nsfw: mdni

“Let the poor boy rest, Miss L/N,” Madam Kang approaches with a tray of vials, each steaming a different neon colour. “He’s been asleep for an entire day, it’ll be a while before he can regain strength.”

The matron places it on the side-table, pushing his precious Thunderbolt VII out of the way, letting the broomstick fall to the floor ungracefully. Jaehyun feels the urge to protest, or at least reach for it—but the matron is already fussing over his injuries, tipping a healing potion into his mouth and patting him back onto the sheets, propping his casted leg up on a pillow.

She narrows her eyes as she makes sure he drinks every one of the vials, making him gulp down the awful liquid in nervous obedience. It goes down more painfully than the sharp throb in his leg.

“Make sure he doesn’t wander off, this boy has a habit of ignoring medical advice,” she says to you before sauntering off towards the room adjacent to the hospital wing. 

Jaehyun sighs, watching her disappear behind the door. 

“You’re not dead.”

He cranes his neck to see you stare at him—arm in a sling, sitting upright on the bed opposite him. 

“...Yeah.”

“You broke your leg,” you say, voice pinched, “Might hurt while the Skele-Grow takes effect… “

“Oh,” Jaehyun purses his lips, eyes drawn to your injured arm. “What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“Your—” He tilts his jaw to point at your sling. “Your arm… is it hurt?”

He doesn’t realise the stupidity of his words immediately. Of course you’re hurt, why else would it be wrapped up and slung around your neck. Jaehyun expects you to blow up in his face, to call him an idiot and march off to the furthest bed you could. 

But you don’t.

Instead, you just say, “Nothing too bad, should be fine soon enough.” 

He’s never been this awkward around you. To say the atmosphere was civil would be the understatement of the century; instead, it’s tense in a way different from your in-game rivalry. 

The sound of the clock ticking by feels like his insides being wrung like a towel; the lights feel too bright, his leg feels too heavy, and his breaths way too loud. Every time he glances sideways, you’re either twiddling with your uninjured hand like you don’t know what to do with it, or you’re staring longingly out the window.

Jaehyun feels it too—the itch to get back to practice. 

At first, it’s a couple of hours. Then, a whole night—you toss and turn, grumbling in your sleep like you were having nightmares. He’s no better, staring straight up at the ceiling as though it could swallow him whole.

He even ponders jumping out the window on his broom and heading straight for Quidditch pitch.

There’s not much to look at other than four white walls, an unremarkable wooden door, and a couple holiday decorations that seems to have been magicked into places: a festive wreath in front of Madam Kang’s quarters, a little christmas tree hung with painted pinecones and shiny baubles, and streams of tinsel strewn here and there. 

Neither of you converse unless it’s to remind each other to take your healing potions, or sometimes when he needs help with sitting up against the bed. There are no visitors other than the matron’s occasional inspections—just Jaehyun, you, and the soft snowfall out through the frosty windowpanes. 

“How much longer did she say?” he whispers out on one chilly evening, head squished against a fluffy white pillow. 

You barely spare him a glance, trying to flip the page of your book over your tucked-in knees. “A week at least. You broke a lot in there.” You gesture vaguely at his body.

“Right,” Jaehyun grumbles. “I’m gonna lose so much muscle mass after this.”

You scoff on instinct. “Not like you had any to begin with.” 

It doesn’t mean to come out as an insult, not after days of uncomfortable silence. 

But surprisingly, something inside of Jaehyun settles in relief at the familiarity. “You say that and then gawk at my legs during a game. No wonder you don’t hit straight.”

The response is immediate—your eyes flash open, lips curling downward into an angry frown, hands gripping at your worn out copy of Quidditch Through the Ages as though you were about to swing it at his face. 

Jaehyun can’t help but smile at how less intimidating you look when you’re not thirty feet up in the air and sporting all four working limbs. Like a baby bird attempting to peck but without any real aggression. 

“You wouldn’t waste your precious book on me of all people.” He quips knowingly, managing to sound cocky even with a pathetic cast on his leg. 

And he’s right on the nose; you narrow your eyes, click your tongue in disapproval, and then lower your book back to your lap. 

It’s the first taste of normalcy he’s had in days.

Jaehyun sleeps with ease that night, quietly admitting to himself that maybe, being stuck with you in the hospital wing during the holidays wasn't the worst thing to happen to him after all. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

“Hold still,” you reprimand unintelligibly, leaning over his cast to slide the marker across it, the cap hanging between your teeth. 

“I can’t even move, dude,” Jaehyun sighs, watching the way you doodle a wonky lion on him, adding tiny horns and a moustache for flair. “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to see…” He grimaces. “—and I’ve seen you on your bad days.”

You sneer at him, looking every bit as comical as he hopes you do when he makes you mad on purpose. 

“You’re not exactly Picasso to be talking a big game,” You spit the cap out and lift your sling—decorated with tweety birds, and a very elaborate, structurally accurate diagram of a Firebolt. “Can’t believe we’re stuck here during Christmas, drawing on each other’s broken limbs.”

“Did you have other plans?” He raises a brow.

“Quidditch, duh,” you state the obvious, watching him nod in agreement. “Match is in two months and I’m not even allowed to use a bat yet.”

“Well,” Jaehyun motions for you to pass the marker to him and scooch closer. “It could be worse. We could have been muggles and have had to get our bones mended their way—and that could take ages.”

“What do you know about muggle medicine?”

“More than you,” He starts to draw stars and snowflakes onto the fabric over your arm. “My mom’s a doctor—a muggle healer. I used to break my bones all the time.”

“...Doing what? Crawling?”

“Playing,” he corrects with a roll of his eye, tongue peeking out as he concentrates on his doodles. “She says I could never sit still as a kid. So she put me into every sport out there—little league baseball, football, archery—”

“They gave you a bow and arrow?”

“I quit after a week because I accidentally pricked my instructor with it.”

“Ah, that’s more like the Myung Jaehyun I know.” You snicker. 

The room has started to smell less like polyester and detergent, and more like Christmas. There’re two cups of cocoa on the side-table—courtesy of Madam Kang—balanced atop a mountain of Quidditch guides and biographies. The tinsel on the tree has multiplied somehow; there’s snow capping the windowsills, wrens and doves making the occasional visit. 

You miss playing Quidditch. But to make up for it, you’ve resorted to transferring your personal library to the hospital wing, the stack of books building by the day. 

At some point, Jaehyun lets out a bored sigh, and you non-verbally pass him a copy of Flying with the Cannons, if only to shut him up. 

“How did you know I’m going to join the Chudley Cannons!?” His face lights up like the tree in the corner of the room. “Don’t tell me you’re a prophet…?”

“Myung…you and I both almost failed Divination in our fifth year.”

“Oh, yeah.” He grins wistfully at the memory. “Honestly, I thought she failed us because you kept attacking me with your teacup.”

“Like you didn’t keep predicting my imminent doom on your crystal ball.” You squint at your book, confused at a particular sentence. “What does this mean—’bristles aid wind direction; the more streamlined the better’ ?”

“Hmm…think of it like birds’ feathers—” Jaehyun lays his own book flat on his chest, bookmarking his page. “—they basically smoothen the path of wind. The more lightweight, the better for flight. Seekers need to maneuver a lot, so we’d avoid heavier woods, like oak.”

“Oh… Beaters prefer the heavier kind. But it sucks when you have to speed after targets.”

“Your speed is fine,” he offers without a hint of deceit, “It’s the hesitance you need to focus on. You do this thing where you just…stop.”

Your brows knit together. “Huh?” 

“It’s like you’re trying to recollect what you’ve read…I can see it in your eye before you swing your bat—you waste so much time on thinking.”

“...” You feel like you’ve been peeled open and cut into two perfect cross-sections. “I don’t—” 

The rest never make it past your lips; you know you’d be lying if it did. 

“You worry too much too,” he continues, “makes you lose momentum. And, you don’t get to show off how skilled of a player you actually are.”

The compliment is thrown so casually as though he is merely commenting on the weather. Not like it’s a monumental milestone in your, mostly sour, age-old relationship.

“...Thanks,” you finally say, still a bit dubious. “You’re…uh… You fly well, I guess.”

Jaehyun snorts at your poor attempt at praise. “Thanks? That’s nice of you… I guess.”

“You don’t think enough up in the air or on the ground,” you huff, “but your muscle memory is impeccable. I can tell you to work hard at it.”

This time, he smiles, meaning it. 

When you let yourself sink into the comfort of simply being next to him— without the biting remarks or scalding anger to burn you—you find that it’s not as strange as you’d imagine it to be.

“Hey,” Jaehyun whispers, eyes tracking the blinking Christmas lights in the distance, the smile still etched onto his lips—as though he’s dipping his toes into uncharted waters. 

You turn your head, sneaking a peak at his face. He’s quiet, eyes soft around the corners, gaze unfocussed. 

“You know…” he begins teasingly, “you don’t need to stay. I heard the matron saying she dismissed you last week.”

Your stomach does a swoop—fluttering, squeezing around itself like you just ate something bad. You feel sick.

“I… She—” A gulp travels down your dry throat. “...I just needed to make sure I’m fully recovered.”

Jaehyun turns his head, lips stretching.

“Did I make you cry when I was knocked out?” He tosses you a lopsided grin, tilting his head playfully. “You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You suck in a sharp breath, heart squeezing in a way you didn’t think hearts could. Jaehyun has that glint in his eyes—not unlike the one he wore when he quipped between practices, or circled around you like a menacing cat. But there’s something else there too…

A curiosity. 

“I—” You clear your throat, sinking deeper into your scarf in a foolish attempt to tame the heat on your cheeks. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Not what I asked.” He smiles, softer this time. “I heard you, you know—saying my name.”

Your cheeks are now scalding hot to the touch, every inch of you aflame in mortification. 

It had been a mistake. You weren’t thinking… You certainly weren’t worried about the loser. Why would you be? He’s brash, he has horrible manners, he teases you, he embarrasses you, he… 

He did save you.

Before you can come up with a justification to why you didn’t outright hate him for a split second while he was out like a light, Jaehyun is already changing the topic, complaining about the annotations you’ve filled into the book in his hand. “Such a nerd,” he murmurs, but still keeps reading—an annoying smirk plastered onto his face. 

You groan. But in the private crevices of your mind, you can admit the relief you feel when he doesn’t bring up the subject again. 

“Why is your common room so far away, ugh,” you grunt, testing out your newly healed arm with a roll of the bones.  

“Sweetheart, if you stopped complaining for one second, we’d already be here.” 

Jaehyun has a slight limp to his steps, but Madam Kang had reluctantly let him leave the hospital wing—after several shameless bats of his lashes, and a long speech you’d prepared, listing all the reasons why the white walls would only slow down his recovery and how much more infuriating he had been getting in bed confinement. 

After all, it was Christmas eve tonight.   

“This is ridiculous,” you say as you follow after him, stepping through the hole behind the painting on the wall. 

He snickers at your whining, and stops abruptly so that he purposely makes you bump your head right into his back. 

“God, you are so—”

“Charming?” He swivels around.

“—Pesky.” You poke his forehead to push him out of the way. “Why did you even bring me to his hellhole?”

“Because it’s almost Christmas, and also because you haven’t let me show you my blueprints in exchange for me listening to you go on and on and on about the history of Quidd—”

“Shut it.” 

The first thing you smell when you move forward is the fire—inviting and gentle on your nose. The first thing you see is red; it almost sends you into a panic-induced coma. 

But your eyes adjust to the red in increments, slowly turning less aggressive in your mind.  

And you can acknowledge one thing: Gryffindor tower is the right opposite of yours; almost everything is gold or crimson, rustic in a way it makes you feel warm all over. Cosy. 

Jaehyun wastes no time before he flops onto the couch, stretching as though he was making a snow angel against the fabric. 

The place looks lived-in—evidence of friendship and family stretching from wall to wall: half finished board games, party hats strewn under the table, a festive poster someone has stuck to the bulletin. There’s a tree beside the window, glittering in reds and yellows—snowflakes spiralling down outside.

You linger at the scarlet tapestries on the wall, the lion motifs adorning the sides—then you trace your hands over the bookcase in reverent awe. 

It’s…beautiful.

Of course, you’d be lying to say it isn’t. It’s not home to you—not like the Ravenclaw common room—but you can imagine Jaehyun growing up here, spending his days lazing around and surrounded by his friends. There’s love lingering in every corner.  

“Come here,” Jaehyun waves you over, having planted himself on the carpet near the coffee table at some point along your assessment of the room. “This is a Nimbus 1000; you’re already familiar with it—” He smoothes out a large glossy blue diagram, with chalk and scales overlaying it. 

Of course you were familiar; it was your first-ever broomstick your dad bought you.

You sit next to him, leaning over as he pushes it towards you. 

“See the handle and how it's curved over here—that’s to reduce air drag,” he points out, bringing your finger to the drawing. 

It’s slightly smudged, as though he had pressed his fist across it while sketching it down—or fallen asleep late into the night, cheeks against the paper. It’s a surprisingly fond image.

“And,” he continues, delving into the intricacies of broom aerodynamics. “see this—that’s to help with turning 360 degrees mid-flight. An old but reliable model.”

“Who knew you could read, Myung?” You quip, an insult too shallow to hurt. “So this is what you’re off doing instead of completing your Charms homework.”

“Says the girl who spends the class taking down Quidditch notes instead of practicing spells.”

“Thought you didn’t see me as a girl,” you wiggle your eyebrows, finding yourself relaxing a little. 

He pauses to look at you—then grunts away a response. 

For the first time in a very long time, you don’t worry. When he finishes showing you his collection of blueprints and miniature broom models, you settle into comfortable company; you read out loud your favourite passages from Quidditch Through the Ages as he works on another sketch—nodding along to your words with a question here and there.

Time quietly slips away; the world hangs its head as the hour hand walks its way to twelve. A cuckoo pops out to announce Christmas day.  

Jaehyun’s eyes are half open, head tossed back against the couch cushion. You’ve accidentally come to rest your side against his, fingertips a hair’s breadth away from his. 

“Y/N,” he murmurs, dazed.

You aren’t any better. “Hmm?”

“Merry… Merry Christmas." 

Maybe it registers in your mind, maybe it doesn’t. Nonetheless, a smile shows itself.

“Merry Christmas,” You don’t even hear your own voice, eyes drooping closed, “Jaehyun.”

Christmas arrives, and you aren’t alone for the night. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

Gryffindor common room - Christmas 

“When I said let’s get food—” you huff, teetering on your heels. “—I didn’t mean the entire kitchen, Myung.”

“God forbid a man likes pastry,” he pouts through a cheekful of tart, barely balancing a mountain of plates in his hand, almost dropping an entire bowl of mini candy canes onto the plush red carpet. 

“The man needs to stop talking while he eats,” you frown in disgust, swerving out of the way before he sprays crumbs onto you. 

Morning light spills through the open window. It’s chilly, but the roaring fire and woollen clothes keep you warm. There’s a light trill of birds over someone humming carols from the grounds below. 

You and Jaehyun spend the entire morning and afternoon digging into as many delicacies as you can, and as quickly as your tummy allows. Being athletes called for a strict control over overindulgence—or at least for those of you who actually kept to it.

But today is an exception—you get to stuff yourself to your heart’s content.

Cupcake wrappers litter the coffee table, pavlova cream smeared at plate edges. The jars of what used to contain eggnog sits empty. The fruit cake is demolished. 

Jaehyun lies spread-eagle on the floor, patting his belly.

You would chide him for being so ungraceful—had you not been in the exact same situation. 

