#gatty

[vinylandcoffeecollection]

Matty’s summer tour looks absolutely slay.

#why is he so hot? #matty healy #the 1975 #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy fanfiction #1975 smut #gatty

[lookedlikethebins]

i'll say it twice

Finally! The long awaited Valentine's Day producer george x TA matty oneshot! I'm so sorry for taking as long as I did. Thank you for being patient AND a big thank you to the anon that inspired this fic with the prompt about matty coming to a club/one of george's dj gigs! [set ~6 months since meeting each other] ~5.8k words xo side note: i know nothing about being a DJ but a lot about cyclical anxiety and epic poems so i compensated xo

George had been semi-confident—and a bit overprepared—in his upcoming set, until Matty showed George the readings he’d suggested for the next week of class: Lover’s Discourse. The date of his set hadn’t registered until that moment, sitting with his arm around Matty and feeling embarrassed by his own obliviousness.

Valentine’s Day. Of course, the club wasn’t just holding an event to sell more drinks on a cold, mid-February Friday night; they were hoping to max their margins for the first quarter. For every one patron, there would undoubtedly be another—their date. George included.

The set had to be a bit beyond perfect.

For the next two weeks, each time Matty stopped by after his classes and office hours, George had been closed up in his studio. He would've been there most of the day, starting early in the morning (right after Matty left, if he’d stayed the night) and blowing past every mental stopping point in favor of fixing just this one last thing.

After Matty was left waiting outside for the third time, knocking and trying to ring George—phone on silent and face down on his desk—George gave him the spare key. Each time, Matty let himself in with a loud shout, letting the door slam shut; they’d learned George startled easily when he was working. When he was worried.

While Matty shouldered off his bag—as well as coat, scarf, sweater, and unbuttoned and rolled his cuffs—George would unplug his headphones and continue his work out loud. Matty often settled onto the loveseat beside George’s desk and leaned forward to best see George’s screens without hovering over his shoulder. Despite sometimes getting up to dance, Matty would never grow (outwardly) irritated when George would have to stop and adjust, redo, or take note of an idea for later. The only time Matty spoke during George’s work was to exclaim that a certain part of a song was his fucking favorite.

Most times, Matty’s excitable commentary was the reason George had to stop and make slight changes.

It would be Matty’s first time coming to see George work. Matty had asked if he could before—about other gigs and recent shows George was playing with the boys too—but George struggled to say yes. And thankfully Matty never pushed back or took offense when George stumbled over his answer. Granted, George had taken Matty to his label’s holiday party—and he’d been a hit—but his club set wasn’t for a closed group. There would be a room packed with people looking for the smallest pinhole in George’s quiet (misunderstood to be “stoic”) exterior, hoping to peep in on his private life.

But, even with all that fear and discomfort with the unfamiliar, it truly was sort of time for it, wasn’t it?

---

“Oh, fuck,” Matty said with a burst of laughter that seemed to surprise even him. “it’s loud.”

They had entered the club through the back entrance meant for employees. George made sure to pull around to the parking lot purposefully obscured by bins and out-of-place planted shrubs. They used the side streets and alleys of nearby buildings to get in without being seen by the group of patrons lined up outside, waiting to get in.

While George had been getting his bag out of the car, Matty stood by the hood, tapping his foot to the muffled beat sneaking through the club’s opening doors and sparse windows. But now, inside and standing on the farthest edge of the dance floor, Matty didn’t need to move his feet to the music; the floor was nearly moving for him.

It was what George loved the most: how the room, the physical space, came alive when music was loud—almost too loud. The air felt like it was breathing on its own from the shear pulse of the speakers.

It terrified George to think Matty might not like that feeling. The encasement of music. The ever-shrinking proximity to other people, while verbal communication became impossible and almost moot. All George ever had in those moments was the same unavoidable and inarguable beat moving him to keep time with the other bodies around him. That feeling of sharing the same heartbeat. He could live in the same suspended moment with someone, just a few minutes at a time.

“Is that… okay?” George said. He had steered Matty toward the back lounge for the invited guests and hired talent. Once George closed the door behind Matty, the wall of sound became a void, ringing white noise. “Do you want earplugs or something? I, uh, I probably have a pair somewhere. I’m sure I do.”

“No, no—I don’t mind that it’s loud. Just sort of forgot. Can’t tell you last time I’ve been to a proper club.” Matty placed his hand on George’s arm, gently squeezing it, before leading him further into the room and away from the door.

“Not a fan?” George asked. He immediately grabbed a bottle of water from the oblong coffee table. He twisted off the cap and handed it to Matty. It was Friday; he’d had his early and late classes.

“Just prefer a place I can sit down,” Matty shrugged. “And if I’m feeling wild: hear my friends talk.”

“You’re really not supposed to chitchat at a club.”

“Name another time I’ve been quiet that long, George.”

George paused. “Okay, so you might actually hate it here.” He was trying to tell a joke, but his chest tightened and twisted into a knot. Like he forgot how to create a laugh. He couldn’t.

“George, love, stop fretting—please? I’m starting to think I’m making you worse.” Matty swung his hand out to playfully hit George on the arm. The open water bottle made a small damp spot on his sleeve; luckily, he was only wearing a short sleeve, cotton shirt. “Pretty sure you’ve been doing all this before I ever showed up. You know what you’re up to—you’re very talented. I’m just here to listen, take a vow of silence, have a drink or two.”

“Oh, I should go get you one, shouldn’t I?” George muttered, looking at his watch and then the clock on the wall—they were a minute apart: George’s watch a minute behind. He was already floundering. The first time he brought Matty—any boyfriend at all for that matter—to one of his shows and everything felt like it was developing into a disappointment. A stumble. Two left feet. George could hear the music muffled in the other room; he just wanted to stand submerged in it.

“That—No, George. That’s not why I said that. I’m not angling for you to go and—Look, I just want to drink after I had to listen to someone wedge Ecstasy of Influence into our discussion for the third class in a row.”

“But I should go get them—they won’t charge me.”

“Oh, so it’s about showing off, not chivalry…” Matty said, offsetting his jaw as he crossed his arms and smirked at George.

“No! I—Matty, it’s Valentine’s Day," George said, taking out his phone. His phone matched his watch but not the wall clock.

“And you’re already going to get laid. I’m not sure why you think you have to butter me up—"

George sputtered in surprise and embarrassment as he heard someone talking just outside the door. “I meant, it’s Valentine’s Day so they’re going to be up-charging, I’m sure. Let me get you a drink. They don’t charge the people they hire.”

“You must not know what happens when a cute guy like me goes up to most bars,” Matty said, lifting one eyebrow. “I won’t pay for anything; Fuck, I’ll barely even need to be paying attention.”

George had never considered how Matty was as a single guy. He’d never really told him. Or maybe George had never asked. There wasn’t much for George to tell Matty, so maybe he’d forgotten people had dating histories that weren’t accidentally shallow or convenient. Had first loves before their late twenties.

The club owner opened the door while still finishing the tail end of his hallway conversation. “—on in twenty, okay? Yeah—George! Good to see you, early as always. What I like to see. JJ walked in five minutes before she was supposed to go on. Again.”

“She likes the spontaneity,” George said with a shrug, placing his bag down in one of the mismatched armchairs. “I can’t argue her style. She’s always great.”

“I just wish she could be spontaneous and not raise my blood pressure,” he said. “You ready to go on in half an hour?” George nodded, checking all three times again. “Great. Anything you need—you can go out and float around JJ when you’re ready. Get either of you a drink?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Matty said. He placed a hand between George’s shoulders as he hunched down to look in his bag. George’s nervous energy was never something Matty could ignore. “George, did you want something? Or do you want me to get it for you.” Matty was teasing, probably feeling the tension in the muscles of George’s back. Maybe hoping for a laugh.

Instead, Matty’s kind and gentle smile—eyes following George’s hands as they continued to jostle everything in every pocket—was distracted by the owner’s follow up question: “I’m sorry—and I mean no disrespect—but who are you again? George, if this is a new label rep, I’m sorry I’ve forgotten again—”

“Label rep?” George turned toward Matty, who was still touching his back with one hand and had begun to hold his bicep lightly with the other. It was certainly no way to represent a professional relationship.

Matty looked down at himself. “I just came from teaching—Dammit, George, why didn’t you tell me I look like a corporate drone? Is it the tie? It is, isn't it?”

Finally, George smiled. The plane of his back under Matty’s hand relaxing as he laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t look like a drone, okay? And Matty isn’t my PR guy. He’s—” George had never actually called him his boyfriend in front of anyone before; at the holiday party, the moment everyone saw Matty walk in with George, they knew this was The Date George had after studio sessions so often. “He’s just here with me. No business.”

George couldn’t hear the music as clearly anymore, blood rushing in his ears. Matty moved his hand along George’s shoulder blades, slowly and soothingly. Finally, George’s fingers found the loose pair of foam earplugs in the front pocket of his bag. The last place left. He righted himself and held them out to Matty. He ignored the conversation he’d left paused with the owner for as long as it took Matty to tire from arguing he didn’t need them. He dropped his hand from George’s bicep to take them, his other hand not leaving George’s back.

The clock on the wall kept ticking, faster than the one on his wrist.

“Matty’s going to uh… he’s going to be up there with me.” George pointed loosely toward the door; he didn’t know what was out there, technically. Without being sure where the music was coming from, without being able to feel it faintly pulsing in his chest, he didn’t even know where the dancefloor was.

“Up where?” Matty asked.

“The stage. When I’m doing my set.”

“I didn’t think I would be allowed.” Matty shot the owner a quick look before adjusting his tie.

“Of course you are! But only if you want to. I won’t be offended if you’d much rather... not.” George wanted to give Matty the option to pick how he wanted to spend his evening. How to make it better without George intervening, even by accident, and making things worse—

“George,” Matty said softly. George blinked and realized the owner had already left the room; no commotion, no remark, no insistence Matty become part of the monolithic, pulsing, impersonal crowd. No pushback. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, you know that, right?” Matty said. He stood in front of George and placed both hands on his shoulders, as if keeping him planted on the ground. George didn’t know he’d been feeling an urge to pace until then. Until he couldn’t. “What’s got you this upset?”

