poison me, daddy!

You’re at a house party, but you’re way too stoned to remember who the host is. You think it might be the brother of whatever girl Ross is shagging at the moment or something along those lines, but it hardly matters — you and Matty would have shown up regardless of who was hosting. Your boyfriend’s never needed an excuse to attend a good party, and you’ve never needed an excuse to spend a Friday night getting fucked up with him.

Besides, the steady thrum of house music had faded into the background long ago, replaced by the gentle splashing sounds of a backyard pool. It was really only a matter of time before you and Matty found yourselves out here, far away from the noise and the relentless mess of bodies and heat trapped inside. Whoever’s house this is, they’re rich enough to have a deck and a pool, which is something that you two are taking full advantage of. The space provides much-needed privacy and, as it turns out, doubles as a perfect smoking spot.

At least, you two had come out here with the intention of smoking. But that only lasted about ten minutes — just long enough for you both to get a little spacey — before you decided that making out was a far better way to pass the time.

The spliff sits off to the side, having burned out long ago. Matty’s sprawled across one of the poolside loungers, hands gripping your waist as you straddle him. Your own hands have found their way to his jaw, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him deeply. Everything’s gone hazy, thanks to the weed, and sensations blend together as you lose yourself in his lips and tongue.

Matty’s warm and pliant under your fingertips, all soft skin and eager touches. The two of you are in no rush, basking in the laziness of the moment. Matty kisses like he’s trying to melt into you, as though tasting your lips is infinitely more important to him than getting air into his lungs. Your boyfriend’s always been needy, but something about tonight has him extra hungry for you. 

You can’t help but giggle as Matty’s large hands suddenly tug you forward, pulling your hips flush with his own. He grinds against you lazily, just enough for you to feel his growing hard-on through his jeans and the way his fingers tighten against your skin as he grinds against your clothed core.

“Matty.” You pull away from the kiss, though you don’t go very far — his breath is still warm on your cheek. “We’re at a party.”

He laughs at your words, looking at you with a lopsided smirk that tells you all you need to know. 

“Never stopped us before,” he counters, as though he’s confused about why you’re choosing now to be worried about public decency. “S’just us, love. Might as well feel good, yeah?” 

He’s not wrong. And you would have told him as much, if it wasn’t for the fact that Matty’s lips immediately press into the spot on the side of your neck that drives you crazy, and you swear you feel his teeth drag along your earlobe as he rolls his hips against yours once more. The sensation makes your eyes flutter shut, and your head tilt back, which Matty takes as an invitation to start sucking a mark into the newly exposed skin. You whine softly, hands dropping down to hold onto his shoulders. It’s partially to keep him in place, but it’s mostly so that you have an anchor — you feel as though you could float away at any second if you’re not careful.

The next time Matty grinds against you, you respond, rolling your hips experimentally. You gasp into the cool night air as the seam of your boyfriend’s jeans catches against your clit deliciously, making your toes curl in your shoes.

“Oh fuck.” Matty’s voice comes in the form of a broken whine against your neck. “Do that again.” 

So, you do, beginning to rock your hips against his in a slow, steady rhythm. Each time you move in his lap, you can feel the bulge in his jeans steadily pressing against your pussy, making your brain swim with pleasure. You don’t think this really counts as making out anymore, not with the two of you basically dry humping, but it feels so good you can’t bring yourself to care, and any concerns of public decency fade away into the back vault of your brain, long forgotten. 

The weed heightens everything, making you even more sensitive. Every drag of clothing against your skin and every press of Matty’s lips against your own makes you feel like you’re on fire in the best way. Judging by the soft little groans slipping past Matty’s lips and the way he’s grabbing you like he’s afraid of you slipping away, he’s on a similar plane of existence and enjoying every second of it. 

“Just like that, baby, fuckin’ hell,” Matty pants against your lips, breathless. “Feels s’good. Wish we weren’t stuck here so I could fuck you properly.” 

His words make you clench around nothing and quicken your movements. You’re essentially dry-fucking him now, mimicking exactly how you’d ride him if you weren’t stuck at this party.

“Later,” you promise, and Matty’s lips curl into a tiger-like grin against your own, before whatever comeback he was going to say gets cut off by a deep throaty noise.

You feel it before you see it. Matty twitches beneath you, thigh muscles becoming taut and rigid. His fingers tighten around your ass with a bruising desperation, keeping you pressed against him and providing him with the friction he’s chasing. 

A second later, you watch your boyfriend’s lips part, and his head falls back, hitting the hard plastic of the lounge chair with far too much force to be comfortable. It’s a sight you know well… and a sight that tells you exactly what just happened.

You stare at him for a few beats, watching as his chest rises and falls almost hypnotically. Matty’s eyes are glazed and unfocused as he basks in the high of his release. He’s gone.

“Did you just..?”

Matty doesn’t need to reply — you already know the answer. Even with the faint glow of a deck lantern serving as your only source of light, you can see that your boyfriend’s face is bright red. Curiously, you reach down between your two bodies and watch as Matty jumps when your hand brushes against his crotch. He whines again, suddenly overstimulated, and you slowly remove your hand, not wanting to make things worse for him.

You’re flattered, honestly, though you’re not sure if you’re just that hot or if the weed is just that good… probably a combination of both. Either way, the result is the same — your boyfriend just came in his pants like he was back in secondary school. 

“Oh God…” Matty finally groans, embarrassed. He’s doing everything but meeting your gaze, all that brazen teenage sexuality long gone, crushed by the weight of his own mortification. “‘M sorry, I don’t know what happened, must’ve been… fuck.” 

He tries to cover his face with his hands, but is quickly intercepted by you leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his nose, which, of course, only causes Matty to grow even redder.

“It’s cute.”

“S’not,” he protests. “It’s embarrassing. Haven’t done that shit in ages.” 

“You mean… I’m not your first?” you ask, scandalized. “Matthew. I thought we had something special.”

“Oh… shut up.” 

No matter how disgruntled he sounds, your boyfriend can’t entirely hide the small smile that he’s trying so hard to fight off. You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin feels electrified beneath your touch.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can head home.”

Never mind the fact that neither of you is in any state to drive – you’re sure there’s someone at this party who would be willing to give the two of you a ride. (Ideally, Ross, if you can pull him off of that brunette for long enough.)

But to your surprise, Matty shakes his head and timidly gestures down to the wet patch on the front of his dark jeans. It’s small, barely noticeable unless you’re really looking for it, but it’s clearly enough for him to be worried.

“You’re fine, baby,” you reassure him. “Everyone’s too pissed to notice. Unless they’re already looking down there, which they’d better not be.” You furrow your brows in a mock display of anger, hoping it will make him grin. He does, albeit ever so slightly. “‘Cause otherwise they’ll have me to answer to.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Matty rolls his eyes, throwing his head back dramatically. “At least let me make it up to you when we get home.” 

