🔮 preview. “You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
tw/cw. Mentions of porn and bdsm, unprotected sex, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, oral/pussy eating, praise, slight degradation, manhandling, fingering, overstimulation, foreplay, etc… I pet names: (hers) angel, baby.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k
🍭 aus. Non idol au, angel & demon au, enemies to lovers, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. So think of it kind of like the Disney movie about emotions, Inside Out, where the demon and angel view Mingyu’s world through a viewing station and speak to him through his subconscious to guide him one way or the other. Also, please note: I’m not religious, so my interpretation of angel!y/n warring with herself over temptation is simply an interpretation and a fanfic.
Prologue:
You can remember the day you first saw Mingyu as if it were only this morning. He was the sweetest child, visiting church with his family at age four. There was something so adorable about his all-white outfit, the slacks and button-up with a vest. He looked very devoted and very determined as he stood up and sang the church songs with his whole little chest.
That was the day you asked to be his guardian angel, and for a time, nothing had ever been so easy.
Mingyu is pure of heart in a way most humans can never even dream of being. Some kids have a demon on their shoulder from an early age, a pest to be dealt with and chastised by both angel and parent, but not Mingyu. It was just you and him, for many, many years, and you delighted in the fact that you had one of the best boys you’d ever met as your ward.
Many late-blooming children gain a demon when they enter high school, when they first try marijuana or alcohol against their own better judgment - it’s the work of the demon on their shoulder - but again, not Mingyu.
It wasn’t until your good boy was sixteen that things started to shift. His friends were all having their first sexual encounters, and they began to tease your perfect church baby that he was a virgin. Mingyu tried to pretend their words didn’t hurt, but you knew differently. Although you tried to push him in the direction of spending more time with other church children, Mingyu continued to hang out with these raunchy boys, as they were on his high school basketball team.
He held off valiantly from the compulsions of the deadly sins, but one cold December night, your perfect golden boy finally snapped and gave in to temptation.
The demon known as Wonwoo appeared the moment Mingyu first typed the words ‘porn hub’ into his cellphone, and in the darkness of Mingyu’s room, you met the man who would be your antihero for as long as Mingyu would continue to live.
And Wonwoo is a demon with a reputation. Whereas you like to cherry-pick your wards as the kindhearted humans who are pure of soul, Wonwoo is known for his ability to sniff out those who are easily tempted by sin. His last human was a sexual fiend, and he got addicted to OnlyFans. he lost his relationship and all of his money due to Wonwoo’s coaxing of the addiction. The man died prematurely while drunk driving, which is something of a success story for the demon who collected his soul in the end.
So why was this demon in particular here with you and Mingyu?
What had seemed like an easy task had become more difficult than you ever signed up for, and Wonwoo seemed to relish in the knowledge that he was here to contradict your every musing in Mingyu’s ear.
One:
“I hope you have your popcorn ready, angel,” Wonwoo grins, as the two of you hover in your between-worlds guardian posting. It’s kind of like an apartment, with two sides, the good and the evil, with a massive monitor to watch what Mingyu is doing at any given time. There are speakers for you both to try to persuade him into things, and your voices are what Mingyu might classify as opposing sides of his subconscious.
“Frat parties can be positive,” you insist as you settle next to Wonwoo. “Last time, he saved that girl who blacked out.”
“Yeah, the wild goose chase,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “He should have been hitting on girls and slamming jello shots, but instead, you convinced him to track down the girl’s dorm room, carry her all the way home, and make sure she was okay when she woke up hours later. He even held her hair back while she puked. Yuck.”
When Wonwoo knows he’s lost to you, he generally fucks off, goes back into his demon side of the apartment, in his demon room, or leaves altogether to complete other tasks.
Demons don’t need sleep, and technically, angels don’t either, but you’re a self-identifying lazy girl, and you prefer to have rest when Mingyu sleeps, rather than be twenty-four seven working like Wonwoo is. You wonder if his packed schedule is what makes him such a dick, but you also have seen the joy he takes in doing bad deeds, and you can only assume that when he’s not here with you in Mingyu’s head, he’s off pillaging and causing mischief elsewhere.
Wonwoo looks through Mingyu’s eyes, and he leans toward the communicator where he can send his words to your ward. “Get a drink,” Wonwoo insists. “Something fun. Something fruity. Something with way too much alcohol that’s masked with sugar.”
You sigh, also leaning forward. “We should start slow with some water.”
You can sense Mingyu’s inner turmoil as he makes his way to the kitchen, and that’s where he bumps into Hoshi and Seungkwan, both of whom are ruled by their inner demon.
“Hey buddy, want a drink?” Hoshi grins, cheeks pink, eyes clouded with booze.
“Reject him,” you say.
“Accept,” Wonwoo pushes.
“Sure, why not?” Mingyu grins, taking the cup of purple liquid. He downs it easily, and you sigh. So tonight will be a more indulgent evening, and you hate the way Wonwoo sits back with a smile.
“Score one for me, angel,” Wonwoo muses.
“The night is still young,” you huff.
Wonwoo leans forward again. “You know what goes good with alcohol? Cocaine. Or ecstasy. Something fun. Maybe molly.”
You’re flabbergasted. “Mingyu has never-”
“Now is the night to start, he’s at a frat party, with friends, and we know Vernon always has a bong on hand. Maybe weed, something chill.”
You hate him, and you spend the next two hours battling Wonwoo for dominance of Mingyu. Wonwoo wins when it comes to alcohol, but your sweet boy isn’t interested in drugs, no matter how much the demon insists it’s the perfect night to dabble.
And that’s when Mingyu first lays eyes on Kimi.
She’s a year younger than him, someone he’s heard about and seen a few times, but never talked to. She looks gorgeous, in a flowy top and jeans that hug her just right. You can sense Mingyu’s heartbeat quickening, and in his drunkenness, he’s even more susceptible to Wonwoo, who leans forward. “You should fuck her tonight, there’s never a time to be a whore like the present.”
“No sex, you like her!” you argue back. “Talk to her, get her name, look for longevity.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “A one-night stand with a girl like that? Who could think of something better?”
“Uh, maybe a relationship?” you snap.
“We don’t know anything about her!” Wonwoo yells. “And we don’t need to know.”
You lean back from where Mingyu can hear your subconscious pushings, glaring at Wonwoo. “What’s with you and rough, anonymous sex?”
“It’s the best way to have it,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening. “I think our Mingyu boy would love to try some of the things he’s seen in the porn I’ve pushed him to watch. You know, bondage, tying a girl up, all the good shit.”
“Consentually, of course.”
“With you here, it would always have to be consensual,” Wonwoo scoffs.
“You’re despicable.”
“I’m a demon.”
“Even demons have their limits.”
Wonwoo shrugs. “Not really.”
“Well, my Mingyu is a good person. He’d never stoop to your level.”
“Well, he watches the porn I want to watch.”
You click your tongue. Wonwoo convincing Mingyu to watch porn is always the worst, and it’s when you leave the viewing station. The demon can be particularly convincing when it comes to observing sex acts on Mingyu’s phone, but you know your good boy would never go further than simply watching. He’s not the type to ever act on some of the more raunchy ideas Wonwoo forces into his head.
No matter how hard Wonwoo pushes, you know your Mingyu.
And you’re thankful that by the end of the night at the frat party, Mingyu agrees with you that he’s now too drunk, and he retires to bed.
The viewing station goes dark as Mingyu drifts to sleep, and you stand up with a sigh, glaring at Wonwoo.
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to admit that you kind of like the whole bondage sex thing,” Wonwoo sighs.
“What?” you gasp.
“You always leave the room when he and I watch porn.”
“Because I’m a pure being! Because porn and sex go against what I stand for!”
“Porn and lust might be ‘anti-angel’, but sex is natural; it’s God-created. Humans are like any other animal, and they’re meant to have sex, to procreate,” Wonwoo says simply. “I know you’re loose on your whole ‘celibate until marriage’ ideals. When Mingyu lost his virginity, you were happy because it was soft. You might be an angel, but you don’t follow a strict code, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that you follow the bible to the letter. I’m just curious how loose your morals really are. You might think I’m here to test Mingyu, but I’m really here to test you.”
“And who do you think you are to test me?” you glare.
Wonwoo shrugs. “Just a demon who specializes in lust, a demon who took one look at you on Mingyu’s shoulder and decided, ‘you know what, I’d fuck that angel.’”
“As if that’s a compliment.”
“It is, most angels have sticks up their asses the size of the Empire State Building. And don’t get me wrong, you have a stick up yours too, I’m just curious if you’d want something else up inside of you at the same time.”
“I can’t believe you,” you groan, hating the way your body reacts to his sinister smirk, the slight floodyness of his hair, and the regal way he stares at you.
“You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
Two:
“Hold it, you’re not going anywhere,” Wonwoo grins, grabbing your arm as you’re about to leave the room, when Mingyu pulls up pornhub with Kimi on his mind.
“I’m not sitting here with you for this; it’s weird,” you insist, pulling yourself away from him, hating the way the cold of his touch lingers on your skin.
“Boys will be boys, let the man find some release,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening.
“Boys may be boys, but you were whispering in Mingyu’s ear all day that he should have a jack off session and think about ‘that chick from the frat party.’”
Wonwoo shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard to convince him.”
You let out a deep breath.
“Watch this,” Wonwoo leans forward so Mingyu can hear him. “Look up ‘rope BDSM.’”
“Oh my gosh!” You cover your eyes with your hands as Mingyu quickly follows through with Wonwoo’s suggestion.
“There’s something so sexy about having complete control of another person,” Wonwoo insists, leaning back and staring at you with dark eyes. “Admit it, you liked controlling Mingyu before I showed up.”
“It’s not remotely the same.”
“It is, sort of.” The demon shrugs. “You like control. I know you do. Because every time you don’t get your way, you have a little fit.”
“I do not!”
“Look at you, angel, you’re practically stomping your cute little foot right now.” Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, and you hate how attractive it is. “If you play your cards right, someday, I might let you have a little control over me.”
“What, like tie you up?” you scoff.
Wonwoo’s grin widens. “Does that excite you?”
“In your dreams,” you snap.
“Angel, we both know I don’t sleep. But I do imagine things, things about you…”
Your breath catches.
“I imagine what you sound like, what you taste like. I imagine the look in your eye when I have you immobilized and at my mercy. I imagine making you crack, making you finally admit that pleasure is exactly what it means in the dictionary; the feelings of delight, something you enjoy with every fiber of your being, something you’d beg for me to give you again and again.”
Your skin is heating with embarrassment, and it’s crazy to you that Wonwoo can say everything he just said with a completely straight face. He has zero shame in admitting the things he’s just admitted, and yet, you feel like the dirty one.
“I’m leaving,” you say again, more firmly this time.
“I won’t stop you; you have full control of yourself, and that’s what makes this interesting.” Wonwoo turns his attention back to the screen, where Mingyu is now in the throes of enjoying porn.
“You’re evil,” you snap.
“I’m a demon, it’s part of the job description,” Wonwoo says absentmindedly.
You fight the urge to stomp your foot, and with one last scoff of displeasure, you go back to your quarters, throwing yourself down onto your bed with a muffled scream.
Three:
It’s been a month of chaos. Wonwoo has become somehow even more dirty, and every time he whispers some sexual idea in Mingyu’s ear, his eyes are fixed on you.
You squirm when he mentions bondage, porn, rough sex, and more dirty things that are not for an angel’s ears.
And to make matters worse, you know that Wonwoo is imagining himself doing all of these dirty things to you. To be the object of sin and desire is new to you, and it brings an uncomfortable feeling to the pit of your stomach.
You grapple with yourself every night, unable to get Wonwoo’s voice out of your head.
The word ‘tantalizing’ has never had much merit for you, but now, you understand. Wonwoo oozes sex and intrigue; he makes your mind go to places it's never before visited; dark, lustful places that make your heart race and your skin tingle.
The little smirk that quirks onto his lips when he knows he’s irritated you has become burned into your mind's eye, and you can’t escape the shiny points of his canines, or the flash of black that overtakes his irises when he’s being demonic.
You can feel your resolve to stay true to your morals is slipping, and in its place is a growing need that’s threatening to overtake you, body and soul.
This is the power of a truly strong demon, and it both scares and excites you while you war with yourself.
Four:
After another long day of Wonwoo being raunchy, Mingyu finally goes to sleep. The viewer goes dark, and you stand up with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” you muse, “but I’m thankful you didn’t push for more porn.”
“He’s on a streak, you know,” Wonwoo smirks. “But I figured I could let you off the hook for one night.”
“Let my pure boy off the hook, you mean.”
“No, I meant what I said. You’re the one who has a problem with it, not Mingyu. He’s just a hot-blooded man who’s hardly had any good sex in his life. A bit of porn can’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes. “Scientists who study the interaction between porn and erectile dysfunction would beg to differ.”
“Human scientists.” Wonwoo’s smirk widens.
“I’m not having an argument with you, I’m off the clock.”
“Off the clock,” the demon repeats with a chuckle.
“Yes, off the clock, which means I also don’t have to deal with you anymore.”
“You enjoy ‘dealing with me.’” Wonwoo insists.
You scoff loudly. “In what diluted world can you come to that conclusion?”
The demon steps closer to you. “The world where I’m a demon who can read sexual energy, and lately, it’s been wafting off your aura like smoke. And where there’s smoke, well, there’s fire.”
“I think you should get your eyes checked,” you fire at him, your arms crossing over your chest in an effort to keep that ‘sexual energy’ contained.
“You’re such a virgin that it’s almost laughable,” Wonwoo tells you, his voice lowering. “Most angels don’t have the kind of lustful energy you do, virginity and all, but every being that exists is plagued by at least one of the seven deadly sins, angels included. It seems to me that your carnal desire is sex, which isn’t anything to be ashamed of. I’ve worked with angels who are greedy, angels who have a sense of divine wrath, but pride is the main trait I’ve seen. One could argue that all three of those sins are more disgusting on an angel than that of simply wanting to be touched, to experience one’s form to the fullest.”
Your mouth feels dry, and you lick your lips, unsure of what to say.
“Don’t worry, angel, I don’t need a response, not really. But… I would never defile an angel without her wanting it, so when I ask you this next question, I’ll need at least an enthusiastic nod if not a verbal ‘yes.’”
“What do you need to ask me?” you whisper.
Wonwoo is close enough to touch you now, and he reaches for your hand, tracing his thumb against your palm. Your mind is telling you to pull away, but you can’t. His touch is cold, but there’s something so nice about it…
“Can I kiss you?” Wonwoo asks, his words hanging in the air like a heavy smog.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it does little to help, and you stare at the beautiful demon. Your body is screaming yes, but your mind is still plagued with trepidation.
“It’s a sin.”
“A kiss isn’t a sin, and besides, you’re off the clock, remember?” His smirk is just so beautiful, and you have to remind yourself that even though he’s a demon, Wonwoo was crafted by God’s own hands. “I think you can forgive yourself for a small misdemeanor, after all, humans are forgiven for much worse.”
“I…” Your heart is hammering in your rib cage, and never in your long life have you felt a desire like this.
“Or… I could wait,” Wonwoo sighs. “I won’t pressure you. I’m a demon, but I’m not an asshole.”
The idea of waiting even longer makes your skin tingle, and you can feel a frown of dissatisfaction appearing on your face.
“You can kiss me,” you say, and the words feel foreign on your tongue.
“Even though you hate me?” Wonwoo grins, cocking a brow.
“Even though I hate you.”
The demon lets out a laugh, dropping your hand in favour of grabbing your hips. He pulls you toward him, being shockingly gentle for a man who’s so outspoken about his taste for rough sex.
“Nobody has to know about this,” Wonwoo whispers as he leans closer. “Even angels are allowed to have dirty little secrets.”
“Then this will be our little secret,” you breathe, swallowing thickly as your hands instinctively go to his shoulder, tugging the demon even closer.
He meets your gaze as he slowly leans in, giving you all the time in the world to change your mind. But you’re in too deep now, and there’s no going back.
His lips press against yours gently, and your whole body is flooded with what you can only describe as pleasure, like a cool breeze wafting over you on an extremely hot day. You want more, and Wonwoo tugs you closer by your hips, his tongue snaking out to rub your lower lip.
Your mouth opens a little, a whimper escaping you as the kiss deepens. Wonwoo releases a low growl, and butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach from the sound.
Nothing in the world has ever made you feel this way, as if you’re glowing, and all because a dark being is tantalizing you toward sin.
With a gasp, you pull away, breathing heavily.
Wonwoo holds you, not pushing for more; he gives you mental space to analyze what’s just happened, while still keeping you physically close, like a protector.
It’s such an odd notion, the idea that a demon could be any sort of protection for an angel like you.
“I think…” You swallow thickly. “I think I need to have some time alone now.”
“I understand,” Wonwoo nods, his hands slipping away from your hips. “The ball is in your court, angel. Until you decide what you want to do, this is our little secret.”
“Our little secret,” you repeat like a mantra, but the words don’t do anything to help the anxiety building inside of you. It’s as if at any moment you could be struck down for impurity, except, even when you’re alone later, no hand of God comes to smite you.
You think carefully about what Wonwoo’s said, about all living things having their sinful, carnal desires, even angels.
Maybe this is natural, maybe this is okay… maybe.
Five:
You’ve been yearning for Wonwoo in a way you’ve never yearned for anything since your creation. It’s taking every ounce of your self-restraint to keep your distance from him, and Wonwoo’s not making any of it easy.
Every dirty whisper in Mingyu’s ear, every glance at you while he talks about sex, bondage, and porn…
It has your heart racing, your skin heating, and your core throbbing in a way that used to be foreign but is now becoming all too familiar.
“Should I push for more sin tonight?” Wonwoo asks as Mingyu gets ready for bed. “Or have you had enough?”
You groan, knowing that you’re wet from the day you’ve had. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He cocks a brow.
“I’m so tired of all of this.”
“Tired of fighting your own desires, you mean,” Wonwoo corrects, seeing right through you.
You hate that your ‘sexual aura’ is visible to him, hate that no matter how hard you try to fight it, Wonwoo will always know the truth.
And the truth is: you want this demon to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. You want to get a taste of the sin he has to offer, the sin he claims other angels partake in secretly.
Why are you holding yourself back, holding yourself to a set of standards, if others in your angelic profession don’t?
“What are you thinking about?” Wonwoo asks, watching you carefully.
You release a deep breath. “Everything.”
“Sounds like a lot,” the demon chuckles.
“It is.”
“Too much for a sweet angel like you to carry on her own shoulders.”
You study his face, wondering if he’s being condescending or not.
“Being a demon is much easier. I don’t have to worry about anything,” Wonwoo continues, leaning back in his seat. “No rules, no standards, no fear. Just existence. Freedom.”
“I’m free,” you insist.
“Are you really?” Wonwoo grins. “Could have fooled me.”
“I am free! I’m an angel! I have the most freedom in the world!”
“Freedom to kiss who you want to kiss? To act on the desires that were literally built into you? Why would God have made you with the sin of lust if he did not intend for you to act on it? To torture you for your entire existence?” Wonwoo shakes his head.
“He bestowed temptation so his creations could rise above it and devote themselves to Him,” you insist. “It teaches spiritual strength and perseverance.”
“Whatever you say, little Miss Sunday School.”
You let out a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Wonwoo grins.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it makes me want you even more!” you scream. “For a reason I can not comprehend, I want you. I want you for the teasing, for the chastizing, for this disgusting ego that I would never condone on a human ward. I want it. I want all of you. And it’s killing me!”
Wonwoo stands up abruptly, and you mirror him, heart racing in your chest.
You can’t believe you’ve just admitted all of it, all of the deep dark things you’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“An ego can be sexy,” Wonwoo says finally. “Although I’d classify myself as more of a prideful being than an egotistical one.”
“Ugh!” You throw your hands up, hating that his smirk is the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen, hating that he’s right.
“Tell me you want this again,” Wonwoo urges you, stepping closer.
“I want you! You already heard me say it!” Your skin is hot with irritation, both sexual and emotional, and you can hardly think straight.
“No, tell me you want this.” Wonwoo grabs your hand, tugging you to his chest. He looks down at you, his lips almost ghosting over your own.
“I want this,” you whimper, feeling defeated and broken.
You can no longer hold yourself back, and part of you doesn’t want to.
“I’ll be gentle,” the demon promises, bringing his mouth down to your throat, where he presses soft kisses that take your breath away.
“I thought you liked it rough,” you say, releasing a chuckle that brings your anxiety down.
“I also like pleasure. I’m prideful, not a narcissist. Tonight, your pleasure will come first.”
Your skin tingles, and you swallow a lump in your throat. You can feel your fear dissipating. Part of you had imagined he’d want to try bondage with you right away, so it’s a relief that he’s going to meet you at your level, which is… well, nonexistent.
You are a free being. And tonight, you will lose your heavenly virginity of your own volition.
Wonwoo begins to suck on a spot just below your ear, and it makes you moan. You throw your arms around the demon, tugging him closer.
One of Wonwoo’s hands slips down to your bum, squeezing you through your white pants.
God, he feels so good, and you focus on the feeling, pushing aside your racing thoughts.
You draw his lips to yours, and Wonwoo groans with pleasure, tugging you so you’re flush to his body.
Kissing him is like magic, and you get lost in it easily. Your core is wet, and you can feel your panties getting sticky, which is a tantalizing thought.
“Bedroom,” Wonwoo says, breaking the kiss.
Without missing a beat, the demon reaches down and lifts you bridal style. You gasp, clutching onto his shoulders and blinking up at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Wonwoo laughs. “As if I was about to take your virginity in a living room.”
He heads toward your side of the apartment, and he pushes the door of your bedroom open.
Your room is all creams and minimalism, a true safe space, and he pauses to look at it for a moment. He’s never been in your room, nor you in his.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing, it’s just… very different from my side of the space.”
“No whips and chains hanging on the walls?” you tease.
“How about no black onyx floors or dark colours.”
“Well, I am an angel,” you point out as he gently sets you on the bed.
“Yes, baby, the best angel I’ve ever met.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt. The most angelic.” Wonwoo climbs on top of you, and your legs spread instinctively as the demon looks down at you. “I’ve never met an angel who has never sinned. It’s endearing.”
“Will you still find me endearing after tonight?” you ask.
“I’ll find you endearing forever,” Wonwoo promises.
“Who knew such sweet words could come from a demon.”
Wonwoo laughs. “If anyone deserves sweet words from me, it’s you.”
“You’re just saying that to get me in bed.”
“We’re already in bed.”
“Good point.” You grab the nape of his neck, tugging his lips down to yours.
This verbal foreplay has become trite, and you’re ready for more, ready for all Wonwoo is about to give you.
For the first time, you taste desperation on his lips, and it excites you. He grinds gently down against you, and it’s the first time there’s been pressure on your core. Tingles of pleasure run through you as you tighten your legs around his hips, willing him to push harder.
Wonwoo groans, following through with your silent plea. He ruts hard as you kiss each other, stimulating your clit through your clothing.
One of his hands reaches up and grabs your breast through your white sweater, massaging you and making you gasp.
“Such pretty sounds,” Wonwoo whispers, biting your earlobe gently. “Can’t wait to hear you screaming my name.”
“Wonwoo,” you whimper, wiggling beneath him, eager for more.
He sits up, and with one tug, Wonwoo removes your sweater, leaving you in a cream bra.
“All white everything, huh?” he laughs.
“I’m an angel.”
“So you keep reminding me. You always wear such loose, modest clothing, but I imagined you’d be gorgeous under all these layers.” He licks his lips, his thumb teasing the lace of your bra. “Should I go slow?”
“Go medium,” you tell him.
Wonwoo lets out another chuckle. “That wasn’t one of the options.”
“Make it one of the options.”
He shakes his head at you, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You thread your fingers through his raven black hair, mewling as he massages you through your bra. Your nipples are aching already, and there’s a sense of great relief when he finally takes your bra off.
“So pretty,” Wonwoo muses, kissing down from your throat to your breasts, where he captures one of your nipples in his mouth.
You whimper desperately, your entire body on fire with the pleasure.
“And so sensitive too,” the demon groans, gently dragging his teeth over your sensitive bud.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please, what?” he looks up at you.
You let out a shuddery breath. “More.”
“Your wish is my command, angel,” Wonwoo teases, his hand gliding down your body. Deft fingers slip under the waistband of your pants, but he stays over your panties as he makes contact with your clit.
You writhe against the bedding, eyes clenched shut as foreign ecstasy washes over you.
He continues to suck on your nipple as he toys with your pussy.
“Soaking through your panties,” Wonwoo tuts. “My dirty girl.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you’re shocked that you like the way his words feel. It’s a sinful kind of praise, and it makes you dizzy as you watch him, anticipating what he’ll do next.
Wonwoo takes his time as he licks and sucks your nipples, playing with your pussy through drenched fabric.
It’s a relief when he finally tugs your pants down, leaving you in only panties.
Then, Wonwoo sits up, tugging his shirt off with one motion.
Your jaw drops at the view of his bare torso. He’s lean but muscled, and you wish you could trace the lines on his skin, but Wonwoo made it clear that tonight is about you.
“I’m going to eat you out now,” Wonwoo explains, as he sinks to the floor. “Bet you taste like nectar and sunshine.”
Talking about your ‘taste’ makes you shy, and you close your thighs, only for him to gently pry them open.
“Don’t be bashful, baby,” Wonwoo coos, pressing kisses to your skin.
“What if I don’t taste like nectar and sunshine?” you ask.
“I can already smell it on you,” Wonwoo promises, an attempt to be assuring, but now you’re talking about smell, and it makes you even more anxious. “You know what, let’s leave taste and smell out of this for now, okay?”
“Yes, please,” you nod, biting your bottom lip.
Wonwoo hooks his fingers in your panties, slowly dragging them down your legs.
The cool air of the room on your wet core makes you groan, back arching a little as you writhe against the bed.
Cold hands grab your thighs, confidently spreading you open.
“Just breathe,” Wonwoo reminds you as he leans forward and licks the entirety of your core lewdly.
“Shit!” you gasp, thighs quaking.
The demon chuckles. “That’s the first time you’ve ever swore.”
You slap a hand over your mouth, and he shakes his head at you, returning to his task.
Soon, you’re moaning through your fingers, and your other hand reaches down to grab at his hair, keeping his face buried between your thighs.
He eats you out like a starved man, ravaging your pussy with licks and sucks that have your head spinning in the best possible way.
And then Wonwoo begins to growl, and you’ve never heard anything so erotic.
Your own gasps and whimpers are filling the room, and you can feel something getting tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.
“Wonwoo,” you pant. “I think… I think I’m going to cum!”
He releases a groan, and the vibration of it on your clit makes your legs shake. All of your muscles are tense, waiting for that final push-
Then you look down, and your eyes lock with his. His pupils are blown, and he looks absolutely demonic, but there’s something so incredibly sexy about this powerful demon worshiping you with his mouth on your core-
You cum like an electric shock, your entire body jolting, muscles releasing only to clench again as the waves surge through you.
You scream, grabbing at the bed sheets like an anchor as your orgasm overtakes you.
Wonwoo is unrelenting on your core, groaning and eating you messily, and it only makes the whole situation more erotic.
You’ve been to Heaven, but nothing has ever felt like this.
“Wonwoo!” you scream when the pleasure begins to feel like it’s too much, like you can’t contain or sustain this type of ecstasy anymore.
The demon pulls away immediately, looking up at you.
“Angel,” he breathes, “you’re glowing.”
“What?”
“You’re glowing,” he repeats. Wonwoo grabs your hand from the bed, lifting it so you can see that your skin is literally aglow.
“Is this normal?” you gasp in panic.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“And you fuck a lot of angels?” you snap.
“Not really,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “I find most of you to be too high-strung.”
“I’m high-strung.”
“But it’s endearing on you.” His thumb gently rubs your glit, and you jolt, releasing a gasp. “Glowing can’t be harmful.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure it’s just pent-up energy,” he muses. “Should I give you more?”
You take all of one second to consider his words before nodding. “More.”
Wonwoo nuzzles against your inner thigh with a laugh, and then he teases a digit between your pussy lips, gently sinking it into you.
You groan, your inner walls having never been touched before.
“So warm,” Wonwoo breathes. “So tight.”
He gently finger fucks you, teasing your hole open, and he brings his mouth to your clit again.
His pace is slow, and you know he’s letting you acclimate to the stimulus.
You can feel yourself dripping on his digit, and the slick is making it all too easy for him to work you open. Soon, he adds another finger, and you groan desperately, loving the slight stretch.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I give you the real thing,” Wonwoo explains.
“Okay,” you whimper.
He returns to sucking on your clit, but he’s not being as gentle as he was before.
You can feel that tension building again, and with each slick sound of his fingers fucking into you, you know you’re getting closer to the edge.
Whimpers escape your lips, and you gasp when he crooks his fingers, hitting a spot that has your whole body coming alight with pleasure.
You’ve heard Wonwoo talk about the ‘g-spot’ before, and you’re pretty sure he just found yours.
Your toes are curling, muscles getting incredibly tight as his pace quickens.
“I’m close!” you cry out, grabbing the bed sheets again, your heart racing in your chest.
Wonwoo groans a sound of affirmation, and again, his noise of pleasure is what sends you over the edge.
Just like the first time, he works you through your orgasm, unrelenting, while the pleasure courses through you. You’re a throbbing, whimpering mess by the time Wonwoo pulls away, and you watch with shy delight as he licks his fingers clean, moaning at your taste.
“How did that one feel, angel?” he asks.
“So good,” you whimper.
Wonwoo stands up, looking down at your nude form.
“Ready for the real deal?”
“I’m scared,” you admit, seeing the outline of his cock through his pants.
“That’s natural,” Wonwoo breathes, undoing his belt. “And if you still want to change your mind…”
“No.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Let’s do this.”
Wonwoo pulls his pants down, and suddenly, his cock is slapping up against his stomach.
Your jaw drops at the sight of him. He’s long… well, you’re pretty sure he’s long, not that you have much to compare it to.
“That’s going to fit inside of me?” you ask.
“Angel, your pussy is wetter than a slip and slide, it won’t be a problem,” Wonwoo laughs.
“Just… go slow.”
“Not medium?” he teases.
“Wonwoo…” you groan.
“I’ll go slow,” he promises, now fully nude as he climbs on top of you. “Don’t worry.”
Wonwoo presses his lips to yours, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pouring all of your attention into the meeting of your mouths.
Wonwoo slowly begins to rut, teasing his cock through your wet pussy lips and bumping your clit. The grinding feels phenomenal, and soon you’re a moaning mess beneath him, your core aching to be filled.
As if he can read you, the demon reaches for the base of his cock, lining the tip up with your wet hole. His mouth moves to your throat, giving you space to speak if you need him to pause or slow down, but as his tip slips inside of you, you realize there will be no need for breaks.
Sure, the stretch is new, but it’s not bad.
In fact, your pussy is trying to swallow him up, and with each inch after inch, you feel more and more complete.
Wonwoo truly is your opposite, the yin to your yang, and it feels phenomenal to finally be connected like this.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, and you can see his muscles feathering, as if it’s taking every ounce of self-control for him not to let loose and fuck you stupid.
“Feels good,” you groan, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further into you.
Wonwoo moans deeply, and a moment later, he’s fully sheathed in your wet core.
You both release sounds of pleasure together, and your lips meet in a fiery kiss.
You love tangling your fingers in his hair, and it makes him kiss you harder. He’s still fully inside of you, unmoving as your walls adjust, but soon, your own hips are rocking, and he takes the cue to begin to thrust.
The first movement is shallow and slow, and you revel in the drag of his cock against your inner walls.
You cry out, throwing your head back, and Wonwoo latches onto your throat, sucking and nibbling.
Your pebbled nipples press against his chest, and each movement toys with them.
You can feel Wonwoo everywhere. He’s completely commanding every one of your senses, and not a single thought is going through your mind except for one word: more.
His pace is increasing, and you get the sense that he’s reacting to your sounds, figuring you out based on your whimpering and whining.
You pull Wonwoo away from your throat by his hair, and you open your eyes, looking up at him.
God, he truly is the most beautiful being you’ve ever seen.
He’s truly a vision, lust-blown pupils and all, his hair a mess from where you’re tugging on it.
You breathe in each other, lips almost meeting but just separate, and the teasing makes everything more seductive.
Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, flipping you onto your side. He moves behind you, a cold big spoon as he enters you again. His breath is hot on your shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to gently bite your neck, making you gasp. You reach behind yourself, grabbing his hair again, which earns you a groan of pleasure.
His hand is on your hip, and he fucks into you desperately, adjusting your body ever so slightly, opening your leg a little so he can hit deeper.
“Wonwoo!” you whimper when his hand slips from your hips to your core, his fingers teasing your clit.
“That’s it, scream my name,” he grins, biting your earlobe and making you shiver.
“Wonwoo!” you say it louder this time, unable to contain yourself as he works you closer and closer to the edge again.
“Gonna cum on my cock, huh, angel?” he chuckles.
“Yes, I’m so close,” you whimper, pussy tightening around him.
“Not yet.” Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, and you whine, only for him to adjust you.
Now you’re sitting on top of him, with Wonwoo propped against the headboard.
“Why am I on top?” you ask, confused.
“Oh angel,” he licks your nipple, “just because you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re the one who is in control.”
His hands are on your hips again, and he lifts you slightly, allowing him to plow up into you.
You cry out from how deep his cock is hitting you, from the way he’s using you like a ragdoll.
You throw your head back, and his mouth latches onto your nipple. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark curls as he fucks you stupid.
Each smack down of your core on his cock has pressure on your clit, and you can feel that orgasm bubbling again.
You feel drunk, or, what you think being drunk would feel like. It’s a pleasurable dizziness, a mind numbing euphoria and a tingling that flutters through your entire body.
Wonwoo growls, and you know it’s a sound of affirmation, a sound to push you toward the edge.
A few more rough thrusts have you tumbling into ecstasy, your entire core clamping down on Wonwoo’s cock. Your head falls forward, your lips making contact with the crown of Wonwoo’s head as he also groans. He pulls off of your nipple, panting desperately as he holds you down, his cock burried in your throbbing pussy.
You know he’s cumming too, and feel his muscles twitching, his shoulders tight with tension.
And his sounds… nothing in Heaven or on Earth sounds the way Wonwoo does when he’s wrapped in pleasure.
Your entire body sings with delight as the two of you hold onto each other, jolting with the aftershocks of your extreme highs.
The two of you hold each other, breathing in one another.
Wonwoo leans his face against your breasts, and you cradle him.
You’ve never felt this close to anyone.
For a moment you can forget that he’s a demon and you’re an angel.
None of that matters right now.
Finally, Wonwoo pulls away with a sigh. “This changes things.”
“It does,” you agree.
“We’re bound together for as long as Mingyu lives, so… you better not decide you hate me tomorrow.”
You laugh. “You irritate me, but I don’t hate you.”
“I’m not going to stop telling Mingyu to pursue his sexual desires.”
“I never expected you to,” you admit with a sigh.
“And you’re… okay with it now?”
“As long as it’s consensual, fine, he can be as dirty as he wants to be.”
Wonwoo laughs, cuddling close to your chest again. “See, in this day and age, some sins like premarital sex are outdated.”
“We could debate that,” you laugh, running your hands through his hair.
“I think I would like that.”
“I feel like it would be a case of unstoppable force meets immovable object.”
Wonwoo chuckles, and you love how beautiful he is when he smiles. “Sounds like us.”
“But we can’t let our sexual escapades get in the way of doing our job for Mingyu,” you declare.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your work,” Wonwoo groans. “You’d probably bite my cock off if I tried.”
“Consider yourself warned.”
“Consider yourself worshipped.”
“Huh?” you blink down at him.
“You’re still glowing, angel.” Wonwoo plays with a piece of your hair. “It’s been a long time since a demon like me has had anything to look up to.”
“You look up to me?”
“In some ways, but don’t make this more of an embarrassment than it already is.” Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “You’ve reformed me… slightly.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the power of good pussy.”
“Great pussy,” Wonwoo corrects. “And no. If I’m being honest, I think you’ve been changing me for the better for a while, bit by bit.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
Wonwoo smiles. “And I’m just happy.”
“I can live with that.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! this one was fun, it was a little late to be posted because my puppy has a tooth infection and it's been a hell of a week. reminder! Patreon charges on the FIRST of every month, so if you're going to get my Patreon, just be aware of that, or wait until June 2nd :)
🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!
🔮 preview. Your core tingles as you test the bindings on your wrists. There is truly so much he can teach you about the darker side of sex, the pain that turns into pleasure, the freedom of being completely immobilized and at the mercy of someone you trust to take care of you.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, bdsm themes, wrist bondage, pleasure dom!Wonwoo, oral/pussy eating, wonwoo has powers in this… including a long demon tongue, overstimulation, finger fucking, body/breast worship, squirting, dacryphilia (arousal from tears/crying), dirty talk, praise, multiple reader orgasms, etc… I petnames. (hers) angel.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 140
🌙 starring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader
bonus
To your shock, Wonwoo isn’t pushy with you the way he’s pushy with Mingyu. He hasn’t said a word about the soft sex the two of you have continued to have for months now, and he hasn’t made you feel lesser than him for being vanilla either.
Wonwoo treats you very differently than he treats Mingyu, but you know that every time Wonwoo brings up rough sex in Mingyu’s ear, it’s because Wonwoo himself has an interest in it.
The demon has talked about being a sexual pleaser, and your need to please him has grown too. Can you really hold Wonwoo and yourself back from reaching another level by dabbling with the BDSM themes he’s so fond of?
Can you… condemn him to vanilla sex for as long as the two of you are connected through Mingyu?
☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.6k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here
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I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.
Beautiful writing!
I would've done that sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy
Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.
Word count: 12k
Divider by me ;)
You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.
Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.
“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.
“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”
You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.
Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.
Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.
“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.
He stopped talking immediately.
You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”
Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”
His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.
“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”
You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.
“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”
His brows furrowed.
You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”
“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”
He passed the blunt over again.
You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.
“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”
Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”
He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.
You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”
Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”
You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”
Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.
“But you told me–”
“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”
Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”
Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”
“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”
Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.
“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.
If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.
You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”
You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.
The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.
Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.
You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”
The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.
“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.
“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”
His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.
You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.
“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”
You grinned. “He’s six-one.”
Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”
Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.
“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”
A laugh escaped you softly.
“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”
“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.
Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”
“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.
Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.
“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”
“How solidary of you.”
He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”
You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.
Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.
The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.
“Use me,” he blurted out.
Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time.
“What do you mean?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”
You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”
“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.
That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.
“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”
A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”
Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”
“You’ll close the park?”
“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”
“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”
Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”
“I was fifteen.”
“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”
“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”
Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.
You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.
It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.
Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.
“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.
Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”
That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.
The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.
Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.
You swallowed.
His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”
A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.
You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.
You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.
When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.
You slept absurdly well afterward.
A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.
You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.
The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.
Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.
The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.
You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.
You recognized the cologne immediately.
“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.
Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.
You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”
“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.
The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.
You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.
Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.
The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.
You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.
“We need to talk.”
You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.
Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.
You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.
“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”
Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.
You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”
He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”
“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.
Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”
His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.
“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.
“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”
Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.
You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.
Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”
“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.
You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.
Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.
You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”
“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.
You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.
“No kissing.”
Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”
“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”
His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”
Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”
Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.
Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.
“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”
Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically.
“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.
“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”
Dean’s brows lifted.
“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”
Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”
Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”
Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.
You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.
The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”
Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”
You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”
He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.
“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.
“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.
You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.
Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.
Your gaze dropped away first.
Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.
Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.
“Can I add rules too?” he asked.
You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”
The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.
“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”
You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”
Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.
“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”
Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”
You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”
Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.
You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.
Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.
“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.
You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.
That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.
You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.
Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”
You snorted softly.
He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”
The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.
There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.
Nothing changed.
Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.
Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.
You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.
Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.
You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.
“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.
You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.
“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”
You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”
Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”
You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment.
“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”
A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”
Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”
“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.
You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.
“Let’s see,” you murmured.
You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.
Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.
Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.
Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.
He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.
You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.
You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”
Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.
“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”
“You still read it.”
“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.
You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.
“Not in math,” he said quietly.
Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.
“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”
You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.
“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.
You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.
Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.
Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.
You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.
Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.
The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.
Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.
"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."
He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs.
You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.
"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.
You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.
You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.
You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.
The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.
Tucker.
The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.
You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.
Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.
Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.
The front door opened and you froze.
Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.
Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.
“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.
Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”
The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.
Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.
The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.
“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”
Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.
“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.
“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.
Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.
The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.
You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.
You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.
“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”
From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.
“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.
You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.
Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.
Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.
You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.
Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.
Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.
For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.
The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.
You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.
He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.
“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.
Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.
“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”
You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.
“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”
Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.
“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.
“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.
“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”
You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”
“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”
You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.
You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.
“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You say that now...”
You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.
Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.
You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.
You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.
Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.
You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”
Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.
“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.
Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at the party?”
Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.
You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.
“Because I’m here with you.”
“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”
“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.
Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.
Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.
“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.
Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.
“I have my sources.”
You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”
Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”
You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”
You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.
Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.
“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”
One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.
Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”
You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.
“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”
Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.
“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”
You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.
“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”
The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.
Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.
Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?
Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”
You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.
Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”
Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.
Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.
‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’
“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.
Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”
Even he sounded unsure of the answer.
Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.
“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”
Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.
He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.
It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.
Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.
He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.
Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.
You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.
The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.
You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.
With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.
Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.
He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.
The silence stretched thickly.
You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”
Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.
Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.
You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.
“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.
“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.
You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.
In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.
A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.
Your eyes met his again through the reflection.
“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”
One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten.
His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”
The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.
His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.
The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.
As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.
"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.
"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.
"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.
You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.
"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.
"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.
"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.
"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.
The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.
You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?
"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.
The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.
Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.
Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.
"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.
As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.
You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.
As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.
You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.
"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."
You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.
In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.
You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.
“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.
"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."
His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.
The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.
Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.
As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.
The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.
You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"
Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.
Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.
You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.
Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.
You swallowed once. “Did you…?”
The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.
Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.
“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.
You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”
Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”
You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.
The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.
Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.
You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.
Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.
His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.
The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.
So much for rules.
Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
When time refuses to move forward, you are forced to confront your past, rewrite your present, and unexpectedly fall for the boy who keeps finding you in every version of the day.
Inspired by the book ‘The Do-over’ by Lynn Painter.
Warnings: witches, time loop
———————————————————————
You woke up to a sky the color of watered-down milk. The light leaking through your curtains was thin and gray, the kind that always made you want to pull the blanket over your head and stay there forever. But you didn’t. You never did.
You sat up, groaning softly, brushing a hand through your hair. The clock read 6:42. You swung your legs out of bed and stood. The air was cold, biting at your ankles. You crossed to your closet and stared at the rows of carefully curated outfits like you always did. It was a sea of soft colors and textures that could convince people you had your life together. That you weren’t just a weird girl in a weird family living in a slightly off-kilter house on the edge of Beacon Hills.
You reached for your cream-colored cardigan, the one with the little pearl buttons. It was delicate and warm, something that said put-together but approachable. Then came the pleated skirt in a pale plaid that matched the cardigan and made you look effortlessly polished, even though you’d spent ten minutes debating it.
The shoes took longer. You’d been saving your suede boots for the right day. They were real leather, soft as butter, and expensive enough that you still felt guilty wearing them. But you were tired of being overlooked, tired of Lydia Martin’s sharp little comments about ‘thrift chic’.
You wanted to look like someone who belonged. So you slipped into those boots, ignoring the whisper in your head about the muddy sidewalks and the cracked pavement. Image first.
You brushed your hair until it fell just right, slicked on mascara, a little gloss. You looked at yourself in the mirror. Cardigan, skirt, boots, a soft touch of perfume. Perfectly composed. Perfectly fake.
And then you smelled smoke. At first, it was faint. A whisper of something burnt, like toast forgotten in a toaster. But then it thickened, turned acrid and sharp, clinging to your throat. Your nose wrinkled.
“Aunt Mags?” you called, stepping into the hall.
No answer greeted you. Just the distant, unnatural crackle of flame.
You turned the corner into the living room and froze. The curtains were on fire. The rug was on fire. The entire wall beside the fireplace was breathing orange and black, and your aunt stood in the middle of it all, her black hair loose, using a hose she’d dragged in through the back door to put out the flames.
“Holy—”
“Language!” Maggie snapped automatically, before flicking her wrist and sending a rush of water toward the ceiling. The flames recoiled, shrinking, twisting inward as though sucked through an invisible drain. Within seconds, they were gone, leaving nothing but a bitter-smelling smoke hanging in the air and charred, blackened patches all over the walls.
You coughed, eyes watering. “What the hell was that?”
“Containment charm,” your aunt said briskly, examining the wall with her hands on her hips. “Worked better than last time I tried it. Well…mostly.”
You stared at her, trying to process the words. Containment charm. “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”
She looked at you over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Would I joke about a house fire?”
“I…no, I meant the whole containment charm thing. You know you’re not actually a witch witch, right? Opening an apothecary doesn’t equate to who-doo voodoo.”
Her eyes softened. “Sweetheart, can you handle getting yourself to school today?”
You blinked. “The house almost burned down and you want me to just…go to school?”
“Life doesn’t stop for small disasters,” she said, already muttering under her breath as she waved her arms to try dissipate the thick cloud of smoke. “And besides, it’ll keep you out of the way while I get someone in to have a look at this.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but she gave you that look - the one that meant the conversation was already over. So you grabbed your bag and left, the smell of burnt wood clinging to your hair.
The air outside was damp, cool against your cheeks. You walked down the cracked sidewalk toward the bus stop, clutching your bag tighter as you texted Lydia a quick ‘running late lol, save me a seat in home room’, that you didn’t actually mean. You and Lydia weren’t really friends. Both of your boyfriends were on the Lacrosse team which meant you were friendly enough, though mostly through strained smiles.
Halfway there, you saw the construction signs, cones, a flashing orange barricade blocking the entire street.
You groaned out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The detour added an extra ten minutes to your route. You jogged, boots clicking sharply against the asphalt, heart hammering as the quieting roar of a bus engine made you push harder. You could see the yellow flash turning the corner.
“Wait!” you shouted, waving frantically as you sprinted the last block to catch up,
The driver met your eyes. You knew he saw you. But the bus didn’t slow. It turned down the next street, taillights fading into the mist.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, panting, shoulders slumping.
You shoved your phone into your bag and started walking again, resigned. The wind picked up, biting through your cardigan. You tucked your arms around yourself, boots clicking against the damp road.
That was when you heard the clunky, familiar noises of the broken down price of shit Jeep that your lab partner owned. You turned your head just as the dusty blue car roared around the corner. You didn’t have time to move.
The front tire plowed straight through a puddle the size of a crater, and a tidal wave of freezing, muddy water hit you square in the chest. You gasped, stumbling back, soaked from head to toe. The cold was immediate, seeping into your socks, your skirt, your expensive suede boots.
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “My shoes!”
The Jeep screeched to a halt, then reversed. The door slammed open, and a familiar voice called, “Holy shit, are you okay?”
You closed your eyes. Of course it was him.
Stiles Stilinski jogged over, already grimacing. He wore his usual flannel layered over a graphic tee, a buzz of brown hair that he always ran both hands through about a hundred times per hour. His expression was all panic and guilt and, you suspected, a little amusement.
He was your lab partner for Harris’s class and he was completely and utterly useless. He always tried to contribute to class projects, but his erratic personality and inability to shut up meant he never got very far, leaving you to do most of the work. Not to mention, he was always getting in trouble, which meant Harris graded your joint assignments extra harshly. Chemistry was currently the only class of yours you didn’t have an A in, and you blamed that little fact on one incredibly irritating Stiles Stilinski.
“I didn’t even see you!” he said, hands raised in surrender. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay to you?” you snapped, gesturing to your drenched clothes.
He winced. “Okay, yeah, no, that’s fair. Totally my fault. You should probably, uh…get out of those.”
You glared. “Excuse me?”
“No! I mean, not right now! Just, later. When you’re not…oh god.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Can I at least give you a ride to school. You shouldn’t have to walk like that. You’ll freeze.”
You hesitated. You could feel the cold biting into your skin already, the weight of wet fabric clinging to your legs. And you had no other options.
“Fine,” you muttered.
He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, trying not to think about the squelch of your skirt against the seat.
The heater blasted warm air, and he fiddled nervously with the radio. “Uh, sorry again. Really. For, you know, waterboarding you with Jeep runoff.”
You looked at him sideways. “You always this bad at driving?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Only before coffee.”
A small, unwilling laugh slipped out of you, and you hated yourself for it.
“So,” he said after a beat, glancing over as the Jeep rumbled down the road. “You like The Smiths?”
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the radio, where a soft melancholy guitar riff was playing. “I’ve heard you humming it before in class. ‘There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,’ right?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. Was it a little creepy? Sure, maybe. But you’d seen and heard stranger things from Stiles. “You know that song?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m a tragic indie soul,” he said dryly. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
You smirked despite yourself. “What reputation?”
“Ouch,” he said, mock-offended. “You wound me.”
“Call it payback,” you said, gesturing to your soaked knees.
“Okay, fair,” he said, smiling now. “But hey, I’m redeeming myself, right? Ride to school, premium heating, music taste that doesn’t suck.”
“You’re halfway to forgiveness.”
“Halfway,” he repeated, grinning wider. “I’ll take it.”
By the time you reached school, you’d almost forgotten the smoke, the fire, the missed bus. As it turned out, when Stile wasn’t distracting you with clicking pens or tapping pencils, he wasn’t too bad a person to talk to. But then Lydia saw you.
She was standing by her locker, all gloss and curls, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe. “Oh, wow,” she said, lips curving. “New look? Or did you wrestle a sewer pipe on your way here?”
You smiled tightly. “Funny.”
“Just saying,” she shrugged. “If you ever need my stylist’s number—”
“I’ll pass,” you said sweetly, and brushed past her. Seriously? How many teenage girls could say they had a personal stylist?
You fumed about your ruined designer boots - the boots that had taken you countless hours working at your aunt’s apocathery to pay off - for the entirety of home room and first period. Until you were pulled out of your thoughts by an announcement over the intercom calling you to the office.
Moderately confused, you wondered what it could possibly be about as you made your way over. The principal gestured for you to sit as soon as you walked in. His office smelled like coffee and disinfectant.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. We received a complaint,” he said, folding his hands. “About your submission to the county art show.”
You blinked, you heart stuttering. You’d worked on your project for months and had been delighted when the head of the Beacon Hills High arts department asked you to submit it for the county gallery. “A complaint?”
“Yes. Some of the parents felt the imagery was…too dark for a student exhibition.”
You stared at him, heat crawling up your neck. “Too dark? It’s a charcoal collection. It’s literally shades of black and gray.”
He sighed. “It’s not the colors. It’s the…tone. The subject matter. Skulls, ravens, the, er, Latin text?”
“It’s a poem about grief,” you said flatly. “From the 1800s.”
“I’m sure it’s very meaningful,” he said, “but unfortunately, the board decided—”
You laughed once, sharp and humourless. They’d raised the matter with the school board? “This is ridiculous! It’s because my aunt reads tarot cards, isn’t it? Because people think my family are witches?”
His silence told you everything.
You pushed your chair back, voice trembling. “You know what? Fine. Let them have their little art show of sunflowers and smiling faces. I’m sure that’ll impress people.”
“Miss, do not walk out of this office,” he began, but you already had.
It was just the cherry on top of a crap pile of a day. You stormed into the hall, blinking fast to clear the tears that burned your eyes, and collided straight into someone’s chest. Strong hands caught your arms before you fell.
“Whoa, hey, are you trying to get me back for this morning or something?”
You looked up. Of course it was him. Again. “Stiles,” you said, exasperated.
He tilted his head, grin faltering as he saw your face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure? Because you look like you just lost a fight with a dumpster and a guidance counselor.”
Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “Just drop it, okay?”
He hesitated. Then quietly: “Okay. I’ll drop it. But…if you ever don’t want me to, I don’t know, pick it back up again, I’m here.”
You hated that it made your chest ache. You hated that he meant it. You turned away, blinking fast. “I just need air.”
You walked toward the lacrosse field with your jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The corridors behind you blurred into a hum of voices and slamming lockers, every sound dull and too bright at once. You needed space. Air.
Your boots squelched faintly with every step, the fabric of your skirt still damp, sticking to your thighs. You could feel the streaks of ash still woven into your hair from the morning’s fire. It felt like the entire day was mocking you with a collage of every tiny humiliation stitched together by fate itself.
The field stretched out ahead of you, bright under the early afternoon sun, empty except for a handful of seniors lingering about on their free period. The hum of laughter drifted on the breeze, a familiar voice among them.
Aaron. Your boyfriend. The two of you had been together since last year, and right now he felt like the only person who could make this shit storm of a day any better.
Your chest unclenched for the first time that day. You broke into a half-run, calling out before you even thought. “Aaron!”
He was at the far end of the bleachers, his back to you. The sound of your voice made him turn, startled, but he didn’t smile. He looked guilty. And that was when you saw her.
Erica Reyes stood beside him, blonde hair shining in the sunlight, her hand curled around his arm. She leaned in close, whispering something that made him laugh with that same soft, stupid laugh you loved so much.
You slowed, stomach twisting. You didn’t want to believe what you were seeing. It could’ve been nothing. Just a joke. Just two friends. The three of you had hung out before, after all. Back when Erica was still your best friend. Before Erica had a crazy glow up and a personality transplant and ditched you. But then her fingers slid up his chest, his hand came to her waist, and before your brain could catch up, her mouth was on his.
The world went quiet. For a moment, everything stopped: the rustle of leaves, the scrape of cleats on turf, the chatter of the other players. You could only hear your own breathing, which was far too sharp and too fast, and the faint bloodrush in your ears.
You took a step back, then another. Your chest ached so fiercely it felt like your ribs were cracking from the inside.
Erica broke the kiss first, her eyes flicking up and locking with yours. You saw the smirk falter just slightly, before she turned her face away, pretending not to see.
You turned, already sobbing, and walked off the field before either of them could say anything. You went straight to the nurse’s office and pretended to throw up until she agreed to let you leave school for the day.
The world blurred on the way home. You remembered the sound of your boots scraping pavement, the burn of wind against your cheeks, the way your phone buzzed in your pocket notifying you of texts you didn’t check, because what was the point?
When you finally pushed open the front door, the smell of burnt wood hit you again. The house looked worse now that the adrenaline was gone. The once-white ceiling above the living room was stained black, and a deep hole traced up the wall like a scar.
Your aunt was on her knees by the window, sketching runes into the sill with a piece of chalk, as though that might do anything. But you were used to her weird quirks by now. It had taken a while to get used to when she’d first moved in a few years back.
She looked up when you came in. “You’re home early.”
“Yeah,” you said hollowly. “Guess I didn’t feel like sticking around.”
Her eyes softened, though she didn’t ask. She always knew when to press and when to wait. “Bad day?”
You laughed, but it came out more like a breath. “That’s one word for it.”
“Want to talk about it?”
You dropped your bag on the couch and sank beside it, rubbing at your temples. “Where do I even start? The house almost burned down. I missed the bus. I got drenched by some idiot in a Jeep. I looked like hell all day. Lydia was her usual brand of delightful. Then the school decided to pull my art project from the show because apparently skulls are too scandalous for Beacon Hills, and—”
You stopped yourself before the last part came out.
Your aunt tilted her head. “And?”
You swallowed hard. “And Erica kissed Aaron.”
Her expression didn’t change at first. Just a quiet, measured stillness. Then she set the chalk down and walked over, kneeling in front of you.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly.
You looked at her and felt your throat tighten. You’d been holding yourself together all day, duct-taping your insides with sarcasm and silence, but that simple sympathy broke you. The tears came hot and fast, spilling over before you could stop them.
You leaned forward, pressing your face into her shoulder. “I just, I don’t understand why everything went wrong today. Like the universe just decided to personally screw with me.”
Her hand moved gently through your hair, slow and steady. “Sometimes the universe tests us,” she murmured. “Sometimes it gives us a day so bad we think we’ll never get through it and then we do. And we know when the next one comes, we can survive it all over again.”
You sniffled, half-laughing. “That’s so annoyingly mystical.”
“Well,” she said with a faint smile, “I am a witch.”
You groaned. “You’re not a witch. You just have really expensive incense and a flair for dramatics.”
Her lips twitched. “If it helps you sleep to believe that, go ahead.”
You gave her a watery smile, even though your eyes still burned. “At least you sound like a witch.”
“Thank you,” she said, mock-proud. “I’ve always thought I had the hair for it.”
You laughed weakly, wiping your eyes.
The humor faded when she stood and looked toward the kitchen. “We can’t stay here tonight,” she said quietly. “The fire did more damage than I thought. Workers will be here in the morning to fix the damages.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“There’s a motel off the highway,” she said, already grabbing her keys. “It’s temporary. Just until the house gets fixed.”
You nodded numbly, too tired to argue despite the unease that rose in your stomach at the thought of leaving the house behind. You packed a small bag - pajamas, toothbrush, your favorite oversized hoodie - and followed her out the door.
The motel was exactly as depressing as you expected, with buzzing fluorescent lights, thin carpet, and a single faded painting of a mountain that looked suspiciously like a blob. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dark window.
Your aunt handed you a steaming cup of tea, its scent warm and spicy. Probably cinnamon, honey, something faintly floral you couldn’t name.
“Drink,” she said softly. “It’ll help you rest.”
You took a sip. It was soothing, heavy, like it was pulling the weight from your limbs.
“I’m sorry about your day,” she said after a pause. “But maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s a lesson.”
You let out a quiet snort. “A lesson in what? Humiliation? Cosmic bad luck?”
Her gaze flicked toward you, something unreadable in her eyes. “Maybe in how to change what you can, and accept what you can’t.”
You frowned. “You sound like one of those mindfulness podcasts you listen to.”
She chuckled. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
You nodded, finishing the tea, the warmth spreading through your chest like syrup.
You curled up under the stiff motel blanket, staring at the shadowed ceiling. Every part of you felt wrung out. Your body ached from running, your heart from everything else.
“I just want this day to be over,” you whispered into the dark.
Your aunt turned off the light. “Maybe tomorrow will surprise you,” she murmured.
But when sleep finally dragged you under, you dreamed of fire.
———————————————————————
You woke to smoke. The same sharp sting in your throat. You shot upright, heart thundering, lungs full of déjà vu.
“No,” you whispered, voice shaking when you saw the familiar surroundings of your bedroom rather than the old motel. Your posters. Your cluttered vanity. The cardigan draped over your chair exactly the way you left it yesterday morning. “No, no, no…”
You threw the blanket off, feet hitting the cold tile. The smell was identical, the faintest trace of cinnamon tea still on your lips, the distant noise of your aunt’s voice down the hall.
You stumbled out of bed and threw open your door. Smoke rolled in from the living room, thick and acrid. When you turned the corner into the living room, your aunt was already there, her arm raised, hose water flicking around her like a tornado.
Everything was exactly the same. Every. Single. Detail.
Your breath caught. “What…” you gasped. “What the hell is happening?”
For a moment, your brain refused to catch up. How were you even here? Didn’t you fall asleep at that gross old motel last night? How were you back here? Was this some vivid nightmare?
Your aunt didn’t look at you this time. She was already muttering under her breath, eyes closed. But when she did finally glance your way, there was something in her expression you didn’t recognise.
It had to be a nightmare. The fire was yesterday. You were in a motel. You’d seen the scorched ceiling with your own eyes, you’d packed your bag, you’d gone to bed…
Except when you pinched your arm you didn’t wake up. You couldn’t force yourself to rise, because you were indeed already awake.
The taste of panic turned metallic on your tongue. “No,” you whispered, heart hammering. “No, no, no.”
It was identical. Every spark, every plume of smoke, the same tendrils curling up toward the same burn mark on the ceiling.
You froze, dizzy. “This can’t be happening,” you breathed.
Your aunt glanced over, eyes shining faintly in the dim light. “Go back to your room,” she said, calm as ever. “It’s under control.”
You stared at her. “Under control? This…this happened yesterday!”
She didn’t answer. The water from the hose surged, the flames bending away like they were obeying her. When they finally vanished, the air crackled with leftover heat.
You could only stare at her. “You…you don’t remember anything about this? I swear, this happened yesterday!”
“Every morning feels the same to me,” she said vaguely, brushing soot from her hands. “Get ready for school. I’ll clean up.”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake her. But instead, you turned and stomped back to your room, pulse still thrumming in your ears.
Maybe yesterday had been the dream? Some kind of prophetic nightmare. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was today hadn’t happened yet.
You took twice as long getting ready, staring at your reflection like it might give you answers.
You picked a different outfit - a cropped white sweater with a plaid skirt and knee-high socks - something effortless, cool, not like you were trying too hard. You redid your eyeliner three times until both sides matched, swiped on lip gloss, and forced yourself to smile in the mirror.
You could do this. Whatever went wrong in your dream, you could fix it.
The fire? Too late. But everything after that, that was in your control. You’d make the bus, look composed, avoid Stiles’ stupid Jeep. You’d get to Aaron and warn him before Erica could get her claws in him.
You grabbed your bag and bolted for the door. This time, you took the shortcut behind the neighbor’s hedge which shaved off three minutes from your walk. You could hear the distant rumble of the bus down the hill and felt relief wash over you.
You broke into a jog and then the bus whooshed past at full speed.
“No!” you yelled, half-laughing in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
The driver didn’t even slow down for your stop.
You stood there, panting, bag sliding down your shoulder. “Okay. Fine. Walking again. Great. Love this.”
The sun was higher now, burning through thin clouds. You followed a different route, down Maple Street instead of Birch, avoiding the usual puddles. You even remembered the one by the intersection where Stiles’ Jeep splashed you.
You smiled to yourself, proud. See? It was just a stupid, slightly prophetic, nightmare. And then your foot hit something that wasn’t pavement, and the ground gave way.
You yelped as you sank knee-deep into freezing, muddy water. It sucked at your boots like quicksand, pulling you down until your skirt was soaked and grit clung to your hands.
“Oh my god,” you hissed, dragging yourself out. “Are you serious?”
Mud streaked your cardigan, your stockings, your bag. The sinkhole gurgled mockingly behind you.
When you heard the familiar clunking of Stiles’ Jeep you practically dove head first into a bush to avoid being seen and did not come out until the noise of tyres was gone.
By the time you made it to school, you were drenched, scraped, and freezing. And then, because the universe was clearly thriving on your misery, Lydia Martin turned the corner.
Her eyes swept over you once and her expression lit up with pity disguised as sweetness. “Oh, wow. Did you get caught in a flood or something?”
You glared. “Something like that.”
“Well, at least it’s on theme for you,” she said airily, brushing past. “Tragic chic.”
You muttered something impolite under your breath and stomped toward your locker.
You were still fumbling with the lock when a voice said, “You look like you fought a swamp and lost.”
You turned. Stiles Stilinski was leaning against the next locker, grinning.
“Wow,” you said flatly. “Thank you, poet laureate.”
He blinked. “Hey, no offense meant. I just…you’ve got, uh…” He gestured vaguely to your hair. “Twigs. Multiple twigs.”
You snapped. “Do you ever stop talking?” you shot back, slamming your locker shut. “Or do you just wake up every morning excited to irritate the entire town?”
His brows rose. “Whoa. Okay. I’m just saying you look—”
“Like hell? Yeah, thanks, I noticed.”
He blinked again, taken aback. “Rough morning?”
You laughed bitterly. “You have no idea.”
Something flickered in his expression - surprise, maybe sympathy - but you didn’t want it. You turned and walked off before he could say anything else.
You spent the entirely of home room and first period scanning the halls for Aaron. Every minute ticked by with unbearable slowness, and when you finally tried sneaking out of Econ to find him, you got caught.
“Detention,” Coach said curtly, scribbling your name on a clipboard. “After school. Don’t argue.”
You opened your mouth then shut it again. Great.
When you were called to the principals office halfway through second period. Surely it was another strange coincidence? But suddenly you weren’t too sure anymore. Instead of going to the principals office to find out, you slipped out of class and into the bathroom instead.
But as you were passing by the arts corridor to head back you just so happened to cross paths with the principal on his way out of the arts staff room.
“Oh, just the student I’ve been looking for.” He instantly saddled up to you. “Your art piece has been pulled from the student exhibition.”
Your heart sank as those words only solidified what was becoming jarringly obvious. Your whole dream was coming true. Or maybe it was never a dream in the first place.
You stared, clearing the shock from your throat. “Uh…Why?”
He cleared his throat. “There were…concerns. About the tone. The imagery was rather unsettling.”
“It’s a charcoal collection,” you said slowly. “Depicting motifs of loss and mourning.”
“With incredibly dark and gothic imagery,” he reminded you.
“It’s symbolic!” you argued. “About lingering grief, not witchcraft. Bloody hell!”
He winced. “Language.”
You threw your hands up. “You people see one skull and suddenly it’s The Craft.”
“Please lower your voice.”
But you were already storming out of the hallway. You had one last thing you needed to check before you finally admitted to yourself some strange anomalies was occurring right before your very eyes.
By the time you reached the field, your heart was pounding again.
You spotted Aaron sitting on the bleachers, just like before in your dream - or yesterday, whichever it was. Erica was beside him, her hair glinting gold in the sun.
You ran the last few steps, ready to yell, to stop it, to fix it. But then you froze, because this time, you saw it clearly.
She was flirting, sure - laughing, leaning in - but he moved first. His hand brushed her arm. His smile lingered. His gaze dropped to her lips. And when he kissed her, there was no hesitation, no trick. Just a choice. His choice.
The sound left your throat before you even realized it. It was a small, raw sound, half gasp, half sob. You turned and bolted before either of them saw you.
You made it around the side of the bleachers before colliding straight into someone.
“Whoa!” Stiles caught you by the shoulders. His eyes widened. “Hey, hey, you okay?”
Seriously? Why the hell was he suddenly everywhere?
You jerked out of his grip. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Well, maybe that’s just my face,” you snapped.
His mouth opened, then shut. For a second, he looked almost wounded. Then he exhaled softly. “Okay. Just, if you need help or something, you can ask me.”
The kindness in his tone made your throat tighten. You wanted to say thank you but the words tangled up behind the ache in your chest. You turned and walked off, fast.
Detention that afternoon was torture. The clock’s second hand ticked loud enough to make your skin crawl. You kept your head down, sketching aimlessly in the margins of your notebook. And then a familiar scrape of chair legs made you look up.
Stiles dropped into the seat across from you, waving awkwardly. “Hey, swamp girl.”
You groaned. “Please don’t.”
He smirked faintly. “Sorry. Just…rough day?”
You hesitated, staring at him. His eyes were warm, too earnest.
“Yeah,” you said finally. “The worst one yet.”
He nodded, like he actually understood. “Those are my specialty. I can spot a cursed day from a mile away.”
You huffed a laugh. “Cursed is one word for it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time all day, you felt a flicker of calm.
When detention ended, he followed you out. “You need a ride?”
You sighed. “You have a death wish? Everything I touch today falls apart.”
“I’ve had my fair share of insane days. Don’t worry, I can handle any bad juju you might run off on me.”
You smiled at that - a small, tired thing - and nodded in agreement.
The Jeep smelled faintly of old coffee and pine air freshener. Rain streaked the windshield, though the sky outside was clear.
You leaned against the seat, staring out the window. “I don’t even know how to explain the kind of day this was.”
“Try me,” he said.
You gave a humorless laugh. “It was like…déjà vu. Like I knew what was coming, but couldn’t stop it. Everything I tried to fix just got worse.”
He hummed thoughtfully and pointed up towards the heavens. “Sounds like someone up there’s got a grudge.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “That makes two of us.”
When you got to the motel room, you were barely even bother explaining. You already knew the words your aunt would say, the way her expression would shift when you mentioned the fire.
And sure enough, when you whispered, “It happened again. The same awful day, the same fire…”
Maggie froze for a fraction of a second. Then her face smoothed into calm disbelief. “You’ve had a very stressful week,” she said gently. “Sometimes our minds play tricks when we’re overtired.”
You stared at her. “You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you’re scared,” she said softly. “That’s enough for now.”
She handed you the same cup of tea as before. It was warm, golden, faintly sweet. You drank it without a word, too exhausted to fight.
Later, as you curled beneath your blanket, the same thought echoed in your mind, a whisper you couldn’t drown out.
If tomorrow was today again - if this loop was real - then you might actually lose your mind.
———————————————————————
You woke to the filtering morning light again. For one heart-stopping second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it all - the fire, the déjà vu, the whole looping reality nightmare. Maybe you’d just had an unusually vivid dream.
But then you sat up and your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your bedside table. The same date read across the top. Fine. If you couldn’t stop the day, you’d find a way to beat it.
