#its so much work and would be an impulsive decision and those NEVER go well for me. im NOT GONNA DO IT. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

harrysfinelinevol1 · 2 years ago

Text

the flatshare in london

harry styles x reader

summary: you live in a flatshare with sarah and two other girls in london in 2017. through your insistence to get sarah's talent more widely recognised, you meet a man who will change your life forever

word count: 8.7k

warnings: smut

Living in London in your early 20s had its ups and downs. Everything was ridiculously expensive and the city was becoming busier and busier. It was so packed and crowded all the time. But you loved it. You loved the city for its vibrancy and its people, the different cultures and the beautiful sights, and just getting lost in it. It was home and you wouldn't change it for the world.

You had moved there when you turned 20 in 2015, blindly following your best friend to the capital, happy to indulge in her adventures. Sarah had been your best friend since you were four, whom you had met at your local primary school. Both of you were quite shy when you were little and naturally bonded over wanting to keep to yourselves in the corner of the playground. Since then you had navigated life with her, giggling through those cringy pre-teen years, crying through your teenage heartbreaks and holding each other when adulthood really hit you.

As you had grown up, you had come out of your shell, developing into a bit of a free spirit. You loved people and making new friends, exploring new places and immersing yourself in whatever situation you were faced with. It meant that you hated being alone and sometimes you found yourself making stupid decisions to get people to like you. You could never really hold down a relationship, even though every time you were in one, you convinced yourself that he was the one for you and you were madly in love. You fell in love very easily.

Sarah, on the other hand, mainly stayed quite reserved. While that meant she often didn't want to come on your weird adventures and struggled to open up quite like you could, she was very level-headed and very loyal to all her friends. She always had the best advice and was always there for a hug when you needed it. Sarah gave the best hugs. That's why, despite your differences, you had remained close friends for such a long time. You would follow her to the end of the earth if she needed you to. And you knew she'd do the same for you

You and Sarah had always talked about moving to London. The idea of the city thrilled you as well as the opportunities that came along with it. You were both from a small corner of England, where not much ever happened and you needed a change. You needed some excitement. That's why, when Sarah said she'd got a job as a drummer for a local bar in London, which paid a decent wage, you had jumped at the opportunity for you to move to London. She had worried that you didn't have a job there, but you had assured her, in your impulsive way, that everything would be fine, you had some money saved up and you would take any job when you moved there so you could afford the rent and living there. It took a lot of convincing on your part but you managed to get her to turn her life around in about a week and begin preparing to move to London. You knew she wanted to go and she was excited about her new job but decisions like this often felt overwhelming to Sarah and that's where you came in to give her a little push.

You had moved down, one Tuesday in June, both of you giggling and singing down the M4, hair blowing in the wind. You remember being so excited to start your new life and you now realise that moving to London was the best thing you and Sarah had ever done.

Since moving, both of your lives had been a whirlwind of emotions. You had moved in with two other girls, who you and Sarah had known for a while, into a small flat in Clapham. It was a bit rundown, the paint was peeling in places, some of the appliances needed a bit of a kick to get them working and there was a dubious patch of mould in one corner but with some love and a lot of command strips you had made it feel like home. You loved it there, even if Sarah liked to play the drums at obscene times at night. Your neighbours really didn't like you.

You had managed to get a job working in a pub. At first, you saw it as a temporary job, until you found something that you were passionate about but soon you found yourself passionate about working in the pub. You became fast friends with the Landlord and he had basically made you his partner when it came to running the pub. Your opinions and what you had to say were listened to and taken on board and you loved making the pub a safe space for all that passed through the doors. So many fun nights had been had in that little pub in Clapham and you wouldn't change it for the world.

Sarah was now playing for a couple of bands, often touring the UK and Europe and was so happy with what she was doing. However, sometimes, her talent would present her with insane opportunities, but she would turn them down, believing they were too big for her. This had happened a couple times now and you knew you weren't going to let her do it again now. You were in awe of how talented your best friend was sometimes, she had a beautiful voice and was an insane drummer, and you felt like the world deserved to hear her perform.

That is what led you to meet Harry. Your determination for your best friend to make a name for herself. You were pulling pints on a particularly busy night at the pub when you struck up a conversation with one of your regulars. He was a nice guy, probably spent too much time at the pub rather than at home with his girlfriend, but he made for interesting chat.

"Anyway, I just had to get out of the house tonight, the missus is going mad," he chuckled sipping on his pint. You rolled your eyes at his usual excuse for why he was at the pub alone but you let him continue.

"I swear since she became creative director for that bloody pop star, she's been so stressed out," he continued and you nodded along while wiping down the bar.

"I'm sure she has a reason to. What's stressing her out at the minute?" you asked.

"Oh, she's trying to organise a band for this guy. Apparently, they had it all sorted then the bloody drummer dropped out..." he continued ranting but you zoned out the minute he said drummer.

"...Anyway, they're holding auditions but they can't find anyone who's good enough at the moment or who fits the band's vibe or whatever. So bloody annoying," he grumbled but you were busy scribbling on a bit of paper.

"Y/N?" he queried, confused why you looked so excited.

"John, I think I have the solution to all your problems. My best friend, she's an excellent drummer and singer. Like she's insanely talented. Give this to your girlfriend and tell her to give her a call," you explained excitedly, handing over a scrap of paper with Sarah's details on it.

"You're a lifesaver Y/N. I hope you're right about this girl," he said tucking the paper into his pocket.

"Oh don't worry, she's incredible," you assured him.

"You sure she won't mind your signing her up for this?" he wondered, but you shook your head. You knew it was a bit risky, signing Sarah up for something she might not want to do, but she had expressed to you that she wanted to do something big with her music. She just didn't have the guts to do it herself. You knew she was capable of it though.

"She won't mind at all."

"YOU DID WHAT!?" Sarah chased you through the small kitchen brandishing a wooden spoon at you.

"Sarah, I did you a favour," you tried, cowering away from her rage.

"Y/N, I swear to god!" she huffed, throwing her hands up in the air in disbelief. "You're too bloody impulsive sometimes."

"And you're not impulsive enough. You've always wanted to do something big like this, you told me that two nights ago! I know you can do this, you're Sarah fucking Jones!" you insisted and she sagged her shoulders. Even though you both knew you should have consulted her beforehand, she knew if you had, she would have said no right there and then because she was too afraid.

"Listen, it's just an audition. Go along and see how it goes. I think it's worth a shot," you implored and you could see her begin to crack slightly.

"I'm not sure, I mean what would I even play?" she muttered nervously. You rolled your eyes.

"Anything babe, you're insanely talented,"

"You're just insane," she quipped back.

"Thank you," you did a fake curtsy and she rolled her eyes but a grin was making its way onto her face. "Listen, she'll probably text you in the morning, so sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning. Although I'll be very disappointed if you don't go."

"God, you sound like my dad. You're bloody lucky I'm still up right now, I would have murdered you if I'd got the call in the morning with no idea what you had signed me up for," she pointed out and you nodded laughing. Your shifts at the pub finished at 1am so if Sarah had been asleep when you got back you would have been in very deep trouble. Thank god she was a night owl like you

"Hm yeah fair point," you said as you trudged back into the kitchen to continue making your late-night snack.

"You need to think before your actions sometimes babes," she reminded as she went back to her baking. God knows why she was baking this late but you didn't question it.

"S, when have I ever done that," you replied, a cheeky smile on your face and she shook her head, grinning.

"Anyway, who is the band for?" she asked and your face dropped. Shit. You didn't actually know.

"Uhh, well... I think...," you stuttered and she sighed loudly.

"You don't know do you?" she groaned.

"Uhhh, no."

"For fucks sake."

Sarah was gripping your hand so hard you thought it would fall off as you walked down the road from the tube station to the studio where her audition would be. The morning after your fun altercation in the kitchen at 1am, Sarah had received a call from John's girlfriend, the creative director, who had helpfully let her know that she would be auditioning for none other than Harry Styles's band. She had screamed at you again for that. Neither of you had really listened to his music before but you knew who he was and how famous he was. She had nearly pulled out again then, claiming it was way too much for someone like her and she wasn't talented enough for someone like that. You had nearly punched her in the face to stop her ramblings but luckily you managed to convince her, somehow, to come to the audition.

"Y/N, what the fuck have you got me into," she mumbled as you reached the doors of the studio.

"Something incredible," you declared giving her hand a squeeze. "You'll thank me later babe."

"No I won't," she grumbled, even though she knew she needed to do this. This could open a lot of doors for her.

"I'll be right here. You're gonna smash it S, I know it," you assured her, staring into her deep brown eyes that held so much anxiety.

"You're paying for my therapy when I have to recover from this," she called back to you as she began to nervously walk towards the door.

"Happily," you called back as you began to dig about in your tote bag for some stress relief.

"Don't smoke while I'm gone," she reprimanded you and your movements stopped. You had been caught.

"Wasn't gonna," you lied grinning at her.

"Liar," she said as she disappeared through the doors and you chuckled as your hand closed around your lighter and your cigarettes. It was an awful habit you picked up but you needed the stress relief sometimes. And getting Sarah to this audition had been anything but calm.

You popped your headphones in as you leaned against the wall, your cigarette resting loosely between your lips as you took a drag from it, feeling the relief wash over your body. You hummed along to the song playing in your ears as you began answering some emails regarding the pub on your phone. It was a lovely summer's day and you soaked up the sun's rays happily as you typed away on your phone. You didn't even notice the time passed before Sarah's happy face appeared in front of yours again.

"Oh my god! How did it go!" you squealed pulling out your headphones excitedly, so happy to see her happy.

"I think it went really good! That was the best I've ever played," she gushed and you pulled her into a tight hug.

"I am so proud of you!" you beamed, almost jumping up and down in excitement. "I know you would nail it. When do you find out?"

"They said that today was the last day they were holding auditions and that they'd call tomorrow to let us know. Oh god, I actually hope I get it, everyone was so cool and nice. I met a couple of members of the band," she explained as you began walking down the street back to the tube stop.

"Did you meet him?" you asked curiously but she shook her head.

"No, he's in America at the moment. I'll probably meet him at the first rehearsal or something."

"Ah, I see. So what was his band like?" you continued your line of questioning. She began to ramble about every member and how nice they'd all been. You noticed a twinkle in her eye when she was talking about the lead guitarist, Mitch, but you decided not to push her on it, knowing you would only receive a harsh glare and a slap to the shoulder. Little did you know, that audition would change everything for the both of you.

That same evening Sarah had got the call to say she was in. They said they had loved her so much when she auditioned that they just knew it had to be her and cancelled the rest of the auditions for the day. You had screamed the kitchen down and your whole flat had gone out and got absolutely hammered to celebrate.

A couple of weeks had passed since that date and in the last week, Sarah had started rehearsing for the band. She had become close with the rest of the band and especially Mitch. They had already been out to dinner once or twice together and you were internally jumping for joy for her. Sarah didn't really date, not like you did, and was very reserved and found it hard to open up to people. To hear that she had found someone quite similar to her in that aspect and someone who she got along with tremendously filled your heart with joy. Even if she remained very coy about it.

Apart from that, life went on as normal. You still spent too much money, smoked too many cigarettes, got too drunk on the weekend, regretted it on Monday and continued to love the life you had built for yourself. You could never have guessed one Wednesday morning it would all change for you.

You woke up late, as usual, your late shifts meaning you didn't usually get up until 10 or 11 the next day. The sun seeped into your room under the door as you groaned and stretched out your tired muscles from working too hard the night before. That and also having passionate sex into the early hours of the morning. You had a regular bed partner named Will, who was a bit of a lost soul but an excellent shag. He kind of floated through life, often with no direction and spouting the most amount of bullshit you had ever heard. However, you were very fond of him but you knew you could never fall in love with him. That's what made him so perfect. You could fulfil your needs and desires but not have to worry about falling in love with your friend.

You turned over in bed, seeing him still sleeping peacefully and an evil grin spread over your face. You leaned over and blew hard in his ear, which had him shooting up out of bed.

"Fuck!" he roared and you fell back giggling.

"You're such a twat," he groaned as he rubbed his hands over his face, you continuing to cackle manically.

"Couldn't help it, you looked so peaceful," you chuckled and he sighed.

"God I hate you," he murmured leaning down to peck your lips gently.

"Hate you too," you responded, kissing him back gently before pushing him off you.

"Come on mate, you've got shit to do today," you reminded him as you pulled a grey cami top over your head and slipped into some black lace panties. He turned over and hid his face in your pillow and you slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Can't I just stay here? I think it would be constructive for my mental health," he tried and you rolled your eyes.

"Will. Up. Now."

Eventually, you managed to get the grumbling man up and out, laughing to yourself as he talked some more crap about why he should stay at yours. But you had a shit ton of stuff to do today so you managed to get him out the door, sighing as you leaned your back against it. You made your way into the kitchen at that point, goofily dancing along to the song playing on the radio and humming along. You were about to grab some toast out of the cupboard when someone spoke.

"Uh hey?" a deep voice spoke and you yelped, whirling around to spot a handsome, curly brown-haired man standing in the corner of your kitchen. It didn't take long for you to realise the man standing casually in your kitchen was Harry Styles. And also that you were just wearing some lace pants and a small top.

"What the fuck?!" you squeaked, watching him as he unashamedly checked you out. Your brow furrowed at this.

