#david bowie angst
Note
Hello! Thank you so much for feeding us with Bowie fics, you don't know how many times I looked into the tags to see if there were any Bowie fics uploaded. I wanted to ask if you could write part 2 of “What a Rocker” where David finally asks her to be his partner, they date, time passes, angst happens and then some smut. The plot is up to you
david bowie x reader - what a rocker (part two)
a/n: loving writing these fr
The late '80s exhaled a palpable energy, a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of neon lights and the pulse of rock music. In the midst of this kaleidoscope of sound and color, you found yourself entwined with the enigmatic David Bowie. Your journey together had been a whirlwind of rendezvous and stolen moments amidst the chaos of your respective music careers.
As the stage lights dimmed and the echoes of applause faded into the night, you and David would slip away into the shadows, savoring the intimacy of your clandestine romance. Each glance, each touch, was laden with a silent understanding, a connection that transcended the boundaries of time and space.
It was after one such electrifying performance that David finally broached the subject that had been lingering unspoken between you for so long.
"You know," he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper against the backdrop of the city's nocturnal symphony, "I've been thinking..."
You turned to him, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "About what, David?"
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering with a kaleidoscope of emotions. "About us, darling. About what we could be."
Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. For so long, you had danced around the edges of this unspoken truth, tiptoeing along the precipice of possibility. And now, here it was, laid bare before you like a fragile flower blooming in the moonlight.
"I've been thinking about it too," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "About what it would mean."
David reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that took your breath away. "It would mean everything, my love. Everything and nothing all at once."
And in that moment, as the city sparkled like a constellation of stars above you, you knew that you were on the precipice of something irrevocably beautiful.
Time passed in a blur of whispered confessions and stolen kisses, each moment with David a symphony of passion and desire. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the realities of your separate lives began to intrude upon your idyllic bubble.
"I miss you," David confessed one night, his voice heavy with longing. "I miss us."
You nodded, your heart aching with the weight of unspoken words. "I miss you too, David. More than you'll ever know."
But even as you spoke the words, you knew that the distance between you was growing, a gaping chasm that threatened to swallow you whole. And try as you might to bridge that divide, the currents of fate seemed determined to pull you apart.
It was on one such night, the static crackle of the telephone line the only connection between you, that the dam finally burst.
"You never call me anymore," David accused, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You only ever seem to want me when it's convenient for you."
You bristled at the accusation, the sting of his words lashing out like a wounded animal. "That's not true, David. You know it's not."
But even as you spoke the words, you knew that they rang hollow, a feeble attempt to deflect the truth. For in the depths of your heart, you knew that you had let him slip through your fingers, too caught up in the whirlwind of your own ambitions to see the love that lay waiting at your feet.
And as the line went silent, the echoes of your words hanging heavy in the air, you knew that you had reached the point of no return.
In the days that followed, you found yourself adrift in a sea of regret and longing, the memory of David's touch a bittersweet echo that haunted your every waking moment. And try as you might to move on, to bury the pain beneath the facade of indifference, you knew that you would always be tethered to him, bound together by the threads of a love that transcended time and space.
———
The backstage buzz slowly dissolved into a quiet hum as the last echoes of the Glass Spider Tour faded away. In the midst of the stillness, you stood, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, heart pounding in your chest. And then, there he was, stepping into the lobby, his presence commanding and magnetic even in the absence of stage lights and costume.
David froze in his tracks as his eyes fell upon you, his expression a kaleidoscope of emotions—surprise, disbelief, and something else, something deeper that you couldn't quite name. You held your breath, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, the air crackling with unspoken words.
"I know you're mad," you interjected before he could say anything, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But please, David—can I just..."
Your voice trailed off, swallowed by the cavernous space between you, the silence stretching taut like a wire ready to snap. And then, with a trembling breath, you whispered the words that had been weighing heavy on your heart for so long.
"Can I just love you?"
David swallowed hard, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears as he took a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you. And then, in one swift motion, he enveloped you in his arms, holding you tightly against him as if afraid to let go.
"Oh, darling," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Of course you can. Of course you can love me."
You buried your face against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, his cologne enveloping you in a familiar embrace. And in that moment, surrounded by the echoes of a love that had never truly faded, you knew that everything would be alright.
David pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you as if afraid to let go. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the words a mantra against your skin. "I'm so, so sorry."
You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze with a steady determination. "We both made mistakes, David. But that doesn't mean we can't move forward."
He nodded, his eyes shining with a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Together”.
As you settled onto the couch, the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders, replaced by the warmth of David's embrace. The air between you crackled with an electric energy, a palpable reminder of the connection that had drawn you together in the first place.
"So," David began, his voice a soft murmur against the curve of your neck, "tell me about your tour. I want to hear all about it."
You smiled, the corners of your lips quirking up in amusement at his eagerness. "Well, where do I start? It's been a whirlwind, to say the least."
David leaned back slightly, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest. "I can only imagine. But I want to hear the details. Every last one."
And so you regaled him with tales of late-night performances and crowded venues, of the rush of adrenaline that came with stepping out onto the stage and the camaraderie of sharing that moment with your bandmates. You spoke of the highs and the lows, the moments of triumph and the inevitable setbacks, each word punctuated by David's attentive nods and encouraging smiles.
But as you spoke, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered at the edges of your consciousness, a nagging reminder of the distance that had grown between you in recent months.
"And what about you, David?" you asked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "How's your tour been going?"
David's smile faltered slightly, his gaze flickering with a mixture of emotions. "It's been... challenging, to say the least. But I suppose that's all part of the experience, isn't it?"
You reached out, your fingers intertwining with his in a silent gesture of solidarity. "You don't have to pretend with me, David. I know it hasn't been easy."
He sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at your words. "No, it hasn't. But having you here, now... it makes it all worth it."
———
As you followed David into his apartment, you watched as he dumped his bag of belongings in his room, the weight of his gaze heavy upon you as if daring you to make the first move.
"So it was really cool to see so many young fans in the aud—" you began, your words trailing off as you felt yourself pressed against the wall, his lips crashing against yours with a fervour that left you breathless.
David kissed you like a man possessed, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that ignited a fire deep within your belly. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour as if committing them to memory, and you melted against him, lost in the heat of the moment.
When he finally pulled back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes blazing with an intensity that took your breath away.
"I've missed you," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. "God, I've missed you."
You reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pulled him back in for another searing kiss, the taste of him like a drug you couldn't get enough of.
"I've missed you too," you murmured against his lips, your words muffled by the heat of his mouth. "So much."
And then, in a moment of raw vulnerability, he asked the question that had been lingering unspoken between you for so long.
"Do you want to... finally make love with me?" he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.
You nodded eagerly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes, David. Yes, I do. I've been waiting way too long for this."
As David led you into his bedroom, the air thick with anticipation, every movement seemed to carry the weight of the world. With trembling hands, he reached out, his fingers grazing the soft fabric of your clothes as if afraid to touch you, as if you might disappear at the slightest touch.
But you were real, and you were here, and nothing could change that.
With a silent understanding, you began to undress each other, the intimacy of the moment stealing your breath away. David's hands were gentle yet sure as he slowly peeled away the layers of clothing, his touch sending shivers down your spine.
You gasped as his fingers brushed against your skin, the heat of his touch searing through you like a wildfire. With each garment discarded, the distance between you seemed to narrow until there was nothing left but the electric spark of desire that crackled between you.
And then, with a quiet reverence, he lowered you onto the bed, his eyes drinking in every curve and contour of your body as if seeing you for the first time. There was a hunger in his gaze, a longing that mirrored your own, and you knew that this moment would be etched into your memory forever.
With a slow, deliberate motion, David leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck and collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You moaned softly, arching into his touch as he worshipped every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue.
And then, with a sudden urgency, he moved lower, his mouth finding its way to the heat between your thighs. You gasped as his tongue danced over your sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you in dizzying waves.
"Oh, David," you moaned, your voice a breathless whisper as he worked his magic, his fingers delving deeper as he brought you to the brink of ecstasy.
But even as you writhed beneath him, lost in the throes of passion, you could sense the hunger in his gaze, the need that burned within him like a wildfire. And when he finally rose to his feet, his eyes blazing with desire, you knew that this was only the beginning.
With a gentle yet insistent pressure, he guided you onto your side, his body pressing against yours as if to claim you as his own. And then, with a slow, languid motion, he slipped into you, the sensation stealing your breath away as he filled you completely.
You gasped at the feeling of him inside you, the heat of his body mingling with your own as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins.
"Oh, David," you moaned, your voice a chorus of need as he rocked against you, his movements becoming more urgent with each passing moment.
"So gorgeous, love," he whispered, his voice a husky murmur against your ear as he buried himself deeper inside you. "You feel—oh, you feel so good, oh my god—"
As David's rhythm intensified, he guided you onto your back with a firm yet gentle hand, his touch igniting a firestorm of desire within you. You yielded to him willingly, your body surrendering to his every whim as he spread your legs, leaving you utterly exposed and vulnerable beneath him.
The sensation of being laid bare before him, of offering yourself up to him completely, sent shivers of anticipation coursing through your veins. And when he positioned himself between your thighs, his gaze burning with an intensity that threatened to consume you whole, you felt a thrill of excitement mingled with a sense of overwhelming vulnerability.
"Such a beautiful little thing," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper against your skin. "Yes, you are..."
You trembled beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he plunged into you with a force that stole your breath away. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body, leaving you teetering on the edge of oblivion.
"Squeeze me like that—that's it, good girl," he groaned, his voice thick with desire as he urged you on. "Keep going..."
You obeyed his command without hesitation, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him desperately. The sensation of his cock filling you to the hilt, stretching you in all the right ways, left you feeling utterly supine and helpless, lost in a haze of pleasure that threatened to consume you whole.
And then, just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he found your G-spot with a precision that left you crying out in ecstasy. You arched into him, your body writhing beneath his touch as he chuckled down at you, his gaze smouldering with desire.
"That feels good, doesn't it, love?" he murmured, his voice a seductive purr as he continued to drive you to the brink of ecstasy. "Want me to do it again?"
You could only nod in response, your words lost in a sea of pleasure as he took you higher and higher, each thrust pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
And when you finally tumbled over that precipice, it was with a cry of release that echoed through the room like a prayer, leaving you utterly spent and completely sated in his arms. He spilled into you with a choked moan of your name as he collapsed down onto you, holding your sweat-sheened bodies together with a soft whisper of a sacred:
“I love you. I love you, my sweet thing”.
#david bowie x reader#david bowie fluff#david bowie smut#david bowie fanfic#david bowie angst#poopdiddyscoopwrites
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David Bowie: Kid Sister
Imagine living with your older brother, David Bowie, but running away when he chooses drugs over you:
Being David Bowie's younger sister is hard enough, but having to watch him destroy his life is near impossible.
He and I have quite the age difference, he's currently 27, whilst I am only 15, but he has taken on the role of both father and big brother. When he first took me in I was 11 and he was only 23, he had wanted to stop by and surprise us with a visit after being so busy with his latest album.
It's a long story how he ended up my legal guardian, but let's just say he walked in on our mother berating me, and witnessed her slapping me across the cheek. Needless to say, he was not pleased in the slightest and demanded a reason be given as to why I was slapped. Our mother gave no answer, instead only glaring at me with an even darker hatred than before.
She took a step towards me and I don't know what came over me, but I sprinted around her and into David, crying my eyes out as I hid behind him. I remember my small hands grasping the material of his sleeves, just wanting some feeling of love and acceptance. He seemed stunned, taking a few seconds to react to this; leaning down, he handed me his keys, telling me in a soft voice to go wait in his car. I nodded and went to open the front door when our mother decided to intervene.
"Not another step young lady." I froze in place, this was the harsh tone she used when I knew I was going to be punished and tormented for the rest of the week. Usually she doesn't do more than slap me, but with tone she doesn't hesitate to bring out the belt. I was so close to the door, but the fear that burned in my chest made me want to throw up. I wanted to get away, but what would happen to me if I took another step?
No one made any move, but I knew that this might be my only chance. Taking another step I hesitantly looked over my shoulder towards my mother. She was furious, I could almost say for certain that there was a red gleam in her eyes. She starts walking towards me, but before she can reach me, David moves between us.
"Get out of the way, David." Her tone is sharp, I'm surprised when David makes no movement in response, simply settling a glare upon her.
"She's coming with me and that is final." His sentence is almost growled out, and I can tell mother is just as taken aback as I am, stepping back slightly as her facial expression morphs into one of shock. Not another word is spoken as David turns, grabbing my shoulder as he walks us out of the front door and to his car.
The ride is a blur, I can't find myself focusing on anything other than the bleary stereo and the gray skies. I only come back to reality when he pulls up in-front of a fancy hotel, handing his keys to the valet before helping me out of the car. I glanced around in surprise, he's taken us to the nice side of town, everyone is wearing their nice clothes that I would usually only wear on Sunday for church. David releases a quiet giggle at seeing my look of awe, patting my shoulder as he leads me into the hotel.
I stay silent through the process, making sure to stay directly on David's side as he gets the room key and walks us into the elevator. David leans back against the wall and watches the numbers, but I take this time to observe him; after all, I haven't seen him in quite a while. He's grown his hair out a bit, longer than the last time I saw him, and his face looked almost angry even though it was neutral. Walking to our room he sits me down on the bed, sitting himself next to me with his hands folded in his lap; he seems hesitant, but I know why.
"Just ask me already." My voice is quiet, I cast my gaze downwards as I hear David swallow heavily.
"How long has she been treating you like that?" His question is spoken carefully, almost as though worried that I might break if he didn't pick every word precisely. I feel a small smile trying to form, it's odd, having someone be so gentle with me, especially after the years I've spent with my mother.
"... Ever since dad died." I didn't want to tell him why, mainly because our father's death hurt him a lot as well, but he was already out of the house when that happened; not having to deal with our mother during the aftermath. I don't blame him, in fact, I never wanted him to know, I hate being such a burden.
"Well, no one will ever hurt you again. I promise." His tone is a stark contrast to earlier, being stern and certain; not harsh, but strong and confident. I look to the side, meeting his gaze before pushing forward and hugging him tightly. His body goes rigid, clearly being surprised, but slowly steadying as he envelopes my weak form with his arms.
_______
Ever since that day, I lived with my brother, traveled with him, helped him with his music, etc. We shared a life in a way, but he always made sure that my education came first, hiring me private tutors everywhere we went. I had so much fun, being raised by him was much different than being raised by our mother. David was kind and gentle, only really getting stern when I blatantly went against our agreed upon rules; such as that one time I snuck out of our hotel and went backstage to one of his concerts.
Oh, he was pissed, we got into a bit of a row before stomping off in opposite directions. We avoided each other for the rest of the night and the following day, only talking during a midnight snack run-in. I apologized, I knew it was dangerous to sneak out to a concert where I might be recognized and swarmed by fans. I also told him my reasoning, having not seen him for more than a couple of minutes over the last few months due to the concerts and rehearsals, exclaiming that I just wanted to see him.
David also apologized for yelling at me, he hates yelling and felt really bad, to which I made sure he knew it was alright. He promised to try and spend more time with me, taking time out of the next day for us to go get lunch and ice cream.
We had a lot of fun, but we ended the night running away from a crowd of fans. One of them had managed to grab his sleeves, resulting in him losing his coat. I laughed at first until we finally got away. I observed his hunched over body as we heaved for breath, he was much skinnier than I thought. I hadn't really been paying attention, but I can tell when someone is underweight, and he kind of reminded me of a skeleton.
That was when I started to pay more attention to him, noticing how he'd been more withdrawn recently, spending most of his time reading or in his room. I noticed that he often sniffled, I thought he had a cold, but something about it struck me as odd. I continued watching over him for the next year or so, noticing that he never lost the sniffles for long, they would usually return after a prolonged trip to the bathroom. He also stopped eating a lot, he used to love my occasional cooking and our random jaunts to restaurants, but that all suddenly stopped.
I finally said 'fuck his privacy', searching through his bags after he'd gone to sleep. I found a bag full of white powder, and I'm no idiot, this isn't fucking flour, it's cocaine. All the signs I've noticed now make sense, but that really does fuck all for me. What can I do now? I can't tell him I know, cause then he'll ask how I know. I just need to make sure he doesn't kill himself by accident.
_______
I softly knocked on David's door. He has an interview soon, yet he hasn't left his room all day. I'm really worried about him.
"What do you want!" His voice is rough and sharp, I jump slightly. He's recently taken to shouting at me whenever I do anything, and it scares the living daylights out of me; I know I shouldn't be scared of him, but it reminds me of mom. Anytime she yelled, I knew the day had gone from bad to worse.
"David... You have an interview soon, your people said it was in 15 minutes and that you should be heading out soon." My voice is higher in pitch, that only happens when I'm dreadfully aware of my surroundings. The places we stay in are nice still, but that homey vibe that used to accompany David has long gone.
