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notafunkiller · 2 years

Text

false god

Summary: On the night of your movie premiere, you and director Bucky finally get closer.

Pairing: director!Bucky Barnes x actress!reader

Warnings: 18+, age gap (r is 24, Bucky is 35), teasing, dirty talk, pet names, fingering, nipples play, oral sex (the reader receiving), clit play, come eating, metal arm kink, no condom (but they are both clean and the reader is on birth control), alcohol (but neither is even tipsy), aftercare, no mention of y/n

Word Count: 8.7K

story masterlist

Bucky Barnes masterlist

A/N: Bucky's look is obviously inspired by Sebastian's appearance at the Sharper premiere in London. The dark prince vibes and that hair... ahhh!

An extra thank you to @marvelouslizzie and @lavenderhaze967 for being my beta readers and for the endless support.

Please, do not repost or translate without my permission!

It wasn’t your intention to interrupt him at first, but he was going to notice you anyway and you didn’t want him to think you are actively ignoring him. Because you obviously aren’t. How could you?

“Hi.”

Your voice is really low, but he hears you nonetheless, stopping mid-sentence when he turns his head and sees you so close. “Hey.”

Not only do his eyes get bigger, but there’s also a huge smile that spreads all over his face as he leans in to give you a quick hug. And you clearly aren’t prepared for physical contact at all, especially for the cheek kiss that follows the embrace.

“It’s so nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too!” His strong perfume hits you, and you hope the camera doesn’t catch your red face as you both pull back.

“You look amazing!” He’s not even attempting to hide the fact he checks you out. His eyes try not to linger too much on your chest, hips, or legs since the slit of the dress exposes a little bit of skin. The last thing he wants is for you to feel uncomfortable and think he’s a creep.

But you are too busy staring at him to notice. He doesn’t wear a simple suit. No, he went for a freaking villain...ish look that drives you crazy. It’s an all-black outfit: from the Prada blouse he wears under his suit, to his gloves, elegant coat, and Chelsea boots. And that hair? That hairstyle looks absolutely fantastic on him.

“I love this so much!” You say with a grin while gesturing to his body.

He bites his lip shily. “Oh my god… Thank you.”

You turn your head to the woman who is supposed to interview him and whisper a “Sorry”, but she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She watches your interaction with a genuinely warm smile on her face.

Bucky, though? He unexpectedly takes two steps toward you, and you see the camera move to catch you both. “Look, guys,” he points out his index finger in your direction. “She’s the one that gave life to this project, the one you should watch it for. Her performance is unbelievable! No one could have done it better.”

If you think you were blushing visibly until now, you’re wrong. Your cheeks get so hot that you have to refrain with all you have from touching them.

“This means so much.” You give him a quick, thankful look before shifting to the camera. “This man,” It’s your turn to point out to him. “...is incredible. His past projects and now False God… Everything he makes is golden. I am very thankful he believed in me and gave me a shot. He’s the best director I have ever worked with, and I really hope you’ll enjoy this movie.”

He thanks you with a tilt of his head and his folded hands, very grateful for your words, and you have to wave goodbye when your first interviewer calls your name.

Bucky shakes his head. “So where were we?”

The rest of the red-carpet interviews go well, with Bucky keeping an eye on you from distance, fully aware of how nervous you must feel since it’s your first premiere as the lead actress. But you mask it perfectly, making jokes and complimenting people now and then. And everyone loves you.

But the introduction in the theater makes you sweaty as Bucky presents you with an encouraging smile. You are the last one and the journalists are already recording. You pray you’ll not make a fool of yourself in front of everyone and fall while climbing the stairs. Thankfully, you don’t, and Bucky tries not to laugh when he sees you breathing out in relief. You watch him place the card he was holding in the pocket of his coat before raising his microphone to speak for a bit about the experience of directing and co-writing, about the cast, the messages, and how thankful he is to his loyal audience, but also the one that will form after this film. You can’t lie and say you’re listening to his speech entirely since you’re often distracted by some hair strands or his beard… His smile is a killer, too. You try to focus as much as you can, though, and when it’s your castmates’ turn, you actively nod and smile. When they pass the mic to you, you try to be as honest and professional as you can, thanking everyone for being there, supporting you, and believing in you. Of course, you praise Bucky extra much. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be standing here, and you’ve learned so many things from him. He’s such a wonderful and understanding director, always informed and always looking to improve himself and adapt.

But sometimes you wish you didn’t work with him… simply because in your delusional mind, maybe you’d stand a chance.

You don’t know why you chose to stay at the after-party. It’s not like you have your friends or family with you since you’re out of the country, and you haven’t had much contact with even half of these people. But maybe it’s an opportunity to get out of your comfort zone and make some new connections. Plus, you can freely observe Bucky outside the workplace.

Some journalists and photographers are still here, but he seems more relaxed. He enjoys having a chat and taking pics with a few actors he worked with in the past, and after he’s done, he invites you and the rest of the cast to join him.

The photographer is very friendly as she tries to arrange you, and you end up in the middle, right next to him.

You gasp when you feel his arm wrapping around your waist so that he doesn’t cover your dress with his coat.

Fuck… He makes focusing so hard.

You don’t know when you developed this crush, to be honest. You worked with him for more than five months, almost every day and everything was professional, sometimes friendly. But nothing more. He’s never even jokingly flirted with you or anyone else on set. He’s not a creep. He’s a really cool —single— guy and it’s so easy to forget how who he is.

You don’t even realize that you’re frowning until you feel Bucky’s fingers tickling you over the dress, making you burst into giggles.

Without thinking twice, you sneak your arm under his coat and return the gesture. He doesn’t chuckle as you did, but he smirks. And that smirk is so charming and sensual you feel like you won a prestigious award.

The photographer approves immediately, giving you a thumbs up, and after a few minutes, you finish. But Bucky makes you all stay in the same position as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He gives it to Steve after he opens the camera and returns next to you.

Unexpectedly, you feel him leaning in as he lets his hand rest on your back. “Should I tickle you again to get that gorgeous smile on camera, doll?”

And just like that, you’re left red and speechless by James Bucky Barnes.

Your sister’s reaction to the selfie makes you smile. She didn’t waste any time and commented on how you got lucky enough to take a photo with the dark prince of the film industry. Such a perfect nickname based on how he looks tonight.

“You’ve changed.” You jump when you hear the dark prince himself right in your ear all of a sudden. You lock your screen and turn to look at him.

“W-what?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. I meant your dress.” You nod in response and immediately remark he’s no longer wearing his coat. That suit looks so, so good up close. But he still has his gloves on, which makes you sad.

You read a little about his metal arm before your audition and you’ve noticed he always had his hands covered on set, so you assume he’s not quite comfortable showing it in public. You only saw it in a few pictures taken by paps in New York, at a restaurant, around two years ago. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.” You clear your throat and look at the table in front of you. He brought two glasses of wine with him. “Is that for me?”

He gives you a teasing smirk before taking a sip. “There’s no one else sitting here, is there?”

“I didn’t want to assume. Thank you.” You smile shily, ignoring his playful rhetorical question, and follow his example, raising the glass to your lips. Surprisingly, it tastes better than you expected, but you don’t drink more. You didn’t eat almost anything tonight and the last thing you want is to feel sick.

“You’re welcome, I thought you’d like this.”

“I do.” You look him in the eyes as you speak. “Very thoughtful of you.”

If Bucky senses your nervousness, which is probably very obvious, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he keeps glancing at you in a way that makes you think he wants you to keep talking. But you don’t. He caught you off guard coming here and offering you wine. It’s a nice gesture: him wanting to check on you and chit-chat a bit, but you don’t know how you’re supposed to act. Especially when you have this consuming urge to touch the strands of his hair that keep returning to his face despite Bucky’s many attempts to keep them still, tucked behind his ears.

“It’s not as good as Natasha’s, but that’s all they have here.” You smile, remembering the day on set when you finished filming a super draining emotional scene after a couple of hours, and Natasha came to take you home. It was the second time she met Bucky, and she offered to take you, him, and the very few members that could come to a small pub, after seeing your exhausted faces. You had dinner and the best wine you have ever tasted. And it was so cheap!

“I didn’t expect it to be.” You straighten your back.

“How comes she left you alone?”

“Well, she has a full week at the agency, she wasn’t even supposed to be here.” But she came anyway because you’re more than her client. She became one of your closest friends shortly after she discovered you at the acting camp. And she’s been with you through every rejection, every small part you got, and now this.

“What about your family? I expected to see them here, I know they were excited. Is everyone okay?”

You smile, raising and shaking your phone a little before putting it in your pocket. “I was actually talking to my sister when you came. They’re all good, thank you for asking.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting.” His wrinkles make him look extra attractive when he raises his eyebrows, frowns, or smiles. You noticed that on set… But in this context? So close? It’s even more challenging for you to keep a neutral face.

“No, no. I am actually glad you came to me, I was planning to leave in a few minutes since it’s late, but I really wanted to thank you for your words today and overall, for the opportunity.” Your voice is shaking, full of emotion, and he immediately leans in, invading your personal space, and reaches for your hands.

Fuck... He’s touching you! He’s actually touching you.

“Don’t ever thank people for something you’ve earned and deserve.” His voice is so gentle and low, making the words hit you even harder. “Alright, doll?”

You nod, breathless, but he doesn’t accept it, squeezing your hand to get your attention. He wants to hear you say it out loud.

“Alright.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise you.”

With a playful smirk on his face, he lets go of your hands slowly and pulls back. “Good girl.”

And right at that moment, you want to screw everything and go for it… You are so worked up and tired of refraining from even thinking about it, that you don’t care how scandalous it would be if you jumped to kiss him right there. At least, you’d satisfy this need. For once…

You sigh, mortified. Even if you had the courage to do it, you don’t even know if he likes you like this. He’s been friendly and trying to make you comfortable tonight, and your mind went in another direction.

He probably had so many people in the industry hitting on him, but he was never photographed with them. You don’t know if it’s his personal ‘policy’ or if he is just discreet, and you shouldn’t think about it. But you do, it’s impossible not to.

You need to leave before you’ll start actually indulging yourself in this… fantasy.

You smile, raising from the couch. “Thank you for the wine. It was a wonderful night, but it’s getting way too late.”

And as soon as you finish the phrase, he’s up too, arranging his suit jacket. “You’re right. It’s really late.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing you in New York.”

“Me too. At least we’ll be home.” His expression shows how fond he is of the city, and it warms you up. “I already miss it and I’ve been gone for one day.”

You gasp. “You arrived yesterday?”

“Nope, I wish. I landed last night because I had to take care of some additional stuff.”

You’ve been here for two days and you could barely sleep. You can’t imagine how tired he is and you really admire him for not turning down any interview today, but you guess he’s experienced this before.

“Wow, what are you doing still standing here?” You ask jokingly and he looks you straight in the eyes.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to decide to head out so we can leave together.”

And, of course, you’re taken aback for a few seconds, trying to decide how to answer him. Since he’s in a good mood, you place your hand right over your heart and playfully say:

“Aww, you’re offering to take me to my hotel, Mr. Barnes? You’re so thoughtful.”

“I do actually.” He replies and takes a few steps until he’s by your side. “Sharon is driving, and since we’re all staying at the same place, I wanted to see if you want to come.”

You mentally slap yourself. He’s just being a nice person while you fantasize about kissing him in front of everyone. And as much as you want to find an excuse, you know it would make no sense. It’d be a short ride, plus you really like Sharon. She’s not only a great writer but also a great, fun person. Bucky wanted her on set all the time in case she came up with new lines or scenes as she watched you.

You smile. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Perfect, let’s get your coat.”

He insists on carrying your bag all the way to your door after you say your goodbyes to Sharon. Bucky’s room is just one level higher, so there isn’t much of a bother. You can’t help yourself but steal a few glances at him as you walk together. You even catch him looking back at you a couple of times, which makes you childishly happy. You realize your crush is getting even bigger tonight and you don’t know how you’ll put an end to it.

You’re right about to open your door when your stomach starts to ramble, and Bucky almost drops your bag out of laughter.

“Hungry?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You bite your lip not to groan, then give him an embarrassed smile. “A little.”

“So the fancy appetizers weren’t enough?” You know he’s teasing you by his tone and the playful grin he displays, so you let out a short laugh.

“Nope. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

You didn’t have time, truth be told, but you’ll eat a great breakfast tomorrow. Now you’re just gonna take a bath and update Nat that you’re going to bed.

Bucky shakes his head disapprovingly. “This is not good for you at all. Your poor stomach should sue you.”

You snort. “I need to find a good lawyer then.”

“Well, if you could eat anything right now, what would it be?”

“Why are you doing this?” You fake complain, trying to match his dramatic vibe. It’s a fun way to end your night.

“Just curious.”

“Burgers and fries. But chicken, not beef.” You say without hesitation and extend your hands so you can take your bag. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome.” He gives you one of his sweetest smiles ever and you almost melt on the spot. You’re definitely crushing on him even harder now.

You look at him one more time before finally going inside. “Good night, Bucky. See you in New York.”

“Good night, doll.”

But you don’t have to wait two days to see him again. Because a few minutes after you get in bed, just watching random Tik Tok videos, he’s back, whispering your name while knocking on your door.

You literally jump, letting your phone on the nightstand, and arrange your clothes as you move.

You wonder if you forgot anything or maybe something dropped from your bag, but when you checked, everything seemed right in place.

Then why would he be here? Is he okay?

You’re even more surprised to see him leaning against the side of the wall when you open the door. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You wave toward the bag he’s holding with a curious look. “What’s this?”

“Burgers.”

“What?”

“I got us burgers and fries. And soda, of course. May I come in?” He asks so casually as if you’ve done this one thousand times before.

“I…” You’re so overwhelmed by this simple gesture, especially since it’s coming from him, that you don’t know how to react.

“Hey, it’s totally okay if you don’t feel like eating with me, alright? I can just give you your food and-”

You haven’t even realized you are frowning until you saw his worried expression, so you immediately cut him off. You don’t want him to get the wrong idea. “No, no. This is so sweet and unexpected. You… You really didn’t have to, thank you so much.”

“So I can come in?” His grin is so playful and confident again that you find yourself smiling back like a fool.

“Of course.” You step back so he can follow you inside, then you close the door. “Bucky, you have the flight tomorrow, too, right?”

“Yes.” He answers as he lets the bag down on the bed and starts taking his shoes and coat off. You watch him carefully, trying to keep your thoughts as innocent as possible, but it’s very challenging. He’s so hot and cute, and he brought you food despite being tired as fuck.

“Jesus, Bucky.”

“What, doll?”

Not doll again… You’re clearly gonna die tonight. A heart attack caused by this dark prince.

You clear your throat. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Nope, but I wanted to. Plus, you’re not the only one who’s hungry.” He unbuttons his jacket quickly, then rolls up his sleeves a little as you take the food out, placing it on the empty bag you use now as a tablecloth. “You weren’t sleeping, right?”

“No, I was chilling.” You assure him with a smile, waiting for him to join you on the bed. And he does, crossing his legs as he leans in to unwrap his burger.

“Fuck, I’m starving.” His cute, desperate tone makes you chuckle as you watch him smell the food.

He seems so comfortable around you like this, and you don’t think you’ll ever erase this image from your mind. Fuck this man!

“What?”

You giggle again. “You’re about to eat a huge burger all dressed up in Prada.” Sitting on my bed, you want to add, but you keep it to yourself. You don’t want to weird him out in any way.

“At two in the morning, with a gorgeous woman. What can I say? I love my life.”

You don’t know how to answer for a few seconds, but you’re too tempted to match his energy to pass on this opportunity. What can go bad? It’s not like a little flirting will make him think low of you since he started this... And he called you doll. You have every right to play along.

“Maybe I’m the lucky one.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows as soon as you finish your sentence, and you try to hide your smile with a napkin, pretending to clean your mouth.

“W-what?”

Oh my god, his cheeks are getting flushed! You want to congratulate yourself on this. You didn’t expect him to get flattered by a simple phrase, he’s so adorable.

“I said that maybe I’m the lucky one.” You repeat shily while staring at his hands. You notice he took off the glove he was wearing on his right hand. “I mean, I’m eating burgers with this handsome, super amazing guy, who didn’t let me starve.”

When you move your eyes to his face and see that his cheeks are even redder now, you giggle. Until he leans in and steals a few fries from you.

“Hey!” You pretend to be offended. “Give them back.” But before you can take them back, he’s shoving them in his mouth, and you both start laughing.

