inevitablefate

“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”

You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Prick.

You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.

And why should he care?

It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.

The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.

You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.

He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”

“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”

“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.

You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.

“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.

You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”

“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”

You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”

Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.

That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.

Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.

He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.

“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.

You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.

Blame him.

Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.

“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.

Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.

You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”

He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”

He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—

You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.

You’ve never really understood it.

The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.

The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.

There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.

The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.

But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.

All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.

Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.

You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”

He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.

“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.

“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”

He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.

“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.

By moonlight reveal.

Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.

As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.

Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.

Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even. 

You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.

You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.

“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.

He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.

These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.

As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.

You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.

But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.

“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.

His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.

Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.

Draco frowns. “Thief.”

You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.

It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.

When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.

“I’m doing it,” you say.

“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”

Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”

“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”

You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”

“I—yes! I know more than—”

“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”

Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”

Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.

Push, pull, counter, strike.

You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.

The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.

“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.

You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”

With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.

You grin. “Got it.”

Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.

“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.

He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.

His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.

You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.

“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.

“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”

Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”

“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”

His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”

He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”

To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.

It’s…silent.

Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.

He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.

You know exactly what that is.

The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.

Sex pollen.

You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.

“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.

But it’s too late.

Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.

Shit.

“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”

The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.

One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.

You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.

“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.

Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”

“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”

The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.

“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.

You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.

Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.

“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”

“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”

“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.

Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.

“Sex?” he sneers.

“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”

“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”

“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.

“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”

Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.

You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”

“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.

“It’s…what?”

You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.

Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.

That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

Unless you give in.

Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.

You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.

There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.

Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.

There’s only one answer. You have to escape.

Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.

Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.

It only takes a second to form a plan.

Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.

But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.

Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.

“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”

“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.

You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.

You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?

You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.

“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”

“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.

“Trust me, Malfoy.”

That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.

“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”

Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.

“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”

“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.

Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.

He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”

“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”

You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”

He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”

His eyes narrow. “Your point?”

“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”

Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.

Stupid fucking pollen.

You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”

A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.

“Fine,” he agrees.

That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.

It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.

A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.

It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.

And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…

No other reason. Right?

You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.

You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—

Your lips meet his.

Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.

He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.

At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.

Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.

You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.

Merlin, he’s gorgeous.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.

You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.

It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.

His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.

You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.

“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”

And you’re back to square one.

“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”

“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”

Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.

Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.

But none of it did a thing.

Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.

You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.

Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.

Bastard.

His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.

No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.

Shit.

Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—

“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not thinking anything—”

“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”

Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”

Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.

“Is that right?”

His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.

Not that you would ever tell him, of course.

“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours.  “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”

You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”

He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”

Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.

It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you do.

Badly.

You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.

Snap out of it.

“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.

Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”

But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.

You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”

“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”

You try to stay quiet. You really do.

But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.

Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.

Not that you’ve been watching.

“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”

Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.

“No.”

“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”

You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.

“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”

You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.

You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.

The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.

You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.

He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.

His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.

Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.

After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.

The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.

You need water. No—not water.

You need him.

It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.

“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.

Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.

“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.

You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”

“Well, think harder.”

You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”

His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.

In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.

When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…

Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.

Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.

You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.

But that feels impossible.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.

Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—

“Nineteen.”

Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.

You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting  and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.

“Tell me,” he says firmly.

You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.

“W-what?” you rasp.

“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”

Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.

You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.

Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.

But he must see it.

Because, he just says, “Fuck.”

His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.

Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.

But right now—he’s not walking.

He’s crawling.

Towards you.

“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.

Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.

The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.

Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.

In fact, it is.

Frightening.

“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.

He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.

“Say it again.”

You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.

Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—

It scares you how much.

But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.

“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”

“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in.  “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”

The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.

The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.

But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.

Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.

You frown. “Dra—what?”

He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall.  “Don’t come closer.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.

Breed.

Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”

Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?

Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—

You can’t even finish that thought.

You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.

“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?

This situation is probably his worst nightmare.

Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.

You can only imagine what you look like.

Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.

He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”

He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.

Carefully, you settle into his lap.

He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure. 

You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.

“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”

“What? So smart?”

“You wish.”

The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.

You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning. 

You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.

“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.

Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.

You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.