“I regret everything, ugh. Why didn’t you stop me?” You can barely speak through the pain in your chest, eggnog swirling dangerously within your tummy. 

“I did try,” Jaehyun grumbles. “You told me to go take a swan-dive off the Astronomy tower.”

You don’t refute.

It’s another minute before a lightbulb sparks alive on the top of your head—and he seems to have the same idea. 

What better way to work out the kinks in your muscles, to let off steam and to truly enjoy Christmas to its maximum?

“Broomride?” you ask.

“Broomride.” he nods.

The sun is only beginning to descend—making the Great Lake shimmer at the surface. Jaehyun swoops above the water, grinning as the cold air nips at his skin, his red scarf whipping behind him as he speeds up.

You join him with the same enthusiasm, not hiding the smile that escapes you. Hogwarts feels so small from up here—nothing but one of Jaehyun’s miniature models, an ant among giants. It’s breathtaking. To fly after ages feels like having your first inhale of a breath after holding it in for so long. 

When you finally come back down to earth, feet skidding against the gravel, the rush of flight hasn’t worn off yet.

“This is where you pushed me off from,” Jaehyun leans over the pier, looking down into the bottomless blue, where merpeople and squids resided in their own pockets of life. 

“‘Push’ is a strong word,” you refute. “I prefer…‘gave you the nudge you needed.’”

“No wonder I choose to run before you can get me now,” he chuckles, skipping a stone over the gently cascading water. 

You follow suit, trying to outdo him, but come up two steps too short. “You don’t run when it matters though…that’s the important bit.”

Jaehyun remains silent; he knows you’re hovering over things you want to say—too afraid to acknowledge the elephant in the room, wary of breathing things into existence where they need not be. 

It must be the sunset softening your edges—because the words roll off your tongue as you watch the light bathe over the lake.

“You… saved me. You didn’t even think before you dived.”

Jaehyun’s eyes widen at your words.

Honestly, he never thought you’d mention it again. You aren’t the type to linger on guilt or pity—someone who worked through feelings with a book and a quill. And occasionally, a blackboard. He isn’t equipped to handle such a straightforward sentence out your mouth.

Jaehyun’s mouth is parted, words teetering between honesty and fear. 

“Seeker’s instinct,” he finally says. 

He’s not sure if he even believes it himself. There’s a truth there, but it’s not the entirety of it. 

For a Gryffindor, he was every bit a coward as you regarded him to be, Jaehyun thinks.

You, however, nod—taking what he’s willing to offer, not demanding anything more. 

Jaehyun wonders if you feel guilty for his broken leg. He nudges your shoulder with his own, keeping you rooted when you meet his eyes—with something more than just delicacy swimming underneath those brown flecks. 

“It’s not your fault. I was the one who jumped before thinking,” he says softly, a hint of self-blame dancing around his assurance. “Don’t worry that head of yours, alright?” For good measure, he gently flicks your temple, earning a shove into his ribs.

Before he can fall off into the water once again, in a perfect replication of the incident from three years ago—you pull him back onto solid ground by the neck of his sweater, letting him lean his weight against you, his still weak leg swaying.

“Thanks,” you say.

‘For saving me, for the anonymous tips,...for being here, for going into a food coma with me, for flying with me all day,’ goes unsaid, but the warmth in your gaze conveys it all. He doesn’t pull away; you don’t let him.

For the first time in years, you can admit you may enjoy Myung Jaehyun’s company.

It turns out to be one of the nicest Christmases you’ve ever had.

Great hall - first day of Spring Term

”Park Gunwook, stop eating the chocolate! That’s for Y/N!” Liz smacks the taller boy’s hands, making him drop a handful of bonbons back into the silver case. 

“Y/N-ie!!” She veers around him to throw herself against you—her own version of a hug. “I missed you!!”

“She did,” Gaeul appears behind her, grinning. “Wouldn’t shut up about it. My deaf Grandma had the worst three hours of her life trying to understand why she kept crying over home-made cookies.”

“The wonky one reminded me of Y/N,” Liz pouts, and you swing your hand back to punch her in the arm. 

But you’re interrupted by the barrage of the rest of the Ravenclaws flooding in through the main doors—Ricky, Leeseo, and Kazuha all mid-chatter and heading straight for you. You take turns hugging them, letting Kazuha ruffle your hair.

“Had a good holiday? Or should I ask—had a good Quidditch vacay?” She pinches your cheeks.

“You could say that,” you mumble, but don’t elaborate when she throws you a questioning look.

It’s a miracle that you’re saved from Liz’s nosy interrogation—thankfully, she’s too distracted by Gunwook now choking on what should have been your present. 

You watch them play around—returning to the welcoming dynamics of your friend-group—everyone settling comfortably back into the routine of awaiting classes, taking in the ceiling that was charmed to swirl snow onto the four long tables, watching as the other houses began to trickle in one after another. 

Then you wonder if one of those red scarves is Jaehyun’s. 

After Christmas, you had found a new sense of rhythm with him; more broomrides at night, a lot of discussions-turned-debates over flight moves and strategies… You even ended up showing him your most prized possession—your Quidditch notebook where you scratched down every fleeting thought and every observation you’ve ever made since the third year. 

In return, he’d practiced day and night with you—helping you act quicker without thinking too hard, reminding you not to strain your arm when you swung with too much force.

New year’s rolled around, and nothing changed for the worse. 

In fact, you even let yourself indulge in the gift-giving festivities: he now held onto your annotated copy of Flying with the Cannons—a note with his name and a haphazardly written ‘happy new year’ slipped into it.  And you… You were now the (not) proud owner of a miniature model of Tweety bird on a broomstick. 

“It’s a bird… Why the fuck does it need a broom?” You had asked, squinting at it in your palm.

Jaehyun had been undeterred, simply giggling when he’d said, “Can’t I be a little poetic, L/N?”

The memory is fond, feeling like an old story than from only a couple days ago. You’re trying to recollect your exact feeling of that moment when—

“Ah, stuffing your face as usual, I see,” Seok Matthew struts into view with a smirk, arms hidden in the depths of his trouser-pockets. 

Gunwook sneers around his chocolate, “Fuck you, Seok.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward.” The Gryffindor taunts, his smirk only growing.

“Jerk!” Gunwook squeezes his fists, flaring his nostrils in what is supposed to be intimidation.

It’s three seconds away from what could be anything between a food fight and a fist fight, when a steady hand pulls Matthew back before Gunwook can ambush him.  

“Hwan-” begins Kazuha, but she doesn’t finish when she realises that it isn’t the reliable vice captain that’s keeping them from decking each other. It’s—

“Myung,” you greet—softer than you should. 

“L/N,” he responds, likewise. 

“Y/N, let me at him,” Gunwook punches the air, trying to push past Kazuha. But you interject.

“Save that brawl for finals, we still need to get through one more match.” You say it casually, without dwelling on the meaning—but seven pairs of incredulous eyes whip around to stare at you. 

“What?” You blink at them. 

“...You’re…” Gunwook scrunches his brows together. “...stopping me from hitting him?”

You open your mouth, realise you have nothing fruitful to say—then close it at once. 

To make matters worse, Jaehyun doesn’t jump in at the convenient gap with one of his usual taunts. Instead, he’s looking past everyone, straight at you—with an expression that toes the line between tenderness, and like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“I—” You gulp. “We’ll only lose house points if you injure him,” you say, turning towards Gunwook. “And I want you in perfect condition so we can beat these idiots.”

It seems to do the job—albeit just barely; Gunwook brightens up with newfound vigour, throwing a condescending look at Matthew for good measure. Liz joins in with a smirk and a covert middle finger pulled out of her robe’s pocket. 

Jaehyun just…smiles. 

“Alright,” he says simply—no malice, no hidden undertones. 

His relaxed tone sends a shiver down everyone’s spine, including your own—Ricky prickling up like a frightened cat, Gunwook’s eyes going wide. 

But Jaehyun is already walking off to the Gryffindor table with his arm around Matthew, who also seems to be just as confused at his captain’s sudden change in personality. 

“Is he trying to scare us?!” Liz gasps, “What the actual fuck was that?”

“He’s just—” You grasp at the clay model inside your pocket—the bird on the broom. “—being infuriating again. Don’t mind it.”

Gunwook starts to refute, but you cut in before he can start digging your grave—

“We have a match to practice for, and we’re already behind compared to those Hufflepuffs. I better see a huge improvement in the next two months, or it's back to the drawing board.”

Everyone zips their lips at once, slowly deflecting back to conversations about homework and professors. 

While the chatter builds and you begin to leave for your first class of the day, something new gnaws at your brain—not just the usual buzz of caffeine and Quidditch jargon. 

Because now, you have another thorn in your side: the near-impossible task of keeping up appearances with your supposed enemy, Myung Jaehyun—who, you realise, you don’t seem to hate as much anymore. 

── 𓇢𓆸 

“I almost got that point,” Gyuvin complains, stopping in front of the Ravenclaw hoops.

”Not my fault you move like a snail,” Gaeul says simply, her nonchalance more cutting than any bite the rest of your team could manage.

It’s yet another joint practice—blue and red robes billowing in the damp January air, snowcapped towers and grounds existing beneath like the inside of a snow globe. 

You’re tracking the movements of your team, mentally jotting down any details you might want to record for later. Kazuha is flying parallel to Ricky, receiving the Quaffle from him, cutting past Hanbin’s tricky ambush to head for the Gryffindor base. 

She swings it into the central hoop, scoring another ten points.

At the next play, you aim your Bludger at Intak before he can do the same to Ricky, managing the strength to knock it into his torso and make him lose his grasp. The novelty of getting the six-foot player to concede fills your heart with satisfaction. 

As though on instinct, you look for him—and find that Jaehyun is looking back at you, sporting a smile that clearly meant he was proud of you for not hesitating. 

It becomes a routine—stolen glances, the accidental mid-air bumps that were less than unfriendly, the way he circles around you for absolutely no reason when he should be looking for the Snitch…

The routine, for lack of better words, carries into your daily lives.

Jaehyun quietly saves you a seat when you come in late for Charms—away from the prying eyes of your teams, private and safe. You talk—over a growing bundle of Quidditch books and blueprints, in the tucked-away corners of the lake where few wandered, over your carefully aligned trips to Professor Jeon’s office when he calls for the captains. Over nothing and everything. 

“I’m telling you, let your Beaters aim for the knee if it’s Park Sunghoon—he loses balance every single time,” You tap the page of your play plan. “And if it’s Taesan, well…”

“I swear he’s got a thing for our Gryffindor prefect, dude,” Jaehyun insists.

The two of you sit side by side on a makeshift seat over the rocks overlooking the Great Lake, a shared notebook between you.

You respond in similar fervour, “Wait seriously? …that explains all the… staring.”

“He’s always bothering her with his pranks, though. She probably hates his guts.”

“Can you blame her? Childish pigtail-pulling only gets you so far.” You shake your head, disappointed in general at the male species. “Ugh, men.”

“Yeah?” Jaehyun’s voice is teasing, but slightly soft. “What would you suggest then?”

“Hmm?”

“If not pigtail pulling—” He waits for you to look his way before he finishes. “What would you suggest works?”

Your heart speeds without warning.

He’s wearing that look again—a hint of a lingering smile, the brown flecks in his dark eyes evident under the backdrop of sunlight hitting the snow—unguarded—his heart right on his sleeve, waiting to slip off into your hands if you offer them to him…

“I—” You lose breath from just looking at him—him and his stupid, earnest eyes… ”So Hufflepuff, ahem!”

Jaehyun all but groans. 

However, he has the self-respect to right himself, brushing off the slight pinch to his ego, and giving way to your digression.

“Their Captain might look all sweet but that guy’s a monster. Keep on his heels when you’re up there,” Jaehyun offers.

“Hao? The guy that stank up the entire Great Hall because he had to just eat his durian out in the open?” 

“Same one. Wolf in a sheep’s clothing, I swear, their whole lot.”

“Rich coming from you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes for him to see.

He ignores it.

“Hao prefers his right side too much, it was so obvious from our last match,” Jaehyun takes the quill from you to add his own little note to the margins. “And I think he’s into our Chaser.”

“Hanbin? Oh yeah, saw it from a mile away. I knew they were giving each other eyes in your last match.”

“Knew you came to spy on us.” He grins, and you pull his cheeks down so it turns into a pained frown.

“I wasn’t spying.”

“Ogling, then.”

“Ew…who would I ogle at…you?”

“Awww, is my Y/N-ie shy?” He coos, lightly grazing the nib of the quill against your nose, leaving a tiny blue mark there. “You weren’t like this when we were in the Hospital Wing and you were all like, ‘Jae-Jaehyun!’” he says in mock sorrow—an embarrassing imitation of your voice.

“WELL, SORRY FOR THINKING YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN DEAD—” you huff, jumping off the rock and beginning to stomp away, but he drags you back to your spot by your wrist. 

“Okay, okay—truce!” He puts both arms up in surrender. “Back to tactics, c’mon.”

You still pout but let him coax you back into strategising. 

“Sakura sticks to a pattern—it’s always, begin on the left, zig-zag across, then she goes right,” you explain as you point at your notes, “You can basically predict her next move before she even starts.”

“That should make it easy then—she’s faster than me as a Seeker, so I have trouble when we need to dive for the Snitch sometimes.”

You offer him advice based on your experience from playing against Slytherin, and he in turn, does the same for your eventual match against Hufflepuff. 

In Charms, the two of you pass notes—little tidbits that you might have not remembered to tell each other the day before. Then he’s slipping scraps of paper into your robe as he passes by you across the Quidditch field—nimble and deft with his hands—you make sure to tell him that he’d make an excellent pickpocket if being an athlete doesn’t work out in the future. 

And then…he stops with the niceties altogether. 

“Good game, partner.” Jaehyun extends his hand out to you after one of your joint practice matches.

You hesitate before taking it, too self-conscious of whether people see. “Hm, yeah.” You avert your eyes.

But he shamelessly lingers on your palm, gently tugging it closer. The pulse under your wrists speeds up dangerously, heart thudding when you look up to see him move your hand closer to his lips—you gulp, thinking he might press a kiss to it—

Jaehyun winks, a smirk appearing before he softly returns your hand back to you.

You almost combust.

//

“What the fuck, Myung? You can’t just—”

“Just?”

“—Flirt in front of my team!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “They can’t know that we’re—”

“That we’re..?” Jaehyun’s eyebrows raise; he’s smiling—not a bit concerned about you stressing out. “That we’re what, Sweetheart?”

Your temple throbs again. It’s infuriating—how easily he drives you up the wall, how he knows the exact buttons to push to elicit the exact reactions from you—how he knows you inside out like his own mind. 

“Don’t call me that.” You pout, plopping down on the bleachers. “You flirt like it’s your life blood.”

“Only with you, I’ve already told you this,” He puts his cheeks in his palms, leaning in. “I can stop if you hate it.”

You don’t respond. 

You can’t… There’s no way to know if you truly do hate it. Your body seemed to react to his sweet-talking with the same alertness it reserved for an active threat situation—heart racing, adrenaline coursing… but you can’t even say some part of you hasn’t started to look forward to the symptoms now.

Instead of acknowledging his words, you end up asking— 

“Why do you keep helping me?” 

The thought has been weighing you down like a head on a pillow—steadily, maybe even comfortably. There are so many answers he could give you, each one just as tender. 

But what he says knocks the air out of your lungs, and perhaps your heart just falls out and gives itself to the boy in front of you… 

“Maybe I want to make sure my last match here will be with you.” Jaehyun’s voice is a whisper. 

