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teaandransacking · 1 year

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at times like these

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x female reader ~ Written for @philliam-writes ~ words: 1k ~ content: injuries, romantic tension

You and Lockwood fall through the door to 35 Portland Row, and then you close it by slumping down against the wood. Beside you, Lockwood breathes heavily.

You only just escaped with your lives.

Glancing over, you take in his profile, his head tilted back against the door. The line of his neck looks tempting even in a situation like this, and you wish George or Lucy were here to distract you from your thoughts.

But this job was so big that the four of you had to split up, and the remaining two of your foursome were still out with Flo.

“You okay?” Lockwood asks, once he’s caught his breath. His long legs are stretched out in front of him. The laces of one of his trainers have come undone.

“Never better,” you snark.

He musters enough energy to smile at you. “There she is. It’s disturbing, you know, when you’re not sarcastic.”

“Well then, I’ll try to keep my tongue sharp so you’re never uncomfortable.”

He chuckles, but then winces, his hand flying to his side, and then you see it - the unmistakable dark splodge that can’t be anything other than blood.

“Shit,” you hiss. “Stay here. Keep your hand on it.”

He nods, looking a little paler than he did before, and your stomach bottoms out in fear.

You hurry downstairs to the kitchen and grab supplies. A bottle of antiseptic, medical tape, cotton wool. When you get back to the hall, Lockwood has shrugged his coat off. There’s blood on his shirt, but it’s not as much as you feared, or, you hope it isn’t.

“Reckless,” you chide as you start to unbutton his shirt.

He smiles a little. “Just reckless enough.”

You’d prefer it if he was not reckless at all, but you’re too worried about him to concentrate enough to form words.

Lockwood has no such trouble. “If I’d known I only had to get stabbed to get you to undress me, I’d have done it sooner.”

“Shut up.” You pry the last button free of its eyelet, and gently peel the cotton shirt - probably unsalvageable - away from the wound.

Thank God, it looks as if the blood is coagulating.

You tear off some cotton wool anyway and dump a load of antiseptic on it, gently pressing it to the wound.

Lockwood hisses in pain, his eyes closing. His lashes are long and thick on his high cheekbones, and he’s especially beautiful in the low light here, haloed by the muted glow from the old Tiffany lamp on the hallway table.

You make yourself stop thinking about how handsome he is and concentrate on the task at hand. Once you’re satisfied you’ve doused the wound in enough antiseptic to sink a ship, you cover it in gauze and secure that with probably too much medical tape.

“How does that feel?”

His eyes open. “Better. Thank you.”

“Good. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, please try not to get stabbed again.”

“I shall do my best,” he groans. “It’s an occupational hazard when around rapiers.”

You look at him, slumped against the door, half sitting, half lying, and think that perhaps you should have dragged him to his room or at least the sofa before patching him up.

At least he’s no longer got an undressed wound.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He arches a dark brow.

“For God’s sake, Lockwood.”

He smiles wryly. “I was trying to make you laugh.”

“Well, you can try again when you’re not in danger of bleeding all over the floor.” You help him to sit up, take his shirt off the rest of the way, and then sling his good arm over your shoulders. “Think you can make it?”

“For you? Unquestionably.”

You try not to read too much into his words. Possibly, he’s half-drunk on tiredness and pain.

Thankfully there aren’t too many stairs to his room. The bed is unmade, which is good - you don’t have to fuss with turning back sheets and a duvet to get him into it.

He sighs as you get him there, help him stretch out, and then remember at the last minute to take his shoes off.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says sleepily as you pull the covers up over his prone form. You exercise superhuman restraint in not looking too hard at his bare torso.

“Of course you don’t. But I’m here, anyway.”

You had planned to leave him to sleep, but as you straighten up, he catches your hand, tangles your fingers. You meet his gaze, and his soft brown eyes are a direct portal to his soul as he murmurs, “Stay? Please stay.”

Even if he didn’t have that buttery smooth voice, you can deny him nothing.

You grab the chair from under his desk and pull it to the bed, and after you sit, you reach out to smooth back his hair. A couple of loose strands flop over his forehead, and he looks boyish, endearing.

The only giveaway that he’s older than he seems are the dark streaks under his eyes. It tells you he’s seen so much for someone so young.

As have you. As have all young people, since The Problem.

You put it from your mind as Lockwood gazes up at you. He often looks at you like this, as if you hung the moon in the sky, and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend you just want to be his friend.

Maybe one day, you’ll admit your feelings to yourself, but today, you’ll just sit with him while he recovers, and it’ll be enough.

His eyes drift close as you continue gently threading your fingers through his hair, and then his breathing evens out as he falls asleep.

And you hope, selfishly, that he’ll dream of you.

#anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood & co fanfiction

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joka13 · 11 months

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FANFICTION: Weasley Twins x Reader (Slytherin Girl) - Part 14

WARNINGS: British swearing

Fred holds your hand as he leads you down the halls, and he doesn't seem to intend to let go anytime soon. You enjoy it, particularly admiring (you know it's cliché, but you can't help it) how large his hand feels compared to yours.

After a couple minutes, Fred finally stops in front of the window at the end of the Ravenclaw hall. You stare out the window, searching for whatever it is that Fred wants to show you.

He chuckles. "No, no. Over here." He puts his hands on the sides of your head and gently encourages it to turn. Your eyes land on a large, old tapestry hanging on the wall.

You're confused. There's nothing special about the tapestry. It's very worn, the colors faded and the tassels at the bottom clumping together. You can barely make out the image of Ravenclaw's blue eagle sewn into the center.

"What..." you start to say, but Fred shakes his head. He looks down the hall, then around the corner, checking to make sure you both really are alone. He lets go of your hand to approach the tapestry.

You are even more confused when Fred lifts the edge of the tapestry and walks behind it. Now his feet are all that can be seen, and you watch as they go up one at a time to hide behind the tapestry along with the rest of Fred's body, as if he was standing on a step. Fred lets the tapestry fall back into place, and you can't even tell that he's standing behind it.

"Fred?" you say after an uneventful moment. It's as if he's vanished into thin air.

Then a freckled hand pokes out from behind the tapestry and beckons to you. You obey, walking over nervously like the fabric eagle might come alive and lash out at you at any second.

At this point the hand has disappeared. You use your own to lift up the edge of the tapestry. Then you gasp. Fred is standing inside the wall, or, rather, standing inside a hole that's in the wall. There's an entire doorway (without the door) hiding behind the old Ravenclaw tapestry.

"How long has this been here?" you ask in awe, stepping up to join Fred.

It's dark behind the tapestry. Fred takes out his wand. "Lumos," he says, and the tip of his wand produces a light. Now you can see that the doorway extends into a dark staircase curving upward.

"George and I discovered it 'bout two years ago," Fred replies, starting up the stairs. You follow close behind. It smells heavily of moss and rotting wood. "But by the looks of it, this one's been around since Hogwarts was built."

You avoid a tiny spider scuttling past. "You say that like there's more."

"Oh yeah. There're loads of secret passageways all throughout the castle."

"This is fantastic! I had no idea... You'll have to show me the others some time."

"Gladly."

You both come to a halt at an old, decaying door. As Fred reaches for the knob, you notice a star welded into its tarnished silver.

You follow Fred through the door and out onto a small balcony. Fred mutters something, and his wand's light goes out.

The balcony overloooks the lake that sits by the castle. It's a breathtaking sight. The sunset is absolutely beautiful, and its reflection dancing over the lake is even more so.

You inhale deeply as a cool breeze blows by. "Wow..."

You turn to Fred and find him staring at you. It's obvious that he's just now realizing this as well when he quickly looks away, his ears turning red. You smile.

"So," Fred says, clearing his throat. "What do you think?" He gestures out to the scenery in front of you.

"It's magnificent. I wish I'd known about this little spot earlier."

"Glad you like it." Fred comes up next to you and rests his elbows on the railing.

It's peacefully quiet for a moment as you both gaze out over the lake. The rippling, sparkling water is almost mesmerizing. You glance over at Fred, then double take and laugh. He's got a bunch of cobwebs in his hair, probably from walking through that passageway.

"What?" Fred asks, smiling crookedly.

"Oh, nothing," you giggle. You go to pick the grey strings out of his red hair. "You just make a good feather duster." He bends down slightly for you, holding still while you work. When you're finished, you hold up the handful of old spider silk. Fred laughs.

Suddenly, you realize how very close you are to him. At that same moment, as his laughter subsides, Fred seems to realize it, too.

Butterflies come alive in your stomach. You and Fred hold each other's gazes and you feel your face grow hot. He smirks knowingly, still keeping your gaze, and your heart melts. The urge to kiss that smirk is so strong, but...

When Fred looks down at your lips, you panic and toss the handful of cobwebs into his face.

You immediately regret it as Fred stumbles backward in surprise, sputtering and swiping away the cobwebs. He gapes at you in shock. You're afraid of how he'll react until a devilish grin spreads across his face.

"Hoho! You've done it now, y/n!" Fred starts toward you.

You make a dash for the door to the passageway and swing it open. You squeal with delight (and a slight bit of genuine fear) as Fred chases after you, his large feet stomping intimidatingly down the stone steps. The darkness surrounding you makes it all the more frightening, but you don't dare stop to take your wand out.

"Please, I'm sorry, have mercy!" you plead, laughing and struggling to catch your breath at the same time. You reach the bottom of the stairs, somehow without falling, just as Fred reaches you.

You squeal once more as you feel Fred's hands catch your waist, tugging you away from the exit and closer to him. He begins to tickle you unforgivingly.

"No! Stop! Please!" you wheeze. You're utterly helpless against him.

"You brought this upon yourself!" Fred laughs maniacally.

Just then, a sickeningly familiar voice sounds from the other side of the tapestry, causing you both to freeze. It's Filch.

"Get out o' there!" Filch growls. "Anything that happens behind tapestries shouldn't be happening at all!"

Fred lets you go and follows you out of the secret passageway. The two of you emerge from behind the tapestry without saying a word, trying not to meet Filch's gaze. You can imagine how you and Fred must look as you both stand there panting and disheveled. You briefly comb your fingers through your messy hair.

Filch seems surprised to see you of all people partaking in such shenanigans. He's never once had to confiscate anything from you, or tell on you to the Headmaster.

Filch looks away from you to Fred and scowls, as if to say, "Now you on the other hand..."

"I ought to have you both punished!" Filch sneers. Then his face softens when he looks back at you. "But it's almost bedtime... so I'll let you two buggers off with a warning." He waggles a bony, disapproving finger.