You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.

This is your rival.

For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.

And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.

His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing. 

The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.

You nod frantically, clenching around him.

In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.

He’s not fairing much better.

He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.

Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.

You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.

Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”

You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.

“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”

That does it.

Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.

Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”

“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”

He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.

The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.

Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.

You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.

“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”

He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.

You don’t let him finish.

You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you.  But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.

So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.

“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”

You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.

“Say it again.”

dividers by @/bbyg4rlhelps | draco masterlist

taglist: @m00cow2000, @annonymoose, @poopoocacapepr, @witheringwidgetwrites, @stressedoutsteph,

@skankhvnt42, @afterhoursangell, @madimcg14, @virocci, @sprinkles260, @vroomvroom0481

mommy kink mentioned once.

"If you keep squirming like that, people are going to figure it out..."

Han doesn’t look up from his phone. Instead, he bites his lower lip harder, frowning with concentration as he shuffles in his seat. Wriggling around like he just can’t get comfortable.

Well, of course he can’t get comfortable. 

Not with that vibe inside him, currently buzzing along at the lowest setting, despite the way you keep turning it up. That’s the reason his eyes are fixed on his phone–so that every time you swipe up to increase the speed, he swipes down again to lower it. 

He never turns it off though.

You can't help but tease your poor boyfriend, leaning your head on his shoulder and looking up at him adoringly. Smiling sweetly like you didn’t just turn up the vibrations up by a sneaky two degrees.

It wasn’t your idea to stick the vibe up his ass before going out, but goddamn if you’re not going to have fun with it. And besides, he can always switch it off if it gets too much. You both have the control app on your phones.

But your little quokka boyfriend is as stubborn as he is cute. And then twice as kinky. 

So instead of giving in, he sucks on his lower lip, flinching slightly when you turn the vibrations up again. And this time, because he is very brave, he doesn’t turn them down again. Instead he switches to Bubble, reading through the messages of his fans, some more rabid than others.

Something flares in your chest, something ugly and possessive. Something that narrows its eyes and sharpens its claws, a feral beast that’s been insulted.

He got you to put a vibe in his ass, and now he’s chatting to fans like it’s just a regular Tuesday? The audacity. 

Is he just trying to distract himself, or this a weird kink thing he hasn’t told you about? If it is a kink, where does it land on the moral scale? Fans can’t consent to it if they don’t know what is happening… but glancing down and reading some of the messages over his shoulder, you’re pretty sure they would not be opposed.

You have half a mind to switch the vibe off, to make a statement tinged with spite. But then you have a better idea. So you get up abruptly and walk away, looking every inch the sulking girlfriend as you go and stand with Seungmin instead, grabbing a juicebox and ripping the straw from its packaging.

You can feel Han’s eyes on you, and you know exactly what they’ll look like: all round and glossy under furrowed brows, cute and confused. Full boba eyed puppy mode engaged. But you’re putting your attention on a different puppy instead. 

Seungmin narrows his eyes as you lean against the wall next to him, his eyes flicking from you to Han and back again.

“Did your boyfriend’s anime knees offend you or something?”

Glancing over you can confirm he is in full anime knees mode. But that probably has something to do with the fact that you removed his app access and turned the vibe up by a third. If the way his hand is over his crotch is anything to go by, he’s losing the battle with his erection. Good.

“What are you doing, making him watch porn or something? Some kind of kinky power move? I know you guys are freaky like that.” 

Apparently Seungmin can see thoughts, or at least the lightbulb switching on above your head, because he sighs like you just broke a family heirloom–disappointed, but not surprised. “Actually, don’t tell me.”

You grin, sacchine sweet and oh so innocent (Seungmin immediately sees through it, rolling his eyes and putting his earbuds in, muttering something about not consenting to this tomfoolery) as you go through the reels on your phone, searching for the perfect video.

You glance up and meet Han’s eyes, all watery now with confused sexual frustration. Paired with his pretty princess pout, it’s a deadly combination. Or it would be, if you didn’t already have a plan. You text him.

You gonna be a good boy?

Han texts back immediately.

Yes, mommy.

Damn if that doesn’t make you tingle.

Good. Watch this. 

