꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ surpriseeee — this is 3 parts now hehe. satoru is still our lovingly annoying sweetheart here, but this part does have a bit more angst than the last. nothing too wild though… just a whole lot of yearning and our poor reader being very committed to denial. i hope you enjoy! part 3 will be the last one. (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
<<< part 1 - main masterlist - part 3 >>>
part 2
“Ma’am, may I interest you in our menu?” the flight attendant asks, leaning in with a practiced smile.
"Oh—um. Yes... thank you."
The thick, cream-colored menu lands in your hands a second later, and you settle into your seat just as she disappears down the aisle. A seat that is far too comfortable for the current state of your life. But that’s the thing about first class — it makes it very hard to be appropriately miserable, and you are trying to be miserable right now. You are committed to it.
“If you need recommendations… I recommend the wagyu.” Satoru leans in, close enough that his breath feathers warm against the side of your neck. “It’s to die for.”
He grins, blue eyes glinting behind snowy lashes. And unfortunately, the wagyu isn’t the thing currently putting your life at risk. Because a shiver moves through you before you can stop it.
“O-Oh…” your head jerks away, quickly. “Uh-huh… sure.”
Refusing to turn, you keep your eyes stubbornly on the cabin — denying him the satisfaction of seeing what his closeness does to the treacherous, backstabbing organ inside your chest. But you catch him in your periphery — leaning back, entirely unbothered, reaching for his own menu with that pleased little hum that means, of course, he notices.
Ugh.
This is going to be a long-ass ten-hour flight. And first class, as it turns out, is only roomy when you aren’t seated beside the exact person currently making your pulse act deeply unprofessional.
…
Wait. When did your pulse start doing that?!
Miserable, you remind yourself. Yeah. Miserable.
With a sigh, you click your seatbelt into place and flip open the menu, genuinely trying to build a case for why this is the worst decision you’ve ever made. Unfortunately, it is hard to maintain righteous regret when the menu has no prices on it. Not one. Just elegant font, artful descriptions, and ingredients arranged like poetry.
…you’d booked economy.
Economy.
But then he’d upgraded your tickets last minute like that was a normal thing a person did — insisting you fly with him. Like swapping someone’s middle seat for a first-class cocoon with a duvet and a champagne flute was just… hospitality.
“Um… Satoru?” Your brow arches as you take in the absurdly extravagant menu. “How much does this cost, exactly…?” He doesn’t even glance up. “Mm? Oh.” Flipping a page, his hand waves lazily. “Don’t worry about it.”
…
Don’t worry about it?
You are very much worrying about it. Because how the hell does an intern afford this?! You know how much interns make at your company; you’ve worked with HR, signed off on the numbers — and it is categorically not this.
But fine. Whatever. That is, somehow, the least of your problems right now. And your mind was already veering back toward the more immediate catastrophe currently taxiing toward the runway.
Your family.
“Right… well. Anyways, Satoru,” you say, setting the menu down. “We should probably establish the basics before we get to Japan and—”
“—what do you like to eat?”
You blink, lips parting.
“I—sorry…what?”
“I like sweets,” he says, turning toward you. A toothy grin spreads across his face, dimples peeking. “Let’s see… cake, cream buns, mochi…” he muses. “Oh! Especially kikifuku mochi, it’s the best.” He nods solemnly. “Honestly, I think it’s the whipped cream inside that really makes the difference.”
Your brow furrows as you stare at him.
…when did this become a TED talk about sugar? You were trying to discuss a plan, and he is out here curating a dessert menu like the most pressing crisis of the next ten hours is pastry selection.
“Okay…? That’s nice. But we should talk about—”
“Food,” he states, picking up the menu you just set down. He flips it open and angles it back toward you like that is the only sensible conversation available. “C’mon. What do you like? Not what you’ll settle for… what you’ll actually like. Ten hours is a long time, sweetheart.”
Brow knitting, you frown.
He cannot be serious. That is not the priority right now.
“That—that can wait. We need to—”
“—establish the basics, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and tips his head back against the seat, like your resistance is personally exhausting him. But then his gaze flicks back, amused. “And I’m just saying food is a basic necessity. Because you skip lunch when you’re busy, forget breakfast when you’re anxious, and then act shocked when you feel like shit three hours later. So, eat.” He places the menu back in your hands. “Preferably something that isn’t stale pretzels, yeah?”
Something hot and startled climbs your neck so fast it’s almost impressive. Your mouth opens, but whatever rebuttal is forming never makes it. Because before you can recover—
“Honestly, I gotta say… the soba is pretty good too, actually.” His face is suddenly just over your shoulder, murmuring close enough that you feel the heat of him against your ear. “If you don’t want the wagyu, that is. Wait—scratch that. Maybe ramen…?” His finger traces a line on the menu, pale lashes lowering, tongue clinking gently. “Mm… never mind. Too much broth and there could be turbulence.”
Your whole body stiffens. Because his closeness does not feel unwelcome. Which is exactly the problem.
…when did he get so comfortable?!
“…stop doing that,” you mutter, pulling back. He looks over, the picture of innocence. “Doing what?”
Your lips purse.
“I dunno. Being…” But the word dissolves, and you're reaching for your water, needing something to do with your hands. “So… comfortable. So—” You cut yourself off with a small huff. “Like this.”
His grin is unbearable, lazy and crooked.
“Oh?” he reclines. “Like what, baby?”
You sputter into your water.
“Baby?”
You’re choking on your drink, and Satoru looks entirely too pleased with himself. He's chuckling, leaning over without a second thought, one hand settling warm between your shoulder blades.
“Awwh… what’s this? Don’t be shy now,” he hums, the picture of helpfulness, rubbing slow circles with a sigh. “We’re gonna have to get way cozier than this if I’m playing boyfriend. Just establishing the basics, yeah?”
As you straighten with a glare, you can tell without a doubt he is openly enjoying himself. That grin hasn’t moved a goddamn inch.
…asshole.
Huffing, you settle back into your seat. And it isn’t long before the plane shudders gently away from the gate, inching out onto the runway with that slow, terrible sense of inevitability that only air travel is capable of producing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time please ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened… flight attendants, prepare for departure.”
The overhead announcement crackles through the cabin, too polished to be comforting. While beneath you, the whole plane seems to draw tight, a low hum building through the floor, climbing up through your seat.
You exhale, letting your eyes fall shut. Just long enough to pretend you weren’t here. Just long enough to avoid the window, the runway, and the deeply unhelpful fact that your brain liked to save all its worst thoughts for takeoff.
…like how first class wasn’t exactly known for improving your odds. Like how takeoff and landing were statistically the worst parts. Like how the engine sounded different now, probably… maybe, and—
“Hey.”
Satoru’s voice came quieter this time; enough to pull your eyes back open. When you look over, that vibrant blue is already watching you — steady, unhurried, like he has been waiting for you to surface.
“Are you… nervous?”
“What? N-No…” you lie, huffing. His brow arches, sensing your bullshit. “Okay… then why are you doing that with your hands?”
Following his gaze, your fingers had folded into fists without even noticing, in that particular way they always do when you’re trying to physically hold yourself together.
Fuck.
It’s ridiculous, really. You knew flying was statistically safe! Knew it the way you knew balance sheets and quarterly projections and the exact percentage margins that kept departments alive. And yet, takeoff had always felt like the part where logic starts losing altitude.
“Oh…” A small, awkward laugh slips out, just as the engine begins to roar. You smooth your palms over your trembling thighs, shouting over it. “It’s fine! Really! I just… um—I guess I don’t particularly like takeoff, is all!”
His expression softens in a way you weren’t braced for. But before he can answer, the plane surges forward and your eyes squeeze shut. A massive force presses you back into the seat while vibrations climb through the floor and up your spine.
It’s terrible. Completely terrible. But somewhere in the middle of it, a warm hand slides against yours. It takes you a second to register his fingers lacing between your own, and the moment his thumb brushes the back of your hand, you instinctively grip him tighter.
Your eyes stay shut, but you feel the plane lift hard and fast into the sky. And somewhere between the roar of the engines and that awful pull in your stomach, the slow circles his thumb traces against your skin become the only thing your body seems willing to trust.
By the time the pressure eases and the plane finally levels out, your lungs have only just remembered how to work. For a second, neither of you moves until—
“…better?”
His voice brushes the quiet between you. You blink your eyes open.
“Yeah…” you whisper. “Um… thanks.”
He smiles. “Sure.”
That thumb brushes one last time against the back of your hand before finally pulling away, dropping back into his lap with a simple nod like it had been nothing. And the loss of that warmth was immediate enough to sting.
Oh…
He’s… annoyingly good at taking care of you. And worse, your body had recognized it before your brain could file the proper objection — clinging first, thinking later, like comfort was something you could afford to trust.
Maybe the altitude was messing with your head…
Ten hours was a long time.
Long enough to work out the safest parts of the lie. How long you’ve been together. Where you met. Which version of the truth felt neat enough to survive one wedding weekend without collapsing under the weight of follow-up questions.
It was just… not long enough, apparently, for the parts that actually mattered.
“Soooo… question…” Satoru had stretched lazily, turning his glass between two fingers as he glanced over. “What exactly should I expect when we land?”
You kept your attention on the blanket across your lap, flattening a wrinkle. “Probably… jet lag?” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze, fussing with the fabric. “And a long enough drive to regret everything in peace.”
He snorts. “Well, yeah. Obviously.” Ice clicked softly as he tipped his glass, shifting toward you. “Not what I meant, though. I meant with your family.”
And when the warmth of his attention settled against the side of your face — you hesitated. Because it was patient in a way that only made it harder to meet. Patient in the way of someone who’s learned that pushing doesn’t work on you. Which you’re unsure is better, or worse. Because waiting means he’s paying attention, and paying attention means he’ll notice when you crack.
“We’ll just… talk about that later,” you huffed, tugging the blanket a little higher before turning toward the window. “I’m tired. Gonna try to sleep.”
Later… yeah. Later.
But by baggage claim, you were running out of runway. You had to do it soon. Get it over with. Preferably somewhere between the airport and your hotel, where you could spit it out quickly and not have to watch his face too closely while you did.
So now, Satoru yawns beside the conveyor belt, tired blue eyes skimming the slow parade of suitcases rounding the carousel. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, posture easy in a way that only makes you more tense. You stand there staring at the back of him, fingers hooked tight in the seam of your shirt.
Now.
“Hey… Satoru?” you mumble. “Hm?” His gaze lands on your luggage and he’s already stepping forward to grab it. “Um, well…” You hesitate. “About my family… I—"
“—oh! Look—look! There they are!”
The moment her voice rings through the terminal, everything inside you locks. You turn, and for one wild second, you genuinely wonder if it’s too late to get back on that godforsaken plane.
Satoru hauls your suitcase off the belt.
“What about them?” he asks, turning when you stop short. Then he sees your face. “…sweetheart?” His brows furrow, following your line of sight — and there is your mother, cutting through the crowd with Trish beside her, moving with the kind of delighted urgency you aren’t prepared to see for at least another twelve hours.
No.
No, no, no.
“—oh my god, there he is!” Your mother walks straight past you — past you — and both hands are wrapping around Satoru’s like he’s who she came for. "Oh, he's handsome. Trish, look—"
It’s no surprise, really, that you’re a second thought. You’ve been a second thought since before you could name it. But that isn’t the wound that matters at this particular moment. The bigger problem is that she’s here.
…why the hell is she here?!
You were supposed to have more time—
“—oh my god,” Trish breathes to you. “Damn. girl. He’s, like… stupid handsome.” And Satoru’s grin went smug, drawling. “Oh, please, ladies. Keep the compliments coming. I’m feeling very welcomed~”
Your mother giggles. “Handsome and funny. Oh, he’s a charmer,” she says, smacking his shoulder playfully. Though the laugh lands bitter. “God. Why on earth would she keep you from me?! I mean… wow. I was beginning to think she’d die alone.”
The words hit like a slap dressed as a joke.
Satoru blinks, the smile faltering for half a second, head tilting imperceptibly.
…great.
Of fucking course she’d say something like that within the first thirty seconds.
“Mother… what—” your voice wavers, eyes falling shut with a swallow. “Sorry. I just—what are you both doing here?”
She did a tiny double take, like she’d only just remembered you were standing there. “Oh, honey…” A hand waves, scoffing. “Don’t be silly—of course we’re here to pick you up! God. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the airport,” she snorts.
Oh, right.
So she wouldn’t abandon you at an airport. Just in another country.
…good to know there's a line somewhere.
“Besides, why don’t you both just stay with us instead?” she’s already reaching for Satoru’s hand again, bright with the idea. “We’ve got a guest room ready, and I’d love for the chance to talk to you.”
Your body goes rigid.
Oh no. Fuck no.
Anything but that.
Satoru must have seen it written across your face — that particular shade of panic —because his eyes cut to you for only half a second before he slips his hand free, turning back to your mother with a smile already in place.
“That’s incredibly kind, ma’am,” he says, tugging you into his side with an ease that shouldn’t have felt as steadying as it did. “But we’re staying pretty close to my family’s place, and I should probably swing by tomorrow morning.” He rubs the back of his neck with a theatrical groan. “It’s been a few months since I’ve seen my father, and trust me, I’ll regret it if he finds out I came to Tokyo and didn’t stop by, y’know?”
Apparently, ten hours isn’t long enough for the parts that actually matter, because…
“Oh? Your family’s place?” your mother repeats, brows lifting. “So, are they here in Tokyo too, then?” He nods. “Mm, yeah. Pretty much all the Gojos are—at least on my dad’s side. My mom’s in Kyoto.”
…
Wait.
Did he just say Gojo?
As in—
Your boss’s family?!
No. Absolutely not. Between the jet lag, the shock, and your mother still glowing beside you, your brain simply does not have the bandwidth for this. Your lips part, blinking like that might somehow rearrange what he just said into something less insane.
Nothing comes out.
“Gojo…” your mother repeats, brows knitting. “Why does that sound familiar?” Trish blinks. "Wait—like… Gojo Corporation Gojo?!"
Satoru’s grin widens. “Yep. That’d be us.”
“Ah!” Your mother snaps her fingers. “Gojo Corporation. Yes—of course! Silly me. I thought that name seemed familiar…”
And now, the hurt arrives before the shock finishes landing — ugly and precise and aimed at the exact spot that never heals right. Five years of your work, your career, your life inside that building. But she only knows it because a handsome man says it in a terminal.
You stare. “Mom… you can't be serious?” and the hurt in your own voice catches you off guard. “I’ve… I've literally been working at Gojo Corporation for the last five years.”
Fuck...
Get it together.
Out of the corner of your eye, Satoru watches you. But your mother moves on like you’re invisible.
“Oh Satoru Gojo, you just keep getting better and better.” You feel him hesitating as she tugs eagerly. “Come—come! At least let us drive you both to the hotel, hm? There’s so much I need to hear and—”
“—sorry ma’am, no.”
Satoru’s pulling you into him like the decision has already been made. And you blink while his fingers smooth gently through your hair, tipping your chin up with a long finger.
“Honestly, I’m beat…” His thumb brushes your cheek, gaze searching your face. “…aren’t you, love?”
There’s a hitch in your breath
Oh.
So… you’re not invisible?
As it leaves you in a quiet shudder, for one suspended second, there is nothing but that soft blue of his eyes and the way they’ve gone gentle for you. All you can do is nod — and a single tear slips free before you can stop it.
He tucks you against his chest, hiding your face, and flashes a grin back at your mother.
“Ugh… I appreciate you coming to get us, but we’ve been up for way too long and—” Glancing down at his phone, he lets out a small laugh. “Ah. Perfect timing! Would ya look at that—my driver’s here.” A tug of your hand. “But we’ll catch up tomorrow, yeah? Bye, ladies~”
Your legs are moving on their own, and you don’t even catch the expression on your mother’s face. Can’t. Not when your pulse is still tripping over itself. Not when his hand wraps around yours like letting go isn’t even a question.
The suitcase rolled behind you, with the airport crowd bustling. While those bright eyes flicked back, making sure you were still there every few steps.
“C’mon, pretty girl… we’re almost there,” he murmurs. “Just stay with me, okay? Eyes on me, yeah?”
And… you weren’t sure why he lowered his voice. Not when they were already well out of earshot. You only know that… it nearly undoes you all over again.
By the time the limo pulls away from the curb, Satoru had already figured out two things: your mother was awful, and somehow, he’d gotten you out of there only to realize he hadn’t fully brought you back with him.
It’s the furrow in your brow that gets him first… then the wobble in your lip — the one you think you’re hiding, the one you always think you’re hiding. You haven’t said a word since climbing into the backseat. Haven’t looked at him either. Instead, you stay toward the window, watching Tokyo slip by in blurred ribbons of light, glowing against the glass in streaks of neon. A city that has no business being that beautiful when you look that broken.
…shit. Should he crack a joke? No. Maybe not.
But asking if you’re okay feels useless. You obviously aren’t. And worse, saying it out loud feels like the fastest way to make you disappear even further behind that window — to watch you pull the shutters down the way you always do.
“Well, then…” A hand drags through his hair as he lets his head fall back against the seat. “Um… gotta say—your family really believes in making an entrance, huh? Talk about—”
“—I thought your name was Satoru Geto.”
He blinks.
“Huh?”
Your gaze finally pulls from the window, landing on him, and the hurt in it is so carefully contained it almost looks like composure. Almost. Except he’s spent four months learning to read you, and composure doesn’t tremble at the edges like that.
“…Satoru Geto,” you mutter carefully. “That’s the name on your employee record, no?”
Oh...
Right. That.
“…is it?” His gaze slips away, fingers scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah… um. About that. Geto’s actually my best friend. I just used his last name because the initials matched.” He’s flopping back against the seat with a small shrug, one arm slinging across the top. “Made it easier to sign off on stuff that way. Gotta work smarter, not harder, right?”
And tilting his head, a crooked grin tugs at the corner of his lips.
Yours doesn’t move.
“Right,” you deadpan, turning back toward the window. “So your plan was to just let me keep calling you that.”
You don’t say it like a question.
…is it a question?
Satoru’s brow furrows at the hurt threaded beneath the words. “No… I—” he huffs, hands dropping into his lap. “Obviously I had to hide it while I was working with you, but my legal name was on the boarding pass I gave you, so it’s not like I was actively hiding it, sweetheart.”
You scoff under your breath. “Oh. Cool. So I was just supposed to… what—figure that out on my own?” And suddenly, your voice is doing this awful thing now — losing its clean, controlled shape, slipping into something thinner. Hotter.
He hears it immediately, sighing. “Sorry… but why is this the problem?” he asks, more confused than anything now. “Help me out here. I mean… I thought your mom was what had you upset back there.”
Your eyes roll. “Your name is literally on my paycheck, Gojo. How is that not a problem?”
He stares. Genuinely stares. Because for a second, he doesn’t know what to do with that. To him, his name was just a name. The company was just a company. Status had always felt like something other people got weird about first. Not him.
So, like an idiot, he goes for the joke.
“Well… technically, I think my name is on a lot of paychecks, so—"
“—Jesus Christ, am I a fucking joke to you?”
And the humor drops out of him so fast it almost startles you. Shit. That backfired tremendously. “Whoa—what? No!” He straightens, brow furrowing. “No, no, no. God, no—sweetheart, of course not. Why would you think that?”
You’re looking away before he can see what that does to your face, because you hate how quickly his voice goes from careless to cracked. Hate yourself for making it do that.
Damnit.
You know that wasn’t fair. He had just gotten you out of there. Seen you unraveling in that airport and stepped in without making it worse. Without making you ask. And still — somehow, in the span of twenty minutes, the whole world had shifted under your feet. Him, your mother, that last name. This damn… wedding.
…why does everything feel so hard to sort through right now?
“Just…” You swallow, shifting towards the window, blinking back tears. “Sorry. Don’t talk to me right now.”
His expression softens. “C’mon… no,” he murmurs. “Please… please don’t be like that. I’m sorry you found out this way. I should’ve told you sooner.”
The crack in his voice makes everything unbearable, and outside, Tokyo keeps sliding past in fractured light. So, you look at the window because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than trying to untangle the mess that is your life. Easier than naming what specifically hurts so much.
And easier than asking yourself what, exactly, had been real and what had only ever been off the record.
Clearly, the universe looked at the absolute clusterfuck of this trip and decided it wasn't finished with you yet.
Because apparently, your fake boyfriend had a limo. Your fake boyfriend, who can upgrade your tickets to first class like it’s nothing. Your fake boyfriend who is also, apparently, your boss — and decided to book you at a luxurious five-star hotel in Tokyo while somehow neglecting to mention that part too.
Whatever. Either way, you're too tired to care. Or maybe just too tired to forgive him — despite the way the marble floors and soft gold light whisper luxury around you like an apology you didn’t ask for.
All you know, is that by the time the two of you make it upstairs, your silence was beyond awkward and hardened into something heavier. More deliberate. So, the moment the suite door clicks open, you’re beelining to the bedroom.
“Goodnight.”
You mutter it under your breath, shutting yourself into the bathroom before he can answer you. And when you change into your pajamas, you try not to linger in the mirror — because your whole face feels tight from holding yourself together, from trying not to cry for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. And as if that weren't enough, the wedding is tomorrow.
…how the fuck are you supposed to get through that too?!
With an exhausted sigh, you push open the bedroom door, reach back to kill the light, and—
“…what are you doing?” you deadpan, stopping cold in the entryway. Because at the foot of the bed, you find Satoru in sweats, crouched on the floor, carefully spreading a blanket across it. He smooths the corner flat and those blue eyes flick up, then drop back down.
“Making myself comfortable?”
…
That explains absolutely nothing.
Your brows pull together. “Okaaay…? Clearly. But—why?” Rolling your eyes, your arms cross. “Don’t tell me you fucked up the reservation. I mean, you’re the one who booked this place. Don’t you have your own suite?”
“Yup. I do.”
He says it so easily it almost irritates you more. You watch him fluff the pillow and set it on the floor like this is perfectly normal behavior for a man who can apparently summon private drivers and spend obscene amounts of money at the drop of a hat.
Your teeth grit. “Great. So go lay in your bed.”
Exhaling through his nose, he lowers himself onto the marble like it’s no different than a mattress. One arm tucks behind his head, the other rests over his stomach, all lazy limbs and impossible calm.
“Nah,” he says. “Think I’ll sleep here. Promised you wouldn’t be alone this trip.”
And the universe, apparently, hadn't taken quite enough from your dignity yet. Because you find yourself genuinely speechless.
For a moment, you just stand there looking at him — at the ridiculous length of him stretched out across the floor, at the fact that he has a whole bed somewhere else and was still choosing this — and at how he somehow managed to make the gesture feel casual enough not to embarrass you and sincere enough that it did anyway.
“…suit yourself,” you grumble, stomping over to your bed.
You yank the covers back and climb in with an irritated sweep, reaching over to find the light. Darkness folds over the room in one soft rush, and for a while, there’s only the low hum of air conditioning and the distant glow of Tokyo bleeding dimly through the curtains. Somewhere beneath it all, you can hear the faint rustle of fabric from the floor, the small settling sound of him getting comfortable.
…
Or trying to.
You lie stiffly on your side, facing away from the edge of the bed that he lays, staring into the dark like you can force your mind to shut up if you just do it hard enough.
Ugh…
Despite how tired you are, sleep feels impossible.
Rolling your eyes, you pick up your pillow and shift to the other side of the bed with an annoyed little huff. And there’s the broad line of his back in the dark. One arm folded under his head, the other sprawled carelessly over the blanket, like this is all perfectly normal. Like sleeping on the marble floor in a five-star hotel is not objectively unhinged behavior.
“…you’re actually gonna sleep down there?” you mutter into the dark.
“Mm.” His voice comes easy, amused. “You should be sleeping, missy.”
“So should you,” you huff. “In a bed.”
Chuckling, he shifts onto his back, sprawling out like a starfish. He hums. “Nahhh,” and an exaggerated exhale breathes out of him, tired. “The floor’s fine. I’m reconnecting with the earth. Re-centering. Some might say it’s very… grounding.”
You can hear that pleased little smirk of his, even in the dark, and it pulls a snort out of you before you can stop it. “…wow, seriously?” Biting back a grin. “You’re so stupid.”
He laughs under his breath. “Yeah… maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that. Probably won’t be the last, either. But…” With a tired sigh, he drapes his arm over his face, half-hiding in the dark. “…guess I’d rather be stupid than leave you alone, though.”
The words slip out, and the room goes strangely quiet. Something tender and awful pulling tight in your throat as you stare down at him for a second too long.
…what are you even supposed to do with that? With him?
He’s down there on the floor, keeping a promise you never asked him to make.
Swallowing, your fingers tighten on the blanket. “…hey, Satoru?” That low hum answers, and you hesitate, staring at the dark shape of him on the floor, your heart doing something stupid and uncomfortable against your ribs.
“Come up here,” you blurt.
…
Silence.
“Wait… huh?”
Your eyes squeeze shut.
As if saying it once wasn’t bad enough.
“I-I mean…” you’re shifting onto your back, staring hard at the ceiling because looking at him suddenly feels impossible. “I just… there’s plenty of room, so just—come up.”
…
He’s quiet just long enough to make your face burn hotter. And when he’s pushing himself onto one elbow, even in the dark, you can feel the disbelief radiating off of him like heat.
“Uh… right,” he laughs awkwardly. “I think the jet lag’s getting to me, because there’s no way I heard that right unless you’re fucking with me.”
You cover your face with a groan.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Christ, stop making this harder—” you snap, voice rising. “I’m serious you idiot! Because you’re not making me feel worse tonight by sleeping on the goddamn floor—so hurry and get your ass up here before—”
“—yes ma’am.”
He’s moving before you can rethink the entire thing, despite how your pulse is suddenly loud in your own ears. You scoot over, clutching the blanket to your chest, and the mattress dips beneath his weight — the sheets rustle. His body shifts. And then everything goes still.
…too still.
All you can do is lie there. Stiff. Acutely, helplessly aware of him. But it’s dark — mercifully dark — and thank god for that, because you don’t think you could survive seeing his face right now. Not this close. Not after that. Not with your own invitation still echoing back at you like something you’d like to physically retrieve out of thin air.
“Soooo…” he mumbles, fingers tapping the mattress. “Um… for the record, this is like… significantly nicer than my original arrangement. Way less marble.”
Despite the nerves, his words loosen a laugh from your chest. “…yeah? Well, good,” you mutter, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Because honestly, the level of commitment you were showing that floor was a little concerning.”
He chuckles. “True, true.” And suddenly, you can hear the lazy stretch of a grin in his voice. “Buuuut I mean… I wasn’t about to lose our first fight—not as your boyfriend.”
Your breath catches. “W-Wow…” You huff like that’ll cover it. “You—um… got real comfortable with that word fast,” you mutter, trying for dry and missing by a mile.
A low hum. “I'm a committed man. What can I say?” and his voice is all smug velvet and sleep-rough warmth. “Mmm… I kinda like the sound of it, actually.”
The words land lower than they should. Because that should not sound as good as it does.
“D-Don’t… don’t say it like that,” you stammer.
The mattress dips.
“Mm?” he whispers. “…well, how else should I say it, princess?”
…
Fake.
Fake boyfriend.
The word lands somewhere quiet and ugly under your ribs, and all at once the warmth of the bed feels strange against your skin. Because that's what this is. What it has to be. A role. A weekend. A lie with soft edges and an expiration date. And…
“Just—nevermind…” you mutter, shoving it down, repositioning your pillow. “Laying in a bed with my boss was not really on my bingo card for this trip. Or finding out halfway through it, apparently.”
He scoffs. “I’m not your boss. My dad’s your boss.” A humorless breath leaves you. “Yeah? Well, that is not as comforting a distinction as you think it is, Gojo, when your name is still on my—”
“—Satoru,” he corrects softly.
You blink into the dark.
“Wait. Sorry… what?”
A small huff leaves him, almost annoyed, almost something softer. “It’s just…” he grumbles, shifting against the sheets, “I like it a lot better when you call me Satoru…” And even without seeing him, you can hear it.
Is he… pouting?
The fabric rustles again as he shifts. “Look…” he says after a beat, and the teasing has gone out of his voice now. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just…” He exhales through his nose. “I didn’t think hearing my last name would make you start acting like I was suddenly somebody else...?”
Your lashes flutter as he scoots closer, and this time, your breath catches. Because a thin line of moonlight slips through the curtains, cutting across the bed just enough to catch him there. The loose fall of white hair over his forehead, the softened line of his mouth, the pale blue of his eyes gone dim and almost silver in the dark.
“And…” His voice lowers, softer now. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I liked just being Satoru to you..." Those blue eyes dip to your lips, just for a second, before lifting back to yours. His breath hitches.
“Y’know I’m still me… right?” He whispers.
As his breath fans across your face, you feel fingers slipping over yours, careful enough to feel like a question, and your pulse does something wild. Because for one suspended second, he doesn’t look real. He looks like something half-dreamed.
Beautiful.
“Right…” you breathe, the word thin. “I know that, and… I-I’m sorry for lashing out at you earlier. I just… I wasn’t expecting any of this, and then everything at the airport and—and god—and then my mom and—"
The words are tumbling out now, too fast, too loose, and even in the dark you feel laid open by them. Bare in a way that makes you want to snatch every one back. Because there he is, looking at you with that same unbearable patience, thumb brushing over the back of your hand in slow, absent strokes, his mouth tipped in a smile so soft it almost feels private.
…yours.
And that’s what’s terrifying. He feels like something you could lean into. Like warmth can be simple. Unconditional. Real.
But…
Nothing in your life has ever taught you how to lean into warmth without waiting for the condition beneath it. Without turning it over, looking for the fine print. So, perhaps that’s why, when his thumb brushes over your hand again, you pull away.
And his frown is instant.
“I-I…” Your eyes squeeze shut as you clear your throat. “Sorry.” The word comes out frayed. “I want you to know I appreciate you doing this. Genuinely. But…” You swallow hard around the ache pressing at the base of your throat. “Tomorrow is it.”
The room goes so quiet you can hear the air conditioning hum.
His brow furrows, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Um… what are you saying?” He scoffs, lips pulling into a disbelieving grin. “I don’t understand. Why are you acting like everything—”
“—after this is over,” you blurt, chest rising. “You can just—forget all this happened, okay?” And your voice thins. Blinking back tears, your eyes flick away. “That’s it. You’ll forget about me. You go back to your life. I go back to mine. Just like we agreed and—”
“—I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Your eyes glance back from the hurt in his voice, and somehow that only makes it worse. Because...
Why?
Why does he have to look at you like that?
You exhale shakily. “I think we both need sleep more than we need this conversation, so…” The blanket is already up at your chin by the time the words leave you. “Let’s… leave it at that. Okay? I’m exhausted," you whisper. "Goodnight, Satoru.”
Shifting away, you roll onto your side before he can say anything else, before he can make this harder than it already is. The bed gives with a quiet creak behind you.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
And you lie there, holding yourself rigid, as if that could undo the part of you that almost turned back.
Still. Despite how tired you are… sleep feels impossible.
a/n. oof. sorry for leaving you on the angst 😭 but this felt like the right place to split it so part 3 can be fully wedding-focused. tysm for reading! i'm blown away by all your support. he's literally so patient and attentive, whaaa. i wanna eat him up 😭
Summary: You would rather die than go to your ex's wedding alone, even though you're single. So you have to agree when your partner and senior officer, Leon Kennedy, suggests going with you as your date, even if it is only pretend. What awaits you is a weekend getaway at a hotel suite you didn't have to pay for. The only catch is, you forgot to update your reservation. The hotel didn't know to account for a plus one. For the entire weekend, you have to pretend to date your boss. And there's only one bed.
Words: 1.8k
The DSO bullpen was quieter after dark.
Most of the younger agents had already gone home, leaving behind abandoned coffee cups and dim computer monitors glowing softly in the gloom.
You, yourself, were a younger agent, but there was nothing enticing about going home. You sat cross-legged on top of your desk sorting through case files while Chris Redfield leaned back in a chair nearby, recounting some disaster from a mission in Eastern Europe.
“-and this idiot,” Chris said, pointing across the room, “thought he could outrun infected dogs on a motorcycle.”
Leon Kennedy, sprawled bonelessly in the chair beside your desk, didn’t even look up from the paperwork in his hands.
“I could outrun infected dogs on a motorcycle.”
“You crashed into a church.”
Leon finally glanced over.
“One time.”
Chris barked out a laugh.
“One time was enough, man.”
You smiled into your coffee.
Leon noticed immediately. That was the problem with him.
Leon Kennedy had spent years teaching himself how not to feel things too deeply. He kept right on the surface of every new relationship. Only coworkers from his first couple of years on the job made it under his hard exterior because if he let every death, every mission, every failure settle fully into his chest, it would have hollowed him out years ago.
So now he moved through life carefully, like a man forever trying not to disturb old ghosts.
Until you.
You had walked into the DSO three years ago with bright eyes and terrifying competence and had ruined his emotional restraint almost instantly.
Leon remembered the exact moment, actually.
When you'd first walked in, short heels, no-nonsense attire, thing, rectangular glasses on your nose, he didn't think much other than ‘pretty new rookie’.
And as you oriented yourself around, your curious eyes kept glancing up at everyone. You didn't seem to remember manners with how often you were taking in your surroundings, including everyone else in them.
Leon felt your gaze land heavily on him many times. But he was used to respect, professional admiration, and rookies being attracted to him.
He assumed it was one of these.
It wasn't.
He stayed late. Because he always stayed late.
He barely noticed as other employees filtered out of the building, the agency becoming quieter and quieter as the dark filled in the empty space.
What he did notice was that the new rookie, on your very first day, was still there. Still putting in the hours typing away on your computer, the harsh screen glinting your glasses, making it impossible for him to see your eyes.
Every few files, he would look up again at you. You would still be typing away.
Eventually, it got too late for even senior officer Leon S. Kennedy, and he fell asleep at his desk, posture still upright, looking almost like he was still working.
But you had known better. Had seen how much he put into this place. How much it had taken from him.
Most importantly, how sad his eyes had looked.
You tip-toed over to him, reaching out for him, then away several times. It was your first day after all, and you weren't sure if this behavior was acceptable.
But then you committed.
You walked over to his desk and filed his papers for him. You clicked his computer off, the bright screen instantly turning dark. You set a mug of fresh coffee on his desk for when he woke up. Turned off the florescent lights.
Then you went back to your desk. Pulled something out of your drawer. A little crocheted something-or-other and placed it on his desk.
Didn't need Agent Kennedy banging his head on hard wood if he fell forward. It would make the perfect pillow.
And that it did, when he woke up several hours later, the office completely empty, with criss-crossed lines etched into his face, the subtle scent of coconut all around him.
Leon could have figured it out. Wouldn't have been hard. But the mystery was solved when Chris Redfield came up to him the next day, smirk on his face, and replayed the footage for him.
You still didn't know he had seen the footage. That kind of thing doesn't come up on conversation, exactly. But one day he wordlessly returned his makeshift pillow.
And ever since then, it's been over for him. Leon had been doomed from that moment forward.
Chris knew it too.
Which was why he looked between the two of you now with the exhausted expression of a man watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.
“You know,” Chris said, “normal partners don’t spend this much time together off duty.”
Leon took a sip of beer. Chris held his own.
Not you. You still looked like you were working, but you hadn't flipped a file page in over an hour.
“We’re not off duty.”
Chris looked pointedly at the beers.
Leon looked at his own bottle like he’d forgotten it existed.
“Mm.”
You laughed softly again, offering a tiny smile.
Leon’s chest tightened painfully around it the way it always did.
God.
He ran a hand down his face, acting like it was the late hour that was affecting him, and it wasn't that he wanted you with an intensity that made him feel seventeen and stupid again.
Leon had accepted long ago that wanting you quietly was probably the closest thing to peace he deserved.
Chris stood eventually, stretching.
“Well,” he sighed. “I got a wife waiting for me at home. Let me get out of here before Kennedy starts acting like you hung the moon, again.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
“What?”
Leon dragged one hand slowly down his face.
“Chris.”
“I’m serious,” Chris continued mercilessly. “It’s getting embarrassing.”
Leon looked deeply unimpressed, but you saw through it because the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink.
“Good night,” he muttered pointedly.
Chris grinned.
“Night, sweetheart.”
“Mm.”
Then Chris was gone, leaving the bullpen quieter than before.
Rain against windows. Distant humming electronics. The soft warmth of Leon beside you.
You looked back over the files, eyes unseeing.
“Agent Kennedy?” you asked. “What was he talking about?”
Leon leaned back in his chair slowly. Older now. Sharper around the edges than he used to be. Time had turned him dangerous instead of merely handsome.
Silver threaded faintly at his temples beneath the dim office lighting. His tie hung loosened from earlier meetings, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was something unfair about how good exhaustion looked on him.
His blue eyes settled on you heavily.
“You ask a lotta dangerous questions.”
You covered a blush by finally flipping that damned page even though you weren't done reading it.
Leon watched your face over the rim of his beer bottle. His tongue shot out and licked against his bottom lip.
“You’re off tonight.”
You blinked.
“In what way?”
“You’ve been picking at that same file for over an hour.”
You glanced down.
He was right, and damn him for it. That was the thing about being friends with federal agents - they noticed everything.
And Agent Kennedy seemed to be the best. He noticed everything. Specifically, about you.
You tried for casual.
“Just distracted.”
“Hm.”
That quiet hum of his was lethal. Somehow more intimate than most people touching you.
He set his beer down.
“Why?”
Simple question. No pressure, which somehow made it harder to avoid.
You stared down at the papers in your lap for a long moment.
“My ex is getting married.”
Leon went completely still beside you.
You laughed softly at yourself.
“It’s dumb.”
“How long?”
You looked over.
“What?”
“You were together how long?”
“Since high school.”
Something flickered behind Leon’s eyes. Then it was gone just as quickly.
“Our families were really close,” you continued quietly. “Everybody thought we’d end up together eventually.”
Leon looked away first. Toward the rain-soaked windows. His jaw was tight.
You kept talking because you trusted him. Because Leon had become the safest place in your life so gradually you never noticed it happening.
“He invited me to the wedding.”
That got his attention back instantly.
Your laugh this time sounded smaller.
“And I sort of have to go.”
Leon’s gaze narrowed faintly.
“Why?”
“Our families are still close. His whole family’s gonna be there. Mine too.”
You shrugged one shoulder helplessly.
“And I’m going to walk in alone while he’s standing there marrying somebody else.”
The words settled heavily between you.
Leon looked at you for a very long moment after that.
God, you had no idea what you did to him.
No idea what it felt like sitting beside you every day pretending he didn’t think about your laugh, your safety, your happiness, your future, your hands, your mouth…
What it would feel like to be chosen by you
Meanwhile you were worried about showing up somewhere without a date, as though someone had not already been half in love with you for years.
Leon exhaled slowly through his nose.
“He’s an idiot.”
You looked upward. Your glasses glinted and concealed your expression.
“What?”
“Your ex.”
The bluntness startled a laugh out of you. Leon’s eyes softened instantly at the sound.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Leon-”
“No,” he interrupted calmly. “Guy had you and lost you anyway.”
Your breath caught slightly because he said it so simply like it was objective fact. It almost made you believe him.
Leon leaned back again afterward, one arm draped loosely behind your chair. He was careful to avoid touching you, because if Leon started touching you the way he wanted to, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d survive it.
And he certainly wouldn't be able to stop.
“You showing up alone doesn’t make you less impressive,” he continued quietly. “Just means he was too stupid to keep up.”
You stared at him, at the exhaustion in his face. You saw the impossible gentleness hidden inside a man who carried the weight of entire outbreaks on his shoulders.
And suddenly your chest hurt a little, because nobody had ever spoken about you like that before.
Leon noticed your expression immediately. His eyes flicked over your face carefully. Protectively.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hm?”
“You don’t owe anybody proof that you’re wanted.”
The room went very quiet after that. Rain caressed windows and the florescent lights hummed.
Beside you, Leon looked like a man trying very hard not to say something crazy.
And, boy oh boy, did he fail catastrophically.
Leon stared out at the rain for so long you wondered if maybe he wasn’t going to say anything at all.
SYNOPSIS :: To be born a pureblood means you are hounded to pick a perfect suitor of similar position in the wizarding society. Juhoon suggests a simple solution to get your parents off your back: date him, just make sure you don’t catch any feelings.
W.C :: 11.9k
CONTAINS :: slytherin!juhoon, fake dating, both purebloods, slow burn, both emotionally inept and oblivious, not a lot of dialogue (more storytelling), mini harassment (reader being touched without permission), blood/injury, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Pretty boy - The Neighbourhood; The complete knock - Blood Orange; Sweater weather - The Neighbourhood; Knee socks - Arctic Monkeys; Sad girl - Lana Del Rey; She’s my collar - Gorillaz, Kali Uchis
Everyone had assumed you and Juhoon were together long before your arrangement ever began.
To the rest of Hogwarts, the two of you made perfect sense. Two Slytherins from old pureblood families, always standing beside one another at functions, always paired together during gatherings, always carrying yourselves with the same composed elegance expected from families like yours.
A match made in heaven, according to the whispers that followed the two of you through the halls.
The irony was that your families could barely tolerate one another.
They played polite well enough during pureblood gatherings, all sharp smiles and expensive robes and poisoned compliments hidden beneath crystal glasses. But beneath the carefully maintained civility lay years of rivalry neither side ever bothered to truly conceal.
Still, neither family could exactly complain.
After years of relentless pestering about finding a “suitable” partner, the two of you had solved the problem yourselves.
No unbearable introductions arranged by your parents. No carefully selected heirs from respectable houses being paraded in front of you at dinners. And, most importantly, no risk of either of you ending up with what your mother so delicately referred to as ‘one of those horrid half-bloods polluting wizarding society’.
The arrangement had happened late one evening in the library.
You still remembered the way Juhoon had slid into the seat across from you without invitation, expression unreadable as always. The Slytherin prefect pin gleamed faintly against the dim candlelight.
“You’ve been avoiding your mother’s letters,” he had said plainly.
You glanced up from your book. “And you know this because?”
“She complained to mine.”
Of course she had.
You let out a quiet sigh, shutting your book with more force than necessary. “If this is another conversation about suitable suitors, I might actually throw myself into the Black Lake.”
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Date me.”
You could only stare at him, the gears shifting as your brain tried to process his words. “What?”
“Pretend to,” Juhoon corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “People already think we’re together. It would solve the problem.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, suspicious. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”
“My parents stop introducing me to insufferable pureblood daughters every holiday.”
“That bad?”
“One of them cried because I didn’t compliment her dress.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
Juhoon continued, calm and composed as though he were discussing homework rather than proposing an entirely fabricated relationship. “We keep appearances up around our families. Attend events together. Act convincing enough that they stop interfering in our lives.” His gaze flickered toward you then, steady and sharp. “In return, they leave us alone.”
It was practical and honestly far less miserable than enduring another year of your parents’ endless matchmaking.
So you agreed, and perhaps that had been your first mistake because the lie came far too easily.
The news spread through Hogwarts within days. Apparently, you were officially off-limits now—though neither of you had exactly struggled with unwanted attention before, both considered far too intimidating for most students to approach in the first place. Still, people looked at the two of you differently afterward, as though the confirmation merely solidified something everyone had believed from the start.
Because in everyone else’s eyes, you and Juhoon fit together effortlessly enough that some couldn’t tell if your relationship was truly for the mere essence of maintaining pureblood expectations or something far more genuine.
Most assumed the latter because how could they not?
You and Juhoon moved around one another with a familiarity too natural to appear rehearsed, too instinctive to feel manufactured. None of how you interacted looked forced enough to be an arrangement crafted purely for convenience.
To many students, it looked painfully obvious: love disguised poorly beneath Slytherin composure and aristocratic restraint.
Even among the more cynical pureblood circles, whispers followed the two of you with something almost resembling admiration. A perfect match between two influential families, yes, but also something strangely sincere beneath all the politics and reputation.
Others found it romantic in an insufferable sort of way. The terrifyingly composed Slytherin heir who looked at no one the way he looked at you and the equally intimidating pureblood witch somehow capable of softening the sharpest edges of Juhoon’s cold demeanor simply by standing beside him.
Though there remained a smaller, far more rational group of students who viewed the situation differently.
They observed the timing too carefully. The convenience of the sudden announcement arriving perfectly alongside increasing pressure from both your families.
To them, it looked less like a love story and more like an agreement between two ambitious pureblood heirs intelligent enough to understand exactly what was expected of them.
And truthfully, they would have been correct, it was a strategic alliance meant for nothing more than for you both to finally get some peace in your life.
Still, no one dared voice such theories aloud.
Not when Juhoon’s gaze alone could silence most people where they stood. And certainly not when the two of you looked altogether too convincing beside one another for anyone to comfortably question it for long.
The two of you had established a set of simple, but necessary rules that night in the library as well.
No real feelings.
Public affection only when required.
Family events would be attended together, appearances maintained carefully enough to keep suspicion away. If either of you wished to end the arrangement, it ended immediately—no questions asked.
It was practical and controlled. Exactly the sort of agreement expected between two pureblood heirs raised on reputation before emotion.
At least, that was what you had told yourself.
The problem was that Juhoon had always been unfairly easy to exist beside even before the arrangement had been established
You had spent years at his side during endless pureblood functions and insufferable dinners, years exchanging sharp remarks across Slytherin tables and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the library. Being around him had never required effort and silence with him had never felt uncomfortable.
Pretending, it turned out, felt alarmingly natural, to the point where almost none of it felt staged anymore.
Not when he would pull a chair out for you before you even reached the table, or when his eyes would find yours across the Great Hall with quiet, terrifying ease. Nor when he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, and certainly not when you began forgetting there had ever been rules to begin with.
The reaction from Hogwarts had been almost insulting.
You had expected surprise, perhaps even outrage considering the nature of your families. At the very least, some degree of shock.
Instead, the majority of the school responded with an almost unbearable sense of satisfaction as though they had all collectively won a bet neither you nor Juhoon had known existed.
“Finally,” Jaehyun had drawled the morning after the rumors spread, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slid into the seat across from the two of you at breakfast.
Mina looked equally smug. “You were honestly fooling no one.”
You nearly choked on your tea. Beside you, Juhoon remained perfectly composed, lazily stirring his coffee as though the attention surrounding your table did not exist. Which somehow only made the rumors worse.
The professors were no better. Slughorn, in particular, looked positively delighted by the arrangement.
In his eyes, the two of you were practically the embodiment of everything he adored: prestigious pureblood heirs, academically gifted Slytherins, socially influential students with families woven so deeply into wizarding society it existed beyond the ancient historical texts.
You suspected he had been waiting for this development longer than the rest of Hogwarts combined.
“Well, well,” Slughorn beamed during Potions one afternoon, eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly. “Young love among noble houses. How very classic.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
You stared at him in horror. To your right, Juhoon looked mildly appalled for perhaps half a second before his usual composure settled back into place.
Unfortunately, several students had witnessed it and that resulted in the teasing afterward being relentless. Not that either of you reacted strongly enough to discourage it.
That was the problem.
At first, maintaining the act required actual effort, though you had expected that much. The first few days were painfully awkward in ways neither of you anticipated. Every movement felt overly deliberate, every touch carefully calculated beneath the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
Juhoon offering you his arm before entering the Great Hall, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve during pureblood gatherings, sitting together during meals, quiet conversations close enough to appear intimate.
It felt staged at first, like two people attempting to imitate a relationship they did not fully understand.
And then, somehow, it stopped feeling unnatural altogether. The shift happened so gradually neither of you noticed it immediately.
One day Juhoon was offering you his arm because people were watching and the next, he was doing it automatically without glancing around first.
You stopped choosing the seat beside him consciously. Your body simply carried you there out of habit now, settling comfortably into his presence before your mind caught up.
He began fixing your collar absentmindedly whenever it sat crooked, his fingers just grazing your throat as you maintained a straight face, though the goosebumps littering your skin almost gave you away.
You started stealing pieces of fruit from his plate during breakfast without asking.
Shared notes became shared textbooks, whispered conversations stretching late into the night within the Slytherin common room while green candlelight flickered against the dungeon walls.
And then there was the touching. Subtle enough to escape notice if one wasn’t looking carefully, yet somehow constant all the same.
Juhoon’s hand began to rest against the small of your back in crowded hallways and your knee started brushing his beneath library tables.
None of it should have felt significant yet each touch lingered far longer in your mind than it ought to have. Perhaps because Juhoon was not naturally affectionate, especially with everyone else.
He tolerated very few people willingly, less so physical contact. Most students avoided standing too close to him altogether, intimidated by the sharp calmness he carried so effortlessly.
But with you, the distance between your bodies seemed to disappear more and more each day.
And the truly dangerous part was that neither of you seemed to notice anymore when you were pretending and when you were simply… being yourselves.
The realisation came slowly.
So slowly, in fact, that you hardly noticed it at all.
It settled quietly into the spaces between lingering glances and absentminded touches, weaving itself into your routine before either of you had the chance to stop it. Somewhere along the way, Juhoon had ceased to feel like a performance and instead become something constant, expected even.
You found him beside you in every corner of Hogwarts without needing to ask.
In the mornings at the Slytherin table, already pouring tea into your cup before you had even sat down, the steam curling softly between the two of you as though he had done it his entire life. During lessons, where his chair always seemed to end up angled subtly toward yours no matter where the professors placed you. Across from you in the library during late-night study sessions, silver rings tapping idly against the wooden table while he skimmed over your essays with quiet criticism.
“Your conclusion is weak,” he remarked one evening without looking up.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve said that for the past three of my essays.”
“Because it continues to be true.”
And then, not five minutes later, he slid a fresh piece of parchment toward you with several rewritten sentences already scrawled neatly across it.
Even outside of lessons, Juhoon simply… appeared.
Waiting outside classrooms between periods, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while groups of students parted around him instinctively. Falling into step beside you through the corridors without greeting, as though your company had long since become assumed. Occupying the seat beside yours in the common room before anyone else could take it.
There was no discussion or hesitation, only certainty.
And perhaps the most dangerous part was that he noticed things no one else ever bothered paying attention to.
He knew when you were irritated before you spoke, recognising the slight tightening in your expression long before anyone else caught on. Knew exactly which desserts you avoided in the Great Hall and quietly traded them off your plate whenever they appeared. Knew the difference between your genuine smile and the polite, practiced one reserved for pureblood gatherings.
Sometimes it felt as though Juhoon observed you too carefully. As though he had spent years memorising every version of you long before either of you called this a relationship.
It seemed almost instinctive, the sort built through diving to see more than what appeared at the surface.
You began noticing it everywhere once you allowed yourself to look.
He’d automatically shifted closer whenever conversations in the common room became too loud, subtle enough that no one else would recognise the gesture for what it was. His eyes searched for you first whenever he entered a room, immediately locating you within seconds as though it were unconscious now.
And Merlin, the staring.
You did not know when that had begun.
Perhaps he had always looked at you that way and you had simply never paid enough attention before.
Juhoon’s gaze had always been intense by nature—sharp, assessing, difficult for most people to hold comfortably. He looked at people as though dissecting them quietly in his mind, cool and unreadable in a way that made even older students nervous.
But with you, it was different. Softer, somehow. Not openly affectionate. Juhoon was not the sort for obvious displays of emotion.
Still, there were moments when you caught him looking at you from across the Great Hall or over the top of a book in the library, expression unreadable yet strangely focused, as though he had momentarily forgotten anyone else existed.
And every single time, your stomach betrayed you because Juhoon was composed by nature. Controlled down to the very way he spoke. Nothing about him was careless.
And yet, around you, cracks had begun appearing in that perfect restraint. Small, nearly invisible ones.
The subtle tightening of his jaw whenever another student lingered too close to you. The way his gaze darkened almost imperceptibly whenever someone flirted too openly. The instinctive way he would place a hand against your waist while guiding you through corridors that were not even vastly populated, fingers lingering just a second too long against the fabric of your robes.
Protective.
Possessive, perhaps.
Though you weren’t entirely sure you minded, and that alone should have terrified you. Instead, it settled warm beneath your ribs like a secret you were too afraid to name. And it only became worse after Potions.
Slughorn’s classroom smelled overwhelmingly sweet that morning, thick curls of shimmering steam spiraling upward from the cauldron positioned at the center of the room. Students leaned forward curiously as the potion glimmered beneath the candlelight, its surface shifting in pearlescent swirls.
“Amortentia,” Slughorn announced proudly, gesturing dramatically toward the cauldron. “The most powerful love potion in the world. Quite distinctive, of course. It smells different to each person according to what attracts them most.”
A chorus of amused reactions spread throughout the room almost immediately. Several students laughed whilst others leaned forward eagerly, excited to reveal their own.
You had barely paid attention until the scent reached you.
Rain against stone.
Cedarwood.
Mint.
Old parchment.
Your stomach dropped instantly because it smelled exactly like Juhoon.
Not vaguely similar or close enough to dismiss. It smelled undeniably, unmistakably like him—like the lingering scent left behind whenever he shrugged his robes over your shoulders after Quidditch practice, and sitting beside him in the library beneath flickering candlelight while rain battered softly against the dungeon windows.
Heat crawled painfully up your neck but you forced your expression to remain neutral, staring firmly ahead while panic curled violently in your chest.
Surely no one else noticed.
Slowly, carefully, you shifted your gaze downward toward your notes, pretending sudden fascination with your parchment.
Then silence settled beside you, the atmosphere surrounding the two of you growing far too heavy for you to ignore. Against your better judgment, you glanced sideways to find him already looking at you. And for the first time in as long as you had known him, Juhoon looked unsettled.
Only slightly.
A nearly invisible tension lingered in his expression before disappearing just as quickly, gone so fast you might have imagined it entirely had you not spent months learning the smallest shifts in his composure.
But you knew him too well now to miss it.
He had smelled something too.
Someone.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered on you afterward: thoughtful, quiet, almost unbearably intent, you had a terrible feeling you already knew who.
Neither of you spoke about it afterward, both far too emotionally inept to even consider attempting such a conversation. Instead, the two of you did what Slytherins did best: you avoided it completely. Painfully so.
The moment class ended, you gathered your things far too quickly before standing abruptly from your seat, your robe nearly getting caught on the table. Around the classroom, students continued laughing and teasing one another over the potion while Slughorn rambled enthusiastically about the “fascinating nature of adolescent attraction.”
You wanted to disappear into the Black Lake and never emerge again.
Juhoon, unfortunately, followed you out of the classroom almost immediately because that’s what he always did.
You could hear his footsteps behind you as you moved through the dungeon corridors, measured and unhurried in a way that somehow made your nervousness worse. He said nothing at first, merely falling into step beside you as naturally as breathing.
Usually, the silence between you was comfortable. Now it felt suffocating.
“You’re walking unusually fast,” Juhoon observed after several moments.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
A pause passed between you. Then, quieter: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me since class ended.”
Heat crept instantly back into your face. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“Hm.” The sound alone told you he didn’t believe a word of it.
You risked a glance toward him then, only to regret it immediately. Juhoon was already watching you, and it wasn’t casual, either. It was intent, like he was trying to solve something. It made your stomach twist painfully.
“You’re staring,” you muttered.
“And you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Another pause.
“Hm.”
You hated when he did that.
The worst part was that Juhoon himself did not appear entirely unaffected either, no matter how composed he attempted to remain. His shoulders seemed slightly tenser than usual beneath his robes, jaw tightening faintly every few seconds like he was restraining thoughts he had no intention of voicing aloud.
Which, somehow, only confirmed your suspicions further.
Merlin. Juhoon had smelled you in the Amortentia potion.
You nearly walked directly into another student before a hand closed instantly around your wrist, pulling you smoothly out of the way before impact.
“Careful,” Juhoon murmured.
The touch burned far hotter than it should have. His fingers remained around your wrist for one second too long before releasing you, though whether he noticed that fact himself, you couldn’t tell.
Neither of you moved immediately afterward.
The corridor around you buzzed with distant conversation and footsteps, students brushing past without a second glance, yet the space between you suddenly felt strangely still.
Dangerously still.
Juhoon’s gaze dropped briefly toward your face, lingering there with unsettling focus, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might actually say something. Maybe ask or even acknowledge it.
Instead, he simply adjusted your cloak where it had slipped from your shoulder during your near collision, movements careful and composed despite the tension crackling quietly between the two of you.
Then he stepped back.
“There’s a Slytherin meeting tonight,” he said smoothly, as though neither of you were internally unraveling. “Don’t be late.”
And just like that, the moment vanished like any other time you had come close to branching further than just an arrangement.
Days passed as such, and you continued your… whatever it was you and Juhoon had become.
Not quite fake. Not entirely real. Something dangerously in between.
The awkwardness following the Amortentia incident never truly disappeared, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud. Instead, it settled quietly beneath your interactions, lingering within prolonged glances and near touches that suddenly felt far too intentional.
If Juhoon noticed the shift between you, he gave no indication of it. But afterward, he seemed even more attentive than before.
His hand found the small of your back far more often in the corridors, not that you had been keeping track though. His gaze lingered longer whenever you spoke. Sometimes, during late evenings in the common room, you would glance up from your book only to find him already watching you with that same unreadable expression that made your stomach twist painfully every single time.
It was unbearable.
Worse still, it was becoming impossible to tell where the act ended anymore.
Perhaps that was why the letter from your mother unsettled you as much as it did.
The envelope arrived during breakfast one icy December morning, bearing your family crest stamped neatly into dark green wax. You already knew it would be unpleasant before even opening it.
Across from you, Juhoon glanced up briefly from his tea as you broke the seal.
Your mother’s elegant handwriting greeted you immediately.
You and Juhoon are expected to attend the Rosier Winter Solstice Ball during holiday recess. Considering recent developments, your appearance together will be beneficial for both families.
Do try not to embarrass us.
You stared at the letter for several long moments before sighing deeply and handing it across the table.
Juhoon scanned the contents silently. “The Rosier ball,” he murmured.
You groaned softly. “I was hoping to avoid that this year.”
“So was I.”
That alone was enough to tell you exactly how insufferable the event would be.
The Rosier Winter Solstice Ball was infamous amongst pureblood society—less celebration and more political performance disguised beneath expensive robes and orchestral music. Old families gathered beneath enchanted chandeliers to exchange alliances, gossip, and carefully concealed threats while pretending it was all perfectly civilized.
Children of noble houses were displayed like prized assets.
And now, apparently, the two of you would be attending together officially.
Wonderful.
“You realise everyone’s going to stare at us the entire night,” you muttered.
Juhoon folded the letter neatly before setting it back down beside your plate. “They already do.”
Annoyingly enough, he wasn’t wrong.
The Rosier estate looked almost unreal beneath winter snowfall.
Ancient stone walls towered against the dark sky, every window glowing with warm golden light while enchanted snow drifted elegantly through the air without ever touching the ground. Inside, the manor glittered beneath towering crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls lined with moving portraits older than Hogwarts itself.
The ballroom itself was already crowded upon arrival.
Pureblood heirs draped in expensive fabrics moved gracefully through clusters of conversation while orchestral music echoed softly throughout the hall. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath candlelight, dark tailored suits embroidered subtly with family crests and ancient runes.
Politics disguised as elegance.
Exactly as exhausting as you remembered.
The moment you entered beside Juhoon, attention shifted immediately.
Not openly, of course, pureblood society was far too practiced for something so crude. But you felt it all the same: eyes following the two of you across the ballroom, whispers murmured quietly behind crystal glasses as your arrival spread through the crowd.
Because this was the first time many of them had seen you together publicly since the announcement.
And Juhoon played the role far too well.
His hand settled against your waist almost instantly upon entering the ballroom, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress as he guided you smoothly through the crowd. The gesture appeared effortless, natural enough that no one would question it for a second, yet the touch lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.
You became painfully aware of him throughout the evening.
The way he pulled your chair out before you could sit during dinner, and he leaned down slightly whenever speaking near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Even how his fingers brushed absentmindedly against your own while passing you a drink.
Every action was perfectly measured. Perfectly convincing.
That should have reassured you.
Instead, it unsettled you more with every passing hour because Juhoon was terrifyingly good at acting like he adored you.
At one point during the evening, an older witch smiled knowingly as the two of you crossed the ballroom together. “You make a beautiful couple,” she remarked warmly and your polite smile nearly faltered.
Juhoon’s hand tightened subtly at your waist.
“Thank you,” he replied smoothly before you could answer. As though he meant it.
That haunted you for the remainder of the night.
Especially once the dancing began.
His hand rested against your waist while the other held yours carefully, guiding you effortlessly across the ballroom floor beneath glittering chandeliers and floating candlelight. Every movement felt controlled, elegant, practiced from years of aristocratic upbringing.
And all the while, people watched the two of you.
You could feel their attention constantly. Admiration, curiosity, approval for the perfect pureblood pair. Exactly what your families wanted.
The thought should have disgusted you, but your attention remained fixed on Juhoon.
His gaze never truly left your face while you danced and he instinctively guided you away whenever couples drifted too close. There was an almost protective way he carried himself beside you throughout the evening, calm and watchful like he was aware of everything happening around you at all times.
None of it felt forced or fake, and somewhere between his hand against your waist and the quiet sound of his voice near your ear, a dangerous thought began settling heavily into your chest.
How much of this was actually pretending anymore?
The thought lingered uncomfortably for the rest of the evening.
You tried to dismiss it. Tried to blame the atmosphere instead—the golden candlelight, the orchestral music swelling softly throughout the ballroom, the overwhelming intensity of old pureblood traditions wrapped so elegantly around the two of you.
