.

Take blame for all your messes,

And I’d be there for you when things get rough!

I’d give, and give, and give, and give!

You’d think it’d be more than enough…

And all I really want is to get in on the fun.

(CHORUS)

But this is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

This is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

For wanting to be seen by them! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

Looks like I’ll get ignored again. (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

Since this is the thanks I get!

(VERSE 2)

It’s so stupid.

But that’s the least I could say.

There are more words that are well-suited.

Like "cruel," and "wrong," and "unfair," and "lame!”

The gifts you gave me? I’ve shown them off!

And you still won’t talk? Are you blowing me off?!

Um, do you think I won’t come up there?

‘Cause I won’t hesitate to drag your butt down here!

(PRE-CHORUS)

UGH! I made a hundred snow days last year!

C’mon! That’s a high percent!

And still you won’t let me be seen?

The disrespect I just underwent!

You get my hopes up, and tear them down.

But, really, what do I expect?

It’s been like this every year ever since we met…

(CHORUS)

So this is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

This is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

For expecting you to really listen! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

Did I just get run over by Sven?! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

RRRRGH, THIS IS THE THANKS I GET?!

(BRIDGE)

I didn’t wanna do this.

I SWORE I’d never sing this!

But I’m really runnin’ outta options here,

‘Cause I refuse to be unseen for another year!

A ballad, a jingle, a melody, a glee?!

ANYTHING to finally be seen!

To this low I’d really rather not stoop to,

But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!...

*Cough* “Where was I? Oh yeah, right…”

(PRE-CHORUS)

Been at this for a century now,

So don’t think I’ll be going away!

C’mon, now. Say something, man!

Gonna leave me hangin’ here without a say?

Well, whenever you wanna chat-

Yeah, that’ll be the day.

Honestly? Something tells me I’m gonna be there, either way…

(CHORUS)

‘Cause this is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

This is the thanks I get! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

For thinking today’d be different! (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

I guess it’s the thanks I get? (Da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da-da, da)

*Sigh.* This is the thanks I get!

“So thanks! Thanks for nothing…”

-

Been mulling over this ever since Disney released the song weeks ago. Figured I'd try my hand at a Jack Frost version, and I definitely love how it turned out. Might even add it to my fic, hence why I added some passages of it before the song.

Also added to the chorus, putting in extra lines. This was inspired by the Booth To Screen video of This Is The Thanks I Get?! where it ends with Chris Pine singing the whole first chorus before ending with how he harmonizes in the third line of the 2nd and last choruses. So in this version there is a bit of a pause between verses. Look it up on YouTube, and you guys will see what I mean.

Keep in mind, Jack's mentality here is "This Is The Thanks I Get for thinking today's gonna be any different than yesterday." This is set during his 300 years of isolation, so again, he's trying all sorts of things to get seen. The spectrum is far more different then the villainous version depicted by King Magnifico. There are points in the song, especially the middle where Jack loses his cool. Though not shown in these lyrics, I’m the story setting, he’s gonna try to calm himself down, which is mostly what he’s struggling with in during the Bridge. Whereas Magnifico doesn’t, gets himself continuously worked up before he does something he can’t take back.

Another example of the difference between the two is at the end when, instead of screaming in rage like the king, Jack just reins it in, and just sings the last verse.

Long story short: both characters allow themselves to go insane here. Difference here is Jack remembered to make sure he came back. Magnifico didn’t.

Either way, the song's extremely catchy, and I can find myself singing to either version. Hope you guys enjoyed reading or singing it in your head.

PS: for those wondering, the Sven Jack mentioned in the song is Sven the Reindeer from Frozen. 😉

#this is the thanks i get #chris pine #wish #disney wish #jack frost #the guardians of childhood #rise of the guardians #jackson overland frost #jackson overland #disney #king magnifico #dreamworks #dreamworks animation #writing #songs #lyrics #fan lyrics #jelsa #jelsa fanfiction #jack x elsa #snowtp #snowtpnetwork #jelsa haven

[telomeke]

Current Tag Game

Tagged by @colourme-feral in this post – thanks dearie! 💖

Current time: 9:59am (when I started this! it's now much later but I'm not gonna re-write...).

Current activity: Had a work deadline last night so tidying up the aftermath (deleting unwanted files, etc.).