“I always get nervous before I perform anything. You know that. You know me.”

Matty had been sitting on that studio couch every day for those two weeks. He’d been over when George accepted calls for other gigs and immediately interrupted his own train of thought to jot down his immediate thoughts and plans—afraid he’d forget the “genius” of the impulse. Afraid his instincts weren’t really instincts at all, just moments when inspiration would take pity on him.

While talking about his students’ coursework, Matty had told George about the idea of ancient Greek poets praying at the beginning of their works. Of asking the gods of inspiration—the muses, actually; George remembered feeling embarrassed by his own surprise and sense of clarity by this fact and connection—before embarking on their epics. The invocation, Matty had called it with a flourish of his hand.

Matty described it as if the idea was antiquated; no one thought creativity or inspiration was so out of their hands that it had to be requested at the beginning of every project. But sometimes, when George could feel expectations compounding and very separate things interconnecting into one daunting and terrifying moment, he wished there was someone he could hand things off to. Trust he had solid instincts when he was mid-set and suddenly becoming aware of his own hands and expression and body and position with the person next to him—the new DJ that just arrived and hovering too close and asking too many questions, but being so polite and was someone George should be very eager to show the ropes because he never had that... To trust he would have no need to second guess, critiquing himself for too long and missing the window to execute his plan. The swing of his set broken while George was left standing in horrifying, reverberating silence and—

“This isn’t nerves, George. You look like you might pass the fuck out. Or throw up. Maybe both.” Matty ran his hands across George’s shoulders and laced them together behind his neck, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s not me making you this anxious, is it?”

“No, of course not,” George said quickly. “I just want everything to be perfect—”

“Well, it can’t be.”

“I-I know. I know. Nothing can be perfect,” George mumbled, trying to echo Matty’s frequent and always kind encouragement. What George tried to remember when he was feeling his anxiety bind tighter with the feeling things were slipping out of his control. George had invoked Matty’s words a lot in the past week in particular. “Best-case scenario, then. I want the very best-case scenario. For you. I want you to have a good time and—”

“Do you not think I’m having a good time?”

“My set isn’t for another,” George looked at the clock on the wall only. “fifteen minutes. We’ve just gotten here and… literally stood in a room while I’m…” trying not to freak out or throw up or just blurt out that I— “That’s nothing very exciting.”

“Hey, that’s not all we did today; you picked me up from class, we had dinner, you let me read to you that botched essay intro, you told me about that tour invite and the boys, you invited me to see you do your job. George,” Matty stopped to reset his worried expression with another warm smile. “George, you do know you’re the reason I came, right? Not to experience the best DJ set of my life or have one too many and convince your band to dance with me, or even know any of the songs you’re going to play. I just came here because it meant spending time with you. And that’s why I’m having a good time. That’s it. This isn’t a performance review. I am not qualified for that in the slightest.”

“But—”

“George,”

“I’m not trying to argue,” George said. Matty nodded, moving both of their heads. Matty carefully ran one hand up and down the back of George’s neck, encouraging him to continue. “But… this is sort of your first… event with me. Next to me. Associated with me.”

“… And? We talked about this, right? It’s not industry people who know you, so I’ll have to be more… aware of what I’m doing. But just at first, like you said—I get it, George. I really do.”

“No, no. It has nothing to do with that… Or maybe it does. Fuck,” George stopped to take a breath, forcing it out through his pursed lips. “I want to do something you can be proud of. Be someone you don’t mind admitting is your date. I don’t want to embarrass you—"

“Embarrass?” Matty repeated with a soft but tense laugh. He cleared his throat and George could hear a sudden wetness sink his words. “What a preposterous fucking idea. And, actually, even more so: the idea I didn’t come here already proud of you. That I’m not already more than willing to walk out there and tell everyone who’s even remotely paying attention to me—free fucking drinks or not—” Matty gave them both the chance to laugh, the thickness falling away from Matty’s voice and some of the weight shaking off from George’s shoulders. “That I came here with you. I’ll go anywhere with you—anywhere you’re willing to have me.”

George dipped his head down to kiss Matty, quickly and without invitation for any lengthier response, considering the moment and environment. He wanted to say it. He wanted to tell Matty right then—without the expectation of anything in return. Just simply say. But that was sort of the point of the set. George hoped he could say it without the words; without the direct chance of rejection.

Matty kissed George on the cheek, hands sliding from his neck to smooth his collar and flip his silver earring so the engraving of the dagger’s hilt faced outward. His knuckle grazed George’s jaw as he stilled the jewelry from swinging.

“You’re going to be incredible—as you always are.” Matty said, holding the sides of George’s face. “Like, that’s not me setting a ridiculous bar. That’s actually sort of the baseline for you. Anything beyond that will just be genius—which, also very possible, I’m finding.”

George leaned against one of Matty’s hands—warm and firm and unflinching from the request for support—and sighed, a sense of relief hitting him.

George remembered what he was doing there. He could feel the music in the other room. He smiled. And Matty, the central reason for the tailoring of the next hour of George’s night, smiled back.

They waited in silence, George not trusting himself to say anything else. Not wanting to spoil it.

---

The music was too loud. But that was sort of the point. George was up on stage, feeling the rolling pulse of the room and the music, and didn’t have the space or sense in his head to hear himself think about anything other than just that.

The lights, flickering and flashing and swirling.  The faces in the crowd—at least those he could make out—lighting up and excitedly reacting to the change in song, speaking to the person beside them—the only person who could hope to hear them.

The person beside him, waiting until George lowered his headphones to lean in to talk to him. Both of Matty's hands gently holding George's forearm. Matty's chest pressed against George's bicep and shoulder as he leaned in, trying to shout in his ear over the music coming from the speakers on all sides of them.

“I’m going to go get a drink, okay?” Matty said. George only understood when Matty pointed at the blue backlit bar directly across the dance floor. He’d been standing next to George for the entire first half of his set, enthusiastic and smiling. Bouncing and dancing. Trying to get George to do more than his usual simple sway to the music—Oh, come on! I know you know how to move your hips a bit better than that, love.

George gave him a thumbs up and a smile. Matty held up two fingers and lifted his eyebrows. He pointed to George’s empty glass resting on the low railing surrounding the raised stage platform. It had been a vodka soda that, thankfully, had barely had much of the first ingredient. George shook his head and nodded toward the bar with his continued smile.

Matty stepped down from the platform and began weaving his way around the dance floor. He avoided all the clueless drunk dancers, almost bodies possessed by the music, and nosey patrons that bothered to look up at the DJ and see the new face now walking among them, but managed to bump directly into Adam. Which meant within seconds, and a silent cheer of surprise, Matty had also found the rest of the band that had come: Ross, John, and Polly.

As if discussed beforehand, the moment they all saw Matty they collectively looked up at George and waved. As if they knew George would be watching Matty from the slightly higher vantage point. Because of course George was. He answered them all with a quick grin so they would turn away again. After a moment of gesturing and over-enunciated (but mostly unheard) sentences, Ross walked with Matty to the bar. The other three migrated to the side of the dance floor with a cementing nod and lift of a hand: We’ll wait right here.

Watching Matty struggle to get through the crowd to the bar, George quickly rearranged his mental lineup of songs. What use was Matty knowing—dating—the DJ if George played all his favorite songs while he stood in line, cramped in his reach for the bartender between Ross and the back of a guy with shoulders practically as wide as Matty was tall.

For a moment, being able to see Matty from a distance was sort of romantic. It was a thrill to be able to take all of Matty in at once—when most of their romance typically happened up close, barely enough distance for George to see the lips he was about to kiss. From his vantage point, George could watch Matty lean forward on the bar, his weight shifting onto his left foot with his right hovering just above the ground. Could watch as Matty began bouncing his foot with an unknown pulse of anxiety, impatience, or anticipation; George couldn’t see Matty’s expression to know.

George looked back at the decks, needing to focus to ensure his secondary ordering of songs transitioned smoothly. He looked back up at Matty—to see if he’d have to sub in another song before he was back on the dance floor—and saw him angled back toward the rest of the room, smiling and chatting, his face more in view. The only face George couldn’t see was that of the man talking to Matty, one hand braced against the bar railing and the other quickly—and so smoothly George barely noticed—fiddling with the end of Matty’s tie.

George checked his watch, trying to give himself somewhere else to look. He lowered his head and gave himself the chance to hide his flushing and crimson embarrassment. He didn’t mind someone else flirting with Matty—George couldn’t be upset with other men that fell under the very same spell he did after their first introduction. No, George felt embarrassed he’d seen them, that he had been watching at all. That he was observing when maybe Matty had no such idea. Exposing a moment perhaps Matty would rather not have George see; invading Matty’s privacy and knowing something Matty would always think George didn’t know. What a terrible basis for lo—

Finally, George looked back up. Resisting to do so almost like telling himself not to think of something—and only prompting further rumination. George saw Matty shaking his head, hand resting on his own chest, as if holding his heart. When the man nudged Matty’s foot with his own—yet something else George felt he should never have seen—Matty lifted his hand to point at George.

Four sets of eyes were now on him: Ross, Matty, the stranger, and now the bartender returning with Matty’s drink. George froze. He didn’t know what Matty had said about him in their conversation; he didn’t want to betray his point by doing the wrong thing. George had told Matty to keep things lowkey for the night while George acclimated to (very subtly) exposing his personal life, but with someone flirting with him why else would he be pointing at George? Surely, it was romantic sort of point—literal romantic gesture—right?

But how could George ensure Matty knew it was okay he brought it up, that he was happy and so proud to be up there but if only because it meant Matty could turn and point and mouth something that looked a hell of a lot like: that’s my boyfriend.