But every time you convinced yourself you were overthinking things, Juhoon would do something small and devastating.
A witch from the Parkinson family attempted to pull you into conversation near the refreshments table, speaking animatedly about Ministry affairs while several older purebloods listened nearby. You barely managed a polite response before feeling Juhoon’s presence settle beside you once more.
He didn’t interrupt, he was never rude enough for that. But somehow the conversation ended less than a minute later regardless and his hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you away through the crowd.
“You looked miserable,” he murmured.
You glanced sideways at him. “And you decided to rescue me?”
“You say that like it’s unusual.”
The response came so naturally that your steps faltered slightly before you recollected yourself.
At some point during the evening, your mother approached the two of you with a satisfied expression that immediately made you wary.
“You look lovely together,” she commented, gaze flickering approvingly between you and Juhoon. “People have been speaking very highly of your relationship tonight.”
You resisted the urge to grimace. Beside you, Juhoon remained flawlessly composed. “That was the intention,” he replied smoothly.
Your mother seemed pleased by the answer, though her attention lingered suspiciously on the hand resting against your waist before she eventually disappeared back into the crowd.
The moment she left, you exhaled quietly. “I think she’s planning our wedding already.”
Juhoon took a slow sip from his drink. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”
You nearly choked. He glanced at you then, one eyebrow lifting faintly as though amused by your reaction.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly.”
That was not reassuring whatsoever.
The longer the evening continued, the more impossible Juhoon became to ignore. You noticed the way people reacted to him around you.
How conversations shifted whenever he stepped closer and other pureblood heirs kept a respectful distance without needing to be told. His eyes would follow you instinctively anytime someone else attempted to monopolize your attention for too long.
Protective. Always protective.
Though there was something sharper threaded beneath it tonight.
You first noticed it properly when Eunwoo Carrow approached you near the ballroom balcony.
Eunwoo was charming in the polished, aristocratic sort of way most pureblood sons were taught to be: handsome enough, socially graceful enough, and entirely too aware of both facts.
“Enjoying the evening?” He asked pleasantly, offering you a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Trying to,” you replied lightly.
Eunwoo smiled. “I must admit, your relationship came as quite the surprise.”
You hummed softly. “Did it?”
“To everyone else? Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered briefly across the ballroom before returning to you. “To Juhoon’s admirers, however, it was devastating news.”
You almost laughed. The idea of Juhoon inspiring admiration rather than fear within Hogwarts remained endlessly amusing.
Still, before you could respond, Eunwoo stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, just enough to be noticed.
“You know,” he continued smoothly, “if things between you and Juhoon ever become… less serious, I’d be very interested in—”
A hand settled suddenly against the small of your back. Warm, steady and wholly possessive.
Juhoon.
You had not even seen him approach.
“Carrow,” Juhoon greeted calmly beside you and Eunwoo’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Juhoon.”
There was no hostility in his tone, and that somehow made the tension worse.
Juhoon’s hand remained firmly against your waist as his gaze settled on Eunwoo with quiet composure. “I believe she was just about to join me for the next dance.”
You blinked. You had not been aware there was another dance but Eunwoo clearly recognised the dismissal for what it was. Still smiling faintly, he inclined his head. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner.”
Then he left.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence settled briefly between the two of you.
Juhoon’s hand had not moved. In fact, if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten slightly against your waist before relaxing again.
“You disappeared,” you said eventually, mostly because the tension had become unbearable otherwise.
“I was speaking with my father.”
“You looked thrilled.”
“I considered poisoning my drink halfway through the conversation.”
You laughed softly before you could stop yourself and the sound seemed to catch his attention immediately. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward you then—fully toward you—and for one strange, suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely into the background.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Then his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd behind you, expression cooling almost instantly. “Eunwoo was standing too close to you.”
The words startled you. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Controlled
Jealous.
You stared at him.
Juhoon, meanwhile, seemed to realise only afterward what he had admitted aloud.
A strange flicker crossed his expression before his composure slid immediately back into place.
“He has a reputation,” he added smoothly as though that explained anything. As though your pulse had not just quickened violently at the implication hidden beneath his words.
Before you could respond, the orchestra began another slow waltz somewhere across the ballroom. Juhoon held your gaze for one lingering second before finally speaking once more. “Dance with me.”
It was not phrased like a question.
Juhoon was already extending his hand toward you, expression calm and unreadable beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers overhead. Around the two of you, couples began drifting back toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra swelled into another slow waltz.
For a moment, you simply stared at him.
Then, against every sensible thought currently screaming through your mind, you placed your hand in his.
The ballroom blurred softly around you as Juhoon guided you back onto the dance floor, one hand settling once more against your waist while the other held yours with practiced ease. The movement between you felt almost instinctive now, frighteningly natural as he led you effortlessly through the crowd.
You hated how easily your body responded to him and how naturally you fit beside him.
The music echoed softly throughout the hall while candlelight flickered against polished marble floors, shadows dancing across expensive fabrics and glittering jewelry. Pureblood heirs moved elegantly around you beneath floating chandeliers, every step carefully perfected through years of aristocratic upbringing.
Yet somehow, despite the sheer number of people surrounding you, your attention remained painfully fixed on Juhoon alone and how his gaze lingered on your face with unnerving intensity every time you looked up.
“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “And yet you continue letting me.”
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly and you looked away immediately, but that only seemed to amuse him further.
You weren’t embarrassed merely because Juhoon was flirting, but because he did it so rarely that every small remark carried far too much weight.
Especially when directed at you.
For several moments, neither of you spoke again, you simply danced. The orchestra played softly around you while the rest of the ballroom faded into meaningless noise, your attention narrowing dangerously to the person standing impossibly close before you.
You became painfully aware of every tiny detail: the faint scent of cedarwood lingering against his clothes, the smooth fabric beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his hand through the layers of your clothing.
And perhaps worst of all was the look in his eyes, because Juhoon looked at you like someone trying very hard not to say something.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re quiet,” he observed eventually.
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s true.”
There was a brief lull between you as you attempted to avoid his eyes, it becoming far too overwhelming.
“You’ve been avoiding me since Potions.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course he would notice that, Juhoon notices everything. “I have not.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You walked into a suit of armor yesterday because you were too busy pretending not to look at me.”
Heat rushed immediately to your face. “That happened once.”
“You apologised to it.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
To your horror, the corner of Juhoon’s mouth twitched faintly upward.Not quite a smile, but worse. Fond amusement.
Juhoon was enjoying your embarrassment far too much for your liking.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“So I’ve been told.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly and the sound seemed to affect him instantly. Something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly, the usual sharpness in his gaze easing for half a second before his composure returned.
But you saw it, and suddenly the air between you felt far too warm.
The dance slowed gradually as the music neared its end though neither of you moved apart immediately afterward. Juhoon’s hand remained against your waist, your own still resting lightly against his shoulder while the final notes echoed softly throughout the ballroom.
People continued moving around you yet the moment felt strangely isolated all the same. Dangerously intimate.
Then someone called Juhoon’s name from across the ballroom and the spell shattered instantly.
His expression cooled back into practiced neutrality as he glanced toward the source of the interruption: his father standing near a cluster of Ministry officials, already looking impatient.
You felt the shift immediately. The reminder of where you were. Who you were. What this arrangement was supposed to be.
Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose before lowering his gaze back toward you. “I need to speak with him.”
“Go,” you replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your waist and the absence of it felt far more noticeable than it should have.
“I’ll find you afterward,” he said, and before you could properly process the implication hidden within those words, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
You remained standing there for several moments after he left, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs.
Across the ballroom, people continued watching you. Whispering quietly behind jeweled glasses and polite smiles. A perfect pair, a future alliance, apureblood success story.
If only they knew.
Though, standing there beneath glittering chandeliers with the ghost of Juhoon’s touch still lingering against your waist, you were no longer entirely certain what the truth actually was anymore.
The ball ended late into the night.
Snow drifted softly outside the manor as guests gradually disappeared through the Floo network one by one, the grand ballroom slowly emptying of music and conversation. By the time you finally stepped outside onto the manor steps, exhaustion had settled heavily into your bones.
Cold winter air bit instantly against your skin.
Beside you, Juhoon adjusted his gloves silently before glancing toward you.
“You’re cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hm.”
Before you could question the sound, he removed the heavy dark cloak draped over his shoulders and settled it carefully around yours.
Your breath caught slightly. “Juhoon—”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
The familiar scent of cedarwood and mint wrapped around you immediately beneath the warmth of the cloak, making your chest tighten painfully all over again.
Neither of you spoke for several moments afterward. Snow fell quietly around the two of you while golden light spilled from the manor windows behind you, soft orchestral music still faintly audible through the walls.
“You handled tonight well,” Juhoon finally spoke, cutting through the silence.
You blinked softly. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”
“It is.”
You looked at him then, seeing the slight exhaustion beneath his composed expression and the careful way he stood beside you despite clearly wanting to leave the event hours ago. Even the way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever it rested on you for too long.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, one realisation settled heavily in your chest above all others.
You liked this version of him far too much.
The thought terrified you, because this was never supposed to become real.
The return to Hogwarts following that night was as regular as it could have been.
You maintained what had already been present between the two of you: quiet touches, shared glances, the familiar ease that had long since settled into your routines. If anything, the aftermath of the Rosier ball only seemed to deepen the strange intimacy growing steadily between you and Juhoon.
Though neither of you acknowledged it, why would you? That would have required emotional honesty, something both of you had been raised to avoid almost professionally.
Instead, life simply… continued.
Mornings at the Slytherin table, late nights in the library, walking side-by-side through crowded corridors while students instinctively moved aside to let the two of you pass.
He still looked at you in that quiet, dangerous way that made your pulse stumble embarrassingly every single time, and it was becoming a problem. A rather significant one.
Especially because Juhoon himself appeared entirely unaffected, at least outwardly.
Though there were smal moments where his composure slipped just enough to make your chest tighten painfully.
Like after Quidditch matches.
Juhoon rarely lingered after practice or games. Once finished, he usually disappeared quickly with the rest of the Slytherin team, expression unreadable beneath windswept dark hair while students crowded noisily around the pitch.
And yet, recently, you had developed the unfortunate habit of waiting for him afterward.
You weren’t entirely sure when that started.
Maybe after one particularly brutal practice where he had shown up in the common room with blood running down his jaw from a stray Bludger hit and still calmly asked if you had finished your Potions essay. Or maybe after realising he always searched the stands for you before matches began.
Either way, it became routine.
So when the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match ended beneath a cold grey February sky, you found yourself lingering near the edge of the pitch while students poured noisily from the stands around you.
Slytherin had won by the skin of their teeth.
The atmosphere buzzed loudly with excitement and irritation alike as students argued over fouls and close calls while snow crunched beneath moving crowds.
You spotted Juhoon almost immediately.
He stood near the locker room entrance speaking briefly with another teammate, broom tucked beneath one arm while his Quidditch robes clung slightly to his frame from exertion. Even from a distance, he carried himself with the same composed sharpness he always did, though a faint flush lingered across his cheeks from the cold.
And, as though sensing your attention instantly, his gaze lifted, finding you immediately. Something subtle softened in his expression before he nodded once toward you, small enough that no one else would notice.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
“You know,” a voice drawled beside you suddenly, “he’s terrifyingly possessive for someone pretending to date you.”
You turned to find a Gryffindor boy leaning casually against the wooden railing nearby, red-and-gold scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Cormac McLaggen.
Wonderful.
You had spoken to him perhaps twice in your entire life, both interactions equally unpleasant.
“You Gryffindors spend an odd amount of time thinking about Slytherin relationships,” you replied flatly.
Cormac grinned, entirely unbothered. “Hard not to when your boyfriend looks ready to kill anyone who breathes too close to you.”
Your eyes flickered instinctively toward Juhoon.
Unfortunately, Cormac was not entirely wrong. Even across the crowded pitch, Juhoon’s attention remained fixed on the two of you now, expression unreadable from this distance.
You sighed internally. “He’s not going to murder you, McLaggen.”
“Shame,” he mused. “Would’ve made this conversation more entertaining.”
Before you could respond, he stepped slightly closer.
“You know,” he continued lightly, “I still think it’s strange.”
“What is?”
“You and Juhoon.” His mouth tilted faintly. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the romantic type.”
You folded your arms. “And you’re an expert on romance?”
“Not particularly. But I am excellent at recognising when someone looks one inconvenience away from homicide.”
Despite yourself, you nearly laughed, and unfortunately that only encouraged him.
“You could do better, you know.”
The comment immediately soured your expression. “And there it is.”
Cormac shrugged. “I’m serious. Half the school’s terrified of him.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“Hm.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Juhoon again. “You know, I think he’s glaring at me.”
“He glares at everyone.”
“Not usually like that.”
Before you could respond, Cormac’s hand landed suddenly against your waist. Lightly, casually and entirely intentionally.
The reaction was immediate.
A hand closed sharply around Cormac’s wrist.
“Remove your hand.”
The temperature around you seemed to drop instantly.
Juhoon stood beside you now, expression perfectly calm despite the dangerous stillness settled beneath his voice. Snow drifted softly around the three of you while nearby conversations gradually began faltering one by one.
Because everyone had noticed.
Cormac looked almost entertained. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “you almost sound jealous.”
Juhoon did not answer immediately which somehow only made the silence infinitely worse. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable and his eyes cold.
“Don’t touch what’s mine.”
The entire pitch seemed to fall silent. You felt the shift ripple outward through the surrounding students almost instantly. Shock. Interest. Tension.
Because pureblood men did not say things like that lightly.
Not publicly. Not unless they meant them.
And Merlin—
Juhoon had sounded terrifyingly serious.
Cormac’s amusement finally faltered slightly beneath the weight of Juhoon’s stare. After one long moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped backward.
“Relax,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise the act had become so convincing.”
Act.
Right.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
Juhoon said nothing as Cormac disappeared back into the crowd.
He simply remained beside you, jaw tight beneath his calm expression while snow drifted silently between the two of you. Then, after several long seconds: “Are you alright?”
The question startled you because despite everything that had just happened, genuine concern still threaded quietly beneath his voice.
You stared at him, seeing the cold fury lingering carefully restrained behind his eyes, feeling the hand still hovering faintly near your waist as though resisting the urge to touch you again.
And suddenly one horrifying thought repeated loudly through your mind over and over again.
That didn’t sound fake at all
Students were still staring, but were pretending not to, of course.
But you could feel it all the same: the curious glances, the whispered conversations beginning almost immediately now that Cormac had retreated somewhere into the crowd looking considerably less smug than before.
Beside you, Juhoon appeared entirely unaffected by the attention.
Though you knew him well enough now to recognise the tension lingering beneath his composure. His jaw remained slightly tight with his shoulders rigid beneath dark Quidditch robes.
He was still angry.
Juhoon finally looked down at you properly, expression cooling slightly once he confirmed you were unharmed. “You should head back inside,” he said calmly. “It’s freezing.”
The normalcy of the statement almost made you laugh. As though he had not just publicly implied ownership over you in front of half the school. “You threatened him.”
“I told him to remove his hand.”
“You called me yours.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them and for the first time since arriving at the pitch, Juhoon went still. Not visibly enough, most people would not have noticed it.
But you did. Always.
A strange pause settled between the two of you while snow drifted quietly around your shoulders. Then, in that carefully neutral tone you recognised all too well as him attempting to keep composure: “Would you have preferred I let him continue touching you?”
That was not an answer. You knew it and he knew it. Still, the quiet sharpness beneath his voice made your pulse stumble embarrassingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
His gaze lingered on your face for one long moment. Then he looked away first.
“I dislike people treating you disrespectfully,” he said finally, tone measured. “McLaggen was aware of what he was doing.”
Again, not an answer.
And somehow, that only made things worse because Juhoon was many things, but careless with words was not one of them.
If he truly had not meant what he said, he could have—would have—corrected himself easily.
Instead, he had sidestepped the issue entirely.
Coward.
The realisation should have annoyed you more than it did. Unfortunately, all it really accomplished was making your heartbeat increasingly difficult to ignore.
The walk back toward the castle passed in unusual silence.
Students parted around the two of you instinctively as you crossed the grounds, several Slytherins glancing toward Juhoon with poorly concealed amusement while others looked faintly alarmed.
The story was already spreading.
Mina nearly looked delighted when the two of you entered the common room later that evening.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she announced immediately from her spot near the fireplace. “People are saying Juhoon nearly hexed McLaggen’s hand off.”
“I did not,” Juhoon replied flatly.
Jaehyun looked up from the armchair beside her, expression unbearably smug. “Pity. That would’ve been romantic.”
You dropped into the sofa opposite them with a tired groan. “It was not romantic.”
Jaehyun snorted softly. “Right. Because publicly claiming someone in front of half the school is completely casual behavior.”
Beside you, Juhoon removed his gloves with slow precision, appearing utterly unbothered by the conversation despite the faint narrowing of his eyes. “He touched her intentionally,” he said simply.
Mina’s grin widened immediately. “And you cared enough to threaten him over it.”
“I told him not to touch what belongs to me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. Apparently hearing the sentence repeated aloud was somehow even worse.
Only then did Juhoon finally seem to realise how his words sounded to literally everyone else in the room. A strange flicker crossed his expression, brief and unreadable.
Then his composure returned almost immediately. “You’re all being dramatic.”
“No,” Mina replied cheerfully, “you’re just painfully repressed.”
You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough while Jaehyun outright lost composure beside her.
Juhoon, meanwhile, looked moments away from leaving the room entirely, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that they had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, Mina was nowhere near finished.
“You do realise,” she continued, still entirely too pleased with herself, “that half the school thinks the two of you are practically engaged now?”
“Half the school already thought that,” you muttered.
“Yes, but now they think Juhoon is one mild inconvenience away from committing murder over you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Honestly, it’s very romantic in a concerning sort of way.”
Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“But I’m still correct.”
The room dissolved into amused conversation afterward, though you barely registered most of it. Your mind only consumed one thing.
Don’t touch what’s mine.
The words repeated themselves relentlessly, lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs in a way that made concentrating nearly impossible. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, your stomach twisted all over again.
None of it had sounded fake. And perhaps worse still was the fact that a part of you desperately wished it wasn’t.
Across the common room, conversation carried on around you almost normally now, though several students still occasionally glanced toward the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected. At least outwardly.
He sat beside you with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, expression calm as Jaehyun continued provoking Mina into increasingly dramatic arguments near the fireplace.
Yet every so often, you caught him briefly looking at you like he was thinking too hard about something, and it made your pulse unbearably uneven.
Eventually, sometime past midnight, Juhoon stood abruptly from the sofa. “I have something to deal with,” he said simply.
Jaehyun frowned faintly. “At this hour?”
“It won’t take long.”
Something about the answer unsettled you immediately, though before you could ask anything further, his gaze shifted briefly toward you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then he left and the common room suddenly felt colder afterward.
That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the Slytherin dormitory windows while the Black Lake cast shifting shadows against the stone walls, the distant sound of water echoing faintly throughout the silence.
Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back toward the Quidditch pitch. Toward Juhoon’s voice. Toward the possessiveness threaded through it so naturally it frightened you.
You rolled over with an irritated sigh, you were being pathetic honestly.
Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed quietly.
Then came the knock. Barely audible.
Your brow furrowed immediately. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you crossed the dormitory carefully so as not to wake the others before opening the door slightly—
And froze.
Juhoon stood in the corridor.
For one horrifying second, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing.
His dark robes were disheveled, damp with melting snow near the hems, and a thin line of blood traced down from beneath his sleeve onto his hand. A bruise had already begun darkening along the sharp line of his jaw.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “Juhoon—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
The lie would have been more convincing if blood wasn’t actively dripping onto the dungeon floor.
You grabbed his wrist immediately and pulled him inside before anyone else could see. “What happened?”
“Nothing serious.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
He said nothing as you shut the door behind him.
Only once the room fell quiet again did you realise how exhausted he looked.His usual composure remained intact, but thinner somehow, stretched carefully over something heavier beneath the surface.
And suddenly you remembered Jaehyun’s question earlier.
‘At this hour?’
Pureblood business. You hated the phrase because it always meant something unpleasant.
“Sit down,” you ordered softly.
To your surprise, Juhoon obeyed without argument, and that alone worried you more than the injuries.
You retrieved your wand quickly, murmuring a healing spell beneath your breath as you knelt carefully in front of him. The cut along his hand sealed slowly beneath the glow of magic, though bruising still lingered stubbornly across his knuckles.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist while adjusting his sleeve. He went very still.
“What did your father send you to do?” You asked quietly.
A long silence followed until he eventually answered. “It doesn’t matter.”
Which meant it mattered very much.
You looked up at him properly then, and Juhoon avoided your gaze, which was another first.
Anger flared suddenly beneath your concern, though not at him. At the fact that someone had hurt him badly enough for him to show up at your door in the middle of the night pretending he was fine.
“You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” you murmured while examining the bruise near his jaw carefully.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
The question hung quietly between the two of you. Juhoon finally looked at you then and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression became painfully visible beneath the careful restraint he wore so constantly around everyone else.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
“I trust you more.” He spoke quietly, and the words hit harder than anything else possibly could have.
Your breath caught instantly, the air suddenly feeling far too thin inside the quiet dormitory.
Because Juhoon did not trust people.
Ever.
Not professors. Not classmates. Not even most of his own family.
Trust, to someone like him, was not given lightly. It was not something carelessly handed out through affection or familiarity. You had spent years watching him keep everyone at arm’s length with that cold, perfect composure of his, allowing people only carefully measured versions of himself and nothing more.
He trusted strategy, logic and control.
People were another matter entirely.
And yet somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun seeking you out first. Standing beside you instinctively. Looking for you in crowds. Coming to you tonight instead of anyone else despite the blood staining his sleeve and exhaustion carved quietly beneath his expression.
Trust from Juhoon was not soft.
It was dangerous. Intimate. Rare.
And he had handed it to you so simply it nearly shattered something inside your chest.
The silence afterward felt unbearably fragile.
Your hand still rested lightly against his wrist, fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve while moonlight spilled silver-blue across the room around you. Outside the dungeon windows, the Black Lake shifted restlessly against the glass, shadows dancing faintly along the stone walls.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily, dark eyes quieter than you had ever seen them before. Not guarded or unreadable.
Just tired, maybe even honest. Somehow that vulnerability unsettled you more than all his sharpness ever had.
Because Juhoon was terrifying when controlled. But this version of him: exhausted enough to lower his walls around you, felt infinitely more dangerous to your heart.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his free hand toward your face. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch you like this and this mattered enough to make even him nervous.
That realisation alone made your pulse stutter painfully.
He gave you every possible opportunity to pull away, but you didn’t.
His fingers brushed gently against your jaw, warm against your skin despite the cold lingering from outside. The touch was careful, almost reverent in a way that made something tight unravel slowly inside your chest.
You had never seen Juhoon uncertain before. Never. Yet now, looking at you, there was the faintest trace of hesitation beneath his composure. Like this frightened him too.
“Juhoon…” you whispered softly.
His name left your lips almost unintentionally, barely louder than the shifting water outside.
But the effect it had on him was immediate. Something in his expression changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable.
The final crack in his restraint.
His eyes lowered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your gaze again, as though searching for any sign you wanted him to stop.
You didn’t.
He was still watching you.
Even now—even with his face inches from yours and his breath warm against your lips—Juhoon's gaze searched yours one final time. Looking for hesitation. Looking for the smallest sign that you wanted to pull away, that this was too much, that the months of careful restraint had been there for a reason.
You held his stare and didn't blink.
And something in him broke.
Not dramatically. Juhoon was not built for dramatics. But you felt it in the way his exhale shuddered almost imperceptibly against your mouth, in the barely-there tremble of his fingers where they pressed against your jaw.
Then his eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that saw everything, that had been watching you for years, closed and he kissed you.
The first brush of his lips was impossibly soft, almost reverent, he seemed afraid you might dissolve beneath his touch if he pressed too hard. His mouth moved against yours with devastating care, slow and searching, as though he was memorising the shape of you one breath at a time.
You felt everything.
The slight roughness of his lower lip. The warmth of him, spreading through you like something slow and honey-thick. The way his thumb traced a gentle arc along your cheekbone as he tilted his head, changing the angle, finding the place where you fit together best.
A small sound escaped you that was barely a whisper, barely anything at all, and Juhoon swallowed it like it was something sacred.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading carefully into your hair. Just holding and grounding himself in the reality of you.
The kiss deepened by millimeters.
Still slow. Still careful. But surer now: his lips parting slightly against yours, the barest brush of warmth that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve.
He smelled like cedarwood and mint and something underneath that was simply him, the scent you had been catching across library tables and common room sofas for months, that had haunted you after the Amortentia until you couldn't smell it without thinking of him.
Now it surrounded you completely.
Your hand slid from his sleeve to his chest without conscious thought, palm flat against the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. It was racing. Juhoon's heart was racing.
The realisation struck you like a stunning spell, that beneath all that careful composure, beneath the exhaustion and the blood still drying on his sleeve and the bruised knuckles he hadn't explained, he was just as affected as you were. Just as undone.
The tension bled from his shoulders slowly, minute by minute, as the kiss continued. What had started almost tentatively softened into something more certain, more trusting. Like he had finally stopped waiting for you to push him away.
When his lips gentled against yours, soft and lingering, you felt the question in it.
Is this alright?
You answered by leaning into him, by letting your fingers curl against his chest, by kissing him back with everything you had been too afraid to name for months.
His breath caught.
And then, finally and impossibly, he smiled against your mouth.
Just a small thing, barely there. But you felt it in the curve of his lips beneath yours, and something warm and devastating bloomed behind your ribs.
When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven in a way you had never heard before.
Neither of you spoke. The dormitory was silent around you, just the distant ripple of the Black Lake against the windows and the soft, shared warmth of two people who had stopped pretending.
His thumb traced once more along your jaw. For the first time in as long as you could remember, Juhoon looked entirely at peace. His eyes lingered on yours for several long seconds before he exhaled softly, almost like he was still processing what had just happened himself.
“So,” you whispered weakly, still slightly breathless, “this is becoming a problem.”
To your surprise, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. “A significant one.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself, the sound soft in the silence between you.
And suddenly, with his forehead still resting against yours and warmth lingering against your skin, one devastating realisation settled fully into your chest at last.
This had stopped being fake a very long time ago.
The days following that night changed something between you.
Not visibly. To everyone else, very little seemed different.
You and Juhoon still moved through Hogwarts exactly as before: side by side through crowded corridors, seated together at the Slytherin table, existing within each other’s orbit with the same quiet inevitability that had long since become normal.
But now there was an awareness neither of you could ignore anymore. Every touch lingered longer than before, every glance felt heavier.
Kissing Juhoon had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake for someone attempting to remain emotionally detached because now you knew how careful he could be. How gentle and devastatingly soft he became only with you. It ruined you completely.
The worst part was that neither of you discussed what happened afterward.
The kiss had not magically transformed the two of you into people capable of openly discussing emotions. If anything, it only made the tension between you sharper, quieter, more intimate in ways that felt almost unbearable.
Still, there were moments.
Late evenings in the common room where his fingers absentmindedly traced against yours beneath the table. Lingering touches in empty corridors. The way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever you laughed now, as though he no longer bothered hiding it properly.
And Merlin, the staring had somehow become worse.
You noticed it constantly, it was as if he was still trying to understand how this had happened. As though he found himself just as dangerous to you as you did to him.
Perhaps that was why the realisation settled so heavily inside your chest one quiet evening near the end of term.
The two of you sat alone in the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the castle silent beneath you while cold night air drifted softly through the open arches. The sky above stretched endlessly dark and glittering, moonlight spilling silver across the stone floor where you sat beside one another.
Juhoon rested against the wall beside you, one knee drawn slightly upward while absentmindedly turning one of his silver rings between his fingers.
Comfortable silence settled naturally between you as it always had.
You glanced toward him eventually. “You know,” you murmured quietly, “this arrangement has become complicated.”
The words were light, attempting humor, but your chest tightened anyway because suddenly the weight of it all felt painfully obvious. The fact that somewhere along the way, Juhoon had become the first person you searched for in every room.
He went still beside you, then his gaze shifted toward yours slowly, moonlight catching faintly against the sharp line of his jaw.
“It was complicated the moment I asked you.”
Your breath caught instantly. The world seemed to narrow painfully around those words. You stared at him and suddenly every moment replayed itself differently in your mind.
The way he had looked at you before the arrangement ever started, how quickly he proposed it, how natural everything between you had always felt from the very beginning.
“You already liked me.” Your voice came out quieter than intended.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily for several long seconds.
Then, finally, he spoke: “Yes.”
The simple honesty of it nearly unraveled you and your heartbeat turned uneven instantly.
“How long?” You asked softly.
A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though considering the question carefully. “I don’t know.”
Which meant a long time.
Merlin.
You looked away briefly, overwhelmed by the realisation settling slowly into place inside your chest. All this time, you had thought Juhoon adapted too naturally to pretending, but he had never really been pretending at all. Not entirely.
“I thought you hated most people,” you whispered weakly.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I do.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you and the sound softened his expression immediately. There it was again.
That look he only ever seemed to have around you now: quieter than his usual sharp composure, stripped of all the careful distance he maintained with everyone else.
Then, after a long pause, Juhoon quietly spoke again. “You were the only person I wanted beside me.”
The words settled heavily between you, devastatingly sincere, somehow making them infinitely worse.
Because Juhoon did not ever say things he didn’t mean.
Your chest ached painfully beneath the weight of it. He had chosen you long before any arrangement existed, before you had even considered Juhoon to be your own. Through all his restraint and careful control, it had always been you standing at the center of his attention.
You swallowed hard. “Juhoon…”
His eyes remained fixed on yours steadily, patient in a way that felt almost unbearably intimate now.
There were no masks or pretending, it was just him. And maybe that was the moment you finally understood the true danger of loving someone like Juhoon, because once he gave someone his trust, his loyalty, his care—
He gave it completely.
Below the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts slept quietly beneath moonlight and drifting clouds, distant torchlight glowing warmly through castle windows while cold night air curled softly around the stone arches.
Neither of you moved away from each other.
Juhoon still sat close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever either of you shifted slightly, his presence warm and steady beside you in the chill of the tower.
And suddenly, absurdly, you didn’t know what to say.
Because what response even existed for something like that?
You were the only person I wanted beside me.
The words continued echoing somewhere deep inside your chest, dangerously gentle in a way that made your throat tighten painfully.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely calm again. Though by now you recognised the signs well enough to know better: the slight tension in his fingers where they rested against his knee, and the way his gaze avoided yours for perhaps half a second longer than usual afterward.
He was waiting for your response.
For all his composure, Juhoon was still giving you something fragile here. Trusting you with pieces of himself he clearly offered to almost no one. And that mattered more than any dramatic declaration ever could have.
“You know,” you said quietly after a long moment, “you’re terrible at communicating.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him unexpectedly. “You’re not particularly good at it either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m choosing denial intentionally.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “If that is what you want to believe.”
Your chest tightened embarrassingly at the sight.
Merlin. You had become far too attached to the rare moments when Juhoon looked openly amused around you.
You found yourself smiling faintly back at him without thinking and his expression softened almost immediately at the sight.
Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous now.
Another quiet pause settled between you before you finally spoke again. “So,” you murmured carefully, “when exactly were you planning on telling me?”
“I wasn’t.”
You blinked. “What?”
Juhoon looked entirely unbothered by your confusion. “The arrangement was useful,” he replied calmly. “You were comfortable. I had no intention of complicating things further.”
“You mean more than fake dating me for months while secretly being in love with me?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes.” He answered.
You stared at him in disbelief while he remained perfectly serious. “That is deeply concerning behavior.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you still continued?”
His gaze shifted toward you again then, quieter now. “You were happy.”
The simple sincerity behind the answer stole every sarcastic response directly from your mouth.
Because that was the problem with Juhoon. Beneath all the sharpness and composure and carefully restrained emotion, he cared with terrifying intensity once someone mattered to him, and that felt infinitely more intimate than grand gestures ever could have.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “You really were just going to keep pretending forever.”
“If necessary.”
“Merlin.”
A faint trace of amusement flickered across his face again at your horrified expression. Then his eyes lowered briefly toward your hand resting against the stone floor between the two of you.
You barely noticed the movement before his fingers brushed lightly against yours tentatively, as if he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to do that now despite everything.
The thought alone nearly ruined you.
Without thinking, you turned your hand slightly beneath his, allowing your fingers to slide carefully between his.
Juhoon went still beside you, though not because he disliked it. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. You felt the subtle way his hand tightened around yours almost immediately afterward and your pulse stumbled softly.
“You know,” you murmured after several seconds, unable to stop yourself, “you’re significantly softer than people think you are.”
Juhoon looked unimpressed. “Don’t spread that around.”
You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the tower, swallowed quickly by the night around you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke again. You simply sat there together in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined while moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. It felt strangely peaceful.
At some point, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles. The tiny gesture nearly stopped your heart entirely.
“How unfortunate,” you murmured weakly.
His brows lifted faintly. “What is?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The words slipped out before you could reconsider them, and silence followed immediately afterward. You stared straight ahead at the night sky, suddenly unable to look directly at him.
“Well,” you continued awkwardly, “that sounded less humiliating in my head.”
For one terrifying second, Juhoon said absolutely nothing. Then you felt his hand tighten around yours.
When you finally forced yourself to glance sideways, his expression had gone strangely soft again—that same rare look he reserved only for you, stripped entirely of sharp edges.
And very quietly, like something precious, he replied: “I know.”
Your breath caught. “You know?”
“You look at me the same way I look at you.” The devastating thing was that he sounded so certain about it, like he had noticed long before you had because of course he had. Juhoon noticed everything about you.
“You’re frighteningly observant.”
“Hm.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long second before he leaned forward slightly, pressing another slow kiss against your mouth.
This one felt different from the first. It was certain now. Neither of you needed to question what this was anymore.
And beneath the silver glow of the moon high above Hogwarts, with Juhoon’s hand warm around yours and years of restrained affection finally unraveling quietly between you, you realised something almost laughably simple.
You had been his long before the fake dating arrangement ever began.
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ─── juhoon who was never good at telling his emotions started crying infront of you after a heated argument between you two
★ bf ! juhoon × fem!reader
word count ── 3.2k
˖᯽ ݁˖ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 coco speaking here! JUHOON GOTTA BE THE PRETTIEST CRIER IVE EVER SEEN LIKE WHY IS HE JUST SO PRETTY ALL THE DAMN TIME 😓😓😓 UGH MY AEGI HES SO PRECIOUS TO ME 𖧧 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
The fight began the way most disastrous arguments do—not with screaming or shattered glass, but with something deceptively insignificant.
A forgotten text, a delayed response, a sigh delivered with the wrong tone. By midnight, however, the tiny fracture had widened into something jagged and catastrophic.
Rain tapped relentlessly against the apartment windows while the city beyond the glass dissolved into blurred streaks of gold and gray. The kitchen lights remained dim, casting amber shadows across the marble counters and illuminating the tension suspended thickly between the two of you.
You stood near the island with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, nails digging crescents into your sleeves as though physically holding yourself together.
Across from you, Juhoon leaned against the counter in suffocating silence.
That silence again. That unbearable, impenetrable quietness that made every disagreement feel one-sided, like throwing your emotions against a locked door and hearing nothing echo back.
His expression was composed in the infuriating way it always was—controlled, restrained, unreadable. Even now, during an argument that had your chest aching so violently you could barely breathe, he looked devastatingly calm.
You hated that, not because he was cruel, but because you could never tell if he cared as much as you did.
“You could at least look at me while I’m talking,” you said at last, your voice strained from holding too much emotion for too long.
His gaze flickered upward briefly before drifting away again. “I’m listening.”
“That’s the problem,” you replied bitterly. “You’re always listening. Never talking.”
His jaw flexed, a subtle reaction most people would miss.
You didn’t. You noticed everything about him because you had spent months teaching yourself how to love someone who communicated through fragments instead of sentences.
The way his fingers curled meant irritation. The slight tension in his shoulders meant discomfort. The silence meant he was overwhelmed.
Except tonight you were exhausted from deciphering him. “You always do this,” you continued, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. “Every single time we argue, you shut down and leave me to figure everything out on my own.”
“I’m not shutting down.”
“You haven’t said more than five words to me in ten minutes.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, already looking fatigued by the conversation. “You know I’m not good at this.”
A humorless laugh escaped you. “At what? Communicating? Having emotions?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Your eyes burned. “Then tell me what is fair, Juhoon. Because I spend half this relationship wondering whether you actually want me here.”
That finally made him look at you directly, and the hurt in his eyes was immediate. But instead of softening you, it only made the frustration twisting through your ribs intensify. “You know that’s not true.”
“How would I know?” you shot back. “You never tell me anything.”
His patience began to fracture. You could hear it in the clipped cadence of his breathing. “I show you.”
“You show me in ways I have to analyze like I’m decoding some impossible language,” you said, voice rising. “Do you know how exhausting that is?”
He pushed away from the counter then, agitation radiating from him in restrained waves. “And do you know how exhausting it is feeling like nothing I do is enough for you?”
The words struck harder than expected. You blinked. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” His tone sharpened. For the first time that night, genuine anger seeped through his carefully maintained composure.
“It’s always the same conversation,” he continued. “You keep asking for more and more and more from me like I’m failing some test I didn’t even know I was taking.”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Then what is it?” he snapped suddenly. “Because apparently loving you quietly isn’t enough. Remembering everything about you isn’t enough. Being there whenever you need me isn’t enough because I don’t say pretty things every five seconds.”
The accusation stole the air from your lungs. “I never asked for perfect words,” you whispered.
“Could’ve fooled me.” The cruelty in his voice was subtle, not loud nor explosive. Which somehow made it worse.
Your throat tightened painfully. “I just want reassurance sometimes.”
“And I’m telling you I’m trying.”
“You barely talk to me when something’s wrong!”
“Because every time I do,” he said sharply, “it turns into this.”
Silence crashed between you again, only this time it felt vicious. Your heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs. “You know what hurts the most?” you asked quietly. “I feel lonely even when I’m standing right beside you.”
Something cold flickered across his face then. Exhaustion, the kind born from feeling perpetually misunderstood. “And you know what I’m tired of?” he replied. “Feeling like I have to become someone else just to keep you satisfied.”
Your lips parted. “That’s not—”
“No, listen,” he interrupted, voice rougher now. “I can’t love the way you want every second of every day. I’m not overly emotional. I’m not good with words. And honestly?” His eyes hardened slightly. “Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation, we wouldn’t keep ending up here.”
The sentence landed like a blade driven straight between your ribs. The room went completely still. Juhoon seemed to realize it immediately.
You saw the regret flash across his features the second the words left his mouth. But it was too late, because suddenly every insecurity you had buried deep inside yourself came clawing violently to the surface.
Too clingy, too emotional, too much. Your face went blank in the terrifying way heartbreak sometimes empties a person instead of making them cry. “Wow,” you whispered.
“Baby, I didn’t mean—”
“No.” Your voice sounded distant even to yourself. “You meant it.”
His expression crumpled slightly. “I was angry.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
“It’s not true.”
But now you couldn’t stop hearing it. Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation. The sentence echoed viciously through your head.
You swallowed hard, suddenly unable to bear the sight of him. Without another word, you turned and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.
Juhoon straightened immediately. “Where are you going?”
“I need to leave for a while.”
“It’s raining.”
“I don’t care.”
He stepped forward then, panic finally overtaking the frustration on his face. “Don’t do this.”
You laughed softly, but the sound was hollow. “Do what? Leave before I embarrass myself by begging someone to love me correctly?”
His face paled. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“I was frustrated—”
“And I was hurt.”
Your voice cracked at last. Raw devastation bleeding through the numbness settling over you. “You know what the worst part is?” you whispered, eyes glossy now. “I defended your silence for so long. To everyone. I kept telling myself you loved differently, that you cared in ways people couldn’t see.”
Juhoon looked like he physically couldn’t breathe.
“But tonight,” you continued shakily, “you made me feel stupid for wanting reassurance from the person I love.”
The apartment fell deathly silent. Rain battered the windows harder. His eyes glistened with immediate remorse “Please don’t leave angry.”
You stared at him for a long moment. At the boy you loved so desperately it frightened you. The boy whose quiet tenderness had once felt safe. Now it only felt unreachable. “I think if I stay right now,” you said softly, “I’ll say something unforgivable.”
Then you walked toward the door.
“Baby—”
But this time, when he said it, you didn’t stop, and the sound of the door closing behind you felt far too much like something breaking forever.
The night had become glacial by the time you finally wandered back toward the apartment. Hours had passed in a blur of rain-slick sidewalks, blurred streetlights, and thoughts so tangled they felt impossible to unravel.
The city was nearly silent now, stripped of its usual vibrancy, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rush of cold wind biting against your skin.
Your fingers were numb inside your jacket pockets. Your chest hurt worse. The argument replayed relentlessly in your mind no matter how hard you tried to outrun it.
Maybe if you stopped needing constant validation.
The sentence echoed like a bruise pressed over and over again. Part of you understood he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. You knew Juhoon better than anyone. You knew frustration twisted his words sharp sometimes, especially when emotions overwhelmed him.
But another part of you, the quieter, more fragile part—couldn’t stop wondering if there had been truth hidden beneath the cruelty.
Maybe you were too much. Too emotional, too needy, too difficult to love properly.
The thought hollowed something inside you, and somehow, despite all of it, despite the hurt still lodged painfully beneath your ribs—You missed him desperately, pathetically.
It had only been a few hours, yet every second away from him had felt profoundly wrong, as though some invisible thread tethered between your hearts had stretched too far without snapping completely.
By the time you reached the apartment building, exhaustion clung heavily to your bones. Your phone read 2:07 AM.
The hallway outside your apartment was eerily quiet. Even the usual flickering overhead light seemed dimmer tonight.
You stood outside the door for several seconds, staring blankly at the handle while anxiety twisted violently in your stomach. What if he was still angry? What if he regretted everything? What if—
You swallowed hard and unlocked the door anyway. The apartment was almost entirely dark. Only the small lamp beside the couch remained on, casting a muted golden glow across the living room. Shadows stretched lazily along the walls while rain continued murmuring softly against the windows.
And there he was. Your breath caught instantly.
Juhoon was curled awkwardly against the couch cushions, still wearing the same black hoodie from earlier. One arm lay draped over his face while the other rested limply against his stomach, like exhaustion had finally dragged him under after hours of waiting.
The sight alone nearly shattered you. He looked uncomfortable, restless. Like sleep had only claimed him out of complete emotional collapse.
Your chest constricted painfully. Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer. “Juhoon,” you whispered.
No response.
You crouched beside the couch quietly, your heart aching at how pale he looked beneath the warm light. Strands of dark hair had fallen messily across his forehead, soft and disheveled in a way that made him seem unbearably vulnerable.
Tentatively, you brushed your fingers through it. “Baby.”
His eyelashes fluttered faintly. Then slowly, reluctantly, his eyes opened, and your entire body went still.
His eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, wet. Like he had spent hours crying alone in the dark.
Your stomach dropped immediately. “Oh my god…”
The devastation on his face the moment he fully recognized you was almost unbearable to witness. Relief hit him so violently it physically altered his expression. His lips parted shakily.
Before you could even process it, Juhoon surged upright and wrapped his arms around you with desperate force, nearly knocking the breath from your lungs entirely, and then he broke apart.
A strangled sob ripped from his chest so abruptly that it startled you. His entire body trembled violently against yours while another shattered sound escaped him, raw and uncontrollable.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you whispered immediately, climbing onto the couch beside him as your own vision blurred with tears. “Juhoon…”
He buried his face against your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you directly, fingers clutching the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it almost hurt.
But you didn’t care, because Juhoon was crying. Juhoon, the boy who concealed every emotion behind silence and restraint—was sobbing in your arms like he had been holding himself together by a single unraveling thread.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out brokenly. Your heart cracked clean down the middle. “I’m so sorry.”
Another sob tore through him, rough and uneven. You froze for half a second, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of his grief.
You had never seen him like this before. Never.
Even during the worst moments of his life, Juhoon had always remained composed in that quiet, self-destructive way of his. He internalized everything. Buried everything. Suffered in silence because vulnerability terrified him more than pain itself.
But now?
Now he was unraveling completely beneath your touch, and somehow that hurt more than the argument ever had.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered frantically between shaky breaths. “I swear to god I didn’t mean it like that—I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.”
Tears spilled down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. His breathing came unevenly, fragile hiccups interrupting nearly every sentence.
“You left and I just…” He swallowed hard, voice splintering apart. “I thought you were done with me.”
“Oh, Juhoon…”
“I called you like ten times,” he admitted weakly, words muffled against your shoulder. “I kept trying to figure out what to say, but nothing sounded right and I—fuck—”
His voice dissolved into another sob. “I can’t lose you.” The confession was so painfully sincere it made your own tears fall instantly.
You cupped his face carefully, forcing him to look at you despite the embarrassment flickering through his watery eyes.
And god, he looked devastated.
Wet lashes clung together while tears slid endlessly down flushed skin. His lips trembled uncontrollably, breath hitching every few seconds as though his body physically could not calm down now that the fear had finally escaped him, and beneath all that anguish.
Love.
So much overwhelming love it nearly stole the air from your lungs. “You’re not losing me,” you whispered softly.
His expression crumpled further. “I thought I already did.”
You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes gently, catching tear after tear.
“I know I’m difficult,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know I make things hard because I don’t talk right, but I swear I love you more than anything.”
The sincerity in his voice shattered whatever remained of your anger, because he meant it. Every single syllable.
Juhoon loved with terrifying intensity. He just expressed it differently—through actions, through presence, through quiet devotion hidden in places words could never fully reach.
“I don’t know how to explain things the way you need,” he continued shakily. “But I need you here. I need you.”
Your chest ached so violently it almost felt unbearable. Without thinking, you leaned forward and kissed him softly.
The second your lips touched his, he melted completely. A trembling breath escaped him, shaky and uneven, before his hands slid around your waist with unmistakable desperation. Not possessive, but clinging, almost fragile, like he needed physical proof that you were truly there and not about to disappear again.
The kiss carried remnants of tears and exhaustion and unspoken apologies.
Juhoon kissed you like someone starved for reassurance, every movement hesitant at first before gradually deepening with overwhelming emotion. His lips trembled faintly against yours while his fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your hoodie, anchoring himself to you with quiet urgency.
You could still taste salt from his tears. Could still feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing brushing shakily against your skin, and somehow, that vulnerability shattered you more thoroughly than the argument ever had.
When you pulled back only slightly, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
His eyes remained half-lidded and glassy, lashes damp and clumped together from crying. There was something devastatingly defenseless about the way he looked at you now, like every carefully constructed wall he’d spent years building had finally collapsed under the sheer magnitude of loving you.
“I’m sorry too,” you whispered against his mouth.
He shook his head immediately, brows pinching together. “No, don’t apologize.”
“I left.”
“You were hurt.”
“So were you.”
That alone nearly made him cry again. A shaky breath escaped him before he buried himself against you once more, arms wrapping tightly around your middle as though separation itself had become unbearable now.
This time, he didn’t fight the tears. He let them come. Soft, broken sobs trembled through him while your fingers combed gently through his hair, untangling the storm little by little.
“I love you,” you murmured repeatedly against his temple. “I love you so much.”
Every single time you said it, his grip tightened, as though he was memorizing the feeling of hearing it.
Eventually his crying softened into quiet sniffles and exhausted breathing. You pressed a lingering kiss against his forehead. “Come to bed with me?”
He nodded weakly. The two of you moved through the apartment in silence, but it no longer felt hostile. Now it felt delicate, tender. Juhoon never let go of your hand once.
The second you both slipped beneath the blankets, he immediately curled himself against your side, burying his face near your shoulder while one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
Your fingers drifted slowly along his back beneath his hoodie, soothing the occasional tremor still lingering through his body.
The room remained quiet except for rain tapping softly against the windows and his gradually steadying breathing. Then, after several long minutes. “I never think you’re annoying.”
Your heart squeezed painfully. You glanced down at him. His eyes remained closed, voice rough and sleepy from crying. “I like when you cling to me,” he admitted quietly. “Makes me feel… wanted.”
A weak, watery laugh escaped you. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His fingertips curled faintly into the fabric of your shirt, hesitant and delicate despite the vulnerability trembling beneath the gesture. “When you need me like that,” he whispered quietly, voice still rough from crying, “it reminds me I matter to someone.”
You stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, because suddenly everything made sense. All this time, Juhoon had been loving you with the exact same desperation you loved him.
He just buried it beneath silence because he never learned how to voice it aloud.
Your expression softened entirely. The tension lingering in your chest melted into something overwhelmingly tender as your fingers brushed carefully along his cheek, your thumb grazing beneath his eye where faint traces of tears still remained.
He leaned into the touch instinctively. The sight nearly shattered you.
Slowly, you leaned down and kissed him again. This kiss was different from before, slower, sleepier. Overflowing with forgiveness instead of panic.
Your lips moved against his with lingering tenderness while his breathing softened gradually beneath the warmth of your touch. He kissed you back carefully, almost reverently, as though savoring every second instead of fearing its disappearance.
The room around you had become impossibly still. Only the rain tapping faintly against the windows and the occasional shaky exhale from Juhoon disturbed the silence.
One of his hands slid slowly upward along your side until it rested lightly against your ribs beneath your hoodie. The touch was featherlight, unhurried, his fingertips tracing absentminded patterns there like he simply needed to feel your heartbeat beneath his palm.
Yet even now, wrapped around you beneath dim bedroom lighting, Juhoon continued kissing you with heartbreaking sincerity, as if every unspoken emotion he’d buried for months was finally pouring out through touch instead of words.
Juhoon sighed softly against your lips before tucking himself impossibly closer, his face hidden safely against your neck now. “I love you,” he whispered once more, barely audible.
tags: spencer x f!reader, neighbours with benefits, sexually explicit content (oral, f receiving; oral, m receiving; p-in-v (protected); edging), angst, set during s5-s7, no use of y/n
warnings: mature content, character death (canon s7 death, i’m not actually killing anyone, i swear), grief, addiction, drugs, some alcohol consumption, some swearing, the lord's name taken in vain
word count: 20.6K
summary: you’re spencer’s new neighbour and you don’t really want to get to know him, but it turns out you do quite want to fuck him. what you don’t want is a relationship.
welcome to the smut buffet. i wrote this when i was stuck on another fic because i needed to exercise my smut writing muscle after a VERY long break (idek why i tell myself that writing smut is something i should attempt), and this ended up being easily the horniest thing i ever wrote. to compensate for that, i threw in some angst. you’re welcome i guess.
*˜*˜*
In the end, Claire has to organise the move for you. You get stuck in Moscow for two weeks longer than planned, some cock-up with the handover, the station chief doing the absolute least to facilitate the transition.
It makes no sense to you, you hate each other pretty equally, he should be as eager to get rid of you as you are to leave.
But to some people it’s more important to make others suffer than to get what they want themselves.
It feels too stupid to be real, but you know better than to argue. You’re too young, too female for anyone to actually listen to you. But still: strings are being pulled behind the scenes and one way or another, you’re going home. Eventually.
You practically begged, and it’s not a memory you treasure, but desperate times and all that. Which is why you’re going to DC instead of back to New York, even if that’s what you originally asked for. You blend in well enough in Moscow at first glance but you long for the anonymity of New York City, to get away from the Americans abroad community that puts its claws into anyone who even walks past Spaso House. The wink-wink-nudge-nudge, aren’t we so clever and witty as we say nostrovia and down vodka someone ‘forgot’ when they came for a meeting.
What you want is to vanish, be unknown. Something about the way New Yorkers will let you be completely invisible unless you really force them to stare. You miss the freedom of it.
To compensate for the posting not being what you wanted, they let you choose your own accommodation, no limits except they get to vet the place. A proper home, something you can make permanent if you want. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stay in the Capital, but you’ll take it. You’ve spent the last five years in furnished Company apartments, hating the wallpaper in every single one of them. So you look up places online, your mom of all people goes to the viewings. Travels down from New Hampshire and acts like you’re asking her to walk there, never mind the fact that she offered to go. She narrows it down to a top three, you pick the one she likes the least.
Simon - the real reason you accepted DC, he’s the nicest boss you ever had and you trust him implicitly, even with the small stuff - makes sure the place is checked out properly. Doesn’t tell you anything except that it’s fine and then he forges your signature on the lease before someone else can snap the place up.
Best boss ever.
Claire is under strict orders not to touch any of your stuff and you think Simon must’ve had a word, because when you finally get there everything is still in boxes, held together by timeworn masking tape, furniture just put down in random places. The only thing that looks deliberate is the couch, pushed against a wall with a view to the windows.
Claire can never completely help herself, but for the most controlling woman alive this is pretty good.
And never mind, it’s just a couch, you can move it to where you want it. You’ll have to invite her around sometime, once you’re settled in, just to let her see you moved it.
You get three days to unpack before your new assignment starts, which is a luxury you know not to take for granted, and you spend your days getting reacquainted with your own stuff after 5 years of it sitting in a storage locker, throwing away things you don’t remember why you saved, replacing stuff you decide you no longer like.
By the end of day two, the place feels like yours, on day three a handyman comes in and drills holes in the walls and ceilings where you’ve made marks, putting up shelves and lamps and pictures. You found the guy on Craigslist and watch him like a hawk until he leaves, admitting to yourself that it was probably a mistake. Simon could have found someone to do this and you wouldn’t have to spend seven hours not able to leave the room.
Then work starts and you settle into a routine, or as much of one as it’s possible to have with your kind of work.
Simon asks after a few months if you’ve gotten to know your neighbours, this smug grin like he knows you. He vetted them himself, what the hell are you meant to do? Make friends? Hilarious.
You’re vaguely aware of the guy in the apartment next to yours, whose working hours are as insane as your own, possibly even worse. Long stretches of complete silence on the other side of your shared walls when he’s away; long days of quiet followed by muted classical music or occasionally jazz, takeaway deliveries, and the tell-tale sound of water in shared pipes revealing that tonight, he’s home.
Weeks can go by, a month maybe, where you don’t see him at all, but then you run into him in the hallway, one of you coming, the other going, or both of you leaving at some ungodly hour, or coming home at a time that’s even less reasonable. You never see or hear anyone else in there, just him. Without knowing anything else about him, and without really needing to, you feel a kind of kinship with this man who lives a life that’s apparently as solitary as your own.
He looks like a teacher. Maths or maybe History, but this is DC and also those hours. In the end you decide: NSA. Probably a data analyst, or maybe a linguist, actually. He looks like he’d smell of libraries if you were to get close enough. Something about the way he carries himself makes you think: not politics. Not unless the candidate was a childhood friend who tricked him into it somehow. He does have that air of having been betrayed by the world in some way.
You never introduce yourself, and neither does he, just acknowledge each other’s existence with a nod and a non-committal grimace. Not a smile, not really.
Not too long after Simon’s question, the guy is suddenly on crutches, hobbling around noisily in his apartment, the clank-clank of them as he comes up and down the stairs. You don’t ask him what happened, assume he injured himself playing basketball or something, there are so many corporate leagues in this city, accountants living out their fantasies of playing in the NBA down at the Y. And he's just so fucking tall, in a way that makes him look like a teenager who still hasn't come to terms with the latest growth spurt. It all makes perfect sense in your mind and you don’t waste any more brain space thinking about it.
You hold the door open for him a few times, wait in the doorway for him to make his way across the lobby or the sidewalk, your eyes on your phone like you meant to stop there so he doesn’t feel like he has to rush.
He nods his thanks, but still doesn’t look at you. Honestly, he’s basically the perfect neighbour, you couldn’t possibly ask for more.
When the crutches get replaced by a cane things get less noisy next door and you go back to ignoring him when you see him.
Then one night, you order Chinese food and the delivery guy brings you pasta. It smells good, sure, and you’ve heard nice things about the place whose logo is on the receipt you didn’t check until it was too late, but you’ve been craving a stir-fry with extra prawns since lunch got downgraded to a stale bagel with cream cheese and a snack pack of carrots that was past its sell by date eaten in a smelly car with tinted windows and washed down with a lukewarm rootbeer.
You open your door, hoping you can catch the guy before he speeds off, but you’re still stepping into your sneakers, your door half-open, when a second delivery guy shows up. He smiles like he knows you, holds up a white plastic bag for you to see.
You smile back, relieved that at least you have your own food now, but not really sure what to do with the styrofoam thing of Italian food that’s sitting on the table in your hallway. You’re about to pay the guy when the door next to yours opens and your neighbour peeks out.
“Sorry,” he says, and you realise it’s the first time you’ve ever heard his voice. “I thought it might’ve been my food.”
“Did you order from Manzini’s?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have your food. Hang on.” You wave off the delivery driver to indicate that he should keep the change and he smiles wider like you’re definitely friends now and then he jogs back down the stairs.
That transaction completed, you reach into your hallway and grab the bag of food that was clearly intended for your neighbour, and then walk the few steps from your door to his. “There you go. I think the guy just picked the wrong door. I didn’t realise until after he left.”
Your neighbour looks at the bag you’re holding out, then at you, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick. You shrug and shake the bag a little, indicating that he should take it.
You’ve been in your apartment nearly six months and it occurs to you, you haven’t actually ever seen his teeth before. Your mom is a dentist, your whole life teeth have been the first thing you saw. Not in your neighbour, though, he is all gangly limbs and doe eyes that never meet yours exactly.
“You paid for this?”
“Yeah. I thought it was my food.” He still hasn’t moved. “I didn’t open it or anything.”
He takes the bag from you. “I should pay you,” he says, like he’s explaining some social convention.
You wave him off. “Maybe next time, you get my food.” Then your curiosity gets the better of you. This is how cats die, but it’ll shock the hell out of Simon and that’s its own kind of motivation. “Or, if you’ve got a bottle of wine…”
You trail off, assuming your meaning is clear, but he just stares at you. “I don’t.” He shakes his head, like puzzle pieces are falling into place in his mind in real time. “But I can buy one for you.”
You smile because clearly he’s working on a completely different puzzle. “That’s okay. I have wine.”
“Oh. I thought you meant to compensate you for paying for my food if you’re uncomfortable accepting cash.” He frowns, it looks like he’s recalibrating, probably trying to work out what you expect in exchange for his food.
“No, I meant we could share the wine, maybe eat together?” You only realise how it must sound after the words have left your mouth, the unintended desperation built into spelling it out. You’re not the type to proposition anyone, so it never occurred to you that that might be what you were doing. You do just fine sitting at bars and letting them come to you, or maybe very occasionally letting married friends from long ago or colleagues set you up, so long as everyone is clear that you aren’t girlfriend material.
“I don’t have wine,” he says again, but this time it sounds more like an apology. “I do have lemonade. And soda.”
You nod. “Right. I’m gonna go grab a bottle of wine from my fridge and be right back, okay?” You hold out the bag containing your food and he takes it, less hesitation this time. When you come back 20 seconds later with a bottle of white wine, he’s still standing exactly where you left him.
“My name’s Spencer, by the way,” he says, and it sounds like he’s been practicing the line while you were gone.
You smile and tell him your name. The one on the lease you didn’t sign yourself.
“I know,” he says. “It was on a parcel that was delivered once, it sat on your doorstep for 3 days.”
He doesn’t say it like he’s complaining, it’s just a fact. It was also two weeks after you moved in. Your dad sent you a microwave so you wouldn’t starve but you were out of town. It was a nice gesture and you love the thing, but maybe you understand why your parents are divorced.
Spencer closes the door behind you but doesn’t lock it. You’re used to hearing the clicks and clangs of both the locks on his door whenever he comes or goes, and you realise leaving it open is for your benefit, so you don’t feel trapped.
You eat on his couch, he brings plates for you both from the kitchen, two sodas and a single wine glass, this antique-looking crystal thing that immediately makes you think you’re definitely going to drop it.
“I don’t really drink.”
Ah. “Do you want me to take this away?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Nono, that’s fine. I just don’t drink very often. Only if… I have to?”
“When would you ever have to?”
He smiles, this expression that looks sort of like his whole face is shrugging. “I just mean only on special occasions. Not that this isn’t…” He trails off, looking embarrassed.
You snort with laughter. “That’s fine. I only ever drink when it’s not a special occasion.”
He frowns, trying to work out if you’re joking but then apparently gives up. You get the feeling this is a thing he’s used to.
“So I have to know,” you say, putting your empty plate on the coffee table 20 minutes later and deciding that you’ve waited long enough. He seems as uninterested in small-talk as you are, so why not just move on? After all, it doesn’t seem like he has any more facts about shellfish allergies or the unfair reputation that MSG has and how it got it. “What do you do? Your working hours are worse than mine.”
He shrugs, clearly deciding how to respond. You hope he doesn’t say private security or corporate consultancy. You can not live next to another CIA agent. You are sick to death of moving and you actually kind of love this place by now, it does feel like a home. Also: would Simon have ever allowed that? “I’m a behavioural analyst. For the FBI.”
FBI analyst. That’s probably fine. It sounds pretty office-based. “Like a profiler?”
He nods.
“Do you have a gun?” You’re joking, and this time he gets it.
“Not on me.”
“Good.”
You’re not sure who leaned in first, but the kiss is a pleasant surprise. He’s eager but in an undemanding way, at least to begin with. When you scrape your teeth against his bottom lip, not an actual bite, just the suggestion of one, he makes a restrained sound deep in his throat and then his hands are on you, holding your head in place as he deepens the kiss, his tongue against yours as he presses you backwards into the couch.
