hi, i'm daisy (she/her) & this is my little sideblog for all my (highly self-indulgent) hozier writing and dreaming. if you don't like it, don't read!
requests are open <3
🌼🍯💐 masterlist ↓
don't fall away from me [ 18+, you have convinced yourself andrew will leave you. as you so often do ]
try to hide my pain [ in which andrew is the best painkiller you have ever taken ]
let me see you [ 18+, it's a scorching summers day in new york, your boyfriend (a man notorious for hating parties) is insisting you attend a pool party with him. it's only your worst nightmare. ]
vocal rest [ in sickness and in health. ]
vastness [ you and andrew are briefly long distance for the first part of his tour. the distance is proving to be more difficult than anticipated for the both of you. ]
whatever here that's left of me is yours [ 18+, life gets too much sometimes. ]
summary: "You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern as he watches you take the pills.
"I'm fine. I promise Andy, it's just cramps."
rating: 16+
tags: fem!reader x hozier. hurt/comfort, periods, brief mention of vomiting, pain, established relationship
words: 5,238
note: very personal vulnerable little story that i wrote / have been working on for myself. only sharing in case it might help someone else, cause these kinds of fics always help me <3 very much not beta read
fic under the cut ❊
It's another Saturday night at one of those completely over the top celebrity events that you both share a hatred for. But it's part of the job, important for "making connections" and "good impressions" and you should never turn down an invitation from someone as prestigious as this blah blah… or something like that. His managers words ring in your ear. At least while he's still in New York, Andrew had promised to go to as many of these prestigious little parties as he possibly could before hoping to vanish off to Wicklow with you for a couple of months.
All these parties has meant lots of new dresses, all beautiful, all very expensive, all gifted from high end brands who would love for Hozier's newly public girlfriend to be spotted in one of their pieces. Not just dresses, but shoes and jewellery and bags.
The attention had been overwhelming at first, the thousands of people requesting to follow your Instagram, digging up old pictures of you, comments about your body from users hiding behind anonymous accounts. "Not who I was excepting for him." "He can do better than that." "Who even is she?" "Not as pretty as the last one."
Most of it had been positive, but the other comments stick with you more. Andrew had told you before you had gone public to stay offline. He tried to distract you with a surprise trip back home the day after you had decided to just rip the band aid off yourselves instead of hiding around all the time, living in a constant state of panic.
Being his public partner came with a lot of new experiences. For one, now you get to come to these kind of parties. A prospect that had excited him, an opportunity for these events to be far less boring with you by his side. He had admitted one evening, as you were swaying on a dance floor, how much he loved to show you off to everyone. To introduce you proudly to everyone, to gush about all your achievements. "I can point to the most gorgeous woman in this room, and I can tell everyone she's mine."
Tonight, one of Andrew's industry friends were hosting a little gala with a charity. It was a good cause, and these were genuinely good friends. For once, you had both been happy to say yes to going.
The day had started fine, you enjoyed a quiet slow morning together. Limbs tangled in sheets, coffee delivered to your hotel room. He let you help him with his curls, and he picked out your dress. Maroon, A-line, floor length, the smallest bit of boning in the waist and subtle lace floral detailing.
It had started while he was sat behind you in front of the mirror, curling the back of your hair, a task he had become very good at over the months, while you blended your eyeshadow. He was already dressed, aside from his jacket. All black, his hair down, as per your request. He picked your outfit, you picked his.
He was focusing on making each wave in your hair perfect, before pulling it back into a half up half down for you, fixing it in place with an intricate clip you had both spent half an hour earlier trying to work out. He was curling some loose pieces when he noticed your face scrunched up in that all too familiar look of pain.
"Darling?" He started gently, "are you okay?"
You nod, opening your eyes again, "I'm fine. In my handbag, there should be-"
He moved before you even had to finish, quickly returning to your side with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
"You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern, as he watched you take the pills.
You shake your head. "I'm fine. I promise Andy. Just cramps."
But you don't feel nearly as confident as you sound. And it takes another 5 minutes of convincing and proving to him you are fine before he goes back to your hair.
The cramps do subside, becoming a dull manageable ache for about an hour. Enough time for you to finish your makeup without your hands shaking from pain. Enough time for him to help you lace up the back of your dress without doubling over.
For as long as this has been a part of your life, you've become pretty good at dealing with it on your own. At pushing the pain down and moving on, life doesn't just stop because you have bad period cramps. You have learnt that the hard and painful way. You learnt that when you were sixteen, trying to concentrate in class as it felt like you were being stabbed repeatedly. You learnt that when you eighteen at your first real job, crying on your break because it just hurt so much, there were no words to describe to anyone how much it hurt. You learnt that when you were twenty, at a party, trapped in the bathroom, the door too far away, and no one you could call. You learnt at 24, that you would never have enough evidence for any doctor. You have been putting on a brave face, every month since you were fifteen years old. At the end of the day it's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps. Stop being so dramatic. It's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps, but you can't help but wince bending down to put your heels on. And he's instantly on his knees, putting them on for you while you breathe through the wave of pain. Pain spreading up your back, across to your hips. He takes your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "you don't have to come."
"It'll pass. I already feel better," you lied, forcing a smile, hoping he doesn't notice. The truth is, you don't want to be in this hotel room alone tonight. You've spent too many nights in your life, laying in a bed alone, curled up in agony. Andrew is the greatest painkiller you've ever had. His presence alone, his hand in yours… it doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes it more manageable. It will be worse if you're alone here, but you can't find the words to tell him that. So instead you just promise again that you are fine, and you will be fine.
His hand finds yours in the car, squeezing it gently, and you hold onto him tightly, not wanting to ever let go.
──────────
The night starts well. You have a table in a corner which suits you both perfectly. You eat with his hand resting on your thigh. You mingle a little, and normally you pride yourself on being independent from him, trying to talk to people on your own, but tonight that just seems too hard. Your head feels heavy, your brain wanders off to no where. You hold onto his arm, and smile and nod through conversation, adding things and answering questions as best as you can, trying to appear as much of a functioning human as possible.
You eventually wind up back at your table, sitting alone, sipping on a glass of some sort of white wine. With all the formalities of the evening done, you watch as people dance to the live jazz band, and you tap your foot to the rhythm, trying to focus on the instruments instead of the growing pain.
Your eyes scan the room for him, finding him in a corner, laughing with a small group of people. He seems to be listening more than he is conversing, occasionally taking a sip of his whisky as he laughs. His back is slightly turned to you, and as you focus on all the instruments, you become memorised by the way his curls bounce as he moves.
You try, you try as best as you can.
You fixate on the music.
You try to memorise each curl.
But it's too much.
You throw back whatever champagne is left in your glass, and wish you had more. Anything that might make you feel a little more numb. Anything to get you through a couple more hours.
The pain rises. Moving up your back and down your thighs with a fierceness and determination. As if it has a simple goal of making you writhe in agony.
You need to be alone. Just while this passes. It comes in waves. It gets worse before it gets better. You can't be here right now. Your legs tremble as you stand, the pain goes from tight and binding to stabbing as you walk. Part of you wants to b-line straight to Andrew, fall into his arms, have him hold you close. But a bigger part of you just needs the silence for minute, just needs to be alone.
The florescent lights of the bathroom are blinding, headache inducing and the room spins. But the bathroom is quiet, empty. Your hands find the sink, clutching onto the banister for dear life as you hang your head, letting out a low groan.
It's a nice bathroom. Bit over the top. Very green, very pink. Ornate gold finishings everywhere. Paired with the bright overhead lighting, it's all a bit too much. Your head is pounding, your ears are ringing. The pain has become that consistent aching again, maybe the overstimulation of this bathroom snapped the worst of it away. Maybe it was done. You sigh, going to rest your head against your arm when it hits again.
It's almost like twisting. Like there is something in you twisting. You sink down onto the green tiles, your beautiful, expensive, gifted red dress sprawled out on this bathroom floor.
You arms cross over your stomach, you're not sure why, an instinctual feeling to cover yourself, maybe to protect yourself from anymore of the twisting and stabbing, maybe out of pure need for comfort.
Twisting and pulling and stabbing and you can't stop the tears. Stabbing and twisting and twisting and twisting and you can't stop the quiet yelps of pain that leave you.
You breathe. Breathe and try to picture his voice. Breathe through it. It will pass. Just a little longer. It will pass.
──────────
Andrew has been trying to make it back to the table for a moment of peace for what feels like an eternity now. Every time he thinks he has escaped a conversation, another person pulls him away for a quick "hello" "how are you?" which turns into a one sided conversation where the other person monologues their whole life story to him and he must simply nod, adding in a word or two here and there.
Knowing you weren't feeling the well, the guilt over the fact he has unintentionally abandoned you for half the night is eating away at him a little. He just wants to make sure you're alright.
He finishes off another whisky, he's not sure what he's up to at this point, and finally makes his way towards the table, walking as quickly as he can so not to be interrupted by anyone else.
When he finally reaches said table, he finds it empty. He turns, scanning his eyes across the dance floor for you. He starts to walk around, his gut telling him that something isn't quite right — and he's praying it's just that you need a little help getting out of an awkward conversation with an overly drunk celebrity who doesn't understand your job or why you are here.
"You look a little lost Andy," one of his friends calls out over the music, handing him another glass, "here's that drink I owe you."
"Oh you didn't have to do that. You don't owe me, you never do," he says, still scanning his eyes around the room.
"You looking for something?"
"Any chance you saw my girl near the bar? Red dress?"
"Nope. Sorry mate. I can keep an eye out for you though? If I see her I'll tell her you're looking for her."
"Thanks," Andrew replies, bringing his drink to his lips.
"We're all just sitting by the red couches if you want to come over," his friend offers.
He nods, thanking him again for the drink and insisting he really should find you first, and that he'll come over once he does.
The friend (who for the purpose of telling this story we will name Matt), has known Andrew since he was in his early twenties. He knows when something is seriously worrying him.
"Come on, I'll help you look for her," Matt offers.
After about another ten minutes of futile searching, and your phone going to voicemail for the fifth time, Andrew finds himself back at the table. He rings you again, only for your phone to light up with a picture of himself tying up his hair. Damn.
──────────
You get a minute, every now and then, when you think maybe it's over. It's always only ever a minute.
You feel like that fifteen year old girl trapped in the school bathrooms again.
But now you're in a gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, that is making it too hard to breathe or move as you writhe in pain. Pain from fucking period cramps. A thought that leads you to the dawning realisation that you're likely bleeding onto this gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, which only makes the tears sting your eyes more.
You reach to hold onto anything, you're not sure why. So now you have a hand pressed against the wall. It is doing nothing to help.
The knocking on the door grows louder. You know there's at least two other bathrooms. Why can't they just use those? You hear a voice, but their words make no sense to you. The room is spinning to much.
You're not sure how long you've been in here. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour.
Maybe if you could just get a hold of Andrew somehow. He could get you your bag with your medication and maybe that would make it better. Maybe. Shit. Your bag. Your phone. You left both on the table. No phone. No way to get a hold of him.
"Fuck," you swear, hitting your hand against the wall as the stabbing builds again. You have long abandoned silence, letting little whines of pain leave your lips as you curl in on yourself again. His name slipping out a couple of times too.
──────────
"You all remember Andrew right?" Matt booms over the music to the group sitting closely at a table a little too small for the number of people there are. "Or should we call you Hozier at these kind of things?"
"No please," Andrew shakes his head with a smile.
Matt nods, directing his attention back to the group. Andrew zones out of what Matt is saying, waiting for a good time to ask if anyone might have seen you, the only reason he is now stuck sitting at this table.
His eyes start scanning across another section of the room again. He just wants to know if you're okay. He just wants to see you, see that you're talking to someone or getting a drink or something. Just so this sinking feeling in his stomach will go away.
He watches two people leave a little corridor and head towards the table. Everyone starts to shift again to make room for them, as does Andrew. Now finding himself squished in the middle of a table.
"Oh, hello handsome," one of them (who we'll call Bec), says sitting down next to him.
Andrew shuffles a little further across, trying to make his uncomfortableness as clear as possible.
"Sorry we were so long," the other friend starts, "pretty sure someone's locked themselves in one of the bathrooms. So of course there was a massive queue," she finishes with an eye roll before focusing on the new person at the table. "You're that Hozier guy right?"
"Wait that's you?" Bec exclaims, "I knew you looked familiar."
"Someone's locked in one of the bathrooms?" He asks quickly.
"Yeah," Bec nods, "so what are you doing in New York? Aren't you Irish?"
"Work stuff," he says with a small smile, "sorry, what bathroom was it?"
Bec gives him an odd look, "um… the first one on the left. Why?"
"Excuse me," he stands up, awkwardly trying to shuffle out of the table. He's pretty sure he hears a couple people asking where he's going, but he doesn't respond, and worrying about coming off as rude is not really high on his list of his priorities right now. You are.
After knocking on the door for what feels like forever with no response, he spends another ten or fifteen minutes convincing multiple staff members to use a master key — because even if it's not his sick girlfriend in there, someone else could be very much in need of help being locked in there for as long as they have been… or he could be making a terrible mistake and be interrupting something he shouldn't.
But when the door is finally opened by one of the security people, it is your red dress he is met with. You look so still, scarily so, with your back faced towards the door. The clip he had fixed in your hair hours ago, shinning and glimmering in the fluorescent light.
He pushes past the man standing at the door, sinking to the floor by your side, ever so gently turning you towards him, laying your head in his lap.
Eyes flicker open to meet his, and you watch as his eyes scan over you.
"Hey," he breathes.
"Andy… how did you-"
He shakes his head, "shh, it's alright, I've got you now."
You watch as he faces back at the door, and his words become inaudible as the pain rushes through you again. He pulls you closer, hearing the sudden change in your breathing. His hand finds yours, squeezing it tightly, reminding you he's here, he's real, he's right here.
"How bad darling?"
"Bad," you manage through gritted teeth. "Nine."
He nods, "okay, okay thank you."
"Please don't go," you whine.
"I'm not going anywhere," he reassures you softly, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead, "I'm right here baby. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."
You shake your head, going to say something, but all that comes out is a low groan of pain. Your hand squeezes his, harder than you probably should. But if it caused him any pain, you wouldn't know. When your eyes open you see his expression, full of nothing but worry, his hair falling around his face.
He fishes through his pocket, finally pulling out a little container of your pain medication.
You sigh, tears stinging your eyes.
He gets two into his palm, looking for a way to get you some water.
"Why do you have those?" You manage quietly.
"Because… just because I worry about you. And you weren't fooling me with that I'm fine shit you were doing at the hotel."
He pulls out a flask from inside his jacket, reaching up to tip the brown liquid out of it.
"Just know you're the only person in this world I would tip out my favourite whisky for."
"I can't believe you actually bought that with you."
"Shh," he helps you sit up a little, wincing when he can see how much pain it's causing you just to sit up. He passes you the flask, now full of water from the tap, and the bright blue pills, "just take these for me. Sorry if it tastes like whisky still."
It definitely does.
Your back is against the wall now, he brushes some hair out of your face. "You're so beautiful."
"…I think I'm going to be sick."
