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m-yg93 · 2 years

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Have Mercy (on me)

Pairing: JJK x Reader

WC: 9.3k

Genre: Smut, PWP

Rating: M (minors dni)

Warnings: Toxic gamer boy JK, Mean OC, sexism, Subby JK, D/s dynamics, excessive use of petnames, tattoos, piercings (nipples and genital), spit, edging, self asphyxiation, overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, praise, NO AFTERCARE

Banner by @introlxv

Beta’d by @amourtae

Part of: Bangtan DLC: A Streamer BTS Collab hosted by @joonscypher, @kookskingdom, & @lavienjin

Summary: Jungkook is finally popular enough to quit his job and make a living off his streaming and he’s very proud of his Master rank. His cockiness takes a turn when an unknown player joins his team and starts talking shit but what’s worse is they’re not just talking the talk but walking the walk. Jungkook ends up humiliated in multiple ways but there’s only one of which he ends up liking.

Authors note: It’s finally here! A special thank you to @audreonne for using her esports knowledge and correcting everything I had wrong with the Overwatch gameplay (because I’m a filthy casual and don’t play) and letting me use her username. Also to my lovely writing net @thebtswritersclub and everyone who supported me with hype and writing alongside me in sprints.

Read the sequel: Rematch

VICTORY

“Let’s get it!” Jungkook whoops as the rest of the boys echo the sentiment in the voice chat. His eyes fall to his Twitch chat, messages zooming by nearly too fast to keep up.

That was a close one!

Honestly thought you were going to lose that round

“Thanks so much for hanging out with us tonight, Goldens. That’ll be all for today’s stream but make sure to tune in tomorrow, it’s our Sub Sunday where we play some more chill games with you guys. We’ll be running some Among Us so keep an eye out on my Twitter for the code drop, 1pm on the dot. We’re going to end this by sending out a raid to my friend BamBam, he’s streaming a blind run of Mario Odyssey right now. He’s a good buddy of mine so send him all the love that I receive here. Good night!”

His face cam closes and his screen is replaced with his usual end stream background that he’ll keep up for another 5 minutes or so as people filter out.

His attention shifts to his dashboard which holds his account statistics. A few people had subscribed during his stream and he can see his new number now nearing 5,000. It had been a grueling few years to get to this point and the exhaustion from working his regular job on top keeping a steady streaming schedule can still be felt in his bones.

He liked his cinematography internship, don’t get him wrong but the freedom of choosing his own work schedule and content was much less of a burden on him creatively. Plus the attention he got from the community he created was good for his ego. Admittedly, half the comments in stream were more about his looks than his gameplay but what’s there to complain about. He gets to play videogames every day and makes enough money to pay his bills and spend frivolously on ridiculous things for a serotonin boost when he needs it.

The voices echoing in his headset brings him back to reality as he watches his viewer count decrease and eventually disappear.

“Hobi’s out since he has to join Yoongi at the studio for a project they’re working on but is everyone else down to stay on and get some practice in? The next season of competitive is starting soon and I want to make sure I’m keeping on top of it.” Jin whines in the background.

The rest of the group all give off varying excitement levels of agreement. They pile into the waiting room but since their team is now missing a player a random added player comes in. Audreonne, master rank. At least they should keep up with them. Their icon flips to Mercy. Strategic teamwork at least, they needed a healer to balance out since Hoseok’s Lucio was now out of the ranks.

The countdown starts and they’re thrown into the game, it’s a familiar map and the guys easily split to their usual procedure. The Mercy player veers away with Namjoon and Tae.

Jungkook’s Widowmaker turns a corner and is instantly double teamed by the opposing Genji and Doomfist.

“Motherfucker,” he mumbles under his breath as the screen indicates eliminated. He respawns and quickly heads back the same way. “Yo, Audreonne, can you stick by me so I can deal with these assholes?”

He’s not waiting for a reply before dropping down into the area he was just eliminated from only to immediately repeat the process and go down again. “Where’s the fucking res, dude?”

The action replay of his death shows no trace of the Mercy player around him. He scoffs, of course, guess that master rank came with more luck than skills.

“Hey, healer, if you’re going to pick support the least you could do is actually fucking support. Get your shit together.”

The rest of the guys don’t seem to be doing too hot on their own. There’s more grunts of defeat than there are whoops of victory and it’s not long before the screen comes up with the final judgment.

DEFEAT

Jungkook releases a loud groan and throws himself back in his chair, the force sending him wheeling away causing his headset to fly off and clatter onto the ground. He shoves it back on with muttered curses and checks the team, all having gone down by a few SP.

“How about you pay more attention to the team health, Audreonne,” he snarls.

The player remains quiet. A new chat comes up on the side screen.

I’m rusty with Mercy. I usually main Widowmaker but you seem attached so I’m letting you keep hold of her.

A short laugh comes out as he reads the comment in disbelief. No fucking way was he going to let someone else take his character. He knows he can play it better than anyone else on the team.

“Catch up quick then. And put your mic on, we can’t team properly if we can’t communicate.” That’s all he gets to put in before the countdown ends and a new game begins. They’re on defense this time.

A notification comes up.

Audreonne has joined the voice chat

Fucking finally.

The countdown ends and Jungkook goes out to the east side of the map.

“Where the fuck are you going? You saw we’re on defense right?” The unknown player makes their appearance and Jungkook groans.

“Ugh, a chick? No wonder we lost the last game. Don’t bring your uwu bullshit in here. We take this game seriously so move on to the next team of losers if you expect us to carry you.”

“Nerf this!” is heard away from him and there’s no time to react as D.Va’s mech slams into him and explodes. Fuck. He spawns back at base.

“Looks like your little hero expedition didn’t pay off so much. Why don’t you try sticking around the team this time?” The voice taunts him.

“She’s not wrong, JK. We could use Widow’s Venom Mines around the border and Infrasight will come in handy to see where they’re coming from.” Damn, even Namjoon was turning against him.

“Didn’t take you for a simp, Joon,” he rebukes. He can hear Namjoon scoff but there’s no response as the enemy team starts converging on their base.

Jungkook is losing HP at an alarming rate and calls for a resurrect as his character falls. He sees Mercy’s wings at the edge of his screen but Widowmaker doesn’t come back up.

“Are you not paying attention? If you were going to play support can’t you do your job and heal when you’re supposed to? How did you even make it to master rank? Is this your boyfriend’s account? He’s going to be pissed when you end up demoting him to diamond,” he rebukes.

“If you were paying attention you’d have noticed that I was already using my res on Hanzo. We needed his Dragonstrike more than your abilities or is your head so far up your ass you can’t notice your teammates also going down around you?” The rebuff is laced with aggression. “If you’re so insecure knowing you’re skills are subpar to a woman who’s only been only been playing 3 months just fucking say so.”

“3 months? No way. You managed to rope in some dude who knows the game to rank you up and now you’re just reaping in the benefits. This is my job and it took me nearly a year to get to the same title.” Disbelief taints the edges of his declaration.

“Wow, you’d think a professional esports player would do better.”

“I’m not dedicating myself to one game and letting management decide my gameplay. I’m a Twitch streamer. I’m independent, I control myself,” he boasts.

“Ah, I know the type. Got a few hundred followers and think you’re hot shit, huh?” The voice jeers at him.

“Look little miss, I get that you might not be properly into games but I’ve got nearly 100k so I think I’m doing alright for myself.” It’s a shame his smirk can’t be seen.

He doesn’t expect the laugh that echoes on the other end and the taunting, “Cute” that follows.

There’s no time to continue the argument as their focus is brought back to the game.

Jungkook isn’t entirely selfish. When mentioned that his teammates were also going down he kept an eye out for more pressing cases but when his HP is dropping too close for comfort he calls for help.

“I’m really low. I need a heal!”

“Hmm, ask nicely.”

“The fuck? We don’t have time for your games, we’re going to lose the match, just heal!”

“Not with that attitude, we can win without you. If you want my help then beg for it.”

No way. He can make it through the fight without having to stoop so low. He just needs to get away from the fire and get a medpack.

At least he tries to but he’s surrounded on too many sides and there’s no clean way out.

“Can I have a heal, please?” he grunts through clenched teeth.

“Aw, see, you can be a good boy.” His HP comes back up nearly instantly.

There’s a few close calls before the screen lights up.

VICTORY

A sigh of relief escapes him as the group congratulates each other on the win but his patience has worn thin.

“Can we kick the chick so we can get someone decent on support?” he asks.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, did my game glitch? I don’t think it was your character I saw in the play of the game footage? Open your eyes for a second and try to understand how I got more kills than you as support than you managed to get as damage? Do you want to give Mercy a shot, maybe she’ll be more your speed?” There’s an evil lilt to the voice that answers him. “I guess we know which one of us is boosted after all, huh?”

“You know what, bitch? I’ve had enough of your shit. 1v1 me and we can see who has the skills without having to rely on the team,” he demands.

The voice acquiesces, nonchalant and unbothered. A Discord username pops up in the chat and the account disconnects from the game. His friends try to get him to just forget about it and keep playing now that they’ll just have someone new to join the team but Jungkook’s reputation is at stake and he won’t let some girl think she’s got something over him. He assures his friends it’d only take a minute and he’d be right back as soon as it’s dealt with.

He sets up a custom game, elimination, and picks his favorite map, Castillo. He picks his character and sends the game invite after adding the player to his friend list, begrudgingly.

It only takes a minute for the user to join the game. Frustration courses through him when the other player’s icon also changes to Widowmaker. A message pops up: Since we both main Widowmaker this is the fairest way to measure up, don’t you think? Fine. If that’s how they want to play this.

The set up is ready and the game starts. He easily makes it to the center statue and takes a second to assess where his opponent might be coming from. Venom Mines set at the most obvious chokepoint where the opposite side would come in from, but it stays silent. He activates his Infra-Sight to see where they might be hiding behind a structure but no outlines make themselves known. The enemy is simply not here.

His eyes get drawn to the chat on the side of the screen.

Behind you

ROUND LOST

He’s back at spawn.

What the fuck. Where had they even come from? There was no way they would have passed by him. He would have seen it.

Forget it. Push to the next round. He’s barely out of spawn before he gets hit again.

ROUND LOST

It doesn’t stop.

ROUND LOST

It’s entirely too quick for the screen to boast GoldenJK 0 VS 11 Audreonne. Absolutely no way. Discord is pulled up on the other screen and he doesn’t hesitate to press the call button. It doesn’t take long for the dial tone to disappear indicating the call being picked up on the other end.

“I expected you to rage quit honestly. I’ve seen it happen often enough before. Think having me whisper sweet nothings in your ear is going to make you focus better?” The voice is mocking which just makes his teeth bite down harder.

“It’s impossible that you’re not hacking somehow. Or someone else is playing for you. There’s never been some girl able to counter me this easily. Open cams so I can see that you’re really playing properly. Mouse and keyboard in frame, you’re not pulling anything sneaky on me.”

His answer comes in the form of a hum. Low and thoughtful. “I wouldn’t usually let you or anyone else direct orders at me but I’ve got nothing to hide and if you think trying to pay attention to how I play while simultaneously trying to get a shot in on your skill level is going to help then who am I to deny.”

The call screen changes as he finally sets his eyes upon his opponent, upon you. His preconceived notions of a pink room with a background full of stuffed animals is quickly quashed as he takes in that your setup is surprisingly similar to his.

It’s hard to see the color of your walls at all through the amount of posters covering them. Jungkook recognizes characters from different franchises: Link from Legend of Zelda, Masterchief from Halo, GLaDOS from Half Life, Elizabeth from Bioshock, and centered right behind you looks like a massive custom print of Widowmaker. The room is dark and eerily illuminated by the purple LED lights that border the ceiling. More lights are coming from in front of you which he can assume are from your tower and keyboard. Your Secret Lab gaming chair seems to be an even newer model than his, one which had only just come out. Had you not been sitting in the middle of the frame he would have assumed the room belonged to a top rated esports gamer.

But you were in frame and his eyes finally settle upon his rival. Your webcam is set right next to your monitor so the angle captures your face as you can stare dead into it. A shiver runs down his spine, was it intimidation or something else? Your headset is large enough to drown your head. At this point he wasn’t surprised to realize they were Razer Krakens but he somehow still expected the kitten ears to sprout from the band and he’s slightly disappointed to see they’re missing.

“Well? Aren’t you going to open your webcam too then? Only fair that I get to monitor the way you play too. I need to make sure I’m not playing the same way you do if I expect to keep my rank.” Did your voice always sound so sultry or is the image of putting face to voice messing with him?

He doesn’t bother sending any fighting words back at the jab. He simply opens his webcam to show off his own stream setup. The walls behind him aren’t as crowded as yours. Shelves filled with various figurines are more his vibe than posters but it’s oddly mirrored to your own. His LED lights filter through the color spectrum slowly, a trick to keep his viewers engaged as they anticipate the next color to come if their attention slips from the game.

He looks up and to his right to look into the camera hoping to send the same jolt down your spine that he received earlier. His friends often make fun of him for setting up his angle as ‘Myspace circa 2005’ but it serves its purpose of capturing more of his body into frame. He knows showing as much of himself as possible racks in a lot of his viewership.

He takes advantage of having your eyes focused on him to stretch his arms up and behind him, exposing a thin sliver of skin where his shirt meets his hips. He doesn’t try to hide the grin that spreads as he notices your eyebrow tick. Gotcha.

“Are you ready to finish this or do you need to go do your yoga routine?” Your voice is laced with annoyance now. Jungkook is a master at testing someone’s patience, as his hyungs would confirm, and yours is getting thin, exactly what he’s looking for to have you distracted.

“Let’s get it.” He pulls the sleeves of his hoodie up, exposing his forearms and the tattoos that paint his right arm, rivers of veins swimming between them. It’s nearly impossible to hear the little catch in your breath but he’s sure it was there. He bends back into his position, back curved too much for comfort and fingers heavy on his keyboard as he shifts his focus back to the monitor with the game waiting to restart.

Jungkook maneuvers his character back to the central statue as he had earlier, this time focusing more on taking the side paths rather than go straight for the choke point via the tunnel. He keeps cover behind the buildings, eyes trained on the other side of the plaza waiting for you to slip through but you’re nowhere to be seen.

His eyes veer to your webcam and your body is poised entirely too comfortably for the amount of stress he feels. Your back is set on your chair, head rested on the built in pillow. Your arms are relaxed as they wrap around one of your legs which has been hiked up onto the seat of your chair. Your fingers dance around the keys almost languidly. Honestly, you look nearly bored. He barely registers a smirk grace your lips before he hears the shot.

ROUND LOST

You stare into the camera, smile both sweet and rage inducing. “Maybe if you kept your eyes on the game you would have seen that coming.”

He doesn’t bother to deign you with a response before the next round starts. Fine, the plaza is clearly too distracting. He’ll stick to his end, make you come to him and he’ll be ready when you get there. He doesn’t go past the choke point, waits for you to show up. You’ll either come by the tunnel or around the side and through the arches. He can’t possibly miss you.

He just needs to wait. You have to be close by now. You’re not as aggressive in your strategy as he is but you’re bound to come looking for him when he isn’t at the statue.

He chances a quick glance to your camera. Your fingers are quick so you’re on the move. Any second.

“Where are you…” he mutters under his breath, forgetting that you can hear the annoyance in his tone. He’s staring the screen down hard, not letting you distract him this time. He triggers his Infrasight and scans the scene but comes up empty. Just buildings and no trace of your silhouette behind any of them.

He’ll never admit that he jumped halfway out of his chair when your Widowmaker suddenly drops right in front of him from above and you shriek, “BOO!”

The strings of expletives that flow out of him are cut off as he rips his headset off. It smashes onto the ground with an alarming crack but he doesn’t care. He’s out of his chair and pacing into a circle around the room as he tries to catch his breath. He can hear your howling laughter from the forgotten equipment on his floor.

It takes a minute but he sits back down and sets up again to see you’re still bent over, giggles coming out of you through your attempts to breathe.

“How the actual fuck did you even get there?” he demands. He’s angry. At you for continuously one upping him or at himself that someone, a girl, can so easily thwart him.

“For someone who mains Widowmaker you do forget about the grappling hook a lot. It’s surprisingly easy to get to the rooves and sashay my murderous little ass right above you and BAM, it’s over, Anakin. I have the high ground.”

It takes some self control not to smile at the reference. Jungkook may be fighting for his ego but he’s a geek first of all and always enjoys a good Star Wars joke.

“You gave up your secrets easily. You won’t catch me off guard next time.” He’s smug in his answer. He’s got you figured out now and he won’t be so simple to take out this round.

It might be the time to add another advantage to his side. He requests your patience just for a minute, it’s hot in the room. That’s a blatant lie. He keeps his streaming room nearly uncomfortably cold so none of his equipment overheats since he runs so many things at once.

He removes his headset, carefully placing them down on his desk this time. He gets up and makes sure he’s still in frame. His face is cut off by the angle but that’s fine, it’s not the most important portion of his plan.

His movements are slow as he takes his hoodie off. Reaches behind him to grasp at the material between his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head. He’s sure to drag it along his body so that the shirt under it pulls up along with it exposing the tight expanse of skin across his abdomen. He purposefully pulls the material nearly up to his clavicles in semblance of trying to find the hem, exposing a shiny glint, and throws the hoodie off to the side.

He finds his seat again with a cocky smirk painted on his lips. His little show only continues with his current state. He had been broke for so long that he didn’t update his wardrobe despite his continued presence at the gym resulting in most of his t-shirts now being more second skin than they are fabric.

He doesn’t miss how your eyes seem to have gotten a shade darker than they were a minute ago. The flex in his bicep as he gets comfortable over his keyboard is subconscious but effective nonetheless.

“Like what you see, princess?” He’s not hiding the smile this time. He knows the effect he has on people and uses his charms like a weapon.

His attacks are usually not so easily countered which he should have seen coming from you by now.

“Nothing that impressive. I just think that if you spent half as much time actually playing the game as you do in the gym you might be better at it.” You’re casual as you shrug him off before sending your own attack his way. “I think you’re right, it is getting a little warm on my end too.”

The regret that fills Jungkook is instant as you pull the zipper of your own hoodie down, eyes hard into the camera. You don’t bother getting up, opting for bending over obscenely as you pull on the ends of your sleeves behind you to free your arms, sending the view of your webcam straight down the top of your shirt. You weren’t wearing an ostentatiously low cut shirt like other women streamers Jungkook has encountered but there’s only so much decency the angle can afford which you knew very well.

The warmth going through Jungkook isn’t fake anymore. He can feel the heat radiating off the tops of his cheeks and the weight of the blood rushing south to settle into his crotch. His choice to wear his grey sweatpants will surely bite him in the ass.

“Problem, baby boy?” He’s completely blue screened, vision only registering at your taunt. You’re back in your previous position only more smug than ever.

He coughs out a, “no” before urging for the game to start again.

He’s out of the spawn point in a flash. He’s back up near the choke point and slips through the arch. He’s heading for the balcony to have some leverage to check the rooves around the plaza to take you down before you even reach his side of the map.

He’s panning the field of view from left to right, as much as he can from his hiding spot behind a wall but there’s no movement. It’s possible that you circumvented the other way and are waiting to fall on his head again so he rushes to the other side of the path to check above him but he never makes it. His character falls as soon as it gets out of cover.

The scream you let out is inhuman, the Joker on crack. It’s high pitched and unrestrained as it devolves into more laughter.

“Omg, you’re so fucking easy to read. Of course you were going to keep your eyes up when I told you that’s how I kept getting you. I pranced my ass straight into the plaza in plain sight and you didn’t bother to look down for a second. You’d make a great pet, you’re so simple to train.”

That last jab sent a bolt of electricity down his spine. It definitely hit him but instead of running through him and stopping behind his eyes as the usual insults tend to make home this one runs down and settles into his lap, the energy still buzzing.

He shifts in his seat and the movement immediately draws your attention.

“Aw, are you squirming? Getting nervous you might be shown up and realize you’re not God’s gift to gaming after all? Or are you nervous you’re being put in your place by a woman? Is that scary for you? Poor little big man ego bruised? Baby needs to go cry to mama?” Your tone is high pitched now, mocking.

This doesn’t help his situation and he can’t possibly hide the growing tent in his pants without being even more obvious. Maybe you won’t pick up that the bulge which very apparently is, in fact, not a banana in his pocket.

But of course the universe exists to bring him pain.

“Oh my god, you’re getting off on this, aren’t you? What is it that’s triggering you, the humiliation or the degradation? Probably both, you sick little freak.” Your words may sound disgusted but the gleeful smile you wear paired with the glint in your eyes shows otherwise.

The look on your face makes it so much worse and he bows his head to get away from it, eyes scrunched tightly so he isn’t faced with the product of your taunts but the soft whimper that escapes him cannot be stopped in time.

The chuckle that leaves you is much more sinister than your earlier ones. It’s filled with something that Jungkook can’t quite identify but courses through him like wildfire. His hands fly from the keyboard to his chair, fingers digging into the leather of his armrests.

“Look up, baby. It’s not nice to ignore someone.” His head snaps up at the command, seemingly out of his control. His eyes are wide and glassy, as if vacant from any thought of his own volition. “That’s funny. You’re so good at taking orders all of a sudden. You act like a big tough man online but you’re just a pathetic little boy that needs to be told what to do, aren’t you?”

Lips tight, teeth biting over them so as to not let anymore treacherous sounds out, he nods. You’d seen right through him since you entered their game. Online persona versus true hidden feelings revealed to you as easily as reading a children’s book.

“That’s what I thought.” He sees your eyes dip down, knows you’re taking in how hard he is, length straining against the fabric. He’s rethinking his choice of going commando. He didn’t expect his regular Overwatch stream to land him in this position. “You look uncomfortable all bent over like that. Tilt your chair back and get cozy, you’re going to need it.” One side of your lips pull up into a vicious smirk. He can’t tell what could possibly be going through your mind but he’s sure he’s about to find out.

The breath he attempts to rush in comes staggered, taking time to settle in his lungs before he blindly grasps at the lever on the side of the chair. He’s careful to push himself down on the backrest to angle himself enough to have a wide range of motion in front of him without impacting the view of your camera.

“You’re doing so well. Breathe, sweetling.” Your voice sounds so comforting, so different from its earlier bite. His eyes close as he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. It takes a couple tries but he finally seems to melt into the cushion of his chair.

The tension in his muscles ebb away and his eyes reopen to find you in his monitor. Your own gaze seems to have a glassy look as you take in his new position.

“I knew you could be a good boy,” you praise, which makes his breath hitch into his throat. He’s put himself in a vulnerable position with you at the helm and he’s still unsure whether that was a good idea.

He can see your eyes dip to his lap and he’s reminded of the compromising view he’s showing off, sweats tight over his crotch. The reminder prompts him to bring his hands down to cover the area, suddenly shy with the dynamic this situation has created.

The rush sends his palms flying downwards with more force than intended. The pressure suddenly pressed onto his shaft rips a moan that reverbs from deep within his chest. He can feel his face heating in embarrassment. Whatever he does just sends him further into distress.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, baby. We haven’t even started. Keep your hands where I tell you. Keep them to yourself for now. Go on, bring them back to the arm rests.”

It’s such an easy request but it takes some effort not to simply ignore your command and instead squeeze and relieve some of the pressure building in his pelvis. His grip is tighter around the arm rests of his chair than it should be but so is the knot inside him just begging to unravel.

“Great job, darling.” There’s a warm feeling in his chest at your words. Not the same heat from the embarrassment you put him through, something more comforting, akin to pride. “Pull your shirt up, you were so keen to show off what was under it earlier.”

Jungkook doesn’t think about the speed at which he brings his body back up into a sitting position to reach behind him and tug at the fabric but he’s quickly stopped by your voice again.

“Ah, ah! I said up not off. You’re not going to start disobeying so soon, are you? We’re going to have to work on your listening skills, brat.”

Jungkook hopes the soft whimper that escapes from the back of his throat isn’t picked up but he knows the quality of his microphone definitely registered it. He tries not to think too hard about that.

He brings himself back onto his chair, back leaning down, chest high and forward. His hand is tempting as he brings the hem of his shirt up slowly to expose the taught skin of his abdomen, fingers rising and falling between the dips of his abs up to the curve of the bottom of his pectoral.

“Go on, I didn’t tell you to stop,” you encourage. He continues the movement until the fabric of his shirt is bunched under his neck, the edges still draped to cover most of his pecs. “Come on now, you were so eager to show off your pretty tits earlier.”

The heat increases with a vengeance, spreading through the entirety of his exposed skin. His hips jerk involuntarily as his t-shirt scrapes over his nipples to finally expose what he knows you’re after. Across each dusken areola is a straight barbell pierced through his nipples keeping them hard and perky.

“So sensitive, aren’t you? Is that why you got those? So that every time your too tight shirts make contact you’re secretly getting turned on? Do your friends know you’re just a little whore behind that tough boy exterior?”

Your words sound far away and his breath feels harder to catch. The room feels hazy.

“You’ll show me how sensitive it makes you, right? You’ll be good and give me a demonstration? Do it, baby, use your pretty fingers.”

Jungkook hooks the bottom of his shirt over his head to give himself the space and ability to use both hands to roam over the tight planes of his chest. Each palm comes up to cover over a pec, just feeling the warmth radiating from his skin under his touch. He’s taking his time and you don’t push as he squeezes and pinches at the muscle around where he’s desperately craving the stimulation.

He can’t handle teasing himself too long, his body screaming in anticipation. A sharp cry melts into the soundproof foam mounted on his walls when his fingers finally take hold and tweak at his nipples. The stark contrast of the cold metal that pierces through him and the heat of his skin sends him reeling. His mouth easily falls open when he finally makes contact.