"Thank you, Sir," you say. "It won't happen again."

Filch waves an uncaring hand as you and Fred jog away.

"Suck up," Fred coughs once the two of you have put enough distance between Filch and yourselves.

"What?! I just saved your butt!" you laugh, poking him playfully in the ribs.

At that moment, George comes skidding around the corner, almost smacking into you.

"Fred! Y/n! Where the bloody hell have you been?" George pants. "There's something you've got to see!"

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maxverstappensflatbrim · 1 year

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Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [1]

chapter one, act one: antichrist

~first chapter of my Matty Healy x bandmate!OC, more coming soon

January 3rd 2010

"No."

"Please?"

Tommie groans twirling around on her cousin's bed so she's lying on her stomach instead of her back and looks over to where he's sitting at his desk chair.

"No, Adam, I don't want to."

"No," He says, in his usual 'I know better than you' tone, tilting his head in a way that reminds her exactly of her aunt, "You're afraid."

She gives him an unimpressed look and goes back to looking over the back of the old Radiohead vinyl she'd pinched from his little shelf of records that's tucked away in one corner of his bedroom.

"I don't wanna be in your stupid X-Factor wannabe band with your junkie friends."

"Please," A sarcastic voice comes from the bedroom door as it's pushed open, the self-made 'please knock' sign obviously meaning nothing to the intruder. The vinyl is snatched from her hands and the single bed dips with the newly added weight, "We're at least BGT worthy."

She rolls her eyes sitting up as he moves the record out of her reach, "Don't mess with me today, Healy."

"Aw," He pouts looking over at her, lashes fluttering in mock flattery, "But it's my favourite thing to do."

"Why do you always have to piss me off on my first day here?" She questions, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

He flashes his smile, wild curly hair falling in his eyes, "Because it's my favourite pastime."

Adam snatches the record back, putting it onto his pile on the floor as he raises a brow, "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Day off to welcome Miss Thomas."

"Day wasted." She mutters from behind him.

Matty mimics her in a high-pitched voice and she rolls her eyes. He grabs one of her ankles and pulls it down to his lap, tickling at her socked foot causing her to squeal and grip one of Adam's plain white pillows as her defence.

Matty flinches as the pillow is brought down upon his head, he dramatically grips his shirt and flops onto his back to look up as he gives his dramatic act of a death scene.

"Tommie!"

She sighs and goes to the door, "Yeah?"

"Your mother's on the phone, she's been calling you. Come down here."

She inwardly groans but forces herself down the stairs. Matty turns to Adam as soon as she's gone. Listening to the footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs, a faint 'hello?' coming a few seconds later.

"Did she agree?"

"No."

He groans, flopping back on the bed again, curly hair creating a large painting upon the plain sheets. "Why?"

"Said she wants to do A Levels, go to university and- I quote, 'have a chance of making a name for herself'."

"That's what we're doing, making a name for ourselves."

"In a band about driving?"

Matty sighs, "I have a vision."

Adam sighs, muttering under his breath as he twists his chair around to look at the wall behind his desk. Focusing on a picture of him and Tommie when they were kids, back when he still lived in Wales before his dad got the job in Manchester.

"And the vision," Matty continues, lifting his hands in the air in front of him, "Has me upfront, some super hot models on each arm," Adam laughs at that part, and Matty lets out what can be described as a giggle, "Then you on guitar, George drumming away, Ross with his bass... and Tommie, right there with us, strumming her guitar and singing our songs."

"She's not into that stuff, you know that. She's too shy."

"She is not shy."

"Matty, it took her six years to speak to any of you."

He shrugs, "She was younger then."

"The stage isn't the place she should be, she's not comfortable with it, don't force her."

He sighs, "Do you think she'll help us on the album? If this thing goes through and we get the deal, do you think she'll help?"

"Of course she will, she's been with us since the start-"

The door reopens and she walks in quickly, grabbing the hoodie she had left on side before leaving again. Matty and Adam share a look before following after her as she charges down the stairs and out the front door.

"Hey, Tommie, wait."

Adam runs out barefoot as Matty shoves on Mrs Hann's heels, stumbling after them, "Tommie, wait."

Adam catches her arm, brow-raising, "Where are you going? What's wrong?"

She sighs, taking in a deep stuttering breath to try and regain her own thoughts. Everything is a jumbled mess and she shakes her head quickly to focus her eyes.

"My father-"

"What happened?" Matty asks from behind them.

Tommie's voice catches in her throat when she sees him standing there and Adam turns around to him, "Go back inside, Matty."

"What's happened?"

"Just- go inside, Matty."

Adam turns back to Tommie, gripping her hand a little tighter, "What's he done?"

"He's threatening court," She shakes her head and scoffs, "He's not wanted nothing to do with me for fifteen years, Adam, why does he want me now? It seems like when I've stopped trying to have a dad is when he's wanted to be one."

She pulls away to step back, "I'm uh, going down the shop."

"Tommie, come back inside, we'll chuck a film on-"

"No, no, I want some sweets, be back in a bit."

"Tom..."

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

"Hey."

She sighs slowly looking away from him as she hears his boots crunch on the gravel, "Go away, Healy."

He drops himself down beside her, looking out over the rugby pitch in front of them, the fence restricting the view of the local Wilmslow team trains.

They sit in silence, he doesn't say a thing after his initial greeting, just rests his elbows on his knees and keeps his gaze forward.

She taps her foot impatiently, kicking up dust and rocks as she plays with the strings of her hoodie.

"My dad, he never really stuck around," Tommie says suddenly, "He was there you know, picked me up every Wednesday, dropped me with my grandparents then went out, took me to football games on Sundays. But, it was more like a chore than him doing parent stuff."

"I uh, didn't know."

"I never realised he was a bad dad to me until my little sister turned three, two years ago. I was sitting in their living room. He came in from work, kissed his wife on the head, kissed my sister on the cheek, then sat at the table with my step-brother to help him with his homework before making dinner."

Matty doesn't open his mouth to say anything, which she's shocked by, he just listens, "I just sat there watching, and the entire time all I could think was that I wasn't worth the effort. He does everything for those kids, and I feel so bad because he's an absolutely amazing father to them. But then it makes me wonder, why couldn't he be that for me? Why couldn't he be there? Pick me up, make me dinner, help with my homework?"

She rubs at her nose with her sleeve and then shakes her head as she chuckles through the rising tears, "It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," He says quietly, his hand lifts and he hesitates to pat her back but settles on brushing some hair back from her face, "You have a right to feel that way."

She buries her head into her folded arms and grips her elbows as she breathes in deeply, breathing in the scent of the grass and dirt, focusing on the yells of the rugby players in the distance.

"Tommie, look at me please."

She sighs and lifts her head slowly, "I didn't know that. You don't," He pauses, not sure if he should say what he's thinking, not wanting to make the situation worse but he does anyway, "You don't talk about your family much. Just Adam and your grandparents."

She sighs, "You wanna know?"

"I-" He does, he really does. He wants to know everything.

"My single working mother and I live with my grandparents because we can't afford our own place. I'm the oldest sibling, by six years, of four, two brothers, one half, one step, and a half-sister. Don't talk to my dad much anymore, only once a month when he argues with his wife and remembers I exist, my youngest brother, JJ, he has a different mother too, dad speaks to him more than me but not much. He's the only sibling I speak to."

"Why don't you just move up here? For good?"

She sighs, "This is my last holiday up here, Healy."

"What?"

"I've got a job now, retail, it's awful but it's money, and I'm about to do my A levels-"

"You can still come up for the summer."

"And have a whole six weeks off work? I can't do that, I could barely have this week off to come up."

He sighs, "But, you were supposed to come up for your birthday this year. First birthday in Manchester."

She shrugs, tracing over the rips in her jeans, "Don't like my birthday anyway."

He gasps dramatically, hitting her shoulder, "Why? I love my birthday, getting presents and lots of attention, it's great."

"Not when you're the oldest sibling with broke parents." He tilts his head and she sighs, turning away from his gaze, "My mother's at work, most of the time my grandparents are too, and my dad hasn't remembered a birthday since I was five, that was only when my nannie was alive back then. He had her to keep her on track all the time. When she died, that's when it all went downhill."

"It is now my life's purpose to make you like your birthday."

She scoffs, "I'm not like you, Healy. Don't like big things and loads of attention, not made for it."

He shrugs, "It doesn't always need to be like that, it can be quiet, small things."

She shrugs again, then he goes back to the issue of her not coming up for the summer, "Why don't you just quit? Get a job up here for the summer then go back."

"It's not that easy, we need the money. And if I leave and they don't take me back, what then? And I can't risk worrying about that when I need to be focusing on school. If I don't focus on my results, I won't get into a good university, if I don't get into a good uni I can't get a good job. If I don't get a good job with a decent salary then- then I'll never get out. I'll never leave the stupid village and escape the past. I need to leave, Matty."

She runs her hands through her hair, burning her head into her knees. He moves his hand to rub at her back, careful not to startle her. He knows how she feels about touch and boundaries. But when she doesn't flinch and leans back into his touch, he lets his palm lay flat drawing circles into her hoodie.

"You're taking on too much."

She scoffs, "We don't all have rich parents."

He looks over at her now, watching her run both hands through her hair to tuck the stands behind her ears, "Is that what this is about, money? I can help-"

"No," She says quickly, regretting her little dig, "No, I don't want your help. You work hard for your money, in that shitty hippie cafe-"

"Shitty? It's many... questionable things, but it's not... that shitty."

She laughs a little and looks away, "What about the album?"

She sighs slowly, "Healy-"

"We're gonna get one, we are, I can feel it, one more gig, that guy, said he could get us signed up with a label if we record some EP's."

"I'm not in the band, that's your guys' things."

"You're a part of the band, Tommie."

"No, I'm not. I just sit in on your practices with you."

"Okay," He nods, "Answer me this," She hums, "Do you help us by playing guitar?"

"Well, sometimes."

"Yes or no questions."

"Yes."

He nods, "Do you come to every gig with us?- When you're here?"

"Yes."

"Every practice?"

"Yes."

"Did you let me steal some of your work for our songs?"

"Yes- what?"

He chuckles as she turns to look at him quickly, "What songs? What work?"

"My new songs," He says leaning away from her hand that reaches out to hit him, "And your poetry."

"You read my notebook?"

He catches her hand this time when she tries to hit him, "It was open."

"Open?"

"On the kitchen table, I just glanced... for a single second."

"I hate you so much."

