Smuts - not my

Timothee Chalamet - Ghost

You can't sleep, so you find comfort in creating with clay and a pottery wheel. Eventually, Timothée decides that he wants to help. 

AO3 by starsaregivenonceonly

Timothée had fallen asleep a few hours ago, but you had been much too engrossed in a mystery novel to get anywhere near drifting off. Pages and pages, you drank it in. The words leapt through your mind, twisting together as you tried to work the pieces of the plot together in your mind like a puzzle. You enjoyed mystery novels thoroughly, because you had a knack for figuring out the ending. Once in a while you'd be left rather shocked (Thanks Gone Girl)... but otherwise, no criminal got away from you. No sir. When your eyes began to ache, you turned to look at the clock on the nightstand. It was after two in the morning.

A restlessness had taken hold of your legs, for you had been wiggling them around while reading. You stood slowly, not wanting to disturb Tim. He slept so peacefully and serenely, his pale skin smooth and beautiful. You slowly crept from the room, shutting the door quietly behind you.

The moon was shining brightly into the studio apartment you shared, and you walked through its rays to a small room that you had dedicated to your crafting. Turning the light on, you made your way, without hesitation, to the far corner where your pottery wheel stood waiting for you. You had only taken the art up recently, but you found it to be very relaxing. The clay was cool in your hands as you gathered it together, and it was a lovely, calming feeling.

This room had become somewhat of a haven for you. Your anxiety was something Timmy could relate to, but he was often far more exhausted than you and would fall asleep (and stay asleep) with little struggle. It wasn't always that simple for you, and your craft room went from a daytime hobby to a source of comfort when insomnia took control. Paintings, sketches, pottery, and coloring were an outlet. You weren't entirely fantastic at any of the arts, but you enjoyed to create something with your hands. To bring together new life, forms, colors, and beauty. It was soothing and therapeutic. You put your favorite relaxing playlist on shuffle, (a flowing, lovely jazz) took off your t-shirt (now wearing only a teal, simple but lacy bra) so as to not get it dirty, and settled into a comfortable position in front of the wheel.

You wet your hands thoroughly after preparing the wheel, and then stood to grab some clay. To prevent air bubbles from forming, which could cause cracks or break the piece when firing in the kiln, you threw the clay down on your work table repeatedly and kneaded it roughly for a good while. The work was tiresome for your fingers, but it kept you busy, and that's all you cared about. The loud echoing of the clay was not something you had considered, as, from across the apartment, Timothée lifted his head in the dark to listen. He smiled as the sound continued to echo.

Once the clay was prepared, you set it on the wheel and began to slowly pumping the foot pedal to make it spin. It was never quite simple in the beginning, so you used the already tired muscles in your hands and fingers to press the clay into a shape, working it firmly and with determination. After a few minutes you were totally engrossed, pumping the pedal in a steady pace as the clay before you began to take shape. Time crept by slowly, and you felt like you could sit there forever.

You heard the door to the bedroom open from down the hall after short while and smiled to yourself. You had been avidly hoping that you wouldn't wake him, but then you realized the amount of noise you had been making. Guilt electrified your mind, but when he came into the room it vanished. Timothée trudged into the room slowly, searching for you with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. They landed on you and instantly warmed as he walked over to stand behind you. He was wearing only a pair of green, plaid pajama pants that hung low on his hips.

"Can't sleep again, mon amour?" His hands rested on your shoulders, rubbing them gently as he watched you work in fascination. A small, gentle kiss landed softly on your neck, and you shuddered, giggling a little.