will write: ship or x reader (hcs, blurbs or fics), mostly oasis, blur, stone roses, smiths (but i can have a bash at something else ofc ofc, especially if theyâre in my band list on my main blog)
will not write: underage, gcest (obviously), bondage
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pure projection snoozefest ⌠apologies - trans john x ian
Itâs something that John mentions offhand once, not really being able to play football. Itâs not a sport for girls, his parents used to say. And, sure, their views are not nearly as regressive as that nowadays, but it sticks.
All the boys around him had supposedly come out of the womb already kicking balls, bought their first boots at age 3 and never left the pitch. It makes him feel distanced from them all, like those girls who sit by the edge of the field at lunchtime and coo at Ian. Who donât know, like he does, how it feels to have his gentle fingerprints peppered over his skin. That gives him a sense of pride, at least.
At first, he writes it off as just not wanting to. But thereâs only so long of that before Ianâs prying into it. He says: âYou bloody love watching it, itâs about time you get off your arse and play it.â
So that first excuse is gone after a matter of weeks because he knows Ianâs completely right. He loves football, bleeds red through and through. Begs his parents to turn their programmes off at midday on a Sunday so he can curl up on the rug and cheer with the crowd like heâs there.
His next excuse works a little better because Ian doesnât understand it so much.
Heâs sat in Ianâs overgrown garden on a Tuesday evening, sun diluting the sky into pastels as it dips below the other houses on their estate. Ianâs kicking the ball dully against the fence and it passes it poorly back. Thud. Thud. Thud.
âWhy donât you join in?â Ian scrunches his nose up, sunlight painting such pretty colours on his cheekbones that John could cry. He stumbles for words, eyes stuck on the way Ianâs pink lips move around the words.
âHurts. Itâs..â John reaches up under his polo and runs a hand along the bandages that line his chest. Theyâre tight, too tight, he knows it, but they still donât work as well as he wants. âCanât breathe as good.â
âJust pass, then. Back and forth. No running or nowt.â Ian pleads at him with those big brown eyes, glittery and doe-like. Johnâs so tense it aches to swallow, eyes darting frantically from Ian to the ball and the fence and anywhere but those eyes.
So John gets up, very begrudgingly. He knows that when heâs shit he can blame those very bandages. Knows Ian is too gentle around those frayed edges of him, and that he wonât try to push too much.
And god, he is terrible.
Ian scrambles for the ball every time, misses it and has to chase behind him, laughing, to get it back. Passes it squarely back to Johnâs feet, then watches him expectantly.
John can only take so much of this laughing before he disappears into the house and shuts himself in the toilet for a bit too long to raise no alarms. When he comes back outside, Ian doesnât complain about him sitting quietly and watching.
And for a while after that, Ian stays surprisingly quiet. It unsettles John a bit, because Ian is never quiet. Hasnât been since they met in the sandpit aged four, and has only gotten worse since he discovered the Sex Pistols. But he appreciates it, at least.
â
Itâs an almost identical day about a month later, and a bit later into the night. Ian sits himself on the step next to John, ball cradled between his feet. He kisses John briefly once, then checks behind him to make sure nobody is watching before kissing him again.
âWhatâs up with you?â Ian murmurs once heâs already reduced John to badly concealed giggles with a few pecks, an arm draped lazily over his shoulders. Heâs annoyingly close. âYou not bored just watching?â
âNah, not really.â John murmurs, eyes flicking around Ianâs face skittishly. His lips, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. Itâs true, to a degree; he wishes more than almost anything to play with him, but Ian is too pretty to ever tire of just watching.
Ian tuts, like he knows better. Sometimes John thinks he can read minds, because he comes startlingly close every time. He nudges his shoulder into Johnâs, then sighs like heâs got the weight of the world on those slight shoulders. âYouâre a knob, Johnny. I donât care if youâre shit.â
âI do.â John manages eventually, and finally meets Ianâs eyes. Theyâre softer than usual, but filled with a weird sort of determination. A stubbornness he knows Ian cannot get rid of. âMakes me feel like less of a lad.â
Ian shoves John, laughs when his palm slides on the concrete in a futile attempt to stabilise himself. Then he tackles him carefully, limbs an ugly mess as they scramble into each other, grunting and giggling. âDonât be a twat. I can teach you, âs not hard.â
John hesitates, a moment that Ian uses to pin him down with a cheeky grin. Pecks his cheek then steps back, worn trainers squashing the untidy grass under his feet. John follows with a grumble, rolling his eyes.
His whole body is flushed with embarrassment. That gross sinking feeling is creeping down through his heart into all of his veins: the feeling of being less than Ian, of not being a lad enough. It crushes his chest more than any too-tight bandages ever could. It feels like a heart attack and he wants to fall to his knees and cry.
But Ianâs so gentle with him, like he really doesnât think of him less. Passes the ball with him until Johnâs kicks are semi-accurate, not laughing or teasing. His hands are sweating, shoved deep in his pockets.
But every time the voices roar in his head or every time he averts his gaze out of shame, when he looks back up Ian is watching him with a fond smile and a slightly cocked head. Then they start again, from the top. Back and forth.
tboy reader x ian + john (inspired by @inpleinsoleil)
IAN:
ęŠ you were never nervous to tell him, because heâs always so vocal about his beliefs. you know heâll love you no matter what.
ęŠ he cups your face in his hands, grinning, and looks into your eyes with his deep chocolate ones. âmy pretty girls a pretty boy, then.â
ęŠ and thatâs the biggest fuss he makes of it. from then on youâre just a lad, full stop.
ęŠ he sits with you patiently, just idle back and forth, trying to choose a name that felt like you. tapes your chest up for the first time, hands easy and firm. holds you when you cry from the joy after.
ęŠ he reintroduces you to all his mates without shame, a new name, a new haircut, shuts down any comments with an edge youâve never heard in his voice before.
ęŠ on the bad nights, the really dysphoric ones, he just holds you quietly. kisses your hair. when you start chatting nonsense, he shushes you. tells you that even though he looks girly, that doesnât mean that he is, or that he doesnât look like a bloke. and heâs right, which reassures you a little.
ęŠ listens to you so intensely itâs almost startling. hangs onto your every word, just trying to understand as best as he can, and know what you need.
ęŠ he cares for you like nothing else, but not in a way that makes you feel delicate. just loved and seen.
ęŠ itâs harder when heâs in the public eye: you canât be open in public anymore, because youâre two blokes now. but you donât mind, because you know what you are to him. he tells everyone him and his girlfriend finished, just not that heâs got a boyfriend now.