You scrambled out of bed, shoving your hair into a messy bun and skipping your whole outfit ritual this time. You didn’t need to impress anyone today. You needed to save your damn house.
You knew exactly where to go - the incense tray by the window. The one your aunt left smoldering every morning, the one that you found out had tipped over yesterday and caught the curtains.
You darted straight for it and grabbed the tray before it could fall. The ash was still smoking faintly.
“Ha!” you said, triumphant, holding it up like a trophy. “Not today.”
Your aunt appeared in the doorway, half-dressed in her robe, blinking. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Stopping the fire!” you said. “It started here! This stupid incense!”
Her expression flickered. “How did you—”
And then something popped in the kitchen. You froze. A tendril of smoke curled up from the toaster.
“Wait, no!”
Too late. The plug sparked, the cord caught, and within seconds the curtain above it went up in flames.
You stood there, jaw slack. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Your aunt ran past you and out the back door through the kitchen, pulling in the garden hose as the flames quickly spread
You just slumped against the counter, dizzy with disbelief. “This house hates me.”
That was the second failed loop. Then came the third. And the fourth.
By the fifth, you were a professional firefighter in pajamas. You unplugged every appliance, dumped out every candle, even shut off the breaker completely, and somehow, some way, something else always ignited.
Once, it was a fallen hairdryer. Another time, lightning struck a tree in the yard and the sparks blew through your open window. Another, faulty wiring in the ceiling. Once, the gas stove caused an explosion.
You screamed yourself hoarse. You cried. You laughed hysterically. Nothing changed.
Every loop unfolded in the same way. The smell of smoke, your aunt waving you off with her cryptic calm, and the knowledge that the universe was laughing its ass off at you.
That wasn’t the only event you couldn’t seem to change.
You tried leaving earlier for school, thinking maybe if you outran the timeline, you could catch the bus before everything went sideways.
But the bus was early one day. Late the next. Sometimes it just didn’t show up at all. You started taking new routes, determined to break the pattern.
The first detour led you down Oak Avenue, where a construction crew redirected you straight into a muddy trench. The second time, a truck sped by and drenched you from head to toe. The third, it started raining out of nowhere with fat, cold drops that soaked through your cardigan before you made it two blocks. The fourth, you thought you’d finally found a dry shortcut through the park, until the sprinklers went off like they’d been waiting for you.
You screamed at the sky. “I GET IT! I’M CURSED! THANK YOU!”
And somehow, always, always, he appeared.
Sometimes Stiles caught you right after the incident, like clockwork, his beat-up Jeep rolling up beside you with that half-sheepish, half-amused smile, offering you a ride.
Other times, he’d find you in the hall between classes, handing you a napkin or a paper towel or just cracking a joke that made you want to strangle him and laugh at the same time.
It was uncanny, like he was written into the day, an unshakable fixture no matter how you tried to dodge him.
And because you had no one else to talk to, you started…noticing things.
Like how he always had his sleeves rolled up unevenly, or how he hummed off-key to the songs on his iPod. How he had an entire playlist of chaotic indie bands you’d never heard of, and somehow every one of them was a banger.
He was still insufferable - loud, nosy, full of energy that made your head spin - but he was also funny. In a dorky, unintentional way.
You found yourself smiling once, genuinely, when he ranted about how Coach still didn’t know how to pronounce half the team’s names.
And then you remembered he was part of the loop, too - part of the script you were desperate to escape - and the guilt sank in like a stone.
Lydia’s insults stopped bothering you somewhere around loop seven.
By then, you’d heard every variation of her snide remarks, like ‘Oh, darling, puddle couture?’, and your brain just went numb.
You stopped reacting. You’d nod, smile faintly, and keep walking. It was oddly liberating.
Same with the art show.
You still got called into the office every time. Same lecture about ‘inappropriate themes’. Same condescending ‘we value your creativity, but…’ speech.
At first, you argued, then you begged, then you stopped caring. You’d stare at the principal, expression blank, and say, “Sure. Pull it. Why not.”
He’d blink, confused. “That’s…very mature of you.”
You’d smile sweetly. “Yeah. Totally mature.”
And then leave, biting back laughter that sounded a little too close to hysteria.
Aaron and Erica became background noise. Static you couldn’t mute. You found out about them in a dozen different ways.
Once, you saw them in the hallway, pressed too close together. Once, Lydia told you with fake sympathy, like she was delivering gossip instead of heartbreak. Once, his friends laughed about it within earshot. And once, you saw the photos - blurry, grainy, but unmistakable - plastered all over social media.
Each loop, it hurt a little less. The anger dulled, the betrayal faded, replaced by weary acceptance. You stopped trying to stop it. You stopped trying to change anything.
Every night, it ended the same way. You and your aunt in the motel room, the flickering neon light outside casting sickly colors across the wallpaper.
You ranting - voice hoarse, hair a mess - pacing like a caged animal.
“I stopped the fire! I unplugged everything! I left early, I took six different routes, and somehow, some way, I still end up soaking wet, still lose my stupid art spot, still find Aaron sucking face with Erica!”
Your aunt would just watch you quietly, stirring her tea.
“You think I’m losing my mind, don’t you?” you accused once, tears prickling your eyes.
Her lips curved faintly in that small, knowing smile that made you want to scream. “I think you’re learning.”
You huffed in frustration, barely listening. “Learning what?”
“Patience,” she said softly. “Perspective.”
You threw your hands up. “I’m learning I hate Tuesdays!”
But she just sipped her tea. “Drink yours before it gets cold.”
So you did. And every single time, you fell asleep with the taste of honeyed herbs on your tongue, vowing you’d fix it tomorrow.
———————————————————————
This was the morning you finally snapped.
No more panic, no more sprinting to save your doomed house, no more pretending to care about a day that clearly wanted to destroy you. The universe wanted to play games? Fine. You’d play right back.
When you woke at 6:45 a.m., you didn’t even move. You stared at the ceiling, feeling that same dull ache in your chest that came every time you realised you were still here. Still stuck in the same twenty-four-hour nightmare, doomed to repeat it again and again until the world decided you’d suffered enough.
You didn’t jump out of bed. You didn’t rush to find a cute, polished outfit. You didn’t even pretend to care about the faint scent of smoke you knew would soon thread through the air.
Instead, you sat up, raked a hand through your tangled hair, and muttered, “Fine. Burn, then.”
The house didn’t wait long to oblige.
From your spot on the bed, you could see the faint orange flicker under the door, hear the soft crackle that had once sent you into panic mode. You didn’t even blink. Just crossed one leg over the other and watched the light grow stronger, the way people might watch rain slide down a window. Somewhere in the house, your aunt shouted something and you almost smirked.
Your hands moved on autopilot, rifling through your wardrobe until you found something that felt right. Something that matched the black comedy of it all. You tugged out your long, flowy black skirt that brushed your ankles like storm clouds when you walked. A deep burgundy top with glass bead embroidery that shimmered faintly in the light. And your boldest lipstick - that deep, unapologetic blood-red.
You applied it carefully, slowly, watching the person in the mirror become someone new. Someone who didn’t chase buses or beg the world to notice her. Someone who let it all burn and looked beautiful while doing it.
You added rings - too many, silver and obsidian and one sharp enough to draw blood - and pulled on your old black boots. You left your hair loose, messy waves falling over your shoulders, and looked at yourself one last time.
You felt like yourself.
The air outside your room shimmered faintly with heat when you opened the door. The fire had spread. You could see the orange glow crawling up the wallpaper like veins of molten light. Your aunt’s voice carried from the kitchen, sharp and commanding.
You leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched as water erupted from the hose, dousing the flames. Steam hissed. Smoke rolled across the ceiling. You didn’t flinch.
“Kitchen fire again?” you called out.
Your aunt turned, wild-eyed and soot-streaked. “You’re not helping!”
“Wasn’t planning to,” you said casually, stepping over a smoldering rug on your way to the door.
She glared at you, broom clutched like a weapon. “You’re becoming far too calm about this.”
“Guess I’ve had practice.” You winked and stepped out into the cool morning air.
You didn’t even pretend to hurry. The bus was pointless. You could sprint, you could take shortcuts, you could leave early, but it always left without you. So you let your boots squelch through the damp ground, skirt swaying behind you, as the smoky taste of the morning drifted away.
You walked past the bus stop without looking at it. The group of kids waiting there stared like you were something out of a horror movie. You met their eyes and smiled faintly. Let them think what they wanted.
You were halfway down the road when the familiar squeal of tires sounded behind you. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.
And when the powder blue Jeep pulled up beside you, you didn’t even turn your head before saying, “You’re late.”
“Uh, hi?” came Stiles’ voice, incredulous and amused. “You’re, uh, walking straight through puddles like you’re auditioning for a gothic perfume ad.”
You turned to him finally, meeting his raised eyebrows with a smirk. “What, you don’t like it?”
“Oh, I like it,” he said, leaning across the passenger seat to push the door open for you. “Just trying to figure out if I should be impressed or concerned.”
You shrugged. “Maybe both.”
He laughed, loudly, warmly, and far too genuine for this cold morning. “Get in. You look like you’re about to hex someone.”
“Tempting,” you muttered, but you slid into the seat anyway. The jeep smelled like old coffee, pine air freshener, and something you’d learned to recognise as donating Stiles - a woody cologne.
You rested your chin on your hand as he drove, your skirt pooling around you like a shadow.
“Let me guess,” you said, smirking. “You’re listening to your murder podcast again, aren’t you?”
His head whipped toward you. “How did you…?Wait, did I tell you that?”
You smiled cryptically. “Lucky guess.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “You’re weird.”
“Thank you,” you said sweetly.
The ride was easy. For once, you didn’t try to fill the silence or hide how much you liked the feeling of the wind threading through your hair. You even caught yourself laughing at one of his terrible jokes about the sheriff’s department.
The Jeep rattled a little, the heater blowing lukewarm air. You rested your elbow against the window, watching trees blur past. Stiles glanced at you.
“So,” he said after a beat, “what’s the soundtrack to your silent rebellion today?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Oh come on, you ditched the whole girl next door image, so clearly rebellion is on the agenda today. So what’s your poison? Is it, like, Florence and the Machine? Or more…My Chemical Romance?”
You snorted. “Wow, stereotyping much? You think because I suddenly wear black I cry-listen to emo anthems?”
“Do you?”
“…Maybe,” you admitted, smirking. “But I also like Arctic Monkeys, Fleetwood Mac, and Lana. Depends on the loop.”
“Loop?”
You froze for a split second, then recovered with a shrug. “You know. Routine.”
He looked amused. “You’re hard to figure out.”
“Good.”
By the time you reached school, you were almost disappointed the drive was over.
You could feel Lydia’s eyes before she even spoke. She looked you up and down like she always did, nose wrinkling slightly.
“Oh my god,” she said, voice dripping honey and venom. “Are you, like, auditioning for a vampire movie?”
You turned, smiling sweetly and eyeing her extremely low cut top and tight skirt. “You auditioning for the latest step-sister porno?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” you said brightly and brushed past her.
The collective gasp from her little group of followers was satisfying. You didn’t even look back. It felt good. Extremely good. And Aaron was next.
You didn’t hide from him this time. You’d spent too many loops crying in bathroom stalls, too many hours trying to protect him from Erica’s lips, from his own stupidity. You were done.
You’d planned this part carefully. The printer in the library lab whirred for almost an hour through lunch. Now, your bag was stuffed with your own particular flavour of justice - hundreds of grainy flyers with Aaron’s name splashed across them like a curse. Each one had some embarrassing photo, or a screenshot of a problematic text exchange. You’d even included one of those cringe-worthy selfies he’d taken with a duck face. And in bold red, across every sheet: CHEATER.
You started in the main hallway. One on the trophy case. One on the cafeteria door. One right next to the football team’s sign-up sheet. The more you pasted, the lighter you felt.
By the time the bell rang, whispers were already circling like vultures.
“Did you see what she…”
“Oh my god, is that?”
“No way, she actually…”
Then came the voice you’d been waiting for. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
You turned. Aaron was storming toward you, flyers crumpled in his fist. His face was an angry shade of pink. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
You tilted your head, innocent. “No, I think I finally found it.”
“Do you have any idea how—”
You quickly interrupted. “How satisfying this is? Yeah.”
He blinked, stunned. “You’re making a fool of yourself!”
“Funny,” you said. “I thought you already did that when you cheated on me.”
The hallway erupted in laughter. Someone actually whistled. Aaron’s jaw clenched as he looked around at the growing crowd, then back at you.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered.
“Oh, it’s so over,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re done, Aaron. Consider this my official breakup notice.”
And with that, you turned and walked away, your heart pounding, lips curved into a smirk.
You made it through half of Harris’s lecture about your behaviour before you had enough. The class tittered. Harris scowled. “You think this is funny? Detention. Today. After school.”
“Perfect,” you said, grabbing your bag.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere else.” You didn’t look back as you walked out the door, the sound of his angry shouting fading behind you.
You didn’t care anymore. Not about the fire. Not about the bus. Not about Aaron or Lydia or even the gossip that now followed you like a shadow.
Because for the first time in a hundred repeats, you weren’t surviving the day. You were living it.
———————————————————————
The clock ticked like it wanted to spite you. Every second dragged, a drip of slow poison. The desks were covered in doodles and initials carved by generations of bored kids who’d sat where you were sitting now in the back of the classroom, twirling a pen between your fingers, your mind flickering through loops of déjà vu. You could practically see every version of yourself who had sat here before - panicking, frustrated, crying. Now, though? You just felt done.
Mr. Harris was up at his desk, shuffling papers, his sharp, nasal voice slicing through the silence. “You will remain in absolute quiet for the remainder of the hour. I have better things to do than babysit teenagers who can’t control their impulses.”
There were only two of you in the room, you and Stiles. He sat diagonally in front of you, tapping his pencil in a rhythm that matched the twitch in your jaw. His leg bounced, his fingers drummed, and every few seconds he glanced at you with that lopsided smirk like he could sense the storm brewing inside your chest.
Finally, you whispered, “I’m bored.”
Stiles turned around in his seat, whispering back, “You? Bored? No way.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious. This sucks.”
“You’re in detention. It’s supposed to suck.”
You leaned forward, voice low. “Not if you make it interesting.”
He tilted his head, curious. “What do you have in mind?”
You smirked, eyes flicking toward the desk where Harris sat marking papers. “Something harmless. Maybe.”
His grin spread slow and dangerous. “You’re scaring me a little, but go on.”
“Remember that chemical reaction kit in the back cupboard?” you said softly. “The one he uses to demo basic exothermic reactions?”
Stiles blinked. “You’re suggesting we…?”
“Cause a tiny explosion?” you whispered. “Yeah. Just a little one. Enough to freak him out.”
He looked torn between terror and awe. “You are so going to get us expelled.”
For a second, he hesitated. Then he stood abruptly, stretching exaggeratedly. “Hey, Mr. Harris? You mind if I, uh, grab a tissue from the cupboard?”
Harris didn’t look up. “Sit down, Stilinski.”
“Cool, yeah, sure,” Stiles said, and immediately walked to the cupboard anyway.
You bit back a laugh as you joined him, opening the door with a squeak. Inside were rows of jars, labelled powders, a small burner, and one half-empty bottle of ethanol. Perfect. You exchanged a conspiratorial glance.
“This is insane,” Stiles muttered.
“Exactly,” you said.
It took less than a minute. You knew just enough chemistry to make a small puff of harmless smoke rise from the beaker. You slid it back into place, barely containing your laughter.
Thirty seconds later, it hissed and popped with a small bang.
Harris shot up like he’d been electrocuted. “WHO DID THAT?”
You and Stiles both pointed at each other immediately. “Not me!” you shouted in unison, bursting into laughter.
“You think this is funny?” Harris snapped, face turning red.
“Yes,” you said honestly, tears of laughter spilling down your cheeks. “God, yes.”
Stiles was laughing too hard to even breathe. “You have to admit, it was a pretty solid reaction!”
“That’s it,” Harris barked. “You’re both—”
But you were already out of your chair. “We’re leaving.”
“You can’t just walk out of detention!”
“Watch us,” you said, grabbing your bag.
And before he could finish his sentence, you and Stiles were sprinting out the door, laughter echoing down the hallway, sneakers slapping against the floors.
You didn’t stop running until you were outside. The late afternoon light painted everything gold and warm. You were breathless, dizzy, alive.
Stiles leaned against his Jeep, laughing. “You’re completely unhinged!”
“Maybe,” you said between breaths. “But tell me that wasn’t worth it.”
He grinned. “Okay, yeah, it was legendary.”
You stared at him for a long moment. At his messy hair, his stupidly bright smile, the way he looked at you with that soft expression. “Let’s not go home,” you said suddenly.
He blinked. “What?”
“Let’s not. I don’t want to go back to that house. Or that motel. I want to…I don’t know, do something crazy! Just for one night.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah. Why not? You’ve already got me breaking school property. Might as well commit to the bit.”
You grinned. “Good answer.”
———————————————————————
The neon sign of Beacon Hills Liquor buzzed overhead. It looked like every bad decision made between the ages of 16 and 23 had passed through its door.
You pulled your fake IDs from your bag - one that Aaron had insisted Danny make for you to help practice using his machine. Stiles instantly gawked at it like it was a cursed artifact. “This looks fake.”
“It is fake.”
“No, no,” he gestured, flapping a hand. “I mean it looks fake in a spectacularly terrible way.”
“Relax.” You giggled, unable to even pretend you were nervous when you knew no matter how badly this went, you’d experience no consequences tomorrow when the loop reset.
“Relax?!” His voice cracks. “Relax?? Do you know what my dad would do if I got arrested for underage drinking? I’d never see the outside world again. I’d have to telepathically communicate with Scott from my room like some kind of suburban hostage.”
“Stiles.”
“What?”
“You’re not even coming with me.”
He tried to protest, but you were already walking into the store. He followed, mumbling his own eulogy as he stopped and waited outside with a very forced-casual pose.
The cashier - a bored man with ear gauges and a shirt that said ‘I Hate Everyone’ - barely glanced up.
You slid a bottle of cheap whiskey onto the counter. “Hi.”
The cashier lifted an eyebrow at you. “ID?”
You handed it over and he stared at it for a painfully long time. You could practically see Stiles’ eye twitching as he watched through the window.
The cashier hummed in acceptance. “Good enough. Anything else?”
You smiled calmly and handed over some cash. “That’s all.”
When he handed you your changed to grabbed the coins and the bottle and left. Out in the parking lot, Stiles fell into step beside you and stared with profound disbelief in his honey brown eyes. “I cannot believe that worked.”
You smiled nonchalantly. “Confidence.”
“No. Witchcraft. I’m convinced your aunt taught you witchcraft.”
“Maybe she did.”
He blinked. “…Really?”
You grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His face did something complicated that made you laugh. “Now, you know anywhere that we can crack this open?” You lifted the bottle and the moonlight glinted off the glass.
“Yeah, I know a place,” he twirled his keys around his finger and walked around to open the passenger door for you. He held it open while you climbed in and the small gesture made your stomach flip.
———————————————————————
You and Stiles hiked way into the preserve until the trees swallowed the noise of town. The sky was turning indigo, the world growing quieter, like it was waiting to hide your secrets.
Stiles collapsed onto a fallen log when you finally arrived to a spot with a few rocks surrounding a pit out fire bin. You imagined that meant Stiles had been here before, and the sudden image of him bringing another girl here made something flare in your stomach. “Okay. Operation ‘Not-Sucky Night’ is a go. Step one, alcohol poisoning.”
You snorted, taking a swig from the bottle. It burned like fire. “Ugh. That’s disgusting.”
“Right?” He held his hand out for the bottle and took a sip, recoiling dramatically. “Why does it taste like a war crime?”
You were still laughing when he nudged your knee gently with his and passed the bottle back to you. “All right, your turn. A shot a truth.”
You reached for the bottle. “Alcohol first.”
“Coward.”
You took another burning mouthful. Then you inhaled, feeling the liquid courage settling warm in your chest. “I feel like I’ve been stuck,” you say quietly, trying to word your situation in a way that sounded grounded in reality. “Like a…glitch. Like my life is just this repeating pattern of bad decisions and worse luck.”
Stiles was silent for a moment. Then he said, softer than you’ve ever heard him speak, “Yeah. I know that one.”
You glanced at him with surprise and doubt written on your face, but he was staring at the bottle, not you, so you passed it over.
“I spent years watching my dad fall apart,” he murmured. “After my mom…I had to be the adult most of the time. And now I just…I don’t know. I feel like I’m always one wrong turn away from ruining everything.”
His voice cracked and you handed him the bottle. You watched him as he took a long drink, wondering how you’d never considered that Stiles had lost a parent too. Sure, it was a bit different than losing both, as you had, but if anyone was able to understand you maybe it would be him.
You shifted closer, your knees brushing his.“Stiles,” you said gently, “You didn’t ruin anything.”
He laughed once, bitterly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do, because when I lost my parents I felt the same. Sometimes I still do,” You answered and his eyes meet yours - raw, unguarded.
Something warm twisted inside your chest, as you whispered, “Tell me something else.”
He exhaled shakily. “…I didn’t think you liked me.”
“I didn’t,” you admitted. “At first.”
His mouth quirked into a slight smile. “Wow. Thanks.”
“No, I mean…” You shook your head, trying again. “I had you wrong. You’re kind of great.”
He went silent, those amber eyes that you suddenly found entrancing gazing into yours like they could see straight through to your innermost pain.
“I think you’re great too.” He finally said and your heart stuttered.
You wondered, was one day of knowing someone too soon for him to start having that effect on you?
It was half past eight when you and Stiles wandered out of the preserve, whiskey warming your blood and the soft buzz of intimacy already threading between you. Instead of driving back home in the Jeep, you decided to walk around downtown, exchanging stories of your childhoods as you tried to keep your path straight across the pavement.
“There’s no way that’a true!” You laughed uninhibitedly as he recalled a story of him and Scott being chased by an angry old woman at the skate park.
“I kid you not, she chased us all the way to my house and we hid under my dad’s car in the driveway because we couldn’t get the front door to open.” Stiles recounted loudly.
When you spotted the tattoo shop, glowing with neon blue light and the OPEN sign flickering, you paused in your tracks.
Stiles stopped dead on the sidewalk beside you. “No. No no no. This is where I draw the line. I cannot explain this to my dad. He’ll think I joined a biker gang. Or a cult. Or a cult biker gang.”
You looped your arm through his. “Relax. I’m the one getting a tattoo.”
His jaw dropped open like a cartoon character and you laughed, starting to find the way he emoted so dramatically endearing. “What?! You…Wait, you’re serious?!”
You were already pulling open the door and the bell jingled over your heads as you walked in. Stiles followed, muttering nervously under his breath. Inside, the tattoo artist looked up from her desk.
“You kids got IDs?” The woman asked, the overhead light shining off her tattooed scalp.
You slid your fake ID onto the counter with a confidence that would make your aunt proud. “Sure do.”
Stiles watched you like you were a live grenade. The artist looked you over, squinted at the ID, and nodded. “What’re we doing tonight?”
You turned to flip through the folders of art available on the counter, grinning. “Something fine line. I’ve always wanted a celestial theme, maybe on my wrist.”
“How about a crescent moon?” the artist suggested and flipped to a page, showing a beautiful moon smattered with glittering stars around it.
You considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. That.”
The woman - whose are you learned was Dawn - led you over to her station. You dropped down into a comfortable leather chair.
Stiles stood behind you the whole time, pacing so much the artist eventually snapped at him.“Dude. Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Stiles collapsed onto the stool beside you. “I’m sorry, I just…I get a bit squeamish.”
You rolled your eyes. “You can hold my hand if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” He insisted, his face going pink. “I just get a bit grossed out and lightheaded and sometimes I faint.”
You offered him your hand that wasn’t getting tattooed, and he took it silently. He didn’t let go, not even after the needle started. You hissed at the first sting, and Stiles squeezed your hand tighter.
“Hey,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. You got this.”
And something shifted there in that chair, with you breathing through the sting and Stiles’s hand in yours. You didn’t look at him, but you felt him - warm, nervous, somehow protective. When the artist finished, Stiles lets out a breath like he was the one under the needle.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
“Maybe.” You admitted.
“But it looks good on you.” He complimented.
You finally tuned to face him and he was looking at the tattoo, then at you. For some reason, that same soft look behind his eyes made your heart beat just a little bit faster.
“I know where we should go next,” you said, a devious smirk already spreading across your lips.
“Oh no, I think that’s enough for tonight,” he chuckled and shook his head but your smile only widened. You knew there was no way you were going to end the night there.
———————————————————————
The club was loud, humid, and pulsing with bass. You slipped in past the bouncer while Stiles distracted him with a frantic, very unconvincing rant about parking violations.
Once the guard turned his back and you were both inside, Stiles’ hair windblown, his expression was one of astonishment. “I can’t believe that worked.”
“I can’t believe you managed to lie for thirty seconds,” you shot back.
“I can lie!” he retorted, insulted. “Okay, I can’t lie well. But I can lie.”
You grabbed his hand before he could ramble more and pulled him toward the dance floor. “Come on.”
“Wait, I don’t dance!” He tugged his arm back but you tightened your hold on him insistently.
You shouted over the music, “Yes you do!”
“No I don’t!” he shouted back.
But you were already pulling him into the lights. The beat thumped through the crowd and the two of you moved in an awkward, hilarious, strangely perfect rhythm. Stiles loosened up fast - maybe due to the music, maybe the whiskey, maybe the fact that you were laughing and leaning too close. The whole world felt far away.
At one point, he leaned in, breath warm against your ear. “You know…you’re kind of incredible.”
You blinked up at him, your heart skipping. “Where did that come from?”
“Dunno,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Alcohol. Adrenaline. Spending way too much time looking at your pretty face.”
You shoved his shoulder, laughing. He stumbled dramatically, arms windmilling and you grabbed his jacket, pulling him back toward you so he wouldn’t fall.
You were close. Too close. So close that his breath fanned across your lips. For half a second, you thought about crossing the distance. But then a shout echoed across the crowd.
“HEY! YOU TWO!”
You turned to see the security guard that you’d distracted to sneak in.
“Run!” you shouted,
You both sprinted out of the club, laughing uncontrollably as the bouncer chased you for half a block.
“That was close!” You squealed as you tossed yourself into the Jeep and pulled the door shut behind you.
“Too close!” Stiles jumped behind the wheel, breathing heavily as he shoved his keys into the ignition.
You were barely three minutes on the road when red-and-blue lights flashed behind you.
Stiles slammed his head against the steering wheel. “Of course! Of course this would happen.”
Stiles slowed the car and pulled over to the side as Sheriff Stilinski approached, his flashlight raised. He stopped at the car window and leaned in, pausing his flashlight on you when he saw you in the passenger seat. Then he sighed with fatherly disappointment so intense you almost shrivelled.
“Stiles.”
“Dad.”
“Why do you look sweaty?”
Stiles began sweating more. “Uh. Because…the weather?”
“It’s fifty-eight degrees.”
“Uh. Humidity?”
The Sheriff looked at you. “Are you okay?”
You nodded. “Perfect, Sheriff. Totally fine.”
He narrowed his eyes at Stiles again. “You weren’t drinking, were you?”
You subtly nudged the whiskey bottle deeper under the seat with your foot.
Sheriff Stilinski sighs. “Just…get home, okay? Both of you. It’s late.”
“Yes,” Stiles said quickly. “Immediately. Straight home.”
The Sheriff walked back to his cruiser and Stiles waited until the door shut. Then he whispered, “I’m. Going. To. Die.”
You burst into laughter and after a moment, he joined you too. “Let’s get out of here Stilinski. I’d say this was a pretty successful non-sucky night.”
“Yeah, it was pretty great.” He grinned and pulled back out onto the road.
Stiles followed your directions until he pulled into the driveway of your family home. The house was dark and you knew the inside was charred from the fire earlier. The sight gutted you all over again.
Stiles noticed. He seemed to do that quite often - see things others didn’t. “Hey,” he said softly. “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”
“No…I need to grab a few things.”
Inside, the air smelled like smoke. The living room was blackened, the wallpaper curled, the floor warped. It was the worst you’d seen it. It hits you harder than you expect. Your throat tightened.
Stiles stayed close but didn’t touch anything.“Take your time.” He said gently.
But you couldn’t. It was too much. The memories of the fire. The exhaustion of reliving this hellish day again and again. The sight of the place that held so many memories destroyed. Picture albums with your parents smiling faces inside lost to the flames.
You crumbled right there, next to the scorched sofa. And Stiles caught you. He wrapped his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you against his chest. “Hey, hey…I got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
You sobbed into his shoulder. All the stress, all the grief, all the fear of the loop never ending, everything you’d been holding inside finally boiled over.
“Why does everything keep going wrong?” you whispered into his jacket. “Why do I keep losing everything?”
His voice cracks. “I know that feeling.”
You pulled back slightly. “What…what do you mean?”
Stiles swallowed hard. “My mom,” he answered quietly. “Before she died…I kept trying to fix things. Be better. Be stronger. Be enough. But you can’t outrun life. You can’t stop everything bad from happening.” He shook his head, eyes shining. “But you’re not alone. At least, not tonight.”
You stared at him and the realisation hit, slow and warm. You’d never felt this understood before.
———————————————————————
On the way to the hotel, the Jeep was filled with soft music and even softer breaths. The night felt like it was folding around the two of you, cocooning you in something fragile and temporary and impossibly precious.
Stiles drummed lightly on the steering wheel. “Can I ask something?”
“Yeah.” You nodded. You’d learned to be transparent with him, and had spoken about all of the things you’d never told anyone before. You’d fallen into an oddly comfortable dynamic that you never would have expected to develop. Especially not with Stiles, of all people.
“Were you happy? With Aaron?” He asked.
You exhaled. “No. Not really. I think…I just liked the idea of not being alone.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
“What about you?” you returned to question. “Anyone special?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Just a crush. Entirely one-sided.”
You smiled gently, noticing a strange feeling once more in your stomach at the thought of Stiles spending a night like this with any other girl. It felt special now, what the two of you had shared. Almost sacred. “Who?”
He glanced at you for half a second too long. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
You looked out the window, your heart thudding. “Try me.”
He didn’t answer, just smiled to himself, soft and nervous.
When he pulled up to the hotel, you felt that ache. The bittersweet one that comes before something fantastic ends.
You unbuckled your belt, turned toward him, and blurted the truth, anxiety rising in your belly. “You won’t remember this tomorrow.”
He rolled his eyes at you, misunderstanding. “I’m not that wasted.”
You shook your head. “Just…trust me. You won’t.” The confusion on his face twisted your heart. “So,” you added quietly, “maybe I should just do something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”
“What’s that?”
You leaned across the console, your hands cupped his jaw, and you kissed him. It started soft. Just lips brushing lips. Testing. Asking. Then he exhaled with a tiny, broken sound, and kissed you back.
His hands slid to your waist, yours tangled in his hair. It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t messy. Just…perfect. Desperate in a sweet way.
You broke apart only when your aunt shrill voice echoed through the parking lot. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!”
You jumped apart, turning to see aunt Maggie standing outside the Jeep, her arms crossed, furious and terrified and relieved all at once.
“Oh my god,” Stiles whimpered in panic. “She’s gonna hex me.”
“Shit,” You muttered and stepped out of the Jeep, your cheeks flushed.
Maggie launched into a tirade about worry and responsibility and disappearing for hours with no notice. Stiles watched you with soft eyes through the window.
Before you followed Maggie inside, you turned back to the open window and said. “Thank you. For everything. For tonight.”
He smiled shyly. “Yeah. Thank you too. For…everything.”
You stepped away and as you walked into the hotel room, exhausted and strangely happy, a heavy sadness hit you. Tomorrow would reset and he wouldn’t remember. But you would.
———————————————————————
You woke up expecting smoke. Your lungs braced for it before your eyes even opened. You were certain you’d be back in your bed, in your house, inhaling that thick, choking smell that always signalled the loop had reset. But when the air hit your throat, it was…clean.
Too clean. Hotel-clean.
Your eyes snapped open. The cheap patterned ceiling stared back at you, and your stomach dropped so violently you swore the mattress tilted.
You were still at the hotel.
Not in your bed.
Not in yesterday.
Not in the loop.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathed, sitting up so fast your head spun. Your arm flailed out, accidentally tipping the mug on your bedside table. The mug fell to the floor with a clatter and shattered, though thankfully no liquid sprayed anywhere because it was empty.
The tea.
The idea hit you like a punch to the throat. Every night you’d come to the motel, every night before the loop had reset, you’d drank the tea your aunt had made you. Except for last night.
The tea. It must have been. Perhaps aunt Maggie was a witch after all.
You clutched the blankets, your heart hammering against your ribs. The memories of yesterday flooded back like a tidal wave - Stiles, the club, the alcohol, the dancing, the tattoo, the makeout in the parking lot, your aunt’s face when she found you…And the flyers. The detention. The yelling. The absolute zero-fucks chaos that you left behind like scorched earth.
A part of you wanted to crawl under the covers and die. Another part - smaller, but louder - grinned. Because of Stiles. Because the night you’d shared with him has been amazing. And the kiss…even more so.
You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering. “Okay. Okay, I can do this,” you whispered to yourself.
You pulled on the spare clothes you’d picked up last night with shaky hands. Then you walked to school, heading out before Maggie could wake but sending her a message so she’d know where you went.
Your stomach flipped with dread as you got closer and closer. The minute you walk through the doors, someone called out your name. You looked to your right to see none one than a very pissed-off-looking Harris himself.
“Office. Now.” He demanded coldly.
You closed your eyes and sighed. “Of course.”
Inside the office sat the principal, the deputy, and a stack of your flyers like a damning deck of cards. The top one showed Aaron mid-sneeze. Another had him wearing that hideous beanie he once insisted was ‘ironic’.
You winced.
The principal folded his hands. “I’m going to be honest. This is one of the most…enthusiastic displays of poor judgment I’ve seen in a long time.”
You rubbed the back of your neck. “Thank you?”
“That was not a compliment.”
“Oh. Right.”
He sighed, exhausted. “Given your spotless record, we’re assigning you a week of detention. And we strongly recommend a session with the guidance counselor.”
You nodded quickly, spine straightening as you realised your punishment would not be nearly as severe as you were expecting. “Yeah. I, uh, I’ll book that. Totally.”
They studied you with narrowed eyes like they were waiting for you to crack or lash out, but you didn’t. “Alright. You can go.”
You stood, grabbed your bag, and escaped before they could change their minds. You practically crept down the hall, terrified Lydia might be lurking, sharpening her claws and rehearsing insults to get you back for the day before.
When you finally saw her at her locker, your breath caught in your chest. She looked right at you. Paused. Tilted her head.
Then your jaw practically falls off when she says, “I like your skirt.”
You blinked. “What?”
Lydia shrugged lightly, closing her locker with a soft click. “It’s very…you. It’s for character, it’s intentional. You should wear it more often.”
You stared at her, stunned. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”
“And,” she added casually, “I’m having a party this weekend. You should come.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” She waved a hand at you as though you’re being dense.
You nod slowly. “Right. Okay, sure.”
Lydia smiled and walked away without a backward glance. You stood there, dazed, until you saw Aaron. He was at his locker, head down, alone. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked…small. He didn’t even glance at you when you finally walked past.
A weird, soft ache ran through you. Not for him, but for the version of yourself that let him waste her time.
You kept walking. You were almost to class when Erica stepped into your path, though not with the confident swagger you’d come to expect of her over the past weeks. Not with that smirk she’d been weaponising for months.
She stopped in front of you, her arms crossed tightly, eyes uncertain. “Hey,” she said quietly.
You stiffen. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry.” She blurted it out all at once, as though the words pained her to say. You stared, caught off-guard as Erica took a breath. “What I did with Aaron was shitty. Like, cheap, insecure mean-girl-shitty. And I know it.”
You swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I don’t care about him,” you finally answered. “I care that you just…changed. Overnight. And left me behind.”
Erica winced. “Yeah. I did.”
“Why?” You wondered aloud for the first time since it had happened.
She hesitated. “Because I was jealous of you.”
You froze. “Of me?”
She nodded slowly. “You were always so sure of yourself. I wasn’t. And then life changed and I changed too. Maybe too much.”
Your throat tightened because she was right. She had changed too much. Too much for you to still align yourself with her as her friend. “Are you happy now?” you asked softly. “With who you are.”
She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“Then…I think we’re not really friends anymore.” You admitted.
Erica’s shoulders dropped, but she nodded back in understanding. “Yeah. I think so too.”
You both stepped aside and went on your way. It was a peaceful disbanding. A part of you stung at the loss of what your friendship once was, but you knew it was for the best. Besides, there was one other person you were anxious to talk to. Except, you hadn’t yet seen him.
Over the course of the day, you checked every hallway, every classroom, out every window. There was no sign of Stiles. Not even a glimpse of plaid or frantic hand gestures.
Your chest twisted painfully as a torrent of worried ran through your mind.
What if he regretted last night? What if he thought it was a mistake? What if he was avoiding you? What if the best part about that damn time loop didn’t want anything to do with you?
When the lunch bell rang and you still hand’s seen him, you pressed a hand to your stomach, trying not to be sick from the anxious storm raging in there.
“HEY! HEY, WAIT!” When you finally heard his voice echoing in the hallway relief filled you.
You turned just in time for Stiles to skid to a stop in front of you, gasping for breath. “Far out, don’t…move…so fast! I swear…I ran like…half the school, trying to find you!”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he blurted. “I swear. I had this…thing. An important thing, that I had to do today. But the whole time I was just thinking about last night and how insane it was and how and how fun—”
“Stiles—” You tried to interrupt but he kept talking in a nervous race.
“—and how I really wanted to see you again and make sure you didn’t wake up and think it was a mistake because it wasn’t, not for me, and I just—”
You finally had enough of waiting, so you grabbed his face and kissed him. Right there. In the hallway.
His hands hovered for a second, shocked. Then he melted into it, fingers sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his.
“You’re giving me a ride after school,” you said softly, breathless.
You’re Beacon Hills High’s golden girl. Popular, polished, besties with Lydia, and secretly obsessed with the one boy no one else sees the appeal of - Stiles Stilinski. When a biology partnership forces you together, your carefully hidden crush spirals. One night, one assignment, and one very overwhelmed Stiles later, you finally get exactly what you’ve been fantasising about.
Warnings: sexual references, smut, kind of fade to black
———————————————————————
You were halfway through telling Lydia about the absolute dumpster fire that was yesterday’s physics quiz when the sharp crash of textbooks slamming onto linoleum echoed down the hallway. Lydia didn’t even flinch, but you did. Your head snapped toward the lockers, and there he was.
Stiles Stilinski. In all his lanky, chaotic, flannel-wearing, graphic-tee-underneath, frazzled glory.
He was kneeling on the floor, scrambling after a rainstorm of books and loose papers that had spilled from his locker like it personally hated him. His backpack was half unzipped, one shoelace untied, and even his buzzed hair somehow looked messy. In other words, he looked perfect.
You felt that familiar, shameful little kick of attraction deep in your stomach. The one you never admitted out loud, not even to Lydia. Especially not to Lydia.
Lydia arched an eyebrow when she caught the direction you were staring. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “how is he still alive with motor skills like that?”
You tried to play it cool, texting something on your phone that you would absolutely not remember typing later. “He’s…uh. He’s fine.”
“Fine as in ‘not dying,’ sure,” she said. “Fine as in ‘hot’? Absolutely not.”
Your face heated. You prayed Lydia didn’t notice. Across the hall, Stiles shoved the pile of disaster into his locker, missed completely, and dropped everything all over again. He let out a frustrated noise, cheeks pink, mumbling to himself.
You quickly looked away. You weren’t supposed to think he was cute. Not when everyone else saw him as the weird, awkward loser who talked too fast and tripped over air. But you did. God, you did. And you hated how much you wanted him.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late.”
Lydia linked her arm with yours. “Lord help the soul that ever hooks up with Stilinski,” she said casually, “He’d probably shove it in the wrong place.”
You laughed like that idea was hilarious. Like hooking up with Stiles wasn’t something you fantasised about at night.
———————————————————————
You were barely listening when your teacher announced partners for the semester project. A couple names, some groans, flipping pages. You were scrolling through your phone under the desk while you waited for your name to be called.
“Stilinski…and Y/L/N.”
Your head shot up. Stiles froze in his seat two rows over, eyes wide like someone had pointed a gun at him. He looked at you, startled, almost apologetic, and completely unaware of the way your pulse jumped.
You sat up straighter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you didn’t care at all. Like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs. Lydia glanced at you from the next table. She was suspicious, and too perceptive for her own good.
You forced a shrug. “Ugh. Of course I get stuck with him.”
But inside? You were screaming. Absolutely thrilled.
Stiles awkwardly approached your table, nearly bumping into the chair behind him. “H-hey,” he said, voice cracking halfway through. “So…um. We’re partners.”
“Looks like it.” You crossed your legs slowly, pretending to be bored while you fought down a grin. “We’ll figure something out.”
His eyes flicked down to your legs, then up so fast you almost laughed. “Right. Yeah. Totally. I’m, uh, I’m good at biology. Well, not good. Medium. Like, average. But! I try hard.”
Lord help you, he was adorable. Too adorable. You smirked in amusement. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”
He visibly swallowed, and boy did you love the effect you had on him.
———————————————————————
At lunch, you spotted Stiles before he saw you. He was at his locker, muttering to himself as he rummaged through an avalanche of papers. His flannel was rumpled, his backpack was sliding off one shoulder, and he kept ruffling his buzzed hair in these nervous, distracted little motions that made you want to grab him by the collar and ruin him against the locker door.
This was perfect. You needed to get him alone, needed to get him into your room and on your bed and…Focus.
You walked straight up and touched his arm. He jumped like you’d tasered him.
“Shit! Oh, hi,” he sputtered, hand flying to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t, uh, see…Hi.”
You slid your hand down his forearm slowly, casually, like you weren’t imagining how you’d be dragging it down his ribs later. “Relax,” you said gently, giving him your best smile. “You free to come over today? We should start the assignment.”
He blinked. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. “Today?” His voice cracked on the word. “At your house?”
You almost laughed. The way his brain short-circuited at the idea of being someplace as private as your bedroom? God, it made you want to drag him into the nearest storage cupboard and kiss him breathless.
He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Like a very confused, startled, incredibly-cute, frying pan victim. You stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin down just slightly to look at you. Close enough to let him know you were invading his personal space on purpose.
“Unless you’re busy,” you teased, voice dropping into something lower and sweeter. “But I figured getting a head start might be good.”
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He was goldfish-ing. “No, no! Oh my God, no, I’m not busy,” he blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m free. I’m completely free. Totally free. Like…aggressively free.”
You had to bite your lip hard to hold yourself back. This boy was going to kill you. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in just a little bit more. “I like a guy who’s…available.”
His eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts hitting him one after another, like dominos falling. Does she mean that? Is she joking? She smells really good. Why is she so close? Do NOT look at her lips. Oh god, I looked at her lips.
He did. He absolutely did. And you let him. You loved it. “So,” you said softly, letting your fingers trail up the sleeve of his flannel before pulling back, “come over at five?”
He swallowed so hard you saw his throat bob. “Y-yeah. Yes. Five. I can do five. I’m, uh, very punctual. I can be earlier if you want earlier I can—”
“Five,” you repeated with a slow smile. “I want five.”
His ears turned pink. Deep pink. The kind of pink that told you he was fully imagining it - imagining being in your house, in your room, alone with you. Good. That was the goal.
You stepped backward, walking away with deliberate sway in your hips, and he watched. He tried not to, but he absolutely failed. Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced back over your shoulder.
“Don’t be late, Stiles.” You called back to him, and he looked like he was about to faint at just the sound of you getting his name right. He stood frozen, locker still hanging open, looking like he had just been both blessed and attacked.
You couldn’t wait for five o’clock.
———————————————————————
You had spent the entire hour before five obsessively checking your hair, your outfit, your bed, your perfume, everything. It wasn’t nerves, it was strategy. You wanted Stiles walking into your room and short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to blink.
When the doorbell rang at exactly 4:59, you smiled. Of course he was early. Adorable. Your parents were out until late. Everything was ready.
You opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a picture of effortless confidence. Stiles stood there gripping his backpack like it was a parachute and he’d just been thrown out of a helicopter.
His eyes dragged over you and stopped. Hard. “Oh,” he breathed. “Wow. I mean, hi. Hi. Sorry. Hi.”
You smirked. “Come in, Stiles.”
He obeyed instantly, like you’d flipped some internal switch. You led him up the stairs at a slow pace. Slow enough that he had no choice but to look at your legs, your hips, the casual sway you added just for him. And boy, did he look. He tried not to. But he did.
You closed your bedroom door behind you and paused, waiting for him to walk further inside before you.
He set his backpack down, clearing his throat. “S-so! Uh. Chapter five. Cell division. Pretty riveting stuff.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs, letting your already-short skirt ride just a little higher. “We can start there…if you want.”
Stiles sat in your desk chair like he was afraid it would bite him. He tugged at the strings of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but at you. You tilted your head. God, he was nervous. It was intoxicating.
He fumbled with the textbook. “Right, so, um, mitosis…”
You stretched out luxuriously on your side, fluffing your hair as your camisole lifted just enough to show a hint of stomach. “Stiles.”
“Mm?” His voice squeaked.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking.”
He swallowed. Hard. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t…Looking is…sometimes it’s involuntary, like blinking, and, ah fuck.”
You laughed softly and patted the bed beside you. “Come sit over here. We’ll work better side by side.”
He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room like a man approaching a dangerous animal aware he might be devoured, but unsure if he minded. He sat beside you, leaving a polite gap. You closed that gap immediately, sitting up and sliding your thigh against his. His breath stuttered.
“Comfortable?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Not even a little,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your smile grew. Good. You leaned over him to grab a pen from your nightstand, intentionally brushing your chest against his arm. Stiles went absolutely still, like you’d pressed a freeze button on him. When you sat back, your faces were incredibly close.
“Stiles,” you murmured, “why are you so nervous?”
He blinked rapidly. “Because you’re…You’re you. And we’re…we’re on your bed, in your room, and you’re wearing that and looking like that, and I’m…I’m a normal human man with, uh…organs.”
You snorted. “Organs?”
He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
You gently pulled his hands away. “I like when you ramble.”
“You do?” he said, completely thrown.
You nodded, voice dropping lower. “I like a lot of things about you.”
His cheeks flamed. “Name one.”
You leaned close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear. “Your smile. Or maybe it’s just your mouth in general.”
He made a helpless sound that was half choke and half whimper. That noise ignited something deep and hungry in you. You pulled back, watching his pupils blow wide. He was so into you. So flustered. So unbelievably, deliciously out of his depth. It drove you insane.
“Stiles,” you said softly, “do you know I’m flirting with you?”
He stared. “I…had suspicions?”
You bit back a smile. “No. I mean I am aggressively flirting with you.”
“You…are?”
You sighed dramatically, swinging a leg over his lap in one smooth movement, settling onto him with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath punched out of him. His hands shot to your hips like instinct.
You looked down at him, pinning him with your gaze. “Let me make it very, very clear.” You braced your hands against his shoulders, leaning in. “I want you, Stiles.”
A beat passed and his mouth fell open. “You…you do?”
You rolled your hips once, watching his eyes roll back just a little. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’ve wanted you, for a while.”
Stiles made another strangled noise. “You…? You want to…? To—”
“Hook up with you?” you finished for him. “Yeah. I do.”
His hands tightened on your waist. “Oh my God.”
You kissed him before he could spiral further. It was firm, slow, wanting. He gasped into your mouth, surprised but instantly responding, grabbing at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He tasted like spearmint gum and he kissed like he’d fantasised about this just as much as you had. You shifted closer and he pulled you tighter. You nipped at his bottom lip and he let out a soft, desperate sound you felt in your core.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against his mouth. “Lie down.”
He did. Instantly. You loved how obedient and responsive he was. You crawled over him, hair falling around your face, watching him pant beneath you, eyes wide, chest rising quickly. He looked wrecked already. Overwhelmed. Turned on out of his mind. You kissed down his neck, slow and lingering.
He arched under you. “Oh God! Okay! Oh, wow, yes!”
You smiled against his skin. “Sensitive, huh?”
“N-not usually,” he managed, “but you…holy shit!”
You rolled your hips down onto his again, and his head thumped back against your pillow, a helpless moan slipping out before he could catch it. “You like that?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed, hands gripping your thigh, your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
You kissed him again, though this time it was messier, deeper, and hungrier. He kissed back with enthusiasm that made your stomach flip, his hands skimming under your shirt, trembling but eager. You tugged off his hoodie, then his shirt. He made a nervous little sound, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that his brain was soup. You guided them to your hips.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He did. Carefully at first. Then less carefully when you gasped. “Stiles,” you whispered, “I want you.”
He swallowed, eyes blown black. “I—I want you too. So much. You have no idea.”
“Oh,” you murmured, grinding down deliberately, “trust me. I do.”
What happened next was a blur of heat and breathless laughter, of him whispering your name like it meant something, of you scraping your nails over his buzzed hair and watching him fall apart under you. He was needy and sweet and overwhelmed in a way that made your whole body thrum.
And when you finally pulled him fully beneath you, skin to skin, his voice broke on a sound that made your stomach drop into your knees. “God, you’re perfect.”
You kissed him breathless for that one.
———————————————————————
The room smelled like you, and Stiles, heat and sweat and something musky that made your whole body hum like a live wire. You lay on your back, sheets beneath you rumpled, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. Your breathing was slow and heavy, every nerve ending relaxed in a way you hadn’t felt in…a while. And fuck, you were satisfied. More than satisfied.
Stiles was lying beside you, flat on his back, hands still half-curled in the air like he hadn’t figured out what to do with them after using them so very well on you. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face bright red, wide eyes even wider than usual. He looked wrecked. Adorably, completely, wrecked.
You rolled your head to look at him. He immediately jolted like he’d been caught committing tax fraud. “I swear I don’t usually do that, like that. I mean I don’t usually do anything, actually, I’ve literally never…Well, I mean, I have hands, obviously, so technically I’ve done things but not with a real person who’s, uh, alive. Oh my God, please tell me to shut up. Why aren’t I shutting up?”
You laughed softly, still breathless. “Stiles.” He shut his mouth instantly. You propped yourself on one elbow and let your eyes glide over him, slow and deliberate. His cheeks turned even redder. “I liked it.”
He blinked. “You…what?”
“I liked it,” you repeated, leaning closer. “A lot.”
Stiles sat up too fast. Way too fast. So fast that he immediately fell off the side of your bed with a loud thump.
You dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed from the floor. “Totally fine. Nothing damaged except my dignity. Actually no, that’s been gone for years.”
He scrambled upright as he tugged his pants back on, tripping over your backpack, then your laundry basket, then nearly launching your lamp off the nightstand trying to steady himself.
You watched him, chest warm, a stupid smile tugging your lips upward. He was so nervous. So messy. So wildly flustered. And you were obsessed with him. More than before. Way more than before. And honestly? You were impressed. Stiles Stilinski - anxious, fidgety, always-apologizing Stiles - had been extremely good with his hands. Not confident, exactly…but diligent. Intentional. Focused like he was trying to ace a final exam he’d studied for all year. You wanted more. Immediately, if possible.
Stiles was finally pulling on his shirt when you decided to test something. You slid a hand along his bare back, nails lightly dragging.
He choked on air. “You’re…uh…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Literally. I’m gonna die.”
You smirked. “I’ll be gentle.”
“No, see, that doesn’t help—”
Before you could tease him further, you heard a door open downstairs. There was the echo of voices and keys hitting the kitchen counter. Your parents were home.
Stiles went white. “Oh! Oh God! Oh no! Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I cannot be here, I should not be here, your parents will shoot me, your mom will throw holy water at me. Where are my shoes?!”
“They’re right there,” you laughed, pointing.
He grabbed them, tripped over your rug, caught himself on your dresser, sent two perfume bottles toppling, caught those mid-air, looked proud, then hit his head on your open dresser drawer. “OH THE PAIN!” he whisper-screamed.
You buried your face in your pillow, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He pulled his hoodie over his head and the zipper got stuck on his shirt, trapping him. You had to sit up to help him. He thanked you like you’d rescued him from a burning building.
Downstairs, your dad’s voice called, “Honey? We’re home!”
Stiles froze again. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
You stepped close, fingers hooking the front of his hoodie, pulling him down into a slow, warm kiss. He melted instantly, grip tightening on your waist. When you pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide, breath shaky.
“I want to do this again,” you whispered.
Stiles stared like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Y-you do?”
“Definitely.”
He made a soft, overwhelmed sound. “I…I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or we could, uh, coordinate schedules. God, I’m so sweaty! Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.”
“Stiles,” you whispered, amused, “go.”
He nodded vigorously, kissed you one more time - quick but desperate - and bolted for the stairs, trying to tiptoe but failing miserably.
Halfway down he whispered-shouted, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS TERRIFYING.”
You smiled into your pillow again. Yeah, you needed more of him. Soon.
———————————————————————
You walked into school the next morning feeling different. Not outwardly different. You still looked like yourself, still had your perfect outfit and mascara and the confidence everyone expected from you. But inside? Inside you were warm. Glowing. Buzzing with the memory of the night before. Your body still hummed. Your brain still replayed his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And now, here he was. Stiles Stilinski, leaning against his locker, attempting (and failing) to open a granola bar without tearing it into shreds. His jacket was messier than usual, his hoodie slightly crooked, his shoelaces completely untied.
You couldn’t look away. Your eyes went straight to the faint red mark on his neck. The one you had put there. Heat curled through your stomach.
He spotted you before you could pretend you weren’t staring. His whole body froze like someone had hit the pause button. His eyes went wide, his face instantly flushed, and he accidentally crushed the granola bar in his hand. It exploded everywhere.
“Oh God, no! WHY? Why does food hate me,” he muttered, dropping to the floor trying to gather the crumbs.
Your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t hide. You walked toward him slowly, and he visibly panicked, eyes darting left-right-like he was calculating an escape route. “Morning,” you said, low and warm.
Stiles nearly fell backward. “M-morning. Hi. Hello. HOW are you?” He articulated each sound like he’d forgotten how English worked.
You bit back a laugh. “I’m fantastic.”
He swallowed, staring everywhere except at you. When he finally met your eyes, it lasted half a second before he looked away like you were the sun.
“See you around, Stiles.” You winked at him and started to walk away, making sure to add a sway into your hips that made your skirt rise.
He was freaking out, and you found it adorable. Dangerously adorable. You were still admiring him from your locker when Lydia suddenly appeared at your elbow like a stylish jump scare. “Why are you staring at Stilinski?”
You didn’t jump. You did not jump.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You flinched.”
Okay, maybe you flinched a little. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” she said. “And you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not,” you said too fast. Way too fast. “He’s just…being weird. As usual.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Stiles glanced over and saw Lydia looking at him. He immediately dropped all his textbooks. All of them. It was like his body couldn’t handle being perceived by Lydia Martin.
Lydia frowned, confused. “What is with him today?”
You shrugged, trying to look disinterested when all you wanted to do was pull Stiles into an empty classroom and kiss him until he forgot his own name. “I have no idea,” you lied smoothly.
But Lydia wasn’t stupid. She followed your gaze back to Stiles, who was currently spinning in a circle because his backpack strap had gotten caught on his locker door and he didn’t realise it. “…something is off,” she muttered.
You forced a dramatic sigh. “Lydia, nothing’s off. He’s always like that.”
“Hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and marched off.
Stiles looked relieved like he’d escaped a predator. You approached him again once Lydia was gone. He backed into his locker like you were cornering him. Like last night had short-circuited his entire nervous system.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips then away. “What are you doing? You’re still…you. And I’m still…me.”
You stepped closer, voice soft. “Is that a problem?”
Stiles made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle. “Not a problem. Just a…situation. A, uh, unique challenge.”
Your smile widened. “Stiles. Look at me.”
He did, for exactly one moment. And in that moment, his expression softened. It was almost reverent. Like he was remembering every second of last night. Like he wanted more but had no idea how to function now that he’d actually gotten you once.
Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. But then you heard footsteps, and Stiles practically launched himself away from you like the hallway floor was lava.
“I CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE RIGHT NOW,” he blurted, speed-walking down the hall.
You pressed your lips together to hide your grin. God, the way he panicked after hooking up with you was almost just as fun as the actual hooking up part.
———————————————————————
He didn’t look at you for the next two classes. Correction, he didn’t look at you directly. But he stared constantly. Through the gaps between books, around corners, over his shoulder, and in the reflection of classroom windows. Every time your eyes met his - accidentally - he spun away like a malfunctioning Roomba.
During lunch, Lydia kept watching the both of you suspiciously. After fourth period, you found Stiles at his locker again, pretending to look inside it even though it was almost empty. You walked past casually, brushing your fingers against his hand. Just a graze, lightning quick.
Stiles shivered. Full body. You slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. He looked down at it like you’d handed him a live grenade. He unfolded it, then stared at it, swallowed hard, then looked up at you. He didn’t speak, he just nodded. And it wasn’t nervous. Not this time. This time it was hungry.
———————————————————————
You and Lydia sat on the bleachers like you always did, your skirts smoothed neatly beneath you, your bags dropped at your feet. Jackson and the rest of the team were running drills on the field, shouting, cursing, and sweating. It all should’ve had your attention. Jackson was objectively good to watch. Everyone knew that. But your eyes weren’t on Jackson. They were glued to Stiles.
There he was in full lacrosse gear that looked like it weighed more than his entire body. His helmet was slightly crooked, he kept adjusting his gloves like they were personally torturing him, and his stick handling was…well, abysmal.
“God,” Lydia scoffed, flipping her hair. “Stilinski and McCall are actual public embarrassments. I swear to God, watching them play is like watching baby giraffes try to walk for the first time.”
You snorted on instinct, but your eyes were glued to Stiles’ thighs as he sprinted. Jesus. Why were his legs that good? You followed the way the muscles in them tightened, how his jersey clung to his back, damp from sweat. At one point he pushed his helmet up to wipe his forehead, and you got a full view of his messy, sweat-mussed hair, cheeks flushed pink.
And all you could think of was how he’d looked the night before. Flushed. Breathless. Gorgeous. You crossed your legs tightly and tried to play it cool.
“Totally,” you said, even though your voice came out breathier than intended.
Lydia didn’t notice. She was too busy dissecting Jackson’s technique and muttering coaching tips he’d never hear. But you kept watching Stiles. Watching the way he stumbled and caught himself. Watching the way he laughed at something Scott said, chest heaving with exertion. Watching the way the uniform clung to places you’d had your hands on last night.
And all you could think was, God, I want him again. I want him pressed against me in that stupid uniform. I want him sweaty and breathless for an entirely different reason. He bent down to tie his shoe and you swallowed thickly. You were done for.
Lydia elbowed you lightly. “You’re zoning out. What are you even looking at?”
“Uh, Danny,” you lied quickly. “His…form.”
Lydia hummed. “Hm. Must be a new angle, because you are staring awfully far down the field.”
You forced a laugh, but your stomach twisted. You had to get out of here before she put anything together. When the coach finally blew the last whistle, the team started heading toward the locker rooms.
Lydia stood, brushing off her skirt. “Practice is over. Want a ride home?”
Your heart thumped. You heard yourself say, light and airy, “Oh, no, I’m gonna stay back and study.”
Lydia paused, her eyes narrowing into that terrifyingly observant Lydia Martin look. “With who?” she asked, voice sharp in that sweet way of hers.
You shrugged with practiced casualness. “Just by myself.”
Suspicion colored her whole face. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m acting completely normal,” you insisted. “You’re the one who’s been strange today.”
Thankfully she didn’t push further. She just gave you that look, like she’d circle back later, and grabbed her bag. “You better text me later,” she warned, heels clicking away down the bleachers.
You exhaled shakily as she disappeared. Then you grabbed your own bag and slid quietly beneath the bleachers, stepping into the shadowed space underneath. The air smelled like grass and dirt and old metal. The sound of the team laughing somewhere near the locker rooms drifted through the field.
You waited exactly where you’d told him to meet you in the note you’d slipped into his hand earlier. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, nerves, and excitement. He’d come. You knew he would.
You leaned against one of the beams, pulse picking up at the thought of seeing him again. Of what you might end up doing to him if he let you. You bit your lip. God, you hoped he’d let you.
———————————————————————
You heard the footsteps before you saw him. They were fast, uneven, like he’d jogged the whole way from the locker room. Then Stiles appeared through the shadows.
His hair was damp and sticking up in ridiculous directions, clearly from a rushed shower. A few droplets still clung to his temples. He wore low basketball shorts slung loose on his hips and his lacrosse jersey, the fabric stretching deliciously across his shoulders. His cheeks were pink from the heat of the shower, or nerves.
“Hey,” he said, stopping short like he’d run face-first into an invisible wall. “I got your note. Obviously. Because I’m here. Uh, hi.”
You didn’t bother answering. You stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him under the bleachers fully, into the shadows.
His breath caught. “W-wait, are we…? Are we doing this again?” he stammered.
“You took too long,” you whispered, and before he could reply, you kissed him. Hard.
Stiles made a startled noise against your mouth, like his brain short-circuited in real time. But then his hands were on your waist, hesitant at first, then gripping tighter when you deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, soft, a little desperate (he was always desperate) and you loved it.
You pressed him back against one of the metal beams, kissing him again and again, biting his bottom lip just to hear the sound he made when you did.
Stiles exhaled shakily. “You…you can’t just…God!”
“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat. “Fresh out of the shower?”
He nodded, dazed. “I ran. I didn’t want you waiting and thinking I ditched you. I would never ditch you. I mean, unless you wanted me to ditch you. In which case I—”
“Stiles,” you breathed, “shut up.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he made a soft, helpless sound that lit you on fire. Your hands slid under his jersey, over warm skin and tense muscle. Stiles jolted, inhaling sharply.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“Not today.” You tugged him closer by his waistband, feeling his breath hitch, watching the way his eyes went wide and dizzy. You loved how every thought he had showed right on his face. Panic, want, awe, panic again.
“I’ve been thinking about this all practice,” you said, voice low. “About you. In this stupid uniform.”
Stiles swallowed like he physically had to work moisture into his mouth. “Yeah? Because I-I’ve been thinking about last night.”
That heat shot straight through you. He was so painfully honest. So bad at hiding what he felt. So good at making you feel wanted without even trying. You kissed him again, dragging him by the wrist as you started walking. “Come on.”
“Where are we—“
You anticipated his question before he could finish and cut him off in a hurry. “To your car.”
Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “My car? Like, now?”
“Unless you want to stay out here,” you teased, pulling him past the last metal pillar and into the open. The parking lot was empty, with just his powder blue Jeep sitting alone, a far distance from the nearest light pole.
Stiles stopped dead. “We’re…we’re not seriously…?”
You didn’t let him finish. You pushed him back against the passenger door and kissed him again, hard enough that he gasped slightly. He was warm and flustered and breathing too fast, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.
Then he finally settled them, one on your hip, one at the back of your neck, and kissed you back with a sudden confidence that made your knees weaken. “Back seat,” you breathed.
Stiles fumbled with the door handle. Dropped his keys, picked them up, then dropped them again.
“Jesus, Stiles,” you laughed softly, “you’re adorable.”
“That’s not…I’m not trying to be. I’m just…you’re—” He made a vaguely strangled sound and finally yanked the door open.
You climbed in first, pulling him by the jersey until he practically fell into the Jeep on top of you, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind him. His hands were steadier this time. His kisses deeper, more sure. Still clumsy in the way that made your heart ache, but better. So much better.
“Last night probably wasn’t the best,” he murmured, almost embarrassed. “But I paid attention. I can do that. I like doing that. Paying attention to you.”
That spark shot straight through your spine. You kissed him again, and the rest unfolded in a tangled rush of heat, hands, breathless laughter, soft curses, and the kind of desperate closeness you’d been thinking about all day. The windows fogged. The Jeep rocked just a little.
And Stiles - sweet, frantic, unbelievably good Stiles - was even better than he’d been the night before.
———————————————————————
The world settled slowly around you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, and the soft hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling. The windows were fogged so heavily you could barely see the field outside, and the air inside was warm and sweet and full of the lingering adrenaline between you.
Stiles lay half on top of you, half beside you, one arm braced awkwardly near your head, the other somewhere on the seat because he genuinely didn’t seem to know where to put it. His buzzed hair was a mess again. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven in that adorable ‘trying to pull myself together’ way.
“Wow,” he said softly, blinking at the ceiling of the Jeep like it had personally changed his life.
You laughed, brushing your fingers gently over his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”
He swallowed, his eyes darting anywhere but yours. To your face, the window, the car ceiling, your lips, and then immediately away from your lips like they were radioactive.
“You…you keep doing that,” he mumbled.
“Doing what?” you teased, tracing your fingertips down the side of his neck.
“That.” His voice cracked. “Being…like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, into me.” He said it like it was a foreign language.
You felt your chest warm. “Stiles. I literally climbed into your car to have my way with you until your windows steamed up.”
“Yeah, but, like, on purpose.” He sat up slightly. “That’s wild.”
You gently pulled him down for a soft, slow kiss. It was sweet and unhurried. The kind that made your stomach flip in a different way. Stiles melted into it, then immediately shot up again like he remembered something embarrassing.
“Oh my God. My car, my jersey, I probably smell like…like locker room death!”
“Relax,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “You smell good. And you look cute.”
He blushed all the way to his ears. “Cute?” He repeated it like it was a holy word.
“Very.”
He tried to get off the back seat gracefully. He failed spectacularly. His foot got caught in the strap of his duffel bag and he pitched sideways into the front seat console with a loud clunk.
“Ow, okay. No, I’m good, I’m good,” He scrambled up, knocking something else over. A water bottle rolled, hit the door, and fell onto the floor of the car.
You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his elbow. “Totally fine. Not in pain. Definitely not in pain. I’m…I’m gonna drive you home now.”
“Okay,” you giggled, sliding out of the back seat.
You climbed into the passenger seat, still a little breathless, still a little flushed. Stiles started the Jeep, cleared the fogged windshield with his sleeve (somehow making it worse), and finally got the wipers to do their job.
He was still nervous. But something in him had shifted. There was a warmth now. A glow of confidence under all the fluster. He tapped the radio on. Fleetwood Mac filled the Jeep - ‘Dreams’ drifting softly through the speakers.
You blinked. “You like Fleetwood Mac?”
Stiles glanced at you, surprised. “Uh, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
You grinned. “I love them.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Especially their Rumours album.”
Stiles’ mouth slowly curved into a smile you hadn’t seen before. It was shy, but proud. “Okay hold on, wait, what else do you listen to?”
“Dad rock,” you admitted. “My parents raised me on classic rock and 80s hits.”
Stiles slapped the steering wheel lightly. “No. No way. I thought you were like, top forty hyperpop, or whatever Lydia listens to.”
“I mean I like that too,” you said. “But I love the old stuff.”
He turned down the music just a little. “Name your top three.”
“Bon Jovi, Nirvana, some Lana.”
Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Bon Jovi? You like Bon Jovi?”
You raised a brow. “You don’t?”
“Oh my god, this is insane!” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “You’re like a sleeper nerd.”
You burst out laughing. “A sleeper nerd?”
“Yes. A nerd hiding in a popular girl’s body. A stealth nerd.”
“I’m not a nerd,” you insisted, still laughing.
“Really?” Stiles shot you a sideways look. “Because that’s what they all say before I find out they know every line to Star Wars.”
You froze. Then raised a slow eyebrow. “Does it have to be every line?”
Stiles gasped. Loudly. “NO.”
You bit your lip. “Yes.”
He threw his head back against the headrest. “Oh my GOD. You like Star Wars! This is…this is huge! This is like discovering a new species.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it,” he grinned. “I had no idea you were secretly cool.”
“Secretly?”
“I mean, you’re hot,” he said immediately, then panicked. “I mean like, obviously, you know that. Everyone knows that. BUT you’re also secretly cool and kind of a nerd and it’s honestly messing with my brain.”
Your heart fluttered and you looked at him and for the first time, the crush in your chest didn’t feel like just lust. It felt like interest. Connection. Something warmer, deeper, and sweeter.
You smiled. “Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me.”
Stiles’ voice softened. “I’m getting to know you now.”
———————————————————————
Stiles practically burst through his front door when he got home.
“Hey son, how was prac—”
“CAN’T TALK, DAD!” he yelped, sprinting past Sheriff Stilinski like he was escaping a crime scene.