He gives you a puzzled look, before his eyes widen and he reaches for the nearby little bathroom trash can. You take it from him instantly, heaving into the trash can. He moves quickly, pulling your hair out from your face, rubbing your back gently, offering sweet soothing words.
Your breathing is heavy, you eventually fall back to him, your knees too weak to keep you up any longer than necessary. Mascara stings your eyes. The tears silently fall again. He holds you as close as he possibly can.
You are trembling against him. He watches as your shaking hands find his jacket and your fingers curl into it.
"Breathe," he says gently, "you need to breathe my love."
"I… hurts so much. …Everywhere."
He nods, "I know. I know. Just breathe with me okay? In and out, slow as you can baby."
You try to follow his breathing. You turn to the side, hoping it doesn't make the pain light up. You try to focus on anything, everything, else again. Just like before.
Everything else you can feel.
His hand running up and down your back gently, finding where he knows the cramps travel up. The relentless stabbing. The cool tiles against your skin. Twisting. His soft palm in yours. Pulling. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching. His hand on your back. His palm in yours. His hair brushing against your face when he kisses your cheek. His lips. Your eyes stinging. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching.
It's too much. You can't help but scream.
It's muffled into your own hand. The tears come down uncontrollably.
His chest hurts at the sound. It aches. He feels completely and utterly helpless. He feels horrible for not insisting you stay home.
"I'm so sorry," he offers, his eyes stinging, watching you breathe heavy, eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white from how tightly they are curled into his jacket. "I- I wish I could make it all go away."
"Andy," you choke out, and it hits you in that moment. That no one has ever really cared like this. No one has sat with you. Not when you're like this. These are moments you reserve for when you are completely alone. Alone screaming into your hand in the bathroom.
Yet, here he is. There is most certainly vomit in your hair. There is even more certainly blood on your dress. There is mascara all down your face. But yet, despite all of that, despite all you were too afraid to ever let anyone really see, is him, here, holding you close.
"I love you," you barely mumble out.
"Oh, my darling," he says, shaking his head, "I love you. I love you so much. My beautiful girl. I love you."
Your eyes squeeze shut from the pain, your hand finds your mouth again to muffle the sounds of agony. Yet his voice is all you can hear, everything else just fades away.
I love you. I love you. I love you so much. You are so strong. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. My darling, I love you. I love you, more than I will ever have words for. I love you. …Breathe for me baby. I love you. Just breathe through it. I'm right here. I love you.
──────────
Eventually you are on two feet. Two shaky feet, attached to shaky legs and a shaky aching body. His jacket is on your shoulders, he has a firm steady hand on your back, your left hand and arm using his other for support as you finally stumble out of the bathroom.
You move slow, stopping every now and then when the pain rises, and Andrew brushes off concerned party guests. Probably assuming you just can't handle your alcohol.
Andrew ushers you into a car. Guarding you the best he can from any flashing, with cameras eagerly waiting by the door for the drunk celebrities to come stumbling out as the evening goes on.
Your hand squeezes tightly into his on the way back to the hotel.
You are now sat in your hotel bed, an oversized black sweatshirt on, his name and face on the front. He is braiding your sweaty hair while you try your hardest to get some food down so you can have another dose of medication. He kisses your neck when he's done. Before sitting in front of you with a collection of pills in his hand.
And while the pills do work, giving you the most amount of pain relief you have had in hours, in a night that will certainly go down as one of the worst yet. The safety of his arms and the warmth of bed provide a different kind of reprieve. One that might take a while to get used to, to let yourself feel worthy of, but the exact kind of love you have spent so long dreaming of.
Summary: With a coven disbanded, your witchy ways have taken you to a new home, filled with faces both friendly and familiar in a way you can’t seem to place. When you suspect someone has put a love spell on the guy your new friends are trying to set you up with, you find yourself wrapped up in a torrid affair between your coven’s head and a famous musician named Andrew. A tale of love, lust, and a bit of magic, who will his heart choose?
Just in time for Halloween, enjoy this witchy adventure with everyone's favorite Irish musician.
I don't know why I'm being pulled towards more supernatural premises as of late, but this idea kept pulling me back. Next thing you know, it's 35 pages in a Google Doc later, and you've fulfilled your witchy fantasies after doing your annual watch of Practical Magic.
summary: you're used to people leaving. any day now, you're convinced andrew will do the same.
rating: 18+
tags: fem!reader x hozier. hurt/comfort, anxiety, sex (unprotected), undertones of possessiveness
words: 1.8k
note: welcome back to another instalment of daisy writes another self-indulgent fic and no one is surprised!!! not beta read :)
fic under the cut ❊
The flames flicker and crackle in the fire, and you find your eyes fixated on the way they dance, so gently, so carefree.
You watch, trying to settle your still uneven breathing, your still trembling hands, your still stinging eyes.
"Can I get you something darling? Water? Hot chocolate? Tea?"
"Stay," you manage, holding his hand closer to your chest.
A simple 'how was your day?' is what led you here.
You were sitting on the couch. It had been a long week for the both of you. He had picked out a nice expensive wine. You had started the fire while he made pasta. One of his favourite records spinning, one that you had grown to associate nothing but quiet comfortable nights with. You listened as he hummed along from the kitchen.
You don't see each other as much as you would like to during the week. At least not lately. You spend hours together, but they are often hours sat near each other working on things. He might be playing around with a piano or scribbling down ideas or in a meeting with his label, while you sit nearby, more often than not, studying.
You tangle up each others feet while you work and he rolls his eyes throughout a meeting. You just hug him from behind sometimes when he is playing piano. And he does the same when you are on what feels like cue card six thousand, keeping you going with a kiss on the cheek and a simple offer to make you coffee.
Life lately is busy, but good. Because you're with him. It's better than it ever was when you were doing it alone. But it's a lot. Your brain feels louder than it has in a long time, maybe ever. And when he's not home, like when he's in Dublin recording, the house is so empty and quiet it makes you feel too empty and too quiet too. Like you're so empty that all the thoughts can just bounce off each other, getting louder and louder by the second.
So with the taste of wine and pasta sauce on your lips, your legs tangled up together as they so often are, the fire and the record crackling, his simple question didn't even process before you crumbled.
How was your day.
And just like that, weeks of trying to push it down all came spilling out, all completely randomly, when today wasn't even that bad. Today was one of the better days in the past few months. Today was a great day when you consider how you've felt the past few weeks.
You can remember him rushing towards you, taking your hands into his, asking what was wrong, what had happened.
But all you could manage was five shaky words, the way they sound so wobbly and breathy when you're crying.
"I'm just not okay Andy."
His name at the end was so quiet, so broken from your tears, but you knew he heard it when his head titled and he pulled you into his arms.
"My darling," he soothed, holding you close as your tears quickly became an anxiety attack, "it's okay. I've got you now. I've got you."
And now here you are. Watching the flames in the fire dance and crackle and explode and come back down again.
You are both laying on the couch, he is behind you, holding you impossibly close, pulling the blanket up to cover your still slightly trembling body. You hold his hand to your chest like a lifeline. Like how you used to cuddle your teddy bear when you were seven after you had a nightmare.
More little anxiety attacks continue to come and go, it is a constant wave, one that has been building up for weeks and is all coming to the shore now. Here, in the safety of his arms. Of his gentle soothing words. Of his touch.
"Please my darling, talk to me," he pleads, after asking again what's wrong. "What are you thinking?"
You sit up, running a hand through your hair.
You watch as he gets up off the couch and moves to kneel in front of you, reaching for your hands.
"Talk to me baby," he says so softly, but there is something beneath his softness, a little shakiness, a little worry. "It's just me. It's just you and me. Please don't shut me out."
He brings one of your hands up to his lips to kiss your knuckles ever so gently. And every bit of willpower you have breaks.
"I'm terrified you're going to leave me. Or that you don't love me. That when you say it… that every time you say you do you don't really mean it. I know it's stupid. But I… I don't know how to stop. I just want this feeling to go away. And it's just… on top of everything else going on," you move your trembling hand, almost aggressively wiping away tears, "I just… I can't even bare the thought of losing you," you choke out.
He shakes his head, "my darling, no. …I'm sorry but you couldn't be more wrong," he says gently, kissing your knuckles, "I love you, and I am afraid to say you are stuck with me."
He puts a finger to your chin, bringing your eyes to his, "I love you. I mean it. When I'm alone and I'm writing, you're all that ever comes out. Because I love you. Truly, fully, completely, with everything I have. Every inch of me, body and soul, loves you. …Wild horses couldn't drag me away from you."
You smile, "…The Sundays?"
"You know that was actually The Rolling Stones first."
"I know. I just like The Sundays version more."
"You know I can't let you slide through my hands," he starts to sing gently, pulling you up off the sofa, "wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away." He leans down, whispering in your ear, "I like The Sundays version more too."
You pull him closer, resting your head against his chest. The softness of his sweater against your cheek, his hand rubbing up and down your back slowly.
"I wish I could make it all go away," he says.
"You do," you murmur softly, just loud enough for him to hear. And it's not a lie. Just him, just being around him, it's as if he's somehow able to physically turn down the dial of all the loud anxious thoughts in your mind. There are moments every day, like this one, where it is just you and him and everything else is muffled. Like that feeling when you are sitting on a loud busy train, and you put your headphones on. That's how it feels to be with Andrew.
He's not going anywhere. You repeat it in your mind like a mantra, pulling him as close as you can, twisting your fingers into his sweater, your other hand on his arm, snaking up to his shoulder blade. He returns the desperation in your hold, resting his head against your shoulder, his hand on your lower back pulling you towards him. It's as if there is no space between you. He's not going anywhere. It won't be like last time. This will be different. This is different. He loves me. He's not going anywhere.
"I get scared of losing you too," he whispers, "I worry that one day you'll wake up and see the version of me I see in the mirror. And you won't… you won't like what you see."
You close your eyes, and shake your head against his chest, "I love you Andy."
"I know…" he sniffles a little, burying his face in your shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Me neither."
"Good."
"Good."
You pull back to lean your forehead against his before your lips meet. What starts of slow quickly becomes desperate and needy. Hands in hair, hips flushed together.
You wind up pressed against a wall, fiddling to get his pants undone, barely breaking the contact of your mouths. He pulls your shirt off. It's desperate, but it's loving, tender, gentle. The way his mouth traces down your neck to your collarbone to your chest, leaving marks as he mutters breathlessly something about how your his. So you return the favour, leaving the side of his neck covered, all because he's yours.
And he's not going anywhere you repeat again in your mind.
He undoes your jeans with one hand, slipping his fingers into you so effortlessly, and every muscle in your body instantly relaxes at his touch.
His name comes out all breathless and needy before he finally fills you.
It's just right. It always is.
Your head falls to his shoulder, too overwhelmed by the pleasure, more than happy to give him full control.
You squeeze your legs around his hips, muffling your moans into his skin, your hips meeting his thrusts, pushing him further into you.
You can feel him getting closer as his thrusts become more frantic, less controlled. "Andy… come… in me."
"God," he moans, "you sure?"
You nod, "please Andrew. Please. I want… I want you."
He groans, speeding up and pressing harder on your clit, "I want you too baby… always do… come for me."
And you fall apart, feeling him spill into you as you do.
You wish you could freeze this moment. Him, still inside you, head on your shoulder, breathless. You, safe with his arms tight around your waist, holding you so close, your mind finally quiet. Your clothes scattered around the room. The fire still crackles. The record stopped spinning a while ago.
Eventually, you make it up the stairs to the bedroom, where he wipes you clean and traces kisses down your body as he does. You don't need words now. Just the look in his eyes, and for a moment you let yourself think that everything will be okay.
You finish the bottle of wine, limbs tangled together, yet again as they so often are.
Every now and then he notices your hands start to shake again, and he just reaches over, takes it in his own and squeezes it tight. He doesn't make it a big deal. And you go to apologise but he stops you.
"It's okay darling. It's not hurting me. Why would it? It's just part of loving you."
And while deep down, you hate that this is part of loving you, you hate that this is even a part of you, no one has ever phrased it like that.
When you're nearly asleep, cocooned in his arms, his hands gently running through your hair, he starts to sing ever so softly.
"Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground. But I can see that along, love, it was you all the way down."
The words are unfamiliar to you, you don't know this song. But you hold him closer as he sings, this time these words are his.
"Leave it now, I am sky-bound. If you need to, darling lean your weight to me.
We'll float away. But if we fall. I only pray. Don't fall away from me."
summary: you're used to people leaving. any day now, you're convinced andrew will do the same.
rating: 18+
tags: fem!reader x hozier. hurt/comfort, anxiety, sex (unprotected), undertones of possessiveness
words: 1.8k
note: welcome back to another instalment of daisy writes another self-indulgent fic and no one is surprised!!! not beta read :)
fic under the cut ❊
The flames flicker and crackle in the fire, and you find your eyes fixated on the way they dance, so gently, so carefree.
You watch, trying to settle your still uneven breathing, your still trembling hands, your still stinging eyes.
"Can I get you something darling? Water? Hot chocolate? Tea?"
"Stay," you manage, holding his hand closer to your chest.
A simple 'how was your day?' is what led you here.
You were sitting on the couch. It had been a long week for the both of you. He had picked out a nice expensive wine. You had started the fire while he made pasta. One of his favourite records spinning, one that you had grown to associate nothing but quiet comfortable nights with. You listened as he hummed along from the kitchen.
You don't see each other as much as you would like to during the week. At least not lately. You spend hours together, but they are often hours sat near each other working on things. He might be playing around with a piano or scribbling down ideas or in a meeting with his label, while you sit nearby, more often than not, studying.
You tangle up each others feet while you work and he rolls his eyes throughout a meeting. You just hug him from behind sometimes when he is playing piano. And he does the same when you are on what feels like cue card six thousand, keeping you going with a kiss on the cheek and a simple offer to make you coffee.
Life lately is busy, but good. Because you're with him. It's better than it ever was when you were doing it alone. But it's a lot. Your brain feels louder than it has in a long time, maybe ever. And when he's not home, like when he's in Dublin recording, the house is so empty and quiet it makes you feel too empty and too quiet too. Like you're so empty that all the thoughts can just bounce off each other, getting louder and louder by the second.
So with the taste of wine and pasta sauce on your lips, your legs tangled up together as they so often are, the fire and the record crackling, his simple question didn't even process before you crumbled.
How was your day.
And just like that, weeks of trying to push it down all came spilling out, all completely randomly, when today wasn't even that bad. Today was one of the better days in the past few months. Today was a great day when you consider how you've felt the past few weeks.
You can remember him rushing towards you, taking your hands into his, asking what was wrong, what had happened.
But all you could manage was five shaky words, the way they sound so wobbly and breathy when you're crying.
"I'm just not okay Andy."
His name at the end was so quiet, so broken from your tears, but you knew he heard it when his head titled and he pulled you into his arms.
"My darling," he soothed, holding you close as your tears quickly became an anxiety attack, "it's okay. I've got you now. I've got you."
And now here you are. Watching the flames in the fire dance and crackle and explode and come back down again.