The door creaks open, the room is dark, like the curtains have been pulled and all the lights smothered. His face is pale, sickly shining in the sterile lighting of the hall. The most haunting look is his eyes, they are so empty, he just stares at me with this dull look as though not even seeing me. David has been like this for a few weeks now, gradually refusing to acknowledge my presence to the point of convincing me I might not actually exist.
It hurts a lot, knowing the person you love and look up to sees you as nothing, but I still push forward.
He pushes the door open wider and walks past me, already dressed up in his suit and dragging along a cane.
"David... David!" He walked into the living room before turning to me, his eyes seemingly set ablaze.
"What." His tone is sharp with agitation, the short response making me feel uncomfortable.
"I... I was wondering...if-" My hesitant words get cut off as David glares at me.
"Hurry up and say it already!" He raises his voice, I can tell he's holding back from shouting at me.
"I just... David, I know." I don't know how else to word it, I just know that I need to confront him on his drug abuse.
"You know? Know what?" He actually seems generally confused, oh how his senses have been dulled.
"I know... I know about the drugs." The last half of my sentence is whispered, but his immediate rigidity alerts me that he heard me loud and clear. I finally look up to his face, and somehow he's become even paler; so gaunt I fear he may faint.
"H-How do you know about that?" For the first time in a while he sounds vulnerable, maybe even a little scared. There's no going back now, I have to tell him the truth and hope he sees reason.
"I looked through your bag a while ago and found it, please don't be mad!" There was a lilt in my voice, but it wasn't pleasant to hear, it more emphasized my worry at how this situation could unfold, and the next movements would only solidify that worry.
"How dare you." It had been silent for about a minute, so his stern toned sentence caught me slightly off guard.
"What?"
"Don't bring up matters that are none of your business!" Talking to him is like riding a roller coaster, one second he responds calmly, the next he's shouting your ear off. I actually stumble backwards, somewhat in shock due to the pure aggression and loathing he conveyed through his tone. The shout resonated in my head for a few moments before I forced myself to talk, my courage beginning to run thin.
"But David! Surely you can see that you're addicted-" My voice is soaked with concern, I love him so much, and this self-destructive behavior of his is hurting me as well. I'm about to continue but he steps forward and roughly shoves me back against the hotel wall.
"I'm not addicted! It is just a hobby!" The unbridled rage flows through his eyes, I see him raising his hand, but the rest is unknown because I shut my eyes tightly and turned away. I held my breath for a few seconds, awaiting the onslaught of abuse, but after being met with none I decided to maybe open my eyes.
The view I'm met with is pitiful almost, David is simply staring at me in shock, my arms still up to block any hits. I begin to breathe again, slowly lowering my arms as I watch his eyes well with tears.
"Y/.. Y/N, why did you do that?" I stare at him wearily, I thought he was going to hit me, I don't trust him anymore.
"You know why." I state solemnly, my voice but a whisper in the quiet hall.
"I would never!" He shouts back defensively, causing me to flinch away again.
He backs up frantically, he's about to say something before someone starts slamming on the door, hurriedly stating a message.
"Mr. Jones, your interview is in 5 minutes! We need to leave sir!" David stills for a moment before turning away. He straightens his suit and smooths his hair before grabbing his cane and walking to the door. As he's reaching for the handle he turns back to me, that same empty look having embodied him again.
"We'll talk about this when I get back." He's so cold, that's the coldest he's ever spoken to me, and I don't think I can take it anymore. Nodding my head, David leaves without another glance, a heavy feeling settling in my chest as I can feel the tears streaming down my face. I wipe them away quickly, the torn sleeve of my shirt dragging across my skin.
I can't stay here anymore, the way he spoke, what he did, how he left... He's chosen, and he didn't pick me. I should leave now, while he's gone. I stumble to my room, my legs apparently being a little wobbly after that interaction.
I pull out my backpack, shoving in clothes as well as my pen and notebook, packing my tooth brush/paste, combs, and moisturizer. I have to pack light, if the crew sees me heading out with a suitcase they will surely stop me from leaving, and I don't need David knowing that I was trying to run away... I worry to think what he would do to me.
I tear off my shirt and jeans and shove on a clean pair, wrapping my large jacket around my shivering frame, slipping on some insulated sweatpants as well. What can I say, it's December in New York City, I'm going to be cold as it is, no need to be freezing. I let my hair down to block my face, shoving on my boots before taking one last glance around.
Taking in my surroundings, I close my eyes and say a silent goodbye to David before grabbing my belongings and leaving.
#davidbowiemusic#david bowie#david bowie fanfic#david bowie x reader#david bowie imagine#angst#david bowie angst#depression#drug addiction#cocaine#abuse#child abuse#neglect#manipulation#david bowie x sister reader#sister reader#david bowie one shot#david bowie x y/n#drug abuse#narcissistic abuse#abuse victim#domestic violence#running away#i'm sad#bowie x reader#bowie
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#cindy crawford#angst#erica fett#ashley benson#thick blonde#economics#2 broke girls#coquette fashion#snoop dogg#malex#david bowie#pun
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Listening to Starman by David Bowie and sobbing because I keep on imagining Remus at 19/20 not being able to listen to it anymore, because it's haunting him with all he's lost.
And the third verse makes me even more depressy:
I had to phone someone, so I picked on you
Don't imagine Remus healing, having a good day, and by habit wanting to tell Sirius about it, realising he can't. Because Sirius betrayed them.
Hey, that's far out, so you heard him too
Don't think about him going through the grieving process and thinking he's going insane. He keeps hearing James and Lily, playing with Harry. He keeps hearing baby Harry's little giggles. He breaks when he hears Sirius' voice in the mix, hating himself for missing the man that betrayed them.
Switch on the TV, we may pick him up on channel two
And he feels worse for missing the peace him and Sirius had. He can't look at their home the same- he can't watch TV without imagining Sirius curled up next to him. He can't watch anything they'd started together, because all he finds himself able to do at those episodes is just sob. He can't brush his teeth without noticing Sirius' toothbrush next to his (he didn't have it in him to throw it out yet). He can't wear his usual sweaters anymore because the thought of Sirius stealing them is too overwhelming. And when he does get himself to pack all the old stuff away because he can't look at it anymore, he still can't sit on the couch without feeling the emptiness and the coldness of the air next to him, like something is clearly missing. The house is haunted with their memories, quite like how Remus' mind is. You can't tell me Remus didn't miss Sirius, the same way you can't tell me he didn't hate himself for it.
Look out your window, I can see his light
Don't imagine Remus, missing his friends to the point where he thinks he can see them. And he knows he's imagining them, he knows hes going crazy, but it's comforting to think he sees them sometimes, in the shadows or in the silhouettes in street lights. It's comforting to think he isn't alone, and the thought of being entirely alone would make him go crazier.
Don't imagine Remus losing everyone he knows, losing his best friends, his baby nephew (Harry), and the love of his life all at once.
And don't imagine him losing his favorite songs on top of it.
Do yourself a favour and just don't imagine Remus at age 19/20.
#remus x sirius#wolfstar#remus lupin#remus angst#the marauders#marauders era#Remus needs a hug#Starman#david bowie#remus loves sirius#Remus lupin#sirius black#lily potter#james potter#jily#wolfstar angst
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The Prettiest Star
i started writing this last night but finished it today so it’s kind of both Song-fic Saturday and Smutty Sunday for my 250 Followers Writing Event
Song-fic Saturday 🎶 song: The Prettiest Star by David Bowie
pairing: Sirius Black x plus size! reader
tags / warnings: NSFW (minors do not interact!), smut, angst, fluff, friends to lovers, oral, p in v (unprotected — use condoms y’all, this is fantasy), fem!reader, plus size! reader, reader insecurities about her weight, body positivity, non-magical au (couldn’t have them just apparating out of the rain, right?)
notes: i’m a huge music fan and love Bowie and have been listening to Aladdin Sane a lot because it’s just had its 50th anniversary, so hence the song inspiration (“The Prettiest Star”)
word count: 8.1k (yike, please enjoy)
“Does this look too tight?” you ask Lily as you look at your reflection in your favourite jumper, tugging it down repeatedly. You’ve never been particularly thin, but you’d gained a noticeable amount recently, and it was increasingly making getting dressed the worst part of your day.
“It looks fine, Y/N,” she says, a bit dismissively, then catches herself (and the look on your face), and adds, “Really. You look beautiful. Don’t ever let the scale tell you different,” giving you a warm smile.
It was the “right” thing to say, perhaps, and you were grateful for what a sweet friend she always was to you, truly, but it didn’t make you feel any better. And… if you were brutally honest, it kind of annoyed you. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why, and the feeling made you feel guilty on top of everything else. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong; in fact, she was just genuinely trying to help, or perhaps even just genuine in what she said. But somehow, when it came to any comments on your body — especially specifically about your weight, negative or positive, you grew irritable even more than uncomfortable. You felt as if no one understood the mix of self-consciousness and self-confidence that you felt. As if everyone projected either how they felt about themselves or how they assumed all fat people felt onto you. Worse, you felt that you could never express your true feelings to anyone. Even when you tried, things came out muddled, or things you said were directly contradictory — yet equally true. It couldn’t possibly be that no one else felt contradictory things about themselves, about their bodies, could it? Were you just shit at articulating your feelings, or were your feelings that atypical?
You opt to keep the jumper on even though it hugged your chest a bit more tightly than usual. A twinge of regret went through you at the thought that usually winter was your favourite time in terms of fashion in general and your wardrobe specifically. You loved your winter clothes and winter aesthetics overall. You really didn’t want to let a little weight gain get in the way of that, but it had a way of making itself known no matter how much you tried to avoid it.
On cue, it whispers in your head, “You probably only like winter clothes more because they cover more of you. None of those pretty sundresses Lily, Marlene, Mary, or Dorcas wear ever fit you. Not to mention any summer outfit that involves no bra or a visible bralette - not a chance.” You shake your head at yourself, trying to convince yourself that comfort was a complicated thing, that you didn’t have to overanalyze everything in such an accusatory way.
You finish getting ready and head to the pub with Lily to meet the others.
Remus and James greet you, and James can’t say enough times how lovely Lily looks. It makes you happy for them, two of your best friends so in love, but you can’t help but feel a little funny, a little longing at the lack of those comments ever made about you.
The thing is, you didn’t dislike yourself. In fact, there were many times you genuinely thought you were beautiful, or that you wouldn’t trade yourself for anyone else. But those thoughts came more easily when you were alone, and not wanting to be anyone else did not include not wanting to be yourself, minus a bit here or there.
You feel a pair of arms come around your middle from behind you, and there’s no time to be freaked out because you immediately know who it is. It’s like a sixth sense. Sure, you recognize his intoxicating smell, can feel and hear the texture of his characteristic leather jacket, but there’s more to it. Before you even consciously register these things or hear him whisper in your ear, you know it’s him. Sirius. Your best friend in the entire world.
“Hello, darling girl,” he greets. “How is my finest friend on this finest of evenings?”
“Hi, Siri,” you smile, leaning back into him. “I’m alright; you?” You turn your head up to look at him.
“Just alright? Oh, we need to remedy that, love. Urgently.” He looks around a bit, registering your other friends, sharing greetings here and there. “D’you have a drink yet? Let’s go get one, yeah?” he asks, unwinding his arms from his hug but leaving one around your shoulders, where it stays as you walk over to the bar together.
“You’re good then?” you ask again, giggling a bit - sometimes it was as if you couldn’t help it; his presence made you giddy.
“Me? Oh, I’m wonderful. I’ve been having the greatest hair day, which is truly saying something, and now I’m with you,” he squeezes your shoulder a bit, “What else could I possibly ask for?”
You roll your eyes, your smile never fading, wrap your arm around his waist, and say, “Two rum and cokes, maybe?” You nod toward the bartender. “You always have better luck getting their attention than I do. It’s like they only see the attractive girls, honestly.”
Comments like these came easily to you when you were around people you trusted. It was strange; they weren’t really intended as self-deprecating. And you weren’t fishing for compliments either, especially not with your closest friends. Part of you wanted to be able to make comments like that freely, to not have to censor your thoughts and feelings when it came to your appearance, thinking that such things really shouldn’t be taboo in the first place, and especially not with people you loved. The other part, well, you weren’t so sure what the other part wanted.
“You’re attractive,” Sirius responds, matter-of-factly, your heart rushing a little at the sound of it. You knew you had feelings for him, had for ages and had no use in denying it, but there was also the lack of pity in his comment. He never treated you as fragile; his voice never took on the tone of a motivational poster. “Maybe not to everyone,” he adds candidly, “but no one is attractive to everyone. And,” he pauses, looking down at you conspiratorially, “a lot of people have shit taste anyway.” He pauses again, considering you intently. Then something shifts in his expression, and he adds, speaking more quickly than before, “I mean, not everyone likes Bowie, for example. Bowie, Y/N, Bowie. Why should we ever put stock in what other people think if some of those people can’t see - or hear or whatever - beauty when it’s right in front of them?”
You grin but shoot back, “You’re attractive to everyone.”
Raising his eyebrows, looking straight into your eyes, he responds, “Does that include you then?” A careless group of girls bumping into you saves you from having to decide how much of a joking tone to put on your response. You didn’t find Sirius attractive. You found Sirius the most beautiful person you’d ever met, in senses that went far beyond his impeccable hair, his striking grey eyes, his pronounced cheekbones.
He holds you closer protectively at the jostling crowd, turns to ask for your drinks, and begins absentmindedly stroking your shoulder as he does so.
“No wonder you always wear this,” he says, pinching your jumper, “It’s so bloody soft.”
You had no idea he ever remembered or even noticed what you wore. Marlene, sure. Marlene was making a statement every time she stepped out of the house. And her face and body punctuated that statement with a big exclamation mark. But you? You hardly ever got that kind of attention. Maybe a “nice shirt” when you wore a particularly fun pattern, but that was about it.
You notice him looking at your torso as he says this and swear his eyes linger on your chest. You’re worrying he can tell it’s tighter than usual, so you tug at the hem, but when he looks quickly away, you try not to make too much of it.
You’re having loads of fun with your friends, swapping stories, sharing shots, occasionally shouting the lyrics to the good songs that come on. You and Sirius — who’s standing next you, his arm perpetually around you, much to the dismay of the many girls and few guys who come flirting — have a habit of turning to each other every time a new song comes on, deciding in unison whether it’s a good or bad one. The very occasional disagreement yields the most fun arguments, always along the lines of “You think this isn’t rubbish? You’re making me question our entire friendship here, love. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.” (Sirius) or “Oh, come on. This sounds exactly like every other song in the genre but mediocre. Not everything has to be original, but it’d be nice if it weren’t typical and trash.” (You)
Then some new Bowie comes on. And Sirius looks as though he’s just received the greatest news of his life.
Cold fire, you’ve got everything but cold fire / You will be my rest and peace child, rings out Bowie’s electric voice.
“Come dance with me!” Sirius bursts at you, hardly asking, dragging you by the hand to where a few (mostly quite drunk) people were dancing. He’s holding both your hands, and you’re moving together organically, falling into a languid rhythm with each other and the song. By the next line, Sirius is singing along, and as he sings with Bowie, “I moved up to take a place… Near you,” he shuffles closer to you seductively, looking nowhere but into your eyes as he places your hand on his shoulder and moves his own to your hip.
He’s theatrical with every lyric, each of which he knows by heart; “So tired,” he swoons; “It’s the sky that makes you feel tried,” he belts looking up toward the ceiling; “It’s a trick to make you see wide,” his eyes come back to yours, open wide and full of mirth; “It can all but break your heart…,” he steps closer to you again; “… In pieces,” he swoons again, this time onto your shoulder, leaning on you and holding you close. You’re too busy laughing both with and at him to be able to sing along yourself.
“Staying back in your memory… Are the movies in the past,” he continues, acting less and dancing smoothly with you, spinning you around and catching you close afterward.
He’s staring into your eyes, his face very close to yours as he sings, much more softly now, swaying slowly more than dancing, “How you moved is all it takes… to sing a song of when I loved… the prettiest star.” His hands squeeze you as he says those last three words.
He gives you another playful spin and goes on, “One day… though it might as well be someday… you and I will rise up all the way… all because of what you are…” Then, for the first time in the whole song, he and Bowie don’t synchronize. As Bowie finishes the line over the speakers, “the prettiest star,” you distinctly hear — and see, since his lips are so close to you after all — Sirius finish, “my prettiest star.”
The rest of the world has all melted away by this point; all that’s left is Sirius; all you can hear is the song, his voice, your frantic heartbeat in your ears. His hand comes to your face, caressing your cheek then resting there.
