lights go up and come down over my head
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[title] lights go up and come down over my head
[summary] that's how surreal this all feels.
[notes]
/hides face/
OMG THIS WOULD NEVER HAPPEN IN CANON BUT IT DOES IN THIS UNIVERSE OK SO PLEASE ENJOY
Christmas Eve, after club practice, locker room. Let's go.
(title taken from the WWI novel All Quiet On The Western Front)
(i do not own gsnk)
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Wakamatsu is standing alone in the locker room after basketball club practice.
Or rather, he thinks he is – until he hears footsteps, and Seo walks into his field of vision not wearing a shred of clothing, to get her things. "Oh," she says nonchalantly, bringing her hands up to shield her nipples; as if that makes her any less alluring, all naked flesh and bare of dubious intent, unlike him.
It isn't supposed to be like this, of course. But instinctive reactions are too fast for him to clamp down on, and he finds himself unable to remain indifferent to this. One heartbeat and he severs the connection between how they usually are, and what he would like to think they could be. Given momentarily free reign, his ever-ripe imagination trips forward giddily; and then it is too late to go back.
His mind's eye flashes instantly, and he can see her now, spread out on that rough wooden bench where the sports club members usually dump their gear during workouts, rosy nipples pebbled and peaking in the drafts of air that sweep the locker rooms. She'd lay sprawled out, nubile legs drawn up and apart to give him a glimpse of her wet cunt, soft pink folds peeking at him coyly through the dark blonde curls of hair that nestle at the apex of her thighs. She'd be flushed and heavy lidded with anticipation, the tint of red travelling from her cheeks to tinge the gracefully erotic curve of her neck, and further down to the creamy expanse of her ample chest, the dip of her waist, the sweet spot between her thighs.
Her beautiful body bare to his eyes, slick with sweat and heavenly to the touch; the smell of rubber and stale deodorant mixing with the scent of sex, the musk of sweat, the intoxicating odour of sweet, sweet desire. And he would stand there at the foot of the bench watching her hungrily, just drinking in the sight of her. Curves in all the right places, and not too much; he could get himself up just thinking about that body, if he let himself, if he didn't bring her personality or character into the equation.
He'd like to stand there at the foot of that wooden bench and slowly strip himself of all articles of clothing, maintaining eye contact with the naked girl in front of him all the while. First would be to peel the cardigan off his well-built frame, shoulders rippling as he shucked off the knit piece. Next would be the tie, now – to roughly yank it down and tug it off, or to slowly, deliberately undo the knot? He'd rake her with his gaze as he dealt with the buttons of his white school shirt, running his tongue over his lips to moisten them as a sliver of his chest was slowly exposed; while she placed her hands on her own breasts, perhaps, and started to grope them. After the white uniform shirt hit the floor he would stop and stalk over impatiently to rub his covered erection against her bare sex, the tenting in his pants painful and a wet spot forming from the leaking at the tip, where he'd grind into her welcoming softness and heat.
And all this from the mere three seconds in which he got an eyeful. The heat rises to his cheeks as the blood rushes to his loins, and then –
He must have made some strangled noise of repressed arousal, because Seo-senpai suddenly becomes aware of his presence. "Oh," she says nonchalantly, "you were still here, Waka? It was pretty quiet; I thought all the guys had already gone home." She gathers her uniform and whatnot into her arms, they press against her bare breasts; indents that won't leave a mark. She walks off, presumably towards the shower area, and he tries not to stare at the curve of her rear.
The haze of lust does not dissipate, and he breathes in deeply, spurred to dizzying heights of fancy.
"Seo-senpai," he blurts out recklessly, desperately, before he can stop it. His tone is harsh, harsher than usual, he dimly notes, and when she halts and pivots on her heel to face him he swallows audibly, visibly checking his speech. Time for him to wrest some audacity from Seo's own seemingly boundless reserves. Wakamatsu opens his mouth again. "Have you had sex before?"
Well. It wasn't supposed to come out quite so bluntly, was it? She must be rubbing off on him, he thinks, or maybe it was the thoughts he just entertained of her rubbing against him – either way, there's nothing for it now. And he could lie to himself and say that he felt relieved now he'd gotten the disproportionately heavy weight of that question off his chest, but the truth is that voicing it has left him all jitters, right as he tries to calm his racing heart.
"No," she replies after a short pause, cocking her head. "Why?"
