got too impatient with this sketch to finish it but had to get it out. remember when he read her the entire lyrics of lily, rosemary, and the jack of hearts from a pay phone? yeah, me neither.
sorry if this is an insane thing to say to a stranger but if you write joan baez/bob dylan i will scream and cry and throw up (positive). ur writing style is gorgeous and so perfect for whatever the fuck they had going on
well i never posted this bc it wasn't finished, but here are some passages from a fic i started where bob develops asthma and tries to give up smoking
Joan woke facing the wall. Her back was cold.
When she turned over, Bob was slouched at the edge of the bed, facing the small window on the opposite wall. Wisps of smoke curled away from him. Joan couldn't see the cigarette until he leaned stiffly to tap out the ash in the dish on the nightstand.
His hair didn't look too different in the mornings than it did the rest of the time, but today the early light caught the frizz in an especially saint-like way, igniting a glowing ring around his head. Maybe the smoke was from pontifical incense, then. Still smelled like tobacco to Joan.
He sniffed and sighed occasionally, once causing a small Eeyore-cloud to puff up around his head. Joan could see his ribs through his back when he breathed in, sometimes. It sounded like a chore.
She reached out to say hello by grazing her nails up his bare back. He cooed with pleasure and curled his spine, as if to meet her there sooner. Joan didn't mind--she'd always loved cats. He was already prickled with cold, but after a few scratches, goosebumps had risen on his arms and even his sides. Faint pink stripes appeared in the wake of her nails before long, crisscrossing his pale skin. Lashes to go with the halo.
Now she scratched his scalp, feeling his curls spring between her fingers. He rippled with a shiver of pleasure, and just like that, she was good and bothered already. (Despite the early morning, despite herself.) She found it sweet. He was sensitive. Everything he felt, he felt so profoundly. He couldn't hide it. Didn't try.
"How'd you sleep?" Joan asked.
Bob exhaled lightly, the ghost of a laugh. "I slept."
She kissed his shoulder, sympathetic. She'd barely slept, either. The hotel bed was lavish, but it wasn't home.
Bob turned his head when he felt her kiss, baring his puffy eyes and hawkish profile. He leaned in for a proper kiss, and Joan met him with a quiet sigh. He tasted sharp and smoke-dirty. Not pleasant or unpleasant, just an instant, indelible memory.
He was breathing hard through his nose, though it came out as no more than a light flutter against her cheek. A little whistly, plugged up some. It was no great wonder if he had a stuffy nose. He was dried out from drinking last night, dried out from the hotel air conditioner, and the smoke couldn't exactly help.
Bob pulled away to clumsily dig his knuckles into his eye sockets. He pressed at the gap between his brows, the bony bridge of his nose, frowning hard. Nothing he did seemed to relieve the pressure.
It was the smokes, Joan was convinced. For days now he'd woken up with a cigarette and a sinus headache, in that order. He'd snort and hawk as he brushed his teeth or shaved, then sniffle for a few hours. It was noticeable enough that a total stranger approached them yesterday in hopes of scoring coke, but oddly, Bob didn't seem to notice. At least not enough to complain, for which Joan supposed she should be grateful.
And he snored now, too.
"Your head hurt?" she asked.
Bob emerged for a moment and unburied his hands from his eyes. "Just need some coffee." He went back to rubbing.
They managed to wrench themselves from the bed. It was no mean feat--they were naked as babies, and the cold room seemed to warn them back under the covers. But Joan snuggled into her robe, and Bob slunk into the bathroom for a scalding hot shower.
Joan ordered toast and fruit to the room. Bob took a few bites of a strawberry, at her coaxing, but wouldn't try the toast. Once he'd downed his coffee, though, he seemed restless to leave. They didn't have any shows until next week, and he wanted a look around the city. Joan could take or leave Albany. She'd seen it before—it didn't impress her.
◇◇◇
He was eating a lot more. Not three square meals, but enough so that his figure didn't continue to hollow out, and without any outside encouragement. But he paid for his newfound appetite in sleeplessness. He hadn't slept since his Benadryl nap a few days prior. Tonight, though, he joined her in bed for some reason. Optimism, maybe. Joan decided to be hopeful too. She kissed him goodnight and rolled over, preparing to listen to him toss and turn.