Snow softly drifts—melting atop his inky locks—and then you actually look at him. 

He is no longer the same thirteen year old boy that flew circles around you, or taunted you with his natural talent. He’s older now, his features sharper, shoulders broader—more reliable. 

But his eyes…they’re still as soft, still playful like a kid’s.

You wonder if you just never saw him before, or if you just refused to admit that you did. 

“...I,” you begin, but he’s already pulling you up with him.

“Play a 1 v 1 with me?” he asks, cheeks pink, and smile soft. 

When you finally nod, he’s turning away, leading you down to the broom stands.

Oh.

You watch his back, the way he turns around to look at you—and the world freezes for a second.

Oh, you think.

You’re fucked.

── 𓇢𓆸 

You’re thoroughly, absolutely fucked.

Jaehyun, when left unstopped, is a force to be reckoned with.

He flirts with a newfound passion now—in-between classes, during broomrides, up in the astronomy tower where you once take him to try out a nosedive—on the Quidditch pitch, twenty feet up in the air. 

The location is a second thought to him—all that matters is that he gets to say the word ‘Sweetheart’ to you, minimum three times a day.

“Sweetheart, you forgot to sleep today, didn’t you?”

“Sweetheart, do you think I should start shaving? I think it gives me a rugged look though, no?”

“Sweetheart, why aren’t you wearing your scarf, it’s freezing cold—here, take mine—”

“Myung Jaehyun, shut the fuck up,” You slam a hand to your forehead as he stares quizzically. “Why aren’t you celebrating your win with your team?”

The two of you stand crammed together in a tiny nook behind one of the stairs; Jaehyun is sweaty from his match against Slytherin, face flushed and chest still heaving. You had come to watch, but somehow, in a turn of events that was simultaneously strange and predictable—he had found you right after.

“It’s your win just as it is mine,” he says giddily, “I couldn’t have made that dive if you hadn’t practiced with me.”

“Lies. You didn’t need me for that.”

“I always need you.”

“God, ugh,” You drag your palms down your face, ready to pound your head against the wall. “You are so annoying!”

“Aw, did I make Tweety bird mad?”

“What the fuck, Myung? Why do you keep calling me stuff like that!?”

“Because,” He shrugs. “You look like a Tweety Bird.”

When you just stare incredulously back at him, mouth agape, he elaborates, “Innocent and cute…and fun to chase around.”

“You can’t,” you sigh, ignoring the warmth pulsating inside your chest. “You can’t just keep doing this. Our teams hate each other, and…we can’t disappoint them.” The last sentence breaks out before you can think it through.

“And that’s the only reason?” he asks, coy.

You gulp, looking away. 

“Alright,” Jaehyun just nods, giving no indication that he intended to do as told, “I’ll hold back on the flirting.”

It’s an ominous statement, you think. The paranoia that claws its way up your body makes you stiffen when he ruffles your hair, saying nothing more after. 

He walks off to where his team waits for him—probably wondering where their Captain had gone off to—leaving you alone with your thoughts in a shadowy spot under the stairs. 

You wonder if you’ve awakened some sort of monster. 

Myung Jaehyun is no longer acting like Myung Jaehyun.

At least not the same one you’ve come to be familiar with—the obnoxious jerk who had somehow melted into a softer version of himself—a teasing, hyperactive puppy-dog of a human that kept following you around.

He takes what you had demanded of him and adds his own flair to it. 

You start to regret that you’d ever said those words. 

“Good game,” he says, without stringing a nickname at the end. “You did well.”

His words are still genuine, but you can tell he’s burying so much he would rather just say.

“Thanks,” you respond stiffly, the hair on your nape standing up. 

But a sly smile shows itself on his face. “What about me, did I do well?”

“Huh?” you sputter.

“I asked,” He leans in to whisper, his breath way too close to your lips. “Did I do well, Captain?”

You pray to the heavens above to swallow you whole, in case one of your teammates has heard it. 

Thankfully, they’re off to the sides, caught up in their own shenanigans—Gunwook seems to be attempting to break Matthews arm in what outwardly looks like a handshake, and Liz’s yells aimed at Gyuvin echoes as far as the distant mountains. 

Jaehyun is undeterred. “What?” he says again, in a pitch deep enough to send a shiver through you. “You said not to call you Sweetheart.” 

Before you can say anything intelligent in response, he walks off with a final squeeze to your palms. 

Then there’s your private strategy meet-ups: he shows up, talks just as enthusiastically about Quidditch with you, and every time the word ‘Sweetheart’ threatens to escape his mouth, he’ll replace it with something more dangerous.

Then there are his touches …

“Can you pass me that blueprint over there?” Jaehyun asks, pointing at the rolled-up paper next to you.

When you hand it to him, your fingertips accidentally brush against his, and the two of you look up to meet each other’s eyes. 

He smiles; you stutter. 

Or you’ll lean in too close without thinking, too caught up in recounting some historic match out of a guide, and when you look up, he’ll already be staring at you—shamelessly, with an attention he does not even offer to his school subjects. 

And it makes you have to dig your fingernails into your skin to keep yourself tethered to the material world.

In a twist you didn’t think the universe was cruel enough to pull on you, Myung Jaehyun proves to hold the capacity to be even more infuriating than you thought he could ever be.

And you are nothing but a victim of his perilous tenacity. 

Your paranoia spikes to an all time high when he approaches you from behind—making you jump in your own skin with just a casual greeting. You start to fear for your life lest he say something too sultry in front of your friends. You start watching your back, treating him like a threat to your life—a time-bomb about to explode that you need to run away from.

But he always finds you.

And you realise that you can’t take it anymore. 

His stupid face is in your head 24/7, his stupid voice now the narrator of your brain. He’s everywhere—physically, spiritually, in all the ways that suck the soul out of your body. 

Myung Jaehyun has cemented himself as the true bane of your existence.

After the nth time you catch yourself staring at his mouth while he rambled on about the Oakshaft 79, you decide you have had enough.

Jaheyun is on his way back from one of his classes, clueless as ever, caught up in his mental world of fast-going broomsticks when—

“Huh, what!—” He feels more than sees: the harsh tug of his necktie, the broom cupboard doors slamming shut behind him, drowning him in dancing shadows—and then you—and your mouth on his.

Your mouth…on…his?

“Y/N—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pulling him back down. Your hands tug at his nape, at his hair—tight enough to break, and eager enough to electrocute him. 

Jaehyun is stupidly giddy when any comment he might have attempted to make gets smothered by your kiss, fiery and deep. His hands come to find your waist, a desperate attempt to ground himself. It doesn’t work—his soul might as well be floating away with the way you kiss him breathlessly, in a rhythm that’s entirely primal.

When he dares to sneak a look at you, right as you part your mouth for him, he feels his heart skip several beats—your eyes are half-lidded, kiss-drunk, and Jaehyun feels himself lose all inhibition at once. 

He takes control, pushing you up against a wall, curling a hand around both your wrists when they come loose from his neck. Warmth prods at the seams of your lips, and you surrender to it. 

Jaehyun feels the same way he does twenty feet up in the sky, chasing headfirst after a Snitch, when the adrenaline rushes through him—purely chemical. 

Maybe it’s because he knows you so well, knows exactly what to predict from you, all the right buttons to push to coax a soft gasp out of your mouth. You might have been good at observing other players, but Jaehyun was the best when it came to studying you.

You let him kiss you with everything he’s got, as though he was making up for lost time—for all his wasted ‘Sweetheart’s and all the times he should have just given into his impulse. You think of how you used to hate him—and the memory only feeds your need to remind him that it’s different now—that the line between hate and love was want, and you’d been toeing it for a long time now. 

When you finally part, his hands are still where they were five minutes ago, his lips shiny, eyes dropped down to your mouth—he’s already thinking of a second round. 

But before Jaehyun’s about to dive down again, you press your palm against his mouth. 

He frowns behind it, like a kicked puppy.

“Not now,” you say—it comes out as a promise for later. His frustrated whine gets blanketed by your hand, and you shoot him a stern look.

You then peel back, adjust your uniform back into place, and poke a finger into his chest as a threatening reminder. “We never speak of this again, deal?”

He nods, dazed, mind still floating in the memory of your taste. 

“Good.” You leave him there, looking downright intoxicated—knees weak, tie askew, mouth parted, eyes in a slow-blinking haze, hair resembling a bird’s nest—disheveled from head to toe. 

When the door closes, Jaehyun leans his forehead against the wall and lets out a long and pleased sigh. 

You were going to be the death of him. 

“We did it, Y/N,” Kazuha’s hug is fierce as it is warm. “We won!”

“They didn’t stand a chance!” Leeseo bounces, punching her broom in the air, earning a round of ‘hooray’s from the stands. 

The entire Ravenclaw house roars from the crowd, blazing posters of blue and silver, chanting your names when you win them the last match before finals.

Finals.

You’ll be playing against Gryffindor.

Ricky and Gunwook pull everyone into a group hug, the latter close to tears at your hard-earned victory. There’s a light drizzle in the air, making everything look foggy beyond a distance; your hair is slightly damp, your skin buzzes with sweat and moisture, and your body is still stuck on the high of winning.

“Maybe I want to make sure my last match here will be with you.” Jaehyun’s voice echoes in your mind.

You don’t waste any time before seeking him out the first opportunity you find to free yourself from your team. He’s, as predicted, lingering somewhere behind the stands—bundled up in warm clothes, a cable knit sweater instead of his uniform, a thick scarf over it, and fuzzy gloves over his fingers. 

“Y/N, Congrat—” The rest turns into a yelp when you drag him by the collar, to a secluded recess behind the wooden planks. 

You lean up to press a single kiss to his lips.

Jaehyun doesn’t need to be told twice—he discards his gloves somewhere so that he can feel your cheeks underneath his palm without a barrier, thumbing away at the rain-kissed skin there. Then he pulls you back in, deepening it—his fingers coming to rest behind your head, freeing your hair from the confines of your tight ponytail. 

Maybe it's the adrenaline from the match, but you push back just as desperately—swallowing any and all sounds that escape him. Your teeth accidentally graze against his bottom lip, and he shivers against you, then squeezes your waist in response. 

“Congrats,” he ends up whispering into another kiss.

“Thanks,” you huff, too impatient for breaks. “It was—fuck,” Another kiss. “You helped.”

“Yeah?” He smiles against your kiss.

“Yeah.” You nod, eyes only half open. 

And just like that, yet another thing gets added into your routine—stolen kisses behind stairwells, more broom cupboard rendezvous, some softer, some heated, but always the same pattern—by the end, you have his mouth perfectly memorised like the insides of your Quidditch guides. 

Sometimes you want to kiss him because he’s being a gentleman to you on the pitch—offering his scarf when you accidentally shiver, or slipping a candy-bar into your pockets on days you’ve forgotten to eat. 

Other times, it’s when he’s being an absolute shit.

“You’re fucking annoying,” you complain, but your actions contradict the words when you’re shoving him against a wall to kiss the smirk off of his face.

“And you, Miss Captain,” he giggles, “have a potty mouth.”

“And what about it?” You raise one brow threateningly. 

“Oh nothing,” Jaehyun smoothens the knot between them with his thumb. “I like it, actually. You’re kinda hot when you’re mean.”

All you can respond with is a flustered cough, a grunt, and then another attempt to shut him up—with your mouth on his. 

Days bleed into weeks, and before you know it, your life has condensed into half-attended classes, a growing list of diagrams on your soon-to-finish notebook, more Quidditch practices with the Gryffindor team, and kisses that taste like fire and chocolate. 

The best part? Nobody but you and him knows—the thrill of a secret and the comfort of something hidden, it keeps you moving. On days when your stress threatens to break you, its his lips and heat that helps you let off steam. 

You start to look forward to seeing Jaehyun every day. And the dread of finals turns into a promise to be kept—you would beat him before you graduate Hogwarts, and you’ll do it with the assurance that he’ll come find you afterwards no matter what. 

And you’ll kiss all the animosity away, leaving behind only giddy warmth to replace it. 

//

A dent in your plan comes in the shape of one cat-like Chaser.

“Why aren’t you aiming at Myung anymore?” Ricky questions one day after practice, as you’re walking off the field, peeling off your gear.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t throw the Bludger at him even once today.”

You freeze; the chill that runs down your body is not from the cold.

He isn’t entirely wrong. You aim at every other Gryffindor on the team, but when it comes to a certain fluffy-haired boy… Your hand just happens to re-evaluate where you want to hit the ball, and it’s almost never at him.

“...Umm…”

“Is he threatening you, Y/N? ”Ricky asks seriously; it’s a little comedic—how earnest he seems about the concept of you potentially being blackmailed by the hyperactive Seeker of a boy.

You could do two things to worm your way out of his question—you could brush it off and change the topic to today’s weather and distract Ricky easily—he was as easy to bait as a cat is. Or, you could choose the slightly more deranged alternative and say:

“Ye-ah.”

“He is!?” Ricky is all ears—and eyes, from how large they grow. “I knew it, that asshole!”

It doesn’t take too long before the entire team is convinced that Myung Jaehyun was no longer just a headache in your life, but now also an active threat to their dearest captain. 

“We’ll avenge you, Y/N-ie.” Gunwook says, and Liz nods along vigorously over her bowl of warm popcorn. “We’ll beat them dead at finals… 

“Get it?” He turns to Liz. “Cuz I’m a beater…”

Liz stuffs some popcorn into his mouth to keep it shut before he can start guffawing at his own lame joke.

“Will you at least say what dirt he’s got on you?” Leeseo pipes up, curious.

The team is spread out around the common room—Gunwook, Liz and Kazuha on the baby blue couch, Ricky is off at the open window, having a staring contest with a black cat, and Leeseo hangs onto you over your shoulder as you scribble annotations into a guide-book over the short table. 

Gaeul paces around the room as she tries to memorise her Ancient Ruins vocabulary. 

“Secret,” you say before dipping your quill back into the ink bottle. 

Liz boos to express her discontentment, and Leeseo deflates with a pout.

“What we need to focus on,” you continue, “is the match against Gryffindor next month. And making sure we study their last one so we’re ready for finals.”

The room freezes collectively.

Gaeul stops walking, Gunwook’s popcorn falls out of his open mouth, Liz gapes, Ricky does a slow, dramatic turn of his head—Kazuha asks, “What did you just say..?”

You blink, confused—scared, “Huh?”

“You just said,” Gaeul repeats, her hand falling limp at her side. “Gryffindor.”

The gulp that runs down your throat is a painful one. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t—”

“You’re not even gagging after Gaeul unnie said their name.” Leeseo is in complete shock. “Are you sick?”

“I’m—” You touch Jaheyun’s new year’s gift inside your pocket, tightening your fist around to stop your anxiety from spiking.

Ricky, however, has his absurd theory. “Did Myung Jaehyun hex you? Oh my god, did he obliviate your memorie—”

“No! What?”

“It must be a fever then,” Leeseo places her hand on your forehead to check for a temperature. “You shouldn’t stress out over the finals too much. It might make you sick.”

You can’t do anything but nod, letting the girls coax you back under your bedsheets, laying a cold towel on your head, and forcefully detaching your notebook from your grasp.

You’re pretending to be a bedridden victim, when it was the last thing you were in reality.

The rest of them leave after more chiding, and stacking several healing potions near your bed for easy reach; Kazuha, however, stays behind.

“So…” she begins, careful. Your eyes trail up to hers, fear ballooning. 

Then, she grins like the devil.

“You sly dog,” Kazuha smirks. “You’re with Myung Jaehyun.”