Before George could short-circuit much further, Matty put his fingers to his lips and blew George a kiss. He then folded his hand at the knuckles in a flapping wave. Almost like a joke. A tease. A giddy gesture that had George feeling like he was growing sunburnt under the minimal, flashing lights. A youthful, almost teenage, motion done with complete honesty and infatuation. For a moment, George felt relief, felt certain for a moment that his very ridiculous and overthought plan would work...

With his drink in hand—and small black straw between his lips—Matty started going back toward the rest of the group. His eyes were busy searching each face he passed for Adam or Polly he didn’t look back up at George at first. It was just as well; George was already so anxious, he was sure if Matty looked directly at him as the next song started, his entire heart would’ve dropped into his shoes. Maybe bruised, maybe shattered, maybe resilient enough to bounce back up.

Although, as the song started, George felt like his heart had stopped. Its internal pulse absent from his ears as the beat around them took over, pounding against his chest, ribs, temples. George dissolved into the music; hoping that the joy and repeatedly expressed excitement Matty had shown listening to it in George’s studio would appear on the dance floor in front of him.

Just one more time, George. Play that part just one more time… For me?

After a deep breath, George forewent any subtlety and made no effort to hide he was watching for Matty’s reaction. He pulled his headphones down around his neck. The sound diluted into the vastness of the room, in comparison to being fed directly into George’s ears, but he preferred it. He wanted the space and breathing room. At least for the moment.

Matty stopped his gesticulating and conversation with John, pausing as he registered the song. His pivot from speaking to emphatically starting to sing along was split-second. Adam stood sort of confused, amused, and dumbfounded as Matty’s apparently dire point faded away and he started dancing: swaying mostly his hips with the beat and holding his one arm up, while the other steadily held his drink in front of him.

Matty lowered his arm and went to take another sip just as the chorus was about to hit again, his usual stopping point when listening with George, but the song swung back around to the start of the verse. Just that part, one more time. For him.

Matty’s declared favorite, all over again. Right on time—jumping to that exact thump of the brutally danceable kick drum. George wasn’t sure Matty would even notice; he probably hadn’t heard the song that many times to know its structure the way George had to. Oh, maybe it was all a bit ridiculous to think—

But Matty had stopped dancing. His lips still moved along to the lyrics, but now like trying to whisper across the cacophony to George. The lyrics almost being stripped and returned to its poetic form. Spoken with slight disbelief.

While everyone else seemed slightly confused—feeling more betrayed by their memory than upset about any music decision or direction—Matty continued to melt right back into the song. Dancing just as he had, holding the back of George’s chair with gleeful distraction.

As George began to fade between the songs—no threat of the verse cycling a third time—Matty pushed his empty glass into Ross’s hands and began hurriedly snaking back through the crowd to the platform. Despite his evident excitement—shifting and shuffling his feet while he pulled at his sleeves—Matty still stood and waited for George to give a cue he was finished with his task at hand.

Admittedly, George wanted to stay in the momentary reprieve between his gesture, the reaction, and his direct confession—the purpose of it all. In that moment, he could only be relieved that he’d done it in the first place. He hadn’t yet had enough time to worry or feel embarrassed by his own ornately constructed vulnerability.

But if George stayed in that moment forever, he’d never hear Matty’s reaction. Good or bad, it would still be Matty. And that sure as hell beat a solitary moment of acquiescing to fear.

George lowered his headphones again and turned to Matty with the very best look of neutrality and obliviousness he could. Matty was looking back with that minute, timid smile: the one meant for George and almost undetectable by onlookers. A glimpse at the joy thrumming inside of him; almost too full to even attempt to express; settling for an undersell rather than falling short.

“Need something, Matty?”

“I love that song!” Matty leaned in toward George’s ear. His hand gently curled around George’s hanging safely under the table and out of view. He tugged and pulled George toward him, able to slightly lower—soften—his voice. “You know I love that song—thank you.”

“I-I wanted you to have a good time! A chance to know some songs—your favorites!”

“You didn’t have to do that—what about everyone else here?”

George pulled back to better see Matty’s entire face. “Yeah? What about them?”

Matty’s smile faltered as he lowered his eyes to George’s earring, now swinging in the air after being pressed down by his headphones. His lips parted as if he was going to speak but then pressed them back together.

“Matty,” George said, although not loud enough. “I’m really glad you came tonight.”

“Hm?” Matty moved his fingers behind his ear—as if his hair was even remotely long enough—to politely hint he couldn’t hear George.

“I…” George cleared his throat, hoping it would still be there even if he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear anything but the music flooding his body just like the flush creeping up his chest and over his cheeks. “I love you.”

“What?” Matty cupped his ear and leaned forward toward George.

George found himself repeating the sentence, but far softer. “I—I love you.”

Matty lowered his hand and looked at George with a furrowed brow. “I-I’m sorry, George. I can’t hear you!” He gestured toward his ears with splayed out hands, mimicking the pulsing, pounding soundwaves thudding against him from the surrounding speakers. “Don’t forget though, okay? Tell me later?"

George nodded, smiling. Like he could ever forget.

"Sure, yeah. Later!"

Like he was ever thinking about anything else.

---

After his set, despite the band congratulating him and offering a few rounds on them, George wanted to go home. Wanted to get out of the noise. He was beginning to feel spoken over, crowded, and pushed out by the thumping music—then even more so when it was no longer him behind the decks.

Thankfully—and once again forgetting the holiday—no one teased George for turning in earlier than them. He and Matty were able to be back in his car, sitting in the parking lot, thirty minutes after his set finished.

“George, you’re incredible, you know that right?” Matty was speaking too loudly, but George didn’t mind; his ears were ringing too. And it also meant Matty laughed a bit louder than he usually did, too. “I don’t think I’ve had that much fun in a very long time.”

“I’m glad you came,” George smiled, his own laugh sounding muffled to his ears but feeling stronger in his chest. Matty lifted himself from his seat to lean over the console and kiss George, quickly but firmly.

“Thank you for inviting me, George. I was happy to be there with you not on business,” he said. “Happy to be your date tonight. Proud to be—even if we’re still the only people here that really know I was.”

George thought about saying it again—a third time—but he didn't think he could stomach the trade of an oblivious, neutral response to his intended confession for open, undeniable, almost amplified (possible) rejection.

Instead, he kissed Matty again. He braced his hand on the console and caught Matty's lips again before he moved all the way back into the passenger seat. Matty broke the kiss—without pulling away—with a near-muffled, definitely mumbled confession of his own:

“I heard you, you know,” Matty said when George inquisitively pulled away at the sound spoken against his lips. “After you played my song—what I told you not to forget; I heard you. I-I just wanted to see if you’d say it again. If you wanted to—If you meant it.”

“Do—would you like me to... say it again?” George asked. It was a nicer response than quietly pleading, please don’t break my heart. I’m sorry if I—

“No, no, you don’t owe me another one," Matty held the sides of George's face, anticipating his emotional and physical retreat and apology. "Especially since I still haven’t answered.”

“You don’t have to right now. Let's just go home and—"

“George, I think I should tell the man I’m in love with that I do love him, don’t you? Seems like a reasonable thing to do.”

George reached for Matty's face, holding him and trying to get a good look at the man in love with him. Trying to spot the moment Matty would break, would maybe lie and soften what he'd admitted to. Matty held his joyful—and increasingly teary—look at George.

"You do?"

"Yes! Yes, George. I love you! Of course I do." Matty laughed and pulled George in again. His hands dropped from holding George's face to rest flat on his chest. Feel the beat of his heart.

"Wait," George muttered, turning his face to break the kiss but not pull away. "Say it one more time... For me?"

#gatty #gatty fic #matty x george #george daniel x matty healy #producer george and TA matty fic #andfacedown fics #(not yet i know but shh) #producer george oneshot #THANK YOU for waiting & enjoy MWAH!!

[applesfallingfromblondehair]

and I lost you

the one I was dancing with in New York

#matty and george #matty healy #george daniel #matty x george #gatty #maroon #taylor swift #this song makes me angsty

[sundrownsthehouse]

Take This Pain And Give It A Name, Part Four

Posted to AO3 (I much prefer the formatting there)

Prologue

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Summary: George breaks his shoulder. Matty looks after him. It gets complicated.

Words: 4.2k

AN: Much love to my bestie (you know who you are), to @allylikethecat, and to @lookedlikethebins for all the moral support- you're all amazing.

The faded grey light of the city filtered in from the windows where they’d forgotten to draw the curtains closed, casting streaky shadows across the ceiling. There was a gentle hush over the hotel room broken only by the muted hum of the aircon. George gazed up into the darkness. Comfortably cocooned in cool, plush blankets, with a warm body at his side, it should have been easy for him to fall asleep; this was the exact kind of quiet stillness he craved whilst on tour. And yet.

His eyes flicked down to the top of Matty’s head where it lay heavily on his chest, dark curls spilling across his skin. He could tell that Matty was still awake by the cadence of his breathing. Despite himself, George was hyperaware of the fact that Matty must be able to hear his heart hammering out a steady rhythm against his ribs. That notion alone threatened to send it racing.

And that’s sort of strange, George thought as he stared at the ceiling, because they’d done this so many times. Matty’s presence at his side was so familiar, it really shouldn’t provoke much of a reaction at all. Then again, it was unusual to lie awake together, entangled like this, without feigning ignorance; the cuddling wasn’t something they’d ever acknowledged openly in the past. It had never bothered him before, the way they’d always danced around it— it hadn’t really mattered— but to think about it now made him inexplicably sad. He didn’t know why they tried to pretend that they didn’t want the same things.

Over and over the night replayed itself in George’s mind, the gravity of it all weighing on him. In the span of only forty-eight hours, everything he thought he knew and felt about his relationship with Matty had changed. It was confusing, overwhelming, and slightly terrifying. There was so much he still didn’t understand, and the unspoken questions permeated the air between them like a thick fog. What did it mean, exactly, that they both seemed to want something more? Did it have to mean anything at all?

And what if it did?

