⇢ genre: swimmer!jk x female reader, college au, slow burn friends to lovers to ??, fluff, angst, slice of life, no villain just life, coming of age, friendship
⇢ content/warnings: smut, substance use, college party and hookup culture, mentions of greek life hazing, characters experiencing just about every feeling a lost college student goes through, depictions of and discussions surrounding mental health (depression, anxiety, substance abuse), all of the main characters have family issues, characters are lowkey stoners, disgusting amounts of yearning and clueless pining, yes he's her tutor at one point, yes they're in denial, she fell first he fell harder, ft. other third gen idols (rv's yeri, svt's dk, weki meki's doyeon, nct's jaehyun), dare i say found family, there is a beach episode and a fireworks festival too lol
in which a little box of memories tells the story of how you and jeon jungkook slowly, but surely, fell in love against the backdrop of the growing pains of your college years. jungkook presents this box to you as a final gift at graduation and each item in the box is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing the forces that brought the two of you from strangers to friends to more.
⇢ word count: 106k+ ✩ complete
⇢ the box: masterlist. / prologue. / the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. / ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). / a worn out deck of cards. /handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. / cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). / the hat box pt 1. / the hat box pt. 2 / travel brochure to derry beach. / postcard from odense, denmark. / pieces of confetti. / one empty tequila shooter & the final item.
⇢ notes: i fear that THIS is actually what that one part in party 4 u feels like. anyways this takes place in an unnamed western country where there is greek life but also the drinking age is 18 but then also the university holds a very east asian coded school festival? also the fmc is written physically ambiguous for the most part (there are only some mentions of jk being taller than her and being able to carry her) and completely racially ambiguous ✩ nothing is proofread ✩ read on ao3 here!
prologue. ⠀ ── jungkook disappears during your graduation ceremony and gives you an unexpected gift that forces you to confront the realities of finally saying goodbye to college.
a loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. ⠀ ── on your first ever day of classes, you meet a boy with an eyebrow piercing and settle into your new life after leaving behind the ghosts of your hometown. and then, amidst making new friends and trying to fit in, you somehow meet again and again.
ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). ⠀ ── freshman year halloween night plays on an endless loop and ends with an almost kiss that reinforces your ability to never get your hopes up with these stupid college boys.
a worn out deck of cards. ⠀ ── your new friends create sacred traditions that only the six of you can understand.
handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. ⠀ ── amidst finals season, jungkook proves once again that he can see right through you and you take in that it's something that you've been missing all your life. he learns about ceramics and you learn about desserts.
cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). ⠀ ── by sophomore year, you make it your mission to be jungkook's biggest supporter, whether it's cheering him on in the stands or staying by his side when it's just the two of you.
the hat box pt. 1. ⠀ ── the story behind the hat box of memories, unfolding when you and jungkook take an epic journey of guiding each of your friends through their personal struggles - beginning with a trip to the thrift store with an overworked doyeon and accidentally spending the night locked in the school library with a distraught jaehyun. . .and with no where else to sleep, accidentally waking up tangled on a beanbag, draped over jungkook.
the hat box pt. 2 ⠀ ── when seokmin isn't his usual self, you and jungkook throw him the best birthday party he's ever had. meanwhile, helping yeri out with the school festival turns out to be more than taking over the dunk tank, as the plunge wakes jungkook up to see things that he's been too stupid to realize.
travel brochure to derry beach. ⠀ ── it's spring break and the tension between you and jungkook finally melts away, leaving your feelings out in the open.
postcard from odense, denmark ⠀ ── a scary accident brings you and jungkook together and you think things nearly get ruined forever. following this, you leave for a summer exchange program abroad and come back as a better version of yourself, but you're certain that your relationship with jungkook will never be the same.
pieces of confetti. ⠀ ── you wonder if really you've turned things around, but jungkook brings you comfort when you're left alone during christmas break of junior year, forcing both of you to confront what had been left unsaid in the air. a new year comes with new confessions and new promises, as you look back on your friends' uncanny abilities to find a celebration in even the littlest of things.
one empty tequila shooter & the final item. ⠀ ── at the welcome back bonfire, everyone discusses the uncertainties about the individual paths they'll soon take and realize the implications of senior year - the new beginnings to come, the inevitable farewells, and the fleeting moments in between. after it's all said and done on graduation day, there's just one last item to add.
synopsis: your skills as a videographer gets put to the test when your friend, who happens to be in the same profession, falls victim to double-booking. problem is, you only specialized in weddings, not adult films. despite your initial reluctance, you take the job. cue the lights … you meet jeon jungkook, a pornstar, on set — in his world. you just never expected him to play a part in yours.
pairing: pornstar!jungkook x wedding videographer!fem reader
wc: 74.8k
genre: s2l, pornstar au, smut, angst, fluff
cw: slice of life, miscommunication, inaccurate adult filming industry discourse/depiction, situationship, sexual exploration, tension, yearning, virgin oc, 18+ ONLY, specific smut warnings in each part.
STATUS: COMPLETED ✓⃝
prologue (4.7k)
act i. (14.3k)
act ii. (16.9k)
act iii. (17.8k)
final act (21.1k)
extra: epilogue (tbd)
Vibes before, during, and after reading:
┈┈┈┈ 「 moodboards 」
Reader/Pixie
Jeon Jungkook - alternatively
Additional
┈┈┈┈ 「 music 」
❯❯❯❯ playlist 1 by @lovieku // playlist 2 by @crystaleah
┈┈┈┈ 「 musings 」
itf breakdown/makings
beta comments
all discourse/feedback/reviews
memorable asks:
thoughtful anon (srsly who are you)
analysis 1 // analysis 2 // analysis 3
when the angst hits 🚬
remembering
magic
hurt so good
note: i wish i could include every feedback but the list would be endless. just know that i love you all IMMENSELY and your engagement with this series is so precious to me. i reread my asks, reblogs, and comment sections whenever i wanna do away with writing 🥺🫂 your reviews are forever cherished ♡
it only takes one offhand compliment for lee haechan to decide that you're meant to be his—and he's more than happy to prove it every chance he gets. loud, relentless, and ridiculously devoted, he weaves himself into your days with the kind of shamelessness that should drive you insane. but maybe, against your better judgment, you're starting to realise you don't actually want him to stop.
pairing lee haechan x fem!reader genre fluff, college au warnings not proofread, mentions of smoking & asthma, profanities, hyuck has OVERLY down-bad behaviour word count 1.6k notes inspired by jinung & doyeon from head over heels :] i looove them & i love haechan. the only smoker id bat my lashes for
the first time you ever speak to lee haechan, you don't expect it to matter. he's your classmate—loud in a way you've always avoided, cocky in a way that seems to demand attention. people laugh when he talks, but more often at him instead of with him. you're not sure he notices.
that day, he's slouched in his seat as usual, chin tilted up towards the ceiling, sunlight glancing off his honey-warm skin. when you look closer, your eyes catch on to the scattered constellation of beauty marks across his cheek that trails down the line of his neck. you don't even think twice before saying, quietly, "they're pretty."
he blinks at you, slow, unsure. "what?"
"your moles," you explain softly, gesturing vaguely towards his cheek, his jaw, his throat. "they look like little stars."
it's a throwaway compliment for you, but something flickers in his expression—surprise, disbelief, a quiet, almost reverent sort of wonder. he opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if the right words won't come. later, you'll realise no one had ever told him they were beautiful before, and for you to say it so casually—to see him in a way no one ever had—makes something in his chest go loose and aching.
he laughs, but it comes out breathless, too giddy to hide.
the first time you realise lee haechan is going to be a problem, he's sitting far too close to you in class. his desk, technically, leaves enough space between yours to avoid suspicion, but his body doesn't seem to care for boundaries. his elbow brushes yours every few seconds, his knees stretching wide and unapologetically, as though he needs the constant reminder that you're real and right by his side.
"could you—" you hesitate, coughing softly into your fist before continuing, "could you sit a little further from me?"
haechan doesn't budge. if anything, his grin only widens. tilting his head so his messy brown hair falls into his eyes. "why? are you afraid of me?" his voice drops theatrically, the teasing lilt a little too practiced.
when you don't answer right away, he leans closer still, lowering his voice as if he's confiding in you. "or… is it because i'm too close and you're getting shy?"
you shake your head firmly, though your chest gives the faintest, most unwelcome hitch. "no, it's not that," you reply, clearing your throat. "its just—you reek of smoke, and i can't stand the smell of cigarettes." another cough breaks through your words, sharp enough to make you wince. "i have mild asthma, you see."
for once, haechan doesn't have a comeback ready. his smile falters as his eyes widen, tracing over your features like he's replaying your words in his head on loop. "so… you're feeling sick… because of me?"
"hm—i guess you could say that."
the silence that follows is odd for him, but only lasts about three seconds before haechan abruptly shoves his chair back with a screech that makes the entire class look over. without a word, he stalks towards the back of the room where the trash can sits, yanks a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and crushes them in this fist. the sound is almost violent, his knuckles white as he tosses the broken pieces into the bin.
then, in true lee haechan fashion, he turns dramatically to the class, poining a finger at the room with unearned authority. "i won't smoke again until the day i die!" he declared, voice ringing through the classroom. "so none of you are allowed to smoke either! if i catch anyone with a cigarette in hand, i'll—i'll kill you."
a pause.
from the corner, jeno mutters flatly, "you're the only one who smokes in this class, idiot…"
the whole room bursts into laughter, and haechan glares, but his eyes flicker back to you almost instantly—softening, almost sheepish. for someone who usually thrives on attention, his only concern now seems to be whether you're still coughing.
that becomes his new obsession.
within a week, you realise haechan has appointed himself your official-unofficial bodyguard against all secondhand smoke on campus. he barges into the boys' restroom mid-break, wagging a finger at freshmen and upperclassmen alike caught lighting up. "put it out! yn walks this way sometimes. what if she happens to breathe in your poisonous air?!"
his antics are ridiculous enough to cause a stir, yet he's unfazed by the mocking laughter that follows him out. he only beams proudly when he catches sight of you nearby, as though waiting for you to pat his head for being good.
you'd be lying if you said you weren't bewildered—maybe even a little touched—by the dedication.
but haechan's devotion isn't always subtle. he has a way of weaving himself into your routine without asking, as though the two of you had already silently agreed to it. he walks you back to your apartment after classes, even when it means going in the opposite direction of his own dorm. he keeps up a constant stream of chatter the whole way—compliments, complaints, insinuations that if you gave him a chance he'd treat you better than anyone else you've ever been with.
once, you told him he was overstepping. he only blinked, thought for no more than half a second, then said, "yeah… maybe. but you're still walking next to me, so maybe you don't mind that much. right?”
you roll your eyes, but your pen stumbles against the page when you feel the warmth of his gaze linger on you far longer than necessary. his compliments may be shameless, but the way he looks at you—as if you've hung the moon—leaves your chest feeling uncomfortably warm.
the real trouble, however, comes when he decides proximity is non-negotiable.
you're in the library, whispering the requirements of your joint assignment to him, outlining what had to be done and when. you were halfway through your explanation when you realised he hadn't taken a single note. his notebook was blank. instead, his chin rested on his palm, eyes fixed on the shift of your lips with an intensity that prickles your skin.