Instead, he pressed into her from behind, wrapped himself around her like a glove. Nuzzled into her neck.
"Hi," she said sleepily. This certainly wasn't how she expected the evening to go. Maybe, with cigarettes out of the equation, he needed an outlet for stress. She put her hand on his, over her sternum, and reached up to curl her fingers through his hair.
Bob as good as purred. He began muttering wonderful nonsense into her shoulder. How nice she looked. How cold the room was, and letting her fill in the blanks as to how they could remedy that.
Joan's breath caught when he grabbed her breast. His hands shook, lack of nicotine, but his touch was so delicate. Almost naïve, the way he felt around as if searching for something. Her chest was small enough that he could graze over both her nipples with the same hand; gently, gently, just the very tip. Heat spilled through her. Joan found herself panting. Almost as heavily as he was.
Bob gave her a sloppy kiss under the ear, and Joan let out a soft "Oh" half-against the pillow. It gave her a washing, tingling chill, the way he played with her. Dry and wet, warm and cold by turns. He mouthed and kissed and bit at her ear, and she shuddered, melted. Her hips shifted, tried to move, a little taste of friction for them both.
"Baby." Bob rubbed against her. His breath wavered with effort. "Joan, you're so pretty." His hand appeared between her legs, where heat was pooling, and stroked her. Brushed across the smooth skin of her thighs. He'd graze over the wet patch darkening her underwear, so casually it could've been an accident, and she shivered, trying not to whimper.
Then he reached under her waistband, fingertips stroking down, and Joan cried out. She felt raw—like an exposed wire—
"Fuck." Bob was whining, squirming like it was him getting touched, getting felt up, played with. "C'n I? Joan?" His hips rose into her urgently, disobedient little nudges on her ass, like an ill-trained dog.
Joan was breathless. "Yeah, just, come here—come here."
She rolled onto her back and reached out for his face in the darkness. They kissed frantically, through shaking breaths and the occasional catch of teeth. It seemed like mere moments before Bob was scrambling to his hands and knees, moving down the bed. He hovered just an inch over her, so close to the wet spot that the warm fluff of his breath was enough to press her head back into the pillow. She took a breath to beg, but then he dragged his raptor's nose over her beating clit and rubbed messily. Joan gasped and almost choked out a sob. When he mouthed at her over the thin cotton, she began to call his name in a hushed, prayerful whisper. Words abandoned her altogether when he yanked her underwear down and off and kissed her bare. She moaned like a tramp. Her body wasn't her own. She bucked against his face as his tongue covered her, stealing little strokes until he was practically still, the better to let her rock herself to bliss on his mouth.
"Oh," Joan wept. Meant to be a warning, but not soon enough. She came, hard and tall, and it seemed to stretch on and on, stripping her down to nothing.
When her moans feathered out to tired sighs, Bob was on top of her again, planting his wet lips on hers.
"Let me—honey, let me catch my breath," she panted.
As if inspired by the notion, Bob sat back on his heels and coughed unforgivingly. Something snagged wetly in his chest. It sounded bad.
"You all right?" Joan's glow was quickly leaving her. The world rushed back in, too real again.
"Yeah—" Bob tried to say, but too soon to avoid being interrupted by the last bout of coughing. "'M okay."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm all right."
Joan nodded at the pillow next to her, and Bob lay down.
She didn't toy with him, as he'd done. It was sorely tempting--the sounds he'd make, if she drew it out, they only got prettier the more strung-out he got. But that wasn't what he was asking for, in his way. Not tonight. He lay on his side, and she pulled his shorts down, left them bunched around one ankle.
He was staggeringly hard, she thought as she took him in her mouth. A side effect of giving up smoking? The pressure on her palate had her eyes watering a bit, but something drove her forward. The vital feeling of his blood thumping under his skin. She knew he wouldn't last.
Bob keened and swore and shook like a sheet of paper. He clutched her head with both hands, but she was careful and practiced; it didn't hurt her. After just a minute, maybe two, he drew a hopeful gasp and sighed, purely euphoric. Then he was coming in her mouth, enduring gentle tremors, finally pulling her off with a whine of over-touched pain.
They nested together for a while after, piled chest to damp chest. It was nice. Cozy. By the time she grew sleepy, they'd drifted to their respective sides of the bed. But sleep didn't come as easily as she thought it might.