As much as George wanted to pretend that everything was fine, the degree of Matty’s distress had seriously shaken him; they needed to talk about this. In the morning, he told himself firmly. Now wasn’t the time, not when they were both utterly exhausted. He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he could actually read Matty’s mind; even seeing Matty’s expression would give him some idea of where they stood. Nevertheless, he was secretly grateful they weren’t face-to-face. He was a little afraid of what he might find, and somehow, more intimidated by what Matty might see.

The bed shifted slightly. Matty sighed. The puff of breath fell hot on George’s skin, already sensitized by the tiny brush of Matty’s lashes as he blinked, gazing out at a city still aglow despite the late hour. George shivered curiously at the feeling. An unexpected wave of shame that he couldn’t reconcile burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbled. He was compelled to break the silence, if only to distract from the noise inside his own head.

Matty exhaled softly through his nose. “No.”

His arm was draped across George’s waist, absentmindedly drawing small circles into his hip with his thumb. Whether it was an indication of contentment or anxiety, George couldn’t tell. “Are you alright?” he asked hesitantly.

Matty didn’t respond at first. George lightly stroked his shoulder, aching to comfort him in whatever way possible after having seen him in such a state earlier. Matty shrugged eventually, his voice a whisper as he admitted: “No. Not really.”

George’s heart sank— what was he supposed to do with that?

He tried to sit up, struggling to right himself as the mattress dipped. Suddenly, Matty surged toward him. The weight of his body knocked George off balance and sent him toppling backwards, landing hard on the bed. Fire seared through his shoulder, tearing the breath from his lungs. Matty’s voice rose in a panic, but only when the pain began to ebb could George make sense of what he was saying: “….fuck, sorry, I’m so sorry, Christ….”

Though his head was spinning, George reached for Matty, still fretting, and pulled him in. He gently thread his fingers through his hair, playing with the curls— something he knew Matty loved, but would never ask for. Placated, Matty trailed off with another low sigh.

“Fuck, I… just don’t go,” he said after a moment, his voice thick with emotion.

George’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But I’m not—”

Matty pressed impossibly closer, burying his face into the side of George’s neck. It was sort of startling; he didn’t know what to make of the way Matty was clinging to him. “M’not going anywhere,” George vowed. His fingers traced the smooth expanse of Matty’s back in slow, soothing motions, as if to show him:

I’m right here. I’m not running away. I’ve got you.

Matty sagged with relief, letting some of the tension bleed from his body. He turned his head, his parted lips coming to rest softly at the base of George’s throat.

It felt a bit like a kiss.

It wasn’t.

Breathe.

Clutching one another in the dark, time seemed to stretch on endlessly. At some point, Matty went lax and began to snore quietly. Utterly captivated by the places where their skin met, George gazed up at the shadows on the ceiling, and wondered why on earth that was.

Before he even opened his eyes he knew that Matty was gone.

George could feel the absence of him in the bed even on the barest edge of consciousness. Half awake, he raised himself up onto his good arm and squinted at the sunlit room, only to find it empty. The balcony was similarly vacant. George strained his ears, hoping to catch the sound of the shower running, footsteps, anything, but it was all for naught; Matty had vanished. The only evidence he’d been there at all was the crumpled pillow on the other side of the bed. It was cool to the touch.

Fuck. George curled up into the sheets, mentally berating himself. He should’ve expected this; it’s not like Matty ever stayed when they were at home, either. The thought was tinged with bitterness. If Matty were to disappear on him again, the way he did yesterday, he honestly didn’t know what he was going to do with himself. They had to fix this. Whatever happened, whatever was still going on between them, they couldn’t keep avoiding it forever— if not for their own sakes, then for the sake of the band. So much was on the line, and George didn’t want to think about what could happen to them if they handled this poorly. A series of horrible scenarios flashed behind his eyes anyway, filling him with a sickening sense of dread.

Lost in a grim, imaginary reality where he’d been abandoned in Wilmslow to shovel Chinese takeout into styrofoam for the rest of his miserable life, George barely registered the subtle metallic snick of the door as it was unlocked.

Matty strode into the room humming softly to himself, fresh-faced and vibrant. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and a gauzy black blouse (pilfered from the women’s section, surely), he balanced two paper cups precariously in one hand and carried a nondescript takeaway bag in the other. He caught George’s startled expression out of the corner of his eye. “Oh— you’re awake!” Kicking off his boots, he crossed the room to set one of the steaming cups down on the bedside table next to George, flashing a warm smile: “Rise and shine, love.”

George gazed up at Matty, a little stunned by his presence. He had so many thoughts racing through his head, he couldn’t actually grasp onto any of them in order to form a coherent sentence. He shook himself internally, feeling like an idiot; it’s only Matty.The same messy curls forever falling in his eyes, that familiar gangly frame (too thin these days…), the dark ink peeking out from under his shirt, hinting at tattoos George knew like the back of his hand… and yet something wasdifferent. The early morning sun pouring in through the open window cast Matty in a strange, golden light. Somehow, George felt like he was seeing him properly for the first time.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

George felt the tips of his ears burn hot at the amused quirk of Matty’s brow. He quickly averted his eyes, training them on the takeaway bag instead.

“The buffet was closing for the morning,” Matty explained, unpacking fruit, yoghurt, and a couple of sugared pastries. “I mean, it’s only closing just now, but you were proper dead to the world when I left— there was no way you were gonna make it. So I searched ‘round online and figured I’d pop out to this little café down the street instead, cos there’s a Starbucks a few blocks over but I just couldn’t be arsed to go that far, and this place was really nice actually, had great reviews and…” He trailed off self-consciously. “I mean, it might be shit,” he warned, holding his hands up in surrender.

George sat back against the headboard, adjusting his sling with care. He took a small sip of the tea— definitely not shit, and just the way he liked it. He hummed happily.

“Alright?” Matty asked, plopping down on the loveseat by the balcony.

George shot him a grateful smile: “S’good— thanks.”

Pleased, Matty dug in whilst George sipped on his tea. It was remarkable how easily they slipped back into their usual routine of spending the morning together, as if nothing ever happened. Though George was more the cook between the two of them, at home, Matty took care of breakfast. He was almost always up first, usually on account of not sleeping very well, and more often than not had something burning by the time George dragged himself out of bed. Waking up to the smell of coffee and charred toast was, strangely, one of the things he missed most about being in London. The little gesture of familiar domesticity… well, it meant more to him than he really wanted to admit.

Seeming so much more like himself than the night prior, Matty rambled at length in a stream of consciousness: he talked about the show (“don’t get me wrong, it was wicked, but I hate that you weren’t there”), the redundant nature of interviews (“honestly George, they could’ve just Googled most of that shit”), Ross’s determination to hit up the pool (“don’t suppose you know what vitamin D’s for, d’you?”), and Adam’s blatant refusal to go out for drinks later in favour of an early night (“but I’ll bet you twenty quid— don’t laugh, you know I’m right!— I’ll bet you twenty quid he’s off his face by ten”).

George smiled into his tea, content. Matty always had a thousand thoughts racing around in his head, and he’d jump from one to the next so quickly that people who didn’t know him often found it overwhelming, if not abjectly infuriating. “Does he ever shut up?” was a question that had been leveled at George more than a few times, accompanied by long-suffering sighs and rolled eyes— but George had never been bothered. Matty’s mind fascinated him, and besides, he’d long since mastered the ability to interject here and there in the gaps.

Even so, when the topic inevitably turned to George’s shoulder, the conversation grew stilted.

“I’m fine,” George insisted, hating the concern painted all over Matty’s face. “Really. It’s not so bad. Just strange not being able to use my arm, is all.”

It wasn’t an outright lie; the pain wasn’t nearly as intense as it had been that first day. Instead, it had morphed into a persistent, dull ache that never really went away, and flared sharply with the slightest insult. Paracetamol didn’t touch it much, but George found himself leery of the narcotics. He’d left them behind on the bus.

Matty searched his face knowingly. George couldn’t help but feel exposed under his gaze. He forgot, sometimes, that their connection went both ways; Matty knew him better than anyone, and was as attuned to George as George was to him. The stretch of silence wasn’t awkward, exactly— it couldn’t be, after all these years— but there was an element of strain. Apprehension.

“Where were y—”

“I wanted to—”

They both paused.

“You first,” Matty conceded. His expression was carefully blank as he set his coffee down on the table. George took a breath to steady himself. Now or never.

“Where were you yesterday?”

He posed the question gently, but Matty fidgeted in discomfort, his hands fluttering in his lap. “Right, that’s what I… I wanna talk to you about that.” He seemed quite small all of the sudden. Shy, even. Shy was a rare look for Matty. “Honestly George, I was freaking the fuck out. I really thought I’d…” He turned away to gaze out at the balcony, the muscles in his jaw tense.

“Matty—”

“And I don’t know why I did that, the other night,” he confessed in a rush, as if he couldn’t stop the words from spilling forth. “I wasn’t planning on it, it just sort of… happened.” George opened his mouth again to speak, but Matty pressed on. “I think— I think I was a bit drunk, and I’d been worried about you, and I got a bit carried away. I’m sorry.”

George shook his head. “You never had anything to be sorry for in the first place. I—”

“Good,” Matty interrupted. “Good, cos I really didn’t mean… I’d like to just forget that it ever happened, if that’s alright.” He offered a small, lopsided smile, but his eyes were hard. Pleading.

Oh. George found himself nodding automatically.

Visibly relieved, Matty leaned back into the cushions and propped his feet up on the coffee table— the very picture of ease to anyone who didn’t know him better. “Though I am flattered,” he teased with a wink.

George snorted and rubbed a hand across his face, lips quirked feebly in an attempt to mask the profound sense of disappointment washing over him. He couldn’t seem to find the right words; the questions that had plagued him all night got caught and died in his throat.

Matty laughed. “I think you need to get laid,” he said as he ran his hands through his hair— another nervous tick that George would recognize anywhere. “Fuck man, I need to get laid.” George felt himself chuckle weakly at the joke, small huffs of breath that left his lungs against his conscious will, but he wanted to melt into the mattress and disappear.

