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junghelioseok · 3 years

Text

heart-on.

↳ your one-night stand definitely isn’t relationship material, but maybe—just maybe—your manager’s son is.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | strangers to lovers!au ◇ 10.1k [1/1]

❛❛ my boss is always telling me how perfect her son would be for me and she promises he’s coming to the next holiday party and don’t worry he’s heard all about me too and ALSO there’s this dude i slept with once a couple of months ago and sometimes he still sends me dick pics when i ask him to at 3 in the morning cause seriously dude’s got a good dick ❜❜

notes: welcome to the first installment of the serendipity series! we’re starting with hoseok, because, well, have you met me? 🤣 be warned, however, that this isn’t anywhere near as edited as i’d like so i’ll probably give it another read/edit tomorrow but for now!!! here it is!!!

⇢ series masterlist. | inspired by this post.

warnings: dirty talk bc hoseok’s got a bit of a mouth on him, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids!), sexting. dick pics, obvi. brief mention of a dead pet goldfish :(

You’re refilling your mug when you hear it. Voices filter out from the kitchen, floating past the coffee station where you’re pouring yourself another drink and hanging in the open air of the hallway that leads back to the rest of the office. They’re familiar voices, too—voices that belong to the resident gossips of your workplace. Lottie’s pitchy, nasal tone melds with Hyejin’s higher one, their conversation interrupted every so often by an exaggerated exclamation or gasp from Sandra, the third and final member of their trio.

“Haven’t you heard? Carolyn’s divorce was finalized over the weekend, the poor thing.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how she’s feeling. I mean, getting back into dating at her age? Goodness!”

“And now she’ll be all alone at the holiday party, too. How sad is that?”

“It’s tragic. Poor thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a packet of sugar and tear it open, upending it over your mug and watching the crystalline granules fall into the dark liquid within. You know for a fact that Sandra and her husband can’t even stand to be in the same room for an extended period of time, considering how they’d spent most of last year’s holiday party talking to entirely different groups of people. You’d sat two tables away from them during dinner, and they hadn’t even made eye contact once. And as for Lottie and Hyejin, well, you’re certain that their relationships aren’t much better. All three of them are miserable people as far as you’re concerned, and you make a mental note to check in on Carolyn—a sweet woman in her thirties who always keeps chocolate bars in her purse—on your way back to your desk.

“Sheesh. Vultures, the lot of them. Don’t you think?”

You whirl at the sound of your manager’s voice. Kyunghee Jung is a dark-haired woman in her late fifties, and she laughs when she sees your startled expression, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Easy! You’ll spill your coffee if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll probably have a heart attack first,” you reply, pressing a hand to your chest. “What was your job before this? Some kind of intelligence operative? Are you a super spy?”

Kyunghee laughs again and joins you at the counter. “Nothing even remotely as exciting as that,” she answers, plopping her mug down beside yours. It’s decorated with what looks like every color of the rainbow, a massive smiling sunflower taking up the majority of the surface, and the only remnant of the ceramic’s original color is on the very edge of the handle where there’s a lopsided little patch of white. The piece is clearly handmade, and a stark contrast to the simple mint green cup that houses your coffee. Looking at it, it’s impossible not to smile.

“I love that,” you remark, inclining your head at her mug. “Was it a present from one of your kids?”

“Hoseok,” she confirms, running a fingertip along the imperfect handle fondly. “I’ve told you about him before—he’s right around your age.”

You chuckle. “Right, I remember. That’s why he’s the perfect match for me, right?”

“Come now, there’s more to it than that,” Kyunghee defends, waving a hand. “But yes, to answer your question. He gave it to me as a birthday present when he was eight.”

“Well, you never told me he was an artist,” you tease. “Does he have an Etsy? Can I buy one of these off him? Does he do custom orders, maybe?”

Normally, your manager is more than happy to play along with your jokes, but today Kyunghee fixes you with an uncharacteristically serious look. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she asks. “He’s coming to the holiday party, after all. I figured you could finally meet.”

You blink. Kyunghee has been making offhand remarks about how well you would get on with her son, Hoseok, for over a year now, but you’ve never even come close to broaching the topic of meeting him. You don’t even know anything about the man beyond the fact that his name is Hoseok and that he works somewhere downtown. He also favors tall socks and yellow suspenders if the framed photograph on Kyunghee’s desk is any indication—or at least, he certainly did when he was still in diapers. Whether he still does, is anyone’s guess.

“Wow, I had no idea he was even interested in coming,” you manage when you’ve recovered from your surprise. “Did you bribe him?”

If Kyunghee notices that your voice is a few pitches higher than usual, she doesn’t remark on it. “Oh, you know. I just told him that this would be his last chance to score free booze on the company’s dime.” She laughs. “Three more months and it’s going to be all beaches and sunshine for me. I might even become a cruise person in my retirement.”

You gasp and slap a hand to your heart. “Kyunghee! Think of the environmental impact!”

“I said I might!” she retorts immediately. “Sheesh. Even in my old age, it’s hard to conveniently forget how shitty and unsustainable those damn boats are.”

You pick up your mug and raise it in a salute. “Well, the oceans thank you.”

“My husband doesn’t,” she answers with a sigh. “He’s been dying to book one of those trips that stop all along the Mediterrannean coastline, and I can’t exactly blame him.”

“That is tempting,” you admit. “You’ll have to send photos, if you do end up going.”

“You’ll be sick of me and my photos before the first day is even up,” she promises. Then she pauses, her eyes darting toward the kitchen where silence has fallen in the last few minutes. “Speaking of being sick—you think the vultures are still hovering around in there? I haven’t had lunch yet, and I need the microwave.”

Obligingly, you edge a little closer to the kitchen doorway and poke your head around the frame, scanning for Lottie and her sidekicks. “Coast is clear. Enjoy your lunch, Kyunghee.”

She nods and raises her mug at you, returning your salute. “I always do.”

///

As soon as the work day ends, you fall into your usual routine. Your commute home is easily walkable on nicer days, and though the winter weather is brisker than you’d like, you decide to walk for the sake of stopping at the convenience store on the corner of the block.

Once you arrive back at your apartment, you change into your comfiest sweats and a loose tee. You turn on some music while you throw together some dinner, and settle onto the couch half an hour later with a full plate and Netflix. Television is a welcome distraction from the events of the workday, and you manage to get through three full episodes of your current show before your pesky brain decides to revisit the events of today, replaying the conversations that you’d both had and overheard.

There’s no denying that you’ve been single for quite some time now, and for the most part, it’s been by choice. Ever since graduating from university, you’ve chosen to focus more on your career, and it’s paid off both in terms of the important position you hold in your company and your above average salary. And yet, you can’t help but think back to the gossip you’d overheard earlier—about the supposed tragedy of being single and attending the upcoming holiday party alone. Your mind wanders to Kyunghee’s son, Hoseok, and how he’ll be in attendance this year. You wonder what he’s like, and whether he really is perfect for you, as Kyunghee seems to be so fond of mentioning.

And then your mind goes to Jay.

You met Jay two months ago, on a well-deserved night out after a hellish workweek. The bar was crowded, and the music coming from the neon dancefloor in the back was just loud enough to drown out your inhibitions. That, combined with the alcohol swimming through your system, made you bold. You sashayed your way across the dancefloor, dodging inebriated bodies and swaying limbs as you fixed your attention on the head of pale lavender hair and deliciously broad shoulders that awaits you just behind the bar counter. The bartender is nothing short of gorgeous, and you’ve thrown all caution to the wind. Sure, several other women are eyeing him like he’s their next meal—several men are, too—but you need another drink. And while he prepares it, you plan to flirt.

A lot.

The bar counter is sticky with spilled liquor, but you don’t pay that any mind as you lean across it, the wood digging into the narrow strip of exposed skin left by your cropped top. “Hi!” you call, and the bartender looks up from where he’s just finished pouring a round of shots for a group of raucous young men.

“Hi yourself,” he says, his pillowy lips stretching into an easy smile. “What can I get you?”

You pretend not to notice the way his eyes flicker down to the dip of your cleavage and instead put on the sultriest smile you are capable of mustering. “Vodka soda,” you tell him, injecting a bit of purr into your voice. “A bit of lemon too, if you have it.”

“Trust me, I have it,” he assures, his smile growing as he reaches for a clean glass and a clear bottle. “Name’s Jin, by the way. I’m here all night, if you need anything e—”

A loud clatter and the sound of breaking glass interrupts the rest of his sentence, and all eyes at the bar go to the source of the disturbance. Conversations stutter to a halt, and even the thumping bass of the music seems to dull. Jin darts to the other end of the bar, where you can see that one of several barstools has fallen to the ground. There’s a man on the ground as well, surrounded by shattered glass and spilled dark liquor, and your eyes widen when you realize that you know him.

And arguably, a little too well.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. People are starting to lose interest in the spectacle, turning back to their own conversations and continuing on as if nothing had happened at all. The man is beginning to clamber to his feet, and a few people lend a helping hand as Jin begins barking out orders for everyone to step back so he can sweep up the broken glass. You seize upon the opportunity, latching on to the nearest arm and pulling them close so you can hide behind them. Vaguely, you’re aware of them sputtering in surprise, but you only have eyes for the man who had fallen off his stool, watching him carefully as he brushes himself off and tries to play it cool despite the sizable patch of whiskey soaking his white shirt.

“Hey, uh…” Your human shield is speaking. “Are you okay? You’re squeezing me pretty tight.”

That draws you out of your daze. Abashed, you loosen your grip on his arm and look up into his face, your throat going dry when you realize how handsome he is. His black hair is parted over his forehead, a stray strand falling into warm brown eyes set above a straight nose and an inviting mouth. There’s a freckle above his top lip, just shy of the center, and your inebriated brain wonders just what it would be like to kiss it.

“I, um—” You clear your throat and try again. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t want him to see me.”

Your newfound companion raises an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder at the drunk man, who is now being ushered out of the bar by his buddies. “You know that guy?”

You nod, cringing. “Yeah, his name’s Trent. I… may or may not have dated him for a few months last year.”

The man laughs out loud. “You dated a Trent?”

“What, like you’ve never made a questionable life choice?” you challenge. “Besides, you shouldn’t judge someone based on the sins of their parents. It’s not his fault they gave him a terrible name.”

“Sure, but it is on him for going along with it,” he replies with a shrug. “I would’ve changed my name as soon as I could if my parents had named me Trent. But hey, that’s just one man’s opinion.”

You laugh. “Okay then, Not-Trent.” Relinquishing your grip on his arm, you let your fingers graze his hand before pulling away entirely. “What do you say we continue this conversation over a drink?”

The man, whose name is decidedly not Trent, catches your fingers in his and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Happily.”

One drink turns into two, and then three. By the end of the hour, you are feeling pleasantly warm, the alcohol spreading through your veins like molasses and turning your surroundings into a hazy blur. The music has grown even louder, pounding against your eardrums, and you grab onto Not-Trent’s wrist as he sets his now-empty glass back down onto the counter.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the thumping bassline. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

“The parking lot’s out back,” he suggests. “Why don’t we get some air?”

You nod and stand up on wobbly legs, cursing your decision to wear heels when you stumble into your companion. He steadies you with a gentle but firm hand, and you don’t miss the way his touch lingers on your lower back, his palm warm through the material of your blouse.

Together, the two of you pick your way through the throng of swaying bodies on the dancefloor. The bassline thuds in your ears, dark and hypnotic, and you can feel the reverberations thrumming across the slats of your ribs and echoing in the cavern of your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s almost a relief, then, when you step out into the cool night air. Your ears continue to ring for a few seconds, but it soon fades and leaves behind only the muted hum of traffic from the street and the faint sound of music from inside. At your side, Not-Trent releases a long breath and leans against the brick wall of the building, and you turn to take in the steep slopes of his side profile as he tilts his head up toward the velvety night sky.

He’s handsome. Dressed in ripped jeans and black leather, he’s a sight to behold, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been craving a bit of intimacy for quite some time now. The alcohol swimming through your system makes you bolder than you normally would be, and you reach out to lay a hand on his arm. He turns toward you with a silent question glimmering in his irises, but you simply step closer, until you’re pinning him against the wall with your body and you’re breathing the same air.

“Hey,” you say, your voice an airy whisper. His eyes are near obsidian in the dimness of the parking lot, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlamps on either end, and your gaze flickers down to his mouth before roving to the freckle that sits upon his top lip. “Kiss me?”

Your companion’s eyes widen. His lips part, but no words come out, and you’re about to repeat your question when he finally finds his voice again.

“That’s really… that’s not a good idea.” Awkwardly, he clears his throat, but the hoarseness of his voice and the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple give away his true desires. “Look, you’ve been drinking. We both have, and—”

You cut him off, pushing up to your tiptoes and planting a messy kiss to the soft dip just beneath his bottom lip. “Don’t care,” you mumble against his skin. “I want you.”

Your companion laughs weakly. His hands find their way to your waist and pause there, as if he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. “You don’t even know me,” he murmurs.

“I don’t have to know you,” you reply. Your fingers drag down his chest, trailing along the delicate silver necklace that rests against the black of his shirt. From the chain hangs a round pendant, the surface engraved with the letter J. Slowly, you trace it with a fingertip, the metal shining even in the dim light, and satisfaction blooms in your heart when your companion’s throat bobs again. “I want you,” you breathe, soft but insistent. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I—” He clears his throat and tries again, and you wonder if he realizes that his hands have slid down to your hips, or that there’s a growing hardness against your lower stomach that’s becoming increasingly harder to ignore. “Look, I’m flattered—really, I am. And you’re… I mean, fuck, you’re gorgeous. But I don’t think we should do anything when you’re clearly not in the right frame of mind to be making this kind of decision, and—”

“And, nothing.” You wind your arms around his neck, pressing close and grinding subtly against the bulge in his pants. You smirk when he releases a low hiss from between his teeth, and hide it by laying a trail of kisses along the stretch of bare skin exposed by the dip of his collar. “Stop being such a gentleman,” you whisper. Your fingers trail down his chest, past the silver of his pendant and down to the faded denim of his jeans, teasing at the cool metal of his belt buckle. “I want this. But if you’re not interested, I can always go back in there and—”

The rest of your sentence dies in your throat. Your companion has tugged you flush against him in one smooth motion, and your gasp is cut off by the firm press of his mouth against yours. Immediately, you melt into the kiss, and a moan tears from your lips when he spins you around and pins you against the brick wall of the building.

“You’re a spoiled little thing, huh?” His breath fans hot against your cheeks, and you shiver when you meet his eyes and see the dark promise reflected there. “Used to getting what you want, huh, princess?”

Your breath hitches at the endearment—something your companion doesn’t miss. “Oh, you like that?” He chuckles hoarsely, and when he speaks again it’s in a rasp that sends heat straight to your core. “What else do you like, hmm? You want me to be rough with you, princess? Or should I be gentle and treat you like a queen?”

You reach up, raking your fingers through his hair and skimming across the soft strands of his undercut before finding purchase at his nape. “You talk too much,” you whisper.

And then you’re crushing your mouth back against his, whining when he immediately takes back control of the kiss. His grip slides downward, his fingertips digging into the skin just above the curve of your ass, and you squeak when he grabs the back of your thigh and hooks your leg around his waist.

“You feel that?” he rasps into your ear, nipping at the delicate shell and chortling when you keen. Your skirt has ridden up dangerously high on your spread thighs, and you let out a soft whimper when he grinds harshly against your center. The lace of your panties and the denim of his jeans are the last barricades between you, and you wonder, vaguely, whether your companion has a bit of an exhibitionist streak when he slides one of your sleeves down your shoulder and begins kissing a trail down to the swell of your cleavage. “You feel how hard you’ve gotten me?”

You lean down, kissing the soft spot where his jaw meets his ear before letting your teeth graze against his skin. “Why don’t you do something about it then?”

He hisses out a sharp breath, his hands tightening their hold on your hips. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, huh? I can’t wait to make you eat your words.”

Any retort you may have had is interrupted by a sudden swell of music and the sound of a slamming door. Whirling to face the source of the noise, you immediately spot a familiar head of lavender hair atop broad shoulders encapsulated in the black uniform of the bar. Jin hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, his attention fixated on his cell phone screen, but he looks up when you let out a little squeak of surprise and shove your companion’s chest in an attempt to create some distance between you.

“Hey.” Jin raises a hand in greeting, a knowing smirk curling his lips. “This phone call shouldn’t be too long, so please. Don’t stop the party on my behalf.”

Heat floods to your cheeks. There isn’t much use protesting against his insinuation, considering the rather compromising position you’re in. Much to your relief, though, your companion simply huffs out a chuckle and waves Jin off. “Thanks, man, but we’ll get out of your hair.” Lowering his voice, he turns back to you. “Coming, princess?”

You nod. He offers you his hand, and you take it gratefully, adjusting your skirt so that it drapes properly over your hips and thighs again.

“Have a good night!” Jin calls after you, amusement lacing every word. You can’t work up the nerve to respond, and luckily, you don’t have to. Your companion leads you around the corner of the building, where several rows of cars are parked beneath an orange streetlamp. On this side, the exterior brick wall is painted with a mural, and you admire the colorful galaxies and nebulae swirling amidst silvery white stars and the word serendipity spray-painted in pale blue.

The last car in the row is parked just beneath the letter Y, and it’s here that your companion stops. The sleek black vehicle has an almost vintage feel to it, and you glance up when you hear the jingle of metal.

“I’m guessing this is yours?”

He nods, pulling a set of keys from the pocket of his leather jacket and inserting one into the lock. “Yeah. You like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, tracing the edge of the passenger window “Makes my car look like a total piece of shit by comparison.”

Your companion chuckles, pulling open the driver’s side door, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window as he presses a button to unlock the rest of the doors. Your hair’s a bit of a mess and your mascara has smudged beneath your right eye, and you hurriedly swipe at it as your companion turns his attention back to you.

“So,” he says. “Now what? I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

Deliberately, you let your gaze drop down to his crotch, where his bulge—albeit waning—is still visible. “Seriously? I thought you were going to… what was it again? Make me eat my words?”

And just like that, it’s as if a switch has flipped. His eyes darken to obsidian, his lips settling into a stern line, and you barely have time to draw in a breath before he’s caging you against the side of his car and molding his mouth to yours. Your lips part beneath the onslaught, and he wastes no time in dipping inside to explore, licking into you until you’re both breathless.

“Inside,” he breathes once you’ve broken apart, and you instantly obey. You wrench the door open and all but tumble into the backseat, and he isn’t far behind as he slots himself between your spread thighs. Your hands fly to his shoulders where you help him shuck off his leather jacket, tossing it carelessly to the front where it lands in a heap on the dashboard before focusing your attention on the hem of his black t-shirt. Your companion obliges you as you push it upward to expose his toned abdomen, grabbing it by the collar and pulling it off the rest of the way when your reach falls a little short in the cramped interior of the backseat.

“Your turn,” he whispers when you try to reach for his belt, his hands settling around your wrists. “It’s only fair, princess.”

Pouting, you let your hands fall limp in his grasp, and he chuckles as he leans down to pacify you with a kiss. Deft fingers find the hem of your blouse, pushing it up until you can twist out of the material. You throw it aside with no regard for where it lands on the ground, and lay back as your companion drinks you in, his dark gaze raking across the lacy black lingerie that decorates your curves and skims you like a second skin. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice hoarse with a combination of amazement and disbelief. “You’re stunning.”

You smile, trailing a fingertip from the dip of his collarbone down to the silver necklace that sits prettily against his bare chest. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you tell him, tracing the letter engraved into his pendant. “Jay.”

Your companion—newly dubbed Jay—smiles back. “You’re something else, princess,” he murmurs, before leaning down to kiss you again. He explores your mouth thoroughly—languidly—before moving down to nip at your neck, and already, you can feel the beginnings of marks beginning to form, blossoming across your skin as irrefutable proof of your tryst.

It isn’t long before Jay frees you from your bra, watching with carnal fascination as your breasts spill out of the lacy material. You whine when he reaches out to cup one, his palm hot against your bare skin, and he smirks crookedly when a pinch to your nipple makes your back arch off the leather of the seat. “So pretty,” he rasps. “I can’t wait to see how you look stretched around my cock.”

“Stop waiting, then,” you tell him, trying again for his belt buckle. This time, he lets you fumble it open, leaning back to watch you work with hooded eyes and a lazy little smile. Emboldened, you push aside the denim of his jeans and free his cock from the confines of his underwear. He’s hard and hot and heavy in your palm, and your tongue darts out instinctively at the sight of the pearlescent precum beading the tip.

“Jay,” you murmur, thumbing across the head of his erection and smirking when he hisses in pleasure. “Fuck me.”

Jay seems to consider your demand, mischief flitting across his features before he manages to school his expression into something more neutral. “Where are your manners, princess?” he asks, pushing your hand away and giving himself a few long, slow strokes. “Say please, if you want it so bad.”

For a moment, you consider refusing. Jay seems to be the type of man who enjoys a good game, but between the state of his cock and the earlier interruption, you’re pretty sure he’s nearing his limit. And even if he isn’t, you are. And so, you shelve your pride for the time being, and trail a hand down the length of your bared body as you bat your lashes up at him. “Fuck me, Jay,” you repeat. “Please. Want your cock so bad.”

His answering smile is equal parts amusement and satisfaction, and altogether sinful. “That’s my girl,” he rasps, before shoving your panties aside. Lining the head of his cock up, he enters you in one smooth thrust, and you moan as your walls stretch to accommodate his girth. You’re more than wet enough to take him in his entirety, your eyes fluttering shut when he bottoms out, and he groans hoarsely as he takes a second to relish the feeling of your walls gripping him so tightly.

“Fuck. You’re so wet, princess.” Jay dips a thumb into your slick, spreading it across your clit and rubbing a few experimental circles around the sensitive nub. He groans when you clench around him, his hips stuttering, and you squeeze around him again just to hear him grit out another curse. “Shit. I’m not going to last long at this rate.”

“Don’t care,” you murmur, rocking against him and sighing when the motion sends him a little deeper into your core. “Just fuck me, Jay. Please.”

Jay leans in, a dark lock of hair falling across his forehead as he plants an indulgent kiss on your waiting mouth. “Anything for you, princess,” he breathes. Slowly, he pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains inside you. Then he’s slamming forward, and you can’t even find it in yourself to care about the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin or the way the car rocks. Jay’s thumbing across your clit in tight circles that he times perfectly with the rock of his hips, and you wonder whether the rapidly building pleasure in your belly is due to your dry spell or if he’s just that good. You can feel every inch of him as he fills you up repeatedly, his brows furrowed in concentration and his dark hair flopping as he drives deeper in search of the spot that will have you seeing stars.

You know he’s found it when the pleasure in your belly spikes, your back arching off the backseat. Your skin is sticky against the dark leather and you’re certain the sweat gathering at your temples has destroyed the last of your makeup, but Jay alleviates your concerns with a particularly well-timed thrust and a harsh nip to the soft spot at your clavicle. You keen out something unintelligible, and his lips stretch into a smirk against your skin.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Cum for me, princess.”

That’s all it takes for the mounting pressure to snap. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, the pleasure flaring out like a supernova and spreading through your veins like wildfire. “F-fuck, Jay—” you gasp, your fingers scrabbling at his back for purchase and no doubt leaving scratches in their wake. “Fuck, you feel so—”

The remainder of your words trail off into garbled nonsense, and Jay huffs out a strained chuckle as he begins chasing after his own orgasm, rutting against you in a way that both prolongs your pleasure and sustains his own. “Shit,” he groans, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, that’s it. Look at you—taking my cock so well. So pretty and perfect and—”

Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a groan as he gives a few more erratic thrusts before his release overwhelms him. Creamy warmth floods through you, and you rub his back tiredly as his head drops onto your shoulder, his breath flaring hot against your skin as he rides out his orgasm.

It takes several long seconds for the pleasure to recede. Your legs are still shaky when Jay pulls away, straightening up and tucking himself back into his jeans. There’s an empty ache in your core now that you are no longer stuffed full of his cock, and already, you are missing the feeling. Still, you push that aside as you sit up, adjusting your panties and wincing at the wetness that soaks the material and sticks to your skin.

“So,” Jay says after a moment’s silence, and you glance over at him when he huffs out a short chuckle. “That was fun.”

“Not bad at all,” you agree weakly, an irrepressible smile tugging at your lips.

Jay grins. It’s a bright, infectious grin—and it’s one that you’ve already grown rather fond of in the short period of time you’ve known him. It’s a grin that showcases his perfect teeth and crinkles his eyes into crescents, and one that all but forces you to grin back.

“Here, give me your phone,” he says, and you watch as he punches in his number once you hand it over. “Just in case you ever wanna do this again,” he tells you, handing it back. “Don’t be a stranger, princess.”

