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kassandras-one-braincell · 3 years

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Eivor x Fem!Reader - Ink Me Up

Oh, what to do when the Norwegian woman tattooing your thigh is insanely attractive, clearly gay, with a criminally good bedside manner?

Warning: about tattooing and obviously needles.

Word count: 4363

Can be found on AO3 here.

Heavily inspired by this post here. The tattoo itself is purely self-indulgent. Eivor is stupidly attractive and it's not fair. (Y/N) replacer safe.

After months of saving and deliberation, the time had come. For the longest time you had dreamed of getting something big, bold and beautiful permanently inked into your skin. Something meaningful. And you wanted someone talented to tattoo it.

Thus, you found yourself scouring the web for reputable tattoo shops, hours upon hours poured into searching artists’ portfolios, hoping that someone was skilled enough at black-and-grey realism within a relatively close radius. If you were going to pay a hefty sum for a tattoo, you wanted it to be perfect. Your desktop was flooded with reference images of sword lilies – the subject of your desired ink – and about a dozen different parlours, tabs whittling down one by one during your search.

The final tab was the website for a slightly pricier shop, but one of the artist’s Instagrams utterly captivated you. Their artwork was extraordinary, the details in their pieces stunning and intricate; you decided investing a little extra cash would be worth it. Eivor Varinsdóttir, handle @wolfkissed_ink. Grinning, you emailed the artist, requesting a consultation.

You explained to the artist during that consultation that you wanted a composition of black-and-grey realistic gladioli on your left thigh. Sword lilies represented strength, after all, and you wanted to commemorate overcoming a difficult part of your life with something gorgeous and symbolic. That and, well, flowers were pretty. Within the week they had responded with a sketch that was beyond what you could have possibly thought up yourself: two stunning, bloomed sprigs of the flower with petals floating either side, lifelike as a monochrome photograph. Smiling ear-to-ear, you booked up your first appointment.

Unbridled excitement led to the time before your appointment soaring by, with you opening up the file of the sketch almost every day. Bringing us to the present: you stood anxiously outside the parlour door, 12:50pm, ten minutes before your scheduled appointment. Sucking in a shaky breath, nerves both good and bad, you stepped inside.

The tattoo shop was sleek, modern and decked wall-to-wall with flash sheets, the small designs varying in style, colour and detail. Everything was spotless, as one would expect, with shining awards dotted about. Just seeing the various trophies did well to quell some of your anxieties, knowing you were in good hands, that you’d end up with a lovely piece on your thigh. A stout man covered neck to foot in swirling Japanese designs manned the front desk, smiling warmly at you, obliterating any stigmas you had heard from older relatives about tattoo culture.

Biting your lip, you made your way to the desk, mustering a nervous smile. As thrilled as you were about getting the tattoo, the whole pain aspect was still rather daunting. “Hey, one o’clock appointment for (Y/N) (L/N)?” You fidgeted with the hem of your shorts while the gentleman checked his desktop.

“With Eivor, right?” he verified. You nodded.

“Sorry I’m a little early—”

“No, not at all! Rather you be early than late,” he chuckled, clearly sensing your worries. His eyes flickered across a clipboard. “She’s not with a client at the moment, so I’ll send you through now, if that’s alright.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you bade, pulse quickening. Come on, you’ve wanted this for so long, you can’t pussy out now.

The guy asked you to wait by the desk as he ventured down a long corridor, the black paint giving off an ominous vibe that did nothing for your nerves. A few seconds later, he returned, cocking his head for you to follow. Your knuckles were white from gripping the strap of your purse so tightly.

He led you to the room at the end of the hall, holding the glossy black door open for you. “Go easy on her, Eivor, it’s clearly her first,” he called out, flashing you a wink, before letting the door close behind you.

Holy shit.

She was hot.

Eivor was nothing short of a modern day viking. Tall, rippling with muscle, late twenties to early thirties, blond hair strewn into an unruly braid with a strip on the right shaved clean to the flesh, revealing a fucking skull tattoo of a bird…a raven? Her face was stupidly handsome, eyes blue and icy but warm with greeting, a long and gnarly scar cutting into the flesh of her left cheek with a smaller nick protruding from her upper lip. Hell, the nape of her neck was marred with an even more vicious looking scar. She wore a tight black t-shirt that strained around her deliciously grizzled arms, which were adorned with Norse-looking runes and text curving into circles, ink that carried on to her hands and neck. The smile she offered you made you weak in the knees.

“(Y/N), right? I’m Eivor, a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, voice deep and gravelly, decorated with a rasp that to you sounded like butter. Fuck me, she’s a tall, tall glass of water.

You shook her hand when she extended it to you, marvelling at the patterns and blacked-out bands on her long, thick fingers. Her nails were cut extremely short, confirming the strong lesbian vibe she gave off. “Likewise,” you squeaked, cursing yourself for acting like some bloody schoolgirl.

She sauntered over to her setup, weight carried in her shoulders, consolidating her already intimidatingly attractive butch energy, sanitised her hands and pulled on a clean pair of gloves. “Come on over,” she said, grabbing a disposable razor from a box. “I’ll just need to make sure the area is shaven, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” you replied, joining her by the leather chair, covered by a sheet of cellophane. It was a relief to see all the hygiene precautions taken in the shop. Eivor picked up a disinfectant wipe.

“Left thigh, if I remember correctly?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

She dropped to one knee – wasn’t that a fucking sight – and wiped down the expanse of your thigh before gliding the razor over the flesh.

Hesitantly, you asked her what the general procedure was, desperately trying to divert your thoughts from the sapphic spiral they were travelling down.

“Alright, after I’ve finished here I’ll apply the stencil. You’ll get to check if you like the placement, and if you don’t I’ll keep going until you’re happy with it. It’s a big piece, so we’ll have to split this up into two sessions, as we discussed alongside payment.” She brushed away the loose hairs and peach fuzz. “I’ll do the linework this session, and the shading next time.” With one final pass of the razor she pulled back, tossing it into a bin.

Eivor then picked up a sheet of thin paper with the sketch printed on it. She plucked a purple pen from her table. “Give me a few minutes to trace the stencil, then we’ll apply it and see how you like it.” You nodded, trying to focus on your breathing.

While she traced over each line of the sketch, she kindly attempted to soothe your fears with small talk. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of a ‘gladiolus’ before our consultation. Any reason why you chose it?”

You smiled. “They represent strength. I finally got through a rough spell and wanted something to celebrate with,” you explained, heart skipping a beat at the soft expression on the artist’s face.

“All the more reason to get this perfect then,” she said with a grin. The way the scar on her upper lip quirked was positively adorable. A couple minutes passed and she re-capped the pen. “Stand up straight for me, darling.” Oh.

Cheeks burning with bashfulness, you complied. Eivor took a second to angle the stencil before smoothing it over your thigh, leaving a purple outline once she removed the paper. “Just have a look in that mirror over there and tell me if you’re happy, okay?”

You walked over to the mirror and stared at your thigh. The tattoo was large – which you expected, with the amount of detail in it – and perfectly central, the loose petals appearing to float down the length of your thigh. “Perfect,” you breathed out, giving the woman a thumbs-up.

Eivor switched over her gloves and gestured for you to take a seat on the chair. “Get comfy, then. Do you have water?” Nodding, you took out your water bottle from your handbag. “Brilliant. Still want to do this?”

“Hell yeah.” Weirdly, the nerves about the pain (not about the sexy artist) had almost wholly subsided, leaving you brimming with anticipation.

She poured some jet black ink into small caps, no larger than the tip of your thumb. “Remember to breathe through it and hold still, yeah? You picked a smart place for your first tattoo, not too close to the bone.”

“I’ll try.” Eivor opened a sealed packet containing a new, sterilised needle, inserting it into her tattoo machine. She switched it on, the buzz of the machine’s piston filling the room with a gentle hum. Looking up at you, she cocked her brow – if only your gay thoughts could bugger off for two minutes – as if to ask, ready? Affirmatively, you beamed at her.

Dipping the needle into the ink, she pulled the skin of your thigh taut. Immediately, you noted the warmth of her hand on your leg, fighting off a shudder. Then came a mildly painful scratching sensation as she brought the machine to your thigh.

Honestly? It wasn’t bad. Irritating, like an itchy eye, but not drastically unpleasant. You followed Eivor’s advice, keeping your breathing steady, averting your attention to the artwork on the walls, some of which you had seen on her Instagram portfolio. Portraits, flowers, animals, realistic-looking jewellery…the woman had mastered black-and-grey. You knew you picked the right artist. The frown of concentration on her face spoke volumes about her dedication to the art, steeled and intently focused on the lines she was pulling.

When she wiped the area and reached for more ink, she glanced up at your face. “All good?” she asked.

“Yeah, no issues here.”

“Wonderful.” She set back to work, positioning her needle over the flower’s curved stem, dragging it downwards in a slow arc. “Your skin takes ink like butter, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you breathed out. Her hand suddenly felt a little warmer. Tell me this woman does audiobooks, you thought.

After a few more lines, you tried to pepper in some small talk without breaking her concentration. Fortunately, her bedside manner was immaculate, and she entertained your questions without any grudges.

“Your voice is really soothing. Where abouts are you from?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m from Norway, moved here a few years back.” She grinned at the compliment. “It’s funny, people usually say the opposite about my voice.” You wondered if they were deaf.

“It’s a nice rasp,” you chuckled. Buzzing stopped, more ink.

“I was bitten by a wolf when I was nine,” she explained. Buzzing recommenced, scratching returned. “My larynx never properly healed from it, so I’ve sounded like some chain-smoker since before I hit double-digits, despite never touching a cigarette in my life.”

“You don’t sound like a chain-smoker, though. I mean it.”

Her grin widened. “That actually means a lot.”

An hour passed by, most of it spent in comfortable silence, with Eivor checking in on you occasionally to see how you were coping. Certain patches of nerves stung a little more than others, but none of it was unbearable. That was until her machine passed over a particularly rough area. It fucking killed, the burn of the needle seemingly deeper than anywhere else, the sting infinitely more intense than before. You hissed, gritting your teeth together.

“Ow,” you winced, clutching onto your water bottle in an attempt to relieve the pain, to no avail.

Eivor continued pulling her line, her rasp coming out in a low mantra. “Just breathe through it, nice and slow…” You tried to follow, attempting in vain to relax your shoulders. “Keep holding still for me…” Your breaths came shallow but steadily so, the stinging slowly becoming more endurable. The machine reached the end of the line. “Good girl,” she muttered, blissfully of absent mind.

Good girl.

Oh fuck.

Just when your clearly gay tattoo artist couldn’t get any hotter, she comes out with some hot-girl bullshit like that. And fuck, you didn’t think you had a praise kink before, but now this certainly awakened something. Why, why did it have to sound so good in her husky voice? No, you were absolutely not going to fantasise about your artist, not when her hands were on your skin, on your thigh of all fucking places. God, this stupidly attractive Norwegian butch was making you uncomfortably hot.

When she finally pulled away, sweet bloody reprieve, you took a sip of your water. “That wasn’t fun,” you remarked.

“Took it like a champion, though,” she beamed proudly, clearly unaware of the affect her words had just had on you. “Need a break?”

“Just a minute or two, thank you,” you sighed with relief. Eivor wiped you down and analysed her work.

“We’re just over halfway there,” she commented. Only halfway? Fuck. You allowed your eyes to wander over the black lines, all perfectly smooth from practiced precision. Yeah, this woman was talented.

“I mean, that killed, and that was my thigh…” you trailed off, making her laugh. “What was the most painful tattoo you’ve gotten?”

Eivor answered without hesitation. “My head, without a doubt. Packing solid black into that thing was agony. My fingers killed, too, but all completely worth it.” You couldn’t help but agree with that last part. Her hands looked extremely good, both with and without those gloves.

“I’m guessing places with more nerve endings and by the bone are the worst, then?”

“Definitely. The palm of the hand is the most sensitive, and it’s tough to get right. Ink bleeds, skin bleeds…and if you don’t do it well it’ll just fade. All that pain for nought.”

You gulped down some more water. Ouch. “Duly noted.”

After ninety odd more minutes, Eivor switched off her machine for good, the linework finished and utterly flawless. “All done for this session,” she announced, changing gloves once more to clean and wrap the area. There was minimal irritation around each line, and the wipe felt wonderfully cool against the reddening flesh.

Once she finished placing various equipment in a tub labelled ‘autoclave’, she escorted you to the front desk. You paid half the decided fee of the tattoo and booked your second session for three weeks’ time. Eivor gave you an aftercare kit, explaining in detail how to keep the tattoo clean, how to prevent infection, and to avoid direct exposure to sunlight as much as you could. Eagerly, you listened, trying to drink in as much of her voice as possible before departing.

“I’ll see you in three weeks, then. Take care, (Y/N),” she grinned. From the moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew that grin would be engraved into your mind for the weeks to come.

The second appointment couldn’t have come quickly enough.

You spent an embarrassing quantity of time thinking about your dreamy tattoo artist, right up until the day you walked back into the shop, this time free of any concerns pertaining to the tattoo. The gentleman from before recognised you and asked how the tattoo was holding up, if you’d had any issues keeping it clean, to which you replied all was good. Only this time, Eivor came to greet you by the front desk.

“How’s it going?” she asked, welcoming as before.

“Really good. I just hope I’ve been doing everything right,” you chuckled, anxiously glancing down at your thigh. The redness had completely disappeared a few days after your first appointment, the black ink proudly meandering over your skin.

Eivor smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, you’d know if you haven’t. From here it looks like you’ve done a fantastic job of keeping it clean, anyway.” You followed her to her studio, mentally noting how she was wearing an even tighter black t-shirt than last time, the fabric clinging to the defined contours of her muscled back, biceps, abs… Needless to say, the gay thoughts had returned at full-force.

As before, she shaved and disinfected your thigh, but instead of a stencil she had the full greyscale reference images for the design printed and taped to a metal beam above her table. She took careful time in diluting various caps of black ink into a plethora of greys, experience shining through as she added precise amounts of diluter to each cap. There was something addictive about watching the woman work, with how methodical she was, how delicately she handled the bottles of ink.

When she unpacked a needle, you noted the shape was different to before. “Now, some parts are gonna be only a little rougher than before. Others will suck, I’ll warn you now,” she mentioned as you positioned yourself on the chair.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” you joked. Eivor laughed.

“You handled it like a trooper before. I have zero doubts you’ll do the same today.”

And so she began, making multiple passes with the machine unlike before, packing in the different shades of grey in front of her, scratching into the already broken skin. It wasn’t massively painful, but Eivor was right – last time was a breeze in comparison. You rested your eyes and bore the pain, focusing on the faint music playing from the shop’s reception.

As previously, she was ever considerate, checking up on you as she worked – albeit not as frequently, now that you were accustomed to the needles – and encouraging you through the nastier patches. You tried your hardest to not look at your thigh, wanting the final result to be a surprise, but over time it grew increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at her hands. Merely the thought of them flustered you (pathetic, you knew) and nothing would be more embarrassing than drifting off into a less than appropriate fantasy about the woman when she was simply being professional.

Time blurred together amongst your inner dilemma – to look or not to look – until Eivor’s signature rasp caught your attention. “Time for your least favourite part,” she said, giving you a knowing look, positioning her needle in one of the petals over the area that hurt like a bitch previously.

“Oh god, I forgot about that area.”

“Just own the pain and keep still, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Eivor smirked: a wicked thing that could have killed every sapphic in a mile radius. “Squirm and I’ll pin you down. I’ve had to do it before, and I’ll do it again.”

That, under different circumstances, would be an appealing notion.

Closing your eyes once more, you tried to decipher the song lyrics resonating through the shop’s hall, grimacing when the needle penetrated the skin. Just focus on Rihanna, focus on Rihanna…

“That’s…not so bad, actually,” you mutter, not entirely self-assured of the words leaving your lips, hoping some placebo affect would take place.

Eivor chuckled, dipping into another shade. “You sound convincing,” she drawled.

“I’m – ow – serious… Okay fuck, that’s way worse.”

“Shh, it’ll be over soon. Find something to focus on.”

So you did, on what happened to be the first thing in your immediate line of sight when you re-opened your eyes: Eivor’s bicep. God, her shirt strained around the muscle, black fabric against tanned skin and the deep green runes littering her arm. Perhaps the ink had something to do with her ancestry, given that the woman said she was Norwegian – that or she was just a mythology nerd. Your eyes trailed over the spirals of script, the perfectly concentric circles. Mind wandering, the idea that she may have tattoos on her back and front piqued your interest. Then came the delightful image of Eivor without a shirt. Pinning you down. Fuck.

Before long the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache where the needle had worked at your skin. “All done, darling,” Eivor murmured, wiping the patch. Darling. You knew it was simply her bedside manner, trying to keep you as relaxed as possible, but damn was it having the polar opposite effect. Cheeks feeling impossibly hot, you unscrewed the cap of your bottle and took a sizeable gulp of water. She gave you a moment to breathe, now that the most difficult part was out of the way. Still flustered, you drained half your bottle.

Concern plastered on her face, Eivor leaned closer, inspecting your face intently. “Are you feeling faint?” she asked, evidently worried. “It’s important you tell me if you are—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” You were stuttering, annoyed with yourself that you made her worry. “Just being weird. I promise.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows were still upturned, not entirely believing you.

You nodded frantically. “Yeah, really. Please don’t worry.”

Taking a slow breath, she restarted the machine, relief flashing across her features. She gestured for permission to continue tattooing, which you granted, and set back to work.

Cursing internally, you let your eyes flutter shut, thoughts full of nothing but ‘good girls’ and ‘darlings’ in a husky Norwegian accent. Numbing yourself to the needles, you drifted off into slumber.

“Hey, (Y/N)?”

A gentle pressure squeezed at your hand, slowly stirring you, bringing you back to the world of the living. Yawning, you opened your eyes, gaze brought to a gloved hand atop your own.

“Good evening,” Eivor said, retracting her hand and watching as you gasped and scanned the studio for a clock in a panic. Evening?

“Kidding,” she laughed. “I finished up ten minutes ago.” You shot her a half-hearted glare through sleepy eyelids.

“That was mean,” you pouted. She grinned.

“I do stab people for a living.”

Snorting, you swung your legs over the side of the chair, stretching them to regain a semblance of sensation. Chest pounding with excitement, you looked to the mirror at the side of the room, then at Eivor, silently asking permission to peak at the finished tattoo. She held out her hand in gesticulation.

Giddy with anticipation, you walked over and… Holy shit.

It was beautiful.

Each shade of grey blended into one another in a perfect harmony, so seamlessly that the black outline from before was barely visible. The shadows underneath each leaf, each petal looked real. Every speckle and wrinkle on the petals shone through, love and attention going into every marking. The falling petals were akin to a photograph, with the light grey background wash tying them to the main flowers, each little shadow appearing to give them different depths. It was beyond anything you imagined. All that pain, mental and physical, turned into a lifetime of beauty.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the salt of tears rolled into your awe-parted mouth.

“I’m, well… Wow.” Beaming, you turned to face your artist, who looked at her artwork with pride. “Thank you, Eivor. Thank you so much.”

She shook her head and offered you a box of tissues, from which you took one gladly. “I’m just honoured to have helped you lay that chapter of your life to rest. May the sword-lilies battle any shreds of it that remain.”

Stunned by her poetic inclination, you dried your eyes in silence, lips curved into a joyous smile. Meanwhile, she removed her gloves.

“You have tissues at the ready. I’m guessing people cry a lot here?” you asked, finally prying your eyes away from the masterpiece on your thigh.

“Mostly from the pain,” she remarked.

“You know, you could just lie to me so I don’t feel like such a fucking sap.”

The sound that left Eivor’s mouth in response was nothing if not angelic. She practically howled in hearty laughter, echoing through her studio, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You didn’t think it possible for your grin to widen further still, but her outburst was contagious in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. Truly,” she breathed out, chest stilling from her fit.

“It’s beautiful. Happy is an understatement.”

Eivor made her way over to the desk in the corner of the studio, where a graphics tablet lay alongside a stylus. “Now, before I dress it, I’m legally required to ask you if I have permission to photograph the tattoo for advertisement purposes. I appreciate it’s a personal subject matter and completely understand if—”

“Go for it,” you shrugged.

“Are you certain?” You nodded.

“Of course. It’s a work of art.” The smile she gave you was genuine.

“This’ll only take a minute. Thank you, really.”

She knelt down and snapped a picture with the tablet, checking the quality. “All done.” Eivor then proceeded to sanitise her hands and slip on one last pair of gloves, grabbing the wipes and plastic wrap from her station. “The photo will be uploaded to the shop’s website and my professional Instagram, if that’s alright with you. Completely anonymous, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Although, it’ll be weird seeing my leg on my feed.” She chuckled.

“Feel free to email or DM if you have any concerns with the healing.” Patting your leg, she stood up to her full height, placing her gloves in a biohazard ziplock. “Well, I’m honoured to have given you your first tattoo.”

“Honoured to be your…canvas?”

And just like that, your time with the artist was up. You watched wistfully as she put together an aftercare pack at the front desk, your previously overjoyed expression drifting into a sad one. After paying, you thanked her one final time.

“Take care, søta,” she said with a wink.

The very moment you arrived back home, you whipped out a Norwegian-to-English translator and immediately tried to replicate her pronunciation of the word she called you, blushing profusely when discovering it meant ‘cutie’. And upon opening your cleaning pack, you found an addition that wasn’t present in your previous bundle:

A small slip of paper. On one side, a mobile number. On the other, in beautifully neat cursive,

I’d love to take you to dinner. Text me if you’re interested?

Yours, Eivor

#eivor #eivor varinsdóttir #eivor x reader #f!eivor x reader #female eivor #tattoo parlor au #modern au #ac valhalla

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seasonofthewicth · 3 years

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nobody does it like you do - act 2

Thank you so much for all your reactions to part 1! I hope you enjoy part two just as much :)

CW: mentions of past minor character death (incl. a pregnant woman)

7.3k - masterlist - ao3

Her first day of shooting isn’t great. It’s not bad by a long way, but it could have easily been better. They’re on location in a forest somewhere in the outskirts of Rifthold and she didn’t even know there were places in the city like this, she’d assumed it was all the sprawling metropolis of skyscrapers and crowded streets, but apparently not.

She’s cold. There’s a machine beating down torrents of fake rain on her and Fenrys where they stand opposite each other on the muddy path through the trees, they’re filming the scene where their characters first meet. Her feet are soggy inside the canvas trainers she’s wearing and they keep spraying water on her hair to keep the wet look running throughout all of the takes and she hates it. She’s uncomfortable and stiff but she comforts herself with the knowledge that Fenrys is the same if the frown he wears whenever the camera isn’t on him is anything to go by.

It helps, barely.

She keeps having to spit water out of her mouth between lines, she swears it never rains this heavily in real life but who is she to comment, and she watches Rowan’s lips twist in displeasure where he sits behind the camera every time she does it. Aelin’s not sure what else she’s supposed to do, he can sit there out of the line of the water all fine, but she can’t speak with her mouth full.

It can take time to fall into the natural rhythm of shooting a new project, even the shitty ones she’s done in the past have shown her that, but there’s something about the way Rowan watches her that prickles the back of her neck, his stare intense and heavy as he watches, that adds the pressure. She wants to show him that she can do this. She wants his approval.

She ignores the reasons why.

After they finish and Rowan has called cut she sulks back to her trailer, she’s only just managed to change out of her sodden clothes when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Fenrys, warm and dry now in his own change of clothes.

They’ve sort of become friends recently, after swapping numbers after the table read he had texted her first. The studio has put him in the same complex as her and they’ve shared a car back there a couple of times after some of their meetings. She likes him a lot actually, and while she knows his reputation of infamy with the ladies follows him around like a bad smell, she feels comfortable with him.

“That could have gone better,” he tells her as he flops down onto the two-seater sofa at the end of her trailer, the other half has a mound of clothes dumped on it that she hasn’t bothered to sort through yet.

She just shoots him a look that she hopes says tell me about it.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he tells her, reassuringly. He would know she supposes, he has far more experience than her.

“I hope so.”

“How’re you finding it so far, working with Rowan?” he asks, and she frowns, bristling at the fact that he somehow knows the worst question to ask already. Aelin doesn’t think she’s behaved weirdly around Rowan since the day at the table read, in fact she’s tried to avoid him where possible. Maybe that’s it.

“Fine,” she says, but that’s not quite true. It messes with her in a dangerous way every time she knows he’s watching her. She should be able to turn that part of her brain off during a scene, she trained for years to learn how to do that, but he gets to her. She’s working on it.

Fenrys laughs, seeing right through her.

“He’s not bad once you get to know him, the first time we worked together I thought he was a total dick.” She gives him the same look as before as she clears the clothes and sits down next to him.

“I swear he’s not that bad. He’s just-” Fenrys pauses, weighing her up with a look, and something that he takes in from the way she stands, gnawing on her lower lip with her hair still wet, has him saying; “He’s got a lot riding on this.”

“Why?”

