#he doesn’t deserve applause for that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hoseoksluna · 3 months

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LIQUID STARS | jjk

pairing: fuck buddy!jungkook x f. reader (feat. bam)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 11.8k

summary: to seal the deal, you give jungkook what he wants—your kiss, your cunt and your virginity.

playlist: liquid stars / pinterest board: wine

warnings: size kink, heavy dd/lg themes, provocation, dry humping, dirty talk, mentions of porn, oral sex (f. + m. receiving), multiple orgasms & countdown, dom/sub dynamics, reader has daddy issues (like the writer), first time, jealousy, inner child healing, plushie used during intercourse, jungkook fucks her numb & dumb, praise kink, cum eating, pet names and the establishment of a title, bondage, raw sex, tummy bulge, desperation, pain felt during intercourse, squirting

note: as difficult as it was to write this, i'm immensely thankful. this changed my life; it healed me and i'll dream about it for a long, long time. i was as exhausted as oc once i finished this, because i truly did give my all. everyone, this is part four to my series 'wine' and therefore the very end. this is the very beginning of jungkook's and oc's relationship. can be read as a standalone as there aren't any quirks from the other parts (except for bunny), though if you wish to read them now, now is the perfect time. now you can see the beautiful gradual development of their relationship. please, enjoy as you read and let me know your favorite parts bc i need to talk about this. heed the warnings as there are dd/lg themes that can be uncomfortable for some. thank you! and thank you for all the love on this series. i'll never forget it. i love you, guys. ʚɞ

side note: give some round of applause for 3D daddy provider jungkook everyone!! he deserves it!!!

Silky lilac bows adorn the tops of your pigtails that cascade down in loose braids, sprawled on the cotton of his pillow and on the soft belly of a bunny plushie. There are still traces of sunlight left on the bedding, which dissolve, little by little, into nothingness as the large star goes down, saying goodbye. It’s lightweight, the atmosphere—homely almost. And much to your surprise, you feel relatively at ease, despite the fact a man lies on top of you—a man you have a certain liking for.

It was natural for you to end up here and you, yourself, wished for it, even. Deemed it was only right after the man took you around for a walk while his silly Doberman guarded each and every step both of you had taken in sync, especially so when he persisted in buying you a small plastic ring of the same bunny you’re lying against. He didn’t even forget about his own canine friend waiting outside patiently like the obedient dog he is, and fed him the snackies he got for him as soon as he returned from the shop. You swore Bam was as giddy as you when he received his gift.

Now the ring glints in the last rays of the sun. His, too.

While yours is as white as the cloudy morning sky, Jungkook’s is as black as the drowsily dozing night sky. You think it’s the perfect contrast between the pair of you. Not that you should be noting these things, considering you’re just friends. But his skin is satiny soft, painted in impressionist tattoos, while his muscles, that his well-fitted T-shirt graciously allows you to see, are strong. You’re sure he could just lift you and throw you around without much of a strain. And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s such a striking image of pure beauty. How could you not notice these intertwinings when they’re this lovely?

You like him—without a shadow of doubt. Can feel the call of an emotional attachment forming the more he studies your skin with the tip of his index finger, embellished with the Miffy ring, and it’s owed to the fact you’ve never been touched this way before. No one has ever come this close, no one has ever been interested in the moles scattered upon your shoulders, in the veins that make the pathway to the column of your neck. No one has ever gazed twice at them—but Jungkook?

He hasn’t stopped looking at them ever since he laid you down in the middle of his bed.

How could you stop such a call? Such a lull, such a magnetic pull. You know you should, but for the meantime, you simply don’t want to. Can’t lose this moment, can’t lose this once in a lifetime opportunity—

Jungkook presses his lips against the prominent mole in the center of your left shoulder. Those pretty, puffy lips, closing against your skin, the smallest dart of tongue swiping past. It shocks you for a moment before the feeling dissolves beneath, adjusting within the freshness of your system. How could you refuse such dynamic poetry, expressed against your own forlorn body? When it’s so blatant that it’s natural, that your body willingly accepts it without a fight.

You couldn’t.

Stretching your fingers between the thick strands of his hair, you close your eyes to savor the feeling of being wanted. The movement of his mouth, going even as far as to the first vein rooted in your arm—following it with those half-closed pillows. Up, up until he finds the line of your collarbone. Jungkook pauses there, simply breathes against you before he interperses little pecks there, nibbles and gentle swipes of tongue. The lining of your top won’t let him go further down, so he changes direction—relies on the pathway of your veins to guide him to your neck. And there… at the first contact, you grip the roots of his hair.

His kisses and nibbles are much harder here. And what’s worse, he takes the sensitive skin into his mouth and sucks. You fail at containing the whimpers that break out of your mouth and Jungkook reacts to them. Hums ever so deeply, rocks his hips against the mattress. You wish you were a bit bigger so you could feel the collision, but you’re just so small compared to his large form. You imagine he’s writing down the poems collecting inside of him with each cursive roll of his tongue. Wonder if there’s enough paper on your skin for all his words.

“You sweet little thing,” Jungkook coos onto the crook of your neck, dragging his lips up and down before he stops at your jaw. You feel the warmth of his breath and his body heat seeps into yours, creating unity, blackening the ink. It feels strange, it feels so new. Brisk and springlike, like fresh air in a stuffed room. You want to stay here for a long time, tasting the wholeness of spring captured in him. You want his words to flush you red with the tinge of the entire sunlight that opens the buds of flowers during all seasons in a loop. “Can I kiss you?”

You haven’t gone beyond the innocent touching of hands with him. You brim with a tight feeling of thankfulness that he asked you such a graceful question, although something else steals your attention entirely.

“Little?” you say, the smile on your lips pulled so taut that it quivers ever so slightly. It makes you crazy that he calls you that, but you play the game. Revel in it. “What do you mean little? I’m bigger than you.”

Jungkook cocks his brow at you, mouth falling into a lopsided grin. He sits back and you feel a whiff of coldness pass by the perimeter of your body, as if someone opened the window and let the winter air in, when it’s just his brief distance that caused it. The forming attachment in you tenses and before you can think about your actions, your hand finds his knee, his thigh and traces slow patterns there. Jungkook suddenly squeezes your waist, surprising you, and the ecstatic fluttering of butterfly wings break havoc all over your body. The solidness of his hands, their weight, their firmness, giving life to your body, meaning. You note how his fingers touch when he has his hands enveloped around you like that. And the inkling that your body matters in his hands like that slips into your mind, spreading through its axis.

You bite your lower lip. A small ache begins to grow in your intimate parts. It’s so nice to be wanted, to be considered good enough to be touched, to be kissed.

“You? Bigger than me?” Jungkook squeezes your waist again. Sucks in a breath through his teeth. Smiles softly; in a way that you find unbearably endearing. “No, you’re just little. Just a tiny, little bug. So tiny in my hands.”

For the breath he inhaled, you exhale it.

He leaves his hands there when he bends over you, hovering his lips over yours. His weight, his heat. You sigh against him in relief, in a newly blossoming excitement that he’s back again. You spread your legs wider, feet grazing his calves—

“Let me kiss you, please.”

You’d give in, but the game is just so pleasurable.

Your laugh is but a breath. “You wanna kiss me?”

You exhaled, he inhaled.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Since when do friends kiss?” You cock your eyebrow at him just like he did, prodding your tongue on the inside of your cheek.

He hovers a little bit higher above you, hanging his head in defeat, sighing. Places his hands in fists on either side of you, caging you in.

“Premium friends do,” he mutters, lifting his head, face all serious. You dig your toe into the toned muscle of his thigh, twirling sweet little circles, gliding up and down. Watch as his eyes lid and he tries to control it. “Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you.”

Your body panics, but you will it to relax.

“Does that come with the premium subscription?”

Jungkook purses his lips, supports his weight on one hand as the other, the tattooed one, grips your jaw. He squishes your cheeks, bites his lip once—seemingly ponders whether he should play your game or not before he lets go of your pout, but still keeps his hand there. He traces the shape of your lips with this thumb, feeding his desire to kiss you with scraps.

“Yes,” he utters. “Kisses, orgasms, my dog. It’s all—”

Orgasms, not just sex. Orgasms.

“I get to take Bam?”

Jungkook tuts at you. “You get to take me,” he corrects you. “Though, can even such a little thing like you take me?”

Probably not. Definitely not.

“But what about Bam?”

He looks at you as if he couldn’t believe the words you’re saying, turning his head slightly to hear you better. Then, he scoffs, running his tongue across his lips swiftly, letting them express the enjoyment of your provocation by stretching into a smirk. He places his hand back on the right side of you, thinking over his words.

“Bam is mine, but you can pet him. You can kiss him.” You can hear the feigned venom in that word as he spits it and you grin, pleased with yourself. You enjoy doing this to him. “And if you’re good, I’ll let you take him out for his walkies.”

You gasp slowly, fingers absentmindedly gripping his thigh. Butterflies buzz you with a mere hint of arousal and to convey it, you wet your top lip with the tip of your tongue. The dominance, the principle of proving to him whether you’re deserving of something. Your heartbeat quickens, reaching for him with each swell.

Oh, you’ll be good. You’ll be good until he’s sick of it.

It seems he’s as pleased with himself as you were with yourself, reading your body language as he beams down at you, dimples poking holes in his cheeks. You want to stick your fingers there, pinch the skin at the corners of his mouth. Feel them, kiss them—

“Deal.”

Jungkook blinks at you. He most likely expected you to be difficult. You like the look of surprise on him. A sweet kind of glint perches itself upon his irises. You’re at awe of how he manages to be so adorable and alluring at the same time. You could never understand it. You deem he must be otherworldly.

“A kiss to seal the deal?” he tries, raising his brows, lowering himself to his elbows.

He skims his lips across your cheek, descending to your neck. Places one, singular kiss there. Lifts his head to hear your answer, a soft curtain of hair falling across his forehead.

You make a face as if you’re thinking about it.

Jungkook groans.

It’s cold, the way he turns away from you and it startles you—but then he slides his hands under your back and lifts you with ease, sitting you down on his lap. He moves you from the muscles on his thighs to the hardness of his intimate parts and you groan at the feeling of it. You’re wearing an airy short skirt with tights and knee socks underneath, the barrier so thin that you feel the solid, thick shape of him right under your femininity.

You rock against him once. Jungkook lets out a sound akin to yours, fingers flexing—hands almost reaching for your behind before he decides against it and keeps them planted against your back.

He desires your consent. And that makes you feel light-headed. Tipsy on the wholeness of him, on the pleasure coursing through your body.

You rock your hips again—and this time, Jungkook whimpers.

You take your hands and, slowly, you make a pathway down his chiseled chest. He twitches against you when your fingers pass by his nipples, his body following and squirming along. And once you reach the definition of his abdomen, your hands rise and fall against its quickening movement as his lungs heave. You’re mesmerized by his reaction to your touch. It’s as if it was his first time as well and something about that makes you woozy, savage and absolutely feline.

And something about the way you’re allowed to do as you please, whereas he’s not, strengthens that state of mind, enriches it, thoroughly worsens it.

You want him.

It began with a ring and ended right here.

And the process of your decision starts at his hips, finalizes at the pebbles of his nipples and finishes completely at the sides of his neck. He gives you the same, if not better, reaction, his manhood moving against you, and it’s settled.

The giving of virginity to seal the deal, not just a kiss.

Hovering your lips against his, you slip your hand to the place where you’re connected to feel up the shape of him. You moan onto him, vigorous power seizing you, propelling you to wrap your fingers around him. The breaths Jungkook emits are desperate, tortured, wafting over you, intoxicating you. It fills you with confidence unlike any other that you’re able to coax such a thing of beauty out of him—that you, the artist, have the upper hand momentarily while he doesn’t.

And he waits, depends on you. You want to cry due to how happy it makes you, due to the way it suffuses an empty part of you, left abandoned by someone who should’ve taken care of it a long, long time ago.

Because of that—if it’s kisses that he wants, you’ll give him as many as his body desires as a thank you.

“You’re so hard against me,” you whisper.

Jungkook grips your waist hard.

“If you want it, you have to seal the deal,” he mimics your intonation, voice deep, tingling your tummy.

“I want it.” You clutch both of your hands on his jawline, thumbs finding the invisible dimples.

“Kiss me, then.”

You whimper at the longing to do so. Your tummy clenches, butterflies inside swarm around and—

When you close your lips against his top lip, they burst into smithereens. Jungkook sighs in relief, enveloping you in his warmth.

The kiss is hungry. You expected his first taste of you to be careful, contemplative, but he goes all in. Takes charge of the lip lock, swallowing you whole, moving against you, uttering low sounds that make your head spin and you just comply. Accept that you’re the one who submits to his craving and you find yourself liking it; find yourself wanting to deepen your submission.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your head tilted as you reciprocate all of those hard kisses. When he comes up for air, he just gazes down at you, out of breath. One hand still on your back, the other cradles your cheek. There’s something puzzling in his eyes, as if he was fighting something within. You’re radiated by that energy, heavied down by it, letting him pet you like a puppy while you wait for the next step.

“You’re so good that I’m considering letting you take Bam out,” he breathes, curling a wisp of your hair behind your ear. “Sweet little thing.”

He pecks you once. You grind against his manhood and as he shortly groans onto your mouth, you splutter into giggles. Behind you, as if he heard him, the dog peeks his head out of the door, giving his Daddy a questioning look. Jungkook chuckles.

“Bam, house.”

The dog leaves and Jungkook sinks his fingers into your hair, sighing. Kisses you, again without tongue—only does what you’ve allowed him, but you overflow with the desire for more. He’s so considerate, so respectful and while you’re grateful for it, you want to break it. Your trust in him, made whole by all that he’s done for you, settled within you, made a bed in the sensitive parts of you that now shine. He doesn’t need to remain there—you want to go beyond that.

“Touch me, please.” You look up into his eyes as you say it, willing them to see with all your energy how much you want him.

He rubs soothing circles on your back. “If I touch you, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart.”

You lift your butt ever so slightly and bounce down on him, your skirt furling. Jungkook moans, pleasing you to the core. It’s bratty of you, but it serves him right for being so stubborn, so firm in his control. You want to break him.

“Can’t you see how much I want that?” you purr, bunching the cotton of his T-shirt in your fists.

He merely shakes his head, licking his lower lip, fucking with you. He tugs on one of your braided pigtail, the other hand gliding to your hipbone. “This little girl is horny? I couldn’t tell.”

A yellow light, sleepy in nature, spills through the blinds, latching onto the side of your neck. His eyes flick to it and his teeth sink into the wetness of his lip. He looks back at you when he says, “what was it that made you horny? The neck kisses?”

He straps both of his hands to your hipbones now, adjusting you so your sweetest spot rests against his cock, rocking your hips like he wants them to. He swallows down his noises, makes room for yours. You figure he wants to hear them.

You think about what made you horny. His respectful behavior. An electric spark spasms in your core at the memory and you roll your body against his at the impact—nipples pebbled, grazing below the hardness of his pecks. You moan loudly. He breathes heavily, can’t for the life of him contain that, gripping you with strength that will surely leave bruises. You add it to the list.

His control—the momentary, delicious lack of it, too. The dominance that follows it. His noises and how unrestrained he is when it comes to them. The allure and the attractive charm of his looks, blended with that insufferable cutesiness. His hard cock. The neck kisses, too, of course.

You summarize your answer and you tell him, “you.”

A hitch in his throat. “Fuck.”

Fuck, indeed. Fuck the steady rhythm—Jungkook speeds up your movement, the pace so fast your pigtails and your ribbons bounce, tits following suit. Your breath falls in step, moans echo within the walls of his room. He kisses you harshly, but that doesn’t silence you. He swallows your noises down, grunting.

“You wanna know what made me hard for you?”

You nod your head, lips forming a natural pout at the loss of contact.

“Those fucking pigtails of yours. The knee socks. How tiny you are in my hands. Seeing you lose your fucking mind when I kissed your neck. Those marks I left behind, hm, fuck yes. Those marks made me crazy,” he mutters, staring you down. “And you know what else?”

You wait for his answer as white flashes blind you, your roaring orgasm beckoning you close. He doesn’t stop rocking you against him, not once. Fills your brain with emptiness with his words coated wet by his dominant energy. You feel your own wetness soaking the fabric of your panties.

“Your brattiness,” he says. “I want to fuck it out of you and make a good girl out of you that won’t misbehave again with her smart words.”

A faint part of you, half affected by the pleasure he gives you, arises to stand up for you. “But I was good and you said so.”

He clicks his tongue, disapprovingly shaking his head. Slows down the pace so you’re able to hear him loud and clear, your orgasm backing away. “You see the thing is with little bratty girls like you, even when they act good for me, there’s still that dark little side of them that hides. Unless I fuck it out of them, they play with me. And trust me, I like the game until I don’t.”

You frown at him, but a moan betrays you. A fight throngs inside of you, his dominance yet again permeating you, causing you to flourish, but on the other hand, you don’t like being added to the mix. You want to be the only one—and it makes you angry that he had someone like you before you, that he even said it altogether. Though unfortunately, that’s something you can only keep to yourself.

The forming attachment breaks, splitting into two, with the knowledge that your wish is futile. You understand he said it for the sake of the role-play that you both naturally, wordlessly established through sexual attraction, but you still have a lot of getting used to within the dynamic. He’s experienced, you’re not. Though, when you think about it, he doesn’t know a thing about your purity. You never told him.