ęŠ when heâs walking around the flat, he changes all the words to his songs to suit you better now. murmurs âheâll carry on through it all, heâs a waterfallâ while he pours his cereal.
ęŠ shares all his clothes with youâheâs short anyways, so they fit. takes you shopping often, shows you all of his favourite stores and brands. gives you fashion advice, âthis oneâs nice. makes your arms look biggerâ
john:
ęŠ telling him was nerve-wracking. not because you thought he wouldnât support you, but because you werenât sure whether heâd still be attracted to you as a bloke. but he was, of course.
ęŠ most of your nights consist of mugs of tea and long conversations, where you unravel years and years of suppressed feelings and cry into his shoulder. he listens patiently through it all, slowly piecing together this new you in his head. and thereâs a bit of talking from him too: cause heâs discovering that he likes blokes, too.
ęŠ how he interacts in public with you changes a lot. no more touching and shared breaths, just long gazes and fond giggles. but you donât mind. you understand the stakes for him.
ęŠ he gets someone to custom-sew you a binder as a birthday present, and looks highly bemused when you burst into tears and thank him a million times over.
ęŠ gets really snappy when one of his mates makes a joke thatâs just too edgy, or calls you she. corrects them with a bitterness you never hear from him.
ęŠ steals allll of your clothes. even if they donât fit. wears your too short t-shirts up on stage, boxers peaking out from over his waistband. rolls his eyes when you complain, âi paid for this one, at least let me wear it.â theyâre not even his style, but he knows it drives you nuts.
ęŠ he treats you slightly different, but in a very reassuring way. he treats you like a lad, like he genuinely sees you how you wanna be seen. when you dwell on it too much, your heart just overflows.
ęŠ your number one supporter, but he pretends he isnât. makes fun of your haircuts, and your outfits. but itâs sweet, and it just feels like laddish banter.
ęŠ the first time he said âthis is my boyfriendâ to ian, all three of you looked equally as dumbfounded. ian cracked first, laughing and saying something about how he always knew john was gay. and that was pretty similar to how everyone else reacted, too.
ęŠ includes you in all the lads nights you never used to go to. youâre at the pub on tuesday nights, cheering on a football team youâve never cared much for prior, just to fit in. but you love it, and love how youâre treated by all of his mates.
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a/n: valentines fic, in a way! for my beautiful lovely handsome boy @puppydogian I LOVE YOU
The second theyâre backstage, the door is slammed shut and Ianâs being led backwards towards the shitty, peeling sofa.
John looks like a fantasyâmessy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, long limbs graceful. He tosses his jacket over the arm of the sofa and clambers on top of Ian, a grin tugging at his lips as he slots perfectly on top of him.
âDoors not locked.â Ian breathes, lips wet and pulled into a smirk. His hands are down at Johnâs hips before he can form a response, fingers fumbling blindly with his belt buckle.
âDonât pretend like youâre not into it.â John laughs breathily, batting away Ianâs hands. Ian grumbles a bit, but wraps his arms around Johnâs shoulders instead.
John puts Ianâs attempts to shame as he effortlessly tugs Ianâs belt off and shoves his flares down with elegant fingers. A breath is punched straight from Ianâs chest, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the stage lights and worsening with Johnâs gaze.
When John's hands move to the waistband of Ianâs boxers, he pushes them away. Looks up at him with big, earnest eyes. Tugs at the hem of his shirt. âOff.â
âIanââ John tries to protest, but shuts up quickly at the look in Ianâs eyes; real, soft. He tugs his shirt off with a quiet grumble and tosses it aside. Ian giggles, reaches up to dance his fingers carefully over the scars.
He leans in to kiss Ian then, all hot and breathy, swallowing each otherâs soft groans. Their tongues meet clumsily, teeth clacking against each otherâs. But itâs not rough, just messy, just too eager and too clumsy. Ian curls his fingers into Johnâs hair, tugs gently until he groans, then giggles into the kiss.
âYouâre so fuckinâ lovely.â John murmurs into Ianâs lips, hand steadily snaking under Ianâs waistband.
âJohnnyââ Ian pouts, feeling the warm weight of Johnâs hand on his abdomen. Right over that tight ball of heat curled low in his belly. His brows are knitted, lips parted like heâs about to start begging if he doesnât get what he wants. And god, he wants it.
Fondly, John shushes him with a smile. He never makes Ian wait much, and yet heâs still impatient every time. He yelps softly when Ian tugs loosely at his hair to tell him to get a move on, but his eyes are fond.
His fingers dip sweetly between Ianâs folds, gathering the slickness on the pads of his calloused fingers. Ian whines, shivers, digs his nails into the nape of Johnâs neck. Heâs hardly even touching him and heâs already whimpering.
âWas thinkinâ of doinâ this all night, yâknow. Up on stage. Put on a real show.â John murmurs, because he knows the idea will ruin Ian. Because it always does. He swirls his fingers solidly around Ianâs clit, and his hips twitch.
âSorta like keepinâ you to myself, though.â John sighs, nuzzles his nose into Ianâs cheek briefly. His middle finger slides easily into Ian, all tight heat and slickness and just for him. âMy pretty boy. Donât deserve you like this. Nobody does.â
Ian whimpers, high in his throat. His legs part instinctively, head tipped back into the cushions. Heâs needed this all day, waited so patiently. And god, it feels good. Johns slow, sure, but heâs so fucking deep in him that he canât help his eyes from rolling back.
John strokes Ianâs sweaty curls back from his forehead with his free hand as he pulls away and pushes back in with two fingers, this time. Ian mewls, scratching gently at Johnâs shoulders. And the feeling of Ian around his fingers is driving him crazy, so tight and hot that he canât help letting out a shaky breath.
He curls his fingers just right, slightly rough skin brushing against that achy spot that had been waiting to be touched all night. Ian cries out, blood rushing hot through his veins, stomach tight with pleasure.
And god, Johnâs good with his hands. Standard for a guitarist, probably, but it always leaves Ian in near-tears. Faster now, deep and messy. Itâs so good.
âFuckinââgod, John.â Ian manages to moan out, words breathy. His eyelashes are fluttering daintily, much like the way his cunt is fluttering just as sweetly around John.
For a moment, John can almost imagine itâs his cock rather than his fingers. How good Ian would feel, how fucking tight he is. He whimpers himself at that, feeling heat pool between his legs.