He bolted upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed with a loud, muffled groan. It was the groan of a man who had just gotten everything he ever wanted and had no clue how to emotionally process it.
He lay there for a good ten seconds, kicking his legs like an overwhelmed Victorian maiden, before ripping his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Scott and his best friend picked up on the third ring, sounding tired. “Dude, it’s almost nine. What’s up?”
Stiles inhaled like he needed fresh oxygen to speak. “SCOTT.”
“…Stiles?”
“SCOTT.”
“Why are you yelling?”
“She kissed me.”
There was a pause. “Who kissed you?”
“She kissed me.” Another pause.
“…Stiles, you need to use a name. Preferably a real one.”
Stiles sat up, eyes wide and wild as he told Scott your name. “You know, Lydia’s best friend. The girl who wears lip gloss that costs more than my monthly car insurance. The girl who sits two rows ahead of you in Econ. The girl who is - objectively - way too hot to be seen with someone who collects limited edition Star Wars socks.”
Scott blinked audibly through the phone. “She kissed you?”
“YES.”
Scott’s voice softened, warm and supportive. “That’s great, man!”
Stiles choked. “It…it gets better.”
“Oh.” Scott hesitated. “Uh, define ‘better.’”
“She kissed me under the bleachers.”
“Okay…”
“She dragged me to my car.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And then we…We…” He violently flailed one hand in the air, even though Scott couldn’t see him. “WE DID…THINGS, SCOTT.”
“Oh my God, Stiles.”
“WE DID THINGS TWICE. This was the second time it happened.”
Scott made a strangled noise. “STILES.”
Stiles threw himself backward onto his pillows, kicking his feet in the air like a flustered hamster. “And she likes Fleetwood Mac, Scott. Fleetwood. Freaking. Mac.”
“Okay, cool—”
“And STAR WARS.”
“Everyone likes Star Wars.”
“No, Scott. She knows the lines.” He sat up, deadly serious. “She’s a total sleeper nerd.”
Scott paused. “…Whoa.”
“RIGHT?” Stiles stood up, started pacing. “She’s, like, the hottest girl in school, and she’s secretly a nerd and she likes me and she keeps kissing me and I don’t…Scott, I don’t know what to do with ANY of this information.”
“Stiles, it sounds like she just…likes you.”
Stiles froze mid-pace. His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said immediately, too quickly, voice cracking. “I physically can’t deal with that. I’m not…nope. That’s not…I don’t—”
Scott sighed. “Dude. You’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Stiles asked, panicked.
“Gone. Like…crushing. Hard.”
Stiles’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I, no, I don’t…Okay, I like her but not like…I mean, okay, I do like her but that’s only because she smells really good and laughs at my jokes and is secretly a nerd and has really nice…well, everything.”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted gently. “I can hear you blushing through the phone.”
“What if she wants to do this again? What if she wants it to be like a regular things?” Stiles collapsed back onto the bed again with a loud dramatic groan. “Oh my god, Scott. I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I am catastrophically unprepared for this.”
“Just…talk to her,” Scott said. “Hang out. Be honest. You don’t have to freak out.”
“I DO have to freak out,” Stiles shot back, gripping his pillow like it was a flotation device. “Because she…Scott, she kissed me like she meant it.”
There was a smile in Scott’s voice when he answered. “Well…maybe she did.”
Stiles went silent, his heart thundering as eyes wide. “…Holy crap.”
———————————————————————
It happened slowly, then all at once. A pattern formed between you and Stiles. A rhythm. A secret life you lived only with him. What started as desperate kisses and rushed hookups - stolen moments after school, under bleachers, in dark corners - turned into something else entirely. It became routine. Comfortable. Addicting.
You started meeting up without even needing to plan it. You’d text ‘hey’, and he’d reply ‘on my way’, and within ten minutes he’d be at your doorstep, half-panicked, half-excited, always breathless.
Sometimes it was at your place, sneaking him up to your room while your parents were at work. Sometimes at his house, while his dad worked late and Stiles pretended to do homework. Other times it was the back seat of the Jeep on a back road off the highway, windows down, wind blowing through your hair while Stiles kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Once, it was on a blanket in the preserve under a sky full of stars - a moment that surprised both of you with how soft it felt, how slow, how unhurried.
And slowly, something shifted. Because it wasn’t always physical. There were days you two didn’t hook up at all. Days where you just…hung out. You watched movies together. Old ones he loved, new ones you made him watch. You talked for hours, lying upside down on his bed or sprawled on your carpet, laughing about the stupidest things.
You listened to music together, trading songs and arguing about which album was best. Little by little, you began to crave his presence, not just his touch. And he started relaxing around you. Getting funnier. Goofier. More Stiles. Before you even realised it, you and Stiles weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were seeing each other. You were becoming something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.
The night it shifted fully, you were in the preserve again. You’d driven with him into the trees until the path grew narrow and the canopy blocked out most of the sky. The Jeep sat in the clearing, engine off, crickets humming around you. The two of you climbed into the back seat automatically, the same way you always did, but something felt different immediately.
Stiles looked at you like he was trying to memorise you. Not like he was nervous you’d disappear. Not like he was overwhelmed. Just…struck.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair back without thinking.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I just…I like being here. With you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that scared you and thrilled you at the same time. You leaned in to kiss him, expecting the usual rush of heat, urgency, the frantic rhythm the two of you always fell into.
But Stiles kissed you slower. Softer. Like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid into your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp gently, sending a warm shiver down your spine. His other hand rested on your waist, steady and sure, guiding you closer instead of pulling frantically.
His lips moved with yours in perfect, tender sync. You melted. It wasn’t the familiar wildfire of wanting him. It was something deeper. You pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes meeting his in the dim light.
“Stiles…” you whispered, not even knowing what you were about to say.
He touched your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline like he couldn’t help it. “I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”
You kissed him again, your fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his neck as he moved with you, warm and gentle and so heartbreakingly present. It felt less like hooking up. More like falling.
Your bodies found each other naturally, slowly, hands exploring with intention instead of urgency. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and for once you didn’t feel rushed, or hidden, or like you had to stifle your breathing. You felt seen.
Stiles paused only to look at you again with the kind of look you usually avoided out of fear it would reveal too much. This time, you held it. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He covered your hand with his own, fingers lacing with yours without hesitation. You’d never held hands during…this. But now, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done together.
Everything between you moved gently - warm breath, warm skin, warm hands - like you were synced without needing to talk. And when you came together, it wasn’t rushed or chaotic. It wasn’t about desperation or thrill anymore. It was emotional. Connected. Equal. It was the kind of closeness that made your eyes sting in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.
Stiles held you afterward, his arms wrapping around you, your cheek resting on his chest. His heart was still beating a little too fast, but steadier than usual. He stroked your back absentmindedly, like he was touching you just to reassure himself you were still there. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by how safe it felt.
He whispered, almost too softly to hear. “This…feels different, right?”
You nodded against him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”
Stiles exhaled, shaky but hopeful, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said the word for it. Neither of you dared to. But you both knew, it wasn’t just hooking up anymore. Not even close.
————————————————————
You didn’t even notice Lydia watching you at first. You were at your locker between classes, still a little dazed from the night before. The memory of Stiles’ hands on your waist in the back of the Jeep occupied the forefront of your mind - the slow, aching kisses that had made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for. You were smiling at your books like a complete idiot when a manicured hand slammed the locker door shut right in front of your face.
You jumped. Lydia stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyebrows raised like she had just solved a murder case.
“So,” she said. “You want to tell me why you smell like men’s deodorant? Specifically cheap men’s deodorant?”
Your heart stopped. “I…what? Lydia, I do not. That’s insane.”
She scoffed. “You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good. You’ve been hooking up with someone, and I wanna know who. Spill the beans.”
“There’s no one, Lydia.” You insisted, shaking your head.
“I know there is, so why don’t you just tell me?” Lydia scoffed.
Your stomach flipped. You forced a laugh, tried to look casual. “Why would you even assume there is anyone.”
“Come on.” Lydia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You disappeared for all of lunch last week and when you finally got to English, you had closet hair. I’ve never seen you going to the library to ‘study’ this much in your life. You never answer your phone late at night anymore, and you’re always busy but you’re never doing anything.”
You touched your hair automatically. Damn her. She missed nothing.
“So?” she continued to prod sharply, “Come on, it’s not like it’s Stilinski, right, so how bad can it be?”
You froze. Lydia watched your face, saw the reaction, and her eyes widened. “Oh. My god. No! Stilinski? You are!”
“Lydia—” you began.
“You’re hooking up with Stiles Stilinski?”
You looked away, cheeks burning, and that was answer enough.
Lydia blinked at you like you’d just told her you were dating a garden shovel. “Why? He’s…he’s Stiles.”
Something ugly twisted inside you. Embarrassment, yes, but anger too. Shame. And suddenly you were ashamed of being ashamed. You straightened slowly. “And what exactly is wrong with Stiles?”
Lydia opened her mouth. You didn’t let her. “No, seriously. Tell me. What’s wrong with liking someone who’s smart and funny and actually treats me like I matter?”
Lydia looked startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “And I’m really tired of pretending I don’t care about him just because you and Jackson think he’s some kind of loser.”
Her face tightened. “I just…don’t want you to tank your social life for someone who—”
“Someone who what? Isn’t Jackson?” you shot back. “Newsflash, Lydia, I don’t want someone like Jackson.” She flinched. You felt the hit land but couldn’t stop now. “I like him,” you said, soft but firm. “I like Stiles and I’m not embarrassed about it. Not anymore.”
Lydia stared at you, but for once, she had no quick reply. You turned on your heel before she could form one.
Stiles was at the end of the hallway, rummaging in his backpack like he was fighting with it. Scott was beside him chatting. A few other students walked past. Normal scene. Totally ordinary. Except everything inside you was rushing and roaring. Stiles looked up and froze when he saw you marching straight toward him.
“Uh, hi?” he said, voice squeaking in that adorable Stiles way.
You didn’t even slow down. You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him full on the mouth right there in the crowded hallway. A wave of gasps rippled across the student body. Someone even dropped a binder with a loud BANG!
Stiles made a shocked little noise against your lips, then melted. Hands grasping your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you back like he’d been starved for days. When you finally pulled away, Stiles blinked rapidly, dazed and breathless.
“Wh—what? What is happening?” he whispered.
“I’m not hiding us anymore,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “If you still want this.”
His swallow was audible. His eyes were so wide and warm and stunned. “If I still want this?” He gave a helplessly smitten laugh. “I’ve been in, like, a constant state of cardiac arrest over you for weeks.”
You grinned, grabbed his hand. “Good,” you said softly. “Come on.”
Still in shock, Stiles let you drag him away down the hall, past the staring students, past Lydia frozen with her mouth slightly open, past everything. You didn’t look back. And Stiles didn’t stop smiling.
————————————————————
By the time the afternoon bell rang, the entire school knew. You and Stiles had kissed. Not just kissed, but kissed kissed, in full view of a hallway full of gossips and amateur Instagram detectives. Everywhere you walked, people whispered.
“Wait, her? And Stiles?”
“How did that even happen?”
“Well, good for him.”
“Did she lose a bet?”
“No way, I think she actually likes him.”
You squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter every time someone stared too long. He squeezed back, though his ears had been pink since third period.
“Are you okay?” you murmured as you walked toward the exit.
He inhaled sharply. “I’m either fine or I’m dying. Hard to tell. But I’m definitely holding your hand so that’s…winning.”
You bumped his shoulder with a smile. “You’re adorable.”
He made a little strangled sound but didn’t let go. You were two steps from the doors when someone grabbed your elbow and tugged you aside.
Lydia.
Stiles blinked, startled and wary. “Uh, I can wait over there? Or, like…pretend to be invisible? Which is my specialty.”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, but Lydia’s expression was unreadable.
Stiles hesitated, then moved a few feet away. He was close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to give you space. You turned to Lydia, already bracing.
“If you’re going to tell me how big of a mistake this is—”
“I’m not,” she cut in.
You froze. Lydia folded her arms, not defensive, just…small. “I’m here to apologize.”
That shut you up completely. Lydia looked down at her shoes before meeting your eyes again. “I was awful earlier. Judgmental and and honestly? Really rude.”
You blinked, thrown off balance. This was not the ambush you were prepared for.
She exhaled shakily. “I think I reacted that way because…I didn’t understand. And maybe because I’ve never seen you choose someone based on how he makes you feel, instead of how he makes you look.”
Your irritation softened a fraction.
“And Stiles…” Lydia shrugged helplessly. “He’s not what I imagined for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong for you.”Her voice gentled. “I see the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. And I saw the way you looked at him today.” Lydia’s lips curved in a small, sad smile. “No one’s ever had you look that soft.”
Heat pricked the backs of your eyes unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, sincere and quiet.
You exhaled slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “I love you, Lydia. But you were being a bitch.”
Lydia nodded. “I know.”
“But,” you added, “I forgive you.”
That earned the faintest relieved smile. Lydia squeezed your hand. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it. You stepped away from her and walked back toward Stiles.
He perked up immediately, like a golden retriever waiting for permission to wag his tail. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” you said, threading your fingers through his again. “Everything’s perfect.”
His grin lit up his whole face as you pulled him with you out into the parking lot. The two of you no longer a secret, no longer hiding, and no longer pretending this was anything less than real.
genre/tags 𝟅𝟈 mark lee x fem!reader, spidermark, friends to lovers, high school au, spiderman!mark
word count 𝟅𝟈 11.2k
NOT PROOFREAD
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
High school wasn’t glamorous. It was 6:00 a.m. alarms, piles of homework, and gym class—a.k.a. your least favorite subject. So, when Coach called for volleyball that day, you sighed and shuffled towards the court like a prisoner headed for trial.
The gym smelled faintly of sweat and old rubber soles, the harsh lights making it hard to focus. You stood by the bleachers, tying your sneakers when Mark stumbled in, late as usual. His hair stuck up in odd places like he’d rolled out of bed and made a mad dash here. Classic.
“Lee!” Coach barked, tossing him a red jersey. “You’re on Team B. Let’s go!”
Mark jogged over, muttering apologies as he passed you. “Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin, his voice slightly breathless.
“Hey,” you replied, amused. “Rough morning?”
“You have no idea,” he mumbled, pulling the jersey over his head.
Mark was… Mark. Sweet, funny, always a little awkward. You’d known him since middle school, and while he wasn’t exactly the athletic type, you’d never really cared. You’d bonded over you bonded over your mutual interests, anyways, and volleyball was not on the list.
The game started, and you hung back like always, hoping to avoid the ball as much as possible. Mark, however, was front and center.
When the ball came his way, you winced, expecting it to bounce off his face or fly past him entirely. But instead, Mark jumped—higher than seemed possible—and spiked the ball with enough force to make it slam into the court.
Your jaw dropped.
“Whoa!” someone yelled.
Even Coach looked impressed. “Nice hit, Lee! Where’d you learn that?”
Mark shrugged, his face slightly flushed. “Lucky shot.”
As the game went on, Mark’s “luck” didn’t run out. He dove to the floor to save a ball, slid across the court with the grace of a pro, and even managed to block a spike that seemed way out of reach.
By the time the game ended, the entire class was buzzing.
“Did Mark join a secret volleyball league or something?”
You couldn’t help but grin, though your curiosity was starting to bubble over. Since when could he do any of this?
During a break, you found him leaning against the wall, gulping down water like he’d just run a marathon.
“Since when did you play volleyball like that?” you asked, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow.
He nearly choked, coughing and spluttering as his face turned red. “I—uh, I’ve been practicing?”
“Practicing?” you echoed, unimpressed. “Mark, the last time we played volleyball, you tripped over the net and nearly took me down with you.”
He let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… things change?”
You squinted at him, unconvinced. There was something different about him lately—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
Before you could press him further, Coach’s whistle blew, calling everyone back to the court. Mark shot you a quick smile before jogging off, leaving you standing there, your curiosity growing by the second.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
As the day went on, you started noticing more little things about him. In English class, he caught a pen mid-air without even looking, like he had eyes in the back of his head.
“Nice reflexes, Spidey,” you joked, nudging him.
Mark laughed nervously, shoving the pen into his bag. “Just got lucky,” he said quickly, avoiding your gaze.
Then, in chemistry, he managed to grab a beaker you almost knocked off the table before it shattered on the floor. His hand shot out so fast you barely saw it.
“Whoa,” you said, staring at him. “How’d you do that?”
Mark shrugged, his cheeks turning red. “I dunno, instincts?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could say anything, the teacher called for everyone’s attention.
By lunchtime, you were keeping a closer eye on him, trying to figure out what was going on. He seemed more jittery than usual, like he was trying to avoid drawing attention to himself but failing miserably.
When someone dropped their tray in the cafeteria, sending food flying, Mark’s head snapped toward the commotion before anyone else had even noticed. He looked like he was about to jump out of his seat before he caught himself and forced a laugh.
“You good?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, totally,” he said, shoving a fry into his mouth. “Just… startled, that’s all.”
You didn’t believe him for a second, but you let it slide. For now.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different about Mark. He’d clearly changed somehow, but you couldn’t put your finger on what exactly was different.
And as much as you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder: what was he hiding?
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
Your parents had been asleep for hours by the time Mark came over that night. It was one of those quiet, lazy Friday nights where the two of you didn’t need to talk much. Just snacks, a couple of blankets, and a well-worn stack of DVDs.
You weren’t supposed to have people over this late—especially not boys—but it was Mark. If your parents knew it was him, they’d probably be fine with it. Still, sneaking him in through your fire escape gave the night a little thrill.
The two of you were huddled on your bed, knees bumping each other as the movie played on the TV. It was some action flick Mark had picked out, but your attention was divided between the screen and him. He looked more relaxed now than he had at school, though every now and then, you caught him glancing toward the door, like he was expecting someone to barge in.
“You good?” you asked softly, nudging him with your elbow.
“Huh? Yeah, totally,” he said, flashing you a sheepish grin. “Just… didn’t expect him to survive that fall.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “It’s a superhero movie, Mark. No one ever dies unless it’s to make the hero angsty.”
He chuckled at that, leaning back into the couch. “Fair point.”
As the movie went on, the two of you started whispering back and forth, your voices barely louder than the hum of the TV.
“Okay, that was so fake,” you said, gesturing at the screen as the hero miraculously dodged a bullet.
Mark smirked. “You’re telling me this is where you draw the line?”
“I have standards!”
He shook his head, stifling a laugh, when suddenly his posture stiffened. His head tilted slightly, and his hand reached out, brushing your arm.
“Hey,” he whispered, his tone urgent. “Be quiet for a second.”
You blinked at him, confused. “What?”
“Shh,” he insisted, sitting up straighter. His eyes darted toward the hallway, and he moved to hide on the ground next to the bed, out of view of your doorway.
“What’s your problem?” you asked, a little too loudly.
Before he could answer, the door creaked open, and your mom peeked in, her expression equal parts annoyed and groggy.
“Y/N,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s almost midnight. Keep it down, okay?”
Your eyes went wide. “Oh! Sorry, Mom. I’ll quiet down.”
She lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room. You held your breath, praying she wouldn’t notice the second pair of sneakers tucked gently away next to your your bedside table. Thankfully, she just nodded and shuffled back down the hallway.
The second the coast was clear, you turned to Mark, your heart still racing.
“How the hell did you know she was coming?” you hissed, keeping your voice low this time.
Mark scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “I, uh… I just… I don’t know, I guess I heard her footsteps?”
“Footsteps?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes at him. “Mark, I didn’t hear anything. How did you hear her through a closed door? And while we were talking, no less?”
He let out a nervous laugh, shrugging a little too casually. “Maybe I’ve just got good ears?”
“Good ears my ass,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You’ve been weird all day. First in gym, then in class, and now this. What’s going on with you?”
Mark froze for a second, his expression flickering between panic and guilt. “Nothing! I swear, it’s—nothing. You’re imagining things.”
You raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, okay” you said sarcastically, not realizing how close you were to the truth.
Mark’s laugh came out a little too forced this time. “Anyways, we should probably finish the movie, it’s getting late.”
You didn’t push the issue—for now. But as the movie played on, you couldn’t help but glance at him, your curiosity growing stronger with every passing minute.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
After your slightly strange movie night, everything feels... normal. You’re at school with Mark again, cracking jokes about your teachers and helping each other survive the monotony of class.
After school, you walk home together as usual. Mark’s quiet, more so than usual, and you figure he’s just tired. He always seems tired these days.
"Are you okay?" you ask, nudging his arm.
He flinches slightly, then forces a smile. "Yeah, I’m good. Just didn’t sleep well last night."
You nod, though his answer doesn’t quite satisfy you.
Later that evening, you decide to take a quick walk to clear your head. The streets are quiet, the orange glow of the streetlights casting long shadows. You’re only a few blocks from your apartment when you hear shouting—a man yelling for help. Your heart pounds as you turn the corner and see a masked figure—Spider-Man—swinging into action.
It’s like watching a movie come to life. He moves with incredible speed and grace, disarming the attacker in seconds. The victim stumbles to safety, and Spider-Man barely pauses before disappearing into the night.
You stand frozen, your mind racing. Spider-Man isn’t supposed to be real—not in your world, not in your life. And yet, here he is, saving people in your neighborhood.
When you finally make it home, Mark texts you almost immediately:
Hey, you okay?
The timing feels weirdly coincidental.
Yeah... just saw something crazy on my walk. Spider-Man.
There’s a pause before he replies.
Mark: Whoa, no way. He’s around here?
You: Guess so. It was... surreal.
Mark: Sounds scary. You’re sure you’re okay?
Something about the way he asks makes you hesitate. He sounds so concerned, almost like he’s talking to himself.
You: Yeah. Are YOU okay?
Mark: Me? Of course. Just checking on you. I saw your location said you were outside.
You chastise yourself for not remembering he had your location. You’d have probably done the same thing if his location said he was outside in the middle of the night. Though, you’d never had the habit of checking his.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
Saturday nights are sacred.
Since middle school, you and Mark have had this unspoken rule: no matter what, Saturday nights are yours. Whether it’s binging your favorite show, building Legos, or debating which movie series is superior, it’s the highlight of your week.
You’ve been looking forward to tonight all day. After tossing a blanket over the couch and setting out snacks—chips for you, candy for him—you settle in, phone in hand, waiting for Mark’s familiar knock.
He’s usually punctual, arriving right when he says he will. But tonight, the minutes stretch into an hour, and he’s still not there.
You glance at your phone. No texts, no missed calls.
You: Where are you? I’m starting to think you forgot about me.
No response.
You frown but try not to overthink it. Maybe he got caught up with something. You wait another fifteen minutes, then send another text.
You: Mark?? You better not be ditching me for one of your dumb guy friends.
Still nothing. Anxiety begins to creep in, though you try to push it aside. He’s probably just running late.
An hour later, you’ve run out of chips and excuses for his absence.
You: I’m officially mad at you.
By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve all but given up. You leave one last text before tossing your phone onto the coffee table.
You: Hope you’re okay. Call me when you see this.
Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. Your mind races with possibilities—some silly, some serious. Is he okay? Did something happen? You brush them off as anxious thoughts running wild and try to fall asleep.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
The next morning, your phone buzzes with a message from Mark.
Mark: I’m so sorry, Y/N. I got sick out of nowhere last night. Took some medicine and completely passed out. I didn’t even see your texts until now.
You exhale, relieved but annoyed.
You: SICK? You ditched me because you were sick? I’m so offended.
Mark: I’m sorryyyyy. 😭 I’ll make it up to you, I swear.
You: You better be glad I didn’t watch our show without you.
Mark: You wouldn’t dare.
You: Guess you’ll never know.
His usual playfulness makes you smile, but the knot in your chest hasn’t completely loosened. You know it’s dumb, but a small part of you wonders if there’s more to the story. Mark never misses your hangouts. You’re always the first to know if something’s wrong. And as much as you want to believe his excuse, the insecurity that’s been gnawing at you for years whispers otherwise.
He’s your only real friend, and deep down, you’re terrified of losing him. You’re terrified that one day he’ll outgrow you, that he’ll find someone cooler, funnier, or just... better.
You shake your head, trying to push the thoughts away. Mark said he was sick, and you believe him. There’s no reason to think otherwise. But as you put your phone down and get ready for the day, you can’t help but feel like something isn’t adding up.
You stare at your phone, willing it to buzz with a new message from Mark, but it stays silent. You’ve already texted him a few times this afternoon, and while he usually responds by now, today it’s been almost two hours since your last message. Your thumb hovers over your screen, ready to send something, but you stop yourself. Maybe he’s busy. It’s fine. It’s not like you need him to text you back right away, right?
But you can’t shake the growing discomfort in your chest.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
Ever since his message about getting sick a few weeks ago, he’s been a little off. Sure, he’d apologized for missing your hangout, but now, it’s like nothing has changed. During the day, he’s the same—always goofy, friendly, and acting normal when you see him at school. But by the time night falls, he’s almost always gone—his responses slow, often one-word answers, and sometimes, he doesn’t respond at all. And this has gone on for almost a month now.
The more time passes, the more you can’t help but feel like he’s distancing himself from you, like you’ve somehow become a burden on him. You try to tell yourself you’re overthinking it. He’s probably just busy, right? But deep down, there’s a voice whispering that maybe he’s just getting tired of you. You wish you could ignore it, but the insecurity festers, eating away at your confidence with every minute he doesn’t reply.
By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve already sent him two more texts, no response. You try to sleep, but your mind is spinning. Is he with someone else? You hate that thought, but it keeps creeping in. Maybe he’s found new people to hang out with. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.
You throw your phone aside, frustrated with yourself, with him, and with the situation. Why do I care so much? You’ve never been the type to need constant validation from someone else, but with Mark? It’s different. You’ve always been there for each other, always shared your time. You didn’t need anything more from him, but now… it feels like you’re losing him.
Then, you get a message.
It's from Mark. Your heart jumps into your throat as you open it. “Hey, sorry. I got totally wrapped up in homework, we still on for tomorrow?”
You read it over and over, but something feels off. It’s a good excuse—too good, maybe. You want to believe him, but part of you wonders if he’s just avoiding you now. He was so there for you, always texting and hanging out after school. But now? It feels like he’s just gone, like a ghost. You don’t know what to believe.
“Can’t, sorry. I have plans with Giselle.”
There’s a pause before his reply comes through. You can almost hear the indifference in his words, even though you know you’re probably reading into it too much.
“Ah, alright. Have fun.”
The message feels too short, too casual. You frown at your phone, biting your lip. The nagging feeling in your chest grows stronger. Has he really just become that indifferent?
You text him back quickly, trying to keep things light, trying to ignore the hurt that lingers in your words. “Yeah sorry, we’ll definitely hang out later this week though, haha.”
But even as you send the message, a part of you wonders if this week is going to be just like the last—another week of him acting normal at school, you trying to text him all night, waiting for responses that don’t come, waiting for a friendship that doesn’t feel the same anymore.
You let out a sigh, toss your phone aside, and climb into bed, your angsty playlist drifting through your ears as you struggle to sleep.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
The bass from the music thumps through your chest as you step into the crowded living room. The lights are dim, the room filled with a haze of colored neon and swirling bodies moving to the rhythm. It’s your first real party in a long time, and the unfamiliar atmosphere is slightly overwhelming. You spot Giselle across the room, her blonde hair shining under the strobe lights as she waves you over.
You smile, grateful for her invitation. The group of people she’s hanging with seems friendly enough, laughing and chatting as they pass drinks around. Giselle introduces you to a few of her friends, and you slip into the crowd easily enough, trying to shake off the tension that’s been building in you ever since Mark stopped replying to your texts.
You’ve been pushing it down all night, focusing on the fun of the party, but it’s hard to ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Is he really busy with homework? Or is he avoiding me? You try not to dwell on it. After all, he’s always been a little unpredictable—he’s probably just caught up with his own stuff.
As the night wears on, you find yourself getting along with Giselle’s friends. You chat with a girl named Ningning who shares a class with you, and you laugh at her sarcastic humor. It’s nice. It feels good to be out and talking with people who aren’t just classmates or distant acquaintances. But still, in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the emptiness Mark’s absence has left. Every few minutes, you glance at your phone, hoping to see a message from him, but there’s nothing.
You tell yourself it’s fine—he’s just busy. But every time you check, you feel a little more disappointed.
The music pulses louder, and you take a deep breath, shaking off the thoughts of your best friend. Giselle is pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor, laughing as she drags you into the crowd. You let yourself get swept up in the fun for a while, your body moving to the beat, the drinks in your system giving you a comfortable, carefree buzz.
You laugh, enjoy yourself, and even manage to pull out a few impressive dance moves—at least according to Giselle, who’s cheering you on. The night seems to go by in a blur of music and people, the few drinks you’d had adding to the fuzziness of the night’s events.
But as the night winds down, you find yourself standing near the door, chatting with Ningning again. You glance down at your phone for what feels like the hundredth time, a little embarrassed that you’re still hoping for a text from him.
You frown when you see the time: it’s late, and you still haven’t heard from him. You were starting to wonder if you should text him, maybe check in, when Giselle appears beside you. “Hey, you okay?” she asks, her eyes narrowing with a knowing look. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just... thinking about stuff,” you say vaguely, slipping your phone back into your pocket.
She nods. “You know, it’s okay to have fun without him. Sometimes you gotta do your own thing, right?”
You nod along, but her words hit deeper than she probably intended. Why does it feel like I can’t? you think, but you don’t say it out loud. Instead, you force another smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Giselle offers to drive you home, but you shake your head. “I think I’ll walk. Get some fresh air. Plus, I’ve got pepper spray, just in case,” you joke, trying to ease the mood.
She laughs, but her eyes linger on you for a moment. “Alright, take care of yourself, okay?”
You wave her off as she heads toward the car with her friends. You linger by the door for a moment, a small hesitation gnawing at you, but then you push it aside. Walking will help clear your head.
As you step out into the cool night air, the city streets are alive with the usual hum of late-night activity. There’s a slight chill to the breeze, but you don’t mind it. You wrap your jacket tighter around your shoulders, feeling the effects of the alcohol beginning to wear off as the cold air helps sober you up. The walk is quiet, and for the first time tonight, you feel like you can breathe a little easier.
But even though the night is peaceful, your mind still drifts back to Mark. His silence feels like an anchor in your chest, something heavy and uncertain, and as you walk, you can’t stop wondering what’s going on. You’ve spent every Saturday night together for as long as you can remember. And now... now he’s just disappearing.
You try to shake off the feeling, telling yourself it's nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. Again. But the more you walk, the more your thoughts spiral, until you hear the footsteps behind you.
Before you can even react, a hand grabs your wrist, spinning you around so quickly that your heart jumps into your throat. Your breath catches in your chest, and for a split second, you can’t even process what’s happening. The streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you can’t make out the guy’s face. All you feel is the cold, tight grip on your wrist.
Your heart starts pounding in your chest, panic surging through you. You try to pull away, but his hand tightens, and a sickening, familiar feeling spreads through you.
"Hey! Let go of me!" you shout, your voice shaking.
“Quiet, bitch,” the man growls, his breath hot against your neck. You struggle, but his grip tightens, and your pulse quickens.
Just as the fear begins to settle over you, you hear a soft whoosh, followed by a thud that’s too heavy to be anything but a person.
Without warning, the man’s grip on you loosens, and before you can even react, you're yanked off the ground and pulled up a nearby fire escape ladder, higher and higher until you’re standing on a rooftop. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to steady your breath. You glance around, completely disoriented, when the voice of the masker figure breaks the silence.
You let out a breath, in awe of the Spiderman being right in front of you.
But before you can say anything, he speaks.
“Stay here,” he orders, his tone sharp as he drops you onto a crate by the edge of the roof. “I’ll handle it. Don’t move.”
You don’t even have time to ask him what’s going on before he’s gone, leaving you sitting there alone in the dark, your mind spinning. What the hell just happened? Is this... real? You glance around, still trying to process the fact that Spiderman—the very same guy you’d heard about in the news, the one everyone in the city seems to talk about—just saved you from some creep.
Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear the sound of struggle below, muffled voices, and a distant thud as Spiderman confronts the man you were just seconds away from being attacked by. It’s all over within moments, and before you can fully grasp the situation, Spiderman returns, landing effortlessly on the roof beside you.
He glances at you, his mask giving nothing away, but you notice the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast for someone who should be used to fighting.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now. You nod quickly, trying to push the terror away.
“Yeah,” you reply, swallowing hard. “Thanks for saving me.”
A long silence stretches between you before you, almost hesitantly, ask, “Did... did you... kill him?”
The question comes out before you can think better of it, but the moment you say it, his head whips toward you in complete shock.
“What?!” he exclaims, his voice full of disbelief. “No! I—no, I didn’t kill him! I just... I knocked him out. I’m not... I don’t... that’s not what I do.”
You blink, surprised at how horrified he sounds. Maybe you’ve underestimated him.
“Oh,” you murmur, feeling sheepish. “Sorry, I... I don’t know how these things work.”
Spiderman’s shoulders visibly relax, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s fine. Just... just stay safe, okay? I’ll get you home.”
You nod, your heart still beating erratically in your chest. Part of you is still processing everything, but another part of you is grateful. Grateful for Spiderman being here tonight, for protecting you when no one else would have been able to.
“Um, thank you again,” you say, your voice softer this time.
His eyes behind the mask seem to soften, but you’re not sure. “I can take you home,” he offers, voice low, almost too gentle, slightly familiar but you’re unable to place exactly where you’d heard it before.
You blink up at him, still in shock, and then remember where you are. “I’m almost home… I can walk the rest of the way.”
But the more you think about it, the more you realize you really don’t want to walk. Not after what just happened. Plus, his presence feels safe in a way you can’t explain.
Spiderman seems to notice the hesitation in your expression, and before you can change your mind, he’s already swooping down, his webbing attaching to a nearby building. “Hold on tight.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you barely process his words. Before you can question how he knows where you live, he shoots another web, pulling you along with him. Your feet leave the ground, and you’re soaring through the city. The wind rushes against your face, and everything is a blur of lights and rooftops.
The whole trip is a disorienting whirl, but it’s somehow comforting in its chaos. Spiderman moves like he’s done this a thousand times, his grip tight around your waist as he swings from one building to the next. The world below you is a distant hum, but your thoughts are still clouded with questions.
And then, as quickly as it began, you find yourself standing on the fire escape of your apartment building. Your legs are a little shaky, but it doesn’t matter. You’re safe.
“Here we are,” he says, glancing up at your window.
You stare at him, still slightly tipsy from the night’s events, but not questioning how he knows where you live. After all, it’s just one of those things that doesn’t make sense, and you don’t really care. All that matters is that you’re safe now.
“Thanks,” you say quietly, feeling oddly vulnerable under his watchful gaze.
He nods again, his hand slipping back to his side as he stands a little straighter. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t walk alone at night again. It’s... not safe. Especially for pretty girls like you.”
You nod, still too stunned to respond properly. You watch as he shoots a web up to the fire escape and swings back into the darkness. You stand there for a moment, your thoughts racing, wondering if the whole thing really just happened. It’s only when you step inside your apartment and hear the quiet of the night that it hits you. Spiderman just saved me, not only that but he’d called you pretty too.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
The next Monday morning at school, everything feels a little surreal. You’re walking through the hallways, mind still reeling from that night’s events. You still haven’t told anyone, and you feel like you’re about to burst. How in the world had Spiderman been so close to you? And you were actually talking to him, like... you know, a real conversation.
As you sit down next to Mark in homeroom, you can’t help but grin. You need to tell someone about the whole thing, and who better than your best friend? You tap his shoulder and lean in close, trying to act casual but failing miserably.
“Oh my God, Mark, you won’t believe what happened last night,” you blurt out, eyes wide with excitement.
He raises an eyebrow, a slight chuckle escaping him as he looks over at you. “What happened? You go to a party or something?”
You shake your head, not able to contain the grin that stretches across your face. “Worse. I got mugged.” You pause for dramatic effect, watching his eyes widen with concern. “But wait—before you freak out, I was saved. By Spiderman.”
Mark freezes for a second, blinking at you in disbelief. “Spiderman? You’re serious? Like, the Spiderman?”
You nod, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed as you recount the entire wild encounter, from the guy grabbing you to being yanked onto the roof and saved by Spiderman. You try to make it sound as casual as possible, but you can’t help but feel the thrill of telling someone about your personal brush with New York’s most famous hero.
“That’s insane,” Mark mutters, clearly processing the details. “Wait, so... what happened next?”
“Well, he saved me,” you say, leaning in like you’re sharing a secret. “But... I’m not gonna lie, Mark, he was lowkey hot.”
Mark splutters, his face twisting with confusion. “What? You don’t even know what he looks like.”
You shrug dramatically, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not about looks. It’s how he was so protective, you know? The way he grabbed me and made sure I was okay... it was hot.”
You watch Mark's face turn a shade of red as his expression shifts from surprise to something else entirely—discomfort, maybe? You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to hold it together.
“No way. You’re a freak, bro,” Mark says, shaking his head and trying to laugh it off. “Like, seriously? You’re crushing on a guy you don’t even know?”
You roll your eyes, letting out a short laugh. “I don’t judge your crushes, so don’t judge mine. It’s called appreciating someone for more than just their looks.”
Mark scowls, but there’s a nervous twitch in his eyes. “I’m not judging. But... I don’t know, it’s just a little weird. You’ve got a crush on Spiderman?”
You smile, feeling a little awkward. “I guess. He’s mysterious, heroic... and I mean, he was pretty hot for someone wearing a mask.” You nudge him playfully, watching the way he looks more and more flustered.
Mark shrugs, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. “Whatever, man. You’re weird. But... I guess if he saved you... that’s... kinda cool.”
It’s hard to ignore the little spark of something else in his voice, even if he’s trying to mask it with humor. You grin to yourself, filing the moment away. You’re not sure why, but it feels like there’s a shift between you two—something you can’t quite put your finger on.
You press the issue no further, but the day goes on, and you can't stop thinking about Mark’s weird reaction. Sure, he’s your best friend, but the way he acted just now... it made you wonder. Could he possibly feel something more for you?
You find yourself entertaining the idea of Mark having a crush on you, before shaking your head and brushing the thought away. There’s no way Mark liked you, if he did, he would have told you.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
As the week drags on, you can't shake the thought of Spiderman. Sure, you were trying to move on, but it’s hard when you keep running into him every time you step out of the apartment at night. You’ll be walking home from the store, or maybe grabbing dinner with Giselle and Ninging, and bam—there he is, swinging between buildings or dropping down from some rooftop. It’s like he’s everywhere.
At first, you try to brush it off, telling yourself it’s just a coincidence. But then, it starts feeling a little too suspicious, almost like he’s... following you? Or looking out for you?
One night, you’re walking back from your favorite coffee shop, the crisp air of early fall making you hug your jacket tighter. You’ve been texting Mark, as usual, but his replies are slow—too slow. You roll your eyes at the screen, sighing. You swear, it’s like he’s avoiding you or something.
As you round the corner toward your apartment building, you feel that familiar shift in the air, that sensation of something just slightly off. You glance up and sure enough, you spot him—Spiderman—perched on a rooftop above you, his figure silhouetted against the dim streetlights.
You pause in your tracks, raising a brow. “Really? Again?”
Spiderman tilts his head, as if amused by your reaction. He crouches down and lands lightly in front of you, his movements fluid and graceful.
“You’re following me, huh?” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean, I appreciate the protection and all, but you don’t have to babysit me.”
Spiderman straightens, a soft chuckle escaping from behind the mask. “I’m not babysitting,” he says with a playful edge. “Just making sure you don’t run into any... unsavory people.”
You roll your eyes, but there's a slight smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, well, I’m fine. Been walking these streets for years now.”
There’s a pause, as if he’s considering your words. “I’m still here. Just in case.” His voice is a little warmer than usual, though it’s hard to tell beneath the mask.
You feel a mix of amusement and frustration bubbling up. “You’re a real hero, huh?” you quip. “Just swinging in, saving the day. But honestly? I’m starting to get tired of it. I mean, you’re cute and all, but this whole ‘mysterious stranger’ act? It’s getting old.”
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and as soon as they do, you realize—you’ve just said that to Spiderman.
You quickly recover, trying to act casual. “It’s fine, I guess. I’m just getting a little tired of feeling like I’m in some weird superhero movie, you know?”
Spiderman doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he steps a little closer, his posture still relaxed but with a certain intensity in his eyes—well, you imagine that’s what’s behind the mask.
“Maybe I should back off for a while then,” he says after a beat, his tone more thoughtful. “You’ve got it all under control, right?”
You scoff, crossing your arms in an attempt to cover up how your heart is suddenly beating a little faster. “Yeah, I’ve got it under control, obviously.”
“Really?” Spiderman says, his voice a little too calm for your liking. Before you can even process what’s happening, he webs your phone right out of your hand, and you gasp, stumbling back in surprise as it hovers in midair for a second before landing gently in his palm.
You blink up at him in disbelief, your mouth hanging open. “What the hell? Give that back!”
He shrugs, unfazed. “What if someone mugs you again? No offense, but your reflexes suck.”
Your jaw clenches at the jab, but you can’t help but laugh bitterly. “Thanks, I feel so much safer now. I wasn’t even worried about it.”
You reach for your phone, and he hands it back to you, but there’s a look in his eyes—concern, maybe? Or just frustration. “You might not worry, but I do. You seem like you’ve got your act together, but... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just looking out for you.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat in the gesture. "Fine," you say, a little too quickly. "I guess I can let you walk with me then. But just so you know, you’re not my personal bodyguard, alright?”
Spiderman grins behind his mask, a little triumphant, but he falls in step behind you. You try to ignore the way his presence feels different—more constant now, like it’s a part of the night itself. You walk for a few minutes, the quiet of the city streets pressing in on you. You try to focus on the rhythmic sound of your footsteps, but the weight of the past few days catches up with you, and you find your shoulders slumping a little more with each step.
Spiderman notices, of course. You can feel his eyes on your back, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything for a while.
Finally, he speaks up, his voice softer than usual. “You wanna talk about it? I mean, you’ve been acting a little... off tonight.”
You look over your shoulder at him, surprised that he even noticed. But you don’t hesitate. Maybe it’s the anonymity of the mask. Maybe it’s the strange comfort of having a stranger to vent to. But suddenly, you just want to unload.
“Yeah,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair, “I mean, I’ve been dealing with some... stuff lately.”
You kick a rock along the sidewalk as you walk, the soft scrape of it filling the silence. “I’ve got this friend, Mark, right? We’ve been close for years—like, best friends. We have this thing where every Saturday, no exceptions, we hang out. Watch movies, talk... whatever. We’re just... us. But lately? He’s been acting weird. Like, really weird.”
Spiderman doesn’t interrupt. He just walks beside you, giving you the space to talk.
“It’s like he’s avoiding me,” you continue, your words gaining momentum. “I get that people get busy, but he’s never like this. He’s slow to reply, sometimes doesn’t even respond at all, and when he does, it’s like he doesn’t care anymore. I don’t even know what happened. It’s just... really frustrating. And I don’t even know if I should ask him about it, because I don’t want to come off as desperate or clingy.”
You kick another rock, your frustration spilling over, and for a second, you feel a little ridiculous. Here you are, talking about Mark to a guy you don’t even know, someone who wears a mask and swings from rooftops. But the words come tumbling out anyway, all of your insecurities and confusion finding a strange kind of release in the cool air of the city.
Spiderman stays quiet for a moment, processing. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, like he’s trying to make sense of your ramblings. “Sounds like he’s pulling away for some reason,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’m sure there’s a reason. Maybe he’s just going through something, you know?”
You shrug, feeling the weight of the uncertainty settle in your chest. “I don’t know. I just... I want things Spiderman listens quietly, his footsteps matching yours as you walk. You don’t notice the way his posture shifts, or the way his mask seems to obscure any hint of emotion—though somehow, you feel like he’s really paying attention.
After a few beats of silence, he finally speaks again, his voice thoughtful and a little gentler than before. “You know, I think you should just talk to him. Mark, I mean.”
You stop in your tracks, looking over at him in surprise. “What?”
Spiderman shrugs, his tone almost casual, but his words don’t match the nonchalance. “I get it. You’re frustrated, and you don’t want to be the one to chase him down. But sometimes, people just need a nudge. If you really want things to go back to the way they were... maybe you should just be honest with him. Ask him what’s up.”
You frown, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. “But what if I look desperate? Or, I don’t know... what if he doesn’t care?”
Spiderman stops walking too, his voice quiet but steady when he answers. “He cares. I’m sure of it.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, surprised by how certain he sounds. “How could you possibly know that? You don’t even know him.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t need to. I can tell from the way you talk about him. The way you light up when you mention him. You’re not the kind of person who just forgets someone you care about. And trust me, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to lose that either. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
You let out a long sigh, leaning against the nearest streetlamp. His words stir something inside you—something you’ve been avoiding all week. The idea that Mark really does care makes your heart feel a little lighter, but the fear is still there. “But what if he doesn’t? What if I make things worse by trying to talk to him?”
Spiderman leans against the wall next to you, his posture relaxed. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But you know him. I’m sure you’ve been through rough patches before and you worked through them. You just need to give him the chance to explain himself. I think that’s all he needs—someone to really talk to. And if you don’t do it, you’ll always be wondering what could’ve happened.”
You chew on your lip, his words hanging in the air between you. There’s a weight to them, something that feels... true. Something that makes you want to listen to him, to take his advice. But still, there’s a stubborn part of you that wants to push it all aside. “I just... don’t want to get hurt. Again.”
Spiderman straightens up, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You won’t. Not if you’re honest. Trust me.”
You glance up at him, your gaze softening as you look into the mysterious eyes behind his mask. He sounds so sure of himself.
“Thanks,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll think about it.”
He nods once, giving you an almost encouraging smile beneath the mask. “I know you will.”
You both fall silent as you continue walking, but the weight in your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. Maybe, just maybe, Spiderman is right. Maybe you do need to talk to Mark.
Maybe it won’t be as scary as you think.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
A few days after your conversation with Spiderman, things between you and Mark seem to settle down a bit. He’s still a little distant at times, but when he’s around, you notice he’s more present, his smiles more genuine, his conversations less distracted. It’s not the same as before—things can’t just magically go back to normal—but there’s something warmer there, something more honest.
One afternoon, as you’re sitting at your favorite spot in the courtyard, you catch him coming toward you, looking a little tired but still smiling like he’s actually glad to see you. You can’t help but feel a pang of relief. It’s been a while since you’ve had one of these simple, casual hangouts, and you’ve missed it more than you care to admit.
He sits beside you, just like old times, and you both start talking like you haven’t missed a beat. But the conversation isn’t just surface-level anymore. He seems more open, more real.
After a while, you can’t hold back anymore. The thought has been gnawing at the back of your mind for days, and it’s finally time to ask.
You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, though your heart is thumping in your chest. "Hey, Mark. Can I ask you something?"
He glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly, but he’s still listening. “Of course. What’s up?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to come off too confrontational. "Why did you ghost me before? I mean, I know you were busy, but... you weren’t even texting me back. I didn’t want to push, but it felt like you were avoiding me."
His expression hardens for just a moment, like he's bracing himself. He looks away for a second, running a hand through his hair. "I was... going through something. Something personal."
You wait, your heart rate picking up. The words hang between you two, waiting for him to elaborate. But he doesn’t.
You want to press him, ask for more details, but you don’t. There’s something about the way he said it—quiet, almost hesitant—that makes you feel like he’s not ready to share. You nod, leaning back against the bench. “Okay... But you know, you can always talk to me, right?”
Mark hesitates, eyes flicking back to you, a mix of gratitude and something else passing through his gaze. "I know," he says, his voice soft but firm. "But right now, I really can’t. I wish I could, but..." He lets out a sigh, his shoulders dropping. "It’s complicated, and I don’t want to drag you into it."
You feel the weight of his words, something about them striking you deeper than you expected. There’s an intensity there, a desperation almost, that you weren’t prepared for. You stare at him for a moment, your gaze softening as you consider his words.
"I trust you, Mark," you say quietly. "And I know you’re not lying to me. So... if you can’t tell me yet, it’s okay. Just know that I’m here, whenever you’re ready."
There’s a long pause as he looks at you, like he’s trying to read the sincerity in your eyes. Finally, he looks away, nodding slowly.
"Thanks. That... means a lot to me." His voice cracks a little, and you can tell how much he appreciates your understanding. "I really am sorry for pulling away, though. I never wanted to hurt you."
You smile softly, feeling the tension between you two finally start to ease. "I know you didn’t. But I’m here, okay? Just like you said—whenever you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere."
He gives a small, grateful smile, his eyes warmer than they’ve been in a while. "Thanks... I really mean it."
From that moment on, things slowly start to return to a sense of normalcy. Mark isn’t completely open with you yet—whatever is going on with him still seems like something he’s not ready to share—but there’s a shift. There’s no more distance. He’s trying, and you’re trying, and that’s enough for now.
And as you walk to class together the next day, you feel a little lighter. Maybe things aren’t perfect, and maybe they never will be, but you’re still here for each other. And somehow, that’s all you need for now.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
Things have started to settle into a new rhythm, one that’s almost comfortable. You and Mark are hanging out again, like before, laughing and joking and just enjoying each other’s company. But now, there's something different in the air—something lighter, maybe even flirtatious. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He'll tease you, throw out little compliments that make your heart race, and you’ve noticed the way he looks at you when you’re talking, his eyes softer than usual.
You can’t deny it—you’re starting to feel the spark again, that chemistry you thought you had maybe lost when things got weird. But you're also talking to Spiderman regularly now, and every time you do, you feel like you’re walking this tightrope between two worlds—one where everything feels so right with Mark, and one where he is a complete mystery. You don’t even realize it yet, but you're starting to fall for both of them in very different ways.
You hadn’t expected to run into him tonight, but here he is, perched on the fire escape across the street, casually leaning against the rail. It’s become a weird sort of routine lately—your nightly walks where you’d end up talking to Spiderman. It’s comforting in its own way, even if you still don’t know who’s behind the mask.
You slow your pace and look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re stalking me now?”
Spiderman chuckles, the sound muffled by the mask but still warm enough to make your chest flutter. “If I’m stalking you, then you’re stalking me, too,” he teases, swinging down lightly to land in front of you. “What’s up tonight?”
You shrug, adjusting the straps of your bag over your shoulder. “Not much. Just out to clear my head.”
The city feels quieter at night. The hum of the busy streets seems far away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you standing there in the stillness. You’ve gotten used to his company in the past couple of weeks, and there’s a sense of comfort in the anonymity between you. A part of you almost wishes you could talk to him more. After everything with Mark, it’s nice to have someone to listen, someone who isn’t involved in the mess.
He notices the shift in your demeanor, and you can tell by the tilt of his head that he’s waiting for you to speak.
You let out a deep breath, gathering your courage. You hadn’t planned on telling him this, but somehow it just comes out. “I think I’m in love with Mark,” you say, voice quieter than usual, almost scared to even say it out loud.
His posture stiffens for a second, though you can’t see his expression under the mask. “Mark?” he repeats, sounding genuinely surprised. “Like, your best friend Mark?”
You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. I mean... I don’t know. It’s confusing. We’ve been friends forever, and now it’s like I can’t get him out of my head. Lately, he’s been like flirting, I think?”
“Flirting?” he asks, his tone curious, almost teasing. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah,” you say, laughing nervously. “I don’t know, he’s just been way nicer lately? Texting me more, teasing me... It’s like he’s trying to get closer to me or something.”
You glance around, unsure of how to continue, suddenly feeling a little silly talking about your boy problems to Spiderman. You rub the back of your neck and look away, trying to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know if I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just reading into things. I mean, we’ve been friends for so long. He’s always been nice to me, but now it’s... different. It’s making me crazy. I don’t know what to think.”
Spiderman watches you quietly, his posture still, though there’s something in the way he holds himself that makes you feel like he’s really paying attention. “You deserve an answer,” he says after a pause, his voice low but certain. “You deserve to know how he feels, one way or the other.”
You look up at him, surprised by his words. “You think so?”
He gives a slight nod. “Yeah. You can’t keep guessing forever. I mean, I’m not saying it’s easy to talk about feelings, but it’s the only way to know for sure.”
You bite your lip, nodding slowly. You want to believe him, you want to believe that talking to Mark is the right thing to do, but the idea of being rejected still stings. “Yeah... I guess you're right. I’ve been avoiding talking to him about it. I’m scared of what might happen if I do.”
Spiderman steps closer, his voice soft and reassuring. “If he’s your friend, he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t... then at least you’ll know where you stand.”
You sigh deeply, feeling the weight of his words. He’s right, of course. You’ve been avoiding the conversation with Mark because you’re afraid of what might happen, but maybe it’s time to face it.
“Thanks,” you say, feeling a little lighter. “I’m not sure I’d have the courage to do it if you hadn’t said something.”
“No problem,” he replies, a teasing note in his voice. “I mean, I’m just a friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Helping people is kind of my thing.”
You laugh a little, but it’s a mix of relief and gratitude. “You’re way too nice to be a superhero.”
He shrugs, though you can’t see it through the mask. “I do what I can. But seriously, take my advice. Talk to him. He’s probably just as confused as you are.”
You smile, feeling a little more confident now. “I will. I promise.”
Spiderman gives you a nod of approval before his posture shifts, signaling that it’s time to go. “Alright. Go get some sleep. You’ve got this.”
You watch as he swings up to the rooftops, disappearing into the night, and for the first time in a while, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you can start figuring things out with Mark.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
You don’t even see it coming.
One moment, you’re walking back from the corner store with a bag of snacks, minding your own business. The next, someone grabs you, and your heart leaps into your throat. A rough voice snarls in your ear, “Where’s your friend Spiderman?”
Panic overtakes you, and all you can manage is a confused stammer. You’re shoved into the back of a van, heart racing as you piece together what’s happening. Someone must’ve seen you with him that night, or maybe they’ve been watching for longer than you realized.
Your captors don’t wait long to make their demands clear. “You tell him to show up, or things get messy,” one says, holding up your phone. They want you to call him. The problem is, you have no idea how.
You stutter, trying to explain that you literally don’t have his phone number.
“Don’t play dumb,” the second man snaps, holding up your phone. “We’ve seen him with you. Call him.”
“I can’t—”
Your words are cut off as the van jerks to a halt. The two men exchange alarmed glances, and then you hear it: a thud on the roof.
“What the hell was that?” one mutters, pulling out a weapon.
The next sound is unmistakable—the sharp thwip of a web. The van rocks violently as the door is ripped clean off, light flooding the cramped space.
And there he is.
Spiderman is a blur of red and blue, launching himself into the van with an acrobatic flip. He webs the first man’s weapon before the guy can react, yanking it away and tossing it aside. The second man lunges at him with a crowbar, but Spiderman ducks, the crowbar smashing into the wall behind him with a deafening clang.
“Stay down,” Spiderman warns, his voice firm but calm.
The first guy doesn’t listen. He charges at Spiderman, only to get a web shot to the face. Spiderman kicks him backward, sending him sprawling onto the van’s floor.
“Are you okay?” Spiderman asks, glancing at you briefly.
You nod, too stunned to speak.
The second guy doesn’t go down as easily. He’s bigger, meaner, and surprisingly agile. He swings the crowbar again, catching Spiderman in the side. The sickening sound of metal against his ribs makes your stomach turn.
Spiderman grunts in pain, stumbling but recovering quickly. He blocks the next swing with his forearm, webbing the crowbar and yanking it from the man’s grasp. “You really don’t learn, do you?” he quips, his voice strained.
Before he can finish, the first guy is back on his feet, armed with a knife. He slashes at Spiderman, who dodges narrowly but takes a glancing cut to his arm.
“Two against one,” Spiderman mutters, “that’s not very fair.”
He shoots a web at the knife, disarming the man, then uses a second web to yank him forward. Spiderman spins, using the man’s momentum against him, and sends him crashing into the wall of the van.
The second guy charges, tackling Spiderman to the ground. They grapple, fists flying, and you can see Spiderman slowing down, his movements less precise. Blood stains his suit where the knife grazed him, and he’s holding his side—likely from the earlier hit.
Your breath catches as the second guy pins him, but Spiderman surprises you, using his legs to flip the man over his head. He’s back on his feet in an instant, delivering a punch that knocks the guy out cold.
Spiderman turns to you, his breathing heavy, his posture slouched. “You’re safe now,” he says, but his voice wavers.
“Safe? You’re bleeding!” you exclaim, rushing to his side.
“It’s fine,” he says, trying to wave you off, but his movements are sluggish, and he’s gripping his ribs tightly.
“It’s not fine,” you argue, your voice rising. “You’re hurt. You need help. Come on, let’s go to my place.”
He hesitates, but when he stumbles slightly, he lets you guide him out of the van.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
You practically drag Spiderman up the fire escape to your bedroom. He’s limping, trying to downplay the extent of his injuries, but you can see the pain etched into his body language—even through the mask.
“Sit,” you order the moment you’re inside, gesturing to your bed. He hesitates, scanning the windows and doors like he’s expecting someone to burst in.
“Relax,” you add. “Nobody followed us.”
With a reluctant nod, he sinks into the couch, groaning softly. You rush to grab your first-aid kit, returning to find him still gripping his side, his masked head tilted back against the cushions.
“Alright,” you say, kneeling beside him. “I need to check your injuries. You’re gonna have to take off the mask.”
He tenses immediately, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Spiderman,” you say firmly, “you can’t breathe properly. I need to check if you’re okay. I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”
“No,” he says again, his voice edged with frustration. “I can’t. It’s... complicated.”
You sit back on your heels, crossing your arms. “Complicated? You just saved my life, and now I’m trying to save yours. What’s complicated about that?”
He looks at you for a long moment, the lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse.”
You huff, annoyed. “Fine. At least let me patch up what I can see.”
He allows you to clean the cut on his arm, wincing slightly as you dab antiseptic on it. You notice how quiet he’s gotten, his usual witty banter replaced by a tense silence.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you say softly, glancing up at him.
“I do,” he replies immediately, his tone clipped.
The words hit harder than you expect. You lean back, giving him space, and he stands, wobbling slightly.
“Thanks for the help,” he says, moving toward the window.
“Wait—”
“I’ll be fine,” he cuts you off, stepping onto the ledge. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
And then he’s gone, leaving you staring at the empty space where he’d been, your chest tight with frustration and worry.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
It’s been days since you last saw Spiderman. Days of walking home late at night and feeling the eerie absence of the one person who always made you feel safe. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’s busy saving the city or maybe just giving you space. But deep down, you feel the sting of being shut out.
Mark’s been acting strange too. Not like before, when he outright ignored you, but there’s something guarded about him again—like he’s keeping secrets. You don’t know how much more of this you can take.
One evening, as you’re walking home, the silence feels unbearable. The air feels colder, heavier, without the usual sense of someone watching your back. By the time you reach your apartment, your chest feels tight with frustration. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent conversations.
Nothing from Spiderman.
Mark’s last text was a brief, “Can’t hang tonight, sorry.”
You shove your phone in your pocket and head straight to Mark’s apartment
When Mark opens the door, he looks surprised—and maybe a little nervous—to see you.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, trying for casual, but there’s a stiffness in his tone.
“Are you avoiding me again?” you blurt out, crossing your arms.
He blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What? No. Why would I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Mark,” you cut him off. “You’ve been weird. You’re barely texting back, and when you do, it’s like you’re walking on eggshells. What’s going on with you?”
He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “I’m just... dealing with stuff, okay? It’s nothing to do with you.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “You told me to trust you. To believe that you care about me. And I do, Mark. But it feels like you’re shutting me out again, and I can’t take that.”
He lets out a long sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple!” you exclaim. “You’re my best friend, Mark. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something—something big. But then he stops himself, his jaw tightening.
“I can’t,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
You stare at him, heart sinking. “Why not?”
“Because if you knew...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “It would change everything. And I can’t risk that.”
Your mind races, frustration boiling over. “Do you even realize how hard it is for me to feel like I can’t talk to anyone? To feel like I’m losing you and—” You stop yourself, clenching your fists. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll stop asking.”
“Y/N...”
“No,” you say firmly, stepping back. “When you’re ready to actually be honest with me, let me know.”
Before he can respond, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the doorway, his expression conflicted.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
Mark can’t stop replaying the look on your face as you walked away. The hurt in your voice, the weight of your words—it gnaws at him. For the first time in his life, he’s truly afraid he might lose you.
He paces his room, running a hand through his hair. Every excuse he’s made to keep his identity a secret feels hollow now. You deserve the truth. And if it costs him everything? At least you’ll know how much you mean to him.
Grabbing a small bouquet of flowers—ones he spotted on the way home earlier—he suits up and swings toward your apartment. The city rushes by beneath him, but for once, he doesn’t revel in the thrill of it. His heart pounds in his chest as he lands on your fire escape, crouching just outside your bedroom window.
With a deep breath, he knocks.
You look up, confused at first, but then your heart skips a beat when you see the familiar figure crouched on the fire escape. Spiderman.
You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should even let him in after how things ended the last time. But then you sigh, walking over and unlocking the window.
“What are you doing here?” you ask flatly, crossing your arms as he steps inside.
He straightens, holding out the small bouquet of slightly squished flowers. “I, uh... I messed up,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “And I needed to make it right.”
You glance at the flowers, then back at him, skeptical. “You think flowers are gonna fix everything?”
“No,” he admits quickly, shaking his head. “Not at all. But I’m here because... I need to tell you the truth. The whole truth.”
You raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “You’re finally ready to take off the mask?”
“Yes,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “But only if you promise not to freak out.”
“Why would I freak out?” you mutter, but your curiosity is piqued.
“Just—close your eyes,” he says, a nervous edge to his voice.
You hesitate for a second but do as he asks. You hear the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of him taking off his mask. Then, gently, he takes your hands in his and places them on his face. His skin is warm under your fingertips, and you can feel the slight tremor of his nerves.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”
You do—and your breath catches in your throat.
“Mark?”
He winces, giving you a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”
Your hands fall from his face as you take a step back, staring at him in utter disbelief. “What the actual hell?! Mark, you’re Spiderman?!”
“Yeah...” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to tell you, I really did. But I couldn’t. Not until now.”
You blink at him, processing. Suddenly, all the weird behavior, the ditching, the injuries—it all makes sense. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time,” you say, your voice shaking slightly.
“I wasn’t lying,” he says quickly. “I was just... protecting you. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
You open your mouth to argue, but then you stop, taking a deep breath. “Why now, then? Why tell me now?”
“Because I couldn’t lose you,” he says, his voice raw with sincerity. “I know I’ve messed up a lot, and I’ve hurt you, and I hate myself for that. But you’re the most important person in my life, and if being honest is the only way to fix this, then... here I am. No more secrets.”
Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words. You take a step closer, searching his face. “You’re an idiot,” you say quietly.
He nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I know.”
“But I guess... I can forgive you,” you add, your voice softening. “Eventually.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, and he lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”
There’s a pause, the air between you heavy with unspoken feelings.
“So...” you say, tilting your head. “What now?”
“Well,” he says, his smile growing, “I was kinda hoping we could start over. But, like, as more than friends this time.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now too. “I guess saving me from a mugger earns you some points.”
“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, Y/N.”
Your heart skips a beat, and you meet his gaze, the truth in his eyes making your knees feel weak.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’m in love with you too.”
Before either of you can overthink it, you close the distance between you, pulling him into a kiss that feels like it’s been years in the making. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and for once, everything feels right.
Maybe for once Spiderman can have a happy ending.
🕸️🕷✮⋆˙
author's note 𝟅𝟈 this was a bitch to finish i'm ngl but i think i'm pretty happy with how it turned out so yay! i love spiderman sm so yk i love spidermark too. anyways leave suggestions for fics in the comments or my inbox pls.
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𝜗𝜚 welcome to the dream fraternity! seven dreamy boys, seven absolutely cheesy love stories where you’re the main character! warning: you might hate yourself during the process…but what’s love without a little chaos?
contains 18+ content
I. STUPID CUPID
pairing: fuckboy! na jaemin x secret identity! reader
synopsis -> mr. cupid — anonymous radio host. running the #1 most popular radio show on campus. famous for his thoughtful advice and classified as a true hopeless romantic. na jaemin — photography major, the sweet fuck-boy. described to be affectionate and gentle…but don’t fall for his tactics! once he’s done with you, he’s gone with the wind. your best friend unfortunately happened to be on the receiving end of this. what happens when you find out that the anonymous radio host is none other than na jaemin himself? sweet revenge.
𝜗𝜚
II. FLYING KISS
pairing: childhood best friend! lee jeno x nerd! reader
synopsis -> you and lee jeno go way back, as in diapers and all that. before he was known as the chill fuckboy, he was an all time nerd! just like you! tired of being a loser who can’t even get the guy you wanted, you badly needed tips and a makeover. who’s better to ask for help than your childhood best friend, who has proven that a nerd can be sexy?
𝜗𝜚
III. SORRY, HEART
pairing: friends with benefits! mark lee x tutor! reader
synopsis -> sex helps him focus. focus he needs for your tutoring sessions. it was a win-win for mark lee when you proposed to add a stress-relief session to the schedule. the favorite fuckboy and the girl who doesn’t believe in love equals the ultimate friends with benefits set-up. it’s the perfect dream team! but uh oh…it seems like mark has been shot by cupid’s arrow. will mark survive all of your attempts at pushing him away?
𝜗𝜚
IV. IRREPLACEABLE
pairing: enemy! lee haechan x ex bff! reader
synopsis -> lee haechan, theatre major, absolutely hated your guts. you felt the same exact way. the only girl in this whole university that hasn’t fallen for the most popular fuckboy’s charms. which is why it sucks that you have both landed the main roles in the theater’s upcoming play, romeo and juliet. what was that saying about love and hate being a thin line?
𝜗𝜚
V. MY FIRST AND LAST
pairing: bff! zhong chenle x fake gf! reader
synopsis -> zhong chenle, the lowkey fuckboy, captain of the basketball team, doesn’t believe in romance. flowers? chocolates? handwritten letters? ew. too cheesy. but he can’t seem to shake this crazy girl off of him so he goes to you, his best friend, cheerleading captain, for help. will you be his fake girlfriend? sure. the catch? it has to be believable so for the first time in his life he buys the flowers and the chocolate and writes the handwritten letters.
𝜗𝜚
VI. BREATHING
pairing: fuckboy! jisung x convenient gf! reader
synopsis -> park jisung has sworn off love after being cheated on. he’s been doing a really great job breaking hearts and not looking back. the boys are worried that they’ve taken fuckboy101 too seriously and have now created the ultimate fuckboy. this conversation was heard by your group of friends who never backs away from a challenge. and so the bets are on: get the ultimate fuckboy to fall in love with you and you’ll get $125 from each friend. deal?
𝜗𝜚
VII. I HATE FRUITS
pairing: fake bf! renjun x best friend’s gf! reader
synopsis -> huang renjun, the fuckboy by association, couldn’t care less about romantic relationships. he’s perfectly fine with being single — prefers it, actually. when he accidentally drops a box on your head and you wake up with temporary amnesia, he’s forced to finally take care of a person other than his own self. what’s worse? you think he’s your boyfriend.
authors note: this is a work of fiction only and should not be taken seriously. the way the dream boys are portrayed in these stories are obviously not a representation of who they are in real life. thank you and have fun reading!
⏦ﾟ♡︎ likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎
if you enjoyed this series and would like to show extra love and support, my ko-fi is open <3
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 9.2k✦
✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦
You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.
Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.
Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.
If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.
Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.
Pissing you off.
You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.
How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.
You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.
A very shiny fly.
You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.
It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.
And Barnes.
He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.
But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.
And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.
You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.
“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.
You snorted. “Of course you do.”
“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”
Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.
“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”
“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”
“But- You don’t actually believe that-“
“Yes, I do.”
Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”
That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.
You ignored it.
You were going to get very good at that.
“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.
“You hate everyone-“
“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”
Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”
“You’re still looking at me-“
“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“
“Not like that-“
“Like what?”
“Like you- You don’t believe me.”
He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.
“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.
Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“
“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”
He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“
“It’s not.”
It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.
He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.
After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.
“We work well together-“
“No we don’t.”
“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“
“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”
Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.
It made you want to throttle him more.
“You think I’m pretty?”
He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.
Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.
You had to rip your gaze away.
“Shut up.”
He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.
When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose.
He always smelled so good.
And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.
He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.
The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.
You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.
The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.
“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”
You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.
“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.
Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”
You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.
“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.
“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”
“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”
Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.
“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.
When Bucky looked at you, a lot of coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.
“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”
You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”
“What?”
“The butterfly.”
“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”
“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“
“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.
Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.
“You want this?”
“The-“
“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”
You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.
An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.
“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.
Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
You scoffed. “Please-“
“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”
“I know fun.”
“Uh huh-“
“Stop doing that, I do-“
“Never seen you have it.”
“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”
You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.
“James-“
“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“
He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.
You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.
“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.
But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.
You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.
It’s better, really. Not to think about why.
Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.
All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.
You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.
You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.
“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.
“I can go myself.”
Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”
“I carry pepper spray-“
“That’s not enough.”
You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”
Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”
“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“
“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”
You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.
“What-“
“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”
Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“
“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”
That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.
“Fuck you, James-“
“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”
You paused.
Fuck, that was a good point.
You hated it when he made good points.
“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”
Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.
You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.
“No. I’m goin’ with you.”
You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”
“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”
You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.
He knew you.
You hated him.
“Fuck you.”
“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”
You blinked. “Wha-“
“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”
He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.
He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.
You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.
Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.
Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.
Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.
They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.
“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”
But you don’t make bad choices.
Ever.
You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.
Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.
“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.
“Hi.”
“You got the homework for public speaking?”
“Yes.”
Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”
“It’s online, James.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.
He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.
“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.
You cross your arms. “Did you.”
“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”
“If I wanted… Help?”
Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.
“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”
You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.
“I don’t need your help.”
He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.
You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.
“Maybe I need your help?”
“You always need my help.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean-“
“You wanna come over Thursday?”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll go to you-“
“I’m working Thursday.”
Bucky paused. “You got a job?”
You nodded. He frowned.
“Where?”
“Corner store.”
His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”
You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“
“You’re working late, it’s not-“
“I’ve been fine.”
“But what about when you’re not-“
“But I am-“
“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.
It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.
“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“
“Why do you care.”
Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.
“What corner store.” He grunts.
“Fifth and twenty, why-“
“We’re studying while you work.”
Your mouth fell open. “No-“
“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”
“I can kick you out-“
“You won’t.”
He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.
You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.
You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.
He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.
Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.
You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.
He made you giggle.
You hate him for that, too.
And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.
Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.
Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.
You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.
Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.
You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.
For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.
“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.
Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.
It is not fine.
Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.
But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.
It’s Sam.
You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.
You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.
And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.
“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”
You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.
Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.
“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”
You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.
There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.
“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”
And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.
Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.
“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.
Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”
You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.
“You know, I still got homework.”
You frowned up at him. “Okay.”
Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”
“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.
He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-
“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”
You blinked.
Oh.
“Yeah. I do.”
Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”
And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.
Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.
“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.
“I am tired.”
“You been eating enough?”
“I’m eating right now-“
“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.
It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.
That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.
“I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.
Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”
Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.
Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.
It felt different now. It felt like it matters.
You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.
He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.
Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.
You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.
The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.
“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.
“Where do you think he is- Nat-“
She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.
You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.
Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.
You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.
He finds you first.
“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”
You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.
“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“
“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”
“I-“
“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”
“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.
Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.
“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”
“I needed to drop something off.”
Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.
“You’re not stayin’?”
“I- I don’t-“
You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.
“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”
Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.
“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”
“Come- James-“
You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.
Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.
“You’re drunk, be careful-“
“’M not that drunk.”
“You’re slurring-“
“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”
You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.
“You’re here.”
He says it like he can’t believe it. Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.
You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.
“Yeah. I am.”
Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.
It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.
“James-“
“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.
The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.
“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”
He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”
“I- Um-“
“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”
There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.
“James-“
“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”
Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.
“What?” You squeak.
He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.
“I call your name when I have sex.”
“I- I- Why-“
“’Cause I love you.”
“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.
You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.
But now he’s saying this.
And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.
Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.
You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“I do.”
“You’re drunk-“
“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”
“James-“
“Hmm.”
He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”
You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“
“I liked workin’ you up.”
“That’s mean.”
“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”
You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”
Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“
“But I mean it.”
“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”
He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”
“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.
“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”
You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.
The challenge.
Why do you care.
Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-
Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.
Your body moves.
Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.
When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“
Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.
Really kissing.
The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.
Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.
This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.
Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.
“Ja- James-“
“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”
“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.
Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.
“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.
And who are you to tell him no?
“Oh- Okay- Oh!”
Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.
“No bra, hm?”
“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“
“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”
He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.
“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”
“N- No-“
Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.
“Wha- What’re you doing-“
“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”
“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.
Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.
“Bucky, please-“
“Please what?”
He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.
“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”
And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.
What you want him to do.
You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.
“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.
Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.
“You didn’t, huh.”
You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.
You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.
Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.
“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”
“You- You don’t know what I need-“
Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.
“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”
God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.
Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.
But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.
“No touching.”
He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.
“You’re touching-“
“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”
He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.
“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“
There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.
“Fuck- James-“
Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.
“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”
You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.
Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.
“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“
You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.
“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”
You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“
“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”
He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.
“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“
You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.
“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”
Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.
Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.
“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.
“I- I’m not-“
“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”
You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.
“Bucky- Fuck-“
Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.
“No touching.”
You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.
And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.
Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.
His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“
“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”
Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.
Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.
“Eyes stay on me.”
He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.
“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”
You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.
“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”
You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.
He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.
“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”
He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.
“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.
You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.
You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.
Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.
“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”
You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.
The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.
“Buh- Bucky-“
“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”
“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.
A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”
“Do it again.”
It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.
But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-
“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”
Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.
“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.
“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”
He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.
“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.
Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.
“And?”
You blink at him through the tears. “And?”
“What are you?”
Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.
“Two fingers.” He reminds you.
And just like that, you cave.
“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“
“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“
“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“
Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.
“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”
You moan. “Yes, oh- Oh my god- “
Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.
“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“
“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”
Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.
You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.
“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”
You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“
“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”
“Nuh- No-“
“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.
“Mmmm-“
“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”
You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.
“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.
Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.
“Flip over.” He grunts.
You frown. “Wha-“
“Over. Just-“
Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.
A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.
“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”
“James-“
“Please.”
His voice cracks.
You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.
You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.
“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”
Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.
“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”
He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.
“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“
Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out.
“Oh- Oh my god-“
It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.
“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.
He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.
“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”
“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”
“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”
You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.
“Yeah. You are.”
And if Bucky says you are, you are.
He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”
“’S- ‘S a lot-“
“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”
He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.
Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.
“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”
You keen, and Bucky laughs.
“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”
You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.
“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”
“I- Jaaames-“
“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”
You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.
“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“
Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.
“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.
“Can’t- Can’t take it-“
“Yeah, you can.”
You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“
Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.
“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“
You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.
“Wh- Where-“
“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“
Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.
You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.
And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.
Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.
“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.
You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.
“Perfect.”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
You giggle. “Yeah.”
Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.
“You’re were perfect too.”
“Thanks.” You breathe.
He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.
“You still want me to take it back?”
And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.
“No, thank you.”
Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“
“I had manners-“
“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“
“Don’t hold your breath-“
He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.
“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”
And you wonder.
If it had really been there, the whole time.
“Okay.”
✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
pairing: mark!haechan x fem. reader
genre: college au, smut, rivals to fwbs
wc: 12k+
summary: mark and haechan can't stand each other's guts, but they want the same girl... and maybe she wants them both, too.
content warnings: unprotected sex, threesome, oral (f+m receiving), semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, sex tape, jealousy, marking, hand job, fingering, multiple orgasms (like a lot!!), double penetration, a little bit of mahae action (couldn’t help myself), orgasm denial, aftercare.
a/n: all i’m gonna say is that this was completely self-indulgent. i just haven't been the same since 82+ pressin came out and this is the result. i don’t think i’ve ever written so much smut for a single fic before omg. it's rlly a lot i apologize in advance. ps: stream 82+ pressin, 1999 and the aoty aka the firstfruit.
all your life, people let you get away with things. maybe it was your soft face, your sweet smile, or the way you tilted your head when you lied. they thought you were innocent.
but anyone who actually knew you, knew better.
you were full of fire, tucked neatly into a deceptively small frame. and by fire, you meant you were horny. always had been. sex wasn’t your entire personality, you just liked it—frequently and with whoever could keep up. so when two gorgeous boys started fighting over you, you didn’t think twice. even if those boys hated each other’s guts.
you were just stepping into the cafeteria when a low whistle caught your attention. you glanced over your shoulder and saw haechan strolling in.
you rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched at the corners.
“can’t stay away from me, huh?” you said when he finally caught up, his arm sliding over your shoulders easily.
“you know i can’t, pretty” he murmured, voice close enough to your ear to make you shiver. “you coming over tonight?”
you fold your arms across your chest, purposefully pressing your cleavage together. his eyes dropped right on cue. you knew he loved this shirt. or rather... he loved your tits in this shirt.
“i was there last night, hae. i can’t play favorites, it makes the other boys in my roster jealous,” you said sweetly, brushing a kiss to his cheek and stepping ahead.
“there’s no roster,” he said with a cocky grin, catching up easily. “i know that.”
“oh, don’t be so sure.” you waved at someone in the distance. haechan’s head turned just in time to catch mark lee smiling at you from across the room.
his face soured immediately. “mark lee? really?” he scoffed. “you can do better than that idiot.”
you looked at him, catching the slight twitch in his jaw. you smirked. their little rivalry was so amusing to you.
“remind me again why you hate him so much?” you ask as you drop into your seat. haechan slid in beside you, tugging your chair closer without effort.
“because he’s a manipulative dickhead who pretends to be some righteous good guy,” he muttered, fingers playing with the strap of your tank top.
“so... like half your friends?” you arched a brow.
“why are we even talking about him? let’s talk about us” he groaned, leaning in to kiss you but you dodged, making his lips brush your neck instead.
“since when is there an us?” you laughed, pushing him off half-heartedly.
“since you let me fuck you against every surface in my dorm,” he said smugly.
“don’t think that makes you special,” you replied, patting his chest.
your hand lingered there a second longer, reminding you how toned he actually was. easy to forget with that sweet face and mouthy attitude.
“i’m definitely your favorite though,” haechan grinned, leaning in again and this time, you let him kiss you. his mouth moving slowly but greedily against yours.
across the room, mark was stabbing his lunch violently. his plastic knife bent halfway through his sandwich.
“okay, you’re scaring me,” jaemin said, side-eyeing him. “who’re you trying to murder with your eyes?”
“no one,” mark muttered, dragging his eyes away.
jaemin followed his gaze and snorted. “ohhh, is that your girl?”
“she’s not my girl,” mark grunted. “we’ve just been… talking.”
“yeah? well, looks like that’s all you’re gonna be doing,” chenle chuckled next to him, biting into his sandwich.
“fuck off” mark said, chucking a crumpled napkin at chenle’s face.
“i’m pretty sure she was with jay last semester,” jaemin added, watching mark’s reaction with barely concealed amusement.
“and wonbin,” chenle said through a mouthful of food.
mark’s jaw ticked. “what exactly are you guys trying to say?”
“relax,” chenle raised both hands, smirking. “we’re just saying she’s clearly not into exclusivity.”
“whatever,” mark muttered, pushing his chair back. “like i said, we’re just talking.”
“uh-huh, sure” jaemin said with a knowing grin. “play with fire if you want… just don’t act surprised when you get burned.”
┈─★
mark couldn’t stop thinking about what the guys had said. it wasn’t even like he wanted anything serious with you. but still, the way you clung to haechan, only to turn around and flirt with him like your eyes hadn’t just been heart-shaped for the biggest dumbass on earth… yeah, it was starting to piss him off.
he was stewing in that frustration, gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary on the way to the store, when he spotted your car on the side of the road.
he pulled up behind you without thinking.
your face lit up the second you saw him. you were sweaty and flushed from the heat, but still so damn pretty it made something sharp twist in his chest.
“mark!” you said his name with so much relief he had to glance away, suddenly shy.
“hey,” he said, climbing out of the car. “need help?”
“please… i don’t know what happened. it just died on me” you pouted, arms crossed under your chest. “i barely made it off the road."
mark blinked, trying not to focus on your lips—the same lips that had kissed all over his neck last week at that party.
“okay, let’s take a look,” he muttered, walking over to the hood you’d already popped open.
he leaned over the car and tried to focus, to remember what he even knew about engines. he wasn’t a mechanic, but he knew enough not to look stupid in front of you.
you stood beside him, your shoulder kept brushing against his arm every time you leaned in to “check” what he was doing.
“you think it’s serious?” you asked, biting your lip .
mark glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “hard to tell. your battery might’ve just died.”
“ugh, great,” you groaned dramatically, flopping against the side of the car. “this day already sucked.”
“you’re lucky i was driving by,” he said, wiping his palms on his shorts. “you could’ve been stuck here for a while.”
you smiled at him sweetly, reaching for his hair and playing with it. “thank you for rescuing me, my knight in shining armor.”
mark froze for half a second.
“don’t do that,” he said quietly, eyes still focused under the hood.
“do what?” your voice was all fake innocence, and when he finally looked at you properly, you were leaning back just enough for your shirt to ride up and show the barest strip of your waist.
“you know what” he muttered.
you tilted your head, teasing. “we’re just talking, mark.”
he exhaled sharply. “yeah, well... i’ve had enough of that.”
you blinked at him, not catching the double entendre fast enough. before you could say anything, he stepped closer. not touching you but close enough that his chest brushed yours.
“you keep looking at me like that, saying things like that and then you go and let haechan put his tongue down your throat in front of everyone,” he said, voice low and raspy. “and don’t say it doesn’t mean anything.”
you stared at him, heat curling in your stomach.
“i wasn't gonna say that”
mark gave you a dry laugh, shaking his head. “then stop playing with me.”
you smiled, slow and wicked. “maybe i want both of you.”
mark’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to your lips as he licked his own, and for a moment, you thought he might actually kiss you right then and there—hot, frustrated, angry.
instead, he took a step back.
“your battery’s dead,” he said, eyes still burning. “i’ll get mine and jump it.”
and just like that, he walked back to his car, leaving you breathless and grinning like a devil in the sun.
he popped the hood of his car and grabbed the jumper cables, avoiding your eyes the whole time. you watched him work with brows furrowed, arms flexing every time he connected something or reached for a clamp. he was mad.
and you loved it.
“okay, try turning it on now,” he called out, stepping aside.
you slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine coughed before finally coming back to life.
“yay!” you grinned, hopping out. “mark, you’re a lifesaver.”
“don’t mention it,” he said, closing your hood.
you stepped out and leaned against the car again. “what would i do without you?”
he walked over slowly, wiping his hands on his shorts. “probably flash your pouty lips at some other poor guy and get him to do it for you.”
you raised an eyebrow. “are you calling me manipulative?”
“if the shoe fits.”
you took a step toward him. “you didn’t seem to mind when i was kissing you last week.”
“didn’t say i minded,” he said, voice low again. “but i’m not interested in being one of your toys.”
“aw,” you pouted the way you knew he couldn't resist. “but you play so well.”
mark’s mouth twitched.
“get in your car,” he said instead, walking away again.
“got tired of me already?” you called after him, teasing.
“no. i’m telling you to leave before i do something i’ll regret.”
you didn’t move. “like what?”
mark stopped and sighed, you giggled to yourself thinking you’d successfully managed to frustrate him. but then suddenly he turned back and stopped right in front of you, so close that your back was nearly pressed against the car.
“like remind you exactly what you’d be missing if you pick haechan,” he said, eyes flickering down to your lips.
you swallowed a smirk. this was so much more interesting than you thought it’d be.
you tried to lean into him, but he immediately backed up.
“drive safe,” he said, heading to his own car without looking back.
you stood there, heart racing, staring after him and thinking how you’d get both of them alone in a room without them trying to rip each other’s throats.
┈─★
you figured if you were ever going to bring up your little fantasy to life, mark needed to be wrapped around your finger first. haechan would be easy to convince—he was practically already halfway there. one breathy moan from you and he’d be on his knees.
mark, on the other hand… he needed more work. not because he wasn’t into you, but because he had that whole gentleman with a moral compass thing going on. sweet. respectful. frustratingly hard to seduce without making it feel like you were the one being played.
in other words, you had to lock in.
so instead of texting or sliding into his dms like usual, you started showing up where you knew he’d be. but this turned out to be more difficult since the guy was literally everywhere and nowhere at once. you found out from a mutual friend that he worked two jobs, volunteered for three different campus orgs, was part of the baseball team and somehow still managed to keep a spotless GPA.
you went to every place he frequented, including the music store where he part-timed at, but he wasn’t there, “you just missed him” the other workers said.
you almost gave up for the day until something caught your eye past the chainlink fence by the baseball field. someone was pitching solo.
and there he was, mark lee in all his sweaty glory.
“hey there, slugger,” you called out, leaning your arms on the fence as he straightened up and turned around, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt. it lifted just enough to show the cut of his abs.
he blinked at you in confusion for a second before recognition hit and his mouth tugged into a crooked little smile. “yo… what are you doing here?”
“you looked lonely,” you said, pushing the gate open and walking toward him, “mind if i keep you company?”
he shifted, catching the ball in his glove, clearly trying to be nonchalant but his eyes didn’t lie—they dragged over you like he hadn’t seen a girl in weeks. you were wearing a tank top you knew made your tits look phenomenal, and you were sure he noticed.
“sure,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “i’m just messing around, anyway.”
“well, i like messing around,” you replied, tone smooth as honey, letting the double meaning land.
mark chuckled nervously. he was flustered, a cute little blush spread across his cheeks and down his neck. you were definitely getting to him.
“you want a turn?” he asked, gesturing to the bat.
you raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “are we still talking baseball?”
his lips twitched. “depends… what are you talking about?”
you reached for the bat, letting your hand graze his fingers. “guess you’ll have to find out.”
“you ever even held one of these before?”
you took it, pretending to examine it seriously. “i mean, i’ve seen a league of their own like… twice.”
mark laughed, the sound bright and easy. “that’s a start.”
he showed you how to stand and the proper way to hold the bat, stepping in behind you with a respectful distance—no unnecessary touching or cheap moves. you could feel his warmth at your back, his voice in your ear as he adjusted your grip.
“okay, just swing through when the ball comes in. don’t overthink it.”
“easy for you to say, coach.” you glanced over your shoulder and caught his eyes on yours.
for a second, neither of you moved. you realized how pretty his eyes were from this close, they were round and bright looking at you.
then he stepped back and toward the pitching mound with a sheepish little smile.
“alright, give it a shot.”
your first swing was absolutely tragic.
mark laughed again, clapping once. “okay, that was adorable but we should review the basics.”
the next twenty minutes passed like that—him showing you how to swing properly, you pretending to take it seriously just to mess with him. you both ended up out of breath from laughing more than anything else. and by the end of it, you were glowing in the sun, hair a mess, tank top slightly clinging to your skin.
“okay, okay,” you finally said, wiping sweat from your brow, “i need a break.”
mark nodded, picking up the scattered balls. “dugout’s over there. i’ll grab us some water.”
you ducked into the dugout, the shade instantly soothing your sun-warmed skin. your legs were a little shaky from all the running around, but your heart wasn’t only thudding because of the exercise. you watched mark jog over to the cooler, shirt sticking to his back, his hair damp and curling at the edges. he looked so good it was unfair.
he came back with two bottles of water and handed you one, settling beside you on the bench. his thigh brushed against yours briefly before he shifted away to give you some space.
“not bad out there,” he said, twisting open his bottle. “your form’s a little weak, but you’ve got potential.”
“mm, and here i was trying to impress you,” you said, sipping. “guess i’ll have to try harder.”
he huffed a soft laugh and glanced sideways at you. “you’re doing fine, just… need a little discipline.”
“are you volunteering for the job?” you tilted your head.
mark stayed silent for a second. he was watching the field now, fingers drumming lightly on the bottle in his hand. “i know what you're doing”
you raised a brow. “oh yeah?”
“you don’t need someone messing around with your head. or your body. you deserve more than some dumb fling.”
you leaned back on your hands, letting your knees fall slightly open, enough to test him. “you ever think maybe i don’t want more?”
his jaw tensed. he didn’t look at you right away, he was trying really hard to keep his eyes anywhere but your legs. “you don’t mean that.”
“i do,” you said simply. “you think i don’t know what i want?”
he finally looked at you and the way his eyes moved over your face—it wasn’t lust. it was frustration. like he wanted to do something but had spent his whole life learning to hold back.
you leaned in, your voice softer now. “you keep talking like i’m some sweet girl who needs protecting, mark. but i don’t want that from you.”
he swallowed hard. “what do you want, then?”
you smiled, slow and a little dangerous. “i want you to stop pretending like you don’t want this too.”
he blinked, then he exhaled and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, laughing under his breath like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do.
“this is a bad idea,” he murmured.
“maybe,” you said, leaning just a little closer. “but i promise it’ll feel good”
mark didn’t answer but his eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there. he looked like he was working through every possible reason to pull away, but none were winning.
“you should probably leave,” he said after a beat, voice rough. “before i forget how to be a good guy.”
you leaned in so your leg was now on top of his. “i’m not asking you to be a good guy, mark.”
he closed his eyes and shook his head. “don’t say that.”
“why not?”
“because if i touch you like i want to,” his eyes opened again, darker now. “i won’t be able to stop.”
“good,” you said, voice low. “i don’t want you to.”
he turned toward you, one hand gripping the bench behind you.
“you’re not making this easy,” he said.
“i know, but you can trust me”
his gaze flicked to your lips again. then your neck. then back to your eyes.
“you’re serious?”
you nodded, slow. “you think i’d be here if i wasn’t?”
mark let out a breath through his nose. “fuck.”
you watched his knuckles flex on the bench, how he was clearly using every ounce of willpower to stay still. his shoulders were angled toward you now. his jaw was tight, eyes darting like he was thinking ten steps ahead and still getting stuck on you.
you reached out, brushing your fingers over his forearm. “if you’re gonna kiss me, just do it already.”
he didn’t move right away but when he did, it was careful. one hand slid behind your neck, thumb brushing just under your ear as he leaned in. his lips touched yours softly.
but you didn’t want soft.
you pushed in, lips parting just enough to deepen the kiss, and that was when his restraint cracked. his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into the bench. he kissed you harder this time, all that tension finally bleeding through.
you smiled against his mouth, whispering, “see? doesn’t that feel better than being good?”
his answer was a low groan against your lips, his hand slid up, fingertips grazing the bare skin where your top had ridden up. he paused there, like he was waiting for you to stop him.
you didn’t.
instead, you moved into him, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. his breath hitched the moment your hips settled against his, and that tiny reaction was all the confirmation you needed. he wanted this as much as you did. even if part of him was still trying to talk himself out of it.
“touch me more,” you said, tilting your head to nip at his jaw.
his hands finally slid under your shirt, splaying across your back, pulling you flush against him. your body molded to his like it had always belonged there, and his lips found yours again.
your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned low in his throat. his hips bucked up before he could stop himself, and your breath caught when you felt how hard he already was under you.
his hands moved lower over your ass, gripping tight as he shifted you against him again. it was getting hotter in the dugout, clothes sticking to skin, breaths growing uneven. your lips were swollen, your thighs shaking just slightly from the tension. he kissed down your neck, tongue brushing a spot that made your spine arch.
“fuck,” he whispered, his lips ghosting along your jaw. “you drive me crazy.”
you rolled your hips again and mark’s head dropped back with a groan. his hands moved higher under your shirt, fingers brushing the band of your bra before hesitating.
you tugged your shirt up a little more for him, eyes locked on his. “you don’t have to ask.”
his gaze flicked up to yours and then he pulled your shirt off in one smooth motion, his mouth going straight to your collarbone, trailing heat down your neck. one of his hands cradled the back of your head while the other held your waist steady as you started grinding down against him again, both of you breathing harder now.
his fingers found the clasp of your bra behind you, fumbling only once before it came loose. the second it did, his mouth was on you, leaving open-mouthed kisses across your chest as your hips rolled harder.
you dipped your head, kissed the top of his ear, and whispered, “mark.”
it came out breathy, almost reverent. the sound of his name from your lips snapped whatever restraint he had left. his hands gripped your thighs, and in one quick movement, he stood—lifting you effortlessly as you clung to him, legs tightening around his waist.
your back hit the dugout wall with a soft thud, and he was on you again. teeth grazing your neck now, nipping and licking and kissing like he wanted to mark every inch of your skin.
you gasped, hips rolling against the hard press of him through his jeans. he hissed through his teeth, grinding back.
“mark, more please.” you moaned, eyes locked on his.
he growled something filthy and wrecked and then his hands were tugging at your waistband, fingers slipping beneath to palm the curve of your ass again, rougher this time. you arched into him, head tipping back as he pressed hot kisses along your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise.
your shorts ended up somewhere on the floor along with your shirt. and mark—sweet, tortured, trying-to-be-good mark—was rutting against you like he’d lost his damn mind.
“tell me what you want,” he said into your skin, breath hot and shaky.
you leaned in, lips at his ear. “everything.”
he groaned like the word punched him in the gut. his hand teased over the edge of your panties, fingers just barely brushing where you were soaked for him. he inhaled sharply, head dropping to your shoulder, and you could feel his restraint fracturing all over again.
“jesus christ,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “we shouldn't be doing this here.”
he barely registered the sound of your breathless laugh before you dropped to your knees, eyes locked on his as your hands slid up his thighs. he looked down at you like he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“let me give you what you need,” you murmured, undoing the button on his jeans with practiced ease.
“fuck,” mark breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers brushed over him through the fabric of his boxers. he was so hard it looked like it hurt. you smiled seeing his reaction as you traced the outline of his cock.
he looked like he wanted to say something—some last-minute plea for control—but then you tugged his boxers down and wrapped your hand around him.
his knees nearly buckled.
you leaned in, lips brushing the flushed tip, tongue teasing just enough to make him choke on a groan. he gripped the edge of the dugout bench behind him to keep himself from falling over.
“shit—fuck, baby, please—” his voice cracked as you took him in deeper, mouth hot and wet and so fucking perfect. his hand found your hair, fingers trembling as he tried to resist the urge to thrust into your mouth.
you wanted him to lose it. wanted him unhinged.
you bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, your lips, the way your throat clenched around him. when you moaned, his hips jerked and he cried out.
“jesus, i’m not—fuck, i’m not gonna last.”
you pulled off with a slick pop. “it’s okay, cum for me markie.”
before you could take him backs into your mouth again, he hauled you up, lips crashing into yours roughly. his hands found your ass again, lifting you onto the bench like you weighed nothing. your panties were gone in seconds and then he was pressed against you, panting against your mouth.
“you’re sure?” he whispered, voice shredded
you stared into his eyes, wrapped your legs around his waist, and said, “mark. fuck me already.”
not a second after, he was slamming into you with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust. the air was knocked from your lungs, nails scraping down his back as your bodies locked together in the filthiest kind of synchronicity.
his rhythm was brutal from the start, hips crashing into yours like he’d waited years for this. like every time he'd looked at you, every time he’d jerked off with your name on his lips, had been leading to this exact moment.
“you feel so fucking good,” he panted against your neck. “i can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, you’re perfect.”
you were both sweating, panting, lost in each other. the dugout echoed with obscene sounds of skin slapping skin and your moans mixing with his broken groans.
“i’m close,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked. “tell me where you want it. please, baby—tell me.”
your fingers gripped his jaw, lips brushing his. “inside. fill me up.”
he moaned your name—screamed it, even—as he came, body shaking, strong arms locked around you. he held you through every wave, and didn’t stop fucking you until you came seconds after.
when it was over, when your bodies were spent and trembling, he collapsed against you, breathing hard, mouth still pressed to your neck.
“that was fucking amazing,” he whispered, laughing breathlessly.
you kissed the side of his head and smiled, knowing that you had him exactly where you wanted him.
┈─★
the rest of your week was spent with mark, who– slowly and against his better judgment– was developing a full-blown addiction to you.
but you couldn’t neglect the other half of your fantasy.
which is why you were now outside haechan’s dorm. he’d been ignoring your messages for days, which wasnt like him at all. and you were almost sure it had to do with how often you'd been with mark lately.
you walked in without knocking and found him in front of his pc, hand stuffed into his sweats, fist working himself slow to some filthy porn on the screen.
he didn’t even notice you walking in at first due to his headphones. but he must've felt you behind him because he jolted, yanked his hand out, and scrambled to close the tab like you hadn’t already seen everything.
he spun around in his chair, cheeks flaming, trying to hide the clear tent in his pants.
“ever heard of knocking?” his voice came out annoyed but strained.
you crossed your arms, amused. “is this what you’ve been ignoring me for? gooning in your room all day?”
he didn’t answer, just looked anywhere but at you.
you stepped in closer and looped your arms around his neck.
“don’t be mad,” you whispered, brushing your lips close to his ear. “i came here because i missed you.”
“really?” he finally muttered, still not looking at you. “what happened to your new boy toy?”
“don’t tell me you’re jealous,” you said with a little smile. “mark’s not the first guy i’ve been with since our arrangement. i thought you were fine with that.”
he scoffed. “yeah, well… the other guys weren’t fucking idiots.” his eyes finally flicked to yours, dark and sharp. “plus, i doubt he makes you feel as good as i do.”
“then do something about it,” you whispered, dragging your nails along the nape of his neck. “remind me why i started fucking you in the first place.”
his hands were on you in a flash.
he grabbed your waist and hauled you onto his lap. the second you straddled him, he bit your bottom lip before kissing you deep.
“you want a reminder?” he growled “fine, but you’re gonna take what i give you”
you ground down against him and felt how hard he still was. this wasn’t some casual rebound fuck to him—this was territory. there was rage and lust and twisted affection in every move he made.
his fingers tugged your shirt up, mouth trailing fire along your neck, teeth scraping and marking.
“bet he doesn’t know how to touch you like this,” he murmured, slipping a hand under your waistband and cupping your already wet pussy. “bet he doesn’t even know what you like.”
“he’s learning,” you teased, smirking just to provoke him.
he scoffed and shoved your panties aside, pushing two fingers into you at once, hard enough to make your hips jerk.
“not like this,” he whispered darkly. “he can’t make you this wet with just his fingers, can he?”
you gasped, clutching at his shoulders as he curled his fingers deeper.
“god, you’re such a little slut for attention,” he chuckled “running to him just because he’s nice? is that what you want? a nice little boy?”
you could barely breathe now, body rocking into his hand with every word.
“you don’t want nice,” he hissed. “you want me. you want the one who knows how to break you and put you back together with a single fuck.”
your moan came out broken and sharp, your hips grinding down faster now. he was watching you fall apart, biting his lip like it was the only thing keeping him from slamming you down on the floor and reminding the entire dorm who you belonged to.
“say it,” he demanded. “say i’m the one you want. say his name doesn’t mean shit to you when you’re dripping for me like this.”
“you are,” you choked out. “you’re the only one i want, hae.”
he shoved his chair back with a grunt, stood with you still wrapped around him, and carried you to the bed. dropping you onto the mattress with a promise in his eyes, already yanking his sweats down.
“gonna fuck you so hard you forget what his voice even sounds like,” he muttered.
and from the look in his eyes—you knew he meant it.
he crawled over you, and with a quick peck to your lips, he slid his cock into you. you were so familiar with his size after so many fucks that it didn't take long for you to adjust and for him to start moving.
he switched your positions quickly, knowing how much you liked riding him. his mouth was on your chest, spit-slick and possessive, and his hips snapped up in a brutal rhythm from below you. he’d been talking the entire time— filthy words laced with jealousy and obsession.
“so fucking wet for me,” he groaned into your skin. “he could never get you like this.”
you moaned louder at that, clenching around him.
haechan reached over without breaking his rhythm, grabbing your phone from the desk behind him. you barely noticed at first, lost in the sensation of him buried so deep inside you, but then you heard the soft ding.
he pointed the camera down, letting it capture the view between your thighs, where you were split open and soaked, riding his cock like your life depended on it.
“what are you doing?” you gasped, half-laughing, half-panting.
“just making something for your little boyfriend,” haechan said with a smirk, his voice syrup-thick and mean. “he probably wants to know what you’ve been up to.”
he angled the camera to get your face, your tits, your hips grinding down as he fucked up into you. his hand slid up your stomach, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make your pulse jump under his thumb.
“look at the camera, baby,” he purred. “let’s show mark how you really beg.”
you bit your lip but obeyed, dragging your gaze to the lens. your expression was wrecked—eyes glassy, mouth open, cheeks flushed.
“that’s it,” he growled, snapping his hips up even harder. “show him who you belong to.”
the hand not holding the phone slid down your spine, grabbed your ass, and slammed you down onto him with a force that made the bed frame groan.
“you hear that, mark?” haechan muttered into the mic, his voice suddenly colder. “this is what your little good girl sounds like when someone actually knows how to use her.”
you whimpered shamelessly, as his cock dragged right against that spot inside you that made your vision spark white.
“she’s squeezing me like she’s never been fucked before,” haechan kept going, still holding the phone. “you ever get her like this, huh? you ever make her cum just from your cock and a few mean words?”
he thrust into you hard and deep, so deep you cried out, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders.
“oh, that’s so much better,” he grunted, pulling back and slamming in again. “bet he doesn’t hit that spot, hm? bet he doesn’t know how deep you like it.”
you moaned loudly, the sound echoing against the dorm walls. he held the phone steady with one hand and gripped your jaw with the other, turning your face to the lens.
“tell him who makes you cum.”
you gasped. “haechan—fuck—you, you do—”
he grinned like the devil.
“good girl.”
the sound of skin slapping, the way your body arched into every thrust, the sweet, broken whines he pulled out of you—it was all being captured. and he made sure of it. shifting the angle, filming your tits bouncing, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your lips mouthing please, more without even realizing it.
“gonna send this to him,” he muttered darkly, “maybe i’ll wait ‘til he’s all alone at night, thinking about you and then—bam.” he snapped his hips harder, making you gasp. “he’ll see you stuffed full of my cock.”
you clenched around him and he hissed.
“yeah, you like that. you love being filmed, dirty little thing.”
you were shaking now, pleasure boiling up in your gut as he kept fucking into you with brutal precision. all while recording you. all while imagining mark’s face when he saw you like this.
your thighs were already trembling from how many times you’d rolled your hips over him, the coil in your lower stomach drawn so tight you could scream.
haechan’s hands gripped your waist, keeping you just barely in rhythm as you rode him, the slow drag of his cock inside you leaving you teetering at the edge. your hands braced against his chest, fingernails digging into his sweaty skin. you were so close you could taste it.
“that’s it,” he murmured, voice gone low and raspy. “fuck yourself on me. let mark see how desperate you get.”
“haechan—fuck, please—i’m gonna cum—”
suddenly, his hands snapped up to your hips and stopped you. his cock still twitching inside you but he wasn't moving anymore.
“no, you’re not,” he said, eyes dark. “not yet.”
your head fell forward, lips parted in disbelief. “what?”
he leaned in closer, lips brushing your throat. “you wanna cum?” he asked, and you nodded, hips instinctively trying to grind down again.
he didn’t let you.
“then beg for it. look into the camera and beg for me.”
you shuddered. his voice wasn’t teasing anymore. it was burning hot with jealousy and the need to have control over you.
“tell mark you’re not allowed to come unless i say so. tell him you’re mine.”
you stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving, and then turned your head to the camera. your voice shook as you whispered, “please… please let me come. i need it. i can’t take it, hae, i—”
his hand slid up your back, grabbing your hair and tugging gently so your neck arched. he bit along your jaw, voice low and sharp against your ear.
“say it like you mean it. say it loud. i want him to hear what a needy little slut you turn into when you don’t get what you want.”
you swallowed, lips trembling. “please…please, hae, i’ll do anything…just let me come—”
“nah,” he muttered, tightening his grip and slamming up into you once. once. just enough to make you cry out and chase the friction, but not enough to give you what you needed.
“you don’t get to cum until i say so. and i’m not saying shit until you look into that camera and tell mark whose cock you fucking love.”
your body was on fire, everything inside you begging for release, but you obeyed. because your orgasm lived in his hands now.
“it’s yours,” you gasped, eyes flicking to the lens. “it’s always been yours. not his. he can’t fuck me like you do.” you lied.
“mmm, now that’s the energy,” he grinned, hand trailing down between your legs to barely graze your clit. “feel that? you want it, don’t you?”
“yes, yes, please—i need it—”
“you’ll take every fucking inch, keep grinding that soaked little pussy on me slow, and i’ll think about letting you come.”
you did as he said. he made you ride him in slow, teasing circles. every drag was torturous, your body screaming for a release you weren’t allowed to have. tears prickled in your lashes, your mouth open in a string of whispered begs.
“look how perfect you are when you’re desperate,” he murmured, finally rubbing slow circles over your clit. “this is what he needs to see. you fucking breaking apart on my cock.”
you whimpered something incoherent, your entire body trembling when he finally granted it.
“cum for me, baby. show him what he’ll never fucking have.”
you shattered instantly, mouth open in a silent scream, grinding down on him with a rhythm you couldn’t even control anymore. and he filmed all of it. the high-pitched moans, the tears, the way you collapsed against his chest completely undone. and when his orgasm hit soon after, he captured his cum dripping out of your used cunt.
when your breathing slowed and your thighs stopped shaking, he clicked off the recording and kissed your temple.
“that should keep him up at night.”
┈─★
the next time you saw mark, it was at a party hosted by one of the student organizations. haechan was there too, for your pleasure, and you knew tonight was going to be the night you finally brought your twisted fantasy to life.
the plan was simple. get both of them to your apartment.
and it was all going well until haechan yanked you into the bathroom, and before you could even think, you were on your knees, taking him in your mouth.
by the time you left the bathroom, your makeup was a mess. the lipstick smeared across your face was a dead giveaway of what youd been doing. haechan went off to get a drink, and you quietly retreated to the living room, sitting in front of a mirror to fix your face.
mark was talking to his friends across the room, but his eyes never left you. he hadn’t spoken to you in a week after receiving the video. he was pissed, sure, but it wasn’t as though he was surprised. he knew you had some kind of relationship with haechan. but to film it and send it to him? that shit crossed a line.
what bothered him most was that he couldn’t bring himself to delete the video. every night, he ended up jerking off to it, his mind filled with the image of you begging for that jerk’s cock.
he noticed haechan walk by, nodding to a few people along the way. when their eyes met, he smirked and started walking toward him.
mark’s lip curled into a scowl as the younger boy stopped in front of him, leaning casually against the wall.
“what’s up, lee?” haechan’s voice was light, almost too fucking smug. he slapped mark’s back with exaggerated force. jaemin and chenle exchanged glances and walked off when they caught the tension.
“did you get my video?” haechan asked, his eyes still glinting behind his cup, the stupid little grin never fading.
“i did,” mark replied coldly. his voice was almost a growl, thick with disgust. “what kind of man records a lady during sex?”
haechan chuckled. “if you watched the video, you’d know she was very much into it.”
mark’s jaw clenched “whatever. you don’t fucking deserve her,” he spat, his words dripping with venom.
“and you do?” haechan raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “please, she’s not into the whole gentleman act.”
mark’s smirk was all teeth now “then why does she keep coming back to me?”
haechan’s eyes narrowed, but the grin never left his face. “her lip gloss is still all over my cock, so i’d say there’s really no competition here…”
mark’s hand shot out, slapping the drink from haechan’s grip. he grabbed the younger boy by the collar, yanking him in close. everyone around them hushed and someone muttered oh shit.
that’s when you stood up and pushed your way through the crowd. when you reached them, you shoved them apart with a force that surprised even you.
“what do you two think you’re doing?”
your voice cut through the room like a whip—sharp enough to make a few of the partygoers flinch. mark’s fist was still clenched in haechan’s shirt, and haechan didn’t look even the slightest bit bothered. in fact, the smug bastard looked like he was thriving in the chaos, like he’d been waiting for this moment all goddamn week.
mark let go first, reluctantly, his eyes still locked on haechan’s. “he started it,” he muttered like a sulking schoolboy who’d just been caught throwing punches behind the gym.
“bullshit,” haechan scoffed, brushing off where mark had touched him. “he’s just mad he’s not the one you were sucking off ten minutes ago.”
you grabbed mark’s wrist before he could swing. “enough.” you looked at both of them. “you’re both acting like idiots. are we seriously doing this now? at a party?”
“he's talking about you like you’re some kind of trophy.” mark growled.
haechan scoffed. “oh, please”
you could feel the eyes of half the party watching the drama with beers in hand. you tilted your head, walking up between them.
“you two are being childish.”
mark’s eyes dipped down to your lips, shiny from the fresh coat of gloss. a hint of it still smeared down your chin as a confirmation of everything haechan just said. he hated that no matter how pissed he was, he still wanted to grab you, shove you against the wall, and remind you how good he could make you feel.
“so, how about you stop wasting time on this pathetic pissing contest…” you continued, circling behind them slowly, “and come dance with me.”
you walked straight toward the dance floor, the bass vibrating through your heels and into your spine. you didn’t even turn to see if they were behind you. you already knew they were.
you stepped into the crowd, backlit by strobes, and then turned around slowly, one hand held out toward mark. his brows knit together at first, unsure. then he stepped in, hand sliding into yours.
your other hand reached for haechan, and that cocky smile curled across his lips before he grabbed your waist instead, pulling himself flush against your side.
“what’s this, baby?” haechan murmured against your ear.
you just smiled and rolled your hips into him at the rhythm of the music.
mark stood closer now, his chest brushing yours with every beat. his hands hovered like he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch, until you guided one to your hip.
you tipped your head up and kissed him first. your fingers fisted in his shirt as your lips dragged across his—tongue sliding against his until he forgot why he was mad in the first place.
but then you pulled away and turned, grabbing haechan by the jaw and kissing him too. open-mouthed. filthy.
you felt mark tense behind you. you could almost hear his breath hitch as he watched.
but you didn’t stop.
your hand reached behind you, pulling mark closer until he was pressed against your back. your lips were still on haechan’s when your other arm looped around mark’s neck, forcing them both into your orbit.
in the chaos, in the rhythm and push and pull of bodies, your head tilted just enough to make room, and their mouths brushed.
they didn’t even realize at first. your body was between them, but it was hard to see whose hands were where, whose breath was in whose lungs. they were kissing each other before they even registered it. and when they did?
there was a second of stunned silence between them, and they both froze.
“fuck,” haechan muttered.
mark stared at him like something short-circuited behind his eyes. and then he kissed him again, rougher this time.
you looked at them with a victorious smile on your lips.
when they pulled away, lips swollen and chests heaving, you saw the look on both their faces—equal parts frustration and lust. and you knew… this was the moment you had been waiting for.
you didn’t even wait for the song to end.
your hand shot out, fingers latching onto the front of mark’s jacket, then you grabbed haechan’s wrist and tugged them both forward.
“we’re leaving,” you said, voice low but commanding.
mark looked like he wanted to argue but you didn’t give him the chance.
you turned on your heel and walked out.
and like the two moths they were, they followed the flame.
┈─★
your apartment door slammed shut behind them, the tension snapping into something feral the second the lock clicked.
“you—” mark started, but you cut him off with a kiss. filthy, fast, and impatient. his hands went straight to your waist, pressing you back against the wall as his mouth opened under yours. he tasted like alcohol and haechan.
the later boy soon stepped behind you.
his hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin, and his mouth was right by your ear. “so you really want both of us, huh?” he whispered, “you’re that fucking greedy.”
you reached back blindly, curling your fingers into his hair as you pulled away from mark.
“i want to figure out who deserves me more.”
haechan shoved mark backward—not hard, but enough to reclaim space. and mark let it happen for a second, jaw tight, watching as haechan spun you to face him and kissed you deep, tongue fucking into your mouth.
but then mark was there again. his hands on your hips, his chest flush with your back, and this time, he kissed haechan.
really kissed him. it wasn’t an accident or in heat-of-the-moment.
mark leaned around you, lips capturing haechan’s mid-moan, his fingers curling into your waistband as their mouths crashed. it was clumsy at first and then it turned hungry.
the three of you moved together, a mess of hands and mouths and breathless gasps. clothing peeled away between kisses, bodies pressing against each other with no room left for shame. by the time you hit the couch, you were half-naked and drenched in anticipation.
you shoved mark down first, straddling his lap, grinding against him as haechan knelt beside you.
“who gets to fuck you first?” haechan asked, his voice hoarse and teasing.
you smiled, biting your lip as you looked down at mark.
mark's breath hitched beneath you, his eyes flicked up and then down to where your soaked panties were rubbing against the thick outline of his cock through his jeans.
"fuck," he muttered, head tipping back against the couch as you rolled your hips again, just to watch him squirm.
haechan had one hand running up your thigh, the other palming the bulge in mark’s jeans with a wicked little grin. his own erection poking through his boxers
"you're both hard already," you whispered, your voice sweet and venomous. you leaned forward, brushing your lips against mark's ear. "and i haven’t even gotten naked yet."
"then fucking do it," mark growled.
"ask nicer," you cooed.
haechan laughed, low and breathy. then he kissed your inner thigh, right above where the fabric was sticking to your soaked cunt, and said, "i’ll ask for him—take it off, baby."
you stood up and pulled your shirt over your head. no bra. both of their eyes dropped to your chest in an almost comical way. you hooked your thumbs into your panties and slid them down. by the time you were naked, both boys looked like they were seconds from breaking.
you dropped to your knees between them and unzipped mark’s jeans first, pulling his cock free and stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist the way you knew made his eyes roll back. he groaned, head falling forward to watch you.
then, without warning, you leaned sideways and took haechan into your mouth instead.
mark cursed under his breath. haechan let out a deep, shaky breath, hand immediately tangling in your hair. you sucked him slow, wet, deep, letting the mess coat your lips as you kept stroking mark at the same time.
you pulled off with a filthy pop, a string of spit connecting your lips to the head of his cock. "you like watching, mark?" you asked, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes as you jerked them both off side by side. "you like seeing how good i take his cock?"
mark's nostrils flared. then his hand was in your hair too, tugging you toward him, and you let him push into your mouth—let him fuck into your throat until you gagged, until your eyes watered, until his cock was slick with spit.
“jesus christ,” he muttered, voice ragged.
haechan reached over and grabbed mark’s jaw, turning his face toward him to kiss him.
their mouths crashed messily. they kissed like they hated each other for how much they wanted this.
you sat back, breathless, watching their lips collide with yours on both their cocks, and you moaned—because this was it. this was your fantasy.
they broke apart with a gasp, and you grinned.
"let’s go to my room," you said.
but you barely made it down the hall before haechan spun you around and pressed you to the wall, his mouth crashing into yours. he kissed like he wanted to bruise you. hands groping, lips biting, tongue deep and fast and hungry.
mark’s hand was already sliding up under your thigh, lifting your leg so he could step in behind you. his breath ghosted over your neck, and his voice was a low growl against your skin.
“you like letting him touch you like that?” he asked, pressing his hips into your ass so you could feel exactly what he meant. “you gonna let me fuck you after he’s had his way with you?”
you moaned, letting your head fall back onto mark’s shoulder as haechan’s hand slid down your front and cupped your pussy, two fingers slipping through the mess between your legs.
“she’s soaked,” haechan smirked. “god, you’re such a filthy little thing.”
“fucking ours,” mark said, and even haechan didn’t argue with that.
they walked you to the bed like wolves with prey between their teeth. when you climbed onto the mattress, you didn’t even get time to settle because mark grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up and spreading you wide.
haechan knelt in front of you, his cock already leaking. “open that pretty mouth again, baby.”
you did. obedient, dripping, desperate.
mark’s fingers slid into you from behind as haechan pushed into your mouth. your moan vibrated around his cock, and he cursed under his breath, thrusting deeper. mark’s pace picked up, his fingers curling just right—fucking you open, getting you ready.
"you’re gonna take us both,” mark said, and it wasn’t a question.
he lined up behind you just as haechan pulled back, breath ragged, stroking himself as he watched your ass push back toward mark instinctively. mark slid in slowly, inch by inch until you were full.
"fuck—" mark’s voice cracked. "you feel s’good."
haechan grabbed your chin to tilt your face up. “look at me while he fucks you,” he said, voice thick with lust. “wanna see your face when you cum all over his cock”
mark started thrusting harder, faster. your hands clawed at the sheets, moans falling from your lips in broken little gasps as your body rocked between them. haechan was watching every twitch of your face mesmerized.
and then he kissed you again, teeth dragging your lower lip before he shoved his cock back into your mouth.
it was obscene.
mark pounding into you, cock hitting the deepest spot inside your gummy walls, while you choked around haechan’s cock, spit dripping down your chin and onto the sheets. both of them moaning and touching you like they didn’t care if they left bruises so long as you kept begging for more.
“fuck—” haechan’s voice cracked, hips twitching as your mouth kept taking him, sloppy and hungry. “gonna cum on your tongue, baby. don’t even think about stopping. take it. take it.”
behind you, mark’s breath was a rough growl against your ear, his grip digging harshly into your hips as he drove into you desperately.
“you feel this?” he hissed, voice shaking. “tight little cunt, soaked and squeezing the fuck out of me. you like being used like this, don’t you?”
you moaned so hard it came out as a choke around haechan’s cock, spit and precum leaking from the corners of your mouth.
your orgasm ripped through you like a scream you couldn’t voice, your thighs shaking, core clenching so hard around mark he nearly lost it.
“fuckfuckfuck—” he groaned, ramming into you until his hips stuttered and he came deep inside you, cursing through gritted teeth as you milked every drop from him.
haechan didn’t stop. even after mark collapsed forward against your back, he kept thrusting into your mouth, hips slapping your cheeks as he muttered incoherently, “fucking angel like this… ruined slut… fuck—”
your eyes rolled back, drool spilling past your lips as he came with a loud moan. his cum flooded your mouth so fast you gagged on it. he didn’t even pull out right away but just held your head there, watching your throat work as you tried to swallow around the mess.
mark looked down, chest still heaving. “jesus,” he muttered, watching the cum drip off your chin, pooling under you. “she looks fucking destroyed.”
your body collapsed face-down across the sheets, arms trembling, legs still spread and twitching. your skin burned from the heat of them, from their hands, their mouths. and still—they weren’t done.
mark sat up slowly, eyes locked on the cum leaking down your thighs. he reached down without a word, dragged two fingers through it, and spread it back up into you.
“don’t waste it,” he muttered, his voice low, hoarse. “not after you begged for it.”
haechan was still in front of you, watching the whole thing with a lazy grin. he leaned in, wiped the mess from your chin with his thumb, and smeared it back across your lips. “open.”
you did.
he shoved his thumb in, and you sucked weakly.
“god, look at you,” he whispered, thumb still in your mouth. “so fucking pretty like this. dumb and dripping with our cum.”
mark pushed in two fingers next, fucking it deeper into the mess between your thighs. “she’s still clenching,” he said. “greedy even now.”
you whimpered into haechan’s hand, your thighs shaking again. the overstimulation was biting at the edges of your spine like static.
“she can take another,” haechan said. “can’t you, sweetheart?”
you didn’t reply fast enough so mark grabbed your jaw and turned your head. “you want us to stop?”
you blinked, dazed.
“…no.”
“then say it.”
“don’t stop,” you whispered. “please…”
haechan was behind you before you could think, spreading your ass with both hands like he was admiring a ruined piece of art. he bent down, spit pooling from his mouth and landing right on your hole before he dragged two fingers through the mess of mark’s cum still leaking out of you.
“look at this,” he muttered, spreading you wider, thumb rubbing slow circles. “she’s dripping with you, mark. you gonna let me fuck her like that?”
mark didn’t answer. he just sat back with his legs spread, cock half-hard and twitching back to life as he watched you squirm.
“she said not to stop,” mark said finally, voice like gravel and heat. “so don’t.”
haechan lined himself up and slid in slowly until you were choking on your own moan, fingers clawing the sheets again. your body was trembling from the overstimulation but he didn’t care. not even a little. he gripped your hips and started fucking you in hard, rough strokes that made the whole bed creak.
“every sound you make is fucking delicious,” he grunted. “i'm gonna hear you when i jack off for a week straight.”
you cried out, and mark moved toward your head, grabbing your chin and lifting it.
“open your mouth,” he said.
you did and he spit into it. it hit your tongue, thick and warm, and he didn’t even wait for you to swallow before he slid his cock between your lips.
“don’t you dare stop sucking.”
your throat was sore from taking haechan earlier and your pussy was raw from how hard you’d already been fucked—but none of that mattered. not when they were both moaning. not when mark was muttering how pretty you looked drooling around his cock. not when haechan was rutting into you like he had something to prove.
“she’s not even thinking anymore,” haechan gasped. “just moaning and crying for us—fuck, she’s perfect.”
you didn’t realize your second orgasm was coming until it hit you harder and meaner than the previous one, tearing through your overstimulated nerves until your body convulsed and your throat released a garbled cry around mark’s cock.
mark came first this time, groaning as he pulled out just in time to jerk himself off all over your face until his cum painted your cheeks, your lips, your tongue.
“look at you,” he breathed. “fuck.”
haechan came right after, buried to the hilt inside you, hips stuttering as he flooded you again. his cum mixing with mark’s cum.
you were twitching against mark’s thighs, completely fucked out.
but they didn’t even leave you alone then.
mark pulled you up so you were fully on top of his chest, and ran a thumb over your ruined lips while his other hand slid between your thighs again, fingers stroking the mess they’d made.
“you’re not done,” he whispered.
haechan leaned in from behind, kissing your neck, biting your shoulder. “we’re gonna clean you up from the inside.”
your limbs trembled, your thighs were soaked, your throat ached but your moans still came out soft and needy, like begging had become your first language.
mark’s hand moved between your legs, fingers slipping back inside you with zero mercy. your pussy twitched around him, hypersensitive, every motion making your whole body flinch—but fuck if it didn’t feel good.
“you’re gonna cum again,” he said, more command than promise. “and again. and again. until we say you’re done.”
haechan moved on top of you, curling around you like a possessive snake.
“you hear that, baby?” he whispered “you wanted both of us… this is what that means.”
his hand snuck between your thighs, meeting mark’s fingers. two sets of fingers working inside you, scissoring, curling, fucking you through the wreckage of your last orgasm and dragging you right into the next.
you were crying now, quiet tears streaming down your cheeks as your body betrayed how good it felt. your hips rocking against their hands, head thrown against mark’s shoulder.
“good fucking girl,” mark breathed, watching your face with that reverent hunger. “look at her, haechan. she’s crying and still begging for more.”
“she’s ours,” haechan said simply, dragging his tongue along your neck, tasting the salt of your tears. “no one else gets her like this.”
and then—as if coordinated—they both moved faster.
your moans cracked into a sob, and you grabbed for mark’s arms as you came again. hard. your body shaking against his, your vision going white around the edges.
“one more,” mark muttered, watching your pussy clench and flutter around his fingers. “you can give us one more, can’t you?”
“she can,” haechan said, now sucking a bruise into your shoulder. “she’s such a good little toy.”
you couldn’t even speak. just gasps, sobs, a whimper of please—though none of you were really sure if it meant please stop or please keep going.
“we’ll stop when you can’t remember your name,” mark whispered, fingers still deep inside you.
he pulled his fingers out of you with one last deep curl, just to watch the way your hips jerked from the sudden loss.
haechan crawled down, hand on your thighs, pressing you into the mattress as he dropped to his stomach in front of your core
"be still," he licked his lips and then his tongue was on you.
licking up everything—all of it—his spit mixing with their cum, slow and messy, like he was trying to taste every second of what they'd done to you. he groaned against your cunt, burying his face between your legs as you sobbed, so overstimulated you couldn’t decide whether you were moaning or crying.
mark brushed your hair out of your face with a hand that was far too gentle for how he’d just destroyed you. he leaned down, kissed your tear-slick cheek, and whispered, “you’re doing so good, baby. letting us use you like this.”
his voice dropped lower, mouth brushing your ear now. “you’re ours. you know that, right? nothing left for anyone else. ”
you nodded. your throat too raw, and lips too bruised to speak.
“she’s clenching again,” haechan called from between your thighs, laughing, breath hot against you. “she’s about to fucking cum on my tongue.”
and fuck—you did.
your whole body jolted violently, and mark had to kiss you to keep you from screaming out. you cried into his mouth, so wet, so wrecked, and still grinding back against haechan’s mouth.
“fuck,” haechan groaned, pulling back just enough to kiss the inside of your thigh. “you taste like a dream.”
“i need to fuck you again” mark said, shifting back behind you. “slow this time. deep. so you remember my cock after tonight.”
haechan didn’t argue.
he just moved, lips dragging up your thighs as mark pulled your hips back up.
he slid into you again and you whimpered.
"breathe, baby," he whispered. "you're okay. i've got you."
haechan curled up in front of you, kissing your mouth now, slow and messy. his hand found your throat and he squeezed softly.
you looked up at him, saw his gaze flicker over your shoulder to where mark was moving behind you. and fuck if that look wasn’t hungry.
"you two gonna keep pretending this isn’t about more than me?" you whispered, voice raw but daring. “you’ve been dying to touch each other. do it.”
mark froze, cock still buried deep. haechan didn’t blink.
you rolled your hips enough to make mark gasp—and then you turned your head and said it again.
“touch him.”
haechan’s hand slid down slowly, fingers ghosting over your thigh first… then lower… until he reached between your legs and brushed mark’s cock where it was buried inside you.
"fuck," mark grunted, voice cracking slightly.
haechan smirked, leaned over your shoulder and whispered in mark’s ears, “do you like it, lee?”
he curled his fingers around mark’s cock, still moving in and out of you, and started stroking him. touching you and him in the same stroke. mark groaned into your skin, grip on your hips tightening.
“don’t stop,” mark gasped, voice lower than you'd ever heard it. “fuck—don’t stop.”
you moaned too, completely overwhelmed now watching the two of them break for each other.
"who knew you were this needy?" haechan taunted.
"shut up" mark groaned, hips faltering.
haechan leaned forward again, brushing his lips against mark’s jaw.
“shut me up,” he said, soft and dangerous.
mark hesitated for a second and then their mouths crashed together.
it was brutal and desperate. they kissed over your back like they were fighting for dominance, like they were starving for it.
mark kept fucking into you as they kissed, pace getting rougher now, hips snapping with every gasp. haechan kept stroking you both, his fingers moving between your clit and mark’s cock, never giving either of you a break.
haechan broke the kiss first, panting, lips swollen. “she’s gonna come again,” he muttered, fingers rubbing harder. “fuck, she’s squeezing you so tight.”
“i’m close, too” mark groaned “i’m gonna—”
you came first, clenching around both haechan’s hand and mark’s cock. your whole body spasming as the orgasm slammed through you.
mark came soon after with a gasp, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you again. he only pulled out
haechan didn’t stop touching you. didn’t stop kissing mark. until he’d wrung every drop out of both of you.
it was quiet for a moment.
both boys still half-tangled with you, one on either side. haechan’s mouth trailed down your body, licking over bruises he’d left earlier, until he settled between your thighs again. he kissed your inner thigh, then the other, lips dragging against sensitive skin, breathing in the scent of your ruined cunt like it was perfume.
“she’s still fucking soaked,” he muttered. “how are you still this wet?”
“because she knows what’s coming,” mark said, taking your hand and guiding it to his mouth. he kissed your fingers. then your wrist. then up your arm, slow and careful.
then he sat up and lifted your upper body into his lap, turning you around and cradling you against his chest as haechan started licking long, slow strokes up your pussy again.
your legs trembled, your hands dug into mark’s thighs. you weren’t just being eaten out, you were being devoured.
“you’re gonna take us both this time,” mark grunted into your ear. “not one at a time. both.”
haechan looked up, eyes gleaming.
“ever been filled in both holes, baby?”
your breath hitched. you couldn’t speak but your body said yes.
mark shifted behind you again, this time lining himself up lower. haechan moved between your legs, stroking himself slow, teasing the head of his cock through your slick folds.
“you ready?” haechan asked, breath hot against your mouth.
you nodded.
and then they were both pushing in at the same time.
one in your pussy, one in your ass.
and fuck—you lost your mind.
your mouth dropped open in a scream you didn’t even hear. you were full in the truest, filthiest sense of the word.
they groaned in unison, both of them stilling once they were fully buried inside you.
“holy fuck,” mark gasped. “she’s so tight like this—”
but you did move. you rolled your hips, whimpering, desperate for more friction. and then they started thrusting.
together.
deep, slow, alternating, syncing like they were choreographing the destruction of your sanity.
your body jolted between them with every stroke. you were moaning, begging, babbling things you couldn’t understand. their hands were all over you—mark’s on your breasts, haechan’s on your throat, their mouths kissing every inch of you they could reach.
“this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” mark growled. “us… fucking you together.”
“she was made to take us like this.” haechan breathed, watching your eyes roll back.
you didn’t just come this time. you broke. sobbing and clenching down on both of them as your orgasm hit like a bus. they didn’t even stop, they fucked you through it, fucked you through the twitching and the tears and the oversensitive spasms until you were just a mess of yesyesyes and pleasepleaseplease.
they came together. mark first, biting your shoulder, thrusts deep and hard. then haechan, with a strangled moan, spilling inside you with one final snap of his hips.
you didn’t know how long you were out—could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours. the world felt muted. like your body had been peeled open and left raw in the best way. your limbs wouldn’t move right. your skin was still tingling. your chest rising slowly like every breath was relearned.
mark was the first to move. he didn’t speak, just rolled you onto your side gently, cradling your body lgently. he reached for the sheets, wiped between your thighs with careful strokes, even as your legs twitched and your whole body flinched at the contact.
“you alive?” mark asked softly.
you hummed. barely.
“good,” haechan said. “because imagine explaining this to the paramedics.” he kissed your shoulder, tongue dragging over the sweat there.
you laughed—more like a broken giggle—and they both chuckled too.
mark leaned in, brushed your hair back from your face. “you okay?”
you nodded, and when you whispered “yeah,” he kissed your temple.
“you need water, or—?”
“i need to feel you again,” you said.
he blinked, then smiled fondly.
haechan slid a hand up your stomach, resting between your breasts. “she’s addicted,” he whispered, and you could feel the grin in his voice. “she’s not even cleaned up and she’s already asking for more.”
you turned your head slightly. “so stop teasing me and touch me.”
mark’s fingers were already trailing back down your side. “not to fuck you again,” he said, “not yet.”
he looked at you softly, but serious. “we’re gonna clean you up.”
haechan slipped out of bed and disappeared for a second, then came back with a warm cloth. mark took it, and the two of them cleaned your body. wiping gently between your legs, kissing the insides of your knees. haechans tongue licked along your hip just because he wanted to.
“look at this mess,” he murmured, dragging the cloth through the mixture of their cum and yours. “we fucked you so good. you’re still dripping.”
you whimpered.
mark kissed your thigh. “we’ll fill you up again,” he promised. “after you rest. after we take care of you.”
“and when you wake up,” haechan added, crawling up beside you, “you’re getting marked again, so no one even thinks about touching you.”
┈─★
the first thing you felt the next morning was heat. not the kind that fades when the blankets shift. no, this was body heat. the weight of someone’s thigh tangled with yours. the press of a chest at your back. the warm exhale of breath across your neck.
your eyes blinked open slowly.
and both of them were still in your bed.
mark was behind you, arm slung over your waist, breath warm against your shoulder. haechan was in the front, legs tangled with yours and one hand resting against the underside of your breast like he’d fallen asleep mid-grope.
mark stirred first, pressing a slow kiss to the back of your shoulder. “morning,” he mumbled, voice deep and sleep-rough.
you hummed. “you stayed.”
“of course,” he said like it was obvious.
haechan groaned, stretching. his hand slid higher and squeezed your tit without even opening his eyes. “if i’d left, i would’ve had to jerk off in the dorm thinking about this,” he muttered. “no thanks.”
you laughed softly, body curling between them. “are you always this charming in the morning?”
mark chuckled. “only when we wake up next to a gorgeous girl.”
“mm,” haechan hummed, finally opening his eyes. “speaking of…”
he pushed the blanket back and looked you over like he was unwrapping a gift.
“what?” you asked, even though you knew exactly what.
mark leaned up on one elbow, gaze sweeping from your face to the marks on your neck, down to the faint bruises on your hips. his hand brushed them lightly, almost in awe.
“we did a number on you,” he murmured.
“yeah,” you said, voice light. “you gonna apologize?”
they both smirked.
“no,” haechan said, already moving to kiss down your chest. “we’re gonna do it again.”
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pairing: werewolf!hufflepuff! jisung x hufflepuff!fem. reader
genre: best friends to lovers, hogwarts/supernatural au, angst, smut.
wc: 18.3k+
summary: after a cruel prank leaves jisung cursed, he withdraws from everyone—including you, his closest friend. but secrets can't stay hidden forever, and when a full moon pulls you into the darkness he's tried so desperately to conceal, there's no going back.
content warnings: werewolf lore & transformation, drug usage, rut/mating behavior, rough sex, biting/marking, mild breeding kink, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, knotting, bulge kink, mentions of bruising & blood, mild body horror, brief medical talk (contraceptive), aftercare. lmk if i missed any!
a/n: nearly a month in the making and i can finally say i’m satisfied enough to post this lol. i’m actually really happy with how it turned out—and i finally got to write about werewolves, which has been on my list forever. canonically, werewolves in the HP universe (and most lore tbh) are dangerous nocturnal creatures and primarily bloodthirsty. but for this fic, i took a step away from that and leaned into the rut aspect instead because why not ;) pls don’t judge the cover, i had picsart and a dream lol. btw moonstruck by enhypen and nda by billie eilish are two songs u should listen to while reading this!
ps: i don’t know why i was under the assumption that everyone knows hp terms but i realized that is not the case after my mark fic 😭 so even though i didn’t use too many obscure ones here, here’s a little reference guide just in case:
legilimens– someone who can read minds or emotions
squib– a non-magical person born into a magical family (in this fic, it’s thrown around more like calling someone useless/coward)
wolfsbane– a potion that allows werewolves to keep their mind during a full moon; in hp lore they still transform, but in this fic it's not a full transformation.
feel free to message me if anything else was confusing! happy reading<3
You didn’t expect your seventh year at Hogwarts to feel like grieving someone who was still alive.
Three months ago, Park Jisung was still your best friend. Now, he can’t even stand being near you.
The suddenness of this change was something you couldn’t wrap around your head. But things don’t always fall apart all at once. Sometimes they drift until you’re left staring across a room at someone who used to know everything about you and wondering when they became a stranger.
He was the very first friend you made at Hogwarts. You remember how he barely spoke to anyone, and you sat next to him in Transfiguration class just because there was an empty seat. You charmed your quill into a frog that wouldn’t stop croaking, and when he finally cracked a smile, it felt like you’d won something important.
He was awkward and soft-spoken, unsure of himself in the way most boys are before they grow into their limbs. But you liked him instantly. Probably because he liked the same books as you, or because he never made fun of you for being nervous on a broom.
He even held your hand during your first flying lesson, hovering near you the whole time so you wouldn’t be scared. Years later, you found out he was just as scared of heights as you were and only pretended not to be to make you feel safe.
By fifth year, you spent so much time together that you could finish each other’s sentences. By sixth, you were bringing blankets to the highest tower in the castle and naming stars until you both fell asleep mid conversation. There wasn’t a single version of your life in Hogwarts that didn’t include him.
You thought seventh year would be just like that….
You were wrong.
After a summer of sending each other daily letters, pages and pages of thoughts, jokes, and half-sincere promises to never grow up, you returned to school thinking nothing could change.
And at first, it didn’t.
You walked to classes together, fell asleep with your legs tangled on the same couch, pretending not to hear the way people whispered about it the next morning, and snuck out of the common room after curfew not caring that you’d get caught.
The Astronomy Tower was your favorite place, you discovered how pretty it looked at night in your third year.
It was quiet that evening, the wind tugging at your robes as you leaned over the battlement. Jisung set down the little paper packet he’d smuggled from the kitchens—honey biscuits, still warm—and nudged it toward you.
“Payment for helping with my Potions homework,” he said, trying to be casual, though the tips of his ears were already pink.
You laughed and took one, bumping his shoulder with yours. “You’d owe me a whole bakery if this were the price.”
He smiled softly. The moonlight caught in his hair, and for a second you forgot the chill entirely.
“Close your eyes,” he said suddenly.
You arched an eyebrow but obeyed. Something light, wool‑soft, was placed around your shoulders. You opened your eyes to find a black‑and‑yellow scarf wrapped there, smelling faintly of cedarwood soap and parchment ink—purely, unmistakably Jisung.
“Did you make this?” you asked, caressing the soft fabric.
“Erm… yeah, you lost yours and it’s starting to get cold outside.” He mumbled, eyes on his shoes. “I couldn’t have my star‑chart partner freeze.”