This was a good thing; this is what you wanted, he would remind himself. Matty was fine. He wasn’t mad or upset. He wanted things to go back to normal. Best case scenario.

Maybe, if he kept telling himself that, it would eventually start to feel like it.

***

“WANKER!”

George peaked one eye open from behind his shades as an errant spray of cold water splashed his legs. Waughy surfaced roughly in the center of the pool, sputtering as he flipped off Ross, who was standing on the deck with a suspicious, shit-eating grin. The others howled and scrambled to swim out of the way as Ross landed a cannonball that drenched Waughy (and George’s legs) all over again. Scattered bursts of laughter rose and echoed across the deck.

To Ross’s credit, the pool was a massive hit. He’d gotten word out to the rest of their crew, and by the early afternoon, they had something of a party going. They were being a bit rowdy, but the hotel was evidently letting it slide— one of the perks of being minor celebrities, apparently. Touring was demanding work, and full days off were precious.

George stretched on the lounger where he’d been laying out for the better part of the afternoon, lazy and content. The weather was perfect; the sun was hot, but there was a cool spring breeze that kept the humidity blessedly at bay. Nervous that swimming would mess with his shoulder too much, and unwilling to take any risks, he’d set himself up poolside with earbuds and a book hours ago. A warm glow of deep relaxation had settled into his bones. He yawned, pleasantly drowsy.

Just as he began to nod off, a flash of skin caught his eye.

Matty was lifting himself out of the pool, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting with the effort of it. He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the deck, letting his legs dangle over the edge as beads of water dripped from his hair to stream in little rivulets down his skin. Hidden behind his sunglasses, George dragged his gaze away from Matty’s upturned mouth only to get caught on the slope of his neck. He traced the delicate dip of his collarbone, following it to the black and grey marking Matty’s sternum— the heart over his heart, the tattoo he knew Matty was proudest of. He roamed over the hard plane of Matty’s stomach, lingering as it flexed with his laughter. From there, it was far too easy to drop down, down, down, following a small trail of hair to the top of his waistband, where a glimpse of blue ink peeked out near his hip like a suggestion.

George shut his eyes, swallowing thickly. Stop it.

He didn’t think he’d ever really noticed Matty’s body before. It had never mattered; like background noise, it was irrelevant. And yet as the afternoon trudged on, George found that it was slowly becoming all he could think about. Matty was surprisingly strong for being so slender, all lean muscle and sinew, but there was a softness about his waist… an almost feminine sort of grace in the way he moved. Now that he thought about it, Matty really was quite pretty for a man, wasn’t he? The recognition of it had George’s mind growing hazy. He found himself searching for the tattoos, moles, and scars that marked Matty’s skin, cataloging what he was familiar with and fighting a strange thrill whenever he noticed something new. He’d resisted the temptation at first, fully aware that it was wildly inappropriate to be ogling his best friend— not to mention the little voice inside telling him that he shouldn’t— but Matty had somehow become this new, exciting, mysterious thing that George couldn’t help but be captivated by.

It made no fucking sense.

Matty’s voice rang out across the pool. George couldn’t quite make out what he and Ross were giggling about over the music, but whatever it was, it made Matty grin, animating his features in a boyish sort of way. His stomach flipped. He shut his eyes in some desperate attempt to reason with himself; he was only watching Matty because he was still anxious about everything that had happened between them… he was just keeping an eye on his body language, seeking reassurance that everything was alright. Though that didn’t explain why his blood was humming with electricity, alive with something delicious and traitorous that he couldn’t quite name, elicited by— Christ, of all things— the sight of Matty nearly naked and dripping wet. Just like…

No. He shouldn’t think about it. He’d been trying very hard not to think about it. The way their bodies felt sliding against one another in the steam… the little ghosts of breath on his skin… the careful, feather-light fingertips tracing his hip… the gentle press of impossibly soft lips to his shoulder. To his throat.

“You’re gonna burn.”

A sharp spike of adrenaline sent George’s heart racing as cool, wet fingers prodded the warm skin of his tricep. “I’m fine,” he choked out, gazing up at Matty’s silhouette against the sun. He’d been so distracted by his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Matty walking right up to him until it was too late.

Matty snorted and shook his head, little droplets of water flying from his hair. “M’not gonna listen to you whine all night cos you’re burnt on top of everything else.” He jabbed at George’s arm pointedly, watching the tanned skin blanch and then turn pink.

“Won’t be. Haven’t got your delicate Northern complexion.”

“Yeah, that’d be clever if you weren’t blistering as we speak.” Matty reached for a bottle of sun lotion and flipped the cap. “Here, budge up.” He made to sit on the edge of the lounger. George didn’t move.

“You don’t have to do that— seriously mate, it’s fine.”

A hint of irritation crossed Matty’s face. “Don’t be stupid. C’mere,” he insisted, drawing closer.

Too close.

George shot up and took a careful step back, shaking his head. “I can do it myself,” he blurted, holding his hand out for the bottle. A nervous energy snaked up his spine, setting him on edge.

Matty stared in disbelief for a moment, eventually scoffing. “You literally can’t,” he said, squeezing lotion into his hand.

Panic bloomed in earnest, immediate and terrifying. George only knew that— no matter what— he couldn’t bear for Matty to touch him. He waved his hands dismissively and spun around, making a beeline for the changing room. He didn’t care how fucking bizarre it must seem; he had to get away. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe. He was vaguely aware of his name being called, of the exasperated tone in Matty’s voice, but it was all secondary to the buzzing in his ears, growing louder by the second as his feet blindly carried him away.

The men’s room was empty. George huffed a shaky sigh of relief, leaning up against the wall to steady himself. A fresh wave of dizziness had his stomach rolling; for one horrible moment, he thought he might actually black out. He pressed his forehead into the faded blue tile, letting it leach the heat from his skin. It was all just too much. He couldn’t— he didn’t want to face it, whatever this was, whatever was happening to him. As his awareness slowly returned to his body, he noticed that his hands were trembling, among other things.

Please stop, he begged— as if contrition alone would change anything at all. Fear and hunger, shame and desire, it all tangled in his mind, fighting with the conflicting sensations of his body. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore, and God, why was his cock throbbing? He shuddered violently at the feeling, enthralled by the heady rush of endorphins mixed with adrenaline and latent frustration. Slowly, mindlessly, he pressed his hips into the wall to abate the pressure in his groin, only to gasp at the sheer relief of it. Out of that hazy cloud of sensation, clarity struck like lightning— sudden, brilliant, and terrible.

It was difficult to know how long he’d been gone. It could have been minutes; it felt like hours. But when he emerged from the men’s room half-dazed, George glanced around to find the others staring at him strangely— as if they could tell that something fundamental within him had shifted.

***

In the evening they separated off the elevator, Ross and Adam heading to their respective rooms, George trailing behind Matty towards their own.

Matty chatted casually about something banal as he dug through his bag, preoccupied with putting together an outfit. Something about dinner… the restaurant, George recognized dimly. He was grateful, really, that Matty hadn’t brought up their strained encounter at the pool, but he couldn’t pretend to care about their reservation at the best sushi restaurant in Austin, George, it won a James Beard award last year, did you know?

Perched on the edge of the bed, George nodded and hummed in agreement here and there to fill the gaps, but he struggled to follow the one-sided conversation. He was hopelessly distracted, and growing ever more certain by the minute that he’d been ignoring what was right in front of him for years.

“Gonna rinse off,” Matty announced as he walked toward the bathroom, clutching fresh clothes and his toiletry kit to his chest.

“Can I come?”

Matty froze, whipping his head to stare at George with wide eyes.

Fuck.

“Erm— I mean, my hair… the chlorine… makes it dry odd…” he trailed off feebly.

A dozen different emotions flit across Matty’s face. It seemed to take him a moment to find the words— and Matty always had the right words. When he did speak, his voice was soft. Apologetic. “You didn’t swim, George,” he murmured.

“Yeah, I mean, I got splashed a bit by you lot, didn’t I.” George tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He’d thought… he didn’t know what he thought.

Matty’s expression was inscrutable. He went to speak, then hesitated, swallowing hard. “There’s not a lot of time… m’gonna be quick,” he replied thickly.

George nodded. Shame burned through him. “Yeah, right. Okay.”

“Okay.”

He flinched when Matty shut the door behind him.

#matty healy #george daneil #the 1975 #take this pain and give it a name #matty x george #the 1975 fic #matty healy fic #george daniel fic #gatty

[lacocoloca25]

🐈💘🐈‍⬛🖤🧡❤️♥️💕

#puss in boots x kitty softpaws #gato con botas 2 #puss in boots #kitty softpaws #puss x kitty #softboots #gatty #otp

[soil-just-needs-water-to-be]

Right TikTok just attacked me , haven’t been on it all morning and I open it now and this is the second video to appear

#matty healy #george daniel #adam hann #ross macdonald #the 1975 #gatty

[drinkurkombucha]

Final chapter!

The final chapter of Living with George is NSFW and has just gone live. You can read it here. Enjoy! ❤️

#living with George #talking to George #Gatty #the 1975 smut #the 1975 fic

[allylikethecat]

Hey Ally! I’m wondering if you have any recommendations for angsty gatty fics/authors? (I’ve personally coined you the queen of that very specific sub genre haha) and in general, did you have a favorite fic you read (regardless of fandom) in 2023?

Hi! Yes! There are many talented Gatty writers in this fandom and I am so grateful to get to share the same space as them!

Some of my favorites are:

Literally anything and everything that @lookedlikethebins who can be found on AO3 as andfacedown has written - everything hurts SO GOOD

I've also been really enjoying @sundrownsthehouse who can be found on AO3 under the same name.

It's Only Green Where You Water by an anonymous user has absolutely broken me in the best way and I am still obsessed with it even though it hasn't been updated since April - I hope the mystery author is okay! (They have a few other fics listed in the author's notes as well that are also incredible!!)