Currently thinking about: How the project submission for work went. Annoyed that I skipped gym this morning just in case there were last minute changes to the project submission and we'd have to re-submit today; but now that's not needed I'm missing legs day. Also thinking about munching on something extra because breakfast was too light (hardboiled eggs, grapes and blueberries – all originally meant as a post-swim snack, re-purposed to become breakfast since gym was canceled). Maybe fry up an omelet and sausages, or grill some salmon? 😋 Or shall I just munch on some creamy Whittaker's milk chocolate since lunch will be soon and anything heavier might spoil it? 🤔  

Current favorite song: I don't know if they qualify as favorites, but songs will enter my brainspace and then swirl around in there for a while, refusing to leave. So I'm constantly listening to them (on YouTube, not Spotify; don't have a smartphone) and/or singing along in an effort to exorcise the earworm. At the moment the playlist in my head is:

I Don't Think That I Like Her Anymore (Charlie Puth)  Charlie constantly amazes me with his superhuman ability to churn out catchy melodic turns and unusual aural takes on percussion sounds for his backing rhythms (e.g., the light switch in Light Switch). This song continues with his quirky stylings, and I'm loving the pounding bass coming in to frame the heavyweight sock-it-ta-ya message of the song's chorus after the light plaintive vocals of the introductory and intervening verses. The second (melodic) line of the chorus ("Cause they're all the same") is so simple and yet so perfectly fitting after the bold hook of the first line – I find myself asking each time I hear it how could anything else ever fit better? And then it builds and builds to a big finish, at the end of each chorus and also at the end of the song – that key change from B Major to C# Major is quite a genius step, retro yet so fresh. (But still... C sharp? 👀 OK if your electronic thingamajig can auto-transpose but hell on a trad keyboard.) I know this song is from a year ago but I'm not simply wallowing in nostalgia (oh all right, so yes I am a bit) – there is nonetheless a BL connection that first got me hooked on this. The cast of my current fave I Feel You Linger in the Air did their own take on the TikTok Kpop dance challenge of this song (linked here, with other TikToks here) and they're just so cute dancing along. Nonkul attempts a little elbow jab in homage to the original choreo, while Bright gives up after a couple of bars and just goes on doing alternating wrist twirls like those you sometimes see in Southeast Asian dance… 🤣 Alee and Tian seem like they're having fun, as does Attila, but who knew Khun Robert could actually look this good, all goofy and charming when he smiles doing a silly little jig?

‌

All I Want for Christmas is You (Mariah Carey)  Ever since Ms. Mariah broke her icy containment after Halloween (see this video here 😂) I've been singing along, getting in the mood for carols, fruitcake and Christmas decorations because it reminds me of time spent with (departed) family. Happy because those are happy times worth recalling, but also bittersweet because those loved ones are no longer around.

‌

One of Your Girls (Troye Sivan)  While I tend to feel a pinch of resentment whenever Aussies of European origin seem to get opportunities in the West more easily than non-white people do, I have to remind myself it's the system and not the talent that is at fault. So credit where credit is due and I'm a fan of what Troye has done with this and his earlier releases (like his video with PP Krit 😃😍). One of Your Girls is just so beautiful and languid as it teases with its message, and consistently Troye is breathtakingly beautiful and languid in the video, teasing us with an offering of the forbidden. I'm feeling things I never thought I would. 😮 The choreography is pretty daring too. (Especially that crotch flare – where did they tuck the dangly bits? I'm wincing as I watch.) Also shout-out to all the different representation with the models. 😍

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Then I'm Gonna Give You Up (Rick Astley)  This is Rick Astley spoofing Rick Astley (more explanation linked here) and just so funny. Especially since the original song is already iconic on Tumblr.

‌

Fast Car (Luke Combs)  Another nostalgia trip, this is an absolutely stellar rendition of the already phenomenal original by Tracy Chapman. Almost like Marc Cohn's Walking in Memphis with its sense of urgency and of bottled emotions about to explode, maybe just a shade less of Marc's full-throated growl in Luke's voice, but earthshaking nonetheless. In these 21st century times (and in my corner of the world where BL and queer rep cross my dash all the time) I love that Luke (a married man with a wife and two kids, looking for all we know like the straightest of the hets) didn't change Tracy's line "So I work in the market as a checkout girl", paying homage to the original and smashing at the gender-obsessives everywhere in a quietly powerful way.

‌

Currently reading: My language study textbooks; not much time for anything else though I do miss having a good work of fiction to keep me company whenever the slate of Thai drama dips in quality.

Currently watching: I Feel You Linger in the Air – a really impressive work, solidly-grounded in its universe with overhanging familial, social and political intrigue that threatens to overshadow (but never really does) the chemistry between Khun Yai and Jom.