You glance down at his contact information, saved under the moniker you’d given him and affixed with a short string of emojis. “I won’t,” you tell him, chuckling. “In fact, I just might take you up on the offer.”

The screen of your laptop has long since gone dark, and you stretch your arms overhead before waking it again. Rolling your shoulders, you navigate back to the main Netflix menu, hovering over the resume button and watching the trailer loop in the background.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about Jay often. You’ve texted each other quite often since that night in his car—usually when you’re bored and alone and have had a few too many glasses of wine in the evenings. You’ve found yourself tapping on his name instinctively during those odd, ambiguous hours—when late night and early morning meld together and you’re aching for a bit of relief.

And as if he knows you’re thinking about him, your phone buzzes against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

[11:22pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: thinkin about u, pretty girl 😘

It’s followed by an image, and your heart rate picks up, thudding loudly against your ribs as you open it.

Fuck.

Your memories of Jay’s face—made all the more hazy by the alcohol and the amount of time elapsed since your first and only meeting—truly don’t do him justice. Though the photograph cuts off just above his nose, you can still admire the sharp angle of his jaw and the fullness of his puckered lips. His skin is golden against the white of his t-shirt, and you lick your lips before thumbing across your screen to respond.

[11:23pm] You: yeah? what else are you thinking about, hmm?

His response is instantaneous.

[11:23pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: thinking about that pretty little pussy of yours

[11:23pm] Jay 😘🍆💦: how good it looked in that pic u sent me tuesday 👅

You barely even notice the way your hand begins trailing down your body, pushing aside the elastic waistband of your sweats. It’s as if you’re on autopilot, as your fingers find their way to the damp spot growing on your panties.

Yeah? you write back with your free hand, already teasing at your clothed folds with the other. Tell me more.

///

It’s an uncharacteristically warm Friday morning when you find yourself in the elevator with Jimin, a good friend of yours who works on one of the lower levels of your office building. “Morning,” he says as he steps in, a large iced coffee in hand despite the fact that it’s still very much the middle of winter. Then he squints, leaning a little closer. “Oh my god. You got laid!”

“Oh my god, not so loud!” you hiss, whacking him on the shoulder and jabbing the button to close the elevator doors. “And no, not exactly. I’ve just been texting Jay.”

“Texting, sure.” Jimin mimes air quotes around the word and rolls his eyes. “You’re sexting him, and we all know it. How many pictures of his dick do you have saved on your phone now?”

“Oh my—” You sigh, trailing off. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“Right, of course.” Jimin takes a sip of his coffee and pretends to check his watch. “When would you like to talk about it then? Do you need to check your calendar? Can I book an appointment for later this afternoon?”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Shut up.”

Jimin just grins, his lips puckered around his straw. “So, how’s Jay? Have you asked for his real name yet?”

You shrug. “What’s the point? It’s not like we’re friends or anything. We’ve literally only met the one time.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because you’re a coward,” Jimin points out. “What’s stopping you from meeting up with him again? You have his number. You have at least one photo of his dick. Ask him out already!”

“It’s not that easy, though,” you sigh. The elevator doors open to let a few more people in, and you move to the side and lower your voice so that only Jimin can hear. “Jay—he’s not exactly boyfriend material. I mean, we fucked in his car the first night we met.”

“So?” Jimin frowns and takes another sip of his iced coffee. “You talk about things besides sex, don’t you? You definitely told him about your goldfish dying, at least. I mean, you told him before you even told me!”

“Yes I did, and he was appropriately sympathetic about Mustache’s passing, unlike some people,” you sniff. “Get over it already, won’t you?”

“Never,” Jimin replies, ignoring your pointed jab. “I’m sure you only told him because you knew you could get a sympathy sext out of it. How many dick pics did you get out of that night, anyway?”

“You’re gross,” you tell him, punching him in the arm. “Not to mention that’s exactly why Jay’s not boyfriend material. He’s perfectly happy with—whatever it is we’re doing. I can’t just ruin that by asking him to get dinner.” You frown, gnawing on your bottom lip. “I don’t want to make this into something that it’s not.”

Jimin hesitates. “Fine, okay. I guess I can understand that.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, as the elevator makes a few more stops. You watch the numbers crawl higher, and know that you’ll soon have to part ways with your friend..

“Hey.” You nudge Jimin with your shoulder, just as the elevator doors close and you begin the ascent to his floor. “Wanna know something interesting?”

Jimin looks up from his phone, where he’s scrolling through Twitter. “Always.”

“My boss’ son is coming to the party tomorrow.”

Jimin’s eyebrows disappear into his ashy blond hair at your revelation. “Kyunghee’s son? Hoseok, or whatever?”

You chuckle. “The one and only. She’s found about a million ways to bring him up in conversation this past week. She thinks we’re a match made in heaven.”

“Wow.” Jimin releases a long breath. “I wonder what he’s like, then.”

You shrug, adjusting the strap of your work tote over your shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

///

The morning of the party, you wake up to an empty refrigerator. Half stale cereal and the last dregs of milk from the carton become your breakfast, and you munch on that as you mull over the contents of your closet. You’re still in your pajamas, but you pull out your comfiest jeans and a sweater to change into after you finish eating. Then you turn to your collection of dresses, rifling through them and mentally debating the merits of each material and color.

You could go in one of two directions tonight. On the one hand, this is still a work party, and as such your attire should probably maintain a certain level of decorum. But on the other, you’re meeting Hoseok Jung for the first time tonight. You aren’t necessarily looking to start anything with the man, of course, but you do want to look good. With that in mind, you eventually settle on a deep red number that you pull out of the very back of your closet, made of a silky material that skims your curves and accentuates your best assets. Laying it on the bed, you begin your hunt for a pair of matching shoes. Twenty minutes of searching and another five of agonizing later, you step into the bathroom, intent on showering and getting on with the rest of your day.

Upon exiting the bathroom, you decide that tackling the state of your refrigerator takes top priority over your other weekend errands. Sitting down at the dining table, you take stock of what you have in your pantry, planning out your meals for the upcoming week and making a list of what you need to purchase in order to make them a reality. It’s just after one in the afternoon when you exit your apartment with a completed grocery list and your purse stuffed full of reusable canvas bags. The store is a short walk from where you live, and you decide to put in your earbuds as your feet navigate the familiar route. The temperature is surprisingly mild for winter, and the sun shines bright from its perch in the cloudless blue sky. It’s perfect weather for a walk, and the fresh air clears your mind and eases your heart.

At the grocery store, you forego the stack of baskets and instead grab a shopping cart. Weaving your way up and down the aisles, you check items off the list on your phone one by one. Eventually, you find yourself in the cereal section, grabbing a box of granola before turning to where your favorite cereal normally sits. It isn’t there, and you turn in a full circle, confused, until your gaze finally lands on the familiar box on the top shelf.

Great.

Sighing, you push up to your tiptoes, stretching your arm as far as it can reach. Your fingertips graze the shelf, but you can’t quite get a grip on the box itself. Glancing down, you scan the bottommost shelf and wonder if you can step on it to give yourself a boost.

“Need a hand?”

The voice comes from behind you, and a vague sense of familiarity sparks in your brain. Slowly, you turn around, and your entire body freezes when your gaze slides up to the speaker’s face.

“Jay.” The syllable escapes you in a near whisper. “H-hi.”

“Hey.”

Jay stands before you, looking like sin incarnate in a faded denim jacket, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, and not much else. At his throat, his silver necklace sparkles, the silver J pendant glinting beneath the fluorescent lights of the store, and you’re suddenly beyond grateful that you decided to put on a decent sweater before leaving.

“Here,” he says, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne—sandalwood tinged with sweet citrus. “Let me help you with that.”

The sudden proximity has your breath hitching in your throat. Your heart thuds erratically against your ribs as he reaches around you, the denim flaps of his jacket gaping in a way that exposes even more of his bare chest. By the time he pulls back with your cereal box in hand, you feel almost faint, belatedly realizing that you’d been holding your breath.

“You wanted this, right?” Jay asks, and you aren’t sure if you’re imagining the innuendo underlying his words or the teasing inflection of the syllables.

“Y-yeah, that’s the one,” you manage, fighting to quell the uneven tempo of your heartbeat as you accept the box. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help,” he replies. Then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his warm breath fanning your cheek as he murmurs his next sentence into your ear. “Anything for you, princess. You know that.”

Heat floods across your cheeks. Your heart skips two full beats before taking off into a sprint, and it’s impossible to ignore the way your core begins to thrum, as if anticipating a repeat of that night you first met all those weeks ago. Almost instinctively, your eyes dart up to the ceiling where the security cameras are, and Jay follows the trajectory of your gaze with a low chuckle and a soft brush of your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Sorry, princess. As much as I’d love to get my hands on you, I’m kind of on a time crunch today.”

You can’t stop the wave of disappointment that washes over you, even if you’re in the exact same boat. “Rain check, then?”

“Rain check,” he agrees. Slowly, you reach up to touch the engraved silver pendant resting against his chest, rubbing it between your fingertips before tracing the curve of the J, and he catches your wandering fingers between his and presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You know how to reach me,” he murmurs with a mischievous wink. His gaze lingers even after he’s released your hand, and you clear your throat awkwardly before turning to deposit your cereal box into your shopping cart.

The two of you go your separate ways then, exchanging goodbyes. You finish the rest of your grocery shopping in a daze, idly going through the motions at checkout and letting muscle memory guide you back home. Your arms are aching by the time you step past the threshold of your apartment, and you heave your shopping bags up onto the kitchen counter with a relieved sigh before returning to the entryway to toe off your shoes. You throw together a sandwich as you unpack your groceries, taking a big bite as you walk back to your bedroom to look at the dress you’ve picked out. Pacing over to the closet, you double-check your shoe choice. Briefly, you debate whether or not to wear flats instead of heels.

There are still a few hours left before you have to start getting ready, so you take the last of your sandwich back to the kitchen and whip up a smoothie to go with it. You scroll through your phone as you eat, browsing through the latest news headlines and scrolling through your social media accounts. Just before six o’clock, as the sun starts setting beyond the horizon and casting long shadows across your living room, you start getting changed. You snap a photo in the mirror once you’re dressed, pulling up Jimin’s name in your phone and sending it to him.

[6:13pm] You: last chance to come tonight

Your phone buzzes with a response almost immediately.

[6:14pm] Jimin: nah. i’d hate to step on hoseok’s toes.

You laugh. Not so fast, you text back. We don’t even know anything about the guy yet. What if he’s boring? Or sexist?

[6:15pm] Jimin: if u think kyunghee raised a sexist you’re seriously deranged

[6:16pm] Jimin: now stop taking selfies and get your ass out the door! you’re gonna be late!!!!

///

Each year, the holiday party tends to be a little over the top, and this year is no exception. The company has bought out the entirety of a restaurant for the evening, and you glance around in amazement at the twinkling lights and lush evergreen boughs decorating the walls and strung up along the ceiling. An assortment of sparkling ornaments hangs from the massive tree in the far corner, interspersed between silver tinsel and more lights. Grabbing a champagne flute off a passing server’s tray, you head farther into the restaurant, skirting around tables draped in creamy linen and greeting your colleagues and friends.

“Is she alone?”

“Figures.”

The voices come from the direction of the open bar, and somehow, you just know that they’re talking about you. Lottie, Hyejin, and Sandra are clustered in the corner with glasses of wine in hand, casting glances around the restaurant and gossiping about anything and everything with a pulse. You’re sorely tempted to grab the nearest pitcher of water off a table and pour it over their heads, but you suppress the urge and instead head over with a saccharine smile. “So lovely to see you, {Name},” Lottie says as you approach.

“I love your dress,” Sandra adds. “Very slimming.”

“Thanks,” you reply, putting on your brightest, fakest smile. “Yours is great too. How are you and your husband enjoying the party so far?”

Sandra’s face sours, and you hide your smirk in your champagne flute. Maybe it’s petty to bring up her rocky relationship, but you’ve been subject to snide comments from Sandra and her friends for years now and it’s become increasingly hard for you to bite your tongue. A few tables away, you spot Sandra’s husband, Rodney, take an enormous gulp of his whiskey and wince as it burns down his throat.

“We’re all having a wonderful time, aren’t we, ladies?” Lottie cuts in when Sandra takes too long to answer. “Hyejin’s date is over there with Rodney, and my boyfriend is fetching himself a drink. You remember Dev, don’t you?”

You nod, even though it’s a lie. “Sure. Say hi to him for me.”

Lottie’s lips curve up into a smile, her head tilting to the side, and you’re suddenly reminded of a snake rearing its head back for the kill. “So, what about you? Have you brought someone tonight, or—?”

“Hi ladies!” Kyunghee materializes at your side, her lips painted a festive red shade to match her dress. She’s wearing the disingenuous smile that she reserves for the resident gossips of your office, and you try not to let your relief show on your face when Lottie’s attention refocuses on your manager.

“So good to see you, Kyunghee,” she simpers. “Have you been here long?”

“Not as long as you,” your manager replies, nodding at the near-empty wineglass in her hand. “I see we’re already making a dent in the wine supply, and you’re falling behind, {Name}. Why don’t we go remedy that, hmm?”

She doesn’t give you a chance to respond, grabbing your arm and leading you away. Kyunghee is surprisingly spry for a woman her age, and you follow after her with some difficulty as she marches through the throngs of conversing people, all the way to the line at the open bar.

“I’d like you to meet someone,” she says, gesturing at the man standing at the end of the line with his back to you. “{Name}, this is my son, Hoseok.”

The man turns around at the sound of his name, a warm, affable smile stretched across his face. “Hi, I’m H—” he begins, but he’s cut off by your sharp intake of breath. His eyes go wide, his smile fading as his mouth falls open, and you’re certain you’re wearing an even more dumbfounded expression. “It’s you,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Wh-what… how…” You trail off, speechless. The words flounder and die in your throat as your brain struggles to process this development, and you practically feel the way the gears in your head churn to a stuttering halt.

Because this man standing before you, the one that Kyunghee has just introduced as her son, is none other than Jay. He looks completely and utterly devastating in a navy waistcoat and matching slacks, a green tie shaped like a Christmas tree knotted loosely around the white collar of his shirt. His dark hair is parted, his undercut exposed, and you can’t tear your gaze away from the loose strand that has fallen across his forehead.

“H-hi.”

Jay—Hoseok—swallows. “Hi.”

Kyunghee glances between the two of you, her brows furrowing. “I take it you two already know each other?”

Hoseok’s ears begin taking on a scarlet tinge, the color spreading to his cheeks as he struggles to find his vocabulary again. “I—yeah. Yeah, we’ve met.”

“Right. Do I even want to know how?” she asks dubiously, before shaking her head and huffing out a sigh. “No, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. I’ll just leave you two to… catch up.”

Waving goodbye, Kyunghee disappears back into the crowd of partygoers milling around. Hoseok turns back to you, sucking in a deep breath, and you fight the urge to stare down at your toes as his gaze roves across your face.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, breaking the silence that’s fallen between you at last. “My mom’s been talking about you for months, but I never imagined that it’d be you.”

“You’re telling me,” you reply, finally having recovered your voice. “Kyunghee brings you up all the time, but I never thought… I mean, we didn’t even know each other’s names, and now…” You shrug. “Here we both are.”

“It’s a pretty crazy coincidence, huh?”

“Definitely.”

A beat passes, and then two. You’re fully aware that you’re staring, but you don’t dare blink, afraid that he’ll disappear if you close your eyes. Of all the things that you thought might happen tonight, this particular meeting wasn’t even close to making the list. Never would you have thought that the man you only knew as Jay would turn out to be Kyunghee’s son. Never would you have connected Jay to the photographed little boy in yellow suspenders on Kyunghee’s desk, or realized that they were one and the same.

From behind you, someone loudly clears their throat. Another voice calls for you to get a move on, already, and both you and Hoseok belatedly realize that you are still standing in line for the open bar. Hoseok’s eyes go wide again, and you nearly tread on his toes when you both try to move forward. “After you,” he says with a chuckle, gesturing for you to go in front of him, and that’s enough to break the tension. You step ahead of him with a laugh, catching up to the line, and Hoseok doesn’t stray far as he follows your lead.

“So, what are you drinking?” he asks, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Vodka soda with a twist?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to stick with wine tonight,” you reply, peering at the bottles lined up on the counter. “What about you?”

“Hmm. Jack and coke, I think. Nothing else is really calling my name right now.”

Grabbing your drinks, the two of you begin searching for a place to sit. You spot Kyunghee at a table near the front, and she smiles knowingly and offers you a thumbs-up when she catches your eye. Eventually, you settle on a table near the Christmas tree, the lights glimmering off the glasses and reflecting off your knife as you pick it up to butter a slice of crusty bread from the basket in the center. Hoseok follows your lead, grabbing a piece for himself, and the two of you munch in silence for a few seconds before Hoseok breaks it.

“You know, my mom says you’re the perfect girl for me” he says with a dry little chuckle. “Think she’s right?”

“I don’t know,” you answer. “It’s funny, though—Kyunghee’s been telling me the same thing. She sings your praises all the time.”

Hoseok laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, jeez, that’s kind of embarrassing. I’m glad she’s saying good things, at least.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you tell him, grinning. “She’s only shown us one photo album from your childhood.”

His face crumples. “Was it the Disneyland one?”

You nod, fighting back laughter, and watch as Hoseok groans and lets his forehead meet the linen-covered tabletop with a dull thunk.

“I don’t like rollercoasters,” he mumbles into the tablecloth, his voice muffled by the material. “They make me queasy.”

“Even now?” you ask, and he nods.

“Yep.”

The clinking of a fork against a wineglass—amplified and broadcast through an array of invisible speakers built into the restaurant’s walls—interrupts any further conversation. You twist in your seat to watch your company’s leadership give their opening remarks, listening as they congratulate everyone for a great year and wish you a happy holiday season. The servers begin going out with plates of food, and you thank them as they set yours down. Hoseok does the same before raising his glass in your direction, clearing his throat and offering you a crooked little smile.

“Here’s to second meetings.”

“Third, if you count the store earlier,” you correct, and he chuckles and nods in agreement before clinking his drink against yours.

You spend the entirety of dinner chatting with Hoseok, getting to know him beyond the few facts Kyunghee has mentioned and what little you’ve gleaned from texting him the last two months. He tells you all about his dance studio, Hope World, where he teaches both contemporary dance and the occasional Pilates class. You find out that in addition to rollercoasters, he also dislikes sour foods and raisins, but he loves mint chocolate and sweet and sour pork. He also has a very low tolerance for alcohol—something he tells you as he tilts the rest of his drink into his mouth. “Should I be worried?” you ask as he sets his glass back down, and he chuckles and shakes his head, sending the loose tendril of hair flopping across his forehead.

Dessert is served, and subsequently eaten. The music is turned up, and people slowly begin finding their way to the open space that serves as an impromptu dancefloor. Hoseok rises to his feet and extends a hand toward you, and you only hesitate for the briefest of seconds before accepting it. He leads you out amongst the other swaying couples, his hand finding its way to the curve of your waist, and you rest your hand on his shoulder as he begins guiding you in a slow, simple waltz.

“So?” Hoseok’s voice is a low murmur, soft and gentle against the shell of your ear. “What’s the verdict?”

You blink. “The verdict?”

Even without looking, you can tell that he’s smiling. You can hear it in the lilt of his voice, and imagine it in the curve of his lips. “About me,” he clarifies, carefully pulling back so you can spin in a circle beneath his outstretched arm. “About us. My mom will never let me hear the end of it if she turns out to be right, but I still wanna know. So what are you thinking?”

“Are you asking if I think we’re perfect for each other?” you ask, giggling. “I don’t know if I believe in all that, to be quite honest. Destiny and soulmates—I mean, doesn’t it seem a little too good to be true?”

Hoseok hums. “Maybe. But considering all that’s happened to us in the last couple of months, don’t you think there’s a chance that it's all more than simple coincidence?”

“Maybe,” you concede. “Still, I don’t know if I can give you a verdict just yet. We haven’t even gone on a date.”

“We did do things a little backwards,” Hoseok admits, tugging you close and winding his arm around your waist. “Let me make it up to you, then. Are you free tomorrow?”

“What if I am?” you challenge.

“Then, I’d like to take you out for breakfast,” he replies without missing a beat.

The prospect of a proper meal with Hoseok Jung does something funny to your insides. Still, something makes you hesitate, and you avert your gaze as you search for your next words. “I wasn’t expecting to end tonight with a date,” you admit slowly. “I honestly didn’t even think you were interested in… well, anything beyond sex, to be honest.”

Hoseok’s face creases into a frown, and you look up again when he murmurs your name. “I understand why you would think that,” he says. “Really, I do. But honestly? I had every intention of texting you and asking you out properly. I was going to play it cool and wait a few days, which was stupid in retrospect. And then you texted me first.”

“I texted y—” You trail off. “Oh, god.”

“It seemed like you’d been drinking,” Hoseok says with a shrug, and you press a finger to his lips before he can say anything more. You remember the night in question, and you remember the bottle of wine you’d consumed. And you definitely remember the photographs you’d sent of yourself, and the ones Hoseok had been kind enough to send in return.

“Wait, so you were going to ask me out? And then I… I sexted you?”

Hoseok nods, and you groan and bury your face into his chest.

“I can’t believe this,” you mutter, and you feel laughter rumble through his chest before a hand comes up to stroke along your back.

“Believe me, I’m not complaining,” he assures you. “But I’d still really like to take you out, so what do you say?”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours for a second as he awaits your answer, and your heart skips a beat when you look up to see the earnestness in his eyes and the hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Breakfast sounds wonderful,” you whisper, and the smile that blossoms on your companion’s face is nothing short of radiant.

“Good,” he says. “Great. Breakfast tomorrow, then. Now, can I kiss you?”

You’re already pushing up to your tiptoes, your fingers fisting in the soft hair at his nape. “God, yes.”

///

“Hey, you made it!”

You beam. “Hi.”

You and Hoseok are about to commence your first date, having just sat down at a cozy little café for breakfast. Hoseok has pulled your chair out in true gentlemanly fashion, and you can’t help but smile over your menu at the few lingering snowflakes that have yet to melt into his dark hair.

“So, here we are,” you remark. “Our fourth meeting.”

Hoseok’s lips stretch into his signature grin, breathtakingly bright and infectious. “And hopefully many more.”

You grin at him. “Yeah? Too bad this is breakfast, because I’d drink to that.”

He leans forward, his grin widening. “Next time,” he says as his hand finds its way around yours, his fingers slotting comfortably into the spaces between your own. “We can do dinner, maybe. Or I can cook for you. But for now, I’m just happy that we’re finally doing this.”

You give his hand a soft squeeze. “Me too.”

“Just promise me one thing?”

The sudden seriousness of his tone has your brow furrowing in concern. “Sure, of course,” you reassure. “What is it?”

He winces. “Please don’t tell my mom about all the dick pics.”

#hoseok #hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts scenarios #hoseok scenarios #jhope #jung hoseok #bts #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fic #kpop scenarios #hoseok x you #strangers to lovers!au #strangers to lovers #lia writes #gonna change that stupid summary if i can think of anything better LOL #my brain went all mushy on me idk what's happening

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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RE8 Ladies + S/o with chronic pain HCs

Type/cause of chronic pain is kept ambiguous, but some of the hcs might seem geared towards migraines, since that's the main thing that I personally struggle with (and these are very definitely comfort hcs). Features Alcina, Bela, Cassandra, Daniela, Donna, Mother Miranda, and as a 'lil bonus Ava. Not particularly long, but the combined length of every character is enough to be put under a read-more (About 2,500 words in total).

Alcina:

It’s difficult for her to know that you are suffering, but be unable to deal directly with the source of the problem. Chasing off unwanted nuisances or hunting down threats to the castle was one thing, trying to solve complicated medical issues was another thing entirely. If only she could tear your condition asunder without tearing you asunder.

That being said, she’ll still support you endlessly, however she can. It doesn’t matter how expensive or hard-to-access possible treatments are. If there’s something you haven’t tried, and are interested in trying, she’ll find a way for you to get it.

The biggest, and arguably most helpful, thing that she does is set up a space for you within her office. She spends quite a lot of time there for her family’s business, but doesn’t want to leave you alone on bad days. So this was her idea of a nice compromise.

There’s a very comfortable sofa that folds out, a cabinet filled with the softest blankets, and several pillows of a few different sizes. Servants are instructed not to interrupt Alcina’s work without good reason, but she has a couple who ensure your snack cabinet is always well stocked.

If there are certain environmental factors to your condition, such as sensitivity to light and sound, she does her best to reduce their effects. Lights remain dimmed (or she’ll rely on candlelight), her music will be kept quiet enough to be soothing, and she’ll refrain from taking any calls while you are with her.

