#andrew in DENIM?

[nobleriver]

The Walking Dead // The Ones Who Live

After I left here, why did you come after me? You know why...You're the love of my life. I couldn't just let you go.

[lifemod17]

No Plan introduction you will always be famous to me

"Don't sweat the small things. There is far more magnificently worse things to look forward to, I promise you that."

🎥: leilu14 | youtube

Boch Center Wang Theater || 11/12/2019

[unreal-unearthed]

COULD VERY WELL BE OUR FIRST OUTFIT OF TOUR

from a podcast recording he did today (📸 themusicpimp)

[anthonyamadeo]

Lee Andrew Young by Anthony Amadeo

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Andrew Scott shot by Bartek Szmigulski for FW24 diaries99

Preorder www.diaries99.com

[disarmluna]

[throbby-robby]

Big shoutout to whoever was responsible for dressing Pope Cody. He looks so good it’s indecent.

[bullet-prooflove]

Tomorrow: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol

Companion piece to:

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

On Pope’s first birthday out of Folsom, he wants one thing and one thing only.

A quiet night with you.

Good food, a bottle of wine and twelve uninterrupted hours tangled up in your sheets.

What he gets instead is a paintball gun to the back, a sky driving exercise that’s dysfunctional even by his standards and the most fucking awkward cake blowing debacle in the universe. All of that is topped off with a trip to the strip club, one with a private dance he really does not fucking want.

By the time he gets to your place he’s wound up, agitated and a little drunk from the shots he’s been throwing down his neck trying to drown out his asshole family. He’s already feeling shitty when he steps over the threshold but it gets worse when he sees the burnt out candle on the kitchen table, the two vacant place settings and the half-drunk bottle of wine.

“Fuck.” He mutters, his eyes stinging.

You’ve made a real effort tonight, he can tell from the scent of carbonara that infiltrates his nostrils, the decadent red velvet cupcakes you picked up from his favourite bakery before Folsom. He’d meant to call the first chance he got, but that chance, it never came because there was always one of those assholes dogging his footsteps, clasping his shoulder, telling him to buck up and have good time.

He can tell you’re not in the house as he lingers in the kitchen. The backdoor that leads to the beach is ajar. When he steps out onto the decking, the fairy lights he helped hook up twinkle back at him, creating an iridescent glow in the darkness as the sound of the sea crashing against the shore echoes in his ears.

He finds you curled up asleep on the porch swing, the book you were reading tucked underneath your head.

Waiting up for him, he thinks. The wine though, it always knocks you right out.

You’re wearing denim cut offs, and the khaki coloured shirt you bought him when he first got out of Folsom because you wanted him to have something that was his, something untainted by his time in prison. It was such a small gift, but it had meant the goddamn world to him.

You look so peaceful in that moment, so untroubled by the world. In comparison he’s  fucked up, fraught, devastated because his family, they’re destroying him without even knowing it.

“I’m sorry baby.” He whispers, his fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair back behind your ear. “I’m messing this up and I don’t want that, I don’t want…”

To lose you, for the only good thing in his life to go up in flames.

He shivers from the chill in the nighttime air before he scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back inside the house. You mumble in your sleep, snuggling closer into his chest and that simple action is enough to make him feel whole again because it means that you still want him, that you still trust him.

He’s gentle putting you to bed, helping you out of your shorts before he tucks the quilt around you. You settle into the middle of the mattress, your face pressing into his pillow with a discontented sigh. You hadn’t slept well the entire time he was in Folsom. You’d always hated the fact his side of the bed was empty.

He strips off his clothes down to his boxers before climbing in alongside of you. Your legs entwine with his as you nestle into the shelter of his body, your lips lightly brushing over the scar above his heart, the one where another con almost killed him.

“Tomorrow, we’ll have a do over.” He promises you, his hand smoothing over your hair. “Tomorrow it’ll just be me and you, just the way it was supposed to be.”

Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[silens-oro]

Chicken Hawk (Well Enough Alone Companion)

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Part III

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: J learns how Hawk got her nickname. Word Count: 791 Content Warning: typical Animal Kingdom warnings; drinking; drug use A/N: I juggled with whether I should post this or not and just said fuck it. Please comment & reblog :)

“I’ve never really thought about it, but why does everyone call you ‘Hawk’?” J’s innocent question brought grins to Baz, Craig, and Deran’s faces. The group, minus Smurf, were hanging around the den after a “successful” job. Hawk didn’t want to know the details, so Pope kept it at that. Spirits were high, nearly as high as Craig was after his second line of coke that he was not shy about doing in front of anyone. The heat from Pope’s side brought her comfort, so Hawk nestled even closer to him, bringing her legs up to curl behind her. She was working on her third beer as they reminisced about the past. 

“You had to have been, what? Thirteen? Fourteen?” Baz asked, bringing his attention to Hawk. His eyes were glassy after so many beers and his grin was easy-going. 