You are both laying on the couch, he is behind you, holding you impossibly close, pulling the blanket up to cover your still slightly trembling body. You hold his hand to your chest like a lifeline. Like how you used to cuddle your teddy bear when you were seven after you had a nightmare.
More little anxiety attacks continue to come and go, it is a constant wave, one that has been building up for weeks and is all coming to the shore now. Here, in the safety of his arms. Of his gentle soothing words. Of his touch.
"Please my darling, talk to me," he pleads, after asking again what's wrong. "What are you thinking?"
You sit up, running a hand through your hair.
You watch as he gets up off the couch and moves to kneel in front of you, reaching for your hands.
"Talk to me baby," he says so softly, but there is something beneath his softness, a little shakiness, a little worry. "It's just me. It's just you and me. Please don't shut me out."
He brings one of your hands up to his lips to kiss your knuckles ever so gently. And every bit of willpower you have breaks.
"I'm terrified you're going to leave me. Or that you don't love me. That when you say it… that every time you say you do you don't really mean it. I know it's stupid. But I… I don't know how to stop. I just want this feeling to go away. And it's just… on top of everything else going on," you move your trembling hand, almost aggressively wiping away tears, "I just… I can't even bare the thought of losing you," you choke out.
He shakes his head, "my darling, no. …I'm sorry but you couldn't be more wrong," he says gently, kissing your knuckles, "I love you, and I am afraid to say you are stuck with me."
He puts a finger to your chin, bringing your eyes to his, "I love you. I mean it. When I'm alone and I'm writing, you're all that ever comes out. Because I love you. Truly, fully, completely, with everything I have. Every inch of me, body and soul, loves you. …Wild horses couldn't drag me away from you."
You smile, "…The Sundays?"
"You know that was actually The Rolling Stones first."
"I know. I just like The Sundays version more."
"You know I can't let you slide through my hands," he starts to sing gently, pulling you up off the sofa, "wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away." He leans down, whispering in your ear, "I like The Sundays version more too."
You pull him closer, resting your head against his chest. The softness of his sweater against your cheek, his hand rubbing up and down your back slowly.
"I wish I could make it all go away," he says.
"You do," you murmur softly, just loud enough for him to hear. And it's not a lie. Just him, just being around him, it's as if he's somehow able to physically turn down the dial of all the loud anxious thoughts in your mind. There are moments every day, like this one, where it is just you and him and everything else is muffled. Like that feeling when you are sitting on a loud busy train, and you put your headphones on. That's how it feels to be with Andrew.
He's not going anywhere. You repeat it in your mind like a mantra, pulling him as close as you can, twisting your fingers into his sweater, your other hand on his arm, snaking up to his shoulder blade. He returns the desperation in your hold, resting his head against your shoulder, his hand on your lower back pulling you towards him. It's as if there is no space between you. He's not going anywhere. It won't be like last time. This will be different. This is different. He loves me. He's not going anywhere.
"I get scared of losing you too," he whispers, "I worry that one day you'll wake up and see the version of me I see in the mirror. And you won't… you won't like what you see."
You close your eyes, and shake your head against his chest, "I love you Andy."
"I know…" he sniffles a little, burying his face in your shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Me neither."
"Good."
"Good."
You pull back to lean your forehead against his before your lips meet. What starts of slow quickly becomes desperate and needy. Hands in hair, hips flushed together.
You wind up pressed against a wall, fiddling to get his pants undone, barely breaking the contact of your mouths. He pulls your shirt off. It's desperate, but it's loving, tender, gentle. The way his mouth traces down your neck to your collarbone to your chest, leaving marks as he mutters breathlessly something about how your his. So you return the favour, leaving the side of his neck covered, all because he's yours.
And he's not going anywhere you repeat again in your mind.
He undoes your jeans with one hand, slipping his fingers into you so effortlessly, and every muscle in your body instantly relaxes at his touch.
His name comes out all breathless and needy before he finally fills you.
It's just right. It always is.
Your head falls to his shoulder, too overwhelmed by the pleasure, more than happy to give him full control.
You squeeze your legs around his hips, muffling your moans into his skin, your hips meeting his thrusts, pushing him further into you.
You can feel him getting closer as his thrusts become more frantic, less controlled. "Andy… come… in me."
"God," he moans, "you sure?"
You nod, "please Andrew. Please. I want… I want you."
He groans, speeding up and pressing harder on your clit, "I want you too baby… always do… come for me."
And you fall apart, feeling him spill into you as you do.
You wish you could freeze this moment. Him, still inside you, head on your shoulder, breathless. You, safe with his arms tight around your waist, holding you so close, your mind finally quiet. Your clothes scattered around the room. The fire still crackles. The record stopped spinning a while ago.
Eventually, you make it up the stairs to the bedroom, where he wipes you clean and traces kisses down your body as he does. You don't need words now. Just the look in his eyes, and for a moment you let yourself think that everything will be okay.
You finish the bottle of wine, limbs tangled together, yet again as they so often are.
Every now and then he notices your hands start to shake again, and he just reaches over, takes it in his own and squeezes it tight. He doesn't make it a big deal. And you go to apologise but he stops you.
"It's okay darling. It's not hurting me. Why would it? It's just part of loving you."
And while deep down, you hate that this is part of loving you, you hate that this is even a part of you, no one has ever phrased it like that.
When you're nearly asleep, cocooned in his arms, his hands gently running through your hair, he starts to sing ever so softly.
"Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground. But I can see that along, love, it was you all the way down."
The words are unfamiliar to you, you don't know this song. But you hold him closer as he sings, this time these words are his.
"Leave it now, I am sky-bound. If you need to, darling lean your weight to me.
We'll float away. But if we fall. I only pray. Don't fall away from me."
summary: "You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern as he watches you take the pills.
"I'm fine. I promise Andy, it's just cramps."
rating: 16+
tags: fem!reader x hozier. hurt/comfort, periods, brief mention of vomiting, pain, established relationship
words: 5,238
note: very personal vulnerable little story that i wrote / have been working on for myself. only sharing in case it might help someone else, cause these kinds of fics always help me <3 very much not beta read
fic under the cut ❊
It's another Saturday night at one of those completely over the top celebrity events that you both share a hatred for. But it's part of the job, important for "making connections" and "good impressions" and you should never turn down an invitation from someone as prestigious as this blah blah… or something like that. His managers words ring in your ear. At least while he's still in New York, Andrew had promised to go to as many of these prestigious little parties as he possibly could before hoping to vanish off to Wicklow with you for a couple of months.
All these parties has meant lots of new dresses, all beautiful, all very expensive, all gifted from high end brands who would love for Hozier's newly public girlfriend to be spotted in one of their pieces. Not just dresses, but shoes and jewellery and bags.
The attention had been overwhelming at first, the thousands of people requesting to follow your Instagram, digging up old pictures of you, comments about your body from users hiding behind anonymous accounts. "Not who I was excepting for him." "He can do better than that." "Who even is she?" "Not as pretty as the last one."
Most of it had been positive, but the other comments stick with you more. Andrew had told you before you had gone public to stay offline. He tried to distract you with a surprise trip back home the day after you had decided to just rip the band aid off yourselves instead of hiding around all the time, living in a constant state of panic.
Being his public partner came with a lot of new experiences. For one, now you get to come to these kind of parties. A prospect that had excited him, an opportunity for these events to be far less boring with you by his side. He had admitted one evening, as you were swaying on a dance floor, how much he loved to show you off to everyone. To introduce you proudly to everyone, to gush about all your achievements. "I can point to the most gorgeous woman in this room, and I can tell everyone she's mine."
Tonight, one of Andrew's industry friends were hosting a little gala with a charity. It was a good cause, and these were genuinely good friends. For once, you had both been happy to say yes to going.
The day had started fine, you enjoyed a quiet slow morning together. Limbs tangled in sheets, coffee delivered to your hotel room. He let you help him with his curls, and he picked out your dress. Maroon, A-line, floor length, the smallest bit of boning in the waist and subtle lace floral detailing.
It had started while he was sat behind you in front of the mirror, curling the back of your hair, a task he had become very good at over the months, while you blended your eyeshadow. He was already dressed, aside from his jacket. All black, his hair down, as per your request. He picked your outfit, you picked his.
He was focusing on making each wave in your hair perfect, before pulling it back into a half up half down for you, fixing it in place with an intricate clip you had both spent half an hour earlier trying to work out. He was curling some loose pieces when he noticed your face scrunched up in that all too familiar look of pain.
"Darling?" He started gently, "are you okay?"
You nod, opening your eyes again, "I'm fine. In my handbag, there should be-"
He moved before you even had to finish, quickly returning to your side with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
"You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern, as he watched you take the pills.
You shake your head. "I'm fine. I promise Andy. Just cramps."
But you don't feel nearly as confident as you sound. And it takes another 5 minutes of convincing and proving to him you are fine before he goes back to your hair.
The cramps do subside, becoming a dull manageable ache for about an hour. Enough time for you to finish your makeup without your hands shaking from pain. Enough time for him to help you lace up the back of your dress without doubling over.
For as long as this has been a part of your life, you've become pretty good at dealing with it on your own. At pushing the pain down and moving on, life doesn't just stop because you have bad period cramps. You have learnt that the hard and painful way. You learnt that when you were sixteen, trying to concentrate in class as it felt like you were being stabbed repeatedly. You learnt that when you eighteen at your first real job, crying on your break because it just hurt so much, there were no words to describe to anyone how much it hurt. You learnt that when you were twenty, at a party, trapped in the bathroom, the door too far away, and no one you could call. You learnt at 24, that you would never have enough evidence for any doctor. You have been putting on a brave face, every month since you were fifteen years old. At the end of the day it's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps. Stop being so dramatic. It's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps, but you can't help but wince bending down to put your heels on. And he's instantly on his knees, putting them on for you while you breathe through the wave of pain. Pain spreading up your back, across to your hips. He takes your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "you don't have to come."
"It'll pass. I already feel better," you lied, forcing a smile, hoping he doesn't notice. The truth is, you don't want to be in this hotel room alone tonight. You've spent too many nights in your life, laying in a bed alone, curled up in agony. Andrew is the greatest painkiller you've ever had. His presence alone, his hand in yours… it doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes it more manageable. It will be worse if you're alone here, but you can't find the words to tell him that. So instead you just promise again that you are fine, and you will be fine.
His hand finds yours in the car, squeezing it gently, and you hold onto him tightly, not wanting to ever let go.
──────────
The night starts well. You have a table in a corner which suits you both perfectly. You eat with his hand resting on your thigh. You mingle a little, and normally you pride yourself on being independent from him, trying to talk to people on your own, but tonight that just seems too hard. Your head feels heavy, your brain wanders off to no where. You hold onto his arm, and smile and nod through conversation, adding things and answering questions as best as you can, trying to appear as much of a functioning human as possible.
You eventually wind up back at your table, sitting alone, sipping on a glass of some sort of white wine. With all the formalities of the evening done, you watch as people dance to the live jazz band, and you tap your foot to the rhythm, trying to focus on the instruments instead of the growing pain.
Your eyes scan the room for him, finding him in a corner, laughing with a small group of people. He seems to be listening more than he is conversing, occasionally taking a sip of his whisky as he laughs. His back is slightly turned to you, and as you focus on all the instruments, you become memorised by the way his curls bounce as he moves.
You try, you try as best as you can.
You fixate on the music.
You try to memorise each curl.
But it's too much.
You throw back whatever champagne is left in your glass, and wish you had more. Anything that might make you feel a little more numb. Anything to get you through a couple more hours.
The pain rises. Moving up your back and down your thighs with a fierceness and determination. As if it has a simple goal of making you writhe in agony.
You need to be alone. Just while this passes. It comes in waves. It gets worse before it gets better. You can't be here right now. Your legs tremble as you stand, the pain goes from tight and binding to stabbing as you walk. Part of you wants to b-line straight to Andrew, fall into his arms, have him hold you close. But a bigger part of you just needs the silence for minute, just needs to be alone.
The florescent lights of the bathroom are blinding, headache inducing and the room spins. But the bathroom is quiet, empty. Your hands find the sink, clutching onto the banister for dear life as you hang your head, letting out a low groan.
It's a nice bathroom. Bit over the top. Very green, very pink. Ornate gold finishings everywhere. Paired with the bright overhead lighting, it's all a bit too much. Your head is pounding, your ears are ringing. The pain has become that consistent aching again, maybe the overstimulation of this bathroom snapped the worst of it away. Maybe it was done. You sigh, going to rest your head against your arm when it hits again.
It's almost like twisting. Like there is something in you twisting. You sink down onto the green tiles, your beautiful, expensive, gifted red dress sprawled out on this bathroom floor.
You arms cross over your stomach, you're not sure why, an instinctual feeling to cover yourself, maybe to protect yourself from anymore of the twisting and stabbing, maybe out of pure need for comfort.
Twisting and pulling and stabbing and you can't stop the tears. Stabbing and twisting and twisting and twisting and you can't stop the quiet yelps of pain that leave you.
You breathe. Breathe and try to picture his voice. Breathe through it. It will pass. Just a little longer. It will pass.
──────────
Andrew has been trying to make it back to the table for a moment of peace for what feels like an eternity now. Every time he thinks he has escaped a conversation, another person pulls him away for a quick "hello" "how are you?" which turns into a one sided conversation where the other person monologues their whole life story to him and he must simply nod, adding in a word or two here and there.
Knowing you weren't feeling the well, the guilt over the fact he has unintentionally abandoned you for half the night is eating away at him a little. He just wants to make sure you're alright.
He finishes off another whisky, he's not sure what he's up to at this point, and finally makes his way towards the table, walking as quickly as he can so not to be interrupted by anyone else.
When he finally reaches said table, he finds it empty. He turns, scanning his eyes across the dance floor for you. He starts to walk around, his gut telling him that something isn't quite right — and he's praying it's just that you need a little help getting out of an awkward conversation with an overly drunk celebrity who doesn't understand your job or why you are here.
"You look a little lost Andy," one of his friends calls out over the music, handing him another glass, "here's that drink I owe you."
"Oh you didn't have to do that. You don't owe me, you never do," he says, still scanning his eyes around the room.
"You looking for something?"
"Any chance you saw my girl near the bar? Red dress?"
"Nope. Sorry mate. I can keep an eye out for you though? If I see her I'll tell her you're looking for her."
"Thanks," Andrew replies, bringing his drink to his lips.
"We're all just sitting by the red couches if you want to come over," his friend offers.
He nods, thanking him again for the drink and insisting he really should find you first, and that he'll come over once he does.
The friend (who for the purpose of telling this story we will name Matt), has known Andrew since he was in his early twenties. He knows when something is seriously worrying him.
"Come on, I'll help you look for her," Matt offers.
After about another ten minutes of futile searching, and your phone going to voicemail for the fifth time, Andrew finds himself back at the table. He rings you again, only for your phone to light up with a picture of himself tying up his hair. Damn.
──────────
You get a minute, every now and then, when you think maybe it's over. It's always only ever a minute.
You feel like that fifteen year old girl trapped in the school bathrooms again.
