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#ignore the sudden art change

dreamcubed · 15 days

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you need to calm down | theodore nott x reader

song; you need to calm down [taylor swift] pairing; theodore nott x fem!muggle-born!reader genre; e2l, smut, angst word count; 5,9k timeline; subsidiary 8th year warnings; swearing, alcohol consumption, implied drug consumption, hook-up, drunk sex, piv, oral sex (male and female receiving), discrimination (muggle-borns), smoking, violence, blood, mentions of the war, arguments, yelling summary; after returning to hogwarts for a subsidiary 8th year to make up for the loss of 7th year due to the war, you are a completely different person, and muggle-born-hating theo finds himself obsessed with you

masterlist

"stressing and obsessing about somebody else is no fun."

MINORS DNI!!! 18+ content.

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In the time that the Second Wizarding War had been going on, you had been absent from Hogwarts, attending a muggle school under a fake name. Also in that time, you had changed significantly, partially to help your cover, but also because you had made muggle friends with similar styles and decided that you loved it. There were no uniforms at muggle college, so you were able to explore. These days you loved having black hair, having both your septum and nose pierced, and dressing almost entirely in black.

Your witch friends hadn't recognised you when you showed up at the Summer party you had received an invite to, after Voldemort was defeated and you were able to come out of hiding. The party you were attending was for seventh and eighth years— eighth year being introduced as a subsidiary for the education lost last year. Even most of those who had attended seventh year elected to return, as the final exams had never taken place, and what they had learned had been heavily rooted in the dark arts.

The party was booming, the walls of the massive house shaking with the sound of the music. You had consumed your fair share of alcohol, amongst other things, and had enjoyed catching up with everyone you had missed so dearly.

And that was when you saw him watching you.

Theodore Nott, a Slytherin boy in your year, who was from a wealthy pure-blooded family. A cigarette hung from his lips, and the smoke billowing around him sent a shiver up your spine. He was a sexy man, personality aside, and intoxicated you conveniently forgot about his attitude towards muggle-borns. Fuck, maybe he had changed?

He started approaching you, eyes raking up and down your accentuated figure, and he lingered a while on your fishnets. When he was close enough to talk, he said a simple statement, "I've never seen you before."

Theodore Nott hadn't changed. Not one bit. While he had never wished death upon muggle-borns like Voldemort, he had despised them— viewed them as lesser than he. He had seen you, laughing with your friends and seductively moving your hips, and assumed you were from the year below. You knew in that moment that he didn't recognise muggle-born goody-two-shoes Y/N L/N.

But, you were too drunk to ignore the red flags.

"No?" you murmured, "What are your first thoughts?"

He smirked, "I think I'm in for a very interesting night."

You chuckled, "I'll say."

His hands found your hips, and he began swaying with you to the music, which made you move your body closer to his. Even in the warmth of the room, the heat of his body hit you like an electric spark, coursing through you— straight to your core.

He moved even closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck as his hands moved round to your back. Then he lifted his head, his lips close to yours, and you let your eyes flutter shut as the kiss began. It was passionate: a hazy, powerful passion that had every hair on your body standing on end. His hands lowered to your ass, and squeezed, bringing a gasp from your lips, which he took as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

All of a sudden, he pulled away, only to whisper in your ear, "Wanna find somewhere more private?"

"Lead the way," you said breathlessly, and he took your hand in his.

Neither of you knew whose bedroom you had ended up in, but it was empty and had a lock on the door, so it was ideal. Sure, a little unlocking charm could get someone in, but hopefully they would realise what was going on inside if the door was locked.

Theo wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours again, pushing you back until you fell on to the bed, pulling him with you. He moved down to your neck, kissing and sucking in a manner that would definitely leave hickeys, before he returned to your lips. You tugged at his shirt, and he let you pull it over his head, revealing a toned chest and arms that had you drooling.

He smirked at your loss of composure and beckoned towards your shirt, "Your turn, miss."

This time, you smirked, and held up your arms to allow him to remove your upper body clothing. First your tight black mesh top, and then your bra, freeing your boobs for him to gaze at. "Look who's drooling now."

Your statement made him snap out of his shock: clearly the sight of your nipple piercings had been a new experience for him. He attacked your lips with a new fervour, then moved down to suck on your nipple and its barbell. Gasps escaped you at the sensation, and you arched your back up instinctively.

"You're so sexy," he stopped for breath, complimenting you, "How have I never seen you before?"

Your breath hitched, and for a moment the reality of the situation came back to you. Just as quickly, though, it left again, as he began work on your other nipple. It was a wonderful feeling, but you needed more, so you pushed him over until you were on top and began unbuckling his trousers.

His dick was big and thick, and you could tell by the glint in his eyes as he looked down at you that he knew and was proud. You shook your head, bringing your lips to the tip and pressing a gentle kiss. Your teasing didn't last for long, however, as you soon gave into the urge to take it into your mouth. He groaned deliciously in response, and you took that as your cue to lick a strip up the side as you began fondling his balls.

"Just like that, baby," he moaned, making you realise he hadn't even asked for your name.

You took him in your mouth again, this time going as far down as your throat would allow, feeling the urge to gag building up in you. His louder groans made the effort worth it, though, as you deepthroated him. Pulling away for breath, you looked up at him with doe eyes and said, "If I'm sucking your dick, you might as well eat me out." And with that, you pulled your tights and panties down, leaving only your skirt on, before sitting on his face assertively.

The action made him groan more, and you leaned down to continue work on his dick as you felt him find your clit almost immediately. His tongue ministrations had you moaning around his dick, making you begin grinding on his face out of reflex. If you weren't drunk, you wouldn't be nearly this shameless and forward.

To his credit, he ate you out like a man starved, and it wasn't long before the pleasure became so much you had to give up on his dick and give in to the sensation.

"Fuck, Theo, I'm gonna come," you moaned, and his movements only got quicker, until you felt your core tighten and then release. Your body convulsed as he rode you through the high.

Eventually, you got off his face.

"D'you have condoms?" you asked, knowing he hadn't yet finished and also that you weren't yet satisfied.

"Always." He reached for his trousers over the side of the bed and pulled a condom out of his wallet.

You took it from him, tearing the packet with your teeth whilst making eye contact, and carefully sheathing his dick. His breath hitched once you were done: the only warning you got before he got up and pushed you down on to all fours, lining himself up behind you. The push in wasn't difficult, since you were quite well prepared, but it was still sensationally tight for him.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, pushing in the last couple inches, "You feel so fuckin' good. So wet for me."

In reply, you moaned, and he took that as his cue to begin moving.

He pushed up your skirt to slap your ass, leaving a red imprint on your cheek, before gripping your hips and picking up the pace. You became a mess beneath him, even more so when one of his hands snuck around to begin rubbing circles on your clit. The bedsheets were crumpled in your hands with how tight you were gripping them, but Theo didn't stop.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna-" he cut himself off with a grunt.

"Me too," you squeaked out.

"Come with me." The assertive way in which he said it had you falling apart yet again, and by the way his movements were becoming sloppy, you could guess that he was too. When he then collapsed next to you, you knew that your guess had been correct.

Turning to lay on your back, you let out a content sigh.

"You know my name," he said.

You chuckled breathlessly.

"Who are you?"

You shrugged, deciding that you had given yourself enough time to regain your composure and getting up off the bed to clothe yourself. "You'll see," you said as you pulled your final clothing item back on.

And, with that concluding comment, you left Theo speechless on a random bed of the host's house.

***

You told no one of that night, deciding that you didn't need to hear your friends say what a stupid idea it was for you as a muggle-born to fuck a pure-blood supremacist. You already knew that yourself, but that didn't stop you from dreaming about how his tongue felt against your pussy, or how his hands felt on your body. Merlin, it was the best sex that you had ever had, and it just had to be with someone who would never want you again after finding out the truth.

It was on the train to Hogwarts that you saw him next. Despite how excited you were to return to the castle after over a year, the anxiety of your next meeting with Theo had been consuming you. And, in a lit up train in your classic school uniform, you were a lot more recognisable than in the dark in your own clothes. Especially considering you were with your friend group.

You stared at him as he stood in the doorway of you and your friends' compartment, with Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire stood behind him. They were likely on the hunt for some younger years to belittle.

"Well, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes has certainly changed a lot, hasn't she?" Riddle chuckled from behind Theo, who was simply staring at you with widened eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Theo? Mate? You alright?" Berkshire asked, snapping his friend out of his daze.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he said dismissively, "Let's go."

His friends appeared confused, but didn't question it.

Your friends, however, did.

"What the fuck was up with that?" your best friend, Elena, asked, "Is the man scared of a couple piercings or something?"

She didn't even know what she was saying when she said that, you thought to yourself, thinking back to his reaction to your nipple piercings. You simply shrugged at her, "He just hates to see a muggle-born succeed."

Everyone agreed with hums, and the conversation shifted to other subjects.

***

Theodore Nott had spent the last two weeks of Summer wondering what the fuck the mysterious girl he fucked at a party meant by, "You'll see," and then following that up with a wank using memories of you. But, in that moment, stood in front of you on the Hogwarts Express, where you were in better lighting and more recognisable attire, he felt the world crash down around him.

How had he fucked a mudblood? The one thing that was ingrained into his brain since childhood to never do? Ever? The worst part is, he hadn't just liked the sex, he had loved it. He had already had numerous wet dreams about your lips and your boobs and your ass. And now? Now he had to push all of that aside because he couldn't ever fuck you again.

He just couldn't.

"Theo- Earth to Theo," the voice of Lorenzo next to him brought him from his thoughts.

"What?" he snapped back.

"What's got you so worked up?"

Mattheo chuckled, "Can't you see him staring at mudblood L/N? I can't tell if you wanna kill her or fuck her."

That statement earned Mattheo a glare from Theo.

"Maybe both?" Lorenzo suggested, making them both laugh.

"Who was it again that you hooked up with at the party?" Mattheo asked before shovelling food into his mouth.

"He didn't say, remember? Said she never told him her name."

"It doesn't matter," Theo spat.

Lorenzo and Mattheo exchanged looks as realisation dawned on them, and they both slowly turned to Theo who was still glaring daggers in your direction.

"No, you didn't..." Mattheo said first.

Theo said nothing.

"You fucked a mudblood," Lorenzo stated, finishing Mattheo's thought.

"You didn't realise it was L/N," Mattheo continued.

"She'd changed a lot, okay?" Theo said angrily, "I thought she was from the year below or something."

His two friends began howling with laughter, meanwhile Theo sat brooding in silence at the Slytherin table.

***

Saturday rolled around, and you were relieved to be able to shed the school uniform and tug on your clothes that had become an important part of you. Thankfully, Hogwarts hadn't been too strict about your piercings, in fact you had even received compliments from some professors. But, honestly, the rules weren't all that strict since it was still a sensitive time with many grieving from the war.

The Summer weather was still lingering, and you basked in the sunlight as you walked down one of the open hallways, watching first years giggling amongst themselves as they played with their new magic skills. It brought a smile to your face, to see things returning to normal; you had missed Hogwarts dearly while you had been away, not knowing how long you would have to remain in hiding. You had even begun applications for muggle university— because, really, how could you have known whether it would be one year or ten before you could freely be a witch again?

You turned a corner, and in your drifted thoughts, didn't notice the person walking around the other way until it was too late and your shoulders had shoved against each other.

"Shit, sorry," you muttered, realising all too late that it was Theo. He was glaring at you, just like he had at every meal and every class you shared all week.

"Watch where you're going, mudblood," he snapped.

Rolling your eyes, you mumbled, "Wasn't a problem three weeks ago."

"Never speak of that," he said lowly, his voice threatening.

"Why? Annoyed sex with a mudblood was good?" you retorted, and then you found yourself pinned up against the wall.

"Watch your mouth, miss."

"Don't you mean 'baby'?" you smirked, relishing in the way his eyes darkened.

You almost missed the way his gaze flicked to your lips, but then he pulled away, refusing to look at you.

"Fuck you, L/N," he spat, storming off, and you watched in amusement with your back still against the wall.

***

Theodore Nott was livid. Absolutely livid. You wound him up in the worst way possible, only for him to try and scare you- fail- and then find himself wanting nothing more than to smash his lips on to yours. When you reminded him of the pet name he used while you were fucking, the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick: the feeling of his arms gripping yours and the close proximity had felt electric. Your very presence set him on fire in every single way possible.

He hated every second.

With previous hook-ups, he had hooked up a few more times with them until he had gotten bored and moved on to the next. Before he found out who you were, he had been planning on doing the same, and now the fact he couldn't was driving him crazy. He thought about you every minute of the day, every minute of the night, and- unfortunately- whenever his hand was wrapped around his dick. And, after his interaction with you in the hallway, he knew that he needed a good fuck from at least a half-blood, if not a pure-blood.

Yes, that was all it was, his body was desperate for sex and as you were the last person he fucked, his thoughts simply went to you first. That was all it was.

Definitely.

***

Potions lesson on Monday rolled around quicker than you would have liked, but it wasn't all bad, as Slughorn was a nice enough professor. You sequestered yourself next to your best friend, ready to begin the lesson. He had promised you all your first practical lesson today, and you were excited to use a cauldron again after so long.

