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p-antomime · 3 years

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a biding vow of a broken fate.

— minors don't interact.

— wc: 4,1K

content + warnings: 18+, including: sadist!sukuna, a bit of angsty i guess, oral (male and female receiving), public sex (idk tbh), face fucking, manhandle, DP (kinda of i guess?), creampie, tummy bulge, dumbification, monster fucking, virginity loss, spitting, degradation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, you have been warned, well...

pairings: real form!sukuna x virgin!fem!reader (yeah im talking about the feral sukuna)

— song: HWAA; by (G)I-DLE

— note: inspired by this kinky shit here.

— jjk masterlist.

— Miss, letters have arrived. — A servant of yours remarked as he ran down the corridor to reach the room in which Y/N was resting sitting on a large cushion padded to be warm enough to warm human skin even in the nastiest of winters.

— How many? — Y/N asked only the quantity because she knew where they were coming from.

— Three, miss. — The short, gentle man bowed briefly to his mistress and stretched out both arms whose hands were holding three envelopes, all with the same crimson red seal.

— Thank you, darling. — You lifted your arms lazily and took the envelopes.

They were letters from generals stationed in strategic camps throughout most of Japan. Y/N had already read about forty-seven of them, but only complied with the request for about 13 of them. The reality was that the jujutsu sorcerers wanted to stay out of the direct clash of that war against only one beast. No happy or glorious fate awaited her on the battlefield: there was no room for women leading hordes of shamans, and should she be caught by one of the four arms of the freak of nature on the other side of the war, she would probably either become food or suffer a far more painful course than a quick death. So it was preferable to stay away, only getting involved in the tactical part when it was convenient.

It was already winter, so that was all the more reason not to venture outside the walls of your home. As if Japan was in the height of winter, although it was only the beginning of it, time seemed to have frozen into a vicious circle where Ryomen Sukuna was spreading his destruction over any piece of land that came into his field of vision. It seemed that the world had not only been forgotten by God, but had also been left behind by the cruel winter wind. It was as if the darkness of despair was swallowing everyone up little by little and getting thicker and thicker.

— Pathetic. — Y/N whispered to herself as her eyes wandered over the contents of the letters, if she tried hard she could taste the bitter taste of despair dripping off those pages.

In reality, you were extremely skeptical about the end of the war. It was hard to believe in a happy fate when the only news that existed was discouraging, as if the world was stuck in an endless season of no real good promises. Your heart was covered with the purest snow of despondency. For you, it was only a matter of time before Sukuna annihilated all the jujutsu sorcerers who were against him, and who knows, maybe he would give you a dose of mercy if he knew about the cursed spirit trapped inside you from when you were little.

— They want strategic help and offer me nothing in return? What kind of woman do they think I am? — You grumbled, throwing the letters on the small table in front of you.

Then you looked out the large diagonal window and stared at the horizon beyond the walls of your house that was now also your personal fortress. White, pure snow, pristine; extremely different from the bloodstained battlefield that Y/N once had to visit to chart the next steps of those who stood against Sukuna. Perhaps if all the memories of the war field turned to ashes and you acted as if those memories had not left a mark on your soul, who knows, you might continue living as if someday one of the four arms of that beast was not going to be around your neck ready to break it.

A thought crossed her mind: what if it were possible to negotiate a trip to lands far away from that war-scarred Japan in exchange for a tactical plan good enough just to contain Sukuna for a few months? Then you wouldn't have to live constantly wondering if that day was your last day living and breathing normally. Your lips opened and from deep in your throat emerged a call loud enough for most of your servants to hear, and those who didn't, would surely follow those with acute hearing in the direction of the room you were in. It didn't take long for about 34 people of different ages and statures to stand in front of you.

— Pack up my things, pack up everything. — You rose from your comfortable cushion and looked at them intently. — Make sure you get my warmest clothes and also all the plans and maps I have drawn up so far. And do me the favor and do it quickly, we have no time to lose. Every second that passes is equivalent to several liters of blood being spilled.

— Should I ask where you are going, Miss?

— I'm going to hold the reins of a broken fate, of course. — You answered simply.

The next three days that followed consisted basically of you passing through several provinces until you reached the strategic camp closest to your fortress. It was hard to watch four of your servants almost die of hypothermia to get you to your final destination, but it was necessary. In a few days, maybe weeks, you and they and all the other 30 who stayed behind would be free of that bloodshed. Ends usually justify the means.

— Here is fine. — You said after getting down from your carriage and placing your feet on the snow-covered ground.

Your scarlet red uchikake stood out from the rest of the purely white landscape, and this was precisely the intention: you wanted to be noticed by those men so that they would know that their victory depended on how willing you were to help them.

— If possible, wait for me inside the carriage. You've been cold enough as it is, when I've finished arranging everything with those disgusting men, I'll come back here and take you to where I'll be staying, understand? — The servants nodded positively in silence. — Good. — Y/N allowed herself a gentle smile for them.

The hours that passed served both for new information about the distinct situations and numbers of the war to be passed on to Y/N and for her to begin to draw up new plans of tactics taking into consideration all the various others she had already made, planned and organized in previous months. At the end of the short "meeting", they ended up placing you in a lodge further away from the others and closer to the escape routes from the provisional camp because you were automatically placed in a delicate and important position since you were now a vital point of more than half of the strategies discussed minutes before.

Moreover, Y/N had made it clear that he was only going to draw up new plans for the next four moons and after that she would be leaving those lands with his servants for any other safer territory. However, the tactics left by her, besides fulfilling the goal of defeating Sukuna (even if momentarily), were all interconnected so that they would work out well and, consequently, mitigate the losses of the "human" side of the war. For you, it was only fair that they let you opt out of that sea of blood after you had worked so hard to keep their asses safe.

— Miss, I have heard that there are speculations that Sukuna is indeed approaching from the west. — One of her servants who was now combing her hair said.

Y/N arched one eyebrow in disbelief. There was no way this could be true, the generals had told her. But if it were, it would require changing about 5 of all the maps she had drawn.

— Heard from whom?

— That's what they talk about in the barracks, Landlady.

— So it's gossip. — You concluded by looking disinterestedly at your servant and internally wondering if you should take into account the possibility of starting to plot other tactics. — I doubt that he chose to attack precisely the route where we have the most jujutsu sorcerers operating.

— I don't understand war strategies, miss, you are the most competent in the subject, but if he ever managed to attack the West, wouldn't it be a great loss? — Her eyebrows furrowed in displeasure.

— Are you implying that they withheld information from me?

— Or maybe they just withheld it temporarily until they had concrete proof that, in fact, Sukuna is coming from the West.

— He could not... defeat so many jujutsu sorcerers at the same time. That is humanly impossible.

— He is not human, miss. Our parameters do not apply to him. — The servant replied as he finished tidying his mistress's hair into a simple updo.

And for the rest of the day, Y/N could think of nothing but that sinister possibility. As night fell, her eyes passed frantically over the entire camp area almost obsessively. It was as if at any moment the bestial figure of Sukuna would emerge from somewhere, and because of this, she couldn't sleep that night. As if the spirits of the jujutsu sorcerers who had been killed earlier were whispering to her to stay awake, because then it would be easier for her to get away or, as a last resort, to have to enjoy using her cursed technique in exchange for a few months of your life. That was the price for each half hour of using the cursed power of the spirit attached to her soul: 30 minutes of power in exchange for 3 months taken from your total life. And that's why you avoided using your cursed technique, it was hard enough to live being a woman in these hostile times and you certainly wouldn't make it past 30, so not using this cruel power was a matter of survival.

As the hours passed, slowly Y/N ended up being the only person awake. She was the only one left standing in her long traditional red uchikake style dress surrounded by white snow and orange and yellow lamps all around her illuminating the deserted path in front of her. She had been so immersed in thought that she had already crossed the camp completely once, from end to end, and now her feet were beginning to ache and get cold, despite the thick socks she was wearing.

And then suddenly the sound of a solitary drop falling to the ground reached Y/N's ears and in the blink of an eye the landscape previously showing only piles of snow and several hastily made lodgings was replaced by a huge Buddhist shrine decorated with skulls, where once there was white snow now there was black water that glistened all around. Your breath caught in your throat and instinctively you turned back to run back towards your lodging in the vague and mistaken idea of that domain expansion not reaching the escape routes. Your mistake of thinking that your lodge would be in the same place as before, in its place there was now a large throne of bones placed on top of several other bones. The King of Curses sat with a cocky smile permeating his lips in the middle of that very throne.

Before you even put your hands together to recite the incantation that would release your cursed technique, Sukuna let out a loud laugh as if he were being challenged by a mere defenseless kitten whose greatest damage might be a few minor scratches. And truth be told: you were scared to death. That beast's torso and shoulders adorned with black markings never looked so mortifying, and his four arms looked ready to snap you in half.

— I expected you to be more intelligent, human, considering that they call you "The best strategist in the Land of the Rising Sun". — A mocking laugh escaped his lips as his four eyes analyzed the helpless figure dressed in head to toe red in front of him. — I could cut you into several pieces in seconds, but instead I decided to leave you alive for now and this is how you thank me? Pathetic. — Sukuna's arrogant voice accompanied him as his massive body rose from its throne and walked towards him.

