in the quiet of the stacks | jsc
gryffindor! sungchan x slytherin! reader
pt.2 of this
summary: wizarding world au in which as head boy and head girl, you and sungchan are supposed to be the model of propriety. but ever since that first time in the prefects' bathroom, the carefully constructed walls of rule-following have crumbled into dust. now, during a late-night study session in the empty library, the weight of expectation is nothing compared to the weight of his wanting gaze. focus becomes a foreign concept, and the only history you're interested in is the one you're about to make against the bookshelves.
word count: 2.8k+
warnings: explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (library), sexual tension, teasing, dry humping/grinding, fingering, oral (f receiving), pet names, risk kink (?), not proofread, etc.
the hogwarts library at night was a different kind of magical. the usual rustle of parchment and whispered incantations was replaced by a profound, dusty silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the enchanted ceiling mimicking a starry sky and the occasional hoot from the restricted section. tall, towering shelves formed a labyrinth of knowledge, and in one of its deepest, most secluded corners, a single lamp pooled golden light onto a heavy oak table, illuminating two figures who were supposed to embody the pinnacle of hogwarts virtue.
you, the slytherin head girl, and sungchan, the gryffindor head boy. a portrait of academic dedication. or so it was meant to be.
your quill hovered over a particularly dense paragraph about the uses of dragon’s blood in advanced potioneering, the words blurring into an indecipherable mess for the third time. it wasn’t the subject matter’s fault. it was the solid, warm presence of the boy beside you.
sungchan was a study in feigned concentration. his brow was furrowed, his textbook on defensive magical theory open before him. but you could feel the shift in his energy—a subtle current that had been building for the last hour, crackling in the silent space between you. his leg, stretched out under the table, had been brushing against yours for minutes now, a deliberate, lingering pressure that was anything but accidental.
“you’re not reading that,” his voice was a low murmur, a vibration in the quiet that went straight to your core. he didn’t even look up from his book.
you swallowed, trying to anchor yourself in the pretense of studying. “i am. ‘the thirty-seventh use, as discovered by…’ by…” you trailed off, the name evaporating from your mind.
he finally turned his head, a slow, predatory smile playing on his lips. his arm, which had been resting on the table, slid down, his hand coming to rest high on your thigh, just where your school skirt ended. his fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, a claim staked through the thin fabric of your tights. “by who, darling?”
the pet name, spoken in that deep, honeyed tone, unraveled you completely. you let out a shaky breath, your own book slumping closed. “you’re a terrible influence, sungchan.”
“mm, i prefer ‘motivational,’” he countered, his thumb beginning a slow, torturous circle on your inner thigh, inching higher with each pass. “you’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. clearly, you need a break.”
his touch was incendiary. it burned through the wool of your tights, through your cotton underwear, setting every nerve ending alight. this was the dangerous game you had been playing for weeks. since the prefects’ bathroom, since the steam and the slick skin and the muffled cries against wet tile, it was as if a dam had broken. the carefully curated animosity you displayed in the corridors, the slytherin and the gryffindor, perpetually at odds during the day—was just a facade for this. for the stolen moments in empty classrooms, behind tapestries, and now, here, in the one place that was supposed to be sacred.
“we can’t,” you whispered, the protest weak even to your own ears as you subtly pressed your leg harder against his hand. “we have to finish these essays for professor snape and…”
“snape will get his essay,” sungchan interrupted, his voice dropping even lower, into a register that was pure sin. he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, and you caught the scent of parchment, ink, and the uniquely him scent of crisp autumn air laced with something faintly spicy. “but right now, i can’t focus on anything but the way you’re biting your lip. on how you keep shifting in your seat. on how wet i know you are for me already.”
a hot flush spread across your chest and up your neck. he was right, of course. the simple brush of his leg, the weight of his gaze, had already worked you into a state of desperate, aching need. the evidence was a slick, embarrassing heat between your legs that his circling thumb was agonizingly close to.
“sungchan…” it was a plea, for him to stop, or to continue. you didn’t even know which.
he took it as permission. his hand slid fully into your lap, his palm a heavy, warm weight pressing directly against your core. you jolted, a sharp gasp escaping you as he applied a firm, steady pressure. your eyes fluttered shut, the library, the essays, the rules all dissolving into nothing.
“see?” he whispered, his lips grazing your jawline. “you’re trembling. all this for me.”
he began to move his hand, a slow, rhythmic rocking that had you grinding helplessly against his palm. the friction, even through the layers of fabric, was exquisite torture. your head fell back against your chair, a soft, broken moan slipping out before you could stop it.