His knees literally go weak with desire in that moment, and he crashes against the lockers noisily as he tries to right his balance, then gives up and sinks to the floor. She never could read the atmosphere, could she? But clearly his senpai is as curious as she is clueless, because she silently pads back over to stand near him, off to the side. Hands over his burning face, he pushes ahead with the brazen questions. "Have you...touched yourself before?"
Her clothes and toiletries fall to the floor in a messy clatter, and then tension in the air thickens like fog. Even though the actual reason for her dropping her stuff is so she can strike meditative poses while unencumbered. He can hardly breathe as it is while waiting for her response or a slap across the face. It turns out to be the former, though if it was the latter he'd have to say he deserved it.
"Well, yeah," she muses, "I have." He chances a peek at her through the gaps between his fingers; she's looking at him in her usual deadpan way still, and he is filled with the urge to incite some carnal lust in her that will twist her features into an attractive frame for tender sighs, strangled gasps, and loud moans coaxed from soft whimpers. Surely, surely she has more to her than her insensitivity and a preoccupation with his person. That's what this is, a way for him to gain insight into her baffling personality and character; a way to dress base desire in elegant justifications, ones that may pull double duty to cloak his innermost emotions from the light of any epiphanies.
He clears his throat.
"Will you...will you show me? Th-that is, I mean, will you touch y-yourself and let me – uh, let me watch...? If-if you don't mind, of course, I-I'm just really. Um, reallyhornyrightnowandthatwouldhelpmegetoff."
Wakamatsu lets his hands fall away from his face as he chokes out that last bit, seeing as how his flush has long since spread past the reach of the palms on his cheeks. "Well, I guess I don't mind," Seo says, "but if I'm gonna do that I'll need some...yanno, help from you too." she finishes, quirking a brow at him. He scrambles to his feet, unbelieving of what has just transpired and quite ready to acquiesce to whatever she requests of him – actually, if he didn't know himself better he would say he was feeling excited; feeling everything that a fluttering pulse and courses of adrenaline in his blood could betray, coupled with the darkened irises and increasingly shallow breaths.
"Strip," she orders, afterwards adding the provisos, "slowly. And stretch." Her voice turns a little huskier with the admission that follows, caressing the diminution of his name in startlingly familiar manner, like it's been whispered just so countless times before. "I like to think of you that way, Waka."
Oh, gods. Wakamatsu purses his lips and brings his fingers to the hem of his basketball jersey; they're trembling slightly, he realises. The thin dri-fit material of the thing is thoroughly damp with his sweat, and he grimaces a little as he pulls it over his head in a quick, jerky motion. Then he remembers that she is watching the slow draw of damp jersey up off the muscles of his abdomen, chest, shoulders, over his flexing biceps. He shucks the jersey to the floor and flicks his head from side to side to shake off the sweat that drips from the tips of his hair. Hopefully she liked that, he thinks, watching her shift on the balls of her feet, pressing her thighs together. He would peel his eyeballs layer by layer if it meant that in exchange, he could catch the merest glimpse of a gleam between them.
But now for the removal of his pants. It's somewhat daunting, but as he curls the tips of his fingers under the elastic waistband of his shorts, he makes an attempt at a shuffling turn, so his back is facing her when he pulls the pants down (slowly, as she'd specified) over the curve of his ass. She hums appreciatively, makes indistinct sounds of approval, and he takes in a fortifying breath.
"Is – is this good enough for you to, um, work with?" he ventures, turning to peer at her over his shoulder as he lets the shorts fall to his ankles and steps out of them. (Wait, seriously, work with? What is he even saying?)
"Yeah," she swallows dryly, bringing a hand down to cup her mound and starting to fondle her breasts with the other. Wakamatsu gestures awkwardly, vaguely, in the direction of the wooden bench in the middle of the room. "I – can you, on that?" he blushes, gesturing helplessly, and she obliges with a smirk tempered slightly by her own mounting arousal. She lies back on the rough-hewn wood and spreads her legs without any visible hesitation, meeting his eyes as she allows her head to fall back.
Wakamatsu watches with bated breath, mouth slightly agape, as she slips a pale finger between her folds and begins moving it in and out, experimental yet measured thrusts that she intersperses with circling and fondling her clitoris. Seo's hair is matted with sweat and there are tracks of grime on her face, and as she eventually begins to writhe under her own skilful ministrations he ends up shucking off his briefs without thinking twice.
He notes, in an absent yet ridiculously clear way, the way Seo shifts her hips in time to her thrusts, or casts longing looks down at the parts of her that cry out for attention; the ones she must neglect while she coaxes herself towards climax. They beckon to him, scream and beg and plead for him to reach out and touch, and his mouth is so, so dry.