"Hey, eyes up here mister," you said gesturing to your face and he held his hands up.

"Sorry love," he smirked, his Mancunian accent sending shivers down your back even though you tried not to let it show. Instead you eyed him warily before calling out for Sarah.

"SARAH?"

"Yeah?" she called from down the corridor.

"Why the fuck is Harry Styles in my kitchen," you inquired and Harry laughed out loud at this. His eyes shined when he took in the sight of you. He would happily tell anyone now that he immediately fell in love with you when he saw you in the kitchen that day. You weren't overwhelmed by his presence and you just treated him like any other person. You had looked so beautiful standing there that he wanted to reach over and kiss you straight away.

"Oh shit sorry, forgot to mention, we're just stopping to grab some equipment. Do you remember where you put those spare mics I bought?" she inquired like it really wasn't a big deal that one of the most famous men in the world was currently staring at you in your underwear.

"They're in the storage cupboard. Also maybe next time you wanna let me know there's someone coming round before I charge into the kitchen in just my knickers," you yelled back and Harry was full-on cackling now. The whole situation was hilarious to him.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she apologised as she came rushing into the kitchen, going red when she saw your state of undress and Harry laughing into his hands in the corner.

"Uh, this is my roommate and best friend, Y/N," she introduced you. "Can you go put on some clothes?" she hissed at you as you leaned against the counter, eyeing up Harry. He raised an eyebrow as if to say 'go on, do as you're told,' but you hardened your stare and shook your head.

"No, I'm quite happy like this. My flat, my rules," you countered, turning around to continue making some toast.

"You're unbelievable," she tutted sending an apologetic look to Harry. "Come on H, we're going, could you grab that box over there?" she asked as she marched out of the kitchen. You knew you'd get a bollocking later but you didn't really mind. It had been fun to mess with both of them.

"Bye Y/N," he said, smirking at you as he went and when he left, you gripped the counter, hard. He was gorgeous, you had to admit but you knew if you pursued him, you would fall in love with him. You had form. You weren't supposed to fall in love with people like Harry, you were too wild for people like him, too spontaneous and too free. You weren't sure he would be able to tame you.

"Is that who I thought it was?" the sound of your other flatmate's voice broke you out of your deep thought.

"Uh, if you mean Harry Styles, then yes it was," you confirmed and she took in your current outfit.

"Y/N, please don't tell me you had your whole arse out when he was here."

"Oh you know I absolutely did."

It had been a couple of weeks since the kitchen incident. Predictably Sarah had given you a telling-off when she got home that day but as usual, most of it went over your head. As much as she tried to tame you, she had never really managed to stop your wild and crazy nature.

However, you hadn't stopped thinking about Harry. His green eyes and stupid smirk found their way into your head at all times of the day and you desperately wished it didn't. Even though you had only shared a couple words with each other, there had been an undeniable tension between the both of you.

"Y/N, I swear to god, stop bloody smoking," Sarah chastised you as she passed you on the steps up to the front door of your flat building, breaking your chain of thought. You smiled up guiltily as she marched passed you, stubbing out the butt of your cigarette.

"Sorry," you mumbled and she rolled her eyes.

"You're not. Anyway, have you got a shift tonight?"

"Nah, Andrew let me have the night off for once," you told her and she grinned wide.

"Brilliant! You're coming out," she told you as she unlocked the door and you jumped up in excitement. You would never say no to a night out.

"Yes, where are we going?!" you babbled excitedly.

"We are going out with the band. And Harry," she explained and your mouth dropped open.

"What?" you asked incredously. People like Harry Styles didn't go on a night out with people like you.

"You heard me. So please Y/N, I am literally begging you, be on your best fucking behaviour, I work with these people," she pleaded and you nodded, knowing that it was important for Sarah that she impressed these people, and you had been known to go a little crazy on nights out, often not trudging home until the sun had risen or was rising.

"I pinky promise," you said seriously holding out your pinky. You and Sarah had a rule from when you were kids that pinky promises were very serious. You didn't ever break a pinky promise.

"Thank you. Now go shower, I'm not taking you if you stink like smoke."

"It was one cigarette! I've only had one this whole week," you tried.

"One too many. Go!" she slapped your butt as she pushed you in the direction of the shower. Grumbling you went off to make yourself look presentable, as per Sarah's demands.

As you stood under the hot water, it came crashing down on you that you were about to go out with a proper celebrity. While you didn't really see him as such, it was still kind of a cool realisation. You emerged from the shower ten minutes later and opened the door to find your flat in an utter meltdown. Clearly, Sarah had told your flatmates who would be joining you tonight and it was like someone had let a fox loose in a chicken coop. There were clothes everywhere, people yelling and the distinct smell of something burning. You chuckled as you made your way to Sarah's room.

"Have you seen the carnage you've created?" you chuckled as you poked your head around the door and she giggled in response.

"Yeah, my bad."

"Where are we going tonight? Wanna chose the right outfit," you asked already planning a fit in your head.

"Pub near Harry's house. They have live music on Friday and Harry says it's really good fun," she explained and you nodded.

"Ok so smart casual then?" You got a thumbs up in response.

You went back to your room, pulling everything out of your wardrobe as you usually did when you were going out. However, you could feel yourself trying a bit harder tonight and even though you would never admit it, it was for Harry. Eventually, you pulled together an outfit and headed downstairs to find your secret bottle of Tequila. You then dashed up to Ellie's room, who was one of your flatmates.

"Wow, you look hot," she complimented as you entered the room, doing a little twirl for her. You were wearing a tight black waistcoat with matching loose trousers.

"Liquid courage?" you offered, holding up the bottle and she nodded quickly.

"God yes," and you chuckled as you poured out the shots.

Three tequila shots and one telling-off later, the four of you were walking to the tube station, all giggling and talking nervously about the night ahead. You could tell that Sarah was bricking it, so you held her hand tight the whole way on the Tube, despite it being very hot and sticky. You finally emerged in Hampstead, and walked briskly to the pub, slightly running late as you usually were. You quickly arrived at a very busy-looking pub, exactly what you were hoping for. People were milling about on the street smoking and Sarah gave you a warning glare. You pushed the doors open and were met with a very lively atmosphere. Sarah quickly spotted the band in the corner and dragged the three of you over, dodging around already quite drunk people.

"There she is!" one of them exclaimed when he spotted Sarah and everyone turned to your little group. You were all quickly introduced to each member of the band, and you paid keen attention to Mitch when you met him, sizing him up a bit until Sarah saw what you were doing and kicked you under the table. Harry, however, was nowhere to be seen. You didn't want to ask, not wanting to seem too eager but you were a little disappointed he wasn't there.

"Do you guys want a drink?" Adam offered as you all settled down on the table and you all nodded.

"Well you could have offered earlier," you hear a deep gravelly voice from behind you. Turning around you met the gaze of the man you had been hoping to see.

He was carrying a couple of drinks that he had obviously just gone to get and he rolled his eyes as he set them down in front of his band members.

"Uh ok, what does everyone else want," he asked, getting ready to go back to the bar. You shook your head.

"Don't worry Harry, I'll get them, you sit down," you told him, getting up off your seat to go to the bar. You knew your flatmate's orders anyway so it made more sense.

"No, it's fine, I'm already up," he responded.

"So am I."

"Sit down, I'll get them, it's on my tab," he argued back.

"No really it's fine..." you started before Mitch groaned.

"For god's sake, both of you go. Stop bickering," he grumbled and you chuckled before shrugging at Harry, agreeing to go to the bar with him.

You squeezed back through the throngs of people to get to the bar, Harry following close behind. You didn't miss the way his eyes flickered over your figure and your outfit and you certainly didn't miss the way his hand landed on the small of your back as you waited in the queue for the bar. You raised an eyebrow at him but he just smirked, so you let him keep his hand there. It felt nice anyway.

"Glad to see you've dressed up for me this time," he joked and you glared back.

"Right, to be fair, it was my flat and I wasn't exactly expecting you to be lounging about in my kitchen," you explained and he laughed.

"Don't worry love. It was a nice surprise," he whispered the last part in your ear.

"What's your game here Styles," you challenged him, knowing he was definitely trying something with you.

"What game, there's no game," he acted innocent as he fought the smile from growing on his face.

"Sure," you said, not believing a word. The bartender came over at this point, and you happily turned your back on Harry, giving the man your order.

"On my tab please," Harry added from behind you as you placed your order and you whirled around.

"No it's fine, I can get our drinks," you implored but he shook his head.

"I organised the night, I'm paying for the drinks," he argued and you smiled.

"That's very kind," you thanked as the bartender handed over your drinks and he smiled back in response, but this time it was a genuine smile, unlike his usual cheeky one.

"No worries. Pass me those two, I'll carry them," he insisted as you struggled to carry all four. You passed him the two and you walked back to the table where everyone was getting along tremendously.

As soon as your butt hit the seat, your social side came out as well as your need to please people and make them like you. You began to engage in animated conversation with everyone at the table and soon you were having a very enjoyable debate with Mitch, Sarah, Adam and Harry. Harry was slightly in awe of how likeable and joyful you were. You managed to coax laugh after laugh out of everyone on the table and you were so charismatic. He watched as everyone basically fought for your attention, which you happily gave. You were so animated when you spoke and he found himself hanging onto every word. You dominated the conversation but everyone was happy to let you, wanting to hear what you had to say.

The night went on, everyone growing tipsier and tipsier and growing louder and louder. Even Sarah had let her hair down a bit which was quite unlike her. Usually took a lot of coaxing from you, but it was such a good atmosphere tonight that she couldn't help herself.

The live band started at around 10, and soon you found yourself on your feet with the rest of the pub as everyone began to dance. You were dancing with your flatmates, apart from Sarah who was giggling away with Mitch in the corner. Your dance moves weren't the best, but you didn't care, you were having fun and that's all that mattered. Harry, Adam and Clare were all dancing as well, just as goofily as you. The drinks kept flowing though and you could feel yourself gravitating towards Harry as you continued dancing and you couldn't stop yourself. You didn't want to.

Around 11, Harry and you were returning from the bar to the dance floor when he grabbed your hand and pulled you off to the side.

"What are you doing?" you inquired as he pulled you away from your friends.

"Stealing you for myself for a minute," he explained as he looped his arms around your shoulders, pulling your back into his chest. You secretly smiled at the move and sipped on your drink coyly as you leaned back into him, both of you swaying to the slower song that was currently playing. You couldn't help yourself, the feeling of being in his arms was like nothing else and you really wanted to whirl around a kiss him. However, you could feel Sarah's piercing gaze on you and you knew you were probably being watched by the whole group. It seemed Harry had realised too.

"You smoke?" he whispered in your ear and you nodded.

"Come outside," he ordered and you nodded again, happy to go wherever with him. He grabbed your hand again and pulled you outside to the quiet smoking area, getting away from all the watching eyes.

"What are you up to Harry?" you chuckled nervously as you reached to grab a cigarette. He quickly plucked it from your fingers, laughing when you made a pathetic attempt to get it back.

"You shouldn't smoke."

"Yeah I know, but you literally invited me out here to smoke," you grumbled, trying to get your cigarette back.

"Oh Y/N," he smirked as he walked towards you, you walking backwards until your back hit the wall and he was towering over you.

"We both know that's not why we're out here," he whispered and you gulped nervously. Your stomach was tingling with arousal and all you wanted to do was lean up and press a kiss to his plump lips. However, you stood your ground, a playful glint in your eye.

"Hm, I'm not really too sure. Care to let me in on the secret?" you teased and Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm wanna kiss you," he declared and you nodded quickly, wanting nothing more. He almost groaned out loud before he kissed you hard, and your breath was taken away by how deep the kiss was. His hands came up to cup your cheeks and pull you closer to him as your hands snaked around his back as you swirled your tongue over his, moaning when his hands snaked down your back to grab your arse.

"Fuck Harry," you gasped as you pulled back, both of your pupils blown wide by lust. He began to kiss slowly down your neck, sucking lightly at some points and you cursed loudly, wanting more and more.

"Please," you whimpered and he looked at you, smirking.

"What d'you want love."

"Want you," you panted and he grinned widely, your voice music to his ears. He leaned in again and pressed another deep kiss to your lips before pulling away.

"You wanna come home with me?" he whispered and you nodded again. You knew it was a bad idea and you knew it probably wouldn't end well but you wanted him so badly. Your core was throbbing with arousal and you could feel yourself becoming wet between your thighs.

"Stay here. I'll get our stuff," he said quickly, before turning back to the door of the bar and disappearing inside. You knew it was best if just Harry went, Sarah would probably be very displeased at where you were going right now. You didn't care though, you desperately wanted to be with Harry. You were already addicted to the feel of him and you needed more.

He emerged from the pub a couple minutes later, looking slightly flustered but holding your coats.

"Sarah had a go at you didn't she," you guessed and he chuckled as he nodded.

"Surprisingly enough, yes, she did," he replied as he came up to you, pressing a light kiss on your lips before handing you your stuff. You blushed slightly at the affection and he smiled gently before taking your hand in his and tugging you towards a private road just round the corner from the pub.

You both keep stopping for shared kisses along the way, Harry pressing you up against all sorts of things, the postbox on the corner of the road, the broken telephone box, the bus stop and he almost pressed you against a bin before you put a stop to it. He couldn't help himself, he didn't want to stop touching you.