When he swipes his thumb over Ianâs clit, he sobs out. It sends a shiver up Johnâs spine every time, seeing him like that, and his heartâs pounding in his chest. He circles it with his thumb carefully, tightly, feeling the sting of Ianâs nails in his skin.
âSuch a good boy, arenât you? Waitinâ all day for this.â John breathes fondly, watching Ianâs face like heâs the most beautiful artwork heâs ever seen.
And god, he is. Thereâs a flush high on his cheeks, pupils blown under half-lidded eyes, hair rumpled and damp. His pink lips are eternally parted to allow him to moan as loudly as he is.
âMâgonna come, godââ Ian splutters, halfway between an exasperated laugh and a moan.
John pouts at the sight of him, speeding up until his wrist aches just for that final push. âCâmon, angel. Thatâs it, babe. Be a good boy and come for me.â
And thatâs all it takes. Ian shatters under Johnâs palm, hips rutting into his fingers, a long groan falling from his lips. He can feel it all through his body; that hot, pulsating tingle. Tears well up in his eyes as John works him through it, murmuring half-formed soft words in his ear.
âI love you.â Ian breathes, voice shaky with tears.
John wipes his hand clean on his own jeans, then cradles Ianâs face in his soft palms. Wipes Ianâs tears just as they fall, then cradles him to his chest. âWhat you cryinâ for? Div.â
Ian lets out a soft, sleepy laugh. Heâs sniffling quietly into Johnâs bare chest, holding him tight like heâs afraid heâll slip through his fingers like sand. John just strokes his hair quietly, listening to his soft, hiccuping sob. He knows Ian isnât sad, and that thereâs no cause for concernâtheyâve been here a million times before.
âCould add it to my CV. So good at shagginâ you that youâre cryinâ.â John teases. Leans down to brush his lips into his hair, free hand bunched in the back of his shirt. The sofas uncomfortableâold and lumpy and crampedâbut he doesnât care when Ianâs right where he belongs.
âYouâre horrible.â Ian half sniffs-half laughs. Theyâre both gross and sweaty but smiling like idiots and drink off of each other.
âLove you.â John breathes, raking his fingers carefully through Ianâs curls. Ian melts, and John can see his face in his mind even though heâs hidden in his chest.
âIan?â He murmurs, after getting no response for a while. Ian doesnât speak, but after a few seconds thereâs a small sniffle and a warm tear against his chest.
âAre you crying again?â John laughs, gathers up Ian in his arms like heâs sacred and delicate. He kisses his head, then again. âAbsolute baby, you are.â
hate to be that person but do you have an idea when were getting strawberries and cream p2, not trying to rush you tho!!!
probably between like the 17-25th of february! iâve gotta write something for ianâs birthday and im gonna finish off my current fic hopefully before thursday
important notice!! i will be taking a VERY long break from x readers (if i ever go back to them) after i finish my masterplan up. they just donât suit me and i prefer writing ships :,)
The flatâs been half-furnished for weeksâsince they moved in. Thereâs boxes instead of tables and posters curling off of the walls. Itâs shit, really, wallpaper peeling and mould gathered in the windowsills. But thereâs a sofa, a kettle and a record player. Who needs much else?
The air is heavy with the smell of burnt toast and weed, windows shut to keep out the cold Manchester breeze. Theyâve been taking turns spinning albums all day, curled up on the sofa under thick blankets.
Ian gets up to pick a new album, finger running over the spines of thin record covers. Itâs a no-brainer landing on some worn Beatles single heâs almost certain he bought John for a birthday when they were younger.
âCome here.â Ian breathes a laugh at the sight of John sprawled on the sofa, sleepy and stoned and wearing one of Ianâs too-small jumpers.
John stumbles clumsily to his feet, all long, bare legs and hair in desperate need of a trim. The sight makes Ianâs heart melt. Ian sets the needle down on the disk. The warm, sugary pop doesnât hesitate to fill the space.
âWhat?â John exhales, a grin tugging lazily at his lips. His palms find Ianâs hips without pause, tugging him in closer.
âNothinâ.â Ian murmurs over the music, but itâs mostly lost between layers of instruments. Drapes his arms around Johnâs shoulders and grins like a dope.
âAre youââ John giggles, sways a little. Ian follows, and his face softens. So he is (poorly) trying to dance. He squeezes Ianâs waist in his hands, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.
The carpets soft under their feet, skin brushing hesitantly as they shuffle about. Itâs clumsyâreally clumsyâand endearing in every way. Theyâre stumbling over each other's feet, elbows knocking into their arms. And they canât do much but giggle and sway.
âLove our flat.â John mutters once the song simmers to a halt, over the faint scratch of the needle against the finished record. âEven if itâs shit.â
Ian looks into his eyes, bright and glittery and earnest. His heart brims with joy at the sight. His boy. Our flat. His life feels like some sort of miracle. Johnny, in his arms, the same boy heâd fallen in love with when they were scrappy teenagers skiving off of maths to snog in the loos, in their living room.
âLove you.â Ian sighs fondly, brows knitted. He sounds so emotional that John worries for a half-second that he might collapse into tears, but he doesnât. âCanât believe this is real.â
âNo. But Iâm glad it is.â Johnâs eyes flutter shut, foreheads pressed together. He breathes Ian in for a moment, hands tracing the slim curve of his torso. The sleeves of his jumper are too high on his wrists, but he doesnât seem to mind.
John dips in, presses a few sweet pecks to Ianâs lips. Then another, like he canât help himself. He canât, really, never could. Ianâs beaming when he pulls back, eyes creased. Johnâs heart flutters at the sight.
âFuckinâ gorgeous.â John sighs, reaching up to twirl a strand of Ianâs messy hair around his finger, lips twitched into a grin.
Ian leans into his shoulder, up on his tip-toes. Melts there, lets John gather him up in his arms and hold him just how he needs. Brushes his lips against his head.
âThis is perfect.â Ian manages, squeezing John around the shoulders. And it is. He smells of Ianâs soap, but he canât bring himself to be annoyed at him using it because heâs being so lovely; holding him like a prayer and speaking sweetly in his ear.
âYeah?â John grins, stroking a hand slowly up Ianâs spine just to watch him shudder. Irritating but endearing.
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summary: johnâs sent to help out on your parentsâ farm
words: 4k
warnings: not a lot tbh itâs mostly fluff
a/n: this is so rushed and bad i donât even have an excuse sorry guys.. đŹ part 2 will come whenever i have time!! part 1 will be the strawberries and part 2 will be the cream yknow đź FOR @qatarsprint2023 ILY
The village you live in has been almost identical since the day you were born. The same dirt paths, marked by the same shoes. The same market vendors selling the same, delicious produce under the same stalls with the same friendly greetings. Comfortable, safe.
