Different Seasons @dickxn-blog - Tumblr Blog

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honeymoonavenue

museinspo

Daydreamin // Ariana Grande

#; muse

fluro

It’s you. It’s been you for the past 486 days. Since the moment I met you. It’s you at 2 in the morning or 4 in the afternoon. It’s you when I’m sleeping and studying and eating and laughing. You are everywhere and you are everything.

(via mathildes)

#; muse

limitlessplaylist

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Babe, there’s something wretched about this Something so precious about this…

#; vinyl

mattieking:

Either he knew she messed up, or he was being entirely polite; either way she was grateful. Her fingers curl around the sleeves of her over-sized sweater, hoping the cafe owner would be over soon to take their orders. The mention of her father made him smile, and she was curious if he had a favourite among his novels— but that was a question for another time. “My father talked about it often, Oxford I mean, he never specified his relations but he always said it was a wonderful school. I probably should have come earlier but it’s… well sometimes things don’t work out as you would hope they do.” There she was again, building up a wall of vines and thorns in hopes of keeping everyone outside. “I like to think I can write, not anything close to my fathers excellence but I do enjoy a good story now and then. His mind is beautiful.” Was beautiful. She is grateful as the barista approaches, ordering a coffee completely black and a vegan cookie before continuing their conversation. “We’re very different in terms of genre though. He’s obviously more of a horror novelist, I’m… well, I guess I’m still figuring that out.” She had ghost writtn the last four of her fathers novels and placed them under his name. If anyone ever knew that Mathilde King was writing books for her father the press would have a field day. “I think I like his newer work, writing something like that.” The New York Times regarded her fathers newest work (her ghost write) a tragic masterpiece and questioned whether he would continue in such a heart breaking direction. “I like to write about people; put them in my stories.” Finally, for the first time in weeks Mathilde allows herself to look up at the forest green eyes of Dickon Salt. Big mistake. “Have you lived in England your whole life?” She needed to change the subject, looking down at her newly arrived black coffee and using it as an excuse to break herself from the topic of her father and writing.

It seemed she was leaving out a number of details as to why she didn’t attend the school sooner, but Dickon didn’t want to pry. If she wanted to tell him, she would. He wasn’t one to push people. He knew all too well about things not working out like you want them to. “Better late than never, yeah?” Although he went to university straight after school, it was a difficult task getting to Oxford. “I’ve wanted to go here since as long as I can remember. Louise and James both went to Manchester, so they were quite partial to me going there, but I can be quite persuasive.” He spoke to her like she actually had a clue what he was talking about, not even bothering to explain who he was talking about or why. “I’m bet you’re amazing. You have the writers gene. He’s incredibly talented.” That was really the understatement of the century on his part. To Dickon, Stephen King was a genius. His writing was complex and real, that’s what he liked about it. After ordering a green tea, he leans back in his chair, still listening closely to Mathilde. Listening to people talk about their passions is one of his favorite things. People are so different and individual, it’s fascinating to hear how different people went about utilizing their talents. “I’d love to see your work sometime -- I mean, if you want to show me. You don’t have to, obviously. Just, you know, I wouldn’t mind reading it.” Sipping his newly arrived tea, he was thankful for the subject change after his babbling. “Um, yeah I have. I was born in Carlisle and then moved around to a few different foster homes before I got adopted when I was nine, then I moved with my parents to Durham and I’ve been there my whole life. Sounds kind of boring, but we went on a lot of vacations. That was the excitement in my life, seeing the world, I guess.” Dickon explained.

#; dickon & mathilde ; one

light-another-one-deactivated20

I still remember the way my stomach flipped when I first saw her. I tried so hard to keep it cool, but goddamnit she was beautiful.

light-another-one (via light-another-one)

#; daisy

mattieking:

