Infinite
Title: Infinite
Author: bananahater336
Pairings: Kevin/Joe.
Fandom: Jonas Brothers
Rating: R.
Wordcount: 2,367.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kevin or Joe Jonas. This is written purely for enjoyment and I make no money from it.
A/N: Written for impala_chick for the jb_ficexchange .
Summary: Kevin is the singer in a punk rock band. Joe loves this about him. He does not, however, love his complete lack of tattoos.
Joe likes Kevin best in straight-legged jeans and black t-shirts. He likes his Adidas Sambas and the way his sleek Les Paul settles against his hips as he plays. He likes the way he growls into the microphone, draws the room in toward him, intimates the audience with his soft lyrics, so they almost have to lean in to hear him, as if he’s whispering secrets to them. He likes the spotlights on the smooth lines of his neck and the sharp jut of his knuckles. He likes his easy confidence and natural presence, the way his band mates slide into the background when he sings.
And there are so many things about Kevin Joe loves that have nothing at all to do with his music. He loves the slow kisses bestowed on him in the early mornings, the way Kevin settles against him and slides their tongues together. He loves the way he pushes his glasses up his nose with his pinky, sits with the balls of his feet balanced on the edge of the coffee table with his book propped on his knees. He loves apple pancakes and hot chocolate for dinner, and his mouth sucking syrup from the corner of his lips.
Truth be told, Joe’s in love with Kevin, and he has been for years, and there are few things he would change about his lover: the fact that he has cold feet and refuses to wear socks to bed, his complete lack of ability to make good coffee (which means whenever he needs a caffeine fix, Joe must make it for him), the dark mood he succumbs to during writer’s blocks, the self-consciousness he carries in his shoulders whenever he’s not onstage, the fact that he snaps his gum whenever he chews it. Those things are petty and shallow, and Joe adores him in too many ways to see them as overly annoying. There is only one thing that he truly wants to change about Kevin: the fact that he has no tattoos.
This has always struck Joe as somewhat ridiculous. Kevin is the singer and rhythm guitarist in a punk band. He’s the only member of said band to not have ink somewhere on his body. And while Joe loves staining his beautiful porcelain skin with his teeth and nails and fingertips, biting and scratching and bruising, he also loves the idea of Kevin being marked more permanently.
Kevin has refused on the sole basis of not knowing what he wants to get. In the past, Joe has gotten him as far as a tattoo parlor, but looking through the books of designs always leaves Kevin uncomfortable and complaining that he isn’t going to get a tattoo that other people in the world, in this very town, have stood in here, pointed at and decided they wanted because it was pretty. So that’s why Joe curls onto his side one day with his sketchbook, propped against the pillows on their bed, where the smell of Kevin and Joe and the two of them twined together is sharp and strong, and begins to draw.
He isn’t sure what he’s drawing, at first. He just sets the charcoal pencil against the paper and begins to sketch out lines, letting his love for Kevin hum through him, his frustration at his lack of certainty, his crooked smile and bedroom eyes. The lines become branches, reaching and stabbing and scratching at the page, harsh and intense and firm. The trunk sweeps dark onto the paper, fanning out into tangled roots, sinking in firmly, and Joe imagines the way the tree will look, setting its roots into Kevin’s skin. He smudges pink blossoms along the branches, not bothering with leaves, feeling uncannily as if those would only cheapen its beauty. Through the branches peaks a highlighter-yellow moon, and he very carefully marks a symbol into the roots, clandestine and almost unrecognizable at first glance.
He doesn’t notice when Kevin settles on the bed beside him, until he presses his lips to the crown of his shoulder. His head tilts to the side at the drawing, his fingers trailing lazily over his back, expression mostly unreadable. Joe holds his breath, letting the sketchbook just rest against his leg while Kevin stares at it, studies it. “That’s beautiful.” He offers finally, thumbing at a smudge on the edge of the page. “I like that it looks at first glance like it’s a winter tree, but then you see all the blossoms on it, so you know it’s an early-spring tree.”