Instinctively, Y/N resumed her focus on the incantation she had begun seconds earlier, and it wasn't long before she felt something rough wrap itself around her neck. Pulling your own body back, you tried to quickly lift one of your legs in one of the few close-range fighting moves you knew to kick the curse’s arm away, but as a result, Sukuna just shoved you mercilessly against some bones that adorned his throne. Your body slammed against those hard, rough objects and immediately fell to the damp floor of the innate domain.

You had the impression that blood was about to spill from your lips, but it seemed that the blow was only enough to leave purple marks in the area of your ribs. Apparently the bundle of clothes you were wearing cushioned that "fall".

— Dumb whore. — Sukuna commented as he walked towards her and leaned over to put one of his hands on the girl's chin and lift her face in order to make her look him directly in the eyes. — Know your fucking place, woman. — His fingers tightened on her face until she had the impression that he was going to break her jaw. — Try anything stupid like that again and I'll break you in half. Feel grateful that I didn't kill you like I'm going to do to all those pathetic humans in the war camp, feel graced with my mercy. The mercy of your new God. — He flashed a cruel smile and Y/N tried to wriggle out of his grip on her chin. — I have a great proposal for you, human.

Sukuna turned away gradually and sat back down on his throne.

— You should know better than anyone that at the end of this war, I will be the winner. The consecutive defeats of you, human bugs, have made that very evident. — Y/N took advantage of the cursed spirit's sudden withdrawal to slowly stand up, hearing something inside his ribs make a low crack. — But I want a massive defeat. A defeat so bloody that it will make even the bravest jujutsu sorcerer who comes into being subsequent to my victory tremble before me. And who better to save me the trouble of having to organize a series of precise attacks than the best strategist alive today? — Glancing at him, you watched a falsely gentle smile open up on his face.

Knowing that it was impossible to beat him by force, Y/N began to organize her thoughts and came to the conclusion that trying to negotiate was the best way out at the moment.

— I don't draw up plans to kill innocents. — It was the only thing his parched throat could spit out using his tired vocal cords.

— I bet you can if you put just a little effort into it, you pathetic woman. — Sukuna stood up and calmly walked back towards the girl, and then he began to circle her as if he were a predator about to devour his sometimes tastiest prey. — Especially if your life is at stake, no?

You didn't know if he was bluffing or not. It was a game of wits that your tired mind was not willing to enter at the moment.

— If I help you... — Y/N could feel his warm, serene breath close to her neck, as if he was deliberately daring her to finish the sentence. — Would you let me live? — Her head was down, she didn't have the courage to turn to face the King of Curses.

— Would you give me your blind loyalty? Would you give me the last effort of your soul?

— I cannot promise loyalty without knowing that you will not kill me after using me and my war tactics. — Her voice was now little more than a whisper.

— So I offer you a binding vow with me, where I promise not to kill you even after I have already used all your knowledge of war strategy, and in return you promise not to betray me under any circumstances and give me your all. Everything, no exceptions. Your intelligence, your soul, your life purpose, your body. Every single thing.

It was not a fair exchange, but it was necessary for Y/N to trust that the remaining jujutsu sorcerers would be able to defeat Sukuna and at some point in the rest of her life, she would be free of that binding vow.

— I accept. — You said and watched him stand in front of you, instantly feeling helpless against his enormous height.

Again, one of Sukuna's hands was placed on your chin, and he lifted your head.

— Then prove your complete loyalty to me, woman.

— W-What? — Her eyes inevitably widened and a disinterested expression appeared on Sukuna's face, and he turned away and sat back on his cadaverous throne.

After that, he raised his index and middle fingers and suggestively moved them in her direction.

— You are a young woman who certainly understands about proving your loyalty to a man, don't you? Now, come here. Don't make me repeat myself. — Her feet moved toward him and began to climb up among the bones that decorated that throne.

Two of Sukuna's arms began to undress the frail female body in front of him while the other two began to explore that same body greedily and unkindly. He wanted her all to destroy her completely. He wanted to be the only thing permeating your mind until he told you to focus on your job as his strategist. He wanted to commit all kinds of immorality with you until you couldn't take it anymore, and you broke down in tears.

He made use of his four arms to first throw your clothes toward the damp floor of his domain, slowly spread your legs, position you over the warm wet tongue that opened almost in the middle of his abdomen, and give your ass a squeeze that would definitely leave marks behind. Y/N's small hands compared to the King of Curses' massive body rested on his broad shoulders and she couldn't help but let her head fall back trying not to let the moans escape her throat when she felt the tip of that abnormal tongue lick between the lips of her pussy. "Shit, this shouldn't turn me on so much, it shouldn't feel this good...", you thought as you forced your own hips against the tongue that licked your thighs and intimacy to get some more of that intoxicating pleasure.

You literally could not remember when had been the last time you had been touched so intimately by a man because that memory simply did not exist. The most that had been inside you were your fingers, which were far less thick and long than Sukuna's. Because of the lack of experiencing pure, carnal, fluid pleasure, you desperately rubbed your pelvis against his tongue. You were so focused on moving against that part of his body that you didn't even notice one of his arms sneaking up your thighs and nimbly rubbing your clit before began to make circular motions in it. His other arms were busy squeezing her waist, playing with your breasts, or leaving possessive marks around your neck and collarbone.

But then, just when erotically loud moans were escaping from the bottom of your throat without the least bit of shame, and you were feeling your body as hot as if it was about to explode and a knot of pleasure making itself present in the bottom of your abdomen, Sukuna stopped stimulating you. Suddenly. Cruelly. And when you tried to continue moving your hips against his tongue, he simply held your waist tightly to limit your movements and spoke in a harsh tone:

— On your knees, stupid woman. — He stood up slightly to disentangle himself from the long kimono covering his body and after undressing, was amused to see her startled face as she found herself staring at his two cocks. — Don't you dare say it won't fit, I know it will. — One of his hands grabbed Y/N's hair and pulled her face closer to his two members. — Open your mouth, slut. Easy, isn't it?

In reality, it wasn't easy at all when you had Sukuna fucking your face at a rapid pace with saliva dripping down your lips as he alternated between making you pay attention to each of his dicks. However, just as tears began to form in the corner of your eyes, he seemed to increase the force used to thrust his hips against your face, which made you choke several times in a row and turn him on even more.

— What a useful toy you are. Maybe I'll have some use for you in mind after this war is over. — He said, leaning toward you and pulling out of your mouth. — Keep your mouth open. - You obeyed and watched him spit into your mouth. — Don't you dare even think about not swallowing, you dirty whore. — Sukuna pulled your body up so that you were sitting on his lap with your back to him.

While two of his arms held you in place, the other two ventured between your legs and began to reach inside your pussy to use their fingers to widen it and dangerously rub close to your ass.

— N-Not there. — Y/N tried to grab the wrist of his hand that was sneaking up her ass and in retaliation Sukuna sank his teeth into one of her shoulders hard enough to draw just a little blood.

— Don't try to fight me, you are in no position to try to do that. Put yourself in your place, you idiot. — After he finished speaking, Sukuna also ended up invading her even tighter inside than her pussy.

The more he moved, differently from what you initially expected, the painful and uncomfortable sensation became more and more pleasurable, and then you felt embarrassed that you were rolling over and down against his fingers. But, just as before, Sukuna stopped moving inside you and withdrew his fingers, and you couldn't stop the tears from streaming down your cheeks. Literally the only thing on your mind was to reach that peak of pleasure you had never felt before, it was the only thing you needed at that moment. Y/N felt one of the King of Curses' hands grip her chin and tilt her body until her face could see her reflection in the dark water on the floor of his domain:

— Look at you, being destroyed by the same curse that hours ago you were working to destroy. — Her cheeks heated as more tears fell down her cheeks and her pussy contracted in a silent plea for Sukuna to fill it again. — How does it feel to see yourself like this, hmm? Seeing yourself helpless, totally at my mercy? — You knew that if he didn't get an answer, you would probably continue to deny your orgasm so you struggled to answer.

— I feel... dirty... — Her eyes kept staring at her crying face reflected in the water. — And so good. P-Please, I need to cum.

— Then make yourself cum on my cocks, woman. — That was all the permission you needed to lean your back against his broad chest and put a cock in each hole slowly with your head falling back to rest against one of his shoulders and moans coming from your lips from the sudden enlargement.

Y/N began a slow rhythm that made her eyes roll in delight at the repetitive sensation of feeling Sukuna widening her to the point where she could see him slightly deforming her belly, but the curse suddenly arched his hips upward hard in a violent thrust and seeing the girl vocalize a hoarse moan of pleasure louder than the previous ones, he grabbed her waist and began thrusting rapidly against her. The only sounds echoing through the huge space of Sukuna's domain were the grunts of him hallucinating with pleasure having that girl squeezing his cock, her uncontrolled moans, and the erotic sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

Your orgasm didn't take long to come and you couldn't be more internally fulfilled to finally have all those spasms of pleasure making your legs tremble, to have that overwhelming pleasure taking over your whole body. After several denials from Sukuna, you were finally reaching that carnal ecstasy that you didn't know you needed to taste until that curse gave you a taste of it. Even after you had cum, the King of Curses continued thrusting himself into your pussy and ass until he filled them completely with cum and gifted you with the wonderful sensation of feeling completely full.