You spend the next twenty minutes in the same good mood: finishing eating while laughing at some set memories and making a chewing gum balloons contest like two kids before talking a little about your plans.

“You’re sure you can tell me?”

“Unless you’re planning to tell anyone,” You say jokingly. He’s in this industry, it’s not like he’s gonna release the info to the press. And he’s not in any competition with other directors. If there’s something you learned about Bucky super fast is that he’s a really healthy person. His mindset is not to be better than others and this is why he is so good at what he does.

In response, Bucky brings his thumb and forefinger together and moves them in a closing zipper gesture across his mouth.

“Well, to be honest, I don’t know if I’m even gonna make it to the shortlist.” You shrug your shoulders. You know how tough it is. “Nat heard some big names are auditioning, too.”

“Like?”

“Wanda Maximoff, Jennifer Walters… Yelena Belova.”

“Well,” He gives you an encouraging smile. “You had tough competition for False God, too, but you got it, didn’t you?”

You nod, remembering how exciting and scary it was. “But I have to keep my hopes low, you know? Not all directors have your patience or your willingness to take risks.”

It’s the truth. You have no connections and your past projects —if you don’t count this one— are not good enough. But you’re gonna try anyway.

“What character?”

“I'll read for both sisters, actually. What about you?”

“I have some meetings next week, but I still don’t know if I’ll accept it. The script is kinda weak.” Bucky sighs. “Can I take off my jacket? It’s really hot.”

“Of course.” It’s really hot indeed even though you have the AC on, which is surprising. It’s raining outside and it’s February…

You shamelessly watch him undress and almost groan at the sight of him in that semi-transparent black blouse. Jesus, he looks so freaking good, it’s just unreal.

“So yeah, I’m trying to be careful about what films I’m choosing. I’ve got an offer for a show, too, but I don’t know much yet. I’d love to collaborate with Sam Wilson.”

You heard about Sam a couple of times from Nat. He’s a great producer.

“Okay, random. What’s your dream vacation right now?”

“Dream vacation?” He frowns as if he’s never heard those words before in his life.

“Yes, where would you like to go and chill at this moment?”

He thinks about it for a few seconds, biting his bottom lip all thoughtfully, probably recalling all those places he’s visited and wants to visit as well.

“Italy or Greece. Somewhere warmer at least.” He giggles, leaning in unconsciously, and he’s suddenly so, so close to you. You can’t help but stare at him as that slight movement makes his hair strands fall on his face again, and you think dramatically that you’d die if you didn’t touch him right now. Right fucking now!

And you do, but you’re so gentle he doesn’t even realize you’re touching him until you bring your other hand to his face, letting go of his hair to you stroke his cheeks.

You swear he stops breathing for a few seconds as his lips half-open, and that’s when all your second thoughts and fears go out of the window. It’s your chance to be brave and go for it. He’s not a creep, nor the type of person who would take advantage of you. And you’ve flirted a few times tonight… Plus, he can reject you anytime.

So you look at his mouth, then up, into his eyes, waiting for him to say something, maybe a no, because there’s no way he doesn’t realize what’s your intention. But instead, he moves his left hand to the back of your head, holding you tightly as he presses his lips against yours.

You close your eyes instinctively, opening your mouth as your fingers go straight into his hair. It’s the perfect length and so soft… you can pull it without any effort. The feel of his tongue and his hands on your hips make you let out a soft moan right in his mouth as he pulls you onto his lap.

Your legs part even more, and you don’t even realize you’re rubbing on one of his thighs until he groans. Your lips are crushing, and crushing, and crushing. It’s hot and magnetic… out of a dream. And he’s so good at it! You’re literally sad when you have to pull apart to breathe a little more.

“Jesus, doll.” His eyes are glowing. You can’t help yourself but touch his face again, stroking his beard, surprised that it didn’t tickle you while kissing.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want to sound creepy or anything, but I wanted to do this for some time.” He outlines your lips with his thumb, and you try very hard not to open your mouth. You’re talking now, this can wait for a bit more.

“I wanted to do this for a long time, Bucky. You don’t sound like a creep.” You pause, changing your expression completely, catching him off guard. “Unless you gave me the role because you wanted to get into my pants.”

The way his lips part in shock and horror, his eyes widening, full of panic immediately makes you feel bad for faking this indignation. “No, no. I’m sorry if this is what-”

He tries to move, nervously, thinking you want space, but you interrupt him.

“Bucky, I know you.” You caress his face over and over again. His reaction itself shows what type of person he is, so your gut is not wrong. “It was a bad joke, I know you wouldn’t do this.”

He lets out a deep breath as he realizes you mean it, and his hands return to your waist, pulling you closer to his chest. “You scared me, doll. I would never do anything to make you feel uncomfortable. Especially since we worked together and I’m…” He pauses, but you still realize what he wants to say.

Older. And yes, you were in the same project, but he has no power over your career. Never had, and never will. And no actress or actor that worked with him has ever said publicly or privately anything bad about him. You know he’s not a prick.

“I leaned in first.” You whisper.

“But I flirted with you first… and I am the one who kissed you.”

You snort, dropping your hands just to give him a big smooch. “You’re adorable.”

“Adorable?”

“Yes. Very adorable.”

Bucky’s hands lower from your hips to your ass without warning, making you rub on his thigh again. And it feels so good. You wonder how long it would take you to come if you started to dry hump for real.

“You’re very adorable, too. And beautiful.” His lips are touching your neck now. Barely. But the sensation of his warm breath and beard on your skin drives you absolutely crazy. You need to fuck him.

You’ve been craving this for so long… you didn’t even realize how much until now. So you can be as excited and impatient as you want.

“Bucky.” You moan his name. “I want you.”

“Hmm?”

You raise your head, desperate for more. “I want you. Now.”

“Wait, are you sure?” He tries to read any sign of discomfort or doubt in your eyes, but he finds none. You really want to do this.

“Positive.”

“Okay, but let me get this out before we do something more. Anytime you have second thoughts or you don’t feel good, please, tell me and I’ll stop. If you don’t want to go all the way in-”

You interrupt him. “You mean sex? Because I’ve just told you how much I want you.”

“I know, but things can change and I’m just making sure you know this.”

He’s serious and thoughtful, reminding you of how he was on set. He always asked if you and the rest of the cast feel okay and tried to adjust based on your level of comfort.

“The director in you jumped.” You giggle, then caress his face again. “I know you, Mr. Barnes, and I trust you. But I really need you to do something because I’m getting impatient.”

He nods, biting his lip, and you can’t refrain from leaning in and biting that lip yourself. Just a little. He moans, relaxing under you, as he realizes you’re honest, so he stops thinking and buries his head in the crook of your neck. Your hands find their way to his shoulders when you feel him starting to leave a trail of little kisses on your skin.

“I need you naked,” he whispers before pulling away so he can already start taking off your T-shirt. You raise your arms to help him and in no time, the air hits your breasts.

Bucky’s eyes immediately go right to your nipples, followed by his hands.

“Fuck.”

“We will, don’t worry.” He laughs, squeezing your left breast enough to make you whimper, but in the next second, he frowns, groaning.

“What’s wrong?” You try not to panic. Is he hurt? Did he change his mind? What’s happening?

“I-I don’t think we can do this tonight, doll.” He sounds frustrated, but you don’t understand. He seems to enjoy this very much. And he’s so hard…

You’re trying to keep your voice under control as you speak. “Did I do anything wrong?”

“No, no.” He pecks you immediately, his gloved hand stroking your hair. “Nothing like that. I just don’t have a condom on me. I didn’t expect…”

You bite your bottom lip, trying not to giggle. Good to know he’s careful, keeping it safe. “I’m clean and on the pill.” It’s worth a try to see if he’d be willing to do it with you.

A big smile spreads over his face. “I’m clean, too, promise.”

“I said I trust you, Mr. Barnes, didn’t I?” Your glance falls on his bulge without realizing it. “So let’s see you in action.”

Of course he snorts at your set semi-joke. And of course you laugh. “Funny.”

“Thanks, now let’s see you naked.” You toy with the edge of his blouse, excited to finally be able to touch his skin. You’ve wanted this for so long… But he’s so tense all of a sudden. And he’s trembling. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to see me completely naked?”

“What?” You ask surprised. What kind of question is that? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This.” He waves his left hand as if it’s supposed to mean something bad. His metal arm could never scare you. It’s a part of him, and he should not be ashamed he’s a survivor. Then he slowly takes the glove off, waiting for your reaction. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, I can put it back on and I take off only my pants.”

You’ve never wanted to slap anyone more than those people who made him feel like he has to hide and feel ashamed of his arm. It’s absolutely mind-blowing how protective you feel over this man, but you don’t care if it’s crazy.

“Bucky, what the fuck? I want to see all of you. I don’t… I don’t get how this would make me uncomfortable at all,” you say softly, covering his metal hand with yours. It’s colder obviously, but it actually feels really nice.

“It’s my entire arm, doll…” He smiles unsure as he stares at your hands. “You probably know about the accident.”

“A little.” You look him in the eyes, wanting him to see you’re one hundred percent honest about what you’re gonna say. “But unless you feel uncomfortable, don’t worry about me. Or anyone else in general.”

He nods, a little unsure, but he still takes off his blouse, letting it fall on the floor. Your eyes go slowly from his abdomen all the way up to his chest, shoulders, then arm.

“Can I touch it?”

“What?” His voice is low and soft, full of surprise as he’s fidgeting. His metal fingers move exactly like his flesh ones, which makes you wonder how they’ll feel on your skin.

“Can I touch it?” You blurt out. You’re running out of patience… this is how much you want to feel him. And you really hope you’ll manage to make him more comfortable by the end of the night.

“You want to? Of course you can, but you don’t-”

“You’re joking?” You immediately brought your hand to his metal forearm and start stroking, curious. “Oh my god, the gold feels different.” He almost laughs seeing you so giggly. You’re not disgusted or bothered, you’re like a happy kid, and Bucky’s never seen anything more lovely than that expression you have. And he made that happen! “Why are you hiding this beauty, Bucky?”

He shrugs. “I don’t want to make people feel weird.”

“Screw them! What about how you feel?” You don’t even care how loud you are. You’re really upset about this. Why should he hide? Why should he be sorry and care about what strangers feel when they obviously have no decency? You know it’s rich coming from you, a person who’s been worrying about others your whole life, but he deserves more. “Think about what you want! If they are dumb enough not to like it, then they can look away.”

“It’s not just that, many pity me.” He sighs, and you quickly realize that this probably hurts him even more. It would if you were him.

“Well, they should envy you,” you say, making sure you keep eye contact. “Fuck, this is so cool, what else can it do?”

“You want to find out?” Bucky winks at you, moving his metal arm to your hip. The coldness feels so good on your skin that you can’t help yourself but moan.

“Dirty mind!”

“So you don’t?”

You giggle, aware of what he means, but you need something else right now. “Later.”

“Ihm.” He smiles mischievously, bringing his flesh arm to your pants so fast you basically fall with your back on the bed. “You have a point. Now it’s time for something else.” And just like that, you’re sitting naked and wet in your hotel room with Bucky Barnes, waiting for him to finally fuck you.

“Aren’t you gonna take these off?” You whimper, wanting to touch him through his pants, but before your fingers can make contact, you see him getting off the bed. “What?”

And then he kneels. He fucking kneels in front of you as he drags you quickly toward the edge of the bed.

“I’m gonna eat you, is that okay?” He looks feral somehow as he asks, his eyes glowing. “Please.”

You raise a little, shifting your weight on your elbows so you can see him better. He really wants this… you.

“Y-yeah. You can.” Of course, he can.

You moan as soon as you feel his lips on your calf, his beard rubbing on your skin as he leaves kisses all the way up to your thigh.

You close your eyes when his hand finds its way to your entrance.

“May I?”

You nod immediately and shiver when you feel his perfectly curled-up index flesh finger starting to move inside you. He’s trying to explore what you like while continuing to kiss and lick your inner thigh, but it’s torturously slow. And you can’t take it.

“Bucky.” It’s all you say, basically asking him to move a little faster or add another finger.

“You’re so wet.”

“Yes, and I need more. Add another finger.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but he still hears you. Yet, he doesn’t give you what you ask for.

“I like how you smell.” He mumbles as if he’s talking to himself. And maybe he is, you don’t know and you don’t have the time to ask since he takes his finger out, grabs your thighs, spreading your legs so he can fit his shoulders between them, and then puts his mouth directly on your pussy.

Just like that.

“Fuck.” Your hands basically fly to his hair as your hips lift to meet his tongue just as quickly. Not even your body anticipated the change, but it feels so good. His hands go to your ass, trying to stop you from moving, but it’s so hard. He licks so fast that you can’t control your reactions.

“You taste so fucking good.” He lets out a moan against your skin, and you’re not okay. His tongue is absolutely perfect. Especially when he moves it all the way up to your clit. You can’t believe how more comfortable your body actually gets every second he spends touching it. You really want this man.

“Bucky…” You flinch, shocked when you feel his flesh finger back inside you while he starts licking your clit faster. You grab his hair even harder, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Can I die here?” You can barely understand what he says because he speaks without taking his mouth off your clit.

“Faster.”

He moans and starts flickering his tongue in circles quicker than before while adding a second finger inside you. Then a third. And you feel so good you don’t even realize you’re basically suffocating him with your thighs.

“S-sorry.” You manage to say between whimpers, but he is too absorbed in what he’s doing to even hear you. When his fingers hit a new angle, you pull his hair so hard he gasps, yet he doesn’t stop. “Just like that. Just like that.” You repeat frenetically until you finally come with a loud moan. But Bucky doesn’t stop his movements at all, thrusting his fingers even faster as he sucks on your clit until you finish coming.

You open your eyes slowly to watch him kiss his way up to your neck, spending extra time licking your nipples, one by one. His wet beard feels actually good on your sweaty skin.

“I wanna mark you up, pretty girl. I want to… Fuck.” His lips are right below your ear as he speaks, sucking on a small spot. He doesn’t do it hard enough nor does he use his teeth to leave a hickey, but it’s still hot. Very teenager…ish from him.

“I want to fuck, too.” You laugh and you feel his smile.

“You need to sit on my face the next time.”

The next time?

“I’d suffocate you.” You choose to ignore the hole in your stomach when he moves his head back so he can look into your eyes. So blue... “Maybe hover,” you offer, but you’re not sure that’d be safe for him. He needs to breathe. And would there even be a next time?

“I feel offended. You think I can’t handle you?” He sounds offended, too, and honest. “If I can’t, then let me die happily, woman. We don’t do hover, okay?”

You snort at his words, but he seems so serious, you can’t make fun of him now. Especially after he gave you one of the most intense orgasms of your life.

“Okay.”

“Good, now taste yourself.” He grins before leaning in to kiss you. You open your mouth as soon as you feel his tongue licking your bottom lip, then you drop your hands to his ass and squeeze. “Fuck,” he breaks the kiss, all breathless.

“Take them off, Bucky. I need you to fuck me.” You’ve never said these words before, but you don’t feel ashamed at all. It’s hot to be able to voice out your needs and wishes like this.

He nods twice as he gets off you to do what you told him. And in less than a minute, he’s standing naked and very hard, staring at you.

“You can tell me to stop anytime,” he reminds you as he gets back in bed.

“You look so hot. Especially with your hair all messed up.”

“Thank you.” He grabs a pillow that he places under your head before positioning himself between your already spread legs. “You’re ready for me, doll?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m gonna make sure you’ll use that mouth for other things than mocking.”

You feel him at your entrance and fight the need to close your eyes just so you can stare at him. “For example?”

“Moaning, begging… crying out my name.” He doesn’t give you the chance to answer with a challenging remark because he’s sliding inside you. And he’s so… thick.

“Easy,” you whisper, shocked by how full you started to feel and he’s barely even halfway through. But he doesn’t seem to hear you as he thrusts even more way too quickly. “James, I said easy.”

He groans when he feels your arms wrapping around his neck and kisses your nose. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t realize.”

Baby? Fuck me… Don’t freak out!

“It’s okay.”

“I’m gonna be gentle.” He promises you, lowering his lips to yours.

“I’m not made of glass, you know? And you can start moving.” You raise your head to look at him, but he lowers his at the same time, and you end up hitting your foreheads so hard, you see stars.

“Ah.” He groans in pain.

“Is your head made of metal too?”

Bucky’s laugh is so cute and contagious that you also start laughing. But then you lift your hips, trying to create some friction and he freezes.