You have no idea how to react. Sirius flirted with you often. But Sirius flirted with everyone often. It was just a quirk of his personality. And Sirius touched you often. But it was never this gentle, this intimate. You don’t want to get your hopes up. Because as much as — or perhaps because of how much — you love him, you can’t really believe he’d see you that way. You’ve let yourself entertain the idea many times, sure, even suspected from time to time over the years of your friendship that maybe just maybe your desire was mutual, but ultimately, your fears and doubts — doubled every time a girl half your size who could so easily be on any billboard flirted with Sirius — would win out and push those thoughts and feelings down.
Your rhythmic swaying, your prolonged eye contact, your bursting heart and muddled mind continued through the end of the song. Though you knew it must have been about a minute and a half, it had felt like hours, time expanded by both bliss and trepidation, by the time the music changed and you broke apart. As you do, Sirius just watches you, as if searching for something.
You’re fidgeting with the sleeves of your jumper when you whisper, “That was fun,” and give him a quick hug, not letting yourself linger and pulling back before his arms were comfortably around you.
You have plans with Sirius the next day, and as you’re getting ready, you can’t help but remember back to his comment on your jumper last night, more worried at your appearance now that you think he noticed it more than you did before. You’re standing in your room in just your underwear stressing out over what to wear. You’ve put on your best bra, the one that does the most to help your figure without being too uncomfortable, and you’ve made a mess of your knickers drawer looking for a clean pair of high-waisted ones.
There was a time you would’ve avoided looking in the mirror at this stage, but now, you stand in front of it and give yourself a serious look. You suck your stomach in, and pull a bit with your hands on your hips, then let it all go, contemplating the difference. You turn to your profile, admiring the curves of your chest and your arse, but wishing there was less of your thighs immediately after. Arching your back and grabbing your arse, you wonder whether anyone — you close your eyes and admit to yourself: no, not anyone, Sirius — whether Sirius would find this, would find you attractive. As you take a deep breath, you lament how thinking of others’ opinions always made it so much harder to look at yourself with loving eyes. You didn’t hate your body, but your frequent worries that others would brought you down on more days than you wanted to admit.
You put on your favorite jeans, but as you go to choose a top, you remember one you’d borrowed from Lily a few months ago that had looked good. It was quite loose on her and a bit tight on you, but you each pulled it off differently. You ask her for it, and she happily obliges, but when you put it on, a knot turns in your stomach. It’s way too tight. The pattern is stretched; your boobs look huge; it somehow brings out rather than covers the fat on your sides. Taking it off in a hurry, you have to take another long, calming breath to keep tears of frustration at bay.
After finally finding something of yours that worked, giving the top back to Lily with a quick “Thanks, but it didn’t look as good as last time,” and giving yourself too many “final” glances in the mirror, you bundle up as you head into the windy afternoon.
You meet Sirius at the record shop near his flat. You see him before he sees you. He’s browsing the racks, and per usual, he looks effortlessly cool and unreasonably attractive. His long fingers are accentuated by his several silver rings as he flips through the records. He pushes his long hair out of his eyes in a careless gesture, and you’re almost angry at how it falls so perfectly he might as well have just spent an hour in front of a mirror.
You’re approaching him when a cute girl in a hot crop top walks up to him. She steps closer to him than any normal interaction would warrant.
“Anything I can help you find, handsome?” she asks, and you wonder whether you’re imagining the twinge of a double meaning in the question. Maybe she’s just a flirty person doing her job. “We have a few special ones in the stock room I could show you…” Nope, not just doing her job.
“Thanks, sweetheart, but I’m waiting for someone.” As he looks away from her back toward the records, he catches you in his peripherals. He smiles a beaming smile at you and gestures you over.
“You’re not going to believe what I found,” he begins enthusiastically. You hug; it lingers, and he squeezes you lovingly. “Mm, you smell nice,” he adds, as if it’s a normal thing to say. Is it a normal thing to say? Maybe it is. Maybe you’re overthinking, especially after the moment you shared last night.
“Thanks, new shampoo. What’d you find?” You look toward the records to ease the tension you were probably creating.
“Check this out.” If he noticed any awkwardness, he definitely doesn’t show it. He pulls out a record you had recently had a long conversation about.
“Brilliant!” you react, snatching it from him and turning it over in your hands, reading its contents eagerly.
He chuckles at you, and if you’d been looking at him instead of the record, you might have seen the accompanying adoring look.
“I know. It’s our lucky day.”
You browse around the shop together, chatting easily, both about music and all sorts of random things that came to mind. Talking to Sirius is always easy, always gives you more than the contents of the conversation to hold onto, to fill you up.
You go to pay, and the girl from earlier is working the till. Sirius goes to the loo, so it’s just you and her when you hand her a couple of records to ring up.
“Cool choices.”
“Thanks.”
“Is that your boyfriend?” she asks, nodding behind her toward the toilets.
“Oh, um,” you stutter. You’re not exactly sure why “no” doesn’t just easily come to your mouth.
“I don’t know how you managed it. Lucky bitch,” she half laughs. You’re mortified; you can’t tell for sure, but you think she is trying to be friendly, just in a very strange record-shop-employee, rock and roll kind of way.
Sirius comes back around, and you hope to hell he hasn’t heard anything.
“All good, darling?” he asks, putting his arm around you. This wasn’t unusual for him, the nickname, the contact. But you’re already in an uncomfortable headspace, and your first thought is that you hope he isn’t doing it as an act for her benefit. You don’t even know if he’d heard, and your anxiety is taking over anyway. You keep running the woman’s words over in your head. How had she meant it? Did she mean she couldn’t believe you had managed it? As in specific, chubby, you? Or was she just making girly conversation? Would she have said the same to any woman, no matter how attractive, who had come into the shop with Sirius?
“You alright?” Sirius’s voice breaks you out of your spiraling. You look over at him, and his gaze is gentle but concerned.
“Yeah, fine, sorry,” you reply quickly.
“It’s all good,” he smiles comfortingly at you.
Once outside the shop, you debate your next move. Normally on weekends when you’d get records, you’d then go eat, then go to his and listen to some of them, sometimes sharing a blunt, sometimes just getting high on the music.
You’re both looking up into the newly drizzling sky when Sirius says, “How about, we get take-away somewhere close, then just eat at mine? It looks like it’ll get worse soon, but I reckon we can make it before it really starts up.”
“Yeah, great.”
You’ve made it only a few blocks, though, when the rain pours down in sudden torrents.
“Oh, shit!” he laughingly yells, protecting the records, taking your hand, and sprinting to the nearest protective awning. By the time you make it, you’re both already extremely wet, and the weather is so windy the cover hardly helps in keeping it from getting even worse.
You’re squeezing as close to the wall as possible, standing chest to chest, the records between you, his arm around your waist, your faces close enough for you to see each individual drop as it travels down his face. His eyes match the sky behind him, and you silently marvel at his beauty. He looks up for a second then is overtaken by heartfelt laughter.
“Didn’t quite gauge that one right, I guess,” he chuckles. You’re laughing with him when a particularly strong gust blows freezing water forcefully at you, making you gasp and stiffen.
“Shit,” he laughs. “Let’s make a run for it.” He takes your hand again, and you both jog the few blocks to his flat.
You’re both still giggly when you step inside, leaving a puddle in the doorway where you stand. You take off your shoes and outer layers, but you’re drenched all the way through.
“Bloody hell, it’s freezing,” he amusedly complains, stripping down to only his jeans, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door. He hugs himself and rubs his arms, trying to warm up, and you’re glad your soaked demeanour is already such a mess he probably can’t tell how flustered you are by how attractive — and bare — he is. He reaches over to you and rubs your arms like he had been doing his. “Fuck, you’re freezing too. Come to my room, and I’ll lend you something to wear.” Your giddy mood dissipates immediately. There was no way in hell his clothes would fit you. He was obviously leaner than you, and your hips and thighs hadn’t gotten along well with men’s clothes even in your thinnest of states.
He’s halfway to his room already, and you’re frozen by the door.
“Y/N?”
You look over. You hope he doesn’t notice your eyes quickly travel his bare torso. “You coming or what?” he keeps on casually.
When you get to his room, he’s bringing some towels out of the bathroom and throws you one. You start drying your hair as he rummages in his drawers.
“Um,” you start. You sound more nervous than you mean to. He clearly notices because he immediately turns back to look at you to see what’s going on.
“What is it?”
You hate worrying him like this, especially over something so stupid. Why did you always have to make things uncomfortable? Or better yet, why couldn’t you just be a girl who would fit in his clothes.
“Hey, what is it?” he repeats, gentler this time, coming over to rest his hands on your shoulders. Your self-deprecating, cruel inner monologue is clearly showing more than you’d hope. “You alright, love?”
“Yeah, no, I’m fine, sorry,” you try to laugh it off.
“Don’t apologise.” It’s gentle, not scolding. “Just talk to me.” His hands continue rubbing your shoulders lovingly.
“Just that I think I’m fine like this is all. Don’t worry about finding stuff for me,” you try.
“Don’t be ridiculous; you’ll freeze to death. It’s fine; I don’t mind.” He goes back toward his dresser.
Ugh, how do you say “It’s not about your minding, actually. It’s about my stretching and ruining anything you could possibly lend me” without sounding weird and embarrassing?
“Thanks. Um, I’m not quite sure anything of yours would fit me though.”
“We’ll find something,” he says relaxedly, opening another drawer. “Here, this one is really warm and comfy, and it’ll definitely fit,” he says, tossing you a sweatshirt. You recognize it, have seen him wearing it before. He only ever wore it while lounging at home, and it was quite big on him, so maybe it would be okay.
“And… uh,” he rummages, “try these. They’re a bit small, but they’re stretchy.” He hands you a pair of sweatpants. You’ve never seen him wear these. They would probably be too big on him. He grabs his towel and some clothes for himself.
“I’ll go change in the living room. Just come out when you’re ready. Grab whatever you want.” His tone is friendly, at ease.
Unlike your feelings. You are freaking out. As soon as he closes the door, you strip down to your knickers, which thankfully aren’t very wet, at top speed, thinking you should hurry in case it takes you time to figure out the clothes. You don’t want to take too long and make things awkward. You towel yourself off and slip on the sweatshirt. It fits fine. It isn’t loose like it is on him, but it doesn’t look too weird. And it is indeed warm and comfy. Now for the more concerning part: you try pulling the pants on, a repeating “please, please, please” playing in your head. Fuck. No luck. They stop a bit above your mid-thigh, and there is no way you’d be able to pull them all the way up. You think of putting your jeans back on, but they are drenched, and it would’ve been like trying to get back into a heavy straight-jacket. You start panicking, unsure what to do, already worrying you are taking too long to come out. You look through his drawers, but all his other bottoms look even smaller. You try just wrapping the towel around your hips, but you look quite strange in the mirror.
You’re pacing in his room when he knocks.
“Y/N? You alright? No rush, really, just making sure everything’s okay?”
You brace yourself, go to the door, and crack it open, hiding your body behind it, just popping your head around. He’s standing there, his wet hair half tied up, a dry t-shirt and sweats on.
“Um… the sweatpants don’t fit,” you whisper, embarrassed.
“Oh. Uh, that’s okay. Um, how about…,” he looks around, as if bigger pants would magically materialise somewhere in his living room. “Oh, perfect.” What could possibly be perfect right now? “Your favourite blanket is already on the sofa. How about I turn around, and you can just go get under it, and I’ll hang your trousers on my heater.”
You nod timidly, the warmth in your cheeks from your embarrassment blazing even hotter at the thought of how sweet he always is to you.
“Great. Uh, ok,” he chuckles, awkwardly turning around. You scamper to his sofa in your underwear, quickly covering your legs with his big cosy blanket.
“Ok,” you let out softly. He turns around and looks you over. You can’t tell what’s in his eyes as he does so, but there is an intensity there that you’re not used to. He blinks quickly and gives you a strange, strained smile. He disappears into his room, and you hear him sorting your clothes out to dry.
You’re fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweatshirt when he returns.
“You alright? Comfortable?” he asks, seemingly back to normal.
“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I didn’t meat to, uh, well, sorry I’m a bit difficult,” you reply a bit awkwardly, not knowing what exactly to apologise for but feeling the need to.
“Don’t be ridiculous, love. You have nothing to be sorry for. Really. If you’re okay like this, then we’re all good, right?” You can’t help but worry what will happen as soon as you have to get up. Would you wrap the blanket around yourself like a weirdo? As if reading your thoughts, Sirius goes on playfully, “I’ll wait on you like royalty so you don’t even have to get up.” You make an odd half laugh, half relieved exhale sound in response, and he just chuckles. “Starting with…” he fast walks over to the door, grabs the bag of records and brings it back over to the sofa, sitting next to you but not getting under the same blanket like he usually does. “Which do you want to listen to first?” he asks, bringing them all out to look at together.
As soon as you started discussing it, it’s like waking up from a nightmare, realising all is well and returning to a calm normality. You debate and joke, decide on a record, and he gets up to put it on and make some tea, still chatting casually to you throughout.
When he’s back on the sofa with you, he looks down, smiles, and says, “Looks better on you than on me.” You tug on the sweatshirt self-consciously, smiling shyly at him.
You fall into your easy rhythm, listening, talking, laughing, and before you knew it, the whole record’s played. Sirius gets up, walking toward his collection rather than the small stack of new records on the table. He picks one easily, and puts it on. The quirky piano of Bowie’s “Time” begins, and your heart speeds up. You love this album. So does Sirius. But this isn’t the first track. It’s the first track on the B-side, and the next song after this, you remember, is “The Prettiest Star,” the song you and Sirius danced to just last night. He doesn’t say anything until he’s seated next to you again.
“I know we usually listen from the beginning, but the B-side is better on this one, and I didn’t feel like being patient.” His tone is playful, but there’s a heaviness to it. He glances away from you and leans toward the table to take a sip of his tea.
“What’s your favourite track?” you ask, smiling. You’ve asked him this question innumerable times over the years, but you’ve never been as excited for his answer as this time, and you have a feeling you know what it’ll be.
“‘The Prettiest Star,’” he replies immediately, looking toward you again. As quickly as he had, he looks away again as he adds, “Because it reminds me of you… even before last night…” After a beat, he ventures a glance toward you, that same searching look from last night taking over his beautiful features.
Unlike last night, you don’t feel panicked — nervous, sure, but more than that, loved.
“Last night felt pretty special,” you say.
“Yeah?” He seems hopeful. “Yeah, it was.” His voice is serene, like he’s contemplating something utterly peaceful.
“It’s funny, though,” you say, and he looks at you, his eyebrow quirked. “It’s really about you, isn’t it? Not me.” You laugh. He looks like he wants to laugh with you, a twinkle in his eye, clearly happy that you are happy, but confusion holds his expression. You explain, “Well, you’re ‘the prettiest star,’ aren’t you? You’re obviously prettier, the prettiest… and the brightest in the night sky in fact… ‘Sirius.’” You say his name with all the love you feel for him.
He leans toward you, taking your hand. He’s smiling, but there’s a sadness to it.
“You might not be named for a star, but you’re my prettiest star, Y/N.” He looks into your eyes. “You’re so beautiful.” His eyes scan your face. “It’s almost too bright to bear sometimes, to be honest, your beauty,” he adds, smiling more vividly now. He brings his other hand to your face, just as he did last night. But this time, his fingertips begin by taking their time tracing your features: your eyebrow first, your nose, your cheekbone, down to your jaw. His thumb grazes your lip, barely touching it but lingering there, before moving to caress you cheek. “You’re so beautiful, my prettiest star,” he repeats, as the song begins in the background.
“Sirius,” you whisper, squeezing his hand.
“Darling girl,” he responds, moving closer to you until your foreheads meet.
Your nose nuzzles his, and you stay like this for several seconds. You bring your hand to the crook of his neck, and holding him, you lean forward. The song goes silent, the intro ending, the anticipation built, and right as Bowie’s voice comes in, your lips meet.
Sirius’s hand slips from the side of your face to the back of your head, holding you firmly, leaning into you hungrily. His hand holding yours goes to your waist, pulling you close to him until your chest is flush with his. You wrap your arms around his neck and slip your fingers into his hair.
He moans into your mouth, and you deepen the kiss, pushing his tongue with yours, breaching into his mouth. He lets you, and as you explore him, he pulls your body until you find yourself kneeling on the sofa in front of him, the blanket fallen to the floor.
You pull back momentarily, and he stills his movements, watching you, waiting for your cue for what to do next. His eyes are lidded, his pupils blown, his lips parted, but you know that if you sat back down and told him you just wanted to listen to the record, that’s exactly what he’d do. But that’s not what you want. So, you lean forward and pick up your exploration right where you left it. He groans appreciatively and sucks on your tongue in his mouth, before pulling you on top of him.
You’re straddling him, and you’re so attracted to him you’re drowning in it, but even still, your nerves are there. You feel heavy. Too heavy to be sitting on top of him like this. He keeps his hands on your waist and strokes your back, not venturing any further down, pulling back to look at you. You shift clumsily, trying to put more of your weight on your knees on the sofa, but not being able to without spreading awkwardly wider or ending up lopsided. He holds you firmly, centering you again, hugging you close.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” you whisper, trying to explain what he’s already figured out.