— What a wonderful toy you are, human. — A wide smile filled with malice and lust opened on his lips. — I will certainly make the most of our biding vow.

#sukuna smut #sukuna #jjk #jjk sukuna #jjk smut #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #tw.monsterfucking #monster fucking #real form sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

( SOMETHING COMFORTING. )

Jeon Jungkook loves Overwatch, drinking games, and Halloween. What he loves more than that? You.

pairing. gamer!jjk x named f!reader.

genre + rating. idol!au set in room filled with bunnies and a cotton candy machine that’s exploded. it’s just that fluffy. (but also explicit cause why not.)

tags / warnings. established relationship, gaming (overwatch), dorky weeb references, mentions of drinking, yugyeom makes an appearance (!!), fingering, soft soft soft love making in the shower.

wc. 9.7k

beta reader(s). the lovely @kerikaaria read through this to make sure i didn’t get too nerdy. tysm! 💛 i may like further changes once my beloved @hobi-gif gets her hands on it but i’m a potato who wanted to post this quickly. oops...

author note. this fulfills the “jeon jungkook” square of @btsholidaybingo‘s bts holiday bingo 2020 and this is the couple from angels & airwaves. while this story isn’t super plot-driven, it’s meant to be a little peek into the lives of a couple that live in my mind rent-free and continue to make me soft and gooey inside. i hope you enjoy it!

You don’t know how he talked you into it or how it really happened. You remember, faintly, the mention of a party. Something about it being a small thing - just a few close friends, the members, etc. He’d said it so offhand, like commenting on the sky or asking for another package of Choco Boys, so you hadn't given it a second thought. If it was important, he’d bring it up again and if not, well, you hardly remembered it anyway. Win-win or whatever.

So you’d given up some intelligence points, traded them for space to fit more gaming knowledge. Somewhere along the line went your memory too - the conversation wiped from your brain like Will Smith had lasered it clean.

“Zarya’s one! Zarya’s one—“ You’re not sure how many times you can repeat yourself, shrieking through comms to a team that doesn’t seem to want to listen. You’re blasted into oblivion, Mercy’s prone body launched across the map as you watch your Rein fall too. There’s an irritation bubbling in your stomach, fizzing uncomfortably like the Japanese honeydew soda you’d had at lunch. “Zarya’s actually one!”

No one cares. She’s healed by the time you respawn and make it back across the map.

“Jesus—“ Your push-to-talk remains off for that flippant comment, distaste colouring your words a bitter shade of blue. You almost want to let your Ashe get headshot by the enemy Widow, only switching the stream from damage boosting to healing when your teammate starts spamming their hotkey.

I need healing! I need healing!

What you need is a team that listens to your calls or at the very least communicates in some way. Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen though. There’s near radio silence in the voice chat, the only other person remotely helpful being your bouncing booping Lucio that’s trying to keep a flanking Tracer off point. Stupid. You almost feel bad for him, Guardian Angeling to him when no one else seems to want to offer any support.

Ah, the life of a support player in masters ranked. So infuriating and yet— nope. Just infuriating.

You lose the first round with 1:56 to spare, to no one’s surprise. Okay, maybe to your Reinhardt’s surprise. He’s being surprisingly chipper in text chat, sending WP and a dorky smiley face. You think he must volunteer at the local animal shelter and buy coffee for the people behind him in the drive-thru. He’s far too well-adjusted, not shooting off a single accusation to anyone on the team. A silver lining, you suppose.

Your second round starts well enough. Your comp is solid - as much as it can be in the current off-tank dominated meta. Hog, Zarya, a private profiled GM Widowmaker, Tracer, Lucio, and you as Ana. You’d prefer to play Mercy - find the most comfort in her skill set - but on an attack map, you’re not risking a headshot right out of spawn. Broken maximum damage good stuff means healers are squishy and you don’t have your usual DPS to boost. (He’s off doing god knows what - maybe filming an ad for Samsung or breaking the internet with his permed man bun.)

You make it through the choke without much ado. The enemy Rein is wildly out of position, eager to make some big brained play that goes terribly wrong. Your Lucio chuckles through voice and you join him, tossing a nade when your Zarya looks like she’s about to die to a poorly executed 360 shatter.

“You winning?”

It’s your boyfriend peeking over your shoulder, so close you nearly scream, mouse launched across your desk with the intensity of your reaction. You hadn’t heard him come in, the stupid sneaky bastard as quiet as a mouse.

(It’s not your own fault. He knows you can’t hear anything when you’ve got your headphones on, the noise cancelling in your state of the art Sennheisers not something to scoff at.)

“Jeez, Kook!” You want to be more mad. Really, you do. You’re scrambling across your desk to retrieve your mouse, squeaking a quick apology into team voice when your hero stays in one place for too long. Luckily, Hog - previously sweet kind Rein - throws his big fat piggy self directly in front of you, effectively saving you from an otherwise miserable death at the hands of Torbjorn.

“What?” Jeon Jungkook has the audacity to look scandalised, shiny eyes so wide and innocent they feel more as if they belong in an early 2000s anime.

You’re not even looking at him when you huff - too invested in your Overwatch game to give him the hell he deserves. All you manage is a swift don’t scare me like that! as you pump your tanks back to full health.

You notice Jungkook hasn’t moved away, still peering curiously over your shoulder. You know he hasn’t had much time to play lately, too involved with appearances for their comeback, his schedule too packed even for you some days. You don’t blame him when he pulls his chair up behind you, rolling into place so he’s just within your periphery.

It’s a little distracting; he smells good, like his - and by extension your - favourite laundry detergent and a fruity, nectarine-heavy shampoo you’d picked up for him when he’d run out of his usual. You notice then that his hair is wet, just the wrong-side of too damp with droplets beading over his neck. Moisture soaks into the top of his shirt and you think it might be more soaked than you can see; it’s hard to tell when it’s a jet black shirt, one of the many he keeps in your closet for the nights he stays over. You realise then that he must’ve been home far longer than you’d thought, if his freshly washed pink cheeks are any indication. (Because he takes seriously long showers, nearly doubling your water bill in the year you’ve been together.)

You want to ask what he’s doing here - you’d sworn he was busy for the next few days - but can’t find the adequate brain power to do so. You’re playing an incredibly high skill character (your words) and if you don’t get this goddamn shot on your Lucio to keep him up, your team is going to die (your ego’s words).

‘Ask Kook about his day’ gets scribbled on a paper on the desk in your head and filed away under To Do Later in your overflowing brainiac filing cabinet.

“Can we pleaaaaase focus their Zarya? She has grav.” Though you offer the tidbit of information, you don’t assume it’s going to be relied upon. Your team is well on their way to taking first point - surprisingly - and there’s still nearly three minutes left on the clock. If the six of you idiots can keep it together and kill that goddamn Zarya, there’s no doubt in your mind you’ll win the game.

Alas, fate is but a cruel mistress and said Zarya gets said grav off, sucking your own Russian tank and Tracer-turned-Soldier into her hell void. Not even your well-timed nade can save them from the Genji that dragon blades directly into their faces. Your poor Lucio dies to the same ult and you imagine you or your Widow are next. Your Hog’s just respawning, his lumbering silhouette not even on screen.

“Rip,” says your boyfriend - like the sound, not the letters - from beside you, a droplet of water splashing across your wrist when he shakes his head. He looks disappointed - as if he’s the one that’s lost the match. It makes you laugh, the sound tripping off your tongue despite the overwhelming rage you’re currently battling.

“Rip is right,” you mumble back, tossing yourself off the map. If you’re gonna die, it'll be on your own terms. Jungkook chuckles at that.

By the time you respawn, both you and Widow are joining a fight that looks like it’s going surprisingly well. There’s no one on point and you’re capping uncontested. Widow even headshots a wayward Moira.

“You should go top left.”

You don’t turn your head. Jungkook’s always been a bit of a backseat gamer, whether he’s watching your stream while he’s out of town or sitting right beside you. Sometimes, you love it; other times, you hate it. Most times, though, he’s right. He has surprisingly good game sense, despite being lower ranked than you (something you remind him of constantly, without shame).

“Can we go top left?” You parrot into your speaker.

For once, your team listens, most of them running up the sidewall with Widow right down main. Not for the first time you wish you were playing Mercy, if only to be able to damage boost your sniper while she distracts the enemy team. Still, you make due, taking your boyfriend’s next piece of advice when it comes, unsolicited. “You should be back right by the stairs. You can see up the hall and still heal Widow on top.”

You’d kiss him if you weren’t so intently focused, unable to tear your gaze from the screen when the enemy team seems to pluck their strategy directly from Jungkook’s skull and hold conservatively on point. Amazing.

“Your Zarya has grav. She’ll probably throw it on point so you should nade as soon as you get in and Widow can pick them off without full charge.”

If he were anyone else, you’d probably be giving him hell for mansplaining your favourite game to you. As it stands, you follow his instructions to the letter and the Team Kill marker flashes across your screen.

“Told you,” he quips, ever the snooty dork you adore.

“I was going to say thank you.” Just not right now. You can’t multitask quite like he can.