"...are you listening?" you asked finally, shifting uncomfortably.
"yes," he breathes, then pauses. "no." his gaze flicks down to your mouth again. "i mean—maybe i'd listen better if you, um… repeated everything while kissing me…"
your eyes widen. "haechan."
"yn," he parrots back, lips curling into a grin.
and then, out of nowhere, he leans in, lips puckered slightly, clearly aiming for your cheek.
you jerk back. "what are you doing?"
he looks almost sheepish, then bold all over again. "trying to kiss you?"
"wha—you can't just—"
"why not? you're right here… no one's looking…" his eyes dip to your lips, then back to your face, and for the first time, you realise how much he actually wants this. not as a joke, not as a game—he wants you, in his messy, hopeless way.
"no—because we're not…" you trail off, searching for words. "you can't just go around kissing random girls, haechan!"
he tilts his head, genuinely puzzled. "but i'm not trying to kiss a random girl… i want to kiss you."
"but we're not even dating… you—"
"oh." he blinks, thoughtful as if processing a concept that hadn't occured to him even after all these weeks, then brightens. "okay. then i'll be your boyfriend."
your jaw drops. "that's not how this works—"
"but why not? look… i'll prove it." his hand hovers in the air like he's debating whether to take yours, then boldly presses it against yours. his skin is warm, clammy even, but the weight of his palm is steady. he lifts your hands to his cheek, leaning against them with dramatic flourish, fluttering his eyes shut before cracking one open again. "see? we're holding hands now. that's what boyfriends and girlfriends do… right?"
you gape at him, torn between laughter and exasperation. "...you're unbelievable."
"unbelievably in love with you, yeah…" he says smoothly, though his ears are pink, betraying his nerves. "so? can i kiss you now?"
you don't even have time to argue before he's leaning across the table, heart-shaped lips puckering towards your own. mortified, you grab his arm and haul him out of the library, ignoring the amused snickers trailing after you. he stumbles along, completely unbothered, like a puppy thrilled to finally have your attention.
the moment the doors swing shut, haechan spins back to you, excitement sparking in his eyes. "you wanna go to somewhere more private?! ah—i don't think my roommate's home right now. why not we—"
"haechan."
he freezes, blinking rapidly at your tone. "...hm?"
you're glaring, exasperated and flustered all at once. "why do you think i dragged you out of the library?"
"because…" he tilts his head, lips parting in anticipation. "you're more comfortable kissing me out here?"
your jaw drops. "what? no."
his face falls instantly, but only for a second before the smile creeps back in, sly and boyish. "okay, okay. not now. but soon, right? you'll want to kiss me soon." his voice dips low, hopeful, and you realise, with dawning horror, that this boy has absolutely no concept of shame.
it's ridiculous. he's ridiculous. and yet, there's something about his persistence—the way he throws himself headfirst into liking you, no hesitation, no restraint—that lodges itself in your chest. you're not sure when it stopped feeling like annoyance and started feeling like something heavier, something you're secretly learning to crave.
because for all his dramatics and flirtations, you've noticed how haechan listens. he remembers your ailments. he notices when you're too tired to carry your books and takes them without asking. he hovers just close enough to be overwhelming, but never crosses a line that leaves you feeling truly uncomfortable. and for someone so infamously careless, his care for you is startling in its clarity.
and for the first time—somewhere between the cigarettes he swore off for your sake and the way he lights up every time you so much as look at him, you admit—if only silently, if only to yourself—that you find him pretty beyond his beauty marks.
pairing: slytherin! haechan x ravenclaw! fem.reader
genre: rivals to lovers, smut, angst
wc: 21k+ (full fic)
content warning: explicit content, unprotected sex, public sex, oral (fem. receiving), rough sex (hair-pulling, light spanking), marking (hickeys, bruises), forced proximity, toxic family dynamics, blood status discrimination, mean haechan, usage of wizard ver. of a slur, canon divergence (post-hogwarts /ministry setting), their relationship gives whiplash i apologize in advance, emotional hurt/comfort.
summary: Lee Haechan was a pure-blood heir raised to hate everything you are. You, a half-blood girl who knew better than to let your guard down around someone like him. You were never supposed to want each other—until one disastrous kiss shatters everything you’ve worked to protect.
a/n: AT LAST it is here!! my blood, sweat, and tears went into this u guys. i hope it was worth the wait. also i somehow ended up with a very dramione-coded fic (yes, this is me coming out as a dramione enjoyer). it’s so long i had to split it into two parts because apparently i don’t know when to stop. part two should be up right after this one (unless i passed out from exhaustion). pls enjoy and scream at me about it in the comments <3 ps: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BABYGIRL HAECHAN!!! ILYSM!!!
READ PART 2 HERE
“I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so? I do not know, but I feel it, and I am tormented.” — Catullus, poem 85
What you and Lee Haechan had could only be described as pure, unadulterated rivalry. Or it started that way, at least.
Your mother and his father had been political opponents for as long as you could remember—two towering figures in the wizarding world, constantly at odds in public and behind closed doors. While your mother built her career on progressive reform and transparency, his father operated in shadows, pulling strings and building alliances that made him one of the most quietly feared men in wizard politics. When your mother was named Minister of Magic, it was only by a thin margin, one that turned their rivalry into something closer to open war.
Because of your parents’ standing, and their closely intertwined conflict, you were often forced to share space. Too much of it. Not just at Hogwarts, but everywhere. Ministry galas, private events, summer functions.
Haechan was like a buzzing fly in your ear, a little gremlin who made it his life’s mission to drive you up the wall. You didn’t like him. You didn’t like his voice, or his slouchy posture, or the way he looked at you with those half-lidded eyes. You didn’t like the stupid pattern of moles on his face or the way he always knew exactly which button to press.
Everyone who knew you, knew you couldn’t stand him. If anything, the daily verbal sparring made it pretty damn clear. But what no one could’ve ever predicted was how quickly this would change.
A change that started when your mother was officially sworn in as Minister.
The announcement made headlines across every wizarding publication, and for a brief moment, your name was something people said with admiration. Students congratulated you in the corridors, professors gave you subtle nods of approval, and even the portraits seemed more polite than usual.
Your mother had been a respected Ministry official long before taking office, a well-known pureblood figure who shocked everyone by marrying a Muggle-born wizard, a choice that set tongues wagging long before you were born. Eventually, your father cracked under the pressure of a world he never fully belonged in, leaving your mother in favor of a simpler life with a Muggle woman.
Because your mother was so busy with her political career, you grew up with your father in the Muggle world, isolated from magic entirely until the age of ten, when strange incidents like your hair changing colors overnight, glass shattering during arguments started happening and forced your mother to intervene.
She brought you into a world you didn’t know then. Hogwarts became your fresh start, your chance to prove you belonged in the magical world despite whispers about your blood status, your father’s scandalous departure, and your upbringing.
Which was exactly why, when you walked into the Great Hall a few days after your mother was sworn in and saw the headline The Daily Prophet had run, it hit so viciously.
“Merlin’s beard, Y/N. Have you seen this?”
Hannah Parkinson’s voice stopped you on your way to the Ravenclaw table. She unfolded her copy with a dramatic flair and shoved it into your face. Your stomach dropped as you read the words.
“THE MINISTER’S HALF-BLOOD HEIRESS: RAISED BY MUGGLES, GROOMED FOR POWER?”
Under the headline was a moving photo of you walking through a Muggle market wearing jeans, scuffed trainers, and a second-hand T-shirt. You hadn’t even noticed the photographer.
Rita Skeeter’s quill did its best to flay you alive.
“Young Miss Y/L/N may carry a famous surname, but does she carry the polish befitting the office? Sources say the new heiress spent most of her childhood in a Muggle household, blissfully ignorant of wizarding custom until age ten—hardly the upbringing our world expects from a Minister’s child.
Classmates describe her as ‘aggressive on a broom, and foul-mouthed in the hallways’. One wonders whether this half-blood Seeker has the temperament to represent us on the international stage.”
And it continued into the next page, because Skeeter never knew when to stop.
“Her fashion sense appears equally questionable as she’s seen in the picture wearing Muggle denim and a shirt bearing a ‘Misfits’ logo (whatever that means). One hopes Madam Malkin can work miracles.”
The tears welled in your eyes before you could blink them back. Skeeter had somehow managed to hit all of your insecurities with one article—your parents separation, the years spent as the weird kid, the endless fight to prove you belonged in the wizarding world—and splashed them across the breakfast tables of the entire wizarding world.
“Aww, is the Minister’s little charity case going to cry?” Hannah cooed mockingly.
Before you could even find the words or grab your wand to shut her up, there was a loud crack behind you. The paper in her hands tore clean in half, as if slashed by an invisible blade. Hannah stumbled back in shock.
Next thing you knew, Lee Haechan was walking past you, his wand still glowing faintly. Dark hair fell in soft waves over his eyes, his uniform tie was crooked as always, his expression flat with boredom.
“Parkinson,” he drawls “I’d ask if the Prophet’s paying you for distribution, but just like your father you clearly enjoy handing out trash for free.”
A collective ooh rippled across the Hall. Hannah’s face turned an impressively blotchy shade of red before she turned around and stalked off, tripping over the hem of her robes.
Haechan turned then, catching your eye before his gaze dipped to your jeans and the battered trainers peeking out beneath your open robes.
“And you.” His mouth curved into a half-snarl. “If you insist on dressing like a stray Muggle, don’t act shocked when the rats sniff you out.”
You flinched at his words, feeling even more self-conscious than when Hannah was insulting you.
He nudged the ruined paper with his shoe, his voice low so only you’d hear it. “Never bleed where they can smell it.” Then, louder in a mocking tone “Try to keep up, you’re the Minister’s pet now.”
He turned on his heels and strolled back to the Slytherin table, his friends thumping him in the back in glee.