It doesn’t feel like he has a lot riding on this, his last piece was nominated for the Oscars, how much higher than that can you get? It’s not like he’s in the same position as her, desperately clawing herself back to a place where she can be cast in a role and it not be followed by a stunned, oh?

She knows there were articles written when her casting was announced that were doubtful of her ability to do this movie, that questioned whether she’s up to the task and whether she’s good enough to be standing next to names like Fenrys and Rowan. Some of the articles were straight up mean, and she only knows that because she searched them up like a masochist when all the ones Elide sent over were far too nice.

A dark part of herself can’t help but fall prey to some of the headlines. The ones that throw around words like nepotism, the ones that question whether Aelin is talented enough to be where she is cut deeper than any knife, and only half of it is because she sometimes wonders the same. She should be better than that, but the reminder catches in her throat that she really does have a lot riding on this.

“It’s not really my place to say.”

That’s a load of shit, and she tells him so. He only shrugs, not willing to so openly gossip about their boss.

“How well do you know him exactly?” She’s fishing for any details, but it definitely could be passed off as casual curiosity.

“He directed my debut, we keep in touch every so often.” He’s nonchalant. “He asked me to audition for this.”

“Nice humble brag.”

Fenrys only flashes her his movie star grin, in combination with the wink he throws at her it’s almost an effort not to blush.

“He wanted you cast, you know?” That she didn’t know, but it’s nice to hear.

“Why? He doesn’t know me.”

“You’re hard work, you know?” He’s joking but it doesn’t sit quite right. She knows it’s true. “Come with us tonight. There's a group of us getting dinner, and you can ask him yourself.”

It’s an olive branch. She knows it’s obvious to everyone that she’s uncomfortable, still hasn’t quite found her feet on set after taking such a break, and it’s one that she’s grateful for. No matter how closed off she knows she still seems to them.

“Okay,” she says and Fenrys’ smile is genuine and a part of her lifts, it’s a start.

They share a car to the restaurant and he fills the journey with easy chatter. She appreciates it because she feels really fucking rusty. It’s been a while since she spoke to anyone outside of her immediate circle of friends and family, and it’s always been easy with them. This is different, but not unwelcome.

Sometimes she worries that, as much as they love her, Aedion, Lysandra and Elide are inclined to tread lightly around her. She’d like to think that she’s not that fragile, that she could take the full front of their humour and teasing like she used to, but then remembers when Fenrys’ joke fell flat for her in the trailer and she thinks again.

Either way, the cast and crew here don’t treat her like she’s broken, or even breakable, and it’s refreshing.

Fenrys leads the way into the restaurant, and there’s definitely paparazzi down the street snapping away at them as they cross the short distance from the car to the door. She tries to ignore it, she’ll text Elide once they’re done here, even though Elide will probably be overjoyed. It’s probably (definitely) easier to publicise your talent when she’s out there doing things with other famous people compared to staying inside her home alone.

Fenrys greets the staff on the door and they lead them through the restaurant to a staircase at the back of the room and it leads up to a private space with only one table. Right, privacy. Some of these guys are proper celebrities.

They’re the last ones there, and there’s two seats left at the table. Manon is here, so is Rowan and one of the executive producers who she thinks is called Gavriel.

“Alright guys, you all know Aelin,” Fenrys says and she smiles as they greet her.

Fenrys holds a chair out for her, the one next to Rowan, and she slides into it as he takes the one on her other side.

Rowan offers her a quirk of his lips, one she returns as she takes him in. He’s wearing short sleeves this time and she gets a good look at the tattoo snaking the whole way down his left arm. It’s in the Old Language and she can’t read it, even though her father had spent hours trying to teach her when she was a kid, but the lettering is beautiful and neat. She wants to reach out and touch, to trace the lines that roll down his golden skin.

She doesn’t. Obviously.

A waiter comes over to take their drink orders, Fenrys gets a beer, Manon and Gavriel opt for wine, but Rowan asks for an orange juice. He’s not drinking either and she wonders if it’s related to the reason he needs this movie to go well. So she’s nosy? So what?

She sits back and observes as the conversation flows, laughing along at the easy banter that flows between the three men and the sarcastic quips Manon throws in. Fenrys clearly understated his relationship with Rowan, they seem tight and have a clear fondness for one another. It’s easy to slot herself in as the night progresses, snarking with Manon and joining in with the general light-hearted mockery of Fenrys.

She thinks maybe so far she’s got Rowan wrong.

Tonight he’s quick-witted and charming, and he makes his best effort to include her in the conversation which she appreciates. It’s a contrast to the dark and teasing side of him she’s seen so far in the hallway and the table read. Maybe he’s decided to just start again, pretend they never met before she was cast, and she can do that too.

“So, Aelin.” Manon turns the spotlight to her after a while. “Tell us the scoop. I’ve not seen you in anything for a while.”

It’s not a nasty question, Aelin can just tell from the way she asks it, nothing more than genuine curiosity lies in her tone even if the phrasing is somewhat harsh. Manon might not be the bubbliest of characters, she’s blunt and doesn’t beat around the bush, but she’s not unkind, and Aelin doubts if she knew the truth she’d ask that question in such a way.

Elide managed to keep the worst of her… career break? One could phrase it more like breakdown, out of the limelight. She somehow managed to keep the worst of it hidden, and Aelin will owe her that for the rest of her life.

All the world knows is that Sam was murdered when they were both still newbies to their respective industries, neither of them had had their big break yet, and after that she took a break. For three years.

She remembers the headlines from the time, most were in smaller magazines, Sam wasn’t famous enough to make the front pages. Her mouth tastes like bile.

Singer-Songwriter Sam Cortland, 20, murdered in random street attack in Orynth, girlfriend Aelin Ashryver unharmed and working with police to identify suspect.

No one knows she knelt there in his blood begging for him to open his eyes, not even Aedion, or Lysandra or Elide, and she blinks back the image now. Her hands are curled into fists below the table and she forces herself to uncurl them and lay them flat against her jeans.

“Yeah,” she says after clearing her throat. “I took a break from it all for a few years, but I’m back now obviously and really excited for it.”

Manon nods and Gavriel raises a glass. He’s been nothing but kind to her all night. He kind of reminds her of her father, though he’s not that old, probably not even forty yet. He’s softly spoken and counters each snarky comment from Fenrys or Manon with something softer but no less amusing.

“Good to hear,” Fenrys says with a grin, clinking his glass against Gavriel’s.

The way Rowan watches her as he raises his own glass in a toast to her, careful and without speaking, tells her he knows. At least the basics about Sam, and it seems like maybe he did google her just like she joked back at the table read.

Their meals arrive then, mercifully taking the attention away from her. She needs to find a better way to deal with the attention than shutting down, especially if this film is going to be as big as everyone thinks it will be. She should call her therapist.

She will.

Eventually.

They leave the restaurant not long after, Fenrys covering the bill, emphasising that this was a celebration and an initiation for Aelin. She almost blushes for some unknown reason at his words, but she likes it. It sounds good. Like she really is back, or at least will be.

They each give her their numbers, and she likes the way he’s in her phone now as Rowan rather than Rowan Whitethorn, it feels like he’s not just someone from work. Not just her boss.

They each say goodbye and share a series of embraces, ignoring the small group of paparazzi that follow, desperate for any kind of incriminating image of any of the five of them. It’s clear that most of them are here for Fenrys, but she still makes sure to keep her expression clear and guarded as Rowan wraps her into a one-armed hug when they leave. It’s not just for the paparazzi.

Back in her apartment, when she’s tucked up in bed knowing she should be asleep, she can’t stop herself from googling him. She’s honestly surprised she’s lasted this long.

The first few news articles to come up are all about the movie and she scrolls past them, instead pulling up his Wikipedia page and scrolling straight to the personal life section. Maybe this is the weirdest way anyone’s ever got to know a friend, but she’s intrigued and still slightly flustered by him so it will do.

The section on his personal life is relatively bare, and it doesn’t surprise her. His Instagram account alone told her pretty explicitly that he’s a private kind of guy. She almost scrolls away after the first few lines, they don’t give her much information other than the college he went to and the languages he speaks, but she reads the final few lines of the section anyway.

In March 2018 Whitethorn’s fiance, Lyria Woods, passed away as the result of a road traffic accident. The driver of the other vehicle was found to be under the influence of alcohol at the time of the accident and was later sentenced to 6 years in prison for death by dangerous driving. Woods was 12 weeks pregnant with their child at the time of the accident.

Only a couple of weeks after the Oscars that she and Lysandra watched. She does the maths and realises this is his first film since then and thinks she knows what Fenrys meant.

Fucking shit.

Her second day of shooting goes better than the first, just as Fenrys said it would.

She’s more relaxed when she crosses the set from her trailer with a coffee in hand and she thinks she knows her place a little better now, even after only one night spent with the others.

She lies back while her make up is done, chatting to the make-up artist instead of sitting silently like the day before, and she’s almost ready for the discomfort that her wet hair will bring. The weather adds to the atmosphere of the film, dark and dreary and moody, and she gets why they’re doing it, but it still sucks.

Fenrys is ready when she gets there, and while she’s not avoiding Rowan today after finding out about his… past, she just finds it difficult to look him in the eye knowing what she does. He probably wouldn’t be surprised that she knew, if it’s on Wikipedia it’s public knowledge and they have made jokes about googling each other, but she feels weird in a way that she didn’t learn it from him. It feels intrusive, or invasive, to find out about something like that through Wikipedia.

But even though they bonded somewhat last night, and he greeted her this morning with an easy hey, they’re still not close. No matter that she thinks she might want them to be. She’s trying again to ignore the way she feels drawn to him, the way her eyes seek him out without her permission.

She knows she kills the take. Knows it from the high five Fenrys slaps against her palm once Rowan’s called cut and from the swift nod he offers her when she glances towards him.

There seem to be two Rowan’s too, there’s the award winning director Rowan Whitethorn, and then just Rowan.

Rowan Whitethorn is cool and calculating and distant, quiet while he watches their scene from his place behind the camera, the big black headphones he uses pushed down around his neck. His eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s while he watches for all the minute details of their expressions and any improvements they could make. He doesn’t give her that many she’s pleased to note.

The way he instructs them is impressive, with clear directions and thoughtful analyses. She’s been here two days and she knows how he got the Oscar nomination, he’s scarily intelligent and seems to know exactly what’s off about a performance before she figures it out herself.

The other side to him, the side that is just Rowan is…

Just Rowan is the one she likes more.

She suspects the smile he gives her later, after they’ve nailed the bulk of the scene in one take and she’s being twirled around by Fenrys, comes from him.

She has two full days off in a row, and she decides the best use of her time is to go and stay with Aedion and Lysandra. Fenrys isn’t free, and the reason she is is that he has a load of solo scenes to shoot, and she doesn’t envy him at all.

Lysandra is ecstatic when she announces via a group text to her and Aedion that she’ll be at their house for lunchtime, and she loves it, but it makes her feel a little guilty. That she’s let it get to the point when her friend reacts like that at her promise of a visit is quite frankly appalling, but she finally feels as if she’s taken the first step. She’s on the bottom rung of the ladder, and it’s taken her a while, but she’s there now.

Aedion and Lysandra live in a disgustingly big house in a gated part of the suburbs, and she knows the house isn’t exactly what they would have chosen in an ideal world, it’s too big and garish and grey, but there are gates by the entrance and 24 hour security.

It still messes with her head that Aedion is that famous. Aedion. Her gangly cousin, always too tall for his own good, who used to pull her hair when they were kids and sneak her extra helpings of cake at family parties before her parents divorced. She doesn’t know that much about football, so little in fact that her dad and Aedion teased her relentlessly for years, but everyone tells her he’s good.

Like really good.

The salary he gets from the Ravens is more than enough proof.

She rings their front door bell and she can hear Lysandra’s quick steps before the big wooden door is pulled open.

Her friend is glowing. Her dark hair falls into waves near the end and her staggeringly beautiful face is free of any make-up and unblemished and dewy. She’s had time to get over the insecurities that come from being friends with Lysandra so it barely phases her as she wraps her arms around her friend.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers into Lysandra’s hair. It smells like coconut and citrus and just Lysandra.

“I missed you too. So much,” Lysandra sighs as she pulls back, dragging Aelin into the house and shutting the door.

Their hallway is grand and open but there’s a pile of their shoes by the wall and a rack of coats that make it feel more homely. There are framed photos carefully arranged on the sideboard in the entry way that show the two of them with their whole family and all of their friends.

There’s one on there of Aelin and Lysandra at eighteen, their arms thrown tightly around each other while they grin massive, excited smiles at the camera, or more likely Elide behind it. She remembers the day it was taken, Lysandra had signed to her first agency and arranged to move to Rifthold, and they had taken her out to celebrate.

It was around the same time she signed for her first movie, a tiny role with two lines and twenty seconds of screen time but it got the ball rolling with her first proper acting credit, and she’ll never forget it.

A head of golden hair pokes around the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall and she lets her cousin sweep her up into a hug, swinging her up and around so her feet dangle above the floor.

“Alien, we’ve missed you.”

A stupid nickname from when they were young, the kind of young where he thought it was hilarious to replace her name with an extraterrestrial, but it only makes her smile now, squeezing her cousin tight before he puts her back down.

“Yeah, I bet you’ve been lost without me.” She beams at them, taking a moment to soak in how it feels to be with them even as Aedion rolls his eyes. “I’ve missed you both too.”

“Lunch is ready, come on,” Aedion tells her as he takes her case and drags it through the house, leaving it by the bottom of the stairs. It’s then that she spots the frilly pink apron tied around his waist.

“Alright,” she laughs. “I can’t wait to try what the domestic goddess has in store for us.”

Peals of laughter burst out of Lysandra and she grins back at her, forever grateful that they managed to keep their relationship with each other from ever impacting on their relationship with Aelin. At first she had been worried that Aedion and Lysandra would become AedionAndLysandra and that she wouldn’t have a place left with them, but she needn’t have worried, and they worked too well together for Aelin to have ever wished for anything different.

“Gods, shut up,” he mutters, slinging an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the kitchen. “So annoying, both of you.”

She grins as she hears Lysandra smack an overly dramatic kiss to his cheek.

Aedion’s a surprisingly good cook, the lunch he’s made is tasty despite being carefully planned to fit into both his and Lysandra’s strict meal plans. If they’re the cost needed to be able to live in a house like this, Aelin doesn’t want it.

“So,” Aedion says after he’s finished chewing a mouthful. “How are things going?”

He asks it with a gentle kind of sensitivity that she understands what he’s really asking. She knows it’s code for are you still sober? but she also knows he hasn’t asked it because he doubts her. Aedion and Lysandra have always been in her corner, even in her darkest moments they were there.

She never wants to put them through anything like that ever again. Never wants them to experience anything as terrifying as the last night she ever touched a drug. That night, almost a year ago now, will forever be the bottom of her pit. She doesn’t remember much of it, other than the devastation on Aedion’s face as he carried her out of the men’s toilets of a seedy nightclub in Perranth. The way he’d bitten his lip as he picked her up off the sticky floor, pulling the hem of her dress down to cover her underwear where it had ridden up.

The thought makes her sick.

He’d had to skip a game, leading to a bollocking from his coach, but he’d done it for her. Had carried her out of the club and into a car, waiting to take them back to his house. Lysandra had stroked her hair where she lay on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor while Aedion called a doctor to the house. Even through his panic he had thought of her and how little she would want it publicised that she’d been pulled out of a club, off her fucking rocker on whatever substance she’d been given by the lowlives she had fallen in with. She’s really, really lucky that for once Aedion hadn’t been followed by paparazzi.

She takes a sip of her sparkling water before she answers, it feels like all she ever drinks these days and it tastes like shit but it’s worth it if she never reverts back to where she was.

“I’m good.” She’s almost surprised to find that it’s true. “I’m feeling much better.”

She can barely look at them, can barely take the level of subdued joy on their faces.

“We’re glad Aelin, really glad.” Lysandra’s voice is sincere.

“So, how’s the new project going?” Aedion asks her, sensing her discomfort almost immediately.

“That’s good too actually.” It is. It feels good to have something positive to focus on, something that she feels is productive and worth doing. “It’s nice to be back and be busy even if the morning shoots begin disgustingly early. It’s good to be on set, surrounded by it all again and to remember that I can actually do this.”

She stabs her fork through a piece of tomato a little aggressively as she finishes and the look Lysandra shoots her tells her she’s not impressed with the self-deprecation but that she’ll let it slide for now.

“And Fenrys Moonbeam, is he really that good looking in real life?”

Aelin laughs. “More actually, sometimes it's too much.”

“Nice,” Lysandra nods appreciatively.

“Is he alright though?” Ever the overprotective older brother figure, she expected some version of this question from Aedion.

“He’s great. He’s hilarious and it really helps on the long days,” she says before taking her next bite.

“And Rowan Whitethorn’s directing isn’t he? What’s he like?”

Aelin blinks and finishes chewing slowly. “He’s… fine.”

She knows she’s fucked it when Aedion and Lysandra share a look, matching smirks beginning on each of their faces.

“Fine,” Lysandra repeats. “What exactly does fine mean Aelin?”

She purses her lips. “He’s a great director.”

Lysandra rolls her eyes. “And?”

She could probably lie here, they’d probably let it slide if she said some bullshit about how they’ve not spoken much and how she barely knows him, but she honestly needs to talk to someone about this. You know, to set her straight.

“And he’s really hot.”

She’s blushing as Lysandra laughs and Aedion chuckles.

“You’ve got a crush,” Lysandra sing-songs, and when she doesn't respond she says, “Have you got a picture of him? I don’t think I actually know what he looks like.”

She can’t blame Lysandra for that, she’s still kicking herself for not recognising him that day in the hallway, but he was only on screen for a few seconds at the Oscars and it wasn’t long after Sam so it wasn’t like she was paying attention in that way. She still thinks she should have noticed.

She pulls her phone out to find the only picture she has on there with Rowan. She had only taken it this week when they were eating breakfast with Fenrys one morning, in one of the tents that had been set up for them to sit in between takes, and Fenrys had pulled his phone out to snap a photo of her for his Instagram story.

She’d been wrapped up in one of the huge parkas they’re given for the times in between scenes holding her croissant high up in the air when he’d taken it. He’d captioned it she could have dropped her croissant and tagged her, and she’d gained a good few thousand followers. She’s almost at a million and they’re only a couple of weeks into shooting.

She had taken one of him in response and then spun around to force Rowan into a selfie with her, he’d protested but she’d pouted until he relented, grumbling something about actors that she knew he didn’t mean. She didn’t post it anywhere, she kept it to herself and she can’t lie, she’s looked at it way too many times since.

She’s smiling a wide smile, cheeks stuffed full of her croissant and it’s really kind of gross, but the small smile on Rowan’s face makes it bearable. More than bearable, she has to resist the temptation to make it her lock screen because that would be weird.

She remembers the heat of his chest where he had stood behind her to lean down so their faces were level, the hand he rested on her shoulder to steady himself and the way his fingers had brushed against her neck in the lightest caress.

She hands the phone over to Lysandra and wants to pull it back almost immediately.

It’s not that she’s embarrassed or whatever, even if they think it’s a bad idea they’d let her down gently, it's just that their opinion matters to her a lot. And while they haven’t exactly approved of her string of random hookups in the years since Sam, they’ve never tried to comment on it other than to check she’s in a good place with it, but she knows they’re waiting for the next person she sees seriously.

There’s a fairly large part of her that thinks her first relationship since Sam shouldn’t be with her boss. And that fucks her up a bit, because since when was she considering a relationship with him?

“Oh yeah,” Lysandra says, scaring away the intrusive thought and raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. “He’s hot alright.”

Aedion nods along, peering over Lysandra’s shoulder. Lysandra’s eyes are far too knowing when she looks back up at Aelin and passes the phone over. She doesn’t say a word before locking the phone and sliding it back into her pocket.

“You’ll have to invite us to set sometime.” Lysandra is sneaky but not subtle.

“I will,” she agrees.

The next week flies by, she shoots every single day but one, and she’s far too exhausted each night to do anything other than scrounge up a measly meal that can be pulled together from her cupboard basics and the limited vegetables in her fridge before falling straight asleep. They’ve made good progress so far, and she knows it's going to be good, but she’s tired.

She’s seen a lot more of the process outside of her own character by now too, and she’s amazed, but not surprised, when she persuades one of the crew to let her watch back one of Fenrys’ solo scenes from the previous week. He’s a phenomenal actor, that much is clear, but she had allowed herself to get caught up in Fenrys as her friend, the happy and funny guy she spends her time with, forgetting the talented and driven lead actor of their movie.

Not that she can forget it in the scenes they share, but she’s mostly concentrating on the emotions her character is going through, and responding to what Fenrys gives her. It almost feels too natural for him, and she forgets that it takes work.

His text meets her at lunchtime on the Sunday they both have off, when she’s still in her pyjamas on the couch, debating whether to start a new series or watch the latest cheesy rom-com that Netflix has released.

She auditioned for one of them a couple of years ago, and she’s far enough past the bitterness that comes with not getting the role that she could enjoy it. Maybe a little, cynical part of herself thinks she’s glad she didn’t get it. What she has now is far better. She’s being a snob, but she straight up doesn’t care. It’s not like anyone else is here to judge her.

Fancy coming to Rowan’s to watch the game? I’m leaving in 20 his text reads.

She didn’t plan on doing anything today, but the invitation sparks something in her, and she’s never been to Rowan’s place before. The studio put him in a house about thirty minutes from set, and she’s curious. How much luxury does the big name director get compared to what she and Fenrys have got? She’s lucky really, that Dorian managed to negotiate the same for her as they offered Fenrys.

rowan’s??? She replies, followed by what game????

She gets up off the couch, putting the lid on the tub of yoghurt she was tucking into with a spoon and walking through to the kitchen to throw it back into the fridge.

Tall, grumpy guy that bosses us around all the time comes through a minute later and she grins at her phone at the description. It’s followed up by Ravens v Panthers.

She taps out, getting changed will be ready in 15 and he replies with three smiling emojis.

She doesn’t think it will be anything fancy if her impromptu invitation is anything to go by so she only swaps her pyjama bottoms with tiny cartoon sheep down the legs for a pair of black leggings and throws a sweatshirt over her oversized t-shirt.

Manon is there when they get there, sprawled across the two seater sofa at the far side of Rowan’s living room, and she gives them both a wave when they enter the room. The house is a pretty modest, two-up two-down in a sweet neighbourhood and it’s cosy inside with relatively modern decor. She doesn’t know for sure whether or not that fits Rowan, but she feels like it does.

He doesn’t let them in, Fenrys swings the door open and marches in like it’s his own place and she wonders how much he and Rowan have hung out, or whether that’s just him. Rowan appears in the doorway about a minute after they come in, a bowl of snacks in his hand that she thinks could be popcorn and he puts it down before coming over to wrap Fenrys in a hug. They slap each other on the back in the way that guys do before pulling back.

Aelin stands at Fenrys’ side watching the exchange, unsure whether to greet Rowan or just take a seat, and once they’re done he seems to regard her with the same sort of uncertainty. Fenrys darts around Rowan to throw himself onto the other sofa and she doesn’t give herself long enough to doubt her decision before she opens her arms and steps towards him.

“Hey,” he says simply as he wraps her into a brief hug. “Thanks for coming.”

She wraps her arms around his own broad shoulders, and it feels nice. He’s warm and strong beneath her hands and the way his arms loop around her waist, so far his hands reach back around to her stomach, gets her in a way that she really doesn’t need to think about. It feels really good pressed up against him like that.

“Hey,” she breathes as he pulls back, and she knows he sees the blush on her cheeks. She’s not fifteen, she really needs to sort herself out. “Thanks for having us.”

“Of course, make yourself at home.” He gives her another half smile, offering a flash of his straight, white teeth, and again she’s struck by him. That his place is behind the camera is a crime. “I’ve got more snacks and drinks in the kitchen if you want.”

“Beer?” Fenrys asks her, already heading to a door that she assumes leads to the kitchen.

She shakes her head, “do you have sparkling water?” She directs the question to Rowan who nods.

He doesn’t have to speak before Fenrys says “on it,” and leaves the room.

She assesses the seating choices left in the room, there’s a cream two-seater sofa opposite where Manon lies, and that’s probably her best bet, but Rowan has already taken his seat on it, an ankle crossed over a knee as he settles into the cushions. There’s plenty of room to sit by him and not touch, and she weighs it up against having to ask Manon to move.

She’s friendly with the girl, but still feels slightly intimidated by the calculating and sarcastic blonde despite the fact that she’s a few years younger than Aelin herself, so maybe Rowan is the safer choice.

Fenrys comes back into the room just as she takes her seat.

“Move your feet, Blackbeak,” he demands as he hands her a glass of sparkling water, it’s chilled with a couple of cubes of ice and she appreciates it.