You blame yourself for your own pain. It’s your fault—you should’ve had a conversation with him about it before you let him do anything to you, instead of playing flirty games with him. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt, if he knew you were a virgin. The thought of what you’ve done stains you, makes you feel filthy, but you will it to kneel inside of you like a wounded animal. You need to be strong if you don’t want to storm out of his room in tears.

No attachment, no liking.

Just sex.

There’s still a frown to your face, despite the fact you set yourself free with your decision. Jungkook chuckles at it, oblivious to your internal storm.

“You didn’t like that, did you?” You didn’t like being compared to other girls he’d been with; there’s nothing to be said of the like about the role-play aspect. Being called bratty did rouse a moan out of you. “You prove my words right.”

You roll your eyes. Jungkook grips your ass hard and spanks you. As the sting reverberates, along with it comes the realization you got what you wanted.

You broke him.

And now you have to face the repercussions.

Good thing you’ve sobered up from the stupefaction of your arousal.

You cradle his face and kiss him deeply in effort to change the narrative. No feeling of affection from earlier hangs upon your heart and you find that it’s easier like this. No strings, no pain. It relieves you—so much that you sense a layer of lightness to your body and tiny, manageable tears well in your eyes. You get to enjoy this after all.

There’s radiance to your eyes, rooted in hope, and true softness to your words when you say, “I want you to fuck it out of me. I want you to be my first.”

You want to be different—your pride is uninfluenced by your decision. If he fucks it out of you, the new narrative you’re longing for will fully take place and make living through this bearable. You know you can’t have him the way you’d like, but if fate wrote that you’re to have him this way—you don’t mind altering it to the little desires you’re allowing yourself to have.

Once in a lifetime opportunity. You can’t lose it.

Jungkook is left astounded by your words, eyes widening, shock evident on his features. Like your words, he softens, unclenching his fingers from your suppleness, the darkness in his irises making a way for gentleness to come through. He rubs the small of your back, hands ascending to your spine, feeling the clip of your bra, until he finds the nape of your neck. He holds you there, tenderly, as if you were a porcelain doll he now was careful not to break.

The change in his demeanor is stark. It surprises you as well—and like everything that has happened within the hour, it isn’t something you expected from him. The emotion that emerges from the roundness of his eyes touches the hardness of your decision, tries to get through, pokes a gap inside, letting the light in.

He tucks his darkness back inside. Strokes the back of your head, the silky ends of your ribbons sifting through his slender fingers. You relax against him and your body does it for you. It welcomes his tenderness, glad for the truth to be out. You fight against it—against yourself, willing your decision not to break but remain firm.

No strings, no pain.

But to no avail. The light spreads. His light. Celestial twinkles of stars, small parts of him that make him who he is.

“You’ve never had anyone before me?” he husks, regret glossing over his eyes, holding your head firmly as he awaits your answer. More stars spill like liquid.

You shake your head ‘no’, your chest tightening.

He kisses you and there’s something different about the way he does it. Now you can sense the carefulness you searched for earlier and you taste the primal core of loving care in the movement of his lips. The kisses are long, deep. As if you’re a different person now, a girl unlike any of the ones he mentioned. Someone who matters, someone who’s solid. You’re back at the beginning.

A lump forms in your throat.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

One part of you, greater and illuminated by his stars, wants it gently like this, with flowers of innocence and purity besprinkled across his features, never leaving you out of his sight, taking care of you. But you fear that if you allow him to be tender, your heart will choose him again and cling to his side. The other, more faint part of you, affected by your decision, thinks it’s better to stick to the role-play, for there’s the aspect of illusoriness that will not bruise anyone’s hearts, especially not yours. It will make you horny, Jungkook will get you off and, glowing, you’ll go home.

You can’t decide. It’s too much of a heavy weight to bear on your shoulders. You can’t do it.

You need him to say the word. You need him to decide what will be the face of the trajectory of your premium friendship.

Flowery or deceitful?

A small candlelight in you hopes for gentleness and purity before your fear unfairly puffs it out.

“Yes, I’m sure. I want you.”

Jungkook lays you down and, at last, you feel his manhood against you. He bends to pepper apologetic kisses along the column of your neck and you feel the authenticity of his regret, thrumming against you warmly. Your breath hitches in your throat, the principle of the candlelight in you not being a high hope after all—

“I’m sorry. I should’ve gone about this better.” A kiss to your cheek; you stifle your sobs. “I should’ve checked in with you, but I jumped straight in. This was a mistake on my part. I’m sorry.”

He blames himself, not you.

You want to remain stoic, but his authenticity beckons yours to come out and envelop him whole, gives access to your emotions and you can’t stop the miniature teardrop from flowing down the side of your nose. Neither can you stop the words that follow its footsteps.

“I should’ve told you first,” you whisper, sniffling. Jungkook furrows his brows at the expression of your pain in tender emotion, wiping it away. “But I was bad—reckless.”

He chuckles softly, caressing your hair. “You’re an angel. Sent to my side for me. You weren’t bad. I didn’t mean what I'd said.”

His words, his touch, the kiss he adds to your cheek to punctuate his sentence—Jungkook erases everything that has just happened.

Newness rushes in your chest, the pouring of spring into summer permeates your whole being. You hear the birds sing, the rustle of flimsy flower petals on tree branches as the warm wind grazes it with its touch. Jungkook seals this feeling by pressing a kiss to your sternum.

He said it, so it must be so. You trust him.

The firmness of the cage around your decision unlatches. Doesn’t fly away like the birds. Is a little bit afraid of peeking out. The candlelight returns to light up the room around that cage, blossoming into the sun.

“We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to,” he says, looking up at you from the place where he dragged your top down to kiss your skin.

The sun rays in you absorb all of the darkness. The firmness extends one wing.

You run your fingers through his hair. Figure the only thing the summer in you is missing is the heat. You want him, you want sex and you don’t want to think about feelings or consequences. You don’t want to choose between anything anymore. You just want to enjoy yourself.

“I meant it when I said that I want you to be my first,” you say, fingers curling around his ear. Jungkook leans into your touch and it’s as if he’s massaging the wing to alleviate it from a cramp due to being tucked in for so long.

“Okay,” he sighs, taking your hands and pinning them on the pillow and bunny above your head. He sits up, examines you and you wonder if he can see how truly fragile you feel. “Do you trust me?”

He’s had half a year of going out with you, mingling his life with yours, spending money on you and treating you like an absolute treasure to build your overall trust. And what he did just now? How he erased your pain? Your nod is immediate; you don’t need to think twice.

“Of course I trust you.”

“Good.” A soft smile. “I’ll make sure your first time will be beautiful for you.”

Your heart thuds. His words steal all the breath in your lungs, smoothing out the surface of your body for his stars to fill. Tears prick at your waterline.

“Are you scared?”

You’re an empty canvas.

“Not anymore.”

Jungkook nods, gladness pulsating off of him. “I’ll be here the whole time. I won’t leave you, not even once, okay?”

“Okay.”

He finds the zipper on the side of your skirt and yanks it down. “How many times do you wanna come?”

The ridiculousness of the question makes you laugh and you hide your face beneath your palms. “To be honest, I don’t expect to come at all. It is my first time after all.”

You marvel at the honesty seeping out of you. His work, no doubt.

Jungkook frowns, ridding you of the skirt, fingers hooking under the hem of your top. At the reveal of your pink, flowery, see-through bra, he stops altogether, stunned. He fondles the material, grazing over your soft nipples, at last reaching the embroidery of the small petals. He gasps in wonder, eyes flicking to your intimate parts to see if you’re wearing a matching set.

The same flowers adorn the suppleness of your tummy.

Jungkook smiles at his discovery. Is hasty as he drags the nylon of your tights down your legs, along with your knee socks.

“I’ll decide how many times you come for me, then.”

Heat pools in your femininity. There it is, the dominance that you love. Yet this time, it’s laced with his gentleness. Heaven on earth—a meadow full of flowers in the middle of summer. Like the ones on your lingerie.

Joy grasps your heart. “Do I get to know before you start?”

Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss on your tummy. “What, you wanna count them down for me?”

You asked just because, but the idea excites you. You nod.

Your response prolongs the rumble of his laughter and you feel its vibration as he kisses his way up to your clothed breasts. You’d think he’d focus his attention on them, but he straightens—reaches for something behind him and retrieves your white knee socks. He bunches them in his hands and puts them on you as if he were dressing a child.

Paradoxically, goosebumps spread all over your thighs.

Smoothing the material over your thighs, he lies back down against you, lips latching on the spillage of your breasts that your bra gives him. While it feels dizzying, you still want to know the number. You poke him in the bulging muscle of his arm and in the process, you flush his cheeks red.

Jungkook pushes your tits together and licks over the line in the middle. The sight of the shine of his wet tongue against it drenches your pussy, ruining your pretty underwear, and you want him there, on your sweetest spot. Your nipples stand to attention and Jungkook listens to their call, thumbs brushing across them.

You mewl, grinding your hips against his stomach.

“Two times when I eat you out; two times around my cock,” he answers finally, awakening your butterflies. “How many times is that, then?”

Amidst the pleasure, you do the math. “Four.”

“That’s right. You think you can do that for me?”

You’re not sure. In fact, you’re not sure of anything—lost in his touch, in his energy.

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, skimming his face for a sliver of disappointment in his features.

You find none. Only tenderness—round, soft eyes, brown in the light he radiates, nose and mouth buried in your tits, sucking on the skin, making you feel good.

“That’s okay. We’ll try together. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you if you don’t come as many times. Or at all. I promise.”

Your chest clenches. You grab his face and kiss him, licking over his bottom lip before you slip your tongue inside. Jungkook grunts, rolls his own muscle over yours, tasting you, feeling you. He inhales sharply against you, once again taking charge of the kiss, taking each and every thought and negative feeling you had and crushing it to smithereens.

He lifts you and switches places with you, sitting you down on his lap with your back supported by his chest. He roams his hands all over you—tits, tummy, hips, sides and thighs while he busies his mouth on your shoulder. As your eyes follow each movement, you notice the marks he embellished your breasts with and your arousal grows—so much that you take his wandering hands and hook them under the waistband of your underwear, guiding them down your thighs.

There’s a change to his breath when his index and middle finger feels up the fleshiness of your cunt for the first time. Hard, raggedy and absolutely tormented. He glides those digits up and down your dewiness, listening for the squelching sound that makes his cock twitch beneath you.

He moans onto your neck, nose tracing the column on its way to your ear. “How do you touch yourself?”

A sudden shyness overtakes you and you turn your head, needing to hide in his neck this time. You remain silent, the words lodged in your throat.

Jungkook sees you.

“Do you rub your little clit from side to side or in circles?” he questions, helping you answer.

“I—I like both,” you whisper onto his skin, moving your hips so his fingers slip to your clit, the sweet spot where you need him the most. He grabs the back of your thigh and lifts it, spreading you open, meanwhile you chase the firmness of his fingers.

“Just like that, ride them,” he husks, eyes dazed, fixed on the roll of your pelvis. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Head on top of yours, you nod, never ceasing your movement, transfixed, just like him, by the constant way the pads of his fingers fondle your clit before dipping between your lips. The heat of the summer tightens in your lower belly and it’s a desperate litany of begging what your mouth utters, despite the fact you’re not really sure what you’re asking for, but you let him hear it. You’re close, so unbelievably close, yet still have a road to walk on before you, and you close your eyes to feel the delight of his touch more deeply, only to find that you manage to do nothing of the kind.

When you sense his eyes on you and by instinct you reciprocate his stare, that’s when you feel the depth you sought after. Mouth parted, pupils dilated, eyelashes a drowsy catastrophe, messy hair casting a soft shadow over the planes of his blissed-out face. You want to kiss him. You want to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel—

“Let me do it now,” Jungkook says hurriedly, sensing the nearness of your climax.

“Yes,” you croak out, halting the movement of your hips—and ‘yes’ is the word that ripples out of your mouth a hundred, a thousand more times when he spreads you wider and rubs his fingers on your clit from side to side.

He feels the pleasure in sync with you, accepting all of your yes’, twisting his face the moment yours does, quickening the rapidness of his hand once he switches to circles to carry you to your summer-breathed paradise.

And when you come all over his hand, he slips two fingers inside your hole.

He stills the buck of your hips.

You widen your eyes at the new feeling of fullness and, panicking and constricting around him, you look at Jungkook, who merely strengthens his hold around you.

“Trust me,” he says, breathing heavily. He doesn’t move his fingers past his first knuckles; he lets you adjust to the size. Gives you a kiss full of tongue to distract you. “Does it burn?”

You begin to pant against his mouth, the high of your orgasm long gone. You’re uncertain to count it as one when it was so short lived, ruined by the sudden plunge of his digits. But much to your surprise, you don’t detect any burn in your walls that he speaks of, which you realize was his intention.

“No, it just feels a bit uncomfortable.”

He kisses you again. You feel your lips go numb, eyes lidding at the pressure you feel as he sinks his fingers a little bit deeper and begins to move them sluggishly, your slick creating another ring for him around his fingers. You try to meet his thrusts as the visceral sensation of being filled by longer, thicker fingers settles within you and takes roots. You discover that movement is the key to parting the uncomfortable feeling and it steps to the side to let the pleasure walk forward.

Jungkook presses his palm flat against your clit, guides the pleasure to envelop your body when he plunges his fingers deeper, past the second knuckles and fucks you in swift jerks. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan and he fills in the sound, expressing his fiery delight for you at the clench of your walls against him, accommodating for him, for his desire to stretch you out, so when he finally enters you, no pain comes to greet you.

Deeper and harder—yes, that’s what feels good. You roll your body, becoming waves of the sea as wetness and the build up of pleasure—seafoam—is all your senses wrap around.

“Feels good, baby?”

His need to check in with you speeds up the nearing expansion of your orgasm. Pointer and pinky finger digging into the skin of your backside, you watch the in and out motion, the digits coming out wetter and wetter each time.

“Feels so fucking good. I’m gonna come. I’m so close.”

It’s quicker. Way quicker than your first tiny orgasm. He slips in and out of you so smoothly—you’re obsessed with the sight, ravaged by it entirely. You grind your hips and fuck yourself back, picking up the pace but slowing down instantly when you feel yourself at the peak of your climax.

You want to prolong it. You love the feeling too much to end it too soon.

Jungkook stops your movements fully.

“I want to be the one who makes you come,” he murmurs. “I want to be the one who fucks your brain out. I want to feel you squeeze around my fingers. Fuck, I want it so bad.”

His hand drifts to your neck just to hold you there, the other, the busy one, fingers you harder, your fast approaching orgasm blinding your senses. Your drenched cunt squelches around him, the sound so lewd it causes you to seek comfort—your hand flies to his on your throat, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the tip of your pointer reaching the fat bulb of bunny’s head on his ring.

Harder and faster. A scalding fire burns you and you just take it. Loll your head back against his shoulder, giving him the space to grip your jawline. Flames grow closer and closer, leaving a layer of sheen on your body in its wake. You feel the sudden need to pee.

“Oh my god, Gguk—” Your muscles tense. Close, so close. “Gguk, Gguk—”

“What, baby? What’s the matter?” he husks, squeezing your neck once. “You’re gonna come for me? Gonna come on my fingers?”

You nod quickly, too quickly. Flames of the sun, licking you. Flames of the summer heat. Just what you wanted.

Jungkook opens your jaw, swirling his tongue around yours. “Let go. Come for me. You can do it, I got you—I got you. Come for me, baby, please.”

Obeying his desperate order, you do.

A small stream of your pleasure, a faint fountain, trickles out of you and into his hand. He gasps, in unison with your whimpers, and you’re transmitted elsewhere. The wildly colorful, blooming meadow on a hill, overlooking the languorous sea and he’s there. Reaches behind himself. Offers you his hand. The wind ruffles his black hair, sweeps it back and you’re giddy—as giddy as Bam, as giddy as you were in the moment the slid the white bunny ring on your finger—to take the last two of his slender fingers, the pinky and the ring, and sit with him by the edge of the cliff.

“Did so well for me.”

The whisper takes you back and you awake.

You’re different. Incandescent. Of life, of stars and its light, of growing fondness for the man you sit perched on the lap of, whose fingers still remain sheathed inside of you. He changed you. Perpetually, absolutely. He changed you and made you into something new. Something that is softer, more elegant—smaller but assertive. Alluring and kind. Indisputably good.

He fucked everything negative out of you with his fingers. Left the vast canvas of stars inside of you.

You’re no longer a plain spread of cotton, but a living, breathing artwork. His artwork.

Once he fucks you with his cock, you wonder what further internal changes are going to occur within you.

You feel a great deal of gratitude for him—and you want to reciprocate all that he’s done for you. You want to work hard at it. Spoil him. Make him whimper. You believe he deserves it.

“You finger yourself often? How come you took my fingers so well, hm?”

You’re panting, unable to speak. Absorbing the sharpness of the stars, acclimatizing to the change.

“I guess you do, huh?” he deduces. “Good little girl, preparing herself for me.”

For the life of you, you can’t catch your breath.

Jungkook kisses your cheek deeply. Pecks you on the same spot a hundred times, slowly taking out his fingers. Lets you see your slick coating his fingers and, softly, you gasp at the little ripples of wrinkles upon the tips of his fingers, mouth parting.

And then he sinks them into your mouth.

His hardness twitches behind you and you moan, your daintily bittersweet taste making your head spin. And when you look at him, you’re met with the utmost pink-dusted adoration painted on his face. You kiss it, inhaling it, letting it flow into your system so it suffuses your bloodstream, letting him taste you. You may not feel your lips, but the sentient poetry of the stars begins to sing in you. His stars. You feel like a flushed floweret visited by a bee. Spent, but happy.