“Aww,” you coo at him, “such a responsive little slut, aren’t you? Bet your fingers aren’t enough, huh? Wish it was my hands on you instead?” You bring your hand up in front of you to examine it, to make him imagine how it’d feel on him instead of his own. “My nails are a little sharp but that’s the best part isn’t it? Want me to leave marks in your soft skin? Scratched up so everyone knows you belong to me? Is that even enough or do you need teeth? Bet you'd look so pretty, all littered in bite marks.”

The electricity blossoms from each nipple and blooms across his chest moving down to take root in his pelvis, the jolt ending at his balls which ache with the weight of his want. The roughness of the fabric of his sweats rubs at the head of his cock from the force at which his shaft strains against the fabric. The torture is too much and not enough all at once. He can feel the wetness spread from where his slit pushes against the cotton as his precome starts to leak out of him.

Your eyes darken along with the spot, both incentives pushing his desire further. His right hand abandons its post on his nipple and slowly drags itself down to the hem of his pants. It stops to grab onto the waistband. He understands the rules of this game.

Jungkook’s eyes dig into yours and awaits your response. A smirk spans across your lips as you take in his position, hand still and grasping to avoid breaking and dipping lower than it’s allowed.

“You want to play with your little cock, darling?” His breath sticks in his throat, a nod being the only answer he can muster. “Tsk, that won’t do. I’ll give you what you want but you need to ask for it properly. Use your words.”

His knuckles turn white as his fist tightens and a shiver runs through him. He can feel the wave start at his scalp and move agonizingly slowly down his spine, body thrusting as it follows the sensation. “Please,” he implores.

“Good boy. Go on then.”

His fist dives into his pants at an embarrassing speed but the sigh of relief that escapes him is worth it. There are noises filling the room but he ignores the fact they’re all coming from him, soft whimpers and sweet whines as his grip around his shaft moves slowly up and down.

“Are you going to keep all the best parts to yourself? Such a greedy baby. Pull it out for me. Don’t you want to show off your pretty little pierced cock?”

All movement stops. Jungkook’s head flies up to look at his monitor. You look as calm and collective as ever. Your smile seems sweet but he knows the vicious words those lips can form. His eyes fall to his lap and although his dick is clearly imprinted across the fabric there’s no way you could have noticed those details, especially not with his fingers wrapped around his shaft.

“Did you think you were sneaky? Take a look at yourself right now,” you instruct. He brings his gaze over to the corner of the monitor where his own webcam is reflecting the show he’s been putting on. “All those tattoos?” His eyes follow the span of his right arm, ink decorating every inch from shoulder down to where his forearm disappears into his pants knowing it goes to the tip of his fingers. “The piercings? Your eyebrow, your ears, your lip, you pretty little nipples. They’re everywhere. Are you going to try to make me believe a little painslut like you hasn’t brought it down to the most sensitive part?”

There are no words to defend himself. There’s no defense at all, you’re right. He’d started with his ears as a teenager and only getting more daring as the years went on. The burn of each new piercing only good enough to last for him the healing time before going to chase the sensation again.

He chooses to ignore the taunt and follow your earlier request of pulling himself out. He lifts his ass off his chair enough to pull his pants down to his knees, exposing thick thighs and sending his dick smacking against his abdomen.

He’s not exactly small, the head resting comfortably just under his navel. He can easily touch his thumb to his fingers once they’re wrapped around the shaft but he also knows his own hand is much bigger than the feminine ones that otherwise try their grip. His thoughts wander to the size of your own hands and how they would look wrapped around him.

He keeps his hand off himself for now to give you time to form your next order. You don’t give him any insight to your thoughts as you just take him in. You’d never admit that you were slightly off in your guess. You expected a barbell to peek out of the slit and curve down just under the edge of his defined mushroom head. A Prince Albert is the most standard you’ve seen in your own experiences. Instead you can see the bottom of his shaft lined with 4 straight barbells going down in a line. A Jacob’s Ladder is much more aesthetic and you’re not entirely surprised with his choice. It’s clear Jungkook puts a lot of thought into his appearance and getting four times the pain fits with what you’ve been discovering about him.

Despite all this all you tell him is, “pretty.” It all works just as well for what you’re aiming for. It’s clear that Jungkook gets plenty of female attention if his ego was anything to go by. You’re sure he’s gotten compliments about his sexy body and handsome face but you love seeing a man get flustered when receiving a stereotypically feminine compliment. Jungkook’s mouth opens and closes a few times to try to fish for a response but he comes up empty. You can’t help the giggle that slips out seeing him all exposed and under your control but get shy over such a simple comment.

“You’re doing so well, baby. Will you show me how you make yourself feel good?” The instruction brings him back to the situation at hand, as if suddenly remembering he’s sitting naked in front of this stranger, humiliation having taken a turn.

The grip he had on himself had loosened in surprise at your call out but tightens with renewed vigor. A choked gasp slips from between his lips, mouth still open from the shock.

“Always in a rush. Do you need instructions for everything? Can’t calm down enough to pace yourself? Are you doing it on purpose? You just want my help?”

He shakes his head in response to the taunt. He’s not being bad on purpose. He’s just trying to follow your direction. You asked him to do what feels good and this does.

There’s a low hum buzzing in his headset as you contemplate his answer. “I don’t think I believe you. You’ve been such a brat. I think you just want to see me angry.”

His eyes widen a little wider at your words. You could get worse? His dick pulses at the thought and his hand clenches around it to stop it from jumping too obviously.

“Guess we’ll just have to take it one step at a time then. Listen well, I don’t want to have to repeat myself. Hands off,” you order.

His hand flies away as if burnt. His palms lay tense but still on his thighs as he waits for the first command. There’s a tremble in his extremities. Is it attributed to the anticipation or the degradation? He doesn’t have time to think and determine the answer before your next words come floating at him.

“Good. Now, slowly, bring your right hand to your cute little dick. Just your fingertips. A light touch. I bet your skin is so soft, isn’t it?”

His hand follows your voice. The pads of his fingers are ghosting over his thigh, up towards his pelvis, over his balls and agonizingly slowly up his shaft. He can feel the protrusions of each of the metal barbells under his skin. Bump, bump, bump, bump until he reaches the head. It’s silky and wet from the precum that leaks from the tip.

The low groan he lets out is the indication you’re waiting for to give him his next praise. It’s clear from the visible throbbing of his cock that he’s desperate to move faster but he keeps the same soft touch you asked for.

“You’re doing so well, darling. Such a good boy. Do you want more? You know how to ask for it. Go on.” The noise that escapes him is tortuous, part moan and part whine, lament on his tongue but he pleads so prettily for you to let him feel more.

“Please, please, please.”

You allow him a strong grip, a long sigh of relief but don’t let him quicken the pace. It’s still the sluggish up and down motion that teases the piercings that line under his shaft. His breath is shaky and the noises escape him involuntarily. Although you have all the control his body is losing the little it had left.

“So noisy. Good little toys are quiet.” You weren’t going to admit that seeing a man of his stature be rendered to a whining mess by a few little remarks is your favorite music but you know forcing them down only makes them sing so much sweeter later. “Do I need to shut you up? Baby needs a gag, hmm?”

Jungkook doesn’t need to peek at his monitor to see that his pupils have blown at the suggestion. His mouth waters and the swallowing motion is obvious as he tries not to drool which only sparks your tormenting ideas.

“You can put your mouth to use if you can’t keep it shut. You’ve got a free hand, go ahead and put your fingers between those plump lips.” He’s no stranger to putting his fingers in other people’s mouths, tongue slipping between his digits so he can be at the helm of torture himself but he’s rarely at the receiving end.

The weight of two fingers rest unfamiliarly heavy on his tongue but the warm and wet feeling that surrounds them sends him spiraling. He’s trying his best not to disobey and be loud but the stimulation feels so good that he can’t stop the moan that reverberates around his fingers.

“Tsk, clearly not enough. You can fit more in there, can’t you?” You’re pushing at his comfort zone but he’s not the type to back down. A few more fingers won’t hurt. It’s not long until he has four fingers second knuckle deep in his mouth, jaw stretched and aching to accommodate the intrusion.

“You’re doing perfectly, darling. You can put them in further, can’t you? I bet you love shoving your cock in someone’s throat so you can handle some fingers in there, right? Some girls can’t possibly handle more than you, huh?” You’re pushing at his ego, knowing exactly which buttons to press to spark his competitive side.

His eyes narrow at the assumption. Whatever you think he can handle he’ll show that he exceeds those expectations. He’s a little too rough with his urge to prove himself and pushes his fingers further in with too much force which sets off his gag reflex. His hand pulls away from his mouth, to allow him cough and catch his breath. His face is heated and strings of spit connect his mouth to his fingers now held awkwardly in front of him.

Your dark chuckle echoes in his ears at the sight. You knew this would happen, exactly what you were aiming for. Always pushing just hard enough for him to embarrass himself slightly but he’s been putting himself in those positions voluntarily. You might be saying the right things to push his limits but never enough to truly manipulate him into positions he doesn’t want to be in.

“Aww, guess you’ll need to work on your breathing when your mouth is full, sweetling. But now that your fingers are nice and wet how about you take advantage of the situation? Your balls look so heavy and full. Don’t you need some relief?”

He jumps at the opportunity, bringing his hand down, past where his right is still clinging to his cock to cup at his balls. He hadn’t gotten laid in a few weeks and the focus on the competitive season had taken too much of his free time to allow himself some self appointed release. Finally having his hand gently fondling reminds him of how achey they’d been since the start of this strange position.

“Squeeze harder. You love the pain, don’t you? Show me how much you can take.” The taunting has made him sensitive and the rough restraint surrounding both his balls and shaft sends jolts through him. Little pinches from his fingers shoot shocks to every part of his body, knot clenching in his abdomen. You’re so pleased at how well he’s following your instructions. The toxic gamer boy you met not even an hour ago is nowhere to be found, making way for a perfect little doll to play with.

“Have you had enough teasing, baby? You ready to get started?” Started?? As if all the torment you’ve put him through has just been child’s play. He’s not sure how much more he can take but he’ll easily continue to follow, preemptively drunk on the high he knows you’ll send him on. The long moan he lets out is enough of an answer for you.

“Good. Spit in your hand, sweetling, we don’t want you too dry and hurt yourself.” Between the jabs you do want him to actually enjoy himself. There’s no pause to do as he’s told, eager to finally reach the relief you keep nudging away from him.

He’s sufficiently slicked up for his hand to move easily in a jerking motion, whine high in his throat. You play nice and let him set his pace while still giving simple requests: squeeze, pinch, twist, harder, faster, tighter.

He becomes a wiggling mess near instantly. His chest heaves and hips thrust erratically into his fist. His slit leaks profusely and you’re enthralled at the sight, so much that you nearly miss the moment when he’s about to lose himself. You’ve still got a few more tricks up your sleeve.

“Stop.” The command is plain, straightforward and cannot be misinterpreted. His hand jumps from the rhythm it had set, excruciatingly quick and tight. He’s clearly heard you but practically too far gone to obey. “You’re not going to make me repeat myself, are you, doll?”

It’s enough to have him rip his hands off himself and grasp at the armrests of his chairs once more, nails practically ripping into the leather with the force necessary to control himself. The frustration is audible in the loud groan that’s ripped out of him, long and tormented, ending in a sob.

“Oh, god. Why? I was finally so close! You’re cruel.” His voice cracks with the force of trying to keep the tears that spring to his eyes from falling.

“Aw, honey, don’t cry. It’s your own fault. You were so close to cumming but you were forgetting your manners. I don’t recall you asking for permission, do you?”

His jaw is clenched, trying to avoid letting out his irritation at you. Annoying you now will only set his fate in stone and you’ll never let him cum at all. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“So polite, I knew you could do it. Ready to get back to it?”

No words are needed to answer, hands just jumping back to their earlier position, spit renewed and slick on his skin. He focuses to stay more in the moment, listening to your voice as it tells him little movements you want. The heavenly twist as the tightest part of his fist passes over his piercings right under the head. The swipe of his thumb over the slit every time he reaches the top, encircling the tip before it sinks back down to the base. The pull at his balls synchronized with the tug at the end of his cock.

His end is coming back quickly, the edging he’s been put under losing as his self control escapes him. He’s learned his earlier lesson. His eyes find yours in the monitor, both of you staring each other down. Your eyebrow ticks when you notice irregularity of his thrusts, cadence breaking.

“Please!” he begs. “Please, let me cum. I need to cum, please please,” he rambles on. He continues to implore you, unsure if his pleading is still making sense. His pride means nothing in the moment, reprieve the only thing he can focus on anymore.

“Of course, darling. Go ahead,” you allow him.

His head is thrown back with the force of the relief he is finally given. He tries so hard to keep his eyes on yours as he falls apart. He wants to see your reaction to achieving what you’ve been working on but the wave that sweeps through him is too strong and his eyes close briefly as he feels his balls emptying, jet spraying over his abdomen, a few stray drops going as far as to reach his cheek.

Everything feels too hot. The fire under his skin. The stuffiness of the room around him. The cum that marks him the entirety of his chest which will quickly become a sticky mess.

Jungkook expected a genuine smile to finally grace your features by this point. He’d followed all your commands, he’d been so good but the same sadistic smirk is all that he finds once he manages to look back at you.

“Keep going.”

Keep going? Keep what going? He’s empty, dick starting to slump back towards the ground.

“Don’t look so clueless. You asked to cum and I allowed it. You never said anything about asking to stop so take your pretty little dick back in your hand and keep going.”

Crazy. You’re devil incarnate, a demon in a pretty girl’s skin. Yet instead of closing the call and ignoring you he still reaches to grasp himself again.

There’s uncomfortable jolts of electricity going through him. He’s still too sensitive, the friction on his shaft sending his nervous system into overdrive. He reaches up to play at his nipples again. He knows how responsive his body is with the right stimulation. A few pinches and tweaks will have him hard again near instantly. He silently thanks the refractory period of being a horny dude in his twenties.

He’s back at full mast soon enough but the sensitivity is still too high, body jerking every time his fingers accidentally go too high and scrape against the head of his cock.

“You can do it properly, can’t you? Stroke your gorgeous cock like you mean it.” Only whimpers come as an answer. He can follow your directions. He wants to please you so badly. His eyes are squinted shut with the effort it takes to reach the tip and squeeze and twist around the head.

“Fuck! Hurts,” he complains, words barely being able to be formed between the pained wails. Breathing is becoming harder through the agony. His thighs are shaking, spasms wracking through his body as he tries to keep his pace.

“You love it when it hurts, don’t you? My perfect little painslut.” The agony he’s putting himself through is worth every second if it’s rewarded with your praises.

He desperately needs incentive to keep pushing towards his goal. His free hand is moving steadily upwards, over his chest, shiver rocking through him as he grazes his nipple again to settle at the base of his throat.

His head stretches back to expose as much of his neck as he can, muscles tensing as he wraps his hand around the column. He misses the hitch in your own breath at the view. He’s a beautiful mess and completely wrapped around your finger.

“Of course you’d like to be choked. Masochistic whore like you? Go on, squeeze, baby.”

The world turns dull around him. The darkness behind his closed eyes explodes in a world of color. There’s a cramp in his fingers as they dig into his skin. His throat is raw from the screams he’s letting out and the room is filled with the obscene slippery sounds of his hand jerking through the cum that’s now sticky against him but none of the sound registers in his ears. The only melody that enters through the fog in his brain in your voice as it calls to him one last time.

“Let go, baby. Be a good boy and cum for me.”

His hand releases his neck from its grasp and everything collapses around him. Air rushes back to his brain and lungs in a crashing wave. The pain previously holding onto each of his nerve endings lets go into euphoria as a new flow of cum spurts out of him, albeit not as impressive as the first. Most of it ends up being forcefully milked out of his slit as it settles pathetically over his tattooed knuckles.

His whole body quivers for far too long, floating in exhilaration. It takes time for Jungkook to come back to his senses. There’s a thin film of sweat covering him and a dopey smile on his face at the bliss he’s been hurled into.

When he thinks he’s finally strong enough to handle the weight of his body back into a sitting position he searches for your eyes, ready to see how you’ve been affected by the whole thing only to be met with a dark screen. Your webcam has been turned off, the call disconnected.

All he’s left with is the chat window where a new message can be seen, a link to a Twitch page. He’s following it to a user page where he can see a picture of you in the circular shape next to your gamertag.

Audreonne ✓

5M followers

His attention is ripped away by a new incoming Discord notification.

Taebae95: You beat her yet?

_______________

Masterlist || Rematch

#ficscafe #thebtswritersclub #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jk #jungkook x reader #jk x reader #jungkook smut #jk smut #bts smut #jungkook fic #jk fic #jungkook fanfic #jk fanfic #sub!jk #sub jk #jungkook x you #jk x you #jungkook one shot

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ncssian · 3 years

Text

A Favor: Epilogue

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

***

Eleven months later

Rhysand,

I’m leaving this letter taped to your desk because I know you won’t bother reading it otherwise. Sorry—this didn’t feel like something that could be said over email.

I can’t begin to count the number of times you’ve saved my life over the past two decades. From when your mom first took me off the streets and you let me share your room, to when you pushed me to go to Italy because you could see that I needed the space.

Since the day I joined Night Court Inc. I’ve worked tirelessly to pay you back. The long hours, taking on multiple projects at once, doing jobs outside of my jurisdiction, all have been to pay you back. Not because I felt like I had to, but because you deserved it. You were—and are—an amazing boss and brother.

Which is why it’s so hard for me to tell you that I’m leaving.

Not forever, obviously. Just for a year, maybe more if I feel like it. Think of it as an extended sabbatical.

Nesta is graduating soon, and there’s a lot I want to do with her before she takes the Bar and starts her career. Firms are already lining up at the door to employ her, so she’s hot real estate, you know?

Anyway, the two of us have this bucket list of places we want to see before we die, and while becoming a full time attorney isn’t really dying, it’s pretty close to it in my book. She’s not in it for the money, either, so you just know she’s gonna end up in some ugly gray cubicle doing thankless pro bono work (which I love her for).

I’m rambling. My point is, we’re heading straight for the Pacific Northwest after her graduation. I want to see those cute little woods from Twilight. After that, who the fuck knows.

Just be warned that my phone will probably be off for the next twelve months, but I’ll be sending postcards. Don’t be too mad if the company struggles to survive without me; I’m sending in a temporary replacement who I think you’ll really love.

I have one question to ask you before I go, though. I want to say it here so I don’t have to risk crying like a pussy if I say it to your face:

Will you be my groomsman?

Your brother in crime,

Cassian

***

Gwyn and Emerie wake tangled in a pile of limbs and sheets. Groaning, the girls push themselves up from the bed—no, that’s hardwood, and blink around at their surroundings. They’re sprawled across Emerie’s bedroom floor, the space littered by empty cans. Late morning sunlight streams in through the single window, making Emerie wince in pain.

“What did we do last night?” Gwyn groans, batting her tangled auburn hair out of her face.

“I wish I could remember,” Emerie grumbles. Her dark eyes catch on a dark marking on her left knuckle, and she goes to rub it off.

She hisses a wince when she touches it and pulls her hand back. “What the…”

Gwyn takes notice of her own middle finger knuckle and squints. “Are these...tattoos?” she says groggily.

“We got matching tattoos? What the hell is this even supposed to be?” Emerie demands. She waves her hand around like it’ll give her answers. “It’s just a V.”

Gwyn uses her half-sober brain to think as hard as she can about what she and Emerie have in common that starts with V. “V for…vagina?”

“V for Valkyrie.”

The girls jump at Nesta’s voice, finally taking notice of her sitting against the wooden dresser.

Nesta, who hates drinking and was unfortunately completely sober for the events of last night.

“We were watching a documentary about Norse culture and mythology,” Nesta goes on, her tone informative and straightforward. “Gwyn was drunk off apple schnapps. You, Emerie, had an entire flask of vodka all to yourself in celebration of your final night as a law student.” Nesta uncrosses her legs and delicately gets to her heeled feet. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t the Norse doc that made you want to get matching Valkyrie tattoos. It was watching Thor: Ragnarok right afterwards.”

“You were sober the whole time and you let this happen to us?” Emerie fumes.

“If I had a mom she would totally kill me for this,” Gwyn whimpers, clutching her newly tattooed hand.

“Oh, it could have been worse, ladies,” Nesta says. “It was going to be much, much worse, but since I was nice enough to look out for your dignities and pay for your tattoos, I convinced us all into getting something small, cheap, and unnoticeable.” She holds out her own left hand, where a dark V sits inked onto a knuckle. “See? Nothing that could scare off our future employers.”

“Aw, you matched with us?” Gwyn practically makes heart eyes, but Emerie bats her arm aggressively to get her to shut up. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something important right now?” Emerie demands.

“Oh, right. We graduate from Prythian School of Law in…” Nesta holds out her wrist and checks her watch. “One hour.”

“Fuck.” Emerie scrambles to her feet, nearly slipping on the way up. “Fuck fuck fuck!” She eyes Nesta’s fully dressed figure in disbelief, heels and blazer dress and sleek hair and all. “You got ready without waking us up?”

“You made your decisions, I made mine.”

Emerie clearly doesn’t have the time to be upset with Nesta, because she’s already speeding toward the shower in a storm of curses. Gwyn chases after her shouting, “Let me shower with you!”

Left alone in the bedroom, Nesta huffs a quiet laugh to herself. Her thumb grazes against the fresh tattoo on her middle finger, and she turns on her heel to clean up the place before they leave.

***

In the end, the winner of Nesta and Emerie’s three year long academic rivalry is Emerie.

Nesta is buzzing with excitement while filming her friend’s valedictorian speech, only dropping her grin when she has to send death glares to graduates that try to stand in the way of her camera. And even though Gwyn is waiting on the other side of the amphitheater with the rest of their friends and family, Nesta can practically hear her squeals from where she sits too.

The weather today feels like a reward for all the hard work Nesta’s done the past year. The sun shines but it doesn’t overheat her, and a cool breeze comforts her as she waits for her name to be called. Not even spending half the year sleeping in an empty bed could stop her from finishing out law school with the highest honors.

When it’s Nesta’s turn to walk the stage and receive her JD, she almost falters at the cheers that erupt from a certain section of the seats.

Straightening her shoulders, she strides to where the dean waits, shaking his hand and accepting her degree. She flashes a glance of irritation toward her guests to let them know that she hears them perfectly fine. That only makes them cheer harder, and Emerie almost jumps Nesta on her way back to her seat. “You did it!” She flings her arms around Nesta’s neck. “Goddammit, you did it!”

Nesta lets out an unrestrained laugh and hugs Emerie back tightly. “You’re next, babe.”

Hearing the announcer finally say “Emerie Nikolis” is almost as exciting as when Nesta heard her own name being called. It makes the rest of the ceremony dull in comparison, mostly because Nesta hardly cares about the rest of her peers. She still isn’t that great at getting along with others, she supposes—more like certain people came into her life with a lightning strike of luck, and they chose to stay. She chose to keep them.

After the ceremony ends and people begin filing out of the amphitheater in lines, Nesta looks around everywhere for a glimpse of Emerie in the sea of people. She wants to bask in their shared success as soon as possible. Instead, she ends up getting caught in a crowd of fresh law grads also searching for their friends and families. Black robes create a blur around her, and her senses itch at the feeling of being trapped, trampled before she can even make it out of the venue—

A warm, broad hand wraps around Nesta’s robed waist, pulling her close and creating a barrier between her and everyone else.

Without a word, Cassian uses his hulking size to create an opening in the crowd, edging people out of the way until they’re out in the open air again at the entrance of the amphitheater.

Offering him a grateful smile, Nesta hobbles onto the curb that runs along the overflowing parking lot. Her feet are asleep from sitting in a hard chair all morning, but she stands steady again when she catches sight of them: Gwyn and Emerie and her sisters, with the rest of their friends and family trailing behind them.

Cassian gives her waist a squeeze before nudging her toward them. In an instant, Nesta is swarmed by a flood of congratulations and gifts, not knowing which way to look or who to pay attention to.

A heavily pregnant Feyre shoves a bouquet of white calla lilies into her arms, and Elain follows with a potted succulent. “Elain grew them herself, but I helped pick them out,” Feyre tells her proudly.

“Thank you,” Nesta manages to say with a grateful smile before her attention is stolen by Azriel, who tugs at her sleeve like a kid wanting attention. “And what did you get for me?” she asks him.

He offers her a smile and two thumbs up. “My love and affection.”

Gwyn smacks him in the arm with a wrapped present and glares. “You’re so cheap. I told you not to come if you couldn’t get anything.”

Azriel rubs his arm in disbelief. “Just put my name on whatever you got!”

She hits him with the present again. “Shut up.” She hits him a third time. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“That’s enough, you’re gonna hurt it,” Emerie snaps, wrestling the gift out of Gwyn’s hands.

Azriel looks grateful if not a little surprised at Emerie coming to his defense. “Thanks, Em.”

“I was talking about this.” Emerie holds up the paper-wrapped gift.

Nesta furrows her brows, wondering who the present is for. It could be for Emerie, since she seems to be carrying no other graduation gifts in her hands—something that instantly concerns Nesta. “Where are your flowers?” Nesta asks her. Surely someone remembered to get Emerie flowers.

Emerie points to her car parked not too far away. “Over there.”

Nesta shouldn’t have worried. Emerie’s beat up car looks like a makeshift garland shop, piled from hood to trunk with flowers, stuffed animals, and edible arrangements. Of course; Emerie has always been more popular than Nesta.