“And what exactly does that entail?”

“Mm…” He pauses, as though he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s going to say. “Let me tongue-fuck you ‘til you’re begging f’me to stop?” 

“Jesus Christ, Matty.” Your boyfriend has a way with words that you don’t think you’ll ever fully get used to, no matter how long the two of you are together. You clear your throat, now painfully aware of the warm flush spreading across your own face. “Okay, yeah. Sure. You can do that.” 

“thought you’d melted,” ross says without opening his eyes.

“nearly did.”

he hums as you press the drink into his hand. “cheers, darling.”

you grin a little to yourself and turn to head back toward your own chair, when he stops you.

“christ.”

you glance over your shoulder.

ross has pushed his sunglasses up now, squinting at you properly.

“how’d you manage to get burned this fast?” he asks. “come here a second.”

“i’m not burned.”

“your back’s gone fully red.”

“red is gonna turn into brown eventually,” you say as you try to convince yourself.

you wander over anyway. the paving stones are warm under your feet.

ross pats the space between his legs lazily. “sit down.”

you lower yourself carefully with your back against his chest, your legs stretching out between his. his skin’s hot from the sun, properly warm everywhere your arms brush his.

behind you, there’s the crack of a bottle cap.

“god,” he mutters, squeezing sun cream into his palm, “you’re gonna whine tonight.”

you turn your head immediately, grinning.

ross pauses.

then he lets out a laugh under his breath, head dropping back slightly.

“not like that.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t have to. filthy look on your face said enough.”

his hands smooth cool lotion across your shoulders before you can reply. you sigh despite yourself, leaning back into him.

“ow,” you mumble dramatically. “gentle.”

“i am being gentle.”

“you’ve got bass hands.”

he laughs, “what does that even mean?”

“good with your fingers but so rough with your palm,” you groan.

ross laughs again, low in his chest this time. “alright, sorry. i’ll try to be even more gentle.”

you hum.

his fingers drag slowly down your back, rubbing the cream into the spots that sting worst from the sun. you rest your hands around his shins absentmindedly, thumbs brushing over warm skin.

“your legs are so tan,” you mumble. “don’t know how you do it.”

ross shrugs behind you, “don’t know either.”

“hate you a bit for it,” you joke.

“you tan eventually.”

“it takes ages though,” you argue, “and i think we both know it’s gonna rain again soon.”

“probably.” his chin hooks briefly over your shoulder while he works the cream into the small of your back. you can smell chlorine and sun cream and the citrus from his drink all mixed together.

it’s stupidly nice.

the sort of afternoon that feels slow around the edges.

ross taps your side lightly. “lift your hair up.”

you gather it over one shoulder and feel his hands smooth another layer across the back of your neck.

“honestly,” he says, “an hour outside and you’ve packed it in.”

“english sun hits different.”

“that’s because nobody here knows how to behave when it appears.”

you grin.

ross finishes rubbing the cream in, then rests his hands briefly on your waist.

“there,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into the space between your shoulder and neck. soft. absent-minded. “let’s hope this doesn’t get worse.”

you tilt your head slightly at the feeling, smiling before you can stop yourself.

“thanks, nurse.”

“don’t mention it.”

“will you carry me inside later when i inevitably succumb to heatstroke?”

he shakes his head, “absolutely not.”

“ross,” you squint your eyes at him.

“i’ll drag you by the ankles, maybe.”

you laugh quietly, leaning back against him more fully.

he reaches for his drink again with one hand, the other settling lazily across your stomach.

“this is very nice,” he hums taking a sip, “lovely day.”

ross stays exactly where he is after that, all lazy and warm behind you.

one of his hands rests low on your stomach while the other drifts up through your hair absentmindedly, combing through the strands slowly enough that it nearly puts you to sleep.

this is so cozy. bees are somewhere in the flowers. water shifting gently against the edge of the pool. ross humming under his breath to whatever song he’s been listening to.

you melt further against him.

his lips brush the top of your head once.

“you’re very clingy today,” he murmurs.

“too hot to function properly.”

“ah alright,” he smiles.

ross chuckles softly behind you, fingers scratching lightly against your scalp in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut for a second.

god, you could probably fall asleep right there.

instead, after another quiet minute, you mumble, “god, i love you.”

he squeezes your waist gently.

“yeah?”

“mhm.” you tilt your head back against his shoulder. “i love how hot you are right now but it’s literally too hot. think i’m dying a bit.”

ross laughs immediately.

“bit contradictory, that.”

“you know what i mean.”

“do i though?” he laughs but squeezes your waist again.

you groan quietly. “ross.”

his grin presses briefly against your temple.

“dramatic thing.”

you turn your face enough to kiss somewhere near his jaw before sighing dramatically again. “i need to cool off in the pool.”

“good shout,” he says, sitting up slightly. “i’ll join you.”

you untangle yourself from him slowly, already feeling the heat hit your skin again the second you stand.

“race you,” you say.

“absolutely not,” ross replies. “it’s thirty degrees. i’ll die.”

you’re already halfway to the pool anyway.

the water hits your legs first, cool enough to make you inhale sharply, before you lower yourself all the way in with a relieved sound.

“oh my god,” you groan.

ross snorts from behind you.

“that nice?”

“i’m never getting out.”

you splash water vaguely in his direction just as he steps down onto the ledge.

sunlight catches on the water around him. damp curls already starting at the base of his neck from the heat. stupidly unfair-looking even now.

“don’t pose,” you accuse.

“wasn’t posing.”

“you were.”

“how?!” he raises his arms.

before you can answer, ross dives cleanly beneath the surface.

you barely have time to react before something grabs your hips underwater.

you shriek immediately as ross resurfaces with a grin, lifting you clean off your feet for a second.

“ross-“

you burst out laughing while he steadies you against him.

“you should’ve seen your face.”

“do not get my hair wet!” you say.

“i didn’t,” he looks at your hair to check, “don’t want to get into trouble.”

water drips from his hair into his eyes while he laughs, and you brush it back automatically before he can shake it everywhere like a wet dog.

“behave,” you mumble.

“can’t. holiday rules.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“is now.”

eventually he settles himself on the pool ledge where the water reaches just above his waist, tugging you easily between his legs again like it’s instinctive.

you rest against him without thinking.

arms winding around his shoulders. his hands settling comfortably at your hips under the water.

the sun warms your face while the cool water laps softly around you both. somewhere beyond the fence, people are cheering over something.

ross presses a slow kiss against your mouth.

another against the corner of it.

you close your eyes afterward, forehead resting against his.

comfortable.

his thumb rubs absentminded circles against your side beneath the water.

“could have so many days like this, darling,” he murmurs eventually. “just us being lazy in the heat.”

you smile without opening your eyes.

“with cocktails?”