Happy to be wanted.

Good, because he said you were.

As if internally intertwined with him, you feel the identical heat tinge your cheeks.

He says nothing as he lays you down and spreads your legs back to the way they were. Though when he’s graced with the sight of your bare cunt in all her glory, his face says everything that his mouth isn’t capable of. Hunger and torture—lips agape, corners of the mouth shiny with the rush of drool and Jungkook wipes it away, then lowers his fingers to your clit, to your lips, becoming more acquainted with this intimate part of you that no one had seen before him. He traces your small hole, even going as far as to your other, tinier hole and you yelp, stopping his exploration.

Jungkook merely chuckles, eyes darting to yours. “You’re so pretty.” You grow so hot that you think you must be on fire. “Especially there.”

You mewl, shrinking, hands looking for anything to hold and finding his bunny plushie. You take her into your arms, inhaling a scent that could never be hers. You recognize immediately whose it is.

Musk, vanilla, wood.

The thought of Jungkook cradling her while he sleeps moves you and you pout.

“How we feeling?” he asks, still caressing your fleshy cunt, dripping with dew.

Overjoyed. Overstimulated.

Heavenly.

“Good.”

A foxy smile. “How many orgasms was that, hm?”

You don’t know where your shyness comes from and why it chokes all of the words you want to say. You bury your face in bunny for a moment, taking a breath to fight against it, so you can please him because that’s all you yearn to do.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Jungkook stifles a laugh and it makes you feel terrible. And it’s worse when he leans over to kiss you, turns his head at the last moment and faces bunny.

“Bunny, how many times did she come?” he asks her, offering her his ear to hear her answer. Looks at you. Widens his eyes. Gasps. “Two,” he mouths. Listens some more. Nods. “I know she thought she wouldn’t come at all. Crazy, right?” Then he lets out an endearing sound. “She said she’d believed you could do it the moment you said it. She’s so happy for you. How cute,” he coos.

You giggle, the bridge in your throat loosening, light flooding you, over and over, until you think you can’t take any more of it. You feel so full, so happy and the sensation threatens to pour out of your tear ducts.

It heals something within you—that he treats you like this at your most vulnerable state. Your inner child flares, the stars the strength that fixes her stoop, helping her arise, stand straight, stand powerfully.

He smiles down fondly at you. “So what number are we at?”

You hide your face behind your hands. “Two.”

“What did you say? I didn’t catch that.”

You drop your hands and with as much energy as you can muster, you repeat the number.

He purrs, caressing your cheek. “Good girl.” As a reward, as if the praise wasn’t enough, he kisses you deeply. “Will you let me taste you?”

You swallow his desire, but speak up your own, “I want to taste you first, please.”

Jungkook hums, curses under his breath. He straightens and kneels before your form, fingers pinching the back of his T-shirt and pulling it over his body. You catch the sight of his broad shoulders, of each dip and muscle, and your irises grown in width. Him ridding himself of his clothes dishevels his hair and as he untangles his arms from the material, he smiles down at you, noticing your stare.

He caresses the back of your thigh before his hand flies to his hard length. He palms himself once, then continues to undress—tugs his sweatpants down to his knees, though he doesn’t bother himself to fully take them off. The shape of him is more prominent through the fabric of his white Calvins, the bulge of his mushroom wet and pellucid, and you sit up, hand itching to touch him, to join his in making him feel good, but he cups your chin—forcing you to look up at him.

He swipes his thumb over your lips. “You want it?”

You nod. “So bad.”

Jungkook curses again, the sound low and rough.

“Touch it,” he orders and both of your hands listen, wrapping around his girth, squeezing beneath the head of his cock. The thickness of him makes you see the light of the stars that you sense fluttering feverishly inside of you. Your mind is too empty, too washed out by your orgasm, by the change that you don’t even think about how you’re going to take him. Jungkook hisses, tilting his head back before he looks down at you intently. “You did this before?”

You’ve never seen one in real life before, let alone touched one.

“I’ve never let anyone get this close.”

Jungkook strokes your pigtails. “How come you know what to do then?”

Instinct or memory from porn you watched—you don’t know, it all blends together within the fuzziness of your mind. And you tell him.

“I watch a lot of porn.”

Jungkook smiles coyly and it strikes you. You’ve never seen him smile this way before or, even, feel this way before. All you know from him is dominance, dominance and dominance.

You release him from the confines of his boxers and repress your gasp. His ever glistening tip reaches just below his navel and the thickness of his girth obscures most of his pubic hair. Along with the sound of your surprise, you also have a hard time swallowing the saliva collecting in your mouth.

“I want you so bad,” you whisper, needy eyes looking up at him. Shy, too shy to let your gaze linger at the most intimate part of him.

He sucks in a breath at your words, hissing. And you need him inside of you all over again.

Fuck fuzzines in your mind. You’re fuzzy all over. Wrecked with nerves, suddenly. Your hands tremble, hovering in front of his manhood. Jungkook covers them with his, soothing you, and guides you to his shaft. Wraps your fingers around him. Doesn’t let go.

The feel of him under his supervision is slow. He allows you to take in every ridge of him, every vein—the softness of his skin, the warmth and the weight. Round after round, up and down, until you get familiarized with him. A trickle of his male essence drips down the side of him and your tongue instinctively darts out. Like your hands, Jungkook’s breath shakes and he anticipates your next move, despite the fact he’s in charge.

He’s been patient all this time, giving you the time you needed. But that hardly applies when you have him in your hands, when you own his neediness. His whimpers while he waits coax your slick out of you, soaking the bedding beneath you and you can’t take it anymore.

Neither, evidently, can he.

“Baby, please,” Jungkook croaks out. Tortured, so terribly tortured. Grip tight and clammy around your hands.

So vulnerable.

You ache.

You lick up a stripe of his essence on the side of his cock and Jungkook shudders. Shifting onto your knees, you show him the milkie on the tip of your tongue and Jungkook pulls your hair, tilting your head back. Kisses you nastily, licking into your mouth. Moans, lowly. Then, he holds his girth at the base and pushes your head.

When you take him, a mewl ripples around the thickness of him. His eyes roll back and his grasp of your hair tightens, burning your scalp, adding to the fire. He lets you feel it out; lets you figure out what to do, testing your knowledge from the porn you’ve watched. And the tensing of his stomach divulges his strained effort not to fuck your mouth.

You go slow about it. Swirling your tongue around that rosy head of his, along that delicious ridge, licking a flat stripe across that line of his slit. Getting to know him in all those intimate places, relying on your senses—on them to tell you what he likes. Your hand begins to move on its own, gliding back and forth in tandem with your tongue stimulating his sensitivity. You try not to think about how you can barely fit him in your mouth, because if you do—you’ll ruin his bedsheets.

But then Jungkook hums in approval, sending a gush of wetness out of you and you whimper—you whimper at the worsening ache you feel, at the helplessness that pools in your system by being just so filthily wet and horny.

He moves your hand faster. Breath jagged, bedroom eyes zeroing down on you. And then—

Jungkook moans your name. Over and over, clenching and unclenching his hand on the back of your head.

“Don’t have to teach you shit,” he spits. “You just watch porn all day, don’t you? Naughty girl.”

Losing control for a split second, he rams his cock into your throat—and you don’t panic, you don’t yelp. Instead, you groan.

He pulls you away from him with a sharp tug. Kisses you harshly. Shoves you down into the pillows with one push on your sternum.

Bending you in half, he drinks your cunt. Lips immediately suck on your needy bundle of nerves and it’s so fast you don’t even know which part of you he’s focusing on because he’s everywhere. Clit, hole, clit, hole—sucking, licking. Alternating, alternating so swiftly and deliciously that you completely lose your mind.

And then he lifts your hips and holds them in the air, wanting you to see what he’s doing to you. Like you, he darts out his tongue and teases you, hovering the muscle above your clit. Shiny, nimble, capable of doing unspeakable things to you. He watches as your pussy drools for him and he chuckles darkly. Tongue lowering to collect it, but unlike you he never does it. He lets the dew trickle down your skin.

“Cute little pussy. So wet. Wetter than when I fucked it. You liked playing with me on your knees, didn’t you?”

With your fucked out brain, you don’t think it’s taunting what he’s doing. You deem it’s just him reveling in what he’s able to do to your body—in the fact that he owns it, that he teaches it new things. The glint in his dusky, lustful eyes proves it.

Jungkook drags a long stripe on your clit, making your eyes flutter closed and your teeth to sink into your bottom lip to cage in your moans.

“Talk to me.”

You can’t. You don’t know how to talk.

He stares you down.

No answer from you. Just hard pants. Pussy drooling.

“I won’t play with you, then.”

Panic. “No.”

He cocks a brow at you. “No?”

Silence.

He begins to lower you down but you grip his forearm.

“Jungkook.”

Bent over above you, head low, he merely flicks his eyes to yours. Duskiness, such blackening duskiness in those orbs.

“Beg.”

All your muscles tense. Wetness gushes out of you.

Lucky for you, that word he wants is the one you haven’t forgotten.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

You groan in frustration.

“Be nice or—”

“Please, lick me.”

That dark chuckle. You feel yourself becoming obsessed with it.

“Where?”

A challenge. Your throat dries up.

“There.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly, making a sound that expresses just how much he didn’t like that.

“Try again. Last chance, little girl.”

The loving smile on his face says everything about how that threat is feigned. You hear it tell you—you have as many chances as you need. He’s merely encouraging you to step out of your comfort zone.

And something about that mellow, hidden kindness gently ushers you to do just that.

“Lick my clit, please.”

A hum. A long stripe on that sensitive, thumping spot. A roll of his tongue forward and backward.

“Like this?”

You choke out a moan.

“Yes, please.”

“Or—” He blows on you, causing you to tremble. “Like this?”

He shakes his head against you briskly, not yet at a full tilt. Just like his, your body shudders in his hands and he tightens his grip on your supple hips. You can’t take it, the pleasure is overwhelming and—

“Look at me,” he orders and you open your eyes, immediately. “Like this?”

Jungkook adds more pressure and rapidness to the movement, leaving you glazed sweetly in the sheen of his saliva. He moves your hips up and down on the firmness of his tongue and you scream, taking a strong hold of his hair.

“Oh my god, yes, fuck, Daddy—”

Shocked, Jungkook groans against your pussy, slowing down to ingest what your mouth has just uttered. It’s more than natural to call him by a title like this, instinctual, innate. It fits him so well and it drenches your pussy, your slick amalgamating with his liquid love. You’re certain he feels the rush.

Your Daddy.

You roll your hips against his tongue. Dark and more dark, those eyes of his. Bottomless pit.

“Fuck yes, call me Daddy again.”

The whimpers you let out are pathetic and Jungkook shudders at them, groaning. You whine the title over and over again, a verdant, dreamlike litany of your feminine sexuality pampered, cared for, supervised. Jungkook accepts the gravity of it all, each declaration propelling him to suck your clit harder, bruises forming on your hips from his deathly grip, black eyes never leaving yours, hypnotizing you.

And when you come like this, it’s unification what happens.

You’re bound to him and he’s bound to you.

Daddy and little girl.

Throughout your sexual experience today, you had a hard time accepting things but this—this is something that slept inside of you all your life and just now has been awoken to a flickering canvas of bright stars. You feel it blink, adjust to the piercing light, before it smiles dolefully—happy to be conscious, happy to be caressed.

Jungkook kisses you and takes his time. The taste of your femininity, the fresh coldness of your change, the strong wine of his desire. You’re drunk. You’re slurring your mewls.

And one thing about unification, it’s a mirror.

You swallow down the same mewls, uttered by his throat.

“Daddy’s gonna give it to you,” he whispers, adjusting between your legs. “Will be gentle. You’re safe with me.”

He rakes the tip of his length along the entirety of your little sea-kissed seashell.

“You want it? You want Daddy’s cock inside of you?”

Jungkook looks into your eyes deeply as he asks you that question, the tip ready at your significantly smaller hole. He peppers kisses along your jawline and chin.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you murmur, brows furrowed.

He kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“We’ll chase the pain away,” he promises.

Your frown deepens.

“But what if it doesn’t fit?”

You expect him to chuckle, but he does no such thing. He absorbs your worry by kissing you tenderly. Then he glances at your body. Remembers he never took off your bra and fixes his mistake.

“You may be small, but you were made to take me,” he says and your heart skips a beat; you wonder if he understands the gravity of his words as they take roots within you, rising to bloom into splendid flowers. “Besides, my dick is tiny. You won’t even feel it.”

It is so far from the truth that you burst into giggles. He laughs along with you—a mirror reflected.

Stars and flowers. Sea and freshness. You were made to take him. You trust him.

He kisses your breasts, licking over your nipple—but briefly. Holding his shaft, he asks if you’re ready. You nod, your fingers desperately searching for his and Jungkook notices. Sinking slowly inside of you, he grabs his bunny plushie and tucks her into the crook of your elbow.

There’s a pinch of pain, blended with the feeling of discomfort as your walls stretch around his head.

Seeing it painted on your face, Jungkook draws close, enveloping you and bunny in his heat. Pushes a little more in. You wail softly, the pain intensifying. Fear intermingles with your features and Jungkook—the worry in his countenance makes you almost weep.

“Hold onto me,” he says, brows scrunched, so—so serious. “Relax, baby. I got you.”

You hook your arms around his neck, bunny sandwiched between your chest and his. Jungkook saves this time to let you adjust around him.

“I know it hurts,” he whispers onto your mouth, index finger, the ringed one, stretching to graze your cheek. “Just relax your muscles for me. It’ll feel good soon.”

You nod, trusting him.

He pecks you. Smiles.

“How many orgasms are we at?”

You roll your eyes, your own smile threatening your lips. “Three.”

Jungkook hums. Pecks you again. You feel your walls loosening, little by little.

A smug smirk. “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

“You obliterated my expectations.”

“Just wait until I fuck you properly.”

You blush, eyes twinkling.

“Pretty girl.” He kisses you and you feel your attachment forming again, though this time—newly. As light, as free as an entanglement of seaweed upon seashore, you and him. Connected. Bound. No fear, not even a hint of it. “I heard you watch porn.”

Your flush deepens. Jungkook sinks a little deeper. A faint pain—nothing bad.

“Who told you?” You laugh, the sound ridding you of your shyness.

But Jungkook grows solemn.

“Tell me what kind you watch,” he whispers, angling his head to give you a tiny kiss.

Your cheeks hurt from the smiling, from the onrush of emotions within you, sloshing to and fro. You feel hot all over.

“The one where all the focus is on the girl,” you whisper back. “The guy uses all kinds of toys on her and she just takes it. Comes so many times and there’s a countdown for it.”

Humming, he begins to nibble on the skin beneath your jaw, making your breath shallow. He pushes in another inch—and the pain is worse. You tighten your grip around him.

“And how many times do you come when you watch it?” Deep, deep is his voice, the calmness to your nerves due to the pricking you feel.

“I don’t stop coming.”

Jungkook swears under his breath and clenches his digits into a fist beside your head.

“And you finger yourself?”

You nod, confidently. Another inch. He smiles at your confirmation of his deduction.

“How many fingers?”

You scoff. “Just one.”

“Well done,” he praises, kissing you once, keeping his mouth on you even as he asks, “ready?”

You nod, again, even though there’s fright to your eyes. He sees it and he brushes his eyelashes against your eyelids while he kisses you, taking it all away. And he doesn’t stop, even as he pulls out and thrusts back into your heat. Gently, so awfully gently.

He didn’t break his promise.

Jungkook rocks his hips in slow, sensual, prolonged staccatos, moaning into your parted mouth. You’re so focused on him—on the bulging of his muscles on the either side of your head, the broadness of his shoulders, the slick sweat dripping down his neck, right from the top of his tattoo; on the sheerness of his pleasure as he moves in and out, carefully so as to not frighten you, that the pain quickly subsides.

And there you feel it.

The sensation unlike any other.

He rams into you, seeing the wrinkle between your brows smoothing, the lust clouding your eyes as the delight spreads all over your body, bringing along little dots of goosebumps. The night sea, windless, still hot from the afternoon’s goodbye kiss. You feel it—and you feel it deeply, sinking inside of you with every inch of his manhood. So much that you meet his thrusts.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck yes,” Jungkook murmurs, enraging the waves within. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Being fucked?”

Stars and its light. He picks up the pace, hooking your leg over his shoulder, entering you deeper and deeper, giving you more than half. The thrill of feeling so full—you curse, you moan, you can’t hold it in, even if you tried. And Jungkook coos at your conveyance of the pleasure he’s giving you, never lifting his eyes off of yours, off of your features, your emotions. Surveying you, controlling you, making sure you’re okay—more than okay.

You sense the pressure coil deep within your core, the sense of your climax approaching and you’re astonished at how quick it is. You halt your own movements, needing—wanting him to be the one to get you there, the one who owns your orgasms.

“Gguk, Gguk, fuck—”

“I know,” he breathes. “I’m gonna make you come all over my cock.”

He fucks you harder, making you cry out. Deep, deep staccatos, so different from the slow, languid ones. You can’t catch your breath, the sea within you sloshes violently and then—

Softly, you sprinkle him with your fountain of pleasure. Not enough to drive him out, but sweetly enough to force him to groan against you and pound you harder into the mattress. Continuing as if you hadn’t come.

You don’t have the time or the space to think about what just happened—he fucks each and every thought of you.

“My little squirter,” Jungkook mutters, kissing you. “One more, baby. One more for me and I’ll paint you with my cummie. Hm, you want that?” You’re gone, flung out of this world into a tranquil island. The palm trees, the sea and his cock. Your emotions are numb, body limp. All you feel is his cock, ramming and ramming into you. “Or you wanna swallow it for me like a good girl?”