Manon lifts her legs for Fenrys to sit, but plops her legs back down across his lap immediately and sticks her tongue out at him as she does. Aelin feels herself smile at the display, and the fact that she’s included in this circle of friends. She hasn’t really made an effort with anyone new since Sam, the only people she’s really spoken to are Elide, Lysandra and Aedion, and they were all there for her before Sam. It feels really damn good.

She really, really, doesn’t understand the rules of football, but it’s easy enough to cheer along when the others do and laugh at their outrage when something doesn’t go their way. It’s the most animated she’s seen Rowan so far, and she’s not quite sure which way their allegiances lie, but it’s probably with the Ravens being in Rifthold and all, and she knows her own is.

Everytime Aedion gets the ball or is shown on screen she can’t hold back the cheers. She’s proud of him and she knows how hard he works to be as good as he is, and even knowing as little as she does, it's special to watch him excel.

Rowan and Fenrys both seem a little starstruck that he’s her cousin, to her he’s just Aedion and they’re the real, scary celebrities, but they gush about him like starstruck little boys.

“And you were at his house last weekend?” Fenrys cries, almost outraged that this is the first he’s ever heard of it, but honestly? They’re both Ashryvers; it’s not like it's a secret.

“Yes,” she laughs. “He’s basically like my brother.”

“Gods, Aelin.” He sounds almost pained that she hasn’t brought this up before. “You've been holding out on us! Please give me his number or introduce me or something.”

“Sorry.” She laughs again and throws a smile to Rowan that he returns with another quirk of his lips. “Invite me earlier next time and I’ll ask him to sort a box for us at the stadium.”

“Seriously?” Even Rowan sounds awed now.

“Yeah, just let me know,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

It really wouldn't be, Aedion has been telling her for years to invite any friends she wants to games, she would just need some friends outside of him, Lysandra and Elide first.

“It’s definitely a big deal,” he says, watching her with a smirk still playing on his lips.

She shrugs. “Just make sure you text me early next time.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, and she has to look away from him. The way his voice curves around the words, all low and intense, is definitely about more than just the game.

She tries to pass it off as just looking to where Fenrys is cheering loudly at the next play, but Manon is there again, looking at her with such a knowing expression that she immediately focuses back on the TV.

At half time she needs to use the bathroom and Rowan gives her a quick rundown of the layout of the house. She’s quick to do her thing and runs by the kitchen afterwards to grab a refill of her drink and find something to eat.

Rowan had told them all to help themselves, explaining that he felt they had as much right as he to poke through the cupboards in the only just filled rental property and she gets it. The places the studio rent out for them are nice enough, and she’s more than grateful that they do, but it’s never quite home. Even if her home is somewhat impersonal, it’s still home.

She’s on her tiptoes, scanning through the relatively well stocked cupboards on the hunt for anything chocolate, when someone enters the kitchen behind her.

“I know I said help yourselves, but you’re going to eat me out of house and home at this rate.”

It’s Rowan, and he leans against the doorframe as he watches her startle and spin to face him, his legs are crossed at the ankles and his arms are folded over his chest. The pose highlights his powerful arms that she wants to be wrapped up in again and he looks really good in the dim lighting of the kitchen. It bounces off the lines of his tattoo, shining and highlighting the swirls that she can barely look away. She wants to ask what it means.

Aelin scoffs and pushes the cupboard door shut gently, they’re not eating that much and if they are it’s definitely not her, Fenrys and Manon are another story.

“There’s nothing stopping you from kicking us all out,” she says and he laughs, shaking his head.

He tilts his head to the side, his gaze picking her apart by the second before he says “maybe not all of you.”

His words and the way he shifts in the doorway as his eyes run her up and down gives her the confidence to bite her lip and look up at him through her lashes. He pushes off the door frame and comes to lean against the counter by her side.

He opens a cupboard door on her other side and rummages through a shelf before handing her a foil packet.

“I have a feeling this is what you were after.”

She accepts the chocolate and tucks it onto the counter at her side as she mirrors him and leans against it too.

“Unsurprisingly, you’d be correct.”

He presses his lips together before his lips twist again, it’s the same expression from before that she knows means he wants to smile but he can’t quite commit, and she feels her body loosen like she wants to lean forward to press into him. She doesn’t though.

What she does instead is take a sharp breath and a step back. “Thanks.” She waves the bar of chocolate in the air before stepping around him and making her way back into the living room, forcing her steps to seem calm and collected as she feels his gaze heavy on her back.

“Anytime.” His words follow her out of the room, they’re a promise.

Luckily, Fenrys and Manon both ignore it when Rowan follows her and retakes his place next to her.

#rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin au #ndilyd #nobody does it like you do #cw: minor character death

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ncssian · 4 years

Text

A Favor: Part Ten

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

warnings: NSFW (!!), light abuse mention

this chapter is dedicated to the amazing showstopping talented @duskandstarlight for reviewing my writing and helping me successfully edit the sexy times!! she's so cool yall ❤️

***

The first thing she notices when she steps inside is the sound of crackling, followed by a warm glow from the living area. The lights are all off, but the fireplace is ablaze.

Nesta’s brows furrow, confused, but then she sees on the couch— “Cassian?”

Cassian’s eyes widen at the sight of her, and he stands quickly from the couch. “Nesta.” He’s breathless. Like he ran a great distance to get here.

Nesta is worried that she had one Jello shot too many. That maybe she’s still in Eris’s car, dozed off and dreaming. She can’t remember falling asleep, though.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers. If she’s too loud, he might disappear.

“I came back.” His hands flex at his sides, and Nesta wishes for the millionth time that she was better at reading emotions, because she’d give anything to understand what’s going across his face right now.

“You’re supposed to be in Velaris for the weekend,” she says dumbly.

“Fuck the weekend. I couldn’t even make it through dinner.” Are his eyes red?

Nesta’s mouth opens and closes, and she turns toward the burning fireplace. Weirdly enough, she’s grateful for the lack of lights. She can’t see the depth of Cassian’s expression under the firelight alone, and he can’t see hers.

“Why?” is all she can say.

“I…” He scrubs a hand through his hair and blows out a harsh breath. “Shit, we promised we would take things slow just a few days ago.” He laughs derisively. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Nesta’s head swivels to Cassian, eyes focused on him in that intense way of hers. “Tell me. I want to know what you were thinking.”

He drops his head, staring at his shoes. “I missed you,” he says lowly. “Even though I knew you were doing perfectly fine without me, I drove all the way back here like an idiot because I wanted to see you.”

Nesta’s throat tightens the longer she stares at Cassian; it’s getting hard to breathe.

Cassian clears his throat in the silence, attempting to sound lighthearted. “So, that’s how I’m doing. What about you?”

“I had fun,” Nesta says, somewhat quiet.

“I saw.” He tries to smile. “You looked so happy in that picture. It made me happy.”

He’s telling the truth and lying at the same time, Nesta can tell. “I felt weird tonight, too,” she admits, swallowing. “Happy, but… lacking."

Cassian looks up at that.

“I’m really glad you came back,” she whispers. “I missed you too.”

“Nesta,” he breathes.

She takes a step closer to him. “I didn’t want to be clingy. Tell me if I’m being clingy.”

He shakes his head quickly.

“I don’t think you should leave me alone again,” she says into the dim glow of the room. "Not for a while, at least."

"I'm thinking the same thing."

He's right in front of her now, just inches away. She swallows; when did he get so close?

"If you want me to stop, I need to know now," Cassian says, voice low. His hands hover in the air between them, like he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and touching her. "Because in a minute I won't remember why we agreed to take this slow."

All the air leaves Nesta's lungs in a straight whoosh. "I already forgot."

This kiss happens faster than the last one, but is somehow still slow— Nesta doesn't know which one of them moves first. All she knows is that one moment she's a lone figure, and the next she's joined with Cassian, his arms being the only thing still holding her upright.

He wasn't lying when he said he missed her, she finds out quickly. He kisses her with a drawn-out desperation that makes her head spin, using the distraction to ease her out of her coat and drop it to the floor. He pulls back for a sharp breath, only to take a look at her. "I can't believe I missed seeing you in a dress."

"I have more, we can look at them later," Nesta assures, her hands already reaching to tear the dress up and off of her. Cassian's hands catch hers at the last moment. "Easy, baby." He laces his fingers through hers. "I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls her in for another kiss before she can even process how much she likes the word baby. She latches onto his promise the way she latches onto his lips, like the string of a balloon about to fly away from her. He's not going anywhere. Not even to the next room.

The next minutes are the gentlest battle of wills Nesta has ever fought: every time she tries to speed things up, Cassian grounds her with his hands and mouth and towering form. When she becomes too impatient and reaches for the button of Cassian's jeans between kisses, he sweeps her right into his arms, forcing her legs to wrap around his waist and her arms to cling to his neck. His own hands slip right under her skirt, straight to her ass and squeezing.

The new angle presses her center firmly against his hard length, and she greedily accepts the simple pleasure he grants her with a choked gasp. "Can we please—"

"Don't rush this," Cassian murmurs into the underside of her jaw, walking them to the stairs. He stops to press her into the banister, rubbing his hips lazily into Nesta's. "I've waited a long time for you. Now it's your turn to wait." He bites down on a soft spot of skin.

This is real, Nesta finally realizes. This melting heat turning her limbs into jelly— it's not her mind wandering off to involuntary thoughts about Cassian's dick. The kind of thoughts that have her pinching her wrist hard enough to hurt. No, this is infinitely better than any three a.m. fantasy she's had so far.

He's carrying them upstairs now, but Nesta barely notices with how she's clasping his face, demanding all of his attention with her hungry kisses. It's a wonder they both don't topple down the steps with how starved she is for him.

How long has this need been building up in her? She doesn't want to know, even as the ache between her legs intensifies and she's eased onto a mattress. Blinking, she notices they're in Cassian's room. She hasn't been here since that night she was sick, and even then she didn't get a good look at the place through her haze of pain.

It's decorated with art and personal photos, big enough to carry a fireplace and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Her own room isn't half as nice. "You've been holding back from me," she accuses.

Cassian looks up from where he's kneeling between Nesta's legs at the foot of the bed, realizing that she's talking about the room. "Why?" he smirks. "You looking to move in?"

As if she can even consider such a thing right now when she's seconds away from combusting.

Like he knows exactly how she feels, Cassian pushes the hem of her black dress up until it bunches around her waist, leaving her painfully exposed. His eyes glaze over at the sight of her plain gray panties, narrowing on the darker damp spot over her slit. A predatory look crosses his face, one that makes goosebumps pebble along her thighs. He tugs her even closer.

"Cassian..."

It's too late for whatever Nesta is about to say, because Cassian isn't listening anymore. Leaning forward, he noses at her clothed crotch, placing a slow kiss on the wet fabric of her underwear before dragging it off entirely and tossing it aside.

Nesta gasps and squirms when he pulls her legs firmly over his shoulders. "Um," she tries to say, "I don't really have a great history of getting off to oral—"

She's interrupted by a long lick up her center, from the wetness pooling at her entrance to the tip of her clit. Her hips jerk involuntarily, and then Cassian is outright feasting on her, all his words of patience suddenly as meaningless as a snapped leash.

Nesta's head falls back against the mattress with both overwhelming pleasure and unexpected surprise. Getting eaten out has never done much for her in the past— most of the time she just ended up wet and frustrated, and not at all in a good way. She believed coming on someone's tongue was an activity best reserved for her romance novel heroines, never herself.

So when her legs start trembling around Cassian's head after not even a minute of calculated licking and openmouthed kissing—

"Oh— ah," Nesta stammers, hands fisted desperately in the bedsheets since she doesn't know where else to put them. The only thing stopping her from rubbing herself all over Cassian's face are his broad hands, pinning her firmly in place while he gives her what he wants.

His deep groan rumbles through her heated core, right down to her bloodstream. "There's no fucking way," he says against her folds, shaking his head. "Your fucking taste—"

At the same time his hands find hers, interlacing their fingers together, his lips wrap around her swollen clit, sucking hard.

A breathy whimper tears out of Nesta's throat as she's thrown into release, every last nerve in her body shot through with electric pleasure. Cassian keeps licking and toying at her folds, until she can feel the overstimulation all the way down to the arches of her feet. It's only then that she tries to squirm away, feeling too much at once.

Cassian relents, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, but the dark glint in his eyes says he has a new objective. "Aren't you glad you waited?" he rasps as he stands.

In Nesta's haze, she feels a tug of fabric, and then her dress is being pulled over her head. She can't remember if the bra she's wearing is a particularly sexy one, but before she can lift her head to check, it's being flung to the other side of the room to join the rest of her clothes. She doesn't even shiver, but sits up so she can grab at Cassian, any part of him—

He tries to catch her wrists before she can tear his clothes off, but Nesta isn't having any more of his waiting. Her hands dive under the hem of his sweater, his bare skin burning hot to the touch with arousal, and then he's shirtless. Her eyes rapidly skim over his scattered tattoos, not sure which one she wants to take in first as she fumbles with his pants.

"I'm going to learn all of you by the end of the night," she threatens, her focus catching on a pattern of thick black lines inked onto his ribs.

Cassian huffs a laugh at that, but the sound turns strangled when Nesta slips her hand into his jeans, palming him through his boxer briefs. He's— larger than she expected, but whatever apprehension she has quickly turns into nailbiting anticipation. This is real, she thinks for the hundredth time that night.

"You're one to talk," Cassian breathes as he lets Nesta rub and squeeze at him. He catches her slim wrist in his large hand, pulling it away from his cock despite her whine of disappointment. "I've been wanting to learn about you from day one."

His eyes narrow on a spot beneath her left tit, and he reaches out to brush the small mole there. "How many more of these do you have hidden?"

"You'll have to find them."

Cassian's gaze darkens, and Nesta can nearly feel time slowing down around them as he regains control of the pace, the tempo. Leaning forward with predatory intent, he crowds her until her back is once again pressed into the mattress. She shudders with expectation, her legs unconsciously parting wider around him. He bends his head until his breath fans over that mole, his lips about to brush it—

At the last moment, he pulls away, standing off the bed to strip the rest of his clothes off. Nesta scrambles onto her elbows, stretching her neck to get a look at his erect cock as it springs out, a furious shade of red.

She swallows roughly at the sight.

Cassian doesn't bother hiding his satisfaction at the look on her face. "Maybe it's for the best that I didn't know how much you wanted me earlier. I don't think my ego could have handled it."

"I..." Nothing comes to her mind for a witty comeback. She must look struck stupid, because Cassian chuckles, "Okay, my ego definitely can't handle it." He tugs at her legs so her elbows collapse beneath her.

Before they can do anything else, he seems to remember: "Condom."

Nesta shakes her head rapidly, unwilling— or unable— to give up even a second of the time between them. "I'm not on birth control for nothing."

Technically, she's on birth control to regulate her periods, but this is definitely an unexpected benefit.

Cassian's answering grin is both cocky and reverent before he moves. And as he crawls over her body, it strikes Nesta how far she's come to reach this place— this haven of warmth and safety. Because the last time she was in this position, she couldn't have imagined ever being able to feel like this. She never thought she could find or earn the adoration that shines in Cassian's eyes before he buries his face in her neck.

There's a kindness in his touch that takes her breath away.

"I think I fell asleep on the couch earlier," he whispers into the crook of her neck. "I think I'm dreaming right now, and I don't know how far I can take this without waking up."

Before Nesta can show him how decidedly awake they both are, her entire body freezes up as his roaming hands near the soft flesh of her sides. Muscle memory makes her abdomen clench in defense, and Cassian stills instantly, pulling away to look her in the eyes.

No, no, no! This is not the time for her body to overreact, not when she's so close to everything she's been wanting, needing for weeks. And still, her hands fly to grasp Cassian's wrists at her sides.

"Nesta?" His calloused fingers scrape against her skin, so different from Tomas's hands when they touched her. She shuts her eyes and takes a breath, trying to force herself back to that heartdropping state of arousal.

"Just—give me a moment," she promises. Her body is awake in anticipation, not of a good fucking but of being pinched and bruised blue.

"Nesta," Cassian says again, lower now. There's a hint of warning in his voice, but it's not directed at her.

She peeks open her eyes. Cassian looks deadly serious above her, and he peels his hands away from her sides to place them on the mattress instead. "What's wrong."

She clambers for something to say that won't completely kill the mood. "I'm ticklish?"

He isn't buying it, scanning her face intently for the truth instead.

It's not that Nesta doesn't want to tell him. It's that she doesn't want to tell him now, when she's already learned what an orgasm from Cassian feels like and she's been promised another one.

No way in hell will her ex-boyfriend get in the way of her first hookup since she left him. The unjustness of it ignites a frustration in her that burns away any lingering anxiety.

She places her hands on Cassian's, bringing them firmly back to her sides. Softly, she tilts her head up to peck his lips and whisper against his mouth, "You still have time to learn everything about me. I'll teach you myself. But right now..."

Her hand snakes down his hard abdomen, finding his thick length and squeezing. "I want to be fucked."

This truth, Cassian believes.

"I'll hold you to that promise," he warns before he dips his head, taking a pink nipple into his mouth and suckling hard. Nesta's damn eyes roll back at the perfection of this scene, this sensation that goes beyond physical pleasure, as he releases her nipple with a pop. "I'll learn everything." Not just her body, but her secrets, her soul, the way she breathes and feels and thinks.

What a terrifying vulnerability, yet her core tightens at the thought of it.

Cassian slips his hands beneath Nesta's thighs, supporting her as his cock finally, finally settles between her legs, pressing insistently against her slick entrance.

Nesta can't describe the sound she makes when he finally pushes into her, the luxurious stretch snapping an emotional cord in her. In Cassian, too, from the way he has to bow his head for a moment, his face pressed into her chest as they both catch their breaths.

After a long moment, he begins to move inside her at a steady pace that nearly makes her keen. Nesta can only let him grind her into the mattress, let him explore and play and touch while she writhes beneath him, head spinning so fast she's on the verge of blacking out. She couldn't have predicted such— closeness.

Clenching tight enough around his cock to make him swear, Nesta attaches her lips to the line of a compass tattoo on Cassian's bicep, shutting her eyes against the intensity of his gaze.

"Can't believe I don't have to pretend not to be obsessed with these anymore," Cassian rasps, palming a full breast. He rolls his thumb over her stiff nipple in fascination.

"As if you ever hid it," Nesta grits out, shuddering beneath him. She swallows down the obscene sounds rising up her throat. Not that it matters— her desperate panting seems to be doing more for Cassian than loud moans ever could. Raw tension laces his body as he pumps harder into her.

His thrusts hit so close to a spot she didn't know existed before now, awakening a greedy new ache—

"Lift your hips for me, baby." As if he can read her mind. Nesta arches her hips off the bed on instinct, allowing Cassian the angle to slide deeper than she thought possible, to grind against that sensitive patch of skin and fill her completely.

Holy shit. She doesn't know if she says the words aloud or not, because her face is pressed into the sweat-dampened pillow, eyes fluttering rapidly as she withstands this new immense pleasure.

Cassian's low moan tells her he knows how she feels. She's so close.

"Look at me, Nesta," he demands.

Nesta shakes her head fiercely into the pillowcase, unwilling to meet his gaze when she's strung up this tight. She might explode if she even breathes wrong.

"Open your eyes," he orders more urgently this time. His hand finds her face, forcing her to turn to him. She gasps at the next thrust, her eyes flying open to meet Cassian's dark hazel ones. The way he's looking at her—

He rubs a thumb down her cheek. "Beautiful."

She isn't prepared for the intensity of the release that barrels through her. She isn't aware of the sounds she makes as she clenches repeatedly around Cassian, hands scrabbling for a way out of this neverending rapture. It's too much, more than she can handle, and she can't—

Cassian clutches Nesta like a lifeline, his hips picking up speed. Through the last ebbs of her climax, Nesta winds her fingers through his hair, bringing him down for a final kiss. She holds him tight as he spills inside her, groaning desperately into her mouth.

Later, when dopamine floods her system and her muscles turn numb with relaxation, Nesta will think that there's a word for how she's feeling right now. She won't know what it is, though.

***

Cassian can't help but be proud of himself for keeping his cool. For not coming within five seconds of getting Nesta in his arms and around his cock, but also for not blurting anything embarrassingly vulnerable during their first time together. Or their second and third times.

Nesta isn't great with vulnerability, even now. But he's watching her try to grow comfortable with it as she traces one of his tattoos, her naked body propped half on top of his.

"I usually hate tattoos," she murmurs softly, almost to herself. "I cringe every time Feyre gets a new one. But these are nice."

Cassian glances down to where her finger points at the elaborate phoenix tattoo on his pectoral. "What do you like about them?" he asks. With Nesta, there's always a reason.

"I like their placement." She trails that finger down his chest with studious focus. "I like the dark lines; it reminds me of my coloring books." Her finger stops on a Celtic knot on the side of his ribs. "Overall, very aesthetically pleasing."

He chuckles. "Thank you for the stellar review."

She glances up at him then, those blue-gray eyes even more arresting now than the first time he saw them. He's never understood how they can be the same color as Feyre's yet so different.

"I still can't believe you walked out in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to be here," she whispers. "What will your friends say?"

Cassian’s arm tightens around her. He's still not sure of the answer to that question. His phone blew up with so many texts and calls on the drive here that at one point he just turned it off, but he'll still have to come up with some believable excuse for his behavior.

He tries to find an answer to Nesta's question.

"I’ve known most of those guys for fifteen years," he finally says, "and I’ve only had you for a couple of months. I wanted more time with you." It's the best reasoning he can provide right now.

“Maybe I should feel bad.” He stares up at the ceiling. “But I just can’t.”

Nesta hums in thought. "You must really like me."

Cassian swallows. "Yeah. I do."

"You have for a long time, according to your words." She rests her chin on the crook of his shoulder and looks up at him. "How long? Since I first moved in?"

He thinks back to that fateful night, Nesta standing rainsoaked in his foyer with wary eyes. A turning point in his life, yes, but there was a night before that.

"Do you remember our first meeting?"

The overpriced restaurant that Feyre chose to introduce her blood family to her chosen family. The dim lighting that glanced off the silver pins in Nesta's hair, and her solemn stare as she inspected Cassian and his friends in her detached way.

Her eyes narrow, but she nods.

"I noticed you before I even noticed Feyre or Rhys," Cassian says. "You just... demanded attention. You never gave it, though. I spent all night being louder than usual, sneaking looks at you, but I couldn't even get a second glance in return."

Nesta's mouth tightens. "And what then?"

"The night ended. I forgot about you and moved on." She was like a shooting star: fascinating and beautiful for the brief moment she passed through his life, but quickly dismissed afterward. That initial impression of Nesta faded so much over the years that when Cassian finally reunited with her in his cabin, he was shocked by the magnitude of her existence all over again.

Nesta stays quiet, thinking. "You did get my attention," she finally says.

Cassian's brows raise, but she continues, "I thought you were too loud, too absorbed in your own friends to ever be worth having a conversation with. But I was just being snooty and... jealous." She looks down at the planes of his brown skin. "If I wasn't busy being comfortable in my role as social outcast, I would have thought you were kind. You looked like you wouldn't mind being my friend— that's why I noticed you. But you weren't my friend, and you couldn't be, and that's why I made myself look down on you."

Her eyes glitter when they dart back up to him, and her hand starts absentmindedly tracing another tattoo. "I do that sometimes," she murmurs. "Build a whole relationship in my head with someone I've just met, and then get mad when it isn't reality."

Cassian pulls a strand of hair back from her face. "That's called wanting to make friends, Nes. It's just that that part is usually followed by, you know, actually making friends."

She pouts adorably. "That's the part I suck at."

He can't help it. He leans forward and kisses the little beauty mark at the corner of Nesta's mouth, the mark that nearly received more attention than her lips tonight. Memories of the rest of the moles scattered along Nesta's body flood Cassian: her shoulder blade, her ribs, below her ass cheek, and that damn spot on her thigh he's been eyeing since week one. He's tasted every single one of them several times by now.

"You finally did it," he says against her mouth. "You got me as your friend and more, and now you have all those guys from school, too. You can get whatever the hell you want when you aren't holding yourself back."

She rolls her eyes, but evidence of a smile pulls at her lips. "Save the motivational speeches for my therapist."

Another thing Cassian is eternally proud of: Nesta finding a professional she's comfortable with and having her first session coming up soon.

"And what do you want?" she asks before his thoughts can trail off.

He blinks up at her. "Hm?"

She shifts on top of him to face him better. "We're always talking about my feelings and wants and needs. I don't think I've ever learned about what you want."

What does he want? He opens his mouth, but doesn't know how to answer. Shit, he's never had to answer that question. He's never been asked it.

"Take your time," Nesta assures him after a moment of silence. She's not being sarcastic.

He inhales the scent of her hair, thinking.

"You know," he finally says, "I'm always talking with my friends, and I always leave the conversation feeling like I didn't say a thing that was worth anything. Nothing serious, nothing weighty, nothing thoughtful. And it's not a bad thing, technically, but sometimes I just want to have a real conversation with them. Like the ones I have with you."