But now you're in a gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, that is making it too hard to breathe or move as you writhe in pain. Pain from fucking period cramps. A thought that leads you to the dawning realisation that you're likely bleeding onto this gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, which only makes the tears sting your eyes more.
You reach to hold onto anything, you're not sure why. So now you have a hand pressed against the wall. It is doing nothing to help.
The knocking on the door grows louder. You know there's at least two other bathrooms. Why can't they just use those? You hear a voice, but their words make no sense to you. The room is spinning to much.
You're not sure how long you've been in here. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour.
Maybe if you could just get a hold of Andrew somehow. He could get you your bag with your medication and maybe that would make it better. Maybe. Shit. Your bag. Your phone. You left both on the table. No phone. No way to get a hold of him.
"Fuck," you swear, hitting your hand against the wall as the stabbing builds again. You have long abandoned silence, letting little whines of pain leave your lips as you curl in on yourself again. His name slipping out a couple of times too.
──────────
"You all remember Andrew right?" Matt booms over the music to the group sitting closely at a table a little too small for the number of people there are. "Or should we call you Hozier at these kind of things?"
"No please," Andrew shakes his head with a smile.
Matt nods, directing his attention back to the group. Andrew zones out of what Matt is saying, waiting for a good time to ask if anyone might have seen you, the only reason he is now stuck sitting at this table.
His eyes start scanning across another section of the room again. He just wants to know if you're okay. He just wants to see you, see that you're talking to someone or getting a drink or something. Just so this sinking feeling in his stomach will go away.
He watches two people leave a little corridor and head towards the table. Everyone starts to shift again to make room for them, as does Andrew. Now finding himself squished in the middle of a table.
"Oh, hello handsome," one of them (who we'll call Bec), says sitting down next to him.
Andrew shuffles a little further across, trying to make his uncomfortableness as clear as possible.
"Sorry we were so long," the other friend starts, "pretty sure someone's locked themselves in one of the bathrooms. So of course there was a massive queue," she finishes with an eye roll before focusing on the new person at the table. "You're that Hozier guy right?"
"Wait that's you?" Bec exclaims, "I knew you looked familiar."
"Someone's locked in one of the bathrooms?" He asks quickly.
"Yeah," Bec nods, "so what are you doing in New York? Aren't you Irish?"
"Work stuff," he says with a small smile, "sorry, what bathroom was it?"
Bec gives him an odd look, "um… the first one on the left. Why?"
"Excuse me," he stands up, awkwardly trying to shuffle out of the table. He's pretty sure he hears a couple people asking where he's going, but he doesn't respond, and worrying about coming off as rude is not really high on his list of his priorities right now. You are.
After knocking on the door for what feels like forever with no response, he spends another ten or fifteen minutes convincing multiple staff members to use a master key — because even if it's not his sick girlfriend in there, someone else could be very much in need of help being locked in there for as long as they have been… or he could be making a terrible mistake and be interrupting something he shouldn't.
But when the door is finally opened by one of the security people, it is your red dress he is met with. You look so still, scarily so, with your back faced towards the door. The clip he had fixed in your hair hours ago, shinning and glimmering in the fluorescent light.
He pushes past the man standing at the door, sinking to the floor by your side, ever so gently turning you towards him, laying your head in his lap.
Eyes flicker open to meet his, and you watch as his eyes scan over you.
"Hey," he breathes.
"Andy… how did you-"
He shakes his head, "shh, it's alright, I've got you now."
You watch as he faces back at the door, and his words become inaudible as the pain rushes through you again. He pulls you closer, hearing the sudden change in your breathing. His hand finds yours, squeezing it tightly, reminding you he's here, he's real, he's right here.
"How bad darling?"
"Bad," you manage through gritted teeth. "Nine."
He nods, "okay, okay thank you."
"Please don't go," you whine.
"I'm not going anywhere," he reassures you softly, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead, "I'm right here baby. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."
You shake your head, going to say something, but all that comes out is a low groan of pain. Your hand squeezes his, harder than you probably should. But if it caused him any pain, you wouldn't know. When your eyes open you see his expression, full of nothing but worry, his hair falling around his face.
He fishes through his pocket, finally pulling out a little container of your pain medication.
You sigh, tears stinging your eyes.
He gets two into his palm, looking for a way to get you some water.
"Why do you have those?" You manage quietly.
"Because… just because I worry about you. And you weren't fooling me with that I'm fine shit you were doing at the hotel."
He pulls out a flask from inside his jacket, reaching up to tip the brown liquid out of it.
"Just know you're the only person in this world I would tip out my favourite whisky for."
"I can't believe you actually bought that with you."
"Shh," he helps you sit up a little, wincing when he can see how much pain it's causing you just to sit up. He passes you the flask, now full of water from the tap, and the bright blue pills, "just take these for me. Sorry if it tastes like whisky still."
It definitely does.
Your back is against the wall now, he brushes some hair out of your face. "You're so beautiful."
"…I think I'm going to be sick."
He gives you a puzzled look, before his eyes widen and he reaches for the nearby little bathroom trash can. You take it from him instantly, heaving into the trash can. He moves quickly, pulling your hair out from your face, rubbing your back gently, offering sweet soothing words.
Your breathing is heavy, you eventually fall back to him, your knees too weak to keep you up any longer than necessary. Mascara stings your eyes. The tears silently fall again. He holds you as close as he possibly can.
You are trembling against him. He watches as your shaking hands find his jacket and your fingers curl into it.
"Breathe," he says gently, "you need to breathe my love."
"I… hurts so much. …Everywhere."
He nods, "I know. I know. Just breathe with me okay? In and out, slow as you can baby."
You try to follow his breathing. You turn to the side, hoping it doesn't make the pain light up. You try to focus on anything, everything, else again. Just like before.
Everything else you can feel.
His hand running up and down your back gently, finding where he knows the cramps travel up. The relentless stabbing. The cool tiles against your skin. Twisting. His soft palm in yours. Pulling. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching. His hand on your back. His palm in yours. His hair brushing against your face when he kisses your cheek. His lips. Your eyes stinging. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching.
It's too much. You can't help but scream.
It's muffled into your own hand. The tears come down uncontrollably.
His chest hurts at the sound. It aches. He feels completely and utterly helpless. He feels horrible for not insisting you stay home.
"I'm so sorry," he offers, his eyes stinging, watching you breathe heavy, eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white from how tightly they are curled into his jacket. "I- I wish I could make it all go away."
"Andy," you choke out, and it hits you in that moment. That no one has ever really cared like this. No one has sat with you. Not when you're like this. These are moments you reserve for when you are completely alone. Alone screaming into your hand in the bathroom.
Yet, here he is. There is most certainly vomit in your hair. There is even more certainly blood on your dress. There is mascara all down your face. But yet, despite all of that, despite all you were too afraid to ever let anyone really see, is him, here, holding you close.
"I love you," you barely mumble out.
"Oh, my darling," he says, shaking his head, "I love you. I love you so much. My beautiful girl. I love you."
Your eyes squeeze shut from the pain, your hand finds your mouth again to muffle the sounds of agony. Yet his voice is all you can hear, everything else just fades away.
I love you. I love you. I love you so much. You are so strong. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. My darling, I love you. I love you, more than I will ever have words for. I love you. …Breathe for me baby. I love you. Just breathe through it. I'm right here. I love you.
──────────
Eventually you are on two feet. Two shaky feet, attached to shaky legs and a shaky aching body. His jacket is on your shoulders, he has a firm steady hand on your back, your left hand and arm using his other for support as you finally stumble out of the bathroom.
You move slow, stopping every now and then when the pain rises, and Andrew brushes off concerned party guests. Probably assuming you just can't handle your alcohol.
Andrew ushers you into a car. Guarding you the best he can from any flashing, with cameras eagerly waiting by the door for the drunk celebrities to come stumbling out as the evening goes on.
Your hand squeezes tightly into his on the way back to the hotel.
You are now sat in your hotel bed, an oversized black sweatshirt on, his name and face on the front. He is braiding your sweaty hair while you try your hardest to get some food down so you can have another dose of medication. He kisses your neck when he's done. Before sitting in front of you with a collection of pills in his hand.
And while the pills do work, giving you the most amount of pain relief you have had in hours, in a night that will certainly go down as one of the worst yet. The safety of his arms and the warmth of bed provide a different kind of reprieve. One that might take a while to get used to, to let yourself feel worthy of, but the exact kind of love you have spent so long dreaming of.
summary: "You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern as he watches you take the pills.
"I'm fine. I promise Andy, it's just cramps."
rating: 16+
tags: fem!reader x hozier. hurt/comfort, periods, brief mention of vomiting, pain, established relationship
words: 5,238
note: very personal vulnerable little story that i wrote / have been working on for myself. only sharing in case it might help someone else, cause these kinds of fics always help me <3 very much not beta read
fic under the cut ❊
It's another Saturday night at one of those completely over the top celebrity events that you both share a hatred for. But it's part of the job, important for "making connections" and "good impressions" and you should never turn down an invitation from someone as prestigious as this blah blah… or something like that. His managers words ring in your ear. At least while he's still in New York, Andrew had promised to go to as many of these prestigious little parties as he possibly could before hoping to vanish off to Wicklow with you for a couple of months.
All these parties has meant lots of new dresses, all beautiful, all very expensive, all gifted from high end brands who would love for Hozier's newly public girlfriend to be spotted in one of their pieces. Not just dresses, but shoes and jewellery and bags.
The attention had been overwhelming at first, the thousands of people requesting to follow your Instagram, digging up old pictures of you, comments about your body from users hiding behind anonymous accounts. "Not who I was excepting for him." "He can do better than that." "Who even is she?" "Not as pretty as the last one."
Most of it had been positive, but the other comments stick with you more. Andrew had told you before you had gone public to stay offline. He tried to distract you with a surprise trip back home the day after you had decided to just rip the band aid off yourselves instead of hiding around all the time, living in a constant state of panic.
Being his public partner came with a lot of new experiences. For one, now you get to come to these kind of parties. A prospect that had excited him, an opportunity for these events to be far less boring with you by his side. He had admitted one evening, as you were swaying on a dance floor, how much he loved to show you off to everyone. To introduce you proudly to everyone, to gush about all your achievements. "I can point to the most gorgeous woman in this room, and I can tell everyone she's mine."
Tonight, one of Andrew's industry friends were hosting a little gala with a charity. It was a good cause, and these were genuinely good friends. For once, you had both been happy to say yes to going.
The day had started fine, you enjoyed a quiet slow morning together. Limbs tangled in sheets, coffee delivered to your hotel room. He let you help him with his curls, and he picked out your dress. Maroon, A-line, floor length, the smallest bit of boning in the waist and subtle lace floral detailing.
It had started while he was sat behind you in front of the mirror, curling the back of your hair, a task he had become very good at over the months, while you blended your eyeshadow. He was already dressed, aside from his jacket. All black, his hair down, as per your request. He picked your outfit, you picked his.
He was focusing on making each wave in your hair perfect, before pulling it back into a half up half down for you, fixing it in place with an intricate clip you had both spent half an hour earlier trying to work out. He was curling some loose pieces when he noticed your face scrunched up in that all too familiar look of pain.
"Darling?" He started gently, "are you okay?"
You nod, opening your eyes again, "I'm fine. In my handbag, there should be-"
He moved before you even had to finish, quickly returning to your side with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
"You don't have to come tonight." He offered, voice laced with concern, as he watched you take the pills.
You shake your head. "I'm fine. I promise Andy. Just cramps."
But you don't feel nearly as confident as you sound. And it takes another 5 minutes of convincing and proving to him you are fine before he goes back to your hair.
The cramps do subside, becoming a dull manageable ache for about an hour. Enough time for you to finish your makeup without your hands shaking from pain. Enough time for him to help you lace up the back of your dress without doubling over.
For as long as this has been a part of your life, you've become pretty good at dealing with it on your own. At pushing the pain down and moving on, life doesn't just stop because you have bad period cramps. You have learnt that the hard and painful way. You learnt that when you were sixteen, trying to concentrate in class as it felt like you were being stabbed repeatedly. You learnt that when you eighteen at your first real job, crying on your break because it just hurt so much, there were no words to describe to anyone how much it hurt. You learnt that when you were twenty, at a party, trapped in the bathroom, the door too far away, and no one you could call. You learnt at 24, that you would never have enough evidence for any doctor. You have been putting on a brave face, every month since you were fifteen years old. At the end of the day it's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps. Stop being so dramatic. It's just period cramps.
It's just period cramps, but you can't help but wince bending down to put your heels on. And he's instantly on his knees, putting them on for you while you breathe through the wave of pain. Pain spreading up your back, across to your hips. He takes your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "you don't have to come."
"It'll pass. I already feel better," you lied, forcing a smile, hoping he doesn't notice. The truth is, you don't want to be in this hotel room alone tonight. You've spent too many nights in your life, laying in a bed alone, curled up in agony. Andrew is the greatest painkiller you've ever had. His presence alone, his hand in yours… it doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes it more manageable. It will be worse if you're alone here, but you can't find the words to tell him that. So instead you just promise again that you are fine, and you will be fine.
His hand finds yours in the car, squeezing it gently, and you hold onto him tightly, not wanting to ever let go.
──────────
The night starts well. You have a table in a corner which suits you both perfectly. You eat with his hand resting on your thigh. You mingle a little, and normally you pride yourself on being independent from him, trying to talk to people on your own, but tonight that just seems too hard. Your head feels heavy, your brain wanders off to no where. You hold onto his arm, and smile and nod through conversation, adding things and answering questions as best as you can, trying to appear as much of a functioning human as possible.
You eventually wind up back at your table, sitting alone, sipping on a glass of some sort of white wine. With all the formalities of the evening done, you watch as people dance to the live jazz band, and you tap your foot to the rhythm, trying to focus on the instruments instead of the growing pain.
Your eyes scan the room for him, finding him in a corner, laughing with a small group of people. He seems to be listening more than he is conversing, occasionally taking a sip of his whisky as he laughs. His back is slightly turned to you, and as you focus on all the instruments, you become memorised by the way his curls bounce as he moves.
You try, you try as best as you can.
You fixate on the music.
You try to memorise each curl.
But it's too much.
You throw back whatever champagne is left in your glass, and wish you had more. Anything that might make you feel a little more numb. Anything to get you through a couple more hours.
The pain rises. Moving up your back and down your thighs with a fierceness and determination. As if it has a simple goal of making you writhe in agony.
You need to be alone. Just while this passes. It comes in waves. It gets worse before it gets better. You can't be here right now. Your legs tremble as you stand, the pain goes from tight and binding to stabbing as you walk. Part of you wants to b-line straight to Andrew, fall into his arms, have him hold you close. But a bigger part of you just needs the silence for minute, just needs to be alone.
The florescent lights of the bathroom are blinding, headache inducing and the room spins. But the bathroom is quiet, empty. Your hands find the sink, clutching onto the banister for dear life as you hang your head, letting out a low groan.
It's a nice bathroom. Bit over the top. Very green, very pink. Ornate gold finishings everywhere. Paired with the bright overhead lighting, it's all a bit too much. Your head is pounding, your ears are ringing. The pain has become that consistent aching again, maybe the overstimulation of this bathroom snapped the worst of it away. Maybe it was done. You sigh, going to rest your head against your arm when it hits again.