She pushes him down, using his head to stand and starts walking away, he scrambles to his feet following after her, "It's really good, and I only borrowed one line."

"Which one?"

"Not telling."

She rolls her eyes, walking on and he has to jog to keep up with her long strides despite having a good few inches on her.

"Vogue."

"What?"

"Vanity Fair."

Then it dawned on her, "That was my best line, Healy!"

He giggles and runs off but she chases after him, shouting down the street, "I'm still not joining your shitty band."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing her arm to drag her towards the old shop in town, "Where are we going?"

"Shops, to cheer you up."

"Ooh," She rubs her hands together with a grin, "You gonna be my sugar daddy now, Healy?"

He swings an arm around her shoulder, smiling down at her, "Of course sugar baby, what do you want, a Ferrari?"

"More of a red bull girl. There's just something about Sebastian Vettel in that race suit." She makes a noise close to a moan and watches the redness spread up his cheeks.

"Well, I can't get you a Vettel, but I can get you something very close."

He moves the hand hanging loosely over her shoulder to push her glasses up her face and then cup over her eyes and a smile spreads across her face as she blindly walks along the path in front of them. "Jenson?"

"Nope."

He stops them, turning her with his hands still covering her eyes. He drops his hand and she looks up, raising a brow.

"Mr. Bolas."

"Even better."

They head into the old charity shop, glancing around the new boxes, Bolas looks up from his desk, peering over the top of his reading glasses.

"New box out the back, Healy."

"Thanks, Mr. Bolas."

Tommie waves at him and he sends a sweet smile before she's dragged by Matty down the old creaking stairs and into the storage room.

He lets go of her to sit crisscrossed in front of the box, taking out the old records one by one, "Ooh, you'll like this one."

She moves the old box of books to sit beside him, taking the old minted edition Black Sabbath record from his hands, "Holy shit, this is cool."

"Swapsies?"

She passes over the box of books she's yet to look in so she can look through the records as he looks through the books, picking out an old battered Tennesse Williams one.

"Hey, I'm doing that for A level this year."

"Have it."

She takes it from him flicking through, smiling at the little annotations someone has put in the play.

"I have his poetry book."

She looks at the Jack Kerouac book in his hand, "I think I've read some of that, it's good."

"Yeah?"

He flicks it open, looking through the book a little, "Woah, that's stupid."

He starts laughing and she nudges his arm so she can look, '1st June the 1975'.

"I've never seen anyone say 'the' before they write the year."

"That's weird, suppose we say it like that half the time though."

He hums in agreement, finger tracing over the words of the page, "1975, Jesus, this book is old."

"You getting it?"

He shrugs then shakes his head, "Nah."

"Fine, then I will."

She adds it atop her Streetcar Named Desire book pushing them aside as she goes back through the records, picking out a few more for herself and some old sixties ones for Adam.

"The 1975." He says again.

She rolls her eyes, "You're not going to shut up about that are you?"

"Nope."

He hears the chime of his phone and digs it out of his back pocket, flicking it open to see the text from the guy he used to go to school with.

"Ah, great." He grins down at the device, typing out a reply.

"What?"

He drags her to her feet, carrying her things for her, "This guy I used to go to school with is training to become a tattoo artist, he's the one that's done all ours. He has a free spot this afternoon."

"Are you getting another one?"

"Yeah, wanna come with?"

"Can I get one?"

"Can you forge your mother's signature?"

She nods without a second thought, "How'd you think I went on that skiing trip? Mam never would've let me go if she knew I needed permission."

He chuckles, putting the things on the counter to get scanned, and leans his side against the table, "What will you get?"

She shrugs, "I don't know, like a circle or something?"

"Why?"

She answers with another lift of her shoulders, "Or a box, like a little frame."

"Why?" He asks again.

"Well, I have like twenty minutes to decide on one. The shape is simple, easy. No pressure, and I can fill it later on, or cover it when I decide."

"What are you having?" She asks as they smile at Mr Bolas before taking the little paper brown bag full of their new stuff.

"Finishing off my we are king's tattoo."

She nods, "We should get a matching one."

"Like what?" She turns to him as he holds the door open for them to walk outside.

He looks up in thought, "1975."

She shakes her head, "That's really stuck with you, huh?"

He nods, "It's just so-" He trails off, "Weird."

He looks back down at her when he finishes and she shrugs, "Sure."

"Sure?"

"Why not?"

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

"Look."

Tommie looks up from where she's waiting, tearing her eyes away from the George Orwell book in her hands to see Matty's freshly wrapped tattooed skin. Showing not one, but two new tattoos. '1975' then a large rectangle box, much like the one she'd decided to have.

"Are you joking?"

"What?"

She moves her arm to show her 'the 1975' tattoo on her wrist. "You said the."

"Well," He shrugs, sitting beside her, "It looked a bit silly."

She moves her untatted arm to punch at his one and he gasps when she hits the freshly inked skin. "Ow."

"Good," She turns away, "Now I look like an idiot. I don't even know anyone born in 1975."

"It's cool." He tries to reassure and he glances at him in the corner of her eye, "Cool?"

"Yeah... cool. Edgy. Modern."

He nods, more to reassure himself than her and turns away, "I'm sorry, it's still matching."

"Let's go before I kill you."

"You could never."

"I could," She shrugs, "And with the amount of criminal minds I watch, I could get away with it."

He nods in thought, "You know what else you could get away with?"

"Hmm?"

"Being in a really cool band."

She rolls her eyes, "Matthew..."

He sighs, "Come on, Tommie, why not? What's stopping you?"

"A lot actually, money, job, school, mam-"

He rolls his eyes, "You can still go to school, I mean, you've basically finished your GCSE's anyway."

"I'm not skipping out on my A levels, I have dreams, Matty."

"Dreams?"

She nods, "I want to be a writer, and do good things. My English teacher, she entered me in a poetry competition, if I win I get to publish my own book."

He watches the light rise in her eyes, her cheeks tint pink as she hides herself behind her hair, keeping her gaze low on the floor and tilting her head down so he can't see over the baseball cap.

"That's great, but what then?"

She looks up at him raising a brow, "You release a poetry book, it's good, yeah, but what happens to it? You die, grow old, then years later they study it in schools making kids hate it and not actually understand it, so what?"

"So what?"

"Turn it into songs, put it out there for people to study now, to enjoy, make music, let people feel what you feel-"

"They can do that with poetry too, you know."

"You love music, you're the biggest music geek I know despite your lack of any knowledge of anything outside of Arctic Monkeys-"

"Hey, I like the Cure too."

He ignores her comment and continues on, "You're the second best guitar player I know- after me of course- you can sing really good, don't deny it, I was at Mrs H's birthday I heard you-"

"I was drunk-"

"Still good."

She sighs and looks away from him, it's a sharp sigh, in and out quickly. Her hand grips the tote bag on her shoulder, the plastic wraps around her tattoos scrunching up and making an awkward uncomfortable sound.

"What if it goes wrong?" She asks, he closes his mouth at that watching her ginger eyebrow raise in question, "What if we spend years hopelessly putting out music for no one to like it, for nothing to happen, what if we're stuck living in a dingy van in the middle of a field because none of us have a single qualification between us to get a solid job?"

"That's a lot of what ifs," He says, then he grabs her hand, squeezing it, "But what if we made it?"

"Matty, I-" She sighs pausing in their walking to look up at him, "I'd love it if we made it, if we got to share your music with everyone, but, it's not me."

"But it can be."

"Matty."

She turns slowly, but he catches her arm, walking around her to stop her from going on, "No, listen please."

"I have only ever dreamed of one thing in my entire life," He says desperately, "One thing. This band, me, Hann, George, Ross and you, the five of us. Just like those summers in the shed."

She turns her whole head away and he moves to be in her line of sight, "Please, Tommie."

"I-" She sighs again, "I'll help. But, I'm not being in the band, but I'll help. I'll help Adam with guitar riffs and look over your lyrics if you want. I'll even let you borrow, with credit, some lines from my notebook."

"Great, welcome to the band."

"Not in the band."

"Tommie," He says sternly, "You've always been a part of the band."

~thank you for reading! part two is being published later on today with the next parts coming next week! Sorry that the first few chapters and slow and jumpy, just trying to get to the good parts

#matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy x oc #matty healy imagine #matty healy x reader #adam hann imagine #adam hann x reader #show me yours matty healy #thanks for reading!

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halfrican-heat · 1 year

Text

Freakum (A. Levinson) (1/2)

SUMMARY: The reader has been seeing Ari Levinson-- her dad's best friend and her ex-boyfriend's uncle-- in secret. Lately, he hasn't been giving her the attention she needs. So, what happens when she cuts ties with her toxic ex and his mysterious uncle entirely? (Part 1/2)

Pairing: Curvy!Reader x DBF!Ari Levinson; Black!Reader x Ari Levinson

Warnings: Mild angst; Cursing; Age-gap (Reader is of legal age); Convoluted relationship; Toxic ex; Allusions to minor character death; AFAB body descriptors; Secret relationship

A/N: Hey, how y'all doing? Y'all good? Enjoy part one to this request I got for DBF!Ari. It's not exactly what I was asked for, but I do hope this suffices. Stay tuned for part two! Also, the time stamps on the phone are WRONG AF, I forgot to fix them. I'll remember for next time lmao. Beta'd by my bestie <3 -Lyv

Song Inspo: Freakum Dress - Beyoncé

Masterlist

With a soft laugh, you set aside your phone. You were sure to get an earful from Tamisha in the car, but until then you were going to finish getting ready. Taking in your appearance, you swiped a pinky-nude across your lips before painting on a pink tinted gloss. Your deep brown liner blended with the softer tones and created a chocolatey contrast to the pink colors on your lips. Smirking, you started to pull your locs into an updo.

You had done a soft beat to your face, accentuating your eyes with deep browns and glittery gold accents. The liner you did was sharp enough to draw blood and you were living for it. Your lashes were sitting almost as well as your tits in the salacious little dress you had chosen for the evening.

You hadn’t worn this particular dress since your freshman year of college. In the four years since then, you had gained a little more weight. When you pulled the dress out, you weren’t even sure it would suit your new body let alone fit. Somehow, though, the little garment surprised you in more ways than one.

Short and backless, the cheetah print dress clung to your curves in the most sinful way possible. Cleavage spilled from the ruched, cowled neckline and the hem curved just below your bottom, accentuating the bounty you carried behind you. The heels you had chosen to compliment the dress did wonders for your legs, making them look as if they went on for miles.

Needless to say, you sex on wheels and ready to wreak havoc.