You send the video, and keep your eyes fixed on Han as he waits for it to load. 

You can tell when it starts from the way his eyebrows shoot up and pinch together. The way his anime knees clench. And the tiny little moan that everyone in the room hears. But before Han can register the amount of side eye he’s receiving, you enact phase two of your plan.

You turn up the vibrations. All. The. Way.

Fuck the moan. This time, Han squeaks. And shudders. And blushes bright red, looking down at his crotch in shock. Like his dick started reciting Latin or something.

Seungmin turns to you with an expression that’s half disgust, and half impressed.

“Did you just make your boyfriend cum from halfway across the room?”

You smile, unable to keep the wickedness out of your grin as you glance over at Han, who is still staring at his crotch like it betrayed him. You switch of the vibe, earning you another boba eyed gasp from him and an audible eye roll from Seungmin.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Seungmin follows your gaze, blinks once, and shakes his head like a dog with a bee in its ear.

“Good point. Absolutely not.”

He gives himself another shake, as if he can make himself unsee Han cumming in his pants, before sighing dramatically. 

“Go rescue him before Chan does. Unless you want to explain the situation to him too.”

The tiny demon part of your brain is screaming YES YES TELL CHAN ABOUT THE VIBE! Luckily for Han, the rest of you is already halfway back to him, shrugging Han’s oversized jacket off your shoulders and slipping it over his lap as you discreetly grab some wet wipes from your bag.

You press a kiss to his flushed cheek as Chan walks over, one suspicious-and-wary eyebrow raised.

“Is Han okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Ah yes, the post orgasm word fumbling. One of Han’s cutest traits. Luckily he has such a caring girlfriend to look after him. You lean your head on Han’s shoulder and wrap a comforting arm around his waist, your face the picture of innocence as you look at his leader.

“All good. We’re just vibin’.”

everybody go thank 💅 anon for putting this in my head. also, I appear to have developed a skz!gf vs bubble vendetta. first Chan, now Han... maybe it's a fluke, maybe it'll happen again. who knows 💁‍♀️ 800 event is still ongoing, I'm just really slow at writing and got suddenly insecure about it, so for now every time my brain has a thought I can make into a li'l something I try write it out immediately. also this month I'm taking part in @breakmeoff's kinktober event, so I'll have a couple of things coming out for that. if you're stil reading my babbling at this point, I love you! thank you for taking the time to read my silly thoughts :)

Taglist: @sthaay @bluesungology @chrizzztopherbang @avnche @kemkem33 @mikaelless @n-kiie @eevenus @mrsha-ang-kim @sheerfreesia007 @aasthamoon @amazinglystay @delulustardust @galaxy4489 @lil-bear08 @abby-loves-aphrodite @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @minhooofr @auroramirage @breakmeoff @beppybeesnuggets @skzlover24 @hansxcheesecake @velvetmoonlght @aliceskzfan @tsunderelino @leehyejoon1 @writteninessence @littlepotaaatosimp @omghidokyeom @thequeenofdramaqueens

The heat hit different at night.

June wasn’t supposed to feel like this — like breathing through cotton, like walking through syrup. It clung to Jeongin’s skin, glued the fabric of his hoodie to the slope of his back. The air outside wasn’t much better, even though it was half-past nine and the sky had already dipped into its navy black.

The streetlights glowed like sickly moons above the cobbled path that led back to his building. Their reflections shimmered in puddles left by some late-afternoon storm, still warm enough to steam.

A mosquito buzzed past his ear.

He flinched, half-heartedly swatting it away, one earbud dislodging. His phone dangled from the cord tucked into his pocket, playing some playlist he’d put on shuffle just to drown things out. Drill-heavy bass and synth distortion. Not even music anymore. Just white noise with a beat.

His body ached.

His thighs felt like taut wires. Ankles swollen. His neck cracked every time he rolled it. He’d taken two painkillers after rehearsal, but they hadn’t done shit. His brain still buzzed with the tempo of today’s dance routine. Four hours in the practice room and he could still feel the mirrored walls watching him, like they expected more.

Comeback season was hell. It always had been. But this one? This one was worse.

