#a03 fic

His breath caught, eyes widening as the words sank in. For a moment, he was silent, processing, and you watched the emotions flicker across his face—surprise, tenderness, and then, slowly, a deepening hunger. "You'd do that? For me? My sweet one, that's… that's everything. But are you sure? It's a big commitment. Our lives, our family…"

"I'm sure," you whispered, your hand sliding to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the short bristles of his hair. "I've never been more sure. I want this. I want you—to fill me, to claim me, to make me yours in the most primal way. No holding back. Just us, building a future."

Aang's resolve seemed to melt away with your words. He closed the distance, capturing your lips in a kiss that started gentle, exploratory—a brush of mouths, a shared breath. But as you responded, parting your lips to invite him deeper, it shifted. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of mint tea and quiet longing, and his free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, angling you closer.

You sighed into the kiss, your body relaxing against him as the tension of the day ebbed. Minutes passed like that, lost in the slow dance of lips and breaths, his fingers now tracing the line of your jaw, your collarbone. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little harder.

"You're incredible," he murmured, voice husky with emotion. "So strong, so devoted. I don't deserve you, but I'll spend every day trying to." He kissed you again, softer this time, nipping lightly at your bottom lip—a tease that sent a shiver down your spine.

Emboldened, you shifted, swinging a leg over to straddle his lap. His hands settled on your hips, steadying you as you rocked gently against him, feeling the growing hardness beneath his robes. "You deserve the world, Aang. And I'll give you this—my body, my future. Let me show you how much I want to carry your child."

His eyes darkened, pupils dilating with desire. "Darling… keep talking like that, and I won't be able to hold back." He trailed kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive skin of your neck, where he paused to suckle lightly, not yet marking but promising more. You tilted your head, granting him access, and a soft moan escaped you as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

The room grew warmer, the lamp's flame dancing shadows across the walls etched with ancient Air Nomad murals—scenes of gliders soaring free, families in joyful circles. It felt fitting, this sacred space becoming the birthplace of renewal. Your hands roamed under his robes, pushing the fabric aside to explore the lean muscles of his chest, fingertips following the arrows that mapped his heritage.

Aang hummed in approval, his own hands working at the ties of your inner tunic. "So beautiful," he praised, voice low and reverent as he peeled the cloth away, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His gaze lingered, appreciative, before he leaned in to kiss the valley between them. "Every inch of you is perfect. Made for this—for us."

You arched into his touch, nipples hardening under his breath. "Aang… touch me. Please." He obliged, cupping one breast in his palm, thumb circling the peak until you gasped. Then his mouth followed, lips closing around the bud, tongue laving it with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation was electric, pleasure pooling low in your belly as he sucked gently, then grazed his teeth over it—just a hint of bite that made your core clench.

"That's it, my love," he whispered against your skin, switching to the other side. "Let me worship you. You've given me hope tonight. I want to make you feel how grateful I am." His words wove through the haze of arousal, grounding you even as they stoked the fire.

Your hips ground down instinctively, seeking friction against the bulge in his pants. He groaned, the vibration rumbling through your chest, and his hands tightened on your waist, guiding your movements. But he was patient, drawing it out—kisses trailing lower, across your ribs, your stomach, as he eased you back onto the bed.

Lying there, half-undressed, you watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he knelt between your legs. He tugged at your pants, sliding them down with your undergarments, leaving you bare and exposed. The air kissed your heated skin, and you felt a flush creep up your neck under his intense stare.

"Gods, look at you," Aang breathed, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, inching closer but not quite touching where you ached most. "So ready for me already. Wet and waiting. This is all for repopulating our people, isn't it? For taking my seed and growing our family."

The breeding talk sent a thrill through you, your thighs parting wider in invitation. "Yes… all for you. I want it so badly, Aang. Want you to fill me up."

He smiled, that boyish grin mixed with raw need, and lowered his head. His breath ghosted over your folds first, teasing, before his tongue flicked out to taste you. You cried out, hips bucking as he licked a slow stripe up your slit, savoring your essence. "Delicious," he murmured, voice muffled. "My perfect girl. Taste how sweet you are—made for breeding."