Then suddenly, without warning, he pulls back. Hands still on your face, his breath ragged. “You had two glasses of wine.”
“Um.” That is a fact, definitely.
“Are you accustomed to drinking alcohol? If you aren’t, you probably don’t have great tolerance and two glasses is more than enough to impair your judgement. If that’s the case, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Oh. You smile, a hand on his cheek. “I’m not drunk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.” You’re buzzed, yeah, but not drunk by any means. Your judgement is very much unimpaired. At worst, it’s slightly blurred around the edges, but he is dead centre. Those eyes are quite something when they’re aimed straight at you.
“Okay. Good.” He smiles, just a quick twitch of his lips, pulled up on one side, but it reaches both his eyes, and then he kisses you again, no more hesitation.
Somehow, you’re straddling him, his hands snaking their way under your t-shirt to rub up your sides and back, directly on your skin as he pushes the t-shirt up your body before pulling it off you, and then another pleasant surprise when your hips grind against him, already hard. Based on that initial impression, this has the potential to be a lot of fun if he knows what to do with it.
He moans into your mouth, and then he pulls back, again, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place, at a distance. This is starting to feel like a bad habit he needs to get rid of and you frown, opening your mouth to tell him so.
But he beats you to it, nibbling on your chin before he says, “My bedroom is just through there.”
Relieved, you kiss your way along his jaw, and then you get up. “Lead the way.”
He does, taking your hand almost shyly.
Your first thought as you land on his bed is how strange it is that his sheets smell of detergent, so clean as if he expected company because in your experience that’s the main reason men change their linen; your second thought is how soft his hands are against your legs as he pulls off your jeans and panties. Your third thought evaporates when he spreads your legs open and kisses his way into you, one hand on your thigh, the other on your stomach.
When your orgasm washes over you, he seems surprised, looks at you in amazement as if he can’t quite believe he did that, and something about his expression makes your core clench as you pull him up your body so you can kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips.
He kisses you back, hovering above you and careful not to put his weight on you. “Was that… okay?”
You almost laugh, but then you realise he isn’t asking for an ego boost, he’s genuinely wondering if he did a good enough job. “Well, I definitely enjoyed it,” you tell him, running your hands through his hair as a prelude to pulling him down for another kiss.
“Me, too,” he says, pleased.
Jesus Christ. It’s his tone as much as the look on his face that makes you realise: He hasn’t done that before. You pity the women before you, they clearly missed out. The guy is a natural. “Good. Feel free to do it again anytime.”
His eyes go wide. “Now?”
This time, you do laugh. “No,” you say, reaching between you so you can undo his belt buckle. “How about now we do something else?”
It takes just a fraction of a second, your words being processed in his brain, the openness of the statement, but then it links up with the way you’re undressing him and he nods against your forehead.
His hands shake slightly as he tears the condom wrapper, but once he gets it open, it seems like he knows what he’s doing. You’re a little relieved that you’re probably not about to deflower your neighbour. Not that you’d mind, but maybe you would have played this differently. Slower.
He works your body like you’re an experiment he’s doing, observing your reactions to his touch, his rhythm, the angle of him thrusting into you. Any positive reaction gets a repeat action to confirm. Part of you wishes he’d just let go, another part is too busy enjoying what he’s doing to care about the why. He can deal with his own shit, it’s none of your business. All you need to know is it feels good. And he’s a very quick study.
Your second orgasm is less of a surprise to him, he knows the signs now after all, but the effect of it, the way you clench around him, and maybe the way you sigh with pleasure right in his ear, push him over the edge, and that seems like it surprises him.
He moans as he comes, tries to muffle the sound by biting your shoulder. Does it hard enough that his teeth leave marks that will still be there tomorrow. When he realises what he did, he’s mortified, those soft, soft fingers gently brushing over your skin, as if he can erase the marks.
You want to make a joke about dental records and ask if his employer has his, but he looks so guilty you aren’t sure he’d be able to handle it. Instead, you grab his hand and bite down on his wrist. Not hard enough to make a mark, but hard enough to make a point. “There, now we’re even.”
“I’m really sorry,” he says for maybe the seventh time, but finally sounding less like he’s going to spend a week beating himself up about it.
“Don’t be. It was worth it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Double sure,” you joke.
That almost gets a laugh out of him. “Noted.”
Which fully gets a laugh out of you. “Are you writing a dissertation or something?”
“I actually have three PhD’s.” He’s not bragging. Well, maybe a little, you decide when you catch the hint of smugness in his smile.
“Any of them in female orgasms?”
“No. Chemistry, Mathematics, and Engineering.”
Okay, then. You realise you probably know as much about your neighbour as you could reasonably want to, and the information came with a very pleasant added bonus, but now it’s time for you to leave.
This is more than enough pillow talk and if you stay in his bed any longer, you might get too comfortable in it.
Except then he kisses your shoulder, wrapping an arm around you as he molds his body to fit against yours, and you realise that it’s too late, you already are.
You give yourself five minutes and then you definitely need to go.
Seven minutes later your phone beeps to signal an incoming text, then a few minutes later another and then a third.
“Do you need to get that?” His hand stills on your skin, his fingers halfway through a loop around your belly button. There’s a tension building in your core and between your legs, your body just about ready to be triple sure, but happy to wait and see if it’s something he’ll initiate or not.
“No, they'll call if it's urgent.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before your phone rings.
Spencer smiles like he knew that would happen.
You sigh, shifting on the bed until you can lean over the edge and pull your cell phone from the pocket of your jeans. He grips you around the waist to stop you from toppling out of bed.
“Yes?” you say into the phone, smiling apologetically at Spencer and mouthing “Work.”
He just nods, watches as you get out of bed and start getting dressed, still with the phone to your ear, your responses as brief as you can get away with.
At the other end of the line, Simon laughs. “You’re not alone, are you?”
“No.” You sigh.
“Neighbour?”
What the fuck? “Yes.”
“Unexpected. I’m impressed.”
“Okay,” you agree, because you can’t really shoot back right now.
When you can’t find your bra, Spencer digs it out from behind a stack of books, and then he pulls on his boxers and goes to the living room to find your t-shirt, brings it to you no longer inside out, holds it up to help you put it on while Simon is still droning on in your ear.
You hang up and shrug. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”
“Of course,” he says, easy, because calls like that are completely normal for him. Very convenient, actually. “Can we… Can we do this again?” He looks uncertain but hopeful.
“Yeah,” you say, then realise with a start how much you want to and immediately backpedal. “Sure, I guess. Sometime.”
His face doesn't fall, exactly, just settles. “Sure,” he repeats.
* * *
You don’t see him again until a month later; you’re coming home after three days of practically living at the office, someone somewhere critical sending emails using all the right words and everyone losing their minds until it becomes clear that sometimes a kid’s birthday party is just a kid’s birthday party, even if you’re on a watchlist; he’s clearly leaving, duffel bag in one hand, keys still in the other as he comes jogging down the stairs.
He stops mid-step, one foot hovering in the air, and you smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice is soft, not unfriendly, not distant. Hesitant, like he’s not sure what to expect.
“Going out of town?” You point at his bag.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Denver. We’ve got a case.”
You almost say “Cool,” but then stop yourself. It doesn’t feel like an appropriate response to someone with his job telling you they have a case. “Well, maybe I’ll see you when you get back,” you tell him instead.
His eyebrows shoot up and then fall back into place. “Yeah. Yes. Okay.”
You realise from his response that he mistook your ‘maybe we’ll run into each other on the stairs again’ to mean something different. But he doesn’t seem put off by the idea despite the way you left before so you just smile. You might even be looking forward to it, listening to the silence coming from his apartment for the next few days, hoping for noise.
When he does come home, you hear him unlock his door as you’re reheating your dinner, then shortly after that the rustling of the pipes as he showers, and less than 10 minutes later there’s a knock at your door.
He hasn’t brought takeout, or wine, but he looks like maybe he wishes he was carrying something. You just smile and wave him inside.
“I wasn’t sure if it was too late,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But then I heard your microwave.”
“Leftovers,” you tell him. “I just got home an hour ago.”
You realise he’s staring at your lips and it makes you smile, which makes him stare even more intently. Because you’re kind of an ass sometimes, and because you want to see what he’ll do, you lick your lips.
He swallows, his pupils dilating. His hands stay in his pockets.
“This way,” you tell him and walk ahead of him into your bedroom.
* * *
It becomes a kind of routine after that, a pattern that feels more familiar than it probably should. It’s not a regular thing, both your lives are too full of work for regular, but in your mind that’s for the best. Irregularity keeps things casual. Low pressure, low demands.
You don’t discuss what it is you’re doing at all, you don’t need to, it’s all perfectly simple. You’re neighbours who occasionally fuck. It’s easy, convenient. It’s fun, mostly. It’s cathartic, sometimes. It’s a pleasure, always.
You’ve been taught never to bring your work home with you. There’s the obvious ‘no paperwork leaves the building,’ or sometimes even the room, but also the emotional part of it. You leave it at the office and then you go home and live your life.
Except, it doesn’t really work that way. You compartmentalise well, but no boxes are airtight.
You think Spencer has probably been taught the same, but struggles in the same way, too. Possibly more, his face is basically an emotional cinema if you look properly.
The same way he spent that first night learning your body - and boy is that a lesson he remembers - you’re learning each other’s moods as well.
None of you have ever said “I had a bad day at work,” or “A case turned out better than expected, let’s celebrate.” That’s what the knock on the door is for. Or sometimes, you’re both just bored and at home. But you both learn to understand, learn how to tell whether the sex is going to be light and easy or one of you is chasing away demons.
It takes you a little longer, but then reading people is his actual job. He doesn’t tell you any more about that, just the way you don’t tell him about what you do. You don’t know the names of his colleagues, who he gets along with, who he’d rather be rid of, and he doesn’t know anything about yours.
Actually, you never told him what you do, exactly, and he never asked. He probably assumes he knows, and that’s fine by you. You don’t need him to know anything about you other than how to find your clit and your g-spot and he has both of those down.
He never questions what you’re doing, never pushes for more, so you assume he feels the same way about the arrangement.
It’s not as if he doesn’t ask for things, otherwise, so you figure if he wasn’t happy with how things are, he’d tell you.
He doesn’t suggest anything outrageous, no niche fetishes for you to wrap your head around, decide whether or not you can get on board with. Nothing that makes you consider calling it quits on the whole thing.
It’s more that he’s learning what you both like, the whole thing still an experiment and maybe he lied about that PhD. You’re happy to be his research project.
* * *
“Can I try something?” he asks, settling with his head between your legs, his hands caressing your thighs. He really wasn’t lying when he said he enjoyed that and you are not complaining. “I read this article that said—”
“Go for it,” you say, cutting him off before he gets himself distracted with a long-winded explanation of what he read. It’s not that you don’t enjoy his little lectures - not a teacher, but still, you weren’t exactly wrong - you just don’t really have the patience for it when his tongue is this close to your clit.
He laughs at that, huffs of warm air against your exposed skin. “Show, don’t tell, huh?”
“Yes, please,” you agree, then actually whine with pleasure when he does.
“So, success?” he asks, wiping your juices off his chin as he sits up a while later. You have no idea how much later; time is a construct and he tore it down with whatever he was doing with his tongue and his lips and his hands.
“Smug bastard.” You’re still catching your breath, your vision still slightly blurry, but you can see the look on his face clearly enough.
He laughs. “That was just very effective. Quite surprising.”
You can’t really disagree with that. “I think I need a moment,” you tell him, rolling over to lay against him, pressing a kiss to his sternum.
“We’ve got all night,” he says. You do, it’s true. Somehow the planets aligned and you came home within half an hour of each other after several days away and it’s as close to guaranteed as it’s possible to get that no-one will demand either of your presence anywhere until tomorrow morning.
But you never really take all night; the closest you get is if one of you falls asleep and then wakes up with a start a couple of hours later, dressing in the dark and sneaking out as quietly as possible. You’ve never seen the sunrise through each other’s windows.
You actually think he might have timed how long you’ll stay in his bed for, how long you’ll let him stay in yours before you start to get restless, and now he’s on the same schedule. Or maybe he just learned that you don’t expect him to hang around all night. At the beginning, you were always the one to get up first, but he never once asked you to stay longer, and now he’s just as likely to get out of bed and move on first as you are, his nose in a book before you get all your clothes back on.
You don’t call him on what he said, you don’t question it, it’s just an expression. Instead, you run your hand slowly down his abdomen until your fingers reach the patch of hair, knuckles brushing lightly against his erection. “All night, huh?”
His breath hitches at the touch. “Yeah,” he says, then launches into a lecture on how the refractory period changes with age, how he might be nearing the end of his peak statistically, but there are several external factors that affect performance.
You don’t get to hear about those, the flood of words interrupted by a moan followed by a string of whined expletives when you circle his tip with your tongue and then take him in your mouth. You’ve been reading stuff, too, and if you’ve got all night, you might as well test some of it out.
So long as ‘all night’ means the hookup lasts that long, not that you’re moving in, you’re fine with it.
* * *
You get passed over for, not a promotion, exactly. It’s a lateral move, really, but it’s one you wanted to make. Simon pushed as much as he could, you know he’s not the one who got in the way of you moving on but the rejection still rankles.
It’s been close to a year since you invited yourself to eat your takeaway in Spencer’s apartment. You haven’t had a meal together since, not counting the occasional mid-coital recharge which is usually just snacks and water - with electrolytes because Spencer wanted to know if that would improve recovery time and you like the taste so you kept drinking it.
The new job would have meant relocating, actually going back to New York the way you wanted. A long way to travel for a booty call even if the sex is that good.
Also, you’d no longer be neighbours, which is pretty much the whole premise. Proximity is the only reason this is working.
The plan is an early night and drowning your frustrations in a bottle of tequila, but then you hear the sound of upbeat jazz from next door. It’s been a whole week of silence, much longer than that since you’ve seen him and not just heard him through the wall. Part of you had started to wonder if something happened.
You screw the lid back on the bottle of Patrón and shove it back in the cabinet that stores your liquor.
You’re cleaning your teeth when there’s a familiar knock on your door. You spit and rinse, quickly brush your hair, and then you go to open the door.
He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, which isn’t a look you get to see very often, usually you’re the one who’s more casually dressed. One of your favourite things to do is pull off his tie, the way he watches you so closely as you undo the knot, but there are advantages to this outfit as well. Like how quick it is to get out of. “Hey,” he smiles. Whatever he was doing while he was away, clearly it went well.
“Hey.”
His smile falters just slightly at whatever he sees on your face, but then he tilts his head, assessing you. Decides your clipped tone and stiff smile aren’t about him. It’s a pretty neat trick. “You want me to go?”
“No. I was gonna come to you.” You pull open the door completely to let him in.
He brushes the hair out of your face, kisses your forehead, and you close your eyes just for a moment.
You hadn’t planned on going to him to ask for sweet or tender, what you really wanted was a workout and he’s closer than the gym, but his hands are rubbing your arms in a way that is so comforting you realise that you can have both, if that’s what you want. What a bizarre thing, both to want and to have available. How unlike you in every way.
You turn your head, stretch, and kiss his hand. Lead him to your bedroom.
You do want both, and you stand still so he can undress you at whatever pace he decides is right.
He works slowly, carefully unbuttoning your shirt and kissing your skin as more and more of it is exposed.
“Is this new?” he asks, fingers running along your shoulders, lifting up each bra strap.
“Yeah.” It was an impulse buy, meant to be a lucky bra, because for just a moment you forgot you don’t actually believe in luck or fate. Things happen because they happen. The colour of your underwear doesn’t change anything.
“It’s nice,” he says, then unhooks it, pulls it down your arms, and throws it unceremoniously on the floor as he leans down to kiss your shoulder where the strap has left an indentation on your skin.
You smile. Six months ago, he would have folded it up neatly and put it on a chair, or maybe let you take it off yourself so you could treat it however you saw fit, but he’s easier now, looser. More comfortable, both in his own skin and in your space.
He’s still Spencer, though, the same guy who studies you and learns you so thoroughly, who can talk forever about things it never occurred to you that you might want to know, but somehow you almost always do, especially after he learned that your attention span is longer when you’re either fully clothed or post-orgasm. The same guy whose eyes sometimes go wide with surprise when you pounce on him, kiss him or touch him before he has a chance to prepare for it, this look on his face like he can’t quite believe what’s happening or how he got here. But he isn’t leaving.
He bends slightly to let you pull his t-shirt over his head and then you walk him backwards into your bed. He sits down without objection, spreading his legs so you can step between them, and then he presses his lips to your abdomen, hands wrapping around you to keep you in place as he kisses your skin.
As if you have anywhere else to be.
When he finally decides it’s time to unbutton your jeans and pull them off, you’re practically squirming with wanting and breathe a sigh of relief when he pulls your panties down along with the denim. He chuckles, planting a soft kiss on your hip bone.
“Tease,” you object.
His hands skate up your thighs, knuckles brushing against your skin. “I’m just enjoying myself.”
What the fuck are you meant to say to that?
“Me, too.”
He smiles against your skin, a hand pushing between your thighs and up, two fingers separating your folds as you spread your legs slightly to give him more space. You’re soaking wet already. “I can tell.”
You hiss at his touch, hips pushing towards him hoping for more. He really can be a jerk sometimes, but not in a way you mind. “Please.” You’ve said please to him more than to almost any other person. Unlike most other people, he has never not given you what you needed.
He pulls back slightly so he can look up at you, no doubt calculating the probability of you throwing a fit if he keeps teasing you. Then, holding your gaze, he shifts his hand and pushes two fingers inside you, barely moving as he just lets you fuck his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
You moan with relief and pleasure, your hands on his shoulders to keep yourself upright as your orgasm builds. When you grip him tighter, he twists his hand, his fingers hitting a new spot inside you and his thumb rubbing your clit. “Fuck, Spencer,” you sigh, your knees buckling and your eyes closing as the orgasm hits you.
“So pretty,” he says, his fingers still inside you as you pulsate around them, but his lips back on your skin, his other hand around your waist to help keep you mostly upright.
You push him back on the bed and then down so you can straddle him, his fingers replaced by the feeling of his erection through his sweatpants. The way his dick pushes against the fabric, you realise he isn’t wearing boxers.
If he came over dressed for a quick fuck, then what the hell is this? As well as he reads you, he must have known that’s what you were looking for when you opened the door to him.
He looks up at you, warm hands moving slowly up your back, and then he pulls you down for a kiss, slow and thorough.
You pull away so you can kiss a trail down his abdomen, your hand pushing under the waistband of his sweats and confirming your suspicion about his wardrobe choices.
“Wait,” he says, a hand on your neck stilling your movement. Turning down a blowjob? That’s a first. “I want to feel you.”
Okay, then. You scrape your teeth along his oblique muscle and then lift your head, grinning. “What a coincidence."
He smiles, reaching for the drawer of your bedside table as you pull down his sweatpants and then you watch as he pulls open the condom wrapper with his teeth and then rolls it on, his eyes on your face again. He’s watching you so closely you know it should make you uncomfortable, but instead you just wonder what he’s seeing and how it can possibly not make him look away.
You straddle him and he lines himself up so you can slowly sit down on him, his hips tense with the effort not to push up into you too soon.
When you finally settle against him, he sighs with relief, his hands landing on your hips.
You set a slow pace, because that’s what he’s been doing, and he throws his head back against the mattress, moaning softly with pleasure, his hips thrusting up to match your rhythm. You look at him, just enjoying the view of him enjoying you, until he senses you watching and opens his eyes to look back.
He bends one leg at the knee, pushing you forward and changing the angle of your movement, and you bend down so you can kiss him, holding yourself up with a hand against the mattress on either side of his head. His hands move from your hips to your hair, combing through it gently to keep it out of your face.
“You feel so good,” he tells you and the words make your inner muscles clench around him.
This is new. You don’t normally talk during sex, unless it’s a warning about an impending orgasm or an expression of pleasure, or maybe an instruction. Or very occasionally Spencer deciding that now is the perfect time to explain some anatomical detail or point out the location and meaning of chakras because he just read a book about Pranic healing and he wants you to know about it too.
You don’t do dirty talk and you don’t do sweet talk, partly because it’s so easy to accidentally say something you’ll regret or don’t really mean.
But apparently tonight Spencer does compliments and you’re more into it than you probably should be, not sure what it says about you or what you’ll be expecting in the future.
You kiss him again, then sigh when one of his hands moves from your hair to your breast, teases your nipple with just the right amount of pressure to make you moan into his mouth.
“So perfect,” he says, tilting your head slightly so he can kiss your throat, pressing his lips to where your jugular vein is pulsing with enough force that it’s like he’s kissing your heartbeat.
You actually whine with pleasure, the circular motion of your hips becoming erratic, and he moves his hands back to your hips, steadying you as you ride him and your orgasm builds. It’s almost a relief when it finally comes, the way it makes the whole world disappear and all you hear is Spencer’s moans in your ear as he thrusts frantically up into you, his own release coming only a few seconds after yours.
When you’re able to lift your head again, you find his lips with yours, kissing him lazily, and he kisses you back, smiling against your lips.
You finally roll off him a few minutes later so he can get rid of the condom and then he settles against you, lips on your shoulder and an arm slung over your midsection.
You realise more than an hour has gone by, and you haven’t thought about work once. You had expected sex with Spencer to help you get rid of some frustrations and burn some energy, maybe serve as a momentary distraction, but instead, you’re relaxed and too spent to really care about the injustice of it that had you steaming earlier.
“I was going to go to New York,” you tell him, surprising yourself with the revelation. “New job.”
He stops kissing your shoulder just long enough to ask, “But you’re not going?”
“No. They gave it to someone else.” You don’t say that ‘someone else’ is a shithead, he’s not up for the job, is good at looking good but not very good at doing the actual work. It doesn’t matter, and there’s too much else you’d have to explain that also doesn’t matter.
“So you’re staying?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He shifts, gets up on his elbow and kisses his way into your mouth, doesn’t pull away until you feel dizzy.
The lightheadedness is probably why it doesn’t occur to you to remind him it’s time to leave, and why you sleep through the night with his arm wrapped tightly around you, wake up to the sunlight hitting your face, his breath warm against your neck, his morning wood nestled against your thighs, and an alarm clock you forgot to set.
You’re half an hour late to the office, but honestly, fuck them all.
* * *
Work gets a bit crazy after that. On the one hand, you’re bitter about not getting the job you wanted, on the other hand you’re determined to prove that you were the right choice and they’re going to regret it.
Simon knows exactly what’s fuelling you and lets you get on with it. The closest he comes to commenting on your newfound zeal is asking if you aren’t happy you stayed, as if it’s a choice you made. DC has its upsides after all, and it’d be a shame if you had to leave your nice apartment. When you look at him blankly, he rolls his eyes and spouts some shit about the Rose Garden and the Monument. How the view is nicer here.
You both know what he actually means: one time when you had to stay away longer than expected, he was the one to water your plants. He hung around long enough to clean out your fridge, which was mostly him eating your food, and to answer the door when Spencer knocked, thinking you were home.
Simon had been nothing but polite, actually told the truth about why he was there, said nothing at all about who he was, truthful or otherwise. Smirked his way through the debrief three days later, a pat on your back and a whispered warning about what you might come home to as you both left the room. As close to saying “I met your boyfriend,” as he could get without actually saying it, saving you from telling him “Not my boyfriend.” Preventing you from asking: “What do you think?”
You waited for a month for Spencer to say something about how he found a man not old enough to be your father in your apartment while you were out of town, but he never did, until one day he met you on the stairs as you were leaving with your suitcase in one hand and he asked, oh so casually, if you wanted him to water your plants while you were gone.
When you told him no, he just nodded, and that was that.
* * *
You sigh, making no effort at all to camouflage the noise as something else. Maybe the mic on your phone will even make it sound louder on the other end? “I don’t know what to tell you, Claire, but the answer’s no.”
“Why, though?” Claire is nothing if not persistent. It’s basically her job to be, never take no for an answer. But right now you really wish she had an off switch and knew how to find it herself.
“Because I don’t want to?” You nudge off your stilettoes and push them haphazardly into the pile of shoes in the bottom of your wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind. Other than the obvious, the shoes are your least favourite thing about your job, definitely what you hate most about being in the office.
“Why, though?”
You bang your head against the doorframe. This conversation has been going on in bursts for nearly a month and your patience is wearing thin. “Because I don’t want to.”
There’s a knock on your front door and you bite your lip. There’s no way to end this phone call in less time than it’ll take Spencer to decide you’re not up for seeing him tonight and either go home or go out to wherever he goes when he leaves. And you are up for seeing him, more and more the longer Claire goes on.
“Look, Claire, there’s someone at the door, I have to go.” It’s a desperate attempt, and a foolish one. About a million ways for it to go wrong, maybe two ways for it to work. They both involve some sort of disaster happening on Claire’s end of the phone call. Maybe Spencer can tell you the odds of an extremely localised hurricane happening in Maryland in this one particular cul-de-sac.
“Did you order food? I can wait.”
Jeeeeeesus. “No.”
“Check the peephole, maybe it’s a burglar.”
You do check. “It’s not a burglar.” You pull open the door and gesture apologetically to the phone you’ve got trapped between your shoulder and your ear. Spencer nods and quietly pushes off his chucks before he makes his way to your living room.
“So who is it then?”
“My neighbour.”
“What does he want?”
He wants you to stop talking, you don’t say. He came here so we could fuck, you also don’t say. “He wants to borrow some milk.”
Spencer smirks and picks up the book on your coffee table, leafing through it.
You go to the kitchen and open the fridge, getting out the bottle of milk. You pour a glass for him, because Claire can smell a rat and also a lie.
“Are you sure he just wants milk? How old is he?”
“I’m not sure. Probably pretty old, he has like three PhD’s.” You sense Spencer’s presence in the doorway but don’t turn to look at him. There’s no way you’d be able to keep your laughter down if you caught his eye.
“Hmm,” Claire sounds unconvinced.
“Look,” you say, ready to end this conversation. “It’s nice of you to think of me, but I’m just not interested in dating right now. I’m trying to focus on work.”
You feel Spencer’s hands on your waist, pulling your shirt from the skirt you still haven’t had time to change out of. His hands on your stomach are warm as they move up to cup your breasts through your bra and you nearly sigh with pleasure.
He’s close enough now that you know he can hear Claire’s part of the conversation as well. “Since when can’t you do both? Is this about New York?” Spencer’s right hand moves back down your body, bunching up your skirt as he presses himself into you from behind, his erection growing against your lower back. “You’ll get another shot.”
You tilt your head back and to the side, an invitation for Spencer to kiss your throat. He does, scraping his teeth along the spot below your ear that makes you feral. His right hand pushes into your panties, a finger circling your clit and then dipping lower.
Fuck.
You clear your throat to disguise a moan and you hear him snort with suppressed laughter against your skin.
“I know I will, but your newly divorced brother won’t, okay. At least not with me.”
“But…” Claire starts to object before you cut her off.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.” You hang up the phone and throw it on the counter. “There’s your milk,” you say, pointing at the glass before you have to grip the edge of the counter with both hands when he adds a second finger, pumping into you and hitting exactly the right spot. It’s one that no-one else has ever been able to find and it never fails to make you lose your mind.
“Thanks,” he says, managing to sound a lot more casual than you know he feels, the way his hips are grinding against you in a jagged rhythm. You love the way getting you off gets him off - and how it works exactly the same the other way around, too. “But I’m actually lactose-intolerant.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you say, ending on a moan when the angle of his hand changes as you move to push your panties and tights down your legs so you can step out of both.
“Don’t be,” he says, his breath ragged. He pulls his fingers out of you and you whine in frustration, but then decide it’s for a worthy cause when you feel the fabric of his slacks shift and then slide against your ass, then his skin directly on yours, his dick rubbing against your wetness. “I honestly couldn’t care less right now.”
It takes you a moment to remember that you’re having a conversation about milk. “Still,” you pant. “Ice cream on a summer day, whipped cream on warm pie. Hot chocolate.”
“No,” Spencer insists, moving behind you as he rolls on the condom he just pulled from his wallet. Then he bends you over the counter and lines himself up, pushing into you from behind. Your feet barely touch the ground, you are being held up by him impaling you. “Still prefer this.”
So do you. It’s not even a real contest.
You’re so close to the edge already, he barely needs to brush against your clit again before you’re falling apart around him.
You moan with pleasure and he slows down his thrusts as you pulse around him, giving you a moment to recover, pushing your hair to one side so he can kiss your neck, nibbling gently at your skin.
“Someone’s trying to set you up on a date?”
“Mhmm,” you say, still drunk on your orgasm. “She’s been hounding me for weeks.”
He runs a hand through your hair. “Weeks?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty stubborn.” You reach a hand behind you, finding his ass and pushing him closer to you, needing more than he’s giving.
“Clearly so are you, if you’re still telling her no.” He thrusts into you twice more, harder than before, and then pulls out. Before you can object, he turns you around and lifts you up on the counter, positioning you so he can push back into you.
You sigh with a mixture of relief and pleasure, leaning your head back against the cupboard behind your head. “I guess.”
He smiles and leans in to kiss you, your moans mingling as he picks up the rhythm again and you feel another orgasm building.
He senses the change in you and smiles against your lips. “I am, too.”
His hips stutter desperately against you and you can see the vein in his forehead working overtime, but he has your shirt open, your bra pushed aside so he can get his lips on your nipple, a finger circling you clit, making sure your second orgasm is washing over you before he lets go with a moan, his head dropping to your shoulder.
You press a kiss to his temple. “I like your stubbornness better than hers.”
* * *
You come home one night, close to 2 in the morning, to find Spencer sitting on your doormat, back against your door.
It’s been more than a year and a half of this arrangement and this is not a thing you do, waiting for each other so obviously.
When you get closer you see his eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, the wet stains on his shirt where his tears have landed.
You kneel in front of him, a hand on his cheek, wiping at where his tears have finally stopped running, the skin still red and raw. His hands are fisted in his lap.
“My friend died,” he says, voice hoarse and shaky.
Shit. Okay. “I’m sorry.” He leans into your touch and you let him, cupping his cheek. “Do you want to come inside?”
He nods, so you get up and hold out your hand to help him stand up. He doesn’t take it, just reaches up to give you what he was holding. You look at what landed in your palm and it’s a small vial of dilaudid.
“Oh, Spencer, honey.” You grip the vial tightly and hold out your other hand. This time he gets to his feet.
He follows you like a robot and you get him settled on your couch before you go to the kitchen and make chamomile tea. While the kettle is boiling you check the state of your fridge, sniff a box of leftovers and bin them, then search the cabinets until you find a pack of unexpired cookies. It’ll just have to do.
The vial of dilaudid is burning a hole in your countertop and you pick it up, go to the bathroom and pour it down the toilet. Then you rinse the vial and throw it in the trash, wrapped in toilet paper so no-one will have to look at it.
In the living room, Spencer hasn’t moved since you left him. You set down the two mugs of tea and the box of cookies on the coffee table and sit down next to him.
“Dilaudid?” You don’t really want to know, but you can’t just ignore it. That feels like a very dark grey zone, morally. Neighbours with benefits, sure, but you’re also both human beings outside of the arrangement you have. And there’s no denying that you like him as a person, that you… care about him, or whatever version of that you’re capable of.
“I’ve been clean for almost four years,” he says, staring at his hands.
“That’s amazing.” It’s also a revelation and maybe it explains a few things you hadn’t been looking to have explained.
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” You put a hand on his knee. You’ve never touched before without it being at least partly sexual and the gesture feels sort of performative. You aren’t friends. He doesn’t flinch or remove your hand, though. “That’s a lot of days to make the right choice.”
He looks at you. “You got rid of it?”
You nod and he nods back.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He looks at you for a long moment, and you get that. This isn’t what you do, the two of you. Talk about your lives in so much detail. But then he does, tells you the whole sad story that ends with his friend (a colleague, but there’s no real line between the two categories for him, you can tell by the way he talks about her) lying dead in a hospital. Gives you far too many details about arms dealers in secret prisons and Interpol, and you try so, so hard to let those bits float in one ear and out the other so you don’t feel tempted to go and look things up. By the time he’s done, you’re holding his head as it rests against your shoulder, your hands smoothing down his hair.
You kiss the top of his head, hugging him. There’s nothing you can say to fix this, so you don’t say anything at all.
He pulls back, eventually, his eyes still red, wet again and you have no doubt there’s a stain on your shirt.
“Sorry,” he says, his eyes on your shoulder.
“Your mascara not waterproof?” you ask, dismissing the apology.
He smiles a watery smile. Then he kisses you. Just presses his lips to yours at first, but then his hand goes behind your head and his teeth bite gently into your lower lip, pulling at it lightly. You recognise this move for what it is: A final warning, last chance to slow this down, to turn this down.
You lean back on the couch, shifting until you can lie with your head on the armrest, your hands behind his neck so you can pull him down with you.
He follows you easily, his weight heavy against you from your thighs to your chest, his tongue working your mouth with purpose while he presses his hip bone into your crotch, fingers tweaking your nipple through your clothes, all the shortcuts he knows to getting you worked up as quickly as possible.
Most of the time, you’re the one to go for fast. If Spencer’s in a hurry, it’s to get back to reading or whatever he does when he’s at home - you assume it’s mostly reading based on the number of books he’s got everywhere and how there are always different ones scattered about the apartment - but he’ll come over because he can’t focus on Archimedes or the history of agriculture in Central America until he’s had his tongue inside you, and you’ve thought before that maybe making you come recharges him.
But tonight he’s in a rush to get to something else, and you think you might be more aware of what it is than he is himself. He’s not the first person in the world to try to fuck the grief away and he won’t be the last.
You know it won’t work, not really, but you’re not going to be the one to try to stop him because that’s not going to help anything either. You move your legs, spreading them as far as your skirt will let you, one leg pressed against the back of the couch, the other wrapping itself around his thigh. Then you squeeze a hand between your bodies, into his slacks and then his boxers, wrapping your fingers around his hardening dick.
“Is this what you need?” you whisper in his ear.
He thrusts into your fist with a groan. “Yes. Please.” He sounds desperate in a way that isn’t about the sex at all and you feel your heart break for him a little.
Your mind runs through the logistics quickly, how to get rid of your clothes, protection, the fact that you’re on the couch and not in your bedroom: a cramped space and no bedside drawer. The fact that Spencer doesn’t have the mental capacity to consider any of these things right now. If you make any sudden or unexpected movements, you think he might fall apart.
Playing for time, you continue to stroke him, and you’re starting to think you could probably get him off like that pretty quickly, but then he raises himself up and pushes up your skirt, running a hand up the thigh not wrapped around him, pushing your leg up until it’s bent completely and your knee is against your chest. His hand runs back down your thigh and he cups your mound through your clothes, rubbing you roughly with the heel of his hand.
Oblivious to the tights you’re wearing, he tries to get his fingers into your panties, but instead of giving up in frustration as you might have expected, he pulls the 20 deniers away from your body and pierces the nylon with his fingers, tearing the tights apart completely along your crotch.
Barrier destroyed, he nudges your panties aside and has a finger rubbing your clit before you really grasp what just happened. “Fuuuuuuuck,” you hiss, your free hand falling to the side and landing on the floor where your fingers grasp at the carpet for something to steady yourself with.
Rooting around, your hand brushes against something firm but silky and you realise it’s your clutch purse. The one that goes with all your outfits, so it’s the one you bring on every night out. The one with your pepper spray, small pack of test strips to check for date rape drugs, and a travel toothbrush in it. And a condom. There’s also a condom, you’re pretty sure. You have no idea how long the purse has been under your sofa, and by extension how long the condom has, but it seems too serendipitous to question it. Or it would do, if you believed in that kind of thing.
You manage to snap open the purse and quickly locate the condom in the small side pocket, pull it out and raise your hand so you can show Spencer your prize. He looks at it for a few seconds, not quite understanding, but then he nods and takes it from you, making you whine in frustration when his fingers stop doing what they were doing. You pull your hand out of his boxers and unbutton his slacks, pushing them both down just far enough to release his dick at the same time as he opens the condom packet and gets it ready to roll on.
Your panties have fallen back into place enough that they’re in the way and he pulls them to the side again and then pushes inside you slowly, only partway at first, before he pulls back and then pushes back in a little further. With every push, you moan, and with every moan you feel him throb inside you.
Desperate for more, you wrap your leg more firmly around him, bending it until your heel is pressing into the back of his thigh. He gets the message and thrusts all the way in at last. At this angle he gets in so deep that it’s almost but not quite painful in the most exquisite way. “Yes,” you tell him, then repeat it when he thrusts again, and then his lips are on you, kissing you deeply and frantically, your moans mingling in the shared air you’re both breathing as he fucks you with a desperation you can almost taste, harder than he ever has before.
You had really expected this to be entirely about giving Spencer what he needs, but you feel your own orgasm building with an intensity that makes you feel slightly desperate too and you shift a little, adjusting your body so he hits your clit with his pelvic bone when he bottoms out.
You grab at him, arms around his back, trying to push him even closer to you, mewling with pleasure and then the whole world goes white, all conscious thought leaves you, and all there is is the feeling of Spencer pumping into you harder and harder against the contractions of your orgasm until he spends himself inside you and collapses on top of you.
You lie like this for several minutes, both of your breathing slowly returning to normal, and then you brush away the hair that’s sticking to his forehead, drops of sweat still running down it.
Cupping his cheek, you lift up your head and kiss him. He kisses you back, then presses his forehead to yours, his lashes fluttering.
“Spencer, sweetie. Let’s go to bed, okay?”
He stays where he is for so long, you’re not sure your words really registered, but then he moves off you slowly, never quite breaking contact with your body, a hand on your arm, your abdomen, your leg the whole time.
You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, kissing each of his knuckles, and then you get up and lead him to the bedroom.
He sits on the edge of your bed, moving the hand he’s holding to his shoulder, like he’s scared of what will happen if you stop touching. You squeeze his shoulder to let him know you understand, you aren’t going anywhere, and he finally starts undressing slowly and then cleaning himself up.
You help him get his t-shirt off, on your knees behind him, your thighs against his back maintaining body contact. When he has undressed completely, he lies down of his own accord and crawls under your duvet, naked, one hand still on you. Then he lies there, watching you undress without a word, moving his hand only as much as he needs to for you to be able to remove your clothes.
You almost leave your panties on, but then he nudges them down your hips one-handed, and you take them off. When you get under the duvet with him, he pulls you into his front, spooning you so you’re touching from your heels to the back of your head, skin against skin. One arm goes under your neck, the other is wrapped around you tightly, holding you in place.
You turn your head so you can kiss the arm under you near the crook of his elbow.
“I’m right here,” you tell him. “Try to get some sleep, okay.”
He squeezes your body in response, but he doesn’t do as you told him, at least not in the hour you manage to stay awake yourself, listening to the sound of his breathing never really settling.
When you wake up the next morning, the events of last night slowly coming back to you, he’s awake too, and you wonder if he slept at all. You know the moment he’s sure you’re no longer sleeping, because the hand that has been drawing circles on your stomach starts moving more deliberately, dipping down to brush against the patch of hair and then up, knuckles skating along the underside of your breasts.
His erection is pressed into your thighs and you press yourself back towards him, reaching behind you to put a hand on his hip.
He kisses your shoulderblade, then turns you around so you’re face to face and his lips find yours, his arms wrapped around you and holding you close. You expect him to touch you with the same urgency as last night, but instead he is soft and tender, slow. His hands on your skin, his lips on your mouth, one of your legs wrapped around his as you lie on your sides and he thrusts into you languidly.
“I…” he starts, then stops himself. His lips tilt in a sad smile and he brushes your cheek. “Thank you.”
“Always,” you say, an automatic response that leaves your mouth before your brain can process it. It’s not always, it was never going to be always. But maybe for right now it’s okay to pretend? At least you can’t bring yourself to take it back.
The way he looks at you, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t believe you anyway.
* * *
For several months after this visit, if he’s not away on a case, he’ll come knocking once or twice a week long after you’ve gone to sleep, his eyes on the floor, and you’ll invite him in without a word, let him trail behind you as you get back into bed.
Sometimes, he’ll push a hand into your pajama bottoms, working you with deft fingers until you come with a moan, then he’ll wipe his hand on the cotton, wrap his arm around you and you’ll fall asleep again too soon to know if he gets any sleep himself.
Mostly, though, he’ll just lie there, holding you close like you’re the thing that stops him floating away.
He’s always gone by the time you wake up in the morning.
You hear him leave his apartment sometimes, in the evenings, and you find yourself wondering where he’s going. NA meeting? Grief counselling? Another woman?
He’s rarely back before you go to sleep and you don’t wait up for him, but you hear him moving around his kitchen the next morning so wherever he went, he didn’t stay the night. Not that that means anything, and it’s not any of your business either way.
Other than the wordless nights, things mostly stay the same as they were, neither of you acknowledging those visits, completely separate from what else you do together.
Spencer smiles less, maybe, heavier somehow, which is probably the weight he put on his own shoulders for the friend he couldn’t save.
If you’re honest, the intensity hasn’t been bad for the sex at all, if anything it’s like he wants you more now, wants to pleasure you more, but you still miss the way things were before, how carefree he could sometimes make himself be.
It should probably bother you, or at the very least make you start planning an exit strategy, but the days just seem to go on and you don’t really get around to it.
You’ll get out when the sex is no longer worth it, you tell yourself. When you stop looking forward to seeing him.
The fact that you look forward to seeing him more than you look forward to the sex is one that you never, ever acknowledge. That you miss him in bed with you when he stops visiting you in the night, no longer needing whatever it was he got from that.
You tell yourself you’ll know when it’s time to get out.
* * *
Then seven months later you return after a few weeks away, and his door is opening while you’re still turning the key in the lock. His hands are fists and you can feel the anger radiating off him even from four feet away. This is not like anything you’ve seen before, frustration at a case that didn’t go how he wanted, the injustice of whatever system got in the way.
This is personal. This is the kind of anger that in most people shouldn’t be allowed near weapons, you think.
He doesn’t say a word, just follows you inside, then closes the door behind himself, leaning against it as he pulls you to him, his hands on your face. Caught up in the sense of urgency, you shrug off your jacket and step out of your shoes at the same time, losing a few inches of height and he has to lean down further to make eye contact.
Even through the haze of whatever’s on his mind, there’s a question in his eyes. He still wants your approval, your understanding.
You can’t think of a single thing he’d ever do to you that you won’t agree to, so you stand up on tip-toes and kiss him.
He growls into your mouth, the way he kisses you back more like a bite than a caress. His hands fumble with the buttons of your shirt until you realise why he’s struggling and you still his hands so you can show him, pulling open the top snap button concealed by the placket: the buttons he has been trying to undo are nothing more than decoration. He blinks, then tears the shirt open in one go and you decide you’ll be wearing this particular outfit more often, the hungry way he stares at you in an open shirt and bra.
Nothing turns you on more than seeing him want you, seeing him struggle to stay in control of himself, and you could probably sustain yourself on those moments when he loses that control for the rest of your life.
You keep your eyes on him, wait for his gaze to meet yours, and then you unbutton your slacks, pull them down along with your panties and step out of both.
His eyes are locked on yours but you see him swallow, see the way his eyes glaze over as his brain fills in the blanks of what he isn’t looking at. He sounds out of breath although he hasn’t moved at all since he closed the door.
You lick your lips and his stare strays to them, then comes back to your eyes.
“I’m gonna—” he says, then shakes his head at himself.
“I’m really hoping you will,” you reply, biting your lip, anticipation building inside you.
He shuts his eyes tightly, as if when he opens them again, he’ll be somewhere else, someone else. But he’s not.
He grabs you, spins you both around so you’re the one with your back against the door and then he kneels in front of you, nuzzling his nose in your lower belly, his hands moving up your thighs, and then he raises your left leg and puts it over his shoulder, forcing you to put some of your weight on him and trusting him to keep you upright.
Then he buries his face in you, humming appreciatively against your sensitive flesh before he licks up your folds. You run your fingers through his hair, then grab it tightly when his tongue circles your clit before he sucks on it gently.
He takes you to the brink of orgasm and then pulls back, making you whine in frustration. When he looks up at you there’s a glint in his eyes, something you’d probably describe as wicked if this hadn’t been Spencer.
“I’m so close,” you tell him, just in case he’s somehow misreading your signals for the first time ever, but he just turns his head and kisses the inside of your thigh wetly, waiting for you to come down off the high slightly. Then, when he decides you’ve waited long enough, he starts again, working you with his tongue and his fingers until your breath is shallow and your moans start to become desperate.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Spencer…” you plead, but he just smiles against your skin, hands caressing your thighs completely at odds with the torture he’s subjecting you to.
The fourth time he does it, you bring your own fingers to your clit but he shakes his head and pulls it away. “Not yet.”
“Please.”
“Not yet,” he repeats, insistent, his voice low and distant as if he’s completely lost in what he’s doing.
He spreads your folds and - without warning - sucks on your clit, hard. Your hips buck and you scream with pleasure, nearly falling, but his hands on your thighs and your hands in his hair keep you upright. Then he nudges your leg back off his shoulder, gently setting it back down on the floor before he stands up, and for a moment you think he’s just going to leave, but then you breathe a sigh of relief when he unbuttons his slacks and pushes them down and steps out of them, along with his boxers. Finally!
His dick is hard, red and swollen and wet with precum, and you take some pleasure in the fact that this game he’s been playing has been just a little painful for him, too.
He pulls a condom from nowhere and you vaguely remember him once telling you he did magic, except you thought he meant as a kid, and it was just a joke about how skilled he is with his hands.
Maybe later you’ll comment on it, but for now you’re too busy willing him to just get the thing on already, before you actually lose your mind, and then he’s lifting you up and you wrap your legs around him as he presses you against the door and buries himself inside you completely in one smooth motion.
You sigh with relief and pleasure, wrapping your arms around his neck, your forehead resting against his.
He moves in and out of you slowly, setting a pace that does nothing to scratch the itch he has been causing and then ignoring. You clench your muscles around him and he groans, but doesn’t change what he’s doing.
You’re trapped, completely at his mercy, and it would turn you on if you weren’t already too turned on. “Please, Spencer,” you beg again. “I need—”
He shuts you up with a kiss and a slight twist of his hips as he pushes into you, offering you a fraction of the relief you want.
You feel your orgasm building again and try your hardest to conceal it from him, maybe you can trick him into making you come if he doesn’t realise it’s about to happen, but no. Your body betrays you and he knows you much too well, knows exactly when to stop, just shy of crossing the point of no return.
You groan with frustration and he shakes his head at you then starts again, slowly, when he decides you’re ready for it.
By the third time you’re so frustrated you’re actually getting angry and you grab his face in both hands, making him look at you so he’ll know you’re serious. “Enough. Either you make me come or you get the fuck out.” As angry as he was when he walked through your door, it doesn’t even occur to you to be scared to tell him to leave.
It’s like this is a secret password he’s been waiting to hear, and he suddenly starts pounding into you, your body slamming against the door every time he bottoms out.
Every time it happens you moan with the relief of getting what you need at last. The orgasm that finally rolls over you is unlike anything you’ve felt before, the way it goes on and on and on as if somehow your body has compressed all those orgasms you weren’t allowed into one massive never-ending wave of pure pleasure.
You don’t even realise he’s carrying you to your bedroom, your arms and legs still wrapped around him so loosely you’re nothing but dead weight in his arms, and then you’re lying on the mattress with him still fucking you, each thrust sending a new burst of pleasure through you until he moans, long and low as he comes and then collapses on top of you.
“Okay, then,” you say, when the concept of language finally returns to you.
He kisses you sloppily, not quite hitting your lips, and then rolls off you and on to his back with an exhausted sigh.
You turn, cuddling into him.
“They lied.” His tone is flat, his eyes on the ceiling of your bedroom.
You draw a spiral starting at his solar plexus with your middle finger.
“She didn’t die.”
You freeze, your hand crashlanding on his chest, and you push yourself up so you can look at him. “What?”
“She didn’t die. She just left. She went into hiding and they lied to me.”
You blow out a gust of air. “That’s pretty messed up.” It is. It’s not unheard of in your line of work, but the way he’s been since, surely they were close enough for him to be on a safe list. It makes you very relieved you resisted the temptation to look into what had happened. You would have found all that out, and you’re not sure you trust yourself to have kept your mouth shut about it.
“I can’t even really be happy she isn’t dead, because I’m just mad.”
“You’re happy,” you tell him, because this is something you’re sure of. “Underneath the anger. You just feel betrayed right now. It’ll flip back around eventually.”
He pulls you half on top of him, his hands on your face guiding you to him so he can kiss you properly. “So you’re a profiler now?”
“No,” you say, because that’s really not a job you want. It seems much too touchy-feely. “I just know you.”
He doesn’t react at all, doesn’t flinch or pull away, no momentary shock or surprise fluttering across his face, so you try not to freeze either. You don’t know him. The whole deal here is that you don’t know each other, not enough to make characterisations like that. That’s why this works.
You think maybe he does notice your own reaction to your words, though, the way you want to get up and leave, because he pulls you closer, kissing the side of your face. “I guess you do,” he agrees, like it’s fine. “I’m still mad, though.”
“That’s allowed.”
“You should hope so,” he says, not sounding mad at all, his voice tinged with amusement.
“That’s very different,” you tell him. “You were just being rude.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
You stroke his hair and you think you might get it, actually. Not a profiler, but you do know this man, however reluctantly. “You just wanted to be in control.”
He looks at you, surprised, because you’ve never acknowledged the fact that people have motives for anything before, never given him any reason to think you understand how human beings work, emotionally. “And you got mad.”
“I did,” you agree. “But I got over it. It turns out it was worth it.”
He grins at that and you just know he’s making a mental note of this insight that you’ll live to regret. And hopefully not regret.
* * *
You walk into the bar ahead of Simon, because he knows if he let you walk in last you’d make a run for it. You don’t want to be here, you want to be at home. Or next door to home.
Instead, you’ve been bullied into going out for a birthday celebration of all things. Drunk colleagues you will have to take seriously the next time you see them. How could anyone have ever decided this was a good idea, as a concept in general?
You look around the bar, less crowded than you had hoped for, which makes it harder for you to disappear in the throng of people and then disappear all the way out of there.
And then, across the room, sitting in a booth with a group of people and his hands around a club soda, is your neighbour.
Shit.
You want to leave even worse now, desperate to get out of there before he spots you. What if this is his regular hangout and he thinks you followed him here?
This is so not what you guys are about.
He looks up from the conversation he’s having with an older guy who looks slightly familiar although you can’t place him. His eyes register surprise when he spots you, and then he clearly catches what you’re sure is a look of dismay on your face, a slight smile and a shake of his head, like it’s hilarious to him that you’re worried.
He looks away, gesturing with a hand you can’t quite tear your eyes away from as he talks, those fingers waving around when you know what else they can do. It hits you why the older man looks familiar. You’ve seen his face on the dust jacket of a book you leafed through but didn’t buy a couple of months ago, because you realised Spencer would know if you started educating yourself on what his job is actually like.
Okay, then.
He goes out for drinks with the guy who literally wrote the book on his job, and now he’s completely comfortable ignoring you in a bar.
You smile, relieved, and accept the glass of white wine you’re handed.
At least now you know that being at home tonight wouldn’t be more fun than what you’re actually doing.
You’re leaning against the bar, ordering a mineral water with lime an hour later, when you sense someone coming up to stand next to you.
You don’t even have to look to know it’s Spencer, the shape and smell and energy of him too familiar to mistake. He orders another club soda and the bartender walks off to make both your orders at the same time, which means you’re stuck here waiting with him.
"You shouldn't go home with that guy." His tone is casual, conversational, like you're discussing the weather. Which you might as well be, you guess.
You turn your head to look at the suit who just spent the best part of an hour trying to chat you up. "Oh? Why not?"
"He's selfish in bed." He says it with such certainty it makes you laugh, too loudly for people not to notice. When you look at him out of the corner of your eye, he's smiling at the counter and you want to lick the smugness right off his face.
"And how do you know that?" You smile at the bartender as he returns with your drinks and don’t protest when Spencer hands him his credit card, indicating that he’ll be paying for both.
"I'm a profiler, it's my job to know that."
“Your job is rating people’s fuckability? And here I was thinking you caught murderers and things. No wonder crime rates are up.”
“Actually, the most recent statistics show that several…”
You turn and put a hand on his chest, shutting him up. “I’m sure that’s very interesting, sir, but I’m going to go back to my friends now.”
Just to mess with him, you wipe condensation off your glass with your index finger and then lick it off.
He stares at you and you can see his throat working, but he doesn’t say anything else. You can’t really tell if he regrets talking to you at all or he wants to pin you to the bar, but you realise you’d quite like him to do the latter, so you turn away quickly and walk off.
You go back and talk to the guy some more, trying to see what Spencer sees, or maybe to decide if he's just pulling your chain.
You never had any intention of sleeping with the man, you probably wouldn’t have done it even if you hadn’t been sleeping with Spencer. Not that you have any kind of exclusivity clause, you’re both free to sleep with whoever you want, you just don’t particularly want to sleep with anyone else, because why would you put in the work to have worse sex than what’s available right next door? And the statistical probability of anyone else doing a better job getting you off than Spencer, is one you don’t really need him to calculate for you.
This guy would always have been boring, and that would have been enough to put you off, but now that you’re watching for it, you see what Spencer meant. The guy touches you, keeps putting his hand on your arm, but always to pull you closer to him, never just to touch you, he never just lets his hand settle.
Whatever he talks about, almost all his sentences have the words ‘I’ or ‘me’ in them. He never just tells you a story, or a fact, unless it’s related to himself in some way.
You find your attention drifting to the table across the room where Spencer is sitting with his friends or colleagues or whatever they are. You assume colleagues, probably his team, just because you don’t really see him being part of a group like that if some external force hadn’t put them together. You wonder if the one who died but didn’t is among them. You have no idea how she looks, just know that her name is Emily.
The way they were joshing him when he returned to their table after you left him standing at the bar, one guy actually knuckling him in the shoulder as he laughed, was almost enough to make you walk over there, pull him up by the tie and kiss him until they all shut up. But then a blonde woman put her arm around him, pulling him into her side as she whispered something in his ear and you couldn’t look away from how he smiled at her words, shy but clearly pleased.
Then he had looked up and caught your eye, and the way his brows furrowed as he took in your expression made you tense and look away at last.
Whatever he saw, you hope he didn’t misinterpret it as jealousy.
The blonde has left by now. You couldn’t help but watch her as she walked past and she actually looked at you and smiled, friendly and maybe mildly apologetic. You have no idea what for.
Spencer is talking to the other blonde in the group, clearly explaining something about her very pink drink to her in great detail. Possibly he’s giving her a list of additives that have gone into making it that colour. But who cares about additives when the cocktail perfectly matches her dress? Also, you’ve caught him glancing at you several times, like he’s paying attention to you as well.
Whatever’s going on between Spencer and the pretty blonde who went home early, that’s really between the two of them and not something you need to worry about.
You turn away from Suit Guy, who’s telling you another ‘me’ story, and slowly start unfolding your coat under the table so you can put it on. You see Spencer noticing, and you don’t miss the shift in his shoulders, like his body is preparing to move, but he stays seated, only stretches slightly to get a look at Suit Guy, who is still talking, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re about to walk away.
Spencer’s lip twitches and you bite down on a smile.
Then you get up, say a firm goodbye to your colleagues, a congratulatory birthday peck on Simon’s cheek, and then you head out before Suit Guy catches up with what’s happening and before Claire can decide that the two of you should share a cab since you’re both going in vaguely the same direction.
Outside the bar, you take a deep breath and throw your head back so you can look at the sky. It’s cloudy, no stars out, but you can see the blurry outline of the crescent moon.
You flag down a cab, part of you wanting to wait a couple of minutes longer, but another part of you worrying it’ll be the wrong guy who follows you out.
The suggestion that there’s a right guy worries you even more.
You’re in the backseat of the cab, your hand reaching out to close the door, when you spot a familiar shape in the doorway to the bar, taking a few long steps into the darkness and looking around, clearly searching for something.
You hold up your other hand to the cab driver and leave the door open until Spencer spots you.
The way he smiles when he does makes your toes curl with anticipation. He looks behind him to make sure no-one is watching, and then he walks quickly to you and gets in the backseat as you slide over to make space for him.
The cab driver looks bored in the rearview mirror as he asks for an address. You tell him where to go while Spencer pulls the door closed and then turns to look at you, clicking his seatbelt into place.
“So I was right?”
You roll your eyes. “Obviously.”
He grins at that, reaching out a hand to fiddle with the collar of your coat, his fingers brushing against your skin as he folds it up and then back down more neatly. You did kind of rush to put it on and get out of there.
His eyes are almost entirely black, his pupils so dilated you can barely see his irises, and you can see his jaw working. But he doesn’t do anything else, just keeps toying with your collar.
“Did you have a good night?” you ask, because you desperately need to get some kind of a conversation going to distract yourself from the temptation to just straddle him right here in the taxi, never mind whatever cleanup fees you’d incur.
“Mmm,” he says, non-committal, slipping another finger under your collar and playing with the hair at your nape, his index finger drawing a circular pattern on your neck. “I tried to hit on a woman at the bar but she completely shot me down.”
“Oh, no. I feel so bad for you.”
“Thanks.” He shifts his hand, pushing under your dress behind your neck until he reaches the strap of your bra. He runs a finger over the lace, examining the pattern of the embroidery. “Green?”
You snort, reluctantly impressed. “Lucky guess.”
He leans closer. You think he might actually kiss you and you stop breathing. But he stops just short of making contact, his breath hot on your earlobe, his lips close enough to tickle the peach fuss hair. “Definitely lucky,” he whispers.
Your thighs clench together, you’re starting to feel desperate. You put a hand on his knee, then slowly run it up his thigh, your fingers drawing along the inseam of his trousers out of view of the cab driver, or at least you fucking hope so.
Spencer hisses in your ear when your hand stops less than half an inch from his crotch. Then he takes your hand with his free one and pushes it back down his leg.
“Please don’t.” He sounds so desperate you can’t bring yourself to laugh.
You turn your head so you can whisper in his ear. “Then you’d better make it worth it.”
“Always,” he says, not so much confidence as just stating an irrefutable fact, and you don’t argue.
It doesn’t seem fair that he won’t allow you to touch him, when he’s not taking his hands off you at all as you make your way steadily from the bar to home, but it’s not as if you want him to stop and you’re sure that would be the compromise he’d offer, so you don’t argue about that, either. Just tilt your head this way and that as he continues to trace patterns on your neck, his breath still warm and heavy against your skin, his lips still not quite on you.
You aren’t sure who he’s torturing more, you or himself.
There’s no way the cab driver spends the 20 minute drive oblivious to the foreplay you have going on. Spencer must realise this too, because he has his wallet out in no time and tips the guy more than generously when he pulls up in front of your building.
“Have a good night,” the driver shouts before driving off, probably with a pretty clear idea of what kind of a night you’ll be having. You’d mind but you’re too busy hoping he’s right.
Spencer waits on the sidewalk for the cab to disappear around the corner at the end of the street, and then he pounces on you, practically wrapping himself around you, his mouth warm and wet as he kisses you so fiercely you would have stumbled backwards if he hadn’t been holding you that tightly.
Your back hits the glass door of your building so hard Spencer actually pulls back to check that nothing broke. You first, his hands suddenly gentle against the back of your head, and then the door, quick confirmation that the pane isn’t cracked, and then he pushes the door open and brings you inside.
You stumble walking backwards up the stairs, but again his grip keeps you upright, your lips never apart for more than a fraction of a second until you’re pressed against the wall between your two front doors.
He pushes a leg between yours, his thigh pressing into your heat, offering just a little bit of the relief you need.
"Your place or mine?" you ask, because the joke is too obvious not to make.
He braids his fingers with yours, pulling both your arms over your head, and then bites down gently on your neck, lips nibbling until he finds a spot he likes, and then he sucks a mark on your skin. One that’ll still be there tomorrow. "Mine."
Then he digs into his pocket for his keys, pulling you with him so he can keep kissing you while he unlocks the door and then maneuvers you both inside.
“You can’t do that again,” he tells you, pushing you against the door as he closes it and then activates both locks, his lips and teeth on your throat.
“Do what?”
“Just turn up—” he reaches behind you and unzips your dress. “—out there in the world.”
“I know,” you say, although it doesn’t sound like he’s actually all that upset about it. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
He pulls the dress down your shoulders, leaving it hanging off your hips, and then turns his attention to your green bra. “It’s extremely disorienting.”
“I’m sorry.”
He leans down, puts his face between your breasts, his hands on the cups to push them together, and then he breathes in deeply. “Don’t be.”
You are sorry, because it has thrown you off as well, but you’re also not that sorry, because Spencer’s hyperfocus on your body seems to have reached a whole new level tonight, and you’re pretty sure it’s all thanks to the fact that he’s been watching you from across a bar for a couple of hours.
“...Could think about was throwing you down on that table and finally tasting you.”
You realise that he’s talking, but you’re not sure he’s talking to you and not just himself, all his attention still on your breasts and your green not-so-lucky lucky bra. Which might be just a little lucky after all.
“You probably wouldn’t be allowed back if you did that,” you joke.
“Probably not,” he agrees, unbothered, slowly sliding the straps of the bra down your shoulders, kissing a trail behind it on one arm.