Your phone vibrated on the counter, probably Tamisha alerting you that she was waiting outside. Ignoring it, you finished tying up your hair and packed a small purse. Moments later, the phone vibrated again in rapid succession. Scoffing quietly, you shook your head at your friend’s persistence and snatched the phone up.

“This bitch,” You mumbled to yourself. “Not her tryna be on time for once.”

Another vibration rang out. You smacked your teeth.

“And then tryna rush me. No, ma’am!”

You prepared to shoot off a text telling your friend to “hold her damn horses” only to freeze at the name floating across your screen. Opening the messages, you bit your lip. A hot flush ran through your body as you weighed your options, uncertain of what to do. Annoyance as well as arousal coursed through you at his sudden interest after he ghosted you for three weeks.

See, Ari Levinson wasn’t exactly a man that could be ignored.

Levinson was a powerhouse in architecture. At the age of twenty-three, he started working for Milton Family Construction in Macon, Georgia. What was once just a family business soon became a fierce competitor in the world of construction. The addition of Levinson to the company’s team not only won them lucrative contracts with big name corporations but ushered in a new era of innovative thinking. Levinson’s ability to conceptualize near impossible blueprints and turn them into reality created various opportunities for the company to grow and expand their reach. It only made sense that when George Milton retired, he placed his company in Levinson’s care-- the first non-family member to inherit Milton Family Construction.

Eventually, Levinson set his sights on expanding the company to other parts of Georgia and surrounding Southern areas. Of course, however, Levinson’s constructional genius had people from all over the world seeking him out to spearhead various projects-- from commercial construction to abstract residential floor plans. By his late twenties, Levinson had become one of the richest men in the country and, now in his early forties, has finally decided to settle into partial retirement.

Yes, Ari Levinson was not a man that could be ignored. But your reasoning for such a thought was drastically different from those of the “construction” kind.

Simply put, Ari Levinson was a fox. A silver one at that, with grays in his hair and beard that made you weak in the knees. He had a megawatt smile that dazzled the socks off you and a sexy, rumbling voice that scratched an itch you never knew you had. He spoke with you, took an interest in the things you liked. He lit you up inside in ways you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

And he was your father’s best friend.

The two went way back, to a time before corporate architecture and multi-million dollar constructions companies. Childhood friends who grew up down the street from one another and happened to be in the same classes up until college. It was a tale as old as time. So, as a result, when your father settled down in Savannah to raise his little family, it only made sense for Ari to find himself a permanent home there as well. After all, your father was the only family Ari had left.

Aside from his pain-in-the-ass nephew, Darius. Who was also your ex.

Talk about convoluted, right?

But none of that mattered anyway because, as far as you were concerned, Ari Levinson and his dumbass nephew could burn in hell. One was a narcissistic serial cheater and the other…well. That was entirely too much for you to unpack in one sitting.

So, you decided to put all that shit behind you. All you wanted was to get stupid drunk and post a few thirst traps. No more, no less.

With a sigh, you put your phone in your purse and took one last look in the mirror. Ignoring your vibrating purse, you headed downstairs and paused at the bottom. You took a moment to observe your father. He was resting in his easy chair, watching a football game on the television. Well, more like sleeping through a football game. You smiled fondly, walking over to cover him with the afghan your mama knitted years ago. Your heart clenched painfully at the thought.

He startled a little before relaxing at your presence, humming quietly in acknowledgement.

“Don’t wait up, papa. I’m going out with Tam,” you said softly, kissing his head. “I’ma spend the night at her place.”

“Alright, shug,” He drawled, shifting slightly. “Be careful.”

“You know I will, pa.”

Patting his shoulder gently, you crossed over to the hall closet and grab a stylish jacket to match your outfit and defend against the cool, fall evening. Your father’s voice called out moments later and you felt your back to go ramrod straight at his words.

“By the way, Levinson asked ‘bout you a little while ago.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Your cheeks burned and you prayed your father couldn’t hear the nerves in your voice.

“Yeah. Just checkin’ in. Said he ain’t heard nothin’ ‘bout you in a while. Wondered if you and that boy was still seein’ each other. I tol’ him that sonofabitch nephew o’ his could kick rocks.”

“Bet he got a hoot out of that,” You said awkwardly, shrugging your jacket on.

“Sure did. Laughed his lilly-white ass off.” Your papa replied. “He was just seein’ how we were doing with everything. Ever since, well, anyway. He was just checking in.”

You watched him for a moment as he fiddled with the afghan, his fingers delicately tracing the designs woven into the blanket. Another pang ran through your chest.

“Yeah...that was…that was nice of him,” You replied slowly. “Didn’t have to do that.”

"Yeah, well he was fond of your mother. She always made him feel like part of the family."

Silence hung awkwardly in the air. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling like your skin was being pricked by a thousand needles. Your father stroked the afghan, almost in a daze. You pulled the hem of your dress down self-consciously. He looked over at you, his eyes heavy and seemed to want to speak. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes. He went back to quietly stroking the afghan muttering, “Yep. Good ol’, Levinson.”

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well, I gotta go! I see Tam’s headlights out the window. Love you, bye!”

Without waiting for a response, you dashed out the front door and into the cold air of the night. Of course, you hadn’t actually seen Tam’s lights through the window. So, you were standing outside waiting for her frequently late ass to show up. You huffed, taking a seat on the porch. That girl couldn’t get nowhere on time-- even if her damn life depended on it.

You pulled out your phone, checking to see if she had texted. Instead, you were greeted to several missed calls from Ari and two from Darius. At that moment, a new message from Ari popped up on your screen. Hesitating briefly, you opened the text.

You smirked at the message. You were riling him up, and when Ari was riled up...well, it always ended up rather interesting for you. Deciding to push your luck, you quickly responded before you could second guess yourself.

There was a brief lull in the conversation. A full minute passed, making you anxious. Then, he finally answered. Scoffing at his reply, you shot back your response.

Then, you turned your phone without a second thought. Pocketing it, you allowed a smug grin to overtake your face. The headlights of Tamisha’s car served as the spotlight for the devious plan taking center stage in your mind. If Ari wanted to ghost you, and come back three weeks later like he owned the place, then two could play that game. The next time you saw Ari, you were going to have him begging on his knees for you.

Little did you know that “next time” would be in a matter of hours.

A/N: It took forever to get these pictures formatted properly. I hope y'all enjoyed. Stay tuned!

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amazingmsme · 4 months

Text

Hard of Hearing

AN: MERRY CHRISTMAS! I know it’s not Christmas anymore (for me at least) but just barely! But this is my third Christmas fic, & I’ve been so damn busy it’s a miracle I even had any time to write this! But I’ve had an urge to write a fic for It’s A Wonderful Life ever since watching it in film history over a year ago! This movie is so underrated probably because it’s in black & white but George Bailey is a fucking cutie & I need to see that man get wrecked by the love of his life! I WILL spread my agenda to anyone & everyone willing to listen! (read)

George Bailey was many things. A father, a husband, a son a brother, and he was also an unnamed hero of their small town. A simple man who poured his heart into the world around him, and expected nothing in return. He was loving and attentive to those around them, a good natured man who brought more joy than he knew. A half deaf man who just so happened to be a prankster at heart.

"Oh George?"

Now, George heard Mary call him from the other room loud and clear, but she could get so cute when she was put out with him. She called him again, waiting for an answer that didn't come. She yelled a third time, and there was that fire that he loved to see so much. "George Bailey!"

"I'm right here, you don't gotta yell," he said from the doorway, holding back a smug grin. Mary gave an exasperated smile.

"M Well you weren't answering me!"

"Gee, I'm sorry Mary, I didn't hear ya," he lied easily, only feeling slightly guilty. Mary's expression softened as she walked over to him, handing him the Christmas tree topper.

"I just need help putting this on the tree," she said, turning back to the box of ornaments and grabbing a crystal snowflake to hang on a branch.

"Oh, well why didn't you just say so?" he asked, making her roll her eyes fondly. He stretched as much as he could to place the angel on top of the tree.

"Mm, a little to the left," she directed, standing on the other side of the room to get a better view. George smirked to himself before looking at her over his shoulder.

"What about the lights?

"No, it needs to go to the left," she repeated, slightly louder. George stepped back, looking the tree up and down.

"I don't know Mary, they look like they're working to me," he drawled, knowing damn well that's not what she was saying.

"No, the angel!" she reiterated, trying to hold back her laughter at her husband's expense. If only she knew who the butt of the joke really was.

"Well what about it?" he asked, placing his hands on his hips and taking a step back to admire the tree. He started at the bottom, scanning from trunk to the tippy top, where the angel sat, leaning just a little too far to the right. "Ah, it's just a little crooked! You shoulda told me, I'd fix it right up," he playfully chastised, trotting over to straighten the tree topper.

Mary watched her husband with a skeptical eye, starting to catch on to his scheme. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, a fond smile on her face. George completed his designated task, almost walking right past Mary without a second thought.

"George!" The almost aghast tone in her voice made him stop dead in his tracks.

"What? Don't tell me I ruined the tree," he teased, looking at it again just to make sure. She shook her head with a chuckle, smacking him on the arm lightly.

"Were you really going to walk by without giving me a kiss?" she asked, cocking her head sweetly. She looked up at him with those warm brown eyes that made him melt, batting her long lashes. George flushed, ducking his head down and shoved his hands in his pocket. He bit his cheek to keep from grinning, but a sly smirk still found its way on his face.

"Now why would I go and do a thing like that for?" he asked, barking out a laugh at the indignant look she gave him.

"Because I'm standing under the mistletoe!" she explained, exasperated. He took a step closer, cupping his ear and scrunched his face in confusion.

"Huh? You stubbed your toe?" he asked, and the absurdity of the question caused Mary to burst into giggles. "You want me to kiss it better, is that it?" She shook her head, laughing too hard to answer.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" she asked, humor and mischief sparkling in her eyes.

"Am I what?" he asked, not bothering to hide his smug grin.

"George Bailey, you're horrible!"

"I'm sorry, I'm what?" he asked, leaning in and cupping his ear to "hear" better. She arched a brow, smirking at him.

"I know that's your bad ear," she said, matter of factly.

"Do you now?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"Mhm." She closed the distance, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him closer.

"Say, what else do you know?"

"Oh you'd be surprised," she mused.

"Try me," he said, finally leaning in for his mistletoe kiss. But Mary wasn't about to reward bad behavior. She waited until their lips barely brushed before she dug her hands in his sides, scribbling up and down.

He yelped, doubling over in shocked laughter. "Mahahary! Whahahat are you dohohoing?"