Bela:

To think that Daniela once tried to claim that Bela would “never need to know any of that (medical) stuff”! Sure, there haven’t been many people who have needed (and received) treatment from her, but that didn’t mean the skill was useless. Admittedly, she doesn’t know enough to replace one of your doctors, or try to create her own version of a cure, though no one really expected that much from her.

Still, she knows enough to help soothe your pain. Obviously there are different techniques for different kinds of pain, and she does research before trying anything specific. Bela’s also aware that you’ve been dealing with this for far longer than she has, meaning that you probably wouldn’t be pleased if she came in, acted like an expert, or assumed that you hadn’t really thought about the most popular remedies. So she’s tactful with how she approaches things, always checking if you’re familiar with a subject before she tries to explain anything.

Bela ends up surprising you with a lesser-known skill of hers: Massage. Studying anatomy has given her a decent idea of the body’s more sensitive spots, and the rest she’s figured out through her own, ahem, experiences. Regardless of where you’re in pain, your girlfriend can help reduce your suffering. Okay, well, if your pain is more internal than external, it’s a bit harder for her, but she can still help you relax.

One of her favorite things to do after giving you a massage is to just pull you in close for some cuddling. Preferably you’ll be in her lap, with her arms around your waist, her chin tucked on top of your shoulder. Then she’ll do her best to whisper you praises, reminding you how strong you are, and that she’s incredibly proud of you.

Cassandra:

She’s, uh, not great at this. At least not at first. Maybe she’ll never be more than good at it, though. But she’s definitely trying! And learning! By Jove, that’s something, right?

First things first, she’s always ready to try to distract you, primarily through kisses and gentle touches. Fingers softly trailing over your skin, lips tickling your neck, featherlight in all the right places… It’s not inherently sexual (though it can quickly go that route if you ask), just intimate. It’s harder for your brain to process pain when you’re also processing pleasure, so there is some science behind Cassandra’s methods, even if she herself isn’t entirely aware of that.

While she’s not great with words, there are certain things that she manages to articulate well enough. For one, she makes sure you know that you aren’t a burden. Taking care of you- no, helping you take care of yourself- is a labor of love, if a labor at all. More than that, she knows full well that you probably don’t like feeling pitied, or coddled. That, over time, being sick ends up being beyond frustrating. She never wants you to feel like your condition defines you, or like it puts any strain on your relationship.

That said, she’ll avoid telling her family any specifics unless you do first, and ensures that the staff know how to accommodate you (without telling them why, because it’s none of their fucking business, and she’s their boss, and for fuck’s sake it’s their job to do what she tells them. Maybe she gets a lil bit overzealous with it). At no point will she ever complain about helping you, or otherwise indicate that your needs are “troublesome”.

At the end of the day, the best comfort she brings you is her presence, simply being near you, endlessly loyal, tireless in her affections. Especially considering she gets clingier the worse your symptoms get.

Daniela:

Hope you enjoy cuddling. Seriously. There’s nothing Daniela loves more than curling up with you, and that goes double for bad pain days. Some adjustments will be made position-wise if you need, but she’ll still hold you as close as possible, for as long as you need. Although she might eventually fall asleep (because damn are you comfy), she’ll play with your hair or run her fingers along your scalp until she eventually dozes off.

If you want a little more from her than light snoring, or if she feels like going above and beyond, or honestly just if she’s thinking about how much she loves you (so all the effing time), she’ll do something she’s always loved in movies/books: Reading to you! She’ll pick special books that neither of you have read before, so you can experience them together on your sick(er) days. Which does, of course, mean that it might take months to finish even a single one. Surprisingly, Daniela won’t even briefly consider reading any without you. Even if the plot is really good.

But, uh, if you wanted her to read to you on a day where you aren’t bedridden? Hell yes, my friend, she’s absolutely down for that!

On days where she’s too busy to spend hours upon hours in bed with you, or days where her ADHD is just particularly bad, she tries her best to leave you with a “substitute”. AKA a massive fucking teddy bear, in a reddish brown color, with a green bowtie. Custom ordered (The Duke did not dare tease her for it). There’s a heart stitched onto the stuffed animal’s chest, which features your first initial alongside a D for Daniela.

Additionally, she has a blanket she only brings out for you, which she periodically sprays with her favorite perfume. That way you can hold it close when she’s not around, as if you were cuddling her. For her sake, though, don’t hold the teddy bear or blanket too tightly when she is around. Homegirl here will get jealous of inanimate objects, even ones that she gave you.

Donna:

“I think I have a tea for this…” Damn right she has a tea for this. Donna has a massive garden, with dozens if not hundreds of different plants, including a variety of herbs/spices. At least one of them has to be a little helpful for you. Whether it relieves pain, helps you nap off some of your misery, or just distracts you by tasting bloody-well delicious! Besides, few things make you feel quite as loved as holding a cup of freshly brewed tea in your hands, knowing your lover made it just for you. Like a hug in a mug, it is!

Similarly to Alcina, Donna will also try to create a comfortable space for you, but isn’t likely to put it downstairs with her workshop. Instead she’ll let you take over one of the larger guest rooms, customizing it to suit your specific needs. There will be some easy to care for plants for decoration (ones that won’t mind potentially missing out on natural sunlight), a couple relaxing paintings, and a shelf near the bed with things to help you pass the time, mainly books.

Furthermore, she’ll do her best to keep you company as often as possible. She’s naturally a fairly quiet person, so you won’t have to worry about sound if that’s something you’re sensitive to. While she prefers using a sewing machine, she’ll do things by hand while you’re in pain, just to reduce the chances of you getting irritated by the sound.

Speaking of potentially irritating sounds… by god can Angie be difficult to be around when you’re ill. Thankfully, Donna is perfectly understanding of this, and, as the only person Angie ever listens to, makes sure to give the doll a stern talking to about your health. To your immense surprise, it actually works. You’re not exactly sure what was said, but Angie certainly becomes a lot more compensating afterwards. She’ll keep her antics to herself, and usually even on another side of the house from where you rest, but only for as long as you’re tucked away in your room. As soon as you set foot outside, her restraints are metaphorically removed. All hell breaks loose (as is her universe-given right as the physical embodiment of both Chaos and Entropy).

Mother Miranda:

If the two of you weren’t lovers, there’s a decent chance you would completely misinterpret her actions. She might come off as irritated, like she has bigger concerns than your health, you fragile little human. After all, she is a goddess (well, practically). But the truth is that she’s aching inside every time you have a bad pain day, knowing that (for once) she cannot cure your ailment. Maybe if she had infinite subjects with the same condition as you…

But, at the end of the day, that’s the problem. There’s only one of you. One of her beloved, her little human darling, so dangerously fragile in comparison to the scale she works on. Even with all the time in the world, which she most certainly has, she cannot cure you without taking incredible risks. With your life at stake… It is a gamble she refuses to take. You are hers, and while she hates to see you suffer, the truth is that she’ll always be selfish enough to let you endure on your own.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t help, though, just that she doesn't do a full-out experiment on you. Instead, she keeps notes. She’ll track your activities, bedtimes/when you get up, dietary habits, when you have pain, what you do to treat said pain, how effective the treatments are, etc, etc. All of this can be very useful in establishing patterns (a skill she’s gotten very good at, in her many decades of being a scientist), which can in turn lead to less pain days.

(For example, many people with migraines find that certain foods seem to trigger a migraine, or at least increase the chances of getting one. Though admittedly they don’t always end up cutting the food out of their diet. I mean, come on, you want me to give up chocolate? You want me to drink normal milk, like an adult? Kidding, kidding, I don’t have any food triggers. Nor do I particularly enjoy chocolate milk, nor do I dislike it.)

Moving on! While her work seemingly takes precedence over your condition, Miranda is not heartless, and she does do some things to lend you more direct comfort. Specifically, she tries to work in the same room as you when she can, normally while making electronic copies of physical documents, or while looking over the details of a finished experiment. She’s not always one for cuddling, so she won’t often get in bed with you during the daytime. But at night? Yes, fine, she will wrap her arms around you, maybe one of her wings too if you like how soft they are.

Just don’t think that she secretly loves every second. It’s not like she’ll spend half an hour whispering about how sweet and adorable you are as soon as you fall asleep, or anything like that. It’s twenty minutes at the most.

Bonus!Avaskian Caldwell:

“Oh, fuckin’ mood!” Followed by a solid thirty seconds of pure regret. Seriously, though, Ava has spent xer entire life (starting at age 10) dealing with chronic migraines. For a while xe also dealt with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), which meant lots of chest pain, but that (thankfully) faded as xe grew into an adult, as is fairly common with the condition. If anyone in Castle Dimitrescu understands unrelenting, unexplainable pain, it’s xer.

That being said… Ava never really managed xer chronic pain, at least not when xe was at xer worst. Xe had to drop out of school because of it. Hell, xe didn’t have a “real” job until xe was almost 23! Didn’t have a chance until things just calmed down for xer. So xe gets anxious whenever you talk about your health, worried that things are (or will at some point be) as bad for you as they were for xer. Other than that, though, you might initially think that xe doesn’t care, or didn’t understand the conversation.

Truth is, xe knows how absolutely fucking ANNOYING it can be to have to explain your health to every new person you meet (like the dozen different doctors you’ve met over the years, possibly every nurse who takes your pulse and thinks it’s a little bit high). So xe did a shit ton of research on your condition, in order to reduce how much you need to explain. Sure, xe will still have questions, and there are always aspects that only you can tell xer, but it’s a nice gesture.

As for helping you destress, xe’s pretty much a mix of Bela and Miranda. You’ll get plenty of massages (because Ava has learned from personal experience what sort of touches help with which sorts of pain), but also some scientific insight on any noticeable patterns. Lots of holding you close and telling you that you’re the coolest person in the world, and that Ava feels beyond lucky to have you.

#alcina dimitrescu x reader #bela dimitrescu x reader #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #daniela dimitrescu x reader #donna beneviento x reader #mother miranda x reader #oc x reader #avaskian caldwell #j has ocs #re8 village #resident evil: village #hcs

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brattyfics · 3 years

Text

Like That

Pairing: Rio x Black!Reader

Summary: You and Rio get to know each other better. Loosely based on ‘Like That’ by Doja Cat.

Warnings: Smut.

Word Count: 3.5K

Installments: Say So | Like That | Talk Dirty

And baby, I want it, and I'll just be honest 'Cause I just can't front when I look at you

About six weeks have passed since Rio declared himself your man, and you quickly learned he took the title very seriously.

He was busier than usual with ‘flipping his game,’ and you were busy preparing to transition your shop, but you saw each other often despite time constraints. You agreed date nights at least once a week were a must, but when you couldn’t see each other, Rio made sure to end nights with a phone call. Virtually falling asleep next to him gave you butterflies, reminding you just how exciting new relationships could be. It took prodding, but he told you made-up bedtime stories and the boring details of his day. In return, you shared things about yourself— childhood memories, the crazy things your mom did to embarrass you. He was sweet and attentive, and you found it refreshing to be with someone who was just as infatuated with you.

On your second date, he took you to his favorite restaurant, a fancy sushi place with expensive rolls. He taught you to hold chopsticks the wrong way the way he did and even fed you across the small table, a couple of unfortunate rolls falling apart due to his prodding. You tried your best to hide your amusement at the pensive look on his face. For whatever reason, Rio thought of himself as a sushi connoisseur, but it was clear to you that he was still learning.

“You’re no better than me!” He admonished when he noticed the way you held your chopsticks. Like his technique, it was incorrect, but it worked for you— sort of. “I never said I was.” You couldn’t keep the amusement off your face any longer. “You’re the one who comes here weekly. I thought you were a professional, and we’re in the same boat.” He folded his arms on top of the table as he insisted you were wrong, but secretly he found your teasing endearing. Later that night, he called and gave you a cheesy line about loving to see you smile.

The following week, you had lunch at a mom-and-pop soul food restaurant that served the best cornbread and peach cobbler in the city. The owners, an adorable older couple, Donna and Gene, and servers alike stopped by your table to meet Rio. Donna gushed over Rio, showering him with compliments and extra cornbread. “Girl, he is cute!” She told you, failing miserably at whispering. He smirked as you rolled your eyes, but he handled the attention well, being friendly and personable even when Gene kept going on and on about changes to the menu, one chef to another.

A few days later, he called you up randomly and asked you to get ready and ride with him somewhere. “What should I wear?” You asked, hoping for a hint. You could hear him smile as he said, “It doesn’t even matter, ma. You always look good.” The occasion had turned out to be ‘Foodtruck Friday.’ Barbecue, kebab, taco, ice cream, and other miscellaneous food trucks were parked in a spacious lot in Downtown Detroit. You settled at a picnic table and shared several plates of food as you discussed the possibility of your own mobile ‘Mad Batter’ shop somewhere down the line. It got you thinking about the future.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” You asked the dreaded question in between bites of a colorful Korean fusion taco. He stiffened as he considered the answer. “What is this, a job interview?” Sometimes you saw peeks of bossman Rio rather than the Christopher Castillo you were getting to know. It happened seemingly out of nowhere when you asked questions he felt were invasive.

You looked up from the panko-fried shrimp, red cabbage, shredded carrots, and tasty orange sauce wrapped up in a flour tortilla with a frown. You had two choices: respond in the way he had or make light of the situation. So, you said, “Kinda. You’re auditioning for a spot on my roster, so...”

He stopped chewing the half-eaten dumpling and swallowed hard. “That’s not funny.”

“You better start taking the interviewing part of the audition more seriously then.” You wiped your fingers on a napkin, and he gathered your hand in his own, wearing a look you couldn’t decipher. “You got it, ma.”

You played a game of mini-golf at the local arcade. Rio stood tall behind you, holding you by your hips as he corrected your stance. You purposefully arched your back, brushing against him just slightly. “Like this?” You looked over your shoulder with the most innocent look you could muster, but his eyes were glued to your ass. “Yeah, just like that.” He answered in a low tone without looking up. You giggled as you took your swing, adding a wiggle for his benefit. You pretended to care about the ball as it glided across the bright green tarp towards the hole. “How was that?” You chirped, looking down the lane.

“I can’t even lie. I don’t care about the game right now. I just wanna watch you.” Your aim was terrible, and the ball never went in the hole without several attempts, but he insisted you finish playing the course. You teased him about it for days after despite his claim that he actually enjoyed the game because it was one of Marcus’ favorites.

“Stop lying! You just wanted an excuse to openly watch my ass.”

“Why you always gotta call me out?”

You shopped a cozy health and wellness store with hundreds of cool little trinkets for sale. Neither of you had been there before, so you took your time exploring, stealing unexpected kisses from the other. Rio took full advantage of the size of the store, pulling you by the hand and holding you close to his side.

He frowned at the large collection of shiny crystals. “A rock, really? What does anybody need with a rock?”

“It’s not a rock!” You hissed, head whipping around as you hoped the owner didn’t hear him.

“What is it then? It looks like a rock to me.” He picked one up, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s a crystal!”

“What’s the difference?”

“It has healing properties...” Rio snorted but strung his arm across your shoulder and listened intently as you read the info cards to him. When it was all said and done, he bought an aventurine stone to apologize to the owner for prosperity, well-being, and good luck.

The next day, he disappeared with no warning. You had been worried sick until Mick let you know he was busy handling something. It would have only taken a minute to tell you that, so you were (understandably) pissed. He showed up at the shop several days later like nothing had ever happened. “What’s up, mama?” The greeting that usually melted you grated on your nerves. All of your feelings about the situation bubbled up to the surface. It was hard to find the right words— you were still getting to know each other, so how mad could you be? At the same time, how little did he think of you to not say anything? Finally, you settled on, “I can’t do the disappearing act.”

Rio wasn’t used to answering to anyone, not even his child’s mother, about his whereabouts, but he put his palms up in surrender when he saw the serious expression you wore.

“You’re right, mama. That’s my bad. It won’t happen again.”

And it hadn’t.

But knowing ahead of time only made it a tiny bit easier, especially when he didn’t have a set return date. You were going on day seven (the longest you had gone without seeing him since you started dating) when he called to say he made it home and wanted to see you. Your heavy heart swelled with relief. You missed him way more than you probably should have, so you insisted on a night in at your place, wanting him to feel relaxed and at home instead of on guard somewhere public.

It had been a long six weeks without sex while he romanced you with delicious food and beautiful words. It wasn’t an easy task, but you knew as soon as sex was thrown in the mix, you would be done for, either destined to be his or ruined by him. It was a scary thought, but distance had indeed made the heart grow fonder, and you cared about him enough to take a chance.

He was set to arrive within the hour, but you were still unsure of what to wear, frantically rummaging through the dresser for something cute and comfortable. You let out a frustrated groan when your phone started to ring, thinking Rio might have come early, but when you look down at your phone, you see your best friend’s name and face. You swipe quickly, accepting the FaceTime call. “Hey, girl!”

“Hey, stranger!” You pick up the phone, so you can look at her. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She replies with just as much sass. “I haven’t talked to you in what— two weeks?”

“We talk—“

“—text.”

“Okay, fine. Text. We text every day. What are you talking about?”

“That’s not the same.” She insists even as you remind her of the ridiculous amount of time you spend trading memes and food pictures with her.

“Anyway, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to decide what I’m going to wear between this, this, or this.” You move the camera around, showing her the different options. A black-and-white tank and short set with ‘Being cute is not a crime’ in a cute font. A fuzzy grey sweatsuit set with hearts, or a simple cream hoodie with matching shorts.

“Um, what’s the occasion?” You giggle at the look on her face, knowing she thinks none of the above are appropriate for wearing outside of the house.

“Movie night in.”

“You need help picking an outfit for movie night with yourself?” Her face scrunches up in confusion. “Wait, is it movie night with yourself?” You try to be casual about it, shrugging your shoulders in response. As usual, she sees through your bullshit and goes straight into an interrogation. “Oh, bitch. You been holding out on me!” She asks you five questions in a row without stopping to breathe before settling on one. “Who?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip. “...Rio.”

“Rio?” She frowns. “Like the guy we work for, Rio? With the eyebrows and the neck tattoo, Rio?”

“Yes, that Rio.”

“Wow.” You wince but decide it’s best to get it over with. “What? I know you, so I know there’s more where that came from.”

“I don’t know what to say! From what I can tell, he’s a decent dude, I guess, but you know what he does. You definitely know what we do for him! You don’t think that could be a problem?”

“It’s messy, for sure, and I can admit that, but I’ve been thinking about getting out anyway...” She nods. “Then, I guess there’s nothing else for me to say about that. You’re both grown, and you know what you’re doing.” She was your best friend, which meant she’d always give her honest opinion, but wouldn’t berate you about your choices. Just like that, you return to your regular discussion topics, everything from warehouse gossip (yes, even in the business of crime, there’s a rumor mill) to new music releases. Before you knew it, forty minutes had passed, and Rio was calling your phone. You promised to call her more often before hanging up.

You sing your ‘hello’ into the phone, hoping Rio can’t detect the shakiness in your voice as you clumsily pull on your bottoms.

“Hey, mama. You about ready? I know you’re sensitive about your space and all that.” He was referring to the fact that he had never been past the doorway of your home. Your home was your sacred place, so you were extra careful about who came in and what energy they brought. It was always nerve-wracking to let somebody into the space that you cherished so much.

“Yeah.” He picks up on the hesitancy in your voice. “Are you sure?” You nod your head as if he can see you before telling him yes with a giggle. “Alright, well, I’m outside. Can I come in?” You bite your lip, butterflies fluttering in your tummy. “Yeah, I’ll come unlock the door.” He whispers his thanks, and you take a moment to force yourself to relax. When you meet him at the door, you do so with an open mind and heart, taking in his appearance with a goofy grin on your face. As usual, he’s dressed in all black, wearing a well-fitted t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s casual but still so high quality and attractive.

“Hi.” You breathe out like a dork when you realize you’re staring. It helps that he seems just as mesmerized, stepping forward to envelop you in a tight, warm hug. He sways you from side to side before pulling back, his hands resting heavily on the top of your ass. He settles for a quick peck on the lips because he has something to say. “You’re as pretty as ever, darlin’.” He says earnestly, shaking his head as he steps back to look you over once more.

“Kiss me again.” His hands cup your ass as you devour each other in the open doorway. You forget your surroundings. “Damn, ma. Can I at least get inside before you jump my bones? I don’t mind giving your neighbors a show if that’s your thing, but…” You turn to hide your embarrassment, leaving him to close the door behind you as you gesture around the room as if you’re in an episode of MTV Cribs. “... here’s the living room. The kitchen’s through the arch. The bathroom’s over there...” He follows you with his red as you point.

“And the bedroom?”

You snort. “The tour stops here for now. Sit down.” Your tone leaves no room for argument. He settles into the soft couch while you grab the snack tray from the kitchen. Homemade popcorn, chocolate-covered pretzels, and dried fruit gummies are on the menu.

“All this for me?” His arms snake around your waist so that you can curl up into his side. “What we watching?” You grab the remote. “I saw a trailer this week that caught my attention. I’ll play it for you.” He didn’t care what you watched as long as he got to be close to you, so it didn’t take long for you to get the movie started. He stole glances at you when his knuckles brushed against your bare knees under the blanket. You’re embarrassed at how wet the small action makes you, so you stretch out across the couch and place your bare feet in his lap, silently planning your revenge. The movie may as well not be playing because you couldn’t be less interested in the plot as you lightly stroke him through his sweatpants with the balls of your feet.

“Ma...” He warns, watching you in the low lighting. He’s come to learn you like to tease, but he doesn’t think he can take it, not tonight. “Hmm?” You hum innocently, loving the strained look on your face. He doesn’t move even as you sit up on your haunches and kiss him. It’s slow and long in the best way. He pulls you to sit in his lap. His hands roam your body as you grind down onto him, relishing in the feeling of the soft skin on your tummy. He sighs into your mouth as one hand finds your bare breasts.

He pulls away to talk shit. “No bra? You just knew I was gonna put out, huh?” He pushes the cotton material up so he can see you properly. “Perfect.” He murmurs into your skin. You let him kiss and lick and suck on your nipples until the pressure you feel below is too much to handle. You’re a quivering mess when he finally helps you pull the cotton material up and over your head. It lands on top of the television behind you, but neither of you notice.

You nudge him until he removes his own shirt, and then he lifts his hips to help you when you begin tugging on his sweats. They puddle at his feet while you spread your legs wide, desperate to get your hands on him. “I could cry right now.” You admit honestly when you finally see him, biting your lip. He arches a brow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, darlin’?” His hips jerk when you take him into your hands, the cold temperature surprising him.

“It’s definitely a good thing.” You whisper excitedly, staring with wonder as he hardens in your hands. He barks out a laugh, stunned by your ability to make him laugh, even with his dick in your hands. “That’s really nice, ma. I feel real special.” Your eyes meet, and silent promises of all the filthy things you’re going to do to each other are exchanged. “You should. I’m about to change your life.” He throbs in your hands, loving that you find small ways to challenge him.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed.” He wraps his arms around you in preparation to get up, but you stop him with a shake of your head. “I don’t wanna.”

“No? What you wanna do then?”

You answer him by slipping to your knees. You spit on his dick, stroking him up and down slowly. He watches you closely as you lower your mouth, wrapping your lips around the tip. It takes a lot of restraint, but he lets you do your thing, slowly working him deeper into your throat. He closes his eyes as he concentrates on lasting, but he can’t turn his ears off, the obscene smacks painting a vivid picture for him. When you swipe your tongue across his balls, he moves to stop you, grabbing your shoulders. Fire dances in your eyes as you realize you got him where you want him. “I don’t wanna.” You repeat.

“You are a brat.”

You release him with a pop. “The biggest.” You admit, swallowing him once more. He groans, thinking he can’t believe you’re the same sweet girl who bakes in a frilly pink apron and begs him to tell her bedtime stories.

“I want you to fuck me now.” He stops you before you can bend over the couch. “Slow down. I want you on your back, darlin.”

You throw his earlier words back at him. “That’s nice. I feel really special.”

“You should.” He mocks you, instructing you to hold your legs wide. He wastes no time licking and sucking you as enthusiastically as you had done him. “You’re so pretty. I could eat this pretty pussy forever.” He compliments as you squirm in his hold. “You’d let me, huh?” You shake your head frantically. “No! You’d drive..me crazy!” Payback is a mother, especially when Rio’s the one dishing it out. “Wait, wait—“You whimper, clawing at his shoulders.

“What?” He cajoles. He almost wants to laugh at the distressed look on your face. “I want you.” You pout, trying to sweet-talk him.

“You have me.”

“Not like this. Inside.”