“You feel so fucking good.”

“Then move!” You complain and before you can do something about it again, his grip on your hips stops you.

“How do you want it?” A normal question since you’ve never done this together before, but it frustrates you.

“Just fucking move, James.” You’re close to crying at this point. This man is finally inside you and he’s holding back. “Fucking move!”

“Fuck, say that again.” He tilts his head back as he asks.

“Make me.” And then he finally gives you what you want and starts moving back and forth, trying to see what makes you moan the most. Long strokes. Deep short strokes. Fast. Slow. And you love them all in different ways because he’s really good at it. Like really good.

“James, please…” You grab him by the chin with one hand so you can kiss him properly, but also to try keeping your voice a little down for a bit. You didn’t know you can be this loud, and you’re a little embarrassed. But he seems to enjoy that way too much.

“Come on, doll, talk to me. Please... go on.” You feel his teeth on the skin of your neck while he keeps moving his hips faster and faster every time.

“Bucky.”

He sucks on the same spot, and this time, there’s no way he’s not gonna leave a hickey. But you don’t care. Not even a little.

“Yes?”

“James, please.” You close your eyes, your moans louder than before, and Bucky realizes you’re so close again.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me and it's yours.”

Holy fuck, that mouth will be the death of you.

But can you tell him? You don’t want to push him too far. “I d-don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Try me.”

“P-please, just... let's just focus on this.” You trace his back with your right hand, trying to distract him.

“Only if you tell me.”

You sigh, knowing he won’t let it go, so your fingers slide down between your bodies. You can touch your clit yourself, no need to ask him to do it. But before you can reach it, he stops your hand with his.

“Hands in my hair, doll. I can do this for you.” His voice is so hoarse and gentle, opposite to his thrusts.

“Use your other hand, Bucky,” you manage to breathe out, shocking him.

“What?”

“Please. I want- fuck, please, James, I want to come… Metal fingers, please.”

He doesn’t ask twice, thanks God, giving you exactly what you crave. And you welcome his cold touch by arching your back in pleasure and kissing his shoulder.

“I f-feel you everywhere.”

“You do? You like the way I fill you?” He barely finds the power to ask. He thrusts so fast that he’s breathless.

“Oh, fuck. Yes. Yes, Bucky, it feels so good.” The pace of his fingers is quicker too, and it’s like something electrocuted you when he lightly pinches your clit. “Bucky, don’t stop. Please, I’m coming. I’m coming...”

You don’t even realize what’s happening to you when the orgasm hits you. You’re crying and basically screaming at this point, and not even biting into his shoulder can keep your voice down. All you can feel is pleasure. So much pleasure everywhere… It’s blinding. How is it possible?

“What a good girl you are… coming all over my cock, asking nicely for my fingers.”

You can barely breathe when you come back to him. When you can open your eyes and watch him so close, too. When you can grab his ass and make him move faster.

“Come for me.” Your other hand caresses his face: forehead, cheek, beard, lips. “James.” You moan when his head lowers until his mouth can wrap around one of your nipples. And that sound is enough for him to finally let it go. You don’t expect him to be this loud, though, and you smile like a fool, stroking his hair patiently.

You’ve never had someone coming inside you before, truth be told. You had bareback sex once or twice with your first boyfriend, but he always pulled out, so this sensation is new.

“Wow.” He opens his eyes to look at you.

“Wow,” you repeat as he pulls out slowly, but it still makes you hiss. You’re still full of his come… You’re supposed to go shower or at least clean yourself with a towel, right? Maybe you can wait for a little.

But then you feel his cold hand back at your entrance all of a sudden, and two fingers slide inside.

What is he doing?

He surprises you even more as he places the metal fingers covered in come on your lips, but you open your mouth without hesitation. Bucky smiles, which warms your heart before you start sucking on his fingers properly.

After a few seconds, satisfied, Bucky takes them out and immediately moves his hand down, between your bodies.

“You're such a good girl when you want, doll.” Then he kisses you fervently, almost falling on top of you. “Eating my come… tasting us.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“Speechless. Even better.” His grin is wide and playful, lighting up his face. He pecks you one more time before leaving the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

You watch him as he walks to the bathroom, and he clearly has the hottest ass you’ve ever seen. And you got to touch it.

You wonder if he wants to leave right after or maybe… You sigh.

As much as you’d want more of this, of him in general, you’re not gonna push him. Even if that was all, it was good. He’s a very thoughtful and skilled man. A perfect combination with that face.

“How are you feeling?” He’s coming back, all freshen up, with a semi-wet towel in his hand, and before you can answer, he’s spreading your legs carefully, then starts cleaning you. “Sore?”

“A little,” you whisper, surprised by his gesture, and he lifts his head.

“Going shy on me, doll?”

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to.” He interrupts you with a smile, taking the towel away. “Maybe next time I can clean you up differently.” And he winks.

Next time…

“What do you mean?”

He comes back, slipping into bed next to you, and licks his lips. “What do you think? Gonna let me?”

Does he mean licking? “How?”

“With my tongue, of course.”

You bite your lip not to moan at the image he’s just planted in your mind. He’s driving you crazy just like that.

“Why not? It sounds so hot. But when’s ‘next time’?”

“Whenever you want.” He smiles, his hair draping all over the pillow as he turns to the side to look at you.

You blush. “I didn’t expect it.”

“What? Me making you come like that or wanting more with you?” He pauses. “I am older than you. A bit more than a decade… But I want to remind you it’s totally okay not to desire more than sex or this. You can always tell me to fuck off.”

You immediately frown. “You’re not a creep, Bucky, we’ve already established that. The age gap is irrelevant in your case since you’re a good man with a healthy mindset, who doesn’t constantly go for younger women.”

His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “To be honest, I’ve never dated anyone more than four years younger than me.”

You peck him on his red nose. “That’s what I mean. And I trust you. I’m willing to take this shot because I think it’s worth it. The press talks anyway. Whatever it will be, it will be.”

“I think it’s worth it too, doll.” You feel his lips on your forehead. “Very much. Now let's go to sleep, it’s so late.”

“Good night.” You cover both of you with the sheet.

“Good night.”

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penny00dreadful · 1 year

Text

This is so fucking stupid and I'm not sorry. Inspired by this video of the two guitarists from DragonForce taking the piss out of Sabaton(affectionately).

Jeffington: Just ended your whole career on live 😘

Eddie scrunched his eyes closed then wrenched them open again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing on his screen. It was too early in the fucking morning for this shit.

Whatever.

He buried his face back in between Steve’s shoulders and allowed himself to fall asleep once more.

Corroded Coffin had only started making it big in the early 90’s when they split right down the middle. As time went on they started to drift towards different subgenres. Jeff and Grant had wanted to explore a more international sound, while Gareth and Eddie were happy to stay in the power metal scene with just a touch of neoclassical.

They had tried to make it work, but the sounds were just too different and while Eddie and Grant wanted to continue on with lyrics full of fantasy and gothic romance, Jeff and Grant had wanted to focus more on ‘the human condition’.

So they separated. Eddie and Gareth had kept the Corroded Coffin name while Jeff and Grant travelled, exploring their sound.

There was no animosity. They were all still the best of friends. Even as Jeff and Grant had settled in Stockholm, where they had quickly shot to stardom with their new band members, Eddie and Gareth made their home in California enjoying their own success. They met up as often as they could, whenever tour dates aligned or they were booked into the same festivals.

Eddie and Steve were godfathers to Grant’s youngest daughter.

He and Gareth had been groomsmen in Jeff’s wedding.

They were solid.

Which was why the text from Jeff was more exasperating than worrying.

Plus it was like… nine in the morning which, granted, wasn't early, early but Eddie was a damn rockstar.

And he might have lost track of time reading last night and stayed up until four but that's besides the point.

But then Steve was handing him his morning coffee with a kiss, saying Robin had sent him a link to something and fine. He’d go watch whatever stupid shit Jeff pulled.

Eddie settled back into bed because he could and it was a Sunday.

Sue him.

But he couldn’t decide if he should be fake-mad or wildly entertained because the link Robin had sent opened the VOD about an hour into the stream, just in time for Grant to say “Should we do Corroded Coffin?”

Both Jeff and Grant were sitting in Jeff’s studio space in front of Jeff’s computer with a range of instruments behind them, grinning at each other.

“Oh shit, definitely!” Jeff stood and seemed to think about it for a second before picking up one of his guitars, a bright acid green with black tendrils running throughout. “The most dramatic of the bunch,” he leaned into the mic, gesturing at the guitar before taking his seat again, “just like their frontman.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.

“You think you can shred like Munson?” Grant asked, leaning forward and starting to tap out drum beats on the laptop.

Jeff scoffed. “Yeah right. Let me just play at five-fucking-thousand bpm and sing at the same time. It’s gonna be an approximation at best.”

Surprisingly enough the music they came up with did sound very close to Corroded Coffin’s sound. Grant relied heavily on the kick-drum and high hat to a ridiculous degree for Gareth's part and yeah, fair.

Gareth did love his high hat.

Jeff played the fastest guitar riff he could muster which honestly wasn’t that bad. He couldn’t go quite as hard as Eddie could but guitar was always Eddie’s first love and he was a master at his craft. Jeff gave the camera a cheeky wink as he used the computer to speed the guitar solo up, making it sound far more complex.

“I swear to god,” Eddie muttered to himself, “if they insinuate that I do that, I’ll fucking-”

“Eddie would never.” Jeff said, responding to someone in the chat who’d asked that very question.

Grant looked up with a sly smile. “Oh, god no. He’d never. He’s too proud for that.”

Cheeky bastards.

“You know what this needs?”

“Female backing vocals?”

“Yes!" Jeff snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Like something pulled from Jackson’s Lord of the Rings!”

“Oh come on!” Eddie pouted, but even still he could tell they weren’t actually making fun.

A notification popped up on Eddie’s phone.

Gare-Bear: Have you watched the stream?

Eddie: Watching right now. They’re starting on the lyrics.

Gare-Bear: Did Robin send you the link?

Eddie: Yeah.

Gare-Bear: Okay, keep watching.

Eddie: 👍

By the time the guys had hashed the lyrics out, punctuating them with high falsetto points that freaked Jeff’s cats out, Eddie was giggling into his coffee. The lyrics were so comically bad but they were so Corroded Coffin at the same time.

I wear armour and I am sad. I'm all alone and I am sad. Such a lone wolf am I. Except I'm not because here comes this hot man who's totally not my husband. Bats and demons and darkness and death. Bow down to me. Kneel before me. I am your master. This is about sex. Oh, look, a dragon! I'll suck your blood then I'll fuck you through the wall. Except I won't because you're an allegory for my husband again. I'll fuck him instead. Every song involves him in some way. Because I'm a big fucking sap.

And then it happened. That crafty wench.

A message popped up in the chat.

BuckyBirdie: Needs more dick sucking lyrics.

“Holy shit.” Grant whipped out his phone. “R- Birdie? Is that you? Stay right there, hold on.”

While Jeff continued to play through the guitar, Grant disappeared, raising the phone to his ear before coming back a few minutes later and whispering something to Jeff.

Jeff’s whole face split into the most mischievous of smiles and Eddie only had time to think oh no before Robin’s face appeared, joining the stream with a tired if not slightly manic expression, all topped off by her yummy sushi pyjamas.

The first thing Grant said to her was “What fucking time is it over there, Birdie?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged, looking down at her watch. “Like half six in the morning?”

“Oh. Could be worse then.”

“I haven’t slept yet.” She said with a bright smile.

“Dude! Why not?”

“I got into cryptography again last night and I haven’t stopped. Don’t tell Steve.”

Oh, I am so telling Steve. Eddie thought to himself.

“God. What a fuckin’ nerd.” Jeff punctuated his statement with a loud strum of his guitar.

Robin stuck her tongue out. “Takes one to know one.”

“Ouch. Right in my middle schooler heart.”

“Anyway, a little birdie told me you boys need some backing vocals?”

Eddie didn’t know how he was going to get her back for this, but he was sure he’d be able to figure something out eventually.

Like banging pots and pans in her hallway while she slept off her cryptography binge.

Though it was almost worth the hilarity because noted lesbian Robin Buckley happily sat there, singing about dick and tongues and assholes in a high ethereal voice that was then layered behind Jeff's.

By the end, the chat was going wild asking when it was going to be available to stream because even though it was a parody song, it was annoyingly catchy. Just before they signed off, Jeff and Grant let their audience know they’d ask Eddie and Gareth for permission before they’d do anything.

Eddie minimised the video and opened up his chat with Gareth.

Eddie: You wanna let them release it?

Gare-Bear: Fuck yeah!

Eddie: Awesome.

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stars-and-inkpots · 1 year

Note

Had an idea for a gale x tav thingy where gales in love with a tough black cat type tav who wont admit their feelings until gale almost gets attacked in battle and she goes crazy, afterwards she almost says “my…” and says Gale but astarion and karlach know exactly what she was going ti say and gales just all heart eyes

I wasn't sure how to go about this and then suddenly, while I was supposed to be writing a project proposal last night, I finally got inspired. Thank you for the request, and I hope I did it justice because this was such a cute idea!

Realisations | Gale x Reader

You tolerate the wizard’s company, you tell yourself. You let him explain countless magical theories to you because there was nothing else to talk about anyways. You didn’t enjoy learning about them, and you surely didn’t think the way Gale’s eyes would light up when he spoke of something that particularly interested him was endearing. Surely not, you tell yourself. You had bigger things to worry about.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Blood, Blood and injury, Denial of Feelings, Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort (briefly)

Ao3 Link: Realisations

Word Count: 1,225

Gale is determined to stay close to you a good majority of the time. He would ramble, and you would listen to him talk, barely acknowledging him. Yet, despite your apparent disinterest, you never told him to leave you in silence. He figures that you must enjoy his company to some extent, though perhaps it’s more of a hope. He assumes, however, that you do not share the feelings that he has for you. Any attempts at flirting were brushed off; your responses short and curt. Regardless, he is more than content to simply remain beside you, sharing each new thought that comes to mind.

So you continue walking, expression always indifferent, while Gale recounts the latest book he had been reading the night before.

You tolerate the wizard’s company, you tell yourself. You let him explain countless magical theories to you because there was nothing else to talk about anyways. You don’t enjoy learning about them, and you surely don’t think the way Gale’s eyes light up when he speaks of something that particularly interests him is endearing. Surely not, you tell yourself. You have bigger things to worry about.

You catch Astarion’s eyes for a moment, but you don’t notice the amusement in them before he turns back to Karlach and says something to her that you can’t hear.

At the front of your group, Shadowheart and Lae’zel stop suddenly. Lae’zel raises a hand, motioning for everyone to stop, and you’re immediately alert. Everyone is quiet, and even in the forest you're walking through there is a disconcerting sort of silence.

You look back at Wyll, and he moves his head slightly, gesturing to your left. When you glance over to where he nodded to, you notice the concealed threat in the bushes. Absolute cultists.

They must know they’ve been discovered, because the forest path explodes into sound. The cultists swarm your party; and you’re thankful for Lae’zel’s constant vigilance that has ensured the cultists didn’t catch you by surprise. There’s a concerning number of them, and if you didn’t notice them, you’re sure this would have gone far worse very quickly.

They’re fast; moving in and swiftly separating everyone from each other. They’re smart enough to know you fight better together; and in that same moment you have the sickening realisation that they probably also know exactly where- or rather who- your weak spots are.

Sure enough, cultists begin to swarm towards Gale and Astarion. Of course, both of them are incredibly skilled, but you know they are far more suited at a longer range. They won’t last long in their current state.

When you hear Gale cry out in pain, you’re immediately moving towards him.

Everything is a blur. You can hear your companions shouting over the clashing of metal. A burst of fire erupts somewhere to the right of you, and you aren’t sure whether it's from one of you or the cultists. Your own blade tears through countless cultists with a brutal swing. When you reach Gale, you manage to take out two of the three that are crowding around him, while he finishes off the other, fire erupting from his outstretched hand. You stay close to him, lashing out at any enemies who dare to come near. You can tell he’s trying not to show the pain he’s in while he watches your back as you watch his.

When all of the cultists are dealt with, you quickly turn to Gale who has taken a moment to sit down.

“My…” you trail off, snuffing out the word before it has a chance to escape you. “Gale, are you alright?” You say instead, kneeling beside him. You don’t see the way Karlach and Astarion glance at each other, almost exasperated as they watch the two of you interact.