He doesn't know when he and Nesta started having those types of conversations. Maybe they fell seamlessly into it: she would ask him how to interpret different tones over text, and he would ask her about whatever legal concept or romance novel she was currently obsessed with. The topic didn't have to be serious, as long as their words were. It was the flawless exchange of intelligence, ideas, and opinions that he wasn't even aware he craved.

"What else do you want?" she says.

To not be relegated to comedic relief all the time. To be chosen first.

He boops her nose. "You've ruined me. I have everything I want now."

Nesta sneers down at him. "God, you're predictable." She's about to push off his chest when he pulls her back in, rolling them over so they're on their sides.

He tucks her head under his chin. "Nesta?"

"Hm."

"We're not gonna backpedal after this, right?"

She sighs into the crook of his neck. "No. We like each other. You're my boyfriend now." She says it like she's telling him the time or the weather.

Into her hair, Cassian starts to smile, any lingering doubts at once assuaged.

Some things you just know instantly, like how Cassian knew the minute he met Mor that they would be friends for life, or how he knew Feyre wouldn't have any trouble fitting into his family. Like how he knows now that he loves Nesta, even if he can't tell her just yet. He'll just have to keep pretending he only likes her.

***

a/n: the tattoo artist that designed the new acotar covers has some sick work so a lot of cassian's tattoos are based off their art (but smaller) :)

taglist: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn

#a favor #ncssianwrites #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fic #nessian au

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bomberqueen17 · 3 years

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@dsudis replied to your entry “Crack” and said:

Okay but what absolutely WILD hoodie is Roche wearing to ~blend in~ at the clubs that can match his chaperon????

hehhhhh oh no. Curses, I’m not writing this-- but. Well so.

There’s got to be a scene at a stupid Renn Faire kind of thing expressly so there’s a reason to put Roche in a chaperon, because I can’t otherwise justify it. (He has a signature stupid hat though, he has to. Fuck, @akilah12902 is right, Foltest probably put him in a fedora or something, and he looks real good in it but mostly discards it when he becomes an international fugitive from justice.) Yeah they have to hire him for the event; Iorveth is too distinctive to accompany Saskia anywhere without it being a whole fucking production and he’s cranky about it but. Well. He helped frame Roche in the first place, he knows the guy’s good. And honestly Saskia can protect herself but.

Iorveth is furious when it turns out that Roche looks really good in a chaperon.

Then we can get into the clubwear.

Roche has to refuse anything that’ll expose any of his tattoos-- too incriminating-- but heh also, let’s get this delicious nonsexual noncon in here, he can’t turn down anything Saskia wants because he’s desperate for the job and she has him over a barrel and as far as he’s aware she’s a spoiled rich brat who’d hurt him for fun so that’s tasty. So she gets him into a stupidly cute dragon hoodie (oh maybe it’s got unicorns and rainbows) and a skin-tight holographic long-sleeved t-shirt and... okay has some mercy and lets him wear jeans so he can still hide his ridiculous array of weapons but they’re fitted jeans, and the eyeliner, oh no, the eyeliner-- he is far too old for this, and grumbles that he looks ridiculous, and Iorveth agrees and seems weirdly angry about it? but then Iorveth only has two emotions as far as Roche can tell, and those are smug superiority and seething anger, so like fuck that guy.

When they get home at like 5am and Roche has successfully foiled some kind of Bad Shenanigans Plot Point by being really good at his job and the girls are delightedly devouring pancakes and Iorveth grudgingly drops a plate of them in front of him and stalks away he has no idea that what Iorveth is so mad about is that with his eyeliner all smudged and glitter all over him and the hood finally pulled down and that unmistakable sweat-sheened glow of competence and his ridiculous fucking jaw he looks really fucking good and Iorveth is so goddamned angry about it.

mm yes and in this AU Roche is still a recovering alcoholic and he can’t tell anybody because that’s a weakness, and this gives us both the delicious angst of someone spiking a drink and him having to white-knuckle through the various Medical Problems that gives him, but also can give us an opportunity for a lovely personal misunderstanding, wherein Iorveth’s first overt gesture of peacemaking is to pour him a glass of wine, which he has to, teeth gritted, refuse, even though he’s off-duty and there goes his easy excuse, and Iorveth is offended so they don’t reconcile that way. (no that has to come during some kind of action sequence and maybe they punch each other about it and then make out listen i don’t make the rules these things just happen)

Oh yeah VES Ves is with him. She’s a grubby refugee with him. Their last gig was that they were scapegoated for assassinating Radovid which they very much were involved in of course but Roche will never tell anyone that he actually was only involved because Radovid tried to have Adda committed and he’d do anything for her. (Adda tried to take Roche in after, to protect him, and he refused, as he’s political poison and she can’t afford it and he’s right but she’s mad.)

Ves takes to being Saskia’s bodyguard like, well, something that takes to things really well, it’s pretty much a match made in heaven. Her daily outfit is a shirt cut down to her navel, of course, but for clubwear she just wears an open vest and pasties and all her incriminating tattoos are covered in vinyl body stickers and of course she’s wearing the booty shorts with the hip cutouts, and furry boots, and somehow she’s still the most heavily-armed person in this club and yeah she high-kicks a man to death probably, Saskia loves her immensely.

At some point when Ciri’s in town it’s Roche who notices that her erstwhile suitor and nuisance, Morvran, is not the idle socialite he pretends to be, he is not actually taking all the drugs he pretends to be taking, he’s actually far sharper than he ought to be and whoever trained this kid was good... anyway Morvran has to drop the act to help with the Plot Climax and it... turns out... he’s actually kind of a good dude.... in there somewhere.

a n y w a y

I’m not writing this but I’m not not writing this, you animals

there was art, i can’t resist art, god damn it

#clubwear au #the witcher #this is the kind of thing i start then want to file serial numbers off and then don't #so we'll see if i can scrape out a couple of ficlets and scratch the itch at least #but i'm overcommitted on other things #and also i'm burying my dad on saturday so i could use a fucking distraction #tw grief

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readyplayerhobi · 4 years

Text

Flower | 34

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Smut, fluff

; Warnings: Anal sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, protected sex

; Word Count: 4.1k

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: The final smut chapter of Flower! It’s not too long, and probably not as hot as you’d anticipate but I hope you all enjoy it anyway lol please reblog if you do and let me know what you think :D I mean...I know it’s smut so it’s going to be hard to actually talk about it but still, I like to hear what you think about Flower. I haven’t proof read cos I only finished this about...fifteen minutes ago lol

; Flower Masterpost

“Ahh, Hoseok.” You whispered eyes tightly closed as a particularly hard thrust from him has your body jerking up the bed slightly more. Tightening around him without even realising it, he responds with a quiet moan of his own and you smile, running your hand along his back to play with the short hair on his neck.

It makes him shudder, his whole body quivering above you and goosebumps rise on his arms. He was surprisingly ticklish, so it came as no surprise that even in the middle of sex he ended up giggling from the sensation. Opening your eyes to watch him, you bit your lip in amusement at the sight of his beautiful smile.

His response to that was just a roll of his hips that had you gasping, pleasure shooting through your body. Almost two-and-a-half years together and sex still wasn’t boring or dull with him. You weren’t sure if it was because you were madly in love with him or if it was just because he was good at sex. All you did know was that you enjoyed it a lot.

“Do we have to do it? Can’t we just keep going with this?” The question makes Hoseok pause in his movements, shifting until he could look at you clearly without causing himself any strain. Brow furrowing, his lips twist in confusion and you have to bite back the urge to poke at them.

“I mean...we don’t have to do it. If you’re not comfortable with it then we won’t do it. Just finish off like this. I will point out that this is your fantasy though.” A sigh leaves you at that, causing you to nod before you rub at your face. Hoseok doesn’t move, just staying where he is and watching you.

“I know, I know. You’re right. And we’ve already prepped. I just...what if something goes wrong? Or it hurts? You’re not small and...you know.” Your voice has a whine to it, causing him to smile. Or try to hide his smile, but it doesn’t work.

Tracing your fingers along his the tattoos on his chest, you waited for him to comfort you. You’d never really thought of yourself as a needy person before, but you found it nice to have Hoseok reassuring you. It wasn’t necessary, but you got the feeling that Hoseok liked to do it as well. Probably liked the feeling of being wanted.

His response is to push himself up with a grunt, the muscles of his torso working in a way that had you clenching around him. Until he slipped out of you, his cock glistening with your wetness and the lube he’d used earlier. Thanks to his vasectomy a few months ago, the two of you had decided to forego the use of condoms during sex now.

There was a pack in the drawers just in case it was needed, like the situation that was soon about to begin, but otherwise, you both thought it was just a waste of money. You’d gotten tested and Hoseok officially had no sperm showing in his semen, so he couldn’t get you pregnant.

It also helped that him orgasming in you had been one of your fantasies that you’d wanted to experience. You hadn’t been disappointed, even if it felt slightly gross from how wet and thick his cum was in comparison to...well anything else that had been there. Still, you’d enjoyed it. And the look in Hoseok’s eyes when he’d seen it the first time had been pleasing.

There weren’t many things that you’d been able to be the first of for Hoseok.

You still weren’t entirely used to seeing his cock bare though, and it was oddly arousing. Was that normal? Or was it just because you were mid-sex and you found everything about him ridiculously attractive right now? The way his skin contrasted against his colourful tattoos and how each heavy breath made the definition of his stomach more obvious.

It was only when Hoseok gently trailed his fingers along your inner thigh, tapping occasionally with a bemused grin on his face that you realise you’d become way too invested in checking him out. Not that he was opposed to it if the twitching of his cock had anything to say about it.

“Oh, hey, there she is. Back with me. You had that lusty look in your eyes,” Smirking, he rests a hand on your knee and rubs at it almost reassuringly. “Right, serious talk. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable or happy with. So if you’re still too worried then we don’t do it. I’m perfectly fine no matter what.”

Body heating in embarrassment, you squirmed a little and looked away from his intense gaze. His lips were a little swollen and flushed in colour from the earlier kissing and gentle biting, made even more enticing when his tongue swipes across them.

“No, no, I want to try. You’re right, it’s my fantasy. I’m just...worried. You know me.”

“I do know you, which is why I know that you’re probably thinking about this too much. I know that you’ve researched extensively on how to do it safely, on how to try and do it cleanly as well. We’ve prepped as well as we can, you’re pretty comfortable with where we’ve got to. If you’re unhappy then just tell me, okay? Trust me, I’ll stop.” Staring into his dark eyes, you felt his care so strongly.

It helped to soothe the worry in your soul, to let you know that you were in capable hands. You did trust him. More than anyone else in the world right now. The very fact he was knelt there, with your naked body on full display for him and there were almost no worries about your appearance going through your head was proof enough.

There were other worries this time though.

“But what if there’s...you know. Like when you’re in there. What if you get...stuff on you?” Hoseok sighs softly, it’s almost not audible but you heard it. The knot in your stomach was still tight, but you don’t feel embarrassed.

“Meeps, I’m going to be in your asshole. I mean...it’s not made for a dick, it’s a poop chute. So if I happen to get some on my dick then I do, I can’t complain about it. It’s what I get for going in there. Please don’t stress over it.” He’s stroking along your thigh, each movement reinforcing that he cares for you and only has you in mind.

“You promise?”

“I promise. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable at any point, please. Go straight to red if you’re hurting. I’d rather stop if it’s hurting a lot, especially as it’s your ass. Probably not a good sign.” Frowning slightly, you reach out for his hand and half link your fingers together.

“You won’t stop completely right? If I say red then we can just do normal sex?” The last, and only time, you’d ever called out red to him had been during your last experimentation with fantasies and kinks. You’d wanted to know whether you’d enjoy being tied and blindfolded during sex and Hoseok had obliged.

Only you’d discovered that having your hands tied to the bedframe so you couldn’t move properly combined with being unable to see had triggered a huge panic attack. All you’d been able to focus on was that you were exposed, with all the parts you didn’t like being visible and you couldn’t see a thing. Even though Hoseok had been right there, you hadn’t been able to push past your fear that he might just leave you in that compromising position and you’d been begging him to let you go, spitting out ‘red’ over and over until you were free.

Hoseok hadn’t re-engaged in sex after that time, instead just focusing on coddling you and making sure that you were okay. Your vehement reaction had convinced you both that while you were okay with being either tied or blindfolded, you couldn’t cope with them both.

It made you feel too vulnerable, even with Hoseok.

But you didn’t want him to stop completely this time. If you were uncomfortable or hurting from the anal then you just wanted him to stop and have normal sex with you. There was no reason in your eyes for the fun to stop just because something had been a bust. Not this time.

“If you’re okay with continuing, then yeah. We’ll just do it normally. But only if you’re comfortable with it, alright? You have to be honest.” His index finger on his free hand is gesturing to you, his expression stern and you can’t help but smile as you nod. It was hard to take him entirely seriously when he was naked as the day he was born.

“I promise. We should do it. Now, while I’m feeling a little confident. Do we need to do anything else?” He’d already spent a good half an hour earlier getting your ass ready for him; using a small range of butt plugs that increased in size to try and make it as easy as possible for you. You figured with the size of the last one he’d used on you that you could probably take him. He wasn’t small but he also wasn’t a porn star either, thankfully.

“You sure? I think you’ll be good, just let me know.” Nodding to him, you watch as he grabs the foil packet from the bedside table and carefully rolls the condom on. Neither of you wanted this particular sex act to be bare and you’d forgotten how weirdly attractive it was to watch him put one on.

Next, the bottle of lube was used to squirt generous amounts onto his cock. One large hand, the fingers long and elegant, coats it evenly along his shaft in firm strokes. You knew that you were incredibly horny right now because just the sight of it had you shivering, a quiet moan leaving you without meaning to.

“It’s really hot when you jerk yourself off.” It’s only when Hoseok laughs that you realise you’ve just said that out loud. But it’s a testament to how much you’ve grown into your personality with Hoseok that you don’t feel embarrassed about it. Instead, you just give him a bold look with raised brows that has him grinning, looking away from you first.

“You’ve mentioned that a few times.” He’s muttering it though, his cheeks flushed with rose from shyness now and not from anything sexual. It pleases you though that he doesn’t stop his movement, instead gripping himself a little firmer and almost showing off with each slow stroke.

Biting your lip, you sighed to yourself as you watched him for a few seconds. Each move of his arm had the muscles in his bicep flexing, the weights he’d been lifting at the gym lately making themselves well known beneath the colourful tattoos. Your boyfriend was a masterpiece of nature who had only been improved with human talent and skill.

The knowledge that it was all yours was more than a little heady, and suddenly your worries dissipated a little as you whined at him.

“Hobi...come on, please.”

Now it’s his turn to chew on his lip, considering you carefully before shuffling himself a little forward. His thigh muscles tighten from the movement and his position, looking thicker than normal and you whine softly. Would you ever get to a point where you didn’t consider this man to be the most attractive person in the world?

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit slowly, sending sparks of pleasure through you. Sighing, you lift your hips in an attempt to encourage him downwards. It surprises you how much you want him there, despite your earlier worries. But you hadn’t hated the prep earlier, hadn’t loved it either but this was something you;’d always wanted to try.

And something you’d always been way too embarrassed to ask for. Hence why it had taken you almost two and a half years to finally experiment with this with Hoseok. You trusted him though. Trusted him to take his time and most importantly, to take care of you and love you.

“If it hurts-”

“Yes, yes, if it hurts then I’ll let you know. Just...go slow, yeah?” Nodding at you, he finally moves down until he’s pressing against your asshole. There’s resistance to him as he pushes, an uncomfortable sensation that has you wincing slightly. The toys you both had didn’t quite go up to his size, so there was still a tiny bit more stretching to do, but you’d felt that you could cope with it pretty well.

Still, it’s not the most pleasant feeling and you let out a breath of air in a rush, eyes widening as you feel a burning sensation when he finally manages to start entering you. A deep groan escapes you as he keeps going, the blunt head of his cock the biggest part of him at the moment and you know that once that’s in, it should be a little better.

It’s just getting there.

Hoseok uses his free hand to rub your stomach gently, the movement something that would’ve horrified you years ago but that is reassuring now. Like you can feel comfort from the touch rather than revulsion and horror.

“Hey, hey, you okay?”

Nodding to him, you take a deep breath to try and regulate yourself. It’s more discomfort than pain right now, thankfully, but you just try to relax. You’d read plenty of sites that said relaxing would help to make it a smoother experience, and the last thing you wanted was to cause yourself unnecessary pain.

“Yeah, yeah. Just...go slow, ya know? It’s a little burning but I think you can push a bit more. Just...slow.” He acknowledges your words with a smile, moving to grasp your hand with his while he moves a little deeper. There’s an almost painful sensation that has you whimpering out loud but then the tip of him suddenly manages to make it past and an inch or so of him accidentally slips in too.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.” He blurts out, looking a little panicked as you squeeze his hand tight without even realising. Thankfully, he’s paused and you take a few deep breaths, trying to centre yourself as you let them back out slowly. After a solid minute or so, you finally feel yourself relax once more and smile at him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s good, you’re in. Just...give me another minute or so, I’ll let you know when you can move again. Slow, still slow.”

“Yeah, yeah of course. Did I hurt you?” You know he’s not going to let go of this anytime soon, so you squeeze his hand softly.

“A little, but we both knew it wasn’t going to be sunshine, right? Like you said...it’s not meant to take a dick.” He snorts at that, the movement causing him to jerk ever so slightly inside you. There's another burn but it’s more manageable now, the sensation not painful anymore and you give him another smile of encouragement.

“Okay, try a bit more.” This continues for probably ten minutes, Hoseok going as slow as humanly possible. To the point that you’re worried his erection might be becoming painful from how long he’s had it. But the two of you work together, slowly moving until you finally feel comfortable enough to start having some form of sex.

Though not the kind you normally have, you doubt you could handle him going fast right now. But there was something strangely erotic about having him somewhere that was still considered a little taboo. And you liked the feeling of him there. It wasn’t pleasurable obviously, but you were enjoying it more than you’d thought that you would.

Reaching down between you both, your fingertips found your clit with relative ease and you let out a small gasp as pleasure burst inside you. The sensation made your hips jerk upwards, causing his cock to slide out a little and your gasp turned into a moan quickly.

Wow, okay. That wasn’t expected. Brows rising, you glance down before looking at Hoseok in surprise.

“That felt good. Like...better than I expected.” Now Hoseok looks intrigued, glancing down to where his cock was buried inside your ass to your fingers which are lazily rubbing at your clit. Pursing his lips, he looks at you with an intrigued expression with more than a hint of mischief before pushing his hips forward slowly.

Inch by inch, his cock slides back into you, the lube he’d added making his movement smooth. The intense way he stares into your eyes has you inhaling sharply, his movements achingly slow but just enough to make you shudder and keen.

“Oh...oh, you like that,” Hoseok murmurs, lips quirked into a smirk as he watches you play with yourself in fascination. “Meeps...do you like getting it in the ass?”

He’s teasing you, the light tone to his voice telling you so, but you just nod your head. Closing your eyes, you keep up the same rhythm on the swollen bundle of nerves between your legs, occasionally pausing to add more of your sticky excitement to make it smoother. Hoseok is right, and it kind of surprises you.

You like getting anal. Even though you’d been the one to want to try it with him, with it being your fantasy, you hadn’t expected anything from it. Maybe just an okay experience that you’d do again occasionally with him if he wanted it, but you genuinely liked this.

The actual act itself didn’t feel as good as vaginal obviously, but there was something that was causing you to get a different kind of pleasure. Almost like the very knowledge that you were having it was making it feel so much better than you’d anticipated.

Which is why you’re beyond surprised when the build-up of pleasure seems to be slow at first but then it bubbles over quickly, a pressure you hadn’t even realised was there bursting and ricocheting through your body violently. Moaning loudly, each sound almost guttural from how intense the orgasm was.

It’s bizarrely helped by the sensation of Hoseok moving in you, his strokes still slow and steady. Even though you know logically that you’re not getting any pleasure from there, if anything there’s still that uncomfortable sensation, it almost seems to intensify the sparks inside you.

To the point that your body almost rises off the bed, back bowing violently while your thighs tighten around Hoseok’s waist and your toes curl. You can’t ever remember an orgasm this intense, which is odd as you get the best ones when you have some vaginal penetration as well. But this seems to get you going.

By the time it finally finishes, it seems to go on far longer than normal, you’re left exhausted on the bed. Limbs twitching while your chest heaves for breath, you don’t see the dumbstruck way Hoseok stares at you.

“Did you just...after...I mean...I barely did anything!” He finally exclaims, causing you to open your eyes and watch him lazily. “You really just came after like...a few minutes of me in your ass and a bit of clit action! I can be in your pussy for half an hour and nothing happens!”

You can tell he’s not angry or annoyed, instead more amazed. It makes you giggle at him, the endorphins rushing through your body after a good orgasm making you feel even more loving towards him. Reaching forwards, you tug him down until he’s almost laid on top of you, his cock shifting inside you as he moves but not slipping out.

“Oh...oh, someone’s being loving too. Damn meeps, you like getting it in the ass, huh?” Humming, you ran your fingers through his hair repeatedly and pressed kisses to his shoulder. A graze of your teeth on the soft skin there has him shivering, hips jutting forward automatically and you sigh in contentment as he moans.

“Your turn,” Whispering into his ear, you trail your nose along his cheek before kissing the strong line of his jaw. “Probably not going to enjoy this as much but I want you to feel good.”

Hoseok nods slightly, a strangled gasp leaving him when you experimentally squeeze around him. It’s not comfortable to have him thrusting when you do that so you relax again, encouraging him to start a very slow and steady rhythm. Not nearly as fast as you both would normally enjoy, but it’s as much as you can handle without it getting painful or too uncomfortable.

So you try and help in other ways, dragging your nails down his back and playing with the small hairs on the back of his neck. Tiny nibbles of his jaw before pulling him into a deep kiss, shifting slightly to make the position a little better for you.

It works, mainly because you know all the little spots that do it for Hoseok. Which is why it’s only minutes after that he’s pressing into you, his face pushed into your neck hard as he lets a loud grunt while his body quakes above you. Smiling, you kiss his shoulder and contemplate for a moment how different it feels to have him orgasming there instead of in your pussy.

You can still feel his cock jerk inside you with each spasm, ejaculating into the condom. It’s not like normal though, like the sensations are almost dulled. But it’s still hot as hell and you feel a little pride, grinning as you kiss along his jaw and murmur softly to him.

It’s probably silly, but you always feel an intense amount of pride every time Hoseok cums in you. Almost like you’re proud of the fact he found you so attractive that you could satisfy him sexually. Although he probably didn’t need that much to get going, it was still a boost to your confidence.

Finally, he shifts until he can look at you properly. There’s exhaustion written all over his face but it’s bad, instead, it’s that exhaustion from a good time. He has that lazy look in his eyes, that one he always gets after a good orgasm.

“Good?”

“Good. You?”

“Good. I mean, I don’t wanna do this every day but...I want to do it again. Did it feel different?” He snorts, letting his weight rest on you for a moment. It’s heavy and a little stifling from the heat but you relish it, wrapping your arms around him. If it was weird to be so affectionate after anal sex then so be it, he’d given you a damn good orgasm so he deserved it.

“I mean...I liked it. Felt tighter but only really at your actual ass, after that, it’s kinda weird. I prefer your pussy, for definite. But I’m down for this more, especially after how hard you came. Damn, who’d have thought my shy, awkward girlfriend would be so into that?” He pokes your side gently, causing you to smile.

“Surprising to me too. Anyway, come on, let’s go clean up. I don’t even wanna know what it looks like so...I’m gonna close my eyes and you can go get rid of the condom. Then we’ll shower, get all nice and clean.” Hoseok hums, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Okay, sounds good. Love you.” Smiling as you close your eyes, you gently poke his shoulder in response. A soft chuff of laughter lets you know he understands before he’s pulling out carefully, a wince on your face until he’s out.

“Do you need anything? Need me to go anything?”

“No, it’s okay. Just...go, start the shower. I’ll be there soon. I enjoyed it.” He acknowledges you quietly before getting up off the bed. There’s the sound of him peeling off the condom carefully before he puts it back into the foil but you don’t bother to move. Instead, you lay there for a moment with that boneless contentment that comes from a good orgasm and some good sex. It constantly amazed you that you’d come this far in yourself, feeling confident enough to open up about the fantasies you wanted to do.

Sighing happily, you can’t help but snort as you hear Hoseok yelp from the bathroom.

“Kasumi! No! My dick is not a toy, ow!”

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taendrils · 4 years

Text

industrial (m.)

― ❝there are lines you shouldn’t cross, things you shouldn’t touch and skin you shouldn’t mark when your hands are missing your gloves.❞

• genre: fluff, smut • tags: piercer!reader, client!jungkook, smitten!jungkook, mentions of needles, inappropriate things you shouldn’t do with your piercer LMAO, koko is subby AND needy AND a sweetheart, also a bit of a brat, teasing, sexual tension, praise kink, dirty talk, messy handjob, grinding, aftercare • pairing: jungkook/female reader • wordcount: 8.1k words

PIERCER AU.