Fan expectations, choreo revisions, back-to-back filming and live promotions. Their label didn’t believe in slowing down. And Jeongin? He didn’t believe in stopping. Not even when it felt like his lungs were folding in on themselves.

He just needed to make it home.

His apartment was a few blocks from the dorms. Management knew he needed his own space sometimes, and tonight — after rehearsals, after the screaming match over harmonies, after the latest toxic DM from a “fan” telling him to smile less — tonight, he’d taken it.

When the elevator doors finally opened to his floor, Jeongin didn’t breathe. Not until he shut the door behind him, keys rattling, breath hitching in his throat.

His apartment was small. Clean enough. Dimly lit. Silent.

He dropped his bag on the floor with a dull thunk, kicked off his shoes, and peeled the hoodie off his body like second skin. His undershirt was damp with sweat. He could smell himself — deodorant and heat and the faintest trace of cologne.

He stood in the dark for a moment, listening.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It felt like pressure behind his eyes. Like a scream he was holding in his jaw. His limbs wouldn’t stop buzzing — not from adrenaline, but from the absence of it.

He needed to come down.

He needed something to pull him out.

His phone buzzed. A few Discord notifications from friends he hadn’t seen in weeks. A message from Chan hyung — a check-in he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

He let the phone fall onto his bed, screen up. The light cast shadows across his room — soft, blue, clinical.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

Then he layed back.

His hand found the phone again.

And without thinking — truly, without even a plan — he opened the app. Not Instagram. Not Twitter. Not anything anyone would expect.

The icon was simple. A pastel pink heart inside a dark square.

Sugary.

A cam site. One of the sleek, newer ones. He’d only ever browsed once or twice — curiosity, boredom, too much time in hotel rooms between shows. It wasn’t like porn. It was closer. Less pixelated, more real. People talked to each other. Names were said. Faces were visible. You could pretend, for just a second, that it was for you.

The home screen loaded.

Dozens of thumbnails. All live. Some neon-lit, some blurred. Some with girls squatting in latex. Some with couples. A few dudes.

Then — his thumb stopped.

Username: Hearts.for.y/n

LIVE NOW

The thumbnail was a softly lit room, golden fairy lights curling behind a silk curtain. A girl sitting on a plush velvet chair. Dark hair falling over one shoulder. Skin lit like candlelight. Black and purple lingerie — delicate, almost too pretty to be real.

She looked directly into the camera.

Jeongin hesitated.

Her face wasn’t the kind he usually stared at in passing. She didn’t pout or pose. She looked… calm. Soft. But with this confidence — like she knew she was being watched and liked it. Like it wasn’t performance — it was control.

He tapped the screen.

It opened.

And suddenly, her voice filled his room.

The stream buffered for half a second. Just a flicker.

Then her room bloomed into his screen.

Low lighting. Golden fairy lights wrapped along the back of her headboard. The camera was angled slightly from below, centered on her knees — bent loosely, parted just enough to hint, not show.

She sat with her legs folded beneath her in a high-backed chair. Her lingerie looked even more delicate up close. Black lace with sheer purple accents, scalloped just under her breasts, tied at the front with a small satin bow. Her skin caught the light like honey. Smooth. Bare. She wore no jewelry except for a thin chain around her neck that disappeared into the dip between her collarbones.

And her face—fuck.

She wasn’t smiling. Not yet. Just gazing into the lens like it was someone’s eyes. Like she was waiting for a response.

Then she spoke.

“Hey, babies” she murmured.

Jeongin’s breath caught.

Her voice was like velvet over glass. Soft, smooth, but with a quiet tension, like she was holding something back. She licked her lips slowly, eyes flicking between chat messages popping up in the corner.

“Oh, you guys showed up early tonight,” she said with a small smirk. “And needy, as always.”

Someone in the chat sent a rose emoji. Another user dropped a comment: God, I missed you.

Jeongin watched the chat speed up. It was fast, but not so fast that she couldn’t keep up.

And then — without warning — she reached for something off-camera.

A bottle of oil.

She poured a slow stream onto her hands. It glistened as it dripped between her fingers. Then she leaned forward and pressed her palms to her thighs — dragging them upward, spreading the oil in slick circles as she exhaled into the mic.