All social grace was gone, replaced with sideways glances and deep inhalations. How did normal people talk to one another? His answer surprised her, really surprised her, and she found herself almost jerking back at his immediate response. In turn she moves beside him, urging him to walk with her on the campus road block to the small bakery on the corner. “Thank you for not treating me differently.” In truth, his lack of enthusiasm made her frustrated, but for other reasons, but she was talking about how other students on campus talked to her due to her surname. Her words were honest, true, the initial fear of starting conversations was over now and she felt a little more relaxed in the winter wonderland. “I typically try to keep it anonymous, the French accent usually helps.” She was answering his inner questions without realizing, her fingers scaling for the front door as she holds it open for him to join her. “My mother was from Bordeaux, and when I was young my brother and I were raised around the greatest cities in France. We didn’t move to West Virginia until— until later.” She was being open, a rare occurrence, taking off her winter jacket and directing herself to a corner nook at the back of the shop. She liked it here, old books and coffee. She had even gotten familiar with the elderly owners who would often stop by and say hello. “And now Oxford.” She realized he never asked about her, he never asked anything and she had taken the time to completely babel on about herself. “I’m so sorry, sometimes it’s just nice to talk. I’m so used to only hearing my own voice— or I guess my fathers.” She was referring to when she read, always hearing his voice in her head as she turned the pages. Mathilde didn’t have any friends and of course that was her own choice, enough people had left her to know it was safer to already be alone. “So, poetry?” She almost hit herself in the face, Dickon never mentioned poetry, she had only read it while looking over at her classmates work. “I just mean, I assume— you look…”

This was almost painful. Dickon hoped he hadn’t done something to make the girl uncomfortable. Then again, she could be thinking the same thing about him, since he was talking about as much as she was. Falling easily into step with her, his hands went into his pockets to protect them from the cold air. “That’s alright. Your father is my favorite author and I love his work, but I would have brought you your notebook either way.” Dickon smiled. Truthfully, he had been interested in her even before he knew who her father was. Since she walked into the classroom, he felt like he wanted to know everything bout her. As if she could read his mind, Mathilde went on to explain her accent. He listened carefully, paying close attention to how soft and warm her voice was and probably staring at her lips too much. Removing his coat and following her to the back corner, he shook his head at her apology. “Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind listening. I was curious anyways.” He spoke honestly; really, he wanted to know everything about her, but that would take time. Dickon was almost never alone, so his own voice was rarely one that he heard, but he didn’t mind. His writing was what was important to him, not so much the words he spoke. Usually he was better on paper anyways. His eyes widened slightly at the realization at what Mathilde had said before quickly going back to his normal look. How did she know he wrote poetry? He prayed that she didn’t ever see the things he wrote about her in class. Though he tried not to when he was right next to her, he often got carried away and ended up putting up with haikus about her eyes. “I guess I make it quite obvious then, don’t I?” Dickon chuckled, trying to cover for her just a little bit. “But yeah, poetry is my favorite to write. -- What made you want to come to Oxford?”

#; dickon & mathilde ; one

trxcklist

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do i wanna know? || arctic monkeys

#; vinyl

I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you.

Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know

#; quote

nomenu

#; gatsby&daisy

mattieking:

Her mother was a french beauty, with long flowing locks and elegant poise. Being born in Bordeaux was a strange affair when thrust into American soil, and now even more strange in England. Her accent was light, almost unnoticeable, until she spoke quickly or her nerves kicked into high gear, which was exactly what happened as he approached. Him. Stars. “—Mathilde.” She clarifies, heavily using her french accent to strengthen the last letter of her name. She notices the notebook in his fingers, her eyes widening at what was within it’s slim contents. Words about romance, words about him.” She was gentle to take it back, not wanting to raise any alarms as she curtly tucks it into her book bag. “Half of the students in our year get it wrong, s’alright.” She was kind and gentle, much like a princess would be if a real life disney character was in the shape and form of Mathilde King. Here eyes still hadn’t met his, an automatic defense knowing his eyes were the thing about him that scared her most. What could she say? How are you? Comment on the weather? She could feel her lips quiver from the cold, dreading the fact that this was far from what she wanted their first conversation to be like. “You’re Dickon.” It wasn’t a question, it was more a realization, the boy she had been thinking about for the past month making her heart beat faster at the very name. She was Mathilde King, daughter of a famous wordsmith but here she was completely unable to even speak a full sentence. “I’m sorry about your pen.” She says finally, internally screaming at her reference from over four weeks ago. Idiot. “You know— lipstick.” She licks her lips subconsciously, gathering her books once more as she stands in the mere inches of snow. A nervous laugh escapes her and she finds her feet trailing a circle around him until she was back on the main Oxford path. “Well, I guess I’ll see you next Thursday.” She had a boyfriend, she didn’t need friends. What in the heavens would Mathilde King do with a boy she couldn’t even look in the eyes without seeing stars. And despite her inner quarrel, she stops moving, turns around and speaks far too quickly. “Would you like to get coffee?”