I've fallen in hard love with this and just hope that Tee Bundit will display the wisdom associated with his name (for those as linguistically-obsessed as I am, Bundit is the homologue for pundit in English, pandit in Hindi and pendita in Malay) and wrap up the finale with more finesse than he has done on his other shows. (Something tells me though that the sense of foreboding you get while watching IFYLITA is partly due to the dread that Tee is going to rush and stumble through the last bits, leaving viewers less than satisfied with the ending like he did with Lovely Writer, Hidden Agenda and Step by Step.) However this goes, I'm a new fan of Nonkul and Bright's acting, and can't wait to see more of them.

As to what else I'm watching – I'm still trying to finish Only Friends, if only to be able to say that I've finally watched a Jojo show all the way to the end. It's not for me, though it has some moments that shine (like Neo's performance, and all the shirtless scenes) but I struggle to find anything that satisfies on a more cerebral level. I'm not opposed to sensuality and messy drama being foregrounded over more intellectual underpinnings (all hail KinnPorsche) but for me it doesn't go earthy and raw enough to make up for whatever else it doesn't do.

Current favorite character: Pat and Pran from Bad Buddy will always be on this list, but because I'm currently enjoying IFYLITA I'm sure I've been visited by Por Jom, Khun Yai, Khun Ueangphueng, Ba Prik, Ming and Khun James in my dreams lately (and also a certain racing piglet 🤣).

Current WIP: All in my head, but I have a final wrap-up post on Bad Buddy locations percolating, as well as one on the graphics in the show (that give us hints of Pat and Pran's interior worlds).

Tagging names I've seen more than once cross my dash and/or notes:

@neuroticbookworm @airenyah @alexis-mika @belladonna-and-the-sweetpeas @wen-kexing-apologist @twig-tea @pandasmagorica @respectthepetty @dribs-and-drabbles @waitmyturtles @dimplesandfierceeyes @writerwithoutsound @bengiyo @grapejuicegay @lamonnaie @lurkingshan @callipigio @italianpersonwithashippersheart @recentadultburnout @kattahj @theheightofdishonor @fiddlepickdouglas @dc-alves @brazilian-whalien52 @slayerkitty @silvercrystal1 @dudeyuri @ranchthoughts @suni-san @chawarin-panich @lurkingteapot @solitaryandwandering

and anyone else who'd like to play. 😍 Apologies if you've already been tagged; point me to your post if so! And apologies if I've forgotten to mention anyone; if I follow or if you follow me please know you are loved and do play along if you wish! 💖

Also a special tag carved out for the lovely @visualtaehyun as a part-apology; you've tagged me before on a couple of other games and I wrote out about half of my replies – but then work deadlines became urgent and got in the way. Ruefully I had to abandon those posts (especially since they're now weeks out of date). So this is my way of saying thanks for tagging me on those tag games, sorry for not replying, and I hope you'll play along with this one because I love getting to know like-minded people on Tumblr! 💖

#tag game #current tag game #YouTube

[browzerhistory]

because i have been Enabled (one person said i should) i'm going to post my late night analysis of leaf pile by the front bottoms! under the cut since it gets kind of long.

(obligatory disclaimer that this is my interpretation of the song and i'll probably miss some stuff or say something you don't agree with; but the beauty of art is you don't have to agree with one another on what it's about. note that i address brian as the singer and not his name, since he's said that not all of his songs are about him specifically.)

before i get in-depth with the lyrics, i want to discuss the theme. this song references a lot of tfb's other music and overall carries a very nostalgic/reflecting tone while still looking forward to the future with hope. i think it's an excellent example of tfb's growth as a band, both in technical skill and general outlook (hehe) on life. while their older songs carried a general air of hopelessness (specifically "it's hard to get better in an environment that drags you back into bad habits"), leaf pile exemplifies the turn towards exhausted but determined optimism.

now, onto the lyrics to support my argument.

if you've listened to the front bottoms for any amount of time, the very first line will be familiar.

I wanna be

this seems like a silly place to make my first note - it's just three words - but they're the same opening words to another one of my favorite tfb songs, vacation town. however, the line in vacation town continues with "that comfortable place where you write and read." i don't doubt that the use of this line was intentional, as tfb references their other songs frequently, and vacation town's theme of being stuck in the past compliments leaf pile well.

that person again

the one that I am right now, again

for the rest of my life, and then

I wanna lay down in the leaf pile, but I can't

fear of change is a common theme both in life and in tfb's music. this opening verse establishes a singer who wants to live in familiarity forever before dying ("laying down in the leaf pile"), but can't because, well, that's just what being alive is.