"God, I'm getting close," she hisses out, and he claps his eyes onto hers, stares right into them. The next thing he knows he's kneeling by the side of the bench and bending to take one of her nipples into his mouth, blood rushing even harder into his rapidly engorging nether regions. It's a tentative touch, but as his lips close tenderly over her aching flesh, she cannot help but cry out at the sensation. His too-hot tongue on her sensitive skin – those attempts to lick and suckle are rudimentary at best, but the rasp of his tongue dragging over the contours of her chest is achingly sweet. She mewls with pleasure and grabs his hand to bring it down to her clit, wordlessly begs him to rub her there as her panting intensifies and she arches her hips upwards, straining for release. He circles the sensitive bundle of nerves with a feather-light touch, uncertain, but that is all it takes for her to come undone, body contorting delightfully before falling limp with the aftershocks of her orgasm. It's incredibly novel and incredibly erotic, all at once.
His eyes lock onto her lips, ravaged red where she's bitten down, half open to allow ridiculously musical moans and gasps escape, and he suddenly wants to hear his name fall from them. Now sated, Seo curls up a little with sweat beading on her forehead. Wakamatsu wraps a hand around his shaft, now eager to stroke himself to the finish, only to be casually interrupted.
"Hey, I did something for you, so you do something for me," she asserts between ragged breaths, still coming down from the high of her orgasm. His hands still where they sit on his length, his eyes still on the gentle heaving of her chest. "It's only fair, right? Get into the shower. I wanna see water trickling over that goddamn nice body of yours. Wanna watch you arch your head back and close your eyes."
Then a pause when he doesn't betray any reaction, any response.
Seo looks up at the ceiling, busying her lips with her teeth, before darting her gaze back to him. Her mouth is hesitantly open and her brow furrowed, as if she's looking for a word she can't remember how to use. "…Please?" she tries.
Oh. It's like a strange kind of light has come on in the room just then and it's all he can manage to speak coherently in the face of her uncharacteristic show of, or attempt at, considerate behaviour. So foreign on her tongue, so foreign in his mind. Yes, yes, of course he must say yes. The numb nodding is practically second nature to him.
And "Yes," is all he can manage to exhale shakily at that point. Wakamatsu swallows dryly and extends a hand to his senpai as she raises herself from the bench. She's a little wobbly on her legs and he silently scoops her up in his arms (princess carry, anyone?), where they can revel in the feel of each other – so much skin against skin; it's almost too much to bear. The friction feels like fire, and as he stumbles hastily over to the showers the stream of vaguely dirty talk in his ear continues at intervals. Ah, and then all those crass jokes about not needing water to get wet come to mind, and he almost hates how they're so true even as he almost loves how he now knows that they're true. Then the sound of her voice pulls him back to the present.
"So pretty," she mutters, lolling her head against his collarbone, "you're so pretty, Waka. Always with that look on your face, and those goddamn blue eyes of yours. And your voice when you say my name –" And here she breaks off, pauses to press her lips over his voice box, darts her tongue out when he gulps nervously.
"Say it," she croons, breathing hot on the base of his neck. He decides to blame her suspiciously siren-like voice for his unflinching acquiescence. This also happens to coincide with their arriving at their destination, so it's when he's carefully sliding her down out of his arms and over his painfully hard erection that he opens his mouth to say "Seo-senpai."
It's a guttural groan, and his breath hitches on the last syllable as she curls an arm around his back and fumbles for the shower tap.
Baser instincts take over and he crushes her smaller frame close to his, grinding his hips desperately against hers. His eyes roll back in his head at the burn; the drying sweat from practice that coats both their bodies hinders the movement; pain added to pleasure where they stick and unstick. Then the water rains down, and his hands slip, grip loosening (though it also doesn't escape his notice that his violent senpai hasn't fought to be released from his sudden embrace at all). Maybe, he thinks, she actually likes being held?
She's easily strong enough to throw him off, wrestle him to the ground and straddle him into submission, he knows. Perhaps because this is new territory – though he's been with her off-court before and her trademark oblivious exuberance has always been present as ever. Sweeping him off his feet.
