Riki didn't care much for parties. 

Despite how feral he'd get over tequila in his first years of uni, perhaps his taste had matured since then. Graduated to the expensive whiskey his father rewarded to him for the last year of uni he embarks on, shifting from the daze of break-dancing in someone's living room to sitting on plastic white chairs in his backyard, passing a blunt between his fingers. He'd dabbled in mostly everything, seeing univeristy as the lawless grounds nothing felt real in, which explains why in the summer before he leaves home, he buys his first g. The pick-up point is in the abandoned park he loved as a child, in the barely-on, flickering lights of a tunnel he had no business loitering in, kicking his feet and rubbing his nose like the newbie he made himself out to be. The dealer - a friend of a friend - a uni dropout with the voice of Darth Vader, gives him a nod before they exchange weed for cash, so casual in nature despite the thrum in his neck. 

Only when he's scattered away, stuffing the bag so far into his hoodie pocket, it'd bury into the material, can he exhale. Except when he gets to his friend's house, free of rigid parents for the weekend, does he realise he doesn't know the first thing about smoking weed. He assumes it's like smoking a cigarette, which he'd regretfully done at a house party once and threw up rosé on some poor girl's shoes thereafter. He didn't inhale right, hacked every time he tried burying the puff of smoke in his lungs, then while his high school friends starfished on the living room carpet, giggling to themselves, Riki sits on the couch, his cheek pressed into knees brought to his chest as he watches Courage the Cowardly Dog, wondering if uni will be any better. 

It is ─ he finds his crowd, people with a knack for empathy and knowledge despite the stupid shit they get up to, but something in Riki relaxes. Lets him come into himself and ride the wave of new and exiciting experiences, trying this and that. Cocaine's too expensive, pills swing his jaw and ket makes him boneless on an overcrowded dancefloor. They come and go, but weed stays. Gives him the kind of highs where he finds amusement in the smallest things or finally quiets his mind, constant drones of the future drowned out by the shapes and colours of his lava lamp. In the midst of all the oragnised chaos, Riki somehow finds himself with sufficient grades, earning his best score yet on a paper written unreasonably high, laughing in disbelief all the way back home. Coming through the doorway, he spies his housemate Jake, the high mark the first thing he relays, to which Jake grins like some proud father, corners of his lips to his ears before he gives Riki a hug. 

"That's my guy," his palm smacks onto Riki's back, hand braced on his shoulder as Jake pulls away, a knowing grin on his face. "I say we celebrate."

"Over some coursework?" Riki's eyebrow quirks. "That's uhm, sweet but no need, broski."

"Bro, I'm making brownies. The good kind," Jake nods over his shoulder, the chocolate aroma hitting Riki suddenly, wafting with the undercurrent of the unwind of his tension-packed shoulders. "Hee's finally submitted that CompSci thing that's made him a ghost and Sunghoon's got a game he's gonna win. We're celebrating." 

Riki lets the idea carry his smile, stretching further as he deserts his leather bag on the couch and walks into the kitchen with Jake, timbs echoing against vinyl as they check on the progress of Jake's creation. Riki's fairly acquainted with the various ways of ingesting weed, his Chrome Hearts themed bong bought off Etsy one of his prised possession, but brownies are still his favourite. Quick and easy, his second year dealer an aspiring chef with a knack for desserts, from space cake to the likes of tiramisu. The latter his favourite, sweet enough for him to stand and strong enough for him to laugh controllably watching Fantastic Mr. Fox, collapsing over Sunghoon's lap in breathless laughs echoed in the back of his throat. 

Needless to say, "What the cuss?" became a go-to phrase between the two, unavoidable in first two weeks of its life, and forever a running joke between the two.

Shuffling out his bedroom door later on, the front door adjacent to it flings open, heavy clattering following as Sunghoon's figure ambles through. He topples over the mess of shoes stationed at the door all needing a wash, hands splayed against the narrow hallway walls to stead himself.

Riki raises an eyebrow.

"You good?" His head lowers, mirroring Sunghoon's ducked one as he struggles tugging off his sneakers, a dramatic sigh emptying out him as they fling off, his flushed face in full view. "You drank already?"

"The guys insisted on a pint after we pummelled Yonsei 7-0 ─ an embarrassing shutout," Sunghoon runs his hands through his sweaty hair, face settling into a lax Riki's happy to see. "But you know, it's never just one and now I'm halfway smashed and I still need to fucking shower,"

He starts departing, socks hitting carpet, clapping a hand over Riki's shoulder with a heavy squeeze as he yells ascending the stairs. "If you hear me fall over, just ignore it. Later!"

Riki can only smile, shaking his head before he styles his caramel blond strands into something more spiky, finally having time to put effort into his appearance after coursework that literally stole the swag from him. In the mirror, he's the painting of a 2000s punk love interest, only ever existing in a mall food court or Hot Topic, going as far as painting his nails chrome. And soon enough when the lights dim, living room illuminated by disco LED lights and packed with conversating bodies, Riki's dodging drunken spills, reaching into the back of the fridge for Jake's brownies to bring out back, pebbles rubbing together under his shoes as he plots down in the circle of his housemates and a few other friends, a welcome slow in mellow conversation. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm part whatever they put in Monster because besides that and microwave Mac & Cheese, that's all I survived off," smoke blows out Heeseung's lips, some cheap cigarette from the corner shop between his fingers as his body slumps into the plastic chair. His free hand pulls his black beanie downwards, his fringe peeking out. "You know how down bad I am if I'm a nitty again."

He takes another drag, head tilted to the sky, moonlight bathing the slopes of his face in shadows and brilliance. Riki watches on quietly. 

"Well, it's done now. So, do yourself a favour and buy better cigs," Jake chuckles, eyes moving opposite him to Riki. "You brought them out?"

"Yeah, I'm not looking to drink twelve pints tonight," he unwraps the cling wrap over the brownies, rings clinking together as he offers the stacked amount around. "Plus, they're fresh. And hopefully better than the last batch."

Beomgyu, one of Heeseung's friends breaks out into a chuckle, laughing along with his friend who says, "Those were an attempt."

"Hey! It's harder than it looks, okay?" Jake insists, biting into his brownie. "The fuck would youse know about using an oven, much less baking."

"Well, if your aim was to give us diabetes, you were halfway there," Riki laughs, gulping before he takes a bite. Dense but still somehow airy, not too sweet - good on Jake. "I'll give you a pass this time."

"Thanks Riki, because I really only live for your validation," Jake's eyes roll, amusement on his face before he nods over to Haechan. "What you think?"

"Like I won't need a glucometer," he giggles, mouth circled in crumbs. "It's really science if you think about it. I'm glad you learned the error of your ways."

"Fat fucking chance if you think you're taking any home," the two stick their tongues out at each other, to the sound of Beomgyu moaning, "Just kiss already, I'm close." Jake's laugh only lasts moments before his phone buzzes in his pocket, screen illuminating his face. "Oh shit, she's here."

"Who's here?" Riki asks, another bite into his brownie.

"Wonder if she's run into Sunghoon. Lord knows that man is a mess," Jake supplies, neck straining to peek at the backdoor.

"Yeah, I haven't seen that man so fucked since St. Pattys - and that was last week," Haechan adds. "Think he'll make a move?"

"He'll try but she won't have it. He's probably got beer and sick down his shirt anyways," Jake replies, lighting up at the opening door. He waves his raised hand, more enthused than Haechan's. "Took you long enough."

"Sorry, but Sunghoon insisted to talking to me with his sicky breath," a feminine voice echoes from the narrow alley leading towards them, your figure emerging from the shadows. "I had to get him to brush his teeth. He gagged brushing his tongue ─ pussy."

Cheeks full of chocolate brownie, Riki feels all his weight sink to his feet, body running arctic cold then densely warm at the sight of you. You're so pretty it hurts, sweet in the face with a confidence keeping your shoulders back and head high, the smirk across your face alone very much capable of making him pop a boner. In the silent howls of the night, so much air surrounds them yet makes no effort to slither past his shut mouth, his body a burning furnace as he watches your every move.

"Oh, is that a brownie? Fuck yeah," you lean down into Jake's hand, teeth sinking into the dessert with a nonchalance so alarming Riki only can blink once per minute, a heavy gulp moving down his throat. "Hm, that is good. That dealer hasn't left for France yet?"

"Nah, it's my own humble creation," Jake's hand splays over his chest, nodding proudly. "Happy you like it. Kiss for my troubles?"

"My God, this whole house is full of horn dogs," you drag the last plastic chair closest to Riki, ripped leather trousers crying against the material as you settle, sipping on your drink. "Don't tell me you're one of them."

The sentence is directed at Riki, who's still baffled how he's gone three and a quarter years not having seen you once. Not at any party, not at any club, not even on campus. Perhaps it's for the best because if he knew you existed, his focus would boil down solely to you as it does now. Trailing the stacked silver hoops and chains lining your ears, the dermals under your right eye haloed by dark, unworried makeup, the snake bites settled beneath the plump of your lips with sharp nails and leather clothing plucked from his wildest dreams. Slouched back and manspread, he gets full view of the belly piercing beneath your black vest, a skeleton hanging at the bottom.

It's then he thinks he might explode. 

"Riki, you good?" Heeseung asks, blowing smoke with a knowing smirk. Riki can only groan. "Brownies already hitting?"

"Something like that," he only spares his friend a glance, eyes fighting for more time with you, a polite smile on your lips. He hates how quick he is to imagine your lips elsewhere. "We haven't met before."

"We haven't," you confirm. "I had the displeasure of being in a group with Jake for some workshop a bit ago. I'm only in it for the baked goods."

"Sounds like something totally unrelated." Beomgyu chimes in.

"He wishes," your nose scrunches, laugh contagious in the coy smiles dispensed around the group. "Good to meet you, Riki. Your fits live up to the hype."

Riki points to himself, incapable of social interaction. "My fits?"

"Hair's a bit questionable. Bro looks like he got electrocuted." Heeseung jokes, just to wind him up.

"Coming from a man smoking cheapo cigs, I'd pipe down," you retort, a low blow that has the guys snickering behind enveloped mouths and veined hands.. "It's cool spiked up. A bit out of place ─ hang on,"

A small, "Can I?" escapes your lips, dialled low enough to confuse his brain into a moment of intimacy, his answer immediate nod as he nods. Then, his eyes trail, following your hand that has the lightest touch, carefully arranging his hair back into place, concentration pulled into satisfaction as you admire your work. "Now this is a look."

His blush floods all the way to his ears, not missed by Heeseung who only shakes his head with a chuckle, sending dancing eyebrows and bitten back smirks his way. Riki chooses to ignore it over the gentle thump of music from inside the house. It’s so starkly dissimilar to the calmness of the back garden, nothing but conversation and Jake's chill RnB playlist humming through his phone's speakers. Riki learns all sorts about you that night, lulled by your velvety voice and weed making him float on a cloud. However, what becomes blaringly obvious is no matter what anecdotes he learns over the short time you spend outside, it will never suffice.

Not until you're his to have.

Whatever Riki's dissertation his Sports Science degree is based on takes a backseat, all of his thoughts circling back to you. He experiences the phenomenon of life at university, where you see a person once and never see them again or see them everywhere ─ you are the latter. Blooming in places once unimportant to him, now noted down by the grace of your presence. He sees you in the university mail room collecting your guitar pick parcel, sees you on the grassy lawn near the library catching the sun's rays while he's sentenced to lecture catch-ups in the library, cat eye sunglasses perched on your septum-pierced nose, laughing as a kicked football bounces off your sunbathing friend's ass. He sees you in said library nodding your head to the Drum & Bass leaking through your headphones, blitzing through work with coffin nails pattering against your keyboard. He even catches you outside the Design School building, giggling as you swap a blunt between friends in a nearby bike shed, not the least bit worried of getting caught. 

Having access to you like this makes his mind wonder, go places fuelled by fantasy and desire, and it hotwires his system to you. In your mystery black but bright smile, the silver of your jewellery and the warmth of your heart. How in all the moments he thinks he's alone in seeing you, your head turns. Most times, you motion him over for polite chatter or simply smile, acknowledging him in the smallest interaction he'll spend all day thinking of. His brain doesn't allow him to forget you, finding every excuse to bring you up in conversation, try your favourite foods, listen to your favourite artists (which has a lot of crossover with his) and just…well, simp over you as Heeseung so lovingly puts it. 

Riki can protest all he wants, but he knows it to be true. How much he's fallen for how you move through the world like its yours, carving every bit of yourself in spaces he'll never forget, whispering your name in suppressed whimpers as he doesn't let his thoughts venture too far, just the image of you laughing at some poor joke he made or the compliments you so freely give him. 

And then he's coming. All over his hand, sticky with relief and shame. He can only sigh then, because even if he hates himself for how low his obsession has taken him, he can't bring himself to banish all thought of you.

You're hard to forget after all. 

"Is she coming?" Riki asks, always referring to you as he follows Jake down the stairs. The older of the two scampes through to the living room where Sunghoon's left some hockey game playing and ventures back into his room, lived in-neat with the scent of sea salt living in his space.

"Man, I don't know. It's like you have a crush on her or something," Jake says absently, sifting through his closet for something to wear. Except when he only hears the scrape of his clothes hangers and not Riki's immediate denial, he stops. Looks his friend in the eye, peeking through chestnut curls to display his surprise. "What the fuck? You're joking."

Riki could deny it. Save himself the additional teasing, but he's always been a shit liar. 

"She's cool." He ends up admitting, looking down at his suede sneakers. They need a clean. 

"Yeah, I bet she is since you beat your meat to her," Jake laughs, pulling out an outfit he's satisfied with - jeans and a brown plaid zip-up jacket. "I get it, but you're not the only one. Jay from Psych acts like she's cast a love spell on him, and Sunoo follows her around constantly. And you know Sunghoon wants her, so…"

Riki groans, fed up with the situation. "Come on, he has options." 

"And you don't?"

He considers it. Thinks about that girl in his Advanced Sports Biomechanics lecture he's been pining over since they last kissed first year, but quickly got a boyfriend before he had the balls to ask her out. Thinks about the other girl from the library months ago who he suspects likes girls and somehow, he finds peace in it all. Letting go of a past he no longer identifies with, and finds you. Nestled into crevices of his life that matter more than before.

He's an absolute goner. 

"She's special," Riki lets it be known, his nape a source of comfort as his nails scrape away. "I only want her."

"Aren't you a romantic," Back turned to him, Jake circles back with a baseball cap with a design of unbuttoned jeans. He's stolen that out of Riki's closet, reminding him to lock his door when he leaves for lectures. "Maybe talk to Hoon about it. So we can avoid another shared-girl situation,"

"Unless you're into being a cuck or whatever."

"You signed up for that."

"Different strokes for different folks, I don't know what you're into," Jake can only shrug, bottom lip jutted out. "Don't think I want to know either. Just talk to the guy so there's no drama." 

And because Riki's preferences don't line up with Jake's, he makes the trek upstairs to the attic room, hearing Heeseung yell from his corner-tucked room, probably playing League of Legends.

And he calls Riki a loser.

Riki knocks, Sunghoon yelling for him to come in. 

Up the trifle of stairs, he spirals up into Sunghoon's room, fitting for the so-called 'slut' of their house, the most spacious of all four bedrooms, decently clean with hockey memorabilia scattered all around. He's at his desk to the stairs' right, thick-rimmed glasses on his nose bridge as he actually works on his dissertation, slumping back at Riki's presence.

"Need something?" 

He avoids his gaze, fingers threading through the hairs down his nape. He'd cut it if it wasn't for your lone mention of preferring longer hair.

That night he'd dreamed of you pulling on his strands, head between your legs, coming undone by nothing but his mouth. 

"Yeah, I wanted to run something by you," he sits on the edge of Sunghoon's navy blue bed, legs not having much strength to stand. He chooses to ignore the mystery white stain centimetres away on Sunghoon's duvet cover. 

"Shoot."

"Well, you know," he then mentions your name, shoving back down the spike in nerves at Sunghoon's small but undeniable grin. "You uhm, like her or something?"

"The fuck's with all the awkwardness?" Sunghoon laughs, nose scrunched before he lets out a sigh, fingers carding his hair back. "Yeah, she's cool."

Same words Riki said. He's screwed.

"How much do you like her?" Riki asks, fingers playing with the frayed fabric of his shorts, head buried all the way into imaginary sand. "Because I mean, there's no girl that doesn't want you. I just wanted to know so-"

"So you could get a hall pass?"

His question is accented with a disbelieving brow-raise, something like distaste amongst his moled features. Riki's hand smooths over his neck, unsettled by how nervous he is in the presence of a friend. 

"Something more long-term, actually," Riki supplies, finding it in himself to verbalise what he's kept locked away since that night. "I like her. I'd like to take her out if she'd let me."

There's a silence after his words, nothing but the house's usual sounds of Heeseung's yells and keyboard smashes, Jake's playlist playing through the living room speakers. It's a confession he's known since he'd first met you and yet, when said in front of Sunghoon, he isn't quite sure how the words will land.

"Shit Riki," Sunghoon curses, something akin to amusement in his features. He leans back in his office chair, matching grey hoodie and shorts hanging off his large frame. "Should've just said you were serious about the girl. Would've backed off ages ago." 

"You seemed close," Riki recalls, thinking back to when you physically helped him brush Sunghoon's teeth. The intimacy of the moment lingers in his mind longer than he's liked. 

"Well, yeah. I've been trying since first year," Sunghoon laughs, not even minutely embarassed at being rejected for almost four years. "But she's pretty set on being friends. Even more so lately,"

Recollection pinches his features together, hands smoothing over the five o'clock shadow he almost always has. "Lowkey she might be into you. She's brought you up into convos loads."

Riki can't quite believe his ears. "Sorry?"

"She has this Pinterest board - I even downloaded that for her - for guy fits she likes, but I think it's just what she'd dress her boyfriend in," Sunghoon says, shaking his head. "Anyways, it's like, your style to a tea. So, she wouldn't have to convince you. Plus, she said you're cute. She never compliments guys."

Riki frowns. "Surely that's not true."

"Bro! During my bulk, when I was at like, peak sexiness, she said I looked like I'd burst from all the roids I must be taking," Riki swipes a smile off his face, clearing his throat to disguise his laughter. "Mind you, I don't need enhancers to get big anywhere,"

Riki's eyes roll. "She's also said nice things about Jake, but never his appearance and he's a fucking stud."

"Maybe that's not what matters to her."

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, chair creaking as he turns back to his monitors. "Here you go, Romeo," he shakes his computer mouse, clicks bringing screens to life. "Maybe that's shit she's charmed for ─ couldn't be me. But yeah, go ahead. She's all yours."

A flutter kickstarts in Riki's chest, lips folding over each other to disguise what he's already shown.

"Only mine?'

"Don't push it," Sunghoon warns through a side eye, no real bite to his words. "Close the door behind you, I'm gonna have a tactical jerk before tonight's party." 

"Right, because you've got chyl─"

"Get out, Riki."

How Riki's found himself in this situation, he'll never know. Nevertheless, if there's a higher power orchestrating this, he'll spend his existence in good faith because there's simply no way this is happening.

The evening starts off with a crackle of nerves, enough for him to desert his dinner thanks to Jake's inability to make one serving. He apologises, saying he's had a big lunch but his leftovers will be tomorrow's lunch, whisking off to their shared downstairs bathroom to start getting ready. While he does put effort into his appearance, this goes above his norm, every item of clothing or jewellery picked out with precision, laid out and deliberated in time that seems to fly by. He takes his time with his hair, a bit overgrown but styling it like you had that night, dusting the blush on the apples of his cheeks as he peers at his reflection. Heck, he even gives himself a manicure, pushing back his cuticle and making sure his nails are trimmed with no sharp edges, nails shining in chrome like a good luck charm. When Heeseung abruptly comes into his room for some cologne, they're both startled. Riki sitting on his edge of his bed ,in a black bathrobe with a green face mask on, nail file in hand. 

Heeseung damn nearly topples over in laughter when Riki pushes him out, shutting the door to hear Heeseung yell out. "Holy fuck, this guy's pussy whipped!" 

Perhaps the comedic break does some good to his nerves, but they're very much well and alive once the house party starts, one last night before the Easter break. So, if Riki wants to spend the next four weeks reliving every interaction you've had because he was too scared to get your number, he'd have to put in work tonight.

Usually, he has little to no alcohol before he moves onto weed, but with shaky pupils scanning the living room, he's yet to see you and since his heart can't differentiate between being held hostage and looking for you, he yields to Sunghoon's request of a friendly beer pong game. Sunghoon hard carries their team against his two teammates, Jungwon and Taehyun, and because Riki can't think straight, he has almost four drinks before he's trudging outside, needing some air and a blunt. 

The usual suspects are outside - Jake, Haechan, Beomgyu, Heeseung and you. He'd missed you, your entrance made through the back alley because Jake said he had hot gossip that couldn't wait. Relief drops him into the chair opposite, a side-eye cast at Heeseung whose purposely positioned himself next to you with Jake on your other side, the dirty look all but gone when you acknowledge him in front of the entire group.

"Was wondering when you'd swing by," something unlabelled lines your lips, pulled in easiness accelerating Riki's heart rate the more he looks at you. The bore of your eyes. "Wanna hit the bong?"

He's too hopeless to speak, settling for a nod and looking back on it, he thinks it's then that seals his fate. How racket settles in his chest and mellowness makes his lids heavy, opening him up to normal interaction, careless jokes thrown around because despite how comfortable you make others around you, the romantic prospect of you has always held him back. Scared that he'll seem like a try-hard, that he's starved for attention, a turn-off, for a lack of better words. However, his perspective is warped at best, a shuffle of seats having you end next to him as their circle go in and out the house. You talk like you're the only ones outside, close and whispered, enough for the hairs on the back of his neck to stand when you lean in further, lips so close to his jugular he's afraid you'll hear the hammer of his heart. Know he's into you. 

"You've got a mole here too," you offer up some space before he's about to combust, your finger instead resting on the mole. It's under his chin, dangerously close to his quick pulse. "They're really pretty."

"I've got more down my back," he answers, because he's stupid. A fucking idiot actually. "Seven, I think."

You lean back in your chair, leg swinging over to hike your impossibly short skirt dangerously high, slyness pulling your features. "Isn't that a treat."

That's the nail in the coffin. One Riki doesn't hear beyond the desperate squeeze his burned lungs do, eyes quickly averting to Heeseung's prying ones, mouthing a shared, "What the fuck?" Somehow you miss it and slip back to conversation, like you didn't single-handedly dismantle Riki's brain. He performs the miracle of making his brain work despite the ingested weed's call for slow, making up some sentences up until Riki mentions his Chrome Hearts themed bong, your eyes sparkling in response. You ask to see it and even though he has many pictures of the thing, he wants to show you properly. Offers a quiet hand to you after he's stood to his feet, smiles mirrored between you two before navigates through the warm bodies swaying to music, beelining to his bedroom.

He notices you lock the door behind you. Shyness offered. "Don't tell me you haven't been locking your door during these parties."

"I'm usually good about it," Riki speaks slower, aided by the relaxation coursing through him. 

"Good. Because we've had forks stolen during one of ours," you roll your eyes, shrugging off your faux-fur toasted jacket. You hang it amongst the rack of Riki's coats, the piece fitting in so nicely with his. "Uni students steal anything."

"Tell me about it." He thinks back to the traffic cone Sunghoon had in his bedroom first year, then promptly forgets all about him. About everyone except you.

He shows you the bong, hoping his mind isn't hallucinating how close you are, pretty much doing a Show n' Tell because now with you in his room, everything seems serious. Like if he says the wrong thing, interepts something wrong and goes along with it, it'll ruin his chances forever.

"It's not much, but it's me."

"That's what I like about it," you express, perched on the edge of his bed alongside him. Thighs touching, face illuminated by the black candles matching with every colour choice in the room except deep splashes of maroon. "It's got all your memories, everything you've loved and are. It's…refreshing,"

Your hand falls over his, fingers threading between the gaps of his fingers, squeezing. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"Of course," his answer comes out in a whisper, muffled by the students coming in and out the house. "It's easy with you ─ comfortable." 

It's the first bone he throws, not intentionally but a peek into his vulnerability he can't get mad at himself for, not when you're smiling at him like you do. With his laptop in front of you two, where his desk is, he gets his Spotify up, putting on a blend playlist at your suggestion. You don't stop holding hands through the entire interaction, more command in his veins as his thumb grazes over your knuckles. Some more talking happens, but it's almost lost in the grand scheme of things when his heavy lids drop down to your lips, wondering how the cold metal of your snakebites would feel, the noises you'd make when he wouldn't rush kissing you like every loser looking just to get some. How he'd savour you like he's wanted to ever since he laid eyes on you. 

The opportunity comes like destiny, over the chorus of Joey Bada$$' 'Y U Don't Love Me?' forever remembered as the moment he kisses you. Colour explodes beyond his closed eyes, a moan releasing at the pillowy press of you, your free hand coming up to cup his face while his other rests around your nape, thumb stroking skin as he loses himself in you. The weed cycling through his system intensifies the moment tenfold, having to hold onto you to assure himself he's tethered to reality, groaning at the cold metal sliding past his lips as he captures your bottom lip in a teasing bite. You moan at that, the prettiest sound he's ever heard and when he's ready to get on his knees to worship you like he's always wanted to, you beat him to it. 

"I wanted to─" Riki starts.

The unbuckle of his belt is strikingly loud amidst the house party, ringing in his ears as your tongue swipes your bottom lip, teeth left in its wake as you insist. "Later. I want you in my mouth now." 

And who is he to argue? Especially when every second of this is plucked from the dark corners of his mind, watching with a laboured chest as you unbutton his jeans and free him from his precome-damp boxers, cock springing free. 

Wonder dazzles in your eyes, a satisfied hum resonating through your chest as your tongue immediately lolls out, swirling all around his flushed tip, ending off a dipped tongue in his precome-filled slit, groaning at the taste. "Fuck, you're huge. Taste good too."

Riki's shoulders drop in defeat, hand coming out to cup your face as he looks at you with agony. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"Don't go dying on me, Riki," you smirk, lowering your plump lips to his cock, hand folded over it, thumb grazing its engorged veins. "You haven't fucked me yet."

Between the weed-amplified sense and the dream that is you, Riki doesn't anticipate himself lasting long. Especially when you're working him like this, unconcerned with being messy as you cover his length in spit, smeared it into your hands to account for what can't fit into your mouth. You start off so sweet, teasing disguised as you cover his length in adoring kisses, from his balls your hands fiddle with, up his shaft to his tip, leaking by the time you get there. The chuckle you do vibrates into his hot skin, earning a hiss from him as you lap it up with devious enthusiasm, taking all you can in one go. 

"Fuckkkk," 

If his other hand wasn't supporting him to sit straight, it would've pulled at his bleached strands, thighs quivering at the warm sensation of your mouth feeding itself more and more of him. Your head bobs further each time you take more, sloppy as ever as the wet suction and slick drag eating away at the music from his laptop. Or the party right outside his door, so far from mind as his ears only catch on the sounds of the gags you do on him, overconfident but never relenting, the constant throat-close around him pulling a pained whimper from him. 

"God, your throat feels so good, baby," the words come so naturally to him, eyes closed in pleasure. "Taking me so well."

Around his length, you mumble, "I'll take more. I want more." 

He damn near comes right then and there, precome beading down your throat you attempt to fit more of him into. Riki throws his head back, fingers carding through your hair and pulling, not meaning to but spurred on by your moans of ecstasy, his cock throbbing in your mouth as you keen, "Harder please," 

So sweet to him, he could never say no to you. As your head bobs, your tongue swirls, a groan unearthed from the deepest of Riki's chest as he pulls harder at your strands, breaths coming out hard and fast as he tries holding himself back. But you're so good, moving your hand in tandem with your mouth, sucking him like he's the best thing you've put in your mouth and he undoes. 

"Shit, wait ─ I'm gonna come," he warns, eyebrows pulled together but it appears as no concern to you. Gaining confidence and momentum, you push yourself to nuzzle your nose against his pelvis, gagging hard enough to wet your lashes but everything's secondary to you. Getting Riki to come is everything, which comes as you whimper and cough around his length, nails scratching at his hips, over the mole you kissed on your way down his torso and he comes. "Gonna fill your─hmph!"

He pulls hard at your hair, only adding to his orgasm as you squeal around his length, wiggling your ass like you'll push into some pressure and it kills Riki, flooding your mouth in hot spurts of come, his body curling into itself as his cock softens in the mouth you keep him in. Once he's blinked enough for his sight to return, relieved but wanting more, his cock slips from your glossed lips, your face coming into view as tears streak down your warm cheeks, so pretty and perfect for him with come edged in the corner of your lips. 

"Don't swallow."

You're about to swipe the come into your mouth when he says that, curiosity in your expression, morphing into surprise as he pulls you closer into a kiss. The gasp muffles against his plump lips, some of his come already down your throat but enough shared between your mouths as his tongue darts into your mouth, kissing and tasting every inch of you, leaving you dizzer than ever. You're fawn legged, collapsing in a heap back onto the grey carpet after the kiss, looking up at Riki with saucer eyes, a look across his face familiar in the way he feels he looks at you like. He can do nothing but smirk as his thumb swipes away missed come from the corner of your lips, licked off his thumbpad. 

"We taste so good together, angel," he smirks, darkness flared in his eyes. "Just like I thought."

Riki thinks he's scared you off.

Perhaps the heat of the moment led him astray and this is its consequence, but he'd been so deprived of your lips on him, he took every chance to have you on him. Including when your mouth was full of come.

When Heeseung hears this the next morning, he sits there with his pink cat-ear headphones with a jaw dropped, appalled. "You're a fucking freak, dude. Or a narcissist. I can't tell the difference." 

Heeseung's words don't inspire much confidence, especially when Riki recalls how after the kiss, your phone buzzed, a frantic call coming from your housemate that ultimately ends up with you disappearing into the moonlight, a thousand apologies falling from your lips as you scurry out the door, shouldering people in the torpido wind you rush off with. Nothing more said, just a rushed goodbye...not even a goodbye kiss, if Riki allows himself to be more embarrasing about you.

Days later, he's settled on a kitchen stool, house vacant as the rest of the guys have left for the holiday break. Riki runs his hands through his hair, cursing himself for scaring you when he had you. Plentiful curse words cross his minds, cut off by the ping of his phone lighting up on the kitchen marble counter.

Unknown number: hey, i got your number for jake. sorry for the unexpected text (╥﹏╥)

Unknown number: my housemate's boyfriend broke up with her and i think we've eaten enough ice cream and egged his house enough for her to get home okay. i don't like how i left things, but i at least wanted offer an explanation for me dipping so suddenly.

Unknown number: if you're still around, you're welcome to come round mine or i can come to yours. i'd just like to talk things out if you're willing to. i'm really sorry <3

Being mad at you hadn't even crossed his mind, but it very clearly crossed yours. And when the realisation hits, he grabs the few things he needs and bolts out the door, on his way to you. 

You're waiting outside your doorstep for him when he drifts round the corner, air cycling out his lungs as he runs the rest of the way, watching you blink back surprise, only for it to muffle against his lips as he crashes lands on you, face screwed in all the worry and longing he has for you. Always had for you, body pressed to yours as you melt into his embrace, hands gripping the collar of his jean jacket for dear life as you lose yourself too.

Not much talking is done, just a lot of 'miss you's and 'you're it for me,' coming from Riki. He's so wrecked when he can have you like this, splayed across the wine and charcoal of your bedspread, shorts and underwear tossed aside, folds glistening with all the arousal swimming in your eyes as you cry, "Riki, please." 

"Let me, princess. Let me," he whispers breathlessly, so close to your cunt, the warmth of his breath making you shudder. "You're so fucking pretty, baby. Been dreaming of this forever." 

Speaking like a man tortured, he gives into his dreams, falling into the inevitable as he presses a kiss to your clit before licking a stripe straight from your entrance back to your clit, swallowing slick after the swirls of his tongue. You keen high in your throat, hands flying to his hair for stability, nails grazing his scalp as his life's purpose deviates to eating you out, eyes falling shut as he gets off on the withers of your body, your breath quivering each time you whine his name. He catalogues it all ─ somewhere where his brain isn't present, laser-focused on the slow open mouth kisses he gives your clit, tongue swiping to the chorus of your moans. 

"Rikiiii," you whine, his eyes finding yours squinted as pleasure blooms across your face. "Your fingers ─ hmph! Need them,"

"Anything you want, pretty thing," he mumbles against you, lips glistening in your slick as two fingers trace your entrance, obsessed with its repeated clench to catch them. He noses along your cunt, swirling his tongue with the right pressure to chase after your incoming orgasm. "Just ask me, I'm all yours."

The impatient whines dye his ears red, eased by helpless whines as his arm extends to your chest, pushing up the flimsy material of your tank top to play with your pebbled nipples, thighs closing around his head. He doesn't care, the close proximity only gets him harder as his fingers push into your crying walls, closing in on him with everything you have. 

Your fingers pull harder on his hair, a groan stifled against your clit as his fingers curls in you, a croak in your throat echoed as the sensation ripples through your body. 

"You're so pretty when you don't know what to do with yourself," he chuckles, a harder curl of his fingers bringing a stretched keen through gritted teeth. "Feel good, baby?"

"I-I can't think," you admit, cheeks flushed and expression dazed, eyes trying to find his. "Just want you, Riki. Want all of you."