He can’t help the chuckle that escapes him before he says, “Trust me, darling, I’m about as far form uncomfortable as a person can be right now.” He squeezes you lovingly, clearly careful to squeeze all of you and not just any specific place, which might make you uncomfortable. “I’ve been going absolutely mental this whole time just knowing you weren’t wearing anything but your knickers under that blanket.”
“You have?” you ask, surprised, your eyes wide, your voice soft. He giggles again, always adoring, never mocking.
“Fuck, how can someone be so adorable and so sexy at the same time?” It baffles you how someone can say the word “sexy” so seriously and not sound silly at all, give it so much confidence that it just sounds so, well, so sexy. He pecks your lips. “You’re going to kill me, woman.” Now you laugh.
“Oh?”
“Mm,” he groans affirmatively as he runs his hands up your sides and back and kisses you ardently. He moves to your jaw, kissing languidly down to your ear, where he nips playfully and sucks on your neck another moment before looking into your eyes again and saying, “Fuck, Y/N, tell me you want this too.” A kiss. “I’m desperate for you.” Another kiss. “But only if you want me too.” Another kiss, longer this time. “I want to make you feel good, darling. Fuck, I can make you feel so so good.” Your hips grind down on his at his words, and he throws his head back in a lustful groan, and his hands squeeze you tightly where they hold you. He recovers, stroking your back again and resting his forehead on yours as he asks, “Can I touch you, Y/N? I’ll stop anytime you say so, but I’m dying to worship you.” You kiss him deeply, holding him close, grinding your hips down again.
“I want you to touch me, Siri.” At this, his mouth immediately devours yours, and his hands come down to squeeze your arse. He kneads it roughly, pulling you into him with each motion, inadvertently pushing his hips up a bit each time to meet yours. You feel the hard, evident bulge in his pants underneath you, and it turns you on even more to feel wanted in such a visceral way. There is no missing how much his body wants yours, and that surprises but arouses you to no end.
His hands come down to your thighs, and you gasp and stiffen a bit. He stops but leaves his hand there, stroking you cautiously.
“Y/N?” He bumps your nose with his.
“I…” You peck his lips. “You really don’t mind my body?” you ask, your voice small.
“Darling,” he breaks a little. “Mind it? I adore it. Can’t you feel what you do to me?” he half jokes, thrusting up into you. You close your eyes and bite your lower lip at the addictive friction. “Y/N. Look at me, love,” he whispers. You do. “I think you are the most gorgeous, sexiest woman in the world. Of course it’s all intertwined with how much I love you, but that just makes it even better. God, you have no idea how much you turn me on.” He kisses you short but hard. “I never want to tell you how to feel, love, but I just wish you knew how beautiful you are, how you are the most beautiful to me.” You kiss him again and become immersed in it fully. Your tongues are dancing with each other, your hips, your hands, moving in tandem with each other, melting into each other in a perfect push and pull.
His hands slip under his sweatshirt, and he whispers, “Can I?” You don’t hesitate, entrusting yourself to him, and detaching yourself from him only enough for him to slip it over your head. His hands come to your breasts, and you hear him say “fuck” again as he kneads them and keeps kissing you. His hands keep massaging as his mouth moves down your jaw wetly. He takes his time moving down your body, sucking your neck, licking across your sternum, kissing delicately down to between your breasts. He buries his face there and moans, and it’s so hot you pull him to you and scratch his scalp where you’re holding him by his hair. He kisses there again then his fingers move to pinch your nipples. He mixes pulling it with massaging your whole breast with one hand, but the other just grips your tit as his mouth wraps around your nipple. His tongue licks around it a few times before he sucks on it, and his groan is drowned out by your pleasured yell.
“Fuck, Sirius,” you say, your voice a rasp.
“Mmm,” he responds, not letting up, switching breasts after sucking a bit harder. Once he’s satisfied (for now) and your nipples are hard and sore, he grips your tits again with his hands and licks into your mouth.
“Fuck, baby, you have the most incredible tits.” He squeezes them. “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamt of taking your shirt off and touching you.” He goes back down and gives each a quick but delicious suck. “Let’s go to my bed, yeah?” You nod heatedly.
You’re a bit self-conscious as you move to get off of him, more aware of your body beyond the pleasure again though you had been so lost in it just a moment ago you’d forgotten about everything else. Sirius helps you off and up, his hands on your hips, and he pulls you into him as you both stand, making out with you before squeezing your arse as he pulls away to walk to his bedroom. You wrap your arms around yourself as you walk with him, but when you’re standing in front of the bed, he takes each of your hands in his and kisses you while holding them, bringing his body flush with yours. You break the contact to pull on his shirt, and he eagerly obliges, removing it and tossing it aside.
He guides you onto the bed, his body following on top of yours, your mouths connected the whole time. You shuffle up the bed then tug his sweats down when you’re settled. He helps you, shimmying out of them. They get caught on one of his ankles, and you both laugh as he curses and contorts awkwardly to pull them all the way off.
You’re both left only in your underwear as he starts kissing you again, slowly making his way down your body. He spends a lingering amount of time on your tits again as he goes down then keeps kissing down your stomach to the waistband of your knickers. He looks up at you for any hesitation, but you just bite your lip and lift your hips. He smirks in excitement as he pulls your panties off of you. He does it slowly, teasingly, and he licks down your thigh tracing where the fabric passes. Once they’re off, he pushes your knees a bit further apart and starts kissing and licking his way back up. He sucks at the top of your thigh, and it makes a pop as he separates from you.
Kneeling between your legs, massaging your thighs on either side of him, he says, “You drive me mad, Y/N. You’re so fucking delicious, I could spend eternity between these thighs.” You squirm at his graphic words, already exceptionally strung out. He chuckles lowly down at you and kisses you quickly before adjusting himself with his head between your thighs.
“Today really is my lucky day,” he says, face lined up with your cunt. “This is the second time I see you drenched today, and I fucking love being the cause of it this time.” Without further ado, he licks a sopping stripe from your entrance up to your clit. Even this first motion sounds wet. You’re sure you’ve never been so wet in your life.
Sirius buries his face in your cunt, groaning as he licks into you then sucks on your lips. He goes back and forth between sucking on you and fucking you with his tongue. He keeps playing with you until you’re squirming before bringing his mouth directly to your clit. He’d grazed it as he licked you before now, bumped you with his nose, teasing you, but now he gives it his full attention. He’s licking and sucking, moaning all the while like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, moving his whole body with the passion of it, and it takes very little more for you to start cumming on his mouth. You make a yelping sound you’ve never made before in your ecstasy, and with your eyes closed, you feel as if the world is a million miles away; all you feel is your body and where it is connected to Sirius’s. He keeps up his motions and fervor until your pleasured squirming turns into overstimulation squirming. He gives you one last lick and suck then shuffles up your body, kissing it intermittently as he does, until he’s face to face with you, smiling a smile you’ve never seen before.
“Hello, darling,” he says, clearly satisfied with himself, kissing you.
“Hi,” you sigh, sounding completely fucked out. He giggles at you and kisses you again.
“Feel good?”
“Mmhhmm.” You stretch underneath him and languidly wrap your arms around him, licking his lips slowly before kissing him again.
“Fuck,” he responds.
“Yes, please.” Your voice is high, blissful. You rut up into him. He chuckles at you and strokes your hairline, kissing your forehead.
“You want to? You’re alright?”
“Of course, Siri. I’m brilliant.”
“That you are, my love,” he beams at you then pushes his pants off. “My prettiest star,” he says, as he pecks your lips then your nose then lines himself up with your entrance.
His eyes penetrate yours as he pushes into you. You moan in unison, and his mouth lingers just above yours, grazing your lips, your foreheads touching, as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper. When he bottoms out, he kisses you eagerly, stroking his tongue into your mouth as his cock ruts deep inside you. Your hands grip his back. His hands come down to your thighs one at a time, squeezing passionately before pushing your legs up and out, wrapping them around his waist.
Normally, you’d feel self-conscious in this position. Almost bent in half, your stomach protrudes between the two of you. Your thighs are thick at his sides. But the look on his face, the feel of the movements of his body is all love and adoration and ardor.
He kisses you as he thrusts a bit harder, keeping it slow at first but vigorously punctuating each thrust. One of his hands rests beside you, holding him up, but the other stayed on your leg, stroking your thigh and gripping your arse or hip bruisingly with each forceful motion of his hips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, “You’re fucking perfect.” He thrusts hard, a gentle kiss on your forehead contrasting it seductively, then begins picking up his pace. He rests his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking on it as he pounds repeatedly into you.
You’re gripping him tightly to stay in position, your arms and legs tense around him. You can’t move much, but his movements are enough for the both of you, especially as he brings his knees up a bit to get a new angle. He’s hitting your spot with almost every thrust, and you’re whining in pleasure in time with each. You squeeze hard around him, not just your arms and legs but the soft walls around his cock as well, and he groans animalistically into your skin. His hips stutter in response, but a moment later he’s pounding rhythmically again.
His breathing gets heavier, his muscles tighter, and with a broken gasp, he shifts sideways a bit to snake his hand between you to where you’re connected. He rubs harshly on your clit, not bothering to start slow, clearly aware he doesn’t have time for that. His hips piston even faster; his hand presses harder, and a few seconds later, you feel fit to burst. You let out a yell as you release around him, the most intense orgasm of your life making you see white stars.
“Sirius,” you half yell, half sigh.
“I’m gonna cum, baby. Fuck, fuck. Where do you want me to?” he rushes out, his hips still moving fast in and out of you.
You tighten your legs around him, and clench your cunt, pulling him into you.
“Inside, Siri. Cum in me.” His immediate groan sounds strangled as you feel the warmth of him inside you. The words “cold fire” play in your mind. He thrusts a few more times then goes limp on top of you, panting loudly, kissing your neck and cheek between heavy breaths.
He rolls off but stays close, never fully breaking contact with you, and he wraps his arm around your waist, lightly stroking your back, as you both lie on your sides facing each other. You feel the urge to cover yourself up but resist it, trying to melt into the vulnerability. The utter adoration in his eyes when you look into them helps.
“I love you,” you whisper. He smiles a smile that makes his stormy eyes shine, leans in, and kisses you tenderly.
“And I love you,” he says matter-of-factly, his voice smooth and sappy.
You pause, contemplating, reveling in the joy of the moment but unable to ignore a tug in your stomach.
“I’m sorry I was too… I don’t know, scared? to really show you before.”
“Don’t be, darling. I’m sorry I waited so long to really show you too, but I’m even more sorry if I ever made you doubt how much I do, how loved you are.”
“You didn’t.” You shake your head then nuzzle his nose with yours. “I just sometimes didn’t understand. It’s confusing, how someone like you can love someone like me so much.”
“Darling. It’s the least confusing thing in the world. You’re the most beautiful person I know. In all kinds of ways. And I’ll show you every day you’ll have me; you’ll see it clearly too; I’m sure of it. I’m just worried when you do, you’ll realise the real wonder is you loving me.” He laughs a bit, but you can hear the truth to his concern, his own insecurities surfacing.
You stroke his cheek, kiss him, and say, “We’ll both keep showing each other then. For always.” His smile is subtle, full of love.
He nods, kisses you again, pulls you into his body, and, hugging you close, repeats, “For always.”
P.S. notes: I try to keep my reader character inclusive, and this is a bit more specific than I usually do. I just want to acknowledge that everyone relates to their bodies, especially if they’re bigger, in different ways, and I in no way think of anything I write as a generalized take on being plus sized (or any other experience really). These are just things that I have felt in my life, and it has always meant a lot to me to see and hear stories about bigger characters, both when attention is brought to that specific aspect about them and when it isn’t. So, this is my way of adding to that and to write something for myself in that vein.
#marauders#marauder x reader#sirius black x reader#sirius black#sirius black imagine#sirius black one shot#smut#fluff#angst#friends to lovers#plus size!reader#fem!reader#reader insert#david bowie#ria250#fanfiction
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Hey Bowie, if you’re up there somewhere, I want you to know I’m still blaming you as Jereth for my fondness of condescending hot guys who desire mutual unwavering devotion and submission
#hornyposting#david bowie#jereth the goblin king#labyrinth#mean guys are hot#I can’t help it#I didn’t write the script I was just corrupted very early on by it#gay angst
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okay, i love how you wrote hours bowie.
how about him falling for someone who works in his team (maybe a sound tech at the studio or a marketing smth for the album)? conflicting feelings all around, because he feels, as you put it, a sleazy old man and she’s always professional, but she’s actually just… you are David Bowie why would you like me??? but they figure it out somehow. bonus if they share a cigg at some point because that’s hot. bonus bonus if she’s the i take my job very seriously and am always stressed type AND is scared of commitment because of previous relationships and they have to navigate that together. ty and much love! 💕
david bowie x reader - sound waves and cigarettes
a/n: anon. ANON. just write my fics for me at this point.
The backstage hums with anticipation, a mixture of excitement and tension swirling in the air. It's the final night of the tour, and you're on edge, double-checking equipment, adjusting levels, ensuring everything is just right. This is your domain – the sound tech girl who orchestrates the audio symphony that accompanies David Bowie's performance.
As the clock ticks closer to showtime, you find yourself lost in the labyrinth of cables and knobs, your mind a whirlwind of tasks and responsibilities. But amidst the chaos, there's a presence that always manages to cut through the noise – David Bowie.
He strolls into the backstage area, effortlessly cool in his signature attire, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Evening, love," he greets, his voice smooth as silk.
You glance up from your console, offering a curt nod in response. "Hey, David. Everything set on your end?"
He chuckles, a sound that echoes with familiarity. "As always, my dear. But it's your magic that truly brings it all to life, isn't it?"
A faint blush tinges your cheeks, quickly hidden beneath a mask of professionalism. "Just doing my job."
David leans against a nearby amplifier, watching you with a knowing smirk. "You know, you're far too modest for your own good."
You roll your eyes, focusing on the task at hand. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Bowie."
He laughs, the sound infectious. "Perhaps not, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"
The banter between you and David is a constant dance – a playful exchange of wit and charm that skirts the line between professionalism and something more. Despite your best efforts to keep things strictly business, there's an undeniable spark that lingers in the air whenever he's near.
As the final notes of the concert fade into the night, you find yourself drawn to the quiet solitude of the backstage area. With the chaos of the performance behind you, there's a moment of respite, a chance to catch your breath and reflect on the whirlwind that is David Bowie.
You're lost in thought when a voice interrupts your reverie. "Care for a smoke?"
You turn to find David Bowie offering you a cigarette, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Despite your better judgment, you find yourself nodding in agreement, accepting the offer with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity.
The two of you step outside into the cool night air, the faint scent of cigarettes mingling with the sounds of the city beyond. There's a comfortable silence between you as you both light up, the soft glow of the embers casting shadows across David's face.
"So, sound tech girl," David begins, breaking the silence with his usual ease. "Tell me something about yourself."
You take a drag of your cigarette, pondering his question for a moment before responding. "I take my job very seriously. Always stressed, always on edge."
He nods in understanding, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "And yet, here you are – orchestrating the chaos with a grace that is truly remarkable."
You scoff, a hint of self-deprecation in your tone. "Hardly. Just trying to keep everything from falling apart."
David tilts his head, studying you with a look that borders on scrutiny. "You're far too hard on yourself, you know. You're brilliant at what you do."
You brush off his compliment with a shrug, unwilling to let your guard down completely. "It's just a job."
But David sees through your facade, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that leaves you feeling exposed. "It's more than that, and you know it. You have a passion for music – for sound – that shines through in everything you do."
You avert your gaze, suddenly feeling vulnerable under his scrutiny. "It's not enough."
He reaches out, gently lifting your chin until your eyes meet his once more. "It's more than enough. And you, my dear, are more than just sound tech management"
There's a tenderness in his touch that catches you off guard, a warmth that seeps into your bones and leaves you yearning for more. But before you can fully process the moment, David pulls away, extinguishing his cigarette with a flick of his wrist.
"Well, it seems our moment of respite has come to an end," he says, a hint of regret in his voice. "Until next time, darling."
And with that, he disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone in the darkness with nothing but the echo of his words lingering in the air.
———
The week following the final show of the tour feels strangely empty without the whirlwind of preparations and performances. Back in the comfort of your apartment, you find yourself sinking into the familiar routine of solitude – until a knock on the door disrupts the silence.
Curious, you make your way to the entrance and peer through the peephole, only to find David Bowie standing on the other side, holding out a familiar jacket with a sheepish grin.
"You left this in the lobby," he explains, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
You open the door, taking the jacket from his outstretched hand with a grateful smile. "Thanks, David. Come on in."