“Oh, I can see my flowers from here!” Mor exclaims with a hand above her eyes, sidling up to Emerie’s side. Nesta keeps her mouth firm against the amused smile that wants to form at Mor’s attempt to get Emerie’s attention. If there’s one thing Morrigan doesn’t know, it’s when to give up.

“Oh really?” Emerie plays along. “Which ones are they?”

“The basket of yellow tulips. Aren’t they pretty?”

“I see.” Emerie pouts at Mor with mock disappointment. “Too bad I’m allergic to tulips.”

Nesta accidentally lets out a cackle when Mor’s face drops, and then quickly shuts her mouth in apology.

Cassian chooses that moment to intervene, dropping a hand onto Mor’s shoulder and tugging her away. “Let’s let the girls have their moment,” he says, shooting a look to his brothers. They get the hint. Az frees Nesta’s hands of her gifts before he and Rhysand each take the arm of an Archeron sister and begin to lead them away, giving Nesta and Emerie and Gwyn some privacy.

Elain’s elbow meets sharply with Azriel’s ribs as they walk away, making him curse and nearly drop Nesta’s bouquet. She says, “Oops, thought I saw a bug.”

“Why is everyone going for me today?” he demands.

Gwyn watches them go over her shoulder, and Nesta sees a spark of concern in her eyes for Azriel’s hurt rib. Then she waves a dismissive hand and mutters, “He’ll be fine.” She turns back to the girls and grabs Emerie’s sleeve. “Give her the gift, give her the gift,” she pleads, bouncing up and down on her toes.

Emerie shakes Gwyn off and snaps, “Give me a second.” She straightens out her wrinkled gown sleeve with a scowl.

Nesta’s brows go all the way up into her hairline, her curiosity finally piqued. “That’s for me?” She nods to the present. It’s shaped like a book or maybe a journal, both options that excite her. She can buy pretty books and fancy journals any time of the year, sure, but getting them as a gift will never turn boring.

Emerie huffs and holds the present protectively to her chest. “It was supposed to be a birthday present,” she says.

“From two birthdays ago,” Gwyn interjects, her teal eyes bright. “Em and I came up with the idea after the ski trip, but by then it was too late to get it ready by your birthday.”

Nesta does the numbers in her head. “It took you guys fifteen months to get this ready?” If she sounds skeptical, it’s because she is.

Emerie shrugs. “Gwyn is a slow…” She trails off at a warning look from Gwyn and amends, “She has her art blocks.”

Gwyn snatches the present from Emerie and thrusts it into Nesta’s hands like she wants to be rid of it. “Here. Open it fast, we can’t wait any longer.”

Gwyn claps her hands together in excitement, but Nesta’s own hands are wary as they wrap around the gift. It’s hard and smooth beneath the wrapping. Definitely a book, and longer than her usual reads.

Nesta’s smile is small as she tears off the paper. “What kind of book takes over a year for you to get?”

She falls silent as the last of the paper falls away, answering her question.

Gold lettering stamped against a deep blue binding stares up at her. The book is beautiful in its simplicity, the title declaring:

THE ADVENTURES OF LADY NESTA

“What’s this?” she whispers.

“I did the writing and Emerie helped with the plot and the manufacturing. We’re a two-woman publishing house,” Gwyn explains, throwing her arms around Emerie.

Nesta carefully opens the book in her hands, not knowing what to expect within the pages.

There are words, obviously. Black ink on off-white paper organized into sentences, and sentences organized into paragraphs. But one word stands out the most among the page she opened up to. Her own name.

“To the valiant Sir Nesta of House Archeron.” The warrior lord raised his cup toward her. The others toasted in suit, “To the valiant Sir Nesta!”

“So it’s a fantasy set in medieval times, kind of like Camelot but not actually Camelot,” Gwyn babbles while Nesta stares at the book in her hands. “And you’re a lady-in-waiting who’s part of the court of a tyrannical king, but you also secretly moonlight as a knight, and you’re also a sorceress, and sometimes you’re a murderer—and the whole time, Em and I are like your super hot magical sidekicks. I’m going to warn you now, though: I did use real people’s names for this, and your character does have graphic sex with Cassian’s character multiple times. If real life Cassian ever learns of the existence of this book, however, I will have to kill him and then you—” She pauses for a big breath.

Emerie stops her right there with a hand to her mouth. “Okay, that’s enough, don’t spoil the whole damn book.”

Nesta looks from Gwyn and Emerie to the book, back to Gwyn and Emerie. “You guys…wrote smut about me in a fantasy setting? And then you had it printed and bound?”

“It’s not like we enjoyed it,” Emerie says defensively, lifting her sharp chin. “It’s a staple of the genre. We figured you wouldn’t read it without any romance.”

“There’s more than smut, though,” Gwyn promises. “There’s magic and power struggles and adventures that test your loyalty and bravery. Give it a chance before getting mad.” She looks worried, afraid that Nesta might actually hate it.

Nesta laughs aloud, but the sound comes out all odd. Her voice cracks when she says, “Why would I be mad?”

“Are you—crying?” Emerie sounds concerned.

Nesta shakes her head, overwhelmed with a feeling she can’t even name. It’s more than joy or awe; it might even be more than love. She focuses back on the book to distract from her tears, opening it to the title page. In smaller print beneath the title are the names of the authors.

Gwyn Berdara

Emerie Nikolis

Nesta then flips to the last page and finds the number on the bottom. 405 pages.

“You wrote all of this about me?” She didn’t even know there was that much to say about her. She laughs tearfully again. “How did you two even come up with this?”

Gwyn shrugs like it’s nothing. “We mostly just wanted to give you something that shows you how we see you.”

Emerie adds in a gentler tone, “We think you’re brave, and smart, and elegant and sometimes scary, and…” She looks to Gwyn. “We were inspired.”

“The heroine’s story might be exaggerated, but it’s basically you, Nesta,” Gwyn says.

Nesta’s eyes start stinging again, and she blinks furiously to keep the emotion away. It’s bad enough that Cassian and her sisters and their friends are pretending not to stare from a distance.

“Check the spine.” Emerie nudges her softly.

Nesta follows her directions and flips the book over. Instead of the title engraved along the hard edge like most books, there are three emblems along the spine. A dagger, a music note, and a book. Matching the charm bracelets each of them still wear today, even though Nesta’s bracelet is dangerously on the verge of falling apart. It only has a few wears left to it before she’ll have to store it away somewhere safe, Nesta being too attached to the cheap purple thread at this point to replace it.

She runs her fingers over the spine in awe, unable to comprehend how much time and labor and money it must have cost her friends to create such a beautifully crafted book. “But… I didn’t do anything for this gift,” she tries to say. “I didn’t even get anything back for you guys.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Emerie assures her. “Consider it a gift for existing. And don’t even think about paying us back,” she adds in warning.

“I’m going to pay you back,” Nesta deadpans. She turns to Gwyn with immeasurable pride in her eyes. “I can’t believe you wrote my favorite book.”

“You haven’t even read it yet,” Gwyn laughs.

“It’s my favorite book,” Nesta repeats. “Thank you.” The words are an understatement; she’s going to sit down and read every page three times as soon as she gets home.

A loud cough suddenly interrupts their moment, and Nesta slides her eyes past the girls to where the rest of the group waits. Azriel looks irritable at Gwyn being away for so long, while Feyre is taking pictures of the three of them like she’s capturing a historical moment. Everyone else is attempting not to look like they’re eavesdropping from where they stand.

“Let’s get back to the group,” Emerie says, taking one of Nesta’s and Gwyn’s arms in her own. “I heard your rich brother-in-law promised everyone overpriced sushi after this.”

“Just because he’s married to my sister doesn’t mean you should call him that,” Nesta scolds as they make their way back to her family.

“Everyone finished crying like little girls?” Rhys asks when they arrive.

Nesta gives a pointed look to Emerie that says, See my point?

“Let me see what you got.” Feyre huddles near her to get a closer look at the book, while Elain pretends to be disinterested but still takes a peek over Feyre’s shoulder.

Despite the claustrophobic feeling of being surrounded, Nesta opens up the book to show her sisters the contents.

While Feyre oohs and ahs over the gift, Azriel says, “Here, take these while you’re at it,” and shoves Nesta’s flowers and potted succulent back into her arms.

She just barely catches them before they fall, her arms now overflowing with gifts.

Before Nesta can be attacked by any more people, Cassian appears and places a firm hand at her back, steadying her balance. “Nesta and I will leave first,” he says in his smooth voice. “Race you to the restaurant.” He throws up a short wave in goodbye and begins to pull her away from the group.

Nesta whooshes out a breath of relief as they leave and mutters, “Thanks.”

He says nothing in return, but Nesta feels his hand tighten imperceptibly around her waist.

***

The group watches Nesta and Cassian go in a mix of suspicion and wariness. It’s silent for a long moment before Elain finally throws out, “Do you think he’s going to do it?”

“No way,” Feyre says. “He wouldn’t do that without telling us, right?”

Mor shakes her head. “No fucking way. It’s Cassian.”

“It’s also Nesta,” Emerie rebuts. “He won’t tell me anything about what he has planned, if he even has anything planned.” The rest of the group murmurs in agreement.

Rhys grumbles aloud, “After abandoning me at the company with Eris Vanserra for the next year, he better not be planning anything without telling me first.”

Gwyn huffs out a sigh of frustration. “It keeps me up at night wondering when he’s going to propose.”

“You sleep fine,” Azriel mutters from behind her.

“It also keeps me up at night wondering how long I’m going to be stuck with you.”

He tucks her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Forever, Carrots.”

Elain forces a polite smile at the show of affection, and then turns abruptly to Rhysand. “I hope you’re also paying for drinks.”

***

“You drive.”

They’re the first words Cassian has said to her face all day, accompanied with a toss of the keys to his truck.

Nesta catches the keys, her arms free from the gifts that now sit in the back seat of the truck. “Really?” she says.

“Yeah.” He’s too nervous to even speak, much less drive with his trembling hands. He takes a deep breath to collect himself and goes over to the passenger side, getting in before he can overthink things.

It was bad enough being torn apart by jealousy while watching Nesta receive Gwyn and Emerie’s book—not that he wasn’t wildly happy for her and the girls, but that it was a sad reminder that Cassian couldn’t give Nesta a gift as well.

He had had it, the perfect gift: a finely crafted music box with a ballerina that spun gracefully when you opened it. He was going to place the ring on the dancer’s outstretched arm for Nesta to find, and now…

Now the music box lies in a hundred pieces in the trash, crushed during an aggressive Nerf gun fight by his reckless brothers.

Rhys apologized—and has been apologizing—profusely for the mistake, but it doesn’t fix anything. Cassian has no gift to celebrate Nesta’s accomplishments, so he can only hope that his words will do the heavy lifting today.

“Nesta.”

“Hm?” She takes her eyes off the road to glance at him.

“Congratulations.” He feels so fucking lame for not having anything more to say, but for her it seems to be enough. A slow smile lifts up the corners of her mouth as she says giddily, “Thank you.”

Cassian shakes his head at the way she shines from his one word. He’s got to get her standards up with this proposal.

“Take a left on this road.” He nods ahead.

Nesta frowns. “Why? I thought we were getting lunch?”

“I need to get something from home first.” He’s not technically lying, but he feels all sneaky like a liar would.

Nesta’s defenses are lower than ever today, because she doesn’t question him once before turning left onto the road that leads to the cabin. It must be that she’s in a good mood—and Cassian is reminded that he could either make this the happiest or the worst day of her life.

They’ve discussed their future together before, but it was always some distant musing, not something that could happen today or tomorrow. Cassian won’t dare to assume what Nesta’s answer will be. He can’t know until he asks.

They pull up to the cabin and get out of the truck, and Cassian wordlessly holds his hand out for the keys. Nesta hands them to him as they walk up to the door. “What do you need to get?” she asks.

“You’ll see,” he promises with a wink. He unlocks the front door and throws it open, walking in first without looking back.

Hearing Nesta’s heels on the hardwood following him inside, Cassian goes off on the search for her ring with a pounding heart.

***

Nesta stops in the middle of the living area, raising her head to admire the fairy lights strung up all around the cabin. Fresh flowers sit in brand new vases everywhere she turns, and the scent of something rich and sweet wafts its way through the house. The only thing it’s missing is a trail of rose petals and some candles. “Did you do all this for me, Cassian?” she calls out laughingly.

Cassian doesn’t reply from wherever he disappeared to down the hall, but Nesta doesn’t mind. She trails an absentminded finger over the back of an armchair, feeling oddly bittersweet.

The cabin has transformed so much in the past year alone, with Nesta and Cassian bringing new things in and throwing old ones out, decorating and redecorating until they found a style that suits both their tastes.

A record player that only ever plays one vinyl is now situated permanently in the corner of the living room, put there by Nesta when Cassian was still in Milan and the only thing that could ease how much she missed him was music. There were times during those months when it felt like she couldn’t survive without him here, times when she couldn’t focus on any of her studies because of how his absence clanged through the cabin.

So she filled the cabin with other people, and she filled it with herself. By the time Cassian returned from Italy, there were little traces of Nesta everywhere: in the deep blue curtains in their bedroom, in the pictures of Gwyn and Emerie at pole dancing class in the entryway, in the beautifully shaded coloring pages stuck to the fridge doors.

He had left her alone, but she never became lonely.

Nesta slips off her graduation gown and carefully folds it over the back of the couch before finally following that warm scent into the kitchen.

There on the middle of the island sits a freshly baked chocolate cake. It towers over platters of other sickeningly sweet desserts, all of them favorites of Nesta’s: triple chocolate chunk cookies, chocolate chip pancakes, chocolate and pistachio macarons.

Written on the cake platter in decorative icing are the words For My Favorite Attorney.

Nesta huffs a quiet but awestruck laugh to herself. “I’m not an attorney yet, you idiot,” she says aloud.

“But you will be.” Cassian’s voice makes Nesta jump. She whirls around to find him standing at one of the kitchen entryways.

“You’ll be the best in town,” he continues, taking a step closer, “and soon you’ll be the best in the state. And before you know it you’ll be hounded by people asking for your expert legal opinion in their cases.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at him and mutters, “If I even pass the Bar at this rate, you mean.” Everyone and their mother has let Nesta know what a terrible mistake it is to go on vacation for a year before taking the Bar. She’s only been a law school graduate for a few hours and she can already feel the information she worked so hard to learn filtering out of her brain; where will her skills be in twelve months’ time when she finally takes the exam?

Nesta knows all of this, and yet…when Cassian first brought up the idea of taking a year-long sabbatical dedicated to traveling, she didn’t hesitate for a moment before saying yes. All ration and reason flew out of her brain and was replaced with one singular desire: to see the world with Cassian.

“You can study on vacation,” Cassian reminds her, coming up to her side and brushing her hair over a shoulder. “You will be studying on vacation, if I have anything to say about it. That’s what this is for.” He nods to the cake and the words written in icing.

He has a point. Nesta turns back to the cake and frowns, taking a closer look at the sloppy frosting work and the attempt to decorate the top with Oreos. “Did you make this yourself?”

“I did,” Cassian says, looking proud and nervous at the same time.

“It looks like you saw one of Elain’s cakes and then tried to recreate it from memory.” Realizing that she sounds too harsh, she belatedly adds, “…Sweetheart.” She doesn’t know if that works to soften the blow or not.

Cassian lets out a real laugh, and she notices some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Try it before you say anything else.”

“Right now?” Nesta’s brow furrows. He put so much time and effort into the array of desserts before her, Nesta thought there would at least be more fanfare before she was allowed to eat anything. Maybe a photoshoot.

“I made it for you, didn’t I?”

If he insists. Nesta swipes a fingertip through the words For My Favorite Attorney and holds it up to Cassian’s lips. “You first,” she orders.

He obeys without second thought, clasping her wrist and bringing her finger to his mouth. He suckles the icing off with a flick of his tongue before pulling away. “Just what I thought.” He licks his lips. “I’m an amazing baker. See for yourself.”

He means for her to try the cake, but instead, Nesta gently takes hold of Cassian’s jaw and brings her mouth to his. His lips part in surprise beneath hers, and she sweeps her tongue into his mouth to taste the lingering icing. She pulls away a long moment later and whispers, “You’re right. Better than Elain’s.”

When he doesn’t respond, Nesta leans back even farther and looks up into his awe-struck face. She worries for a brief moment that she did something wrong. “What are you thinking?”

Cassian’s throat bobs. “I’m thinking…that you look so beautiful today.”

Was that it? Nesta chuckles and starts to move back, but Cassian catches her wrists and keeps her in place. “I’m thinking that I want to see you like this every day,” he goes on. “I want to hear your heels clicking on the floor after a long day at work, and I want to make you dinner every night, and I want to help you choose your clothes the next morning.”

Nesta’s answering smile is small and confused, but he’s not finished.

“I’m thinking I want to raise a living being with you, whether it’s a fish or a whole kid.”

“Cassian…”

“Most of all, I’m thinking that you are my first love.”

Oh.

“And now I’m asking you to be my last.” He lets go of her hands to pull something out of his pocket and place it on the island beside them.

The small box, opened to reveal a delicate ring of gold, sits between them like an offering and a truce. He isn’t shoving it in her face, but rather letting her know that it’s there if she wants it.

Nesta isn’t stupid enough to say that she’s never thought about this. That she hasn’t already considered proposing herself, only to push the idea away out of baseless fears and what-ifs. The potential of change terrified her too much to try anything risky.

She was planning to finally grow a pair during their vacation and ask Cassian the question he deserved to hear, but it’s too late now—while she was waffling around, he beat her to the chase.

Nesta looks from the ring to Cassian, her face blank except for the emotion burning up her eyes. “When did you decide this?”

When was the moment he realized he wanted her until old age and death, in the most binding manner possible? When was the moment he got tired of calling her his girlfriend and decided he would rather call her his wife?

Cassian is unfazed at her deflection. “The moment I got back from Italy last December, I wanted to drop to my knees and beg you to marry me.”

Fair enough; she wanted to marry him in that moment at the airport as well. “Who else knew you were going to propose today?”

“Nobody,” Cassian answers with a rough voice. “I couldn’t tell anyone else because—it’s you. You deserved to be the first to know. I also knew everyone would want to watch it happen, and a public proposal is your biggest nightmare.” He tries to laugh and fails.

He knows her too well.

“You have a lot of questions,” Cassian says, meeting Nesta’s eyes with gentle defiance, “but you still haven’t answered mine.”

“And what question is that?” She needs to hear the words out loud.

“Will you marry me?”

It’s the easiest answer Nesta has ever given. “Yes.” She blinks away tears and repeats, “Yes.”

And just in case her fiancé has telepathy, she thinks Yes yes yes yes yes.

As Nesta pulls Cassian in for a kiss deep enough to cement her answer, sunlight streams into their shared home like outstretched arms, welcoming the beginning of the rest of their lives together.

***

a/n: around 116K words later, we finally did it!! but mostly i did it. im too exhausted for words rn, and it sucked to have to write this epilogue i loved so much while my mental state wasn’t at its best, but … who cares! i finished my first not-book ever!

nesta and cassian and everyone else are far from gone, so if you’re gonna miss them keep your eyes peeled for future stories set in this world :) love u all so much, and as always, thank you for being my first readers.

tagging: @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @arinbelle @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes

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

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

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flowerwrites06 · 3 years

Text

break my mind’s eye special — jjk

Plot: Jungkook thinks marriage is the only way to seal a deal.

Pairing(s): Druglord!Jungkook x Fashion Designer!OC (Name: Belle)

Rating: G | PG | M | R 18+

Type: Drabble | Oneshot | Two Parter | Series

Word Count: 7k+

Genre: Mafia | Angst/Smut/Fluff

Tags & Warnings (for entire series): drug dealing, marriage through trickery, explicit smut, drug use, dubious consent, prostitution, miscarriage, lots of manipulation, impregnation through manipulation

Walking through the dark halls of permanently stained apartment building, Jungkook finally stood in front of a familiar number written on the text. He rapped at the wooden door a few times hearing a couple of grunts and rummaging from the other side. He sighed. “It’s me, Hoseok, you don’t have to hide the weed.”

“ Oh! ”

A few locks clicked here and there before the door swung open to welcome a light air of smoke mixed with the stench alone that could make Jungkook high. Hoseok gave him a loose smile, holding onto his arm as a wide grin spread across his lips. “You finally made it!”

Jungkook hummed trying not to grimace too much at the smell as the older male closed the door behind them.

“Come on, tell me…” Hoseok patted his back, prancing towards the couch where the coffee table was exuding smoke.

The apartment was miniscule with one bedroom door open on the left and a tiny kitchen on the right with a window next to the fridge. Another one near the dining table. Walls were a gross green tint and the floors a dull brown with black velvet couches that were ripped a little at the edges. But Jungkook could not complain.

“Tell you what?” The younger male dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the couch next to him, burying his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Hoseok picked his joint back up and hovered it near his lips. “What was prison like?” He sucked in his cheeks causing the ambers to light up at the end before he blew the thick smoke away from Jungkook.

“Like living with a bunch of criminals. What else?”

“So just like old times then.” Hoseok smirked.

Jungkook glanced at the male for a moment before scoffing out a chuckle. “Yeah…pretty much.” Except there was one difference. Every time he pranced with criminals like himself in the past, he was a leader. In prison, he was young, fresh meat. Before he would also come back home to a warm embrace in bed instead of a steel bed alone with a stinky roommate.

“Well it’s all over now.” He blew out another puff of smoke, shifting to rest his head back against the couch. “You can start doing something else with your life. Something different. Not a lot of people like us get that chance.”

For the first time, he noticed a slight sadness in Hoseok’s tone despite being pumped with artificial endorphins.

His eyes flickered down to the coffee table, noticing the burger wrappers and scattered newspapers. One of them immediately caught his eye. Jungkook sat up again, pulling one of them out of the pile, the right corner of his lips twitched seeing the familiar face.

‘ FAMED DESIGNER KIM BELLE RULES TOKYO FASHION WEEK ’

A side by side picture of a model wearing violet and gold ensemble which almost resembled the traditional kimono with a modern, royal twist. The picture on the right showed her. Belle wearing a simple black dress with her gorgeous waves out and a gracious smile spread across her lips.

‘ Twenty seven year old fashion designer Kim Belle takes all the popularity and buzz with her winter designs for Tokyo Fashion Week. Showing her long love for traditional Japanese fashion culture along with an inspiring movement for domestic violence and trafficking victims by showcasing broken chains and kimono style gowns. An elegant mix of grace and fight for personal freedom. Truly an impressive successor to the legend that was Madame Saito and we are definitely going to keep an eye out for more of her daring projects. ’

“She made a big damn name of herself.” Hoseok broke through the thick coat of silence Jungkook had around him.

“She deserves it.” More than I ever did.

The older male searched his expression for a moment, scoffing a little. “Dude, I have to ask.”

Jungkook met his gaze as he leaned back onto the couch again with the newspaper still in his hands. “What?”

“Why her?”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you—literally could’ve had anyone in the entire country to pose as your fake wife or whatever. But you chose a fashion designer who barely knew anything about you to begin with…” Hoseok shook his head with a light wince. “What was your angle?” Some part of him did not want to believe Jungkook simply blackmailed someone for his own amusement because he knew the man was better than that.

Jungkook wished he had a decent reason to blurt out to him. Maybe he was just inherently evil and wanted to hurt Belle for his own pleasure. Maybe he wanted to fuck her one time just for kicks before dragging her out a little further until it was too much. Maybe he was just sick in the head, wanting to claim a girl who could not say a word against him because her and her brother’s life were wrapped around his finger. Except none of them felt like the truth. “I honestly thought she’d say no.”

“Oh fuck off—”

“Seriously I…” He shrugged a little. “I really thought she was going to punch me and storm out of there with her brother.”

“But the guards wouldn’t let her. I mean—no offense, buddy but you would’ve probably killed her. Knowing you from back then.” Hoseok scrunched his nose lightly.

“She did something ten times more dangerous though.” Jungkook couldn’t resist the jolt of pride bursting in him. “I destroyed her—so she waited until she destroyed me.”

Hoseok chortled a little, voice incredibly raspy. “I wouldn’t call going to jail for your crimes destroying you but sure…”

Jungkook shared a small laugh, nodding as he looked at her picture again. He could almost still feel her soft skin underneath his palm. How her hair smelled when he would hug her from behind as they slept, the way it soothed him to a calmer sleep.

“It’s a thing of the past though…” He tilted his head as his expression turned a little more serious. “…right? No more pulling her into shit she doesn’t deserve?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.”

“Good…cause Belle’s the star of the city now. One wrong move towards her, you’re back in jail or worse.” Hoseok raised his brow a little making sure there was not a hint of determination on that young face of doing anything stupid. “You don’t have guards or power by your side and Taehyung isn’t addicted anymore. Has a wife and kid…he’s got the dad anger. So he will beat the living shit out of you if you give him the motivation.”

“I know, Hobi.” Jungkook chuckled, patting his thigh gently. “I don’t want her to go through it again either.”

Hoseok hummed a little taking another waft from his joint as he looked out the window, the sky tinted purple. “Alright. I’m gonna go and eat my girlfriend out.” He patted his shoulder, walking up to his bedroom.

“You had to look at the time for that?” Jungkook winced despite the grin on his face.

“Brother, when you’re together for this long, things need schedules.” He walked out of the bedroom with a black duffel bag putting out the joint onto the ashtray. “Food’s in the fridge and there’s Netflix open on the laptop.”