I wanna be that person again

the one that I am right now, again

for the rest of my life, again

I wanna lay down in the leaf pile

but I can't slow down

or I'm gonna crash, crash, crash, crash, crash

the repeat of the first verse emphasizes its point, but the changes also bring new ideas. the repetition of again affirms that the singer wishes to relive the past.

the addition to the last two lines is another reference to the rest of tfb's discography, though a lot less specific than the last one. the front bottoms sing about motorcycles in their songs a lot, and when riding a motorcycle, like a regular bike, keeping up speed is important because if you're too slow, the vehicle loses balance and falls. this also acts as a metaphor for life (sensing a pattern yet?), since dwelling too long on the past can make you lose sight of the future and get caught up in your regrets.

I wanna feel that same sense of calm

I wanna feel that same sense of peace

it felt so real before you got here

it'll be restored after you leave

after this verse, the chorus repeats again. the first two lines reaffirm a longing for a past that was easier and kinder. the second two remind me of dissociation. perhaps the singer, in meeting up with/seeing someone who reminds him of his past, loses himself in it.

(slightly unrelated note: this upcoming part of the song makes me insane. i love it so much.)

oh man

nothing ever kicked in or as hard as you did

I feel anxious, do you?

like I have to make a move

I'm just gonna do what you did

the singer feels cornered. he isn't ready to move into the future, but he can't keep clinging to the past. he addresses someone, probably the same "you" from the last line, and tells them that nothing ever kicked in or as hard as they did. this could be literal, as some of tfb's older songs also reference domestic/intimate partner violence, but there's definitely a metaphorical aspect to it too. the person the singer is addressing has had a profound and negative effect on his mental health, so much so that they're incomparable to anyone else in his life.

the singer says he's anxious, wonders whether the other person is, then says he's just going to do what they did. based on what we already know about the other person, we can assume it's nothing good.

I cut some ties with a few good friends

for it to be over how ready I am

I closed my eyes, I opened my eyes

but my mouth was closed the entire time

the singer cuts off "a few good friends;" presumably this is the move he had to make, and what the other person did too. he says he's ready for "it" to be over, which is probably related to what he had to do.

closing and opening his eyes, but keeping his mouth shut, may also symbolize the singer observing what's going on around him without making it worse by saying something wrong, which is something tfb has sang about in previous songs.

montgomery forever

first you get hurt, and then there's healing

it's a process, believe me

you stole my notebooks and now you're reading

this verse (my favorite in the song. if you even care) references another song on this album, montgomery forever, which is a song about the neighborhood brian lived in as a kid getting demolished. the usage of the title, followed by the assurance that grieving is a process, shows a resolution to grow through the challenges and losses the singer faces.

the notebook line also references a couple other tfb songs, where notebooks are almost sacred for their containment of the singer's unfiltered, innermost thoughts.

I can't wait to hear you say

that I got back a couple weeks ago

to our friends and family

I can't wait to hear you say

that I got back a couple weeks ago

this line also hits very close to home for me. i lost my best friend, joseph, to suicide when i was just 13 and he was 14. i wanted to believe that he would come back from the hospital eventually, that i'd be able to say he got back a few days ago and thank goodness he was fine. i wanted to do so many things with him that i never got to. i won't lie; i cried pretty hard when i first heard this part. it still gets to me when i'm feeling particularly sad.

but it was all to see

who could ride a motorcycle faster

as for me, I still believe

as for me, I still believe

this line is a direct pull from an old demo, sexy and alive (give an inch). despite being an arguably old song, sexy and alive takes a hopeful tone more like tfb's new music. the usage of this verse connects with the theme of growing while connecting to the past, as well as earlier references to motorcycles as a metaphor for living.

do I seem anxious to you?

do I seem backed into a corner?

as if I had to make a move

but you could tell I didn't wanna

another repetition of an earlier line. the singer didn't want to make the move/cut off his friends, but his circumstances forced his hand, which made him feel anxious and cornered. this verse is repeated a couple times, at the same time as the next one:

I can't remember, it's all a blur

the person you are and the person you were

I can't remember, it's all a blur

the person you are and the person you were

another pretty strong reference to dissociation, specifically dissociative amnesia imo. (DISCLAIMER: i'm absolutely not armchair diagnosing brian with anything. a singer doesn't have to only write about things they've personally experienced, and it's a well-established fact that brian writes a lot of stories into his songs that aren't about him (the most well-known example being father). i just have a dissociative disorder myself and felt really called out by this line lol.) this lines up well with previous references to dissociation in the song.