"Oh I'm just showing you what all I know, just like you said!" she explained, as if it were obvious. "And I just so happen to know aaaall your tickle spots!" she cooed, relishing in the way his cheeks blushed bright red.

"Nohoho don't!" he cried, leaning against the doorframe for support. Mary started squeezing his hips, and he positively screamed.

"Aw but why not? You thought it was funny to mess with me, I'm just giving you something to laugh about!" she reasoned, voice as sweet as honey.

"Ihihi'm sohohorry!" he apologized, knees buckling as he sank to the floor. Mary followed him all the way to the ground, drilling her thumbs in his hip dips. She laughed along with him as she continued taking him apart with her fingers.

"I don't know, are you reeeaaally sorry?" she asked in a singsong voice. George was laughing too hard to answer, nodding frantically as he stuttered out, "Y-yes! Sohoho sohohorry!"

"Hm... Alright, I believe you," she said, only she didn't stop.

"M-Mahahary! You're still t-tickling mehehe!" he whined, rolling around on the dusty ground. She really needed to sweep, Mary thought to herself.

"Oh, I never said I'd stop!" she clarified, tossing her head back with a joyous, yet somehow maniacal cackle.

"Nooohohohoooo!"

"Oh hush, you know you deserve this."

George balked, staring at her indignantly as he tried to come up with a retort. "Well- maybe not all of it!" he exclaimed, bursting into laughter once more when Mary shot her hands up to scribble in his underarms.

"Agree to disagree," she conceded, moving down to pinch and pluck at each rib. He snorted between his giggles, swatting at her weakly with one hand as he hid his face with the other.

"George Bailey, you better not hide that smile from me if you know what's good for you!" she threatened, wiggling her fingers a few inches above his stomach. On reflex, his hands shot down to grab her wrists, holding them at bay.

"Call me a glutton for punishment," he challenged with that signature cocky grin that made her fall for him in the first place. Her jaw dropped to the floor as she scoffed, though in actuality she couldn't be more delighted.

"Oh you are going to get it!" she cried, wrestling her arms free from his grasp. He was already laughing before she laid a finger on him.

"Wahahahait wait I'm sorrYYYY!"

"Oh now you are," she teased, not stopping her favorite kind of torture just yet. His long legs scrambled for purchase against the wood floor, catching her attention.

"And how could I forget about these," she mused aloud, spreading her nails over his kneecaps. He shrieked, tucking his legs in close to his chest for protection, though it offered none. Not that he really minded all that much. But he was a pretty good actor, if he did say so himself.

She mercilessly squeezed his knees, leaving him a wheezy, cackling heap on the floor. She wasn't too cruel however, and her hands slowed to a stop.

George laid on the ground in a breathless daze, clothes dirty and wrinkled, and hair thoroughly tussled, all while sporting a large, genuine smile.

"So," he started, shifting into a sitting position, "Are uh, are we still under the mistletoe?"

Mary rolled her eyes at her husband's antics for maybe the millionth time before grabbing him by the shirt collar, pulling him in for a passionate kiss under the mistletoe.

George Bailey may not have gotten the life he had hoped or dreamed for, but what he got in return was more than any wish could ever grant.

#christmas fic #merry christmas #george bailey #mary bailey #mary hatch bailey #it’s a wonderful life #it’s a wonderful life fic #it’s a wonderful life tickle fic #ticklish!george

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talesofsorrowandofruin · 3 months

Text

Manuscript Search Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @autumnalwalker and @ahordeofwasps! :D

Words: please, space, surprise, melancholy, unassuming, never, night, nail and need. These are from The Unfortunate Moth, Totentanz, The Power and the Glory, Silver Glass, Gracemeadow Manor and Like Snow on Hungry Graves:

Please:

Yo-han didn't bother to correct his atrocious pronunciation, but only because he wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce Dvořák himself. "Play it now, please."

Space:

The force of the teleportation spell dragging them through space and past the wards left the two of them feeling rather dizzy. Karandren tried to sit up. His stomach roiled and the room turned upside down. He lay down again until he felt less like he'd just been thrown into a whirlpool.

Surprise:

Abi looked around for Ilaran or Aderthril. There was no sign of Aderthril anywhere. To her surprise she saw Ilaran sitting near the very bottom of the table. He was at least a century older than he had been when she last saw him. His face, formerly round and chubby like all young children's, was already hardening into the sharp, pointed features he had as an adult. He picked up his cup with the awkward carefulness of a young adult who was going through a growth spurt and was still not used to how long his arms were now.

Melancholy Depressing:

Dinnertime at Lennox House was the most depressing meal Phil had endured since Rachael was alive. Lord Kilskeery was seated at the head of the table with Phil on his right and Mr. Seo on his left. Phil was absolutely sure this was an insult somehow to Mrs. Lennox, who was seated at the other end of the table and hidden from her husband's line of sight by an enormous vase. Three of the other guests were seated firmly in the middle of the table, several seats away from both their hosts. The fourth, the foreign man who was apparently the owner of the gaudy car, sat on Mrs. Lennox's left. Those two spent the whole meal whispering to each other.

Unassuming Reserved:

Framley Manor is surrounded by a large park. If you pretend to be very enthusiastic about fresh air and exercise, and if your lover is already known for being reserved and preferring to spend time alone, you can manage to get some privacy anyway.

Never:

It had never been George's style to attack his victims head-on. He preferred to sneak up behind them or attack them when they were half-asleep. His only weapon now was a hammer. Jane had a crowbar -- a crowbar that now looked much sharper than it had a minute ago. Either he was going crazy or the house had trapped him. One way or another he knew he would die here.

Night:

Siarvin kept a close eye on Ilaran over the days following the possession. He didn't complain of being constantly hungry. He didn't get up in the middle of the night. He didn't lash out at anyone. In fact he seemed to be perfectly normal during the day. But during the night he tossed and turned for ages. Even when he lay still his breathing was too irregular for him to be asleep. After the second night Siarvin decided enough was enough.

Nail:

He lay in the bath until the water was icy cold. Out in the courtyard he heard the clatter of horse-hooves approaching. Ketevan was back. Hariye clambered out of the bath. As soon as he landed on the floor his tail turned back into legs. His shins were covered with tiny cuts from his nails. His fingers were bloody. But he hardly noticed any of that as he pulled his clothes back on without bothering to use a towel first.

Need:

Rusudan whistled and her horse trotted over. She jumped down from the fence and swung herself into the saddle. Holding the reins lightly in her bad hand, she reached into her pocket and took out the knife. "Take this in case you ever need a weapon. Consider it payment for the food," she added when he started to protest.

Tagging @aziz-reads, @sleepyowlwrites, @memento-morri-writes, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D Can't be bothered thinking of new words, so just pick as many as you want from mine :D

#tag game #writing #my writing #my WIPs #WIP: moth #WIP: totentanz #WIP: necromancer #WIP: glass #WIP: manor #WIP: snow

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allylikethecat · 10 months

Note

If you want to do it and if you have the time could I humbly request prompt 20, a kiss on a scar. I absolutely love all these kiss prompts

Hello! I realized after I wrote this that you didn't give me a pairing- I just assumed Matty x George. If that was NOT who you were looking for let me know and I'll write another one! I'm sorry that this took a few days to finish and I hope that you enjoy it regardless of the pairing!

I also have another request for #20, and because I really like this prompt I am going to be writing another one for it. I just have a few more to get through before I get to it!

Thank you again for reading, and I'm so happy that you're enjoying them! Let me know what you think!

❤️Ally

Kiss…on a scar

“I love you,” Matty whispered, his head resting against George’s chest, the blankets pooled around his waist as he traced George’s “broken” tattoo with his finger, feeling the raised skin of his scar from his collarbone surgery, listening to his heart beat, trying to match his own breathing to George's rhythmic inhale and exhale.

“I love you too,” George murmured, his words vibrating in his ribcage. Matty turned his head, nuzzling his nose against George’s bare chest inhaling the scent of his skin. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry, so overwhelmed that this was something he got to have.

If someone had told him he would have this ten years ago, twenty four with a chip on his shoulder, their debut album on the horizon, he would have laughed. He had been so far in the closet he hadn’t even realized that was where he was. If you had told him at twenty eight, having relapsed after rehab, the rest of the guys icing him out, convinced that this was the end, that George would ever hold him with kindness, that George would still even want him in his life Matty would have said you were delusional. Even at thirty, hunkered down with a global pandemic on the horizon, quarantining with George, overcome with fear and uncertainty, Matty wouldn’t have believed it.

He still didn’t believe it, he kept waiting to wake up in 2014, in 2017, in 2020 and be told it was all just a dream, all just a hopeless fantasy. Because why would George ever want him. He was Matty Healy the hot mess express. Emphasis on mess. But here they were in 2023. Matty was thirty four, George was thirty three. They lived in the home they had picked out together in West London, they had a yard and a dog. They had a fifth album that had gone number one in the UK, they had a sixth album that was on the way. They had each other.

Matty wished he could go back in time, wished that he could tell Matty at twenty seven, strung out and terrified, heart racing, thinking he was going to die in portaloo in Scotland when he had accidentally taken too much that it was all going to be alright, even as the rest of the guys having caught on to his deep his addiction ran. They had confronted him and he fled to score. He wished he could tell twenty seven year old Matty who was ready to give up, that was starting to accept that he wasn’t going to make it to thirty, that he was going to get through it, that even after the lowest of lows, even after he hit rock bottom, and then kept digging, that he would be able to claw himself back up, that he would find someone who loved him, someone who loved him all along.

“Are you crying love?” George asked softly, reaching up to run the pad of his finger under Matty’s eye, ruffling his eye lashes and making Matty scrunch up his nose at the sensation.

“No,” he said, even as his tears leaked against George’s skin, causing him to chuckle. He never thought he would be this soft, that he would allow himself to be so vulnerable. He had always been emotional, cried at the drop of a hat his entire life, but at the same time he had always been guarded, had always protected his soft underbelly. But he was now, metaphorically belly up, neck bared, fully trusting George and at his mercy.

“Awe, love,” said George, voice full of love rather than condensation when Matty sniffled, and turned his head, pressing a kiss to George’s collarbone, right over the silvery scar from his surgery, the word “broken” tattooed into his skin just below it.

“I hate this tattoo,” Matty said suddenly, pressing another kiss to the scar as if he could erase the flaws from the skin with his love alone. George shouldn’t have the word broken on his skin when he was anything but. Matty was the one that was broken, glued back together haphazardly, ready to topple over again at a moment's notice. George was steady, George was whole.