But now they're at arm's length once again and he's stepping under the regulated stream of heated water and it is unavoidably awkward. Fine lines and small steps between watching and wanting to touch, between wanting to touch and touching. Both of which he crossed earlier – and so how can he deny her now if she wants to do more, how can he deny himself if he wants her to say she wants more? His fingers fumble for her hair tie and tug it off, freeing her waves of hair. They fan over her neck and shoulders, complement her still-flushed visage so well that he feels he must speak (though to proposition her further at this stage would be pushing it with anyone else).
Though what actually results is him hedging and her picking up on it, as always. "Oh," she breathes, tapping a fist into the palm of her other hand; and that gives him cause to wonder just how many ways she can bring that one word to life. And after that there is no need for words, because their eyes have stored away so much pent up desire that it now pours from them in a deluge fit to rival tonight's predicted snowfall. You want me, her eyes tell him, and he knows that she knows, and then a moment later he also knows that she wants him too.
Wakamatsu gets slowly to his knees and Seo awkwardly kneels between them, both of them unsure as to how exactly they should proceed. Their breaths are shallow and rapid and tentative and anticipatory all at once, and his strangled gasp when she takes him in hand to guide him to her entrance is loud over the running of the shower. Fitting two bodies together is a very surreal endeavour, isn't it? They marvel, truly, at the slickness and the sliding in, as much as the clumsy straddling.
True to form, though, he pauses just as the head of his member has been sheathed by her walls; she clicks her tongue crossly when he pulls back from fitting himself against her and into her, large hands holding her off at the waist. He's far too serious for this moment, when he surveys her bare body and then his and the white tiling on the walls behind tarnished spigots and taps. "Are you sure you want to," he says, voice thin and trembling from the effort of stopping himself sinking into her fully, "are you sure that I can – Seo-senpai, I –"
She sinks her nails into his biceps, leaves crescent moon marks on his skin in lieu of rolling her eyes. "You've, no, we've already come this far, Waka," she replies, eyes betraying a spark of maturity and understanding in the midst of all the thinly veiled impatience. "Now stop being a little tease already, won't you?" Her hands slide up from his arms to hook over his shoulders, round the back of his neck, and he feels ridiculously secure in the knowledge that she really does want him to take her, for whatever reason.
Already half inside her, he pushes slowly past the barrier of her virginity and the blood trickles down her leg in rivulets of pretty pink, diluted by the steady sprinkling of water from overhead. The wince of pain on her features is pronounced, and her fingers rake neat lines down his back: a different kind of red. Short, sharp cries. It takes time to adjust to the feel of each other, warm weight in them and around them – so strange, to fill and be filled at the same time. The water slicks their hair to their heads, washes the dirt from their faces in tracks. Her legs curl around his waist, and he shifts a hand instinctively to stroke her thigh, soft against his side.
He rests his forehead on hers, lets the reality of the situation sink in. It is Christmas Eve, it is snowing outside, basketball practice for the day has wrapped up, and he is here in the locker rooms losing his virginity with a club senpai. He never would have thought –
Seo presses her lips to the pulse point in his neck, a gentle reminder to his overloaded senses that this is the same girl who smashes basketballs in his face on purpose; how is she so tender now? Because it's you, his mind tells him, and it makes his head spin into a thousand conjectured explanations for this situation, before being pulled back to the present by the clenching of her walls around his shaft, seated deeply in her as he is.
"You can start moving now," she grits out.
So he does, and it draws deep, guttural groans past his lips, sounds he tries to muffle under her skin and fails to do so. Also, his legs are starting to cramp from having to support their combined weight while kneeling all the while – so Wakamatsu curls his arms more firmly around his Seo-senpai and lowers them into lying on the floor, still joined at the hip. With his superior height, he looms over her spectacularly, shielding her face from the impact of the water as he moves in her, above her. In this position he's also given leeway to stare at her as much as he wants, or brace his arms on either side of her head. Like a real lover. Like all the shoujo manga fantasies of school life romances and first times and locker room encounters.
Wakamatsu watches the play of emotions across her face when he first pulls out of her welcoming warmth, and almost too eagerly fits himself back into her again. He cools down a little after that embarrassing realisation, and together they spiral towards the edge in slow motion, as a wonderfully fused entity. She comes first, and the clenching of her flesh around him makes him gasp and cry and whimper and moan all at once; he would have buried his face in the hollow of her throat, inhaled deeply the scent of her skin and her hair, if she hadn't moved first and done the very same to him.
His heart leaps – startled, tender thing it is! He drives into her over and over again, seeing his face contort in the golden surface of her eyes, seeing his breath tickle the planes of her face; he's become totally lost in the way their muscles flex against each other's when he thrusts up into her and she rises to meet him; her hands are still locked in a death grip around his neck and he's surprised he hasn't thought to complain about the strain yet; his hand damp and heavy on her breast and in her hair.