You eventually arrived at a big white brick house, that was hidden behind a huge gate. You marvelled at the size as Harry discreetly unlocked the gate and pulled you up the driveway. You almost tripped up the stairs as you walked to his front door, Harry smirking slightly as he held the door for you.

"Y'Alright there?" he chuckled. You flipped him off in response and he glowered at you. The minute the door closed, he grabbed your waist and pushed you up against the door, you gasping at his actions.

"Watch your attitude," he hissed. You knew he wasn't being serious but his tone and his demeanour had you weak in the knees. He attached his lips to your neck again, sending goosebumps up your arms and neck.

"Want you, Harry, want you so bad," you moaned as his hands slipped under your waistcoat, groaning in annoyance when the tight material stopped them from travelling up to where you wanted them the most.

"Fuck," he groaned before pulling you away from the door and leading you upstairs. He reached a door at the end of the corridor and flung it open, almost yanking you into the dark room. You barely had time to take in your surroundings when Harry slammed the door behind you and grabbed your hips to push you onto the bed. He stood above you, standing between your knees and he cupped your chin slightly so you looked up at him. He almost gave out at the knees when you looked up at him with those beautiful wide eyes, eyelashes batting at him innocently.

"You're something else, love," he breathed, admiring your beauty. He frowned when you reached up to undo the button on his trousers, but before you got to unbuttoning them he pushed you back on the bed and crawled over you so your noses were touching. He grabbed your hands and locked them down on the bed with his.

"Did I say you could do that?" he growled and you shook your head nervously, thighs slick with arousal from this sudden show of dominance. He smirked at your submission before leaning down to kiss you, grinding his crotch against yours as he did. You groaned loudly at the friction and his grip on you grew harder.

"I wanna taste you," he murmured in your ear.

"Please," you stuttered, wanting nothing more than to feel his tongue against your core. He placed one last gentle kiss on your lips before crawling off the bed again. Suddenly he roughly dragged your body to the edge of the bed, so your legs were dangling off it. You yelped at the sudden movement, your heart pounding at his rough nature. You couldn't get enough. He fell to his knees in front of your legs, undoing the button on your pants so he could grab the hem of them and yank them down. His mouth watered at the sight of your clothed folds, a wet patch visible on your lacy underwear. He placed soft kisses on your thighs, nipping them slightly to leave marks, you becoming a writhing mess on his bed as a result of his torture. Eventually, after many pleas from you, he skimmed the hem of your panties and hooked his fingers under them to pull the down achingly slowly. He groaned out loud at the sight of your soaked folds, glistening and ready for him. He wasted no time in hooking your legs over his shoulders and delving his tongue into your centre, you throwing your head back at the sudden contact, crying out his name. He circled his tongue around your clit before lapping up your wetness. You were gasping and moaning as he devoured you, gripping hard onto the bed sheets out of sheer pleasure. No one had ever eaten you out like this before and it was incredible.

"God Harry!" you almost screamed as he moved one of his hands from your thigh to insert a finger inside you, adding to the growing pressure growing in your stomach. He slowly pumped it in and out, adding another finger when he knew you could take it while continuing to pleasure you relentlessly with his tongue. You knew you couldn't last much longer, the pressure in your stomach becoming more and more intense by the second. You basically sobbed as your orgasm came crashing through you, your back arching off the bed as Harry worked you through it, sucking harshly on your clit as your body shook.

"Fucking hell," you gasped as came down from your high, Harry lifting his head off your dripping folds.

"You taste incredible love," he cooed as he placed a kiss on your lower stomach, admiring your flushed body. You pushed yourself up on your elbows as you tried to slow your breathing as he unhooked your legs from his shoulders. He quickly pulled his shirt over his head, and you shamelessly admired his toned chest full of tattoos. He saw the hunger in your eyes and his cock strained against his trousers.

"Move back," he ordered and you complied, shuffling yourself around so you were leaning against his headboard.

"That needs to come off," he continued, gesturing to your waistcoat.

"So do those," you cheekily replied back, referring to the brown flares he was wearing. They fit his waist incredibly well and you had almost been drooling at him in the pub.

At your attempt to order him around, he moved quickly to the bed and was hovering over you in a flash, a tight grip on your jaw.

"You first darling. Only good girls get what they want," he rasped sinfully and you almost came right there. His voice was much lower and more gravelly than usual. Quickly, you undid the buttons of your top, all while holding eye contact with him. Your top flapped open, revealing your bare chest and Harry swiftly ducked down and latched onto your nipple with his mouth. Your hands threaded into his hair as he did so, tugging harshly generating moans from Harry. He continued to lavish your chest but you were desperate for more. So you lifted your hips up and pushed them into his. He lifted his head from your chest rapidly.

"Watch it," he warned but you were feeling dangerous. Smirking at him, you did it again and he snapped. He sat back and grabbed your hips to flip you over, delivering a sharp slap to your arse as he did so. You moaned loudly at the stinging sensation as he tugged on your hips to bring you up onto your hands and knees, your bum pressing hard into his crotch. He quickly undid his trousers and pulled down his boxers, then leaned over your back to whisper in your ear.

"You sure," he asked gently, needing your consent over everything.

"Absolutely," you assured him and he gently kissed your shoulder before reaching around you to grab a condom and slid it on. He slowly pushed into you from behind and your arms nearly collapsed from beneath you at the feeling of being so full.

"Fuck," you cried out, feeling deliciously stretched.

"Took me so well love," Harry praised as he began to slowly thrust in and out of you, burying himself deep inside you with every move.

"Faster Harry, please," you begged, the slow pace he had set making you want him even more.

"As you wish darling," he said before pulling your hips into him faster and speeding his thrusts up. He leaned over you as he thrust quickly into you, so your back was pressed against his chest. He kept one hand on your hip while the other was gripping onto the headboard. You leant your head back to rest it on his shoulder, as he harshly sucked the supple skin on your neck leaving dark purple marks. He finished attacking your neck and straightened up again, but as he moved his hand from the headboard, you grabbed onto it, placing it gently on your throat. You looked at him over your shoulder to check he was ok with it and his eyes were ablaze with lust. You gave his wrist a quick squeeze and he began to apply pressure with his hand, lifting up your head slightly. He looped a hand around your waist to bring you onto your knees, so he could have a firmer grip on your throat, but still continued to thrust into you. You arched your back so he could get a good angle and he began pounding into you, hard, squeezing your throat slightly as he did. You were gasping loudly, tears streaming down your face from the feeling of it all, and Harry was whispering a mix of curses and praises in your ear. Using his hand looped around your waist, he slipped his hand down to rub your clit, providing the exact stimulation you needed for your orgasm to come rushing through you for a second time.

"Harry!" you choked out as you came for a second time, his grip on your throat loosening a bit. You couldn't hold yourself up anymore and fell down onto the bed, but he gently pulled out of you and turned you over. He softly kissed your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth as he slowly pushed into you again, although his thrusts were losing rhythm as he neared his orgasm.

"Did so good love, you were perfect for me," he whispered sweet praises in your ears as he continued to push into you.

"Cum for me," you purred in his ear as you looped your arms around his shoulders to pull him into you, legs locked around his hips. He buried his face into your neck as he sped up his thrusts, moaning loudly into your skin. Eventually, he let out a cry and almost collapsed on top of you as he spilt into the condom.

"Fuck," he whispered as his movements stilled, still inside you, trying to catch his breath. He pressed a light kiss to your shoulder as he slowly pulled out, you whining from the loss of something inside you and he smirked.

"Needy," he chuckled as he collapsed beside you, pulling off the condom before tying it and dropping it in the bin beside his bed. You felt too spent by the whole experience to be able to even move a muscle and Harry realised this.

"You alright love," he checked and a big smile grew on your face as you nodded slowly.

"Never better," you rasped, voice a bit rough from him choking you.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," he replied tenderly, rising from the bed to help you get up. He scooped you up in his arms, you nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. He carried you through to his bathroom where he set you down on the open toilet and let you do your business while he started running you a bath. Your heart swelled at the gesture, no one had ever given you aftercare quite like this before.

You finished peeing and flushed the toilet, slowly wobbling over to the sink to wash your hands. Harry saw you struggling to stay upright on your shaky legs and quickly walked over to you to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered lazily as he pressed a small kiss to your head, and led you over to the warm bath he had prepared. He helped you in before he got in behind you, letting you rest your weary head on his chest. You felt so at peace and relaxed but also your heart was pounding loudly. You felt like you were beginning to like him a bit too much. Yes, he was undeniably gorgeous and incredible in bed, probably the best you had ever had, but he was also kind and funny and caring and you really liked just being near him. You wanted to hear what he had to say, what he thought about things and you wanted him to hold you in his arms forever because it was the nicest feeling in the world. Before you had time to spiral over it, however, Harry distracted you as he began gently washing you with a sponge, making sure he got rid of all the grime and sweat you had accumulated from the pub and the sex. He carefully washed your intimate areas, knowing you felt extra sensitive down there at the moment before moving you forward slightly so he could wash.

Eventually, the water was beginning to go cold, so he slipped out of the bath, helping you out with him. You shivered slightly, so he quickly wrapped you up in one of his fluffy towels before going back into his bedroom, soon returning wearing some boxers and handing you a jumper and some old shorts. The clothes were a bit big on you, but they smelt distinctly of Harry and it felt like being wrapped in a big Harry hug when you put them on.

"You ok with staying over?" he asked, not wanting to overstep your boundaries. You nodded in response, even if you hadn't wanted to stay, you didn't think you'd be able to get home in the state you were currently in.

When you nodded, you swore you saw Harry relax his shoulders and let go of a breath he had been holding but you didn't think much of it. You were too tired. You both exited the bathroom and you crawled into his bed, gravitating towards him as he got in on the other side. Before you got comfy with him, you grabbed your phone to send a quick text to the group chat, to let them know you were safe but not to wait up for you. You blushed as their messages began flooding in, inquiring all sorts of details about your night with Harry, so you quickly shut off your phone and placed it on the nightstand. Harry was also scrolling on his phone, but he placed it down when your arm snaked across his chest and you rested your head on his shoulder.

"You're pretty," he whispered, admiring your gorgeous face and all the tiny little details on it. You blushed, hiding your face in his chest as he chuckled at your embarrassment.

"Stop," you whined, not knowing how to respond to his affection.

"Just telling the truth," he replied and you gazed up at him then, admiring his face too, his deep green eyes, his pointed nose and sharp chin. He was perfect.

"I think you're pretty too," you replied as you traced the outline of his swallows on his chest. It was his turn to look coy but instead of hiding his face like you had done, he leaned down and captured your lips with his, slowly moving his mouth over yours. It wasn't a passionate kiss by any means but it left you the most flustered out of all the kisses you had shared that night. It was a sweet kiss, gentle yet loving and that had you spiralling once again. You wanted him to kiss you like this forever and that's when you knew.

You were going to fall in love with this man.

part 2!

she's done it again, she's begun writing something as a oneshot and shockingly enough it's too long to just be one part. whoops. i think this might even have three or four parts. i like this a lot though and i hope you do too

sloane xx

#harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles reader insert #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles and reader #harry styles smut

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bajicantspell · 2 years ago

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Drunken Haircut ❕

Baji x gn!Reader

Summary: Getting drunk with your bf lead to an unexpected makeover

Warnings: Cursing! Slightly suggestive! Alcohol consumption 🛁🛁🛁

‘I swear to god if you fuck it up…’ ‘Just shut up and stay still dumbass.’

Baji swears he loves you. He knew it from the first day he met you and he knows it each and every single day that he spends with you. He loves you even more now that you were slowly building a life together, having recently moved in together. You were his first love and he truly hopes you’re the last. He swears you drive him crazy in the best way, the kind of way that still makes him nervous around you despite years of dating. He loves everything you do together. He loves the cozy dates that you have. He loves when you stay home and get absolutely drunk and do stupid things just like you used to when you were 16. He loved that despite aging together, you both never grow up. Those are the perks of dating the love of your life that also happens to be your best friend, he thinks. He knows you’re his endgame.

But god he swears he could kill you right now.

One of the many things Baji takes pride in is his hair.

His hair that hasn’t changed since middle school.

The same hair that you were currently messily bleaching.

It was a normal Saturday night for you. You both just wanted to enjoy each other’s presence, drink a bit, watch a movie and maybe something more. But he knew better than to expect your ‘casual’ date nights to be, well, casual. He loved that you matched his impulsiveness and recklessness, but right now, in his slightly dazed mind, he questioned whether or to he gave you a bit too much creative freedom.

It was your idea, of course, and you know the power you hold over the smitten boy, so him agreeing wasn’t a surprise. You both quickly ran to some 24h open store to get bleach, still tipsy and in your pjs. You quickly came home with the hair dye and some more cheap booze.

‘Baby don’t be so nervous, I’ve done this before.’’ You reassured him with a kiss on the cheek while wrapping up his raven locks with the foil.

‘I still don’t trust you.’ ‘Stop whining, you big baby. I’m almost done.’ He continued bouncing his leg up and down despite you scolding him about moving, you just didn’t bother reminding him to stay still. He was always like that, you thought, no one could keep him still, it wasn’t in his nature.

‘Aaaand done! Now we just have to wait for it to set and then you have to wash it off.’ You said, a pleased smile on your face, proud of your work.

He stood up to look in the mirror. He looked at the very ends of his hair wrapped up in foil and sighed, already regretting his decision to trust you.