Everything you thought you didn’t need to be prepared for comes to bite you in the rear with a single, terrifying truth. She knows.

“What?” You attempt, feigning confusion. “Pfft, no…pffft …fuck no!”

She’s having none of it. “Y/N-ie, my dearest, you made the entire team bathe in salt the last time Leeseo accidentally said the G-word. I had salt in my ear for days.” 

You open your mouth to protest, but she won’t let you. “We have to touch wood every time you see the colour red…You made Gaeul look up devil-warding talismans before last year’s match against them.

“And,” Her sneaky eyes trail down, a finger moving your collar out of the way, “That there, my friend, is no mosquito bite.”

Your entire face turns scarlet—too close to resembling the Gryffindor red, as though in mockery. 

“It’s not what you think!” You spring up, the wet towel flopping down onto your lap as you grab Kazuha by the shoulders, clutching it for dear life. “Listen! He and I—we’re…It’s—”

“My dearest Y/N,” She combs away the fray hair on your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. “You are a terrible liar.”

“Ricky believed me!” You give up trying to defend yourself, simply falling forward to place your forehead onto her shoulder. 

“Ricky’s an idiot,” she supplies, “And so are the rest of our team, thankfully. For a bunch of Ravenclaws, we’re pretty dumb when it comes to things like this.”

You sniffle dramatically, groaning as you realise what’s happened. Kazuha knows of you and Myung Jaehyun—the asshole you’re supposed to hate. The idiot you might be betraying your house for. 

“You guys are cute together,” She smiles. “I always thought his fighting was too superficial to be anything real—he always looks like he’s two steps away from flirting.”

“You’re not…mad?” You come up for air, blinking.

She just grins, taking your hands in her’s. “Of course, not. You’ve been looking happier these days…more energetic. And oh my god, your skin is glowing—”

“Oh shut up.” You roll your eyes, but the smile that escapes you is real. “Thanks…for being a good friend.”

“Only the best.” She winks.

“Yeah, you’re right,” You let her drag you into a hug, “Only the best.”

“Shush, don’t let Liz here that.” 

The weight on your chest elevates, just a little bit. 

Now if only the rest of your team was gauranteed to react the same way…

//

“So, any Ravenclaw inside scoop I can cash in on with a kiss?” Jaehyun wiggles his eyebrows, already pulling you flush against him, leaning closer with one hand braced on the wall next to your head. The staircase is quiet except for your whispers.

You push him away by the tip of your wand; he winces in confusion. “Kazhuha knows,” you say with a sigh.

“Hmm? Nakamura?...your Chaser?” He quirks his head.

“My best friend,” you correct, “We fucked up big time.”

“Oh, c’mon, who cares?” Jaehyun leans back in again, too eager to keep his hands to himself. 

“Me,” you say, stopping him again. He pouts. “Stop making that face. We need to be more careful from now on. My reputation is going to the sewers if they realise I’m with the likes of you.”

“Hey, that’s mean.”

“You said you like me mean.”

“That—” he pauses, then nods with a sigh. “That is very true. You have great memory.”

“We need a game plan—so we don’t get caught by Ricky of all people again… God, I should have just swung that Bludger at your head, then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Uh… come again?” 

“They think I’m going soft!” you huff, crossing your arms. “Me! Soft! Can you believe it?”

“You are soft.” Jaehyun manages to pry your arms apart, pulling you close to his chest. You can hear his heart thud in a gentle rhythm against yourself. “Soft over here,” He pokes your cheeks. “Soft over here too.” He points to where your heart should be. “I blame them for realising too late.”

“Yeah?” You roll your eyes, albeit with all intention of entertaining his whims. “And you, Myung? When did you realise it?”

His eyes soften and he swallows nervously, an action not befitting the cocky Seeker you knew most of the time. “That time you called my name in the Hospital Wing. You sounded so…like you cared. Like beneath all that ice, I still somehow mattered to you somehow…”

“Oh… “ 

Jaehyun’s eyes are in their most vulnerable—soul bared as a stream of gentle colours spills over his cheeks from the stained glass window above. 

“Can you say it again?” he asks; it sounds like a spell. “My name.”

You answer with a kiss to his cheek, then another that lands at the corner of his lips—before he rights you and guides you to his mouth, letting you draw out something sweet. At the next press, you whisper against him, “Jaehyun.”

He smiles—just as sweet as he tastes. 

“Again?”

“Jaehyun…” Another peck. 

“Again,” he demands.

“Okay, you jerk—”

“Y/N,” he giggles, “L/N Y/N,… How am I ever gonna stay away from you?”

“Just until we graduate. Then you’ll join the Chudley Cannons—”

“And you’ll be with the Harpies.”

“—And we’ll have all the freedom in the world.”

“Promise me a broomride when this is all over.” It’s not a question.

“Promise.” You nod anyway. 

Staying away from Jaehyun proves to be harder than you expect it to be.

You’ve been attuned to tracking his figure at all times of day. It’s become second nature to find him, or for him to find you—lingering outside classrooms before you head off towards the lake, holding the seat beside yours in Charms for him, waiting all night to share a new piece of Quidditch news with him the next chance you get to. 

But now, you have to actively remind yourself to do the opposite. 

“You look tired,” Kazuha comments as you curl up into the couch, eyes burning from reading for too long. “Had dinner?”

You shake your head.

“Had lunch?”

You shake your head again.

“Did you fight with Myung—”

“Can you be quiet!?” You slap your hand across her mouth. “And no!”

Her response is muffled. “What’s going on then?”

“Nuffin.”

“Y/N—”

“I haven’t seen him, alright?” you groan in shame, hiding behind the crook of your elbow. “I..I..”

“Yes?... You…?”

“I…umm..”

“Almost there…”

“I miss him, okay!?” you whine, face the shade of a beetroot, pride crumbling down. “I hate that I miss him.”

It’s been weeks since you’ve shared any real contact with Jaehyun—no kisses awaiting a draining practice, no home to go to for warmth when you begin to feel the weight of pressure.

The worst part is, you don’t get to seek out his voice, to talk to him when it’s all you want to do—ramble about strategies, watch him doodle little broomsticks to help you take your mind off of championships, any passing moment that you can steal away from him—none of those exist anymore.

Your frustration amplifies when he still greets you with the contained happiness he needed to keep your… this thing, whatever it was, between you—a secret. 

When Jaehyun swoops past the Chasers and straight towards you, grazing your fingers as he reaches for the Snitch—your heart stutters; you can see Kazuha smirking coyly from behind him, and Ricky gritting his teeth like a hissing cat—still under the assumption that Myung Jaehyun had some sort of deep-running bad blood with you. 

It’s stupidly funny, and nightmarishly vexing, at the same time.

You miss him when he’s near you, touching barely but not enough. You miss him when he’s away—manifesting in your dreams that were usually about night rides on your beloved Firebolt—his phantom now on a broom right next to yours, on days where you’ll look at your Tweety bird model and think of him; he’s a permanent itch in your brain.

Each day that draws you closer to the finals heightens the buzz in your chest, turning dread into raw desperation—to win, and to finally meet him at eye-length, in the ultimate clash of your high-school Quidditch career.

You were so close to keeping your vow. 

You would prove to him that you were worthy of being his rival—of being the one who gets to stand alongside him in the last ever match you’d ever play at Hogwarts—his fated enemy, the best Beater he’d ever bear witness to. 

You would not let him, or yourself, down now.

── 𓇢𓆸 

Hogwarts Quidditch pitch - Finals: Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw 

It’s the day you’ve been waiting for—the day all your sleepless nights, every second you’ve spent on this same field to perfect yourself will be put to the test.

The last ever match you’ll have at Hogwarts.

“Brooms up!” Professor Jeon’s voice echoes from the mid-field. 

Jaehyun and you meet each other’s eyes—the rest of the world all but a blur. 

He grins, you grin back. Electricity crackles between you.

You mount your broom, and a sharp whistle blasts through the summer weather, the four enchanted balls whizzing out of their containment. Cold gave into heat, skins sticky from the weightless air. 

Kazuha, Liz, and Ricky fly parallel to each other, spanning across the pitch before they spread out in different directions.  

Tensions are high twenty feet up in the air—figures in blue and red whooshing by like ants from a distance. The crowd roars below you, cheering for either team as they attempt to outdo the other, both houses pumped with adrenaline—players and audience alike.

Liz narrowly avoids a Bludger from Intak, maneuvering around it to make the first goal.

“Ten points to Ravenclaw!” booms the commentator’s voice.

No time to waste; it’s a dive right back into the game without stopping to breathe. Kazuha’s next shot is kicked away by the Gryffindor Keeper, Woonhak. He grins as he waits for Intak to send him a thumbs-up. 

Your brain buzzes with the mantra you’ve been teaching yourself during the past four years of rigorous training: Do not mess up your last game, do not start on the wrong foot, and do not ruin everything.

Do not waste time on thinking.  

Bracing yourself, you swing your bat against the hard iron of the Bludger flying past you, sending it whizzing at Jaehyun’s back. 

But he sees you from the corner of his eye, sensing your presence from just a huff of your beath. He swivels on his broom to dodge, ending up upside down—his hair flopping down in a fluffy mess. 

“You’re cute,” he manages to say through a proud chuckle.

“You’re aggravating.” You smile.

In the midst of the heart-pounding game—at the dead centre of the mass of flying bodies, echoes of hollers and house chants beyond the boundary of what held just you and him—sparks fly between your narrowed eyes. 

I missed you, his say.

I’m gonna win, yours reply.

Hanbin passes the Quaffle to Yujin, right as Gunwook attempts to knock him off his broom. They streak past your Chasers, heading for Gaeul at the hoops.

“Ten points—to Gryffindor!” 

You’re at a draw.

Slowly, the margin narrows—Matthew successfully manages to knock the Quaffle out of Ricky’s hands, but Liz swoops underneath to catch it. She heads for the Gryffindor goal with a one-track mind, barely swinging it through the right hoop before Woonhak stretches to swat it away.

Liz huffs, “Don’t smile too wide now.” Her threat has the younger Keeper begin to sweat.

When your teammates are caught up in their own flurry of competition, you see it—a glint of gold—the Snitch.

Jaehyun’s keen attention to your line of sight has him immediately launching himself at it. 

“Leeseo!” you yell for your Seeker, calling her up from her perch beside Gunwook’s defence. 

She zooms towards you in no time.

You follow at Jaehyun’s heel, chasing after him like a moth to a flame, Leeseo hounding him from the other side closest to the Snitch. When you speed up to fly parallel to his broom, he glances sideways—a satisfying smile etched on his face.

This is everything he imagined it to be—you can tell. 

You break against the wind, swinging your bat backward as you see a Bludger fly your way, extending it in one graceful arc behind your shoulder—and you slam against it— a sharp, resounding thwack reaching your eardrum.

It hits Jaehyun; at the exact second, Leeseo dives down for the Snitch, her hand curling around the golden ball.

The whistle breaks, somewhere far, far away. Someone says something through the loudspeaker.

You don’t hear it through the muffle of wind in your ears, the broom underneath you plummeting after the red spot—sight tunnel visioning on Jaehyun’s falling body. 

Not again, please, no.

There are cheers from the crowd; you can’t tell which house it belongs to. Just that your hands extend for him, your body suspended above his—the Firebolt accelerating faster and faster until it curves like an umbrella—

“Jae—”

You catch him, right in front of you, exactly as your broom thuds softly against the plush grass. 

“Y/N,” He grins, dazed. 

There are no visible injuries on him; no blood to be seen, to bruises to worry you.

His hand finds your cheek, thumbing away a tear that threatens to fall. 

“Jaehyun,” You whisper cracks as you’re throwing your body onto him, pulling him into a devastating hug. “You’re okay.”

“I am,” he assures with a chuckle. “You caught m—” mmff!

You swallow his words with a bruising kiss—uncaring of the hoots around you slowly dying, a confused murmur replacing it before the crowd once more erupts into excitement—students exclaiming amongst themselves.

“That’s Y/N, oh my god! She’s with Myung Jaehyun!?”

“I thought they hated each other! Damn!”

“Y/N, WE WON—Oh… ” Ricky stops in his tracks. Liz bumps into him, and when she looks past his shoulder to see you and Jaheyun’s intertwined figures on the grass—her mouth drops incredulously, 

“Hyung…” Woonhak is approaching from the other end, prepared to get berated by his captain when he too realises that said captain was kissing the opponent in front of the entire school. 

You and Jaehyun finally gasp for air, coming apart red and dizzy.

“Congrats, you two!” Kazuha winks, offering a pleased nod, and Intak agrees with a thumbs up—like he'd known all along. 

Gyuvin looks two seconds away from throwing up—either from the nausea of having lost the game, or from having to witness the shameless sight in front of him, no one will ever know. 

As a cherry on top of the absurd situation, Professor Jeon enters the scene with a dramatic cough, saying, “This is not what I meant by inter-house fraternising,” His chide disperses into a proud smile, “But, Oh well. Good luck, both of you—I expect great things.”

You blush profusely while Jaehyun rubs the back of his head in embarrassment. 

“Are we in hell?” Gunwook grimaces, having forgotten the past hour of playing, and any memory of winning the Inter-House Quidditch Cup. 

“Hey, it’s not like you and I don’t make out either,” Matthew smirks, bringing forth another tide of gasps and groans. “Occasionally,” he adds, like that made anything better. 

“It's…we were just letting off steam!” Gunwook flubbers in his attempt to explain to a betrayed-looking Ricky. 

Liz’s mouth is still comically agape. “What…When…How—WHAT!?” She's maniacal. “Is there anything more I don’t know!?”

Gyuvin swoops in at the chance, “Yeah, Woonhak has that thing with his Slytherin girl."

“Wait, what? Hyung, it’s not a thing—!” Woonhak tries to yell, but no one listens as all eyes snap toward Liz’s ear-splitting shriek.

“Is anyone here dating within their own house or???”

Several shakes of head return her way, but Kazuha leans in with a greasy tone.

“We could,” She wiggles her eyebrows.

While the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams continue to argue, the world around you and Jaehyun spins to a stop—to a space where only the two of you exist, your friends’ chatter a comfortable background noise. 

“You saved me,” he’s saying, leaning forward with his hands braced on the grass behind him. Your broomsticks lay abandoned beside you, dirt and grime coating your fingernails and skin. It doesn’t matter—only he does. 

“I saved you back,” You lightly bump your forehead against his, affectionate. “We’re even now.” 

“Y/N,” he nuzzles into you.

“Yes, Jae?”

“Be my rival till I die?” He says it with the conviction of a marriage proposal.

You grin, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask, Sweetheart.”

“So…” Ricky quirks his head in innocent confusion, making everyone turn their heads towards him. “He wasn't blackmailing you?” 

His words are met with a collective set of groans. 

You laugh into Jaehyun’s shoulder, body humming pleasantly, and when you look around at the Quidditch pitch that’s served as your home for the past several years—you recollect every stumble you’ve made here, every new move you’d been proud to learn. Where you grew as a team and as friends—a group of young Ravenclaws that had grown into family.

And, this is where you first met Jaehyun—where you swore you’d beat him one day. Where you finally kept your promise.

When you look at him, you see your past, your present, and then, the future that awaits you. 

One thing remains true even with all the inevitable changes to come: Myung Jaehyun would always be your sworn enemy, your most beloved person, and most of all—your biggest fan. 

You kiss him once more to make sure he knows it’s the same for you.

𓂃𓈒𓇢𓆸 fin

reblogs/comments/asks > likes!!