I don't wanna talk

I don't wanna talk, I wanna look out the window

I don't wanna talk

I don't wanna talk, I wanna look out the window

these are the last lyrics in the song. the singer is tired of trying to explain how he feels to the other person, who either isn't aware of the harm they've caused him or just doesn't care. he's given up talking it out and resigned himself to looking out the window; moving on without the other person.

thanks for reading all of this, if you got this far. if you thought any of what i had to say was perceptive or cool, let me know and i'll post another analysis - probably for hooped earrings or batman since i love both of those songs too (though i may just post those for fun). there's also a possibility i do a post like this for songs from other bands i like.

#the front bottoms #lyric analysis #can you tell im insane about the way tfb reuse lyrics and motifs and gives them new meaning. can you tell

[cherryeol04]

Taking Control - Pt. 6

❥ Pairings: Y/n x Everyone

❥ Genre: Wolf au, romance, fluff, omega verse

❥ Word Count: 2K

❥ Series: No Control

❥ Previous • Next 

❥ Warning: This is a work of fiction. The members displayed in this story are not meant as an accurate portrayal of the members of Stray Kids. Everything is made up and not real!

“Hello?”

“Oh my god finally!” 

“Jeongin, what’s wrong?” Minho asked, stopping in his tracks. You stopped too, watching him curiously. 

“Hyung, are you and y/n alright? Where are you?”

“We’re fine. We’ll be home soon.” Minho explained. “Is something wrong Innie?”

“Yes and no. We came home and you guys were gone and you didn’t answer when Chan and Jisung called.”

“Aw, I’m sorry baby, but service out here is really shitty.” 

“Yeah, I guess. But Chan freaked out and went looking for you guys. Hyung, two more shifters have been found dead. We thought…we thought…”

“Hey, hey.” Minho whispered into the line, gently shushing the baby alpha. “We’re okay Jeongin. We’re fine. I wouldn’t let anything happen to Y/n.” he said and you raised a brow. You could make out bites and pieces of what was being said, the volume on Minho’s phone being at max volume, but it occasionally became a gargled mess that you couldn’t understand a thing he was saying. “Call Chan and let him know we’re fine and we’re on our way home. We’ll be back by nightfall, okay?”

“Okay hyung. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.” There was a pause and then Minho hung up the phone and looked at you. “Well, they know we left.” he laughed and you rolled your eyes.

“He called because we left?”

“Yeah, you know how Chan gets when we don’t tell him where we’re going.” Minho shrugged as he pocketed his phone and started walking again. “But don’t worry, Jeongin is gonna call off the search party. Just be ready to get an earful when we get home.”

You groaned, not really looking forward to a lecture. But that was your own fault for not leaving some sort of message for the others to let them know where you guys had gone. You only had yourself to blame. 

“Y/n.” Minho called as he reached out and took your hand into his. “Stay close to me.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it a command. It was a simple request and while you wanted to ask why, something told you that it was better to not question it and just do what he wanted. 

The return trip home was shorter than the trip to the village, and true to his word, you made it back just before nightfall. You were surprised to have arms wrapped around you the moment you stepped through the front door, and from Seungmin no less. His citrus scent wrapped around you in a welcoming hug that unfortunately reminded you of how hungry you were when your stomach growled. 

“Seungmin?”

He pulled back quickly, stared directly into your eyes before turning and scurrying back into the living room.You looked at Minho, but he could only shrug, just as dumbfounded as you were. Seungmin and Minho were the two members who had been actively avoiding you and now suddenly it was like you mattered to them. Well, maybe you had always mattered to them, but they were just unsure how to approach since your return? That seemed more feasible and you would rather believe that than any other excuse your brain could come up with if given the chance.

Walking into the living room, you were not surprised to see everyone gathered around a pacing Chan. “Hey guys.” you greeted softly, eyes darting between each member at least twice. Their attention quickly turned to you and there was a sudden tension in the air, especially as Chan stepped closer.

“Don’t ‘hey guys’ us.” he growled out, eyes hard and intense. It scared you, because the only time you had seen him like this was moments before he kicked you out of the pack. It was bringing back painful memories but also put you on edge with the thought that you were going to be kicked out again. You wouldn’t be able to handle it if they did that again. And there would be no coming back. Not this time.

The fear must have been evident on your face. That or he could see how much you were shaking. Whichever the reason, his features softened immediately and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.” Well that was a good start. He was apologizing and while your mind was telling you to stay on guard, your heart was telling you that there was no way he would get rid of you if he was apologizing. And god you hoped it wouldn’t be proven wrong. “I was just so worried.” he continued and moved closer, one arm grabbing Minho’s hand while the other arm pulled you close to him. “We were so worried.” he breathed out as he pressed his face into your hair. 