Your tasks that day are minimal. Tend to a few animals and spend an hour or two down at the market, trying to find the freshest vegetables for dinner that night.
The marketâs bustling the way it always is early on a Sunday morning, sun beating down on the stall roofs. Itâs sunny, sure, but the early spring winds whistle through the air, leaving your arms coated with goosebumps. Your hairâs still tangled in the same messy braids it was left in last night, floral skirt brushing your legs where the sun didnât tickle them already.
A soft, ginger cat twirls itself around your legs like a dancer, mewling softly, as you stop to look at a new handwoven basket. You need another one anyways, you tell yourselfâyours is falling apart, bows torn on the handles.
Your old basket finds a home at the leg of the table, a new bed for the cat. She curls up in the sun, tilting her head up expectantly at you. As you lean down to scratch her head, you canât help but giggle at the purring.
Thereâs the usual hubbub of chatter and greetings as you push into the crowd. You recognise every single one of them, know dirt on each of their names yet respect them greatly. You greet everyone with a sweet smile and polite small talk. Your basket grows heavier with succulent goods as you move through, shoes clicking on the cobblestones. But the walk home doesnât feel too long when you can pick on a little tub of fresh raspberries. The grass tickles your legs, flowers blooming bright throughout it.
â
So maybe thatâs why, that evening, the news comes as a shock to you.
You're sitting at the dinner table, your parents on either side of you. The food is warm and honest, the kind you see in movies as a kid: fresh and homecooked and somehow more delicious than aesthetic.
âItâll be nice to have a new helping hand around, yâknow.â Your dad murmurs, his cutlery clinking against his plate as he sets them down.
You pinch your brows together. You get on fine by yourselves, and everyone in the village has their own businesses to mind. Thereâs very rarely a spare hand that can help. And anyways, you donât really need it. So youâre not really sure what he could mean.
âWhatâs going on?â You pipe up before you can help yourself, a frown tugging at your lips. Itâs rare for your parents to keep in you in the dark, often because itâs impossible to in a town like this.
âI thought Iâd told you?â Your dad looks slightly baffled by your confusion, despite never having even mentioned anything in passing. âThereâs a boy coming to stay with us for a bit, just to help out on the farm. His mum is close with your aunt, and she asked about it. Apparently he doesnât have a job, so sheâs trying to give him a push-â
âSusan says heâs a sweet boy, but he doesnât talk much.â Your mum interrupts, offering you a reassuring smile, as if to say I know, and you donât second guess that she does. That she knows of your apprehension and strange excitement and the unfamiliarity of a new person. Especially an unemployed, antisocial boy.
âYouâll have to show him around tomorrow, teach him what to do.â Heâs already out of his seat, collecting the plates in stacks and leading them out to the kitchen. âI think heâs coming quite early, so be ready. And wear something niceâfirst impressions are important."
Your mum shakes her head and laughs fondly. âDonât you dress up for any old boy, sweetheart. Your father doesnât know what heâs talking about.â
â
Despite your mothers words, you canât help but agree with your dad. First impressions are important, and you arenât sure how long heâs going to be staying for. If itâs going to be a while, then you need him to like you, really.
So you get up early that morning, make sure your favourite dress is crease-free and still looks nice. Plait your hair parallel to your spine and tie it with a bow. Itâs just a boy, you tell yourself, but your heart hasnât caught onto that message yet. And it still hasnât when you're finishing up your makeup and thereâs a knock on the door downstairs.
âIâm getting it!â You call, stumbling down the stairs like an eager puppy, white socks padding on the sun-warmed wooden floors. Your mum chuckles fondly at you behind her newspaper and coffee mug.
The door creaks open, and you wince in memory at forgetting to sort that out. Right. First impressions.
Heâs standing shyly on the patio with his head bowed when the door swings open. Thereâs a large bag in his hands, folded awkwardly in front of him. All lanky limbs and shyness. His lips are bitten from anxiety and his dark hair is curling into his downcast eyes. And his clothes are scruffyâproper city boy attire, a thick brown jacket over a black shirt, jeans that are ripped at the hems from being caught on his heels, shoes that are definitely not fit for farm work.
âCome in.â You manage eventually, heart stuttering when he looks up to meet your gaze. His eyes are hesitant and glittery baby blueâthereâs something anxious in them, but it doesnât show all the way through.
He shuffles awkwardly past you with a murmured thanks, then stands in the foyer with his bag weighing on his arms. Itâs hard enough to be welcoming to someone, let alone someone acting like this.
âJustâleave it. Mother will find somewhere to put it.â You try to offer him a charming smile, and he doesnât even attempt to reciprocate. Just drops his bags with a heavy thud and eyes the floorboards like maybe heâll find something intriguing if he looks long enough.
âDo you want anything? A drink? Something to eat?â Youâre mostly offering because you have to, out of an unshared politeness, but partly because you just want him to say anything. His silence is unsettling.
âCup of tea would be nice.â He murmurs, scratches his cheek and grins shyly, like he half expects you to say no. You canât help but feel a flicker of relief at the sound of his low voice. Thatâs better.
You offer him a little smile. âYeah, alright. My parents are just in that room there, if youâd like to say hello.â
You can see on his face that he definitely does not want to say hello, but he does despite himself. Maybe he can be polite, just seemingly not to you. He disappears into the living room and all you can hear as you pad into the kitchen is soft voices.
â
âThe horses are the worst job.â You explain as you show John around. The suns beating down hot on your shoulders despite it not being overly high in the sky. âNeeds cleaning out a lot.â
John nods politely, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Typical, most boys from cities donât know many smells other than chemicals and cigarette smoke. Itâs gross, but itâs natural at the least. âIs that what Iâm doing, then?â
âYouâre doing all sorts. Whatever needs doing, really.â You laugh, opening the gates carefully and slipping in, giving one of the horses a few pats on the nose. âThese stables need clearing out twice a day.â
âYeah? Whatâs that entail, then?â He murmurs, shuffling in behind you. He looks a little taken abackâitâs not often he sees a horse close up.
âNothing pretty.â You giggle before you can stop yourself, turning back to look at John. Heâs already watching you with a half-formed grin, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
He just laughs, breathy and giggly, and runs a hand through his fringe. He steps forward hesitantly, and holds his hand out for the horse to nuzzle at and sniff. âBloody weird.â
âSheâs sweet. She likes you.â You shake your head, laughing under your breath.