── .✦ for more hogwarts! aus, check out the signed, sealed, spellbound series!

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a/n: thank you to everyone who left a kind comment on my last rant post and also anyone that sent me an ask afterwards. I was only able to finish writing this without pushing myself too hard bcs of the enthusiasm i've received from you guys. it means a lot to me 💙 thnx to juney @mwotgata for bearing with my rambles and for always being there to bounce off my ideas. and ofc my lovely hana dul set @nemoihan who edits my terrible grammar and checks up on me exactly when i need her. katikins @ilysungho and moemoe @moesthinking who has kept me sane and going for the past week or so. and thank you gill @astrae4 for being so reassuring and the coolest of moots! @yuuvini, @dj-ami, and @tenshi-sama ily for your wonderful asks that made me very very happy. and ofc to my dearest, levy @pupillary, who i miss a lot. i hope you guys enjoyed this fic, ily guys a lot! p.s. sorry for being sappy lol

++ im thinking of opening an interview style ask for the hp series since im done with 3/6 fics now! it'll be any questions u might want to ask the already introduced characters in sungho, riwoo, and jaehyun's fics! if you think i should do this, do lmk!

perm tl: @pupillary (🍒) @ilysungho (🪶) @lovehakie (🌷) @leehanaholic @ivxae @ramizluv @moesthinking @gentiliana @athenaisonlinee @wnouzi @amarecerasus @defnotsanni @cl4ir0l0v3r @knrejj @fayepz @nemoihan @ruuroom @woonbabie @qeeun-didi @i-am-not-dal @tenshi-sama @mwotgata @kazukazukiiii @qeeun-didi @izhypen @bee-the-loser @beomtomie @haede-shi @kajaluvsjaehyun series tl: @yunextdoor @lvlyhiyyih @amnellsia @sssarahh @soonyoonswoo @ahnsuhosgf @yuuvini @geniejunn @its-starry 𓂃𓈒 𓇢𓆸 thank you for the support, ily ♡⸝⸝ networks: @k-records @fruiteronet

inbox always open!

The first time he said that he loved you was with you on top of him, rolling your hips against his, making him writhe in pleasure as he looked up at you in reverence. 

“You’re so gorgeous, you know that?” he had exhaled, laying flushed beneath you. “I think I love you.”

You had replied with a kiss, letting the string of saliva dangle between you as he dived up for more. 

Everything had been fine. 

Until it wasn’t. 

“Hey princess,” Sunghoon says, his first words to you after six months of touring around the world, leaning in for a quick peck that lands at the corner of your lips, “Missed you.”

It takes every inch of your self-control not to jump him right then and there, at the threshold of your apartment door, not an ounce of care if the neighbours happen to see or listen. Instead, you pull him inside by the forearm, tugging him closer by the collar. “Missed you too, baby,” You say, letting your warm breath ghost over his neck, desperate for his touch after ages of you having to satisfy yourself with just your imagination of him.

It’s nothing compared to Sunghoon in the flesh: blond hair framing his cheekbones, making him look like an angel on earth, his deep brown eyes that you could drown in, his lips—his gorgeous, pink lips you want to bite until he’s moaning for more. You want him, on you, in you, anywhere you can have him.

But when you suck at the juncture of his collarbones—the same way you’ve done countless times before he’d torn you apart—he pulls away.

You freeze, eyes darting up in confusion.

“Tired,” he offers a soft smile, his hand coming up to ruffle your hair. “C’mon, it’s already eleven…, we should sleep. You stayed up for me didn’t you?”

There’s no lack of love in his voice—but it's…different. Why isn’t he eager for you the same way you are for him? The way he’s always been. 

When he falls asleep next to you that night, it takes everything in you to push down the bubbling feeling in your stomach; you miss him so damn much even though he’s right next to you. 

He’s exhausted…,yeah, being on the road with no breaks did that to people—days of sleeplessness and dancing and breaking his voice on stage, fulfilling everything the idol life demanded of him, did that. He just needed a rest. Then he’ll be back to normal, back to your Sunghoon. 

So you wait—a day, then two, then it’s a week and another; he doesn’t reach out first, he doesn’t wrap his arms around you in kitchen in the mornings and sink to his knees in desperation, he doesn’t ask for morning sex or to shower together—soon, he’s forgotten how to love you properly. 

When you try to grind down as he wakes up, he kisses your nose affectionately, then tells you to go back to sleep. If you trace his hands up your chest, he wraps it around your waist and presses a kiss onto your temple instead. It’s as though he can’t even take the clue when you’re offering it to him on a silver platter.

That’s how you end up scrolling down internet forums, pages and pages of middle-aged women wondering why their intimate life has dwindled down to nothingness, of worries of cheating and divorce and all the anxiety-inducing hypotheticals that come with a long-term relationship.

It doesn’t take too long before your mind conjures up a picture of Sunghoon in bed with a faceless woman that’s not you. Your chest squeezes uncomfortably at the thought.

But between paragraphs of doubts, you find something more hopeful—advice.

You pull out your phone and jot it down diligently, determined to fix your love life and end your dry spell with one stone if possible.

//

1. Dress to seduce.

You push your bralette up in front of the mirror, making your boobs look as prominent as possible, spinning around once to watch how the sheer babydoll dress flows down to your thighs. 

It’s not like he’s never seen you in sexy lingerie—but usually it was just a matching set meant to be discarded within the first five seconds of him seeing you in it. But today, you had gone all out: a pink outfit that hid almost nothing, with just enough coverage to leave a little to the imagination, your hair coming down in perfect ringlets, just the way you knew he liked it. Your lips are glossy and red, skin shaved and smooth as a baby’s. 

It took you five hours but it was worth the pain when you look like a succubus in the flesh and Sunghoon would fall to his knees for you.

At least, that’s what you assume.

He shows up from his practice schedule an hour later than he should have, late into the night, quietly opening the bedroom door to see you slumped over a pillow. 

“y/n?” His voice breaks you out of your dejection.

You perk up immediately, not even angry that he’s late. Just glad that he’s here now.

“Baby.” You grin, opening up your arms to welcome him. 

He doesn’t lean in, instead motioning to his rumpled shirt and drooping hair, “I’m sweaty babe.”

You frown, “It’s fine, come here.”

He shakes his head with an amused laugh, “You’re too cute. But I don’t want to get you dirty right before bed.” 

Your mind groans, echoing the thought of ‘I want you to get me dirty, please.’ but your mouth remains silent. 

Sunghoon doesn’t catch on. He just blows you a kiss and says the most outrageous thing you’ve ever heard-”You should wear a jacket, babe. It’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

Is he…stupid? 

Or is he playing dumb just to throw you away after making you yearn for him like a moth to a flame? 

When he leaves for the shower, the muffled rush of water seeping through your wall, you cradle your head in your lap, rolling your hands into a fist as you try to make sense of things. And even when your head hurts from thinking, and your heart tightens in worry, you know you can’t give up on him.

It’s not hopeless—not just yet.

//

2. Use your assets to your advantage.

Sunghoon likes your body. And he likes to clean. So naturally, he won’t be able to keep his hands off of you when you conjoin those two ideas together and package it into a perfectly salacious gift for him.

It’s quite easy actually—you wait until he has a day off, lounging on the couch to play one of his video games, too distracted to see you carefully plant yourself next to the kitchen island.

“Wow, it's so…dirty.” You swipe a finger over the marble, examining it like a nature enthusiast would. “I should clean today.”

The innuendo should be obvious, if he notices.

“Hmm,” he hums in return, not looking.

You clear your throat, angling yourself in a way that he can have a good sight of your exposed neck and short sundress—the one he likes so much.

“Maybe I should sweep the floor too, it’s been ages since it’s been… touched,” you emphasise the words with what you hope is a sultry sigh.

Your boyfriend, ever the fool, nods without a look. He’s too busy kicking a virtual football across the screen. 

You weren’t about to lose to a video game of all things.

Reaching around the couch, you meticulously lean over right in front of him, letting him get an eyeful of your rear, barely covered by the short hem of your dress. It only pools up higher when you bend lower, brushing over the superficial dust on the floor with a slow flick of your wrist.

He doesn’t react until the game ends, dropping his controller with a groan. 

“Why are you cleaning?” Sunghoon looks over and raises a brow in confusion.

“Can’t a girl have her hobbies?” you reply nonchalantly, swishing your hair to one side to show off the expanse of your neck. 

He doesn’t seem convinced. “You hate cleaning.”

A nerve in your temple twitches in frustration. You drop the feather duster onto the tiles with a soft thud. “Well excuse me for trying. You’ve been too busy playing with your games so someone had to.”

Sunghoon sighs, not in anger, but in a way you’ve learnt is acceptance. “I’m…sorry.” He says gently, getting up to kiss the top of your hair. “I’ll take over, you go and rest up.” 

As though he wasn’t the one who cleaned up every single time. 

It’s pathetic—how those words should make you the happiest girlfriend on earth but instead, you’re pacing around your room in the worry that he doesn’t crave you anymore. You’re just a person he lives with, someone he kisses occasionally. He doesn’t-

No. You weren't going to spiral, not yet. 

There were still ways to fix this.

//

3. Men like it when you use your mouth.

Quite the sexist advice, but you’re at your wits’ end. 

You weren’t the type to bake much but here you are, planted in front of a bowl, whisking heavy cream with a hand mixer.  

When you hear the familiar pad of footsteps behind you, and the scent of citrus and soap from your boyfriend’s clothes wafts over, you slowly turn around to greet him.

“Morning, sleepy head,” you say as you land a kiss to his cheek, swollen cutely from sleep.

He rubs his eyes with a fist. “Mornin’, what are you up to?”

“Oh, just baking.” You shrug, scooping out a dollop of cream with your finger. Then you turn around, pressing your chest close to his and looking him straight in the eye, sticking your tongue out as slow and sensual as you can.

You bring your finger to your mouth, and suck. “Yum.” 

Sunghoon blinks the weariness out of his eyes, barely opening them when he hums out to agree, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. 

“Do you want some?” You take another lick, swirling it around on the base of your tongue, and pull it out with a satisfying pop.

He blinks again, shakes his head, and then yawns. 

He yawns. In the face of your seduction.

YAWNS!

You want to flip the entire bowl over his head and call it a day. Maybe stomp over and throw his precious video game out the window while you’re at it. The fuse in you is so close to blowing and taking everything around you with it—but it’s nothing compared to the drought you’ve been suffering through the past month—the carnal need to have your boyfriend ravish you everywhere and anywhere, and the absolute frustration that comes with not getting what you want. 

There is no way in hell you’ll let him win just like that—he doesn’t just get to ignore you. 

You’re hot, you’re bewitching. And there is no man in the world that should throw away the opportunity to worship you.

Sunghoon was the one to approach you first to begin with; he’s the one who wanted you, ready to give into any thing you’d have been willing to offer. The audacity of the man to pretend like he could be anything but hungry for you…

You’re going to make him regret it—even if it means taking your pride and morals with it. 

//

4. Show him you don’t need him.

Sunghoon is in the living room. 

You’re on the bed, the door left open just enough for sounds to leak through. The dull drone of the TV is quiet as he works on something in his songwriting book, scribbling and strumming on his guitar in turns. 

Unlike him, you have other matters to attend to—for example, fixing this dry spell of yours with your own two hands, since your dear boyfriend can’t seem to help you out. 

Your hand dips beneath your jean shorts, slowly working up the slick to make it easier for your fingers to enter. Biting down on your bottom lip, you roll your hips against your palm, grinding upwards to bring yourself closer to the edge.

Sunghoon’s quiet hum reaches you as you push in deeper, his voice sending a spark down your body in the way no part of your own touch can. The moan that escapes your mouth right after is his fault, and his alone.

“Fu-uck,” you groan, bringing your other hand over your clothed chest, pinching through the fabric.

Can he hear you? …Does he care? 

Surely he would; he used to go crazy for your moans, the way you would repeat his name on your tongue like prayers at a confessional. It should be the same still.

“Sunghoon-...ah!” you don’t bite it down this time, letting it escape free and hopefully reach his ears. 

Then you hear it, the shuffle of paper and clothes moving against the couch. 

He’s going to come to you!

Your heart soars, head tilting for a better view out the door. You can hear the sound of his footsteps approaching closer, heat pooling down to your core at the very thought of him seeing you like this—with your legs spread apart and shirt riding up, just for him.

His body moves closer to the door, and you expect him to push past it and straight towards you, but-

He walks past it and right into the bathroom.

Huh?

The sound of water bleeds through to your ears, not doing anything to calm your slowly building anxiety and the eventual crash. Tears spring up in your eyes; you hug your pillow close to your body, curling up into a fetal position as you try to hold it in. 

And everything comes down in one single crushing weight.

You don’t even realise when Sunghoon leaves the bathroom and out the apartment, headed for somewhere you don’t want to know anymore.

This is the end of you and him, you’re sure of it.

It’s a Friday night, and like most days recently, he’s not home yet. He could be at work, or he could be in the hands of some other woman, you’re not sure. All that you know is that things have changed for the worse and the glass of wine you cradle in your hand does nothing to ease the ugly feeling in your belly.

You sit with your knees drawn up to your chest, not having bothered to even change out of the skirt and top you wore to work this morning—a small silhouette in the empty, dark living room. Your mascara runs down your cheeks, staining the blush there with splotches, nose red, eyes wet.

“Fuck you, Park Sunghoonon!” you wheeze out through a choked sob, the dark red liquid in your hand swishing around dangerously. “Asshole,” you breath out in exhaustion.

You weren’t one to beat yourself down, not really. When you looked in the mirror, you liked what you saw—the blemishes and little asymmetries only added to your charm. Sunghoonon had always spoken it out loud to you, how he could fall apart from a simple look from you. But in the moment of overthinking and insecurity, for a second, you wonder if he doesn’t find you as beautiful as he said he did. 

The truth of it is plain—your boyfriend is no longer attracted to you. The impending break-up is inevitable, it's only a matter of when.

Worst of all, even between the possibility of him lying, even now, you still love him. You still want him.

The door creaks open as you slump further, footsteps sliding inwards, bringing a shadow along with them. 

“y/n?” Sunghoon’s airy voice creeps through the blur of alcohol. “Hey…are you alright?”

He kneels down in front of you, taking the glass away from you, trying to gauge your expression, “You had too much to drin-I…wait, are you-” His voice cracks, “-crying?” 

You tilt your head away from his hand, not wanting any part of him near you. “Go away.” It comes out as a plea, not an order.

Sunghoon’s hand halts mid-air. Something lodges itself in his throat when he says, “Baby, please.”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” You break, a stream of fresh tears rolling down. “Go away, please, before I-”

You don’t know what to say after that. There is no clear plan in your mind, even if it hadn’t been clouded by inebriation. All you want is to run away or for him to leave you alone so you can crumble in peace. 

“Please talk to me,” his eyes are red when you dare to meet them. “Please y/n, don’t just push me away, not like this.”

You can’t bear to see him like this, even when you look worse for wear. He seems so small in front of you, hands holding onto yours like in a prayer for forgiveness—for what, you don’t know.

“You don’t love me anymore.” The admission is a crack in your voice. “You don’t like me. You don’t want me.”

Sunghoon’s brows furrow in a mix of disbelief and pain. “I always want you, there’s not a day that I don’t.”

You shake your head. “You don’t even find me beautiful anymore.” 

“Baby,” He sighs, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, weak in his palms. “I find you the most beautiful thing on this earth, I have and always will.”

“Then why won’t you fuck me!?”