While waiting you had to remind him ever few minutes not to mess with the foil; he didn’t listen of course.

You cracked open another beer before noticing the time. ‘Babe its time. Go wash your hair.’ ‘You won’t join me?’ He said with half lidded eyes and a smirk.

He looked absolutely ridiculous trying to be all charming with foil on his head, and of course you made sure to point that out.

He grumbled something you didn’t quite hear before heading to the bathroom.

He got out relatively quickly and you helped him dry his hair.

Once his hair got dry he turned to the mirror, admiring your work.

He looked absolutely smoking hot, but you couldn’t tell him that, it would go straight to his already huge ego.

Instead you decided to pull him by the small silver chain that hung perfectly on his neck. The chain you gave him for his latest birthday.

Pulling him closer you whispered, ‘ I’ve done a good job have I not?’ He looked into your eyes then at your lips, and wrapped his arms around our lower back .

‘Don’t do that.’ He said in a low tone, referring to you pulling him in,your fingertips still hooked around the jewelry.

‘Or what?’ ‘Wanna test it?’ He said with a grin, picking you up bridal style. ‘I’m not scared of you.’ You teased, as he carefully placed you on your shared bed, before climbing on top; his freshly dyed hair tickling your face. ‘Oh baby you shouldn’t be. But you had your fun, it’s my turn.’’

🛁🛁🛁

i saw the new leaks so i had to.

🖤

#baji imagines #baji keisuke #baji keisuke x reader #baji x reader #baji headcanons #baji my boy #baji x reader fluff #baji smut #baji x y/n #baji drabble #tokrev baji #baji x you #baji fluff

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moonlesslights · 3 years ago

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Only love can hurt like this (Amado Carrillo x Reader)

Summary: Carrillo drags you to an unprevisted mission where the decision of which side you are on is finally in your hands.

(Reader is an agent of the DEA, and we are ubicated in Mexico for this).

Warnings: Love triangle (AmadoxReaderxHoracio), some mentions of sex, angst, fluff.

...

“There is nothing here” You whisper, not knowing if you are trying to convice Horacio or yourself.

In front of you, the house you have walked in so many times takes form between shadows of the rising sunset. You have memories in every corner of every room, laughs echoing in your ears, words you still carry next to your heart.

“He is. And he is not going anywhere” He scoffs back, making his way two steps ahead of you.

Your eyes wander to the windows surrounding the lounge you were into right know, watching from the second floor the silhouettes of the men Coronel Carillo trusted the most and their cars parked among the beautiful gardens of the house. You clench your jaw trying so hard to stop the frowning taking place on your features; but you just can’t fight it for too long. This isn’t your home, you wanted to say, leave us alone.

“It is still hot” Your head turns to Horacio again, following his voice. The man kicks down some logs off the fireplace only to reaveal incandescent ashes that are fired through the room. “He is here.”

You feel your stomach sinking, hurting. No. He can’t be here. He knew it was too dangerous, he knew it wasn’t safe to be in this city while Carrillo was looking for him... But he also knew you were here. “You really think he is going to leave you here?” You could hear your brother repeating those words to you. Felix’s face pointing to Amado playing with his kids and María at the table. “Traes a ese bato de los huevos”

Maybe you should have insisted more, maybe you should have screamed at him until he took all of his damn black shirts and got his ass up on a plane to the center of the jungle. But no, you got lost trying to eliminate all of the evidence of him and the Arellano brothers, trying so hard to lead Horacio away from them that you ended up missing the moment you failed... And the Coronel found his own way to Amado. El cabrón that never left.

“Where is your gun?”

“Uh?”

Carrillo raises an eyebrow and your gaze drops to your hands, empty. Weight on you hip is the only thing that warns you about your gun still on its rest position. Of course, you walked in this house without even feeling the impulse of taking it out of there, like you would even use it.

“I’m sorry” You answer vaguely, not being able to look into his eyes.

“We have little time before someone alerts we are here, I need you with me.” The words hit you like a train. You frown.

“You need me?” You think, wanting to spit in his face. “Now you need me?”. Your hands still clench in fury to remember his voice telling you then, in Colombia, that you just couldn’t be in his team anymore, not only breaking up with you in that very moment, almost in front of Javier and Steve; but also telling how distracting you were for him, how the relationship was only messing up everything. Yes, you still remember screaming in frustration when he prevented you to go on the mission Pablo was shot to dead, watching your work melting into nothing when your name just disappeared between the agents that helped to catch him.

The voice of Felix at the other side of the line, telling you that it was better for you to be out of sight, that he knew everything you did, that you accomplished your own mission and your Cali’ friends will be very happy with the news, it wasn’t enough.

You did hate Pablo Escobar. He was a murderer, a guy that didn’t deserve anything in life, and when you and Javi spent years together, risking everything only to bring justice, crying at night when it was all too much, seeing the sun rise in front of the office after you two stayed the whole night just in need a god damn track; well, you got hopeful it would be you three who’ll catch him. And hope it is always a double sided coin.

So when Horacio took the lead and in the blink of an eye, you fell in love with the same man that would break your heart twice, things started to get out of hand. Thinking it would be on your favor knowing him, getting involve, so you could always be part of the investigation, to know the next move and alert Pacho and the others of being necessary, you grow close to him. And it was okay, it was working, yes; until Carrillo kissed you and your world fell apart.

You loved him. There is nothing to argue about it. But you also learned to hate him. So much. Because when you finally thought it was all behind, that he wouldn’t bring any more grief to your life, he followed you home, in Mexico. And now he wasn’t chasing Pablo, now he wasn’t asking you to catch a terroris t. Now he was chasing your brother, now he was asking you to catch your lover. And it would be a total lie to say that that fact didn’t complete piss you off.

“We should split up.” You suggest, looking at him. “It would be easy to find him”

He chuckles, gazing at you from the corner of his eye.

“And would you tell me you found him?” He asks.

“What?”

“Would you tell me you found him?” He repeats, walking a few steps on your direction.

“Yes. What the hell are you talking about?” You speak back.

He then remains quiet, looking at you with an indescifrable expression. Your heart is racing in your chest, thinking about all the possibilities of the mean of his words. He hardens his features, pursing his lips before he states:

“I don’t trust you”.

You have to fight the smile threatening to climb onto your face.

“I don’t trust you either.” He nods, lowering his eyes for imperceptible seconds.

“We are not splitting up. I’m going to put a bullet in his skull when I find him.” Carrillo mutters, sarcastic.

You have known him for so long and you still don’t get used to how easy he takes being in life or death situations. Because you are not, because you want to throw up at the security in his statement.

“I don’t think there’s a need for that.” Good God.

Your breath gets stuck in your lungs. So hard it makes your chest hurt as you feel the color draining from your face.

Even when Horacio turns to the stairs at your back and raises his gun ready to pull the trigger, it takes you a good few seconds just to collect the right amount of courage to look back.

You know it is going to be him there, you knew his voice, you knew the feeling of his presence in the back of your neck. Amado, Amado, Amado…

The thing is: Nothing of it matters, because the moment you see his eyes narrowing at you in the growing darkness, you still feel a bullet hitting your throat in the most cruel and painful way.

“Get down!” It is the scream right beside your ear that makes you look away, wake up again to this reality.

“I’m unarmed.” Amado assures, maintaining his hands up and open.

“Don’t fucking move.” Carrillo warns anyways, taking careful steps in his direction.

You look at him, incapable of doing shit. Your brain working as fast as it can, looking for options, for answers and an scape plan for fucking Tontín.

“I’m here. This doesn’t have to take any more lives.” Amado keeps his voice low, certain. “It’s me who you want.”

“I don’t think I can agree with that.” The Coronel tilts his head, raising the gun up to Amado’s head. “Some of your men may be more open to talk than you.”

Amado keeps and indifferent expression but you can see his features darkening.

“The men here haven’t killed or done anything, some of them are kids. Let them go and I’ll talk.”

You look at him and his eyes are directed to you for only a millisecond, and your heart crushes in your chest. Ah.

He wasn’t just trying to protect his men, he was trying to protect you. Of course he knew his men were loyal, but Carrillo was here, and the man was only good for one thing: torture. And not even all the money in the world was going to keep everyone with the mouth close. Your name was going to fall, one way or another. And it would be all over.

But I won’t, he wanted to tell you, you are safe with me, because I won’t tell how many times I have loved you behind these walls. Observing your silhouette from his position, he can feel you. Closing his eyes, he can still see you there.

Amado’s eyes go to look to the windows, the sound of careful steps and indistinct chatters just confirm his thoughts. There were too few men around the house for this to be an authorized operation. Carrillo was too smart to let this pass once he knew he was here, obviously not wanting to ask for an order and risk his intentions to be known by Amado.

“I don’t think you don’t know how this is going to work, malparido.” The Coronel smirks.

“Believe me, let them go and most of them will keep their mouth shut when others like me come looking for you.” Amado tilts his head “Te va a comprar tiempo, pues.”

“What are you playing to?” Horacio asks, more to himself this time.

Amado gulps, pursing his lips. With a gun pointed to his head, pointed by no one else than the Coronel Horacio Carrillo, he expected cold sweat on his temple, fingers tingling or racing heart bumping in his chest… But nothing was happening. Rhythmically, the muscle beats one, two, three times and it doesn’t seem to flinch at the thought: This is it.

The reason was, probably, too well know by his own mind that didn’t bother him anymore. It never did, it just came for him one day, looking at you sleeping on the passenger seat, snoring softly, when his chest got warm at the realization: You were totally asleep, unconscious and indifferent of his actions at the wheel. You trusted him that, you fell asleep knowing you will be okay with him there. It was that day he continued his way making everything on his power to make himself sure that you didn’t make a mistake. Not with him. That choosing him was the right decision.

“La suerte se acaba, sooner or later, Coronel.” He comforts, drawing his eyebrows together. “And let’s be honest, this was a good strike, but it wasn’t the cleanest one, verdad?”

Horacio wasn’t a man know for fearing of the system nor his superiors, but this was Mexico, and things were so different here. If Amado gets to the police, he’s not putting a single foot in jail, in less than an hour he would be out in the street again, that’s exactly why he decided to make of this operation his call: He’s not taking Amado to the justice, he’s only going to a damp basement where he will be interrogated in a much more effective way. And even though he’s eager for answers, the process isn’t safe, the operation was risky and his name will figure as the top enemy again.

Mistakes were and will be done. And he can’t get killed for it, not yet.

“We’ll see what can we do for your men. No more than little rats between all this, right?” Carrillo mocks, now, inspecting Amado’s position, who nods at his words.

What are you doing?, What were you thinking?, you want to ask, scream, at him. How was he so confortable with that idea right now?, all while you plead for some kind of miracle, to wake up, to make everyone forget, to just fucking get shot just so he can take the distraction and run from Horacio.

But nothing happens, and your options start to disappear with the same facility they came in.

Then, Carrillo looks at you, frowning. His free hand moves and gives you a sign to get close.

“Give me the handcuffs.” He orders, pointing to the metal piece on your hip.

Your hand tries to reach for the safety at least two times before you get it right. Yes, it is until that moment that you realize how bad your trembling is. Horacio was going to notice and you just were so fucking scared.

You never thought this day would come, maybe, that you would’ve been here, seeing how Amado Carrillo Fuentes gets handcuffed by one of the most feared men in the Narco’s world. That you would see his fall. You just never thought today, in the morning, while drinking your coffee and staring at his photo on one of the blackboards, that ten hours later you would be seeing him in person again, like this.

The thing is, when you came back to Mexico and began to know and catch up on what your brother had been building here, you weren’t really looking for someone. Specially not after what happened with Horacio. But you did know Amado, you always did: He talked with Pacho a lot while you were undercover in Colombia. You and the Cali guys tended to laugh at how oblivious Amado was that the girl sitting with them at the business table was no less than Miguel Ángel’ sister.

So obviously, when you came back and Amado was told everything, he was pissed. He ranted about how little trust was put on him and how all of the plazas would be hearing about the audacity… Until they didn’t.

He did, in fact, not speak to Felix for about two weeks until he began to listen and understand motives, but mostly because he visited you a lot and you were living in Miguel’s house, so he had to see his stupid face all the time. And also, you could add, Felix was clueless Amado was mad at him, so he talked to him like nothing was happening while your favorite guy in black held himself from throwing hands.

So he stayed. You both got to know each other more, talking for hours about everything you could think of: your childhood, your friends, the business, y’know, even gossiping about all of the plazas. You could listen to him every day, ranting about the problems with the planes, with the routes, with an asshole that let himself catch, anything; oh, but you never get to listen when he talked with Mayo and Felix about how smart you were, how beautiful you looked wishing for the printer to die or how your voice was so calming to hear. You never saw how he looked at you, how he started to fall in love with your kindness and curiosity for everything, for your adoration to the smallest things in life.

You were so different from anything he had seen before. So clumsy that he wondered how the hell you were still alive. So determined he would choose you to lead all the god damn plazas if you wanted. You trusted to much that he was scared someone would hurt you. You were so cunning he trusted in every choice you made, following you blindfolded.

So, this time, he didn’t doubt to nod at you when the handcuffs were hanging from your fingers, Carrillo already outstretching towards them. “Está bien” he motions, “está bien”… Except, it wasn’t.