@0ceanxey3s is another author I really enjoy - and can be found on AO3 as 0ceanxeyes it's more of a general / friendship dynamic between Fictional!Matty and Fictional!George compared to a romantic one but wow do they manage to hurt me in the best way!

@betweenthings2 that can be found on AO3 with the same name has also written some lovely angsty fics!

As always, my all time favorite fic i read in 2023 was Poses by @vinylandcoffeecollection - this is literally my favorite fic in the entire Gatty tag and I have reread it way too many times.

There are SO MANY lovely talented writers in this fandom and this tag and I am sure that I've forgotten some as I just did a quick scroll through my bookmarks tag on AO3! I hope that you enjoy some of these if you haven't read them already! In addition to Gatty I read a lot of Hockey RPF - particularly Leon Draisaitl / Matthew Tkachuk - if that's something you're interested in let me know I can send you SO MANY recs lol Thank you for your kind words about MY writing and for your continued support! I'm so honored and grateful that you've been enjoying my little sub genre of pain and suffering 😂 I hope you have a great rest of your week and thank you again for reading!!

❤️Ally

#allylikethecat #anon ask #ask ally #fanfiction #keep it kind #matty fic #gatty #fanfic #Ally's Fic Recs #there are so many lovely authors in this fandom #and so many lovely wonderful gatty fics #these are just the ones that jump to the forefront of my mind #i hope you enjoy them as much as i did if you havent read them yet!

[bekowsky111]

great dane and possum

#the 1975 #the 1975 fanart #george daniel #george daniel fanart #art #artists on tumblr #manga #comic #matty healy fanart #matty healy #gatty

[19emma75]

sketch of a scene from my fav fic :0)

#extremely niche and self indulgent post #srsly read the fic even if u don’t know the fandom lol #matty x george #the 1975 fic #gatty #my art

[betweenthings2]

gatty and “playfully shying away from them because of their "morning breath"” ❤️

Thank you for the ask!! The prompt list this is from is here if anyone else wants to see it =) I'm very sorry this took my so long to write. I have no good excuse.

Early morning things- playfully shying away from them because of their 'morning breath'

Matty is warm and cozy and just barely conscious. He could go back to sleep. It would be so easy. It would be so, so easy to just go back to sleep, if only George would leave him alone. Matty loves him, but George has a habit of waking Matty up far too early. Were Matty more conscious and more willing to engage, he would admit that George waking him up is one of the few reasons they're mostly on time for things in the morning, but he's not very conscious nor is he willing to engage.

Matty doesn't know what they're supposed to be doing to do or where they're supposed to be, which means it can't actually be that important. That's not really true--Matty has forgotten about plenty of important things--but he likes to think it's true. George is still rubbing his shoulder and saying something, though, so maybe he has actually forgotten about something important.

"Matty," George murmurs. "You've gotta wake up, love."

Matty would very much like to not wake up right now. He's sleepy and if George could resign himself to being late and lay back down, they'd be warm and cozy again.

"C'mon, Matty," George continues. "We've places to be."

"'m 'sleep," Matty mumbles.

George chuckles. "I know, but we made commitments."

"Can be late," Matty tries, eyes still closed.

"We shouldn't be," George counters.

Matty blinks his eyes open and rolls over to face George, who clearly hasn't gotten up yet, either, and asks, "Fifteen more minutes?"

"Probably best not."

Matty groans. "Please? What are we even supposed to be doing today?"

George can't help but laugh again and says, "We're supposed to be in the studio. We already pushed things back 'cause you didn't wanna be up early."

"It is early, George," Matty argues. "I wanna sleep."

George brushes curls out of Matty's face and says, "You're very cute, but we do have to get up," before shifting closer in an attempt to kiss Matty.

Matty shys away with a mock glare, saying, "You have morning breath."

"And you don't?"

Matty shakes his head. "Nope, 'cause I'm perfect."

"See, I was gonna lay here and kiss you, but I guess I could just get up."

Matty does his very best to look very sad and closes the distance between them for a kiss. George lets Matty have it, though he's half tempted to pull back just as Matty had. He's never been good at denying Matty anything. He's pretty sure Matty is perfect.

Matty tucks his head under George's chin when they separate and asks, "Are you sure I can't go back to sleep?"

"Best not," George answers, but he's really not all that interested in getting up either. Matty is close and warm and wonderful and George would be hard pressed to end that.

Matty shifts a little bit closer and drapes his arm over George's waist, like he's daring George to do anything but stay exactly where he is.

"We're going to be late," George tries.

"Who is actually going to be upset?" Matty asks.

"Ross? Hann? We can't just not turn up. We don't even have a good excuse."

"Yeah, we do. I wanna go back to sleep and you wanna stay here with me."

George presses a kiss into Matty's curls and agrees, "Yeah, I do, but we have obligations."

"I hate obligations."

"Yeah."

Matty lets out a breath, warm against George's chest, and asks, "Five minutes?"

"Five minutes," George agrees.

#my fic #matty healy #george daniel #matty x george #gatty

[vinylandcoffeecollection]

Love this pose so much! The thoughts… oh the thoughts…

#the 1975 #matty healy #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy fanfiction #1975 smut #gatty

[lookedlikethebins]

holiday party (plus one)

surprise! have a (belated) holiday oneshot written on a whim because i was thinking about our producer george x TA matty this past break! just wanted to write something fun, something sweet, and see what came up! enjoy this little glimpse! [set ~4months since meeting each other] ~3k words xo

Technically, where Matty lived was considered student housing. He could have friends over for parties, could bring boyfriends back after dates—had brought quite a few boyfriends (and a few one-date-only boys) back—without issue. Matty just couldn’t bring George back after any of their dates. The new hire in the archeology department was more of a local celebrity—known for being the youngest professor on faculty, just a year older than Matty—and not the same as the international kind. Matty had assured George that it wasn’t particularly personal. Simply put (although few things Matty said were to George) if George wanted any bit of his private life to remain within his own control, be his story to tell, he couldn’t be seen wandering around campus, alone or with Matty.

With Matty’s flat off-limits, naturally, George never found it presumptuous when Matty would text George after his evening class to see if George would help grade papers that seemed to show a negative correlation between level of coherency and number of words. Actually, George sort of counted on it. He liked that Matty would invite himself over; never asking if it was okay if he spontaneously dropped by, instead wondering if George simply wanted to keep him company—to which the answer was always yes—then arriving an hour later and knocking on George's front door with said papers and a bottle of wine.

One night in mid-December, George was impatient waiting for Matty’s post-class text. He was nervous Matty would be too exhausted to come over and George would have to figure out another way, and fast, to ask Matty to join him his label event the following night. He didn't think he could face it alone—

But Matty texted, as he always did: last student just left. forgot something in my office but then i’ll be over? x

Matty arrived within the hour, standing outside his door with twice as many papers and wine bottles.

“Final essays.” Matty answered the question George hadn’t yet asked. He pecked George on the lips—George’s preferred form of hello, if he was being honest—and hurried inside from the cold.

Matty looked exhausted, as he had the past few weeks of the term, but at least he’d recently shaved. George was beginning to worry—not only about his general well-being, but Matty’s ability to grow the patchiest beard but the most solid moustache. Meanwhile, George had success with neither and was losing his own ability to grow hair on his head before thirty. Some guys just had all the luck: the looks, brains, sense of humor, charm—

“Which class is this for again? You had three of them.” George said, shutting and locking the door. He flicked off the porch lights, expecting and inviting no other visitors now that Matty was there. He followed after Matty.

Matty was back in his usual spot at George’s kitchen counter, placing one wine bottle down between the barstools before shouldering off his worn, nearly-beaten, leather briefcase onto his seat. Matty always claimed the stool closest to the wall. He began leaving—most likely forgetting—pencils and pens on the lip of the counter that extended up the wall. Even though they’d only been seeing each other for four months, George figured it wouldn’t be too much of a gesture to wordlessly replace his napkin holder with a pencil cup.

“This was the intro class. Other classes finished last week.”

“Right, right.” George nodded. This classifier helped him very little; every class Matty described to George felt introductory. Made him feel like he was sitting in the desks himself, green and confused, just trying to scramble together some foundational understanding.

“I told them: short and succinct. Six pages maximum. They don’t have to show off—I’ll know by how they write it if they are copying, bullshitting, or absolutely clueless. I took the same class—same professor—during my very first term. I know the subject and am their intended audience. I told them seven times last week the only person they were writing to was me. Not Dr. Wriley, not even each other; just me. And you know what they did?” Matty exclaimed. He threw his one empty hand up in exasperation as he looked at the top-most essay in his other hand. “They all wrote me dissertations on Euripides. Which means that I will have no time to work on my own. It’s like they heard I cancelled my trip home and thought I was just planning on fucking about.” Matty rolled his eyes. He paused, lifting his eyebrows in consideration before scowling again. “George, I swear, they gave me so much to read, I’m going to have to call my optometrist again by New Year’s. I'm going to be blind before I graduate."

“I’m sorry, love.” George said, trying to translate the regretful, apologetic look on his face into his voice; Matty hadn’t looked up at him since they greeted each other at the door. With every second that Matty stayed distracted and frazzled, George began to think his entire plan that evening was not a good idea. Not what Matty wanted to be asked after such a taxing day. "Is there anything I can do—”

“—and I know there’s no way you’ve studied the Murray and Woodruff translations so I can’t exactly ask you to read any of these for me so…” Matty paused and grumbled away alternatives to his sentence. “It’s just going to be a very long night. You can help by keeping me awake.”

“Do you have to read them all tonight? Pretty sure you can let yourself have an hour of sleep. Maybe actually have dinner with your boyfriend,” George said. “Think I can convince you of at least that?”