You swallowed a reply that felt too big, and instead reached for his hand where it rested on the stone ledge. Your fingers threaded with his, easy as blinking. He stiffened for a second then squeezed back. When you looked up, his gaze was already fixed on you, wide and bright, as though the whole sky were reflected there instead of above your heads.
Neither of you moved for a long while. Orion wheeled overhead, the biscuits cooled, and the castle bells tolled curfew far below. But the only thing you really noticed was the warmth of his palm against yours, and the way your heart tripped every time he glanced your way and smiled shyly.
You learned just how soft‑hearted Jisung was that day on the Astronomy Tower.
Which is why, a few weeks into seventh year, it struck you as utterly wrong when rumors reached you that he’d been seen tagging along behind Lee Seungmin. Seungmin was everything Jisung wasn’t—loud, sharp‑tongued, the sort of Slytherin who thought shoving first‑years into suits of armor was a hobby and swapping curse ingredients under the table was a joke. He hexed quills to peck at classmates and bragged about detentions like they were trophies.
Jisung, by contrast, apologized when he bumped into someone and brought extra quills for anyone who forgot theirs. He flinched at raised voices and fed the barn owls after hours because he worried they were lonely.
So hearing his name linked with Seungmin’s felt like hearing that rain was falling upward. At first you laughed it off, because surely someone must have mixed him up with another quiet Hufflepuff. But then Jisung started arriving late to meals, dodging your study sessions, mumbling vague excuses you’d never heard from him before.
That was when you realized the rumor wasn’t a mistake—and that something was very, very wrong.
Seventh Year
September settled over the castle in a bright rush of golden leaves and new parchment, and for a while everything felt the way it always had. You and Jisung were crossing the courtyard—still laughing about his theory that Professor Lockhart polished his hair with Mrs. Skower’s Extra‑Shine—when a voice cut through the chatter behind you.
“Oi, Park!”
You both turned. Lee Seungmin jogged toward you, grinning widelys. You didn’t bother hiding your sigh.
“Still on for tonight?” he asked, dropping his voice as he leaned in toward Jisung.
“I’m not sure. I’ve got a Potions essay to finish.” Jisung shifted akwardly.
Seungmin smacked him on the back, too hard to be friendly. “Come on, you’ve bailed twice already.”
You stepped forward, folding your arms. “Don’t you have that same essay, Seungmin? It’s half the term grade.”
He turned, as if noticing you for the first time and smirked “Why bother? Snape’s going to fail me anyway.”
“Typical,” you muttered.
“I’ll let you know later,” Jisung said quickly, cutting between you before another jab could leave your mouth.
Seungmin’s gaze lingered on you, faintly mocking, before he turned away with a humorless laugh. “Sure thing, Park.”
The moment he was out of earshot you exhaled. “Since when are you and Seungmin… close?”
“We’re not,” Jisung said, scratching at the back of his neck. “He just hangs around sometimes.”
You searched his face. “You two have nothing in common.”
“It isn’t a big deal,” he insisted, but the laugh that followed sounded fake.
“It is if you’re sneaking off with someone like him,” you said, sharper than you meant to, but the worry was too much to hide.
Jisung’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
You didn’t say anything after that. You just walked the rest of the way to class in silence with a sense of unease settling on your chest.
That was when the distance began to show.
First, he started seating two rows over in Charms, smiling apologetically whenever you glanced his way but never moving back. He stopped leaving crooked little jokes on the margins of your Transfiguration notes or looking at you and trying not to laugh whenever Professor Lockhart messed up a spell.
He still spoke to you, yet every conversation felt stitched together, as if he were acting out a script. One afternoon you finally asked, “Are we all right?” He nodded so quickly you had a hard time believing it.
The next time you saw him with Seungmin it was well past curfew.
You had just left the library after wrestling Arithmancy proofs and stopped short as soon as you rounded the corner near the dungeon stairs. There was Seungmin leaning against the wall and Jisung half‑turned away, both speaking in low murmurs. You caught only fragments of Seungmin’s lazy drawl and Jisung’s tight replies. Then Seungmin laughed sharply, and your best friend flinched as though struck.
Your loud footsteps made both of their heads snap up.
“Y/N,” Jisung blurted, striding toward you as if to block your view. “Why are you out so late?”
“I could ask you the same.” You said arching a brow.
Behind him, Seungmin offered a thin grin before slipping down the stairs into the darkness of the dungeons.
Jisung pressed a hand to his eyes. “I was heading back to the dorm.”
“What did he want?”
“He—” Jisung’s voice faltered and for a heartbeat you saw the words gather behind his lips but he swallowed them down. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Your voice cracked on the word. “Come on, Ji.”
“I’m just tired,” he whispered. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
Silence pooled between you, at last you forced a smile neither of you believed. “All right. Tomorrow.”
But tomorrow never arrived—at least, not the kind where he told you what was wrong.
Because the next day Jisung never came to class at all.
Two whole days slid by without a glimpse of him and you were so on edge you kept glancing over your shoulder, half‑expecting his soft voice behind you. Or hoping he might walk into the library with that shy lopsided smile, asking if you had spare parchment which he always ran out of because his handwriting was too big and messy.
But he wasn’t anywhere, and no one seemed willing to notice besides you.
By lunch on the second day you couldn’t keep silent. Renjun was halfway through a Honeydukes bar, mumbling that chocolate boosted cognitive function, when you leaned across the table and murmured, “Do you know what’s going on with Jisung?”
He froze mid‑bite. “What?”
“Renjun,” you said, low and tight, “you know he hasn’t been to class, or in the common room. He isn’t anywhere.”
“I thought he was sick,” Renjun offered with a shrug that felt rehearsed.
“He isn’t in the hospital wing, and he hasn’t answered any of my owls.”
A flicker of something, maybe guilt, crossed his face. “Maybe he just… needs space?”
Your gaze sharpened. “Did something happen?”
“No,” he blurted too fast. “No, not that I know of.”
“Renjun.”
“I swear, I don’t know.” He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was answer enough, but you let it drop for now.
That evening, heading back from a prefect meeting, you passed the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room and heard voices up the corridor.
You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—until one word snapped you still.
“Jisung.”
“Snape got to him before—”
“—thought he was going to die, mate—”
“—Seungmin won’t shut up, keeps saying it wasn’t meant to go that far—”
A rush of blood pounded in your ears as you picked up bits of the hushed conversation. You edged closer and caught sight of Jay and Niki—Seungmin’s friends—half hidden in the shadows, whispering behind cupped hands.
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. Your thoughts finally being confirmed; Something happened to Jisung and Seungmin was at the heart of it.
You didn’t sleep a minute that night. Every time you shut your eyes, the conversation replayed in your head until dawn bled through the curtains and you were already out of bed, fury keeping you upright.
You found Seungmin loitering outside the Great Hall, laughing too loudly at something Jay and Niki had said. You crossed the marble floor without a second thought.
“Where is he?”
The smile slipped from Seungmin’s face. He cocked his head, all polite confusion. “Sorry, where’s who?”
“Drop the act,” you said, stepping close enough that he had to tilt his chin to keep eye contact. “I heard your lackeys talking last night. Where’s Jisung?”
Jay and Niki exchanged a look but said nothing..
Seungmin gave a thin, brittle laugh. “You’re hearing ghosts, sweetheart. Why would I bother with Park?”
“A better question,” you started, voice cold, “is why you’ve been so attached to him lately. You don’t exactly run in the same circles, so what did you talk him into?”
Something sharpened in Seungmin’s eyes and he leaned in by a fraction. “Careful with what you’re accusing me of.”
“Or what?” You didn’t move. “You’ll do to me what you did to him?”
For a heartbeat his mask slipped, just long enough to confirm you’d scored a direct hit.
“I didn’t touch him,” he said, almost gently. “Whatever mess Park’s in? He walked into it himself”
“Liar.”
He dipped his head, a mock‑sympathetic smile curling at his mouth. “You think you know him so well, huh? Ever think that maybe he finally got tired of you shadowing him like a needy bitc—”
Your wand was at his throat before the last word finished leaving his lips. The corridor went silent except for your breathing.
“You know nothing about us,” you said, voice shaking with contained fury. “If he’s hurt, I’ll make sure everyone here knows exactly whose fault it is.”
Seungmin’s gaze flicked to the tip of your wand, then back to your face. A slow, poisonous smile spread. “Ask too many questions, Y/N, and you might choke on the answers.”
He stepped back with his hands raised in surrender, and strolled away. Jay and Niki followed in uneasy silence. You lowered your wand, fingers trembling with adrenaline.
His parting smile told you everything about his involvement. But you still didn’t have clear answers.
So you went to seek the other person allegedly involved. Snape.
When you descended into the dungeons, the silence was immediate and unnatural. No one ever came this far during free periods; only Professor Snape’s office existed at the end of this corridor, buried deep in the coldest, most isolated part of the castle.
Faint green flames floated midair along the walls, suspended in enchanted sconces that made no sound and cast no warmth. They pulsed gently, like breathing, and their glow warped the stone around them, making the shadows twist in ways that defied logic.
You hated it down here. Even now, in your seventh year, walking this corridor alone made your heart thud against your ribs like it wanted you to turn back.
But you were desperate.
Snape looked up slowly when you stepped into his office without knocking, his quill pausing mid-sentence on the parchment. His expression went from mildly irritated to coldly displeased in an instant.
“Is knocking a forgotten concept these days?” he said dryly.
“Professor,” you began quickly, not even trying to hide the urgency in your voice. “I need to talk to you.”
Snape set down his quill, arching a single eyebrow. “Then I suggest you start talking, and make it quick.”
You swallowed. “It’s about Jisung… Park Jisung. He’s been missing for days, and no one seems to know anything. Or at least, they’re pretending they don’t.”
His gaze sharpened and for a second, you thought you saw a flicker of caution behind his eyes before he quickly masked it.
“I fail to see why you’re bringing this to me,” he said coolly, leaning back in his chair. “Missing students are a matter for the headmaster.”
“Don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. Snape’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but you pressed forward anyway. “I overheard some students talking. They mentioned your name…said you found Jisung somewhere. Something happened to him, didn’t it?”
Snape’s eyes flashed briefly. “And you believe the idle gossip of students because…?”
“Jisung wouldn’t just disappear on his own like that. I know something happened to him,” you shot back, voice shaking. “And I believe you know exactly what.”
He watched you silently for a moment. You could feel him weighing something behind his guarded stare. Finally, he exhaled sharply.
“Miss Y/N,” he began slowly, voice heavy with thinly veiled warning, “there are things within these castle walls and beyond them that you are better off not knowing.”
“That’s not your choice to make,” you said immediately.
“On the contrary,” he replied calmly. “It is precisely my choice. And you will do well to remember that.”
Your fists clenched at your sides, frustration prickling hot behind your eyes. “Professor, please. Jisung’s my best friend. If he’s hurt… if something’s happened… I need to know.”
Something shifted in Snape’s expression at your words, almost looked like regret. When he spoke, his voice was almost gentle, which frightened you more than his scorn.
“Sometimes the worst harm you can do to someone is to keep prying.”
He paused, holding your gaze steadily. “Park is alive. That is all you need to know. Now leave.”
You stood frozen for a second, his words sinking in painfully. Jisung was alive—yet somehow, that felt worse. It meant something had happened… Something terrible.
Your jaw tightened. “You can’t keep this hidden forever,” you whispered fiercely.
He leaned forward, eyes piercing yours in the darkness of the room.
“We’ll see.”
You turned away, storming from his office without looking back. Snape hadn’t denied anything which meant there’d definitely been an incident and it was serious enough that Jisung couldn’t be seen right now. He was alive, but he was hurt, and whatever happened to him was being deliberately hidden.
A few days later
The day started like any other.
You pushed cold eggs across your plate, half listening to Renjun’s gentle attempts at conversation while the Great Hall hummed as if a student hadn’t been missing for a week. But suddenly, a hush rolled through the room.
You felt Renjun touch your arm.
“Y/N.”
You looked up, and followed his gaze toward the doors. The breath caught in your throat.
Jisung was standing just inside the oak doors.
He was bent at the shoulders, eyes flicking over the Hall as if he didn’t remember ever being there before. His robes hung wrinkled and loose and there were red scratches carved along his neck and cheek. He was paler than before and the shadows beneath his eyes made him look years older than when you’d last seen him.
Without greeting anyone, he drifted to the far end of the Hufflepuff table nowhere near his usual seat beside you.
You were on your feet before the thought finished forming.
Renjun caught your wrist. “Y/N, maybe wait—”
You shook him off and crossed the hall, every step echoing in the sudden quiet.
“Jisung?”
He flinched but kept his gaze on the empty plate. “Not now, Y/N.”
“You’ve been gone a week,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I was so worried—”
“I said not now.” The snap in his voice was sharp enough to cut. He glanced up and the terror in his eyes chilled you to the bone.
You reached for him, but he stood so abruptly your balance faltered. Without another word he strode the length of the hall and disappeared through the doors, leaving a silence that seemed to bend the rafters.
You stood frozen, heat flushing your face as dozens of eyes slid away. Renjun appeared at your elbow and talked softly. “Let him breathe.”
You nodded, though the emptiness in your chest insisted otherwise.
Jisung returned to lessons, but only in body. He answered professors in one‑word murmurs and offered classmates strained smiles that meant please don’t talk to me. At meals he sat alone, two yards of empty bench marking the space where laughter used to live.
He moved faster when he saw you in the corridors. He no longer waited outside classrooms or drifted toward your chair in the library. His robes hung loose as if he’d lost weight along with sleep, and his hands shook whenever he raised his wand. Sometimes you caught him staring through stone walls at something only he could see.
You tried with soft hellos in the common room, and owls folded with careful questions but every attempt slid off the wall he’d built overnight. The harder you reached, the farther he retreated, until all that remained between you was silence and the memory of how easily you’d once shared the same breath.
2 days later
Jisung sat on the edge of his bed, head buried in his shaking hands. His palms were marked with crescent-shaped indentations from how hard he was clenching his fists.
He kept hearing it.
The snap of branches in pitch-black darkness. The sickening crunch of claws sinking into damp earth. The guttural snarl vibrating through his bones moments before razor-sharp teeth pierced his shoulder. The thick warmth of blood soaking through his robes.
Sometimes it came to him in dreams. Other times, he’d be awake, in class, or walking down the corridor. A sound, or a smell and he was back in the forest.
Snape had said the wolfsbane would help and it had in a way. At least, it kept the full transformation at bay. But it didn’t stop the memories, it didn’t quiet the noise in his head.
His senses were too sharp now, every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of candlelight, every rustle of parchment felt louder. Sometimes he thought he could hear people’s heartbeats, smell their sweat before they entered a room. His insides constantly felt overwhelmed with unbearable energy. He felt trapped in his own skin, moments away from tearing free of himself. Sometimes he felt too much, and other times… he felt nothing at all.
Worst of all, though, was you.
He couldn't stand to be near you anymore. Not because he didn't want to, but because your scent now stirred something dangerous within him. It made his chest ache unbearably, tightened his throat with longing and thirst.
A part of him urged him to get far away from you. But another darker, more primal part whispered the opposite… to scent you, to sink into you, to lose control entirely. But he refused to drag you into his nightmare. He wouldn't allow it, no matter how much it tore at him.
He could remember most of what led him into the forest, up to a certain point.
He remembers Seungmin saying he wanted to hang out and they met near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where one of the slytherins handed out something called shadeleaf. It was an iridescent petal folded into itself like a capsule. Illegal, of course. Banned by the ministry for its hallucinogenic properties and its tendency to react differently based on magical affinity.
Jisung didn't even know why he was there. This wasn’t his scene at all. The guys were drinking something out of a flask that smelled like burnt sugar and smoke. Jay was lighting up a rolled spell-scroll with charmed embers. Niki already looked half out of it, eyes glazed.
When Seungmin started showing an interest in him a few weeks ago, Jisung had been flattered. He'd only ever made two close friends at Hogwarts, so someone new noticing him felt good. That was the only reason he went along with him. He wanted to be accepted.
“Is it safe?” Jisung asked nervously.
“Come on, park,” Niki chuckled, placing a shimmering petal on his tongue. “Don’t be a Squib.”
“What's the worst that could happen?” Seungmin grinned, handing one to him. “You trip a bit? See some weird shit? Wake up with a headache?”
Jisung hesitated, staring at the thing in his palm. It pulsed faintly with a color he didn’t have a name for.
He didn't want to do it, but they were all watching him. So he took it.
The effects hit almost instantly. His vision went fuzzy first; he could only see edges warping and light bending at impossible angles. Then his tongue tingled and throbbed, and his body felt too hot.
“Shit, this is strong,” Jay laughed.
“It’s not that bad,” Seungmin said, puffing from the smoldering scroll between his fingers.
None of them looked as affected as Jisung.
"Come on, Park," Seungmin said, draping an arm casually yet firmly around Jisung’s shoulders. "There’s a spot a little deeper in. We hang out there all the time."
Jisung couldn’t hear properly anymore, everything sounded underwater. He followed anyway.
He couldn’t say how long they walked. It felt like hours, though in reality it was probably mere minutes before his knees gave out, sending him sprawling onto the cold forest floor. His head spun violently, vision fractured.
He tried to speak, to call out but his voice didn't work, the forest blurring darker and darker until only silence and blackness swallowed him whole. He didn’t know when they left him. Just that at some point, he was alone.
The last thing he remembers was seeing bright, yellow eyes and feeling immense pain…
He woke up choking on his own blood.
His body jerked violently, lungs burning as he struggled to take in air. He felt strong hands grip his shoulders, pulling him upright with urgency. Through blurry, half-open eyes, he caught the outline of a wand glowing faintly in the dark. He barely recognized the familiar cadence of Professor Snape’s voice echoing through the haze.
“Park… Can you hear me?” Snape’s voice was clipped, edged with tension he’d never heard before.
Jisung managed only a strangled groan. He couldn’t speak, his throat was raw, filled with the metallic tang of blood. Breathing felt impossible, each gasp shallow and painful, as if his lungs were full of lead. He felt wetness soaking through his clothes and pooling beneath him. He didn't know if it was sweat or blood. Probably both, his clouded mind whispered darkly.
He was certain of only one thing—he was going to die here.
“You’ve been attacked,” Snape explained urgently, casting quick charms that rippled warmly across Jisung’s battered body. “I need you to remain as still as possible while I attempt to slow the bleeding.”
The word attacked echoed faintly in Jisung’s mind. Attacked by what? His thoughts swirled sluggishly. He couldn’t focus enough to piece anything together.
Snape pressed a small vial to his lips. The Hufflepuff hesitated, eyes flickering up weakly, his question dying soundlessly on cracked lips.
Snape seemed to understand instantly. “It’s Wolfsbane.”
The word crashed over Jisung with crushing weight, his mind snapping painfully back to clarity. Wolfsbane. A potion for…
His stomach twisted violently, nausea gripping him as realization cut sharply through the fog in his mind.
He’d been attacked by a werewolf.
It felt impossible. He wanted to deny it, wanted to believe it was just some twisted nightmare brought on by the drugs he’d foolishly taken. But the pain burning through his shoulder and the dark, grim expression on Snape’s face all made denial impossible.
With trembling lips, Jisung allowed Snape to tip the bitter potion into his mouth, grimacing weakly as he forced himself to swallow it down. It tasted vile but he had no energy left to protest.
He collapsed back against the cold forest floor, limbs heavy, vision fading once more as Snape continued muttering charms, trying to keep him tethered to consciousness.
“Stay with me, Park,” Snape’s voice commanded, sharp but oddly comforting. “You’re not going to die tonight.”
But Jisung wasn’t sure he believed him.
The darkness rushed back in, heavy and thick, pulling him under again as Snape’s frantic movements blurred and faded away.
His memory is fuzzy from then on.
One moment he was lying in the dirt, blood soaking the ground beneath him. The next, he was being levitated through narrow hallways, his body wrapped in magic and warding charms.
The room was dark, except for a wandlight hovering near the ceiling. He was placed on a dusty mattress on the floor. His skin felt stiff with blood, every muscle felt like it had been peeled apart and sewn back together with barbed wire.
He recognized the Shrieking Shack from an article he’d read once about the most haunted places on Earth. That’s where they were right now.
The shack was colder than he imagined. This was the place they used to tell ghost stories about in the common room. The place kids dared each other to peek into on Hogsmeade weekends. It smelled like old wood and dust. Snape moved through it like he’d been here before—like this was routine.
He cast a dozen silent spells before even speaking. Layers of enchantments wrapped around the rotting floorboards, the shattered furniture, the warped windows.
“You must take this Wolfsbane every day,” Snape said curtly, setting a tray on the floor beside the creaking mattress. “Or I’ll force it down your throat.”
Jisung didn’t answer. Snape paused, studying him with that unreadable stare.
“You’ll stay here until the full moon passes,” he said. “You’ll say nothing when you return.”
Jisung blinked slowly, the weight of it sinking into his bones. ‘When you return… or If’.
Then Snape turned to go but he stopped in the doorway.
“You are not the first,” he said, voice low. “It will be painful but you’ll survive.”
And with that, he was gone.
The silence was the most unbearable part of being in the Shack. Not even the pain or the way Jisung’s bones ached like they were preparing to snap apart. It was the silence that made him feel like he’d go crazy any minute.
He tried to sleep, but whenever he tried he’d blink awake to phantom sensations of fur brushing his skin, fangs pushing against his teeth, and a sweet scent of honey curling through the cracks in the floorboards.
It wasn’t the full moon yet but his body was already responding to it. The Wolfsbane kept him from changing completely, but it didn’t stop everything. His skin itched as if it was being stretched and he realized he’d grown a few inches taller overnight. His eyes were also becoming sensitive to even the faintest flickers of light, and they were a dark shade of yellow that glowed whenever the moonlight hit them.
It might’ve been on the second night or the third, he couldn’t remember well, but Snape came in and told him that the full moon would be at its peak and he would feel the effects more despite the potion.
Jisung lasted about two hours before the pain began. It wasn’t sudden. It crept in slowly, like frostbite, numbing his fingers first. Then his wrists and his legs. He thought maybe this was it—maybe he’d just fade out before anything happened. Then it spread up his spine and into his skull, where it bloomed behind his eyes like fire.
The pain was so much bigger than his body. It burned and it shredded him, as if his bones were being broken and rebuilt at the same time, like his skin wasn’t big enough to hold him anymore. He scratched at his own arms until his nails cracked and bled. It got so unbearable he slammed his head against the wall hoping he would knock himself out but he couldn’t.
He clawed at the walls, tore at the floorboards and bit into the wood until his mouth filled with splinters and blood. He howled until his throat tore raw. And still, it didn’t stop
He lost count of how many times his limbs broke and reformed. His jaw cracked open so wide he thought it might dislocate, teeth pushing through bloody gums. He was sobbing or at least, he thought he was. It was hard to tell over the sound of his own growling.
The transformation stopped halfway and started again the next day. He never fully transformed but he felt the pain of his body trying to fight against it every single time.
He stopped counting days after that.
Hunger and exhaustion tangled with grief and fear until all that was left was the throb of his body and the steady hum of magic in his blood. He didn’t think about the pain anymore. Or the bite. Or Seungmin. Or the forest.
Mostly, he thought about you.
He tried not to, but you wouldn’t leave him. Your face, your laugh, your voice, it all circled him like the moonlight through the slats in the wall.
The way the thought of you made his body burn now.The way your honeyed scent used to be comforting but now made his lungs tighten and his mouth water. He didn’t understand why he was feeling this way.
On the seventh day he woke up soaked in sweat, shivering uncontrollably. The moon had passed. He could feel it in the way the ache in his bones was retreating and his mind was clearer.
Snape arrived at dawn.
He said nothing about the mess of blood and broken furniture in the room. He just studied Jisung who was sitting slumped against the wall. He pulled out his wand and started casting diagnostic spells over his body.
“You’ll return to class tomorrow,” he said. “If anyone asks, you were ill.”
Jisung didn’t move.
Snape continued impassively. “You are not to mention the Wolfsbane, the forest, or what you’ve become. Do you understand?”
Jisung finally looked at him, barely able to lift his head properly. “That’s it? Just… go back like nothing happened?” His voice came out hoarse.
Snape’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. That is not it.”
He stepped closer.
“You will take your potion every cycle, no matter what. And you will not seek out the other boys involved, nor will you retaliate.”
Jisung’s jaw clenched. He wanted nothing more than to rip Seungmin’s throat apart, but he knew that was just the wolf thinking.
“And most importantly, you will stay away from her.” Snape said, his voice dropping at the last word.
Jisung sat up sharply, knowing exactly who he was referring to. “Why?”
The professor’s expression didn’t soften. “Because the wolf doesn’t care that she’s your friend. It doesn’t care about boundaries or guilt or decency. It responds to need.”
Jisung’s chest tightened, throat dry.
“The first few transformations are the worst,” Snape continued, pacing slowly now. “Your body hasn’t adjusted. Your instincts haven’t aligned with your mind. You will feel urges…violent, territorial, carnal urges that you can’t control. Those urges will turn into fixations... Especially for someone you already had feelings for”
“I don’t–” Jisung started.
“You don’t need to lie, Mr. Park.” Snape cut him off, “I am a very skilled Legilimens, you know? I can see your mind and I see how it’s filled with thoughts of her.”
Jisung looked away, jaw trembling slightly. Snape stopped in front of him.
“Her scent” he said quietly. “It already triggers you, doesn’t it?”
Jisung didn’t answer. That sweet scent of honey and parchment that he kept smelling through the rotting floors and the dried blood, he figured out it was you. It reminded him of that night at the Astronomy tower.The Shrieking Shack might be a few miles away from Hogwarts castle but he could still somehow smell you.
“You feel it in your chest, in your teeth, in your gut” Snape said, voice like a scalpel. “You want her.”
Jisung’s breathing picked up.
“That is the beginning of your rut.”
“Rut?” he repeated, barely above a whisper.
Snape nodded. “It’s a biological response. Wolves enter a heightened state after the full moon cycle. Some experience it more than others, especially younger ones who’ve recently turned”
Jisung’s heart was pounding now, nauseatingly fast.
“You may feel sudden impulses or worse you might want to act on those impulses.”
He felt sick. “I’m not— I would never hurt her.”
“I’m not concerned about your intentions,” Snape said coldly. “I’m concerned about your self control. A werewolf’s instincts are hard to resist and if you lose control, Mr. Park… She will pay the price.”
“So stay away from her,” Snape said with finality. “It’s the only way to keep you both safe.”
Jisung sat there shaking, the weight of what he’d become pressing down on his spine like a second body.
He couldn’t go back. Not like this.
“I’m not ready,” he said hoarsely.
Snape didn’t turn. He stood by the window, watching the last of the night dissolve into grey morning.
“You won’t ever be,” he said simply.
Jisung clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to see her. Or anyone. I—I can’t trust myself.”
“You must learn to live with your current situation.”
“Why can’t I just… stay here?”
Snape turned at that. His eyes were cold and calculating.
“Because people are already asking questions,” he said. “Students, staff. Your friend.”
Jisung’s heart stuttered at that.
“She’s worried,” Snape continued. “Rightfully so. You disappeared without warning. She’s been to my office several times. She’s even confronted the student who got you into this predicament, pulled out a wand at him. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her from endangering herself trying to find you.”
Jisung lowered his head, guilt flooding every nerve.
“Rumors are spreading, too.” Snape added. “A few students are saying they saw you with Mr. Lee that night. Some think you were injured, others that you’re in trouble. You’ve already been gone too long.”
Jisung swallowed hard. “So I just walk into the Great Hall acting like I’m normal?”
Snape didn’t blink. “Yes.”
His stomach turned. “And if someone sees the scars?”
“You’ll say you had an accident in the forest.”
“And you’ll back me up?” he asked bitterly.
“If I must.”
Jisung exhaled shakily. “And Y/N? We—we’re always together, she’ll find it weird if I suddenly cut her off”
“You’ll keep your distance regardless. If she asks questions, you deflect. If she pushes, you walk away. You’re not safe around her”
He bit his lip hard, so hard it almost bled. “She’ll know something’s wrong.”
“Then hope she’s smart enough not to get too close.”
The doors to the Great Hall had never felt so heavy. Jisung stood in front of them for nearly five minutes, staring at the carved wood. Behind them, he heard laughter, casual conversation, normalcy.
He wasn’t ready.
But Snape’s words echoed in his skull.
"You’ve already been gone too long."
He took a breath and pushed them open.
All the noise overcame him like a wave, the plates clinking, voices overlapping, owls fluttering through the rafters. It all felt loud in a way it hadn’t before, as if someone had turned the world’s volume up just to punish him.
He kept his head low and his pace steady. One foot in front of the other. Just like Snape said. Act like nothing happened.
He could feel all eyes on him almost instantly. First years stopping mid-bite and a few seventh-years whispering across the Gryffindor table. Someone, he thought maybe Jay, froze with a goblet halfway to his lips.
And then you. He didn’t have to loo, he felt the second your eyes landed on him, making something twist deep in his chest. That same unbearable tightness he’d felt in the shack whenever he let himself think about you. About your laugh echoing across the common room. About your fingers brushing his when you passed him a quill and how it used to mean nothing, and now it meant everything.
He knew you’d notice the hollow look in his eyes, the bruises blooming like violets on his neck and the bandage peeking out from beneath the collar of his robes. You’d find it weird that he didn’t sit near you, didn’t even glance your way. But he tried to ignore those thoughts and just focus on the plate in front of him even though his stomach turned at the smell of food.
You stared at him from your seat. It took you several long, painful seconds to process what you were seeing.
Jisung—your best friend, who’d been missing a week without a word—just walked into breakfast looking like he’d seen hell and barely made it back out.
His robes were loose like he’d lost weight and his eyes were ringed with dark circles, exhaustion written clearly in every line of his face. There were cuts visible, thin red marks down his jaw, a deeper scar stretching beneath his collar, fading bruises on the backs of his hands. His hair was tangled, his posture painfully tense.
You felt a sick sense of relief after seeing him, despite his appearance. But most of all you felt angry. You felt everything all at once, a hot rush of emotions almost too intense to handle.
Jisung avoided your gaze completely. He picked at the food in front of him, not really eating, just pushing it around his plate.
He felt you approaching before you spoke. Your scent hit him first, warm and familiar, yet unbearably intense. His jaw clenched tight, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. He didn’t look up even when you stood near him. He simply couldn’t trust himself to see your face and not fall apart.
You called his name quietly and he almost cried at the sound of your voice. But he didn’t move, not even when you stepped closer.
Slowly, he raised his head, gaze finally meeting yours You went still, eyes widening just slightly. He knew instantly what you saw—the darkness in his stare, the shadowed bruises, the fresh scars. The way he looked wrong.
He couldn’t bear your pained eyes, so he snapped at you. Something he’d never do before, but Snape told him to deflect. So he yelled and walked away, trying to ignore how hurt you looked.
This was what Snape meant. You’re not safe around her.
You couldn’t eat after that. Not with the way he’d looked at you.
Jisung had always been soft-spoken, a little awkward, a little shy—but never cold. And you didn’t need a Healer to tell you that whatever he’d gone through wasn’t some stomach bug or routine cold. You weren’t stupid.
You saw the tremble in his fingers when he reached for his fork. You saw the way he flinched when someone behind him dropped their goblet. You saw the bruises just under his collar and the bandages.
Something happened to him.
You sat back down but your heart was still up at the other end of the table with him.
“I need to know,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Renjun.
He sighed. “Y/N…”
“Don’t say it,” you snapped quietly. “Don’t say I should give him time. Don’t say he’ll come around. I know him, Renjun. He’s scared. You don’t just disappear for a week and come back with claw marks on you neck.”
Renjun went quiet.
That silence told you more than anything else.
“Okay, I’m tired of this… You know something, don’t you?”
He avoided your gaze. “It’s not my place to say.”
That hurt. “Is it mine to not know?”
You stood abruptly, grabbing your bag. “If no one’s going to tell me the truth, I’ll figure it out myself.”
Over the next few days, you tried to get close to Jisung in every way you could think of. You waited for him outside the greenhouses after Herbology, hoping to catch him alone. You switched seats in Charms just to be nearer, and sometimes you even loitered in the corridor after Potions, telling yourself you’d walk him back to the common room.
Despite your best efforts, he continually slipped away.
He offered awkward excuses about having somewhere to be, or sometimes said nothing at all and just walked past. Most of the time, he barely managed to look at you, as if doing so caused him physical pain. This wasn’t an icy kind of avoidance, nor was it tinged with anger. It felt worse than either of those possibilities—it was as though he found everything about you unbearable, but still couldn’t muster the energy to explain why.
Once, you nearly cornered him after lunch. He was leaning against the corridor wall outside the Great Hall, head tipped back, looking utterly exhausted. In that unguarded moment, your eyes met his, and you thought you glimpsed your old friend beneath the tension he carried. Summoning the nerve you’d been collecting all day, you stepped forward.
“Can we talk?” you asked softly.
For a split second, it seemed like he might say yes. His mouth opened as though he wanted to form the words but then Professor Snape’s voice echoed from behind you.
“Miss Y/N.”
You turned around to find Snape standing there, unruffled as always, robes hanging in sharp lines. He inclined his head in an almost polite manner yet still carried the weight of an order.
“I need you to come to the dungeons,” he said in a measured tone. “There are ingredients that require sorting. I trust your handwriting is still legible.”
You tried to protest, but as soon as you turned back, Jisung had vanished. From that moment on, it became a pattern: every time you got too close to him, Snape appeared with some new task for you—an extended office hour to discuss a mistake in an essay, a request to reorganize outdated potions, or a perfectly timed interruption just as you were about to speak with Jisung privately.
On a rational level, you knew it was ridiculous to think Snape was orchestrating this on purpose; however, it was impossible to ignore how consistently he managed to swoop in whenever you finally had a chance to approach Jisung alone. You didn’t know why your professor was so intent on calling you away, and truthfully it wasn’t the main issue gripping your mind.
All you could focus on was Jisung.
He looked so different—worn down, scared, ashamed, like he was carrying a secret that weighed on his shoulders every moment of the day. Every time you tried to reach him, he withdrew further. It broke your heart, because you weren’t trying to fix him or make him talk if he didn’t want to. You just wanted to be there, to stand by him instead of watching from a distance.
Yet no matter how hard you tried, the boy who used to seek you out for study breaks and late-night jokes now seemed determined to avoid you. And the more distance he forced, the more you wanted to find out what had really happened, because this Jisung—the one who flinched when you spoke and looked away when you caught his eye—felt like a stranger wearing your best friend’s face.
It was late, far too late for anyone else to be out of bed. So when you heard commotion up in the Astronomy Tower during one of your prefect rounds, you instinctively climbed the stairs to inspect, your wand held loosely in your fingertips.
The castle had felt too quiet lately. Ever since Jisung came back, everything had been off balance. You’d even taken extra patrols just to keep your mind busy. You weren’t expecting to find anything up there except maybe a few rowdy owls.
But when you pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Astronomy Tower, you froze at the sight.
Jisung was there, hunched against the railing, his robes half-open, hands gripping the stone balustrade so tightly you saw his knuckles pale even from across the room.
"Jisung?" you said softly, hesitant.
His head snapped up instantly, and your breath caught in your throat.
His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, irises shimmering unnaturally gold beneath the moonlight. Sweat gleamed across his pale forehead, his hair was messy and damp, sticking to his face. His breathing came harsh and fast, almost feral.
You took a cautious step forward. "Jisung, are you okay?"
"Stay back," he choked out, voice strained and rough. "Don't come closer."
But you saw the tremble in his arms, the feverish brightness in his eyes. He looked sick. He looked scared.
"What’s wrong? Let me help—"
"No." He shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut as if fighting himself. "You can't—I'm not—"
He trailed off, stumbling forward as if pulled by some invisible force toward you. He was breathing heavily, lips parted as he seemed to taste the air between you.
"Jisung—"
Your voice cut off as his gaze snapped sharply to yours again, something raw and dangerous flaring in his eyes. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, and you instinctively backed away half a step.
"Leave," he hissed, the word barely recognizable through his clenched teeth. His whole body seemed rigid with tension. "Please, leave before—"
He broke off with a gasp, doubling over as though a wave of pain had just wracked through him.
You rushed forward instinctively, panic clouding your caution. "Jisung!"
He moved faster than your eyes could track. One moment he was curled into himself and the next he had you pinned against the cold stone floor, wrists pressed tightly beside your head, his face inches from yours, breath hot and erratic against your neck.
"Ji—" Your voice cracked. "What are you—"
He inhaled deeply against your throat, his body trembling against yours. "God, you smell so—" His voice was ragged and broken, almost a sob. "I can't—I can't stop it, I—"
He pressed closer instinctively, hips pinning you hard against the floor. His lips grazed roughly against your neck, sharp teeth skimming dangerously along your pulse point. Your heart slammed against your ribs, fear tangled confusingly with something hot in your lower belly.
Those words seemed to pierce through whatever haze had overtaken him. He jerked back, eyes wide, suddenly horrified at himself. His gaze flicked down to your wrists, already bruising beneath his grip, and he stumbled away as if burned.
"No," he whispered, horror and guilt bleeding openly into his expression. "I didn't—I wouldn't—"
You stayed frozen on the floor, chest heaving as you watched the agony twist across his face.
"What’s happening to you?" you breathed, sitting up slowly.
He stared at you, anguished, hands still trembling at his sides.
"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly. "I—I'm so sorry."
Before you could say another word, he turned sharply and bolted down the stairs, leaving you alone, shaking, and terrified.
The Hufflepuff common room was quiet when you walked in. Most students had gone to bed, but Renjun sat alone on the couch.
You didn’t give him a chance to pretend he didn’t see you coming.
“You’re going to tell me what happened.”
Renjun sighed, not looking away from the fire. “Y/N…”
“No,” you said, standing in front of him. “No more deflecting. You’ve known something since the day he came back.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know the whole story.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
Silence.
You crossed your arms. “Do you really think I’m going to stop asking? You’ve seen him. You know he’s not okay. And no one’s saying anything, and I’m losing my mind because—” your voice cracked, just slightly— “because that’s my best friend.”
Renjun’s shoulders slumped. He looked like he aged ten years in a second.
“Seungmin and his friends... they planned something,” he said quietly.
Your chest went still.
“I only heard a conversation between Professor Sprout and Professor Snape,” he continued. “But apparently they were hanging out near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Seungmin gave Jisung something. A potion or… some kind of enchanted hallucinogen.”
Renjun looked up at you, guilt heavy in his eyes even though he hadn’t been there. “They led him into the forest, Y/N… And something attacked him.”
You stared at him, voice thick with dread. “Something?”
Renjun hesitated. “Snape... Snape was the one who found him.”
You felt cold all over. “What was it?”
He looked away.
“Renjun. What was it.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“A werewolf.”
A gasp got stuck in your throat.
“I don’t know how bad it was,” Renjun said softly. “But apparently Professor Snape had to lock him up for a week while he went through the transformation.”
Tears stung behind your eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to believe it myself….”
You sank into the chair across from him, everything too heavy to stand.
“A werewolf,” you whispered.
He nodded and suddenly, so many things clicked at once. Suddenly it all made sense.
After Renjun told you, you couldn’t sleep.
You sat in your bed staring at the ceiling until the sun started bleeding through the windows, and then you slipped out of the dorms without a word. You went straight to the library and stayed there all morning.
Madam Pince gave you a curious glance when you asked to go into the Restricted Section after looking through every other possible book in the regular shelves and finding nothing of value. You dropped Professor Babbling’s name as your excuse—said you were doing independent research for an Arithmancy paper. She didn’t ask further, just handed you a list of approved titles and waved you through.
You didn’t touch a single one of them. Instead, you searched for everything you could find on werewolves.
They were mostly old, dusty books with creaking spines and brittle pages. Most seemed to be more folklore than facts but you found a text buried near the bottom of a shelf, half its title burned off the spine.
Lycanthropy and Lunar Madness: A Clinical Compendium.
The chapters were brutal. You read about the first changes, the muscle pain, the sensory overload. The way magic in the blood would flare, fight back, burn from the inside out. You read about the violence, how the mind slips away when the full moon peaks, how instincts override everything else.
But what caught your atention the most was this:
“In cases of recent infection, the afflicted may experience an attraction fixation, often triggered by proximity to a familiar person. This response is especially common in individuals whose first transformation occurs during adolescence or early adulthood.
The instinct is not always sexual, but it is always possessive. The werewolf’s senses recognize the person as a source of comfort or danger. When comfort, the fixation can lead to obsessive behavior, rut-like symptoms, and irrational aggression if the person is perceived as threatened or unattainable. When danger, it can lead to avoidance or attack. Scent is the most common anchor. Once imprinted, it is nearly impossible for the werewolf to ignore.”
Your throat tightened. You re-read the paragraph five times.
It made sense, too much sense. His distance, his flinching, the way he couldn’t look at you anymore.
Your scent.
You remembered how he looked at you that morning in the Great Hall. How he barely breathed when you stood too close and how he wouldn’t meet your eyes when you asked what happened. And last night in the Atronomy Tower, he said you smelled good and it looked like he wanted to eat you alive.
You closed the book with shaky hands and then checked out four more. You didn’t stop reading until your eyes blurred. You didn’t eat or go to class.
By the time the sky outside the window started darkening, you were sitting at a corner table, surrounded by open tomes and loose parchment covered in frantic notes—everything you could find about Wolfsbane, Snape’s potion-making reputation, the legal status of werewolves in magical Britain, and every known case of student infection in the last fifty years.
You turned the page again.
Magical Intervention
“Wolfsbane Potion, taken daily during the week of the full moon, prevents transformation but does not erase the instinctual response. It is crucial that young werewolves are supervised during their first year of turning, especially if they experience early signs of rut.
If left unmonitored, the werewolf may become a threat not only to others—but to themselves.”
You found another book next. Not on lycanthropy, but on magical trauma. It mentioned Professor Snape by name.
“A known expert in dark creatures and cursed bloodlines, Professor Severus Snape has played a role in the treatment and monitoring of several underage werewolf cases, particularly after the war.”
You sat there for a long time, staring at the page, your mind buzzing. Snape knew, he was involved and he wasn’t just keeping the secret, he was managing it.
Which meant whatever happened to Jisung—Snape had seen it before. And he’d chosen not to tell you a thing.
You sat there in silence, your hands numb on the table. Snape had told him to stay away from you, that much was obvious now. But no one had told you what being near him could do.
You weren’t afraid of him. But for the first time, you understood why he was of you.
You left the library as the sky was starting to pale with early morning light, the forbidden books still echoing in your thoughts. You didn’t bother going to class again. You went directly to Snape’s office instead and waited there. When he finally arrived, he paused mid-step at the sight of you.
“Miss Y/N,” he said flatly. “You are not scheduled to meet with me.”
“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth, sir.”
His eyes narrowed. “I beg your par—”
“Did you know?” you cut in, voice trembling with restrained rage. “Did you know what would happen to him?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“I know that Jisung got attacked by a werewolf.”
Snape stilled.
“I went to the restricted section,” you continued. “I know what werewolves go through. I know about the rut cycle. The way someone can trigger it just by being close… Did you know it would be me?”
He didn’t speak, and that silence was an answer.
You took another step toward him. “You told him to stay away, didn’t you?”
Still silent.
You laughed bitterly. “What, were you going to wait until I ended up on the courtyard floor with his teeth in my neck before you decided to warn me?”
“Lower your voice,” Snape said sharply, eyes flicking toward the empty corridor.
“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to tell me what to do now when you left me in the dark about everything.”
“He is alive and you’re safe because of me,” he said sharply. “Do not mistake silence for neglect.”
“He’s barely alive,” you fired back. “He’s walking around like a ghost and you expect me to believe that’s your idea of help?”
“You think you want the truth but the truth is messy and dangerous. And the truth, Miss Y/N…” he stalked closer to you, almost menacingly “… is that your friend is not who he was anymore.”
“I know that!” you shouted, voice cracking. “But you made him think he was dangerous.”
“He is.”
“No,” you said fiercely. “He’s just scared and you’re feeding it.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what a werewolf in rut is capable of.”
“I do now.” You stepped closer again, voice trembling. “I’m not stupid or fragile. And I’m not going to stay away just because you think it’s better that way.”
“Miss Y/N—”
“No,” you snapped. “You can’t “protect me” by locking him away like some creature. He’s not a danger to me. What’s dangerous is isolating him, making him ashamed of something he didn’t choose.”
Snape’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“And what will you do, then?” he asked. “If he loses control?”
“I’ll help him.” You exhaled, hands trembling. “I’m not afraid of him and he needs someone who isn’t.”
There was a long pause. Snape looked at you with something like pitty. Then he spoke, carefully.
“Then you’d better learn how to handle what’s coming.”
Knowing about Jisung’s condition didn’t bring the relief you thought it would. If anything, it made everything worse. Because now you understood that there was almost nothing you could do to save him from himself. And, like Professor Snape said, the safest option was to stay far away.
And you tried, but it was so hard.
You'd find yourself turning to complain about Professor Binns's endless lectures, only to realize it wasn't Jisung beside you, but Renjun—quiet, studious Renjun who never dared utter a complaint in class.
Or when you walked toward the kitchens out of habit, thinking maybe you'd sweet-talk the elves into some pumpkin tarts, only to remember it was Jisung who always did the charming.
Or when the night sky looked especially clear and you found yourself wanting to stargaze but realizing no one else knew how to trace constellations on your palm with their fingertip. And you couldn’t even remember their names without Jisung pointing them out to you.
Renjun tried. He filled the empty seat at meals, nodded at the right moments when you rambled, even agreed to sneak out once or twice. But he wasn’t Jisung. He didn’t know your weird inside jokes, didn’t lean his head on your shoulder when he got sleepy, didn’t touch your wrist when you got nervous.
You missed him so deeply it ached.
So, when you saw him slipping out of the common room one night you followed him without a second thought.
He moved quickly across the grounds, his hooded shape skimming the moonlit grass. You jogged to keep up, keeping low behind hedges and statues until he stopped beside the Whomping Willow. Your breath caught as he pressed a knot at the roots and the tree froze mid‑sway, its branches locking in eerie stillness. Then, an entrance yawned open.
You hesitated. Every instinct screamed that going after him was a terrible idea. But the thought of him hurting or worse, hurting alone was too much to bear.
So you followed.
The tunnel led you into the Shrieking Shack. A chill raced down your spine the moment you stepped inside. Rot and mildew clung to the walls, the floorboards seemed like they would give way with each step, and it smelled like old nightmares in there. You had to bite down on your lip to keep from gagging but you kept going, following the sounds of his ragged breathing upstairs into a dusty room.
You opened the door cautiously, barely an inch—but before you could fully register what was happening, Jisung lunged. He grabbed your arm, yanking you roughly inside and pinning you to the sagging mattress with a strength that startled you.
"Jisung—!" you gasped.
He loomed over you, eyes wild, glowing gold in the darkness. His expression was pained, almost feral.
"What—are you doing here?" he growled through gritted teeth. His voice was deep and barely recognizable.
You stared up at him, wide-eyed. “I—I was worried. You missed all your classes…”
Something dark flared in his gaze, and he dropped his head, panting harshly against your throat. He inhaled deeply, shuddering as he pressed closer instinctively. Your breath hitched sharply, your body reacting involuntarily to his closeness.
"You shouldn't have come," he whispered brokenly, hands trembling where they gripped your wrists.
You swallowed, feeling his hips press involuntarily against yours and realizing exactly what was happening.
A helpless whimper slid from his throat as his hips rocked against you once more, his erection pressing unmistakably through his trousers. The desperate sound he made sent heat pooling in your stomach, despite the fear and confusion swirling inside you.
“You smell so fucking… good” He let out another ragged noise, and you reached out instinctively, resting a trembling hand against his cheek. His skin burned under your palm. He looked almost delirious, golden eyes flickering between human fear and something more feral.
You’d spent the past week reading about werewolves and their ruts, absorbing every detail you could from hidden texts and restricted tomes. You knew that once the rut hit, the urge for physical intimacy would become nearly unbearable. You also knew it was dangerous for you to be near him like this.
But as you stared at your best friend, trembling and half-broken with need, your heart clenched. You couldn’t just walk away.
“Jisung,” you said carefully, your voice shaking. “Did you take the Wolfsbane?”
He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t know… I think I didn’t—” He broke off, a pained groan tearing from his throat as he rocked forward, hips searching for contact.
Swallowing hard, you remembered the passage in the book. How an afflicted werewolf needed a trusted partner to help ease the rut’s consuming effects.
It felt like your heart was in your mouth.
“You—” he gasped, voice faint. “You can’t stay. I—if I hurt you—”
You cupped his other cheek, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “You won’t,” you promised, though a part of you wasn’t entirely sure.
“Y/N,” he groaned, hips rutting forward again. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now, I swear—”
“I want to help you,” you said softly. “Please let me.”
His pupils dilated immediately and he let out a shaky breath, leaning into your touch. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming but despite your own hammering pulse, you didn’t draw away.
Because somewhere deep inside, you knew this was the only way to help him.
His grip on your waist was bruising, claws just barely retracted. His body was sweat-slicked and trembling, panting through gritted teeth as he pressed himself flush against you.
“I warned you,” he growled, voice shaky with restraint. “I told you to leave.”
You pulled him closer up and felt how he shook under your touch. “You can have me”
He didn’t wait another second. Your clothes were suddenly nothing, the fabric ripped under his desperate hands. Your skin was bare before you had time to register the sound of seams tearing. His mouth found your throat instinctively, tongue tasting your pulse before he bit.
You winced at the pain and his hips rutted against your thigh, hard and frantic, his cock felt thick and straining through his trousers. He was whining soft, broken sounds between gritted teeth, like each second without you wrapped around him was tearing him open from the inside.
“You smell—fuck, you smell so good,” he gasped into your skin, humping against you harder. “I need—i need to be inside, I need—”
You spread your legs, breathless, head spinning from the force of it all. “I’m here, Sungie.”
He didn’t prep you, didn’t pause for a second—just spit on his fingers and shoved them inside you hard and fast. Stretching you wide while whispering obscenities you couldn’t even make sense of.
“So fucking tight—fuck—gonna ruin you—fill you up, knot you, make sure no one else ever gets to—”
You didn’t even realize he’d taken his cock out until you felt him line himself up with shaking hands, barely getting the tip in before he snapped his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one brutal thrust.
You cried out and Jisung growled, slamming his hand beside your head, forehead pressed to yours, golden eyes glazed over.
“Mine,” he gasped. “Fuck… Mine. Mine. Mine—”
Suddenly, he shoved your knees up, pressing them tightly to your chest as his hips snapped forward, rough and desperate. You cried out sharply, feeling stretched too wide, overwhelmed by the rawness of him filling you again and again. His teeth dragged harshly against your throat, marking you repeatedly, as if he couldn't bear the thought of anyone mistaking you for anything but his.
You sobbed beneath him, your body caught between pain and a pleasure that blurred into something unbearable. Part of you wondered numbly if it would have changed anything if you'd told Jisung it was your first time—if it would've made him pause, slow down, be gentler. But you knew it wouldn't have mattered. He wasn't fully himself, and even if some part of him wanted to stop, he couldn't.
You felt it then, the swelling at his base. His knot beginning to expand, stretching your entrance wider with every punishing thrust. Panic mixed with need, your mind spinning as your walls spasmed around him.
“Gonna knot you,” he panted desperately, voice breaking as he slammed into you harder. “Can’t stop—fuck, you feel so perfect—gonna keep you like this forever—”
He thrust deeply one last time and locked himself inside, his knot catching and sealing him within you. You screamed, body jolting at the sudden fullness, the pressure almost too much. He shuddered violently above you, his cum flooding hot and deep, twitching through aftershocks that made your thighs quake and your vision blur.
You barely had time to gasp a breath before his knot began to soften, still pulsing faintly inside you. But Jisung didn’t stop, not even for a moment.
Before you could recover, he flipped you roughly onto your stomach, the mattress creaking sharply beneath you. He pressed into you again slowly, his breathing ragged and hot against your sweat-damp back. You trembled uncontrollably beneath him, arms shaking, barely able to keep yourself upright.
“Jisung, wait—” your voice broke, a thin plea lost beneath the rasp of his breath.
But he didn’t acknowledge your begging. One hand pinned your hip firmly, the other flattened between your shoulders, forcing you down into the sheets until you couldn’t move. You felt the ache building again as he pushed inside you once more, pushing mercilessly against your walls. Your thighs burned, your body instinctively arching to escape the overstimulation, but he wouldn’t allow you to shift away.
The moment he felt how wet and open you still were, the last shred of his restraint shattered. His rhythm turned frantic, his hips slamming into yours so fiercely the air was knocked from your lungs with every brutal stroke.
You moaned helplessly into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as your body surrendered. He wasn’t speaking now, wasn’t asking if you were okay—all you heard were harsh, ragged sounds torn from his throat, desperate noises so primal and raw they made your skin burn hot with shameful need.
His movements grew rougher, your bodies locked in a rhythm that erased any remaining thought from your mind. Your senses narrowed until all you knew was the brutal heat between your thighs and the ache of him stretching you. You took every thrust, helpless to stop, unable to do anything but accept the ruthless force of his body on yours.
His teeth bit sharply into the back of your shoulder, fangs scraping against your skin until you gasped in pain. His grip tightened, fingers bruising your hips as he pounded into you without mercy, branding you with every brutal snap of his hips.
With one final thrust, he buried himself impossibly deep, and you felt the knot swell again—filling you, stretching you beyond limits as he locked himself inside with a guttural growl.
His whole body jerked, cock throbbing violently as he spilled into you again. It was so much cum it leaked around the thick swell of his knot, your walls clenching tight, helpless to hold it all in. He held still, panting, hands trembling as he stayed buried in you, locked and pulsing.
He stayed inside you for what felt like forever, body trembling from release, your muscles fluttering weakly around him. His breath came in uneven bursts against your skin.
But even then, you could feel that he wasn’t finished.
He rutted again and let out a feral sound low in his throat, one that sounded more like a growl than a moan. And then he was moving just enough to slip free with a wet sound that made both of you shiver.
His hands moved to your waist, lifting you. He dragged you onto your back again, spread your thighs wide, and settled between them with a single-minded hunger that made your whole body pulse with anticipation.
His gaze dropped the moment he pushed back in and he groaned, eyes locked between your legs with an obsessive intensity. Your walls clenched around him as his cock slid in with zero resistance. His breath hitched, and he stopped for just a second.
His mouth parted when he saw the shape of him pushing inside you, deep enough to press against your belly, the bulge rising with every brutal thrust. He pressed his palm against it and let out a wrecked moan. The sight of his cock inside your belly driving him halfway mad.
“Fuck,” he choked. “That's me? inside you?”
You tried to answer, but all that came out was a gasp as he rocked into you harder.
He watched your stomach move with every stroke, how your cunt took all of him, again and again, walls fluttering around his cock like your body was desperate to keep him.
He was mesmerized. Staring with wide, hungry eyes as hips snapped forward with more force. One of his hands grabbed your thigh, the other pressing to your lower belly as he kept thrusting, rougher this time, watching the bulge disappear and return with every movement.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “you’re made for this—fuck—you’re made to take me like this—”
You could feel the knot swelling again, dragging harder against your soaked, overstretched entrance, until your legs started to shake. He braced both hands on either side of your hips, growled deep in his chest, and slammed forward. The knot forced its way in with a brutal stretch that made your eyes roll back.
His whole body jerked, head falling forward as a strangled moan left his lips. His cock twitched violently, knot fully buried, and you felt the rush of his cum flooding you again, deeper this time, deeper than anything had ever been.
His eyes were still locked on your lower stomach, wide and blown out with awe. The bulge in your belly pulsed with each twitch of his knot, round and taut with the sheer amount he’d pumped into you
“Look at that,” he whispered, almost dazed. “Look what I did to you.”
He reached out again, fingertips brushing against your stomach and the possessiveness in his voice made your body clench all over again.
“I'm inside you.”
He blinked, his eyes flickering to your face as he really looked at you for the first time.
You were trembling, bruised, and barely able to keep your legs from shaking. Your eyes were glassy, your body completely spent beneath him. And something in him seemed to return.
His hands gentled against your skin as he eased out of you slowly, knot slipping free with an aching stretch that made you whimper. You gasped at the sudden emptiness, but he didn’t leave you long. He kissed your thigh once, softly, as if in apology, and then lowered himself between your legs.
You barely had the strength to lift your head. “Ji—what are you doing…”
But he didn’t answer. Just held your thighs gently in his hands, spreading them open again but this time with reverence, not greed.
Then he licked a single, languid drag of his tongue that made your hips twitch weakly. He groaned low in his throat at the taste of you.
You whimpered, the oversensitivity almost unbearable but his hands kept you grounded. Thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, mouth moving with an aching kind of care. He sucked gently at your clit, tongue flicking in slow passes, easing the pain into something warmer.
You threaded trembling fingers through his hair, tugging gently.
His mouth grew more desperate by the second, tongue dipping lower and teasing at your entrance where his cum was still leaking out. He groaned at the taste, sucking softly, messy and slow, like he couldn’t get enough of it. Of you.
He buried himself there with his nose pressed into your skin, mouth drinking you. You let out a soft cry, hips twitching against his face, and his grip tightened just enough to hold you still as he circled your clit again, tender but insistent.
“I need to make it better,” he murmured into your skin, voice hoarse and reverent. “Let me—please…”
You didn’t answer but the way your legs shook around his head told him everything. So he stayed there—worshipping the mess he made, tongue moving slow and devoted, lips soft and endless. He lost himself in you.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the pain.
It was deep and dull at first, but the moment you shifted, it sharpened—radiating through your thighs, your lower back, your hips. Your skin felt hot, stretched too thin in some places, sore in others. You winced as you tried to sit up, limbs trembling slightly from the effort.
Jisung was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from you, his robes wrapped tightly around him. His shoulders were stiff.
You swallowed through the dryness in your throat. “Ji?”
He stood up without looking at you.
You watched him move across the room, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He picked up your clothes from the floor—torn in multiple places, seams ripped from how desperately he’d removed them the night before—and with a flick of his wand, the fabric mended itself slowly in the air.
“Get dressed,” he said flatly. “I’ll help you get back to the hospital wing.”
You blinked. “Back to the—what?”
He turned then, just slightly, just enough to look at you briefly. His eyes were guilt-ridden.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “I can see it.”
Your mouth opened, but no words came out.
“And I’m going to Snape later,” he continued. “I’m going to ask him to relocate me during the next cycle. Somewhere far from here.”
You stared at him, stunned. “Jisung, you don’t have to—”
“I do,” he snapped. “Because this—” He gestured toward you, his voice colder now. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
Your heart twisted.
“I told you to stay away,” he said. “And I didn’t mean that to sound cruel. I meant it because I knew I’d lose control. And I did… and now look at you.”
He walked toward the cracked mirror, stopped a few feet in front of it, and gestured for you to come closer.
You hesitated.
“Please,” he said, quieter now. “Just… come here.”
You stood slowly, legs shaking slightly under your weight. You wrapped yourself in the blanket and stepped toward the mirror.
Your reflection made your breath hitch.
There were bruises on your neck, angry bite marks along your collarbone and shoulder. Finger-shaped welts on your hips and thighs. Your lips were still swollen from where he’d kissed you too hard. Some of the marks looked deep. Others looked like they might last days, if not longer.
“I didn’t know I was capable of this,” Jisung said behind you, voice cracking.
You looked at him through the mirror. His face was pale, jaw tight.
“I’d rather suffer the worst pain a rut could ever give me than ever touch you like that again.”
“Jisung—”
“No,” he cut you off. “You don’t understand. I didn’t even care if I was hurting you. I couldn’t think. You could’ve cried, begged, screamed, and I still would’ve—”
He stopped himself, breathing hard.
“I’m not going to let this happen again. I’ll talk to Snape. I’ll take whatever dose he gives me. I’ll lock myself somewhere no one can find me.”
You stepped forward, reaching for him, but he flinched when your fingers brushed his sleeve.
He turned his face away. “Get dressed,” he said quietly. “Please.”
There was nothing else to say.
He handed you your clothes without looking at you again. When you were dressed, he silently moved to support your weight down the stairs and back toward the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.
Your legs ached with every step. Jisung’s arm was around your waist, holding you upright as you moved slowly down the path back to the castle, your freshly repaired clothes felt stiff and uncomfortable against your bruised skin.
You hadn’t said a word since leaving the Shrieking Shack. Neither had he.
His touch wasn’t warm, or comforting. It was careful and detached. Like he was holding you not out of care, but out of obligation.
Your heart hurt more than your body. You two had been close for so long. Even after he’d changed, after he came back cold, distant, guarded you still felt more warmth than right now. Like he was reaching for you even when he didn’t realize it. So seeing him acting like this was almost unbearable.
You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t rejection or shame. That he was just protecting you, trying to keep you safe. But it still felt like being left behind.
You didn’t even realize how close you were to the castle until the path curved and the first archway of the courtyard came into view.
“Park.”
Professor Snape stood just beyond the arch, his arms crossed over his chest, black robes billowing faintly in the wind. His gaze flicked over the two of you quickly. His eyes dropped to the way you leaned into Jisung, to your limp. And then he saw the bruises. Even with your collar pulled tight, they peeked out, the edges of bite marks and the faint discoloration just beneath the skin.
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“Come here,” he said, voice cold.
Jisung didn’t move.
Snape stepped forward. “Now.”
You felt the panic rise in your chest immediately.
“Professor, wait. It’s not—he didn’t—” You reached for his sleeve. “He didn’t force me.”
Snape’s eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment, you almost stepped back. His expression didn’t change, but something in it darkened like your words had confirmed what he already suspected.
“I didn’t ask what he did,” he said sharply. “I asked him to come with me.”
Jisung’s jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful. He didn’t say a word, just let go of you carefully.
You nearly stumbled from the sudden absence of support.
“I can explain—” you tried again, but Snape raised a hand.
“This is not your responsibility,” he said, more quietly this time. “And you are in no condition to be standing here arguing.”
He turned to Jisung once more.
“Park. Now.”
And without looking back at you, Jisung walked toward him.
You stood there trembling, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill settling deeper into your bones now that he was gone.
Jisung stood in the doorway of Snape’s office with his head hung low. The potions master had stepped away to ensure you made it safely to the hospital wing and to explain the delicate situation to the healers. Minutes stretched on endlessly until finally, he heard the sharp clack of Snape's shoes approaching.
“Go in,” Snape ordered coldly, gesturing toward the open door. The Hufflepuff obeyed silently.
Snape shut the office door behind them with a flick of his wand. The room smelled of ash and damp parchment, but Jisung could still smell your scent stronger than anything else; it clung to him, saturated his senses.
“Sit,” Snape instructed curtly.
Jisung lowered himself into the hard chair opposite the desk, shoulders slumped. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Snape’s eyes.
“How is she?” he asked softly, voice raw.
“She’ll live,” Snape replied coolly, summoning a few vials and herbs onto his desk. “Madam Pomfrey is treating the bruising you saw fit to decorate her with.”
Jisung’s head snapped up, panic clear in his gaze. “I—I bit her. More than once.” The admission spilled out before he could stop himself, heavy with guilt and shame. “Does that mean—”
“No,” Snape interjected sharply. “The curse passes only when the biter is fully transformed under the full moon. You were saturated with Wolfsbane, half-shifted but not contagious.”
Jisung exhaled sharply, gripping the chair arms until his knuckles whitened. Relief flooded him, but Snape wasn't done.
“However,” Snape continued, voice lowering dangerously, “do not delude yourself into believing she was truly safe. Had you missed even one additional dose, or had the moon been at its peak, she would already share your curse, and that responsibility would lie entirely with you.”
Jisung flinched. “I know. I—I keep hurting her. I keep losing control, and no matter how much I try to stay away, something just…pulls me back. I don’t know how to stop it.”
Snape regarded him for a moment in silence before speaking, voice softer but still edged with steel. “That’s because it is no longer a matter of mere control. You've complicated things significantly, Park.”
Jisung looked up slowly, eyes wide with apprehension. “What do you mean?”
Snape folded his hands on the desk, expression severe yet composed. “By marking her during your rut, you've effectively chosen Miss Y/N as your mate.”
Jisung’s breath caught, his throat tightening painfully. "Mate? I—what does that mean?”
“It means,” Snape explained, calm and clinical, “that your wolf has identified her specifically as an anchor. Such mate-bonds occur most commonly during adolescence, particularly around a first transformation. It's why you find yourself physically unable to stay away for long.”
Jisung swallowed, panic bubbling up again. “Is it dangerous? Will I hurt her more?”
“Not inherently,” Snape said evenly. “But the bond is permanent, Park. Your wolf will always crave her presence—most intensely near the full moon or during rut. Ignoring it will only worsen your aggression.”
“Then…what can I do?” Jisung asked desperately. “How do I keep her safe?”
“You must never skip your Wolfsbane. Take it every evening at sundown and report to me regularly so we can adjust dosage accordingly. Furthermore, and pay attention to this, you must manage your bond carefully. You cannot fight it entirely so stay close to her but with awareness, not indulgence. ”
Jisung flushed deeply. “But… after everything I've done, how can I risk being close to her again?”
Snape leaned forward slightly. “The greater risk lies in distance, your instincts will spiral. Proximity is crucial but do not confuse instinct for entitlement.”
Jisung nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling heavily onto his shoulders. “Does she…know?”
“She soon will,” Snape replied quietly. “But it is essential she hears it clearly from you. Be honest and thorough. Do you understand me, Park?”
“Yes, sir,” Jisung whispered. “I won't fail her again.”
Snape regarded him a moment longer, then produced a fresh vial of Wolfsbane, setting it decisively on the desk. “Good. Now leave before I decide silence is insufficient punishment.”
Jisung rose unsteadily, clutching the vial to his chest. He walked slowly to the threshold, feeling every step heavy with responsibility. Just as he reached the door, Snape spoke once more.
“Park, if you truly care for the girl, learn how to live with the wolf without letting it consume her.”
The door sealed shut behind him, and Jisung stood for a long moment in the corridor, the potion trembling slightly in his grip.
You lay on one of the hospital wing beds, half-covered by a sterile white blanket, the curtains drawn tightly around you. The air was too quiet, every sound outside muted by the silencing charm Madam Pomfrey had casted when she left you there.
You picked at your cuticles absently, barely noticing the sting where skin peeled back. Your hospital gown gaped at the shoulders, revealing the bruises along your arms in the shape of fingers. Jisung’s fingers. You should’ve been horrified and maybe you were a little bit but there was something strangely comforting about them. His hands had held you through something painful, but they had held you. It made you feel... needed. Like you mattered to him again.
Your thoughts scattered when the curtain parted and Madam Pomfrey stepped through, her face tight with concern. Behind her came Professor Sprout, head of Hufflepuff house. And just before the curtain fell shut again, you caught the edge of black robes retreating down the ward—Snape. He’d definitely told them everything.
You bit your lip and dropped your gaze.
“Hello, dear,” Pomfrey said gently. When you didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “To begin with, I’d like to offer you a calming draught for the pain.”
“I’m fine,” you said quietly, though your whole body ached. You didn’t want to take anything that would fog your thoughts. You needed to stay alert to explain the situation.
“Well…” she murmured, unconvinced. “Then I’ll start with the surface wounds.”
She gestured toward the scratches and crescent-shaped bites along your shoulders and collarbone. You stayed still while she worked.
Professor Sprout stepped closer, arms folded tightly across her chest. “Miss Y/LN,” she began carefully. “There’s no need to be guarded with us. We’re not here to punish you… but there are a few matters that need to be addressed.”
You nodded wordlessly, eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the bedsheet.
“Madam Pomfrey will heal what she can,” she continued. “But the bite marks will take several days to fade. Magical injuries of this nature are… stubborn.”
“I understand,” you murmured. The marks didn’t bother you.
Professor Sprout hesitated, color rising faintly in her cheeks. “We also understand that Mr. Park was… in a heightened state when you were intimate.”
You saw her flinch slightly at her own words and you almost pitied her. There was no elegant way to discuss something like this. You nodded once.
“Am I correct to assume no contraceptive charms were cast beforehand?”
Your brows pulled together. You’d never studied contraceptive spells properly. You knew they were meant to be used before any intimacy though and given how everything had happened there hadn’t been time for anything like that. You shook your head slowly.
Professor Sprout exchanged a brief look with Pomfrey before exhaling slowly. “Very well. Madam Pomfrey will now perform a diagnostic charm to ensure no unintended consequences arise from your… encounter.”
You nodded again, tending slight when Madam Pomfrey raised her wand and murmured a spell. A pale lavender glow swept across your lower abdomen then faded without a flicker.