The only real downside of the class was that Theo was in it, and he seemed even angrier (if that was possible) than he was last week. His eyes were pinned on to you like you had murdered his family. You shrugged it off, setting up the work station while Elena went to fetch the various ingredients that you required.

Meanwhile, Theo sat across the class from you, feeling incredibly frustrated. Saturday night, he had tried to fuck another girl, but he couldn't get himself hard until he imagined that she was you. And, even then, he couldn't finish. His imagination couldn't go as far as making her feel and act like you, after all. Now, all he knew, was that you were his enemy, and his remedy. And you had the audacity to act so calm and unbothered all the fucking time.

"Your obsession isn't healthy," Mattheo spoke from next to him, dumping the potion ingredients on the table.

"It's not an obsession."

"What is it, then?" his friend scoffed, "Love?"

Theo furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Mattheo watched as Theo rose to his feet and began haphazardly chopping ingredients, the tiny knife taking the brunt of his anger.

"If it's affecting you so bad, just fuck her again."

"She's mudblood."

"It's not like you're impregnating her," Mattheo reasoned.

Theo sighed deeply, "It's not that simple. I've had it trained into me since birth that we don't associate with mudbloods."

"Well," Mattheo shifted on his feet, "Parents aren't always right."

"Since when did you sympathise with them?"

"I don't- I just," Mattheo muttered something inaudible to himself, and then said, "I don't want people to think I'm my father."

Theo said nothing.

"I'm just saying, mate, your mother's dead and your father's in prison for life— who gives a fuck what they think?"

"It's the principle."

"What even is the principle?"

"What would Draco think? Lorenzo? All of our friends?"

"Draco's not the man he was before the war," Mattheo said quietly. He knew better than anyone, being Draco's cousin, he had grown up with him due to his parents' absence. "I'm just saying. Maybe we should leave some beliefs in the past."

"You've gotten soft," Theo grumbled, "Just last week you were shitting on me for fucking her."

Mattheo shrugged, "Force of habit, I guess. I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"That's rare."

"Shut up."

***

Truth was, despite all of Theo's dick behaviour and discrimination of your kind, you still found yourself waking up in a sweat thinking about his hands roaming your body. That goddamned Slytherin was the bane of your existence and the reason for your catharsis. He had diseased you, plagued you. He was a parasite that you couldn't get rid of, that was eating away at your sanity. What happened to your self respect? To your pride? You got fucked into heaven, that's what. And now your sexual urges were spreading like fire all throughout your bloodstream.

Wanking didn't feel the same anymore— your fingers didn't hold the electricity and passion that Theo's did. You craved him like a drug: and that's exactly what he was. He was something you shouldn't do, something that was bad for your health, but something that could have you seeing stars. Why did he have to be a blood supremacist?

But would it feel this intense if he wasn't? Maybe you two being forbidden, being star-crossed, was the reason that it made you feel so alive. You loved the fact he stared at you, even if it was with fury so powerful it made his whole body shake. It made you feel as if you had gotten to him the way he had gotten to you.

Just one taste of heaven had left you wanting to experience it a thousand times over.

"Get your shit together, Y/N," you cursed to yourself, forcing yourself out of bed.

"What was that?" one of your dorm mates asked.

"Nothing," you replied, "Just going crazy."

"Aren't we all?" she agreed.

***

"Party in the Slytherin dungeons tonight," Pansy stated to you one hellish week later.

You blinked at her, "And I'm invited?"

The girl nodded, evidently feeling awkward, "A lot of us are trying to- uh- make amends with mud- muggle-borns."

You raised an eyebrow at her near slip-up.

"Look- I'm- I'm sorry for how I treated you in the past," she said, actually appearing genuine, "It wasn't right."

"Um, thank you," you replied hesitantly.

"I know I don't speak for all the Slytherins, but a lot of us have done some thinking over the Summer," she continued, "We've lived in an echo chamber for too long."

That you agreed with.

"And, honestly, I think you're really cool- and I hope we can be friends."

You were taken aback by her words, never imagining that a pure-blood like Pansy Parkinson would be saying such words to you. But, maybe, forgiving her wouldn't be such a bad thing. "I... forgive you, I think," you said slowly, "I hope we can be friends too."

She gave you a small but warm smile, "Thank you. Will I see you there?"

You nodded cautiously, "Yeah, I think so."

"Great, uh, come say hi when you get there."

And with that, she disappeared, leaving you in a state of shock and confusion.

***

"Why are there so many mudbloods here?" Lorenzo asked irritatedly, sitting down on the sofa next to his friend group.

"Be civil, Enzo," Pansy gently scolded, "They're witches and wizards just like us."

"But they're not, though. Right, Matt?"

Mattheo shrugged slightly, "I'm with Pansy on this one, I think."

"See, Enzo? Even the Dark Lord's son agrees with me."

Mattheo grimaced at being reminded of who his father was.

"What about you, Theo?" Lorenzo asked.

But Theo wasn't listening, too busy glaring at you with his jaw clenched as you entered the common room, dressed up in an annoyingly similar way that you were back at the Summer party. Lorenzo followed his gaze, but he already knew where it would be leading to.

"Theo is not the person to ask," Blaise chuckled, appearing out of nowhere and sitting next to Theo, "I reckon he's about two interactions with L/N away from saying 'fuck it' and accepting his fate."

"What fate?" Theo snapped.

"The fate of falling in love with a muggle-born," Pansy said with a giggle.

"I'm not falling for her."

"Yeah, you just think and talk about her all the time," Draco, who had been quiet the whole time, spoke.

"Do you not have a problem with it?" Lorenzo asked Draco.

The blond boy shrugged, "I have a lot of regrets regarding muggle-borns. I don't want anymore."

Lorenzo groaned.

"Times are changing, Enzo," Pansy said gently, "I think you should change with them."

The man scowled and stormed off.

Meanwhile, you had finally spotted Pansy across the room, surrounded by the Slytherin boys— including Theo. You took a deep breath, deciding for the sake of a potential friendship you would have to bear it and fulfil her request of saying hi. You arrived at their group moments after you had seen Berkshire leave angrily.

"Uh, hi," you said to Pansy.

"Hi," her face lit up, "Have you got a drink? I'll get you one."

"Oh, thank you."

"It's no worries— make yourself comfortable," she then turned to the boys, "Play nice."

Mattheo raised his hands in mock surrender, but all Theo did was keep his eyes glued on to you.

Zabini shifted along the sofa, gesturing for you to sit in between him and Theo, which you cautiously accepted. The second you felt the warmth of Theo's thigh brush against yours, sparks jolted through your body, and you nearly jumped. You could have sworn you heard his breath hitch, too. This was the first time in two weeks that he wasn't looking at you, instead his eyes were trained ahead like he was retaining every ounce of self control within him.

"The sexual tension is suffocating," Mattheo remarked, standing up to go after Pansy.

His statement seemed to fuel the flame that you had desperately been trying to keep dim inside of you, and suddenly staying sat next to Theo seemed like an entirely impossible task. You were not nearly drunk enough for this. Thankfully, Pansy returned quickly with Mattheo lingering behind her, and she handed you a glass.

"Firewhiskey and coke," she said simply.

"Thanks," you accepted the glass, and downed the entire thing, "I'll get another one."

You left them all, hearing Pansy scold Theo for scaring you off, but you could still feel his eyes burning holes into your back. Just a couple more drinks and then you would join the dance floor, you decided.

And there you soon were, grinding up against a Hufflepuff boy with liquid courage flooding through your veins. You had just about managed to push Theodore Nott to the back of your mind, but you knew that it was only a temporary fix. This Hufflepuff boy was attractive, but he didn't set you alight.

"Someone's jealous," Blaise chuckled, watching as Theo glared daggers at the boy you were dancing with. Ever since you had joined the dance floor, he had been necking back drinks like his soul depended on it, and it just might. With every gulp, he was feeling more reckless and dangerous. "Accept it, mate, you're in deep."

Theo let out a sound that bordered on a growl.

"The only thing stopping you is yourself."

And as Blaise's words sank in, and the Hufflepuff boy appeared to be going in to kiss you, something snapped within Theo. In a flash, he was on his feet and taking large purposeful strides in your direction. Then, the Hufflepuff boy was torn from your side and being punched directly on the nose with such a force he toppled over. He didn't even get a chance to fight back as Theo continued to hit him, merciless in his moves.

You stood in shock watching the scene unfold before you. After what felt like forever, Mattheo and Lorenzo showed up, pulling Theo off the poor boy who had done nothing wrong.

"What the fuck was that for?" the boy yelled, blood pouring down his face.

Theo said nothing, glaring at him as he finally stopped fighting his friends' grip.

"You need to calm down, mate," Mattheo said sternly, digging his fingers into his friend's bicep.

"Theo." You said, unaware what your intentions were when the name slipped out of your mouth. Regardless, his eyes snapped to yours, appearing to soften slightly as he observed your fearful stance.

What was stopping him, really? Did the purity of his bloodline really matter to him that much?

"I think you two need to talk," Mattheo said firmly, "And I think one of you in particular- not naming any names- needs to get over his own bullshit excuses and give into what he wants."

Theo's bloodied hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you in the direction of the Slytherin dormitories. You didn't fight him, strangely feeling your fear slip away despite what you had just witnessed Theo be capable of. When you were stood in his empty dormitory, face to face, you knew that you would have to be the first to say something.

"You were jealous," you said it as delicately as you could.

He said nothing, not even looking at you. This made you angry— enraged, even.

"Fucking look at me, Theo!" you screamed, "You haven't had any difficulty with it all week— staring at me like I'm the shit on your fucking shoe!"

His eyes locked on to yours.

"If you regret fucking me, just say it!"

"I don't regret it," he said, his volume low but tone dangerous, "Everything I've been raised to believe wants me to regret it but I can't."

You stood, stunned at his confession.

"I need you like I need water, you're an itch I can't scratch," he was stepping closer to you, making you step back, "You make me feel fucking ecstasy and misery all at once."

Your back hit the wall, and he grabbed your wrist again, bringing it to press against his crotch.

"Do you feel what you do to me?" he said darkly, "I've never been so hard in my life."

You gulped, "I'm not just gonna be another of your bitches, Theo, so forget it." Even though you wanted it so bad, and you were dripping from your core.

"That's the thing, L/N," he chuckled sinisterly, "I don't think I could ever get enough. I don't think anyone else will be able to satiate me ever again."

You jaw dropped.

"I think..." he continued, "...that you're a drug I got addicted to after only one hit."

You closed your mouth, looking up at him expectantly.

"And I don't think I ever want to be sober from you."

"But, I'm a muggle-born-"

He cut you off by slamming his lips on to yours with such furious passion your mind became hazy as you eagerly returned the kiss, lifting up your arms to wrap them around your neck. For a moment, he pulled away, just to whisper, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't think I care. I think I just want you in every humanly possible way."

"Then have me," you murmured.

It became a blur as his lips crashed on to yours yet again, and he picked you up by your thighs with his blood stained hands, leaving imprints on your bare skin through your fishnets. He moved you over to his bed, kissing down your neck while he blindly reached for the hem of your top. He wasted no time in pulling it off, along with your bra, so he could continue kissing down your body.

You relished the sensation— savouring it— feeling like you were the only girl in the world. Theo was treating you with such roughness and yet such care, like he had tunnel vision for you and only you.

He pulled off his shirt, before moving down to pull down your skirt, fishnets, and panties all at once. You watched breathlessly as he dived into your leaking pussy and ate you out like a man starved. He groaned, murmuring, "I've missed this taste so fucking much," before continuing his ministrations, eliciting the filthiest moans from you that had ever been produced. This felt even better than the last time.

"You are my goddess," he licked up your pussy, "And my devil."

He began sucking on your clit, and your body felt as if it was lifting from the bed as your orgasm hit you like a shockwave, coursing through your body and sending you to places you had only brushed against before.

"Fuck, Theo," you moaned, "Please fuck me."

The man didn't need telling twice, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his trousers. He didn't waste any time going to his bedside table to grab a condom out of the drawer, tearing it open and pulling it on in record speed. You would have helped him, but your orgasm had you borderline paralysed.

And, then, he was lining up in front of you— for the first time in his life, all he wanted was to fuck missionary. He wanted to see your face (and your nipple piercings that had him drooling) and he wanted to see your expressions as you came undone below him. To him, this was the most intimate that you could get in sex, and he only wanted that with you.

He groaned louder than he had ever groaned when he let himself push inside you, knowing that no other pussy would ever feel as magical as yours. Knowing that he should never have even considered depriving himself of this for some stupid blood purity reasons.

"Fuck, baby, you feel fucking amazing," he breathed out. You reached your arms up, gesturing for him to come down closer to you.

Theo obeyed, kissing you as he began thrusting, while his bloodied hands explored every inch of you, leaving a trail as they went.

"I'd rub your clit, but I don't want to get blood there," he said through heavy pants. You couldn't help but let out a small giggle, moving your own hand down to aid yourself along.

Your moans increased tenfold, as did his pace, and it wasn't long before he was biting down on to your neck in order to contain the groans that were fighting their way out of him. Who would have thought that such plain love making could make him feel so on top of the world?

"Theo- I'm gonna come," you choked out, and the way his teeth sank deeper told you that he was going to as well. As you both reached heaven in unity, he gave up suppressing his moans, and gave you the most melodious earful that you had ever heard as his movements became sloppy and tingles spread through your veins.