“obviously.”

ross huffs a laugh softly through his nose.

then he kisses you again, slower this time, sun warm across both your skin while the water moves gently around you.

his arms around you. your cheek damp against his shoulder. sunlight turning everything gold behind your closed eyelids.

ross keeps drawing shapes against your hip underwater absentmindedly.

you tilt your head just enough to look at him properly.

wet hair pushed back. cheeks flushed faintly pink from the heat. stupid soft smile sitting on his mouth.

he catches you staring almost immediately.

“what?”

“nothing, just thinking you look fit.”

ross snorts quietly but doesn’t say anything.

his grin spreads lazily before his gaze drifts somewhere past you, toward the bright blue sky above the garden fence.

for a second he goes thoughtful.

then, “i can see us moving somewhere sunny one day, definitely europe, maybe italy?”

you blink, “yes?”

“mhm.” his thumb strokes slowly along your side. “somewhere where days like this aren’t rare.”

your eyes widen immediately.

“ross.” you pout.

“what?”

you smile so hard your cheeks ache. “that’d be dreamy.”

he smiles back at you then, “wouldn’t it?”

you shift closer automatically, your legs tangling with his beneath the water.

“life would feel like one big holiday.”

“absolutely,” he says easily. “at least until we’ve got kids running around screaming by the pool.”

you stare at him for half a second.

then lean forward and kiss him immediately.

ross laughs softly into it, hands tightening at your waist.

when you pull back, you grin. “don’t get me excited now.”

“excited?”

“little house somewhere hot?” you mumble. “you in linen shirts? little babies with your curls? that’s dangerous.

ross actually looks a bit flustered at that, which only makes you grin wider.

“linen shirts?” he repeats.

“focus on the important part, ross.”

he shakes his head, smiling against your mouth again before kissing you once.

“you’d spoil the kids rotten.” he says.

“absolutely.”

“they’d wrap you round their fingers instantly,” he says while tucking your hair behind your ear.

you beam triumphantly.

“well we’re still in england for now,” he says. “not to ruin anything.”

you groan and try to untangle your legs to go for a swim.

he pulls you back against him before you can, arms locking around your waist while you laugh helplessly.

“s’alright,” he murmurs against your damp temple. “we’ll get there eventually.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

Dating a boy in a band meant that your Friday and Saturday nights were long, loud, and intense. You’d start the evenings cloaked in fur and lace and leather and end them sweaty, with smudged eyeliner and lipstick and moaning Matty’s name with a voice that was nearly gone. To you, the weekends meant ringing in your ears ten minutes into a gig, but still staying until the end. They meant a hangover that didn’t go away until the afternoon, when you finally forced yourself to untangle from your boyfriend and get out of bed. They meant living a lifestyle that your parents always warned you about, but you had wanted for as long as you could remember. 

Your weekends always went by too fast, in dizzying flashes of pleasurable excess and overstimulation, and you loved it. But during the week, your days were much slower and simpler. When you weren’t busy with your coursework or the shitty job you’d gotten to pay for university, you’d usually find yourself back at Matty’s flat, easily drifting back into the intimate pattern of domesticity the two of you had curated ever since he moved into his new place. 

Matty got the cheapest one-bedroom flat he could afford in the city, and even so, he could barely afford the rent. You knew his family would have been more than happy to pitch in if he asked, but his ego was way too big to ask his parents for favors, especially now that he was in his twenties and had convinced himself that he was far too mature to ask for financial support. Besides, Matty made enough snide comments about the other local bands who were bankrolled by their rich parents for you to know that he’d rather get evicted than ever have the title “nepo baby” associated with his name. When he makes it, because you feel in your bones that he will, you know that Matty needed to be able to say that he, Ross, Adam, and George did it on their own.

Leaning into the starving-artist image meant Matty got what he paid for. The only window in his flat faced a brick wall, meaning that any direct sunlight was a rare miracle. The wallpaper – some atrocious flower pattern that hadn’t been fashionable since the late sixties – was yellowing and cracking in the corners. And police and ambulance sirens were a near constant companion, no matter how loud Matty turned up his amp.

But it wasn’t all bad. There weren’t any mice or cockroaches (at least that you knew of), and Matty had yet to get any noise complaints from neighbors because you were fairly sure that he didn’t actually have any. After all, no one in their right mind would live in this complex. The acrid smell of smoke lingered from the flat’s previous tennants but, on the bright side, that meant you and Matty could smoke whenever and wherever you wanted without causing any further damage. And, most importantly, it had become a sanctuary of sorts for the quiet days when neither of you felt any pressure to perform.

Today was one of those days. It’s a gloomy afternoon, just like most of them are. (This is Manchester, after all.) You sit cross-legged on Matty’s comedically uncomfortable couch – it had been free, just like most of the furniture in his flat – shifting every few minutes to avoid getting a bruised tailbone. A worn paperback sits in your lap, covered in pencilled annotations as you try your best to make sense of whatever the hell Shakespeare was on about. The faint scent of tobacco wafts through the air, Matty’s latest cigarette stubbed out in the ashtray on his coffee table.

Matty sits across from you in silence, one leg propped up on the coffee table, the other crossed at his knee. He had the day off work, so he’s still in the clothes he slept in – a pair of plaid pajama bottoms that are just a little too large for him, and an old Radiohead tee that he snagged off of one of the guys years ago and never got around to returning. He’s leaned over a worn Moleskine notebook, a sight that you’ve grown quite familiar with at this point.

There’s a restlessness to your boyfriend when he’s like this. The songs he’s writing manifest themselves in short bursts of scribbles, followed by the sound of a cheap ballpoint pen scratching violently against the page as he promptly crosses out the words he’s just written. If his fingers aren’t occupied with a cigarette or a spliff, they inevitably find their way to his hair, twisting a few unruly strands as his teeth worry his bottom lip. His acoustic guitar sits at his feet, taunting him, but Matty never moves to pick it up. 

He’s been like that for hours. Last week’s gig didn’t go the way he wanted, so your boyfriend had set his mind on creating “music that isn’t shit” (his words, not yours). Whenever he’s in one of these moods where he wants to get a song written, he will get the fucking song written, even if it drives him insane in the process. 

And… even if it means barely acknowledging you’re there.

You’ve been dating Matty long enough to become familiar with his quirks and his bad habits. They don’t make you love him any less, but you did occasionally find them frustrating, and that prickliness was beginning to swell inside of you. Watching him silently torture himself was bad enough, but having to decipher Shakespeare was really the cherry on top of the shit sundae for you.

You silently note what page you’re on and pull your eyes away from your paperback to look up at him. Matty doesn’t seem to notice. His expression remains unchanged – brows furrowed, eyes slightly squinted as he stares at the page like the perfect words will materialize out of thin air at any moment. 

You clear your throat. Matty still doesn’t react.

“I think I’m gonna make some coffee,” you say, waiting for his response. “Do you want anything?”