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Mhm.” You swallow, watching as he fumbles around with his pants searching for a condom. He opens the golden foil packet with expert fingers, positioning himself in between your spread legs. “You don’t have any pointers for me now?” He drags his tip up and down your slit, slowly pushing his way further. Teasing. You shake your head. “No. Just fuck me.”

“That ain’t polite. You gotta say please, mama.” You scowled, but he didn’t budge. “Please.” You pleaded with the sweetest tone you could muster, sighing as he gave in. You cursed at the stretch, him at the way you squeezed him. “You feel…” He couldn’t find the words, so he buried his face in your neck, trying to gain some composure. You caressed the back of his neck sweetly. “You feel good too, baby.”

His hips stuttered forward, and you gasped as he worked himself deeper. You grasp his shoulders tightly, your nails embedding themselves into the soft skin.

“Yes!” You squeal.

“Like that?” He grits out, struggling to keep his rhythm.

“Yes, just like that!” You cry, moaning as he pounds up into you. His lips find yours again, and it’s bliss. Then before you can stop yourself, you’re calling him Daddy like it’s his given name. He groans into your sweaty neck like he’s in pain.

“You’re so nasty.” Overwhelmed and breathless, you whine your protest, “You’re nasty. Look at what you’re doing to me.” His eyes shift to where you’re connected. You’re creaming all over him and leaking down onto the couch, but you can’t bring yourself to care about anything other than coming. You do just that, mewling as you make an even bigger mess between your legs. He whispers filthy things into your ear as he finishes, grunting at the way you seem to be sucking him in even deeper.

“That was—“

“—unreal.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you can bring yourself to move. Your sweat-covered skin sticks together. You swipe your hand against your forehead while he pants.

“I wanted to ride you at least once tonight, but after that, I’ll be lucky to make it to bed.”

GENERAL TAGLIST

@woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @ourlittlesecretsoveragain @everyhowlmarksthedead @yourwonkywriter @trulysuccubus @sparklemichele @luckyharley1903

RIO TAGLIST

@xsweetdellzx

#good girls rio #nbc good girls #manny montana #rio x reader #rio x black!reader

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

tuxedo, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader, mentions of previous jungkook x reader

summary: Your cat turns into a man. No, not, your cat was always a man and turned back into a man. Your actual cat turns into an actual man and neither you or your cat (man? cat-man?) have any idea why he's human now. Also, he's naked, so that’s a problem. Also, he’s kind of attractive. Yikes.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, mentions of the coronavirus pandemic; possibly full-on crack; Yoongi still thinks he’s a cat; mentions of smut (fem reader, m-receiving oral (choking on a dick, but not in a sexy way), doggy, spanking, wall-fucking, unintentional??? voyeurism); non-idol!AU - cat!Yoongi x human!reader; ft slightly cocky Jeon Jungkook and you being mad horny for him, what’s new; breaking of the fourth wall; are YOU a furry? you decide

an anon asked for cat hybrid Yoongi, although instead this is some voodoo witch doctor shit, whoops yes, I do reference BT21, Bob Ross, the lady-pointing-to-the-cat-accusingly meme, list goes on... and there is a cameo of 2021 Seasons Greetings Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin XD

Your lungs were being crushed.

You were bundled in your duvet, wrapped like a mint-colored burrito, on your back, head nestled comfortably in your memory foam pillow. Warm, cozy, snuggly. All things considered, a comfortable position. So comfortable that you were blessedly asleep for many hours until your lungs started getting crushed.

You cracked one eye open.

A giant tuxedo fluffball was causing this slow and painful death.

“Get off.”

You glared with slitted eyes, voice cracking from sleep. The fluffball did not move. Velvety, pointed black ears flicked back and forth. The little pink nostrils flared a bit, breathing evenly and contentedly. At least one of you was. You grunted in irritation. The minty-green eyes opened, black slits for pupils.

“I’m going to die.”

Your cat meowed in your face.

“Shut the fuck up. Get off.”

He yawned.

You narrowed your eyes and lips into lines. Stared at your insufferable, not-so-subtle tuxedo cat that was killing his owner. How long had he and his seven-kilogram ass been sitting on your tits? Too long because your sternum was already aching. You rolled over and he gave you a disgruntled meow as he tumbled off. You pulled your arms out and gave him a soft scratch behind his ears before reaching around to his white belly and patting his chest. He started purring, rolling to his side, white sock-like paws sticking up.

“Ugh, my chest hurts, Shooks. You’re a dick.”

Your cat gave zero fucks.

You were still petting him. Sigh.

“I’m getting up,” you announced to no one except your cat.

You tugged yourself out of your comfy, mint-colored duvet and winced, rubbing your breastbone. Did you buy this bedding set because it reminded you of your cat’s eye color? Yes. Were you a crazy cat lady? Maybe. In your defense, you hadn’t meant to become a crazy cat lady. You were innocently walking on the street when the tuxedo-patterned cat started following you. A large cat with big minty eyes surrounded by black fur like black bangs. White snout and jaw, pink nose, and a raspy meow. The tuxedo pattern was pretty similar to an actual suit, with a white chest and black fur over its back and limbs. White, sock-like paws, on the bigger side. Cute pink toe beans too. At the time, he was skinny and dirty, no collar around his neck, but you could tell he was long-limbed. He had a cut on his right eye, caked with blood.

“You alright, little guy?”

The cat seemed to scoff at you disapprovingly, as if to say, do I seem like a little guy to you?

“I guess you’re not a little guy. You have an owner?”

The cat’s response was headbutting your calf.

You took him back to your apartment and then it was doomed.

Why was his name Shooks? Well, actually, your cat’s name was Shooky, and it was because you tried many names to get him to respond to you – including, but not limited to, “you little shit” – and he responded to none of them except Shooky. For some reason, Shooky made him turn his black-and-white face around and look at you.

Shooky it was.

The first encounter was cute, but after you had fed him and given him a few pats, you gave him a good, hard taste of reality. Shooky was very upset about getting a bath for the first time. There had been a lot of angry meowing, although thankfully he hadn’t swiped at you very much. As soon as you got mostly undressed and sat in the bath with him, he seemed to relent. Maybe it was because you closed the glass door and he couldn’t leave.

“Do you see how dirty you are? You need a bath.”

He gave you a disapproving meow.

“Look, I even bought pet shampoo and you’ll get treats after. Come on, you.”

He was very displeased.

In any case, Shooky was now your primary companion, a large, long-limbed, fluffy tuxedo cat, following you around as you brushed your teeth and made breakfast, his new black collar jingling with a tiny silver bell. Every morning, you handed him his dry food first – he chomped down immediately – and made yourself some breakfast as he ate. Somehow your life now revolved around him, spending time looking up the best cat food (without paying an arm and a leg, you weren’t a sugar momma), making sure he was brushed (his hair got everywhere), telling everyone you needed to get home because you couldn’t miss his dinnertime (if you were a second late opening the door, Shooky would start meowing very exaggeratedly, like he was dying, what a drama queen). Was he annoying? Yes. Was he the best cuddle buddy? Also, yes. Kind of like a boyfriend, but better, because Shooky didn’t talk back.

You arranged your small dishes on the table. Tofu. Eggs. Pickled squash. Just enough for one. You sat down, holding your bowl of steamed rice.

A tuxedo furball jumped onto the table, licking his chops.

“Look here, this isn’t for you. Shoo.”

He settled onto the tabletop and stared at you as you ate.

Sigh.

Live with a cat was pretty similar to life without one.

Except for that weird habit Shooky had of sitting on your bathroom rug when you got out of the shower, scaring the shit out of you the first time. You lived alone, so you didn’t really bother closing doors, but you considered changing that. But it was just a cat. Also, he walked in here of his own volition. Not your fault if his eyes were scarred.

Shooky was a normal cat, but also a weird cat.

He slept a lot. Normal. He bit his paws sometimes. Weird. You figured maybe it was his nails, so you learned to trim them and he seemed better about it, but sometimes when he was stressed, you would notice fur missing from his little white socks. A lot of things could stress a cat. The internet taught you that. You brought him toys and played with him, but mostly he seemed to want you to sit down so he could plant himself in your lap. This make life rather difficult, so you decided it was time to invest in Netflix so you could at least use your time wisely.

This was for your cat, remember.

Yes, binging shows on Netflix was for your cat.

The weirdest thing was…

Shooky was always stressed when you invited a man into your home.

Maybe he didn’t like men. Something in his past, maybe? Could be. Come to think of it, did you even like men? That was a question for another day, but in any case, your cat always gave you this accusing stare when you brought a guy over, no matter how nice the guy was, even if the guy petted him very gently. Shooky never attacked them. He just glared at you like you had betrayed him somehow. How could that be?

What a needy drama queen.

You figured, eh, it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t trying to sabotage your chances of finding true love and all that stuff.

Who are we kidding?

You’d settle for a simple good dicking.

Well, there was that one time.

That time you were in the middle of giving a guy a blowjob. It was going great. You were naked, he was naked, he had a tattooed arm – hot as fuck – and he was very vocally enjoying your tongue technology. Hey, you didn’t have many talents, but you had that going for you. Even if a guy was mildly apprehensive about banging you, once you got your mouth on his dick, it was game over. You mentally patted yourself on the back for doing such a good job.

Positive reinforcement, right?

Annnnnnnd then…

Your cat jumped onto your back and made you choke on his dick.

“Urk!”

“Oh, fu–”

All seven kilos right between your shoulder blades. Oof.

“Are you okay?” He was half-worried, half-laughing, and Shooky was climbing up your back, pressing onto your neck, one paw on the nape, trying to murder you by dick suffocation. It took both of you to lift you off the dick – sad – and Shooky left a few scratches on your neck, as if to communicate his distaste of your infidelity. The guy was really nice about it. Actually, he found it hilarious. You scowled at Shooky and he gave you that deadpan stare that all cats seemed to have. The rest of the night was hot and heavy like you wanted and you even eventually got to complete said blowjob, which brightened your spirits.

It was a little disorienting that your cat was watching you from his cat tree the entire time.

Creep.

Honestly, you would have kept dating that guy if he didn’t move to a different city. Sigh.

Eventually, you stopped bringing men over.

One, because Shooky. Two, because worldwide pandemic.

Sigh.

The night that changed everything was ordinary.

Too ordinary.

You were passed out on the couch, halfway into season six of American Horror Story, somewhat peeved because you wanted to watch the other seasons, but geez, season five had such a poor story and hard focus on gore that it slightly turned you off. That it was a lot, even for you. Season six was better, but slow. The first four seasons had really hooked you and the idea of them all being connected? Nutty. You wanted to watch all of it.

Idea of season five? Awesome.

Lady Gaga? Yeah, why not, you’d be seduced.

Execution? Eh… could be better.

Shooky hadn’t watched any of it. He just slept in your lap.

Subtitles really helped you out here. You didn’t understand how the English-speaking audience could hear the whispering parts, but maybe that was because your English was garbage. You could read better than listen.

At the moment, you weren’t reading shit.

You were half-tucked in a fuzzy black blanket with a tuxedo cat pattern. Did you see the tuxedo cat pattern and buy it immediately? Yes. Were you a crazy cat lady? Maybe. In any case, your head was cocked at an awkward angle on the couch cushion and your mouth was open, snoring away. Attractive. You were wearing mint-colored, striped pajamas, one arm hanging off the couch and the other on Shooky’s furry butt, because you had been petting him.

Netflix was doing that annoying thing where it was asking you if you were still watching or not.

You couldn’t respond.

Shooky was awake.

Your cat was staring at your laptop on your coffee table. It was open. An HDMI cable connected it to your television. Not a clean setup, but an effective one. Again, you lived alone. Who was going to judge you? Your tuxedo cat?

Pfft.

Your cat was awake.

He got off your lap and hopped to the coffee table, peering at your laptop. Then he did what any sensible cat would do.

He walked all over your keyboard.

Circling around and around, smashing all the buttons with his cute pink toe beans, looking for a comfortable spot before settling down and planting his fluffy body on top of it. Windows closed, tabs appeared, the volume got muted, your display settings got fucked, the usual.

The unusual part was that your cat was looking at the screen.

Your internet browser was open.

A video was playing on a mysterious website.

A handsome young man with a boxy smile was wearing a sienna floral dress shirt and sunglasses, oddly paired with flared violet pants. He was standing next to another young man with an angelic face who, for some reason, was wearing a pastel floral handkerchief around on his head and a white-and-navy tracksuit with black, red, and green stripes. They were standing in some weird set with a black tablecloth covered round table and a lavender crystal ball, crystal-like beaded curtains glinting in strangely colorful lighting.

There was no volume.

Your cat tilted his head at the screen, curious.

The man with the boxy smile was speaking excitedly, gesturing to the angelic-looking man who seemed to be in awe. A retro, old school graphic popped up, flowers surrounding a blocky orange and green serif font, mildly tacky but somehow endearing in its own way.

COULD WISHES REALLY BE GRANTED?

Your cat tilted his head the other way.

Your cat didn’t know Korean.

… Right?

Well, you did mostly speak to him in Korean. Maybe he was secretly fluent. He definitely knew, don’t fucking do that, because you would witness him doing the very thing you told him not to do right after you said it. Bastard. But you couldn’t bear witness to this now. You were knocked out on the couch.

Zzz.

Boxy-smile guy placed his fingers elegantly on his forehead, mock dismay on his features, acting as if he couldn’t believe the viewer’s skepticism. Angel-looking guy placed his hands in prayer position, the text now reading, I won’t believe you unless you prove it! Boxy-smile guy flourished to the camera, showing off his brilliant pearly-white smile, mouthing words unheard. Text appeared once more.

Make a wish, any wish!

Your cat closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep.

The video turned black and disappeared into purple sparkles.

Your internet browser unexpectedly closed.

You woke up with a painful stitch in your neck and Shooky nowhere to be found.

“Fuck…”

You tried to get up, but underestimated the cramp in your back and fell onto the hardwood floor.

“Fuck!”

You blamed the pandemic for fucking up your sleep schedule. Also, getting old. Fuck getting old and being an adult. Time didn’t stop just because you didn’t go to work. Well, not true. You did go to work; your work was just different now. You were YouTube video editor, which meant you were mostly edited video game montages now instead of travel vlogs. The work was slower now. People were getting discouraged, taking breaks, because, you know.

Pandemic.

Sigh.

Anyway, not the point. You were grateful that your work was mostly internet and computer-based. Not everyone was so lucky. You were also grateful that you didn’t work in an industry that was too negatively affected by the pandemic. It had started off as a hobby, but then the creators you were helping unexpectedly blew up, needing your help more and more. You fell into it by accident, but that’s how life was. Happy little accidents. You couldn’t complain. As long as you had some income to feed your cat and you, that was enough.

Speaking of cat.

“Shooky?”

No meow.

Huh.

He normally would meow or trot over to you when called. He was weirdly affectionate like that.

You were still on the floor, on hands and knees, crick in your neck and back aching. Ah yes, age was just a number until your back pain flared up due to repeated nights of unintentionally falling asleep on the couch. Lovely. You stretched out your back with a groan and yawned, cracking your neck.

“FUCK!”

That hurt. Ugh, you really needed to stop sleeping on the sofa. You untangled yourself from your blanket and headed to the bathroom, rubbing your neck. You still didn’t see your fluffy, seven-kilogram, kind-of-an-ass tuxedo cat, but whatever. He had to be in the apartment. He couldn’t exactly leave. He was a cat. What was he going to do, grow legs and opposable thumbs?

Pfft.

You shoved your toothpaste-covered toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing your teeth. You hummed, trying to remember if you had any deadlines. Eh, they were on your Google calendar. You would check it after washing up. You spat and brushed for a few more minutes, thinking about nothing. This was nice. Sometimes it was nice to think about nothing. No major problems to address, simply a chill and routine morning.

Seemed sufficient.

You reached over to the spit cup and put some lukewarm water in it before taking your toothbrush out and sipping some water to gargle the minty suds out.

You heard a deep, raspy voice call your name.

“Hmm?”

You looked in the mirror.

Wait.

Your mouth was full of dirty toothpaste water, cheeks puffed out.

The voice called your name again, quietly.

Nervously.

Your eyes widened, staring into the mirror in shock.

A pale man was standing behind you, wearing your mint-colored duvet over his shoulders. Messy black hair to his rounded cheeks, dark brown cat-like eyes, small pink pout. His nose was a little red, as if he was cold. There was a black choker on his neck, with a silver bell. He was taller than you, and he looked very confused.

Also.

Pointed, velvety black ears on top of his head, white tufts of fur sticking out, flicking back and forth.

You spat all over your mirror in shock.

“Urk–!”

The man jerked back as you threw your head into the sink, hastily taking another cupful of water to rinse out your mouth because, WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON? Why was there a man in your apartment? With fucking cat ears? That moved? What kind of kinky shit was that? Were you dreaming? What the fuck?! You grabbed the hand towel from its hook and furiously wiped the dirty water off your mirror, completely convinced you were having sensory and auditory hallucinations. Did you drink last night? Accidentally buy groceries laced with LSD? Snorted three kilos of cocaine off a hooker? Who the fuck knows, but there was no fucking way that you let some fucking man in your home, because, one, pandemic and, two, Shooky–

You froze.

The pale man with black hair was still there, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking slightly disgusted, but also scared.

He said your name again. A question, almost like a raspy meow.

It was…

Familiar?

You violently wiped your bathroom mirror some more, nearly cracking the glass.

The man was still there, wearing your mint-colored duvet.

Slowly, slowly, you turned around to face this man, your neck cracking loudly, sending searing pain up the back of your head and reminding you that, nope, this is not a dream, and if it was, it was a very shitty dream because at least in a dream you shouldn’t actually feel pain. You looked up at this man, at his fluffy black bangs shading his dark attentive eyes and pale face, chewing on his lip, clutching your duvet around his body like a giant mint cloak.

The cat ears on his head twitched.

“Uh…”

You blinked at him, watching the ears.

“Do… I know you?”

He gave you an eerily recognizable deadpan stare. “I think you do.”

No way.

What?

No.

This wasn’t possible.

You’re drunk, high, or in purgatory.

(You did have sex before marriage.)

“S… Shooky?” you croaked.

The man took a deep breath and shook his head.

“Actually, my name is Min Yoongi.”

You blinked at him. “What? You have a name?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Relief washed over you. “What do you mean, you guess? That means you’re a human being! With a birth certificate! Thank God, I thought you were my fucking cat for some reason, haha, that’s so fucking ridiculous–!” For some reason, the idea of a random stranger being in your home was much more comfortable to you than you damn cat becoming a human being, because for a hot second, you thought… but no, no, that’s stupid. “Speaking of ridiculous, these ears are crazy dude, they look almost real–”

You reached up and yanked on one of the velvety ears.

“Ow, what the fuck!”

Oh.

Oh my God.

OhmyfuckingGodthey’reattachedtohishead.

“What the FUCK?” you bellowed and a large pale hand shot out of the duvet to clamp one of his cat ears down, shrinking away from you.

“Stop yelling, please, I have sensitive hearing,” Yoongi winced, ticking his head, as if he was trying to flatten the other ear too, but couldn’t. His other hand was holding tightly to the mint duvet.

You saw a glimpse of a pale chest.

Your eyes widened into the size of saucepans.

His hand darted back into the duvet and clamped it shut from your bulging eyes, frowning. He quickly bundled himself up and straightened, thinning his mouth into a line. A few seconds passed. You gawked at him, jaw slack. The pale man sighed heavily.

“My name is Min Yoongi. My parents gave me that name. I don’t think I have a human birth certificate because I’m not a human. I am a cat. You used to call me Shooky, but Min Yoongi is my name, so I would appreciate it if you called me by my given name.”

Your jaw went even more slack.

“Cats… have names?” you squeaked.

Yoongi made a face at you. “Of course, we do. We are not savages.”

“B… But…” You frowned, shoulders falling. “You seemed to like the name Shooky…”

Yoongi shrugged his duvet-covered shoulders. “It sounded better than all the other names you suggested.”

You puffed your cheeks, placing your hands on your hips. “What was wrong with Tata? Or Chimmy? Or Cooky?”

Yoongi gave you a disapproving glare. “Well, perhaps in a parallel universe the name Shooky is somehow important to me. In any case, it was the best suggestion.”

You narrowed your eyes, frowning. “You little shit.”

“I especially disliked that one. Seemed a bit discriminating to our size difference…” He paused, looking down at you. “At the time anyway.”

Your hands fell, looking up at your cat. Er. Min Yoongi. “So, uh… Yoongi…?”

He tilted his head, peering curiously at you under his black bangs. “Hm?”

You pointed at him, gesturing up and down. “Why are you, uh… a man?”

He looked down at the duvet covering his body. You stared at your bedding wrapped around him. Why was he wearing it anyway? In fact, all you could see was a black choker with a silver bell. The mental lightning bolt suddenly hit you. Oh. Your neck began to heat. Your ears began to heat. Your whole face began to heat. Oh. Oh? Oh! Shooky – er, Yoongi? – whatever, your cat didn’t wear clothes. He only wore a collar… which meant…

It felt like your whole body was on fire with abrupt realization.

Yoongi looked up at your mint-pajama-wrapped, now tomato self still pointing at him.

“I don’t know why I’m a man.”

One of his eyebrows raised. Then Yoongi smirked.

An open-mouthed, amused smirk.

“And yes, I’m naked. Your clothes don’t fit me. I tried.”

Your cat, er, man? Cat-man? What even... never mind, Min Yoongi was sitting on your bed, still wrapped in your mint duvet like a key lime cake roll, waiting as you rummaged around in your dresser, searching for literally any piece of clothing that might possibly fit him. The problem was, you worked from home, so you didn't exactly own a plethora of different clothing options. Your daily wardrobe consisted of slinky black leggings...

"They're stretchy?" you suggested timidly.

Yoongi had blinked at you. "I don't think so."

"It could work?"

He pursed his lips together. "I think you're forgetting something."

You gave him a blank look. "Huh?"

Yoongi gave you his deadpan stare. "I believe you are well acquainted with human male genitalia."

Oh.

Right.

He had a dick.

You turned red and robotically shoved your leggings back into their place. A sudden thought flitted across your brain and you spun back to face him, blurting it out before filtering yourself.

"Hahaha, good thing I never got you fixed, eh?"

Yoongi blinked very, very slowly. It was hard to tell if he was annoyed, amused, or wanted to murder you. In conclusion, typical cat behavior.

"I'm not fond of the idea of castration, so I suppose so."

Awkward.

Your vet had suggested it, but since he had been an indoor cat and you weren't intending on getting another, you figured you wouldn't put him under the unnecessary surgery and it would help you avoid the cost. A little irresponsible? Maybe. But you were very careful not to leave the front door open and, so far, he hasn't had the chance to get some poor lady cat knocked up.

Unfortunately…

He knew you considered permanently removing his nuts. Yikes.

Sorry, Shooks. Er, Yoongi.

In any case!

The other half of your daily wardrobe was sweatshirts, but Yoongi's shoulders were too broad for them and he was too tall. Why was he so big anyway? Well, he wasn’t exactly big, just long-limbed. You guessed he was actually on the leaner side, judging from the way the duvet wrapped around him and the brief flash of long fingers, slim forearm, and toned chest. He had been a larger cat.

Seven kilos turned into... him?

You suddenly started and yanked open your underwear drawer, shuffling through it to get to the back and pull out a neatly folded dark gray blob.

"I have this–"

"No."

The response was so forceful and dismissive that you froze, the dark gray fabric unfurling in your loose grip. It was a large men's sweatshirt, soft, charcoal, slightly acid-wash, covered with white paint stains. Eggshell white, to be exact. The exact paint color of this very bedroom, because you had worn it to repaint over that original disgusting beige color.

"Why not?" you inquired, holding it up by the shoulders. "It'll fit you, for sure. It used to be..."

Yoongi kept his completely neutral expression trained on you as you reached your revelation, his dark eyes observing every detail of your body's reaction to the memory. Your grip on the sweatshirt tightened. You felt your cheeks and ears heat, pulse roaring in your ears.

Oh.

Er, right, so…

That one time that Shooky – no, Yoongi? – jumped on your back and made you choke on a dick? Yeah, that guy. Tattoo guy. Yeah, well, before that incident, tattoo guy was the friend of a friend who offered to help you paint your apartment because he had experience working construction – “helped my dad fix-up a house to resell for a couple months,” he had said with his disgustingly cute, cheeky grin, making you nod like an idiot and your pussy throb with his endearing adorableness – and you had moved all the furniture out so you two could get it done quickly.

You had to put your cat in the bathroom.

You didn’t want him to breathe in the fumes or get paint on his luscious fur. It was for his own good.

Tattoo guy had appeared in said charcoal sweatshirt, black ripped jeans, and the most attractive thighs in the whole damn universe, just out and about, giant holes exposing tan skin and taut muscle. Your eyes widened, frozen at your front door.