“Swallow, please,” you croak out and Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Rewards you by giving you the full thing, filling you balls-deep.

“You feel me?” He kisses you, tugging your bottom lip with his teeth.

Glorious, glorious delight. You can’t breathe. Too much.

“I feel you—” You lift your head to look down where you’re connected. “I—I feel you in my stomach.”

Sitting back, he lifts your hips and palms the bulge just a little bit above your mound. Feels it move under him once he resumes fucking you. He replaces his hand with yours, keeping you distracted as he undoes the ribbon in your hair and ties your wrists with it. Right there above the bulge, where he fucks you. Then he latches onto your hips and jackhammers his cock into you, watching as your tits along with bunny bounce with each slam.

“You look so pretty like this, tied up for me, taking all that I’m giving you,” he says, thumbing your clit, making you cry out. “Such a good fucking girl for me. I’m bringing you up so well.”

“Daddy,” you call out and Jungkook nods.

“Yes, that’s right. Daddy is fucking you so good.”

White flashes. Seafoam. The pressure in your tummy deepening and deepening. The roar of the night sea and your body following—you come all over him, painting him iridescent with your dewiness. His joggers, dragged halfway down his thighs, his boxers are all ruined—pelvis, thighs and cock glistening. It’s such a beautiful image to you that it suffuses you with energy and you begin to speak.

“Please, come for me.”

Surprised, Jungkook chuckles. “Don’t you have orgasms to count down?”

The ever persistent need for control. You kiss him, slip your tongue into his mouth to shut him up and you struggle against your ribbon, for the feeling of kissing him without your hands makes you feel iffy.

“Five. I came five times for you just like you wanted,” you whisper. “You fucked me so good. I’ll never forget it.”

And it’s the truth.

Jungkook pecks you once deeply, humming into the kiss. He pulls out of you and whilst he strokes his cock, his fingers tug down the ribbon around your wrists. You take your place on your knees, gazing with awe and hunger at his shiny length. And as if he needed it, he plunges his fingers into your mouth for more lubrication. Then, grabbing your jawline gently, he pulls you in towards his cock, letting your lips play with his tip the way you like it as he jerks himself off. You flick your tongue under the ridge of his head and his length twitches, stunning you. You do it again, more rapidly, and you don’t stop until Jungkook begins to tremble. Pulling him inside your mouth, then out, flicking faster and faster. Repeat.

Jungkook grunts.

“Yes, like that, princess. Fuck, I’m gonna come for you.”

He announces it, but it still comes as a surprise when the first rope of hot cum spills onto your flushed cheek. You suck him harder for a moment before you stick out your tongue, eyes flick up, as he empties his balls for you, his hand never ceasing the swift tug on his length.

And he just keeps coming. Rope after rope. Liquid star after star.

And you swallow it all.

Spent, sweaty and breathless, he helps you swallow it. Dragging his fingers to the places your tongue can’t reach, he feeds you his cum and you suck on his digits. Your heart thuds in your ribcage, especially when he begins to play with your tongue, smiling down at you in that dopey way.

He pats you on the cheek once you show him you’ve swallowed it all.

“Good girl. Good little princess.”

That you are. A changed person for all eternity.

“Is your tummy full?”

You nod, beaming vehemently up at him, the aftertaste of the bitterness of his liquid stars still wafting through your senses.

The three forbidden words rise in your tongue, even though you don’t believe them—you think it’s just the opulence of new emotions and experience that forces those words on your tongue. But they remain adamant when he bathes you clean, when he brushes your hair and gives you his clothes to wear to bed. They provoke you right there on the tip of your tongue when he gives you his zipper hoodie to wear on his balcony once you tell him you need a smoke and he joins you, giving you his pack of cigarettes.

And they come off the edge, in a different form, when you tell him of how he changed you while you hold his hand and he caresses your damp strands with a cigarette propped between his index and middle fingers, kissing your cheek. The smoke fixes a makeshift halo around both of your heads. One body, one halo. Bound.

“You’re such a lovable person, Gguk.”

What you don’t know is that those mere words changed the entire trajectory of his life. Yours, too.

BACK to masterlist / read part one, read part two, part three

#jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot

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madaqueue · 1 day

Text

forty-love

pairing: satoru gojo x suguru geto x f!reader

themes/content: tennis player gojo, tennis player geto. smut. language, brief alcohol consumption, petnames (baby, sweetheart), fingering (f receiving), handjob (m receiving), oral (f receiving, very brief m receiving), creampie, cum eating, p in v (doggy, reverse cowgirl). 18+, MDNI

word count: 5.1k

a/n: can you guys tell i watched challengers and miss tennis also yay my first stsg smut (based on their vibes from hidden inventory bc they're just so silly teehee) hope y'all enjoyyy (i also have no idea how this got so long oops)

Heat radiates off the court, the sun beaming down against your skin. The air is dry, tense, the only sound between the chirping cicadas is the bright green tennis ball being thrown against the ground.

Once.

Twice.

Gojo readies his racquet, tossing the ball into the air as his eyes meet the glaring sun. In one swipe the crack of his serve electrifies the stadium. The opposing team swings but doesn’t even come in contact with his hit, the ball rattling the fence behind them as applause breaks out.

“And with that, Gojo and Geto have won the men’s doubles!” the announcer’s voice booms through the arena.

The white-haired boy tosses his racquet aside as he charges his teammate, gripping him in a hug as they tumble across the court. Even from the stands their grins are palpable, the shared ecstasy of victory radiating off their bodies.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

“Y’know,” Gojo starts through a mouthful of orange slices, “that backhand you hit during the second set was crazy.”

“Satoru,” Geto chuckles, “you know it’s rude to talk with food in your mouth.” Reaching up a hand, he wipes away the juice that had begun trickling down the other boy’s chin with his thumb. “But thank you. That’s what practice gets you.”

“I practice!” Gojo retorts, continuing to chew the flesh of the fruit.

“When, between all the beer and girls?” Suguru takes a long sip of his Gatorade, his dark eyes never wavering from the bright cerulean of his friend’s.

“S’not my fault I know how to balance work and play,” he teases. “Speaking of which, you’re going to the Nike party with me tonight.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Satoru, we have our final match against each other tomorrow, and I’m not planning to throw the game because you just so happen to convince me to join you in your debauchery.”

“Yes,” Gojo smirks, “because I’m gonna be there, and I refuse to go without you.”

With a roll of his eyes, Geto acquiesces, unable to refuse Satoru’s dramatic pout as he bats his eyelashes. “Fine, but you have to at least let me win a set when we play tomorrow.”

“Deal,” Satoru beams, filling his mouth with another slice of orange.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

The party is loud, neon lights glaring against the darkness of the night. Music blares as miscellaneous players chat, chasing whatever brand deal or sponsorship they think they deserve.

You’re better than that, though - after all, you already have your scholarship lined up for school next year, a full-ride to play tennis until you graduate college. The peace of that knowledge allows you to stand at the outskirts of the party, idly sipping your drink, unpressured to force a conversation with those around you.

When Gojo and Geto walk in, you swear you feel the air thicken. Recruiters flock to them, opponents run from them, but everyone who’s anyone knows that they’re here. You roll your eyes at the theatrics, turning your attention to tug at the hem of your skirt.

“Hey,” a sudden voice appears beside you as the smell of cologne hits your senses, the scent vaguely reminiscent of the ocean. Glancing up, your eyes meet the brightest blue ones you’ve ever seen. “I’m Gojo,” he introduces, extending his hand out.

Crossing your arms, you smirk. “I know who you are.”

Behind him, another man suddenly appears, his dark hair pulled back into a bun. “I’m Geto,” he waves, not willing to enter the trap of your rejection by offering his hand.

Gojo’s lips form into a sly grin as he eyes you up. “Well, we know who you are, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he tilts his head - god, he was cocky. “You won the women’s singles today, we caught the end of your game. You played well.”

Taken aback at his genuine compliment, you almost let your guard down, relaxing your shoulders. “T-thanks,” you stammer, suddenly taking in the reality of being flattered by the Satoru Gojo.

“But,” he smirks, “you should’ve won an hour before we got there - your opponent had a weak spot on her forehand volley, you should’ve exploited it.”

And there’s the overconfidence.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “Thanks,” you reply sarcastically, turning to leave, “but I don’t remember asking you to be my coach.”

“You haven't, yet.” A devilish smile is plastered on Satoru’s face, illuminated by the glowing lights around you.

“What he means to say,” Suguru interrupts, shooting a momentary glare at his friend, “is that we’d love to play with you sometime. You’re really good, and we can tell you have a lot of potential.”

Your cheeks involuntarily blush at his kindness, his honesty.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll think about it,” you mumble through the grin beginning to form on your face, still gathering your things to go. The noise of the music was beginning to blur your vision, your head pounding after a full day in the sun. Your muscles hurt, and you just want to collapse into the uncomfortable mattress in your hotel room.

“Leaving already?” Gojo teases as you begin to walk away from the pair.

Geto smacks his arm before looking at you apologetically. “If you’re staying at the same hotel the competition put all the players up in, there’s a way home that goes right along the ocean, if you want us to walk with you?”

“Didn’t you guys just get here, though? Don’t you want to stay and get courted by brand deals or something?” you ask somewhat rhetorically, incredulous that they would choose to leave with you.

“Psh, like we need it,” Gojo rolls his eyes.

With that, Suguru fully shoves him, his lanky limbs nearly catching over a nearby chair before he regains his balance, a pout evident on his face as he stares at the dark-haired man. “Again, what Satoru means is that he’s already got a Nike sponsorship, and I’m on a scholarship for next year; we only came tonight because we had to make an appearance.”

The gentleness in his voice inspires trust, a certain warmth to him that invites you in. Sighing, you accept their shared offer. “Well, I guess if we’re walking the same way back anyways, you might as well join me.”

A soft grin spreads across Suguru’s features as he leads you and a falsely-dejected Satoru from the venue.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

The soft sounds of waves crashing fills your ears from where you kneel along the beach, sand scratching at your bare thighs. The two men sit across from you, Satoru’s head resting on Suguru’s shoulder, his white hair illuminated under the moonlight. Somehow your walk home had detoured when they promised to show you their favorite spot, one they had found when they competed here a few years prior: the cove where you currently rest is private, away from the noise of the party or any other remnants of society. It’s peaceful.

You clear your throat, finally breaking the silence. “You two played well today too, y’know.”

Geto lights up at your words, a new excitement brewing beneath his skin. “You watched our game?” His hands continue methodically working over Gojo’s calves which sprawled across his lap, releasing the tension he had built up from their earlier match.

“Of course I did,” you hum, your fingers absentmindedly drawing small patterns into the sand. “I wouldn’t have missed your game for the world. You two are about to qualify for the Open, and I honestly think you have a good shot at winning it.”

“Oh, we’re gonna win it,” Gojo states matter-of-factly, his gaze lazily focused on the sky above you.

You can’t help but laugh at his confidence, the sound bubbling from your throat against the stillness of the night air. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” he begins, rising from where he rested against Geto, locking eyes with you, “we’re the best.”

“You aren’t the best,” you scoff in reaction. Hearing your own words, your face suddenly flushes in embarrassment - you did not just insult the two top-ranked tennis players in the country, did you?

Satoru pulls himself onto his hands and knees, leaning forward towards you as his eyes glimmer with the excitement of a challenge. Suguru’s hand rests on his back, ready to pull him back down if he oversteps (as he often does).

“Oh yeah?” he taunts, inching closer to you. “And why is that?”

“Because what you play isn’t tennis.”

Your words seem to stun the two boys, their actions suddenly halting as they turn to you. Allowing a moment of silence to settle, your gaze falls on the waves before you, the calmness soothing your thoughts.

“Tennis is electricity, an ocean. It’s a back and forth, a give and take. All I saw out there was you taking.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with taking what I want,” Gojo smirks, “especially when what I want is to win.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you follow, “but it’s not tennis.” Standing, you brush the sand from your skirt. “I hope to see you two actually play tennis tomorrow.”

Before you can leave, Geto’s voice breaks the silence.

“Come by our room tonight,” he purrs, gathering his confidence. “I’ll show you I know more than just how to take.”

A glimmer of mischief twinkles in your eyes as you turn to him, a sly smile growing across your face. “I’ll think about it.”

Turning, you walk across the beach back to the hotel.

In your absence, Gojo playfully smacks Geto’s arm. “Holy shit dude, that was smooth!” he laughs. “You think it’s actually gonna work for us?”

“‘Us’?” Geto smirks. “I was the one putting in all the work back there, you were just being an overconfident ass.”

“Psh, girls love my confidence,” he chuckles, a sound like raindrops falling on the calm waters of the sea. His blue eyes nearly glow under the moonlight, a brightness to them that’s never lost on Suguru. “Better head back and get ready for our date, though.”

“You keep saying ‘our,’” Geto teases, a newfound warmth beginning to cover his body in contrast to the cool night air as the two stand to leave.

“You know it’s always you and me, buddy,” Satoru smiles, wrapping his arm around the man’s shoulders as they plod through the sand. “You and me.”

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

A knock alerts Gojo and Geto, who had been laying across the floor of their shared hotel room, eagerly awaiting your arrival. Satoru reaches the door first, swinging it open and welcoming you inside. Suguru, meanwhile, remains seated on the floor, his eyes covering your body as you saunter towards him: the curve of your thighs perfectly captured under your tennis skirt, the dip of your shoulders under your tank top, somehow a perfect balance of strength and poise.

Crossing your legs, you seat yourself across from Geto; Gojo is quick to join, holding out a beer to you. Shortly after he cracks open his own, he tosses another to Suguru as he spreads his legs out into the space between the three of you.

Tension builds in the air, an unspoken question forming in the back of your minds: why are you really here?

Even you weren’t certain - sure, Geto and Gojo were hot, and talented, obviously, a true force to be reckoned with in the tennis world. But more than that, they had a certain reputation, a gravitational pull to them. Anyone who got close to the pair was launched into fame, their very presence enough to garner wealth by proxy. And, yes, you had your scholarship, but was it a sin to want more? You had dreamt of going pro since you were old enough to hold a racquet, and now, with the two of them seated before you, it finally feels within your grasp.

Satoru clears his throat. “So, did your boyfriend happen to catch your game today?” he raises his eyebrows.

Gojo was many things, but subtle was not one of them.

“No,” you state, your gaze maneuvering between the two. They shift uncomfortably, waiting for you to continue. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

They both visibly relax, grinning in unison.

“Good,” Suguru hums, almost inaudible above the hum of the air conditioning.

“What about you, did your girlfriends watch you play?” you smirk, bouncing the question back to them.

Geto is quick to shake his head, “Don’t have one,” he smiles easily.

Leaning forward, Gojo ruffles his friend’s hair, which now hangs loosely over his shoulders, released from the bun that held it earlier in the night. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” he purrs, tilting his head towards Geto, “his lips haven’t touched a woman’s in a while.”

Suguru roughly shoves him off, a sigh leaving his lips. Turning his attention to you, he forces his frown into a weak smile. “I promise, I’ve kissed plenty of girls.” Tilting your head slightly in jest, his words finally register in his mind. “N-not like that, just, I-”

“I think she gets it,” Gojo jokes, pulling himself from where he landed on the ground to sit behind his friend.

Another momentary silence falls, the energy between you crackling in expectation. Satoru’s hands find their way back to Suguru’s body, idly massaging his shoulders as the pair fixes their gaze on you. Behind Gojo’s irises lies burning hot flames; behind Geto’s, well-controlled embers.

“So,” you eye the boys seated across from you, a subtle intimacy underlying their actions, the gentle motion of Satoru’s fingers into Suguru’s skin, “have you two ever kissed?”

“No.” Geto answers immediately.

“Well…” Gojo trails off with a smirk, “remember that one time?”

Suguru shoots him a glare that could kill, eyes cold despite the fire behind them. “That doesn’t count.”

Leaning forward, a grin tugs at the corners of your lips as the rough carpet digs into your skin. “Oh, do tell?”

Gojo mimics your motions, pulling himself onto his knees in front of you. “Around the time we met, Suguru here, the sweetheart he is, got himself a girlfriend but hadn’t had his first kiss yet. So I, being the generous friend that I am, helped teach him how to do it.”

Glancing at Geto, a redness spreads across his cheeks, one that could be designated as rage or embarrassment, either an appropriate reaction to the information that had been unexpectedly revealed. “That was years ago, Satoru,” he grumbles.

“So you’re saying you’re a pro now, Geto?” you purr, egging him on as you place your palms in front of you, the air between you two sparking. “Why don’t you show me what Gojo taught you then, hm?”

A hint of panic lies behind his gaze as he meets yours, taking in a steadying breath. Despite the hesitation in his mind, his body knows he wants this, wants you. Without a word, he lifts a hand to your face, cupping your jaw against his rough fingertips. Pulling you in, his lips meet yours.

He’s soft, calculated, as he kisses you. Parting his lips he gently swipes his tongue along your lower lip, bringing you closer and closer. He’s patient and reserved, just like how he plays.

Separating for a moment, a small smile appears on his face before you turn your attention to the man next to you.

“Alright, Gojo, let’s learn from the coach,” you hum.

Immediately he crawls over to you, a complete and utter lack of hesitation as his hands find you, one moving to the nape of your neck and the other to your hip.

As his lips crash into yours, he’s demanding, ravenous. His tongue roughly works its way into your mouth, exploring it like his first taste of water after hours on the court, like he’ll never get to kiss you again.