Matty let the full stack of essays thud onto the counter and sighed. His shoulders fell with his exhale as he finally looked back at George. Before he could respond with his usual, quick-witted quip his eyes fell from George’s face to his clothes: his pristine, pressed shirt and polished belt buckle visible just above the countertop; his necklace resting in the gap left by his intentionally neglected shirt buttons; his rings dressing the fingers wrapped around the two stemmed wine glasses; the silver earring George had accidentally taken from Matty’s spot at his bathroom sink—he only ever wore one of them anyway.

“Wait. You’re all dressed up.” Matty seemed startled by the realization. He looked down at his own clothes—a sweater, slacks, and polo combo he wore frequently when he was running on little sleep; comfort and professionalism without having to think too much—and looked back up at George with a look of panic and apology. “You’re all dressed up and I—”

“Look very handsome.” George assured him. He placed both glasses down before grabbing a bottle of wine. They were two different labels: end of term gifts from faculty or perhaps an older, friendlier student. “As you always do—usually I’m the one in slippers and joggers when you come over. Your jumper’s got buttons on it. That’s pretty sophisticated for this place, you know that.” George was hoping Matty would laugh, but concern kept his expression tight and furrowed.

“Are you supposed to be going out—am I interrupting something? Fuck! Oh, shit. Is your stupid little elbow-rubbing holiday party tonight?” Matty gasped as he looked at his watch—before gasping and swearing again. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s not stupid, George. I didn’t mean it like that—” His words began to gain speed and George held out a gentle hand to hopefully slow him back down.

“Don’t be sorry. Label holiday dinner parties are stupid little elbow-rubbing events. You’re completely right. Per usual.” George laughed. “But, if it makes you feel better, it’s tomorrow. I didn’t skip anything. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Oh. Okay.” Matty nodded.

George knew what Matty looked like when he understood something—his face relaxed and he slightly offset his jaw while he dipped his head in slow, steady nods, blinking each time. Standing in his kitchen, Matty’s eyebrows were still knitted together; his eyes were looking between his papers, his keys, his bag, and the door; and he was pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth so harshly George was afraid he’d draw blood.

“Let’s try another one: would you believe I was waiting for you?” George chose to focus on the corkscrew in his hands rather than Matty’s face as he spoke. George was being sincere and he had been waiting for Matty’s arrival since he’d texted him about his first class around noon that day, but George wasn’t sure he was ready for the look on Matty’s face when he admitted the gesture—or if he knew how to minimize the look on his own face in case the act was too much or too soppy when really Matty just wanted to come in and have a quick rant and a hasty glass or two of wine, before sinking deep into his work. George's only job then would be to make sure by midnight Matty was at least no longer in creased trousers and a belt, lounging next to George in bed while he continued to read.

“You didn’t have to do that, George. It was an exam day—and that’s always a crapshoot as to when the students all finish, you know that.”

“But exam day means end of the term, right? Well, minus the grading.” George winced as he waved the removed cork toward the stack of essays. “But that’s something to celebrate, right? You’re free—for at least a little while.”

“Oh, I see. Celebrate, huh?” Matty caught George’s attention again with a short, low laugh. He looked at George with lifted eyebrows. “You know, I’ll never understand your pretense to get dressed up when your main goal is to get undressed. You keep doing it, George. Just answer the door with about fifty percent of an outfit and I’ll get the idea a lot faster. I’m a smart man. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, because you come over after an exhausting day of teaching and dealing with end of year administrative hoop-jumping and the first thing you want to deal with is me practically steering you right to the couch.”

Matty seemed to mull the idea over. “You know, I wouldn’t hate that… But, I guess you’re right. Maybe answering the door fully clothed is a better idea. Perhaps you are sensible, George. I keep forgetting. Thank you.” Matty reached over to touch George’s forearm holding the wine bottle—and about to pour the contents all over the counter. Matty was looking at George with an expression that always took him by surprise. Made him freeze in place and thought. Made him feel in awe, for a split (hopefully) undetectable moment, of the life he’d found himself in.

Matty’s eyes were locked on George’s, not moving even as their moment of connection drug on into an extended silence while George scrambled for his next charming response—just trying to keep up. Matty’s smile was subtle, almost timid, compared to what George knew to be his full, squinted grin. It was all in Matty’s cheeks, in the subtle roundness at their peaks, just under his eyes. A small hint for George; the single location that was a giveaway to George, in an otherwise seemingly neutral expression to everyone else, he was being seen in a startling private and intimate way, even when they were alone.

George knew, once he handed over the full wine glass, he had a limited amount of time before his window of opportunity would close and the night would shift over to a blur of Matty growing chatty and trying to explain the faults of his students papers—and hopefully a few successes—while George gulped down his own wine and sounds of confusion; both of them giggling as the papers were forgotten and empty wine glasses nearly clattering to the floor as Matty climbed to sit on the edge of the counter, legs on either side of George and feet resting on the horizontal back rung of George’s chair; George only wanting to listen to the way his name sounded when being gasped and sucked in through clenched teeth—

“Actually," George began speaking before he could talk himself out of it. "there is a reason—there’s something I wanted to ask you.” George came around and sat down in his chair at the counter. Matty moved his bag and joined George, taking the other wine glass with a quiet thank you.

“Oh, yeah?” Matty kept the subtlety to his smile but let his eyes change from even and gentle to intense and direct. George was going to lose his courage—because he definitely didn’t have the will to resist Matty, sitting in his kitchen without any early classes the next morning, looking sharp and clever in his work clothes, freshly shaved, and looking at George like that without even a drop of wine in him. “What else is there you could ask me to do, George? If you’ve thought of it and I haven’t tried it, you’ll really surprise me.”

“Would you like to go with me tomorrow?” George said. He took a gulp of wine from his glass. “Be my date to my stupid little elbow-rubbing dinner.”

Matty’s confusion returned faster than before. “Wait—to the label holiday party? W-Work? You want me to go to a work function with you?”

“You asked me if I wanted to go to a faculty dinner the other week.”

“Yeah, because half the department is over sixty-five, doesn’t actually know my name, and hasn’t listened to any music that came out after the year they first started getting laid. They probably would’ve thought you taught there too! But your work… that’s a real dinner, George. Those are important people.”

“And so are you.” George said. He hated how immediate his response was, if only for how canned it sounded. He’d already thought of each of Matty’s arguments; he wanted to bring Matty to a party filled with people that pretended to know him best. If they were going to market him and his personal work (and personal life), they could at least know just who that involved. “My work is important to me, but you are too, equally so. I don’t see the issue. Sort of a natural combination, I’d think.”

“George,” Matty said with a quiet sigh of pity. “I barely knew who you were when we met. I-I should not be in a room with… with… pioneers of culture. I will make a fool out of myself, and worse, you.”

“You won’t make a fool out of me, Matty. You forget I’ve been attending these things for ten years. I used to bring ‘girlfriends’ with me. Absolutely no one has made me look more like an idiot than me at important, career-defining label functions, let me assure you.” George said with a laugh. He reached over to place a hand on Matty’s leg. “I know this is a big ask though, coming to something like this. But it’s a close-door dinner party—just, well, I guess they’re my co-workers. The boys will be there, definitely. But if you don’t want to—”

“I didn’t say that. Never said I didn’t want to go, but...” Matty placed his hand on top of George’s, his finger mindlessly tracing the ring on George’s pinky. “Am I really the person you want to bring along and introduce to... genuinely your entire social circle? Social and work circle? Talk about pissing where you eat, George.”

“Matty, I’m pretty sure everyone on the label being my friends is the example of pissing where I eat. Not bringing you to a party.” George said, shaking his head. “People asked me if you were coming, if you must know.”

“Probably because they don’t want me to be there—” Matty cut himself off with a long sip of wine.

“Matty,” With two fingers, George carefully grabbed the stem of his glass and eased it away from his mouth—without spilling it down the front of him. “First off, even if someone didn’t want you to be there—for whatever reason: you’re new, you’re not industry, you’re a man—I’d still like you to be there. Me. As my date. Not theirs... If you wanted, of course.”

Matty paused and began to bite his thumbnail. “Are you sure no one’s going to mind if I’m just… sitting there in the corner, awkward and quiet?”

“Babe, what do you think I do at these things?” George laughed. He waited for Matty to smile, his mouth preoccupied and unable to chew his cuticle, before using one finger to lower Matty's hand back down to his own lap, where George was holding his other hand. “It’ll be nice to finally have someone join me in the corner.”

Matty inhaled slowly, squeezing George’s hand before speaking again. “I’d love to go.”

“Yeah?” George’s relief—his joy—came out as incredulity. As the immediate questioning of Matty’s decision—and accidental chance to rescind his response. George held his breath but didn't have to wait very long.

“Yes! Yes, I want to go with you. Corner and all.” Matty managed to say before George kissed him.

In a breathless giggle, hands resting on George’s shoulders, Matty said he was very lucky there was a wall behind him.

#gatty #gatty fanfic #matty x george #george daniel x matty healy #producer george and TA matty fic #andfacedown fics #this isn't going on ao3 (yet) so shhh just for you guys #enjoy and thank you for indulging this au that happened bc of my stretch of listening to abiior interviews while copyediting #producer george oneshot

[applesfallingfromblondehair]

this feeling, guess the meaning - chapter 12

“Well, then,” Ross declares, confident as a big-shot football lawyer about to have two teams sign on a multi-million-pound acquisition. “I suppose you are.” “I’m what?” “Are you really going to make me say it?” “I’m afraid so.” “You’re…” Ross grins as he chews on his bottom lip and looks at the crack in his ceiling, the one he sometimes stares at for way too long when he’s nervous or sad and ends up believing is coming apart, getting wider and wider until whatever’s above it comes crashing down on his head. But it never does, of course. And today, it doesn’t even look scary. It’s just there, looking down at him, as if it was telling him to get the fuck on with it. “You’re my favourite.”

Read it on AO3

and you can find the (very important) companion playlist here

#writing #the 1975 rpf #matty healy rpf #ross macdonald rpf #george daniel rpf #matty and ross #matty and george #matty x george #matty x ross #this feeling guess the meaning #tfgtm #baby 75 #gatty #moss #the two worst couples tags ever created but we roll with em still

[sundrownsthehouse]

Can you read my mind? I've been watching you (Part I of III)

Find it here on AO3 (I much prefer the formatting there)

Pairing: Matty/George

Summary: Matty's bored. He decides to make it everyone's problem.