You lean your head back against the hardwood door, enjoying the feeling of his lips on you.
“So why were you there?” He kisses along your collarbone and then down your other shoulder.
“Work thing. My boss’ birthday.” Simon looks so different in his office clothes, also the beard has vanished since the last time Spencer saw him, you’re pretty sure he didn’t notice it was the same man tucked into the darkest corner of your booth.
He trails his lips along your skin, pressing kisses to the soft flesh of your breasts as he reaches behind you to unhook your bra. “And did you have a good time?”
“I’ve had better.” Your breath hitches when he carefully pulls your bra down and then latches on to your breast with his mouth, teasing your already hardening nipple into a peak with his tongue. “This really boring guy tried to chat me up.”
He pauses, looks up at you with his brows furrowed, and then moves to your other breast, paying it the same careful attention.
“Luckily this nice guy at the bar warned me about him.”
You feel his smile against your skin. “He sounds great.”
“Meh,” you say dismissively. “He wasn’t all that.”
He snorts with amusement and actually bites you, making you shriek, part surprise, part laughter.
“I mean, he was cute and all, but it was clear he was there with friends. He was probably just chatting me up as a dare.”
There’s a wet sound as Spencer’s mouth leaves your skin. It feels cold and you miss his touch immediately. He stands up and looks at you. “They caught me staring at you and told me I should go introduce myself.”
He’s the one who sounds apologetic now. You’re not sure if it’s for the staring or his coworkers.
You smile, tilting your head up, and he kisses you, his lips caressing yours and his hand on your cheek. “And then I shot you down. Sorry,” you say when he pulls back.
“That’s fine.” He kisses behind your ear, his breath warm in your hair. “I believe they all expected that to happen.”
“They don’t know you’ve got game?”
He pulls back once again. “Game?”
He looks so confused, you snort with laughter.
He grimaces self-deprecatingly, his face landing in a smile. “Oh. I think it’s pretty obvious I don’t have ‘game’.” He says the word like it’s in a foreign language he hasn’t quite mastered the sounds of.
You take his right hand and push it under the smooth fabric of your dress and into your panties. He moans softly when his fingers reach the wetness that’s already pooling there. “Not to me,” you tell him.
He pushes his hand down further, fingers separating your folds and coming back up to rub against your clit. “This isn’t game.”
You moan, your eyes fluttering closed. “No? What is it then?”
He pulls out his hand and you whimper, open your eyes to look at him. He brings the same hand to his mouth and licks his fingers. “It’s you.”
Fuck, if his words don’t turn you on even more than you already are. And fuck if that isn’t a problem.
“Bed. Now,” you say, pushing him backwards into his apartment.
He huffs in surprise but then walks backwards willingly until he gets to his bedroom. Once there, he reaches for you, pulling you in for another kiss.
You reach for the buttons of his sweater vest but then grab it by the hem and start to pull it up and off because you realise that’ll be faster. He lets out a disgruntled sound when it means he has to release you, both with his hands and his lips, but you’re all about the greater good here and continue on your mission.
His tie is crooked and the knot looks messy, like he’s been toying with it, or maybe pulling at it. You reach up to loosen the half windsor, a smile on your lips. You turn up the collar of his shirt and then instead of pulling out the knot, you pull the tie up and over his head, once again interrupting him.
Before he can get his lips back on you, you put the tie on yourself, leaving it loose around your neck.
He pulls back to look at you, fingers wrapping around the tie and smoothing it down your body, knuckles brushing against your breasts and your belly and finally your pussy, where he pauses, pressing more firmly against you and you breathe deeply, starting to feel desperate with lust. He watches your breasts rise and fall, the tie between them.
“I never really liked this tie.” He kisses you again, reaches up to cup your breasts. “But I think it just became my favourite.”
Unbuttoning his shirt is a task you can’t really cheat your way out of, other than by making Spencer do it himself, and that would mean he’d have to stop touching you, so you get to work on the buttons while his hands roam your skin and his lips kiss your cheek, you neck, your shoulder.
“You know what’s cool?” you say, humming when he bites down gently on your earlobe.
“No, what?” he whispers in your ear.
“Velcro.”
“Velcro is actually a brand name that has become synonymous with a product type,” he says. “It’s a deonym. The manufacturer would prefer that you call it hook-and-loop fastener instead.”
“I don’t care what you call it, I just know it’s easier to open than these buttons.”
He nuzzles your neck, you think maybe he’s shaking his head at you, and then lets go of your breasts so he can help with the buttons.
“Nooooot what I meant,” you say, putting his hands back where they were, even if they are sort of in the way of your own work.
“This is not very efficient,” he points out, his thumbs drawing identical patterns over your nipples.
“Velcro would be efficient.”
“Yes, well I didn’t exactly dress for this kind of efficiency when I went to work this morning,” he says mildly.
“You always dress like this,” you remind him, only two buttons left.
He just hums in agreement, then gets in the way by leaning down to kiss your breast, teasing the nipple with his teeth and then soothing with his tongue.
Finally you undo the last button and push the shirt off his shoulders so he can shrug out of it. He lets go of you briefly, but his lips stay firmly locked on your neck.
This leaves him in his t-shirt and slacks.
“Like a goddamn gag gift,” you complain.
His hands brush down your sides until they reach your dress, bunched up where it’s hanging off your hips. He reaches behind you and quickly finds the zipper to undo it the rest of the way, and then shimmies the dress down until it falls off you and onto the floor.
“See?” you say. “That’s how easy it could be.”
“I’m not sure I could pull off wearing that dress,” he says, keeping his hands on your hips as he pulls back slightly to look at you.
You’re wearing nothing but his tie, your panties and a pair of sheer stockings, and his eyes travel up and down your body like he’s not quite sure where they should land.
You grin. Unlike Spencer, who dressed for work, you definitely dressed for coming to see him after your night out.
He shakes his head slowly, a smile on his lips that you’re pretty sure isn’t actually for you. Then he grabs his t-shirt by the neck and pulls it off in one smooth motion and has his belt unbuckled and his slacks unzipped before the t-shirt hits the floor.
Then he grabs a hold of his tie and pulls you with him as he steps back until his knees hit the bed and he sits down before leaning back until he’s lying on the bed with his feet on the floor, and you have to crawl on top of him or you’ll fall as he continues to pull you in.
You straddle him, rubbing yourself against his erection as you bend down to kiss him.
When you try to push yourself up, he grips the tie more firmly and keeps you in place, pulling you back down until you kiss him again.
“You know, this is very convenient,” he says, tugging lightly on the tie.
“Oh, yeah?” You smile and shift until your breasts are lined up with his face. He takes the hint and turns his head slightly so he can suckle on one of them, his tongue drawing some indiscernible pattern he has clearly figured out that you enjoy. You hum. “Just remember you wear one of these almost every day and I’ve never used that against you.”
“I will definitely be remembering that,” he assures you as he moves from one breast to the other.
You’re rubbing yourself against his stomach, no doubt leaving a trail of arousal on his skin as it seeps through your panties. The way his dick presses against you from behind when you move down, his erection flat against his stomach, makes you both moan.
Eventually the friction becomes too much, while also not being enough, and you move off him, his grip on his tie loosening as your breasts move out of reach of his mouth. You stand up and then bend to pull off his boxers and he raises his hips off the bed to help you. Then he sits up and slowly peels your soaked panties off.
He hooks a finger into each of your stockings, considering, and you wait to see what he’ll do. He hums deep in his throat, shakes his head. Then he tugs on the elastic, pulling you forward as he lays back down. You move to straddle him but he shakes his head again, continuing to pull at your thighs until you realise what he wants.
You crawl up his body, over his arms and then you’re sitting on his face, his breath warm against your folds. He hooks his arms around your legs, thumbs tucked into your stockings as your thighs press against his ears.
When he moves his head just a little, lips puckering to suck on your clit, you nearly topple over and his moan is interrupted when you all but smother him.
“Sorry,” you say, and he shakes his head as much as he’s able to, trapped between your legs.
“Mm-mm,” he hums against you and then gets back to work, his lips and his tongue working against your sensitive skin. You moan, fighting your instinct to move your hips, the desperate need to writhe against him.
You need something to cling to, something to keep you balanced so you don’t fall, and somewhere through the haze of arousal and pleasure, you can’t stop the thought that you need it for more than one reason from forming, taking up shape in your mind while you’re too preoccupied to keep it out. There are so many ways you can fall. You reach for his hands on your thighs, meshing your fingers with his.
Your moans turn into whines as your orgasm approaches, and you can’t stop your hips from rutting against him. He grips your thighs tighter to hold you in place, his palms pressing into you while his fingers are still entwined with yours, his tongue pushing into you and fucking you through your orgasm.
You collapse on the bed, just sufficiently aware of your surroundings to not knee him in the face when you move off of him. He looks so completely pussy drunk, you’re not sure he’d actually have even noticed, though.
He laughs a little, just a small chuckle as he turns his head to look at you, hooking his fingers back into your tights and pulling them down your legs one at a time.
While he pulls the last one off your foot, you twist so you can reach the box of condoms on his bedside table and take one out. He’s still preoccupied by your stockings, running them through his hands, so you pull open the packet and position yourself so you can roll the condom on him. Before you do, you look at him and find him watching you intently, the stockings discarded and his gaze burning into you until you have to look away, and you pretend that the task of rolling a condom down his dick is a lot more complicated, and requires a lot more of your focus, than it actually does.
He waits patiently for you to finish, but then reaches for your hands, pulling you down by both of them until he can kiss you while you move to straddle him.
“You,” he says when you pull away, and you wonder what’s coming next, but he just smiles, nothing else to say. You snort, force yourself to just be amused, and shake your head at him.
“No, I mean it,” he insists.
You don’t want to know what it is he means, pretty sure you can’t afford to, so you roll your eyes indulgently at him like it’s so funny and the intensity of it doesn’t make you want to run away. “Sure you do.”
He reaches for the tie and you assume he’s going to pull you back down, start moving before he even has a grip on it, but instead, he gently pulls it over your head and throws it on the floor, one hand combing through your hair.
You lean down the rest of the way and kiss him anyway, your tongue in his mouth as you position yourself above him and then you sit up so you can take him in completely, let him stretch you to what feels like your breaking point at first, but then you adjust, the way you always do. The way he fits.
He sits up, loosely gripping your hips to slow down the pace of them as they twist to pull away and then come back, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you as he matches your new rhythm with his own hips.
His fingers are soft as they skate up and down your back, part caress and part him making art on your skin.
You’ve taken things slowly before, plenty of times, but this feels different. This is a new kind of intimacy, more than just the closeness of your bodies, their compatibility.
Somehow you get the feeling that the point of this isn't the climax you're both moving towards, but the closeness itself, the connection.
Something gets stuck in your throat and you pull back so you can look at him. His lips chase yours but then he lets you, his hands moving from your back to your hair and then cupping your face.
“Hey,” he says, and the look in his eyes terrifies you. They are soft and unguarded and there’s something else in them you can’t bring yourself to name.
What scares you even more is that you aren’t entirely sure you aren’t looking at him in the same way. “Hey.”
“It’s okay,” he says, his voice so gentle you feel a lump in your throat.
You shake your head, not really sure why, except this is all too much to handle. Seeing Spencer out in the real world made him too real, and real is not what you’re in the market for. You always assumed he wasn’t either, but the way he’s smothering your face with butterfly kisses and humming soothingly, so completely at odds with the way he fucked you with his whole face ten minutes ago, you think he might be okay with real.
He seems almost… happy with real.
“No,” you say firmly, a hand on his chest pushing him back on the bed. He lets you, but not all the way, resting on his elbows so he can look down his body to where he’s sliding in and out of you.
He gives you a break from his eyes and you breathe in deeply, focusing on the physical sensations instead, the way you were both meant to. The way it still just feels so good although every fibre of your being is telling you to run. Get out, fast as you can, this legend has been burned to a crisp and all the horrors are going to rain down on you if you don’t escape.
But then his hands are on your hips, guiding your movement, holding you in place as his breathing goes ragged and shallow and you know he’s close, holding back and waiting for you. The way he’s always waiting for you.
You feel your own orgasm building, the way he has you positioned so he hits just the right spot deep inside you, but instead of letting yourself go, you squeeze your walls around him in a rhythm that matches his thrusts up into you.
His eyes go wide and he looks at you in surprise when he comes, you wringing the orgasm out of him. His hand reaches to where you’re joined, finger finding your clit immediately even as he’s collapsing under you, but you swat him away, continue to ride him until he’s spent.
Then you push yourself off him with a hand on his chest, getting yourself off with a finger rubbing roughly against your over-sensitised clit as you lie next to him.
He kisses you as you come, swallowing your moans like they belong to him anyway.
Your thighs lock themselves around your hand and you leave it there, don’t move at all until he runs a hand down your arm, pulling you free from your own grasp. You resist at first, but he doesn’t relent, and when you finally relax your arm, he brings your hand to his mouth and licks your fingers clean, sucking them into his mouth one at a time and cleaning them carefully with his tongue.
When he’s done, he turns your hand into a fist and kisses each of your knuckles in turn. You want to pull your hand away, but you don’t. Instead, you let him nuzzle into you, wrap his arm around you and hold you close.
“Where have you gone?” he asks, very carefully, a few minutes later.
Nowhere, you think, and that’s exactly the problem.
“It’s been a long day,” you say, evasive and cowardly. “I think I just need to go to bed.”
You are in bed, of course, but you both know what you mean. Your own bed.
“You could stay,” he says. His voice is light except not really and it feels like a weighted blanket wrapping itself around you and pinning you down.
You’d pretend you think he just means for the night, and honestly you’d probably agree to that because you’re not really ready to leave yet, but the way his hand stalls and his voice shakes, just a little, makes it impossible to tell yourself he doesn’t mean something more.
You’ve been ignoring far too many things for far too long, you just thought you were only ignoring them about yourself, which was fine. You’re still in control of that. But ignoring this situation isn’t really something you can do.
You sigh and turn on your side so you’re face to face, a hand going to his cheek. “That’s not really what this is, though, is it?”
“I guess not.” He doesn’t sound sad or upset, exactly. Doesn’t even look it. Maybe you can pretend, after all? Maybe you can still continue to have this? Except then: “I just think it could be.”
You don’t want to tell him it’s over, that he broke the rules you never defined, because you don’t want it to be over. But you also don’t want things to change. Things are good, things are working. There are no demands, no expectations, no future you have to consider, pretend is an option. You’ve always existed just in the moments you share.
Except things are clearly not good, for him. If they were, he wouldn’t want to change them. And you need to respect that. This arrangement only works if you’re both in it in the same way.
“I should go,” you say. Your hand is still on his cheek and you pull it away.
He grips your waist. “You don’t have to leave right now. I—”
“No, I should. I have an early start tomorrow.” It’s the first time you’ve ever deliberately lied to him and you feel like a coward and an asshole. The whole point is to not say anything real so you don’t say something untrue.
“Sure,” he agrees, releasing you immediately. You can’t quite believe that it was really this easy. No argument, no begging, no trying to take it back or change your mind. No calling you on your obvious lie.
Maybe he didn’t mean what you think he meant? Or maybe he doesn’t actually care that much?
You close your eyes and kiss him, just a quick peck to let it feel more like goodnight and less like goodbye, then get out of bed without looking at him, quickly pull on your panties and then your dress. You don’t bother with the stockings, just pick them up off the floor and grip them in a tight fist.
“I’ll see you, okay?” you say, eyes on the bed about half a foot from his face.
“Sure,” he says again, that same tone, flat and casual.
In the darkness of his hallway you can’t find your bra, but you don’t want to turn on the lights to look for it, so you tell yourself you can just get it another time, unlock the door, and let yourself out.
orbital resonance pt. 4: the summer after | gojo x reader [short series]
❀ pairing - brother's bestfriend!gojo x reader
❀ summary - orbital resonance: when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other. gojo satoru is always in your orbit. geto brings him around one day and he never leaves. the two of two will always drift back to each other. you will always write it off as “that's just how gojo satoru is" but there can only be so many “almosts” before it feels like there's something there.
or three times gojo almost kisses you. one time he does.
❀ warnings/tags - modern au, brother's bestfriend, 18+, fem!reader, fluff, crack, eventual smut, mutual pining, forbidden (kind of) love, profanity, slight age gap (2yrs), 3+1 trope (like 5+1 but 3 lol), fluff, comedy (kind of), idiots in love
❀ wc - 9k
a/n - hi guys ! hope u guys enjoy this read, it can be read as a standalone but there are other pts. this one is longer than the other chps, i got carried away lol see u at the bottom ! <3
masterlist | last chp | next chp
Kamakura is always nice in the summer.
There’s something about it that never really changes, no matter how much time passes everywhere else. The air is lighter here, filled with salt and heat that clings to your skin and settles in your hair.
Your grandparents' beach house smells the same way it always has, old wood baked from years under the sun, faint traces of seawater that carries in through the windows no one ever closes. The house itself sits a bit of a distance from the shoreline, separated by sand and grass, but close enough that the sound of the waves crashing is constant. The gravel path still crunches in that familiar way beneath your sandals. The porch wraps around the front, the dark faded wood railing has been worn smooth after all these years. The water is still as blue as you remember it to be, the volleyball net you and your cousins hung up all those years ago still stands strong in the sand.
You have cousins who are married, who have kids, who have moved to different parts of the country. The cabin feels a little bit more cramped like this. But warm, welcoming, alive with the chatter from multiple generations. It's nice to be back, to catch up with your relatives again after everyone's grown up and gone about their own lives.
Speaking of grown up and gone about their own lives, you think of Satoru. And his supermodel girlfriend. You're pretty sure she's actually a lawyer or something. But she definitely could've been a supermodel if she wanted to. The drive was nice, even though it was long and you were alone. It gave you lots of time to mentally prepare to see them again. You had pretty much come to terms with the fact that you'll likely never get over your feelings for Satoru and that it probably wasn't just some childish crush that you could never get over.
And you're not dumb. You understand now the way he looked at you, how he treated you, there's no way the two of you weren't flirting at some point. You weren’t that naive. At least not now.
So yes, it did hurt your feelings when he brought home his girlfriend and it even made you feel a little insecure at the time. But you’re both adults now and you’ve moved on with your life. It wasn’t fair of you to expect him to wait for you to grow up like you thought when you were a sixteen year old girl. You both had a life to live. It wasn’t like you spent your four years in college pining over him, you made the mistake–okay, multiple mistakes–of hooking up with some guy just to ghost them and you dated around, just as you’re sure he did. The love that you had (have) for him will always be there but it’s something you’ve decided to leave in the past. He has, so out of respect for him and his girlfriend, you should do the same.
Doesn’t make you any less nervous to see them though.
You bury the thought, along with your nose, in some romance novel your best friend–and college roommate–had recommended to you a few months back. You’re surprised she even had the time to read recreationally considering the amount of schoolwork the two of you were buried in last semester. It was a cheesy read, yes, but it was admittedly a guilty pleasure of yours to read corny rom-com novels and after the character development you’ve had in the last year, you deserved it.
It’s like a reward.
You’re stretched out on a beach blanket, sunglasses resting comfortably on your nose, the warmth of the sun soaking into your skin. You’d be sweating if it wasn’t for the occasional breeze from the ocean that cools you just enough to keep the heat from being unbearable.
The sound of the waves crashing becomes white noise as you read, rhythmic and steady and you hear the sound of kids laughing in the distance.
You’re so focused on the enemies-to-lover plot that you hardly realize the sun is suddenly blocked until a shadow is cast over you. You frown, brows knitting together as the warmth on your skin dulls slightly. Lowering the book onto your chest, you lift a hand to shield your eyes despite your sunglasses, tilting your head back to see what’s disrupted your little bubble of peace.
Gojo stands towering over you, tall enough that he blocks the sun almost entirely, a pair of dark sunglasses mirroring your own perched on his nose.
His smile is crooked, as it usually is, as he lifts a hand in a lazy wave.
You manage a half-hearted wave back, still a little startled from his sudden appearance. You push yourself up into a seated position.
He looks so casual and relaxed, sporting red swim trunks and a towel thrown haphazardly over one broad shoulder. Your gaze catches unintentionally on the lines of his body, the way his shoulders have broadened, the definition along his arms, outlines of muscles across his chest.
Did he start going to the gym since the last time you saw him or what?
You look away quickly, grateful your hand is still half-raised, shielding your face from the sun. And hiding the fact that you were ogling him a bit. He’s making you flustered and you can’t quite bring yourself to make eye contact with him or his abs right now.
“Hey kid,” he says easily, large hand coming down to rest lightly on your head.
You scowl at him, shifting away so his hand slips from your hair. “I’m not a kid,” you grumble, though there’s no real bite behind it. He drops his hand at his side and you suddenly feel self conscious in your bikini. You grab at the towel you were using as a pillow, pulling it around your shoulders.
His eyebrows shoot up behind his glasses, turning his head to look at the ocean as if suddenly very interested in something out there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think his ears were turning a little pink.
“Geto’s looking for you,” he states after clearing his throat.
Your lazy ass brother would send someone to get you instead of doing it himself. You shift to stand, brushing sand from your legs before Gojo extends a hand, gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly. He pulls you up and you nearly choke, feeling how strong he’s gotten over the last few years.
Now it’s your turn to look away from him.
You toss the book onto the beach blanket after dog-earing the page, then glance back up to find him still standing there aimlessly, waiting for you. You fall into step behind him, trailing along as the two of you make your way back to the house.
You’re not sure how much time had passed while you were relaxing on the beach but by the time you reach the house, it seems most of your family members have already arrived. Voices spill out through the back patio doors, loud and overlapping. Inside, your aunts are already crowding around Suguru, cooing over him. Your mom isn’t much better. It’s amazing that she still acts like she hasn’t seen either of you in years despite the fact that since both you and your brother have moved back to your hometown, she sees you daily and sees Geto every week at dinner.
You realize that among your cousins and aunts and uncles, Satoru is here and his girlfriend is not. You turn to him, ready to ask where she is until you realize he’s already looking at you, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He’s got this look in his eyes, like he’s thinking intensely and it weirds you out so you turn your attention from him again.
He’s so confusing.
You don’t have time to ask what he’s thinking about before Geto is coming over, pulling you into a hug.
“We were looking for you,” his arm comes up to nuzzle at your hair with his knuckles. After seeing your mom, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
“I see you every week,” you shove him off, pout on your face. Your hands fly up to tame the mess he’s made of your hair, “Where have you guys been?” You narrow your eyes at him accusingly, still annoyed at his aggressive affection.
Suguru is practically cackling at your expression.
“We damn near would’ve got here tomorrow,” he laughs full and unrestrained, slapping a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, “with Satoru’s time management skills.”
“Hey!” Gojo lets out an incredulous laugh, poking at Suguru’s cheek, “You said we could get here at any time.”
Suguru snorts in response, not even bothering to look at him as he gathers his hair, tying it back. “Yeah, any time today,” he drags his eyes over to Satoru, “It’s not my fault you had ‘prior engagements’.” His fingers come up in air quotations.
That earns him a half-hearted glare from Satoru and you end up tuning out the rest of their argument. The two of them fall into their usual bickering easily, voices overlapping and it’s familiar enough that you hardly register it anymore, though a stranger would probably think it’s some serious argument.
At least it didn’t escalate this time.
A few summers ago, a similar argument turned into a full-blown water gun fight that ended with both of them–and somehow, you–completely drenched. Turns out either of them using you as a shield was ineffective. Your mom was absolutely furious and somehow you always end up getting dragged into it despite being completely innocent.
By late afternoon, most of the family have migrated down to the beach.
The sun hangs a bit lower now, softer than earlier, casting everything in that warm, golden light that makes the water shimmer. The sand is cooler beneath your towel, still warm but no longer scorching. You’re stretched out on your stomach this time, book open in front of you, chin resting lazily in your hand as you flip through the next chapter.
As corny as the dialogue is, you’re eating it up to say the least. You’re a sucker for an enemies-to-lovers trope.
The sound of the waves blends with the distant shouts and laughter coming from the shoreline where your cousins–and of course, Satoru and Suguru–have roped themselves into a game of volleyball.
You’re determined to get through this book this weekend. Who knows when the next time you’ll be able to lounge and read without work deadlines will come. But you really can never fully enjoy anything with Satoru and Suguru around.
“Y/N!” Satoru’s voice cuts across the beach. It’s amazing how well his voice travels. “Play next round!”
You don’t move from your spot, “I’m good!” you call over your shoulder, flipping the page.
There’s a groan of protest from somewhere behind you, probably Suguru, but you tune it out, shiftling slightly on your towel.
You wonder if there’ll be some cute guy at your work that you initially find attractive but then find out he’s your CEO and he’s actually absolutely insufferable. Maybe you’ll spend a few months loathing him, like he’s super arrogant or something. Then there’ll be a lot of tension and banter, maybe a heated argument or something that turns into a moment. Then boom, enemies-to-lovers.
The sun sickness must be making you lose it. You make yourself giggle but your thoughts are interrupted by Suguru walking past you, making his way back to the house, muttering something about having to take a phone call.
That’s weird.
You can’t name the last time he’s taken a private phone call, normally very comfortable telling everyone his business on speaker phone.
Does he have a girlfriend?
You watch as he disappears behind the patio doors, snickering to yourself again, feeling sorry for whatever girl gets with him. You decide to take a break from reading, flipping over to your back to rest your eyes. You still have your sunglasses over your eyes, despite the fact that the sun is no longer beaming. The late afternoon sun still sits warm on your skin and all you can think is that this is so nice.
Nice only lasts so long around these two, as you may have mentioned before.
The sunlight on your skin shifts, a shadow falling across you. You let out a sigh, already knowing without opening your eyes.
“The water’s really nice,” Satoru states matter-of-factly.
You don’t bother moving or opening your eyes, book resting open against your stomach as the breeze lifts a few loose strands of your hair. “I’m sure it is,” you hum lazily, uninterested. There’s a pause but you can feel him still standing there, lingering in that way he always does.
“Let’s go swim.”
“Later.”
Another pause. You can practically feel him thinking. The thing about Satoru is he always keeps you on your toes. You quite literally never know what he’s going to say next.
“Don’t you wanna play mermaids?”
Your eyes open immediately, a laugh slipping out before you can stop it as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly. You peer at him over the top of the frames, incredulous.
“You wanna play mermaids?”
He shrugs, completely serious, like this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion for two adults standing on a beach. “Yeah, that’s why I asked.” The sun sits low in the sky, catching on the light sheen of sweat he worked up from the volleyball game, turning him into something annoyingly picturesque.
You laugh again at his ridiculousness, shaking your head as you push your sunglasses back into place. You let yourself back into your reclining position, “Maybe later, Satoru.”
You don’t hear a response from him but you know better than to expect that he’s gone anywhere. When you finally glance back at him after a moment of silence, he looks like a kicked puppy, mouth pulling into a small pout. You let out a huff, about to ask where his girlfriend is–half because someone needs to entertain him now that Suguru’s gone, half because the question has been burning in the back of your mind–but you don’t get the chance.
He’s scooping you clean off your towel like you weigh nothing, book slipping from its spot on your stomach, landing somewhere in the sand as your hands instinctively come up to brace against him.
“Satoru–!” You shriek. You’re suddenly airborne, world tilting as he lifts you bridal style against his chest, one arm hooked securely beneath your knees, the other steady at your back. You slap at his sculpted shoulders, “Put me down!”
He darts toward the water, feet kicking up sand as he runs, maniacal laughter bubbling out of him. You bounce with each step, switching from slapping his shoulders to gripping them to keep from slipping. Your protests dissolve into breathless laughter despite yourself.
“Sa–Satoru, I’m serious–put me down–!” You manage between laughs, winded, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“Yeah?” he calls, wading straight into the water without slowing. “Put you down?”
You watch as the water climbs, your body jostling more as he struggles to push against the water lapping at his legs. Your grip tightens around him immediately, suddenly afraid for your life. “Wait, wait–do fucking no–”
You screech as he drops you. The ocean rushes up around you, cold and shocking, swallowing your words as you disappear beneath the surface. You come back up sputtering, pushing wet hair from your face, salt clinging to your lips and burning your eyes as you gasp.
“My hair!”
Gojo is already doubled over in laughter, gripping his stomach. “We’re at the beach, you have to get wet.” he states, obviously.
You splash him in retaliation, sending a spray of water straight into his chest but you’re laughing too, the irritation dissolving almost immediately. His much bigger and much stronger arms send a wave of water crashing toward you, completely drenching you again. Instead of continuing the water fight, you lunge forward, tackling him with more force than you probably should into an oncoming wave. It feels like you run into a brick wall, he barely moves at first but lets himself fall back anyway.
The two of you go under together, limbs tangling as the water folds over you. When you surface again, you’re both laughing, breathless, pushing water from your faces as the tide pulls gently at your bodies.
The water sits higher now, brushing your chest as the waves roll in slow, steady rhythms. You’re still holding onto him, hands braces against his shoulders to keep you steady as the water shifts beneath your feet. When you look up, he’s already looking at you, blue eyes locked on yours. The gold of the setting sun reflects in his eyes, softening the sharp blue into something more open. Like his eyes alone are trying to tell you words he won’t say.
Your bodies drift a little with the tide, the water lifting and lowering you in slow, steady motions. The small space between you feels thin, like it could shatter from the gentle waves. Your breath catches and you can feel his, warm and uneven, brushing lightly across your lips every time he exhales. The saltwater clings to your skin, eyes stinging around the edges and the sensation is heightened from the sun reflecting off the water.
Your lips part slightly, trying to steady your breathing and your gaze flickers down instinctively as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You’ve lived this moment before, many, many times with him. Like this is a memory that’s been hovering just out of reach for years and somehow, inexplicably, the two of you have found yourselves right back here again.
And even though you had an entire research project on the topic, you don’t think you’ve fully understood the concept of orbital resonance before today.
You and Gojo will always be like this.
“How do we always end up like this?” you huff out a quiet, breathy laugh but your voice comes out softer than you intended.
He exhales a small laugh in response, the sound brushes against your lips again. His grip shifts slightly at your waist, as if the sound of your voice reminded him where his hands have been this entire time.
“You just can’t get enough of me, huh?” he teases, voice low but he doesn’t make a move to increase the space between you. You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, fingers flexing lightly against his shoulders as you push away from him, floating backwards.
Your mind drifts to your earlier question. “Hey, where’s–”
“Y’know,” Gojo says, like the thought just crossed his mind, “I think Suguru has a girlfriend.”
It’s so abrupt it almost feels like whiplash but the news surprises you nonetheless.
“I knew it!” You gasp, your hand comes down against his chest with a splash, water spraying up between you. “I can’t believe he’s keeping it from me, he never tells me anything anymore!” You pout dramatically, leaning back slightly so your body lifts with the movement of the water. The waves carry you gently, pulling you back a bit. You feel his hand hovering at your waist, ready to steady you without thinking. Always without thinking.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” he chides, voice softer now, “He’s probably just waiting for the right time.”
You frown, your gaze drifting past him toward the horizon where the sun is starting to dip lower. The sky warms into softer shades of gold and orange.
“If it makes you feel better, he didn’t tell me either. I’m just putting two and two together.”
“I don’t know…” you murmur. “I feel like we all just kind of… stopped hanging out.” You hate how vulnerable you sound, like everything has bigger things to be worried about than their childhood friendships.
“I mean–” you correct quickly, forcing out a small laugh, “I know we’re all busy. With our own lives and everything.”
You splash at the water mindlessly, feeling suddenly awkward at the quiet that lingers.
“I miss it too,” he admits. You look at him, a little surprised. He shrugs, casually, but his gaze drifts somewhere past you again, toward the reflection of the sun rippling in the waves, eyes unfocused like he’s thinking about something. “It’ll be easier now,” he adds easily.
You nod slowly, not sure what he means but too exhausted to ask.
He exhales quietly, tipping his head back for a second before rolling his eyes. “My parents have been on my ass about growing up,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp white locks, “Stop messing around, it’s time to be serious.”
You blink at that. Because for as long as you’ve known him, as much as he jokes and acts immature, he’s never really felt… unserious. He always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, exactly where he was going. But now he just sounds tired.
You had always assumed the “Gojo shoes” were probably something big to fill but you didn’t think it got much bigger than Satoru.
He glances back at you after a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “C’mon,” he says lightly, “Let’s head back before the tide comes in and you drown.”
You gape at him, immediately offended. “Excuse me? You would drown.” You splash him with water again, just for the sake of doing it.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, ushering you towards the shore, “I’m a great swimmer. I’d try my best to save you.”
-
It turns out Suguru does have a girlfriend.
He doesn’t really make an announcement to everyone but instead, drops the information to you casually at breakfast the next day. You’re still half-asleep when he says it, hair still messy from sleep, barely awake enough to process anything beyond the bowl of cereal in front of you.
Apparently, he rekindled things with some girl from high school after he moved back home. You think you vaguely remember her from their senior prom photos. You were admittedly too focused on something else–or rather someone else–in that photo at the time. You’re actually a little touched when he mentions how he thinks it didn’t work out back then because it was the right person, wrong time.
You were starting not to believe right person, wrong time existed.
He also apologizes for not telling you sooner, explaining that he wanted to wait for them to be serious and “locked in” or whatever as to not get ahead of himself.
Everyone’s got someone but you.
Maybe you’ll turn into one of those old ladies who never get married and live a long, happy life by themselves. Maybe you can also get a couple cats. You like cats.
The thought of your impending life long loneliness doesn’t last long when the smell of food on the grill beckons you. Thankfully, by that time, you’re fully ready for the day, baring a bikini and shorts. The brightness of the late morning sun hits you first, warm and golden, followed immediately by the noise of your family. Voices layered over one another, laughter, the high-pitched shouting of kids running around, playing whatever game they seem to have made up. When did your family get so big?
You’re standing on the wooden deck, glancing around at the picnic tables that have been dragged out from storage. There’s an ice box set up on the corner of the back patio that you reach into, pulling out a water bottle. You wipe the condensation on the side of your shorts before slipping your sunglasses into place.
“y/n!”
You look up to see Gojo manning the grill, unzipped red hoodie hanging loosely over his shoulders, exposing the smooth stretch of skin beneath. He’s waving at you dramatically, tongs still in hand, whole arm swinging. You press your lips together, waving back at him. Your sunglasses are proving to be your best friend this trip, hiding from everyone the fact that you cannot stop ogling your brother’s best friend.
You make your way down the creaky wooden steps toward him, only to be intervened by one of your cousin’s sons, Kenzo.
“y/n y/n y/n,” he nags, tugging at the hem of your shorts, relentless.
You crouch down so you’re eye level with him. “Yes, sweetie?” you ask, voice softening.
“Can you play with us?” he looks up at you, eyes rounded and pleading. He really is just so cute, bottom lip jutting out in a pout much like someone else you know. Which gives you the bright idea of–
“Y’know who’s even more fun than me?” you respond with a sly smile, voice dropping conspiratorially. You lean in slightly, hand reaching out to gently pinch at the fat of his cheek.
“Who’s more funner than Auntie y/n?” he asks, brows knitting together in genuine curiosity. You peer over at Satoru, who is now fanning away the smoke rising aggressively from the old barbecue grill.
You point at his figure, Kenzo’s eyes squint as they follow the trail of your finger, “Riiiight there,” you snicker a bit to yourself, knowing Gojo probably has no real interest in being a personal jungle gym to Kenzo or the other rambunctious kids in your family. His face twists into one of confusion, clearly skeptical as his nose crinkles up like he can tell you’re lying but when he looks back over to you and you’re giving him a big (mischevious) smile, he lets out a little giggle and practically sprints over to Satoru, deciding to trust you anyway.
You nearly keel over in laughter when he immediately jumps onto Satoru’s back with no hesitation–as high as his little legs could take him considering Gojo practically towers over everyone–without any regard for the hot grill. Luckily for Kenzo, he’s also like a brick wall and hardly budges from the impact. You watch as he sets down the tongs and practically launches the little boy into the air. Suguru ends up taking over the grill, his shoulders lifting before settling as he let out a dramatic sigh. Leave it up to Satoru to make him fix his problems. There’s a moment of panic in you before he catches him and sets him down gently, the sound of his childish laughter and screeching filling the yard. You let out a breath of relief.
Maybe sending your cousin’s kid over there wasn’t your brightest idea but that thought is diminished when all of the other kids start running over, seemingly wanting their turn to be tossed around. He laughs through it easily, large hands wrapping around their small bodies before lifting them into the air.
The last time that you were here with everyone was when you were a teenager and you’re realizing there weren’t very many kids around. You realize that prior to this weekend, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him interact with any kids before and it almost warmed your heart to see how much they liked him. You’re also a little surprised that he actually doesn’t mind being climbed and clambered all over. You were initially expecting to be able to use little Kenzo to mess with him but he seems to actually be having a good time.
Gojo hobbles over to where you’re sitting at the picnic table as best he can, drawing out a short breath of laughter from you. He’s got one kid dangling off his arm–you choose to ignore the bulge of his bicep peeking through his hoodie–another hanging off his back and one fully wrapped around his leg, tiny arms and legs looping around like a koala on a branch.
“Having fun?” you tease, twirling the straw in the glass of freshly squeezed lemonade your mom set in front of you not too long ago.
“Oh yeah,” he grunts out, though there’s no real complaint in it. He’s still taking slow steps though you’re not sure if it’s because he’s struggling with the additional weight or if he’s trying to be mindful of their small fragile bodies, “lots of fun.”
When he finally reaches you, you’re still giggling. “Okay guys, let’s give Uncle Satoru a break,” you reach out, peeling them off his tall frame. There’s numerous whines of noo’s that ring out but they die down quickly when Suguru announces that the food is ready. The three of them immediately scamper over to the serving table, excited for the promise of ice cream once they finish their food.
Satoru slumps on the bench next to you dramatically, using your body as a back rest in faux exhaustion. He feels heavy on your side so you have to put in a bit of effort to remain upright. “Are all kids this energetic?” he exhales loudly, like he’s trying to catch his breath and even lets out a little phew sound.
“You looked like you could use a break from the grill,” you shrug, trying to justify your actions. Though in your defense, there was an abnormal amount of smoke coming from the barbecue when he was on the grill so maybe grilling was more Suguru’s forte.
“You just like messing with me,” he accuses, pushing himself up into a sitting position beside you. He leans backwards, back against the table as he props his elbows up on the surface to support him. The movement makes his unzipped hoodie fall open wider, baring more of his chest.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “Not any more than you do,” you fire back. Satoru’s been messing with you for as long as you could remember, it wasn’t until the two of you had gotten a little older that you started doing it back.
He, eventually, gets up from his seat to head over to the grill and you mindlessly tap around on your phone until Suguru approaches. You sigh dramatically as he plops down across from you, plate full of skewered meats and buttered corn on the cob. When he doesn’t react, you do it again which finally gets you a quirk of his eyebrow.
“What?” he grunts out, mouth full of barbecue beef.
“Everyone’s in a relationship now and I’m allll alone,” you complain in fake exasperation.
Suguru’s lip curls up in confusion, “Who’s everyone?”
“Our cousins… you… Satoru…” you list off casually. If your family was a ‘kid’s table’ family, you’d probably be there forever.
He presses his lips together, one eyebrow still raised and you don’t get the chance to ask what he’s making that face for before Gojo finds his seat beside you, holding two plates of food. You’re about to call him some variation of greedy until he pushes one of the plates over to you.
“Ooo,” you grab the plate, sliding it in front of you, “thank you.” As aloof as he always acts, you can appreciate that he’s always subtly looking out for you and you’re too engrossed in your meal to notice the look that he and your brother share.
-
The nap after the lunch barbecue seemed like a good idea at the time.
The heaping plate Satoru made for you essentially forced you into a food coma induced nap for the better part of that afternoon. And really, you can’t exactly complain. This weekend is turning out to be a lot better than you expected. Nothing like lounging on a hammock with the sound of the gentle waves crashing while you effectively knock out for about three hours.
The downside of that is by midnight, after your family’s all retired to their rooms for the night and the consistent sound of kids screeching and adult chatter, you’re stuck in your bedroom for the weekend, spread out star-style, staring at the ceiling. It’s rather dark at the beach house at night, only slight slivers of moonlight peeking in through the blinds to illuminate your room. The service out here isn’t great to say the least and there’s only so much patience you have in your body to wait for silly little internet videos to load.
Plus you had slept through dinner if the sound of your stomach grumbling loudly says anything.
It’s always quieter out here, more than you’re typically used to. Growing up, there was always that distant city noise that acted as white noise in your childhood home and in college, there was practically a party every night or the sound of students returning to their dorms, loud chatter bleeding in through your dorm windows. Here, it’s practically silent aside from the noise of the waves but it’s like even the ocean knows to be more gentle this late at night.
You huff, having an inner battle of whether you should have another try at forcing yourself to sleep by closing your eyes and pretending to sleep or if you should just suck it up and tredge down the creaky stairs to indulge in leftovers or whatever snacks your parents have loaded up the pantry with.
Sleep… Food… Sleep… Food… Try to fall into a deep slumber that will likely never reach you in the next two to three hours or a nice delicious snack provided for by your extremely Type A mother.
You throw the blanket from your body. You had been laying so still for the last few hours that the only evidence of you even being in bed is from the corner of the blanket folding over on itself. The faded wooden floors are creaky under your slippered feet as you sneak out of your room. Everything in this old house makes noise, including the bedroom door that protests softly as you push it open. In the quiet of the night it sounds like blaring alarms. Even the stairs practically groan with each step you take.
Ok, you weren’t some teenager sneaking out to a party anymore. At this point you’re a grown woman for fucks sake–er kind of grown–who just wants a snack but still, you can’t help but to creep around because it just feels wrong.
It’s not until you’re fully downstairs rummaging through the kitchen that you’re no longer tense, freely opening and shutting cabinets searching for anything that sounds good. Unfortunately for you, your mom’s been on some sort of almond mom kick lately that you entirely blame on yourself for introducing her to TikTok in the first place. A majority of the cabinets are empty, being your family’s only here for the weekend, aside from some granola bars and a basket of fruit on the table. There’s a container of desserts one of your older cousins must’ve made earlier but you don’t feel like dealing with the wrath of the kids when they find one missing.
You press your lips together before settling on a peach. You’ve barely taken your first bite of the juicy fruit, the sticky nectar dripping down your chin before you hear footsteps approaching, the telling sound of floorboards whining in response. You hastily rip a napkin from the stack on the island, wiping your chin before leaning back nonchalantly against the kitchen counter in slight embarrassment.
Satoru rounds the corner lazily, one hand stuffed in his plaid pajama pants while the other scrubs at his face, rubbing sleep from his eye. He hardly glances at you as he begins his rounds of scouring the cabinets and fridge. You stand there, half wondering if he’s sleepwalking and if even in his sleep he’s a glutton as you take another bite from the fruit. After he’s finished searching through every last cupboard, he too comes up empty handed and it’s not until he finds the container of desserts does he look up at you.
“Think they’ll be mad if I eat this?” he’s already starting to pry open the plastic lid as he shoots you a glance to which you just respond with a half shrug, mouth full of the sweet peach. He shrugs, seemingly not caring whether or not this will get him in trouble in the morning as he fishes out a daifuku.
The two of you stand in semi-silence for a moment, on opposite sides of the kitchen, the only sound being your teeth sinking through the thin skin of the fruit and Gojo’s muted chew of his dessert.
“So why didn’t your girlfriend come?” you ask between bites. Normally, you’d care a lot more about talking with your mouth full but it was just Satoru anyways. He’d seen you in much worse circumstances and you’ve stopped caring about being proper in front of him.
There was a time when he used to sleep over a lot when you were younger and you’d often find yourselves in a similar situation. Sharing snacks from your parents’ pantry even though they were technically yours and he always ate more than his half. Luckily, tonight you chose something healthy as your late night snack which spared you from the greed that is Gojo Satoru.
Satoru doesn’t respond right away so with a teasing smile, you follow up with, “Too busy being a supermodel?” It comes off a little more snarky and jealous than you had intended though in all fairness she really could’ve been a supermodel if she wanted to. And in hindsight, supermodel-lawyer suited Gojo.
“No,” he starts, setting his brownie down on a napkin. This might’ve been the longest you’ve ever seen him take to eat sweets. “We–uhh… actually broke up.”
You press your lips together in a thin line, mentally scolding yourself for the poorly timed joke. “Oh my god, I’m sooo sorry,” you manage to get out awkwardly, “I didn’t know.”
It’s quiet again, a little awkward even as the only sounds that fill the air is the crunch of your peach. Nobody tells you anything around here. You make a mental note to grill Suguru about it later.
“It’s okay,” he responds easily with a shrug of his shoulders, “I didn’t expect you to.”
You nod, not sure how to respond as you busy your mouth with the fruit in your hand. Once you reach the core, you shuffle past him, tossing the remaining pit into the trash. He side steps to let you move around him but instead of going over to where you stood before, you settle across from him, leaning against the island counter with your legs stretched out. He mirrors you, one leg crossed over the other, arms crossed over his chest making his biceps bulge.
There could not have been a worse time for you to stare at them.
“What happened?” You practically wince at yourself for asking such a direct question, knowing he’s never been exactly big on sharing his deepest, most sincere feelings and emotions.
He lets out a sigh as he settles back further into his leaning position, rolling his neck from one side to the other. You hear one side let out a little crack. How bad are these hospital shifts anyways?
“She said she didn’t feel like I loved her,” he practically groans, like he’s dreading saying it out loud.
“Oh.”
He presses his lips together, nodding slowly.
“Did you?” you ask, tilting your head to the side curiously. You figure it must be late at night and he’s tired and maybe feeling a little bit more open, call it nosey but you might as well ask if he’s already answered thus far.
“Yeah…?” he answers thoughtfully, tipping his head back, letting his eyes settle on the ceiling, “No? I’m not sure.”
You suck in a breath, half of you wants to berate him for leading this girl on but there’s also a tiny part of you that feels a little giddy they broke up. You’re nothing if not honest. And empathetic so you mostly feel bad for her.
Before you even can say anything, “I don’t know if I know what love feels like,” he admits with a chuckle, like he’s laughing at himself.
Something about Gojo’s laugh always makes you laugh, you never knew what it was. Like his laugh could make any situation–good or bad–ten times funnier and he’s definitely the type to laugh at the worst times. That habit got the three of you in trouble a lot. And so, you laugh too, pushing at his crossed arm to signal him to shut up before you both wake up the entire house from your incessant laughter.
That gets a scoff out of him, though he’s still chuckling. “Whaaat?” he asks defensively, voice high, “Do you know what it’s like? With your little college boyfriends?”
You think back to the flings you had in college. You didn’t really have a serious boyfriend in college unless you count your semester and a half long situationship so you guess you don’t really have anything to base your first hand knowledge off of.
“Wellll,” you start, also getting a bit defensive, “I imagine it’s like you’d do anything to make that person happy, right? Even if it means putting their happiness before yours?”
Satoru just nods, like he’s really thinking about the words leaving your lips but doesn’t respond so you continue. You look around the room, as if the furniture could give you ideas.
“Ooo and,” you think about the cheesy book you read earlier. A little bit embarrassing to be basing your knowledge of love on a fictional book about the relationship between some girl and the CEO of her company, “I was reading this book and the love interest saves her from getting hit by a car so I imagine you’d do anything to protect that person too, even if it means putting yourself in danger.”
A pause.
“Don’t make fun of me though.”
Gojo just huffs out a breath in response, laughing through his nose and when you finally finally look back up at him, he’s already looking at you and you hadn’t even realized he had gotten so close that you have to lean your head back to make eye contact with him.
You rub your elbow awkwardly, letting out a little heh noise, “Err I’m assuming,” your eyes darting around his face and then away toward the quiet house, “I… wouldn’t know…”
But you’re starting to think you know and do you love Gojo? All these years of tip-toeing around each other was it just because neither of you wanted to get in the way of the other’s happiness? Like you didn’t want to ruin what you already had if something more didn’t work out? Does Satoru have feelings for you or are you entirely misreading the way he’s looking at you right now?
You’re half convincing yourself this is all such a ridiculous thought because this is fucking Gojo Satoru, some kid that your brother brought home one day and he just happened to stick around, gave you a hard time and teased you relentlessly just for the sake of having someone to mess with. All those times he came to support you at your school events, your award ceremonies, was it all really just him tagging along with your brother? How naive are you really?
Are you so naive that you’ve read into every single little interaction you’ve had with him, writing him off as Suguru’s best friend? Or are you so naive that you’ve been ignoring every sign that presented itself, every time he got you an excessive bouquet of flowers?
You wonder if this is why things didn’t work out with your high school boyfriend–well that one, you know for sure was because of Gojo and your ex-boyfriend’s dislike for him–and why your flings always stayed just that, a fling. You’re almost kicking yourself at the thought that you’ve been subconsciously holding onto Satoru after all these years.
Your eyes widen when he slides his hands onto either side of the counter behind you, leaning in so your eyes are level. Your heart is pounding so hard and irregular in your chest, so much so that if a doctor measured your heart rate right now you’d probably have to get some sort of electrical cardioversion.
“You wanna know why we broke up?” his voice is low. Your brain is short circuitting and you’re having a hard time searching for answers with him so close to you that you can feel his body heat coming through his cotton long sleeve. The only thought that you have is that his shirt looks really soft.
“Uh–ye–” you’re starting to feel a little breathless although you’re sure he technically just told you the reason a few minutes ago. “Why?”
Suddenly, you hear footsteps shuffling down the stairs, the telltale sound of those old, wooden floorboards creaking under the person’s weight. There’s a second where you up at him in panic, eyes widened while his look more or less annoyed. You suck in a breath, realizing the rather compromised position you’re both in. He’s got you trapped between both of his toned arms, you’re so close that the two of you could practically kiss right now.
Instinctively, the two of you separate, pulling away from each other and retreating to opposite sides of the island in time for your stupid brother to trudge around the corner sleepily, rubbing at one eye with a closed fist. He barely acknowledges the two of you–much like Satoru when he first came down–grabbing a cup from the pantry then swinging the fridge door open. The three of you stand in silence as he pulls out a pitcher of water, filling the glass cup. It’s not until his cup is full that he finally turns to face the two of you.
“Why are you guys still awake?” he grumbles, half asleep. You and Gojo share a glance, neither of you speaking as he starts chugging his cup of water, gulping obnoxiously.
You see why they’re best friends.
When the cup is about halfway empty, he sets it down with a little ahh!, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Now you see how he’s your brother.
“You guys better not be down here arguing and fighting,” he complains with an eye roll. The grill must’ve really taken a lot of energy out of him, he’s slightly more sleepy and grumpy than he normally is. After a pause, with low eyes, he continues, “I thought we were past that age.”
You let out an awkward laugh, “You know Satoru,” you grit out, “just always messing with me.” You can practically see Gojo face-palming himself out of your periphery and you know you both are in absolute disbelief at what you just said.
Luckily, Suguru just rolls his eyes, shaking his head, clearly over it, and walks past the two of you, mumbling out a little, “Don’t stay up too late,” as he takes his half filled cup back to his room.
You’re starting to get the inkling that maybe Gojo was waiting for you subconsciously as much as you were for him. He always was righteous, always trying to do the ‘right thing’, be a good person, be there for others. You supposed you could understand how maybe he thought it was wrong to try something with you because he respected you and your brother too much and you’re not entirely sure how the two of you ended up like this. As respectful as he was, it never stopped him from flirting with you, how he doted over you just a little more than what was necessary.
You turn to him, sucking in a breath like you’re about to speak but he interrupts with a sigh.
“Yeah, it’s getting late,” he pushes off the counter, “let’s head to bed.”
“Uhh… right,” you state, a little confused because this is not where you were expecting this conversation to go. You start shuffling toward the stairs nonetheless as he trails behind you. That gut feeling is still gnawing at you and you’ve decided that since you’ve already been asking intrusive questions all night, what’s one more?
You spin on your heel the second you’re on the first step of the staircase and he nearly runs into you, catching himself on the railing and wall. Even on the staircase, you’re just barely eye to eye with him.
“Satoru,” you announce, your faces close to each other for the nth time in your lives. “Are you in love with me?”
“Huh?” his bright blue eyes are blown wide in surprise, clearly shocked at your pointed question.
You lean in a little closer, clearly enjoying the moment of power you have over him. “Did you… break up with your girlfriend,” you speak slowly and clearly, “because you’re in love with me?”
There’s a pause before he answers that trickles doubt into your mind and you find yourself regretting asking. Maybe ignorance really is bliss or however the saying goes.
You’re suddenly not sure the answer you want to hear and now you’re feeling a little embarrassed for even asking. You–who some people may call a pessimist–are unable to see a possible good outcome from this question.
He could either confess his undying love to you and that he’s been in love with you this entire time, then Suguru kills the both of you. Or at the very least kills Satoru, his absolute best friend and now you’ll technically be indirectly responsible for the death of Gojo and your brother’s likely lifetime sentence in prison with maximum security and no chance of parole in solitary confinement.
Or alternatively, he tells you that you’ve been reading way too much into anything and everything he’s ever done for you in the time you’ve known him and that he has absolutely no feelings for you whatsoever. In that case, you’ll have to move to some deserted island, go off the grid, live off the land forever and make friends with rocks, and even if you die there and only have your rock friends to attend your funeral, it still wouldn’t be long enough for you to get over your embarrassment.
He lets out a breath, which reminds you that you’ve been holding yours. Then the breath turns into laughter and you’re so sure he’s just laughing in your face to make fun of you and make you feel bad until he says, “I thought you knew,” in between his snickering.
Your jaw drops, gaping at his audacity to laugh. You can’t help but to slap at his arm as he laughs at you. “No, I didn’t know,” you grit out defensively, arm returning to cross over your chest. You turn your nose up at him, clearly irritated.
“Everyone knew.”
You roll your eyes at that, ready to sneer out something sharp along the lines of who’s everyone, but he grabs your shoulders to turn you back so your facing him, large, warm hands searing through the sleeves of your oversized tee.
“y/n, I have been irrevocably in love with you for as long as I’ve known you.” The sharpness of his bright blue eyes have softened around the edges, he’s looking at you so intensely and earnestly. You open your mouth to speak but he doesn’t let you, continuing his speech.
“You don’t have to tell me you love me back, you don’t have to say anything at all,” he continues, “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to be with me or to do anything you didn’t want to for the sake of our friendship but I’ve been so in love with you that it is unfair to anyone else that I’ve met because I cannot bring myself to commit to someone who’s not you.”
His chest is heaving by the time he’s finished, like he’s short of breath which is strange to you because you’ve seen this man run up and down a basketbal court without breaking a sweat. His eyes, that impossible shade of the sky, flicker with uncertainty, like he might die depending on what you say next. It’s so unfamiliar to you because as long as you’ve known Gojo, he’s always been so sure of himself but now he just seems so hesitant, uncertain. His words linger in the air.
You–much like him–are unsure of how to respond but the entire situation is so laughable to you. So you do. You laugh so hard that you’re almost bending over, breathless and giggly because this conversation is so sweet and funny and honest. He only makes you laugh more when he that familiar pout settles on his face, switching from the shocked look he had before.
“Ok, you don’t have to laugh…” he pouts, clearly offended and he straightens up a bit. He tugs on the collar of his shirt, stretching it out as he tries to find something to do with his hands.
Still giggling, you lean your body forward, stretching your arms to wrap around his neck. His hands are quick to move around your waist, holding you steady so you don’t fall off the step. The movement brings the two of you closer as your eyes lower to his lips, flicking back to his eyes. He still looks confused and uncertain, hands tense around your frame.
It’s not until you press your lips to his that he relaxes in your hold, letting out a pleasantly surprised sound hrough his nose that tickles your face. He practically melts into the kiss, lips warm against yours and simultaneously exactly what you had always imagined and insanely better. Your hands slide from their position around his neck until they’re resting on either of his shoulders. One of his hands at your hip slides to your lower back, pressing your smaller frame closer to his. Suddenly motivated, he captures your lips with a new kind of urgency, drawing out something of a whine from you.
You pull away for a second, hands still firmly planted on his shoulders and it seems like you both are catching your breath. His cerulean eyes are still blown wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening, but there’s something else in them now too.
“Satoru,” you say, voice steadier than it’s ever seemed to be before. His eyes search yours, like he’s desperate to drink in every word you say.
“I think I love you too.”
a/n - this chp is extra long bc i found a new love for this series during my break so i'm a little sad it's ending soon but next chp will be p much all smut lol, im thinking of writing drabbles for them after this too bc im not ready to say goodbye. i spent a lot of time figuring out how i wanted the confession to go and i feel like this was the best option out of what i came up with, hopefully it still feels very them, as always tysm for reading ! ily all
fanart creds [x]
border creds to @/cafekitsune
tag list: @sherizaraiyah @cc1306 @superstaargirl, @xqce , @scaraslover,
summary: Maybe practicing to kiss your fake boyfriend on your bed isn't the best idea, because now the image of him sprawled atop your sheets is burned in your mind and your lips ache to memorize the shape of his.
contents: 2k words, FLUFF and a lil angst, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, first kiss as a fake couple!!! first accidental make out too lol, Spencer Reid gets hard bc he wants you so bad, prof!reader finally recognizes her Desires™.
a/n: to ppl who asked for their glasses to clink, next time i promiseeee. had to get this out of my system, hope you enjoy!!!
"This isn't stupid, right?"
"Is it conceited to say that the chances of two highly educated college professors doing something stupid are statistically quite low?"
You roll your eyes. Spencer can be so… Spencer-like, even in mortifying times such as this.
"That's a whole high intellect, low wisdom conversation waiting to happen that I refuse to entertain."
He grins, unrepentant. "It's not stupid."
"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."
"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.
"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.
Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.
That might be acceptable, but the context is new.
"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.
"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."
"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.
"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."
"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.
Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.
You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.
But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.
So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.
On kissing.
And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.
Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.
Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.
"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.
He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."
You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."
"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."
You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."
"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"
"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"
"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"
"No."
"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."
You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."
"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.
"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.
Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.
Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.
It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.
His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.
It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.
A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.
You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.
All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.
Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.
He kisses you again, and again, and again.
It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.
Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.
You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.
You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.
His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.
You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.
It isn't meant to get this far.
The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.
You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.
Fuck.
Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.
"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."
His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.
He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.
Addendum re: Kissing.
What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?
"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.
Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.
"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."
"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."
"Spencer."
The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."
"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."
"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"
"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.
You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.
You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.
He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.
No making out in public or private.
"We already had that in the original." You point out.
"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.
Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.
"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."
You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.
You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."
Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."
"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
next part
More prof!Spencer x prof!reader fics here.
pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader (I tried lemme know if I could do better with the neutrality)
genre: hurt/comfort, fluff
tags: bau!reader, rivals to lovers, insecure!reader, some details about the case, not too graphic with the violence, spencer calls reader 'pretty', reader loves girly stuff like romantasy novels and Sabrina Carpenter (don't @ my gay ass she's cool and sparkly)
summary: After a case hits too close to home, you start spiraling about how maybe you're not that much better than the unsubs you catch. Unbeknownst to you, the one person you've never gotten along with notices things about you no one else ever has.
word count: 7.6K
a/n: AHH THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE UNDER 4K IDK WHAT HAPPENED. I've never written Spencer like this before in a fic. I hope this didn't end up being gore of your comfort character ✊🏽😔
You hated Spencer Reid. You loved insulting him, outsmarting him, reminding him how ancient he is, telling him how stupid his cardigan looked, but you hated him.
You hated his fluffy curls, the particular cadence of his speech, the way he pressed his lips into a smooth line whenever he was pleased, his stupid brown puppy eyes which always hardened when they landed on you, and above all else, you hated how he was always one step ahead of you.
It wasn't that he knew more—everything he knew could be found on the internet—it was that he was always so fucking smug. He knew he was the smartest person in the room, and you hated it.
The first thing he'd done on your joining day was to insult your choice of music, asking why you were listening to music statistically enjoyed by little girls.
You, obviously, didn't take it lightly—after all, he'd insulted Sabrina Carpenter herself—and proceeded to insult him to his face.
It was hard to get along with him when all he was dead-set on doing was insulting your choice in everything—clothes, books, music, even how dusty your shoes were.
Who the fuck even cared about dusty shoes?!
Spencer Reid, apparently, that's who.
It didn't mean you two couldn't work together, it just meant you'd snipe at each other so constantly that no one else could work with the two of you, or even in your general vicinity.
“I just don't understand why these books are so popular when they're just glorified pornography—” Spencer said as the two of you sat down at the table, arguing about booktok.
“And yet I've never heard you complain about actual porn, which exploits real people, as much as you do about smut. It's almost like…you only give a fuck about it because it's popular among women.” You made jazz hands at him, knowing it annoyed him when you invaded his personal space.
He pushed his chair back to escape the scope of your wizard fingers, opening his mouth with a deep frown to protest against the accusations laid against him.
“Besides, incel like yourself could probably benefit from reading a smut book or two—maybe you'd finally figure out what women like.”
Spencer's frown deepened at that, but not with anger.
With confusion.
Remembering the man lives under a analog rock, you smiled to yourself, turning to look at Garcia. You knew he was too proud to ask you what incel meant, and unless he knew what you meant exactly, he couldn't retort to the best of his ability, therefore, you won this round.
“I am not an incel.” Spencer's voice dropped into a whisper as Hotch walked into the room, and you snorted as you picked at a hangnail near your thumb.
“You don't even know what that means, Dr Reid.”
If there's one thing he hated more than losing an argument, it was being told he doesn't know something. Especially if it was you telling him he doesn't know something.