Eventually, he collapsed on top of you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, stroking his hair gently as you lay in a post-sex haze.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, making your brain short circuit.

"You what?"

"I'm sorry for being a pretentious asshole."

A smile creeped on to your face, "So, is this just a sex thing, or...?"

"Fuck no," he snapped, "I need you all the time. You're mine."

"So, it's a girlfriend boyfriend thing?"

He froze, but then relaxed, and said into your neck, "Yeah, I guess it is."

"You guess?"

He sighed, "Well, you've ruined me for anyone else."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 07/04/2024 —> 08/04/2024 published; 10/04/2024 edited; —/—/——

683 notes · View notes

lxvvie · 7 months

Text

@art-herog, you have called and I have answered. I think. And then I went and tweaked it so the scenario is as follows: your lovely babies are doing their own thing and ignoring you. how would they respond to you calling them someone by else's name as a prank?

Capt. John Price - It doesn't register because he's lost count of how many pet names you have for him and he assumes this is the latest one. Your prank dies a solemn, cigar-ridden death.

Gaz - "WHO?!" It's funny watching Gaz get all jealous and shit with his nostrils flaring. Yeah, that's what you get for the last prank (said prank woke you up from a good-ass nap).

Alex Keller - Has a delayed reaction. You think he didn't hear you until you hear, "The hell you say?" And thus he close shut the jaws... of Sweet Keller Lovin'. By refusing to manspread. Yeah, you wanna play that game? Good luck getting another glimpse at his sweet thighs, babe.

Soap - Is devastated in Golden Retriever. Was busy watching the latest football (soccer) game when you... when you broke his heart. How could you do this to him? Is willing to find and fight the bastard for his (his as in Soap's) honor because he gave himself to you mind, body, and spirit... after he sulks some more because his team just had to lose the game.

Ghost - A total Petty Betty 'cause you got him fucked up lmao. Doesn't really respond to it aside from a heated glance initially. And then he gets you back. You ask him a question: "Mm. Ask the knobhead, he'll have 'n answer for ya." You try to flirt with him: "Sorry. Simon is spoken for." You can practically see the smirk in his eyes. Touché, you bastard. Touché.

Alejandro - Was sifting through paperwork. Called him handsome to get his attention. No response. Okay, then. You then called him gorgeous. Still no response. Then: "You hear me, Rudy?" Alejandro stops mid-sift and stares. Hard. Bonus points because Rudy was in the vicinity and poked his head in all, "You called?" You're smirking, Alejandro narrows his eyes and turns to stare at Rudy, and poor baby doesn't even know what the fuck is going on.

Rudy - His whole reaction can be summed up as '??????????'. When it hits him it turns into '?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?'. Wait, who the hell is Dasher—?

König - König's inner Eldritch Horror Call of Köthulu Yandere comes out in full force and oh wow, did the air change all of a sudden? What's that tension? You turn and he's staring at you. Calmly. Evenly. He doesn't even blink. And then, "Who is Prinz, Schatz?" Turns out the person he lost that sniper position to took the callsign Prinz and König decided to one-up his ass. Once assured it was all a prank, he's back to his... normal self again? A Shadow over KorTac, indeed. It's on sight, PRINZ!

Horangi - Turns out one of the names you used is an alias he tried to use to get into a game but he got found out. He tells you the whole story and everything. It was riveting as shit, so much so that you forget you were even trying to prank him.

Graves - Doesn't even bother to react. Not really except for this one line: "Mm. He fuck you as good as I do, darlin'?" PHILLIP, PLEASE—

Valeria - Hits you with another Uno Reverse and calls you by the name of one of her exes. Thought you were being fucking cute with that prank, eh?

Roach - Wait, when did he receive a new callsign?

Keegan - Wasn't quite outwardly reactive but was mentally drafting a plan to find the bastard if only because they had an incredibly shitty name compared to his. Or something like that.

1K notes · View notes

mayuichi · 2 months

Text

How your partner reacts when you're on your periods.

Include:

Genshin Impact [Heizou, Lyney, Wriothesley, Alhaitham]

Honkai: Star Rail [Veritas Ratio & Kafka]

Bungo Stray Dogs [Tetcho Suehiro & Jouno Saigiku]

Moriarty the Patriot [William James Moriarty]

Content warning: fem!reader (I'm not comfortable enough to include transgender, I don't know enough about it, sorry :(), blood, and just.. anything related to menstrual cycles, mention of past encounters [More into Ratio's part, slightly in Tetcho and Jouno's part, lots lots LOTS of petnames [especially in Kafka's part].

note: im on my periods, im literally dying if im not on some specific painkillers, so im fucking numb and it makes me sleepy but i wanted to do something extremely fluff for it. and i have lost my yellow...

Every art used are the official one (except the chibi of Jouno, Tetcho and William, credit to the rightful owners of which I don't have any name!), I've just poorly edited them!

You have agreed to join your boyfriend for lunch, and so now, you're in his office at the commission. But what you have not expected is that while chatting together, a sharp pain flood your stomach. You curl up, eyes wide from the sudden pain. Heizou stares at you, and chuckles. He grins, crossing his legs, “Is my darling in pain? How sad. Are you on your monthly?„

He isn't taking your pain seriously that's for sure. You give him a death glance that he ignores. He leans closer to nudge your elbow, giving a gentle kiss on your temple. But you pushed him away. Heizou's eyebrows raise, and when you wince in pain, he sighs and moves his chair next to yours. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pressing you against him.

“Baby, it'll be okay. Do you need anything?„ he stares at you. He knows he can't actually understand the pain you're into, but he doesn't want to just leave you like that. He carefully takes your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. His breath brushes against your ear, “I'm here. I know you can handle it. I'll go get some medicines and you stay here, alright?„

It isn't like you would go on a walk right now anyway. He feels bad for leaving you alone, even if for just a short time. He kisses your cheek one last time before hurrying out. You can't do much in the meantime, except bear with the pain.

But when he comes back in with some medicines, he praises you. He gives you a glass of water with it, and waits for you to take them. He is supposed to have work, but honestly... He knows even if he takes a day or two for you, he'll manage in time. Nothing escapes him after all.

All he wants right now is to ensure you're comfort... despite this time. He'll take some paperwork he needs to do anyway to work onto at home. Whenever you need help with something, you just need to call his name, even in the faintest voice possible, and you'll hear his footsteps coming closer.

You need help to stand up without falling? He'll support you. You want him to make your meals? He'll do it, no matter what you want. You need help to shower? He'll be there. You can stain your clothes or the sheets, it won't bother him. He'll change it and clean it.

Even if every month you have the right to see him joking around, if it gets as serious, he will take the time to make it easier. He loves you too dearly to let you go through this by yourself.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *. *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ☽ ✧˖*°࿐ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lyney and Lynette's magic show. Despite what happened on their first show in the Opera House, they continued. And now, they can even do a second show there! Of course, as his beloved girlfriend, he asked if you could watch over their rehearsal. You couldn't leave him now, could you? So you accepted. And beside, a free show just for you, from your boyfriend and your sister-in-law. Who would refuse?

His piercing gaze is on you, all the time. Only flickering over Lynette from time to time. He wants to make you proud, to let you see how perfect he is in what he does. Well, you already know it, but he wants you to be sure of it. And like a child, you're amazed an every tricks, even the tiniest.

But that joy is soon replaced by a sudden discomfort. Luckily, it's right when they're done. So when you see him head backstage to check on some things, you curl up on your seat. You hoped it wouldn't start now, but sometimes life loves to annoy you. You whine quietly, feeling blood trickle down. It's an awful feeling, but right now you can't do a single thing about it.

Footsteps echo in the empty place, and suddenly nothing. You hesitantly look up, to see his figure towering you on the stage. His eyes are filled with worry. He hates to see you like that. Jumping off the stage, he closes the distance between the two of you and caresses your back carefully.

“Ma chérie, what's wrong? Why are you...„ he sighs. He kneels down before you. He leans closer, pressing his forehead against yours. “I'm here.„ it isn't much, but that's all you need. You breath out heavily, your cheeks flushed pink. It's embarrassing, but it isn't like it's not natural.

With his gentle strokes on your back, you see Lynette on the stage, staring at the both of you emotionlessly. She then crosses her arms and clears her throat. “... I get it. Wait here.„ you don't actually get what she means, but Lyney just tells you to dismiss it. He knows his sister well after all. She won't do anything bad to you. Plus, she grew rather fond of you too. As long as you don't hurt Lyney, she'll be glad he found the right person for him.

Several minutes after, she comes pack with a small package in hands and places it next to you. She gives you a discreet smile, and proceeds to pull Lyney's ear, which makes him wince in pain. “Come with me, let her some privacy for a minute or two.„ she brings him with her, allowing you to be alone in the Opera House. If we forget about the backstages, but they don't see you.

Opening the box, there's a few protections in it. You're glad she's willing to help you. After some moment alone, Lyney barges in again, and wraps you in his arms. Lynette did for sure tell him.. “I'll fetch you any medicine, anything you need. Just say so, darling. I'll be here.„

He's so loving, especially to his family. And well, aren't you a part of it now? His family is everything, and so are you. He's busy with his duty as a fatui of course, as well as his shows, but whenever he has the time, he checks on you. Either because you accompany him, or by coming home for a bit. But he knows while he's away, he can ensure you to Freminet or Arlecchino. Even if the latter can be dangerous... She has seen great things coming from Lyney ever since he's with you. So if taking care of you means having one of her children being even better, she would do it.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ . ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

The Duke. Someone to fear, to never question. He knows what he does. He may jokes around with some of the prisoners, but one wrong movement and he'll make them understand their place. But if there's one person that can make his heart melt at any of their words, it's his girlfriend. Oh, how much he loves her. She's his everything. The amount of time he mentions her to Sigewinne. It became clear to everyone. If they mess with her, they'll experience Wriothesley's wrath.

And once more, he finds himself thinking of you while doing some paperwork to give to Neuvillette. You're just so much more appealing than some papers.. But he has to do them, so he will. He sighs loudly, the only sound in his office is the paper he puts aside. But then, he hears the door downstairs being opened. At first, he just thinks it's Sigewinne once again, coming to give her report.

But instead, he sees you climbing up the stairs, tears threatening to spill. His mind fills with worry and anger at the thought of you being in pain. Is it because of him, or did someone hurt you? He stands up to meet you, a hand resting on your lower back for support. You cling on his shirt, as if your life depends on it.

He helps you sit down, before his voice reverberates through his office. “Dear, what is it? Did anything happened?„ the worry isn't even hidden in his voice. He just wants you to be okay, but you're currently not. You try your best to not whimper your pain, but it's seemingly impossible. He shushes you, his strong arms envelopping you in a warm embrace.

After some minutes, you manage to croak out your problem. It doesn't faze him. Of course, it isn't something he will ever fully comprehend, but he isn't bothered by it. You aren't the first one he gets with, but you'll be the last for sure. He lets out a relieved sigh. “It's only that? I'm reassured. Let me go find Sigewinne. She will know better than me.„

He kisses your forehead, leaving his office. The minutes seem endless, alone in there. But it's not long until their voices echo. Sigewinne carries some medicine and Wriothesley has a warm patch to press against your belly.

Needless to say, you spend the rest of the day in his arms while he works. He soothes you and goes to warm again the patch whenever you mention it's getting colder. He's careful to carry you back to your quarters when his work is over. He helps you in any way he can and that you need.

He looks tough and cold on the outside, but he's just a softie for you. He wants to give you the best care when you're unwell. And he will do just that for the rest of the week.

-ˏ͛⑅　‧̥̥͙‧̥̥ ̥ ̮ ̥ ⊹｡ₓ ू ₒ ु ˚ ‧̫‧ ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.⊹ ̥ ̮ ̥ ‧̥̥‧̥̥͙　⑅ˏ͛-

It's always weird to people. How can Alhaitham has been capable to get a girlfriend? And more specifically, someone like you? It's probably one of the reason why Alhaitham can still handle Kaveh. It's thanks to him he met you. You're Kaveh's best friend at first. And well, now... You're his girlfriend.

You don't actually live with the both of them, but you do spend a lot of time to their place, that much is true. Kaveh is locked in his room, working on his current project. In those moments, impossible to make him get out of his cavern. So you can't call him out for help. Your stomach, or more precisely, your womb is painful. The joy of being a woman one would say!

Yet, you're not sure Alhaitham would be the person the most... suitable to help you. You're in an incapacity to stand up without risking to fall. Your legs are too shaky from the pain. But he's the only one who could help. So you call his name.

Maybe he is too busy reading, or that he is once again wearing his soundproof earbuds. In any case, he just doesn't hear your calls. Whimpers fall from your lips as you support yourself, keeping your hand against the wall. It's painful, and you wish you didn't had to be all alone. You hardly manage to get to the living room.

Finding him reading, you get closer, falling in his lap, your head pressing against his torso. You take the book from his hand and throw it on the other side of the couch. He gives you a cold stare, sighing. “Go on, explain your behaviours.„ he's stern. He doesn't like the actions you just have done.

He waits for an answer, but all you can mutter is that it hurts. You look up at him, trying not to tear up from the pain. He tilts his head, a hint of worry in his eyes. “Mind if you start from the start?„ he wants to help you, but he can't if you don't spit out what troubles you, can he? You just whisper that it's that time of the month, and his eyes open a little wider.