“I was thirteen,” Hawk mumbled over the lip of the beer bottle she brought up to her mouth. The memory brings up the feeling of humiliation and it turns Hawk’s stomach just as it did when she was a teen. 

It was the summer before her mother died. Julia let her borrow a very racy bikini, one a newly thirteen year old had no business wearing, so they could tan poolside. Hawk was very aware of the eyes on her from Baz, Craig, and Pope. In her brain it was innocent attention -attention that a young teen thinks she wants, but Hawk’s naivete made her shake her now grown head at the memory. She learned the hard way that not all attention was good attention. Her newly growing confidence was shattered after this series of events.

“Right, so Craig and a very young Deran, in their infinite wisdom, thought it would be really funny to toss a snake at Hawk and Julia while they were tanning outside or some shit. The snake landed on Hawk and got caught in her bikini top, so when she went to yank the snake off, the whole top came off with it when she flung the fucking thing across the yard,” Craig was howling. “Your tits were the first I ever saw that weren’t in a fucking magazine, Hawk. Kept that in the bank for at least a year. Thanks for that, by the way.” He tipped his bottle at her and she felt Pope tense under her. She brought a hand up to his thigh to let him know he didn’t need to get worked up, but it did little to stop the look he was directing to Craig.

“If only I had a fucking gun, Craig,” She threatened as she turned her head to hide in Pope’s chest. This caused Craig to laugh even harder. 

 “Anyway, her scream was so high pitched-” Baz continued explaining to J, clearly enjoying the show.

“-It sounded like a chicken hawk.” Hawk glared at Baz as she cut in. “So Baz decided that’s what he was going to call me during my formative high school years after I had been traumatized. These assholes were merciless about it, to the surprise of no one. I didn’t wear another bikini for years. And I still hate snakes.” Hawk mumbled that last bit. 

“The name got shortened to just Hawk after a while, and it’s been that way ever since. I don’t even remember what your real name is,” Baz dodged a throw pillow with a laugh. 

“You’re a real comedian, Baz.” Hawk snorted.

“I didn’t think it was very funny,” Pope spoke up, glaring at Craig. Pope’s arm tightened around Hawk’s shoulders. One of her hands absentmindedly scratched against the denim on his thigh. 

“Holy shit, I forgot about that!” Baz howled from his spot on the opposite sofa.

“We can just end this here,” Craig said, rolling a joint on the table, not wanting to dredge up the payback he received. 

“Actually, Craig,” Hawk sat up. Pope’s arm fell behind her, but he always kept a point of contact by flattening his palm against her lower back. “I want to hear what this is about.” Hawk had no idea what they were talking about and was incredibly interested in what Pope was insinuating. 

“Two or three days after these two idiots throw the snake, Craig wakes up in the middle of the night screaming.” Baz began with enthusiasm, “Naturally we all ran in to see what the hell's going on and when Smurf flips the light switch on, Craig’s bed is covered in snakes. I’m talking some Indiana Jones shit. And he was so freaked out, he pissed himself!” Hawk, with her jaw dropped, turned to look at Pope who shrugged, -cool as a cucumber- and simply stated:

“Thought he liked snakes.” Then took a sip of his beer. 

please comment & reblog :)

[fortheloveoffanfic]

The Profound Pleasure of Little Things

Hozier x reader

Author's note: Basically the thought was, "ohh, what if there was a real moment that inspired Wasteland!baby."

Summary: Andrew and Y/n spend an afternoon at the beach.

Warnings - poorly written fluff, I guess.

"I think if the world ended right now, I'd be alright with that.”

After spending the past fifteen minutes or so bearing witness to her magnificence. Ireland's solem grey sky meeting the frigid, green water and acting as a cool toned backdrop to the brightness of her beauty. The way those deep, blue jeans hug her curves, the woolen burgundy coat, draped over a band tee, that follows the contour of her frame and her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stands a few feet off the edge, gaze cast out towards the horizon; as if the world below them had been thought up just for her.

As Y/n turns to face him, the wind whips her hair forward, and he smiles when she hastily brushes away from her eyes. “What?” She chortles, but there's an air of disbelief in the word and she tilts her head a little to the side, “why?”

Licking his lips, Andrew pushes off the boulder he's been perched on, one converse-clad foot planted on the ground while the other stayed propped on a smaller rock jutting from the lush grass. “Because,” he stuffs his hands into the side pockets of the denim jacket he's thrown over his red flannel, “I've seen you, standing here and that's gotta be the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Y/n rolls her eyes; he's awfully romantic when he doesn't mean to be – and mind-bogglingly terrible at it when he actively tries. Just that morning he'd clumsily danced them into the kitchen table after daring more than their usual sway. But now, after a long afternoon drive and an impromptu hike up a hill that overlooks the sea, he's stringing together the sort of lines that make her cheeks go warm and stirs a flutter in her chest. “You're being dramatic,” she teases, relinquishing her hand when he reaches for it. Their fingers lace with ease; it's something they're so used to doing that Y/n rarely thinks much of it anymore. It's such a small, mundane thing and his hands have become so familiar to her that they almost feel like her own – and like she'd miss her own hand if it were gone forever, she'd miss his too.