Pulling away, you smile, eyes covering the two men seated in front of you. “Okay, c’mere,” you grin as you seat yourself at the end of their pushed-together twin beds.

“W-which one of us?” Geto asks.

As the words hit the air, Gojo is already moving, plopping himself down at the edge of the bed as he looks at you expectantly. Blinking at his friend’s sudden motion, Suguru follows quickly, seating himself on your other side.

Your eyes meet Gojo’s, a hint of mischief behind the cerulean, before turning to Geto, hesitation and nervousness spread across his features. Might as well make this interesting.

Shifting your body into Suguru’s, his eyelashes flutter closed as your lips meet his again. Grabbing at his shirt, you tug him closer.

“Loosen up,” you murmur into his mouth as your hands travel over his body.

Behind you, Gojo’s envy gets the best of him as he reaches around your torso. Placing open-mouth kisses along your neck, his palms travel over your chest, groping at your tits through your bra. He melds into you from behind as a moan escapes your throat, the warmth of their bodies blanketing you. Geto begins moving his arms, grabbing at any inch of your skin he can find. Before you realize it, your clothes are discarded, the boys’ shirts lost to the depths of the dirtied hotel room. Skilled fingers trace the curves of your body, tingles of electricity left in their wake.

Gojo chuckles behind you as his hands find their way between your legs, fingertips tracing your clothed cunt, sending a shiver up your spine.

“A bit eager, are we?” he teases, pulling your soaked panties to the side.

Any insults you began to form die in your throat as his long fingers enter you, a choked, “fuck” the only thing you can get out in response. His fingertips prod at your gummy walls, finding the spot that has you rocking your hips forward, grinding yourself onto him. Your moans echo into Geto’s mouth as you chase your release.

Right as you feel the heat inside you threatening to overflow, Gojo’s motions still.

“W-why’d you stop?” you practically whine, finally breaking away from your kiss with Suguru to face him over your shoulder.

That annoying smirk is plastered on Satoru’s face as he leans forward, his hot breath tickling your skin as his lips brush against yours.

“That was me giving, now it’s my turn to take.”

Gojo’s arms reach around you to push Geto back onto the bed, your body still trapped between the two as you catch yourself on all fours. The dark-haired man looks up at you, stunned into silence as his hands rest tentatively on your hips. You gasp as Satoru suddenly pulls your panties down, the cool air hitting your heat.

Your gaze lands on Suguru’s, your eyes wide before you feel the pressure of Gojo’s cock pressing against your entrance from behind you. Your jaw slacks as your eyes roll back, the stretch of him overcoming your senses as he slides in inch by inch. Geto takes the opportunity to latch his lips to yours, imprecisely sucking against your soft skin.

Satoru’s moans fill the space as he bottoms out inside you. “Fuuuuuck, y’feel so good,” he groans, his pelvis resting against your ass.

As he pulls his hips away, his tip barely kissing your folds, his rough fingertips are suddenly felt against your clit. He imprecisely circles the sensitive bud as he thrusts back into you. In unison, you and Geto moan into each other through the kiss.

“Keep strokin’ me, jus’ like that, mmm,” Suguru hums from beneath you.

Fighting against the haze of your ecstasy as Gojo continues rolling his hips into you, you manage to focus your gaze downward, finding Satoru’s free hand wrapped around Suguru’s cock, precum smearing as he pumps his length.

“S’not - ah - me,” you manage to get out through Gojo’s increasingly rough thrusts.

Geto’s eyelids flit open, landing on Gojo’s over your shoulder. As soon as the two make eye contact, Satoru squeezes Suguru slightly harder as his thumb circles his tip, forcing his eyes back into his skull as his hips thrust desperately into his friend’s first.

Satoru chuckles from behind you as he begins to kiss up your spine, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His teeth nibble at your skin, the slight pain making your back arch further, letting his cock reach impossibly deeper inside you. From the new angle, he hits the same spot he proudly found moments prior.

“R-right there, Gojo, fuck,” you moan, your hands tightly gripping the sheets to stabilize yourself against the weight of his body on top of you.

From beneath you, Geto’s cock twitches in Gojo’s palm as he weakly breathes, “Call him Satoru.”

“Mhm, y’know me so well, Sugu,” Satoru purrs.

His thrusts are unrelenting, imprecise, needy. He’s working purely off instinct and lust as he pumps in and out of you.

“Satoru,” you whine, his motions pulling you closer and closer to your release.

“Y’gonna cum?” he breathes into your neck.

You would roll your eyes at the fact that you can practically hear his smirk through his words before a particularly deep thrust pulls a choked “a-ah mmm” from you.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gojo chuckles. “Me too, baby, me too.”

His tip repeatedly prods against your sweet spot as his thumb picks up its pace against your clit.

“Hey, Suguru,” the man thrusting into you purrs, “tell me, does she look pretty when she creams all over my cock?”

Geto’s eyes flicker open, his gaze hazy as Satoru continues palming his shaft. Suddenly, your vision goes blind in ecstasy. Broken cries escape your throat as Gojo’s cock twitches inside you, painting your insides white, his hips never stilling as he fucks you through your high.

As you come down, Suguru’s words pull you back to reality. “Yeah,” he breathes from below you, “she looks real pretty.”

“Aww,” Gojo fake whines, “well that’s no fair.” He pulls out, his cum threatening to trickle down your thighs as he removes himself from Geto’s cock to grab the man’s hand. Pulling him up, he spins you around so Suguru is seated with you in his lap, your back pressed against his chest. “Now I wanna see her cum while you fuck her, Suguru,” Gojo hums.

With that, the white-haired man kneels before you, one palm resting on your thigh as his fingers spread open your folds. He slowly rubs the mix of your shared essence over your puffy cunt, his eyes full of awe.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Turning his attention back to you and Geto, he smirks. “You’re gonna love fucking it, Sugu.”

Finally taking his initiative, Geto lifts you up slightly, just enough to allow his hardened cock to press against your needy hole. Slowly sinking down on his length, another shaky groan vibrates your throat as he stretches you, a searing pleasure against your walls as he fucks Gojo’s cum back into you.

“S-shit,” Suguru mutters, “feels s’good.”

His hands return to your hips, guiding you forward as you grind against him. He’s slow, methodical, in the way he fucks you, a certain precision to his motions.

“Just like that,” Gojo hums from beneath you, “y’look so perfect.”

Your mind is too clouded to decipher if he’s speaking to you or Geto, and truthfully, you don’t care. You continue rocking yourself forward, Suguru’s cock stretching you so sinfully. He may not have Satoru’s length, but fuck, is he thick. Soft moans escape your lips as you lean your head back into Geto, who takes over where Gojo left off, pressing wet kisses over the skin of your neck. Suddenly, Satoru latches his mouth onto your cunt, his tongue circling your clit as he moans into you.

“Y’taste s’good,” he groans, continuing to lap at your folds, the mixture of his seed and your slick coating his chin.

One of your hands instinctively reaches to grab his hair, pulling him into you as the other holds onto the back of Geto’s neck, tethering you to reality.

Feeling the tug at his scalp, Satoru smirks into your skin. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

The moment you open your mouth to respond he sucks at your clit with a new ferocity, cutting your reply short as it transforms into a garbled moan of “y-ahh mhm.” Gojo chuckles beneath you at your incoherent response, his breath hot. So fucking smug.

Suguru lets out a breathy chuckle from behind you as he gradually picks up his pace. “You’re just - hah - flattering yourself, ‘Toru.”

Gojo smiles devilishly against you as he replaces his mouth with his thumb, rubbing unfocused circles into your bud. Lowering himself, he licks a languid stripe up the base of Geto’s cock from where he enters you before gently placing the man’s heavy balls into his mouth, sucking lightly.

Suguru’s motions stutter as he moans, his teeth biting into your shoulder in an attempt to silence himself from the buzz of pleasure that suddenly overcomes him at the new sensation.

“Seems like the flattery was warranted,” Gojo hums before his lips return to your clit, sucking softly as tension builds within your chest.

You can’t even tell where you begin and they end, the searing kisses along your neck, the sounds of your shared moans filling the space. Suguru’s hips grow increasingly desperate yet restrained, small thrusts into your cunt as Satoru’s tongue continues flicking over your core. Geto’s body remains stiff beneath you as you roll your hips against him.

“Let y’self go, Suguru,” you slur, your mind too fuzzy to process the words, only sensing the tension he holds.

Geto’s palms hesitantly grow greedier as he grips at your skin, allowing himself to chase his own high. His motions get rougher, thrusts deeper; he’s always felt that carnal part inside of him, the one labeled desire, yet he would never give into it. But something in your words, the heat of your body, breaks him free of his self-imposed cage.

His grip on your hips tightens as he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. He’s grunting in effort, beads of sweat forming across his forehead as his fingertips dig into your skin. His motions are sloppy and rough, but so fucking good. Finally, he’s feeling it.

“Mm, I - ah - m’close,” you whine, his messy thrusts hitting every spot inside you so perfectly. The two men hum into you in acknowledgement, continuing their fervent motions.

Wet sounds of pleasure echo through the room as you get closer, until finally, the cord inside you snaps. Broken moans of their names leave your throat as you come undone, your walls fluttering around Suguru’s cock enough to send him over the edge with you. Throwing his head back, he allows himself to feel it all, take everything you’re willing to give him - as wave after wave crashes over him, his body shaking, he finally feels free.

“So, so pretty,” Gojo hums as his gaze darts between you and Suguru, watching you two be overtaken in euphoria, together.

Satoru’s tongue never slows as he messily laps at your essence, still kneeling between your legs. Your body feels electric as you come down from the height of your ecstasy, every nerve vibrating in pleasure. The mix of Gojo and Geto’s cum feels warm inside you as it slowly drips from your cunt. With a sly grin, Satoru collects the sticky mixture on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed as he swallows. Without a word he rises from his knees, leaning over you.

Is he about to kiss you?

No, he can’t be.

He presses his chest into you as his palms cup Suguru’s jaw, the dark-haired man’s gaze unfocused as he watches his friend’s motions. Gojo’s blue eyes are nearly black from his blown pupils, Geto’s kiss-bruised lips parted as he pants. Silently, Satoru presses his lips to Suguru’s. Their tongues swirl against each other’s, their saliva mixing as the warmth of their bodies covers you, the heat of the kiss threatening to drown you as you’re pulled under, into the current of the moment.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

Back.

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

The crack of the tennis ball echoes through the stadium, each hit adding to the culminating tension hanging in the air. Each stroke was like thunder, each step like lightning as Satoru and Suguru rally.

Gojo hits a forehand down the line, forcing Geto into his weak spot - one only he would know after years of playing together, one Suguru would never dare to exploit of his teammate. Geto falters, missing the shot; a soft gasp erupts through the crowd.

“Forty-love,” the announcer booms, “game point for Gojo.”

Satoru takes his place to serve, absentmindedly bouncing the ball against the court as he readies himself.

Loosen up, Suguru.

Tossing it into the air, he hits a perfectly placed shot, the spin forcing Geto off his feet unexpectedly as he chases the path. It wasn’t what he calculated - yet, you could see it in Gojo’s eyes; you could feel it.

Geto hits an off-balance return, struggling to regain his composure as he returns to center court. For a moment, you lock eyes with him.

Let yourself go, Suguru.

Satoru takes the opportunity, running up to pounce on the arcing, slow shot Suguru returned. He leaps into the air, his racquet held high.

But Geto senses something is off.

The slight smirk at the corner of Gojo’s lips, the glimmer behind his eyes.

If Geto were a betting man, he would run himself back to the opposite corner of the court, preparing to take Satoru’s signature high-speed smash that would win him the game. Yet, for a moment, Suguru lets himself feel it - that’s not the shot his opponent is about to take.

Instead, he rushes the net. The moment his feet plant onto the ground, Gojo’s racquet makes contact with the ball, the slicing motion sending it twisting the exact opposite direction Geto would have predicted as it spins through the air. Landing it exactly where Suguru stands.

Geto volleys, not allowing the ball to make contact with the ground as he sends it back to Satoru’s side behind him. Gojo knows he can’t get to the ball fast enough, and he doesn’t even try; instead, he stands in place where he landed from his last play.

A wide grin forms on Satoru’s face, one of admiration, pride. “Didn’t expect you to get that one, Suguru,” he gleams.

Turning around, Geto’s back faces his opponent as he returns to his place, ready for the next serve. “Your emotions gave you away, Satoru,” he purrs through a smirk.

As Gojo prepares himself to serve again, a new electricity crackles between them. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you watch them play, sweat glistening off their backs as they pour themselves into the game: the back and forth, the give and the take.

This is tennis.

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moonstruckme · 8 months

Note

You’re poly!marauders writings literally soothe my anxiety I love it so much. Could I please request poly!marauders comforting reader the night before a big presentation she’s super anxious for because she hates public speaking. I feel like they’d be so soft and encouraging when they realise how sad and anxious she is about it. You’re the best lovely 💗💖🩷

Thanks sweetheart!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 957 words

James erupts in applause as you click to the final slide, and Sirius sticks his fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly.

“Fantastic job!” James gushes, fawning. “Never seen anything like it. Will this presentation be considered for a nobel prize?”

“It ought to be,” Remus agrees, also clapping, albeit more normally. “That was great, dove. They’re gonna love it.”

“Are you sure?” You look to the screen uncertainty. “The ‘thank you’ slide isn’t too informal?”

“No,” Remus confirms. “I think it’s the perfect way to signal that you’re done.”

“But did I talk too fast? I do that sometimes.”

He gives you an odd look. “Did you think you were talking too fast?”

You shrug, looking at your pajama bottoms like there’s something interesting down there. “I can’t always hear it myself. Maybe I should run it through one more time, and you can let me know?”

“Wait, again?” Sirius sounds slightly alarmed. “This is a very interesting topic, but I think six practice rounds is probably enough. What, are you gonna give us a test or something?”

You cringe. “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you captive. I can practice it by myself.”

You close your laptop, thinking of going to your room, but James says, “Wait, sweetheart, why do you think you need to run through it so many times? It seems like you’ve got it.”

“I just need it to be, like, muscle memory,” you reply. “A lot of the time, once I get up there, I sort of…it’s almost like I can’t think anymore, and if I don’t know the presentation super well I won’t know what to say.”

“I don’t think you need to worry as much as you are.” James’ voice has gone soft in that way he does when he wants to be extra kind. “Every time you’ve run through it tonight, it’s been flawless.”

You scoff. “Yeah, because it’s just you guys.”

“Oi,” Sirius pipes up, faux indignant. “I’ll have you know we are the most critical audience you’ll ever meet. If you can do it in front of us, those dolts will be no problem.”

“Yeah, don’t be nervous.” James gives you a smile. “You’re going to do great.”

“That’s a lot easier said than done,” you sigh.

Remus pats the arm of his chair, and you abandon your laptop, letting him pull you into his lap. Your boyfriends have the ability to bring emotions you didn’t even know you had straight to the surface, and you feel unexpectedly teary as he kisses your temple. “Would it make you feel better if we came to watch tomorrow?” he asks lightly.

You give him a small, sad smile. “Thanks, but even if you did, everyone else would still be there. It’d be a pointless trip for you.”

“Not if you could have a hug afterwards.” He sets his chin atop your head like he’s going to make you a fortress out of his own body. “Or if you just want support in the audience, we don’t mind.”

“I appreciate it,” you reply, “but I’ll be okay. I just need to get it down so that I don’t mess up.”

“And what if you do mess up?” Sirius asks, characteristically blunt. “Would it really be the worst thing in the world?”

You blush, and Remus rubs your upper arm comfortingly. “No,” you admit. “It would just be embarrassing. It would kind of ruin my day, to be honest.”

Sirius nods, looking at you evenly. “But then you get to come home, and it’ll be over. Maybe we can get you a treat or something to have tomorrow evening after you get home. That way you get a reward no matter what.”

You fidget in Remus’ hold, and you know they’re not going to like what you’re thinking, but you say it anyway. “I won’t deserve a reward if I mess up, though.”

“That’s not true,” James fires back instantly. “The reward doesn’t have to be only for if you give your presentation without a single hitch. It could just be for trying.”

You’re quiet, pleading silently for a change in topic. Remus drops another kiss on the side of your head. “You’ve worked hard on this, dovey. It’s really good, and even if everything doesn’t go as planned tomorrow, you still put a lot into it,” he pauses, stooping his head so you’re looking at him. “You deserve to feel good about yourself.”

You try to shrink, but he won’t let you, trapping you with an immovable arm around your shoulders. Remus is strong when he wants to be. He raises his eyebrows, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, until you smile.

“Okay, you’re right,” you capitulate, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Thank you guys.”

“Maybe it’d help if you got the presentation off your mind and just relaxed for the rest of the night,” James suggests. “There’s no point in fixating on it anymore, you’ve done all you can.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you say, and then Sirius is squishing into you and Remus’ chair, sitting half on top of both of you.

“Our poor baby,” he whines, words muffled against your cheek. “I’m sorry I made fun of your practice, sweetpea. I didn’t know you were so nervous.”

You laugh as he moves down to your neck. “It’s okay, it’s—quit, that tickles!”

Sirius ignores you, pecking relentlessly up and down your neck as Remus struggles to keep the both of you from falling off the armchair. “You’re going to do so good,” he promises ardently. “You know that, right?”

“She doesn’t even have to know it,” James speaks for you as you gasp for breath between giggles. “We know well enough to make up for her.”

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morganbritton132 · 1 year

Note

I really think Eddie would propose to Steve every time they go to a restaurant just to get free dessert

because this man is a menace

Oh man, he would’ve only started doing it after gay marriage was legalized too.