Joe grins at him, pleased, and carefully tears it out of the sketchbook along the perforations. “Exactly. It’s a tree that’s just waking up; life is just starting for it. It has so much more space to grow.” A flush crawls up his neck. “Kind of like you.” He ignores the questioning look that his lover throws at him, wiggling over to lean into his side a bit. “It’s for you, you know. I mean. I drew it for you. I want you to do this - have this, I mean. Tattooed? It would - I’d like it so much on you. What do you think?”
Kevin takes the paper from him, continues to stare at it for several long moments during which Joe returns to holding his breath, studying his face carefully for a reaction. A minute or two pass, and Joe’s starting to retract, to say that he’ll draw something else, he doesn’t have to like it, it’s okay, but then Kevin’s curling his arm around his neck and drawing him in to press their mouths together, slow and firm. “I love it.” He murmurs, nuzzles their noses together so Joe laughs softly and kisses him again. “How about on my left arm?” He gestures to the inside of his forearm.
Joe’s breath catches, and he runs his fingertips along the smooth pale skin. He turns a smile up at Kevin’s face, smiling, ecstatic, so pleased. “When you play, everyone’ll see it! They’ll see it when you’re onstage. They’ll all know you have a tattoo.”
“And I’ll tell them all that you drew it for me.” He chuckles, nodding and kissing his forehead. “I’m going to make the appointment.” He presses their lips together again, slowly, and pushes himself off the bed, heading out of the room.
That’s how they find themselves, two weeks later, stepping into a tattoo parlor, Kevin’s fingers laced tight with Joe’s, almost desperately, and Joe knows he’s nervous. He blames Greg and John, who made sure to regale him with stories of torturous tattoo pain and ugly results. Joe is surprised he managed to get him as far as the door, considering the way his nervousness bordered on an anxiety attack only a few hours earlier. Joe hasn’t been able to be much comfort, as he has no tattoos himself (a fact that Kevin insisted on repeatedly pointing out, completely with resentful tone, until Joe’s eyes filled with tears and he told him that he didn’t have to get a tattoo if he didn’t want to, at which point Kevin relented and begged him not to cry anymore).
The tattoo artist’s name is Steve, and he only has a few visible tattoos himself, something Joe points out immediately, in a nervous blurt he’s immediately mortified for. He just smiles. “Most of my tattoos are under my clothes. I’m not taking anything off to prove it though.” Joe appreciates the smile this brings to Kevin’s face, and they’re led into an intimate backroom where there’s a chair, similar to that of a dentist, set up in the middle. A desk set up beside it holds all the essentials for tattooing: ink, needles, gun, stencils, razors. Kevin tenses up again.
Joe rubs his thumb across his knuckles, smiling softly at him. “It’ll be fine. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” The words seem to hearten him, since he pushes himself forward toward the chair.
Joe sits on his right side, holds his hand as promised, petting his fingertips against his palm in a way he knows makes Kevin’s toes curl, and watches as Steve shaves Kevin’s forearm in quick, efficient motions. He wipes the hair away, leaving his skin unbelievably clear and smooth, and moves away to make a stencil of the drawing they’ve brought with them. He rolls his chair over, holds Kevin’s arm out, rubs it on gently, peels the paper away. “What do you think?”
Kevin stares at it, dark and solid against his skin, nods mutely. Joe grins excitedly. “It looks good.” He squeezes his lover’s hand again. “Kevin?”
“Yeah.” He smiles over at him, leans in to press their mouths together. “It’s great. I’m nervous but I know it’s going to look so amazing.”
Joe leans in to kiss his cheek, tenses almost more than Kevin does when the tattoo gun buzzes to life. “It’ll be fine.” He assures Kevin, petting his hand a little. He repeats this several times while the gun buzzes, tracks across Kevin’s skin. His boyfriend gets increasingly paler, the corners of his eyes and mouth twisting into uncomfortable lines. Joe leans in to kiss his cheek.