“I want you to watch every second of this,” she said. “Don’t look away.”

Jeongin’s breath hitched again.

His hand moved instinctively to the waistband of his sweatpants.

He shouldn’t. He knew that. It felt a little too personal. Too close. But his cock was already hardening — straining, twitching, reacting to nothing more than her tone, her touch, the way her fingers moved in slow, teasing loops around her inner thighs.

She hadn’t even taken anything off yet.

This wasn’t some rapid-fire porn loop. She was dragging it out. And fuck — she was good at it.

“I had a long day,” she whispered. “Thought about this all through dinner. Couldn’t stop. Kept picturing how hot it gets in here when I make you beg.”

A small whimper left her mouth as she trailed her oiled hand between her legs — over the lace, not under. Teasing.

Her breath faltered, just slightly. Real.

That sound went straight to Jeongin’s dick.

He shoved his sweatpants down, boxers too, and hissed softly as his cock slapped against his stomach — flushed, leaking, desperate. He grabbed it with one hand and started stroking, slow and tight at the base.

She hadn’t touched herself properly yet — and he was already half gone.

“You’re watching, right?” she asked the camera. “You better be watching.”

He was.

He didn’t blink.

She slid two fingers down the seam of her panties. Pressed. Gasped. Her other hand cupped her breast through the mesh — thumb rubbing slow circles over her nipple until it stiffened visibly through the fabric.

“God, I’m so wet already,” she whispered. “Should I take it off?”

The chat exploded.

She laughed — not a giggle. A low, rich laugh, like she knew exactly what power she held.

Jeongin’s hand sped up slightly, his hips twitching upward. He bit his lip hard.

She rose to her knees, her chest heaving. Then — she pulled the bow loose at her sternum.

The top peeled open like a gift. Her tits fell free — soft, flushed, nipples tight. She didn’t cover them. Just ran her slick hands over the curves, lifting them, pressing them together, fingers pinching her nipples until she moaned into the mic again.

Jeongin was close. Too close. He squeezed tighter, groaning under his breath, hips stuttering up into his fist.

She looked into the camera and said — almost gently:

“Touch yourself for me. Like you mean it. Like you need this more than anything.”

His stomach tightened.

He came.

Hard.

The orgasm ripped through him, his toes curling, body shaking, cum striping across his bare stomach as his mouth fell open in a silent curse.

On screen, she kept going — but slower now. Softer. Her body glistening, hair tousled, her breath shallow and satisfied.

“I’ll stay for a little longer,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “Just for you.”

His body was still twitching.

A few seconds passed before his brain caught up to what had just happened. Before the room settled back into stillness, and he realized — in the aftermath of it all — he was still gripping his cock, now soft and wet in his hand, a ribbon of cum cooling on his stomach.

Jeongin exhaled.

Not in relief.

In confusion.

He let go of himself, arm dropping beside him like a dead weight. His breath was still heavy, uneven. The room felt hotter now, though the AC had kicked on somewhere in the background. He could hear it humming faintly, battling against the summer night that pressed like a second skin against the windows.

On-screen, Hearts.for.y/n was still speaking.

But softer now. Slower. She’d pulled her top back up loosely, the bow hanging undone, hair falling over one shoulder. Her voice had shifted into something quieter — not sultry, not performative — more like she was confiding something.

“I always feel warm after,” she said. “Like the room holds onto the heat. You know what I mean?”

Jeongin stared at her face.

Not her chest. Not her thighs. Her eyes.

They weren’t pretending anymore.

He reached for the tissues on the side table, wiping himself down in a practiced motion. Muscle memory. Not proud. Not ashamed either. Just numb. But this wasn’t like the other times. Porn didn’t leave you with a heartbeat like this. Porn didn’t leave a voice crawling inside your chest long after the body cooled.

She leaned forward to end the stream.

“I’ll be live again tomorrow,” she said. “Midnight. Same place.”

Then — she looked right into the lens, and smiled.

Not sexy. Not coy. Genuine.

“Sleep well, baby.”

The stream ended.