He’s breathing heavily, clutching his arm close to his chest. “It’s not as bad as it looks, surely,” he tries to reassure you or maybe even himself. When you gently take his arm in your hands to assess the wound, he looks up at you, completely enamoured in spite of the blood that covers you. You don’t notice his stares, too preoccupied with making sure he’s okay and calling Shadowheart over for help.

When she finishes healing Gale, she turns to look at you, but you brush her concerned hand off.

“The bloods not mine, don’t worry,” you answer, and Gods, Gale should not find that as hot as he does.

She leaves the two of you to help the others with their own wounds. You help Gale to his feet, but your hands linger on his arm for just a moment longer than you need. There is no reason for this other than you just making sure he has his balance before you let go of him.

Surely no other reason.

---

You and your companions only continue on for a little while longer before you decide to set up camp for the night.

Karlach gives you a look when she leaves to retire for the night, decidedly early you think to yourself, leaving you and Gale alone around the campfire.

You finally admit to yourself that perhaps there is a reason for the slight nervousness that fills you when the two of you are alone. The realisation comes to you while you stare into the fire and think about the day’s excitements.

You remember how worried you had been. The moment you heard Gale in pain, and how the only thing you could think of in that moment was protecting him. You didn’t even have to think about it. Perhaps, you consider, that is not the reaction that many would have when they claim to merely ‘tolerate’ someone. And perhaps, you reluctantly admit, you might actually care a great deal for the man. You bring your hands over your face and groan.

Gods, you really do care about him, so very much.

Gale rests a hesitant hand on your shoulder.

“Is everything alright? You can always unburden yourself with me,” he offers, so genuinely caring.

You look up at him, his eyes shining with firelight.

“I think I care about you a great deal,” you deadpan. Gale laughs, cheeks dusted slightly pink.

“Well, I would certainly hope so. I would hate to be a bother while we travel together.” But you can hear how his tone betrays him; that spark of hope that you don’t mean it in such a friendly manner.

“No, Gale. Like, I really care about you.” You can’t say anything more than that yet, and you hope he understands. It’s taken you this long to realise this alone. You hate talking about your feelings like this- at all even, far more accustomed to keeping them at an arm’s length; like a cat who wants attention but shies away from it at the same time.

Gale smiles. He’s happy to wait for you.

“I care about you, too,” he answers.

He shifts a little closer to you, and you let your shoulders rest against each other. You let out a breath, a sigh of relief.

This is nice, you decide. You don’t feel trapped, you don’t feel cornered. You feel safe and content with him at your side. And though it will take time before you can fully embrace your feelings, you know he’ll still be here when you do.

Neither of you notice Karlach give a silent whoop of victory on the edge of camp while Astarion begrudgingly hands over a handful of coin to her.

#baldurs gate x reader #baldurs gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale x reader #x reader fic #baldurs gate 3 x reader #request #bg3

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mediumgayitalian · 6 months

Text

———

For some reason the lack of a little jingling bell throws her off.

It’s a quintessential diner thing, she supposes. A little bell above the door. There’s the weird decor and the pressed cotton uniforms and the yelling chef and the little bell. It was in both Back to the Future one and two. That’s how she knows she’s right.

But when she pushes open the door with windows so caked with grime she can hardly see through them, there is no little jingle. And when she looks up at the door frame, eyebrows furrowed, it seems sad and lonely. She’s never been so aware of the lack of a sound, the absence of a noise. It makes the rest of the silence of the diner seem eerie, wrong. Dead.

She takes a hesitant step forward, door swinging shut behind her. She realizes as she approaches the ordering counter that her hand rests palm cupped on her belly, and removes it immediately.

“Hello?”

There are a couple groups of people in the back, talking quietly over their food. It doesn’t make the diner seem any less abandoned, somehow. If anything it feels like a TV playing on mute in a hospital. Saturated static.

“Seat yourself, girl. You ain’t never been to a diner before?”

The woman that speaks is tall and plump and harsh-looking. A very strange mixing of features. They’re at odd with the diner-specific yellow uniform she wears, collar pressed but skirt wrinkled. Apron dusted with flour and streaked with machine oil. Face pinched, eyes hard, black hair resting in dainty ringlets along her shoulders. Her name tag only reads the name of the business.

“A couple,” Naomi defends. “One even had a hostess.”

The woman — who must be a manager — raises an eyebrow.

“You see a hostess’ station?”

“No.”

“Then why haven’t you sat yourself?”

“‘Cause I’m not here to eat.”

“Well, then, get the hell out of my restaurant.”

Naomi holds her gaze, tilting up her chin. She will not be swayed by orneriness. “I need a job.”

The manager eyes her critically. Naomi’s hands twitch, and the top of her head feels suddenly itchy. Summer before highschool she’d wrote her first resume — Mama’d drawn her a bath and sat behind her and spent two hours slowly untangling the ratty mess of curls on her head with nothing but a bottle of cheap jasmine conditioner and her own two fingers, telling her about lasting first impressions.

“Go home, kid.”

“I’m not a fu —” She stumbles over her words at the last second, catching herself before that eyebrow can climb any higher. It does, and the other eyebrow begins to climb with it, but she rights herself and powers on. “I can vote,” she says finally. “I can throw on a uniform and get blown up across seas. I can — I can adopt a child, if I so choose. Right now.”

The eyebrows reach critical height, brushing the end of her carefully teased hairline. Naomi watches them and their inspiring journey with intensity, instead of noticing how the manager’s eyes drop down to her stomach, linger, and then return to her face.

“You gonna adopt it right outta your womb, or what?”

Naomi snaps her mouth shut.

“Well,” she says, and nothing else.

The manager sighs. “This ain’t a charity.”

Naomi barely manages to bite the snark back from her voice before she speaks.“I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for work.”

Eyes shifting to the tables in the back, the manager leans over the counter, long fingers wrapping around the handle of a coffee pot so old the handle has worn right down to plain metal, and walks over to a beckoning customer. She fills a man’s mug with her lips pressed thin, offering a napkin to a child in a high chair.

“And why would I hire some pregnant kid?”

The customer pushes over a stack of plates without moving his eyes from the newspaper in front of him. There’s a woman on the other side of the table, holding a spoon out to the little kid, eyes desperate and tight smile slipping when the kid’s pudgy fist hits and sends the scoop of scrambled eggs flying. The man brings the coffee to his lips and waves the manager away.

“It’s illegal for an employer to discriminate against a pregnant person,” Naomi says finally. That had been drilled into her head by her Mama, too. That and how to keep her finances separate. She’ll have real trouble with that, what with the zero dollars she’ll have by the end of the week.

“Good thing I’m not your employer, then.” The manager sets the plates by a soapy sink, putting the coffee pot back on the hot plate. “Get lost.”

I am lost, Naomi almost says, almost slamming a hand in the counter to catch herself from her suddenly weak knees. She watches the manager watch her, tight little frown furling the corner of her mouth, through the blur of her eyes, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat.

“Please,” she says, too quiet, then tries again: “Please.”

The manager disappears behind a short half-wall, following the sound of an oven dinging. Naomi gasps silently, bowing over the counter, breathing heavily. She curls her hands into fists and presses them, hard, one to her chest and one right under her ribs. Ka-thump, ka-thump, kickkickkick. Kickkick ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-kickthump.

There’s an echoing clatter as a hot tray slams on a stove top. Scrambling upright, Naomi lifts the little door on the counter, scanning the space. The register is ancient and yellowed, buttons so worn with use the labels have worn away. There’s a thread-thin mat at the base of it. The counters are clean but scratched, walls stained but dust-free. The coffeemaker gurgles pathetically. An apron hangs from a hook nailed to the wall by the kitchen window.

As quietly as she can, Naomi slips it over her head. It’s tight around the waist, so she folds it once and ties it around her ribs, instead, letting the straps dangle loosely at the butt of her jeans. She ties her hair quickly behind her head and steps up to the creaky sink, silently moving the pile of dishes to the empty counter. When the clatter in the kitchen starts up again, she turns the water on as quick as she can — hack gurgle rush — and squeezes the mostly empty soap bottle as hard as she can to make up a lather.

“Hell are you doing?” says the manager gruffly, two pies balancing on her oven mitt hands.

Naomi shrugs.

“You deaf, or stupid?”

She thinks if laughter like a lyre and sun golden hair, plucking at her out-of-tune guitar string and asking a similar question. The ghost of a smile pulls across her face.

“Not deaf. And that’s rude.”

A pie plate crinkles under the press of a knife, and the scent of candy cherry mixes with slightly-burnt coffee. Makes her think of Grammy’s house, the smell of the jams she spent sixty years making soaked permanently in the wooden foundations. The manager finishes plating the pie slices and sliding them under the display glass around the same time Naomi suds up the last dirty mug. She watches her red-painted finger tap, tap, tap on her bicep out of the corner of her eye as she rinses it off.

Unplugging the sink, dirty water gurgling as it drains, she points a hesitant elbow at the dishtowel tucked into the managers pocket. She grabs it, threading it around her fingers, twisting the worn pink tail.

“Freezer broke two days ago.” She picks at a loose thread ‘til it pulls clean from the rest of the fabric, balling it up and sliding it into her pocket. She tugs on the fabric one last time, then tosses it, bundled, into Naomi’s waiting hands. “Tables in the back better have their bill by the time I get back from fixin’ it.”

Naomi hunches over the sopping dishes to hide her smile, listening to the scritch scritch click of the manager’s shoes as she stomps away.

———

Di doesn’t believe in paycheques.

“Great way to get ripped off,” she likes to grumble, slapping a stack of 20s bundled in a stapled piece of notebook paper into Naomi’s hands every Friday. She doesn’t think much of taxes, either, or lawyers, or racecar drivers. Naomi doesn’t quite understand that last one, but she knows better than to ask. As far as she’s concerned she’s still on probation, and probably will be if she works at the diner for another four months. Or the rest of her life.

On one hand, Naomi doesn’t have a bank account, so a cheque would be useless to her anyway. The cash she can use immediately and whenever she needs it. On the other hand, which is currently occupied with sewing back closed the hole she gouged in her backseat for the seventeenth week in a row, she has nowhere exactly to put that money, so it stresses her out.

Maybe she should look into an apartment.

Of course there are no apartment buildings in Sheffield. But she’s pretty sure Iraan is a big enough town to have a couple, as squat as they may be, and it’s only a twenty minute drive. There’s more to do there, too, so maybe she’d actually have a reason to take a day off every week. It’s not like she can buy a damn house with the less-than 3000 dollars she has saved up.

Waddling out of her car, she ducks into the diner. You’d think she’d be used to the lack of bell, now, but she finds that she still anticipates it; finds that her brain still quietly signals to her ears to prep for it. It always sets her off, a little.

“You’re late,” says Di critically, uniform hanging over her arm, foot tap tap-ing on the linoleum floor.

“I don’t have a starting time,” Naomi says lightly. “On account that I am not your employee.“

Di huffs, rolling her eyes. Naomi rolls them right back, snatching the uniform from her arms on the way to the bathroom. She has to wear Di’s, now, because she doesn’t fit into her old one. Di is much taller and broader than her and the stupid thing hangs down to her mid-calf, awkwardly drowning her shoulders, but it’s the only thing wide enough to cover her belly and Di refuses to let Naomi just wear her regular clothes.

(“You’re indecent,” she always says, sneering at her jean shorts, but Naomi has learned to translate you’re indecent but also you can’t have bare legs around hot oil, which she’s come to appreciate. Sure, Di makes her clean the bathroom whether or not she needs to crawl around in her knees to stay balanced, but she doesn’t want her burned to death, at least. That’s something.)

“And your hair’s unwashed,” she adds, as if Naomi had not walked away. She reaches up and adjusts Naomi’s collar, like that is going to do anything to change the fact that she looks like she’s wearing a collapsed tent. “You’re going to drive customers away.”

Naomi doesn’t say, you open before the community centre does, so I can’t shower in the mornings. She does not say, I spent last night trying to change the oil on my car when I couldn’t lie down to reach it. She doesn’t say, I’m too scared to sleep in the community centre parking lot, because my windows aren’t tinted and I don’t know what’ll wake me up.

She says, “The only thing scaring customers away is your busted attitude,” and scurries into the kitchen before Di can order her to clean the friers.

———

Naomi’s favourite part of the diner is the radio.

She can’t believe that Di allows it, what with her general distaste for joy in all of its forms. But it’s balanced on the window sill watching over the oven, antenna extended out the torn screen, dials permanently stuck on an old forgotten country channel. Naomi likes to hum along as she works, frying potatoes or kneading dough, twirling around the kitchen with a mop or a broom. It’s nice even when she’s cramping, even when her feet are sore — she likes hollering along to Dolly Parton when she knows Di is listening, want to move ahead, but the boss won’t seem to let me, likes the way her little parasite goes absolutely buck wild whenever Willie Nelson comes on. She can hear it even when she’s in the dining area, plates balanced all up her arms (and on her belly, too, which is one of the many things she has discovered it’s useful for), humming along to scratching dorks and scritching napkins, working 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin’.

She amuses herself often by making up lives for the various patrons. They’re close enough to the main highway that they get all sorts driftin’ in, from families with bratty kids who upend their food on the floor for Naomi to clean to men in starched suits who never leave a tip. The regulars she’s gotten to know, like the older, stocky, short-haired woman called Bella who smiles softly at her and leaves more than double her bill every breakfast. Or the two young men, college seniors, she thinks, who come in every Saturday afternoon and laugh loudly and talk about strange subjects and rope her into their conversations when there’s no one around and she’s bored.

Other patrons, though, strangers, she speculates. Like there’s a man in the farthest back corner, now, hunched over in the peeling green vinyl seats, scrawling frantically in a tiny notebook. She imagines he’s a private investigator, chasing a lead, about to discover that the woman on a date on the other end of the diner is cheating on her husband of fifteen years.

“Naomi, if you don’t get your ass back to work.”

She throws her hands up. “There’s nothing to do!”

Di observes the half-empty diner, noting the clean tables, neat counters, sparkling kitchen. Each customer sitting satisfied in their table, coffee mugs full, plates still hefty with food.

“Clean the grout.”

Scowling, Naomi stomps to the kitchen, wrenching open the cupboard under the counter and yanking out the Mr. Clean and scrub brush. It’s an ordeal and a half to get on the floor, wincing at the extra weight on her knees, sitting back on her heels with every spray and keeping one hand on her belly while the other scrubs. I Got Stripes by Johnny Cash starts playing through the radio, and she grits out the lyrics with every drag of the brush through the tiles.

“— and then chains, them chains, they’re ‘bout to drag me down —”

A pair of worn black boots come stomping into her line of vision. Naomi finishes scrubbing at a stubborn smear of grease, relishing in how it submits under her power, then rests her weight on her tired hands and tilts her chin up to glare up at her boss.

“I got stripes, stripes around my shoulders,” she sings defiantly, “chains, chains around my feet —”

“I should whip you, you damn drama queen,” Di says darkly, glaring right back. “Had three separate customers come on up to me askin’ me if I’m mistreatin’ ‘that poor young pregnant girl’.”

Naomi smiles triumphantly.

Di scowls, rolling her eyes hard enough to visibly strain her face, and drops some kind of foam pads at her feet. She stomps off without another word, scowling at the radio.

Poking at the pads, Naomi discovers they’re meant to be strapped to her knees. She slips them on, immediately noticing the relief.

For the rest of her shift, she’s an angel.

Di even almost smiles at her.

———

“Naomi, go home.”

“What happened to kid?” Naomi pants, knuckles going white against the counter. She breathes slowly and carefully through her mouth — in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in, two — and grits her teeth, staring determinately at the sticky tabletop until the dizziness fades. “I didn’t even know you knew my name.”

“I don’t.” A roughened hand rests on the small of her back, loosening the too-tight apron straps. “You’re sick, kid.”

“I’m fine.”

She tilts forward. Di barely manages to catch her, settling her slowly on the floor without so much as a comment about how heavy she is.

“The diner is empty, Naomi.” The same roughened hand moves up to the back of her neck, untangling the sweaty strands of hair that stick to her skin. Her voice is unusually soft. “You’re nine months pregnant, kiddo. You need to go home. You need to rest —”

“I need to work.”

With great effort, Naomi shoves her away, standing slowly to her feet. The world is still wobbly and bile climbs up her throat, but she pushes forward, hands half-extended beside her. She reaches back for the wet rag, swiping weakly at the table. An onslaught of nausea makes her pause, mouth clamped shut, breathing quick and deep through dry nostrils.