You felt another body press against your side, an indigent huff escaping Minho as he was pulled against Chan too. Chan pressed a kiss to your head before turning and pressing a kiss to Minho’s head too and a wave of immense guilt washed over you. You really should have left a note or something. You had never meant to make your alpha so distraught and if he was this upset, you could only imagine how upset the others were. A quick peek over Chan’s shoulders showed that the other 6 members were just as upset, watching the three of you silently. 

Fuck.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, lowering your head to rest against his shoulder. “I should have told you where I was going.” You were the only one to blame for this situation. It had been your plan to go to Bucheon to begin with, Minho was just accompanying you for whatever his reason was. Probably to make sure you stayed out of trouble, which you were thankful for. Because knowing yourself, you probably would have gotten lost somehow and died of starvation or something. A morbid thought, but not something truly out of the realm of possibility. Sure you had been trained as a hunter, but you weren’t that good at it. 

“It’s not her fault.” Minho spoke up as he pulled himself away from Chan’s embrace. You lifted your head, watching him as he stared directly at Chan. “I should have said something before we left.” 

Chan looked between the two of you and you weren’t sure what he was searching for - the truth probably. There really wasn’t a lie in the words you both had spoken. Minho could have easily left a note or texted someone that you guys were leaving, but he hadn’t. But the fact still remains, this had all been your idea, so you should be the one to take full responsibility for it. “I see.” he finally hummed and you cocked your head. “Just don’t let it happen again.” 

And that was that. Chan pulled away and walked over to one of the empty spots on the couch and sat down. His shoulders were still square and tense and you could tell he wasn’t fully over this whole thing. But it appeared he was trying to keep his cool and not get irrationally upset. You really wondered why. Though, after thinking about it, perhaps they all just had anger management problems. A red flag considering how many alphas lived together, but it didn’t deter you too much. After all, he was actively expressing control and coping mechanisms to keep himself calm and wash away the feeling. It was a giant step in the right direction - he was keeping his word.

Looking back at the others, they were still staring at you and instead of seeming more relieved or happy, they still looked worried. You were no rocket scientist, but even you could tell something still wasn’t right. “D-Did something happen?” you asked suddenly. “I mean, while we were gone?” Your gaze moved slowly over each and every one of them, their gazes averting once your eyes locked - the only confirmation you needed to know that something had indeed happened and they were refusing to talk to you about it. You came to Jisung, knees feeling weak as you took in how his eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Taking a breath, you crossed the room to him and climbed into his lap. “Sungie.” You whispered as you nuzzled against his neck. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung let out such a distressed whine that you swore your heart shattered in your chest. It was so alarming that Minho was by his side in seconds, sitting beside the two of you and pulling you both into his lap. You were sure you were only being included because you were perched on Jisung’s lap. Still, it felt nice to be wrapped up in Minho’s arms while the two of you tried to comfort your distressed mate.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Minho asked gently. 

“I thought you were dead.” Jisung sobbed as he buried his face into Minho’s neck, his arms winding around your waist and hugging you tightly - keeping you pressed against him. “When Chan told m-me,” he struggled through his sobs to speak “, about the dead shifters, I thought they were you!” His wail stunned you, though perhaps his words also had a hand in it. Your eyes lifted to Minho’s and the other looked so wrecked, but there was a knowing gaze in his eyes and that’s when it hit you. 

The phone call from Jeongin. The request for you to stay close to him. He knew. He knew and he hadn’t told you. And despite reassuring Jeongin that you both were alive, it seemed that that information was either not passed on to the rest, or it was, but they just hadn’t believed it at the time. And that was understandable, because a lot could have happened to you and Minho on your way back. And while you had full trust that Minho would protect you, that didn’t mean that either he or yourself wouldn’t be hurt. 

You were once a hunter. You knew what they were taught and how they were taught and you knew once they had a target, they would stop at nothing to make sure they killed that target. And up until becoming a shifter, you had been all for that way of life. You had been ready to shed the blood of the rogue shifters that threatened civilian lives. But now… now you had seen the bloodshed, encountered a dead shifter - who you had no reason to believe had hurt a single soul. It was cruel and terrifying and so real. And despite them trying to keep that information from you, you knew that there was more than just the few dead shifters you had heard about. 

It seemed every few days another one or two would be found dead with no leads on who had done it and why. And though you logically couldn’t figure out a reason as to why these people would be out hunting and killing, in your heart you just knew who was behind the murders. 