Oh yeah, he had paint rollers too. You hadn’t given a shit about those in that moment.

He had noticed you staring and laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, I just wore the ugliest pants I own. It might get messy, you know?”

No, tattoo guy. No one thought your pants were ugly.

You sure as hell didn’t.

“Oh, yeah, that’s why I wore this gross t-shirt,” you said absentmindedly, referring to your four-sizes-too-large, free t-shirt that had been chucked at your head while walking past your university common area. It was a hideous chanteuse with magenta writing, a color combination that absolutely deserved to go to hell, and could not even be saved by the quirky, stylish, thrift-savvy TIkTokers of today. It was the ugliest thing you owned, so you wore it to repaint your bedroom.

Now you regretted it.

Tattoo guy looked you up and down. He smirked under his long black hair.

“Your body still looks great though.”

“… Urk?”

Didn’t really matter that you couldn’t conjure a sexy response, because, clearly, tattoo guy had made his decision leagues before arriving here. Painting a bedroom? Oh, yeah, you did that, and with way too much sexual tension. A man should not be that flirty while holding two paint rollers and speed painting your walls. What were you supposed to do? You barely knew the guy. All you managed to do was make awkward small talk to get to know him better. Then he took off his sweatshirt.

“Wait, that’s illegal.”

He had smirked at you, spinning the paint roller in his hand, white t-shirt molded to his body. “Hm?”

You were being mildly disrespected, but also you were gawking at his tattooed right arm and his blindingly beautiful forearms. Cough, no. You didn’t have a thing for attractive forearms. Wasn’t like staring at this muscular pair was making you weak at the knees or anything. Okay, maybe. But you weren’t going to say it out loud. Tattoo guy ticked his chin below you, to the floor. Your job was to paint the little nooks at the corners, ceiling, and baseboards. You spent a whole lot of your job sneaking glances at him and getting caught.

Shit.

“You missed a spot.”

You whipped your head to the floor, craning your head to look for it. A paint roller appeared beside you, pointing to a small sliver for nasty beige. He had a clear, silvery voice.

“Right here.”

You frowned at it and raised your paintbrush in warning to the offensive beige, ready to strike.

“… Noona.”

You started and fell over.

You sputtered, legs tangled, oversized shirt flipping up, trying not to drop the paintbrush and drawing a fat streak across the unpainted wall. You shook your head roughly, clutching the handle of the brush, cool draft floating up your shirt.

Tattoo guy appeared above you, grinning, his front teeth slightly too large and giving him the appearance of a rambunctious bunny.

“You alright?”

You felt your neck and ears heat. No, you were not alright. Yes, you were older, but that didn’t… that wasn’t the time… You didn’t expect it, that’s all. You tried very hard not to look at his thighs. Or his face. Or his chest. Just didn’t look at him. Also, you were pretty sure you were flashing him and pretty fucking sure you didn’t give a shit.

You coughed awkwardly. “Yup, I’m good.”

Back to copious sexual tension complemented by paint fumes.

Once the first coat was down, you two stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the plastic drop cloth, him banishing a paint roller and you a paintbrush. Challenge complete and it didn’t take you very long. Nice.

“We have to let it dry and then we can paint another coat,” he was explaining.

“It looks fine like this.”

Tattoo guy clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Once it dries, it will look uneven. Trust me.”

You frowned. “Okay. How long should we wait?”

“Couple hours, at least.”

A couple hours? You frowned more. “What are we supposed to do until then?”

He didn’t reply. You turned your head to face him and tattoo guy was staring at you with a smile.

Uh oh.

He was spinning the paint roller with one hand. You felt your ears and neck heat. He switched from his left hand to his right, seamlessly. Incredibly sexy. Were the paint fumes getting to you? You gulped, awkwardly gesturing to the paintbrush.

“Let me just… put this down…”

You turned around and balanced your paintbrush in the paint tray, only to gasp as your felt something foamy roll down your back, covering you with the strong stench of paint. It stopped above the curve of your ass, unable to roll smoothly any longer.

“Hmm, can’t get past your juicy ass, noona,” he teased.

You spun around, cheeks flushed, sputtering.

No, no. You didn’t forget tattoo guy’s name. You remembered it, even now. Remembered saying it in multiple different ways, even.

“Jeon J-Jungkook!”

In surprise, streaks of paint in your hair, him smirking, dropping the paint roller on the other plastic tray and somehow not tipping it over, thank goodness, him walking up to you, taking the bottom of your paint-covered chanteuse university t-shirt, leaning down to whisper hotly against your lips.

“Ah, sorry, it seemed like you didn’t like that shirt very much,” he breathed, sending your brain into overdrive with the heat against your skin, his knuckles brushing your thighs. “You can wear my sweatshirt instead, if you like.”

Your eyes widened, staring at him in shock.

“J… Jungkook…”

In breathlessness, heart pounding in your chest, gaze locked with mischievous dark chocolate orbs, his teeth catching his lower lip, tiny mole underneath revealed.

“Yeah?”

Why was his voice so deep? The tiny tip of his pink tongue darted out, licking his lips enticingly.

“… Noona?”

This man was illegal.

Your hands darted down and gripped his, catching your lower lip in your teeth as well, matching his lip bite, seeing the eagerness growing in his eyes.

Someone should call the police. Or an ambulance.

You grinned, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t want to wear anything around you.”

But not for you.

There was a very loud meow from your bathroom, but before Jungkook could ask, you yanked your shirt up and over your head. He gasped and instantly it was lips on lips, messy kisses and stumbling to the living room were your bed, dresser, nightstands, bookcase, knickknacks, everything scattered everywhere, but Jungkook and you were too busy yanking off clothes and getting frisky to give a shit.

Yikes.

You stared at Yoongi now, red from head to toe, clutching the dark gray sweatshirt. He rolled his eyes and looked away from you.

“I… washed it?” you offered weakly.

Yoongi’s dark brows raised from under his black bangs. “Mmm, you forget that I have quite keen hearing. I’m not deaf like you, human.”

The color drained from your face.

Well.

Maybe, just maybe, Jungkook got you to wear his dark gray sweatshirt, forcing you – respectfully, he called you noona, after all – to get on your hands and knees for him, then make you wait in said embarrassing position with his sweatshirt bunched around your neck – because, er, gravity – while he casually made you watch him roll the condom on, highly amused by your impatient glare, only to move away and slowly shove his dick inside your soaking wet pussy and spank your ass until you backed up into him enough times to make yourself cum on his stiff length without him moving his hips.

Respectfully, of course.

“Fuck, noona, that was so fucking hot…”

“Jungkook,” you gasped breathlessly, ass stinging in glorious pain. “F-Fuck me, please.”

He made you scream.

He fucked your hard, making the bed creak, pounding you so roughly into the mattress that your fingers curled into the mint sheets, and when you gasped that you were close, he fucking stopped, the damn sadist, causing you to slam your fists into the bed and buck back into his crotch, Jungkook chuckling at your desperation. In your haze of begging for Jungkook’s cock, you heard a judgmental meow from your bathroom, but before you could address it, Jungkook seemed to have accepted your pleading and began to thrust into you once more, making you lose your train of thought and all thoughts in general, except your dire need to orgasm.

Jungkook had made you moan for hours.

Right now, however, Yoongi’s sharp look was making you mute. You were so mortified that you swore your soul stood up and walked out of your body, too ashamed to be in Yoongi’s presence any longer.

“Mmm,” the dark-haired man mused absentmindedly, pointed ears flicking.

From spitting onto the mirror to mentioning his possible castration to remembering that you had locked Yoongi in the bathroom for hours to have mind-blowing sex with Jeon Jungkook under the guise of repainting your bedroom walls…

Too bad life doesn’t have an undo button.

You suddenly remembered Jungkook pushing you up against the bathroom door, your leg hooked around his waist, his cock plunging in and out of you, lips on your neck, and your wrists pinned to the door, rattling it as he fucked you, whispering against your skin.

“You sound so fucking sexy, make more sounds for me, I’ll fuck you as much as you want, fuck you until you can’t think, can’t move, just to hear you say my name over and over…”

“Jungkook… f-fuck, you f-feel so fucking good, o-oh, Jungkook…!”

He pulled his lips away from your neck and smirked in your face.

“Yeah… noona?”

Respectfully.

“Fuck!”

Your back arced against the bathroom door as you came, pussy throbbing and spasming, the top of your head touching the wood, gasping Jungkook’s name in ecstasy, slamming your wrists against the door, Jungkook moaning as he came inside you, cock jerking inside the condom and swelling it with his orgasm, lips crashing down on yours and you whining pathetically into his mouth as he sucked on your tongue roughly.

A quiet, disapproving meow below you.

A master yikes.

You deliberately shoved the dark gray blob back into your underwear drawer.

Yoongi pursed his lips.

“Why is it in your underwear drawer, anyway?”

You slowly closed it, the wood snapping as the drawer touched the dresser.

Silence.

A crow cawed in the distance.

“You know what, let me make a trip to the convenience store…” was your hollow reply as you mechanically walked out of your bedroom, followed by a mint duvet.

“Do you know what size I would be?” came the husky, amused chuckle behind you as you pawed around your apartment for your wallet, two masks, hand sanitizer.

“I’ll just… buy a variety…”

“Or you could measure.”

You heard a rustle and you whipped your head around, only to see Yoongi’s cocked eyebrow and a slight bit of his exposed shoulders, collarbones on display, silver bell jingling. He yanked it back up, frowning at you.

“Are you a pervert?”

“N… no!”

You jerked away and hastily hooked the masks on your ears, fumbling with your sneakers before declaring, “I will be right back!” And then you threw yourself out the door.

Yoongi sighed, finally releasing his hold on the duvet.

“Ugh, so stuffy…”

His long black tail whipped about.

The door suddenly jerked back open and you plucked your keys from the side dish.

Only to see Yoongi fully naked, sleek black tail whisking around, blinking at you.

He was naked.

Really naked.

Very, one hundred percent, naked.

The mint duvet was pooled around his legs on the ground and Min Yoongi, who was formerly your cat Shooky, was a fair-skinned, long-limbed, lean-bodied, very attractive tall man, with velvety black cat ears and tail and – urk! – completely intact human male genitalia. Your neck, ears, cheeks, chest, ancestors from generations long ago, all turned red in embarrassment. Once again, you soul completely left your body in pure mortification.

“D… Don’t leave!” you blurted, snapping the door closed.

Yoongi just stood there, sighing as he heard the door lock and a body bolt down the apartment building stairs.

“You didn’t even change out of your pajamas…” he muttered, picking up the duvet.

"I can't wear these."

It was a few hours later. Thankfully, when you arrived home with your purchases, your cat... man was asleep, wrapped like a mint cake roll in your duvet. You tried not to think about his naked body on your bed, therefore ending up thinking about his naked body on your bed.

"You need to wear pants! For..."

Dark eyebrows raised.

"Decency!"

After getting home, you had spent the next thirty minutes hand-washing a black t-shirt, black boxer briefs, and loose black pants that were definitely too short but it was the only size available that could fit that waist, so you had to make do. You put the other shirts and underwear in the washing machine, but you needed to wash at least one outfit and hang it to dry. You tried to use the hottest water your hands could handle to sterilize the clothing, wincing at the blistering heat.

You didn't know if Yoongi could get coronavirus but you weren't going to risk it.

Eventually you placed everything on the drying rack and positioned your space heater on them to dry them off.

Then you passed out on the couch. You deserved it, after working so hard.

Only to be woken up by Yoongi poking your shoulder roughly and telling you he couldn't wear the underwear and pants.

He was still holding the duvet around his body and your neck was still regretting every second of sleeping on the couch. Ow. Too much physical labor. Quarantine had turned you into a formless potato. You sat up halfway, wincing. Ugh, pain. You jabbed your finger at Yoongi, who gave you a displeased narrowing of his eyes.

"Put the pants on, you animal!"

Yoongi swept around the sofa, mint duvet and all, determined glint in his dark orbs, lips pursed in annoyance. You started, cracking your neck by accident, yelping in pain as you fell back against the couch.

Yoongi planted himself on top of you nimbly.

You froze.

Partly because you were shocked, but mostly because your neck seized a bit.

His legs were on either side of you, body still wrapped up, perfectly balanced despite the sudden leap, surveying you with a disapproving and discerning eye. The silver bell on his neck jingled with his movement. You could feel his calves against your knees.

His bare calves.

"Are you dumb?"

"What?" you croaked in response.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. "You always forget things."

You blinked at him, confused, neck heating. "What are you talking about?" you snapped impatiently.

"This."

Thump.

You felt something long and furry hit your leg. Your body almost jerked up in surprise, but Yoongi hissed at you, making you lurch back, somewhat stunned at how cat-like it sounded. It was definitely a warning. You were still in your pajamas, slightly thinner material than your usual clothes. It had been cold outside, but your everlasting embarrassment had kept you toasty warm.

Like it was now, because you realized your clothed outer thigh was touching his inner thigh.

His naked inner thigh.

You let out a noise between shock and confusion.

"Urk?"

The long, furry thing brushed against your legs as Yoongi watched you reach your slow realization.

"O-oh... Right. You have a tail..."

He grunted, thinning his eyes into slits. "Yes, because I am a cat."

Highly debatable at the moment, but you were too busy remembering your cat also had a human dick and nuts. Well, not also. Only had? Well. Maybe if you had a seco–

No. No, never mind that. Yeah.

Never.

Mind.

You gulped, trying to suppress the rising heat in your ears and failing. "I can sew?"

Yoongi tilted his head, nose wrinkling a bit. Then he got off you, circling around the couch. You sat up, neck still hurting, but the warmth of your embarrassment somehow helping. Yes, great, trading temporary physical pain for lifetime mental embarrassment, only for such moments to be remembered at the most inopportune times to throw you off guard.

Awesome.

You visibly cringed before standing up, seeing Yoongi's hand snake out and nab the boxer briefs, making them disappear into the duvet. You saw the fabric rustle and then the briefs reappeared, chucked at your face.

Your head snapped back at the force, arms flailing.

"Mmphf!"

"Should be about four or five centimeters. Make it quick. It's hot under here."

You yanked the underwear off your face, scowling. "I'm not your maid!"

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, black ears flicking. He was smirking at you. You narrowed your eyes. What was this guy so high and mighty for? If anything, he should be grateful that you even car–

"You're been cleaning up my literal shit for a few years now, so you are practically are my maid."

... Wait a second, he's right.

You growled and hauled yourself up.

An hour later, your cat was dressed.

Cat?

Man?

Whatever.

Min Yoongi was finally wearing clothes and not your duvet and your fingers stung like a bitch.

You ended up snipping a hole and using bias tape to seal off the raw edges. You didn’t own a sewing machine, so this was the next best thing you could think of without destroying your fingers by trying to imitate zig-zag stiches, although you ended up destroying your fingers anyway because you had to sew small, delicate stitches to attach the bias tape. The area was too high traffic to not reinforce.

Sigh.

“Please tell me you know how to use the bathroom by yourself from now on.”

Yoongi had raised an eyebrow.

“Of course. I’ve watched you enough times to know how to expel human excrement.”

Right. Because he was your cat. Don’t think about it too much. You were trying to take everything one thing at a time so you didn’t overwhelm yourself. Those were future-you problems. Why does he talk like that anyway? You didn’t even know how he knew Korean. Was it because you watched too much television? Yikes.

You rubbed your forehead, dismissing the discussion. “Good talk.”

You realized you would have to cut openings for his tail for all the underwear on the drying rack but, again, that was a future-you problem. Instead, you let him change in your bedroom and went to retrieve the laptop on your coffee table. Plugged it in and turned it on.

All your settings were wack.

“The fuck?” you muttered, resetting your display, volume, brightness, sigh, nearly everything. This only happened when a certain someone stepped on the keys when you weren’t looking. You raised your voice, still looking at the screen. “Did you fuck with my computer last night?”

“No. Oh, well, I did sleep on it,” Yoongi was saying as he stepped out of your bedroom. You growled in your chest, annoyed, but setting everything back into its place before opening your Google calendar. Nothing due immediately, thank god. “Er, maybe you shouldn’t…”

You looked up.

Oh.

Oh?

Oh!

Yoongi mussed his black hair, scratching at his velvety black ear. You noticed he didn’t have a set of human ears. Well, duh. That’d be weird. He was still wearing the black choker with the little silver bell on it. The t-shirt was nicely loose on his frame, the black standing out against his fair skin. The sweatpants were a little short on the ankle, the slim fit showing off his leanness. The sleek black tail swished back and forth.

He was… handsome.

Yoongi looked apprehensive, twisting his lips to one side. “Hmm.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He shrugged. “Well, when I woke up as a human, I was cold, except for…” His hand ghosted towards his crotch. He pulled it away, waving it aside. “Mmm, never mind.”

You gave him a confused look and went back to your keyboard, typing away. Yoongi winced but you were too busy replying to an email to think too much about it.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to inform you of the following.

Min Yoongi had woken up on the coffee table, fucking freezing because humans didn’t have fur, and because his nuts and dick were getting roasted by your overheating laptop keyboard.

Upon waking up, he had a mild mental breakdown as you continued snoring loudly and unceremoniously, before scurrying away to the warmest place he knew – your bed, where he claimed the duvet and tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Is this real life?

He had poked at various parts of his new body, trying to figure out if this was a dream or a horrific nightmare.

As we all know.

Life is a horrific nightmare, so indeed, this was real life.

You jumped as Yoongi slumped down on the sofa next to you, sticking his head and ears into your view, blocking the computer screen.

“I’m hungry.”

You gawked at him.

“What a-are you d-doing?” you sputtered.

“I’m hungry,” he repeated. He had a bit of a raspy, almost growly voice at times, reminding you of a cat’s meow. His meow, in fact.

You scooted away, neck heating. Yoongi followed, prodding you.

“Why are you like this?” you grumbled irritably, smacking his hand. Yoongi persisted, as if you did nothing at all.

“This is how I get your attention, because you humans will ignore me if I don’t.”

“You’re a human too!”

“No, I am a cat.”

“Hello?” You grabbed his hand and jabbed at his palm, pointing to his thumb. “Cats don’t have thumbs!”

Yoongi yanked his hand out, shockingly similar to how Shooky used to pull his paw out when you were massaging his little white socks and he was over it. You noticed his cuticles looked a bit dry and torn up. Lately, Shooky’s paws had been a little chewed up too. You frowned at it, tilting your head.

Yoongi stood up and his tail whacked you in the face.

“Ow!”

“Feed me.”

You scowled, rubbing your cheek. Yoongi stared down at you, face expressionless.

Okay, your cat might be a man now, but he was still a borderline asshole, so not much had changed.

“Fine.”

You both stared at the bowl of dry cat food.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“What am I supposed to do with all this cat food then? I just brought it last week!”

“That’s your problem.”

You threw up your hands and cooked you both some lunch.

This was too much.

You know what you did when it was too much?

You took a nap.

You had dishes to clean, underwear to make tail-holes for, a cat that was now a man, an existential crisis to address, but you know what? You took a fucking nap instead. You left Yoongi with your computer and Netflix and told him to do whatever as long as none of it involved him leaving the house.

Yoongi had snorted. “What do I need to go out there for?”

“Awesome. I’m taking a nap.”

And you passed out.

Only to wake up groggily because your lungs were being crushed.

Actually no, it kind of felt like your whole torso was being crushed.

“Urk…!”

You fought with your sleepiness, somehow worse off than you had been before the nap, scrunching up your face ad blinking blearily. Head on memory foam pillow, check. Back on soft mattress, check. Black hair with sleek cat ears and pale face pressed on your chest? Check.

What, wait?

“Gah!”

You lurched and the head grunted, shoulders solidly pinning you down. He was under the mint-colored duvet. Yoongi, your cat that was now a man, was under the duvet.

UNDER THE DUVET.

“Stop yelling. Is that all you humans do? Yell?”

“Why are you – what are you doing here?” you hissed shrilly, trying to wiggle out from under him, but it was impossible. Yoongi was far too big now for you to throw him off.

“Sleeping, obviously,” he grumbled. “Or I was, until you started shouting.”

“Yes, but this is my bed,” you emphasized, realizing you could move your hands so you grabbed him by the waist, fingers grasping the black jersey fabric. You pressed inwards, hands molding to his sides.

Yoongi raised his head, squinting down at you.

You froze.

An oddly familiar gaze of accusation and uncaring. His eyes were dark brown, not the recognizable mint, but the effect was the same. Pink lips upturned, slightly annoyed.

And.

You suddenly remembered he was a man.

A man who was pressed down against you, long legs around your legs, broad chest to your chest, and shockingly attractive for someone who used to be a cat.

“I sleep in your bed all the time. What’s the difference?” Yoongi muttered.

What’s the difference?

The difference???

You’re a man!

A HOT MAN!!!

You struggled to find words, completely entranced by how close Yoongi’s face was to yours, watching his ears adjust slightly to pick up all the small sounds around him. You opened your mouth and it only made a tiny squeak. The pressure on your chest was becoming unbearable. You were so shocked that you completely forgot that you were still dying. You cleared your throat as Yoongi looked increasingly displeased.

“You… You used to be over the duvet…”

Yoongi yawned, nodding a little. “Yes, but it’s colder now. No more fur. I don’t know how you humans survive. Must be why you buy these warm things.”

Your hands were still on his waist. You pulled them away quickly and Yoongi frowned.

“Y-Yeah, but… you weigh a lot more now…” you croaked. “Can’t… breathe…”

Yoongi sighed heavily, as if this was a great disappointment. He slid off you.

“Hmm, I suppose that’s true.”

He nestled close to you and you still stunned, pin-straight body.

“Guess it’ll have to be like this instead from now on.”

Like this?

From now on?

Oh. Oh no.

Yoongi’s velvety, pointed ear flicked against your cheek, a low hum resounding in his chest.

part ii

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts smut #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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watchmegetobsessed · 3 years

Text

Drum it out - Harry Styles

a/n: hiya lovelies! im bringin an OC fic this time only because i had a strong vision about the girl and thought it would be best to have her as one instead of Y/N this time, but hope you’ll enjoy it regardless! Remi Devon is a baddie, i like her!

pairing: Harry x OC

summary: Harry is forced to find a new drummer since Sarah is about to become a mom, but no one seems to be good enough to replace her. It is until he meets Remi Devon, the woman who completely takes his breath away from the moment he sees her on stage.

word count: 7k

warning: NSFW content, some slight spanking

masterlist

“Don’t worry, you’ll love her just as much as I do!” Sarah smiles at Harry, giving his arm a gentle squeeze as they make their way into the small but cozy looking bar. Harry is skeptical, mostly because for him, no one compares to Sarah and if it wasn’t for her pregnancy, he would do anything to make her stay in the band. But he is so happy his two friends are starting a family together, it’s only that Harry is now forced to look for a new drummer as it’s getting harder for Sarah to keep up with the hectic lifestyle they’ve been living. Her bump is now pretty obvious and it’s only a matter of time until she can’t sit behind her instrument.

They’ve been trying to find someone to replace her during the second half of her pregnancy and at least the first year after she gives birth, but no one seemed good enough. Truth is, and Harry knew it damn well, that his problem was always the same: they weren’t Sarah.

Now she has dragged him to check someone out, a girl Sarah knows from years ago and who was told to be a mind-blowing drummer, though Harry has doubts about that.

“Sure will,” he hums, not too convinced about it.

The bar was previously a small theater, the seats have been taken out on the ground floor, replaced with tables and stools around the sides and a dance floor in the middle. The gallery is used as a kind of VIP area, this is where the two of them are right now, sitting at a small table in the front corner so they have an amazing sight of the stage where a local band is about to start very soon. Sarah said Remi, the drummer in the talk, is just a jump-in for the night for a friend, but it was a great opportunity for Harry to check her out.

“You know, she beat me at an audition a while ago. This super cool rock band was looking for a drummer for their mini-tour in Canada, because their drummer broke his leg and we both tried for it. There were still some people waiting to audition when she went in and she blew their mind so much, they just ended the audition right there,” Sarah tells him, the story still holds a dear place in her heart. She and Remi used to be close friends, but got a little distant as life took them to different paths. Now they are meeting up every few months when they are in the same city, catching up on everything since they last saw each other, sharing their equally exciting stories.

“Really?” Harry asks with genuine surprise as he takes his beer from the table and glances down at the stage. Everything is set up already and his eyes move to the shiny looking drum set at the back. It’s hard to imagine himself finding someone as good as Sarah, for Harry she has been the etalon ever since they met. But now he is forced to find someone even though he doesn’t want to, not even a bit.

“Yeah. She is the kind of girl that just turns heads wherever she goes without even trying.”