When she speaks again, Di’s voice is hard. “I’m not asking. Get out of my diner. Go home, or you won’t be allowed back. I won’t be accused of killing some dumbass kid who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“I can’t —” she gags, tears springing in her eyes, desperately trying to wrestle back some control of her body — “there’s nowhere, please, Di, let me —”

She slaps a hand to her mouth, heaving. She hasn’t even — she hasn’t eaten all day. The smell of anything makes her want to vomit. The idea of putting anything more in her body makes her want to peel off her skin. She feels — bloated and freakish and ugly; like an unsuspected astronaut on a sieged spaceship.

Like she’s about to burst.

“Oh, for the love of — Naomi, please tell me you are not nine months pregnant and sleeping in your fucking car.”

Naomi says nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think of Mama’s peony-scented perfume.

“Jesus Christ.”

Stomp, click, stomp stomp. Rattling chain, swishing cardboard. Flicking switch. Turning dial, fading music. Stomp, click, stomp stomp.

Two callused hands on her biceps, dragging her upright.

“C’mon, up you get. Where’re your keys?”

A hand digs around in her apron pocket.

“What, d’you fuckin’ run these over or somethin’? The hell’d you fuckin’ do to these things?”

No jingle on the door. A flipped sign.

“No, obviously you can’t — go get in the fuckin’ passenger seat, dumbass. God.”

Di mutters something about stupid kids and stupider adults, for putting up with them. Naomi smiles tiredly. Daddy used to say that all the time, flicking her on the forehead.

“Roll the window down. You need fresh air.”

The slight breeze coming in from the window is helpful, actually. It’s been a disgustingly hot summer, and Naomi has had to sleep with her windows down to avoid suffocating. She wakes up to mosquito bites in places she frankly did not know could be bitten.

“D’you think you’re going into labour?” Di asks quietly, over Dolly’s crooning. Bittersweet memories, that’s all I’m takin’ with me.

Naomi sighs, shaking her head. Already, the nausea has faded into the background. The sweat cools against her skin, and she stops feeling quite so much like she’s going to die.

“No. It’s only been eight months and a little less than two weeks.”

“…You remember the exact date?”

Well, hello, feverish flush. How I’ve missed you so. Will you do me a favour and cook me alive, while you’re here?

“It was a very memorable occasion,” Naomi mumbles, shrinking back into her seat.

“I see.”

Naomi’s never seen Di look quite so amused before. Her whole face softens, and her brown eyes look warm, for once. Naomi would attack her if she had the strength.

Di cruises slowly down Main St, conscientious of the kids ducking in and out of the shops, laughing with their friends. A tween girl looks over at an older boy and whips back over to her friends when he meets her eyes, the whole group of them descending into delighting shrieks. Naomi watches them with a smile and an ache in her chest. She wonders how Molly’s doing. How Esther’s holding up, how Leela is faring. Jen’s at school, now, all the way up in NYC. She hopes they’re well and tries not to hate them for not being here.

Sheffield’s small, and there’s not a street Naomi hasn’t driven down. She spends most of her free time in the community centre pool or the desert around the diner, sure, but she’s been around. When Di turns on Pine St and follows her all the way down, though, she frowns, looking over and asking a wordless question.

Di doesn’t answer. She’s driven them all the way to the other side of town in less than five minutes, pulling into a gravel parking lot and killing the engine.

“C’mon,” she grunts, climbing out of the tiny car and waiting, arms crossed, for Naomi to do the same.

“Sure, sure, let the pregnant woman crawl out of her own seat. Don’t lift a finger or anything.”

Di rolls her eyes.

As soon as Naomi has struggled her way out of the car, which takes her a good four minutes, Di stalks off. In her harried attempt to follow her, Naomi feels like a duck hopped up on an energy drink.

“What kinda money do you have?”

Naomi looks at her strangely. “Uh, what you pay me.”

“Yes, obviously, I meant savings.”

“What you pay me,” Naomi repeats.

Di purses her lips. “Well.”

She does not finish her thought. Instead, she strides down the gravel driveway, heedless of Naomi’s struggle behind her, until she approaches a squat looking building with ‘OFFICE’ printed on the little window.

“She needs a room,” she says to the clerk sitting behind it, gesturing at Naomi.

Naomi looks at her in alarm.

“Di, I can’t —”

“Fifty a night,” responds the man quickly.

“Try again.”

Di’s response is swift and immediate, ignoring Naomi’s tugging hand. She pulls away, resting her hands on her lower back, swivelling her head between Di and the man.

“Rate’s a rate, Di.”

She’s not surprised this man knows Di — everyone knows Di. But the slant to his eyebrows is unfamiliar, the hands clasped easily behind his head. He relaxes back into a leather office chair, heeled boot hiked up to rest in his knee, whistling absentmindedly in the face of Di’s glare.

“Two hundred a week.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not asking, Jed.”

The man — Jed — finally starts to look irate, meeting Di’s jaw-set stare with one of his own.

“I’m sorry, I musta missed something. Did you up and buy this place?”

Di doesn’t answer him right away. She never slouches, always standing at her full height, and she’s mighty tall for a woman. For anyone, really. She has a way of planting herself right in front of the sun, no matter where she is. Jed stares up at her, squinting, cast in Di’s shadow everywhere but where he needs to be sheltered.

“You gotta laundry list of shit you done owed me your whole life, Jed.”

Jed just his chin out.

“I don’t owe her shit.”

Blunt fingers wrap around her elbow. “She’s mine.”

“Ain’t how this works, Di.”

“Says who? You?”

For all her intensity, Naomi doesn’t think Di’ll actually fight anyone. If she would, Naomi would’ve gotten her ass kicked months ago.

(She’s mine. Kiddo. You need rest. Roll down the window.)

(…Well.)

Regardless, a flash of fear flits across Jed’s face. He cuts his gaze from Naomi to Di and then back again, pupils shrinking, and then invariably comes to a decision.

“Two fifty,” he snaps, scowling. “Not a penny less, Di.”

Di nods once. “Fine.”

She tightens the hold on Naomi’s elbow, dragging her away from the window. There’s an echoing bang, bang, bang, interspersed with muffled curses, before Jed stumbles out of a door on the side of the scaffolding. He stomps away without looking back, and Di tugs her along to follow.

“Laundry is your own problem. Clean your own shit. If you miss a payment, I’m kicking you out. Clear?”

Naomi stares. Jed standing in front of another low, old building, but this one is much longer, a door posited every dozen or so feet. A plastic chair sits in front of every door, and every door is numbered.

A motel, Naomi realises.

“Clear, kid?”

“Crystal,” Naomi manages, throat dry. Jed practically throws the key at her head, stomping back to the office. Numbly, Naomi slides it in the lock, pushing open the door.

The room isn’t big. There’s a double bed in the middle, a window in the far side and a dresser under it. A TV rests in a dugout shelf in the wall, and there’re two small doors next to it; a closet and a bathroom, Naomi assumes. Smaller than her bedroom back home.

Much, much bigger than her car.

“You’re gonna have to work another ten hours a week to afford this place,” Di says critically. When Naomi looks back at her, she’s lingering at the doorway, staring resolutely at Naomi’s face. Not a spare glance for the room itself.

Naomi does the math fast in her head.

“Twenty hours.”

Di scowls. “Don’t insult me, kid. Ten more hours a week; make sure you’re early tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you’re sick again, either.”

Naomi swallows. She smooths a hand over the quilt tucked neatly over the bed — it’s soft, if not warm. The pillow is plump.

God, she’s missed pillows.

“Thank you, Di,” she says quietly.

Di makes a small twitching motion with her head that may, in some lighting, be considered a nod, then stalks off. Naomi sinks into the mattress; surprised at how much her feet aches now that she’s off of them.

She swings them up, kicking off her boots, to rest on top of the blanket. She leans against the rickety headboard. She rests her hand on her swollen stomach and slowly, silently, begins to cry.

“You and me and sheer fuckin’ will, kid,” she mumbles, face crumpling. The constant ache in the small of her back lifts, slightly. She stretches her toes as far as they’ll go and cries harder. “We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there.”

———

naomi art

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orion4ever · 1 year

Text

Author's Note: I was inspired by a recent post of mine about Cliff's protective nature towards MC and how he reacts when Baxter and MC reunite and get back together. I believe Cove keeps Cliff updated on EVERYTHING!

This would take place after the events of the Baxter DLC, The timing is up to you!

Pairing: Baxter Ward x MC

Cliff Holden was currently unboxing some new shipments When he heard the store's front doorbell ring a few times.

He emerged from the backroom to see his son and his group of friends. He instantly had a huge grin on his face as he welcomed them.

"Hey, Bud." He greeted nonchalantly, earning a small 'Hey' from his son.

"Oh! Hello, Terry and Miranda! It's always nice seeing you two" he greeted warmly, earning himself an enthusiastic "Heeyyyyy!" from Terry and a small wave from Miranda.

"And of course, MC and-" he paused when he saw the new face standing next to MC with a sheepish smile. He looked familiar but he couldn't put a name to the face.

"Oh! Hey! It's always nice seeing a new face, I am Cliff" he greeted with a grin.

The 'stranger' smile grows a little. "Hello. We've already met before...I was staying in the condo next to yours five years ago..?" The black-haired man said. "Baxter Ward?" He added.

Cliff deflated for a minute. He had remembered, now that Baxter hiked his memory. Cove had updated Cliff on the entire series of events about Baxter and MC.

He was told how the eccentric monochromatic tourist had gotten together with his long-term neighbor and son's best friend.

He was also told about how the same eccentric monochromatic tourist had dumped MC at the end of the summer and vowed to never see them again.

Baxter had always been very neighborly and amiable towards Mr. Holden himself, always greeting him and giving tidbits about his plans for the day.

But...

He couldn't forget how heartbroken MC was over the breakup. It always seemed like they had some unheeded feelings that will most likely never be addressed or explained; leaving MC confused and sad over it all.

Like Noelani and Pamela’s first reaction to the reappearance of Baxter; His excitement melted in the California heat.

“Oh.” Cliff mumbled.

He then walked to stand behind the register took out a long box and continued to talk with everyone.

“So , What brings you back in town, Baxter?”

“Well.-“ Baxter was then promptly interrupted by the sound of a box opening and a metal clanking sound hitting the counter.

Cliff casually unboxed a box of fishing harpoons while staring right at Baxter.

“Well, we wanted to visit the shopping district again to relax.” Baxter finished , he had his usual grin but it looked a tiny bit wobbly.

“Uh-huh,” Cliff said, placing another fishing harpoon on the table casually again. “Ignore me. These are new shipments.” Cliff reiterated, with a slightly forced smile.

Not wanting to stay in this awkward and slightly threatening silence, MC speaks up.

“Mr. Holden , me and Baxter are back together; don’t be too hard on him” they said both in a jokey and genuine sense.

Cliff chuckled a little. “I won’t , don’t worry!” He smiled , shining the threatening harpoons.

Miranda giggled a little , either out of nervousness or whatever was going on. Terry being the social butterfly he is bounced right back.

“B-man invited everyone to lunch so we gotta head out soon!” He stated , giving Baxter a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Yeah. We just wanted to stop by , Dad” Cove said with a smile. Cliff nodded to that. “I appreciate you for thinking about your old man, Cove.”

“Your not old , Mr.Holden. Your only like 49.”

“Pfft-, 49?!? MC. I promise ,I am not that old” he cackled lightheartedly. Before he started waving the group off. “You kids go on now, You don’t have to stay to keep me company.”

As they all began exiting , he stopped Baxter. “Uh , Baxter. A word?” He asked , a serious tone in his voice.

Baxter didn’t say anything but he did move to properly look at the older gentleman. He had a abased frown.

“I don’t want any funny business with you,” Cliff said, crossing his arms. “MC has been a massive support to both Cove and myself for a long time. It would be sad to see them be heartbroken again.” He continued, he wasn’t joking around.

Baxter Ward stood up straighter and said. “Mr. Holden. I assure you that this time, I am here to stay.” He said, putting a pale hand to his purple button-up.

“I understand your concern. I haven’t made a good impression by doing that years ago. I am sorry for that. I truly do care for MC and I want to be with them.”

He finished it off with a slight bow of his head.

Cliff unfolded his arms and gave Baxter’s shoulder a strong but not painful squeeze. “Good. I hope we can become good friends then.”

Cliff then let Baxter go to join the rest of the group with a small hopeful smile.

#olba #our life beginnings & always #olba baxter #baxter ward #fanfic #our life beginning & always Baxter #olba mc #baxter ward x reader #baxter ward x mc #olba cliff #cliff holden #gb patch #cliff casually threatens Baxter with a harpoon #casual protective behavior #fr #☺️#orion fic

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bookshelf-dust · 2 years

Text

the hurt is good

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 4,398

warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of neil, reader has insecurities/social anxiety/anxiety in general, billy’s anxiety, descriptions of a wound, fluff, comfort

a/n: hi! so i worked on this for a couple days and i’ve kind of been wracking my brain with trying to figure out where i want to go, if that makes sense, but i think maybe i’ve gotten somewhere with this part. there’s definitely more opening up on both billy and reader’s side. there’s also one bit inspired by good will hunting, incase anyone catches it. anyways, this has been very self indulgent for me, and i hope that maybe you might find something in it. enjoy!! <33

before you read, listen to: fade to black by metallica and/or don’t dream it’s over by crowded house

————

It’s cloudy this morning, and you can feel the cold metal of your car door against your back, despite the layers you’ve got on.

You can feel Billy’s eyes on you too, so you focus on the details of his car rather than on him. On the shimmer the paint has in it when the light hits it the right way, the little scuff at the bottom of the driver’s side door.

You give in and turn your head to look at him, meeting his pretty blue eyes.

Billy takes a drag from his cigarette, assessing you.

He watches you pick at your nails, mess with your hair. Then you finally shove your hands in your pockets, though he thinks there’s probably lint in there you’ll play with too.

You watch him turn his head and blow the smoke in the other direction, like he does every time he has one near you.

Billy realized fairly quickly that you got to school earlier than necessary because you wanted to beat the rush of kids, spare the anxiety that came with parking.

He wasn’t really aware that parking is something that stresses people out. But it stresses you out.

And Billy has anxiety. He knows that. He feels it everyday. When people watch him in the halls at school, when he’s at home. Shit, it never stops at home.

But yours is different. You’re different than he is. He hides his well, and you don’t. Though maybe, he thinks, that’s because you never had to.

So he started getting there earlier too. Max would’ve complained, but she could skate around until the rest of the party got there. She found that she liked it that way.

Now, in the mornings, Billy pulls into the space next to you, tears you away from your book, and spends the rest of the time until you actually have to go into school talking to you—or not talking.

You’ve found that though it’s easy to talk to him, it’s also just as easy to be around him without speaking at all. You’ve found that his company is enough. His presence.

Billy notices, when you’ve turned to look at him, that you’re biting at the inside of your lip. He notices because he recognizes the movement, because he does the same thing. It’s rare that the inside of either of his lips aren’t sore because he’s chewed them raw.

“It’s going to be fine, you know,” Billy tells you. He stomps out the butt of his cigarette.

“You always say that.”

And truly, you know he’s got a point. You’ve studied your ass off for this test, have even had him look over your outlines for the essay portion too. You feel prepared.

But there’s always that voice in the back of your head, telling you otherwise.

The voice that clouds your mind like a shadow, that wraps its arms around your shoulders and squeezes.

It moves your hair to the side and whispers in your ear.

You’re not good enough. You have no purpose. You’re nothing. What are you doing here?

And more often than not, you believe it.

Billy walks toward you, adjusts the collar on your jacket, straightens the pin on the front pocket. He stares at you, a stern look on his face.

“And I’m always right, aren’t I? You’re going to be fine, in the end.”

You nod, and his mouth ticks up at the corners.

Billy bends the middle finger on his right hand and drags his knuckle across your cheek. It’s what he does now when he wants to offer you comfort.

You know it’s in place of a hug, or a kiss, or some passionate string of words that he can’t bring yet himself to say.

It hasn’t been but a couple weeks since that day at lunch.

He’d sat there, stealing food from your lunchbox and reading some book for English class. Something he’d never have picked out for himself and certainly wasn’t enjoying.

After that Billy found himself looking for you in the halls, just wanting to know you were there. It’s like when you’re a kid and your seat mate doesn’t come to school, and you feel this ache for them.