The ink settles into his skin, stark and dark, the soft pink blossoms and sharp yellow moon smeared red with blood. He brings Kevin’s knuckles to his lips, eyes on the soft, wounded skin, and Kevin smiles weakly at him. “It hurts.” He breathes. “But it’s almost done, okay? And it’ll look perfect, and be totally worth it.”
He’s right about that. When Steve slides his chair back, tossing the needle in the trash and snapping his gloves off, saying, “Check it out,” Kevin risks a peek down at his arm, his eyes widening.
Joe stands up, leans forward a little, grinning stupidly. “It’s… Kevin, you have me inked on your arm.” It doesn’t make sense, how he says it, but Kevin understands, and he leans up to press their mouths together. They wait for Steve to bandage him up and explain the care procedures to him, and Joe promises he’ll make sure he keeps it clean, before they move to the front desk and pay. Joe tips him extra when Kevin’s not looking, then runs out to hold his hand on the way to the car.
An hour passes, and Kevin stands with his hip leaning against the counter while Joe perches on the counter, gently cleaning the tattoo with bar soap and a warm washcloth. He winces a little, and Joe’s eyes lift to his face from time to time, but mostly focus on his task. When he deems it acceptably cleansed of blood and excess ink, he pats it dry, then dips his pinky into the burn salve, just as gingerly spreading it in a thin sheen over the tattoo, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry” when Kevin makes a little pained noise. When he’s finished, he wipes his fingers on the washcloth, curls his fist into Kevin’s shirt and tugs him over to press their mouths together. Their tongues slide together, urgent, and Joe’s already getting his pants undone, squeezing at his cock with a little whimper. Kevin chuckles, tugs Joe off the counter and pulls him toward the bedroom.
They undress as quickly as they can, always mindful of Kevin’s arm, and then Joe is pushing him back on the bed, crawling over him, presses their cocks together, kissing him firmly. Kevin spreads his legs easily, and Joe appreciates the fact that they keep lube under the pillow when he feels the bottle nudging against his hand where it rests on the bed. He’s got his fingers slick in one moment, pressing them into Kevin in the next, his hips lifting off the bed at the pressure, and he rubs them carefully inside of him.
“Joe…” He murmurs, shuddering as he finds his prostate, taps against it several times. “Fuck. Stop teasing. You can’t tease someone who’s in pain.” His bottom lip pushes out into a pout, and Joe can’t help but grin and lean in to suck it between his teeth, even as he complies and pulls out in order to slick himself up.
His body is soft and pliant as Joe presses into him, and Kevin’s leg hitches up around his hip, pulling him in deeper. They’re slow and easy as they rock together, and Joe bites his lip at the way Kevin’s hips lift up off the bed, press back against him. His right hand is curled in Joe’s hair, his left arm flung out across the bed, his tattoo out of the way.
“Joe,” he gasps softly, tipping his head back, and Joe attacks his neck, mouthing happily down the column of his throat. “I saw it, darling. I saw the - the infinity symbol.”
His hips stutter a little, and he looks up at Kevin, rocking into him faster to make up for it, looking over at the tattoo, where the sideways eight, the symbol for infinity, is tangled in the roots.
Kevin shakes his head, brings their mouths together for a slow kiss. “I love you. We’re infinite, aren’t we? We’re forever.”
“You’re not scared that putting it in tattoo form is like a jinx?” Joe murmurs, embarrassed.
“Not - oh, not at all. Not for us. Christ, Joe. Just…” He presses his leg tighter around him, and Joe gets the hint, rocking into him more steadily, his nose nudging affectionately against his jaw as he does so.
Kevin comes with a groan over his fist a few minutes later, and Joe nestles deep inside him, shuddering as he finishes. Joe presses his lips to his neck. “Infinite?”
Kevin grins, tugging at his hair. “Infinite.”
It’s a few days later that Kevin has his first show since getting the tattoo. Under the stage lights, as he holds his guitar in close against his body, his hand momentarily curled around the microphone stand as he sings in his low, guttural way, the tattoo is stark, impossible to miss, and Joe leans forward on the merch table from which he’s watching, smiles at the sight of it, and if it’s not a declaration of love between them, well, he doesn’t know what would be.