His screen returned to the Sugary homepage. A dozen other girls loaded into the slots beneath where her stream had been, but none of them even touched the part of his brain that was still on fire. That voice. That smile.

That strange, stupid illusion that she’d been speaking to him.

Jeongin wiped his hands on his sweatpants and tossed them into the laundry basket. He rolled over, stared up at the ceiling. The fan above him spun lazily, doing nothing.

He knew what this was. Camgirls made you feel seen. That was the trick. Nothing magical. Just attention, well-disguised.

It wasn’t personal.

But he couldn’t shake it. That feeling — the one in his chest that wasn’t just sex. The one that crawled through his ribs and settled like guilt.

He wasn’t lonely, not really. He had friends. Members. Hyungs. A fandom. Millions of people who watched his every move. What he ate. What he wore. How he breathed.

But tonight, in the silence of his apartment, it wasn’t his schedule or his fans or even his exhaustion that haunted him.

It was her.

The screen.

The way she spoke like she meant it.

Jeongin sat up again, eyes catching on the tab still open at the top of his browser.

He hovered over it. Closed it.

Paused.

Opened a new one.

Typed her name into the Sugary search bar: hearts.for.y/n

Her profile loaded. Basic info. Bio: “Soft things for hard nights.”

He didn’t follow her.

But he read the stream schedule.

Tomorrow — 12:00 AM — “Slow Burn.”

He stared at the words for a long time.

Told himself he wouldn’t be there.

Told himself this was a one-time thing.

——

Jeongin lasted until 11:52 PM.

He told himself he wasn’t going to watch. That last night was a fluke. A moment of weakness. He hadn’t gotten off properly in days. He was tired, sweaty, stressed. He’d needed release.

But it wasn’t about getting off. Not really. Not anymore.

It was the way she’d said goodnight. The way her fingers had touched her skin like she liked it. Like she knew what it did to him. Not the performance — but the control.

And tonight, he was already in bed, laptop propped on his thighs, browser open to Sugary’s home screen before the clock hit midnight.

He wasn’t proud of it.

He was wired.

The lights were off. AC running. A single desk lamp cast a warm circle behind him — not for reading. Just in case his face reflected on the screen.

12:00 AM sharp.

Her icon went live.

hearts.for.y/n — LIVE NOW: “Slow Burn.”

He clicked.

This time, she was sitting in front of a mirror.

Her room looked the same — fairy lights, silk curtains, everything soft — but the angle was new. The camera showed her back now, her reflection in the glass. She sat on the edge of a low bed, knees pulled up, her silk robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of her thigh.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You’re back.”

Jeongin stiffened.

It was irrational — she couldn’t see him — but her voice still hit like a pinpoint to the chest.

She turned toward the lens.

“I figured you would be,” she smiled, barely. “You were quiet last night, though. No comments. Just watching.”

His heart dropped.

That couldn’t be about him. She had hundreds of viewers. Thousands sometimes.

Coincidence.

Right?

She uncrossed her legs and reached for her phone.

“I got a few anonymous messages today,” she said, scrolling. “A lot of them were sweet. A few were filthy. And one was… different.”

She tapped a few times. Looked up again.

Jeongin’s hands curled into fists under the sheets.

She started reading:

“I watched you last night. Not just to jerk off. I needed something quieter than my own head. I don’t even think I came for you. I think I came because you made the noise stop.”

Jeongin forgot how to breathe.

That had been his message. Sent anonymously. Half on impulse, half confession. He’d typed it after lying in the dark for twenty minutes, staring at the words “Soft things for hard nights.”

She licked her lips.

Her eyes shimmered, even through the screen.

“I read this one a few times today,” she said softly. “More than a few.”

Jeongin’s throat closed.

She looked down again. Her fingers played idly with the tie of her robe.

“You said I made the noise stop,” she whispered. “That’s… kind of beautiful, baby.”

The robe slipped from her shoulder, exposing the smooth slope of skin, the dip of her collarbone.

“I want to do that again tonight,” she continued. “Not just make you come. I want to make you quiet.”

Jeongin’s hand was already under the sheets.

She looked directly into the camera.

“Tell me you’re here,” she whispered.

He didn’t type.

He didn’t have to.