"You have me, princess. Let me eat you out first," he speaks in a husk, only aiding the tension-filled coil pulling in your stomach. "You taste so good, baby. I'd spend all day here if I could."

And to an extent, he does. He's so attuned to what you like, how much pressure, how much suction that it's not long before desperate gasps for air swallow the room whole, eating at the wet mess sounds Riki makes between your thighs. Again, it's all secondary to the hurtle your body does, a cross between cries, begs and screams running out your lips as you chant his name, coming and coming. The burst of ecstasy is unlike anything you've ever felt before, body mirroring the free float you do in between someplace between time and space, body raking through with shakes only feeding Riki's ego. Through it all, he maintains incessancy in his fingers as they pump into you, tongue migrating down around his fingers to taste every drop of your come. It's the kind of fixation you couldn't concoct in your wildest dreams, everything a mere mirage as your body just gives whatever Riki takes, sucking your clit and fingering you until you're shivering from overstimulation, bedsheets wet beneath you as you choke for air. 

Riki is nice enough to allow the nanoseconds between the removal of his lips on your cunt to the press of your joined lips to let you breathe, whining against you as his tongue darts into your mouth, your head tipped back as your syrupy head lives off the taste of you two mixed, getting every bit of obsession of you two together. 

"Don't we taste so good together?" he'd asked and even then, you agreed. More so now that in the bloom of softness and intimacy between you two, fingers curled in his strands as he rids himself of his pesky clothes, not having the heart to separate your lips as you help tug off his trousers and boxers. 

When nothing separates you, you do like you did back then in his room, fingers tracing the tattoo on his ribcage with a hungry fever, a kiss pressed into the kiss mark just near his hip before your teeth sink into the mole on the other hip. You're feral, one-track minded as Riki consumes all your thoughts, switching positions until your back is pushed back down into your mattress and your legs spread. Your head lifts to view him hold his hard cock in hand, tip weeping as his body folds in desperation, tip smearing your folds with precome. 

"Tell me you want it," Riki gruffs out, eyebrows knitted with pillowedlips. "Beg me to fuck you."

"Riki, please fuck me," impatience and frustration extend every letter of your plea, similar tears lining your eyes as your hand lowers to spread your folds, enticing him by the bite of his lips. "Your cock would feel so good in me. Am I not yours?"

"Fuck, you are."

"Then make me yours."

It's all he needs to hear, having had enough of his own games before he pushes in, both your mouths falling open at the stretch, your walls gripping him with all the hunger you have and more. The molten burn curls your toes and grits your teeth, feeling Riki everywhere, attached to all your senses as your breath stunts at the fill of him. And he has more to offer, feeding inch after inch until he's buried to the hilt, rewriting any concept you know of pleasure to him. 

He stalls in you, chest rising and falling as all his eyes consume do is you, your body beneath him, cunt stuffed with his twitching length, skin sweat-lined with a body half the size of him, quivering. Your pupils are blown, your eye colour serving as a mere ring around them, so gone for him he doesn't know how he maintains his composure. Just strokes hair out your face with the back of his fingers before he starts thrusting.

He doesn't start off slow, fast-forwarding to the moment he's pondered when alone and nothing his brain conjured before compares to this. Not in the slightest - the warmth of your skin, the squeeze of your cunt, the cries you do as your stomach pulls in overload, nails scraping at the duvet cover with forgotten restraint. Everything about this, he will never get over, refuses to and with the look you give him, he thinks you feel it too. 

He notches himself harder into you, groaning at the high keen you do as your eyes roll back, blinking tears away as you cry. "Kisses, Riki."

"You're so fucked out, princess," he purrs, a carnal feeling harbouring in his chest as he lowers himself down to you, safety-pin pendant on his chain feeding into your mouth, sucked on. "Your mouth's lonely, huh baby? Need to keep it stuffed, don't I?"

You nod around the pendant, all teary and doll eyed for him, soft gasp escaping as you let it go, finger curling around it to pull him closer. "Kiss me." 

"Manners."

"Pleaseeeee!" it comes out so rushed, so pathetic you can't quite believe the voice belongs to you, so high you only seek what you want. And that is him alone. "Pretty please, need you. Need your lips, need you so bad, 'Ki."

"Open your mouth." 

His command comes out with the kind of authority you're only compliant to, lips parted as spit lands on your tongue, at the back of your throat. Your mouth closes to taste him, whimpering at the mix of you two together. "Again, again. Please,"

"You're so greedy, baby," he replies, voice frayed by the grip of your cunt, smacking bodies bouncing off your cluttered walls. "It's okay, I want you too. Always wanted you."

He gives in, jaw unhinged under a dominating hand that keeps your mouth open for his spit, the force of its landing closing your eyes and contracting your body, a squeal muffled to your closed lips before his lips find them, kissing you like a man possessed. Kissing and tasting everywhere, making sure to fuck you through it all, nails scraping down his shoulder blades and back as he hits your sweet spot again and again. 

You could cry. You do, stray tears escaping the squeeze of your eyes, their trail licked by Riki as he separates from you, sharing breaths with his forehead against yours before he leaves altogether, firm hand pressing into the bulge peeking through your stomach as he thrusts in, watching the outline of him in you. 

"Rikiiii," you moan, so lost. "So good. You fuck me so─ngh, so good."

"I do, don't I, princess?" he muses, composure fraying further as he relishes in the faint-feel of his tip under his palm. "You're close, can feel you clenching for me,"

"You gonna be my good girl and come for me?"

The coil in your stomach is impossibly tight, you don't know much more you can take, frantic breaths choked back on sobs as you swipe tears out your eyes, looking at him despite the fact. "Yes! I'll be your good girl. I'm gonna come─!"

"Who's making you come, baby?" he asks, his husky voice all around you, your legs pushed to your chest as he leans his bodyweight into you. You can only sob. "Tell me."

"You, Riki. You!" you wail, stumped by your intercepted breath as he pushes further into you, face so close that your lips brush while you whine. "You're gonna make me come."

The coil snaps, everything coming afterwards. The cry of your lungs, the suspension of your breath and the dismantling of your body, so malleable to Riki's whims you accept him whole, hold his face as he ruts into you the last few times, whispering words that make you clench around him. 

"Taking all my come like the greedy girl you are, princess," he whimpers, eyebrows screwed tight. "Gonna keep you nice and stuffed. That'll keep you happy, won't it?"

It will, a chorus of agreements and kisses peppering his face as he shatters in your hold, burying himself deepest in you before he convulses, swallowing the room in his drawn out moans and curses. He doesn't want this to end, sees no end in you as he gives a last few half-hearted glides of his cock before he cringes from overstimulation, body collapsing onto you, going soft but keeping you plugged. Just like you wanted.

"You're everything I want," he confesses, pink in his cheeks and tip of his nose as he caresses hair out your hair, easing off you. "Please tell me you're mine. Let me take you out ─ please?"

He's so soft like this, sinking into every tender sentiment he holds in his heart for you. Merriment flutters in your chest, producing the giggle you do as you cast hair behind his ear, loving the overgrown look of his bleached hair. "Took you long enough." 

He smiles, the boxy kind that makes your heart soar before he giggles, kissing you with everything between the two of you, together as one. 

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He’s dripping sweat onto your chest—hot little drops that slide down between your tits while he watches them with dark, hooded eyes. His abs flex hard with each roll of his hips, his pelvis grinding right against your swollen clit on every forward thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin is obscene, loud enough to drown out the low hum of the city outside the window. Your pussy makes these filthy, squelching noises every time he bottoms out loud, greedy sounds that have him smirking down at you like he’s proud.

“Fuckin’ soaked for me,” he rasps, voice gravel-rough. “Hear that? That’s all you, baby. Dripping down my balls.”

You try to answer but all that comes out is a broken whimper. Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave red lines—he hisses, likes it, fucks into you harder for it. The headboard bangs once, twice, rhythmically against the wall. He shifts his angle just a fraction, enough that the ridge of his cockhead drags directly over your g-spot on every punishing stroke. Your whole body jerks like you’ve been electrocuted. Heat coils low and vicious in your belly, so intense it almost hurts.

Heeseung feels the way your cunt clamps down like a vice, trying to suck him in deeper. His jaw ticks. “Gonna come again? Already? Greedy little thing.”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, frantic, tears slipping hot down your temples into your hair. Your clit is throbbing, oversensitive, every grind of his pubic bone against it sending sparks up your spine. And then it rips out of you, raw, unfiltered, right as he spears you to the hilt and grinds there, holding you impaled while your walls spasm around his length.

“I love you.” The words punch out on a sob, cracked and desperate. Heeseung freezes, buried balls-deep, cock twitching violently inside you. His grip on your thighs tightens until it bruises. For one heartbeat everything stops: the creak of the bed, the wet sounds, even your breathing. Then his eyes snap to yours, black, blown-out, something feral flickering behind them.

“Say it again,” he growls, low and dangerous.

You swallow, throat wrecked. “I love you.”

He exhales through his nose, shaky. Then he drops his forehead to yours, noses brushing, mouths so close you can taste the salt on his lips. “Fuck... again.”

“I love you, Hees-” He cuts you off with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, devouring, claiming. At the same time he starts moving again, harder, meaner, hips snapping forward like he’s trying to fuck the confession into your cervix. Each thrust punches a wet, choked sound out of you. Your pussy gushes around him, slick running down your ass, pooling on the sheets.

“Goddamn,” he pants against your mouth. “Keep saying it. Wanna feel you come while you tell me you love me.” Your legs shake uncontrollably. The pressure builds fast, too fast, coiling so tight you can’t breathe.

“I love you... I love you... fuck, I love you!” Your voice fractures into a scream as you shatter. Your cunt clamps down like it’s trying to milk him dry, fluttering wildly around his cock. You gush hard; hot slick coating his shaft, dripping down his balls, soaking the crease of your thighs. Your whole body locks up, back arching off the mattress, toes curling so hard they cramp.

Heeseung groans, deep, guttural. Hips stuttering as he slams in one last time and comes. Thick, hot pulses of cum flood you, so much it leaks out around his cock even while he’s still buried deep. He grinds through it, dragging out both your orgasms until you’re both trembling, oversensitive, wrecked. He doesn’t pull out. Just stays seated inside you, softening slowly, while his cum starts to leak out in slow, creamy trickles. His thumb finds your clit, gentle now, almost reverent, circling the oversensitive bud until you twitch and whine. He kisses the corner of your eye, tasting the salt there.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Been dying to hear it. Thought I was gonna have to fuck it out of you.” A weak, breathless laugh escapes you. He smirks, nips at your jaw.

“Still not done, though.” He rolls his hips once, slow and deliberate, stirring his cum inside you, making you gasp at the filthy slide. “Gonna keep you full of me all night. Gonna make you say it again every time you come.” His mouth brushes your ear, voice dropping to a filthy whisper.

“‘Cause now that I know you love me… I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else.” And then he starts moving again. Slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to prove it.

permies:

Read part 1 here

In the wake of that catastrophic lapse in judgment at the Three Broomsticks, you had spent the remainder of the weekend engaged in a heroic attempt at total social erasure. Under the flimsy pretext of Prefect patrols, you’d spent twenty four hours haunting the castle’s most desolate corners and developing an encyclopedic, almost intimate knowledge of the drafty corridors behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the specific, rhythmic drip of the second-floor lavatory.

You lived in mortal fear of a confrontation, your brain a frantic pinball machine of panicked justifications. How does one even begin to explain away the fact that you’d essentially tackled Jaemin with your mouth in front of half the student body? You couldn't even blame the butterbeer; no one was that much of a lightweight. 

All that strategic hiding, however, proved to be a spectacular waste of time.

Because Monday morning arrived and with it, the unavoidable horror of Double Potions. Jaemin, of course, decided to plop down next to you, looking both freshly pressed and utterly unbothered by recent events. All the while had to physically force yourself not to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Morning, Y/N,” he said pleasantly. “Fancy another go?”

You nearly slid off the stool. “I—beg your pardon?”

His mouth quirked as he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was a secret shared only between your skin and his lips.

“Just a thought,” he drawled, “since the entire school has already watched us snog, we might as well get our money’s worth, don’t you think?”

You gaped at him, your indignation warring with a sudden spike of heat. Jaemin just watched you, a picture of insouciant grace, clearly having decided that his new favorite hobby was seeing exactly how many shades of scarlet he could make you turn before Slughorn even called the roll.

“I—well—” You faltered, the sentence dying a pathetically in your throat. There was no good exit strategy here, no witty retort that could dismantle the sheer smugness radiating off him. “Wasn’t that a bit… much? In the Three Broomsticks?”

His gaze turned positively feral with glee. “I believe the many witnesses there that night will say that you started it. I was merely an innocent bystander, swept along by the current of your passionate improvisation.”

You pressed your lips together, an exercise in sheer willpower to deny him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“Swept along, my arse. You’re the one who—” You clamped down on the thought before it could manifest, but the phantom sensation of his fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck flashed through your mind.

Jaemin tilted his head, a lock of blonde hair falling over his brow, as if to punctuate how useless your walls were against him now.

“Look, if we’re going to commit to this performance, we might as well aim for the stalls,” he said. “The school already has us pencilled in as the frontrunners for ‘Best Couple’. It would be a tragedy to disappoint the fans now, wouldn't it?”

He slipped his hand into yours, as if nothing at all had changed. But now you were horribly aware how your skin prickled with nerves and the pulse in your wrist kept skipping whenever he brushed his thumb along the side of your hand.

Slughorn, bless his velvet-clad heart, seemed absolutely determined to overwhelm the gloom of the dungeons with his boisterous goodwill. He was in rare form today, circling the room like a parade master, “Today, my dears, we will be brewing Amortentia! The mother of all love potions! Now, who can tell me its greatest danger?”

You raised your hand with perhaps more enthusiasm than Slughorn's question warranted, if only to reclaim it from Jaemin's grip.

“It can’t create real love, sir” you said, voice admirably steady. “Only a very strong infatuation. A kind of obsession, really. And it’s different for everyone who smells it, the scent changes to reflect whatever attracts you most.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” Slughorn beamed. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now then, pair up, everyone, pair up! Today we brew!”

 Naturally, this was when things went from bad to infinitely worse.

Brewing Amortentia while in the throes of whatever this mortifying situation with Jaemin was? Spectacularly poor timing. Working close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to have his fingers brush yours with every ingredient passed between you? Absolute torture of the most exquisite variety.

“Pass me the pearl dust, would you, love?” Jaemin murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the scant space between you.

You passed it quickly and focused back on the cauldron, determined to at least finish before him. You added the frozen ashwinder eggs, stirring counter-clockwise until the liquid began to shimmer.

“You’re quite good at this,” Jaemin noted. “Almost as good as you are at improvisation”.

“Focus on the potion, Jaemin,” you bit out, though you could feel your face go scarlet.

After forty minutes of gruelling labor, the potion was perfect. The steam rose in characteristic spirals, and the surface gleamed with a lustrous, opalescent sheen. You smiled at your technical triumph.

But the smile died on your lips the moment the scent hit your nose.

You'd hoped—prayed, really—for something ordinary. Like the comforting smell of old books, perhaps. Or the woody scent from the fire in the Gryffindor common room. But what you got instead was far more specific, and infinitely more damning.

Expensive cologne that smelled of bergamot and beneath that was the distinct, slightly oily musk of broomstick polish. The exact olfactory combination that seemed to have permanently infused itself into the fibers of Jaemin’s robes, the scent that enveloped you whenever he pulled you close in the corridors.

Godric save me, you thought, your stomach performing a sort of sickening swoop.

Your mind scrambled for a rational explanation. It’s just a common scent, it argued desperately. Half the Quidditch players use that polish. And any posh tosser could wear that cologne. 

But the Amortentia didn’t lie. Your Herculean attempt at self-delusion was failing utterly in the face of the irrefutable truth spiralling out of your cauldron.

Fear metastasized across your body, becoming a cold weight anchored in the hollow of your sternum, pulsing in time with the frantic thrum of your heart. If you acknowledged the bergamot and the broomstick polish, you were surrendering the only fortress you had left. To speak it would be to dismantle the safety of the 'fake' and leave you standing raw and defenseless in the debris of your own design. 

You were terrified that the moment the truth escaped your lips, the delicate, agonizing balance of your world would tilt, sliding you both into a reality from which there was no clever improvisation to save you.

“So?” Jaemin’s voice was suddenly right at your ear, making you flinch. “What are you getting, Y/N? Freshly bound books and new parchment, I’d wager.”

The proximity forced your lungs to pull in the real version of the bergamot you had just been mourning.

“Yeah, uhm…I smell old books,” you said, the lie ashen on your tongue. 

Jaemin turned to look at you, and it was as though he were reading the very thoughts you were trying to bury. Beneath the table, out of sight of the professor and the prowling eyes of the room, his hand found yours again

“Is that so?” he murmured, his eyes visibly darkening as they swept over your face. “Well. I’m getting a very distinctive note of vanilla. And that floral soap you use in the Prefects’ bathroom.”

His words were utterly devoid of the frantic panic currently hijacking your nervous system, that for a moment, you simply stared. Your brain suddenly tripped over his transparency. He’s joking, you realized, a hysterical sort of relief blooming in the wake of the shock. Of course he is. If he actually smelled that from the potion, he would be guarding that secret with his life, burying it under ten layers of Slytherin steel.

“Aha!” Slughorn crowed, making you both start. He peered into your cauldron, his face shining with delight. “A perfect brew! The spirals are unmistakable. Tell me, Mr. Na, is the aroma potent?”

Jaemin didn’t take his eyes off you. “Distractingly so, Professor,” he said, his lips curving into a smile that made your entire body go on high alert. “It’s enough to drive a man to madness.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, mercifully oblivious to the silent conversation happening right under his nose. “Splendid! Simply splendid. Ten points to Slytherin and Gryffindor. Now, for your homework, I want a foot of parchment on the dangers of Amortentia and why its use is so strictly regulated. To be handed in next lesson!”

As the class descended into the frantic clatter of copper stirring rods and the rhythmic scrubbing of stone, you moved through the motions in a total sensory daze. What were you supposed to do with this knowledge? How were you meant to deal with the fact that the scent of your Amortentia, the very distillation of your most primal desires, was inextricably tied to Jaemin?

Right before you exited the room Jaemin’s fingers brushed against your own so briefly it should have been negligible, yet it sent a jolt of fire anchoring itself in the marrow of your bones. He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing you for a fleeting second.

“Think about what I said earlier, yeah?” He murmured, the words ghosting against your skin before he deposited a soft kiss on your temple.

You stood frozen as he merged into the tide of students. A sinking, leaden certainty settled in the pit of your stomach, making your breath hitch in your throat. You were well and truly doomed, there was no more room for clever denials. The Amortentia had stripped away the artifice, laying the raw, pulsing truth bare against the cold dungeon floor.

You liked Na Jaemin, and Merlin help you, there wasn't a potion in the world that could fix it.

Part of you was almost giddy about the novelty of actually fancying someone, of feeling your stomach swoop when they walked into a room. But mostly you were terrified. When had Jaemin stopped being an inconvenience and started being this? 

Maybe, you reasoned, you could indulge it. Just a little. Lean into the dating act a bit more and let yourself feel it without examining it too closely.

That’s how the boundaries started dissolving.

Slowly at first, then all at once, every rule you’d established became negotiable. Jaemin would pull you into empty alcoves where no one could possibly see you, press you against cold stone and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. “We’re not in public,” you’d manage between kisses. He’d just smirk against your mouth. “Practice makes perfect.”

No one batted an eyelid at the sight of him pulling you into empty rooms. Even Giselle had stopped questioning you, and became rather repulsed by your sudden displays of affection. 

Meanwhile, you walked around feeling as if you’d lost the original plot of this whole thing. Your brain became a pinball machine: every glance from Jaemin sent the ball ricocheting wildly, every brush of his fingers over your knuckles set your whole body on high alert. He, on the other hand, seemed to delight in turning up at the least convenient moments—snagging you between classes, kissing you in the shadow of the greenhouses, catching your hand when you tried to slip past him on your way out of the library and kissing you against the stacks.

You coped by remembering it was all for show, the same way you might recite lines in a play. Only actors didn’t typically wake up thinking about the curve of their co-star’s mouth or lie awake at night replaying every touch of their calloused fingers.

You ran into him outside your common room one evening, just as curfew loomed. Jaemin looked up from a parchment he was pretending to read, tucking it away as you approached.

His eyes seemed to visibly darken at the sight of you. It would have been easy to walk past, make some excuse about homework or an early morning. Instead, you hovered, dithering between the impulse to run and the urge to close the gap.

Jaemin broke the stalemate, stepping forward and catching your wrist. “I was hoping I’d see you,” he said and then pointed at the portraits on the walls that watched you silently. “Thought we might keep the neighbors entertained.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He tugged on your wrist to guide you forward, and then his hand was sliding upward, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the base of your neck. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned down to claim them.

His lips moved against yours with devastating confidence. As the kiss deepened, his other hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, a private noise of satisfaction that seemed to echo against your own heartbeat.

High above, the painted figures in the frames whispered and tittered. The Fat Lady let out a bright, trilling giggle that rang through the hallway, but Jaemin didn't stop. He only pressed closer, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he turned the kiss slower, more rhythmic, and infinitely more distracting than any textbook could ever be.

When he finally broke away, he didn't pull back more than an inch. His breath hitched against your lips, and the dark intensity in his eyes seemed to catch fire.

He had just begun to trail his lips from your mouth to the sensitive line of your jaw when a shrill, cackling whistle echoed off the stone walls.

"Ooh, lookie here! Little lions in a knot! Or is it a tangle? A right royal muddle!"

Peeves the Poltergeist swooped down, hovering upside down just inches from your faces. His wide, malicious eyes darted between you and Jaemin, his tongue poking out through a jagged grin.

Jaemin didn't let go of you, but he let out a long, frustrated exhale against your skin. He slowly turned his head to glare at the spirit. "Not now, Peeves. Go find a first-year to pelt with ink pellets."

"Ink pellets? Boring! Stale!" Peeves blew a loud raspberry and started spinning in a dizzying circle. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of stale, rock-hard Cauldron Cakes. "I’d much rather watch the lovebirds try to coo while I practice my aim!"

With a wicked flick of his wrist, he tossed a cake. It whistled past Jaemin’s ear, narrowly missing him and thudding loudly against the frame of a disgruntled landscape painting.

"Jammy and the Pouter, sitting in a hall! Kissing 'til the portraits scream and the ceiling falls!" Peeves sang at the top of his lungs, his voice shrill enough to wake every sleeping student in the nearby tower.

Jaemin finally pulled back fully, though he kept a protective arm slung low around your waist. He looked up at the cackling poltergeist, a dangerous, tired sort of smirk playing on his lips. "You’re going to get Filch up here, you menace."

"Filchy-poo? Even better!" Peeves shrieked, preparing another handful of projectiles. "Double the trouble, double the fun! Run, little students, run-run-run!"

Jaemin’s jaw tightened, and the last traces of the kiss's softness vanished into a look of sharp irritation. He reached into his robes and flicked his wand upward with a lethal grace.

"I warned you," Jaemin muttered dangerously. “Waddiwasi!"

The Cauldron Cake Peeves had been preparing to throw suddenly zoomed upward, propelled by an invisible force. It jammed itself straight into the poltergeist’s left nostril.

The poltergeist let out a high-pitched scream of outrage, spinning wildly in the air as he tried to claw the stale pastry out. Realizing he had lost this round, he zoomed through the nearest wall, leaving nothing behind but the faint sound of his frantic thumping as he retreated toward the floor below.

Jaemin let out a huff of a laugh, finally tucking his wand back into his sleeve. The intense look returned to his eyes as he turned his full attention back to you, his hands sliding back to their previous spots on your waist.

"Now," he whispered, pulling you back against the wall. "Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

You pressed a hand to his chest before he could close the distance. “Wait—did you hear that?”

“No.” The word was muffled against your neck, which he’d apparently decided required immediate attention.

“Jaemin, I’m serious. I think that’s Filch—”

He went still, listening. Sure enough, the shuffle of uneven footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“Your common room,” Jaemin said immediately, tugging you toward the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Come on—”

“Wait! She won’t let you in!”

He stopped short. “What? Why not?”

“Because you’re a Slytherin? We’ve been over this.”

“I thought you were drunk when you said that.” Jaemin stared at you incredulously. “So you’re telling me she won’t let any Slytherins in? And we’re the prejudiced house?”

“I mean she could, technically. But then she’d absolutely tell Filch about it.”

Jaemin made a sound of disbelief as Filch’s footsteps grew louder.

“Fine. Come on.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?” you hissed, jogging to keep up as he led you through several corridors and down the stairs.

“The dungeons.”

“What?! I am not going to your common room—”

“Oh, come on.” He threw you an exasperated look over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Slytherins actually mind their business when it comes to sneaking people in. Unlike you lions, apparently.”

The further you descended, the more aware you became of where this was heading. You’d never set foot in the Slytherin common room, and now you were sneaking in at night to… Well. The thought alone was enough to make your heart ricochet against your chest.

“Right, here we are.” Jaemin stopped before a blank wall.

 “That’s it?” You stared at it with a raised brow. “Kind of underwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, did you expect a giant fanged mouth?”

“Alright, ease up on the attitude.” You glared at him.

He smiled, and spoke to the wall: “Serpensortem.” Then, catching your eye: “Feel free to use that. You know, if you ever need to find me.”

The hidden door (which did, in fact, have serpents carved into it) swung open to reveal a narrow corridor of stairs descending even deeper. How Slytherins didn’t lose their minds being this far underground, you had no idea.

Inside, the common room was both exactly what you’d pictured and nothing like it. Dark stone, high ceilings, and a green-filtered light casting everything in a sort of underwater glow. Because…Oh. The ceiling was glass. There were actual panels looking straight up into the Black Lake’s murky water and the shadows of the occasional creatures drifting by.

Stunning. Also deeply unsettling if you thought too hard about it.

“Nice view of the Giant Squid you’ve got.”

Jaemin was right, his housemates truly didn’t care. The handful of students still up barely registered your presence, offering cursory glances before returning to whatever they were working on. Apparently a Gryffindor in the Slytherin common room wasn’t that much of a strange sight.

“Want to go up to my dorm?”

You gave him a look. “Where all your dormmates are?”

“They’re at the Three Broomsticks getting properly pissed.” He shrugged. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“It’s way past curfew. How’d they even get out?”

“There are secret passages that lead straight to the village. They’re all over the castle.”

“How am I only just learning this?”

His smile turned wicked. “Well, you’re such a good girl.” He pulled you closer by the waist. “A very good girl who owes me a kiss.”

You were completely out of your depth. Although the flirting had become familiar, the fact that Jaemin seemed to want you with the same desperate intensity you felt for him was uncharted territory that left you dizzy and unmoored.

So you didn’t fight when he led you upstairs. You let him pull you into a kiss on the steps, let yourself kiss him back with abandon until you stumbled into the warm sanctuary of his dorm. Only then did you surface long enough to catch your breath and actually take stock of your surroundings.

There were four four-poster beds with dark emerald hangings, the standard Hogwarts setup, but each corner had been claimed and personalized by its occupant.

You recognized Jaemin’s immediately. The one nearest the window, if you could call the glass panel looking into the lake a window. His Quidditch gear was piled carelessly beside his trunk: broom propped against the bedpost, leather gloves draped over the footboard, a jersey with “NA” embroidered on the back slung over his desk chair. The nightstand held an impressive collection of cologne bottles and a few books stacked messily beneath them. 

But it was the wall above his bed that caught your attention. Photographs pinned in no particular order of what looked like his family, him and his Quidditch team, a few older shots of him with other friends you didn’t recognize.

“Snooping already?” Jaemin’s voice came from behind you.

You turned to find him leaning against the wall, watching you with a raised brow.

“Just… observing.”

“Mhm.” He pushed off the post and crossed to you in two strides. “And what have your observations concluded?”

“That you’re messier than I expected.” You gestured to the Quidditch gear. “But also weirdly sentimental.” You nodded toward the photographs.

You turned to the other sections of the room and caught on a collection of what appeared to be hand-drawn comics pinned above one bed, surprisingly good actually, depicting what looked like Quidditch matches gone horribly wrong.

“Are those—did someone draw these?”

“Renjun.” Jaemin followed your gaze. “He’s got a thing for documenting Donghyuck’s Quidditch failures. It's quite therapeutic for him, apparently.”

“Donghyuck and Renjun—wait, I thought you roomed with Changmin and Sungchan?”

“I used to. Merlin, don’t remind me.” Jaemin collapsed onto what was clearly his bed—the one nearest the lake-view panel. 

“That bad?

“They both snore like bloody dragons. Together it was—” He shook his head. “I got about three hours of sleep a night for two years. Finally cracked in third year and begged the head boy to switch me.”

You laughed. “So who’d you end up with?”

“Jeno, Donghyuck, and Renjun.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “They’re a nightmare in different ways, but at least they sleep quietly.”

“Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”

He got up and started slowly towards you. “I didn’t bring you up here to psychoanalyze our dorm though.”

“No?” Your hands settled against his chest when he pulled you to him. “What am I up here for, then?”

His smile turned wicked. “I believe we established you owe me a kiss. Several, actually, if we’re keeping count.”

“Are we keeping count now?”

“I am.” He leaned in, mouth barely brushing yours. “And you’re severely in debt.”

You could’ve pointed out the flawed logic, could’ve reminded him that you’d just spent the last several minutes kissing him senseless on the stairs. Instead, you closed the distance between you, letting him walk you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed.

“This okay?” he murmured against your lips, even as his hands slid up your sides.

Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. This was different from the corridors, from the alcoves and the performances. Just you and him and the choice to cross whatever line you’d been toeing for weeks.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “This is okay.”

His smile was soft before he kissed you again. You reciprocated with much enthusiasm making him sigh against your lips. His hands slid into your hair as the kiss deepened, and you let yourself get lost in it . 

Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly, and he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat racing through you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against your ribs, and—

Suddenly you heard voices. Loud and slurred, echoing up from the common room.

“—telling you, Hyuck, you can’t just Accio the entire bottle—”

“It almost worked though…  I’m just— hngh— a bit wet”

“Shit.” Jaemin pulled back. “They’re early. Fuck.”

“What—…” You scrambled into a sitting position, trying to finger-comb your hair into something less incriminating. “How do I look?”

He looked at you and tried to hide a grin behind his hand. “Like I’ve been kissing you for the past ten minutes.”

“Jaemin!”

“Right, sorry—” He reached out, gently attempting to smooth down your hair. It was possibly the sweetest thing he’d ever done and absolutely not helping your emotional state. “Okay, just act natural?”

The door banged open and three boys tumbled through in various states of inebriation— a muscular lad with short black hair barely keeping another upright, while a third brought up the rear looking significantly more sober than his friends.

The first one stopped short when he spotted you. “Oh, shit.”

“Jeno, move, you’re blocking the—” The one being held up peered around his friend and broke into a massive grin. “Na Jaemin, you absolute legend.”

“Shut up, Donghyuck.” Jaemin stood, positioning himself slightly in front of you. 

The sober one closed the door with considerably more care than it had been opened with. “We can go back down if—”

“No, it’s fine.” You stood as well, acutely aware of how warm your face felt. “I should probably get back to Gryffindor tower anyway.”

“Gryffindor!” Hyuck crowed, stumbling further into the room. “So you’re the Gryffindor. Jaemin’s been—ow! What the fuck, Jeno—”

Jeno had elbowed him, hard. “Subtle as a brick, mate.”

“I’m just saying, he’s been in a better mood lately and now I know why—”

“Hyuck, I will literally hex your bollocks off.” Jaemin’s tone was pleasant. His expression was not.

The sober one gave you an apologetic look. “Ignore them. They had approximately five Firewhiskeys each at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Five and a half,” Hyuck corrected proudly.

“Right. Well.” You smoothed down your skirt. “I should go.”

Jaemin caught your wrist. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I think your friends need more help than I do .”

“They’ll live.” His jaw was set and you could tell he was still annoyed about the interruption.

“Awww, he’s being chivalrous,” Hyuck stage-whispered to Jeno. “That’s so—ow, fuck, Renjun—”

Renjun had slapped the back of his head. “Please excuse Donghyuck. He becomes aggressively annoying when drunk.”

“Just when drunk?” Jeno muttered.

You bit back a smile despite yourself. “It’s fine. I can find my way out.”

“You sure?” Jaemin was still holding your wrist.

“I’m sure.” You gently extracted your hand, very aware of three pairs of eyes tracking the movement. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

You made it approximately two steps toward the door before Hyuck piped up again. “Hey, Gryffindor girl?”

You turned. “It’s—”

“Oh, we know who you are,” Jeno said, grinning. 

“He’s absolutely miserable when you’re not around, you know,” Hyuck announced cheerfully, ignoring Jaemin’s death glare. “Like, genuinely unbearable. So thanks for that. You’re doing Merlin’s work, truly—”

“HYUCK—”

You escaped into the corridor before you could hear the rest, but their laughter—and Jaemin’s protests—followed you all the way down the stairs.

By the time you reached the common room, your face was burning and your heart was still racing and you had absolutely no idea how you were going to look at Jaemin tomorrow without remembering the weight of him above you, the heat of his hands, the way he’d looked at you like—

No. Not thinking about it.

Except you absolutely were going to spend the entire night thinking about it. You shook your head sharply as you climbed back through the castle, taking a different route to avoid Filch. 

The interruption was probably for the best. It had stopped you from doing something you couldn’t take back, from crossing a line that would make the whole “fake dating” excuse completely untenable.