Jungkook waved him off before the door clicked close leaving him in his thoughts. For some reason, all he could do was look back at the newspaper and try to salvage that warm feeling again. The feeling of a true home that could never be.

Purple faded into a deep blue across the skies as Jungkook paced around the apartment in his bare torso, scattered with more imperfect tattoos. One cellmate liked doing tattoos because it calmed him down so the younger male did not hesitate much to let him use his skin. He was a nice man who had been thrown in jail for being a drug mule all his life and Jungkook could not help but have a nauseating guilt in his stomach.

Drug mules were essentially trafficked human slaves from Jungkooks’ experience. Their owners use their lives and bodies to transport goods without being detected and usually they start off terrifyingly young or desperate or both. All this service was done for almost little to no money. They were more abused victims than criminals but the legal system were not good at telling the difference sometimes.

Jungkook allowed his body to be used as if giving himself some kind of cathartic relief allowing the broken soul to control something else for a while instead of being controlled. Thus his skin now littered with designs of devil horns, tiger flowers and his own personal request was a tiny print font ‘B’ on his collarbone. No one could truly see it up close but he wanted to feel it there.

Chugging a generous sip from his beer bottle, he quietly observed the night sky glimmering with stars while the city shone in neon. The one thing his mansion lacked was the clear view of how alive everything looked at night.

A knock sounded on the door causing his head to shoot to the side.

Hoseok should not have been home at this hour. Even if he was, the man would not knock in his own apartment.

Jungkook opened the kitchen drawer and brandished a knife before making his way over to the door. Another knock sounded again. It was a gentle knock. Almost shy. But he knew better than soften up so easily. Carefully, he peeked through the peephole trying not to make too much of a sound even though the wooden floors creaked far too much.

His heart jumped right up to his throat seeing the familiar face on the other side. Jungkook almost dropped the knife on the floor trying to focus as best as he could. Was he drunk already? Was he dreaming? Gulping down, he placed the knife on the side table along with the beer bottle and opened the door.

When the view became clear to him, Jungkook let out a sharp breath. “Belle.”

Her hair was shorter up to her shoulders compared to the length in the newspaper picture except she still always kept her natural waves. Eyes a little glazed while her flushed lips spread into a weak smile before pressing them together again. “I-I don’t–I don’t know why I’m here.” Belle’s furrowed her brows a little.

“It’s okay.” He whispered. “Come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Jungkook smiled even though a small tinge of sadness shone in his eyes.

He opened the door further for her to enter before closing it behind him. Eyes flickered down to her grey sweatpants and frilly white socks paired with a thick sweater like she just woke up from a nap.

Belle kept her back to him for a few minutes, pretending to observe the apartment even though she was really just trying to figure out why she was here. Questions muddled her mind over and over again. Any valid or logical answer. There was nothing. No reason to be standing here when she tried so hard to walk away from him. She did everything to get away. Now she walked right back without any coercion.

Jungkook tilted his head attempting to meet her gaze but decided not to force it too much. “You cut your hair.” A smile twitched on his lips. “It looks nice.”

She absentmindedly touched her waves, breathing out a small chuckle. “Thank you.”

“Uh—how did you know I was here?”

“Namjoon helped me track you down.” Belle mumbled, guilt pooling in the pit of her belly going behind Yoongi’s back like this. She still remembered what Namjoon said when he gave her the address.

‘I’m only giving you this because I know you’re tough as nails…no matter what people say to you…but the second anything goes wrong, you call me.’ Namjoon had become a close friend in the last few years. He had been escorting her back and forth from home to work.

Yoongi had been disallowed to see her after being undercover so he could get a proper therapy before doing field work again. So Namjoon seemed the next obvious choice to take care of her.

Finally Belle turned around to face him, eyes raking down his torso and seeing new designs etched on his skin. Not as precise as the phoenix but still beautiful. “The tattoos look good.”

Jungkook glanced down at his torso with a soft grin. “A friend did them for me.” He met her gaze again even though she quickly averted it, plunging silence back into the room as they waited for it to be filled. “Belle…why are you here?”

Her body deflated as the question lingered in the air, lump growing in her throat while her knees kept trembling. “I—” Belle closed her eyes. “I mis—I missed you.” She smiled sadly before trailing her glossy gaze away again. “It sounds stupid when I say after so long.” Her voice kept getting constricted from the lump, tears filling at the brim of her eyes. “But I still think about you…I still kept that—stupid letter after all these years.”

A familiar warmth seeped through his veins knowing she missed him but it still mixed with dread and guilt. Jungkook scarred her memories forever with his presence and she was so confused on what it meant. He could see the way she shifted and looked away as if trying to push reality away but face it all the same. “I hurt you a lot. I’m so sorry—if I—if I could do it all over again, I’d do it better.”

“How could it have been better?” Belle shook her head. “We met when my brother owed you a debt.”

Jungkook raised his shoulders. “Maybe we’d have met at your boutique.” He attempted to smile a little at the thought of just walking into that boutique and falling in love the normal way. The happy way. “I’d have flirted with you a lot and you’d roll your eyes at me. We’d travel together to Paris or Tokyo, explore the things we love and eat ice-cream until our stomachs ached.” A tiny chuckle passed through his lips.

Belle had to suck in her trembling bottom lip as tears began escaping down her cheeks. “And?”

“We’d get married…properly. Away from my family, we’d relax somewhere at a beach.” The visions in his mind played without any effort causing his eyes to flood knowing it was all an impossible dream now. “We’d have children…we’d love them so much, Belle—”

She couldn’t hold in the sobs that shook through her body. At the very mention of children, Belle felt a tingle under the skin of her belly, memories of the aches still lingering. “Why didn’t you just take the money?”

“What?” He whispered.

“Why didn’t you just take the money? And don’t tell me it was because of business or keeping up appearances. Why? Why me?”

The ever burning question. Even the interrogators asked them the question. What was the motive to taking in Miss Kim? A lot of people owed you debts. Jungkook only answered with a vague, menial answer that had no real connection to his deeds as a boss.

“It was—it was just an impulse…”

Belle’s expression hardened even though her eyes still looked so vulnerable and broken. “An impulse?” Her voice was small and meek. “That’s it?”

“I didn’t think you’d—say yes.”

Saying it to Hoseok was easy. Saying it to Belle felt evil. Jungkook noticed the darkness clouding over her beautiful features, a mixture of heartbreak and pure rage.

“You put my brother’s life on the line and you thought I wasn’t going to say yes?” Belle winced, tone rising back to its original power. A harsh slap of reality learning that one of the most traumatizing experiences of her life happened because one man had an impulse decision to use his power over her.

“Belle, it was years ago—”

“So why am I still getting nightmares about it?!” She shrieked leaving a tense silence to plunge into the room while her voice still echoed through the walls a little. “W-why h-haven’t I stopped seeing t-that mansion every time I close my eyes? Wh-why do I wake u-up scared that I’m still in that room w-while they watch—” Belle let out a loud, trembling breath closing her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping to her chest from her jawline as she hugged herself tightly.

Jungkook stammered, swallowing down the painful lump in his throat as he attempted to keep his composure. “You didn’t have to come and see me.” He whispered.

“I wanted you to see me.” Belle sniffled shakily. “Staying away from you doesn’t help because you could always push it out. I can’t—I can’t push it out because it’s inside me.”

“You think all this has been easy for me? That I just pushed it out?” Jungkook shook his head with a pained expression as their gazes met again. “Yeah our first meeting was an impulse but that didn’t mean it was always like that. I stopped a lot of contact with my family when you told me you were pregnant. That letter was meant to be the last thing I said to my parents before we left.”

Belle wanted to argue that he just started getting sympathetic after her pregnancy but she would be a hypocrite. Even she felt softened knowing a child was growing inside her. “You wanted to kill the mayor too, Jungkook, how long would that have taken?”

“Overnight if it meant I’d be escaping somewhere with you.” Jungkook spoke without hesitation, still remembering all the plans he had in place for their move.

“But I would’ve lost the baby anyway.” She smiled sadly. “It was natural causes.”

The male took a few careful steps forward, trying not to intimidate her but hopefully close a little more distance between them. “I didn’t just do it for the baby, Belle.” Jungkook sighed. “I did it cause I love you…but I knew we couldn’t be happy if we were at that mansion and I was still running the cartel.”

Belle sniffled. “I wish you didn’t love me.” Her chin trembled, her body tired of brewing more sobs as tears filled her eyes again. “I wish I didn’t love you. Maybe all this would be easier.”

“When has it ever been easy between us?”

“That’s the problem.” She pressed her lips together. “Love shouldn’t be this difficult. Maybe sometimes but—every single day wondering whether what you’re feeling is real…or worrying that something terrible is going to happen if I stay with you for too long.” Features contorted in pain as she stumbled on her feet a little.

Jungkook’s inhibitions banished immediately seeing her trip slightly, rushing to her side and gently holding onto her arm. Before he could say anything, he felt Belle rest her head on his chest. A burst of butterflies soared across his belly having that familiar smell touch his nostrils and the warmth of her body radiating onto his cold bare skin.

They didn’t say a single word as Jungkook properly wrapped his arms around her body, fingers brushing through her soft hair. Her sobs were quiet but her body still trembled and his embraced tightened a little. As if praying that all of her pain could be transferred to him so she did not have to suffer through it all.

Belle should have pulled away the moment he touched her but the warmth was too much. Her body felt heavy against his, melting onto his skin almost like they could join as one. Maybe that could repair some of the damage. Breathing became steady as she allowed herself to relax. A protective part of her still tried ensure she was not too vulnerable but another part said it was too late.

In this particular weakened moment, she was his and he was hers.

15 unread messages.

Namjoon: How did it go? Are you good?

Namjoon: Taehyung said you didn’t come home last night.

Namjoon: Belle?

Namjoon: I don’t want to have to track you down.

Namjoon: Please tell me if you’re okay.

Namjoon: Yoongi and Taehyung found out, I’m sorry.

Belle: I’m okay.

Namjoon: Jesus, don’t scare me like that.

Namjoon: Where are you?

Belle: I’m still at Jungkooks’ place.

Namjoon: Okay. Is everything alright?

Belle: I don’t know.

Namjoon: What do you mean? Did he hurt you?

Belle: No.

Namjoon: Just tell me what happened.

Namjoon: Look I’m not Yoongi or Taehyung. I won’t get mad, alright? You can tell me.

Belle: I slept with him.

Namjoon: Okay that’s fine.

Belle: No it’s not.

Namjoon: Did he hurt you or force you or anything?

Belle: No, no it was consensual.

Namjoon: Then I don’t see an issue.

Belle: How?

Namjoon: Considering he’s a former drug lord, I expected far worse things done to you then you two just consensually having sex.

Belle: Are they really angry?

Namjoon: I’ll handle Yoongi and Angel’s handling Taehyung. They’re grown men, they’ll get over it.

Namjoon: Just come back up again.

Belle: Okay. Thank you, Joon.

Namjoon: Anytime.

Belle let out a sigh, chest falling a little as she hugged her phone for a moment before placing it on the nightstand. Eyes scanned the ceiling, a few brownish stains here and there but nothing far too putrid. Her old apartment usually had those stains after a storm. She felt Jungkook shift a little, his arm still resting over her body while his face buried into her neck. It was so easy allowing the warmth to coat their little bubble.

Except it was not a bubble of theatrics. She was not pretending to be Mrs. Jeon anymore. She was a fashion designer with her boutique and Jungkook was a regular man trying to get by in the city. They were two normal people with no real threat to be together but they were here.

The ache between her legs still pulsed a little when she remembered the night before.

The very minute she resorted to hugging him, Belle knew it was going to be difficult to turn back from it. Deep recesses of her mind surfacing up to whisper in her ear that it would be okay just this once.

To feel him again.

To have his head between her legs at this moment, kissing and nibbling on all her sensitive nub while his fingers pads dug into her thighs. Jungkook took his time. Licking a stripe tantalizingly slow, tasting her juices until it was the only remnant on his tongue. He let out a breath through his nose as his lips wrapped fully around her clit, suckling passionately until her thighs closed up around his head only making him moan.

Belle whined against the vibrations on her aching, sensitive skin as her fingers found themselves knotting in his hair. Chest rising and falling she faced the ceiling. Lower belly burned and tightened as Jungkooks’ movement did not falter, shaking his head a little to jolt more of that head-spinning heat.

…

Bed creaked as Belle straddled him, bouncing at a steady pace while her hands rested on his torso. Moonlight painted her sweat glistening skin through the window. As if the whole city could see her relishing in her own guilty pleasure. Except the guilt was nowhere to be found.

His hand trailed up her abdomen to cup her breasts gently, digging a little into her tender skin to earn a small whimper from the woman. Then he moved up to her neck. Jungkook cupped the side, thumb tracing her bottom lip while the other hand gripped at her shaking hips.

Belle suckled on his digit muffling her moans all the while clenching tightly around his member until it sent shivering tingles up her spine. She hummed in satisfaction as Jungkook groaned at the pressure.

“You feel so good.” He pushed in his thumb a little further watching her slightly drenched curls fall over her face. A smile curled up at the corner of his lips hearing the sinfully loud squelch sounds their thrusts emitted. “So fucking beautiful.” Jungkook whispered. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, wanting to take every second of how she tried to suck on his skin harder every time she dropped down roughly.

“I’m close.” Belle’s words were a little muddled against his thumb. Her thrusts grew desperate and relentless, pussy squelching violently as their incessant moans swirled in the sex scented air.

Bursts of searing heat and unbridled pleasure shook through their limbs, pulsing through her veins as Belle’s movements became sloppy. Jungkook had his head pressed deep against the pillow as his muscles tensed feeling her walls clench around him before he pulled himself out, release spewing out onto his belly. Belle cheekily reached down to touch his reddened member, giggling lightly when he jerked against it.

Jungkook followed with a breathless chuckle of his own as she rested back on his chest, uncaring of how messy they were.

It was the first time they laughed after sex.

Granted it was not much but last night gave her a dreamless sleep. A welcomed type of sleep. They cried, hugged, moaned and laughed. So many sensations all at once was bound to make anyone have such a deep sleep that they do not want to wake up the next day. A wonderful feeling. It would be temporary before her other dreams settle in again but Belle was not going to let them get to her this morning. She wanted to relish in this new, momentary peace.

Jungkook began stirring more, light hum under his breath until he finally opened his eyes to a calming sight. Tired vision still a little blurred but he could always make out her face. “Sleep well?” His voice grumbled despite the smile creeping on his lips.

Belle turned to meet his gaze, mimicking his gentle smile. “Really well.” The curl slowly disappeared from her lips as reality seeped through their comfort. “We can’t see each other anymore. You know that, right?”

He nodded although solemnly. “I know.” Whatever red string they forced themselves to tie around their pinky finger had to separate one day. Even when reluctance settled in. “Like you said, love shouldn’t be as difficult as ours was.” Jungkook shifted so he lay down his back, one arm curled so he could rest his head on top of it.

“I don’t have to leave now though.”

“What, you want more?” Jungkook licked the inside of his cheek as a smirk formed, one of his hands reaching out to gently touch her lower belly.

Belle pushed his hand away with a chuckle. “No…I meant something else.” She pulled the sheets up to cover herself a little, goosebumps forming on her skin when the room brushed a little cold. “Ice-cream. We could get ice-cream.”

A jolt of nostalgia burst through him as he remembered the last time that request was passed between them. Despite expecting a child back then, Jungkook preferred this more knowing Belle was sitting here by her own volition. That was what mattered most. “Yeah…we can get ice-cream.”

Tiny slab of pink and mint down the food line of the city. Belle somehow managed to make his black T-shirt and her sweatpants look strangely put together while he buried himself in his hoodie. They walked inside the cute parlor immediately greeted by a kind boy at the counter.

Making their orders, the couple took their ice-cream cups to a booth at the corner.

Thankfully the parlor was empty since no one bought ice-cream this early in the morning so it would be difficult for them to be spotted.

Journalists eventually grew bored of doing stories on Jungkook and Belle’s ‘tragic love story’ but she knew the moment, a single person saw them, it would be chaos.

“Did you have any trouble these few years?” Jungkook asked feeling a sense of joy in his mouth as the sweet taste touched his tongue.

Belle shrugged lightly. “Apparently there was a hired hitman for a while but he was quickly detained. Then a stalker which lasted for a few months.”

“What did he want?”

“Namjoon found out he was a spy for a gang called Pogpungu Pa.”

“Fucking tongue twister.” Jungkook scoffed. “They wanted a large percentage of my cocaine supplies in exchange for prostitutes.” He waved his spoon. “Told him I didn’t work in that line of business so the Don got pissed.”

“Well he’s also detained. Namjoon’s been very quick in dealing with them. Probably happy to be out on the field again with Yoongi still at his desk.” Belle suckled the remnants of brownie bits from her spoon.

“Why is he at his desk?” His brows furrowed.

“Standard procedure, I guess. Every detective is meant to have a few months of therapy and leave from field work. But I’m pretty sure it’s a new thing that the mayor advised.”

“They’ve been doing a lot of things.”

“A lot of good things.” Belle corrected, narrowing her gaze even though her expression was not completely serious.

Jungkook smiled lightly picking up another small scoop of his ice-cream. “You’ve been doing a lot of good things. The Tokyo fashion week.”

Her eyes almost immediately lit up when the topic was mentioned and Jungkook couldn’t help but feel accomplished that he initiated it. “You knew about that?”

“Saw it in the newspaper. It looked good.”

Belle grinned from ear to ear, eyes shining in the bright lights of the parlor. “Angel helped me with the movement. She wanted to create a shelter for domestic violence victims like her. So I offered to promote it in the fashion shows.”

“Oh yeah Hoseok told me…Taehyung and Angel, they have a kid, right?”

“Yeah…” She giggled lightly. “A little baby daughter.”

“That’s good.” Jungkook nodded with a wide smile. “He’s all okay now?”

“Clean and sober for four years. He—relapsed another time but when they got married and then started trying for children, he never went back again.” Belle murmured still remembering the happiest look on Taehyung’s teary eyed face when he first held his baby. That was all she ever wanted for her brother. True happiness. “I kind have you to thank for that.”

He hummed in disapproval. “Don’t, please—the way I did it was wrong.”

“Yes but everything happens for a reason. I think if that didn’t happen…he might not be here at all.” Belle shook his head. “He also did technically meet Angel in the Sangria House. The only reason we even had her booked was because I met Seokjin at the party with you.”

Strange how time fools you in that way. It makes you feel regretful of the bad things that happened in the past except you could not possibly take them back because it would mean diminishing the good things along with it. Delicate and strange thing time was.

“I would’ve never been free from that place if you didn’t go behind my back.” Jungkook smiled down at the cup. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“Speaking of which…how is it like being a normal joe in the city?” Belle asked with a cheeky glint in her eye as she tapped her fingers against the ice-cream cup.

“Apparently you have to pay for grocery bags now.” He waved his spoon around.

“Yes for recycling and it’s been happening for a very long time.” She smiled.

His bottom lip jutted out in a little pout. “Not from what I remember.”

“Since when have you ever shopped for groceries?”

Jungkook scrunched his nose a little poking into the mint chocolate ice cream to pick out the chips. “Since yesterday.” He mumbled. “But I’m happy…” He nodded letting his words linger in their comfortable silence. “Or at least now I can do things that make me happy.”

“You could travel to Tokyo and Paris, eat ice-cream until your stomach aches…” Belle grinned. “You can get married to someone you love dearly and have lots of children. No more deals though.” She raised her index fingers as a warning.

Jungkook laughed. “No more deals, I promise.” He mixed around his melting ice-cream for a bit enjoying the little swirl. “What about you? What’re you going to do?”

“My therapist said I should take some time off from the boutique when I get the chance.” Belle quoted her therapist mostly but she never really thought about the prospect on her own until she discussed it with Yoongi. “Yoongi suggested we could go to Norway to disconnect for a little while.”

“Yoongi…wait, are you two—”

“No, silly. As friends.”

“Ah.”

“You think if I had a boyfriend like Yoongi, I’d sleep with you again?” Belle scoffed even though a smile tugged at her lips.

“Hey I’m pretty tempting.”

“Not that tempting.”

Jungkook scrunched his nose at her before chuckling as he practically slurped on his ice-cream at this point.

The couple sat in silence for a few moments finishing their breakfast desserts, unable to keep smiles off their faces.

“We go our separate ways now, yeah?” He spoke the truth this time. The satisfaction in his belly along with the warmth in his heart softly stating to him that it was time.

Belle smiled, a slight twinge in her chest but nothing compared to the relief brewing inside. A whisper in her ear telling her it was okay. It was okay to move on. “Yeah. No more looking back.”

Throwing their empty ice-cream cups away, the pair walked out of the parlor towards Belle’s car. Jungkook’s apartment was a few minutes’ walk away. She wanted to drive because it made it that little bit easier to go back home immediately. At this point, they both deserved one thing to be easy.

Belle gave him one final smile before climbing into the car and driving away.

Jungkook didn’t wait a second as he turned on his heel and walked back to his apartment.

This was the true final time they saw each other. They would not turn back. There was no need to anymore.

As soon as Jungkook walked into the room, it smelled a whole lot more different than it did the first time. The only smoke emitting was from the pan exuding a warm, delicious scent. Morning sun beaming through the windows making it look a tad bit brighter and the floors almost shone clean now.

“There you are!” Hoseok announced with a grin. “Did you go out for a jog?”

“Yeah…a little bit.” He answered absentmindedly.

A figure with short, black hair stood at the kitchen counter setting some bacon and eggs up on the plate. She looked up and immediately give him a similar bright smile as Hoseok.

“Ah—this is Rosyne.” Hoseok touched the womans’ shoulder. “Rosyne, Jungkook.” He gestured over to the younger male.

The two exchanged greetings before Hoseok invited him over to the kitchen counter to have breakfast. He wanted to tell them that his stomach was a little full from the ice-cream. But it felt so peaceful when he saw the giggles shared between them while eating, random conversations that no one really cared about but it made them smile.

Jungkook stayed still for a moment watching them so easily be vulnerable and happy around each other. “Hey, you guys want to go to Paris?” He sat down on one of the stools.

Rosyne’s eyes widened a little as the request lingered in the air while Hoseok looked amused but taken aback at the same time.

“Why the sudden interest?” Hoseok chuckled, sticking his fork into some scrambled eggs.

He shrugged. “Might be cool to disconnect for a little while.”

“Prison wasn’t disconnecting enough?”

Jungkook nudged his arm with a light scoff. “You know what I mean. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’ve—always wanted to see the Louvre in real life.” Rosyne raised her shoulders, giving Hoseok an adorable smile.

“Don’t spoil him, Ros.” Hoseok glanced at the both of them for a few moments before letting out a defeated sigh. “We’ll think about it.”

Jungkook did not argue any further after that and began taking careful bites of the breakfast even though it might give him a stomach ache later. The thought of something actually exciting happening this year or the next year made him happy enough to keep going on this new life.

Carefully padding into the apartment, Belle’s footsteps were soft and barely echoed across the walls but there was no use in being discreet. Especially since Yoongi, Taehyung, Namjoon and Angel were all in the sitting room. Bloom sat on the floor completely focused on banging her little drums that Namjoon gifted her on her first birthday.

Once Angel looked her way, everyone else followed suit. Yoongi was the first one to shoot up to his feet and stomp towards the woman.

“What took you so long?” Yoongis’ words sounded more like pleading than anger. “Are you hurt?” Eyes frantically examined her body until his gaze darkened as he stopped at her neck.

Belle hovered her hand over the patch of skin that definitely had a few purpling marks scattered but she kept a calm expression. “Everything’s fine, okay? Nothing happened.”

“No something happened.”

“Yoongi, fuck off.” Namjoon grabbed his shoulder and led him to the side. “Good to have you back in one piece, B.”

As the two men sat near the paneled windows muttering a few things to each other, Belle caught another figure coming towards her from the corner of her eye. She took a deep breath keeping her gaze on her brother.

Taehyung looked so much taller now. Loose emerald shirt with golden vectors as opposed to the old black hoodies, his eyes were a little darkened from exhaustion but this time it was to take care of his baby rather than an accidental bender. The serious expression on his face added more to the fact that Belle had her older brother back. He was sturdy in his appearance and confident in his stance. The look of a man who had gone through a tunnel of hell and found happiness at the end of the trail.

“How’d it go?” He asked.

“Pretty civil…” Belle nodded, playing with her fingers a little. “…considering the circumstances.”

Taehyung hummed in approval. “That’s good. And that?” He waved his index finger across his own bare neck while looking at hers. “Good or bad?”

“Good.” She smiled faintly. “Really good.”

He grimaced a little. “Gross.”

“Shut up.”

Taehyung could not seem to keep his serious expression as a light chuckle broke out of him, shifting on his spot to loosen up. “But—no more, right? We’re gonna try to get back up again? Start over?” He would be the last person to ever judge Belle for her impulses. What he did know is that the impulses were not meant to be a constant.

Belle did not hesitate to nod. “I uh—I wanted to go to Norway. With Yoongi…” She glanced over to the side seeing Yoongi give her a more apologetic look which the woman smiled in response. “And maybe you guys too? Get away from the city for a while.” She shrugged. “Might even give me inspiration on the new line.”

He thought on the idea for a moment but quickly had a wide grin on his lips. “Angel’s been talking about going on a holiday. We could talk about it over breakfast.”

“Let me just go freshen up.” Belle patted him on the shoulder before making her up the top level of the apartment to her bedroom.

Being the owner of a prestigious boutique came with its perks when she managed to get a big enough apartment for three people including safety for children. It was in the highly populated areas of the city which is meant to be the best area for the position they were in. With Angel’s first husband and Belle’s connection to the Jeon Cartel, the more witnesses around them, the better.