He is a part of her; as vital as a limb, or the thing beating in her chest.

“Hardly,” his thumb ghosts the soft skin over her knuckles, and his eyes soften when they meet hers. It still startles him that she's his, and standing there with the smell of salt, autumn and her perfume flooding his senses, Andrew fears he might be dreaming, “you look…..” Like a painting, something that one could only wish to be privileged enough to see, let alone touch, “exquisite.”

Y/n giggles before glancing down at herself. She knows she must look plain at best, and a wind-tousled mess at worst. Even if she isn't the self-deprecating type, it's tough to believe that she looks like anything special without makeup, her hair free-styled by the breeze and her face nipped by the chill. The coat that she's owned for nearly a decade and a faded t-shirt probably isn't helping her case either. “Are you trying to get laid on this hilltop?” She asks conspiringly.

Snaking his free arm around her waist, Andrew simultaneously pulls Y/n closer and throws his head back in laughter. Lifting her gaze to drink him in, Y/n’s smile softens; she loves the way he looks when he laughs like that. Entirely carefree, as if he mightn’t have anything in the world to worry about, its a laugh she sees most off when he’s been home for a while and he isn’t concerned about deadlines and appearances, or when they have friends over and he’s had a bit too much to drink. Or when she says something that is a little absurd, but not quite funny, and he somehow finds the world of humor in it.

“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed,” his fingers curl into her waist. Then, when the shaking of his shoulders settle, he lowers his eyes to meet hers. It always baffles him how she could not know – not completely – what she does to him. Because if she did, Y/n wouldn’t doubt his credibility for a second when he says that she’s beautiful – and utterly in awe of everything that she is. “But I really do think that you look lovely darling,” he adds softly, freeing his hand from hers to gently cup her face, “if you saw what I did, you’d understand. If you could see yourself through my eyes…….thought of yourself with my mind, you would get to know the most breathtaking person I've ever met.”

Licking her lips, Y/n lays her hands on his chest, thumb grazing the sliver of skin left exposed by the undone top button of his shirt. “How do you do that?” She muses quietly, gazing up at him.

Andrew's thumb roves the apple of her cheek and she leans into his touch, “Do what?” He lowers his head a little, so their foreheads are that much closer to touching.

“Come up with…..stuff,” she hates the word in the context, “like that.”

“Well, it would just so happen, that I have the best muse,” because every beautiful thing he can think of is tangled up with the thought of her. He can’t see flowers without wondering how they’d look if they were laced in her hair, or held in her hands, he sees art and wonders if she’d like it too and when he’s faced with a day like this one – where everything seems to be in perfect measure – all Andrew wants to do is share it with her.

“I am just so in love with you,” he rasps, the sudden drop in his voice sending a shiver up her spine, “that it touches every part me, everything I do has a bit of you in it,” as if all the old parts of himself have been shed, giving way to something new, improved in a way that only be because of her presence.

The more Andrew thinks about the clearer one certainty becomes; in a way, the world has already ended. It happened the second he fell in love with her. Everything as he knew it was changed forever – reduced to a wasteland, and out from the ashes she came.

Lifting one of her hands, Y/n caresses his temple with the pad of her thumb. “What a beautiful mind you have,” she muses, gaze matching his. Y/n always faults him for having a way with his words, usually when he doesn't even mean to, but Andrew doesn't think she ever pays enough mind to what she's saying. “Who needs the rest of the world when they have this?”

His thumb continues stroking her cheek in that languid, gentle fashion and Andrew’s gaze softens so much that he thinks he must be melting under her touch. He must be putty in her hands – so easy to mold however she pleases, because the only thing he wants more than being with her is being exactly what Y/n needs.

May he always be a necessity, may her life be just a touch emptier without him, so she’ll keep him around.

“Who needs it, darling?” Who needs it when the best of it smiles when she looks at me? He’s just about to press his lips to hers in a kiss he’s been aching to steal since the moment she turned to look at him, when a wave – way down below – breaks so violently that a few droplets hit their faces, causing Y/n to shift her gaze towards the expanse of glacial teal.

“We should walk down to the beach,” she suggests suddenly, eyes alight with the wonder of someone yearning for the thrill of adventure. In an instant, Y/n is backing out of his embrace – like a dream just past his immediate reach. She takes his hand though, lacing her smaller, finer fingers with his and practically tugs him along, urging him towards the mouth of the stoney, sloped pathway that leads to the beach.

“Yeah, sure-” Andrew doesn’t even get to reply before he’s stumbling along, blindly following her. He isn’t even sure if she actually knows the way – he’s never taken her there, but Y/n is quick-witted enough to figure things out without anyone’s help. As he watches her trot ahead with purpose, feet clad in Chuck Taylor's stomping on the feathery grass as she moves ahead, Andrew keeps his gaze fixed on her. The way she holds her head up, as if she doesn’t need a map – or even him – to show her the way. The way the wind blows her hair and her delicate fingers work to keep them away from her eyes. She’s moving so quickly that its hard to take it all in, and Andrew finds himself wanting to ask her to slow down, so he can soak up the way she looks against the blur of the trees.