The metal slips off your skin, colliding against the wooden floor at your feet in two hits that freeze these very seconds. Horacio’s eyes follow the artefact on its way down, slowly starting to frown at the action while you gaze at Amado, trapped in his dark pupils. One hit. “No” He motions again, facing the defeat. “When did I ever listen to you?, when did you ever listen?” You wish to ask. Two hits.

In just what for you now it’s a reflect, your hand reaches for the grip of your gun, taking it out when Amado’s firm voice shouts a short and demanding “No!” at you.

Carrillo’s expression changes with violence, glancing at the Narco’ Lord an instant before the cold canyon holded in your hands its pointed to his very temple. A click accompanying the movement of your thumb gives him the one clear sign.

Carrillo raises his eyebrows, letting his lips part for a desperate gulp of air. His eyes focus slowly on you and his loaded hand wavers in its position. The surprise that seizes his expression allows you to see that side of him, so vulnerable, that for so long you wished to be able to touch, even if it was for a few mere seconds.

“What are you doing?” His voice is purely a whisper above the wind. You open your mouth, believing you could just explain, that you could make up a valid excuse to betray everything and everyone you ever fought for. But you can’t make a single noise and Horacio disbelief starts to hit on his gut “Are you fucking kidding me!?”

You flinch a step back as an instinct, but your finger keeps a safe pressure on the trigger. You wish you could look at Amado but the fear of any movements Carrillo could make during just a second of your distraction keeps your eyes glued to his face. A betrayed face.

How dare he look so hurt?, with his brows drawn together and his lips parted. You can swear if you listened closely, his racing heartbeat would echo off the walls. And the vision is killing you, because three years ago you would have sworn that you would share your entire life with this man; because two years ago you shared the same expression that his face bears now. And it was killing you.

Amado tries to move, stomping towards you calmly, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Horacio reaffirms the gun in his hand, turning to see him threateningly, rectifying in an expression that he would not hesitate to pull the trigger right there if Amado gave him a sufficient excuse to do so.

"Coronel, is everything okay, sir?" Footsteps approaching at alarming speed from the ground floor crown the damn situation. "Coronel, shall we proceed with immediate support?"

Your face pales at the threat of the intruder about to enter the room. Horacio's eyes remain looking at you, he doesn't flinch for a second and it's because he knows, because he must know that as soon as that soldier puts both feet on the last step, the situation will turn 180 degrees. He will have the upper hand again and it would be game over for you and Amado.

But Carrillo's head was far from starting to think about the only option in which you could. The voice coming up the stairs is distant but it awakens his senses quickly, senses that seemed numbed to the one now holding a gun to his head. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing...?

The second step in line creaked under the weight of a soldier, but the voices below told him that more than one were following him. His eyes dart at the shadows that kept asking for an answer to his name; just for a second, before returning to the front and losing the air when colliding, stopping against your wet lashes and suffocating irises that seemed to want to drink him whole.

Remember. He remembers. Everything. The sunny morning of the first day he saw you, scolding Javier Peña for not having ordered the documents the office needed while Agent Murphy held his stomach, laughing at the top of his lungs. He remembers the way your eyes found his... The way you smiled. Without warning, without a reason: You saw him and you smiled. Welcoming him so simply, so informally, it seemed like he was approaching an old group of friends rather than the officers tasked with telling him where to shoot.

He shook your hand and listened to every word that left your lips, amazed at the ease with which you handled any topic in the investigation, laying out information on each of the targets and expanding all the cards on the table before he could even think of one.

You were so different from anything he had ever seen before. A little light of hope among the horror that was lived. A pause for the restlessness of his nights, when you two spent hours locked in a car praying that the targets would just decide to leave their home at any given moment. Moons passed for the first time you made him laugh, other suns more when he decided to tell you the only joke he seemed to know, only in an attempt to be the cause of that thunderous laugh that characterized you. That was also the first day you hugged him goodbye, just like you did with Murphy and Peña, just like he hadn't hugged anyone in a long time. And you smiled, again, all the time; making him search for you like a fucking teenager.

And then he saw you crying, for the first time, and realized that he cared about you, that it hurt him, and that helplessness bothered him. And then he kissed you, for the first time, and realized that he had fallen in love with you, that between sheets and long nights, the only thing he wanted to see there before closing his eyes were you. And so, when you ventured into an ambush with the DEA and one of the hitmen managed to put two bullets in your body, things became clear right in front of him. The way he yelled at Javier for having carried out such a mission without his knowledge, for having put your life in danger in that way... Everything coincided with his heart wanting to escape from his own chest. Because when he saw you, asleep, breathing heavily, his soul was crushed; and when your eyelids fluttered limply at him, and your eyes shone at the sight of him, his legs went weak. And he realized that he loved you, with every little bit of his entire strength, he loved you.

So it wasn't fair, he knew, it wasn't fair for him to cut you off from the investigation and his team in a vile attempt to protect you, to keep safe the one thing that kept him fighting. It was selfish and ruin, but it was the only thing that would keep you alive. And with the list of attacks on those involved in Pablo's arrest growing daily, his mind was made up. You were out.

And what better than closing with a flourish and ending the relationship once and for all? You would never be able to forgive him, in any way, and he would become the main target for many in a short time. One thing is offset by the other and you, safe. He was determined, he was sure that in the end, all this would keep you out. But my God, with you nothing could ever be so easy.

After Javier was removed from the investigation, you were sure that they were not going to do the same to you. Out of loyalty to your brother and for screwing Horacio up even more in a game where he thought he was the only shooter... You weren't going to leave Colombia.

And he should have expected it, but he didn't. And he hated you for every time you called a superior to preserve a position, whatever it was, within the team. And he adored you even more for the way you stood up to him, the way you dusted yourself off and told him to go to hell.

So that was the problem, wasn't it? He adored every little bit of you, admired you, loved you. He loved your determination, your freedom, and who was he then to change you? If it was him alone who got stuck in time, loving on as cold as christmas eve, who was he to force you?... The problem then is no longer the DEA, it is no longer Pablo or the hit men, it is no longer pride or selfishness; The problem is that he kept loving you while you held a gun to his head.

And there was nothing he wanted to do to change it.

"Stop!" He exclaims suddenly, causing Amado and you to jump in your place. "Everything is well here, soldier, return to your position."

Silence fills the next few seconds, quickening the hearts of everyone present there.

"Are you sure, Coronel?"

"Agent Y/L/N here accidentally hit me hard, but I don't see why I have to be explaining myself just so my orders can be carried out, soldier."

That was it, that tone. The great Coronel Carrillo and his unquestionable presence. Ask one more question and you'll have your bags already packed outside your room. No one was against him, no one except, maybe... you.

"Yes, Coronel. Immediately." One of the uniformed men downstairs answers.

Each step that seems to sound further and further away becomes a soothing rhythm for your heart. However, your head continues to throb and cold sweat trickles down your temples little by little.

What now? You want to ask, what are we going to do?... What are you going to do?

But it is neither Horacio nor you who decide to speak first, but Amado. The only idiot without any weapon is the one who decides to take the lead in the game, taking it in directions that you wish would never have been an option.

"Ey, ya estuvo, ¿no?" The dark-haired man's voice joins in a whisper to his hands lowering to a more comfortable position. "You know what's going on here, right? It's over now."

"Amado..." The desperation in your voice goes unnoticed by Horacio, but your call makes the pilot's muscles tense. Still, his gaze remains directed at the other man.

"Si la agarran, la matan, cabrón." Amado snaps, frowning. His hand reaches out the window, pointing at the little of the Coronel's men he could see in the darkness. "Or what? Do you think that if one of my people gets her name out, they'll be very happy? They won't even let her get to jail, le van a meter un tiro un pendejo día y ya.”

Carrillo clenches his jaw, refusing to respond to Amado's threat, refusing to agree with him as much as this mattered to him. But the pilot had had enough, and if the feds or anyone else even thought to show up, everything would go to hell. He didn't have time to play this fucking game.

"This is over now." He repeats, looking to hit the target. "Tell them to release my men and you have me..." The Coronel's gaze travels from your position to Amado's, slowly, almost listening to the running of the blood through the arteries. The pilot gulps. "I'm going to give them everything they want... Names, locations, todo el pinche paquete, pues..."

“No.”

“¿Qué?”

“No.” Carrillo states again. His eyes are fire and his hand is so tense that you fear the movements of the digit on the trigger.

Horacio then bends his knees and stretches to take the handcuffs that were still resting a few centimeters from your feet. The sound of metal clashes between the pieces of the artifact echo in your ears, a chill becoming present with each one of them.

“I don’t give a damn about the names and the fucking rats that work with you, i’m sure they’re going to be very happy about the trash taking itself out of the competence…” He looks at you for a brief moment before putting his own gun to his belt again and getting closer to Amado, only the right amount of steps to take his hands and getting the handcuffs around his wrists. “But you’re not going to a fucking interrogatory, you’re not going with the americans. I know your type: you will say anything to get yourself out, information of false importance that would make us look in the other way.”

“I know I’m not getting out.” Amado corrects, closing his eyes for a second and then looking at the Coronel.

And that hits you. The calmness in Amado's voice makes you bite your lower lip only to not release a sharp cry when the meaning of his words clings onto your chest. But you can help the anxiety that runs through your entire system, weakening you; your brain stuck with the only thought the kind eyes of Amado can cause you: I’m going to lose you. I’m going to lose you.

I can’t lose you.

The metallic pieces emit a soft "click" when they finish adjusting to the pilot's skin. The shock of that very fact draws your attention to your own hand and the trigger under your finger. And the world froze: Were you going to pull it? When? Now?... Were you going to kill Horacio?

And then, he found you, just like he did years ago, just like he did every time you needed. He stood there, ready to catch you, now and again. Amado’s eyes were looking in your direction, full and dark lashes on a tired gaze, bringing you back to him, only to him and his small glimpse of a smile on his face. This is it, you feel in your chest, this connection. This love that consumes every part of me when I’m with you. The moon makes a beautiful reflection on his eyes, parting in a thousand stars that dance on the blackness of his pupils. He wants to talk to you, to kiss you, but his eyes are telling everything, you can hear his voice running through your veins: Eres el regalito más hermoso que Dios me pudo haber enviado.

You remember, everything. The way you both fell in love with each other before even touching, the way he made you feel like home every time you were with him. And he learned to love you in so many different ways: by your intelligence, always supporting you, marveling himself by how smart you were; by your personality, always so happy, so lovely, so, so much you; by your body, loving every morning that you came downstairs with a beautiful summer dress, or maybe just his t-shirt and panties, or your work clothes, he was just so glad you were the first thing he saw when he wakes up.

And you can’t deny how much love you have for him. Because, spending entire nights watching movies, making love, sleeping so close you lose consciousness of where your body ended and his started, laughing. Days riding horses on some of your dates, when he took you to watch the sunrise en la sierra, kneeling before you, nervous as you had never seen him, but with a smile so bright that could overshadow the sun itself: “I know we can’t get married, not now, I know that we can’t wear rings as a couple should, but now, I’m just asking you that you let me wear this necklace on me…” He showed it to you, a beautiful golden necklace with a cross with two little rings crossed over its center. Your eyes were watery. “To let me have it next to my heart because I’m tired of not having something on me to prove that your with me all the time. I’m asking you to marry me, without papers, without anything, just us and God be witness, to let me have you as my wife for the rest of my life…”

‘Yes’ wasn’t enough, it will never be. And when he told you you didn’t need to wear a necklace if you didn’t want to, you knew you could cry, telling him: “But I do want one…”.

You were wearing it right now, under your shirt, cold against your skin, and burning still. And you love it so much, you loved him so much… So much that you would think it hurts, but it doesn’t. That’s the thing with the right one, isn’t it?, he gives you so much calm, so much safety, he loves you and lets you love him, making a daily lunch before going to work, the greatest gift of all.

And you can’t lose it.

But when you look at him again, feeling the salty tears burning on your lips, he asks you for it: Déjame hacer esto. Let me keep you safe.

“Good. Then I don’t have to worry you don’t know where are you going.” Horacio spills, looking directly to Amado’s face.

You came too late into my life, and you are leaving me too soon, you wanted to plead.

Amado wants to reassure you, smile at you and let you know that he knows. “Horacio Carrillo is going to kill me, I know, and he’s going to enjoy every second of it, but I promise I would hold on to your memory ‘till my last breath, so this love will be the last thing I can feel.”

“Let’s get you out of here, shall we?” The coronel murmurs, stepping back. “Your stupidity will get you on the river later.”

And that’s it for you.

You frown, Amado opens his mouth, but your mind was made up. The gun spins on your hand and with a movement so sudden and dry, the thud awakens your senses to the moment the body of Coronel Carrillo drops to the floor. Now, that was a little bit louder.

“What the hell are you doing?” Amado snaps, raising his brows at you.

“I could ask you the same damn thing.” You purse your lips, looking at the floor. “He will be fine, it was just a hit.”

Amado starts shaking his head, frowning with a growing concern. His hands try to reach you but the handcuffs force him to reconsider that choice.

“You need to let me do this, or you will loose all of this” He whispers, desperation filling his voice.

“I can’t let you go with Horacio.” You shake your head, slow. “I can’t.”

“This is the only way…” He hurries.

“No.” You frown.

