Screaming Crying Foaming At The Mouth - Tumblr Posts
hockey player scoups x figure skater reader
words: 1.2k
fluff, tenderness, pointless romance, etc etc
based on this au by @bfwonu
Knees loose, core tight, focus on the glide of ice beneath steel.
You breathe in and out, counting the beats on the music that streams through your wireless earbuds. How long have you been here again? You’re not sure, but then again, time passes quickly when you’re on the ice. You inhale again as you build speed, feeling the chill wind on the back of your neck as you glide across the rink backward, balancing on one skate. And then there’s your musical cue and you bend your leg and you jump, taking off on the back outside edge of the blade.
For a moment, your world drops away and time slows. Once. Twice. Thrice. But your last half-spin is short, and you know it. You land, off balance and tilted. There’s no way for you to land on your butt and the next thing you know, your entire right side is smarting as you slide across the ice. The breath is knocked from your lungs on impact, and you groan in pain.
You think you hear a shout, but it doesn’t matter because your next musical cue is coming, two double flips following the failed triple loop.
You grit your teeth and somehow manage to pull yourself back to your feet, letting the residual momentum from your fall guide you upright. Breathe in, breathe out, count to the beat. You swing your free foot back, but when the toe pick hits the ice, your legs suddenly turn into jelly. You fall again, this time harder and directly onto your hands and knees as you pitch forward.
“Fuck,” you grunt, sliding across the ice as you feel yourself collapse. It feels like you skid for ages before you slowly drag to a stop. Your legs are covered in chips of ice, which begin to melt through your leggings and onto your tender skin, cold seeping into your bones.
You lay there for a moment, catching your breath and looking up at the dizzyingly bright stadium lights illuminating the rink, when out of the corner of your eye, you see movement.
Sighing, you take one of your earbuds out as you turn your head toward the gate. It’s Seungcheol, dressed in ratty old sweats with his hair shoved back into a beanie. He vaults over the wall easily, bypassing the gate, and jumps onto the ice. Even as the rest of your long program plays through the tinny speakers of your earbuds, you can hear the way his hockey skates shred the ice, a horrible, grating sound that sets your teeth on edge.
“What are you doing here,” you scowl, making no movement to get up. “It’s my rink time.”
“Not anymore,” Seungcheol says, coming to a stop beside you and kicking up a spray of ice. “My team’s time starts soon.”
“How has it been three hours already,” you groan, pushing yourself up to a seated position with some difficulty. Your right arm aches terribly, your ribs feel tender and sore, and you’re not quite able to suppress the wince that flashes across your face.
“Are you okay?” Seungcheol lowers himself to a squat by your side. “You took some pretty hard falls just now.”
“Obviously,” you snap. Your eyes ache and you know they're about a moment away from erupting into hot, angry tears. This is the most ambitious long program you’ve attempted— ambitious enough to take you to the world championships if you do it perfectly. Maybe it’s too ambitious, but you’re not ready to admit that. “Are you here to gloat, or what?” You turn toward him, ready to chew him out, but he doesn’t look particularly smug. Instead, he looks… worried.
“Take a break,” he orders. “No skating tomorrow.”
“You can’t order me around,” you huff, but he silences you with a sharp frown.
“Take. A. Break.” Seungcheol’s tone is steely and for a moment, just one moment, you see the leader in him that everybody talks about. The reliable Captain Seungcheol, the team’s source of strength.
You blink and the world blurs. Embarrassed, you turn your head away from him as you feel tears beading on your lashes. “I’m so close to getting it,” you choke. “If it’s not the rotations, it’s the angle. If it’s not the angle, it’s a stiff landing. I’m always just one step away, but I just can’t… get there.”
You don’t know why you’re telling this to him, a lumbering brute of a hockey player who couldn’t tell an axel from a lutz, but Seungcheol nods understandingly, and somehow, you feel like he knows.
“You just need to focus.” Seungcheol sits too, planting his butt solidly on the ice. “I know you’re capable. You know you’re capable. It’s not a matter of ability, it’s all in your head.”
“Thanks, I guess,” you mumble.
“Here.” Seungcheol takes your hand in his. You jerk your head toward him, wide-eyed and panicked as he peels the knit glove off your right hand, but then you hiss in pain as the yarn pulls away from flesh.
You’ve somehow manage to split the skin where the heel of your palm meets your wrist bone, likely when you were breaking your fall earlier, and in the adrenaline of the moment, you hadn’t even noticed it.
“I saw you bleeding,” Seungcheol murmurs quietly as he lays your palm gently in his lap. “That’s why I came out on the ice to check on you.” You watch as he pulls a small foil packet from the pocket of his sweatpants and tears it open to pull out an alcohol wipe.
Seungcheol gently cleans off your wound with the wipe, wincing too when you wince at the painful sting of the alcohol. “Sorry,” he says, apologetic, like it’s somehow his fault. “Here.” You watch as he takes out a band-aid from his pocket and carefully places it over the wound, his fingers pressing down the adhesive, impossibly gentle. You feel your skin tingle where he touched you, almost like the phantom of Seungcheol’s fingertips brushing across your palm.
“All done,” Seungcheol says, shoving the spent wrappers back into his pocket as he stands.
“Th-thank you,” you bite out. Why are your cheeks so hot when the rest of you is so cold? Your legs shake when you try to pull yourself to your feet, both from the cold and from exhaustion. You stand for a moment, thighs aching, before your knees give out and you collapse.
But instead of meeting the ice again, you feel Seungcheol’s arms around your waist, holding you up and catching you as you fall. You gasp, instinctively reaching up to cling on to him. Your fingers close on his large, firm biceps, defined even through the thick cotton of his sweatshirt, and you furiously will yourself not to think about the shape of his body.
You pull yourself up and try to take another step, but your muscles are limp and feel like they’re out of your control.
Seungcheol grins. It’s a grin that you’ve come to hate, and the next words that come out of his mouth make you hate him more. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way,” he says, cocky, confident. Just like that, the tender stillness of the moment is broken and you shove him away, slapping his shoulder in the process. Somehow, you’re grateful that the tenderness has been stripped away. It’s easier this way, this familiar antagonism, the carefully maintained distance burning between the two of you.
“Fuck off, Choi Seungcheol,” you snap as you hobble your way toward the wall, trying your best to ignore the way your legs tremble and your hip throbs in pain. “Fucking prick.”
You can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he calls out after you, “you’re welcome!”
You hate him, you tell yourself. You detest him. But it’s getting harder and harder to convince yourself that it’s true.
look bj's are disgusting as a rule-- the actual physical act of peen in mouth is unpleasant as all hell, but the intimacy?? the control you have in that moment?? unbeatable. And when you have a boy whimpering and crying at your mercy it's a whole different feeling