“Wow, he’s even convinced you to go to a Quidditch game?” Jo said as she observed you putting on the green scarf you’d borrowed from Jaemin. “And wearing his colors? Okay, who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just one game. Plus, he’s been asking me to go for the past few weeks and I’ve already rejected him too many times. What kind of girlfriend doesn’t go support her boyfriend at a game?”

“A fake one?” She offered with a knowing look.

“I’m already committed to the bit, Jo. Cant back out now.”

“I just want to remind you that there are only 2 more weeks of this arrangement. Personally, I haven't even seen Yuna bother Jaemin in a good while, so there’s really no need to keep extending this thing.”

She was right. Yuna had been conspicuously absent lately. No more pointed stares across the Great Hall, no more appearances in places you and Jaemin frequented, no more saccharine interruptions during your library study sessions. You’d been so caught up in the elaborate fiction of your relationship that you’d stopped monitoring the very threat it was meant to neutralize.

Had she given up? Moved on to easier prey, perhaps? Or had the performance been so convincing that she’d accepted defeat?

And if the threat had dissolved, what justified the charade’s continuation?

More pressingly: did you want it to end?

The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome, and stubbornly refused to leave. Two weeks. Fourteen days until you’d presumably sit down with Jaemin and declare mission accomplished, shake hands like business partners concluding a transaction, and return to being polite strangers who’d once played at intimacy for an audience.

“I’ll leave it to Jaemin to decide,” you said finally, the words emerging more brittle than intended. You avoided Jo’s reflection in the mirror, suddenly fascinated by the intricacies of your braid. “It’s his arrangement, technically. His problem we were solving.”

Liar, your reflection seemed to whisper. Coward.

Because the uncomfortable truth you’d been studiously ignoring was that you had no idea what Jaemin wanted anymore. 

When he kissed you in empty corridors with no witnesses, was that practice? When his thumb traced absent patterns on your hip during meals, was he performing for distant onlookers or had it simply become habit? When he looked at you like that, was he acting or had the fiction begun consuming the actor?

You didn’t know. And you were terrified to ask.

Jo made a small noise of sympathy. “Just… be careful, alright? I know you think you’ve got this handled, but—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted, perhaps too sharply. “Everything’s completely under control.”

The lie hung between you, obvious and ignored.

At the Quidditch pitch you headed to the Slytherin side of the stands. Thankfully, the finale was against Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor, otherwise you would feel like a horrible disloyal witch by not supporting your own house. 

The place was already packed by the time you arrived. You’d expected to sit with the general crowd, but before you could even start climbing the stairs, you felt a hand on your arm.

“You’re with us,” Giselle said, appearing out of nowhere. She was dressed head to toe in green and silver, her house pride on full display. “Come on. We’ve saved you seats.”

“Saved me—what?”

Giselle led you to a prime spot right at the front of the Slytherin stands, where Changmin was already waiting.

“There she is!” Sungchan grinned, as if this had all been planned.

“Jaemin’s good luck charm,” Changmin added with a wink.

You blinked at them, too stunned to speak. These were the same boys who had barely tolerated your presence a month ago. Now they were scooting over, offering you the best view on the pitch, as if you belonged there.

“Jaemin said if we didn’t make sure you had the best seat, he’d hex us into next week,” Sungchan continued breezily. “And I quite like having my kneecaps intact, so.”

You sat down, feeling extremely self-conscious about being front and center in the Slytherin section wearing Slytherin colors. People were definitely staring. You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the whispers starting up.

"Wait," you started, your voice slightly breathless as you looked between their relaxed postures and the players currently mounting their brooms on the pitch. "Why aren't you two down there? Don't you both play?"

Changmin let out a dry snort, adjusting his sleeves. "Suspended," he said, "the Ravenclaw Beaters didn't appreciate my 'aggressive' tactical maneuvers during last week's scrimmage."

"And I'm on the bench today with a 'mysterious' wrist cramp," Sungchan added, though he looked entirely too healthy for an injury. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Truthfully? Jaemin didn't want us on the pitch. He wanted us here. Guarding you."

What?

"He’s a bit possessive over you," Giselle noted, settling in on your other side and smoothing her skirt. "He didn't trust the general Slytherin population to behave themselves while his head was in the clouds. Consider them your personal gargoyles for the afternoon."

Before you could process the idea of Jaemin hand-picking his friends to act as your shield, the teams flew onto the pitch, and the crowd erupted in cheers. You spotted him immediately. He was easy to pick out, even among the other players in their green and silver robes. He was a Chaser, and even from a distance, you could see the easy confidence in the way he handled his broom.

He did a lap of the pitch, clearly scanning the stands, and when he saw you sitting front and center in the Slytherin section wearing green his entire face lit up. He changed direction, flying closer to where you were sitting, and the crowd around you started screaming louder.

“Watch this,” Changmin said, grinning. “He’s showing off.”

Jaemin pulled up right in front of the Slytherin section, hovering there on his broom, and blew you a kiss. An unsubtle, utterly ridiculous kiss blown in your direction in front of the entire school.

You felt your face go absolutely scarlet, but you couldn’t help smiling. He looked so happy. So genuinely, completely happy, and it was directed at you.

"Salazar's ghost," Giselle groaned, pointedly looking toward the sky. "The two of you are going to make me sick."

The whistle shrieked, a sharp, piercing herald that set the game in motion. You quickly discovered that Quidditch was an entirely different ordeal when your attention was tethered to a Chaser. It was no longer a sport but a grueling exercise in cardiovascular distress. Every time Jaemin’s fingers curled around the Quaffle, your breath hitched, trapped in the tight column of your throat. Every time a Ravenclaw Beater sent a Bludger whistling toward his skull, your stomach performed a sickening, leaden drop into your heels.

You were on your feet more often than not, screaming yourself hoarse, your dignity dissolving with every reckless maneuver he pulled. Your knuckles were white, clutching the edge of the railing as if you were the one hanging onto a broomstick three hundred feet in the air.

“Look at you,” Giselle observed during a brief lull in the carnage. “You truly have it bad, don’t you? You’re vibrating.”

“I’m simply—invested in the match,” you ground out, refusing to look away from the green-and-silver blur circling the hoops.

“You’re invested in him,” she corrected, a smirk playing on her lips that was equal parts amused and knowing. “It’s a bit pathetic, really. But I suppose he deserves someone who watches him with that level of frantic devotion.”

Whatever biting retort you were preparing to mount was violently incinerated by the roar of the crowd. A deafening, earth-shaking thunder erupted from the Slytherin stands as Jaemin executed a barrel roll that seemed aerodynamically possible, slamming the Quaffle through the center hoop.

Slytherin dominated the match with embarrassing efficiency, their Chasers running rings around Ravenclaw’s defense, and Jaemin in particular seemed determined to make a personal statement. Then their Seeker caught the Snitch about an hour into the match, ending things decisively. The moment it was over, the Slytherin section erupted in celebration, and before you quite knew what was happening, people were pouring onto the pitch.

“Come on!” Giselle grabbed your hand, pulling you along with the crowd. “We’re going down!”

You let yourself be dragged down to the pitch, caught up in the excitement. The Slytherin team had barely landed when they were being mobbed by supporters, everyone screaming and hugging and celebrating.

You were just trying to stay upright and not get trampled, when suddenly hands grabbed your waist and you were being lifted, spun around, and then you were looking directly into Jaemin’s face.

He was sweaty, and disheveled, and grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt his cheeks.

“We won,” he said, as if you might not have noticed.

“I saw,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You were brilliant.”

“You wore green,” he said breathlessly. “You actually wore green for me.”

“Of course I did. I’m your—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence, because he kissed you.

He kissed you like you were the only two people there, like he’d been waiting all day to do this, like winning the match was secondary to getting to kiss you. His hands cupped your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, and you forgot about everything except the feeling of his mouth on yours.

People were cheering. You could hear them, distant and muffled, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You just kissed him back, your hands fisting in his Quidditch robes to pull him impossibly closer.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. “That—” Jaemin said, thumbing sweat and hair from your cheek, “was the best part of the whole day. Actually, my entire bloody year.” 

He kissed you again, quick and fierce, before setting you down. 

The chaos of the pitch threatened to sweep you up—Haechan was flying mockingly around the dazed Ravenclaw Keeper, who looked two seconds away from swearing off Quidditch forever. Jeno was being hoisted onto someone’s shoulders while holding the Cup, still in his gear, a lopsided grin plastered across his face as a small army of younger Slytherins began a chant.

You barely had time to process anything before a dozen Slytherin hands were clapping you on the back, dragging you into the noisy throng. Jeno slung an arm around your shoulder, while Haechan bowed with the sort of exaggerated flourish only he could get away with.

“Oi, Y/N! You’re practically the Slytherin mascot at this point,” Haechan crowed, earning a fresh round of chanting. Jeno nodded and said, “We’ll need you at every match. Jaemin plays like he’s got something to prove when you’re here.”

Jaemin slipped an arm over your shoulders, fitting himself between you and Jeno. It wasn’t the casual sort of touch affectionate boyfriend would do but rather the kind of grip that signaled territorial intent, both “look at me” and “hands off, Lee Jeno.” Jeno raised his brows, smirked, and stepped back with a dramatic sigh as if to say, “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered.”

Jaemin lead you out of the crush, across the pitch, past the green-robed ruck of his teammates still shrieking and high-fiving each other senseless.

You found yourselves in the lee of the stands, momentarily invisible to the hooting masses. Jaemin bent over, hands braced on his knees, still catching his breath. The flushed tips of his ears glowed through sweated hair, and when he looked up at you, his eyes were shining, open, utterly unguarded.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “We agreed—no more public spectacles.” He grinned, sheepish and shameless at once.

You laughed. “That was entirely your fault. You were the one who just put on a whole air show out there.”

“Had to impress you,” he said, then he straightened, hands on your hips. “Did it work?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, but Jaemin’s voice always lilted up at the end, as if the answer mattered even if he already knew it. Your heart did the embarrassing somersault you’d tried to train it out of, and you could only nod, which made him gloat without mercy.

“Good,” he said, and tugged you in for another kiss, backgrounded by the muffled roar of the stadium and the granular crunch of pebbles underfoot. 

Suddenly a broomstick whirred to a stop nearby and Jaemin loosened his grip on you, letting you sway back ever so slightly. You barely had time to school your features before Madam Hooch’s voice rang out.

“Na, what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing back here?” She hovered just above, her yellow hawk’s eyes narrowing as she took in the flush on your cheeks and the state of your hair. “This isn’t the broom shed, though you two seem determined to treat it as one. Save the snogging for after hours—if you must.”

A mortifying heat swept up your neck. Jaemin simply grinned at her. “Just appreciating my good luck charm, Professor.”

Madam Hooch sniffed, unimpressed. “If you’re quite finished, the rest of the team would like their Chaser back for the cup photo.”

She fixed you both with one last look that could have stripped paint from the stadium, then gestured briskly for Jaemin to join the others.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, and winked “I’ll meet you in a bit for the celebration”

As the door to the Slytherin common room opened, you were met with an emerald-hued wonderland teeming with giddy, flushed-faced revelers. It was like being inside a shaken bottle of champagne, the air practically fizzing with elation and an infectious sort of glee.

Despite wearing green, you felt distinctly out of place. Like a single rose petal that had somehow fluttered its way into a bouquet of silver-tipped ferns. But Jaemin’s hand was warm and sure in yours.

“Stick close,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this snake pit.”

“And here I thought you’d be eager to feed me to your housemates. Y’know, as a victory sacrifice.”

Jaemin’s laugh was a rich, dark thing, like molten chocolate. “Tempting. But I think I’ll keep you to myself a bit longer.”

The wicked glint of his gaze as he said those words made heat rush to your cheeks. But before you could think much of it, you were swept up in a whirlwind of backslaps and high fives, the team descending upon their star Chaser in a giddy mass of sweat-damp robes and Firewhisky-fueled cheer.

You found yourself passed from embrace to embrace, your hair mussed and your face peppered with exuberant kisses. It was overwhelming, dizzying, this sudden immersion into the tight-knit camaraderie of Jaemin’s world.

But through it all, his gaze never left you. Even as he was jostled and jolted by his teammates, his eyes remained locked on yours, a searing, steady connection that made your pulse stutter and your knees go curiously weak.

As the night wore on and the festivities showed no sign of waning, you found yourself gravitating closer and closer to Jaemin, drawn by some irresistible magnetism. The heat of so many bodies packed into the subterranean space, the buzz of one too many Butterbeers, the maddening drag of his fingers along the small of your back as he steered you through the crowd…it was all blurring together into a delicious haze.

And then you looked up at him in a sudden moment of perfect clarity amidst the chaos, and everything else simply…fell away. The noise, the crush of bodies, the very air seemed to shimmer and warp, narrowing down to the electric pulse of connection stretching taut between you.

In that suspended sliver of time, you knew with bone-deep certainty that there was no going back. No more pretending, no more lines in the sand. There was only this, only him, only the truth of what had been building between you from the moment this mad charade began.

You crashed together like colliding stars, mouths and hands and hearts falling into desperate alignment. Jaemin kissed like a man possessed, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and make a home there, and you matched him beat for beat, pouring months of pent-up longing and frustration and fierce, helpless wanting into the slant of your lips against his.

When you finally surfaced, gasping and glassy-eyed, Jaemin’s face swam into focus, his usually sharp features softened by a look of tenderness.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice a rasping, wrecked thing.

You could only nod, mute and dizzy with want, and let him lead you out of the common room and into the labyrinthine tangle of the dungeon corridors. You walked in silence, the only sound the ragged counterpoint of your breathing and the distant, muffled thump of music.

When he stopped at a stretch of unremarkable wall and began to pace, you knew with a jolt where he was taking you to The Room of Requirement.

Where else would one go to tumble headlong into inadvisable, paradigm-shifting passion?

Jaemin reached for the handle, but then he turned to you with a question in his eyes and an uncharacteristic hesitance in the set of his shoulders…you knew that stepping over this threshold would change everything.

“Y/N,” he said, and there was a whole universe of unspoken things layered into the shape of your name. “Are you sure…?”

“Jaemin,” you said. “Kiss me.”

In the next instant, his lips were on yours again, and you stumbled backward as the hidden door swung open. You didn’t spare a glance for the room that bloomed before you. Couldn’t focus on anything beyond the heat of Jaemin’s body against yours, the desperate, reverent drag of his hands over your curves.  The room could’ve been an empty Quidditch pitch, for all you cared.

Every romance you’d ever read and even scoffed at came to life in that moment—the world receding, time slowing to a molasses crawl. There was only sensation, only feeling, only the drugging slide of his lips along your jaw, your throat, the dip of your collarbone.

Your pulse was fucking riotous. You’d talked yourself into this, hadn’t you? Marched up here on legs so wobbly you could’ve blamed the many stairs, convinced yourself you could handle it because it was Jaemin.

His calloused hands roamed with urgent purpose, fingers digging into your hips as he backed you against the nearest wall. He broke the kiss only to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought.  You immediately turned to flame when his gaze tracked all over you. From your swollen lips, to your flushed cheeks, down to the way your chest stuttered with every shaky breath. His hands found your jaw. Steady, so steady.

“We can stop whenever you want to.” he murmured against your ear.

You managed a nod because your speech simply wasn’t coming. Every nerve was pulled taut with both anticipation and terror at the realization of what you were about to do for the first time in your life.

His fingers unclasped your bra carefully, and when the straps slid down your arms, you tried to fold into yourself, awkward and too aware of skin and imperfections. Jaemin’s eyes caught yours; they were dark but promising patience even as he bent to take your nipple in his mouth. 

You arched into him, a gasp escaping as his teeth grazed your nipple. “Jaemin,” you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair to hold him there.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hand cupped your other breast, thumb rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting straight to your core. You’d never been touched like this before. There’d been secret snogs, awkward fumbles in broom closets that had never gone further than shirt buttons, never left you feeling more than flustered and underwhelmed. This was different.

Your body reacted in ways you hadn’t expected, hips twitching, thighs pressing together, the ache between your legs suddenly urgent and embarrassingly obvious. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing desperately. The sensation was almost alien, and you had to fight the impulse to cover yourself, to pull his hand away and to say wait, let me catch up.

Thoughts scattered in all directions. Was it supposed to feel this good? Did he know how much you were trembling? Could he tell this was your first time? Did he care? Did it matter? You worried you might be doing it wrong by making too much noise, arching too eagerly into his hands, looking foolish and overeager. But his gaze fixed on you, pupils blown, jaw tight with want.

He suddenly straightened, fingers smoothing back the hair from your face. “Hey,” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Still with me?”

You nodded, a little wild-eyed. “I—yeah. Sorry. I just—” You swallowed, eyes locking on the bland pattern of the carpet. “I haven’t…”

When you looked back up, his eyes flashed with a kind of darker satisfaction. “I know,” he murmured. “I thought so.” His hands slid down your waist. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You responded by tugging at his shirt, nails scraping against the hem until he chuckled low in his throat and let you have your way. He pulled back just long enough to strip it off, revealing the lean, muscled planes of his chest and abs. His sun-tanned skin bore the faint ghosts of bruises from Quidditch, a testament to the fact that he played rough today. 

You stared shamelessly, hands twitching at your sides, before you finally gave in and mapped every line with your fingertips. The kiss that came next was messier, his tongue thrusting into your mouth in a rhythm that promised what was to come.

Jaemin's fingers worked at the button of your trousers, and you remembered with mortification that your knickers did not match your bra. Cool air hit your bare skin, but his body heat chased it away as he pressed closer, his clothed erection grinding against your thigh. You could feel how hard he was, the thick length straining against his trousers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with desire. “I've wanted this for so long.” His hand slid between your legs, fingers parting your folds to find you already slick. He groaned at the discovery, circling your clit with his thumb while a finger pushed inside you, drawing out tiny sparks of pleasure. Hehen he slipped two fingers inside, your hips jerked in startled delight. He moved slow at first, letting you get used to the stretch, his other hand splayed over your hip, grounding you, steadying you. 

You moaned, hips bucking into his hand as he pumped his fingers in and out, stretching you, preparing you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths. He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his thumb pressing firmer on your clit until you were trembling, on the edge.

“Merlin, remind me to–… to read a book on this before next time,” you blurted breathlessly.

Jaemin stilled, and for a second, you wondered if you’d killed the mood entirely. But then his mouth curved into a wolfish grin, and he pressed a slow kiss to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw.

“Oh, I think you’re doing just fine,” he murmured, voice gone gravelly. “But if you want me to demonstrate…”

He kissed a path down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to worship each new inch of skin revealed. It seemed like there was no part of you he didn’t want to learn. When his lips brushed the top of your breast, you gasped, the joke you’d been about to make dying on your tongue.

“Jaemin—what are you—?”

“Trust me,” 

You whimpered in protest, but he silenced you with a kiss, guiding you toward the bed. He stripped off his own pants and boxers, his cock springing free, long and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Your eyes locked on it, pulse racing at the sight.

He pushed you down onto the soft sheets, following you immediately until his body was covering yours. His mouth trailed lower, kissing a path down your stomach to the apex of your thighs. He spread your legs wide, settling between them, and looked up at you with eyes dark with hunger. “I need to taste you.”

“Wait—” you started, nerves rearing again.

He glanced up. “I promise you’ll like this.”

Then his tongue flicked out, lapping at your core in one long stroke, and the sound you made barely qualified as human. He sucked your clit into his mouth, alternating with broad licks along your slit, his fingers returning to thrust inside you. The combination of his relentless tongue and his fingers fucking you deep and steady was overwhelming.

“Okay, wow, that’s—oh—bloody hell—”

Right. So. That was new.

In fairness, you thought you were reasonably experienced. You had been alone with yourself often enough. You knew what you liked, had your own routines abd methods. A careful system involving muffled pillows, and a great deal of optimistic trial and error.

This was definitely not that.

This was like discovering you’d been trying to play a symphony on a recorder and Jaemin had just sat down at a grand piano and casually dismantled your entire understanding of music.

Your hips rolled against his face instinctively, chasing the building pleasure. He held you down with one arm across your waist, not letting you escape the onslaught. You gasped, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably.

“Jaemin,” you gasped. “Please—”

You weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for.

For him to stop. For him to continue. For him to explain how this was happening. For him to never leave this exact position.

Suddenly he added a finger, and wow…. that was certainly not how it felt when you did it. It probably had to do with the fact that his fingers were way longer and he seemed to know what to do with them.

He hummed against you, the vibration along with his tongue and fingers enough to push you over. Your orgasm crashed through you and you clenched around his fingers as waves of pleasure ripped you apart. He didn't stop, licking you through it until you were shaking, oversensitive and boneless.

Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and dumb smirk on his lips. “How was that?”

He looked far too smug for your liking, and you—who had spent years pretending to be unflappable—actually giggled. Like a third year after her first Butterbeer.

“It was—” Your cheeks burned. “Brilliant.” 

His smile widened. “Alright. Just one more thing before we…” He trailed his wand through a complicated motion. The tip shimmered blue, a faint ring of light settling across your pelvis.

He caught your eye. “Contraceptive charm. Unless you’d rather I hexed my own bollocks off instead, but I hear Madam Pomfrey’s got enough on her hands.”

Another nervous laugh broke from your lips, but Jaemin just pressed a reassuring hand to your thigh and leaned in. 

“Tell me to stop if you want to. I mean it.”

You shook your head, want eclipsing every doubt you had. “I want to,” you said, the words tumbling out so fast they nearly tripped over themselves. “I want you.”

Jaemin lined himself up and watched your face as he eased forward slowly. The stretch stung at first—your body fighting to accommodate the unfamiliar width. It hurt more than you’d expected. 

Your walls stretched, burning, fluttering around him, the ache gradually giving way to a dizzying pressure as he bottomed out. He stayed perfectly still, forehead resting against yours, both of you shuddering through the intensity of it.

“Alright?” Jaemin asked thickly, as if it cost him everything not to move. A low groan escaped him as your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around his cock, the sensation clearly testing his control.

“Yeah, it’s just… a lot,” you admitted, your breath hitching.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hips twitching slightly despite his efforts to stay still. “Yeah, I know. I’m quite big.” The joke pulled a surprised giggle from you, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction. His eyes crinkled with warmth at the sight.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, a whimper threading through his words, his fingers digging into the sheets beside your head. “It—it’s taking everything not to just pound into you right now.”

He was flushed, hair damp with sweat, the strands sticking adorably to his brow and temples. His cheeks were tinged rose-pink, his jaw clenched tight as if the effort of holding himself back was an actual battle. His lips, swollen from kissing you, parted as he panted, every exhale ghosting warm across your face. A single bead of sweat trickled from his hairline, skimming down to the curve of his cheekbone. You couldn’t help but reach up, tracing it with a shaky finger. He caught your hand, pressing his lips to your palm, and the heat of it nearly undid you.

You’d never seen him look more beautiful. All that cockiness and swagger stripped away. This was just Jaemin, undone, desperate, trying to be gentle for your sake and barely managing.

A sudden warmth loosened in your chest, chasing away the last of your tension. You wanted this.  The pain ebbed slowly, replaced by a deeper need. You shifted beneath him, hips rolling tentatively, and found the sting softened, yielding to a heady pleasure that made your toes curl.

“Merlin,” Jaemin groaned in response.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, focusing on the sensations: the fullness, the way your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around him, sending little sparks of warmth across your body. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the tense muscles under your fingertips, and you whispered, “Please Jaem, move.”

Jaemin pulled back slightly, just an inch or two, and pushed in again slowly. A deep groan rumbled from his chest at the drag, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Shit… so good,” he panted. 

The motion made you gasp, the initial burn fading into a building warmth. He repeated it, shallow at first, giving your body time to adapt. Each gentle thrust coaxed a soft whimper from your throat, your nerves firing in ways you’d never imagined. It wasn’t seamless or effortless like in the stories you’d read; there were awkward pauses, a slight shift when he slipped a bit, both of you chuckling breathlessly to ease the tension.

Then he started moving faster, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. Each stroke hit a perfect angle, his hips grinding against your clit with every push. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you harder.

The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, skin slapping against skin. Jaemin's hand found yours, lacing your fingers together as he drove into you, his eyes never leaving yours. There was tenderness in the way he held you, even as his pace turned brutal, chasing release.

“You’re doing so well, princess,” he murmured, brushing your temple.”

A jolt of pleasure shot through you as the head of his cock nudged a spot that made your breath hitch. “There… right there,” you breathed, your voice shaky but sure.

Jaemin laced his fingers with yours, pinning your hand above your head gently. His eyes bored into yours. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed between thrusts, voice punctuated by a whimper as your walls gripped him.

“Me too,” you breathed..

He released your hand to slip between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it slowly at first, matching the tempo of his hips, then faster as your moans grew louder. “Come on, let go for me… you’re so close, I can feel it,” he urged, his own groans growing more frequent.

The added friction shattered you. Your orgasm built fast, coiling tight before exploding, your walls fluttering around his cock, milking him.

He followed you over the edge with a broken cry muffled against your neck, burying himself deep as he came. He collapsed onto you afterward, both of you panting, hearts pounding in that particular post-coital unison that poets find romantic and medical professionals find concerning. He stayed inside you as he softened, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You lay tangled in Jaemin's arms, limbs pleasantly loose from exertion and spine somewhat less pleasantly compressed by the world's most questionable mattress. 

The Room of Requirement, in its infinite wisdom, had conjured a heap of velvet blankets to cover yourself with. You suspected Hogwarts's taste in romantic furnishings had been shaped by decades of adolescent fantasy and the castle's own flair for the dramatic. Regardless, your back ached, your hair was a catastrophe, and you found that you didn't mind at all.

Jaemin, for his part, seemed content to lounge beside you like a Renaissance painting of decadent youth, one hand idly tracing the curve of your hip beneath the sheet. It was all terribly calm—if you ignored the thunderous panic building in your own chest.

You propped yourself up on one elbow and regarded him in the low light. In repose, the sharp edges of him softened into something almost approachable. You'd always been rather undone by his eyes, if you were being honest, but now, seeing them half-lidded and so unguarded, the usual sardonic glitter banked to embers, you felt something dangerous clawing its way up your throat.

Don't, warned the sensible part of your brain. Don't you dare.

"I love you," you said.

The words escaped before you had a chance to wrap them in plausible deniability or cushion them with caveats.

Jaemin went very still.

For one absurd, hopeful moment, you thought perhaps he simply needed a second to process. That was reasonable, wasn't it? People usually needed time to absorb emotional declarations. Any moment now, he'd turn to you with that devastating smile and say—

He rolled away. Sat up. And began an unhurried search for his shirt, which had vanished somewhere beneath the bed during earlier, more optimistic proceedings.

Ah.

Ah.

"Jaemin?" you ventured. Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.

He didn't turn around. His shoulders, you noticed, had gone rather tense. "It's getting late. We should probably head back to our dormitories."

Your heart, so stupidly full just moments ago, plummeted somewhere in the vicinity of your stomach. "What?"

"It's late," he repeated, to the floor, or perhaps to the shirt he'd finally located. "We have classes tomorrow. We should get some sleep."

You felt as though someone had upended a bucket of ice water directly over your head. You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself with hands that had begun, rather inconveniently, to tremble. You'd been pleasantly naked in front of him not five minutes ago, and now you couldn't bear the exposure.

"Jaemin." You hated how small your voice had become. "Did you hear what I said?"

He finally looked at you. His expression had shuttered completely, all the warmth and softness of moments ago locked away behind those dark eyes.

"I heard you."

"And?"

He exhaled. "This... what we just did... it doesn't change anything." A pause. "We had an arrangement. A deal. It was never supposed to be more than that."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

You stared at him, vision blurring treacherously at the edges, and thought: of course. Of course he didn't love you back. How could he? You were merely  a solution to a problem. The fact that you'd been foolish enough to fall for your own charade—well. That was your fault entirely, wasn't it? No one to blame but yourself and your own ridiculous heart.

"Right," you heard yourself say. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was too—I'm sorry."

"Y/N..." He reached for you, and you flinched away so sharply you nearly toppled off the bed.

"No, it's fine." Your voice had gone brittle, the way it did when you were trying very hard not to cry. "You're absolutely right. We should go."

You stood on shaky legs and began gathering your scattered clothes with trembling hands. Your jumper had ended up draped over a candelabra, and you couldn't find your left sock, but you decided that you didn't care. You needed to leave. You needed to be anywhere but this room that had witnessed your greatest vulnerability and your most thorough humiliation.

Jaemin dressed in silence. His movements were impersonal, as if the tender lover of minutes ago was replaced entirely by a distant stranger pulling on his trousers like this was simply another Tuesday. Perhaps, for him, it was.

When you were both clothed, he cleared his throat.

"I'll walk you back to—"

"I can manage," you interrupted, shoving your only gracelessly into your back pocket.

His jaw worked, as though he were chewing over some final, unsatisfying thought. You found you didn't want to hear it.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said finally.

You didn't answer. You turned on your heel, crossed to the door, and walked out of the Room of Requirement with your chin held high and your heart in approximately seventeen thousand pieces, wishing desperately for a Time-Turner and the sense to use it.

You walked back to Gryffindor Tower in a daze, barely registering your surroundings. Your mind was reeling, trying to process the abrupt shift from blissful intimacy to cold rejection. You stumbled through the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady's concerned look. Thankfully, the common room was empty at this hour. You stood there for a long moment, staring into the dying flames, feeling the weight of your own foolishness pressing down on you.

You'd let yourself imagine it, hadn't you? A future where this thing between you and Jaemin was something real. Something that would survive the end of your little arrangement, that would unfold into late-night conversations and stolen kisses in corridors and his hand finding yours under the table at breakfast. You'd let yourself believe it so thoroughly that you'd forgotten it was never true to begin with.

And now you were left with nothing but the cold truth and the aching space in your chest where your heart used to be.

A beautiful lie. A fairy tale you'd spun for yourself, heedless of the inevitable unhappy ending that had been written into the story from the very first page.

And now you were alone in an empty common room at half past midnight, with nothing but the cold truth and the aching, echoing space in your chest where your heart used to be.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

You turned to see Jo descending from the dormitories. She was in her pajamas, hair piled in a messy bun, face still creased with sleep. But the moment she saw you properly, whatever drowsy inquiry she'd been planning died on her lips.

Her eyes went wide. Understanding flooded her features, followed swiftly by something fierce and protective.

"Oh, love," she breathed, and crossed the room in three quick strides to pull you into her arms. "Oh, no. What happened? What did he do?"

And that was all it took. The dam broke, and suddenly you were sobbing into her shoulder, great heaving gasps that shook your whole body. She held you tightly, stroking your hair, murmuring soothing nonsense as you cried.

"I t-told him I l-loved him," you managed between sobs. "And he... he just..."

"Shh, I've got you. Breathe."

"He said it didn’t change anything." You choked on the words. "That it was never supposed to be more than that. And I just—I stood there like an idiot—"

"You're not an idiot." Her arms tightened around you. "You're not. He's the idiot. He's a complete and utter prat, and I'm going to hex his bollocks off, see if I don't—"

A small, inquisitive mrrp interrupted the proceedings. 

You both looked down. Whiskers had appeared from somewhere behind the sofa. He blinked up at you with large, knowing eyes, then began weaving between your ankles with pointed determination.

"Oh, Whiskers," Jo murmured. "Good boy. You tell her."

The cat, apparently agreeing that emotional support was required, rose up on his hind legs to bump his head against your knee. When that failed to produce adequate acknowledgment, he meowed again and began climbing your leg in pursuit of a better vantage point.

You laughed, it came out watery and hiccupping and rather awful, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

"See? He thinks Jaemin's a prat, too." Jo said solemnly, scooping Whiskers up and depositing him into the narrow space between you both. The cat immediately began purring and butted his head against your chin. 

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, still trembling. "I feel so stupid, Jo. I knew this was how it would end. I knew from the beginning it wasn't real, and I just—I let myself—"

"Hey." Jo pulled back to look at you properly. "Falling in love isn't stupid. It's brave. Even when it's messy and terrifying and the other person is a monumental coward who doesn't deserve you."

"He's not…"

"He is." Her voice brooked no argument. "Anyone who looks at you the way he does and then pretends it's nothing? That's cowardice. That's someone too scared to admit what they feel, so they make you feel like you’re imagining it instead."

You opened your mouth to protest, because surely it wasn't like that, surely you'd simply misread everything, surely the fault was yours for wanting too much, but Jo cut you off.

"No. Don't do that. Don't even try to make excuses for him." She softened, just slightly. "I know you love him. And I know that doesn't just... switch off. But you deserve someone brave enough to love you back out loud, yeah?"

A fresh wave of tears came, because she was right. You did deserve that. And you’d thought, for a few perfect hours, that maybe you’d had it.

“I really thought he—” You couldn’t finish.

“I know.” Her voice was gentle. “I know you did. And maybe he does, somewhere under all that stupid hair. But maybe isn’t good enough.”

You pressed your face into Whiskers’s fur, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

"Right," she continued. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit here, and you're going to let Whiskers work his magic, and you're going to cry as much as you need to. And tomorrow, we're going to eat an absolutely obscene amount of chocolate at breakfast, and you're going to ignore Na Jaemin so thoroughly he'll wonder if he's gone invisible. And if he tries to talk to you, I'll hex him. I’ve gotten really good at Bat-Bogeys."

"Jo, you will get detention."

"I don't care," she wasn't smiling anymore. "No one gets to make you feel like this and walk away unscathed. Not while I'm around."