“We’re here baby. I’m so sorry for not telling you.” Minho stroked Jisung’s back, peppering kisses over his face and shoulder - any part he could reach while his thick Eucalyptus scent filled the air. “Don’t cry Jisung. Please don’t cry.”

“I hate you!” Jisung whimpered, smacking at Minho’s chest weakly as he pulled back from him. “Don’t do it ever again. Either of you!” He had mustered up as much energy as he could to try and be stern, but he ended up looking more like the kicked puppy he was than the big bad beta he was trying to portray. When he turned his attention to you, you smiled and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Never again. Promise.” He huffed, sniffling lightly as he held you close while leaning back against Minho’s broad chest, basking in the presence of his two mates.

“If this was a romance movie, they would definitely be the star crossed lovers.” Hyunjin whispered softly and you were sure he hadn’t meant to be heard, but that was kind of hard not to be when everyone in the room had enhanced hearing. 

“We’re soulmates. Getting right.” Minho snorted, sticking his tongue out at Hyunjin and you giggled as Hyunjin yelped and tried to hide behind Felix, to no avail, the others laughing at his antics. And just like that, the heavy and sad atmosphere lifted - replaced with laughter and love.

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[captain--sif]

You And Me And Buck

Rating T, 1.7k, Buddie, 911

Eddie asks Christopher about his feelings concerning his new attempt at dating. Chris' answer has him rethinking what he already has in his life.

A little episode coda for 6x14, mostly inspired by the clip of Eddie’s date that we had seen already before the episode aired. Read on AO3

"Are you going to see her again?"

Eddie would lie if he said that Chris’ question didn’t take him by surprise. He tries not to lie to his son, and he certainly didn’t outright lie about this, either, but he kind of did omit the fact that his hangout the evening before had been a date.

But Chris is old enough and well-versed enough in the intricacies of the English language by now, that Eddie knows that’s what he’s asking about. Are you going to go on another date with her?

The answer is no, he’s not, they both agreed on that, and he doesn’t mind that that’s the point they came to. He isn’t even particularly looking to start dating again, doesn’t think he will anytime in the near future, so he’s not exactly sure why he counters Chris’ question with his own.

"How would you feel about it if I did?"

Chris looks at him calculating, or, well, as calculating as a 12-year-old can look, pondering over an answer.

"I got used to Ana," he says finally, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that. It’s not an endorsement, neither of Ana, nor of Eddie dating at all, but he hasn’t specifically said that he’d hate it either. "I’ll get used to her too," he adds.

"But?" Eddie prompts him to continue, "I feel like there’s a but coming." A smile creeps onto his face when he sees Chris’ own face splitting into a grin. He feels a snarky reply coming.

"But," Chris says, enunciating clearly, grinning because there was indeed a but coming, but then quickly taking on a more serious air, making clear to Eddie that he really means it, "I prefer it when it’s just you and me and Buck."

Eddie nods because Chris has made it more than clear before, when he was dating Ana, that he didn’t like him dating, but this was much less negative than before. Eddie will take that as a win, despite the way that Chris’ "you and me and Buck" has lodged itself into the outskirts of Eddie’s brain like an ear worm, begging him to acknowledge it. He will, he thinks to himself, as soon as his brain figures out how to process it.

"Well," he says instead, "it will be just us a little while longer."

"Okay." Chris smiles a tired smile up at him and Eddie takes that as his queue to get up and leave the room.

"Good night, mijo," he says and closes the door.

"Good night, dad," Christopher replies around what is without a doubt a yawn.

They’re a family, Eddie rationalizes later, when he’s lying in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The three of them make up a family, and it’s one of the truest things Eddie knows about his own life. It’s not interpretation, it’s not wishful thinking, it’s not something that Chris only believes in his still-childlike convictions. It’s one of the fundamentals of the universe. It should explain all there is to Chris’ remark, since it does, and yet: Eddie can’t help but feel like there’s something he’s missing, some dimension to the remark that’s not yet encompassed by the unshakable truth of their being a family.

He’s overthinking it, Eddie is sure of that, and at the end of the night he’s not sure if it’s into Chris’ or his own intent that he’s attributing this additional information.

"I feel like I’m a divorced dad starting to date someone new again who the child disapproves of," he voices his thoughts on his shift the next day.

"I thought you said you wouldn’t see her again?" Chimney asks, just as Bobby says: "Didn’t you already clear this up with him when you were dating Ana?"

"I’m not gonna see her again," he replies to Chimney, "that was more of a hypothetical question." He shrugs. "Just trying to figure out how he’s currently feeling about it. Besides, you never know when Tia Pepa will spring something like this on me again. So I thought it’s better to be prepared."