Your pleasant mood at your win, however, was shot in the face once Penelope started listing the case details.
The case involved the murder of multiple women, all attacked in spaces like gas-station bathrooms or changing rooms at the mall, late at night or when there aren't any people around. The kills were spaced out by a few weeks, and the women all had their faces brutally disfigured, yet there were no reports of sexual assault.
It was a strange set of circumstances, but not an emergency, which left you just enough time to swing by your place to gather some of the files for your previous case.
“Can one of you maybe drive me? My car’s in the shop and I really don't wanna pay another—” You clicked on the rideshare app, making a face at the fare, “—hundred dollars? In broad daylight? Are they insane?”
“I could ask you that—putting your car in the shop without a backup mode of communication other than the one you're currently complaining about. Seems insane, considering the median price for rideshare services has increased by sixty percent since 2020.” Spencer’s insufferable voice came from behind you, and you turned around to glare at him. You weren't even talking to him.
“One more statistic and I will reduce your ability to speak by sixty percent—”
“Oh yeah, how's that?” The brunette’s lips quirked into an infuriating smirk, and he leaned towards you, as if he really gave a shit about what you had to say.
“Well first I’d shove my hand into—”
“Alright, kids!” Emily called out, stepping between the two of you.
“Reid, drive her to her place. And while you're at it, figure out how to shut up—” Your mouth split into a beam upon Rossi’s intervention. Finally, someone who also thought Spencer spoke too much.
“Both of you.” Rossi completed, brows raised at the two of you.
“I agree with Dave. Go get the files, agent. Wheels up in three hours.” Hotch said without looking up from his tablet, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Snatching his keys off of him, you practically ran to his car, knowing exactly where he parked it every day, without fail. Getting in, you immediately moved forward the driver's seat—perfect for someone of your stature, but nearly not enough leg room for someone as lanky as Spencer.
Settling into the passenger’s side, you let your lips quirk into a satisfied smile just for a second.
Spencer's face loomed through the window as he bent forward, trying to see whether you'd made any observable changes to the car.
“What, you think I rigged the car to explode the moment to step in?”
“I wouldn't put that level of stupidity beyond you, even though only fifteen percent of suicide bombers are women, but that's not taking into account your—”
“Oh my god just drive!” You groaned, shoving Spencer's shoulder. He let out an offended gasp, his browns deepening into a deeper furrow than before as he adjusted his seat.
“You know I can report you to HR for that? I should actually—”
“Reid, how long do you wanna be stuck in this car with me? Because the longer you spend running that mouth instead of driving, the longer it's gonna take to get to my place. Do you need me to put the address into your GPS? Or do you still use an old-fashioned map?”
“You don't need to do either of those, actually.” Spencer grumbled, pulling the car out of its spot and driving with surprising accuracy to your house. On the ride to your place, you considered asking why he knew where you lived, but then weighed the possibility of him deeming you inferior for not knowing where each of your coworkers live. He'd probably recite the ETA to everyone's house in the BAU just to rub it in.
Your face twisted into a frown at the thought as you got down from the car, barking at him to stay where he was while you fetched the files.
Your room was a bit of a mess, clothes strewn about your bed and the closet floor—a result of constantly loading and unloading a go-bag and never getting around to fixing the mess.
The files were dumped on top of the pile of clothing on your bed—how foolish of you to think that putting clothes on your bed would actually make you fold them—and you quickly snatched them up, making sure none were missing. You switched out your shoes just to be safe, since the ones on your feet felt like they could fall apart at any moment and knowing your luck, it would probably happen while you were chasing the unsub.
Because if the sky was falling and you were in a building, the building would spontaneously combust so the piece of sky could crush you.
At least, that's how it felt when the last blueberry cronut was taken by the guy in front of you at the coffee shop.
Leaning against the wall to put the shoes on, you brushed your palms over your clothing to smooth it out, before turning to face the mirror. The mirror was just short enough that while standing at the door of your closet (which you always did when checking your appearance) it only showed your reflection from the neck down.
It was hard to find a mirror short enough to cut off your face yet long enough to show the rest of your outfit, but six garage sales and three trips to Ikea later, you'd found it. And you were perfectly pleased with it.
As you adjusted the files in your arm, your eyes settled on the mirror again. Only a few steps, and you'd be able to see your face.
‘I could have something on my face. My makeup could need fixing.’ You told yourself, taking a deep breath, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Biting your lower lip, you slowly took one step back, bringing your chin into the reflection.
For a few minutes, you simply stared at the unsightly thing, heartbeat thumping in your ears.
‘Fuck it. Someone will tell me if I have something on my face. Probably Reid.’
You closed your eyes as you took several more steps away from the mirror, until you were far enough away that your reflection wasn't visible anymore.
Shaking off the tension in your shoulders, you stepped back into the living room, only to find Spencer standing there.
“I thought I told you to stay in the car.” You snapped at him, harder than usual, as he poked at your bookshelf. He startled, spinning around to look at you. The disarmed expression on his face—brows up high, eyes wide, mouth slightly open—lasted only a moment before it settled into its usual displeasure, the way it always did around you.
Trying to ignore the thoughts about how a disarmed Spencer could almost be…cute, and how maybe you'd wanna see more of him if he always looked at you like that, you tapped your foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.
“You did. You also left your door unlocked.”
“So you just let yourself in?”
“Yes.” Spencer said, the displeasure turning into smugness. “You are strange.”
You raised a brow as you stormed towards the door, hand absent-mindedly coming up to pick at your chin.
“Is that right, pot?” You said the word like it might've been a slur, grabbing your keys off the hook and opening the door, gesturing for Spencer to get out with a dramatic bow.
He approached the entrance primly, like he truly was a princess and you were the chivalrous guard guiding him out of the dungeon.
“Yes. You have a mirror right below the key hooks but it's covered with a cloth, not to mention you didn't use it before leaving just now which, statistically, is what mirrors close to the door are used for.” The brunette said, hands behind his back as he walked out into the sun.
You paused just as you turned the key in the door, your heartbeat suddenly skyrocketing. You began to clear your throat, before realising what an obvious tell that would be to a profiler and deciding to simply act as if nothing was awry.
Which it wasn't.
“Yes, well, who needs a mirror when geniuses like yourself are around, hm? I'm sure you'll more than enjoy pointing out the slightest flaw in my appearance, won't you?” You asked with a saccharine smile, biting your tongue when you noticed, in hindsight, what a classic deflection it was—divert attention away from yourself to the primary individual scrutinizing you. Spencer's lips turned down into a frown at that, as did his brows, but his eyes weren't narrow with derision like usual when he looked at you.
“Besides, cleaning that mirror is hard. Looks good when guests show up, otherwise I don't really have a use for it other than collecting dust.” You get inside the car, glancing up once to look at Spencer before pulling out your phone and sending a text to Hotch that you two are on your way back.
Spencer stands for just a moment longer, his face still pulled into that frown when he got into the car.
For the rest of the journey, including on the plane, Spencer didn't throw a single barb your way.
It chilled your blood far more than any of the crime scene photos.
The crimes themselves didn't make any sense—the women were killed in female-only zones, but with incredible brutality that indicated extreme rage at the victims, a personal rage, yet there was no connection between any of the women, and no sexual assault.
“Maybe the unsub’s gay and misogynistic.” You wondered out loud, spinning around in the only spinny-chair in the room, which you'd claimed by racing past Spencer and settling yourself into it, knowing he'd be too icked out to sit somewhere your germy self ever sat.
“Could be, but the amount of attention put to destroying the face…could he be trying to take away their identity? Send some kind of message?” JJ said, frowning at the photos of the bodies.
“No, he's leaving their IDs behind.” Spencer murmured, and you sighed as you made another turn in your chair, the springs squeaking softly.
“Maybe we're looking at this all wrong. What if the unsub's a woman?” Emily said from where she'd stationed herself in the chair closest to the coffee machine.
“A woman who kills via bludgeoning? That's exceedingly rare. In fact, only eleven percent of female offenders use blunt force to kill.” You rolled your eyes as Spencer spouted the statistic, cracking your knuckles as you decided to argue against him even though you agreed with what he had to say.
“It would explain how the killings happen in female only areas—bathrooms, changing rooms. And if the killer is having a psychotic break of some kind, then maybe something about these women throws her into such a rage that the adrenaline allows her to exert the kind of force she's normally not capable of.” You smirked at Spencer, brows raised in challenge.
He opened his mouth to argue, one finger pointed at you before he even spoke, and as you struggled to keep your eyes away from the long, elegant finger, Spencer hesitated.
“I…it is possible, yes.”
“Would saying ‘You are right’ cause you to burst into flames, Reid?”
“No, but it might cause my tongue to fall off, and I'm rather fond of it.”
“I bet you are. Too bad it doesn't do anything better than just talk.”
Silence.
Your face grew warm as you realised the words just came out of your mouth, too close to flirtation to be a true personal jab. Your tongue grew heavy in your mouth as you realised that you did, in fact, mean what you said, which only made the embarrassment of having said it that much worse.
Spencer's expression shifted, morphing into surprise the way it had done in your house, his lips moving around air for a few seconds. He stared at you, tilting his head ever so slightly, and you couldn't help but glance down when he swallowed—his throat bobbing under that light stubble he'd begun maintaining after getting out of prison.
Your own lips parted, to do what, you weren't sure. When you'd brought your eyes back up to lock with Spencer's, a shot of warmth hit you, because his expression still hadn't changed, hadn't reverted into that frown, that unhappiness he always bore around you.
And you liked seeing him that way.
“Ahem.” Rossi’s voice (rather rudely) said from behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.
“Anyways, as Reid was just about to admit, Emily and I could be right.” You said, clearing your throat.
“We still don't know the cause. Why would she be so angered by these women?” Morgan said, standing up to look more closely at the pictures of the victim.
“Well they all look nearly identical, and their faces were what the unsub attacked, so they probably reminded her of someone she hates. A mother, a sister, a boss, an ex—someone who she cannot stand. We don't know when she might go for the real target as opposed to a substitute, so we need to find her as soon as possible.” Hotch said, instructing Morgan to call Penelope and give her the parameters—which really weren't a lot. The women had nothing in common besides their physical appearance, but considering where the bodies were found, Rossi thought she might’ve been part of a cleaning crew that rotated multiple places, as and when they were hired.
An entire week of searching later, nothing.
No women who matched the physical description of the victims were missing in the city, and no cleaning crews had been found that were common to all the murder locations.
Your break in the case didn't come until day eight of the case—well, technically it was very early day nine at one in the morning—when you got up from the desk to go and douse your face with some water.
Usually when you entered the bathroom, you kept your eyes to the ground or the sink, avoiding the mirror entirely. Even so, in your periphery, it was hard to ignore the existence of your face.
Only when you glanced up, just enough to see up to your mouth—unshapely and sullen, with cracked lips and a tinted lip balm that settled into the lines of them—criticising everything that was wrong with them, wrong with you, and trying to hold back tears because it would only make your nose red, adding to the red splotches you knew were there even without looking at your full face—a result of not being able to stand yourself long enough to even do your make up—that it hit you.
The tears dried up on their own as you stared at your lips, parted in surprise.
“Guys!” You shouted, scrambling out of the bathroom and into the bullpen, faintly thinking ‘Surprise isn't such a bad look on me.’
“What is it?” Spencer said, looking annoyed, with just a hit of alarm at the urgency in your voice.
“What if the person the unsub's targeting is herself?”
Everyone stared at you, their sleep-deprived minds taking a moment to catch up with what you were saying.
“Explain.” Hotch said, putting down the cup of coffee he'd been clutching the entire day like it was Jack’s birth certificate.
“What if the reason the unsub hates these women so much is because she hates herself? She can't stand her appearance, so when she runs into someone who looks like her, it sends her into a frenzy!” You looked quite frenzied yourself, you were sure, but thinking about how you looked only made a slight pang make itself known near your diaphragm, so you shelved the thought for later.
“So she's dysmorphic?” JJ said, frowning in thought.
“And probably really mentally ill. A person can't live day-to-day carrying something like that. She probably can't even stand her own reflection, has a history of attacking reflective things—ask Penelope to check for vandalism—and she might've even been institutionalised before.” You said, hands wildly flying through the air to emphasize your words.
“This could break the case—good job, agent.” Hotch said to you, before picking up the phone to call Penelope.
You beamed with joy at the thought that for once, you'd made the ultimate deduction, not Spencer.
Noticing his abnormal silence, you turned around, flashing your 1000 watt smile right at him. He was frowning, brows pulled together in thought as he stared at the far wall behind you.
“Contemplating what to do with your life now that I've proved I'm better than you?” You sniped, awaiting his incoming jab eagerly.
Only, it never came.
Spencer's eyes simply refocused, landing on you. He searched your face for something, eyes flying from your eyes to your forehead to your cheeks. You weren't sure what he was looking for, but the action unnerved you.
“What? What is it? Do I have something on my face?” You reached up, picking at the week-old acne scar near your chin just to check if it was bleeding again.
“You were just in the bathroom. Shouldn't you know if there's anything on your face?” Spencer's voice was quiet, quieter than when he’d ever spoken to you.
You stared at him, feeling your brows pull together in astonishment.
“For your information, not all of us are as vain as you, Dr Reid.” You scoffed at him, tucking your hand into your pocket to prevent you from picking further.
Spencer didn't reply to your insult yet again, only staring at you. His brown eyes settled firmly onto your orbs, as if he could see something there. Your eyelids fluttered, in part to break the gaze, and in part because of how dry they were getting.
“That was a…ingenious deduction.” The brunette said finally, before walking away and leaving you standing there, heart beating loudly.
You swallowed nervously, your vision growing a little blurry. Your tongue felt heavy again, and you swiped your palms against your thighs in a bid to get rid of the sweat on them.
That was—he praised you. The man who hated you, had hated you since the day you joined, just gave you a compliment.
It shouldn't have felt as good as it did.
His voice a quiet rasp, his eyes focused on you, only you, but not in derision—it all made your spine feel just a little bit molten.
That was, until you realised where you were, who you were thinking about, that you hated the man, and settled into your chair with a huff, glancing at a distracted Spencer once before resting your head on the table for a little cat nap.
After you had what was essentially a sketch of the unsub herself, it was easy to find her. Sheila Williams had been hospitalized once for trying to claw her own face off, and arrested twice for breaking the glass display of a store and the mirror in a diner’s washroom.
The interrogation was…an ordeal.
Well, for once, Hotch decided to send you and Spencer in to do it, since you were the one who made the connection and Spencer was, well, Spencer.
The only problem was that Sheila kept her eyes firmly shut, refusing to look at either of you.
“Sheila? Can you please look at us?” You made your voice as soft as possible, leaning in slightly to make sure she could hear you.
“Nonono—don’t wanna—no.” Sheila mumbled, voice a nervous whisper. Her brows were furrowed in intense distress, her hands shaky.
“Sheila, I promise nothing bad will happen if you look at us.” Spencer's voice was the softest you'd ever heard it—the only exception being when he was speaking to kids. “We're not here to hurt you. We just want to understand why you did what you did.”
The evidence they found at Sheila’s place—blood-soaked clothes, a pipe wrench with the second victim's DNA on it, the GPS in her car placing her at all the murder locations and the camera footage showing her there—was more than enough to have her declared guilty. What you needed was to understand whether a criminal conviction was the way to go—and so far, all signs were pointing to ‘no’.
The moment Sheila opened her eyes, only with further coaxing from Spencer in that soft, almost purr of a voice, her eyes bypassed both of you and locked in on the mirrored glass behind you. Immediately, it sent her into a frenzy, making her pull violently at her restraints and when those wouldn't give, she started hitting her face against the table. Her hands flew around to throw you off when you tried to stop her, one of her nails catching on the skin of your cheek.
By the time you and Spencer stopped her, she'd broken her nose, and even then she buried her face in Spencer's chest when you two hoisted her up, her body physically trembling from the psychological toll of just…seeing her face. Spencer went with the cops, letting Sheila keep her bloody face buried in his chest, gently patting her back.
Watching them walk out of the interrogation room, you closed your eyes briefly, knowing that when you opened them, the mirrored glass would be there—now in front of you rather than behind you, as you stood right behind Sheila's chair.
Your chest felt like it was caving in, and your vision blurred as you slowly opened your eyes, guiding yourself out of the room. There was a dull sting to your cheek, but you couldn't care much about it. Morgan was standing there, looking at you in concern.
“You okay?”
‘No. I'm worried I'm gonna end up like that unsub and claw my own face off one of these days.’
“Yeah, yeah just—that was a lot.” You sighed, trying to act normal. It wouldn't be too concerning for you to be a little off, though, since you weren't as seasoned as the other team members and naturally hadn't seen such disturbing behaviour before.
You followed Morgan back to the briefing room, swallowing the scream that fought tooth-and-nail to get out when you caught your reflection in the glass door for just a second.
Maybe this was how it had started for the unsub, too. Small. Easy to ignore.
Despite feeling nauseous, you took a sip of the coffee Emily offered you, settling into a chair before your legs could start wobbling.
“I think we have enough evidence to tell the DA to have her institutionalised.” Hotch said. You hummed in agreement, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Yeah, I mean, she clearly needs help.” JJ said softly. Your fingers found an old scar hidden between the hairs of your left brow. “Everyone gets insecure sometimes but hating yourself so much you can't even stand your own face? That's—I can't even imagine what that might stem from. It's gotta be a hard thing to live with.”
Your short, blunt nails started picking at the scar, searching for its edges, any way you could slide your nail under the edge of it and rip it off your face. Your chest still felt heavy, and your stomach roiled. You weren't sure why—it wasn't even that big of a deal.
“She's with the EMTs. I asked them to let her keep her eyes shut unless medically necessary.” Spencer's voice cut through the chatter of the bullpen, and you flicked your thumb nail against the edge of the scar as you turned to look at him.
His cardigan and tie both had blood smeared on it, and he looked just a little perturbed. His eyes narrowed onto you, judgmental, and you immediately hardened your expression in response.
“Have fun being the unsub's emotional support fed?”
Spencer was comforting Sheila because it was the only way to stabilize her, you knew that, but you two weren't exactly known for being nice to each other—your relationship was built on mutual hatred.
Well, from him, at least. You were just responding in kind. You were pretty sure the only reason Spencer kept cooperating the bare minimum with you was because he was good at his job.
Spencer stayed quiet, his lips parting around words that died in his throat, like the blanket ready to swaddle a miscarried baby.
“Let's all rest up tonight, we'll leave first thing tomorrow morning.” Hotch said, finally giving you the ticket you needed to stand up and sweep past Spencer.
The hotel was only a stone’s throw from the police station, so you decided to walk. The breeze was cutting, stabbing your lungs every time you drew it in. The wind whipped against your face, and the scratch from earlier stung like it was fresh. You wanted to use the time to think, but the sight of all the pigeons proved to be distracting enough to take you out of your head.
The cars of the rest of the team were already parked in front of the hotel by the time you reached it, and you were glad none of them were drifting in the hallways.
In the confines of your room, you threw off your coat, settling into the chair in the corner. On any other night you would've grabbed the fantasy novel you were carrying to read it—the cliffhanger on chapter 19 had you itching all day—but your brain was simply abuzz.
Tears formed in your eyes, but you weren't quite sure why.
Maybe it was because you had to stare at a version of yourself bash her head in.
‘That’s bullshit. I'm not like her. I would never kill someone for looking like me. I'd get help before that.’
…
Would you?
A disdain that had lasted from your teenage years, well into adulthood, strong enough to impact the way you set up your home and everything around you, going so far as to disable the front camera on your phone, yet subtle enough to not be caught in the psych eval every prospective agent went through before joining the academy.
Would you really be able to catch yourself before you spiralled further?
It seemed insane, a simple insecurity leading to killing. Yet it was what you dealt with every day, small things building up until a person simply exploded. You'd seen it all with your own eyes, but it just…didn't feel real.
Not with yourself.
A sharp knock startled the hotel key from your hand and onto the floor, making you realise you hadn't bothered to click it into place and turn the lights on.
Blinking away the remnants of tears from your eyes, you scrambled towards the door, slotting the card into place as all the lights turned on. For a second, you were worried there was something going on with the case, maybe you'd gotten it wrong, maybe the unsub was the complete opposite of your profile—
“I know you're in there.” Spencer's voice came through the wood, muffled, but neither alarmed nor urgent.
“What do you want, Reid?” You were glad your voice didn't crack, too large a giveaway even though the piece of wood blocking your face.
“To talk.”
“About what?”
You hear him sigh in annoyance.
“I've already been through one interrogation today, and so have you. Just let me in.”
You contemplated just leaving him out there. After all, he'd been so suspicious for the past few days—maybe he was finally done. Done with all the fighting and the jabs and insults. What he'd do, exactly, as a result of being done, you weren't sure, but it couldn't be good.
Then again, he probably looked really miserable on the other side of that door and your brain really needed the rush of seeing it after the day you'd had.
“What?” You asked, opening the door with an annoyed huff.
Spencer's head was tilted towards the ground, one hand resting against the door frame, looking defeated. You felt a rush of…something, seeing that.
The moment his head snapped up, you prepared yourself for conflict. He opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled, his frizzy curls sticking up every which way, but his expression changed completely in just a second.
His frown fell, his mouth closed, and his eyes widened slightly, flitting all over your face. Your heart jumped into your throat at the sight.
The brunette straightened, striding inside your room on his long legs, right past you.
“Wow, okay, you enter a lady’s room late at night with no explanation or permission? People will talk, y'know.”
He didn't respond. Whatever momentary astonishment had overtaken him had passed, his forehead now more creased than you'd ever seen it. The line of his back held tension, moreso than usual, and he balled his fists up beside thighs.
“Close the door.” He said, eyes trained on the carpeted floor. You didn't particularly care for his attitude.
“Oh, so now you're making demands? I mean really, Reid, the absolute—”
“I'm not fucking around right now. Close the door.” Spencer turned to face you, his eyes almost burning with whatever it was he needed to discuss. The same kind of intensity it held when you two were in the field, when there was no room for banter or fucking around because lives were on the line.
You obeyed him, closing the door with a soft click before leaning against it.
For the first time since you'd met him, Spencer looked genuinely frustrated. He opened and closed his mouth several times, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, his eyes closing in apparent frustration. His balled fists flattened over his face, and when he dragged his skin back, he opened his eyes again, looking at you.
“You know, you've been wrong before, about several things, but I don't think you've ever been this wrong.”
The words felt like a slap. You swallowed around the rock in your throat, because if Spencer had come in here to berate you for your work, you suspected there would be more where that came from.
“Bullshit. I was right about the unsub, I was right about the profile, I was right about the motive—”
“I'm not talking about fucking work right now! Or a petty sociological debate of which we both know the results! Or even your awful taste in songs!” The sheer volume of Spencer's voice stunned you into silence. He didn't yell. He snapped and he insulted and he rolled his eyes but he didn't yell at you. Spencer swallowed, panting slightly. Upon seeing what must've been your bewildered expression, his face softened, and he screwed his eyes shut again.
“Then—then what are you talking about?” Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Unsure. You were never unsure with Spencer before that moment.
“You.” His eyes snapped open, unbearably big and sad.
Confusion flooded your mind—you were half-convinced you'd been shot on your way to the hotel and this was just a fever dream.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yes you do. You're not in denial, I know that.” His tone was so absolute, he had complete belief in whatever he was talking about.
If only he would be so kind as to let you in on the secret.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I told you—you.”
“What about me?” Your volume was rising now, too, your hands waving around in the air to gesture to your entire self. You understood why Spencer kept dragging his hands across his face. The conversation was making you want to pull your hair out.
“Relating to the unsub.”
You had been shot on the way to the hotel. That was simply the only explanation.
You did not spend the entire fucking day masking every emotion, every twitch of the lip, every little glance, just to be found out by the one guy who had no reason to even think about you any more than he had to in a professional capacity, let alone actually pay attention to your existence when it didn't serve or annoy him.
“I don't know what you're implying—”
“Yes you fucking do!” Your denial only egged Spencer on, and he walked closer to you, stopping when he was about three feet away.
“The picking of your scar? The way none of us were even in the same league about the unsub's motive but you figured it out after going to the bathroom, a place with mirrors? The way you keep your eyes away from all reflective surfaces? The fact that the mirror in your house was covered with a sheet—”
“I told you that was because it was hard to clean!” Your voice was reaching a desperate pitch, you could hear it, you wouldn't believe yourself if this were a true interrogation.
“No!” Spencer said, sounding indignant. “You did not tell me, you lied to me. There is a difference.”
“All of that is circumstantial and proves absolutely—”
“You're bleeding right now.”
Whatever your next words were, they promptly died on your tongue. Spencer's words were like a period, the argument a sentence, and you the dumb conjunction trying to keep it going. But there was nothing to continue.
“Sheila scratched your cheek. You were bleeding at the precinct. You probably didn't realise it, but that's why everyone was being so nice.” The indignation had drained out of his voice. He just sounded tired now. Why would he be tired—why did he even care?
“The blood has since dried on your cheek and the cut is untreated, whereas you're the kind of person who slaps a bandaid on cat scratches. The only reason you didn't take care of it is because you didn't know it was there, on the one part of your face you can't see without a mirror.”
Your hand came up to your cheek, feeling around for the tell-tale scab. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt like smoke, so you simply looked past Spencer's shoulder.
“It could also be because I just got in—”
“No you didn't. You left the precinct before me, walked here, which, based on your average speed, would only take you ten minutes. It's been an hour and half.”
Your eyes snapped to the clock on the wall, trapped behind metal bars for whatever reason, and you found to your chagrin that Spencer was right.
Now it was your turn to close your eyes. Not in frustration—in defeat.
He'd done it. He'd found the one weakness you had, because that's just how much he hated you.
“I'm not a risk to the team. I'm not gonna have a psychotic break just because I don't like my face.” Admitting it out loud made your lower lip wobble, and tears burned like acid behind your eyes.
“I'm not worried about you being a risk.” Spencer sounded even closer, now, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.
“Then why do you even care? What, you just saw an opportunity to humiliate the person you hate and you couldn't help it?” There was silence from the other end, which you took as confirmation.
“I—what?” The sheer affronted nature of the word made your eyes snap open, and you found yourself deeply embarrassed to find your vision blurry with tears, too blurry to parse the expression on the brunette's face.
“You think I hate you? That I wanna humiliate you?” You had never seen Spencer so offended—his mouth was so wide in disbelief you thought for a second his jaw was about to crack.
“...don't you? You're always fighting with me.”
“No! I'm not—we don't fight, we banter! It's different!” Spencer's hands were in his hair again, and you realised he was only about a foot away from you.
“Because you don't hate me?” Your voice sounded incredulous even to your own ears.
“Yes!”
‘Liar.’
“Then why do it? Why counter everything I say, all the time, with no real reason?” You scoffed, voice thick with tears.
“Because I like how you react!” Spencer exclaimed, stepping even closer. “You get mad and then you come up with some insult that's either really smart or funny even if it's in a juvenile way and then you—your brows furrow when you're annoyed, and that scar twists in funny ways, and your lips always form a pout around whatever you say next and your eyelashes practically brush your cheek even when they're narrowed and glaring at me and—”
His hands shot out at you, and before you even had the opportunity to react, they were on your face, gentle and calloused. His hands were large, easily encompassing the entirety of the sides of your face. His eyes were even bigger than before now, his lips turned down in a pout, his brows curved in a way you thought only cartoon puppies were capable of.
“Your face haunts me. It derails my work, my deductions, because I cannot help but goad you just to have an excuse to stare at it fully, to see it move and exist—my reading speed has declined by thirty five percent ever since you've joined the team! You make incredible deductions and get that smug look on your face when you're right, when you turn around and call me an idiot, or when you manage to race past me for the best chair in the room and I pretend I'm angry about it when in truth, at any given point I can steal it from you.”
Spencer's face was closer now, his angular nose brushing against yours. You weren't quite sure what to do with your hands, or with the acidic feeling in your eyes again, or with the desperation with which Spencer was speaking.
“I—it pains me, that what you find detestable is the thing that is ruining my life. That when you look at yourself you don't see the intelligent spark in your eyes or the natural voracity with which you approach everything, but rather something that you cannot stand.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and when your hands found their way onto his wrists, he considered it an invitation to push closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
His face was warm, as was his body, now close enough to radiate heat onto you. His thumb stroked the underside of your eye on your uninjured cheek, his other hand tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“That can't be true.” You said softly, biting on your lower lip and looking down.
“It is,” Spencer sounded even more desperate than before, squeezing your face slightly, “You just think that because some stupid voice in your brain wants you to.” He sounded like he wanted you to believe it.
You wanted you to believe it.
“Let me fix that cut? Please?” The brunette breathed the words against your mouth, before practically kneeling on the ground so you'd be forced to look down at him.
“...I don't even feel it.”
“That doesn't mean it's not worth fixing, pretty.”
The tears refused to go away, now joined by a stray sniffle. The nickname felt like a shot through your chest, painful and raw.
You let Spencer gently tug you along to sit on the edge of the bed, your eyes firmly stuck on the floor, before he went into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.
It was only after you remembered that you'd covered the bathroom mirror with a tshirt that your head snapped up and towards the wooden door, only to see Spencer come out looking slightly forlorn.
Ashamed, you looked away again, focusing on the swirls your shoes made on the carpet.
You couldn't ignore him for long, since soon after the mattress sank beside you under the weight of one lanky agent, two of his fingers pinched your chin, turning you to face him.
“Hey,” He said, voice soft, eyes softer, as he raised the little alcohol soaked cotton ball to your cheek, “having insecurities is normal, pretty.”
“Not to this extent, it isn't.” You blinked rapidly as the cold object touched the dry blood, wiping it off.
“Says who?”
“People.”
“People also say I'm autistic.”
“...well that might be true so I don't think you're really helping the case here.” Your lips twitched into a smile as the familiar rush of fighting—no, bantering—with Spencer curled around your nervous system. You took your eyes off the wall behind him to glance at his face, only to see his cheeks dimpled with a soft smile.
Your heart soared and your own smile widened in response. His face only softened further, if that was even possible.
You hissed as the cotton touched the cut, softly wiping any dirt or dust off of it.
“Is it bad?” You asked apprehensively.
“No, it's just a small scratch. About an inch long, not too deep, easy to slap a bandaid on.” Without waiting for an affirmative from you, Spencer grabbed a bandaid, carefully placing it over the cut.
“I'll look ridiculous, walking around with bandaids on my face over a scratch.”
“I can draw the FBI logo on it if it'll make you feel less ridiculous.”
You snorted, unsure whether the brunette was joking. You didn't really care. He could've said he was going to draw a dick on the bandaid and you would've let him.
His hand cupped your cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing past your ear and into your hair. He didn't do or say anything, simply looked at you with an earnestness no one had ever displayed before.
So you leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.
Spencer looked stunned—that wide-eyed, off-guard look you'd come to love so much in the two times you'd seen it.
“Your face haunts me too, for the record. And your hair. And your dumb cardigans and ties.”
“I thought you hated my dumb cardigans and ties.” The way Spencer's lips curled around his words made you soft, reaching out to wrap his tie around your fist.
“Yes, well, consider me a fox and your dumb cardigans and ties a nice bunch of grapes.” You tried to sound stand-offish, but the absolute beam taking over your face wouldn't really allow it.
“Am I the crow, then?”
“Duh.”
“I do like things that sparkle.” Spencer leaned in, brushing his nose against yours again.
“Oh yeah?” You taunted, lips twitching into a smirk.
“Yeah. Your smile. Your eyes. Your brain.”
“My brain sparkles?” You laughed.
“You sparkle. I like you.”
You licked your bottom lip once before biting it.
“That's good. Cuz I kinda like you too.”
“Really? I couldn't tell.” You rolled your eyes at the sarcasm, rolling off his tongue even while he was an inch away from you.
“Fuck you.”
“At least take me on a date first, pretty.” Spencer whispered, before leaning in and brushing his lips softly against yours.
You pressed back against them, allowing your mouths to be slotted together as you curled into him as much as you physically could. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap to sit on one of his thighs.
There was nothing hurried about the kiss, which felt like it lasted for hours—by the grace of the tiny breathing breaks you two kept taking—both of you warm and purring into each other.
“Stay?” You asked softly when you two parted. Spencer's fingers came up to tuck your hair away again, and he pressed his forehead to your temple this time, nosing your cheek, holding you close now for no other reason than just because.
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre: smut with plot, rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, love triangle-ish
✧ warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment, handjob, orgasm, fingering, dirty talk/explicit language, spitting, aftercare
✧ word count: 16.1k
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist
There are only a couple of weeks left until Switzerland spits Soobin back out.
The countdown sits in your body—not in your head, in your gut. It’s there when you’re brushing your teeth. It’s there when you’re walking to campus. It’s there when your phone vibrates and you don’t even need to look to know whose name is on the screen.
And it’s there now, when your friends decide to take your fragile little nervous system and use it as party décor. They don’t ask you to come out. They drag you like it’s a community service.
“You’ve been missing for, like, a month,” Mina says, tugging your sleeve while you stand in your doorway with your coat half on. “I’ve seen ghosts with better attendance.”
“I’ve been busy,” you argue, which is technically true if you count make-out sessions with Yeonjun as an extracurricular.
Yuna leans against the hall wall, unimpressed. “Busy doing what? Building a shrine? Writing vows? Practising deep throating a banana?”
You choke. “Can you not—”
Beomgyu appears behind her. A demon summoned by your discomfort. “She can’t,” he says cheerfully. “She’s been acting like she’s in a Victorian novel. Always clutching her phone like it’s a locket.”
“It’s just a date,” you mutter.
“That’s what makes it worse,” Beomgyu says. “A date. She’s about to get wined and dined and then her life is going to end in an alley behind a Wetherspoons.”
Mina shrieks laughing. “BEOMGYU!”
Yuna points at you, eyes sharp. “Why are you not happy-happy? You’ve wanted him since, what, Year 11?”
“I am happy,” you lie too fast.
Your stomach gives that same weird roll—not nausea, not hunger, something in between. Your body is trying to warn you and you keep pretending you don’t understand the language.
Beomgyu squints at you. “Say it,” he prompts.
“Say what?”
“Say you’re going to ditch us when Soobin’s back,” he says, delighted. “Because I’m calling it now. You’ll be like—sorry guys, can’t come out, I’m busy getting railed.”
“Oh my God,” Mina wheezes, covering her face.
Yuna doesn’t even flinch. “He’s not wrong.”
“I’m not going to ditch you,” you say, and it comes out defensive in a way you hate.
Beomgyu’s grin widens. “That’s not a denial. That’s guilt.”
You step forward, grabbing your keys, because if you stay here for one more second your friends will start chanting blowjob. “Fine,” you snap. “I’ll come.”
Mina claps. “Yes! Put on lip gloss. We’re reviving you.”
“Don’t revive me,” you mutter. “I liked being dead.”
Beomgyu beams. “That’s the spirit.”
The flat is already sweating by the time you arrive.
You regret it the moment the door opens—bass thumping through the walls, heat blooming in your face, bodies packed into corners because nobody here has ever heard of personal space. The air tastes of vodka and stale energy drinks and strawberry vape, and someone has already spilled something on the floor and decided it’s everybody else’s problem.
Mina disappears into the crowd. Yuna does too, immediately clocking someone across the room, about to ruin her own night on purpose.
Beomgyu stays attached to you for exactly thirty seconds—the exact amount of time it takes him to start narrating your life. “There she is,” he announces, loud enough that a few people turn. “Our local menace. Our community liar. The girl who’s about to become Mrs Switzerland.”
“I hate you,” you hiss.
“You love me,” he replies, because he’s addicted to being correct.
A girl you vaguely recognise from a seminar hands you a cup. You take it because you refuse to admit you feel fragile.
Beomgyu leans in, voice low. “Have you picked your outfit for the date yet?”
“It’s dinner,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “And then what?”
Something rolls low in your belly. You take a sip just to occupy your mouth with something other than panic. It burns. Your throat tightens. You cough.
Beomgyu pats your back with fake sincerity. “Breathe. Don’t die. That would be so inconvenient.”
“Why do I feel sick?” you mutter, half to yourself.
Yuna’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Because you’re anxious. Or because your body is haunted.”
Mina reappears with a grin and a hand on your shoulder. “Okay. We’re doing shots.”
“No,” you say immediately.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to,” you say, and your tone is too thin—the kind of thin that tells the truth without meaning to.
Mina studies you for half a second. Her smile softens, just a fraction. “Okay,” she says gently, then immediately ruins it. “But you can’t come out and act like a nun at a brothel. It’s stressing me out.”
“Stop calling me a nun,” you groan.
Beomgyu gasps. “You’re right. Nuns have commitment. You’re more like—”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you,” you warn.
He lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Violence. Noted. See? She’s alive.”
They keep talking—about the party, about other people, about some drama in the groupchat that you missed because you’ve been mentally—and physically—elsewhere for weeks. You nod at the right times. You smile when someone makes a joke. You laugh when Beomgyu does something stupid on purpose.
But you don’t feel present.
You feel like you’re watching your own night through a pane of glass. And underneath everything—the music, the bodies, the noise—there’s one stupid, annoying thought that won’t leave you alone. I want to talk to Yeonjun.
Not in a horny, lesson-three, I need help way. In a why does my chest unclench when he talks to me? way.
It makes you angry.
Because Soobin is the one you’re supposed to want. Soobin is the plan. Soobin is the whole reason you set fire to your own life in the first place. So why does the thought of him coming back make you feel—pressured? Why does it feel like an exam you crammed for with the wrong textbook?
You take another sip. It does nothing except make your stomach roll harder.
Mina bumps your hip. “You’re doing that thing,” she says.
“What thing?”
“That thing where your eyes go dead,” she replies. “Where are you?”
“Here,” you lie.
Yuna’s gaze sharpens. “No, you’re not.”
Beomgyu leans over Mina’s shoulder, eyes bright with violence. “Is it Switzerland Boy?” he whispers, gleeful. “Are we panicking about dick expectations again?”
“Beomgyu,” Mina groans.
“It’s a valid topic,” he insists. “It’s academic. It’s educational.”
You glare at him. “Drop it.”
He grins. “That’s a yes.”
You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself. And that’s the problem. You’re smiling. You’re laughing. You’re standing in a party with your friends and you’re still—elsewhere. Still restless. Still hollow in a specific way. Because the only person you actually want to talk to right now isn’t in this room. You don’t know why. You don’t let yourself unpack it.
You just stand there, holding your drink, watching everyone pair off.
Mina disappears first—a tall guy slides into her space, says something in her ear.
“Don’t leave me,” you mouth at her.
She mouths back, SORRY, already halfway gone.
Yuna goes next. She doesn’t even pretend. She just points at you and says, “Text me if you die,” like she’s clocking out of friendship for the evening.
Beomgyu lingers because he’s a menace with a heart, unfortunately. “You good?” he asks, and for once it isn’t a joke.
You inhale. Your stomach rolls again. “Yeah,” you say.
Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. “That sounded like a lie.”
“Everything sounds like a lie when I say it,” you mutter.
He snorts, then looks you over, deciding how hard to push. “Do you want to go home?” he asks, softer than usual.
You almost say yes. But then you picture going back to your room—the silence, the phone buzzing, the countdown—and your body resists.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
Beomgyu nods, understanding more than he’s saying. “Okay,” he says. “Well. I’m about to be a terrible person.”
“Shocker.”
He grins. “Don’t wait up.”
“Enjoy being a whore,” you tell him.
He beams. “Always.”
Then he’s gone too—swallowed by the noise and the bodies and the night.
And just like that, you’re alone in the middle of a room full of people. The music feels louder without your friends talking over it. The air feels thicker. You suddenly can’t stand the press of bodies—the way everyone’s laughing with someone, touching someone, leaning into someone.
Your stomach grumbles, low and traitorous. Heat crawls up your neck—part embarrassment, part irritation.
You take a breath. Then another.
You look at the door. You don’t tell anyone you’re leaving because nobody’s paying attention anyway—everyone’s already busy being young and reckless and loved for the night.
You decide you’re done. You push through the hallway, slip your shoes on with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy, and open the door.
Cold air hits your face like a slap. Your lungs finally expand. You step outside—and for a second, all you can hear is your own heartbeat.
And the strange part? You’re not thinking about Soobin.
You’re thinking about Yeonjun.
The door shuts behind you, muffling the bass into a dull, distant thud. Your stomach is still doing that weird rolling thing—not quite nerves, not quite hunger, not quite nausea.
You tug your coat tighter and start walking.
And then you see him.
Yeonjun’s posted up a little away from the doorway under a streetlight that makes the smoke look silver. He’s alone this time—no mates. Just him with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, body relaxed.
He’s dressed like he didn’t try. A black cap pulled low— the white logo catching the light. Hood up over it, a dusty-blue hoodie framing his face. Oversized black coat thrown over everything. His hair slips out from under the cap in dark pieces, falling across his cheek. Pale skin, soft mouth, lashes too long.
You should keep walking. Instead, something warm swells in your chest and drags your feet toward him.
Yeonjun’s gaze lifts.
His eyes light up when he sees you. You hate how much you love it.
“Leaving already?” he asks, voice rough from smoke.
“Yeah,” you say, like you didn’t just walk out of a party because your body couldn’t handle being in a room full of people who aren’t him. “It was shit.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “It’s always shit.”
You stop in front of him—close enough to smell the cigarette, and the faint trace of whatever he put on his skin that shouldn’t smell this good on a random night.
He flicks ash, glances past you toward the doorway. “Where’s your little entourage?”
“Gone,” you say. “One of them is probably tongue-deep in somebody’s mouth. The other one is pretending she’s not. Beomgyu is—”
“Being a menace,” Yeonjun finishes, because he’s met him once and already knows he’s a hazard.
“Exactly.”
Yeonjun hums, amused, then tilts his head at you. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He looks at you like you’re stupid. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
“It’s a liar’s answer.”
You glare. “You’re literally smoking outside a party at one in the morning. You don’t get to interrogate my emotional health.”
He checks his phone without looking too interested. “One twenty-seven.”
“Disgusting,” you mutter.
Yeonjun smiles, slow. “You’re out late for someone who hates parties.”
“I hate parties,” you say. “I don’t hate—leaving parties.”
His gaze holds yours a beat too long. Something in his face shifts—like he’s about to ask something real. Your stomach chooses violence and answers for you, growling loud enough to count as a confession. It’s not even a cute noise.
You go hot instantly. “Oh my God.”
Yeonjun blinks—then laughs. He tips his head back, shoulders shaking, cigarette hanging between his fingers. The streetlight hits the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth—and you have the idiotic thought that he looks beautiful even when he’s being annoying.
“I hate you,” you say, mortified.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, not sorry at all. “That was—”
“Don’t describe it.”
“You’re starving,” he says, still grinning.
“I’m not starving.”
“You’re literally growling at me,” he replies. “Are you a werewolf?”
You shove him lightly in the chest. His coat barely shifts. Your hand registers his warmth through the layers and your brain tries to reboot into something normal. It fails.
Yeonjun takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette away and grinds it under his shoe. “Come on,” he says, easy. “Let’s get food.”
You blink. “What?”
“Food,” he repeats, like you’re slow. “Eat. Before your stomach starts sending SOS signals to the entire street.”
“It’s late,” you argue.
He shrugs. “So?”
“Most places are closed.”
“Then we find something that’s not,” he says. “I’m not letting you go home hungry and feral. That’s bad for society.”
“You’re acting very—nice,” you say.
Yeonjun shoots you a look. “Don’t start.”
“What? I’m just—”
“Don’t,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Walk.”
You fall into step beside him without thinking.
The night is cold and damp, pavement glossy under streetlights. You pass a kebab shop—shutters down. Chicken place—closed. Even the little late-night café that survives on students and desperation has its lights off.
“Okay,” you say, after the third closed door. “We get it. The world hates me.”
“The world hates everyone,” Yeonjun replies. “It’s equal-opportunity.”
Your stomach rumbles again, quieter but still rude.
Yeonjun smirks. “Your stomach’s got a mouth on it.”
“Stop,” you groan.
He looks at you sideways. “You didn’t drink much, did you?”
“I drank enough to hate myself,” you say.
He hums. “Fair.”
Then you hit salvation. A Tesco Express, lights still on, automatic doors whooshing open.
Yeonjun grabs a basket and holds it out to you with mock formality. “Welcome,” he says, deadpan. “To fine dining.”
You take it. “Thank you, sir.”
His eyes flicker, pleased in a quiet way he tries to hide. It annoys you. You drift toward the sad meal deals fridge. Yeonjun follows and squints.
“No,” he says.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean no,” he repeats. “That’s depressing.”
“It’s food.”
“That’s not food. That’s punishment,” he says, then gestures ahead. “Ingredients.”
You blink. “You want to cook.”
Yeonjun nods because he’s just decided he’s the main character. “Yeah.”
“You can cook?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He turns slowly. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you expect me to poison you.”
You shrug. “Do you want me to be honest?”
He points at you. “Careful. I’m fragile.”
“You’re not fragile. You’re Choi Yeonjun.”
He groans like you’ve ruined his life. “Don’t do the myth. Pick a pasta.”
Your stomach makes a tiny, hopeful noise again.
Yeonjun’s eyes drop to it as if genuinely considering arguing with your digestive system. “Spaghetti,” he decides, tossing a pack into the basket. Then olive oil. Then garlic. He hesitates in front of the garlic. “How much?” he asks.
“As much as you want,” you say.
Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve seduced him with seasoning. “Correct answer.”
You laugh—and it slips out easy, which surprises you. It surprises you how easy it is with him. Yeonjun catches the sound and looks pleased for half a second before he wipes it off his face.
Your eyes snag on the aisle with condoms, lube, and pregnancy tests lined up together.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He clears his throat. “Do you—need anything?”
You stare at him. “For what?”
His eyes flick to the shelf for half a second.
“Oh my God,” you hiss. “No.”
Yeonjun’s tone stays casual, but his grin turns sharp. “Just asking. Responsible adult behaviour.”
“You’re making it weird.”
“I’m literally trying not to make it weird,” he says, leaning in a little, voice dropping. “You’re the one blushing in Tesco.”
“I’m not blushing.”
He looks at you, unimpressed. “You’re red.”
“It’s the heating.”
“It’s not,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your stomach do something embarrassing all over again.
Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.
minmin: where the fuck did you go???
yunana: if you died say something
beomgyu: SWISS BOY KIDNAPPED U??? send location u grimlin
You snort.
Yeonjun tilts his head. “What?”
You angle the screen so he can see.
He reads it, then laughs under his breath. “Your friends are insane.”
“They’re worse when they’re drunk,” you say.
He watches you a beat, then says, “Text them. Before they call the police and I end up as a suspect.”
You type quickly, i’m alive. fuck off.
Beomgyu responds instantly.
beomgyu: ARE U WITH HIM
minmin: WHO
yunana: send location. NOW.
You lock your phone. “Absolutely not.”
Yeonjun’s brows lift. “You’re not telling them?”
“No,” you say. “They’ll ruin it.”
He pauses. “Ruin what?”
You meet his eyes for half a second and the answer sits there between you. You don’t give it words. You just shrug, because you don’t trust your mouth.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches, softening. “Okay,” he says. “Secret Tesco mission.”
“Exactly.”
At checkout, the cashier barely looks up. Yeonjun taps his card and slides the bag handles over his wrist automatically. Outside, the cold hits again.
Yeonjun nods down the street. “My place,” he says. “I’ll cook.”
You blink. “You’re sure?”
He scoffs. “What, you think I’m going to abandon you on the pavement with raw spaghetti and emotional damage?”
“Maybe,” you say.
Yeonjun grins. “Don’t be thick. Come on.”
And as you follow him—plastic bag rustling, streetlights flickering, your phone buzzing and you ignoring it—it hits you, quietly, in the pit of your stomach. This is the first time you’re just together. No lesson. No rules. No agenda.
Just you and Yeonjun walking home with groceries at 1:30am like that isn’t dangerous in its own way.
Yeonjun’s keys stick in the lock. He swears under his breath, shoulder braced to the door. A strand of dark hair falls across his cheek when he finally gets it open, and he exhales with relief. “Don’t say it,” he warns without looking at you.
You step in, automatically toeing your shoes off where you put them last time—and the fact your body remembers that hits you a second later, sharp and inconvenient. “I wasn’t going to,” you say.
“You were,” he replies, deadpan. “Your face was loading.”
The flat smells the same as it did the first night—clean laundry, soap, and Yeonjun’s cologne—except now you’re actually noticing the flat. The sofa you didn’t even properly clock before. The kitchen that wasn’t part of the plan. The pile of unopened post.
Yeonjun drops the grocery bags on the counter and shrugs his jacket off, hoodie still up. He looks over his shoulder. “Housemate’s at his girlfriend’s,” he says.
Your brows lift. “Why are you telling me that?”
“So you don’t startle when nobody comes out and calls you a freak,” he says simply. Then he adds, “Also so you don’t think I set this up.”
You blink. “Set what up?”
Yeonjun pauses, eyes flicking to you. “Don’t be dense.”
“I’m not being dense,” you say, even though you are, a bit. Your stomach is still doing that weird twisting thing it started doing at the party.
Yeonjun turns away first, grabs a pot from the cupboard. “Sit. I’m cooking.”
“You cooking is not comforting,” you tell him, but you drift toward the sofa anyway because you’ve already done the whole Yeonjun’s bed thing—and somehow sitting on his sofa feels more intimate than getting naked ever did.
“Have faith,” he says. “Aglio olio is literally oil and vibes.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
You sink onto the sofa, watching him move around the kitchen. He looks competent doing everything except the actual cooking—sleeves shoved up, hands quick, mouth set in concentration. He finds the garlic, loses the garlic, swears at the garlic, then starts chopping it with intensity.
“Why are you chopping garlic like it owes you money?” you ask.
“Because it does,” he snaps, then immediately flicks his eyes to you to see if you’re laughing.
You are.
He points the knife at you. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” you lie.
“You’re laughing in your chest,” he says, offended, and it makes you laugh properly.
The water starts boiling. Yeonjun dumps the spaghetti in with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned himself.
You sit up. “You didn’t salt the water.”
Yeonjun freezes so hard you’d think you accused him of murder. Slowly, he turns his head. “...Cheese exists,” he says after a beat, as if that settles it.
“That’s not—”
“Sit down,” he cuts in, wooden spoon in hand. “Before I start seasoning you.”
The words come and both of you pause for half a second because the air does that stupid shift it keeps doing around you lately, where everything turns double-meaning without either of you asking.
Your eyebrows lift.
Yeonjun’s ears go faintly pink. He turns away fast, muttering, “I meant—be quiet.”
You press your lips together to stop smiling. “Sure.”
His phone buzzes on the counter. He ignores it. It buzzes again. Then again.
You don’t mean to look. You still do. It’s a preview from a groupchat, bright on the screen, zero shame.
milo: campus ferrari gone missing
kian: u alive or u getting head??
milo: he’s prolly deep in a pussy let him be
Yeonjun sees your gaze flick and immediately grimaces. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to,” he mutters. “Your eyes are loud.”
You lean back. “Your friends are disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, low. “They’re also bored.” He flicks the phone face-down with a sharp, irritated movement and goes back to the pan.
You watch him stir oil and garlic and chilli flakes with a seriousness that would be hot if it wasn’t objectively funny. “Do you—cook often?” you ask.
Yeonjun snorts. “Obviously.”
The garlic starts browning too fast. The oil spits. Yeonjun flinches, recovers instantly, and tries to pretend he didn’t.
You stare. “You’re so brave.”
“You’re so annoying,” he retorts.
When he finally plates it, he does it with the pride of a man serving a five-course meal. Two bowls. Two forks. He sets yours down in front of you like he’s daring you to disrespect him.
You take a bite. It’s… bad. Oil-forward. Garlic burnt. Pasta over-cooked. The kind of food that tastes like a handsome person insisted on being independent. You swallow carefully and keep your face neutral out of pure kindness.
Yeonjun watches you with narrowed eyes. “How is it?” He leans closer. “Tell me.”
You take another bite, determined to spare his ego. “It’s—very Yeonjun.”
He blinks. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s loud and slightly stressful,” you say sweetly, and his mouth twitches before he can stop it.
“You’re such a dick.”
“Your cooking made me one.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh, then exhales, rubbing his face like he’s tired. He eats his own bowl with grim commitment. And then, somewhere between bite three and bite four, his humour drops out of his expression in a way that’s subtle enough you might’ve missed if you weren’t watching him properly.
He stares at his fork for a second. Then he says, flatly, “Do you ever get sick of people deciding who you are for you?”
You still.
Yeonjun doesn’t look at you when he says it. His gaze stays on the table. “I’m always—something,” he continues, voice quieter. “A rumour. A joke. A story people tell because they’re bored. Even when it’s my mates, it’s still—” he gestures with the fork, frustrated, “—the same shit. The same expectations.”
He swallows. His jaw flexes once.
“And it’s easy to play into it,” he admits with a grimace. “Because if I correct it, I’m killing the vibe. If I’m tired, I’m dramatic. If I’m not in the mood, suddenly it’s a thing.”
He finally glances up at you—just a flicker—and his eyes sharpen, expecting you to joke, or flinch, or do the usual comforting performance people do when they don’t know what to say.
You don’t. You just hold the silence so he doesn’t have to rush himself out of it.
Yeonjun’s throat moves. He looks away again, irritated, softer in the same breath. “It’s weird,” he mutters. “Sitting here and not—performing.”
You nod once. “Yeah.”
That’s all you give him. Not reassurance. Not aw, you’re not like that. Not a speech. Just—I heard you.
Yeonjun’s shoulders drop a fraction.
Your phone lights up on the table.
soobin: call?
The name sits there. Normally you’d feel the rush. The validation. The finally. Instead, your stomach twists again—the same strange, sour pull you’ve been trying to blame on party alcohol or dodgy dinner.
Yeonjun doesn’t look at the screen. He doesn’t angle for it. He doesn’t make it his problem. He just keeps eating his tragic pasta, giving you a clean exit if you want one.
Your thumb moves before your brain can argue. You flip your phone over, swipe, and turn Do Not Disturb on.
Yeonjun’s eyes flick up—quick surprise—then away again, refusing to make it a thing.
The quiet that follows feels different.
Yeonjun stands and takes both bowls to the sink, rinsing them. Then he comes back, wiping his palms on his hoodie, and points the remote.
“Wanna watch One Piece?” he asks.
Your mouth twitches. “Yeah, lets.”
The theme song blasts. Bright and stupid and loud. Yeonjun drops onto the cushion beside you, shoulder brushing yours for half a second. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you.
And for the first time in days, your stomach unclenches—not because everything is solved, but because, right now, you’re just here. In his living room. With bad pasta in your bloodstream and your favourite anime on the TV, listening to Yeonjun laugh at something on-screen.
By the time the episode counter starts feeling rude—Next Episode flashing with a personal vendetta—it’s 5am. Your body is the first to tap out.
You push yourself up from the sofa and stretch, spine cracking in a way that makes you wince. Your stomach rolls again—that same odd twist from earlier—and you frown. Right. Cool. Amazing. Either you’re having a medical crisis over a boy, or Yeonjun’s pasta is about to give you diarrhoea.
You glance down. Yeonjun’s asleep.
His head is tipped slightly toward the armrest, mouth parted, one hand loose on his stomach. The hoodie’s bunched up at his waist from shifting, soft fabric pulled tight across his shoulder.
And he looks—beautiful.
Lashes resting on his cheeks. Hair fallen forward, darker in the low light. That hoop in his ear catching a weak flicker from the TV screen. The kind of face someone could paint and ruin their own life over. The kind of face you could cry to.
Your insides lurch again and you scowl. “Stop,” you whisper, to your digestive system, to your brain, to whatever part of you is trying to turn One Piece and a terrible dinner into a personality shift.
You move quietly, grabbing your coat from where you dumped it over the chair. You find your shoes by the door, crouch, and start to slide them on as gently as you can.
You reach for the handle.
Behind you, a voice, thick with sleep. “Where’re you going?”
You pause.
Yeonjun’s sitting up, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm, hair a mess now. He blinks at you, reloading the room.
“Home,” you say, trying to keep it casual. “Before the sun comes out and I have to explain why I’m leaving your flat in last night’s clothes.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “You’re not leaving.”
“I am leaving.”
“You’re not leaving alone,” he corrects, as if that’s the only part he’s objecting to.
You stare. “Yeonjun, you’re half dead.”
“I’m awake.”
“You’re literally speaking in subtitles.”
He drags himself to his feet anyway, taller in motion. He grabs his keys, shoves his feet into trainers without socks.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you insist, pulling your coat on. “Go back to sleep.”
Yeonjun looks at you for a beat, expression flat. “No,” he says, opening the door. “Come on.”
You follow him out, annoyed at how easily he gets his way. The hallway is quiet. The building asleep. Outside, the air is sharp enough to make your eyes water. The sky is still dark but thinning—the edge of morning starting to bleed in.
Yeonjun walks beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looks younger like this. Less performance. More person. You try not to think about it.
“You okay?” he asks after a minute.
“Yes,” you say too quickly.
He glances at you. “That means no.”
You exhale. “My stomach feels weird.”
“Told you,” he says, smug even while sleepy. “My pasta has consequences.”
“It’s not your pasta,” you argue.
“It is my pasta,” he insists. “And my trauma, but that doesn’t count.”
You choke out a laugh, then immediately feel it in your stomach again, a flutter that is absolutely not diarrhoea and you want to scream.
The streets are empty. No students, no taxis, no idiots yelling outside kebab shops. Just your footsteps and the occasional distant car, the city still half-dreaming.
Yeonjun slows a little, matching your pace like he’s not thinking about it. Then he clears his throat. It’s a small sound. But it changes the air. “You know—” he starts.
You look at him. He’s staring ahead, jaw tight. His hands stay in his pockets.
“What?” you ask.
He exhales, annoyed. “Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
Yeonjun clicks his tongue. “There are—things I haven’t told you.”
“Okay,” you say, simple.
He frowns. “You’re not even going to ask what.”
“If you want to tell me,” you say, “you’ll tell me.”
Yeonjun stares at you. For a second you think he’s going to push. Insist. Force the words out because he’s halfway there and pride hates retreat. Instead, he looks away, eyes fixed on the pavement, and his shoulders drop a fraction. “—Right,” he mutters.
You keep walking.
Yeonjun follows. A beat later, he says, quieter, “You’re weird.”
You huff. “You’re the one who committed an act of culinary terrorism and then walked me home like a Victorian chaperone.”
He snorts. “Don’t make it sound wholesome.”
“It is wholesome,” you shoot back. “It’s five in the morning and you’re escorting me home because your flatmate’s at his girlfriend’s.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Stop.”
You tilt your head. “Why? Embarrassed?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. Then adds, like it’s an insult, “You make things feel—normal.”
The sentence lands in your chest in a way you don’t know what to do with. So you do what you’ve been doing all night. You don’t make it weird. You don’t turn it into a moment. You just nod once and keep walking.
Your building comes into view too fast. You stop at the entrance, hand on the door handle. Yeonjun stops beside you, posture slightly too close.
“Thanks,” you say.
Yeonjun shrugs. “Whatever.”
You raise a brow. “Whatever?”
“I’m not going to say you’re welcome like I’m someone’s dad,” he mutters.
You smile despite yourself. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”
Yeonjun looks at you for a long second, eyes scanning your face. Then he says, low, “Text me when you’re inside.”
You blink. “Why?”
“Because if you collapse from my pasta and I wake up to a missing person alert, I’ll be annoyed,” he says, deadpan.
You stare at him. “You’ll be annoyed?”
“I’ll be very upset,” he corrects quickly, then grimaces like he hates himself for it. “Just—text me.”
You nod, lips pressed together so you don’t smile too hard. “Okay.”
You go inside. Two minutes later, you’re in bed—duvet pulled up, room dark, stomach still making suspicious movements. You reach for your phone, ready to flick Do Not Disturb off, and you see a missed call from Soobin. Your thumb hovers. You don’t do anything.
You open your messages instead.
you: inside now
You toss the phone onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling. Your stomach twists again.
“Please be diarrhoea,” you whisper to your body. “Please.”
Your phone rings ten minutes later. Yeonjun.
You answer on the second ring, voice low. “You’re home?”
“Yeah,” he says. He sounds awake now, which is insane, because he was asleep twenty minutes ago. He clears his throat. “You’re in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” A pause. Then, “You’re still alive?”
“Barely.”
He huffs a laugh, quiet. “Good.”
You wait. Yeonjun doesn’t hang up. The silence stretches—not awkward, just—held. Like neither of you want to be the one to cut it.
Then he says, out of nowhere, “Do you have a date in mind?”
You blink. “For what?”
“For your last lesson,” he says, voice steady. “You said you wanted—three. You said you wanted the final one to be—” He stops, annoyed. “Just. Do you have a day.”
Your stomach does that weird flip again. It’s something that sits under your ribs and makes you feel too aware of your own heartbeat. “Tomorrow,” you hear yourself say.
Yeonjun goes quiet for half a second. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” you say, breath catching slightly. “At your place.”
Another pause. Longer. Then Yeonjun exhales, slow. “Okay.”
You wait for him to add a joke. A crude comment. A smug line. He doesn’t. He just says, quieter, “I’ll be ready.”
Your mouth goes dry in a way you don’t like. You keep your voice even. “Me too.”
Yeonjun breathes out again. “Sleep.”
“You too,” you say.