When he speaks, his voice is gruff from hours of silence. “M’kay.” 

“Is that a yes or a no?”

This time, Matty doesn’t give you the courtesy of a response; he just nods, vacant. You force down a groan.

“I’m bored – I think I’ll go set a car on fire,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, trying to get a reaction – any reaction – out of him. “Do you wanna watch?”

“Uh-huh,” he replies absently, and that’s when you decide you’ve had enough. 

You dog-ear your page, close the book, and lightly toss it at him. It hits Matty square in the chest and falls to the floor. Of course, that finally gets his attention. He freezes, then looks up at you, shaggy mop of hair falling into place. A few longer pieces fall in front of his eyes, and he hurriedly moves to push them away.

“What was that for?” Matty asks, scandalized. He sounds more offended than you had expected. You might as well have just lobbed a massive Bible at him instead of a flimsy paperback. 

You frown softly. “You were doing it again.”

“Doing what?” 

A second later, recognition floods his features, and he lets out a low expletive. It’s not the first time you two have had this discussion, and he knows it.

“Shit,” Matty rubs at his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…” The excuse dies on his lips. “You know how I get.”

“I know,” you reply plainly, and he sighs at your tone.

“I’m a shit boyfriend,” he mutters, frowning. “You come over, and I barely even look at you. I’m sorry.” 

It’s your turn to frown, because Matty sounds like he genuinely believes that, and he’s not a shit boyfriend. Easily distracted? Maybe. Obsessive? Most definitely. But he’s not a shit boyfriend – he never has been. Matty loves you with the same kind of passion he usually saves for his music – he’s all encompassing. When he’s focused on you and not trapped in one of these writer’s block fugue states, he treats you like you are the sun that he orbits. How could someone like that ever be a shit boyfriend? 

You rise to your feet, couch groaning lightly in protest (it really is a shit piece of furniture, and you make a mental note to buy a new one the second you two can afford it). Matty bends down to pick up your book, seemingly assuming that was what you were getting up for, only for his eyes to widen when you press your hand to his chest and force him to relax back against the couch cushions. Your fingers reach for his notebook, pausing before touching it.

“Can I?”

Matty only nods in response, signaling his approval. You carefully remove the notebook from his lap and set it on the coffee table, but not before tabbing the page he left off on. With it out of the way, you climb onto his lap, thighs bracketing his legs as you straddle him. You can hear his breathing quicken as he instinctively grabs onto you, both to keep you close and also to ensure you don’t fall backwards and crack your head open on the coffee table. 

The new position forces proximity. Matty looks up at you with an unreadable expression as your hand finds his cheek, thumb stroking his soft skin.

“Baby, listen to me,” you start. “We both know you’re not gonna get anything done like this.” Matty replies with a low, disgruntled noise, but doesn’t make any attempt to interrupt you, so you continue. “This isn’t supposed to feel like a chore. I don’t know why you’re making it into one.”

Your words seem to embarrass him. A light flush rises to his cheeks as he quickly averts his gaze, staring off into space.

“‘Cause I need to do something,” Matty says. His fingers drum along your thighs, desperate for something to toy with, something to calm his restless mind. “I haven’t written a song in weeks.”

He says it like it’s a death sentence. Maybe for musicians, it is.

“So… you think forcing it is gonna work?” 

Matty shrugs. “Maybe.”

You stifle a sigh as your hand comes up to caress his forehead, smoothing his hair back. The warmth of your palm causes Matty’s gaze to snap back to you. That’s when you notice his eyes are bloodshot, probably from a combination of lack of sleep and the strain of staring at a blank page for too long.

“Matty.” Your voice is firm, maybe a bit firmer than intended, but you need him to listen to you. “You could write a hundred verses when you’re like this, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t mean them. You’ll just wake up tomorrow and copy over the two lines you like and toss out the rest.”

That’s the downside of writing music the way Matty does. He uses his lyrics as a journal, chords as the unspoken soundtrack of his life. That’s not something that can be forced or fabricated. If Matty can’t find the right words, then maybe that just means he doesn’t have anything to say at the moment, and that’s okay. 

You just wish he knew it was okay. But he doesn’t, and whenever Matty is in one of these creative ruts, it frightens him. You know it does. You know that even now, with you in his lap, there’s a little voice in the back of his brain telling him that if he stops, if he rests, he’ll never be able to start again, as though he’ll blink and miraculously lose the ability to create. And you know in Matty’s mind, that’s a fate worse than death.

“I know you, baby. I know how your brain works.” You tap your forefinger against his temple. “And I love it. But I also know that torturing yourself like this isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Matty sounds flippant at first, before letting out a sigh and continuing. “Yeah. You’re right. I just… I dunno. I don’t know why I can’t be normal about this shit.”

“I hate to break it to you,” you say with a grin, “but artists aren’t usually… normal.”

That comment makes the corners of Matty’s mouth twitch, and for a moment, you hope you’re going to get one of those toothy smiles you love so much. But the moment passes, and he’s back to being frustrated.

“I just… I dunno why I’m not more inspired. I love this shit, I – I need it, baby. So why’s it so hard? It’s just…” Matty groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “I dunno. It’s not fair. And it’s fucking annoying.”

“Okay,” you grin. “Then let’s get you inspired.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s fine,” he says dismissively. “You don’t have t’do that.”

“I want to help, Matty,” you say insistently. “Besides, I need a break from the bard or else I’m going to be sick. Okay?”

It takes him a beat, and you can see the cogs turning behind his eyes, but your boyfriend finally nods in agreement.

“Okay.”

“Okay!” A big smile spreads across your face. “So… what inspires you, baby?”

“I dunno… nothing good, probably.”

“Like what?”

“Like… family shit. Drugs.” Matty throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Uh… God, I guess.”

“God?” you laugh, surprised by the last item on his list. Matty nods.

“Yeah. Weird bloke.”

“Okay, well…” You hold up one hand and count your options with your fingers. “I can give Denise a ring, but we both know that’d turn into a two-hour phone call, and I don’t think either of us wants that. We’re out of weed, and I don’t know any of your plugs, so I can’t help you there. Uh… I guess I could always find you a priest? Give you a chance to atone for your myriad of sins?”

Your over-the-top comment earns a laugh from him, and your heart skips a beat at the sound. It’s good to see him smile. 

Matty rolls his eyes, lightly slapping your leg. “Oh God. Shakespeare’s rubbin’ off on you. And besides, you like my sins.”

“Oh, believe me, I do. I really, really do.” You smirk at him conspiratorially. “Does anything else come to mind? Really get the creative juices flowing?”

Matty cringes at your statement. “Ew.”

“Answer the question, Matthew.”

He blinks at that, not anticipating the use of his full name. But it’s one way to get his attention, and it doesn’t take long for him to answer you.