It’s romantic when Eddie tells the waitress at Enzo’s that it’s Steve’s birthday for free tiramisu. It’s their one-year anniversary and even though they can barely afford the meal, Eddie insists that they go. He makes the reservation months in advance, saves up all his money, and even dusts off Wayne’s one good suit so he looks nice.

His car battery unexpectedly dies a few days before and Eddie kinda already knows that he isn’t going to be able to afford the meal and dessert, but he is going to make damn sure Steve gets his fancy Italian cake. And he does, after a whole song and dance that colors Steve’s face pink.

Steve gets the last laugh when it turns out Eddie doesn’t like the coffee flavor of the tiramisu.

It’s sweet when Eddie accompanies him and Hopper to a specialist Dr. Owens recommended for Steve’s worsening symptoms. It’s sweet when Eddie holds his hand while they wait for results and sweeter when he insists in all his grand Eddie Munson fashion that today actually is Steve’s birthday and he deserves – nay, it is his god given right as a hero of this goddamn country - to have cherry jell-o.

It’s cute when on that same trip, Eddie lies to the hotel staff that Steve just got engaged so they’d send complimentary champagne and chocolate covered strawberries up to their room (though they were bunking with Hopper so not too romantic).

It’s funny when Eddie tells every restaurant they stop at in every city they visit that it’s Steve’s birthday so they can get free ice cream when they’re twenty-somethings traveling the world on a nationwide tour.

It’s so fucking embarrassing when, for no reason other than his own amusement, Eddie tells their waitress that they’re waiting for Steve’s girlfriend to arrive. He says that Steve is going to propose and Eddie is there to capture the moment on his camera, and could they have champagne ready for when she gets there?

No one arrives because there is no girlfriend, no ring, no proposal, and the restaurant staff keep giving Steve sad sympathetic looks. Eddie spends the entire night laughing his ass off and is pleased as punch when the restaurant gives them the champagne for free.

The first time Eddie gets down on one knee at a restaurant, they’ve been legally married for sixteen days. They are not teenagers anymore. They are in their forties but Steve can’t even find it in himself to be mortified at all the people staring at them because Eddie is asking him to marry him (again) and Steve wants to (again). They get a round of applause and a free chocolate cake.

The second time Eddie does it, Steve threatens to kill him. Eddie asks ‘but you’ll marry me’ and Steve angrily says ‘yes, of course, duh.’ They get side-eyed and peach cobbler.

The fifth time Eddie gets down on one knee in the middle of a restaurant, Steve cuts him off half way and says, “Sir, this is a business meeting. I am your co-worker.”

#love the thought that both the Enzo staff and the nurse at the hospital know when Steve’s birthday is but humors Eddie because he’s clearly #putting in a lot of effort to get Steve a dessert #eddie munson tiktok saga #steve harrington #eddie munson

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thepersonnamedsam · 3 months

Text

champion - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary: abu dhabi 2024

word count: 1k

warnings: none

note: hiya, hope you’re all good? have fun with the second 1‘000 follower special :)

masterlist / taglist

The Race was intense, it was hot and steamy and all so risky. But he was so near. He could almost taste it, taste you. If he won this race, he’d be champion, champion of the world. His second most important price, you always come first, of course.

You stood in the Ferrari garage, your fingernails bitten down to the flesh. You were more nervous than he was. God, only four more laps to go. Charles was leading, but Max was only 0.6 seconds behind him. One mistake and Max would be a 4x World Champion.

But you were certain that he was gonna make it. Charles was your best friend and he deserved that title more than anything. He wasn’t just your best friend, you were gonna become his fiancée today if he won, but you didn’t know just yet. The ring was securely stored in his jewellery box inside his drivers room. You had no idea.

Three more laps to go.

You were sweating, not just from the heat, you were standing on your toes the whole time. Your heart pounded, probably as fast as Charles‘ car. This was gonna be it. Charles Leclerc, World Champion of 2024!

Frederic was standing beside you. His hands wrapped tightly around your shoulders, squeezing every other second, waiting for your boyfriend to finally finish that race. You both couldn’t wait anymore. „Fred, if he wins, will you pay him some therapy sessions?“, you joked. He only laughed at you. „He doesn’t need them after the win.“

Two more laps.

The anticipation only grew. At the time, probably everyone at home sat at the edge of their seats. Max was so close behind Charles. If he only lost some speed, Max would pass him. They made a show. And nobody liked it.

„Charles, Max is 0.4 seconds behind. Let’s switch to Plan C“, you heard Xavi over the coms. „Okay“, you heard your boyfriend say back. „What’s Plan C?“, you asked Fred. „He’s gonna let Max pass, get into his DRS zone and then hopefully he can pass him with greater speed.“

Your heart dropped into your stomach, Ferrari is gonna fuck Charles up against You knew it. It was not gonna work. And when Charles met Max pass, everything played out in slow motion. Max passed the red Ferrari, Charles tried to stay behind the Red Bull.

One lap to go.

It was silent in the Ferrari garage. You could hear a needle drop on the floor. Everyone was sweating. You stopped breathing, at least that’s what you thought, because honestly, no one ever stops breathing in these moments.

The moment Charles passed the Red Bull, the garage errupted into loud applause. Your heart skipped a beat, letting a small scream out. Excited for the new outcome. This was gonna be it, Charles will be champion. You could feel it.

The last meters were ahead of both cars, with Max only 1.7 seconds behind. Charles was gonna make it, he just couldn’t fuck it up. Nothing could happen now. And when Charles crossed that finish line and was declared Champion of the World, you cried. Happy tears streamed down your cheeks. A big prominent smile on your face and wet eyes.

„Go, go!“, Xavi ushered you out to the outside of the garage, where Charles would park his car on the number one spot. And there he stood, proud on his car, his hand up in the air, pointing to his late father. When he looked down again, he saw his whole proudness standing in front of him. You.

He got down from his car, quickly getting his helmet off and kissing you. You were so, so proud of him. Your champion. And when Carlos sprinted towards him with a suspicious little black box, you couldn’t believe what was going to happen.

„My love, mom bijou. I love you endlessly and I wouldn’t know what to do without you. You are my stars that light up the night. Tu es le soleil, qui répand la chaleur dans tout mon corps (You are the sun, that spreads warmth throughout my body). I love you with all my body, with all my heart, with all my everything. Will you make me the happiest man in the whole wide world and marry me?“

Your body shook from the cries. You couldn’t believe what was going on. Tears streaming down your face, you could only nod. And you nodded, looked at him with your tears stained face and got down to his level. You kissed him, so hard he couldn’t believe the force you had. And you said yes, of course you said yes.

Charles wasn’t only Formula One Champion, he was also the luckiest man on earth, with his big love in his arms, crying like the world might end. But it doesn’t, the world only just started for you two. Life was being written from a whole new perspective now. Not only is the luckiest, but you were los the happiest woman.

And the fahnden went crazy, Charles Leclerc, the 2024 champion got engaged to his long term girlfriend on the day he won the championship. And when he stood on the podium and received his trophy, he couldn’t stop smiling, not crying. He was looking down at his fiancée and the whole world stopped, just for a moment, just until he realised he was gonna marry this girl, for sure now. Not only in his dreams, but in reality too.

For him this day did not only mean he achieved his biggest goal, but also his biggest dream.

And for you, you were going to be the happiest bride on your wedding day, when you were going to walk down that isle and see this man standing in front of you

°°°

taglist: @ironmaiden1313 , @hiireadstuff , @biglittlesecret, @gulabjamooon , @lovelyy-moonlight , @peachyplumsss , @mistrose23 , @copper-boom , @love4lando , @champomiel , @serenityleah , @iloveyou3000morgan , @angelwithoutmywings , @elleeeee21 , @mikauraur , @thybulleric , @lpab , @fdl305 , @mellowarcadefun , @teti-menchon0604 , @vildetry06 , @bibissparkles , @aurora-maria , @lunnnix , @sya-skies , @Buckywifeyy , @dakotali , @rechtrecht , @noncannonships , @1eclerc16 , @pitlanebabe , @sopheeg , @avengersheart , @thatsadsmallchild , @peachiicherries , @idkiwantchocolatee , @callsign-scully , @mehrmonga , @badbatch-simp24 , @lissyontour , @din0nugs , @elliegrey2803 , @gay-for-victoria-de-angelis , @10vely-yutazen , @daggersquadphantom , @azriel-the-shadowsinger , @i-love-scott-mccall , @darleneslane , @mikauraurr , @heartmetaphor , @ellswilliams , @thxtmarvelchick , @nataliambc , @dontjudgeabookbythecover , @hockeyboysarehot , @thehistoryone , @zimm04 , @woozarts , @mellowarcadefun , @deephideoutmolkshake , @grimeslvrr , @tallrock35 , @namgification , @pear-1206 , @trouble-sistar

#f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x female reader #formula one #thousand follower special

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pleasinghellfire · 1 year

Text

Time After Time

summary: you just wanted to go to prom with Eddie

word count: 1.4k

“Are you excited for prom?” Robin asked, bumping your hip as you made your way to the cafeteria.

“Oh yes! I got the perfect dress a couple of weeks ago!” You smiled brightly. You were nearly bouncing over how passionate you were for the annual end of the year celebration.

“Did Eddie even ask you yet?” Nancy questioned as she held open the door so you and Robin could walk into the loud lunchroom. Hawkins was rowdy as ever as prom was just around the corner. Everyone was ready for school to end and summer to begin.

“Yeah, ummm…he hasn’t.” You hesitated as the girls looked back at you with shock.

“What?” Nancy shouted.

“He is such a dingus!” Robin shook her head, turning and walking towards your normal table with determination. Nancy started to follow.

“Wait! Wait, please!” You pleaded, reaching out for Nancy’s arm holding her back. “He hasn’t asked me yet but I’m sure he will. Prom is only next week. There's still time.”

“Okay but if he doesn’t ask you soon you can’t get upset if I whack him on his big head.” Robin wrapped her arm around you as you two walked step by step towards the table with the rest of the gang.

“Robin!” Dustin called out. “Please come tell Jeff that he is wrong and three musketeers is the best candy!”

You laughed as you quickly gave Eddie a peck of his cheek and sat in the empty chair to his left. He was in an intense conversation with Gareth over his campaign for Hellfire.

BOOP!

A string of balloons lifted up to the ceiling while two football players stood on top of the table holding out a sign saying “PROM?”

“Yes!” The cheerleader cried out as she jumped into her date’s arms. The filled room roared in applause and praise.

“Oh come on!” Eddie gagged.

“What Munson?” Mike joked. “Disgusted by prom?”

“Quite literally actually.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his face still scrunched up in disgust at the prom goers basking in their cheers.

“Is prom not metal enough for you Eddie?” Nancy challenged.

“Prom is stupid.” Eddie laughed. Nancy and Robin watched as your shoulders dropped in defeat, slowly losing the hope of ever going to prom with Eddie. The rest of the gang gave each other a shared glance, knowing how much you wanted to go to the dance with your boyfriend.

“Prom is just forced conformity, that’s what’s killing the kids. I’m just ready to run like hell out of here. I’d lose my mind dancing with people who call me a freak for enjoying a fantasy game.”

“Well everyone deserves to enjoy prom at least once.”

“Yeah, well not me Sinclair.” Eddie shrugged off, taking a bite of his food.

You pushed back your chair, gathered all your books for your next class and exited the room. You left your friends behind as they all collectively threw their belongings at the metal head.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell?” Eddie shouted.

“You’re such a dumbass Munson!”

*****

It was the night of prom and you were home in your pjs. Eddie never got around to asking you, which hurt your feelings. You sort of gave Eddie the cold shoulder since his little confession at lunch last week and he hasn’t yet figured out why. You still laughed as your friends harassed him everyday, throwing things at his head or calling him names. You loved Eddie but damn, he could be an idiot sometimes. You understood why Eddie didn’t care for prom but that didn’t mean that you didn’t want to show off your hot boyfriend to everyone at Hawkins. You longed for the night to get all dolled up in your pretty dress you knew Eddie would love and dance the night away with him, saying goodbye to Hawkins High forever.

You laid in bed, turning the page in the book you were barely paying attention to when you heard a loud knock on your door. You looked out of your window to see Nancy and Robin waving at you from below.

You rushed downstairs and opened the door to them. They were each holding their dresses in their arms as Nancy pushed past you into your home.

“What are you two doing here? You should be on your way to the dance right now?”

“Yeah, and you should be getting your butt back up to your room to get that amazing dress on and come with us!” Nancy exclaimed, trying to push you back towards the stairs.

“What? Wait!” You laughed. “What about Ed-”

“Ah! No! Nope! Nope!” Robin covered your mouth snickering. “We are not saying that dingus’ name. We are going to prom, just us girls and we are going to have fun. Okay?”

You looked between your two wonderful friends and let out a chuckle, “Okay!”

“Okay! Now hurry up, get dressed! We’re going to prom!”

You laughed and ran upstairs to get changed.

*****

By the time the three of you made it to Hawkins, the dance was already in commence. Quickly making your way to the middle of the gymnasium floor to catch up on all the missed moments of fun. Losing track of the time, you made your way off the dancefloor, getting a drink from the refreshments table and headed to sit on the extended bleachers for a break.

Soon the ambiance of the atmosphere slowed down, the lights dimming down as the dj merged the upbeat song into “Time After Time” by Cyndi Laupner. You sadly took a sip from your beverage looking away from the couples swaying to the beginning song. You wished Eddie was here.

Looking down, you caught sight of the familiar scuffed up white high top Reeboks that stop ahead of you.

“Sorry I’m late sweetheart.” You looked up to see Eddie. He had his curly hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. His usual Hellfire Club shirt was swapped out for a white button down. You were surprised to see he owned a pair of pants without rips or tears.

“Can I please have the honor of a dance, my lady?” Eddie bowed his head down, extending his hand out to you. You smiled as you accepted his offer.

He led you to the center of the gym, turning around and placing his hands on your waist. You raised your hands to place them around his neck. Eddie pulled you in close, rocking back and forth to the beat.

flashbacks, warm nights almost left behind

“I didn’t think you would ever come. How did you know I was here?” You whispered.

“Henderson told me. For a kid, he has wicked arm strength, little shit.” You laughed as he rubbed the back of his head, letting out a little whine in pain.

sometimes you picture me, i’m walking too far ahead

“I’m sorry.” Eddie apologized, brushing back a strand of your hair. “I should have asked you to prom properly. I’m a terrible boyfriend. I mean look at you, you’re the most metal I’ve ever seen.” Eddie shook his head, pulling back to take in your dark black lace dress.

secrets stolen from deep inside, the drum beats out of time

“You’re not a terrible boyfriend, Eds. I mean look at us, look at you! We’re dancing at prom!” You smiled softly at him.

if you’re lost you can look and you will find me

“I feel like I’m losing my mind dancing with the prettiest girl in all of Hawkins High.” Eddie mumbled, looking down at you with love.

if you fall, i will catch you, i will be waiting

“I’m so proud of you baby. You didn’t run away this time. It’s finally your year. Never change Munson.”

Eddie pulled you in, closing the distance and placing his lips on yours.

time after time

time after time…

#pleasinghellfire #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #joseph quinn #eddie stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things imagine #joseph quinn imagine #hellfire club

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apple-death · 6 months

Text

The Worship of Pride and the Prayers of Arrogance

It was finally over. After the days of running and the torture it was time for the execution of the imposter.

The crowd watched in excitement to see the stain on their creator’s legacy get washed away. The thief that dared to steal and deceive the people of Teyvat by wearing their creator’s face. The crowds murmurs of anticipation grew to cheers as the beaten body of the thief was brought to the makeshift stage. Applause rang out as they placed the thief’s behind the chopping block that was stationed there. After all what better way to punish the thief that stole the creator’s face than to remove the head of which the face sits on?

Zhongli forces them in their knees before the block while the Raiden Shogun stands by, looking forward to finally kill the divine sinner with Mussou Ishin. Venti acts as the announcer for the crowd as he lists the off the crimes that the thief has committed to warrant this punishment. Everybody knows what they did, but there’s no such thing as a crowd who doesn’t like to hear a bit of sin. He bolsters the crowd as he turns to the thief and asks them for their last words before their execution, sarcastically saying that everyone will understand if it’s for forgiveness from the creator.

They look at him and for the first time a chill shoots down his spine as their eyes stair into his, before moving onto the crowd. The thief’s eyes held no remorse, no forgiveness, and no mercy. Everyone waited to hear the thief’s lasts words. To hear them plead for forgiveness and mercy by the all creator as their head is chopped off. Some don’t even think the thief should deserve to. Some just want to hear and see their head hit the stone ground.

A grated sound leaves the thief’s lips. It’s so quiet that Venti has to ask them to repeat it. They suck in a breath as they look at the crowd with the same look they gave Venti.

“Your god. Does not. Exist.”

They’re wrenched down into a bowing position by Zhongli. The crowd screams for the exocution of the thief. The Shoguns sword held up high to the heaven as a symbol of bringing down their creators wrath upon the wretched fool who would dare say such blasphemy upon their name.

The thief smiles as the look at ground. How the crowd screams for their death brings them a sense of joy as it will soon be silent. That they’ll be free just moments from now.

The traveler, Nahida, and Furina watch from the ground as they see the thief’s smile. They know what’s going to happen. And they know they’re powerless to stop it.