He looks a little pleased with himself at that, hesitating before stroking her nose like you had earlier. âTheyâre a lot less frightening than they look, arenât they?â
âYeah.â You murmur, heart caught somewhere in your chest. Youâre not even sure whyâjust the sight of someone caring for your animals how they should chokes you up. âSheâs a sweetheart.â
â
The next day, around evening timeâwhen the sun is starting to settle down for bed, the sky red and pink and all sorts of vibrant coloursâwhen your dinner is nearly finished, you sort of have to go find John.
And god, finding him is a chore on its own. You suppose itâs his antisocialness, but heâs almost impossible to locate in the vast fields of animals. Heâs only got a set few places heâs supposed to be, but despite his chores always being done he never does seem to be.
You find him half-covered by long tufts of grass, laying on his back with his eyes shut against the stubborn sun. His shirts riding up just a little on his stomach, exposing his scrappy waistband. He looks peaceful, shoulders relaxed, face still.
It makes you hesitate for a moment, considering leaving him here in his tranquility. But you wonât. âJohn?â
He cracks one eye open, then shuts it. Sighs and stretches out lazily with the softest little groan. You canât help but be transfixed by the sight. Muffled by a yawn, he manages. âWhatâs up?â
âTeaâs nearly ready.â You feel a little guilty; you hadnât realised he was actually asleep.
âWeâve got time.â John murmurs, eyes fluttering open to watch you. Baby blue and bleary with sleep.
"Food's gonna go cold.â You warn, but you know thereâs not much to protest. Itâs still in the oven, so itâs hardly cold.
John just shrugs, sits up. He tugs off his jacket and places it beside him in the grass. âCome lay down.â
You pinch your brows together, legs tickled by grass as you step forward. Your headâs pillowed by his jacket and your arms are coated in dying sunlight. He stays on his back, looking up at the clouds. Almost, for a moment, you could believe that this life is natural for him.
âAre you liking it here?â You murmur, watching his profile carefully.
Heâs pretty, you notice it especially then: lashes casting shadows on his porcelain cheeks, hair falling out of place endearingly to expose his forehead. He doesnât look back at you, but a smile tugs at his lips.
âItâs different.â His lips twitch into a hesitant grimace, like heâs not sure whether to say more. He picks a dandelion with his fingers, studies it then throws it aside. âHavenât seen much of it.â
âThe marketâs on tomorrow. Could take you down there.â You offer, wincing in sympathy. Itâs different here, you know that. Boring, maybe, for someone like him.
âYeah, maybe.â He smiles, head tilting to the side. His gaze is softer now when it meets your eyes, red sky reflected in his shiny eyes. âMaybe.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. A breath. John watches you carefully, eyes drifting over your face slowly. Then he turns back over, once again focused on the fading dusk. Purple is creeping in at the edges now, stars starting to glitter sparsely.
âCanât imagine what itâs like, living anywhere else.â You admit shyly, fingers absentmindedly braiding picked daisies together. Itâs something you learned to do as a child, when you were hardly seen without a crown of them.
âBusy.â He laughs, eyes creasing. Then he sobers a little, rubs his eyes tiredly. Shrugs. âDunno. Itâs just normal to me. Everythingâs so quiet here.â
âItâs peaceful.â You brush your pollen stained fingers off on your skirt and sit up. âBest go in for tea now. Mum wonât be happy if weâre late.â
You both get to your feet, and then you take a hesitant step towards him. And somehow his jacket finds its way around your shoulders, and your daisy crown finds its way onto his soft head of hair.
Somehow.
â
The market the next day is the same as any other. Except it isnât, with him by your side.
Johns walking hesitantly beside you like heâs never seen shops before, head ducked low. Heâs still wearing his big jacket against your advice, so that he sticks out like a sore thumb. But he would either way. Anyone new would.
You stop at your favourite stall, like every time. Mrs Williams and her son have lived here forever, really. Sheâs older now, of course, but your parents used to buy from her when they were your age. She owns a large patch of land to the west of your house, which she uses to grow ridiculously large amounts of strawberries and raspberries.
âGood morning, Mrs Williams.â You smile, fingers already itching for a tub so that you can take away as many delicious berries as possible. Theyâre brightly coloured and plump and look sweet as ever.
âHello, dear. Whoâs this youâve got with you?â She smiles, already reaching for a large pot and handing it to you.
Youâre only half-listening as you pick out the best looking fruits. âOh, this is Johnny. Heâs just visiting.â
Johnâs lingering at your side, stone-faced like heâs silently begging you not to engage in any more conversations with anybody that could involve him.
âDâyou not want anything?â You look up at John and he looks back, eyes squinted against the sun.
He shrugs, then gives a half nod. Leans in closer to murmur into your ear like itâs a secret. âStrawberries,â Then, an afterthought, âPlease.â
âWhere are you from, Johnny?â Mrs Williams pipes up when youâre halfway through collecting the second tub. He looks up, looking a mixture of disgruntled and startled.
âManchester.â He speaks like conversations pain him, like heâd rather be anywhere else on earth. It makes you giggle under your breath, and he elbows your side.
Mrs Williams watches the exchange like she knows something you donât, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She waits until youâre ready to go, then offers John a little smile. âWell it was nice meeting you, Johnny. You seem to be a lovely boy.â
He flushes scarlett and turns away, leaving you to follow behind laughing. âDidnât think Iâd be talkinâ to anyone.â
He grumbles for a bit, and only really shuts up when you offer him his pot of berries. Then his mouth is too full to keep complaining.
â
Bringing him was smart because, despite his scrawniness, heâs rather strong and too stubborn to complain about the weight of baskets and bags in his hands. Youâre giggling and chatting under your breaths, wandering through the stalls and explaining the years of town gossip to him until the sun sets.
You hardly notice it until John murmurs something about it getting late, but indeed the sun is starting to duck behind the horizon, and all the stalls are shutting down around you.
And heâs kinder than you first thought, as gentle as he is stubborn and as funny as he is quiet. Despite his antisocialness, heâs easy to talk to. He laughs at everything and grins constantly.
You shiver, ever so slightly, as you walk back side by side, still laughing over some decades-old scandal about the man whoâd sold you tomatoes. He stops suddenly, drops all of the bags and takes his jacket off. It's warm and smells of boyish deodorantâof him. It doesnât fit right, much too long on your arms and torso, but you momentarily consider forgetting to give it back.