Your eyes wander to the windows, then to the house you’re in: watching the memories in the pictures on the walls, the soft couches, the furniture full of ornaments, the easiness of breathing there…

“Amor…”

“It can’t be that bad, right?” Amado looks at you, tilting his head. “Living together, I mean. We can try to stand each other for some years.”

The pilot starts shaking his head, slow. Like thinking he didn’t listen right.

“You love your job.” He whispers, looking at you, trying to understand what you’re thinking.

“But I love my family even more.”

...

“Get out the way!, The Coronel is hurt, please take him to the hospital!” Your screams gets everyone moving.

“Where do you want us to take a este cabrón?” A soldier asks, pointing with his head at Amado, handcuffed in front of you.

“I’ll take him. I need all of you clearing this site and releasing every worker.”

“But...”

“Orders of the Coronel.” You rush. “C’mon soldier.”

“Yes, agent. Do you need someone that help you with him?”

“No. I can do it. We need the maximum discretion.” He nods, still quite unsure of your decision.

You and Amado get into the car you arrived in with Horacio. He can’t help a smile crossing his face once you’re in. Running away with your lover... That’s something you still didn’t tought you were going to do sometime.

And hell, doesn’t it feels right?

...

The Coronel didn’t take that long to wake up. A horrific headache and a loose prisioner are the only things he registers before the soldiers already asking questions.

He sits up, taking his face between his hands and asking for some space. Everything feels like moving and the colors are still blurry in front of his eyes. Only a sentence is what makes him go back to reality:

“Agent Y/L/N took Amado Carrillo with her, do you want us to send some more protection for the site and for her?”

“What?”

“Yes. Agent Y/L/N took Amado Carrillo...”

“Did she?”

“Yes, Coronel.” The soldier freezes under Horacio’s gaze. “Weren’t that your orders, Coronel?”

You were probably still around, he couldn't have lasted that long unconscious. If he sents someone to find you immediately... They can still get you and bring you back, as a traitor. They can still stop you and...

“Yes. That were my orders.” He clenches his jaw and stands up. “And free the workers. We’re done here.”

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forever-rogue · 4 years ago

Text

Douse the Lights

A/N: I have no excuse for this, except I love one (1) Din Djarin and he deserves this and so do we. Enjoy! A little Happy New Year gift from me to you! As always, comments and feedback are welcomed! xx

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ only) - oral (m and f receiving), unprotected PiV, choking, degradation, creampie...filth. This is just filth.

STUTTER SOMETHING PROFOUND (PART 2)

THE MANDALORIAN MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then stop kriffing staring at me.”

“I wasn’t even looking in your direction.”

“You,” with a sharp turn of your head you saw that he wasn’t even near you. Nope. Not at all.

Kriff. Awkward.

“Lothcat got your tongue, Princess?” you’d never seen his face, but Maker, you just knew there was a wicked smirk on it.

“Just mind your own business,” stowing away your clean blasters with a huff, you prayed with all your might that he couldn’t see the flush of warmth on your face or hear the crack in your voice. You hated him. Everything about him.

At least you wanted to; you would have given anything in the galaxy to. It would make constantly being around the Mandalorian that you called your employer a lot easier.

Maybe if you kept repeating it yourself, you would manifest it to become true. That you could hate that annoying, half-witted, tin can.

“Thought that’s what I was doing,” there was the most minute inkling of amusement in his voice as he came over, lithe and silent - ever the hunter. He was at your side in an instant, the warmth of his body contrasting sharply with the cool metal of the beskar as he sent shivers up and down your spine. Along with the low pooling of heat and desire settling in your belly, but you were going to ignore that for now.

Almost as if he knew the effect he had on you, he made it a point to brush a gloved hand over yours as he nudged you to the side to inspect some of the weapons he’d tasked you with cleaning. You had to be quick in order to shut your mouth and keep a small whimper from escaping your lips.

How long had it been since someone last touched you? Maker, it had been….dank farrik. It had been way too long. A simple hand brush - there wasn’t even skin to skin contact - and you felt like a lothcat in heat. You really needed to get...some company and have your frustrations taken out or surely you would explode. There was no way you were to give Mando the satisfaction of knowing the type of hold he seemed to possess over you.

Perhaps once you were out of this more than awkward conversation you could slip out for a few hours and seek some pleasure. The little one had just gone down for a nap a short bit ago, and he was likely to be out for some time. Surely he wouldn’t have a problem for a few hours. Then you could -

“These are still dirty,” was his voice always that rough and low? He had to be doing it on purpose, surely. Before you could contemplate it too much, he took one of the blasters and shoved it back into your hands. Not rough or gentle, but with enough firmness to remind that he was in charge. You looked it over and raised your eyebrows as you inspected it yourself - it was polished to an almost pristine shine, “clean them again. All of them.”

“What the fuck, Mando,” you scoffed with indignation as you rolled your eyes at him, shoving the blaster right into of the black T of his visor. You waved it almost as if to prove your point, “this is clean. I dare you to find a cleaner blaster in this Maker forsaken galaxy.”

He was quick to your grab your wrist, his grip was firm as he kept your hand from moving. You didn’t normally argue with your stoic and mysterious employer, but this was apparently new and uncharted territory. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there was a shift between the two of you, something had changed. The tension in the air was palpable, so thick you could cut it with the dullest of knives as you stared back at him.

“Clean it again,” it was a growl that went straight to your cunt as you subconsciously clenched your thighs at the sound. Either this was a one time deal that you would commit to memory or you were going to make it a point to annoy him more often. As he stared you down, he slowly let go of your wrist and pointed at the discarded cleaning rag, “and make sure its actually clean this time.”

“You are the worst,” you tried to retain the little bit of composure that you had remaining as you swiped the blaster back.

“And you are a brat,” brat. Brat. Brat. Brat. Of all the words available in all of the galaxy, he had to choose that one. This was absolutely on purpose. The Mandalorian never did anything without careful planning and calculating the risks. The same could be said with his words; this was all carefully and deliberately chosen. He cocked his head to the side, almost as if trying to gauge your reaction, “but here we are. Get them clean.”

“Or what?” it was a mere pathetic squeak as found yourself almost unable to meet his face.

“Just get it done.”

Without another word he strode away, as silent and dangerous as he was when he first came in. If you were stronger, if you weren’t a weak little fool, you would have looked away and focused on your work.

But no. Not today.

Instead you watched him go, staring shamelessly at his imposing figure as he moved to disappear back into the cockpit to do whatever it was that he did.

Was his ass always that nice? Were those thighs always so strong and sturdy? Was he always so damn broad and wide?

Shit.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” you hissed at yourself as you picked the rag back up and slammed yourself back down on the bench in order to re-clean all the weapons that you had just done. He wanted clean weapons? You’d give him the cleanest blasters he’d ever seen.

»»————-　♡　————-««

Almost an hour had crept by when you’d finished your second round of cleaning. At this point you honestly didn’t care if the Mandalorian deemed the job satisfactory or not. The longer you had ruminated on his words, the more frustrated you became.

Each word, each touch seemed burned into your mind as you let your imagination take over. You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about him before. There had been a number of sleepless nights when you imagined it had been his hand between your thighs, his fingers running through your slick folds before they slipped inside of you. On nights when you really couldn't help yourself, you even imagined it was his cock, how he would feel buried to the hilt inside of you. You wondered what he would be like, but something - this day in particular - told that he was big. And he would get the job done.

But it wasn’t going to happen.

Nope. No. Nah. You were just his sidekick little employee that most definitely was not going to act on any impulsive or rash decisions. You might have been a lot of things, including a huge fool in that moment, but you weren’t that stupid. You didn’t need to create some unnecessary strain in your relationship with the stoic warrior or even worse, lose your job and home and be left stranded in a forgotten corner of the galaxy.

Even as you tried to rationalize all the ways in which acting on your impulses was a horrible idea, the frustration and the throbbing between your legs didn't wane. You were getting so desperate and pathetically needy that you sat on the edge of your small bench just at the angle so you could get a little bit of friction on your clit. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

As you rocked back and forth, trying to keep the little mewls and whines from slipping past your lips, you realized you couldn't do this.

You couldn't risk getting caught by the Mandalorian. Oh yes, everything's fine, just getting myself off. Don't worry, I'm super horny because of you. Yeah of course I'd love your cock.

Yeah. Cool, cool, cool. This would never happen.

Just when you before you reached your breaking point and had your hands halfway to your soaked core, you stopped.

"Kriff," you sighed to yourself as you pulled your hand back out and stood up. What the actual fuck had gotten into you? A few commanding words you were completely losing your control. Either you were desperate for a release from something other than your own hand or you craved the mysterious Mandalorian.

Hastily stashing the impeccably clean blasters back into the weapons cache, you discarded the rag as you quickly came up with a plan.

Tiptoeing quietly back to where the little one was sleeping, you sneaked a peek and saw that he was still fast asleep. He wouldn't even notice you were gone - that's what you tried to convince yourself as you delicately touched his soft ears and button nose.

You weren't sure if you were speaking of the Mandalorian or the baby. At this point you really didn't care.

You glanced back at the ladder towards the cockpit, watching almost as if you expected him to come down and catch you sneaking out. Hells, technically he'd know as soon as you left the ship. You scrawled a quick note telling him that you needed a cleaner or something, in your haste you couldn't even remember what you put, and would need to go to the market.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. That was totally plausible, you insisted to calm your own nerves as you slipped on your boots and a cloak before making your final decision to leave. Attempting to be as quiet and subtle as possible, you slowly made your way off the Crest and started scurrying towards the nearby desolate town of Mos Eisley. In reality you looked more like a scrap rat scurrying away from the light than a woman heading into town to find something.

Whatever.

Mos Eisley wasn’t exactly known for its sparkling reputation, and you were sure you could get exactly what you wanted quickly enough. In and out, you thought to yourself as a flush rose in your check, well precisely that. For at least you were hoping.

But the Mandalorian, a seasoned hunter with a reputation for a reason, and didn’t miss a single trick. He was aware of what you were doing before you even left the cargo hold. If he was this frustrated and turned on you by you, his cock hard and straining against the confines of his pants, he was sure you must have been in the same position.

Oh, but he had been close to breaking, just like you. How easy it would have been to seal the hatch to the cockpit and relieve himself of the desire and ache. But no - just like you he had limits and wasn’t about to give in and stroke his hard cock while you were within earshot. No matter times he had imagined it - fucking your mouth or burying himself deep between your luscious heat before pounding you into oblivion, he wasn’t going to give in this easily.

He wasn’t a virgin by any means, but with your little backtalk and the way you had looked at him with those wide doe eyes and pretty pouted lips sure had him feeling like one. The thought of burying himself inside you, to watch as you bounced on his cock with your tits in his face was enough to make up his mind.

One time couldn’t hurt, right? People had casual encounters all the time.Why should this one be any different? If you were willing of course, although judging by how your pupils had dilated with each word from his mouth, had little doubt you felt the same way; but consent of course was key.

And tomorrow? You’d be back to being the same way you had always been.

Hopefully. Maybe. Probably.

Fuck.

This was a bad idea, and the small, sensible part remaining in his brain told him so. But he was too far in, too deep and lost in his own desires to stop himself.

He was watched as you ran away, deciding to wait until you were halfway to Mos Eisley before going after you. He’d take the kid to Pelli, sure she’d more than happy to watch him for the night. The rest? That was to be all consumed by you.

»»————-　♡　————-««

The old cantina was dirty, dingy, and smelly. There was no doubt in your mind it must have been at least a decade since it was cleaned, and yet it still remained a hot spot; granted not for those of politer society, but enough to get the job down. You pushed that to the back of your mind as you clambered through the crowd and to the bar, sitting down next to a handsome Zabrak you had spied when you’d walked in. You’d never been with one his kind before, but you’d heard rumors of them, especially when it came to their prowess behind closed doors, and something within you was piqued.

He must have sensed something was up - as soon as you sat down, he motioned for the bartender to come back and bring the two of you a new round.

“You’re new here,” he said gruffly, a dangerous edge to his voice, sharp like a knife as he took one of the luminescent drinks and shoved the other towards you.

Before you could even move to grab your drink or utter so much as a word in response, a hand darted and quickly grabbed your wrist, the grip biting and firm.

“She’s mine,” the words washed over you before you could even turn to look at the Mandalorian. His chest was rising and falling heavy as his visor was trained on your would be companion for the night. A shudder ran up your spine as he pulled you off the stool, the two men glaring at each wordlessly.

He pulled you behind him, storming out of the cantina as the crowds parted at the sight of the gleaming silver beskar. They knew better than to stand in the way of the Mandalorian. You felt like a child being scolded as he refused to acknowledge you, keeping his gaze trained straight as you struggled to keep up with his long strides.

“What the hell, Mando?” your question was an indignant shout as your voice climbed an octave. His grip didn’t waver for a moment as he grunted in his response. Oh, he was mad. Yup. Definitely. You had fucked up.

Any thought of talking back or prodding him further were estopped as you could see him fuming as he dragged your ass back to the Crest.

This was it, you realized. This was the end where he would fire you and send you packing. Of all the places in the galaxy to be stranded, Tatooine was not one of your top destinations. No one to blame but yourself, you reckoned.

Instead you hung your head as he refused to look back, making quick work of opening the cargo hold and shoving you inside. There was something about his touch that was rough, almost sending you falling to your ass, but there was still an odd gentleness.

You stared back at the blank visor in challenge, attempting to figure out what was going on. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he stared back at you. Neither of you were about to get a good read on each other.