You stood frozen, not knowing how to react. He humiliated you, which wasn’t a new thing in your relationship. But this time, it felt as if he’d thrown the punch so no one else could.
After that day, Haechan was still a nuisance to you. Still the boy whose father would do anything to see your mother fail. But now his teasing felt different. It wasn’t sharp the way it used to be. His taunts started landing just shy of cruelty, aimed to sting you into strength instead of out of it. No one noticed the difference except you.
Bit by bit, you found yourself almost looking forward to it. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.
In the days following the article, you did your best to become invisible—but Hogwarts was not a place that allowed anonymity when your name was constantly on the front page of newspapers. Rita Skeeter’s words spread fast, and soon every corridor was filled with whispers about your family. The attention made you retreat into solitude, often spending your free periods hiding among the furthest library stacks.
One afternoon, as you sat hunched over your Charms textbook, the chair across from you scraped loudly against the stone floor. You looked up, startled and already annoyed.
"Did you lose your way?" you asked coldly, glaring at Haechan as he settled carelessly into the chair opposite.
"Unfortunately not.” He replied with a yawn, dropping his textbooks onto the table with a thud that made you flinch.
"What do you want, Haechan?”
He raised a brow. “Wow, no ‘hello’? No ‘thank you for publicly humiliating a pureblood princess on my behalf’?”
"Right, I almost forgot chivalry’s alive and well in Slytherin.” you said, sarcasm dripping from every word.
"Only when it comes with entertainment value." He leaned back, arms behind his head. "And you're a surprisingly decent show these days."
"Glad I could provide," you muttered. “Did you come here just to annoy me?”
"Nah, I just figured you were desperate enough to tolerate my presence," he retorted, flashing a shit eating grin. "Since your fellow Ravenclaws aren't exactly lining up to spend time with you these days."
You narrowed your eyes. "If you're looking to have a laugh, go bother someone else."
"Believe me, watching you sulk around like a kicked puppy isn’t that fun anymore."
"Then leave," you hissed.
“Can't. I need your notes."
You scoffed loudly. "You're delusional if you think I'd help you."
"Am I?" he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Cause you still haven’t hexed me, which means you're at least considering it."
Your wand hand twitched under the table, and he noticed immediately, mouth quirking upward in amusement. The two of you were used to swapping harmless hexes for years. Silly stuff like changing each other’s hair color, gluing quills to fingers, turning the other’s pumpkin juice to green sludge during breakfast. Nothing scarring, but enough for you to flinch when the other’s temper flared. Haechan’s smirk said he remembered every jinx.
The nature of your relationship is exactly why you weren’t used to having him on your side all of a sudden, and you couldn’t be judged for holding him at a safe distance when you had no idea what his intentions were.
Especially now that his father was capable of doing anything to ruin you and your mother’s reputation with the purpose of hindering her future reelection. Not to mention, you hated feeling like you owed him anything.
"You didn't have to interfere the other day," you muttered bitterly, unable to meet his gaze. "I could’ve handled Hannah myself."
He didn't respond at first. The quiet stretched long enough that you glanced up just in time to catch a strange expression crossing his features. He masked it quickly with indifference.
"Parkinson annoys me," he shrugged.
"Since when?" you raised a skeptical eyebrow.
He leaned forward, voice dropping into a velvety murmur. "Since she started messing with what's mine."
"Excuse me?" you stammered.
"Mine to torment, I mean," he corrected, rolling his eyes. "Merlin, don't get ahead of yourself."
"I wasn't," you snapped, embarrassment twisting sharply in your stomach.
"I know." His smirk returned. "Your pride wouldn't allow it."
You huffed, returning your gaze to your textbook, pretending to read despite the words blurring uselessly in front of you.
He flipped open his own book, pretending to skim through pages in bored silence. After about twenty minutes of silent “studying”, he stood up without looking at you.
"I’ll come back tomorrow for those notes.
You hesitated, feeling the inexplicable urge to humor him, despite every reason not to. "Fine. Whatever."
"And stop hiding in the library every day. It's depressing."
"Fuck off," you shot back sharply.
His answering laugh echoed as he walked away and you sat there for the next few minutes trying to summon any sense of concentration to no avail.
A week later you were back in the library, this time sequestered at a corner table piled with parchment and potion vials. Professor Slughorn had paired the two of you for an extra-credit antidote project—“my favorite students working together!” he’d said with a wink—and neither of you had managed to wriggle out of it.
Haechan wasn’t really doing any work, he just kept twirling his quill and splattering ink blots across your carefully labeled ingredient chart.
“Could you not?” you snapped, blotting at the stains.
“Relax,” he said, slouching until his knees bumped yours under the table. “Don’t you know that chaos is the mother of invention?”
“That mentality is how you melted the cauldron earlier in class”
He grinned. “That was funny, though.”
You rolled your eyes and bent back over your parchment, quill scratching furiously across the page. You could feel him watching you, but you refused to look up.
The quiet of the library was broken by a burst of loud whispers from a nearby table.
“…I bet he only keeps the half-blood around because he feels bad for her—”
“—heard they sneak off after curfew. Wonder what she’s giving him in return…”
You didn’t even need to guess who they were talking about. It was obvious what people thought when they saw you with the Slytherin golden boy, the heir of one of the most ancient pureblood families. They probably thought you were his charity case as well. That you were stupid enough to want him around after all he said to you.
Your pulse pounded too hard in your ears to hear Haechan’s chair scraping back. A second later, the gossipers’ table went silent, punctuated only by the unmistakable snap of someone’s quill being broken in half.
He walked back to your table and dropped into his seat, jaw tight. “Idiots.”
You shoved your notes into a messy stack. “I’m done for tonight.”
“Y/N—” he reached across the table, but you were already on your feet.
You didn’t stop until you reached an unused classroom three corridors away. It was cold and dusty, with cobwebs in the corners and desks scattered around.
The ghost of a bride hovered near the corner, sobbing quietly into her translucent veil. You ignored her as you braced both hands on the windowsill, trying to steady your breathing, willing the sting behind your eyes to fade.
After a few minutes, the ghost floated silently through the wall, giving you a mournful look—as if accepting that you had more reason to cry tonight.
The door clicked open after a few seconds.
“Thought I told you I was done,” you said without turning.
“And since when do I listen?” Haechan closed the door behind him.
You didn’t reply, only sound that could be heard was your quiet sniffles and his slow steps getting near.
“They’re not worth it.” His voice was careful. “A new article will come out tomorrow and everyone will move on. You know people need a new chew toy every week.”
You huffed a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. Your family’s never been headline fodder.”
“Sure we have. Just with less sensational adjectives.” He stepped closer until your shoulders brushed lightly. “Besides, if they’re going to talk, we might as well give them something good to gossip about.”
You glanced up at him, puzzled. “Like what?”
Haechan hesitated for a quick second, before his mouth quirked into that half-smile you recognized as the one he gave before saying something ridiculous. “We could pretend to date.”
A surprised laugh burst out of you, louder than you’d intended. “Fake dating? Seriously?”
“Why not?” His expression was deceptively casual, but his eyes stayed serious on yours. “It’s the quickest way to control the narrative. People eat that shit up.”
You shook your head, smiling, expecting him to crack up and admit he was joking any second now. But his expression didn't waver, and you faltered slightly.
“You’re not serious.”
His gaze didn’t shift. “What if I am?”
You stared at him, waiting for the joke, the laughter—but it didn’t come. Still, the idea was too absurd. Fake dating Lee Haechan? Impossible.
You shook your head again, forcing another laugh as you quickly dismissed the notion. “Nice try, Lee. But I think I’ll stick to something easier to manage like maybe getting top marks in our Potions assignment?”
He chuckled, finally relenting. “Suit yourself.”
Another tear escaped as you laughed softly, embarrassed. You swiped at your cheek. “God, I hate crying.”
“Yeah, you’re an ugly crier.” He nudged your shoulder gently
You rolled your eyes, shoving his arm, but he caught your hand mid-motion. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, making your breath catch. For a moment you both stood there quietly, until finally, you let out a slow exhale and allowed your head to rest carefully against his shoulder.
He stiffened for barely a second, then relaxed, leaning gently into your weight.
Neither of you spoke again until the clock tower chimed curfew. Reluctantly, you straightened, feeling calmer but oddly reluctant to move away from him.
“We should finish that antidote tomorrow,” you murmured.
He nodded, eyes searching your face as if confirming you really were okay. “All right.”
When he left, his suggestion lingered in your thoughts, stuck there like an itch you couldn’t scratch.
Fake dating Lee Haechan. You snorted softly to yourself, shaking your head as you walked back to the common room. The idea was not only ridiculousbut completely impossible.
Yet your brain, traitorous as always, circled back stubbornly to it. The thought of Haechan holding your hand in the corridors, leaning closer at dinner, brushing a casual kiss to your forehead in front of everyone...
Heat rose sharply in your cheeks.
Ridiculous, yes… but not completely unappealing, if you were honest. He was handsome and smart, plus he wasn’t as irritating as you originally thought.
You shook your head again firmly, as if to physically dislodge the thought. No. You couldn’t afford to indulge this. It was crazy. Dangerous, even.
But as you walked up to the Gold Eagle Knocker at the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room and answered the riddle, you couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up at the thought of everyone believing you belonged to each other.
You spent more and more days studying with Haechan after that. Or rather, you studying while he studied you. It was a comfortable escape from judgmental whispers and the scrutiny of everyone else’s eyes. Somehow, he’d become your calm in the midst of chaos.
To your surprise, Haechan was actually a good listener, offering better advice than anyone else you'd ever met. It was unexpected for someone who seemed born to antagonize, but behind his cutting remarks was someone who noticed more than he let on.
He was even helping you improve your flying form, despite technically being your biggest rival since both of you played Seeker. But he’d started noticing small flaws in your technique, quietly pointing them out during your private drills. You only learned to fly at eleven, which made you less experienced compared to Haechan who’d practically grown up on a broom.
“You’re still dropping your shoulder every time you dive for the Snitch,” he called over one afternoon, a playful grin on his face as you landed and sat on the grass.
“I do not,” you shot back, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead.
“Yes, you do.” He snorted lightly, tossing himself onto the grass beside you. “It’s why I keep beating you in dives.”
“Whatever.” You sighed, picking at blades of grass. Admitting your weakness felt uncomfortable, but the words slipped out anyway. “It’s just...dives still freak me out a bit.”
His teasing expression softened immediately. Quietly, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on, I’ll show you how to fix it.”
You hesitated only a second before taking his hand. The warmth of his fingers sent a small flutter through your chest.