Sometimes, he wants to tell her – beg her – to just be a bit more still. Because while he adores watching her move, drinking in every miniscule action that is so specific to her, Andrew breathes for the moments where there isn’t the slightest quiver in her form. When his view of her is entirely unhampered by the demands of life; she doesn’t have to get up to answer her phone, or check on the laundry downstairs – when she’s just lounging in bed with her glasses propped on the bridge of her nose and a book held up in front of her face, when she’s sitting on the back patio while nursing an afternoon tea, watching the birds entertain each other.

When Y/n is standing before him, surrounded by a tapestry of greens and blues and other specks of colour that pale in her wake, like something he should never be so privileged to bare witness to.

His thoughts are interrupted when she stumbles on a rock and instinctively deserts her hand in favor of reaching for her hips. “Slow down,” he chuckles, reeling her close to his chest, one arm wrapping around her middle as they continue downward.

“But I wanna see the beach,” she protests with a giggle as his lips find her cheek. Reaching past herself, she lays her hand on his neck, holding his face close to hers for a few seconds longer.

“And you will,” Andrew mumbles, mouth still pressed up to her face, “but lets……enjoy the getting there too.”

“I think you’re enjoying it a little too much,” Y/n admonishes humorously when Andrew squeezes her to him.

“Impossible,” he bends his head to nuzzle the side of her face, “I actually think you’re not enjoying this enough.”

“Yeah?” She leans into his embrace, hand falling onto his forearm as she finally relents to stopping for a moment. She can hear the sounds of the sea a bit more clearly now, and the air is saltier than it had been when they were up on the hill. Through the foliage, Y/n spots bits of jewel toned ripples, a tell-tale sign that they aren’t too far off, and she’s actively holding herself back from urging him ahead. She does have a habit of rushing things, sometimes the need to just keep moving is almost overwhelming; she’s so focused on getting somewhere that she forgets the journey is half the experience.

Andrew, she often finds, is entirely the opposite. It's a quality she admires in him; his ability to revel in simple joys, the way he’s able to steady himself enough to thoroughly take everything in. While she’s eager to brush past everything in her way to get to her finish line, he’s perfectly fine with strolling through the trees, stopping ever so often to take pictures of things that interest him, or rattle off a random fact that he learned in a nature documentary.

“Yes,” Andrew hisses, kissing the corner of her lips, “just relax a little.”

“I’m very relaxed,” Y/n scoffed defensively, “we just have different definitions of that word.”

Andrew laughs loudly, finally letting her go and allowing her to take his hand again, “I’m not even sure that word is in your dictionary,” he chortles as she tows him along. Y/n doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even know if she hears him, because as the words leave his mouth, they reach the edge of the woods which opens up to the small beach. The sand is soft under his shoes, and the sting of salty air is sharp. “Happy now?” He teases when she lets his hand go in favor of going a few paces ahead.

“I was always happy,” Y/n corrects, “but now I'm…..satisfied.”

“If satisfaction is what you were looking for, I could've helped with that up there,” he nudges his head towards the top of the hill they’d been standing on about fifteen minutes earlier.

Y/n rolls her eyes as she turns to look at him, “oh shut up,” she giggles.

“Just sayin’,” he hums, moving to stand beside her, arm going around her shoulders. Immediately, Y/n tilts her head so its touching his side.

As she keeps her eyes trained forward, Y/n hums, “its so beautiful.”

Andrew returns the sound, albeit just a bit softer as he turns his head to look down at her, nestled against him. Its hard to describe just how much he enjoys the feeling of her tucked against him, its one of those simple pleasures that he never fails to appreciate; the way her form fits perfectly with his, like they were made to just click together. It's such a small thing; the comfort that comes with holding someone who wouldn’t trade the feeling of your arms around them for anything else in the world, and he can never seem to get enough of it. He lives for the way throwing his arm around her shoulder has become as natural to him as breathing, and how instinctive it is when she leans against him.

“Don’t you think so?” Y/n glances up at him, a smile dusting her cheeks when their eyes meet. There's always a little tingle that prods at her heart when she finds him looking at her, like the beat of butterfly wings against the petal of a flower.

Licking his lips, he glances forward at the ocean stretched out before then, and the near vacant beach that spreads out for at least a mile on either side.

He must’ve seen this beach near a hundred times by now. Andrew is well aquainted with the way the waves break against the collection of jagged rocks piled against once side of the shore, foam washing the salt-worn gray and seeping into the crevices. The crunch of pebbles and broken seashells under his boot isn’t foreign to him, and he knows all too well how frigid those waters can be around this time of the year. He’s seen the beauty of the place, he swears he’s done his best to appreciate it too, but there’s something different about holding her as the water pulls the sand seaward and salty sprinkles dust their lips. It feels like he’s seeing for the first time all over again.