Walking into her bedroom, Belle had one thing in mind before going to shower as she opened her walk-in closet. On the top shelves a box had been hidden under some folded sheets. She reached out and pulled it towards her feeling the light trickle of dust flow through the air making her sneeze.

Sniffling a little she brought the brown box and sat down on the bed with it. Belle paused for a moment, a very light tinge of dread brushing through her but there was a strength that seemed to power through it. Taking a deep breath she clicked open the box. Two tiny yellow shoes on the right hand side causing her to let out a shaky sigh, smiling a little as a few tears filled her eyes.

Belle held the shoes gently, hugging them to her chest before placing them on her lap. Then her eyes moved from the bracelet to the piece of folded paper. The warmth in her belly soared again taking the letter, unfolding to reveal the heavy promise scratched across the surface. The promise that kept her up at night for this many years. How much words could impact a mind was both fascinating and terrifying.

No more though. It was time. Something her therapist said to her in one session Belle would never forget.

It’s never about one solid destination of healing. You will never know exactly when you were healed. All you can know is when you decide to start or keep healing. That is what’s important. After that, everything will flow by you…in the future, it will all seem like a dream. But you’ll feel so proud of yourself when you look back, Belle. Even more proud than I am of you now. You’ve done so well and I hope you’ll keep healing.

Belle placed her fingers at the top of the letter and ripped it half, letting out a deep of relief as she put them together, ripping it again. Smaller and smaller the pieces became breaking off like petals from the already withering flowers in her heart. A smile widened on her lips as she let out something in the mixture of a chuckle and a sob, tears freely leaving her eyes. Teeny tiny pieces piled on the bed. Helping to remind her that they were just words after all.

With steady hands she gathered them together and threw it into the bin under her nightstand.

Then Belle took the yellow shoes and walked to the living room.

The group were already settling around the kitchen counter when she arrived. Angel had Bloom in a high chair feeding her some custard looking mush which she seemed to enjoy though slightly confused by the taste.

Belle walked over to where the child was and gently placed the yellow shoes on her socked feet. She could not help but grin seeing how it fit perfectly. Everything happens for a reason.

“Those are beautiful.” Angel gently touched the soft fabric. “Did you make them?”

“I got them from the market years ago.” She softly brushed through Blooms’ thin dark hair as the child tried to peek at what her aunt put on her feet.

“We were just talking about the trip to Norway.” Taehyung spoke up leaning against the counter next to Angel.

“Yeah, why was I not invited?” Namjoon pouted a little.

Belle stammered, chuckling lightly. “It was Yoongi’s suggestion…we can all go together. I thought you wanted to do field work for the rest of the year.”

“Still would’ve liked to be included.”

Bloom squeaked in response to Namjoon’s mumble, bouncing up and down her seat.

“Might need a babysitter if Taehyung wants to get laid.” Yoongi mused.

“Ah, language.” Angel covered Blooms’ ears but the baby only grinned wide looking at Yoongi.

“She’s not going to know what it means.”

“Listen, we’ll go together.” Belle silenced the group for a moment. “Namjoon forgets to take breaks from work anyway so it’d be a good way to force him out somewhere relaxing.”

“Norway does have a low crime rate.” Taehyung spoke.

“So it’s settled. We’re going to Norway and forget about our problems for a month.” Angel announced glancing at each one of them for a nod of approval.

Belle grinned seeing the group dive into their conversations about what to do in Norway and what hotels to book or the sights to see. No worries of any impending problem or event that could ruin everything. It was just peace in the loudest way possible. All you can know is when you decide to start or keep healing. That is what’s important.

She broke for her family once.

Now she was going to keep healing for it too.

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#jungkook #jungkook imagines #bts imagines #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #jungkook mafia au #bts mafia au

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hops-hunny · 3 years

Text

Distance Makes the Heart Grow

CHAPTER 1

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Neville Longbottom x Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: (Y/n) lives a normal life. But that’s the issue, it’s normal, it’s plain, and it’s growing boring. Everyday she wishes for something, anything to spice up her life. But, when her old school friend (and crush) shows up at her bakery with a new look (and what looks like a new life), what will it bring for her? Will their puppy love grow? Will his big secret lead to the end of them or will it spark a new beginning?

Warnings: None for this chapter!

A/N: Nothing major happens in this chapter, this is sorta just like the beginning stages.

(Y/n) let out a load groan, hand searching aimlessly for the alarm clock on her side table. “Where is it?!” she continued to slap her hand around on her table, many objects falling to the floor before her hand finally landed on the right one, the rooster noises ceasing as her hand collided with the big snooze button. She rolled over, sighing as she stared at her speckled ceiling. “Perhaps I really should take the time to learn how to use the alarm on my phone.” it wasn’t that she was bad with technology persay. It’s just if it was produced after the year of 2008 you could forget it. Could you really blame her though? During all her years at Hogwarts, she had never made the switch her fellow classmates made with modern technology. Sure she had a smart phone but the only thing she could manage to do with it is call, text, and make notes in the notes app (something she had just recently learned as well).

Unwillingly, she crawled out of bed, stretching as she let out a large yawn, bones snapping and cracking like a New Year’s firework. She made her way to the bathroom, looking into the same mirror she always did, watching the light in the center flicker the same way as always. Life for (Y/n) was seemingly unchanging. Day after day, month after month, was spent exactly the same. She’d wake up, get ready for work, and then travel a few blocks down the street to open the bakery. Her bakery.

It wasn’t that (Y/n) didn’t enjoy what she did. She happened to enjoy her job very much. All her friends at Hogwart’s had encouraged her, giving her the push she need to travel the journey of opening her own business. It was something she had always wanted to do but her parents begged her not to. In their words they didn’t want ‘an over zealous and unrealistic’ daughter on ther hands. However, their rude words simply were fuel to the fire. During her 5th year, she began to busk tables at various shops in Hogsmeade. It was hard work, balancing long shifts at 3 different shops and still maintaining decent scores in each class. But, she knew if she couldn’t handle that then there was no way she’d be able to handle running a bakery. So day in and day out she’d work, and work, and work and by the end of her 7th year she had a decent amount of money saved up!

The first issue had been finding a place in a good area that would gain traction and attention while the second one was finding someone willing to sell to someone fresh out of school with no prior business experience. She’d spoken to many people in various different places, some good, and some bad before she finally had been blessed with the chance of meeting Mary and her wife Denise. It was a miracle really. (Y/n) was short on the money, exponentially so however, Mary had sold to her anyways. She said she saw a passion in the girl that she hadn’t seen for a very long time and that it was something she wanted to help foster considering she had had her time to live her dreams and explore passions of her own. So with that, a handshape was exchanged for a beat up envolope filled with the entirety of the girl’s life savings. She had invested every nickel and dime she had ever earned into the place and she prayed it wouldn’t blow up in her face.

Which brought her to where she was today: a proud owner of a highly successful business. And of course, with great business comes a nice chunk of money which caught her parents’ attention. They had began to call her everyday but when that they didn’t work, they showed up at her shop unannounced. At first, she had felt warm inside. Her usual cold and distant parents had come to visit her! However, when they started crunching out numbers and percentages, that short lived happiness was replaced by irritation in which she quickly kicked them out, placing a charm on the building that when they’d attempt to enter (if they really, truly, had the balls to come back), their bodies would be flung right back onto the sidewalk into the heaping piles of trash on the city side walks. Now, (Y/n) was by no means wealthy, but she made a nice amount of money to be engaging in something she enjoyed so heavily, which is why she was confused where they had gotten the idea she had money to share with the main two people who were the cause of her insecurities. Plus, every extra dollar she had she put right back into the shop. Paying her workers, building maintenance, ingredients. She wasn’t a fan of having too much money, her family had shown her what that could cause (and how easily you could lose it all).

Yet still sometimes she found herself wishing she could live the lavish lifestyle her parents once did. She mainly dreamed more so of the more engaging parts instead of the status and power that came with it. As she frosted various different cakes with thick buttercream, her mind would wonder to vivid imagery of beautiful hotel rooms, with breath taking views. Michelin five star meals, coated in delicious cream sauces. Endless adventure waiting to be discovered.

And yet here she was, sitting at a table as she stuffed her face with a raspberry marzipan cupcake. It was a Wednesday, first one of the month and as per usual, her and Twyla were set together, sampling cakes, chocolates, and other treats for the upcoming days. Wednesday had been the official day they had chosen due to the slowed flow of people that would come in. (Y/n) liked to have a different theme each day of the week. The customers lived for it and she had massed a group of frequenters who came each day, wondering what the theme would be that day.

“You know boss, I’ve gotta say it. Working here and sampling all these cakes with you is giving me quite the ass!” Twyla said, turning around as she wiggled her ass in the girl’s face for emphasis. (Y/n) giggled, rolling her eyes as she swatted at the girl, missing as she jumped away from her last minute. “Hey! You gotta take me out to dinner first for that.”

“Just because we’re sampling cakes doesn’t mean that the store is closed! Anyone could walk in at any moment and would you really want that to be their first experience here?” she asked, eyes scanning the silver platter in front of them. She decided on the new dessert flavored chocolates she had been working on. Popping it into her mouth, she let out a moan of approval.

“I mean, I dont’ see why not! We’d definitely make a lot more money with a cake like mine!” the blue haired girl said, sitting down as she grabbed a chocolate as well. “Besides, I don’t think those little noises you’re making would help the scene.” she stated, snickering as the girl across from her tensed up.

“It-it’s not like that! The chocolate- it just- I just- ugh!” she stuttered out, huffing as she crossed her arms over her chest, pouting at the girl. “If you’re gonna keep being mean we can end this process. Just tell me what you think of the blueberry pie chocolate so I can know if we’re adding it to tomorrow’s spread.”

“Oh come on (Y/n) it’s good! Every first Wednesday we sit here, you overly critique yourself, then me and Tiana end up picking out our favorites for the next day!” Twyla was right, even their patterns for trying new things remained the same. (Y/n) wiped her messy hand on her aprons, sighing as she stood up to go back to her position behind the counter. Her employee followed, grabbing the platter to put back into the kitchen before joining her boss behind the counter.

“You’re right. I swear everyday is beginning to feel the same.” She opened her notepad, beginning to take inventory of the sweets they had in the display counter. “I’m grateful for everything I have, I really am. But sometimes I just wish I could have something, anything….”

“New?” the green eyed girl added, catching the (h/c) haired girl’s attention. She nodded, looking at the girl who had snuck a cookie out of the glass case. “I feel ya, girl. Everyday feels the same. Sometimes even when new people come in, I can already tell how they’re going to be. How they’ll act, what they’ll order, what method of payment they’ll use.” (Y/n) eyed the girl up, raising a brow.

“Are you sure you’re not just using legilimens?” she questioned, watching as the girl shifted on her feet, scratching the back of her neck.

“Okay so maybe I do sometimes. But a lot of the times I don’t! Like the other day this weird guy came in and- woah. (Y/n) I don’t wanna freak you out but I have a feeling those hotties in suits across the street are going to be walking in here soon.” Twyla said, in an uncharacteristically quiet tone. The shorter girl followed her friend’s gaze, looking out the glass doors across the street. Three unfamiliar men were crossing over, all in suits that she could only assume cost as much as four months of rent. However, the one in the middle really caught her eye.

Before she knew it, the bell chimed and the three of them made their way in. They looked very out of place in the brightly decorated shop. The one in the middle looked the most important, towering over the other two men. He had dark slicked back hair, an eyebrow piercing, and tattoos that were visible on his neck and hands (which had a few beautiful looking rings on them (none of which were a wedding band…)), yet his hazel eyes held a soft look to them. To his left was a redhead boy, freckles danced all along his face. His eyes were bloodshot from god knows what. He had tattoos as well (not as many as the middle man) and a few unique ear piercings. The guy to the hot tall guy’s right was attractive too but not nearly as serious looking as the other two. In fact, he was humming a song under his breath, a smile causing the tattoo on the right side of his face to crease.

As she went to open her mouth to greet them, the man in the middle eye’s grew wide, his mouth gaping as he stared at her. He walked closer, examining her face closely which caused her to grow confused.

“I’m...I’m sorry. Do I know you?” she asked.

“(Y/n)?” she gasped at the sound of the familiar voice, her notepad and pen dropping from her hands. She made her way around the counter, staring up at the tall man.

“Neville?!”

NEXT||

TAGSLIST: @vayeya11 @pink-hufflepuff @clancyscookies @beewitchedlou @nevillelongbottomsgirlfriend @redpanda-poetry @vibingaesthetically

#neville x reader #neville longbottom x reader #Neville Longbottom #neville x you #neville longbottom x you #Harry Potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #mafia #mafia!neville #mafia!au

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kyotakumrau · 3 years

Text

2021.03.10 USEN STUDIO COAST 2nd session with Toshiya and Kyo

Fujieda and Takabayashi again came on stage when the tables were ready and after greeting everyone and introducing themselves F asked fans to give band members a loud applause👏

Toshiya and Kyo came back and they both changed for the second session!

Unconfirmed until DIRT announcement, but most likely T was wearing DIRT items: light grey cardigan and black and white floral print set, top and bottom, with a thick white stripe with black frame on the sides. Plus sunglasses.

Kyo was wearing Madaraningen, MANG white shirt with the tie and black slacks, white socks with colorful accent, gold choice of Madara jewellery. And big glasses.

They sat in the same order as for the 1st session.→F K T Ta

T: I'm Toshiya, yoroshiku onegaishimasu

K: I'm Kyo.

The whole time during the 1st session K was turned slightly to the right, but during the 2nd session he was basically sitting facing F.

F: (after he talked about Rock-May-Kan footage) It's the first time you performed Ochita koto no aru sora. Did you have any trouble with it?

T: hm. Chorus is hard.

F: continues fast.

T: yeah. But you just practice and get used to playing it.

F: Shinya said that thanks to the rehearsal you did as the rhythm section songs he got them back quickly.

T: I see. He should be grateful😆

F: How about you, K? Any trouble?

K: don't know (he's looking to the left side of the venue)

F: you've only performed it once.

K: wah! (still intensely looking at the left wall of the venue or somewhere that direction)

F: 😱?! why are you looking there?? Can you see anything?!

K: thingy there is moving and moving...

F: whaaaaat, don't scare us like that!

K: ... (he continued to look there).

👻？😂

F: Didn't you play Jealous first time in a really long time? Wasn't it hard?

T: it wasn't a big surprise, we were planning it originally for the SOGAI tour.

F: the cancelled tour.

T: We were waiting until the last moment to see if we can go on with it or we have to cancel, so we had the proper rehearsal for the tour. So when rehearsing it for Rock-May-Kan show it didn't feel like it's been a long time.

F: K you said it was embarrassing to remember and perform it?

K made the 'robot move' from PV with a totally blank face😂

F: you also played Umbrella, so will you be playing more old songs?

K: Anything is okay except 'Toriko'. There's a drums solo in the end, it's so long and the switch to the next song gets so confusing.

T: How about we leave S and just go?

😂

Then they talked how Shinya fans and other fans would react.

K: Wouldn't fans be troubled with [he made the robot move]?

😆

F: you T don't mind old songs?

T: they're fine/no problem.

F moved the talk to the flyer and their new artist photo.

K: Auspicious/celebrating. Like New Year. And osechi.

F: I see, if using food to explain it's like osechi.

F: How was the filming of the PV?

T: Really long. But speaking of refreshing/Sawayaka, do you know the hamburger shop with that name?

F: it's in Shizuoka (F then again got very enthusiastic talking about how delicious is the meat there, how very juicy etc)

T: so PV is like that (like a juicy meat😂).

F: the single cover art is very unexpected for you.

K: I know and like this artist from before, I asked her to do it for us. I really like it.

After that was time for the merchandise topic. F announced that he confirmed that the rechargeable heat pack can also work as a charger/power bank. K who asked about it in Yokohama and was then told that no, it's just a heat pack just gave him such a look. F, you're not gonna get out of this alive😂

K: ...it'd be such a good item in winter, so it's for the next one? We don't sell it in winter, only for warm season. Wow, heat pack for the warm season...

/s by K👌💯

F started to enthusiastically advertise the towel saying like a muffler it can be worn on a cold day to keep you warm, and K...😂

But T was also poking so much fun at F with his reactions, 'oh I see! Wow!' 😂

T: I think we haven't had wristbands in a while.

K: what are you actually supposed to do with it?

F: you can wipe the sweat off (he gestured wiping sweat from his brow)?

K: I see. Then what about the towel then? (he also gestured using a towel with one hand and a wristband with the other at the same time [kinda like the Jealous robot move], the look he gave F and that pause when he waited for F to dare to answer, oh my, F, you're so dead🤣)

But T and Ta said that guitarists actually use it to keep sweat off their hands etc.

K: so with all of these fans are settled for the show at Tokyo Garden Theater? (F was nodding to all listed items) These and the ticket and we're good? And the train ticket? Ah no, commuter pass? What should they wear? (F: The hoodie) But then we don't sell any bottoms, should fans go without any pants? What? But we have two items to wipe sweat!

F: fans can bring the travel pouch, usb, they all fit perfectly in the bag! All good items especially if you come from outside of Tokyo.

K: and no bottoms😆

F: well, they need extra money for the ticket and their own bottoms.💦

F also advertised venue limited edition of Ochita.

K: so there are no plans for normal sale? When it gets sold out that's it?

F: yeah.

(it's contradictory with Kaoru's tweet, not sure if I trust F😂)

After that we moved to the section with questions from fans. F as usual split the papers so everyone got some, K this time didn't even read them, just putting them in F's pile😂 but then he was leaning over all the time trying to read what F was looking at😁

F said there many questions about where T stands on the seat choice.

T: on shinkansen I prefer window, on the airplane aisle.

F: why?

T: if I need to stand up to go to toilet etc it's easier.

F: but on the train you prefer a nice view, I see. Shinya said he prefers window seat any time.

T: He's a kid.

F then told her about the rest of the seat preference story (table down idea and S not needing to stand up at all).

F: "are you okay with the pineapple in a sweet and sour pork? Is there any food you're not okay with?"

K: I don't mind. I don't like milk and coriander. But there's something, not exactly food, that I totally hate. You know when you go to a shushi restaurant, conveyor belt sushi, there's alcohol to clean your hands. (K then said if there's a perfume like smell in it you can't enjoy food or something like that).

K (looking at the venue wall calmly): oh it moved.

F: WHAT??!😱

😂

T: I don't mind the pineapple, it's actually very good to help make meat more tender

F: Is there any food you hate, T?

T: The food F doesn't like.

(does it exist??😂)

K: F, you have to understand pineapple's feelings.

K: I thought you F would get pineapple's feelings.

F: I'll try to step in pineapple's shoes...

K: Pineapple is often disliked, but it's being helpful...

K tried to sway F a bit more into becoming a pineapple...

Ta: I'm ok with it, pineapple's feelings are safe.

T: "please tell us F's one good point and one thing you would like him to improve". F is so popular.

F: Not at all😅

K: despite the pineapple...

F: so, T?

T: He can appreciate food/has good appetite, is energetic. Something to fix is that he answers everything with そうっすね/yeahsure

F: K said something similar.

T: About Tooru (he used Takabayashi's given name), he's very good at laying groundwork for projects. Something to improve... well, when I think of something I'll let you know (to Ta).

Ta: Anytime.

K: Ta's good point, he does his job in a matter of fact manner. He doesn't exactly has something to fix, but he can't eat cheese, so fe when we go abroad he can't have pizza.

K: there are so many things F should fix.

F: That ﾊｲﾊｲﾊｲ・yeahyeahyeah

K: ...🙃 just answer with one proper はい

K also complained again about F's eating manners that he opens his mouth too much when eating, sometimes also will turn his head when eating ramen like it's easier to eat (K demostrated F eating posture, arms high and head turned - a bit like Jealous robot pose😆)

F: any good points?😆

K: ...hm. You make every place comfortable. I can relax with you, I wouldn't be speaking at all if you weren't here.

Both fans and F went 'Aaaaaw😊'

Ta: "are there any electronic goods you want right now?"

K: ...hm, solar panels.

F: does that count as electronic goods?

K: isn't it electronic? I want one you can put on the roof and make your own power.

T: yeah, solar panels would be nice.

K: And you can sell electricity to power companies. It's expensive at first, but after 10 years you can start make money, also you can use it if there's an earthquake.

F: can we get it at the store?

K: Why not, you could carry it home on your back!

F: Maybe not...

K: Can I put one on you F?

F: No.

K: then tattoo the giraffe on you, one long giraffe stretching from neck to knees.

F: You like giraffes.

K: Yes (noded)

K got so excited about the giraffe, F won't hear the emd of this idea😂

F: " do you have a favorite female idol or singer?"

K: This morning I was listening to Togawa Jun, レーダーマン.

F: you T?

T: No one in particular. But ones from the past.

F: like globe?

T: isn't it wrong age?

K: globe is the band with Sam?

F: I think that's TRF, in globe it's Mark Panther and Komuro Tetsuya.

F: "how about favorite artist or band you like?" Or just music you like.

K: I'm listening now to Sekiri (赤痢), an old female band.

F: foreign band?

K: From Japan, with 3 female members.

T: I just use shuffle, listen to music without choosing who to listen to.

F: It's a streaming age now.

T: Is it?😆

F: Ok we still have plenty of time, "what's your shoe size?"

K: 24.5, for sports shoes 25.5.

T: 27, for sports I go bigger, maybe 28 or 29. Boots are better just right. But why do you need such information?😅

F: Usually fans can't ask such things, like do you pull your hoodie strings? (?)

K: I don't.

T: it depends on my mood.

F: ok, not much time left now, we will finish soon.

T: but you just said we have plenty??😆

Ta: "what your favorite album/single cover art?"

T: to pick just one is tough.

Ta: S said that Oboro is in his top 5 now.

T: Favorite cover... hm... what is it, I know, MISSA!😆

F: it's cool, it has members photo.

T: it does?😂

K: For me its DUM. It really captured album's worldview.

F (unsure): are you angry?

K: S answered that Oboro is in his top 5 to the question what's your favorite? Why?😑

F explained the situation, that it wasn't to the same question, K just replied 'I see'.

And then when F just wanted to finish K said they should do all of the leftover questions, but without thinking too long, very rapid q&a

(and absolute nightmare to write down but so SO entertaining🤣 sorry I'm not sure about all the questions it was TOO FAST)

K: hurry up!

F: (something about some time in their life)

K: now, next.

F: what about T?

K just rushed him😆

F: food you want to eat now.

K: choboyaki

F: T, a fragrance you like (?)

T: Aroma.

F: sakura season will start soon, do you have favorite spot?

K: when is soon supposed to be?

F: T, is there something you want now?

T: No.

F: K, do you color your hair by yourself?

K: Yes, next.

F: Bread or rice?

T: Both.

F: what do you buy in convenience store?

K: sweets

F: what do you do first after waking up?

T: open eyes.

D: which convenience store do you like best?

K: Convenience store.

F: do you eat skin on the chicken?

T: I like the skin best.

F: (how do you deal with stress??)

K: stress.

F: T, do you sleep naked or wear pajama to bed?

T: Pajama.

F: (something about Oboro photo shoot???)

K did the robot move in reply😆

F: which style of clothes you like when shopping?

T: simple.

F: To finish, what's your favourite obento side dish?

K (gave F disbelieving look): You want to finish with this?

F: We asked others tok, everyone had different preferences.

K: what were other members answers?

F: for Kaoru green beans or asparagus, for S hamburger, Die... we talked yesterday, but what was it?

K (seriously): I like unagi.

(marinated eel is delicious, but also very expensive, so definitely not a side😅)

F: it's delicious.

K: It is.

T: is this really needed? Don't have one, just nothing that makes food soggy... Ah, but you know when you have a pickled plum on your rice, you move it and there's this pink spot with plum flavor? I like that!

Then it was really the end and time for the last comments.

Kyo: I don't have anything.

F: By this you surely mean you're looking forward to seeing everyone in May...

K (killer face): ...💢

Toshiya: Thank you for coming today. We are having a concert in Tokyo Garden Theater on May 6th, please come if you want to. Thank you.

#dir en grey #kyo #京 #toshiya #爆音会 #目黒鹿鳴館gig #talk event #attempt at live report

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adorethedistance · 3 years

Text

British. Handsome. Charming. - Harry Styles x Reader Retail!AU

Sorta requested.

Warnings: Swearing, suggestive situations, I say titties like once

Words: 2108

Summary: When your coworker calls out and leaves you alone for a graveyard shift, you unintentionally enlist the help of a certain British, handsome, and charming retail employee from next door.

A/N: Hello this is my piece for @meetmeinfleetwood ‘s “to lovers” fic challenge! I put my ‘to lovers’ trope as Coworkers Harry and Y/n but I’m kind of riffing off of that trope because I wanted to do employees at different stores in the same section of the mall.

“So, Ziva just called out...” I hear my manager Kelly break the news from behind me. A groan threatens to escape my lungs but I fight the urge as best as possible to save face in front of customers. This is the third time Ziva’s called out of her graveyard shift in the past two weeks. Tonight, we were supposed to unpack the new shipment of holiday tees, gag gifts, and decorations. On a normal night, I can handle floor set by myself, but the added challenge of holiday items and displays is a different story.

“If I take another lunch right now, I can stay and help with the floor set.”

“No,” I wave her off, already dreading the exhaustion that is bound to set in, “Go home. You’ve already done your full eight, I can fly solo for tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go before I regret letting you!” Kelly smiles with the tip of her tongue peaking through her teeth. She thanks me for freeing her and I finish straightening the last of the yellow champion hoodies on the rack in front of me.