“What?” George asked, leaning back on his elbows, changing the angle of Matty’s incline, causing him to grumble as he shifted his weight into a more stable position.

“You’re not broken,” Matty said.

“I know I’m not,” said George, not following Matty’s train of thought. “And neither are you.”

“You’re perfect,” Matty said, breath hot against George’s scarred skin.

He snorted and reached up to run a hand through Matty’s tangle of curls. He had been letting them grow longer again, after seeing the fan support for them on the internet. George would never admit it, but he liked Matty’s hair like this, overgrown and messy, the gray threads interwoven with the dark strands. He had hated the hair gel but knew better than to try and police Matty’s body, his fashion choices.

“You’re not broken,” Matty said again, more weight to his voice this time as he kissed the scar.

“Do you know what they say about broken bones?” George asked, and Matty shook his head. “When you break a bone, it heals stronger.” He paused. “Just like us.”

#allylikethecat #ask ally #anon ask #matty healy rpf #the 1975 rpf #matty healy fanfiction #prompt fills #prompt fill #questions #answers #drabble #kiss prompts #this one is a little shorter and a little weird #but i liked it for some reason #i hope you like it too #and if you wanted a different pairing im serious please let me know #ao3 is down so ive decided im not working on any of my wips at the moment #since i cant post them anyway

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respiteresponse · 8 months

Note

dream needs to wear an emo collar choker asap. clawing at the walls thinking about it

my tierlist for scenemo items dream should wear:

F Tier: skinny jeans. HEAR ME OUT. his wide leg mall goth nu metal dragging on the floor catching under the heel of his shoe slay just fits him so well and as much as i would love to see his legs encapsulated by splitting fringing black denim i think his giant jeans are a statement and make him extra moe. he should wear more ripped and black jeans though ! ! !

D Tier: beanies and snapbacks. he already rocks the cat dreanies near daily and with the mask coming into the picture and everything being so joever for us hair appreciators, as sexy as he is with his beanies on and his curls peaking out me personally i just love when his whole ice cream scoop hair is on display ! can be improved with some rainbow cheetah print hair extensions and or a tiara : ) !

C Tier: off the hip belts, preferably studded. this is one of my most favorite and hottest things a person can do with their outfit ESP if theyre scenemo leaning but its not essential to make the scenemo kid style shine through. i can even accept some more normie type stuff like bb simons so long as its styled appropriately ! ! ! a want but not a need.

B Tier: tight fitted tees/band tees. droobs tastefully hidden behind an edgy stretched and distorted logo for pierce the veil or sleeping with sirens most likely purchased at hot topic 10 years ago, snatched waist on display for the whole world to admire and for george to grab WITH the added bonus that short sleeve shirts have a tendency to rise up due to their fit, so we could realistically even expect a glimpse of tummy and or boxers peaking out which only enhances the visuals on display. and his ARMS. preferably covers and curated by bracelets exclusively bought from spencers or gifted by fans if not by an either complimentary or uncomplimentary long sleeve/hoodie underneath.

A tier: eyeliner. a well understood and universally accepted staple in the scenemo community. and really the more the better ! ! a tasteful swipe of black pencil drug store eyeliner on the waterline of dreams bottom lids could only improve upon his looks as a 6'2" boy with glossy doe eyes and pink lips . but then you add to it, upper waterline to match the bottom, expand unto the skin of the eyelids, perhaps even try a wing if were feeling daring ! in an exceptionally crazy occasion we could go full raccoon, black from tail end of his eyebrow down to the start of where the crease of his bottom lid lies. he could eat jeffree stars ex scene queen ass up in about 0.5 nano seconds with that and some fake lashes, but thats just me ! irregardless, something so casual as a little makeup can go a long way in making someone hot 100x hotter 😋

S Tier: facial piercings. the possibilities here are quite literally endless. we start simple with nose, a ring through the nostril is a classic, super simple everyone is doing it, could have one of those and pass for someone who doesnt know jack shit about i set my friends on fire or dot dot curve, but then you go a little lower and things start to get fun. with a lip piercing, you can basically signal to any and everyone that youre an edgy kind of guy, not just anyone will put a needle through one of the most prominent and noticeable features of their face! dolphin bites, snake bites, shark bites, spider bites, literally any animal biting your lips will up your status as a queen of the scene. bonus points for a monroe or a tongue piercing, xxxxxtra hot imo😁 moving back up bridge is also a good option, particularly edgy and tough to find on anyone in day to day life, would give dream some uniqueness as if he was already in any need of that. eyebrow is always a safe option, anti eyebrow, tear drop etc all very very cool. but the most ultimate piercingf for dream in my opinion would be a simple yet head turning cheek piercing. a common factor to be found in most all of my scenemo dream drawings, it simply seems like it makes obvious sense for the guy whos whole branding is smiles to have piercings wear his dimples are ! ! when he smiles, the sun will not only catch on his astoundingly straight white teeth, but also on that of the jelwery adorning where his dimples lie.

GOD TIER:

#ask #anon #thanks for listening

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princessnotfound · 11 months

Text

'Til You Forget Your Engravings // thread with @drcxmlcss

George is completely and utterly bored out of his mind.

Being bedridden is uneventful enough. Being unable to use his hands makes it all ten times worse; he cannot even scroll mindlessly on social media to keep himself occupied, even if only for a few moments. He'd much rather scan through the meaningless opinions of anonymous nobodies than bare another minute listening to the constant, repetitive beeping of hospital machinery. It feeds into the constant ringing in his ears and nearly compels him to suffocate himself in the awful discomfort of thin white sheets.

Part of him is beginning to miss the company of the pain. At least the dull ache accompanying the filthy browns and purples that now spatter his flesh made him feel something other than exhaustion. Medication eases the excruciating pain he was in previously, sure, but it also pressures him beneath the waves of drowsiness. George's eyelids hang heavy, cupped by dark shadows beneath his bottom lashes, and it takes a lot of willpower just to keep himself functioning. If it weren't for someone intending to visit soon, he would have allowed himself to drift off by now.

It doesn't quite register to him that he is disrupting his much needed rest and recovery time just to appease the presence of his greatest rival. It makes less sense the more he thinks about it, because he does not even have a method of retaliating against Dream, this time. Snarky quips do not fabricate quite so easily when his mind is slowed so severely by the liquid flowing into his veins. He cannot battle back with confident royalty, either, and his hands cannot carry the weight of his armies anymore. Here, George is vulnerable. Entirely so. And he questions why he is allowing Dream to come and visit him at all.

Maybe their competitive matches mean more to him than he would like to admit. Repeated battles among a familiar no-man's land have developed such a deep attachment that he feels lost without it. Just as lost as he feels without the ability to inscribe the ink of his bleeding heart onto pages, just as lost as he feels when he cannot fit thread through a needle. This hindrance has affected him too greatly. His heart aches thoroughly, with or without medication.

George sinks back into the pillow behind him. The lights are off - squinting irritates the bruising ebbing too close to his eye. It's tempting to let himself rest, and as his eyes close, he nearly gives in.

#•─── opus #•─── dream #•─── forget your engravings

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sniperjade · 7 months

Text

Whatever It Takes

Harry’s fingers finally found purchase on the hilt of the sword. With the frozen water all around him, it almost felt warm to the touch. His heart filled with elation as he grasped it tightly and pulled it upwards.

Something closed tight around his neck, digging into his skin. He searched his memory of what he had seen when he dove in but couldn’t think of anything that could have caught him. Brushing his fingers over his neck, he realised that it was the necklace: the Horcrux was tightening over his airway.

He struggled, his hands sliding uselessly across the chain as he thrashed in the water. His breath had long left him in a futile stream of bubbles rising up toward the surface. This couldn’t be the end. It couldn’t. They hadn’t gone through all those months of searching for him to die pointlessly and stupidly at the bottom of a pond.

He saw a flash of red hair and felt arms clench around his chest. Before he knew it, he was being hauled bodily from the water, the air biting into his cold skin like knives. He hit the ground heavily and simply lay there in the snow whilst his body catalogued his sins in harsh detail. He turned to thank Ron for pulling him out of the water and came face to face with Malfoy, soaking wet and panting.

“Are – you – mental?”

His hand clasped onto the stone hanging around his neck. It was a nervous tick. He couldn’t remember when it had started or why. All he knew was that when he was holding it he felt safe and loved and that it was important that he never lose it. Now that the locket was gone, it was the only thing that remained pressed against his chest.

He glanced up to where Ron was standing and then back to Malfoy, lying beside him. With relief he noticed that Malfoy held the Horcrux in his hand, the broken chain dangling uselessly. He allowed himself to flop back down into the snow.

“Did you hear me?”Ron was not about to be ignored. He hated to be ignored. Ron had a lot of insecurities that he had confessed to Harry in the dark safety of their shared room. One of them was that Fred and George had pretended he didn’t exist for a whole summer once. It was the kind of prank that left a definite mark on a younger brother.

Harry sighed, “Yes. I heard you.”

Beside him, Malfoy sat up slightly to look at him and Harry turned to Ron.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking!?” Ron snapped, “Diving in there with the Horcrux still attached to your neck?” He gestured to the pile of clothes and precious items. “You took everything else off.”

Harry ignored him and glanced back at Malfoy. The sword was lying on the other side of him, abandoned in the snow.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “You got it.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Of course I got it. It’s why you jumped in, wasn’t it? I didn’t want to have to do it again.”

Harry laughed with relief and a touch of hysteria. The Horcrux had been like a weight that pulled them all down. They had all been on edge, constantly bickering and snapping at each other. Hermione and Ron had more arguments than he could count. Harry was a walking disaster. He never slept and was always fighting with himself and the others.

Then, when it got to be too much and Harry didn’t think he could take it anymore, Malfoy was always there. His cool hands would take the wretched necklace from around Harry’s neck, his warm breath buffeting his face. He would talk to him with soft soothing words before he stepped back and slipped it over his head.

While the Horcrux would turn Harry’s personality outward and make him lash out, it had the opposite effect on Malfoy. He would start out snarky, always with quick comments and snappy comebacks, then over time he would draw inward. His eyes would become unfocused, and he began to lose sight of the world. Harry had to measure the silence. If it had been more than five hours since Draco last talked, it was time to take the necklace off him.

Harry couldn’t wait to be rid of the wretched thing, but even more confusing than the relief he had that it would soon be gone was the fact that Malfoy had just saved him. Malfoy. Admittedly, they had come a long way since he had defected that night on the astronomy tower. What had started as terse conversation and avoidance had become something comfortable. Harry had come to rely on him more than he would like to admit.