And he loves it – all of it. The way it feels like a film has been peeled off his eyes, the thrill of enjoying the simplest things so much more than he ever has because he's sharing the moment with her.

“Yeah,” he looks at her again, lowering his head to touch the tips of their noses, “its beautiful, baby.”

[lifemod17]

New mouse begging for cheese dropped!!!

HELP ME I SLID DOWN THE WALL SCREAMING THROWING UP AND I'M RUNNING LAPS HE LOOKS SO GOOD OMG

This is a mouse begging for cheese photo, it should not affect me like this. It's supposed to be fun haha silly.

AND YET?!??!

It's the Black Denim Jacket. That thing is gonna be the death of me actually. And the obscured-ness I think, like the way his face is mostly covered with his hair.

[dykekarkat]

WIP thursday hashtag we are so fucking back

“We are not doing this again,” Andrew’s voice is lower than normal, a rasp that has Neil’s already weak knees wobbling. 

Still he can’t help himself, a teasing smile flits across his face, “Oh? Want me that badly?” 

The glare he receives in return would be more effective if it wasn’t coupled with Andrew’s flushed cheeks and Neil’s spit on his lips. Really it can’t be helped that Neil drops another kiss to them, and then another, and soon enough they’re back to making out furiously against the wall. 

Andrew drags Neil’s hands from the wall to his shoulders, and Neil moans at the hard muscle he finds there. He tries to keep himself in check, except then Andrew’s hands are grasping at the backs of his thighs and he’s being lifted- 

Neil throws his head back as the sound of clothes tearing echoes throughout the room. Andrew pays it no mind, wrapping Neil’s legs around his waist, pressing the hard lines of their bodies together. 

Neil breathes heavily with his eyes scrunched closed, trying to think past Andrew’s lips on his Adam's apple, painting marks along the column of his throat. He forces his eyes open, taking in the claws that have torn straight through the denim jacket still on Andrew’s body. 

Maybe Andrew isn’t the only one feeling frantic. Three weeks really is too long.

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

To Share the Space with Simple Living Things - Hozier x Fem!Florist!Reader

Chapter Three: Chrysanthemums - Joy

Summary: You and Andrew meet outside of your workplace for the first time for a completely platonic coffee on him.

Word count: 2385

Author's note: i am so sorry that this took so long 😭 last week of school combined with finals combined with life i guess hindered me from writing. but i'm back on track!!! hopefully you all enjoy and if i don't update again soon happy holidays <3

tag list: @celery-grace @gayandfairycore @deathmybride @harry-bowie-mercury @hodgepodge-musings @blue-eyed-bug @secretttytttttttttt @dinner-n-dxatribes @padfootblackswh0r3 (if you want to be added just let me know!)

fic below the cut <3

This is not a date.

That was your affirmation all of Friday morning, repeating it to yourself.

You muttered it under your breath as you fixed your hair. It was mumbled as you laid out your outfit, specifically chosen to be fashionable but casual: your favorite sweater and a nice pair of jeans. You whispered it before spraying your perfume, a scent you had to dig through your closet for five minutes to find. Ironically, the scent was nothing close to floral. You said it to each of your houseplants as you watered them. They remained unconvinced.

Slipped on your shoes. Locked up your flat. Walked down the stairs. You repeated your mantra every time, because maybe if you said it enough times, it would become true.

By the time you made it to your car, you had said it so many times it felt like breathing. Your hands gripped the wheel. You locked eyes with your reflection in the rearview mirror and whispered your phrase of the morning one more time for good luck.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

Stepping down on the gas pedal, you began to drive.

On the drive there, you prepared yourself for all possible scenarios. This kind of thinking came naturally — it always did, especially in situations like these. You ran through what your reaction would be if he showed up, what it would be if he didn't. What you would do if he had an insanely complex coffee order, or if he ordered a drink with six shots of espresso. What if he tried to order for you, or if he made some backhanded comment about another woman at the cafe? You doubted he would do any of these things, but you believed it's better to be safe than sorry. This thinking only paused when you parked in front the coffee shop and caught a glimpse of Andrew waiting inside. All of your previous repetition and fretting had made you ten minutes late, a fact you weren't fond of and hoped Andrew wouldn't chastise you for.

The moment you stepped into the coffee shop, all of your previous affirmations were thrown out the window. It wasn't a date. But after seeing Andrew you wished that it was.

It wasn't any particular factor. It wasn't the black denim jacket he was wearing, or the way he'd tied half his hair up, leaving the other half down. It wasn't even the smile on his face, reserved like he wasn't sure how to react properly when he saw you. It was a combination of everything; his presence alone was enough to make you flustered. So flustered that you were very close to forgetting to say anything when you walked up to him. Thankfully, at the last moment, you actually spoke.

“Hey! Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long,” you greeted him with a small smile.

“Oh, no. I just got here, too. You're alright.”