“Yeah. You.” Matty chuckles uncomfortably, hand coming up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “God, I’m a fucking cliche, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. But you’re my cliche. And besides… I like the sound of that,” you purr, slowly dragging your hand down your chest. It’s mostly meant as a joke, a mockery of seduction, but judging by the way that Matty’s breathing quickens, he’s not taking it as a joke. “What about me?”

“W-what?” he stammers, having forgotten what the two of you were talking about just moments before. 

“What about me inspires you?” you ask, slower this time. Your fingers still, splayed against the soft fabric of his shirt. The pressure seems to ground him, and Matty lets out a breath before responding.

“Everything about you.” Your boyfriend isn’t stammering now. He’s confident, earnest. “You’re so… you’re everything. I’m so fuckin’ lucky to have you.” 

A smile erupts across your face at that — how could it not, when he’s talking about you like that? 

“That’s very sweet, baby,” you say before leaning forward to kiss him.

It starts gentle, exploratory, almost. Matty’s lips press against yours, fingers digging into your thighs as he pushes himself forward, further into the kiss. It’s sweet. It’s needy. And then, you remember that this is technically supposed to be inspirational for him, so you tangle your fingers in his hair in a way that drags a low, wanting noise out of him, and it stops being sweet and gentle almost instantaneously. You can feel Matty’s lips part as you make him moan, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, placing a hand on his jaw to angle his head up. His fingers dig into your thighs, inching higher as you slip your tongue into his mouth.

The kiss quickly devolves into a mess of lips and tongues and heat, and before you know it, you’re panting against him as you rock into his lap, searching for friction. Matty responds to your need, grabbing fistfuls of your ass as he pulls your hips flush against his. You moan breathlessly at the sensation, and you can feel his lips curl up into a satisfied smirk. But when you feel his fingertips ghost along your stomach, heading south for the waistband of your shorts, you pull back and shake your head.

“Uh uh.”

“But I wanna –”

“This isn’t about me, baby,” you cut him off, your own fingers interlocking with his and pressing them against the top of your thighs to keep him still.

Matty looks like you’ve just shot him. A deep frown appears on his face, his brows drawn up tight with frustration.

“But…” Matty trails off, words suddenly failing him, probably because you’re in his lap and you look absolutely stunning, and all he wants to do is slip his hand down your panties and make you cum, and you’re not letting him. 

But you have a good reason for that. Of course, you have a good reason. If Matty needs inspiration, then you’re going to make sure he gets inspiration.

“Let me spoil you, baby boy,” you say, and before Matty can protest any further, you climb off his lap and sink to your knees in front of him.

(Now, most of the time, you resent the stereotype of the rockstar girlfriend. You’re more than Matty’s accessory. You are your own person, and you hate the assumptions that people make about you when they find out you’re dating the lead singer of a band. Contrary to popular belief, you’re not just here to be his muse or a pretty side piece who sucks him off whenever he commands it. And you know Matty would never expect that from you. But, at this given moment, Matty is far more sexy than William Shakespeare, even though that opinion would probably get you lambasted by some stuffy academics who haven’t gotten laid in decades. And right now, you want nothing more than to suck your boyfriend’s cock, so that’s exactly what you are going to do.)

You’re immensely grateful for the rug Matty has on his living room floor as you fully lower yourself down onto your knees. The thin linen of his pajama bottoms does little to hide the fact that he’s hard, cock straining against the growing tent that you’re responsible for. It’s never taken much to get Matty worked up, but you still feel a rush of pride at the sight. Your fingers ghost along his ribs, featherlight, before stopping at his waistband. You feel Matty’s hips buck upward ever so slightly, instinctively searching for your touch, trying to relieve some of the pressure that has him so worked up. 

“Is that all for me, baby?” you ask, saccharine, even though you already know the answer.

“Yeah.” Matty doesn’t hesitate, even though he sounds almost weak when he responds. “Course it is… always yours.” 

Your lips curl into a grin – you’ll never get sick of hearing about the claim you’ve laid to this boy. (Just like you know Matty will never get sick of the way you cry his name during sex, whispering how you’re his and only his and no one else’s between moans.)

You slide his pajamas down (and only his pajamas; Matty gave up wearing underwear to bed a long time ago, a fact that becomes very convenient in moments like these). Once they’re low enough, his cock springs free, rosy with need and already dripping with precum. Evidently, he wasn’t kidding when he said this was all for you.

Without warning, you lean forward and spit on the head of his cock in the filthy way you know he loves, eyes never leaving his as you do so. Matty’s on edge, body tense as he watches you through darkened eyes, lips slightly parted. You’re teasing him, watching him fall apart above you. And while you would love to see just how wrecked you can get him before you even touch him properly, you decide to take pity on him.

Your thumb swipes through the glob of spit, fingertip brushing against the sensitive slit on the head of his cock as it journeys lower, and Matty hisses at the sensation, hands digging into the couch cushions. You wrap your fingers around the base of him, squeezing softly before moving your hand back up, using your spit to lube him up and get him nice and wet. You repeat the motion a couple more times as you watch Matty’s grip on the couch grow almost painful, knuckles whitening from the effort.

“Jesus – Christ, baby, shit,” he pants, eyes still locked on yours. It’s music to your ears.

And that gives you an idea.

Your fingers still, and Matty lets out a low, shaky breath. A coy smile spreads across your face as you stare up at him through your eyelashes.

“Matty?”

“Yeah?” 

He sounds uncertain, almost nervous. His tone stirs something in you, and your grin morphs into a smirk.

“Sing for me.”

You watch him raise an eyebrow, confused, but then you’re sealing your lips around his cock and taking him deep enough to almost gag, and the noise that you manage to rip out of Matty is something you wish you could record and listen to on loop. It’s a low, punch-drunk keening noise, one filled with desperation and molten pleasure, and it makes you very aware of the ache between your legs.

“Oh fuck.” Matty’s voice is strained, one hand instinctively going to the back of your head as he holds your hair back in his fingers. He doesn’t push you down further on his cock or try to manipulate your movements – he knows better than that. As usual, your boyfriend is more than happy to allow you to take control and enjoy the feeling of your mouth.

You get to work, hollowing out your cheeks and setting a pace that has his thighs tensing underneath your touch. Occasionally, his hips will move on their own accord, forcing his cock deeper into the back of your throat, but the way he sobs in pleasure when you swallow him down more than makes up for the brief discomfort. As you move your mouth up and down the length of him, you try your best to ignore the tears that occasionally prick at your eyes or the ever-growing slickness between your legs. Thankfully, Matty’s a shameless babbler, and that gives you more than enough to focus on.

“Oh God, ‘m sorry,” Matty apologizes when you gag on him, but your grip on his thighs prevents him from pulling away. “Feels s’good, baby, your fucking mouth…”

You watch as Matty’s head falls back against the couch, and he brings one of his arms up to cover his face. You catch a glint of white as he lightly bites into his forearm, muffling the sounds of his own pleasure. 