He would never forget that night when Malfoy asked Dumbledore to help him. He could still picture Dumbledore walking toward Draco with his arm outstretched when Snape appeared and murdered him. Harry had chased Snape down as he escaped into the forest with the rest of the Death Eaters. The older wizard had Malfoy by the scruff of the neck, pulling him forward until Harry had set off a tripping jinx that missed Snape completely and barrelled into Malfoy, who went sprawling on the ground.

His memory was hazy. He had been so full of emotions, his eyes blurry with tears. All he could remember was standing with Malfoy, Hermione and Ron as Snape and the rest of the Death Eaters disappeared into the darkness. He still felt the devastation and anguish from the death of his beloved Headmaster. The sting of Snape’s betrayal.

Malfoy had turned to him, the moon making his pale hair glow in the darkness. He had reached forward and offered him a hand. “I suppose it’s up to us then.”

Harry had looked around at the three of them and agreed, “I suppose it is.”

Read the rest on Ao3

#darry #kill your darlings fest #draco malfoy #harry potter #HPfanfiction

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breaniebree · 1 year

Text

SNEAK PEEK

10 chapters to go!

Chapter 350 -- The One With the Polka Dot Tie

Fleur appeared next to her, startling her as she took her arm in hers.

“Come with me, Ginny. Maintenant.”

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked, her heart moving into her throat. “What happened, Fleur? Is Bill all right?”

Fleur didn’t say anything, she only kept Ginny’s arm tucked in hers and guided her around to the far side of the Great Hall where Ginny could see the bright red hair of her family. Fiadh, Angelina, Audrey, and Hermione were standing there as well, but the closer she got, she realized that all of them were looking devastated and shocked. She started to ask what happened again, but Bill moved and she found herself looking down at the still body of her father. If Fleur hadn’t been holding onto her, she was certain that she would have fallen to the ground.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

Bill took a step forwards her first, but Fred beat him to it. His arms wrapped around Ginny, pulling her close to his side and he pressed his lips to her hair.

“Dad’s gone, Gem.”

“No!” Ginny shouted, shaking her head in denial despite the sight before her. “No, no, please! Not Daddy, no!”

But when she looked into her mother’s eyes, she knew that it wasn’t a lie.

The sound of a loud and rather sudden sob had Ginny turning; her heart broke when she realized that it was Charlie. He was holding onto their father’s hand, tears raining down his face. Bill moved to sit next to him, one hand on Arthur’s arm and the other squeezing the back of Charlie’s neck as he turned him towards his own shoulder. Charlie let his face fall into the crook of Bill’s neck as he cried and for some reason, the sight of Charlie of all people, losing it, was too much for her.

Brother reached for brother as Fleur, Angelina, Audrey, Hermione, and Fiadh banded around them to offer support. Ginny and Molly sat in the centre, crying. No one seemed to know what to do or what to say.

Ginny noticed that Fiadh was crying as well while Fred kept his arms around her. Tiernan and another fae — who Ginny couldn’t name — were standing nearby; it was only then that Ginny noticed Ciara Casey was lying among the dead. The little girl whom Theo loved so much. That was Fiadh’s niece, she realized. Merlin, did Theo know?

Charlie let out another loud sob and Ginny’s bottom lip trembled. She couldn’t look over there again. She couldn’t look at her father lying there, couldn’t look at her strong brother crying. It made it too real. Percy wrapped an arm around her and tears welled up in her eyes instantly. She sat between him and Ron, trying to figure out her thoughts and trying to stop her tears.

“Ginny… come here, darling,” Molly said, beckoning her over.

Ginny’s bottom lip trembled as her tears spilled over her lashes. She let Percy lead her over to her mother and the moment that Molly wrapped her arms around her, Ginny lost it. Sobs tore through her, huge wracking sobs that shook her body as her brothers all moved in to engulf her and her mother in their strong arms.

Ginny didn’t know how long they stood like that, cradled together, holding each other close as they all cried, but when Ginny finally managed to let out a gasping breath, Molly kissed her forehead.

“He saved me,” Molly told her. “I don’t know who sent the curse, but your stubborn father pushed me out of the way. He… he shoved me right to the ground and when I turned he… he was…”

“Mum,” George began, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Of course he did. He loved you so much.”

Molly nodded, her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do without him. I’ve loved him for over thirty years. He’s my whole world. My Arthur, my love, my… everything. He’s not going to see Aydin grow up and he won’t get to meet Fred’s twins and he… he…”

“I know,” Bill said, pulling Ginny into his arms so that Charlie and Percy could get in to hug Molly tighter. “I know, Mum.”

Ginny moved out of Bill’s arms to move closer to Arthur. Tears blurred her vision as she leaned over to look at her father’s still form. She couldn’t ever remember seeing him so still before. He always had a foot tapping or a finger moving in some way. But now… he looked like he was sleeping. Except he wasn’t sleeping, for even in sleep he’d never looked so… stagnant. His red hair, thinning at the top, had some white in it. His face had a day or two of stubble and the tie that he wore every day to work was crooked. For some reason, the sight of that ridiculous lime green tie with purple polka dots made her smile. She’d made it for him when she was seven and he wore it just because it was from her… another sob tore out as she reached out to fix it.

“Don’t,” George’s voice broke out behind her. “Leave it crooked, Nevra. He’d want it that way, wouldn’t he?”

Ginny let out a strangled breath and instead reached her hand out to touch his face. He was still warm to her touch and for some reason that made it worse somehow.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “I love you, Dad.”

When she turned, it was Ron’s arms she found waiting for her. She burrowed into her brother’s warm and safe embrace and let the tears fall over again.

#the world of asc #sneak peek asc #asc #chapter sneak peek #the kismet trilogy by breanie #the kismet trilogy part two a second chance by breanie #a second chance by breanie #harry potter fanfiction

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nctynuniverse · 2 years

Text

Little Things

Lee Jeno x reader

«f»

Words: 391

A/N: This is part of the One Direction Symphony series. Short, but soft. Also May 4th be with you!!

He was looking at her quietly as her eyes were fixed on the movie playing in front of them. Long had he forgotten about it, lost in her profile, the movement of her hands, the way she would bite her bottom lip when something caught her attention. All while she was watching Episode 4th, for the tenth time already.

Jeno knew the movie by heart -and so did y/n- so he wouldn't miss anything special. However, the way her eyes sparkled when Han Solo -her favorite Character- appeared on screen made him feel almost jealous.

He thought about the day they met, a few years before. And the way he fell madly in love with her while the weeks passed by. When Mark introduced them, he wasn't expecting the older one's new friend to have such slender fingers, long lashes or such a bright smile.

Yes, he did look at every detail.

Jaemin would tease him about how he would constantly talk about y/n. And one day, he gathered the guts to ask her out. On that first date, he was able to learn about her fixation for Star Wars, Tarantino movies and how curious she was about economy in general. And the way she excitedly introduced to him the universe created by George Lucas made him curious: so the next date they met to watch Episode 4th. And they had their first kiss.

Neither of them knew when their relationship became a serious one, so they silently agreed on having May 4th as their anniversary and, three years later, they would still keep the tradition of watching that first movie to celebrate their love.

He also thought about their first argument, and how she had frown, letting out a few curses and how her voice became softer while she explained her point. And that's exactly how every argument was between them, because she had too much patience for him.

Y/n sneezed and Jeno got out of his trance, offering her his signature smile, pulling her into his embrace. With her back on his chest, her hands looking for his and gently caressing him while still watching the movie, the boy took a look at her face from above.

And he smiled, leaving a kiss on her head, thinking about how he was in love with every single thing of her.

main navi

#nct dream #lee jeno #lee jeno x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct drabbles #nct au #Spotify

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toiletwipes · 1 year

Note

Can you do a fluff of sleep shroom George and an insomniac trans masc reader?

oui oui, just wanna let you know that there is kind of a fwb situation going on, a little suggestive but it more or less it's fluff. More or less.

***

Walking off the beaten path, isn't that a saying? For you, it's literal. You've slid down the hill to the left of the old, worn path in the woods. Because beyond this point, it's no longer part of the woods. A gorgeous meadow with trees taller than the ones you left behind, tall and thick that it's as if you were a mere ant to them. It's always been incredible to see, to experience.

The bark is rough on your fingertips as you graze your hand by it, walking past one tree and the next. You had a plan, if you're honest.

There's this… special someone, that you know, is known to help with sleeping problems. The problem with him is that he's so hard to find sometimes. He never leaves the meadow but-

Sighing, you find the spread of mushrooms and wildflowers. Sometimes he's laying out in the bed of flowers, other times, he makes a bed out of a log and moss. You don't come here often enough. (Your schedule is busy sometimes and sometimes you're exhausted. Can't help but to lay in bed, unable to fall asleep, unable to do anything else.)

And there it is. His log bed. It's not little by any means. But you can spot his mushroom head anywhere- er, almost anywhere. Glancing at most of the mushrooms surrounding you, he seemed to match them. "George," you call out, pushing your sleeves down as you approach the log. Reaching upwards, you grab onto the elongated and well, large pieces of bark that makes it easy to scale upwards. It takes a minute and you're breathing a little heavy for your liking. Adjusting the bottom fabric of your shirt, you turn to the moss and the mushroom head.

He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Ethereal. His face, soft and peaceful in his sleep, which seems to happen almost all the time, is balanced out with eyes so dark, it's hard to tell where his head is at. Lashes so long, you're almost jealous. Faint beauty marks dotted around his skin. A mouth that spreads in a wide smile, teeth hidden underneath that are sparkling white.

His hair that's mostly hidden beneath his mushroom, dark and shiny despite never seeming to move for a bath ever, falls like tiny waves around his head when he's lying down. You got to touch it once, when his head laid in your lap and he fell asleep. Softer than any fabric a human could make.

And George, it wasn't just an opinion but a fact of life, of your friendship. George isn't human.

And by all means, it didn't bother you. In the same way that you didn't bother hum.

Except for now, exhaustion creeps into your muscles, fatigue catching up as your eyes kept burning. "George," you mumble, placing a hand on part of the moss blanket and shaking it. It's warm from what he could tell. Arousing the mushroom to wake up is always harder than it looks.

He never wants to be awake.

You frown, shaking your shoes off as you put them to the side. You're mumbling about the trek, getting to your feet a little wobbly as you had to step over him to get to his left. Sitting by his side, against the wall, you pull the moss blanket up a little to slide your legs underneath. Warm, unbelievably so in the fall chill. A sigh comes out of you, tension leaving your muscles as you concentrate on breathing. Sleep wouldn't come to you unless he woke up but this is- it's nice.