Everything hits the right notes.
The pang of emptiness that strikes when he pulls out of her to ejaculate is very real, and he rides out his orgasm with hard, desperate thrusts against the flatness of her stomach; spills his seed over her front. Boneless and sated, he collapses over her on the tiled flooring, barely remembering that he has to be careful not to crush her. The steady patter of the shower on hot skin and cool flooring washes away all the blankness in their thoughts, and slowly returns them to awareness – returns them to who they are, where they are, and what they've just done.
He'd expected the post-coital atmosphere to be tense and awkward, but it's actually strangely comfortable with her. She raises a brow when she catches him staring while she scrubs his come off her chest, where it'd been starting to crust: it appears slightly mocking, though he dismisses that line of thought when the cautiously sincere (but still terribly blunt) question comes.
"Wanna help me out, Waka?" she offers, extending to him the bar of soap; and the blush that blooms over his cheeks is spectacular. But he takes it from her outstretched hand anyway, and begins guiding it carefully over her curves, slick and smooth with the water running over them. She actually looks surprised, and he thinks that he can spy the tiniest hint of new pink on her cheeks. Maybe he should do this more often, he thinks. And in the next instant is horrified at how his thoughts have veered: consciously wanting to be more intimate with Seo-senpai? Why, he doesn't even know her first name, and here he is always saying he could never stand her company; here he is washing her; here he is being the reason she needs to be washed so.
He's also pretty sure his face is practically scarlet, because Seo does a double take when she glances up at him and deadpans, "Wow. Do I want to know what you're thinking right now, Waka?"
He flicks his wet bangs away from where they've fallen over his eyes, bites his lip. "No, senpai," he mutters, passing the bar of soap over the dip of her cleavage, "no you don't."
Or rather, he doesn't want her to.
Still, she chuckles at his obvious flush, grabs the soap from his flustered self. "C'mere then, Waka," she laughs, sidling over already, sleek and sinuous. "I'll wash you too, in return. Hey, don't even think about running away!"
In his haste to get a safe distance away, Wakamatsu ends up losing his footing on the treacherous floor. Three guesses where he falls, anyone? That's right, into his senpai's damn arms. Seo looks so pleased to have caught him that he doesn't have the heart to remind her that they aren't supposed to be stumbling into this, into behaving like a real couple or something. Not to mention that she's grinning wide into his flaming face, looking for all the world like she's totally up for a wrestling match over the soap with him. He tries to wriggle out of her arms and she promptly puts him into a headlock.
So there they are, naked and having a post-sex shower together, and it doesn't make sense any for her to be hunched over and howling with laughter, him sighing non-stop while trying to fling water droplets at her, all the while blushing like there's no tomorrow.
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Snugly bundled up in their uniforms, they stand side by side at the school gate, staring up at the softly falling flakes, which are dull white and stark grey against the inky backdrop that is the winter sky. He opens his mouth to speak first.
"Um, Seo-senpai, I was just wondering. Now that we've, um, y'know, what does that uh – what does that make this? Make us." She shrugs, face blank for a second before she turns to him. "You know, you really are giving off that afterglow thing," she says thoughtfully, and even as he frowns at her for ignoring his question he can't help smiling a little at that precious remark.
The trains are still running despite the blanketing snow, which is good; otherwise they'd have had to fend off rumours that likely would have hit uncomfortably close to home. "There's still the basket club Christmas party thing tomorrow, right?" she asks as she takes the first step out into the snow, ready to walk home. "I guess we could – talk about it then. Okay?" Wakamatsu blinks. Then he cracks a soft, soft smile, reaches out to wrap her scarf more securely around her neck. "Yeah, okay. Get home safe. And, um, I'll see you tomorrow, Seo-senpai?"
She waves enthusiastically until he's nearly out of her sight, and he responds with a raised hand (though his eyes are trained on her retreating form long, long after she turns her back to him), stamping his feet for warmth as he walks back to the train station; already thinking about how he should explain away the red on his cheeks by blaming it on the cold.
Christmas celebrations, he thinks. There will probably be fireworks to watch.
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[notes]
alright guys if any of you are yelling at the screen then i think i deserve to be yelled at in the comment box too
merry christmas! keep shipping seowaka into the new year and forever pls
p.s. did anyone notice that they don't kiss? at all? hoho...ho...