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She is under the label Dirty Hit and he owns a 4% stock in that company. He doesn’t hold any administrative position in the company, and he has the same share in stocks as George, Ross, and Adam do.
Comparing this situation with Taylor Swift and Scooter Braun is insane.
One could make the argument that Taylor’s own father is just as villainous when it comes to Masters rights as Matty Healy is. Taylor’s dad owned 3% stock in her old record label, and earned millions of dollars when her music was sold out of her hands. Yet Taylor Swift obviously is fine with that because it’s a totally different situation.
It’s fair for Rina to be upset that someone she doesn’t like or agree with profits from her music. But it was a straight up lie that Matty owns her masters. He doesn’t.
Please spread this post to counteract misinformation.
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At The 1975’s show today in Vienna, fans held up signs which said “You’re So Loved” for Matty during “I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)” he saw them and thanked the fans repeatedly, assuring them he was fine because he had his friends, but it still meant a lot to him.
Taylor’s fans, on the other hand, spent today cheering and celebrating her breakup. Along with the usual comments about Matty being ugly, gross, and a drug addict, I also saw people screaming “BULLYING WORKS” in celebration that Taylor’s relationship likely ended due to fan backlash.
I’m not going to choose between Taylor and Matty as people, because I love them and their work so much. I will continue being a fan of both. but I certainly know which fandom and community I’m choosing.
“You know what we haven’t done in a while?” I whispered, reaching out my hands towards him. He dropped his phone to the coffee table, turning to face me, lacing his fingers in mine.
“I was just thinking about that,” he replied, thumbs skipping over my knuckles.
“Oh,” I frowned, “What were you thinking?”
He paused, tongue wetting his lower lip, “What were you thinking?”
“Now I don’t want to say anything,” I took my hands from his, standing from the couch. I walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard.
“Don’t be so secretive,” he called from the sofa, “What haven’t we done in a while?”
I filled the glass under the tap, giggling to myself, “Nothing.”
“Darling,” he warned, shuffling into the kitchen. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, the curls tamped down from the weight of the day. “I hate when you make me guess.”
“But you were so certain,” I took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. He rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Go ahead and tell me, since you can read my mind.”
“You’re just itching for a fight,” he grumbled in my ear, “And I can read your mind.”
I laughed, pressing my forehead to his, “Then what am I thinking of right now?”
He smirked, “Me.”
“Wrong,” I smiled, taking another sip of water. He raised an eyebrow, grabbing the glass from my hand, letting his fingers linger on mine. His hands were cold, almost painfully so, and I thought of pressing them against the warmth of my stomach. He sipped the water, studying my face with his ever-softening eyes. His head tipped back, finishing the glass.
“You’re thinking of my neck,” he set the glass down on the counter, skimming his hand up my wrist.
“You’re not playing fair,” I accused, his hand firm at my elbow.
“Do I ever?” he kissed my cheek, humming laughter in my ear. His hands moved to my waist, finding the heat of my skin to soothe his frigid fingers. “You’re thinking of my hands.”
“Obviously,” I tried to sound unimpressed, but the delicate pressure of his hands trailing up my ribcage drew a sigh from my throat. My forearms rested against his chest, my hands on the back of his neck. I could feel the bumps in his spine, circling my finger around each raised bone.
“You’re wanting to take my shirt off,” he breathed in my ear, lips finding their way down my neck.
“No,” I tried to refuse, but it came out as a needy sigh.
“Really?” he sang, tutting against my skin, “I suppose you’re right. I really can’t read you at all.”
“Mhm,” I managed, head lulling to the side as he nipped at the curve of my shoulder.
“So,” he slipped my shirt over my head easily, “You’re not thinking of me lifting you onto this counter?”
“I’m not,” I blinked, watching him slowly unbutton his shirt. He couldn’t contain his grin.
“You’re not thinking of me fucking you, right here, right now?” he drew out the sentence into a low whisper, catching my breath in my throat. “Are you thinking of me inside of you, darling?”
I was silent as he gently lifted me onto the counter, his nose nudging my cheek. My blood seemed to thicken, stilling in my veins. He smiled into my jawline as gasps fluttered from my mouth.
“Should I tell you what I’m thinking?” he cocked his head to the side, leaning back to look at me. I was already breathing in pants, watching him unbuckle his jeans between my legs.
I nodded, and he grinned. His hands moved up the outside of my thighs carefully.
“I’m thinking of your pretty mouth wrapped around me,” he murmured, hands finding the button of my jeans, “I’m thinking of all the soft sounds you make under me, how you say my name against my mouth.” He pulled off my jeans, hands thumbing the lace at my hips. He looked at me, pupils grappling for the edge of his irises, patiently waiting for me to reply.
My heart was beating too fast for me to speak.
“Nothing to say?” he smirked, “Should I just give you what I know you want?”
“Arrogant,” I mumbled, shivering as his hands undid the clasp of my bra.
“Sure,” he discarded the garment, “I have no idea what you want.”
“Right,” I nodded, reaching for the curve of his bicep.
“You don’t want your hair in my fist,” he drew a hand up my back and into my hair, grabbing a handful at the back of my head, “You don’t want my hand between your legs.” His fingers lightly pressed below my bellybutton, steady and unmoving.
Then, suddenly, it was cold, his hands retreating as he stepped away. I looked at him, my mouth parted and cheeks flushed.
“What?” he leaned against the fridge, crossing his arms over his chest. I closed my mouth, sighing in frustration. “Something to say?”
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