Before, Dickon had noticed her slight French accent, but now that they were speaking it seemed to be magnified. He wanted to ask her how she got the accent; he wanted to ask her a lot of things, actually. Her father was his favorite author, and there were so many questions he had about his work and what he was like as a person. But he refrained, since he knew the current condition of her father and felt it was not his place to quiz her. “Mathilde.” Dickon repeats with a nod, making a mental note to say it correctly from now on. It felt like an eternity that they stood there, Dickon trying almost desperately to meet her gaze, but she wasn’t having it. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Maybe he offended her by pronouncing her name wrong. When she spoke again, his eyebrows knit together in slight confusion. For a second, he wonders what she’s talking about, before she mentions the pen. “Oh --- that’s alright.” Little did she know that he hadn’t even wiped off the red lipstick from nearly four weeks ago. The color hadn’t even faded and whenever he was feeling a lack of inspiration, he opened his desk drawer and studied the deep red color that matched the lips of Mathilde King. When she moves to leave, he’s slightly disappointed. This conversation went a lot better in his head. A thousand times he had thought of what they could talk about, but now that she was stood in front of him, all he could seem to do was stare and pretend that he wasn’t desperate to get to know her. Almost as soon as she finishes her question, Dickon replies. “Yes.” Probably a bit too eager. “I mean...yeah, I would love to.” He smiles, failing in his attempt to be smooth.

#; dickon & mathilde ; one

rydnen

#; muse

suspend

I feel greedy and possessive cause all I can think about is calling you mine.

-3 am thoughts (via suspend)

#; quote

mattieking:

Mathilde had been a ghost the past few weeks, idly in her own world as she awaited every creative writing class and eager discussion that would lend her a closer look at her apposing classmate. He smelled like home, like woodlands and baked cookies and she had to resist every urge to lean onto his desk to get lost in the moment. She was acting foolish. Mathilde had a boyfriend, a perfect boyfriend. She had a boyfriend who loved her to the point of insanity but not one who made her feel like the boy with the lipstick smudged pen. She wondered if he knew she was staring, knew she was illogically questioning everything about her relationship over a boy she barely had one conversation with. Worse yet, she could barely look at him, settling for over-large sweaters and messy waves to cover her want to steal glances. Even now, in the middle of a free study period in her writing glass she has the itch to look over to her right, thick rimmed glasses blocking her view as she desperately attempts to focus on her Shakespeare. Should I ask for a pen again? She looks at the black pen in her fingers, knowing how foolish she would look if she once again asked for a writing utensil. So instead, Mathilde made a silent promise in that moment that she would ignore him and continue to do so until the semester was over. As the class ends, her supplies are gathered and she makes it a mission to reach the exit before the rest of the students. “Sorry, excuse me—” Dashing for the large double doors of the Oxford courtyard, a hard wind catches her cheeks, snow falling at an alarming rate as she tries to see through the sea of people to a clear space to sit; pulling out a copy of fer fathers newest book and being grateful she avoided a conversation with her dreamy constellation.

Every Thursday Dickon looked forward to his creative writing class. Not only because of his love for creative writing in particular, but because of the beautiful blonde that sat next to him. Ever since she walked into the classroom three weeks ago, he had been taken by her. Everything about her just seemed soft; her skin, her hair, her lips -- he found himself daydreaming about her often. Of course, after he had realized he was doing it, he felt like an idiot. Today was a free period, they were always his favorite. He would spend the whole class coming up with poetry, in this case he had been writing about Mathilda. How strange she would think he was if she knew he filled the pages of his notebooks with poems about her and the lipstick stained pen he now kept tucked away in his desk drawer back in his flat when they had barely spoke ten words to one another. He longed to speak to her, but what would he even say? The professor dismisses them and, as usual, the blonde is the first out the door. Gathering his things, feeling defeated after going another entire class period without speaking to the girl that he thought about so often, Dickon noticed that in her haste, she had forgotten a blue notebook. This is your chance. He quickly snatched it from the desk and rushed out of the classroom, inhaling the cold air sharply as he searched for her familiar blonde waves in the crowd of students. There she was. He approached her slowly, like she was some sort of fawn and he didn’t want to make a noise and frighten her away. “Excuse me, um -- Mathilda, right?” He spoke as if her name wasn’t the first and last thing he thought of every day. “Sorry to bother you, I’m Dickon -- you left this notebook on your desk.” Dickon explained, holding out the notebook for her to take and subconsciously holding his breathe as he awaited some kind of response.