You leaned into her, letting your head drop against her shoulder. Whiskers purred on.

"I really love him," you whispered. "Even after tonight. How pathetic is that?"

"It's not pathetic at all." Jo's voice caressed your heard, all the protective fury banked into comfort. "Love just doesn't care about timing, or logic, or whether the other person deserves it. It just is." A pause. "And for what it's worth? I don't think he's as unaffected as he's pretending to be. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

​​You didn't answer. You weren't sure you believed her at all, to be honest. But you let her hold you, let Whiskers purr and let the fire burn down to ash while the ache in your chest slowly, slowly dulled to something almost bearable.

Jaemin had never felt more like a prat in his entire life.

No—that wasn't quite accurate. Prat implied mild social incompetence. A tendency to say the wrong thing at dinner parties, forgetting birthdays, laughing at funerals. The sort of harmless foolishness that people forgave with a fond eye-roll and a muttered oh, that's just Jaemin.

What he had done went rather spectacularly beyond that.

He had taken something fragile and rare, something most people spent their entire lives hoping to stumble across, and placed it directly under his own boot. Deliberately. With malice aforethought, or at least malice afore-panic, which hardly seemed better.

He had watched you gather every ounce of courage you possessed. Had felt you trembling against him, breath shallow, voice catching on the edges of words you clearly hadn't planned to say. You had offered him something honest and unguarded and terrifying in its vulnerability, and he had responded by retreating behind technicalities and arrangements like a child hiding behind a curtain and insisting, with full conviction, that he was invisible.

We had a deal.

God. He wanted to reach back in time and throttle himself.

It was never supposed to be more than that.

What a thing to say. What an absolute masterwork of emotional cowardice, delivered with the sort of cool detachment that would've made his father proud. He could practically hear the old man now: Well done, son. Keep them at arm's length. Never let them see you bleed.

Coward.

That was the word. The only word that fit.

A coward with decent grades and a Quidditch record impressive enough to distract people from the fact that, emotionally, he possessed all the sophistication of a flobberworm. Less, actually. Flobberworms at least had the excuse of being invertebrates.

He replayed it in his head for the forty-seventh time that hour, the way your voice had softened when you said it. I love you. Three words, plain and graceles, tumbling out like they'd escaped against your will.

The way your fingers had curled into the sheets as if bracing for impact. The tiny pause afterward—that breath of suspended time where you had waited for him to meet you there.

And he hadn't.

He had stood on the very edge of everything he'd wanted for six years—six years, which was roughly forty percent of his entire existence and one hundred percent of his adolescence—and he had convinced himself that stepping forward was more dangerous than falling back.

He had finally kissed the girl who'd haunted his thoughts since he was eleven years old and too stupid to understand why her insults made his chest feel strange. He had finally heard you say you loved him out loud, to his face, with your whole heart in your voice.

And instead of recognizing it for the bloody miracle it was, he had panicked.

As though being loved were a trap. As though affection were some elaborate con, and you were merely waiting for the right moment to spring it.

As though you, of all people—brilliant, stubborn, infuriatingly principled you—were something he needed protecting from rather than running toward.

He laughed under his breath. The sound came out thin and joyless, startling in the empty corridor.

Afraid of being loved.

What a stupid thing to be afraid of. It ranked right up there with afraid of winning the Quidditch Cup or afraid of someone handing you precisely what you've desperately wanted and asking nothing in return.

He had spent years wanting your attention.

Years engineering excuses to speak to you, picking fights in the corridors because negative attention was still attention, stealing your quills, hexing your textbooks, memorizing your class schedule so he could accidentally-on-purpose cross your path between classes.

He had told himself this behavior came from an innocent rivalry or perhaps even house pride, just the natural antagonism between Slytherin ambition and Gryffindor recklessness.

He had watched you from across the Great Hall, the way you laughed with Jo, the way you chewed your quill when you were thinking, the way the light caught your hair in the morning, and convinced himself it was harmless curiosity. Academic interest. The detached observation of a worthy opponent.

What a spectacular amount of bollocks he had fed himself.

He had wanted you persistently. Recklessly, in a way that would've horrified his younger self, who had been very committed to the aesthetic of cool indifference.

And when he finally had you, when you were warm and real and trusting in his arms, when you'd given yourself to him completely and then offered your heart on top of it like some undeserved gift—

He had recoiled.

Because being loved meant being seen.

It meant showing up. Being present. Letting someone witness all the parts of himself he usually kept buried under six layers of charm and sarcasm and ambition. It meant responsibility. Knowing that someone else's happiness was now tangled up in his own choices, his own failures, his own capacity to be something more than the sum of his defense mechanisms.

He had spent years telling himself he was being sensible.

Protecting people, he'd called it. Keeping them safe. As though his emotional unavailability were some sort of public service, a kindness he performed by keeping parts of himself locked away where they couldn't do damage.

He lived by three rules: feelings were liabilities, distance was safety, and caring too much was the fastest way to hand someone a weapon and hope they didn't use it.

It had been easy to believe that, growing up in a house where affection came with conditions and approval came with expectations. Where love had always been something that could be revoked at any moment—a privilege, not a given. A reward for good behavior, withdrawn the instant you failed to meet the mark.

So he'd learned early how to ration himself. How to care quietly, in ways that couldn't be measured or weaponised. How to want without asking. How to feel without admitting it, even to himself.

And it had worked. For years, it had worked.

He had been fine. Perfectly content in his carefully constructed fortress of emotional self-sufficiency.

Until you.

You, who had looked at his defenses not as walls to be respected but to be climbed. Who had called him out on his nonsense and refused to be impressed by his posturing and seen through him with a clarity that terrified him.

You had dismantled his entire system without even trying.

And now you were crying in the Gryffindor common room, probably being comforted by Jo who rightfully thought he was the worst sort of person, while he stood alone in a dark corridor with nothing but the wreckage of his own making for company.

He pressed his palm flat to his chest, as if he might physically restrain the ache there.

It didn't work. The ache remained, steady and insistent, a bruise that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He had been given exactly what he wanted and he had thrown it away because he didn't believe he was allowed to keep it.

Because somewhere deep in the foundations of himself, in all the places his parents' voices still echoed, he had decided that love was not something people like him got to have. Not permanently. That wanting something too much was the surest way to lose it, and the safest course was to let go before it could be taken.

He had pre-empted his own heartbreak.

And in doing so, he had guaranteed it.

The realization settled over him slowly, and Na Jaemin—Slytherin Prefect, Quidditch star, heir to a name that opened doors across the wizarding world—had never felt more utterly, unforgivably small.

He thought of you, somewhere in Gryffindor Tower, believing you had been foolish to love him.

And he thought: No.

The only fool here is me.

He spent the next few days turning it over. You saying those three words and him saying it didn’t change anything. What a lie. It changed everything and he could feel every new fault line spider out beneath his feet, threatening to split him open.

At first, he tried to convince himself he needed this: to have the edge. He thought of the next two weeks as a sprint, a countdown to the end of the deal, a chance to reset before anyone saw how scrambled he’d become. But the more he tried to hold that line, the more he found himself drifting. A wordless longing in his veins, a kind of hunger not easily starved out.

He looked like hell at breakfast. Sungchan greeted him with a commence-the-mocking whistle and immediately began recounting every detail of the party—especially the part where Jaemin had “dragged his girlfriend off like the end of a Victorian bodice-ripper and nobody saw either of them again until morning.”

Jaemin grunted in response. He’d hoped that the Slytherin table’s perpetual ruckus would drown out his mood, but word had apparently traveled at broomstick speed that he and his Gryffindor paramour had disappeared into the night and returned separately.

“Did you see Y/N?” Giselle asked, low-voiced as she slid onto the bench next to him. “She didn’t come down yet. Jo said something about a headache, but you know what that usually means.”

Jaemin played dumb. It was one of his most reliable talents. “Hangover?”

Giselle’s lips thinned into an unimpressed line. “Try again.”

He almost managed a laugh. “What, mid-semester flu, then?”

Changmin leaned across the table to whack him on the forearm. “Knock it off. You know what she means.”

For a second, Jaemin's lip curled with the beginning of a sneer. Then he caught the genuine concern in Changmin's eyes, and something in his chest constricted painfully. He knew he was being intolerable, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Besides, when had his friends developed this sudden interest in your wellbeing? Just weeks ago, they'd barely concealed their disdain whenever your name came up.

He shrugged. “Didn’t realize you lot were so invested in her.”

Sungchan, mouth full of toast, said, “Are you thick? She’s basically our in-law now.”

Giselle, who had never in her life let a moment of vulnerability pass unremarked, pinned him with a look sharp enough to cut. “Stop pretending you don’t care,” she said quietly. “It’s pathetic.”

Jaemin tried to brush it off, but her words dug in. The table fell into a brief, uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the scrape of utensils and the dull roar of the rest of the Hall. His eyes betrayed him, sweeping across the Great Hall in search of your face. It was four minutes to the start of first period when you appeared, rumpled as a stray leaflet, hair yanked into a bun with a quill, the red in your eyes unsoftened by any attempt to conceal it. You didn’t look in his direction. Not even once.

Jo steered you to a seat as far from the Slytherin table as possible, and for the first time in living memory, you didn’t have a book open with breakfast. You just sat there, picking at a single triangle of toast, the very opposite of the person he’d chased across the halls for half a decade.

He watched you, hating himself for it but unable to stop. Any moment now, you’d look up with a tiny smile and mouth, “What are you looking at?” and the axis of his world would correct itself by one degree. Instead, you slipped out before the first bell.

At least he was reliably consistent. Second period hadn't even started and Jaemin had orchestrated a trinity of fleeting, meticulously planned collisions. He'd spent the first break loitering by the Charms corridor, just to see your profile as you debated something with Jo. You never saw him. Or if you did, you made a point of acting as if he were invisible—a feat that, for someone as volatile as you, must have taken immense restraint. Still, his pulse hammered at the mere proximity, the knowledge that you occupied the same ten-meter radius.

Then, after Defense, he'd shadowed your route to the library, walking the long way around just so he could pass you by the statue of Dymphna the Dazed. He’d spent so many hours studying your gait, the bounce in your step, the way you always fiddled with your wand as you walked that he could predict, to the second, when you'd arrive at the oak doors. The actual moment was almost an anticlimax, though: You breezed right past, not even a flicker of recognition in your gaze.

By the time he wandered into the stacks of the Library, he’d convinced himself that running into you was serendipity and not the carefully plotted vector of a moth to its own funeral pyre. He saw you perched at the edge of a reading table, surrounded by towers of books and an aura of such prickly concentration that even Madam Pince hovered before daring to approach. He told himself he needed something from the Potions section, just adjacent to your fortress of solitude, but when you looked up and caught him standing there, he nearly dropped his armful of textbooks.

But you simply returned to your reading, jaw tight, quill moving in furious dashes. The rejection was as comprehensive as any hex, and it landed him two rows over, staring blankly at a shelf of moldy periodicals and trying to pretend his hands weren't shaking.

This was how the day went: Jaemin planning collisions, you dodging each one with exactness. He wondered if you knew you could destroy him just by looking his way.

You didn’t bite either way. You only spoke once to him, and it was to offer one brittle “Excuse me” as you slid past. He caught a whiff of your hair then and realized he’d missed that scent. It filled his head, left him dizzy. He didn’t turn around as you disappeared down the aisle. He only stood there, polysyllabic apologies crowding the back of his tongue—and not a single one fit to say aloud.

You knew the aftermath would be the hardest part, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the days that followed. They stretched out, elastic and punitive, filled with silences so loud you imagined they could split the castle at its seams.

In a fit of what you would later call “productive despair,” you doubled down on your schoolwork. Every study hour became a refuge, your textbooks a bulwark against thinking. Whiskers responded to your newly-acquired hermitage by laying siege to your lap at all hours, claws lightly sheathed, tail flicking in his sleep like he was chasing the very feelings you’d tried to outrun.

You became an expert at avoiding Jaemin. You timed your arrivals to classes, hung back until the corridors thinned, and made peace with the fact that every now and then, you’d have to let a Slytherin Prefect dock you house points for lateness. Sometimes it was even Jaemin himself; he’d hand you the slip with his eyes fixed somewhere behind your left ear.

Even the Slytherin first years who’d once delighted in blocking your path seemed to shrink away from the tableau, as if the story of your heartbreak had filtered down through the stone like cold water, softening even the nastiest traditions.

Jo, goddess among friends, never pressed. She introduced you to a new array of comfort snacks and developed a proprietary cocoa recipe that she claimed could “reanimate a troll.” She helped you with Charms and let you rant about nothing in particular. When you occasionally faltered—when your hand shook during practicals or you lost your place reading out loud in History of Magic—she’d bump your knee under the desk and say, “We’re almost there, kitten. Keep your chin up.”

You kept your chin up. It hurt but you did it, because Jo was watching, and because Whiskers was watching, and because you refused to let him have any more of your dignity than you’d already handed over.

Four days before the end of the arrangement, your N.E.W.Ts loomed like a darkening storm. You’d just finished revising for Arithmancy when Jo spoke, “We’re doing a girls’ night tonight. No arguments.” She produced two vials of Smuggler’s Pumpkin Spice Spirit (questionable provenance) and a deck of Exploding Snap. “And we’re inviting Yuna.”

You nearly choked. “Yuna?”

Jo nodded seriously. “I saw her crying in the North Tower last Tuesday. She needs it. We need it. Besides, she’s been relentlessly normal lately.”

The idea felt so surreal that you couldn’t bring yourself to object. At exactly ten, Yuna appeared outside your dormitory, balancing a tray of suspiciously glittery shot glasses. She wore pajamas patterned with tiny cats and a hesitant smile, both of which seemed calculated to defuse ancient hostilities.

The three of you sprawled on the floor of the dormitory. You, cross-legged and trying not to look like your entire emotional landscape was scorched earth; Jo, already red-cheeked and deploying her patented “I’m-not-drunk-you’re-drunk” strategy; and Yuna, who poured drinks for everyone.

The first round was vile. The second was marginally less vile, or perhaps your tongue had simply given up. After a few more, your nerves had been numbed enough that you no longer cared if anyone brought up the name “Jaemin”. Or maybe you wanted them to.

Eventually, Jo passed out. She did so with Whiskers pillowed on her belly and her arms flung overhead.Yuna watched her for a long, pensive moment. Then she poured each of you one last shot and raised hers in a slightly wobbly toast. “To stupid boys,” she said. “And to the girls surviving them.”

You clinked glasses. The spirit went down like molten pudding and settled somewhere near your spleen.

A companionable silence fell, the pleasant, boozy sort that felt safe enough to say things you would otherwise never let see daylight.

Yuna was the first to break it.

“He’s terrible at hiding it, you know,” she said. “Jaemin.”

You blinked. “What?”

“What he wants,” Yuna clarified. “It’s…not subtle.” She swirled her shot glass, watching the dregs coat the glassy bottom. “I think he makes things hard for himself, but harder for the people he cares about.” She flicked her gaze up. “And you must know. You’re the only one he’s ever actually cared about.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “I think you’re mixing up ‘care’ with ‘use as a convenient shield for his own problems.’”

Yuna’s expression shifted to puzzled. “Convenient shield?”

You blinked at her, a little dizzy, a little stunned that Yuna, one of Slytherin’s most preternaturally well-informed gossip, didn’t already know every miserable detail. “You—oh, come on. The arrangement.” You mimed air quotes with your fingers, nearly upending your glass in the process. “We only did this to get you off his bloody back.”

Yuna opened her mouth to say something,but then just burst out laughing. Not even a sly titter but a full-throated snort that startled Whiskers off Jo’s belly and into an escape beneath the bed.

“Oh—oh, Merlin’s balls—” Yuna gasped, clutching her ribs. “You—wait, you actually believed—oh, this is precious.”

You felt yourself flush with irritation. “What’s so funny? That you lost your shot at Jaemin?”

“No, you adorable idiot, not that.” Yuna shook her head, wiping away a tear of mirth. “Are you serious? I’ve only ever talked to Jaemin because he’s Changmin’s best friend, and Changmin—well…”

She trailed off, her cheeks going very pink, then, as if you weren’t present at all, she laid her head back against the bottom bunk and stared at the ceiling, a contented smile on her lips.

You waited for more context, a swirl of confusion tangling up your tongue. There was a thud as Whiskers landed on the foot of the bed, followed by the faintest prickle of claws as he padded up beside you.

Finally, the implication of her words hit your tipsy brain. “Wait. You’re not—I mean. You weren’t even—?”

“Into Jaemin?” Yuna finished for you. “Merlin, no. Not since third year at least—and even then, only in the way you want a new pair of boots.” She shrugged, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “He’s nice to look at, but a nightmare to date. Total self-saboteur.” She glanced at you, curious. “You really thought I was after him?”

You felt lightheaded. “I mean you were everywhere—”

“I was following Changmin, you dolt.” Yuna’s face went even pinker if possible. “I set this whole thing up to make him jealous. I mean, it worked, he finally asked me to Hogsmeade, but—” she broke off, suddenly shy. “Sorry for the collateral damage. Truly.”

You stared at her, the pieces of the last months threatening to explode through the air. All that plotting, the drama, every humiliating emotional contortion you’d endured, and all this time… Jaemin hadn’t been fighting off Yuna. He’d just, what?

Did he just want an excuse to be near you, because he was pathologically incapable of admitting how much he needed it, even to himself? Every ounce of dignity you'd sacrificed, every moment of your life spent embroiled in this nonsense, and the object of his supposed self-sacrifice had been pining for Changmin the entire time.

You took a long, bracing inhale, thumping your head once hard against the edge of the bed frame.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

Yuna, to her credit, had the decency not to gloat. She nudged Whiskers toward you. “He’s always liked you, you know,” she said. “Even before. He used to ask me how to get you to stop hating him, like I had some kind of… girl code manual.”

You eyed her. “Did you?”

Yuna nodded, propping her chin on her knees. “I told him to try being honest for once. Clearly, he didn’t listen.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“You know, out of everyone, I think you’re the only person who makes him utterly lose his composure. He’s usually… impossible to fluster. Kind of his thing. But around you it’s like—you light a match and throw it into his brain.”

“Well, I certainly managed to set something on fire,” you said, and surprised yourself with a half-laugh. “Just not in any useful way.”

Yuna scooted a little closer, lowering her voice. “I know you probably don’t want my advice, but… maybe give him a chance to fix it. He’s genuinely bad at this stuff.” She shrugged. “You don’t have to forgive him, but if you’re waiting for him to say the right thing, you might be waiting forever.”

Her words slotted into place in your exhausted brain, like the last piece of a hopelessly complicated puzzle. Horrible, giddy amusement bubbled up your chest: all this time, you’d been fighting the wrong war, arming yourself against an enemy who’d never even taken the field.

You left Jo and Yuna asleep in each other's arms, Whiskers curled into a protective gray-striped crescent at the foot of the bed. Every portrait squinted with suspicious half-lidded eyes, and every suit of armor clattered medieval disapproval as you ran past them.

You didn't think much about where you were going, but the probability was as precise as Divination could ever muster: the Slytherin common room. Because if there was a single neuron left swimming in your firewhisky-addled brain, it was firing like a desperate flare directly toward Na Jaemin.

You padded soundlessly through the dungeons, fingertips trailing along the cool stone walls for balance, only to round a corner and nearly collide with a tall silhouette legging it up from the other direction. Jaemin, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours, shirt untucked with three buttons misaligned, and eyes wild as a cornered hippogriff, skidded to a halt so abrupt you both nearly toppled over.

You just stood there, staring, every cell in your body screaming and also quite possibly vibrating. Through the haze of fatigue and shame and liquor, you registered every heartbreakingly specific detail of him: the spike in his breathing, the way he braced one hand against the wall as if he needed it to hold up the rest of him, the deep crease between his eyebrows that only appeared when he was actively terrified.

The words queued up, fighting to be first out. “I—” “Listen—” “Can we—” “Please—”

A jumble, then an accidental harmony: “I need to talk to you.”

For one second, you considered turning around and running. But the way Jaemin looked at you pinned you to the spot.

He spoke first. “Come to the broom closet? I think I saw Mrs Norris nearby, which means… ”

“Filch,” you finished for him. “Okay, let’s go.”

You followed him in silence, down the corridor to the oversized closet that Slytherins had used for centuries to hide everything from illicit liquor to first-year snoggers. He held the door open, then closed it behind you, which left you not even three feet apart.

Jaemin propped his back against the door and exhaled so slowly it sounded like the last breath of a dying man. You tried not to notice that his hands were shaking. Or that he looked, for all his composure, completely lost. “I, um.” He looked down at his own shoes. “Y/N, I fucked up.”

You blinked. You’d come here to yell, maybe. Or at least to interrogate some truths out of him, like why he had so thoroughly detonated your entire sense of self. But he’d opened with the guilt and you weren’t ready for it. Unpracticed, unbuffered by the ice of pride or wit. It landed inside you with an unexpected warmth that left you unable to launch the first missile of your prepared invective.

He tried again. “I said things I didn’t mean. Or… didn’t say things I was supposed to.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, and for the first time in your long and bitter acquaintance, he looked his age. Not the chiseled, archvillain Slytherin but a seventeen-year-old boy who’d just spent the last week eating his own heart.

You pressed your back to the shelving, feeling a bristle of ancient brooms poking into your shoulder. It was easier to focus on the physical discomfort than the absolute riot of feelings inside you. “Why did you do it, then?” you asked, voice trembling but louder than you felt. “Why pretend? Why go through all of it if you didn’t—”

He looked up then, and the world stopped. You'd always known Jaemin had pretty eyes, almost stupidly so, but you'd never seen them this stripped of showmanship. There was nothing left in them but the need to be understood.

He ran both hands through his hair, almost laughing at himself. “Growing up, love was like a… currency. My parents, they’d dole it out in rations, make you earn it, then yank it away when you needed it most. Every hug, every ‘I’m proud of you’—it was an investment, and nothing was free. I don’t want to do that.”

He broke off, looking at you as if every word took a year off his life. “But then you—fuck, Y/N, you just loved me. Out loud. Not because you had to, or because I earned it, but because you wanted to. And I didn’t know what to do with that, so I panicked and did what I always do, which is ruin things before they can ruin me.”

You might have laughed, if it hadn’t stung so much. “You could’ve just said it back, you know. Or at least not torched me on the way out.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I do. I just—” He exhaled again and met your gaze. “I actually love you so much, and it scares me so bad I’d rather light the whole thing on fire than tell you to your face.I thought if you ever knew, if you ever saw how fucking much it was, you’d run for the hills. I was scared.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m still scared.”

You stared at him, the old defenses rising out of habit—sarcasm, skepticism, the impulse to twist anything freely given—but something in his voice made them shrivel away. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t even posturing. He was sweating through his shirt in a freezing stone corridor, admitting in the most un-Slytherin way possible that he wanted something enough to break himself for it.

He took a faltering step toward you. “I love you. I love you so much it makes my head hurt, and every time you look at me, I feel like I’m being given something I’m not allowed to keep. You’re so smart, brilliant really, you make everything feel less small and stupid, and I like how you argue even when you know you’re wrong, and sometimes I go out of my way just to hear you laugh at me, because when you do it I feel like maybe I’m not a total waste of oxygen—”

He broke off, eyes wild and shining. “You make me better, from the inside out. And I was so terrified that if you ever saw the real me—if I let you in even a little—I’d ruin it. Or you’d hate me.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “But I ruined it anyway,didn’t I?”

You listened in shock, because this was the Jaemin you’d believed existed only at the very edges of his brittle, cocky mask. The one who’d made a study of you, who’d learned all your favorite spells and matched your every move. You weren’t sure you knew how to reply. The gravity of his confession pressed you to the wall.

"I'm not going to say it was fine," you whispered, voice cracking. "It felt like you'd reached inside my chest and—" You pressed a trembling hand to your sternum. "God, Jaemin. I couldn't breathe for days. But even then, I never—" Your voice broke completely. "I never really hated you. Not even when I probably should've."

He breathed out. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted you to hate me properly. Would’ve made everything simpler.”

“Why spend all that time and effort in this charade? You could've just been honest... You had no idea how I would take it.”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if the pain of the question might physically rupture his skull. “Because I didn’t know how else to have you, and I thought the only way you’d let me close was if it was an act.”

You wanted to spit something cruel, but it collapsed against the lump in your throat. “You incredible, galloping idiot,” you said instead, mostly to yourself.

You were about to speak again when he slipped a hand inside the folds of his robes. A familiar spine emerged, its dark leather cover worn soft across the creased corners, the gold lettering faintly dulled by time. Wuthering Heights. It was the very copy you’d pressed into his hand weeks ago, at Tomes and Scrolls, half in jest. You’d expected him to snort and set it aside unread, or skim a few florid passages, shrug, and call it melodramatic nonsense. But now its pages were dog-eared, edges curling; a thin gold ribbon marked a specific chapter. The paper around it was so softened that you could almost see the imprint of fingertips pressed into the margins—tiny scrawled notes in cramped handwriting, evidence of long, late-night wrestling matches with Emily Brontë’s tempestuous souls.

Jaemin’s fingers trembled as he thumbed to the ribboned page. He cleared his throat, that quiet catch sounding louder in the hush around you, and lifted his gaze. The green of his eyes locked onto yours so fiercely your ribs felt oddly vulnerable, as if he were staring right through your chest. Then, in a voice low and rough with something like reverent ache, he began:

“Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stared at the book, at the margin notes, at the little crease in the paper where he’d returned again and again.

“You read it,” you whispered shakily. “You actually read it.”

He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear and offered you a shy, sheepish smile. “I got about three pages in and thought, ‘This is the most overwrought melodramatic nonsense I have ever encountered and she’ll never let me live it down if I admit I liked it.’”

Your breath caught, and you laughed softly. “So the Slytherin prince secretly studies Muggle love tragedies for—what? Sport?”

“For you.” His words fell simple and straight, but you saw in the tense set of his shoulders how much it cost him. “I remembered what you once said. That words could be more powerful than any spell. That some stories could make you feel things magic never touches.” He swallowed, eyes flicking away for only an instant. “I wanted to understand. I wanted to see the world the way you do. Even if… even if you never spoke to me again, I needed something of how you think.”

Your throat tightened around all the things you wanted to say.

“I love you,” he said suddenly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I’ll resign as a Prefect, stop dining in the Great Hall… never speak to you again, if that’s how it has to be—”

“Jaemin—”

“And if you think I’m not worth the drama, if you find some sensible Ravenclaw that's smarter and more emotional available instead of—” He gestured at himself “—a stupid prick with a habitual avoidance of feelings, that’s fine too, I unders—”

“Jaemin.”

He stumbled to silence, eyes wide, braced for your anger or dismissal. Instead, you stepped forward. “I think,” you said softly, “I’d rather take my chances with a Slytherin who panics at his own heart.”

His whole face broke into a tentative, trembling smile that brightened by the second, like dawn’s first light spilling over the lake.

“You don’t hate me, then?”

“Oh, I do,” you teased, closing the distance between you. “Just not enough to stop wanting to kiss you.”

He laughed a breathless, disbelieving sound that left him momentarily speechless. “That’s… a very low bar.”

“It’s the bar you set,” you said, reaching up to smooth the crease by his temple. “I’m just acknowledging it.”

He was so close now you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the restless hours he’d spent reading. His breath hitched, and his fingers, still warm around your forearm, shook.

“One condition.”

“Anything.”

“No more schemes. No more elaborate lies to keep me close. If you want something from me, you ask. And if you ever feel like sabotaging yourself again, you write it in a journal like every other teenager, and you keep me out of it.”

His eyes shone with relief and determination. “Deal. I swear it. Honest to Merlin, I’ll be so transparent you’ll beg me to tell a little white lie.”

“Unlikely.” You tousled his hair affectionately.

“I’ll be boring and straightforward and—”

“Now you’re just making things up.”

“—and I’ll read every book you recommend, even the ones you hate, so at least we can hate them together. I’ll tell you if I’m scared instead of running away, and I’ll—”

“Jaemin.”

He stopped and blinked up at you, a hopeful question in his gaze.

“Shut up and come here.”

He closed the last few inches between you, cupping your face as if it were made of spun glass. His thumbs traced the damp paths of your tears, his eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the soft curve of your lips. “For all of it—for the lies, the running, the… spectacular emotional incompetence. I’m so sorry.”

You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. “I know.”

He drew a shaky breath. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

You pressed your forehead to his “I will.”

"Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Already there."

And then, finally, his mouth found yours.

The kiss was unhurried. A little clumsy. Both of you slightly out of practice with each other, slightly hesitant, slightly afraid this might still evaporate if you moved too fast.

But it was real.

You could taste the years of wanting and the weeks of pretending and the days of heartbreak. The sharp edge of pain, slowly dulling. The first green shoots of something that might, given enough time and care, grow into something lasting.

You smiled against his lips. Let your fingers curl into the collar of his robes. Kissed him back with every ounce of mortifying hope you'd sworn you'd bury.

There was nothing staged here. Only the press of his mouth saying yes and sorry and I love you and please, over and over, until the words became simpler.

Stay, his kiss said. Stay, and I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it.

When you eventually separated, both breathing heavily, your foreheads touched.

"Let's see how long it takes you to mess this up," you murmured.

He laughed, eyes bright with joy. "Reckon I've got until dinner at best."

"Don't push your luck."

You kissed him once more, simply because it was possible. Because you wanted to. Because for five endless days you'd believed this door closed forever, and now finding it open seemed too precious to ignore.

Gossip would explode anew, inevitably. By evening meal, whispers would spread about you two emerging from an empty classroom, looking thoroughly kissed. By morning, a dozen conflicting stories would circulate. Within a week, the castle's most creative rumormongers would have you practically married.

But in this moment—his hand entwined with yours, his smile against your temple, your future sketched in pencil rather than vanishing ink—the entire castle seemed beautifully uncomplicated.

For a pair of hopeless liars, it made for a surprisingly honest beginning.

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sunghoon completely distracts intak’s attention away from you, the poor boy unaware of sunghoon’s true intentions as they get to know each other and talk shit about the professor they share. and you’re pissed, lips parting in shock as sunghoon and intak just left you out like that, despite still being in between them. “oh, what the fuck!” you groan out loud, uncaring of making a scene in front of intak. you shove past sunghoon, a scowl on your face as you carry yourself and your red solo cup filled with jungle juice, to the couch where sunghoon was previously sitting at.

heeseung raises a brow at your appearance, pushing through the crowds before plopping down on the empty end of the couch. “damn. cockblocked?” heeseung asks, though rhetorically since he already knew the answer. jake tsks in response, shaking his head as he lets out an audible sigh through the loud bass of the music, he saw it coming from a mile away. 

you only roll your eyes, nose scrunched up as you take a swig of the jungle juice. “intak was totally about to take me home, too!” you grumble, pouting into your drink that’s pressed up against your lips, eyeing sunghoon and intak’s conversation.

after lingering at the party for a while (alone, might you add), sunghoon eventually departs from his long ass conversation with intak. “c’mon, let’s take you home,” he says as he walks up to you, sitting and pouting on the couch beside his friends who tried to cheer you up, but their efforts were in vain. 

you huff, giving him the cold shoulder but you stand up anyway, tilting your head up snobbishly as you make a beeline to the door. he was your ride back home anyway (intak would have been, if sunghoon didn’t cockblock you), so you don’t really have a snarky retort to say back to him.

sunghoon only chuckles at your attitude, giving a goodbye wave to his friends before following after you. he throws an arm over your shoulder when he catches up to you, the cool air of the night welcoming the both of you when you step outside the frat house. “aww, what’s got you all pouty?” he asks, feigning innocence as he pokes at your puffed out cheeks.

you frown, brows knitting together tightly as you give him a pointed look that screams ‘you! you dipshit.’ and yeah, sunghoon knows very well it was him, and he couldn’t be more proud of himself.

he keeps his arm draped over your shoulders, taking his car keys out to unlock the doors. the car beeps in response, opening up the passenger door for you before playfully shoving your shoulder to get you inside. you dramatically fall into the seat, trying to make him feel somewhat bad, but he only grins at you unapologetically. 

the drive back home was silent, save for the muffled radio, as you look out your window solemnly. you act like you’ve lost everything in your life, your job, money, family, when really you’ve only just lost a potential boyfriend, but tomato, tomato!

sunghoon side eyes you, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while his other relaxes on the center console of the car. he chuckles at your still pouty face, rolling his eyes. “seriously? you really thought you would have a chance with him? he says bluntly, a frown ghosting his face but he quickly replaces it with a neutral expression.

you curl into yourself at his mean words. “he was literally offering to take me home, sunghoon. you totally ruined it for me,” you mumble, frowning as you stare at your reflection through the window. this would not mark the first time sunghoon had ruined something potential for you, he’s always quick to shut you or them off, and it pisses you off to no end. he’s always throwing around claims that you’re too good for them, or they are too good for you. which fucking one is it, sunghoon?

sunghoon’s brows furrow at your words, the corner of his lips twitching into a frown. “he was only going to do that to be nice. did you expect something to happen out of it?” he says dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as his eyes zone in even more on the road in front of him as if distracting himself from your point on intak.