It’s human nature. Not having a care in the world for picture sceneries in favour of the mundane you’ve grown to adore—fixating on a sight, a scent, a story so much that is unnatural to go a day without it. Missing a sensation to the point it buries so deep behind your chest you can’t reach through your ribs anymore to prod at it. No, no, no. You have to be indulgent. Bad human nature. You have to relieve it.

Guilt about indulgence doesn’t pack the same punch when it comes to you. It’s easy to sink when you get to relieve it every day—ripping the seal to get your hands on the metal, taking your time presenting the needles, inhaling more of the isopropyl that lingers in the air when you pop open the disinfectant. Even from down low, the vapors float in tendril motions, enter deep only to sting right after. They are consistent—they move the same when you’re close to someone and you get to inhale again before piercing.

It’s pleasant, it makes you focus. It also should say something about you—whatever it might, you don’t blame yourself too much. Rubber feels good on your hand. It’s human nature.

People like things they shouldn’t. People like things that hurt.

The act itself reaches in a place that’s personal, and so does the background. It’s perfect, and it’s silent, and yet it keeps going. There’s music you don’t mind when the place fills out too much—you get restless when there’s a heavy break between people, like it is now. You love calming them down since the act mirrors the effect on you. It has been so long you assume it would create a crack in your persona if you voiced the restlessness out, if your tone reached any frequency other than that of relaxed. The tattoo place, along with your platinum piercer on the other side would eat you dare you break your composure—Yoongi would give the process the same attention he gives to his skin in ink. His tattoos speak for him more than the metal on his tongue dares, touching up to his neck and disappearing under his sleeves, and so does the dove under his ear.

You’re less marked, so people find fascination in other parts of you. Jungkook thinks he doesn’t have to dig deep, he sees their surface as soon as he walks into the parlour. He notices how each element of the hall is in harmony with another, the designs on the walls modern enough to light up innovation, the wood they’re framed by sculpted so they pay tribute to old school. The details hit him all at once, and a beat too late he realises he would have got lost in them, delayed his appointment in favour of marvelling, weren’t it for you waiting at the reception.

You’re leaning against the wall fit between two pictures in asymmetry, watching Yoongi who sits near the said desk with a girl. The piercer gestures towards the jewelry displayed, and Jungkook can make out a few bits of their conversation before his eyes drift towards you again. Soft classics play on the speakers, supported by the tap of your fingers on your thigh. A passive action, and then another.

The bell tingling doesn’t steal your attention from the focal point, instead walking up to join the pair at the desk, but Jungkook catches the black-haired man behind the counter turning in his direction and offering a warm smile.

“This yours?” you tilt your head towards the tattooed man.

Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes off the jewelry, just makes a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat.

“What’s she getting?”

“Two flats, opals.”

“Mm. Pretty stones for pretty girls,” you acknowledge with a smile the girl mirrors. “He has a lot of opinions, but don’t listen to him. If he’s one hair away from the place you suggest, tell me after and I’ll file a complaint, ok?”

The tension in her body eases, and you don’t miss the hints of the grin Yoongi suppresses as he shakes his head. “You need to stop before all my clients leave.”

“Rich from the guy who keeps telling them he’s a master of stabbing with pointy objects,” the same guy who noticed Jungkook tuts as he fixes Yoongi with an eyebrow.

“Jimin has a point. No one else at this hour for him to scare?”

“None for him. None for you either until one hour before closing–you have three then.” He fidgets a bit before the calm smile he’s been sporting turns devious. “Well, none except for him.”

Your eyes settle on him at last, and funny fact it is, how the brain gives so many commands to the muscles faster than the hundredth part of a millisecond, yet Jungkook’s body cannot form a single reaction.

“So you’re mine then, aren’t you?” You nod in appraisal before Jungkook can even stutter, bottom lip jutting out. He’s rendered speechless at the exchange since words weigh heavier on Jungkook’s tongue, and the process takes longer to finish. With strangers he’s careful, he pauses and drags out the sound long enough to avoid mistakes, similar to what you’re doing now when you are analysing him. He’s confident enough to guess how for you they seem easier–you speak as each sound floats on water, weightless before it drifts away.

The heaviness lies buried in how you watch, the same way an audience would as a play begins, attentive and searching for meaning in the deeper crevices of him. He regains access to his breath the moment you step away, hands working behind your back and words neutering some of the acid burning his loins.

“Unless you’re here for a tattoo. None of our artists can talk to you at the moment, they’re all caught up with appointments.”

You’re the only one to come closer to him, and that triggers Jungkook’s sense of self to search for an answer. He fights with it at the tip of his tongue, and he sees the way you’re waiting, staring. He pictures you hanging onto the silence, waiting for his words to continue the thread.

“Uh, no, I–I’m here for you. For the piercing.”

And his words, supposed to be picked with care, crumble under power that’s passive, getting Jungkook tangled in their meaning.

You’re dressed casually, the clothes loose enough for the fit not to disturb you. He focuses on the smooth curve of your shoulder that has yet to be marked, the smallest trace of a collarbone hidden in the depths of your dark turtleneck. He’s gliding up without meaning to, so lost in details he doesn’t know where to look anymore.

“Alright. And you know what you want?” You don’t react until he nods and satisfaction seeps through the corners of the smile you’ve been fighting, his gaze the same level as the lifted corners that lead his gaze to your ears.

Maybe to the three hoops decorating your lobes, complemented by the little heart on the inside of your ear, or higher, where he sees the object of his desire in your right ear, a long silver bar that sits high on your ear, length pressed diagonally and ends adorned with metal spikes.

“Industrial,” he breathes out.

It’s hard to say what defines the pause taken.

“Great. Please take your time and complete the form, okay?” Your hair is pulled up, revealing more hoops stacked on top of the other ear he gets to look better at as you turn around. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

Jungkook finds said form on Jimin’s desk. Less flustered, he listens to Jimin filling in the blanks. “We have a machine for sterilising jewelry. Takes around fifteen minutes, long enough for you to read through this and ask questions.”

Now that he has nothing to dote on, despite the sight Jimin is, Jungkook feels weirdly self-conscious as he waits, the reminder that you would have started by now if he made a move when he should have a constant in his mind. He fidgets, thighs squeezing together to distract his mind before the thought spills out, “Did I keep you guys for too long?”

“The appointment’s yours.” Jimin shrugs as he passes the papers. “First time at a studio?”

Jungkook thinks in retrospect at the lobes he did by himself when he was younger and still wearing his emo bangs–half rebellion, half need to appear cooler to his peers. He nods with his lips pursed tightly enough so they contain his embarrassment.

“There are lots to come by nowadays. You shouldn’t be worried, she’s very lithe and quick. Patient too.”

His heartbeat finds its steady rhythm and doesn’t suffocate him like it did before. It calms before it takes the leap into his stomach, when Jimin, whose gestures lack the innocence his face suggests, forgets to add:

“Talks like that to cute little things.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Good, he swallows. You’re patient. He’ll keep that in mind.

A boy true to his word, a boy that keeps to his promises, Jungkook’s mind wraps up on the idea after signing the ink into the paper and as soon as he is near you.

“All done?” you ask with no hurry, and Jungkook hums as he sits on the piercing table, careful so he does not move the sheets of paper. “Good. Let me look at you?”

The coil in his stomach tightens so easily, he’s so easy to rile up and you’re not even doing anything. You’re not trying to. And that drives him a little crazy. Fantasies Jungkook has never dared to imagine with anyone he kept a professional relationship with stretch his mind open, and he’s open to them when more enter through the cracks he created.

“I need to see your ear, see if the fold’s right.”

He swallows as you come close, hands already gloved. Without missing a beat, he tilts his head to give you better access and doesn’t quite realise how long his hair got until you brush it away from his ear, fingers holding the strands in place. His lungs are still from the proximity, inhaling as much as they can take after you voice your approval. And the more he tries to detach from the situation, the more he dives headfirst into the fantasy. Jungkook feels you twist the ends and pin his hair aside.

The mind is a strange place.

“Don’t want you to get scared, alright?” you coo and this careful treading around him makes him dizzy, stirs in his loins, and the feeling presses deeper there, deeper and hotter than it should from the heat brought by Jimin’s words. “I’ll explain everything to you as we work, hmm?”

“Yeah, sure,” he speaks and is reminded this is his first attempt at conversation in a while. “I’d like that.”

It dawns upon him how to you he sounds willing, much too willing, and he blames it on eagerness. Besides willing, he’s much too aware of everything surrounding him, of every little sound in the quiet room. The tick of the clock is a nice diffused background noise as you check the form to the last detail. “Who did those then, Jungkook?”

Your prying is gentle, a puzzle piece taken from a waiting game that coaxes him out until his answer rises naturally. Of course you’d feel better if he talked. That much is obvious, and he is a fool, but that obvious matters less to him when he sees how pleased you are with your question. A look which he aspires to cause, which pulls his want deeper–a look he needs to see again.

“Uh, another studio. But I didn’t like it.” The explanation that follows comes out of his mouth at once.

“I had a friend, Namjoon,” he begins and takes note how your eyebrows raise and your gaze turns playful at his word choice. “I mean, have. He had his tongue pierced here, and I bugged him about it until he told me.”

The first truth.

“Was it recent?” you ask as you change the pair of gloves, tossing the used pair away.

“He got it done after his girlfriend, but he refused to tell me. I asked for a while.” His shame drifts away in tone with his ramble and he is bold enough to let his gaze fall down the curve of your waist.

“Namjoon, you said? Doesn’t ring a bell. Wish it did by your reaction though.” You turn back to him and his gaze snaps back up.

“Ah, he’s kinda hard to miss though.” His lips remain sealed, but the corners of his mouth rise as high as they can go. Jungkook doesn’t know how or why he’s still talking, but he can distinguish a tender amusement. “Tall, huge dimples and smiles like this.” He keeps the same smile until you acknowledge it, cheeks puffed up and lash lines surrounded by endearing creases.

You shake your head in endearment. “Stubborn, are you?”

“Texted him about it for weeks. Pestered him to tell me. Threatened to do them myself.” Half a truth. Sure, he did that too, but for the most part he whined about it, rattled him to Seokjin and sent messages with questionable emojis. Seeing his friends take the leap for an interest Jungkook spent days looking up, it flickered light back into Jungkook–a passion for something he thought he buried long ago. “I even unmuted the groupchat.”

He sees the effect of those texts in real time. All those ‘joonie hyungg 😊😊~’s were worth it because he earns a laugh from you.

“Glad you let me do my job. I will mark you now, okay?” There’s so much comfort in your conversation he almost forgets what he came here for. As the realisation comes, a sigh threatens to leave his lips. He’s not as worried about the pain as he is worried he’ll embarrass himself somehow. Jungkook is strong now, can handle pain better than the bunch of his hyungs combined, but it doesn’t make him any less self-conscious.

“You have to lie down for it.” You guide him through it, Jungkook lowering his body slowly after the lead of your palm. Maybe he did it wrong?

One dot, two dots. The time to obsess over it passes. On his left, the paper crumples under his fist and he hates the way it sounds, yet he grips the sheet like it is a lever holding him to reality.

“Everything okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, breathing out his bravery and focus. You mention something about titanium and how good it is for piercings in passing, or maybe you linger on it more. He retains nothing, just breathes in the alcohol. Your hands are delicate, and no matter how light your grip is, it seems assured.

Rubber feels good, so does your touch.

“Breathe in for me.” Eyes glossy and mind hazy, he tries his best to listen– “One, two, three, and out. You’re doing well.”

The sting is a lot more than he expected, and he feels the blood rushing to his ear, warm and muted. Everything is more. Its pain lingers, but so does the ghost of your touch, balancing the pleasure. Your voice is breathier, and it sounds closer than comfortable, so close that the warmth of your breath spreads across his skin and a tremor follows it along his spine. When his ear reddens, he hopes you assume it’s because of the piercing.

“There we go,” you whisper. “Halfway done. How’s that?”

“It’s good.” The lump in his throat doesn’t budge. If you notice how his voice trembles, you don’t mention it, and neither do you give him space to think. Your thumb and index massage circles over hard tissue, and he braces for what’s coming next. The fact that your movements do not change pushes against his wish to stay composed, and Jungkook barely suppresses the soft sighs tickling the roof of his mouth.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

Jungkook sinks into it and nods in rhythm complimentary to your touch. “Read–oh.”

The sound he lets out you take in with a sharp inhale. Despite it, your next steps are smooth, bar settling in cozy in the tight space, but there’s a pause that extends past a few heartbeats where he grows more aware, more sensitive to the tips of your fingers. He feels them tremble as they screw in the ball–feels it tingle on his skin and past his gut.

“Don’t get up so fast,” Jungkook tries to listen, but he’s also impatient. It never dawns on him how close you might be until he’s half-up, propped on his elbows and overwhelmed by the clarity of your features. He is hung on the line that defines your cupid’s bow, and how foul his cravings are. He could run his finger across it–has a feeling you wouldn’t stop him. Driven by his boldness, he’s thinking of dropping his gaze lower. When he does, his heart pummels and a surge of anxiety has his eyes dart back to yours. The effect is cathartic, bits of his rationality falling down in chains.

His mouth drops open at what he finds, the pair of pupils dark and blown out. Less professional. More like you want to cross a line.

The reaction for when you break away is much slower, and your intention misses the mark as Jungkook teeth lightly scrape his lip. “Have you thought about more places?” you blurt out.

Jungkook’s mind goes to the place you’re staring. “My mouth.”

And he swears by anything he has you leave a shard of your composure right there and cut him open with it, reach into his flesh and tug. It’s bad, he shouldn’t let you, but he is good at observing. He has the experience, sees his own behaviours as patterns he’s picked from others. He is right about this. He is sure.

Yet he never expects you to confirm it, reaching out to drag your thumb across his bottom lip, moving in circles to trace the top as well before you come down again and press.

“It’s soft. Gentle.” you breathe out. “I like it.”

It’s gentle and it’s pliant cause his mouth opens more under the weight, and you’re reaching a tint deeper, nail getting dangerously close to his tongue.

“Makes–makes a good fit.”

Rubber feels good there too. He doesn’t mind the taste either.

“But your piercing–” you stutter and his eyebrows shoot up at how you get up all of a sudden only to return with a mirror, grip tight around its rim. Less relaxed. “Here. You should see it.”

You end up passing him the mirror and he gasps at the image, at the bar that’s sitting on his ear. Even with your previous position, excitement is impossible to contain. “I love it.”

“Please tell your groupchat too,” you tease, part of the tension eased from your shoulders, obvious in the delight that surges through you at his words. He’s still peeking in the mirror, yet the reflection that steals his attention is the one of satisfaction in your smile. His satisfaction.

“I will. It’s amazing, really. I like it a lot,” he adds as if he hasn’t said enough.

“I’m glad. Can’t wait till Yoongi hears about this.” You’re busy with a Q-Tip he braces for a second too late, yet does nothing but obey when you ask him to stay still, then clean the piercing for the last time. The story continues. “He missed the angle last time. He’s gonna be so threatened.”

“Why did he miss?” Jungkook says, curiosity making him lean closer. His height was not something you cared for when he walked in, you note, but he’s hard to ignore now that he’s standing up. You give up trying to organise the items scattered on your table and wipe a hand across your forehead.

“Ah, well. He’s a bit... unorthodox, but gets the job done.”

“And what about you?”

You purse your lips as you muster the answer, unsure of the letters pouring out. “I... I like to play it safe.”

And safe you played, a bitter part of Jungkook would retort. But now that he’s opened the can, the curiosity about you reigns beyond his pettiness. His mind, an ocean on the road to regaining tranquility, has its waters disrupted when he poses questions about parts of you that interested him.

“Is it like that with the tattoos?”

“I do keep them safe.” By the speed of your reply, this is a frequent topic of conversation. Your words, however, match two puzzle pieces that share the same colour, but they don’t fit near the other. They’re jumbled together, corners forced and unnatural. His stomach burns regardless. So they’re hidden from display, bordering on personal.

Like him, you’re responding to questions reserved for people you have some sort of a relation with. The one with Jungkook is supposed to be inexistent. He’s a client, you’re a piercer, he remembers, as he fears to call you his piercer yet. Places where you might have ink pop up in his mind and replace the guidance of his conscience: neck, chest, stomach, thighs.

“Didn’t do the same for this one.” You point to the ear with the bar matching his. “Toughest to heal. Got it when I barely knew anything.”

The angle is not perfect like his, he can now see after the first glance.

“You like it a lot though.” He pouts, and it’s a statement he tests under his confusion.

“It’s one of my weaknesses. A fun memory.”

“So you didn’t do that always?”

Jungkook is a boy true to himself, but much too proud to admit things often. He has a goal, has found more means to the end he chases. Out of the possibilities, there are fairer choices, but all of those lead towards a path with chances and time he doesn’t have. Guilt eats at him about pressing, but his heart speaks over his brain.

“Didn’t do what?”

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do things in halves–does his best and sweats hard for his aspiration. Thus, he’ll find time later to appeal to his conscience. The distance between you clears the fog out of his mind, his need clear. He cannot leave it like that, not with knowing you never attempted to shut him out.

“Play it safe?”

“No. But you… you shouldn’t.” You’re frowning, deep in thought, every second spent waiting pressing layers into both his hope and uncertainty–fighting a battle that your hesitation wins over whatever desire he thought you may have.“Here’s my number. Call me if you’re experiencing any troubles during the healing process and we’ll see what we can do.”

Distracted, you pass him a card he puts in his pocket. You continue on about the cleaning process and offer him options for where to buy them from as the part of him full of hope deflates, hates the reversion to nothing, hates it more than is considered normal. Whatever this was, he doesn’t want to lose it, but he respects you, sits and accepts. “Of course. Will I have to answer as many questions?”

“Ah–no, not really. I wanted you to be comfortable. I just saw...” There’s breath caught in your throat, lodged between the cracks in your calamity and assurance. You pant to let it out. “You’ve been looking at me.”

Hope is fragile yet devious. A parasitic entity that leads and bites off however much it likes from whoever it pleases. Even as he meant to give up, its last particle was left to grow.

“Yeah?” Jungkook is scared yet bold, the step he takes placing his boot on the line you’ve never dared to cross before. His eyes are big and there’s a glint that’s pleading to be noticed. “And if I call… you’ll take care of it?” He fears your answer, he fears how rushed he is, how much it means.

“I will. We’ll look at it once you come back to downsize the bar.” You try to soothe him, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. His shirt gets pulled a tint, and what you meant to do renders forgotten. The tips of your fingers are lured towards warm skin. Weak and indulgent, they dip under the cotton.

A brief contact and the intent changes. Your touch borders everywhere–a slow drag up the nape of his neck and down his front, fingers splaying out to cover more surface.

“Anything else?” he gulps, lost in the sight of your mouth.

“Don’t touch it. Don’t sleep on it.” Your hand rests over his throat, thumb brushing up and down his pulse point. “Promise you’ll listen?”

“Yeah, I’ll listen.” The admission is quiet, not risking to tear apart at the tension. With close he is to you, the words are breathy with his whisper. “I’ll listen to you.”

The mind is a very strange place. Curls around the impossible and tortures until you do something about it. It’s human nature.

Jungkook’s voice breaks with the last bit of bravery he has.

“I’ll do how you ask.”

“Fuck, Jungkook–” You leave your sentence unfinished because you’re way too busy with your lips on his, you’re kissing him, tongue licking into his mouth before you turn aggressive. There’s no second to wait, no moment to take for breath, his senses are overwhelmed from you gripping his jaw to bring him to your level. Jungkook can’t think, he just touches, makes it clear how much he likes it, nails digging into your sides. He brings you closer, tattooed hand fitting how you like it over your waist, needy and hurting your ribs from how tight you’re pressed against him, while the other slots over the nape of your neck, big enough to cover it whole.

He clutches you as if you’re a silver lining in an open space, and there’s so much Jungkook all at once and everywhere around you. There’s electricity buzzing under your skin at the way he moans into the kiss when you bite his lip, pulling you back with him as leans against the drawer, thighs spreading for you to fit until you’re pressed flush against him. Your skin is so hot and you’re so drunk on need you’d peel the layers off and fit yourself into a piece of him, feel his moan reverberate through your being. You would, and you do.

When you break away, you don’t care, that’s what Jungkook registers. You’re nosing his neck, lips closing around a sweet spot under his ear. He winces from the sting, though it is short-lived. Another wave of arousal hits you exhale over the raw skin like the breath has been fucked out of you. He’s so sensitive there, and you don’t care to be gentle, don’t care to soothe the ache—you’re taking for yourself. It’s you being selfish.

His head spins so hard around the idea he has to hold onto you to stay on his feet.

Jungkook wants that, wants you to take. To ask. It thrills him how dangerous that notion is, what he would do.

There’s a soft sound you make right after you bite, a sigh that drips into his blood and travels straight to his dick. Faint cries of his name echo in an empty head, shake him to a blurry reality, paired with kisses under his jaw, on the mole that’s so close to his lip. “Jungkook, we can’t.”

With his inner voice gone, his head is empty and a beat too late he registers you’re speaking to him. He nods into your hair, chest rising and falling shallowly, again and again until he’s able to speak. He swears. Swears he understands but no part of him can do so, if you tell him to stop and yet coax him into giving in.

His neck is wet with traces of your lip balm. “Okay, okay, just—give me a second,”

“No, no—” Frantic, you cup his cheek and without thinking he leans into it, expression softening. Your thumb rubs circles onto the bone, caress it until you pry his eyes open, until he can look at you. “Not here.”

Before he can act, you lace his fingers with yours and lead him towards your bathroom, pull hard on the handle, and in your rush, you use the same force to press him into the door as it closes. Jungkook whines, shameless, hips bucking into you. In his high pitch you can capture the exact moment his last thread of sanity bids its goodbye, leaving him with putrid needs that shudder out of him like they do whenever he is close.

“God, look at you,” you whisper in wonder, latching to his mouth.

Cold runs up his arm and to his sides when you pin his wrist away, knuckles brushing against the tiles. The room’s dense, its width a fraction of the main hall. Its monochrome walls are closing in on the both of you, two specks of colour squeezed together in the tight space.

All at once, he’s hit with how good you smell, tinges of his cologne having rubbed off on you. A different aroma, one that’s sweet and masculine, pierces his senses with the same strength of an alcohol, but instead of focusing, it makes him hazy—hazy and restless. Even in his current state, he can more or less see the same effect on you.

Jungkook looks at you through strands of hair and dropped eyelids, head thrown against the door. “You like it?”

You grin, fingers hooking in the belt loops on his sides and use them to move his hips so his cock drags right into the space between your thighs. “Should I show you or let you guess?”

His hips work with more vigour, coil in his belly pulled too tight while you take your time reciprocating. The softest friction you give back is enough to have him gasping, dick hardening against you.

“You’re the one who seems to like this quite a lot,” You reach under his shirt to stress your point, molding your palms in the deep lines that define his abdomen. They explore, trailing higher until they brush against a nipple, the image of how a bar would fit there a dangerous addition in your head.

“Yeah,” He bites his lip, no point in not being honest now that you have him like this. “I do.”

Once you hear him, you grow more determined, hand closing high around his side and on his ribs. Next thing he knows you're back to his nipple, rolling your thumb over it, the stimulation too much too soon. Jungkook seeks to take your focus from it, but you don't relent.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he pouts before biting back a moan, “I wouldn't want to keep you.”

The moment you hear him, you laugh, fond and delirious—and press harder when you touch. “Yes, Jungkook, I do.”

If he had any walls left, he's sure you would have them crumble when you ask with your other hand hovering on the elastic of his boxers, “Do you?”

He nods, speaks from under his breath, “You have no idea.”

Mischief and anticipation dance in your irises, and when you smile, you do it with full teeth, every bit the bad wolf who's waiting to eat him up. You've chosen to prolong the said wait because instead of gripping, your finger branches out to trace the underside of his dick.

“You can’t do that to me,” he whines, soft voice murmuring pleas.

Jungkook’s torso, yet to be marked, is a pleasant path, one you’d cross again and again, warm and smooth and addicting—it takes most of your willpower to stop, staring him right in the eye with an eyebrow raised. “Can’t do what?”

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Meek and sincere, he lifts your chin and you freeze with your chest pressed against his. “Not if you want to tease.”

It’s a silent beg, because even if he missed being teased, he needs you. He’s so wound up he doesn’t think he can stand it, but he's still proud. Somewhat.

Your expression remains unreadable, but your actions speak loudest when you touch him skin on skin, hand sneaking under his boxers, and—oh.

He restrained himself the best he could when he had close to nothing, but now, with his head fallen back, he moans for you like he’s singing. The more you tighten your grip, the more his octave jumps over the classics you’d been so fond of.

“Careful, baby,” you tut as you spread the precum over his tip and use your body weight to still his shaking thighs. “You could hurt yourself.”

“S-sorry, ah—” he stutters, hand caught between the both of you, squeezing yours over the cotton of his sweatpants. “Feels good.”