Author: bananahater336
Pairings: Kevin/Joe.
Fandom: Jonas Brothers
Rating: R.
Wordcount: 2,367.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kevin or Joe Jonas. This is written purely for enjoyment and I make no money from it.
A/N: Written for impala_chick for the jb_ficexchange .
Summary: Kevin is the singer in a punk rock band. Joe loves this about him. He does not, however, love his complete lack of tattoos.
Joe likes Kevin best in straight-legged jeans and black t-shirts. He likes his Adidas Sambas and the way his sleek Les Paul settles against his hips as he plays. He likes the way he growls into the microphone, draws the room in toward him, intimates the audience with his soft lyrics, so they almost have to lean in to hear him, as if he’s whispering secrets to them. He likes the spotlights on the smooth lines of his neck and the sharp jut of his knuckles. He likes his easy confidence and natural presence, the way his band mates slide into the background when he sings.
And there are so many things about Kevin Joe loves that have nothing at all to do with his music. He loves the slow kisses bestowed on him in the early mornings, the way Kevin settles against him and slides their tongues together. He loves the way he pushes his glasses up his nose with his pinky, sits with the balls of his feet balanced on the edge of the coffee table with his book propped on his knees. He loves apple pancakes and hot chocolate for dinner, and his mouth sucking syrup from the corner of his lips.
Truth be told, Joe’s in love with Kevin, and he has been for years, and there are few things he would change about his lover: the fact that he has cold feet and refuses to wear socks to bed, his complete lack of ability to make good coffee (which means whenever he needs a caffeine fix, Joe must make it for him), the dark mood he succumbs to during writer’s blocks, the self-consciousness he carries in his shoulders whenever he’s not onstage, the fact that he snaps his gum whenever he chews it. Those things are petty and shallow, and Joe adores him in too many ways to see them as overly annoying. There is only one thing that he truly wants to change about Kevin: the fact that he has no tattoos.
This has always struck Joe as somewhat ridiculous. Kevin is the singer and rhythm guitarist in a punk band. He’s the only member of said band to not have ink somewhere on his body. And while Joe loves staining his beautiful porcelain skin with his teeth and nails and fingertips, biting and scratching and bruising, he also loves the idea of Kevin being marked more permanently.
Kevin has refused on the sole basis of not knowing what he wants to get. In the past, Joe has gotten him as far as a tattoo parlor, but looking through the books of designs always leaves Kevin uncomfortable and complaining that he isn’t going to get a tattoo that other people in the world, in this very town, have stood in here, pointed at and decided they wanted because it was pretty. So that’s why Joe curls onto his side one day with his sketchbook, propped against the pillows on their bed, where the smell of Kevin and Joe and the two of them twined together is sharp and strong, and begins to draw.
He isn’t sure what he’s drawing, at first. He just sets the charcoal pencil against the paper and begins to sketch out lines, letting his love for Kevin hum through him, his frustration at his lack of certainty, his crooked smile and bedroom eyes. The lines become branches, reaching and stabbing and scratching at the page, harsh and intense and firm. The trunk sweeps dark onto the paper, fanning out into tangled roots, sinking in firmly, and Joe imagines the way the tree will look, setting its roots into Kevin’s skin. He smudges pink blossoms along the branches, not bothering with leaves, feeling uncannily as if those would only cheapen its beauty. Through the branches peaks a highlighter-yellow moon, and he very carefully marks a symbol into the roots, clandestine and almost unrecognizable at first glance.
He doesn’t notice when Kevin settles on the bed beside him, until he presses his lips to the crown of his shoulder. His head tilts to the side at the drawing, his fingers trailing lazily over his back, expression mostly unreadable. Joe holds his breath, letting the sketchbook just rest against his leg while Kevin stares at it, studies it. “That’s beautiful.” He offers finally, thumbing at a smudge on the edge of the page. “I like that it looks at first glance like it’s a winter tree, but then you see all the blossoms on it, so you know it’s an early-spring tree.”