You can’t have that.

One of the hands that you’ve had perched on his thigh moves to the inside of his leg, and you lightly pinch the sensitive skin, causing Matty to let out a pained noise and jolt under your touch. You pull back, removing your mouth from him altogether, and he lets out another little sound, this one of frustration. 

“Wha… did you just pinch me?” 

You nod eagerly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause if you don’t let me hear you, I’m gonna stop.” Your eyes dart down to his cock – it’s shiny with your drool, and you swear you see it twitch with need as you drag your fingertip along the sensitive underside of his head. “I told you to sing for me, baby.”

When you look back up at Matty, he’s a mess. Confused, offended, annoyed, take your pick. But he’s also insatiably horny and looks like he might die if you don’t go back to sucking his dick this instant. He’s dramatic, your boy. Always has been. That’s one of the many things that you love about him, and what makes moments like these so deliciously special.

“Okay, okay.” Matty nods his head, suddenly agreeable. You like it when he’s agreeable. You like that you can get on your knees for him and somehow, he’s the one at your mercy.

“Okay… what?” you tease, wrapping your fingers back around the base of his cock and stroking him slowly, just enough to make him stutter. 

“O-okay, I’ll sing for you, fuck.”

You give him a big, shameless smile in return. That’s all you needed to hear. And when the warmth of your mouth envelopes him once more, Matty keeps his promise to you and fucking sings. 

“Oh Jesus – s-so good at this, takin’ me so well, best –” His grip on your hair tightens as the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. “Best fuckin’ girl I could ask for.”

Despite yourself, the sound of his praise makes you rub your thighs together, desperate for the stimulation you’ve deprived yourself of so far. If you let Matty have his way, he probably would’ve been the one on his knees, lapping at your pussy like a man starved. But as you keep reminding him, he deserves to be spoiled too. 

And spoil him is exactly what you do. If you had any ounce of shame left, you’d probably be embarrassed by the wet noises filling his living room as you work him with your mouth. You’d probably be humiliated by the sheer amount of spit that you’ve produced, enough that you can feel it dribbling down your chin, likely staining the rug that you’re oh-so-thankful for. You’d probably be concerned about the fact that your reading report is due tomorrow, but instead of forcing yourself to finish slogging through Henry VI, you’re too busy giving your boyfriend the most mind-boggling blowjob he’s ever received in his entire life. But luckily for you, all the shame vacated your body a long time ago, which means you don’t have to worry about anything except making your boyfriend feel fucking amazing.

Matty twitches underneath you, muscles growing taut as he moans, loudly enough for you to know that he’s close. You expect to feel his grip on your hair tighten and for his eyes to flutter shut as he rides out his high, but then he’s tugging you back gently and murmuring something under his breath.

“Stop.”

You don’t need to be told twice – you pull away, releasing him from your mouth with a wet “pop.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, suddenly concerned. 

“Nothin’, nothing’s wrong.” Matty reaches out, thumb brushing your lip, where a thin thread of drool is still attached to the base of his cock. The sweetness of the action makes your cheeks grow warm. “Just wanna cum inside you, baby.”

“Sounded like you were about to do that.” You part your lips and teasingly lick the pad of his thumb, and Matty groans at the sight.

“Fuck. I need to feel you. Wanna fill you up.”

His words have you pressing your thighs together again, pussy fluttering around nothing. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to feel him inside of you, stretching you open. And the idea of him burying himself deep, filling you up with his cum…

His breathless voice pulls you back to reality.

“Please, baby.”

And who are you to turn Matty down when he sounds so pretty begging for your pussy?

You stand up, knees aching ever so slightly from kneeling on the floor, and quickly step out of your bottom layers, letting your shorts and panties fall to the floor without much care. Matty’s eyes immediately dart down to your exposed core, and you watch him bite back a groan at the sight.

“Fuck me, darling.” 

It’s only when you lower yourself down on his lap that you realize just how wet you are. The head of his cock glides through your slickness with ease, and you let out a little sigh of relief as it bumps against your clit. It’s hardly enough, but it’s a start. 

Matty’s hands are on you the first chance he gets, fingers eagerly running along your hips, your thighs, your ass. You gasp into his mouth as one of his hands slips under the shirt that you hadn’t bothered to take off, greedily grabbing a fistful of your tit and squeezing. You grind down on him again, hips stuttering as you feel him buck up against your core.

You could move to his bed — it’s only a few meters away. But despite how shitty the couch is, you have grown quite fond of how Matty’s head falls back against the cushions as he stares at you with want in his eyes. So, the couch it is. 

You reach down and drag his cockhead along your slit, teasing. Matty’s eyes nearly roll back at the sensation.

“God, you’re so wet,” he breathes, fingers digging even harder into your skin. “All from gettin' on your knees f’me.”

“All for you, baby,” you coo, echoing his previous words back at him. Matty flushes, looking up at you with a faint, fucked-out smile. 

“You’re so pretty.” 

“So are you,” you laugh breathlessly, gaze lingering a little too long on the dark locks sticking to his forehead and the pinkness of his parted lips. They’re still wet from where you kissed him earlier, almost shimmery from spit.

Sure, you’re pretty. But God – Matty’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You decide that you can’t take it any longer. You drag his cock through your folds a couple more times, gasping both at the feeling and the wet, filthy noise it makes. And then you’re slowly lowering your hips down onto the length of him, inch by devastating inch. Matty lets out the same shaky groan he makes every time he slips into you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever felt in his entire life.

“Love, you feel – oh,” he slurs. “S’good. S’fucking good.”

Your lips part in a silent moan as you adjust to the size of him, trying to ignore the way he’s pressed up right against that spot that makes you see stars. Matty’s mouth is on your neck in an instant, sucking a kiss into your skin. You can feel him practically trembling underneath you, desperate with need. 

“Not gonna last long,” Matty whimpers against your neck, almost apologetic. “Feels t’good.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you reassure him. “Just let me take care of you.”

Matty holds you tight as you begin to rock against him, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. Whenever you move just right, you feel his breath stutter against your skin, broken little moans falling freely from his lips. Your hand moves to the back of his neck and your fingers card through his hair as you begin to ride him in earnest. Within seconds, those familiar wet noises return to the space around you as every movement of your hips confirms how wet, how tight, how hungry you are for this boy.

The muscles in your thighs ache at this point, both from kneeling on the ground and from riding him, but you’re not going to stop now, not when you can feel how close he is. Still, Matty seems to notice your growing discomfort, and he presses one of his hands against your lower back. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to alleviate some of the ache or to keep you as close to him as possible, but the pressure forces him even deeper inside of you, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel him rub up against your sweet spot. 

Just as his body begins to tense once again, you feel a rough finger press against your clit, and your eyes shoot open. At some point, Matty’s hand had wandered between your legs, and you’d been too distracted to notice.