He's not used to it, being the centre of attention, people putting lights too bright on him. Can't decide if he likes it or not, though it has him weak. His mind is on you, your time, your pleasure. On how he craves for you to feel him, needs you to feel good. On how he is going to make use of the semblance of control he hasn't given up yet to show you what you're doing to him.

So he does. He walks you back until your hips knock against the sink, pins you the side that is closest to him. Eagerness overcomes him at the impact, pulling at the hem of your shirt, and you cater to his wishes, letting him remove your top. With the layer peeled off, the scene is rougher and more intimate, secrets shared by the two of you tangled in this background, he sees them, lets them drive him crazy.

“How about this?”

It's such a delicate thing, how your bare shoulder connects with its reflection in the mirror. His gaze explores your body, landing on the upper parts covered in ink. Beginning at your sternum, a young lotus connects to a larger piece spread on the top of your torso, adorned with leaves and petals that bloom from its center. The thread between the flower and the full piece is so thin, his tongue would cover it whole.

It's the swell of your breasts that has him distracted and split between choices. But there’s something so primal about the object of his desire in front of him, and his made-up mind can't wait for encouragement, cupping them in wonder under your bra. Your gasp when he brushes against a nipple is so delicious he's the one who can't help himself, dipping his head to get a taste. He sucks like he's expecting praise, grinds more into you and he can't decide if the action is for you or himself.

“Jungkook, ah—” you groan, and the reaction stirs him up further. That mind of his which has been empty is quick to fill out with more than he can handle.

He'd drop down to his knees and crawl as long as you moaned and waited for him like that. He'd kiss and lick up the thigh that's pushing against his dick, hold it as he spread you open with his tongue. By nature, he's a pleaser, and thoughts like these are natural—as natural as those that keep coming, those about himself. They retell how easy it was for him to lose himself, far to the point of no return. A sweetheart in the face of sin.

It's almost laughable how gone he is and what it might say about him, about how down below he really belongs. Well, it's comfortable. He likes it down there.

Lower places are for those who lose, and Jungkook wouldn't mind losing to you, as long as he has a place down and a fighting chance.

He drops to his knees slowly, tongue dragging through the middle of your tattoo and down, kissing his way to the button of your jeans. In a snap, he pops them open, considers letting go, all doe eyes and messy waves that cover folded cartilage and stop right before a lobe marked by matching silver hoops, and now an industrial. Without thought, he catches the flimsy zipper in his mouth then drags it down where he said he belonged, holding onto the metal until the end. His arms flex under your thighs, gripping you tighter as he drops the zipper but not the eye contact. He has to be sure your eyes are on him when that playful glint takes over and his tongue flattens against the front of your jeans.

He's not bad for wanting it, is he?

Your fingers in his hair yank his head back, and oh, this one's different from the sting before—it spreads tingles across his scalp. “But I liked you this way…” He sulks, soft hair putty in your hand.

And he did, still does. Thighs on either side of his head, your face, breathless and grinning above, there's nothing wrong with this angle. “And here I was trying to take it slow.”

On his knees for you, it seems that now he finds the time to be a brat. “Your hands down my pants is slow now?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Lots of things you want to do, hm?”

Equal parts eager and shy, Jungkook nods, moving to lean on your thigh. You're fast to react, hand in his hair coming in between to protect his piercing. He nods with his head in your palm, noses along the inseam of your jeans.

“You just need to...let me.” His hand slithers under the soft flesh and splay on your ass to make his point. For the final dot, he feels for your back pockets, uses them as support to drag down the material until he can see your underwear.

“What about what I want?” you scoff when he's midway through pulling your pants down. “Aren't you being a little selfish?”

He's taken aback by your pout, your always-tender touch. “Uh—”

“You didn't sit to think about it, did you baby?” Wide eyes look up at you, a pang of strange guilt overcoming him. “Whether I want you like this?”

Jungkook wonders about the game you're playing. “I'm sorry—”

Habits force him to be polite, guide you to be patient.

“Poor little heart.” You caress his jaw, his mouth, and this time, his lips close around your finger. “Get up.”

He obeys but not without a fight inside him. Body to body, you soothe the frown off his face with kisses up his neck, paying attention to the noises he makes when you tug at his hair again.

“You looked so good before. Right here,” you whisper when he drops into the touch.

Praise relaxes him, opens up his every pore, pours heat straight to his gut. He knows. Yet part of him has yet to get over how you denied him, occurrence too rare for him to get used to it.

“It's less fun like that.” Jungkook's aware of how he sounds: like a little brat, petulant. As good as he is, it thrills him when he gets to act this way.

“Is it? Baby got a taste and now he can't get enough?” You're mocking but gentle, how he likes to be teased.

He did miss it: missed being teased, missed tearing up a bit.

“I didn't even have to ask to bring you to your knees.” You grip his hair tighter and he moves to the direction your reins are pulling. Ah, missed having his senses tortured. “So willing. So easy.”

“Yes—” he babbles, doesn't care for much when you handle him like that. Neither can he speak much, yet he is aware of everything, is sensitive to everything—shivers as your heel nudges his calf.

“I think it's more fun when you work for it, don't you agree,” You motion at his pants, and he scrambles to drop them to his knees for you stroke his cock, “there's thrill in the chase.”

How true that is. Jungkook aches for a chance to show to you how he is when there's chase involved.

“For you,” he says, tone flat and tired.

“Then it's not the case?”

He shakes his head, now bordering on a dangerous edge. Competition never hurt him. Neither did playing it safe, but he doesn't care to play it safe now that it's about you.

“For you, all for you—” he grabs your wrists and brings them down until you cup him with both hands, rocks his hips into the loose space. “Please let me do something.”

Or make me, is the sentence he leaves buried. More important for him is to hang tight onto your permission, yet hatred over not feeling needed threatens to swallow down his arousal and purge back anger. It's a twisted game he often plays, how long he can deny himself, how much he can hold before he snaps.

He's been close to snapping from the beginning, so out of his mind, he'd do anything you asked. Why weren't you asking? Jungkook would love for you to tell him how to make you a mess, say the word and he would be on his feet, down on his knees. He’s aware it paints a pretty picture when he does it.

Taking pity on him, you bring his hands down to your underwear and remove it together. It flies right past his ego—the immediate reaction is to reach for his own, but you stop him by shaking your head.

You peek down, shudder when you see how hard he is. “Leave them on. It's not safe.”

“Like this then?” Jungkook holds you spread for him as he drags his clothed cock over your clit. He's moving so slow he's shaking. There's so much desire which had to be buried down for him to keep to his word, to respect the promise that he'd listen. “Good?”

“Mm, good.” His chest swells with pride, and he gasps when he feels how wet you are, staining the material. Tentatively, he slides a finger in, then another, scissoring them inside. He goes deeper until he's sure they're coated, gathers the strings of arousal and brings them back to your clit. “That's it—”

The pressure is built with his thumb over your clit, careful and decisive the more you pick the volume. He'd muffle those noises with his mouth or make them louder with his tongue, yet he doesn't have the courage, thus he settles for your neck. It's a welcome distraction, a purpose that's holding him to earth when you're rocking back against him, the sight of you so desperate doing things to him.

“Fuck, you're leaving marks,” you whisper to yourself. It sounds holier, more like a revelation you have bare for him, with your hair messy and neck bit.

“I just. Need something to do, with—with my mouth.” He hurts through the seconds he takes to explain. Exists through his need. “Don't like it empty.”

A call of his name breaks the hold he had.

“If you want to be rough, you can.”

“What?” His head shoots up, confusion written across unfocused eyes. “W-Why?”

“I see you.” You swipe at hair matted over his forehead, mold your print in the drops of sweat laid over the veins in his neck. “And I want you to have it.”

Best case, Jungkook would need a few moments to process this, but you don't give him the pleasure. Every word is a shot fired on his self-control.

“I need you to feel good.” your voice is saccharine, its echo dripping in pleas through his bones. “That's what will make it better.”

“But then...” You're wrapping your thighs around his waist, letting him in. He has no idea what he's protesting.

That urge to suppress, that need, their noise is not yet muted—he hates how he's not done enough. Almost feels useless. But you need him for something else. Proof to his statement is the conviction attached to your request.

“You said you'll listen.” Although you don't mention his behaviour until now, implications hang heavy. “Why aren't you doing that when I tell you to do as you please?”

He's still lost, but now a new desire creeps up, whispering to him how nice it would be to obey. To stomp on his previous effort.

Too many sounds ring in his head, like radio static that shuts off when you press your forehead against his. “Be good, baby. Let go on me.”

Nice and sweet.

Jungkook listens and unravels before you. With rough drags of his cock against your pussy, you can't differentiate whether the mess on his boxers comes from you or him. He's messy yet mindful, angling up his thrusts, making the hit land right onto your clit, deep like he wants to fuck into you.

“Yes, yes—ngh—” This time it comes from him, but you're not far, with how you dig your nails into his muscles. Memories he'll feel for days, along with the strain it takes to keep the both of you upright. He speeds up as soon as you urge him to go faster, a toy on arches, flared up because of your request. Drifting away with the sensation, he almost loses footing when you whisper you're close.

Instead of hazy, the words are electric—he's more awake than he's ever been. Puts in so much work his bones rattle and lids screw shut when you cum, sounds so pretty and long they stretch out to rip his orgasm out of him.

Solemnly, his world quiets.

“You good, baby?” Serene, you massage the nape of his neck and let him cling to you until he can breathe again, “Gave me plenty to clean.”

Jungkook stares at the mess between your bodies before he's puffing out a laugh, “I could be better.”

You sit with him until he parts from you, then put your clothes back on. “Wait here, there's stuff in the cabinet that can help.”

“Hey...” you turn to him in question and he kisses you again. “Thank you.”

You return with the necessary supplies, handing him some wipes as you bend down to disinfect the sink. “It's not much, but it's not like I expected guys throwing themselves at me in my own shop.”

“I did not!” he puffs as he cleans himself up, winces from the sensitivity. “You just... well. Did that!”

“My job?” His eyes are wide and accusing, full of indignation. When you look back, he stares back as if challenged, ready to debate you. “I won't repeat the offense.”

Jungkook steps in front of you, confident and looming. “I'm not leaving until you admit.”

“I'll admit.” You nod, face brightening up as you tease him. “I was too good at my job and made you starstruck.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I'll be here all day.”

“There's security.”

“I'm strong.” His arms wrap around your waist for emphasis. You relax in his hold.

“I saw, big boy.” He's about to say something else but you're quick to cup his face and steal the words off his lips, tap at his pocket. “Hold onto this, okay? And call me if there's any trouble.”

Minutes after exiting, he has the gall to unmute his phone and sees the notifications pop; the top being a text from Namjoon in the groupchat sent over 20 minutes ago.

that guy [4:16 p.m]: jsyk i respect your opinion but i'm putting this shit on mute if you mention anything about the PC version being better again

joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Jungkook? joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Well? How did it go?

Jungkook chuckles to himself, sitting on a nearby bench, mindful to the saline solution he bought from the front desk that’s now in his lap. Further contemplates the message as his fingers brush over the bobby pin still in his hair as a distraction from the piercing.

There is a bunch of nonsense that follows in the chat from Taehyung and Hoseok, but that's always easy to ignore–he blames it on the force of habit. The parlour's sign is a clear view diagonal from his position, background he sees fit for him at the moment. Jungkook angles his body so he's facing the opposite direction and snaps a picture of his reddened ear, careless to the rosy marks blooming right under. Your contact details are secure in his pocket, printed over the card you gave him, and despite how light they are, they bear the force to keep him grounded.

Tapping the screen to quote Namjoon's reply, Jungkook keeps to his fashion: he's not the one for many words when it isn't needed.

He breaks into giggles. Thumbs up and peace sign emojis suffice.

a/n: namjoon getting his tongue pierced is actually a reference to emma @.personawife’s fic piercings and piercer!yoongi is available over at @.yuengi in bad boys bring it to you which you should totally check out if u want more pierceverse! major thanks to lo for listening to me ramble about this cutie and helping me with the last bits of his character! • remember don’t get pierced with a gun OR a hoop and if you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment i’m starving and koko is not showing sleeve

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Sunrise (Dean/Cas coda to 15x19 “Inherit the Earth”, 1.7k)

(ao3 link)

Dean and Sam were free. Finally, unequivocally, free.

But this wasn't the happy ending Dean had expected. Maybe in the past, having Sam in the passenger seat tearing across an open stretch of highway as the sunsets, it'd be what he wanted. But that was years ago. He's not that man anymore. Dean's tired of sunsets, of saying goodbye. He yearns for a different ending. One that's less of an ending, and more of a beginning. A sunrise instead of a sunset.

Sam has his. Dean lost his. Despite this setback, he won't stop. He'll live in memory of his sunrise.

Except, what can he do when he feels those rays on his face again?

Early morning sunlight streams through half-closed motel window blinds, striking Dean directly on his face. Stir him from unconsciousness, shuffling Dean out of his dreams. Warm blue and familiar stubble replaced with an ugly, orange patterned wallpaper that makes his stomach unhappily flip. Groaning, he turns. Hopes he can reclaim his quickly fading fantasy. It escapes his grasp, Dean left in the loneliness of reality.

Truly. He checks Sam’s bed, finding it unoccupied. “Figures…”

They crossed paths with Eileen coincidentally. Not like Sam’s pointed questions and giant thumbs hid his intentions. Even his terrible acting (“Eileen? What are the odds of you being here?”) couldn’t throw him off. Dean played along, however, letting them think he was in the dark. Knew exactly why his brother and his brother’s girlfriend hadn’t told Dean about this. Salt only hurts a wound that’s fresh and open. While badly healed, Dean’s grown numb to that missing chunk of his heart. More pained that his sadness made his loved ones go behind his back, act in guilt.

Sam and Eileen don’t deserve shadows because of his pain.

Which is why he’s happy for them. Left the bar so they can chat without his presence. Catch up, let Sam tell her about those kitschy tourist traps they’ve been hopping between since Chuck’s defeat. Show pictures of Dean in an upside-down house, Sam’s head peeking out from corn fields. Hold hands. Sit on the same side of the booth. Kiss, without worrying if Dean is steadily killing his liver at the bar because of them.

Drinking lost its flavor anyhow.

Free from Chuck’s influences, Dean decided he might cut a few more strings. Namely beer. He’ll enjoy a bottle every now and then but, reflecting on it, booze never offered comfort he really needed. Only aggravated a different sort of hurt, distracting him for a while. He abandoned those distractions. Instead of asking their bartender from last night, with his tanned skin and wavy, blond hair, for whiskey, neat, until he dropped, Dean stood from their table and paid his tab. Carried his longing out the exit, drove with it, laid down in his bed and held it close. Hugged it, imagining his arms. Praise whispered in his ear, about choosing a different way. A better way. A healthier way.

Cas would be proud of him. Prouder than he already is. And Dean… felt the same.

Rising, Dean stretches. Winces as a new disc pops and cracks in his back, “Motels ain’t what they used to be…” He throws his legs over the side, scrunching his toes in the shag carpet. Smiling, “But at least some things’ll never change…”

It’s going to be a slow morning. Dean doubts Sam will swing by before noon, meaning he has hours to kill. First, he leisurely showers. Scrubs at his scalp with gentle scratches, humming Zeppelin under his breath. Keening ‘A Whole Lotta Love’s chorus, coming into his hand. Lets that melody fade while water makes his come sluice off his hand, into the drain. He switches tracks, dries himself while softly singing ‘Going to California’. Thinks about their next destination. All those beaches he and Sam plan on visiting. Finally making good on their promise.

Not how he always envisioned it, but…

Dean drapes the towel around his neck, staring at his reflection. Marks new wrinkles he hadn’t noticed, gray hairs where dirty blond were. Sees how small his eyebags shrank.

Sleeping was surprisingly easy. Some days Dean wished it weren’t. Others, it’s his only chance at being with him again.

“Nope,” he says, leaving the bathroom. Jumping out from the mirror. “Not going there… not this early…”

He bides his time dressing, debating where he should get breakfast. Wonders if a diner they passed entering town might serve pie as he hops into his jeans. Waffles between a t-shirt or purple-and-blue plaid while rubbing deodorant on. Then, tugging his tee’s thin fabric over his head, he decides he isn’t that hungry. Can eat later, Sam driving so he can attack snacks he squirrelled away when they last stopped for gas.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam?” Dean asks, glancing at the door. No one answers. “Sam is that you? You forget your keys or…” He checks his phone. Nothing.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam, if that’s you – this isn’t funny.” He grabs for his socks, sitting on the end of his bed. “Pulling a poor joke on your brother, leaving your girlfriend alone in bed… shame on you.”

Knock Knock Knock

Dean squeezes his socks, glaring at the door. His irritation fades, weirdly, the longer he stares. Replaced with a different feeling, comforting. Without needing to, Dean guesses it’s not Sam on that other side. Tossing his socks, Dean stands and slowly inches forward. Drawn by gravity, a name perched atop his tongue. Waiting there, scared of being spoken. Of being wrong. He doesn’t feel wrong.

Is this still a dream, he asks himself. Did I actually wake up? Dean waits, hovering near the doorknob. Remembers rushing last time, what waited there then. What he almost threw himself onto. Cycles through who might be waiting now. Something worse, a more terrifying monster. Or maybe mundane, like the motel manager. He’ll never know if he drags it out. Whether that’s motivation or warning, Dean can’t decide. What he does choose is flinging open that door and facing whoever was there.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas -?” Dean gasps, knees buckling. Laughing, he leans his weight on the door. Grins wide enough his cheeks must splinter, twin tracks of tears already spilled over. “Cas, is that…” He coughs, wiping at his mouth. “Is that really you?”

Like nothing happened, Cas crosses the threshold. Dressed spectacularly… normal. Trench coat, suit jacket, and white button-down paired with his crooked blue tie. Dean’s hand drifts close but can’t touch. Not yet. “It is me,” he tells Dean, “you… probably have a lot of questions. About why I’m here, and – and what was said when the Empty…”

Of course, there are questions. None were as important as Dean snatching Cas’s tie, dragging him into a heated embrace. “Later,” he promises, closing the door. Guiding Cas onto his bed. Falling, his angel’s body collapsing atop his. Weight proving further and further how real this is.

He’s back!

“I can’t believe…” Dean kisses along Cas’s neck, threading his fingers through hairs resting at his angel’s nape. Feeds a fire burning across his body, flames roaring with a desire for more. “Can’t believe I could be this lucky…”

Cas chuckles, “Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Never to us.” Pausing, Dean tears his eyes from the dip of Cas’s collarbone and to his face. “I searched, Cas. I did. Back when it was me, and Sam, and Jack, I did everything I could but I… there wasn’t any lore. Nothing about contacting the Empty, breaking through I – how?”

Shifting, Cas rolls off Dean and onto his side. No sooner than it started, those flames eating at Dean’s insides tempered. Became a more manageable heat, containable. Dean tucked himself against Cas’s chest, hearing his heartbeat. Awed from that simple rhythm it gives. Lulls Dean with a gentle song. “Jack,” Cas explains. Rubs Dean’s shoulder, along where his handprint was. Teased the edges of his tee, part of his memorial tattoo revealed. Cas traces his palm outline. “In fixing Chuck’s mistakes, he… he mounted a rescue mission from Heaven.”

“For you?”

“For everyone.” Cas kisses Dean’s crown, continuing his story. Whispers it into his head. “All the angels. Jack rescued us all.”

“Everyone?” Dean asks, “Meaning… Michael? Gabriel?”

“Uriel, Balthazar, Anna, Hannah, Metatron – even Lucifer.”

“What the hell?”

“He was fixing what Chuck wasted. Saved Heaven,” he says, “Gave everyone a second chance, to do right by humanity. Be its guardians like we were supposed to be. And…” Cas lays his hand where it belongs, Dean shivering from contact. Wraps his arms tighter around his angel’s waist. “Jack offered me all my powers back, and then some. Said I could be his archangel… second-in-command, in all of Heaven.”

Dean lifts his head, frowning. Studies Cas with a suspicious wrinkle creasing his brow. He deflates somewhat, disappointment rocking into him like heavy waves. Routine. Expected, since Cas was exactly where he wanted. But then, isn’t that answer enough? Dean asks regardless. “Did you take it?”

“I thanked him for the offer,” Cas says, “however my place was elsewhere, here on Earth… with you.” His hand moves, cupping Dean’s cheek. Thumb brushes his lip. “And when our time comes, I’ll rejoin Heaven at your side.”

Cas’s heartbeat makes sense, now. It never did that before.

“We’ve got a long time before we croak, Cas,” Dean jokes, crawling higher up his bed. Enough that he can press their foreheads together. “You think you can handle it?”

“I waited millennia to meet you, and then years just so I can hold you like this.” Cas closes the distance, capturing Dean’s lips. “I’m hoping our future is excruciatingly slow.”

“Our future…” He relaxes, allowing a few more kisses before he starts again. “Y’know, I… I thought I’d never get to say that. Figured, after Jack took the reigns from Chuck, this was all we’d get and – and having everyone back was nice. But you weren’t there, and I hurt. When you died, I wanted to sit there and let myself waste away and join you. Except if I did, you’d be so angry and – that’s what’s been keeping me going. You loved me so much – and were pained whenever I was… I couldn’t do that to myself. Punishing myself wouldn’t be fair. So I thought about my future, how I can live it for those I loved. Be there… the person I’ve become, and not who I used to be. But now…”

“Now you can be a little selfish,” Cas says. “We can be selfish.” He tickles Dean’s chin, hands roving across his body. “What should we do, for the first day of the rest of our lives?”

Dean doesn’t dawdle. “I want to lay here,” he says, “Lay here the whole day, in your arms, telling you how much I love you.”

“…I don’t see any problems with that.”

Neither did Dean, which is why he suggested it. They fix themselves, first. Cas sheds most of his outer layers, leaving himself only in his boxers. Dean hurls his jeans off fast, jumping under the covers. Giddy as Cas joins him, both men facing each other. Hands joined above their sheets, Cas’s palm fitting perfectly.

“Well?” Cas arches his brow, “How much do you love me?”

Dean kisses him, ruining it by smiling too hard. “I love you too much, and not enough.”

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #15x19 #15x19 inherit the earth #15x19 coda #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic

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amcrvnthxne · 3 years

Photo

( cindy kimberly. 25. cis woman. she/her. ) the story of DISNEY FAIRIES now lives in the soul of VIDIA BATARI, aged TWENTY-FIVE years. they’re a NEWCOMER, having been in woodvale for TWO YEARS in the WEST as a SINGER / STREET RACER. and yeah, they definitely have the vibes of VIDIA with the powers of AIR MANIPULATION, don’t you think? ( eva, 25+, she/her, cst. ) @folkloremsintro

ABOUT

tw: fire, death

rather expectantly, her parents were never quite the stable, healthy folks you’d see in a well-to-do household, their many travels leading to vegas when vidia was around seven years. it would be the last place they settled as a family, their lives already on the fringes by then. Her mother was a housewife, dedicating her life to her husband and daughter’s happiness and never her own. It always struck vidia as a terrible way to exist, a form of entrapment she never cared for. her father, a militant pilot who praised diligence and traditionalism over all else, as his father before him, would see his ideals crumble after years abroad. somehow, he’d become a lesser man, a lesser person than he once was and he’d grown angry, in time. at himself for his weakness, at others for not seeing his fading greatness — at his inability to just be as he once was, with his mind unraveling, decaying at the seams. a pathetic drunk, an abusive husband to a wife that’d given up everything. barely much of a father. that was his legacy. he would die in a fire of his own design, a bittersweet image that still haunts vidia to this day.

following this, vidia and her mother fell into something of a spiral, with her mother seeking comfort in equally terrible men and vidia herself seeking acceptance and a home in other forms — be it in friends up to no good, the streets, or eventually some semblance of a music career. it was racing, specifically, that would result in her string of lockups on account of the associated crime that came along with her newer passion. and it was her status as a fugitive of the law after taking the fall for someone else, an ex in fact, that eventually led vidia to slip into the scenic town of woodvale, having mistakenly believed it was her ticket to temporary salvation while evading the worst of the punishment. her being stuck now seems like far worse a sentence than anything she could rightly conceive.

ABILITY

aerokinesis — she can shape and manipulate air, however, the stronger the current, the more energy and stamina it requires. the speed and pressure of this air is also affected by her physical state and she cannot create air from nothing, only manipulate what surrounds her. fire and electricity may hinder this skill further, and as her hands are the driving force behind this talent, she is useless when they are bound.