He mumbles your name, a hand lifting up from his stomach and reaching for you blindly. (Being a little bigger than you, the tip of your fingers would barely reach the first joint of his. Despite feeling smaller than ever, you never felt belittled by him.) His fingers graze your midriff, finding exposed skin underneath a raised shirt. Cold from the wind, his touch sends shivers down your spine. "Took you forever to come back." When he talks, voice deeper from sleep, it scratches some primal area of your brain.

"I've got a job." He hums, disinterested. "Had a life before I met you, you know."

"Right." He sighs, fingers dragging across your skin and watching your reaction with half-lidded eyes. "Tell me then, why do you keep coming back when you have a life?" He's relentless, you decide.

"You're nice, I don't know." You answer, reaching with a light hand to trace shapes into his skin. He doesn't stop with the light touches on your stomach and you ignore the many fluttering butterflies inside there.

"Nice?" He repeats, and then he does what he always does, lift the moss blanket and invite you. "Not because you get to sleep when it's so hard for you by yourself?"

"That too." You lay your head on the pillow he has, resting on your side as your eyes close. True, it's always been easier to fall asleep with him next to you. But isn't that his job or something? His duty? Whatever, doesn't exactly matter to you when you're fully relaxed and George still chooses to look at you, very close to sleeping.

"Wake me up before it gets dark?" You ask, knowing him and the answer well before he spoke.

"I wouldn't even dream of it." Pulling you in closer by your waist, the touch of his forehead against yours has you knocked out. And this kind of sleep? It's addictive. Could probably be the reason why you can't actively sleep without him. Then again, you were well an insomniac long before you met him.

When the sleep creeps away and reality starts to seep in, your eyes flutter open, too aware of how the moss traps the heat in exceptionally well. Too well. You're sweating at this point. Sitting up, you think briefly about it for a second before you lift your shirt off and tossing it near your shoes… except for the fact you have poor aim and it slipped off the edge of the log pathetically. Laying back down, you come face to face with George, who eyes the bare skin with a greedy eye.

(When you said friendship- that was more or less right. You are friends. Except there's more sexual tension than you've ever experienced with anyone. Human or not.)

"Don't you have to leave to your job?" He asks, eyes following downwards as much as he could, all the way to the little happy trail dipping into your jeans. "Your life?" His hand on your waist that had fallen when you got up, returned to rub circles with his thumb, just barely touching the hairs of said happy trail. Goosebumps flare up again as you keep looking into his eyes, despite him being completely obvious.

"I'll manage," your voice comes out a little pathetic, and his eyes come up to connect with yours. In the back of your head, when you see the wildness in his eyes, the way you know he wants to consume you, that you'd have to call in your next shift.

And yes, you did get plenty of sleep. But that was after he was done with you.

#anon asks #wipes answers #c: george #transmasc reader #au: mushroom #au: magic #fluff fluff fluff #the intricate rituals are intricate ritualing

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ausetkmt · 2 years

Text

Jon Caramanica

Caramanica is writing a forthcoming book about the life and cultural impact of Kanye West.

Oct. 19, 2022, 2:20 p.m. ET

We may not yet have hit the nadir of the current debacle of Ye, the artist formerly known as Kanye West, but Monday night’s interview with Chris Cuomo certainly felt like some kind of bottom.

In the back of an S.U.V. heading to a meeting with the chief executive of the conservative social media app Parler, Ye jousted with Cuomo for 20 minutes, largely rehashing the provocations he’s been harping on for the last two weeks: his anger with Jewish executives; his desire to think freely, independent of the expected Black celebrity narrative; and his belief that all Black people are Jews, and therefore he cannot be deemed antisemitic.

During one of a few fraught exchanges in which Cuomo pushed back on bigoted statements, Ye replied testily, “Are you gonna give me a platform? Are you gonna give me a platform?”

Throughout his career, Ye has gobbled up platforms — sometimes others’, sometimes ones he has built himself. The very act of consuming public oxygen has been a centerpiece of his art for two decades. And even though in recent years Ye has, time and again, expressed sentiments that have been uninformed, ill-phrased and profoundly concerning, he has routinely found ways — whether through the success of his business ventures, or by strategic disappearance and recalibration — to paper over the disturbances. He remains a tendentious superstar, but a superstar nonetheless.

But in this moment, following two straight weeks of offensive chatter — “I’m going death con 3 on Jewish people”; “the guy’s knee wasn’t even on his neck like that” (on George Floyd); “I prefer my kids knew Hanukkah than Kwanzaa. At least it will come with some financial engineering”; “Bernard Arnault killed my best friend” (on Virgil Abloh); and more — it’s challenging to imagine a future for Ye in which he bounces back as crisply as he has in the past. Alienating people, even loyalists who hope he’ll return to old form, has always been part of Ye’s cost of doing business, but now it is threatening to become his core achievement..

Call it what you will — a heel turn, a villain arc, a worrisome descent into reactionary politics, a manifestation of what Ye has described as mental illness, a gruesome side effect of extreme wealth, an embrace of true hate. What it does not appear to be is a performance. Instead, it is a new, brutal and detrimental iteration of the sense of grievance that has been Ye’s essential animator since even before he signed a record deal and released his debut album, “The College Dropout,” in 2004.

It is one thing, however, to lash out from feeling excluded — a music industry that isn’t quite ready to accept your gifts, a fashion industry that isn’t sure how to handle an interloper with vision and a sense of entitlement. But Ye is a mogul now, an entrepreneur in the clothing and sneaker business who wields levers of power, influence and authority.

And yet still he lashes out, resulting in the most troubling stretch in his career since the series of events that led to his hospitalization in 2016.

The domino effect began early this month, when Ye and the Black right-wing commentator Candace Owens appeared at Paris Fashion Week wearing T-shirts that read “White Lives Matter.” What he may have been presenting as an offhand gimmick quickly became emblematic — when Ye is questioned or attacked, often he doubles down. (Just a couple of days ago, his associates were giving out the shirts to homeless people in Los Angeles.)

The discourse quickly became unruly, spreading across social media — in one example, Ye began posting texts between him and the Supreme creative director Tremaine Emory, who had formerly worked for him. The exchange was callous and stern, a tug of war between righteous indignation and indignant self-righteousness.

By now, battle lines had been drawn. Ye took refuge in an interview with the Fox News host Tucker Carlson, in which Ye suggested that the “White Lives Matter” shirt was “funny,” and that the Clintons had been attempting to control him through his ex-wife, Kim Kardashian. Later, Motherboard posted unaired leaks from the interview, including one in which Ye posited that “fake children” were planted in his house to improperly influence his children. On Twitter, he lodged a litany of complaints about Jewish people.

Over the weekend, he returned to Drink Champs, the rowdy and usually uproarious podcast hosted by the rapper N.O.R.E., only to re-emphasize his hateful stereotyping. However, egging Ye on, or giving him the space to ramble unchecked, is beginning to have consequences — for others, at least. On Monday, N.O.R.E. apologized for not rejecting Ye’s hate speech in real time, and the episode was removed from the internet.

Later that night, Ye videoconferenced in to Chris Cuomo’s program on NewsNation from the back seat of a vehicle, with no light. The content of the conversation toggled between coherent and worrisome, and the staging felt haphazard and desperate. He was largely unable to meet the camera with a firm gaze. He appeared like a man being conveyed to nowhere.

Perhaps crucially, it gave the image of a man truly untethered — from other people, from loving counsel, from shared social ethics.

“The common understanding,” he told Cuomo, “more oftentimes than not nowadays, is not the truth.”

And yes, sometimes that is the case. But the antisemitic sentiment that Ye has been espousing is gross, and also gross in its casualness — familiar, tiresome tropes that serve only to incite hatred. (On Wednesday, in an interview with Piers Morgan, Ye appeared to apologize for some of his comments. “Hurt people hurt people, and I was hurt,” he said, in a short clip released in advance of the interview’s airing.)

If this run of interviews and social media bursts feels familiar, it’s because there is a certain cyclicity to how Ye has navigated his public life. Early in his career, his loudest complaints were often followed by his most ambitious achievements. But in recent years, the balance between volume of grievance and level of achievement has become destabilized. This recent time period feels like a callback to 2016, when Ye cut his Saint Pablo tour short and was briefly hospitalized; not long after, he publicly embraced Donald Trump and questioned whether slavery was a choice.

In that era, like the current moment, Ye would not, or could not, turn off the faucet. Sometimes it seems that he wants words to mean something other than they do. He has burned through several cycles of trying out ideas in real time only to recalibrate when he found — intentionally, or more likely not — the outer bounds of acceptable discourse. But there is no apparent fail-safe in place now.

Which leaves the responsibility to others. So far, there have been a handful of efforts to hold him to account. After Ye’s tweets, Elon Musk — soon to be the owner of Twitter — tweeted, “Talked to ye today & expressed my concerns about his recent tweet, which I think he took to heart.” The influential radio D.J. Funk Flex called out rappers and industry executives over their silence, suggesting they still hoped to work with Ye down the line. A few celebrities have expressed their exasperation; others, like Diddy, have attempted to intervene directly, only to have Ye target them publicly.

And yet people still tune in, perhaps out of schadenfreude, but also perhaps because Ye is drawing upon a cultural bank account so vast and deep and long-running that he is difficult to disentangle from our modern understanding of celebrity. For years and years, he has stepped out over the line, then crafted work — music, fashion or otherwise — that appeared to justify, or at least partially excuse, his baser impulses. Whether that dynamic can continue is the remaining question. It is also worth considering at what point outrage morphs into concern — if Ye needs help, who would be in a position to provide it to him, and from whom would he accept it?

The media outlets giving him airtime in this moment are riding the border of responsibility and irresponsibility. He has already been suspended from Twitter and Instagram for his incendiary behavior. He has terminated his partnership with Gap. His Adidas partnership is “under review.” Soon, he may have no mainstream partner platforms of any kind to speak of.

Which may explain why he reached an agreement in principle to purchase Parler, the faltering right-wing social media app. (The parent company of Parler is owned by Owens’s husband. Perhaps Ye is, among other things, a recurring victim, witting or otherwise, of right-wing grift.)

For decades now, Ye has been building new worlds and waiting for people to populate them. But even if he does make Parler his megaphone, it’s unclear whether he will simply end up doing anything beyond shouting into the void. Speech may be free, but attention is not.

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