If you could look over, you think you’d see him grinning from ear to ear, buck teeth and dimples on full display. “I know.”

As it stands, the other team has trouble getting on point fast enough and you’re left with a whopping 3:56 left on the clock. Thank freaking god. You can win this, you think. Easy. No problem.

“Go Ana on defense.” At some point, Jungkook had gotten up to find a snack and he returns now, bag of shrimp chips in his hand and packet of matcha Pocky held between his teeth. You open your mouth for a stinky tasty treat and he shoves four crisps in, unceremoniously and with his signature dummy grin.

You manage to crunch crunch crunch through it all but shoot him a glare the entire time. He only smiles wider, all perfectly white enamel and enough cuteness to make your heart skip a beat.

“Do you just want to play?” You don’t mean it seriously. You don’t mind him watching and you know he enjoys pretending like he’s better than you. It’s a strange give and take but one that’s uniquely yours, built over nearly a year of online friendship and another year of a real-life relationship.

“Nah, I’m snacking.” He punctuates his response as a child would, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. You wonder, briefly, why you love him so much when he’s a certifiable goon.

The third match begins and you’re not too proud to say you spend most of it following Jungkook’s directions. He tells you to sleep the enemy Genji trying to scale the right wall - you do. He tells you to nade once their Rein gets in because your own Rein is going to shatter - you do. He tells you to do the macarena and— okay, that, you don’t.

You sweep the match, leaving the other team without a single tick.

When it comes to the final round, he seems to have lost interest in the game, instead rolling himself back to his computer with a parting, wayward ruffle of your hair. You don’t blame him but you thank him nonetheless, blowing a kiss before he settles his headphones over his ears.

You, of course and unsurprisingly, win the game. There’s nothing like using a Sym portal onto point when they’ve got a Bastion set up off point and no shield to protect him from the back.

Satisfied, you don’t bother requeueing and instead force yourself into your boyfriend’s personal space, draping your arms across the idol’s neck as he scrolls through YouTube like a zombie. “We won,” you sing-song into his ear, proud and a little smug.

“Of course you did.” He sounds equally smug and you suppose the win does belong to the both of you. He’d been a great coach.

“What’re you doing here?” It’s pure curiosity offered in the form of a kiss to his cheek, fingers locked across the broad expanse of his chest. He’s delightfully warm beneath you, familiar and unyielding as you sink over the back of his computer chair. (You can feel the chair creaking as it reclines. You don’t care.)

“Whaddya mean?”

The look he levels you with makes you think you’ve grown a second head.

“Your schedule said you had a thing tonight.” You remember, because you’d been disappointed. Halloween was one of your favourite holidays and all you’d wanted was to watch some campy horror movies and use him as a personal eye shield and security blanket combo.

“We have a thing,” he states, like he’s talking to a moron. You know it isn’t meant meanly, too emphatic and amused to hurt your feelings.

When you echo his words (“We?”) you swear you see him roll his eyes in the reflection of his computer screen. Luckily, he laughs, sweet and cracky, somewhere high in his throat - a barking hyena. It’s so cute - your favourite thing in the world - that you don’t have it in you to shame him for it.

“Yeah, we,” Jungkook repeats around something close to a snicker. “Halloween party, baby. Seriously— you forgot?”

It’s then and there you have two crises: (a) you don’t have a costume and (b) Halloween party? You didn’t think idols had those. Weren’t they all too hip and cool to get together to dress up and act stupid?

(You know the answer is no. Exhibit A being the costume-wearing dance practices BTS put out.)

“I don’t have anything to wear.” It’s truly the one thing holding you back, creasing the soft skin between your brows to resemble a peach. It’s also nearing seven in the evening and you’re absolutely certain you’re not going to find something so late in the day.

To your surprise. Jungkook looks flabbergasted, that same you-have-two-heads stare wrought across his face. It’d be endearing if it were directed at anyone else but with it trained on you, it’s rubbing you and your confusion the wrong way. Why’s he looking at you like that? Why’s your memory so bad? Why hasn’t he said anything to answer all of life’s questions?

“You said you’d go as witch Mercy.”

All at once, you’re pulled back to the offhand conversation, the pleading in his eyes, your half-asleep acceptance. It’s the memory you’d lost somewhere along the way in upgrading your in-brain video game storage. A conversation had in bed, his cheeks so big and full of joy they’d waned his eyes into crescents, and your uncoordinated answer because you’d just wanted to go to sleep and not think about anything after indulging in a few too many mochi cream buns.

“I— don’t remember that.” You’re lying through your damn teeth. Your parents would be devastated, all their hard earned money wasted on the braces-straightened enamel that was now letting lies pass.

“But you did!” He’s like a kid being denied candy, rounded bottom lip dropping into a pout that should, frankly, be illegal. It’s far too powerful on him, paired with those Bambi eyes that scream don’t eat (hate/deny/etc.) me! You can only scowl at him, because you know your own puppy dog eyes only work 100% of the time half of the time whereas his track record was immaculate.

“Okay, but I forgot to get the—“

“I have it!”

Jeon Jungkook has an answer for everything, it seems.

“I picked it up on the way here. It’s in your room along with my costume.”

The knowledge of his own intrigues you, squarely centring your curiosity on that and not the fact that you apparently need to get tested for early onset dementia. “Who’re you going as?”

“You’ll see.”

Your costume is spectacular. You can’t even find it in yourself to put up much of a fight when your boyfriend reveals it like you’ve won the lottery, throwing his arms wide in a flourish.

It’s incredibly well made, intricately tailored in a way that makes you worry how much it costs. (When you bring it up to him, Jungkook simply shrugs. You think it’s as much a gift for you as it is for him.) It’s witchy and eye-catching, the belt hung across your hips clipped with an actual book - hollowed out, thank god but also poor thing. The hat that sits on your head is neatly crumpled, sitting at such an angle you worry whether you’ll need to avoid too-low door frames. Your wings - well, you’re almost too afraid to touch them; Jungkook has to help you pull them over your arms, falling into near hysterics when you twitch your elbow the wrong way and smack him right between the eyes.

“I don’t think I can pull this off,” you state, somberly, despite the fact that you’re not terribly self-conscious. (You were, once. Being in a relationship with someone that worships your body has helped with that.)

The top of your outfit is fitted, boned and ribbed and snapped together in all the right places. Leather stands in stark contrast to your skin - summer-soft and gently golden - and hugs curves that don’t quite exist, falling short in a way that has you glaring down at your own chest. You’ve never wanted a Playboy body but in this sort of costume, it practically demands it. (You try not to dwell on the fact that you’ve been conditioned to want to look like an impractically designed video game hero.)

From the foot of your bed comes a snort, a derisive sound that draws your attention. Jungkook’s unabashed in how he admires you, stare roving over every inch like he’s about to devour you. You’re not sure how you can feel so soft for him when he looks completely the opposite, jaw set and expression sharp. A Greek god carved from hardened honey, dressed in Balenciaga blue. “You look great, angel.”

Your heart skips a beat - plays a funny little game of tag with itself - and you can’t help the smile that comes, brought to life by his reassurance. It isn’t necessary to rebuff him then - eyes rolling, laugh spilling - but you do it anyway. “You have to say that. You’re my boyfriend.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he retorts, levelling you with a look that has your insides molten. It’s the look that reads don’t test me but also I love you and you’re my idiot. It’s your favourite look in the world, lending wings to your flimsy heart. “You look great because you always look great, no matter what.”

“What about when you found me in the shower ?”

Jungkook hesitates then. He’s no liar and he had almost had a heart attack the first time it’d happened. He’d been minding his business, half-asleep and battling the need to piss, when he’d noticed you curled up in the bathroom. How he hadn’t realised you were missing from bed, he’s not sure. All he knew was that you’d terrified him, mentioning something about invading refrigerators when he was pulling his dick out of his boxers.

His scream was what had woken you up; yours was what had him bashing his head into the wall, foot slipping on the soft pink bathroom rug. You could laugh about it now but at the time, you’d thought he’d cracked his skull right open, shouting his name so loudly the neighbours had complained.

(Lucky for you two, they were a nice elderly couple who sometimes had you babysit their grandson. They’d laughed it off when you’d apologised with a loaf of fresh bread and a bandage wrapped around your boyfriend’s head.)

“Okay— that was scary. I thought you’d crawled out of the drain or something.” A shudder rolls through Jungkook’s body, shaking him from his shoulders all the way down to his knees. It’s a strangely adorable reaction from someone who looks like he could bench press you.

“You’re calling me the Grudge?” You’re deeply offended, gloved hands clasping over your chest as if to pull out the treacherous dagger he’s just lodged there. He only rolls his eyes, leaning forward to catch you in his arms; he’s relentless as he drags you to him, side of his face pressed to the bare skin of your thigh. His cheek’s searing but you’re not surprised; Jungkook ran hot, keeping you warm in winter and sweltering in summer. (Ah, the price you paid for love.)

“Yeah, you haunt me in my dreams.”

“That’s not the Grudge, Kook.” Your scoff earns you a pinch, right where the top of your stockings end. It blooms red beneath his fingers, a little reminder of his competitive I’m-never-wrong nature. You swat his hand away, not too bothered when it only finds a home elsewhere, hooked behind your knee. Jungkook had a habit of needing to be in constant contact. A little quirk of his you adored.