“The boxes are on the left side in the backroom.” Backroom… got it.

Working at Tilly’s was supposed to be my high school job. At the end of Junior year, I opted for a minimum wage position to earn some extra spending money. If I’d known I would be attending the most local university in this godforsaken town, I would’ve picked a better gig; one that pays more. Or at least one that doesn’t schedule me from 7:30PM to 3AM.

The store closes at ten but the other four ish hours are for rearranging the entire floor layout. I have to redistribute the table full of graphic tees strategically around the store to make room for the holiday items we just received. With someone else’s help I could expect to be finished by 12:30. Maybe 1. Ziva calling out wasn’t part of the plan however, so I don’t expect to be finished early at all. If anything, I might have to rush to finish before my shift ends.

Not to mention I have a prose analysis final draft due tomorrow by midnight. Ziva better have some damn good excuses when she gets back.

Readjusting the waistband of my favorite jeans against my body, I head to the dressing rooms to double check for any stragglers. Upon finding myself alone, I go lock the front doors and flick off the glowing “open” sign in the front window. Hopefully time will fly faster than it has since I got here. I should’ve asked Kelly to grab me a coffee or a coke to get me through the rest of the shift. Maybe I should do some coke to get me through the rest of the shift.

Okay. What did Kelly say?

Backroom... Was that all? I hesitantly prop the storeroom’s door with the small, tan, rubber wedge before trying to take in the overwhelming mess of the backroom. The room has painfully bright overhead LED lights illuminating my path; the brightness is mirrored off the polished concrete floors under my feet. Considering there’s no holiday bullshit directly in front of me, Kelly must have given me more directions than just ‘backroom’. Graphic tees, sunglasses, jewelry. Nothing.

In my most goddamn genius idea yet, I search the top of the self of the storeroom to see the holiday boxes sealed and intact. Lovely. I can graze the surface of the top shelf with my fingertips just enough to get them dusty, but not enough to pull down any boxes.

Fuck.

This is what we have a ladder for, but we lent it out to the Zara next door. I don’t know what time they close but intuition tells me it's soon. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I dash out of the back room and unlock the front door to round the corner into Zara. Right as I exit the store, I run into someone hard enough to lose my balance, but not hard enough to take the other person down, thank god.

“Woahhh, you alright there?” British.

I look up to the face of the person I collided with. Handsome.

“I’m so sorry, I need to get to Zara.”

“I’m afraid you’re too late for that.” The handsome stranger’s statement catches me off guard and the fog of my rushed mindset disappears. Charming.

“What?”

“Jus’ locked up, I’m afraid.” I look at the completely dark storefront, and then back at the stranger. His gleaming green eyes catch mine and, cliché-ly, I’m rendered breathless by the exquisite nature of his face. Employee.

“You work at Zara,” I state dumbly.

“That, I do. And you work…?” Dropping my eyes to my worn work shoes, I’m suddenly overwhelmingly shy about working at Tilly’s.

“Tilly’s, next door. We lent you guys our step ladder and I need it back.”

“Shit,” the man smiles softly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “I have the key to the store, but I don’t have the key to the supply closet where we kept it.”

“Dammit.” When I pull out my phone to check the time, I groan at the loss of another ten minutes. “By any chance do you guys conveniently have a step ladder that isn’t in an inaccessible closet?” The beautiful man laughs at my question and shakes his head no.

“We don’t, but I am pretty tall, maybe I could help?”

“You’re not that tall.”

“Taller than you.” My teasing is cut short by the man’s quip and I lead him into the store with conviction.

“Basically, I’m supposed to reconfigure the entire floor layout around the table for all the holiday merch, and the shipment came in but someone brilliantly placed them on the top shelf of the back room.”

“Which is why you need the step ladder from the closet that I can’t open. Gotcha.”

“If you could just get those three boxes from the top shelf right there that’d be wonderful.” After clocking the boxes in question, he nods wordlessly, and slips off his nice coat, no doubt a piece from the store next door. Underneath, he’s wearing a grey button up of which he begins rolling up the sleeves to. The action made me stop breathing for a second. His forearms are littered with tattoos of various drawings, one in particular catching my eye.

It’s a two dimensional mermaid figure with no seashell-bra, her skin transitioning into scales only after exposing her pubic bone. In the fluorescent lighting of the store, it’s clear as day that this is quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. What’s he doing working at an outlet mall?

Zoning back in, I see he’s already hard at work. With a box no doubt full of gag gifts on his shoulder, he speaks again.

“I’m Harry by the way.”

I return the gesture and he smiles when he hears my name.

“Pretty.”

Returning his attention to the second box, he reaches up to slide the box closer to the edge of the shelf. When he does so, the hem of his grey shirt rides up to reveal a tiny strip of his toned abdomen, where two mirrored stems of fern leaves are tattooed in strikingly black ink.

I blink quickly a few times to redirect my focus, and divert my attention to the floor where he’s set the first box. This leads me to notice the brown suede chelsea boots he’s wearing. Black coat, grey shirt, brown shoes. Interesting.

“Oh shit!” I hear him mutter in a hushed voice. Looking up to the top of the shelf, I see that the last box has already been opened. Harry is balancing it between both limbs, his shoulder, and his head, but any movement would cause the contents of the box to fall out.

I rush forward to help. Moving the flaps of the box back over the top, I reach across Harry’s body to move them. Then, to keep them shut I place one palm on top of the seam, and use the other hand to support the bottom of the box. It isn’t until I stop moving that I notice the position I’ve put us in. I’m reaching up as far as I can to secure the top of the box which has placed the entire front side of my body to the back of his. I’m painfully aware of how my hips are pressed against his ass, and he must be painfully aware of the way my titties are pressed against his upper back.

“I’m gonna move backwards so it’s off the shelf. Just hold the top in place until I have it right side up again, yea?” I nod dumbly in response before realizing he can’t see me.

“Yeah, got it.” And with that he begins to back up little by little, moving at a pace slow enough for me to consistently adjust. The box is almost intact, but I’ve run out of space from standing behind Harry, and I have to maneuver myself around him whilst keeping the box shut. I cringe before doing what I have to do, and shuffling around the side of Harry’s body, my frontside pressed against him the entire time.

Finally, it’s over and we can set the box down on top of the other two. Harry stands up straight again and dusts off his hands. He adjusts his jeans, pulling them back up his hips, and I have to keep myself from staring once more.

“Anythin’ else I can do for you?”

“I don’t think so? That’s pretty much all the heavy lifting I have to do tonight.” He nods understandingly and… dare I say disappointed? I’m probably just projecting.

“Are you alone tonight?”

“Yeah, my coworker called out, but it’s fine. My boss Kelly got most of the work done earlier when she unpacked a lot of the boxes and folded the shirts into piles, so…”

“I could help.”

“You don’t need to do that. You’re already off and I’m sure you’re exhausted and-”

“I want to.” I guess I wasn’t projecting.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. That way you can go home earlier.” His smile is soft and lopsided until we connect eyes, in which case it brightens to reveal his pearly teeth. I fall shy under his gaze and avert my eyes to the concrete floor below us. My cheeks are radiating at about 1000° and I hope he doesn’t notice.

“Thank you,” I say, more flustered than I would have liked. Why am I getting so nervous? He’s just a retail employee at Zara.

A gorgeous employee at Zara.

“I don’t mind staying back... Spending more time with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Since I already know what you do for a living, what are your hobbies?” He ignores my question.

“I don’t have much time for hobbies. I’m only part-time while I’m in uni.”

“No way, what are you studying?”

I proceed to tell Harry all about my major and my career aspirations post-graduation and post-retail. I enjoy telling people about my dreams and yet, Harry’s the first person I’ve met in a long time that’s shown any interest in me and my dreams. The way he nods attentively despite having to fold misconstrued t-shirts and holiday sweaters, ignites a fire in my stomach that warms my heart. They way he asks hyper specific, prompting questions to learn more about my plans contrasts the fire inside me by sending chills down my spine.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are your dreams?” Harry stops folding for a moment and exhales a conflicted sigh.

“I’m not too sure at the moment. I’m content at Zara for the moment, and I haven’t decided what’s next. I do write music though.”

“You do?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“What kind of music?” He stops to think again, a bit less conflicted than before.

“It’s like, indie-folk-pop-rock ish.”

“Indie-folk-pop-rock ish?” I can’t contain the laughter spilling from my lips over the mountain of folded t-shirts.

“Yeah. A good bit of variety, really.”

“Well, it’s nice you have something to be passionate about.”

“Judging by how you talked about your dreams for an hour, I wouldn’t say I’m as passionate as you are about your studies.”

“Passion isn’t a competition. It’s what moves you forward as an individual.” It’s Harry’s turn to laugh at me.

“Okay, Gandhi.”

“Hush! I’m allowed to be philosophical.” His laugh draws into a closed-mouth smile, from humor to an adoration of sorts.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.” I unintentionally mirror his affectionate smile.

“Promise?”

***

A/N: This was absolutely one of those fics that, the longer I stared at it, the more I hated it and cut it down so here’s what’s remaining before I destroyed the whole thing. It’s def a puff piece and not an in depth fic but nuance is not my friend right now so, sorry about it :(

Taglist: @curlybrownhairedboys @meetmeinfleetwood

#Harry #Harry Styles #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry Styles fanfic #Harry Styles fic #Harry Styles writing #Harry Styles imagine #Harry Styles oneshot #Harry Styles one shot #Harry Styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #Harry Styles fluff #Harry Styles angst #Harry Styles smut

190 notes · View notes

witching-hour · 3 years

Text

Street Rat [SAMCRO x Reader]

REQUESTED BY ANON can you do a platonic SOA imagine where the reader (gender neutral or a girl) is a street kid (preferably a teenager) who steals wallets and stuff and they break into the clubhouse to steal money/food and one time they get caught. at first the reader is timid and doesn't really trust anyone but after some time they became part of the family? thank you!

(A/N): i’m so sorry to who requested bc this one is long overdue. beware guys, this is a long one. i made this gender neutral! i did give the reader’s siblings names to make it easier to follow along, so it may not seem as inclusive as i orginally wanted it to be since there is a bit of a background and storyline. the mayans version can be found imagine here and the headcanon here if interested written by the lovely @everyhowlmarksthedead ✨

SUMMARY: teen!reader picks the wrong pocket and instead of earning money or a beat down, they earn something they never had before — a family

TW: shameless (tv show) elements, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, child abandonment, neglectful parents, mentions of drug dealing and bipolar disorder

HOOD up and hands in the front of your sweatshirt pocket, you traveled down the concrete path that you’ve been down so many times your whole life. You could walk down the same sidewalk blindfolded and still miss the dingy cracks and eroded stones most would trip over, or comment about breaking their mom’s back. Your feet carried you down the lane of the mom-and-pop businesses as you analyzed the ones walking past, by, and in front of you — trying to find your next victim to your pickpocketing skills.

You had about forty-five minutes before you’d have to relieve your elderly next-door neighbor from babysitting your youngest sibling, Zoe, and it was about a fifteen-minute walk to your street from the ice cream parlor you just passed by. You needed to hurry today’s trip up before your other siblings came home from school, not wanting to chance them being left alone in the house with your sperm donor, ahem, father.

Derek was in seventh grade and one of the brightest kids you knew. He might as well be in high school already. Jordan, or Jordi, as she liked to be called, was still in her elementary years and was bound to be voted for ‘the biggest bookworm’ by the time she graduated to middle school. Zoe was still just a baby, and a handful despite being so happy all the time. Overall, she was still a baby and needed the attention babies needed.

Those three were your life. They were all you had in this shitty world.

Your mom had her issues between being bipolar and an addict. Your dad was alcoholic and addict as well. And when those two were put together, it was train wreck bound to happen. Your mom was always in an out of your lives. Always coming back for money or her fix of needing to see her kids on one of her highs, before shooting out of town again. Your dad was an asshole; always trying to sneak his way into the house that was in his name, but never paid the bills you worked so hard to come by.

You worked odd jobs, never able finding a position for a sixteen-year-old drop-out that lands you a pay for more than three weeks. Once you were no longer needed, you were discarded. You have resorted to selling stolen parts, pickpocketing, and dealing on the corner even. But you did it all in the name of your family.

Even if the authorities didn’t see it that way.

The world was a cruel place where even the most innocent were forced to result to cruel and unusual methods to survive. You were still so young, and pretty much a high school dropout considering your disregard for your grades, since the concern and wellbeing of your siblings came first. You were only a junior in high school and wouldn’t be considered a drop out till next year when you can properly inform your counselor that you would not be walking across the stage with the rest of your class to accept your diploma.

A tall figure blocked your vision as you zigzagged through the crowded path walk. He wore one of the infamous kuttes belonging to the MC that resonated in Charming; the Sons of Anarchy. The reaper stared back at you, daring you to play your game. You knew it was risk to even think about stealing from a Son — perhaps even stupid, but you needed money for the mortgage this month or else the threat of a foreclosure looming over your head would soon come true. You watched as the Son sauntered over to the rest of his ‘brothers’ by the bikes lined up on the street.

You knew you could run like you were on the track team if needed, with the agility of cat to climb fences and trees; but was it worth the risk if you got caught?

Fuck it.

You weren’t gonna get caught.

Formulating a plan in your head, you headed straight in the direction of the MC grouped around their bikes. Your body collided with a hard surface.

“Woah!”

Using the distraction, you quickly darted your hand down the depths of the pocket near you and gripped the leather wallet before hiding it in your hand under the overgrown sleeves of your hoodie. You played the part well, stumbling around like you had two left feet. “Sorry, sorry,” you repeated frantically, keeping your head down as you passed by the group of rowdy bikers.

“Careful there,” a playful voice emitted.

You didn’t bother to look who said it, as your only goal was to get out of there swift and undetected.

With a cocked eyebrow, Jax only shook his head, disregarding the odd encounter, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. His eyebrows furrowed as his jean pocket felt lighter than usual. He pulled out the contents; being only his lighter with the reaper emblem and his pack. It dinged in head when he realized his wallet was missing from the pile. “Son of a — They stole my wallet!”

It only took a second to register with the others before Jax, Chibs, Happy, and Tig took off after the thief. You heard the shouts and sounds of heavy shoes hitting the concrete, encouraging you to break off into a sprint. Your feet guided you into an alleyway that would cut into the street across from the public park. You spotted the dumpster next to the chain-link fence and ran to it. As soon as you got one leg hooked on one side of the bar, you were grabbed by the back of your hoodie and slammed into the brick, making you yelp at the force.

“I don’t think so shithead.”

You struggled against a pair of strong arms, caged between them and the rough wall behind you, scraping you through the cotton. No doubt dirtying the oversized sweatshirt you wore.

Your hood was pulled off and you were faced with four men in the infamous leather kuttes that burned you at the sight. The one you stole from with the slicked back hair had the President patch, the one on his left who was holding you had graying black hair and a beard, but his most defining feature were the two scars that carved upwards from his mouth, and he had the V. President patch stitched on his leather. The other two stood behind them menacingly, one bald with tattoos trailing up and down his arms and the other with wild, untamed, raven black curls reaching his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you seethed in anger at yourself for being so stupid.

How are you gonna get yourself out of this one now, (Y/N)?

Their faces went from dark and menacing to surprise, and may you say, curiosity?

“Shite, ye is just a kid.” The vice had a thick Scottish accent, his speech pronounced.

“Jesus Christ,” The raven curly haired man exasperated.

“Jax what are we gonna do?” The bald one asked his prez calmly, eyeing you skeptically.

“Take ‘em with us.” He shook his head, matching his unsure attitude.

“C’mon kid,” the one with the Scottish accent ushered you away from the wall, with one hand firmly attached to your shoulder in case you decided to make another break for it, but not so much that it hurt you — more or less of a warning.

The four Sons brought you back to the ice cream parlor you passed earlier. Word on the street (since the residents of Charming were just as nosy and gossip-like as the average teenage girl) was that the Sons purchased said ice cream shop because their Clubhouse blew up. You remember hearing the explosion all the way on the other side of town at home when it was late hours into the night. You remember when the news program the next morning went on and on about it. They wouldn’t shut up.

You sat at one of the booths where they left whom they called a ‘prospect’ to be your own personal watch dog, while them four and a couple other went upstairs to discuss what to do with you.

You were picking at the cuticles of your fingernails, bored and anxious over the situation. You had less than a half hour till you had to go pick up Zoe from Mrs. Deidra, but you were stuck as the Son’s current prisoner. You were just a kid, they weren’t gonna punish you severely...right? They are outlaws, but the look on their faces when they realized how old you really were-

“Kid!”

You turned around in your seat and saw the Puerto Rican patch you briefly caught the name of as Juice when you first arrived at the shop. He motioned for you to follow him through the doorway where a set of stairs led directly to the next floor, to the Sons, and to your doom.

“Come on.”

You remained silent, still not having said a word since they caught you, and followed the man. He led you to a pair of wooden doors, opening one, and allowing you to walk inside first. With several pairs of eyes on you, scrutinizing you, you felt smaller than you already were.

“Take a seat,” the blond at the head of the table motioned his head towards the empty chair opposite him.

Wordlessly, you walked to the chair, sliding it out from under the table, only making you cringe as the pure silent room was filled with the obnoxious screech the chair made when it scratched against the floorboards. Once seated, you brought one leg up to your chest, and let your arm cradle it as your other hand laid flat on the table with the reaper carved in the center.

No one said a thing, which only made feel more awkward and out of place than anything. The blond, Jax, had gotten his wallet back already, but you knew what you did would not go unpunished.

“What’s your name?” Jax questioned.

You hesitated, but considering the situation you were in, you decided to just cooperate. “(Y/N)...”

They each went around the table sprouting off their names. Some of them cool, some odd.

“Cool name,” Bobby nodded at you.

You scrunched up your nose at the attempt at a compliment. “I’m sixteen...not six.”

“Good point,” he added, looking to his prez for help on how to talk to you, not having much experience with teenagers, even though he was one once upon a time ago.

“Did you need the money?” Jax had taken in your appearance and noticed the baggy stained sweatshirt you were drowning in, the ripped-up jeans which were easy to tell were not bought in that condition, and the worn-out sneakers that looked to be a size too small; and by the way you walked, it wouldn’t be surprising if you had blisters. Besides the clothes which hid most of your form, just by your face, your eyes were a dead giveaway — they didn’t have the youth effect of bright and happy. They looked stressed and tired.

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah,” the bald man with tattoos whose name you found out was Happy, had cut in.

“Why? I stole from you. Now, what, we’re swapping life stories?”

Tig leaned forward in his chair, his gaze met yours. “Your (Y/L/N)’s kid? The oldest right?”

Of course they’d figure out who you were. Small town life was a curse. This whole town knew the tragic and pitiful story of the (Y/L/N)’s. Headcase mother, druggie and alcoholic father, and the four kids on their own. The father racking up more debt and charges to his rep sheet than respect from his kids.

Your eyes narrowed at the question, straightening up in the chair. “That’s right.”

“We’re not gonna hurt you.”

You scoffed, not even bothering to hide the bite in your tone, “Well, that’s a relief. Can I go?”

Jax smirked, quirking up an eyebrow in amusement. “Got somewhere better to be?”

“As of a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

“Which is?”

“None of your damn business,” you snapped.

“Easy kid, you’re in our house,” the bald man with the tattoo sleeves warned you. “You stole from us.”

“Then either let me pay for my sins or let me go.”

“We had a better idea,” the Puerto Rican with a mirror tribal tat on his head told you, causing you to send him a look of confusion.

“What now?”

You stood on the porch of your neighbor’s house as she handed you Zoe. The year old gurgled and squealed in delight as she was placed into your arms. She pulled at the strings of your hoodie as you adjusted her. “Thanks again, Mrs. Deidra. I’m sorry I was so late, I got held up.”

“Oh, that’s all right, dear.” The elder woman brushed off with a light hand gesture. Her eyes peered over your shoulder, seeing a couple men of the motorcycle gang of the town at the end of her driveway leaning against a black SUV. “You aren’t getting into any trouble now, are you?”

“No of course not,” you gave her your most innocent smile, “but I best be going. Derek and Jordie should already be on their way home.”

“Oh yes! Do tell those two I miss having them around. They are welcome over anytime. You too, dear. Don’t be a stranger!”

“I won’t. Have a good night!”

“You too, (Y/N).” She waved you off, watching you bounce down the steps with your baby sister securely in your arms from behind the glass of her front door.

Once you stood in front of the Sons, Happy and Juice, they guided you towards the black SUV they brought you in. A young curly brunette with blonde highlights who you noticed was involved with the president, walked in with two blonde boys who were be exact replicas of their father. You were briefly introduced to the mother who you learned was Tara. You could tell she was informed of who you were as soon as she laid her eyes on you. But you didn’t have enough times for pleasantries as you were guided out by the Tacoma Killer and Puerto Rican.

As Happy opened the back door for you, you opened your mouth to object — you still had to pick up Derek and Jordi.

“Two other patches were sent to pick up your brother and sister.”

Without another word you pulled yourself up into the SUV with one hand as the other hand held onto the one-year-old in your arms. Happy closed the door behind you as Juice got settled behind the wheel. The drive was quiet for the most part, no one said much besides the low voices from the radio of classic rock, and your baby sister who gurgled and babbled here and there. It didn’t take long till you ended back in front of the new SAMCRO Clubhouse disguised as an ice cream shop. The minute you stepped out of the car, you saw your other two siblings seated at the bar where the man with prosthetic hands was handing them plastic spoons for their ice cream cups in front of them. Beside them was the older blond boy that you figured was Jax’s son, who also had ice cream and was chatting with Jordan and Derek.

“Pres wants to speak with you in Chapel,” the guy with the shaggy hair and the prospect patch told you as soon as you entered the little shop where everyone but Jax and the woman, Tara, were.

“Okay. Just, ah, give me a sec?”

The prospect nodded and stood off to the side as the other patches took their seats around the shop.

You rubbed Derek’s back as you placed a kiss on the top of his head, “Hey, buddy. How was school?”

“It was good, got a project due next Friday.”

“Mmm, tell me more about it in a bit. I just got to wrap something up real quick then I’m all yours, okay? Keep an eye on Jordi and Zoe for me please.”

“Okay, I will.” And with that he joined back in on the little conversation between the three kids seated at the bar.

“Thanks, baby,” You sent him a smile as you placed Zoe in his arms. It grew slightly as he grabbed his spoon that had a little bit of chocolate ice cream at the tip and placed it at Zoe’s lips, the baby opening her mouth to welcome the frozen treat.

You placed a kiss on Jordan’s head, greeting her the same way you did Derek, and asking how her day went at school before you told her that you would be right back.

The prospect guided you up the stairs to the “Chapel” (or the same room you were in earlier with the giant ass table in the middle). He opened the door for you after delivering a couple brief knocks to let those inside know you were coming in. You entered the room alone, noticing Jax seated in his seat at the head of the table, with his wife to his left. The brunette motioned for you to take the seat across from her on Jax’s right where you noticed Happy sitting earlier.

Your nerves only increased as your feet carried you closer to the redwood table. For whatever the Pres and his Old Lady wanted to discuss, you just hoped it didn’t come to the harm of your siblings. You made a choice that affected all of you, but you should be the one to deal with the consequences. When Juice said they had another idea on what to do with you the men didn’t fill you in on what they meant. They just had you explain why you needed to leave then sent Happy and Juice to escort you.

You sat down, wringing your hands together nervously before finally folding them on the table in front of you. “Before you start, I just want to get something out there. My siblings and I...we’re a package deal. What happens to one of us, happens to us all. I’m sure you can understand because those men downstairs aren’t like your family. They are.”

Jax nodded, allowing you to continue.

“And I didn’t fully take that into account when I stole your wallet. I’m not gonna say I’m sorry. I regret my actions because my consequences might impact my brother and sisters, but I’m not gonna apologize. I did what I did knowing the risks. It was stupid and desperate on my part and I take full responsibility for it, but sorry isn’t gonna change what happened. Sorry is just another way of begging for forgiveness, and I’m not asking for that.” You told the both of them.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he bowed his head towards you, putting out the cigarette he was pulling on.

“Everything I do is for them. We’re all each other has. I’m the only person viable to take care of them. With our mother god knows where and our father-” You had to cut yourself off as the air got caught in your throat, eyes glazing over at the fact that you were there lifeline, and they were yours. If something happens to you, you don’t know what will happen to them. What your father might turn them into...

“I’m not asking you to spare me from whatever it is you have decided — and I know I have no right asking this, but do you think you can keep an eye on them for me? Make sure they’re okay? I..I’m too far gone. I’ve done things I can’t take back. I’ve hurt people. I’m a thief and a liar — a damn street rat. But they can still get out of this shithole. They can leave and never look back; make something of themselves...”

“I’m asking you if you take me, spare them. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your sympathy. I just want to know if they’re gonna be okay when I’m gone.”

The two other people in the room took in what you said. There minds still set on the decision they made. Your words only swaying them to solidify what was chosen.

“We’re not gonna hurt you.” Tara spoke softly, slowly reaching her hand out to lay on top of yours. Your reflex was to pull away, but you hesitated as the warmth covered your laced fingers like a blanket. “We wanna help you. It’s not out of sympathy or pity. It’s admirable, actually, what lengths and sacrifices you’re willing to go to for them. Something like that is rare. I hope one day our boys will have that strong of a bond.”

Jax cut in, “My wife and I talked it over, and we want you four to come stay with us for a little while.”

