#but i guess that makes sense because i do love to torture fictional matty and make his life miserable

[allylikethecat]

Matty/George and no. 36 🥰

on anon so there's no pressure if you don't feel like it!

Oh my gosh this is so exciting no one has ever actually sent me a request for one of those prompts I reblog before. Thank you so much!! I hope this is what you're looking for? It's probably not since it's not what I intended to write but alas it is what has happened and I hope you like it! Please let me know!

❤️Ally

Kiss ... to give up control 

Matty was drunk. The world was moving around him in slow motion, like a montage in a movie, panning across the party, highlighting the short skirts and high heels of glistening bodies, drinks spilling on the floor as people moved to the beat. Matty could feel the hyper pop bass in his chest, deep and pulsing as George worked the crowd. This wasn’t his scene anymore, he didn’t know if it ever truly had been, or if he had just wanted it to be. He was too old to be here, bringing up the median age ten years with his presence alone. The gray in his hair was au naturale instead of a stylized fashion statement. He didn’t wear glitter anymore. He wondered if he should. 

There was a new drink in his hand, he wasn’t sure what number it was, some kind of toxic, neon concoction sure to leave him bent over the toilet later from the sugar alone, to say nothing of the paint stripping alcohol content. He hardly drank liquor anymore, and he was paying for it with the way the colors blurred before his eyes, like a watercolor painting. 

It’s what he wanted though. He wanted to stop thinking, his head had been too loud lately. His thoughts a flashing neon sign, buzzing in an off rhythm reminding him that he was a bad person, the grave he dug himself becoming deeper and deeper each time he tried to course correct. At the rate he was going the cadaver dogs wouldn’t even be able to find his body, buried abandoned under the forest floor of his own creation. His doctors wanted to adjust his meds. He wanted to bring himself to take them in the first place, the pill bottles collecting dust in his bathroom, the seals unbroken. 

He wanted to step outside of his body, he wanted to see the world from the outside, he wanted to see if there was a way to salvage the situation, if there was a way to salvage the sad life and times of Matthew Timothy Healy or if he was destined to be a footnote in music history, consumed by a persona of his own creation. He didn’t know where he started and his character ended. He didn’t know if he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he was going to like what he found. He took a sip of his drink. It burned all the way down. He wanted to give up control for a little while. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to be, he just wanted to exist.

Matty stumbled forward, spilling his drink, the bright liquid splashing against the cuff of his button down, causing the fabric to stick to his wrist uncomfortably as someone pressed themselves against his back, grinding their hips against his ass. He turned, eyes flashing with liquid confidence, ready to tell them to fuck off, the words “respect for your elders” curled against the tip of his tongue when he looked up, making eye contact with George. His set must be over, Matty thought dimly as George spun him around the rest of the way and tugged him close, slotting their bodies together front to front, his fingers digging into the new meat of Matty’s hips possessively. 

Matty dropped his drink, the heavy cocktail glass shattering as it hit the ground, sending the thick razor shards in all directions, crunching under Matty’s boots as they swayed. His hands groping at Geroge’s shoulders as he pressed closer, as if he tried hard enough he could crawl into George’s skin and they could become one. He buried his face into the divot between George’s pecs, his own patterned buttoned down nearly open to the navel, the valley of which was at perfect eye level as he breathed in the sweaty musk that was so purely George. George’s hands snaked under the gauzy fabric of his shirt, untucking it from his slacks as his blunt nails scraped against the delicate skin of his flank causing him to shiver.

“What did you think?” George asked, his voice hot against Matty’s ear, the timber of his voice vibrating through his chest, straight to Matty’s lips. Matty whined in response, his head felt heavy from both the alcohol in his veins and the haze of being so completely enveloped, so completely consumed by George.

“That good?” George asked, with a chuckle, that went straight to Matty’s dick. Distantly, he was impressed it still worked with how much he had to drink. George knew that Matty hated the synthetic hyper pop beats, knew that he hated the clubs George played under a false name, knew that he would be there anyway, drinking uncomfortably on the fringes of the crowd supporting him full heartedly. 

George tilted Matty’s head back, bringing their lips together, licking at Matty’s teeth, at the sickly sweet cocktails he had been drinking, probing for the ever present tang of tobacco even though it had been over an hour since his last cigarette. Matty moaned against George’s mouth, a soft low pitch sound as his eyes rolled back and his head lulled, loose and entirely at George’s mercy. George pulled back, breathing heavily, knowing that Matty was slipping away, knowing they were standing in a crowded room, knowing he needed to take Matty home. A string of saliva connecting them before Matty’s tongue darted out, hot and slick, stained purple from the cocktails to lick as his lower lip, as if searching for the remnants of George left on his skin.  

“We’re leaving.” George said and Matty nodded sluggishly, the lights were on but no one was home as he slipped further into the haze.

George knew that sometimes Matty needed to get out of his own head. He knew that sometimes he needed to stop thinking, and that sometimes he needed someone else to be in control.