He isn't embarrassed, this man knows. It isn't such topic that could cause him to lose his cool. He's just unsure of what to do. He has read about what could alleviate the pain, but never tried it for.. obvious reasons.

He carefully places you on the couch, so he can stand up and go to the kitchen. Heating some water, he fills some sort of bottle once he thinks it's hot enough. He sets it on the table, gently pushing you to lay down. He then lifts up a blanket, making sure you can't be cold.

After making sure you're comfortable, Alhaitham picks up the bottle once again, and let it settle over your stomach. After what, he pulls a chair to sit on, letting the couch to you only. He strokes your head with one hand, and with the other, he picks his book once again. He can't just leave you alone, knowing that no one would be here in the meantime. So he'll wait for Kaveh to come out of his room to request him to go find some medicines for you.

Even if he isn't one to be overly affectionate, he wouldn't leave you to rot there. He can even read to you if it can occupy you! Well, not that he has any books of your interest but... His voice is soothing enough to guide you to sleep to be sure you won't be in pain that way. And throuhough your nap, he'll be looking over you. Perhaps you've became his weakness, but he loves it. But don't dare try to make him admit it.

∞ ₒ ˚ ° 𐐒˚ ◌༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ⋆·˚ ༘ *︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚༊*·˚

Is it wise to have him as your boyfriend? Probably not. Especially when he wants to play a board game with you. The worst is probably chess. You know how to play it, but Veritas... He knows every move you're about to do. He can predict you in an instant. You're too easy to read for him.

But today, it's different. It isn't that he can't predict you but... You aren't even making sense. You seem lightheaded, unfocused. It isn't even fun to play with someone who isn't trying. He sighs and stares at you. It isn't amusing anymore, so he'll find his fun somewhere else.

A smirk spreads on his lips, and he leans in closer. “Oh, dear. Are you so lost now? Is it that you don't believe you will ever beat me?„ he enjoys it. He knows you'll never beat him on his own territory, after all. But you're just... Off. Even his words don't make you flinch. “Even ignoring me now. What will I do of you.„

And yet, you still don't react. That pain in your stomach, those cramps.. They make you incapable to register anything. But when he leans over the table to tower you and sliding two fingers under your chin, your few strength focus on his upcoming words. “Have I fucked you so good last night you're still on cloud nine?„

That grin. It makes you want to punch him so bad. It isn't about that, even if of course, he had done a great job. You let out a soft growl, pushing his hand away. You're tempted to yell at him, but he has nothing to do with your predicament. So you take a deep breath.

You crudely mention your periods, and the colours on his face fade away. As if life has left his body. He didn't saw it coming. He coughs slightly, clearing his throat. He may have forgotten that women like you have those. He straightens himself up, glancing away.

“Ahem... It seems my comments were... Unwelcomed. How could I help you, darling? Perhaps some... some medicines could help the pain?„ you have rarely seen the Veritas Ratio so.. nervous and unsettled. His confident trait disappeared in an instant. You can't help but smile at that.

But he is a man of intellect, he had to study those type of things before. He doesn't know much, but from what he knows, medicines can help, as well as some positions, or even hot water. He gathers some pillows for you, as well as a blanket. He pampers you, not only because he loves you, but certainly in an way to apologise for his inappropriate words.

He'll still have some work to do, but he'll check upon you, he'll make sure to be there if you call for him. And everytime, before leaving you, he makes sure to let you the TV remote, and to kiss your cheek. He may be arrogant, he wouldn't let you down.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ੈ✩‧₊˚ೃ⁀➷˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚.ೃ࿐

Dating a Stellaron Hunter? Are you actually crazy? Well, perhaps you are. But it isn't important now... Is it? Kafka hasn't seen you the whole day. You stayed in your shared bedroom! How impolite of you to not come and say hi. She knocks on the door, her seductive voice reaching your ears. “Sweetie, why don't you come out of your den? It isn't nice to not come greet everyone.„

She doesn't care. She just wants you with her when she's not on a mission. To your silence, she opens the door, clicking her tongue, her heels tapping over the floor. “Tsk tsk, darling. You shouldn't keep me... Oh.„ she sees you, curled up under the blanket, and a giggle escapes her lips. Her heels are the only sound in the room as she approaches the bed.

Kafka sits next to your laying form, her hand reaching out to caress your hair. “Is my baby struggling? How unfortunate. Well, I understand more why you didn't came yet. Come on, come here dolly.„ she slowly cradled you in her arms, kissing your forehead. Her arms wrapped around your waist, she sees the stained sheets and sighs.

“You should've called me. Now, sweetheart. Let's get you cleaned. I'll accompany you to the bathroom, and while you shower, I'll prepare everything, alright? Just think of yourself.„ she helps you stand up, opening the bathroom door and steadying you when you get in the bathtub. She then closes the door behind her, allowing you some privacy.

She knows a bath, even just a shower, can help a little with the pain and the dirty feeling. So while you wash yourself off, she takes off the sheets and casts it aside for now. Pulling on some new ones, she leaves the room to get to the kitchen and prepare a hot water bottle, wrapped in a silk cloth to prevent the heat from burning your poor skin. She also gathers different medicines, in different ways to take.

Once everything is settled on the nightstand, she makes the bed, preparing it in the way you love the most when you need comfort: like a little nest for you to hide in, and for her to join you.

Several minutes pass and you still don't come out, so she knocks on the bathroom door. “Princess, is everything alright ? Do you need help?„ her voice, it's so evident she can hypnotise anyone with it. It's what you love the most, with the way she treats you.

You tell her she can come in, and she sees you, waiting for her to help you stand up. Your feet are wet now, and with how unsteady you are, you could fall and hurt yourself. She can't allow her baby to get hurt now, can she?

Kafka tends to your every needs, helping you drying and dressing up, showing you the different medicines. Once you take it, she lets you get comfortable in your nest. She carefully places the hot bottle against your belly. Even if the medicine is supposed to ensure the cramps aren't as painful, she wants to make sure you won't be in pain.

She lets a water bottle on the nightstand in case you get thirsty, and also gathers books on it. As well as the TV remote. She won't let you get bored. She closes the curtains, letting you use the soft lights of the room to be all cozy.

She'll go back to Blade and Silver Wolf, but every now and then, she comes in. And if she doesn't and you need something, she warned you to use your phone. It's one of the rare time where she'll be at your services. She knows how painful it can be to some women, and she's glad she doesn't experience it that way. But she can't help the pity when she sees her beloved in pain every month. So all she wants is to pamper you until you're feeling better.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.✧☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It was weird. To be seen outside with a Hunting Dog. But you got used to the stares eventually, and he did too. On his days off, if he even has some, he isn't a Hunting Dog but you're lover. But needless to say there is time you don't see him in a week. Those times.. They make you sad, or upset. But you can't just ask him to change that. He wishes to keep on going, and you just want to support him. So you will.

And whenever Tetcho comes back home, hearing the door slamming shut, you come to him like a happy puppy to its master. He loves it. It's so sweet of you. Most of the time, when he warns you beforehand of his arrival, you prepare a little something for it. Either being a gift, a snack, or even sometimes some more.. naughty things.

But today, he doesn't even see you at the doorstep! He calls out your name when his head pops from the living room's doorframe. And he sees you watching TV with a blanket over you. He smiles at the sight. It's so nice, to come home to his beloved. Even perhaps his future wife when the day will come!

He steps closer, sitting beside you and instantly wraps his arms around your waist. He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, taking in your sweet scent. You usually wore either sweet scents like vanilla, chocolate, and such, or flowery ones. You look down at him with a faint smile.

He hasn't seen the pills over the table. Well, good for you, it avoids some unecessary questions. It's always so cute to see him wanting to spend some quality time with you once he's home. Under your confused gaze, he takes the remote and turns of the TV, before trying to carry you bridal style. But you're fast to ask him to stop.

And so he does. He places you back down on the sofa, and tilts his head. “... Is something wrong baby?„ he inquires in a low yet gentle tone. You look away in embarrassment. It isn't easy to actually mention anything relating your menstruation, but well.. You couldn't let him worry. In a whisper, barely audible, you admit the issue.

His cheeks take a soft pink tint. Tetcho hasn't seen that coming, but it doesn't change the fact he'll spend quality time there! He slowly reaches out to squeeze your hand in his, “Have you taken medicine for the pain? Do you need me to go get some? Or would you like some hot water?„

You shake your head vigorously. That man is so caring. You point the box of pills on the table, and he nods. Yet, he still checks how many remains. “There won't be enough for the week.. I'll get you some when you'll be napping.„ he smiles. He's glad the medicine works their magic on you. He gets you back under the blanket, to the only exception he's beside you now, under it too.

And instead of watching some sad and upsetting news, you just get on some random kids' shows to keep in the background while he cuddles you. He has too much love to share. He faces pain and death on a daily basis, he can't allow it upon you yet, not while he's here. He'll always do anything within his powers to make it more comfortable for you.

⌦ .｡.:*♡◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ °

How can someone like him be so... Upsetting ? It's incredible. You hate his guts, and yet, it made you fall for him. You fell for someone you didn't wanted to love. But you can't actually complain.. Jouno makes you happy, doesn't he? He isn't so often home, but whenever he's, he loves to piss you off.

Starting by the tiniest of it. He knows cooking isn't what you exceed in, so whenever he doesn't smell any food scent in particular, he mocks you for ordering. But today, the scent in the apartment... it makes him smirk.

He can scent it, your blood. He has bitten hard enough on you during those nights to recognise that scent. But if you would've been in danger, you would've called him, and no one could have bitten you so hard. So you could only have your monthly.

Coming in the bedroom without knocking, he leans against the doorframe and stares in your direction. If he could, he would bury you with his gaze. “My, my, what do we have here? Someone laying there like a little worm, doing nothing at all.„

“To say I'm almost getting killed while you lazily wander around, I've truly decided to have such a girlfriend. What a pity, isn't it?„ you know deep down he just messes with you. But you hate it. Right now, you wish he would just shut up and leave you alone.

“Come on, it doesn't hurt that much. Beside, I've had worst, didn't I? It's not like you're getting stabb-!„ he abruptly stops. It surprises him. He was too busy mocking you he hadn't seen the pillow coming to his face. His eyebrows raise, and he sighs. He can sense you, there, helplessly curling up. He knows you had taken some medicines that were just a little effective, but not enough to calm you down.

Jouno doesn't want to show his weaknesses, not to you, not to anyone. He has been weak enough before, he can't let himself be there again. But he can't let you suffer alone. So he takes some steps closer, sitting on the bed. And reluctantly, he opens his arms, “... Come on. Before I change my mind.„

Your eyes widen in surprise, but you wouldn't deny such an offer. You slowly crawl to him, sitting in his lap and nestling your head against his chest. His arms wrap around your frame, embracing you against him. His breath is softly brushing against your hair, and you could hear his heartbeat like that.

You're content, his left hand caressing your back in soothing motions, as he tries to shush your whimpers, and take your pain away. “There, there. You're not alone. I'm back home. It'll be alright. The medicine will eventually work. For now, take a nap. Once you're asleep, I will get you some more to try.„

His voice, it soothes you. He isn't bad deep down, it just takes time for him to let his guard down, even for you. But he loves you, oh so dearly. If his morals weren't there, he could kill for you. You're his only weakness, the only thing he'd get on his knees for.

As sleep embraced you, you could hear a faint murmur falling from his lips. “I love you too much to let you stay in that pain, darling.„

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The famous Lord of Crime. Throuhough London he is known, even feared, despite no one knowing his true nature. No one beside his associates and you, his fiancée. Well, he hasn't properly proposed to you yet, but you both have talken about your wishes and.. It's obvious he wants to marry you. You have caught his heart. And Louis is thankful for that! Better you than Sherlock apparently...

And in the morning, William has seen a stain on the sheets... Ah, that explains your groggy behaviour when you left for the bathroom. It makes him chuckle, he can't lie. But it pains him, truly! He has to attend to work today... So while waiting for the bathroom to be free, he goes to Louis, informing him of a “very important mission„ only he can take care of.

Louis rolls his eyes at the mention of your menstruation. But it made him laugh that William takes it so seriously. The latter goes and changes the sheets while waiting for you. He knows you'll take quite the time, so he borrows the second bathroom. Wearing his signature brown three piece suit.

When you emerge out of the bathroom, he comes to meet you half way, giving you a lingering kiss as he takes your hand. “You're quite aggressive this morning, aren't you?„ he chuckles sweetly. His laugh.. It's the sweetest thing you ever heard. He guides you to the library, letting you rest on a plush armchair. Louis comes behind him with a soft and fluffy blanket to put over you.

“Just rest for today, darling. I am sorry I have to let you, but you know how it is.. I can't do otherwise for now. But I'm sure Louis will be wonderful to take care of you while I'm away.„ he gives a slight nod to his younger brother, before leaning to kiss your forehead.

And so, Louis is the one to tend to your needs while your fiancé is away. He even asks Fred if he can't go find some things, so he could make a concoction that could help your pain. Even if he dislikes the idea of William getting away from him, Louis appreciates you. You aren't disrespectful, on the opposite. He even likes the way William is around you.