(AKA a fic about that unhinged video of Matty gagging on his own fingers.)

Words: ~2k

Rating: E

Matty was bored. 

Supremely, mind-numbingly bored. The kind of bored that had him antsy, doom scrolling through his socials, picking at his clothes, and bouncing his legs, unable to sit still— that had him searching for any kind of stimulation. It was the kind of bored that tended to drive him to irritate the fuck out of everyone else in his immediate vicinity. For all the years he’d spent touring the world, he had never quite figured out how to pass the time during a flight if he wasn’t throwing back Ativan like tic tiacs. 

Those were the days, he thought grimly. 

Shifting uncomfortably in the reclined leather seat, Matty craned his neck to peek at the others. From the dim glow of the track lights running down the center aisle of the plane he could just make out their sleeping forms bundled in thin, threadbare blankets. They’d been going non-stop, and their schedule was so tight that the red-eye was probably the only opportunity any of them would have to get some rest before they were whisked off to the next show. Luckily, Jamie had managed to book a long-hauler equipped with sleeper seats, not that it was doing Matty any good. He eyed Adam snoring peacefully into his pillow across the aisle with envy; if fucking only. Checking the time on his phone he sighed aloud, running a hand down his face. They had hours to go before they landed in Honolulu, and Matty simply could. Not. Sit. Still. 

He was on edge, and truthfully, rather miffed. George had rejected every advance he’d made in the last 48 hours, and it was driving him to distraction. 

This thing they had between them was still new, still undefined, but God, if it wasn’t all Matty could think about. It had started out innocently enough— a clumsy, tequila-induced fumble after a show a few weeks back— but from there quickly spiraled into the two of them sneaking around, unable to stop themselves from crashing into each other over and over (and over) again. Sex with George was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. There was something profound about it, something deeply intimate and dirty and right and— 

Matty exhaled shakily, vision softening as his mind wandered back to the hotel room in Chicago. The tactile memory of George’s massive hands all over his body— gripping his hair, stroking his sweat-slick skin, squeezing his cock— evoked a sharp flash of desire that surged through his chest and settled low in his groin. He bit the inside of his cheek remembering the way George had fucked him into the mattress, thrusting so deep inside him that he’d seen stars as tears of pleasure pricked at the corners of his eyes.

So he was a little infatuated; sue him. He couldn’t help it if now that he’d had a taste, he could never get enough. And as far as Matty was concerned, they had decades of catching up to do.

George was cautious; he didn’t want anyone to know just yet, and went to great lengths to cover their tracks, intent on remaining inconspicuous. Whatever this development in their relationship was, it would surely have an effect on the band. On the music. Maybe. They weren’t quite sure what it all meant yet, so he didn’t want to broach the subject with the others unless they had to— and that was just the kind of reasonable, level-headed logic that Matty couldn’t be arsed with. 

A small movement from the corner of Matty’s eye caught his attention. Two rows down and across the aisle, one of the blanketed heaps— the largest— shifted and turned on its side, searching in vain for a more comfortable position.

He really couldn’t help himself.

M: you up? 

Nestled back in his seat, he watched the blue light of George’s phone silently illuminate the ceiling of the plane. The reply came immediately:

G: no

Matty smirked. George was protective of his sleep, and a mardy fucker if you dared disturb him, but that was a chance he was willing to take— damn the consequences. He took another cursory glance around the cabin.

M: meet me in the bathroom?  G: why would i meet you in the bathroom?  M: everyone’s asleep…

Matty popped his head into the aisle to spy George sitting up, blanket shrugged off his chest, his fingers flying across the screen. 

G: you’re joking M: not G: are you mental?? M: obviously ;)

He thought he could make out the faint sound of George snorting over the steady thrum of the plane, but he couldn’t be sure. His phone vibrated. 

G: thanks but no thanks love x

Matty frowned. 

Not here. Not now. That was all George had to say to him for the last two days. They were booked tight with back-to-back shows, and when they weren’t traveling or performing they were inundated with endless press, leaving precious little downtime— which would’ve been just fine had George been capable of keeping his hands to himself.

Whether it was an innocently placed hand on the small of his back, an arm slung around his neck, or a teasing brush against the curve of his arse, George took every opportunity to rile Matty up, smirking with satisfaction whenever he managed to make him stutter or lose his train of thought. They’d always been physically affectionate, but it was undeniably different now; there was something like ownership in George’s touch, and it made Matty shiver. Not to mention the way that George looked at him when he thought no one would notice. Matty’s knees went weak each time he caught George’s heated gaze raking lazily over his body from across the room. He looked at Matty as though he were something indecent.

The unspoken tension between them had grown so unbearable that on more than one occasion, Matty had dragged him toward an empty closet or dressing room out of sheer desperation, only to be met with the same measured response:

Not here. Not now. Be patient.

Matty was sick of being patient. He wanted George to shove him up against the wall of the dodgy airplane bathroom already and fuck him until he couldn’t see straight. Dignity be damned. 

The drive to the airport was the final straw. In the dark back seat of the Sprinter Matty held his breath in silent shock as George’s hand crept up his inner thigh to slowly massage his cock through his jeans, like a horny fucking teenager. He had to bite his tongue (literally) to keep from making some horribly pathetic sound whilst George carried on a full conversation with Adam and Ross, the passing street lights illuminating the small smile ghosting his lips. It was torture. George was playing with him, seemed to be doing everything in his power to make Matty’s life hell, and to top it all off, he was enjoying it. 

For all his kumbaya, inner peace, yoga-loving-meditation bullshit, George was a control freak. It was in the way he would obsess over a piece of music until it was perfect, bending pitch and beat and melody to his whim until it pleased him. It was the subtle change in his demeanor when he was behind the kit in a live show, driving the pace of the entire performance, knowing that the fate of it all rests with him. And it was never more obvious than when they were tangled together, their bodies flushed with exertion as they gave in to twenty-odd years of repressed desire. George was sweet, kind, and deeply tender; he was also impatient, possessive, and exacting. He hid it well, but beneath his placid smile and gentle bearing, there was a quiet hunger in George that demanded to be fed. Matty found himself utterly intoxicated by the contradiction of it.

Though Matty reckoned that he at least gave as good as he got; figuring out how to provoke George had very recently become his latest obsession. Maybe it stemmed from the boyish competitiveness of their school years, some childhood dynamic they never really outgrew as men. In any case, knowing how to turn George on was its own kind of power. Besides, he’d never been too proud to beg.

M: please. need you. M: i’m desperate ok? M: i’ll be so quiet, no one will know   M: pleasepleaseplease

A minute passed. No response. 

Dejected, Matty peeked down the aisle and nearly jumped out of his skin. George was staring back at him, his expression carefully composed, dark eyes glittering with an unspoken warning in the low light. He merely shook his head once, subtly, but the message was loud and clear. No.

Gritting his teeth, Matty flung himself back in his seat like a petulant child. He checked the time again, running through the math in his head; they still had six hours to go before they landed in Hawaii. He was going to lose his mind on this aluminum death trap hurdling through the sky, and he was going to make it everyone’s problem.

With that thought a ridiculous idea crossed his mind. It was impulsive, completely outrageous, even for him— and that really was saying something— but the more Matty considered it, the more amusing it became. It was a little out of pocket, sure, but then again, that was sort of his brand these days, wasn’t it? He lifted his phone, opened his front-facing camera, and pressed record.

Peering at the screen, he reckoned that he didn’t look half-bad. Clearly tired and a little ragged, but in a sexy, disheveled sort of way. His hair was a nightmare, and he briefly tried to fix it before accepting that it was probably futile, giving up entirely. That wasn’t the point, anyway. Staring down the lens with heavy, hooded eyes, Matty let his mouth fall open gently as he brought his fingers to his lips, embracing the thrill of arousal that snaked up his spine from the boldness of what he was about to do. 

Before he could talk himself out of it he opened wider, guiding three of his fingers back, back, back until they filled his mouth to the middle knuckle, forcing him to breathe through his nose. He pressed down on his tongue ever so slightly, reveling in the feeling— it was probably the cigarettes, but he’d always had a bit of an oral fixation. The fullness made him think about George’s cock, thick and heavy, stretching him to his limit because George was big, and fuck if Matty didn’t love the way he made his jaw ache. He shuddered, eyes rolling back as he lost himself to the image of George standing over him, a tight fist in his hair, groaning at the silky heat of Matty’s mouth. Spurred on by the fantasy, Matty shoved his hand further until his eyes began to water, brow furrowing at the intrusion. 

When the tip of his middle finger brushed the back of his throat he gagged harshly, jerking in his seat; the sudden movement made him groan. He didn’t particularly care if anyone could hear it.

Chest heaving from the effort, Matty removed his wet fingers from mouth, saliva dragging across his chin. He stopped the video. Watched it back. Turned the sound off and added some heavy track with a slamming beat and a grungy guitar.

And hit post.

The plane shook as it passed through an air pocket. Matty gripped the armrests of his seat, uneasy, his heart hammering in his chest. It had little to do with the turbulence.

In the moment, the video seemed like a good idea; now, he wasn’t so sure. Could he get canceled for this? He wanted to scoff at the thought, but a tiny seed of doubt had taken hold in the back of his mind as the notifications continued to roll in at a relentless pace. Most of them were inconsequential. Only one actually mattered.

Seen by bedforddanes75

#the 1975 #matty healy #george daniel #matty x george #george daniel fic #matty healy fic #the 1975 fic #adam hann #cyrmm #I wasn't going to post this yet #but I really feel I need to so I stop editing it #I'm sorry I'm so slow #but I'm actually very proud of this and the next part #and I'd love to hear if anyone enjoys it #gatty

[the-1975ive]

#george daniel #matty healy #gatty #the 1975