Joe grins at him, pleased, and carefully tears it out of the sketchbook along the perforations. “Exactly. It’s a tree that’s just waking up; life is just starting for it. It has so much more space to grow.” A flush crawls up his neck. “Kind of like you.” He ignores the questioning look that his lover throws at him, wiggling over to lean into his side a bit. “It’s for you, you know. I mean. I drew it for you. I want you to do this - have this, I mean. Tattooed? It would - I’d like it so much on you. What do you think?”
Kevin takes the paper from him, continues to stare at it for several long moments during which Joe returns to holding his breath, studying his face carefully for a reaction. A minute or two pass, and Joe’s starting to retract, to say that he’ll draw something else, he doesn’t have to like it, it’s okay, but then Kevin’s curling his arm around his neck and drawing him in to press their mouths together, slow and firm. “I love it.” He murmurs, nuzzles their noses together so Joe laughs softly and kisses him again. “How about on my left arm?” He gestures to the inside of his forearm.
Joe’s breath catches, and he runs his fingertips along the smooth pale skin. He turns a smile up at Kevin’s face, smiling, ecstatic, so pleased. “When you play, everyone’ll see it! They’ll see it when you’re onstage. They’ll all know you have a tattoo.”
“And I’ll tell them all that you drew it for me.” He chuckles, nodding and kissing his forehead. “I’m going to make the appointment.” He presses their lips together again, slowly, and pushes himself off the bed, heading out of the room.
That’s how they find themselves, two weeks later, stepping into a tattoo parlor, Kevin’s fingers laced tight with Joe’s, almost desperately, and Joe knows he’s nervous. He blames Greg and John, who made sure to regale him with stories of torturous tattoo pain and ugly results. Joe is surprised he managed to get him as far as the door, considering the way his nervousness bordered on an anxiety attack only a few hours earlier. Joe hasn’t been able to be much comfort, as he has no tattoos himself (a fact that Kevin insisted on repeatedly pointing out, completely with resentful tone, until Joe’s eyes filled with tears and he told him that he didn’t have to get a tattoo if he didn’t want to, at which point Kevin relented and begged him not to cry anymore).
The tattoo artist’s name is Steve, and he only has a few visible tattoos himself, something Joe points out immediately, in a nervous blurt he’s immediately mortified for. He just smiles. “Most of my tattoos are under my clothes. I’m not taking anything off to prove it though.” Joe appreciates the smile this brings to Kevin’s face, and they’re led into an intimate backroom where there’s a chair, similar to that of a dentist, set up in the middle. A desk set up beside it holds all the essentials for tattooing: ink, needles, gun, stencils, razors. Kevin tenses up again.
Joe rubs his thumb across his knuckles, smiling softly at him. “It’ll be fine. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” The words seem to hearten him, since he pushes himself forward toward the chair.
Joe sits on his right side, holds his hand as promised, petting his fingertips against his palm in a way he knows makes Kevin’s toes curl, and watches as Steve shaves Kevin’s forearm in quick, efficient motions. He wipes the hair away, leaving his skin unbelievably clear and smooth, and moves away to make a stencil of the drawing they’ve brought with them. He rolls his chair over, holds Kevin’s arm out, rubs it on gently, peels the paper away. “What do you think?”
Kevin stares at it, dark and solid against his skin, nods mutely. Joe grins excitedly. “It looks good.” He squeezes his lover’s hand again. “Kevin?”
“Yeah.” He smiles over at him, leans in to press their mouths together. “It’s great. I’m nervous but I know it’s going to look so amazing.”
Joe leans in to kiss his cheek, tenses almost more than Kevin does when the tattoo gun buzzes to life. “It’ll be fine.” He assures Kevin, petting his hand a little. He repeats this several times while the gun buzzes, tracks across Kevin’s skin. His boyfriend gets increasingly paler, the corners of his eyes and mouth twisting into uncomfortable lines. Joe leans in to kiss his cheek.