“Did you really think it was a good idea to just walk away without saying anything?” his voice was dangerously low as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at you. You opened and closed your mouth a few times as you tried to come up with either a smart response or an excuse but instead of anything coherent, it was a mixture of the two. Great. Now he's going to think you were an idiot on top of everything else.

“I didn’t...just um...doesn’t matter what you...I needed something from the market?” you swallowed the lump on your throat as you dropped your gaze to the floor. He sighed for a moment - heavily - as you’d come to know was his penchant to do.

“You needed something from the market?” it wasn’t a question so much as an accusation.

“Mhmm.”

“What was it?”

“C-cleaner,” you lied. Somehow it sounded better than saying yeah, I really just wanted a quick fuck because you have me feeling some type of way.

“There's a new cleaner right in the cabinet,” he said as you internally groaned. He was right - there was a brand new gleaming bottle on the top shelf. He’d gotten some last week, “or did you conveniently forget that?”

“Umm,” you couldn’t get anything else out as he took a step closer and left minimal distance between your bodies. He reached up and put a hand under your chin, turning your face up to meet his, “uh huh.”

“Uh huh, honey,” his voice warmed you up from inside out as you gave him an innocent look. If he hadn’t known what he was doing earlier, he certainly did now. And he was going to milk every second of it, to push this as far as it would go. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, a subconscious gesture, but not unnoticed by the Mandalorian. His hand slipped from your chin and jaw and slid until he was gently holding your throat. His grip was light, and he was barely squeezing, but Maker, you wished he was, “is that really what you were going to do?”

“Y-yeah,” how much longer were you going to keep up this little facade? You had no clue. But the feel of his hand around your airway, pushing slightly, ever so slightly, had your mind positively reeling.

“Then why did you go to that filthy old cantina?” he leaned closer, his helmet mere inches from your face as you closed your eyes, the blood rushing to your ears as you the heat pooled in your belly, “why were you talking to Zabrak? Did you really think he was going to fuck you? To make you feel good?”

“Mhmm,” you managed to murmur after a few beats of silence as you realized what was happening. This was new, uncharted territory - for the both of you - and if you went any further, there would be no going back. And you - fuck it. Your eyes snapped open as you turned to look into the visor, right where his eyes would be, “needed someone to do it, since you never would.”

And there it was - finally out in the open and hanging thickly between the two of you. All you could ever was a small huff from under the helmet and you were positive he was smirking like a victorious predator.

“Is that what you want, honey?” he asked and you nodded. Give and take and then...it all broke, “get on your knees. Now.”

And you wasted no time sinking onto the cool metal floor, now level with his cock, where you could see the hardness straining against his rough fabric. Shaky fingers worked to hastily pop the button and pull the zipper, but just before you could get to what you wanted, Din roughly grabbed jaw, turning your face up to his, “you take what I give. Yeah?”

“Yes,” you promised, feeling yourself grow wetter and wetter with each word. But then, with another gentle tap to your chin, he seemed almost...gentle, “Mando?”

“If you don’t want this, just say stop,” he waited for you to nod as you a sense of warmth fluttered over you at his desire for consent, “I will not be gentle, I will not-”

“Give it to me then,” you beamed at him before turning back to his cock and pulling out of his underwear. You almost moaned at the sight of his cock, hard and leaking already; and just as your little fantasies had led you to believe, he was more than adequate.

Spitting into your palm, you took him in your hand, pumping him a few times before licking the head, just small light licks, just enough to tease. Licking a stripe up his shaft, you played with his balls for a moment, earning what you were sure was a small groan from under the helmet. Making it a point to draw it out, you shouldn’t have been surprised when his hand went to the back of your head as he pushed you onto his cock.

A sound of surprise was muffled by his cock as you took all of him into your mouth, doing your best not to gag as he hit the back of your throat and your nose brushed against the soft curls of hair at his base. Your hands slid up his thighs and found purchase on his hips as he began to fuck your mouth. He started slowly at first, almost as if he was afraid to give too much. When you grew accustomed to him, making it a point to hollow your cheeks and suck him as best as you could, he picked up the pace. And it was brutal in all the best ways, spit was starting to run down your chin along with a few tears that had spilled over, but if nothing else, it worked to spur him on.

“Look at you,” he grunted between thrusts as he took in the sight in front of him, “take me so well. Knew your big mouth had to be good for something. Always wanted to fuck that pretty face.”

You hummed in delight as you raked your nails over the exposed slivers of his skin on his hips, golden and delicious and you wanted it all. His thrusts slowly become more erratic and sloppy as he twitched in your mouth. His hand dropped from the back of your head as you took over and put a hand back on his shaft as you worked to finish him off.

Soon enough he did, followed by an almost primal growl as he came, his hot, thick, cum coating your mouth and you eagerly swallowed all that he offered, which unsurprisingly, was a lot. As his breathing slowed down and he slowly came down from the rush of his high, you pulled back from him, looking up at him with innocent eyes and a wicked smile. You cleaned him off, but just as you went to wipe at your mouth, his gloved hand was faster and he collected the spit and cum that had spilled out and pushed it back into your mouth with two fingers. You grabbed his wrist and made a show of sucking his fingers clean, tasting him along with the worn leather of his gloves.

“Good girl,” he praised before hoisting you to your feet, “strip.”

“What about you?” you turned your head to the side, but he shook his head in response. He paused for a moment, almost as if he was having second thoughts, but just quickly, he whipped off his gloves and tossed them onto the floor before putting a hand on your cheek and stroking it tenderly. You swallowed thickly before nodding and working to pull off your clothes.

First was your shirt, tugging slowly over your chest and tossed down to join the gloves. Your arm went to your back as you tugged off your bra, letting the straps fall down your shoulders as an almost nervous breath escaped your lips.

“Keep going,” he commanded, eyes trained slowly on you as he drank in the sight of you. You undid your own zipper and pulled your pants and panties down in one fluid motion before kicking them off along with your boots and socks. You’d never felt more vulnerable or exposed in that moment, wanting to cover up but also relishing in the fact that you seemed to have rendered the Mandalorian speechless. He looked you up down, not bothering to hide the fact as he looked at your form, glancing at your soft mound before your breasts and then landing back on your face.

Beckoning for you to come closer with a simple crook of his fingers, you did so, standing directly in front of him. His hand flitted from your cheek and down your body before resting at the apex of your thighs. You gasped lightly in surprise as he dragged his fingers through your soaked folds, coating them in your copious arousal, before chuckling darkly. A hand immediately went to his shoulder as you steadied yourself and tried not to completely lose it at the simple touch, “all of this for me, honey?”

“Mhmm,” you admitted as he gently rubbed over your clit, teasingly in the slowest, most tantalizing way possible. Before you could stop yourself you blurted out, “always think about you. Always get so wet.”

He made a small, noncommittal sound as he pulled his fingers away from your wetness and brought them to your lips. He tapped your bottom lip and you opened your mouth, sucked his fingers clean from your own arousal, “I’ve thought about fucking you too. That mouth, that pussy. You’re such a brat, but you drive me crazy.”

“I like when you get mad,” you said as he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, “‘s sexy.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice deeper and lower than ever before, and you felt your knees start to buckle at the sheer sex it exuded, He brought his large, warm hands to your tits, touching over your pebbled nipples as you bit back a moan. While you wished it his mouth on them instead, this touch was just as well, as he massaged them, trying to get a good feel of them and seeing what drew out those sweet mewls from you. But before you could enjoy it too much, one hand gripped your waist like a vice and the other went between your legs. He ran his thick fingers through your folds, before slowly inserting one into your wet heat. You moaned as he slowly inserted another and then a third, stuffing you full and already having you seeing stars in no time, “make yourself cum.”

“What?” your eyes snapped open as he stilled his actions, “you’re joking, right?”

“Nope,” he popped the p loudly as he lightly teased your clit, eyes boring into yours, “you act like a brat and you want to cum? You have to work for it.”

“You can’t be serious,” you groaned as he moved to pull his hand away, as if to show you just how serious he was. This time, you caught his wrist and held him in place. He chuckled lightly in triumph as one of your hands returned to his shoulder for balance and the other went to play with your sensitive bundle of nerves. He held completely still, a practiced and patient man, as he made you work for it. He wasn’t kidding by any means when he said he would not be gentle.

He remained quiet, watching your pretty face shift through a range of expressions as you worked to reach your own high. He was glad for the helmet, for if you had been watching him, you’d have seen the tinge of pink rising in his cheeks as the sight of you fucking yourself on his fingers. He’d envisioned this many times, no doubt about that, but he’d never thought it would become a reality. Maker, you were gorgeous as you thrust onto his hand using him for your own pleasure a string of gentle filth spilled from your lips as you rubbed slow circles onto your clit.

“Mandooo,” it was soft as you felt that familiar blinding haze start to take over you, and your toes involuntarily curled and your cunt started to clench around his fingers. Your eyes fluttered closed in pleasure as your vision turned blurry and that familiar warmth started to spread all over your limbs. He felt his cock twitch from where he had tucked himself back in after you’d pleasured him. Before you could finish though, something different met your ears.

“Din,” he said as bit your lip in order to keep from crying out completely, “my name is Din.”

And there it was. Completely unexpected and out of the blue. It wasn’t just a name - no it was so much more than it. It was a sign of trust, of closeness, of the fact that whatever this little situation was, it was neither the first or only time something like this would happen. No, your story with Mando may have come to an abrupt end, but your relationship with Din was just beginning.

It was almost as his name, uttered softly and almost unsurely, was exactly what you needed to push you over the edge as you came around his fingers. A soft moan left your lips along with the sweetest sound he was sure he’d ever heard, “Din.”

A merciful man when he chose to be, he took over for you and worked you through your orgasm as you almost collapsed into his arms, “there you are pretty girl. You did so well, fucking yourself on my fingers.”

“Not enough,” you rested your against the soft cowl of his neck as he pulled his hand from you, but not before slapping your ass a few times, almost as if testing to see how far he could push you. You made a few sounds of delight at the sting, only spurring him on as he slapped and then gently needed the ample flesh of your backside, “please, need you to fuck me.”

“Is that what you need, pretty girl?” he purred in your ear as he pulled back and grabbed your face in his hands, taking in the already blissed out expression on your features, “you want me to fuck you? Think you’re ready for my cock?”

“Yes,” you were practically ready to beg at this point, “I’ve been wanting it for so long.”

At your words, he almost dragged you to the small bed that was reserved for you in the corner and motioned for you to sit. You watched with eager eyes as he scrambled for the waistband of his pants and hastily pulled them down and kicked them off, letting them join your discarded clothes. He practically ripped off the rest of the beskar until he was bared in front of you, save for the helmet. His cock was already painfully hard again, standing at attention and leaking fat drops of precum.

“Can I trust you?” he asked as you nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. You’d never questioned the fact that you’d never seen his face or that he apparently just never showed it to anyone. You respected him and his decisions, and you’d never dare to push the envelope or destroy his trust.

“Always,” you promised as he walked over to the wall and hit the switch for lights, cloaking the room in darkness. You sucked in a breath before you heard him shuffling about and the beskar helmet clanged against the metal floor. He stood in front of you, you could feel his breathing as he touched your cheek before wrapping a hand around your throat.

“Hands and knees,” he instructed with a delicious rasp, made even better by the lack of filtering from the vocoder of his helmet, “now.”

The singular word was enough to send a fresh rush of arousal through your veins, as you laid on your belly on the small cot before positioning yourself so your ass was in the air. He shuffled behind you, his large hands grazing over the soft flesh of your ass. He spread your cheeks apart before dragging a thick finger through your soaked folds. A small sound of pleasure rippled through your throat as you clutched onto the thin, scratchy blanket of the bed, “please.”

“Quiet,” it was harsh and biting as the palm of his hand slapped your ass, the sting delicious and leaving you wanting more, “you like that, don’t you? You like being spanked, pretty girl.”

“Only by y-y-you,” before you could say anything, he slapped your ass a few more times before kneading the soft flesh to make sure the sting wasn’t too painful.

Mando - no, Din - shifted his weight and you could feel him line himself up at your entrance. He ran the tip of his cock through your folds. A moan escaped your lips - and his - as he slowly pushed into you, giving you a brief moment to adjust to his considerable size. The stretch was amazing, the slight burn quickly turned into pleasure and you felt full, so completely full. He groaned as he bottomed out, already feeling pussy dumb by the way your velvet walls hugged him, “this - kriff - this pussy is perfect. Just like it was made for me.”

“Din,” you buried your face in your pillow as he pulled out, slowly, before thrusting sharply back into you. He was not lying when he said that he would not be gentle. His large, warm hands went to your hips as he held them in a bruising grip. You were sure you’d bear his marks for days.

He set a bruising pace, thrusting into you with no mercy as he slammed his hips into yours. There was nothing gentle or intimate about, no - this was months and months of pent up frustration and desire coming out all at once. Din was not a talkative man, but as he fucked you into oblivion, he was whispering strings of filth and praise into your ears. All you could do was lie there as he pounded into you, so lost in your own pleasure as you became a whining mess under him.

Before he came, his arms snaked around your waist as he pulled you flush against his chest. One large hand went to play with your breasts as the other went to your clit as he rubbed and circled at the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your mouth hung open in a blissful haze as he kept going, pressing kisses into the soft skin of your skin and shoulder, alternating between nipping and sucking and making sure to leave plenty of marks so everyone knew you were his.