“I’m serious. You look—” You should clock the look on his face, the wiggle of mischief up his nose. A dead giveaway shining bright - a beacon. “—bewitching.”

If the book weren’t attached to your hip, you’d be clobbering him with it. Instead, you’re left to whack him with the equally intricate Caduceus staff, booping it over his shoulders. You feel like a certain shamanic mandrill, Jungkook the idiotic lion that’s asking for an earful.

“Shut up!” You’re laughing despite yourself and he is too, holding you so recklessly close it’s hard to hit him without hurting yourself. All part of his plan, you suppose. “You’re so freaking corny.”

“It’s because I’m a-maize-ing, ang—”

Another wap! to the head, shielded only by a tattooed hand that curls over his ear.

“Okay! Sorry!” Except he doesn’t look very sorry. More pleased that you’ve stopped the assault, dark hair pushed back from his forehead as he stares up at you. You hate how he’s so handsome - how you forget yourself when he smiles that smile, nearly yeeting your whole heart directly into the sun.

“Are you going to put on yours yet?”

It’s quarter past nine already and all you’ve done is rope him into eating some chapaguri - you’ve been obsessed with it since a few weeks ago - and play real life Witch Barbie. You have a feeling if you don’t get him into his own costume soon, you’re never going to leave the apartment. (Not that you really mind.)

Your boyfriend - bless his heart - pretends not to hear you, suddenly intently focused on an indiscernible spot past your hip. It’d be more believable if he was glued to his phone or doing anything remotely interesting. Instead, you stare down at him and count the seconds until he realises just how silly he looks. It usually comes around six, paired with a forced chuckle and that lisp you love.

Today, it comes after the fourth count.

“You’re gonna think it’s lame.” Well, of course you will. As his girlfriend - and one of his best friends, you’d like to think - it’s your relationship-given right to shame him for his more often than not absurd ideas. It’s what you deserve for suffering through all his bad jokes and 3 AM Instagram spams.

With a hand on his cheek, you squeeze the apple like you’ve seen a certain member do a million times. “So?”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that, mouth drawn into a pout that reminds you of children’s television show about penguins. It’s unfairly adorable. Still, you push. Jungkook’s bad at saying no to you - always has been, even before he really knew you. From “one more game!” to “bring me bingsu”, you always got what you wanted.

(Which wasn’t to say you asked for a lot. You were happy - more than that, ecstatic and over the moon - with the bare minimum. A selfie while on the plane, some shoddy cinematography during dance practice, a voicemail to wake up to. You didn’t love Jungkook for all the things he gave you; rather, you loved him for who he was, who he’d always been even before you knew who he really was.)

“Don’t laugh.” By the look on his face, you’re worried it’s something awful. The cheesiest thing in the world come to life to haunt you on your beloved spooky holiday.

It turns out to be the opposite: one of your favourite characters realised in the form of your achingly handsome boyfriend. He looks so good you’re not certain whether it’s your attraction to him or him in that particular guise that’s stronger. You figure it doesn’t matter one way or another. For tonight, they’re one and the same.

“Joker? Seriously?” You can’t hide the delight. It colours every syllable, sets them glowing like a neon sign.

Your boyfriend only rolls his eyes, as if he’d predicted this reaction. Dressed as he is, the movement is impossible to miss, brought into focus by the white domino mask. “Don’t sound so excited.” It’s an actual concern of his. He’s seen you sink upwards of ninety hours on the video game, playing it in the early hours when he’s fast asleep and you’re battling another night of insomnia.

Once, he’d asked whether you loved him or Joker more. He hadn’t liked the answer (joking as it was) and had spent the better part of the evening pouting.

This time, you’re sweet as pie, eyes so dark and twinkly he wonders whether he’s staring at the night sky. You wonder the same yourself almost every night, lost in the constellations of his irises. It’s the most intimate form of stargazing you can afford, a luxury you indulge in frequently. You’ve mapped the different formations, named them in honour of all the special moments you’ve shared; you think to label one for this night too.

“You look so good.” You don’t hesitate to brush his hair from his eyes. It’s still relaxing from the perm he’d gotten days ago, curling like classic calligraphy over his eyes. It’s surprisingly soft between your fingers, silk despite the constant heat styling. Bastard. “I can’t believe you’re going as Joker. You don’t even like Persona 5!”

By how Jungkook looks at you then - the same way he did the first time you met standing on the street corner in Dotonbori and a hundred more times since then - you realise it doesn’t matter. He’s dressed this way because you like the character.

“Oh,” you say, because there’s not much more to say. Nothing that needs to be said as he grins down at you, so heartbreakingly handsome you’ll never get used to it.

“Yeah,” he parrots back, a little smug.

Bangtan’s golden maknae is having the time of his life. He’s four cups deep into a game of beer pong that’s played like the Wimbledon classic, back hunched, jaw set. You’d think he was battling it out for the title of God of Beer Pong if you didn’t know better. (You suppose he is.)

“Angel, come here!” He’s giddy - slightly glazed in the eyes - as he waves you over, a red-gloved hand beckoning you to his side. Despite how good he looks in the costume - every weakness of yours encapsulated by the intricate dress shirt that hugs him like a second skin - the gesture is decidedly adorable, an eager puppy seeking unconditional love. There’s simply too much affection in his voice, so much sugar-spun love that you can’t deny him (even as you consider jumping his bones at a party full of people).

He’s shining as bright as the sun and you want nothing more than to live within his warmth.

With your fingers twined, he pulls you to him, drawing you tight against his side like he doesn’t need that same hand to throw another ball. You don’t mind. You know he’ll sink it even with his left hand.

“I’m winning,” he states, as if it weren’t wildly obvious by the fact all cups remain untouched on his side.

Across the table, Yugyeom’s eyes roll so far back you want to laugh. Jungkook’s competitive side is endearing at best and infuriating at worst. Luckily, his competition is enjoying himself too much to give him shit.

(He’s also probably too drunk to, given how badly he’s doing.)

“I see that.” You’re not a big drinker yourself but you like seeing Jungkook in his element. He thrives in this sort of setting, showing off all the talents he has and then some. It’s just another stage to him, somewhere he can prove himself (even if it’s over something as small as how good his bounce-shot is). “How many games have you won?” Because he’s been at this table for the last hour, dropping his competition like flies.

“All of them.” God, his ego. You know you shouldn’t stroke it but you can’t help it, brushing a hand through his tousled hair in the way he likes best. Fingers over his scalp, thumb rubbing soothing circles across the nape of his neck. He nearly melts then, tilting his head into the gentle caress.

“Good job, Kook.”

You’re so lost in your own little world that poor Yugyeom has to pull you both from it, launching a poorly-aimed white ping pong ball at the two of you. To no one’s surprise, it careens past your heads, hitting the wall behind you and disappearing off to god knows where.

“Can we play?” Again, that eye roll, visible just past the bandages that loosely wrap his cheeks. You know he’s only teasing, that he’s actually quite a fan of your and Jungkook’s dumb coupling (he’s told you), but you return his mockery with a raised hand, thumb and forefinger waving in salute.

“Losers don’t get to complain.”

The idol throws a hand to his chest, the gesture bordering on sloppy from the liquor that threads his limbs. Still, it’s cute, earning a sweet laugh from you and a witch’s cackle from your boyfriend. (How fitting.) “I’m hurt, Yoojin-ssi.”

It’s Jungkook’s turn to tease, brattiness flipped on like a haywire lightswitch. “No, you’re just bad at games!” He’s a sniggering schoolgirl, lines wrapping the delicate skin of his nose, streaking joy into the wrinkles beneath his eyes. Slightly-too-big front teeth are on full display, his expression the embodiment of an “uwu” emote.

That riles Yugyeom up, powder puff of hair bounding over to you before you have time to blink. In the next moment, your boyfriend’s half-wrestling with him, their arms locked around each other like some sort of weird four-limbed octopus. (Video game protagonist vs. hot mummy— who will win?) You jump back just in time, avoiding a wayward fist and laughing merrily. Idiots, the both of them.

“You guys have fun.” And then you’re gone, off to busy yourself with people who won’t accidentally give you a black eye or knock over the nearest thing not bolted to the ground.

You can still hear them tussling when you latch yourself to the back of a certain blond. He’s dressed like one of your greatest nightmares - an actual clown, drawing inspiration from a certain 2017 blockbuster - and yet somehow still manages to look good. You don’t understand it and frankly, you’re a little envious, but such was life.

“Jimin-ssiiiii.”

“Ahhhhhh, stop!” It’s the same reaction he always has, paired with wiggling shoulders and sweet laughter that bounces around the room and stirs to life your own. Indisputable and lovely, the sound is brighter than the sun or the lights that currently swing through the chandelier lights above your heads. “You two are ridiculous.”

“He’s ridiculous, not me!” You know it isn’t true. Separately, you and Jungkook were idiotic enough, finding humour in the silliest things (funny threads on r/Relationship_Advice and four year old Vines). But together? It was a two-person circus, graduate professors at clown college.

You absolutely loved it.