“You think I would get along with her well?” he asks, turning to face her just in time to see the wide smirk on her lips as she nods.

“I think you two would make an epic duo, H.”

“Alright, now I’m interested,” he smiles softly.

“She said they will play a lot of covers.”

“What kind?”

“You’ll see,” she smirks, sipping on her lemonade, a hand going to slide down on her stomach.

The dance floor is not packed, but there are a lot of people, seemingly most of them are here specifically for this band called Striped Shoes, Harry hasn’t heard about them until now but he is always happy to discover new music.

Soon, the lights go down, darkness falling to the theater, the only light is coming from the bars at the back. Then a spotlight turns on and a guy is standing in the middle of it, cheers erupting from the people as he starts playing the guitar and Harry immediately recognizes the song: Smells like teen spirit by Nirvana. Just a few riffs later all the other spotlights come on, each of them illuminating a member of the band and Harry’s eyes flick to the drum set where the only female on the stage is sitting, he catches her the moment she starts playing, the vibrant energy lingering around her almost knocks him off the stool even from this far away. Her hair barely reaches her shoulders, it falls to frame her heart shaped face in soft waves, the roots are a darker color than the rest that’s an odd shade of mahogany, but it suits her perfectly, Harry thinks. She has a few tattoos littered across her arms but not a full sleeve on any of them. They are on full display in the shirt that’s sleeves were seemingly ripped off, the fabric is raw on her shoulders. It seems to be some kind of old band shirt but Harry doesn’t recognize the logo on the front. Her legs are wrapped in ripped jeans and Harry is immediately mesmerized by how steadily she keeps the rhythm while absolutely nailing the song.

She makes it look so easy yet fascinating, her head snaps back a few times, a satisfied grin stretching across her lips as she enjoys the music, clearly a fan on it. She doesn’t miss a beat and flows into the next song that’s an original from the band as if the two songs were the same while she had to switch up the rhythm entirely through the transition.

Harry feels starstruck, watching this woman take the whole show, in his opinion, while simply sitting behind the drum set, playing like no one he has ever seen. She puts all of herself into it and that’s why she manages to outshine everyone else. Harry knows how hard it is for a drummer to get the same kind of attention as other members, but Remi makes it seem like it’s the natural, like drummers are the front people without a doubt.

When the cover version of Rock and Roll by Led Zeppelin comes on, in a way more hard rock version, Harry almost fears the stage is about to catch on fire. The song already has amazing drums in it, but the band gave it even more attention, giving a chance for Remi to show how amazing she really is.

“So? What do you think?” Sarah shouts over the music and Harry suddenly realizes he is not alone. He managed to zone out on the drummer without even noticing.

“She is… amazing,” he admits truthfully, in complete awe of what he is witnessing. This is music. This is passion. This is exactly what Harry always looks for in musicians and Remi has a whole lot of it.

They push the short drum solo a little longer at the end and Harry watches as Remi finishes the song standing, playing so hard that with the last hit, one of her sticks simply snaps into two, flying across the stage as she is breathing hard, skin glimmering from the sweat, her hair a complete mess from all the head shaking she’s been doing, but Harry thinks that it’s the hottest thing he has ever seen in his life.

Sarah knows she finally found her replacement, judging from Harry’s look she knows he is a sucker for Remi so she just lets him enjoy the rest of the concert.

When they play their last song and they all gather at the front of the stage to bow in front of the audience, Harry finds himself standing as he is applauding the band, but especially Remi who doesn’t even know Harry Styles is now a fan of hers.

“Let’s talk to her, shall we?” Sarah suggests once they disappear from the stage. Harry nods, finishing up his beer before the two of them head backstage.

Sarah has been put on the list since she previously let Remi know she would be coming. She was ecstatic to see her old friend, however was not told that Sarah would be coming with someone else so when Remi spots the two of them walking down the small hallway at the backstage, she is surprised but not shocked. She knows Sarah has been working with him for a long time now, but she wasn’t expecting him to be here tonight.

“Hey! There you are, mama!” Remi jokes with a heartfelt chuckle as she hugs her old friend. “Already looking like a milf!” she teases, earning an eye-roll from Sarah.

“Rems, I want you to meet Harry. Harry, this is Remi Devon.”

Remi’s eyes meet Harry’s piercing green ones and for a moment, Harry feels his stomach drop. She is even more breathtaking up close, in her simple but very fitting outfit, hair pushed back from her face carelessly she is easily the first woman ever to make Harry nervous to the point where he is having a hard time to even talk.

Remi holds out a hand for him smiling warmly and he luckily takes control over his actions and shakes it before it could get awkward.

“Nice to meet you, Harry. Heard a lot about you,” she chuckles softly.

“Hope you believed only the best,” he nods with a shy smile.

“Oh, of course,” she winks and Harry swears he felt his heart skipping a beat.

“We actually have something to talk to you about, Rems. Do you have some time for us?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah, just let me wash my face and I’ll be right back. There’s a small green room on the left, feel free to wait there,” she nods and disappears a moment later.

Sarah and Harry move into the room as Remi told them to and just a few minutes later she storms inside, a new shirt hugging her torso, a simple black one, but it’s tight unlike the one she wore for the concert. She sits into the armchair while Sarah and Harry have taken the small sofa.

“Alright, I’m all yours,” she smiles at them crossing her legs. Harry knows he should be the one to bid the offer, but it seems like he is not finding his words just yet. But Sarah is quick to talk when she realizes Harry is at a loss of words.

“I brought Harry today because I wanted him to see you play. We are currently looking for someone to take my place shortly,” she explains, placing a hand to her bump. “I know you’ve been freelancing lately so I thought you’d be interested in working with the band and of course Harry.”

“Oh!” She seems genuinely surprised at the offer. “So this was kind of my audition in secret?” she chuckles.

“You could say that,” Sarah smiles.

“And how did I do?” she asks, eyes meeting Harry’s gaze that hasn’t left her face since she arrived.

“You… definitely passed. The best I’ve seen so far,” he tells her and the smile on her face is worth everything for him.

“So what does this mean exactly?” This time Harry answers, finally finding his voice.

“If you are not too busy in the upcoming time, I would love to have you as my drummer,” he states, handing her the offer on a silver plate, basically.

It’s an offer most musicians dream of, so Harry thinks she’ll accept it right away, but of course, Remi is not like others.

“I’ll be needing some more details before I give you my answer though,” she smiles.

And that, she gets. A few days after the concert Remi meets up with the rest of the band and Jeff to talk about all the details. She clearly wants to know what she is jumping into and Harry respects that. At the end she accepts the offer and as Harry watches her sign the paperworks, a huge wave of satisfaction and excitement washes over him.

***

The public imagines Harry as the picture perfect human being who is always at his best, never making any mistakes, but that’s far from the real truth. He is as flawed as anyone else, it’s just that not many get the chance to see him in this state.

His bandmates are among the few privileged ones that are bound to see all his ups and downs as well and since Remi is part of them now too, she has witnessed his bad days since they have started working together.

Harry’s growl is heard in the microphone when he is supposed to be singing and the music soon comes to a halt. It’s probably the tenth time he is messing up the exact same part because his head is just not at the right place. He knows he should be at the top of his game, not wasting his colleagues’ precious time, but he just can’t bring himself away from the heavy thoughts that’s been occupying his mind lately. There are days when he is as free as a bird, not a worry in the world, but sometimes everything comes down at once and he feels like crumbling under the weight of his own career.

“Sorry guys,” he apologizes into the microphone, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he closes his eyes for a few seconds to collect himself. The silence in the auditorium where they are currently rehearsing for tour is harsh, everyone is tired and they can feel the nerves creeping up on them about the upcoming tour and making sure that everything is perfectly in place for the first show.

Remi looks around from behind her drum set, holding her sticks in one hand and she doesn’t like what she is seeing. A group that’s always so happy and carefree is now just a big ball of stress, this is not right.

“Guys, why don’t you all wrap it up for today, I’ll stay here with Harry and help him get it right,” she offers.

“How do you want to practice without everyone else?” Mitch asks, not at all in an offending way, more like out of curiosity.

“I’ll find a way,” she smiles softly and he doesn’t push it further.

As the rest of the band is packing up, leaving slowly, saying their goodbyes Harry is sitting on the floor next to one of the speakers, head hanging low, deep in his thoughts. Adam is the last one to leave the place and once it’s just the two of them, she stands up from behind her set and walks over to the desperate man.

“Get up,” she orders, not in a bossy manner, more of a ‘do what I asked, I’m trying to help’ way so Harry obeys. Standing up he towers above her, almost a full head taller than Remi, but still, sometimes she can make him feel so small.

Harry has noticed that her energy is making her push the air out of his lungs sometimes, just the way she stands, looks, moves around a room, it’s making her appear like the ruler of everyone around her. He has often found himself just staring at her from afar since she has joined the band and even though she has caught him ogling her a few times, he just still can’t bring himself to stop admiring her. He definitely has a fat crush on the new addition to the team, however now his feelings are pushed aside, their place taken by his anxiety and worries.

She takes his hands and pulls him to the middle of the stage, putting the microphone stand to the side so they have some space cleared out around them. She then turns to face him, a warm smile tugging on her lips while he is rather curious about what she has on her mind.

“Scream,” she simply tells him, his eyebrows immediately knitting together in confusion.

“Wha’?”

“Scream,” she repeats, but he is still lost about the situation. She chuckles a little before taking a few steps away from him, twirling around her heels before stopping facing the area where the audience is supposed to be during a concert. “Whenever I feel like I’m locked, like everything around me is so suffocating that I can’t even function normally, I take a minute and just let it all out,” she explains before taking a deep breath and hunching over, the most eardrum-breaking scream bursts out of her, making Harry jump a little.

She holds it long, until her throat is cracking up and she runs out of her breath, then the scream dies and she takes a deep breath, filling up her lungs again. Harry stands there, completely stunned, thinking that if anyone heard her now, they are surely convinced she is being tortured here.

When she turns back to face him again, she is smiling as if nothing just happened, like it’s the most natural thing to randomly scream from the top of her lungs on a casual Wednesday night.

“Now it’s your turn,” she tells him, but Harry doesn’t feel like it’s gonna be his thing at all. But he still turns to the side, clears his throat and lets out a not too forceful shout that’s quite saddening compared to her scream. “Oh, come on, I’m sure you can do better, Styles,” she chuckles, hands on her hips as she tilts her head to the side.

“Is this really necessary?” he questions, eyebrows still furrowed at her.

“Very much. Now come on, do it!”

“Remi, I--”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish, because she screams at him, knocking the air out of him once again, making him flinch at her sudden action.

“Scream!” she then snaps at him.

“I don--”

“Scream!” she repeats forcefully and Harry gives up. Taking a deep breath he lets his voice out in a hoarse scream that’s way more vibrant than his last attempt. “Yes! Again!” she grins nodding and he does it again.

And then again and again, until he feels like his chest is completely empty, like nothing is keeping a tight grip on his insides anymore. He is panting, mind racing as he realizes how much better he is feeling now, meaning that Remi’s technique worked.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, smirking, her arms folded on her chest.

“Fucking awesome,” he chuckles out of breath, running his hands through his messy hair.

“Great. You think you can handle going through the song now without messing up?”

“I… think?”

“Alright, grab your guitar and I’ll give you the beat.”

She moves back behind her set as Harry grabs a guitar, throwing the strap over his head, turning to face Remi behind him as he places the microphone stand in front of him.

“I’ll go softer on the beats, you just do your thing okay?” she tells him and he just nods, fingers already on his guitar.

Kiwi sounds a whole lot different with just the drums playing weakly and only one guitar playing, but it’s not what matters. Harry finally manages to go through the song without messing anything up.

When the song ends and the music is replaced by silence, Harry can’t help the grin stretching across his face.

“I fucking needed that,” he sighs, his head falling back for a moment as the last bits of euphoria settles in his body.

“Want to go over something else?” she asks, turning back and forth to the sides on her stool, playing with the sticks, twirling them between her fingers easily.

“You sure don’t want to go home like the others?”

“Let’s see what choices I have. I can go home and watch an entire season of Love Island on my own, eating leftovers from two days ago or I can stay here, play music with a hot dude. I think I’m fine with the second option.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up at how simply she just called him a hot dude, his heart fluttering in his chest again like the first time he saw her play, only difference is that now her eyes are piercing on him and it’s just the two of them in an empty room. He is already having thoughts that should probably be pushed down.

“Did you just call your boss hot?” he teases her then.

“I don’t think you’re my boss,” she scoffs. “You need me here more than I need to be here, so I think I’m the one having the higher ground,” she points out and Harry knows she is so damn right. “Besides, I know you find me hot as well.”

He is quick to blush at her words, but that doesn’t stop him from questioning her.

“What makes you think that?”

“I see you staring, Harry. I’m not oblivious or naive. I know you like checking my butt out every time I’m fixing my set leaning down,” she chuckles and now he is certain his ears are a deep shade of red, he was caught more often than he thought, it seems like. “Also…” she smirks slyly. “If you think you hid your hard-on cleverly the other day when I played my solo, you are wrong.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry mumbles, cursing himself for being such a horny teenager around her, but he can’t help it. The woman is the epitome of everything Harry finds so fucking attractive, it’s like she was made for his imagination specifically. “This, um, this is a little awkward, but I’m sorry--” “Oh, don’t be,” she chuckles. “I’m just lucky I’m a woman and my arousal can’t be seen that easily,” she comments and Harry almost chokes on his own breath.

Did she just admit she has been turned on by him before? When? What did she think about? What was it that made her turned on? Harry needs answers, however he is not given the chance to get them.

“Alright, you can choose two more songs we’ll go over and then we are off,” she simply says, as if they weren’t just talking about being horny a moment ago.

“Uh, maybe Only Angel and, um, Lights Up?” he prompts, trying his best to regain his composure.

“Cool. Let’s do them.” And with that, she switched back to work mode without batting an eye.

***

It feels like the crowd will never stop screaming. It just keeps going and going, people are probably losing their voice, but the screaming just continues as Harry stands at the front of the stage, his adrenaline jumping to the sky, eyes roaming around the full arena. He throws a few more kisses, placing his hands to his chest one last time before turning around and heading off the stage, his eyes meeting Remi.

She is not wearing her usual clothes, instead, she is now sporting a pair of high-waisted dress pants in a lavender color, a white top tucked into it, her matching blazer thrown to the floor, she probably got hot the moment she started playing. Her tattoos are on full display and she looks just as sweaty as Harry feels. But still, for him she is a sight he would love to look at for the rest of his life.

Their eyes meet and she smirks at him, eyes glimmering from the high she experienced through the concert, it’s a feeling they all share every time they perform together and it’s clearly like a drug neither of them wants to come clear of.

“Good job, Rockstar,” he reads her lips saying and he laughs, winking at her.

Ever since their one-on-one rehearsal, things have felt to change between them. It’s like a barricade that’s been lying between them has come down and they are feeling much more free around each other. Secret glances, touches and flirty comments are their usual and they don’t care that the people around them are starting to catch on it as well. They love the game they are playing and neither of them plans on stopping it.

Harry stops at her drum set, holding out a hand to help her up and walk her off the stage, knowing well she doesn’t feel the most comfortable in her stage clothes and feels a little too restricted by the end of the concerts, but she understands that her style does not go well with the look they are going for.

She snatches her blazer from the floor and gladly takes Harry’s helping hand as he walks her off the stage, her Gucci boots feeling a little too tight at the moment.

“One of these days I’m gonna rip these pants off,” she jokes, pulling on the tight waistband of them.

“Just make sure I’m around when it happens, Darling,” Harry teases, making her laugh as they walk backstage, everyone congratulating them and the band following behind on their way.

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Very much,” he admits without shame, the blushing long gone from his cheeks and ears. The buildup has changed his nervousness around her lately and he is enjoying the teasing and flirting all too much.

The whole team agrees that tonight’s show was exceptionally good and that it deserves some celebratory drinks. A few blocks away from the hotel where everyone is staying there’s a cozy looking bar and the rather loud lot occupies half the place as they flow in and start ordering their endless rounds of drinks.

Harry is sitting at one of the tables they have taken up, going strong with his third beer of the night, half zoned out of the conversation with the small group he is sitting in. His eyes are fixated on Remi’s figure who is standing at the bar with Charlotte, unlike every other female around she is not sipping on some kind of fancy drink or a cocktail, she went straight for the crafted beers the place had to offer. She has changed her stage clothes, wearing her usual tight black jeans and a sheer top with a simple black sports bra underneath it. Harry can’t stop his eyes from raking down her body, taking in every curve, tattoo and tiny detail about her and he thinks that there is not one thing on her he doesn’t find attractive.

Her eyes find him, a playful smirk playing on her lips Harry has been thinking way too much about lately, and she cocks an eyebrow at him in a way that yells at him: Like what you see, Rockstar?

As an answer, he just simply shrugs with a growing smirk until she turns back to Charlotte, who is still talking to her, she hasn’t even noticed that Remi was focusing somewhere else for a moment. Remi laughs at something her bandmate said and Harry wishes he could be closer to hear her voice, he has grown quite a liking to her laughter, he has been trying to crack as many jokes lately as he can just to hear it.

He takes his eyes off her just for a second when someone at the table asks him something. He mumbles his reply and reaches for his beer as his gaze shifts back to her figure, only to find that Charlotte is not gone and a not so friendly looking guy is behind her, clearly trying to chat her up.

The dude is standing way too close to her for Harry’s liking, leaning in to talk to her, but she keeps backing away, however he does not care about that. She is clearly not enjoying the exchange and when the guy reaches up to her face Harry is quick to jump to his feet, ready to go to her rescue. But it’s not needed.

Just as he takes one step towards the scene near him, he witnesses as Remi grabs the bloke’s hand before he could touch her face and with a strong and quick move, she twists his arm behind him, keeping the guy on his toes as he is trying to escape her deadly grip on his wrist, his hand pushing into the middle of his back.

Harry’s mouth hangs open as he watches Remi tell something to the guy in a not too friendly manner before letting him go and the man flees before Harry could blink twice.

“That was impressive,” Harry tells her, walking up to her at the bar. Remi just shrugs, gulping down the rest of her beer.

“I know some tricks.”

“How come?”

“Grew up with three older brothers, had to learn how to defend myself when they decided to attack me out of nowhere.”

“Three brothers? That must ‘ave been wild,” he huffs impressed.

“I surely didn’t have a girly childhood, I’ve always been kind of a tomboy,” she shrugs again. As a teenager, she often wished she would be like the girls in her class, but later on she realized how big of an advantage it is that she speaks the boys’ language so easily.

“I think it just made you… badass,” Harry smirks, leaning against the bar counter.

“Is that what I am?”she arches an eyebrow cockily.

“Definitely. A handful, but the good kind.”

“Oh, just be careful, Rockstar. I might think you are trying to get into my pants,” she chuckles and as Harry hears her laugh he can’t stop himself from taking it further. She is too intoxicating.

“And what if I am?”

Remi doesn’t seem surprised at his comment, not even a bit. She is clearly enjoying the flirting once again, but when she answers, he surely is the one who is surprised.

“Then I gotta say you are working way too slow. I’m losing my patience.”

His eyebrows rise, lips parted as he stares back at her, the words that left her lips pushing the air out of his lungs once again, he is done for her. Utterly and completely. He wants to say and do a million things, but then settles on just one simple question.

“Want to get back to the hotel then?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she smirks and simply heads towards the door without another word spoken. Harry is quick to grab his stuff from the table and catch up with her at the exit.

The crispy night air feels a little sobering as they both step out of the bar, heading to the nearby hotel with rushed steps, keeping their silence but they both are grinning madly. When their eyes meet they can’t push down the laughter and Harry grabs her hand before he starts running, pulling her after himself.

By the time they reach the hotel they are both out of breath, adrenaline running high once again as what’s been building up between them since the first time they saw each other is finally about to bloom fully.

Remi pushes the button for the elevator and as it moves down painfully slowly Harry’s hands find her hips, pulling her back against his chest. His lips tease the soft skin on her neck, peppering kisses everywhere he reaches while his fingers dig into her skin under her sheer top. She leans against him, head falling back to his shoulder and she pushes her bum against his crotch, a whiny moan escaping his lips that makes her smile in satisfaction.

“Fuck, Remi,” he breathes out, eager to finally have her all to himself and make all his fantasies come to life. The elevator finally dings and as the door slides open Remi turns in his arms abruptly and grabbing onto the collar of his shirt she simply pulls him inside, hand snapping on the button of his floor and just as the door slowly slides closed and they start moving up, her lips finally crash against his.

They are kissing hard, eager to take as much from each other as they can, they are both greedy, wanting the other all to themselves, the heat of the moment lighting up the small elevator. His fingers rake through her hair, grabbing a handful of it in each of them while one of her hands slide down his upper body until it stops on the obviously growing bulge in his pants. Harry moans shamelessly when she gives his erection a teasing squeeze and she smirks against his lips, satisfied with how easily he reacts to her touches.

Harry melts into her, wanting to devour every bit of this moment with her, he is seeing stars when she takes his lower lip between her teeth and tugs on it. A hand flies down to her ass and he squeezes it hard without shying about how much he is enjoying touching her.

The elevator reaches their floor and once again he grabs her wrist and starts pulling her down the hallway towards his room. Her lips are glued to his neck when he is trying to get his keycard from his back pocket and open the door, but when he finally succeeds, they basically fall into the room, tangled into each other and the door snaps closed behind them.

He is quick to push her against the door, lips attacking her neck, nipping and sucking on her skin until he is sure a mark is left on her.

“Off with it,” she pants, her hands tugging on his shirt and they work with all four of their hands to unbutton his shirt until it flies across the room. Remi pushes on him, hands spread across his hot chest as they get farther inside the room. The bump into some furniture on their way, lips glued together again until they finally reach the bed and fall right onto the perfectly made sheets. They are both showing dominance so it’s a constant fight for the lead between them, rolling around until at last Remi ends up on top, strangling his lap. She straightens up and grabs the hem of her shirt, getting rid of it fast before she does the same with her sports bra, baring her upper body completely to Harry’s greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pushing himself up until he wraps his arms around her, mouth meeting her chest, littering her heated skin with sloppy kisses until his lips reach one of her nipples.

“Yes!” she moans as he starts playing with it, his hands coming to cup her breasts, massaging them continuously before his mouth moves over to her other nipple, giving it the same attention.

Harry uses her momentary weakness and turns them over, his crotch coming in contact with her center as he pushes his hips between her legs forcefully. He kisses down her stomach before he leans back and works fast on the buttons of her jeans. The tight material hugs her legs stubbornly, but he is eager to get rid of them and he soon succeeds, leaving her in just a lacy black thong. He undoes his own pants in a heartbeat, pulling them off and throwing them to the side before he gets on top of her again, kissing her lips so hungrily as if it hasn’t been just a few moments since he kissed her last.

She whimpers under his touch when he moves a hand between her thighs, running his fingers along her clothed folds, her arousal already soaking the fabric. He doesn’t hesitate to slip his hand into her underwear, her juices wetting his wandering fingers and he teases her hole and clit playfully.

“You better not fucking tease me, I don’t like that,” she pants, her dark eyes meeting hers and he can see the threat behind her words, she is not joking.

“Then what do you like?” he breathes out, eager to please her so much, she’ll forget about everyone else she has ever slept with.

She doesn’t answer, instead, a devious smile tugs on her swollen lips as she pushes him off until she is able to move. Harry is now kneeling on the bed and watches as Remi pushes her ass up into the air, back arching perfectly, her thong looking so delicious on her round butt and when she pushes herself back so her behind meets her throbbing dick in his briefs he could cry from the sensation. His hands immediately grab onto her asscheeks, pulling her even harder against himself.

“Smack it,” she breathes out, glancing over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Do it,” she nods and Harry doesn’t need more encouragement, he lifts a hand up and smacks her ass so it leaves a little redness after it. Remi moans erotically, enjoying herself fully and seeing how much it turns her on, he smacks the other cheek as well.

“You are gonna be the death of me,” he whines and pushing down his briefs his erection finally springs free, he grabs it with one hand, stroking himself a few times while his other hand is keeping a tight grip of her ass.

Remi wants to see him naked, so she quickly pushes herself up to her knees and turning around her eyes fall on Harry stroking himself. Hunger fills her eyes as she launches forward, lips meeting his while her hands simply take the place of his on his length, doing the job for him.

“I’m on birth control. When were you last tested?” she mumbles against his lips before leaning back so she can get rid of her thong and Harry does the same with his underwear.

“Three weeks ago, haven’t been with anyone since and I’m clean,” he mumbles in a rush.

“I’m clean too. You can ditch the condom if you want to.” “I wanna feel you,” he pleads desperately as she lies back on the bed and he gets on top of her again.