You're glad you're accepted in their little family, and even toward his associates and friends. You busy yourself reading books or chatting with Louis. He even gets you the perfect tea for you.

And by the time William gets home, you're fast asleep on the chair. You look so peaceful, he can't bring himself to wake you up. So he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, and presses a kiss on your cheek. Exceptionally, he spends his time in the library instead of his office, just to keep an eye over you.

Every chat he can have, he's cautious to not be too loud. And when you'll stir awake, he'll cautiously step closer to ask if you're feeling any better. The rest of the week goes on the same way, and every night, William carefully carries you to bed, and soothes you to sleep, caressing your belly.

⋆˚｡⋆୨୧˚︵‿︵‿୨✧༺♥༻∞୧‿︵‿︵‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

/ᐠ - ˕ •マ Ⳋ mayuchi's property. do not repost, copy or translate without permission.

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lovelybrooke · 11 months

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Yandere Ouran High School Host Club x Reader Concept

I wanted to write this a while ago, but I couldn’t get the dynamic right. Hopefully this is good. Also, to avoid confusion, before reader figures out Haruhi is a girl, Haruhi will be referred to using He/him pronouns in readers POV. In Haruhi's POV, Haruhi will be referred to using she/her pronouns. If it's too confusing, I'll change it so that Haruhi is referred to using they/them pronouns.

You’re a “commoner” student transferring to Ouran in the around the middle of the year. While you were doing amazing academically, your main focus was with the arts, specifically painting. Before transferring, you would enter in art competitions in your area, and would always win first place. Your talents were soon recognized by Ouran Private Acadamy, and in no time you were given a scholarship to the prestigious school.

Starting school was rough. You didn't really fit into the mold of an Ouran student. The most obvious was that you were a commoner, which meant that the other students instantly had a bad impression of you. However, your art never really required you to interact with a lot of people, so you don't really have that many social skills. You spent most of your time at Ouran by yourself, either painting or working on school assignments. You never really thought you would make friends, that was until you met Haruhi.

The moment Haruhi heard that another commoner student would be enrolling in Ouran, she instantly wanted to meet you. She was pleasantly surprised to meet someone so a like her, someone who liked to remain to themselves and stayed out to drama, and the two of you quickly became close friends. While she was kind of disappointed that she had to hide her gender from you, it wasn't something she cared that much about, because she knew you would like her regardless.

Haruhi tried her hardest to keep you away from anything host club related, she honestly found it kind of embarrassing. Whenever she had to go to the club, she would tell you she had studying to do for another class and of course, you never questioned her. Or course, the other members eventually found out, and demanded that they meet Haruhi's new friend. Since she was in debt to them and had no other choice, she invited you to the host club one day during your lunch break.

You were shocked to hear Haruhi ask that, since it didn't really seem like him to hang out at the host club. When he explained that he was actually a part of the host club, you were genuinely shocked, since Haruhi didn't really seem like the type of person to involve himself in clubs like that. However, you couldn't really refuse, and so you found yourself in the host club during lunch, eating cake and drinking tea with Haruhi.

It was hard to ignore the other hosts watching you and Haruhi from their seats. The twins, Hikaru and Kaoru, were the most obvious, coming over to your table and causing mischief. At some point, that pulled you away to play the 'which one is Hikaru game' which you were able to win pretty easily due to their voice difference. You didn't really think it was a big deal, but the guest at their table thought it was.

The next one you met was Honey-senpai. It was surprising to meet someone like Honey-senpai and Mori, and you didn't really believe that he was older than you. He was so childlike; his optimism was kind of nice. After your 'game' with the twins, he got super excited and forced you to try out all these fancy deserts with him. You could barely get a word out; with all the food he was giving you and all the questions he was asking you it was basically impossible. In contrast, Mori was completely silent the whole interaction, Honey-senpai having to introduce him to you. Honey was very happy to meet you and was nearly throwing a tantrum when Haruhi took you from him.

Tamaki's meeting was less nice. He stormed up to your table, demanding what your intentions were with Haruhi. You were too stunned by the sudden interrogation that you nearly choked on your drink. Haruhi quickly apologized and dragged him away, which is when Kyoya told you that the club would be ending soon and "politely" asked you to leave. You tried saying buy to Haruhi, but he was too busy yelling at Tamaki, who was now cowering in the corner.

This was the start of your strange friendship with the host club. You would always see the twins when you would walk Haruhi to class, and almost always you would be late to your class because they wouldn't stop talking to you. Honey-senpai would make you lunches since you couldn't ever afford the ones the school made. Most of the time Mori would deliver them to you alone, but on a rare occasion Honey would be with him and he would always act like it was the first time he's seen you in years, yelling your name and waving at you from a mile away.

Eventually you were able to get on Tamaki's good side, once you were somehow able to prove to him you meant no harm to Haruhi. Soon, he even forgot about his previous hatred for you and pretended like you were best friends. He would offer to take you on trips with the host club, even going as far as to force you when you refused. It was usually Kyoya that had to reel him in and remind him that you were a commoner and so not used to receiving such expensive gifts.

This is when you should've realized something was up, because that was the moment everything really changed. Suddenly, it was a common occurrence to receive extravagant gifts from each of the hosts. Whether it was clothes, jewelry, or anything else, they were handing it over to you without any complaints. Even Haruhi would spoil you by giving you some of his homemade lunch or even offering to do your homework for you. It started became a competition with them, each of them trying to one up each other constantly. Speaking of Haruhi, it was a while before she actually told you she was a girl. It wasn't really a big deal when she did, since it didn't really matter to you. She was extremely grateful you didn't make a big deal out of it and was happy your friendship didn't change.

The surprisingly don't acknowledge their feelings for you for a while, mostly because they had to keep up their image of being single for the host club. However, the moment they all figure their feelings out, its chaos, Tamaki of course being the most dramatic. He doesn't understand what it is about you, but all he knows is he doesn't like the feeling of being in love with a commoner. Kyoya is the calmest, he easily accepts the fact that he loves you, since the doesn't really see any other reasons for the way he's feeling.

They don't even have to think about working together, it just happens. They are very controlling, whether its controlling who you hang out with, what you eat, or what you wear, they make almost every decision for you without any remorse. They see it as pampering, and that you deserve it for being such a great friend.

The hosts won't tell you about their feelings, and don't plan on doing so for a while. Again, they have to keep and image, so they stake their claim over you in more subtle ways. Clothing is a prime example, they lend you coats, small pieces of jewelry, even perfume that they wear to tell people your theirs. They also always make sure you're around them, so no one get any ideas.

I don't think at any point you'll really notice their behavior, since you wouldn't really question it if your rich friends wanted to gift you a few fancy things, what's the harm in that? You don't question it when Haruhi spends more and more time at your house, even going as far as sleeping in your bed with you. You don't question it when the twins gift you another specially designed outfit fitted to your exact measurements. You don't question how Kyoya knows your exact address and sends you flowers nearly every week. You don't say anything when Tamaki starts to be touchier with you, even going as far as kissing you on the cheek as a greeting. And when you, Honey, and Mori start having private lunches together instead of eating in the cafeteria, you don't bat an eye.

They're your friends, why should you question them?

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #yandere ohshc #ohshc x reader #yandere ouran high school host club #ouran high school host club #ouran high school host club x reader

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lottiecrabie · 10 months

Text

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

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airbendertendou · 1 year

Text

you are in love! ♥︎

synopsis : various best friend!characters realizing they like you a lil more than they should [including rk900 nines, wujin, gyeong-su, arisu and chishiya.]

no pronouns used ; gender neutral but reader is wearing lip balm / gloss / stain lmao ; [name] used in place of y/n

song inspo ; you are in love by taylor swift

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

——♥︎——

NINES ♥︎

the department is slow today. the usual hustle and bustle had calmed down immensely, sounds of typing and idle chatter taking over. your mug is sat to the left, empty as you squint at the computer screen in front of you. nines had been assigned the desk in front of yours — a blessing for quick cases, but a curse when he decided to ignore his tasks and simply stare at you.

as he was doing right now. blue eyes watch you as his led light slowly swirls yellow, head tilting as you blantantly ignore him. “want a refill?”

you hum, glancing at your stained mug before finding his gaze. you smile his way, “sure, if you don’t mind. i’m almost done here, though.”

without another word, nines makes his way to the breakroom to refill your mug with a steaming beverage. he hums at the steam, wondering if it was too hot for you to drink. he brings the cup to his mouth without thinking, the scalding liquid hitting his lips.

as he pulls it away — he’ll let it cool off a little longer, he decides — his lips feel sticky. a tingling sensation takes over, cooling and poking his lips at once. they taste sweet — minty — and it makes nines think.

is that how you tasted?

it had to be the lip gloss he’d always seen you applying. nines takes the mug back to you, loitering beside your desk as you look up at him. you grin again, ”thanks for the drink! you really didn’t ha—”

his lips are pressed against yours within the next second. pressing closer — harder — nines lets out a sigh as he finally releases you from his hold. he licks his lips, smacking them a bit as your gloss sticks to them.

“tingles.” is all he says before sitting across from you and continuing to stare. you blink, startled at his sudden and intense movements.

this changes things, you think. you’re unable to get back to work ; unable to meet nines’ eyes now that you’ve felt his skin against your own. you take a sip of your drink — this changes a lot of things.

WUJIN ♥︎

daesu had invited to you meet up with the group ; a new store had opened and everyone needed a break from their studies. namra met up with you so you could both walk to meet your friends, arms linked together as you talked about how difficult your last test was and how drained you were.

onjo squealed when she caught sight of you both, her and isak running to collide with you. you dispersed in a pile of giggles only to be pulled into a hug by daesu, who loudly and joyfully greeted you.

gyeongsu nudges you with a laugh as you pass through an art supply store, teasing you about the abundance of pens you always brings to class. this argument always happened but you always replied with the same thing — “need a different color for each subject!”

this, of course, applied to highlighters as well.

“hey,” a shy shoulder budges against yours. the clothing store you’re looking at now isn’t that interesting to you and the distraction is welcomed. wujin’s half-smile greets you, “glad you could make it.”

you let out a sigh, “needed a break from school so badly. how was your test? did you do okay?”

wujin shrugged. his mind was on other things ; eyes sticking to the new lip tint you’d put on. it was a darker color than usual, a cranberry and wine color that he couldn’t look away from. clearing his throat, wujin says, “that’s new. your— lip color.”

you perk up immediately, animatedly talking about the sale you stumbled upon and the new scents of hand lotion you grabbed. and that was interesting — wujin hung off of your every word — but he couldn’t look away from your lips.

your lips and their wine stained smile that he imagines pressing against his neck. would the color stick to his skin? would it mark him as yours ; and you as his?

GYEONGSU ♥︎

letting out another whine, gyeongsu flops back onto his carpeted floor. studying was hard ; it was tiring and boring and mentally exhausting. sighing, he goes to sit up and get back to it when the doorbell rings.

lo and behold, his savior. you’re standing in the doorway with a grin and your school bag, takeout bags looped around your wrists. you’re talking to gyeongsu’s mom ; giggling at her words and nodding along to what she says.

you look so comfortable at his house, so natural there that it almost hurts. his mom is in her nursing uniform, scrubs making their weird noise as she moves around. wordlessly, you hand her one of the takeout bags before setting the other one on the living room table. you’d been friends since you were young — had visited his house numerous times before — but, time and time again, gyeongsu thought about how well you fit in with them.

how well you could fit with him.

“hi, ‘su!” you grin his way and his heart aches. the boy melts where he stands, smile ghosting on his face immediately at the sight of you. he walks your way, both arms looping around one of yours with a sigh as he pulls you to sit on the floor beside him. “all good?’

he whines again, “brain hurts.”

“yeah i thought you might have some trouble,” you speak as you pull out your food. sighing, you smile his way timidly, pushing the food his way. “so, i retook the notes in a way i thought you’d understand.”

gyeogsu stares as you begin to dig in. his eyes are heart-shaped — they have to be. he softens entirely as he watches you.

ARISU ♥︎

the walk back from a game was always serene in the most devastating way. the beach wasn’t as safe as he’d originally thought — wasn’t as friendly and kind as the name suggested. but, arisu needed company and needed to understand what was happening and why he was sucked into the borderlands.

one good thing about the beach was you. you’d been ‘teamed up’ with usagi since you popped into the games, your wit and her athleticism saving you both more often than it let you down. one smile at arisu and— oh, he was a goner.

you’d met at the tag game and he’d stuck to you since. you always tried your best to be paired up with him, knowing what the loss of a friend could feel like ; what dark roads it could lead your mind to.

and he appreciated it so much — appreciated the way you took care of him and looked after him in the gentlest and most subtle of ways. with a sigh, arisu gave the two of hearts card to hatter, no closer to the end of the game than they’d been beforehand.

dried blood itched on his face ; stained his hands and coated his skin in a lingering scent he could never get rid of. a hand was latched onto his own, pulling and tugging him gently to a bathroom.

“come back to me,” a voice whispered. arisu always disappeared into his head after a game, screams and surrendering laughter haunting his mind. “come on, ‘su. come back.”

with a foggy blink, you came into view. you held a warm rag to his face, washing the blood off of his skin tenderly with a smile that made him melt. arisu slouched, relaxing forward into your open arms. “[name].”