Silence. 

A cricket chirps from the balcony, then the whirr of a faraway airplane, then nothing.

“Huh?” Sunghoon asks, even more confused. 

“You don’t want to fuck me!” you barrel on, tongue loose and anger flared. “You won’t touch me, you won’t look at me. You don’t want me!”

“What are you talking about!? I-” he sighs, letting his head drop into your lap, still holding onto your hands. “y/n…”

“What?”

He lifts his head, just a little. “Will you listen if I explain?”

You brace yourself—is he about to admit to losing interest? Or there being another person all along…? Is this the end of everything you’ve built up…and if so, what do you do next?

“I didn’t want you to think I only wanted you for sex,” Sunghoon admits, whispering into the contours of your hands. “I…wanted us to be official before we took things too quickly…”

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “What?”

“We began so suddenly, and everything was physical between when we started off.” He smiles. “I didn’t want it to be just that, I want us to be real. To have a future together and have a family and give you everything you’ve ever wanted…I was just waiting for the right time.”

“You said...official…as in?”

“I want you to be my girlfriend, y/n.”

Your tears dry up in the span of what takes for him to concoct that sentence—that stupid, remarkably idiotic sentence. 

“We’re already dating, Sunghoon.” 

He blinks up at you. “...huh?” 

“You met my mom. I’ve met your parents. We live together.”

“But,” he begins, flubbering. “We never actually said-”

“You told me you love me.”

“That’s different. I didn’t ask you out.”

“OH MY GOD!” You don’t know if you should laugh or cry—did he seriously just cause you to self-destruct and embarrass yourself over weeks just because he had no clue that you were well into your relationship and not just fooling around for fun. “You are so…so unbelievable. I cannot believe you made me do all of that just because you hadn’t ‘asked me out ’ yet.”

“All of…what?”

“I licked whipped cream off my finger for you!” You groan, wanting to die of shame. “I tried to seduce you for god’s sake.”

“Oh.” is all he says.

“I touched myself loud enough so you could hear, you idiot!” 

“Ah,” This seems to knock some memory into him. “I-I heard.”

Your eyes widen. “And you didn’t come help me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to-” Sunghoon chokes out, sincerely clueless. “Babe, I had to go help myself out in the bathroom because you were so loud and I could barely write one verse down without getting hard.”

“Oh my god,” It’s stupid, and silly, and a little funny—how all of this could have been prevented if you’d just talked to each other. “Park Sunghoon, you stupid, sexy, gentleman."

He finally lets himself relax, breathing out a sigh and nuzzling his lips into your palms, “Let me make it up to you?”

You don’t even need him to ask; before you know it, he’s lowering his head to leave a soft kiss to your knee, letting your skirt ride up as he inches up the flesh of your thigh. There’s no patience in you—not after being denied his touch for this long. Your fingers find a home in his hair, tugging gently to elicit a moan from his mouth into the flesh of your groin.

“Hoon~” Your eyes roll back, head resting against the couch as he maps out your body, inch by inch. But it isn’t enough. As his tongue prods past your skin and into the heat of your clothed core, you whimper in desperation, wanting more and more. “Please.”

“Baby.” His whisper vibrates against you, sending tremors up your spine. He grips the mound of your thigh, gently prying it apart. “Spread more.”

You could come from just his voice—the way he commands and still remains so loving. You comply easily, sitting back against the handrest to give him better access as he climbs over you. The dim outdoor lights from the balcony dance over his features, his hair mussed from sweat, eyes dark and desperate for you. 

“Good girl.” He taps the side of your thigh in praise, flipping the material of your skirt upwards. You know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth- “God, you’re so wet already.”

“Hoon, don’t leave me hanging.” You beg, reaching out to push him back down into your core. 

He obeys without complaints, saying, “All for me.” before pushing his tongue against the fabric of your underwear, making it even wetter than it had already been. One of his hands reaches up to trace over your breast, letting it pebble as he tugs gently. You help out by unclasping your bra, pushing it aside for better access. 

Your senses override—toes curling as he keeps going with a newfound will, eager to please, as desperate for you as you are for him. With one careful tug, he shoves aside your underwear, letting his lips meet you without hindrance, coating it with your taste. 

First, heat—then it builds up into something unquenchable, coursing up your body as a wave of pleasure behind to engulf you. Your head lolls back. “Sung-”

He moves his mouth away, moving up to kiss over your neck instead. “Not yet.” He sighs.

Before you can process your dismay, he’s standing up to carry you straight into the bedroom, not wasting a second before he drops you onto the mattress and climbs over your body in one swift motion. He switches on the nightlight with one hand, the other working over the hem of your top.

“Wanna see you.” His breath comes out rugged. 

You nod, pulling your shirt and bra off, throwing it over somewhere on the floor—tommorow’s problem. Being the kind lover that he is, he removes his shirt without you needing to ask, as you pull at the drawstring of his sweatpants, hand moving over his apparent bulge. 

The sight of the smooth plane of his chest is enough for you to lose all control; you haven’t seen him like this in forever, the dips of his arms—muscles toned and smooth, each contour of his body fashioned with utmost care and hard work. Then there's the trail of sparse hair that leads down his stomach, pants hanging just low enough to have you whimpering. 

“Like what you see?” he smirks.

“Shut up,” you reply without any real bite, ready to pull off your skirt until he stops you with a hand around your wrist. 

“Keep it on,” he’s saying. And you listen. 

Sunghoon frames you with his arms on either side of your body, starting off with the softest kiss to your temple. Like he always does. 

Then he’s trailing it down without breaking away for air—down your cheeks, over your earlobe—and that has you shuddering when he reaches a particularly sensitive spot, then curling around your jaw and throat and right down to your bare chest. 

It’s slow, romantic—but tonight, patience is not your best suit. “Sunghoon, baby, you can be rough with me.” 

The permission from you is all it takes for him to snap; he’s pushing your skirt higher, helping you out of your underwear and letting you tug his sweatpants down to his thigh to free his length from inside his boxers. There’s no time to admire it—but you can miss it for a night if it meant having him like this for the rest of your life. 

“You’re still on your birth control right?”

You nod, eager and impatient.

His hipbones meet yours like a missing puzzle piece, pushing the tip of his shaft into you first, and once you adjust to the stretch, he’s rocking against you in one fluid motion, letting it travel as deep as it can without hurting you.

He continues to guide your hips to match his rhythm as he pounds into you without restrain. “You’re so good for me, so fucking tight.” You clench around him at his words, letting him suck a bruise into your shoulder. 

“Sunghoon!” You tighten your arms around him at a particularly sensitive thrust, unconsciously dragging your nails down his back. 

When you realise how hard you scrape against his skin, you begin to move them away, but Sunghoon pulls your hands back on him. “My princess,” he sighs, pupils blown, lips glistening and red. “You’re such a good girl for me, always so perfect.”

You whine in response as he kisses your mouth, opening up for him on instinct, and soon your tongue is meeting his—hurried, full of want, pushing and pulling as he thrusts with even more vigour. When you part to bite down on his lip, he lets out a downright sinful moan. 

And God, did you miss his voice like this. 

The bedroom echoes with the soft sounds he manages to coax out of you, mixing with the drag of his cock, and the filthiest words he whispers against your skin. 

You feel it—the coiling in your stomach, tightening with each slam of his hip. 

“Come for me, princess.” He says, and it’s all it takes for you to be shaking against him, his name coming out in repeated strings from your mouth. He kisses into it, drinking in every one of your fucked out expressions. He buries deep into you, hip bucking when he can’t hold it in anymore, letting him spill into you, pulsing against you as he fills you up. 

Sunghoon melts into the crook of your neck, as you press a tender kiss to his hair this time. 

“I love you,” you say it back, a long overdue reply to his past confession. 

He leans up to meet your eyes, mapping out the honesty behind them. Then he grins, bright and beautiful. “I love you too. More than anything, princess.”

You giggle. “Even if I thought you hated me?”

“Even then,” he reassures you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “I’d want you in every way possible, even if you drive me insane sometimes.”

And this time, you believe him without doubt—and you suppose, you love him even if he can be clueless at times, too. 

When you wake up the next morning, your ears are pressed against his heartbeat, real and very much your Sunghoon again. He keeps his promise and never lets go of you again.

reblogs, comments > likes!! ~ your local authors need feedback to survive

Sungho used to be stuck to you like gum, clinging onto you in every way possible just to have your perfume linger on him a little longer, to breathe your scent in so he could fuck himself to it later when when he’d have to leave on tour for days. What started off as a fling—a quickie behind the stage, you on your knees and him with his head thrown back against the wall, it had rapidly descended into motel rooms, then his apartment, then yours—at some point all the lines had blurred into one and so did your living spaces. 

The first time he said that he loved you was with you on top of him, rolling your hips against his, making him writhe in pleasure as he looked up at you in reverence. 

“You’re so gorgeous, you know that?” He had exhaled, laying flushed beneath you, “I think I love you.”

You had replied with a kiss, letting the string of saliva dangle between you as he dived up for more. 

Everything had been fine. 

Until it wasn’t. 

“Hey princess,” Sungho says, his first words to you after six months of touring around the world, leaning in for a quick peck that lands at the corner of your lips, “Missed you.”

It takes every inch of your self-control not to jump him right then and there, at the threshold of your apartment door, not an ounce of care if the neighbours happen to see or listen. Instead, you pull him inside by the forearm, tugging him closer by the collar. “Missed you too, baby,” You say, letting your warm breath ghost over his neck, desperate for his touch after ages of you having to satisfy yourself with just your imagination of him.

It’s nothing compared to Sungho in the flesh: blond hair framing his cheekbones, making him look like an angel on earth, his deep brown eyes that you could drown in, his lips—his gorgeous, pink lips you want to bite until he’s moaning for more. You want him, on you, in you, anywhere you can have him.

But when you suck at the juncture of his collarbones—the same way you’ve done countless times before he’d torn you apart—he pulls away.

You freeze, eyes darting up in confusion.

“Tired.” He offers a soft smile, his hand coming up to ruffle your hair. “C’mon, it’s already eleven…, we should sleep. You stayed up for me didn’t you?”

There’s no lack of love in his voice—but it's…different. Why isn’t he eager for you the same way you are for him? The way he’s always been. 

When he falls asleep next to you that night, it takes everything in you to push down the bubbling feeling in your stomach; you miss him so damn much even though he’s right next to you. 

He’s exhausted…,yeah, being on the road with no breaks did that to people—days of sleeplessness and dancing and breaking his voice on stage, fulfilling everything the idol life demanded of him, did that. He just needed a rest. Then he’ll be back to normal, back to your Sungho. 

So you wait—a day, then two, then it’s a week and another; he doesn’t reach out first, he doesn’t wrap his arms around you in kitchen in the mornings and sink to his knees in desperation, he doesn’t ask for morning sex or to shower together—soon, he’s forgotten how to love you properly. 

When you try to grind down as he wakes up, he kisses your nose affectionately, then tells you to go back to sleep. If you trace his hands up your chest, he wraps it around your waist and presses a kiss onto your temple instead. It’s as though he can’t even take the clue when you’re offering it to him on a silver platter.

That’s how you end up scrolling down internet forums, pages and pages of middle-aged women wondering why their intimate life has dwindled down to nothingness, of worries of cheating and divorce and all the anxiety-inducing hypotheticals that come with a long-term relationship.

It doesn’t take too long before your mind conjures up a picture of Sungho in bed with a faceless woman that’s not you. Your chest squeezes uncomfortably at the thought.

But between paragraphs of doubts, you find something more hopeful—advice.

You pull out your phone and jot it down diligently, determined to fix your love life and end your dry spell with one stone if possible.

1. Dress to seduce.

You push your bralette up in front of the mirror, making your boobs look as prominent as possible, spinning around once to watch how the sheer babydoll dress flows down to your thighs. 

It’s not like he’s never seen you in sexy lingerie—but usually it was just a matching set meant to be discarded within the first five seconds of him seeing you in it. But today, you had gone all out: a pink outfit that hid almost nothing, with just enough coverage to leave a little to the imagination, your hair coming down in perfect ringlets, just the way you knew he liked it. Your lips are glossy and red, skin shaved and smooth as a baby’s. 

It took you five hours but it was worth the pain when you look like a succubus in the flesh and Sungho would fall to his knees for you.

At least, that’s what you assume.

He shows up from his practice schedule an hour later than he should have, late into the night, quietly opening the bedroom door to see you slumped over a pillow. 

“y/n?” His voice breaks you out of your dejection.

You perk up immediately, not even angry that he’s late. Just glad that he’s here now.

“Baby.” You grin, opening up your arms to welcome him. 

He doesn’t lean in, instead motioning to his rumpled shirt and drooping hair, “I’m sweaty babe.”

You frown, “It’s fine, come here.”

He shakes his head with an amused laugh, “You’re too cute. But I don’t want to get you dirty right before bed.” 

Your mind groans, echoing the thought of ‘I want you to get me dirty, please.’ but your mouth remains silent. 

Sungho doesn’t catch on. He just blows you a kiss and says the most outrageous thing you’ve ever heard-”You should wear a jacket, babe. It’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

Is he…stupid? 

Or is he playing dumb just to throw you away after making you yearn for him like a moth to a flame? 

When he leaves for the shower, the muffled rush of water seeping through your wall, you cradle your head in your lap, rolling your hands into a fist as you try to make sense of things. And even when your head hurts from thinking, and your heart tightens in worry, you know you can’t give up on him.

It’s not hopeless—not just yet.

//

2. Use your assets to your advantage.

Sungho likes your body. And he likes to clean. So naturally, he won’t be able to keep his hands off of you when you conjoin those two ideas together and package it into a perfectly salacious gift for him.

It’s quite easy actually—you wait until he has a day off, lounging on the couch to play one of his video games, too distracted to see you carefully plant yourself next to the kitchen island.

“Wow, it's so…dirty.” You swipe a finger over the marble, examining it like a nature enthusiast would. “I should clean today.”

The innuendo should be obvious, if he notices.

“Hmm.” He hums in return, not looking.

You clear your throat, angling yourself in a way that he can have a good sight of your exposed neck and short sundress—the one he likes so much. “Maybe I should sweep the floor too, it’s been ages since it’s been… touched.” You emphasise the words with what you hope is a sultry sigh.

Your boyfriend, ever the fool, nods without a look. He’s too busy kicking a virtual football across the screen. 

You weren’t about to lose to a video game of all things.

Reaching around the couch, you meticulously lean over right in front of him, letting him get an eyeful of your rear, barely covered by the short hem of your dress. It only pools up higher when you bend lower, brushing over the superficial dust on the floor with a slow flick of your wrist.

He doesn’t react until the game ends, dropping his controller with a groan. 

“Why are you cleaning?” Sungho looks over and raises a brow in confusion.

“Can’t a girl have her hobbies?” You reply nonchalantly, swishing your hair to one side to show off the expanse of your neck. 

He doesn’t seem convinced. “You hate cleaning.”

A nerve in your temple twitches in frustration. You drop the feather duster onto the tiles with a soft thud. “Well excuse me for trying. You’ve been too busy playing with your games so someone had to.”

Sungho sighs, not in anger, but in a way you’ve learnt is acceptance. “I’m…sorry.” He says gently, getting up to kiss the top of your hair. “I’ll take over, you go and rest up.” 

As though he wasn’t the one who cleaned up every single time. 

It’s pathetic—how those words should make you the happiest girlfriend on earth but instead, you’re pacing around your room in the worry that he doesn’t crave you anymore. You’re just a person he lives with, someone he kisses occasionally. He doesn’t-

No. You weren't going to spiral, not yet. 