“All yours,” she smirks, spreading her legs wide for him, the sight in front of him is easily beating any art he has ever seen, he thinks.

He positions himself to her entrance, but doesn’t push into her just yet, leaning down so his lips brush against her ear as he whispers into it.

“Let’s see if you feel just as amazing as I imagined.” And with that, he pushes into her with one swift movement, stretching her all the way until his whole length disappears inside her.

“Fuck, Harry!” she cries out, back arching at the sensation. He sucks on her neck once again as he starts moving in and out, fitting inside her so perfectly, he is convinced she was crafted just for him.

He is going fast and hard, their pants and moans completely filling the hotel room and they can only hope they can’t be heard by anyone right now. She circles her legs around his hips, the angle he is reaching making her toes curl behind his back.

“You feel so fucking good,” he chokes out, face contorting into a blissful frown as he is getting closer to his orgasm with each thrust.

“I want to be on top,” she gasps, already pushing on and this time Harry doesn’t hesitate to obey. He rolls to his back, pulling her with him so now she is on top. Her hands come to rest on his stomach as she starts riding her, circling and lifting her hips so perfectly, so breathtakingly that Harry could cum just from the sight of her bouncing on him, but the feeling is making it a mind blowing experience. His fingers dig into her hips as she is starting to move faster and faster, before Harry starts bucking his hips up to meet her rhythm as well, going so deep into her, he is having a hard time deciding where she ends and where he starts. They are completely merged together in one hot mess.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” she screams gasping, her head falling back as she doesn’t fall out of her rhythm, still being such a drummer even in the bed, dictating the beat.

Harry pushes himself up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her so he can push her naked chest against his, their sweaty skins sliding against each other relentlessly, creating friction.

“Scream my name when you cum,” he orders, his lips finding hers once again, but it’s a messy kiss, their teeth are clanking, noses are bumping together as they are both nearing their high.

“Harry, oh fuck!” she exclaims and with her next movement he can feel her clench around him.

“Louder!” he growls on the edge of his own orgasm.

“Harry! Harry!” she screams shamelessly, throwing him over the edge, a guttural moan bursting from him as they both fall out of the rhythm, satisfaction washing over them in waves.

“Oh shit!” she breathes out, lips against his as she keeps him close with her hands on the base of his neck.

“Fucking Hell, Remi. I think I almost had a heart attack,” he breathes out with a soft chuckle making her laugh as well. She pulls him into another kiss, but it’s way slower now, the hunger and greed taken by their pleasure, now it’s time for something softer.

When they fall back to the bed, arms and legs tangled as they are still trying to stay close to each other, Remi looks up at him with a tired smile.

“So, was it like you imagined?” she asks and he chuckles softly.

“A thousand times better. But now we have a problem on our hands.”

“And what would that be?”

“Now I’m hooked. I won’t be able to stop thinking about you, not that it hasn’t been the situation since the start.”

Remi chuckles shortly, pushing herself up enough so she can look comfortable at his flushed out face.

“Well, it’s a good thing we are kind of locked together for months.”

“I’m one lucky man, aren’t I?” he smirks, so full of himself before he pulls her back down, kissing her like they have all the time in the world on their hands.

#harry styles #harry #styles #harry styles smut #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x oc #harry styles x you #harry styles au #harry styles imagine

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middleearthpixie · 2 years

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Durin's Garage AU ~ Good Trouble - Chapter Eight

Durin’s Garage AU - Good Trouble

Modern Spin on The Hobbit

Summary: When your car breaks down, there is only one garage in town - Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs. And sometimes, they do more than just tune your engine, check your oil, and top off your fluids…

Everyone in town knows Durin’s Garage and Engine Repairs is THE place to go when your car needs work, and everyone knows that Dwalin Fundinson is to be avoided outside of the garage. He’s an ace mechanic, but trouble otherwise.

After kicking himself for what happened that morning, Dwalin finds himself on the receiving end of an invitation from another woman, while you’re also kicking yourself and dealing with a crazy night at the pub.

Pairing: Modern!Dwalin x reader

Warning: A bit of soul searching, a minivan mom interested in Dwalin doing more than fixing her minivan, and some makeup sex

Word Count: 4,832

Previous chapters here and AO3

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass@kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @ocfairygodmother @exhausted-humxn-being @shalinizhara @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically@notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy

If you'd like to be added or removed from the tag list, please just let me know... :)

The radio played softly, and Dwalin paid little attention to the AC/DC song even as he tapped out the beat on the steering wheel. He felt like such a fool. What was he thinking, blurting out his feelings that way? Mahal, he couldn’t be any more the idiot if he tried. He regretted the words the moment he saw your expression change, the moment he saw the curtains drop behind your eyes.

Someone hurt you, and did so badly and now he’d scared you off as well, and he wanted to dickpunch himself for doing it at all. What the fuck was he thinking? He’d risked it as it was by offering to let you stay with him. And now he goes and says I love you.

“Fucking moron,” he grumbled, downshifting to ease to a stop at the last traffic light before leaving town. He glanced to his right and his gut kinked at the sight of your Jeep in its usual parking space. He was supposed to heading out to Route Fourteen, where a minivan mom had broken down, but he really just wanted to swing the truck into the Dunraven’s lot and come find you.

His phone rang. Thorin. Wonderful. His phone sat atop the dash on a magnetic holder and he stretched to hit accept and then speaker. “What?”

“Damn, hello to you, too,” Thorin growled. “Where are you? Honda mom on Fourteen has called twice about having to wait for you.”

“Ye only gave me the ticket twenty minutes ago and I was at the other end of town jumpstarting a Subaru. Give me a chance to get there and tell Honda Mom to cool her tits.”

“I think I’ll let you deliver that message.” Thorin paused. “You okay? You’re grouchier than usual. New girlfriend keep you up too late?”

Dwalin scowled as the light went green. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Uh-oh… trouble in paradise already?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Just go get Honda Mom, okay? We’ll talk later.”

“I am and I’m not. In that order.” Dwalin hit disconnect and eased on the clutch to get the truck moving again. Traffic thinned as the highway split into three lanes and about a mile outside of town, he spotted the pale gold Honda Odyssey on the side of the road, hazards flashing manically.

He eased off onto the shoulder ahead of it, and climbed down from the cab, calling, “Dwalin Fundinson from Durin’s Garage. Ye called for a tow?”

The driver’s side door opened and a blonde climbed down. “Took you long enough.”

“My apologies, ma’am, but I was at the northern end of town with another customer when the call came through. What happened?”

“Smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. And no matter how hard I stepped on the gas, my van didn't want to go over twenty-five.”

“What color smoke and from which end?” He moved around to take the flares and triangles from the tool case, set them up, then walked over to her car to see them out.

“White and from the back.”

“When did it happen?”

As he drew closer, she eyed him and it was the same look most lone women gave him—a bit of interest, a lot of apprehension. Normally, it didn't bother him. Today, he almost wanted to growl at her, just to see her jump. Damn it. Today was supposed to be one of those days where nothing fazed him because he’d started off his day having amazing sex with an equally amazing woman. He certainly hadn’t planned on fighting with that same amazing woman moments later.

Shit.

Fucking moron.

“Mommy? I have to pee.”

Dwalin turned to see a little blonde girl poking her head out through the driver’s side window. A kid. Wonderful. Kids made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable, actually. This one met his stare and her eyes widened as she said, “Who are you?”

“I’m Dwalin. Who are ye?”

“Emily. Are you gonna fix Mommy’s car?”

“Maybe.” He looked back at Honda Mom. “When did ye notice the smoke?”

“When I pulled out of the lot at the Promenade Mall on Dale Street.” She looked over at her daughter. “Hopefully we’ll be home soon, honey.”

“Mommy, I really have to go.”

“I know, sweetie.” Honda Mom turned back to him. “Do you think it’s something you can fix?”

“I don’t know.” He looked over at Emily, and then back to her and tried to make his voice a little less gruff. “I can look now, or I can take it back to the shop. It’s about a ten minute ride from here and she can use the bathroom when we get there.”

Honda Mom looked only slightly less fearful. “I suppose we should just go back to the garage. Oh, damn it, I hope it isn’t anything major.”

“Ye and yer daughter can ride up in the cab with me,” he gestured to the flatbed, “so why don’t ye get settled while I hook this up?”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He looked over at Emily. “Can ye do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Can ye get out on the other side of the van? I don’t want ye getting hit out here.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“But wait for yer mother.” He turned back to Honda Mom. “The cab is unlocked. But I don’t have a car seat.”

“She’s actually out of a car seat now, believe it or not.” She skirted the van’s nose to get here daughter out of the van and into the truck, while he hooked the cables to the van, then climbed up into the driver’s seat to put the transmission in neutral. As he did, he looked down to see the parking brake was engaged, so he disengaged it, and then set about getting it towed up onto the flatbed. He extinguished the flares, stowed the triangles, and strode back to his truck.

When he climbed back up, it was to see Emily on her mother’s lap, watching him intently. “You’re kinda scary, Mr. Dwalin.”

“Am I?” He looked from her to her mother and back. “Why?”

“Well… you look… mean…”

“Emily!” Honda Mom gasped. “That isn’t nice.”

“It’s quite all right,” he told her. “I look mean to a lot of people. But,” he depressed the clutch and shifted into first, “I’m not really mean, now, am I?”

“You have a lot of tattoos,” Emily pointed out. “Did they hurt?”

“Some did. Some? Not so much.” He eased off the clutch and onto the gas and as they bumped their way back out onto the road, he added, “Did ye ever get a shot?”

She nodded. “I hate shots.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “me, too. But… getting a tattoo actually hurts less than getting a shot.”

“No way.”

He nodded again. “I swear it’s the truth.”

Emily studied him, pursing her lips. “Are you a biker? Is that why you have all of those tattoos?”

He chuckled. “I am not a biker. This is what I do. This and I fix cars.” He glanced into the sideview mirror to change lanes as the U-turn loomed ahead.

“Will you fix ours?”

“I will if no one else needs a tow, yes.”

“Good.” Emily bobbed her head. “I like you. I like your tattoos and I like that your truck smells like Christmas trees.”

He grinned, his gaze going to the pine-scented tree air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror. “I can’t smell it anymore. My nose has gone numb to it.”

“Well, it smells like Christmas and I love Christmas.”

“Yeah? Me, too.”

Honda mom ruffled Emily’s hair. “You’re being a chatterbox, Em.”

“It’s okay,” Dwalin glanced at her, “I don’t mind. She sounds wise beyond her years.” To Emily, he said, “How old are ye?”

“Six.”

“Ye sound much older than six, ye know. A wise old soul.”

“That’s what Mommy says, too. And Gram.” She settled against her mother. “Mommy and I were Christmas shopping.”

“That reminds me,” he said, swinging the truck into the northbound lane carefully, “I really should start mine.”

“Do you have kids to buy for, Mr. Dwalin?”

“No, Miss Emily, I have no children.”

“You should.”

“Emily!”

He laughed softly. “Again, it’s okay.” He smiled at Emily. “I would, but I’m not married, which makes it a little more difficult.”

“Mommy isn’t married any more, either. You should marry her and then you can buy me Christmas presents because I’ll bee your stepdaughter and that’s close enough to being your child.”

“Emily! Oh, Mr. Dwalin, I’m so sorry.” Honda Mom’s cheeks were bright red as she put her hand over her daughter’s mouth. “You need to be quiet now, little bit. And stop trying to find Mommy a boyfriend.”

She turned to him again. “I don’t know why she does this.”

“It’s okay. It happens.” He managed to smile at Emily. “Sorry, Miss Emily.”

She sighed and shrugged. “Oh, well.”

Mercifully, they reached Durn’s Garage without any more uncomfortable moments and as she climbed out of the truck cab, Honda Mom smiled up at him. “You know, if you’d like, I’m supposed to be going to an exhibit opening at the Sternhagen tomorrow night and I would love some company.”

He almost grinned at the image of him showing up at an art gallery opening. He stand out beyond standing out. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m seeing someone, so thank ye, but no.”

“It was worth a shot.” She shrugged as Emily hopped down and made a beeline for the garage’s office. “Oh, I’d better snag her.”

“The restroom is at the end of the hallway,” he called as she went racing after her daughter.

“Did I hear right?” Kíli came around the opposite side of the truck, grinning. “Honda Mom asked you out?”

His face grew warm, so he turned to climb back up into the cab to engage the hydraulics. “What of it?”

“Just making sure I heard right, is all.”

He climbed back down. “I’m not in the mood, Junior.”

“Junior?” Kíli shook his head. “Damn, Thorin was right, you are a grouch today. What happened?”

“Never you mind,” he growled, circling around to the Honda’s driver’s side, where he climbed in and turned over the ignition. As he did, he glanced into the rearview mirror to see if there was any smoke.

Nothing.

“Wait a minute,” Kíli climbed up onto the flatbed itself and leaned against the van’s rear door support. “Did she really ask you out?”

“Why do ye sound so shocked?”

“I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Dwalin leveled him with a long look, “ye do.”

Kíli grinned. “What did you tell her?”

“None of yer business, Junior.” He nodded toward the flatbed cab. “Make yerself useful and feed out the line, will ye?”

“Damn,” Kíli muttered, shaking his head. “You need to get laid, man. You’re downright bitchy.”

“I did get laid,” Dwalin grumbled when he was sure Kíli was out of ear shot, “and I promptly fucked it up.”

The hydraulics groaned to life and he carefully inched the minivan down the ramp. He parked it, set the emergency brake, and then got out to unhook everything. Kíli came back to help him. “She’s cute.”

“I don’t care how cute she is,” he replied as Kíli climbed up into the driver’s seat. “I’m not interested. Now, bring it into the middle bay and I’ll—”

“Dwalin!” Thorin called as he came out of the third of the three garage bays. “I need you to go back out.”

“Oh, Christ, are ye kidding me? What for this time?”

“Flat tire. Simple change and you’ll be on your way.”

He sighed. “I’m clocking out, so I’ll do it on my way.”

“Over on Klockner. Three hundred block. Green Infiniti. Kíli,” Thorin turned to his nephew, “Honda Mom will need either a ride or a cab. Find out.”

Kíli grinned. “She asked Smiley out. Maybe she can just hop on the back of his bike.”

Neither Thorin nor Dwalin smiled. Dwalin just ignored him, climbing up into the flatbed cab to move the truck into its parking space around the back of the building, then crossed to his Harley. He unclipped the helmet to tug it on, then threw his leg over the seat to balance it.

As he went to start it, Honda Mom came around the side of the building and lit a cigarette. She looked over at him, exhaled, and for a moment, he thought she was going to cross over to him, so he hit the throttle, lifted his feet, and zoomed out of the parking lot.

You tried to keep your mind on what you were doing, since Bobby would have your head if you made too many mistakes, but it wasn’t easy. All afternoon, you kept looking over at the door, hoping Dwalin would come in. Expecting him to come in. Terrified that he’d come in.

And that was it, he terrified you. Not simply because he blurted out he loved you while caught up in post-sex euphoria, but because of how you felt about him. This was all so new to you. Not just him, but the way he treated you. You weren’t used to men who treated you as well as he did. No, the men in your past were polished and elegant on the outside, but real jerkoffs on the inside.

Dwalin was the opposite. He was rough and hard on the outside, but an utter and absolute gentleman on the inside. And you’d freaked out over that and now look where it got you. Damn it…

The Christmas party in the private room was in full swing by eight, and you just wanted to go home. But then again, you weren’t sure which home to go to. Did you go back to your apartment or did you go back to his? Normally, when a boyfriend stormed off, that was it. You came out to find a bag of your stuff tossed into your car, or stuffed in your mailbox when you came home. Talking things out was not usually how they played out and more often than not, you were the one storming off because you’d walked in on something you weren’t supposed to ever know about.

But this was all new and utterly foreign territory for you. Every time the door opened, your heart leaped, only to sink into your shoes when it was anyone but Dwalin. And by ten o’clock, you’d given up on the thought of him coming in. You wondered if you’d find any of your things in a plastic bag, hanging from one of the Jeep’s sideview mirrors when you got off work.

“Marlena,” you set the last Sam Adams Boston Lager on the tray, “you’re all set.”

“Thanks, hon.” She hefted the tray. “Are you okay? You look a little… lost.”

“I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind, is all.”

“Are you sure? You wanna get a beer after shift and talk?”

“Thanks, but I think I’m just going to go home and collapse.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Marlena!” Bobby called from the far end of the bar. “People are waiting for you.”

“Sorry.” She rolled her eyes and made her way toward the private room.

As she did, Bobby came over to you. “You okay? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“I’m fine. Just tired, is all.” You forced a smile as two men sank onto barstools across from you. “What can I get you boys?”

Each ordered a dry martini and from the time you set them on the bar until almost closing, you ran like a maniac. Finally, when your shift was over, you didn't even look back as you punched out and stepped out into the frigid winter air. A hint of snow lingered in the air and you debated about just going back to your apartment.

You unlocked the Jeep and ten minutes later, were parked alongside a sleek black Corvette Stingray that made your nipples contract and your heart feel heavy at the same time.

Dwalin loved you. And while he said it at a moment when his endorphins were tearing ass through his body to wreak all kinds of havoc on him, he still said it and you had the feeling he didn't say those words to many people. You were so afraid of getting hurt again, that you threw up the walls to shut him out without even considering that maybe this time, you wouldn’t be hurt. You were such a coward at times, as you sat there, just staring at that ‘Vette, just staring at how the parking lot lights gleamed off the flawless, glossy black body.

“You can’t just sit here, you know,” you muttered. Besides, it was getting colder by the second since you’d killed the engine, so you took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and eased down from the Jeep.

This time, you hesitated at his door because you were afraid that when you stepped into his apartment, he’d be there to ask for his key back, to tell you to leave. He’d said you could stay until you found another place, but that didn't mean he hadn’t changed his mind.

Still, you didn't want Steve or Meg to see you again, so you held your breath as you unlocked the door and as quietly as you could, stepped into his apartment.

It was dark and quiet. Well, it was almost three-thirty in the morning. You certainly didn't expect Dwalin to sit up and wait for you. Especially now. You closed the door behind you, flipped the deadbolt, slid the chain on, and kicked off your shoes to leave on the mat just inside the door.

“I thought maybe ye’d decided to go back to yer place.”

You jumped at Dwalin’s unexpected whisper and spun about with a gasp. “Jesus! Don’t do that!”

“Sorry.” He emerged from the darkness clad only boxer briefs, but he didn't look as if he’d been asleep. “I called the Dunraven looking for ye.”

“What?”

“I was worried when ye didn't come home earlier.”

“Honestly?” You set your keys and wristlet on the breakfast bar. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here.”

He met your gaze, his eyes heavy-lidded, and your heart skipped a beat when he said, “I wasn’t sure ye wanted to be here.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, shaking your head as you just stared at him. You wanted to just throw yourself into his arms and tell him how you felt, but damn it, you didn't want him to push you away.

“Don’t be sorry. Ye were honest with me and that’s not something a lot of women can say.” He ran a hand over his head. “So, now that I know yer okay, I’m going to get some sleep. I put fresh sheets on the bed for ye, and I’ll be quiet in the morning. I have to be in for seven, so… good night.”

You pressed your lips together as he turned to go into the living room. You wanted to just reach for him, to slip up behind him and press your lips against his broad back, to sweep a kiss over his shoulder blade.

So you did.

You closed the space between the two of you and eased your arms about his waist, trying not to notice how he stiffened at your touch. “What are ye doing?” he murmured, though he didn't try to pull away.

You brushed your lips along his left shoulder blade. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking stupid, Dwalin, freaking out over something I really wanted to hear.”

“What?”

You let your fingertips just gently sweep over him, through the soft, springy hair spread down over his stomach. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Did I mean that I love ye?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“Do ye think I say it without meaning it?”

You heard the tightness in his voice and drew in a deep breath. You would get one chance at this and one chance only. “No… but I know sometimes afterglow is a powerful thing.”

He slowly turned toward you and you didn't need light to see his scowl. “I’m not some fucking fifteen year old kid who’s too stupid to know the difference between love and lust.”

“No, I know, but…” You pressed your lips together before you said anything else stupid, gathered your thoughts, and pressed on, “I’m such an ass. I really am. And I’ve been thinking about what you said all day and each time I did, I just wanted to smack myself because I hurt you and I don’t ever want to do that, Dwalin. And you’re—you’re just so different from the other guys I’ve been in relationships with and I know it’s not fair to you to be afraid that you’ll do what they did, but I am and I’m sorry.”

“What do ye think I’m going to do?” His voice was low and soft, without any heat in it, and your heart sped up when he curved his massive hands again your cheeks.

“I… I…”

“Mesmel,” his voice was a velvety purr, his thumbs brushing lightly along your cheeks, “I love ye, whether ye want me to or not. And maybe ye think I’ve said it too soon, but trust me, I’ve seen enough to know that life is short, and nothing is promised and if it feels right, it is right and this feels right to me.”

As he spoke, he brushed your lips with a kiss, gentle at first, but then with more feeling. You slid your arms about his waist as his kiss deepened. His fingers stretched up into your hair, his lips parting, his tongue easing between your lips to caress yours. You melted against him, your head doing a slow spin as he released your face to bring his hands to the bottom of your Dunraven Pub tee shirt. He whisked it up, over your head, and before seizing your lips again, whispered, “I love ye.”

He lifted you then, easily, as if you weighed nothing, and as you wrapped your arms about his neck, his arms tightened about you. Your head fell back as he swept a hot kiss over your chin and down along your neck, and with each pass of his lips against your now-overheated skin, you shivered. Those kisses sent heat streaking through you, made you forget that your feet hurt and your legs were tired and that you’d been hit on enough to make you want to junk punch the next guy who offered up a cheesy line. None of it mattered. Not one bit. All that mattered was the man holding you now, kissing his way down into the shadow between your breasts.

The muscles in his shoulders bulged beneath your hands as he shifted just enough to bring you into contact with him and you curled your legs about his waist. The firm ridge of his erection ground into you, and he caught your gasp easily as he arched against you once more.

He bent and pressed you down onto the sofa, and as he covered you, your legs parted and he settled easily between them. Then, he drew back enough to hook a finger against the front clasp of your bra, and a moment later, it parted and he bent to your right breast.

You bit down on your bottom lip at how gentle he was. There was no sign of the fire that had raged within him only moments ago, but it had tempered as he kissed along the curve of your breast and down over your stomach. His lips were gentle. His tongue barely touched you. And when he popped the button on your Levi’s and tugged them down?

He was gentle.

Your eyes closed of their own at the first sweep of his tongue through your folds, along your aching, aroused flesh. He moved slowly, teasingly, in no hurry as he brought you closer to that edge. With each slow caress, the knots inside you tightened. Your core did a slow bubbling melt as you slid one hand into his hair and the other clutched the pillow beneath your head.

Ribbons of white heat unfurled through you. Your hips slowly rolled to meet each delectable stroke, and when he hit the spot, you sucked in a sharp breath and almost yanked the pillow out from beneath your head.

Dwalin remained patient and slow, even as you squirmed beneath him, desperate for him to shatter you. He held you out over the abyss for what seemed like a lifetime, those tingling knots twisting tighter and tighter, every nerve firing, your entire body feeling as if you would go up in flames at any moment.

Then he shifted. Applied more pressure. More speed.

“Oh!” The knots all burst at once, fire flashing thorough you as he sent you over the edge. And when he brought you back, you were a breathless puddle of goo beneath him, head spinning, heart racing, the need to have him nearly crushing you.

He shed his briefs and as he came up between your thighs, he slid inside you and offered up a powerful thrust, one that had you bending your legs to wrap about his hips as you rose to meet him.

He caught your hands in his, linking your fingers and pressed your hands into the cushion on either side of your head. A sinfully seductive smile played at his lips as he teased you with those slow, incredibly deep thrusts that sent sparks showering over you.

“Amrâlimê,” he growled, moving faster now. “You feel so very good…”

You tried to speak, but your mind was blank. Pleasure scorched you from the inside out as he surged hard and fast and a moment later, arched hard, ground up against you, and you came together, clinging to him as he erupted inside you, your name a husky purr on his lips.

The wave ebbed. He sank against you and pressed a gentle kiss into the inner curve of your left breast as he sighed softly and went still.

“Were you really worried about me?” you whispered, tracing your index finger along the intricate ink on his scalp.

“I was, aye. I thought maybe another frat boy was giving ye trouble.”

“No, just a busy Christmas party that refused to end.”

He lifted his head. “I’m sorry if I scared ye. It’s just… I don’t play games. When something is right, it’s right and I say what I think.”

“I know.” You met his gaze, moving that forefinger to trace now along his beard. “And I’m sorry, too. I should have handled it better, but I didn't expect you to say that. I didn't expect you to…”

“To what?”