A beat. Then, softer than his usual voice, “Night.”
“Night,” you reply.
He hangs up.
You stare at your ceiling, phone warm in your hand. Your stomach knots and unknots again. And you think, for the hundredth time tonight, please be the pasta.
Yeonjun’s flat is too clean for what’s about to happen.
His flatmate is still at his girlfriend’s. The absence hangs in the air—no stupid commentary from the kitchen, no footsteps in the hallway, no TV noise to pretend this is casual.
It’s just Yeonjun and his own thoughts, bouncing off walls. He’s been tidying for thirty minutes. Not because the place is messy. Because his hands won’t stop moving.
The buzzer goes. He opens the door and you’re there—coat zipped, hair done without looking done, eyes sharp and steady. You’re not smiling, not nervous. You’re—focused. It hits him low in the stomach.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hey,” he answers, and it comes out rougher than he wants.
You step in and Yeonjun shuts the door. You take your shoes off, slow. He watches your hands, the way you move like you’re trying not to hesitate.
You look up. “Your housemate still—gone?”
“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “He’s not coming back tonight.”
Your eyes flicker at that, quick. Then you step closer. No warm-up. No banter. No so what arc are you on? safety net. You tilt your chin up and lean in for him.
Yeonjun meets you halfway—then pulls back at the last second. Not far. An inch. Enough that your breath hits his mouth and stays there.
Your brows draw together. “What?”
His ring turns under his thumb. His throat feels tight in a way that pisses him off. He’s not having trouble doing this—not the physical part. The confession part is the one that’s making him feel fifteen. “I can’t,” he says.
Your eyes widen, then sharpen. “Can’t what? Kiss me?”
“I can,” he mutters, frustrated, and you see it—the flicker in him, the heat he’s trying to cage. “That’s the problem. I can do that and you’ll think it means one thing, and it means another, and then you’ll hate me when you realise.”
You don’t move. You just watch him.
Yeonjun forces himself to meet your eyes. He hates how much he wants to drop them. “I’ve been living inside a story other people wrote about me.”
The words come out clean. No performance. No smirk. You blink once. “What story?”
He lets out a breath through his nose. “The one where I’m—that guy.”
Your gaze flicks over his face, like you’re checking if he’s joking. He isn’t.
“I let people think I was someone else,” he says. His jaw flexes. “I didn’t correct it. I didn’t stop it. I fed it when it suited me.”
You’re quiet.
Yeonjun swallows. His fingers tighten around the ring. “And I liked being wanted for it—until you.” His voice turns rough on the last word. “With you, I want to be real even if it ruins it.”
Silence presses in.
You shift—a small movement—and Yeonjun’s body reacts instantly. The heat doesn’t disappear because he’s confessing. If anything, it gets worse. His palms feel too empty. His mouth feels too aware of itself.
You speak carefully. “So—you’ve been lying.”
“Yes,” he says, blunt. “Not to you, directly. But—yeah.”
Your eyes narrow. “What’s true, then?”
Yeonjun’s chest tightens. This is the part he keeps trying to step around. He can’t. Not now. He drags in a breath. He hates the next sentence before he even says it. He says it anyway. “I’ve never had sex with anyone. I’m—a virgin,” he says.
Your face changes—surprise, immediate. You don’t cover it.
Yeonjun’s eyes flick away. “And before you—” He stops, jaw tight, then forces it out. “I hadn’t even kissed anyone. Not properly. Not at all.”
The air goes sharper. He expects a laugh. He expects disbelief. He expects you to say no way and make it sound like a joke he can hide behind.
You don’t. You stare at him for a beat, then you say, very quietly, “So this whole time—”
Yeonjun’s mouth twists. “Yeah.” He twists his ring again, hard. His knuckles whiten. “I’m scared you’ll look at me differently,” he admits, and the confession is almost a whisper. “I’m scared this will make you—not want me.”
He tries to joke, because he’s him, because he can’t stand how exposed he feels.
“Which is stupid,” he mutters. “Because I’m literally standing here telling you I’m a fraud. Great strategy, Choi Yeonjun.”
The joke dies in the air. Even he knows it. He goes quiet. His gaze drops to the floor. He can’t hold eye contact.
Then, very carefully, he gives you an out and means it. “If you want to leave,” he says, voice low, “you can. Right now. I won’t be weird. I won’t chase you. I won’t—” He stops himself, swallows. “I won’t make you carry my shit.”
You don’t move.
Yeonjun’s stomach turns. He waits for the sound of your shoes. The polite excuse.
Instead, you lift your hand. Your fingers brush his cheek.
Yeonjun freezes. The touch is gentle.
You say, quietly, “I want you as you are. Not as who I thought you were.”
For a second, Yeonjun can’t speak. His throat tightens, sharp and stupid. He finally looks at you. Your gaze doesn’t drop. You’re not treating him like glass. You’re not trying to fix him. You’re just—there.
And that does something far more dangerous than the rumours ever did. His mouth opens. Closes.
You breathe out, almost amused despite the tension. “Also, this means—”
Yeonjun’s brow lifts a fraction. “Means what?”
You tilt your head. “It means I wasn’t the only one behind.”
The words hit him in the ribs. He exhales, unsteady. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Guess not.”
Your thumb lingers at his jaw for half a second longer, then drops. The loss of it makes him want to grab your wrist and pull you back. He doesn’t.
You step closer again, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Are you going to kiss me now,” you ask, “or are we going to stand here having a crisis in your hallway?”
That pulls a laugh out of him—real, broken, relieved. “Fuck,” he mutters.
You arch a brow. “Consent is sexy,” you say, deadpan.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Don’t.”
“You said it,” you reply.
He lets out a slow breath, then leans in—slow and careful. His hand comes up to your waist. He waits half a beat, eyes on yours.
You don’t back away. So he kisses you.
You make a small sound into his mouth and Yeonjun’s grip tightens without thinking. Your coat shifts between you. The zipper catches on his ring and snags for a second.
You both pause.
You whisper, “Are you serious?”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh against your mouth, breath hot. “Don’t start.”
You tug the coat free, annoyed—and Yeonjun tries to help.
He thinks, distantly, that this is the first time he’s ever wanted to slow down for reasons that aren’t about technique. The kiss deepens as the coat hits the floor—his tongue brushing yours, bolder when you press closer, your body molding against his.
His heart is pounding. He’s not hiding anymore—and fuck, it makes every touch feel electric, every sigh from you pulling at something deeper than lust. Your hands slide under his shirt, fingers cold against his skin, and he shivers.
He breaks the kiss to gasp against your neck. “God, I’ve wanted this—you—since you showed up at my door the very first time,” he murmurs, voice cracking with honesty.
He nips at your skin before soothing with his tongue. You tilt your head back, breathing hard, and he feels your pulse racing under his lips. It’s like his confession unlocked something, making the want feel heavier—terrifying and thrilling all at once.
“Me too,” you whisper back, pulling him in again.
The kiss turns needier—your teeth grazing his bottom lip by accident, tugging enough to make him hiss softly into your mouth.
He groans, low and ragged. His hands slide up your back under your coat, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.
He breaks away barely an inch, breath hot against your lips. “I want you so fucking bad,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the words, “and I don’t know if I can stop once we start.” He swallows thickly, eyes searching yours in the dim hallway light. “So tell me now—if you want to leave, do it. Please.”
You hold his gaze, heart pounding. “I want you, Yeonjun. All of you.”
The words hang there, and his pulse jumps—you can feel it under your fingers on his neck. He nods once, jaw clenching tight like he’s holding back a flood. He kisses you again—harder, backing you up against the wall with a thud that knocks a picture frame askew.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, laughing breathlessly, but he doesn’t stop.
His hands fumble with your coat zipper, yanking it down—the metal catching on fabric. You shrug it off together, arms tangling for a second, before dropping to the floor in a heap.
His mouth finds your neck, sucking at the skin. You gasp, hips grinding forward without thinking, feeling him hard against your thigh.
“Yeonjun—here?” you whisper, half-laughing, half-desperate. Your fingers clutch his shirt as he presses you harder into the wall.
“Not yet,” he rasps, but his hands are everywhere—sliding under your top.
His palms are hot on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He kisses you deeper, tongue tangling wet and eager, saliva mixing. Yoi both stumble down the hallway, bumping into a side table that rattles loudly.
“Shit—sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you along, not breaking the kiss.
His ring catches in your hair for a painful tug that makes you yelp into his mouth. “Ow—watch it,” you tease, but it’s breathy, needy, and you yank him closer by his belt loops.
By the time you reach his bedroom door, you’re both panting. Your clothes are rumpled, his hair a mess from your fingers. He fumbles for the handle—hand slipping once, twice—muttering “Come on” under his breath.
When it finally opens, he pulls you inside, kicking it shut behind you. The quiet of Yeonjun’s room wraps around you—dim light from the bedside lamp, the faint smell of his aftershave mixed with his cologne.
Your heart’s racing—not just from the nerves twisting in your gut, but from the weight of everything he spilled in the hallway. It makes you desperate to make this good—to explore it together without the pretence.
Yeonjun turns to you, eyes dark but soft around the edges. “Come here,” he says, voice low and a tad shaky, reaching out to pull you gently toward the bed by your hand.
You sit on the edge side by side, thighs pressing together, the heat from his skin seeping through your clothes. He leans in to kiss you again—slower now, like he’s trying to savour every second. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. You melt into it.
Your hands find his waist, bunching his shirt. “Can you take this off?” you whisper against his lips.
“Yeah—okay,” he breathes, pulling back to drag his shirt over his head in one go.
His chest is bare now—skin warm and flushed, muscles shifting under it as he tosses the shirt aside. You run your fingers over him tentatively, feeling the rapid thump of his heart, the slight tremble in his abs.
“Yours?” he asks, eyes flicking to your top, hands hovering like he’s not sure if he’s allowed.
You nod, arms lifting, and he helps tug it off—the fabric bunching up around your arms before it pops free.
When it’s gone, he stares at your chest. “Fuck, you’re—gorgeous,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled as he leans in to kiss your collarbone.
“Thanks?” you say softly, cheeks burning. “You too—obviously.”
He smiles against your skin, and it loosens something in your chest. His hands slide round to your bra clasp—fingers slipping off the hook twice, swearing under his breath.
“Why’s this so tricky?” he mutters, laughing nervously, and you giggle too, twisting to help. “There,” he says, sheepish, as it falls away. His eyes widen, pupils blowing out as he takes you in—even though this is the second time he has seen you like this.
He swallows hard. “Can I… touch them—I mean—you?”
“Please,” you breathe, and he cups your breast gently at first—then squeezes firmer when you arch into his palm. His thumb brushes your nipple, sending a spark straight to your core, and you gasp. “That—do it again.”
“Like this?” he asks, circling, eyes locked on your face like he’s cataloguing every reaction.
“Yeah—it feels so good Yeonjun,” you pant, pulling him down for another kiss. The heat builds low in your belly. Your hands wander lower, tugging at his belt. “Please can you—these off too?”
He nods, standing up to unbuckle—belt clinking loudly, nearly tripping as he shoves his jeans down one leg at a time. “Smooth as ever,” he quips, grinning.
Your eyes drop to his boxers—the tent in them obvious and straining. When he pushes those down, his cock springs out. It’s thick, girthy—enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench—veined along the length, the tip flushed and leaking a bead of pre-cum. The thought of his cock inside of you is intimidating when you were barely able to hold it all in your mouth—but the heat between your legs overrides any nerves.
“You’re—big,” you murmur, voice small, reaching out to wrap your hand around him tentatively.
He hisses, hips jerking forward into your grip. “Careful,” he warns, voice strained, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don’t want to cum—yet and I haven’t—done this before… so yeah.”
“Neither have I,” you remind him, stroking slow—you spit into your palm like you did last time, slicking him up.
He groans, head tipping back.
“This okay?”
“Fuck—yeah, but go easy or I’ll finish too quick,” he pants, hands clenching at his sides. “Your hand feels amazing.”
You slow down, and he kneels back on the bed, eyes raking over you hungrily. “I want to make you feel good too,” he says, voice husky.
His fingers hook into your waistband. You lift your hips, and he pulls your jeans and panties down in one tug—fabric catching on your ankle, making you kick it free with a laugh.
“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he murmurs, staring between your legs, fingers tracing up your thigh hesitantly.
“For you,” you say, blushing hard. “Can you touch—me? Please, Yeonjun?”
He nods, sliding a finger through your folds—teasing without meaning to, then pressing firmer when you whimper and buck up. “Does it feel good here?” he asks, circling your clit, thumb slipping off once.
“Lower—a bit—yes, right there,” you guide, grabbing his wrist. He slips a finger inside, and you clench around the intrusion. “Can you add—another finger?”
He does, stretching you with two now—curling them too shallow, then deeper when you shift your hips. “Like that?” he whispers, pumping slow, thumb bumping your clit and making you moan.
“Better—keep going, yeah,” you pant.
You kiss him, desperate for relief, tongues clashing as you grind into his hand. “Feels good—don’t stop.”
“Won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked, free hand groping your breast.
After a few minutes, you’re aching, sopping wet, the emptiness too much. “I think I’m ready,” you gasp. “You?”
“Fuck yes,” he says, but pauses. “Let me grab a condom?”
You nod—glad he thought of it—and he fumbles in his bedside drawer, wrapper crinkling as he tears it with his teeth.
He rolls it on with shaky hands, nearly fumbling it onto the floor. “Right—how d’you want to…?”
“Can you be on top first?” you suggest, scooting back on the bed, pulling him over you.
He settles between your thighs, cock nudging your entrance—sliding up through your folds and bumping your clit, making you both gasp.
“Close—try again.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, grinning while lining up properly. “I’ll be slow, okay? Tell me if it hurts.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
He pushes in inch by inch—the girth stretching you wide, a sharp burn that makes you wince and dig your nails into his shoulders.
“Wait—ow, hold up a sec.”
He stops immediately, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “Too much? We can stop—no pressure.”
“No, just—give me a minute,” you whisper, kissing him softly to distract from the stretch.
He holds still, peppering kisses along your jaw, and slowly the burn eases into fullness, pleasure sparking.
“Okay—you can try to move now? But slow, please.”
He pulls back—too far, slipping out halfway with a wet pop—and thrusts back in unevenly. “Shit—sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you say, half-laughing and half-moaning as he finds his way back in. “Just—keep trying.”
He does, hips stuttering—too deep once making you yelp, then shallower—but it builds, that thick drag against your walls lighting you up.
“Does it feel good like this?” he asks, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Faster—a little,” you guide, legs wrapping round him, heels digging into his ass.
He speeds up, but loses the beat. “I think I’m close—do you want to switch?” he pants, slowing down. “I might last longer if you’re on top.”
You nod, and he rolls you over—knees knocking. You straddle him, sinking down slow. The angle is deeper now, his girth filling you to the brim, hitting spots that make your eyes flutter.
“Oh—fuck,” you gasp, hands on his chest for leverage.
“Shit—fuck—you feel so good. Ride me,” he begs, hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging in too hard then loosening. “You feel incredible—you’re so tight around me.”
You rock tentatively—grinding your clit against his base by accident and moaning loud. “It feels so good, Yeonjun. How does it—for you?”
“Amazing—don’t stop,” he groans, thrusting up, making you bounce off-rhythm.
You slip forward eager to feel him deeper. “Is this too fast?”
“No, fuck, keep going—” he bucks too wild and nearly unseats you.
You both pause a second to catch your breath, foreheads pressed against each other. Then readjust—the eye contact burning, the shared grins turning to gasps.
“I’m close—” you warn, rhythm faltering, thighs burning.
“Me too—please—come with me,” he moans.
Yeonjun’s hand slips between you to rub your clit—too rough at first, then perfect—and it shoves you over, clenching hard around him as waves crash through you. He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking, spilling into the condom.
You collapse onto his chest, both panting, sticky with sweat.
Yeonjun doesn’t move for a while.
Not because he’s playing it cool. His body is still catching up with what just happened.
The room is dim, the air slightly stale in that way it only gets when the window’s been closed too long. The bed’s a mess. The sheet is tangled around your legs. His shirt is somewhere on the floor. There’s a condom wrapper crumpled near the edge of the bedside table.
You’re tucked against him, forehead near his shoulder, breathing unsteady. Yeonjun’s hand is on your back. It stays there. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with his hand when he isn’t acting. So he does the simplest thing—he holds you there and lets your breathing settle against his ribs.
It gets too quiet. The quiet starts asking questions. He hates the quiet.
He clears his throat, and says the first stupid honest thing his brain finds. “I think,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling, “I might be traumatised by your laundry detergent.”
You laugh into his shoulder. It’s the kind of laugh that comes out when your body doesn’t have another safe exit. It shakes once, turns sharp, then softens into a weird little sound he feels against his skin.
Yeonjun freezes for half a second, then his fingers press more firmly into your back. Grounding. “Hey,” he says, lower. “You good?”
You lift your head a fraction, eyes bright and unfocused, mouth swollen. It makes him look away and then look back anyway because his impulse control is a joke.
You nod. Then you nod again. “Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m just—overwhelmed.”
Yeonjun swallows. His ring catches on the sheet when he shifts. He immediately stills and fixes it with his thumb. His hands want something to do. “Okay,” he says. It comes out steady, but he hears the strain under it. “Okay. We can be overwhelmed. That’s allowed.”
You stare at him for a beat, then your face crumples into another laugh and you bury it back into his shoulder.
Yeonjun lets out a breath that sounds half relief, half panic. “Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “This is not what I thought would happen.”
“What did you think would happen?” you ask, muffled.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “I thought you’d—” He stops. Recalibrates. “I thought you’d go home.”
You lift your head now. “Why?”
Because he doesn’t know what to do with you staying. Because you staying means he can’t pretend it was just a lesson. Because he can’t hide behind a reputation when you’re in his bed and you’re quiet and you’re looking at him like he’s a person.
He shrugs, aiming for casual. It fails. “Because that’s the normal outcome.”
“Are you normal?” you ask.
Yeonjun huffs. “No.”
You watch his face, like you’re reading it. He breaks eye contact first.
A beat passes.
Then he says, quietly, “The best part wasn’t—that—the sex.”
You don’t interrupt.
Yeonjun’s jaw shifts. He rubs at his ring again until it almost hurts. “Everyone thinks,” he says, “I care about winning. About getting someone. About being—the guy.”
Your expression stays soft, alert.
He lets out a slow breath. “I thought I cared too. For a while. It was easy.” He swallows. “It was easier than being myself.”
You don’t say why. You don’t say how. You don’t ask in a way that corners him. You just say, “What’s yourself, then?”
Yeonjun’s throat closes around the words. He tries to laugh it off and it comes out wrong—thin, short, pointless. “Fuck,” he mutters. “See? This is why I don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
He gestures vaguely between your faces, the bed, the quiet. “Talk.”
You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You just look at him and wait. It’s infuriating. It’s also… safe.
Yeonjun stares at the ceiling again because the ceiling doesn’t have eyes. “The rumour started first year,” he says. “Freshers. Everyone’s bored, horny, desperate to attach a label to someone so they can stop feeling anonymous.”
You shift slightly, pulling the sheet higher over your chest. Yeonjun notices and his hand moves automatically, tucking the edge around you without thinking. He hates how natural it feels.
He continues, voice low. “There was this girl. Older. Second year. She liked me.” He pauses, then corrects, honest. “She liked the idea of me. I didn’t even know what to do with that at the time.”
Your brows lift. “At the time?”
Yeonjun glances at you, then away again, cheeks warming with something he refuses to name. “Yeah. At the time.” He takes a breath. “She invited me to a party. I went because my mates dragged me and because I didn’t want to be the boring guy who never shows up.”
You nod once, silent encouragement.
“I didn’t hook up with her,” Yeonjun says, sharper, like he needs you to understand that immediately. Then he grimaces. “Not because I’m noble. Because I didn’t know how.”
Your gaze doesn’t change.
Yeonjun’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “I walked her to her room because she was drunk,” he says. “She kissed my cheek. That was it. That was the whole thing.” He scoffs quietly. “But her flatmates saw me leaving, and suddenly it was Yeonjun fucked her. People love a headline.”
You blink. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he says, a little bitter. “And I did the worst possible thing.” He pauses. The admission costs him. “I didn’t correct them.”
“Why?”
Yeonjun’s fingers tighten on the sheet. “Because I liked that it made people stop asking questions.” His voice drops. “People don’t poke at you when they think they already know you.”
You’re quiet.
He keeps going because he’s already stepped off the ledge. “And then it snowballed. Someone made a joke. Someone else repeated it. Someone added details. Suddenly I had a type. Suddenly people had stories about me that I’d never lived. And I—” He swallows. “I let it happen.”
You shift closer, your knee brushing his thigh under the sheet. Yeonjun’s breath catches, then steadies. He doesn’t move away.
“I thought it made me safer,” he says. “It meant no one looked too closely. No one expected anything from me except that I’d be arrogant and easy.”
Your voice is soft when you ask, “Did you ever try to stop it?”
Yeonjun lets out a humourless laugh. “Once.” He glances at you. “Someone asked me outright if it was true. I said no.” He pauses. “They laughed in my face.”
Your eyes narrow, not at him—at the world. “That’s disgusting.”
Yeonjun’s throat works. “So I thought—fine. If they’re going to laugh anyway, I might as well give them what they want. A version of me they can point at. A story that keeps them entertained.”
He looks down at his hands. His ring. The stupid little circle he’s been twisting like it’s a lifeline.
“I liked being wanted for it,” he admits. “Until you.”
You don’t say anything right away. You’re still thinking.
Yeonjun can’t hold the silence. It makes him itchy. It makes him want to bolt. He opens his mouth to backtrack, to joke, to make himself smaller.
And then you speak first. “Okay,” you say, and the word is steady. “That makes sense.”
Yeonjun blinks. “It does?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Because I’ve been doing the same thing.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
You shift onto your side so you’re facing him properly. Yeonjun’s eyes flick to your mouth and then away because his brain is still stupidly physical even when he’s trying to have a serious conversation.
“You know Soobin,” you say.
Yeonjun’s chest tightens at the name. He nods.
“I liked him first because he was safe,” you admit. “Not safe as in boring. Safe as in—predictable.”
Yeonjun watches your face. Watches the way your gaze drifts, searching for the right words.
“He was the kind of boy everyone agreed was good,” you continue. “Good grades. Good manners. Good family. The kind of boy you can tell yourself you’ll end up with and no one laughs at you.”
Yeonjun stays silent. The room holds its breath.
“And because he was away,” you add, voice going a little quieter, “it was easy to keep liking him. I could build it into a whole thing. A whole—story.” Your mouth twitches, humour without joy. “And the story didn’t require me to actually do anything. It didn’t require me to be brave.”
Yeonjun’s throat clamps. He doesn’t interrupt.
You keep going, eyes on his collarbone instead of his face now, as if it’s less dangerous that way.
“He started talking to me properly a few months ago,” you say. “Out of nowhere. Switzerland made him bored or sentimental or both. He started being—consistent. Sweet. Asking about my day. Remembering things.” You pause. “And I liked that. I liked him noticing me.”
Yeonjun’s fingers flex against the sheet. He doesn’t like the tight feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t know if he has the right to.
“So when he told me he’s coming back and asked me on a date,” you say, “it felt like—finally. Like I was getting the ending I’d been rehearsing for years.”
You look at Yeonjun then, eyes clear.
“But it also made me feel sick,” you admit. “Because I realised I didn’t know how to be the girl in the story. I didn’t know how to kiss him. I didn’t know how to—” You cut yourself off, cheeks heating. “And I couldn’t stand the idea of being exposed as—inexperienced.”
Yeonjun’s eyes flicker. Understanding lands, solid and sharp. “So you came to me,” he says quietly.
You nod.
Yeonjun huffs, something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.
“So we’re both idiots,” he mutters.
You blink. “Excuse you.”
He looks at you, serious now. “We were both performing.”
You don’t deny it.
The quiet that follows is different. Yeonjun’s hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes your cheek with his knuckles. It’s careful. He’s testing whether he’s allowed.
You don’t flinch. You lean into it, just slightly.
Yeonjun’s breath catches. He almost says it. The words sit on his tongue—I like you—plain and terrifying. If he says them, he can’t pretend this is still under control. If he says them, he risks watching your face change.
So he panics and does what he always does—he swerves. “You know,” he says, voice low, trying for casual, “this is really going to destroy my campus reputation.”
You stare at him. Then you laugh again into his shoulder, the same overwhelmed laugh, and Yeonjun feels his chest unclench so hard it’s almost painful.
“Are you serious?” you whisper.
“No,” he admits immediately. “I mean—yes. But also no. Shut it.”
You shift closer, your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting there. Yeonjun stills. His pulse does something stupid. Yeonjun’s hand slides to your waist under the sheet and pauses there, giving you the chance to move away.
You don’t.
He leans in, slow. His forehead almost touches yours.
“Are you okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s mouth hovers near yours. He can feel your breath. “Then,” he murmurs, voice rough, “say stop if you want me to.”
Your lips part. You don’t say stop. Yeonjun kisses you—slower than earlier, less frantic, more deliberate. The kind of kiss that isn’t trying to prove anything. The kind of kiss that says I’m here.
When you pull back, he breathes out against your mouth and almost—almost says it. Instead he whispers, “You’re really bad for me.”
You smile. “Good.”
Yeonjun closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again, and this time he doesn’t look away.
A week later, you almost bail the date.
The kind of bail that starts as a thought and becomes a plan. If I turn my phone off, he can’t reach me. If I pretend I’m sick, he’ll be annoyed but he’ll forgive me. If I die, technically I don’t have to go.
You’re standing in front of your wardrobe with your arms crossed, staring at a row of outfits that suddenly look like costumes. Clothes you used to think would make you feel pretty now just look—loud. False. Too eager.
Because how do you crack yourself open for someone—let them see the soft parts, the unpolished parts, the parts you protect with jokes—and then go and sit across someone else over cocktails and candlelight?
You press your fingers to your mouth, hard enough to quiet the impulse to text Yeonjun something stupid. Something that would make him reply instantly. Something that would restore the familiar hum between you.
But you haven’t responded to him since lesson three—since last week.
You tell yourself it was strategic. That it was you being disciplined. That you’re not going to be the girl who catches feelings and then spirals into humiliation.
Except you didn’t do it to be disciplined. You did it because you didn’t know what to say. Because I can’t stop thinking about you is too much. Because I miss you is worse. Because I feel guilty would make it real in a way you can’t undo.
And somewhere along the line, Yeonjun stopped texting you too. Silence. A clean withdrawal that feels like someone taking a chair from behind your knees.
You stare at your phone on your bed.
There are old notifications from him that still sit there if you scroll far enough. A you alive? from Tuesday. A saw this and thought of you with a One Piece meme. A don’t ignore me, psycho that should’ve been funny and is now a punch to the ribs.
You haven’t opened them. You’ve been living on stubbornness and denial.
And tonight, you’re going on a date with Soobin.
Soobin, who is—on paper—everything.
The boy you’ve liked since you were sixteen. The boy every girl wanted in school, the one who looked kind even when he wasn’t trying, the one teachers praised too openly. The one your friends used to treat as a mythical creature—Soobin smiled at you? He asked about you? He’s single now?
And now he’s back. He’s here. He wants you too.
This is what you wanted. So why does it feel like you’re doing something wrong?
It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, because you’re still going.
You’re still going because you don’t get to throw away years of wanting just because you made a mess in one month. You’re still going because if you don’t, it means something has shifted and you don’t know how to hold that truth yet. You’re still going because you’re not ready to become a different version of yourself when the old one hasn’t even been properly buried.
Your doorbell goes at 11:26am.
Then again at 11:27am.
You open it and your flat floods with noise.
“GOOD MORNING, SLUT,” Yuna announces, marching in like she pays rent. She has two coffees in one hand and a tote bag bulging with makeup in the other. “We’re here to make you hot and emotionally unavailable.”
“Don’t call me a slut,” you say automatically, voice flat.
“Don’t be a coward,” she replies, kicking her shoes off and beelining for your living room. “This is a sacred day. This is history.”
Behind her, Mina appears with a bag of pastries and the energy of someone who believes in soulmates and plotlines. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” she says, already tearing the bag open. “Years. Literal years. This is your happy ending.”
“Can you not say happy ending,” you mutter, because your brain is a traitor and immediately supplies images you do not have time for.
“OH MY GOD,” Yuna shrieks, delighted. “She’s horny.”
“I’m not horny,” you snap.
“You’re defensive,” Mina says, accusing.
“I’m tired,” you say, because it’s the only excuse that doesn’t require further explanation.
They’re both talking over each other now—dates, restaurants, what he’s probably wearing, what you should wear, how you should do your hair, whether you should do eyeliner that says sweet or eyeliner that says I could ruin your life.
Beomgyu arrives last. He doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He opens your door with the spare keys he stole and walks in with the confidence of a man who thinks boundaries are a myth.
He pauses mid-step when he sees your living room full of pastries and bags and cosmetics spread out. He scans the scene. Then he looks at you. Not at your outfit. Not at your hair. At your face.
His eyes narrow. “Why do you look,” he says slowly, “like you’re about to attend your own execution?”
“Shut it,” you reply.
“No, genuinely,” Beomgyu continues, ignoring you as he always does when he’s right. “This is supposed to be your dream date. You’ve been talking about Soobin since we were in school. Since before we even had frontal lobes.”
Mina tosses a cushion at him. “Let her breathe!”
“I am letting her breathe,” Beomgyu says, catching it. “I’m just asking why she looks haunted.”
You glare at him.
He holds your gaze without blinking, which is deeply irritating.
“Okay,” you say finally. “Everyone out of my bedroom.”
“EXCUSE ME?” Yuna says, scandalised.
“Not like that,” you snap. “I mean—I need to change without an audience.”
“You literally have tits,” Mina says, offended. “We all have tits.”
“OUT,” you repeat, pointing.
They groan, dramatic, but they obey—mostly—filtering out while still shouting advice through the door.
“NOT THE BLACK DRESS, YOU’LL LOOK TOO SERIOUS!”
“WEAR THE GREEN ONE! GREEN IS FLIRTY!”
“DO YOU WANT FLIRTY OR DO YOU WANT I HAVE OPTIONS?!”
“I WANT SILENCE,” you shout back.
Beomgyu doesn’t leave. He leans on your doorframe instead, arms crossed, watching you pull dresses off hangers with the dispassionate expression of someone judging your life choices in real time.
“You’re not my dad,” you tell him, because his face looks too much like a teacher’s disappointment.
“Thank fuck,” he says.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“I can’t,” he replies. “You’re giving me… interesting energy.”
You pause with a dress halfway off the hanger. “Interesting how.”
Beomgyu tilts his head. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you insist you want something,” he says, “and then you look like you want to run as soon as you get it.”
Your stomach tightens. You scoff, because this is your favourite defence mechanism. “You’re making it deep for no reason.”
Beomgyu’s mouth twitches. “No reason. Right.” He steps into your room, quietly, and sits on the edge of your bed like he lives here too.
You hate that he looks calm. You hate that he’s always calm when you’re not.
“So,” he says, casual. “Are you excited?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
Beomgyu’s brows lift a fraction. “Oh.”
“Don’t oh me,” you say instantly.
“I didn’t even say anything,” he replies, delighted. “Your face did.”
You turn away, pretending to rummage through your drawer so you don’t have to look at him. Your phone is on your bed. You don’t touch it.
Beomgyu’s voice softens, just a little. “Talk to me.”
You exhale through your nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then answer one question.”
You don’t respond.
He continues anyway. “If Soobin texted you right now and said, I can’t make it tonight, I’m sorry, would you be devastated… or relieved?”
Your throat closes. You hate him. You also hate that the answer arrives immediately.
Beomgyu watches you falter. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t grin. He just nods, like he’s confirming something he already knew.
You set the dress down carefully, hands suddenly clumsy. “Don’t do that,” you say, voice sharper than you mean.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you’ve solved me.”
Beomgyu leans back on his hands. “I haven’t solved you. I just know you.”
You turn on him. “I’m going on the date.”
“I know,” he says.
“And I want to go.”
“Okay.”
“And I want Soobin.”
Beomgyu’s eyes flicker. “Do you?”
Your mouth opens again. You close it.
Beomgyu waits. Patient. Annoying.
You swallow. “I’ve wanted him for years,” you say finally. “It’s—Soobin. He’s… him.”
“That’s not an answer,” Beomgyu says gently.
You laugh, humourless. “I’m not doing this.”
“You are doing this,” he corrects. “You’re just doing it while pretending you’re not.”
You look away, jaw tight.
Beomgyu sighs, then says, softer, “Did something happen?”
Your pulse kicks. You keep your voice flat. “No.”
Beomgyu doesn’t believe you. He’s never believed you when you lie. You’re bad at lying to people who love you.
He glances at your phone on the bed, then back at you. “Did you… meet someone?”
You feel heat crawl up your neck.
Beomgyu sits up slightly, attentive now. “Oh my God. You did.”
“Stop,” you say, immediately.
“Wait,” he says, eyes widening with genuine joy because he’s a menace. “Are you serious? Who? Tell me. Was it a random? Was it—”
“No,” you cut in.
Beomgyu’s grin fades just enough to show curiosity. “Not a random.”
You don’t answer.
Beomgyu’s gaze drifts over your face again, then sharpens. He speaks slowly, like he’s testing the edges of the truth. “Is this about… that Choi Yeonjun?”
Your stomach drops. The room goes too quiet in a way that makes your skin prickle.
Beomgyu sees it. His expression shifts. “Okay,” he says, voice careful now. “So it’s that.”
You stare at the floor, the words in your throat refusing to become real. Beomgyu doesn’t push for details. He doesn’t say what did you do. He doesn’t ask for gossip. He just nods again, like he’s rearranging a puzzle inside his head.
“Is he an asshole?” Beomgyu asks.
You blink. “No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did you hurt him?”
You flinch, just a little.
Beomgyu exhales. “Right.”
Your voice comes out small despite your effort. “It wasn’t supposed to be—anything.”
Beomgyu’s mouth quirks, but there’s no humour in it. “Nothing never behaves.”
You hate that he’s right. You sit on the edge of your bed without meaning to. The mattress dips.
Beomgyu watches your hands twist together. “Soobin,” he says quietly, “is the boy you wanted when you were younger.”
Your chest tightens at the way he says it.
Beomgyu’s eyes hold yours. “Yeonjun is the boy you met now.”
You swallow.
Outside your door, Yuna and Mina are still arguing about outfits.
“THE GREEN ONE MAKES HER LOOK RICH!”
“THE BLACK ONE MAKES HER LOOK DANGEROUS!”
“WHY CAN’T SHE LOOK RICH AND DANGEROUS?!”
Beomgyu glances toward the noise, then back at you. “You don’t have to decide everything today,” he says.
“I do,” you whisper. “The date is today.”
“You don’t have to decide your whole life,” he corrects. “You just have to decide what you’re going to do for the next few hours.”
You stare at your phone again. A week of silence sits between you and Yeonjun. Your pride built it brick by brick. Now it feels too tall to climb down from without bleeding.
Beomgyu stands, stretches, then reaches out and flicks your forehead with the strength of Hulk.
“Ow,” you snap.
“Welcome back,” he says. “I was worried you were going to float away into your own head permanently.”
You glare at him, but a knot lifts behind your ribs.
Beomgyu points at your wardrobe. “Pick the dress you feel least fake in.”
“None of them,” you mutter.
“Then pick the one you can breathe in,” he says simply.
You nod once, because it’s the only thing you can manage.
Beomgyu turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back over his shoulder. “And hey,” he adds, voice softer, “if you spend the whole date thinking about someone else—that’s information. Don’t ignore it just because it’s inconvenient.”
Your stomach drops again. “Beomgyu,” you warn.
He raises his hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m gone.”
He walks out.
The noise rushes back in immediately—your friends storming your room, holding up dresses, shouting, laughing, calling you dramatic and iconic and insufferable.
You let them.
You let them do your eyeliner and your hair and your perfume and your whole transformation into the girl they think you are tonight.
Soobin pulls up outside your building in a car that looks too clean to belong to a uni student.
It’s not some battered little thing held together by hope and a dodgy MOT. It’s a proper car. Black. BMW. The kind that makes the streetlights slide across it neatly. You stand on the pavement with your bag on your shoulder and your coat half-buttoned and you genuinely have to pause.
Since when does Soobin drive? Since when does he have a car?
It makes your stomach do that weird thing again, not butterflies—something more clinical. A tightening. A question.
You walk down anyway.
Soobin steps out before you can reach the passenger door. He’s wearing a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open enough to look effortless. Hair still damp at the ends, as if he showered recently. Under the streetlight his face looks… soft. Pretty in that careful way that used to destroy you in highschool. The kind of boy everyone wanted and nobody touched without permission from the universe.
“Hey,” he says, smiling properly now.
“Hey,” you say back, and your voice behaves.
You hate that. You hate how good you are at behaving.
He looks you up and down—quick, respectful. Then his eyes meet yours and he grins. “You look really nice.”
“Thanks.” You adjust your bag strap. “I didn’t know you—drive.”
Soobin laughs, a surprised little sound. “Yeah. I do. I just never had a reason to bring a car to campus.”
You hear it—never had a reason. The sentence should make you feel special. It should spark. Instead, it sits on the surface of you, neat and weightless.
He opens the door for you.
You slide into the passenger seat and the inside smells expensive. Subtle cologne, leather, something sharp that suggests a grown-up life you never attached to him when you were sixteen and he was only a crush and a myth and a face in a corridor.
Soobin gets in, starts the engine, checks his mirrors. His hands on the wheel look familiar—long fingers, careful grip. Everything about him feels… correct.
And it’s so different from walking.
So different from being outside at stupid hours with Yeonjun, both of you under-lit by corner shop fluorescents, arguing about crisps and anime arcs and whether you’re allowed to be this feral in public spaces. No seatbelts. No air freshener. Just cold air and his hoodie sleeve brushing your wrist.
Soobin glances at you. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say instantly. “Just didn’t expect you to pull up like a CEO.”
He laughs again. “It’s not that deep.”
That’s the thing. With him, nothing ever is.
You drive to the cinema and it’s smooth—traffic lights, gentle turns, music low. Soobin asks about your week. He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He’s good at the basics in a way that would’ve made you melt a month ago. He says your name the way he always did back then, like it’s something familiar he’s allowed to hold.
You respond. You make jokes. You keep it easy.
And somewhere behind your ribs, something stays shut.
At the cinema, he buys the tickets before you can offer. Popcorn, too. He even gets the drink you mention without making you repeat yourself. He’s attentive in a soft, socially-approved way—green flag behaviour. The kind people write threads about.
You stand beside him while he pays and you watch the cashier smile a little too brightly at him, and you feel nothing. Not jealous. Not threatened. Not even flattered.
Soobin nudges you gently with his elbow. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say. “It’s just weird seeing you in the wild.”
“In the wild?” he repeats, amused.
“Yeah,” you say. “You’ve been in Switzerland for months and now you’re here being a functioning person with a vehicle and a bank card.”
He snorts. “I’ve always had a bank card.”
“Sure,” you say, deadpan. “But did you always have… this?”
You gesture at the popcorn like it’s proof of adulthood.
Soobin smiles. “Switzerland did make me a bit—domesticated.”
Your brain, traitor that it is, offers you Yeonjun’s voice immediately—dry, rude, warm in the worst way. Domesticated? You’re a Labrador.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself smiling.
Inside the screen, it’s a cheesy rom-com. The kind where the lighting is too golden and the misunderstandings are manufactured and everyone is somehow glowing even when they’re meant to be devastated.
Soobin laughs at the right moments. He leans closer at the sweet parts. His knee brushes yours once, cautiously, like he’s checking the temperature of you.
You let it happen. You don’t pull away. You don’t lean in either.
You try to be present. You really do. But the cinema is a trap. The dark does what it always does—turns your brain into a projector. Not of the movie. Of a different night, a different screen, a different kind of stupid.
Not the details. Your mind doesn’t give you details so much as the feeling—heat under your skin, the rush of doing something you shouldn’t, the way you had been fearless for once. The way Yeonjun’s voice had turned rough right by your ear.
Your fingers tighten on the popcorn bucket.
On-screen, the male lead delivers a line about fate or love or whatever, and Soobin chuckles, shaking his head fondly.
You laugh too—except your laugh isn’t for the movie. It’s for Yeonjun, in your head, going, If I ever say something like that, shoot me.
Soobin reaches for your hand on the armrest and threads his fingers through yours. His hand is warm. His touch is gentle.
It should do something to you. It doesn’t.
Not because he’s doing it wrong. Because there’s no risk. No edge. No consequence. He’s not asking anything of you except to be here and smile and let him hold you.
And a week ago, you learned what it feels like when something is at stake. When someone isn’t trying to be impressive. When someone is trying to be honest and failing, and you can see the effort anyway.
Soobin squeezes your hand once, reassuring. You squeeze back because you’re not cruel.
The movie ends. Everyone claps because people are weird. Soobin stands, stretches, asks if you liked it.
“It was cute,” you say.
“It was,” he agrees. “Kind of predictable.”
You almost say, so are you, but you don’t. Because he doesn’t deserve that. Because he hasn’t done anything wrong except arrive too late to a version of you that used to want him uncomplicated.
Outside, the night is crisp. Soobin walks you to the car. He opens your door again. The date keeps insisting on being textbook.
“So,” he says once you’re both in. “Dinner?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Dinner.”
He drives to a fancy restaurant you’ve only ever walked past, the kind with warm lighting and quiet music and menus that don’t have prices printed in obvious places. The valet takes the keys. Soobin thanks him. You follow Soobin inside and your heels click on polished floors and everything feels staged.
They seat you at a small table. Candles. Linen. Water poured without asking.
Soobin looks across at you and smiles like he can’t believe this is real. Like he’s been looking forward to it.
And that’s what makes your throat clamp.
Because you know he has.
Soobin starts talking about Switzerland as soon as the waiter leaves. It spills out of him in tidy paragraphs—the mountains, the trains that actually arrive on time, the air that feels sharp and clean, the way the snow looked unreal the first time he saw it up close.
“I used to walk to my lectures and it felt—” he searches for the word, then laughs at himself. “It felt like a movie.”
You nod, attentive. “Did you miss home?”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “More than I expected. I missed my friends. I missed my mum’s food. I missed—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours. “I missed you.”
There it is. The line you’ve replayed in your head for years, the one you used to beg the universe for in different forms.
It lands gently. It doesn’t crack you open.
You smile anyway, because you’re not made of stone. “I missed you too.”
It’s true. In a way. In a past-tense way. In a I missed who I was when I thought you were the only outcome that mattered way.
Soobin talks about a girl on his course who couldn’t pronounce his name properly. He mimics her accent, a little dramatic, and you laugh because it’s actually funny. Then he says, “I tried fondue. Proper fondue. It’s insane.”
“Cheese,” you echo.
“Cheese,” he confirms. “And bread. That’s it. But it works.”
Your stomach gives a small, violent reminder of 2am spaghetti and a boy who looked offended by garlic. Yeonjun at a hob, squinting at olive oil. Yeonjun muttering why is it smoking? as if the pan is the problem. Yeonjun putting too much chilli in because he refuses to measure anything in his life.
You snort.
Soobin stops mid-sentence. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but your smile is crooked now. “Just thinking about—food.”
Soobin looks relieved. “Good. Because I was worried you were laughing at me.”
“I wouldn’t,” you say automatically.
He leans back a little, comfortable. “You can. I don’t mind.”
That should feel intimate. Instead, it makes you think of Yeonjun going, Laugh at me and I’ll block you in real life, while still smiling, while still handing you a fork.
The waiter comes back. Soobin orders smoothly, pronounces everything right. You order too, choosing something you’ve never tried.
Soobin reaches across the table and takes your hand again. “Can I say something?” he asks.
Your stomach tightens. “Yeah.”
“I’m glad you said yes,” he says. Simple. Honest. “I didn’t know if you would.”
You hold his gaze. His eyes are warm. Open. He’s not playing games. He never was.
“Why wouldn’t I?” you ask, forcing lightness.
Soobin shrugs, sheepish. “Because it’s been a while. Because I left. Because you’re—you.”
You blink. “I’m… me?”
He smiles. “Yeah. You always seemed like you had your own world going on. Even back then.”
Your own world. A week ago, Yeonjun said something similar, except he said it meaner, and you’d felt seen so hard it pissed you off.
Soobin squeezes your fingers. “I just—I don’t want to mess it up.”
There’s the stake, offered politely. And you realise, with a strange clarity, that you want him to mess it up a little. You want him to say something wrong. You want him to hesitate. You want him to admit something ugly and real instead of being the perfect outcome to a teenage crush.
Soobin watches your face. “You okay?”
You blink, startled, and realise you’ve gone quiet again. “Yeah,” you lie. Then, because you can’t help it, you add, “Sorry. I’m just—processing.”
“Processing what?”
Everything. You shrug. “Switzerland.”
He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. It was a lot.”
Dinner arrives. It’s plated beautifully. It tastes good in a way that almost annoys you. Soobin tries a bite, closes his eyes for a second, and makes a pleased noise.
“This is amazing,” he says. “I picked well.”
You nod, chewing slowly.
Soobin reaches across and brushes his thumb over your knuckles, absent-minded.
“After this,” he says, voice softer, “we can go back to my place? If you want. Just… talk or have a drink or whatever.”
His place.
You picture it immediately. Yeonjun’s place. Yeonjun’s room. Yeonjun’s bed.
You laugh. A small, broken thing. You hate yourself for reasons you can’t name.
Soobin’s brows pull together. “Did I say something wrong?”
You shake your head quickly. “No. Sorry. No, you didn’t.”
He watches you. He doesn’t push. He goes back to his food, but slower now, as if he’s trying to recalibrate.
You take a sip of water. Your phone stays face-down in your bag. You don’t check it. You already know there’s nothing there.
And that’s the other truth you won’t say out loud. It’s been a week since lesson three, and Yeonjun stopped texting, and you pretended it didn’t matter—until you sat across from the boy you thought you wanted and realised you can’t unlearn the taste of real.
The bill comes in a black folder. Soobin reaches for it before you can even pretend you’re about to argue.
“Let me,” he says, already sliding his card out.
“Okay,” you hear yourself reply, soft and automatic.
That’s the problem. You’ve been automatic all night.
Outside, the city has cooled. Streetlights rinse the pavement. The restaurant door closes behind you.
Soobin turns to you on the sidewalk, smiling—bright, pleased. “You were quiet during dessert,” he says gently. “Are you tired?”
You could say yes. You could say you’ve got an early lecture. You could do the polite ending—hug, promise, second date. You feel your body reject it before your mouth catches up. “No,” you say. “I’m not tired.”
Soobin’s smile falters into concern. “Okay. What is it?”
You look at him properly. The rolled sleeves. The neat hair that falls into his eyes when the wind nudges it. The boy you’ve wanted in every season of your life. The boy you built a whole version of yourself for.
You swallow hard. Not with nerves. With truth. “I need to tell you something,” you say.
Soobin straightens a little, attentive. “Yeah. Tell me.”
You swallow. Your hands are cold. You tuck them into your coat pockets so he doesn’t see them shaking. “I’ve liked you since I can remember,” you say. “Since it was embarrassing to like anyone. Since it felt illegal.”
His face softens instantly. He actually looks—happy. Flattered. A little disbelieving.
“You were always the only boy I looked at and wanted,” you continue, and your voice doesn’t wobble, which is new. “You made me feel things and want things before I even knew what any of it meant.”
Soobin smiles wider, almost shy. “I—wow.”
You nod once, quick. “And I thought there wasn’t anyone I could ever want apart from you.”
His eyes warm. He steps half a pace closer, and his hand lifts, hovering near yours. He doesn’t touch yet. He’s asking without asking.
“And then,” you say, and the word cuts the air cleanly, “I met someone.”
Soobin freezes.
You keep going because if you stop, you’ll turn into a coward again. “He seemed like one person at first,” you say. “And when I actually got to know him, he was someone else completely.”
Soobin’s smile is gone now. He’s trying to stay polite. You can see it in the set of his mouth. In how carefully he breathes.
“Are you saying—” he starts.
“I’m saying I’ve been performing,” you cut in, and the bluntness surprises you both. “All night. I’ve been performing for months. Our calls. Our texts. All of it.”
Soobin’s brows knit. “Performing?”
You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You know when people want a version of you, so you become it because it’s easier than being—whatever you actually are.”
He blinks, slow. “I thought you were having a good time.”
“I’m good at looking correct,” you say. “That’s basically my only skill.”
“So what changed?” Soobin asks, and he means it. There’s hurt underneath, but he’s still trying to understand. “Why tell me this now?”
You stare down the street for a second because the answer is too exposed if you say it while looking at him. “Because I’ve been truly seen,” you say quietly. “And once someone sees you—properly—you can’t go back to the polished version without hating yourself.”
Soobin’s voice drops. “Who is he?”
You hesitate for half a beat. Then you say it. “Choi Yeonjun.”
Soobin’s jaw tightens. Not anger, exactly. More a stunned recalculation. He huffs. “Choi Yeonjun,” he repeats. “The—”
“Yeah,” you cut in, tired. “That one.”
Soobin looks at you for a long second. “So you—you’re with him?”
“No,” you say fast. Then slower, because you refuse to lie again. “I don’t know what I am. I just know I can’t sit through another date pretending I’m the same girl who built you into an ending.”
Soobin swallows. “Is this because the date wasn’t—exciting enough?”
You shake your head, immediate. “No. God, no. This isn’t you lacking anything.”
He studies you, careful. “Then what is it?”
You take a breath. Your stomach twists—old embarrassment, old fear—then settles into something steadier. “It’s me,” you admit. “I lack something. Or I did. I was so scared of being an idiot in front of you.”
Soobin’s expression shifts. “An idiot?”
You nod, eyes stinging with the effort of saying it clean. “I lied to you for months.”
His face goes blank for a second. “About what?”
You force the words out. “My body count.”
Soobin’s eyes widen a fraction. “What?”
“I said it was eleven,” you say, and you can’t even look away now. You make yourself hold it. “It wasn’t. It was zero. Back then, I hadn’t even kissed anyone.”
Soobin goes very quiet.
You keep talking, because you refuse to let the silence swallow you whole. “I overcompensated,” you say. “I tried to become the kind of girl I thought you’d want. The kind of girl who wouldn’t embarrass you. Who wouldn’t be—behind.”
Soobin’s throat moves. “Why would that embarrass me?”
“Because I decided it would,” you snap, and then soften immediately because this isn’t his fault. “Because I didn’t trust you with the truth. And I should’ve. I’m sorry.”
He looks shaken now. “So tonight,” he says slowly, “you were—what—trying to prove something?”
You nod. “I was trying to be impressive. I was trying to be safe.” You swallow. “Soobin,” you say, and your voice cracks on his name because it still matters, in its own way. “I don’t want safe. I want real. I don’t want to pretend. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
He stares at you. His hands flex at his sides, helpless. “But I’m real.”
“You are,” you say, instantly. “You’re the most real person in this whole thing. That’s why I can’t keep doing it to you.”
Soobin’s eyes flick over your face as if he’s searching for the punchline. “So what now?”
You swallow. The answer lands in your chest with frightening clarity. “I have to go,” you say.
His breath catches. “Go where?”
You don’t answer. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes final in a way that terrifies you. And it’s already final. You can feel it in your bones.
Soobin reaches for you then, reflexive. Fingers brushing your wrist. Not rough. Not entitled. Just desperate. “Wait,” he says, voice low. “Can we talk about this properly? You can’t just—”
“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”
His hand tightens for half a second, then loosens, like he realises he can’t hold you in place without becoming someone he doesn’t want to be.
You step back.
Soobin looks at you with a kind of stunned grief that makes your stomach turn, makes you want to rewind the last five minutes and lie again just to spare him.
But you can’t.
You turn and you walk away—fast at first, then faster, until you’re not walking at all. You’re running.
You don’t even remember ordering the Uber. You just remember the cold air in your lungs, the shake in your hands, the way your phone screen blurs as you type the address you know too well. You sit in the backseat with your knees bouncing, jaw clenched, heart punching at your ribs.
The driver asks, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” you lie out of habit, then correct yourself under your breath. “No.”
When you get out, you don’t check your reflection. You don’t fix your hair. You don’t rehearse a sentence.
You climb the stairs and knock.
Once. Twice.
The door opens.
Yeonjun is there, bare forearms, dark hair slightly messed, the ring in his ear catching the hallway light when his head shifts on the doorframe.
His face is careful—too controlled, as if he’s about to say the safe line, the measured line, the one that keeps him from hoping. “Hey,” he starts.
You don’t let him finish. You grab his shirt with both hands and kiss him.
Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes your whole body stop fighting itself. His breath stutters once, surprised, and then he’s kissing you back—harder, closer, hands finding your waist like he’s been holding them there in his head all week.
You pull back just enough to breathe.
Yeonjun’s eyes are dark. Wide. Then his mouth curves—small, relieved, undone. Like he’s grateful you didn’t make him be clever. “Come in,” he says, voice rough.
And you do.
The door closes behind you.
(the end)
✧ prev | series masterlist | main masterlist
a/n: OMGGGGGG guys!! this has been such a fun rollercoaster. let's unpack the chapter because i have sm to say. okay the smut scene?? what do you think think, ik its kinda ugh BUT i wrote it like 5 times and this was the version when i threw my hands up and was like im done now i cba anymore. also i love beomgyu sm, i need a friend like him. im gonna miss him the most i can't lie. and my bby soobin :( initially i did think of making him shitty but it just didn't make sense so instead so we have the pain of perfect guy, wrong timing.
i also have a mini announcement to make... since so many of you LOVED reading vpb and I LOVED writing vpb, i have decided to make a sequel!! not for our beloved idiot couple but for soobin!! and before yal boo, listen, soobin also deserves a happy ending no?
i don't know when i will actually get to the sequel, but you know your notes fuel me. so can we do 1k notes and i will get to typing? no? if thats too ambitious, you guys will just have to be patient until im able to squeeze some time for it!! in the meantime, below is the sequel's summary :0 (you can find it and my upcoming txt works in my wips list!). okay enough yapping from me and i will see you all on the next! much love <333 (ps. comment, reblog and send me your asks!! spam me, i love it!!)
misguided | choi soobin
⤷ college students au, pining soobin x fake shaman, love triangle, idiots in love
✎ summary the girl soobin has wanted since forever is dating the resident campus playboy. desperate, hopeless, and out of ideas, he comes to you—a shaman who supposedly specialises in love rituals and spiritual compatibility. only problem? you’re a total fraud. you planned to scam him, send him away, and never think about it again… until he starts opening up. until you realise you’re both in love with people who will never choose you back. until helping him stops being business—and starts becoming something dangerously close to affection. you were supposed to fix his love life. you weren’t supposed to fall for him.
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre: smut with plot, rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, love triangle-ish
✧ warnings: explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment, handjob, orgasm, oral sex (giving + receiving, 69), dirty talk/explicit language, spitting, public sexual activity, impulsive sexual escalation, aftercare
✧ word count: 7.5k
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist
Yeonjun doesn’t sleep.
He tries. He does the whole performance—lights off, phone facedown, blanket pulled up, eyes shut.
Two minutes in, his body betrays him.
Because the second the room goes dark, his brain turns the evening into a highlight reel. Your mouth. Your laugh. The way you went bold in tiny bursts, then froze, then went bold again. The way your hand grazed his thigh and then stopped.
His dick twitches and turns hard under the blanket. Annoying in the most humiliating way. He squeezes his eyes shut harder, as if force can fix it. “Fuck off,” he mutters, to his own dick.
It does not fuck off.
His phone lights up. A notification. He ignores it for exactly three seconds.
Then he grabs it anyways. His self-respect? Non-existent.
psycho stalker: i feel insane
psycho stalker: don’t laugh at me
Yeonjun lets out a slow breath. He types back with his thumbs, pretending he’s calm.
yeonjun: i’m not laughing
yeonjun: you’re just dramatic
Your reply comes instantly.
psycho stalker: YOU’RE DRAMATIC
psycho stalker: you literally said “ u okay?” every two minutes like safety briefing
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He rolls onto his back, phone above his face.
yeonjun: consent is sexy
yeonjun: sue me
psycho stalker: i’m going to sue you for emotional damages
psycho stalker: also i can’t stop thinking about it
His hands go numb. He keeps his reply blunt, because if he gets soft he’ll hate himself.
yeonjun: thinking about what exactly
There’s a pause. Long enough that he stares at the typing… bubble like it’s going to slap him.
psycho stalker: the make out
Yeonjun closes his eyes. He shouldn’t encourage this. He should be responsible. He should—his phone buzzes again.
psycho stalker: also i can feel my heartbeat in my clit and i hate that sentence but it’s true
Yeonjun sits up so fast his pillow falls. “Jesus Christ,” he says out loud, to an empty room.
His thumbs hover over the screen. He types.
yeonjun: congratulations
yeonjun: you’ve unlocked being horny
psycho stalker: don’t say horny like you’re a doctor
yeonjun: you’re the one sending me medical updates about your clit
psycho stalker: I’M PANICKING
psycho stalker: i’m literally not built for this
Yeonjun stares at the last message. He’s built a whole reputation off being built for this. Being the guy who knows what he’s doing—being unbothered. And you’re sitting somewhere, wide-eyed and spiralling, and you still chose him.
His phone starts ringing. Your name. Yeonjun freezes, then answers before he can overthink it.
“Yeah?” he says, voice low, steady. A little too smooth. Habit.
On the other end you inhale, then laugh in a way that sounds half-crazed. “My fingers hurt,” you whine.
Yeonjun blinks. “From what?”
“From texting you,” you say. “From typing lies for months. From existing.”
He snorts. “That’s tragic.”
“Don’t start,” you say, but you’re smiling. He can hear it. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” Yeonjun says, and regrets it immediately because it sounds too intimate.
You pause. “Why not?”
Yeonjun doesn’t answer honestly. He answers safely. “Because you’re chaotic,” he says. “My nervous system hates you.”
“Your nervous system?” you repeat. “You talk like you read one self-help book and made it your personality.”
“I did,” Yeonjun says. “It was on Twitter. It counts.”
You laugh again, softer this time. Then you say, quieter, “Can we talk about something else before I embarrass myself more?”
Yeonjun shifts in bed, jaw ticking once. “Go on.”
“Okay.” You clear your throat. “One Piece.”
Yeonjun grins, relieved. “Thank fuck.”
“I’m not even joking,” you say. “I need you to tell me you’re not one of those people who thinks Sanji is better than Zoro.”
Yeonjun scoffs. “You called me at 2am to start a fight?”
“Yes.”
“Zoro clears,” he says instantly.
You make a satisfied noise. “Good. Because if you said Sanji I’d have to block you.”
“Bold threat from someone who asked me for blowjob lessons,” Yeonjun says, deadpan.
You choke. “Yeonjun—”
“What?” he says, too calm. “It’s factually correct.”
“I hate you,” you whisper, mortified.
“You don’t,” he replies, and he can hear the grin in his own voice.
You groan. “Okay. Fine. Zoro. Great. Favourite arc?”
Yeonjun hesitates. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Why.”
“Because you’re going to judge me.”
“I’m already judging you,” you say. “That’s our dynamic now.”
Yeonjun laughs, quiet. “Dressrosa.”
You scream. “I KNEW IT.”
“How the hell did you know?” he demands.
“Because you give Dressrosa energy,” you say, smug. “Also, I saw you watch a Dressrosa edit like five times in a row.”
“So you’re not only stalking me,” he says, “you’re spying on my screen.”
“You should be honoured,” you reply. “I’m selective with my crimes.”
Yeonjun shakes his head, smiling into the dark despite himself.
“What about manhwa?” you add. “Please tell me you read Solo Leveling.”
Yeonjun hums a breath of amusement. “Obviously.”
“Okay good,” you say, triumphant. “Because if you didn’t, I was about to revoke your hot card.”
“My hot card,” he repeats. “That’s insane.”
“You’re literally the campus playboy,” you say. “You don’t get to act offended.”
Yeonjun goes quiet for half a second, then says, lightly, “Yeah. The playboy.”
You don’t notice the shift. You keep going. “And your music,” you say. “Don’t lie. You look like you’d listen to Chase Atlantic and pretend it’s for the aesthetic.”
“It is for the aesthetic,” Yeonjun says. “And because it hits.”
You hum, pleased. “Okay. We have taste. That’s dangerous.”
Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps it crude to cover the softness. “Dangerous for who,” he says. “Your crush in Switzerland or my peace of mind?”
You laugh, then go quiet. When you speak again your voice is smaller. Real. “Yeonjun,” you say. “Do you think I’m… pathetic?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Not because he doesn’t know—because he wants to answer it right. “No,” he says, firm. “I think you’re stressed.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is,” he says. “Because you’re not trying to be a player. You’re trying not to be embarrassed.”
You swallow audibly. “I’m scared he’ll go in for a kiss and I’m going to freeze.”
“Then you say you’re scared,” Yeonjun replies. “Out loud. In the moment.”
You scoff. “That’s humiliating.”
Yeonjun’s voice stays steady. “Humiliating is pretending you’re fine and then having a panic attack mid-hookup.”
You go silent. Then, “True.”
Yeonjun shifts, relief creeping in. “See. You’re not stupid.”
You yawn, suddenly. “What time is it?”
Yeonjun checks. His eyes widen. “It’s nearly seven.”
You make a horrified sound. “Oh my God. We’ve been on the phone all night.”