“Mount your broom,” he instructed gently, letting go once you were steady. “But don’t kick off yet.”
You did as told, gripping the handle tight enough to hide the slight tremble in your fingers. He moved behind you, his presence too close. You felt your breath catch sharply when one of his hands gently settled on your lower back, steadying you. His palm felt impossibly warm through your Quidditch robes.
“You’re way too tense,” he murmured, amused. You jumped slightly when his other hand rested firmly on your shoulder. “Relax a bit, yeah?”
“How am I supposed to relax when you’re—”
“Just trust me.”
You tried to turn your head but he gently redirected your chin with his fingertips, guiding your gaze straight ahead.
“Eyes forward. If you were flying, you'd have crashed already.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the soft rasp of his voice near your ear and the firm grip of his hands. You swallowed thickly. “It’s hard to concentrate with you right there.”
“I’m just correcting your form,” his fingers moved softly along your spine, and every nerve in your body seemed to spark under his touch.
His grip tightened slightly on your shoulder, pressing it into a more relaxed position. “Keep it down like this. Shift your weight forward without leaning into your broom too hard.” His breath was warm in your ear. “Trust your broom, and trust yourself. And stop tensing every muscle just because you’re afraid you’ll fall.”
“Easy for you to say,” you mumbled, frowning. “You were born with a broom attached to your hand.”
“Just try the dive.” he chuckled.
You hovered mid-air and bent forward, shoulders steady this time as the broom descended. The dive went smoother and your stomach didn’t feel like a bottomless pit.
“That…felt better.”
He grinned. “Told you.”
You dismounted, heart still thumping. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said, grabbing his own broom. Then, with a teasing smile, “Just remember who helped you when you finally beat me to the Snitch.”
The following week The Great Hall hummed with the usual breakfast chatter. It had been an awkward morning, people seemed more on edge than usual and you didn’t even know why until commotion started by the Slytherin table.
Haechan’s voice rose sharply with anger, breaking through the murmurs. “Mind your own business, will you?”
Glancing over your shoulder, you saw him glaring down a small cluster of Hufflepuffs who immediately ducked their heads, faces flushed and eyes darting nervously. He snatched a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from one boy’s trembling fingers. He looked up and his eyes locked onto yours.
“Enjoying this?” he stalked toward you, paper clenched in one fist.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, defensive under the weight of everyone’s stares.
He threw the Prophet down onto the Ravenclaw table. The headline screamed out in black lettering “MINISTRY SCANDAL—LEE FAMILY FACING INQUIRY OVER ILLEGAL DARK ARTEFACTS”
“You happy now?” Haechan hissed. “Your mother’s finally getting rid of the bad press. Congratulations, Minister’s pet.”
“What… I—We had nothing to do with this!”
“Oh, really?” he sneered bitterly, leaning in closer. “Funny how these stories started coming out right after the articles about you. Maybe Skeeter wasn’t so wrong… hanging around Muggles didn’t teach your family much about fair play.”
A few gasps echoed softly around you. You wanted to scream, to hex him right then and there, but your hands shook too badly under the table to even grip your wand.
You lifted your chin, staring back. “What are you really so upset about? That your father’s finally being exposed, or that people might think you’re just like him?”
His expression faltered enough to let you know your barb had landed. Of anything you could’ve said that was probably the worst for him.
Haechan didn’t just resent his father. He was terrified of becoming him. Every cruel instinct he buried, every smirk that masked something darker, every time he played the game too well—he wondered if he was already halfway there. So hearing it from your mouth, that disgust, that echo of everything he feared he might become? It was too much and it shook something in him loose.
“You’re right,” he said with a cruel laugh. “My father’s not a good man. But at least he never pretended to be. Your mother clawed her way to the top on the back of others and you’re just her dirty little project. Filthy blood dressed in silk. And no matter how high you climb, you’ll always reek of where you came from.”
The air drained from your lungs. It wasn’t just the insult — it was how easy it came to him. As if it had always been there, lurking under his tongue. You stared numbly at the crumpled headline on the table.
He was clearly deflecting. Protecting himself and his family’s name. But you never expected him to use words you’d only ever heard whispered by the worst kind of witches and wizards.
Haechan stormed out of the Great Hall, past the whispers and stares, past the first-years who scrambled aside in fear, past the professors who pretended they didn’t see anything. He didn’t slow down until he reached the abandoned courtyard behind the greenhouses, his breaths coming short and shallow.
He braced a hand against the cold stone wall, his pulse pounding sickeningly in his ears.
“Filthy blood dressed in silk”
The echo of his own voice made bile rise in his throat. He’d said it so easily, so effortlessly cruel, exactly like his father would have.
He could still see the way your expression had shattered. Not in anger—that would have been easier to stomach—but stunned disbelief, pain etched deep into your features, your chin held high even as your eyes welled with tears. He’d torn you open, hit you exactly where he knew it would cut deepest, and he’d done it because he couldn’t face feeling vulnerable himself.
“Fuck,” he whispered harshly, sliding down onto the nearest bench and burying his face in his hands. He felt like a coward. No, he felt worse. He felt exactly like the kind of person he’d sworn he would never become.
He’d watched you go through this already, helped you pick up the pieces, telling you people would forget, that it wouldn’t matter in the end. But he’d never imagined his family would become the next target. He’d never expected the anger, the embarrassment, to burn so personally.
He swallowed thickly, head tilting back against the wall, gaze fixed unseeingly on the darkening sky. He needed to fix this. Needed you to understand that he’d meant none of it, that he wasn’t like his father, even if today he’d failed spectacularly at proving it.
But how could you possibly forgive him after what he'd said?
He wasn’t even sure if he could forgive himself.
The courtyard incident never reached the Headmaster, but the castle carried gossip faster than owls. By the next morning everyone knew Lee Haechan had called the Minister’s daughter “filthy blood” to her face. Ravenclaws pitched him glares sharp enough to cut skin. Half the Slytherins avoided eye contact, the rest wore smirks that said at least one of us finally said it out loud.
You refused to be in the same corridor with him, let alone speak. At meals you sat with your team while he took the far end of the Slytherin table and toyed with food he never finished. Whenever you entered the library, he left. Wordlessly. Every time.
The distance should have made things easier, instead it thrummed like a headache behind your eyes.
Thing’s should’ve calmed down after that, but the Prophet ran a follow-up column on the Lee investigation, calling Haechan directly a liability to the family reputation. Skeeter framed his words against you in the Great Hall as proof of the “volatile Lee temper,” the perfect angle to question whether the family’s dark artefact inquiry hinted at deeper corruption.
She quoted unnamed “allies” of the Lee family who feared the heir’s public outbursts were undermining decades of carefully polished prestige. In Skeeter’s telling, Haechan wasn’t just an embarrassed teenager but a wobbling pillar threatening to topple the entire Lee dynasty.
You closed the paper before anyone could see your hands shaking. Whatever anger you still felt, seeing him reduced to a scandalous article—no less than you had been—left a sour taste in your mouth that lasted throughout breakfast.
By the time you slid into Charms class, your stomach was in knots. Professor Flitwick’s flickering quill skated across the blackboard, dividing your Charms class into pairs for the upcoming Presentation on Non-Verbal Counter Charms.
The moment your name appeared next to Lee, H., the knots pulled so tight you thought you might throw up.
Across the room, Haechan twirled his wand between two fingers, deliberately avoiding your gaze. You’d managed to avoid him so well you were half-convinced the castle had sprouted secret passages just to keep you apart, so being forced into proximity again felt deeply unpleasant.
“Partners will demonstrate in two weeks,” Flitwick announced, clapping his tiny hands. “Research and practice outside class is essential!”
Reluctantly, you gathered your things and walked stiffly to the empty seat next to Haechan. He didn’t bother moving his books to make room for you.
“I wrote down a few options,” you said, dropping your notes onto the corner of the desk. “I’ll handle wand movement notation, you can do the theory.”
Haechan barely cracked one eye open. “Pass. Last time I trusted your wand work, I nearly lost my eyebrows.”
“That was in Defense class, and you deserved it,” you snap, voice sharp enough that two Gryffindors glancd over. “Just do the theory, Haechan. It’s not that hard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—did I miss the part where we decided you’re in charge?” He straightened slowly, finally meeting your glare. “If Flitwick’s grading us on performance, I’m not gonna let you take all the spotlight.”
You exhaled sharply. “Then what’s your brilliant idea?”
“We can meet in the library tonight,” he said evenly. “Let’s practice first, figure out who does what later.”
“Fine,” you snapped.
“Fine.” He leaned back again. “And let’s do something advanced. Your choice, if that makes you feel better.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering a resigned “Whatever”
When you arrived at the library a few hours later, it was mostly empty aside from a Ravenclaw girl who was crying into her Potion notes and Madam Pince who was judging from her desk at the front. Haechan was sitting at a back table, posture so straight it seemed unnatural for him. His eyes flicked up only when you dropped your bag across from him.
“Non-verbal Disillusionment,” you said by way of greeting. “It’s a simple figure eight motion. If you botch it, I’m not explaining to Flitwick why you’re half-invisible in class.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Let’s try partial disillusionment first, just my hand."
He raised his wand, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Stay still," he murmured. His wand flicked in a tight spiral. At first nothing happened, then slowly your fingertips began to shimmer into the tabletop, camouflaging perfectly with the wood.
“Not bad,” you admitted, slightly impressed.
He lowered his wand, the illusion fading quickly. "Your turn."
You focused carefully, tracing a precise spiral in the air. His hand flickered briefly before returning fully visible.
He gave you a faint smirk. "Looks like you need some pointers."
“Just be quiet for two seconds, will you?"
"Maybe try easing up on the wrist movement," he suggested anyway. "Less stiff."
You tried again and his fingertips vanished almost completely. He flexed them experimentally.
"Better," he said quietly.
Halfway through the wand practice he paused. "About the other day, in the Great Hall—"
You tensed immediately, eyes snapping up to meet his. “I’m not really here for an encore performance,” you muttered.
Your counterspell fizzled again, causing reddish brown to bleed through the fading illusion on his arm. He didn’t mock you this time. Instead, he silently recast the charm, patiently waiting for you to try again
“I was a dick,” he said quietly. “And not in my usual charming way. I mean… a proper, full-scale dick.”
“I’m aware.” You said, though you wanted to laugh at the way he described that.
“I crossed a line," he finished, holding your gaze steadily. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that or called you a—”
“A filthy half-blood?” you finished, swallowing around the tightness in your throat.
