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@mbbsgf . . . matt's sweetest girl. autumn. coffee. middle part matt's #1 fan. bows. olivia rodrigo. sour girl. cats. cinnamon. the scientist by coldplay. books. derek morgan's good girl. late night walks. red (taylors version). christmas movies. purple&&gold. the notebook. blueberry smoothies. red roses. mod vanilla by ag.
dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws & issy i think???
not allowed to fucking film the soundcheck because of surprises? Fine.
Hundreds. Of. Dollars. And I’m not gonna be able to leave with a single ounce of physical memory besides overpriced merch to take with me. I get soundcheck and meet and greets, fine. But to be influencers and not let people take videos of the show?
(people in Texas have already said security threatened to remove people with phones out during both soundcheck and the normal show.)
This some absolute bullshit to be fucking honest idgaf what u gotta say in the replies unless you also spent hundreds to see them.
and yes, I love living in the moment but I’d also like to look back years from now and have something physical to remember it by.
this tour deadass gonna be my last straw with them
Your hand. He holds it like it's something precious, his fingers brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly while he talks, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on your skin. He does it when you're walking side by side, when you're sitting next to each other, when you're lying in bed, facing one another in the quiet glow of the night. His hand fits so naturally in yours, like it was made to be there.
Your face. He cups it with both hands when he kisses you, his palms warm against your skin. Sometimes, it's just his fingertips, ghosting over your jawline, your cheekbone, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. He tilts your chin up when he wants you to look at him, his gaze locking onto yours, filled with something deep, something overwhelming. And when you're tired, when you're curled up against him, he smooths his hand over your temple, tracing over your features with the gentlest touch, as if memorizing you all over again.
Your thigh. He rests his palm there instinctively, whether you're in the car, at dinner, or on the couch watching a movie. His fingers drum absentmindedly, or squeeze lightly when he wants your attention. When you're sitting on his lap, he rubs slow circles over the skin, his touch possessive in the most effortless way. And when you're tangled together, bodies pressed close, his hand slides up, fingertips pressing just enough to make you shiver, to make you feel like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
Your hip. He holds onto it when he's guiding you through a crowded room, when he's pulling you closer in a slow dance, when he's standing behind you, leaning in, his lips close to your ear. His grip is firm, grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you. And in the quiet moments, when you're lying together, half-asleep, his hand settles there naturally, fingers splaying lazily over the curve, as if he just needs to feel you there, right within his reach.
Your ass. He pretends he's subtle about it, but he's not. A quick squeeze when he walks past you in the kitchen. A lingering touch when he's pulling you into a hug. A full-on grab when he's feeling playful, making you yelp before he grins, all dimples and mischief. And when he's kissing you, when things get heated, his hands slide down without hesitation, gripping, pulling, holding you against him like he can't stand the space between you.
Every touch is intentional. Every touch is his way of saying, I'm here. I see you. I want you.
i want to take a nap with matt. that’s it. that’s the post. keep scrolling weirdo.