HEADCANONS

before realizing there was no way out, vidia invited her mother to join her in woodvale in an effort to ensure the woman’s safety and keep an eye on her. as before, vidia serves as her ungrateful mother’s meal ticket these days, securing funds for her whenever possible and still caring for her to some extent despite the woman being holed up with some filth of a man near the west side of town. vidia also visits when she can, though her mother doesn’t appear to mind one way or the other lately, blaming the girl for her predicament

on the chance she doesn’t have a race or performance for the evening, she'll typically make use of her time nursing a drink at the bar unless she happens upon some quick scheme or side job for cash, which her natural greed would prevent her from refusing most often. she is also ridiculously poor most of the time, on account of her pouring her funds into her vehicles or her mother rather than the usual living expenses, so refusing is typically a one-way ticket to starvation

gambling, while her usual choice in crime, is one she’s actually fairly terrible at if it doesn’t involve a vehicle of some sort. a lot of her connections in general are related to criminals and various criminal actions committed

vidia holds something of a biker grunge sense of style — ripped skinny jeans and plenty of fishnet, barely-there dresses, exposing vintage tanks and tees. she owns far too much leather and lace and enough plaid to make a statement, often accompanied by vintage ring sets and dangling necklaces. she believes in immodesty and surely it’s apparent

vidia is something of an insomniac. and given her tendencies to wander about at night rather than sleep, keeping to goodness knows what, her internal clock is terribly off balance. a good portion of the time, she’s late to most things during the day due to her eternal struggle to actually get out of bed when necessary

plums are her absolute favorite food and they might be the only edible thing she keeps in her kitchen regularly enough, when she can afford it

she has an arrow tattoo positioned near her right wrist, extending a partial length of her forearm. a set of angel wings in 'tramp stamp' form also decorate her skin. she also has far too many piercings. ears, naval, tongue — you name it, she's likely spiked a hole through it at some point

her usual vehicle is a hennessey venom gt, rated one of the fastest cars in the world. sporting a brilliant shade of imperial purple, it’s an easy mark to make in the streets. as an alternative, as it’s a little less conspicuous, she’ll ride through town on a kawasaki ninja zx-14r. also in a custom, darker byzantium hue, its right side is decked out in stardust

WANTED

bring me your criminals, your petty thieves, your outcasts

other disney fae naturally, maybe even the dragon from her stories

those who would use her mother against her or just use her past against her in general

fellow musicians or the band she might regularly perform with

bar buddies, party friends, drug dealers, fellow terrible influences

former flings, exes, even weirdly undefined romances still in play if you will

open to whatever you’d like, honestly

#folklorems.intro

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stargazing-enby · 5 years

Note

is it crazy to ask for a lil fic of some sort for the soulmate 'saviour' thing?

Not at all! Also, I think it’s funny how I recently said I probably wouldn’t answer any prompts anytime soon, but as soon as you sent this ask I was frantically typing this story on my phone, LOL. Hope you enjoy!

Based on this textpost

Drarry | 2.3k | Teen and up | Soulmate AU, Nicknames, Drunken Confessions, Sectumsempra Scars, Cuddles, Happy Ending | Read on AO3

The Dursleys never acknowledged it; never explained. It was just one more tally on a list of things that made him weird. That made him wrong.

Harry liked to stare down at it while he showered and imagine a thousand different reasons the word Saviour was tattooed on his chest, the ink a deep black that faded into gold around the sharp edges of the letters. He imagined himself flying like Superman did in the comics they kept on the highest shelf of the school library—imagined himself stopping comets from crashing against the planet with his bare hands, saving babies from raging fires.

In his daydreams, it never mattered if he got hurt. It only mattered that no one else did.

And then one night Hagrid stomped—quite literally—into his life, and he explained. He explained about Voldemort, about the magical world, about his parents. About the lightning bolt scar.

About the tattoo.

“It’s a soulmark,” he said. “Every witch and wizard has one. It’s meant to symbolise the nickname that your soulmate will give you when you’re together.”

“Do you have a soulmark?” Harry asked him, awed.

Hagrid laughed bitterly. “Nah. My only true loves are magical creatures anyway.” He leaned forward, as though to tell Harry a secret. “You have to be cautious who you share your soulmark with,” he said. “Could be dangerous if too many people knew. Especially with you being Harry Potter. There are… speculations, you see.”

“Oh.” Harry frowned. “What do people think it says?”

“Eh, the usual, you know. Love, honey… many people claim to know that it says whatever their daughter’s favourite word is. Very creepy, if you ask me.”

Harry nodded. “And what do you think it says?”

“Me?” Hagrid seemed uncomfortable by the question. “Well… Dumbledore wouldn’t tell me when we dropped you off at your Aunt’s, so I’ve been trying not to think about it, you know.”

“I don’t mind telling you,” Harry said.

“Really?” Hagrid’s face lit up. “Y-you don’t have to, but—”

Harry snickered, and told him.

He didn’t understand why Hagrid had to wipe away a few tears.

(more under the cut)

***

The first time he was called saviour was in his second year. Ginny, waking up beside him in the Hospital Wing and surrounded by her family, had murmured it without realising.

From the other side of her bed, Ron had given Harry an indecipherable look.

Ron’s tattoo was the word Idiot, neatly written on his ankle. Harry also knew Neville’s hip said Schnuckums, and he’d caught the word Flitterby inscribed in Ginny’s wrist when he’d rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets.

He didn’t think he would ever say such a word. Still, assuming he was Ginny’s soulmate was the obvious conclusion for any twelve-year-old, and Harry spent the next two years convincing himself he and Ginny were meant for each other.

And then Fleur Delacour called him a saviour when he emerged from the lake with her sister.

To be fair, Ron had been called an idiot by quite a number of people by then, including McGonagall, Hooch, all of his siblings and half their Gryffindor classmates, so Harry rationally knew that anyone could call another person by their soulmark nickname and not be their soulmate.

And yet, he spent a whole month sending increasingly confused letters to Sirius before he came to the conclusion that he liked playing Quidditch with Ginny more than he liked holding her hand.

***

Ron returned to the forest. Hermione, deep bags under her eyes, tears threatening to come out, called him an idiot, and then stormed over to where he was awkwardly standing, launched into his arms, and kissed him.

She’d never told them about her soulmark, but that night Harry learnt the word Love was neatly tattooed on her ankle.

On the same place as Ron’s, then.

***

Harry tore out the page of the Daily Prophet. Then he tore it into small, small pieces until his picture was no longer moving, until the headline—Saviour returns to Hogwarts—turned into a soup of letters in his hands.

As he threw the bits into the flames, he thought about his parents. He wondered, for what seemed like the thousandth time since he’d first stepped into the Gryffindor common room, if this had been the first place his mum had called his dad a Toerag. If this had been the place where he’d called her his Princess.

He’d never had the chance to ask Sirius about it. The only time they had talked about soulmates, Sirius had told him no matter how many people called him by the word on his chest, when the right person did it Harry would know. But when Harry had asked Sirius if he’d ever felt that, his expression had turned sombre as he’d shaken his head.

Now, Harry wondered if Sirius had even known what he was talking about. If it was all utter bullshit: the knowing, the butterflies and fireworks he’d imagined after hearing Sirius’ words, the very idea that there was someone out there—someone who would call him saviour, of all things—meant for him at all. If soulmates existed at all, or if it was all a bad joke meant to make him feel like he wasn’t destined to always be alone, even when he was surrounded by people.

***

Things were supposed to be better after the war ended. Harry guessed they were; all around him, the world was pulling itself back together. In a similar way to how his two best friends clung to one another and brought each other up, the castle was slowly becoming the warm, welcoming home it had always been, and so were its inhabitants.

Harry felt like he was sinking. Like he was too broken to be repaired, the wound so deep that nobody seemed to notice it was there.

Perhaps that was what drew him to Malfoy.

Malfoy, who looked broken, and tired, and as full of hurt as Harry felt. Malfoy, who took months of sitting in silence beside Harry, of half-hearted fights and sleepless nights in the Hogwarts corridors, to open up and tell Harry that nothing felt worth fighting for anymore.

Malfoy, who, a few months after the school year ended, rolled his eyes and mumbled the words bloody saviour as he accepted Harry’s scarf. He’d started sneezing uncontrollably, not dressed appropriately for the changing November weather.

It took Harry longer than it should have to notice—or perhaps to admit—that the word felt different when it fell from Draco’s lips. That the way Draco would use the word to point out the most mundane things Harry did, the way he’d catch Harry’s smile a moment later, always filled his chest with warmth.

That Draco was the first person to not make him hate the word in a very, very long time.

***

Soon the word became an inside joke between them. Soon, it began to come with soft brushes of hands, with private shared looks of mischief, of complicity. Soon, Draco would call him his saviour as Harry handed him the sugar bowl and Harry would just smile into Draco’s neck, and Draco would lean closer, allowing Harry to hide his smile for a second.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t told Draco yet. That saviour was his soulmark. That he was the first person that had made the word sound okay to his ears.

That he wanted him. That being around him was easy as breathing.

Okay, maybe he did know, even if he tried not to think about it.

He was scared. Scared that this would end—that he was mistaken, and Draco wasn’t really meant for him. After all, wouldn’t Harry have started calling Draco by some cheesy name by now if it was real? Wouldn’t they have talked about it at all?

“Has anyone ever called you by your soulmark?” Harry asked one night. They were slouched on the sofa of Harry’s shitty flat, as they often did these days, watching some crappy show and snapping back at the telly from time to time.

They never talked about their soulmarks. It made sense, Harry knew it—knowing what someone else’s mark was before you started calling them by it felt a lot like cheating.

Still, his mind wouldn’t stay quiet; wouldn’t stop telling him all of this, all he had with Draco, would disappear any moment like sand in the wind.

“Plenty,” Draco said, gaze weirdly fixed on the TV. They usually looked at each other more than the screen, each slumped on one arm of the sofa, legs tangled.

He was trying to hide a reaction, Harry knew.

“Me too.” Harry trailed his eyes to the screen too, but it didn’t catch his interest. He eyed Draco again. “Anyone feel different from the rest?”

Draco met Harry’s gaze. Then he eyed the clock. “I should get going.”

Harry slept badly that night, drowning in thoughts of Draco leaving. Of Draco being called by the word on his skin—a word Harry surely hadn’t said before and would never think to say—by plenty of people. What if Draco was destined for Harry, but someone else was destined for Draco?

***

He stumbled out of the elevator, Draco resting all of his weight on him. As he fumbled with the keys, Draco slurred into his ear. “You really are a saviour, huh?”

“And you’re really drunk,” Harry said, pushing the door open. “Sit down here a second, I’ll make up the sofa-bed.”

“Sleep with me.”

Harry spluttered—pulled back when Draco, leaning dangerously from the chair, tried to grab his jacket. “Wait here,” he said, a little breathless, and disappeared into the living room.

But when he walked back into the kitchen, heart in his throat, Draco’s words whirling in his mind, Draco wasn’t there.

Harry found him in the bedroom, sat on the bed, a deep frown scrunching his face as he tried to fumble with the buttons of his own shirt. He’d gotten halfway through, and Harry rushed toward him even though the sight had made something in him stir.

“Hey, stop that—” he started. But Draco, upon realising Harry was back, stood up and stumbled backwards, yanking the top of his shirt, as if to show Harry—

“Yeah, I know. Funny, isn’t it,” Draco said, although there was nothing funny about what Harry was seeing. “You slayed my soulmark in half and then became the sole person that makes my own name mean anything to me.” He laughed to himself.

Draco. The word, tattooed just below the sharp line of his collarbone, was split in half by an angry, deep scar that made the c almost nonexistent.

“We’re…” Harry started, not daring to finish the sentence.

Draco huffed, his sneer exaggerated by the alcohol. “Don’t be daft, Potty. Just because you say my name from time to time it doesn’t mean I would ever say whatever stupid, cheesy nonsense you have tattooed on your pretty arse—”

Harry pulled at the neck of his shirt, pushing aside the flap of his open denim jacket for Draco to see the word written under his collarbone.

“Not on my arse,” he muttered when Draco just stared at his chest.

A moment later, Draco shook his head. “But—I—didn’t—”

“You didn’t think that word could ever be my soulmark?” Harry asked. “Welcome to my world of disappointment.”

“I—” He shook his head again, stepped closer. “Only called you that because you’d… you’d started calling me by my name, and it felt so…” Draco touched Harry’s chest. He probably meant for it to be gentle, but he was unstable on his feet and ended up leaning forward, eyes closed, his weight on his palm where it pressed into Harry’s skin. “I was terrified. That you’d… that you’d notice. It couldn’t be you. I”—Draco frowned as though in pain—“couldn’t be for you. So I just—thought of the most ridiculous thing to call you, something that you would absolutely not have on your skin, under any circumstances, and I started calling you that so I wouldn’t call you anything else.”

Harry scoffed. At their luck; at the relief that was washing over him. “Good job,” he murmured, and Draco, emitting a low, pained whine, leaned into him completely, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Does this mean I can sleep in your bed?” he asked after a long moment.

“Wouldn’t you like that.” Harry, an almost painful smile pulling at his lips, walked a grumbling Draco back to the sofa.

***

“Hey there,” Harry said. All that came from the bed was a low groan as Draco turned around. He’d gotten out of his work robes and not bothered with his pyjamas, and his eyes were barely open. “Long day at work?”

“Like you wouldn’t imagine,” Draco muttered, even though Harry knew he would hear all about it soon enough. “Hmph. Can’t wait to retire.”

Harry sat on the edge of the bed—pushed his shoes off. “My poor, poor Draco.” He laughed softly, nuzzling Draco’s neck between the sheets. Draco immediately grabbed at him and made him fall on his stomach into the blankets. “Still a few years till that happens, I’m afraid.”

“Hmphh,” Draco repeated by way of an answer. He sniffed Harry’s hair.

“Want me to make dinner?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Harry asked, amused.

“Not as much as I want you to stay in bed with me all evening,” Draco murmured.

“There’s an easy solution for that,” Harry said, taking his phone out. “Pizza or sushi?”

“Sushi.” Draco snuggled closer, then scowled. “Take off those hideous jeans.”

“Okay, okay, one second,” Harry laughed as Draco dragged him under the covers. He re-ordered their latest order and left the phone on the nightstand, then pushed his clothes down. “Gimme a foot.”

Draco squirmed in bed and draped a leg on Harry’s chest. When Harry started massaging the sole of his foot, he sighed, a smile finally revealing Harry’s favourite lines on Draco’s face, rather than the ones that formed when he frowned. “Mmm. My saviour.”

Harry smiled and kissed Draco’s knee.

(Thanks to @spaceaas for betaing and to all the friends that helped me come up with these nicknames!)

#Drarry #drarry squad #otpshipper98 #soulmate au #soulmates #harry x draco #draco x harry #Anonymous

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sailorbellewrites · 5 years

Text

No Limit

characters— seokjin x reader (ft. members of bts)

summary— you and jungkook don’t even look alike. how was seokjin supposed to know you were off limits?

information— one shot. bakery!au. features less puns than you would think. i am still very new to writing smut, so be kind in that regard. if this gets a lot of love, might be continued in the future.

warnings—adult language; smut; mild violence; awkward situations; super hopeless seokjin.

no limit—

So it starts like this:

Jungkook has been talking about his older sister moving to Seoul for a couple of weeks now and Seokjin doesn’t really believe him because in the 2 years that he’s known the college senior, he’s never mentioned having a sister, just an older brother. The young man only has pictures of his mom hung up in his apartment and all requests to see what the girl looks like have been met with a stern shake of his head. Taehyung has never seen the girl either, says Jungkook doesn’t like to talk about her and he doesn’t know why. He’s heard the girl over the phone though and says she sounds, “cute.” And while Namjoon is certainly right in saying it would be weird for Jungkook to make up having a sister, Seokjin thinks Jungkook is just a weird enough person to do it.

“She’s coming today, hyung,” Jungkook says one Wednesday afternoon, too much energy radiating off of him. He’s dressed much nicer that normal, no holes in his jeans and a long sleeved shirt covering most of his tattoos. He even got a haircut, something he hadn’t had in a while. Jungkook can’t stand still, constantly wiping down the counters and rearranging the cupcakes in the display case. Seokjin gets so sick of his constant movement that he sends him to the kitchen to knead dough. “Okay, but hyung, if she comes in you have to let me know.”

“I don’t know what she looks like.”

He sighs deep, the sound almost morphing into a whine. “She’s probably gonna be wearing something bright or she’ll just ask for me! Seokjin please!”

“Fine, fine. Now get to the back, you’re making everyone uncomfortable. You’re gonna make me go outta business.”

When you walk in wearing a bright red coat, Seokjin doesn’t make the connection. You look around the shop for a bit and Seokjin is stunned because goddamn you’re beautiful. It’s like a movie, the white lights of the shop forming a halo around you and everything slows to a crawl. You make it to the register, eyes widening at the chocolate donut pyramid displayed behind Seokjin and he knows he’s fucked. “Hi,” you say and, yup, Seokjin is super fucked.

“I... Hi-I mean… Welcome to Baking News! How can I bake your day?” And the recovery isn’t as smooth as he would have liked it to be, but you still laugh way too hard at the puns and his heart swells.

“You’re funny,” you state earnestly. “I’m actually not here to buy anything, though. I’m looking for my brother.”

“Your brother?” Seokjin asks dumbfounded, because he would definitely know if anybody worked for him that looked like you.

“Yeah! He’s tall and skinny. Oh and he has really big teeth. He kind of looks like a rabbit when he smiles.” All of the air leaves Seokjin’s lungs because there is no fucking way you are Jeon Jungkook’s sister. You guys look nothing alike—hell, it’s questionable if you're even from Korea, that’s how different you look. But then Jungkook comes scrambling out of the kitchen and over the counter screaming “Noona!” like he’s a character in a goddamn cartoon. And you wrap yourself around him like a python, hugging him so tight that his face turns red. “There’s my bunny boy,” you squeal and Jungkook plants a big sloppy kiss on your cheek and—

“Holy shit, he does have a sister.”

Okay, so you’re not Jungkook’s real sister. He’s just weirdly obsessed with you and keeps calling you his sister, but you’re not his sister. At least that’s the conclusion Seokjin comes up with because you don’t have the same surname and you don’t look alike and you tell him that you haven’t lived in Korea in over five years. You share that tidbit of information over coffee two weeks after your arrival, pink scarf wrapped gently around your neck in a way that Seokjin deems more flattering than it should be. You share a lot of information with him in the time that you’ve been back, always coming into the bakery to get the first sugary treat you can get your hands on.

“Bunny boy tells me you make the best lattes this side of Seoul,” you tell him one rainy Thursday morning, leaned up against the counter. The bakery is empty except for you two, the usual morning rush having filtered out quickly due to the inclemete weather. Seokjin snorts because you always call Jungkook ‘bunny boy,’ even on days like today when he’s not here and it’s so cute the way the words come out of your mouth. They tumble out so effortlessly, whereas Seokjin can’t go two minutes without stuttering over himself while talking to you. So he just snorts because it’s easier to make sounds than it is to form words when you’re staring up at him like he’s the most interesting man in the world. “Is it true, Jinnie?”

“Jinnie?” He asks incredulously, because you’ve never called him anything other than Seokjin.

“Cute name for a cute boy,” you say with a shrug, as if it’s obvious. It’s not

His mouth is moving before he can stop it. “Cute? You think I’m cute? Just cute?”

“Yeah, why?” You chirp out with a sly smirk. Seokjin’s heart stops—but his mouth does not.

“I’ll have you know, I’m not just cute. I’m handsome. In fact, I’m one of the most handsome men in the world. Have you ever seen a face more handsome than mine? More beautiful than mine? I know you lived abroad for a while and have seen a lot of attractive men walking around, but I promise you that this face right here is better. This face should be on billboards all over the world.” This isn’t the first time that Seokjin’s gone off on this tangent, of course. Everyone has heard it before, taking the comedy bravado for what it is and laughing him off. But when he says it to you, it feels like he’s marketing himself. He doesn’t want you to laugh him off. He wants you to believe him.

Your head lolls to the side as he speaks, as though you are fully taking his words into consideration, and when he finishes, you grin. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Worldwide Handsome, do you really make the best lattes?” And Seokjin’s heart starts to constrict because even though your tone is teasing, your eyes are so sincere. He nods. You laugh. He’s fucked.

But he’s even more fucked because he can’t act on his attraction. Jungkook is scarily protective of you. He always seems to know where you are and who you’re with. He glares at any guy who looks at you for more than 10 seconds and shoves his hoodies over you if you’re showing too much skin. You mention downloading Tinder one Wednesday evening and the younger man nearly passes out. However, everyone’s accusations of him having a crush on you were met with immediate disgust because you’re his “sister.” In fact, he claimed on multiple occasions that you were the most despicable human being he’s ever met. “I pray that whoever I end up with is the exact opposite of my sister,” he mumbled one Sunday afternoon, frosting cupcakes in the kitchen. “She’s so fucking annoying. She doesn’t listen to anyone, no matter what they say. I don’t see how anyone could be attracted to her.”

“Ah, I don’t know man, I think she’s pretty cute.” Taehyung responded in jest, setting the completed cupcakes on a display pan.

“Stay the hell away from my sister you creep.” Jungkook all but growled out.

“Wow, the baby sounds serious,” Seokjin stated incredulously. “I didn’t know you could care about anyone other than yourself.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook replied, slightly embarrassed at being called out yet again for his so called selfish behavior. “She may be the worst woman I know, but she’s still my sister. I gotta make sure she’s well taken care of.”

“And you think I won’t do that?” Taehyung asked with faux shock. “I’m hurt.”

“Not a single one of you are good enough for my sister. She needs a doctor or a lawyer or someone super rich who can take care of her so she never has to work again. You guys all suck.” He stands up straight to admire his work before stating, with a frightening amount of cool, “If any of you guys tried it with her, I would kill you with my bare hands.”

So Seokjin tries his best to stay away from you. He attempts to keep his banter light, lessen his affection. He hopes to himself that you lose interest in the bakery, in the coffee, in him, but it’s difficult. You’re so easy to talk to. You think he’s funny, cracking up at all of his puns to the point of tears. When he winks at you, you smile so wide that he thinks your face might break. He falls harder for you every day.

It’s you that makes the first move though. It’s a balmy Friday night when you stalk in. Thirty minutes before closing, the bakery is empty except for two struggling rappers who loaded up on the discounted pastries that would otherwise get thrown away. You’re dressed up more than he’s ever seen you before, so much so that you look out of place standing next to the pastel pink sign touting the new peanut butter tira-miss-yous in your purple dress. “Well if it isn’t my favorite customer. What are you doing here so late at night?” Seokjin asks as you continue towards the counter.

“Bad date.” You mutter, before surprising Seokjin by pulling yourself up on top of the counter.

“Hey, who said you could sit up here? Didn’t anyone raise you with respect? That’s filthy! My sweets go up here.”

“I’m sweeter,” You quip and Seokjin chokes. You shift your body to face him a bit more. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Y-you—you can’t—Jungkook was right, you are disgusting.” He manages to stutter out, mind reeling at the thought of how sweet you actually were. “I have to clean that now. Get down.”

You ignore his request. “A pretty girl throws herself on a table in front of you talking about how sweet she is and you’re worried about cleanliness? Taehyung was right, you really are hopeless.”

He blanches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sigh, unmoving. “So bunny boy sets me up on this date right? He says it’s with one of his good friends who really inspires him. Someone that has helped him out a lot. I get excited because I think that it’s you. I mean, you literally gave him a job. How much more help can he get from one person? So I get all dressed up and ready to go only to have someone else show up at my door. And don’t get me wrong, the guy was attractive but he wasn’t you. He didn’t even make a single pun the entire time when there were plenty of opportunities to do so. He was so boring, Jinnie. Like, what do business lawyers really do anyways? The guy told me he hoped I had a good time, but I didn’t. So I decided to come here looking for an actual good time.”

“I… what?” Seokjin asks, unable to accept what you were implying.

“Oh my god, hyung, she likes you!” One of the rappers screams out from his table near the window. “Stop being dense.”

“I’m not—” Seokjin begins to yell back, but you cut him off.

“Jin, would you like to see a movie with me tomorrow night?”

When he looks at you, he sees a hopeful expression. He imagines closing up the bakery early and walking with you to the movie theater. He imagines what kind of snacks you’ll like and wonders if you’ll share them with him. He imagines wrapping his arm around you and how well you’d fit next to him. He imagines pressing his lips against yours in the dark, tongues wrestling against each other as his hands traveled down your body. He gulps. “Uh… yeah. I’d really like that.”

Seokjin’s not good at being in a relationship. He’s had a lot of toxic relationships in the past, with a lot of cheating and mental stress. He’s spent the last three years filling the void with a lot of meaningless sex. On more than one occasion, former friends with benefits came storming into the bakery to scold him for his lack of commitment. He focused on himself a lot; on getting through culinary school, on perfecting his skills in the oven, on opening his own shop. He tells you as much on the fourth date, hand wrapped tightly around your own as you walk through a flower garden. You listen intently, nodding your head and adding “ohs” and “ahs” when appropriate. Then you sit him on a bench and kiss him hard, tongue dragging against the roof of his mouth before whispering against his lips, “I don’t care. I like you anyway.”