“hi, ‘su.” you brushed your fingers through his greasy hair. “welcome back. i’m glad you’re alive.”

arisu snuggled further into you, arms winding around your waist as he thought. it was so easy to get lost in you ; too easy to think of you both getting out of the borderlands and settling down together and staying together.

he wish you knew, but he couldn’t be the one to tell you. not yet ; not with blood still dried on his hands.

CHISHIYA ♥︎

slight season two spoilers!

you’d been separated. you’d clung to chishiya since you arrived at the beach and now you were apart. worry and panic induced pacing caught kuina’s sight as you mindlessly picked at your skin.

she slung a backpack around her shoulders, looking at arisu and usagi as she spoke. “i’m off to find chishiya and ann.” she turns to you again, noticing the way you perked up at his name. “want to join me, [name]?”

you didn’t have to think before you were grabbing your own supplies and leaving with a hug to arisu and usagi. a promise to come back — to see them alive — and you were on your way.

then you were alone.

kuina had let go of you while you ran from the king of spades [again], and you’d found yourself lost. a blimp for the jack of hearts had just exploded a few feet in front of you.

lost in thought, you watched it tirelessly. and then a familiar voice. “[name]?”

you blink, coming back to reality as he walks up to you.

“chishiya,” you sigh out before running to meet him. without thinking, you throw your arms around his neck and pull him close. you let out a breath, closing your eyes and savoring his warmth. he was safe — alive. you go to pull away, “sorry. i got a little excited.”

chishiya grabs your right wrist, pulling it back around his neck as your left one is guided to wrap around his waist. he sinks into you, letting out his own sigh of relief as he relaxes.

“s’okay. need this — need you.” it’s out of character for the blond to be so loving ; so touch-starved as he clings onto you and makes your hold tighter. it wasn’t nice being alone in the games, not even to someone like chishiya. a feather-light touch hits the tip of your cheekbone. “you tell anyone about this, and i’ll kill you.”

the threat makes you laugh into his shoulder — even though you know he isn’t joking.

——♥︎—— there will b an anime version of this up soon!

airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

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minami-ff · 5 months

Text

Captain, Truth or Dare?

Levi x Reader

The open field outside the walls bathed in the soft saturated hues of the evening, as you and your comrades sat in a circle. Sasha had coerced everyone into playing ‘Truth or Dare’. Levi desperately wanted to find a quiet spot, away from hearing this nonsensical game, but had to stay close for protective duty.

Sasha smirked mischievously at you. "Alright, y/n, Spill it. Who do you have a crush on in the squad?”

A collective murmur of protest echoed through the group, "yeah we agreed not to ask that," you replied.

The air hung in silence as your refusal to answer left the question lingering. Sasha leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, "fine, fine. Then what's your ideal type of guy?"

You bit your lower lip, contemplating how to navigate this minefield without revealing too much. You had always been terrified that you would be kicked out of the squad if you revealed who had been occupying your thoughts all the time. Though word had it that Captain Levi gave you so much preferential treatment that a dismissal would never occur.

"I don't know," you began, strategically choosing to divert your true thoughts.

"Maybe someone carefree," thinking about his meticulous attention to detail.

"Laid-back," you continued, a complete opposite of Levi’s stern demeanour.

"Openly expressive," you added, against his highly reserved nature.

"A bit of a bad boy?" you chuckled, masking your captain’s discipline.

Connie giggled, "okay, so Captain is out."

Armin chimed in, "that's for sure."

Your words which painted a picture of an antithesis of Levi’s persona left him with disappointment subtly flickering in his eyes. He felt an unusually sudden twist in emotions, but ensured none of his feelings surfaced. Though he mastered the art of concealment, you noticed the tightening of his jaw when you glanced over at him, unsure of what it suggested.

Jean interjected teasingly. "Sounds like you're describing Eren."

You dismissed Jean's comment with a shake of your head, finding it utterly ridiculous. "Eren is way too young for me."

Eren, with an offended sneer on his face, "Uh, three years is barely any difference."

Eyes narrowed, you retorted, "Uh, yes it is."

Eren persisted, his playful grin widening, "You're just being prejudiced against younger guys. Bet you wouldn’t say the same thing about a man three years older."

Levi, quietly eavesdropping on the exchange, side-eyed the group, a secret indication of his curiosity. All eyes turned to you as the conversation hung in the air.

"Fine, this time you're right, a man three years older would definitely be perfect for me." You admitted, thinking it was a safe answer, while Eren snickered in victory.

The atmosphere shifted as Sasha, always eager for some excitement, seized the opportunity. "Alright, Captain, truth or dare?"

Ignoring Sasha entirely, Levi remained aloof, leaving the air thick with awkwardness.

Sasha pressed on, undeterred by the captain's silence, "okay truth! So captain, what is your birth year? I mean you know all of our ages, could we have an exchange of clarity?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the entire field seemed to hold its breath. Levi's eyes flickered, a subtle change in his typically stoic expression.

"829," Levi admitted. A collective gasp of disbelief echoed through the group. You, too, were taken aback; yes he had a youthful appearance, but his experience was nothing short of astonishing, so you always assumed he was at least 7 years your senior.

“WAIT, that means Captain is three years older than y/n?!” Eren exclaimed, his surprise mirroring your own.

Sasha erupted into laughter, "Y/n, what were you saying again, about a man three years older?"

“Perfect for you?” Jean added to the fire.

The entire group joined in, a chorus of laughter that seemed to reverberate through the field. Heat rushed to your face, the teasing turning your cheeks crimson as you wished to dive into a deep hole.

Seeing your vulnerable body language, Levi intervened, breaking the moment with his sternness. He threw a bunch of papers towards the group, the rustle of the pages cutting through the laughter,

"Break is over. First person to collect all the plants listed gets extra meat for dinner tonight."

The shift from amusement to duty was swift, and the group dispersed as everyone refocused on the mission at hand. You and Levi locked eyes for a brief but electrifying moment before you shamefully looked away, then trudged off into the fields.

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starsval · 5 months

Text

headcase

remus lupin x f!reader

summary: liking remus lupin isn't easy, especially when all he does is give you missed signals

word count: 3k

warnings: kissing, reader drinks alcohol, talking about sleeping with someone(?

I was doing fine till you crashed in my headspace And took over my mind I was sorta cool till you made me a headcase And now I'm always Getting over it, getting over you, I don't even know you Hit me with that smile Way to rip my heart out my ribcage, ooh-ooh

"so i think i'll just do it lat-" you don't finish, distracted by a certain tall boy, with honey eyes and scarred face. who just walked in.

"what happened?" lily asks, worried by your sudden change.

"i hate him" you declare, maybe for the fifth time that day.

"you don't" marlene adds, focusing on her nails.

"yeah you don't" lily agrees, turning to wave at remus.

"okay maybe i don't" you keep talking so they can't interrupt you "but i am getting over him" you announce "i can't live like this, like, i don't even remember what i was talking about 'cause he just crashed into my headspace, and now i can only think about him, and his hair, and his hands and his sweaters…"

lily talks, intervening before you can go on your daily rant about remus lupin.

"i thought you said you hated him and were getting over him?" she smiles, chuckling when you groan.

marlene also smiles, but she loudly laughs when you put your head in your hands. remus just smiled at you.

"he's gonna rip my heart out my ribcage"

Only hit me now, we were texting late When you called me up just to see my face And I can't, I can't seem to figure you out Are you with that girl back in your home town? If we never kissed, does it even count? I still can't get you out of my mouth Way to touch me, babe, way to ask a {lady?} Overthink, overcomplicate Won't you let me stay in this fake heartbreak? I'm a real headcase

you know you should be sleeping instead of texting remus. you are aware of that, but it's hard to sleep when all he's doing is giving you mixed signals. it's hard to sleep when all you're doing is thinking about him. it's hard to sleep when he asks if he can come over. and it's even harder to say no to him.

"why did you want to come over?" you ask him as he walks in, closing the door behind him.

"just wanted to see your face" he stands in front of you, ignoring the way you frown at his words, touching your cheek.

"can i be honest with you?" he smirks.

"of course" he takes a step closer to you.

"i don't think i'll ever figure you out" you rest your forehead against his chest, feeling the vibrations as he chuckles.

"good"

ᨳ ׂ 𓈒 ⠀🌙 ㅤׂ ✽ ੭

"i don't get it, he comes over, spends the night and then he's making out with this girl from his hometown" you pout at your ceiling, marlene and lily next to you.

"we don't get it either" lily assures.

"maybe it's because we never kissed, maybe it doesn't count"

"i don't think remus is like that" marlene says, giving you a chocolate.

"i hate how i can't stop talking about him" you sigh, closing your eyes "in my defense, he gives really good hugs"

"maybe you're just over thinking?" lily asks, taking a chocolate from marlene.

"let me stay in this fake heartbreak please"

Honey, if you want, I could give you my weekends All you gotta do Is tell me this is true, tell me I am your weakness Just give me something I don't know how this started Is this what modern art is? You left and took my heart with

"are you free this weekend?" remus finds you as you're walking to class, getting the books from your hands to hold them for you.

"i don't know" you do know, marlene wants you to go to this party with her "why?"

"are you coming to the party?" he asks, smiling at you.

"i don't know yet" you lie, marlene would kill you if you didn't go.

"okay, i'll see you there then" he gives you your books back.

"what?" you frown.

"i'm inviting you, so you have to go" he then turns around and leaves, probably to his class.

ᨳ ׂ 𓈒 ⠀🌙 ㅤׂ ✽ ੭

you see remus right when you enter, but lily quickly drags you to were marlene is waiting, so you don't see him again until an hour later. when you've already had some drinks.

"hi" he pats the spot next to him on the couch, and you sit, staring at your cup "how are you?"

"can i ask you something?" you say, ignoring him.

"sure" he puts an arm around your shoulder.

"will you please tell me that this is true? tell me i am your weakness?" you stare at him.

"are you drunk?" he take the hand that's holding your cup and puts it close to his face, smelling it "you are drunk" he confirms as he gets up, pulling you up with him.

he takes your hand in his, and walks to lily and marlene, that are talking with james and sirius.

"i'm taking her to her room" he tells the girls.

"why?" sirius asks, but one glance at you is enough, it's obvious that you're drunk.

"okay, we'll go check on her later" lily says, taking the cup from your hand as you pass next to her, following remus.

you're already in a corridor when you talk again.

"please just give me something" you say, staring at the back of his hand

"you have to sleep" he mutters, ignoring you until you reach your room.

you fall on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

"i don't know how this started" you tell him, knowing that he knows what you're talking about. you're talking about your weird relationship. you are friends, but you flirt, you stay up talking to each other, you get jealous when the other is on a date with someone. but you aren't dating. "but i hate it, i hate you"

he only smiles, knowing that you don't mean it. he sits next to you, stroking your hair, waiting until you fall asleep.

then he leaves, taking your heart with him.

And it hit me now, we were texting late Then you called me up just to see my face And I can't, can't seem to figure you out (You out), ooh-ooh Are you with that girl back in your home town? If we never kissed, does it even count? I still can't get you out of my mouth (My mouth)

you hear your name being called just as you get up to get another drink. when you turn, you see sirius walking to you.

"remus is asking for you" he says, taking your hand and dragging you with him. you hadn't seen or talked to him since that party last week.

"what?" you ask, but before he can answer, you're standing in front of a very drunk remus, whose eyes light up when he sees you.

"hi" he giggles, taking the hand sirius is holding, to hold it himself.

"hi" you reply, frowning at james, who's watching everything with a smirk "why don't you go to sleep?"

you think remus is not going to agree, but he quickly gets up.

"with you? of course" he starts walking to the door, and you can only look back at james and sirius as they laugh.

"what? remus, no, i didn't mean-" you try to talk, but he ignores you, looking back only to grin.

once you reach his room, he quickly takes off his shoes and lies on the bed, staring at you with his arms open.

"remus" you say, not getting closer to him.

"yes?" he smiles at you, and if you weren't tipsy you'd notice the sparks in your eyes are because of you.

"sleep"

"i'm trying to, but you are just standing there" he sounds genuine about it, just the same way he looks genuinely sad when you take a step towards the door.

he doesn't say anything, so you assume he's just going to give up. but before you can reach the door, you feel his hand on your wrist. and before you can say something, you're on the bed next to him, with his arms around you.

"remus?" you try to move, but his grip doesn't get any weaker, even when he's half asleep.

he hums in response, his face in your neck.

"let me go"

he doesn't reply, but you feel his smile against your skin.

"i want to go back to the party" you try again, even if it's not entirely true.

"liar" he mutters, and his arms tighten around you.

"what"

"you like being here with me" he replies, and then he finally falls asleep.

And I can't seem to figure you out Oh, I can't seem to figure you out (You out)

you wake up to a flashlight, and when you open your eyes, there's a really drunk sirius holding a camera, with a really drunk james suppressing a laugh next to him.

"what time is it?" you ask, peeling remus' arm from around you.

"like 4 am" sirius replies, taking another picture of remus, this time without flash.

"tell remus i said goodbye" you say, walking to the door, although you doubt they'll remember.

the second time you wake up, it's already bright up. and when you get to the Great Hall, you see remus staring at you.

"why is he glaring at you?" marlene asks, frowning when remus gets up.