It's almost like twisting. Like there is something in you twisting. You sink down onto the green tiles, your beautiful, expensive, gifted red dress sprawled out on this bathroom floor.
You arms cross over your stomach, you're not sure why, an instinctual feeling to cover yourself, maybe to protect yourself from anymore of the twisting and stabbing, maybe out of pure need for comfort.
Twisting and pulling and stabbing and you can't stop the tears. Stabbing and twisting and twisting and twisting and you can't stop the quiet yelps of pain that leave you.
You breathe. Breathe and try to picture his voice. Breathe through it. It will pass. Just a little longer. It will pass.
──────────
Andrew has been trying to make it back to the table for a moment of peace for what feels like an eternity now. Every time he thinks he has escaped a conversation, another person pulls him away for a quick "hello" "how are you?" which turns into a one sided conversation where the other person monologues their whole life story to him and he must simply nod, adding in a word or two here and there.
Knowing you weren't feeling the well, the guilt over the fact he has unintentionally abandoned you for half the night is eating away at him a little. He just wants to make sure you're alright.
He finishes off another whisky, he's not sure what he's up to at this point, and finally makes his way towards the table, walking as quickly as he can so not to be interrupted by anyone else.
When he finally reaches said table, he finds it empty. He turns, scanning his eyes across the dance floor for you. He starts to walk around, his gut telling him that something isn't quite right — and he's praying it's just that you need a little help getting out of an awkward conversation with an overly drunk celebrity who doesn't understand your job or why you are here.
"You look a little lost Andy," one of his friends calls out over the music, handing him another glass, "here's that drink I owe you."
"Oh you didn't have to do that. You don't owe me, you never do," he says, still scanning his eyes around the room.
"You looking for something?"
"Any chance you saw my girl near the bar? Red dress?"
"Nope. Sorry mate. I can keep an eye out for you though? If I see her I'll tell her you're looking for her."
"Thanks," Andrew replies, bringing his drink to his lips.
"We're all just sitting by the red couches if you want to come over," his friend offers.
He nods, thanking him again for the drink and insisting he really should find you first, and that he'll come over once he does.
The friend (who for the purpose of telling this story we will name Matt), has known Andrew since he was in his early twenties. He knows when something is seriously worrying him.
"Come on, I'll help you look for her," Matt offers.
After about another ten minutes of futile searching, and your phone going to voicemail for the fifth time, Andrew finds himself back at the table. He rings you again, only for your phone to light up with a picture of himself tying up his hair. Damn.
──────────
You get a minute, every now and then, when you think maybe it's over. It's always only ever a minute.
You feel like that fifteen year old girl trapped in the school bathrooms again.
But now you're in a gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, that is making it too hard to breathe or move as you writhe in pain. Pain from fucking period cramps. A thought that leads you to the dawning realisation that you're likely bleeding onto this gorgeous, gifted, expensive dress, which only makes the tears sting your eyes more.
You reach to hold onto anything, you're not sure why. So now you have a hand pressed against the wall. It is doing nothing to help.
The knocking on the door grows louder. You know there's at least two other bathrooms. Why can't they just use those? You hear a voice, but their words make no sense to you. The room is spinning to much.
You're not sure how long you've been in here. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour.
Maybe if you could just get a hold of Andrew somehow. He could get you your bag with your medication and maybe that would make it better. Maybe. Shit. Your bag. Your phone. You left both on the table. No phone. No way to get a hold of him.
"Fuck," you swear, hitting your hand against the wall as the stabbing builds again. You have long abandoned silence, letting little whines of pain leave your lips as you curl in on yourself again. His name slipping out a couple of times too.
──────────
"You all remember Andrew right?" Matt booms over the music to the group sitting closely at a table a little too small for the number of people there are. "Or should we call you Hozier at these kind of things?"
"No please," Andrew shakes his head with a smile.
Matt nods, directing his attention back to the group. Andrew zones out of what Matt is saying, waiting for a good time to ask if anyone might have seen you, the only reason he is now stuck sitting at this table.
His eyes start scanning across another section of the room again. He just wants to know if you're okay. He just wants to see you, see that you're talking to someone or getting a drink or something. Just so this sinking feeling in his stomach will go away.
He watches two people leave a little corridor and head towards the table. Everyone starts to shift again to make room for them, as does Andrew. Now finding himself squished in the middle of a table.
"Oh, hello handsome," one of them (who we'll call Bec), says sitting down next to him.
Andrew shuffles a little further across, trying to make his uncomfortableness as clear as possible.
"Sorry we were so long," the other friend starts, "pretty sure someone's locked themselves in one of the bathrooms. So of course there was a massive queue," she finishes with an eye roll before focusing on the new person at the table. "You're that Hozier guy right?"
"Wait that's you?" Bec exclaims, "I knew you looked familiar."
"Someone's locked in one of the bathrooms?" He asks quickly.
"Yeah," Bec nods, "so what are you doing in New York? Aren't you Irish?"
"Work stuff," he says with a small smile, "sorry, what bathroom was it?"
Bec gives him an odd look, "um… the first one on the left. Why?"
"Excuse me," he stands up, awkwardly trying to shuffle out of the table. He's pretty sure he hears a couple people asking where he's going, but he doesn't respond, and worrying about coming off as rude is not really high on his list of his priorities right now. You are.
After knocking on the door for what feels like forever with no response, he spends another ten or fifteen minutes convincing multiple staff members to use a master key — because even if it's not his sick girlfriend in there, someone else could be very much in need of help being locked in there for as long as they have been… or he could be making a terrible mistake and be interrupting something he shouldn't.
But when the door is finally opened by one of the security people, it is your red dress he is met with. You look so still, scarily so, with your back faced towards the door. The clip he had fixed in your hair hours ago, shinning and glimmering in the fluorescent light.
He pushes past the man standing at the door, sinking to the floor by your side, ever so gently turning you towards him, laying your head in his lap.
Eyes flicker open to meet his, and you watch as his eyes scan over you.
"Hey," he breathes.
"Andy… how did you-"
He shakes his head, "shh, it's alright, I've got you now."
You watch as he faces back at the door, and his words become inaudible as the pain rushes through you again. He pulls you closer, hearing the sudden change in your breathing. His hand finds yours, squeezing it tightly, reminding you he's here, he's real, he's right here.
"How bad darling?"
"Bad," you manage through gritted teeth. "Nine."
He nods, "okay, okay thank you."
"Please don't go," you whine.
"I'm not going anywhere," he reassures you softly, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead, "I'm right here baby. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."
You shake your head, going to say something, but all that comes out is a low groan of pain. Your hand squeezes his, harder than you probably should. But if it caused him any pain, you wouldn't know. When your eyes open you see his expression, full of nothing but worry, his hair falling around his face.
He fishes through his pocket, finally pulling out a little container of your pain medication.
You sigh, tears stinging your eyes.
He gets two into his palm, looking for a way to get you some water.
"Why do you have those?" You manage quietly.
"Because… just because I worry about you. And you weren't fooling me with that I'm fine shit you were doing at the hotel."
He pulls out a flask from inside his jacket, reaching up to tip the brown liquid out of it.
"Just know you're the only person in this world I would tip out my favourite whisky for."
"I can't believe you actually bought that with you."
"Shh," he helps you sit up a little, wincing when he can see how much pain it's causing you just to sit up. He passes you the flask, now full of water from the tap, and the bright blue pills, "just take these for me. Sorry if it tastes like whisky still."
It definitely does.
Your back is against the wall now, he brushes some hair out of your face. "You're so beautiful."
"…I think I'm going to be sick."
He gives you a puzzled look, before his eyes widen and he reaches for the nearby little bathroom trash can. You take it from him instantly, heaving into the trash can. He moves quickly, pulling your hair out from your face, rubbing your back gently, offering sweet soothing words.
Your breathing is heavy, you eventually fall back to him, your knees too weak to keep you up any longer than necessary. Mascara stings your eyes. The tears silently fall again. He holds you as close as he possibly can.
You are trembling against him. He watches as your shaking hands find his jacket and your fingers curl into it.
"Breathe," he says gently, "you need to breathe my love."
"I… hurts so much. …Everywhere."
He nods, "I know. I know. Just breathe with me okay? In and out, slow as you can baby."
You try to follow his breathing. You turn to the side, hoping it doesn't make the pain light up. You try to focus on anything, everything, else again. Just like before.
Everything else you can feel.
His hand running up and down your back gently, finding where he knows the cramps travel up. The relentless stabbing. The cool tiles against your skin. Twisting. His soft palm in yours. Pulling. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching. His hand on your back. His palm in yours. His hair brushing against your face when he kisses your cheek. His lips. Your eyes stinging. Stabbing. Twisting. Aching.
It's too much. You can't help but scream.
It's muffled into your own hand. The tears come down uncontrollably.
His chest hurts at the sound. It aches. He feels completely and utterly helpless. He feels horrible for not insisting you stay home.
"I'm so sorry," he offers, his eyes stinging, watching you breathe heavy, eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white from how tightly they are curled into his jacket. "I- I wish I could make it all go away."
"Andy," you choke out, and it hits you in that moment. That no one has ever really cared like this. No one has sat with you. Not when you're like this. These are moments you reserve for when you are completely alone. Alone screaming into your hand in the bathroom.
Yet, here he is. There is most certainly vomit in your hair. There is even more certainly blood on your dress. There is mascara all down your face. But yet, despite all of that, despite all you were too afraid to ever let anyone really see, is him, here, holding you close.
"I love you," you barely mumble out.
"Oh, my darling," he says, shaking his head, "I love you. I love you so much. My beautiful girl. I love you."
Your eyes squeeze shut from the pain, your hand finds your mouth again to muffle the sounds of agony. Yet his voice is all you can hear, everything else just fades away.
I love you. I love you. I love you so much. You are so strong. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. My darling, I love you. I love you, more than I will ever have words for. I love you. …Breathe for me baby. I love you. Just breathe through it. I'm right here. I love you.
──────────
Eventually you are on two feet. Two shaky feet, attached to shaky legs and a shaky aching body. His jacket is on your shoulders, he has a firm steady hand on your back, your left hand and arm using his other for support as you finally stumble out of the bathroom.
You move slow, stopping every now and then when the pain rises, and Andrew brushes off concerned party guests. Probably assuming you just can't handle your alcohol.
Andrew ushers you into a car. Guarding you the best he can from any flashing, with cameras eagerly waiting by the door for the drunk celebrities to come stumbling out as the evening goes on.
Your hand squeezes tightly into his on the way back to the hotel.
You are now sat in your hotel bed, an oversized black sweatshirt on, his name and face on the front. He is braiding your sweaty hair while you try your hardest to get some food down so you can have another dose of medication. He kisses your neck when he's done. Before sitting in front of you with a collection of pills in his hand.
And while the pills do work, giving you the most amount of pain relief you have had in hours, in a night that will certainly go down as one of the worst yet. The safety of his arms and the warmth of bed provide a different kind of reprieve. One that might take a while to get used to, to let yourself feel worthy of, but the exact kind of love you have spent so long dreaming of.
There are some things that no one teaches you, love
Summary: You're having bad period cramps. Andy helps, as he always does.
Rating: General Audiences
Tags: fluff
Word Count: 842
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at RPF, I hope you like it! It goes without saying that I don't know Hozier irl. Big thank you to @man-i-love-fanfiction for both convincing me to write in the first place and being the kindest, most enthusiastic and supportive friend and reader (ily).
Requests are open if you're so inclined!
AO3 link / fic under the cut
"Baby?" Andy stands in the door frame, big eyes filled with concern, obviously having overheard the muffled sobs coming from your room. You'd tried to keep them in, but they just kept coming, kept wracking your body.
"I'm sorry, baby, I know you're in a meeting, I didn't want to disturb you." You say. Or, attempt to say. It's hard to make out the sentence through your tears. Luckily, Andy knows you well enough to piece together what you're saying and as soon as it dawns on him, he more or less runs to your side.
"Baby no, you don't need to be sorry for anything," he says as he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. "Just tell me what's wrong and how I can make it better."
He rubs soothing circles into your back and waits for the sobs to subside. You don't immediately volunteer the problem, so he pulls back, just a little, so that he can make eye contact with you.
"What is it darling? Bad brain day? Migraine? Hips?" As he rattles through your list of common ailments and you shake your head at each one, his worry increases.
Wordlessly, you move his hand down to your stomach, and his other hand instinctively mirrors the placement on your back.
"Is it back again?" His tone is gentle and kind, and you can feel how much he wishes he could absolve you of this pain. You nod, not wanting to say it out loud but needing him to know all the same.
"Cramps too, or just the general shittiness of it?" You love this man with your whole heart. He knows you well and knows exactly how to dance around the words without ever making you feel unseen. Well, he is a wordsmith, after all.
"Cramps too." You manage to grit out between the waves of pain. "Really bad ones."
"Okay love, I'm gonna go and grab you a hot water bottle and some painkillers and then you can try and go to sleep, yeah?"
You manage to utter your assent, still doubled over with pain and nausea while he goes to gather the promised items.
When he comes back a few minutes later, you can't stop a soft smile from spreading across your face. The man is ridiculous when it comes to looking after you. He's nudging the door back open with his foot and peering over a comically large pile of things as he narrowly avoids tripping over his own feet.
As he all but flings the contents of his arms onto the bed, a small laugh escapes you. You arch an eyebrow at him as he crawls up to sit next to you.
"Andy, why in gods name have you brought half the house up here?" God you love this man.
"Well, my love, let me show you what I've got up my sleeve."
Along with the painkillers (gratefully gulped down with a glass of water) and the hot water bottle (already settled against your abdomen by one of his large hands), he seems to have brought enough snacks to sustain a small army, a variety of board and card games, one of his hoodies, a cuddly toy, a laptop, a fan and your favourite soft drink. He shows you each of the objects, reminding you both of how sweet he is, and how baffling he can be sometimes.
"You're going to need to explain a bit, Andy, I'm not exactly at my best right now and I'm struggling to connect the dots a little."
Of course, he's only too happy to oblige.
"Well sweetheart, the food and drink is fairly self explanatory I think. This," he says, indicating the cuddly toy "is for if you need to squeeze something or hold onto something as well as me. The hoodie is because I know you like to be in something oversized when you're going through this, especially if it's mine."
He stops for a moment, looking down at you and then laughs when he sees you are, in fact, wearing the t-shirt he changed out of before his zoom call this morning.
"But I see you've beaten me to it on that front. Anyway, the games and the laptop are in case you can't sleep and need a distraction. And then there's the last thing."
You look at him, confused, not having spotted any other objects. It looks like he's not going to elaborate without prompting though, so you ask him what the last thing is.
"Me, of course."
If anything, that's made you more confused. You know he's got a busy day planned - that's why you were trying not to disturb him, after all.
"I rearranged my meetings. I know this is tough on you and I just want to take care of you as best I can. We can cuddle til you fall asleep, or watch a movie, or play something if you need distracting. Whatever you need, I'm here with you."
You might be in extreme pain right now, but you know you have never felt more loved.