There were still ways to fix this.

//

3. Men like it when you use your mouth.

Quite the sexist advice, but you’re at your wits’ end. 

You weren’t the type to bake much but here you are, planted in front of a bowl, whisking heavy cream with a hand mixer.  

When you hear the familiar pad of footsteps behind you, and the scent of citrus and soap from your boyfriend’s clothes wafts over, you slowly turn around to greet him.

“Morning, sleepy head,” You say as you land a kiss to his cheek, swollen cutely from sleep.

He rubs his eyes with a fist. “Mornin’, what are you up to?”

“Oh, just baking.” You shrug, scooping out a dollop of cream with your finger. Then you turn around, pressing your chest close to his and looking him straight in the eye, sticking your tongue out as slow and sensual as you can.

You bring your finger to your mouth, and suck. “Yum.” 

Sungho blinks the weariness out of his eyes, barely opening them when he hums out to agree, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. 

“Do you want some?” You take another lick, swirling it around on the base of your tongue, and pull it out with a satisfying pop.

He blinks again, shakes his head, and then yawns. 

He yawns. In the face of your seduction.

YAWNS!

You want to flip the entire bowl over his head and call it a day. Maybe stomp over and throw his precious video game out the window while you’re at it. The fuse in you is so close to blowing and taking everything around you with it—but it’s nothing compared to the drought you’ve been suffering through the past month—the carnal need to have your boyfriend ravish you everywhere and anywhere, and the absolute frustration that comes with not getting what you want. 

There is no way in hell you’ll let him win just like that—he doesn’t just get to ignore you. 

You’re hot, you’re bewitching. And there is no man in the world that should throw away the opportunity to worship you.

Sungho was the one to approach you first to begin with; he’s the one who wanted you, ready to give into any thing you’d have been willing to offer. The audacity of the man to pretend like he could be anything but hungry for you…

You’re going to make him regret it—even if it means taking your pride and morals with it. 

//

4. Show him you don’t need him.

Sungho is in the living room. 

You’re on the bed, the door left open just enough for sounds to leak through. The dull drone of the TV is quiet as he works on something in his songwriting book, scribbling and strumming on his guitar in turns. 

Unlike him, you have other matters to attend to—for example, fixing this dry spell of yours with your own two hands, since your dear boyfriend can’t seem to help you out. 

Your hand dips beneath your jean shorts, slowly working up the slick to make it easier for your fingers to enter. Biting down on your bottom lip, you roll your hips against your palm, grinding upwards to bring yourself closer to the edge.

Sungho’s quiet hum reaches you as you push in deeper, his voice sending a spark down your body in the way no part of your own touch can. The moan that escapes your mouth right after is his fault, and his alone.

“Fu-uck.” You groan, bringing your other hand over your clothed chest, pinching through the fabric.

Can he hear you? …Does he care? 

Surely he would; he used to go crazy for your moans, the way you would repeat his name on your tongue like prayers at a confessional. It should be the same still.

“Sungho-...ah!” You don’t bite it down this time, letting it escape free and hopefully reach his ears. 

Then you hear it, the shuffle of paper and clothes moving against the couch. 

He’s going to come to you!

Your heart soars, head tilting for a better view out the door. You can hear the sound of his footsteps approaching closer, heat pooling down to your core at the very thought of him seeing you like this—with your legs spread apart and shirt riding up, just for him.

His body moves closer to the door, and you expect him to push past it and straight towards you, but-

He walks past it and right into the bathroom.

Huh?

The sound of water bleeds through to your ears, not doing anything to calm your slowly building anxiety and the eventual crash. Tears spring up in your eyes; you hug your pillow close to your body, curling up into a fetal position as you try to hold it in. 

And everything comes down in one single crushing weight.

You don’t even realise when Sungho leaves the bathroom and out the apartment, headed for somewhere you don’t want to know anymore.

This is the end of you and him, you’re sure of it.

It’s a Friday night, and like most days recently, he’s not home yet. He could be at work, or he could be in the hands of some other woman, you’re not sure. All that you know is that things have changed for the worse and the glass of wine you cradle in your hand does nothing to ease the ugly feeling in your belly.

You sit with your knees drawn up to your chest, not having bothered to even change out of the skirt and top you wore to work this morning—a small silhouette in the empty, dark living room. Your mascara runs down your cheeks, staining the blush there with splotches, nose red, eyes wet.

“Fuck you, Park Sungho!” You wheeze out through a choked sob, the dark red liquid in your hand swishing around dangerously. “Asshole,” you breath out in exhaustion.

You weren’t one to beat yourself down, not really. When you looked in the mirror, you liked what you saw—the blemishes and little asymmetries only added to your charm. Sungho had always spoken it out loud to you, how he could fall apart from a simple look from you. But in the moment of overthinking and insecurity, for a second, you wonder if he doesn’t find you as beautiful as he said he did. 

The truth of it is plain—your boyfriend is no longer attracted to you. The impending break-up is inevitable, it's only a matter of when.

Worst of all, even between the possibility of him lying, even now, you still love him. You still want him.

The door creaks open as you slump further, footsteps sliding inwards, bringing a shadow along with them. 

“y/n?” Sungho’s airy voice creeps through the blur of alcohol. “Hey…are you alright?”

He kneels down in front of you, taking the glass away from you, trying to gauge your expression, “You had too much to drin-I…wait, are you-” His voice cracks, “-crying?” 

You tilt your head away from his hand, not wanting any part of him near you. “Go away.” It comes out as a plea, not an order.

Sungho’s hand halts mid-air. Something lodges itself in his throat when he says, “Baby, please.”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” You break, a stream of fresh tears rolling down. “Go away, please, before I-”

You don’t know what to say after that. There is no clear plan in your mind, even if it hadn’t been clouded by inebriation. All you want is to run away or for him to leave you alone so you can crumble in peace. 

“Please talk to me,” His eyes are red when you dare to meet them. “Please y/n, don’t just push me away, not like this.”

You can’t bear to see him like this, even when you look worse for wear. He seems so small in front of you, hands holding onto yours like in a prayer for forgiveness—for what, you don’t know.

“You don’t love me anymore.” The admission is a crack in your voice. “You don’t like me. You don’t want me.”

Sungho’s brows furrow in a mix of disbelief and pain. “I always want you, there’s not a day that I don’t.”

You shake your head. “You don’t even find me beautiful anymore.” 

“Baby,” He sighs, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, weak in his palms. “I find you the most beautiful thing on this earth, I have and always will.”

“Then why won’t you fuck me!?”

Silence. 

A cricket chirps from the balcony, then the whirr of a faraway airplane, then nothing.

“Huh?” Sungho asks, even more confused. 

“You don’t want to fuck me!” You barrel on, tongue loose and anger flared. “You won’t touch me, you won’t look at me. You don’t want me!”

“What are you talking about!? I-” He sighs, letting his head drop into your lap, still holding onto your hands. “y/n…”

“What?”

He lifts his head, just a little. “Will you listen if I explain?”

You brace yourself—is he about to admit to losing interest? Or there being another person all along…? Is this the end of everything you’ve built up…and if so, what do you do next?

“I didn’t want you to think I only wanted you for sex.” Sungho admits, whispering into the contours of your hands. “I…wanted us to be official before we took things too quickly…”

Now it’s your turn to be confused. “What?”

“We began so suddenly, and everything was physical between us when we started off.” He smiles. “I didn’t want it to be just that, I want us to be real. To have a future together and have a family and give you everything you’ve ever wanted…I was just waiting for the right time.”

“You said...official…as in?”

“I want you to be my girlfriend, y/n.”

Your tears dry up in the span of what takes for him to concoct that sentence—that stupid, remarkably idiotic sentence. 

“We’re already dating, Sungho.” 

He blinks up at you. “...huh?” 

“You met my mom. I’ve met your parents. We live together.”

“But,” he begins, flubbering. “We never actually said-”

“You told me you love me.”

“That’s different. I didn’t ask you out.”

“OH MY GOD!” You don’t know if you should laugh or cry—did he seriously just cause you to self-destruct and embarrass yourself over weeks just because he had no clue that you were well into your relationship and not just fooling around for fun. “You are so…so unbelievable. I cannot believe you made me do all of that just because you hadn’t ‘asked me out ’ yet.”

“All of…what?”

“I licked whipped cream off my finger for you!” You groan, wanting to die of shame. “I tried to seduce you for god’s sake.”

“Oh.” is all he says.

“I touched myself loud enough so you could hear, you idiot!” 

“Ah,” This seems to knock some memory into him. “I-I heard.”

Your eyes widen. “And you didn’t come help me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to-” Sungho chokes out, sincerely clueless. “Babe, I had to go help myself out in the bathroom because you were so loud and I could barely write one verse down without getting hard.”

“Oh my god,” It’s stupid, and silly, and a little funny—how all of this could have been prevented if you’d just talked to each other. “Park Sungho, you stupid, sexy, gentleman."

He finally lets himself relax, breathing out a sigh and nuzzling his lips into your palms, “Let me make it up to you?”

You don’t even need him to ask; before you know it, he’s lowering his head to leave a soft kiss to your knee, letting your skirt ride up as he inches up the flesh of your thigh. There’s no patience in you—not after being denied his touch for this long. Your fingers find a home in his hair, tugging gently to elicit a moan from his mouth into the flesh of your groin.

“Sungho~” Your eyes roll back, head resting against the couch as he maps out your body, inch by inch. But it isn’t enough. As his tongue prods past your skin and into the heat of your clothed core, you whimper in desperation, wanting more and more. “Please.”

“Baby.” His whisper vibrates against you, sending tremors up your spine. He grips the mound of your thigh, gently prying it apart. “Spread more.”

You could come from just his voice—the way he commands and still remains so loving. You comply easily, sitting back against the handrest to give him better access as he climbs over you. The dim outdoor lights from the balcony dance over his features, his hair mussed from sweat, eyes dark and desperate for you. 

“Good girl.” He taps the side of your thigh in praise, flipping the material of your skirt upwards. You know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth- “God, you’re so wet already.”

“Sungho, don’t leave me hanging.” You beg, reaching out to push him back down into your core. 

He obeys without complaints, saying, “All for me.” before pushing his tongue against the fabric of your underwear, making it even wetter than it had already been. One of his hands reaches up to trace over your breast, letting it pebble as he tugs gently. You help out by unclasping your bra, pushing it aside for better access. 

Your senses override—toes curling as he keeps going with a newfound will, eager to please, as desperate for you as you are for him. With one careful tug, he shoves aside your underwear, letting his lips meet you without hindrance, coating it with your taste. 

First, heat—then it builds up into something unquenchable, coursing up your body as a wave of pleasure begins to engulf you. Your head lolls back. “Sung-”

He moves his mouth away, moving up to kiss over your neck instead. “Not yet.” He sighs.

Before you can process your dismay, he’s standing up to carry you straight into the bedroom, not wasting a second before he drops you onto the mattress and climbs over your body in one swift motion. He switches on the nightlight with one hand, the other working over the hem of your top.

“Wanna see you.” His breath comes out rugged. 

You nod, pulling your shirt and bra off, throwing it over somewhere on the floor—tommorow’s problem. Being the kind lover that he is, he removes his shirt without you needing to ask, as you pull at the drawstring of his sweatpants, hand moving over his apparent bulge. 

The sight of the smooth plane of his chest is enough for you to lose all control; you haven’t seen him like this in forever, the dips of his arms—muscles toned and smooth, each contour of his body fashioned with utmost care and hard work. Then there's the trail of sparse hair that leads down his stomach, pants hanging just low enough to have you whimpering. 

“Like what you see?” He smirks.

“Shut up.” You reply without any real bite, ready to pull off your skirt until he stops you with a hand around your wrist. 

“Keep it on.” He’s saying. And you listen. 

Sungho frames you with his arms on either side of your body, starting off with the softest kiss to your temple. Like he always does. 

Then he’s trailing it down without breaking away for air—down your cheeks, over your earlobe—and that has you shuddering when he reaches a particularly sensitive spot, then curling around your jaw and throat and right down to your bare chest. 

It’s slow, romantic—but tonight, patience is not your best suit. “Sungho, baby, you can be rough with me.” 

The permission from you is all it takes for him to snap; he’s pushing your skirt higher, helping you out of your underwear and letting you tug his sweatpants down to his thigh to free his length from inside his boxers. There’s no time to admire it—but you can miss it for a night if it meant having him like this for the rest of your life. 

“You’re still on your birth control right?”

You nod, eager and impatient.

His hipbones meet yours like a missing puzzle piece, pushing the tip of his shaft into you first, and once you adjust to the stretch, he’s rocking against you in one fluid motion, letting it travel as deep as it can without hurting you.

He continues to guide your hips to match his rhythm as he pounds into you without restrain. “You’re so good for me, so fucking tight.” You clench around him at his words, letting him suck a bruise into your shoulder. 

“Sungho!” You tighten your arms around him at a particularly sensitive thrust, unconsciously dragging your nails down his back. 

When you realise how hard you scrape against his skin, you begin to move them away, but Sungho pulls your hands back on him. “My princess,” He sighs, pupils blown, lips glistening and red. “You’re such a good girl for me, always so perfect.”

You whine in response as he kisses your mouth, opening up for him on instinct, and soon your tongue is meeting his—hurried, full of want, pushing and pulling as he thrusts with even more vigour. When you part to bite down on his lip, he lets out a downright sinful moan. 

And God, did you miss his voice like this. 

The bedroom echoes with the soft sounds he manages to coax out of you, mixing with the drag of his cock, and the filthiest words he whispers against your skin. 

You feel it—the coiling in your stomach, tightening with each slam of his hip. 

“Come for me, princess.” He says, and it’s all it takes for you to be shaking against him, his name coming out in repeated strings from your mouth. He kisses into it, drinking in every one of your fucked out expressions. He buries deep into you, hip bucking when he can’t hold it in anymore, letting him spill into you, pulsing against you as he fills you up. 

Sungho melts into the crook of your neck, as you press a tender kiss to his hair this time. 

“I love you,” You say it back, a long overdue reply to his past confession. 

He leans up to meet your eyes, mapping out the honesty behind them. Then he grins, bright and beautiful. “I love you too. More than anything, princess.”

You giggle. “Even if I thought you hated me?”

“Even then.” He reassures you, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “I’d want you in every way possible, even if you drive me insane sometimes.”

And this time, you believe him without doubt—and you suppose, you love him even if he can be clueless at times, too. 

When you wake up the next morning, your ears are pressed against his heartbeat, real and very much your Sungho again. He keeps his promise and never lets go of you again.

y/n about MMOHW sungho: why so sexy if so dumb ∘ ∘ ∘ ( °ヮ° ) ?

⊹♡ for my sfw fics, visit @taestulipss or go to my masterlist! thank you for reading!

“Y/N, don’t you have an ounce of puncualit-” Sungho doesn't get to finish his sentence when his eyes slide up to notice your appearance. 

He gapes, dazed and slightly flushed.

Here’s the thing—he’s known you all his life, along with Taesan of course, ever since you marched up to the two of them on the playground and demanded they be best friends with you. The rest of the band joined in increments, some in middle school, some much later. But he knows you and he knows that the L/N Y/N he’s familiar with has never worn a dress, much less one this pretty. 

Your mother had to wrangle you to the ground if she wanted to put you in anything frilly and not your band tee slash denim combo. He’s witnessed every possible count of teenage rebellion from you, from tantrums to angry stomp-outs to whining like a child on his carpet. Taesan only poked fun at your state, but he’s always looked at your petulance with fondness. 