“shhh, precious,” he soothed, his other hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. “we have to be quiet. wouldn’t want filch to find the head boy and head girl dry-humping in the library, would we?”
the vulgarity of the words, paired with the gentle caress on your face, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through you. you rocked against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, your hips moving of their own accord. the dry-humping was maddening, a tease that only highlighted the deep, empty ache inside you. you could feel the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, pressing into your hip, and the knowledge that he was just as far gone as you were only fueled your desperation.
“please,” you breathed, the word barely audible.
“please what?” he teased, his voice thick with his own arousal. he increased the pressure, his palm grinding against your clit in a way that made you see stars. “use your words, head girl. what do you need?”
“i need… more. i can’t… this isn’t enough.”
a dark, possessive gleam lit up his eyes. in one fluid motion, he stood, his chair scraping softly against the stone floor. he never broke contact, his hand still pressed firmly against you, holding you in place. he looked down at you—your face flushed, your lips parted, your body yielding under his touch.
“then it’s a good thing i need more, too.”
he leaned down, hooking one arm under your knees and the other around your back, and lifted you from the chair as if you weighed nothing. you gasped, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, your books and parchment forgotten on the table. he carried you effortlessly into the narrow, dark aisle between two towering bookshelves, the smell of old paper and leather binding enveloping you.
he pinned you against the solid wood of a shelf, the books rattling softly with the impact. his body was a furnace, caging you in. he finally removed his hand from between your legs, only to bring both to your face, tilting it up to his.
“now,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, “let’s be very, very quiet.”
his mouth crashed down on yours. it wasn’t the gentle, exploring kiss of a lover; it was a claiming. hungry and demanding, all teeth and tongue and suppressed need finally unleashed. you kissed him back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his soft brown hair, pulling him closer. he tasted faintly of the peppermint humbugs he always sucked during study sessions.
his hands were everywhere, frantic and greedy. one slid down your neck, over the front of your shirt, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric. you arched into his touch, a muffled cry swallowed by his kiss. he pinched the hardened bud gently, then not so gently, and you whimpered into his mouth, the sharp pleasure-pain making your knees buckle. he held you up easily, his strong arm around your waist the only thing keeping you upright.
he broke the kiss, both of you panting, his forehead resting against yours. “these clothes,” he growled, his voice ragged. “too many.”
his fingers made quick work of the buttons on your shirt, pushing the fabric aside. he yanked the cup of your bra down, exposing your breast to the cool, dusty air. his head dipped, his hot mouth closing over your nipple, and you cried out, slapping a hand over your own mouth to stifle the sound. he laved and suckled, his tongue flicking over the peak until you were writhing against him, your hips seeking any kind of friction they could find.
“sungchan… someone…” you tried to protest, but it was useless. the risk, the potential of being caught, only made the fire burn hotter.
“no one’s here,” he muttered against your skin, his words a hot promise. “it’s just us. just you, coming apart on my tongue.”
he released your breast with a wet pop and dropped to his knees before you. the sight of him—the proud gryffindor head boy on his knees in front of you in the forbidden section—was enough to make your head spin. he pushed your skirt up around your waist, his dark eyes burning up at you with undisguised lust. he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your tights and underwear, and in one swift movement, dragged them down to your knees.
the air hit your wet, exposed flesh and you shuddered. he didn’t give you a moment to feel exposed. he gripped your bare thighs, spreading them, and buried his face between your legs.
the first flat stroke of his tongue against your clit had you slamming your head back against the bookshelf, a guttural moan tearing from your throat that you barely managed to choke into a strangled gasp. he groaned against you, the vibration exquisite, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for his devouring.
he was relentless. he licked and sucked at your core like a man starved, his tongue delving inside you before circling back to focus on your throbbing clit. he knew your body better than you did—knew exactly how to use the flat of his tongue, the pointed tip, the gentle suction to bring you to the very edge of sanity. your fingers scrabbled against the shelves behind you, knocking a book loose. it fell to the floor with a deafening thud in the silent library.
you both froze, his mouth still on you, your body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. you listened, hearts pounding, for the sound of footsteps, for mrs. norris’s meow, for filch’s wheezing breath.
silence.
a slow, wicked smile spread across sungchan’s face, his lips glistening with your arousal. “see?” he whispered, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “no one.”
he dove back in with renewed fervor, and you were lost. one of his hands slipped from your thigh, two fingers pressing against your entrance before sliding deep inside you. you cried out, biting down on your own knuckle to muffle the sound. he curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your vision whiten, pumping them in time with the ruthless circles his tongue was making on your clit.
