Damonsxlt - Gimme British Boys

my frontal lobe is made up of graham coxon and thom yorke and that’s it

Ed O’Brien  //  Radiohead live on 2 Meter Sessions

Little ghost, tall, tan like milk and honey

brooklyn baby | lana del rey

Be mine?

Could you do some headcannons for soft, domestic graham too??

i was hoping someone would request this. here’s some lovey, dovey, homey graham for u hehe. going to assume u mean blur-timeline graham but they’re not very time-specific so they could be modern graham too! please remember that my inbox is open to literally any requests.

- it was a rare occurrence that graham would return home empty handed. somehow, along the way, he’d always have procured some small gift for you whether it be in the form of a takeaway coffee/tea, a little bouquet of flowers or something you’d mentioned literally once in a passing conversation a couple of weeks back. it showed you he really listened to you, so you didn’t mind. after saying you liked basil once, graham returned home with a fully-fledged kitchen herb garden kit that you now tended to together as if it were your child; “I think herbie needs watering today, love.” 

- your apartment doubled as a studio for graham, in both a musical and artistic sense. sure, there was a couple of paint stains pressed into the carpet that you couldn’t seem to scrub out and graham always seemed to be huffing about misplacing his notebook when he’d settled down to write, but it was refreshing to see him so silently motivated. you’d often hear the gentle strum of guitar strings from the other room as you read, a smile stretching across your face at the serenity. there’d also often be times where graham had managed to cover one of his striped shirts in various colours of acrylic paint and he’d just insist you gave him a hug, chasing you with outstretched arms when you refused. a heavy mix of chaos and calm, always. 

- graham wasn’t the best at waking up early; he’d always find himself arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed against your back, begging with a meek, low voice “just stay for a little while longer, sweetheart”. it was always an offer you simply couldn’t refuse. here, he’d be particularly obsessed with playing with your fingers. large, calloused fingers toying and intertwining with your smaller digits in an absentminded manner, usually talking about the day’s work ahead with a soft smile on his face. he looked at you like you put the sun in the sky. maybe for him, you even did.  

- graham grew increasingly silent as he approached going away for tour, probably in some distancing tactic that never really truly worked out for him. he’d writhe to rest his head in your lap as you were curled up watching some drivel on TV and you’d respond by carefully running your fingers through his hair, reminding him that you’d ‘be there when he came back’ to a reluctant nod; “i know, love, i just wish you could come.” 

- graham didn’t sing often at home, much to your protest. he said he found the whole affair a little embarrassing, you weren’t sure why. the only time he’d really sing was when you were having particular difficulty getting to sleep. he’d let you lie against his chest, fingers twirling the ends of your hair, humming lowly so you could feel the warmth through he chest. 

- getting annoyed at the amount of clothing this man seems to amass. not that you also didn’t live in his clothes but, really, what does anyone need sixty pairs of shoes for?

- graham seems to collect little trinkets as if he has the brain of a magpie. his desk was an interesting place; the broken cup from damon’s mother, one of those commemorative pennies from a zoo you went to together, one of your lost earrings. you’d implore him to have a clear-out but he’d protest that “it’s organised chaos!”