With a twinkle in your eye, you grin sheepishly. Try to hide the flush in your cheeks with a laugh. âDoes it suit me?â
âYeah.â He breathes, words startlingly sober. His eyes are a little wider than usual, glittering with something akin to awe, lips lightly parted. âYeah, it really does.â
Your heart skips.
â
After that, itâs hard not to think of John in that way. Before, you were managing semi-successfully by telling yourself heâll only be here for a short while, and therefore isnât worth losing sleep over.
But god, you are.
Youâre in so deep it feels like youâre drowning, like youâve been suddenly shoved into the deep end and youâre still in a heavy pair of jeans, unable to float back up.
Thereâs not many boys in the village that are your age, so itâs not a feeling youâre used to. You felt it maybe once when you were a kid, when a boy had lent you a crayon that was the prettiest shade of pink youâd ever seen. But not properly.
You didn't expect it to hit like a freight train, to hit you full throttle like it had. That morning, youâd taken him to the market out of pleasantries. By night, youâre tangled in your sheets thinking of the pretty blue of his eyes, and his breathy laughs even when you tell the least funny of jokes.
Itâs maddening.
â
Breakfast the next morning is somehow worse. John looks tired, undereyes heavy and dark, hair tousled. You want to reach out and fix it, but your heart is already pounding enough at the sight of him.
And your parents, bless them, havenât noticed a thing. Theyâre chatting to the both of you between mouthfuls of bread and eggs like nothing has palpably changedâeven though you know it has, because you can feel it in the air like humidity on a spring morning.
Heâs not wearing his jacket, which your parents do notice. When prompted, he just shrugs and says something about misplacing it. But when you look up, heâs watching you with something in between fondness and mischief.
As if the silly crush isnât bad enough on its own, heâs going to be teasing you in front of your parents. These next few weeks are going to be long.
â
Due to Johnâs helpfulness, your chores have been greatly decreased.
Free time, usually, would be a lovely thing. You could go for a walk, maybe, or read a book. But all you can think of is his infuriating face and his jacket still draped over your door handle.
So, begrudgingly, you make your way down to the stables, determined to return his jacket.
Youâve never seen him actually working before, and it sets your nerve endings alight. Hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, sleeves rolled up around his elbows, big hands busy with filling a trough.
You clear your throat, then again when he still doesnât turn around. Youâre wearing a dress that is vaguely reminiscent of a picnic blanket with his jacket over your shoulders. He smiles at the sight, looking more than a little disheveled. He rinses his hands off at a tap before making his way over to you.
âWhat are you doinâ here?â He grins like he canât believe his luck, wraps the jacket closer around your shoulders as though worried itâll fall off.
âJust wanted to give this back.â You flush, both at the attention and the admission. Itâs ridiculous how a little brush of his fingers against your bare collarbone makes your stomach burn hot and simultaneously explode with butterflies.
âKeep it.â He pinches his brows together like that much was obvious. His hands still on your forearm, pinky resting on the bone of your wrist. Itâs impossible to focus on anything else.
And then he turns back, hand dropping away. You miss the weight immediately, the gentleness.
He strokes your horse's nose slowly, contemplatively, before speaking. âI really like her, yâknow. Think she likes me.â
âCourse she does. She loves everyone.â You step up beside him, free hands brushing. You cringe inwardly, but definitely donât move away. âCould ride her, if you want.â
âWhat, likeââ He stops, a pout on his lips as he thinks. Then he hesitates, looks at you cautiously. âDunno how. Never ridden a horse before, have I?â
âWell, I have.â You laugh, already rummaging through your shed for her riding gear. âItâs easier than it looks, promise.â
He looks practically ready to run and hide, but accepts her saddle and rests it haphazardly over her back.
â
Getting him on the horse is easier than you thought, but itâs the getting him to move thatâs the problem. And sure, it probably would be quite scary to do for the first time. But it isnât, and you know that.
âYouâre a pussy, John. God.â You giggle, looking up at him. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. âSqueeze her with your calves, gentle.â
âThis is so fuckinâ weird.â John mutters under his breath, shaking his head. But he obliges anyways, and squeezes the horseâs sides with his legs.
And, clearly, he doesnât listen to your last word of advice, because the horse is startled and sets off at a canter. John looks about as terrified as the horse and frankly, you canât blame him. Despite that, you canât help but laugh.
The horse turns sharply, and John takes a tumble into the grass. Youâre still laughing as you make your way over to him to help him up.
âTold you you shouldâve worn a helmet.â You giggle, extending an arm. He takes your hand, his own big and calloused against yours, and gets to his feet with a grumble.
âDidnât think sheâd throw me off.â He scoffs, brushing his hands off on his thighs. Heâs fine, of course, or else you wouldnât be laughing. âThought she liked me.â
âNot her fault youâre useless at riding.â You roll your eyes, grinning anyways. You take a step closer, movements a little unsure as you reach out. âYouâve got grass in your hair, let me..â
He bows his head a little to allow you to shake the grass from his hair, then looks back up. His eyes are heavy on yours, full of the same hesitance thatâs in your own. Youâre so close that you can count his eyelashes.
His hands move first, clumsy but gentle, one finding your waist and the other curling into the fabric on the front of your jacket. Thereâs a soft breath between you, and then heâs tugging you in and his lips are on yours and theyâre as sweet and soft as youâd imagined.
The warmth of it simmers through your veins, heart pounding as it tries to keep up. He kisses you like a song, like you mean something: gentle and slow and careful. His hands feel like theyâre the only thing keeping you upright, what with how weak in the legs you feel.
You can hear his breath catch when you kiss back and reach up to tangle a hand in his hair. You realise it then, that he wants this as badly as you do.
When you pull back, itâs only for a half-second. Then youâre both giggling and kissing again with no finesse. Just clumsy lips and shared breaths in the middle of a field, like messy teenagers.
Somewhere in the distance, you can hear a voice. You have to begrudgingly break apart to listen.
Your dad, calling you in.
You break apart like guilty children, regarding John with wide eyes. The magicâs broken, all of a sudden, and it makes your skin crawl. The moment is gone.
Itâs awkward to speak up, to pretend that your heart isnât still lost somewhere in your throat. To pretend that youâre not already facing withdrawals from it, from how easy it felt. âThink our teaâs ready, then.â
âYeah.â He breathes, looking just as wrecked as you; lips pink and parted, hair a mess from your fingers. It stirs something warm in your chest. âYeah, alright.â
âYou wonât tell anyone, yeah?â Is the first thing he says when you wake up, eyes alight with fear, voice a little shaky. Heâs eyeing you cautiously like youâre a bomb waiting to explode.