His jaw tightened. “Yeah. My father always taught me the fastest way to look strong was to punch down. It’s taken me this long to realize how pathetic that is.”
"You didn't have to throw me to the wolves to save yourself."
He exhaled slowly, looking tired and ashamed. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
His sincerity softened some of the tension that had lodged itself inside your chest. After a pause, you gave him a small nod. “Apology acknowledged.”
He tilted his head cautiously. “But not accepted?”
"Still pending," you offered quietly. "But no more low blows and no more humiliating me publicly."
He almost smiled, relaxing slightly. "Fair, truce?"
You hesitated, then held out your hand. "Truce."
He took it firmly, and you felt warmth linger briefly even after he let go. You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of your wand.
“How are you doing, by the way? With... everything. The Prophet. The investigation on your father.”
Haechan looked down at the table, then exhaled a laugh that had no humor in it. “It’s weird. Part of me’s pissed they’re dragging his name through the dirt. The other part…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “The other part thinks maybe it’s what he deserves.”
You stayed quiet, but your hand crept across the table, resting just near his.
“I keep thinking,” he said softly, “if they tear him down, does that mean they’re tearing down part of me, too?”
You bit your lip. “No. You’re not him.”
“Don’t sound so sure.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I sounded exactly like him that day in the Great Hall.
“But that’s not who you are.” You reassured him softly.
His hand moved then, his pinky brushing yours.
“Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a breath.
“Ready to try the full-body charm?”
He leaned back with a teasing smirk. "Try not to make me disappear permanently. I know you'd miss me."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't entirely suppress your smile. "Don't tempt me."
For the next hour you traded spells and counter-spells. He still rolled his eyes and mocked your notes, but the comments landed softer every time, the edge dulled by something like mutual respect or at least mutual exhaustion. When Madam Pince finally shooed you out of the library, you’re silently looking forward to the next practice.
After that truce in the library, nothing between you and Haechan got any easier.
In private, he still showed up to practice and study. In public, he kept his distance, afraid that more articles would come out. The more time you spent around him, the riskier everything felt.
If anyone had asked, you would have denied thinking about Lee Haechan at all—denied the way your pulse lurched when his broom skimmed too close during matches, denied how your gaze drifted to his mouth when he argued with you in class, denied the fierce stab of protectiveness that flared whenever someone else insulted him.
But your parents were still political adversaries, and it was the middle of the elections which meant everything was so much more fragile. You were starting to think that The Prophet had spies in Hogwarts. The rumor that Rita Skeeter could transform into a fly and that’s how she heard so many private conversations was starting to seem more believable every day.
Because of the complexity of all these things, you hand no choice but to roll your eyes at Haechan in the corridors, call him insufferable beside your friends, and let the castle believe you hated him without exception.
Mostly you stuck with your own Quidditch team since it was easier to pretend around them. Venting about the Slytherin Seeker was practically a bonding ritual.
“He’s such an asshole!” Mika spat after a Saturday match, pushing her dark hair off her forehead.
“I can’t believe Madam Hooch let that shoulder check slide,” Renjun grumbled, ripping off his gloves. “He nearly sent you into the stands.”
“Typical Slytherin, they only know how to play dirty,” you agreed breathlessly, bruised, and secretly exhilarated.
But you weren’t totally innocent either.
That morning at breakfast, right before the match, you’d gotten into one of your usual arguments with him over something silly like who’d scored more points this season or who had better broom control.
“Keep dreaming, Lee,” you said, smirking across the table. “You’ll fumble the second the Snitch shows up.”
He scoffed, chin propped on his hand. “If I win today, I want a reward.”
“A reward?”
“Yeah. Something worthy of beating you.”
You pretended to think, tapping your fork to your lip. “Fine. If you catch the Snitch, I’ll give you whatever you want.”
The words left your mouth with a casual shrug, but the second you said them, his expression darkened with interest.
“Anything?” He asked, lowering his voice enough so only you could hear. “You might not like what I want though.”
You blinked, suddenly very aware of how close his knee was to yours under the table.
His gaze flicked briefly down to your mouth, then back up. “See you on the pitch, then.” he said softly, pulling away with a smirk that left your cheeks burning.
You’d said it as a joke. Obviously. But now, after the match, with bruises blooming on your ribs and your teammates fuming about missed fouls, you couldn’t stop replaying that look on his face. And to top it all off…
He’d caught the damn Snitch.
You waited until your teammates were gone and the Slytherin tent was empty to walk in. Haechan was sitting on a bench there, shirt half-off and hair damp with sweat.
“Took you long enough,” he sighed, leaning back in his arms.
“You’re lucky the wind was on your side today.”
“Aht! Aht! Don’t come at me with that now, you were still confident enough to bet.’
You rolled your eyes. “Whatever, you’re not even going to cash that in.”
“Oh, but I am.” He pushed off the bench slowly, stepping closer. “You can’t offer something like that and expect me to just forget.”
You crossed your arms. “What do you want, then? A box of Fizzing Whizbees? A foot massage?”
“Tempting. But no.” His fingers reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear before letting his hand drop.
“I want you to admit I’m the better Seeker.”
“Come off it.” you laughed.
He leaned in a fraction, his voice lower now. “Alright then. I want you to ask nicely.”
“What?”
“Please, Haechan, what do you want from me?” he said, mocking your voice. “Say it.”
He was getting too close. Your eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second, and you knew he caught it.
“Is this the part where you make me kiss your boots or something?” you scoffed, looking at a point behind him instead of his eyes.
“I have a better idea of what you can kiss.”
An annoying flush crept up your neck, lips parting in disbelief at the implication.
“Excuse me?” you asked, with a laugh that came out shakier than intended.
“You heard me.” He didn’t look away, didn’t even blink.
This wasn’t your usual banter anymore. The kind you could dismiss with a scoff and a snide remark. This felt infinitely more charged.
“Oh, you’re disgusting.” You muttered.
“We made a deal,” he said, stepping even more into your space. “And I won.”
You backed up slightly, only to hit the wooden lockers behind you.
“What exactly do you want from me, Haechan?”
“That,” he started, his voice lower and raspier now “is a great question.”
He moved slowly as if he was offering a chance to run but you didn’t. Maybe you should have.
His hand came up, knuckles brushing your jaw. “You want to know what I want?”
You swallowed hard and nodded.
“I want to know what happens when you stop pretending you hate me.”
“I don't pr—”
“Don’t lie. I've seen the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching, you’re so obvious.”
You tilted your head, defiant even now. “Fine, let’s say you're right. What then?”
He gasped so slightly you barely caught it before his smirk came back in full force.
“Then we need to do something about it.”
You stared up at him, close enough to count every damn mole on his stupid, perfect face.
He leaned in until his lips brushed your ear. “Unless,” he whispered, “you’re scared you’ll like it.”
Your hands twitched at your sides.
“As if.”
You kissed him so hard you knew it would bruise later. And for a second it wasn’t about politics or Quidditch or the Prophet or who hated who first. It was just his mouth on yours, insistent and warm, and the way his hands gripped your waist possessively.
The kiss only lasted a few seconds before he pulled back, breathless.
“That was definitely better than a foot massage.”
He barely finished the words before your mouth crashed onto his again, hungrier this time, any shred of dignity gone. Your fingers slid up his neck, tugging him down by the collar of his robes.
Haechan chuckled into your mouth, and you felt him press you harder into the wood, his body trapping you there.
“So much for hating me,” he murmured, breaking just far enough away to speak, his breath hot against your lips.
“Shut up,” you hissed, fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled him back down to you, kissing him roughly to silence that stupid mouth.
He groaned against your lips, slightly annoyed at how good you were at this. Your hands caressed his jaw where stubble was growing. His hands found your hips and squeezed firmly.
You gasped, lips parting to give him an opening, and he took it immediately, deepening the kiss with the kind of reckless arrogance that made your knees tremble. One of his hands slid lower, slipping under your Quidditch shirt to brush bare skin.
“Fuck—” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut when his mouth pulled away to trail along your jaw. “Haechan.”
He hummed, pleased at the way his name sounded from your lips. “Say that again.”
You shook your head stubbornly, pulling his mouth back to yours, swallowing the cocky smirk you could feel forming. You needed him silent, you needed to stop thinking, stop remembering that this was Lee Fucking Haechan.
His thigh pressed between your legs, and suddenly it was harder to pretend you didn’t want this with every fiber of your being. Especially when you were arching against him, hips chasing the friction shamefully. He noticed and pressed harder, savoring the breathless sound you made.
“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he teased, nipping your lower lip.
“Just—god—stop talking,” you breathed, dragging your nails down the back of his neck, earning a rough groan that vibrated through you.
Your head spun from how quickly this was happening, how eagerly your body surrendered to him.
He smirked against your lips. “But I like watching you argue.”
You grabbed his jaw firmly, forcing his gaze down to yours, reveling in the way his breath stuttered at your sudden boldness. “Haechan, I swear—”
“What?” His voice was challenging, eyes glittering with excitement. “What are you gonna do?”
The answer came in the form of your hand sliding down to palm him through the fabric of his quidditch trousers, smiling sharply when his confident expression fell, eyes squeezing shut as he bit out a moan.
“That.” You murmured, stroking him again, slowly.
He recovered quickly and was kissing you again with a hand tangling in your hair, tugging firmly enough to make you gasp.
“Two can play dirty, princess.” He growled softly, hips pressing forward into your hand.
“Then fucking play,” you challenged, breathless.
His fingers swiftly undid the buttons of your trousers. Nothing but heat flushed your skin as he slipped his hand lower and under your panties, fingers finding exactly where you needed him.
You cried out sharply, hips bucking into his touch.
“So sensitive,” he teased, voice shaking just slightly as his fingers circled your clit gently, then pressed inside you. “I wonder if your team knows their perfect little seeker gets this wet for a Slytherin.”
“Shut—ah—” your retort melted into a moan, hips grinding shamelessly against his hand.
Your head fell back against the locker, lips parted in a silent gasp as Haechan’s fingers worked you over. Your legs were already trembling, breath hitching in time with every curl of his fingers.
The need to to wipe off the fucking look on his face of pure cocky satisfaction was overcoming. He was watching you unravel like this was the victory he really wanted—not the snitch, not the match, this is what he’d been craving the most.
“Who knew,” he murmured. “That you’d look this pretty falling apart all over my fingers.”
You couldn’t even glare at him, all your strength focused on moving your hips against his hand, chasing that high, chasing him. Until the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching froze you both on the spot.