He’s not what it is, but he likes you. He likes your company. He likes that you don’t pester him or try to stomp all over his ego.

Billy Hargrove aches for you.

From then on, it’s been quiet conversations whenever you see each other, joining him for a walk when he’s outside. Sometimes he strolls down your driveway to wait for you.

It’s been nothing more than two lonely people finding solace in one another, in realizing that either person will understand whenever the dam breaks.

Billy might not know all the inner workings of your soul yet, but he feels like he does.

It’s when he asks you a question he hasn’t ventured to ask yet, though, that he realizes he wants to know more.

He wants to be your friend.

You watch the carline for the middle school pick up, listen to the shitty country music that the kids who live further out from town play on their way into the lot.

Billy knocks his ankle against yours softly. You look down, realizing that you’ve both got on the same pair of shoes: converse that look like they’ve seen much better days.

You look up, thinking he wants something. “Hm?”

“Would you want to go somewhere tonight? I don’t know,” he trails off, unwrapping a piece of gum and popping it into his mouth, “the record store? Or the bookstore, if you’d rather that. We could get something to eat.”

You feel yourself get warm all over and straighten from where you’d been relaxed against your car.

Billy senses that what he said set something off in you, and he starts to worry. “We could do anything you want.”

You inhale, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Uh, I don’t know, Billy. I’ve got to study.”

He scoffs. “For what? Your test is today.”

“Yeah, we’ll I’ve got another one next week,” you say.

“So you’re going to start studying a week early?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

You don’t sound so sure of yourself. It’s like you’re scrambling for a way out of this, for an excuse as to why you can’t spend time with him.

“My mom might need me tonight or something. I’ll have to ask her.”

Billy almost makes a quip about you having to ask your mommy’s permission to go out, though he decides against it, because you’re shrinking before his very eyes.

“Yeah?” He inquires.

You nod, shouldering your bag.

————

Billy calls you after school. Your mother picks up.

“Hi! This is Nicky. Who’s calling?”

He takes a deep breath. Your mother sounds kind, which he isn’t used to.

“Hi. This is Billy. Billy Hargrove. I was trying to reach Y/N, is she home?”

“Oh, hi, Billy! Yeah, she’s home. I think she might be asleep though.”

“That’s okay.” He tries to call her by your last name, but she insists that Nicky is just fine.

“Can I ask you something?” He continues.

Your mother doesn’t know a whole lot about your budding friendship with Billy, but she does know that you’ve seemed a little less…empty.

At least she thinks so. She thinks he might be good for you, and based on the fact that he’s calling, you might be good for him too.

“Sure, hon. Shoot.”

“Do you need Y/N tonight? Do you have plans?”

Your mother hums. “Nope to both. Any particular reason why you’re asking?”

“I wanted to see her tonight, but she said she had stuff to do.”

It clicks for him then, all at once.

“But now that I’m thinking about it, maybe she’s nervous? To go out and about? I’m sorry for saying all this, really,” Billy covers.

“No, sweetheart it’s okay.”

That almost does him in. No one parental has ever spoken to him this way. Not since his mom.

“Y/N has pretty bad social anxiety, so oftentimes she gets nervous about going out in public where there are loads of people. Does that make sense?”

“No, yeah that totally makes sense. Thank you for telling me.”

He’s silent for a few seconds, thinking. “Do you think you could check on her? If she’s asleep don’t bother her though.” He finally says.

“Hold on just a second, okay sweetie? I’ll go see what she’s up to.”

Billy smiles, and he’s sure your mother can hear it in his voice when he responds. “Okay.”

The line goes quiet on her end, and he can hear what he assumes is the sound of your mother setting the phone on the counter. He can also hear some muffled voices.

He really wants to see you, but he understands if you’d rather stay home. He would try and invite you over to his, but he’d also like to avoid that.

There’s s a large part of Billy that wants to be there for you and learn what it is that you’re feeling. He can’t say that he doesn’t get nervous to be the center of attention in crowded places, because he does, but he’s never felt like he couldn’t go out like you do.

There’s a shuffling over the phone that brings him out of his stupor.

This time it’s your voice that he hears, and it’s calm, sweet, just like your mother’s had been. You’re not upset with him. His shoulders relax at that realization.

“Hi, Billy.”

“Guess you weren’t sleeping then, huh?”

You laugh lightly. “Nope. Just wallowing in self pity. What’d you wanna talk about?”

“About what I asked you today. I’d really like to spend a little more time with you, but I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Let me think for a second, okay?”

“Only for a second. I don’t want you to psych yourself out.” Billy can hear you sigh heavily, and he rolls his eyes. He can practically picture you, standing there.

“Um, okay. I’ll-I’ll go. Yeah, I’ll go. I haven’t been anywhere besides school in a long ass time.” That bit seems directed more at yourself than at Billy.

“Okay, little honeybee.” He’d heard your mom call for you and he was saving that one up.

“Fuck off,” you start, though there’s no malice in your voice. “Also, we can go to both, by the way.”

“Huh?” He questions, caught off guard.

“The record store and the bookstore. You offered the bookstore and I’m not letting it go.”

“Stubborn ass,” he mumbles.

“Can it, Hargrove. Are you picking me up? If so, when?”

He knows you could just walk down the street and go wherever with him. But he doesn’t want that. He finds that he’s kind of excited to see you.

“Yeah I can pick you up, your highness.”

————

Billy reaches across and pushes the passenger side door open when he sees you patter down the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” he hears you mumble, pulling the door shut behind you.

“Mhm.”

The both of you are silent for a moment, and you watch houses flick by outside the window. You wonder what people are up to. If they’re comfortable in those houses. If they’ve got carpet or hardwoods or stairs.

The radio volume is shockingly low you notice, but high enough that you catch something you recognize: the beginning of “Fade to Black.”

“Is there a reason you’re keeping the music so quiet?” You ask, and Billy glances at you for just a second.

“I was trying to not be an asshole,” he smirks, but it turns into a full, swoon-worthy smile when he sees you do the same at his remark.

“Well, you can turn it up, if you want. I like this song.”

Billy laughs. “Don’t fuck with me like that, Y/N.” He reaches for the dial and turns it up anyways. “Are you trying to tell me that you like Metallica?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Hargrove?” You sit on your hands, the leather seat cold on the backs of your fingers.

“I don’t know, I’m just not used to people liking the music I like.”

You laugh.

“So which one is it?” Billy asks.

You ignore him, pretend you don’t know what he’s asking.

“Is it James?”

Your grin is wide.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. But Kirk is pretty too. Not that I don’t think they’re all pretty, because they are.”

“Pretty?” He snorts.

“Yes, Billy.” You’re feeling brave, happiness spreading through you because you got to talk about something you like—so you go for it. “You’re pretty too.”

Billy coughs, and you pat him on the shoulder. “That’s a new one,” he tells you.

“Well get used to it, pretty boy.”

————

You’ve only been in the record store for five minutes, but Billy can sense that you’re nervous. There’s a pretty good crowd meandering through the aisles, and it’s a Friday night, so that’s no surprise.

You keep close to him, and you worry that he’s bothered by it, but you really do feel better when he’s right there.

Billy watches you flick through a set of Journey tapes, notices when you seem to panic a little if he goes too far away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your eyes downcast at a stack of magazines.

“For what?”

“Being a buzzkill. I doubt I’m very good company.”

“Don’t say that.” His voice is serious enough that you look up at him. “You’re not a buzzkill. And you’re the best company I’ve had since I got here.”

You keep eye contact with him for a few seconds, realize he’s got freckles. That’s enough to straighten you out.

“Can we go to the back? That’s where they put the random shit they find and then it’s usually like fifty cents.”

He smiles.

“Yeah, come on.” Billy holds out his hand. He wiggles his fingers when you don’t immediately take it. “So I don’t lose you in the crowd,” he says.

You feel yourself burn, but take his hand, and his palm is rough against yours.

He leads you to the far end of the store, and you find exactly the thing you were looking for. You walk around awhile, looking at everything and nothing.

You see something, and when you go to grab it, you let go of Billy’s hand and move your own up to his bicep, where you hold on to him instead.

Billy likes you holding his arm better, he thinks. It feels more…intimate. Like you trust him. He’s not used to that.

When you catch him looking at where you’re grasping him, you squeeze his arm a little, just above his elbow. “So I don’t lose you in the crowd,” you say, giggling to yourself. You say it the same way that people day “duh,” and that makes Billy’s heart skip.

You pick up what it was that you saw: an Ozzy Osbourne bobble head.

“What did Ozzy do to them? This is fifteen cents, Billy.”

“Maybe they really like bats.”

That does you in, and the both of you start laughing, enough that you get looks, but neither of you care.

You set it back down and move on, though there really isn’t that much more to look at. Billy buys a Tank tape, and that’s all.

He tosses his bag in the backseat of the Camaro so that he doesn’t have to hold it, and then walks you back down the street towards the bookstore.

You lead the way through the aisles, through fantasy and then romance and then mystery.

It’s obvious to him that you’ve been here loads of times and that you have a plan. You also seem much more comfortable here—like it’s your kind of atmosphere.

It’s in the mystery section that you linger, though, and he watches you pick up the same book, read the blurb, and then put it back three separate times.

“Y/N,” he says.

“Billy.”

You crouch to look at another shelf.

“You should get that one you just put back.”

“I have plenty of books.”

Billy rolls his eyes and reaches for it. “This one, right?”

You look up, nod.

“I’ll get it for you then,” he states.

“Billy—” You start, but he cuts you off.

“Can it.”

“Janet,” you say under your breath.

“What was that?”

“Guess that means I’ll have to make you watch Rocky Horror.”

“I’m buying you a present, and you’re going to punish me by making me watch some chick-flick?”

You grab for his arm again, and walk towards the register. “It’s not a chick-flick, Hargrove.”

“Whatever you say.”

You watch him pay, and he hands the paperback to you on your way back to the car.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

You both get in, and he sits a second to let it warm a little. “Dinner?” Billy asks.

“Sure.”

————

Your mother is leaning against the counter, making herself hot chocolate when you get home. “Want some?” Her smile is contagious.

You accept, and she spins back around after turning the stove back on, realizing you’re holding something.

She wiggles her eyebrows, which she should really refrain from doing.

“Billy bought me a book,” you tell her.

“He’s a keeper.”

————

It’s been a couple days since your not-date with Billy. That’s what your mom is calling it, much to your dismay.

She’s gone out for a little while, and you’re reading that book the pretty blonde bought you.

You hear a knock and panic, because you don’t do well with unannounced visitors, but you go to the door anyways.

A look through the peephole tells you it’s Billy.

You pull the door open, and panic a little more because his eyes are glassy, though you can tell he doesn’t want them to be.

His hands are clenching and unclenching, and he’s not wearing a jacket, so he’s got no sleeve to mess with either.

“I’m sorry. Your mom’s car wasn’t here so I thought—it doesn’t matter. Can I—”

“It’s okay,” you stop him. “Will you come in please?”Something is wrong, clearly, and frankly, he’s freaking you out.

He doesn’t say anything, just follows you inside, lingering in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need you to promise you’re not going to flip out on me if I tell you.”

Your breath catches. What the fuck?

“Are you a murderer or some shit? Because I can clean things, but I am not that good.”

“Oh my god, Y/N, no.” Billy runs his hands down his face. “I need you your help. There’s a cut on my back, and I can feel it bleeding, but I can’t clean it up myself. I was going to ask you to look at it.”

You take a deep breath, start thinking about if you’ve got anything to fix him up with.

You turn around and walk towards your bathroom, leaving him there. “I’m assuming you’re following me,” you say.

You want to ask him what happened, but you don’t want to push either.

Because he came to you. And maybe that means something.

You crouch, opening the cabinets under your sink. You gesture vaguely behind you when you wear Billy stop in the doorway.

“Sit down for me, please,” you tell him.

“Yes ma’am.”

You roll your eyes, and though he can’t see your face, he can most definitely feel it.

You push the door open wider, and you come into view for him. You’re sat cross legged on the floor.

Billy watches you pull out a washcloth, some q-tips. A messy assortment of other things.

You look up at him. “Can you show me?”

He nods, and you stand, kicking the cabinets shut. You try not to stare as he unbuttons his shirt and slips it off of his shoulders. He turns so he’s sitting sideways on the toilet.

You bend to look at it.

It’s not horrible or anything, but you know it has to hurt. It’s more of a bruise than anything, starting to get purple around the edges, but he was right about the blood—though it wasn’t a lot.

There’s a thin gash above his shoulder blade. It looks like the kind of thing you get when you bump into something wrong and it scrapes you, leaving a cut just deep enough to draw blood.

“You’re not bleeding anymore, it’s all dry now. I’m gonna wipe it off, okay?”

Billy sniffles. “Okay.”

You turn the tap on and wait for the water to get a little warmer, not wanting it to be too cold for him. You wet the rag and then wipe the dried blood clean from his skin, rinsing the fabric and then repeating that process until it’s clean.

You feel like you need something to put on it. The placement is bothering you and feels more susceptible to getting irritated. You really don’t want it to bother him.

With a little more rummaging, you find some antibiotic ointment that you’ve used for knee scrapes before.

You put some on the tip of your finger. “This is probably going to be cold, I’m sorry.”

Billy nods, and is quiet the entire time you rub it over the cut. You try not to notice how warm his skin is under your finger. Or how his bare back looks.

“You haven’t asked,” he finally says.

You wash your hands. “I didn’t know if you’d want to tell me.”

You pull out one of those oversized bandaids. “It’s my dad.”

Your fingers freeze where they tear into the packaging, but you calm yourself before sticking the bandaid on him.

“He got pissed at me today, and there’s a bookshelf in my room. He slammed me up against it, and my shoulder caught on the edge of a cassette tape.”

You move in front of him to drop your mess of supplies into the trash and sit on the edge of the tub to listen.

“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. He’s fucking hated my guts since my mom left. But I guess I’ve never had someone I felt like I could come to about it.”

You feel that everywhere.

You reach out and push a curl out of his face. “I’m sorry, Billy.”

You move to get on your knees in front of him so that your faces are level and take his hands. “It’s not your fault.”

His brow furrows. You say it again.

“It’s not your fault. I’m sure you think it is, but it’s not.”

His eyes are getting glossy again. “It might be though. If I’d just been different—”

“No. Don’t say that. You’re doing your best, Billy, and that’s enough. He’s an asshole and you deserve better.”

Billy nods again and again as if reassuring himself, as if trying to absorb your words.

“Hug?” You ask.

He nods again.

And you just hold him for awhile. He doesn’t cry, but you can feel him relax in your hold, feel him melt into you.

You think about how much it means to you that he feels comfortable enough with you to share this. That you’ve never felt this way before. This ache and this sincere passion for the well-being of another person.

You also think about how he smells like cigarettes and something fruity, which you assume is in his hair, and like his cologne.

Billy thinks about how he hasn’t been hugged like this since his mom. He thinks about something else he hasn’t felt in a really long time too. He wonders how long it will take for him to get the courage to tell you. If you feel the same.

Eventually, you pull away, and Billy pulls his shirt back on, grinning at you when your eyes linger on his chest as he buttons it up.

“Would you want to stay for awhile? Maybe for dinner or something?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

————

When your mother comes home, she’s not surprised that Billy is there, nor upset by his presence. She’s happy to see you with someone.

She may even have wiggled her eyebrows at you both.

But now, the three of you have not only eaten dinner, but heard every bit of gossip that your mother had to offer. It was after the bean spill that your mom dugout your very worn in copy of The Rocky Horror Picture Show for you to watch.

“You know,” she’d told Billy, “when Y/N was a kid, I left her with her with Wendy and went to see a midnight showing of this. It was so beautiful, all of these people dressed up in this room just to watch a silly film.”

Billy hasn’t ever felt this welcome in someone’s home. Never even in his own.

He’s sitting on the floor in between your legs while you braid his hair and he watches Dr. Frank-N-Furter dance around with Columbia.

So, come up to the lab

And see what’s on the slab

You’ve been quiet mostly during the movie regarding talking, though Billy revels in your laugh each time Brad says something stupid—so it’s pretty damn often.

You’d also told Billy he’d look spectacular in a corset, and that was after he agreed to let you practice the makeup someday. He’d hidden his blushing cheeks from you.

“I see you shiver with antici…pation.”

Your mother is sitting in an oversized chair across from the two of you.

“She does that every time,” she tells Billy with the sweetest of grins on her face.

Billy’s hand slips under your thigh and holds on to your knee.