You walked inside together, and you looked around at your new surroundings. It was a small business, quaint and cozy, with framed photos of artworks by local artists; it was exactly what you would imagine a coffee shop that Andrew picked to be.

Because all of your overthinking (or what you preferred to call planning) on the way there, you ordered your coffee with ease. Andrew recited his order, a black americano, a surprise to you. You watched as he paid and gave his name for the order, the barista already recognizing him. He turned his head towards you and offered an explanation:“I’m a regular. I always come here whenever I need a pick-me-up.”

“I’ll have to come here more often, then,” you replied.

You found a small table in the corner and sat down to claim it for the both of you while Andrew stood by the counter, waiting for your coffee. What a gentleman.

You had yet to notice any flaws in him, only making your self-imposed rule of this not being romantic harder to follow. There had to be something about him that was off. There was no way he was so caring and endearing and funny all at the same time; he had to have an imperfection eventually. You didn't find it in the few minutes you watched him stand around, occasionally fiddling with his hands or putting them in his pockets. Your efforts grew even more futile as he walked over with the coffees in hand, setting them down on the table.

He shedded his jacket and carefully placed it on the back of the chair before sitting down in the chair opposite you. This simple action caused the fact that you barely knew Andrew to pop up in your head. Despite how connected to him you felt already, you had only met him twice before. On both occasions he wore long sleeves, so seeing him without a jacket for the first time gave you a much appreciated surprise.

His right arm had an entire sleeve of tattoos.

He had turned his arm into a mural for myths and legends. A portrait of a falling Icarus, wings disintegrating beneath a red sun. A tortured Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his back. Dante and Virgil arm in arm wandering through a circle of hell. Writing in script filled the empty space, seemingly verses from poems. It was all centered around two words placed across his bicep: Noli Timere. You’d be lying if you said it didn't make you even more attracted to him than you already were.

You could've spent hours just looking, analyzing every line of ink. It felt as though you did, though it's much more likely it was only for a few seconds. You were brought back to Earth by the sound of his voice.

“It's rude to stare, y’know?”

There was no real annoyance in his voice, but it caused you to attention like you had been caught. An explanation mumbled its way out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I just- I like your arm. Tattoos. Your arm tattoos. They're…”

Beautiful? Enticing? Very attractive?

“…cool.”

You took a sip of your coffee, finding it the perfect time to cover up your embarrassment, as well as the flushed face that came along with it. Luckily, Andrew didn't notice (or if he did, he didn't mind) and continued the conversation, accepting your compliment with a crooked smile.

“Thanks. I try to put a lot of thought into them, give them some meaning, so they're all based on these stories that are important to me.”

“Makes sense. I’d hate to get a tattoo just to regret it a few years later. Even worse, a few months later.”

“Too many of my clients have had that exact issue. Come in a year after and ask for a coverup. Makes me question my work sometimes.”

“Clients?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Oh, right. I never mentioned it.” He paused to take a drink from his cup before continuing. “I’m a tattoo artist. The parlor I work at’s only a few blocks away from your shop, believe it or not.”

“Wow. Small world, I suppose. Maybe I could stop by someday and say hi.”

The boldness of your statement didn't fully process in your brain, and you quickly backtracked.

“If you’d be okay with that, of course.”

“Yes. Absolutely. You can come by whenever I don't have a client.”

“Call me over if anyone gets a tattoo of a flower and I’ll be there to explain everything it means. There is always the very dangerous possibility of someone getting a flower that means jealousy or a rejection.”

He didn’t reply, just flashed a smile, and the silence between you seemed… awkward. Combined with the way he was fidgeting with his hands, it almost made you think he was nervous.

“I’m actually thinking about buying a bouquet to put on the front desk,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah. A lot of people, they get nervous before their appointment, whether it's their first tattoo or their tenth. Having flowers right when you walk in might ease some of the tension.”

“That's a great idea. I know I’m biased, but flowers do tend to brighten my day."

“Do you have any ideas?”

You bit at your bottom lip as you thought, finally speaking again once you racked your brain for what could work.

“Chrysanthemums are a favorite with customers. Those mean joy and optimism. I could start with those and build from there.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“That's all I’ve got right now, but I’ll see what else I can come up with later. After coffee, I’m much more… insightful.”

As if to prove your point, you took another sip of your coffee, a longer one that left only a quarter of the cup left.

“So… this is official? You're placing an order?”

He nodded.

“If that's how this works, then yes. I’d like to place an order of one chrysanthemum bouquet for the purpose of making my customers happy. Please,” he replied genuinely.

“Your order will be marked down as soon as I get to the shop.”

“Feel free to take your time, by the way. I don't mean to pressure you. It's not like I have a deadline, and I know you probably have a million other things you have to do.”

You considered reaching for him, your fingertips flexing in his direction, but you restrained yourself, choosing words instead.

“You're not pressuring me at all. You made your order. Now you're asking me to do my job. My job that I love, by the way. If anything, I’m thrilled that you're so interested.”