His hand stilled immediately, and you slapped it away in a a panic. Your pants were unbuttoned, his shirt was still half-off, your lips were swollen, and you could feel your pulse between your thighs, desperate and unfinished. This was not exactly how you wanted to be caught dead.
“Shit,” you hissed, shoving him back as quickly as your wobbly knees allowed.
Haechan grabbed his wand and muttered a cleaning charm under his breath, wiping any visible evidence from his hands and your legs. Then, he schooled his expression into that bored and slightly annoyed mask he wore in class.
You barely had time to fix your clothes before a voice rang out from outside.
“Haechan? You in here?”
The Slytherin beater, Na Jaemin.
Haechan stepped out of the tent as if he hadn’t just been knuckle-deep inside you. “Just grabbing my wand,” he lied smoothly. “I didn't know I needed a hall pass to change.”
Jaemin laughed. “Hey, was someone else in there?”
You forced yourself to step out, tucking your shirt in with trembling fingers and praying to every god in the castle that your face didn’t look as wrecked as it felt..
Jaemin blinked at you, confused. “Oh.”
Then he looked between the two, and you could see the pieces falling in place.
“Right…” he said, drawing out the word. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Just figured you’d want to see the scoreboard. They’ve posted top players.”
Haechan raised a brow. “Top players?”
Jaemin gave a pointed look. “i think you’ll be surprised.”
Then he turned and walked out, leaving behind a thick silence in his wake. You let out a breath, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
“That was a close call.” He said, still looking way too proud for someone who’d just been caught mid-debauchery.
You glared. “I'm going to kill you.”
He smirked. “Only if you say please.”
The Ministry’s Galas always felt like a battlefield in ball gowns, but this year it was worse. Your mother moved through the ballroom with effortless grace, every nod and handshake a subtle show of dominance. You followed half a step behind, champagne flute untouched in your hand.
“Y/N, darling, try to look engaged,” she murmured, looping her arm through yours as she guided you toward yet another tedious cluster of political allies. “This is the perfect opportunity to make connections before graduation.”
“Can I at least enjoy dessert before I get offered a job I don’t want?” you said under your breath.
She laughed lightly as if you’d said something charming. “You have options, dear. The International Magical Cooperation office is always interested in young minds, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has already reached out. You could even apprentice under Councilwoman Fairbairn, she’s been watching you.”
You blinked, trying to summon enthusiasm. “That sounds... overwhelming.”
“It sounds like a future,” she corrected, smiling at a passing Wizengamot elder. “We can’t all be Quidditch captains forever.”
You clenched your teeth behind a tight smile. This entire night was curated around your mother’s standards. From your dress, your hairstyle, to your perfectly timed laugh. And you were so bored you could scream.
So when she paused to speak to a pair of visiting diplomats, you used the opportunity to escape toward the dessert table. You stuffed a sugared pumpkin tart into your mouth just to have an excuse not to answer questions about your “career trajectory.” If anyone asked again about your post-Hogwarts plans, you were going to throw yourself into the enchanted punch fountain.
The peace lasted until you felt that familiar prickle between your shoulder blades. You turned just as Haechan bowed to a council witch, and walked straight toward you.
“Enjoying the pastries, princess?” he asked, stopping close enough that the chandelier lights caught a storm of gold in his eyes.
“You should focus on your father’s damage control, not my dessert plate,” you replied, forcing a smile that hurt your cheeks.
“Trust me, he’s better at politics without me. Besides, I’m here to make sure you don’t die of boredom.” he said with a crooked grin.
Then as if it was the most common thing, he wiped a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of your lip. The action shocked the reply out of your mind, and you had to look around to make sure nobody saw that. A passing journalist drifted too near so you stepped back on instinct and lifted your chin to reply.
“I would rather be bored than babysat by you.” The reporter’s quill twitched happily and moved on.
Haechan’s eyes cooled, but a corner of his mouth lifted. “If you keep insulting me that sweetly, people might think you mean the opposite.”
“Are you ever serious about anything?” you rolled your eyes, yet your pulse thudded hard enough to blur the string quartet.
He offered his hand. “One dance. You can call me names the whole time.”
“Not a chance,” you hissed but a council member brushed past and mistook your glare for a smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N, would you lead the next waltz?”
Before you could refuse, Haechan’s hand slid to your back. “She’d be delighted,” he said smoothly, steering you onto the glassy floor.
You settled your palm against his shoulder, felt muscle tense under velvet, and tried to count the steps. But his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist and the numbers scattered.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“It’s the tempo,” you lied.
The waltz spun you through three agonizing minutes of perfect posture and silent arguments fought with eyes alone. When the final note faded, applause burst around you, and you let go as if burned.
You escaped to a side corridor lined with stained-glass portraits. Halfway down, you heard his footsteps. You spun, skirt whipping.
“You had no right—”
“No right to what? Save you from making a scene?” He stopped an arm’s length away, breathing hard. “I’m pretty sure we’re here to keep appearances.”
“Oh, thank you,” you snapped. “But I can fight my own battles.”
“I’m aware.”
A flickering wall sconce threw silver across his cheekbone, your eyes followed the droplets of melted snow that still clung to his hair from the ride here. He looked beautiful, and you hated it.
“Why do you always do this,” you said, softer now, “You always make everything harder than it needs to—”
He stepped closer. “Do you really not know why?”
Your breath caught, his gaze dipped to your lips.
“Haechan… this isn’t right,” you whispered.
“I know,” he answered, not moving back. “But tell me you don’t want it too.”
A voice rounded the corridor corner—two aides chatting about the banquet. Without thinking, you grabbed Haechan’s collar and dragged him into a narrow alcove behind a velvet drape. The aides passed but you still held onto him.
“You’re truly such a pain,” you breathed.
“You’re one to talk.” He said and kissed you before you could come up with another retort.
His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking away shock. Yours fisted in the silk of his robe as you kissed him back, matching every demand. The gala’s distant music thumped through the walls, but inside the alcove everything narrowed to the press of mouth on mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the relief of finally, finally shutting each other up.
When you broke apart, you were both trembling. He rested his forehead against yours.
“This is so dumb,” you breathed.
“I have to disagree.”
Another set of footsteps came from outside and you pulled away smoothing your hair. He straightened his lapels with a tiny smirk on his lips.
“Lose the grin, Lee.” you said, slipping out first into the hall, masking swollen lips behind a polite smile. He followed a minute later, expression schooled into neutrality again.
Across the hall, your mother caught your gaze. You forced yourself to move toward her, while behind you his fingers brushed across the back of your hand before letting go
A week went by without much thought. The bruises from the gala’s waltz, the little half-moon marks his fingers left on your wrist, had faded. But the memory of that alcove kiss refused to. Unfortunately, life went on, and in your household that meant tea with the Minister at precisely eight in the morning.
Your mother was already seated in the glass-roofed conservatory, steam curling from a delicate china pot. She greeted you with the smile she reserved for diplomats.
“Sit, darling.”
You obeyed quietly but anxiety bubbled in your chest. She only used this much ceremony when she was about to drop a bomb.
“I’ve been thinking about your future,” she began, pouring. “You’ve always excelled in Defense, but I know how fond you are of languages as well. So I called in a favor.”
Your stomach dipped. “Mom…”
She set a parchment envelope on the table. “A summer internship in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, right after NEWTs. You’ll shadow the Trade Accords division, they might even pay if you impress them.”
“I didn’t apply for this,” you said tightly.
“I applied on your behalf. They accepted instantly, obviously. One look at your marks, your pedigree—”
“Exactly,” you cut in. “My pedigree. When do I get to make a choice that isn’t pre-selected for political optics?”
Her expression cooled by a few hard degrees. “Opportunities like this don’t wait. You’d be foolish to refuse.”
The conversation spiraled quickly with her measured reasoning, your rising temper, and the clink of china as you set your cup down too sharply. In the end she dismissed you with a gentle but immovable, “We’ll speak once you’ve calmed down.”
You left the conservatory shaking, the parchment still unopened in your fist.
You considered skipping but pride shoved you into the Ministry lift at 8:59am. You wore sensible robes you hated, hair pulled back into a ponytail that was giving you a headache, and your heart was still hammering with resentment. But if you had to do this, you would do it well… and spitefully prove you didn’t need your mother to pull strings.
The lift grill rattled open onto a marble corridor lined with signage that said Level Five, International Cooperation. You approached the reception desk, rehearsing a polite introduction. Then you heard a laugh that froze you on the spot.
Haechan was leaning against the counter, chatting easily with the receptionist. He was wearing dark robes, and his hair was slicked back. The receptionist pointed toward a stack of orientation folders, he thanked her with a wink, and turned towards you.
His eyebrows shot up in shock when he saw you, then his mouth curved into a slow smile.
“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here on a Monday morning.”
You gave him a flat look. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you, I’m guessing. Interning because my father thinks letting me rot on a beach all summer would reflect poorly on the family name.”
You raised a brow. “Was this the only department desperate enough to take you?”
“Actually,” he drawled, stepping closer, “Magical Law Enforcement was my father’s first pick but it was too much work so I requested this department specifically.” He tilted his head. “Imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the roster last night. Made this whole endeavor infinitely more entertaining.”
Heat crept up your neck, equal parts anger and something far less convenient. “I’m not here for your entertainment, Lee. Stay out of my way.”
“That might be difficult,” he said, tapping the crest on his folder. “Trade Accords division, same as you.”
Of course. Your mother couldn’t have orchestrated a more ironic punishment if she’d tried. But grateful relief pooled in your stomach anyways. At least you wouldn’t be alone in a sea of strangers, at least the one person who could keep up with you (and rile you up) would be right there. But you couldn’t show that. The whole structure of whatever twisted thing existed between the two of you depended on pretending you’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.
The program coordinator, Ms. Thatch approached you, beaming at you both. “Wonderful! Our Hogwarts pair. Minister Y/L/N spoke highly of you, and Mr. Lee comes with stellar references. You’ll be working together on our project about Portkey Tariff revisions.”
You swallowed a groan, Haechan’s grin only widened.
“Looking forward to our collaboration,” he said sweetly, extending his hand. Ms. Thatch watched, expectant.
You shook it, pretending your pulse didn’t spike when his thumb brushed the inside of your wrist in a silent echo of the waltz from the gala. His eyes flickered with the same memory.
“I hope you can keep up,” you murmured under your breath.
“When have I ever disappointed you?” he answered, squeezing slightly before releasing your hand.
The morning of your first official group session, you found Haechan sitting on the arm of a leather sofa in the Ministry atrium, twirling his wand mindlessly and balancing a croissant on his knee. You approached slowly, arms full of color-coded folders of all the research you’d done already. He looked up, eyes dragging over your thoroughly professional appearance before raising a brow.