“I can’t ask you of that-”

“You’re not.” He stopped you. “It’s not permanent, but until we find something long term, we just figured you might be a little more comfortable with someone who had kids or was more reliable.”

“I work at St. Thomas from mornings to mid-to-late afternoons. I have Thomas at the daycare there while I work, and Abel goes to pre-school. I could sign Zoe up for the daycare if you’d like. Drop her off, pick her up. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. I could put your name on the list so you could still go see her.” Tara offered. “We could also get you job after school. We could use someone behind the counters, finally get this place up and running more smoothly.”

They got stutters in reply, clearly due to you being overwhelmed. They were offering much more then you already had. A roof over your head where you didn’t have to worry about bills, a steady job, and a parental and maternal figure (you were still sketchy about but would be good for your siblings to have).

“Listen, kid, we get that this must be a lot for you. We understand if you wouldn’t want to stay with us, some of the other guys have offered if you’re interested, but don’t take this as an opportunity to run. We get you don’t trust us, and we’ll work on that, but your family now. And family takes care of family.”

Your (e/c) orbs were wide with disbelief and uncertainty, but they could see the hope sparking behind those walls you have built up. The man you knew as an intimidating outlaw biker gave you a small but warm, inviting smile.

“Whataya say?”

SOA TAG LIST: @lexiesmain @talicat713 @woahitslucyylu @xx--day-dreamer--xx @sweetpeaflower01 @rebelwrites

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apocalypseornaw · 3 years

Text

About Time

*Not my Gif* Sam finally admits he's in love with you. (Some nsfw)

The day Sam met you was a trial by fire sort of thing. Him and Dean needed a couple extra hands on a hunt so Bobby had sent you and your cousin their way. Your cousin was only a couple years older than Dean so the two of them teamed up leaving you with Sam. He was impressed from the start because you managed to finesse the local fuzz in a way that Dean wouldn't even be able to.

On the hunt itself you held your own against the nest of vamps and ended up even carrying one of the more injured victims out yourself. Your cousin just shook her head when him and Dean told you they could've went back for the girl "She thinks she's wonder woman. I swear this girl is either gonna be the death of me or end up ruling hell" Dean bought you a beer afterwards, Sam was hooked.

Over the years you kept in contact with Sam and Dean then when your cousin died you ended up starting to hunt more often with them and eventually took their offer of a bedroom in the bunker. You and Dean had quickly become best friends, same as you and Cas. Sam had been harboring feelings for you for years that only got worse living in close quarters with you.

------

You'd been living in the bunker for a couple months when one morning Sam got back from his run to overhear you talking to Dean in the kitchen "Dean either he doesn't look at me like that or he is the most oblivious man on the face of this earth" you'd recently split from a guy you'd been seeing off and on so he didn't want to get his hopes up until Dean said "That's where it helps having the guy who's known him since birth on your side sweetheart and standford or no standford Sammy doesn't really take subtle well. Just tell him how you feel because I've listened to him talk about you for years. I've heard him cuss every guy you've ever dated. He feels the same"

He headed to his room to act as if he hadn't heard any of the conversation. When he walked into the library after a shower you were sitting at one of the long tables looking over a lore book and glanced up when he walked in "Hey Sam" he smiled "Good morning Y/N. Where's Dean this early?" you held up a half of a glass of orange juice "It was his turn to go on a supply run and we're out of coffee"

He walked over to sit down next to you and tilted the book you were reading to see the front of it "Enochian?" You shrugged "Figured it'd come in handy if I could translate at least a few words if Cas wasn't around?" "That's smart" he said with a smile and realized just how close he was sitting to you when you moved to face him and your hair brushed his shoulder "Sam, can I ask you something?" your eyes widening told him you hadn't realized the close proximity either "Of course" he held your gaze and watched you nip at the tip of your thumb which was something you did when you were nervous no matter how rare that situation was "Do you wanna go out with me?"

He reached to pull your hand away from your mouth and smiled when you tracked his movements with your eyes "I'd love to"

-------

That friday you and Sam headed out to a local bar that Dean said served decent enough food. Hell Dean had even let you take baby out which was a rare thing indeed.

You walked into the bar behind Sam and smiled when he reached back to grab your hand "C'mon sweetheart" he pulled you towards a booth in the corner. You slid in first and he slid in after you. You glanced around and saw that a live band was setting up, the bar itself looked clean and with a normal enough crowd.

After the waitress took your order Sam turned towards you "Why are we nervous? We've known each other for years" You shrugged "I don't know. Maybe we should go ahead and kiss and get that out of the way?" he laughed lightly then said "That actually sounds like a good idea" you leaned up to touch your lips against his in a quick kiss that quickly deepened when he pulled you into his lap. Your hands went to his shoulders to steady yourself when you felt his tongue flick across your lips asking for entrance so you opened your mouth slightly and had to stifle a moan when you felt his tongue slide into your mouth moving against yours.

His hands slipped under your shirt and a low moan escaped you at the feeling of his hands on your skin. The waitress clearing her throat broke the two of you apart. You never broke eye contact with Sam when you threw a twenty down and said "That'll pay for the drinks, cancel our food please" she simply took the money and walked away with a laugh.

You climbed out of his lap then grabbed his hand "Suddenly I'm not hungry, how about you?" His eyes ran across your body before he finally said "Not for food"

-------

The ride back to the bunker felt longer than it ever been. You were trying not to distract Sam but god you'd finally felt his lips on yours and was wondering what they would feel like on other body parts.

About halfway back he finally pulled off the road and killed the lights. When you shot him a look he raised an eyebrow "Come here" you quickly straddled his lap feeling how hard he already was underneath you. "Do you want to wait until we get back?" He asked kissing your neck and down to your collarbone pushing your shirt down further to give him access to more skin. "Who says we can't have another round once we get to a bed?"

He chuckled against your skin "I like that answer" he moved his hands to the seam of your shirt and you moved to let him pull it over your head. "I've wanted this for a long time" he whispered letting his tongue run across the top of your bared breasts. You let your head fall back with a moan as he sucked gently on the skin there. "Sam, is there enough room?" he glanced up at you and you realized your choice of words "I mean in the front seat?"

He thought about it for a moment then pulled back "Get in the back" you climbed off his lap and climbed across the seat while he stepped out then opened the back door to climb in with you. You laid back on the seat and curled your finger at him "Come here Winchester" he pulled his shirt over his head then climbed up you leaving a trail of kisses on every inch of exposed skin. When he got to your mouth the kiss was hungry but gentle. He rolled his hips against your and a groan left his lips when you moaned at the movement. "We really need these jeans off" you laughed so he leaned back up far enough to help you slip off your jeans and boots then kicked his own off.

He spread your legs then licked his lips "God you're beautiful" you felt a slight wave of embarrassment at being completely bared and must have moved to cover yourself because he caught both of your hands in one of his "Nope, I want to see every inch of you baby" there was soo much sincerity in his voice you relaxed and he smiled "Now lay back. If I do anything you don't like tell me ok?" You nodded and he lowered his head leaving kisses up your left leg until he got to where you needed the most attention "Sam" you moaned when he licked into you curling his tongue up against that sensitive spot.

You could feel an orgasm building and gripped his hair as your breathing quickened. He added two fingers in with his tongue and that was all it took. You came with a moan of his name on your lips. He worked you through the orgasm then kissed his way back up your body. When he got to your lips he caught your mouth in a hard kiss allowing you to taste yourself on him "Please fuck me Sam" you moaned and he smiled against your lips "Yes ma'am"

When he slid into you, you bit your lip against the stretch. Once he was fully inside of you he stilled letting you adjust to him. "Are you ok?" he asked kissing your neck and chest. You nodded after a moment and tapped his hips "Move Sam" he started to roll his hips against yours every movement rubbing against that spot deep inside of you "God damn Sam" you moaned and he laughed "I'll take that as a compliment" you knew from the angle and pace he wouldn't be able to come easily so after a few moments you urged him "You can go harder Sam you won't hurt me"

He started to thrust harder and you felt your eyes roll back as that building pressure burst again. "Fuck Y/N you're so damn beautiful taking me like that baby. Ugh you're squeezing me hard enough I can barely move" he groaned biting down on your breast hard enough you knew there'd be a mark there come morning. "Sam oh fuck please tell me you're close" you begged and he nodded hitting even deeper inside of you.

When you felt his hips shudder you knew he was close. "I'm close baby" he whispered and you gripped his shoulders when you felt him come emptying inside of you. He thrust a few more times before collapsing against you moving just enough to make sure you could breath fine. "Fuck why did we wait so long to do that?" you asked with a laugh kissing his tattoo since it was closest to your lips. "I don't know but I look forward to doing it again" "And again?" you asked pulling him to you for a kiss.

-------

Luckily Dean was asleep by the time you two got back so he didn't see both of you come in carrying your shoes, Sam only wearing jeans and you wearing Sam's shirt. You dropped your pile of clothes in your room then headed to Sam's room with him. The night was far from over.

------

A couple weeks later Dean and Cas had ran into town to grab supplies so you were sitting at one of the tables in the library looking over news articles to make sure there was nothing near by that needed attention. Sam stood there watching you for the longest, your hair was falling out of your bun and you were chewing on the end of your pen. He'd never seen a more beautiful sight. You glanced up after a moment and grinned "I'm literally your wallpaper on your phone so if you wanna stare you have pictures"

"I love you Y/N" he said so easily and didn't even think twice about it until your smile fell. "I um I mean it's ok if you don't feel the same. I just wanted to tell you" but you cut him off by grabbing his hand to pull him closer "Sam! calm down" when he finally stopped talking you laughed "I love you too. I have for a while"

You heard clapping and looked up to see Dean at the bottom of the steps "About damn time" Cas looked around him "I tried to get him to not eavesdrop" you laughed again "Don't worry Cas I'm used to it"

#spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction

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kokkoro · 4 years

Note

Okay I have a funny prompt for you: Clarke gets a flat tire and doesn’t know how to change it and doesn’t have a ton of money to call someone. She orders a pizza and in the special instructions says she’ll tip $20 if they help her change her flat. Two workers arrive and she thinks it’s gonna be the tall muscled dude (Lincoln) but he’s like oh no, idk I’m not into cars, she’s gonna do it, and out comes Lexa. Clarke is gay the whole time watching her biceps as she works

“Absolutely not.”

“And why the heck not?” Raven asks. “Do you really want to sit on your butt until my 4 o’clock class gets out and I can come save your ass?”

“No,” Clarke says dejectedly, watching cars fly by on the highway.

“Then what’ve you got to lose? The worst that can happen is you're stuck there for another three hours with some pizza.”

“I guess,” Clarke mutters, glancing over her shoulder. She stares at the deflated shape of her rear passenger side tire and exhales a pitiful sigh, bringing up her right hand to rub her forehead.

“Alright, then. Keep me posted, ‘kay?” Raven says. “I’ll check in on you during break.”

“Please,” Clarke replies, but it’s quiet and lost to the wind the second Raven hangs up the line. And with nothing but the highway and her thoughts, it only takes a minute for Clarke to google the nearest pizza place.

Polis Pizzeria. Just fifteen minutes away despite being in the next town over, and Clarke’s pleasantly surprised to find there’s even a deal for a five dollar small two topping pizza when purchased in pairs. It’s easy enough to pay for with the little bit of money still left in her checking and altogether manages to scrounge up 20 and change from various nooks of her car. A couple of ones under the seat, one ten and a five in the glove compartment, and then another random dollar bill in between the center console and the passenger seat. Combined with what was left in her wallet, it gives her the necessary courage to press the order button, this short note in the comments section stating a nice tip for anyone willing and able to change a tire.

Two small pizzas and a Pepsi later, Clarke opens up the passenger door of her beat up sedan and waits, scrolling through various feeds on her phone and ignoring the way her car rattles as cars fly by on the highway. A little bit of a breeze filters through the open windows, cooling the otherwise warm interior as the sun overhead finally begins its descent. Autumn could not come fast enough.

Clarke catches sight of the red hatchback in her rearview mirror what feels like a second too late. Taken off guard, she scrambles to right herself from her recline with her feet kicked up onto the dash and loses her phone somewhere in between the seats. She hears a door behind her close, and manages to pull herself upright onto solid ground just in time to see a tall muscular man most likely only a year or two older than herself, round the corner of her car holding two boxes of pizza. His smile is warm, his shaved head hidden under a black and red baseball cap sporting a now familiar looking letter P.

“Hey,” Clarke manages, clearing her throat.

“I’m guessing you’re the one with car trouble, huh?” he says, not even bothering to hide the amused quirk to his lips.

“Is it that obvious?” Clarke says, giving an awkward half shrug as the embarrassment takes hold.

He chuckles, handing over the pizza. “We’ve all been there, trust me.”

Clarke cracks a smile, the boxes warm under her arms. “Is this something you do often, then?”

He raises a confused eyebrow, and Clarke's stomach drops. It’s at this point that, if she had been paying more attention, Clarke would have heard the sound of the hatchback trunk as it swings shut. “Do what?”

“Change people’s tires?” Clarke says, voice a pitch high as her heart drops.

The man laughs, reaching up to scratch the back of his head underneath the hat. “I don’t know anything about cars, sorry. I’m not into that kind of thing.” He pulls his hand away, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. “That’s why Lexa is here.”

“Lexa?” Clarke repeats, eyes narrowed. She leans to the left to peer around the tall bulky form in front of her, and feels her jaw drop. Just for a second at least, as Clarke takes in the sight of the woman with a hat between her teeth as she deftly gathers up the thick mane of her hair using the reflection in the window.

The heat of the day is already curling the hair near her temples and the woman named Lexa tries unsuccessfully to tuck the pesky strands behind her ears with little success. She gives up, taking the hat from between her teeth and tugging her hair through the back, adjusting the bill until it sits comfortably on her head, shading her eyes. When she turns toward them, picking up the duffel bag near her feet, Clarke scrapes her jaw off the ground, catching a hint of green as Lexa’s eyes dart in her direction.

“Need any help?” the man asks. Lexa snorts, quiet, shaking her head, and Clarke's stomach swoops.

“You’ll just get in the way,” Lexa says as she comes to stand by her coworker. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He waits a second and then, “You two okay if I hang out in the car? I brought a book.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m not--” Clarke says, fully aware that the end of this sentence is just as much a mystery to herself as it is to everyone else. Coherency lost somewhere between flustered and too bi to function.

Lexa sets down her bag of tools and they clamber against the pavement near the flat tire. The man nudges her in the shoulder. “I’ll be back at the car then.”

“Sure,” Lexa replies, bending down to pick up the wrench. She squats, and Clarke watches her pop off the five plastic caps covering these large bolts with her free hand. Once they’re all off, she looks right, and Clarke straightens under the stare. “Do you have the car in park?”

Clarke nods.

“Good.” Lexa looks away, lining up the wrench with one of the large bolts. There’s a little bit of force required with the initial twist as Lexa leans into the wrench with her weight and Clarke isn’t blind to the way the veins in her hands and wrist become subtly more pronounced, the muscles in her forearms flexing.

Clarke clears her throat. “You, uh, do this often?”

“You could say that,” Lexa grunts, putting her weight into the next bolt. It loosens and she turns the wrench a couple full rotations before moving on to the next.

The sun seems warmer now, mid afternoon and the breeze all but gone save for the passing cars along the highway. A little bit of shine catches Lexa’s upper lip as she continues to work and she turns her head to wipe it off against her sleeve, the bill of her hat blocking her eyes from view.

“I take it you’ve never done this before?” Lexa asks, her focus elsewhere as she rummages through the bag at her feet.

“Uh, no, not really,” Clarke says, watching as Lexa pulls out a brick from the bag. Satisfied, she gets up to place it diagonally opposite the flat tire before returning to her spot. Squatting down, Lexa rolls up the sleeves of her work shirt, in preparation for what Clarke isn’t sure, but she isn’t going to say no to the view. Especially when the black ink of a tattoo pokes out beneath the sleeve.

“Do you want to learn?”

Clarke blinks, eyes darting up to find Lexa watching, arms draped over her thighs.

“It might save you some money in the future,” Lexa adds, the slightest of smiles at the corner of her lips.

“Sure,” Clarke says, a little breathless. “Yeah, I guess.”

The smile spreads just barely. “You might want to put the pizza down then.”

Clarke looks down at her hands, the warmth from the underside of the boxes seeping into her skin. A blush rushes to her cheeks. “Right.” Clarke turns towards the front passenger seat and the still open door and sets the box inside.

“All set?” Lexa asks once she returns, watching as Clarke crouches down beside her.

Clarke pushes the hair back from her face, brows pulled together. “I’m ready.”

Their knees bump as Lexa shifts, tugging off a hair tie from around her wrist. She offers it wordlessly, and after a second of thought, Clarke holds out her hand. Lexa drops the elastic into her palm.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, reaching back and gathering her hair in a loose bun.

“Don’t mention it.”

Lexa starts off by naming the little bits and pieces, gesturing to each of the tools in her duffel bag and explaining their intended use. She helps Clarke find the appropriate spot underneath the car for the jack using the user’s manual Clarke never thought she’d actually use, and from there, it's relatively simple.

The tire comes off easily once the car is jacked and the rest of the lugnuts are removed, set in a neat little pile by the bag. Lexa does most of the heavy lifting, removing the now flat tire while Clarke attempts to wrangle the spare from the trunk.

She doesn’t get far before Lexa appears in her peripheral.

“I can grab it,” Lexa says, stepping close. A pleasant scent fills Clarke’s nose, their shoulders touching, and it feels far too warm.

Clarke pulls away, and Lexa steps into the now unoccupied space at the back of the car. “All yours,” Clarke replies, but Lexa is already finishing the job, hefting the spare tire from where Clarke had managed to prop it onto the lip of the trunk and up under her arm with a grunt.

Clarke follows without anything else to do, standing by as Lexa fits the new tire into place. “See this?” she says, pointing to a nub along the rim once the tire is fitted back onto the axle. “It’s the air valve. This should always face out.”

Lexa reaches down beside the nearby bag, picking up the lugnuts. She double counts them in her palm and then looks up. “Would you like the honors?”

“Okay,” Clarke says. She takes her place down by Lexa's side, holding out her hands for the bolts. Lexa carefully deposits them into her hands before reaching down for the wrench and with her help, the spare is secured and stable and the car is back on four wheels in no time. Lexa stores her tools back where they belong in her bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder as she stands. She reaches up to tug off the hat, and Clarke has the misfortune (pleasure) of seeing Lexa run her hand through it, scratching at her scalp, before pushing it all over her left shoulder in one curly wave.

“Hey,” Clarke says, the word stumbling from her lips. Lexa looks in her direction and for a second her heart stops. Clarke clears her throat. “Thanks.”

Lexa’s lips tilt upward. “Anytime.”

When she turns to leave, Clarke acts on instinct. “Wait--” She reaches for the first thing within range. Which just so happens to be Lexa’s shirt. There’s a specific kind of mortification that seizes the air in lungs, but she pushes through it. “Wait,” she says more firmly before letting go and bolting back over to the passenger side door. She leans in over the seat, scrounging up the pile of money left in the center console.

She scrambles back outside in a rush, almost knocking her head on the door frame, but Lexa patiently remains where Clarke saw her last. Her shoulders are relaxed and she looks almost bored. It’s the sparkle in her eyes when she catches Clarke's stare that convinces her otherwise.

“Thanks for saving my butt,” Clarke says, handing over the money.

“You don’t need to,” Lexa says, her eyes not leaving Clarke's.

A blush burns gently under her cheeks, pleasant and warm all the way down to her neck. “Uh, yeah I do.”

Lexa’s fingers close around the money, folding the bills in half and then fitting them into the back pocket of her jeans. “Thank you…?”

“Clarke,” she answers.

Lexa’s smile is small but infinitely soft. “Drive safe, Clarke,” she says, and turns around toward the red hatchback idling behind her car.

“Bye,” Clarke replies. It's barely an exhale, lost completely beneath the wind.

“You have some explaining to do,” Raven says, startling Clarke where she’s sat at the kitchen table, her phone slipping from her fingers and hitting the table with a loud thunk.

Clarke scoops it back up, quick to close out of the recent calls section of her phone app. “I already told you what happened.”

Raven hums, looking wholly unconvinced as she sets down her laptop bag and various books onto their already crowded table. “And I’ve known you long enough to realize when you’re withholding juicy information.” She takes a seat across from Clarke, and waits what seems like minutes before continuing. “You can’t just mention that a pretty girl showed up to help you change your tire and expect me to leave it at that.”

“Yeah I kinda am.”

“Did you get her number?”

“What?” Clarke blinks. “No, of course not. She was working, I’m not going to do that to her. Besides she’s probably not even gay.”

“She showed up to change your tire, Clarke. And not to stereotype but that’s pretty lesbian of her.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, busying herself by checking through her emails. Nothing holds her attention long enough and she soon finds herself back where started. The Polis Pizzeria number stares back at her and for once in her life Clarke decides not to think.

It’s probably the worst decision of her life.

Even without the phone pressed to her ear, the ringing is undeniable and Raven’s eyebrows shoot up as her eyes dart between the phone and Clarke’s equally surprised face. A second and then two pass and Raven stands up from the table just as Clarke raises the phone up to her ear in time to hear:

“Polis Pizzeria, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi, uh...” Clarke swallows, her cheeks burning. A feeling she thought she had long since abandoned back in high school. “I’m looking for Lexa. Is she there? This is Clarke.”

“Speaking.”

It’s like a shot. The sudden nerves that come hurtling back and her palms go clammy with sweat, tongue thick and sticking to the roof of her mouth, and all rational thought decides to leave her in an instant. On the other side of the room Raven falls into an insistent fit of giggles.

“More car trouble?” Lexa says, breaking the awkward, drawn out silence.

“No. I mean, yeah, I--” Clarke swallows around the lump in her throat. Raven wheezes. “Maybe? I don’t know, I--”

Raven lets out a squeak of laughter, and Clarke picks up the closest pen and chucks it in her direction. It unfortunately misses by a wide margin.

“Clarke?” comes Lexa’s voice over the line.

Her attention returns immediately. “Look, I’m...I’m sorry, I don’t know why I called you.” Clarke stops, dropping her head into her hand. “Do you want your hair tie back?”

Lexa chuckles and somewhere in the background Clarke thinks she hears someone call Lexa’s name.

“How about this,” Lexa says softly, and the sound of that voice in her ear nearly makes Clarke melt. “I’ll give you my number. Feel free to text me if you have any car questions.”

Clarke picks up her head, staring out across the kitchen. “Really?”

“Yes,” Lexa answers, and for some reason Clarke can picture her smiling. “Really.”

#clexa #did i watch a video on how to change your tire to write this?#why yes yes i did #thank fanfiction for finally teaching me how to change a tire #also why tf is this 2.5k words #blah de ba blah #posting this late bc writing's been rough and this probably isn't the best

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just-some-fiction · 3 years

Text

Just You And Me Part 8

Hello! Here's another oneshot from my Rio centred series. There's 27 chapters up so far on AO3. Check it out. I take requests as well.

"You know what I can't do," he looked her dead in the eye, "I can't do five to fifteen in FCI Milan cos some bitches need their pocket money."

Walking into the apartment he was reminded why he couldn't do time in a federal prison. The first reminder came in the form of Marcus running towards him, holding a toy. Rio smiled as he picked up his kid, walking further into the house. The five year old went at full speed, recounting his day.

Needing to put his gun away and not really keen to expose his son to that, he set him down, "Just gotta get outta my work clothes aight pop," the little boy nodded and went back to playing in the lounge. As he walked back towards the lounge after putting his things away, Lucia's voice rang through the home.

"Baby," he stopped in his tracks, turning towards his wife's voice coming from the kitchen, "that you?"

Moving towards the kitchen he leaned against the doorway. In front of him was the second reminder. Lucia was wearing an oversized sweater, her hair piled on top of her head, stirring a pot of what looked like hot chocolate. He took in the sight in front of him, licking his bottom lip before moving towards her. He loved her like this, laid back and relaxed, wearing his clothes.

"Hey," she smiled, still focused on the milk concoction that was bubbling away on the stove.

Standing behind her, he ran his hands along her thighs, before giving her behind a swat, causing her to gasp in surprise. Without warning he reached in front and plunged a hand down her panties.

"Rio!" she laughed, "Marcus could walk in here," but her husband ignored her, trailing kisses down her neck, "Christopher Ramirez," she scolded.

"You sound so sexy when you say my name," he growled into her ear, cupping her as she leaned back against him, “fuck baby,” he groaned, sliping a finger into her, “wouldn’t be able to do five to fifteen knowing you on the outside.”

“What?” Lucia pulled away slightly, “What happened?” she managed to turn around, removing his hand as she did so.

“Nothing baby,” pulling her closer, “just explained to that housewife I ain’t gonna risk going to jail cos she and her clique want pocket money.”

She nodded, taking the hot chocolate off the stove, "Want some?"

"Please," he got three cups out.

They made their way to the lounge where Marcus was playing with his toys. The little boy took one of the cups of hot chocolate and went back to his toys. Lucia settled on the couch, picking up the throw that she discarded when she went to the kitchen and threw it over her legs and went back to reading her book.

Rio plopped down on the floor, learning against the couch, "So what you do today pop?" sipping on his hot chocolate, reminder number three, his wife's hot chocolate. His son gave him a recount of his day and they played until bedtime.

Once Marcus was tucked in and snoring away, Rio walked back into the lounge where Lucia was still sitting. He stared at his wife, his eyes trailing over her, no way would he survive looking at her from behind a glass screen. Walking over to her, he knelt down beside the couch, hand disappearing under the blanket, shoving it off and pushing the t shirt up.