“Sure, sure,” the dancer hums, delightfully disbelieving as he takes another shot. One of three lined up across the counter, clear in little orange cups made to look like pumpkins. A whiff tells you they’re strawberry soju - your least favourite flavour. You decline with a wrinkled nose and waving hand when he offers you one. Jimin shrugs and downs the next, delicately wiping the corner of his mouth when he misjudges the pour. “Aren’t you drinking?”

You wiggle the half-empty Cass bottle in your hand in response and receive a scoff, different bottle - green, unopened - thrust into your other.

“Drink this!”

“You want me to drink an entire bottle?” You’re incredulous. Jimin’s seen you on the edge of intoxication and more than a little sloppy, giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s not unbecoming - you know better than to get blackout - but laughable nonetheless. Something to record and post on Snapchat with a voice-altering filter.

“It’s Halloween!” The pumpkin shot glass makes you go cross-eyed before he’s knocking it back too. “Live a little!”

Who are you to say no to the recent birthday boy? It would simply be bad manners and you were nothing if polite (though, you’re sure some might beg to differ - Yoongi, maybe?).

The remnants of your beer are swallowed down in the next moment, so quickly you almost choke on it. Your life flashes before your eyes, Jimin’s hand on your shoulder as he beats breath into your body. “Don’t die!” He cries, despite the fact that it’s his fist that’s making it worse, doubling you over with hacking coughs.

“K-Kook’s g-going to kill you—”

“No, you’re fine.” He’s reassuring you just as much as himself, laughing too loudly as you straighten up. You wonder how red your face is when he takes your place, slapping his own knee as he shakes with amusement. “Your face, oh— Your face.”

It’s not meant to be offensive but your buzzed brain demands payment for each giggle.

The base of the green bottle collides with the back of his knee - gentle, gentle - just hard enough to have him properly toppling over, collapsing onto the carpet like a frail old grandpa without his cane. You can’t help the snicker that careens off your liquor-laden tongue.

That is, until he’s pulling you down with him and the two of you are a giggling, giddy mess, tucked beneath the edge of the bar as you laugh together. It’s a chorus of sound, unrelenting and building the longer you both sit on the floor. Jimin’s practically hunched over, head caught between his propped up arms. You imagine it’s a funny sight - two people in their twenties acting like college freshmen.

“Baby?” It’s your boyfriend, amused and confused as he stares down at your and Jimin’s prone bodies. He’s got that dent between his brows, the colour of his eyes all but swallowed up by the way his cheeks press wide with his smile. “What’re you doing down there?”

“Just hanging out,” you answer, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. At your side, Jimin’s still trying to collect himself, parroting your words around his lungfuls of quieting laughter.

“Are you drunk?”

You’re not, but that doesn’t stop you from gasping, overdramatic and with your unopened bottle of soju held aloft. A modern day olive branch. “No?”

Jungkook snorts and then all at once, he’s close. Too close - smelling of beer and your favourite cologne of his, citrusy and woodsy and every other nice thing you like. It fills your senses just as his smile does, blindingly bright and bunny-like. Even behind the mask, his good looks take your breath away. You must be staring up at him idiotically, all one hundred and sixteen pounds of ooey gooey tenderness. “You sound drunk, angel,” he teases, warm red-covered palm coming to cradle your cheek. It sears heat everywhere it touches, guiding the same hue over your skin. It creeps up your chest and over your ears, standing in contrast to the material of his gloves. “Pretty.”

(He really is, you think.)

“Get a room,” comes Jimin from beside you. There’s no malice in his voice - just soft affection for a couple of lovesick idiots.

“That’s the plan,” Jungkook replies, as if he’d been waiting for the moment. It skips off his tongue and settles into your ears, tipping your head curiously as you stare at him. He’s never been very shy about wanting you - at least, not since you’d made things official, so many months ago - but you’re surprised by the insinuation. When he speaks again, you realise your brain has been rolling around in the gutter, fallen out of your ears like candy from a worn pillow case. “Want to head home?”

You do. You really, really do.

When you stumble into your apartment - the same one with the polka-dot welcome rug and crisp white paint - you realise you were perhaps wrong about how drunk you are. Everything’s coming at you quite quickly, the ground beneath your feet somehow suddenly rushing at you like Mach Five.

“Whoa—” There’s an impossibly solid warmth against your back, fingers locked around your wrists that feel more like flimsy chicken feet. “Careful.”

Your boyfriend’s keeping you upright while stepping out of his boots - impossibly expensive supple dark leather - and you’re giggling all the while, practically sinking against him as he does his best to shuffle his shoes away and get you further into the hallway. “Sorry,” you offer in a terrible stage whisper, smiling wide when you catch sight of his, small and endlessly amused. It slips across his face even as he tries to bite it back, warring with the patience he holds in spades.

“Let’s just get these off.” He means the boots - the intricate, vaguely absurd things that creep up almost the entirety of your leg, neatly wrapped and knotted midway up your thigh. Dexterous as he is, it’s a task to unravel the strings and thread buttons when you’re weighing on him like a bag of bricks.

You’re fumbling for the tops, haphazardly smacking his hands away. “Here, let me.”

Somehow, you manage to get them off in what feels like record time. (In reality, it takes a good five minutes of futility before they’re left on the ground and Jungkook’s swept you into his arms, seemingly over waiting for you to do much else.)

“Oh, my prince charming,” you tease, clinging to him like a koala. You’re locked around him, practically suffocating him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s used to it when you’re this way, just a little too much liquid courage turning your level of affection to eleven. “Or are you the court jester? That’s what Joker is, right?” It’s a joke and a bad one at that. Still, your boyfriend indulges you, depositing a forced laugh against your shoulder as he navigates to your bedroom.

“You’re drunk.” He says it more kindly than you expect. Perhaps even more kindly than you deserve. You know he’s not exactly sober himself, his gaze verging on heavy-lidded. There’s sleepiness blending seamlessly with intoxication, softening the edge of his jaw, the narrow of his stare. It’s terribly tender, skipping your heart when you look at him dead on.

It comes without thought. You have to tell him. Your drunk brain and your puppy dog heart demand it. “I love you.”

Jungkook returns the confession with humour, eyes sparkling despite the haze of alcohol that dims them down. As always, he indulges you, giving you support in the form of his heart and his hands. (Literally, he’s still holding you even though you’ve reached your destination.) “Love you too.”

“Is it time for bed?” You’re surprisingly tired, despite the fact that you’d slept until late in the afternoon. You certainly wouldn’t mind falling face first into your mattress.

“You need a shower first.” It’s a simple statement of fact, you know that. You’ve got at least ten pounds of makeup on and your hair’s the furthest thing from soft and silky, carefully coiffed to mimic Mercy’s signature style. You still pretend like you’re just a bit offended, scowling into the face of your boyfriend even as he rolls his eyes, already somehow able to read the words written into your expression. “I meant we and no, I’m not calling you stinky.”

He’s stolen your thunder, as he so often does. You pout, as you so often do.

“Okay,” you relent, finally, moving to rest your head against his shoulder. You could get down - walk on your own two tired feet - but you’re enjoying the closeness, how warm and real he feels in comparison to the swimming surroundings. “Will you wash my hair?” You don’t really need to ask but do anyway, because you like the sound of his voice when it’s so close.

“You know I will.” Because he always does when you shower together (and it falls on a designated hair washing day - that was important).

You offer your thanks with a kiss, laid right over the jumping pulse in his neck. When Jungkook hums in acknowledgment, you feel the way the muscles constrict, his Adam’s apple jumping beneath your lips. You zero in on it with laser precision, mouthing over his throat. Somewhere above you - against the shell of your ear - he exhales a laugh, breath hot.

“We’re showering, baby.” As if that’s meant to stop you. He, more than anyone, should know how adamant you get, singularly focused on whatever’s got your attention. He’s been on the receiving end of it more than enough times, strung into playing another one, two, ten matches of Overwatch or hunting down the limited edition Funko Pops that now sit proudly on your white shelf (and behind your plants and on the ledge by the front door).

“We can shower and have fun,” you mumble into the expanse of his chest. He’s so pleasantly warm, unyielding and firm and so, so comfortable. You think you could live in the feeling of his arms. (You’re lucky you get to.) You don’t even mind the sudden cold of the counter or the space that forms between you when he sets you down, because he’s still caging you in where it matters most. “Right, JK?”

It’s a nickname you rarely use now - one that only comes out in times of desperation. You’ve never quite understood why it affects your boyfriend the way it does, stuttering the rhythmic beating of his heart, but you love it nonetheless. It makes you grin, high on power and giddy with nothing but sweetness.

He’d explained it to you once. Jay was how you’d met him, the version of himself you’d loved first. Jungkook was the side of himself he’d wanted to give you but couldn’t. JK was the in-between - the chaos and the calm. Hearing you say it brought back all the memories of year one and he liked that. You could only laugh at his sentimentality and tuck the piece of knowledge somewhere deep, to be pulled out in instances like this.

“Right, angel.” You don’t miss the colour on his cheeks - so pretty you reach your hands out to cup them, squishing them between your palms like an old grandmother testing a watermelon. You continue to hold him until he pulls your hands from his face, guiding them to the edge of the counter with gentle pressure. “Gotta get undressed to shower,” he chides, that twinkle in his eye that makes it hard to look away.