Seokjin is happy with you. He smiles for no reason during the day, sings louder in the kitchen when frosting cakes, cusses less when the chocolate doesn’t temper or the cookies burn. He feels lighter, knowing that come closing time he can be wrapped up in you. His friends notice too. Namjoon teases him about how much more cheerful he is, while Taehyung and Jungkook pry for more information. He offers them none, much to their chagrin. He wants to keep you to himself, afraid that if the others find out, they’ll ruin it for him. Especially Jungkook—though he thinks about the other man’s disapproval less and less as he spends more and more time with you.

The relationship progresses slowly. You go on a lot of dates, whispering in the back of movie theaters and stealing small kisses on street corners. Seokjin likes to hold your hand. He marvels at the way it fits in his own, how easily you are able to slide your finger through his as you talk about work or travel or a memory from your childhood. Seokjin likes to hear you laugh. You think he’s the funniest person you’ve ever met. He’s gone through a rolodex of puns to try and hear the bubbling sound that spills out of you. You laughed the hardest on the 7th date, plastic gun slipping from your grip at an arcade, when Seokjin tells you he wrote a dessertation on Sweetzerland in culinary school. You hug him tight, face pressed against his chest as you continue to giggle at his words. He thinks you fit well there.

You don’t sleep together until three months in—an eternity for Seokjin. He’s never had to wait that long, but he finds it hard to argue when you whisper, “not tonight,” in his ear. He always agrees, calming himself enough to make it through the rest of the date. He ends up jacking off to thoughts of how you taste in the shower. You’re the biggest tease when it comes to that—your taste. The casualness with which you insist that you are sweeter than any dessert he’s ever made always leaves him drooling. Eating girls out was never his favorite sexual act, but he thinks you’ll change that.

“You can’t—you can’t just say those sort of things!” He yelled at you once, during your tenth date at a sushi restaurant. The waiter threw him a dirty look, as did a much younger couple seated next to you. He’s always louder than he needs to be, but you’re the only person he’s dated who never complained. Instead, you rolled your eyes at him and swallow your food.

“Why not?”

“We’re in public.”

“I didn’t say anything bad.”

“Don’t lie. Don’t pretend that you’re innocent! I can hear you. I have perfect hearing. Doctor’s everywhere are impressed by it. You can’t get those filthy words past me.” He berated, making you giggle.

You slid your hand over the table to grab his, kissing the back of it gently. He can’t help but blush. “Don’t be silly, Jin. I never said what part of me tastes better than strawberries, just that some part of me does.”

“Which part then?”

“Why? You want to try it for yourself?” He threw his head back with an annoyed groan at your words, making you laugh even louder. The couple shushed you both, yet again, shaking their heads as though you two are the immature ones in that situation.

When it finally does happen, much like the first date, it’s on your terms. You’re sitting in his apartment, legs thrown over his lap as you listen to him complain about a mom who ordered a cake of a whale for her son’s 8th birthday only to show up expecting a Beluga whale and not a Killer whale like Taehyung had decorated. Suddenly you sit up, arms coming out to grab Seokjin’s face as you set a soft kiss on his lips. Then a second. Then a third. With the fourth, you up the intensity by slipping your tongue into his mouth. He shuffles his body slowly between your legs, refusing to let your lips part as he hovers on top of you. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down as you grind your center directly where his dick sits in his jeans.

These types of makeout sessions have happened before; often right before you need to catch the train or bus back home. You always pull away after 15 minutes or so; that’s why Seokjin freezes when you whisper against his lips, “Do you wanna taste me?” He can’t formulate words. He’s thought about this moment for weeks now; planned a response for everything you could possibly say, but he’s coming up short. He’s sure he looks crazy, eyes bulging from his head. “Jinnie, say something.”

“A-are you… are you serious?” He manages to stutter out.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t—”

“Oh my god, take off your pants right now,” he yells in excitement, sitting up on his knees. Your laughter rips through the air as he fumbles with the button of your jeans, shaky hands pulling them down your thighs until they get caught at your knees. He huffs in annoyance, lifting your legs himself to get the now offensive fabric away from you. As soon as the jeans hit the floor, Seokjin drops down to his stomach between your thighs. You open your legs with a content sigh, making him wonder if you’ve been waiting for this moment as long as he has. He drags his lips lightly over your thighs before placing a kiss on the crotch of your panties. You shudder. He chuckles. “Promise you’re as sweet as candy?” He asks, voice unintentionally deepening as he comes closer to his target.

“Pinky swear,” you whisper. Taking this as his cue to move forward, Seokjin’s fingers gently ghost over the black fabric of your underwear before pulling the crotch to the side and exposing your core to the cool air. He takes in the fluid shapes and subtle wetness already gathering on your folds in awe, shocking himself with all the ways he could still find you beautiful. Closing the last bit of distance between you, he takes a tentative lick from the bottom of your slit to the top, the firm tip of his tongue pressing against your clit in the process. The action causes you to rock up, hands settling at the top of his head. “Fuck,” you whisper gently, the breathy sound going straight to his cock. He repeats the act once more, though this time his lips around your tender bud and he gives it a light suck. Your fingers thread through his hair tightly, guttural moan exiting your throat. Pride swells in Seokjin’s chest—he’s the reason you’re making those sounds.

“Jesus babe,” he murmurs, leaving open mouthed kisses on your thigh, “you’re even sweeter than candy.” You let an amused breath at his words, any laughter that would have bubbled up dying as those kisses reached your lower lips. “Can I take these off?” Seokjin asks, pulling further at your panties.

“Please.” With a bit more confidence than before, he moves to take your panties off completely. As he settles back down between your thighs, he sneaks a peek at you. You’ve relaxed back down on the couch, head leaned back on the armrest although your eyes never leave him. “Jin, please,” you whimper. Your words spur him on and he dives face first in your pussy, tongue working itself deep in and around your core. Soft whimpers turn to loud moans as he continues, only motivating him further. The need to make you cum becomes his only goal. “Fuck Jin, so goo—oh!” You moan out, jumping in shock when you feel his thick finger press against your entrance.

“Can I?” He asks, lifting his head up for confirmation that he can continue. With your rapid nods, he presses his index finger into you, sighing as he feels warm walls flutter and constrict around him. Then, as if another force has taken over his body, Seokjin surges his whole body forward to kiss you while he thrusts his finger at a steady pace. You readily welcome his lips against your own, not minding the taste of yourself against his tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. “Do you—fuck you are tight—baby… think you can cum like this?” He asks between kisses, your hips starting to buck into his hand. You mumble out an affirmative, pressing yourself closer to him.

He loses track of himself in the moment, one finger becoming two, thumb circling your clit, lips sucking bruises into your neck as you start to make desperate pleas in his ear for more, more, more. You give no warning when your orgasm hits you, just tensing up against him as your walls clamp down hard against his fingers. He litters your face with small pecks as he works you through it, fingers slowing only when he feels you begin to come down from your high.

“Jesus Jin, you’re really good at that,” you remark in a small voice as he removes his fingers from inside you, aftershocks continuing to rock your body.

He can’t help the cheshire grin that settles onto his face as he lifts himself off of you to get a good look at your fucked out form; your eyes are so dilated that they are nearly black, sweat sits at the edge of your scalp and brows, and your shirt is bunched up around your chest. He wants to kiss you again, wants to feel your legs wrapped around his waist, wants to feel everything you have to give and then some. “Baby,” he starts, suddenly feeling constricted by all the clothes he is wearing and how hot the room has gotten, “I could eat your pussy for hours on end, but I am so fucking hard right now. Please don’t leave me hanging.”

“Fuck that’s hot… do you have a condom?”

“Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom right now, come on!” Seokjin shouts, jumping up and pulling you off the couch with him, leading you through the short hallway to where he sleeps nightly. It’s a flurry of movement between the both of you, hands making bold passes over newly uncovered body parts as all remaining forms of clothing are removed. He lets an uncharacteristically animalistic growl when you finally wrap a hand around dick, moving it up and down at a near glacial pace. “Faster,” he finds himself begging, breathing harder when you comply with his request. He lets it go on for a while further before he gently pushes you on your back underneath him, hand digging in the drawer of his bedside table as he searches for the pack of condoms he knows is there. However, his movements stop and his mind goes blank when he feels you reach a hand for his cock again and grind his sensitive tip between your still soaked lips. He’s reeling, knowing he could slip right in if he wanted to, if you let him, despite how irresponsible it would be.

“Seokjin, condom! Hurry up!” You whine out, as if seeing his internal dilemma. Your other hand claws at his chest to further get his attention, snapping him out of his reverie and back into action.

When he finally locates a condom, he’s nearly rabid. He tears at the package and slips it on with such roughness that a small part of him worries he might break it. The bigger part of him, however, is focused on how delicious you look underneath him and how delicious your pussy will feel around him. He lets out a small huff when he finally gets the condom on, lining himself up with your entrance. He wants to take his time, wants to tease you a bit, but it takes one drag of the head of his cock against your slit for him to forget about all of that. He pushes inside of you slowly, warm walls clenching around him when he’s fully seated inside of you.

It goes by faster than expected. Your body accepts him so easily, like it was made for him. You suck him back in each time he pulls out. You tilt your hips up when he begins to thrust harder, eyes rolling to the back of your head each time his hips meet your thighs. His hands roam the expanse of your body, gently squeezing areas that are softer than he expected and running blunt nails against your sternum before one of them snakes behind your neck and pulls you up to meet him for a sloppy kiss. It’s messy, more tongue than lips and it makes you clench even tighter than before. Seokjin’s not sure if you’re close, but he knows he damn sure is.

“Honey I don’t think I’m gonna last much longer.” He bites out, slowing down slightly as he lays you back down.

“Then cum,” you whimper back, though it sounds much more like an order. Hitching your legs up on his waist, Seokjin uses the last bit of energy he has to drill into you, chasing his orgasm until it crashes over him like a tidal wave. It’s the most pleasure he’s felt in months. All of his senses are overloaded as he cums, pressing deep inside of you. His hips stutter slightly as he milks himself to completion, feeling even more content when you run your fingers up and down his arms slowly.

It’s that sweet gesture that brings him back down to earth. He takes his time removing himself from you, unsure if he wants to leave now that he knows exactly what you feel like. Placing your legs off of his hips and shuffling off of the bed to throw away the condom, he quickly returns and flops on his back next to you.

“We gotta—we have got to do that again.” Seokjin finally breathes out, heart still racing. You curl up beside him, skin sticking to his own in a way that disgusts him slightly; yet, he still pulls you closer. “I didn’t make you cum.”

“You made me cum once.”

“But not on my dick.”

“I still enjoyed myself.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s an honor thing. You have to cum on more than my fingers.”

“Like right now? Or—”

“Don’t joke like that. My dick can’t handle it.” You giggle at his words and he feels something rising up in his chest that he can’t identify. Despite hearing all of your moans, whimpers, and whines for the past hour, he still thinks your laughter is the best sound in the world.

And later, when you start to drift off on his lap during a 90s movie marathon, Seokjin whispers promises into your skin that he’s never made before. You don’t say if you hear them, but relax further in his embrace.

“Oh this kid looks just like Jungkook.” Seokjin says one evening, sitting on the bed in your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve invited him in, having asked if he would spend the night because the bakery opens later on Saturdays and you want to sleep in with him. It’s such a cute request he can’t deny it. He thinks you’re so cute that it’s getting hard for him to deny you at all. He worries it will become a problem later, but he doesn’t dwell on it when your whole face lights up with happiness. Your apartment is quaint, with big white walls covered in pictures and knick knacks from your various adventures overseas. You float around the bedroom grabbing things for Seokjin—towels, extra pillows, a spare toothbrush—and laugh at him. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“That is Kook.”

“Really?” He takes the framed picture from your nightstand and looks at it more closely. It’s for sure you in the picture, just much younger. You sport messy hair and large t-shirt combo that would be embarrassing to most, but you’re holding on to a much smaller and skinnier kid with such excitement that it just reads as adorable. “Wow, you guys have really known each other for a long time.”

You let out an airy laugh of disbelief, placing the things on a chair placed in the corner of the room. “Since he was born.”

“Oh, so that’s why he calls you his sister,” Seokjin starts with a nod of understanding. “I thought he just had a crush on you or something. I didn’t realize that you’ve known him for so long. Your families must be really close right?”

You laugh again, but the tone is off. Seokjin catches it, but you’re crawling on the bed next to him and wrapping an arm around his back before he can question it. “Baby,” you start, voice light but edging on serious, “you know I’m actually bunny boy’s sister right? Like we’re really related. His family is my family.”

It’s a gut punch, hearing those words come out of your mouth. He isn’t sure how to process and he’s sure he looks like a fish as his mouth opens and closes as he tries to find something to say. He settles on, “What?”

“Jungkook is my little brother.”

“But you guys don’t even look alike.” He responds, feeling his brain short circuit. “You literally couldn’t be more different. And you guys don’t even have the same names. You can’t—it doesn’t…”

You sigh, unwrapping your arms from around him while shaking your head. “It’s complicated.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well for starters, we’re not blood related at all.”

“So you’re not siblings then?” Seokjin asks incredulously, because nothing makes sense anymore.

“Biologically no,” you stress, grabbing the picture out of his hands. There are red indentations on his palms from where he was squeezing it so tight. “But, legally speaking, we are siblings. All the paperwork I have will tell you I’m part of his family. But more than that, all of us were raised together as brother, brother, and sister.”

It really is a complicated story, Seokjin thinks as you explain your family history to him. Friends of friends, broken trust, being in the right place at the right time, and international trips brought you into the Jeon family. You never looked at Jungkook as anything other than family; Jungkook never knew you as anything other than his sister, biology be damned. “He never talked about you though,” Seokjin admits, head pounding from information overload. “Like ever. He only ever mentioned his—well your—brother.”

You roll your eyes at this information, but don’t seem surprised. “He was mad at me for a long time. He thought it was stupid that I left to try and reconnect with my bio family. Do you know he can hold a grudge for a really long time? He wouldn’t answer my phone calls for a year after I first left.” You let out a small sigh, flopping back on your bed. “We only really just got back to a good place. I think that’s why he’s been so clingy lately.”

Seokjin squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. “Ugh, Kook is really gonna kill me,” He mumbles, laying down beside you.

“Why would he do that?” You whisper, moving your body to curl into him. “He’s the reason I started dating you in the first place.”

“What are you even talking about?” Seokjin groans out. “Don’t say false things just to comfort me. It won’t work.”

“I’m serious. He’s like your biggest fan. He talks about you all the time. Hearing and seeing how much you cared for him meant a lot to me. It made me like you for more than just your looks. I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself in front of you so many times if I thought you were a bad guy.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Seokjin hums mindlessly, thoughts still a jumbled mess in his head from all the information he has received. One thing sticks out in his mind though. He turns his head to lay a soft peck on your forehead. “You know you never embarrassed yourself in front of me, right?”

“What are you talking about? I practically begged you to take me on a date.”

“You saved me from myself. I embarrassed myself way more. I could barely talk to you without becoming a mess and tripping over all my words.”

“I wouldn’t want you any other way. You’re my mess.”

“Oh my god, Jungkook was wrong. You’re the best woman in the whole wide world and you're all mine, mine, mine!”

“Kim Seokjin, you motherfucker—” Here’s the thing, Jungkook is Seokjin’s youngest friend. He plays the role of the baby well, to the point where Seokjin feels as though he’s raised him. It’s so easy to forget that Jungkook is not as young as he acts; he’s always so kind and affectionate. He’s also the hardest worker at the bakery, always coming in early and staying late to make sure everything is finished. However, the boy was so much stronger than he looked. He worked out 6 days a week for fun and described getting tattoos as a pleasurable experience. Of course he would be able to pick Seokjin up and pin him against the wall by his throat.

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down!” Namjoon shouts, running up to try and pull the younger man away. Jungkook does not relent, fighting against his friend to continue to try and choke Seokjin. “Kook, listen man! This is not the way to handle this!”

“He fucked my sister!” He screams and the accusation sounds so much worse coming out of Jungkook’s mouth, especially because it’s true. Except there is so much more than fucking that’s going on, but he can’t get the words out of his mouth to say that through Jungkook’s yells. “Thought I wouldn’t find out? Thought she would keep it a secret?” He spits out, still struggling against Namjoon.

“It’s not like that—” Seokjin begins, voice smaller than he anticipated, but Jungkook cuts him off.

“Bullshit!” Jungkook screams, voice cracking with rage. “I know you. I know how you are. You think you can just use my sister to get off?”

Now it’s Seokjin’s turn to be angry, with the thought of anyone only being with you for your body making him see red. “Do you really think I’m like that? You really think that I would hurt her like that?”

“Never stopped you before,” Jungkook responds sarcastically. “What did the last girl say again? Jin just wants a human fucktoy.” Seokjin winces at the words he once found humorous. The girl, a pretty florist he met at a bar, came in with the intent to tear him to shreds. She was met with indifference and laughter. He never realized how quickly her words would come back to haunt him. “You think my sister is a human fucktoy? Is that what it is?”

“Shut up,” Seokjin barks out, unable to think of you in that way.

But Jungkook is no longer fighting against Namjoon, content with his words bringing the pain. “You’re not good enough for her. You’ll never be good enough for her. I’ll kill you before I ever let you treat my sister like one of your whores.”

“That’s enough,” Namjoon orders, frustration painting his features. “This isn’t going to solve anything. Jungkook, you should leave.”

Jungkook scoffs, pushing Namjoon away from him. “You’re on his side,” he accuses, pain in his voice, “You think it’s okay that he’s fucking my sister.”

“I don’t think anything,” Namjoon stresses. “But fighting in our place of business is not smart. People can hear us out there and whether you like it or not, your outburst is gonna affect more than just Jin. This can be dealt with later.”

Jungkook is quiet, though he trembles with anger. Seokjin wonders, briefly, if the man will swing on Namjoon. However, Jungkook just shakes his head and states, “Fuck your business. I quit.”

“Are you going to fire him?” You ask over the phone that night, worry evident in your voice. You canceled your date upon finding out what your brother did. You told him good faith when he tried to set you up another date with a doctor he knew, hoping he would be happy for you. He was not. You said you had to talk to him, make sure you understood where he was coming from before you passed judgement. He was your brother after all.

Seokjin wants to laugh. He can’t. He’s miserable. He wants all of this to end, but he doesn’t want his relationship with you to end. He’s tired. “I can’t fire someone who quit.”

“He didn’t mean it. He’s going to apologize to you.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

But two days later, he finds you standing at his apartment door, Jungkook behind you looking at the ceiling in avoidance. Seokjin fights against his urge to hug you, to bury his face in the crook of your neck and plant a wet kiss against the skin that leaves you squirming and pushing him away from being, “gross!” He stares at you silently, but you smile at him like nothing is wrong. “Can we come in?” You ask sweetly, stepping in at Seokjin’s nod. Jungkook doesn’t move an inch, making you scowl. You turn to face the man Seokjin now knows as your brother and snap, “Get in here right now.”

The man obeys you, stepping inside of the apartment and shutting the door behind him. No one makes a move. Seokjin wants to choke on the tension. Finally, Jungkook lets out a deep breath and states, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You say with a leading tone.

Jungkook clenches his fist, jaw tightening. “I’m sorry for choking you in the bakery. It was unprofessional of me to do so.”

“And?” You continue. Jungkook closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Jungkook!” You shout, causing the man to flinch, yet his silence continues. Seokjin watches in amazement as you reach your hand up to grab the younger boy’s ear and tug hard. Jungkook howls in pain, trying to pry your fingers away. You don’t let up. “I don’t care about your pride or your protection. You are going to apologize to Jin properly right now!” Jungkook whines loudly. You twist your fingers and the boy’s knees buckle. The scary beast who pinned Seokjin against the wall was gone. In his place was a child, weak and subdued. He wants to laugh, but doesn’t. He’s sure that if he does, it will come back to haunt him later.

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it.” Jungkook screams out. With a final pull, you let go. Jungkook rubs his ear lightly and huffs, glaring at you. You return his stare. With another sigh, he turns back to Seokjin and states, “I crossed the line. I shouldn’t have hit you or said those things. It was wrong… but—”

“No buts!” You shout out, hand reaching up again. Jungkook catches it and grasps it tightly in his own hand. He shushes you with a look that says more than Seokjin could ever guess. He drops your hand and you let it rest at your side with a sigh.

“Can you leave?” Jungkook asks you. “I just want to talk to him alone. I won’t—I will not put my hands on him. I promise.” There is a sincerity in his tone that Seokjin has not heard in a while. It gives him hope.

Your head rolls back and forth, as if weighing out your options before stating, “Ten minutes, Kook. You hear me? Ten. And if he tells me you so much as even threaten him, you’ll have a whole lot more to be worried about than your ear!” At his aggressive nod of understanding, you turn to Seokjin. “I’ll be right back, okay?” You state, before leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Seokjin notices the way Jungkook’s jaw tenses at the open display of affection. With one more stern look to your brother, you exit the apartment.

There is a beat of silence before Seokjin suggests they sit down in the living room. It’s awkward. Jungkook has been in this room before, even passed out there a time or two; but he’s as stiff as a board when he sits on the couch. He refuses to look at Seokjin, eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him. His breaths are measured and he opens and closes his mouth a few times as he decides what to say.

Finally, he speaks. “You don’t seem to understand that she’s my sister. My only sister, Jin.”

“I understand th—”

“You don’t. You don’t understand. I know I’m younger and you think I act like a kid, but I’m not. Not with her. I’ve spent my whole life protecting her. People always try to take advantage of her because… I don’t know. So many reasons.” Jungkook stops, struggling for words. He takes another deep breath and finally looks at Seokjin. “When we were younger, boys would bully her for being adopted. She would act like it didn’t bother her, but I could see that it did. I must have got into twenty fights making sure they kept their mouth shut when it came to her. After everyone, whether I won or lost, she would always be happier. And that was all that mattered. When she moved away I was so angry because who was going to protect her out there? Her bio family is shit. They never wanted anything to do with her. Then she started dating this guy who cheated on her and I couldn’t even get to him and I—” He stops again, having worked himself up. “I want her to be happy, okay? I don’t want her to be sad anymore.”

Seokjin is shocked. He’s never heard Jungkook speak so seriously and with so much passion. His eyes are glassy, tears clearly threatening to spill over. He looks ragged. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s not even holding himself up properly anymore, body limp in the seat. It’s clear this has been weighing on the boy and Seokjin feels a wave of guilt wash over him. This isn’t what he wanted to happen at all.

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin states, breaking the silence, “For not telling you. For letting it get this far. As your boss—no, as your friend, I should have let you know.” Jungkook nods, swiping at his eyes roughly. “I do… I do care about her a lot. I don’t look at her like… if I only wanted her for sex, I would have stayed away.”

“Do you… do you love her?”

“I…” Seokjin hesitates. He’s never thought about it really, loving you. He’s never even thought about love in general. For years, he didn’t think he was capable of loving someone romantically. But when he’s with you, everything feels like it’s in its proper place. “I think—I do. ”

Jungkook hums in response, throwing his head back on the couch and really relaxing for the first time since he stepped through the door. “She loves you too,” Jungkook says as though it's a hard fact. Seokjin feels his throat tighten at his words. It’s been a long time since he’s been loved. “Like a lot. That’s the only reason I’m here… ”

“I won’t hurt her.” Seokjin says adamantly, hoping he sounds as sincere as he is.

“You better not.” He mutters. There is another beat of silence before Jungkook meekly asks, “Can I get my job back?”

“Ask Namjoon.”

“Fuck!”

So it ends like this:

After many apologies, Jungkook gets his job back. He’s put on samples duty for a month, standing outside of the bakery with a new pun-filled sign wrapped around his neck everyday. He hates it, especially when you show up to snap a picture and post it on your Instagram. Namjoon reposts one of them on the Baking News SEOUL account and it becomes the most liked picture on the whole page. You and Seokjin howl with laughter when you see the numbers, much to Jungkook’s annoyance. He still doesn’t approve of the relationship—at least, not completely. He rolls his eyes every time he sees a kiss or a hug; he insists you don’t stay in the bakery long, shoving you out of the door after five minutes because he’s sick of seeing you flirting with his boss; he scoffs when you come in more dressed up than usual for date nights. Yet, he makes sure Seokjin knows what types of flowers you like getting on your birthday and what your ring size is, “because that’s information you’ll need sooner or later.”

On Sundays, Seokjin closes the bakery early and brings you to the kitchen. He stands behind you, hand on your hip as he instructs you on how to ice the practice cakes he baked for you earlier. He knows you won’t do it perfectly, knows you’ll eventually dip a finger in the frosting to try it for yourself, knows you’ll try to get him to do the same and put some on his face when he refuses. It might start a food fight that will take too long to clean up; might make him bend you over the counter and fuck you until your moans reverberate off of the walls. Regardless, it always ends with you kissing him all over his face, exchanging soft “I love yous” until you’re ready to go home. Seokjin thinks he’s okay with both scenarios; thinks he’ll be okay with both for a long time.

#seokjin senarios #bts scenarios #jin scenarios #kim seokjin #namjoon #taehyung #jungkook #this took forever #goodness gracious #sailor belle writes #seokjin smut #jin smut #bts smut #au: baking news

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