“Yeah,” Yeonjun says, rubbing his face. “We’re idiots.”
You laugh, sleepy. “I have seminar.”
“Same,” he mutters.
A beat. Then you say, soft but blunt, “I’m still thinking about your mouth.”
Yeonjun’s breath catches. He forces his voice to stay casual. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “And I hate that I liked it.”
Yeonjun swallows once. His dick starts twitching again and he squeezes his eyes shut, annoyed. “Get used to it,” he says, low. “You’re allowed to like things.”
You’re quiet. Then you murmur, “Okay.” Another beat. “See you,” you say.
“See you,” Yeonjun replies.
You hang up.
Yeonjun lies there staring at the ceiling in the grey morning light—fully awake, fully exhausted, and very aware that this is getting messy in a way he can’t solve with rules.
Yeonjun walks into the seminar hall looking dead on his feet and somehow still grinning. He sees you first.
You look wrecked in the same way—hair a little chaotic, eyes puffy, mouth glossed, expression soft around the edges. The second your eyes meet, you both lose it. A full laugh escapes before either of you can stop it.
People turn. Your friend, the loud one, turns too—slowly, dramatically. His gaze flicks between you and Yeonjun, then narrows. “What the fuck is this,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard by God. “Why do you both look like you just committed a crime together?”
Yeonjun drops into the seat beside you, leans forward, and mutters, “Don’t.”
You try to swallow your laugh and fail. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I’ll start laughing again and then I’ll have to fake my death.”
Your friend’s—Beomgyu’s—eyes widen with joy. “Oh my God. You’re flirting.”
“We are not,” you and Yeonjun say at the exact same time.
Beomgyu presses a hand to his chest, delighted. “That was synchronised. That’s disgusting.”
Yeonjun stares straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to look bored. It’s his best defence. It’s also useless because under the desk your knee bumps his again—small, accidental—and his whole body reacts anyway.
He doesn’t move. He just whispers, “Stop touching me.”
You blink at him, offended. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m just… fragile.”
You snort into your sleeve.
The lecturer starts talking. Something about policy. Something about ethics. The seminar drags. Yeonjun and you don’t.
You whisper little comments under your breath—about the lecturer’s dead tone, about the guy two rows down who keeps coughing like he’s trying to summon attention, about the fact that you’re both running on fumes and bad decisions.
Yeonjun murmurs, “If I fall asleep and start drooling, kill me.”
You whisper back, “If you drool, I’m taking a picture.”
Yeonjun turns his head, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”
Your mouth twitches. “Watch me.”
Yeonjun breathes out, controlled. He should stop this. He should shut it down. He should act normal. Instead, he nudges his foot against yours under the desk once, quick and stupid. Your eyes widen and you smile like you caught him doing something he’ll deny later.
Yeonjun looks forward again, annoyed at his own face.
Halfway through, his phone buzzes. A notification from the cinema app. The Demon Slayer movie. The one you both complained about missing on opening weekend. He opens it, checks the time slots, then hesitates.
He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t feed this. Then he slides his phone over to you anyway. On the screen is the listing for the movie. Two seats. Late showing.
Your eyes light up. You glance at him, then the screen, then him again.
Yeonjun keeps his voice low. Casual. Like he’s asking you to borrow a pen. “Wanna go?” he whispers.
You blink. “Are you—”
“Don’t overthink it,” Yeonjun cuts in, quiet. “It’s literally a movie.”
Your smile grows. “Yeah. I wanna go.”
From two seats in front, Beomgyu’s head snaps around so fast it’s almost athletic. “Oooooh,” he says, grinning. “Is that a date?”
You and Yeonjun turn to him at the same time.
“Shut up, Beomgyu,” you hiss.
“Shut the fuck up, Beomgyu,” Yeonjun echoes, equally sharp.
Beomgyu clutches his chest again. “Double shut ups. Wow. I’ve never felt so seen.”
Beomgyu turns back around, still smiling. “Well alright then,” he says, voice smug. “Enjoy your nerd foreplay.”
Yeonjun pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes forward. “I’m going to kill him.”
You whisper, “Please do. I’ll help.”
The lecturer keeps talking. Nobody is listening.
Yeonjun can feel you vibrating with excitement beside him and it does something annoying to his chest.
You clear your throat, trying to sound normal. You fail. “So,” you whisper. “Movie next Thursday?”
Yeonjun nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate, then shift closer, voice dropping lower. “And—after the movie—we can go to my place?” You pause, cheeks going pink. “For lesson two.”
Yeonjun’s whole body goes still from the way you say it—quiet, direct, brave in that shaky way you have. No flirting. No performance. Just you asking for what you want. Heat shoots low, immediate. His jaw tightens. He forces his face not to react.
He manages, very carefully, “You’re just saying that in public? In a seminar? With your friend two feet in front of you?”
You whisper back, “I said it quietly.”
Yeonjun’s eyes flick to the back of Beomgyu’s head. He knows Beomgyu is the type to hear frequencies only dogs and gossip can pick up. Yeonjun leans closer, voice barely there. “You’re going to get us murdered.”
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “You’re dramatic.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Because I enjoy living drama free.”
You look at him, still smiling, and something in him loosens despite every instinct screaming to tighten up. He nods once. “Okay.”
Your eyes widen. “Okay?”
Yeonjun keeps his voice low. “Okay. Movie. Then your place. Lesson two.”
You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all semester. Then you add, because you’re you, “We’re still doing the rules, though.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh. “Yeah. We’re still doing the rules.”
“No feelings,” you say, a little too quickly.
Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He doesn’t look at you when he answers, because he can’t afford to. “Yeah,” he says anyway. “No feelings.”
Beomgyu turns around again immediately, eyes glittering. “Why do I feel sexual tension behind me?”
Yeonjun doesn’t even blink. “Because you’re unemployed in the head.”
Beomgyu gasps. “I’m just saying—”
“Turn around,” Yeonjun says.
Beomgyu turns around, laughing to himself. “Okay, okay. God. Touchy.”
Yeonjun stares at the front of the hall, and tells his face to behave.
Under the desk, your knee bumps his again—this time on purpose. Yeonjun swallows. He’s supposed to be teaching you. Instead, he’s the one sitting here with his pulse in his throat, thinking about the fact that next week you’ll be alone again.
A week later, Thursday arrives.
Unlike lesson one, you have been wanting lesson two. You’ve been thinking about his mouth for days and it’s getting embarrassing.
You tell yourself it’s not a date. You say it out loud while you’re getting dressed, as if your mirror is going to argue back.
“Not a date,” you mutter, pulling on your best outfit anyway.
Because if it’s not a date, why are you shaving? Why are you moisturising? Why are you picking underwear that makes you feel confident instead of underwear that says I’m here for comfort and survival?
You check your phone.
yeonjun: outside
Your stomach drops—annoyingly dramatic. You grab your coat, lock your door, and step out.
He’s leaning against a lamppost, hands in his pockets, hair a mess in that intentional way that makes him look expensive without trying. He looks up when he hears you, and his face changes in this small, stupid way—like he’s genuinely glad to see you.
“Hey,” he says.
You blink. “Hi.”
He glances you up and down—quick, polite, controlled—but his mouth twitches. “You look—” he starts.
“Don’t,” you say instantly, because compliments right now will actually kill you.
He huffs a laugh. “Okay. You look normal.”
“You’re such a liar,” you say, walking past him.
He falls into step beside you. “What? I’m just respecting the agenda.”
“Don’t talk about the agenda out loud,” you hiss. “If you say lesson two in public I’m going to fake my own death.”
Yeonjun looks pleased with himself. “So dramatic.”
“You’re unbearable.”
He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours, and the contact is so casual it makes your chest tighten. You hate him a little for that.
The cinema is nearly empty.
It’s Thursday. Late screening. Everyone who cares has already watched it. Everyone who doesn’t care is at home doing something normal—like sleeping, instead of going to a movie with the campus fuckboy they’re allegedly using for sex homework.
Yeonjun buys popcorn like he does this every week. He does the whole thing—one hand in his pocket, the other tapping his card, face bored, like the cashier isn’t watching him the way people always do.
Then he hands you the popcorn and says, “Don’t spill it.”
You snort. “What are you, my dad?”
“I’m your supervisor,” he says, deadpan. “This is a practical.”
You choke on a laugh. “Stop calling it that.”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “You’re the one who asked for… tutoring.”
Your cheeks go hot. “Okay. Okay. Be quiet.”
Yeonjun smiles like he won something.
You both walk into the screen and pick seats in the middle because you’re pretending you’re normal people who came here for a movie and not two idiots with a rulebook and a shared secret.
The trailers start. The room is dark. The sound is loud. You can feel him beside you even when you’re not looking. His knee is close to yours. His shoulder. His warmth. You try to focus on the screen.
You do, for a while.
Then your hand dips into the popcorn at the exact same time as his. Your fingers brush. Your breath catches.
Yeonjun doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t jerk back. He just stills for half a second, fingers against yours, as if he’s deciding whether to pretend it didn’t happen.
You turn your head. He’s already looking at you. Dark room. Flickering light. His eyes steady on your face.
He raises a brow—silent question. You swallow. Your whole body goes hot, not from romance—fuck romance—just from the fact that you’re suddenly aware of your own mouth again. Your own body. Your own nerve.
You lift your hand out of the popcorn slowly. Yeonjun’s gaze follows it. You can see the exact moment he realises you’re not reaching for more popcorn.
His jaw tightens. His throat moves when he swallows. He leans closer, voice barely a thread. “What are you doing?”
You keep your eyes on him. You force the words out even though your heart is trying to escape. “Tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” you whisper.
Yeonjun goes very still. Then he lets out a breath that sounds half laugh, half warning. “In a cinema?” he murmurs, incredulous. “Are you actually insane?”
Your lips part. “Maybe.”
His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, and it feels like he's done this a dozen times before—in dark corners, with girls who know the score. But you're the one here now—pulse hammering.
You slide your hand over to his thigh, fingers trembling just a little as you press down, feeling him through his jeans. He shifts in his seat, not away, but into it—subtle, like he's guiding without saying it.
"Here?" he whispers, voice rougher now—glancing back at the scattered people in the rear rows, their heads lolling, eyes half-shut against the glow of the screen.
The movie's started, explosions rumbling through the speakers, masking everything. No one's looking. No one cares.
You nod, biting your lip, and let your palm slide higher—fingers fumbling before finding the growing bulge straining against the denim. He’s hard already, or getting there fast, the outline hot and insistent under your touch.
You squeeze tentatively, then firmer when he hisses softly, his hand coming up to grip the armrest like he's bracing. Is this right? You think it must be—but your grip is uneven as you rub up and down the length of him through the fabric, feeling it twitch under your palm.
Yeonjun's head tips back against the seat for a second, eyes fluttering shut before he forces them open, locking onto yours in the dim light. "Slower," he mutters, voice strained.
His free hand lands on your knee, squeezing. It sends a jolt straight between your legs, your panties dampening as you squirm in your seat, thighs pressing together for friction you can't quite get.
You adjust your rhythm, stroking him through his pants with long drags, your thumb circling what you think is the head. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, and his hips buck up into your hand, like he can't help it.
"Like that?" you breathe, leaning closer—your breath mingling with his.
"Yeah," he rasps, but it comes out choked.
His fingers are digging into your thigh now, sliding up a bit too fast and bumping your hip before retreating.
His other hand reaches over, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls you in for a kiss. In the dark, his lips land on your chin before he corrects, slanting his mouth over yours. Tongues tangle, wet and eager, the taste of butter and salt from the popcorn mixed with mint and smoke.
You keep stroking him, your hand speeding up without meaning to, feeling him throb under your fingers. Pre-cum must be soaking through—slick under your palm as you rub harder.
Yeonjun breaks away to gasp against your neck, teeth grazing your skin too sharply before he licks over it. "Fuck, you're gonna make me—" He cuts off with a muffled grunt, hips jerking up again and grinding into your hand.
The people in the back shift in their seats—one coughs, half-asleep—and you freeze for a heartbeat, heat flooding your face, but Yeonjun just pulls you closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Don't stop," he whispers.
You start again, slower, squeezing the base before sliding up. You feel him pulse. Your own body's on fire, clit throbbing untouched, but the risk of it all—the public dark, the chance of getting caught—makes it sharper.
He comes with a stifled moan into your shoulder, body tensing as warmth spreads under your hand—soaking through his jeans in sticky pulses.
You keep rubbing through it until he grabs your wrist gently, stopping you with a shaky laugh. "Easy," he murmurs, eyes dark and dazed as he looks at you, chest heaving.
His hand slides between your thighs then, fingers pressing over your jeans right where you're aching—hesitant, circling too low, then higher when you shift into it with a whimper.
But the lights flicker—the movie's hitting a bright scene—and he pulls back, both of you breathing hard, rearranging clothes with fumbling hands.
You glance at him, lips swollen, a wet spot darkening his crotch that he hides with the popcorn bucket. You swallow, still throbbing—because fuck, if this is what inexperience feels like with him, you want more.
The bathroom lighting in this cinema is criminal.
It’s too bright, too white, too honest—the kind that makes everyone look tired and guilty even when they’re just here to piss and go home.
Yeonjun looks guilty anyway.
Not because he did anything wrong. Because he did something stupid.
He stands at the sink with his hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands wet, jaw clenched. He’s trying to scrub at his boxers with cold water, and it’s not working. It’s cum. It’s biology. It’s a consequence.
He mutters under his breath, “Fuck.” Then, louder, to himself, like it’ll help, “Fuck.”
He catches his reflection in the mirror and freezes for a second—dark hair a mess, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, pupils dilated from poor decisions. He’s meant to look effortless. He’s meant to look smug. He looks—wrecked.
He leans closer to the mirror and stares at himself like the glass is going to explain why his life has turned into a porno plot with a budget of zero. His throat bobs when he swallows. His dick is still an idiot, soft now but sensitive in a way that makes him want to punch a wall. He adjusts his waistband and winces.
You had no experience. He had no business letting you do that in a room full of strangers. What the hell is wrong with him?
He rinses his fingers again, scrubs harder, gives up—then stuffs the ruined boxers into a wad of paper towel with the resigned fury of a man disposing of evidence.
His shoulders lift with a slow breath. He straightens. Fixes his face. Easy grin. Doesn’t care.
He opens the door.
And there you are, leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, pretending you’re casually waiting for a friend when you’re obviously waiting for him.
Your hair has slipped a little. Your lip gloss looks smudged, and your eyes are bright in a way that makes his stomach tighten for reasons he doesn’t want to name. You’re holding your phone in both hands, thumbs moving too fast—fake calm.
He stops.
You look up.
For half a second, you both just stare at each other, and the memory hits again—your hand in his lap, your mouth on his, the stupid little grunt he made as he came undone.
You swallow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, which is what men say when they are absolutely not fine.
You step closer anyway, eyes dropping to his jeans, then lifting back to his face. “Did you—”
“Don’t say anything like that in a hallway outside a public toilet,” he says, low and sharp. Then he pauses, and adds, quieter, “Please.”
The please knocks you off balance. You nod once. “Okay.”
Yeonjun’s jaw flexes. He looks down at you—really looks—and his eyes flick to your mouth again, like he can’t help it. Then he drags his gaze away, annoyed at himself. “Come on,” he mutters.
You fall into step beside him.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sober you up even though you weren’t drunk to begin with. The cinema sign glows behind you, neon and stupid and cheerful. People spill out in small groups, laughing, complaining about plot holes, living normal lives.
You and Yeonjun walk in silence for about ten seconds before you break.
“I can’t believe I did that,” you whisper.
Yeonjun doesn’t look at you. “I can.”
You stare. “Excuse me?”
His mouth tightens. “I knew you were feral since you asked me for sex lessons.”
You choke. “I am not feral.”
Yeonjun finally glances at you. One brow lifts. “You gave me a handjob during Demon Slayer.”
You hiss, “Stop saying it so loud.”
“I’m not loud,” he says, immediately lying.
You walk faster, mortified. “I was nervous.”
“You weren’t nervous,” Yeonjun replies, voice flat. “You were confident.”
You nearly trip. “I was terrified.”
Yeonjun’s gaze slides over your face. “You didn’t look terrified.”
“Because I’m insane,” you say. “Because I’m trying to fix my life with—dick skills.”
Yeonjun lets out a single laugh that sounds more like a choke. “You keep calling it skills like you’re talking about a CV.”
You throw your hands up. “That’s what this is.”
Yeonjun shakes his head, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching—amusement he’s trying to bury because the situation is too stupid to encourage. You look at him again, properly. He’s walking a little stiff. His shoulders are tense. His hands are in his pockets like he’s holding himself together physically.
You slow. “Okay,” you say, more gently. “Talk to me. What’s the plan, then? Because you can’t just go home in that state.”
Yeonjun rubs his face. “My plan is to go home, shower, burn my jeans, and pretend I didn’t just commit a felony in a cinema.”
“You can’t,” you say, stubborn. “You said no roommates, no audience, no one finding out. If your mate sees you doing the Walk of Shame in your own house, he’s going to rip you apart.”
Yeonjun glares.
You hold his gaze. “Come to mine.”
His steps slow. He looks at you properly now—suspicion, caution, the flicker of something hot under it. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeats. “We’re not going to your place because I came in my trousers.”
You lift your chin. “Why not?”
“Because that sounds insane,” he says. “Because it sounds deliberate. Because it sounds—” He stops, then says it blunt, “Because it sounds like you’re trying to fuck me again.”
Something dips low in your gut. You don’t pretend it doesn’t. You take a breath. Decide to be honest. “I am trying to fuck you again.”
Yeonjun freezes.
You keep going, because you’re already dead. “Not right now on the pavement. I’m not asking you to bend me over in an alley. I’m asking you to come to mine so you can clean up and not get caught. And yes—I also don’t want you to leave.”
Yeonjun stares at you for a long second. Then, tightly, “You’re dangerous.”
You shrug. “You agreed to teach me sex. You can’t act surprised I want sex.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.” He sighs, defeated. “Fine.”
Your chest loosens. “Thank you.”
Yeonjun points at you. “Don’t thank me. And don’t make it weird.”
You blink, innocent. “When have I ever made anything weird?”
Yeonjun deadpans, “You’re literally the reason I’m walking around with cum in my jeans.”
You clamp a hand over your mouth to stop the laugh. It escapes anyway.
Yeonjun looks away, jaw tight, but you see it—the tiny smile he can’t fully kill.
Your place feels too close.
You’re aware of it the whole way there. The fact that you’re leading him to your door. The fact that you’re both still buzzing from what happened in the dark. When you unlock your door, your hands fumble.
Yeonjun watches. “You’re shaking,” he says.
You glare without heat. “So are you.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Inside, you kick off your shoes. Yeonjun pauses on your threshold and scans the space again—quick and sharp—checking for people, cameras, judgement.
“No roommates,” you say. “It’s just me.”
Yeonjun nods once. “Bathroom.”
“Down the hall.”
He moves fast, like if he slows down he’ll start thinking. The door shuts. You stand in your kitchen for a second and stare at nothing, heart hammering.
Then you hear his voice, muffled through the door, “Do you have a plastic bag?”
You grab one. “Yes.”
You walk over and slide it through the crack without looking. A beat.
Then Yeonjun says, dry as hell, “Thank you for handling my biohazard.”
“Anytime.”
The door opens a fraction. A hand appears with his jeans and boxers bundled together in the bag.
You take them. Your fingers brush his for half a second. Both of you go still.
Yeonjun’s voice drops. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll get hard again,” he says—and the honesty hits so sharp you feel it behind your ribs.
Your mouth goes dry. “Oh.”
Yeonjun shuts the door.
You stand there for a second holding his clothes, pulse roaring. Then you walk to your washing machine and dump everything straight in, no ceremony. Hot wash. Extra rinse. Detergent. You press start with the solemnity of disposing of evidence. The machine begins to churn.
A minute later, Yeonjun comes out, hair damp at the edges, t-shirt clinging slightly and a towel from your bathroom wrapped around his lower body. He looks calmer—until his eyes land on the washing machine and then on you.
“You actually did it,” he says.
“You thought I was joking?” you ask.
Yeonjun scoffs. “I don’t know what you are.”
You open a drawer and pull out sweatpants. “Wear this.”
He stares at it. “That’s yours.”
“They’re clean,” you say. “And they’re big.”
Yeonjun’s brows lift. “This is humiliating.”
“You came in public,” you remind him. “We crossed humiliating hours ago.”
His lips part. He shuts them again, fighting a smile. He takes the sweatpants, disappears into the bathroom, then comes back a minute later.
Your mouth goes dry.
Yeonjun catches you staring. His voice goes low. “What?”
You clear your throat. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Say nothing when you’re obviously thinking something filthy.”
Your cheeks heat. “I’m not thinking something filthy.”
His gaze holds yours. “What do you want?”
The question lands heavy. You don’t dodge it. You say it simply. “I want lesson two.”
Yeonjun’s breathing shifts. The air changes with it. He steps closer. “You understand,” he says, voice rough, “if we start again tonight, it’s not going to be the cute make-out version.”
Your pulse stutters. “Good.”
Yeonjun’s eyes darken. Then he gives you one last out, because underneath the mouth and the reputation, he’s still careful even when he’s trying to be hard about it. “You sure?” he asks, quiet.
You swallow. “Yes.”
Yeonjun’s heart slams against his ribs. The pull toward you twists sharper than it should, but he shoves it down.
He steps closer, thumb grazing your jaw in a move he’s practiced in mirrors—confident, or at least it looks that way. “Bedroom,” he murmurs, low and rough, borrowing from some late-night scroll through advice forums.
You nod, leading him there. He follows, eyes flicking to the curve of your back, his cock already twitching in those ridiculous sweatpants.
The room smells of you—laundry detergent and something sweeter—and it hits him harder than expected, making his steps falter for a split second.
He recovers, shutting the door with a soft click, then turns. “Get on the bed,” he says, aiming for commanding, but his voice cracks at the end.
You perch on the edge, looking up at him with a bold stare that makes nerves skitter under his ribs. He kneels between your legs, hands landing on your thighs. Yeonjun’s fingers dig too deep before he lightens up, sliding them higher.
Leaning in, he kisses you, tongue pushing forward eagerly, clashing with yours in a wet skid that makes him pull back half an inch. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, laughing breathlessly against your lips, heat creeping up his neck.
But you laugh too—a soft, shaky sound—and it eases something in him. “Okay, again,” you whisper, pulling him back.
He dives in slower this time, tasting popcorn salt on your tongue. Yeonjun’s breath hitches when your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking a strand too hard. He trails kisses down your neck, teeth grazing skin—nipping too sharply once, making you yelp.
“Ow—wait, that tickles more than hurts,” you say, giggling through it, your body squirming under him.
He smirks to cover the flush on his face, murmuring, “Ticklish, huh? Noted for next time,” like it’s all part of the plan.
Inside, he’s scrambling—does that even count as sexy?—but you arch closer, so he keeps going, hands fumbling with your shirt hem. “Lift up,” he says, tugging it off.
The fabric catches on your elbow for a stubborn second before it gives. Your bra comes into view, and he stares—transfixed by the lace and the way your chest rises with each pant.
“Yeonjun?” you prompt, voice small and trembling.
“Yeah—fuck, you’re hot,” he blurts.
His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp, fingers slipping off the hook twice—three times—muttering a curse under his breath. “Come on,” he grumbles to himself, finally unhooking it with a triumphant snap that’s louder than intended.
The bra slides off, and there you are, nipples hard, and the sight punches the air from his lungs. Fuck, you’re beautiful, curves and softness that he wants to bury himself in. His cock strains harder.
He dips his head, mouth latching onto one nipple too hastily, sucking—firmer when you gasp. Your hand tightens in his hair again, guiding him. He switches sides, tongue flicking out in experimental swirls, saliva trailing down your skin.
“Do you like that?” he asks, pulling back for a breath, voice rough—eyes searching your face to make sure he’s not screwing up.
“Yeah—keep going,” you breathe. Your thighs shift restlessly.
Emboldened, he hooks fingers into your waistband. “These need to go too,” he says, trying for a practiced line, but it comes out breathier than planned.
You lift your hips, and he yanks your pants down, fabric snagging on one ankle—he tugs harder, nearly toppling you both with a muttered “Whoops.”
Panties still on, he pushes them aside, exposing you—wet and inviting. The scent hits him like a wave. Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry, pause stretching too long as he stares, unsure where to start.
“You okay?” you ask, propping up on elbows, cheeks pink.
“Totally,” he lies smoothly, recovering the persona with a grin. “Just admiring the view.”
He leans in, breath ghosting over you, then presses a kiss to your inner thigh—too close to your knee at first. Then adjusts higher with a slide that bumps his nose against your core prematurely.
You jolt, a surprised laugh bubbling out. “Hey—warn a girl,” you say, swatting his shoulder lightly.
“Sorry—not sorry,” Yeonjun shoots back.
His tongue darts out, licking a stripe over your clit. You moan, hips bucking up too fast, smacking his chin.
“Easy,” he chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but inside his heart races—is this right? Too much?
He tries again, tongue circling slower. His rhythm falters as he explores, tasting you fully now—salty, sweet, tangy, and addictive. He's hard as hell, grinding subtly against the mattress for relief.
He slips a finger in, pushing too deep at first—you tense, whispering “Slower”—and he pulls back a bit, curling, breath catching when you whimper approval.
“Fuck, Yeonjun—that’s—don’t stop,” you pant, words clashing with the way your hand fumbles to his shoulder, squeezing.
He adds suction, lips closing around your clit too loosely before tightening. You grind up, smearing wetness across his cheek.
It’s chaotic—his free hand slips on your thigh, gripping too high then sliding down—but the sounds you make spur him on, his own arousal throbbing painfully.
“Taste so good,” Yeonjun mutters against you. The dirty line feels awkward on his tongue, like he’s quoting something he shouldn’t, but your moan makes it worth it.
Your breaths quicken, body trembling—close, he thinks—and the need to feel more overwhelms him.
“Wait—turn around,” he rasps, pulling back with a gasp, lips slick. “I want—wanna try this way.”
You blink, hazy. “Like—on top?”
“Yeah, trust me,” Yeonjun says, the mask holding as he maneuvers you—elbows bumping, your knee nearly clipping his ear.
You straddle his face backward, ass hovering uncertainly until he guides you down—hands slipping on your hips once before steadying.
His tongue dives back in greedily, lapping at you as you settle, but now your fingers tug at his waistband.
“These are in the way,” you say, bold as you pull his cock free—just enough, sweatpants shoved down his thighs. You wrap a hand around him, stroking dry and hesitant, thumb smearing pre-cum. “Like this?” you ask.
“Fuck—yeah, but wetter,” he groans into you, the vibration making you twitch.
You spit into your palm—dripping onto his shirt—and try again, grip too loose then tightening.
When you lean down to take him in your mouth, your lips stretch around the head tentatively. Your tongue is flat and probing at first, teeth grazing lightly. He hisses, hips jerking up involuntarily, bumping too deep.
You gag, pulling off with a cough and a watery-eyed laugh. “Too much—sorry.”
“No—keep going—it feels good,” he encourages, voice strained, thrusting shallowly again without control.
It’s a disaster—your bobbing falters when his tongue slips off-target, hitting your inner thigh instead. His laps turn sloppy when you suck harder, distracting him into a muffled “Wait—fuck, right there.”
Saliva drips from your mouth onto his base, his chin soaked with you, breaths ragged and interrupted by petty whines—yours when he pauses too long, his when your hand twists.
But the need overrides it all, building frantic.
“I’m—I think I’m close,” you warn, voice muffled around him, thighs quaking.
“Do it—come on my face,” he blurts, the filthy line cracking out unbidden, desperate and pushing you over.
You cry out around his cock, convulsing, flooding his tongue as he licks through it. It’s too much—he thrusts up once more, spilling into your mouth with a groan, hot and erratic, some dribbling down your chin as you swallow what you can, coughing lightly.
You both collapse, panting—bodies tangled in a sweaty, awkward heap. He stares at the ceiling, heart racing. The unnamed pull in his chest is stronger now, but he brushes it off as afterglow. You roll off him, looking wrecked and satisfied.
He pulls you close without thinking, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
Yeonjun lies still for a moment, staring at your ceiling as if it’s going to tell him what the hell to do next.
Your room is small, warm, lived-in. Unmade bed. Hoodie on a chair. Charger on the floor. The air now smells of your perfume and the two of you.
You’re beside him—hair a mess, mouth swollen, eyes glassy in that post-orgasm haze. You don’t look embarrassed. You don’t look regretful. You look comfortable. That hits him in the chest.
He pushes himself up on one elbow and clears his throat, buying time. His voice comes out rough anyway. “You okay?”
You blink slowly. “Yeah.”
“Yeah as in I’m fine or yeah as in I can’t feel my legs?”
Your laugh is quiet and wrecked. “Both.”
“Good,” he says automatically, then winces at himself because good sounds too pleased.
He sits up properly, then immediately reaches for tissues on your bedside table. He shoves them closer to you, then grabs a couple for himself because he’s not going to pretend he’s above being a mess.
You watch him, amused. “You’re—very organised.”
He gives you a look. “Don’t bully me.”
“I’m not bullying you. I’m observing.”
“Observation is bullying with a degree,” he mutters, and it makes you snort again. “I’m literally just doing basic human maintenance.”
“Basic human maintenance,” you repeat, delighted.
“Stop talking,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.
You shift under the duvet, and the sheet slides down your shoulder. You’re still bare. Still warm. Still looking at him like you’re not embarrassed at all. Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry. He forces his eyes away and grabs the hoodie off the chair—yours, by the look of it, soft and oversized.
He tosses it onto your lap. “Put that on,” he says, aiming for casual.
You lift it. “Why?”
“Because you’re cold.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re literally shivering,” he cuts in, then adds, quieter, “And I’m not trying to have you sat here naked while my brain keeps replaying—everything.”
Your smile turns slow. Dangerous. “Everything?”
Yeonjun releases a breath, measured. “Put the hoodie on.”
You do, pulling it over your head, hair exploding, sleeves swallowing your hands. The sight of you in it does something to him that feels stupidly soft.
Yeonjun closes his eyes for a second and the thought hits him—fuck. He really like this. Not just the sex. The mess. The laughter. The fact he can say One Piece without someone calling him cringe. The fact you’re not looking at him like he’s a rumour you want to test-drive.
He stands too fast, restless. “Water,” he says, pointing nowhere. “I’m getting water.”
You blink. “Are you ordering me around?”
“Yes,” he says, already halfway out of the room. “Drink water. Eat something. Don’t pass out. I don’t need that kind of trauma.”
From behind him, you call, “You’re so dramatic.”
He mutters, “Says you,” and heads for your kitchen. He comes back with two glasses and whatever he can find that resembles sugar. He sets one beside you, nudges it closer. “Drink.”
You sip, watching him over the rim. “You’re acting like you’ve done this a lot.”
The sentence lands sharp. Yeonjun’s body goes weightless for a second. He keeps his face steady anyway, because unfortunately he’s good at that. He shrugs, aiming for a smirk. “I’m acting like I don’t want you to crash and decide I’m a menace.”
You snort. “You are a menace.”
“Yeah, okay.” He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee knocks yours. “Eat.”
You pick at the snack, still staring. “You’re avoiding the question.”
Yeonjun’s throat works. He wants to say it. He wants to be honest. He wants to tell you he’s not who the campus thinks he is. That he’s been performing for so long he doesn’t know how to stop. That he likes you enough to want you to know the real version of him.
Instead, he goes for the safer lane. “Next time,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Before we do anything else—we talk properly.”
You lift a brow. “About what?”
“About rules. About not doing insane shit in public again.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “About you. About me. About that Switzerland boy.”
Your expression softens, the teasing fading into something warmer. “Okay,” you say. “We’ll talk.”
Yeonjun nods once, like he didn’t just promise himself something else entirely—next time, he tells you the truth. No more rumours. Not more campus playboy. No more cigarette-and-smirk myth.
Just Choi Yeonjun.
The guy who likes cold pizza for breakfast, argues about One Piece arcs, listens to Joji when he can’t sleep, and is scared out of his mind that he might actually—like someone.
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a/n: hiii my loves! we are back with lesson two much sooner than i thought. im so grateful for all the love you guys have given to virgin playboy. and omg lets talk about this chapter. these two are FREAKS. they really escalated 0 to a 100 real quick. also pls give me a break if the smut is kinda shitty because this is not my usual genre!! i went into this trying to explore more and get better at writing smut so pls be kind i have a soft heart. pls do let me know your thoughts and i'll be back soon hopefully with lesson 3, im halfway though it!!
dedication note: i just want to dedicate this chapter to my beautiful bby @matchastwb her fic gameboy (specifically jungkook's charcter) has massively inspired yeonjun's character unconsciously. pls do check out her fic (im sure most of you have already!!) if you haven't
target: i'm acc blown away that you guys met the last target of 250 notes in less than 48hrs. what are you guys made of? so i now have to increase the target to 500 notes since the next part will be the finale and a big ass word count and i also need the time to finish writing up. but im sure you can meet the target as the teaser has above that!! so as usual, spam me with reblogs, comments and asks!! literally scream at me, im here for it
taglist: please drop me an ask or comment on the series masterlist
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment
✧ word count: 10.8k
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist
soobin: back next month
soobin: wanna go for dinner?
soobin: i’ve missed you
You stare at the screen until your eyes start to sting. Dinner. A normal word. A normal plan. A normal boy you’ve wanted for an unreasonable amount of time.
You should be thrilled. Your chest does flutter—soft, stupid, familiar. Then your stomach drops, because the version of you Soobin thinks he’s meeting at that dinner is not you.
Not really.
You’ve wanted him since you were sixteen and he was already the kind of boy teachers praised too eagerly and girls liked too openly. You wanted him while he had a girlfriend—pretty, polished, untouchable—so you learned how to want him quietly. You got good at it. You made it a background process in your life. A hidden tab.
Then university happened. He went to Switzerland on exchange. You told yourself it was a clean ending.
Distance didn’t end it. It loosened you. Because somehow, over the last few months, Soobin started talking. Properly talking.
Not just polite check-ins. Not just how’s class? and did you eat today? but messages that didn’t stop at midnight. Calls that started as five minutes and ended with the sky lightening outside your window. A private, dangerous kind of closeness where he starts saying your name a little slower, a little softer, until you can’t pretend it’s nothing.
It starts as flirting. Then it turns into sexting.
And you—who have no business to—kept up.
Because you were safe behind a screen. Because he was far away. Because your thumbs were braver than your body. Because he kept responding like he wanted more.
You didn’t just flirt. You performed. You told him you weren’t shy. You told him you’d done things. You told him you were good at things. You told him a body count that sounded impressive instead of honest.
And he believed you.
Your phone buzzes again before your brain can recover.
soobin: i want your mouth
soobin: i’m serious about dinner
soobin: and i’m serious about what you promised me
Your throat goes dry so fast it hurts. You sit up, duvet sliding down your waist, and for a second you’re too hot in your own skin. Your heart is loud. Your hands are damp.
Promised.
That’s the word that ruins everything, because you didn’t just talk. You bragged.
You scroll up.
You don’t want to. You do it anyway, thumb dragging the chat back through weeks of late nights and bad decisions. There you are—bold, filthy, fearless on paper.
you: i’m not going to be sweet about it
you: i’ll get on my knees if you ask
you: i’m good at swallowing. don’t underestimate me
you: i can take you
you: i won’t tap out
You stare at your own messages with a slow, horrified disbelief, as if someone else typed them. Someone with experience. Someone with practice. Someone with a real history and not—you stop.
Because the truth is humiliating in its simplicity.
You have never given anyone head in your life. You have never even seen a dick in real life that wasn’t in a medical diagram or an accidental photo someone flashed in a groupchat.
Your lips have kissed exactly one boy in your entire life and it barely counts. Year Four. A snotty boy with glasses. A thank-you kiss meant for his cheek. You misjudged the angle and pecked him on the mouth. You remember the sound he made—half gasp, half offended squeak. The way you both froze, staring at each other with the shared expression of two people who’d just committed a felony. The way you ran home and swore off boys forever, as if you’d been personally wronged by God.
You, age nine—already dramatic. You, age twenty-one—still dramatic. But now with consequences. Real ones.
Your phone buzzes again.
soobin: you’re not going to ghost me now, right?
soobin: i’ve been counting down
soobin: i want you
You make a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a noise of actual pain. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice thin.
Your brain starts sprinting ahead without you. Dinner, walking you home, his hand at your waist, him leaning in with confidence because you taught him to expect it. And you—you going rigid. You kissing him back wrong. You revealing yourself in the worst, most embarrassing way—not with a confession, but with your body freezing because it doesn’t know what to do.
You toss your phone onto the bed like it’s cursed. Then you grab it again immediately, because you’re weak and because seeing his name does something soft and stupid to your chest.
You type. Delete. Type again. Delete again.
You draft confidence and erase it. Draft flirtation and erase it. Draft something filthy—something that matches the girl you pretended to be—and erase it so hard your thumb aches.
Finally you type, yeah.
One word. Small. Safe. Harmless. A lie, considering the persona you’ve been feeding him at 2am.
You hover over send and consider adding something bolder. A wink. A threat. A promise. Your fear wins. You hit send. The message delivers.
You stare at it in silence for two seconds. Then you smack your forehead with the heel of your hand hard enough to make your eyes water.
“Why did I lie?” you whisper to the empty room.
No one answers. The room just holds you there—sitting upright in your bed with your phone in your hand, realising you have officially talked yourself into a situation you do not know how to survive.
Your friends answer instead—because they always do, and never gently. Cute little vultures with groupchats.
It’s Thursday night—which means someone’s flat, music too loud, cheap alcohol poured into plastic cups, bodies pressed into every corner of a living room. The air tastes of vape, perfume, sweat, and whatever fruity mixer is being spilled onto the carpet and ignored.
You’re perched on the arm of the sofa, clutching a cup you’ve had for twenty minutes without drinking. You’re not thirsty. Your anxiety has simply occupied every available body function and reassigned your hands to cup duty so they don’t start shaking.
Beomgyu is in his element. Beomgyu is thriving. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with smug confidence. He has an audience. He has momentum. He is about to ruin you for entertainment.
“And then,” Beomgyu says, raising his voice so half the room can hear, “she tells Soobin her body count is eleven.”
You make a sound that is half groan, half prayer. “I didn’t tell him. It just came out.”
“It just came out,” Beomgyu repeats, delighted. “Right. A natural phenomenon. An act of God. You tripped and fell face-first into lying.”
Mina’s eyes go wide. “Eleven is wild. Babe.”
Yuna squints at you. “Eleven is also—not even sexy. You could’ve said four. Four says I have a life without saying I run an underground operation.”
“I panicked,” you hiss. “He was flirting. It escalated. And I—”
“And you decided to go full porn star,” Beomgyu finishes, grinning.
“Beomgyu!” you yelp, lunging for the nearest cushion. You throw it at his face.
He catches it without looking. Smug bastard.
Yuna points at you, horrified and amused. “What else did you lie about?”
“I lied about everything,” you whisper, because there’s no point pretending now. Your face is on fire. “I lied about my body count. I lied about being experienced. I lied about—skills.”
Beomgyu slaps his knee. “Skills.”
“Stop saying it like that,” you beg.
Beomgyu is practically vibrating. “No, because this is insane. Soobin is coming back next month expecting you to be this confident, filthy menace, and you’ve never even—”
“Don’t,” you warn, voice shaking. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Mina tries to be helpful and fails. “Okay, but what exactly did you promise him?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “I promised him a whole night.”
Beomgyu snorts. “A whole night of what? Sudoku?”
Yuna makes a choking noise. Mina throws her head back, laughing.
You glare at Beomgyu. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, grinning. “You need me. I’m your emotional support bully.”
“You’re my emotional support executioner.”
Beomgyu raises his hands. “I’m just saying, you didn’t just flirt. You wrote him a brochure. You made claims.”
Mina wipes at her eyes. “What claims?”
Beomgyu smiles, evil. “She told him she’d get on her knees the second he asked.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she likes it doggy.”
“Beomgyu!”
“She told him she could take raw.”
Yuna screams, “STOPPPPPP.”
You bury your face in your hands. Your entire body tries to fold into itself. “I was delusional,” you say into your palms. “I was horny and delusional and he was in Switzerland and it felt fake and safe.”
Mina’s laughter softens a notch. “Okay. Okay. So what’s your plan? Are you going to tell him the truth?”
You lift your head slowly, eyes stinging. “Absolutely not.”
Yuna blinks. “Then what happens when he tries to kiss you?”
Your stomach flips. “I’m going to die,” you whisper.
“You’re not going to die,” Beomgyu says cheerfully. “You’re just going to be exposed.”
“Can you stop saying that sentence,” Mina says, laughing and wincing at the same time.
Across the room, the music shifts. People keep dancing. People keep drinking. Your life is falling apart and nobody even pauses the playlist.
You stand up because you can’t sit still. Your skin feels too tight. Your lungs won’t fill properly. “I need air,” you say, not asking permission.
Beomgyu waves you off. “Go practise being mysterious.”
Mina calls after you, still laughing, “Go practise telling the truth!”
You flip them off without turning around.
Cold air hits your face and your lungs finally expand. The night is damp, streetlights turning the pavement glossy.
Your eyes sting. You tell yourself you are not crying at a party. You are not going to be that girl. You are going to be normal and composed and grown—your throat tightens anyway. You swipe at your cheek, annoyed at yourself, and step further out so the doorway light can’t expose your face.
And then you see him.
Choi Yeonjun.
Leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, posture relaxed in a way that feels unfair. He’s with a few friends, but he stands half a step apart—present, included, not chasing attention. He laughs at something, and it’s easy. It sits on him naturally.
His hair falls into his face in messy pieces, dark and thick and grown out on purpose. It shadows his eyes when he looks down. When he lifts his gaze there’s sharp attention there—observant, not arrogant. The kind that makes you feel clocked even from across the pavement.
A silver hoop catches the light at his ear when he turns his head. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms bare, lean muscle moving when he brings the cigarette to his mouth. He exhales smoke into the cold and doesn’t look like he’s performing for anyone.
“Bro,” one of them laughs, loud enough that anyone with ears is now involved, “you cannot keep saying you’re taking a break when you’re still getting your dick sucked every other day.”
Yeonjun doesn’t even flinch. He takes a drag, exhales slowly, and says, deadpan, “I’m not keeping track.”
“You’re lying,” another one says immediately. “You absolutely keep track. You’re the kind of man who knows his Google Calendar password.”
“Yeah, you just stumble into it,” the first friend snorts. “Accidentally. Tragic. You fell down the stairs and landed in someone’s throat.”
“Shut up,” Yeonjun says, but it’s lazy. Practised. Like he’s said it before and enjoyed it every time.
A third friend shoves his shoulder. “Nah, he’s actually evil. He’ll flirt for twenty minutes, act all chill, then go, Do you want to come upstairs? like it’s a cuppa tea.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “It’s not evil. It’s called being direct.”
“It’s called being a slut,” the first friend corrects, delighted. “Campus public transport. Tap in, tap out.”
Yeonjun turns his head slowly, brows lifting. “I’m not public transport.”
His friends erupt. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking now, and it’s the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what they’re doing and he’s letting them anyway.
“Okay,” the second friend says, catching his breath. “Serious question. Aftercare?”
Yeonjun exhales, unimpressed. “I’m not a psychopath.”
“Oh my God,” the third friend groans, laughing. “He’s a whore with ethics.”
Yeonjun shrugs, too calm. “I’m a man with standards.”
“Your standards are, she wants you and she’s breathing.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “She wants me. I want her. Nobody’s pressured. Everybody’s clean. Everybody’s fed. That’s the whole list.”
“The whole list,” the first friend repeats, wheezing. “He said fed. This man is handing out orgasms and snacks.”
Yeonjun taps his cigarette against the lamppost. “You’ll understand one day when someone actually enjoys having you around.”
“Yeonjun,” someone gasps, scandalised, “that was personal.”
He just smirks again—unbothered and comfortable in his skin—while your stomach tightens, because hearing him say it out loud makes everything in your head feel painfully real.
Your brain supplies everything you’ve heard about him without you asking.
Your chest aches with something humiliating. Not for him. For what he seems to have. For how he seems to exist without fear. For how he looks like he could teach confidence the way people teach a language.
The idea lands hard. You stare at Yeonjun—at the cigarette, the smirk, the calm—and you think, with awful certainty, I’m going to ask him for help.
You don’t do it at the party.
Because you are many things, but you are not walk up to the campus whore in front of witnesses and ask him to teach you how to suck dick insane.
So you try to be strategic. You try to be normal.
You fail.
The next day, you find Yeonjun alone in a lecture hall—back row, legs stretched out, phone in his hand. His hair is pushed back just enough to show his forehead, but it still falls forward in stubborn pieces. He looks expensive without trying.
You stop in the doorway too long. A girl brushing past you mutters, “Move,” and you jolt as if you’ve been caught committing a crime.
You march down the aisle anyway. Your brain is screaming ABORT. Your feet ignore it. Yeonjun doesn’t look up when you sit beside him. Of course he doesn’t. Of course the man who allegedly gets laid on weekdays doesn’t bother looking up at anything.
Your heart is punching your ribs. Your palms are damp. You swallow. Hard.
You stare at the front of the lecture hall like it owes you answers. Your throat keeps tightening every time you try to form a sentence.
Hi. Sorry. Weird question.
No.
Hi. I’ve been watching you smoke outside parties.
Absolutely not.
Hi. I lied to this guy named Soobin who’s on exchange in Switzerland and he’s about to come back and asked to go on a date and then do things but I have no idea how to do these things because of course I lied so now I need a man with a reputation to save me.
Jesus Christ.
Yeonjun scrolls on his phone, thumb moving slow, relaxed. He’s close enough that you can see the edge of his screen. Something brainless. Sports highlights. A meme. A girl’s name in his notifications.
You glance at him once. Sharp jaw. Lazy mouth. Heavy lashes. The faint scent of laundry, smoke, and something clean under it—soap, cologne, whatever. It makes your stomach do that humiliating drop it does when you remember you’re a sexual being and not just an anxious blob with student debt.
You look away fast. Too fast. Your neck twinges.
You sit there rigid for the entire hour, rehearsing one sentence over and over until it loses meaning—Can you teach me how to sex?
The lecturer says something about post-modernism. Somebody asks a question nobody cares about. Someone’s laptop fan starts screaming. Life carries on while you silently drown.
Yeonjun doesn’t look up once.
At the end, people stand. Bags zip. Chairs scrape. Yeonjun stands too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He walks past you without a glance.
You sit there for a full minute after everyone leaves, staring at the whiteboard as if it’s going to spit out confidence. “Okay,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow arrives and Yeonjun is outside, cigarette between his lips, lighter flicking open and shut in his hand.
Your feet carry you there before your brain can file an objection. And then, at the last second, your body betrays you and you dive behind a bush.
A bush. You are hiding behind a bush on a university campus because you are terrified of a man with good cheekbones. You crouch there, peering through leaves, the damp smell of plant and dirt filling your nose.
Yeonjun inhales. Exhales. Smoke curls into the cold air.
You tell yourself, Go. Walk up. Speak. Use words. Ask him. Say “I need help, please.”
You don’t move. Yeonjun finishes the cigarette. Lights another.
You tell yourself, If you don’t go now, you’re going to end up on a date with Soobin pretending you know what you’re doing. He’s going to kiss you. He’s going to touch you. He’s going to expect your mouth to do the things you promised. You’re going to panic. You’re going to ruin everything.
You still don’t move. Your phone vibrates. You freeze, because the universe has a sense of humour and it hates you.
Yeonjun shifts slightly. His gaze flicks toward the bush.
Your soul leaves your body.
He stares for a beat then turns to his phone. Yeonjun finishes the second cigarette, tucks the lighter away, and walks off.
You remain behind the bush. You press your forehead to a leaf.
“Why am I like this?” you whisper.
The day after that, you decide you need a new strategy. A better one. A less humiliating one. Something with dignity.
So you go to the cafeteria with sunglasses on and a newspaper lifted to hide half your face. You look like a woman trying to commit fraud.
You spot Yeonjun across the room—sitting alone, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other, taking bites in between texts. He looks irritatingly relaxed. He looks annoyingly hot doing something as unsexy as eating cheese and mayonnaise.
You pretend to read the newspaper. You turn a page too aggressively and it makes a loud snap. The guy next to you flinches and stares. You stare straight ahead, as if you are not a lunatic wearing sunglasses indoors at lunchtime. You lower the newspaper by half an inch.
Yeonjun is still scrolling. Still chewing. Still minding his own business.
You tell yourself: Stand up. Walk over. Say “Hi.” Say “I need help.” Say “I lied.” Say “I need lessons.” Say “Before my date, I need someone to teach me how to not embarrass myself in bed.”
Your mouth goes dry. Your thoughts trip over each other. Just walk up. Just say it. Just—your sunglasses slip down your nose. You push them up too fast, flustered. The newspaper wobbles. You panic and lift it higher.
Someone behind you laughs. You don’t know if it’s at you, but your body assumes it is.
Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes flick over the newspaper, the sunglasses, the tension in your shoulders. He pauses mid-bite. Then, very slowly, he goes back to his phone.
You exhale into the paper, miserable. “This is not going well,” you whisper.
And somehow—despite the humiliation flooding your face, despite the dread crawling up your spine—you already know the worst part. You’re not stopping.
By day five, Choi Yeonjun is done pretending this is normal.
He can handle the usual stuff. People staring. People whispering. People acting brave in front of their friends and then sending him titty pics at 2am with you up? and a location pin.
He can handle being a rumour. It’s easier than being a person. But even rumours don’t come with a five-day stalking schedule.
It starts small. Then it gets stupid.
Lecture hall—you sit next to him and sweat through your shirt. Outside—you appear near his smoke break and then vanish behind a bush. Cafeteria—you wear sunglasses indoors and hold a newspaper upside down to your eyebrows.
Yeonjun is not flattered. Yeonjun is not charmed.
Yeonjun is thinking, is this a dare? Am I about to end up on somebody’s private story with a caption that says caught the campus slut? If I ignore it, you’ll keep doing it. If I confront it, it becomes a scene.
Then there’s the men’s toilets. That’s when it stops being funny.
He’s half-awake, caffeine-deprived, walking toward the door, and there you are—posted up near it, pretending you’re waiting for someone.
You are very obviously not waiting for someone. You are waiting for him.
He slows. You freeze. Your eyes meet for half a second and your face does this whole panic spiral in real time—guilt, fear, shame—then you look away so fast it’s a neck injury. Yeonjun walks past because he’s not starting a public fight outside a toilet.
But he washes his hands longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. He looks normal. He looks calm. He looks exactly like the guy everyone thinks he is.
He doesn’t feel calm.
He feels watched. He feels set up. He feels one wrong move away from being a screenshot.
So by day five, he makes a decision. If you want to be weird, you’re going to be weird to his face.
He’s outside for a cigarette when he spots you again.
There you are, half-hidden behind a lamppost, doing a terrible job at pretending you’re just standing there. You’re stiff, shoulders high, eyes wide, cheeks already flushing because you know you’ve been seen.
Kian follows Yeonjun’s gaze. “Oh my God,” he laughs. “It’s her. The spy.”
Milo squints. “Is she the newspaper one?”
“Yeah,” Kian says, delighted. “Newspaper and sunglasses indoors. Absolute criminal.”
Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “Shut up,” he says, stepping away from them.
He just walks. Straight toward you. Your eyes widen further as he closes the distance. You look trapped.
He stops in front of the lamppost. He keeps his voice flat. Calm. No drama. “Are you following me?”
You blink. “What? No.”
Yeonjun nods once. “Okay.”
You exhale, relief flickering.
“And I’m the Pope,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan. “Lecture hall. Cafeteria. My smoke breaks. Outside the men’s toilets.”
Your face drains. “Oh my God,” you choke out. “No—no, I wasn’t—I wasn’t—”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Finish that sentence.”
You swallow. Your fingers clamp around your bag strap.
Yeonjun doesn’t soften. Not yet. He scans your hands. Your phone. The angle of your body. The way you keep flicking your eyes around the pavement. He says it plainly. “Are you filming me?”
Your head jerks. “What? No!”
“Is this a dare?” Yeonjun asks. “Are your friends watching from a window? Are we doing a prank? Do you want me to say something embarrassing so you can post it?”
Your eyes go glassy. “No. I swear. I’m not trying to do anything to you.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches at that. “Bold sentence to say to a stranger you’ve been stalking.”
You flinch. “I wasn’t stalking. I was—”
“What,” Yeonjun cuts in, voice low, “were you doing?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Yeonjun waits. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t rescue you. He just stands there and lets the silence choke.
Your voice comes out messy. “I have a date.”
Yeonjun blinks once. “Congrats.”
You keep going anyway, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked. “He’s coming back next month. This guy. Choi Soobin? I don’t know if you know him but—but he asked me out and I—I’ve been texting him for months and I said things and now he’s actually going to be here and I’m going to embarrass myself so badly I’m going to have to drop out.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Soobin—as in Soobin the guy that went to Switzerland on exchange?”
You nod so hard it’s frantic.
Yeonjun keeps his face blank. “And what does any of this have to do with me?”
You inhale sharply and then blurt the proposition in the worst possible words. “I need you to teach me how to suck dick.”
The pavement goes silent in Yeonjun’s head. Not because he’s shocked. He’s heard worse. He’s been offered worse. Because your delivery is so mortified and sincere that it doesn’t even sound seductive. It sounds desperate. It sounds panicked. It sounds… insane.
Yeonjun stares at you. Then he says, very clearly, “Excuse me?”
Your whole face turns red. “Not—not here. Oh my God. Not on the street. I just—I meant—I need help.”
“You think you can just walk up to me and say that?” Yeonjun asks, voice sharper now. “You think I’m a public service? A campus tutorial?”
“No!” you say too loudly. Then quieter, frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I just—I lied to him.”
Yeonjun crosses his arms. “About what.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “About—everything.”
“Give me specifics,” Yeonjun says. “Because everything can mean you lied about being rich or you lied about loving anal.”
You make a strangled noise. “I—I lied about being experienced.”
Yeonjun tilts his head. “Define experienced.”
You look like you want the earth to open up and swallow you. “I told him I’m good at oral,” you whisper, barely audible. “I told him I like it. I told him I’d swallow. I told him I could take him. I told him I—” you choke, then force it out anyway because you’re already dying, “—I told him I’m not shy—and I can take it raw and my body count is eleven—and yeah.”
Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. Not because he’s offended. Because now he understands the real problem. You wrote a sexual resume you can’t back up, and you’re about to get audited in person.
Yeonjun exhales slowly. “So your solution is… me.”
“Yes,” you say, voice cracking. “Because everyone says you—you know what you’re doing.”
Yeonjun lets out a single laugh. It isn’t warm. It’s disbelief. “Everyone says a lot of shit,” he replies.
“I’ll do anything, I’ll—I just need three lessons.”
Yeonjun’s gaze sharpens. “Three.”
You nod. “Three.”
“Tell me what you think a lesson is,” Yeonjun says. “Because right now it sounds like you want to practise on me so you can go impress another guy.”
You go rigid. “That’s not—I mean—yes, technically, but—”
“I don’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, panicking again. “I mean I don’t want to freeze. I don’t want to look stupid. I don’t want to panic when he touches me. I don’t want to be that girl who wrote porn and then shows up in person and can’t even—”
You stop. Swallow.
Yeonjun watches you shake. Not in a cute way. In a she’s actually about to cry way. He looks over his shoulder once. His friends are watching, grinning, clearly expecting entertainment.
Yeonjun turns back. His voice drops. “This is suspicious as hell.”
Your shoulders slump. “I know.”
“It’s also risky,” Yeonjun continues. “For me. For you. For both of us. If someone finds out, it’s not you they’ll call a creep.”
You nod fast. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear on my life.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Swear better.”
You swallow. “Swear on my mother.”
Yeonjun holds your gaze, checking. You don’t flinch. He asks, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Are you on something?”
“No.”
Yeonjun pauses. He should walk away. He should tell you to go be honest with that Soobin and accept the consequences of your own mouth. He should tell you to stop stalking strangers. He should—instead, he asks, “What exactly are the three lessons?”
You falter.
Yeonjun waits.
You force it out, mortified, barely meeting his eyes. “Kissing. Oral. Sex.”
Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps his face steady. “So you want me to teach you how to fuck.”
You nod, face burning. “Yes.”
“And then you go on a date with another man,” Yeonjun says, dry. “And what, you thank me for my service and disappear?”
You look at him, panicked. “It’s not—I’m not trying to use you. I just—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Yeonjun studies you. The way you’re trembling. The way you’re not flirting. The way you’re begging with your whole posture. You don’t look manipulative. You look scared.
Yeonjun could tell you the truth.
You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m a virgin. I’ve never kissed anyone in my life, let alone—
But you’re looking at him like he’s the answer. Like you have so much ridiculous faith in him, it makes his chest ache in a place he doesn’t want to examine. And Yeonjun has spent years learning that correcting people is exhausting. That admitting you don’t fit the story makes them laugh, or pity you, or lose interest entirely.
So he does what he knows best. He lets the story win.
He exhales. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”
Your eyes flick up, hopeful.
Yeonjun doesn’t give in yet. “I don’t do lessons with someone who can’t even say hello without hiding behind a bush,” he says. “If you want this, you’re going to act like an adult.”
You nod quickly. “Okay.”
Yeonjun continues, firm, “No more stalking. If you want to talk to me, you walk up. You use your mouth for words first.”
Your face goes crimson. “Okay.”
Yeonjun watches you struggle to hold it together. He says, “If I say yes, it’s on my terms. No audience. No phones out. No screenshots. No bragging. No hinting. Nothing.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” you whisper.
Yeonjun stares at you for a long beat. Then he says, “And if you catch feelings, we stop.”
Your eyes widen. “I won’t.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Everybody says that.” He takes one last look over his shoulder at his friends. They’re still watching. Still laughing. Still hungry for drama. Yeonjun turns back to you and makes the choice anyway, because there’s something in your panic he recognises too well.
“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Tomorrow. My place. Drop me a text and I’ll send you the address.”
Your whole face changes—relief so huge it’s embarrassing.
“Thank you,” you breathe.
Yeonjun holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”
You nod quickly, almost trembling.
Yeonjun’s voice drops, sharp with warning. “And if you ever follow me near the men’s toilets again,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan, “I’m calling campus security.”
You make a strangled sound. “I’m sorry.”
Yeonjun steps back, flicking his cigarette away. He walks toward his friends with his shoulders loose and his face bored, because that’s the only way he survives campus. Because if he stops and thinks too hard, he’ll have to admit the truth, he has no idea what he’s doing.
Because three lessons sounded neat when you said it outside. Three is a number you can count. Three is a deadline. Three is a plan.
But now it’s lesson one. Now it’s his flat. Now you’re coming over.
His mate being away should feel convenient. Empty flat. No interruptions. No one walking in and clocking the fact Yeonjun is about to get exposed as a fraud.
Instead, the silence is loud as hell. The walls feel nosy. The sofa looks judgemental.
He checks his phone again.
psycho stalker: omw
psycho stalker: pls don’t laugh at me
psycho stalker: i swear to god if you laugh at me i’ll die
Yeonjun snorts, because of course that’s what you’d text. Full panic. Full honesty. Zero seduction. You’ve been stalking him for a week and still somehow texting him like he’s a dentist.
“Okay,” he says out loud, because there’s nobody else here and if he doesn’t talk he’ll combust. “Okay. Lesson one. Kissing. That’s it. Mouths. Easy.”
He pauses.
Then he adds, quieter, “Not easy.”
He showers once. Normal. He showers again because he imagines you stepping close and clocking sweat and going ew the campus fuckboy smells like sweat. He showers a third time because his brain thinks soap is protection. Soap will save him. Soap will erase the fact he has no idea what he’s doing.
When he steps out, the mirror’s steamed. His hair is damp, falling into his eyes. He drags a towel through it and it still looks the same.
He brushes his teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth time his gums sting. He spits and sees pink. He stares at the sink, personally offended.
“Great,” he mutters. “Perfect. Sexy. Don’t bleed in her mouth, Yeonjun.”
He rinses. Swallows. Leans both hands on the counter and breathes like he’s trying to calm down before a fight.
He walks into his bedroom and immediately starts cleaning as if cleanliness is going to replace experience. Sheets off. Sheets on. Then off again because the first set feels wrong and he hates that his body is having opinions. He smooths the duvet. Fluffs the pillows. Picks up a sock. Picks up another sock. Finds a receipt he doesn’t remember. Wipes his desk. Wipes his bedside table.
He’s not cleaning.
He’s stalling. His phone is open on the bed again because he’s weak.
Reddit. A thread titled, first kiss tips.
He reads out loud in a mocking voice, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping him upright. “Don’t overthink it.” He snorts. “Yeah, brilliant. Thanks.”
“Use your hands.” He stares at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Which hands. How. Where. Be specific.”
“Don’t shove your tongue down her throat.” He winces. “Okay. Great. So I’ll just—keep my tongue in my pocket.”
He scrolls.
“Ask if she likes it.” He reads that one twice. Then a third time.
Ask.
He can ask. He’s not an idiot. He’s not going to do anything you don’t want. He’s also terrified you’ll say no and then look at him differently.
He backs out of the thread and types, how to french kiss without being shit He stares at the search bar. Hates himself. Hits enter anyway. A list pops up—angles, lips, tongue, breathing, pace. He throws his phone onto the bed again.