Really, how can he expect you to do anything when he’s got an entire unexplored galaxy hidden in his irises? It’s an absurd ask.

“Or I’ll help you.”

Your clothes fall away while you’re still staring up at him.

First, the gloves, peeled from your fingers with utmost care. Kisses fill the spaces between each finger, passed from knuckles to wrist, all the way up to your elbow. You squirm when his teeth graze the sensitive underside of your bicep. He stifles a snicker into the skin.

Next goes your cape and wings, hung on the door handle. His mouth warms the suddenly bare skin, pressing affection into the line of your shoulder, up over your neck. You don’t squirm this time, instead humming a noise of delight. You hardly notice when the corset goes next, undone by surprisingly nimble inked digits. There’s hardly a moment to savour the freedom - you can finally breathe - when his hands replace the cups, palms eager over your chest. He doesn’t hesitate to hold you, pinching your perked nipples with a sly grin.

“I thought we were going to shower.” The words are barely out before turning breathless, stolen by the way he easily palms your breast, dropping his face into the crook of your neck.

“We are, angel,” Jungkook teases, rolling your bud between his thumb and forefinger, other hand moved to splay across the now-bare small of your back. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you fall into him, drawn against him like a moth to a flame. “Just need to get you warmed up first.”

“The shower’ll be warm,” you say - or think you say, anyway. It isn’t quite articulated, half your brain left somewhere at the party (or maybe caught dead centre in the coil that’s tightening in your stomach).

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s so quiet you almost miss it, too distracted by how he slips the rest of your costume off. Shorts, thong, stockings, silly witch’s hat. “Tell me if you want me to stop, baby.” Ever the gentleman, he’s patient, meeting your glazed stare with something close to concern. You almost laugh in his face then - stopping short only when you note just how serious he is, the tell-tale set of his jaw shining like a familiar beacon.

You return your hands to his face, palms cradling his chin like he might break otherwise. “I never want you to stop.”

That’s all Jungkook needs before he’s slotting himself between your legs, mirroring your motion with hands creeping up the side of your neck, fingers ascending into the roots of your hair. He holds you close and kisses you like it’s all he’s ever wanted. “I love you,” he breathes, speaks against the corner of your mouth.

You parrot the words back at him and he grins, stepping away in the next moment. He laughs when you pout, offering a kiss in apology as he undoes the buttons of his dress shirt, slipping the soft cotton off. You stop then, entranced by the revealed skin, how it shifts with each adjustment of muscle, sinew tight over his arms and shoulders. You wonder, not for the first time, how you’d managed to luck out so spectacularly.

“Start the shower.”

You hop down with the direction, slipping past him to do exactly that. You don’t miss the way he rotates, brings himself closer as you move away. The magnetism is undeniable - always has been.

“I love you,” he states, again, bare against your back as you hover by the edge of the glass door, one hand stuck past to test the slow-warming stream. He’s solid, familiar and comfortable, as he slinks his arms back around you, heat burning the shape of his hands over your ribs, the shape of your hip. You think he might mark himself there, just as neatly as the floral ink does. You wouldn’t mind.

The water is welcome, bathing the both of you in steam when you step inside. It’s an incredibly relaxing feeling, being caught between the spray and the hard body behind you. You hum a noise of pure delight, turning your face toward the one that nuzzles itself into your neck, and bring your hands to rest over his, fingers slotting between ink.

“Hair?” You’re not in a terrible rush but you like redirecting his attention (pretending to, at least) - the teasing that formed the base of your relationship presenting itself in the quiet reminder. It earns the laugh you expect, muffled into your hair, featherlight over the delicate shell of your jewelled ear.

“Patience, baby.” It’s something Jungkook tends to say a lot, whether waiting in queue in Overwatch or in bed, with you a complete mess. He repeats it easily, like he’s the poster boy for the virtue. (He isn’t.)

“What am I waiting—” The question dies, swallowed whole by the gasp he draws from you with a wandering hand. Fingers slip across your stomach, digits deftly seeking out warmth as if you weren’t already enveloped in it. It’s a touch that’s tantalisingly slow, unfairly light, but it still makes you keen when it drags over your lips. A single digit pushes past muscle - so shallow you’re not sure you’re not just imagining it - before retreating, dragging your slick back up to your clit. The moment the pad of his finger makes contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves, you almost jump. Would, if he weren’t caging you with his other arm.

You feel the cold of his teeth bared against your neck then, the throaty laugh that pulls out of his chest and deposits itself into your hair. “Patience,” he repeats, swirling his fingers over your clit, his mouth moving in tandem with the twist of his wrist. He peppers love and affection in the form of kisses, presses devotion with the edge of his teeth, soothes all your nerves with a sweep of his tongue.

“Kook,” you sigh, already well on your way to being a boneless mess. There’s tingling in your toes, fizzing in your stomach, butterflies in your chest. A whirlwind of emotion and sensation that he stirs to life effortlessly.

“Relax for me.” You do so because it’s easy, because he’s so devastatingly good to you.

The figure eights skating over your clit cease, fingers dropping further down to nestle against your cunt. He pauses there, almost experimentally flexing against the muscle that aches and clenches around nothing, eager for more. You think he’s smirking by the way his lips form with his kisses, a little lopsided and devilish. (You wish you could see him.)

A single digit enters you then, to the third knuckle as if your body was made for this, for him. (It was.) He coos against your neck when a garbled mess skips off your tongue and nearly laughs when another slips in alongside it, turning the mess into nonsense. Despite how badly you want it - need it, really - it’s a sensation that’s too much and not enough all at once, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

It was how Jungkook loved you - recklessly, shamelessly, in no half measures. With more love than you could ever hope for, giving you things you didn’t even know how to ask for.

“Relax, angel,” comes as he begins scissoring both fingers inside you, stretching you out with an otherworldly amount of care. Even your neglected clit is given some sort of relief - anything to ease the sting of two long fingers - his thumb gliding over it with each stretch of your walls. He knows exactly where to touch you, how much pressure to apply, and you’re melting, lost in the feeling.

When he’s had enough and he curls his fingers within you, seeking out that particular spot, you’re trembling, caught off guard. Heat builds quickly with the precision of which he taps against that spot; it starts low in your back, climbing each vertebrae of your spine until you’re quivering in his arms.

“K-Kook.” It’s both a plea and a demand, nonsensical as he guides you through your orgasm, keeping you upright against him when your knees feel like they might give out.

“I’ve got you.” And he does - hook, line, and sinker. He holds you steady as the pleasure crashes over your head, keeps you anchored to the here and now and the pleasure that rolls through you like a relentless wave. It sinks beneath your skin, settles heavy into every atom, and he never lets you go. He’s got you.

When sensation returns - slowly, so slowly it feels like you’re stuck in the Twilight Zone - you only want to turn. See him, hold him, whisper sweet nothings as you kiss him silly and thank him for his service. Instead, you’re held in place, two hands firm upon your hips even as you crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. You should recognise the look on his face. “Kook?”

“My turn.” It’s a statement more than anything, a kind heads-up as he nudges you forward. There’s that same twinkle in his eye, the only source of light around the pupil that’s blown out, otherwise engulfing the constellations he so normally offers you. It’s a black hole and one you’d gladly get lost in. “Hands on the wall, baby.”

You’d never been one for shower sex - it’s too small a space, too much happening at once, a guaranteed freak accident waiting to happen - but you can’t deny him when he asks so nicely. (It really hadn’t been that nice but you were a certified sucker for one Jeon Jungkook.)

Hands find themselves on the wall, palms flat, fingers splayed. In the same instance you wiggle your hips, there’s a ghosting touch over your spine. It trails up and down, soothes the residual heat that lingers, and then slips higher, palm gentle over your throat. His thumb rubs reassuring circles over the nape of your neck, pressing gently into the sensitive spot behind your ear. It’s distracting and you realise much needed when he sinks into you with one fluid press of his hips, filling you so full you can’t help the gasp that bounds past your lips and bounces around the glass enclosure. “Oh fuck,” he sighs, his grip on your hip tightening incrementally.

He sounds like sin and feels like heaven.

“Always so good for me.” Another thing he says, often and without prompting. It still feels just as good the umpteenth time, sparking pride deep in your chest as he pulls out and drives himself back in, staring in rapt fascination at where your bodies meet. “Always so perfect for me.”

“Because I love you,” you quip, more than a little out of breath and jostled by the way he thrusts into you, measured and with enough force to shake your legs.

“Love you too, angel.” He doesn’t need to say it back - you know, can feel it by how he holds you, drives you to brink of insanity with his cock - but he does it anyway. He always says it back, no matter what, even if he’s half-asleep or distracted. He’ll never stop saying it.

The hand on your hip falls, slinks across your hip and between your legs, and you’re pushed further forward, his feet gently kicking yours further apart. Jungkook assaults your clit then, timing each pass with each thrust. An attempted glance back has fireworks going off before your eyes, specks of pleasure lighting up your vision; it’s a technicolour lightshow, framing the way his face scrunches, brow set and jaw hard. He’s determined, focused on bringing you to another orgasm before he hits his own high. You assist him as best you can, swiveling your hips and grinding back against him even as the coil pulls impossibly tight in your stomach, barely held together by threadbare strings.