It's the polite thing to do, you tell yourself, but as David steps into your apartment, you can't help but feel a rush of nerves. There's something undeniably intimate about inviting him into your personal space, a feeling that both thrills and unsettles you in equal measure.
You lead him into the cozy living room, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air as you set about preparing a cup for each of you. David's eyes wander around the room, taking in the sight of your guitar resting against the wall and a keyboard nestled in the corner.
"Are you a musician as well?" he asks, genuine curiosity lacing his words.
You nod, pouring the steaming liquid into two mugs. "Sort of. I produce and write songs on the side for some extra pay."
David's interest piques, a spark of excitement dancing in his eyes. "That's fascinating. I'd love to hear some of your work sometime."
The thought of sharing your music with David Bowie sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins, but you play it cool, offering him a casual shrug. "Maybe someday."
As you both settle into the comfortable familiarity of conversation, you find yourselves delving into shared interests and musical tastes. The hours slip away in a blur of laughter and animated discussion, punctuated by sips of coffee and the occasional shared cigarette.
"So, favorite artists?" David prompts, a playful glint in his eyes.
You grin, rattling off a list of names that elicit nods of approval from him – the Pixies, Roxy Music, Iggy Pop, and more.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," he teases, his tone laced with affection.
You roll your eyes, but there's a warmth in your chest that belies your playful facade. "Likewise, Bowie."
As the evening wears on, you find yourself drawn to the easy camaraderie that exists between you and David. Despite the lingering doubts and insecurities that swirl in the depths of your mind, there's a sense of comfort in his presence – a feeling of belonging that you can't quite explain.
And as you steal glances at him from across the room, you can't help but notice the way his long hair falls in waves around his face, the way the turtleneck he wears hugs his torso in all the right places. There's a ruggedness to him that speaks of a life well-lived, a magnetism that draws you in despite your best efforts to resist.
But it's not just his appearance that captivates you – it's the way his eyes light up when he talks about music, the way his laughter fills the room with warmth, the way his touch sends shivers down your spine. In that moment, you find yourself craving more – more of his laughter, more of his touch, more of him.
And as David's gaze lingers on you, his eyes bright with a warmth that mirrors your own, you can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there's something more than friendship brewing between you.
The moment hung heavy between you as David's question broke the silence like a crack in the dam. "Want a smoke?"
You hesitated for a split second, then nodded, your throat suddenly dry. "Sure."
You stepped outside into the cool night air, the quiet solitude a stark contrast to the chaos of the world you had left behind. David lit the cigarette with practised ease, the flame casting shadows across his face as he offered it to you.
You took a drag, the smoke swirling in the air between you as you passed the cigarette back and forth. There was a comfort in the ritual, a sense of camaraderie that transcended words.
As you smoked, the conversation turned to love and romance – a topic fraught with uncertainty and longing. David asked if you were seeing anyone, and you shook your head, a bitter edge creeping into your voice.
"No," you said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Young boys are immature. They always disappoint."
David's gaze softened, his eyes searching mine with a depth that left me feeling exposed. "And what about you? Are you single?"
He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I am."
There was a beat of silence between, the air thick with unspoken desires and unfulfilled longing. And in that moment, it felt as though the world had slowed to a halt, the only sound the steady rhythm of breathing.
You both shared a look – a silent exchange that spoke volumes, a mutual understanding that lingered in the space between you like a promise unspoken.
But before either of you could find the courage to act on the tension that crackled in the air, David stubbed out the cigarette with a flick of his wrist, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"Well," he said, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging beneath the surface. "I should probably head back inside. Finish that coffee before it gets cold." You nodded, heavy with disappointment as you watched him back to the kitchen, following behind.
You stepped back into your apartment, watching David finish his coffee as the rain began to pour down outside, the sound of it drumming against the windows like a symphony of chaos.
"Damn," David muttered, glancing out at the downpour. "I forgot my umbrella."
You shrugged, trying to hide the flicker of excitement that sparked within you at the prospect of him staying a little while longer. "It's pouring out there. You can wait until it lets up."
He nodded in agreement, a grateful smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
You led him to the living room, where you settled on the carpet, cross-legged with your guitar resting against your knee. David sat beside you, his gaze fixed on you as you began to create a chord progression, the notes weaving together in a delicate dance.
There was a sense of intimacy in the air as you lost yourself in the music, the only sound the gentle strumming of the guitar and the steady rhythm of the rain outside. And in that moment, it felt as though the world had fallen away, leaving only you and David and the music that bound you together.
He watched you with a mixture of awe and admiration, his hand resting against his head as he took in the sight of you lost in your element. "You're incredible," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
You glanced up at him, a flush of warmth spreading across your cheeks at his praise. "Thanks. It's just something I do."
But David shook his head, his eyes shining with genuine appreciation. "No, it's more than that. You have a gift – a talent for creating songs and melodies that is truly remarkable."
You smiled, feeling a swell of pride at his words. "I guess I just have a lot of thoughts rattling around in my head."
He chuckled, the sound a melody in itself. "Well, whatever it is, it works. You're amazing."
And in that moment, as the rain continued to fall outside and the music filled the room, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment – a fleeting glimpse of something beautiful in the midst of the storm.
"It really means a lot to get feedback from someone as accomplished as you," you admitted, a touch of sincerity in your voice as you strummed the guitar.
David's eyes softened, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "I'm just telling it like it is. You've got a talent, love."
You couldn't help but chuckle at the nickname, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. "Thanks, David."
As you continued to play, a soft-bohemian rendition of "China Girl" escaping your lips, you couldn't resist a playful jab. "You just love this song, don't you?"
David let out a laugh, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "Oh, you have no idea. It's like a curse that follows me wherever I go."
But he listened, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that left you feeling exposed. And as you sang, your voice weaving through the air with a soulful depth that surprised even yourself, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride – a confidence that blossomed in the wake of his encouragement.
David was dead focused on you as you sang, his laughter mingling with the music as he joined in with you, his voice blending seamlessly with yours in a playful duet.
As the song came to an end, you both clapped like two goofy idiots, the laughter spilling from your lips like a symphony of joy. David was quick to praise you once again, his words a balm to your soul.
"Seriously, you have no idea how fantastic that voice of yours is," he said, his eyes shining with genuine admiration.
You chuckled, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks at his praise. "You're too kind, David."
He rolled his eyes playfully, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Stop with the false modesty. You’re a prodigy. Own it."
You set the guitar down gently, a smile still playing on your lips as David's words lingered in the air. "Oh, I feel like an old hag of a man next to you," he remarked, his tone light but tinged with a hint of self-deprecation.
You couldn't help but giggle at his comment, shaking your head in amusement. "Why? There's nothing about you that says 'hag' necessarily."
David tried to phrase his response lightly, his words stumbling over themselves as he searched for the right thing to say. "I don't know...you make me feel young again; able to be...comfortable and myself around you."
You felt a flicker of surprise at his admission, the weight of his words settling in the space between you like a heavy blanket. But you quickly masked your taken aback-ness with a witty response. "Well, I suppose I have that effect on people. It's the charm."
David insisted, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes. "But it's true, you...there's something about you, love. You're just..."
He trailed off, the air between you growing thick with unspoken words and unspoken desires. And as the silence stretched on, the eye-contact starting to feel a little more than friendly, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of something deep within your chest – a longing that pulsed with every beat of your heart.
"I'm just...?" you prompted, your voice barely above a whisper.
David swallowed hard, his face shifting as he struggled to find the right words. You could sense the turmoil within him, the raw vulnerability that he so rarely allowed himself to show.
“God, I must be on something. What did you put in my coffee?" he joked, the tension dissipating as he abandoned the conversation for now. But you could see the worry in his eyes – the fear of scaring you away with his honesty.
You chuckled, a wave of relief washing over you as you let the moment pass. "Ah yes, that must be the rat poison getting to you." That got a laugh out of him.
You weren't about to let David off the hook that easily, determined to tease out whatever it was he had been hesitant to say. "I'm just....crazy? A messy home-owner? World's best awkward silence breaker? Come on, what were you gonna say?"
But you could see the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance to speak the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue. "Oh no, I shouldn't," he protested, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
You couldn't help but roll your eyes, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "If it’s really that bad I can always quit my job and cut all ties with the music industry”.
David let out a rueful chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. "It's not that simple, love. I just...I don't want to ruin what we have."
But you could see how anything he could say would be dismissed as bad in his mind, so you pushed a little further. "Well, for one thing I might know what you're gonna say."
The air between you crackled with tension as you locked eyes, the intensity of the moment hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud on the horizon. And in that moment, it felt as though time had stopped – as though the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, suspended in the space between truth and uncertainty.
David sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as he leaned against the foot of the couch. "I'm fifty-two, darling. Fucking old, are you sure you want that?"
You turned to him, your gaze steady and unwavering. "Yes," you answered simply, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a promise.
And as you looked into his eyes, you could see something shift within him – a flicker of hope amidst the fear and uncertainty. "And it's not your age, David. I want *you*."
David's breath caught in his throat as your words washed over him, a mixture of disbelief and relief flooding his senses. For a moment, he simply stared at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all he found was a fierce determination – a longing that mirrored his own.
“C'mere," he murmured, reaching out to pull you into his arms. And as he held you close, his lips met yours in a kiss that felt like coming home – a fusion of desire and longing that left him breathless.
His hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss with a hunger that bordered on desperation. There was a tenderness in his touch – a reverence that spoke volumes of the depth of his feelings for you.
As an older man, David's kisses were more seasoned, more experienced – each movement deliberate and calculated, yet filled with a raw intensity that set your heart ablaze. He explored your lips with a practiced finesse, his tongue tracing the curve of your mouth with a tantalizing precision.
But it wasn't just the physicality of the kiss that left you reeling – it was the emotional weight behind it, the unspoken promise of a love that would be worth the while. And as you melted into his embrace, you couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging – a sense of completeness that had eluded you for so long.
As you both broke away, gasping for air, the confession spilled from your lips like a waterfall of emotions. "If only you knew how bad I wanted this from the start," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
David's eyes softened, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. "I think I had an inkling," he confessed, his voice tinged with amusement. "But I was too scared to admit it."
Pulling away from the kiss you took a deep breath, stealing yourself. "David, I have to be honest with you," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "I have...commitment issues. Because of…y’know, shitty past relationships."
David's expression softened, his eyes filled with understanding as he listened to your confession. "I see," he murmured, his fingers tracing circles on the small of your back. "I have my own issues too, love. Trust me, I understand."
You felt a wave of relief wash over you at his admission. "I just don't want all of this to be for nothing," you confessed, feeling your shoulders lift. "I don't want to let you down."
David's lips found their way to your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses in their wake. "We'll work it out, love," he cooed, his voice gentle and reassuring.
"It's worth fighting for."
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ANAKIN SKYWALKER in THE STARS WARS SAGA
“it is the cruelest irony in the world, really, that Anakin Skywalker broke the heart of everyone who ever loved him.” - excerpt from a fic that I may someday write.
[insp]
#anakin skywalker#anakin x padme#anakinedit#darthvaderedit#gif#obi wan kenobi#obi wan angst#obi wan and anakin#padme amidala#padmeedit#lyrics#David bowie#natalie portman#hayden christensen#haydenchristensenedit#ewan mcgregor#ewanfuckinmcgregor#starwars#starwarsfilms#dailytvfilmgifs#star wars prequels#prequel trilogy#Star Wars saga#the skywalkers#dailyanakin#dailyobiwan#lucasfilm#George lucas#MINE#the man who sold the world
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sometimes u just have to make urself absolutely MISERABLE but like in a sexy way
#flinging myself into the yawning chasm that is my current angst wip#the playlist for this one takes me out every time which........#i mean that IS the vibe im going for but wow its a whole rollercoaster every time#space oddity makes me cry literally every time without fail it is just fact at this point lol#if u have never listened to david bowie space oddity i BEG u to go and listen to it it is absolutely magnificent#like yeah i know its a drug metaphor#but taking it literally it is the saddest fucking song on earth#i love it so much
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David Bowie: Don't Go
Imagine David Bowie falls in love with you the moment he meets you, but you're taken away; only for him to find you again after many years have passed:
Warnings: Alludes to suicidal thoughts/ideation, abuse, abuse of power, feelings of worthlessness, injury, angst, apathy
1975
It was always loud around me, everyone shouting and screaming in my direction. Adoration emanated in their voices as they called my name, but all it made me feel was anxious and overwhelmed. I'm always running from them, these people that claim to love me... they lie when they say that, how can they love someone they do not know?
These manic strangers scared me, I never wanted to walk down the streets alone, but there were moments I would risk it simply for a second just to myself. I once thought of leaving this world, setting my soul free, abandoning this shell I am forced into. I was so close to going through with it, but then I met someone who forced a change in my perception.
We were young during our first meeting, I was several years into my stardom, usually caged up in my Los Angeles apartment. I hate Los Angeles, in fact, I hate California as a whole; the only reason I was even there was because my manager had forced me into this movie deal.
I wasn't unhappy with the movie, I had read the novel it was based on, and the script embraced a lot of the original elements. I couldn't survive there for long though, my mind was always leaving me, traveling elsewhere, to places with happy memories. The few moments of awareness during my day left me with an unending headache, it made me nauseous knowing that I was still alive. I felt like I was betraying God with these thoughts, that I was dishonoring him in some way with my destructive hatred for myself and my surroundings.
___
The first day on set was numbing, my manager had escorted me there, his firm glare setting me on edge; I know the only reason he was with me was to ensure that I didn't go against him. A deal with the Devil, he observed my every move, I felt like he was screening my thoughts before allowing me to speak.
I wanted to scream, to reach out to the people around me for help; but I didn't. I simply kept my eyes down, only speaking when the director or cast members addressed me directly.
The day was nearing its end, I had been encapsulated with this crowd and wanted a moment of quietness, I knew when I was back in that apartment that I would be yelled at. He would be angry that I seemed so disinterested in everything, furious that I had the audacity to try and come here without him.
I nervously skittered away from the people, moving swiftly towards the door as my heart rate raced. I was so close, it would only offer me momentary relief, but that was better than nothing, better than this everlasting flame that was burning me from the inside out. I felt cauterized from the heat, forever stuck in this flesh prison until my untimely death. Yet, death offers me no salvation, in this world of sin we are doomed to return, to relive these traumas until we learn something from this negative world.
One foot was out the door when a hand seized my wrist; had it been my neck, I'm sure I would think I was being strangled. A chilling shiver scraped along my spine, it was that uncomfortable feeling of knowing I was caught. The air in my lungs felt suffocating, the heat of my body sweltering as I glanced at the hand.
"Where do you think you're going?" I look sternly at my manager, surveying his aura and body language. I can tell that he is nearing the end of his rope, the 'patience' he has is running thin. I remember the first time I hired him, I thought he was respectable, he looked like a business man with his hair combed back with his immaculate suit, speaking to me with high revere.
Not many things have changed about him, he still speaks well of me - now only to possible clients or partners; his way of dressing has only gotten finer with the money I bring in, but the young man I hired was long gone. He's been my manager since I was 12 and he was 36, I'm now 19, him being 43. The full head of black hair is slightly graying at the sides, his athletic physique gave way to slight obesity - but the strange type of weight gain where he is top-heavy in the chest, if that makes sense.
He used to make me feel comfortable, he wouldn't yell or scream at me, but that was back when my parents were always around, as soon as I turned 18 they upped and left. They still sent me requests for money every now and then, well aware I would oblige. I know they likely think I wanted them to leave, but what I wouldn't give for them to come and stick their noses in my business.
"...I'm going to the bathroom?" My voice feels like it's grating against my throat, as though I haven't had a thing to drink all day; however, I know he wouldn't let me go a day without 8 glasses of water. That may sound like he actually cares for me, but he knows that my albums are the reason behind a lot of my wealth, and he refuses to let anything damage my voice.
The eye contact we hold burns me, I don't know what else to do but hope he believes me. I sigh in relief as he releases his hold, sending a curt 'get going' to me before turning away. I haven't felt happy in a long while, and though I know what I'm feeling isn't happiness, it still reminds me of it. I want to rush forward, but force a steady walk, going straight past the bathroom and outside.
The sun is obnoxiously bright, I want to go back inside, but I know he will be waiting for me. I shuffle over to the back of the building, a lonely bench awaiting, luckily sheltered away from the sweltering sun. My back aches as I collapse onto it, head falling back against the wall as I quietly groan in dissatisfaction. The traffic is loud, I can hear airplanes in the distance, and the footsteps of people along the sidewalk.
God, I wish I was somewhere else, I wish I was back home in Montana, or maybe at my seldom used cabin in Idaho. I want to not see another human being for miles, I want trees and wildlife to surround me as I write and draw, but I know that won't happen anytime soon.
The thoughts overrunning my mind lower my awareness of my surroundings, so much so that I only become aware again when someone sits next to me. The alarming aura of a person so near, this is the closest a stranger has been to me without my manager in sight; I can't remember how long ago it has been since I talked to someone without him watching me.