But here you were, decked out in a light blue sundress, cinched at the waist, flashing a fluffy bow at the back, and several inches of skin beneath when you turn around to take your place behind the mic. 

He wants to ask a million different questions in his head about the sudden change, but it’s Taesan that does it for him.

“Lost a bet?” He wiggles his brow, coming to nudge your shoulder while you scoff. 

“You wish.” You roll your eyes as you secure your rhythm guitar around your shoulder. 

“Hmm…should’ve gone with pigtails to match,” The black haired demon replies, flicking at a strand that sticks out of your crown. “Just like on picture day in fifth grade.”

You sneer at the memory, earning another grin from Taesan, and a giggle from Riwoo (but that could just be a reaction to another cat video, you’ll never know).

“It’s Anton isn’t it?” Riwoo says without looking up from his phone, airing your business out to the entire band. “He asked you out, didn’t he?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, and choose to simply shrug it off.

Sungho doesn’t like the way you don’t elaborate further, and he can only make the smart guess that Taesan does not either, not from the way his brows knit tightly together and the sudden tension under his shoulders, and the way it only unwinds once the music starts to pick up once more. 

The session goes without any more mishaps, rhythm and melody bouncing against the garage walls, yours and Sungho’s voices melding sweetly in a complementing contrast to Taesan’s smooth strums and Woonhak’s pulsating beats, every note going straight to your bones as you lose yourself in the music as a five-person unit. 

“Good job, guys.” Woonhak hoots after he finishes with one final slam on the cymbals, always your first and most enthusiastic fan. 

Riwoo comes to ruffle the top of your head. “Same time again tomorrow, yeah? Band’s more important than dates, kay?”

“Whatever.” You brush it away, moving around to place the guitar back in its reserved spot as everyone else trickles out one by one; Woonhak says goodbye with many enthusiastic waves until Riwoo has to drag him away by the scruff.

You lean down to tie up your laces that have fallen out from jumping around to the music. Sungho can’t help but linger to watch, making the excuse of wiping down his bass guitar, leaning back on the moth-eaten couch in the corner as he barely swipes around the instrument with a cloth. 

However, it’s obvious that Taesan has the same idea.

He spends maybe five minutes drying the insides of his headphones against his precious Linkin Park t-shirt before finally breaking. “So…” He begins, coughing to catch your attention. “Anton?”

You don’t look around. “Yeah, what about him?” 

Taesan bites down on his lower lip, holding back a scoff. “...You’re really going on a date?”

Sungho can sense it, the tension, the way you should have already been done with tying your converse up, but somehow your fingers twiddle at the strings like it’s a harder task than it should be. 

“What’s it to you?” You tilt your head to look up, making Taesan go still.

“He was just asking, Y/N.” Sungho interrupts before the two of you can start clawing at each other. “We’re both concerned, that’s all.”

“I’m a grown up, I don’t need you guys to babysit me.” 

There’s no acid in your tone, but Taesan clings to the lack of affection, and in retaliation, “Say that when he breaks your heart and you come running back here.” 

Sungho doesn’t know when exactly it escalates, just that in a moment without clarity, you have Taesan pinned up against the wall with your hand clutching his collar. You’re seething. He’s grinning. 

“Guys—” Sungho’s feet quickly leave the couch, coming up to stand right in the middle of the space separating you and Taesan. “Talk this out like adults, stop being so childish.”

Apparently that was not the right thing to have said, because now you’re glaring at both of them, taking turns to divide your angry attention between the two.

“I’m not childish, he is!” 

“Sungho hyung, tell this kid to back off.” Taesan grins wider, wiggling his eyebrow just to get under your skin.

You jump in before Sungho can, voice menacing and a faux smile to match, “And what would you know about heartbreaks Taesanie, you haven’t been with anyone ever.”

Taesan’s lips curl down into an irritated sneer, and the hand fiddling with a guitar pick now comes to rest around the wrist you have against his shirt. “Don’t test me.”

You scoff again. “Or what?”

If this was a comic, there would be furious electric sparks crackling between your eyes; Taesan’s jaw is tight enough to break his teeth, your glare sharp and narrow. Sungho has no idea if the heat he feels pooling to his stomach is dread or lust.

“Guys—” He tries again, but his voice cracks as the words die in his throat. 

Taesan is still looking at you, and only you, but what comes out of his mouth next is obviously addressed to Sungho. “Hyung, why don’t we teach this little brat a lesson? She’s all bark and no bite.”

Sungho doesn’t even have the time to understand the sudden turn of events when Taesan flips positions, and you end up being the one with your hands pressed up against the wall, lifted above your head. He dips lower, ghosting a hot breath over your throat, right where your pulse rests. 

“Is this okay?” He ends up asking, and even when his teeth accidentally graze against your skin, it’s much too gentle to match the predicament you’re under. His hand that wraps around yours is loose enough for you to break out if you so wish, and you realise he’s offering you an out in the chance you don’t want this as bad as he does.

You nod, because he'd be stupid to think otherwise, tilting your head to give him more access to suck at the spot, but your eyes lock Sungho’s wide ones, glazed over in a feeling so far off from jealousy. 

He’s turned on, you realise. 

“Sungho,” You find yourself speaking, no, begging. “Please.”

The wrecked plea in your voice jumpstarts his heart and drops the blood straight down into his pants. Sungho finally remembers to breathe. “Uh…”

“She said please.” Taesan repeats with an amused chuckle against you, still buried in the crook of your neck and making a work of nibbling reds and purples onto it, along with the imprint of his sharp front teeth. “Don’t make us wait now.”

If Sungho was hard before, he’s rock solid now—because not only are you looking at him while Taesan marks you like a colouring book, but the younger boy emphasises the ‘us’ in his sentence, and Sungho has never wondered, let alone known, if either of his childhood best friends felt a fraction of what he did for them all these years—and now it seems that the either has evolved into a both, and miraculously, the opportunity falls right into his lap without him having to work a day for it (unless pining now counted as work, that is). 

“Fuck.” He sighs, perhaps in relief, maybe in joy, possibly equal parts both. He doesn’t know exactly how to insert himself into this…situation, whether he just interrupt your make-out session and take up one of the two empty spots, or wait for more direction—it's not like threesomes came with cue cards, though he’s starting to desperately wish they did.

So he buys time by moving to pull the garage shutter down, blanketing the room in just the soft glow that shone from the overhead bulb and a few fairy lights along the walls. When he returns back to the same spot, he shuffles on his feet.

Taesan seems to catch onto his hesitance; he extends his free hand that isn’t holding yours in Sungho’s direction, grabbing at air until Sungho takes it. The older boy has no space to protest when he’s being pulled into the mess of bodies, landing flush against Taesan’s side as he moves around to make room for him without separating his mouth from your neck.

“Hey.” You reach for the blond, letting Taesan squirm around your skin as your hand finds a perch under Sungho’s chin, pulling him taut against your own lips. 

Sungho feels hot. From your open mouth, from the sweat building up under his jacket, from the small garage on the summer’s day, and when Taesan’s hand inches up under his shirt, from his rough palms as well. It’s rougher than Sungho’s, and clearly larger, but still somewhere along the same area in the spectrum of roughness. Guitarist hands. All three of you adorn calluses like a badge won, but Sungho has never got to feel it this freely without the pretense of simply wanting to compare heartlines and hand-sizes. 

It overrides his senses—the way you part your lips without needing to be prompted, your tongue clashing with his, warm and wet and red, moving in the same practiced harmony the two of you did in your songs. And Taesan—he’s only too happy to oblige when he now switches to bite down at Sungho’s exposed neck instead, pulling out a moan that spills right into your open mouth. 

“Want…more.” Taesan whines, tugging the blond’s shirt. Sungho detaches himself from you to make a quick work of throwing off his leather jacket onto a corner, hoping it lands somewhere on the couch, and then you and Taesan eagerly pull off his undershirt even when it isn’t a two-person job. 

“Hyung, you’re fucking hot.” The raven-haired boy is all but drooling, eyes pinned on Sungho’s lean torso like he can’t look away if he tries. To no one’s surprise, except Sungho’s, you do the same thing—but with more dignity and discretion than Taesan does.

You’re nodding in agreement. “Yeah…what he said.”

Sungho flushes pink from the top of his nape all the way down to his chest, and he has the sudden urge to cover himself up. But neither of you are about to let him; Taesan makes quick work of tugging off the older’s belt, while you distract him through languid kisses that taste like bubblegum chapstick. 

When Sungho ends up undressed but for his jeans, Taesan decides to give you your deserved attention and turns you around to fumble around with the bow at your back. 

“Why is this thing so complicated? Did you super glue this shit—” He’s grumbling, and you only roll your eyes, albeit fondly this time.

“Your inexperience is louder than your big mouth.” You retort, winking at a slowly melting Sungho.

“You weren’t complaining about my big mouth a while back.” Taesan smirks, making you dig your elbows back into his stomach as he gasps for air.

“Sungho, help me out of this.” You say, grabbing his arms to place it around your waist. 

Sungho gulps, not wanting to admit that he was just as, if not less experienced than Taesan. So he carefully unknots the bow, pulling the sash apart so that the fabric pools around your sides, exposing your back to him. “Wow.” He hears himself saying.

You giggle, Taesan’s voice joining in at their friend’s cuteness when he’s flustered. 

In another five minutes of more unclothing, your dress is bunched up below your chest, your knees planted on the peeling leather of Taesan’s old couch; Taesan is right behind you, his naked torso flush against your back, mouth still nipping at your nape as he grinds against your rear. You’re kissing Sungho, who leans back against the far end of the armrest, both his hands cupping your cheeks in reverence as he drinks in your whimpers, and you his.    

Cloth rubs against cloth, fabric rustling as the three of you move in tandem. Some loud guitar instrumental that Taesan had half the mind to put on plays in the background, spitting riffs and guitar solos out of his old laptop propped up on top of the drum kit. 

“Taesanie,” You sigh, turning your head. “Take over?” 

You shuffle to the ground to kneel in front of the couch, letting Taesan move Sungho so that he ends up behind the blond, turning his head sideways with that cheshire cat grin of his. “Any sensitive spots we should know about?” He asks with a glint in his eye.

Sungho gulps, in fear as well as in anticipation, then he shakes his head. 

“Sure?” Taesan replies as you unzip Sungho’s jeans, trying to tug it downwards. Taesan uses his arms to lift his legs up a little so that you have more freedom to peel the material away from his body, but the motion lands Sungho right into the younger man’s lap. If he tilts his head backwards, it’s Taesan’s devilish smile staring back at him. If he dares to look down, it’s your falsely innocent face between his legs. He thinks that he might die twice, and happily both times.

Sungho is drunk on your expression as you free his cock out of his boxers when an unbridled yelp escapes him, and only then does he see Taesan’s fingers pinching at one of his nipples with no mercy. He tugs and twists just to test what kind of reaction Sungho can give him, and the way he hums seems to imply that he’s quite satisfied each time. 

“You lied, Sungho Hyung. You’re sensitive here.” Another taut pull; Sungho squirms against Taesan and you. “And here.” Taesan pushes your head forward to take Sungho’s length in your mouth, and that has the blond flopping backwards like a snapped string. Taesan plays with this chest the same way he tunes his guitar, turning the pegs until he finds the right pitch, the same way he only stops when he can draw out the exact frequency of a whine from Sungho’s mouth he wants. 

“Fuck…’s too much.” Sungho’s protests are broken and raspy. “I’m so close.”

You bob up and down on his cock, making Sungho see stars and maybe the entire Milky Way when every part of his body is being used like an instrument. He feels himself about to climax and makes an exhausted move to pull out, scared to hurt you, but you’re already diving back in with a half-lidded gaze, gripping the base with your hands and letting him spill himself into the back of your throat.

There isn’t any time to waste when you wipe your lips and start climbing up to kiss him, letting him taste himself on you. Taesan seems to have reached his tipping point as well, impatiently coming up to Sungho’s other side to lick into his open mouth, eventually taking whoever’s lips and whatever he can to please himself. There should be three mouths, but it all feels like one; there’s only heat left behind when teeth meet flesh, tongues wrap around one another, fingers yank into hair and scalps, and whines melt against skin like a new melody. 

When you eventually come up for air, you’re sitting with your clothed core pressed against one of Taesan’s thighs, the denim sending bolts of sensation up your spine with every one of your slow drags. Sungho is on the other side, simply happy to watch. But something about Taesan’s darkened eyes has him helping the younger out of his boxers, curiosity getting the better of him as he flattens a thumb against his tip, watching carefully at how Taesan gasps for air and release as he warms him up with his own precum. 

Sungho’s other hand comes around to rest against your back, keeping you balanced and safe, letting you ride Taesan without worry. He can’t help but feel satisfied at both your moans filling the gaps between the lyrics coming out of the laptop, the way you take barely seconds of breaks only to kiss, lovingly, eagerly, years of pent up feelings spilling out without restraint. 

“Taesan-ah,” Sungho calls, wanting to play conductor for a change this time, “Use your fingers on Y/N-ie. It’s rude to let her do all the work.”

You chuckle at how he keeps his gentlemanly personality even in a situation as absurd as this, but you don’t protest when Taesan turns you around to let you rest your head against his chest, his hands pushing your dress even higher so that he can pull away your underwear. 

Then he’s inserting a finger, then another, pushing in easily through your wetness, finding the sweet spot that has you begging for release. A litany of ‘Please’s and ‘Fuck’s echo around the room, not even sure if it’s yours or Taesan’s, and Sungho has a fleeting thought of how perfect the acoustics of this place is, all the while his head dips down to taste Taesan. The two of you come at the same time—just as Taesan’s playlist comes to an end—wrapping around each other on instinct, the smell of sweat and sex clinging onto everything. Sungho joins, melting into the couch as the three of you kiss with adoration. 

When the high of fucking settles down, it’s replaced by something softer, but no less fulfilling. You cuddle into the too small couch, squeezing to adjust, and not at all bothered by the lack of space. Taesan kisses your head, and Sungho’s hands rest against his ribs, tracing patterns into the shape of bones there. 

“So…” Taesan grins, ruining the quiet. “Anton.”

“Oh, shut up.” You groan. “I wasn’t gonna go anyways.”

“Liar.” He rolls his eyes. “Both of you, liars.” Sungho just laughs against his nape.

“Well you better help me come up with an excuse for when he asks why I didn’t show up.”

Taesan smirks. “Just say the truth…that you were too busy fucking both your best friends.”

There’s a part of you that wants to shove him off the couch, but that would mean collateral damage and you know for a fact that he would drag Sungho down with him. 

The sounds of you bickering back and forth echoes lightly in the little garage that has seen the three of you grow up, seen every memorable milestone of yours—scraped knees, first fights, Sungho’s first guitar lessons, the first time Taesan ever scribbled lyrics onto the back of his Science textbook, the first time you sang it for them. 

Listening to the two of you quarrelling like nothing has changed, Sungho is sure of two fundamental truths in the world: that he could lay here on this spot forever if it meant getting to do it with the both of you, and that he undoubtedly, irrevocably, and unfathomably, loves his best friends—in more ways than one.    

What the rest of the band has to say about it, well…that’s tomorrow’s problem. For now, there is nothing that an old couch and some bickering can’t heal. 

a/n: OMG didn't realise it but it's my first ever taesan fic and it's smut lmao

for my nsfw fics: read here [MDNI] for my sfw fics, visit @taestulipss or go to my masterlist!

div cred: @saradika-graphics