“Someone’s ready to storm the Wizengamot.”
“I can’t say the same about you.”
He popped the last bit of croissant into his mouth and spoke through the crumbs. “Relax, this thing’s just a formality. They don’t expect us to have actual solutions yet.”
“I’m not here to coast,” you huffed. “I’m not going to let anyone say I got this internship because of my mother.”
“Of course not. You’ve got enough pressure breathing down your neck without adding my laziness to it.” he replied with a dramatic sigh.
“So you admit you’re lazy.”
“Ah, I'd call it strategic,” he corrected with a grin. “Why waste effort on a rigged game?”
You stared at him, genuinely annoyed now. “Why even be here if you’re not going to try?”
“Because I was told to be,” he said, still smiling but something behind his eyes hardened.
You opened your mouth to press, but Ms. Thatch appeared, waving the two of you over to the briefing room where interns settled around the long mahogany table. Ms. Thatch stood at the front, adjusting her elegant tortoiseshell glasses.
“Welcome back, everyone. Today we’ll outline initial proposals for the Portkey Tariff Revision project,” she said briskly. “I trust you all reviewed the necessary documents in preparation for this.”
You glanced quickly at Haechan, who was leaning back and looking bored in the chair opposite you.
When Ms. Thatch’s gaze landed on you, she smiled encouragingly. “Miss Y/L/N, let’s hear your proposal first.”
You straightened, ignoring the faint twitch at Haechan’s lips, and began clearly, “The current tariffs favor Western European trade. I think we should revise the rates using updated data from underrepresented regions, especially in Eastern Europe and Asia. It would make things fairer across the board.”
Ms. Thatch nodded appreciatively. “Very good, any thoughts?”
Haechan leaned forward, eyes glinting as they locked onto yours. “That sounds good on paper but it ignores our current diplomatic priorities. Adjusting tariffs too quickly risks alienating our key European allies. I’d suggest a phased approach, start with targeted reductions for certain regions while giving our main trade partners time to adjust.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, feeling irritation rise at the implication that your idea was naïve. “So we just let the imbalance drag on for years while everyone tiptoes around it?”
He tilted his head, annoyingly calm. “No, we just need to be smart about timing. If we push too hard and too fast, we could lose cooperation completely. It’s not just about fairness, it’s about what’s actually doable.”
“Diplomacy requires action,” you shot back, voice sharpening despite your efforts to remain composed.
“When has rushing things ever gotten us anywhere?” he asked with a raised brow.
The other interns glanced between you two with barely hidden fascination. Ms. Thatch cleared her throat delicately. “Passionate debate, but perhaps we can find a middle ground?”
You flushed slightly, biting your lip. Beside you, another intern whispered something like awkward, but you ignored it.
“Well,” Haechan started, “we could try a hybrid approach. Immediate adjustments where the gaps are the worst, but phase in the rest over time. We could also offer incentives like better magical goods regulations for countries willing to work with the new model early on.”
You blinked. It wasn’t a terrible suggestion. It was annoyingly logical. Worse, you’d briefly considered something similar before dismissing it because it felt too cautious. You glanced at Ms. Thatch, whose expression was encouraging.
“…That could work,” you said reluctantly. “As long as we set clear timelines for change and don’t let it get buried in process.”
Haechan gave you a satisfied smile. “Look at that teamwork.”
Ms. Thatch clapped once, pleased. “Wonderful! A joint proposal from Mr. Lee and Miss Y/L/N. Excellent demonstration of cooperation.”
Your face warmed up at her compliments, but you were still annoyed because you'd unintentionally made Haechan look good too. He reclined in his chair again, twirling his quill lazily, with a little smirk on his face.
When the meeting ended, you gathered your parchments quickly, eager to escape the lingering awkwardness. But as you stood, Haechan slipped smoothly into step beside you.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured, leaning slightly toward you.
“For what? Pointing out flaws in my idea?”
“For saving your impulsive approach from alienating half of Europe,” he corrected.
“Why do you act like you care about the outcome now?” you snapped softly.
“You’d be surprised.”
The lift chimed before you could answer. You stepped in first, forcing a slow breath. Haechan followed, positioning himself at a polite distance but still close enough that his body heat seeped through your robes.
The enchanted car lurched upward, then swerved left, then right in its usual nauseating zig-zag. Your boots slid and you lost your balance. Haechan’s hand shot out, pulling you against the solid plane of his chest.
“Careful…” he murmured.
“Thanks,” you managed, the word thin and embarrassingly high.
He released you the moment you steadied, but the imprint of his fingers stayed on your skin. When the doors finally opened on the Atrium, your pulse was thudding so hard you could hear it.
“See you tomorrow, partner,” he murmured, throwing a knowing glance over his shoulder as he exited.
You watched him disappear through the bustling floor realizing it was going to be a very long internship.
The next few days consisted of nothing but research. Haechan seemed more interested in the project after your argument. He claimed he was committed to helping but you suspected he just enjoyed contradicting your findings.
“Page six,” he announced, flipping your draft around. “Your import tariff curve is off by half a point.”
“It is not.” You muttered without looking up.
He leaned forward. “Wanna bet?”
You rubbed your temples, eyes throbbing from going through three decades worth of parchments. “Fine. Show me.”
Haechan stood and bent over your chair, his cologne wrapping around you. He pointed to a neat column of figures, far closer to your face than necessary.
“See?” he murmured. “You adjusted by seven percent, but the 1903 clause moved the baseline to eight.”
“Good catch,” you conceded through gritted teeth.
He straightened, grinning. “Say it louder, the ghosts in the basement might’ve missed it.”
You rolled your eyes, then pressed two fingers to the side of your neck and winced. All those hours of hunching had finally caught up with you.
Haechan’s smirk faded. “You okay?”
“Just sore,” you muttered, rotating your shoulder. “Thanks to someone who insisted we cross-reference three languages and thirty years of footnotes.”
“That same someone happens to give excellent massages,” he said, sliding behind your chair before you could protest. “Turn.”
You opened your mouth to refuse but then another sharp twinge shot down your spine. So with a reluctant sigh, you let his hands settle lightly on your shoulders.
“Don’t break me,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.
He chuckled, low. “You’ve survived Bludgers to the ribs. I think you’ll live.”
His thumbs worked slow circles into the knotted muscles at the base of your neck. Heat unfurled under your skin; the room seemed to narrow to the quiet rasp of parchment and the steady press of his hands.
“Better?” he asked, voice a breath from your ear.
“A little,” you managed, pulse thudding far too fast for mere relief.
He kneaded deeper, tracing careful circles. Your breath caught as his thumbs slid higher toward your neck. He paused, and you didn’t realize he was leaning in until you felt the faintest ghost of a kiss graze your bare shoulder where your robes had slipped. Your entire body stiffened in surprise.
“Haechan—” The name broke on a gasp as he kissed you again.
“I’ll stop if you want,” he murmured but his lips only drifted higher. Another kiss landed below your ear, teeth grazing a spot that made your breath hitch. He nudged your hair aside, mapping the exposed skin with his mouth.
“What are you doing…” you breathed.
“Just helping you relax,” he whispered, mouth warm on your neck.
You turned without thinking, and his mouth met yours, stealing the rest of your question. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer.
He stood from his chair and eased you back until you bumped the table. His tongue brushed yours; a low sound caught in his throat when you arched into him. Your hands found the loosened knot of his tie and pulled. He broke the kiss just long enough to trace your bottom lip with his thumb.
“Feeling better?”
You swallowed thickly. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm, we gotta keep going then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, hands sliding down to your waist and gripping tightly. His hips pressed forward, drawing a sharp gasp from you as you felt the heated line of his body. Your fingers tightened in his shirt, clinging as he kissed along your jaw, teeth gently scraping your skin.
“We shouldn’t—” you breathed, though you tilted your head to grant him better access.
“I know,” he said hoarsely. But neither of you stopped.
His hands slid down to explore the curves of your body through your robes. You felt dizzy, entirely consumed by him. He lifted you slightly onto the table, knocking scrolls and parchment to the floor, but you hardly cared. There was no one around in the Archives at this hour and all you could focus on was him—the fierce heat of his mouth, the soft catch of his breath when you bit his lip.
Your robes shifted upward, exposing bare thighs. His palms skimmed your skin, rough fingertips igniting sparks along your nerves. He kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours as you parted your knees instinctively, drawing him in closer.
“Lie back.” He murmured.
Your heart kicked up as you leaned onto your elbows, breath already shallow. His eyes didn’t leave yours, not even as he dropped to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs and pushing them apart with slow pressure. With his other hand he bunched your robes higher, the cool air hitting your skin in sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him.
“Haechan—” you gasped, tensing when his mouth brushed the inside of your thigh.
You hadn’t expected how soft he’d be. How careful. He kissed higher, lips dragging up inch by inch until his breath was warming your core. You squirmed closer, needing him closer, needing somethinv to relieve the pressure building low in your stomach. His eyes flicked up to yours with a silent question in them. You nodded without hesitation.
His mouth was on you in a second. A sharp main escaped before you could stop it, echoing off the dusty shelves. His tongue moved slowly at first, learning you, and then with more purpose. Your hands fumbled for the edge of the table, gripping tight as your breath caught again and again. The sensations were overwhelming, so much better than anything you’d let yourself imagine.
“Fuck,” you breathed. “Haechan—”
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between strokes. “Tastes better than I thought.”
“Don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Please—”
“Not planning to.” His fingers dug into your thighs as he dragged his tongue in tight circles. “Gonna make you fall apart on my mouth.”
He groaned low against you, and the vibration nearly sent you over. Your hand flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, but he didn’t slow. His tongue worked you relentlessly, fingers digging into your thighs as you twitched.
“Haechan—fuck—” you choked, voice high and strangled as you came hard. Your thighs clenched around him but he still didn’t stop until you started to shudder.
You slumped back, breathing fast. Haechan rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
You reached for him without thinking, pulling him into a kiss. You tasted yourself on his lips, but you didn’t care. You just needed to feel him.
“Less tense now?” he murmured, his smirk returning, but softer this time.
You exhaled, dazed. “Yeah. But—”
“I know,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes slipped closed. “This doesn’t leave the room.”
You nodded, even though everything in you hated the idea. He pulled back just a little, smoothing your robes down, then reached for his fallen notes without meeting your eyes. You fixed your hair with trembling hands, still trying to get your breathing and your thoughts under control.