I observe them from the corner of my eye, he's taller than me, dressed in a casual black suit with a hat, his orange-blonde hair coaxing my attention. I know who he is, we were briskly introduced during the meeting, but he was surrounded by an entourage that kept people away from him.
He glances to me, our eyes meeting for an instant before I turn away from him. I'm not sure how to talk to him, it's been so long since I was able to speak freely that I fear I don't know how to anymore.
"So, what are you doing out here?" His accented tone rings out sharply, dancing through the noisy ambience, my head subconsciously tilting as I listen to him. Turning my face to him, I'm met by his piercing eyes paired with his angular face; I almost want to huff at how exact and fine his features are.
"I could ask you the same." I state, holding a steady gaze, watching as his eye flicker over me before returning ahead.
"I saw you leaving, and I wanted to know where you were going." He responds, voice smooth as he brushes his hair back neatly.
"So you followed me?" The sentence flows from my mouth so quickly, realizing what I've said makes me feel bilious. I gulp, looking over to him as I await a yell or a glare; surprised when he lets out an amused laugh.
"Don't make it weird." He giggles, looking down to his hands. He looks up to speak again, but a concerned look washes over his features.
"Are you alright? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." The sentence strings along, his body shifting towards me as all his attention is focused on me. I'm confused at first, wondering why he was reacting like this before realizing I must look tense and pale.
"No, no, it's alright. It's not you." I quickly respond, resting a hand gently over his own to calm him down. I once again speak without thinking, not realizing I told him indirectly that I am in fact uncomfortable.
"So that's why you're out here." David states, his hands gently holding my own as his concerned expression magnifies. I pull my hands away in fear of the repercussions for this conversation.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I scowl, glaring at the wall opposite us. I hurriedly stand up, worried about staying out too long, I don't want my manager getting suspicious.
I squint my eyes against the weather, the sun burns as the heat overwhelms my sense. I want to cry, but I know that I can't allow myself to. David stands as well, and I'm about to walk away before feeling something being placed atop my head. Glancing over to David, I notice his hat missing, my sight no longer being hindered by the sunlight. I gaze at him in suspicion, what does he want?
"What?" Is all he says, a smirk playing on his features as he leads me back around the building to the front door. I try to give him his fedora back, but he simply pushed it back to me, telling me to keep it. I thank him, a smile trying to appear on my face as I look up to him; he grins to me before walking away, leaving me alone.
___
My manager was pissed, he knew I lied about going to bathroom, and was even angrier when he saw I had David Bowie's fedora clutched in my small hands. He snatches it from my hands, I open my mouth to argue, but the look on his face tells me it'll be much worse if I speak.
I follow him through the crowd, weaving carefully so that I don't touch people. We reach the group surrounding David, my manager saying we have something of his. As he walks towards us, my manager shoves the fedora into my hands before shoving me forward. I can tell David is confused by the situation, I hope he didn't see my manager push me.
"What is it (Y/N)?" This is the first time he's used my name, I don't know why it stunned me, maybe because no one cares enough to know my real name, instead calling me by my pseudonym. I nervously glance away and look back at my manager, I can tell he wants to yell at me, but he knows he has to wait.
"I-I'm returning your fedora, you must've dropped it..." I reply, hoping he goes along with it.
"What?" His bewildered response matches his expression, I don't know how to get him to go along other than to rephrase myself.
"I was coming back from the bathroom and saw it on the floor, you must've dropped it." I explain, looking him firmly in the eyes as I hold out the hat. His eyes now hold understanding as he glances behind me.
"Oh, thank you... Can I speak to you for a moment?" He responds, grabbing the hat and then my wrist to pull me forward. I yelp weakly, my wrist hurting from its past abuse. David glanced down at me in worry just as my manager moves forward and grabs my shoulder.
"We need to get going, you have another meeting in a half-hour." My manager interrupts, bundling me away before David could even blink.
___
My manager is fuming, I can tell by the slight jitter in is movements as he forces me out of the building and down the street. I know he wants nothing more than to yell at me, make me cry, but he will have to wait until we get some privacy before he can do as he pleases.
The car ride is anything but pleasant, he may have opened the door for me, but he shoved me in so fast that I knocked my head against the frame. The headache is splitting through my skull, the mixture of pain and internal agony is catching up with me. My manager angrily slams his door and begins driving back to my apartment; he wastes no time laying into me.
"What the fuck was that!" He shouts angrily, fists clenching the steering wheel to the point I think he's fantasizing that it's my neck.
"What?" I try to play dumb, but I should've known better.
"Don't give me that bullshit! I know you didn't go to the bathroom, you snuck out so you could talk with that singer!" He states with a scowl, glaring at me before looking back to the road. I can see the sweat layered upon his brow, perhaps the sun is getting to him as well?
"I didn't!" My response is halted quickly, my manager reaching across the center console as he smacks me sharply. I want to say I' surprised, but I'm not, though that does nothing to numb the stinging pain as tears burn my eyes.
"You wanna rethink that response." He grits, I can tell he's furious, and he'll do as he pleases no matter my answer. Involuntarily curling into myself, I make no move to respond, wrapping my arms tightly around my abdomen as I look out the window. My lack of response is only going to anger him further, but I can't seem to care anymore.
When we arrive at my apartment, he's tossing me in as soon as the doors unlocked. He pulls me back to him so harshly I can hear the fabric of my sweater tearing as he scrunches it in his fists. I subconsciously put my hands up, trying to get away from him. He heeds my movements, shoving me away just as harshly as he had pulled me in. The action is so sudden that I'm thrown off balance, taking a moment to recollect myself before turning back to him.
I go to say something, but have no time to contemplate my words as something is hurled at me. I try my best to dodge it, but my actions are in vain as the object meets my eye. The left side of my face radiates in pain as I fall backwards into the wall in surprise, my hands flying up to my injury as I try not to cry. I look down at the object and see my favorite book was what had been thrown, Jane Eyre... my manager can't seem to get enough of ruining things I love.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I only notice my manager approaching when he already has his thick hand wrapped around my throat, thus pinning me to the wall I've taken solace in. He grabs my wrists with his free hand and forces them up and away from my face.
I try to observe him as he analyzes my face, his once kind eyes seem so empty, when did that happen? His hair is thinner, and though he's out of shape, he still overpowers me with ease; who is this man before me? I want to look at him more, but the agony of my injury overpowers my wants, eyes stinging as the tears cloud my vision before streaming down along my cheeks.
"You'll need to cover that for tomorrow, I'll bring you a bandage." Just like that, his hold is gone and he exits the apartment. I'm alone in this apartment, silence settling back into it as the furious tornado that is my manager has left the vicinity. If someone came in, they would think me strange curled up in the corner with tears in my eyes; no one ever sees who causes them, but they always have an opinion.
___
He did as he said, bringing me a roll of Coban with some gauze so I could pad my eye against the adhesive bandage. I hadn't look at my eye throughout the night, not wanting to see the damage, but knowing it must look bad as my eye had swollen shut.
I wanted to assume the mirror was lying to me like everyone else does, but I know it wasn't. The bruising was light as it hasn't been more than a day, the contusion will darken later on as it fully forms; the swelling wasn't as bad as I assumed, my eyelids were definitely swollen, but I could peel them open slightly to view the sclera flooded in red due to burst blood vessels. Brushing those thoughts away, my manager shoves open the bathroom door and grabs the bandages from my grasp, grumbling about me taking to long as he wraps my injuries.
The car ride there is a stark contrast compared to yesterday, the silence was almost more eerie than when he yells, but I try not to think to hard on it.
Anxiety bubbles up in my throat as he parks the car and exits, what will they say? This is opening the door to unwanted questions, what if they find out my manager abuses me? What if they take his side?? I don't get too much time to think as my door is opened by my manager as he signals for me to get out. I do as told, hesitantly walking into the building after he enters.
The building is thankfully not nearly as crowded as yesterday, today only requires the actors/actresses, costume designers, and music producers to be present.
I stand there silently as I wait for the group to be called to focus, but I'm disrupted from daydreaming as I feel someone tap my shoulder. I turn around, coming face to face with the director, Nicolas Roeg.
"Hey Y/N, you're manager called yesterday and explained that you got injured while playing with your cousins. I know how head injuries can be, so let me know if you start getting headaches, or if the noise or environment gets too overwhelming. Alright?" This man, he was so nice over the phone when asking if I wanted to be a part of this project, how could I forget him, especially after how kind he's being now?
I grace him with a thankful smile, nodding my head. He smiles back, giving my shoulder a pat in reassurance before turning away and walking to converse with someone else. I am about to go back to dissociating when another tap is felt, I want to sigh, but halt my actions when I meet eyes - well, eye - with David Bowie.
I can tell he had his words prepared before walking over, but I feel like they abandoned him as soon as I turned around. I can only assume it has something to do with my new lovely injury, I know for a fact that I alone cannot leave a man speechless.
"Darling, what happened?" He's concerned, that much was audible, but I know I need to make that dissipate if I don't want my manager to have a repeat of last night.
"Oh this... it's er, nothing, happened while I was rough housing with my cousins." My lie was almost seamless, but the hesitation in my words at the beginning was noticed by him, the squint in his eyes at my words gave that much away.
"I'm fine, honestly David, no need to worry about me." I voice, trying harder to get him to put this on the back burner. He's conflicted, eyes glinting with so many different emotions I can't seem to keep up. Luckily though, he bows his head slightly and nods at my words. I can tell he's still uncertain, but at least he's stopped talking about it.
I didn't try to avoid him the rest of the day per say, but we were working on two very different parts of the film; he was the lead Actor, and I was working on the film scores as well as dabbling in the costume design. We weren't around each other very often, and if we were, they were but fleeting moments.
He had me cornered during our lunch break actually, but my manager put a quick stop to that, dragging me away to talk with some fans outside; at this point, I think he's doing everything in his power to keep David and myself separate.
The hours go by, Roeg and my manager keeping me plenty busy. I would say that I barely noticed my injury all day apart from the constant headaches and dull ache that seemed to keep building up the longer the day went on. I know Roeg said to tell him when it was getting bad, but let's be honest, my manager would have my other eye if I said anything.
As the day is coming to an end, people begin leaving, my manager says we can go after he uses the restroom. He fixes me with a hard look before going in, basically telling me,'do something stupid, and we'll have a rerun of last night.' His eyes looked so dark I felt a nervous chill run down my back as I took a step back.
"Y/N!" I hear a voice call, turning around to be met with that same fedora as yesterday.
"David..." I greet uneasily, glancing back to the restroom in fear my manager will walk out at anytime. David seems to catch on and speeds past the pleasantries.
"Listen, I'm going to the preview tonight if you'd like to join me, I can pick you up tonight if that's alright with you?" His offer is said with such a hopeful voice and sweet look that I almost agree right then and there, but then reality stabs me in the back.
"Y/N." That voice nearly startle me out of my skin with how hard I jumped. My shoulders turn stiff as I look back and watch as my manager stalks closer, gripping my shoulder before steering me to the door.I turn my head quickly, making eye contact with David and his crestfallen face, giving a smile with a slight head nod to confirm his plans. I watch for a second as joy encapsulates his face before I'm forced out the door into the obnoxious environment of Los Angeles.
My manager leaves early, stating he has a meeting to get to before the day ends, leaving me alone in my apartment. He usually stays gone until the morning, that of which I'm thankful for, or else I would never be able to have David pick me up.
He arrives when it's already dark, around 7 pm when the last streaks of sunlight are dissipating. His driver goes to get out, but David beats him to it, walking over and opening the door for me before getting back in on his side. We both sit in the back and his chauffeur takes us to the movie theatre. It was a quiet ride, I think he could notice how jittery and uneasy I was; he held my hand and offered a comforting smile, reassuring me until we felt the car halt.
We sat in the back, hoping no one would notice our presence. The movie was good, it held my attention the whole time - well, at least until David nudged me, motioning with his head for us to leave. I do as told, standing and following him as he led me down the hallways and back into the main room.
"Whats wrong?" I ask, unsure why we left half-way through the film.
"Nothing, I just want to spend some time alone with you." He states, before grasping my hand, leading me outside and down the quiet sidewalks. Los Angeles at night is better at night I would say, a little more quiet with much better weather.
There is a hint of a breeze though, sending light shivers down my back whenever a gust came my way. My clothes aren't really the best for this weather, a knee length dress with only a feathery shawl to protect my shoulders.
"Oh, I'm sorry darling, I should've told you to bring a jacket." He voices guiltily, detaching our hands before shrugging off his suit jacket. He stops me from walking, grabbing my shoulders and turning me to face him as he wraps the large jacket around my thin frame.
It swallows me up, a blush tinting my cheeks in embarrassment, I must look ridiculous to this man. David notices the blush, a wide grin spreading over his face at how adorable the site before him is.
"I must look ridiculous..." I say, looking down self-consciously. David simply huffs and removes his hat and placing it delicately atop my head, it's much too large, sliding down over my eyes and blocking my sight. He laughs gently, angling the hat so that I can see again, his toothy grin being the first sight I'm met with.
"You look adorable." Is all he says, wrapping his arm comfortingly over my shoulders before continuing to walk us down the street. I can confidently state that my blush has not faded throughput the entire exchange.
We both remain silent, simply enjoying the presence of the other as we saunter down the pavement. We pass many quiet cafes still open, him stepping to the left and halting as he opens the door to a warm cafe. I cautiously enter, removing the hat and surveying the interior closely.
A young woman sits sleepily at the register, the only other people being a middle-aged couple at a table against the wall. The lights have a warm hue to them, complementing the earthy tones of the walls and tables.
Glancing back at David, he offers a soft smile, resting his hand on my lower back before leading me to the register. The woman quickly writes down my order, not looking up until both myself and David have ordered.
I hold my breath when I notice that familiar glint in her eye, backing up subconsciously in fear she will shout our names and alert someone to our presence. If the paparazzo found out I'm here, and accompanied by David Bowie no less! The scandal would be horrific.
David holds me steadily in comfort as he smiles at the woman, he holds a finger against his lips to stop her, I glance at her in worry that she still might scream. She looks overwhelmed in excitement, but breathes deeply to calm herself down when she notices my reaction.
"Sorry! I just love both of you so much!" She whispers happily, still in shock of meeting two of her favorite artists. I feel the tension in my shoulders lessen as she only whispers in excitement.
"Thank you, it's nice to meet you to." David says politely, nodding to her before leading me away and to a table cozied up in a corner.
Our night was wonderful, David and I talked the night away, enjoying multiple drinks the longer we stayed up. I've never felt so at ease with another person, and we could converse for an extended amount of time without awkward silences or uncomfortable glances; how could someone so wonderful seek me out for company? Is this a blessing from God, or is Satan about to take him away from me.
___
After that night, I've looked forward to seeing him everyday, a smile gracing both of our features whenever our eye(s) meet, but we are both swept away. My manager found out about my late night escapade rather easily seeing as I didn't return to my apartment and was instead brought to work by David(no nothing happened, I fell asleep during the car ride back, and David decided it would be easier to just take me to his home instead of go up into an apartment building while trying to find my keys).
My manager was thoroughly pissed, but his physical punishments still didn't deter me from seeing David, but he always did know how to ruin a good thing. The movie was over, it had already been in theatres and what we were attending wasn't required work anymore; my manager took full advantage of that, signing me up with another director to work with them on film scores.
This new job took me across the country into New York, the director was very well known, Martin Scorsese, and the film was Taxi... Taxi Driver I think. It sounded interesting I guess, maybe a little on point for it being called Taxi Driver and set in New York.
I didn't even get to say goodbye to David, my manager had dropped the news on me the night before I was to fly to New York. I didn't have anyway to contact David, but I'm not even sure if he would want to stay in contact... Either way, I'm leaving tomorrow whether I like it or not.
_______
1982
It's been a little while since I've agreed to do another film score since Taxi Driver, that film was surprisingly fun compared to my last experience, but maybe that's because my manager wasn't there with me most of the time.
None of that matters anymore though, after the success of taxi driver I fired that abusive prick, and I honestly couldn't be happier. I focused solely on my albums and dropped 7 of them throughout the past few years. I took a break from movies, I was too young for them and the change of environment when I was 19, but now I'm 26 and feel ready to face the world.
I don't actually know a lot about this film, other than the title and one of the actors/film scorers. I believe the film is called Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence? The actor/musician I'm talking about is Ryuichi Sakamoto, and he's honestly the main reason I took this job; my albums blew up and have been making me a fortune, so this is really just for fun and the experience.
I'm walking down the road, suitcase in hand, trying to figure out how the hell to walk in sand. I'm about halfway to the hotel when I hear someone approaching from my side. I don't turn to them, hoping they'll keep moving and we won't have to awkwardly introduce ourselves.