Raiden swings her blade down onto the thief’s neck and the stage is covered in gold. It pours off stage and drips down into the crowd as the Shogun’s sword disappears. Gold fills the crowds eyes as the thief stands up unharmed. Any previous presence of their broken body gone as they seem to have return to peak health, their body outlined in a pale gold that bleeds into the eyes of the audience.

“Your god doesn’t exist.” They say again. A light smile on their face as their eyes are filled with warmth.

Zhongli and Raiden move to kill them, but are stopped by the Traveller and Furina. Around their eyes are a small specks of gold, the sign of when the divine creator is possessing them.

Raiden manifests her pole arm and Lumine dodges, leaving the thief wide open as they’re unarmed and powerless. She strikes again and her pole arm lands into the street. Clattering to the ground as the thief holds Mussou Ishin out. The Shogun can only stare as they look at the blade in their hand. She falls to her knees as what stand before her finally gets to her.

They had taken what her god had given to her. They bathe in a light stronger than what the acolytes shine. And they had healed completely from the injuries they had previously gained in an instant.

They weren’t trying to kill a thief. They were trying to kill their creator.

The audience falls to their knees and start to plead for forgiveness. For their punishment for their ignorance against their god.

Their god just looks at Mussou Ishin. A lost look in their eyes as they stare at the blade. As they stare at Ei.

Venti’s wails grabs their attention. He cries for his gods forgiveness and their response leaves him confused. “You need to stop praying to me. I’m not your god.”

“Y-your grace! Please! I know we’ve committed a terrible sin! Please punish us for our crime! Let us earn your forgiveness!“ The crowd joins in with agreement with his plead.

“But your god doesn’t exist Venti?”

He looks up and sees a grin stretched upon their face. A mocking look in their eyes as they look at him.

“What? Y-your grace I’m confused.” Venti stammers out and the audience goes quiet as their god opens their mouth.

“Your god doesn’t exist, because you were worshiping what your own pride made up.”

The crowd starts to despair as they continue.

“-Your archives of what I did, they tell of events that are true. But you’ve made up everything of who I am. You’ve replaced it with what you think I am. Who you want me to be. What your pride think you deserve from me. What your own arrogance think you deserve. “Nice”? “humble”? “forgiving”? “Good”? “Just”?, “Fair”? You’ve made up the most tasteless and bland god you guys could think of.”

They walk to the edge of the stage and look upon the sorry state of what was once a “proud” audience doing their “god’s” work.

“You’re worship your own prideful imagination. You worship an idea that made you feel special because it just wasn’t enough for you. When you hunted me down, you said that this is in the name of your god, when it was just in the name of your arrogance. After all I never once saw anyone go to the countless statues of your god to ask if you were doing the right thing. In fact I don’t think you talk with them at all. You just talk to them. Always talking, talking, talking just non-stop of how you’re doing it for them. Never asking for an answer in return. Always demanding praise for something that you wanted to do.”

They look down to see their main team with their heads pressed into the harsh stone ground. Their tears soaking the pavement.

”Your our grace, please! Give us another chan-!” Ei pleads. The situation so dire that she’s emerged from her plane of Euthymia.

“Another chance?” Their eyes narrow at her.

“-I gave you a chance when you hunted me. I gave you a chance when I ran. I gave you a chance when you caught me. I gave you a chance when you called for my execution. And I gave you a chance before you swung. Your. Sword. You’ve had enough chances. Chances that you ignored for your pride and arrogance in thinking you were special enough to kill in the name of a “god” that you made up.”

“So I say again. Your god doesn’t exist.”

A brilliant light that covers them makes the archons cover their eyes and turn away. They start to slowly disintegrate in front of their eyes as they say their final words to teyvat.

“Just your scapegoat.”

—————

@samarill

#yandere genshin sagau #yandere genshin impact

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soapymansuds · 9 months

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OKOKOK, I just saw a Reel that gave me this idea and it’s rotting me from the inside out so I’m giving this to you. You’re welcome ig?

Tags!!!! SWF, Ghost, Soap,Price, Gaz, Male Reader, Motorcyclist Reader, The circus??, Use of Y/N, He/Him pronouns, Spelling errors, Grammar errors, was written in the middle of the night, Author is still getting used to Tumblr formatting please be gentle with him, OOC

It had been a long few months. Between missions, paperwork, and training, the team barely had time to rest. So seeing as the latest pile of papers was dissipating and nothing particularly interesting seemed to be happening, Captain had an idea.

“You’re kidding, right?” Ghost chides from his seat in the commons with a disapproving tilt of his head.

“No, no I am not. We’re going to the circus.” Price grins, arms wide as if attempting to force the boys to accept the idea. “C’mon, we’ve been working so hard, we deserve a quick break, and this seems like the perfect opportunity. Nothing takes your mind off things like overpriced beer and overly fried foods.”

“Well I for one, m’excited! I havnae been to the circus since I was a tot.” Soap claps, standing to join his captain in rousing the troops. His first order being to clap Gaz on the shoulder in encouragement. He shakes his head with a chuckle but stands with them anyway sighing, “Hell, why not.”

They all stare expectantly at Ghost, who pinches the bridge of his nose with a shake of his head before standing up with a groan. “Fine.”

“Alright.” Price claps his hands in front of himself. “Let’s get going then.” He grins, squeezing Ghost’s shoulder appreciatively.

~time skip~

As they finish parking and piling out of the Jeep, Gaz takes a moment to acknowledge the obvious. “More of an arena than a tent, dontcha think?”

“More airflow I s’pose.” Soap shrugs, slinging an arm over Ghost’s shoulder as they find the entrance.

Once inside, the stench of grease and children floods their noses, but Gaz seems to be the only one fazed, with a gentle shake of his head as if he could shoo the smell away.

“Right, well I’m off to find the booze. Have fun lads.” Price grins, tipping his hat as he wanders off. Gaz is next as he spots the rows of carnival games, walking off silently towards the sharp shooter game.

“So what catches your eye L.T.?” Soap nudges Ghost, who seems uninterested in anything really. He shrugs as they keep walking, searching for something to stare at until he’s allowed to leave. The hum of a motor catches his attention as they near a crowd circled around a fence. The closer they get, the more they can see. A ramp, a hoop, a big metal ball, and a motorcycle. But to their surprise, the motorcycle seems to be driving itself, nearly hitting the ground and it spins in circles on its side. The bike is pearly white, prismatic reflections dancing in the sunlight as it moves.

“Oh! A trick rider! Always wanted to be one when I was young.” Soap pulls Ghost closer to the rail to get a better view. As they approach, they notice the rider. A man a bit shorter than the two, fully covered in red and black leather gear with a matte black helmet. His visor is golden and stretches oddly to his chin unlike a normal helmet. ( https://images.app.goo.gl/UKZg4c2wA4JpYGkt9 for reference)

He raises his arms at the applause, and despite not seeing his face, you can tell he’s smiling. Suddenly, the bike changes course, bumping off a ramp and steadying itself upright. It points straight at the rider and keeps moving like it’s going to hit him. He doesn’t seem to notice and the crowd erupts, desperate to warn him of the danger. As they start screaming, he looks over his shoulder, and within inches of his life, he grabs the bike by the handles. He bounces into the air, standing upside down above the handles. The crowd cheers louder still as he spins the bike around, and falls beautifully into the seat. He skids to a stop mere inches from the boundary. Mere inches from where Soap and Ghost stand. Soap’s grin, wide and dopey, seems to draw him in.

He takes a moment to size them up before nodding, seemingly to himself, and waving them in. Beckoning them past the border and towards himself as he turns the bike back towards the center of the ring. They stand for a moment, unsure what to do before he nods his head inward once more and they hop the steel rail.

He takes a moment as they enter to hype the crowd for their arrival as if they were planning to be their from the beginning. He then leases them to the huge metal ball, swerving in front of them to drop the ramp and ride in. They stand outside the dome, but Soap’s smile never falters. Even as the rider waves them into the sphere.

As they get in, the rider drops his kickstand and hops off the bike, both to close the door and to talk to his new “assistants”

He lifts his visor just barely as he turns back to them. “Alrighty boys! Welcome to the Doom Dome!” He raises his arms and the crowd follows with avid cheering. “There are a couple of rules, and most of them are Do. Not. Move. Got it?” He grins and it’s just barely noticeable under his visor.

“Sir, yes Sir.” Soap laughs with a goofy salute. Ghost simply nods. The rider tilts his head at him with a floppy smirk, trying to decide if he’s unamused or just the quiet type.

“Words, Big Boy. I gotta know you’re hearing me.” He extends a hand, an attempt at breaking the tension. “I’m Y/N. And you are…?”

Ghost seems vaguely taken aback by the statement, but shakes his hand on instinct, mumbling out “Ghost.”

“Ghost!” The rider calls at the crowd and the scream in excitement. “Anddd…?” He reaches for the other man’s hand, who takes it, grinning like an idiot. “Call me Johnny.”

“Johnny!” The crowd roars again. “Alright boys, I need you back to back. Can I put my hands on yah for a sec?” He hold his arms up just barely before both men nod at him. “What did I say about using your words?” He juts his hip dramatically, crossing his arms with a giggle. Both men respond “Yes sir.” quicker than even they had expected.

“Atta boys!” He grins, placing a hand on both of their chests and maneuvering them to be back to back. Once he’s satisfied with their position, he swing a leg back over his bike. “Now don’t move. Kay?” He gives them a thumbs up, which they return, and he slaps his visor down. He swings his arms up to instigate the crowd, successfully causing them to starts screaming. Ghost notices for a moment that the crowd has nearly doubled since they left it, and he finds himself grateful to be in here not out there. But the though doesn’t last long as a tire is suddenly directly in his view. It spins wildly for a moment before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He feels the wind as the bike loops around him, adrenaline playing with his nerves just slightly. He can feel the excitement radiating off Soap in waves, and as he turns over his shoulder, he’s sees the exact wide eyed slack jawed look he was expecting. Soaps eyes trace the biker’s every move like a dog following a treat and Ghost can’t help but chuckle. As he turns back to facing forward, he flinched back just barely, as a hand reaches off the bikes handle and reaches down to tap his nose lightly as he passes. He follows the hand as it reaches out for Soap, ruffling his Mohawk as he circles.

His hand lifts back up to the bike as he begins looping vertically. The motor roars in both their ears as the bike does loop after gravity defying loop and Ghost can feel himself grin at the dizzying sensation of it all.

As the bike slows down, eventually stopping in the same place it started, the crowd goes wild. He drops the kick stand again and opens the door of the dome, waving for Ghost and Johnny to follow him. They do as instructed and he leads them to halfway between the crowd and the dome. As he stops, he fidgets with the underside of his helmet before sliding it off completely.

Soap can’t help but stare at him, hair tussled from the helmet, smile stretched ear to ear as he takes both their hands in each of his and raises them to the crowd. As if declaring them victorious. They defeated the Doom Dome. The crowd continues to scream as he lowers both their arms and steps forward to thank them. Soap looks ver the smaller man to Ghost, who shares an understanding look. This guy was down right pretty and neither one knew what to do about it. But as the crowd dies down and wanders off, he turns back to them, grin as wide as ever.

“Y’all did great!” He laughs, picking up his helmet. “You ever done that before?” I tilts his head curiously and the boys can’t help but think he looks like a puppy. All dopey grinned and doe eyed.

Soap answers first. “Na, we’ve never been in a Doom Done before, but it’s been my dream since I was a wee tyke! Wanted to be jus like you when I grew up.” He laughs, ruffling his hair a touch.

“Woah! Y’all ain’t from around here, are yah? Is that Scottish I’m hearing?” His eyes grow impossibly bigger.

This time, Ghost speaks. “Yeah, we’re just visiting.” And Y/N’s head tilts towards him.

“Oh! Well it was real nice of y’all to stop by our little circus!” His eyes close appreciatively. “Hey, I tell you what. You boys seem nice. And you said you wanted to be a rider when you were a kid, yeah? Here. Have my number, in case y’all ever wanna learn to ride! I got a couple o’ old practice bikes in storage. I’m sure they’d be happy see some use!” He pats himself down a moment, before pulling out a pair of business cards and holding them out to each of them.

Soap takes it gladly, and while Ghost is vaguely more apprehensive, he takes it anyway was Soap beams at the card. “I think I’ll have to take you up on that!”

“Please do! I’ve got to skedaddle, but it was real nice meeting you boys! Come back any time, Kay?” He waves as he wanders back to his bike and walks it out of the arena.

~I don’t know how to end this, so this is it. Xoxo, K.O.~

#ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x male reader #soap x male reader #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #cod x male reader

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fictional-actors-bracket · 6 months

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Round 2A.6

Propaganda under the cut:

Hermie the Unworthy: "Known for his method acting. Originally preparing for his role as the Joker in a stage play adaption of the 2019 movie, he then cycles through many other DC villains as various thematically appropriate traumas happen to him. (Half his face burned - two face, poisoned by a tree witch - poison ivy, needs to trap people with riddles - riddler). But he can do more than just Batman villains, hermie can become anyone. He can become a manager at a pizza place, Kiera knightly from bend it like Beckham and even a goth girl whose dad is about to die. This is because he’s just such a great actor (and also because one of his biological dads is revealed to be a shapeshifting trickster being. The other one is Satan, yes he’s the product of mpreg dont worry about it). He doesn’t act for the money but for the love of the craft (and crippling identity issues) and he deserves the win bc he never wins anything fucking else."

Tomblain Belaroth: "He’s a prince who became an actor bc he ran away from responsibility. He’s a member of an acting troupe called the cock-ticklers (enough said). His starring role in ‘Danlet’ generated great acclaim, but he also used his incredible acting skills to sink deeply into characters to go undercover for the forces of good, most notably as A Series of Bats, a role he played full time for many years. Also, he’s just a silly little guy, and his acting skills actually just entail him saying ‘Hello, I’m (name of character)’ in his own voice, to which everyone else responds with applause."

#hermie the unworthy #Dungeons and Daddies #Tomblain Belaroth #Hello from the Magic Tavern #poll #actors bracket

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seravphs · 11 months

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — NAGI SEISHIRO x FEM READER

There’s nothing as annoying as a genius, especially one that’s better than you. When you break your ankle, being forced to train the newest member of the team brings out the worst side of you - but also possibly the best?

wc — 4.5k

tags — figure skating au, tutor au, hardworking star athlete reader x lazy genius Nagi, sports injury, self doubt, “I’m always the challenger, never the champion” quote is from Yuzuru Hanyu, title from FOB song

One more.

You’re so close to victory you can almost snap your jaws around it. The smell of it is familiar. It’s the tang of bloody split knees and the old penny copper of chewing through your lip.

Cold sweeps over your body, not from the icy air, but the proximity to greatness. This is the moment. You can feel the gold medal in your grasp already.

It’s the cleanest program you’ve ever skated by far. The cheers and gasps of the audience in response to each perfect rotation has your blood singing. You make a sharp turn on the very tip of your skate to prepare for the final jump, drawing your arms in close to your chest like a hug.

The music swells to a crescendo as you tip your head back, letting the blood rush to your brain. There’s a certain zone you hit when the moment is just right, a little like runner’s high. Like an elixir of liquid gold sparking through your veins, it’s addictive. It dances through you, making you feel light enough to attempt this last jump.

“Don’t go for it if you don’t feel ready,” you remember Coach Prince telling you.

You wouldn’t if you thought you couldn’t make it, but everything about this program has felt so right. This is the culmination of everything you’ve trained so hard for this entire year. Each breath crystallizes in your lungs, a beautiful ache in your rib cage as you feel yourself succumb to the lure of the ice.

You want it.

You’ve never desired anything this badly in your entire life, and you’re going to take it. You deserve it. There’s a violence to your thoughts, a sort of desperation. This is a moment you’ve dreamed of over and over, the seconds before you hit the peak, just like all of the skaters you’ve looked up to before.

You hear it before you feel it, a crunching noise. There was a hole on the ice just two centimeters in front of your foot. The jagged edge caught onto your skate when you lept, throwing off the angle of your entry point into the air. With that one mistake, your entire jump is wrong. Your momentum falters too fast, too much, and you’re falling, falling.

The sound of your body slamming into the ice is sickening. For a second, you’re dazed, left wondering what went wrong. There’s no more screams of joy or applause.

Your coach is on the ice, murmuring something into your ear that you can’t hear, but you try to push him away. If he’s here, that means something is seriously wrong. You try to pull yourself up, because even a failed jump doesn’t completely destroy your program. If you can at least finish-

You can’t get up.

Frozen, you look over your shoulder to where your legs are sprawled behind you. Your ankle is twisted in an ugly direction, your foot pointing the wrong way.

“Don’t look,” Coach Prince is saying, but it’s too late. You resist the urge to throw up.

It’s over.

Your dream of being the greatest has died, right here with your broken bones on the ice.

You were never a masochist before the accident. Something must’ve happened when you slammed into the ground to rewire your brain. Why else would you be here, putting yourself through the sweet torture of watching everyone else accomplish what you couldn’t?

“Man, there is something wrong with you.”

“Hi to you too, coach.”

“I hope you’re not here to skate.”

“I’m not that dumb,” you say. He doesn’t know that you’ve already decided to hang up your skates. This is the last tournament you’ll ever compete in.

“How’s the ankle? You should be resting at home, not here. Doesn’t it irritate you to watch people skate when you can’t?”

“Real sensitive of you,” you say sarcastically. Predictably, he ignores you.

“Listen, I got this kid-“

“No.”

“Come on! He’s new, he’s got to learn the ropes somehow. He’s a prospective! You were one, once.”

You wouldn’t be a good role model, anyway.

“Ask Barou.”

“They don’t like each other.”

“Ask Reo.”