“yes, i did! he was being really touchy, which is always a good sign. and he was matching my flirting,” you continue defend yourself, but it won’t make a difference. you’re not in intak’s car. you’re in sunghoon’s car. 

sunghoon doesn’t say anything else, leaving the conversation hanging. he knows he’s right. you know that sunghoon’s right. after all, he’s your best friend. he has the best intentions for you, right?

he pulls up in your apartment that you share with a few other girls, and he thinks about bringing up how you should just move in with him. there’s so many better benefits living with him than being cramped in an apartment with three other girls, but he digresses. you’ll just brush him off again. he turns his head to look at you, head leaned against the headrest. his eyes brush over your figure before he meets your face again. “goodnight,” he says casually.

you squint your eyes at him, wanting to stay mad, but you can’t. you sigh, playfully rolling your eyes while unbuckling your seatbelt. “goodnight, hoon.” 

the question of how you’re even friends with sunghoon hangs in the air as you leave his car. but oh, sunghoon knows it all too well. 

he remembers– sophomore year of high school, when he got partnered up with you for a stupid history project. the two of you fought the entire evening at the library about which era of history you wanted to do. nothing got done that day, the both of you couldn’t even decide on a topic before you got kicked out because you both were yelling talking too loud. 

but then you guys were able to finally get to an agreement (even though sunghoon still would’ve preferred to do the industrial revolution, but whatever), and after that, it was smooth sailing. the project went by so fast, the two of you working like two peas in a pod. when the project came to an end, and the both of you had no longer any reason to talk to each other, he started to get desperate.

“you wanna study for chem together?” he would ask in a soft whisper, leaning his side towards you while keeping an eye on the history teacher that’s lecturing. 

you would then give him that scowl he always expects nowadays whenever he said something stupid that he already knew the answer to. “i don’t have chem. i’m taking physics.”

“oh. right. then how about stats?” he would try again, brows raising a bit in interest to gauge out your reply.

“... i’m taking calculus,” you would answer, but you had forgotten that you were in a class setting, your voice was at its normal speaking level. you got your first detention that day.

but sunghoon didn’t, the teacher only caught you speaking despite you trying to throw sunghoon under the bus. don’t worry though, sunghoon spent the rest of his classes, stirring up trouble to get detention with you. although he did get detention for the week instead of just a day, but he thought it was worth it anyway. 

sunghoon was planning the entire time in his last class before detention, thinking about what topics to talk about with you so that the two of you weren’t just going to sit in complete and awkward silence. but his plans get shattered when he walks in, a triumphant grin on his face (even though he didn’t even win anything??) falling within seconds when he hears you laugh, spotting jake sitting across from you. 

what the fuck. he stares at the two of you, unaware of his entrance until the teacher tells you and jake to be quiet before directing his gaze back at sunghoon, instructing him to sit down. sunghoon plops on the chair beside you, giving jake a scrutinizing gaze that speaks when the fuck did you get detention?!

to which, jake tells sunghoon that he got caught throwing paper airplanes at jay’s head during calculus. but all sunghoon got from that answer was that you and jake shared a common class– calculus. fuck, maybe he should have listened to his counselor when they told him to take calculus instead of statistics. 

and after a long two and a half hours of painful silence after the teacher yelled at the three of you to stop chatting, detention was finally over. jake had to rush to leave, catching the soccer coach to tell him why he had to miss practice, leaving you and sunghoon together. 

“it’s getting dark. do you walk home?” he asked, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as he watched you pack up. 

you nod in response, eyes flickering over to the window. the sun hadn’t even set yet. “i do. it’s not too far, maybe ten minutes,” you shrugged, adjusting the straps of your own backpack.

“i’ll walk you then,” he said simply, walking out of the classroom, not bothering to look behind him to make sure that you were even following him. at the time, you looked over at how he didn’t leave any room for argument. he really hadn’t changed since.

“holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” you practically squeal, your eyes glued to your phone as you’re walking over to sunghoon’s car. sunghoon merely furrows his brow in confusion, his back leaned against the door of the car from waiting for your class to end. 

“fucking finally. what took you so long? i thought you ended at 1:30. not 1:50,” he grumbled, clearly displeased over waiting twenty minutes for you. 

you finally peel your eyes away from your phone, a way too happy grin on your face that makes sunghoon suspicious. “intak gave me his number! he waited outside of my lecture, found me, and asked me out! isn’t that so cute?” you gush, walking over to the passenger side of his car and getting in. 

sunghoon follows suit, except his expression is now sour. his jaw ticked, sliding into the driver's seat but he doesn’t make a move to buckle his seatbelt. “how does he know where your lecture is?” he asks before scoffing, “stalker much?”

you shrug. “i think jake told him. they share accounting together,” you respond, not noticing your best friend’s mood practically deflating like a popped balloon since you’re so zoned in on your phone, replying to a text to intak. 

without thinking, sunghoon snatched your phone from your hands. his eyes skimmed through the exchanged messages, a smirk on his face. “hey! give it back to me! what’re you doing?!” you exclaim, your hands reaching to grab your phone back but sunghoon is quicker, smushing your face away so that your hands aren’t in reach to grab your phone. 

“this is real cute, y/n. i love the part where you try to be all mysterious. ‘pick me up at eight?’” he mocks you, his voice going up a few pitches higher which only makes you more irritated. 

“shut up! give it back to me now, seriously!” you whine, practically fighting with his hand pressed against the side of your face but he’s relentless, using his strength to his advantage to keep you at an arm’s distance. 

sunghoon only chuckles at your weak efforts to steal your phone back. “ooh, look. he just replied to you. he said he’ll be there and that he’s real excited to see you. it’d be a true shame if i…” he clears his throat, his thumb pressing on the microphone button, “yo, intak. it’s sunghoon, you remember me, right? heard delta gamma’s hosting a killer party tonight. you’re coming, right? someone’s gotta hold the keg for me. see you there!” send.

you furrow your brows at sunghoon, stopping your flailing arms to push his hand away from your face. “what are you doing?! he already agreed to tonight, there’s no way he’ll agree to go,” you scoff, having full confidence in intak. 

sunghoon tilts his head at you curiously, a thick brow cocked up and an infuriating smirk on his face. “yeah? oh, look. he’s typing. what’s he saying… ugh blah blah why do you have y/n’s phone… oh! he said he’ll be at the party tonight. guess your little date is canceled,” he says with a casual shrug, tossing your phone carelessly onto your lap and letting your face go. 

you quickly grab your phone, not believing what sunghoon said. but intak really did agree to go to the party. you clench your jaw, an upset frown on your face. when you don’t say anything, sunghoon rolls his eyes, “oh, come on, y/n. i bet he wasn’t even going to take you anywhere special. probably somewhere where he takes every other girl to, you’re not special.”

your entire face falls. you were already frowning, but now you’re just staring at sunghoon, eyes empty. sunghoon looks back at you after a small chuckle at himself, but he quickly shuts up when he notices your expression. 

“what? don’t give me that face,” sunghoon says, an agitated frown now appearing on his face, his brows furrowing as he has the audacity to look confused. 

you don’t say anything. you just turn your head away, looking out the window. “just take me back home,” you mumble, ignoring your phone buzzing with texts from intak.

sunghoon’s eyes narrow at you, watching you practically throw a pouty fit as you look out his window like you were in a sitcom movie. he sighs, rolling his eyes before extending out his hand and grabbing your face to look at him again. his fingers squish at your cheeks, making your lips pout out. “nah. i’m hungry so we’re going out to eat,” he says simply, letting go of you before clicking on his seatbelt and turning on the engine of his car. 

you blink at him. then you scoff, rolling your eyes as you make a show of being pissed off, turning your entire body towards the door with your arms crossed over your chest. sunghoon merely glances at you at the corner of his eyes, his smirk resting on his lips as he pulls out of the parking lot wordlessly. 

sunghoon parks in front of some dessert shop. you’re still stubbornly looking out the window, not even aware that he’s looking at you now. he smirks again, nudging your shoulder across the center console. “fine. stay in here while i enjoy a good ol’ yogurt bowl myself.”

you almost immediately turn in your seat, looking at him first before you direct your attention to the shop you’re parked in front of. your favorite yogurt shop. you always get this when you don’t feel like eating a whole, heavy meal but still need to eat something. 

before you can say anything, sunghoon’s already getting out of the car. he holds his key up tauntingly through the window, his thumb hovering over the lock button to threaten locking you in his car. you fumble with the car handle, pushing it open just before he can lock you in. 

“i hate you,” you grumble, narrowing your eyes at him but you’re already walking towards the shop’s door. 

“i hate you more,” he drawls with a lazy grin, following you inside. 

after you both order and get your bowls, you slide into a booth seat. sunghoon slides in beside you instead of the opposite side. you stare at him with disgust as you scoop up the yogurt filled with berries and other toppings. 

“what? don’t look at me like that. i paid for your bowl,” he says in a sassy manner, and you crinkle your nose at him. you don’t say anything back, deciding to enjoy your bowl in peace. you both eat in silence for a bit. 

and with his fast appetite, he finishes first while you’re only halfway through. he stares at you from the side, watching you take slow bites. he rolls his eyes. “come on, bro. we don’t got all day for you to eat like a sloth,” he scoffs. 

you ignore him, now purposefully moving your spoon slowly up to your lips like an actual sloth. 

his own eyes squint at you. 

“alright,” is all he says before he’s grabbing your face with one hand, his other taking your spoon out of your hand. he scoops up a big bite, and before you can protest, he shoves the spoon into your mouth. he mockingly makes you chew with his hand on your jaw, a satisfied chuckle escaping his lips. 

“see? not that hard to eat like a normal person.”

sunghoon insists that you stay at his place so he can take you to delta gamma’s party instead of you going back to yours. evidently, as you sit on the edge of his bed with your arms crossed, you lost the battle. 

“i need to go back to get ready,” you insist, deciding to still not give up on the fight. 

sunghoon’s typing on his laptop, doing some work. he doesn’t look at you as he speaks. “get ready? you look the same every time. you’re fine,” he mumbles, leaning in a bit to look closer at his laptop screen. 

your lips part in offense. you scoff. “ugh, rude much!? i’m literally wearing jeans and a top. i need to change. intak will be there,” you say as if that’ll change sunghoon’s mind. 

it only sets him more determined to keep you here. 

“if you think changing into… what? some skirt and a top that shows off your tits will change intak’s mind, then you should just give up already,” he says simply, still not looking at you. 

you frown. “well, maybe it’s because i also want to feel pretty for myself? god, not everything’s about wanting to dress up for intak…” you mutter, even though intak is probably about 70% of why you want to go back to your apartment to change. 

sunghoon glances up at his laptop to look at you. “good. that’s how it should be.”

hours later, you show up to the party with sunghoon. you’re following behind him at first, on your phone, texting intak to ask if he was here yet. sunghoon notices you trailing back a bit, and he scowls. 

he grabs your wrist and tugs you forward to move you in front of him instead of behind. you stumble, your brows furrowing in confusion up at him. “what?? i was literally right behind you,” you grumble. 

you don’t wait for him to respond as you continue to walk forward into the party, sending out one last text to intak to tell him that you were at the party already. sunghoon looks at your phone screen over your shoulder and rolls his eyes. 

heesueng approaches the two of you alongside with jake. they greet sunghoon first with loud shouts. jake throws an arm around your shoulder, glancing at your phone just before you shut it and pocket it away. he grins at you. “oooh, making moves?” jake teases. 

you smile, shoving him playfully. “well, my move was originally better with a planned date,” you say, emphasizing date as you glance over at sunghoon. jake caught the insinuation that sunghoon ruined it for you. 

he unloops his arm around your shoulders, pushing your back forward towards the main party to get away from the doorway. “just means you gotta make it up here instead,” he whispers in your ear so that sunghoon won’t hear. 

sunghoon’s staring at you and jake the whole interaction. 

you don’t know how many hours has passed. maybe minutes? time blurred after a few shots, and by few, more like 6-7 shots. you’re laughing and dancing with your friends and some strangers, surrounded by them before a hand touches your shoulder. 

you glance up, seeing that it was intak. your eyes light up. “oh my gosh! hey, you found me!” you grin happily, turning around fully to face your body towards him. 

intak smiles down at you, dimples peeking out. he has a red solo cup in his hand, hat backwards on his head. “yeah, ‘course i did. it wasn’t hard to find you. it’s like you have a spotlight shining down on you,” he flirts, and it sounds so genuine and cute from him that your drunk smile falters with awe. 

you part the dance circle with your hand in intak’s as he leads you away. you don’t even hesitate, the alcohol making you more courageous yet oblivious to sunghoon stilling in the dance circle, watching your backs disappear in the crowd. 

you spend the majority of the party alongside intak. he introduces you to his friends, but doesn’t linger long. you find it romantic. he wants you to meet his friends, but he also wants to still spend alone time with you. 

sunghoon fucking hates it. 

“he’s hogging her.” sunghoon’s voice comes out as a low growl, sulking in the corner of the couch. his eyes are absentmindedly watching people dance, totally (definitely not) finding it more entertaining than watching you be all touchy with intak in the corner of the house. 

heeseung and jake don’t bother hiding their eyes watching you and intak. 

“sounds a lot like someone i know,” heeseung remarks, sharing a glance with jake. they both snicker.

sunghoon’s brows furrow, sharp eyes darting over to them. “fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

heeseung raises his hands in mock surrender. “man, come on. she looks like she’s having a good time. leave her alone,” jake interjects, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. 

sunghoon scowls. wordlessly, he gets up but he doesn’t move to you. he moves to the kitchen instead, pouring himself another drink. heeseung sits up straighter on the couch, watching sunghoon from a distance. 

“...shit. should we stop him?” heeseung asks, grimacing slightly as he watches sunghoon continue to pour vodka in the red solo cup. 

jake visibly winces as he sees sunghoon down the liquor as if he’s the one who drank it. “...naahhh…he knows his limits…”

moments before absolute disaster. 

“can i kiss you?” intak asks you. he’s slightly leaning down, just enough to tower over you but he’s the one with his back against the wall. totally voluntary, by the way. 

you smile, your head tilting up at him cheekily. “i’d like that,” you hum, going on your tippy toes to meet your lips with his. your hand reaches up, holding his jaw. he reacts instantly, kissing you back. it’s soft, cute, nothing like the other students messily making out around you. 

you both smile against each other. “don’t pull away. c’mere,” he whispers, bringing your face to his again to kiss you again when you pull away slightly. the kiss becomes more deliberate. the bumping frat music blurs in the background, and you focus on the feeling of his lips moving against yours. 

suddenly, you feel a sharp tug on your hair. you moan into his mouth, not yet realizing that intak has both of his hands cupping your face…

then, the tug is sharper, harder. enough to force your lips away from intak. “woah, i–” you’re about to make some joke about how you didn’t know how rough he could be, but intak’s own surprised face confuses you. 

“what’s your deal?” intak says first, his eyes not on you but on sunghoon behind you. “we were kinda doing something.”

“i saw that,” sunghoon responds plainly, his fingers still tangled in your hair. you’re so fucking confused. you try to get your head out of his hold, but his fingers only tighten, making you yelp softly. 

“let go, man. you’re hurting her,” intak frowns, his eyes darting over to where sunghoon’s hand is in your hair. 

sunghoon smirks, a mocking, dry chuckle escaping his lips. “oh, am i? nah, i know what she likes.” he looks down at you with low-lidded eyes. he’s clearly intoxicated, way past his usual threshold of how much he drinks. 

his smirk only widens when you don’t say anything. “see? she knows too. i’m her best friend. i know what she can handle.”

you finally sputter out something when you’re out of your shocked daze. “sunghoon! let me go, what the hell is wrong with you!?” 

sunghoon blinks down at you, unmoving. then, his smirk disappears. “i’m drunk. you have to take care of me,” he says plainly. his words aren’t even slurring, not really. he still has control even under the influence of alcohol. 

it’s scary, honestly. 

when you just scoff at him, he suddenly dips his head into the crook of your neck. “i’m drunk. you have to take care of me,” he repeats, his lips brushing against your skin. “take me home. my keys are in my front pocket,” he mumbles softly. 

you hesitate. he turns his head in your neck, nose brushing against the side of your throat. “please,” he murmurs. 

your hands are moving before you know it. you dig your hand into his front pocket, finding his keys with ease. you turn to intak, a frown on your face. “i’m so sorry…” you apologize with a soft sigh. “i’ll text you…?”

intak glances at sunghoon still resting his head against your neck so intimately. he runs a hand through his hair, lips pursed. “yeahhh… i dunno. i’ll see,” he says vaguely before he leaves. 

your lips part, shoulders deflating with disappointment. you don’t notice it, but sunghoon smiles against your shoulder when he hears intak leave.

struggling, you manage to drag sunghoon to his car. you drive to his place, then try to haul him to his room. “sunghoon… you have to carry your weight. you’re so heavy…” you mutter. 

his head lolls lazily, temple resting on the top of your head. “mm…coulda’ asked jake or heeseung…” he mumbles his eyes heavy and blurry. he barely makes out his room. 

“jake and heeseung already left! why did you suddenly drink so much?” you sigh. before sunghoon can answer, he’s toppling over. you gasp, trying to catch him. he also tries to use you to catch himself. you land clumsily on his bed (thankfully) with sunghoon’s weight on top of you. 

“ugh! oh my god, you smell like cheap vodka. get off of me!” you whine, trying to push him off of you. clearly, his time at the gym has paid off as he doesn’t move an inch off of you. you huff in frustration, laying on his bed flatly, exasperated. 

sunghoon groans into your neck when you fail to move him off of you. “stop…don’t move. this is how it’s supposed to be…” he mumbles. your brows furrow in confusion, lips parting to ask him what the hell that means, but he speaks again before you can. “saw you kissin’ him.”

you blink up at his ceiling. “uh…yeah?”

“was it good?” he asks as he uses his palms on either side of your head to prop himself off of you. he hovers over you now, blinking down at you lazily. 

you raise an eyebrow at him. “yes. it was good. now can you get off of me? you’re making me smell like vodka,” you reply dryly, rolling your eyes. 

“mm…” he hums, seemingly in thought. his eyes don’t leave yours. “better than me?” 

your eyes dart over to his face, brows furrowing in confusion. “what? we have never–”

his head dips before you can react. his lips press against yours, feverishly. he doesn’t wait for you to kiss him back, his lips already moving against yours. but he knows you. he knows your body. and your body reacts instantly to him, like it was instinct. 

he pulls away, his breathing already ragged. yours is too. “better than me?” he asks again, his eyes no longer locked on your eyes. he’s focused on your parted, kiss-bitten lips. 

you swallow thickly. “...i-it… was different.”

sunghoon doesn’t ask how. he kisses you again, and he doesn’t waste time. he doesn’t try to do what intak does with the stupid, soft kissing. he kisses you with purpose, like he’s trying to engrain himself onto your lips. 

“i’m better,” he breathes against your lips before he slides his tongue into your mouth. you whimper in response, feeling his tongue mesh with yours. 

“say it,” he mumbles. 

you swear you mishear his voice.

“come on. say it. say i’m better…” he pants out, pulling back just enough to see your face. his brows are furrowed, the corner of his lips forming a hint of a frown. 

he was whining. 

whining, asking you to say he’s better than intak. 

you break into an incredulous smile. “seriously?”

his frown disappears. it’s replaced by a dead, serious look. his gaze is sharp. “very fucking serious. now, are you going to tell me i’m better than that fucking loser or not?” he asks, and you’re not sure when his hand traveled to wrap around your throat. 

he’s not applying pressure, but his hand is there. it’s claiming, it’s a threat. 

“yes–yes, you’re better. way better,” you whimper out, your chest heaving up and down against his arm. 

he smiles. “i know i am, baby,” he mumbles as he dips his head back into your neck. he mouths at your soft skin, his tongue lapping where his lips were. he kisses down your neck like you’re the only thing he wants to taste. 

“you’re gonna let me take this off right? for me?” he murmurs as he pulls back enough to paw at your top. the top he refused you to change out of earlier. you nod, biting on your bottom lip as you help him with taking it off. 

he drops it carelessly to the floor beside his bed. he mouths your tits, forcefully pulling down your bra like a mere annoying obstacle. he groans around your nipple, practically burying half of his face in your tits. 

“i’m hot. take my shirt off of me,” he instructs you, leaning off of you to sit up between your spread thighs. you catch your breath, practically getting whiplash from his actions and words contradicting constantly. but you move, hands peeling his shirt over his head. 

he takes his shirt out of your hand before you can toss it to join your top. “the ground’s dirty. can’t have my shirt on there,” he smirks lazily. instead, he pulls the shirt over your head, draping it haphazardly over your stomach. he doesn’t smooth it out for you. 

he moves lower, his hands pawing at your jeans. he unbuttons it, watching your reactions. he smiles lazily when you don’t protest or do anything. you let him take off your jeans, let his fingers press into your already damp panties. 

he scoffs, leaning back down over you. “man, i just knew you always had a little crush on me,” he mumbles, more so like he’s talking to himself. “i mean, just look at how wet you’re getting for me. holy shit,” he groans as his fingers dip under the waistband of your panties, collecting the arousal pooling between your thighs. 

he’s getting impatient. he plays with your soaking pussy for a little bit, enough to have you writhing and whining under him. he even decides to be a little nice and give you two of his fingers. “yeahhh, i know, my fingers are already hard to take, hm? just imagine my cock inside you,” he taunts, guiding your hand to palm his bulge over his own pants. 

he feels your gummy walls clench and unclench around his fingers. “aht–” he tsks, pulling his fingers out of you. “were you about to cum, baby?” he chuckles when you whine in protest. “you gotta earn your orgasm, loser.”

he moves off of you, sitting back on his knees now. you’re breathless, back laying on his bed as you watch him stare at you. “what? do the work yourself. god, do i have to do everything for you, dumb girl?”

he rolls his eyes mockingly, his own hands moving to undo his belt and pants. the belt lands with a clatter on the floor, pants and boxers following. his hard, aching cock springs up, and he hisses at the lack of confinement. 

you blink at his cock. he merely raises an eyebrow at you. he clicks his tongue in annoyance. he wraps his hand around your wrist, bringing your hand to his cock. “what? afraid of it?” he teases, his smirk only widening when he sees your fingers don’t even meet when you wrap your hand around his cock. 

you’re also in awe. your hand doesn’t move. you just stare at his twitching cock in the palm of your hand. you don’t notice that he leans down a bit to spit onto his cock, making it wet. “come on, stupid girl. i already made it wet for you. all you gotta do is just move your hand up and down. really, it’s not that hard,” he grumbles, running a hand lazily through his hair. 

you whimper at his words, moving off your back to sit up a bit. your hand starts to move, his spit dripping onto your fist. a loud squelch resounds around his room, and he tips his head back in pleasure but no sound comes from him. 

with a determined frown to get something out of him, you twist your wrist. your thumb swipes at the sensitive underside of his cock, seeing some pre-cum leak out of him. his breath hitches, and even though the reaction is so miniscule, it motivates you. 

you continue, now using your other hand to join in. it elicits a rough groan out of him, his eyes closing in pleasure. you bite on your lower lip, watching him. with more motivation, you lower your head to take him in your mouth. your lips barely wrap around him before his hands fly to your hair, pulling you off of him immediately. 

he holds your face up close to his. “did i say to use your fucking mouth?” he asks. he doesn’t wait for you to answer. “just a cock hungry loser, aren’t you?” he sighs as if he doesn’t know what to do with you. 

but of course, he does. 

he manhandles you with ease, shoving your face down into the mattress, hiking your hips up with your ass presented to him. his palm smoothes over the fat, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in his throat. “but you’re only going to take my cock, okay? only crave my cock…” he murmurs. 

you expect a slap to your ass, your face half-buried in his pillow to muffle your potential scream. 

it never comes. 

instead, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance. you gasp, fingers curling at his sheets, waiting for the push. unfortunately for you, he’s a fucking asshole. 

his tip bullies into your cunt. he watches you stretch around him, but before he even gets past an inch, he takes it out. “oh, oops. pussy so wet, it slipped out,” he hums, smirking as you whine impatiently. 

what you feel next isn’t his tip anymore. he’s rubbing his cock against your ass, squeezing your cheeks together. he hums lowly, a soft groan escaping him. “mm…can’t believe you were about to give yourself out to intak,” he scoffs as he mentions the other man’s name. 

he finally inches himself into you, catching you off guard. you mewl, eyes fluttering shut as your cunt stretches around his girth. he’s silent, admiring your pussy swallow him until he bottoms out. “fuck–” he hisses out, eyes zoned in on your cunt. 

he thrusts once shallowly. your body immediately clenches around him. he choked out a half-chuckle, half-moan. “seriously… i know you’re a loser but using intak to get me jealous…” he murmurs absentmindedly, shaking his head in disappointment. 

“i-i wasn’t–” you pant out, your own moans cutting you off, “u-using him to make you je-jealous…” you whimper as he gives you a deliberate grind to shut you up. 

“no, i know you, baby. you were tryna make me jealous so i can finally fuck you,” he interjects. then he’s pounding into you roughly, not waiting for you to protest him again. his hands grab at your hips roughly, sure to leave indents of his dull nails in your skin tomorrow. 

he leans over you, his chest pressing into your back. you whine at the new angle, his cock hitting you deeper. one of his hands trail up, brushing hair sticking to your cheek. “mm…look at you. finally getting my cock. you enjoying it, loser? you might never get it again,” he threatens, though with the way your pussy is sucking him in? 

yeah. he’s not ever letting you talk to another man again.

the back of his hands delicately brush the skin of your cheek, contradicting his pistoning hips. you pant out, eyes fluttering open to look at him. he smiles at the sight of your fucked-out expression, like he’s in awe. 

“so stupid,” he laughs, shaking his head. he presses a cheek to your temple though. you’re unsure if he’s trying to make you confused while fucking your brains, or if he’s just doing this shit unintentionally. 

“h-hoon–” you stutter out in a whimper, your hand dipping between your thighs to rub your clit. he hums in acknowledgement, so focused on your cunt taking him that he doesn’t yet notice your fingers rubbing circles on the sensitive bud. 

“what is it?” he asks. he’s breathless, his brows furrowing as he slows his thrusts to a maddening, slow grind. his cock throbs in your cunt, and you whine. that’s when he notices your fingers on your clit. 

immediately, he grabs your wrist and pins your hand on the edge of the headboard. “the one time i don’t want you to do anything, you don’t fucking listen,” he grumbles. your cunt flutters around him. he growls lowly, using his free hand that was holding your hip to reach down and rub your clit. 

you moan, thighs clamping around his hand. he’s annoyed now. he completely pulls his cock out of you, and you whip your head around your shoulder to stare at him. “hey–” your protest dies in your throat when his hand lets go of your wrist to shove your face back down into the pillow. 

“let me play with my dumb girl’s body,” he murmurs, effectively shutting you up. he dips down, lowering himself to be face-level with your pussy. he laps at his own two fingers, getting it wet before he spreads your folds apart. 

he admires you with a hiss, biting on his lower lip before he licks a stripe up your cunt. you gasp, hips immediately pushing into his mouth. “stop fucking moving, or i stop,” he grumbles into your cunt, his voice sending vibrations into your dripping pussy. 

his hands hold onto your ass, keeping you still as he licks and sucks on your cunt. his tongue and mouth is making you absolutely delirious. you whine and sob into his pillow, fighting to keep your hips from bucking into his mouth. 

“o-oh my god, i think i’m gonna–” you breathe out, a punched-out gasp escaping you when he stops. this is the second time he fucking edged you tonight. 

“yeah, yeah,” he drawls lazily, barely acknowledging you as he positions his cock to your entrance again. he slips in with more ease, a groan leaving his lips. he’s thrusting into you hard again, the slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. 

you squeal, your back arching more into him as his cock fills you up. your eyes roll back, hands clawing at his sheets. he doesn’t care. rip them, tear them, those sheets are replaceable. 

you, are not. 

you come without warning. it happens in a blur, so fast and so abrupt. you don’t know when the coil started building up, when it released, when his hand traveled below your stomach to rub at your clit. 

your moans are broken, muffled by the pillow he’s pressing you down into. he grins, canines peaking out with satisfaction. “aww,” he almost coos at you, watching you fall apart. your body trembles, hips threatening to fall onto his bed if it weren’t for his other hand holding your lower half up. 

“fuck, your cunt’s milking me,” he grunts, a punched out gasp escaping him at how tight your walls constrict around his cock from your orgasm. he’s close, and he doesn’t give you a break. “just lay there and get stupid for me, yeah?”

his hips piston into you, pelvis slapping against your ass. your voice is starting to get hoarse, muffled sobs of overstimulating pleasure racking through you. he’s relentless, hands palming at your ass, grabbing at the flesh. 

“ohmygod, ohmygod, i-i can’t–!” you slur out, and shit, he thinks you sound so fucking cute. so stupid. it unravels him. he leans over you again, chest against your back. he buries his face into your neck, mouthing at your skin to quiet himself down because he’s totally not going to let you hear him whimper as he cums.

his teeth dig into your skin. you gasp, loud, feeling his cock throb inside you before he completely stills. you whimper at the sudden stop, turning your face to the side so that your cheek is smushed into the pillow to look at him. “wh-what’s wrong?”

he doesn’t say anything. his breathing is ragged like he just ran a marathon. he swallows thickly, and for a second, you swear he’s wincing to hold himself back when your walls clamp around him again in anticipation. 

“...nothin’,” he answers vaguely. he pulls off of you, his cock slipping out again. you frown, body instinctively moving to turn onto your back so you could look at him properly. his hand shoots out to grab at your thigh, stopping you. 

he smirks lazily at you. “i just decided that i don’t think you deserved my cum in you,” he muses, his hand slowly stroking himself now. “so,” he grunts as he forces you back onto your hands and knees, arching your back for him juuustt right. 

“i’m gonna paint your ass with my cum instead,” he grumbles, already close again from the sight of your ass presented to him. the sound of his hand stroking his cock is lewd, obscenely loud. you bite your bottom lip, looking at him over your shoulder. 

his eyes don’t know where to look. your fucked-out face or your pretty ass? 

“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.

Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers. 

There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.

In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.

Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.

You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.

At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.

"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"

Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"

You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."

"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"

"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"

The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades.

"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"

"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"

"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"

"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"

"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."

"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.

This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.

Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.

With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"

Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."

You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"

"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"

Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."

Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"

"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."

"Well, I didn't know."

"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”

You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.

It was funny, really. Well, not funny funny. More like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.

And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.

By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.

You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.

Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.

“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”

Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.

"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."

"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."

"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.

Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.

But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.

With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.

Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.

There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.

Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.

After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.

As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.

In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.

At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall at precisely nine o'clock, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.

The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.

You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.

That was the theory, anyway.

The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.

Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.

You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot.  Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.

Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.

Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.

"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?

"Where's Crockett?"

"We swapped shifts."

His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."

Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?

"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."

Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."

And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.

The grounds.

Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.

The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.

Oh no. 

"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."

His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"

Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"

"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"

"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."

Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”

“Plans,” he repeated flatly.

“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”

“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”

Oh god. Why had you started this?

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”

“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”

He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”

Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.” 

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”

“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”

“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”

This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”

“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Go on.”

You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”

“Things?” Jaemin repeated, his grin positively wolfish now. “How delightfully vague.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”

He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”

“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”

“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.

“Then what?”

You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”

Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”

He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.

“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”

Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”

“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”

Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.

“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”

“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”

“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”

You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”

“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”

Wait. What?

“I’m not—there’s no one—”

But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.

“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”

He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”

“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”

Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”

“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”

The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.

And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.

“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”

“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”

“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”

"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.

This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.

Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.

Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.

In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.

"I'm coming!" you called after him.

Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.

"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."

“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.

Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.

Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.

You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous. 

They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.

And you needed to keep him distracted.

“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”

“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”

“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”

“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”

“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”

There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.

Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."

"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”

“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”

“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”

Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”

You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. Of course he had. Because Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.

“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”

“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.

But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.

Laughter.

More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.

Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."

"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"

"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"

But he wasn't listening. Because he was Na Jaemin, and he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.

You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.

The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"

Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.

"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."

Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."

"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."

"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”

 “They can be vicious!”

“They’re ten inches tall.”

“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”

“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”

You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.

“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”

He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.

You grabbed his arm.

The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.

“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”

He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.

"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"

"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."

"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"

He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."

"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."

"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."

Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."

You blinked. "Fine?"

"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."

There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.

Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"

His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."

Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.

But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.

"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."

His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"

"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"

You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?

You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."

"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."

The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?

As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."

"Probably," you repeated faintly.

"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.

The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).

At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.

"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."

And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.

The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.

“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”

Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”

“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”

“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”

Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."

"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."

"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"

You took a deep breath. "A favor."

"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"

“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”

She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”

“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”

“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”

Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.

“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”

“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”

“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”

“Jo.”

“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”

But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.

Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.

A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.

You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.

To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.

Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.

He just watched you.

From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.

You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.

By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.

“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”

“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”

Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”

“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”

“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.

No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.

Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.

“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”

Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.

“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”

“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”

“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”

“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—” 

But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.

Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. 

There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.

He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.

"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"

You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.

Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”

The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.

“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”

“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

"Huh?" you said eloquently.

"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.

“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.

“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”

Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you. 

You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.

"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."

Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.

He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.

"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"

He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."

"The favor," you said flatly.

"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."

Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"

Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes. 

He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."

What the fuck. 

You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.

"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"

"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."

You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.

But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.

"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"

"I'm not having a mental episode."

You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—" 

"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."

"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"

"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.

"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."

"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"

"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"

"Yes."

"Why?!"

"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.

You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"

"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"

"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"

"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."

"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"

"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."

"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."

"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"

"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?

You blinked. "What?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."

"Okay...?"

"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."

Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."

"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."

"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."

"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."

"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."

"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."

You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."

"Is it though?"

"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"

"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."

"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"

"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."

That brought you up short. “You barely know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.

"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.

There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.