“Done?” He whispers.

You tie the braid off. “Yep.”

When he leans his head back in your lap to look at you, you can’t help but feel like you’re the only girl in the world.

And when he leaves that night, you miss him. You miss Billy Hargrove.

It’s been a long time since you missed someone.

You watch your mother clean up the kitchen before bed.

“He’s a grump, but I like him,” she says suddenly. “I can’t believe he let you braid his hair.”

You hide a smile, not quite believing it yourself either.

“I like him too.”

And she knows you feel more than that for him. She can see it.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove comfort #billy hargrove fanfic #billy stranger things #stranger things fic #billy stranger things fic #billy hargrove x f!reader #savannah’s fics

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moreespressoformydepresso · 2 months

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EPIC: The Musical has me in a chokehold so I made a TBOSAS AU where the tributes are all eldritch creatures whose true might was dormant. Maybe reaping them at the same time was a rebel plot, maybe it was divine intervention, but it happens. It happens and the stress of the situation causes one of them to snap. The others soon follow.

All have eldritch forms tied to an element. Ones that aren’t the traditional four count (so metal, void, light etc). They have minor control over that element aside from the eldritch form and can spawn whole realms where their inner creature thrives which only they can access. So a creature tied to the element fire can be resting in their own personal badass volcano lair and then spawn in the ‘real’ world via a portal in the form of a flame. They can create the flame too, but they can’t travel very far and there are ways to mess with the teleportation. Also, the kids retain a version of their human form even when they’re ‘transformed’ because their eldritch form isn’t an alternate form, it’s more an extension of them that’s hidden until they reveal them. I’m using the word transformation because it’s easier. I’ve got many ideas but I’ll start with what inspired this AU: Treech as Scylla in the song Scylla.

I’m going with snakes over the dogs sometimes used in mythology because I think it’s more terrifying (and also I’ve seen one animatic with adorable serpents and fell in love with the big eyes and boopable snouts and massive razor sharp teeth dripping with blood). Treech’s eldritch form is a base with six ginormous serpents sticking out of it. If his human form’s attached to it, he’s a part of the base, usually with only his upper body visible. He has scales with a gradient of forest green, indigo, and Persian blue. When fully transformed, all of his eyes are a glowing icy blue or maya blue (I want to make them fully black but with all the dark shades that’s less terrifying imo) and his human form has lines of scales going in spirals down his body and creeping up on the edges of his face. When Treech starts his transformation, his pupils turn into predator slits and his irises turn light blue. The blue spreads out until it takes up the whole eye. When he gets mad, it might bleed into the veins around his eyes. The serpents themselves start out as glowing outlines all over his skin like tattoos that start to peel off and slowly grow to the terrifying size of his full eldritch form.

The part in the song after Scylla says “hello :)” is the part where he transforms, his voice slowly sounding more and more inhuman (he can sound like a human but like- go big or go home right?) and instead of just killing six people he massacres whole squads of peacekeepers (though he spares innocents like kids because he’s determined to rub it in the Capitol’s face that a literal man-eating serpent monster is more compassionate than they could ever hope to be) in his quest for both vengeance and freedom. It’s not even the biggest slaughter in the big revenge spree the tributes go on together, but still. I’m giving Treech vague siren-like aspects (his singing voice can cause a loss of focus and amply emotions like fear) instead of the telepathy Scylla has in EPIC. A little nod to the song that started this AU.

I might continue this and I’m working on some art for this AU (might post, might not, I’m not sure yet).

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eviesaurusrex · 2 years

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ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴋɪꜱꜱᴇꜱ | ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ʙʟᴜʀʙ | ʙ. ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

prompt: “You pull away from a kiss but they immediately say, “no come back here” before kissing you again” by @pikzel from this list of tooth rotting fluff

warnings: none, just pure fluff

author’s note: I feel so inspired by those pieces of ideas 🥺 Had to re-upload this because it didn’t show up in the tags

;

Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of one of the many rooms inside the compound, caressing two bodies intertwined on a comfortable armchair. The light fell on top of a black metal arm, glistening in the intricate gold details woven through the dark metal while also touching silky strands of hair with ever-changing color, clearly indicating one of the reasons why the woman lived in this building.

A book was held by a flesh hand while metal slowly, almost lazily, caressed the bare skin on her arm. With a soft sigh, she nuzzled her face tighter into the crook of his neck, continuing to listen to his deep, vibrating voice, which read some sort of rom-com she had bought this morning during their breakfast date in the city.

“If she hadn’t screamed at him, if she hadn’t called out his bullshit and showed him what an ass he had been—he probably would’ve never been able to see how much she meant to him, how much he adored her,” Bucky read out loud, a smile tucking at his lips, and a soft chuckle leaving his mouth. “I can recall something very similar,” YN whispered before giggling at his grumpy scoff. “Oh, yeah? I don’t remember anything like that happening to me.”

Moving her head from his shoulder and neck, the woman cocked a brow at him, watching her grumpy soldier with a growing cheeky smirk as he put the book down. Bucky wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her legs on either side of his thighs of betrayal—as she loved to call them—pulling her flush against his broad chest.

“Keep telling yourself that, sarge,” she mumbled closely against his lips, feeling his warm right hand wandering up her back before it settled in her neck, moving her to push their lips softly together. YN could feel him sigh into the kiss more than she could hear it, and with a smile pulling the corners of her mouth up, her arms enveloped his broad shoulders to continue to press loving kisses to Bucky’s lips. She always wanted to remind him how much she loved and appreciated him, how much of her thoughts and heart he occupied, and how much she thanked the universe day after day for leading their paths together.

“I adore you,” YN whispered between soft and tender kisses, basking in the feeling of home Bucky always was able to give her, even in the most troublesome moments—which they faced more often in their line of work than both of them liked to count. The man in front of her opened his cobalt blue eyes, which held so much love for her; it always amazed her and left her dumbstruck. He observed her face, took every inch of it in as if he didn’t know it already by heart, could paint it from his memory if he were as talented as Steve.

But he always had to remind himself that this angel really belonged to him and that this was not another induced nightmare created by Hydra to let him feel hope where no hope could thrive and live.

Bucky silently hummed, pulling her in again to press another set of kisses to her soft, perfect lips. “Yeah?” He asked with a small smile and closed his eyes as YN cupped his cheeks and pecked his lips another time. “Yeah,” she answered with a nod and chuckled as Bucky pulled her even closer, if that was even possible. “I’m really the luckiest man on this planet.” His murmured words got almost lost between colliding lips, drowned in tender touches, pulling arms, and softly labored breathing.

Suddenly a bodiless voice spoke up. “Your presence is requested in the lounge, Agent LN,” Friday announced, and with a glare to the ceiling, YN put both hands against Bucky’s chest and gently pushed the super soldier off her lips. He groaned at the loss of contact, trying to follow her face with slightly pouted lips, urging her to kiss him again, but YN only rested her fingertips against his mouth and pecked the tip of his nose. “I have to go. They will come and get me if I’m not there within three minutes, y’know that.”

Bucky’s pout grew in its intensity, and at the feeling of YN climbing off his lap and steadying herself on one of the armrests, he stopped being passive. “No, come back here,” he demanded, the pout still on his soft lips, and lurched forward to grasp her hips between both hands. With his super soldier strength, it was an easy task to pull YN back onto his lap—this time sideways—and wrapped her in his embrace again. His right hand cupped the side of her neck and searched for her mouth again, kissing her with everything he had after connecting them again. “Can’t let you go just yet, doll,” he huskily whispered and smiled widely as he felt how she wrapped her arms around his neck—just where they belonged. “Oh, you can’t?” YN grinned and softly nudged their noses against one another. Bucky shook his head slowly and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Nah-uh, not gonna happen, darlin’. Not today, not tomorrow. I’ve earned this entire weekend after the back-to-back missions we had all month long,” he grumbled and threw a warning look to the door in case someone dared to stumble through it and interrupt their well-deserved alone time.

“Friday? Tell them I’m not available and be a darling and lock the door,” YN could just push out of her mouth before it was already conquered by Bucky’s lips once more.

;

I finally had to write something new for my grumpy soldier <3 And I had to come back into the flow of writing after my mental health decided to take a sudden u-turn back into the dark as hell tunnel. I’m still driving through it, but hey, you gonna do what you love nonetheless especially when it helps to distract the overworking mind.

taglist: @poor-unfortunate-soul-85 @seasonofthenerd @onecrazydirectioner @meeksmusic83 @nyctophilic0vitnir

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euphoriajunkie000 · 4 months

Text

honeysuckle. character chart

Name: Absolute Zero

Alias: (Y/N) Hanahaki – given by Gojo, Honey – given by Shoko

Lore Notes (I will expand on this later, but I just want to braindump):

Your canonical age is seriously unknown

You have been around since the dawn of time so you are ancient

In a vicious cycle of reincarnation, you are technically immortal

As for what species you are, you don’t know

You can’t be killed unless you are shot in your “achilles’ heel” which is a weak spot located at the bottom of your brainstem, the medulla which is arguably the most important component of the brain

Once this happens, you can’t regenerate and you die; game over, try again

You get reborn again in the same body

Some memories are intact, others not so much

These forgotten moments can be reawakened by certain things that cause deja vu

Every time you die, you wake up

Same body, same face

You are aware when you die, and aware when you wake up, and aware if the current situation you are somehow in

You have been beat down by so many of the people around you throughout the ages that you very much don’t like humans

There are no medical records and traces of you

When people look at you it’s the kind of feeling in which they feel like they have seen you which draws them into you

You smell like honeysuckle and act just as sweet as them

Abilities:

You have angelic like wings

They can help you fly around in the air

Similar to Hawks from My Hero Academia, you can control each individual feather

You wings can change colors under certain circumstances

Regeneration

It is exactly what it sounds like

You can regenerate body parts instantly if they get damaged

If you have you hand severed, for example, you can stick your hand back on and it will heal

Regeneration will not heal you once your achilles’ heel has been shot

Molecular Manipulation

You can manipulate certain molecules within certain materials

Basically controlling the elements like Avatar: The Last Airbender and Legend of Korra

So far you only know how to control the main four, and subsets like blood bending or metal bending have not been touched on but they will later

As for cursed technique

Idk!

Please give me ideas!

I was thinking maybe the feathers in your wings contain cursed energy or smth like that

Appearance:

This is somewhat canon?

I won’t say appearances or specify (H/C) or (E/C) and things of that nature, because I think that defeats the whole purpose of the x reader tag I used

But if you like some of the ideas described, pick and choose and give me feedback if you do want me to implement these characteristics!

This is just for the people who wants someone to imagine in the story

Here is how I imagine this character!

Note! Absolute Zero was my reader/oc for my other fanfiction Underdog, a various bnha x reader/oc

Honestly, if you are really curious, the fanfic is still up, so go wild! It is posted on Quotev and Wattpad

Not sure if it is good but it has a lot of words, so if you are waiting on this series next chapter, I would recommend you take a look at it if you like my writing

I’m still continuing that fanfic, but the character I made was just too good to go to waste so I recycled

I imagine her to have varying hair lengths, but long of some sort

As for hair color, I imagine a light, sakura, pastel pink or a jet black.

Or maybe the hair is jet black but the underside is bleached/dyed a color of your choosing; let me know if you like that option!

Curtain bangs, slightly wavy-straight hair

As for skin tone, I’m thinking like a slight tan? As if you have been sunbathing and have a healthy glow idk

As for eye color I was thinking of a dark sea foam green (that matches with pink hair) or a burgundy color (that matches with the jet black hair)

If you couldn’t tell, this character was heavily inspired by Zero Two from Darling and the Franxx with both appearances and personality (shoutout!)

As for voice, I’m imagining the same voice as the character above and Panty from Panty and Stocking with Garterbelt (both dub)

I love their voices!!

I feel like this character would have piercings, maybe a couple on the earlobes!!

Here is a visual representation, let me know what you guys think!

-calypso :

#geto x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #megumi x reader #nanami x reader #nobara kugisaki #yuji itadori #jujustsu kaisen x reader #inumaki toge x reader #shoko x reader #nobara kugisaki x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu geto #jujutsu sorcerer

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slavghoul · 1 year

Text

Phantomime is the band's third album of covers, after If You Have Ghosts and Popestar. Cover songs are usually the preserve of young, inexperienced bands. Is doing covers a way to maintain a link with your formative years and not forget where you come from?

Tobias Forge: Absolutely. I think it does that. It serves as a return to the roots, in the same way as for... I don't know, let's say someone who practices martial arts, who starts in a certain dojo and ends up changing it. If you want to become a good fighter, you have to move and train with different people. It's the same for a footballer: if you play with the same team all the time, your team might be very good, but you always have to play against others. I think the same logic applies with covers: it can help to go back. You don't necessarily have to release them. We chose to do a real album, but in parallel I worked on other songs - not only Impera music, but other covers. We selected the best ones, and said, "Let's put these out; this looks coherent and presentable".

How much did learning to play other artists' songs contribute to your formation as a musician? What were the most formative songs in your youth?

The answer to the first question is yes. Listening and playing at the same time is very formative. I've never really been... A lot of guitarists, especially, take the time to read tablature and learn how to play something very precisely, and in my opinion, theorise the music too much. I can't say that I'm not theoretical; I just don't follow the rules or the classic terminology. I try to categorise and understand the logic, but I do it in my own way, based on what I have learned over time. I never spent much time with tablature; I just played to the music. I would put the music on and play. I wasn't trying to learn how to play the song in the same way as the band. I would play as if I were invited to play with them. So my style is very free, because I played The Doors as well as Kiss, Slayer and DJ Bobo! It could be anything. Whatever I heard, whatever I listened to, whatever song I could get my hands on, I would play it. I think the chaos of it all made it... When you understand that, you understand the way I write, the way I do things, and why I sometimes seem to be a bit scattered.

That's what may surprise you when you listen to the EP: you can find Iron Maiden as well as Tina Turner...

Yes, I grew up with both, so it's not strange to me. But of course, in order to go from just wanting to do something to a homogeneous work that is supposed to have some commercial appeal, you have to make decisions. One of those decisions was, "If we're going to do this Tina Turner song, it really needs to be punchy." It's supposed to be a rock EP, it's got to be set to 10. I think that's what sets this cover apart from the moose. By the way, thematically, I didn't think of it as 'a Tina Turner cover', but as 'the Mad Max song'. It fits with the times we're living in.

Phantomime features a cover of Iron Maiden's "Phantom Of The Opera". Two years ago, you also recorded a version of Metallica's "Enter Sandman" for the Blacklist compilation. In rock, people like to pit the Rolling Stones against the Beatles, and I think the metal world tends to do the same thing with Metallica and Iron Maiden. Do you feel more affinity with Metallica or with Maiden?

[He thinks] Good question. I'm trying to formulate a coherent answer. I think... It's so fifty-fifty. Both. Not just in terms of inspiration, but in terms of their whole careers, especially when I was a kid. In many ways, like many fans of both bands, there's a cut-off date where my interest in new music started to wane. But I have such a love for everything they did before that it doesn't really matter. The limit is basically the Black Album and Fear Of The Dark. I mean, I like The X Factor, and Brave New World was an absolutely great comeback album. But as a kid and a teenager, settling down with Live After Death was such an inspiration - not just for what I was hearing, but for the tour dates and everything to do with that. Same with Metallica and the Black Album. That was the first time I saw them, and it was the first time I was confronted with commercial greatness in metal, when a band is on top. It's happening now, they're the biggest band of all time. They're playing in such and such an arena, but when they come back next year, they'll be doing such and such a stadium. Even back then, I had a hunch that not only were they great, but they were doing well in life. These guys are getting richer by the hour [laughs]. That's the kind of thing that matters when you're twelve. "And imagine all the girls they get!" That kind of nonsense.

And of course, these bands inspired me musically and professionally and brought me a lot of joy, but they also became mentors in my professional life. I have so much gratitude and respect for those two bands. If I were to be super picky and specific, I would say that since we are a more melodic band, we are probably closer to Maiden. Metallica is more of a "speed" band, I think. To be honest, what I've always liked most about Metallica, and especially on my favourite albums, which are a lot of people's favourites, is not the speed. The speed and the violence on those albums are just added value. The reason their music was so great in the 80s was because it was so melodic. It's the melodies. What changed in the 90s was that they stopped the melodies. They became a blues band, and all of a sudden all the movements were different. It wasn't neoclassical like in the 80s or on the Black Album. I'm very neoclassical myself, that's why I feel so close to the melodic side of Metallica. On the other hand, I spent my teenage years listening to death and black metal, so I love big riffs and speed and stuff like that, but that's not what we do with Ghost.