"...(Y/N)? Is that really you!" What? I.. I know that voice. I turn to them, eyes wide as I watch a face from the past stride over to me, face plastered with a wide grin.
"David?" At the sound of my voice, his strides turned into bounds pretty much, I could see he was truly ecstatic at seeing me, and it would be a lie to say I don't feel the same.
I start walking towards him, dropping my suitcase as we embrace enthusiastically. How could I not? This man, this wonderful man that changed me for the better, made me see that my life was worth more. You beautiful man, I'll never disappear again, I promise.
#female insert#female reader#x reader#david bowie fanfiction#david bowie fanfic#david bowie fluff#david bowie imagine#david bowie x reader#david bowie#the man who fell to earth#bowie#bowie x reader#merry christmas mr lawrence#abuse#los angeles#ryuichi sakamoto#jack celliers#angst#suicidal ideation
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Current Work
Harry Potter - discontinued
Shameless - postponed
Encanto - discontinued
Gotham - requests open
The Beatles - postponed
F1 - requests open
Other fandoms - requests open
#masterlist#xreader#smut#fluff#warner sister#angst#x you#the beatles#gotham#shameless#Harry Potter#f1#formula 1#tumblr#encanto#David Bowie#x reader#reader#explore page#explore#request#requests open#Warner#sister#warnerbrothers#fandoms#fanfic#imagine#headcannons#ask me
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crying fluorescent tears on the train,
𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?,
i say to you. my eyes are soft but i house venom underneath my teeth. i cloak my vulnerability in spite, daring you to be cruel to me so i can finally bite. you can tell.
𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨,
you finally say.
i gauge your kindness with suspicion.
when i detect no snide, i soften my tongue.
yes
but
𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥,
𝘪 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
there's this song that lorde wrote after david bowie died
she sings about spilling our guts out on graceless nights because we are young and so ashamed,
frying our brains to the speakers
as we watch our heroes die
like lorde, all my heroes perished.
the party's cut into my bones,
and the magic bullet's wearing off.
dancing her feet on tombs,
lorde concludes
that she can't stand to be alone.
watching my heroes fade,
i also thought
that i couldn't stand to be alone.
yet i'm crying fluorescent tears on the train
and i feel my youth burning strong,
flaming my throat with anger and song.
my youth,
it still burns strong.
and i know.
my heroes ashed,
but i can stand
to be alone.
you open your mouth to respond
but i shake my head. i already know. it doesn't need
to be spoken to me,
not anymore.
you smile and vanish in the scenery.
i'm crying fluorescent tears
on the train
and i can stand to be alone.
#poem#poetry#poet#lorde#david bowie#poetess#youth#angst#fear#freedom#independence#writing#music#bloom#poets#writers and poets#tea nicolae poetry
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Infinite
I never really understood what Charlie meant by feeling infinite, I thought I would never ever in my life understand that feeling, until today.
I didn't need to be in a tunnel at 3 am in the morning listening to David Bowie, I just needed to be in your arms, hearing your voice and feeling your hands on my waist, right then and there I felt infinite, as if life had a meaning and it was you.
#david bowie#the perks of being a wallflower#las ventajas de ser invisible#logan lerman#emma watson#ezra miller#love quotes#love letters#love confessions#teenage angst#teenagers#teenage years#prom#heroes
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What will we do? -Songfic-
Fandom- Labyrinth (1986)
Ship- N/A
Warning(s)- Angst.
Summary- Jareth reminisces about a time when he was in love.
Author Note- This is just a short fic I wrote based on the song "What will we do" By Aurelio Voltaire for the Black Labyrinth album and I had fun being angsty for once.
Word count- 360
Jareth sighed in the solitude of his large voluptuous room. After Sarah escaped his grasp, he felt like he had lost it all; All hope, all dreams, all… Realities. Shattered in the blink of an eye.
Jareth opens a scratched-up velvet box that Sarah had given him, placing his crystals gently inside, hearing nothing but the light twinkle when two dreams combined. He then closed the box and locked it. “What good will these crystals do if they only show you dreams… I have none left.” He locked the little box and hung the key around his neck, just in case.
He heaved himself away from his ornate bedroom and down the winding halls of his castle. The feeling of warmth and love left behind had long since left the now dank and dreary castle, leaving nothing but the coolness of heartache in its wake.
As Jareth pushed open the imposing doors of the banquet hall. He froze, seeing the ghost of his memories before him. The banquet hall, despite being a stone room, was filled to the brim with decadence only known to the extremely wealthy. There was a glow about the room as his subjects boisterously sang about who knows what. His future wife, Sarah, sitting near the fire, clapping and giggling along with the Goblin's antics, not noticing her fiancee's presence.
“Jareth!” She exclaimed happily as she clambered from her place by the fire, just as she got to him, arms extended to hold him, he felt cold again. The Golden liveliness of the banquet hall slowly melts around him, as if it was just a mirage replaced once more by the cold harsh reality.
The area that surrounded him now merely seemed like a lifeless husk. The opulent room slowly became bland and grey, cobwebs filling the seats they used to sit in, and the fireplace that used to blaze with comfort seemed to be crumbling away from neglect. Worst of all was the silence. The room was full of nothing but the silent, anguished screams of a time that once was and had long since passed.
The once striking Castle is now shrouded in darkness.
#labyrinth#labyrinth 1986#the labyrinth#goblin king#jareth#jareth the goblin king#fanfiction#angst#labyrinth angst#labyrinth fanfiction#labyrinth writing#writer#beginner writer#fanfiction writer#fanfic writing#fanfic writer#fic writing#fic writer#fanfics#david bowie#writing fanfiction#angst fic#lost love#sad#short fiction#oneshot#angst oneshot
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Reconcile- E.M (S)
Smut!, fluff because uhm how could I not, angst! cause you guys are pent up from stress and this is basically a make up sex fic teehee, mentions of weed, brief arguing, Y’all just desperate and gross, Eddie fucks you till you cry and talks you through it like the slut he is, he cums inside of you, makes sure to fuck all that attitude away, PUSSY EATING, very graphic descriptions of passionate n nasty intercourse
You hadn’t foreseen this happening.
Sure, you and Ed’s have gotten into little disputes before. Petty, insignificant quarrels about whether or not the other person actually took out the garbage or who would pay next date night. Two years is still short to some, for you and Eddie it felt like forever and yesterday all in the same universe. Heavenly, and mundane.
But this is a different beast all together. This morning makes day two that you two have had this weird, suffocating energy between both of you. The antagonist of this situation, is undoubtedly the conversation that was had at Steve’s weekend hangout.
A few hits from a joint, a shot or two of tequila and goofy sentences being passed around between two best friends. You and Robin being the spectators, content in your own little bubble, puffing on a spliff of your own. Heavy, fluffy blankets kept you warm, gave you weight to lean on when your head began to feel like it might float away.
The Christmas lights and the hum of the deep freezer in the corner of Steve’s basement almost distracted you completely in your haze, until it didn’t. Until Chrissy Cunningham came up. Until it was an innocent giggling fit about whether or not Chrissy ever had a crush on Eddie, the oxymoron in and of itself.
“Imagine that ever happening,” Steve chuckled, lightheartedly, taking a sip of his Diet Pepsi. “can’t say I can’t see it. She wanted you for sure, dude.”
Your ears twitched. Eyes thinning into inquisitive slits. Nothing about Steve’s tone was meant to be rude, or disrespectful, but the nature of the comment itself felt awkward and uncomfortable underneath your skin.
You almost turned your attention back to the Walkman blasting David Bowie. Almost.
“I saw her the other day, she came in for an oil change. Honestly, I never would’ve even thought she wanted me,” Eddie takes another rip of his bong. “But then she asked me if I do at home visits. Said she wanted to catch up with me.”
Maybe your reptilian brain overreacted. Or, maybe it didn’t. Honestly, you don’t blame yourself completely for the way you reacted after that statement. Nothing else he said after that mattered. All you could hear was your heartbeat in your own ears. Loud, thunderous
“I told her I wouldn’t do that, obviously.”
White noise.
And not only were you intoxicated, but you were already burnt out from work and school, touch starved from not having any time with your boyfriend as of late. A period of your current reality that you know will pass as all things do in life; but it was too much. This hangout was supposed to be somewhat intimate, something for you to both do together. A simplicity that normally wouldn’t even have to be mentioned. You and Eddie exist on the same axis.
The blanket became too heavy and the smoke in the room threatened to choke you further. You all but threw the fluffy cover off of you and stormed out. You heard Robin call after you, and Eddie. A pair of voices that meshed together like the drum line in a song that is so in sync with the guitar chorus that you can barely decipher it. The steps spin, but you manage to stay upright.
Cold November air chilled your face, your neck. You too a deep breath in while marching to the van parked just a few feet away on the newly slabbed pavement of Steve’s home. His parents are at their lake house so often that Steve claims their Hawkins residence as his own.
Predictably, a heavy thump of boots followed closely behind you. The scrape of worn soles and the squeak of an old leather jacket. A billow of smoke follows him, clings onto him like jasmine and rosemary to the freshly bathed. Your back felt like the warning signs at a crossroad. He felt helpless.
“Baby, hey,” he sounded breathless, desperate and confused. He’s never seen you so upset that you’d just walk out unprompted. “stop walking god dammit, please.”
You stopped reluctantly, the tears of frustration in your waterline blurring your vision of the violet, cloudless skyline. A wide, warm palm touched your shoulder and the heat seared you even through your hoodie. You flinched away instinctively, sore in your limbs from your own concoction of emotions. When you met his eyes, they were wide. Like a deer staring down the barrel of a gun in its own home.
Your face must have been something to see. A scowl, a mirror of sadness reflected in his umber eyes. Angry. He’d never seen you look at him that way. It felt like having his intestines twisted between two cold hands.
“You didn’t tell me that happened.”
You stated it plainly, but spitefully in nature. Your voice cracked and it made a brewing tear spill over your waterline and down the plump of your cheek. He had the overwhelming urge to comfort you, but knew he couldn’t. Knew you would likely flinch away like you did five seconds ago and he didn’t think he would physically be able to bear you trying to get away from him again.
He didn’t exactly know what was making you so upset. The conversation wasn’t anything he wouldn’t have said in front of you, which is why all of it was said in front of you. Perhaps his own intoxication made it hard to fully understand the velocity of his words, what they meant and how they could’ve been interpreted from your point of view.
“I didn’t think it was important.” His thick brows scrunched and deepened the wrinkle between them. You looked like your eyes might bulge out of your head.
You nearly choked on your own spit, the words to your reply getting caught square in the middle of your throat; and so you said nothing. You stepped forward, and then past him. And he realized too late that you were walking away from him.
“I’m gonna ask Steve to take me home.”
He was too stunned to speak. To react. To stop you, to plead for you to tell him what he did wrong. Or at least how to fix it. He felt himself crumble on the inside, like his bones were made of ash.
When he got back to the trailer that night, you weren’t there. And that’s when it all really set in. That he fucked up. For the past two weeks you’ve been here with him, playing house while Wayne caught a gig further up north. He thought, he thought that when you said home, maybe you meant here. With him.
He called that night, almost ten times. You answered on the eighth.
“I’m at my apartment Ed’s, I’m fine. I don’t want to argue, or talk. I just need to be by myself right now.”
He felt paralyzed by the pang in his chest. More so, he felt angry. Genuinely angry, and not just at himself, but selfishly, at you.
“Fine, glad you’re safe.”
He nearly broke the fucking landline.
Your eyes have to adjust to the brightness of your living room. Well, your bedroom, slash living room, slash kitchen. A studio in Hawkins is relatively affordable, but they aren’t lying when they say it’s a studio. The events from yesterday scream in your head instantly, along with the pounding of your pulse. Your bed is almost unfamiliar at this point, the blankets not worn enough, the sheets the scent of fresh dryer sheets instead of you and Eddie’s shared scent.
The beeping of your answering machine pulls you back down to reality, though not one you want to participate in currently. Unfortunately, you have no other choice.
They’re all from Eddie of course, and now that you’re not high you feel those wounds from the night before coming back, sticking you in the chest, ribs, liver. Along with the pain, you feel guilty. For your less than mature reaction. Though you know you can’t blame yourself, not having ever been in that situation. You’re human and reacted as so. But he’s your Eddie.
You listen to the last message, sent twenty five minutes ago.
“I’m coming over in thirty minutes, I don’t care if you don’t want to see me. We are going to talk this out. I love you.”
You huff in frustration, though you can’t say you aren’t relieved. Relieved that he’s coming, that he’s not giving up over some quarrel about Chrissy Cunningham. You have a tendency to think the entire world is caving in around you upon one minor inconvenience. This disruption in your daily routine feels like Armageddon.
You have time to brush your teeth and rinse the remaining paste off of your mouth before your front door opens. If you didn’t recognize his footsteps so well, it might be off putting to have someone just waltz into your home.
The bathroom door is open, so he spots you immediately, slipping off his worn in boots and placing them beside the door. He takes his leather jacket off and puts it over the stool that sits at your kitchen island. It makes your face hot, still. The ease in which you two have melded into each others lives. Even if you’re angry at him.
“I don’t know what to say, Ed’s.” It’s a lie. You walk past him to the kitchen and open the fridge, hiding from his gaze as you pretend to search for something. He clears his throat and you reluctantly close the refrigerator door, staring at the floor and backing yourself against the sink.
“I just - you’ve never left. Without telling me. Or talking to me. And, fuck I-“ he’s stammering already, taking steady breaths and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t think I had to tell you about an insignificant interaction with Chrissy Cunningham.”
You scoff, although it’s more of a giggle. And he looks at you like you’ve just lost your mind. Rare, for Eddie Munson to think someone else has lost their mind.
“Well you and Steve sure seemed to enjoy talking about it. You both were pretty giddy discussing whether or not Chrissy wanted to, or, sorry -“ you’re being defensive. Rude. You can’t help it. “wants to fuck you. Why would I want to hear about that? Why would I want to hear you guys talk about whether or not you both can see you and Chrissy together? Does that not sound incredibly fucked up, Ed’s?”
So much for not talking. Now it’s spilling out like a cracked flower vase. Your chest is heaving rapidly, face and body hot with anger. Your arms are crossed across your chest, a protection against whatever it is he might say, despite the fact that you’re the one who’s being rhetorical.
He shoves his ringed fingers into his hair, scratching his scalp and pulling lightly at the roots as he closes his eyes, contemplating. Seeing things through your eyes, attempting to. He winces.
“That’s not what we were trying to say,” he bites his cheek. “I mean I know it doesn’t matter what we were trying to say, the conversation shouldn’t have happened, but I can’t take it back. For fucks sake.”
He’s murmuring to himself, rubbing his rough palms over his tired face. He’s wearing one of your favorite tee shirts of his to steal. Iron Maiden. The sleeves are short enough to reveal the splattering of ink that crawls up his biceps. When his muscles move underneath his skin, the ink moves with them. It’s captured your attention suddenly, and now you’re raking your eyes over his entire figure.
Familiar black sweats cling onto his lower half. They fit perfectly on his lithe waist, loose on the rest. Except for his ass. He has a really cute ass. And these sweats specifically accentuate the shape before billowing down his thighs.
“Baby? You with me?”
The low timbre of his voice shakes you from your reverie. You’ve simmered off, the anger replaced with a different heat. It’s been too long since the two of you have just been together, this fight might be the most communication you’ve had in the past week due to your jobs, and school. Or the worries of the world, the overwhelming need to sleep when you aren’t working, to work when you aren’t sleeping.
You’ve forgotten about each other. Briefly, but not inevitably. Never that. You feel like you may collapse.
“I’m- yeah I’m with you.”
You let out a sigh, uncrossing your arms. You look and sound as defeated as you feel. He can’t pretend to not have noticed your silky, thin sleeping gown, but he is just a man. And your nipples are hard underneath the garment and he has never not thought you’re one of the most beautiful creatures he’s ever seen. You haven’t worn it in a while, preferring his clothes to sleep in since you’ve been staying with him. He missed seeing you like this.
He steps closer. Tentatively, afraid you might run away from him. You sense his hesitancy and a piece of your heart breaks, the piece where he lives. You meet his eyes, silently inviting him, glancing from his mouth then back up to his softening gaze. You watch his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat.
“I’m sorry.” He says, earnestly. His hands threaten to tremble when you reach out and grab them, heavy in your own. He hovers above you the closer he gets, your limbs connecting in a symbiotic way. One you feel the others skin, you can’t get away from it. Not until you’re pressed together, belly to belly, your chin tilted upward.
“You - ugh.” You can’t get words out anymore. They dissolve in your larynx and your head falls, the need to cry or scream or kiss him an overwhelming choice.
“I know baby, I know. I’m sorry.” He pats down your hair, rough thumbs caressing the softness of your cheeks. He pulls your face upwards again, staring down at you with regret, adoration, hunger.
“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have just left.”