That came natural as a dream you didn't know that you were in
Summary: Cramps are bad. Andrew is not.
Rating: General Audiences
Tags: fluff, periods, comfort
Word Count: 407
Author's Note: Little drabble about periods written for the lovely Phoebe @man-i-love-fanfiction and betaed by the wonderful Daisy @comehereoohlala
Requests are open if you're so inclined!
AO3 link / fic under the cut
Your cramps have been fairly relentless for the last few hours, waking you from your sleep and leaving you curled in the foetal position as your body shakes with heaving sobs. You don’t have the energy to go and get painkillers or a hot water bottle, so you’re just staying as still as you possibly can in the hope that it’ll fade on its own.
“Love?” Andy’s speech is slurred with sleep as he peers at you through bleary eyes. When he takes in your tear-stained cheeks, awareness slams into him and he’s straight by your side. He curls his body around yours, careful not to jostle you. Strong hands massage the sore muscles he can reach as he kisses the side of your face so sweetly and tenderly.
“Can I get you a hot water bottle baby? Maybe some chocolate too?”
The tears really start coming now, at the relief and gratitude of being so known, so well taken care of, so loved.
It takes you a few tries to get speech out through your gulping sobs, but you manage it eventually.
“Y-yes please, and- fuck – some painkillers too please.”
His eyebrows shoot up as he realises you’re bearing this pain with no relief at all and he feels awful to know you’ve been struggling while he was asleep. He gives you a soft squeeze and kisses you on the forehead before getting up.
“Of course, love, I’ll be right back. Just hang in there for me for a couple more minutes, yeah?”
You nod, tears slowing now that you know help is on the way. He’s back in a few minutes, panting a little, and a smile tugs at your lips at his haste. He uncaps the bottle of water for you and puts a couple of painkillers in your hand, your smile widening at the small ways he’s making things easier for you. As promised, he holds the hot water bottle against your abdomen with one hand and starts unwrapping chocolate for you with the other. You feel so, so lucky, the pain beginning to leech out of you through the combination of drugs and heat, the anxiety following at the sensation of his body against yours, chocolate sweet on your tongue.
He holds you until the pain ebbs and beyond, wanting nothing more than to absorb your pain. You fall asleep like that, still curled up, his body surrounding yours, keeping you safe.
Ok let me know if this makes no sense at all. But, Hozier x reader where reader is also a famous artist and they've been together for awhile (when I think awhile I mean like during the making of Wasteland, Baby!). Instead of Bedouine being on That You Are it's the reader and they finally go public when he performs it at the 3 LA shows. So when it was released people just thought it was like a cute little feature. Is that too much? Sorry!
soft spoken secret | hozier
pairing: hozier x fiance!reader
category:fluff
cw: none
wc: 1.3k
a/n: we're all going to pretend like it hasn't been months since I posted a fic. this ask may or may not be from september, to the anon who requested it Im so sorry it took so long for me to write and I hope it lives up to what you were imagining.
main masterlist hozier masterlist
The first time you heard the demo you weren't in the studio, but rather at the doorway of your kitchen.
Andrew had one socked foot propped on the bottom of a bar stool with his hoodie sleeves pushed up just barely past his elbows. He was quietly humming a melody unfamiliar to you while preparing dinner. His phone balanced against the fruit bowl that housed bananas you'd swear to use for banana bread this time before they inevitably got thrown out.
Listening closer, you realize his phone is playing a rough voice memo. You knew the stripped down version of the demo all too well. The version of an idea he had in the middle of the night with only his guitar and his voice to bring it to life.
You leaned against the doorway with a fond look on your face. Taking a sip from the mug that held your peppermint tea, your throat still raw from the week of late night sessions at your own studio.
Quietly walking over to where your fiancé was sat, you place your mug down next to his.
He glanced up as your mug met the table and his face flushed as a sheepish grin painted its way onto his lips.
"You weren't supposed to hear that yet," he muttered, pushing the chopped tomatoes into a bowl with other vegetables. "It's not finished."
You look at him with a soft smile. "It's beautiful."
He didn't look at you right away. "It's not ready," he said, like the idea of sharing the song made his ribs tighten.
You reached out to him, brushing a stray curl out of his face. "You know things don't have to be complete to be admired, Andy."
The early drafts were always your favorite. The raw ones, ones with unmistakable breaths and fingers fumbling on strings. The ones that still felt like secrets.
He finally looked at you then, eyes steady. There was a pause. Not one of hesitance or awkwardness, one that lived in the warmth of your love.
"I wrote it with you in mind," he said quietly.
You blinked.
Your throat, already worn by too many late nights in the booth, suddenly tightened in a different way.
He went back to stirring the vegetables, like he hadn't tilted the axis of your world with those seven simple words.
You moved to sit next to him, a breath leaving your lungs as the memo continued to play from the speaker of his phone. His voice crackled from the tiny speaker, a small thing but full of conviction. You remembered this feeling. The first time he played Wasteland, Baby! for you in an empty green room in Boston. The first time he'd sent you a half written verse on tour, asking,
"Does this sound like something?" It always sounded like something.
"You want me to sing on it?" you asked after a beat.
His stirring paused for only a second before he nodded.
"I...l'd like that," he murmured. "But I wasn't going to ask. Didn't want it to feel like you were doing me a favor."
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand,
"It wouldn't."
"I know," he says. "But still, it's important you want to."
"I always want to."
He smiled again. Quiet and crooked, like he couldn't quite contain it.
And even though he didn't say it, you heard what he meant. I trust you with this.
-
The first time you stepped in the booth to lay scratch vocals, the air was thick with expectations.
Not from Andrew. Never from him, but rather from yourself.
You wanted to do it justice. The way he looked when he sang it. The weight in his voice.
When the engineer gave you the thumbs up from the other side of the glass, you adjusted the headphones and released a breath you didn't know you were holding.
Andrew sat behind the console, arms crossed, brow furrowed in that way he did when he was trying not to hover. You caught his eye through the glass and gave him a quick thumbs up.
He grinned and then the track rolled.
You didn't try to match his tone. You leaned into your own, something soft and low. It didn't matter your voice was still spent from the weeks of working on your own album, it worked. The contrast, the give and take.
When the bridge hit you shut your eyes and imagined yourself in the kitchen again. The fruit bowl. His socked foot on the stool. That moment in the everyday when your soft love finds its way into the room.
You sang from there. From that memory. From that love.
When you came out of the booth, Andrew was quiet at first. Simply looking at you with fondness that could only be given by someone who knew every crack of your soul.
Finally he spoke, "You sound like the light in the middle of the room."
You blinked, almost stunned, "What?"
He looked a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I mean your voice. It feels like the moment before you turn a lamp on. When the dark's still soft. Safe."
You laughed, "You're ridiculous."
He smiled into his shoulder and shrugged,
"Maybe."
But then he kissed you later in the parking lot, one hand curled around the back of your neck and the other pressed against your lower back, you believed him.
-
Months passed.
The album came together like sea glass. Jagged at first, then smoother, shinier with each passing wave. That You Are nestled itself gently in the tracklist, unannounced, just another soft prayer in a long line of reverent songs.
When the final masters were sent off you both sat back on the couch and listened to the album front to back.
He held your hand during De Selby (Part 1).
You cried a little during I, Carrion.
And when That You Are played neither of you said a word.
Just breathed in time.
He kissed your knuckles when it ended.
-
The rollout came with the usual chaos of press and promo, and when the fans first heard the track their reactions were immediate and intense.
Speculations of the collaboration made its way around social media. Many just assumed you were close friends. Andrew simply asked you to feature on this song.
But then LA happened, and you'd been watching from the wings all night. Fingers cold despite the heat of the stage lights. Nerves singing under your skin like a live wire.
He hadn't told anyone, not even you. All he did was ask.
"Will you be there?"
"Always."
So when he nodded in your direction that night, right before your verse, you moved.
It was graceful. Not theatrical. You simply walked onto the stage and took your place beside him, like it'd been routine in softer, quieter ways for years.
The audience didn't erupt, they watched in a soft spoken admiration.
And you sang.
You didn't look at him the whole time. But he looked at you. Like a man worshipping the sun for directing her light onto him.
After the third LA show, when the secret was well and truly out and the fan theories had evolved into fan theses, the two of you sat on the rooftop of your hotel, knees touching, your check pressed into his shoulder.
He passed you a glass of something sweet and said. "You're part of my story now."
You snorted. "As if I wasn't already."
He looked at you sideways. "Think they'll be mad we didn't say anything?"
"No," you said, voice sure and clear. "They'll understand. Some things are better revealed slowly."
He nodded, thoughtful. Then after a moment whispered, "You want to write another one?"
You titled your head up. "Another song?"
He softly shook his head. "Another secret."
You laughed then. "What kind of secret?"
"I dunno," he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Something to live in. Something to protect until it's ready."
You leaned into him, your smile soft.
"I'd like that," you said.
And below you, the city pulsed like a heartbeat. Unbothered, electric, and completely unaware that somewhere in the dark, two people were quietly writing their next verse.
It's a simple assignment, really. Vocal rest. You know it's not that easy for him.
Word Count: 4.3k
Pairing: afab!reader x hozier
Tags: Smut (18+!), sub andrew, mild size kink, piv sex, overstimulation, edging, a bit of hair pulling, creampie <3
Beta by the masterful @pendingnomdeplume
Prompt from @uprightpillar
Req from this anon
Read it on AO3
A simple cough had been what did it. You had told him it was too early to go swimming, the water would be too cold, but he didn't listen. Typical. When he'd come down with a cold, you'd taken your fair share of I told you so, and cared for him the best you could while he coughed his lungs out on the couch. You'd been out when you got the text from him. Vocal rest, he said. Doctor's orders, with an eye roll. It wasn't the first time, but it was certainly more necessary than the last. His voice had been hoarse all day, raspy and often punctuated with a cough each time he spoke a bit too loud. He was no longer sick, but the damage to his throat still lingered.
It was all less than ideal. He had a run of shows coming up soon, a few festivals he'd been looking forward to for some time. There was no choice, he had to recover his voice, and he had to do it quickly. When you finally returned home, a bag of groceries in your hands, he was sprawled out on the couch in the living room, his head on one of the decorative pillows.
"Hi, love," you greeted him with a smile, setting the bag down on the counter.
He laid the book in his hands down onto his chest, still open, and gave you a soft smile. He pointed at you, then moved his thumbs rapidly – 'did you get my text?'
You nodded and sighed, turning away to start emptying the contents of the bag on the counter. "Bummer. How long?" You waited for a reply, before realizing. You spun to face him, to find a smartass smirk on his face. He didn't even have to speak to find a way to be snarky.
He held up three fingers, then flattened his hand and tilted it back and forth.
"Three-ish days?"
He nodded to confirm.
The gears were already turning in your head.
Things were quiet in the house the following days. Air that would normally be filled with your chatting voices was instead punctuated by the occasional bird chirp, the rustle of paper as a page was turned, or the snap of his fingers, if he wanted to get your attention for something. He was mostly able to communicate with you with gestures and looks alone; the two of you had known each other long enough that it felt like half of your communication was mental, anyway.
When he couldn't get his point across that way, he'd text you. Pretty soon, your texts looked like the ramblings of a crazy man. Random things, lines from his book that he wanted to share, whatever was on his mind that he wanted to talk about. It was cute in its own way. Like a very long, nonsensical, convoluted love letter taking place over many hours. He loved you, and he loved to just talk to you, even when he couldn't do so verbally.
It was the end of the second day, and another 24 hours remained before he could speak again. You'd just finished cleaning up from dinner, a task you had to fight to accomplish. He'd insisted on being the one to both cook and clean tonight. He wanted to treat you after you'd spent the last week nursing him back to health while he shivered, sniffled, and coughed. While he'd been successful at physically barricading you from the kitchen, you'd slipped in unnoticed to do the dishes.
You were curled up next to him on the couch, some movie neither of you cared for all that much on the TV. Your head rested on his lap, one of his hands draped across your hip and the other nested in your hair, absently scratching your scalp gently. These moments were your favorite part of being with him. The quiet drone of the movie, the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne that always clung to him and mixed with the detergent you used to wash both of your clothes. Warmth radiated from his body into you, blanketing your senses like a quilt. Normally the silence would be punctuated by his comments about the movie, always about the parts he had no business critiquing, but you loved to hear his complaints anyway.
A tap on your shoulder startled you out of the pleasant daze you'd drifted off into. You looked up at him, and he gave you a smile followed by putting his lips together in a kissy face. You shifted and twisted, pulling yourself off of his lap and onto your knees. He watched you the whole time, putting a hand softly on the back of your head once you were situated. Placing a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, you leaned in, your lips meeting in a slow kiss.
Each kiss was more pleasant than the last. The softness of his lips, the tickle of his beard, the silent sigh he let out when you pulled away, it all had you blushing. You didn't even think about it when you tossed a leg around him, straddling his lap as your hands came up to rest on the sides of his face. His lips were parted, his eyes shifting between your gaze and your lips, waiting impatiently for you to come back for more. And you did, of course you did. Slow, soft kisses gradually turned deep and frantic, and when his tongue slipped against yours, this was suddenly something entirely different.
A look from him was usually a more than sufficient request for sex. He merely had to give you those eyes you'd seen so many times, and you'd let yourself be whisked away to the bedroom. Yet, on the offhand occasion that he wanted you to be in charge, it was a different look. Subtle, but different. And when you pulled back to read his gaze, you saw it there. This look was different. It was a desperate, pleading, begging type of look, so much so that you wondered if you were just imagining it. But when his hands grabbed at the hem of your shirt, his brows tipped up and his mouth parted as if he wanted to speak, you saw it plain as day.
"I dunno, baby," you cooed, responding to his gaze as if he'd asked you the question out loud. "You really should rest that lovely voice of yours." You touched a finger gently to his throat, feeling the muscles there flex as he licked his lips and swallowed.
He brought a hand to his mouth, pinching his index finger and thumb together and running them across his lips. I'll be quiet.
You giggled, tilting your head at him. "Do you really think you can stay silent for me?"
He nodded quickly, placing a hand over yours where it rested on his cheek. The length of his fingers completely covered yours, and for a moment you felt dizzy with lust. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, yet he gave himself to you so willingly. On days like this, he would crawl over broken glass if you told him to. His lips formed a single word, one you read easily – please.
Andrew was a vocal man. Half of the time, he would make more noise than you would, and it was one of your favorite things about him. The moans, the whimpers, the breathy whispers of your name, all of it was so him. All of it in that accent you loved, it was enough to drive you crazy. He loved to talk, he loved to make you blush and send butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. It had been torture the last time he'd been on a rest like this, but somewhat alleviated by the fact that he'd been away, and you'd been at home. Now, you were together, and he couldn't make a peep. The idea of it sent a wave of heat through you, prickling your skin and putting a smile on your lips.
He reached for you as you climbed off of him, wanting you to stay right where you were. But he followed quickly when you offered a hand, leading the two of you away to the bedroom with a giggle. You both moved like a well rehearsed dance – your bodies a mess of tangled limbs and flying fabric as you stripped each other bare. Within moments, he was on his back beneath you, his hands holding your hair out of the way while you planted kisses down his neck and to his collarbones.