Youâve hardly had a chance to blink the sleep from your eyes, and so youâre caught a little off guard. You hum softly, then murmur groggily. âWhat?â
He shifts, big brown eyes unblinking like a deer in headlights. Like if he shuts his eyes for half a second then youâll disappear, run to the press and ruin his life.
âThat Iâm.. yâknow. Not a real lad.â Ian manages, face contorted into something hesitant and painful. Like the words dig straight into the tender muscle of his heart, right where it hurts most.
âDonât be silly.â You scoff, leaning over to tuck your head under his chin. You press your lips slow to one of the scars along his chestâonce, twiceâthen settle into his arms. Heâs warm and steady. His rings are cool against the warm skin of your back, but it doesnât bother you when itâs him.
His heartbeat is slowing by the second as you hide away in his chest, breathing deep and low from half-sleep. His fingers curl in your hair, and he manages a deep sigh, shoulders relaxing.
âI think youâre gorgeous, yâknow.â You breathe, hot against his chest. He lets out a half-laugh, fingers curling around the nape of your neck loosely.
âYou always say that to the blokes you sleep with?â He laughs, still softened by sleep. But he sounds flattered, even if just a little.
âI sâpose, yeah. But I mean it this time.â You giggle, arms winding around his waist to tug him closer. And he is gorgeous; all lean muscle and pale skin dotted with moles. His sleepy face and half-smile are beautiful enough to make a poet write sonnets.
He just tugs you in closer, heart stuttering fondly in his chest. Presses a kiss into your hair and stays there, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Itâs sweet and unfamiliar, but definitely something he could get used to.
âYouâre so.. real.â You manage eventually, words lingering unexplained in the air while you try to piece together a response in your head. âNever thought Iâd sleep with a popstar. But youâre so genuine. Canât help but like you.â
âI think plenty of girls would have a reason to not like me.â He says, but heâs grinning so you know itâs not entirely serious. You just laugh and shake your head. Itâs a sensitive topic, maybe, but clearly one heâs comfortable discussing.
âMaybe. Theyâd be silly, mind.â You lean back from his chest, catching those wide, glittery eyes with your own. His expression sobers a bit.
You lean in, press your lips to his briefly, brush his hair away from his eyes. Then you kiss that endearing little mole above his lip, hand on his bicep. âPretty boy.â
im kind of drunk right now excuse that can you if you cnsa write like smut 2000s older ian or seomthing with trans male reader on T pls reader wear trans tape instead of binder just write whatevr
when you have time, do you think you could do something short for john and wife!reader in the early 00s and they were just getting used to one little kid but after the twins they have to deal with three little girls running around? like girl-dad john and lots of cuddling with the babies and playing with martha (i think?).
but only when you have time :)
OH MY GOD that is soo adorable <3 my fav girl dad ugh
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smutty trans ian x john hcs - for @mypuppydogian aka the no1 trans ian scholar
ęŠ at the start, when heâs only just found out, johnâs real awkward about it. heâs not entirely sure what to do, what would upset ian. if heâs supposed to touch him like a girl
âł he grows into it real fast thoughâfinds that ian likes.. everything, really. itâs easier than he thought it was going to be.
ęŠ loves sleepy mornings where he wakes up still draped over ianâs back. thatâs always his favourite position, hips rocking slow into him, hands cradling him like a prayer. he presses soft kisses into the nape of his neck, letting ian melt into him.
ęŠ paints and draws him whenever he can. if ianâs napping or reading peacefully, john's already got his sketchbook out, pencil scratching away at paper. it irritates him to no end that heâll never be able to sketch him on stage.
ęŠ ian is so shamelessly loud and needy, always climbing all over john and moaning like the most sinful thing on earth if he gets what he wants. itâs filthy hot and it works on him. every. single. time.
ęŠ john just worships ian, spends so long kissing at the moles scattering his torso that ian starts grumbling about itâwhich isnât very long, to be honest, heâs just impatient
ęŠ john eats ian out at every opportunity he gets, and thatâs not an exaggeration. if the lads leave the studio for a smoke break, ianâs got his thighs clamped down around johnâs head. if heâs making a cup of tea, heâs up on the kitchen counter with john between his legs. john licks his lips after and acts as though he never did it.
âł ian digs his nails hard into Johnâs scalp, all soft whimpers and hushed groans. he canât help himself, really. he loves it just as much
ęŠ ian is unhealthily obsessed with johns hands, always staring at them, playing with his fingers. when theyâre deep inside of him, ruining him fast and lovely, its better than almost anything heâs ever felt
ęŠ sometimes sex can be a lot for ian, especially in the early days, so johns always gentle, even if ian protests. heâd much rather kiss him deep while he fucks him deeper than see him in pain, even if says he wants that.
ęŠ absolutely obsessed with ianâs tits. grieves them, mostly jokingly, when he gets them removed. heâs always sucking at them or kneading them, even when ian giggles and pushes at his shoulder.
ęŠ ianâs favourite place is johns lap. not even necessarily sexually, but it usually ends that way: ian whimpering quietly as he rides john within an inch of his life, hips stuttering messily from eagerness. by the end of it, john feels as wrecked as ian.
âł âthis is why i donât watch the footie with youâ john pants, having missed 2 goals and being thoroughly disoriented. but ianâs in red and thatâs enough to ruin him all over again.
ęŠ john doesnât really understand what itâs like for ian, but he tries. he really, really tries. he lays in his lap and asks him little questions about what its like, not being born how he wants to be, trying to pick away at all the layers and work it out. ianâs surprisingly open, pliable, willing to talk.
ęŠ loves being the little spoon. almost always the little spoon. and ian likes it too, âcos he can hold john real tight and it makes him feel like a real, proper boyfriend. but he doesnât say that bit, because john would punch his arm and call him a knob.
ęŠ john was scared to compliment him for probably a year, worried that âprettyâ or âbeautifulâ would be too girly, even if they did suit ian perfectly.
âł similarly, refused to use any words like âpussyâ until ian started taking the piss out of him for it. âi know iâm a lad john, you can say what iâve gotâ
summary: johns ready to give up cokeâfor the nightâand ianâs ready to help
warnings: angst!! drug (cocaine) addiction, withdrawals, all that jazz
words: 1.3k
a/n: this was just gonna be a silly little blurb between fics and well.. look where we are now
âNeed to get off that shit.â Ian eyes the traces of white on the wooden bedside table, frowning with concern. At least Jamie wasnât here, at least those responsibilities were lessened. But no doubt he did it even when she was.