"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”

"That's the gist of it, yes."

"For how long?"

"A month? Maybe two at most."

"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"

“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"

"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again. 

“Again, no need to be madly in love—"

"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"

“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”

"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"

"Nobody's going to try to murder you."

"You don’t know that!"

“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."

You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."

"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.

You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"

“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.

"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."

"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.

“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."

“You want me to hold your hand?”

"Among other things."

"What does that even mean…?”

"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."

"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"

"I mean, not right now necessarily—"

“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”

"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.

You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"

"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.

You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"

"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."

"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."

"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."

You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.

"This is blackmail," you said weakly.

"It's really not."

You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse,  tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.

"Fuck," you groaned.

"Is that a yes then? he said. 

You truly hated everything about this.

Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."

Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."

"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."

"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"

You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.

But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.

"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.

"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."

"I make no promises," you muttered.

As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:

Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.

Jo was never going to believe this.

A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.

The days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship were nothing short of a waking nightmare.

It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.

Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.

Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.

“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”

The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”

The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.

Worst of all, however, was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.

He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.

“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.

“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”

“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.

“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”

A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.

Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.

“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.

A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?

Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.

Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.

The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.

But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.

Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.

Giselle Noh led the first offensive.

She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.

“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”

“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.

“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”

“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.

“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”

The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.

“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.

“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”

Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.

“I suppose I am,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.

“Aw.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”

Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his coffee as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.

The pressure didn't let up as the day wore on. That afternoon, Changmin Ji intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.

"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."

Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"

"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."

"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.

"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well. Not that."

Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.

Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."

His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.

A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility. They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.

Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.

"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."

The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.

"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.

"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."

Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.

"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."

"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.

"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"

"Magical Maintenance."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.

"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."

Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.

The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.

You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.

"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"

"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."

"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."

A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.

Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.

Yuna.

She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of this circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.

"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."

Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."

"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."

"I'm clearly busy, aren’t I?" Jaemin finally looked up, his voice hardening.

Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.

"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"

"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."

A snort of pure skepticism escaped Changmin. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"

"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."

"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”

Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.

“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Giselle asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”

The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”

“Don’t look so scandalized.” Yuna waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”

She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.

"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."

"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

“So defensive.” Yunachuckled cruelly.

“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.

“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”

“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”

The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.

“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."

They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.

"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."

Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.

“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”

“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”

“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.

You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”

Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”

“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”

“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.

“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”

Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”

“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”

“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.

“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”

“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”

"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.

“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”

“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.

Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”

“That’s not what I—”

But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.

Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.

Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.

Expectations of a smooth public performance were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.

Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.

"Can we talk?"

The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.

You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"

"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"

Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.

"Fine. Where?"

"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"

"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.

"Just—trust me on this. Please?"

There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.

"Ten o'clock," you agreed.

He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.

Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.

Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.

Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.

"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."

The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."

"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."

"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"

"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."

"Practice?"

"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."

"Right. So your grand plan is..."

"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."

A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.

But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart didn't just flutter; it panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.

"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"

"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."

Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.

For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.

Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.

Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.

"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.

"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."

"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."

You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?

But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?

No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar. 

And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.

"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."

The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.

"So," you said, crossing your arms as the door shut with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"

Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"

Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."

"I'm sorry, what?”

"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."

"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts. 

"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."

Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.

"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."

"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.

You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.

"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."

He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.

"You're going to have to get closer than that."

"This is close."

"You’re barely sitting on the couch."

"Baby steps," you muttered.

"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."

That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.

"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.

Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.

Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.

"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."

"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."

"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."

Breathe. Right. You could manage that.

You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.

"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."

"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."

"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."

He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.

The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.

"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."

"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.

"I'm trying not to spook you."

"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."

"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.

It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.

"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.

For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.

"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."

"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair. 

You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.

Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.

The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.

“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.

Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”

You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”

He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”

You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.

“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”

“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”

“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”

“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.

“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”

You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.

The prospect of willingly kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.

“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”

Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.

“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”

“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”

“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”

“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.

“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”

The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way. 

It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?

But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.

You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.

So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.

You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.

The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.

"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"

"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."

The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"

"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."

"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"

And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.

"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."

Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"

You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."

The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."

"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.

You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.

By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.

"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."

"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"

You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.

It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.

"Out for a midnight stroll?"

You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.

Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.

"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"

"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."

"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.

"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."

You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."

"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.

"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"

Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"

"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"

"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"

"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."

"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.

"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."

"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."

It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.

"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"

"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."

You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"

"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."

Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.

“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."

“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."

"How magnanimous of you."

"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?

You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.

"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"

"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."

Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.

"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"

Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."

"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?

"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."

"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.

Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."

"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."

"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.

You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."

"It's also Valentine's Day."

"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."

"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."

Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.

But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.

Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."

"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."

He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"

"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."

His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."

You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."

Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."

"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."

"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."

You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.

Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.

Right?

But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.

The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have. 

You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.

 “This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below. 

Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.

Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”

“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”

“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”

He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.

The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.

Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”

Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”

“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.

“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”

Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.

“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”

He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.

“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”

You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.

“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.

“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.

“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?

Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"

You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was Taehyun.

Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."

The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.

“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”

Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.

“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”

Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”

You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.

“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”

“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”

Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”

“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”

Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”

You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.

"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”

As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.

The effect was instantaneous.

Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.

Thwack.

She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.

Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.

Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.

"Did you just…?"

"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."

"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."

"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."

"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."

Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.

You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.

“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.

You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”

You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”

You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”

You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”

“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”

You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.

“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.

“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”

You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.

It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.

You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."

“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”

Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.

You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.

“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”

Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”

“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”

When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.

“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.

“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”

Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”

“In a way, they are,” you whispered.

He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”

His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.

“I can do that,” you promised softly.

The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.

Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.

“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”

He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”

The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.

“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”

You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something? 

“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”

Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.

“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”

You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”

Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.

Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?

You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.

If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.

The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.

The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.

Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.

This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?

They kissed.

The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.

“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”

You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.

You could do this.

Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.

For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.

It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.

Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”

“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”

Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”

He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.

That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.

Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.

As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…

“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”

You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.

You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.

Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…

Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?

Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.

You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.

“Y/N!”

You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.

“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”

Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."

"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."

“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”

“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.

“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.

You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.

“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”

Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.

“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”

He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.

“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”

“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”

“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.

By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.

“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.

You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.

“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.

But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.

“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.

He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”

You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.

“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.

He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”

You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”

And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.

As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.

No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.

It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The heavy cello thump and soft drum snare taps your red-bottom sole on the bar stool railing, sharp knocks following to the melodic beat. Wind whistles accompany the jazzy swing, the murmur of nightlife filtering from down below, the city skyline all you see atop the rooftop bar.

Maybe it comes with age or an image you've been obsessed with since birth, but you've quickly grown a taste for jazz. Used as an aid to make cooking more enjoyable, curated playlists bring forth new obsessions and possessions, your tears near endless when presented a signed Sade vinyl on your birthday. It filters into other aspects of your taste — simple yet chic becoming keywords in the staples of your apartment decor and clothes you wear. It explains why you're here, a young Saturday night, figure lined in a sleek black ankle-length dress in the presence of buzzing patrons, nodding their heads while sipping on Negronis. 

It's the one activity dedicated to you. A time carved out from the rest you give others to the depletion of your battery, two cocktails in that even when seated outside for a smoke, the alcohol warms you. It was perfect. 

Until it wasn't.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

His words follow a motion, harmless in nature yet wrecking havoc throughout your body, the drag of his fingertip cascading down the exposure of your bowed spine. The surprise yelp escapes before you can catch it, frown immediate with the collision of your fist into his bicep. He whines, ever the dramatic as his ringed hand consoles the source of impact, eyebrows pinched.

“Uncalled for.”

“I’ll say,” Donghyck pouts, sliding into the empty opposite seat. The gall of this guy. “Remind me to never compliment you again.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“You shivered all the same,” he rebuttals, your eyes rolling despite the second skin layer of goosebumps. You’ll blame the outside temperature, never his presence.

Patience wears down paper thin, arms bracing over your chest as a familiar simmer makes itself known. Haechan is, for a lack of better words, a major thorn in your side. The type to revel in your discomfort the further he burrows. Introduced through mutual friend, Renjun, your first impression of him isn't the best, nor does it continue to be. At the wedding you two meet at, he refers to you as, "The one who cried over the Sade vinyl.' with a chuckle. Awkwardness lines your formless smile, unsure how exactly to take the remark. Regardless, you attempt building some bridge of friendship since you orbit the same social circles - it doesn't end well. In effort to befriend him, you're subjected to comments that rub you the wrong way. From questioning if you were 'really going to drink that' to saying your appearance looked like a lot of 'effort' you weren't exactly sold on the famous Haechan, friend of many. 

Close friend probably to none, is your bitter thought as the night unfolds. In addition to his inability to make good conversation, he carries himself with an obnoxiousness you thought you'd last seen at university, shamelessly boosting himself while his eyes combed over you like you were his next meal. As fucking if. 

Unfortunately, his reign of terror doesn't end there. He is the drunkest person there, as every event like this always has. He abuses the open bar, double fisting concoctions of beer, gin and white wine before he's a menace on the light-up dancefloor. Tie around his head, he thrusts like he's some vulgur old man, cackling with friends who find him funny and eventually someone's poor grandmother. The sight, along with the night's messy events are enough for you to slip out the marquee, scrapping around your cluttered purse for a cigarette. Spraying yourself in body mist, you walk back into something your eyes can't quite believe: Haechan.

Swinging on a chandelier. 

The fact the marquee doesn't collapse on itself or Haechan's very intoxicated state doesn't warrant him being wheeled out the venue is a damn miracle. Maybe things would've worked better that way, instead of you running into him on the way to your car.

Under the crushed stone and pebble, his hurried footsteps follow after yours, heels clicking onto the stepping stone closest to your car as you turn, thoroughly unimpressed. 

Who can blame you? Because, in the cast of nearing midnight, his drunken figure looms, dishevelled with more shirt buttons undone than polite. Empty wine glass in hand, he musters as serious of an expression as the alcohol allows him, his words echo longer than you're fond of remembering. 

"Glare at me all you want. You'll come around." 

That grinds your gears. Keeps you up all night, igniting the unspoken tension your future interactions entail. Your forced smile in the face of his cocky one, something hot brewing beneath the surface.

Annoyance, annoyance. That's what this feels like, someone overly familiar with you. Knowing what buttons to push even if you've given him no access to who you are beyond formalities. Yet, he still does…it's enough to tick your jaw, head cocked to the side.

“And you’re here because?”

“What?" his eyes watch you sip on your Martini, no movement left unchecked. It's unnerving. "Don’t take me as a jazz guy?” 

Before you choke, your throat clears itself, drink abandoned for composure. “I take you as an unserious guy.”

His faux offence makes you simper despite your best wishes, hand over his heart.

“I’m hurt. Devastated even,” his eyebrows don’t lose their knit as his hand ducks into his aged leather jacket, a pack of Marlboro Golds flipped open. You gulp, turning your head. 

You're meant to be good tonight. Spare yourself the hacking session into your bathroom basin come morning, which is why your purse doesn't have its usual supply of Benson & Hedges. The image of it abandoned in your bedside table comes back to haunt, especially when you're three drinks deep. 

What is it about a drop of alcohol making you a beg for a smoke?

“Want one?” he murmurs around the cig. Over the carved oak round table, Haechan slides over his battered pack ─ decently full with one of the ten upright.

“You do the lucky cig too?”

Keeping to the dramatics, his lighter is none other than a box of matches, warm light illuminating his tanned skin as the cigarette catches fire. Your eyes cannot help but roll, even if the image projects at the back of your mind - uninterrupted, over and over again. Meanwhile, your conscious mind works hard at scourging around an actual lighter, pulling out your infamous 2000s Nokia phone one.

The starter of many conversations, a means to many lustful nights too.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, elbow propped on the table with a lopsided grin. “We’re more alike than you think.”

You'd hate to think. But maybe his unnecessary comment holds some truth. Could explain why you'd become irrationally annoyed anytime he’s in your vicinity. Not because he’s the anomaly digging under your skin, but because he knows how to get there, hardwired the same way.

"Never seen a lighter like that before," a smile creeps on Haechan's face, nimble fingers toying with it after you've lit your cigarette. "Must be popular in the smoking area."

One leg crosses over the other, lips jutting in contemplation. "I'm not the one with a video of myself jumping off of a club roof."

He coughs out the rest of his cigarette smoke, laughing despite moisture lining his waterline. "Been stalking me?"

"You wish!" You flush instantly, blowing smoke out the side of your mouth. Somehow it would've been more believable if it came out your ears. "It's not on me people choose to share your…enlightening drunk videos."

"Did you see the one of me putting out a dumpster fire shirtless?" his folded arms brace on the edge of the sleek black, entirely too small table. 

Eyes avert elsewhere, having seen the video enough times it materialized in your dreams. The state you woke up in the following morning was enough to sour your entire week.

"It's cute you're keeping tabs on me," he says, tone more mocking than teasing. The wind blows then, his burgundy waves scattering in the howl of late night, ember ashing out into the 8 Ball ashtray. "Knew you'd come around."

"I don't think being subjected to being around you counts." 

"Still rough around the edges," he observes, an understanding nod following. "It's okay, everything in due time. I'm a man of great patience, after all."

You dread to think of how many more times you'll roll your eyes tonight. Of course, there is always the option of leaving, deserting the man who unearths something raw and unknown in you, but you were here first. You'd rather roll around in oncoming traffic than go out of your way for a man.

Besides, you hadn't finished smoking yet.

So, your once peaceful night unfolds like this, jazz thumps bleeding through the gaps of the bar's doors, calm chatter from sophisticated thirty-somethings taking up most of the outside space, warm fairylights draping from every wooden post stationed outside. In the lull of conversation, Haechan takes on the liberty of buying you both drinks, notably getting you the drink he'd made fun of you ordering at the wedding — more than two years ago.

"Was it that ridiculous?" you end up questioning, sipping on the strawberry basil ginger spritiz. "My drink order?"

His pint glass lowers, foam clinging to his upper lip line. You hate how closely you follow his tongue lick it away, moreso when something stirs in your stomach.

"I never thought it was ridiculous," Haechan says, serious than you've ever heard him. "I just remember you liking it." 

You don't say much afterwards, unsure how to interpret that — if it needs interpreting. Tonight's original plan is to unwind, not unscramble the weaved mess of Haechan's vast mind. That could maybe be entertained if you'd run out of things to think of, but not here. Not while you're running dangerously low on your cocktail he makes quick work of replacing. 

Even with the elephant trumpeting to be addressed, conversation doesn't extend that far. However, what does is Haechan's spending limit, friviolous with his money and cigarettes he doesn’t stop you offering as the night stretches on, stars lining the midnight sky as patrons come and go. If you’d been alone, the jazz lovers would’ve only seen two hours of you. However, serenaded by cello thumps, you start to loosen. Lose sight of the grievances and grudges you had with the man before you, leaning into the questions he never seems to run out with you.

Your go-to vinyl when in you're home. How you liked vacations, jam-packed or laidback. What hobbies you wish you'd make time for after work. The most vivid memory you had with mutual friends. 

He listens, leaning closer as if he hangs off every word you say — a polar opposite to what he'd been like at the wedding or most interactions afterwards, some rare moments like this sprinkled through the years peeling back his layers, an honest show of what he's really like. 

Something crosses your mind. "Are you asking me those 36 questions to fall in love?"

He blinks, something like a pout on his lips. "There's something like that? Would've been nice knowing beforehand." 

"I don't think there's any need."

He smirks, quick on his feet. "Because you're already in love with me?"

"Because the world doesn't need any more male manipulators." you argue, hot under your collar without none. 

"Flip those M's around, you get wicked—"

"Enough!" your hands cup over your ears, laughing in spite of yourself. "I'll leave. Now."

"I'm so sorry, I should know better. Anytime spent with you is a gift," the words flood out of him, sounding too much like the truth than a joke. His hands find your high-heeled foot underneath the table, cold rings to your skin straightening your spine. "Would you like me on my knees to make a real apology?"

It's criminal how low his voice drops with those cursed words, soft and melodic like a siren's song. He's tipsy, surely. And you probably are too, because what could explain the riot breaking out inside the confinements of your body. The severe case of dry mouth you develop calls for a swig of your remaining cocktail, stunned figure too frozen to make the movement. Only oil the cogs to unhinge your jaw, hoarse words chugging out.

"That w-won't be necessary."

The world comes back, volume and colours flooding back into your peripheral view as Haechan's palms leave your skin, nothing but the tingling skin signifying what just occurred between the two of you. If he could hear your heart right now, you'd have to take drastic measures making sure the information ends with him.

As you take note of the dwindling crowd inside, movement out the corner of your eye turns your attention back where it's consistently been, Haechan reaching for his cigarette pack.

“Oh shit ── it’s the last one,” he grumbles.

Your focus flickers over to the heaped ashtray of the night’s graveyard, half of the cigarettes ends smudged in dark lipstick. In the warm gin glow flowing through you, it’s hard to regret the ashy taste. Or how long you’ve spent speaking with Haechan. He’s…nice. Funny and smart to a point of jealousy — it scrambles something strange in you, an ugly mixture of jealousy and something else entirely.

Your thoughts shift to reality when the tattered cig pack comes into view, pushed your way with the bold black and white label Warning: Don’t Let Children Breathe Your Smoke. Good thing you never planned on having them.

“Have it,” he offers, slouching back into his chair. It’s damn near obscene how far he manspreads, arm hanging off the back of his chair like you’re responsible for your tipsy actions.

“The lucky one?” An eyebrow arches. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch was spending time with me, which you’ve subjected yourself enough to, right?” His scattered gaze catches the attention of a server, a scribble against his palm meant for the bill. You hadn't touched your card since he'd sat down.

Over the time he irons out payment, you consider this. The unknown depth between you two and how your bodies can mend it. Whether that’s only a mission alcohol can influence or if sobriety would lead you to the same conclusion. It doesn’t take long, the prior length of tonight indicating your answer. Once the waiter leaves — you and him the only ones on the terrace — your crossed leg shifts higher against his leg, curiosity in his flushed expression as you hand over the cigarette kissed by you.

“We’ll share tokes, Donghyuck.”

He's thrown through a loop, purposefully so because he could only dream of hearing his real name out your mouth. You wanted as much distance between you two as possible, referring to him how everyone else did. Until now. 

It's a challenge. A suggestion in your eyes, words extending beyond the topic at hand. Donghyuck knows, you can see it in the lopsided tip of his smirk, not bothering with how long his eyes linger on your lips.

Somehow in the handover, the lit end grazes his hand, an apology flying out your mouth.

“It’s fine,” he promises, the lowlights blending into the dark chocolate of his eyes. “It’ll be a good reminder.”

The shiver down your spine is a direct result of Donghyuck and how fiercely you wish to forgo clothes to be just a little closer to him.

“I’ve got a pack at mine if you wanted another?”

It’s no surprise you end up in your bed, tousled in lavender sheets mixing in with his musk-scented cologne. The charade has some start, having retrieved bottled wine for you two to sip over some tunes, smoking out on the firescape outside your brick-interior apartment. You don't make it that far, Donghyuck behind you as you stick on some Jon Batiste's vinyl, album title disappearing from your mind as Donghyck settles his hands on your hips, swaying as your ass brushes over his growing erection. Turning around is inevitable.

His mouth is heaven on yours, in no rush as he savours every second you spend on him, the slow pace helplessly grinding your hips up against his growing bulge. Thighs bracketed his, Donghyuck holds you in his lap, shameless as his veined hands venture beneath the material of your dress, cold rings a welcome caress as his hands help you grind just right. It’s the single most erotic thing you’ve experienced, fully clothed yet on the brink of something close to overwhelm, the slow grind conjuring something sinful within you. It doesn’t help he lets you know how good you’re making him feel, moans exchanged as your tongues tangle, the thought to separate unbearable.

With one last kiss on the lips, your lips migrate, a bold stripe licked across the column of his neck before you suck over his thundering pulse, skin bruising a beautiful rogue. You leave the sight with the graze of your teeth, so featherlight but noticeable enough for his hands to brace onto your hips, outline of his cock rocking into whatever sliver of body you give him. His clothes fly, pesky and in the way as your hands canvas the landscape of his chest, warm and indulgent, peppered kisses leading down to the large bulge in his jeans, the strain painful to watch, much less experience. 

You should put him out his misery, is a thought that occurs to you,hand draping over the outline to give him a gentle squeeze. Donghyuck, vocal as ever, whines at the touch, hand flying over to yours. You promise no teasing (for now) in a look conveyed through piercing eye contact, the bob of his Adam's apple inflating the building confidence in you as instinct takes over. Shifting off the bed, knees braced against the hardwood floor, Donghyuck follows suit, hinged off the side of your unmade bed, your hands at his jean button.

"Lucky you?" You question, more amused at the stitched golden words inside his lowered zipper.

"I mean, you are on your knees," he supplies, peering down with curled eyelashes. You already miss when they fanned over your cheekbones. "I consider myself lucky too."

"You getting soft on me?" you smile, aided by the lift of his hips to draw back his jeans down to his knees. 

"The opposite actually," he winks. Canines dig into your bottom lip, smile still evident before it drops into a straight line of shock.

Donghyuck parades around like someone with a third leg and well, he has the extra leg to back it up. You're not sure whether it makes you upset or pleased, cock standing tall with a thick shaft scribbled with engorged veins, dick curved towards his stomach, snail trail paving the way to heaven. Saliva collects in your mouth, the mere sight, close distance enough for your position to shift, a grain of friction coming from the measly movement. 

Before you can, Donghyuck grabs a hold of himself, bringing himself closer to your lips. To the soundtrack of your hammering heart, his fat cockhead rests against the plush of your mouth, precome leaking onto your cupid's bow before it trickles down, smudged as he drags his slit from corner to corner, lips glossed over in his come.

"That's right," his voice comes out hoarse, head tilted upwards while his eyes remain on you, tongue lapping up your new favourite gloss. The taste shoots right to your core, a mess made of your soiled underwear as you're forced to squeeze down on nothing. "Stick your tongue out. Show me how much you can take."

Mouth falling open in a moan, you use the opportunity to get yourself onto Donghyuck, angry red tip kissed with a delicateness he hisses at. Your smile doesn't deter your efforts, sweet pecks going round his cockhead before your tongue brushes over his slit, catching most of the precome flowing out him. Arms folding over his lap, you get comfortable as you work him into your warm mouth, humming to the taste of him. He groans in answer, fingers digging into the saturated cream of your duvet. Salt dances on your tongue, swirled around his tip and start of his shaft, breath managed through your nostrils as you make a tight vacuum with your mouth. A lone hand slithers down in between your pinched thighs, the two to three inches not covered by your mouth lathered with your slick to jerk him off. The near growl he does travels through his cock, a soft tingle atop your tongue licking up his shaft as your head bobs for leverage.

In a firm tunnel, one slick-covered hand pumps his length in sync with your mouth, a flick of the wrist frayed the weak thread he's holding himself by, clipped moans pushing out Donghyuck's chest. His balls weigh heavy in your other hand, fondled with the gentleness you don't give his cock, the ghost of teeth winding your hand in his fist, a dull sting in your scalp at the pull. Wet sounds dominate the room, throat gargling around his length in a messy, deprived manner, bracing against the minor buck of his hips.

It's nothing really, a barely-there movement, but he breaches further than others have gone, the back of your throat well within reach, a hard gag following the tickle. He stills immediately, only spurred on by your hand squeezing around his length, urging him to keep going. His pleasure is yours, underwear sticking to your folds as you soak the gusset, getting off to the feel of him in your mouth.

"Feel that? That's me down your throat," he coos lovingly, pulling your hair just a bit tighter as his tip inches further, tears coming in chorus with your gags. "Fuck, baby. Take me deeper — just like that."

You could care less about your gags, or your tear-lined eyes, devoted to the fullness in your throat creating a dull ache in your jaw. You couldn't care about that either, the repeated gags pulling your nipples tight, a drawn-out whine resounding into his spit-slicked cock. He pulls harder, grip bordering between pain and pleasure. All you can do is rub your poor thighs together, desperate enough for friction when there is none. All there is is Donghyuck's cock stuffed down your throat, swallow thrusts dripping pearls of precome down into your belly, stomach twisted unbearably tight.

"Fuck, wait-" his hand gives, caressing your head to smooth your hair back. Pink lips pop off him with an audible smack, eyes glossed over as a few coughs push out your burned chest. "Gonna come if you continue."

Your features pinch together, breath not yet recovered but still leaning forwards to swirl your tongue around Donghyuck's coated tip. He twitches under your touch, shudder ripping through him as your eyes stay on him.

"Isn't that the whole point?"

"Not if I wanna come in you." 

You halt mid-kiss, head drawing back with surprise as the room stills in unspoken words, endless desires. His hand comes back around to trace down your jaw, one finger drawn up beneath your chin as he leans closer, eyes hooded and so damn seductive. 

"Would you like me to?"

A moment passes, a war wagered between what you want and what you're willing to say. The flush creeps up your neck, eyes averted as you only manage a nod.

The chuckle you hear thereafter begins the boil of heat within you, his cock twitching in your hold as your gaze finds him once his warm palm cups your cheek, a quiet command. Haloed in the soft lighting in your room, his thumb swipes over the homemade gloss on your lips, parted to welcome him in. His cock kicks again, trail of precome leaking down to your fingers, a groan resounding in his chest.

"Get up here." 

Knees leave their leverage on the cold, concrete floor for the plush of your bed, clothing left scattered as your legs open, Donghyuck between them like it's his only place in the world. His eyes never leave you, concentration locked where his flushed tip glides up in between your glossy folds, smearing himself amongst the slick trickling out your entrance. Nails sink into the slick-soft duvet near your head, other hand ghosting over Donghyuck's hand, nudging his cock to catch onto your eager entrance. 

"Don't tease," is your whined command, heart leaping in your chest as the darkened hue of his iris. "Know you want this as much as I do." 

A lone lip corner lifts, recognition flaring as he's caught red-handed. "Can't argue with you."

Another smart quip comes to the forefront of your mind, never said aloud as Donghyuck peers down to spit onto your entrance, you clamping down an immediate reaction to the bod-shuddering sensation. The needy whine carries, eyebrows creased with your jaw dropping in the sheer overwhelm consuming you, Donghyuck's cock pushing inside with the moan of your name.

"Jesus Christ-" His heaving chest pushes out, mouth fallen in a picture of obscenity. "How are you this tight?"

Your body follows its on instincts, mind long abandoned as you grip onto Donghyuck like a vice, wanting nothing more than to feel every ridge and vein along his shaft as he eases in, the slow draw in bowing your back off the bed. 

To your detriment, his thumb goes to your clit, massaging over in lazy tight circles. A high-keen strains out your throat, walls fluttering to the feeling as Donghyuck slides in to the hilt. Little time passes over when he stills, building pressure of the stretch blending into sunkissed bliss. Above you, Donghyuck collects himself with burrowed teeth in his bottom lip, leaned over figure releasing a quiet gasp as your hand cups his cheek, fingers brushed over growing stubble. Consumed by the feeling — magnetism — drawn to him like second nature.

"Move," your hip lifts to rub against his cock, a hard breath let out at the glide. 

"Yes ma'am." is the last of his playfulness, his cock sliding out before pushing back in, knocking you halfway up into a wall of pillows. Mewling, your hand flies to his bicep, nails imprinting crescent moons as he ruts into your deepest parts, cooing at the sounds of your demise, cunt crying around his cock with the moans to match.

“When your leg was halfway up on my cock, what went through your pretty mind, hm?” His voice carries the same air stolen from your lungs, a teasing look to his face. “Were you thinking of me bending you over and fucking you nice and slow?”

The bed no longer creaks under his abrupt halt, chain pendant at rest in between his collarbones. Wickedness crafts his grin, watching with delight as you helplessly buck for friction. “Or maybe you like a little rough?”

He accents his point by knocking himself where no one’s ever reached, not your measly little fingers or the men whose names you can’t recall. After all, all that leaves your lips now is—

“Hyuuuuuck,” the vowel drags, so abundantly full something tickles at the base of your throat. “Please.”

“Please what?” his rhythm picks up again, nudging himself enough in you to reduce your words to incoherent babbles. "Harder, Hyuck? Harder?”

There’s something twisted about being turned on by him imitating your moans. There’s something more twisted about you responding in likeness.

“Harder,” you cry out, lust blurring the lines of reality. “I need it.”

“Bet you do, baby. Bet you need this too,” his leaning body pushes your thighs to your chest, a mewl in stretched muscles out your pouted lips as his sterling silver-ringed hand cups your cheeks, eyes trained on your lips. “Open for Hyuck.”

Not much effort comes in the part of your lips, Donghyuck chuckling as soon as his spit hits your tongue.

“How much do you love having me in your mouth? First my cock, now this?” he braces against your knees, smacks of his hips meeting the back of your thighs bouncing off the bedroom walls. “Just a needy little play thing. Always clenching so hard on me.”

A violent twist bends in your tummy, following through with instruction he doesn’t even have to give you as you swallow, body burning a hellish temperature in the name of shame. In the chase of climax, his pelvis smacks on the back of your thighs, momentum swinging his chain into your face. Brain melted between your ears, you run on pure instinct, the pendant finding itself in between your lips, suckled on. 

Donghyuck's hips stutter briefly, a huff in laughter pushed out amidst his relentless thrusts. "Always gotta have your mouth full, don't you?"

You couldn't be any more caught than now, point emphasized as your cunt bares down on his length. "Hyuck."

He hums, cheeks flushed. "What, princess?" 

"Lemme ride you."

His thrusts stop altogether, nestled all the way between your velvety walls, clinging to him for life. His cock kicks with little room, a gasp for air called for as your body relaxes around him.

His eyebrows quirks upwards, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Let's go, baby. Show me how you ride cock."

A quick scramble ensues, bodies starved for more as Donghyuck positions himself with his back flat on your bed as you situate yourself over him. Shallows breaths echo out your chest as your thighs bracket his, one hand steadying yourself on the headboard as the other dives between your legs.

“Tryna get back at me?” he quips, all bark but no bite as his chest quivers with breathless pants. His eyes locked on where your hands wrap around him, rubbing more slick against his hard cock. “Fuck, I'm thinking out loud. I’m just, I’m hoping not to nut the second I’m inside because—”

“I’m pretty?” Amusement dances in your expression, quickly morphing to a shared pinch as his tip knocks against your clit, a yelp an immediate follow.

“I was thinking more smart-mouthed, but pretty works too,” he simpers, unable to hide his hitched breath as his tip runs over your entrance, precome mixing with your own juices. You have to bite back your smile at the fruitless attempt. “You gonna sit pretty for me, baby?”

“I’ll do you one better,” you muse brokenly, giving your clit one last graze before he's right at your weeping entrance. “I’ll bounce.”

Donghyuck can’t fit in any words before a head-spinning moan, a high keen in your raw throat as you ease onto him, gummy walls moulding to the overwhelming shape of him. There’s not much leeway, Donghyuck filling you from wall to wall as his cock stretches you with a quiet simmer lighting the fire in your belly, blood rushing with your never-ending desire.

His hands find purchase underneath you, fingers kneading the flesh of your ass as your hips lift and come down with a vengeance, a chorus of broken whimpers the highlight melody to the smacks of skin. Unadulterated pleasure writes itself into Donghyuck, the flush deeper against his sunkissed cheekbones as he fights not to come, the push of his hands and shallow thrusts knocking the sense out your brain.

So much for control.

Running on sheer need, you bounce in a sprint for the finish line, eyes rolled to the back of your head every time his fat tip meets your cervix in the sweetest kiss. It’s so good it hurts, the rush of ecstasy coursing through every vein inhabiting your body, nothing but a slave to your own pleasure.

“Look at y-you,” his voice falters, forehead creased as he looks where you connect, a milky ring haloing his shaft. “Taking all my cock like a good girl.”

“Cockslut.”

He blinks. “That’s what you wanna be? My dirty cockslut?”

You bite back a moan, answer so obvious when your hips gain more momentum, voice spelling out just how good he feels.

“God, I’m never forgetting this,” he grunts. “No one else will do. It’ll always be you.”

You’re drunk on his confessions, the build-up consuming everything you know as your feet and his hands help you bounce hard and fast, swallowing his cock in the blink of an eye.

“I'm close, Hyuck,” you whine, hands falling behind you to brace against his flexed thighs. You’re sliding up and down his length to a joined rhythm, one hand leaving you less stable as you play with your clit, arousal leaking down his cock down to his pelvis. “You gonna make me come?”

“It’s all you, baby. Riding my cock like your own toy,” determination clears some of his lustful daze, burgundy strands sticking to his forehead with the sweetest moles dotting his face. You could come, you could come now. “What you need? What’s my perfect cockslut need?”

“You!” you cry out, brain fried as you stand on your last legs, Donghyuck shouldering the weight of your incoming orgasm. “Just need you, Hyu-”

Hunched over his body, your weak arms burn stationed at either side of his head, the change in angle shooting right through you, your orgasm hitting you then and there. Your body is all jitters, trembling as you fold over into a messy embrace, cries of esctacy the melody behind Donghyuck's shaky ruts, using your cunt to get him where you are, shivering all the same as ropes of hot come paint your walls. You stay like this for a while, cracked open window trickling in some of the night's breeze, skin sticking together regardless. The aftershock soon wears off, your walls loosening around Donghyuck, allowing for the ring of come to leak down to the base of his shaft, most notched up near your cervix.

“Bottom drawer,” is all you can manage, limbs weighed down your body verges on the brink of becoming one with Donghyuck's in more ways than one.