The real question is whether you're more interested in my job or me.

You weren't bold enough to say what you were thinking, but you never had been. You had gotten so used to biting your tongue it was a miracle it was still in your mouth. You spoke again, but selected a much safer option of what to say.

“It's gonna take a few days since there's some orders before yours, but I have your number on file so I’ll call you when I finish it up.”

“I’ll be there. With my wallet, this time around.”

You thought about your proposition before realizing there would be a much more effective, though maybe you just wanted to visit Andrew’s job for a change.

“I mean, you said your place is only a few minutes away, right? I could always deliver it. Gives me an opportunity to get some fresh air during my day. Besides, you're probably much busier than I am, so it might be harder to find the time. Meanwhile, I can deliver it as soon as it's done, and everything works out.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know. I want to, though.”

He sighed and shook his head, a reaction you originally feared was out of annoyance, but you felt a small amount of relief when you noticed the smile that accompanied it.

“You need to stop doing nice things for me. Otherwise I’ll go bankrupt from buying you so much coffee to compensate.”

“I also accept gratitude payment in compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks.”

“What about credit cards?”

“Ooo, sorry. Compliments, thank-you-cards, and checks are your options.”

He chuckled, a deeper and richer laugh than before.

“Fine. You want a compliment? You're incredibly kind for doing all of this for me, and I sincerely appreciate it. Thank you.”

Another sip from your cup to hide the flush of your cheeks, though no amount of caffeine could calm the butterflies in your stomach.

“That covers your gratitude payment for now. I still need real money, of course,” you muttered. “And you're not getting your way out of it this time.”

“I would never. You can't pull the same con on the same person twice.”

“Oh, so it was a con? Did those flowers even go to your mother?”

“Nope. Underground flower smuggling ring.”

“Ah, I should've guessed. Tell your flower-loving crime boss that I’m thankful for all that you've done for me, but I unfortunately need to get going, because it's 9:30 and the shop opens at 10.”

Andrew complied. You two wrapped it up, and he put his jacket back on, covering up his tattoos much to your dismay. Your coffee cup, now empty, was discarded by the door.

“Thank you so much. For the coffee, for the company. Everything. Especially for the coffee, though, considering you barely even drank yours,” you commented, pointing at the half-full cup still in his hand.

“You’re welcome. And trust me, I was going to drink it, but I found myself much more engrossed in the conversation.”

Andrew grabbed the door and held it open for you, and you walked past him and thanked him. Both of you stood on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop, unsure of how (or if you even wanted) to say goodbye.

“This is where we must part ways,” he said with a sigh.

“You say that like we're never going to see each other again.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, Y/N. You have no idea what the universe has up her sleeve.”

“Do you have some kind of knowledge about an apocalypse that I don't? Because when it comes to that kind of stuff, sharing is caring.”

“Just… prepping for the future, I suppose. If there is no apocalypse, I’ll see you when my bouquet’s finished.”

“I’ll see you then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

You walked to your car, only a few footsteps away, the smile slowly fading from your face as he walked in the opposite direction. You sneaked a glance over your shoulder at him before opening the car door.

Sitting down in the driver's seat, you took a deep breath to bring yourself back to reality. Your mantra had been proven right: that was not a date. It just felt like one. A very successful one at that. He was a gentleman, listened to what you had to say, gave you a compliment, and you even set up an incentive to meet again. This not-a-date went better than most of your actual dates, and it was with a guy who, to your knowledge, had no romantic interest in you.

You were totally and utterly screwed.

[pastryoscar]

andrew minyard wears a cropped (mid chest) black denim jacket

and

neil josten wears a cropped (waist) orange hoodie that's cinched at the bottom

they are both emotionally attached to these specific respective pieces of clothing

[anthonyamadeo]

Lee Andrew Young by Anthony Amadeo

[allisluv]

prepare for a few djats requests. meeting graham in a record store and him asking us to come to his show?? :)

cherry bomb.

pairing: graham dunne x fem!reader

content warnings: meet-cute, misogyny (not from graham), flirting/ teasing, reader's nickname is cherry and reader works in a record store.

word count: 1.2k

a/n: i'm lowkey obsessed with graham lately, so this is the first work in the graham x cherry (reader) universe!! requests are open for any questions/ideas! <3

“Hey, I’m gonna pop out for a coffee with a friend. You’re okay to hold down the fort for a while, right?” Andrew shrugs his jacket on, making it very clear that he has every intention of leaving, with or without your permission. 

You have to fight the urge to snap back with a smart remark. “That depends.” 

Andrew scoffs. “On what, exactly?”

“Well, how long is a little while?” You muse aloud. 

“Jesus,” Andrew mumbles. “Didn’t realise I was on the clock here.”

“You’re at work,” You deadpan.

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m well aware of that. But your type are always complaining that us men don’t trust you to do things for yourself. Here I am, giving you the perfect opportunity to do so, and what do you do? You throw it back in my face.” He braces his hands against the countertop. “So, I’ll ask again. Can you mind the shop or do you need me to hold your hand?” 