ââS fine, Ian.â His name coming from Johnâs lips makes him flinch. The words are sharp in a way that doesnât hesitate to pierce right into his gut. âMâalright, arenât I?â
Barely. Ian wants to say, but he canât bear to see the hurt on Johnâs face. You donât even look at me anymore. âYouâve got a kid, John.â
âAnd sheâs fine, too. Donât see how it matters to you.â Johnâs words rub against Ianâs already tender skin like sandpaper, but he knows he doesnât mean it completely. His eyes are trained down at the carpet, clearly infinitely more interesting than Ianâs eyes.
âWhat, donât see how it matters watchinâ you destroy yourself in front of me?â Ian narrows his eyes, then takes a deep breath to calm himself. Irritation wonât change John's mind, he tells himself. Wrings his hands out. âDonât like seeing it, âs all.â
âMânot givinâ it up for you, Ian.â John's words settle somewhere harsh and foul in his chest, like rot or rust. ââS only a little bit of powder.â
âYou wouldâve. Years ago, you wouldâve.â And thatâs the last words they speak on the matter, conversation sizzling to a halt. Itâs barely ten minutes before Johnâs sneaking into the bathroom for another line.
â
Somehow, and heâs really not sure how, but he gets John to semi-agree to it.
Itâs a late night, somewhere between winter and spring, darkness like a velvet curtain outside. Ianâs got his legs over Johnâs lap, a glass of red wine in his hand. He feels older, more mature, than he did even last year, last month. John's not grown antsy for a line, and heâs not had one in a while. Ianâs pretending he hasnât noticed.
âMaybe I could.â John murmurs, plump lips clumsy from too much wine, words not slurred but definitely a little confused. Ianâs not quite sure what heâs talking about until he continues. âGive it up. Just to see.â
âCould you?â Ianâs head lolls into the back cushion, clearly pondering it. Truthfully, heâs not sure he could. Not without something that doesnât burn like being dropped suddenly into hot water.
âYeah, course I could.â And then he hesitates, stumbles. Steadies himself while Ian pretends he hasnât seen, voice firmer. âI could.â
â
So, he does.
One night, a few weeks later, he sneaks into Ianâs house. Ianâs half-asleep, a book turned upside down beside him that he was reading earlier. Johnâs sleeves are wet from the rain outside, and heâs shivering as he curls under the duvet.
He tucks himself close under Ianâs chin, teeth chattering and cold hands finding his waist. âIan?â
âJohnny?â Ian murmurs, eyes still shut and brain still cloudy. He shivers violently from the cold hands on his warm skin, but he doesnât really mind. Heâs been long overdue this closeness. âWhatâre ya doinâ?â
âMâcominâ off it. Promise.â John looks up at him with those big blue eyes, cheeks and nose flushed from the journey. He looks startlingly sober. âIâve not touched it all day.â
âYeah?â Ian grins, letting out a pleased exhale. He believes it, sees it in the way Johnâs eyes glitter. He cups Johnâs cold cheek in his palm, frowning a little. âGod, câmere, youâre frozen.â
So he wraps John up in his arms, holds him into his chest. Itâs a few minutes before the warmth seeps into Johnâs bones, before his shoulders stop shaking, and he spends every second of it enveloped in Ian.
âFeel like shit.â John murmurs, words muffled into Ianâs skin. Heâs not sober often enough to remember how crushing his thoughts are, but they suddenly hit him like a freight train. They all try to cram themselves into his head so fast he canât catch a glimpse of hardly any of them.
âBe worth it, yeah?â Ian breathes into Johnâs messy hair, hands curling in his jumper. Anything to keep him tethered there, to keep him out of the baggy inevitably shoved in the pocket of his discarded jacket.
âYeah.â He shudders, sounding a little winded. Ian holds him closer, trying to remind him through the skin of his palms that heâs safer here. That this is where he needs to be.
â
Itâs just when Ianâs starting to drift off that John shifts again, unintentionally rousing him again. Heâs been restless all night, muscles so tense they ache, trying to find sleep. He digs his nose into Ianâs throat, squeezes him tight enough to wind him.
âYâalright?â Ian slurs, eyes drooping as he tries to look down at John. He tightens his arms around him and John drops his shoulders a little in response. Lets out a soft exhale against Ianâs neck.
âFeel fuckinâ terrible.â John sighs, shifting uncomfortably. It feels like heâs trying to hide in Ian, to bury himself so deep he never has to come out again. His voice sounds shakier when he speaks again, thick and rough with emotion. âJust wanna go to bed.â
âShh, darlinâ.â Ianâs face contorts into a concerned frown. He hides his face away in Johnâs hair, pressing kiss after kiss into his scalp like itâll soothe his mind through his cranium. His heartâs so full of worry heâs afraid itâs gonna burst.
They stay lazily like that for what feels like a lifetime, Ianâs nails tracing slow and lazy up Johnâs back. He complains under his breath every now and then, but heâs mostly all deep breaths and warm hands.
âMâproud, yâknow. Of you.â Ian murmurs even though he has to force the words out through a dry mouth. Thatâs something he and John donât do: talk about it. But he has to, has to try anything he can to keep him off the coke.
John doesnât respond, but he doesnât have to. He just kisses Ianâs neck, brief and sweet, in a way that Ian had been missing so badly he feels it tug at his heart. It seems like a lifetime ago that John had been sweet. That he had been sober.
He pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, careful not to disturb him. Heâs not asleep, not even close, but as good as heâll probably get tonight. Ian kisses his head, then again, then presses his face into his hair and squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to cry.
His sweet boy, back in his arms. Here and solid and real. But he knows it canât last. Knows this petty attempt at sobriety isnât a permanent decision because Johnâs not like that anymore; not since the fame got to his head. Heâs not going to be Ianâs sweet boy again.
âLove you, John.â He breathes, and he means it. Every cell in his body feels it. Itâs written into their music and their shared clothes and soft kissing and wandering gazes. Undeniable.
John doesnât respond instantly. He needs a second to bathe in it, to let the golden words wash over him. Then he exhales, shoulders drooping. âBeen wonderinâ that.â
âDonât be silly. Could never stop lovinâ you.â Ian hugs John extra tight, a leg wrapping loosely around both of his. He realises it then that he needs the contact just as much as John does.
And he means those words. Still means them the next morning when Johnâs rushing off for a line. Still means them 10 years later, when he hates him with everything he has. Because they're true, and itâs undeniable. Because theyâre poetry in motion, beauty carved into man, sin expelled in touch.