"i don't know" you lie, but before lily can say anything, remus is already behind you.

"you weren't there when i woke up" he says it like an accusation, and before you can reply, marlene is already talking.

"what!?" she practically spits her tea "you slept with him?"

"no" you say.

"yes" he says.

"not in the way you think!" you clarify.

"why did you sleep with him?" lily asks, and you can see the smirk she's hiding.

"i didn't-"

"you did" before remus can say anything else, you get up and grab his arm, dragging him out of the Great Hall to talk.

"what?"

"you weren't there when i woke up" he repeats.

"you wanted me to be there?" you frown, because the signals he has given you definitely didn't say that.

"yes" he doesn't change his expression.

"i find that hard to believe"

"why?" he scoffs.

"really? why?" you don't know if you should ignore him or just laugh in his face.

"yes, why?"

"you act all lovely on me one day and then you are with someone else, forgive me if i don't believe that you want me around"

"i forgive you" this time you're the one who scoffs, turning around and walking again in the Great Hall, not caring if he follows you.

marlene and lily decide not to ask about it.

Are you with that girl back in your home town? If we never kissed, does it even count? I still can't get you out of my mouth (My mouth) Way to touch me, babe, way to ask a lady? Overthink, overcomplicate Won't you let me stay in this fake heartbreak? I'm the real headcase

"really? again?" peter questions as remus sits in the couch again. they're in the middle of a party and remus just left with that girl from his hometown.

"did she see me?" remus looks around, looking for you.

"i think she was too busy talking with evan" james informs him, grinning when lily approaches them.

"have you seen the idiots i call for friends?" she asks, shoving sirius out of the way to sit on the couch next to james.

"one was with dorcas and the other one just left with evan" peter replies.

"wait, it was real? she left with evan?" remus frowns, and even pouts when lily laughs at him.

"what? you think she's gonna wait for you? babe, she's getting bored of you" she tells him, suddenly turning around when you and marlene approach her.

you sit on the couch in front of her, where sirius went after lily had pushed him. he puts an arm around both of you.

"so, i heard that you're both in love with some slytherins" you both glare at him, and he laughs at remus' expression.

after talking for a while, and you ignoring remus all the time, you three get up and leave. but before you can reach the hallway, remus takes your arm.

"can we talk?"

"we're talking right now" you smile. he glares.

before he can reply, marlene shoves both of you out of the door and to a corner of the hallway.

"talk" and then she leaves with lily.

"why were you with evan?" he asks.

"we were talking"

"like we" he points to both of you "talk?"

"i don't know remus, how do we talk? how are you any different than evan?"

"he doesn't like you" you chuckle.

"and you do?"

"i do"

"i don't believe you" you start to walk away, but he grabs your arm and turns you around, settling his hands on your waist.

"let me help you believe"

"what?" you notice the way he looks at your lips.

"i can't get you out of my mouth, ask peter, i'm sure he hates me because all i ever do is talk about you. you're the only one who makes me overthink. i'm literally wondering if i'm too tall right now"

his face gets closer to yours as he talks.

"remus-"

"and i know that we never kissed, but even if it doesn't count, i'd prefer to stay on this fake heartbreak, just because it'd be because of you"

you can't handle it anymore, so you just kiss him, you grab his face and kiss him. you kiss him to shut him up, that's what you tell yourself.

when you pull away, he's grinning.

"that was just so you shut up" you tell him, but your hands don't leave his face, instead, they go to the back of his neck.

"sure"

"i meant it" you try to pull away, but his grip on your waist tightens, and one of his hands to the back of your neck.

"i'm gonna start talking again so you might need to shut me up again" he smirks.

you comply, happily.

I'm the real headcase I'm the real headcase Mm Yeah, I'm the real headcase

when you enter the great hall the next morning, remus walking in with you, your friends and his are sitting together.

so when you go sit with them, the stares you get are inevitable.

"so?" james starts, smirking.

"what?" you ask, already feeling the headache you're gonna get from this.

"did you sleep together?" marlene abruptly asks after a moment of silence.

"marlene!" you say.

"yes" remus says.

"remus!" you say again, hitting his arm.

"what? it's true!" he frowns.

"it's not" you say, sitting and focusing on your food.

"it is" everyone agrees, and you can't do anything but ignore them.

ᨳ ׂ 𓈒 ⠀🌙 ㅤׂ ✽ ੭

the next few weeks, you spend your days with remus, still not sure if you're dating or not, but neither of you care.

right now you're laying on his bed, reading a book, well, at least trying to, because remus is making it really hard. he's basically lying on top of you, stroking your hair and giving small pecks to your neck.

"can i ask you something?" he says after a while, lifting his head to look at you, but you focus on the book.

"sure" your eyes don't leave the book until you have no other choice, because certain someone just snatches it from your hand.

"do you want to be my girlfriend?" you freeze at his words, staring at him.

"i know it's not the best way of asking, i mean, you deserve something fancy, like chocolates or flowers, but i couldn't wait to ask you" he stares back at you, his eyes softer than ever. and all you can do is lean in and kiss him.

it's a sweet kiss, soft and short, and you think that it's enough as an answer, but you still reply.

"i'd love to" he kisses you again, and the book is long forgotten as his other hand goes to your waist, and the one in your hair goes to the back of your neck.

ᨳ ׂ 𓈒 ⠀🌙 ㅤׂ ✽ ੭

you walk into the gryffindor common room holding hands, and sit next to all of your friends, who look at you, suspiciously.

"what's happening?" sirius asks, pointing at your hands.

"what?" remus replies, and when you let go of his hand to pick up your book, his hand goes to your tight instead.

"why is your hand on my best friend's tight?" lily talks, frowning.

"i can't put my hand on my girlfriend's tight?" remus makes sure to emphasise the word girlfriend, and you're almost sure everyone stops breathing.

"what" marlene breaks the silence, "since when?"

"like two weeks ago" you mutter, still reading your book.

this time, the reactions come almost immediately.

"what!" mary screams.

"and you didn't tell us?" lily looks offended.

"we have to throw a party to celebrate!" james and sirius say at the same time, high fiving after that.

"when's the wedding?" marlene asks.

"next year" remus replies, and that makes you look away from your book.

"what!?" all of you ask, except remus.

"since when?!" lily frowns at you.

"i don't know!" you look at remus.

"we're already engaged" he says.

"what!?" you all say again, and he just rolls his eyes.

"we aren't engaged" you clarify.

"she's just in denial" remus tells everyone.

"you haven't asked!" lily frowns at that.

"you'd say yes!?" she asks.

everyone stops everything and looks at you, slowly getting more flustered, and at remus, who's grinning like he hasn't before.

"what if we get married next week?" he asks.

"no!" lily replies before you can.

#remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x reader #young remus lupin #young marauders #young lily evans #young sirius black #young james potter #kissing #the marauders era #the marauders #remus x you #remus lupin #based on a song

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prince-kallisto · 6 months

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Crowley Levan is Meleanor’s “eyes, limbs, and husband”…wouldn’t it be cool if the one who married into the Draconia family had a crown/headpiece that resembled horns, worn for ceremonies, public appearances and the like?!

We haven’t seen Levan yet but I know in my heart he’s just a silly little guy as long as you ignore The Killings 💞

I talk more about concept art and costume details below the cut!

Levan’s headpiece is designed to have more of a live-action Maleficent feel, where she wrapped her horns in…fabric? Snakeskin? Whatever it was, it looked really shiny, oily, and really cool, so I tried to depict that texture to show how his horns are fake.

And sort of elaborating on the Draconia crown idea, perhaps each crown from every ruler who married into the family has its own unique shape? Levan’s halo-like shape is unique to him, so ones before him perhaps had more “traditional” dragon-like horns, and others had twisting ones like a sheep, etc etc. Since I’m OBSESSED with TWSTs religious symbolism- the Dawn Knight popped off with that winged helmet- I also wanted a halo shape to make Levan look slightly angelic.

The beads on his horns were slightly inspired by the mianguan, a formal headdress worn in ancient China. He also wears nail guards covered in shiny jewels… Let him be extra ✨

Levan having wings over his eyes like the Dawn Knight would be a fun parallel, and as a reference to him being Meleanor’s “eyes, limbs, and husband.” Like I mentioned in the comic, he covers his eyes and disguises his body under bulky clothing to be publicly dramatic af 😭 he takes his title way too seriously haha. The idea is that when he isn’t around Meleanor, he sheds his mask so he can report what he sees to Meleanor. But when he is with her, he “blinds” himself as a demonstration of trust. I’m sure he can actually detect his surroundings very well despite the mask- he just likes to play around and act dumb to make Lilia and Meleanor laugh haha. I haven’t thought much about the clothes under his cape, but I imagine it’s very like Malleus’ masquerade outfit. Something very streamlined and agile in case he has to enter a sudden battle or fly into the air.

And with my concept art, he was meant to have the shoulder feathers like Crowley and Malleus! They were like pauldrons covered in feathers. But when I was working on the final piece, I spontaneously changed it to fit the sketch for something more flowing and bulky haha. In my head, this bigger cape has a more “General” vibe to it? Something that draws your attention when Levan walks into a war room! Speaking of, I really love the fantasy-vibe of the costumes in Book 7- I feel like I can really go all out with Levan’s costume if the Dawn Knight is allowed to have a helmet like that!

This was super last minute in the painting process, but I’d like the inside of his cape to have constellations and stars all over it! I tried to draw the Corvus, Crater, and Hydra on the visible parts of his cape.

I prefer painting with ink far better than acrylic or even watercolor…so doing this in mostly black and white inspired me to give Levan porcelain-like skin, shading his skin almost like he was a doll and not a person. I think about how Diablo in Sleeping Beauty was turned into stone, so it’s meant to be a bit like marble too

I imagine Levan to have long, wispy hair that resembles briars and a bit like live action Aurora from Maleficent. Its very striking how he’s repeatedly described as “beautiful,” and although short hair is very beautiful in its own right, something about his mysteriousness and beauty gives me Aurora vibes specifically. Speaking of, Book 7 seems to be more obvious with combining elements from the original Sleeping Beauty and the live action Maleficent. Perhaps Silver could be the OG Aurora, but I can still give Levan live-action Aurora’s pretty hair haha.

When he wears his headdress and cape, he has his hair pinned up in the back. I’d like to draw my interpretation of Levan more in the future so you can see how his hair would look when it’s all down or in a ponytail. Perhaps Raven-Fae do more elaborate hairstyles that incorporates jewels/shiny things into their hair? Also, this inspiration is VERY specific haha, but if you ever read or watched Cardcaptor Sakura, Nadeshiko’s hair is very close to how I imagine his hair to be- very full and flowing! (Cardcaptor Sakura’s aesthetic snatched me up many years ago and has never let go since haha)

I don’t know, I just think it’s really cool yet ironic that Meleanor and Lilia talk about Levan as someone whose a crybaby, kind, beautiful, airheaded, but then Lilia casually drops that Levan is one of the top generals, an extremely skilled diplomat, and battled the DAWN KNIGHT and survived, when even Lilia hasn’t at that point. So I thought it would be fun if he had angelic themes in his outfit, while still making it clear that he’s dangerous.

Whoops this got pretty long! ∑(ﾟДﾟ) Haha, I think I like sharing my designs- not for the art it self but just to ramble about my entire thought process/inspiration/details! Although I try to get better at depicted all these ideas through the art itself, I can’t help but want to talk about it haha

#cant wait to be horribly wrong with his design #no seriously. I CANT WAIT SHOW ME LEVAN ALREADY. SHOW ME THE BOYYYYY ARGHHHHHH #twisted wonderland #twst #twst fanart #Twst levan #twst revan #twst papa draconia #twst meleanor draconia #Twst General Lilia #KallistoPost #my art

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regressionschool · 7 months

Text

Penny had been trying so hard with her potty training lately, but today was different. She was playing with her toys in the living room, and a sudden urge made her tummy churn. Before she knew it, she had a messy accident right there in her pull-up. Her face turned beet red with embarrassment as she felt the warm, squishy mess spreading inside her underwear. She knew she should go tell Mommy right away, but the shame held her back. She tried to ignore it, hoping that maybe it wasn't as bad as it felt. But the distinct smell soon reached Mommy, who was busy in the kitchen. Mommy's irritation was evident in her voice as she called out, "Penny, did you have an accident?"

Penny bit her lip, feeling like a naughty little girl. She nodded silently, her cheeks burning with humiliation. Mommy entered the living room and frowned as she got a whiff of the situation. "Penny, this is the third time this week! You should know better by now." Mommy made a note on Penny's potty training chart, marking today's accident. Penny's eyes welled up with tears, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything. She just stood there, her hands clutching the messy pull-up, trying to hide the evidence.

Mommy sighed in exasperation. "Alright, let's get you cleaned up and into a fresh diaper." She sounded annoyed, and Penny couldn't help but feel like she had disappointed her. Mommy guided Penny to the changing table, her tone stern. She removed the soiled pull-up and used wipes to clean Penny thoroughly. The entire time, Penny could feel her mother's frustration hanging in the air. Once she was clean, Mommy unfolded a thick diaper and expertly taped it in place. It was a stark reminder that Penny's potty training was still far from perfect.