You sighed softly and shrugged. “To love me, I guess.”

“Why?”

He shifted, easing from you but he didn't move off you. And that was just fine. You rather liked the feel of him like this, as if he surrounded you. He made you feel delicate and cherished and as you slid her arms about his middle and lightly dragged your fingernails down along his back, he shivered against you.

“I don’t know why… you’re too good to me? Women think you’re probably rough and gruff and cold and unemotional, but then you show a completely different side.”

“I’m not made of stone, ye know.” He shifted to stretch out beside you, which was dicey on the sofa, and gathered you against him. “I’m just a man, same as any other man.”

“Not exactly the same.” You tucked your head against his chest, tracing a small circle about his left nipple now. “And you should probably get some sleep. You have an early day, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine.” He kissed the top of your head. “Ye know, I got asked out today by a Honda Mom whose minivan broke down.”

“What?”

“Yeah. She asked me to go to an art opening at the Sternhagen tonight.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because she hit on me.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And what? I just told ye, she asked me out.”

You smiled. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her I had a girlfriend, what do ye think I said?”

“Well, earlier, I don’t know if you still thought of me that way. You did offer to sleep out here, remember?”

“I was a jackass. This sofa sucks for sleeping on. Ye can sleep out here.”

“Nah. I’ll make sharing your bed with me worth your while.”

He lifted his head to smile down at you. “Is that so?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He dipped to brush your lips with his, and then drew back just enough to whisper, “Prove it and I don’t care how tired I am come tomorrow.”

#The Hobbit #Dwalin #Dwalin Fundinson #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #AU #Dwalin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Dwalin x reader #Dwalin short fic #modern au #garage au #stay tuned #more to come

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Note

Prompt: fake realtionahip/marriage, whoever you like!

Ooohoho! This has been chilling as a draft for ages, now I have completed it. *mildly evil laughter*

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The funny thing about Geralt, Jaskier thought as he did up the buttons on his best doublet, was that he really didn’t lie. He said things that weren’t true, but they were usually things he believed, or thought he believed because he was tired or grumpy. Sometimes he told half truths. He didn’t lie though.

It wasn’t even as if he didn’t have a poker face, Geralt’s face was all poker face, he just hated lying. Normally it wasn’t an issue, but tonight, Jaskier reflected, it wouldn’t be ideal.

Jaskier had heard through some whispered words at a pub that a bunch of Nilfgaardian nobles were having a gala, and the temptation of finding out what political secrets they could was two strong for their odd little family. So Geralt and Jaskier were going undercover.

There had been quite a bit of debate about that. Jaskier was obviously going. He’d grown his hair longer and had a bit of scruff going, and to be frank, all a bard really needed to disguise themselves was a new name, people saw the clothing and heard the music, but rarely remembered the face. Yennefer would have been the ideal partner in crime except for a crucial thing.

When Yennefer had been changed by magic, her eyes had been left the same. Somehow, the transformation had solidified them, and no spell would change them. Her eyes were too distinctive, and so she would stay behind with Ciri. That left Geralt, and since the ball was only for the nobility, he would be the fiance of Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

Damn.

See, Geralt didn’t lie, and that was bad enough. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to rely on Yennefer’s in-depth knowledge of the nobility and that was worse. Worst of all though, was the fact that Jaskier would have to spend a night full of wine and dancing pretending to be in love with, and engaged to, Geralt. Who he loved.

And who had, not three months ago, blamed Jaskier for every bad thing in life.

Since then Geralt had caught up with him half-way down the mountain and there had been some grumbled words about how Jaskier ‘wasn’t actually, exactly, a total curse’. Not a glowing review, but then Cintra had fallen, and they had Cirilla and they’d found a wounded Yennefer and it had all gotten so very busy.

Jaskier cast a last look in the mirror as the door to his room creaked open. He turned, expecting Geralt, but it was Yennefer.

“I suppose,” she said, eyeing him. “That this is as good as you get.” It could have been said cruelly. A year ago it would have been. Now, though, the words were fond.

“I like the kohl, it goes well with the wrinkles at your eyes,” she winked. He smiled. There were no more wrinkles now than had been twenty years ago, and they both knew it.

“I wasn’t sure about the eyeliner,” Jaskier said, trying to sound haughty. “Overdramatic eye looks are your thing.”

Yennefer chuckled and sat on the end of the bed. “A tiny smudge of eyeliner is hardly overdramatic.” She studied him approvingly, then looked at him. Her expression was frighteningly soft.

“Have you told him that you love him?”

“Never,” Jaskier said, fiving his cravat in the mirror.

“Why ever not?”

“It would only be the mountain all over again,” Jaskier sighed. “I tried, you know. I spent years trying, and then on the mountain, I thought I was being clear...”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him to leave it all, just for a little while, with me. I thought we could go to the coast.”

“The coast,” Yennefer said from her spot on the bed. “As in Lettenhove? You wanted to show him where you grew up?”

“Partially. I could explain the immortality business easier if he met my sister, but mostly I just thought it would be peaceful.”

Yennefer snorted. “With Geralt? Peaceful? He’d spend the whole time fighting drowners and telling you not to write about mermaids because they’re vicious.”

Jaskier smiled wanly. “That’s pretty peaceful for him.”

“But he said no?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Jaskier said. “Then he, well, you know, he spent the night in your tent.”

“Ah,” Yennefer said. “For what it’s worth, I hate that it happened too.”

“He doesn’t though!” Jaskier cried, whirling around to face her. “He wants it to happen again! And you! You don’t want him but he wants you while I want him!” The frustration of the whole situation and nerves for what was to come were overwhelming. “And you’re here, trying to help me,” he said more quietly. “Why?”

“Because I like you,” Yennefer said, simply, standing from the bed. “And I like him. I also never, ever want to kiss him again. The djinn is sitting, somewhere in my chest, telling me I love him, but the feeling is...sick. It feels like love, as well as I can remember, but it’s poisoned and twisted and I want no part in it.”

Her purple eyes pinned Jaskier to the floor.

“And that poison pales in comparison to how much you love him. He deserves that.”

She swept out the door, tossing a “Sort it out,” over her shoulder.

Well.

The next knock at the door was Geralt, Ciri in tow. Jaskier hoped the witcher hadn’t heard any part of his and Yennefer’s conversation, but he suspected that no one overheard conversations that Yen didn’t want them too.

“Dandelion!” Ciri said, leaping at him and using the name she’d first met him under. “You look nice! Like a prince in one of your stories!”

Jaskier blushed and thanked her quietly as he scooped her up and tossed her, laughing, onto the bed.

He looked at Geralt for his opinion.

Oh he looked so good too. Yennefer had charmed him so that anyone else would see a different man in Geralt’s place, but to Jaskier he looked just the same. But he was wearing white.

A white chemise, the collar and cuffs with fine red embroidery, with a cream colored cape, half length so it fell just to Geralt’s hips. It was embroidered too, green and pink and so many other colors, despite being overall still mostly cream. The pants were the same creamy fabric with a stripe down each side. Dark boots and a wide, decorative, dark belt completed the look.

“Wow,” Jaskier said.

“Rivian traditional clothing,” Geralt muttered.

“I thought you’d hardly actually been to Rivia,” Jaskier said,.It was a better choice than the other thoughts in his head, which were half-formed screams about how absolutely skin tight those pants were.

“I haven’t been, but my...character is.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, dragging his eyes above Geralt’s shoulders. “My fiance, Ludomir of Rivia.”

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier kicked himself for mentioning the fiance thing.

“We should go,” he said.

And they went.

The lord’s castle was small, as castles go, and the guards at the gate didn’t even bother to check their invitations. With all the other lords and ladies streaming past, no one would guess that the pair were out of place. Jaskier and Geralt enterred the ballroom and Jaskier felt his stomach drop straight through to his shoes.

The walls were positively lined with Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt’s shoulders stiffened too, but they steered themselves to a feast table as if nothing was wrong.

It took them almost a full circle of the tables to find the two little cards for ‘Viscount de Lettenhove’ and ‘Guest’. Getting onto the guest list had been laughably easy, and Jaskier just sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the stupid title was finally useful for something.

They sat in their places and guests populated the seats around them. There was a lady next to Jaskier who already smelled of the strongly alcoholic sherry that was being served. Her hair, probably a wig towered, and was strung all over with so many pearls and little tiny golden ornaments that when she stepped outside she must surely be attacked by magpies.

“My lady,” Jaskier said, as chivalrous as he could around a mouthful of her rose perfume. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be introduced.”

“Oooh,” she giggled, “You’re sweet, I’m Dame Au’Vigne, and I can see by your card that you are the Viscount de Lettenhove, I knew your father.”

Yes, Jaskier thought. I remember, he turned down your proposal. Jaskier had been a lad then, barely eight years old, but he remembered through a child’s eyes a mountain of lace and perfume who had offered to marry his father while actually at his mother’s funeral.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said. Heinous bitch, he thought. He remembered rumors too, which are always a bard’s stock and trade, that Dame Au’Vigne’s husbands were always wealthy, usually handsome, and all of them had shockingly short lifespans.

Rumor also had it that she was backing Nilfgaard financially and had been playing the shipping stock with insider knowledge of their movements. A very good person to be seated next to tonight.

“May I introduce my fiance, Ludomir of Rivia,” Jaskier said, gesturing to Geralt. Geralt nodded and hummed, somewhat politely.

“How handsome,” Dame Au’Vigne stage whispered. “Where ever did you find him?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jaskier said.

The lord of the castle stood up and gave a droning speech. It was full of euphemisms about ‘upholding standards’ and ‘fostering strong relations’ that boiled down to ‘I’m an untrustworthy bastard who believes that allowing the deaths of my people en masse is fine so long as I make money.’ It was depressing, too, as Jaskier looked around the ballroom to see so many people nodding in agreement.

Traitors and bastards, the lot of them.

Geralt’s face hadn’t changed even an inch.

“So,” Dame Au’Vigne said as the appetizer course was served. “You two aren’t exactly in a honeymoon phase, are you?”

And she was right, for a couple, newly engaged, Jaskier and Geralt hadn’t acted the part yet at all.

“I’m afraid,” Jaskier said, inventing wildly. “That we’re both just a touch nervous, the engagement is so new, you see, and this is our first event,” he took Geralt’s hand, above the table, so Dame Au’Vigne could see. “As a couple.”

“Oh how sweet,” she said airily. “You know, they’ll have dancing between the courses, it’ll be a great way for you to wet your social feet. Sir Erdin and the lady in the lavender dress,” she pointed across the ballroom. “They’re newly engaged as well.” She lowered her voice.

“Sir Erdin is very supportive of the cause, word has it he’s in with the very inner circle,” Dame Au’Vigne giggled, as if being in the inner circle of a murderous group of intruders was as delightful as a recent engagement.

“How interesting!” Jaskier said, affecting a jealous and impressed tone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Geralt’s eyebrow twitch, the way it did when he was listening hard.

“Oh yes,” Dame Au’Vigne said. “And Lord Snapcase, in the corner, he...” and she went on, was the marvelous thing, she couldn’t seem to help herself but gossip about everyone. And she had all these details about how they were helping ‘the cause’. Destiny must have finally decided to throw Jaskier and Geralt a bone.

Then the appetizer course was finished and Jaskier felt much less lucky. Dame Au’Vigne was ushering him and Geralt out of their seats to dance. It wasn’t one of the quick, hopping around, switching partners dances either. No, the band seemed insistent on only slow, romantic music.

Awkwardly, Geralt slid one large hand around Jaskier’s waist and they turned in slow circles on the dance floor. The witcher’s face looked like a thunderclap.

“Try and look like you’re having fun, darling,” Jaskier said. Please don’t look at me as though holding me is torture, his inner self begged.

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. Jaskier leaned in.

“Really dear heart,” he leaned in even closer, lips almost touching Geralt’s ear. “People are going to suspect something,” he said in the barest of whispers.

“Let them,” Geralt hissed back in the same fashion. “We’ve got the information, we can leave.”

Jaskier, keeping up appearances, tossed his head back and let out a delighted shriek of laughter, as if Geralt had just told him a joke or, perhaps, made a wonderfully indecent proposal.

“Later, perhaps,” he said, stage-whispering for the sake of those around them. Leaning in again he whispered for real, “We can’t leave until the party’s over, no one else will, they’d send some of those soldiers after us for sure.”

The music changed, and Geralt and Jaskier’s slow circles changed speed with it.

Geralt hissed in his ear again, “I don’t see why I had to be your,” this close Jaskier could see Geralt’s jaw working with distaste. “Lover.”

“Fiance,” Jaskier said, trying not to let his heart sink. It couldn’t possibly go any lower. “There’s a difference.”

They said no more to each other, and after the second dance, declined the third to sit back at their seats and await the arrival of the soup course.

The man sat beside Geralt was some old military man, mostly mustache and the rest of him was a rather musty and very old fashioned uniform. It had gold braid and a colonel’s insignia. The hat that sat next to his chair had a plume.

He leaned over to Geralt and said, rather loudly, in a voice that implied tone deafness, to both volume and social situations, “Just marrying him for the money, eh?”

People to both sides of Jaskier and Geralt looked around. Dame Au’Vigne looked at them askance.

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. It was a negative answer to the colonel’s question, but the man didn’t take it as such.

“Often is the way,” the man nearly bellowed. “My missus hated me right up to the day she died.”

Jaskier curled in on himself. The role of Viscount wasn’t a big one, mostly administrative and, these days, completed by his sister Rowena, who was better at sitting behind a desk. Still, argued a battered part of his long ago but still proper upbringing. The name of Pankratz was being dragged through the mud. Lots of these people would know the name too, these sour, vindictive, unpleasant, murderous people. And they’d know the gossip, would have taken part in the gossip about ‘Young Julian running off to be a bard,’ (this generally said with the same tone as is usually leant to slave trader) and how ‘he’ll never find a good marriage now,’ how he was ‘a disgrace to the name.’

And here was their long awaited confirmation. Jaskier-Julian, couldn’t find a good marriage, was being wed only for his money. Of course, more than half the pairings here were only in it for the money, but to have it said, so loudly too, and before the wedding had even happened, it was social condemnation.

Jaskier looked down at the table cloth, his face hot. He’d faced social condemnation before, of course, he’d survive. What hurt was that Geralt wasn’t really protesting, Geralt couldn’t even pretend to like Jaskier, not for a single evening. Twenty years he’d done a good enough job of acting to convince even Jaskier, mostly, apart from the punches and the insults and...maybe Jaskier had been a little blind to the truth but still.

It was ruining their cover though, so he protested quietly. “Not just for the money,” he said, patting Geralt’s hand where one fist wrapped around his goblet. “My fiance is just shy, that’s all.”

The damage was already done, but the old colonel hiccupped. “Well lad,” he said, giving Geralt a slap on the back. “This ale’s pretty good so drink up. Got me through three years of happy marriage, strong ale did.” The man took a slug of his own drink. “And fourty seven more unhappy years.” He guffawed hugely and unpleasantly, little drops of ale flinging from his mustache.

Wherever the soul of the unpleasant man’s dead wife was, Jaskier felt sure she was happy to be away from this miserable old drunk.

Geralt, however, was looking at Jaskier. Their eyes met. Jaskier knew he probably looked as hunted as he felt, and his cheeks were probably still burning from the embarassment. Still, it seemed as though Geralt was about to say something. His golden eyes were full of emotion, but Jaskier couldn’t parse out what kind.

Whatever kind it was, it caused Geralt to take the colonel’s advice and drink like there was no tomorrow.

Great. Jaskier had driven his companion to drinking.

He felt a little like doing so himself.

The soup course was good, hot and savory, but underspiced. Geralt slurped it up gratefully. Jaskier knew that rich food was usually too much for his senses if it was spiced to Jaskier’s taste.

More dancing. Jaskier didn’t stand, at first, assuming that Geralt would rather sit and drink more. There were some snickers as people judged him. Geralt stood though, and he offered a hand and led Jaskier to the dance floor.

“You need to act drunk,” Jaskier whispered in his ear. “If you were a normal man you would be.”

“I am acting,” Geralt rumbled.

“You’re very steady for a drunk,” Jaskier sniffed.

“You said I was shy, now I’m less shy,” Geralt whispered. “And I’ve been drinking. So...drunk.” It was torture, being held like this, having that voice in Jaskier’s ear. That hand, so warm cupping his own. He wanted to cry.

A couple whirled past them. It was the Dame Au’Vigne, gossiping to some new dance partner. A snippet of her words caught them.

“-de Lettenhove. Entirely loveless of course. Unlovable, his father said once, of course as a bard-” then the tide of conversation and other dancers stole the rest of the words.

Jaskier sagged. His father hadn’t been a nice man, and unlovable wasn’t the worst of what he’d been called in his life, but now, with Geralt so close and so disgusted by the prospect...well, it hit a little close to home.

“Laugh,” Geralt whispered in his ear.

“What?” Jaskier hissed.

“Like before, laugh like before, but...more so. Pretend I said a dirty joke.”

Jaskier did, heads turned as he pretended to laugh, half scandalized and half delighted at something Geralt said.

Geralt even chuckled along with him. Then his hand crept down Jaskier’s back to his hip. It wasn’t dirty. It was just so,so spine tinglingly close to dirty.

It was almost worse. If Geralt had gripped his ass that would have been bad, but this, Jaskier was left to speculate. He had a very active imagination. The couples next to them were giggling and tittering, scandalized, but not too much, at the pair.

They danced all three dances. During the second dance Geralt spun Jaskier out and then back in flashily, dipping him over one arm like a dainty maiden. Jaskier, who was no dainty maiden, knew the strength that elaborate dip must have taken and his head spun. The third dance was slow, and once again they simply held one another and turned in slow circles. Except Geralt pressed their cheeks together in a way that was so intimate that Jaskier finally gave in. Just tonight he had Geralt, all of him, his attention, his warmth.

There was only so much a bard could take, and Jaskier gave in to the fantasy.

“I wonder how Yennefer is,” Geralt whispered. “And Ciri.”

It was like having cold water poured all over him. Jaskier’s fantasy shattered as soon as it had formed. Of course Geralt wasn’t enjoying this, of course his mind was elsewhere. He had a beautiful sorceress to think of, even if they weren’t sleeping together. Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri made the perfect, happy family. Where did Jaskier fit in to that?

He pulled back a little, already missing the warmth of Geralt’s cheek against his own. They finished the dance stiffly.

Back at the table, squished between Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, the main course was awful. Jaskier couldn’t judge it on the food, which he barely tasted. Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, however, had apparently come to the conclusion that Geralt or, Ludomir, rather, was marrying Jaskier for the money and the sex. They tittered, loudly and drunkely, to those around, and Geralt leaned in.

“Surely we can leave after this course,” he whispered.

Desperate to be rid of the charade, Jaskier thought. To not have to be engaged to me. “Can’t,” he whispered. “Have to stay for dessert and more dancing, else it looks suspect.”

“Hmmm.” It was a displeased hum.

“And, there will be small talk, with dessert. You need to say something, people will think you’re mute.”

“You two twitter into one another’s ears all the time,” Dame Au’Vigne said loudly. She was fully drunk off the sherry and very loud. “But not one kiss,” she lowered her voice, as if trying to be discreet. It didn’t work. “Is it truly as loveless as they say? I know you aren’t waiting until marriage.”

As who say? Jaskier thought. The only person quite that invested seems to be you.

“Not loveless,” Jaskier said. It seemed weak even to his ears.

“Surely you’ll join the dancing again, then,” Dame Au’Vigne said.

“No,” Jaskier said, fiddling with his napkin. “I’m feeling quite too full to dance, ate too fast, I’m afraid.” He hoped she was too drunk to notice he’d picked at his plate. It seemed she was.

“Lovely little veranda, get some air there,” said a man who, according to Dame Au’Vigne, was shipping weapons to Nilfgaard behind the backs of multiple heads of state.

Jaskier nodded,stood, bowed, and made his escape. He sighed, but wasn’t surprised to find that Geralt had followed along behind. Of course he wanted to escape the party too, but Jaskier wanted to escape...him.

To his shame and surprise, he found tears in his eyes. The pressure of sitting in a room chock full of people who wanted to kill him, combined with the fact that every last one of them reminded him of being bullied in school, and add to that that he was supposed to be fake engaged to Geralt...it was too much. Fake engaged and even in their fake engagement Geralt didn’t like Jaskier.

Jaskier’s rational brain knew that Geralt did like him, mostly. He just didn’t love him.

Jaskier leaned his elbows on the railing, overlooking some moonlit gardens, and felt the tears roll down his face.

“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said quietly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said. He knew Geralt could smell the salt of his tears or whatever, but still turned his face away so the witcher couldn’t see.

“I danced with you though.”

Jaskier chuckled wetly. “Nobles dance with people they hate all the time.”

Geralt was quiet for a minute then, very gently, he took one of Jaskier’s hands. “I don’t hate you.”

It was too much, Jaskier started crying in earnest, sobbing.

“C’mon, Jaskier, I like you. A lot.” Geralt was, for him, panicking clearly. Jaskier almost smiled. He was so bad at dealing with other people’s emotion. And his own.

“You’re my friend,” Geralt said, a little stuntedly. “You know I’m not a good liar.”

Too much. Twenty-two years and he finally said the word ‘friends’ and Jaskier wanted more. He whipped around to face Geralt.

“Tell me the truth, then, Geralt. Tell me you love me, it doesn’t have to be the truth for forever, but can you love me just for a night? Can you make it the truth for tonight?” Jaskier’s tears were ugly and blobby and drying up fast but he continued.

“Because I’ve loved you so long I don’t know any other truth,” He leaned forward and planted his forhead on Geralt’s collarbone and sniffled through the last of his tears, curling one, shaking fist into Geralt’s lovely pale cape as he cried. “Just this one night, Geralt, love me back.”

He hadn’t meant to say any of it, was half expecting Geralt to toss him off the low balcony into the bushes below.

Instead Jaskier was lifted by two strong arms and sat down on the railing. Warm, delightful lips pressed against his and suddenly he was being kissed within an inch of his life.

“The truth, you want,” Geralt said, pulling back and panting. “Is the only one I can give. I can’t pretend to love you.” Here Geralt looked into Jaskier’s eyes, like being struck by lightning. “I only love you, no pretending, I swear it.”

“But-” Jaskier was cut off.

“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said, furiously. “I think you think I don’t like you, Jaskier I like you, I love you so much I don’t know what to do and I’m...I’m not good with words. Or emotions.” Geralt’s shoulders dropped a little. “I just am, and the way I am is... The way I am is better with you.”

Geralt’s face screwed up with anguish. “And I’m the reason you think I don’t like you, it’s my fault and that feels so...so bad. Yennefer’s been working with me on the feelings thing and always says ‘bad isn’t a feeling’ but I can’t tell you what all the feeling is.”

Jaskier was staring, mouth open, as frustrated, stilted, fumbling words left Geralt’s mouth. They sounded angry, but only at himself. Geralt was looking up at him as if seeking benediction.

“Tell me you love me again,” Jaskier said.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Jaskier giggled as Geralt lifted him and spun him around before tucking him in close and kissing his forehead.

“I,” he said.

A kiss to Jaskier’s nose. “Love.”

A deep, breathtaking kiss to his lips. “You.”

There was nothing left for Jaskier to say except, “wow.”

Geralt smiled, that lovely warm little smile he saved for special times and offered his arm to Jaskier. “Shall we?”

They paraded back into the ballroom and danced the final dance of the set. Geralt whispered a suggestion of what he’d really like for dessert and this time Jaskier didn’t have to fake the scandalized giggle. “Back home, perhaps,” he said.

Dessert meant more conversation with Dame Au’Vigne, which was of course unbearable. There was plenty of Champagne though, which was pretty good, and the bubbles seemed to fill Jaskier all the way up. He took pleasure in picturing the downfall of all these horrible people when Nilfgaard was finally defeated for good.

He especially enjoyed sticking it to her gossip when he fed Geralt a strawberry with cream from his fingertips and recieved a kiss in thanks. Geralt was clearly enjoying himself too. He had a sweet tooth, and that certainly helped, but his hand that never left Jaskier’s under the table was a much better clue.

They walked back to the inn, flushed and warm in the cool night air, bidding farewell to the other drunken lords and ladies all filtering to finer inns or grand coaches.

Then they were alone on their path back, Geralt’s witcher senses confirming their isolation. Then, Geralt, who never told lies, whispered sweet nothings into Jaskier’s ear the entire way home. Jaskier believed every single one.

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It’s done, this one’s quite long and I loved writing it. Geralt is useless at playing pretend, but very good at loving Jaskier in his own way. I imagine his emotion lessons with Yennefer must have been rather intense.

#the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fake dating #getting together #fluff #fluff and angst #tiny amount of horniness #read with caution

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