“Matty.” You mean for your words to come out sharply, but then he drags his thumb along the hood of your clit and steals your breath away. “This is – fuck – about making you feel good.”

“Making you cum will make me feel good,” he replies, insistent, and you wish you had the willpower to argue with him, but he’s making you feel so good, and it becomes far too easy to lose yourself in that feeling. And when the hand on your back moves down to cup your ass, squeezing the sensitive flesh and spreading you open even wider for him, you can’t stop a traitorous moan from sneaking past your lips.

“That’s it.” Matty sounds just as wrecked as you, but that doesn’t stop him from murmuring words of encouragement against your skin. “Wanna make you feel good. Please let me make you feel good.”

It doesn’t take much to convince you after that. Not when Matty’s panting against your neck, practically whining about how good you feel around him, or when his large hands are hungrily wandering the expanse of your body, like he’s mapping it out under his touch. And, as tends to happen whenever you have sex with Matty, your orgasm creeps up on you quicker than expected. Something about the combination of his deft fingers toying with your clit and his teeth dragging against the sensitive skin of your neck proves to be too much, and your movements grow erratic, hips shaking ever so slightly as you begin to lose yourself in him fully. 

“Oh – oh God,” you groan, searing pleasure beginning to lick up your spine. 

Matty, for once in his life, is uncharacteristically quiet, yet another sign that he’s also right on the edge and just waiting for you to reach your climax so he can allow himself to indulge in the same pleasure. The only sign that he heard you comes in the form of him nipping at your earlobe, and as stupid and minuscule as the action is, that’s what gets you. You fall forward against the back of the couch as your pussy spasms around his cock, orgasm ripping through you. 

You’re so distracted by how your body is shaking as wave after wave of pleasure courses through you, you don’t even realize Matty’s reached his high until he groans against your neck, grip almost painful on your skin as he spills into you. He takes advantage of your boneless state to fuck you through his orgasm, making you claw at the back of the couch. Your boyfriend thrusts up into you one, two, three more times, filling you up just like he wanted. You shiver at the sensation, jaw going slack as you ride out the aftershocks of your own climax.

And then, there’s silence, filthy sounds of sex replaced by heavy breathing as you both come back down. You stay like that for a while, with Matty’s hands holding you flush against his lap, half-hard cock still buried deep inside of you as he peppers kisses along your neck and the side of your face.

Matty’s first to break the silence.

“Huh.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What?” 

“I don’t feel inspired.”

Oh. Right. 

That’s how this whole thing started, after all. You had promised to inspire him so he’d stop torturing himself. In your post-orgasm haze, it wasn’t exactly top of mind.

“Jus’ feel sticky,” Matty murmurs, pulling back so he can look at you. His eyes are a little glassy, still drunk on pleasure.

“Sticky?” you ask.

“I just came in you,” he frowns. “‘Course I feel sticky.”

“Mm, poor baby,” you tease, but you’re so worn out that your words lack any real edge. “Must be hard having a girlfriend who rides you so hard it nearly breaks your couch.”

(Not that breaking the couch would take any real effort. It is a really shitty couch, to be fair. But for the first time in your life, you’re actually kind of grateful for it. If it were any nicer, you’d be a lot more concerned about getting cum stains on it.) 

“It is hard,” Matty says, but the way he melts into your hand when you reach up to brush some of his hair out of his face says otherwise. 

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t inspire you.”

“S’okay,” Matty says, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Still worth it. And now I’m too spent to even think about writing, so I guess it helped.”

“Oh, you’re spent?” you ask, amused. “My legs are killing me. All you had to do was sit there and look pretty.”

“And I did a phenomenal job of that, thank you very much,” Matty counters, and you giggle, and he giggles, and pretty soon you’re both melting back into each other, bodies and limbs going slack in the peaceful afterglow.

Matty’s lips inevitably find their way back to your neck, his warm breath ghosting along your skin as he relaxes into your shoulder. If you’re not careful, you could almost doze off like this, safe and comfortable in the feeling of him. But unfortunately, that feeling doesn’t last forever, and you’re suddenly reminded of your looming academic responsibilities. 

“Fuck,” you groan. “I still have to finish Act II.”

You make a half-hearted attempt to shift off of him, but Matty seems to be personally offended by your efforts. He tightens his grip on your waist, holding you there. He presses his lips to your cheek lovingly before nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“Not yet,” Matty mumbles lazily. “Jus’ a little longer. Wanna feel you.”

You can tell something’s wrong only a couple of hours into your day. 

There’s something about the way your boyfriend has been texting that you can’t describe, but it feels just off enough to raise alarm bells in your mind. That’s the curse of being in love with someone — they activate some sort of sixth sense inside of you, one that tips you off whenever they’re not doing too well. 

You’re on your lunch break when you finally ask Matty the question that’s been top of mind all day. 

are you doing okay?

He responds quickly, quicker than he’s replied to your handful of texts so far that morning. That only makes you more suspicious.

yeah, just a headache

don’t have to worry about me 👍

You frown. Putting aside the fact that your boyfriend texts like a suburban father of two, his reply does little to calm your nerves. Matty, despite all his positive traits, isn’t always comfortable talking about how he’s feeling, especially if he thinks that it would burden you, especially if he knows you’re at work. To be honest, you probably should have known better than expecting him to come clean over text, but that’s never stopped you from trying.

You text him back a couple of minutes later. It’s inconsequential what you say, though. As you finish up your lunch, your mind is made up — you’re going to swing by his shop after you get off work today, just to make sure that he really is doing okay. Besides, you didn’t really have anything planned this evening, except for maybe tidying up your apartment, and that can wait. 

It usually takes you close to an hour to get from your work to Matty’s place, and that’s when the MTA is working perfectly. Unfortunately, this is New York, so it’s rarely working perfectly, and on a busy weekday evening like this one, your commute is closer to 90 minutes than an hour. It’s nearly dark when you walk up out of the subway station, and you’re half worried that Matty won’t even be at his store when you get there, having gone back up to his apartment for the night. That wouldn’t be the end of the world, but having to call him to buzz you into his complex would sort of ruin the surprise. 

But as you round the familiar corner to his shop, you discover that he’s still there. His shop’s been locked up for the night, and the neon open sign has been turned off, but you can still see him through the windows, working on something. He’s sat at the front desk, illuminated only by a small lamp, having turned off the overhead lights a while ago. There’s a ballpoint pen tucked into the corner of his lip, and you see that he’s worrying the cap of it with his teeth, no doubt leaving tiny indentations in the plastic. It’s one of his many nervous habits, and the sight confirms for you that you made the right choice to stop by.

You wait outside for a couple of seconds before rapping on the door to his shop. Matty jumps at the noise, startled, and you can see him squint through his glasses as he trains his eyes on the storefront windows. But panic quickly fades into confusion when he sees you, and you watch as he raises an eyebrow and gives you a small but nervous wave. You wave back at him, and you see a hint of a smile tug at his lips. 