“Okay,” he says, pacing. “Okay. I can do this. People kiss all the time. Teenagers do it behind bins. It’s not rocket science.”
His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. Then it buzzes again. Then it buzzes again.
He grabs it, annoyed, expecting the groupchat.
It’s you.
psycho stalker: i’m actually gonna throw up
psycho stalker: don’t say lol or i’ll never recover
Yeonjun exhales through his nose. His chest does something irritating. Soft.
He types back.
yeonjun: i’m not saying lol
yeonjun: you’re fine. you’re safe. and if you want to bail, you bail. no one’s forcing you
yeonjun: you still coming?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
psycho stalker: yes
psycho stalker: i hate myself
psycho stalker: but yes
Yeonjun stares at that for a second. He should tell you to stop sexting Soobin and just be honest. He should tell you to stop dragging strangers into your panic. He should tell you to stop.
Instead, he changes his outfit.
Plain tee. Too normal. Button-up. Too I’m trying. Hoodie. Too boyish.
He strips again and stands there half-dressed, staring at the mirror like he’s waiting for the confident version of himself to show up and take over.
He puts on a tank. White ribbed. The one that makes people look at him and assume things. He fixes his earrings. Runs a hand through his hair. Checks his jawline like that matters when he’s about to be kissing someone for real.
His phone buzzes.
psycho stalker: i’m outside
Yeonjun’s stomach drops so fast it feels physical. He moves too quickly—nearly trips over a hoodie, mutters fuck, and catches himself on the wall. He looks around the flat one more time. The cleaned surfaces. The made bed. The whole place pretending this is normal.
He checks the mirror. Hair messy enough to pass as effortless. Face calm enough to sell it. Eyes half-lidded enough to look confident instead of terrified. He practises his playboy expression for half a second.
It looks convincing. That’s the problem. He’s good at looking convincing.
The doorbell rings.
He walks to the door with measured steps, because if he runs he’ll feel insane. He opens it.
And there you are.
Shoulders high. Hands clenched around your bag strap. Mouth parted like you’ve rehearsed bravery all day and it still didn’t stick. Your eyes flick over him once and then immediately drop, embarrassed.
Yeonjun smiles first, because that’s what the rumour does. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth.
You swallow. “Hi.”
Yeonjun steps aside. “Come in.”
You hesitate for half a second, then cross the threshold.
The door clicks shut behind you.
You step over the threshold and immediately realise you might be the dumbest person alive.
Not in a cute way. In a I have willingly walked into a man’s flat to learn how to kiss and give blowjobs so I don’t get exposed to a boy named Soobin way.
The place smells clean—laundry, soap, and whatever Yeonjun put on his skin that’s expensive enough to make your brain lag. It hits you as he moves past you, shoulder brushing the air. Your throat tightens.
You force your shoes off with fingers that don’t work properly.
“Just—uh.” Yeonjun glances down at your feet, then back up, as if he’s pretending this is casual. “You can… put them there.”
Your voice comes out too fast. “I’m not tracking mud in, don’t worry. I’m not here to disrespect your—” You stop yourself. Blink. “Why am I talking about mud? Oh my God.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Breathe,” he says. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.” You look down at your hands. They’re shaking. You curl them into fists. “I’m vibrating. Different thing.”
Yeonjun huffs a laugh under his breath, then clears his throat as if that was an accident. He shifts his weight and leans his back against the door like he’s done this a hundred times.
He’s in a white ribbed tank that makes him look unfairly real. Not a rumour. Not a story. Not the guy people point at outside parties and say I heard he fucked—but a man in a small flat, broad shoulders, collarbones you have to actively not stare at.
Low-slung jeans sit on his hips. His underwear waistband flashes when he moves. Hoop in one ear. His hair falls into his face in soft, messy curtains—the kind that looks accidental but somehow frames him perfectly. Dark. Thick. A little too long, like he’s grown it out on purpose just to give people something to stare at. It shadows his eyes when he tilts his head down. His mouth—you cut the thought off before it becomes a problem.
Your brain tries to reboot itself into Normal Mode.
It fails.
Your what-ifs line up instantly.
What if you freeze? What if you do something wrong? What if your teeth clack into his? What if he kisses you and you panic-laugh? What if he thinks you’re basically a nervous Victorian child?
And then the one you keep trying to swallow—is this cheating?
You and Soobin aren’t together. You’re not official. You’re not anything except a history and a chat thread full of crimes. But he’s called other girls casual in the same sentence he called you special, and you hated how easy he sounded when he said it.
Still.
You’re here. In someone else’s flat. With the door shut.
Yeonjun watches your face like he can read the panic word-for-word. His voice goes softer without him meaning to. “You can back out,” he says, plain. “Right now. No weirdness.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I’m not backing out.”
Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“I’m terrified,” you correct immediately. “I’m just—terrified with commitment.”
He snorts, then catches himself, like he didn’t mean to be human. “Okay. Um. Come in,” he says again.
You nod too hard, cheeks burning, and follow him.
The hallway is narrow. Your footsteps sound loud. Your whole body is aware of him in front of you—tank clinging to his back, shoulders moving under the fabric, the casual way he walks as if he’s not leading a girl to his bedroom to—your brain tries to say it out loud.
To learn how to kiss and suck dick and fuck.
It lands in your head so bluntly you almost trip.
Yeonjun glances back. “You good?”
“Yes.” You nod. “No. I mean—yes. I’m good.”
He stops outside a door and turns slightly. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, and his tone shifts into something more serious. “I’m not here to pressure you.”
Your throat tightens, inconveniently. You nod once.
He opens the door.
And the bedroom is—normal. Painfully normal.
No half-naked posters. No porn shoved under the bed. No gross bikini shrine. No weird anime tits staring into your soul.
Just a made bed. A desk with a laptop and a mess of chargers. A hoodie on a chair. Books stacked neatly. A speaker. Warm light from a lamp. The scent of fabric softener and whatever body wash he uses.
Your chest loosens without permission.
You glance at Yeonjun, then back at the room, then back at Yeonjun as if you’re checking for a hidden camera.
He catches your expression and immediately goes defensive, which is weirdly adorable. “What?” he says. “You disappointed?”
You laugh once, sharp. “No. I just thought your room was going to look like PornHub HQ.”
Yeonjun’s eyes widen a fraction, then he laughs—real, quick, then he bites it back, as if he’s worried laughing makes him look less… whatever he’s supposed to be. “Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That’s what the campus thinks of you,” you correct, because you can’t help yourself. “Apparently you’ve got a queue system. A waiting list. A loyalty card.”
Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. “Shut up.”
“I’m being serious,” you say, then immediately regret saying serious in a bedroom with a man you’re paying in embarrassment. “I mean—okay, I’m not being serious. But you know what I mean.”
Yeonjun scratches the back of his neck, the movement flexing his arm. You notice. You hate yourself for noticing.
“So,” he says, forcing his voice into something cool. “Do you—wanna get started?”
Your mouth opens. Your voice comes out pathetic. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun takes a step closer.
Then another.
Your pulse starts hammering in your throat. Your palms sweat. You can feel every inch of your own skin. You make yourself stand still and not flinch because you are twenty-one years old and you did not walk into this man’s flat just to fold at the first two steps.
Yeonjun stops close enough that you can smell him properly—mint and soap and that expensive cologne sitting on his throat.
He leans in.
You lean in too because if you don’t, you’ll die.
His breath brushes your mouth.
You’re right there. You’re about to kiss him.
And then you jerk back so fast it’s almost violent. “Wait,” you blurt. “This feels—weird.”
Yeonjun freezes. Then he exhales a laugh that sounds like the relief he tried to hide. “Thank fuck,” he says, automatically. Then he coughs, like he’s remembering he’s meant to be suave. “Yeah. Bit weird.”
You stare at him. “Did you just say thank—”
“No,” he lies instantly. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Yeonjun’s lips twitch. “Okay, yeah. I did. Because you scared the shit out of me.”
“Me?” you splutter. “You’re the one who—you’re the Choi Yeonjun.”
Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Oh, so now we’re doing the myth.”
“I—” you stop. Your face heats. “I’m doing the reality. You’re standing in front of me. In a tank top. In a bedroom. You look—” You cut yourself off before you say hot out loud because you will actually evaporate.
Yeonjun watches you struggle, and his voice drops into something more normal. “We don’t have to rush it,” he says. “We can talk first.”
The idea makes you pause. Because talking is where feelings start. Talking is where people become people instead of bodies and rumours. But also—talking is where you can breathe.
“Should we,” you say, then hesitate because your own rules echo in your skull—no feelings, no strings, no emotions—“should we get to know each other first?”
The second it’s out, panic spikes. You’ve basically just asked for intimacy in the most dangerous format—conversation.
Yeonjun blinks at you, then nods like you asked whether the sky is blue. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll order pizza. Because if I’m about to—” he gestures vaguely between you and his bed, “—teach you how to do—all that, you can at least tell me if you hate olives.”
You stare. “You’re hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” he says. Then he looks at your face and adds, deadpan: “Also I need carbs before I ruin my reputation.”
Your eyes widen. “You’re not going to—”
“I’m joking.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. Sit.”
You hover, then sit on the edge of his bed with your spine too straight. He sits opposite you, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, scrolling delivery apps as if this isn’t insane.
“What do you like?” he asks, glancing up.
“Pizza,” you answer immediately, because your brain is still stuck on one thought—I almost kissed him and didn’t die.
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Toppings. And also—you know. Anything.”
You blink. “Anything in life?”
He shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “Yeah. Unless you only exist for sexting and fear.”
You laugh—real, startled—because it lands. Because he said it out loud. Because you feel seen and you hate that you like it.
And the weirdness eases, just a fraction enough to breathe.
And that’s how it starts.
“Pepperoni,” you say. “And—I don’t know. Jalapeños?”
He hums. “Spicy. Brave.”
“I’m not brave.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “You were brave when you stalked me outside the men’s toilets.”
You groan, immediate. “Stop saying it like that.”
“How should I say it?” He taps the screen. “Dedicated. Persistent. Sexually motivated.”
“I wasn’t sexually motivated,” you protest.
Yeonjun glances up slowly, deliberately looking you over in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Sure.”
“Don’t—” You point at him, flustered. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That—thing.”
Yeonjun leans back on one hand, tank pulling tight over his chest. “The thing where I exist?”
You hate him. You also feel your face warming.
Yeonjun hits confirm on the order and tosses his phone onto the duvet. Then he looks at you properly—head tilted, eyes sharp, posture loose. He’s giving calm. He’s giving control. He’s giving I’ve done this before. “You good?” he asks, casual.
You swallow. “Define good.”
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, still casual. “Do you want to stop? Do you want me to stop talking?”
You blink. “No.”
Yeonjun nods. “Okay. Then breathe.”
You glare. “I am breathing.”
“You’re breathing like you’re about to sit an exam,” he replies. “Relax. I’m not going to jump you.”
You snort. “That’s literally why I’m here.”
Yeonjun smiles, fast and cocky. “Yeah. I know.”
It shouldn’t do anything to you. It does. Your body reacts before your pride can catch up.
Yeonjun watches your reaction and looks pleased with himself. Then—because he’s infuriating—he softens it before it tips into too much. “Ground rules,” he says, tapping the mattress once between you. “You say stop, I stop. You say slow, I slow. You say no, it’s no. You don’t owe me finishing a lesson because you asked for help. Understand?”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s gaze holds yours, serious now. “Good.”
The door buzzer goes. Pizza. Yeonjun stands and walks out like he didn’t just say something that made you feel safer in a way you weren’t expecting. He comes back with the box and two cans, drops them on the bed between you.
“Romantic,” you say, because sarcasm is your emergency exit.
“This is not a date,” Yeonjun replies, popping a can. “This is a professional consultation.”
“You’re literally charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m expensive.”
You take a slice so your hands have something to do besides shake. Yeonjun takes one too, biting into it with the confidence of a man who has never once feared crumbs on a white tank.
For a minute it’s just chewing and the quiet hum of the flat.
Then Yeonjun glances at you. “So. Soobin.”
Your stomach flips. “What about him?”
“What exactly did you tell him?” Yeonjun asks, too calm.
You choke. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you showed up at my door,” he replies, deadpan, “so I’m allowed to collect context. Also I’m nosy.”
You swallow. Your eyes flick away. “I said—stuff.”
“Stuff,” Yeonjun repeats. “You’re making me drag it out of you.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Suffer.”
Yeonjun smirks. “Alright. Let’s play.”
He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees. It’s all posture. He looks relaxed on purpose. “True or false,” he says. “You told him you like giving blowjobs.”
Your soul tries to leave your body. “Oh my God,” you whisper.
Yeonjun’s eyes brighten. “That’s a yes.”
“I hate you,” you say, but you’re laughing because if you don’t laugh you’ll start crying.
“True or false,” he continues, enjoying himself, “you told him you like it raw.”
You cover your face with your hands. “Can we not do this?”
“We can,” he says easily. “But you also can’t keep turning into a corpse every time someone says the words out loud.”
You drop your hands. “You’re saying the words out loud!”
“Welcome to being an adult,” Yeonjun replies. “Sex involves words.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, completely unbothered.
“You’re insane,” you mutter.
He grins. “You already knew that.”
Another beat. The air shifts again—still playful, but with tension under it.
Yeonjun looks away first, reaches for his speaker. “Music.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sitting in silence with you while you spiral.” He scrolls, then glances at you. “What do you listen to.”
You hesitate. “Uhm—Joji?”
Yeonjun pauses, looks up. “No shit.”
“Some Chase Atlantic,” you add, bracing for judgement.
Instead, Yeonjun lets out a short laugh. “Okay. So you’re into sad horny music.”
You choke. “That’s not what it is.”
“It is,” he says, hitting play. “It’s fine. I respect it.”
The song starts. You recognise it immediately. Your eyes widen a fraction.
Yeonjun notices. “You know it.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I—yeah.”
He nods, satisfied, and steals a jalapeño off your slice without asking.
“Excuse you,” you say.
Yeonjun chews, unbothered. “You’re the one who picked spicy.”
“That was for me!”
“You can fight me for it.”
You squint at him. “I will.”
Yeonjun’s smile goes sharp. “Please do.”
It’s dumb. It’s flirty. It’s too easy. It pulls you out of your head before you can stop it.
You end up talking while the music runs—classes, lecturers, people you can’t stand. He complains about a seminar that makes him want to headbutt a wall. You complain about your group project and he immediately says, “Drop the names. I’ll bully them.”
“You can’t bully my group mates.”
“I can,” he says. “I’m a public service.”
“You’re not a public service,” you shoot back. “You’re more like, I don’t know, campus rumour.”
Yeonjun arches a brow. “And you’ve been stalking a rumour. That’s crazy behaviour.”
“I wasn’t stalking.”
“You were behind a bush.”
“Stop.”
“You were holding a newspaper indoors.”
“Stop.”
“You were—”
“Yeonjun.”
He shuts up, still grinning. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being a dick.”
“Yes.”
He points at you. “You’re smiling.”
You wipe your face, offended at your own body. “No, I’m not.”
Yeonjun doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—steady, amused—and the look makes the room feel smaller.
Your phone buzzes. A notification lights your screen. Yeonjun’s eyes flick down automatically.
You grab your phone too fast. “It’s nothing.”
Yeonjun’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice loses the tease. “Is it him?”
You freeze. “No.”
Yeonjun watches you for a second, then nods once. “Okay.”
That’s it. No interrogation. No claim. No taking the mick. Just okay. It unsettles you more than any teasing. To save yourself, you blurt, “Do you watch anime?”
Yeonjun looks up, instant interest. “Depends. Are you about to judge me?”
“Yes,” you say.
He snorts. “Then no.”
“Liar,” you say. “Answer.”
Yeonjun takes another bite of pizza, chews, then says, “One Piece.”
You stare at him.
Yeonjun stares back, waiting.
“No,” you say finally. “No way.”
Yeonjun’s smile grows. “Yes way.”
“I love One Piece,” you say, suddenly too loud.
Yeonjun points at you like he’s caught you committing a crime. “See. You’re not normal either.”
“What arc are you on?” you demand.
Yeonjun leans back, smug. “Caught up.”
Your jaw drops. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“Favourite Straw Hat.”
“Luffy.”
“Basic,” you say immediately.
Yeonjun gasps. “That’s insane. Who’s yours?”
“Zoro.”
Yeonjun pauses, then nods once with genuine respect. “Okay. Great taste.”
You blink. “You’re a nerd.”
Yeonjun scoffs. “I’m not a nerd.”
“You are.”
Yeonjun leans in a little, grin returning. “Careful. I’ll start charging you extra for insulting me.”
“You’re already charging me in pepperoni.”
“I’m worth it,” he says, and you hate that your body reacts to his voice.
He watches that reaction again, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second, then back up. He looks exactly like the guy everyone talks about—the one who’s probably kissed a hundred girls, made them beg for more. Your stomach tightens anyway, a weird flutter you don’t quite understand.
Yeonjun pauses the song mid-track. The quiet lands heavy. He sets his slice down, wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then he looks at you, his gaze making your skin heat up. “Do you still want to do lesson one?”
Your mouth goes dry, but something pulses low in your belly, unfamiliar and insistent. “Yes.”
Yeonjun nods with calm confidence. “Okay.” He shifts closer, not rushing, but not hesitating either—giving you time to back out, maybe.
His knee bumps yours, and he doesn’t move it away. The contact feels too warm, too much. “Last chance to bail,” he says, voice low, like he knows exactly how to make it sound sexy.
“I’m not bailing.”
Yeonjun’s smile returns, brief and a little knowing. “Good.” Then he leans in.
It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s confident enough that it makes your heart sprint and your body tingle in places you weren’t expecting. He must know what he’s doing—everyone says he does.
His mouth stops a breath away from yours, his warm exhale tickling your lips—making them feel strange, sensitive.
“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you.
You swallow hard, your chest feeling tight. “Yeah.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I will.”
Yeonjun hums, the sound vibrating oddly in your core. “Good girl—” He catches himself, eyes flicking up to yours, testing if he’s gauging if that’s too far.
But it hits you weirdly, making your thighs clench without meaning to. Your breath stutters, heat rushing to your face—and elsewhere. “Yeah.”
Your brain blanks out in a haze of confusion and heat, your body reacting in ways you don’t get—warmth pooling between your legs, making you shift uncomfortably.
His lips press against yours, soft but firm, and you freeze for a second. His hand settles at your waist, fingers gripping awkwardly at first, adjusting his hold.
You grab his tank top on instinct, bunching the fabric because everything feels too floaty, too unreal.
Yeonjun kisses you again, deeper, his tongue poking out hesitantly, brushing your lips before retreating. You part your mouth, bumping teeth lightly, and he makes a soft noise—maybe surprise?—but pushes forward anyway, his tongue slipping in too fast, too wet.
It’s messy, saliva dribbling a bit at the corner of your mouth, and you swipe at it embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
You make a sound—a quiet gasp—and your hips twitch without warning, seeking something.
Yeonjun pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Still okay?” he asks, voice a little rough.
You nod, breathless, your body buzzing. “Yeah.”
Yeonjun’s eyes hold yours for a beat—dark, intense—then he kisses you again, and it’s sloppier this time.
Your noses bump as you tilt your head wrong, but he adjusts smoothly—his hand sliding up your side, fumbling over your ribcage before brushing your breast by accident. You jolt, a spark shooting straight down. His fingers pause, then squeeze tentatively—too light at first, then too hard, pinching without meaning to. You whimper into his mouth, not sure if it’s good or weird, but your nipple hardens anyway, aching.
Your own hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on his tank before dropping lower, grazing his thigh. You feel the hardness there, pressing against his jeans, and you falter.
He shifts closer, his knee wedging between your legs, and when he rocks forward, his bulge grinding against your hip.
You try to meet him, but your core rubs against his thigh too high. It’s frustrating, your body chasing something it doesn’t know how to catch, panties sticking damply as you both fumble, breaths hitching.
He groans softly against your neck, nipping at your skin—too sharp, then too soft—like he’s teasing you on purpose.
His hand drops lower, cupping between your legs over your clothes, fingers rubbing haphazardly in the wrong spot. You buck into it anyway, a needy whine escaping, even as it doesn’t quite hit right.
When you break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you need oxygen, your head spinning, body throbbing with unmet need. You stare at each other, both breathing too hard. His lips are red, messy with spit. Your mouth feels swollen, raw.
You feel wrecked in the most confusing, aching way, your pussy clenching around nothing.
Yeonjun’s gaze drags over your face as if he’s checking you out, composed despite the flush on his cheeks.
You force out, “That was—“
Yeonjun swallows, voice roughened. “Lesson one.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such a loser.”
Yeonjun’s grin flashes. “You came to my house for sex lessons and I’m the loser?”
“Yes,” you say, still breathless. “You’re unbearable.”
Yeonjun leans back onto his hands, relaxed again. “Good. Because we’ve got two more lessons.”
Your stomach flips at the bluntness of it, that unfamiliar heat flaring again. Yeonjun watches you swallow, watches your throat move, and his eyes drop for half a second before he forces them back up—smooth, unreadable. “Drink,” he says, nodding at the can. “Before you pass out on my bed and I have to explain to campus security why you died during a consultation.”
You snort, grateful for the stupidity. You take a sip with shaking hands anyway.
And you hate that you feel safer now, sitting on his bed, with pizza grease on your fingers and his mouth still tingling on yours.
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a/n: hiii my loves!! thanks so much for reading. i was meant to post this earlier but my laptop has been lagging all day and its been a pain to even type two words at a time. i've had sm fun writing this fic, i've been wanting to do a yeonjun fic forever now and lately i've been deep into the no labels content so you know where this is coming from lmao. this is my first time writing something this horny so any feedback is much much appreciated. the next chapter will be only escalate in terms of smut lmao as you can tell!! to any new readers, hello and welcome <3 so my existing readers, yes i promise unfortunately yours and ellipsis is coming, i did not forget bout my babies because i was too busy staring at yeonjun's abs
target: since i have the next chapter written out, i thought it'd be fun for us to do a notes target! as soon as we hit 250 notes, i will immediately post the next part, no questions asked! if we don't, i'll still post it next weekend hahaha. but if you want it sooner, spam me in the comments, with reposts and asks! love you <333
taglist: please drop me an ask or comment on the series masterlist
—౨ৎ The apartment is filled with sounds of the A/C and rain against the windows. Time alone stretches, and the anticipation of him slowly fades.
Cw: established relationship, not angsty per se but definitely not fluff, martin is a workoholic, reader is lonely—okay maybe this is angst ˗ˋ 2.2k wc ˊ˗
A/N: so this was supposed to be a fluffy keonho fic
listen to stonemilker by björk for the full emotional experience 😘
Like a night sky without stars, it's dark and still.
The blackout curtains were meant for privacy. They block out all the light as a consequence. Waking up in the space felt like rising from a long winter’s sleep.
The right side of you is void of what once was there. The duvet folded over meticulously as if no one laid before. The irregular swirls of the sheets underneath say otherwise. It's been a while since it was filled when you woke up.
Besides the gentle howl of the wind, the sounds of you shuffling restlessly within the sheets are the only ones that can be heard. The wind hits the building frequently, it helps block it from the buildings below.
Leaving the embrace of the simple white sheets is uncomfortable. Cold, barren. The gentle hum of the A/C is why. If he was still there, his body heat would radiate against you.
Still half asleep, the message app is the first thing that opens. There's nothing there from him, there used to be. He'd give you a quick good morning text and tell you what his day would be like, with the promise of coming home as early as he could.
Social media tells you about his schedule now.
His new album is coming out soon, that must be why he hasn't spoken much lately.
The sound of the A/C grows louder as you make your way towards the kitchen. Its sole purpose of making food has been replaced by easy late night delivery. Everything is placed just as you remember, the plates in the sink, the two matching mugs on the counter.
The mugs are from a couple nights ago, when the two of you shared tea together. The conversations lacked any substance but his presence was enough.
When you pick them up with the intention of cleaning them, one is still half full. The unexpected weight almost causes the mug to tumble to the ground. A small amount of cold tea spills on your arm.
Guess he didn't finish his tea.
Along the side of the mug, a small hairline fracture grazes against your fingertips. You make a note to replace it later—it might crack when you least expect it to.
The fridge greets you with something you didn't want to see—the leftovers meant for him. The 'enjoy!' A sticky note in your handwriting stares back at you insultingly. He must have forgotten.
Or maybe he just didn't care to remember.
As you scroll through your phone with a newly warmed cup of tea, his face decorates the screen. It's not confusing, the algorithm knows what's on your mind. It's been your only source of contact with him lately anyway.
The videos that replay in your mind are the ones that tighten your chest. Always the ones where he's performing on stage and he looks energetic and alive and engaging and thoughtful.
That part of him was supposed to belong only to you, he promised. Only the two of you were supposed to see and understand each other.
Now he's shared it with millions of others.
…
The couch near the window has become a frequent lounging spot.
You stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the views of the city skyline and the coveted Namsan tower that stands tall above them all. It's not even comparable to the view of the company building from the dorm he used to live in.
Even though it was much smaller and had issues with the heating, it had a certain charm that his current high-rise doesn't have. It was more lived in, like a home. Especially since it was shared amongst four other boys, but it wasn't so bad. The endless chatter and bickering made everything feel alive.
This new space is minimalistic, cold, and sterile. It has more similarities to a hospital than a home.
The rain has been settling in all evening, growing heavier by the hour. As if it was a person knocking on a door, desperately waiting to be let in.
The faint rumble in the distance says the knocking will only grow louder.
Your head tilts against the cityscape, the view doesn't change much from that perspective. The towers become blurs of rectangles and glimmering lights through the window.
In your peripheral vision, his once beloved guitar stands. Now sitting untouched and alone in the corner of the living room.
It's a subtle caramel colour, the edges are darker and more dull. It was one of the early purchases he made after receiving his first royalties. The strap from behind peeks out, his edgy and spiky art style decorated along it. The markings aren't old, yet they feel that way.
You were just getting to know each other, the conversations were filled with shy laughs and rudimentary questions. He was charming and kind; the way that the marker trembled in his hand intrigued you further.
The jagged heart you drew is still there, even though it's with a faint pink pen and is fading by the day. It's the one he encouraged you to draw.
Even from a few feet away, the thin layer of dust forming on the guitar is apparent—you can't remember the last time he played it, it used to be a daily thing for him.
The guitar looks back at you, the sound hole like an endless hollow. You search the inside of it as if there was something more than hardware inside. You looked into it deeply then too, when he tried to teach you one of his songs on it.
His method was interesting, he essentially stood behind you and put his fingers on top of yours as you began to play. You're unsure if he was actually trying to teach you to play or if he just wanted to be close to you. It didn't matter then, you weren't trying too hard either.
The strings are dusty, you rub your fingers against your leg to remove the texture. The strum of a singular string reverberates a sound that feels off. Its incomplete melody echoes for a couple seconds until the vibrations stop completely.
You don't get to sit with it for long, there's not much to think of anyway. The deep roar of thunder shakes you out of your thoughts—the rain has picked up a stronger rhythm too.
It's loud inside and outside of the apartment. The sounds of a storm brewing and the A/C beginning its cycle are a complete mirror of what it was like earlier this morning.
It's not too bad though.
The quiet gets boring.
You think to text him, make sure he's okay.
He doesn't answer immediately, he almost never does—it's fine he's working. By the time you receive his message, the brevity of it is disappointing. He should have said more than the fact that he'll be home late. He always is.
Still, you sit by the window, waiting. Usually you would've just given up, knowing that you'd succumb to slumber before he comes home.
…
The clicking of keys in the door, forces your heavy lids open. He's home thankfully, the roads must have been a mess. That sense of relief only fades when the resignation sets in.
Simple, empty conversations.
"Hey, Martin," you say, still facing the window but you can see his silhouette reflecting in it.
"Oh, hi." He puts down his bag at the door and slides his shoes on before walking in further. "Didn't expect you to still be up."
You look at him through the window. The vision of him and the bright city in front of you almost merge into one. It takes a moment before you respond.
"How's the weather?"
"Didn't notice, studio's soundproof."
"That's good."
His footsteps grow louder as he makes his way towards you on the couch. He sits beside you, gazing out the window, sometimes at you.
Your eyes stay glued to the office building in front of you.
"Is that shirt new?"
"No," you look down at it, just in case it was. "I got this a couple weeks ago."
"Oh—guess I didn't notice, it's nice."
"Thank you."
"I'm going to head to bed."
He kisses you on the cheek, it's curt and fleeting—it almost doesn't feel like anything at all.
"Okay, I'll join you soon."
Even as fatigue settles in, you need a moment away from him. Finding space for each other was supposed to be a priority.
…
The bedroom door is left slightly ajar, the flashlight from your phone helps you navigate the dark space. You keep it low and dim—he's probably not asleep, but still.
He's already curled up in the sheets, the curves of his body creating different patterns of ripples around him. You slip into the sheets from the other side of him, trying to not make any quick movements.
Even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you have a difficult time seeing which way he's facing—only figuring it out when warm air brushes against your shoulder.
Instinctively, you run your hand through his hair. Something that you used to do during late night talks together. The truest parts of you came out during those moments—the vulnerable and the meek. You like to think the truest parts of him came out during those moments too.
You wonder if you could still have those conversations with him.
Him going to bed before you is like a comet, rare and fleeting. There's no value in it if it happens all the time. It wouldn't be precious if it wasn't so anticipated—you have to cherish these moments.
But a boy isn't a comet.
The strands of his hair flow in your fingers. It's soft and slightly damp, like the flowers outside must be.
Time seems to slip away as you continue to run your fingers through his hair, both of you pretending that he’s asleep.
The next morning is similar.
You wake up alone, feel the cool air, check your phone.
This time, there's a sliver of light that sneaks in through the curtains that casts a glare along the bed you sleep in.
The light isn't so bad.
The album is being released tonight, you found out from a post online.
You listen to a snippet of the song that you find. It was similar to his usual production style, it's been working well for him anyway. It almost gets dismissed until a comment catches your eye.
is he ok?
As you scroll through the comment section, there's more. It's all about the lyrics, the ones you completely skipped over. Your finger finds itself pressing against the volume controls, reloading the clip to see what you missed.
waiting is killing us softly
time moves, but nothing changes
we talk like strangers now
in all the same places
The lyrics hit you harder than you expected. Unusually restrained and tense. No wonder he doesn't discuss his writing process with you anymore.
He can talk to you though, he knows that, right?
The buzz of A/C dies down. The space feels more endless now, like the walls aren’t doing their job. Maybe you should invite some friends over one day, fill the space—he's barely home anyway.
…
The sound of keys in the door comes earlier than expected. The possibility of intrusion floods your mind but drains as quickly as it came—there aren't any spare keys out.
You're ready for bed, having brushed your teeth and changed into comfier clothes.
He has a huge smile on his face when he opens the door, must've had a good day at work.
"Hey babe, you look cute." He bends down to kiss you.
"Hi." You take a step back, unsure why, probably the fatigue. "Why are you back so early?"
His eyebrows furrow, but he relaxes them quickly.
"The listening party tonight—came to pick you up."
Right.
"You never mentioned it before."
"Sorry, guess you're usually down for these things."
Expectation.
"I'm feeling a little tired."
"Oh, did you still want to go?" His gaze darts between you and the window behind you.
Still. You never said you were going in the first place.
"Not really."
He pauses, like he's waiting for you to change your mind.
"Oh, okay"
"Sorry."
"No, it's fine—I'll just head out then."
"Okay, have fun—I'll lock the door for you."
"Thanks, I'll see you later."
When you close the door behind him, you have to bite your lip to not release your feelings of frustration too early, he may be behind the door. By the time he's left, nothing comes out when you relax.
…
Lying on the bed, you stare blankly at the wall in front of you. Forming coherent thoughts feels impossible, as if your brain is a jumbled up ball of yarn. There's nothing you can do about it, except to sit and let it pass.
The one time the A/C should be buzzing at you, it isn't.
You try to convince yourself the wet drops on the pillow are just from frustration.
You don’t want to think about what the other answer might be.
went back to my angsty roots with this one hahahahahahh 💚💚 anyway i hope you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading 🫶🫶🫶
summary: you and Spencer head to penelope's office at the end of the day
includes: part 30, workplace romance, friends-to-lovers tension, sex dream mention (non-graphic), embarrassment humor, teasing friends, mutual attraction reveal through implication, light sexual conversation framing (non-explicit), consent-respecting curiosity, emotional vulnerability disguised as humor, found-family banter, hand-holding, slow-burn romantic confirmation, awkward affection, playful interrogation, gentle intimacy, workplace setting
The bullpen exhales at the end of the day—chairs rolling back, files closing, the low murmur of voices tapering into goodnights and see-you-tomorrows. The fluorescent lights feel softer somehow, like even they’re tired of being on.
You shut down your computer, the screen dimming to black, and stretch your arms over your head. Your back protests. Your feet definitely protest.
“Occupational fatigue,” Spencer murmurs beside you, already gathering his things with precise efficiency. “Expected after prolonged cognitive exertion combined with—”
“Don’t,” you cut in, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth.
He glances at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I was going to say ‘standing for extended periods.’”
“Mm. Sure you were.”
He hums, noncommittal.
“Should we go see Garcia now?”
The walk down to her lair feels different after hours. Quieter. The hum of the building is more noticeable. Air vents whispering secrets to no one. The kind of silence that makes every footstep feel just a little louder than it should.
When you reach her door, you look at Spencer.
“Ready?” you ask.
He nods once. “Yes.”
You reach for the handle before you can overthink it. The door creaks open just enough to peek in and immediately—
“STOP RIGHT THERE.”
You freeze. Spencer freezes.
Inside, Penelope doesn’t even turn around from her monitors. One hand is lifted dramatically in the air like she sensed your presence through sheer emotional vibration alone.
“I knew it,” she says, slowly swiveling in her chair now, eyes already narrowing with theatrical suspicion. “I knew I felt a disturbance in the force.”
You glance at Spencer. “…We didn’t even say anything.”
“I don’t need you to say anything,” she says, rising to her feet, pointing at you like you’ve personally betrayed her. “You think I didn’t notice the energy shift today? The vibes? The glow?”
Spencer leans slightly toward you. “…Her observational accuracy is impressive.”
“I heard that,” Garcia snaps, without missing a beat.
Then she gasps. Again. But this one is quieter. Sharper. More dangerous. Her eyes flick down.
To your hand. To Spencer’s.
Because at some point between the bullpen and here you laced your fingers together. And you didn’t let go.
Garcia’s hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”
You wince. “Pen—”
“Oh my goodness!” she repeats, louder this time, backing up a step like she needs physical distance to process the magnitude of this. “You’re holding hands. You’re actively holding hands!”
Spencer laughs lightly. “We are aware of the hand-holding.”
“I’m spiraling,” she informs you. “I am fully spiraling right now.”
You take a cautious step inside. “Okay, but like… in a good way?”
“Oh, honey.” And suddenly she’s moving. Fast.
She crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into a hug that is somehow both careful and crushing at the same time.
“I knew it,” she says into your shoulder, voice thick with triumph and something softer. “I knew it was coming.”
You laugh a little, hugging her back. “Yeah, apparently everyone did.”
She pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. Her hands land on your arms, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a headline she’s been waiting years to see.
“Are you happy?” she asks, quieter now.
You smile, softer than anything you’ve given anyone else today.
“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”
Garcia’s expression melts. “Oh, I just can't handle it!” she exclaims, and then she's pulling you in for another hug. “You're dating! You're finally dating!”
Garcia pulls back—hands still gripping your arms, eyes shining—Her gaze snaps between you and Spencer, something delighted and absolutely feral lighting up her expression.
“Wait—” she says, pointing at you, then at him, then back at you like she’s connecting invisible red strings on a conspiracy board. “WAIT.”
You already know. You already regret everything.
“Does this mean you told him about the dream?”
“Penelope!”
“What dream?” Spencer asks.
Heat floods your entire body so fast it’s almost impressive.
“Nothing,” you say immediately. Too quickly. Too brightly. “There’s no dream. There was no dream. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Garcia makes a noise like she’s been physically wounded by your denial.
“Oh, do not even try that,” she says, pointing at you again. “You cannot just erase that conversation from existence like I don’t have a steel-trap memory and a deeply vested emotional interest. Besides, I have JJ and Prentiss as witnesses!”
“I regret saying anything to you three.”
Spencer’s brows knit together slightly, attention sharpening.
“You had a dream,” he repeats, slower now, like he’s assembling a puzzle piece by piece. “About… me?”
You make a strangled sound. “No!”
Garcia’s eyes go wide. “YES.”
“Penelope—”
“It was vivid,” she continues, talking right over you now, hands gesturing wildly. “There was blushing, there was spiraling, there was detail—”
“Okay!” you cut in, louder than you intended. Your face is on fire. “We’re done talking about this!”
Spencer’s ears are turning pink. You notice. That does not help.
“…What kind of dream?” he asks, and his voice has dropped just slightly—quieter, more careful. Like he’s not sure if he should be asking but cannot physically stop himself.
Garcia claps her hands together once, delighted. “Oh, I love this part.”
“Was it,” he starts, then hesitates, recalibrating mid-thought, “a stress-related dream? Given the timing, that would be statistically probable. The brain often processes—”
“It was not a statistical event, Spencer,” Garcia cuts in, scandalized.
You make a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for mercy.
Garcia leans in like she’s about to spill classified information. “It was a sex dream.”
Silence. Utter silence.
Spencer freezes. Completely. Like someone just unplugged him from reality.
You close your eyes. “I’m going to walk into traffic.”
“Please don’t do that,” Spencer says immediately.
It’s not even delayed. Not even processed. Just pure instinct, voice firm and earnest and a little alarmed, like you’ve just proposed something genuinely catastrophic instead of dramatically embarrassing.
You drag your hands down your face. “I won’t actually—”
“I know,” he says quickly, softer now, recalibrating. “It’s a hyperbolic expression of distress. But statistically speaking, pedestrian accidents—”
“Spence.”
“Right.” He clears his throat.
Silence settles again, thick and charged and deeply, deeply unfortunate.
Garcia is vibrating. You can feel it. Like she might combust into glitter and chaos at any second if no one intervenes.
Spencer, meanwhile, has gone very still beside you. Then—slowly—he looks away.
Not abruptly. Not sharply. Just… a quiet shift of his gaze toward the side, like he suddenly finds one of Garcia’s lava lamps deeply worthy of study.
His ears are still pink.
“…Well,” he says, and there’s the faintest hitch in it, like his brain is carefully stepping around something fragile, “was it… a good dream?”
Garcia makes a sound that can only be described as spiritual ascension.
You stare at him. Actually stare.
Because that was not deflection. That was not avoidance. That was—
“Oh my god,” Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. “He asked.”
“I heard him,” you hiss.
Spencer shifts his weight slightly, still not looking at you. There’s a very specific kind of composure happening—like he’s trying to maintain neutrality while standing directly in the blast radius of something he absolutely wants the answer to.
“It’s a reasonable question,” he adds, quieter now. “From a… psychological standpoint.”
Garcia spins toward him so fast it’s honestly impressive. “Oh, sweetheart, that was not clinical curiosity.”
“It can be both,” he says, a little defensively.
You let out a long, suffering breath, tipping your head back toward the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“Oh, no,” Garcia corrects immediately. “This is the best day of mine.”
You drop your head back down and look at Spencer. He finally looks at you too.
And there’s something there—soft, curious, a little uncertain, but threaded with something warmer. Something that says he’s asking carefully… but he is asking.
Your face is still burning. But your mouth betrays you anyway, tugging just slightly at the corner.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.
“I’ve been told,” he replies, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile threatening at the edge of it.
Garcia makes a high-pitched noise. “I need popcorn. I need emotional support snacks. I need—”
“Penelope,” you cut in, pointing at her. “If you say one more word, I will actually walk into traffic.”
She zips her lips dramatically. Then immediately mimes unlocking them. “I’m just saying,” she stage-whispers, “if it was a good dream, that’s excellent foreshadowing.”
“PENELOPE.”
“I’m going!” she says immediately, hands up in surrender—except she’s already backing toward her desk, fingers flying for her phone. “But just so we’re clear, I am texting the group chat. This is historical information. This is cultural.”
“Pen—”
“Nope!” she sing-songs, spinning in her chair. “I gave you time. I gave you space. I let this simmer like a slow-burn romance novel. My patience has been exemplary.”
Spencer exhales through his nose. “That is not an accurate characterization—”
“Love you both!” she cuts in brightly, already dialing. “Do not do anything scandalous without me!”
And then she’s gone, murmuring into her phone as she walks away, her voice dropping into an urgent whisper that is somehow still incredibly loud.
The two of you just stand there for a moment, left alone in silence in Penelope’s lair.
And then, beside you, Spencer clears his throat. Soft. Careful. “So…” he says.
You close your eyes briefly. “Don’t.”
There’s a beat. “…That wasn’t a denial,” he points out.
You turn your head slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “I know I've said it before, but you are unbelievable.”
“I asked a question,” he says, but there’s something almost tentative under it now. Less teasing. More… genuine curiosity. “It’s not unreasonable to want clarification.”
“You do not need clarification.”
“I might,” he counters.
“You absolutely do not.”
He shifts his weight slightly, one hand lifting like he’s about to gesture and then thinking better of it. His gaze flicks to you, then away, then back again—like he’s trying to decide how far he can push this without tipping the balance.
“…Was it,” he starts again, quieter now, “a positive experience?”
You stare at him. “Spencer.”
“Yes?”
“You cannot just rephrase it and make it sound like a survey question.”
“I’m not—” he pauses, recalibrates mid-thought, “—I’m attempting to be considerate of phrasing.”
“That is not helping.”
A flicker of something warm crosses his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or nerves disguised as it. “…I can stop asking,” he offers.
You watch him for a second.
Because he means it. You can see it in the way his shoulders ease back just slightly, like he’s already preparing to let it go. To not push. To give you space. And that—
That does something unfair to your chest.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand down your face before letting it fall.
“It was…” you start, and then stop.
He goes very still.
You can feel it without even looking—the way his attention sharpens, quiet and complete, like the entire world just narrowed down to this one answer.
You glance at him, just briefly. “…It was not a bad dream,” you finish, carefully neutral.
There’s a pause. Then—
“…That is extremely vague,” he says.
You let out a short laugh despite yourself. “And that's all you'll get. Now, come on. You said you'd make me dinner.”
Spencer just smiles at you, and holds out his hand so you can re-intwine your fingers with his.
summary: you and lorenzo are...exclusive... or so you thought... but as the days before the berkshire winter ball dwindle and he deftly avoids asking you to be his date, you're left wondering what you really mean to each other.
word count: 3k
author's note: heavily inspired by my obsession with the fairytale vibes of once upon a broken heart by stephanie garber and the delicious prince energy that louis partridge gives in house of guinness.
You watched as snow fell in thick flurries outside the large windows of the Great Hall. The sky was a clouded grey that hung heavy with the winter storm which was mirrored in the enchanted ceiling, making you feel as though you were inside your own snow globe.
The candles in the large sconces that lined the walls flickered with the low hum of conversation in the late afternoon and your eyes trailed lazily to Lorenzo’s figure as he leaned in the doorway, mid-conversation with several of his friends.
You'd been together nearly a year, but you didn’t think you’d ever stop reveling in just how beautiful he was; his sharp witted smile on plush lips, made all the more perfect for the knowledge of how they felt against your own: heady and urgent, his effortlessly tousled hair, the way he carried himself with confidence and ease and a permanent air of insouciance, his muscular arms that trailed to veined forearms, strong hands and long fingers—
“—You’re staring” a deep voice grumbled.
“Sue me.”
Blaise let out a breathy laugh but your gaze didn’t waiver, like maybe you could understand the boy you were staring at the longer you looked at him.
“He’s really not going to ask me, is he?” you said quietly, releasing the thought that had been running you ragged over the last month.
Blaise blew out a long breath this time, perhaps steeling himself to come up with some sort of excuse that could make it all make sense.
“Figured” you surmised.
“YN, come on. You know how he is. You know, labels, formalities, talking about feelings, s’not really his thing.”
You looked on at him, all lazily crossed arms and a devil-may-care smirk, considering that the Lorenzo he was to everyone else was entirely different from the one you knew so well.
⋆꙳❅*❆*⁀➷
You had had a lot of preconceived notions in the beginning, going so far as to consider the entire thing a mistake, a one-time lapse in judgement on both of your parts, given his reputation with girls.
You shared many of the same friends though were never close, but slowly you began to notice an increase in his attention: a brush of his hand against yours in the hallway, the lingering weight of his gaze that didn’t lift even when you caught him staring, earning a lopsided grin laced with a heat that made your heart thump insistently in your chest; a flirty comment here, a not-so-subtle compliment there and then you were walking back from the library together late one night... by this point you’d spent enough time together that you chatted amiably about quidditch, potions, and perhaps a few other things you couldn’t remember because after a moment you realized his footsteps had stopped beside you and then you felt his hand, gentle but insistent grasping your own and pulling you back towards him.
You had tried to say something, anything, to form a sentence, but he’d pulled you into his chest and his thumb was grazing your cheek, his eyes locked on yours with a depth and sincerity that made your stomach drop and your cheeks heat, and at the sight of the flush of pink he smirked mercilessly, tilting your chin as he brushed his lips against yours with a softness you had no idea he could possess before he was cupping your face with both hands and kissing you like it was the last thing on earth he’d ever do.
It took one heartbeat, two, for your mind to process what was happening before you were kissing him back, feverish, as your hands grasped at his robes, pulling yourself closer into him until you could feel his smile on your own.
He didn’t stop kissing you until your lips were tender and your chest was heaving. He pulled back to look at you, really look at you before he ran his thumb over his bottom lip and then pressed two, three, four more kisses to your swollen lips.
Things were different after that.
Much to the great dismay of the four houses, he stopped talking to other girls completely; he was permanently fixed at your side at meals, in class, with an insistence and consistency that you reveled in. His hand was fixed on your lower back in the hallway, his arm was around you on the common room couch, and his lips were on yours on every possible opportunity in between, which left you and everyone around you to surmise that you were … exclusive.
Before long, you were spending every night in his bed, walking around in his quidditch jumper, it was all but certain.
So, with the Berkshire Winter Ball approaching, it felt all but certain that you were going together.
In fact, you’d seen his suit and you'd even got a dress to match, your own surprise for him.
But then the weeks before the ball became days, and every one of your friends had dates, and he didn’t say a word to you about it.
You felt like you were going mad.
You’d tried several times, of course, to bring it up, but you certainly weren’t going to beg, so when he expertly skirted the topic every time, when he smirked, kissed you, and made you forget what it was that had you so worked up to begin with you, you let it go.
But a still, small voice in the back of your head left you wondering if it meant that you were good enough for a fling at school but nothing more.
⋆꙳❅*❆*⁀➷
“You’re still going to come though, right?” Blaise urged.
Your eyes narrowed, finally pulling away from Lorenzo long enough to acknowledge him.
“I’ll be there.”
The Berkshire Manor on Christmas Eve put Hogwarts to shame.
A veritable forest of live fir trees lined the long drive, perfectly looped with strings of twinkling white lights and a natural dusting of the still-fluttering snow. The house itself wore wreaths in each of the windows the size of small cars, adorned with large velvet bows in an arctic pale blue, Berkshire blue you thought with a forced wry smile as you looked down at the matching hue of your dress.
The iciness in the air did nothing for your nerves as you shivered, resenting every couple ahead of you that stepped out of their carriages hand in hand while you were resigned to ride alone.
You let out a shaky breath.
Lorenzo had texted you today like everything was completely normal and you had begun to think that either he was the biggest idiot you knew, or you were.
The door to your carriage opened and a footman offered a hand to help you down as your eyes trailed up the broad stone stairs in front of you, hoping against all hope that maybe Lorenzo would be there, waiting for you, saving you from the stolid humiliation of walking in alone.
But no.
There was a smattering of other guests, all arm in arm and your continued solitude made you icier.
The train of your dress fluttered behind you in waves of pale blue tulle adorned with innumerable silver gems that caught the starlight and made you look like the winter sky itself. You had opted for a sweeping sweetheart neckline with a bold plunge and barely-there straps that hung off your shoulders, like they were mid-slip, begging to be tugged all the way off. All of that paired with the snowflake diamond-and-pearl designs wound into your hair gave you the confidence to stride up the palatial steps alone, as your heels met marble and the steep slit of your dress parted your way.
You stepped inside to a packed greeting hall, opulently large and draped with live garland entwined with more velvet blue ribbon.
The room echoed with string instruments and the buzz of dozens of small conversations as hundreds of candles hovered in the air. You took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm your nerves as you looked for a familiar face, trying to remain the perfect picture of serenity despite the anxious patter of your heartbeat that you could feel all the way in your fingertips.
“Fucking hell is Berkshire an idiot or what?!” a voice carried, causing a few nearby heads to turn as you saw Blaise smiling at you with open arms, and your friends trailing behind him.
Your eyes swept over them anxiously, but you didn’t see Lorenzo as Blaise pulled you into his grasp before releasing you with your hands intertwined so he could twirl you as you laughed and blushed. You knew he was hamming it up for you, but you couldn’t deny your nerves were melting off of you like the lingering snowflakes on your skin.
“I mean, really, bella, this is …” Theo let out a deep breath as he eyed your form in your dress and dragged a hand over the lower half of his face, eyes transfixed as they smoldered at you, teetering into the territory of eye-fucking you.
You cocked an eyebrow at him before he raised his hands defensively, though you noticed his eyes trailing back to you several times, even as Mattheo’s arm wrapped around your waist as he presented you with a delicate flute of champagne, nearly full to overflowing.
“Say the word” he muttered, his lips pressed to your ear as you turned slowly to meet his eye. “Just say it and I will happily, gladly, unceremoniously tell my date she can fuck right off so I can have you on my arm tonight.”
You elbowed him in the ribs.
“I’m not kidding” he laughed.
“I know you’re not!” you chided.
“Can’t blame me for trying” he said, grabbing another flute of champagne from a passing waiter and nearly draining it.
“Where is he…?” you asked quietly, letting the question drift as your eyes searched the room for him.
“Last I saw him he was with his parents somewhere over by the fountain” he nodded towards a towering fountain of enchanted champagne near the other end of the hall.
“Hmpf” you said, considering that as you took your own large sip, the champagne bubbles tickling your tongue.
“Ahh fuck, there’s my date” he said, slamming the rest of his drink as he unwound his arm from you. “Offer still stands!” he said hopefully, glancing back at you before you waved him off.
Your friends followed with wistful waves of their own as they made their way to the dancefloor with their dates, making it feel like the entire ball was pairing off for a perfectly choregraphed dance you’d been doing for as long as you could remember.
You watched the sea of smiling couples with resigned sadness, envying the sweep and whoosh of dresses that fluttered with the music, the way everyone was smiling, overcome with the seasonal joy of being in love.
You swallowed, wondering for the thousandth time what the hell you were doing here, dressed for a date you didn’t have, for the prince of the ball that had no problem pulling your clothes off but couldn’t deign to ask you to be his. You let out a shuddered breath as your fingers tapped nervously against the glass in your hand.
“Forgive me for being so forthright, but you standing here by yourself is an absolute disgrace.”
Your head turned quickly to the voice that had appeared beside you to see a tall, slender, beautiful woman with rich amber hair who took her own deep sip of champagne, her eyes fixed forward, and you felt you should do the same to keep from staring.
“I—well, thank you, I suppose” you muttered.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as Lorenzo described in his many letters.”
Your head turned back to her, slower this time, as the realization sank in and you took a quiet, deep breath.
“Mrs. Berkshire?”
She smiled, her eyes never leaving the crowd in front of you.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you” you said firmly. “Lorenzo speaks very fondly of you, and I’m honored to be here tonight.”
She smiled deeper, her eyes crinkling.
“Beauty and manners” she mused.
You smiled demurely and blushed.
A moment passed.
“He is very like his father—” she said, breaking the silence and tilting her glass across the room as the crowd parted enough for you to see him, finally, dressed gorgeously perfect in a rich arctic blue of his own standing next to a man of nearly equal height who was unmistakably related; it was obvious in the way they carried themselves, affable, magnetic, with sharp dazzling smiles.
“—Handsome, whip-smart, cunning… stubborn…”
You laughed lightly.
“...Generous when he wants to be. Tender and affectionate…”
You felt your cheeks burn as your eyes flitted to the ground shyly.
“…Though not many know that side of them. But given the way Lorenzo has stared at you all night, I think that you do.”
Your face scrunched in confusion as you looked up. Stared at you all night?
“He didn’t ask you to be his date tonight, did he?” she asked.
You swallowed, debating the most tactful way to respond and figured there was no use in lying.
“No, m’am.”
She smirked and you felt a sinking feeling, like you were the butt end of a cruel family joke as you bit down on your lip and tried to find something in the middle distance to focus on.
“I shouldn’t say anything” she shrugged, and took another sip from her dwindling champagne. “But you should know it’s not because he’s uncertain about you. Far from it.”
You turned to her then and her eyes slid slyly to yours.
“He didn’t ask you because he needs to know you’re strong enough to stand on your own, confident enough to command a space without needing his invitation, sure enough in him to show up regardless, and pure enough not to take his dismissal in spite, to show up with someone else or try to make him jealous. It is a longstanding, infuriating Berkshire tradition” she said rolling her eyes. “Marco did the same thing to me—”
You couldn’t hide the smile on your face as you glanced back at Lorenzo and realized he was staring at you now, his gaze heavy with heat as he shook the hands of those around him and began to make his way in your direction.
“—And then he asked me to marry him four weeks later.”
“W-wait, what?” you asked, your head snapping back to her, certain you couldn’t have heard her correctly.
“YN Berkshire” she said quietly, so quietly you thought you’d imagined it as she took a loose strand of your hair and brushed it away from your face letting her eyes roam over you with tenderness and affection as she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek before whispering, “It has a nice ring to it,” as she brushed past you.
All you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears as you turned after her only to find she’d disappeared into the crowd.
You had less than a second to process it all before you turned back around to find Lorenzo in front of you and now your head was fuzzy for a hundred other reasons; he smelled fresh like cedarwood and vetiver and despite how furious you’d been with him, every frustration melted away and you leaned in, desperate for his proximity.
“You look….” he sighed like he’d been holding his breath for hours and then subtly rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it like a restraint, a reminder of where he was and the decorum he needed to keep as he shook his head, drinking in every inch of you, his gaze lingering on your plunging neckline, your collarbone, before his eyes inched up to meet your own.
“Gods I’m so fucking lucky you’re mine” he muttered, the words barely escaping him before he leaned in and kissed you like there weren’t two hundred people watching, as he held your face and his tongue instantly slipped past your lips.
Your hands found the lapels of his suit which you clung to for purchase as you matched his insistence. You could hear a few murmurs and a surprised laugh but they faded like background music as you let him nearly sweep you off your feet, feeling boneless in his arms.
“And you wearing fucking Berkshire blue” he growled, the words tangled between his kisses as one hand wandered down to your side, resting at your hip where he squeezed you into him possessively.
He pulled back, pressing two, three more kisses to you but letting his lips linger near yours.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re here, that you came. I wanted to ask you, I just… it’s… complicated” he breathed.
You nodded against his lips, causing them to brush, to tingle against each other as you smiled.
“You’re not… mad?” he asked cautiously.
You pulled back a little further and feigned like you had to think about it rolling your lips into a pout as you half-shrugged and he held you a little firmer in defense.
“I think, maybe, you can find a way to make it up to me?” you said slow and teasing as you leaned in again, letting your lips waiver against his, letting your warm breath fall on him as you stared at him under lidded eyes and his hands held you even tighter as he bunched the fabric of your dress in his hands, his body rigid though his expression was calm and warm.
“I intend to” he muttered back against your lips before he kissed your bottom lip, subtly sucking it, nipping on it dangerously in a way that made you feel like he was the only thing keeping you upright.
“Over and over and over again” he promised until he kissed you again, deep, unabashedly.
summary: there’s been some noticeable tension between the two of you
The case had been brutal from the start; long hours, too many dead ends, and just enough close calls to keep everyone on edge. By the time the team finally wrapped for the night, the tension wasn’t just about the unsub anymore.
It hadn’t been for a while. You felt it every time you stood too close to Spencer. Every time his arm brushed yours while passing files, or when he’d lean over your shoulder just a little too long, explaining something you already understood. It was subtle, so subtle no one else would’ve noticed.
Except they had, especially Morgan.
“You two gonna figure that out or keep dancing around it?” he’d muttered earlier, earning himself matching glares from both of you.
Now, hours later, you and Spencer were walking down the dimly lit hallway of the hotel floor, the hum of the vending machine the only sound breaking the quiet.
“You were right today,” Spencer said suddenly, his voice softer than usual.
You glanced at him. “About?”
“The geographical profile. I… should’ve listened sooner.”
You smiled faintly. “You got there eventually.”
He stopped walking. You took a couple more steps before realizing, turning back to find him staring at you—really staring this time. Not the distracted, analytical look he usually had, but something deeper. Something that made your stomach flip.
“What?” you asked, quieter now.
“I don’t think I just ‘got there eventually,’” he said, stepping closer. “I think I’ve been… distracted.”
Your breath hitched. “Spencer—”
“I know it’s not appropriate,” he rushed, words tumbling over each other the way they always did when he was nervous. “We’re coworkers, and this is a case, and statistically speaking—”
“Spencer.”
That stopped him. You were close now. Too close for this to be just another conversation.
“Just… stop thinking for one second,” you murmured.
That was all it took. His hand came up, hesitant at first, hovering near your arm like he was giving you time to pull away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed your sleeve, then your wrist, like he was grounding himself.
And then he kissed you. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was careful, like everything Spencer did, but there was years of unspoken tension packed into it. The kind that made your chest tighten and your hands instinctively grab onto the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He made a soft, surprised sound against your lips, like he hadn’t expected you to respond so quickly, so strongly. But he didn’t pull away. If anything, he deepened it.
The wall at your back was cool when he guided you toward it, his hand now more certain, settling at your waist. The kiss shifted—less cautious, more real. Like he was finally letting himself feel it instead of analyzing it.
Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging slightly, and that—that—was what broke whatever restraint he had left.
“Okay,” a voice cut in, amused and far too close, “I knew it.”
You both froze. Slowly, painfully slowly, Spencer pulled back, his face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes wide behind his glasses. You turned your head.
Standing a few feet away, leaning casually against his doorframe with his arms crossed and the biggest grin you’d ever seen, was Morgan.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, dropping your head back against the wall.
Spencer looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. “I—I can explain,” he started immediately.
Morgan held up a hand. “Pretty Boy, I don’t need a dissertation. I’ve had eyes.”
You groaned. “Please tell me no one else—”
“Relax,” Morgan said, pushing off the wall. “Team’s asleep. Your secret makeout session is safe… for now.”
Spencer looked like he might pass out.
Morgan paused beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Took you long enough, man.”
Then he glanced at you, smirking. “You’re good for him.”
Before either of you could respond, he disappeared back into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence settled again. You and Spencer stood there, still too close, still a little breathless.
“Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips, “that wasn’t exactly subtle.”
Spencer let out a shaky breath, adjusting his glasses. “Statistically, the probability of being interrupted was—”
You kissed him again and this time, he didn’t hesitate at all.
summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend.
relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader
genre: smut - MDNI!
word count: 6.3k
tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thick fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy
author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks
based on requests one & two
If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.
Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining.
Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”
Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle.
“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.
“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.
“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”
“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”
The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation.
Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”
According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass.
“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance.
“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips.
“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”
“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.
Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”
“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”
Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”
“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”
“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy.
“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs.
The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”
His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.
“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”
“You are so—”
“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”
Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here.
“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”
You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”
“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts.
“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”
You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”
“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip.
Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious.
“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”
Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”
“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.”
“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it.
“So you admit that you’re sexually—”
“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point.
“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”
Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.
You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you.
You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”
“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door.
“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him.
“Funny,” he says flatly.
“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.
“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism.
Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same.
“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”
Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”
Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”
“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”
“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt.
“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”
Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”
“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”
“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly.
“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look.
“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.
Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.
The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss.
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly.
“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”
“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”
Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt.
“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado.
“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned.
“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow.
“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own.
“For a job,” you argue.
“Semantics,” he says dismissively.
“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him.
“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance.
“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”
Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”
You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”
The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”
Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”
He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”
Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm.
His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it.
While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss.
Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”
“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”
“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”
“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.
“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”
“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea.
“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders.
“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”
“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”
“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell.
“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”
“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours.
He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”
Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but…
Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”
One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”
Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.
He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight.
Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.
Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch.
His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs.
He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you.
His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud.
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat.
Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.
He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.
You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.
You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax.
“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.
Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back.
Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you.
“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.
He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.
As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to.
“P-please,” you beg.
“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”
You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”
“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.
“Mhm,” you nod weakly.
Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”
Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.
Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”
You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”
“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”
You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”
You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.
He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back.
“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”
“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.
“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.
“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”
You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.
“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.
“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there.
He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.
“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.
“No, Spence, please—” you whine.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”
“Mm, wanna…” you whimper.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair.
“Please, can I…?” you plead.
“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.
“Mhm,” you hum.
“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again.
“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.
You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”
“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”
“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life.
Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.
“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”
For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands.
“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”
“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.
“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.
“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”
“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking.
You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”
“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes.
“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.
“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”
Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.
The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.