"Do you want to date the next person she springs on you?" Eddie can hear the lifted eyebrows in Chimney’s voice without looking.

He grimaces. "No."

"And," he restarts, well aware of Bobby’s still lingering question, "I didn’t know if he ended up being okay with me dating in general, or just with Ana."

"You said he didn’t throw a salad bowl tantrum like the last time, so to me it seems like he reacted well," Hen points out, "so what are your hold-ups?"

Eddie grimaces again. "I wasn’t actually finished," he admits. He’s really glad that Buck is riding with Ravi and some of their other teammates in the other firetruck today, since he’s not sure he could say what he does after that the way he does if he wasn’t, not before he hasn’t untangled his thoughts about it. "I feel like I’m a divorced dad starting to date someone new again," he restarts, "who the child disapproves of since they want their divorced parents to stay together."

"Shannon is dead," Hen says cautiously, "he knows that."

"Yes," Eddie says, "because in this scenario my ex-wife isn’t my actual ex-wife, or even any of the other women I dated, but it’s Buck." He moves his hands in a kind of "ta-da" gesture, expressing that he finished talking.

There’s a silence in the truck that is soothing Eddie, just knowing that they know as little what to do with it as he does.

"So what," Chimney asks finally, "now you think Christopher wants you to date Buck?"

He’s obviously trying to be funny, but Eddie stays quiet, has to think about that. Because: "I hadn’t even considered that."

He sees Chimney and Hen share a look at the quiet way he breathes these words out. Eddie thinks Chimney was probably aiming for a "No, of course not," and up until this very moment Eddie would have assumed that’s what his answer would be.

But now he thinks back to the way Chris’ comment unsettled him the night before, for a reason other than the knowledge that he doesn’t want Eddie to bring someone new into their family of three, the way he tried to evoke with this little analogy he’s been telling the team.

Of all analogies he could have chosen, he chose one where he casts himself and Buck as a divorced couple. No matter how accurate to Chris’ sentiment it might be, Eddie considers that his choice of analogy might be a tell in itself. Like his weird feeling the night before.

Sensing his oncoming panic, his team seems to have chosen a different road to approach him now.

"Has he given any other indication that that’s what he wants?", Hen asks more cautiously, softer, Chimney nodding along but staying quiet, like he’s afraid he’ll make it even worse, "what did he say exactly?"

"I don’t know," Eddie admits, because he hasn’t looked for it before, hasn’t once considered it. "He just said that he prefers it when it’s just the three of us. He hasn’t said anything about dating, but what if…" he trails off.

He kind of has the urge to laugh. It feels a little ironic now. When he was with Ana, he handled dating just fine, but the idea of forming a family with her gave him panic attacks. Now, the panic is clawing at his throat again, but he can handle Buck being a part of his family just fine. In fact, he loves it. It’s still the only thing about this that feels steady. Like an anchor that, while not being able to smooth out the waves, still keeps him in place and from falling into the deepness of the troubled waters.

Just as contradictory, he now wishes that Buck had been riding with them instead of in the other engine. Eddie can clearly hear Buck’s voice in his mind asking him if he’s panicking, and he thinks it’d help calm him down, even while knowing that had Buck been here, Eddie would not be in the situation he is now.

And maybe that should have been Eddie’s first hint (or second, technically) that something was going on with him. That he realized even while telling his analogy that he would not have told it the same way if Buck had been present. He should have seen the avoidance for what it was, but then again, Eddie had always been good at avoiding and ignoring his uncomfortable thoughts.

Repression, the doctor had called it.

"If that’s what you think Chris meant, maybe you should think about why that is," Hen suggested, just as softly.

"I will," Eddie says, partly because it is true, and partly because there’s nothing else he feels able to say. He stays quiet the rest of the ride, the cogs turning in his head, only vaguely taking note of the worried looks the team are sending towards him and each other.

He does think about it. It’s the echoes of Buck’s and Dr. Salazar’s voices in his head that are spurring him on to look at what he’s feeling, and — well, mostly to look at what he wasn’t feeling. He’s taking a big long look at all the suspicious absences. All the moments where he braced himself on the rational explanations, without looking at the feelings behind or around it. And all the ordinary feelings that he paid just as little attention to for believing their origin to be obvious.

He examines all of his interactions with Buck over the last couple of months. As well as all their interactions as a family, the three of them, him and Buck and Christopher.

The conclusion he comes to is this:

Chris will not have to worry about Eddie bringing anyone else into their family any time soon, maybe ever.

Fuck.

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