His sudden silence reminds you what you already know. Reo’s too busy skating to introduce a newbie to the ice. Everyone is - the start of the season is always crammed full of training. You’re the only one who’s free, because you’re the only one who can’t train.

“Where is he?”

Coach Prince ignores the bitterness in your tone. He’s good at ignoring you - must be lots of practice.

Looking at Nagi Seishiro, you wonder why you even bothered. This boy is not going to be a skater. You’re surprised someone even got him to the rink - someone, because it clearly wasn’t him.

How is this boy even alive?

He stirs, dispelling your fears that perhaps a sloth had been mistaken for a human boy and deposited at the rink.

“Hello? Nagi?”

All you get is a groan in response. You’re starting to get annoyed.

“I’m here to show you the ropes.”

“Five minutes,” he whines.

You’re going to kill coach. Just who did he dump on you?

It’s with great effort that you get Nagi onto the ice, but at least he takes to it like a bird to water. Someone must’ve at least taught him the basics.

“Aren’t you going to get on the ice?”

“With this ankle?” You laugh. “This isn’t a class and I’m not your coach. I’m just here to walk you through some of the easy moves.”

Sometimes you help out with the beginner class. Coach likes to walk you or Reo out for demonstrations. Reo’s popular because he’s beautiful and well-known, so the students worship every move he makes.

As for you, your love for skating is infectious. It bleeds through in every lutz and axel, unbearably exposed. Every class with an appearance from you ends with students burning with the desire to extend their training into the next hour, and the next, and the next.

It makes it easy to get Nagi used to some easy jumps. To your surprise, no matter what variation you add, he nails all of them.

It’s just a little strange when he has no experience. Still, Nagi doesn’t seem like one of Prince’s pranks, if only because it looks like he’d have no energy to be involved in something like that. You decide to give him something a little harder.

“It’s okay if you can’t get it on the first try,” you tell him. “It took me a while and coach says I’m still one of the fastest students who ever got it.”

“Uh-huh,” Nagi says, and takes off across the ice.

He does a few laps to warm up. It’s a good call - most new skaters try to launch into a jump immediately, fearing they’ll lose their nerve if they don’t do it now. It’s a rookie mistake.

Nagi jumped like gravity was nothing more than a lightly amusing joke. He made it look effortless, even as you watched the muscles in his leg contract and release in an all too familiar way. You know that move. You’ve made it yours with hours of effort put into perfecting it.

Without trying, Nagi takes it for his own. The arc his skates carve through the ice and into the air steals your breath from your lungs. You’ve never seen anything like it. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to tear your eyes away from the beauty of it, frost following him through the air.

He lands, his face impassive even as you replay that moment over and over in your mind. Your blood sings with the reminder of how good skating can feel. Nagi’s leap mesmerized you. Even when you blink, he’s there, silhouetted against the black of your eyelids.

He hangs in the air, a snapshot at the height of the perfect jump that caught you unaware. Beauty that hunted and trapped you when you hadn’t even realized you were being stalked.

There’s a longing in your heart that can’t be quelled. When Nagi skates back over, you turn away. You don’t want him to see the look on your face. It’s too vulnerable.

Letting him see the miserable awe for his jump, the love that still remains despite how badly this sport has hurt you, would be like opening up your chest so he can make a display of your heart and lungs. You can’t.

“Was that good?”

“Fine.”

He shrugs. “I’m taking a break then.”

You shoot back around. “What? No! Get back on the ice.”

He stops, hovering in the doorway, halfway between the ice and the outer world.

“Huh? Why? I did it.”

“But you can do it better. You have real talent, but talent is nothing without skill. You have to train.”

“I don’t wanna.”

Throwing up your hands in disgust, you walk away. You won’t train someone who’s not willing.

Even if you see his skating in your dreams that night.

It really isn’t healthy for you to be at the rink every day when there’s nothing for you to do, but you still attend religiously after your physical therapy sessions. Reo, kind soul that he is, holds the door open for you.

“My friend is here, by the way,” he says conversationally as he walks you to your usual room. He offered to carry your bags. “He’s on your usual rink because - you know. I hope you don’t mind.”

It’s a broken ankle, not cancer. You wish everyone would stop skating around it. Even if it’s ruined your dreams, you can recognize that you’re the problem. It wouldn’t be so serious if you weren’t so diehard about skating.

But then again, doesn’t it say something that everyone else is just as dedicated? They can share your feelings, if not your methods of dealing with it. You’re more no nonsense than they are, but these are still the people that trained with you for years. That culture has leaked into you as it has into them.

A love.

A fever.

A sickness.

The walk to your side of the facility is just long enough that you have time to wonder who Reo let tag along. Maybe it’s the German genius, Michael Kaiser, though you hadn’t heard they were close. Or his model friend, Yukimiya, who sometimes skated recreationally.

It’s neither.

On your ice, you find the sloth, skating in slow figure eights.

You’re stunned. “What are you doing here?”

“I signed up,” Nagi said, casual as anything.

“You? The same person who gave up on skating immediately?”

“I see you met your new teammate!”

“Coach?” You splutter in shock, trying to understand the situation.

“Nagi’s decided to join us! I have an open spot, so he’s on Team Prince now.”

Nagi tilts his head. “So I’ll be skating with her?”

“Nope! You’re in singles, I’m just coaching both of you. When she gets better, your training times might overlap. You could learn a thing or two from her, you know!”

“I might not skate again,” you say, but you know he won’t take you seriously.

“She’s just kidding,” he laughs predictably. “Come on, let me show you this combo I taught her. Let’s see if you can beat her time.”

Neither of them get it. Your training center is full of men - you’re technically not even supposed to be there. Anri’s supposed to be your coach, but she took a pregnancy leave. She texted you the day the news broke. You still haven’t responded. You don’t know what to say.

For you, it’s not like it is for them.

You know the story. Male athletes can come back from something like this, but all women do is fall further and further down a slippery slope. Every woman who’s made it the top of the podium crashes soon enough. Two years is counted as a long run.

They push your bodies to the limit and marvel as they break down. The first fracture is only the beginning of a long and drawn out medical history.

The crowd begins to wane. They hear that you’re skating on glass. Another bad break hospitalized you for the second time. People are losing faith. Sponsors stop pouring money into you. Coach Prince has to stop training you because they won’t pay him. You go to someone else, someone worse.

They push you too hard. An almost-Olympic champion falling in their lap! They think this is their lucky break. They try to wring you dry, and in the process, your body collapses for the third time. A ligament or a tendon, it doesn’t matter. Something gives.

You keep trying, and trying, and trying, but all it does is make people pity you. Eventually, the pity turns to disgust. It’s never good to look desperate.

Your career fades out like a shooting star, the tail end a sad, messy streak that mars what could’ve been a sterling career.

You’d rather die than let that happen. It’s better to quit here, on your own terms. Better to let people remember you as the champion you were, rather than the has-been who didn’t know when to give up.

Even if it stings to know how close you could’ve gotten.

Recovery passes more quickly that you would’ve expected. It helps that you refuse to look at calendars. Counting the days would only make you strain against the chains of your cast. You don’t want to know until it’s here - it would be too painful.

“Hey, hey,” Coach says as soon as you walk through the doors. Nagi sets off a party popper. Confetti rains on you. They’re both wearing party hats. “It’s the returning champion!”

“What’s all this?” You set your gear on the ground, mindless to their little show. You’re still thinking about how you’re going to broach the topic of your retirement.

“I got the good news from the team doctor. Looks like you’re all ready to go, huh?”

This is a bad time, but will there ever really be a good one?

“Coach, I have something to tell you.”

“Come on,” he laughs, “no need to be dramatic. I don’t need the big speech - I know you’re going to work hard. We’ll get you back to number one in no time.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Huh?” Surprisingly, it’s Nagi that’s loudest, not Coach Prince.

“This is going to be my last championship.”

“Come on,” Coach Prince says, stunned. “You’re joking, right? After one injury?”

“I’m getting too old for this-“

“You’ve barely started!”

“I’ve hit my peak. You know how it is in this sport.”

He does know. The ice is fickle with her lovers. There’s always someone better and younger.

“But you’re good,” Nagi interrupts.

“You’ve never seen me,” you laugh. You’re a little pleased despite yourself that he cares.

“I’ve watched your videos. It’s why I came.”

That gives you pause.

“You make it look fun. You’re always smiling on the ice. I thought you liked it.”

“You hear that?” Coach says, his tone colored by desperation. “You can’t give up when you have a fan right here!”

“I’m not a fan,” Nagi argued. “I just thought, looking at her, that it might be fun too.”

“So basically you’re a fan.” At least coach ignores Nagi as much as he ignores you. He turns to you. “Isn’t that cute? He joined for you!”

“I didn’t say that,” Nagi says.

“You’re the reason he’s going to be in the competition next week. Give him something to look up to.”

Your blood runs cold. All of your warm feelings for Nagi disappear immediately. “What? He just got here.”

“This kind of talent is a once in a century thing,” coach continues, oblivious to your growing dismay. “We have to strike while the iron’s hot.”

You make your excuses and slip away. They taught you meditation in preparation for easing you off your pain meds. You didn’t think you’d be using it to calm yourself down enough to avoid a completely unreasonable tantrum.

It’s not Nagi’s fault he’s good.

It still sends you home from the rink until the next day.

It hurts.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re giving your skating the bare minimum. Training just enough to keep you in the race. It’s not like you’ll win, anyway. You lace up your skates in the changing room, trying to convince yourself of that fact.

It’ll sting less if you kill the hope now, but you can’t help it. You’re still dreaming of gold. You can’t rid yourself of the want, even when you know it’s impossible.

Your phone buzzes.

Nagi won. Congratulate him. - P.

You stare at the text. Not only are you reminded that your coach is actually old, enough so that he actually signs off on his texts, you get to have Nagi’s talent shoved in your face.

It makes you mean. You’re itching to pick a fight.

Skating usually helps you burn off the excess energy, but you have to take it easy on your ankle. The few laps you allow yourself do nothing before Nagi, the person you wanted to see least, opens the door to the rink.

You can’t help yourself.

“Coach Prince tells me you won the competition,” you call.

Nagi skates closer. “Yeah.”

“Must be nice,” you sneer at him. “When have you ever tried for something you wanted? You’ll never know what it’s like.”

You’re always the challenger, never the champion. Even though you love skating, you can’t remember a time when you felt comfortable on the ice. There’s only ever been the desire to jump higher, land better combinations.

You can’t remember a time when you felt secure as the best. It’s a vicious competition. You only win if you stay hungry.

Nagi seems willing to starve. It irks you - all this talent going to waste. If anyone was going to have so much natural aptitude, it should’ve been you or Reo or even Kunigami - someone who would’ve used it.

Nagi shrugs. “At least I don’t give up when it gets hard.”

You bristle. “I never give up.”

“I dunno,” Nagi says, eyes closed like arguing with you is too much work for him. You want to wrench his hair for the disrespect. He could at least look at you if he’s going to talk back - you’re sure you never treated your coaches like this. Never mind that you’re not actually his coach. “This seems a lot like giving up to me.”

“What do you know?” You scoff.

“Nothing. Wanna show me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like the first time. Show me the jump again.”

You know you’re rising to his provocation, but you can’t help yourself.

Even warming up doesn’t feel right anymore. The ice that once cradled you comes to you as an enemy. You were friends once, you remember. You knew the right place to touch so it would welcome you in, like a shared secret.

That knowledge is lost now, ruined with your mangled bone. It was fought for back then. You earned it with your blood, sweat, and tears.

It’ll have to be won back now.

You travel in slow rotations across the ice. Thankfully, Nagi adds no pressure. He just watches silently as you start to build speed and momentum, feeling out the right method. You can’t rely on muscle memory today. It’s too dangerous when you’ve just healed.

Even the slightest hint of wrongness in your ankle cracks your fragile psyche, but you keep moving. It’s been a long time since you had to pretend to be confident on the ice. You took the real thing for granted.

Finally, when you kick the speed just one notch higher, you feel it call. This is the tempo, and just two feet ahead is the perfect launch point.

The muscles in your legs tense as you pour all of your focus into the takeoff. You release like a spring, launching yourself off the ice with all the energy you’ve pushed against it. The air feels cold and crisp against your face, stinging your lungs as you gulp it down, but this is the pain you missed.

You land just a second too soon, but you avoid any real damage. The landing vibrates through your body, a fall too heavy to be professional. Once or twice doesn’t matter, but over and over will wear down your joints.

It’s a problem that you only had at the start of your career, but at least Nagi can’t tell. He’s looking at you with a spark in his usually disinterested eyes.

“Well?” You challenge.

“Looks like fun,” he says, and then he’s going for it.

You hate that Nagi’s jumps are a thing of beauty.

Every line of his body moves into the right place without his even having to think about it. You know it’s instinctual because there’s no way he learned all of the correct forms in days, but the tips of his fingers line up with his wrists and elbows to create the perfect arc.

Suspended in the air, he’s Michelangelo’s David, the peak of the human form.

It reminds you of the first time you saw him skate.

You’re breathless, watching, wanting. Hungry for that talent. The ease of it. The joy.

Nagi touches icy fingers to your cheek. You flinch away, but not before you catch the wetness on them. You feel impossibly brittle, like glass. If someone looked at you wrong, you’d shatter. Even your bones feel too fragile.

“Are you okay?”

“Get back to it,” you snap, then apologize. You roughly scrub your tears away and try to give him a shaky smile.

You don’t know why you’re being like this. It’s just a sport.

But it’s never been just a sport to you.

“Was it that bad?”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “You know you’re incredible. I heard Prince tried to teach you one of my signature moves. Show me.”

“Yes, coach.”

You smile despite yourself. “Prince is your coach. I’m just-“

You shut your mouth rather than think about it harder. You’re not willing to commit yourself to helping him, not when you know you won’t stay. “Give it a try,” you say instead.

Even hours after the session, you can’t stop thinking about Nagi’s jump. It was yours once, that effortless grace. All of that beauty in the palm of your hand.

You’re trying to be mature about it, but there’s a feeling that you can’t suppress. It’s normal to be replaced. That’s what this sport is about - seconds of glory.

It’s supposed to be enough, your fleeting fame. You knew it when you came into your career. You’ve had years to come to terms with it, and still, it’s hard.

You didn’t think it would be so soon.

And it’s not just Nagi, who’s only in a competition with you in your head. Soon, the next wave of girls will be nailing quads at younger and younger ages, doing things you would never be able to do even if you were their age. That’s just the way it is.

Nagi’s the only one who doesn’t seem to understand that.

“Are you really going to quit after this season? You’re too good to stop now. You should stay.”

“It’s not happening, Nagi. I told you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You expected him to fight.

“Okay,” he says, snatching your beanie off your head and running.

You’re left standing in a moment of shell-shocked silence before you give chase. What a fucking brat. You’re just catching up when Nagi pushes himself through that doorway and launches onto the ice, leaving a crystal spray on his wake.

You freeze with your hand on the swinging plastic half-door. He’s gone where you can’t follow. Your ankle aches. You weren’t prepared to get on the ice today. It had taken you every hour of your entire commute yesterday to convince yourself to approach it.

“Come on,” Nagi goads, still in that lazy way of his. It irritates you like nothing else to see him so nonchalant when he can rile you up so easily. “Come and get it if you want it.”

The ice still scares you. Your ankle hurts a little, and you’re not sure if it’s a phantom pain or the cold leaching into your bones. You’re getting too old for this, after all. Figure skaters had early expiry dates.

Still, something ignites under your breast bone as you watch the little red flag of your beanie float further and further away from you. Nagi isn’t even really trying, making soft loops around the ice.

Come and get it if you want it.

You want it. There’s a fire burning in your gut. Even the old memory of ambition sears at your insides, kindling scraps of gold medal dreams into a roaring flame. Desire runs a steady drip through you, bleeding through every artery.

The first step onto the ice happens with brute force. You grit your teeth as you physically make yourself do it, breaking each step of the movement down.

Shift your weight to your left foot.

Lift your right leg.

Put it down on the ice.

Dig your skate in.

Lift your left leg.

Put it down on the ice.

One by one, each movement pulled out of you. You breathe through it, shaking with nerves. One after another, trying to think about it without thinking about it too hard until Nagi breaks your concentration.

“Too slow,” he says, zipping past you - still aggressively showing off how easy it is for him. How it takes no effort, while you’re straining to remember how to make this feel right.

It breaks something loose in your brain. All cognitive functions shut down. You go after him, not thinking, just acting.

Your fingers snag on the red fabric just as you remember to brake. Your body doesn’t. It’s going at a speed that would’ve been child’s play for you before you broke your ankle, but now you can’t control your skates. You slam into Nagi, knocking both of you down.

Terror flashes across your face at the memory of falling until you land not on hard ice, but an only incrementally softer chest. Nagi lies beneath you, cushioning your fall. You lift yourself up on your hands and knees, panting above him.

“You can still skate,” Nagi says, looking up at you with those quiet eyes. “You kept up with me.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself yet,” you scoff, hauling yourself off him. “I’ve got years of experience on you.”

“Then why stop now?”

Because it’s inevitable he’ll catch up. It took him days to learn what took you years.

He takes your hand when you offer it. “If you quit, I will to.”

“And?”

He blinks. “Shouldn’t I not quit? Coach said I was good.”

You stare at him in disbelief. It’s only more annoying that he’s being genuine about this.

“I don’t care whether you skate or not,” you say. “This is an individual sport.”

“But coach signed us up for doubles.”

“Excuse me?”

“He said it’s perfect. I’m new and you’re recovering.”