This sight was a rare one, him splayed out beneath you like this, his hair fanned out on the blankets. What a beautiful sight it was. You could feel the delicate, accelerated thrum of his pulse where your lips met with the veins of his neck. His skin was so warm as you ran your fingers up his chest, tracing along his ribs, the rise and fall of it timed nearly perfectly with your own quick breaths.
"Sit," you told him, pulling back from him and nodding towards the headboard.
He didn't hesitate for a moment, pulling himself back to rest against the mound of pillows in front of the headboard. Everything moved as if in slow motion, your eyes drawn across every muscle and bone, and down the long, soft lines of his body. The scene looked like a painting come to life when he held his hands out to you with a smile, and despite the silence, you could swear you heard him tell you to c'mere.
You crawled up to him, your legs straddling one thigh. He let out a sigh as you settled your weight onto him, running his fingers up through your hair to guide your mouth back to his. Your hips began to glide back and forth of their own accord, his breath catching in his throat as he broke away and looked down to where you'd started grinding against him. Hands settled on your waist, though he knew better than to grab too hard. You were setting the pace.
Your eyes trailed down the length of his chest, down to where his cock rested, already hard and leaking onto his stomach. You trailed a finger along it, watching it twitch, and the involuntary jerk of his hips when you wrapped a hand around him. No matter how many times you found yourself here, it would never fail to give you butterflies.
There was something sacred about this. The lack of noise made it feel much closer, somehow. Rain had started to fall, pattering softly against the windows and darkening the room, now only lit by the bedside lamps. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, still grinding against his thigh, listening to him try to keep his breathing even as you stroked his cock in time with the movement of your hips. It was like quiet music, the rain on the window, his strangled breaths, the quiet whines and moans from your lips.
"You're being so good for me," you whispered into his neck.
Andrew's breaths stopped, his fingers tightening against your waist, his head falling forward to rest on your shoulder. You ran your thumb along the bead of arousal collected at the tip of his cock, the wet sound of it under your fingers so loud in the near-silent room. You were sure if he could speak, he'd be begging to taste you. Feeling the wetness between your legs, soaking his skin, must have been like torture.
"What do you want, baby?" You asked softly, pulling back to look in his eyes, your hips slowing to a lazy grind of your clit on him that made you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.
He took a hand from your waist, moving to reach between your legs.
"Ah, love, no." You shook your head, watching the movement of his hand jolt to a stop as he looked at you with that same pleading expression. "I asked what you wanted. I didn't tell you to take it," you corrected.
His teeth clenched and his jaw tight, he set his hand back where it was on your waist, behaving himself.
"You want to touch me?" You asked with a tilt of your head, your voice slow and quiet, every syllable accompanied by the sound of rain on the bedroom windows.
Nodding his head, his eyes darted from your face to the spot where your clit brushed against his leg, ever so slightly out of his sight.
"Good job," you commended, watching the blush spread across his cheeks at the praise, your hand around his cock resuming its movement. "I'd tell you to use your words, but, well…"
His shoulders rattled with silent laughter as he reached down between the two of you. There was an air of desperation to his movements that didn't match the smile on his lips, his hand shaking the slightest bit as he slid a finger into you. It already had you feeling like jelly, the way he flexed his wrist to press the heel of his hand against your clit. A quiet whimper rose to your lips as you fell closer to him once again, your chest against his and your head falling heavy on his shoulder.
Sometimes, in moments like this, it would hit you so hard and heavy, the bliss of it all. The beauty of the man beneath you, his obsession with pleasing you, the quick flutter of his heartbeat beneath your fingers, the distinct sound of his labored breaths. He could find your favorite spots so quickly, like he knew your body inside and out. And he did, you figured, if the many past nights of leisurely, exploratory worship of your body were to count for anything.
You wanted to keep it slow, wanted to draw this out, but the way he was sighing and panting in your ear made that very difficult. It felt so natural as he pulled his hand away, and the way you moved and shifted to place yourself in his lap, the way your fingers guided his cock to slide it through the mess of wetness between your thighs. He looked like he was about ready to snap at the feeling, his fingers wrapped tight around your waist like you were the only tether holding him to the earth. You whispered praises and filth to him as you lowered yourself down, making sure he knew what a good boy he was for being so quiet.
His lip was drawn between his teeth, biting down hard enough to draw blood. Not a sound left him besides little gasps for air as you took him into you. You'd never get used to this – the way his eyes slipped shut, the way his lips parted, the thump on the headboard as his head fell back.
This had to be torture for him.
"You're doing so good," you whispered into the side of his neck. It felt like too much noise would somehow ruin the sanctity of this moment, so you kept your voice low. You sank down the rest of the way, settling in his lap with a roll of your hips. "My good boy."
He looked almost pained when you pulled back to stare into his eyes. His fingers dug into your thighs with crushing force, his nails leaving little crescents in your skin. It would probably bruise, but you didn't mind. You started to move then, lifting your hips just enough, keeping it slow.
If he'd been in charge, he would be holding you in place while he ravaged you. But you barely moved at all, savoring the stretch of him, the way he filled you, the faint pulse of his heartbeat. You draped your arms along his shoulders, one hand working its way up into his hair, the other feeling along the back of his neck. He shivered at the touch, shooting you a look so intense you thought you might burst into flames.
You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, grabbing a handful of it and pulling gently. In the stillness, you could feel him twitch inside of you in response, a feeling that sent a rush of heat coursing through your veins. "Oh," you breathed. "Did you like that, baby?"
He nodded once, quickly, pulling against your hand still curled in his hair.
"Do you want more of that?" You asked, starting to find a rhythm, the sound of skin on skin filling the air.
Another nod, as his eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered closed as you fucked yourself with him. A second tug on his curls had his eyes snapping open again, and he sucked a breath in through clenched teeth. His lips parted, silently mouthing fuck.
You could only hold on for so long until you needed it as badly as he did. Soon, you had your forehead resting against his shoulder, a stream of whimpers and expletives pouring from your mouth, just quiet enough that you could still hear his labored breaths, timed with each bounce of your hips. He was close, you could feel it in the way his hands roamed across your back, the way he pulled you closer, the tightness of his muscles, the pattern of his breathing. He tapped on your shoulder blade with two fingers, with some urgency.
"Are you gonna cum for me, baby?" A vicious grin spread across your lips as you pulled back to watch him. He nodded, his eyes half-lidded and his teeth buried in his lip to keep himself quiet.
Without hesitation or a second thought, you shifted, lifting yourself high on your knees, until he slid out of you. He seemed to be too baffled to react at first, just staring at you with wide eyes, his hands sliding down to your lower back. And then he started to beg – silently. His mouth moved around unspoken words, only a few of which you could catch as you stared down at him, please being chief among them. For a moment he tried to pull you back down, but a disapproving glare made his hands drop to his sides, curling tightly in the sheets in an attempt to control himself.
"Sorry, baby," you giggled. "I just love it so much when you beg." You curled your fingers under his chin, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. "You'll beg for me, right, love?"
He nodded frantically, his mouth forming silent words again.
"I guess I can keep going, if you really need me to."
His fingers clenched harder around the sheets, as he leaned himself closer to you, his breathing frantic and a cacophony of silent pleas forming on his lips.
With a smile so sweet it could make a man sick, you reached back, lined him up, and sank back down onto him. You couldn't help the open-mouthed whimper that left your lips, your eyes fixed on his as he watched the spot where your bodies met. His hands were on you again, pulling you close to him. You allowed it, given the torture you'd be putting him through.
You started to move again, rocking your hips against him in that way that always made him whine. He caught your face in his hands, looking you over for a moment before leaning in for a kiss. It was sloppy, tongues and teeth and lips searching, but it felt right. He pulled away for only a moment, long enough to stare into your eyes with a loving gaze as he mouthed a single word – beautiful.
"You should see yourself," you told him in reply. "So beautiful." You trailed your fingers through his hair, watching him shiver at your light touch. "My pretty boy."
He huffed and buried his face back in your neck, his whole body shuddering in response as your moans ghosted through the air, your breath warm on his ear. Your pace faltered for a moment when he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and shifting his hips up to meet yours. He wanted control. He wanted to hold you like this until you both came. You let him, for now. His hips pumped frantically, chasing the wave you'd ripped from him, his movements growing jerky and disjointed.
"Stop," you whispered.
Despite his size, despite the way his arms wrapped clean around your body, he relinquished control. He shook, his body trembling with the effort of stilling his movements when he was close, so close. You couldn't help but let a smile creep across your face as you felt him twitching relentlessly inside you, his heartbeat racing, his breathing heavy and quick.
"Good boy."

You'd pushed and pulled him to and from the edge so many times now that you'd lost count. Tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes, his dull nails leaving scratches on your back for a change. You had just sank back down onto him once more, and his teeth were now locked tightly around the knuckles of his clenched fist.
"Sweetheart, relax," you teased, knowing he could do nothing of the sort. You brushed a few stray curls from his face, where sweat had stuck them to his skin.
He was less breathing and more panting at this point as he eased his hand from his mouth, instead placing it splayed on your lower back, fingers pressing roughly into the skin. He shook his head, glancing between you and the spot where you were grinding fervently against him. He was close again.
"Need to cum, baby? Already?" You took his face in your hands, seeing the frantic, desperate look in his eyes. "Do you think you've earned it yet?"
He tilted his head in deliberation of your question – he was beyond gone. You were the entire world to him. Nothing existed beyond your voice, the feel of your skin, and where your body welcomed his into it. That glassy-eyed look, that slight upturn at the corners of his lips, it was a sight you didn't get to see often. Only when he relinquished control of himself to you did he slip into this state, where you could ask anything of him and he would comply without a second thought. He shrugged in response to your question, tilting his head towards you. You decide.
You'd overstimulated him beyond his breaking point, edging him beyond what he would have thought he was capable of. He wanted to beg you to stop, but he wished this would go on forever, all the same. You'd had to hold yourself back, knowing that if you came like this, it'd send him over the edge, too.
"I think you've earned it," you cooed, letting him pull you in close again.
His teeth latched on to your shoulder, and his hips started to buck, his breathing ragged and uneven. He bit down harder when you dropped a hand between your bodies, your fingers working sloppy circles into your clit.
"Cum for me, baby," you whispered.
He was a mess. He pulled in little sips of air between his teeth on your shoulder, holding you so tight you thought he might break you in half if he squeezed any harder. But you let him, riding him through it. To keep fully quiet was impossible for him in that moment. He let out a near silent whimper as his hips slowed, and you felt that familiar pulse and rush of warmth as he spilled into you.
You weren't far behind him, those tiny, barely-contained sounds driving you crazy. Only a few more rolls of your hips and you were crying out his name, your fingers clenched tightly onto whatever parts of him you could reach.
Both of you struggled to catch your breath, your bodies relaxing slowly. His teeth left your shoulder, his fingers dropped back down to your shaking thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, just holding him, letting him tremble with the aftershocks. Little praises drifted from your lips: you're okay, you did so good, I've got you. He came out of it in some time, his eyes still glassy and his movements jerky as he pulled you back to look at you.
Getting out of his lap was its own challenge. Your thighs were screaming, your knees feeling like they wanted to shatter, even your ankles hurt, somehow. When you finally managed to stand, you did so on wobbly legs and sore hips, waving away his silent laughs as you staggered off to the bathroom.
Later, in the mirror, you admired the lines on your back, red and raw, marked by his nails. There was already a bruise forming just above your collarbone, too, the mark of his teeth still in your skin. He caught your reflection from the hallway, a sheepish smile on his face.
Sorry, he mouthed, leaning his spent and half-limp body against the door frame.
You shrugged, slipping on the sleep shirt you'd grabbed from the closet. "It's alright. I like how it looks," you told him, walking over to where he stood and wrapping your arms around his waist. "I might as well just fuck you next time," you said with a giggle.
He didn't reply at first. Certainly not quickly enough that he wasn't thinking about it. When he did attempt a reply, he gestured wildly, nonsensical movements with his hands, not saying no but also not saying yes. He gave up after a moment, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and looking like he wished he could disappear.
"We'll come back to that one later," you said with a squeeze.
You’d never been in a building this nice in your entire life. You weren’t even sure what the building was. It seemed like the kind of mansion that would have gotten the owner guillotined some hundred years ago. Every hallway you walked down was fancier than the last, with sprawling corridors filled with windows, cavernous ceilings covered with murals, and ornate chandeliers that glowed dimly. The guests who walked among you were just as elegant as the building itself – people you would describe as high society.
“I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb,” you mumbled to Andrew, sitting next to you at your table.
“Half the people here feel the same way.” He gestured at the crowd with the glass of whiskey in his hand, before taking a sip and grimacing. He was clad in a tux that looked phenomenally uncomfortable, but god did it make him look ravishing.
It was someone’s wedding, the reception, a friend of someone or other of Andrew's, clearly someone with outrageous amounts of money to blow. You didn’t know them, and you didn’t particularly care to. Andrew wasn’t all that interested in the proceedings either, opting instead to keep a low profile and talk to you. Or, as low a profile that someone of his size could keep. He hated events like this. Hated wasn’t even a strong enough word – he loathed this type of gathering.
You could see it on his face, in the subtle disdain that glinted in his eyes, in the way he was drinking just a bit more than he normally would. You didn't mind a wedding, in fact, you tended to thoroughly enjoy them. But any gathering of this level of opulence was borderline unbearable for you. The only reason the two of you hadn’t left yet was optics. And the only thing that made it even somewhat bearable was the live band, crooning out covers of classics that Andrew seemed to somewhat enjoy, but few of which you knew.
You caught yourself zoning out, staring at one of the murals on the ceiling. When you finally snapped back to reality, you looked over at Andrew, who was already staring at you. He had a look on his face, one you’d seen before but couldn't read.
“What?” You asked with a soft smile.
“You just look quite nice tonight, is all.” He returned the smile, reaching over to give your thigh a squeeze.
“Thank you, love.” You gave him a soft smile. “And you look…” you raked your eyes over him, feeling a prickle in your skin at just how good he looked. His hair, cooperating today in the best way, pulled half into a bun with the rest tucked behind one ear. His outfit, the tux he kept in the back of the closet, his jacket undone as he reclined back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankle, one hand holding his glass and the other dangling down to the marble floor. “You look like…I wish you’d dress like that all the time.”
“Tough luck, darling. You’ll have to drag me by the hair to get me in a suit like this within the next six months.”
You leaned a bit closer to him, propping your elbow up on the table to lean your head against your hand. “I bet you’d like that, hm?”
A flash of something passed over his face, imperceptible to all but you, there one moment, gone the next. He squinted at you over the rim of his glass before he spoke. “Don’t start. This is already bound to be a long night.”
“Start what?” You batted your eyelashes at him, playing dumb in the way you knew drove him crazy, for better or for worse.
"That."
"I don't know what you mean." You gave a little pout, and reached for your glass on the table, filled with some wine, you couldn't remember what kind and didn't care. "I just think you'd like the thought of me…" you reached out to twirl a finger in one of his curls, his hand coming up to wrap gently around your wrist. "Pulling at this pretty hair."