The ink settles into his skin, stark and dark, the soft pink blossoms and sharp yellow moon smeared red with blood. He brings Kevin’s knuckles to his lips, eyes on the soft, wounded skin, and Kevin smiles weakly at him. “It hurts.” He breathes. “But it’s almost done, okay? And it’ll look perfect, and be totally worth it.”
He’s right about that. When Steve slides his chair back, tossing the needle in the trash and snapping his gloves off, saying, “Check it out,” Kevin risks a peek down at his arm, his eyes widening.
Joe stands up, leans forward a little, grinning stupidly. “It’s… Kevin, you have me inked on your arm.” It doesn’t make sense, how he says it, but Kevin understands, and he leans up to press their mouths together. They wait for Steve to bandage him up and explain the care procedures to him, and Joe promises he’ll make sure he keeps it clean, before they move to the front desk and pay. Joe tips him extra when Kevin’s not looking, then runs out to hold his hand on the way to the car.
An hour passes, and Kevin stands with his hip leaning against the counter while Joe perches on the counter, gently cleaning the tattoo with bar soap and a warm washcloth. He winces a little, and Joe’s eyes lift to his face from time to time, but mostly focus on his task. When he deems it acceptably cleansed of blood and excess ink, he pats it dry, then dips his pinky into the burn salve, just as gingerly spreading it in a thin sheen over the tattoo, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry” when Kevin makes a little pained noise. When he’s finished, he wipes his fingers on the washcloth, curls his fist into Kevin’s shirt and tugs him over to press their mouths together. Their tongues slide together, urgent, and Joe’s already getting his pants undone, squeezing at his cock with a little whimper. Kevin chuckles, tugs Joe off the counter and pulls him toward the bedroom.
They undress as quickly as they can, always mindful of Kevin’s arm, and then Joe is pushing him back on the bed, crawling over him, presses their cocks together, kissing him firmly. Kevin spreads his legs easily, and Joe appreciates the fact that they keep lube under the pillow when he feels the bottle nudging against his hand where it rests on the bed. He’s got his fingers slick in one moment, pressing them into Kevin in the next, his hips lifting off the bed at the pressure, and he rubs them carefully inside of him.
“Joe…” He murmurs, shuddering as he finds his prostate, taps against it several times. “Fuck. Stop teasing. You can’t tease someone who’s in pain.” His bottom lip pushes out into a pout, and Joe can’t help but grin and lean in to suck it between his teeth, even as he complies and pulls out in order to slick himself up.
His body is soft and pliant as Joe presses into him, and Kevin’s leg hitches up around his hip, pulling him in deeper. They’re slow and easy as they rock together, and Joe bites his lip at the way Kevin’s hips lift up off the bed, press back against him. His right hand is curled in Joe’s hair, his left arm flung out across the bed, his tattoo out of the way.
“Joe,” he gasps softly, tipping his head back, and Joe attacks his neck, mouthing happily down the column of his throat. “I saw it, darling. I saw the - the infinity symbol.”
His hips stutter a little, and he looks up at Kevin, rocking into him faster to make up for it, looking over at the tattoo, where the sideways eight, the symbol for infinity, is tangled in the roots.
Kevin shakes his head, brings their mouths together for a slow kiss. “I love you. We’re infinite, aren’t we? We’re forever.”
“You’re not scared that putting it in tattoo form is like a jinx?” Joe murmurs, embarrassed.
“Not - oh, not at all. Not for us. Christ, Joe. Just…” He presses his leg tighter around him, and Joe gets the hint, rocking into him more steadily, his nose nudging affectionately against his jaw as he does so.
Kevin comes with a groan over his fist a few minutes later, and Joe nestles deep inside him, shuddering as he finishes. Joe presses his lips to his neck. “Infinite?”
Kevin grins, tugging at his hair. “Infinite.”
It’s a few days later that Kevin has his first show since getting the tattoo. Under the stage lights, as he holds his guitar in close against his body, his hand momentarily curled around the microphone stand as he sings in his low, guttural way, the tattoo is stark, impossible to miss, and Joe leans forward on the merch table from which he’s watching, smiles at the sight of it, and if it’s not a declaration of love between them, well, he doesn’t know what would be.