#readerxpiers

you got it you piers simp 😎

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Rubbish You (PiersxReader)

It started out simple enough.

You came to one of his gigs, then talked to him after. That was simple enough.

Then you kept coming. Also simple enough. He was in a band, he had fans, that’s how that was supposed to happen. What wasn’t supposed to happen, however, was how Piers started looking for you. His electric blue gaze would scan the crowd, watching for your smile, watching for your eyes. And, what definitely wasn’t supposed to happen, was for his heart to jump whenever he found you.

Yeah. That definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.

Because then, all he could think about, was you.

You.

You.

You.

Rubbish you and how you would smile, rubbish you and how your nose would crinkle, rubbish you and how you would lean in to hear him whenever he spoke after a gig because the music and the crowd was still buzzing. Rubbish you and how you’d try to make him laugh, rubbish you when you would succeed, rubbish you you you.

He hated it.

He hated how you moved to Spikemuth with your Pokemon and your smiles and the way you would look at him. He hated how you came to introduce yourself as a new neighbor, only to freeze when you realized it was him.

He hated that he was writing a song about you, only for you to come waltzing to his door.

It took a lot for him to write songs about people he knew. Normally there was the generic love song, with lyrics that people could kind of relate to, but more importantly, tap their feet to. 

He shoved that song into the drawer and pretended to forget about it.

And then, he kept bumping into you. Spikemuth was a close-knit town, so that was to be expected. What he didn’t expect was how you would look at him with that hungry gaze, how you would brush his arm when you spoke, how you would stand close enough for him to count the colors in your eyes.

He was a singer in a band, a good one at that, so he was used to a hungry gaze.

He wasn’t used to returning it. 

He wasn’t used to finding you, staring at you, trailing his eyes down your body whenever you looked away. He wasn’t used to noticing every dip and every curve and every bit of your legs and hips and shoulders and face.

He wasn’t used to that sweet intoxication that came with craving a kiss.

Rubbish you, doing all of that to him. You didn’t even know it, either. Or did you?

He wasn’t used to this, he wasn’t used to these cravings consuming him from the inside out. He didn’t expect you to have such an intense, lingering effect.

He did expect you to be at his next gig.

There wasn’t anything special about this one - it was in Spikemuth with his regular band and his regular songs - except for one change. That song he shoved in a drawer had been practiced and rehearsed until it was perfect, because he knew you would be there to listen to it. He was up on his stage, with his band, with his audience, and you.

And when he found you, standing right where he expected, he sang the chorus straight to you.

The way you moved, the way you swayed, it was like a melody in itself, pumping through his veins like the beat of the drums behind him. Each lyric was aimed straight at your heart, straight into your ears, as if his sound could be as intoxicating as you.

When he finished, neither of you strayed your gaze.

The audience cheered, clapped around you, hooted and hollered at this new, dynamic, passionate song, but as his band agreed on this impromptu intermission, you and Piers made no sound. You didn’t need to. He gripped your wrist, you intertwined your fingers with his, and he led to the spot where the neon lights flickered, to where the smoke hung in the air, to where he pressed you against the bricks.

Rubbish you, knowing how to kiss him in the way that made his knees buckle.

Rubbish you, nipping his bottom lip in the way that made him moan.

Rubbish you, trailing your fingers over the exact spots that made his breath hitch.

“Who’d you write that song for?” you whispered in his ear. “I think I’ve got a clue.”