“Kook,” you whine when the tension becomes too much, hands scrabbling across the wall of the shower. The same overwhelming tingle sparks beneath your skin, entire body trembling like a leaf when the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you at just the right angle.

He doesn’t relent, rhythm turning almost punishing as he drives you over the edge, launching you headlong into your second orgasm. You’re not sure how you stay upright, near sobbing when you crash into euphoric bliss, neither his fingers nor his thrusts ceasing. It’s almost too much and yet you know how close he is, so you push back, whimper words you know he wants to hear.

“P-please, Kook. Please.” You’re reaching a hand back, desperate to interlace your fingers with his. He gives in easily, catches your hand in his own and plants it on the swell of your hip as he chases his own release with desperation. “Come for me, Kook. Fill me up.”

Jungkook does just that, balls tight as he spills himself inside you, hand at your throat so tight you’re seeing stars. Somehow - with the feeling of him grinding into you, overcome with so much sensitivity - you come for the third time, crying very real tears as the sensation washes over you. It’s weaker than your first two but unravels you all the same, seeping the energy from your limbs. You’re grateful for how well he knows you and the fact he catches you before your arms collapse, pulling you to him with gentle movements.

“I love you,” he whispers against your temple, out of breath and sweat-slick despite the water that rains down upon you.

“I love you,” you answer, pressing a kiss to the hand that still twines with yours. “But I still need you to wash my hair.” It’s cheeky and you know it so you don’t even mind when he bites into the meat of your shoulder, leaving a pretty red mark that’ll bloom for the next few days. “Ow!”

“You’re a brat.” Said even as he’s reaching for your shampoo bar, teasing it through your roots with practiced movements. He’s careful despite his scathing tone, gentle despite how he glares at you from the corner of your periphery. Each tangle is neatly undone and not a single bubble gets in your eye, much to your joy.

“I thought I was an angel.” You’re taking a page out of his book, speaking in fluent pout.

He catches your lips with his own, pushing your lathered up head beneath the steady stream when he withdraws and speaks. Suds run across your cheeks, eyes shielded only by the hand he keeps steady along your hairline. Even so mean, your boyfriend is still terribly nice. “You’re my angel - but you’re still a brat.”

You can’t argue with that.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi

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gukyi · 4 years

Text

ice prince (post-script) | jjk

summary: you travel the world together as the country’s favorite ice dancing couple and celebrity romance, but you can’t help but wonder what the future has in store for you and jungkook.

{established relationship!au, ice skating!au}

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff word count: 1k warnings: none a/n: thank you to @sopseokjin for commissioning this piece and donating to the #blacklivesmatter movement!! i had so much fun revisiting the ice prince couple. if you remember me writing the entire 22k fic in 4 days, you qualify for a veterans’ discount.

There is something different about hotel windows.

They’re always enormous, always spanning the size of the wall, a big Plexiglass screen separating you from the world outside. They always come with two curtains, a semi-transparent one that lets you see into other people’s rooms, and a thick one with the pattern of an old wallpaper or vintage couch.

And they always make you feel as though you’re both looking out into a sea of lights, into a city slowly beginning to fall asleep, and as if you were trapped inside, the window being your only source of contact.

It’s no wonder you always find yourself staring out of it, wrapped in a white robe after hopping out of the shower, a long day of competing and skating behind you. Normally, you’d soak your feet in the bathtub as well, letting the water wash away of the soreness, but you feel quite light tonight.

You gaze out into the city, looking over the roofs of buildings, over the air vents and grey cement that covers all of the skyscrapers that surround you. The yellow glows in the top-floor windows of the buildings are your stars tonight, lighting up an otherwise empty navy blue sky. It’s such a shame that there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and yet you cannot see a single star. Your window doesn’t even face the moon.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

You look up to see Jungkook standing behind you in the reflection of the glass, soft brown hair tousled and messy, like he just got out of the shower and let it dry as is. He’s wearing an old shirt from your home rink and some shorts. Comfort clothes.

“Just looking out the window,” you tell him, letting him come over and watching your reflection as he wraps his arms around you, swaying softly.

“It’s pretty,” Jungkook meets your eyes in the window.

“Is it weird that, no matter what city we go to, I always feel the same when I look out the window?”

Jungkook pauses for a moment, then says, “No. I feel it, too.”

Does he?

Does he feel the way that even if the world changes you feel as though your place in it has remained stagnant? Feel like you’re trapped repeating the same few days over and over and over again? Ice skating is perhaps one of your truest passions in life, something that you seldom dread doing despite all of the injuries over the years. But it is as though you do not exist without your skates. That your sense of belonging is defined by being on the rink rather than off of it.

You wouldn’t know who you are without ice skating. It’s brought you so much joy, so much love. It carried you to Jungkook.

“I shouldn’t be complaining.” you say with a shake of your head, pulling yourself out of his grasp and settling down on the side of the bed. The sheets are tucked into the bed frame so tightly you’re half convinced that they might rip if you pull them any further. “We get to go to so many nice places and stay in fancy hotel rooms and skate for a living.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t find negatives in what we do,” Jungkook says with his eyebrows turned down as he joins you on the bed. “You can be grateful and critical of things at the same time.”

“I just feel like…” you sigh, unable to find the right words. You aren’t by any means discontented with your life, with what you get to do. Every morning you wake up and look forward to what the day has to offer, look forward to tugging on your skates and getting onto the ice, look forward to seeing Namjoon and Hoseok and Taehyung and, especially Jungkook. “Like we’ll be stuck doing this forever.”

“You know that’s not true,” Jungkook tells you, reaching out to take your hand in his own. He strokes the back of it with his thumb, calloused fingers pressing against your skin. “We can dp whatever we want with our lives.”

“I don’t really know what I want,” you admit. You’ve always been rather indecisive. It is one of your greatest flaws.

“You don’t have to know,” Jungkook assures you. He has always been so driven, so focused. He looks to the future fondly, rather than in fear. His heart guides him through each and every day, and even if he makes a mistake he knows it will never steer him in the wrong direction. “You just have to see where life takes you.”

You turn to him, watch his eyes grow bigger as they stare into yours. “Where do you want life to take you? When this is all over, what do you want to do?” When younger skaters far more talented than you will usurp you, will achieve far more complex jumps and challenging lifts, effectively sending you on a slow decline out of the top leagues. When the spotlight will no longer shine on you, lighting up your path on the ice, when no more medals will hang around your neck and no more trophies will be placed into your hands.

“I’m not sure,” Jungkook says. “I’ve always wanted to learn piano.”

“You can do that now,” you remind him.

“Not with our schedules, I can’t,” he says.

“There’s a piano in the lobby,” you remember. It’s an upright, nothing too fancy, but no staff seems to play it and barely anybody spares it a second glance. “You can try.”

“Maybe some other time,” Jungkook says with a laugh, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. You’re still facing the window, but it’s different when you’re sitting down, further away from it. Like you’re watching a late-night movie. Like you’re not a part of the scene at all. “I’d also coach, maybe. Like Namjoon and Hoseok, I think that’d be fun.”

Ice skating will never leave him.

“You think we’ll still be together after all of this?” You ask. It’s a weird, hopeful sort of ask. Like you hope he says yes even if the odds are against it. There’s a part of you that fears, that has always feared, that ice skating was your only link, the only thing keeping you connected. You would not have known Jungkook without skating, and you know him now as someone who is just like you. But what will happen when all of that ends?

You feel the way Jungkook sits up straighter, feel how he stiffens, making you look up at him. It’s an honest, candid question. What does the future hold for the two of you? Is there even one to begin with?

“What do you mean?” He asks. “Of course I do.” A pause. “Do you… not?”

“No!” You tell him. There is nothing you fear more than being away from him, than losing the last part of your life that preserves what little personality you have left. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I just—I wasn’t sure.”

Jungkook reaches his other arm out, both of your hands wrapped up in his own, and he squeezes tightly, making you look at him. He’s got that steely, certain look to him, the same determination you see right before a competition performance.

“I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours,” he begins, “but you have nothing to worry about. Not about ice skating, or competitions, or our future, or me. Because I love you, and I’m proud of you, and I know that whatever you end up doing will be beautiful and meaningful to all of the people whose lives you have touched. And I will always stand by your side, even when we stop skating, even when we are cranky coaches, and even when we are old and lazy.”

The words are music to your ears. A soft smile draws itself on your face, and he lifts a hand up to press it under your chin, leaning in to place a soft kiss on your lips. It’s incredible, what he makes you feel.

“I’ll marry you, one day,” he promises. “And we can live wherever you want. We can have cats and dogs and plants and, maybe one day, we can have kids too.”

“If we do have kids, I hope they don’t inherit your ego,” you tease, making him laugh.

“No,” Jungkook says, shaking his head. “They’ll inherit my devilish good looks, instead.” You giggle, and Jungkook shuts you up with another kiss, taking away all of the breath in your lungs, making your skin tingle. “I love you, did you know that?”

You grin. You did, but you love hearing the words anyway. “I love you, too.”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget i’m still taking commissions!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts au #jungkook au #w: ice prince

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