He delved deeper, tongue circling your clit with expert precision, then dipping inside you, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts. Your hands fisted the sheets, moans filling the chamber as pleasure built layer by layer. One hand came up to knead your breast, pinching the nipple, while the other held your hip steady.

"Aang… oh, please," you gasped, the coil tightening. He hummed in response, the sound vibrating against you, and sucked your clit between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to edge you closer.

But he pulled back before you tipped over, leaving you panting and desperate. "Not yet, sweetheart," he said, rising to shed his own clothes. His cock stood proud, thick and veined, tip already leaking. You reached for him, but he caught your wrist, kissing the inside gently. "I want to be inside you when you come the first time. Bare, deep, where it counts."

He positioned himself, rubbing the head along your entrance, coating himself in your slickness. The anticipation was torture, delicious and drawn-out. "Breathe with me, love," he instructed, locking eyes with you. "Feel me pushing in—slow, so you can savor every inch. This is us, joining to create life. Your body's welcoming me home."

You nodded, inhaling deeply as he pressed forward. The stretch was exquisite, your walls yielding to his girth, inch by inch until he was seated fully, balls against your ass. He stilled, forehead to yours, both of you adjusting to the intimacy. "So tight, darling. Gripping me like you never want to let go. Good girl—taking your Avatar so well."

His praise washed over you, and you clenched around him experimentally, drawing a hiss from his lips. Then he began to move, shallow thrusts at first, building a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hand slid up your body, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat—not restricting, just a firm reminder of his control, his thumb stroking your pulse.

"That's it," he encouraged, pace quickening. "Ride this with me. Imagine it—my cum flooding you, taking root. Your belly rounding with our child, breasts heavy. You'll be so radiant, my pregnant love."

The words, the pressure on your throat, the drag of his cock against your depths—it all converged. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him deeper, nails digging into his shoulders. He bit down on your collarbone, a sharp sting that bloomed into heat, marking you as his.

"Come for me, princess," he growled, thrusts turning forceful, the bed creaking beneath you. "Milk my cock—show me you're ready for my seed."

Your release hit like a gust of wind, crashing through you, walls pulsing around him as you cried his name. He followed moments later, slamming home one last time, spilling hot and deep inside you. Rope after rope of cum filled your womb, his body shuddering with the force of it.

"Yes—take it all," he panted, hand easing from your throat to tangle in your hair. "Creampie for my future mother of Airbenders. We're starting our legacy tonight."

He stayed buried in you as you both came down, kissing you lazily, tenderly. The temple's winds seemed to sigh in approval outside, carrying the promise of new beginnings.

"I love you," Aang whispered, nuzzling your neck. "Thank you—for this, for everything."

You smiled, holding him close, the warmth of his release a tangible vow inside you. The Air Nomads would rise again, born of this love, this night.

You’re grinning so hard your cheeks ache, fingers locked tight around the straps of your backpack as you half-jog, half-bounce toward the boys’ locker room.  

Campus is thinning out fast. The last pockets of post-match noise are already fading into scattered footsteps, the occasional distant shout, and the soft clatter of someone kicking a stray water bottle across the pavement. The air still carries that leftover heat from the afternoon sun, mixed with the faint tang of cut grass and sweat that always hangs around after these tournaments.  

Still, the win is buzzing under your skin like static you can’t shake. Your team took it. Clean. Loud. And the captain who just dragged them over the finish line? Yeah. That’s your boyfriend.  

You adjust the backpack higher on your shoulders, sneakers scuffing lightly against the marble as you pick up speed without even meaning to.

The changing room comes into view and you reach for the handle without slowing down, only to stop short with your fingers already curled around the cool metal.  

What if someone else is still in there?  

You hesitate, shifting your weight, then knock a couple times.  

“Hello?”  

Silence.  

You wait another beat, ear tilted toward the door, before pushing it open.  

The locker room stretches out in front of you, empty. Not a single person in sight. Just rows of red metal lockers, scattered benches, and the lingering damp-air smell.

Disappointment hits you square in the chest the second the door swings wider.  

You step inside anyway, taking a few careful steps forward, sneakers soft against the tile. The space feels bigger now that it’s empty.

You were pretty sure he mouthed “changing room” at you after the match. Or at least looked your way like he did.  

Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re just being paranoid.  

You should go ba—

Before you can even pivot toward the door, a sharp gasp rips out of you as two solid arms lock around your waist from behind and yank you back flush against a hard chest. The sudden heat presses along your entire spine, solid and unyielding, like it had been waiting in the shadows the whole time.  

“Ow—”  

Teeth scrape lightly over the curve of your shoulder—just enough pressure to send a quick, involuntary shiver racing down your spine and pooling low in your stomach. Nowhere near hard enough to break skin, but the sharp contrast of it against the warm brush of his breath makes your fingers twitch against the empty air.  

Your eyes drop to the arm banded tight across your middle. Fully inked, dark lines wrapping from fingers, wrist to bicep in the exact same sprawling pattern you know by heart. The muscles beneath the tattoos flex once, tightening the hold just a fraction more, keeping you pinned right where you are.  

“Thought you weren’t gonna show,” he murmurs against your skin, voice all rough and low, the words vibrating straight through you.  

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Scared to pay me back?”  

“Pay you back for what?” you frown, twisting to glance over your shoulder.  

He doesn’t give you the chance. In one smooth motion he spins you around and pins you against the nearest locker, one hand trapping both your wrists above your head. The cool metal presses into your back while the heat of him crowds in front of you.  

Shirtless. Just low-slung sweatpants. Chest rising and falling hard, messy hair still damp with sweat. The warm, clean-masculine scent of him hits your nose—nothing sharp or off, just pure post-game heat that somehow settles deeper than it should.  

“Take a picture, dove. It’ll last longer.”  

His abs tighten under the weight of your stare and you snap your eyes up to meet his, caught.

“And by the way,” he adds, eyes narrowing with that slow, knowing grin, “I thought you were scared to pay up for the win.”  

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about. Context?” you fire back, raising an eyebrow even as his hold on your wrists stays firm against the locker.  

He mirrors the look perfectly, one brow arching right back at you, the corner of his mouth still tilted.  

“You promised I could do whatever I want, wherever I want, if I took this match.” His voice drops lower as he leans in, the heat of his bare chest brushing yours. Soft lips graze the shell of your ear and your mouth parts on a quiet, involuntary breath. “Want me to pull the exact time stamp too?”  

“I thought we were just messing around.”

“We?” You feel the shape of his grin press against your skin, warm and deliberate. “Don’t know about you, but I wasn’t.”

“Now, come on, Jungkook. Don’t be stubbor—”

“Oh, no no no. I’m not.” His free arm slides around your waist and locks tight, pulling you flush against him. “But I do need to teach you a little lesson about making promises to me. Joking or not.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

A soft “mhh” of protest vibrates against his lips, but it fades the second the cold metal of his lip piercing presses into your skin. He sucks your lower lip between his own, then catches it lightly between his teeth, biting down just enough to make your breath hitch.

You squirm against the hold, but there’s nowhere to go—wrists still pinned, body trapped between the locker and the solid heat of him.

He deepens the kiss without warning, tilting his head so the cold metal of the piercing drags slowly across your bottom lip again. The pressure of his teeth eases only long enough for his tongue to trace the same path, warm and deliberate, before he bites down once more—soft, controlled, enough to make your fingers curl uselessly above your head.

Your wrists stay locked in his grip. The locker is cool against your back while every inch of him in front of you is pure heat, bare chest rising and falling against yours with every uneven breath he takes. The arm around your waist tightens, dragging you even closer until there’s no space left, just the solid press of his hips and the faint dampness of sweat still clinging to his skin.

You try to twist again, a half-hearted attempt that only makes him hum low against your mouth. The sound vibrates straight through you. He eases the bite and kisses you properly this time—slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that feels like he’s taking his time claiming the exact promise you tried to laugh off.

Your free hand would be pushing at his chest if it weren’t pinned. Instead all you can do is feel the way his body cages yours in, the way his mouth keeps returning to that same spot on your lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

He breaks the kiss with a slow drag of his mouth, leaving your lips tingling and slightly swollen.  

Without a word he tips your chin higher with the edge of his jaw and starts a path of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw. Each one is deliberate—warm, lingering, just enough texture to make your breath catch.  