the coil of pleasure in your abdomen tightened unbearably. your thighs began to shake around his head. “i’m… i’m going to…”
“come for me,” he commanded, his voice muffled and dark. “come in my mouth. now.”
it was an order you couldn’t disobey. the orgasm ripped through you, violent and silent, a seismic wave of pleasure that stole the air from your lungs and the strength from your legs. you convulsed around his fingers, your body bowing as you rode the intense waves, your silent screams echoing only in your own skull. he worked you through it, gentling his tongue, drinking every last shudder and spasm until you were boneless, held up only by the bookshelf and his arm around your waist.
he rose slowly, his own breathing harsh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. his eyes were black with desire, his erection visibly straining against his trousers.
he didn’t give you time to recover. he turned you around, pressing your front against the shelves. the leather-bound spines dug into your cheek and your still-exposed breasts. you heard the frantic rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt buckle, the tear of a foil packet—a quiet spell vanishing it before it could hit the ground. he was always prepared, always so infuriatingly responsible even in his recklessness.
he pushed your skirt up again, his hands gripping your bare hips. you felt the thick, hot head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance. you were still pulsing from your climax, oversensitive and pliant.
“you’re so wet,” he groaned into your ear, his body blanketing yours. “still clenching from your come. fuck, you feel perfect.”
he didn’t thrust in. he teased, rubbing himself through your slick folds, coating himself in you, pressing against your sensitive clit until you were mewling, pushing your hips back against him, begging wordlessly for more.
“what do you want?” he taunted, his voice a rough scrape.
“you,” you panted, beyond pride. “inside. please, sungchan, now.”
with a guttural sound of triumph, he sheathed himself inside you in one deep, brutal thrust. you both cried out simultaneously, the sound swallowed by the thousands of silent books. he was so big, stretching you so perfectly, filling the emptiness that had been haunting you all evening.
he held still for a moment, buried to the hilt, both of you trembling with the sheer intensity of the connection. then he began to move.
his pace was frantic, desperate. each thrust rocked you forward into the bookshelf, the sound of your bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, and the soft rustle of disturbed books creating a sinful symphony. one hand stayed on your hip, anchoring you, the other snaked around your body, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, quick circles that had you seeing stars all over again.
“you feel… so… fucking… good,” he grunted against your neck, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “my perfect, wicked little slytherin. breaking all the rules for me.”
his words, filthy and praising, pushed you higher. you met his thrusts as best you could, your own pleasure coiling again, tighter and hotter than before. the public nature of it, the sheer wrongness of being fucked senseless in the hogwarts library by the head boy, was the most potent aphrodisiac you’d ever known.
“sungchan… i’m close again…” you whimpered.
“come with me,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming more erratic, losing their rhythm. “let go. i want to feel you come around my cock.”
his fingers on your clit were magic, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot with every plunge. you fell over the edge with a silent, breathless scream, your inner walls clamping down on him in violent, pulsating waves. the intensity of it was blinding, a white-hot nova of pleasure that consumed you whole.
feeling you clench around him was his undoing. with a choked, broken groan, he buried himself as deep as he could, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside you, his warmth flooding you, his body slumping over yours as he rode out his own climax.
for a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint smell of sex and old books. he stayed inside you, his weight a comforting pressure, his lips pressed softly to the sweaty skin of your shoulder.
slowly, carefully, he pulled out, and you immediately felt the loss—a hollow ache and the warm trickle of his release down your inner thigh. he turned you around, his hands gentle now, cupping your face. he looked wrecked—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes still dark with satiated lust. he looked beautiful.
he performed a quick cleaning charm on both of you before tenderly pulling your underwear and tights back up, smoothing your skirt down. he re-fastened your bra and buttoned your shirt with a surprising delicacy. he righted himself, tucking his shirt in and buckling his belt—the picture of composure returning piece by piece.
you leaned against the bookshelf, your legs still like jelly, watching him. he reached down and picked up the book that had fallen, sliding it carefully back into its empty space on the shelf.
he finally looked at you, a slow, sated smile spreading across his face. he stepped close, not touching you, but his presence was a caress in itself.
“feel more motivated to study now?” he asked, his voice back to that low, teasing murmur, though it was still rough around the edges.
a breathless laugh escaped you. you reached out, straightening his head boy badge, which had gone crooked. “i think my focus has been thoroughly shattered.”
“good,” he said, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—a shocking contrast to the animalistic frenzy of minutes before. “mine too.”
he took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and led you back to the table where your books still lay open, untouched. the essays were still unfinished. the rules were still broken. but as you sat down beside him, his thigh once again finding its place pressed against yours under the table, you found you didn’t care about any of it at all.
©️sungchanizt