As his arm goes to reach out, your hips shift as you flop onto the vacant space next to him, the heaviest sigh churned our your strained lunges. Some shuffling reaches your ears before his finger hooks into the handle, drawer pulled back to show what you’re looking for.

He’s the first between you two to get out of bed, throwing on his boxers before he patters the short distance to your firescape, doors opened to allow more early morning chill in. Goosebumps make up parts of your skin, exhaustion keeping you in bed for a bit longer before the sticky mess between your legs calls for attention. With one more exhale, you peel yourself off your bed to use the bathroom, stealing Donghyuck's shirt off the floor with your underwear as you accompany him in the cramped space. City lights dazzle amidst the dark horizon verging on a deep blue, the sleeping city your backdrop as your knees touch.

“Making good on your promises,” Donghyuck murmurs, head lifting to face him as two cigarettes rest in his mouth, one of many lighters giving them their sunset-end glow. He pinches one out his mouth, putting it in yours with a nonchalance awakening butterflies in your chest. “You trying to keep me or what?”

“I’m actually trying to kick my habit of fostering men,” you inhale then exhale, back at equilibrium again.

“If it helps my application, any home with free cigs is my forever home,” he fights back, not quite absorbing the gravity of his words as he ashes into the stray tray outside, the exact 8-ball design as the one at the jazz bar.

Eyes shifting to his figure, you expect his playful expression - the smirk never quite fading away and to some extent, it is there. However, there's something else too. Shifty eyes, as if he can't quite bare what you'll make of his words, what your answer will be. A puff of smoke blows out the cycle of your chest, your silence a sign of contemplation. Somehow more questions arise, unsaid in the comfort of quiet extending past the end of deserted cigarette butts tucked away in the ashtray.

“We didn't get off on the right foot because I couldn't stop putting my foot in my mouth,” he says first, chuckling at the end. His tone is soft enough to turn your head, breath catching somewhere in your chest as his othr hand smooths over his neck in repeated sweeps. “But I think I've got a sense for what buttons to push — if that's something you're interested in." 

Your knee nudges his, head lifting to reveal an expression so innocent, you end up giggling. While alcohol still lingers in your system, you don't see yourself regretting the decision you make now.

"If I can switch to Marlboros, then maybe I could make an exception," you bring the cig to your lips, feeding off how he can't split his gaze from your eyes to your lips.

The smile that breaks out on his face is enough to rob you of your breath, moles dancing against his skin as he replies. "I'll do you one better - consider them delivered whenever you want in a cig-pack bouquet." 

You groan, a mixture of reluctance and happiness. "At least let me finish before you get me in bed again." 

"No promises." He beams before pulling you towards him, the start of many nights together.

thank you for reading! („• ֊ •„)੭

you’ve spent months trying to work some manners into jeno’s newest addition to the barn: a flashy chestnut stallion that looks like a million bucks, but has the temperament of a fucking hornets’ nest. it’s the third time you’ve been dumped in the dirt today, so yeah, safe to say you’re not exactly getting along.

for whatever reason, jeno claims he’s attached to the damn animal, and is so confident you’ll have a breakthrough. you, however, are starting to question if he simply enjoys watching these training sessions like it’s his own private rodeo. sure, it’s flattering to be his afternoon entertainment of choice, but you’re no saddle bronc rider.

“just sell him,” you huff out, rounding the fenceline on foot, while the horse stamps off to the other end of the pen. “those roughstock guys’ll take him. he’s got a good buck, that’s for sure.”

“yeah, alright, i’ll talk to ‘em.” jeno sounds unenthused, but not surprised. through the gap in the gate rails, he gives your arm a playful shove. “thought a woman’s touch might fix him, you know?”

all this heckling is tiring after a while, but you’re stubborn about keeping a straight face. “fixes less than you think.”

“never hurts to try,” he says, in that distinctly optimistic way that’s meant to get on your nerves.

it actually does hurt to try, pretty fucking bad. your hip is throbbing. your shoulders feel like hot jelly in their sockets. you ache kinda like you’ve been in a car crash, though would never admit it aloud — jeno knows this about you. he counts it as a personal victory when your reply is simply a few indiscriminate grumbles as you scuff your boot on the ground.

if there’s one thing you hate, it's having to tap out on a job, even in cases like this, where it’s for everyone’s own good. you particularly hate the thought of jeno finding someone to replace you with. you’re far from the only person in the valley willing to work with problem horses, but you take a specific pride in being jeno’s first choice, and would do just about anything to keep it that way. 

professionally speaking, you’re nothing if not dependable…un-professionally speaking, you maybe have a small infatuation with jeno, and to make things worse, you suspect he can tell. it certainly doesn’t make your job any easier, especially when that devil of a horse he pays you to ride can already smell your stress from a mile away.

“wanna test him out bareback?” jeno asks.

you stay silent, thinking to yourself it might be the worst idea he’s ever had, and he laughs when he realizes you’re considering giving it your best shot anyway.

“i mean, i could–” you start, but he interjects. 

“i’m joking,” he shakes his head and flips his hat back on before hopping the gate to catch the stallion by the reins himself. “what do you think, i’m trying to kill you?”

sometimes, yeah, you do think that. at the very least, you can see he’s amused by how far you're willing to stick your neck out for him.

jeno has his horse untacked and tied by a lead in the wash rack around the side of the barn. with a long, green garden hose, he sprays down its legs, hooves, and the dark, sweaty patch on its back that the saddle left behind.

you could very well head home now; jeno’s already paid you for the day’s efforts. truthfully, you should be on your way if you want to get anything else done while the sun’s still up, but you don’t. you stick around for a chat, telling yourself it’s nothing out of the ordinary, at least not until one of you makes it that way. 

“good-looking animal when nobody’s on his back, right?” jeno remarks, patting a hand on the horse’s ruddy, wet withers. “i’m thinking i’ll geld him and get back to you about training.”

“yeah, sure, whatever makes you happy.” you’re sitting nearby with your legs dangling from the tailgate of his pickup truck, which is next in line for a thorough hose down. “i don’t think cutting his balls off is gonna fix any more than a ‘woman’s touch’ or whatever you said– but hey, it’s your call.”

he humors you with a scoff, shooting a sly glance in your direction. “guess i’m just looking for reasons to keep you around.”

that’s a joke...probably...or...? there’s no witty reply that comes to mind. you smile at him dumbly, damning yourself. 

it’s always hard to read jeno’s expression with that handsome face in the way. in the moment, you hope he’s flirting, but later you’ll be convincing yourself you’re imagining things.

“gimme a hand for a sec, would you?” he asks, and you comply in an instant.

at this point, you really should be going home, but instead you’re up on your feet beside him, holding the hose while he strips off his work jacket and tosses it aside along with his hat, leaving him in just a threadbare undershirt and his filthy, sun-bleached jeans. he grins, mumbles a “thanks” and takes the hose back, sticking his head under the stream to cool off, then shakes his hair out like a dog. those broad, muscled shoulders, and vein-traced arms of his are a sight for sore eyes, to put it lightly. 

too bashful to be caught staring, you turn to kindly stroke his horse’s sleek neck — cursed horse, nearly tramples you into your grave every other week, you might actually hate this horse, why are you petting this horse? 

jeno knows exactly why you're petting that horse. he sees all the telltale signs that he has you good and flustered, your mask slipping down the drain with the rest of the dirty water.

and it’s true, you’re flustered. embarrassingly true. you don’t want to make eye contact with him for fear of how pink your cheeks have gone, but still, when he asks you, “thirsty?” and holds the hose to arc water up at mouth-level, you drink, painfully aware that he’s watching the stray trickle curve from your chin to your neck, wetting the light hoodie you’re wearing. before you know it, he’s helping you shed a layer too. 

somehow, you feel naked in your t-shirt. jeno’s touch lingers in the crook of your elbow. you’re staring him in the adam’s apple, watching it bob as he swallows, knowing your fight’s as good as lost. whatever his next move is, you’re done for.

“i take it you’ve got some time to kill today,” he remarks, a blatantly loaded invitation.

“sure.” you’re being prudent — for old time’s sake. it’s practically a joke. “d’you need me for something?”

the temperature outside is warm in the sun, and not so warm in the shadow of the barn where you stand. it’s even less warm in thin, water-blotched clothes, but that doesn’t matter; your body blazes hot as wildfire when jeno leans in to place his lips on yours. 

for a few seconds, he’s gentle and composed, letting your mind catch up to what's occurring. a long-held sigh eases from his chest when you reach your arms around his neck and kiss him back in that deep, greedy way you’ve quietly imagined time and time again. 

and then, he’s not so gentle. his hands are under your shirt — even the one keeping a couple fingers coiled around the hose nozzle — and he’s gripping the peak of your hips, inhaling a whine that leaves your mouth at the slightest pressure.

“that's a pretty noise.” he’s messy, trying to smile, kiss, and speak all at once.

the strength of his hold on you quickly shifts from fervent to outright painful, causing you to snatch his wrist away out of pure reflex. you know you have sore spots from today’s riding, but don’t know how bad they are until you and jeno are both looking at a fresh, red and purple welt blooming on your side where his fingers had just dug in, blood vessels bursting under the skin.

“oh, sweetheart,” he hums softly, but there’s sarcasm lacing his tone. “rough day out there, hm?”

protecting your vulnerability seems a bit trivial, yet you find yourself trying to sound apathetic, a defense mechanism triggered.

“part of the job.” you say, gulping dryly, forcing yourself to stare into jeno’s eyes as you speak. they’re terribly dark, but lively, molten. are they always like that? you wonder. you’ve never seen him this close, and hope he can’t tell how easily you’ll fold under his gaze.

usually, jeno lets you get away with shrugging off his remarks as though you’re so laid-back, so affectless, but he's had enough of the bullshit. today, he’s got you snared. he can’t recall ever seeing you scared, and swears you’d rather bleed out than admit when you’re hurt. it worries him a little, but fascinates him a whole lot more.

hiding under your clothes is the day’s worth of bruises and scrapes for him to gawk at. he didn’t realize how hard his horse had wedged you against the fence post earlier, or that there were so many exposed nail heads to grate your skin on the way to the ground. as he traces a stinging finger along those red stripes, you keep insisting “i’m fine, leave it alone, it’s fine,” but you’re clinging to him all the same, making any attempt to shoo his hands away pitiful at best.

jeno feels oddly entitled to the injuries you incur while working on his dime; he paid you to endure them, so can’t they be his to admire?

“you really take a beating for me, don’t you?” he cloys, walking you backwards, loving the way his words make you trip over yourself.

hose water continues to pour down the leg of your jeans as your feet leave the wash rack’s wet concrete slab, crunching over gravel till your spine meets the tailgate of his truck. your entire left side is sopping. even your sock is squishy inside your boot.

you wish you could play tough, keep a stiff upper lip as usual, but jeno’s wearing you to a frazzle with each readjustment of his hands. they work your shirt higher, your belt looser, and peel soaked denim off your hips till the waistband rides just below your ass, putting your panties on full display.

initially, it’s accidental how he’s clamping the hose against your stomach as he kisses you, holding you tight at the waist. he only notices when the cold water forms a stream down your core that draws a jolting gasp from your mouth. he doesn’t move the nozzle away — why would he? — but tucks it a little lower, and watches the thin fabric of your underwear become so drenched that it’s basically translucent, plastered to the shape of your pussy, and you’re shivering on the edge of a climax, chasing the strange, constant sensation spilling between your legs.

jeno’s never seen anything quite so pretty as you, covered in shiny droplets, chest fluttering with fits of quick breaths, with your arms trembling as you ball up soggy fists of his shirt for support. 

“jeno, jeno, jen...” his name keeps coming out of your mouth, sometimes like a desperate question, other times like you’re panicked, dangling over a cliff. 

“you’re being kinda pathetic, baby,” he says with a scoff and a smile. “it’s not like you.”

you shake your head, stammering an apology, an excuse, it’s cold, jeno, pure gibberish — you don’t really know what you’re saying.

the hose slips to the ground out of sight, and jeno drops down along with it. he’s unfazed by sticking his knees into the flooded gravel; the only thing obsessing him is getting his face buried against your cunt while you cum. he doesn’t even bother to pull your panties aside, just presses full tongue kisses to the warmest spot in the fabric he can find, and nuzzles his nose between your folds, groaning. 

you’re seeing white, seeing stars, eyes shut and rolling so far back into your skull it's medically concerning. the only way you aren’t doubled over right now is because his hands are keeping your knees locked, and he doesn’t seem to mind the weight of you hanging on his hair while your orgasm rips through you.

jeno doesn’t come face to face with you again until you’re a quivering mess, stripped naked from the waist down (wet socks and all), he’s had his taste of your bare pussy, and got his fingers curling in you so deep and torturous that you’re pleading with him to just turn the goddamn spigot off and fuck you already.

the biggest reason he gives in is because, yeah, probably should’ve shut the water off a while ago. never mind the horse. it's fine. it can wait.

“in the cab.” jeno talks with his teeth against your neck, wrapping your legs around his waist so he can carry you to the passenger’s side and pull you in on top of him, jerking the seat into full recline with a thud.

he’s yanking your shirt off, his own shirt off, manages to shake one foot from its boot and kicks everything to the ground outside before he slams the truck door. it’s gonna get humid and nasty in here, he knows, but with the way he’s planning on doing this...well, he doesn’t expect you to stay quiet. god forbid someone comes rolling up the driveway and thinks they’re overhearing a murder.

he’s flushed all the way to his chest while shuffling his pants down and lining up the head of his cock to your entrance. his voice is dark, eager. “c’mere, closer, good girl– right there” 

when he thrusts up into you — just halfway, or maybe not even that — you’re slick, warm, tighter than sin, and jesus fucking christ, he almost feels sorry for you. already, you’re not breathing right, looking for mercy in his eyes, and not finding any. there is none. jeno's working out in his head the best time to slam your hips down on him and fuck you till you puke.

“tell me when you can’t take it anymore, sweetheart,” he says, “i don’t need you putting your brave face on.”

automatically, you’re assuring him, “i can take it, i–”

“no, no, listen,” he makes sure his tone of voice stays nice, in case it's the only thing that keeps you willingly on top of him. “i’m saying i’ll be really disappointed if i don’t get to finish to the sound of you crying for me to stop. got it?”

“oh,” you whisper, unsure of any other way to react. could you actually cry in front of him? the idea is so humiliating you can’t even imagine it. “i don’t know.”

jeno pulls you nose to nose with him and holds you there, one of his hands wadded in your hair and the other at your neck. he kisses you. it’s soft. then he bucks his hips up so harshly you think your pelvis might bruise, and he does it again, and again, and again...

the palm of jeno’s hand is sweaty against your throat, and his fingernails will be leaving behind five neat crescent prints, you’re already sure of it. you’ve been squeezing your eyes shut while he grinds his full length into you, bumping against your cervix, telling you truly shameless things, like, “can’t wait to see you sit in a saddle after this...you’ll walk funny the whole week...gonna fuck you stupid, fuck you blind, gonna cum in this pussy so deep you’ll taste it” 

you’re nodding and moaning along to every last word, not really processing a single one. guess he can check fucking you stupid off the list. you feel so good. and so god-awful. and so good. halfway through another climax, your lashes become wet and you look at him, moon-eyed, as if to ask ‘is this enough?’

it’s not. jeno’s hand leaves your throat only to lay a mean spank on your ass that you honestly don’t think you deserve, then he’s pulling your hair hard enough to pop a few strands from your scalp, positioning your ear right up to his mouth as he talks.

“i want real tears, baby, c’mon,” he rasps out and punctuates by biting down on the cartilage of your ear.

it’s not a quick tease, it’s punishing, it lasts too long, and he fucks you dirtier the whole way through it. you swear there's an audible crunch under his canine tooth when you yelp and try to tear away which only hurts worse. a desperately loud sob of his name bubbles up your throat, and only then does he let you free.

“see?” jeno pecks a mocking kiss on your cheek, unapologetic. “that’s more like it.”

you don’t answer. can’t, really. not when mark's still got you spread open across the bed, fingers curling inside you nice and slow. he’s gentle, as always. taking his time, like he’s trying to memorize every twitch in your thighs, every breath you catch on.

you barely get a second to breathe before haechan flops beside you. he’s grinning already, hand settling warm on your thigh, fingers pressing in tight enough to bruise. his mouth hovers close like he’s about to say something sweet—but it’s never sweet with him.

“god, baby,” mark says. “you love getting passed around, huh?”

mark laughs softly under his breath, still curling his fingers inside you just right. “he’s soaked,” he murmurs. “feels like he’s already halfway gone.”

your legs twitch again, hips rolling down to chase mark's hand even though it’s already so deep. you’re whining without even realizing it, and that’s when jaemin shifts forward and grabs you by the jaw.

his hand’s just there, holding your face like he owns it. not squeezing—yet. just resting. then his cock slaps wet across your cheek and you flinch. your shoulders jerk up, breath stuttering out before you can stop it. there’s a split second where you don’t even look at him, too focused on the way it stings, the way your skin stung from the contact. but his hand moves fast. he grabs your face, thumb pressing into your jaw, not hard—yet, but it’s threatening, like he wants to bruise it. as if he’s daring you to pull away. 

jaemin drags your face toward him. he was far from being gentle, his cock still wet where it kissed your cheek. it’s still hard, heavier now somehow, and y’know he’s waiting for something—and you can feel his breath right against your lips, hot and mean.

he stares. not saying anything yet. just watching you flinch, shiver, and trying to keep still under his grip. “so noisy already,” he mutters. it was low enough to make you freeze. “you were whining backstage, remember that? what were you begging for?”

“nnh—didn’t say anything—” your voice breaks halfway through, head tipping back when mark hits that spot again and your whole body jumps.

“you didn’t have to,” haechan chimes in, still stroking your cock teasingly. “your legs were shaking before mark even touched you.”

mark presses a kiss to your thigh, fingers dragging out slow before easing back in deep. “you like that, sweetheart? like being spread open while they watch?”

you nod without even thinking. “mhm—”

“use your words.”

“i like it, mark hyung—m’so full—”

“you’ve taken two fingers,” jaemin cuts in, blank-faced. “don’t act like you’re split on cock already.”

“feels so big though,” you gasp, as mark pushes in a third. it burns a little—thick and all the way in—and you sob when he starts to curl them. “fuck—m’not used to this much—” :((

“nah,” haechan coos, still jerking your cock, treating it like the most precious thing he's ever held. “you want more, don’t you? bet if nana told you to open your mouth right now, you’d drool for it.”

“won’t be necessary,” jaemin huffs as his grip slides into your hair and tugs your head toward his leaking cock. “show me, baby. show me how pretty boys suck dick.”

your jaw drops without thinking. you’re already shaking, barely holding it together; still though, you let him slide in. he’s thick, mean about it, pushing all the way until your lips are flush to his base. you gag once, then breathe around it.

he stays there. makes you sit with it. one hand gripping your hair, the other bracing the back of your neck as he pushed himself deeper.

“breathe through it,” haechan murmurs, “you’ve done this before, baby. you got it.”

you moan around it, eyes tearing up. mark's still fucking you gently with his fingers, whispering something into your thigh, but you can’t hear him, not really. your cock jerks in haechan's hand and your hips twitch every time jaemin moves, just barely.

“fuck,” jaemin mutters. “you were made for this.”

“he loves crying,” mark says quietly, kissing the inside of your thighs. “don’t you, baby? love when we wreck you like this?”

you try to nod again, but you’re too full. cock in your throat, fingers inside you, precum dripping down your dick. your body’s not even yours anymore. it belongs to them and you’re just barely holding on :((

“bet your brain’s already leaking out your ears,” haechan grinned, whispering. “you want us to fuck it right out of you, huh? ruin our baby until he can’t even remember his name.”

jaemin pulls out just enough to let you breathe. you suck in air, loud and messy, lips slick with spit. “i’m—i’m already yours—”

“fuck he said it,” mark groans. well, that did something to him. his fingers are still deep. your hole’s clenching down like it knows something’s coming.

“say it again for me, baby,” jaemin breathes. “c’mon. say it.”

“yours. m’yours—please—”

jaemin kisses you. hard. wet. tongue pushing in like he owns the space, trying to taste the words you just said.

and then mark pulls his fingers out, just as haechan slides his in.

you gasp loud, back arching off the bed. it’s too much—haechan's slick and fast, fingers twisting in deeper than you were ready for.

“fuck—fuck, that’s—” you’re trembling. your whole body’s tight, stuffed full again. “c-can’t—”

“yes you can,” haechan growls at your throat, mouthing along your jaw while his fingers stretch you open. “you’re our fucktoy, right? our good little boy?”

jaemin's thumb presses your tongue flat again. “gonna make you cum so hard, you’ll see stars.”

your body’s jerking, hips stuttering into haechan's hand where he’s still stroking your cock. you’re leaking all over his fingers, your hole fluttering around him wanting—no. needing something deeper.

“m’gonna—gonna cum—” you choke out, right on the edge, can’t stop it—

“do it,” mark says, soft as ever, his eyes saying i love you. “go ahead, baby. let go.”

“huh. did i pay for them?”

“nope.” you popped the ‘p’ once again and jaehyun slowly rest your hand back down on your thigh, with the most sour looking face

“oh, what’s the matter now, jae?” you laughed at him. dramatic ass.

“well, who did?” he looked at you almost incredulously, as if the action of coldly giving you back your hand was obviously him asking that.

“i did, silly.” you gently scratched a manicured nail up and down his cheek. an effortless attempt to get that dimple to show. he flinched away.

“baby.. no…”

“girl, what is wrong?” you huffed out.

he pretended to try and bite your finger. “don’t call me that. i wanted to take you to get your nails done.”

despite your efforts to fight it, the frown on his face made your chest tighten.

“aw, baby jae. yuta beat you to it.”

“you’re trying to make me mad.”

this time you laughed loudly. “we went together but i paid. what’d beyoncé say about being an independent woman?”

“okay, okay, but you know i like to treat you. i like to spoil you..”

you held his face in both your hands and smushed it together. “i knoww, you’re so cute.” you climbed into his lap, “you love me, huh?”

his arms wrapped around your waist and through smushed lips, he sighed, “of course i do.”

you let go of his face. “i know that’s right.”

to which he responded with a swat to your ass, “excuse me?”

“you called?”

“excuse me?” he almost sang. you knew what he wanted.

you threw your head back with grown, “oh goshh.”

“i’m waiting. so patiently.”

“i love you too, jeong jaehyun.” you dipped your head down to drop a kiss onto his waiting lips.

“mhm.”

“I had been infinitely disarmed by the terrible, wonderful pleasure of sin.” — Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber

You learned young that some hungers have no name. That you could press your palm to your chest and feel the outline of something missing, a hollow where other children kept the love they received.

By eighteen, hope had become a dangerous habit. A drug you couldn't quit.

Still, you whispered into the dark. Not the prayers that the nuns taught you but formless wants breathed into your pillow, shaped by desperation rather than faith. Someone. Anyone. Please.

Sometimes you imagined gentle hands smoothing your hair, or a voice calling you by name. But dawn always came harsh through the narrow window, and you woke to the same truth: the only thing that touched you was sunlight, and even that didn't stay.

The ache lived in you. You carried it to chapel, to the kitchen, to the garden where you pulled weeds from between the graves of sisters who'd died without ever feeling lonely because they'd chosen this life. You hadn't chosen anything. You’d been dropped here by parents who didn't love you and had learned to live feeling unwanted by every other parent who came and picked another girl to call theirs.

Time moved strangely in this place. The days folded into one another like pages in a waterlogged book, the ink running together until you couldn't remember if it was October or March, if you were fifteen or fifty.

Then Father Park arrived, and it all changed.

It was autumn, you think. The sky was bruised purple at the edges as rain came down in sheets, turning the courtyard into a mirror that reflected nothing but gray. You were sweeping the entrance hall when the doors burst open.

He stood in the doorway dripping in a black cassock plastered to his frame, hair wild with rain. And he was smiling. Not the apologetic smile of someone caught in bad weather, but something unguarded and radiant. As though he'd been laughing with the thunder on his way here.

Mud slicked off his boots in dark streaks across the pale tile. He looked down at the mess, and his smile faltered into something sheepish. "I'll clean it” he offered, already reaching for the nearest rag before the sisters could scold him properly. They fluttered around him, Sister Catherine with her worried hands and Sister Agnes clucking about how easy it was to get pneumonia these days. All the while you stood frozen trying to understand how someone could carry so much light with them into a place like this.

He wasn't like the priests before him. Those had been old men with their faith calcified into something hard and joyless. Father Park looked wrong in his collar, like a boy playing dress-up in his father's clothes. He was too young and too warm. When he laughed at Sister Catherine's fussing it echoed strangely in the vaulted space, as if the convent had forgotten that sound was possible within its walls.

He caught you staring, and his dark eyes held yours for a moment too long. There was a flicker of recognition there, maybe, or just the simple acknowledgment that you existed outside these stone walls. That you were a person, not just a habit.

It was the first time a young man had really looked at you. Not through you, not past you, but at you.

The boys your age always pretended you didn’t exist when you went out doing errands with the sisters in town. Their gazes would slide right over you, as if you were a ghost. Already dead to the world.

It was only to be expected when you were dressed in the habit, you supposed. That shapeless uniform that marked you as untouchable, as belonging to God and therefore to no one, was a barrier between you and being perceived.

But Father Park looked at you as if he could see straight through to the girl underneath, the one who still wondered what it felt like to be wanted. To be seen as something other than pious.

And standing there in the courtyard you felt dangerously, thrillingly alive.​​​​​​​​ for the first time.

Then Sister Agnes was ushering him away to dry off, and you were alone again with your broom and the rain hammering against the windows.

You didn't know it yet, but you'd already begun to fall.

And something in the dark noticed.

Father Park— or Jisung as you’d found was his name— said Mass differently than the old priests had.

He didn't drone through Latin in that monotone voice that bored you to death. His voice rose and fell with something that felt dangerously close to joy, and when he spoke about mercy, you almost believed him.

The sisters always whispered that he was too casual, too modern, but they softened around him anyway. Even Sister Catherine, who hadn't smiled in probably a decade, let him coax her into laughter over breakfast often.

They weren’t the only ones who’d become… attached.

You started finding excuses to be wherever he was. It wasn't conscious at first. Your feet simply carried you to the chapel when he was there, to the garden when he took his evening walk, to the kitchen when he helped Sister Catherine knead bread. You tried to reason that you were simply curious about him. That after years of sameness, anyone new would be interesting. 

But curiosity didn't explain why your pulse jumped when you heard his footsteps in the hall, or why you'd begun to notice the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

He spoke to you sometimes. Small things. Asked if you'd slept well, commented on the weather, complimented the way you'd arranged flowers for the altar. His attention felt like standing too close to a flame on a winter night, dangerous and necessary all at once. You began to crave it. Those brief moments when his gaze landed on you and you existed, fully, in a way you never had before.

The fourth night after his arrival, you couldn't sleep.

The wanting had begun to change shape. What started as loneliness had narrowed, sharpened, focused itself on him. You lay in your narrow bed and thought about his hands. Wondered what they would feel like against your skin, whether they'd be warm, whether he'd touch you like you were something precious or something to be devoured. The thoughts came unbidden and relentless, each one more vivid than the last, until heat pooled low in your belly and shame burned up your throat.

You pressed your face into your pillow, trying to smother it. Tried to pray. But even prayer had become confused you didn't know anymore if you were asking for forgiveness or permission to act on your desires.

This is wrong, you told yourself. He's a priest. This is a sin.

But your body only understood hunger.

That night the noises in the convent carried strangely through the stone corridors. You'd lived here your whole life and never feared the dark. But now, lying awake with forbidden thoughts burning through you, the shadows seemed to watch you. You owed it to your paranoid mind but then…

You felt it before you saw anything. A presence. A weight to the air that hadn't been there moments before.

The room grew colder. It was the kind of cold that wakes you up, sharpens your senses. You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling, heart hammering, too frightened to turn your head toward the corner where the darkness seemed thickest.

"Poor thing," a voice murmured, almost sympathetic. "All that wanting, and nowhere for it to go."

You bolted upright.

There was nothing there. Just shadows pooling in the usual places, the same bare walls, the same crucifix above your bed. 

You didn't sleep the rest of that night.

By morning, you'd convinced yourself you'd dreamed it. A fever dream born from shame and sleeplessness. Nothing more. You splashed cold water on your face, dressed in your plain gray dress, and went to morning Mass with the others.

Father Park stood at the altar and you couldn't stop staring at the curve of his mouth as he spoke the consecration. Couldn't stop imagining what it would taste like. The guilt was a living thing in your chest, but beneath it, the hunger grew.

That night, the voice came back.

"You called me," it said, amused now. "Maybe not on purpose. But all that desperate longing, all those prayers into the void... did you really think nothing would answer?"

This time, you turned toward the sound.

The shadows in the corner seemed to have taking shape. Human, but not. You couldn't make out features, but you could feel the weight of a gaze on you. Patient. Predatory.

"What are you?" you whispered.

A low laugh, rich and dark as wine. "What do you think I am?"

Your mouth went dry. Every warning the sisters had ever given you about the devil and his temptations came rushing back, but they felt thin and far away compared to the immediate reality of this presence in your room.

"I think," you said, voice shaking, "that I should pray."

"You could." The shadow shifted, almost shrugged. "But we both know you don't really want to."

"What do you want from me?" you asked.

Another laugh, closer now. The shadow peeled itself from the corner, becoming something more real. You still couldn't see his face clearly but you could make out a lean figure.

"Want? Nothing you're not already willing to give." A pause. "I'm here because you've been starving, little lamb. And I've always had a weakness for the hungry ones."

You should have been terrified. Should have been screaming for the sisters, clutching your rosary, running for the door. But all you felt was a terrible, dizzying relief.

Finally. Finally, something had heard you.

The shadows suddenly moved and he was there in front of you.

Your heart stopped.

He was massive. Broad shoulders that filled the entire doorway, and behind him something unfurled. Wings. Huge and feathered and as dark as the space between stars, they stretched wide before folding against his back.

You opened your mouth but your scream died completely when you saw his face.

He was beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of beauty that felt like something designed specifically to make you lower your guard. His skin was the color of hammered bronze, glowing faintly in the dark as if lit from within. He had plump lips that curved with amusement, and his eyes were molten gold.

You scrambled backward, legs tangling in your nightgown, until your spine hit the wall hard enough to hurt. The cold stone pressed against your shoulders but there was nowhere else to go. Your heart hammered so violently you thought it might break through your ribs. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but your legs wouldn't work, wouldn't obey, wouldn't do anything but shake.

"Wh-why are you here?" The words tore from your throat, raw and terrified.

He tilted his head, studying you with those impossible eyes, and when he smiled you saw fangs. Sharp and white and real. "You called," he said, voice warm as summer and cold as a grave. "So I came."

"No—" You pressed harder against the wall, as if you could disappear into it. "No, I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You did." He took a step closer and you flinched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Every lonely prayer. Every desperate wish. All that wanting you poured into the dark." Another step. You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. "Did you really think no one was listening?"

"Stay back—" Your voice broke. "Please—"

But he kept coming closer, a predator in no rush because the prey had nowhere to run. When he crouched down to your level on the floor, you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"What…" You forced the words out through chattering teeth. "What do you want?"

"What do you want?" he countered, those golden eyes boring into yours. "You called for anyone. Not very choosy, were you?"

Tears burned in your eyes. You shook your head frantically. "No one ever listens—"

His smile widened, fangs glinting in the moonlight. "Lucky for you, little lamb, I'm not picky either." He reached out and his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up. His touch was searingly hot. "But I do expect a proper thank you."

"Thank you," you whispered automatically, the words spilling out in pure terror. "Thank you, I'm sorry, please—"

He chuckled darkly and the sound raised goosebumps all down your arms. His thumb brushed across your cheek, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Humans," he murmured almost fondly. "Always begging for something, but never prepared when something answers back."

"What are you?" Your voice cracked on the question.

His wings shifted behind him, a susurrus of feathers and shadow, and you pressed yourself flatter against the wall, fresh terror spiking through you. He noticed and the wings suddenly folded away, disappearing as if they'd never existed at all. The absence of them was somehow worse. Like he was hiding what he really was.

"Does it matter?" He leaned in closer, so close his breath ghosted across your ear, and you trembled violently.

“I'm here now. You don't have to be alone anymore." His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere. "But you should be careful what you pray for, little lamb. Some things can't be undone."

You were frozen, caught between terror and something else you didn't want to name. Something that noticed how gentle his touch was despite the fangs, despite the inhuman eyes, despite everything.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "So. What do you want now?"

"I—" You couldn't think. Couldn't process. The sisters' warnings rang in your ears—demons, the devil's servants, temptation and damnation—and you were staring at exactly what they'd described. "You shouldn't be here. This is a convent, it's sacred ground—"

His laugh rippled through the quiet room. "Is it?" He glanced around at the cracked walls, the faded icons. "You really think mortar and tired saints can keep me out?" He looked back at you, and his smile turned sharp. "No, little lamb. I'm here because you opened the door."

"I'll pray you away," you said desperately, even as your fingers fumbled for the rosary at your throat. "I'll—"

"Prayers don't send me away." His hand covered yours, stopping you, and the beads grew hot under his touch. "They feed me. All that longing, all that yearning to be seen, to be wanted—" His eyes burned brighter. "I answered that call. It's as simple as rain falling."

"Why me?" The question broke free. "There are thousands of prayers. Why did you choose mine?"