“Look at you, pretty girl,” he grunted in your ear, “taking my cock so well. You love this don’t you? Getting used like this.”

“Mhmm,” you bit your lip as he kept going, kept abusing your spent pussy as he started to stutter in his thrusts, “‘m so close, please, wanna come.”

“You’re going to come on my cock,” he commanded as you nodded, “and I’m going to fill you up and make sure you know who you belong to.”

“I’m yours,” you insisted as you felt your walls clench around him and his cock start to twitch, “only yours.”

“Good girl,” he praised as he turned your head to place a rough kiss on your lips. It was the sheer act of the moment and feel of his stubble that sent you over the edge and cumming all over him. You were like jello in his arms as he held you up, giving you a few more thrusts before spilling inside and coating your walls with his cum, “ahh - fuck - so fucking good. Maker, you feel like no other. Perfect pussy - just for me.”

He held you tightly against his body as he caught his breath, the two of you breathing in sync. You thought he might pull away immediately, but instead, he pressed more kisses, chaste compared to your previous actions, down your back as he slowly lowered you onto the bed. You couldn’t even form words as you laid there, cockdumb and already feeling his arousal along with your own dripping onto your thigh.

“You did good,” he praised gently before reaching between your legs and scooping up some of his cum that had started dripping out. You whimpered at the touch, still sensitive, and listened as he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them clean, “but I’m not done with you yet.”

Din gently flipped you onto your back so you were lying face up and exposed to him. He sat between your legs and slowly spread them apart, admiring his handy work. He leaned back before climbing off the small and getting on his knees, pulling you towards his face. Just as you had gotten on your knees for him, he kneeled only for you.

“Din,” you sighed contentedly as he kissed along your inner thighs, working his way back to your dripping heat. He nuzzled his nose against you, taking a moment to take it all in, “already so much."

"Come on, honey," his voice was like liquid gold as he reached up and touched your breasts, cupping them easily in his large hands, "you've got another one in you. I know you do. Aren't you a good girl?"

"Mhmm," you arched into his touch as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. How this infuriating man got you to become a pile of mush in his hands you'd never know, but you definitely weren't going to question it. He leaned up and kissed your hips before burying his face between your legs, "I'm your good girl."

And with those words, he licked a long stripe up your soaked folds, still soaked from your combined juices. His nose, which you presumed was aquiline in nature, nudged your clit as he ate you like a starving man. You were the shining prize, glimmering in the distance, and he was the wrecked man crossing the desert to get to you.

This time you didn't even bother to hold back as you mewled and cried, tears of pleasure and overstimulation welling up at the corners of your eyes and sliding down your cheeks. Din hummed in content as he licked and suckled at you, making sure to focus on your clit as you came completely undone.

Reaching down, you carded a hand through his locks - curls - as you pressed his face against your aching core. You could practically feel him smirking against you as he slipped a few fingers inside to join his ministrations. Expertly curling his thick fingers, he quickly found the sweet spot that made your toes curls and you see stars.

"Almost there," he grinned as he gave you a moment of reprieve before diving right back in, "I can feel that perfect cunt squeezing around me. Taste so good, pretty girl."

"D-Din," his name falling from your tongue was like pure magic as he became transfixed by how it sounded. Your mouth dropped open in a small O as your legs shook around him. He pulled his fingers from you as he held down your hips in order to keep you from squirming away from him, "feelssogood - makerohstars - Dindindin."

"Come all over my face, pretty girl," his tongue darted into you for a few moments before he gave your clit a harsh suckle. That was all it took before you came again, screwing your eyes shut as he worked your through your orgasm, lapping up every bit of your juices, refusing to waste even a drop, "there you are - taste so fucking good. Perfect."

He was relentless until he was sure you were completely done and a practical ragdoll on the bed. Slowly, he pulled back from you, trailing light kisses up your body, stopping when he got your face. Almost as if he was able to see even in the almost complete darkness, he wiped away your remaining tears. He hesitated for a moment for leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. You sighed softly as you rolled onto your side and scooted closer to the wall, making room for him.

It was a big thing you were doing, boundaries had been crossed and blurred and any rules you'd previously had were thrown out the window. Neither of you were sure what came next.

But you did know that you didn't want him to leave - not yet anyway.

"Din?" you asked softly as he pulled the blanket over your spent body; he was surprisingly gentle for a man that had just sent you to heaven and hell and back.

"Yes, pretty girl?"

"Will you stay?" your voice was small as you prepared yourself for defeat and for him to leave.

"Yes," he whispered softly as he slid in under the blanket and next to you, "I'd like that."

"Me too," you admitted as he shifted and pulled you in his arms so you could lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump thump of his heart, "Din?"

“Hmm?”

"I'm in charge next time," you smirked lightly as you kissed his soft skin. He inhaled sharply but you could tell he was into it. The man might have just been in charge, but you had a feeling he might like being told what to do as well - and you were going to find out, "I want to ride you."

"Kriff," he groaned under his breath, "You're going to be the death of me, little brat."

"I'll make it worth your while," you promised with a small yawn, "I'll have you crying in no time - begging me for mercy."

“Mhmm.”

“You’re going to be a good boy for me, right?” it was your turn to put your hand on his throat and give it a gentle, but firm squeeze as he stiffened at the feeling, “I know you’re a good boy, Din.”

“Fuck.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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samwisethewitch · 4 years ago

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Working with Spirits

In my last post, I talked about different types of spirits that witches may work with. Today, we’re going to discuss how to approach spirits and establish a working relationship.

Keep in mind that these are general guidelines, and every spirit is different. I encourage you to do your own research beyond this post, especially if you plan to work with powerful entities like deities, angels, or fairies.

Remember the Four R’s

It’s important to keep these things in mind when working with spirits:

Respect. The spirits are powerful, and you need to have a healthy respect for that power when working with them. It’s also important to respect them as individual, autonomous beings.

I’m not saying that every interaction you have with the spirits needs to be a full blown ritual with incense and chanting. (In fact, some spirits don’t care for those types of rituals.) But every interaction you have with them should be conducted with an air of respect and reverence.

What this mostly boils down to is good manners. Being polite will get you better results — and it will also keep you from being on the receiving end of spirit mischief. Proper etiquette depends on the type of spirit you’re working with, which is one reason it’s important to do your research. In general, it’s polite to make an offering, use respectful language, and thank the spirits before you leave (unless you’re dealing with fairies — some traditions say you should never thank the fae).

Respecting spirits also means respecting their desires — even if that means respecting their wish not to work with you. Not every spirit you reach out to will want to form a relationship with you, just like not every person you meet in your life will want to be your friend. When a spirit turns you down, respect their decision, politely bid them farewell, and move on.

Reciprocity. The goal of spirit work is to establish a mutually-beneficial partnership — not for one partner to serve the other. On one hand, this means that you can’t just command spirits to do your bidding without giving anything in return. On the other hand, it also means that you won’t be worshiping/honoring them without receiving some kind of boon.

This is why it’s important to make offerings to the spirits you work with. These offerings “feed” the spirits by giving them power, and a good offering will likely make a spirit more willing to work with you. Offerings are not payment for favors from spirits (it’s not quite that simple), but they are a sign that you intent to practice reciprocity in your relationship.

In general, it’s important to make an offering when you first introduce yourself to a spirit and again before you ask them for anything. But you shouldn’t only make offerings when you’re about to ask for something! How would you feel if you had a friend who only did nice things for you when they were about to ask for a favor? You’d probably start avoiding them, right? You might even get angry. To avoid this kind of dynamic in your spirit work, make regular offerings to the spirits you work with. If you’re especially close with a spirit, you may want to offer to them every day.

Relationship. The spirits are not vending machines where you put offerings in and blessings fall out. They are living, sentient beings with feelings, and deserve to be treated as such. Your relationship with the spirits you choose to work with is just that: a relationship. And like any relationship, it requires time, energy, and emotional labor.

If that sounds like more effort than you want to make, there are plenty of ways to do magic without ever working with spirits. You don’t need to do spirit work to be a witch. It may not be your thing, and that’s okay!

But if you choose to work with spirits, it’s important to remember that you are working with them as an equal partner — you’re not their boss, and they are not obligated to like you, help you, or even tolerate you. Relationships with spirits are built over time, through mutual respect and trust.

You wouldn’t drive up to your friend’s house, throw a fast-food burger at them, and then demand a special favor. Likewise, you shouldn’t just dump an offering on your altar and demand something of the spirits. Take the time to sit down with them. Talk to them. Get to know them. Put some thought into your offerings, instead of just offering the same thing every time. Spirit work is, at its core, about building an authentic relationship with the spirits we choose to include in our practice. Enjoy it.

Research. When it comes to spirits, it’s important to know exactly who (and what) you’re dealing with. As previously mentioned, the etiquette for dealing with fairies is very different from other land spirits. Different deities have different standards for their worshipers, which vary from one pantheon to the next. The way you interact with your ancestors will probably be shaped by their personalities, cultures, and values. All this is to say it’s important to know who you’re reaching out to, preferably before you reach out to them.

With deities, this is easy. Most witches who choose to work with deities will feel drawn to a certain pantheon, or even a specific god or goddess. There’s a lot of information out there about most historical pantheons, so researching them is easy. The same goes for angels, saints, demons, and even fairies.

It can be a little more difficult to do your research when you’re dealing with land spirits, spirits of place, or other less well-known figures. In these cases, it’s best to take three steps: 1.) figure out what type of spirit you’re dealing with (land spirit, animal spirit, ancestor, etc.), 2.) find out what this type of spirit is like generally, and 3.) find out how that applies to your specific spirit.

For example: you want to connect with your local land spirits. You do some research to find out how land spirits have been treated in various cultures — you find out that they’re typically benevolent, are closely tied to the natural landscape, and were often given food offerings. Then, you do some research into your local plants and animals — what form might a nature spirit take in your local environment? Would it be a huge moose with snow-covered antlers, or a magnolia tree in full bloom? Is there any local folklore in your area that could be describing a land spirit? Once you have answers to these questions, you’ll have a much better idea of how to approach the spirits and start up a relationship.

Initiating a Relationship with a Spirit

Begin by identifying who this spirit is. For example, let’s say you choose to reach out to a specific ancestor spirit — maybe a deceased grandparent. Make sure you’re familiar with the etiquette for interacting with this type of spirit so you don’t accidentally do something disrespectful. (If your Grandma hated cussing, try not to drop any f-bombs while communing with her.)

Create a special space to communicate with the spirit. This can be as simple as lighting a candle or as elaborate as setting up a special altar. If you’re reaching out to a grandparent, you might set up a small ritual space with a photo of them, any of their belongings that you have access to, and some things that they enjoyed while they were alive. These items may make the connection easier, but you don’t need them to communicate. What matters is that you’ve taken the time to create a special space for this moment. (Like all ritual spaces, it should be clean and tidy, and it’s a good idea to do an energetic cleanse beforehand.)

Make an offering. Make sure your offering is appropriate for the spirit you’re connecting to. Offerings should be made with an air of reverence — don’t just toss a bag of Doritos on your altar and expect it to be well-received.

Introduce yourself. Speak out loud. State your intention and who you are hoping to connect with.

Wait and listen. You may feel a presence or receive some kind of sign — or you may not. Just because you didn’t get a sign doesn’t mean that your offering wasn’t noticed or that you’re being ignored. You may also receive a sign several hours, days, or weeks after you first reach out. Be patient.

Say your farewells. Express your gratitude for the spirit’s presence, and let them know that you are ending your little ritual. It’s up to you whether to invite them to stick around or politely tell them to leave, but if you’re going to give a spirit permission to linger in your home you better be 1000% sure you know who they are and what their intentions with you are.

Moving Forward

As you work with this spirit, it is important to establish clear boundaries for the relationship. Be clear about what you want to accomplish by working with them, and make sure you understand what they expect from you in return.

You might want to establish a time limit: for example, maybe you’re choosing to work closely with the goddess Brigid from Imbolc to Samhain, at which point you can choose to continue the relationship or to take a step back. Or, you may choose to work with a spirit on a specific task — for example, working with the goddess Aphrodite to get back on your feet and rebuild your self esteem after a breakup. Once this task is accomplished, you may choose to form a more long-term relationship or to take a step back.

Forming a permanent or long-term working relationship with a spirit is a very big, very serious commitment, and should not be taken lightly. This goes double for anything involving a ritual commitment, such as dedication to a deity. When you make these commitments, you are choosing to make a spirit and their energy a permanent part of your life. This decision requires some very serious introspection and consideration, and should not be made impulsively.

Resources:

Southern Cunning: Folkloric Witchcraft in the American South by Aaron Oberon

A Practical Heathen’s Guide to Asatru by Patricia M. Lafayllve

Where the Hawthorn Grows and The Morrigan: Meeting the Great Queens by Morgan Daimler

Wicca for Beginners by Thea Sabin

Azrael Loves Chocolate, Michael’s A Jock: An Insider’s Guide to What Your Angels Are Really Like and The Angel Code by Chantel Lysette

New World Witchery podcast (several episodes, including “Episode 164 — Irish Folklore and Magic,” “Episode 161 — Practicing Safe Hex,” and “Episode 152 — Honoring Ancestors”)

6K notes · View notes

yeojaa · 4 years ago

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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