“No conception,” she announced softly. “Everything is normal.”
A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped out and you noticed Professor Sprout’s shoulders ease a fraction.
Pomfrey lowered her wand, relief softening the stern set of her mouth. Then she hesitated, studying you over the rims of her spectacles.
“Dear, may I give you some practical advice?”
You nodded, cheeks still furiously warm.
She lifted her wand again. “There are several reliable contraceptive charms you can use. The simplest is Praeventa Conceptum. It’s quick, painless, and lasts a whole day.”
Professor Sprout cleared her throat delicately but said nothing.
Pomfrey demonstrated. She pointed her wand at her own midsection. “Circle once, clockwise, like so.” A pale halo of light traced the motion. “Then speak Prae‑ven‑ta Con‑cep‑tum. Stress on the second syllable of each word. The charm settles just beneath the skin and it’s a mild warming sensation, nothing more.”
You mimicked the motion in the air, whispering the incantation under your breath. A faint peach‑colored glow sparked at your wand tip and faded.
“Good,” Madam Pomfrey said, satisfied. “Remember, the charm must be renewed daily, and it is far more reliable when cast prior to any sexual activity.”
“Thank you,” you murmured, both grateful and faintly embarrassed.
Professor Sprout offered a small, reassuring nod. “Better to learn here than under far less ideal circumstances.”
Pomfrey tucked her wand away. “Knowledge is its own protection.”
“Again, you are not at fault for any of this,” Sprout added, voice firm. “Last night’s events were influenced by circumstances far beyond your control.”
“Is he okay?” you asked softly.
A shadow crossed the professor’s eyes. “Mr. Park is with Professor Snape now, discussing the seriousness of missing future doses of Wolfsbane.” Her tone suggested ‘discussion’ meant something closer to a dressing‑down. “He’ll be monitored closely.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” you said, fingers worrying the edge of the sheet. “I followed him there, fully aware of the consequences. I just wanted to help… and I don’t regret it.”
Madam Pomfrey’s brows knit, but it was Professor Sprout who spoke first. “Miss Y/L/N, no one here is assigning blame. What matters now is that both of you are safe, and that Mr. Park remains diligent with his potion.” Her gaze softened. “Your loyalty is commendable, but your well‑being is equally important.”
You nodded, swallowing the dryness in your throat. “I know.”
Pomfrey dabbed a final line of salve across the deepest bite mark. “You’ll be sore,” she said gently, “but you’ll heal. Rest here tonight, at least until breakfast.”
The curtain swayed gently as they left you alone, and you stared ahead thinking only of the warmth of his breath, the panic in his voice, and the way he’d whispered “you shouldn’t have come” like it had broken him to see you there.
But you would do it all again.
Madam Pomfrey cleared you for release just after sunrise. You dressed in silence, fingers brushing over the gauze she’d left on the deepest bite. She offered one last vial of bruise balm and a faint smile before sending you off.
It was Saturday, thank Merlin. There were no classes so most students were still sleeping. You were relieved as you stepped out of the hospital wing, and saw nothing but an empty corridor.
Though still a strange, hollow pressure settled in your chest. You missed Jisung.
You weren’t sure if it was the residual ache in your muscles, or the fading imprints he’d left on your body, but you felt the absence of him like it was stitched into your skin. You needed to see him.
And then, as if your thoughts conjured him, he appeared.
Jisung was standing at the other end of the hallway, just beyond the shaft of sunlight spilling in from the tall windows. He looked stunned to see you, like he hadn’t meant to be here, like his feet had brought him without his permission.
You hesitated.
Snape had surely warned him again—more strictly this time—to stay away from you. But still, Jisung took a step forward and you followed.
You met in the middle of the hallway, stopping close enough that your chests nearly touched. It wasn’t until you were standing in front of him that you realized how much he’d changed. He was taller now, just slightly, but it was enough to notice. His shoulders were broader, his presence heavier, like the wolf was still there beneath the surface.
He stared at the bruises along your collarbone, what little was visible through the open neck of your shirt. You saw the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered with guilt.
“Are you—?”
“I’m okay, Ji,” you cut in gently, offering him a small smile. “Perfectly fine.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He exhaled shakily, and his hand reached for yours tentatively. You almost gasped at the contact. It had been so long since he touched you first. His fingers threaded through yours like they were remembering how easily he did this all the time before.
“You don’t have to be,” you whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Your other hand rose instinctively, brushing against his cheek. He leaned into the touch immediately, eyes fluttering closed.
“Did Snape scold you too badly?” you asked, voice soft and teasing.
Jisung cracked a smile. “Yeah, I have to clean the Quidditch stands every day this winter without magic.”
Your eyes widened. “Seriously?”
He laughed. “I’m joking.” He paused, eyes searching yours. “Though honestly… I think I deserved one.”
You squeezed his hand gently. “You’ve been punished enough.”
He didn’t respond, just looked at you like he was still trying to figure out if this moment was real.
The corridor felt suddenly too small, so without speaking, you guided Jisung toward the nearest side door that opened onto the courtyard. The November air was sharp, but sunlight spilled across damp flagstones and carried the faint scent of wet leaves.
You walked side by side, your shoulders brushing now and then. After a long stretch of silence, Jisung spoke in a quiet voice. “Do you remember fifth year… when we hid in Greenhouse Three during that thunderstorm?”
You smiled. “And you spent the whole time pretending not to be scared of lightning.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “I kept thinking about that last night. How you held my hand and told me storms always pass.” He glanced at you, guilt and wonder warring in his eyes. “I wanted to go there initially. But then I smelled you, and I went to the Shack instead, thinking you wouldn’t follow me into a place like that.” He laughed bitterly. “I should’ve known better.”
The admission loosened something tight inside you. “Storms pass, Ji,” you said. “Even the ones inside us.”
He stopped, turning to face you fully. “Does this one? Because I can still feel it.” His gaze flicked to your neck where a bruise peeked above your collar. “I feel every mark I left on you like they’re on my body, too.”
You lifted a hand to his chest, just over his heartbeat. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He looked at you, like he almost believed it, but the tension in his jaw said otherwise. “Snape told me… the biting… it wasn’t random.” he dropped his gaze and bit his lip nervously “I… marked you.”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t interrupt.
“He said you’re my mate now,” he said quietly. “That the wolf chose you. That’s why I can’t stay away. Why I can’t stop smelling you, hearing you even when you’re not around. Why it feels like something’s ripping open in my chest when I try to stay away.”
You stood still, eyes locked on his.
“He said I shouldn’t fight it. That if I try to pretend the bond doesn’t exist, it’ll make it worse. That I just have to be… careful and gentle with it. With you.” He exhaled, voice tight. “He said if I really want to protect you, I have to learn how to live with the wolf, not push it down.”
“What did you say?” you finally asked.
“I told him I’d do anything to keep you safe,” Jisung said. “And I meant it.”
You reached for his hand and he let you take it, though his fingers twitched.
“The bond… is that why you came to the Hospital Wing corridor?”
He nodded, shame creasing his brow. “I woke up and… I was already walking there. I didn’t think.”
“Then next time, think and tell me,” you said. “We’ll handle the need together. On our terms.”
He swallowed. “Snape says if I miss a potion… you’ll be in danger first.”
“Then you won’t miss it.” Your tone brooked no argument. “Even if I have to brew it myself.”
A faint smile ghosted his lips. “You’d sit through that smell?”
“I’d sit through worse.” Your thumb stroked over his knuckles.
He exhaled shakily, some of the tension easing, though the gold still flickered behind his eyes like embers. “I’m not safe yet,” he warned.
“That’s okay,” you answered, stepping close until your foreheads touched. “I’m not scared.”
For a while you simply stood in the sunlight, listening to the distant chatter of students who knew nothing about storms or wolves or the way a heartbeat could echo in someone else’s chest. His hand tightened around yours, and instinctively you looked up, meeting his gaze.
His eyes flickered down to your lips, hesitation clear in the tense line of his jaw. Before he could withdraw, before he could overthink it, you stepped on your tippy toes and pressed your mouth gently to his.
It began softly, a cautious brush of lips but it escalated quickly. His mouth opened hungrily, tongue sliding against your teeth, and you gave in with a low sigh. His hand found your waist first, pulling you closer, then slid up to cup the back of your neck, angling your head so he could deepen the kiss. Your fingers tangled through his messy hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth, hips pressing forward instinctively until you were pinned softly against the rough stone wall.
“I can’t lose control again,” he murmured urgently against your lips but still he kissed you harder, as if he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to.
“You won’t,” you promised breathlessly. “This is fine.”
His hips snapped forward again, pressing you tighter to the stone behind you. You knew you were out in the open—anyone could pass by and see—but caution melted beneath the heat of his mouth trailing down your neck. The dull soreness from the previous night faded to a faint pulse, replaced by something hungrier, as he sucked gently at your throat.
“Ji—” your voice shook softly, hands gripping his robes tighter. “You’re… you’re not still in rut, right?”
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “No. No, I don’t think so,” he panted roughly, almost like he was convincing himself too. “It doesn’t feel the same as last night, but—” He exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to yours “I want you. Fuck, I want you so bad—I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you.”
A helpless moan escaped you at the raw admission, your pulse quickening under his mouth when he kissed you again—softer now, more controlled, as if he was proving to himself he could do this without falling apart.
“I won’t let myself hurt you again,” he breathed, lips brushing your skin between each whispered word. “But you need to tell me if it’s too much”
You shook your head slightly, pulling him closer still, holding him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. “Ji, nothing’s ever too much with you. Just stay here… stay with me.”
He shivered, his breath hitching as he kissed you again, trying to ground himself in the feeling of you rather than the wild instinct still whispering beneath his skin.
Someone laughed nearby, close enough to remind you exactly where you were.
Jisung froze against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a soft groan. “We need to move,” he muttered “If anyone sees—”
“Then come on,” you said grabbing his hand.
He followed without another word.
You tugged him along a narrow side-corridor, the secret path behind the Herbology wing that only upper years and rule-breakers bothered with. Past the old broom cupboard, beyond the faded tapestry of a witch laughing drunkenly into her wine goblet, your footsteps were quiet, your pulse anything but. It hammered through your veins, in your fingertips, your throat—everywhere Jisung’s hand stayed locked in yours.
Soon you stood outside Greenhouse Three, abandoned since the storm in your fifth year shattered half its glass panes. Now, ivy and moss crawled along the cracked glass walls, and no one had bothered to repair it, leaving the space forgotten and overgrown.
You slipped through the splintered wooden door, pulling him gently behind you.
Inside, sunlight spilled across broken tables and tangled greenery. Plants had grown wild, illing the air with the scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and something faintly sweet. You felt your chest tighten from the memory of your younger selves hiding here together.
Jisung remembered it too, you could see it in the softening of his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed slightly. He caught your lips again, slow at first, but deepening fast, pulling a moan from your throat. Your hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him in until you tasted him fully.
“I want you inside me,” you whispered against his mouth, fingers trembling as you tugged at his clothes again.
He groaned softly, forehead pressing to yours. “Say it again.”
Your breath shuddered. “I want you to fuck me, Ji. Right now.”
He kissed you once more, messy and desperate, before stepping back just enough to undo his belt. His hands shook slightly, desire evident as he freed his cock—already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip as he positioned himself between your thighs. You lay back on one of the old greenhouse tables, cool beneath your skin but sturdy enough for this.
Jisung dragged the head of his cock through your folds, groaning openly at how wet you were, coating him perfectly. He pressed gently against your entrance, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip, thumb stroking tenderly.
He met your gaze, eyes filled with heated care. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, voice thick with want but edged with concern.
You cupped his cheek softly, eyes locked on his. “It’s perfect. It’s always perfect with you…Just fuck me, Ji.”
And he did.
The first thrust was slow, a deep stretch that pulled a gasp straight from your lungs. His cock slid in inch by inch until he bottomed out, and then he just held there, buried inside, groaning like he’d finally found home.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You’re so tight, you feel so—shit—you feel like you were made for me.”
You clenched around him involuntarily and he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder as he fought the urge to move too fast.
But control didn’t last long. His hips started to roll into yours, picking up a rhythm that got harder with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping echoed off the glass, mixed with your breathy moans and the desperate groans breaking in his throat.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, dragging him deeper.
“Yes, yes—right there—don’t stop,” you gasped.
“I won’t,” he growled. “I can’t.”
He drove into you harder, the table creaking beneath you as he pounded into your soaked cunt like he was trying to carve the shape of himself into your body. You arched under him, nails raking down his back through his shirt, gasping every time he bottomed out and hit that spot that made your toes curl.
He pulled out just enough to watch his cock slide back in.
“Look at this,” he breathed, one hand dragging down to your stomach, pressing just above your pubic bone. “Can feel myself right here.”
You could tell Jisung was obsessed with seeing himself inside you, it made his thrusts hit deeper just so he could feel himself in your lower belly. You moaned brokenly, the pressure making it worse, the angle driving you insane.
“Fuck, fuck—I’m gonna come,” you choked. “Don’t stop—please, don’t—”
“I want to feel it,” he growled. “Come on, baby. Come for me.”
Your body clamped down around him, walls spasming hard enough to make Jisung curse violently. He fucked you through it, rough thrusts stuttering until his own orgasm took him.
With a strangled groan, he slammed into you one last time and came hard, cock twitching deep inside you as he filled you again with thick spurts that made your pussy slicker than before.
He collapsed over you, forehead buried in your neck, both of you panting like you’d run for miles. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching with aftershocks.
You dragged your fingers through his hair gently, voice hoarse. “That didn’t feel like your rut.”
He laughed, breathless. “No. That was just me.”
“Are you okay?” he whispered into your neck, voice raw and reverent. “Did I hurt you?”
You shook your head slowly. “You didn’t. You were perfect.”
He sighed against your skin, relief loosening his shoulders. Then, gently—so, so gently—he pulled out, groaning as his cock slipped free from your cunt. The mess between your legs was immediate, warmth spilling down your thighs, and you whimpered at the sensitivity.
“I got you,” he murmured, already reaching for his wand.
He muttered a quiet cleaning charm, careful not to touch you until you nodded. His hand brushed your knee, then your thigh, his fingers trembling as he whispered the incantation again and wiped away the rest with his robe sleeve.
When he was finished, he kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your stomach like it was part of some silent apology only your skin could understand.
“I’m gonna help you down,” he said, voice soft.
You nodded, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you slowly from the table and holding you close while your legs adjusted. You swayed once, but he caught you instantly.
“You’re shaky,” he murmured.
“You fucked my legs numb, Park,” you whispered, trying to smile, and he let out a breathy laugh, burying his face in your neck.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he mumbled. “Not even if Snape drags me out of your bed himself.”
You held onto him tighter, forehead pressed to his collarbone. “You better keep that promise.”
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“I will,” he said. “Forever.”
He helped you sit on the edge of the table while he redressed—pulling his trousers back up, refastening his belt with one hand while the other stayed on your knee like he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching you. When he was done, he reached for your discarded panties, blushing faintly as he held them out to you.
“I should’ve asked first,” he said quietly. “Back then. In the shack.”
You looked up at him, heart aching. “You couldn’t. And I already told you… I don’t regret it.”
He nodded, but the guilt lingered behind his eyes. So you took his hand and laced your fingers through his again.
“We’ll be okay,” you said. “You and me.”
“We will,” he whispered.
You dressed in silence together, stealing soft glances and touches, letting the heat cool but not disappear. And when you finally stepped out of the greenhouse, blinking into the pale afternoon light, Jisung’s arm was already around your shoulders holding you close and as steady as the heartbeat you’d heard pounding through his chest not long ago.
And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was quiet and certain.
Like a promise kept.
eeeeek feedback is greatly appreciated! i love reading ur comments and anons <3
pairing: slytherin! na jaemin x gryffindor! fem. reader
genre: hogwarts au, fake dating (hell yeah!), fluff, smut, angst
wc: 34k (full fic)
summary: It's a simple deal: fake date the Slytherin golden boy to dodge his arranged marriage. Easy. Except patrols turn into makeouts, a Quidditch win ends in a very steamy contract violation, and suddenly your N.E.W.T.s feel like the least of your problems. After one badly timed confession, it’s clear he’s not acting anymore—and neither are you.
content warnings: slow burn, explicit sexual content (2nd part), miscommunication!!!, emotional hurt/comfort, cursing, alcohol consumption, reader is self conscious/bit anxious, heavy hogwarts canon themes obvs, slytherin/gryffindor dynamics, jaemin is lowkgenuinely manipulative at the beginning, mean slytherin stereotypes, avoidance as a coping mechanism. lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: ok this is gonna be a long a/n so bear with me. this fic genuinely almost killed me. i don’t think i’ve ever struggled so much to finish something in my life and it’s 100% my fault for being too ambitious. you’ll notice i tried to weave in more hogwarts details and brit lingo to make it feel more authentic, but as you may have guessed… i am not british 😭 so that meant a lot of googling, rewatching, and rereading some of my fav hp fics just to make sure i wasn’t embarrassing myself. i did my best okay (shoutout to every hp fic writer before me, yall are the blueprint). also: yes, you may catch a hint of draco malfoy in jaemin’s character and that’s very much intentional. i am, at my core, a draco apologist and i don’t see myself changing. anyways. i really hope you enjoy reading this as much as i suffered writing it. please let me know what you think w ur comments, anons, reblogs. everything is appreciated more than you know 🖤
“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.
Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers.
There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.
In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.
Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.
You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.
At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.
"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"
Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"
You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."
"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"
"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"
The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades. Whiskers was curled up in your lap, observing your best friend with as much judgement as you probably were.
"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"
"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"
"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"
"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"
"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."
"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.
This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.
Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.
With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"
Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."
You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"
"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"
Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."
Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"
You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"
"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."
"Well, I didn't know."
"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”
You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.
It was funny, really. Or rather more like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.
And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.
By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.
You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.
Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.
“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”
Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.
"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."
"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."
"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.
Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.
But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.
With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.
Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.
There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.
Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.
After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.
As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.
In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.
At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.
The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.
You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.
That was the theory, anyway.
The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.
Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.
You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot. Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.
Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.
Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.
"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.
"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?
"Where's Crockett?"
"We swapped shifts."
His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."
Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?
"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."
Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."
And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.
The grounds.
Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.
The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.
Oh no.
"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."
His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"
Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"
"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"
"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."
Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”
“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”
“Plans,” he repeated flatly.
“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”
“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”
Oh god. Why had you started this?
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”
“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”
“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”
He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”
Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”
“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”
“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.
“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”
This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”
“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”
“This is ridiculous—”
“Go on.”
You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”
“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”
“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”
“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.
“Then what?”
You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”
Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”
“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.
“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”
He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.
“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”
Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”
“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”
Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.
“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”
“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”
“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”
You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”
“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”
Wait. What?
“I’m not—there’s no one—”
But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.
“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”
He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”
“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”
Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”
“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”
The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.
And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.
“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”
“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”
“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”
"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.
This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.
Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.
Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.
In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.
"I'm coming!" you called after him.
Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.
"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."
“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.
Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.
Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.
You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous.
They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.
And you needed to keep him distracted.
“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”
“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”
“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”
“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”
You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”
“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”
There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.
Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."
"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”
“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”
“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”
Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”
You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. As expected, Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.
“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”
“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.
But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.
Laughter.
More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.
Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."
"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"
"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"
But he wasn't listening. Because he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.
You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.
The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"
Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.
"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."
Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."
"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."
"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”
“They can be vicious!”
“They’re ten inches tall.”
“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”
“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”
You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.
“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”
He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.
You grabbed his arm.
The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.
“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”
He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.
"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"
"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."
"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"
He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."
You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."
"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."
"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."
Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."
You blinked. "Fine?"
"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."
There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.
Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"
His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."
Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.
But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.
"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."
His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"
"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."
"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"
You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?
You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."
"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."
The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?
As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."
"Probably," you repeated faintly.
"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.
The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).
At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.
"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.
The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.
“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”
Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”
“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”
“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”
Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."
"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."
"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"
You took a deep breath. "A favor."
"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"
“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”
She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”
“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”
“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”
“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”
Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”
“Isn’t it though?”
“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”
You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”
“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”
“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”
“Jo.”
“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”
But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.
Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.
A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.
You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.
To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.
Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.
He just watched you.
From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.
You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.
By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.
“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”
“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”
Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”
“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”
“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”
You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.
No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.
Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.
“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”
Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.
“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”
“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”
“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”
“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—”
But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried.
There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.
He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.
He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.
"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"
You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.
Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”
The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.
“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”
“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”
Oh no. Oh no no no.
"Huh?" you said eloquently.
"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.
“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.
“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”
Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you.
You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.
"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."
Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.
He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.
"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"
He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."
"The favor," you said flatly.
"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."
Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"
Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."
What the fuck.
You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.
"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"
"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."
You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.
But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.
"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"
"I'm not having a mental episode."
You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—"
"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."
"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"
"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.
"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."
"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"
"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"
"Yes."
"Why?!"
"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.
You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"
"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"
"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"
"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."
"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."
"Why not?"
"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"
"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."
You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."
"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."
"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"
"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?
You blinked. "What?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."
"Okay...?"
"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."
Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."
"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."
"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."
"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."
"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."
"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."
You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."
"Is it though?"
"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"
"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."
"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"
"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."
That brought you up short. “You barely know me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.
"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.
There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.
"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”
"That's the gist of it, yes."
"For how long?"
"A month? Maybe two at most."
"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"
“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"
"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again.
“Again, no need to be madly in love—"
"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"
“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”
"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"
"Nobody's going to try to murder you."
"You don’t know that!"
“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."
You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."
"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.
You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"
“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”
He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.
"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."
"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."
"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.
“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."
“You want me to hold your hand?”
"Among other things."
"What does that even mean…?”
"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."
"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"
"I mean, not right now necessarily—"
“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”
"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.
You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"
"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.
You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"
"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."
"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."
"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."
You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.
"This is blackmail," you said weakly.
"It's really not."
You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse, tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.
"Fuck," you groaned.
"Is that a yes then? he said.
You truly hated everything about this.
Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."
Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."
"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."
"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"
You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.
But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.
"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.
"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."
"I make no promises," you muttered.
As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:
Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.
Jo was never going to believe this.
A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.
It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.
Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.
Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.
“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”
The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”
The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.
And as if the whole thing wasn’t a nightmare already, there was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.
He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.
“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”
“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.
“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”
“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.
“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”
A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.
Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.
“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.
A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?
Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.
Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.
The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.
But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.
Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.
Giselle led the first offensive.
She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.
“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”
“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.
“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”
“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.
“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”
The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.
“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.
“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”
Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.
“I suppose so,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.
“Cute.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”
Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his tea as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.
The pressure didn't let up as the days went on. A few days later, Changmin intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.
"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."
Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"
"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."
"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.
"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well, not that."
Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.
Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."
His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.
A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility.
They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.
Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.
"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."
The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.
"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.
"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."
Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.
"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."
"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.
"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"
"Magical Maintenance."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.
"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."
Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.
The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.
You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.
"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"
"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."
"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."
A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.
Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.
Yuna.
She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of his circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.
"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."
Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."
"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."
Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.
"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"
"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."
A snort of pure skepticism escaped Yuna. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"
"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."
"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”
Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.
“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Yuna asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”
The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”
“Don’t look so scandalized.” she waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”
She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.
"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."
"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.
“So defensive.” Yuna chuckled cruelly.
“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.
“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”
“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”
The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.
“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."
They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.
"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."
Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.
“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”
“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”
“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.
You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”
Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”
“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”
“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.
“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”
Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”
“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”
“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.
“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”
“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”
"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.
“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”
“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.
Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”
“Y/N, wait—”
“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”
“That’s not what I—”
But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.
Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.
Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.
Expectations of a smooth public performance next morning were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.
Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.
"Can we talk?"
The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.
You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"
"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"
Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. Why did she keep doing that?! You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.
"Fine. Where?"
"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"
"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.
"Just—trust me on this. Please?"
There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.
"Ten o'clock," you agreed.
He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.
Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.
Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.
Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.
"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."
The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."
"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."
"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"
"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."
"Practice?"
"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."
"Right. So your grand plan is..."
"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."
A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.
But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.
"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"
"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."
Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.
For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.
Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.
Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.
"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.
"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."
"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."
You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?
But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?
No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar.
And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.
“I swear if this is some kind of prank…”
"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."
The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.
"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"
Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."
"I'm sorry, what?”
"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."
"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts.
"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."
Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.
"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."
"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.
You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.
"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."
He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.
"You're going to have to get closer than that."
"This is close."
"You’re barely sitting on the couch."
"Baby steps," you muttered.
"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."
That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.
"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.
Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.
Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.
"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."
"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."
"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."
Breathe. Right. You could manage that.
You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.
"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."
"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."
"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."
He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.
The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.
"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."
"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.
"I'm trying not to spook you."
"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.
It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.
"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.
For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.
"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."
"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair.
You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.
Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.
The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.
“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.
Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”
You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”
He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”
You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.
“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”
“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”
“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”
“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.
“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”
You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.
He’d mentioned kissing when he proposed this mad arrangement in the first place but you genuinely thought he’d been trying to ruffle you. The prospect of actually kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.
“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”
Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.
“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”
“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”
“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”
“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.
“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”
The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way.
It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?
But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.
You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.
So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.
You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.
The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.
"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"
"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."
The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"
"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."
"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"
And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.
"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."
Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"
You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."
The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."
"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.
You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.
By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.
"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."
"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"
You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.
It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.
"Out for a midnight stroll?"
You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.
Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.
"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"
"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."
"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.
"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."
You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."
"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.
"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"
Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"
"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"
"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"
"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."
"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.
"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."
"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."
It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.
"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"
"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."
You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"
"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."
Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.
“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."
“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."
A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?
You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.
"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.
You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"
"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."
Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.
"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"
Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."
"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?
"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."
"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.
Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."
"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."
"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.
You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."
"It's also Valentine's Day."
"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."
"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."
Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.
But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.
Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."
"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."
He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"
"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."
His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."
You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."
Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."
"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."
"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."
You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.
Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.
Right?
But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.
The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have.
You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.
“This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below.
Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.
Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”
“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”
“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”
He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.
The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.
Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:
“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”
Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”
“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”
You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.
“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”
Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.
“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”
He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.
“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”
You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.
“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.
“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.
“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?
Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"
You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was a Ravenclaw you recognized from your Charms class. Taehyun, you thought his name was.
Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."
The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.
“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”
Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.
“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”
Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”
You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.
“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”
“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”
“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”
Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”
“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”
You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.
"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”
As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.
The effect was instantaneous.
Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.
Thwack.
She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.
Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.
Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.
"Did you just…?"
"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."
"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."
"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."
"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."
Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.
You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.
“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.
You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”
You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”
You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”
You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”
“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”
You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.
“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.
“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”
You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.
It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.
You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."
“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”
Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.
You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.
“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”
Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”
“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”
When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.
“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.
“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”
Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”
“In a way, they are,” you whispered.
He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”
His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.
“I can do that,” you promised softly.
The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.
Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.
“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”
He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”
The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.
“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”
You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something?
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”
Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.
“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”
You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”
Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.
Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?
You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.
If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.
The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.
Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.
The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.
Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.
This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?
They kissed.
The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.
“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”
You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.
You could do this.
Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.
“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”
“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.
For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.
It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.
Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”
“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”
Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”
He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.
That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.
Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.
As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…
“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”
You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.
You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.
Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…
Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?
Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.
You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.
Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.
“Y/N!”
You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.
“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”
Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."
"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."
“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”
“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.
“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.
You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”
“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.
“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”
Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.
“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”
He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.
“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”
“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”
“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”
You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.
By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.
“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.
You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.
“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.
But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.
“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.
He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”
You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.
“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.
He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”
You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”
And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.
As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.
No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.
It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.
pairing: slytherin! na jaemin x gryffindor! fem. reader
genre: hogwarts au, fake dating, fluff, smut, angst
wc: 17k
summary: A Gryffindor prefect and a Slytherin golden boy fake a relationship to avoid an unwanted marriage pact, but as staged kisses turn real and secrets unravel, their hearts end up tangled in ways neither expected. Now, with love and pride on the line, they must decide if risking everything is worth the truth.
content warnings: explicit sexual content, loss of virginity, protected sex (contraceptive charms), oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, cursing, alcohol consumption, miscommunication, emotional hurt/comfort, anxiety, self-consciousness, emotional manipulation (though not malicious) lots of harry potter references (obvs), hogwarts setting, slytherin/gryffindor stereotypes and prejudice, pureblood politics, brief mention of emotionally distant/cold parents.
a/n: finally!! i’m so sorry this took forever, i really meant to post it the same day as part one, but i kept adding more (like… a lot more), so i really hope it was worth the wait. i had so much fun writing it though and i’m actually really proud of how it turned out. this fic fully consumed me for months lol😭 i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. please feel free to scream in the comments/inbox, i wanna hear all your thoughts <3
ps: if anyone cares for a bit of music while reading i made this playlist for the fic.
Read part 1 here
In the wake of that catastrophic lapse in judgment at the Three Broomsticks, you had spent the remainder of the weekend engaged in a heroic attempt at total social erasure. Under the flimsy pretext of Prefect patrols, you’d spent twenty four hours haunting the castle’s most desolate corners and developing an encyclopedic, almost intimate knowledge of the drafty corridors behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the specific, rhythmic drip of the second-floor lavatory.
You lived in mortal fear of a confrontation, your brain a frantic pinball machine of panicked justifications. How does one even begin to explain away the fact that you’d essentially tackled Jaemin with your mouth in front of half the student body? You couldn't even blame the butterbeer; no one was that much of a lightweight.
All that strategic hiding, however, proved to be a spectacular waste of time.
Because Monday morning arrived and with it, the unavoidable horror of Double Potions. Jaemin, of course, decided to plop down next to you, looking both freshly pressed and utterly unbothered by recent events. All the while had to physically force yourself not to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Morning, Y/N,” he said pleasantly. “Fancy another go?”
You nearly slid off the stool. “I—beg your pardon?”
His mouth quirked as he leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was a secret shared only between your skin and his lips.
“Just a thought,” he drawled, “since the entire school has already watched us snog, we might as well get our money’s worth, don’t you think?”
You gaped at him, your indignation warring with a sudden spike of heat. Jaemin just watched you, a picture of insouciant grace, clearly having decided that his new favorite hobby was seeing exactly how many shades of scarlet he could make you turn before Slughorn even called the roll.
“I—well—” You faltered, the sentence dying pathetically in your throat. There was no good exit strategy here, no witty retort that could dismantle the sheer smugness radiating off him. “Wasn’t that a bit… much? In the Three Broomsticks?”
His gaze turned positively feral with glee. “I believe the many witnesses there that night will say that you started it. I was merely an innocent bystander, swept along by the current of your passionate improvisation.”
You pressed your lips together, an exercise in sheer willpower to deny him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Swept along, my arse. You’re the one who—” You clamped down on the thought before it could manifest, but the phantom sensation of his fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck flashed through your mind.
Jaemin tilted his head, a lock of blonde hair falling over his brow, as if to punctuate how useless your walls were against him now.
“Look, if we’re going to commit to this performance, we might as well aim for the stalls,” he said. “The school already has us pencilled in as the frontrunners for ‘Best Couple’. It would be a tragedy to disappoint the fans now, wouldn't it?”
He slipped his hand into yours, as if nothing at all had changed. But now you were horribly aware how your skin prickled with nerves and the pulse in your wrist kept skipping whenever he brushed his thumb along the side of your hand.
Slughorn, bless his velvet-clad heart, seemed absolutely determined to overwhelm the gloom of the dungeons with his boisterous goodwill. He was in rare form today, circling the room like a parade master, “Today, my dears, we will be brewing Amortentia! The mother of all love potions! Now, who can tell me its greatest danger?”
You raised your hand with perhaps more enthusiasm than Slughorn's question warranted, if only to reclaim it from Jaemin's grip.
“It can’t create real love, sir” you said, voice admirably steady. “Only a very strong infatuation. A kind of obsession, really. And it’s different for everyone who smells it, the scent changes to reflect whatever attracts you most.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” Slughorn beamed. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now then, pair up, everyone, pair up! Today we brew!”
Naturally, this was when things went from bad to infinitely worse.
Brewing Amortentia while in the throes of whatever this mortifying situation with Jaemin was? Spectacularly poor timing. Working close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to have his fingers brush yours with every ingredient passed between you? Absolute torture of the most exquisite variety.
“Pass me the pearl dust, would you, love?” Jaemin murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the scant space between you.
You passed it quickly and focused back on the cauldron, determined to at least finish before him. You added the frozen ashwinder eggs, stirring counter-clockwise until the liquid began to shimmer.
“You’re quite good at this,” Jaemin noted. “Almost as good as you are at improvisation”.
“Focus on the potion, Jaemin,” you bit out, though you could feel your face go scarlet.
After almost two hours of gruelling labor, the potion was perfect. The steam rose in characteristic spirals, and the surface gleamed with a lustrous, opalescent sheen. You smiled at your technical triumph.
But the smile died on your lips the moment the scent hit your nose.
You'd hoped—prayed, really—for something ordinary. Like the comforting smell of old books, perhaps. Or the woody scent from the fire in the Gryffindor common room. But what you got instead was far more specific, and infinitely more damning.
Expensive cologne that smelled of bergamot and beneath that was the distinct, slightly oily musk of broomstick polish. The exact olfactory combination that seemed to have permanently infused itself into the fibers of Jaemin’s robes, the scent that enveloped you whenever he pulled you close in the corridors.
Godric save me, you thought, your stomach performing a sort of sickening swoop.
Your mind scrambled for a rational explanation. It’s just a common scent, it argued desperately. Half the Quidditch players use that polish. And any posh tosser could wear that cologne.
But the Amortentia didn’t lie. Your Herculean attempt at self-delusion was failing utterly in the face of the irrefutable truth spiralling out of your cauldron.
Fear metastasized across your body, becoming a cold weight anchored in the hollow of your sternum, pulsing in time with the frantic thrum of your heart. If you acknowledged the bergamot and the broomstick polish, you were surrendering the only fortress you had left. To speak it would be to dismantle the safety of the 'fake' and leave you standing raw and defenseless in the debris of your own design.
You were terrified that the moment the truth escaped your lips, the delicate, agonizing balance of your world would tilt, sliding you both into a reality from which there was no clever improvisation to save you.
“So?” Jaemin’s voice was suddenly right at your ear, making you flinch. “What are you getting, Y/N? Freshly bound books and new parchment, I’d wager.”
The proximity forced your lungs to pull in the real version of the bergamot you had just been mourning.
“Yeah, uhm…I smell old books,” you said, the lie ashen on your tongue.
Jaemin turned to look at you, and it was as though he were reading the very thoughts you were trying to bury. Beneath the table, out of sight of the professor and the prowling eyes of the room, his hand found yours again
“Is that so?” he murmured, his eyes visibly darkening as they swept over your face. “Well. I’m getting a very distinctive note of vanilla. And that floral soap you use in the Prefects’ bathroom.”
His words were so utterly devoid of the frantic panic currently hijacking your nervous system, that for a moment, you simply stared. Your brain suddenly tripped over his transparency. He’s joking, you realized, a hysterical sort of relief blooming in the wake of the shock. Of course he is. If he actually smelled that from the potion, he would be guarding that secret with his life, burying it under ten layers of Slytherin steel.
“Aha!” Slughorn crowed, making you both start. He peered into your cauldron, his face shining with delight. “A perfect brew! The spirals are unmistakable. Tell me, Mr. Na, is the aroma potent?”
Jaemin didn’t take his eyes off you. “Distractingly so, Professor,” he said, his lips curving into a smile that made your entire body go on high alert. “It’s enough to drive a man to madness.”
Slughorn clapped his hands together, mercifully oblivious to the silent conversation happening right under his nose. “Splendid! Simply splendid. Ten points to Slytherin and Gryffindor. Now, for your homework, I want a foot of parchment on the dangers of Amortentia and why its use is so strictly regulated. To be handed in next lesson!”
As the class descended into the frantic clatter of copper stirring rods and the rhythmic scrubbing of stone, you moved through the motions in a total sensory daze. What were you supposed to do with this knowledge? How were you meant to deal with the fact that the scent of your Amortentia, the very distillation of your most primal desires, was inextricably tied to Jaemin?
Right before you exited the room Jaemin’s fingers brushed against your own so briefly it should have been negligible, yet it sent a jolt of fire anchoring itself in the marrow of your bones. He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing you for a fleeting second.
“Think about what I said earlier, yeah?” He murmured, the words ghosting against your skin before he deposited a soft kiss on your temple.
You stood frozen as he merged into the tide of students. A sinking, leaden certainty settled in the pit of your stomach, making your breath hitch in your throat. You were well and truly doomed, there was no more room for clever denials. The Amortentia had stripped away the artifice, laying the raw, pulsing truth bare against the cold dungeon floor.
You liked Na Jaemin, and Merlin help you, there wasn't a potion in the world that could fix it.
Part of you was almost giddy about the novelty of actually fancying someone, of feeling your stomach swoop when they walked into a room. But mostly you were terrified. When had Jaemin stopped being an inconvenience and started being this?
Maybe, you reasoned, you could indulge it. Just a little. Lean into the dating act a bit more and let yourself feel it without examining it too closely.
That’s how the boundaries started dissolving.
Slowly at first, then all at once, every rule you’d established became negotiable. Jaemin would pull you into empty alcoves where no one could possibly see you, press you against cold stone and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. “We’re not in public,” you’d manage between kisses. He’d just smirk against your mouth. “Practice makes perfect.”
No one batted an eyelid at the sight of him pulling you into empty rooms. Even Giselle had stopped questioning you, and became rather repulsed by your sudden displays of affection.
Meanwhile, you walked around feeling as if you’d lost the original plot of this whole thing. Your brain became a pinball machine: every glance from Jaemin sent the ball ricocheting wildly, every brush of his fingers over your knuckles set your whole body on high alert. He, on the other hand, seemed to delight in turning up at the least convenient moments—snagging you between classes, kissing you in the shadow of the greenhouses, catching your hand when you tried to slip past him on your way out of the library and kissing you against the stacks.
You coped by remembering it was all for show, the same way you might recite lines in a play. Only actors didn’t typically wake up thinking about the curve of their co-star’s mouth or lie awake at night replaying every touch of their calloused fingers.
You ran into him outside your common room one evening, just as curfew loomed. Jaemin looked up from a parchment he was pretending to read, tucking it away as you approached.
His eyes seemed to visibly darken at the sight of you. It would have been easy to walk past, make some excuse about homework or an early morning. Instead, you hovered, dithering between the impulse to run and the urge to close the gap.
Jaemin broke the stalemate, stepping forward and catching your wrist. “I was hoping I’d see you,” he said and then pointed at the portraits on the walls that watched you silently. “Thought we might keep the neighbors entertained.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He tugged on your wrist to guide you forward, and then his hand was sliding upward, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the base of your neck. He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned down to claim them.
His lips moved against yours with devastating confidence. As the kiss deepened, his other hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, a private noise of satisfaction that seemed to echo against your own heartbeat.
High above, the painted figures in the frames whispered and tittered. The Fat Lady let out a bright, trilling giggle that rang through the hallway, but Jaemin didn't stop. He only pressed closer, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he turned the kiss slower, more rhythmic, and infinitely more distracting than any textbook could ever be.
When he finally broke away, he didn't pull back more than an inch. His breath hitched against your lips, and the dark intensity in his eyes seemed to catch fire.
He had just begun to trail his lips from your mouth to the sensitive line of your jaw when a shrill, cackling whistle echoed off the stone walls.
"Ooh, lookie here! Little lions in a knot! Or is it a tangle? A right royal muddle!"
Peeves the Poltergeist swooped down, hovering upside down just inches from your faces. His wide, malicious eyes darted between you and Jaemin, his tongue poking out through a jagged grin.
Jaemin didn't let go of you, but he let out a long, frustrated exhale against your skin. He slowly turned his head to glare at the spirit. "Not now, Peeves. Go find a first-year to pelt with ink pellets."
"Ink pellets? Boring! Stale!" Peeves blew a loud raspberry and started spinning in a dizzying circle. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of stale, rock-hard Cauldron Cakes. "I’d much rather watch the lovebirds try to coo while I practice my aim!"
With a wicked flick of his wrist, he tossed a cake. It whistled past Jaemin’s ear, narrowly missing him and thudding loudly against the frame of a disgruntled landscape painting.
"Jammy and the Pouter, sitting in a hall! Kissing 'til the portraits scream and the ceiling falls!" Peeves sang at the top of his lungs, his voice shrill enough to wake every sleeping student in the nearby tower.
Jaemin finally pulled back fully, though he kept a protective arm slung low around your waist. He looked up at the cackling poltergeist, a dangerous, tired sort of smirk playing on his lips. "You’re going to get Filch up here, you menace."
"Filchy-poo? Even better!" Peeves shrieked, preparing another handful of projectiles. "Double the trouble, double the fun! Run, little students, run-run-run!"
Jaemin’s jaw tightened, and the last traces of the kiss's softness vanished into a look of sharp irritation. He reached into his robes and flicked his wand upward with a lethal grace.
"I warned you," Jaemin muttered dangerously. “Waddiwasi!"
The Cauldron Cake Peeves had been preparing to throw suddenly zoomed upward, propelled by an invisible force. It jammed itself straight into the poltergeist’s left nostril.
The poltergeist let out a high-pitched scream of outrage, spinning wildly in the air as he tried to claw the stale pastry out. Realizing he had lost this round, he zoomed through the nearest wall, leaving nothing behind but the faint sound of his frantic thumping as he retreated toward the floor below.
Jaemin let out a huff of a laugh, finally tucking his wand back into his sleeve. The intense look returned to his eyes as he turned his full attention back to you, his hands sliding back to their previous spots on your waist.
"Now," he whispered, pulling you back against the wall. "Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"
You pressed a hand to his chest before he could close the distance. “Wait—did you hear that?”
“No.” The word was muffled against your neck, which he’d apparently decided required immediate attention.
“Jaemin, I’m serious. I think that’s Filch—”
He went still, listening. Sure enough, the shuffle of uneven footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“Your common room,” Jaemin said immediately, tugging you toward the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Come on—”
“Wait! She won’t let you in!”
He stopped short. “What? Why not?”
“Because you’re a Slytherin? We’ve been over this.”
“I thought you were drunk when you said that.” Jaemin stared at you incredulously. “So you’re telling me she won’t let any Slytherins in? And we’re the prejudiced house?”
“I mean she could, technically. But then she’d absolutely tell Filch about it.”
Jaemin made a sound of disbelief as Filch’s footsteps grew louder.
“Fine. Come on.” He grabbed your hand, pulling you in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” you hissed, jogging to keep up as he led you through several corridors and down the stairs.
“The dungeons.”
“What?! I am not going to your common room—”
“Oh, come on.” He threw you an exasperated look over his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. Slytherins actually mind their business when it comes to sneaking people in. Unlike you lions, apparently.”
The further you descended, the more aware you became of where this was heading. You’d never set foot in the Slytherin common room, and now you were sneaking in at night to… Well. The thought alone was enough to make your heart ricochet against your chest.
“Right, here we are.” Jaemin stopped before a blank wall.
“That’s it?” You stared at it with a raised brow. “Kind of underwhelming, isn’t it?”
“Sorry, did you expect a giant fanged mouth?”
“Alright, ease up on the attitude.” You glared at him.
He smiled, and spoke to the wall: “Serpensortem.” Then, catching your eye: “Feel free to use that. You know, if you ever need to find me.”
The hidden door (which did, in fact, have serpents carved into it) swung open to reveal a narrow corridor of stairs descending even deeper. How Slytherins didn’t lose their minds being this far underground, you had no idea.
Inside, the common room was both exactly what you’d pictured and nothing like it. Dark stone, high ceilings, and a green-filtered light casting everything in a sort of underwater glow. Because…Oh. The ceiling was glass. There were actual panels looking straight up into the Black Lake’s murky water and the shadows of the occasional creatures drifting by.
Stunning. Also deeply unsettling if you thought too hard about it.
“Nice view of the Giant Squid you’ve got.”
Jaemin was right, his housemates truly didn’t care. The handful of students still up barely registered your presence, offering cursory glances before returning to whatever they were working on. Apparently a Gryffindor in the Slytherin common room wasn’t that much of a strange sight.
“Want to go up to my dorm?”
You gave him a look. “Where all your dormmates are?”
“They’re at the Three Broomsticks getting properly pissed.” He shrugged. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”
“It’s way past curfew. How’d they even get out?”
“There are secret passages that lead straight to the village. They’re all over the castle.”
“How am I only just learning this?”
His smile turned wicked. “Well, you’re such a good girl.” He pulled you closer by the waist. “A very good girl who owes me a kiss.”
You were completely out of your depth. Although the flirting had become familiar, the fact that Jaemin seemed to want you with the same desperate intensity you felt for him was uncharted territory that left you dizzy and unmoored.
So you didn’t fight when he led you upstairs. You let him pull you into a kiss on the steps, let yourself kiss him back with abandon until you stumbled into the warm sanctuary of his dorm. Only then did you surface long enough to catch your breath and actually take stock of your surroundings.
There were four four-poster beds with dark emerald hangings, the standard Hogwarts setup, but each corner had been claimed and personalized by its occupant.
You recognized Jaemin’s immediately. The one nearest the window, if you could call the glass panel looking into the lake a window. His Quidditch gear was piled carelessly beside his trunk: broom propped against the bedpost, leather gloves draped over the footboard, a jersey with “NA” embroidered on the back slung over his desk chair. The nightstand held an impressive collection of cologne bottles and a few books stacked messily beneath them.
But it was the wall above his bed that caught your attention. Photographs pinned in no particular order of what looked like his family, him and his Quidditch team, a few older shots of him with other friends you didn’t recognize.
“Snooping already?” Jaemin’s voice came from behind you.
You turned to find him leaning against the wall, watching you with a raised brow.
“Just… observing.”
“Mhm.” He pushed off the post and crossed to you in two strides. “And what have your observations concluded?”
“That you’re messier than I expected.” You gestured to the Quidditch gear. “But also weirdly sentimental.” You nodded toward the photographs.
You turned to the other sections of the room and caught on a collection of what appeared to be hand-drawn comics pinned above one bed, surprisingly good actually, depicting what looked like Quidditch matches gone horribly wrong.
“Are those—did someone draw these?”
“Renjun.” Jaemin followed your gaze. “He’s got a thing for documenting Donghyuck’s Quidditch failures. It's quite therapeutic for him, apparently.”
“Donghyuck and Renjun—wait, I thought you roomed with Changmin and Sungchan?”
“I used to. Merlin, don’t remind me.” Jaemin collapsed onto what was clearly his bed—the one nearest the lake-view panel.
“That bad?
“They both snore like bloody dragons. Together it was—” He shook his head. “I got about three hours of sleep a night for two years. Finally cracked in third year and begged the head boy to switch me.”
You laughed. “So who’d you end up with?”
“Jeno, Donghyuck, and Renjun.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “They’re a nightmare in different ways, but at least they sleep quietly.”
“Sounds like a ringing endorsement.”
He got up and started slowly towards you. “I didn’t bring you up here to psychoanalyze our dorm though.”
“No?” Your hands settled against his chest when he pulled you to him. “What am I up here for, then?”
His smile turned wicked. “I believe we established you owe me a kiss. Several, actually, if we’re keeping count.”
“Are we keeping count now?”
“I am.” He leaned in, mouth barely brushing yours. “And you’re severely in debt.”
You could’ve pointed out the flawed logic, could’ve reminded him that you’d just spent the last several minutes kissing him senseless on the stairs. Instead, you closed the distance between you, letting him walk you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed.
“This okay?” he murmured against your lips, even as his hands slid up your sides.
Your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. This was different from the corridors, from the alcoves and the performances. Just you and him and the choice to cross whatever line you’d been toeing for weeks.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “This is okay.”
His smile was soft before he kissed you again. You reciprocated with much enthusiasm making him sigh against your lips. His hands slid into your hair as the kiss deepened, and you let yourself get lost in it .
Your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly, and he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat racing through you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against your ribs, and—
Suddenly you heard voices. Loud and slurred, echoing up from the common room.
“—telling you, Hyuck, you can’t just Accio the entire bottle—”
“It almost worked though… I’m just— hngh— a bit wet”
“What—…” You scrambled into a sitting position, trying to finger-comb your hair into something less incriminating. “How do I look?”
He looked at you and tried to hide a grin behind his hand. “Like I’ve been kissing you for the past ten minutes.”
“Jaemin!”
“Right, sorry—” He reached out, gently attempting to smooth down your hair. It was possibly the sweetest thing he’d ever done and absolutely not helping your emotional state. “Okay, just act natural?”
The door banged open and three boys tumbled through in various states of inebriation— a muscular lad with short black hair barely keeping another upright, while a third brought up the rear looking significantly more sober than his friends.
The first one stopped short when he spotted you. “Oh, shit.”
“Jeno, move, you’re blocking the—” The one being held up peered around his friend and broke into a massive grin. “Na Jaemin, you absolute legend.”
“Shut up, Donghyuck.” Jaemin stood, positioning himself slightly in front of you.
The sober one closed the door with considerably more care than it had been opened with. “We can go back down if—”
“No, it’s fine.” You stood as well, acutely aware of how warm your face felt. “I should probably get back to Gryffindor tower anyway.”
“Gryffindor!” Hyuck crowed, stumbling further into the room. “So you’re the Gryffindor. Jaemin’s been—ow! What the fuck, Jeno—”
Jeno had elbowed him, hard. “Subtle as a brick, mate.”
“I’m just saying, he’s been in a better mood lately and now I know why—”
“Hyuck, I will literally hex your bollocks off.” Jaemin’s tone was pleasant. His expression was not.
The sober one gave you an apologetic look. “Ignore them. They had approximately five Firewhiskeys each at the Three Broomsticks.”
“Five and a half,” Hyuck corrected proudly.
“Right. Well.” You smoothed down your skirt. “I should go.”
Jaemin caught your wrist. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I think your friends need more help than I do .”
“They’ll live.” His jaw was set and you could tell he was still annoyed about the interruption.
“Awww, he’s being chivalrous,” Hyuck stage-whispered to Jeno. “That’s so—ow, fuck, Renjun—”
Renjun had slapped the back of his head. “Please excuse Donghyuck. He becomes aggressively annoying when drunk.”
“Just when drunk?” Jeno muttered.
You bit back a smile despite yourself. “It’s fine. I can find my way out.”
“You sure?” Jaemin was still holding your wrist.
“I’m sure.” You gently extracted your hand, very aware of three pairs of eyes tracking the movement. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
You made it approximately two steps toward the door before Hyuck piped up again. “Hey, Gryffindor girl?”
You turned. “It’s—”
“Oh, we know who you are,” Jeno said, grinning.
“He’s absolutely miserable when you’re not around, you know,” Hyuck announced cheerfully, ignoring Jaemin’s death glare. “Like, genuinely unbearable. So thanks for that. You’re doing Merlin’s work, truly—”
“HYUCK—”
You escaped into the corridor before you could hear the rest, but their laughter—and Jaemin’s protests—followed you all the way down the stairs.
By the time you reached the common room, your face was burning and your heart was still racing and you had absolutely no idea how you were going to look at Jaemin tomorrow without remembering the weight of him above you, the heat of his hands, the way he’d looked at you like—
No. Not thinking about it.
Except you absolutely were going to spend the entire night thinking about it. You shook your head sharply as you climbed back through the castle, taking a different route to avoid Filch.
The interruption was probably for the best. It had stopped you from doing something you couldn’t take back, from crossing a line that would make the whole “fake dating” excuse completely untenable.
“Wow, he’s even convinced you to go to a Quidditch game?” Jo said as she observed you putting on the green scarf you’d borrowed from Jaemin. “And wearing his colors? Okay, who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s just one game. Plus, he’s been asking me to go for the past few weeks and I’ve already rejected him too many times. What kind of girlfriend doesn’t go support her boyfriend at a game?”
“A fake one?” She offered with a knowing look.
“I’m already committed to the bit, Jo. Cant back out now.”
“I just want to remind you that there are only 2 more weeks of this arrangement. Personally, I haven't even seen Yuna bother Jaemin in a good while, so there’s really no need to keep extending this thing.”
She was right. Yuna had been conspicuously absent lately. No more pointed stares across the Great Hall, no more appearances in places you and Jaemin frequented, no more saccharine interruptions during your library study sessions. You’d been so caught up in the elaborate fiction of your relationship that you’d stopped monitoring the very threat it was meant to neutralize.
Had she given up? Moved on to easier prey, perhaps? Or had the performance been so convincing that she’d accepted defeat?
And if the threat had dissolved, what justified the charade’s continuation?
More pressingly: did you want it to end?
The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome, and stubbornly refused to leave. Two weeks. Fourteen days until you’d presumably sit down with Jaemin and declare mission accomplished, shake hands like business partners concluding a transaction, and return to being polite strangers who’d once played at intimacy for an audience.
“I’ll leave it to Jaemin to decide,” you said finally, the words emerging more brittle than intended. You avoided Jo’s reflection in the mirror, suddenly fascinated by the intricacies of your braid. “It’s his arrangement, technically. His problem we were solving.”
Liar, your reflection seemed to whisper. Coward.
Because the uncomfortable truth you’d been studiously ignoring was that you had no idea what Jaemin wanted anymore.
When he kissed you in empty corridors with no witnesses, was that practice? When his thumb traced absent patterns on your hip during meals, was he performing for distant onlookers or had it simply become habit? When he looked at you like that, was he acting or had the fiction begun consuming the actor?
You didn’t know. And you were terrified to ask.
Jo made a small noise of sympathy. “Just… be careful, alright? I know you think you’ve got this handled, but—”
“I’m fine,” you interrupted, perhaps too sharply. “Everything’s completely under control.”
The lie hung between you, obvious and ignored.
At the Quidditch pitch you headed to the Slytherin side of the stands. Thankfully, the finale was against Ravenclaw and not Gryffindor, otherwise you would feel like a horrible disloyal witch by not supporting your own house.
The place was already packed by the time you arrived. You’d expected to sit with the general crowd, but before you could even start climbing the stairs, you felt a hand on your arm.
“You’re with us,” Giselle said, appearing out of nowhere. She was dressed head to toe in green and silver, her house pride on full display. “Come on. We’ve saved you seats.”
“Saved me—what?”
Giselle led you to a prime spot right at the front of the Slytherin stands, where Changmin and Sungchan were already waiting.
“There she is!” Changmin grinned, as if this had all been planned.
“Jaemin’s good luck charm,” Sungchan added with a wink.
You blinked at them, too stunned to speak. These were the same boys who had barely tolerated your presence a month ago. Now they were scooting over, offering you the best view on the pitch, as if you belonged there.
“Jaemin said if we didn’t make sure you had the best seat, he’d hex us into next week,” Sungchan continued breezily. “And I quite like having my kneecaps intact, so.”
You sat down, feeling extremely self-conscious about being front and center in the Slytherin section wearing Slytherin colors. People were definitely staring. You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the whispers starting up.
"Wait," you started, your voice slightly breathless as you looked between their relaxed postures and the players currently mounting their brooms on the pitch. "Why aren't you two down there? Don't you both play?"
Changmin let out a dry snort, adjusting his sleeves. "Suspended," he said, "the Ravenclaw Beaters didn't appreciate my 'aggressive' tactical maneuvers during last week's scrimmage."
"And I'm on the bench today with a 'mysterious' wrist cramp," Sungchan added, though he looked entirely too healthy for an injury. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. "Truthfully? Jaemin didn't want us on the pitch. He wanted us here. Guarding you."
What?
"He’s a bit possessive over you," Giselle noted, settling in on your other side and smoothing her skirt. "He didn't trust the general Slytherin population to behave themselves while his head was in the clouds. Consider them your personal gargoyles for the afternoon."
Before you could process the idea of Jaemin hand-picking his friends to act as your shield, the teams flew onto the pitch, and the crowd erupted in cheers. You spotted him immediately. He was easy to pick out, even among the other players in their green and silver robes. He was a Chaser, and even from a distance, you could see the easy confidence in the way he handled his broom.
He did a lap of the pitch, clearly scanning the stands, and when he saw you sitting front and center in the Slytherin section wearing green his entire face lit up. He changed direction, flying closer to where you were sitting, and the crowd around you started screaming louder.
Jaemin pulled up right in front of the Slytherin section, hovering there on his broom, and blew you a kiss. An unsubtle, utterly ridiculous kiss blown in your direction in front of the entire school.
You felt your face go absolutely scarlet, but you couldn’t help smiling. He looked so happy. So genuinely, completely happy, and it was directed at you.
"Salazar's ghost," Giselle groaned, pointedly looking toward the sky. "The two of you are going to make me sick."
The whistle shrieked, a sharp, piercing herald that set the game in motion. You quickly discovered that Quidditch was an entirely different ordeal when your attention was tethered to a Chaser. It was no longer a sport but a grueling exercise in cardiovascular distress. Every time Jaemin’s fingers curled around the Quaffle, your breath hitched, trapped in the tight column of your throat. Every time a Ravenclaw Beater sent a Bludger whistling toward his skull, your stomach performed a sickening, leaden drop into your heels.
You were on your feet more often than not, screaming yourself hoarse, your dignity dissolving with every reckless maneuver he pulled. Your knuckles were white, clutching the edge of the railing as if you were the one hanging onto a broomstick three hundred feet in the air.
“Look at you,” Giselle observed during a brief lull in the carnage. “You truly have it bad, don’t you? You’re vibrating.”
“I’m simply—invested in the match,” you ground out, refusing to look away from the green-and-silver blur circling the hoops.
“You’re invested in him,” she corrected, a smirk playing on her lips that was equal parts amused and knowing. “It’s a bit pathetic, really. But I suppose he deserves someone who watches him with that level of frantic devotion.”
Whatever biting retort you were preparing to mount was violently incinerated by the roar of the crowd. A deafening, earth-shaking thunder erupted from the Slytherin stands as Jaemin executed a barrel roll that seemed aerodynamically impossible, slamming the Quaffle through the center hoop.
Slytherin dominated the match with embarrassing efficiency, their Chasers running rings around Ravenclaw’s defense, and Jaemin in particular seemed determined to make a personal statement. Then their Seeker caught the Snitch about an hour into the match, ending things decisively. The moment it was over, the Slytherin section erupted in celebration, and before you quite knew what was happening, people were pouring onto the pitch.
“Come on!” Giselle grabbed your hand, pulling you along with the crowd. “We’re going down!”
You let yourself be dragged down to the pitch, caught up in the excitement. The Slytherin team had barely landed when they were being mobbed by supporters, everyone screaming and hugging and celebrating.
You were just trying to stay upright and not get trampled, when suddenly hands grabbed your waist and you were being lifted, spun around, and then you were looking directly into Jaemin’s face.
He was sweaty, and disheveled, and grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt his cheeks.
“We won,” he said, as if you might not have noticed.
“I saw,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “You were brilliant.”
“You wore green,” he said breathlessly. “You actually wore green for me.”
“Of course I did. I’m your—”
You didn’t get to finish the sentence, because he kissed you.
He kissed you like you were the only two people there, like he’d been waiting all day to do this, like winning the match was secondary to getting to kiss you. His hands cupped your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, and you forgot about everything except the feeling of his mouth on yours.
People were cheering. You could hear them, distant and muffled, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You just kissed him back, your hands fisting in his Quidditch robes to pull him impossibly closer.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. “That—” Jaemin said, thumbing sweat and hair from your cheek, “was the best part of the whole day. Actually, my entire bloody year.”
He kissed you again, quick and fierce, before setting you down.
The chaos of the pitch threatened to sweep you up—Haechan was flying mockingly around the dazed Ravenclaw Keeper, who looked two seconds away from swearing off Quidditch forever. Jeno was being hoisted onto someone’s shoulders while holding the Cup, still in his gear, a lopsided grin plastered across his face as a small army of younger Slytherins began a chant.
You barely had time to process anything before a dozen Slytherin hands were clapping you on the back, dragging you into the noisy throng. Jeno slung an arm around your shoulder, while Haechan bowed with the sort of exaggerated flourish only he could get away with.
“Oi, Y/N! You’re practically the Slytherin mascot at this point,” Haechan crowed, earning a fresh round of chanting. Jeno nodded and said, “We’ll need you at every match. Jaemin plays like he’s got something to prove when you’re here.”
Jaemin slipped an arm over your shoulders, fitting himself between you and Jeno. It wasn’t the casual sort of touch affectionate boyfriend would do but rather the kind of grip that signaled territorial intent, both “look at me” and “hands off, Lee Jeno.” Jeno raised his brows, smirked, and stepped back with a dramatic sigh as if to say, “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered.”
Jaemin lead you out of the crush, across the pitch, past the green-robed ruck of his teammates still shrieking and high-fiving each other senseless.
You found yourselves in the lee of the stands, momentarily invisible to the hooting masses. Jaemin bent over, hands braced on his knees, still catching his breath. The flushed tips of his ears glowed through sweated hair, and when he looked up at you, his eyes were shining, open, utterly unguarded.
“I’m sorry if that was too much,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “We agreed—no more public spectacles.” He grinned, sheepish and shameless at once.
You laughed. “That was entirely your fault. You were the one who just put on a whole air show out there.”
“Had to impress you,” he said, then he straightened, hands on your hips. “Did it work?”
The question was clearly rhetorical, but Jaemin’s voice always lilted up at the end, as if the answer mattered even if he already knew it. Your heart did the embarrassing somersault you’d tried to train it out of, and you could only nod, which made him gloat without mercy.
“Good,” he said, and tugged you in for another kiss, backgrounded by the muffled roar of the stadium and the granular crunch of pebbles underfoot.
Suddenly a broomstick whirred to a stop nearby and Jaemin loosened his grip on you, letting you sway back ever so slightly. You barely had time to school your features before Madam Hooch’s voice rang out.
“Na, what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing back here?” She hovered just above, her yellow hawk’s eyes narrowing as she took in the flush on your cheeks and the state of your hair. “This isn’t the broom shed, though you two seem determined to treat it as one. Save the snogging for after hours—if you must.”
A mortifying heat swept up your neck. Jaemin simply grinned at her. “Just appreciating my good luck charm, Professor.”
Madam Hooch sniffed, unimpressed. “If you’re quite finished, the rest of the team would like their Chaser back for the cup photo.”
She fixed you both with one last look that could have stripped paint from the stadium, then gestured briskly for Jaemin to join the others.
He shot you a look over his shoulder, and winked “I’ll meet you in a bit for the celebration”
As the door to the Slytherin common room opened, you were met with an emerald-hued wonderland teeming with giddy, flushed-faced revelers. It was like being inside a shaken bottle of champagne, the air practically fizzing with elation and an infectious sort of glee.
Despite wearing green, you felt distinctly out of place. Like a single rose petal that had somehow fluttered its way into a bouquet of silver-tipped ferns. But Jaemin’s hand was warm and sure in yours.
“Stick close,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost in this snake pit.”
“And here I thought you’d be eager to feed me to your housemates. Y’know, as a victory sacrifice.”
Jaemin’s laugh was a rich, dark thing, like molten chocolate. “Tempting. But I think I’ll keep you to myself a bit longer.”
The wicked glint of his gaze as he said those words made heat rush to your cheeks. But before you could think much of it, you were swept up in a whirlwind of backslaps and high fives, the team descending upon their star Chaser in a giddy mass of sweat-damp robes and Firewhisky-fueled cheer.
You found yourself passed from embrace to embrace, your hair mussed and your face peppered with exuberant kisses. It was overwhelming, dizzying, this sudden immersion into the tight-knit camaraderie of Jaemin’s world.
But through it all, his gaze never left you. Even as he was jostled and jolted by his teammates, his eyes remained locked on yours, a searing, steady connection that made your pulse stutter and your knees go curiously weak.
As the night wore on and the festivities showed no sign of waning, you found yourself gravitating closer and closer to Jaemin, drawn by some irresistible magnetism. The heat of so many bodies packed into the subterranean space, the buzz of one too many Butterbeers, the maddening drag of his fingers along the small of your back as he steered you through the crowd…it was all blurring together into a delicious haze.
And then you looked up at him in a sudden moment of perfect clarity amidst the chaos, and everything else simply…fell away. The noise, the crush of bodies, the very air seemed to shimmer and warp, narrowing down to the electric pulse of connection stretching taut between you.
In that suspended sliver of time, you knew with bone-deep certainty that there was no going back. No more pretending, no more lines in the sand. There was only this, only him, only the truth of what had been building between you from the moment this mad charade began.
You crashed together like colliding stars, mouths and hands and hearts falling into desperate alignment. Jaemin kissed like a man possessed, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and make a home there, and you matched him beat for beat, pouring months of pent-up longing and frustration and fierce, helpless wanting into the slant of your lips against his.
When you finally surfaced, gasping and glassy-eyed, Jaemin’s face swam into focus, his usually sharp features softened by a look of tenderness.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice a rasping, wrecked thing.
You could only nod, mute and dizzy with want, and let him lead you out of the common room and into the labyrinthine tangle of the dungeon corridors. You walked in silence, the only sound the ragged counterpoint of your breathing and the distant, muffled thump of music.
When he stopped at a stretch of unremarkable wall and began to pace, you knew with a jolt where he was taking you to The Room of Requirement.
Where else would one go to tumble headlong into inadvisable, paradigm-shifting passion?
Jaemin reached for the handle, but then he turned to you with a question in his eyes and an uncharacteristic hesitance in the set of his shoulders…you knew that stepping over this threshold would change everything.
“Y/N,” he said, and there was a whole universe of unspoken things layered into the shape of your name. “Are you sure…?”
“Jaemin,” you said. “Kiss me.”
In the next instant, his lips were on yours again, and you stumbled backward as the hidden door swung open. You didn’t spare a glance for the room that bloomed before you. Couldn’t focus on anything beyond the heat of Jaemin’s body against yours, the desperate, reverent drag of his hands over your curves. The room could’ve been an empty Quidditch pitch, for all you cared.
Every romance you’d ever read and even scoffed at came to life in that moment—the world receding, time slowing to a molasses crawl. There was only sensation, only feeling, only the drugging slide of his lips along your jaw, your throat, the dip of your collarbone.
Your pulse was fucking riotous. You’d talked yourself into this, hadn’t you? Marched up here on legs so wobbly you could’ve blamed the many stairs, convinced yourself you could handle it because it was Jaemin.
His calloused hands roamed with urgent purpose, fingers digging into your hips as he backed you against the nearest wall. He broke the kiss only to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought. You immediately turned to flame when his gaze tracked all over you. From your swollen lips, to your flushed cheeks, down to the way your chest stuttered with every shaky breath. His hands found your jaw. Steady, so steady.
“We can stop whenever you want to.” he murmured against your ear.
You managed a nod because your speech simply wasn’t coming. Every nerve was pulled taut with both anticipation and terror at the realization of what you were about to do for the first time in your life.
His fingers unclasped your bra carefully, and when the straps slid down your arms, you tried to fold into yourself, awkward and too aware of skin and imperfections. Jaemin’s eyes caught yours; they were dark but promising patience even as he bent to take your nipple in his mouth.
You arched into him, a gasp escaping as his teeth grazed your nipple. “Jaemin,” you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair to hold him there.
He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. His hand cupped your other breast, thumb rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting straight to your core. You’d never been touched like this before. There’d been secret snogs, awkward fumbles in broom closets that had never gone further than shirt buttons, never left you feeling more than flustered and underwhelmed. This was different.
Your body reacted in ways you hadn’t expected, hips twitching, thighs pressing together, the ache between your legs suddenly urgent and embarrassingly obvious. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing desperately. The sensation was almost alien, and you had to fight the impulse to cover yourself, to pull his hand away and to say wait, let me catch up.
Thoughts scattered in all directions. Was it supposed to feel this good? Did he know how much you were trembling? Could he tell this was your first time? Did he care? Did it matter? You worried you might be doing it wrong by making too much noise, arching too eagerly into his hands, looking foolish and overeager. But his gaze fixed on you, pupils blown, jaw tight with want.
He suddenly straightened, fingers smoothing back the hair from your face. “Hey,” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Still with me?”
You nodded, a little wild-eyed. “I—yeah. Sorry. I just—” You swallowed, eyes locking on the bland pattern of the carpet. “I haven’t…”
When you looked back up, his eyes flashed with a kind of darker satisfaction. “I know,” he murmured. “I thought so.” His hands slid down your waist. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”
You responded by tugging at his shirt, nails scraping against the hem until he chuckled low in his throat and let you have your way. He pulled back just long enough to strip it off, revealing the lean, muscled planes of his chest and abs. His sun-tanned skin bore the faint ghosts of bruises from Quidditch, a testament to the fact that he played rough today.
You stared shamelessly, hands twitching at your sides, before you finally gave in and mapped every line with your fingertips. The kiss that came next was messier, his tongue thrusting into your mouth in a rhythm that promised what was to come.