He leans closer, till you smell the coffee on his breath and the hazelnut creamer alike. Your noses bump and rub against the other, his thick eyelashes fanning across his own cheekbones - casting a fluttery shadow.
“It’s okay now. We’re okay now.” He says it softly, just between the little space left between you two. “Let me take care of it. Please.” He closes the gap.
Some people assume it’s not supposed to feel as good as it does, kissing someone who’s lips you’ve mapped out like an atlas. That couldn’t be further from the truth, because kissing Eddie feels like being consumed.
And not just metaphorically, because it’s evident in the nips to your bottom lip, the sucking of your tongue whenever he feels it lick his teeth; that your small period of separation, and longer period of not having indulged each other, has weighed heavily on him as well. He’s starving.
You’re overtaken within seconds by the veracity of his mouth, your fingers taking purchase in the curls at his crown. Smacks and kisses and wet noises fill the small space, and the center of your stomach swells with a simmering heat. A reminder of how neglectful you both have been. Your nipples harden against him, as his dick twitches between his legs.
You feel nervous. Tentative. Excited.
His hands implore you like a new discovery, grasping at your back, and then down the sensitive slopes of your sides and over the plushness of your hips. Through the silky nightgown the sensation is riveting, enough to drive a person insane. You arch against him, and a whimper escapes your mouth into his throat.
“Mmm, mhm.” He groans.
“Eddie,” it’s a cry, wanton sound that makes him rut himself against you instinctively. Anything to relieve you. Anything to relieve himself. “baby.”
He smiles against your mouth, pecking it a few times before departing only for a second to see your kiss bitten lips, his and your spit coating your mouth. Your blown out pupils. He mirrors your appearance, like a wild creature.
“Never again,” his index fingers knuckle strokes the inside of your thigh, and you shudder, holding onto his broad shoulders for an anchor. You separate your legs without thinking. “we will never go through this again. I’m gonna make sure of it.”
Three knuckles stroke your pubic mound, then down your covered slit where dampness threatens to leak. Your fingernails grip his shirt, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted in anticipation. He’s so warm, so palpable. You want him to bury himself inside of you.
He’s in front of you, and then he’s not. You blink, and hair tickles your thighs like you’re frolicking through an overgrown field. Strong, rough hands lift the delicate silk of your nightie until it’s being bunched between ringed fingers above your navel. He’s on his knees, devout for you.
You gasp when his tongue broadens against your center. Your panties are just enough barrier to make you wanna cry out in desperation, while also offering enough sensation to not dare stop for even a moment to pull them off. You’re at his mercy. Or is he at yours? Neither of you know anymore, and it’s not important.
Not when he gets a taste of you. Not when he peers up at you between lust sodden lashes and sees you looking down at him like you’re about to crumble. Your knees shake and he bunches the nightie in one fist instead of two, placing his free hand on the back of your thighs to steady you while he soaks your underwear with the spit from his tongue.
The shape of your slit and the plump lips around it begins to show its phantom form through the material from the soaking. He sucks, prods with the tip of his wet muscle.
“Ed’s, fuck.” Your voice is so weak. His cock weeps in his sweats, dribbling with copious amounts of precum. It’s torturous to not touch himself but he’s too focused on watching you, pleasing you. You hums against your mound, mocking you.
He pulls the elastic to the side, not patient enough to take them off all the way. You get to see his face for a split second, cherry red cheeks and a messy halo of hair and stubble on his chin. And then, you feel it.
His nose keeps your lips separated, his tongue already splayed against the soft, sensitive flesh between them. You’re slick and sticky and coating the lower half of his face, though you have trouble grasping onto the helms of reality when he’s licking your pussy like this. He shakes his head from side to side, tongue still flat until he’s spreading your thighs farther, so that he can lick your honey from the source.
“Hold it.” He mumbles, struggling to hand the falling material of your night gown to your shaking hands, though you get the memo when it threatens to cover his head completely. You use one hand to hold it, and the other to tug at his hair.
You can barely hear anything another than the sloppy wetness of his mouth working on you, and the sound of your own heartbeat, but you’re sure you’re whining. You can feel the rawness of your throat as you let your head fall back and cry to the ceiling, feeling the need to tear up.
You grip the roots of his locks, rocking against his mouth like you’ve got no other choice. He hums, encouraged by every squeak and moan that comes out of you, by every drip of your cunt and tensing of your muscles.
He doesn’t care that your thighs are squeezing around his head, or that you can barely hold yourself together. You’re using his face like second nature and his cock weeps in his pants. He feels himself throbbing in tandem with the pulsing of your hole around his tongue.
Then he pulls your lips apart with his thumbs, revealing the pink bud that resides underneath your hood, suckling and coating it with enough spit to drip onto the floor.
“Oh god,” you pant “m’gonna cum. Please don’t stop please please please.” 
You’re throttled, and not just by the pleasure but by how fast you’re descending into your own madness. You can’t hear much of anything, see anything but the back of your own eyelids - and your boyfriend is using half of his strength to keep your body upwards as you threaten to wilt.
He doesn’t stop, per your request but to your ultimate demise. You feel yourself leaking as your clit throbs from the aftershocks of a powerful - much needed and thoroughly missed, orgasm.
You think you might pass out, but he feels the trembling in your body and despite his need to keep going until you’re completely done for, all but comatose- he stops.
Through your clouded and hazy senses, your hands tug at his face, his head, his neck. Lazily you attempt to pull him up from his knees, and it’s not your strength that does it, it’s his own. But he lets you believe you pulled him to your mouth, before he even has the chance to wipe your essence off. Not that he cares to.
Your tongues collide in a messy exploration, he’s rough and saccharine and sweet all at once. Your paw at him like you’ve never felt him before, like he didn’t just have his mouth on your most private of parts.
“I need you in me.” You slur the words between open mouthed kisses. He’s pressed so flush against you that you can feel his dick throbbing, and you’re not sure if the wetness is your own or his. Perhaps both.
You’re hungry for it. He’s still starving, and your fingers clumsily pull the waistband of his sweats down until they’re pooled at his ankles. You wrap your hand around the thick member, angrily red at the tip, veins bulging from either side. The thatch of curly hair at his base is covered by his shirt but you don’t have the energy to remove it- to do anything other than ogle at the blood rushing through him, the feel of his pulse through his manhood. He throws his head back for a split second, taking a deep breath.
You turn around, facing the sink and resting your cheek against the cool metal of the edge. You offer yourself to him like this, an invitation in the form of a leaking cunt and buckling knees. His hands, rough and wide pull this godforsaken nightgown up and over the swell of your ass, knuckles grazing the back of your thighs in the process.
You want to look at him but you’re far too flustered, ironically. It’s completely idiotic to still be embarrassed at your own need for your own boyfriend - but someone as beautiful as Eddie doesn’t come around very often. Getting to do this feels like retribution.
“You’re so pretty,” he groans, out of breath. He crudely spits on his cock, you can hear the slick sounds of his precum mixing with his saliva as he strokes himself a few times, one hand on your left hip while he guides his mauve tip to your slit.
“I’m gonna fuck all that attitude away baby.”
The stretch is jarring and unexpected, but the sounds you both make as he sticks himself passed your gummy entrance isn’t. You grip the counter, and he leans his weight over you so that he can mouth at your shoulders while he pushes himself in to the hilt- kissing your cervix before his cock moved around it.
“Yeah?” He taunts, hair tickling your back and lips smearing kisses against your nape. “You’re so goddamn wet, this is all you needed huh?”
He’s genuine within the ruggedness of his voice. Within seconds he’s pulling himself out and shoving himself back in with something fierce driving him. He’s unforgiving in his pace once he gets into a comfortable stance, kicking his sweats off of his ankles and planting his feet behind you.
It’s a symphony of sticky, wet sounds, and grunts with compositions of skin against skin in your small kitchen. It’s been so long since you’ve felt him, since he’s felt you. He’s not just fucking you from the back, he’s mounting you - panting lewdly in your ear while his hands snake themselves around your shoulders.
You cry out, nothing coherent leaving your mouth. Your poor cunt was still contracting from the orgasm he gave you with his mouth when shoved himself inside of you, and now that little spongey spot is being brutally massaged over and over again with each stroke.
“That’s - s-so - good.” Your words are staccato, followed by petulant whines. You’re thankful for his hit breath on your neck, the groans leaving him, the weight of his body behind you. He’s close while still delivering a delicious punishment - a fucking that’s meant to make you forget about anything that’s happened this past week.
“Awe baby, it feels good hmm? You - fucking hell-“
His balls tighten and he knows he’s gonna cum soon, he’s too caught up in how you’re squeezing around him, throbbing from the inside out with your admiration for him. You try to reach back and touch him, but he holds your arms in front of you, a sort of embrace and restraint all in one.
“need to cum baby, need to show you how much I love you. Need to fill you - oh baby - need to fill you all the way. That’s it - there you go there you go, I know.”
He kisses your cheek where a tear falls down, your knees beginning to tremble again in tandem with his own. He ruts and ruts and ruts, your cream coating his cock, your warmth swallowing him whole.
He pulls out, and you think you might start weeping, till he turns you around by your waist and licks the inside of your parted lips. He hiked your leg up around his lithe waist, bends his knees and maneuvers his hips forward so that he can slide back into you.
Now that he can see your face, and you can see his, you both feel cathartic.
You hang onto his shoulders, clawing at his curls and he holds your face, damp lips centimeters away from your own while your foreheads rest against each other. You look down to watch him disappear inside of you, and you marvel at it. Your juices and the sounds they make, how pretty his dick looks coated in your release and his own pre ejaculate.
“M’so fucking deep,” he’s shaking now, sweat beading down his neck. His bottom lip quivers and you begin to realize how this must feel for him as well. How badly you both needed the other. “it feels so fucking good, so good so good so good.”
He’s babbling and you pull his mouth to yours again, suckling on his tongue. With some foreign strength, you use your voice.
“Please cum, I love you Eddie. I want you to cum for me please please, I can’t take it. Cum for me cum for me cum for me I love you.”
He thinks he might cry, he’s so fucking deep when you wrap your arms around him, when your hips are connected so closely that you can’t tell where one of you begins and the other one ends - when the sweet lullaby that is your voice serenades him, begs him to let go.
“Oh god, oh fuck I’m - fuuuuck.”
He tightens, stuttering inside of you while small gasps of pleasure leave him like hiccups. You inhale the scent of his hair, feel the rise and fall of his breath from between his shoulder blades. You’re both twitching, barely standing. A mess, and certainly a sight to see.
He stays like that for a few moments, just enough for all of his cum to dribble out from the tip and into you. When he pulls out, the sound is audible and crude, and he swears to himself he will clean the mess on your kitchen floor.
You don’t know who kisses who first.
Both of you go for the others neck, cheeks, forehead. Gently, with enough love to fill an entire universe itself. It’s a juxtaposition to the way you just had each other. It’s love. Pure, unadulterated, sickeningly sweet to the melancholy.
“I’m staying here tonight,” he kisses your eyelids, then your nose, out of breath. “and I’m gonna make breakfast in the morning. We are never letting this happen again.”
You scratch his scalp.
“Which part? Cause-“ he rolls his eyes, smiling boyishly. Enough to show his dimples, flash his teeth.
“You know which part, I’ll give you whatever you want. But I’m never going this long without being around you. Not ever.”
He’s devout, sincere in a way that is irrevocable. You don’t argue, don’t wince, don’t make a face. You nod, suckling his bottom lip.
You listen.
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson smut#joseph quinn#eddie munson x you#Eddie Munson au#joseph quinn x reader#Eddie Munson Drabble#Eddie Munson imagine
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bowie has been busy and reader is feeling lonely/ neglected, but doesn’t want to bother him with it/ afraid of seeming too clingy/ too dependent on him (pick your overthinking poison) david finds out and makes it up to her (you decide era, but maybe heroes bowie? moonlight bowie? outside bowie?) ty!
david bowie x reader - pick up the phone
a/n: david in his late seventies era, heroes era
Running. He was always running somewhere, his silhouette elongated by the setting sun, casting shadows that danced along the pavement. You watched from the window of your apartment, the world outside a blur of motion as people hurried past, their lives moving at a pace you couldn't quite keep up with. But it wasn't the strangers rushing by that held your attention—it was him. David.
The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity for him, his schedule packed with rehearsals, interviews, and performances. It seemed like every time you turned around, he was disappearing into the chaos of his world, leaving you behind in the quiet solitude of yours.
You understood, of course. David was a star, a legend in the making, and his time was precious. But that didn't stop the pang of loneliness that gnawed at your insides whenever he was away. You missed him—missed the warmth of his smile, the sound of his laughter, the gentle touch of his hand on yours.
You tried to reach out to him, to bridge the gap between your worlds with a simple phone call. The first time, he had to cut your conversation short, apologizing profusely as he rushed off to his next engagement. "I'll call you back, I promise," he had said, but the call never came.
And so you tried again, and again, and again. Each time hoping that this would be the moment when he would pick up, when you would hear his voice on the other end of the line, telling you that he missed you too. But the ringing of the phone echoed through the empty silence of your apartment, unanswered and unyielding.
It hurt, more than you cared to admit. You felt like a ghost haunting the edges of his life, invisible and forgotten. And yet, you couldn't bring yourself to confront him about it, to voice the fears and insecurities that churned inside you like a stormy sea.
You were afraid—afraid of seeming too clingy, too dependent on him. Afraid that if you spoke up, he would see you as nothing more than a burden, weighing him down with your neediness. So you buried your feelings deep within yourself, plastering on a smile whenever you saw him, pretending that everything was fine when it felt anything but.
But today was different. Today, you couldn't keep up the facade any longer. Today, as you watched him disappear into the distance once again, something inside you snapped. You couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't keep living in this limbo of uncertainty, waiting for him to come back to you when he had a spare moment to spare.
With a sense of determination that surprised even yourself, you grabbed your phone and dialed his number, your fingers trembling with a mixture of fear and resolve. This time, you wouldn't let him brush you off. This time, you would make him listen, no matter what it took.
The phone rang once, twice, three times before he finally picked up, his voice breathless and hurried on the other end of the line. "Hello?" he said, the sound of his voice sending a shiver down your spine.
"David," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you. "We need to talk."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, as if he was processing your words, trying to make sense of them. And then, finally, he spoke again, his voice tinged with concern. "Is everything okay?" he asked, and for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he cared.
But then reality crashed down around you like a tidal wave, washing away any illusions of comfort or security. "No," you said, the word escaping your lips in a whisper. "No, everything is not okay."
You heard him sigh on the other end of the line, a sound heavy with resignation. "I'm sorry," he said, and even though you knew he meant it, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to mend the fractures that had formed between you, the fault lines that threatened to tear you apart.
"I miss you," you said, the words spilling out of you before you could stop them. "I miss you so much, and it feels like you're slipping away from me, and I don't know what to do."
There was another moment of silence, longer this time, as if he was searching for the right words to say. And then, finally, he spoke again, his voice softer now, laced with regret. "I'm sorry," he said again, and this time, you could hear the tears in his voice. "I'm so sorry."
And in that moment, you realized that maybe you weren't as alone as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for the two of you, still a chance to find your way back to each other through the darkness that threatened to consume you both.
But it wouldn't be easy. It would take time and effort and patience, things that neither of you had in abundance. But you were willing to try, willing to fight for the love that bound you together, even when it felt like the world was trying to tear you apart.
So you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the journey ahead, and you said the words that would change everything. "I love you," you said, the words a promise and a prayer wrapped into one. "I love you, David Bowie, and I'm not giving up on us. Not now, not ever."
———
As the door swung open, a rush of anticipation mingled with anxiety swept through you. David stepped inside, his usual confident stride faltering as his eyes landed on you, curled up on the couch. The weariness etched into his features softened into concern as he approached, his movements now deliberate and gentle.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice a soothing melody in the quiet room. "I'm home."
You looked up, meeting his gaze with a mix of relief and apprehension. "Hey," you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.
He sank down beside you, his warmth enveloping you as he gathered you into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said, the words heavy with regret. "I know I've been distant lately, and I hate that it's making you feel this way."
You leaned into his embrace, the tension in your shoulders melting away at his touch. "I know," you said softly. "But it's okay. I understand how busy you've been."
He shook his head, his expression pained. "That's no excuse," he insisted. "You deserve better than this, love. You deserve all of me, not just whatever scraps of time I can spare."
You sighed, the weight of his words settling into your chest like a leaden anchor. "I just need to know that you're still here," you admitted, your voice trembling with emotion. "That you're not going to disappear on me again."
His arms tightened around you, holding you close as if afraid to let you slip away. "I promise," he said earnestly. "I promise to make more time for us, to be there for you in every way that you need."
You blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his words. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart.
He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a tender caress. "I love you," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm against your cheek. "More than anything in this world."
You melted into his embrace, the weight of his words a balm to your weary soul. "I love you too," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.
He held you close, his touch a promise of better days to come.
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