Said hand itches to reach out and smack him across the face. “Just go.” 

Andrew seems to take your answer as a win rather than you getting fed up with him, and he offers you a smug smile.

You flip him off as he walks out of the store. The bell at the top of the doorframe nearly comes loose with how hard he slams the door shut, and you have to fight the impulse to chase after him and give him a well-deserved piece of your mind. 

“What a bastard.” 

Your brows raise as you follow the sound of the voice. Your eyes land on a tall guy, maybe six foot, with a messy mop of curls on the top of his head.

He scoffs, leaning his weight against the cash register, and shakes his head in disbelief. "I swear, some people are so entitled, it's unbelievable." With one last glare in the direction of the door, he turns to you, gaze softening as a crooked smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “I’m Graham.”

You nod and give him your name.

Graham grins, and bats his lashes at you like a love-sick teenager. “Ah. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Flirt.”

“Guilty.” He shrugs.

You smile despite yourself. “So… Graham. What’s a guy like you do for a living?”

“Well, apart from saving a damsels in distress?”

“Obviously.” You play along.

He smiles and two dimples carve their way into the skin around his mouth. “I’m in a band.”

You cant deny that your interest is piqued now. You lean against the countertop and rest your chin in the palm of your hand. “A band, you say. What’s your band’s name?”

“The Six. But you’d probably know us as Daisy Jones and The Six.”

“Never heard of them,” You lie.

“Bullshit.”

“What do you play?”

“Apart from twenty-one questions?” He chuckles when you fix him with a look. “I play lead guitar.”

“You guys any good?”

“Why don’t you come see for yourself?” You watch curiously as he starts patting down the back pocket of his blue denim jeans. A small noise of triumph slips past his lips as he brandishes about a laminated ticket. “Here. For you.”

You arch a sharp brow but take the ticket from him, anyway. “You make a habit of carrying one of these around with you?”

“You can never be too prepared.” Graham smiles and offers you a wink. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you shake your head fondly. “It’s a VIP.” He explains. “If you stick around after, I’ll buy you a drink.”

“What makes you so sure I’m going to come? I’ve just met you.”

“Is that a no?” You’re quiet and he grins before tapping the wooden countertop and waltzing in the direction of the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”

And with that, he’s gone.

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸

You don’t know what possesses you to actually go to the conccert. Maybe it’s because he caught your attention earlier in the record shop. Or maybe it’s because he’s cute. Either way, you find a spot by the front of the stage and re-tie the front of your bell-sleeve top to pass the time.

As soon as the lead singers come on stage, the crowd erupts into applause so loud that you wonder if it might burst your delicate eardrums. Once the musicans have adjusted the microphones to suit their differing heights, the rest of the band file out.

Grahams eyes immediately search the VIP section for you, and he offers you a wink when he spots you in the crowd. You roll your eyes in return, but you can’t help the warmth that creeps into your cheeks or the wry smile that tugs at the corners of your lips.

Daisy speaks into the microphone and welcomes the crowd as Graham, the pianist, the bassist and the drummer all take their respective spots on stage. “So how are we feeling tonight?” She asks and the crowd responds by screaming. She smiles like a cheshire cat. “That’s what I like to hear!”

Within seconds, the drummer has counted them in and they’ve launched into their first song. You recoginse it from the charts— Aurora, you think it’s called. You sing along and sway to the music, trying to ignore the way Graham’s gaze pierces a hole through you.

At one point, you flip him the finger subtly, but all he does is laugh into his microphone and shrug his shoulders when the male lead shoots him a quizzical look.

Their songs roll into each other effortlessly and by the time “The River” has started playing, you have given up on pretending like you didn’t know who they were altogether.

Daisy thanks everyone for coming as their setlist comes to a close and she throws one of her many necklaces into the crowd, where people start to fight and claw at each other over it.

You chuckle to yourself and true to your word, hang around until the venue starts to empty. There are still thousands of people mulling around when you hear a quiet, “psst!”, from one of the stage doors.

Spinning on your heel, you turn to see Graham peeking his head out of the door and pointing at you. “Let her through,” he says to the security guards, who must be getting paid far too much to argue with him, as they part like the red sea and hurry you through.

Graham grins as he ushers you through the door and closes it behind you. The sound is muffled from back here, and he leans against the wall with a smug smile on his face. “Never heard of them my ass.”

You grin. “Didn’t want any of y’all getting a bigger ego than you already have.”

Graham presses a hand to his heart in faux offence. “All have you know, my brothers the one with the ego problem. Not me.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy.”

He laughs. “You have a backbone. I like that. You’re like a firecracker.” He clicks his fingers. “A cherry bomb. That’s what I’m gonna call you. Cherry.”

You roll your eyes. “What does that even mean?”

“Forget it, Cherry.”

You bite back a scoff. “You gonna buy me that drink or what?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Will this be counted as our first date or do I have to earn that?”

“Depends.”

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, let’s get that drink.”