He reaches the side of your neck and settles there, mouth finding the soft pulse point beneath your ear. His lips part against it, the steady thrum of your heartbeat answering every light press and drag. The arm around your waist stays locked, keeping you pinned flush while his free hand still holds your wrists high against the cool metal of the locker.  

You feel the heat of his breath ghost across the same sensitive spot a second before he kisses it again, slower this time, like he’s testing how hard your pulse can race.

He stays at the pulse point only a moment longer before the kisses turn sharper.  

His mouth opens wider against your skin and he sucks hard enough to pull a soft, startled sound from your throat. The pressure is deep, deliberate, leaving a dark bloom of heat that will definitely show later. He releases it with a quiet pop of air and moves lower, finding a new spot just beneath the first and repeating the same firm pull of lips and tongue.  

One by one he works his way across the side of your neck, each mark overlapping the last until the skin there feels hot and thoroughly claimed. When he reaches the junction where your neck meets your shoulder he pauses, breathes once against the sensitive curve, then seals his mouth over it and sucks even harder. The dual sensation of teeth grazing and tongue soothing makes your wrists flex uselessly in his grip.  

He doesn’t rush. Another mark, then another, right at the base of your throat and along the slope of your shoulder, until every place his mouth has been throbs with the same low, insistent ache.

You’re almost mute under the onslaught, every fresh mark dragging another soft, broken sound out of you that never quite forms into words. You already know talking won’t make him stop.  

Heard that saying? Daddy gets what daddy wants. Something like that.  

His mouth keeps working lower, sealing over random spots of your neck and shoulder again and sucking hard enough that your head tips back against the locker with a quiet thud. The arm around your waist tightens, holding you still while he marks you deeper, the heat of each new bruise blooming under his tongue. Your wrists flex uselessly above your head; the only thing you can do is feel the relentless pull of his lips and the solid press of his body keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Shit. By the way… did you wear this on purpose?”  

His eyes drop and stay locked on the low neckline of your black tank top. You’re looking at him through half-lidded eyes, still pinned, still marked, pulse thudding under every fresh bruise he left.  

Intentionally? If that’s the word. You wore it because you knew he’d love it. If that counts as intentional, then yes.  

“What if I did?” you whisper, a mischievous little smile curving your mouth.  

He answers with the same smile—slower, darker. The arm around your waist slides upward in one smooth motion, fingers catching the hem of your top and dragging it higher until the fabric bunches over your breasts and your bra is fully exposed to the cool locker-room air.  

A low gasp slips out of you. Heat floods your face.

He takes a second just to look, eyes dark and fixed, wetting his lower lip like he can’t help it.  

Then his fingers slide under the band of your bra and pull that up too. The cups give way and your breasts spill free, both the tank and the bra now bunched high above them, leaving you completely exposed from the waist up.  

He stares.  

Not a quick glance—full, hungry focus, like he’s been waiting for exactly this. His free hand comes up and cups one breast, thumb brushing slowly across the soft weight of it, testing the shape, the warmth, the way it fills his palm. He does the same to the other, almost reverent, almost greedy, like he can’t decide which one he wants more.  

A low sound leaves his throat. His eyes never leave your chest.

“Anyone can walk in here anytime,” you whimper.  

He ignores the warning completely. His head drops and he buries his face between your bare breasts, pressing in deep so the soft weight of them cushions his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Hot breath spills across your skin as he nuzzles harder, turning his face side to side like he wants to feel every inch of you against him at once.  

The hand that isn’t pinning your wrists squeezes both breasts inward, trapping his face even tighter between them. A low, satisfied sound rumbles out of him, muffled by your skin, while the cool air of the locker room kisses the rest of your exposed chest.

The second his hand finally releases your wrists, your fingers fly into his hair, threading deep and tugging.  

Your nipples have been tight and pebbled for what feels like forever, aching from the cool air and the constant attention.  

He pulls his face free from between your breasts and immediately captures one nipple in his mouth. Hot, wet heat seals over the stiff peak as he sucks hard, tongue circling and pressing flat against it while your hands stay buried in his hair, holding him right there.

Moans and soft gasps spill from your lips without permission, each one sharper as he sucks harder on the sensitive peak.  

Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer even as your back arches off the locker. The wet heat of his mouth works the nipple relentlessly—tongue flicking, lips sealing, teeth grazing just enough to make another broken sound catch in your throat. His free hand comes up to cup the other breast, thumb rolling over the equally stiff peak so both sides stay under the same focused, hungry attention.

He switches to the other breast without warning, dragging his mouth across the soft space between them before sealing over. The same hard suction, the same deliberate swirl of tongue, pulls another shaky moan out of you. His hand stays busy on the other, squeezing and teasing the wet peak he just left behind so neither side gets a break.  

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, guiding him, holding him, while the cool metal of the locker presses into your bare back and every fresh pull of his mouth sends heat pooling lower. 

A loud gasp tears out of you as his lip piercing, hard and cool presses firmly against your nipple. The sharp contrast of pressure mixes pleasure with a thin edge of pain that shoots straight down your spine and makes your knees tremble.  

Your fingers tighten hard in his hair, holding him there while he keeps the firm contact, rolling the sensitive peak under the unyielding pressure until your breath comes in short, shaky bursts. The hand still cupping your other breast squeezes in time with every movement, making sure both sides stay oversensitive and aching.

He spits on your tit, spreading it out with his tongue, making everything messy and sticky.

He pulls back just enough to change the angle, then seals his mouth over the soft upper curve of one breast and sucks hard. The deep, deliberate pressure blooms into a dark mark almost immediately. He holds it there, tongue working against your skin, until the spot throbs.  

Then he moves.  

Another hickey forms lower, right along the outer swell. Then one beneath the nipple, the suction strong enough to make your fingers yank at his hair. He treats the other breast the same way—open-mouthed, insistent, leaving a trail of darkening bruises across the pale skin until both sides are scattered with fresh, aching marks.  

Your knees keep trembling. Every new pull of his mouth draws another soft, broken sound from your throat while the cool locker-room air kisses the wet, freshly marked skin he leaves behind.

He works his way higher without pause.  

Open-mouthed kisses climb the upper slope of your breasts until his lips find the delicate ridge of your collarbone. He sucks hard there, sealing over the bone and drawing a deep, dark mark that will sit right at the edge of any shirt you wear.  

Another one forms just beside it, then a third farther along the line, each one firm and lingering. The skin over your collarbones heats and throbs under the attention while your fingers stay buried in his hair, holding him close as he claims that exposed stretch of skin one deliberate bruise at a time.

He drops back down to your breasts like he can’t stay away.  

Soft, playful bites scatter across the marked skin—quick nips along the upper curve, a sharper one just beneath a nipple, another on the full outer swell. He doesn’t settle in one place for long, moving from side to side like he’s tasting every inch he already claimed.  

Each bite is followed by the soothing drag of his tongue. His hands keep pushing your breasts together, lifting them, squeezing them, presenting them to his mouth so he never has to stop. A low, almost greedy sound leaves him every time his teeth sink in, as if the soft weight of you in his hands and under his mouth is the only thing that matters right now. 

He keeps going like he has no intention of stopping.  

One hand stays under your breast, lifting the soft weight so he can take as much of it into his mouth as possible. He sucks deep and slow, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing flat against the nipple before flicking it in quick, teasing strokes. When he finally releases it, the peak is darker, wet, and aching.  

He switches sides immediately, giving the other breast the exact same treatment—long pulls of suction broken by soft, playful bites that make your fingers tighten in his hair. Every few seconds he pauses just to look, eyes dark and fixed on the way your breasts move with every shaky breath you take, before diving back in like he’s starving for the feel of them.  

The marks he already left darken under the new attention. His thumbs keep brushing, squeezing, rolling the sensitive skin while his mouth works, completely focused.

You don’t complain.  

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying this—a lot—but the fact that you’re both still in a technically public place sits right at the edge of every breath.  

“You done now?” you manage, voice low and uneven. Your face is flushed deep red, chest rising and falling hard, eyes half-lidded. Fresh hickeys scatter across your neck, shoulder, collarbone, and both breasts, the skin tender and marked.  

He lifts his head, grinning, and gives a short nod.  

“For now, I guess so."