"Because yours was the most desperate," he whispered, leaning in until you could feel the heat of his chest through your thin nightgown. His pupils expanded into endless voids, swallowing the gold. "Others pray for safety, forgiveness, small blessings. But you?" His smile was almost gentle. "You prayed for touch. That kind of yearning lights up the darkness."

Heat flooded your face. Shame and something dangerously close to gratitude tangled in your chest. He could see all of it… every desperate wish, every lonely night, every moment you'd ached to be held.

"What's your name?" you heard yourself ask.

He paused, as if the question surprised him. "Haechan," he said finally. "The dawn's first light and the end of every dream."

"Haechan," you echoed, and his name felt dangerous on your tongue.

He smiled at the sound of it. Then his expression shifted, grew more serious. "I don't feed on prayers alone, little lamb. I need something... warmer. Deeper."

Your throat tightened. You knew what demons wanted. What they were said to take from their victims. "I'm not—" The words stuck. Not ready? Not willing? Both felt like lies.

His smile turned knowing, he was clearly amused by your struggle. Then he stood in one fluid motion and stepped back toward the balcony. "I'll be nearby," he promised, and it sounded like both comfort and a threat. "You'll feel me in your dreams, in every quiet corner. And when you're tired of being alone..." His eyes locked onto yours, glowing like coals. "You'll call for me without even realizing it."

The balcony doors flew open suddenly and in a blink, he was gone.

The doors slammed shut with enough force to rattle the frame. You stayed pressed against the wall, heart racing, lungs burning, until the first weak threads of dawn crept across the floor as proof that night, and whatever had walked through it, had finally passed.

You didn't sleep.

From that night on, your dreams weren't yours anymore.

You became increasingly paranoid after that night.

Sleep turned into your worst enemy. You wandered the floors long after vespers, folding linen until your fingertips felt raw, whispering Psalms under your breath until the words faded into a blur. You convinced yourself that if you stayed awake, he wouldn’t slip through the cracks of your dreams.

But exhaustion hunted you down more relentlessly than any demon. The candlelight dwindled to mere stubs; your eyes felt gritty, swollen, and rimmed with red. As dawn broke, kneeling next to Sister Catherine for morning prayers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the brass candlestick. Pale cheeks, pupils unnaturally wide, a girl teetering on the edge of breaking.

Days melted into one another. You could sense him everywhere. A scent of burnt sugar in the laundry room, ghostly smoke wafting through the cloister windows. Once, while hanging damp linens in the courtyard, a warm breeze brushed against your neck, and you turned, convinced you felt the touch of feathers. But there was nothing, just the flapping of laundry and your heart racing in your throat.

Eventually, your body gave in. One night, utterly exhausted and trembling, you crawled under the rough blanket and promised yourself you’d just rest your eyes but darkness enveloped you and the convent faded away.

You opened your eyes and recognized it immediately as a dream. The colors were dulled and everything was hazy,. Moonlight poured silver across your bed and there he was on the windowsill.

“Missed me?” His words slipped under your nightgown like warm hands.

You attempted to sit up, but the sheet clung to your damp skin. Your nightgown, how had you not noticed how sheer it was before? brushed coolly against your suddenly sensitive flesh. Your heart raced so loudly you worried it might shatter your ribs.

Shame wrapped around you, but he just breathed in, his eyes half-closed as if your embarrassment was a fine fragrance. 

In the blink of an eye, he was on the mattress, moving toward you with the grace of a predator. “You’re quite loud when you sleep, little lamb,” he murmured, his thumb tracing a lazy line along your calf. “Moaning my name without even realizing it.”

The mattress shifted as he settled between your knees. His warm fingers glided over your ankle, moving higher up the curve of your shin and the soft inside of your thigh until he paused just before reaching the place that throbbed with desire.

“Already so wet,” he said with a pleased hum, dragging a single knuckle along the crease where your thigh met your hip. Your hips instinctively jerked toward him.

“Oh.” He raised an eyebrow at your eagerness, leaning in close until his mouth brushed against the shell of your ear. “You don’t even realize what you’re offering me, do you?”

In a moment of weakness you wondered if it would be too bad to let him take you. Wasn't that was you wanted the most anyway? To be held at last. You swallowed hard, both hating and loving how your breath quivered.

His mouth ghosted over your neck, and you felt your pulse pulsing faster under his fangs. Your hands clawed at the sheets. “If you want this,” he purred. “I need to hear it.”

You still didn’t want to give him what he wanted. If there was anything you could still protect from temptation, it was your virtue. Your body belonged to God. Giving it to a demon of all things? That was unthinkable... 

He knew you were fighting him. He could taste it. You saw it in his eyes, the way his mouth curled, and his tongue poked out of his mouth as if your struggle only made him hungrier. One fingertip brushed against the damp silk between your legst. Your hips jerked again.

“So eager…” he pressed a knuckle against that ache and your vision began to blur at the edges.

“Imagine,” he whispered, his mouth hovering near your ear, breath warm, “what I could make you feel if you simply asked.”

You turned your face away, tears pricking at your eyes. “You— you said you wouldn’t take what I didn’t give.”

“And I won’t.” He withdrew, depriving you of his warmth, leaving your body singing with frustrated electricity. His tongue brushed the tear on your cheek. “But want is a door you leave cracked. I only push when invited.”

You bit your lip, refusing to beg, even as he slipped a single finger beneath the edge of your underwear.

“I can make you crave it, you know…”

His mouth pressed hot against your navel, tongue tracing up until it paused just under your breasts. You sucked in a breath. He smiled, fully proud of what he could do with so little.

He slipped that same finger under the silk of your panties, grazing the swollen flesh there. The slightest pressure was enough to make your legs shake. 

“Give in to me…” he murmured. 

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. He circled lazily, coating his fingertip before slipping it higher to find the spot that made your vision blur.

A broken sound left your throat. He rewarded it with another slow stroke, then a second finger joining the first, stretching you slowly, as if he had all night to ruin you.

“Sweet,” he whispered, lips brushing your thigh. “I could dine on you for centuries.”

He pumped a few more times and then withdrew completely. You gasped at the loss.

“Since you’re not playing nice,” he said, licking the taste of you from his fingers, “we’ll continue next time.”

Then he was gone. 

You woke to soaked sheets, and your hips still grinding against the mattress trying to chase a phantom orgasm that refused to come.

Three days since he last came to you, and your skin was rubbed raw of his touch by now.

You scrubbed in the washing room before lauds. Sister Catherine found you there at dawn, your chemise soaked through, fingernails pink with blood where you’d clawed at your own thighs. She didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a towel and left, though her eyes were full of judgment.

You were out of it even during Mass. The chapel had emptied around you at one point but you’d scarcely noticed. All your focus was on a dark stain on the stone floor. It looked like spilled wine. Or old blood.

“Are you all right?” Father Park’s voice was soft. Worried.

You dragged your gaze up to meet his. “Yes, Father. Sorry. I was just… thinking.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” He studied your face, and you wondered what he saw there. Exhaustion, probably. The hollows forming under your eyes. “You’re not the only one,” he continued quietly, glancing toward the door as if checking for listeners. “Several of the novices have been… struggling. Sister Margaret came to see me yesterday.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. “She did?”

“She looked ill,” he said. “Feverish. Couldn’t meet my eyes. I asked if something was troubling her, but—” He shook his head, frustrated. “She just kept apologizing. Said she couldn’t sleep. That she’d been having dreams.” His fingers tightened slightly on your arm. “Bad dreams.”

The chapel suddenly felt smaller.

“I told her to rest and pray,” Father Park continued, “but I’m not sure prayer is helping any of you right now.” His eyes searched yours, desperate for answers you couldn’t give. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”

Yes, you wanted to say. Something is visiting us at night. Something with wings and fangs and hands that know exactly how to unmake you. And I want it. God help me, I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“No, Father,” you whispered instead. “We’re just tired.”

He didn’t believe you. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand dropped from your arm like he’d realized he couldn’t help you. “My door is always open,” he said finally, but it sounded hollow. Like he already knew you’d never walk through it.

You nodded and stood, your legs unsteady. As you moved past him toward the door, he called after you.

“Please. Try to sleep.”

You almost laughed. Sleep was the problem. Sleep was where he waited.

Sister Margaret. You couldn’t stop watching her.

She’d been pale as milk a week ago, fasting through Lent until her collarbones jutted sharp enough to cut. Now her cheeks had color. Her lips looked bitten-red, swollen like she’d been sucking on berries. At dinner, she pushed food around her plate but didn’t eat, and when she bent to reach for the water pitcher, you saw it… a shadow of a bruise blooming purple  beneath her collar.

The same place he’d marked you that first night.

Your hands clenched around your cup hard enough that the it cracked a little

Sister Agnes was talking about something, her voice a dull murmur you couldn’t focus on. You watched Sister Margaret’s throat work as she swallowed, watched the way her eyes went distant and glassy, like she was somewhere else entirely.

The cup broke in your grip.

The refectory went silent. Every sister turned to look at you, at the broken shards stuck in your bloodied hands, at the expression on your face that you couldn’t quite control.

“Sorry,” you managed. “I’m—I need air.”

You stood so abruptly your chair scraped obscenely against stone. No one stopped you as you fled.

You buried your hands in the soil once you reached the garden, trying to ground yourself in something real. The earth was too warm for October. Steam rose from it when you dug, carrying that scent of burnt sugar.

She had his mark. She’d been with him. Maybe last night, maybe the night before. While you’d laid awake in your room, praying for sleep and a demon that wouldn’t come.

“Did you hear?” Sister Teresa whispered to the novice beside her, their voices carrying over the herb beds to you. “Sister Margaret fell ill last night. Fever dreams. She kept calling out, but when Mother Superior came, she couldn’t remember what she’d been saying.”

Your hands stilled in the dirt.

“Probably just exhaustion,” the novice replied. “We’ve all been so tired lately.”

You looked around the garden with new eyes. Sister Agnes moved through the rows of lavender but she kept looking over her shoulder as if afraid to be followed. Sister Claire’s hands trembled as she pruned the roses, and there were dark crescents under her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

How many of you were there?

The thought made you want to vomit. Made you want to scream. Made you want to find him and—

And what?

You pressed your palm flat against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath, the steady beat of your heart, and you couldn’t help but wonder why your body kept going when everything inside felt like it was crumbling. The hunger was becoming unbearable. Not for food. Not for anything you could easily confess. It was a restless, insistent feeling that lived beneath your skin, making you want to claw your way out of yourself.

Thoughts of him twisted in your stomach. You knew you shouldn’t miss him. You shouldn’t lie awake counting the hours since you last felt his presence, those empty nights piling up like stones on your chest. But you did. You really did.

Sleep now terrified you. He had turned dreams into something perilous, something beyond your control. But staying awake was even worse, just you and the darkness, along with the gnawing certainty that you’d never find satisfaction in this life. You’d spend every night for the rest of your days kneeling on cold floors, praying to a God who had gone silent, yearning for things you couldn’t have.

Make it stop, you thought desperately. But you weren’t even sure what you were asking for anymore. For the longing to end? Or for Haechan to return and feed it?

Your forehead rested against the mattress, your hands fell limp. You stopped trying to pray and simply waited for sleep to pull you under.

When you finally closed your eyes, the world peeled away in layers.

The chapel appeared around you, but something felt off. The pews stood empty, yet you could hear the sound of breathing. Dozens of people inhaling and exhaling in perfect harmony. The stations of the cross hung askew on the walls, and in each frame, the painted figures had turned their faces away. The stained glass windows depicted scenes you didn’t recognize: a woman with wings of fire, a man with a mouth full of eyes, a child devouring stars. 

Haechan was at the altar, his wings spread wide enough to touch both walls. “There she is,” he said softly, his voice echoing strangely, as if it came from all around you at once. “My angry little lamb.” You moved toward him, and with each step, the stone floor rippled beneath you like water.

 “How many?” Your voice sounded broken. “How many of us are there?”

His smile was both radiant and terrifying. “In this convent?” He tilted his head, pondering. “Seven. No... eight now. Sister Claire finally dreamed of me last night.

Eight. Eight of you. 

“But I—” Your breath hitched. “I called you first.”

 “You did,” he said, stepping down from the altar. 

“You begged so loudly in your sleep that I heard you from three realms away. Such hunger. Such desire.” He paused right in front of you, close enough for you to see your own reflection in his eyes.

“ But did you really think that made you special?” 

“Yes.” The word slipped out, cracking as it left your lips. 

“Why?” He reached out, his fingertips brushing against your jaw. His touch was like fire. “What sets you apart from Sister Margaret? From Sister Claire? From all the others who pray to be filled, who ache in their narrow beds, who dream of hands and mouths and—”

“Because I’ll give you anything,” you blurted out.

“They’re scared. They wake up crying, begging for forgiveness. But I—” You grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand against your face. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

Something flickered in his expression. Was it interest? Or perhaps hunger?  

“Everyone says that,” he murmured. “At first.”  

“I really mean it.”  

“Do you?” He cradled your face in his hands. “What would you give me, little lamb? Your virtue? I’ve already taken that. Your soul?” He let out a laugh, the sound reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. “I don’t want your soul. Souls are so dull.”  

“Then what do you want?” you pressed, frustration and longing twisting in your chest, making it hard to catch your breath.  

His thumbs glided over your cheekbones, surprisingly gentle despite the unsettling aura he carried. Up close, you could see all the ways he wasn’t human: the dark lines on his shoulders that connected to the dark wings on his back, his pupils dilating independently of the light, and his lips, stained a deep red as if he’d just feasted on pomegranate.  

“Permission,” he replied, his tone straightforward.  

You blinked in surprise. “I already—”  

“No.” His grip tightened just a bit. “You’ve let me into your dreams. You’ve allowed me to touch you. But you haven’t truly given yourself to me. You still think you can walk away. You still feel guilty every morning.” His eyes glimmered crimson. “I want you to stop praying to him. I want you to desire this. Not as a sin. Not as a weakness. I want you to choose me, fully aware of what I am.”

The chapel was enveloped in silence, save for that eerie breathing coming from nowhere.  

“If I do,” you whispered, “will you stop visiting the others?”  

His grin grew wider. “Is that what you truly want? Just me, all to yourself?”  

“Yes.” The word slipped out before you could catch how desperate it sounded.  

“Even though they need me too? Even though Sister Margaret is fading away, and Sister Claire cries herself to sleep, and Sister Agnes has started to forget what it feels like to be touched?”  

A wave of guilt twisted in your stomach, but you pushed it down. “Yes,” you repeated, more forcefully this time. “I don’t care. I want you. And I want you to want only me.”  

“Greedy,” he purred, clearly pleased. “I like that.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing against your lips. “But you still haven’t said it the right way.”  

“Said what?”  

“How bad you want it.” His hand moved to rest against your throat. “Beg me properly, and maybe I’ll think about it.”  

Your heart raced against his palm. Suddenly, the chapel felt smaller, the walls closing in, the ceiling lowering. In the stained glass windows, the strange figures had turned to watch you. Even the icons on the walls seemed to tilt their heads, curious to see.

“Please,” you breathed. “I want you. I choose you.” Your hands found their way to his wrists, holding him close. “Take me. Keep me. Make me yours.” 

Everything stood still for a moment.

Then Haechan took a sharp breath and suddenly his wings unfurled, casting a shadow that enveloped the entire chapel. The candles flickered out in unison, and the sounds of breathing faded into silence. The stained glass shattered, splintering into a web of cracks, revealing not the sky but an endless void. A vast, empty, hungry nothingness. 

“There it is,” he rasped. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.” 

And then he kissed you. His lips were sweet, reminiscent of summer fruit left to ripen in the sun. You felt his hands everywhere, pulling you closer, as if he wanted to carve himself into your very being. Your  hips instinctively moved against the firm pressure of his thigh. 

“You’ve been waiting for this too,” he breathed against your neck. “I’ll mark you so deeply that they’ll catch my scent on you in the waking world.” 

“Yes. Please.”  you moaned.

“Good girl.” He flashed a grin. “I’ll give you everything you’ve been yearning for.”

He scooped you up as if you were featherlight and laid you down on the altar. You gasped at the sharp chill that pierced through your thin cotton, the ancient marble soaking up every bit of warmth you had managed to gather from his touch. You had always wondered if the altar was genuinely sacred or if the church just wanted you to think it was. 

The feeling of desecrating it was real, though. Your spine arched against the stone, your thighs spread in the silence, the only sounds being your own ragged breaths and the gentle scrape of his claws as he lifted your nightgown, inch by inch, exposing you to the ribs. He didn’t seem rushed at all. In fact, he looked as if he was savoring every flicker of shame and desire that rolled off your skin.

He paused to take you in. Not in a romantic or worshipful way, but with the dark hunger of a man staring at a feast he knows he shouldn’t indulge in. You could see your own desire reflected in his eyes. 

He bent down grazing your inner thigh with his mouth, just above the pulse that throbbed so intensely it was almost painful. His tongue followed, starting off soft but quickly becoming thicker than you expected, impossibly hot, moving with a slow weight. 

He licked you open and a jolt of panic surged through you as you realized his tongue was still growing. Sliding over, under, and inside, curling in lazy circles that brushed against every secret nerve you didn’t even know existed. 

You bit your wrist to keep from crying out, but that only made him smile wider. He wasn’t just tasting you; he was filling you completely. His tongue unfurled inside you with a pressure that made your whole body arch off the altar. He found that deep place within you, the one no hand had ever reached, pressing there repeatedly, his inhuman length writhing as if to claim what was his.

He looked up, his hair falling over those crimson eyes that were locked onto yours, and you felt a wave of mortification wash over you as you realized you were crying. Salt streamed down your cheeks, leaving a sticky trail at your jaw and the sight of this seemed to please him because he leaned in and licked a tear from the inside of your thigh. He savored it and hummed softly, as if your pain was as sweet to him as your own desire.  

“This is mine now,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against your clit as he flicked it mercilessly. 'Your piety, your purity… I'll fuck it all out of you.' 

You wanted to say stop but you also wanted to give in to whatever he desired, just to hold onto that overwhelming sensation. 

He pulled back, his serpentine tongue flicking against your clit—once, twice, three times—each touch growing a little more intense, until you were shuddering and writhing and your heels drumming against the marble.

You didn’t recognize the obscene sounds escaping your lips. The world had shrunk down to a single point of heat, a tension that felt like it would never release, and you thought you might just die if it did. Or if it didn’t. 

“So sweet,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. “Crying for me, giving me every drop you’ve ever held back. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is what you begged for?”

Without waiting for your reply, he curled his tongue inside you, teasing that impossible spot, and you completely fell apart. Tears mixed with gasps and sobs so raw that you thought even the saints would hide their faces. 

Your hands fisted in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as you begged, 'Forgive me, Lord...' But there was no forgiveness here, it was too late for that. You shattered, your cunt clenching around nothing as the orgasm ripped through you, juices flooding his tongue. Haechan drank it all, growling in satisfaction.

You only felt him pull away when the sudden emptiness made you whimper. He laughed softly, using his thumb to wipe away your tears. Then he stood, his cock pressing against your entrance, the thick head nudging at your slick folds. Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, “Let me in,” his voice as soothing as a lullaby. “Let me defile you, body and soul.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your mind barely functioning. When he finally entered you, it was a shock to your system. The stretch felt like fire, the fullness so intense it made you see white. He sank deep with a groan, his head thrown back, wings spreading wide.

You felt everything: the altar beneath your back, the pressure of his hips, the remnants of your tears, the way he and you blended together, melting, burning, unraveling. 

He moved slowly at first, each drag of his cock against your insides deliberate, stretching you wider, claiming every inch. His wings wrapped around you partially, cocooning you in darkness as he leaned down to lick the fresh tears from your cheeks. “Cry for me,” he whispered, filthy and sweet. “Cry for the faith you're losing.” You sobbed openly, tears streaming into your hair, soaking the stone beneath your head. 

His hands roamed pinching your nipples until they bruised, slapping your thighs to leave red handprints on your pale skin. Then he pressed kisses to your jaw, your temple, your lips. He was rough and soft in a way you didn’t think was possible for an entity like him. 

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let yourself fall apart for me. There’s nothing left but this. Just you and me, in the ruins.”

You did. You broke, again and again, until you lost count, until the world was only sensation, salt, and the heavy, holy desecration of your body. 

He didn’t let you go when the last tremor faded. His hands slid up your ribs slowly as if he enjoyed feeling you shudder, boneless and pliant under his palm. The altar felt colder now, sweat cooling on your back, the outline of your body etched against the stone.

He drew back only enough to watch your face, searching for the way your breath hitched as he pulled out and pushed back in. You were still crying, silent tears cutting hot tracks down your temples, and he pressed a kiss to each one as he started to move, deeper, slower, hips grinding into yours with merciless control.

He shifted, grasping you by the waist, and with a strength that startled you, flipped you over. The marble burned your chest, nipples sensitive and sore from the friction, your hips dragged back so you were forced to arch, presenting. Your knees barely found purchase because the stone was slick with your sweat, and you had to brace with your trembling hands.

'Look at you, presenting like a whore in God's house,' he taunted, his claws digging into your hips as he kneaded your ass cheeks, spreading them wide. He spat on your tight hole, then pressed the head of his cock against it.

The stretch was sharp at first, then spread into a slow-blooming ache that made your eyes flutter shut. The angle forced your hips up, your forehead hitting the cold altar as you panted. He was hitting a spot that had your nerves firing in a jagged line from your core to your scalp. 

His palm spread across your stomach while the other curled into your hair, tugging your head back so you could feel his mouth at your ear and the edge of his fangs grazing your skin as he murmured your name.

“Feel how good you take me from every hole?” he crooned, tongue darting to taste the salt at your hairline. “So eager, so empty before me. I could keep you like this for centuries, stretched open and leaking for me.”

He rutted into you with long, languorous thrusts, his hips grinding against your ass, cock so thick you thought you’d break. You whimpered, and he only went deeper in response. His tongue traced your spine, licking up sweat and shivering flesh, a serpentine heat that left marks you’d surely feel for days. 

At some point, he wrenched you up again until your back hit his chest, wings cocooning around you both. He splayed your knees wide, holding you open with ruthless tenderness, the swollen head of his cock dragging slick between your folds before pushing in.

His hand slipped around your neck, reminding you with every shallow squeeze that you belonged to him, trembling and helpless in the cage of his embrace. His other hand found your clit, rubbing circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. You gasped falling back on his shoulder, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as you sobbed and keened.

Haechan caught your cries with his mouth, lips moving hungrily along your jaw, tongue lapping at the damp heat where your tears spilled and pooled, every ragged sound turning him ravenous and insatiable.

He folded you over the altar so that your knee propped awkwardly and the other foot skidded on marble as he rutted into you with relentless purpose. Your sobs bounced off the chapel walls, mixing with his guttural praises and vicious promises.

He gagged you with his fingers, thrusting them deep into your mouth as he railed your ass. “Cry for me,” he growled. “I want every angel above us to hear your ruin.

You gave yourself to it, the tears and the shame and the pleasure cresting into something that left you emptied, scoured raw, filled with a sense of worship you’d never known in all your years of prayer.

When you came again, his wings tightened around you, his cock thrusting so deep you thought you’d break. You sobbed out his name, the sound caught in your throat and pressed against his palm. He chased you over the edge and filled you until you were a ruin collapsed on the altar.

He cradled you through the aftermath, tongue soft now, licking salt from your lashes, whispering promises in a language that Father Park often used during Mass. His hands mapped you, turning you over, pulling your legs up over his shoulders and sliding back in, slower this time, savoring the way you clenched and whimpered for more.

He held you up, let you collapse, flipped you again, fucked you sideways, legs tangled, sweat dripping from your bodies to the stone below. Every time you thought you were spent, he started again, coaxing another shudder, another cry, another mindless, shattered climax from the hollow of your body.

By the time the first cold blue of dawn crept through the broken windows, you were spent, throat raw, body marked with bruises and bites and the sticky, leaking evidence of his pleasure. The candles guttered out, smoke swirling in lazy halos above you. He hovered over you, eyes dark, mouth swollen, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

And then he was gone with the last shadow, leaving you wrecked, weeping, and praying, for the first time in your life, that dawn would never come.

But just as you were about to catch your breath and before you could even utter a word, he vanished with nothing but the echo of his laughter ringing in your ears as the dream faded and you tumbled back into reality.

You woke to cold stone beneath your skin and sharp air against bare flesh.

Your eyes opened slowly, vision swimming before the vaulted ceiling came into focus. Gold leaf and painted saints stared down at you, their faces solemn in the grey dawn light.

You were still on the altar.

Your body felt strange, like you were floating an inch above your own skin. When you tried to sit up, the movement came too easily, no muscle resistance, no pleasant ache from the night before. Just… emptiness.

You looked down at yourself and you were still naked, but … not marked. Your skin was unmarred, pale and smooth as if nothing had touched you at all.

Where were the bruises? The evidence of his hands, his mouth, his—

The chapel doors creaked open.

“I wonder if Father Pa—”

Sister Margaret’s voice died in her throat.

Then she screamed a full-throated, horrified scream that echoed off the vaulted ceiling and sent birds scattering from the rafters outside. Her prayer book hit the floor, and she stumbled backward, one hand clapped over her mouth, eyes wide and white-rimmed with terror.

You stood quickly, confused. “Sister Margaret, I—”

But she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking past you.

No. Not past you. Through you.

A cold thread of dread curled down your spine. Slowly, slowly, you turned to look behind you.

There was a body on the altar.

…Your body.

It lay exactly where you’d been sleeping moments ago, limbs arranged almost peacefully, head tilted to one side. Anyone would think you were just sleeping. Anyone would think—

Except for the blood.

So much blood, pooled dark and viscous across the white altar, dripping in slow drops onto the chapel floor. It covered your chest, your throat, stained your skin in patterns that looked almost like a painting.

And there, in the center of your chest, was a hole. You could see inside it, see the ribs spread like fingers, see the hollow space where something should have been.

Your heart was gone.

You took a step closer, hand rising to your own chest—this chest, the one you were wearing now—and felt nothing. No heartbeat or a single breath.

“What…” You whispered. “No, no, no—”

More footsteps thundered down the corridor. Sister Catherine burst through the doors first, followed by Sister Agnes, Sister Claire, two novices whose names you couldn’t remember. They all stopped when they saw it. Saw your corpse, desecrated and ruined on the holiest surface in the convent.

Sister Catherine’s face went grey. Sister Agnes made a wounded sound and turned away, retching. The younger novices started crying immediately, high and panicked.

“Someone get Father Park,” Sister Catherine managed, voice strangled. “And Mother Superior. Now. Now!”

One of the novices ran.

You stood there, invisible, watching them swarm around your body. Around the evidence of what had been done to you. Sister Margaret had collapsed into a pew, sobbing into her hands. Sister Agnes kept making the sign of the cross over and over, her lips moving in silent prayer.

“Who would do this?” Sister Claire whispered, horrified. “Who could… in a chapel—”

But you knew. Oh God, you knew.

I need something… warmer, deeper, he’d said the first night you saw him.

Take me, keep me, make me yours, you’d begged last night.

He’d taken everything.

Father Park arrived with Mother Superior close behind him. He stopped dead in the doorway, his face draining of all color as he took in the scene. Your body. The blood. The desecration.

“Sweet merciful Christ,” he breathed.

He moved forward slowly. When he reached the altar, he stood there for a long moment, just staring down at your ruined corpse. Then, with shaking hands, he reached out and gently gathered your body into his arms.

Your head lolled against his shoulder. Blood stained his vestments immediately, but he didn’t seem to care. He just held you, cradling you like a child, and his face crumpled.

“Y/N,” he said hoarsely. “Who coul—” His voice broke. “What kind of monster—”

“Father.” Mother Superior’s voice was rigid with horror. “Her heart. It’s been—”

“Oh lord.” He closed his eyes, and you saw tears slip down his weathered cheeks. 

Sister Margaret’s sobs grew louder. “Who could’ve done this?” She gasped. “Do you think it was—” She looked up, face blotchy and destroyed.

“We can’t possibly know who it was!” Sister Agnes intervened, it was almost as if she knew Sister Margaret was going to mention him. After all; he’d visited them all too. 

You wanted to tell them. Wanted to scream it was me, I chose this, I wanted it—but no sound came out. Your mouth moved silently, your transparent hands reached out, but they passed through Sister Margaret’s shoulder.

You were a ghost. An echo.

Father Park stood carefully, still cradling your corpse. “We need to prepare her for burial,” he said quietly. “And we need to consecrate this space again. Whatever happened here—” He looked around the chapel, at the candles that had all burned down to nothing, at the altar cloth soaked through with your blood. “This place has been desecrated. Corrupted.”

“Should we call the authorities?” Sister Catherine asked. “The police? This is… this is murder.”

“And tell them what?” Father Park’s voice was hollow. “That someone stole a girl’s heart in a locked chapel without forced entry, without witnesses, without leaving any evidence except—” He gestured helplessly. “They’ll think we’re mad.”

“Then what do we do?” Sister Agnes whispered.

“We pray,” Mother Superior said firmly, though her hands shook as she clutched her rosary. “We pray for her soul. And we pray that whatever evil entered these walls never returns.”

But you knew it wouldn’t work. You could feel it even now… That pull, that invisible tether connecting you to him. He had your heart. Your literal, physical heart. And wherever he went, whatever he did with it…

You would follow.

The sisters began to file out, murmuring prayers, casting terrified glances back at the altar. Father Park carried your body gently, whispering last rites as he walked. Sister Margaret was the last to leave, her face turned back toward the chapel as Sister Catherine guided her away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to your corpse, to the memory of you. “I’m so sorry.”

Then they were gone.

You looked down at yourself, at your translucent hands, your incorporeal form. You pressed your palm to your chest again, searching for a heartbeat that would never come.

Nothing.

Just the echo of his voice in your memory: Mine. Completely. Forever.

You’d thought giving yourself to him meant marking. Possession. A dark romance where you’d be his in dreams and waking, bound but still alive.

You hadn’t realized the cost.

You hadn’t understood what “completely” meant.

A laugh bubbled up in your chest. You’d won. You’d made him choose you. You’d given him permission, begged him to take everything. And he had.

In the distance, you heard the bells tolling. Slow, mournful. The death knell... For you.

The girl who wanted so desperately to be chosen that she’d trade her life for it.

The girl who got exactly what she asked for.

Somewhere far away, in dreams or darkness or whatever space he inhabited between worlds, you felt a heartbeat that wasn’t yours, pumping with stolen blood. Your heart, beating in his chest. Or in his hands. Or in whatever he’d done with it to bind you to him forever.

You closed your eyes and waited.

He would come back. Eventually. To collect what was his.

And you, now a damned thing, would be waiting.

After all, you had nowhere else to go.

You were his.

Completely.

Forever.

Just like you wanted.

psa: reader and haechan grew up in the same foster home, and are not actual siblings.

The shiny floors of the lobby clicked beneath your heels. Probably louder than usual given you were stomping. The woman behind the front desk took one look at you and panicked, quickly rising to her feet as you approached, and said, “Ma’am, please let me announce you.”

“I don’t need to be announced to my husband,” you countered, shoving the doors open.

Hovering over his desk, Haechan lifted his eyes when you stormed into his office. He did a quick scan of you from head-to-toe, and liked what he saw if the smirk on his lips was any indication. He quite enjoyed the sight of you hurdling toward him like a freight train.

You slammed the papers on his desk, between his splayed hands, and said, “Sign these.”

And to the surprise of no one, he replied, “No.”

“Haechan, sign the goddamn papers.”

“Suck my dick.”

You threw up your hands and asked, “Do you seriously want a drawn-out court case? Do you have any idea how expensive that’s going to be?”

“I have plenty of money,” Haechan argued coolly. “And, thanks to me, so do you.”

“Go to hell,” you spat angrily, white hot rage flooding through your chest that he was just so… unaffected. You wanted to reach across the desk and strangle him, but you knew he would love that.

Haechan stood upright, grabbed the papers, and walked over to his shredder, feeding them into it. The loud grinding of gears filled the small space and once it finished, harsh silence filled the void.

You watched Haechan saunter toward you, closing the distance. His eyes were alight with mischief, as usual, while you glared at him in defiance and folded your arms.

“Long time no see, darling,” he purred, blatantly eyeing you.

“Don’t try to butter me up, dear. I want a divorce.”

Haechan shrugged. “Well, we don’t always get what we want.”

You took a step toward him, refusing to back down, and said, “You can’t keep me married to you.”

Haechan’s eyes fell to your lips and you could see that he was seriously considering kissing you. He quickly abandoned that thought, but leaned in, meeting your eyes again, and whispered under his breath, “Watch me.”

You bristled with frustration. “This isn’t fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about fair,” Haechan said, tilting his head cutely. Anything he could do to get under your skin. “I made you a deal from the jump.”

Your jaw clenched. Some of your bravado fizzled out when you remembered the last time you’d seen your husband, a month ago. When you told him you were drafting up divorce papers. “I’m not going to apologize,” you seethed through your teeth.

“Then I’ll see you in court.”

You bit your lip. He was beyond infuriating. You always felt like you were a step behind him, always. Throughout your relationship, Haechan played you like an instrument. He could make you do almost anything he wanted; and then convince you it was your idea in the first place. It was no wonder he was such a good lawyer, using his skills to get your brothers out of trouble.

You’d had enough and tried to disentagle yourself from your husband. Obviously, that wasn’t going well, so you tried to do the one thing he didn’t expect.