"Papi what has gotten into you," Lucia laughed as he settled between her legs, pulling her panty to the side and licking a line along her opening, "baby," she sighed, one hand coming to rest on his head, "yes," she mewled. Reminder number four, the sounds his wife made as he ate her out.

Not wanting any interruptions or risking their son finding them, he pulled her up and carried her to the bedroom. Kicking the door shut he sat them on the bed, by now he tugged off Lucia's top, placing open mouthed kisses along her torso.

Pulling away, she unbuttoned his shirt, tugging it down his shoulders and ran her hands over the bare skin. His jeans and boxers and her panties followed, leaving the pajr nude. Lucia moaned as she nudged against his erection, looking down at it, standing to attention. Licking her lips she looked at him, kissing him deeply before kneeling in front of him.

Spitting in her hand she ran it along his shaft, before wrapping her lips around the head, sucking ever so lightly. Lucia looked at him as she sucked, taking him all the way in, slightly gagging as he hit the back of her throat. She kept him there, feeling his trimmed pubic hair tickling her nose, until she couldn't any longer and pulled away.

"Lucia," Rio moaned, his hand stroking her hair. She sucked on the head, letting her hand pump him, while she created a suction around the tip. Reminder five, the way she sucks him off. He watched as her lips wrapped around him and felt her tongue slide against him as she sucked. The things she does to him, many times without knowing.

"Never be able to do time," he groaned as she licked him, sucking along the length, “fuck baby,” his hand was pushing down on her head.

Lucia pulled away, wiping her mouth as she got up and straddled him, kissing him slowly. She loved sucking on his lower lip, biting onto it and running her tongue along it. They locked eyes as she sank down onto him, her core clenching as he stretched her. Sitting like that for a few moments, the couple simply kissed and trailed their hands along each other’s bodies. Slowly she started moving over him, her hands resting on his shoulders for leverage.

Rio pulled her close, her fingers drawing circles on his chest. Turning her head up at him, she placed kisses along the contours of his tattoo.

“I love you mami,” he kissed her head.

“I love you too Rio,” she turned onto her stomach to look at him, “I don’t think I’d be able to deal with you doing five to fifteen either,” her finger trailed along his lips, kissing his cheek, “alone here, only be able to see you for sixty minutes once a month, conjugal visits only after six months of good behaviour,” that made him chuckle.

“Think ima wait six months for that?” he ran his fingers through her hair, “start a fucking riot,” he kissed her, slipping his tongue into her mouth.

“Just be careful with this please,” she held onto him, “these women seem like they’d do anything for money,” she sighed, “especially the one who tried to hustle you this morning.”

He nodded, before turning them around and kissing her neck slowly, holding her hands above her head as he sucked on the exposed skin. Soon he was inside of her again, holding her legs open while he thrust into her slowly, his lips parted as he looked at her, a crease on his forehead.

“That’s it baby,” he moaned, “you been taking me so good since we were teenagers, the fuck ima give that up,” he growled, “you and me,” he kissed her, Lucia’s hands resting on the nape of his neck, their foreheads touching, as they climaxed.

She settled against his chest, breathing heavily, her face hidden in his neck. Rio’s hands were in her hair, playing with the strands as she fell asleep. Laying awake, he looked at her, using his other hand to stroke her cheek. This was his reminder each and every night. Whenever he was on the verge of doing something irrational or reckless, he’d think of her and the fact that he couldn’t afford to do time. She shifted slightly in her sleep, throwing a leg over his waist. There were days where he’d be ready to kill someone without thinking it through, then he’d stop and see his wife and son in front of him, reminding him that his actions would not only affect him but everything he has today.

The next morning he woke up alone in bed, the spot next to him cold. Pulling on a pair of boxers, he made his way out of the bedroom. Lucia was in the kitchen making coffee, while Marcus was eating pancakes.

Standing behind her, Rio kissed her shoulder, “Morning Lucia,” wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close.

“Morning Christopher,” she turned her head and kissed him.

"Morning daddy," Marcus grinned.

"Morning pop," he kissed his son's forehead.

"Coffee baby?"

"Yes please," he kissed Lucia's neck before sitting next to Marcus, "you help mama make pancakes?" the little boy nodded, his mouth stuffed.

After breakfast Rio got dressed and got ready to head out. Lucia was off for the day so she and Marcus would be spending it together. Before he left, he pulled Lucia in for a kiss, gripping her hips tightly.

" Love you mami," he smirked at her, licking his lower lip, "see you in a bit aight"

Lucia nodded, wrapping her arms around him and placing a kiss on his cheek, "Love you too baby."

Fuck doing five to fifteen.

#Rio good girls #Manny Montana #Johnny tuturro #Lucia solano #Rio x Lucia #Johnny x Lucia #Good girls NBC #Just some fiction #Graceland

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gwoongi · 4 years

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wordless pt.1

jeon jeongguk / reader genre: hitman (john wick?) au, sugar daddy au, fluff, pining, angst rating: mature words: 4.1k warnings: mentions of blood and violence, unconventional relationship, angsty themes, smoking mention a/n: this is jeongguk as john wick because i’m trash and i cant finish one story at a time. these prompts r from here btw :) im gonna do all 50 but im too lazy rn so here’s the first 10 :D

Sometimes, saying “I love you” is inappropriate, and given your circumstances, you think it might send Jeongguk over the edge if he hears them again.

Parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Now, it definitely was not a stretch to assume that everything in Jeongguk’s life was indeed unconventional. People didn’t need to understand that what Jeongguk did for work was something that, by the law, was considered unprofessional and inhumane, and so when asked, Jeongguk sufficed for “boss of a company”, and questions weren’t asked. If they were, Jeongguk came up with a slightly more conventional lie, to make up for the reality that was Jeongguk working on the clock, killing nobodies for a bit of cash.

Taehyung, his right-hand man, had expressed how unconventional Jeongguk seemed to be over a dinner in Venice, a little restaurant tucked away unconventionally in a street that did not belong to America. Jeongguk spoke four languages comfortably, and had parents retiring in the Canary Islands. Jeongguk donated money to women’s charities and mental health services, and helped bribe his cousins into Ivy Leagues when racism prevented them from entry. Jeongguk was a Joe-Exotic in the making and owned a rescue black panther named Elio, and had houses across the globe for use when working. And, Jeongguk was dipping his toes into playing house with a sugar baby who was only five years younger than him, of whom he had met in a stakeout which involved the hit being on your brother’s head. Unconventionally, you led him to his target, and afterwards, dined with him in a Thai restaurant.

Things in Jeongguk’s life were far from ordinary, but perhaps it was the denial of mundane comforts that kept Jeongguk going. If he went back to normality, to working a shitty customer service job like when he was seventeen, dumping trash into overflowing piles behind the off-license he worked at, things wouldn’t be the same. Jeongguk would feel alien, like he didn’t belong. At least here, amongst the pain and the bullets and the years worth of trauma packed in his wrinkles (which, yes, if he looks hard enough, he can see some cursing his twenty five year old skin), Jeongguk felt like he sort of belonged. In an unconventional way.

Having met Jeongguk during his line of work, there were difficulties in being Jeongguk’s sugar baby. For one, he always felt guilty for having murdered your brother, even though you heavily supported the hit. Your brother was a jerk, a bully with money, someone who had wronged your entire family, turned off your younger sister’s life support when there was a chance of her survival. Asshole, he deserved it. Secondly, Jeongguk was impractical and irrational and often acted selfishly, meaning he was often out of the country on work, only available in whispers for a few hours and then he was gone, compensating with a few sums of cash.

He tried his best. Jeongguk, despite technicalities including his work and his past and his occasional mean streak, genuinely cared about other people. When he could, he made the effort, otherwise not attempting to make promises to you that he could not keep. Jeongguk knows that he got really lucky when he found you. You didn’t ask questions. Nobody was better for him.

However, Jeongguk was selfish, and broken, and in refusal of fixing what was wrong with him. When it was of convenience, Jeongguk drew comparisons to the last girlfriend he tried to entertain. One who wronged him, and died when he tried to repair everything she had destroyed. Jeongguk carries that with him like the tattoos on his skin, a permanent memory, and something that often disturbs what could be and should be between the both of you.

Jeongguk is worthy of love, and capable of loving. On days where Jeongguk is free to lounge without the guilt of not working, you find it is so easy to love him. But, it can’t be that way. You couldn’t just tell him that. Telling him that you loved him would be inappropriately unconventional. Sometimes, saying “I love you” is inappropriate, and given your circumstances, you think it might send Jeongguk over the edge if he hears it again.

(1) Holding their hands when they are shaking.

Jeongguk is in his living room, his right leg bouncing like a spring as he cradles an infant glass of whiskey. His eyes are glazed, yet wide, staring at the Seoul city draped in darkness and neon, and without even looking inside, you know that his brain is spinning, thoughts chaotic and loud.

“Hey,” you call out to him, and his eyes stutter to the left to catch you in the doorway, “I heard you get up. What’s wrong?”

Jeongguk shakes his head gently. “Nothing, baby, go back to bed. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Jeongguk often makes comments without expectancies. You stand in the doorway that connects the living room to the long hall that stems into bedrooms and bathrooms, and watch him for a moment. His whole body vibrates like a speaker, his hands trembling as the glass drains and he reaches for a second, or a third, or maybe a tenth. You want to sigh, without being patronising, but you know that any sign of sympathy is mistaken for that whenever Jeongguk is around to make the judgement.

He looks back to the skyline and frowns, his attention panning from the window to his phone that buzzes blue, but he ignores. Stepping across the cool wooden floorboards, you approach him sleepily and take a seat next to him on the sofa. Neither of you move, but he recognises you’ve moved. He bristles slightly, like it was unexpected.

“You can take your time,” you suggest to him, and his hands ache in his lap as he sets the glass down on the coffee table with a careless thud. He scoffs, devoid of emotion, and dips his head so his chin is near his collarbones. In his lap, those hands shake. “Maybe don’t drink so much tonight.”

“I’m clearing my head,” he insists weakly. Those hands still shake.

Brows creased with a pinch, you swallow the unease and reach for his hands. Jeongguk doesn’t say anything as you do so, enveloping his hands in yours, and so suddenly the shaking ceases. Like trying to block the shakes from reaching his wrists, your hands keep his safe.

“I know,” you understand honestly, because you do know what he’s going through. “How about tea, or something? To calm down, calm down the mess that’s up in there.”

Your chin is on his shoulder, and he smiles softly. “Are you calling me messy?”

“Nah, I’m calling your brain messy,” you reply. “It’s a cruel fucking brain.”

“Hate my brain.”

“Today, we hate it.”

Jeongguk’s head turns slightly so that he can see you, and in his lap, his thumbs brush across your skin.

“Thank you,” Jeongguk says quietly, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite convince. It doesn’t necessarily have to, not tonight anyway. His phone continues to flash like a light show, Taehyung’s name in bold. “Fuck. I’ll take the call, and then I’ll come back to bed, okay?”

You nod, “Mm, okay. Want me to make a drink?”

“I don’t need it,” Jeongguk concludes. “Not today.”

(2) Tucking the sheets around them when they stir during the night.

Sometimes Jeongguk wakes up in the night due to nightmares, but tonight, it’s different.

Beside him, you stir uncomfortably and kick his leg for the fourth time. He huffs and looks over, trying to figure out if you’re awake and indignant, or lost in the dream. He settles on the latter when you strain out the name of your brother and his heart swoops with a dull ache.

“You’re just dreaming, baby, come on,” Jeongguk mutters quietly into your ear, holding you in place to calm the thrashing. “He’s not here anymore, I’m here. Y/N.”

It subsides after a few minutes, making it the longest you’ve gone on record. He looks into your sleepy, upset eyes as you break awake and brushes the hair out of your face. He tries to smile for you, and maybe you can’t see in the dark.

“I’ll get you some water,” Jeongguk suggests gently. “Hm? Sweet thing. It’s just a dream.” He says this into your hair in a hug, leaving a kiss on your temple as he breaks. “You’re fine.”

“I’m fine,” you breathe uneasily, and he separates to get a glass of water and returns to find you sleeping again. What relief Jeongguk might have is exhaled as he sets the glass on the bedside table, stroking your hair until he moves away with the sudden realisation that this is not a normal exchange.

Before Jeongguk decides to leave again, he makes sure the bed is made and that you are safe; he tucks the duvet in tightly and presses a kiss to your forehead before grabbing his coat by the front door and leaving your apartment, one tucked in the city so far that Jeongguk finds it a hassle to visit.

(3) Travelling long distances just to see them.

For three days now, you have been in Colmar, and Jeongguk is beginning to feel lonely. It had been his idea to send you away, when the heat on his long, long fued with a rival colleague threatened your safety. In return, you got a new apartment that Taehyung had found closer to Jeongguk’s own when your address got leaked, and Colmar could be considered a vacation if you pretended for long enough.

With tensions cool and the coast somewhat clear, Jeongguk picks the skin around his fingernails as a distraction before deciding that enough was enough. He missed you, and missed how you were always around for him when he needed you most. This is what drives him to jumping on a plane in his company’s name, and flying to France.

A small boat passes underneath the bridge you are standing on, and your hands dig into the barrier as you arch to smile at the tourists beneath. One catches a glimpse of your denim skirt and cherry print blouse in the sunshine and extends his hat with a wave, and you wave back. France is nothing like Seoul, and is indeed warm and fruitful and unique. The sun is hot, the sky is clear, and the streets are filled with an atmospheric buzz of friendliness, the smell of coffee and some food you don’t know yet entrapping your senses.

“Madame, je peux vous prendre en photo?”

Hearing the voice, you turn your body left and prepare to face the tourist, but instead you are welcomed with the sight of Jeongguk dressed in black, sunglasses sliding down his nose with a smile. He does hold a camera in his hands, although teasingly.

“Oui,” you quip, posing cutely and Jeongguk takes a photograph anyway, to humour the moment, to print when he gets back to Seoul. You join his laughter as he peers at the photograph and he walks without looking up towards you.

“When did you get here?” you ask him, a round of laughter from the little boat making you turn to stare at them with a giggle.

“Bout an hour ago,” Jeongguk replies, and he shuts off the camera and puts it in his coat pocket. It’s only a small camera, probably cost him a crumb to buy from a vintage store. He meets your eyes with a comfortable smile and rounds in, pressing your lower back against the bridge barrier and circling your arms around you. Carefully, then, he kisses you, tasting the suncream on your skin as his lips wander from yours to the skin around your face.

“Miss me?”

“Terribly,” Jeongguk responds. “I am so bored when you’re not around. You always have something to do, always have something to say.”

You hum in response. “I’m glad I’m of some entertainment for you.”

“Oh, for sure,” agrees Jeongguk. “I don’t think I’ve used my brain so often when I’m away from work as much as I do when I’m with you. Did you know that you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met?”

“Wow,” you exclaim with a smile. “Hire me.”

“Ha!” he remarks, kissing you again and taking your hand in his. He moves, back in the way you came. “Over my dead body.”

(4) Making their favorite meal when they are having a hard day.

“You.”

“Not now, Y/N, I’m working,” Jeongguk replies non committedly. He fists his hair.

“Not up for discussion right now,” you huff, and he has the nerve to glare at you which only makes you uncomfortably angry. “You haven’t eaten in fourty eight hours, and I’m not about to be held responsible for your death when you die of hunger, so get your ass in the kitchen before I dump this food over your stupid head.”

He challenges you. “You’re brave talking to somebody who could destroy your life like that.”

“Do it, I literally have nothing to lose,” you answer. “Please eat something. I made it with love and care.”

Jeongguk relents, sighing at his paperwork but nonetheless moving away from his home office and following you like a child towards the direction of the kitchen. He feels bad, you know he feels bad, and he circles his arms around your body as you walk, stumbling into the space of the kitchen and smelling the familiar aroma of pork rice stew. Alas, he sees the bowl steaming in his spot at the table and his eyes follow you as you hum and set start to washing the dishes.

“Y/N-”

“No words, just eating,” you instruct. “Bone apple tit.”

He grins, then, and takes a seat. “You know that’s not the phrase, right?”

“Tell that to Twitter,” you sigh.

(5) Giving them a kiss before going to work and they are still in bed.

Jeongguk prefers to see you when he doesn’t have work the next day, because leaving when you’re asleep is an asshole move in any dictionary. So, when one of his men phones him at four in the morning and relays the horror that someone’s died on his property, Jeongguk has to fight the demons that almost convince him to hand the job over to somebody who gives a fuck about the intruder stuck on his barbed fence.

He gets up, anyway.

Next to him, in the bed that belongs to you because this is your new apartment, Jeongguk stares down at you and feels a tug in his stomach. Guilt, it follows him everywhere like a ghost.

Before he leaves, he likes to give you a little kiss for the morning, so the tingling sensation reminds you that despite being an asshole and leaving without properly saying goodbye, he still gives several shits about you, and will be back when he can be.

(6) Tucking your head into their neck during a hug.

Jeongguk wants to hang Taehyung for making him remember the reasons why you had to move across the city to a new apartment.

It had, of course, been Jeongguk’s fault, and when the notification came from an exhausted worker in his line of work that the alarm system in your apartment had been triggered for an intruder, Jeongguk remembers all he saw was red.

The front door was forced open, a body indent in the wood and the front porch ransacked and littered with shards of glass and bullets. Inside was no prettier, with mess scattered everywhere and photos smashed on the floors. The carpets were stained with red that Jeongguk prayed was just wine, the glass coffee table in two pieces and a knife covered in red on the floor. Jeongguk and his men, along with the few police officers Jeongguk could actually trust in this god-forsaken hellhole, noticed that the blood belonged to one of the intruders who lay dead on the stairs.

Nobody knows how Jeongguk got through the apartment so fast, and why, without any hesitation, he murdered the remaining intruders without suggesting questioning and torture. That was his go-to when it rarely concerned you. He wanted those stupid enough to even try and go after you to really fucking regret it as he picked off fingernails and made them suffer for hours or days. This time he just killed, and moved onwards, calling your name like a mantra.

Jeongguk could have cried when you emerged, petrified, from inside one of the closets. Upon seeing you, Jeongguk collapsed his gun on the floor and stepped towards you protectively, pulling you in tightly for a hug. Sobbing into his neck, you hugged him tighter, feeling finally safe when his hand held the back of your head, like you were a precious thing that was of value.

You were of the highest value to Jeongguk.

“Fuck you,” Jeongguk barks suddenly, and Taehyung shrugs and exits the office. All he had asked was if he loved you.

(7) Lightly kissing on top of a freshly formed bruise.

There might be the assumption that Jeongguk comes home with more bruises than you do. Which is true, technically, and there’s no hesitation from your end in nursing them to a comfortable recovery.

On rare occasion, Jeongguk comes home and finds you exhibiting a new purple blob on your skin. Like today.

Jeongguk hasn’t seen you in two days, and when he lets himself into your apartment with the key he has glued to him at all times, he follows the silence and light to the bathroom. You sit on the edge of your bathtub, gently rubbing cream on your knee in little circles.

“What happened here?” he asks quickly, and you continue rubbing with your tongue poking out between your lips.

“You’ll laugh, don’t ask,” you mutter.

“Hey, I won’t laugh,” Jeongguk says. He rests his weight against the doorframe, “You open the front door the wrong way again?”

Ha! You laugh humourlessly. “Worse!” You look up at him sadly, “I tripped in the parking lot carrying my groceries. It’s on camera and everything, I want to die.”

Jeongguk pokes the inside of his mouth to resist laughing. “Well, fuck. That’s your leg ruined.”

“I know,” you pout. “Good thing you’re my sugar daddy- wanna pay for cosmetic leg surgery?”

“I like your bruised up legs,” says Jeongguk.

“Me too, but not these ones.”

“Bruh, that’s enough cream on your skin,” Jeongguk exclaims, moving forward to snatch the cream from your hands. “More is not better. Come on, you’re okay.”

“It hurts.”

“Boohoo,” he sighs. You don’t move. “Ugh, whatever. Come’re.”

Jeongguk drops the cream tube onto the sink but it clatters into the bowl. He’ll move it later if he remembers to, and he pretends it’s hard to pick you up off the bathtub and carries you swiftly out of the bathroom and into the living room. Things have barely moved since he last came to visit; the swarms of paper still invade your coffee table and your laptop is on sleep mode by a half-empty coffee cup filled with hot chocolate, because he knows your standing on coffee. Everything is a lot messier now that you’ve decided you want to go back to school, but at least Jeongguk knows it keeps you busy when he’s away.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, as you’re sat down with one leg up around him still. He pokes at a spot on your leg and you squirm, “there’s another one.”

You peer to look, “Oh, yeah, that one’s you.”

“Oh.” He pauses, “Pretty, though.”

You huff like a little baby and he dares you with raised eyebrows. That keeps you silent and Jeongguk moves his body at an angle to the right, sweeping to kiss the bruise better, the bruise that he made a few nights ago with tender love and care.

“All better,” he assures.

“It feels better already.”

“Mm. Magic.”

(8) Buying them something unrequested because it made you think of them.

“So, I was at a school fayre today.”

“Really?” Jeongguk sits with his laptop on his legs, and your legs are tangled around his body like some sort of jungle maze. He rarely works on his bed, not unless the work is sudden and he can’t help it. You’ve just come in, dived on the bed and claimed his waist as something to squeeze your legs around.

“Yep. Like, one of those little craft things where students sell their shit and make money from it. You know, supporting local artists! It’s really cute, if I was good at something I’d have participated.”

Jeongguk thinks of things you’re good at, and there’s a lot. “Aw. There’s always next year.”

“Yeah,” you reason. “Anyway- point is, is that I got you something.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, glancing over his right shoulder to see you, “Me?”

“Yep. You.”

“What did you get?” he asks, and then he’s back to checking blueprints.

You untangle your legs and slide off the bed, retreating to your bag slung across the room by the bedroom door. From here, you take out a small little pin-badge and when you’re sat next to Jeongguk again, you fiddle with it until it catches his attention.

“What’s this?” asks Jeongguk.

“It’s a badge of honour,” you claim, and you slip it into his palms. He fingers the front when he examines it, reading the little words of “Number One Dad” and he stares up at you. “Like it?”

“It’s for me?” he asks again.

“Yeah. You can wear it and like, I don’t know, think of me,” you shrug.

Jeongguk thinks for a moment. Even though it’s stupid, and cliche and a little bit embarrassing, he still thinks it’s funny and thoughtful.

“Want me to wear it to work?” he asks you.

“Oh, absolutely,” you encourage. “I’ll get Taehyung an uncle badge if he gets pissy.”

“Hey, you’re mine and he’s not allowed a relationship to you, no matter what definition,” Jeongguk pouts. “He wants a sugar niece, well...he’ll have to look somewhere else.”

You gape. “Wow. Who thought you had it in you to be so possessive.”

“Please, with a pussy like that of course I’m possessive,” he teases. He’s joking.

“My power,” you sigh anyway, and jump off the bed claiming that you’re hungry. Jeongguk looks at the badge again and pops it in his breast pocket before he loses it and regrets it.

(9) Participating in their hobby even if it doesn’t personally interest you.

Jeongguk’s bored out of his brain.

He has no idea how you can be so fascinated by this stupid game where you’re essentially in debt, but he still sits and watches you tour him around this weird island that is inhabited by ducks and an ugly gorilla villager dressed in pink. And to think that he had a part to play in all of this, because his bank account definitely helped pay for this Nintendo Switch and game.

“Do you like my beach?” you ask him. It’s literally just sand and one coconut tree, and a few shells by the water. Oh, there’s a beach chair on there too, but it makes little difference. “I’m poor, I can’t afford furniture yet.”

“Can’t you just make it?”

“I can, but I’m sick of making axes to collect wood,” you explain with a grudge against the fact that tools now break in this Animal Crossing game. Jeongguk hums like he’s invested, and he tries to be, because he cares about you too much to unintentionally hurt your feelings by displaying his crippling disinterest.

“Oh. Makes sense.”

“Can I show you my hybrid flower garden?”

He sighs. “Yeah, you wanted to show me all of your island, right?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Once you’ve had a tour, I can make you a profile and you can play too. You can live next door to me!”

“Why can’t we share a house?” Jeongguk presses.

“Because I don’t think it works like that, babe,” you confess. “Anyway. Here’s my garden.”

(10) Sitting in comfortable silence while eating a meal.

He’s tired. You’re tired.

The radio plays quietly updating Seoul on the fires that spread across the city today, and Jeongguk smells like smoke and salt. He keeps his head down as he eats his meal, something he brought home with him to make up for the fact that he’s been absent for almost a week now. You have so many things to say and he has so many things he needs to say to make up for everything, but nothing is said tonight.

You know he’s having a hard time, because Jeongguk’s been smoking again. He smoked on the balcony earlier, and once again in the bedroom. There are now ashtrays around your own apartment, and you don’t even smoke. Jeongguk takes a drink of bourbon and swallows it dry.

You look up at him from across the table, not wanting to press the issue when you know it’ll end in an argument, and then sex to make up for it. You’re both too tired to fuck today, too tired to speak. Just being in each other's company is enough for tonight. The only words he says are goodnight and something you don’t catch as you’re drifting off to sleep. Jeongguk’s awake all night, the fires burn until early hours, and the smoke smell is still there in the morning even when he isn’t.

#im sick of myself and my brain making new fics instead of finishing current ones #oh well #jungkook scenario #bts scenario #jeongguk scenario #jungkook x reader #bts #bangtan #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook imagine #jeongguk x reader #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook #jjk #bts mafia au #sugar daddy au #wordless

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