It was all bluster and both of you knew it. You would be doing nothing of the sort, unless he decided to allow you to use your hands while he was buried between your thighs. That is, if he even deemed you deserving of sex at all tonight. It was always a fine line you had to tread when teasing him like this. Just a bit too much, and he would genuinely punish you, by tucking you in to bed with nothing more than a kiss on the forehead. But just the right amount, and you'd be in a world of pleasure so perfect it would haunt you for weeks after.
He grabbed your wrist a bit tighter, and moved to stand up, pulling you along with him. He didn't say anything, only looking back at you with a soft smile as he pulled you gently along towards the center of the room. There, elegantly dressed partygoers danced slowly across the marble to the music. The band was playing some Frank Sinatra tune that seemed awfully cliché for an event so luxurious. The two of you disappeared into the crowd, all of them far too engrossed in themselves to even look in your direction. He stopped then, pulling you close with an arm around your waist, the hand on your wrist slinking up to cover your hand with his. It felt much more natural than you'd expected, when you rested your hand on his shoulder.
"What are we doing?" You asked quietly with a bit of a giggle as the two of you started to sway with the music, matching the movements of the other couples around you.
"Dancing," he answered plainly. "If you have more to say about what you'd like to do to me later, you can say it in a crowd of strangers."
It was a game now. A game of who would be braver, until the two of you couldn't take another second of the teasing. You had no intention of losing. "You want to hear more?" You asked, with that same fake innocence he loved.
"I'd be delighted, darling. Tell me."
"Well, I can't help but think about you taking this dress off me. It's terribly uncomfortable." You added a lilt to your voice.
"That so?" He smiled at you. "And those tights. Thigh highs, I presume?"
"Just the way you like it."
Your voices were quiet, drowned out by the chatter and music in the room, and you had no qualms that anyone would hear either of you. But it still made your cheeks flush with color, and sent a sick thrill through your body at the mere concept of someone overhearing.
"This dress really looks nice on you," he remarked, his thumb tracing circles into your back. "Maybe I'll have you keep it on. Pull it up just enough to do what I need to do, hm?"
"Weren't you the one who told me don't start?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.
"That I did." He nodded once. "And you started anyway, so now I have to play the game."
"We could end the game right now if you want. Right over that way…" you rested your cheek on his chest, pointing down a hallway with your gaze, which he followed. "There's a bathroom. And past the bathroom, a whole lot of empty rooms."
Laughter rumbled quietly in his chest. "A secret rendezvous in a dark corner of the chateau?"
You dragged your eyes back up to him, taking in the sight of him staring down at you. "Should I meet you down there in five minutes?"
He shook his head, narrowing his eyes with a smile when you pouted. "You want to know what I think?"
"What's that?"
“You’re hoping I fall for it.” He only gave you a cursory glance, before looking away at some unknown point in the room. “You’re hoping I snap, and I grab you by the wrist and drag you out of here, back to the hotel room, and I fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.” It sounded remarkably casual, coming from his mouth. “Is that right?"
His words made your stomach twist, your hand clenching against his like a vice, your eyes widening. You couldn't meet his gaze when he turned to look at you, averting your eyes so you only caught the way his hair swept over his shoulder. Your mouth opened and closed a few times, while you stumbled over a response in your mind.
“You don’t have to answer. I know I’m right.”
Your brow furrowed, and you finally looked at him to find that shit-eating grin on his face you hated. It made him look far too pretty for his own good. You choked on your words for a moment, before spitting out just one. “That’s–”
He cut you off with a shush. “Be good, baby. Maybe you’ll get what you want.”
As much as he loathed a social gathering, he enjoyed a game of teasing more than enough to outweigh any hatred. He kept you waiting as long as possible, leaving the venue with zero haste after making you wait what felt like hours. You wouldn't know, though – he wouldn't let you check the time. Little touches here and there gave way to whispered promises of how he was going to simply ruin you. It left butterflies dancing in your stomach, and you wondered if you hadn't bitten off more of his wrath than you could chew.
Those suspicions would be proven more than correct. When the moment came, he practically dragged you out of the front door, shoving you into the car, telling the driver to hurry, please. In the elevator up to your hotel room, he'd taken you by the shoulders and shoved you into the wall, his hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapped delicately around your throat as his lips met yours. You'd think both of you had waited years for this, the way you ran out of the elevator the moment the doors opened, down the hall and to your room, smiles and giggles the whole way.
Now, hours later or minutes later, who could be sure? Your clothes laid in a pile at the foot of the bed, your shoes thrown haphazardly somewhere by the door. Earrings still dangled from your ears and your hair was still pinned into an updo. Andrew didn't mind, it just gave him more to grab while he rode you down into the mattress.
The air was thick with it, the scent of you and him. Nothing else existed, other than the glide of the sheets beneath your sweat-slicked body, and him. The sound of him above you was like music to your ears. The symphony of your breaths in sync, the drag of his cock in and out of you, noises so obscene you had a permanent blush stuck on your cheeks. And when he spoke, the words that came from him were so filthy, they would make angels turn away.
You’d long floated away on a cloud of bliss, everything coming through your vision as hazy, bright smears of colors. You’d collapsed onto your stomach, yet two firm, gentle hands gripped at your hips, managing to keep your ass in the air just enough. He'd not been able to keep good on his threat to keep the dress on you, at least not for very long – he'd wanted to see your body a bit too badly. You're pretty sure he broke something in the hotel bed when he threw you onto it, but neither of you cared.
He was keeping his pace slow, preferring to watch you slowly unravel. There was no rush to finish. He'd already coaxed an orgasm out of you, and you were already well on your way to a second one.
He leaned down, one hand next to your head to hold himself upright as he murmured in your ear. "How do you feel, love?"
The change in angle had you arching your back into the mattress and digging your already cramping fingers into the sheets. "Good," you gasped. "Really…really good."
He pressed kisses along your bare shoulders, sweat dripping from him onto your back, the sensation nearly too much. Resting his forehead on your back, he shifted again, pulling your hips up a bit more to give him access to your core. Every stroke of his fingers against your clit was like an electric shock, your whole body trembling, your mouth forming nonsensical syllables and sounds.
Inside your mind was a war zone. Every time you closed your eyes, shapes and colors fought to make themselves known behind your eyelids. Thoughts, or at least the suggestion of them, raced through you like drops of rain in a storm. You could only see each one for a moment before it was gone, leaving the trails of a shadow in its wake. Things you wanted, words you wished to say, you tried to reach out and tether them, but it was no use.
There was something you wanted, something that burned hot and bright at the edges of your consciousness, but the static of him was too loud, too much. You fought back for a moment, an attempt to clear your mind. "Andy," you whined, trying to force the words out.
"Yes, darling?"
"Take it off." The words tumbled from your lips. It was a request you'd made before, and one he had obliged more than once, yet you still braced yourself for rejection.
He didn't seem to process your request, or didn't understand. He just huffed out a "what?" in reply.
"The…the condom. Off."
His hips slowed, then stilled, and then he was pulling out of you. He didn't say a word, and he didn't have to.
You babbled out something, some nonsense about wanting to feel him, needing to feel him cum, praying your words made more sense to him than they did to you.
"Baby," he cooed, with a hint of a laugh. "Shh. It's alright. I'll give it to you." His voice was so smooth, every syllable like music to your ears. You wondered if you'd ever get used to hearing it. He slid the head of his cock, now bare, along your core, drenching it in the mess of wetness that coated you. "Is this what you want?"
You whined, pulling away for a minute, moving to flip yourself onto your back. Your body felt so heavy, every muscle taut and strained with heat and pleasure. He guided you, strong hands pulling you back between his legs, two hands on your thighs lifting you into his lap.
"Better?" He asked with a smile.
You nodded, taking in the sight of him. He was just so beautiful like this. The little hairs that framed his face clung to his forehead and cheeks with sweat, and a pink flush was painted across his cheeks. The way he was looking at you was primal, wild, like you'd taken off a leash. Now, as he pressed back into you, he seemed to barely be holding himself together.
"Talk to me," he breathed, his voice strained, his breaths coming quickly. "Tell me how it feels."
"So– so warm," you choked out, bringing your legs up to wrap around his waist despite how sore your hips already were. "Full, and…oh, god, I need you to…to…"
"I know, love." He wrapped an arm under you, pulling you closer, needing as much contact with you as he could get. "You need me to fuck you full of me, yeah?"
You slung your arms around his shoulders, whimpering out a string of yes, yes, yes into the side of his neck, taking in the scent of his skin. Shampoo, and cologne, and that unique scent that was just him, it was all so overwhelming and perfect.
His next words were quiet, murmured into your shoulder. "You want me to put a baby in you?"
Time paused. He faltered for a moment, pulling back just a bit to read your face, see if he had crossed a line accidentally. His brow was furrowed with worry. Thoughts raced through your mind faster than you could track them, your mouth hung open in a half-smile. The look on his face seemed like even he couldn't believe he'd said that.
"I'm sorry, that was–"
You cut him off. "Yes."
As you both tried to process it, every movement hit you both like a bolt of lightning, his arm wrapping around you a bit tighter and your legs pulling him in closer. This was new. This wasn't something you'd discussed in the past, some existing kink or some fantasy. But you wanted it. You wanted him to do exactly that.
Fighting against himself, he finally managed to find a steady pace again. "My sweet girl wants me to put a baby in her," he cooed.
You pulled him back in close, nearly trying to fuse the two of you together. Shaking with effort, your legs were pressed tight to his hips, your ankles locked together in some kind of primal need to keep him close. "Keep talking," you begged, digging your nails into his back.
"Keep talking?" He parroted. "Do you want me to tell you how often I've thought about this?"
This angle, the curve of his hips, the closeness, it was perfect. Somehow, there was just the right amount of pressure on your clit, just enough that you thought it might actually be enough to get you off. Combined with his words, smooth and slow and sweet like honey, it was plenty.
"Do you want me to tell you how I wish I could always fuck you like this?"
"Tell me," you choked out, sinking your teeth into his shoulder to try to keep some semblance of quiet. This was a hotel, after all.
"Wish I could just…knock you up, over and over again." Such vulgarity wasn't typically Andrew's style, but he was much too far gone to make it sound pretty. "You'd make such a wonderful mother," he whispered.
Heat rushed through you in response to his words. Stimulation came from every possible source, every one of your senses heightened and overwhelmed. All you could manage to do was draw short hiccups of breath that turned into whimpers as they slipped past your teeth. Your hands were all over him, just wanting to feel as much of him as possible, all at once. You looked and sounded crazed, but you didn't care.
"Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. You need it so badly, don't you?"
You were on the verge of tears now, every thrust reaching so deep you could probably see it if he wasn't pressed against you. Teeth buried in his shoulder, you managed to squeak out something like mhm.
"It'll be so nice and warm. And you'll take every last drop, right?"
You dug your fingers into his back so hard you wondered if your nails had broken the skin. You hissed out a yes, no other words present in your brain.
"Of course you will," he said, with a singsong kind of lilt. The only betrayal of his calm, collected demeanor was the stuttering of his hips, and the almost frantic pace he'd worked up to.
It felt like you were losing your mind. He'd already unraveled you, now he was just tangling your strings. You pulled at him fiercely when he started to pull back, your limbs too weak from the constant strain and flex to hold him. He sat back on his heels, looming above you, never once pulling out of you. He found his pace again quickly, barely missing a beat.
"How's that feel?" He asked, watching as your eyes slipped shut.
It was all just so perfect. Every minute of it. You took in what you could of him through the tears that stung your eyes and their half-lidded state. He'd left his hair half-up, and god did it look nice, the way it moved with each thrust of his hips. His eyes traced along every curve of your body, down to the way his fingers melded into your muscles when he wrapped a hand around your thigh.
The constant stream of little breathy moans came to a grinding halt when his palm pressed flat against the skin of your abdomen, feeling himself inside of you. For a moment you saw stars, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream, the pressure unbearable, the pleasure unfathomable.
"Oh, does she like that?" He asked, a smile on his lips, pressing down a bit harder.
It felt like the wind had been stolen from your lungs, and you had to fight to recall how to breathe. When he adjusted his hand a bit, circling his thumb across your clit with measured strokes, you thought you might just pass out. You were clenched tightly around him, your hands twisted in the sheets, your back arched off the bed.
"Love, if you keep squeezing me like that…" His fingers dug tighter into your stomach, a warning.
You were near tears now, that familiar coil quickly tightening in your stomach. "Please," you choked out, a single tear coming with the word.
"Please what?"
"Need– I need–" you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his forearm. You could barely think, everything was so far away, and everything felt so good. "Fuck, Andy, baby, I…"
"Darling, shh, I've got you," he whispered. He took his hands off you, pulling you back into the position you'd been in earlier, his body caging you in, his hips rocking against your clit in that perfect way. "Is that better?"
You nodded against his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him again. It felt like home, being so close to him. "Need–" your words came out between gasps of air. "Need you to– to fill me."
He always loved it when you begged. "Sweet girl needs me to knock her up?"
With the way his body was rubbing against yours perfectly, you were already teetering on the edge. You let out a shaky breath, followed by a yes.
"You're gonna be my good girl and cum for me so I can put a baby in you, yeah?"
You groaned, scratching deep marks into his back, so hard you pulled a satisfied hiss from him. Every sense was overloaded, the scent of him, the taste of his skin on your tongue, the sound of the dirty whispered praises he fed into your ears. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling into your hair and scratching lightly against your scalp. It was a stark contrast to the brutal pace with which he fucked you, even as his hand shook with each movement.
It snuck up on you, your orgasm. And when it hit, it hit you like a fucking train. You gasped in a deep breath, letting it out in staccato bursts as he built you up and sent you tumbling off the edge. Nails digging into his back, your legs wrapping so tightly around his waist it left your legs trembling. He held you close, letting you scratch and thrash and cry out while he whispered words of praise into your ear.
You were still riding the last waves, limp in his arms as he fucked you through it. A gentle smile was stuck to your face, the all of it feeling just so perfect. He was close behind you, his rhythm already falling apart as you clenched and fluttered around him.
He didn't bother trying to choke out any kind of warning, the need for it long since gone. With a quiet whimper into the crook of your neck, his hips stilled, giving way to short, shallow thrusts as he spilled into you. It was everything you wanted, everything you'd imagined. You could feel it, the warmth and the pressure and the way his cock twitched.
The tears you'd been fighting finally fell, as you were struck with a sudden sense of completeness. When he finally pulled back enough to look into your eyes, you were sure you looked insane. But he didn't seem to care one bit, pulling you into a slow kiss, one that radiated love.
You were like jelly when he finally pulled out of you, your eyes only ever half-open as you watched him waddle off to the bathroom with a giggle. You were half asleep through the clean-up process, as he planted kisses along every inch of your body he could reach. When he finally slid back into bed with you, throwing the sheets over your bodies, it was blissful. He wrapped himself around you, pulling you in close, blanketing himself with the scent of your skin.
You'd have to talk about it in the morning, you knew. But for now, tangled up with him, both of you coated in sweat and lust, things were perfect.
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