Jaemin's fingers worked at the button of your trousers, and you remembered with mortification that your knickers did not match your bra. Cool air hit your bare skin, but his body heat chased it away as he pressed closer, his clothed erection grinding against your thigh. You could feel how hard he was, the thick length straining against his trousers.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with desire. “I've wanted this for so long.” His hand slid between your legs, fingers parting your folds to find you already slick. He groaned at the discovery, circling your clit with his thumb while a finger pushed inside you, drawing out tiny sparks of pleasure. Hehen he slipped two fingers inside, your hips jerked in startled delight. He moved slow at first, letting you get used to the stretch, his other hand splayed over your hip, grounding you, steadying you.
You moaned, hips bucking into his hand as he pumped his fingers in and out, stretching you, preparing you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths. He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his thumb pressing firmer on your clit until you were trembling, on the edge.
“Merlin, remind me to–… to read a book on this before next time,” you blurted breathlessly.
Jaemin stilled, and for a second, you wondered if you’d killed the mood entirely. But then his mouth curved into a wolfish grin, and he pressed a slow kiss to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw.
“Oh, I think you’re doing just fine,” he murmured, voice gone gravelly. “But if you want me to demonstrate…”
He kissed a path down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to worship each new inch of skin revealed. It seemed like there was no part of you he didn’t want to learn. When his lips brushed the top of your breast, you gasped, the joke you’d been about to make dying on your tongue.
“Jaemin—what are you—?”
“Trust me,”
You whimpered in protest, but he silenced you with a kiss, guiding you toward the bed. He stripped off his own pants and boxers, his cock springing free, long and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Your eyes locked on it, pulse racing at the sight.
He pushed you down onto the soft sheets, following you immediately until his body was covering yours. His mouth trailed lower, kissing a path down your stomach to the apex of your thighs. He spread your legs wide, settling between them, and looked up at you with eyes dark with hunger. “I need to taste you.”
“Wait—” you started, nerves rearing again.
He glanced up. “I promise you’ll like this.”
Then his tongue flicked out, lapping at your core in one long stroke, and the sound you made barely qualified as human. He sucked your clit into his mouth, alternating with broad licks along your slit, his fingers returning to thrust inside you. The combination of his relentless tongue and his fingers fucking you deep and steady was overwhelming.
“Okay, wow, that’s—oh—bloody hell—”
Right. So. That was new.
In fairness, you thought you were reasonably experienced. You had been alone with yourself often enough. You knew what you liked, had your own routines abd methods. A careful system involving muffled pillows, and a great deal of optimistic trial and error.
This was definitely not that.
This was like discovering you’d been trying to play a symphony on a recorder and Jaemin had just sat down at a grand piano and casually dismantled your entire understanding of music.
Your hips rolled against his face instinctively, chasing the building pleasure. He held you down with one arm across your waist, not letting you escape the onslaught. You gasped, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably.
“Jaemin,” you gasped. “Please—”
You weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for.
For him to stop. For him to continue. For him to explain how this was happening. For him to never leave this exact position.
Suddenly he added another finger, and wow…. that was certainly not how it felt when you did it. It probably had to do with the fact that his fingers were way longer and he seemed to know what to do with them.
He hummed against you, the vibration along with his tongue and fingers enough to push you over. Your orgasm crashed through you and you clenched around his fingers as waves of pleasure ripped you apart. He didn't stop, licking you through it until you were shaking.
Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and a dumb smirk on his lips. “How was that?”
He looked far too smug for your liking, and you—who had spent years pretending to be unflappable—actually giggled. Like a third year after her first Butterbeer.
“It was—” Your cheeks burned. “Brilliant.”
His smile widened. “Alright. Just one more thing before we…” He trailed his wand through a complicated motion. The tip shimmered blue, a faint ring of light settling across your pelvis.
He caught your eye. “Contraceptive charm. Unless you’d rather I hexed my own bollocks off instead, but I hear Madam Pomfrey’s got enough on her hands.”
Another nervous laugh broke from your lips, but Jaemin just pressed a reassuring hand to your thigh and leaned in.
“Tell me to stop if you want to. I mean it.”
You shook your head, want eclipsing every doubt you had. “I want to,” you said, the words tumbling out so fast they nearly tripped over themselves. “I want you.”
Jaemin lined himself up and watched your face as he eased forward slowly. The stretch stung at first—your body fighting to accommodate the unfamiliar width. It hurt more than you’d expected.
Your walls stretched, burning, fluttering around him, the ache gradually giving way to a dizzying pressure as he bottomed out. He stayed perfectly still, forehead resting against yours, both of you shuddering through the intensity of it.
“Alright?” Jaemin asked thickly, as if it cost him everything not to move. A low groan escaped him as your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around his cock, the sensation clearly testing his control.
“Yeah, it’s just… a lot,” you admitted, your breath hitching.
He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hips twitching slightly despite his efforts to stay still. “Yeah, I know. I’m quite big.” The joke pulled a surprised giggle from you, the tension in your chest easing just a fraction. His eyes crinkled with warmth at the sight.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, a whimper threading through his words, his fingers digging into the sheets beside your head. “It—it’s taking everything not to just pound into you right now.”
He was flushed, hair damp with sweat, the strands sticking adorably to his brow and temples. His cheeks were tinged rose-pink, his jaw clenched tight as if the effort of holding himself back was an actual battle. His lips, swollen from kissing you, parted as he panted, every exhale ghosting warm across your face. A single bead of sweat trickled from his hairline, skimming down to the curve of his cheekbone. You couldn’t help but reach up, tracing it with a shaky finger. He caught your hand, pressing his lips to your palm, and the gentleness of it nearly undid you.
You’d never seen him look more beautiful. All that cockiness and swagger stripped away. This was just Jaemin, undone, desperate, trying to be gentle for your sake and barely managing.
A sudden warmth loosened in your chest, chasing away the last of your tension. You wanted this. The pain ebbed slowly, replaced by a deeper need. You shifted beneath him, hips rolling tentatively, and found the sting softened, yielding to a heady pleasure that made your toes curl.
“Merlin,” Jaemin groaned in response.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, focusing on the sensations: the fullness, the way your inner muscles clenched involuntarily around him, sending little sparks across your body. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the tense muscles under your fingertips, and you whispered, “Please Jaem, move.”
Jaemin pulled back slightly, just an inch or two, and pushed in again slowly. A deep groan rumbled from his chest at the drag, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Shit… so good,” he panted.
The motion made you gasp, the initial burn fading into a deliciously pleasant heat. He repeated it, shallow at first, giving your body time to adapt. Each gentle thrust coaxed a soft whimper from your throat, your nerves firing in ways you’d never even imagined. It wasn’t seamless or effortless like in the stories you’d read; there were awkward pauses, a slight shift when he slipped a bit, both of you chuckling breathlessly to ease the tension.
Then he started moving faster, pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in. Each stroke hit a perfect angle, his hips grinding against your clit with every push. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you harder.
The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, skin slapping against skin. Jaemin's hand found yours, lacing your fingers together as he drove into you, his eyes never leaving yours. There was tenderness in the way he held you, even as his pace turned brutal, chasing release.
“You’re doing so well, princess,” he murmured, brushing your temple.
A jolt of pleasure shot through you as the head of his cock nudged a deeper spot. “There… right there,” you breathed, your voice shaky but sure.
Jaemin pinned your hand above your head gently. His eyes bored into yours. “I’ve dreamed about this so many times,” he confessed between thrusts, voice punctuated by a whimper as your walls gripped him.
“Me too,” you breathed.
He released your hand to slip between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it slowly at first, matching the tempo of his hips, then faster as your moans grew louder. “Come on, let go for me… you’re so close, I can feel it,” he urged, his own groans growing more frequent.
The added friction served its intended purpose. Your orgasm built fast, coiling tight before exploding, your walls fluttering around his cock, milking him.
He followed you over the edge with a broken cry muffled against your neck, burying himself deep as he came. He collapsed onto you afterward, both of you panting, hearts pounding in that particular post-coital unison that poets find romantic and medical professionals find concerning. He stayed inside you as he softened, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You lay tangled in Jaemin's arms, limbs pleasantly loose from exertion and spine somewhat less pleasantly compressed by the world's most questionable mattress.
The Room of Requirement, in its infinite wisdom, had conjured a heap of velvet blankets to cover yourself with. You suspected Hogwarts's taste in romantic furnishings had been shaped by decades of adolescent fantasy and the castle's own flair for the dramatic. Regardless, your back ached, your hair was a catastrophe, and you found that you didn't mind at all.
Jaemin, for his part, seemed content to lounge beside you like a Renaissance painting of decadent youth, one hand idly tracing the curve of your hip beneath the sheet. It was all terribly calm—if you ignored the thunderous panic building in your own chest.
You propped yourself up on one elbow and regarded him in the low light. In repose, the sharp edges of him softened into the boy you now knew existed underneath all those sneers. You'd always been rather undone by his eyes, if you were being honest, but now, seeing them half-lidded and so unguarded, the usual sardonic glitter banked to embers, you felt something dangerous clawing its way up your throat.
Don't, warned the sensible part of your brain. Don't you dare.
"I love you," you said.
The words escaped before you had a chance to wrap them in plausible deniability or cushion them with caveats.
Jaemin went very still.
For one absurd, hopeful moment, you thought perhaps he simply needed a second to process. That was reasonable, wasn't it? People usually needed time to absorb emotional declarations. Any moment now, he'd turn to you with that devastating smile and say—
He rolled away. Sat up. And began an unhurried search for his shirt, which had vanished somewhere beneath the bed during earlier, more optimistic proceedings.
Ah.
Ah.
"Jaemin?" you ventured. Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.
He didn't turn around. His shoulders, you noticed, had gone rather tense. "It's getting late. We should probably head back to our dormitories."
Your heart, so stupidly full just moments ago, plummeted somewhere in the vicinity of your stomach. "What?"
"It's late," he repeated, to the floor, or perhaps to the shirt he'd finally located. "We have classes tomorrow. We should get some sleep."
You felt as though someone had upended a bucket of ice water directly over your head. You sat up, pulling the sheet around yourself with hands that had begun, rather inconveniently, to tremble. You'd been pleasantly naked in front of him not five minutes ago, and now you couldn't bear the exposure.
"Jaemin." You hated how small your voice had become. "Did you hear what I said?"
He finally looked at you. His expression had shuttered completely, all the warmth and softness of moments ago locked away behind those dark eyes.
"I heard you."
"And?"
He exhaled. "This... what we just did... it doesn't change anything." A pause. "We had an arrangement. A deal. It was never supposed to be more than that."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.
You stared at him, vision blurring treacherously, and thought: of course. Of course he didn't love you back. How could he? You were merely a solution to a problem. The fact that you'd been foolish enough to fall for your own charade—well. That was your fault entirely, wasn't it? No one to blame but yourself and your own ridiculous heart.
"Right," you heard yourself say. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was too—I'm sorry."
"Y/N..." He reached for you, and you flinched away so sharply you nearly toppled off the bed.
"No, it's fine." Your voice had gone brittle, the way it did when you were trying very hard not to cry. "You're absolutely right. We should go."
You stood on shaky legs and began gathering your scattered clothes with trembling hands. Your jumper had ended up draped over a candelabra, and you couldn't find your left sock, but you decided that you didn't care. You needed to leave. You needed to be anywhere but this room that had witnessed your greatest vulnerability and your most thorough humiliation.
Jaemin dressed in silence. His movements were impersonal, as if the tender lover of minutes ago was replaced entirely by a distant stranger pulling on his trousers like this was simply another Sunday. Perhaps, for him, it was.
When you were both clothed, he cleared his throat.
"I'll walk you back to—"
"I know the way," you interrupted, shoving your single sock gracelessly into your back pocket.
His jaw worked, as though he were chewing over some final, unsatisfying thought. You found you didn't want to hear it.
"Goodnight," you said finally.
You turned on your heel, crossed to the door, and walked out of the Room of Requirement with your chin held high and your heart in approximately seventeen thousand pieces, wishing desperately for a Time-Turner and the sense to use it.
You walked back to Gryffindor Tower in a daze, barely registering your surroundings. Your mind was reeling, trying to process the abrupt shift from blissful intimacy to cold rejection. You stumbled through the portrait hole, ignoring the Fat Lady's concerned look. Thankfully, the common room was empty at this hour. You stood there for a long moment, staring into the dying flames, feeling the weight of your own foolishness pressing down on you.
You'd let yourself imagine it, hadn't you? A future where this thing between you and Jaemin was something real. Something that would survive the end of your little arrangement, that would unfold into late-night conversations and stolen kisses in corridors and his hand finding yours under the table at breakfast. You'd let yourself believe it so thoroughly that you'd forgotten it was never real to begin with.
A beautiful lie. A fairy tale you'd spun for yourself, heedless of the inevitable unhappy ending that had been written into the story from the very first page.
And now you were alone in an empty common room at half past midnight, with nothing but the cold truth and the aching, echoing space in your chest where your heart used to be.
"Y/N? Is that you?"
You turned to see Jo descending from the dormitories. She was in her pajamas, hair piled in a messy bun, face still creased with sleep. But the moment she saw you properly, whatever drowsy inquiry she'd been planning died on her lips.
Her eyes went wide. Understanding flooded her features, followed swiftly by something fierce and protective.
"Oh, love," she breathed, and crossed the room in three quick strides to pull you into her arms. "Oh, no. What happened? What did he do?"
And that was all it took. The dam broke, and suddenly you were sobbing into her shoulder, great heaving gasps that shook your whole body. She held you tightly, stroking your hair, murmuring soothing nonsense as you cried.
"I t-told him I l-loved him," you managed between sobs. "And he... he just..."
"Shh, I've got you. Breathe."
"He said it didn’t change anything." You choked on the words. "That it was never supposed to be more than that. And I just—I stood there like an idiot—"
"You're not an idiot." Her arms tightened around you. "You're not. He's the idiot. He's a complete and utter prat, and I'm going to hex his bollocks off, see if I don't—"
A small, inquisitive mrrp interrupted the proceedings.
You both looked down. Whiskers had appeared from somewhere behind the sofa. He blinked up at you with large, knowing eyes, then began weaving between your ankles with pointed determination.
"Oh, Whiskers," Jo murmured. "Good boy. You tell her."
The cat, apparently agreeing that emotional support was required, rose up on his hind legs to bump his head against your knee. When that failed to produce adequate acknowledgment, he meowed again and began climbing your leg in pursuit of a better vantage point.
You laughed, it came out watery and hiccupping and rather awful, but it was a laugh nonetheless.
"See? He thinks Jaemin's a prat, too." Jo said solemnly, scooping Whiskers up and depositing him into the narrow space between you both. The cat immediately began purring and butted his head against your chin.
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, still trembling. "I feel so stupid, Jo. I knew this was how it would end. I knew from the beginning it wasn't real, and I just—I let myself—"
"Hey." Jo pulled back to look at you properly. "Falling in love isn't stupid. It's brave. Even when it's messy and terrifying and the other person is a monumental coward who doesn't deserve you."
"He's not…"
"He is." Her voice brooked no argument. "Anyone who looks at you the way he does and then pretends it's nothing? That's cowardice. That's someone too scared to admit what they feel, so they make you feel like you’re imagining it instead."
You opened your mouth to protest, because surely it wasn't like that, surely you'd simply misread everything, surely the fault was yours for wanting too much, but Jo cut you off.
"No. Don't do that. Don't even try to make excuses for him." She softened, just slightly. "I know you love him. And I know that doesn't just... switch off. But you deserve someone brave enough to love you back out loud, yeah?"
A fresh wave of tears came, because she was right. You did deserve that. And you’d thought, for a few perfect hours, that maybe you’d had it.
“I really thought he—” You couldn’t finish.
“I know.” Her voice was gentle. “I know you did. And maybe he does, somewhere under all that stupid hair. But maybe isn’t good enough.”
You pressed your face into Whiskers’s fur, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.
"Right," she continued. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit here, and you're going to let Whiskers work his magic, and you're going to cry as much as you need to. And tomorrow, we're going to eat an absolutely obscene amount of chocolate at breakfast, and you're going to ignore Na Jaemin so thoroughly he'll wonder if he's gone invisible. And if he tries to talk to you, I'll hex him. I’ve gotten really good at Bat-Bogeys."
"Jo, you will get detention."
"I don't care," she wasn't smiling anymore. "No one gets to make you feel like this and walk away unscathed. Not while I'm around."
You leaned into her, letting your head drop against her shoulder. Whiskers purred on.
"I really love him," you whispered. "Even after tonight. How pathetic is that?"
"It's not pathetic at all." Jo's voice caressed your heard, all the protective fury banked into comfort. "Love just doesn't care about timing, or logic, or whether the other person deserves it. It just is." A pause. "And for what it's worth? I don't think he's as unaffected as he's pretending to be. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."
You didn't answer. You weren't sure you believed her at all, to be honest. But you let her hold you, let Whiskers purr and let the fire burn down to ash while the ache in your chest slowly, slowly dulled to something almost bearable.
Jaemin had never felt more like a prat in his entire life.
No—that wasn't quite accurate. Prat implied mild social incompetence. A tendency to say the wrong thing at dinner parties, forgetting birthdays, laughing at funerals. The sort of harmless foolishness that people forgave with a fond eye-roll and a muttered oh, that's just Jaemin.
What he had done went rather spectacularly beyond that.
He had taken something fragile and rare, something most people spent their entire lives hoping to stumble across, and placed it directly under his own boot. Deliberately. With malice aforethought, or at least malice afore-panic, which hardly seemed better.
He had watched you gather every ounce of courage you possessed. Had felt you trembling against him, breath shallow, voice catching on the edges of words you clearly hadn't planned to say. You had offered him something honest and unguarded and terrifying in its vulnerability, and he had responded by retreating behind technicalities and arrangements like a child hiding behind a curtain and insisting, with full conviction, that he was invisible.
We had a deal.
Merlin. He wanted to reach back in time and throttle himself.
It was never supposed to be more than that.
What a thing to say. What an absolute masterwork of emotional cowardice, delivered with the sort of cool detachment that would've made his father proud. He could practically hear the old man now: Well done, son. Keep them at arm's length. Never let them see you bleed.
Coward.
That was the word. The only word that fit.
A coward with decent grades and a Quidditch record impressive enough to distract people from the fact that, emotionally, he possessed all the sophistication of a flobberworm. Less, actually. Flobberworms at least had the excuse of being invertebrates.
He replayed it in his head for the forty-seventh time that hour, the way your voice had softened when you said it. I love you. Three words, plain and graceles, tumbling out like they'd escaped against your will. Your fingers curling against the sheets and the tiny pause afterward—that breath of suspended time where you had waited for him to meet you there.
And he hadn't.
He had stood on the very edge of everything he'd wanted for six years—six years, which was roughly forty percent of his entire existence and one hundred percent of his adolescence—and he had convinced himself that stepping forward was more dangerous than falling back.
He had finally kissed the girl who'd haunted his thoughts since he was eleven years old and too stupid to understand why her insults made his chest feel strange. He had finally heard you say you loved him to his face, with your whole heart in your voice.
And instead of recognizing it for the bloody miracle it was, he had panicked.
As though being loved were a trap. As though affection were some elaborate con, and you were merely waiting for the right moment to spring it.
As though you, of all people—brilliant, stubborn, infuriatingly principled you—were something he needed protecting from rather than running toward.
He laughed under his breath. The sound came out thin and joyless, startling in the empty corridor.
Afraid of being loved.
Such a stupid thing to be afraid of. It ranked right up there with afraid of winning the Quidditch Cup or afraid of someone handing you precisely what you've desperately wanted and asking nothing in return.
He had spent years wanting your attention.
Years engineering excuses to speak to you, picking fights in the corridors because negative attention was still attention, stealing your quills, hexing your textbooks, memorizing your class schedule so he could accidentally-on-purpose cross your path between classes.
He had told himself this behavior came from an innocent rivalry or perhaps even house pride, just the natural antagonism between Slytherin ambition and Gryffindor recklessness.
He had watched you from across the Great Hall, the way you laughed with Jo, the way you chewed your quill when you were thinking, the way the light caught your hair in the morning, and convinced himself it was harmless curiosity. Academic interest. The detached observation of a worthy opponent.
What a spectacular amount of bollocks he had fed himself.
He had wanted you persistently. Recklessly, in a way that would've horrified his younger self, who had been very committed to the aesthetic of cool indifference.
And when he finally had you, when you were warm and real and trusting in his arms, when you'd given yourself to him completely and then offered your heart on top of it like some undeserved gift—
He had recoiled.
Because being loved meant being seen.
It meant showing up. Being present. Letting someone witness all the parts of himself he usually kept buried under six layers of charm and sarcasm and ambition. It meant responsibility. Knowing that someone else's happiness was now tangled up in his own choices, his own failures, his own capacity to be something more than the sum of his defense mechanisms.
He had spent years telling himself he was being sensible.
Protecting people, he'd called it. Keeping them safe. As though his emotional unavailability were some sort of public service, a kindness he performed by keeping parts of himself locked away where they couldn't do damage.
He lived by three rules: feelings were liabilities, distance was safety, and caring too much was the fastest way to hand someone a weapon and hope they didn't use it.
It had been easy to believe that, growing up in a house where affection came with conditions and approval came with expectations. Where love had always been something that could be revoked at any moment—a privilege, not a given. A reward for good behavior, withdrawn the instant you failed to meet the mark.
So he'd learned early how to ration himself. How to care quietly, in ways that couldn't be measured or weaponised. How to want without asking. How to feel without admitting it, even to himself.
And it had worked. For years, it had worked.
He had been fine. Perfectly content in his carefully constructed fortress of emotional self-sufficiency.
Until you.
You, who had looked at his defenses not as walls to be respected but to be climbed. Who had called him out on his nonsense and refused to be impressed by his posturing and seen through him with a clarity that terrified him.
You had dismantled his entire system without even trying.
And now you were crying in the Gryffindor common room, probably being comforted by Jo who rightfully thought he was the worst sort of person, while he stood alone in a dark corridor with nothing but the wreckage of his own making for company.
He pressed his palm flat to his chest, as if he might physically restrain the ache there.
It didn't work. The ache remained, steady and insistent, a bruise that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He had been given exactly what he wanted and he had thrown it away because he didn't believe he was allowed to keep it.
Because somewhere deep in the foundations of himself, in all the places his parents' voices still echoed, he had decided that love was not something people like him got to have. Not permanently. That wanting something too much was the surest way to lose it, and the safest course was to let go before it could be taken.
He had pre-empted his own heartbreak.
And in doing so, he had guaranteed it.
The realization settled over him slowly, and Na Jaemin—Slytherin Prefect, Quidditch star, heir to a name that opened doors across the wizarding world—had never felt more utterly, unforgivably small.
He thought of you, somewhere in Gryffindor Tower, believing you had been foolish to love him.
And he thought: No.
The only fool here is me.
Jaemin spent the next few days turning it over. You saying those three words and him saying it didn’t change anything. What a lie. It changed everything and he could feel every new fault line spider out beneath his feet, threatening to split him open.
At first, he tried to convince himself he needed this: to have the edge. He thought of the next two weeks as a sprint, a countdown to the end of the deal, a chance to reset before anyone saw how scrambled he’d become. But the more he tried to hold that line, the more he found himself drifting. A wordless longing in his veins, a kind of hunger not easily starved out.
He looked like hell at breakfast. Sungchan greeted him with a commence-the-mocking whistle and immediately began recounting every detail of the party—especially the part where Jaemin had “dragged his girlfriend off like the end of a Victorian bodice-ripper and nobody saw either of them again until morning.”
Jaemin grunted in response. He’d hoped that the Slytherin table’s perpetual ruckus would drown out his mood, but word had apparently traveled at broomstick speed that he and his Gryffindor paramour had disappeared into the night and returned separately.
“Did you see Y/N?” Giselle asked, low-voiced as she slid onto the bench next to him. “She didn’t come down yet. Jo said something about a headache, but you know what that usually means.”
Jaemin played dumb. It was one of his most reliable talents. “Hangover?”
Giselle’s lips thinned into an unimpressed line. “Try again.”
He almost managed a laugh. “What, mid-semester flu, then?”
Changmin leaned across the table to whack him on the forearm. “Knock it off. You know what she means.”
For a second, Jaemin's lip curled with the beginning of a sneer. Then he caught the genuine concern in Changmin's eyes, and something in his chest constricted painfully. He knew he was being intolerable, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Besides, when had his friends developed this sudden interest in your wellbeing? Just weeks ago, they'd barely concealed their disdain whenever your name came up.
He shrugged. “Didn’t realize you lot were so invested in her.”
Sungchan, mouth full of toast, said, “Are you thick? She’s basically our in-law now.”
Giselle, who had never in her life let a moment of vulnerability pass unremarked, pinned him with a look sharp enough to cut. “Stop pretending you don’t care,” she said quietly. “It’s pathetic.”
Jaemin tried to brush it off, but her words dug in. The table fell into a brief, uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the scrape of utensils and the dull roar of the rest of the Hall. His eyes betrayed him, sweeping across the Great Hall in search of your face. It was four minutes to the start of first period when you appeared, rumpled as a stray leaflet, hair yanked into a bun with a quill, the red in your eyes unsoftened by any attempt to conceal it. You didn’t look in his direction. Not even once.
Jo steered you to a seat as far from the Slytherin table as possible, and for the first time in living memory, you didn’t have a book open with breakfast. You just sat there, picking at a single triangle of toast, the very opposite of the person he’d chased across the halls for half a decade.
He watched you, hating himself for it but unable to stop. Any moment now, you’d look up with a tiny smile and mouth, “What are you looking at?” and the axis of his world would correct itself by one degree. Instead, you slipped out before the first bell.
At least he was reliably consistent. Second period hadn't even started and Jaemin had orchestrated a trinity of fleeting, meticulously planned collisions. He'd spent the first break loitering by the Charms corridor, just to see your profile as you debated something with Jo. You never saw him. Or if you did, you made a point of acting as if he were invisible—a feat that, for someone as volatile as you, must have taken immense restraint. Still, his pulse hammered at the mere proximity, the knowledge that you occupied the same ten-meter radius.
Then, after Defense, he'd shadowed your route to the library, walking the long way around just so he could pass you by the statue of Dymphna the Dazed. He’d spent so many hours studying your gait, the bounce in your step, the way you always fiddled with your wand as you walked that he could predict, to the second, when you'd arrive at the oak doors. The actual moment was almost an anticlimax, though: You breezed right past, not even a flicker of recognition in your gaze.
By the time he wandered into the stacks, he’d convinced himself that running into you was serendipity and not the carefully plotted vector of a moth to its own funeral pyre. He saw you perched at the edge of a reading table, surrounded by towers of books and an aura of such prickly concentration that even Madam Pince hovered before daring to approach. He pretended like he needed something from the Potions section, just adjacent to your fortress of solitude, but when you looked up and caught him standing there, he nearly dropped his armful of textbooks.
But you simply returned to your reading, jaw tight, quill moving in furious dashes. The rejection was as comprehensive as any hex, and it landed him two rows over, staring blankly at a shelf of moldy periodicals and trying to pretend his hands weren't shaking.
This was how the day went: Jaemin planning collisions, you dodging each one with exactness. He wondered if you knew you could destroy him just by looking his way.
You didn’t bite either way. You only spoke once to him, and it was to offer one brittle “Excuse me” as you slid past. He caught a whiff of your hair then and realized he’d missed that scent. It filled his head, left him dizzy. He didn’t turn around as you disappeared down the aisle. He only stood there, polysyllabic apologies crowding the back of his tongue—and not a single one fit to say aloud.
You knew the aftermath would be the hardest part, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the days that followed. They stretched out, elastic and punitive, filled with silences so loud you imagined they could split the castle at its seams.
In a fit of what you would later call “productive despair,” you doubled down on your schoolwork. Every study hour became a refuge, your textbooks a bulwark against thinking. Whiskers responded to your newly-acquired hermitage by laying siege to your lap at all hours, claws lightly sheathed, tail flicking in his sleep like he was chasing the very feelings you’d tried to outrun.
You became an expert at avoiding Jaemin. You timed your arrivals to classes, hung back until the corridors thinned, and made peace with the fact that every now and then, you’d have to let a Slytherin Prefect dock you house points for lateness. Sometimes it was even Jaemin himself; he’d hand you the slip with his eyes fixed somewhere behind your left ear.
Even the Slytherin first years who’d once delighted in blocking your path seemed to shrink away from the tableau, as if the story of your heartbreak had filtered down through the stone like cold water, softening even the nastiest traditions.
Jo, goddess among friends, never pressed. She introduced you to a new array of comfort snacks and developed a proprietary cocoa recipe that she claimed could “reanimate a troll.” She helped you with Charms and let you rant about nothing in particular. When you occasionally faltered—when your hand shook during practicals or you lost your place reading out loud in History of Magic—she’d bump your knee under the desk and say, “We’re almost there, kitten. Keep your chin up.”
You kept your chin up. It hurt but you did it, because Jo was watching, and because Whiskers was watching, and because you refused to let him have any more of your dignity than you’d already handed over.
Four days before the end of the arrangement, your N.E.W.Ts loomed like a darkening storm. You’d just finished revising for Arithmancy when Jo spoke, “We’re doing a girls’ night tonight. No arguments.” She produced two vials of Smuggler’s Pumpkin Spice Spirit (questionable provenance) and a deck of Exploding Snap. “And we’re inviting Yuna.”
You nearly choked. “Yuna?”
Jo nodded seriously. “I saw her crying in the North Tower last Tuesday. She needs it. We need it. Besides, she’s been relentlessly normal lately.”
The idea felt so surreal that you couldn’t bring yourself to object. At exactly ten, Yuna appeared outside your dormitory, balancing a tray of suspiciously glittery shot glasses. She wore pajamas patterned with tiny cats and a hesitant smile, both of which seemed calculated to defuse ancient hostilities.
The three of you sprawled on the floor of the dormitory. You, cross-legged and trying not to look like your entire emotional landscape was scorched earth; Jo, already red-cheeked and deploying her patented “I’m-not-drunk-you’re-drunk” strategy; and Yuna, who poured drinks for everyone.
The first round was vile. The second was marginally less vile, or perhaps your tongue had simply given up. After a few more, your nerves had been numbed enough that you no longer cared if anyone brought up the name “Jaemin”. Or maybe you wanted them to.
Eventually, Jo passed out. She did so with Whiskers pillowed on her belly and her arms flung overhead.Yuna watched her for a long, pensive moment. Then she poured each of you one last shot and raised hers in a slightly wobbly toast. “To stupid boys,” she said. “And to the girls surviving them.”
You clinked glasses. The spirit went down like molten pudding and settled somewhere near your spleen.
A companionable silence fell, the pleasant, boozy sort that felt safe enough to say things you would otherwise never let see daylight.
Yuna was the first to break it.
“He’s terrible at hiding it, you know,” she said. “Jaemin.”
You blinked. “What?”
“What he wants,” Yuna clarified. “It’s…not subtle.” She swirled her shot glass, watching the dregs coat the glassy bottom. “I think he makes things hard for himself, but harder for the people he cares about.” She flicked her gaze up. “And you must know. You’re the only one he’s ever actually cared about.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “I think you’re mixing up ‘care’ with ‘use as a convenient shield for his own problems.’”
Yuna’s expression shifted to puzzled. “Convenient shield?”
You blinked at her, a little dizzy, a little stunned that Yuna, one of Slytherin’s most preternaturally well-informed gossip, didn’t already know every miserable detail. “You—oh, come on. The arrangement.” You mimed air quotes with your fingers, nearly upending your glass in the process. “We only did this to get you off his bloody back.”
Yuna opened her mouth to say something,but then just burst out laughing. Not even a sly titter but a full-throated snort that startled Whiskers off Jo’s belly and into an escape beneath the bed.
“Oh—oh, Merlin’s balls—” Yuna gasped, clutching her ribs. “You—wait, you actually believed—oh, this is precious.”
You felt yourself flush with irritation. “What’s so funny? That you lost your shot at Jaemin?”
“No, you adorable idiot, not that.” Yuna shook her head, wiping away a tear of mirth. “Are you serious? I’ve only ever talked to Jaemin because he’s Changmin’s best friend, and Changmin—well…”
She trailed off, her cheeks going very pink, then, as if you weren’t present at all, she laid her head back against the bottom bunk and stared at the ceiling, a contented smile on her lips.
You waited for more context, a swirl of confusion tangling up your tongue. There was a thud as Whiskers landed on the foot of the bed, followed by the faintest prickle of claws as he padded up beside you.
Finally, the implication of her words hit your tipsy brain. “Wait. You’re not—I mean. You weren’t even—?”
“Into Jaemin?” Yuna finished for you. “Merlin, no. Not since third year at least—and even then, only in the way you want a new pair of boots.” She shrugged, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “He’s nice to look at, but a nightmare to date. Total self-saboteur.” She glanced at you, curious. “You really thought I was after him?”
You felt lightheaded. “I mean you were everywhere—”
“I was following Changmin, you dolt.” Yuna’s face went even pinker if possible. “I set this whole thing up to make him jealous. I mean, it worked, he finally asked me to Hogsmeade, but—” she broke off, suddenly shy. “Sorry for the collateral damage. Truly.”
You stared at her, the pieces of the last months threatening to explode through the air. All that plotting, the drama, every humiliating emotional contortion you’d endured, and all this time…
Jaemin hadn’t been fighting off Yuna. He’d just, what?
Did he just want an excuse to be near you, because he was pathologically incapable of admitting how much he needed it, even to himself? Every ounce of dignity you'd sacrificed, every moment of your life spent embroiled in this nonsense, and the object of his supposed self-sacrifice had been pining for Changmin the entire time.
You took a long, bracing inhale, thumping your head once hard against the edge of the bed frame.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
Yuna, to her credit, had the decency not to gloat. She nudged Whiskers toward you. “He’s always liked you, you know,” she said. “Even before. He used to ask me how to get you to stop hating him, like I had some kind of… girl code manual.”
You eyed her. “Did you?”
Yuna nodded, propping her chin on her knees. “I told him to try being honest for once. Clearly, he didn’t listen.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
“You know, out of everyone, I think you’re the only person who makes him utterly lose his composure. He’s usually… impossible to fluster. Kind of his thing. But around you it’s like—you light a match and throw it into his brain.”
“Well, I certainly managed to set something on fire,” you said, and surprised yourself with a half-laugh. “Just not in any useful way.”
Yuna scooted a little closer, lowering her voice. “I know you probably don’t want my advice, but… maybe give him a chance to fix it. He’s genuinely bad at this stuff.” She shrugged. “You don’t have to forgive him, but if you’re waiting for him to say the right thing, you might be waiting forever.”
Her words slotted into place in your exhausted brain, like the last piece of a hopelessly complicated puzzle. Horrible, giddy amusement bubbled up your chest: all this time, you’d been fighting the wrong war, arming yourself against an enemy who’d never even taken the field.
You left Jo and Yuna asleep in each other's arms, Whiskers curled into a protective gray-striped crescent at the foot of the bed. Every portrait squinted with suspicious half-lidded eyes, and every suit of armor clattered medieval disapproval as you ran past them.
You didn't think much about where you were going, but the probability was as precise as Divination could ever muster: the Slytherin common room. Because if there was a single neuron left swimming in your firewhisky-addled brain, it was firing like a desperate flare directly toward Na Jaemin.
You padded soundlessly through the dungeons, fingertips trailing along the cool stone walls for balance, only to round a corner and nearly collide with a tall silhouette legging it up from the other direction. Jaemin, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours, shirt untucked with three buttons misaligned, and eyes wild as a cornered hippogriff, skidded to a halt so abrupt you both nearly toppled over.
You just stood there, staring, every cell in your body screaming and also quite possibly vibrating. Through the haze of fatigue and shame and liquor, you registered every heartbreakingly specific detail of him: the spike in his breathing, the way he braced one hand against the wall as if he needed it to hold up the rest of him, the deep crease between his eyebrows that only appeared when he was actively terrified.
The words queued up, fighting to be first out. “I—” “Listen—” “Can we—” “Please—”
A jumble, then an accidental harmony: “I need to talk to you.”
For one second, you considered turning around and running. But the way Jaemin looked at you pinned you to the spot.
He spoke first. “Come to the broom closet? I think I saw Mrs Norris nearby, which means… ”
“Filch,” you finished for him. “Okay, let’s go.”
You followed him in silence, down the corridor to the oversized closet that Slytherins had used for centuries to hide everything from illicit liquor to first-year snoggers. He held the door open, then closed it behind you, which left you not even three feet apart.
Jaemin propped his back against the door and exhaled so slowly it sounded like the last breath of a dying man. You tried not to notice that his hands were shaking. Or that he looked, for all his composure, completely lost. “I, um.” He looked down at his own shoes. “Y/N, I fucked up.”
You blinked. You’d come here to yell, maybe. Or at least to interrogate some truths out of him, like why he had so thoroughly detonated your entire sense of self. But he’d opened with the guilt and you weren’t ready for it. Unpracticed, unbuffered by the ice of pride or wit. It landed inside you with an unexpected warmth that left you unable to launch the first missile of your prepared invective.
He tried again. “I said things I didn’t mean. Or… didn’t say things I was supposed to.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, and for the first time in your long and bitter acquaintance, he looked his age. Not the chiseled, archvillain Slytherin but a seventeen-year-old boy who’d just spent the last week eating his own heart.
You pressed your back to the shelving, feeling a bristle of ancient brooms poking into your shoulder. It was easier to focus on the physical discomfort than the absolute riot of feelings inside you. “Why did you do it, then?” you asked, voice trembling but louder than you felt. “Why pretend? Why go through all of it if you didn’t—”
He looked up then, and the world stopped. You'd always known Jaemin had pretty eyes, almost stupidly so, but you'd never seen them this stripped of showmanship. There was nothing left in them but the need to be understood.
He ran both hands through his hair, almost laughing at himself. “Growing up, love was like a… currency. My parents, they’d dole it out in rations, make you earn it, then yank it away when you needed it most. Every hug, every ‘I’m proud of you’—it was an investment, and nothing was free. I don’t want to do that.”
He broke off, looking at you as if every word took a year off his life. “But then you—fuck, Y/N, you just loved me. Out loud. Not because you had to, or because I earned it, but because you wanted to. And I didn’t know what to do with that, so I panicked and did what I always do, which is ruin things before they can ruin me.”
You might have laughed, if it hadn’t stung so much. “You could’ve just said it back, you know. Or at least not torched me on the way out.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I do. I just—” He exhaled again and met your gaze. “I actually love you so much, and it scares me so bad I’d rather light the whole thing on fire than tell you to your face.I thought if you ever knew, if you ever saw how fucking much it was, you’d run for the hills. I was scared.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m still scared.”
You stared at him, the old defenses rising out of habit—sarcasm, skepticism, the impulse to twist anything freely given—but something in his voice made them shrivel away. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t even posturing. He was sweating through his shirt in a freezing stone corridor, admitting in the most un-Slytherin way possible that he wanted something enough to break himself for it.
He took a faltering step toward you. “I love you. I love you so much it makes my head hurt, and every time you look at me, I feel like I’m being given something I’m not allowed to keep. You’re so smart, brilliant really, you make everything feel less small and stupid, and I like how you argue even when you know you’re wrong, and sometimes I go out of my way just to hear you laugh at me, because when you do it I feel like maybe I’m not a total waste of oxygen—”
He broke off, eyes wild and shining. “You make me better, from the inside out. And I was so terrified that if you ever saw the real me—if I let you in even a little—I’d ruin it. Or you’d hate me.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “But I ruined it anyway,didn’t I?”
You listened in shock, because this was the Jaemin you’d believed existed only at the very edges of his brittle, cocky mask. The one who’d made a study of you, who’d learned all your favorite spells and matched your every move. You weren’t sure you knew how to reply. The gravity of his confession pressed you to the wall.
"I'm not going to say it was fine," you whispered, voice cracking. "It felt like you'd reached inside my chest and—" You pressed a trembling hand to your sternum. "God, Jaemin. I couldn't breathe for days. But even then, I never—" Your voice broke completely. "I never really hated you. Not even when I probably should've."
He breathed out. “You’ve no idea how much I wanted you to hate me properly. Would’ve made everything simpler.”
“Why spend all that time and effort in this charade? You could've just been honest... You had no idea how I would take it.”
He squeezed the bridge of his nose as if the pain of the question might physically rupture his skull. “Because I didn’t know how else to have you, and I thought the only way you’d let me close was if it was an act.”
You wanted to spit something cruel, but it collapsed against the lump in your throat. “You incredible, galloping idiot,” you said instead, mostly to yourself.
You were about to speak again when he slipped a hand inside the folds of his robes. A familiar spine emerged, its dark leather cover worn soft across the creased corners, the gold lettering faintly dulled by time.
Wuthering Heights.
It was the very copy you’d pressed into his hand weeks ago, at Tomes and Scrolls, half in jest. You’d expected him to snort and set it aside unread, or skim a few florid passages, shrug, and call it melodramatic nonsense. But now its pages were dog-eared, edges curling; a thin gold ribbon marked a specific chapter. The paper around it was so softened that you could almost see the imprint of fingertips pressed into the margins—tiny scrawled notes in cramped handwriting, evidence of long, late-night wrestling matches with Emily Brontë’s tempestuous souls.
Jaemin’s fingers trembled as he thumbed to the ribboned page. He cleared his throat, that quiet catch sounding louder in the hush around you, and lifted his gaze. The brown of his eyes locked onto yours so fiercely your ribs felt oddly vulnerable, as if he were staring right through your chest. Then, he began:
“Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stared at the book, at the margin notes, at the little crease in the paper where he’d returned again and again.
“You read it,” you whispered shakily. “You actually read it.”
He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear and offered you a shy, sheepish smile. “I got about three pages in and thought, ‘This is the most overwrought melodramatic nonsense I have ever encountered and she’ll never let me live it down if I admit I liked it.’”
Your breath caught, and you laughed softly. “So the Slytherin prince secretly studies Muggle love tragedies for—what? Sport?”
“For you.” His words fell simple and straight, but you saw in the tense set of his shoulders how much it cost him. “I remembered what you once said. That words could be more powerful than any spell. That some stories could make you feel things magic never touches.” He swallowed, eyes flicking away for only an instant. “I wanted to understand. I wanted to see the world the way you do. Even if… even if you never spoke to me again, I needed something of how you think.”
Your throat tightened around all the things you wanted to say.
“I love you,” he said suddenly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. I’ll resign as a Prefect, stop dining in the Great Hall… never speak to you again, if that’s how it has to be—”
“Jaemin—”
“And if you think I’m not worth the effort, if you find some sensible bloke that's smarter and more emotional available instead of—” He gestured at himself “—a stupid prick with a habitual avoidance of feelings, that’s fine too, I unders—”
“Jaemin.”
He stumbled to silence, eyes wide, braced for your anger or dismissal. Instead, you stepped forward. “I think,” you said softly, “I’d rather take my chances with a Slytherin who panics at his own heart.”
His whole face broke into a tentative, trembling smile that brightened by the second, like dawn’s first light spilling over the lake.
“You don’t hate me, then?”
“Oh, I do,” you teased, closing the distance between you. “Just not enough to stop wanting to kiss you.”
He laughed a breathless, disbelieving sound that left him momentarily speechless. “That’s… a very low bar.”
“It’s the bar you set,” you said, reaching up to smooth the crease by his temple. “I’m just acknowledging it.”
He was so close now you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the restless hours he’d spent reading. His breath hitched, and his fingers, still warm around your forearm, shook.
“One condition.”
“Anything.”
“No more schemes. No more elaborate lies to keep me close. If you want something from me, you ask. And if you ever feel like sabotaging yourself again, you write it in a journal like every other teenager, and you keep me out of it.”
His eyes shone with relief and determination. “Deal. I swear it. Honest to Merlin, I’ll be so transparent you’ll beg me to tell a little white lie.”
“Unlikely.” You tousled his hair affectionately.
“I’ll be boring and straightforward and—”
“Now you’re just making things up.”
“—and I’ll read every book you recommend, even the ones you hate, so at least we can hate them together. I’ll tell you if I’m scared instead of running away, and I’ll—”
“Jaemin.”
He stopped and blinked up at you, a hopeful question in his gaze.
“Shut up and come here.”
He closed the last few inches between you, cupping your face as if it were made of spun glass. His thumbs traced the damp paths of your tears, his eyes pleading.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the soft curve of your lips. “For all of it—for the lies, the running, the… spectacular emotional incompetence. I’m so sorry.”
You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. “I know.”
He drew a shaky breath. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”
You pressed your forehead to his “I will.”
"Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Already there."
And then, finally, his mouth found yours.
The kiss was unhurried. A little clumsy. Both of you slightly out of practice with each other, slightly hesitant, slightly afraid this might still evaporate if you moved too fast.
But it was real.
You could taste the years of wanting and the weeks of pretending and the days of heartbreak. The sharp edge of pain, slowly dulling. The first green shoots of something that might, given enough time and care, grow into something lasting.
You smiled against his lips. Let your fingers curl into the collar of his robes. Kissed him back with every ounce of mortifying hope you'd sworn you'd bury.
There was nothing staged here. Only the press of his mouth saying yes and sorry and I love you and please, over and over, until the words became simpler.
Stay, his kiss said. Stay, and I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it.
When you eventually separated, both breathing heavily, your foreheads touched.
"Let's see how long it takes you to mess this up," you murmured.
He laughed, eyes bright with joy. "Reckon I've got until dinner at best."
"Don't push your luck."
You kissed him once more, simply because it was possible. Because you wanted to. Because for five endless days you'd believed this door closed forever, and now finding it open seemed too precious to ignore.
Gossip would explode anew, inevitably. By evening meal, whispers would spread about you two emerging from an empty classroom, looking thoroughly kissed. By morning, a dozen conflicting stories would circulate. Within a week, the castle's most creative rumormongers would have you practically married.
But in this moment—his hand entwined with yours, his smile against your temple, your future sketched in pencil rather than vanishing ink—the entire castle seemed beautifully uncomplicated.
For a pair of hopeless liars, it made for a surprisingly honest beginning.
summary: after mysteriously traveling to the past, y/n meets yeonjun—a boy she was never meant to love. bound by time and torn by fate, they fall for each other knowing their days are numbered.
warnings: grief, trauma, memory loss, mentions of death, emotional distress, hospital scenes, crying, found family, soulmates au.
notes: i recently watched the girl who leapt through time and, as someone who’s always been obsessed with the idea of time travel, i couldn’t stop thinking about it. it left me with that nostalgic ache only stories like that give. so i decided to write my own version of a time-travel romance, loosely inspired by the movie’s premise. i’ve also always had a soft spot for stories set in the late 80s or 90s—there’s something so emotionally raw about that era, so this felt like the perfect blend of everything i love. this fic is very dear to me. i hope it makes your heart ache in the best way.
wc: 19,6k💀💀💀
seoul, 2017.
your last year of high school. new city. new house. same mother.
you spend the entire afternoon unpacking. the house smells like fresh paint and floor polish. the sound of cars and distant sirens floats through the open window as you fold clothes into drawers and pull books out of boxes with quiet precision. your mother’s already out—work, of course.
it’s always work.
you’re halfway through arranging your bookshelf when you notice the small box, shoved at the very back of your closet.
it’s dusty, floral, and closed with a delicate pink ribbon, now faded and fraying at the edges. you pause, frown. you don’t remember packing anything like this.
you hesitate.
but curiosity wins.
you open it slowly, careful not to rip the ribbon. Inside: old letters, photos, movie tickets, and folded stationery that still smells faintly of perfume. you realize this isn’t yours. these are your mother’s things.
you sit down on the floor, cross-legged, and let yourself explore.
among the old documents, tucked inside a faded envelope yellowed by time, you found something unexpected—a marriage certificate.
the paper was brittle, edges frayed and stained with age, but the writing was still legible in parts. your mother’s name was printed clearly: choi nari, written in graceful hangul beside the box labeled bride. but your eyes were drawn to the space marked groom. the name there had been violently scratched out, covered in thick black ink, as if someone had been desperate to erase it.
you remembered, vaguely, a moment from your childhood—your mother once muttering that your father had changed his name to sever ties with his family, something about an inheritance, disapproval, a scandal she never fully explained. the only clue left on the torn paper was a partial surname at the bottom—just enough to read: “...bin.” the rest was lost. after his death, your mother had legally reclaimed her maiden name, kim, burying his memory under years of silence. but now, holding this document in your hands, the pieces began to tremble in your chest—uncertain, unresolved.
the letters are written in your mother’s neat cursive, signed with hearts. there are photos, grainy and sun-kissed, showing young faces in school uniforms laughing in courtyards, holding umbrellas in the rain, posing with peace signs.
you start flipping them, one by one. no names. just dates on the back.
until you find the last one.
it’s your mom. her hair is longer, parted and soft around her face. she’s wearing a high school uniform, standing with a boy slightly taller than her. his hands are clasped behind his back. they aren’t touching—but the tension between them feels real. tender. almost sacred.
you turn the photo over.
March 15th, 1991 – my first love, Choi Soobin.
your breath catches.
you read the name again.
choi soobin?
you’ve never heard that name before. not once. and your mother doesn’t just forget names—she erases them. just like your father. just like everything else.
you slide the picture back into the box, hands slightly trembling, and stash the whole thing deep in the back of your closet. you don’t throw it away. no—you’re not ready for that.
you want to ask her.
but you’ll wait for the right time.
one week later...
that night, you come home late from another day of school. it wasn’t terrible, just... lonely. your new classmates were polite but distant. you introduced yourself with a fake smile, laughed at the right moments. you’re good at pretending.
the place is quiet. too quiet.
dinner is quiet.
you sit at the kitchen island in an oversized hoodie, legs tucked up on the stool, hair still damp from the shower. a reheated bowl of rice and kimchi stew steams in front of you, but you’re not really hungry. you scoop at it absentmindedly as the soft glow of the television flickers across the small living room.
the news is on.
the anchor’s voice is calm, too calm for the words she’s saying.
"today marks the 25th anniversary of one of the country’s most devastating railway accidents... the train, traveling from seoul to incheon, derailed shortly in the afternoon, resulting in the death of all passengers aboard. rescue efforts lasted several days. one individual was never found."
your chopsticks freeze mid-air.
the image that flashes on screen—a twisted rail line, charred metal, grieving families—makes your stomach twist. you swallow hard, suddenly nauseous.
"how awful…" you whisper to yourself.
etched in the corner of the grainy footage was the date of the tragedy: november 12th, 1992.
a strange, unexplainable ache blooms in your chest. It lingers for a second too long.
you grab the remote.
click.
click again.
cartoons fill the screen—bright, loud, ridiculous. a character falls face-first into a pie. you force a laugh and shove a spoonful of rice into your mouth, but the food tastes like paper.
you pretend it’s fine.
you pretend everything is fine.
the door clicks open.
you turn your head.
your mother walks in, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, blouse crisp, makeup untouched despite the hour. she always looks like she’s heading into court—even at 9 p.m.
she doesn’t say hello.
she walks straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pulls out the container of stew. you watch her in silence as she spoons food into a bowl and places it in the microwave, her back turned to you.
when she finally faces you, she raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"what’s with the face?" she asks, blunt as always.
you blink, then smile nervously.
"i found something today. while unpacking."
her hands stop. just for a second.
"it was this box. really cute. floral. tied with a ribbon. it was buried in my stuff, but it wasn’t mine. i think it was yours."
you pause.
"there were letters… photos. one of them caught my eye. you were in your school uniform, next to this guy. you looked… happy. it had a date on the back. march 15th, 1991."
you smile, hesitant.
"it said… ‘my first love.’”
your mother straightens up slowly, staring at you with an expression you can’t read.
"you went through my things?"
"it was in my things. i thought it was mine at first, i just—"
"you shouldn't go through what isn't yours."
her voice is ice.
"you had no right to open that."
"it was in my room!"
"it wasn’t yours!"
"how was i supposed to know that?! i thought maybe it was something you left for me—god knows you never leave anything else.”
her expression hardens.
"don’t turn this into something it’s not."
"something it’s not?!" your voice breaks, raw and high. "you never talk about anything. not about your life. not about him. not about dad!"
that name hits like a bullet.
she turns her back to you, but it’s too late.
"i don’t remember him," you say, quieter now, but trembling. "i don’t remember his voice, his hands, his laugh. i don’t even know what it felt like to be held by him."
she doesn’t turn. she doesn’t move.
"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"
her fists clench on the counter, knuckles white.
"i did what i had to do."
"no. you did what was easier for you. you pushed everything down and shut me out with it."
she spins to face you, eyes wild now, cracking.
"what do you want me to say?! that i was broken?! that every day i woke up alone, wondering how to feed you, how to work, how to breathe while everything i loved was gone?!"
you flinch.
but you don’t back down.
"i didn’t ask you to be perfect. i just wanted a mother. not a robot. not a cold wall. just someone who gave a damn."
her lip trembles. she hides it behind a scoff.
"you think i don’t care?"
"you don’t act like it!"
the words cut, sharp and true.
"i needed you, mom. all these years, i needed someone to tell me it was okay to miss him. to miss you."
her eyes shine with something unsaid. something heavy. but she swallows it back down.
she always does.
"you shouldn’t have opened that box."
her voice is flat again. walls up. steel drawn.
you laugh bitterly.
"right. god forbid i see even a glimpse of who you used to be before you turned to stone."
you push the stool back with a screech and storm off toward your room, throat burning, chest hollow.
behind you, your mother stands frozen in the kitchen, bowl untouched, stew long gone cold.
the door slams shut behind you, the sound dull but heavy, like a sentence being passed.
you stand still for a moment, your hands still trembling, your heart in shambles after the fight with your mother. the entire house feels like it’s holding its breath, as if it too sensed that something inside you just broke… again.
you walk slowly to your room, dragging your feet, your chest aching with a pain that’s too familiar. you collapse onto your bed, not even crying at first—just lying there, staring at the ceiling, as if the cracks in the paint might give you some kind of answer.
why can’t she just talk to me? why does it feel like she hates me?
the questions pile up, pressing down on your chest until that lump in your throat finally bursts. the first tears fall quietly, warm against your cheeks. then more come, and more, until you're curled in on yourself, sobbing with that kind of grief that comes from years of swallowing it down.
you hear your own voice echoing back at you:
"i had to memorize his face from one picture—one, mom—before you threw it out like garbage!"
it still hurts. and it’s true. your father died shortly after you were born. you don’t remember him—his voice, his scent, the way he held you. nothing. your mother never wanted to talk about him, as if erasing him would protect her from the pain.
but it left you with an emptiness.
you wipe your face with your sleeve, eyes puffy, nose red, and sit up slowly. still shaking, you walk to your closet.
it’s there.
the box.
that wooden box with the delicate, girlish design, half-hidden among your things, like it’s been waiting for this very moment.
you hold it in your hands. It’s heavier than it looks. the surface is slightly warm, as if someone had touched it recently—like it has a heartbeat.
you kneel in front of the open closet. your clothes sway lightly on their hangers, as if a breeze had passed through… but there are no windows open.
then you feel it.
the air shifts.
it starts as a soft vibration, barely there, like the whisper of a memory. then the scent hits you: something floral, old, like perfume soaked into love letters tucked away for decades. goosebumps rise instantly across your skin.
you squint into the closet, through the folds of hanging fabric, and you see it.
light.
a faint golden shimmer, pulsing gently, like someone lit a candle behind the wall.
you step forward, the box still in your hands. your fingers, trembling, press against the doorframe. just as you open your mouth to speak—maybe to ask what’s happening—
a single tear falls from your cheek and lands on the box.
there’s no explosion. no lightning.
just a heartbeat.
loud.
deep.
like the whole world exhaling through your chest.
the air grows heavy. your vision warps, the room tilting, folding in on itself. the walls ripple like water disturbed. you grab the edge of the closet for balance, but your knees buckle. everything spins. the sound of your breath is swallowed by something bigger.
and then—
darkness.
the spring air carried that distinct scent of dust, freshly sharpened pencils, and the faint trace of someone’s perfume lingering in the hallways. the school buzzed with life—lockers slamming shut, giggles echoing down the corridor, chalk scraping across boards in classrooms behind closed doors.
you walked slowly, your fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. your school uniform felt unfamiliar against the skin, the pleated skirt too stiff, the blouse too crisp. you kept your head low, eyes scanning faces that looked like they belonged in old photo albums. everything around your screamed nostalgia—except it wasn’t nostalgic to you.
because somehow...
you were actually here.
in 1991.
the bell rang, signaling the end of second period. students poured out into the hallway, some dragging their friends by the arm, others glued to books or snacks from their lockers. you leaned against a wall, trying to breathe, trying to blend in—trying not to freak out.
that’s when you saw him.
he moved through the crowd like he wasn’t part of it. calm. unbothered. a little detached. he wore the same school uniform, but his shirt was slightly untucked, and the headphones resting around his neck gave him this effortless, rebel-cool aura. a soft beat leaked from his walkman. his features were sharp, perfectly carved, lips full and eyes that looked like they knew things they weren’t supposed to.
he stopped in front of you, holding a thick envelope in one hand.
"y/n, right?" he asked, voice low and smooth.
you blinked, nodding slowly, your brain still trying to keep up.
"this came from the main office," he said, offering her the envelope. "you're transfer paperwork, apparently."
before you could even respond, you blurted out:
"wait—do you know someone named choi soobin?"
his eyes twitched. his expression shifted—barely—but it was there. a flicker of something.
then, with the most unimpressed smirk, he rolled his eyes.
"oh great," he muttered under his breath. "another one of my cousin's admirers. they just keep coming."
and just like that, he turned and walked away, sliding the headphones back over his ears, music rising in volume as he vanished into the tide of students.
you clutched the envelope to you chest, heart pounding. you looked around, dazed, but no one was paying you any mind.
once you found an empty bench behind the old gym building, you sat and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. inside was more than just a transfer form.
there was a letter.
it was handwritten. neatly. carefully. and it read:
"if you’re reading this, it means you made it. welcome to 1991.
you’ll need to be careful from here on out. you cannot draw attention to yourself. do not talk about the future. do not ask too many questions. blend in. play your part.
Go to the boarding house owned by mrs. son after school. she’s expecting a new girl. room 3 is yours."
this is not random. you’re here for a reason. i will send more instructions soon.
don’t trust just anyone. and above all… be ready to make difficult choices. some things in the past are meant to stay broken. others… need to be fixed.
—a friend".
you stared at the letter, hands trembling.
what the hell was this?
why you?
what were you meant to fix?
you leaned back against the wall, looking up at the sky, your thoughts a chaotic mess.
your mind drifted to the photograph.
to her mother’s smile.
to the name: choi soobin.
and then… you eyes fell back on the letter.
was this real?
was this destiny?
your fingers brushed over the ink once more, and you whispered, almost to yourself:
"what am i supposed to change…?"
the final bell rings, and you stumble out of your last class like your brain’s just gone through a blender.
your head spins.
not just from the math formulas on the chalkboard or the endless chatter of your new classmates—but from the reality you still haven’t quite processed.
you’re in incheon. in 1991. in your mother’s freaking hometown.
the streets outside the school are buzzing with students. some run toward the corner shops for snacks, others grab their bikes, wave at friends, shout and laugh like nothing in the world has changed.
you, on the other hand, can barely keep your balance.
you blink slowly, your body moving on autopilot, trying to look casual, like you belong. but everything around you feels… off.
the way they talk.
the way they think.
the weird obsession with cassette tapes and soda in glass bottles.
even the smell in the air is different—less metal, more earth.
you’re overwhelmed. but you can’t fall apart yet.
you’ve got instructions. a destination.
you're still holding that damn envelope like it’s your last lifeline.
you turn a corner, heart pounding, and almost crash straight into someone.
“woah, again?”
it’s him.
the boy from earlier.
same walkman around his neck, same flawless face, same i-don’t-care energy wrapped in a school uniform that somehow fits him too well.
he eyes you with amused disbelief.
“are you seriously still carrying that?” he says, pointing to the envelope in your hands. “you’ve had that thing all day.”
you blink at him, still disoriented.
you have had it all day.
“i—i was going to read it again,” you mumble. “there’s an address. i’m supposed to go there but i don’t know how—”
“ugh,” he interrupts, sighing dramatically. “fine. lemme see it.”
you hand him the letter, fingers brushing his just for a second. his eyes skim the address, then glance back at you.
“i’ll take you. that place isn’t far.”
you exhale in relief, muttering a soft thank you.
you start walking together.
at first, it’s silent.
then the boy starts talking, throwing random comments into the air like confetti.
“you talk kinda weird, you know that?” you look at him. he’s not wrong.
you’ve spent all day trying not to sound futuristic. no slang. no weird expressions. no “lol”.
you force a smile.
“i’m not from here.”
“no kidding.”
“i mean—not from incheon.”
he raises a brow.
“then where?”
you scramble for a name and blurt out the most far-off place you can think of.
“ulleungdo.”
he stops walking and turns to look at you, blinking.
“ulleungdo? that island barely has electricity.”
you nod slowly, then force a cough like it explains everything.
“exactly. we’re... still catching up.”
he stares at you like you’re a walking mystery, then shakes his head and chuckles.
“makes sense. that explains why you look like you’ve never seen a vending machine before.”
you both keep walking.
for a second, the air is easier to breathe. almost normal.
but then, your mind slips—just for a second—and you ask:
“hey… who’s your cousin?”
he squints.
“what?”
“earlier. You said i was ‘another one in love with your cousin.’ who is he?”
you freeze mid-step. he walks two paces ahead before realizing you’re no longer beside him.
he turns around, eyes narrowing.
“why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
you force a shaky laugh.
“no reason. just… remembering something.”
he looks at you for a long moment, then shrugs.
“whatever. just don’t ask me where he is. i’m not your tour guide to the ‘soobin fanclub.’”
you say nothing.
the letter in your hand suddenly feels heavier. like it’s burning.
you wonder what’s waiting for you in that house.
you wonder who wrote the letter.
you wonder if fate is playing games with you—or if this has always been the plan.
you walk the rest of the way in silence, the streets of incheon glowing in the golden haze of dusk.
and somewhere, deep down, something tells you: this is only the beginning.
the street narrows as you follow him down an alley of uneven cobblestones, the golden dusk pouring through the lattice of tangled telephone wires above. the neighborhood is quiet—older, slower than the city blocks around your school. the homes here wear age like a badge, wooden gates slightly weathered, tiled roofs sagging slightly under the weight of time. you pause outside a low two-story house with faded red shutters and a blue mailbox shaped like a cat.
the boy nods toward it.
“this is the place.”
you look at it, blinking in disbelief.
it’s not just any house.
it feels like a storybook. like someone reached into your memories and tried to replicate what “home” should’ve looked like.
the wooden gate creaks when he pushes it open, and before either of you can step forward, the front door swings wide with surprising force.
an old woman, short and sturdy with perfectly permed gray curls and dressed in a floral hanbok apron, stands in the doorway.
her face lights up when she sees you.
“ah! you must be mr. hong’s niece, where are you from, little girl?”
you freeze. then bow quickly, hands by your sides, trying to remember every etiquette lesson your mom ever mentioned about greeting elders in korea.
“yes, ma’am. that’s me, i am from ulleungdo"
mrs. son eyes you up and down, then lets out a soft chuckle.
“you’re awfully pretty for a country girl. and different. too polished. hm.” her eyes narrow. “still, you look good. very lovely, actually.”
you’re not sure whether to smile or feel insulted. was that a compliment? or just passive-aggressive commentary wrapped in lace?
you smile awkwardly and bow again.
“thank you…”
“anyway,” she continues, waving her hand, “someone dropped off your belongings this morning. they’re in your room already.”
your heart skips.
“my belongings?”
you glance at the boy, confused. he just shrugs, completely uninterested in the mystery.
but your mind races.
what belongings?
when you arrived here—wherever here even is—you had nothing. not even the clothes on your back, which had changed without you realizing.
before you can ask more, yeonjun steps back, hands shoved in his blazer pockets.
“well, i got you here. i’m out.”
“wait—!” you call out, stepping toward him.
he’s already at the gate, lifting it slightly so it doesn’t scrape. you rush after him, your shoes crunching on the gravel path.
“you never told me your name.”
he stops mid-step and turns, looking slightly amused.
“I didn’t?”
“no.” you reach for his arm gently, fingers brushing against his wrist. his skin is warm, his pulse quick beneath your fingertips.
yeonjun looks down at where you’re touching him. his eyebrows lift. a tiny smirk threatens the corner of his mouth, like he’s not used to girls being this forward—and definitely not ones who stare at him like you do.
“yeonjun” he said. “choi yeonjun"
you meet his eyes.
“thank you, yeonjun.”
it’s the way you say it. soft. sincere. like it matters.
he’s caught off guard, the confident, untouchable energy around him faltering for just a second. his mouth opens slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he shuts it again and just gives you a small nod.
“don’t get lost.”
and with that, he slips out the gate, turning the corner and disappearing into the fading light.
you’re left standing in the path, the sky streaked with orange and plum above you, a dusty breeze rustling the loose ends of your borrowed school uniform.
behind you, the house waits.
inside it, a room with your things. dropped off by someone who knows exactly where—and when—you are.
and somewhere, tucked inside your thoughts like a whisper you haven’t heard yet, a name echoes.
soobin.
the boy your mother once loved.
you exhale slowly and turn back toward the house.
the room is small but cozy, with warm wooden walls and a low ceiling that creaks softly under your footsteps. you close the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, your heart pounding—still not from the walk, but from everything. the entire day. the time jump. the unfamiliar warmth in yeonjun’s voice when he said your name. the letter burning a silent promise in your hands.
you glance at the small suitcase perched neatly at the foot of the futon bed. It looks old-fashioned—stitched leather with tarnished brass buckles and a handle that has seen better days. kneeling before it, you slowly open the latches, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.
inside, folded with surgical precision, are several sets of clothes.
your fingertips run across the fabrics: simple blouses, high-waisted pleated skirts, a pastel pink cardigan, a cream-colored sailor-style school uniform that looks almost identical to the ones you saw the other girls wearing today. everything smells faintly of lavender and time.
at the very bottom, nestled between a pair of plain flats and a pair of canvas shoes, you find a small envelope with your name written in neat, slanted hangul. you lift it gently, your breath hitching.
you sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath your weight, and unfold the letter.
the handwriting is delicate, old-fashioned. like someone took the time to write it with an ink pen, letting every word sink into the fibers of the paper.
"y/n,
you must be confused. stay calm. there is a reason you are here.
follow the instructions i send you. you are in the year 1991, in incheon—the city where your mother grew up. things are not as simple as they seem, but you mustn’t let anyone know the truth.
you will blend in. your belongings have been provided. more will come. every step you take will be guided.
do not ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.
there are things in the past that need your presence.
be patient. be brave.
soon, i will ask you to change something.
until then… wait."
-H.
your hands tremble slightly as you finish reading.
a chill runs down your spine.
who wrote this? how did they know where you’d arrive? why do they speak like they’ve done this before?
you fold the letter slowly, slipping it back into the envelope. your mind reels, swimming with questions that claw at you from every direction. there’s no logic, no explanation. one moment you were crying in your closet, and the next… here. in a world you’ve only heard about from your mother’s fading stories, wrapped in decades-old nostalgia and distant memories.
you don’t realize how long you’ve sat there, dazed, until a voice calls out from downstairs.
“dinner time, girl! come eat before it gets cold!”
mrs. son’s voice, clear and commanding, startles you into motion. you rise, smoothing your borrowed skirt, tucking the letter under your pillow like a secret you’re not ready to share with even the walls.
When you step into the kitchen, you’re met with the scent of something savory, thick and warm and unfamiliar. the room is bathed in soft golden light from a low-hanging bulb, casting everything in a nostalgic glow. mrs. son stands behind a small wooden table, setting down bowls and plates with practiced ease.
you stare at the food, recognizing almost nothing but finding it all intoxicatingly fragrant. there’s bubbling jjigae, a perfectly round plate of jeon with scallions poking through the golden batter, neatly arranged namul side dishes, and a mound of rice that glistens as if each grain were kissed by steam.
“don’t just stand there like a scarecrow,” she chuckles, motioning for you to sit. “eat, girl. you need energy. you’re too pale.”
you sit slowly, murmuring a thank you, and begin to eat. the first spoonful of stew burns your tongue but floods your chest with warmth. each bite is an exploration, a memory you never lived tasting its way into your bloodstream.
between spoonfuls, mrs. son starts talking—not directly to you, but more like letting the stories she’s carried her whole life spill into the air.