For a long time, fans have been asking who could be the Maiden or Metallica of tomorrow. Considering the impressive success of Ghost, do you think you have an answer to that question?

Obviously, I know that George Lucas and Steven Spielberg will die one day, but I don't think Wes Anderson or Quentin Tarantino can be considered as a replacement. These directors don't have that much in common, but you know what I mean, I hope. I don't see us as taking their place. You know, I try to be as transparent as possible. What I do is very much inspired by those two bands. I try to do it in a different way, and with respect. But of course, from a practical point of view, when the day comes when there's no more Iron Maiden and you want to see a rock concert with staging and solos, you can come and see us. It's a very curious concept, but it's obviously relevant, because we live in a time when the previous generation is disappearing one after the other. I think Lars [Ulrich] and James [Hetfield] have spoken about how the physicality of their music is not the same as the Rolling Stones. Charlie [Watts] playing the way he played when he was seventy-nine or eighty, it's nothing like what's expected of Lars. And what is expected of James is also very different from what is expected of Keith Richards, with his very open chord style. The meticulousness of James' riffs and Kirk's solos can be difficult to achieve at eighty - and they're approaching sixty. Kirk already has them, by the way. So, as much as I don't want to think about it or remind people, nothing lasts forever. Sooner or later, fans are going to have to decide which bands they want to go see, because a lot of the people they grew up with won't be around anymore.

Your cover of "Enter Sandman" was very "ghostified", while "Phantom Of The Opera" is more faithful to the original in comparison. How do you decide how to approach a cover? Are there songs that offer more latitude in terms of arrangement and appropriation, and others less?

There are several factors, which differ from song to song, and the result can therefore be different. If you go back in time and take "Waiting For The Night", for example, I always thought that song in its original form... Obviously it's cool, but I thought there was a bigger song underneath. In the original, it's diffuse, vague, underlying. The chords are just hinted at, and the vocals suggest that you can build something bigger around it. When I did the cover with Dave Grohl, he asked me, "Can we do a really slow version of it like Trouble?" I said, "Yeah, that sounds cool." And of course, working with Dave Grohl, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, we thought it was too slow, too heavy and too long. It was a good idea, but the result was not very convincing.

Enter Sandman' and 'Phantom Of The Opera' were conceived in two different ways. If someone had asked me to do a Metallica tribute, I would have accepted, but I would never have chosen 'Enter Sandman', in the same way that few people would choose 'Paranoid' or 'Smoke On The Water'. You automatically try not to pick the biggest hit. But in this case, it was Swedish television that asked me to play. It was for a music award, and they said: "Since Ghost and Metallica are close, you are seen as friends, so you should open the show. And we want you to play their biggest song, 'Enter Sandman'." I asked, "Do I have a choice?" And they said, "Not really! We want you to do it, otherwise we have to rethink the whole show. Could you think about it?" OK, I'll think about it and see what I can do. So I started to play the song and see what I could get out of it. The original structure of the song is very simple, and the melody, like "Waiting For The Night", suggests chords that they don't play. All I had to do was see which chord suggested the melody and fill in the gaps. I ended up with a five-minute arrangement. If I sing the melody with a guitar, this is what chords it suggests. That's the somewhat academic version of the song. I was at the stage where I had a completely different version of the song, and I recorded it and thought, "Fuck, I hope James doesn't hate it..." Because I don't want to disappoint anyone. It's supposed to be a tribute. My version was like, "You guys have all my love, but I was forced to do this! And in the end, the result was great.

"Phantom Of The Opera' was a bit different. I knew I wanted to cover a Maiden song, but not just anything, of course. I wasn't going to do 'The Number Of The Beast'. I've had fun with 'Phantom' in the past, because it's a long song and quite complicated. As a musician, it's quite common to sit on the couch and try to figure out a riff. What are they doing there? [What's the rhythm? How are they counting? Because I couldn't hear the beat. And suddenly, once I understood how the beat works in this song [he sings the riff while snapping his fingers], I thought: "Wow, you can't hear that at all on the record. You can't hear anything, it's just a controlled mess." I managed to figure out how to play other elements of the song, and I was like, "Now I have a reason to record it. Not because I want to improve it, but to come up with a different version where you can clearly hear the different parts." First of all, it was a personal experiment in the studio. I wanted to record it to see what it sounded like, and suddenly, after working on it for a few hours, doubling the guitars, adding the drums and playing everything perfectly with metronomic precision, the track was different and a bit updated, so to speak. So I said to myself, "I'm going to take the gamble of covering this song, and see what happens. It seemed like a good reason. I'm not saying my version is better, I'm just saying it's different. There's a bit more contrast and fluidity, you can hear the different elements better. It underlines how good the song is.

Phantomime's covers also include Genesis' 'Jesus He Knows Me'. Genesis is a rather peculiar band, which started out in progressive rock and ended up with huge radio hits. Do you find yourself in this ambiguity, in this duality?

Yes, I do. The other band on that level that did something similar is Pink Floyd. In the beginning, their music was really strange, really eccentric, and then they became more and more pop as the albums went on. People still mistakenly think they're a prog band, whereas 'Wish You Were Here' is really just a series of four pop songs stretched to the max. Not only am I very inspired by that, but I also feel an affinity with that kind of thing. You try to come up with variations of the traditional, if you like. You try to change the form, to present elements that people know in a different way. It's a bit like running a fusion restaurant and offering an Asian-inspired onion soup and adding coriander to the dish. It's still recognisable, but you try to make the recipe different. Another analogy is Stanley Kubrick, who told stories that weren't very complicated, but presented them in an epic way because of their façade - literally. It was the choice of set and costume and the attention to detail that made the difference. That's why, as a composer, I always try to go back to the simplicity of the writing; the simplicity of 'Another Brick In The Wall'; the simplicity of 'Comfortably Numb'. It sounds like a huge, epic song, but it's not complicated at all. They have a lot of songs like that. For a lot of songs in the Genesis catalogue, especially in the later part of their career, the only thing that makes it a bit weird is the middle part. In "Jesus He Knows Me", that's one of the things that made me want to... Not only have I always loved that song, but there are three factors that made me want to do my own thing with it. One: it's a very upbeat rhythm. The way they play it is so quiet that it literally sounds like they're playing on the table [he beats the rhythm on the table] with an acoustic guitar. There's a real metal track in there.

Do something with those guitars! [Laughs]

Yeah, but I'm glad they didn't, because that means we can! I'm really surprised that a band like Metallica never covered this song, because it sounds like a song from Garage Days. It has the same atmosphere. So I thought, "I'm gonna make it sound like a Garage Days song by Metallica. And I fucking hate the bridge of the original, when they go into white boy raggae. I like reggae, but this is the whitest reggae in the world! And it totally destroys the song. As much as I've always loved the song as a whole, I've always hated that part. So getting rid of that section and making it very heavy was also on the to-do list. I had to go into Trouble mode on this. And of course, that goes without saying, but the lyrics were also perfect. It's meant as a tribute, even though I spit on that bridge a lot. But they've done a lot of these kind of prog bridges, like "Let's do anything here", and they'll throw in a rumba or something like that. Some people might find that really interesting, but in most of their songs, I don't think it adds anything. But yes, Genesis has a lot of... I like a lot of their older prog music, with Peter Gabriel, although I think they almost became even better after they split up. Peter Gabriel did his own music, and he did it very well - very epic music. And Phil [Collins] came in on vocals and they did their own thing. To me, it was the best of both worlds, even if it sounds sacrilegious to say that. I'd love to see Peter Gabriel come back and sing with them, that would be cool, but their separation brought so much to the music, between Peter Gabriel's career, Genesis' career and Phil's career. That amount of work, man!

It's one of the few cases where the split was a real success for everyone, and the result is as good as the original band.

Absolutely, I think so. The most amazing thing they could do now, especially now that Phil is not in good shape... What I wish they had done, or could have done, or would do one day, is a triple tour. For example, Phil and [Peter] could do a solo show each to start with, maybe just five or ten songs, and then get together with Genesis. That way we could have 'Here Come The Flood', 'Another Day In Paradise' and 'In The Air Tonight', and then a bunch of Genesis. I think everyone would love to see that. It would be the perfect concert. For me, it would be one of the best experiences possible.

You see, that's the kind of idea that made Ghost into Ghost. If you can come up with a plan like that for other bands...

[Laughs] You can always call me before it's too late, guys!

Another band that has come up with sophisticated yet super catchy music is Def Leppard, especially on their multi-platinum album Hysteria. Speaking of which, this year you released a new version of "Spillways" with Joe Elliott on vocals. When you hear him on this track, the link is obvious, especially with the very elaborate backing vocals. Would you draw a parallel between your approach to songwriting and arranging and that of Def Leppard?

On this album, yes, because I tried to emulate elements of... It's something that's been done throughout their career, but especially on their two biggest albums, Pyromania and Hysteria, the length of the songs is remarkable. It's very common these days, especially in pop, to be very fussy about the three-minute limit. In the pop world, there's this need to always get to the chorus very quickly. You have to start with the chorus, go straight to the point all the time. In the 80s, there was more courage in songwriting - a more adventurous side. Songs like 'The Riddle', for example, were very strange, very proggy. There were weird chord progressions and stuff that nobody does anymore. The pop world has been so chicken for so long. Of course, I've always had an ear for pop; I'm not exactly impressed with what I hear today, but in my life I've always listened to the radio and liked a lot of what I heard, especially the 80s super hits. That's totally my thing. And I love Eurodisco from the early 90s. There are a lot of great composers in that scene. Max Martin started in Eurodisco, at least professionally, but before that he was in metal. What makes him such a great composer is his metal ear. He was writing Eurodisco songs, and then all of a sudden he started writing huge pop songs for the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. This whole school of Swedish songwriters is made up of former metalheads, former rockers, former guitarists.

So I wanted to challenge myself in my own songwriting, because sometimes I keep it too short. Even though "Square Hammer" is a good example of a well-written song, it was almost frustrating, because I thought, "OK, that's one more song like that. Now I have to stop doing that, because it was almost too simple." It was a very intuitive song; I literally wrote it in ten minutes. I had the melody, I played it, and the song wrote itself very quickly. There's almost no finesse in that song, and I thought I should avoid doing the same thing again, because it would be too easy. I wanted to see if I could write in a Def Leppard way. On Hysteria, there are six, seven, eight singles, a good half of which were huge hits. In 1987 or 1988, they were on a par with Coldplay at the height of their career, that's for sure. How could they write five-minute songs, with like five distinct parts? It wasn't conventional, verse-chorus-verse-chorus writing. It was verse, another verse, pre-chorus, bridge, and then finally, after two minutes, you'd get to the chorus. And it was so rewarding, because it was such a long way to get there. I thought, "This is what I have to work towards. I want to dare to add another part, dare not to follow the path. That was a mental exercise I did on Impera, and I'll try to do better in the future. It's an interesting way to challenge yourself.

When people talk about the length of songs on the radio, I always think of the story of "Bohemian Rhapsody": "This is going to be a disaster, it's never going to be played on the radio!" That's it, yes...

For a long time they called that song "Freddie's thing". It's such an anomaly in the middle of what we've just been talking about. Of course, I don't recommend... For a young band that's just got a contract, it's best to avoid the six-minute "Rhapsody". But if you can find a compromise between 'The Passenger' and 'Bohemian Rhapsody', I think you've got something.

On that subject, how did Joe Elliott end up on "Spillways"?

The story is very simple. I talked about Def Leppard a lot before Impera came out because of the mental exercise I mentioned, and both Phil and Joe had been talking about Ghost for a few years. It got to the point where our respective managements wanted us to do something together. In the modern world, that often means collaborating, as hip-hop artists do. I explained that I was willing to explore the idea, but that for me, a collaboration is a trendy but outdated concept. We do it all the time. In hip-hop, it's almost ridiculous to see... If an artist is hot this week and you go look at the American top 40, it's just "this artist feat. this other artist". I totally understand that one plus one can sometimes be three, but it gets very cynical. I don't want to do things cynically. I sing cynical things, I'm a cynical person, but I don't want to be cynical about my fans or my career. So I said yes, I would discuss it with Joe, but we'd have to see if we could agree on something, if there was romance in the air.

Joe and I sent a lot of messages to each other to try and arrange a meeting. He lives in Ireland, but also in LA. I live in Sweden, but I also spend a lot of time in LA, so we tried to find time to see each other. He was getting ready for his tour, I was getting ready for my tour, and we were just hanging out. And then out of the blue, he wanted to experiment; he went into the studio, recorded some vocal lines and sent them to me. I thought it sounded really cool and I said, "Look, I have nothing but good things to say about what you did. It sounds great. I'm not surprised by your voice, but by the fact that we sound so good together. I like that very drawling vocal, you really added something. But I have no desire to throw this on Spotify and say to people, 'Here's another thing you can buy.'" I asked him, "You know we do little skits to communicate with our fans in a funny way? Instead of posting on Instagram saying we'll be in such and such a city, we come up with little episodes." He had seen a few and said, "Yeah, that's funny. Let's do something funny with that." The gag is the important part, and the end result is a bonus.

It's like what we did with 'Kiss The Go-Goat' and 'Mary On A Cross'. The idea for the episode came first, and then we said, "OK, but we need a song. So I came up with the idea for this 60s-style sketch that was "Kiss The Go-Goat". Then, as I was writing and recording 'Kiss The Go-Goat', 'Mary On A Cross' came up in the process, and I thought, "Great, now we have a B-side! It'll be a physical single." So I put that in the script: "Let's start showing the single, now that it's official." Things work in tandem. Looking back, we now know that the end result was different. It was meant as a joke. There was 'Kiss The Go-Goat', which was the joke itself and was very successful. And then it turned out that "Mary On A Cross" was completely different. That's also what I told Joe: we do this to mess around with the band. My job is to write records and entertain people, but apparently I also have to communicate with my fans, and do all this promotion that I'm not really interested in. I have no problem doing this interview, but I don't want a fucking Instagram account where I post pictures of myself. I don't want to be that person. So, I'm doing this so that people... They're diversions, and sometimes those diversions become cool. "What do you say, Joe?" In the end, we found this way to spend time together and do something fun. Instead of turning our creativity into songs, we turned our creativity into episodes. It became something fruitful and fun, and I think it was a great success.

The title of the EP is clever, as it mixes the terms 'ghost' and 'pantomime'. The latter term is defined as "a type of musical for the entertainment of the whole family". Is this your goal with Ghost? Do you see the band as "a musical for the whole family's entertainment"?

Broadly speaking, yes. Of course, that suggests that the more adult elements and innuendos in our show are suitable for children, which I don't claim. But I would also like to stress that I have never asked people to bring children to our shows. So if the children in question are exposed to jokes involving penises, farts and copulation, that's their problem. I grew up in a very liberal family, where there were very few barriers and no censorship. I think it's possible to have a conversation, if others are open to it. I have no problem with whole families coming to us, as long as no one suffers. So, for me, it is indeed entertainment for the whole family. But I wouldn't sell it as such to most people, because there are still elements that are not suitable for all children.

I remember a Rammstein concert where I noticed children in the audience. I thought it wasn't really a good idea... Ghost seemed a bit more appropriate, but for young children, some things can still be a bit biased.

It's hard for me to have a clear line on this, because I'm not just speaking as a musician, but also as a parent. There's a constant debate about the right age to talk about certain things. Now, with two teenagers, things are more open. But that's one of the weird things about being a semi-public figure, talking openly and publicly about your life and what you do and sharing your opinions. My kids read that, too. They are aware of it. As soon as I say something, especially nowadays, where everything becomes a meme or a clip... People may think what I say is funny, which I don't mind, but my son and daughter, now fourteen, heard it when they were eight or ten. It's hard for me to be a parent and say, 'Go to school! Don't do that", when they know perfectly well that I didn't follow any of these precepts. I'm not trying to lie to them at all. I tell them: "I did this, I don't recommend it. I did this; I totally neglected this other thing. But I was lucky and I got there. My career isn't over, so I don't know if I've really "arrived", but for now, I'm here. It was a bit silly of me to be so confident, to think I could burn all the bridges, burn all the ships and throw the oars. I was lucky enough to make it to land, but I don't recommend this technique. Don't do the same thing! [Laughs]

#the band ghost #Tobias Forge #interview

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