The two of you stay like that for a while, staring at each other through panes of glass, before you point to the locked door. Matty’s eyes go wide, clearly having forgotten that you couldn’t just walk in, and he scrambles to his feet, grabbing his keys off the desk and making his way over to the door in a few short strides. You hear the keys jingle in the keyhole before the door unlocks with a faint click, and he swings it open.

As Matty leans his head out through the crack in the door, you realize that he looks more frazzled than you originally realized. His face appears gaunter than usual, especially the space around his eyes, a sign that he hasn’t been eating or sleeping much, or, the more likely scenario, both. You have to fight the urge to frown as you take in his appearance, forcing your fingers to stay still at your sides, no matter how badly you want to reach up and run your hands along his face.

“Did we have something planned for tonight?” he asks, seemingly unaware of how blunt the question sounds. Once more, you have to stop yourself from frowning, but for a different reason this time. 

“Nice to see you too, Matty,” you say, and you watch as his face falls.

“Shit. M’sorry, love.” He presses his lips to your forehead in a kiss, but pulls away in the blink of an eye, the feeling gone too soon. “It’s been a long day.” 

You can see that. It’s written all over his features, the way he holds tension in his body. It’s also not lost on you that Matty is still blocking the entryway to his shop, physically stopping you from stepping inside, which is also very unlike him.

“Can I come in?” you ask gently, choosing not to press him on the day he’s had – not yet at least.

Matty blinks before nodding, stepping out of the entryway, and holding the door open for you as you step through into his store. Even in this stillness, with most of the lights out and, for once, no music playing through the stereos that he keeps hidden behind the front desk, the space feels just as warm and inviting as it did the first day you stumbled upon it. It’s impossible to feel miserable in a place like this, which is exactly why Matty’s current demeanor has you so concerned. 

You wait for Matty at his desk, allowing him to lock up the front door before you try asking him anything else. You take in the mess of paperwork scattered across the countertop – physical receipts, printed eBay sale confirmations, certificates of authenticity… and page after page of meticulous, hand-written record-keeping, tracking values that never stay the same way for long.

That sight alone answers your questions for you. You don’t need him to tell you anything to know that he’s spiraling.

“What’s wrong, Matty?” you ask once he returns to his side of the desk. You don’t miss the way he looks at the papers strewn everywhere, and then up at you, as though trying to figure out if you had looked at them or not. Still, he makes no effort to clean up the space or hide them.

“‘S’nothing, love,” he says dismissively, and even though you were prepared for that response, it doesn’t stop your heart from sinking. “Really. Just a long day. I don’t wanna bore you with the details.” 

“Well… I came here so you could bore me with the details,” you counter, leaning down and bracing yourself on the desk with your elbows. “I want to know.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” He sounds exhausted. It makes your chest ache.

This time, you don’t stop yourself from reaching out. One of your hands closes around his own, gently squeezing. Matty doesn’t try to fight it, but he doesn’t exactly relax into your touch either, just blinking at you from behind his glasses. The store's darkness makes the bags beneath his eyes seem even more pronounced.

“Talk to me, baby.” It’s more a plea than a question, but something in your tone seems to break through to him finally, and Matty lets out a sigh.

“I haven’t been making money, not really,” he admits with a frown. “Not for the past couple months, at least.”

“Has this happened before?”

Matty nods. “Oh yeah, ‘course. I go through a proper bad patch once every couple years. But it still makes me nervous.” 

You frown. No wonder he’s been spiraling. All of the paperwork sitting on his desk suddenly makes sense.

“But it’s always sorted itself out, right?” you ask, trying to say something to cheer him up, even though you know basically nothing about the topic at hand. This is his world, not yours. “I mean, everyone and their mom is buying records right now.” 

Matty laughs softly. “If that were true, I’d be rich by now.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want that?”

“No, God, no,” Matty replies, like the very notion of what you’re suggesting offends him to his core. “I never did this for the money, you know that. I just…” 

He doesn’t finish that sentence, instead letting out another tired sigh as he clumsily removes his glasses from his face. He doesn’t let go of your hand as he does it, making the motions a little awkward, but he still manages to place the folded glasses on the counter without much trouble.

“You’ll figure it out, baby,” you say softly, squeezing his hand once more. “You always do.”

“Yeah.” 

Matty sounds distant, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he doesn’t believe in what he’s saying. But you’re not saying this because you think it will make him feel better – you’re saying it because you wholeheartedly believe your words, believe in him.

“You will,” you repeat, a little more forcefully this time. “Like you said, this happens sometimes. And last time I checked…” You gesture to his storefront with your free hand, eyes landing on the dimmed open sign. “Your shop is still here.”

Your words are enough to almost earn a smile from him, which means that you’re getting somewhere.

“I know,” Matty replies. “I know. It’s just… everything I have, I put into this place, love. And if it’s gone, then I don’t…” He swallows then, rubs at his tired eyes with the back of his palm. “God. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Hey.” You reach out, trying to hold onto his other hand, but he lowers it before you can, shaking his head.

“M’sorry, I don’t want you worryin’ about me,” Matty says, voice suddenly strained. “I’m jus’ bein’ dramatic.” He smiles at you then, but he’s forcing it – you can tell. You can always tell. “Tell me about your day.”

“That can wait,” you say, not giving him the out he so clearly wants. But you’re also not about to drag this conversation out if he doesn’t want it. You’re not cruel. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

“Last night.”

“For how long?”

Matty doesn’t have an answer for you… not that he needs one. The dark circles underneath his eyes speak for themselves.

“Okay,” you say, mind made up. “Let’s go upstairs to your place, and you can get a nap in while I make you dinner. And then, we can watch whatever old, nerdy sci-fi movie you want to get your mind off things, and I can’t complain, no matter how cringy it is. Alright?”

Matty’s eyes light up at your suggestion, a brief glimmer of life that you haven’t seen since you stepped through his door. And even though it might be because you promised to sit down and watch a movie with him that has absolutely been made fun of on Mystery Science Theater 3000, it’s still a sight that you missed dearly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Matty repeats.

“No,” you concede. “But I want to. Besides, I don’t like seeing you worried.”

“I’m always worried,” Matty replies, and even though technically, he’s not wrong, you’re not about to admit that to him.

“Okay, well, you’ve worried enough for tonight,” you counter. 

Matty opens his mouth, and you brace yourself for him to push back against your proposal, but to your surprise, he nods. Maybe he’s too tired, or maybe he just really wants to relax like you’re suggesting. God knows he needs it. Even on a good day, he works too hard, and today has definitely not been a good day for him. But with any luck, tonight will make up for that. You’re certainly going to try.

“Can you at least tell me about your day after dinner?” Matty asks after a few beats, almost sheepish, and you smile.