“you remind me of someone, you know. a woman who stayed in this house years ago. pretty thing. big eyes like yours. she was in love.”
you look up, surprised.
“she fell for a sailor,” she continues, “a local boy with a wild laugh and a heart full of the sea. he promised her the world. even got her a ring. but…”
she pauses to sip her barley tea.
“…before they could marry, his boat went down. storm off the coast. they say he drowned. some say he never wanted to return and used the sea as an excuse.”
she smiles sadly.
“but i saw her every night on that porch, waiting. right up until winter took her away too.”
you set down your chopsticks, the story making your chest feel tight.
a part of you aches for this woman you’ve never met.
a part of you wonders if the sea has a habit of stealing men who promise forever.
you stare down at your bowl, your appetite gone.
nothing makes sense.
not the past.
not the stories.
not your own existence in this strange, beautiful fragment of time.
the only thing you know for sure is this:
you’re not here by accident.
and someone, somewhere, is watching.
the day was already strange enough.
the 90s school uniform felt tight in places it shouldn’t, your socks kept sliding down no matter how many times you pulled them up, and your ponytail was starting to come loose from all the running around trying to figure out where your classroom was. you were still trying to adjust to the rhythm of this strange new world — a world that smelled like chalk dust, cassette tapes, and kimchi stew floating through the hallways.
you were walking through the back courtyard of the school, holding a borrowed notebook to your chest, when you missed the curb.
you fell.
it wasn’t elegant.
you hit the concrete hard, knees and elbows scraping against the rough ground. your notebook flew a meter ahead, your bag tipped over, and just as you tried to push yourself up, a sudden gust of wind blew from behind. and just your luck — you were wearing the uniform skirt that flared out slightly when you walked.
now, it flared up.
wide. high. completely.
right in front of a boy.
not just any boy.
his eyes widened comically as he froze mid-step, staring for a split second — a dangerous, deadly split second — before whipping his head to the side, red creeping across his neck all the way to his ears. He stumbled back with his arms up as if you were pointing a gun at him.
you screamed.
“YAH! don’t just stand there like a pervert — HELP ME!”
your voice cracked from the sudden mix of pain, panic, and fury. the boy flinched as if slapped, then scrambled forward, offering a trembling hand.
“i–i wasn’t trying to see anything!” he stammered, clearly about to pass out from sheer embarrassment. “the wind—! it just—! i didn’t—!”
you ignored his babbling, more concerned with your burning face and aching knees. but as he helped you stand, you got a good look at his face. that face.
the perfectly shaped lips, the soft, clean skin, the dark brows, the long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks... and those eyes.
those exact eyes from the photo.
your mother’s photo.
it was him. choi soobin.
in the flesh. younger, alive, real.
you gasped.
he tilted his head. “are you okay? you look pale—”
before you could respond, a loud thud interrupted the moment.
a soccer ball came flying out of nowhere and hit soobin square in the face.
he made a startled sound before falling flat on his back.
you stared at his sprawled form on the ground. “what the hell—?!”
moments later, both of you sat side by side in the school infirmary. the scent of alcohol pads and ointment filled the air. you were perched on the edge of a stiff bed, rubbing antiseptic into your scraped knees, wincing each time it stung. beside you, soobin sat with tissues crammed up his nostrils, his head tilted back and a faint blush still clinging to his cheeks.
the nurse — a woman with overly plucked, razor-thin brows, blunt bangs curled under with all the strength of a hot iron, and lips lined in dark brown pencil — shook her head.
“thank goodness it’s not broken,” she sighed, inspecting soobin’s nose. “you boys with your sports… always causing accidents. and you”—she turned to you—“keep your skirt down next time, young lady. what do you think this is, a fashion show?”
you blinked, mouth falling open in disbelief.
this place… this time… these people.
it was like you had fallen into a very vivid, sometimes painful, sometimes embarrassing dream. and now, the boy from your mother’s past was sitting beside you, sniffling through a nosebleed.
and you still had no idea what you were doing here.
soobin blinked at you, still slightly dazed from the hit. his nose was no longer bleeding, but the tissue stuffed under his nostrils made him look even more like the schoolboy he was. you were about to say something—maybe thank him, maybe apologize, maybe ask if he was okay—when the infirmary door creaked open.
“bin!” came a familiar voice, far too loud for the sterile silence of the room.
yeonjun.
he stepped in with an armful of paper bags and small boxes—colorful wrappings, handwritten notes, tiny trinkets peeking through. gifts. you watched as he strutted over to soobin’s bed with an exasperated groan.
"seriously? you just got here and you’re already collecting fans again?” he teased, tossing one of the bags onto soobin’s lap. “what is it this time—handmade chocolates or love letters?”
soobin groaned and rolled his eyes, muttering something about it being a misunderstanding, but you weren’t listening anymore.
yeonjun had looked up. His eyes landed on yours. recognition flashed across his face like lightning.
“you—”
he didn’t finish. he just stood there, blinking, mouth slightly parted like the pieces of his memory were trying to click together.
you didn’t think. you just acted.
ignoring the sting of your scraped knees, you jumped off the bed. the linoleum was cold beneath your socks, but your voice came out warm, too bright, too casual.
"hey, um… yeonjun, right?” you said quickly, your cheeks heating under his stare. “do you want to grab something to eat or… i mean, you helped me earlier and i—well, i don’t know anyone else here.”
he looked confused at first, almost suspicious. then a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “you sure? you're not gonna faint on me or something?”
you laughed, awkward and real. “i’ll try not to.”
he shrugged. “fine. you’re lucky i’m hungry too.”
so the two of you walked out of the infirmary side by side. the late afternoon light spilled down the corridor in golden streaks, warming the tile beneath your feet. the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and school uniforms.
you were just about to ask him where he thought you could find something sweet from a local bakery when—
click. click. click.
footsteps. fast. familiar.
you turned at the sound, heart stuttering. your eyes caught a silhouette at the end of the hallway, the light from the windows casting her in soft profile.
it was her.
your mother.
but not as you knew her.
she was younger. smaller. her hair was long and tied half-up with a little bow. she wore the school uniform, the same one you had seen in the photograph. she didn’t look like a stern, cold lawyer. she looked like a girl.
she giggled. and then you heard his laugh.
soobin’s.
they stepped into the infirmary together, talking—laughing. you couldn’t hear the words, just the sounds, but it was enough to send a strange ache through your chest.
you had never heard her laugh like that before.
not in your life.
not once.
and in that moment, as yeonjun rambled beside you about the best tteokbokki stand near the school gates, you couldn't even process a word.
your stomach twisted.
your mother. soobin. that laugh. that moment.
and you—
you were caught between two worlds.
the red broth bubbled quietly in the small metal pot between you. the scent of chili, garlic, and sweetness filled the air as you leaned over the table, watching the glistening rice cakes dance in the simmering sauce. yeonjun, sitting across from you in his white school shirt with the sleeves rolled up, poked at one of them with a wooden skewer and raised his brow at you.
“you ever tried tteokbokki before?” he asked, eyes flickering with curiosity as he blew softly on the piece.
you shook your head, almost too eagerly. “not like this,” you murmured after the first bite, eyes widening. the heat was perfect, the chewiness addictive, and the flavor—intense but somehow comforting. “god… it's actually good. like really good. everything back in my—” you caught yourself, heartbeat spiking, “—my time is just so artificial and bland. like, processed. rancid, almost.”
yeonjun tilted his head, mouth halfway open with the next bite. “your time?” he echoed, blinking slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
your breath caught in your throat. shit.
“i mean—my town! my town,” you laughed, too quickly, waving your hands. “back in my town. it's really rural and… old-fashioned, i guess? i’ve been studying a lot of history too for exams. i read so much about the different historical eras, i think the word ‘time’ just slipped in.” you forced another laugh and stuffed your mouth with a rice cake, cheeks burning.
yeonjun stared for a second longer than was comfortable, and then snorted. “you’re weird,” he muttered around his own bite, though his lips curled into a faint smile. “but you’ve got a point. food tastes better before the big corporations mess it up.”
you nodded quickly, relieved at the shift. the tension melted a bit between the spice and the conversation, the kind that warms not just your stomach but something deeper—something that makes the loneliness of waking up in the wrong decade feel just a little less heavy.
as you sat across from yeonjun, the last few pieces of tteokbokki slowly disappeared from the pot. the spicy warmth lingered on your lips, but your mind was far from the food. you couldn’t stop replaying that scene in your head—your mother’s laughter, sweet and girlish, echoing behind the infirmary doors. and beside her, soobin, smiling back like they were already familiar with each other.
you chewed slowly, lost in thought, until the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“what’s soobin like?”
yeonjun looked up sharply, brow raised, a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “oh? so now we’re talking about him?”
you blinked. “no, no—it’s not like that.”
“right,” he said, drawing the word out, clearly not believing you. “let me guess—you’re using me to get close to him?”
your jaw dropped. “what? no! It’s not even for me.” you scrambled for an excuse, mind racing. “it’s for… my friend. she’s interested in him. but she doesn’t really know how to approach him. so i was just curious. you know… to help her.”
you nodded quickly, trying to keep your face neutral. “yeah. she’s… shy.”
he squinted, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read through your soul. “well, if you want the truth… he’s a total playboy,” he said with a completely serious expression.
your heart dropped. “really?”
yeonjun burst out laughing, almost choking on his soda. “god, you’re so gullible.”
you glared at him, cheeks heating up. “you’re such a jerk.”
he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “no, seriously. he’s just a normal guy. chill, kind of awkward sometimes, but popular. everyone likes him. probably because of his face,” he added with a playful grimace. “also… his parents are loaded. like, seriously old money. but he doesn’t act stuck up about it or anything.”
you nodded slowly, absorbing every word. soobin… a boy born in privilege, admired by many, and yet—somehow—your mother had laughed beside him like they shared something deeper. you stared down at your drink, the fizz catching the light.
if soobin was already so adored… did that mean your mother had been one of his admirers too?
a strange ache bloomed in your chest, something between curiosity and dread.
you twirled a piece of tteokbokki with your chopsticks, still digesting everything yeonjun had said about soobin. the conversation had taken a strange turn, light and teasing at first—but your mind couldn’t let go of something he’d just casually mentioned.
“if soobin’s parents are rich,” you started, voice careful, “and they’re your uncles… then your parents must be rich too, right?”
the moment the question left your mouth, you felt the air shift. yeonjun's expression changed—subtle, but impossible to miss. his gaze dropped to the table, and he took a deep breath, the usual spark in his eyes dimming.
you opened your mouth, instantly regretting it, but he spoke first. “i live with my grandmother.”
that wasn’t what you expected.
you blinked. “with your parents too?”
he shook his head slowly. “no. just her.”
you rushed to fix your words, hands slightly raised. “i mean, that’s not weird or anything. a lot of families live with their grandparents. it just makes the family bigger, right? i only live with my mom and—”
he interrupted, voice calm, but distant. “my parents died.”
the words hit like a brick wall. your breath caught in your throat.
“it was a plane crash. when i was ten. they were coming back from the u.s.,” he continued, his voice softer now. “they’d been checking out places to live because we were supposed to move there together. but the plane… didn’t make it.”
silence blanketed the table like a thick fog. even the sounds of the street outside—distant laughter, scooters, the clink of bowls—felt suddenly muted.
you looked down at your lap, unsure what to say, but before you could even mutter an apology, yeonjun smiled. not forced, not bitter—just… gentle.
“it’s okay,” he said, looking up again. “i’m happy. my grandma takes good care of me. she runs a barbecue restaurant nearby. you should come by sometime. i’ll sneak you extra meat.”
your heart ached a little at his warmth. he was so open, so strong, despite everything.
you forced a small smile, eyes searching his face. “how old are you?”
“i’ll be eighteen soon,” he said, straightening a little with pride. “last year of high school. next year, i’m taking the csat. gonna try for a university in seoul.”
“that’s impressive,” you said genuinely.
“yeah, well… someone’s gotta get out of incheon,” he grinned, and the mood lightened just a bit again.
you didn’t know what to say after that, so you just kept eating, the tteokbokki no longer hot but still comforting. and all the while, your thoughts wandered—about soobin, about your mother, about how the hell you'd ended up here. but more than anything… you found yourself wondering just who choi yeonjun really was underneath all those layers.
that night, the air in incheon was unusually still.
you walked slowly down the quiet streets, your belly full of spicy tteokbokki and your mind spinning from yeonjun’s unexpected vulnerability. it had left a mark on you—how easily he smiled through pain. and the way he talked about soobin, half mocking, half affectionate… it made your chest tighten again. your mother’s laughter echoed in your ears, youthful and bright like wind chimes, paired with soobin’s soft chuckle. a sound you never imagined you’d hear.
you paused just outside the small gate of the son house, your temporary home in the past. the night air carried scents of distant grilling meat and flowers you couldn’t name. everything felt unfamiliar and familiar all at once. stepping inside, you slid the door shut gently behind you and walked up to your room.
but the moment you pushed open the door, your breath hitched.
there, neatly placed on your pillow, was another envelope. cream-colored, slightly yellowed like old parchment. your fingers trembled a little as you picked it up, the weight of the paper oddly heavy in your hands.
you sat on the floor, your back to the wall, and opened it slowly.
inside was a single folded sheet. elegant, slanted handwriting greeted you.
"there are things that must happen in their rightful time, and you are here to ensure they do.
do not underestimate the importance of choi soobin.
the first love always leaves the deepest mark."
— H.
you stared at the letter for a long time.
your heart thudded violently in your chest.
choi soobin. the name might as well have been carved into your skin at this point.
was this… was he the reason you were sent here?
the connection to your mother felt too strong to ignore. her maiden name. that tragic love story mrs. son had told you earlier—the one about the sailor and the girl he never got to marry. was that somehow related?
was soobin him?
you reached for the tattered marriage certificate you'd found hidden in your mother’s things earlier. the ink-smudged name of the groom was still unreadable. all you had was a surname—choi. and now, soobin. was it all falling into place? or was your mind inventing connections where none existed?
you pressed your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed. “this can’t be real…” you whispered.
you hadn’t even had time to question how you ended up here. one moment you were in your mother’s room, digging through old boxes of memories, and the next… thrown into a version of korea you’d only read about in textbooks. no explanation. no instructions. Just instincts and heartbeats.
and now letters?
your thoughts swirled in chaos, and for the first time since arriving, your resolve faltered.
what if messing with the past had consequences?
what if you were the reason your mother’s love story ended in heartbreak?
what if you were supposed to stop something… or start it?
you pulled your knees to your chest, pressing the letter against your mouth to stifle the rising panic. the room was dark, quiet, humming with a kind of stillness that only came before storms.
and somewhere deep down, you knew:
whatever mission brought you here... it was only beginning.
time moved differently here.
days passed like water slipping through your fingers—slow and heavy, yet gone before you could truly grasp them. you’d started to adapt. your accent had softened, your posture adjusted. you walked with your hands folded in front of you like the other girls. you learned to bow at the right angle, to accept the stares without flinching, and to hide the flicker of your modern instincts when someone used a phrase you’d only seen in dusty textbooks.
in a way, you became someone new. but you never stopped looking over your shoulder, never stopped clutching the growing stack of letters from mr. hong like lifelines.
the latest one arrived tucked between the pages of a history book in the school library, hidden where only you would look. the handwriting, as always, was precise and calm—like a teacher’s, or perhaps a soldier’s.
“it is time to begin.
you must guide your mother.
help her open her heart to choi soobin.
but beware—any alteration of their bond may cause irreversible changes to the future."
H.
you read the letter three times, the words branded into your thoughts.
it made your heart ache with confusion.
soobin. always soobin.
you hadn’t seen much of him. he was in a different class, and so was your mother. both of them seemed to float in and out of your orbit like stars you couldn’t quite reach. you’d catch glimpses in the hallway—soobin, surrounded by classmates, a quiet but steady force of gravity. your mother, younger and nothing like the sharp, tired woman you grew up with. she was shy, always fidgeting with her sleeves, eyes lowered, cheeks turning pink when someone said her name.
and yeonjun… yeonjun had become your anchor.
you still didn’t know how it had happened, but one day, you were laughing at his terrible drawing of a teacher during lunch break, and the next, you couldn’t imagine surviving this world without him. he was the only one who could pull you back from the anxiety of feeling like you didn’t belong. the only one who let you be your strange, out-of-place self and still grinned like he was lucky to know you.
but that letter.
that letter twisted your insides.
because if you helped your mother fall in love with soobin… what would that mean for you?
would you vanish?
would your entire existence be erased?
you didn’t want to think about it. not now. not when your life here had finally started to feel like something real.
still, the next day, you found her.
she was standing behind the old school building, near the edge of the soccer field, half-hidden behind a low tree. the spring breeze tugged at her cardigan and sent petals fluttering to the ground. you followed her gaze and, unsurprisingly, found soobin on the field, laughing with a group of boys, his shirt a little untucked, his smile careless and devastating.
you stepped beside her slowly. she flinched when she noticed you.
“oh! you scared me,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.
You smiled. “sorry. i didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
she looked down, embarrassed, brushing hair behind her ear. “i was just… watching.”
you waited a moment, then leaned in closer. “do you like him?”
she went still. Her face turned crimson. “n-no! i mean… maybe. he’s… kind.”
you tilted your head. “do you want help?”
her eyes met yours—young, hopeful, unsure. “with what?”
“to… get closer to him,” you said, forcing a calm tone even as your stomach coiled with doubt. “maybe i can help.”
you didn’t know why you offered. maybe because the letter told you to. maybe because there was something sweet about her innocence, about the way she twisted her fingers together like love was something too big for her to hold.
or maybe you just wanted to understand.
to see what could have been.
to believe that everything wasn’t just coincidence.
as she nodded shyly, hope blooming across her face, you felt something cold drip down your spine.
what if she really did fall for him?
what if he loved her back?
what if they married—and you… never existed?
but the letter burned in your pocket like a second heartbeat. you had to trust it. trust that whoever—or whatever—had sent you here knew more than you did.
you forced a smile and said softly, “let’s start with a smile. next time he walks by.”
she looked at you with wide eyes. “just that?”
You nodded. “you’d be surprised what a smile can do.”
but you weren’t thinking of her when you said it.
you were thinking of soobin.
of the moment his eyes met yours for the first time.
and of how your whole world had started to change since.
the evening had that golden hue, the one you only get when the sun starts to sink behind the old buildings, casting everything in a nostalgic warmth. you’d organized the dinner with care. a simple yet modern spot: a small restaurant that served american-style burgers, with metal tables, hanging lights, and a jukebox playing soft romantic ballads in the background.
you thought it would be the perfect setting.
they just needed to coexist, relax, laugh a little. if your mom and soobin could spend time together, maybe you'd fulfill the letter’s request. maybe you could keep moving the pieces without altering the whole game.
yeonjun arrived first, greeting you with his trademark crooked smile and a pack of gum in hand. then came your mom’s friends, followed by soobin, and lastly, your mother, who looked absolutely lovely without realizing it—her hair loose, a navy blue dress with a white collar, and her cheeks flushed, as though simply being here made her nervous.
everything seemed fine… at first.
they all took their seats at a round table. you were between soobin and one of your mom’s friends. your plan was clear: give them space. let them talk, let something spark between them. but it didn’t go as planned.
the friends started whispering among themselves, yeonjun was animatedly talking about a movie he wanted to watch, and somehow, you ended up talking to soobin. again.
it was easy to talk to him. too easy.
both of you ordered the same burger, without even knowing it. you both took the pickles out at the same time and set them aside. at the first bite, you both chewed in sync, making a little involuntary sound of pleasure.
“mmm…”
“mm-hmm…”
you exchanged glances and chuckled. without realizing it, you both reached for napkins to wipe the same spot on your right cheeks at the exact same moment.
“what the hell?” one of your mom’s friends exclaimed, pointing at you both with a smile. “you two choreographed this or what? you look like twins! no, wait—clones!”
everyone laughed, except your mom.
“yeah,” yeonjun murmured, leaning on his elbows, watching you both closely. “even now, you’ve both got food on your cheeks... like two little rabbits.”
the laughter died down. you quickly wiped your mouth and glanced over at your mom.
that look.
you knew it too well. furrowed brows, clenched jaw, eyes cold and full of something between anger and discomfort. you’d seen it a thousand times, when you were younger, when you came home late, when you did something “out of line,” when you weren’t the daughter she needed you to be.
you knew what was coming.
and it came.
she stood up from the table without a word, grabbing her purse with force and walking out of the restaurant hurriedly. the others stared after her, soobin looked around confused, and yeonjun sat up in his seat, about to stand.
you reacted first.
you bolted after her, pushing the restaurant door open, the cold evening air hitting your face. you caught up to her on the sidewalk, calling her name. it felt strange to say her name out loud, like it wasn’t even the right name for her anymore.
she turned to face you abruptly, her eyes wet.
“are you mocking me?” she hissed, her voice shaking with anger. “did you really think i wouldn’t notice? you used me. you just wanted to get closer to soobin, didn’t you? used me to play your game.”
you froze, your heart pounding in your chest.
“n-no… it’s not like that,” you stammered, looking down at the ground as if you were twelve again and she had just caught you breaking something. “i don’t care about soobin, i swear. i just… wanted to help you.”
she didn’t answer, just stood there, eyes drilling into you with that piercing gaze.
you swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to your mind.
“it’s yeonjun.”
her expression softened slightly. barely noticeable.
“what?”
“i… i like yeonjun.”
she blinked, clearly caught off guard. you could feel the air change.
“what?”
“i... i like yeonjun.” you bit your lip nervously, not entirely sure of what you were saying, but the words felt right somehow. “not soobin. it’s yeonjun.”
you could feel your chest tighten as your mother processed your words. she blinked in surprise, before letting out a small, incredulous laugh.
“yeonjun?” she repeated, eyes widening. “you like yeonjun?”
you nodded sheepishly, the words coming out in a rush. “yeah, i mean… i think i do. but i’m not sure. i’ve just… been thinking about him a lot. you know, he’s kind of—well—different. i feel comfortable around him, i guess.”
you didn’t even realize yeonjun had been listening in from behind a nearby wall. he had been standing there, eavesdropping quietly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
your mother looked at you, and for a brief moment, her anger softened. “i thought you liked soobin…”
you quickly shook your head. “no, not at all. i don’t even see him like that. you know, like how people do with someone famous or something. it’s just not the same…”
suddenly, there was a rustling noise behind you. you turned around to see yeonjun step out from behind the wall, his expression unreadable. you didn’t know if he had heard everything, but from the way his eyes locked with yours, you could tell he had. your cheeks burned.
“i, uh...” yeonjun scratched his head awkwardly. “you didn’t have to tell her that, you know.”
you opened your mouth to respond, but your mother didn’t wait for you to speak. she turned away, the tension still thick in the air.
“i don’t know what’s going on between you two, but... if you really like him, then go for it. i won’t stop you.” her voice was cold, the finality of it stinging. “but don’t use me for your own plans.”
you reached out instinctively, but she was already walking off, her steps quick and purposeful.
you felt a sharp pang in your chest. you hadn’t meant to hurt her.
but in that moment, yeonjun stood beside you, his presence oddly comforting despite the awkwardness of the situation.
the days blurred by as you found yourself caught in the web of your own actions. you had committed to this, to helping your mother—nari—conquer soobin, following the exact instructions hong had given you in that letter. you didn’t dare stray from the plan; it was your duty, a responsibility you couldn’t afford to fail. so, day by day, you found yourself subtly maneuvering your mother closer to Soobin in every possible way.
you'd suggest small moments where they could talk, push nari into soobin’s orbit, casually organizing group hangouts, dinners, or even study sessions. every time they spoke, you’d make sure there were just enough quiet moments where they were alone, hoping for that spark to ignite.
but as the days passed, yeonjun grew suspicious. he was noticing things, and it wasn’t hard to tell. there was something off about the way you acted, like you were always just a little too eager to get your mom and soobin together, like you were pulling invisible strings behind the scenes.
“why do you always look so nervous when i ask about you and soobin?” yeonjun had asked one evening, his eyes narrowing as he watched you carefully.
you froze, unsure of how to answer. you didn’t want to tell him the truth—not yet. it felt impossible to explain, and you certainly couldn’t let him in on the secret. not when it was still so fragile, so delicate.
“i—” you hesitated, then quickly changed the subject. “it’s nothing. just… weird timing, i guess.”
yeonjun wasn’t convinced. “no, it’s not nothing. you’re acting strange, and i don’t buy your story.”
his suspicion lingered, and his questions began to cut a little too close to the truth. you knew you couldn’t keep this up forever. and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. not yet.
“i'm just… doing what I have to do,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “it’s... a duty, yeonjun. a matter of life or death.”
he blinked in confusion. “a duty? what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
you sighed, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “i’ll tell you everything. just not now. i’m not ready yet. but i promise i’ll explain. saturday night, at your grandmother’s restaurant. we’ll talk then.”
yeonjun hesitated but nodded, as if he could sense the gravity of what you weren’t saying.
saturday night arrived quickly. you walked into the cozy, warm restaurant, the smell of grilled meats and spices thick in the air. yeonjun’s grandmother greeted you with a kind smile, and yeonjun led you to a quiet corner. he could tell you were nervous—hell, you were practically shaking with anticipation as you prepared to share your secret.
the moment the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath.
“so,” yeonjun started, leaning forward. “you said you were going to tell me everything. i'm listening.”
sou swallowed hard. there was no turning back now. you couldn’t run from this anymore.
“i—uh... i’ll start from the beginning,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. “a while ago, i found a photo between some old boxes when we were moving. it was a picture of a guy. he looked like he belonged in the past, like he didn’t fit in with the time i'm from.”
yeonjun furrowed his brows. “a guy?”
“yeah,” you nodded, the memories flooding back. “he’s… soobin. and my mom—she’s been acting weird, too. i started paying attention. i mean, she’s not like herself. she’s not the same person i remember. and it’s not just her attitude—there’s something deeper, like a whole other life she’s hiding. but it wasn’t until i found that picture that everything started making sense.”
yeonjun’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “so, this guy, soobin... he’s important, right? but why are you involved? you’re talking about your mom like she’s not... your mom.”
you froze. his question hung in the air, thick and heavy. did he really get it? could he possibly know?
“i—i’m not from here, yeonjun,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “i’m not from this time. i’m not even from this place.”
he blinked, a frown spreading across his face. “what do you mean? are you—”
“i’m from the future,” you interrupted, your words tumbling out in a rush. “from 2017. i was sent back here, to help my mom, nari. you see, in the future, things went wrong. a lot of things. i was... i was told that if i didn’t do this, something would happen that could ruin everything.”
yeonjun stared at you in disbelief, his face pale as he tried to process what you had just said. “you’re from the future? like, actually? you’re not joking right now?”
you shook your head, watching his expression change from skepticism to pure confusion.
“i’m not joking. i know it sounds insane, but it’s true. and soobin… he’s connected to it all. i think he’s the key to everything.”
“soobin?” yeonjun’s voice was barely a whisper. “is he your—your father?”
the question hit you like a punch in the chest. you had thought about it, briefly, in your mind, but hearing him ask the question was different. it felt real, like it was something that needed an answer.
you opened your mouth, but the words stuck in your throat. “i—i don’t know,” you admitted, the words trembling. “my dad... he was choi taesang. i found papers—an old marriage certificate. i even found a small part of his name, ‘bin,’ that matched soobin’s. my mom told me my dad changed his name because of some family issues, inheritance problems... but he died when i was little. i never knew him.”
you stared down at your hands, the weight of the past pressing down on you. “i’m not sure if soobin is my father, but i need to figure this out. i have to help my mom... i have to make sure things happen the way they’re supposed to.”
yeonjun sat back, his expression unreadable as he processed everything you had just told him. the silence stretched between you both, thick with uncertainty.
finally, he exhaled sharply. “so... what happens if you don’t do this? what happens if you fail?”
“i don’t know,” you whispered. “but i can’t take that chance. my existence depends on it.”
yeonjun stayed silent for a long moment, staring directly into your eyes. the disbelief that had once filled his expression seemed to melt away, replaced by something else. it wasn’t confusion anymore. there was a sense of determination now.
“i’ll help you,” he said, his voice confident, almost defiant, as if nothing could stop him. “i won’t let you disappear. i won’t let you face this alone.”
the declaration took you by surprise, and for a moment, you felt the weight on your shoulders lighten slightly. but at the same time, deep inside, something else stirred—sadness. because the simple fact that he was willing to stand by you in all of this meant one thing: sooner or later, you’d have to part ways. If this whole thing worked out, if your mission was fulfilled, your return to the future would be inevitable, and that would mean disappearing from his life, like you’d never been there.
yeonjun looked at you, a playful gleam lighting up his eyes. “in 26 years, i’ll be an old man, and you’ll still be a little kid. just imagining myself as an old man is enough to depress me.” he chuckled lightly. “26 years sounds so far away, but that’s when i’ll need to have everything figured out, right? i need to be satisfied with my life by then.”
you let out a light laugh, the weight of the conversation easing just a little. he was right, though. twenty-six years were a long time in the future, and that was when all of this would come to a head. but he was right. he had to fulfill his dreams and live his life, just as you had to. it made the whole situation feel... less heavy, for a moment.
yeonjun’s tone softened again as he looked at you. “i don’t fully understand your situation, but i know you’re under a lot of pressure. your life depends on this, doesn’t it?”
you nodded, a deep sigh escaping your lips. “it does. i don’t know what’s going to happen, but it feels like i’m running out of time. i... i don’t even know how to explain it.”
you looked at him, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “i’ll tell you everything,” you said softly. “come with me to the house where mrs. son is. i’ll show you all the letters. i’ve been keeping everything hidden, but i can’t keep this secret anymore. i’m sorry, mr. hong, for telling you all this... but i just couldn’t anymore.”
later that evening, you and yeonjun found yourselves sitting at the small kitchen table in mrs. son’s house. the air was thick with the weight of the truth you had just revealed, and it was starting to settle in for both of you. the letters, the photo of soobin, the strange messages from hong, and the terrifying idea that you could disappear from the timeline—it was a lot to process. but now, you were facing it all with yeonjun at your side.
yeonjun, still looking a little incredulous but trying his best to absorb everything, leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours for more clarity. "so, if you really are from the future, then... what happens there? what’s it like? What should i be worried about?"
you sighed deeply. the weight of the situation pressed down on you, but you could tell yeonjun was trying to understand, and that made it a little easier to talk. “the future is... weird. so much has changed, and so many things that we take for granted here—like technology—just didn’t exist when i was growing up. it’s all connected. everything is connected.”
yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “connected how?”
you shifted in your seat, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “like, some major things happen in history, things that change the way the world works. like... 9/11.
yeonjun looked confused. “9/11? is that... some sports event?”
you shook your head with a small, sad smile. “no. it was a huge terrorist attack in the united states, and it affected people all over the world. it’s something that... well, it's just a big moment in history. but, for you, it doesn’t really matter. it didn’t affect your life here. in fact, a lot of the things that matter there... just don’t affect you yet.”
yeonjun scratched his head. “that’s... strange. i don’t know much about world events like that.”
“yeah, i guess it’s not on your radar yet,” you replied, “but there are other things, too. football—soccer, i mean—becomes a huge deal in the future. International matches, world cups, they get so much attention. some players... they make history, you know?”
yeonjun perked up, leaning forward now. "wait, really? like who? who makes history?"
you looked at him, a bit taken aback by his sudden interest. “well, in 2002, south korea made it to the semifinals of the world cup. it was a huge deal. the entire country was celebrating. people were so proud of their team.”
yeonjun’s eyes widened, and he grinned. “wait, seriously? south korea in the semifinals? that’s insane!”
you laughed, feeling the warmth of his enthusiasm. “yeah. It’s like one of the proudest moments in sports history here.”
yeonjun’s face lit up even more as he absorbed the significance. "i can't wait to see that happen in the future. when it does, you’ll have to remind me, okay? i’ll throw a big celebration for it! just wait, i’m going to be ready to party!"
it was an unexpected reaction, but it made you smile. despite all the heavy stuff you were dealing with, yeonjun’s excitement about something so simple—celebrating a victory in a future that hadn't even happened yet—felt comforting. for a moment, it was like things weren’t so complicated. like he was still just a normal guy with normal dreams.
you could tell that, despite his earlier confusion, yeonjun was beginning to feel more at ease with the whole situation. “it’s going to happen, just not right now. but hey,” you said, “maybe we can actually watch it together. i mean... if i’m still around.”
yeonjun nodded, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “we will. and i won’t let you disappear. not on my watch.”
it was said half-jokingly, but the sincerity behind his words was clear. you both sat there for a moment, allowing the silence to settle, but it wasn’t awkward. it felt... comfortable, like the weight of the truth was finally beginning to feel a little more bearable. yeonjun, despite all the confusion, was on your side. and that meant more to you than you realized.
“so,” yeonjun started, breaking the silence, “what’s next? what are you going to do with all this?”
you looked at the pile of letters on the table, still half-distracted by everything that had happened. “i don’t know yet. but i think i have to help my mom with soobin. i’m supposed to—well, the letters say it’s important. i just... i don’t know why. it’s all so weird.”
he leaned in closer, his tone serious now. “i don’t understand it all, but i get that you’ve got something you need to do. and i’ll help. whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. together.”
there was a sense of resolve in his voice now, a shift from the playful teasing earlier. he was no longer just a friend caught in the middle of your confusing life. he was someone who genuinely wanted to help you, someone who was willing to dive into the chaos with you and not back down.
and for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope—hope that things might actually work out, no matter how strange and twisted your situation seemed.
the days passed, and as you and yeonjun continued to help your mother and soobin grow closer, you found a sense of tranquility in the small moments that blossomed between you both. you had done it. you’d helped them get to this point, this delicate moment where your mom was finally smiling in a way you had never seen before. the bond between her and soobin was undeniable, and watching it grow made your heart swell. it was a feeling you couldn’t quite explain—like a mix of pride and relief that you had completed a part of your task, something that had been weighing on your shoulders from the very beginning. but you weren’t just a passive observer anymore. you had become part of their story.
and on that day, march 15th, when your mom and soobin posed for their first photo together, you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth settle in your chest. it was a moment you had carefully worked towards, a culmination of your efforts to see them happy, to see them closer. you were the one who took the picture, the one who captured their smiles—their shared joy that lit up the frame. they didn’t know it yet, but this photo would become a symbol of so much more than just a casual memory. it was a milestone, a turning point in all their lives.
you stood behind the camera, the lens capturing the gentle moment between them, and your eyes shifted to yeonjun, who was standing next to you. “you think they’ll be okay?” you whispered, adjusting the focus of the camera.
he looked at you with a soft smile, his voice gentle. “i think so. they’re finally seeing each other for who they really are.” his words were comforting, and you couldn’t help but feel that warmth expand.
but as you stood there, camera in hand, it wasn’t just their happiness that lingered in your heart. yeonjun, who had been standing next to you the entire time, his shoulder brushing against yours as you captured the moment, made the whole day feel like it was meant for the two of you. you had become part of something larger than yourself, something far beyond just the letters and the tasks hong had laid out for you. you had become a part of this world, a world that, in its own way, felt like it belonged to you and yeonjun.
days later, you found yourself sitting in your room, carefully sorting through the photos. there were the ones with your mom and soobin, their smiles as wide as the world itself. but then, there were others—the ones you had taken with yeonjun. the ones that seemed so simple, yet carried so much weight. you had never intended to take those pictures, but in the rush of moments, you had. there was the one where you both were riding his bike down the narrow, windy streets, laughing as he swerved the bike just to hear you squeal in fear. or the one where you were sitting on the school rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge as you whispered things about your time, things that felt like secrets shared between two souls who had no business existing in the same moment. those were the photos you’d kept—hidden in a little corner of your heart, tucked into the back of your mind.
you hesitated before pulling one of the pictures from the pile, the one where you were wrapped in yeonjun’s arms as he rode the bike. his face was full of joy, eyes crinkled in a grin, while you were buried in the back of his jacket, your face flushed from the wind and the thrill. you thought about whether it was allowed, whether it was okay to keep such a thing, but in that moment, you didn’t care. this photo, this simple image of you and yeonjun, held something more. something you didn’t have words for yet.
you tucked it carefully into your bag, your fingers grazing the edges of the photo one last time before you turned your attention back to the other picture—the one of your mom and soobin. you felt your heart tighten as you looked at her face, her expression softer than you had ever seen it. there was a glow there, an undeniable happiness that hadn’t been present before. she looked younger somehow, the years of hardship fading away beneath the tender light of a new love—of the first fluttering steps into something that could only be described as the beginning of something beautiful. you couldn't help but feel a rush of emotion wash over you. the woman who had always been so strong, so independent, was now looking at soobin with a softness that made her seem... fragile in the most endearing way. her cheeks flushed with the warmth of her newfound feelings, and her eyes sparkled with the innocence of someone discovering love for the very first time. it was almost impossible to imagine, but there she was, looking at him with a glow that almost seemed surreal.
you didn’t hesitate. you handed the photo to her, watching her take it with trembling hands, eyes scanning it like it was the most precious thing in the world. she looked at soobin, then back at the photo, and then back at you. for a moment, she didn’t say anything, and you almost wondered if she had even noticed the way her face changed. but then she smiled—a smile that wasn’t forced or polite. it was genuine, a smile that came from deep within her, and you realized, for the first time, that maybe you had finally done the right thing.
as the days passed, the air around your relationship with yeonjun grew lighter. you found yourselves spending more and more time together, and each moment seemed to deepen the connection between you both. It was something unspoken, an invisible thread that kept pulling you toward him, no matter how much you tried to resist it. there were moments when it felt so natural, so easy. riding on his bike—your arms wrapped around his waist, your face pressed against his back, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. he never seemed to mind. and when you helped him out at his grandmother’s restaurant on weekends, scrambling around the kitchen and laughing as you tried to juggle orders, it felt right. it felt like home.
“thanks for helping me today,” yeonjun said, a smile tugging at his lips as you wiped your hands on your apron. he stood next to you, leaning against the counter, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place.
“of course,” you answered, glancing up at him with a playful smile. “what else are friends for?”
he grinned back, but there was something deeper in his gaze, something you both avoided acknowledging. “friends, huh?” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.
“yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned back to the counter, not daring to look him in the eye.
and when the two of you snuck away from class to spend a few stolen minutes on the school’s rooftop, your legs dangling over the edge, it was like time stood still. you’d share bits of your world with him—small things, like the way your phone had changed from an old flip model to a sleek, glass-covered touchscreen. or the way people started using the internet for everything, even their grocery shopping. but when you spoke about the past, about the things that would come to pass, there was always that look in his eyes—one that made your heart beat faster, as though he was hanging on to your every word, each story you told drawing him closer.
“so… the first man on the moon, huh?” yeonjun asked, a twinkle in his eye as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “that’s a big deal in your time?”
“it is,” you answered softly, nodding. “it changed the way we see the world. the idea that we could be more than just earth-bound.” you paused, catching your breath before continuing. “it was… a promise. a promise that anything is possible.”
yeonjun’s gaze softened as he absorbed your words, the weight of them hanging in the air between you. there was something unspoken in that moment, something fragile, like the threads of a story yet to be fully told. you were both trapped in this moment, floating in the same strange space, neither of you daring to say what was on your mind, but both of you feeling it all the same.
“maybe one day we’ll go to the moon,” he said quietly, a light laugh escaping his lips. “wouldn’t that be something?”
you smiled, your chest swelling with a feeling you couldn’t name. maybe one day. maybe one day, you and yeonjun would do just that.
under the clear early-winter sky, you and yeonjun lay side by side on the worn-out blanket he had brought to the rooftop of the shared house. It was one of those nights that felt like it belonged in a diary—quiet, cold, intimate, and framed by a dome of stars so dazzling they seemed ready to spill from the heavens.
the night sky was purer than anything you'd seen in your own time. no pollution. no smog. no glowing cities to wash it all out. just the two of you, and a universe that felt infinite.
“the stars…” you whispered, eyes wide, fixed on the constellations. “they’re so beautiful here. so clear. in the future, you can’t see them like this anymore.”
yeonjun turned his head to look at you. his gaze was soft, filled with that quiet curiosity he always seemed to have when it came to you. “really? not even on clear nights?”
you shook your head, a breath slipping from your lips like smoke in the cold. “not even then. the city lights drown everything out. it’s like the stars have disappeared completely.”
he was quiet for a moment, watching the sky as if trying to memorize it for you—like he could bottle the night and give it to you to take home. then his voice dropped low, barely louder than a thought. “what do you think would’ve happened… if you’d never come here? if you hadn’t time-traveled?”
the question caught you off guard. your fingers brushed against his, half-consciously seeking him out on the fabric between you. “i don’t know,” you admitted truthfully. “maybe… we’d have never met.”
yeonjun let out a soft laugh—not teasing, just warm and tinged with something bittersweet. “yeah… i probably would've kept going with my life. not knowing someone like you even existed.”
“that sounds really sad,” you murmured.
he turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to face you fully. the starlight reflected in his eyes, making them shine. “y/n,” he said quietly, “i think i was born just to meet you.”
your heart clenched. the words hit you in a way that felt too big for your chest. cheesy. ridiculous. impossible. but still—so honest it hurt.
you smiled, cheeks flushed pink from more than just the cold. “maybe i was born to travel through time… just to meet you.”
he blinked slowly, then grinned. “so destiny was playing matchmaker, huh?”
“looks like it,” you said, nudging his shoulder.
it wasn’t a confession. not really. but the space between you shifted, electric and fragile. there were no titles, no labels. just the quiet knowledge that you felt the same—unspoken, yet undeniably there.
since your arrival, months had passed. it was now early 1992. your mother and soobin were officially dating, a real couple. it felt surreal. every time you looked at them, you could feel your mission inching closer to its end.
yeonjun was starting to prepare for university applications. his excitement was contagious—he’d talk about moving to seoul, walking through huge lecture halls, making music with other artists. sometimes he’d describe it so vividly you felt like you were already there with him.
“you should come with me,” he said one afternoon while helping you dry bowls at the restaurant. “if you’re still here when school starts.”
you blinked at him. “you mean… to seoul?”
“yeah. why not? you can live in a rooftop apartment next to mine. we’ll eat cheap ramen together. i’ll walk you to your classes.”
your laugh was quiet. “i don’t even know if i’ll still be here. if my mom’s already dating soobin, maybe… maybe it’s almost over. maybe I’ll be sent back soon.”
his smile faltered a little. “right…”
there was a beat of silence before he asked it again—the question that lingered over both of you like a shadow.
“do you think soobin’s your dad?”
you exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the sink. “i don’t know. i wish i did. But i won’t know anything until i go back and… ask her. for real.”
yeonjun nodded, lips pressed tight. you could tell he hated the unknown, hated that all of this—the time you had together—was out of your hands.
still, he leaned in closer, his shoulder bumping yours. “whatever happens… i’m glad we met.”
you tilted your head toward him. “even if i disappear one day without warning?”
he looked at you, eyes unwavering. “even then.”
and in that moment, beneath the stars of a world untouched by time, your hands found each other again. fingers interlaced, quiet and certain. there were no promises. no confessions.
but you both knew the truth.
even without a name, this—whatever it was between you—was real.
though soobin and your mother acted like shy high school sweethearts—barely daring to hold hands in public, cheeks flushed at the simplest touch—you’d heard him once when he thought no one else was listening.
“i want to take you to meet my parents,” soobin had said, voice steady but soft. “i want their blessing. i know we’re young, but i’ve never been so sure about anything.”
your mother had stared at him, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief. and you… you had frozen behind the door, hand on your chest, trying to breathe quietly.
it wasn’t just puppy love. soobin meant it. he was serious about her. about a future with her.
you swallowed the lump in your throat. was this… really your father?
you didn’t know what to feel. or say. or even think. all you could do was watch. hope. wait for time to untangle itself beneath your anxious feet.
through it all, yeonjun had been patient with you. so sweetly patient it almost hurt. he never rushed you, never asked for more than you were ready to give. he held your hand when you offered it. stayed close when you needed someone to lean on. you were happy—so achingly, dizzyingly happy—but every so often, reality would fall on you like cold water.
you weren’t meant to stay here. not forever.
you didn’t belong in the past.
if you stayed, who knew what chaos you could cause? butterfly wings and hurricanes. your existence here was a ticking bomb—you just didn’t know when it would explode.
letters from mr. hong still came, even after your confession to yeonjun. he didn’t mention what you’d done. he didn’t seem angry or hurt. just distant. polite. almost like a mentor trying to keep things strictly professional now.
but then… in may, a letter came that chilled you to the bone.
"this will be the last letter, but it doesn’t mean your mission is over. you may stay in the past for weeks, or months, even after this. but something dark is coming. something that will shake the foundation of everything you’ve protected until now.
in august, during the farewell party for the senior students… something will happen. be alert. watch closely. whatever happens, protect them."
-H.
your eyes scanned the paper in panic, fingers trembling.
you memorized every word. you carried the letter folded tight in your bag, your pillow, your pockets. you barely slept. you watched your mother like a hawk, stuck to soobin’s side more than ever. you hoped it was paranoia. that maybe nothing would happen.
but august arrived.
and so did the storm.
the night of the farewell party was warm and buzzing, the air thick with the joy of students celebrating the end of a chapter. you wore a borrowed dress, hair tucked up, eyes scanning every face. yeonjun stayed close. you could feel his hand grazing yours whenever you drifted.
then, it happened.
scream. loud. sharp. ripping through the music.
you turned and saw soobin—face twisted in rage—hitting a boy again and again. the boy on the floor was bleeding from the mouth, gasping, trying to block the blows. around them, students scattered, screaming. a teacher tried to pull soobin back, but soobin was gone. blind with fury.
someone yelled your mother’s name.
uou turned and saw her—shaking, pale, clothes torn at the shoulder, crying.
and then the cops arrived.
sirens. chaos. lights blinding.
they took soobin in cuffs. he didn’t fight it. he just turned to look at your mother, blood on his knuckles, and said, “i’m sorry.”
everything spiraled after that.
you learned later what had happened. the boy—older, drunk—had cornered your mother. tried to force himself on her. soobin had found them just in time.
but justice wasn’t simple.
soobin’s father, a well-known senator, came crashing down with fury. his name had been dragged through mud. his son in a scandal. a fight. a girl.
he beat soobin the night he got home. soobin showed up days later at your mom's house, face swollen, lip split. he said nothing. just hugged your mother and cried.
and then came the final blow.
his father announced that after soobin’s brief juvenile sentence, he’d be sent to the u.s. for good. a fresh start. a new life. a university abroad.
he was forbidden from seeing your mother again.
she wore the promise ring on her finger still. tiny, silver, nothing flashy—but it shimmered like a thousand diamonds when the light hit it. soobin had given it to her just weeks ago.
“i’ll marry you one day,” he’d whispered. “i swear.”
now she barely left her room. she stopped eating. stopped smiling. her eyes were always red.
you watched it all unfold. helpless. like your chest was being split open from the inside. you thought this was it. you thought this was the end of your mission—and that you’d failed.
maybe you were supposed to stop it. maybe this was the event. maybe this was what you were meant to prevent.
but now it was done.
and you hadn’t stopped it.
one night, after crying so hard your body physically ached, you found yourself in the backyard, curled up on a bench, arms wrapped around your knees.
yeonjun found you there.
he didn’t say anything. he just sat beside you, then gently pulled you into his chest. his arms wrapped around you like a shield. you buried your face in his sweater and sobbed. he stroked your hair slowly, patiently, as if telling you without words: i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.
“i think i ruined everything,” you whispered, voice raw.
“you didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly.
“i didn’t stop it. i didn’t protect them.”
“you’ve done more than anyone ever could,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you’ve loved them. that matters. that always matters.”
you closed your eyes.
and for the first time since august began, you let yourself fall apart. safely. in yeonjun’s arms.
even if everything else was crashing down, at least—for now—he was still here.
the months slipped by like smoke between your fingers.
from august to october, the colors around you changed—summer golds fading into autumn reds, then the gray hush of early october. but inside the house, inside your mother's room, it was always winter.
she tried to smile. tried to live. you made her tea, left her notes, held her hand through silences that stretched across entire afternoons. but you couldn’t force her heart to forget.
she had been in love with soobin since the very first day.
it had been fast. intense. a fire that lit her from the inside out—and now, after being torn apart so cruelly, she was trying to breathe through the ashes.
“everything i felt for him was real,” she whispered one night, curled beneath her blanket like a ghost of herself. “i’ve never loved someone like that. and now he’s gone.”
he was gone. living on the other side of the world. his father had made good on his promise—sent him to the u.s., far from everything that made him human. from her. from you.
at first, letters came. they were sweet, hopeful, full of aching promises.
but then they stopped.
you weren’t sure if he was being watched, controlled, or if he’d been forced to forget her by the cold grip of his powerful family. all you knew was that her mailbox stayed empty. and your mother stayed broken.
but in your corner of this spiraling world, there was yeonjun.
yeonjun, who saw you even when you tried to disappear behind your guilt. yeonjun, who didn’t ask for more than what you could give. who held your fears gently in the curve of his palm and waited for you to breathe again.
he was the only one who could calm your unraveling thoughts.
but even that peace became fractured. as october arrived, he pulled away—not emotionally, but physically, lost in piles of paperwork and meetings and test prep for university in seoul.
days would pass without seeing him. you waited, restless. you’d grown addicted to his presence, to the way his voice softened your panic and made the world feel less heavy.
so when he finally said through the phone “let’s have dinner tonight. just us,” your heart skipped like a stone over water.
it was a sunday evening.
the sun had set early, painting the sky in smudges of burnt orange and deep plum. the air was crisp but not cold, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a silk scarf. the streets were quiet, glowing under amber streetlamps, trees shivering slightly in the breeze.
he waited for you at the tteokbokki place—the same spot where you'd first laughed over spicy sauce and nervous glances months ago.
but this time… he looked different.
he’d styled his hair back with gel, revealing the full line of his forehead and the soft arch of his brows. it made him look older, more refined. dangerous, even. the boyish charm hadn’t vanished—it had evolved, carved into something breathtaking.
you blinked, stunned. “you… you look so hot.”
he nearly choked on his water, laughing. “what?”
“i mean it. the hair. it suits you. you look like a model or something.”
his cheeks flushed red. “you can’t just say that and act normal.”
you leaned forward, smug. “i just did.”
the tension melted into warm laughter, echoing between the tiled walls of the tiny restaurant. it felt like you were the only two people in the world.
then, you picked up a piece of tteokbokki, holding it in your chopsticks. “say ‘ahh~’.”
he gave you a playful side-eye. “are we really doing this?”
“yes,” you grinned. “we’re method acting as a couple. you need to commit.”
he opened his mouth with a dramatic sigh. “ahhh—”
you fed him the piece, your fingers brushing his lips by accident, and you both burst out laughing. it was ridiculous. silly. but the way he was looking at you—it wasn’t silly at all.
then he said it.
“i love you.”
the world stopped.
your smile froze on your lips. time seemed to fracture around you, holding its breath.
before you could speak, he continued, voice lower now, almost trembling.
“i know you’ll leave. i know this isn’t your world. but you have something that belongs to you. me.” he reached across the table, took your hand. “even if our time is short… i want to spend it with you. i don’t want to regret not saying it. i don’t want to spend the next 26 years wishing i had.”
your throat tightened. your fingers gripped his.
“i like you, y/n. I like you so much it hurts. and if the universe tears us apart, i’ll be reborn just to find you again. in every timeline, i’ll search for you. always.”
your heart beat so fast it hurt. your mouth was dry. your body frozen.
but he wasn’t waiting for permission anymore.
he stood, leaned over the table, and kissed you.
softly. slowly. like the world didn’t matter.
his lips tasted like tteokbokki and heartbreak, sweet and fiery all at once. your eyes fluttered shut. everything blurred. the restaurant, the lights, the soft chatter of other customers—all vanished.
there was only him. his mouth against yours. his breath brushing your cheek. his hand cradling the side of your neck with delicate reverence.
the world spun.
but for the first time in months, you didn’t care.
you kissed him back. you kissed him like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.
because maybe he was.
you started a relationship without labeling it. no one asked, “will you be mine?” they just... were. and that was enough.
no promises, no declarations. only two hearts quietly choosing each other in the midst of borrowed time.
yeonjun didn’t push you. he never asked for forever. he just gave you his time—every second of it. and you, with a heart full of fear and a mind screaming you don’t belong here, you gave him everything you could.
your moments, your awkward laughs, your unsure hands, your kisses that tasted like soft desperation, your half-written thoughts and unfinished dreams.
every date felt like a stolen lifetime.
one warm afternoon, he took you to the park with an old checkered blanket and a thermos full of hot chocolate.
he brought his vintage camera and snapped pictures of you while the sun painted you in gold.
“you look like a memory,” he said, looking at you through the lens like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.
another night, you strolled through the streets hand in hand, fingers tangled loosely, like a promise never spoken.
you passed by old storefronts and flickering streetlights, until you found a small cinema playing black and white films.
he held your thumb the whole time, tracing slow circles into your skin, and you weren’t even watching the movie— you were memorizing the way his jaw looked in the flickering light,
how he leaned close when he laughed.
on a lazy saturday, he took you to a dusty secondhand bookstore tucked between an old pharmacy and a fruit shop.
you two hid between shelves, reading poetry aloud,
laughing when he made up the endings, and somewhere between the little prince and a forgotten romance novel, he kissed you again— slow, reverent, like you were made of something holy.
some mornings, you just stayed home.
he made pancakes in a worn apron with a bunny print, and you danced around in oversized socks, hair a mess, and he’d tell you, “you’re my favorite song.” and you’d whisper back, how am i supposed to leave this?
but you didn’t say it out loud. you didn’t have to. you both knew.
and still—he stayed.
and still—you loved him.
while yeonjun became your calm, your anchor, your mother began to slowly stitch herself back together.
not in grand gestures. not overnight. but little by little.
she stopped crying in the mornings. she let you brush her hair again.
she smiled at breakfast, not because she was over soobin, but because she remembered how to feel sunlight on her skin.
you watched her heal. you watched her reread soobin’s old letters with trembling fingers, tears still fresh, but her spine straighter.
“i’ve never loved someone like that before,” she confessed one night while folding laundry, voice soft as dusk. “it all happened so fast… it was real. i know it was.”
and you nodded, because you saw it— the way they looked at each other like time was a thief.
and you were living that same story now. with your own boy. your own impossible love.
except you didn’t know how yours would end.
only that it had already changed you. forever.
it was thursday. early. too early.your eyes were heavy, your limbs sluggish with the weight of not enough sleep.
your mind replayed the night before in soft flashes— you and yeonjun lying side by side, talking about everything and nothing. he told you he'd be leaving at dawn to catch the train to seoul. his csat exam. he had smiled when he said it, eyes wide with excitement and nerves.
“i’ll take the 6 a.m. train,” he whispered. “i want to be early… less stress that way.”
you’d nodded, fingers brushing his. you kissed him—sleepy and slow—and told him good luck. told him you’d buy cake and celebrate when he came back. he grinned, “then now i’m more excited about the cake than the exam.”
your chest ached gently with the memory. how warm his voice had sounded. how real he’d felt.
you went about your morning like any other. brushed your teeth.
took a quick shower. you padded downstairs, hair still damp, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.
mrs. son was already up, bustling in the kitchen, apron tied neatly at her waist. the scent of warm broth and toasted rice filled the air. you walked past her to the small calendar on the wall.
she reached it before you. ripped off yesterday’s page in one clean motion. november 12th.
you froze a second. something tugged at your gut. but you shook it off.
“need help?” you asked, voice light.
“set the table, darling,” she said, smiling.
you did. poured the tea. laid out the bowls. and sat down across from her.
she talked casually as you ate. about the weather. the street cats.then she looked up from her spoon and grinned.
“you really won the lottery with that one, huh? so handsome, your yeonjun. if i had met someone like him in my youth…” she sighed dramatically.
you laughed. but there was a tremble in it. because this wasn't your youth. and it wasn't your time.
you were borrowing this moment. and somewhere inside, you knew the clock was ticking.
after breakfast, you stayed in the living room, watching a slow moving drama with mrs. son. she liked to yell at the characters, complain about the villains, cheer for the lovers. you leaned your head against the cushion, letting her voice wash over you,
but your mind drifted again.
to his voice. to his train. to his smile as he said “see you tonight.”
and then—
the screen cut to static. just for a second. then the image returned, but it wasn’t the drama anymore.
breaking news.
you sat up.
a smoky image filled the screen. metal twisted into grotesque shapes, a train on its side, the ground scorched and steaming. bodies—blurry—too blurry— sirens. flashing lights.
your blood went ice cold. your lungs forgot how to breathe.
“the train… the train from incheon to seoul has… derailed—”
and you knew. you didn’t need them to say it. you knew.
the flashback hit you like a bullet— “the tragic accident of the incheon-seoul express…” your own voice, from before. before all of this.
“no.” the word spilled from you in a whisper. then louder.
“no—no—no—YEONJUN!”
mrs. son barely had time to react before you were on your feet, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to shatter them, legs moving without direction—without control.
you burst out of the house, wind clawing at your skin, eyes blind with tears.
how could i be so stupid? you knew. YOU KNEW. you had the date. the place. the headline burned into your memory. and you let him go.
your breath tore out of you in gasps as you flagged down the first taxi you saw. the driver looked at you wide-eyed as you shouted,
“the train wreck—take me there. please—now.”
“miss, they won’t let you near it. police closed everything. it’s chaos—”
“my boyfriend is there!” your scream cracked your throat raw. “he’s in there—i have to get to him—i have to—”
he drove.
but you were already breaking. from the inside out. because the pieces were fitting together, one after another like cruel clockwork.
you could save your mom. you could save soobin.
but not him.
yeonjun. your bright light. your stolen season of peace. and you’d let him go with a kiss and the promise of cake.
god, why didn’t you say don’t go? why didn’t you scream the truth
you pressed your forehead to the car window, watching the blur of streets race past, but all you saw were his eyes. his hands. his smile.
the memory of his “i love you” slammed into your chest like a truck.
your vision tunneled. everything felt muffled. your body was still moving, still trying, but some part of you had already shattered.
you felt it. a cold certainty deep in your bones.
he was gone. and you’d known it. and you couldn’t stop it.
the sobs started in your gut—ugly, loud, and you curled into yourself in the back of that taxi, screaming his name as if the wind might carry it back in time and stop him from boarding that train.
but time, as always, didn’t listen.
the taxi barely slowed when you pushed the door open.
"hey! miss! what the hell—!" you didn’t hear the rest. your feet hit the pavement hard and fast. cars honked around you, drivers yelling, but none of it registered.
you ran.
the train station loomed ahead, a warped silhouette behind smoke and flashing lights. traffic had collapsed around it—cars trapped in a gridlock of sirens and screams. people were everywhere, shouting, crying, pacing the sidewalks with phones pressed to their ears, desperate for news.
but you only had one thought. one name.
yeonjun.
your breath tore from you in bursts as you shoved through the crowd, ignoring the sting of elbows and the heat of panic. you had to find him. he was here.
he was—
a loud honk split the air behind you.
you turned your head— just a flicker— and saw it.
a car.
too fast.
too close.
your eyes widened. you didn’t scream. just a choked, helpless whimper as your knees locked in place.
then—
impact.
your world tilted. the sky spun. your body flew—weightless— before slamming into the ground with a sickening crack.
pain.
then nothing.
voices.
screams.
doors slamming.
tires screeching.
everything faded—
the colors, the sounds, the smell of smoke and burning metal.
all of it fell away, until even your mind went quiet.
you gasped awake. your scream pierced the sterile silence of the hospital room. your body jolted upright, limbs flailing beneath thin sheets, the ache in your chest unbearable.
"YEON—"
but the name—
the name—
what was the name?
you froze, heart hammering wildly as tears welled in your eyes.
there was a face. a smile. soft brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed. warm hands. a voice that said “i love you” in the quiet.
but the name. what was his name?
a soft thud.
your mom—
startled awake from the small couch by the window.
“baby—baby, you're awake! oh my god—" she rushed to your side, holding your trembling hands.
you blinked at her. tried to speak, but your throat burned.
the door burst open. nurses flooded in, followed by a doctor with a clipboard and calm urgency.
“heart rate’s spiking—she’s in shock—prepare a sedative—” no. no. you didn’t want to forget.
you clung to the face in your mind. you bit your tongue to stay conscious. you tried to picture him— his eyes, his laugh, the way he said your name.
but the details blurred. the voice faded. and worst of all— you couldn’t remember what you used to call him. what he used to call you.
your body thrashed on the bed until the needle slid into your arm. warmth spread through your veins, thick and heavy, dragging you down.
you sobbed. not from pain— but from the terrible emptiness blooming inside your chest. something was gone. someone was gone.
when you woke again, it was quiet.your mother sat beside you, stroking your hair with gentle fingers.
her eyes were red.
“you scared me,” she whispered. “you passed out two nights ago. i found you by the closet. you wouldn’t wake up.”
two nights?
your lips parted.
your voice came out hoarse.
“two nights…?”
“yeah. the doctor says you were dehydrated. exhausted. they ran some tests, but…” she paused. her brows furrowed. “they think it might have been psychological. you were… crying in your sleep.”
your mind raced. no—no— you were gone for longer than that. you lived another life. with another family. with him.
but the memories were slipping like sand through your fingers.
“i was somewhere else,” you murmured, barely audible. your mother leaned in.
“what, sweetheart?”
you shook your head, tears filling your eyes. “i—I was in the past. i was with… with…”
his face.
for a moment it was there again.
just a flicker.
but when you tried to focus—
when you tried to hold it still—
it scattered like dust.
you choked on a sob.
what kind of cruel joke was this?
you remembered how it felt.
the love.
the joy.
the heartbreak.
but not him.
not even his name.
you wrapped your arms around your knees, curling into yourself on the hospital bed.
“mom…” your voice cracked. “i think i lost someone important.”
she looked at you with quiet confusion, not understanding what you meant. but how could she?
how do you explain losing a person you’re not even sure existed anymore? how do you mourn someone your mind won’t let you remember?
but your heart knew. somewhere deep down, in a place no medicine could reach— it knew.
and it hurt like hell.
a month had passed since you were discharged from the hospital. the doctors said you had collapsed from shock, that maybe it was stress, dehydration, or a neurological response. none of them had a real explanation for why you’d been unconscious for so long, or why, when you finally woke up, you whispered a name you couldn’t remember and cried for someone who didn’t exist.
your body had recovered. you could walk, eat, shower, smile if you really had to. but something inside you felt... disconnected. sometimes you would stare out the window for hours, not even noticing the sun moving across the sky. sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night with tears on your cheeks and an ache in your chest that wouldn’t let you breathe. other times you felt like a ghost living in your own skin—aware, but not present.
you couldn’t ride the train again. even the sound of one passing in the distance made your knees weak and your hands tremble. it was irrational. you knew that. but every time you tried, something deep inside screamed at you not to go. a primal terror wrapped around your ribs and wouldn’t let go. maybe it was trauma from the collapse. maybe it was something you brought back with you. you weren’t sure anymore.
you tried to convince yourself that none of it had happened. that it was just a vivid dream your brain created while you were unconscious. it had to be, right? people don’t just fall into different timelines. they don’t leap through summers that never existed, meet boys with eyes like galaxies, or change the past. yet, no matter how many times you repeated that logic to yourself, it never stuck. something in you knew it had been real. and that knowing haunted you.
you had changed. you were quieter now, reserved. you spoke only when necessary and often found yourself zoning out in the middle of conversations, eyes unfocused as if you were somewhere else entirely. school felt like noise. people buzzed around you, but you couldn’t keep up. your grades dropped. you didn’t care. you didn’t connect with anyone. making friends felt pointless when your heart still lived in a different time.
your relationship with your mother had shifted too. after your collapse, she was visibly worried, almost overly attentive—but you couldn’t let her in. not after everything. not when you remembered her as the teenage girl you met that summer, crying into your arms, struggling through heartbreak. that memory clashed too harshly with the woman sitting at the dinner table now, asking if you’d done your homework. you had built a wall between the two of you, and she didn’t know how to climb over it.
and then, one evening as you both sat eating dinner in silence, the question escaped your lips before you could stop it.
“is soobin my father?”
the fork in her hand froze mid-air, and her eyes flicked to yours, wide and sharp with alarm. her mouth parted slightly in surprise, brows furrowing in clear discomfort. you regretted asking immediately—until her expression softened. she sighed and set the fork down, folding her hands in her lap as she looked at you with a strange mixture of vulnerability and nostalgia.
“no,” she said quietly. “he’s not.”
your stomach twisted, unsure if the answer brought relief or disappointment. she looked away for a moment, as if remembering something from a dream of her own.
“soobin... was someone i knew in high school,” she continued. “he was sweet. shy, but in a charming way. he helped me get through something really hard. i remember this girl who was there too—she supported me, made me feel less alone—but i can’t remember her name now. it’s strange. i remember her eyes, her voice, but... not her name.”
your throat tightened. that was you. but you said nothing.
“soobin and i dated for a while. we thought we were meant for each other. but life had other plans. he left for the united states. we tried to stay in touch, but... things faded. i fell apart for a while. but eventually, in college, i met someone else. your father. choi wonbin.”
the name hit you like a wave. your eyes widened, heart stuttering in your chest. wonbin. not soobin. and that explained everything. that was why you hadn’t vanished when soobin left. that was why the timeline remained intact. your existence had never depended on him. your mother smiled softly, almost laughing to herself.
“i know, i know. soobin, wonbin—it sounds ridiculous. just a coincidence,” she said. “but sometimes... life is full of coincidences that somehow make sense.”
for the first time in weeks, the tension in your shoulders eased. it was as if a door had opened. as if something that had been stuck finally began to shift. and for the first time since you returned, you felt a sliver of peace.
a week later, a package arrived for you. it was small, lightweight, and addressed in delicate handwriting. your fingers trembled as you opened it. inside, you found a single letter. your breath hitched the moment your eyes recognized the script. it was his.
mr. hong.
“y/n, it wasn’t a dream. you really did travel through time.
the reason you’re still alive and well is because you followed the path that was meant to be.
everything happened as it had to. even the painful parts. even the losses.
you played your part with courage, with love.
thank you.
now, rest. beautiful things await you.
this is my final goodbye.
live, y/n. truly live.
—hong.”
your vision blurred as hot tears rolled down your cheeks. you clutched the letter to your chest, heart aching with a grief that had no words. you didn’t know why it hurt so much. only that something inside you had broken open. maybe it was because it had been real. maybe because it was over. maybe because someone had finally said thank you.
a few days later, your homeroom teacher called you into his office. you weren’t in the mood for anything. you shuffled into the room with tired steps and blank eyes.
“we have a transfer student,” he said with a warm smile. “i’d like you to show him around. since you’re both new, maybe you can help each other.”
you nodded absently, barely paying attention. your gaze drifted to his desk—a black pen, a leather-bound notebook—and something about the handwriting on the paper caught your eye. your stomach flipped. before you could say anything, he stood up suddenly.
“ah—excuse me, i have to take this call. meet him while i step out, alright?”
and then the door opened.
you turned.
your breath left your body.
there he stood.
tall. familiar. too real to be real.
ear piercings gleaming. airpods in. hands buried in his pockets. that same effortless cool. the exact look you remembered, etched into every corner of your heart.
he smiled at you—soft, warm, and impossibly alive.
“hi,” he said, voice smooth and gentle. “i’m yeonjun. son yeonjun. please take care of me.”
your knees buckled. your lungs stopped working. your heart screamed.
“you’re real,” you whispered.
he stepped closer without hesitation, taking your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if he’d done it a thousand times before.
“i told you,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, “i was born to meet you. and i’d follow you through time. in every line. every world.”
you choked on a sob as the tears spilled over. he wiped them away with quiet tenderness.
“we were meant to find each other. no matter when. no matter where.”
your arms wrapped around him, and he pulled you close—tight, grounding, safe. you buried your face in his chest and breathed him in. he smelled like summer rain and all the moments you thought you’d lost.
he tilted your chin, looked into your eyes with infinite softness, and kissed you. gently. surely. like it was always meant to happen.
and in that kiss, everything returned—every laugh, every memory, every promise unspoken.
outside, the rain began to fall. soft. steady.
but inside the room, wrapped in his arms, you felt the warmth of a hundred summers.
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
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author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
Here is a website of calm rain noise
Take a breath. It’s going to be okay, I promise.
Are’s fic recs @shookyungsoo - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