Penny, feeling both embarrassed and defeated, cupped her diapered bottom, acutely aware of the bulky padding between her legs. She avoided eye contact with Mommy, who seemed disappointed. Penny's lower lip quivered as she finally mustered the courage to speak. "Mommy, I don't want to wear diapers," she whispered, her voice filled with frustration and sadness. Mommy sighed, her tone softening a bit. "I know, sweetie. Diapers are just until you get better at using the potty."

Penny shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "But I'm not a baby anymore. I want to use the potty like a big girl." Mommy's patience was wearing thin, her disappointment giving way to a hint of frustration. She looked at Penny sternly, her voice carrying a tinge of irritation. "Penny, you know you were allowed and encouraged to use the potty. But if you choose not to, and Mommy has to keep cleaning up messy accidents, then it's only fair for you to wear diapers. It's not pleasant for either of us, but if you don't use the potty, then this is how it will be." Penny could feel the weight of her Mommy's words, and she knew that she had let her down. Her lower lip quivered again, this time with a mixture of regret and resignation. She nodded, her eyes cast downward, knowing that her potty training would have to take a step back for now. Art done by the wonderful RocketManatee

#ab/dl caption #ab/dl stories #diaper captions #ab/dl girl #diaper stories #regression school #ab/dl diaper #wetting diaper

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artandshid · 1 year

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“Eddie it’s one in the morning why are you calling.” You say groggily into the phone.

“I’m sorry sweetheart we’re you sleeping?” He says with a laugh and you roll your eyes

“Of course not I was getting ready to start my ten mile run.”

“Let’s go for a drive.” He says ignoring your sarcasm. He knows you’re grumpy when you’re tired.

“Eddie, like I already said, it’s one in the morning. Where are we going to drive to? If I leave my house my parents are going to be pissed.”

“You don’t have to tell them, sneak out the window. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” He says to you.

“Eddie seriously why are you being so persistent? You’re acting crazy man.”

“Y/n, please, as your best friend I am asking you to just come with me.” You’re silent over the phone, because of course you want to go with him, he’s your best friend, but you don’t want to get caught by your parents. “Y/n please.” His serious tone makes you change your mind immediately and that’s how you find yourself getting ready to go for a drive wherever your best friend has in mind.

You hear the knock on your window just as you put your jacket on and see your frizzy haired friend with a smile on his face. “You ready to go?” He mouths to you and you nod your head.

In his car, he has his music playing lowly and he’s rubbing circles on your hand. Which isn’t an abnormal occurrence, but the gesture always brings you a sense of peace.

“So why are we going on a drive again?” You question him and you see him swallow thickly.

“I just needed to get out of the trailer. Couldn’t get out of my own head you know?” You nod your head because you know that he gets like that.

Eddie is a very creative person and with being a creative and innovative person, you have a lot of thoughts. Those positive thoughts are what he turns into art, unfortunately, your best friend hasn’t mastered how to turn those negative thoughts into art, too. That’s why he has you.

“Where are we off to anyway?”

“Where do you want to be off to Sweetheart?”

“Let’s take the drive to Chicago.” You tell him with a smirk, knowing that you guys both love the city and it’s only about an hour and a half away.

“Chicago? You were just complaining that you didn’t want to get in trouble by your parents, if we go to Chicago there’s no way I’ll have you back before they wake up.”

“Then I get in trouble, so what. Let’s go to Chicago.”

He turns to you and smiles, “What have I turned you into?” and you laugh.

————————-————–——

You guys are walking around the city hand in hand, just like you used to do when you were kids.

The topics have ranged from his band, to DND, to Motley Cure’s new album and how dreamy Tommy Lee is, to what you would name your pizza shop if you had one. They could talk about anything and everything together.

Suddenly Eddie got serious and you asked him what was wrong. He shakes his head and kicks a rock, you choose not to push the topic and instead welcomed the comfortable silence.

All of a sudden he stops and you turn and look at him, “How are you and Caden?” Caden was your on and off again boyfriend for about 8 months. Eddie doesn’t like him, he thinks you deserve better, and you know you do, you just stay with him because you were too scared to tell the one you really want that you love him.

“We’re okay right now, but if you ask me again tomorrow the answer might be different.” You say with a laugh and try to get a read of his face.

He takes a step closer to you and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “You deserve better than him.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, even though you can feel your face burning at his touch, “I know Eds, you only say that every single time he gets brought up.”

He lets out a small laugh but then looks serious again, there’s something behind his eyes that you can’t quite pinpoint which worries you because you always know how he’s feeling.

Your eyebrows pinch in concern and you search his eyes, “Eddie, what’s wrong?”

He takes a deep breath and steps even closer to you, your faces barely an inch apart and he whispers, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Your breath hitches and the screen in front of his eyes was pulled away and all you can see is love and you’ve never been happier.

“Eddie you have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words from you. I’m in love with you, too.”

He smiles the widest you’ve ever seen him smile and he leans closer to you, you’re about to kiss him, too, but then you remembered Caden.

You push a little on Eddie’s chest to get him to stop and he looks at you confused.

“I can’t cheat on him, I’m in love with you, but I can’t physically cheat on him.”

He looks hurt, but he backs away and puts his head down.

“I’ll break up with him tomorrow, for good. Because I want to be with you, forever and ever. But I can’t be a cheater, I’m sorry.” You tell him with tears running down your face.

He smiles at you and brushes your tears away. “Until tomorrow then. Let’s head back to the van, yeah?”

You smile back at him, “Yeah, until tomorrow.”

Guys, i’m really in the writing mood, and I don’t know how long it’s going to last so here’s another one.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie x reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson x you #best friend! eddie munson #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson request #eddie munson smut

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ramblingoak · 1 year

Text

Yes, Cardinal

The Sexy Adventures of Cardinal Terzo ~ A series of stories featuring Cardinal Terzo and his adventures around the abbey

Terzo x Female Reader ~ Cardinal Terzo eavesdrops on your phone call

Warnings: smut, vaginal fingering, hair pulling, biting, bossy Terzo, nsfw, 18+ only, mdni, 1600 words (art by @tasty-ribz )

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Secondo was lucky he was on the other side of the country and not on the other side of your desk.

“Sorella, I think you are forgetting who are speak–”

“No Papa, I think you are forgetting who you are speaking to. I am in charge of the tour budget and that means that any changes made must be approved by me first, do you understand?” Your phone was starting to creak ominously in your fist so you spun your chair around to look out the window and take a few calming breaths.

“All I did wa–”

“Let me put this in simpler terms for you,” You ignored Secondo’s growl and continued on, “Unless you want to finish the tour staying in the most disgusting, roach filled motels I can find, you will run every purchase by me first.”

“Look, all I di–”

“Every. Purchase. I don’t want you to put a dime in a vending machine without asking me first.”

“You think you can speak to me like this?”

“I know I can speak to you like this.” He started to say something else but you cut him off once again, “I also know that unless I hear you say ‘Yes, sister’ and ‘I’m sorry, sister’ I’m turning your credit cards off.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would, the Ghouls’ too.” Finally you were met with silence. Hopefully you had made your point, but you knew he’d be sulking about this for months. At least tonight he could sulk in his $2,000 a night suite he decided to upgrade to. “Do you have any questions, Papa?”

“No.”

“Good, that’s good. So you understand the rules now?”

“Si, sorella.” You could hear his teeth grinding and it was glorious.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Mi dispiace, sorella.”

“Okie dokie! Have a great night, Papa!” You didn’t wait for his response and ended the call. These fucking Emeritus brothers were going to put you in an early grave.

“I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I do right now.” The sudden voice from behind you caused you to scream and you jerked your chair around to glare at the man that had snuck up on you.

Cardinal Terzo Emeritus was staring at you hotly from across your desk.

“Lucifer’s balls, Terzo!” You tossed your phone down and glared at him, but like usual it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He walked around your desk and reached his hands out for yours and you reluctantly let him pull you out of your chair. “What are you do–mmph!”

Terzo’s mouth swallowed the rest of your protest and you found yourself practically melting against him. His hands framed your face for a moment before his fingers slipped into your hair, pulling it out of the tidy bun you kept it in during the day. When it started to fall loosely at your shoulders he gathered most of it in a fist and tugged your head back from his mouth.

“You were magnificent, dolcezza.” Terzo kept your head tilted back and dropped his mouth to your neck, scraping his teeth down to where it met your shoulder and then nipping at the skin there. He worried the skin between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth, creating a bruise you knew you’d be pressing your fingers into until it faded away.

“Listening to me talking to your brother turns you on, huh?” He snorted against your neck and lifted his head to lean his forehead against yours.

“Mmm, you putting that stronzo in his place turns me on.” Terzo let go of your hair and then reached down to grab your ass, lifting you up so you were sitting on the edge of your desk. His gloved hands moved to your knees before sliding up your thighs, pushing your habit up as they went. When he caught sight of your lacy panties he grinned up at you, “These help too.”

You meant to respond but all that came out was a moan as he started to rub a finger up and down your covered cunt. He leaned down and captured your mouth again, his tongue pushing between your lips to tangle with your own. You placed your hands on the back of his head so you could angle it to deepen the kiss. His biretta was easily batted out of the way and you let your fingers tangle in his black strands.

Terzo began pressing harder against your cunt, adding another finger and circling your entrance through the silk. You wondered if he realized how wet you were. When his fingers slipped underneath and pushed inside your entrance you broke away from his mouth, dropping your head against his chest to watch them move in and out of you. His gloves were glistening with the moisture he had caused.

His other hand gripped your hair again, pulling your head away from his chest so he could look into your eyes. He pulled his fingers out of your cunt, bringing them up to your lips and you obediently opened your mouth to take them inside. The taste of yourself made you moan around his fingers and Terzo abruptly pulled them out while letting go of your hair. He yanked his gloves off and threw them onto the floor before giving you a heated look.

“Take your clothes off before I rip them off of you.” His own hands flew to the belt around his cassock and while he undid that you eagerly grabbed your panties and wiggled your hips so you could slide them off your legs. Terzo was already working on the buttons by his neck when you gripped the bottom of your habit and tugged it over your head. All you were left in was your bra and you sat there panting as Terzo’s cassock fell from his shoulders to slip to the floor at his feet.

It didn’t surprise you to see he hadn’t been wearing anything under it.

Before you could tease him about it he was kissing you again, his fingers moving to the clasp of your bra and quickly undoing it before pulling it off your shoulders and tossing it across the room. He placed his hands on your shoulders and gently pushed you down to lay across your desk. Terzo moved your legs next, pressing them further apart so he could press himself against your cunt. He gripped his cock and ran it up and down your slit, spreading your wetness from your entrance to your clit.

“Terzo please, no teasing.” He smirked but obliged, pressing the head of his cock at your entrance and slowly pushing in. You raised your arms above your head so you could grip the edge of the desk behind you, your mouth falling open as you stretched around him. When he finally bottomed out he ground his hips against yours briefly, chuckling when you whimpered. “Oh fuck, Terzo.”

He dropped his hands to your thighs, squeezing and massaging the flesh as he gazed down at where you were joined. One hand moved up your thigh and didn’t stop until he could press his thumb against your clit, rubbing over it in a circle. His name continued to spill from your lips like a prayer and that only egged him on. He leaned down to suckle at a breast and you wrapped your legs around his waist to grind harder against him.

“Terzo, Terz–ah!” He pulled off your breast and propped an arm up by your chest so he could look into your face. Watching your expression as he started to pull out and snap his hips to drive his cock back into you. Again and again he fucked you, still moving his thumb around your now engorged clit. He finally groaned and hung his head down, the tips of his hair tickling your skin.

“Look at you, così bella.” You practically wailed when his thumb moved from your clit to start rubbing around your stretched entrance. He pulled his hand away and brought his thumb to his lips, sucking it inside and groaning as he tasted you. “Così bagnato. Is this for me, dolcezza? Are you wet for me?”

“Yes, Terzo.” You couldn’t help sounding a little irritated, sometimes he could be so insufferably smug and it drove you crazy. He raised an eyebrow at your tone and pushed himself up. Terzo pulled out so his tip was resting against your entrance and you felt yourself contracting around nothing. You tried to move down to get him back inside of you but he tsked and placed a hand on your stomach to keep you still. “Terzo!”

“So demanding, dolcezza. It’s kind of rude, no?” He pressed down on you a little harder when you tried to move on his cock again. “I think I need to hear two things before I start fucking you again, ok?”

You let out an exasperated groan but nodded up at him, trying to ignore his triumphant smile.

“Bene.” He placed his other hand on your stomach and then slid them both down to the inside of your thighs, rubbing his thumbs along the sides of your cunt. His cock was still perched right at your entrance, you could feel it twitch against you and you knew he was just as desperate as you were. “Now dolcezza, apologize for your rudeness.”

“I’m sorry, Cardinal.” Terzo rewarded you with a few quick snaps of his hips, each one punching a moan out of you. He stopped himself at your entrance again, panting heavily above you as he stared hungrily at your cunt.

“Bene, molto bene. Now just one more thing,” His thumbs moved over you again, teasing around your entrance before sliding away and gripping your thighs. “Are you ready for me to fuck you?”

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The Sexy Adventures of Cardinal Terzo masterlist

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#my fics #my writing #terzo x female reader #papa emeritus iii x female reader #cardinal terzo #papa emeritus x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #terzo fanfiction #papa emeritus iii fanfiction

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