But you knew the truth, even if you weren’t ready to admit it. This wasn’t just something that happened and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to make it go away.
SUMMARY: In the heart of New York City, Mark Lee leads a dual life: one as Spider-Man, the beloved Queens’ friendly vigilante, and other as just Mark, the awkward physics student that’s been harboring a crush on you for a ridiculously long time. As Mark tackles his latest mission—make your clueless self finally notice him—Spider-Man crosses path with Moonlight, a fresh-faced vigilante that sparkles his curiosity. Between rooftop encounters and failed flirting attempts, Mark finds himself juggling criminals, feelings and an ever-growing list of advice from his best-friend. After all, it’s about time for him to finally learn how to get the girl.
GENRE: Romance, fluff, action, friends to lovers, spider-man!Mark
WORD COUNT: 15k
WARNINGS: Cursing, depictions of violence
NOTES: We’ll never have enough spidermark fics in this website and I’ll stand by that. Finally the third installment of my NCU series with cute loser Mark + bestie Haechan. Please let me know what you think!! It’s gonna make my day!!
There are two things Mark Lee knows for sure:
1) He’s completely, utterly, ridiculously into you.
2) You have absolutely no clue about it.
The worst thing about his predicament is that he’s not even trying to keep it a secret anymore.
In fact, he’s pretty sure that subtlety is not his forte—at least when it comes to you.
At every chance he’s got, Mark always makes sure to talk to you. More often than not, he finds himself laughing a little too hard at your little quips, even when he doesn’t really understand them. Also, he’s lost count on how many times he’d made a casual surprise appearance in your favorite campus spots, like the coffee shop near your building or the humanities library.
Mark doesn’t even study humanities.
Now, as he sits across from you outside the exact damn café, watching as you scroll through your tablet completely absorbed in whatever you’re reading, Mark wonders if you’re really that much oblivious or just… don’t really see him like that.
Which, by the way, would be one hell of a blow to his morale.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
The sudden question takes him by surprise, leaving him to realize that maybe he was staring at you a little too hard again. Mark blinks, quickly trying to gather his thoughts as he scrambles for an answer.
“Nothing,” he starts, clearing his throat before awkwardly gesturing towards his ears. “It’s just your earrings. They’re really cool.”
“Oh,” you say, touching the moon shaped jewelry as if you’d forgotten you’re wearing them. “Thanks. It was a gift from a friend.”
As your attention quickly returns to the tablet again, Mark fights the urge to bang his head against the table because… a gift from a friend? Also, your earrings are cool? Is that really the best he can do? After months spent crushing on you like an oblivious idiot, Mark would at least expect to sound less like a malfunctioning robot at this point.
“You’ve been staring at that thing for like, twenty minutes,” Mark tries again, leaning forward just enough so his gaze meets yours. “What are you reading?”
You offer him a playful eye-roll. “An essay for my next class.”
He hums, perking up at your answer with genuine interest. “What’s it about?”
Setting your tablet down, you regard him with curious eyes, something Mark can’t quite read flashing across on your face. “You really want to know?”
“Sure,” he replies, trying to keep it cool despite the anticipation building in his chest, his pulse kicking up under your unusually attentive stare. “Try me.”
You tilt your head, studying him for a beat longer as if you’re debating whether or not he can keep up, pursing your lips to hold back a smile. “It’s about how Absolutism helped shape the hierarchical political structures of the Illuminist era.”
Mark pauses for a moment before nodding solemnly. “Right.”
As you shake your head, a laugh escapes from your lips, light and a touch teasing. “You have no idea what that means, do you?”
Mark rubs the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably in his seat with a sheepish smile, feeling his ears burn. “Sorry.”
Looking nothing but intrigued, your amusement only seems to grow as you raise an eyebrow at him. “Then why would you ask?”
“I know you like talking about it,” he confesses with a shrug, hesitating for a second before chuckling softly, figuring he might just tell the truth. “And I… I actually kinda like hearing you talk.”
Out of all the desperate tactics Mark has unsuccessfully tried on you so far—a long list that can be provided by Haechan—this is probably the first time he’s managed to render you speechless. Visibly caught off-guard by his words, Mark watches as your fingers tighten around the tablet resting on your lap, lips parting as if you’re about to say something he wants to hear… until you don’t.
Instead, you just glance away, giving him an almost aloof smile. “It’s not really that deep, Mark,” you answer finally, voice light but alarmingly disinterested to his ears. “I’m here if you ever need history lessons, though.”
Mark stares at you, dumbfounded for the millionth time, as you return to your essay clearly not sensing the weight of what he’d just said. That familiar sense of frustration settles in again, a nagging voice that sounds remarkably like Haechan echoing in the back of his head that maybe he’s just not really cut out for you.
Is he really that bad at this? Is he too obvious or not obvious enough? How is it that no matter what he does, you just don’t seem to catch on?
His overthinking brain provides him only two possibilities:
1) You’re really, truly, completely oblivious to his efforts.
2) You’re purposefully deflective, and he’s been playing the asshole the entire time.
As he forces a casual grin onto his face, Mark lets out a breath, trying to play off the defeat. “I guess I’ll take you up on that someday.”
A smirk curls on your lips as you hum, barely glancing up at him. “No, you won’t.”
“Wow,” he exclaims, slumping back into his seat with a deep, playful sigh. “No faith in me at all?”
You finally look at him, raising a taunting eyebrow. “I mean, didn’t you and Hyuck give up on that elective we shared last semester because there were too many history books on the syllabus?”
Mark opens his mouth to argue, but as you give him a pointed look, his shoulders drop in mock defeat. “Alright, that’s… not completely true,” he explains, holding up a hand as if to defend himself. “Maybe for Haechan, but I didn’t mind the books. I actually read some of them later.”
As you set your chin against your palm, focus now completely locked on him, there’s a hint of amusement laced to your voice. “So you just left me alone on purpose?”
Mark blinks.
His brain freezes for a second, his thoughts slowing to a sluggish crawl as he processes what you’d just said.
Wait… what?
Does that… mean what he thinks it means?
A groan escapes from Mark’s lips before he can stop it, the weight of realization hitting him like a brick to the chest because God, Haechan might actually be right and Mark might actually be the dumbest guy on campus.
If only he could defend himself by telling the truth—that he’d wanted to stick around, no matter how much he sucked at interpreting historical events. That the way Mark had been convinced into the class had nothing to do with Haechan, but everything to do with you. That the only real reason he dropped out was because Spider-Man—and petty neighborhood villains—had other plans for his schedule.
Unfortunately, there’s no way to explain all of that without the risk of sounding absolutely insane.
So, instead, Mark just shrugs, pushing through with a quiet chuckle.
“Actually, I just thought the professor didn’t seem to like me all that much,” he lies smoothly, swallowing back his frustration. “I figured I’d cut my losses before he could bomb my GPA. If I knew you wanted me—”
“That’s ridiculous,” you cut in with a playful scoff, rolling your eyes as you shake your head. “Everybody likes you, Mark.”
As his brain short-circuits for the nth time of the day, replaying the words like a broken record for a few seconds, a familiar warmth spreads through Mark’s neck.
Everybody likes him?
Nevermind symbiotes, crime lords and deranged, unstable scientists—this is the kind of thing that can actually make a guy lose his mind.
He clicks his tongue, trying his best to play it cool with a smirk curling his mouth. “I don’t know about that,” Mark starts, alarms blaring in his head despite the casual tone of his words. “Does that include you?”
You smile at him, opening your mouth to reply and—
The loud ringtone of your phone suddenly cuts the moment, blaring inside your bag as you frown, instinctively reaching for it. Mark watches as you glance at the screen, a hint of surprise flashing through your features for a second before you swipe to answer. He barely catches the muffled voice on the other end, but whatever it is that you’re hearing, visibly draws a reaction out of you.
Abruptly guarded, your posture looks stiff as you sigh into the phone for one last time. “I got it. I’ll be right there.”
Barely waiting for a response, you quickly hang up before stuffing the phone back into your bag again. There’s something sharp, a little urgent in the way you move when gathering your things.
Mark frowns, concerned eyes taking in the tension in features. “Everything okay?”
In a way that feels a little too rehearsed, you offer a short nod, looking up at him apologetically. “Yeah, just… something came up,” you answer, giving a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I have to go.”
He nods, gaze locked onto yours. “Do you need someone to walk you home?”
“No!” you say sharply, blinking at him before forcing a chuckle, waving him off as you adjust your bag over your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Mark. Just tell Hyuckie I’m sorry, okay?”
He’d forgotten you were both waiting for Haechan in the first place.
As you step past him, your hand lightly brushes his back, enough for his shoulders to tense at the unexpected touch. Just like that, Mark watches as you rush towards the main building, glancing over your shoulder for a quick second to wave him goodbye.
It takes a full five seconds before he exhales, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.
Though the peace doesn’t last for long.
“My God, that was painful to watch.”
As he smoothly slides into the now-empty seat, a blinding grin curls Haechan’s lips from ear to ear, his eyes practically sparkling with mischief. Much to Mark’s despair, his best-friend looks nothing but ready to engage in his favorite daily activity—poke fun at his completely failed, absurd love life.
Mark shakes his head, looking away with a grimace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The youngest raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with his elbows against the table. “Your earrings are really cool?” Haechan repeats, caught between amusement and exasperation as he scoffs. “I like hearing you talk?”
A wave of dread washes over Mark’s spine. “Did you hear all that?”
Placing a dramatic hand over his heart, Haechan nods slowly. “Yes, Mark. I was listening, because you’re my best-friend and I care about your tragic, one-sided love story.”
“I was just trying to start a conversation,” he argues, dragging a hand down his face with a frustrated groan. “It wasn’t that bad… was it?”
As if deep in thought, his best-friend hums. “I think you can do better,” Haechan says solemnly, bursting into a laugh a second later. “I swear there was smoke coming out of your ears when she said everybody likes you.”
Mark forces a laugh, a mix of sarcasm and annoyance. “You’re so funny.”
“Listen, Milk,” Haechan starts, the nickname earning an eye-roll as his tone shifts into something more serious, though still laced with amusement. “I’ve told you—you should just ask her out. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“It’s not that simple with her,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck with a shrug. “I don’t think she sees me like that, you know.”
The youngest scoffs, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “You really need to stop being a chronic overthinker.”
“Thanks for the support,” Mark says, shooting him a flat, ironic look. “I really appreciate it.”
Haechan grins, unfazed by the bite behind his best-friend’s glare. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, I can give you two options. Either you move on like a lovesick loser,” he pauses, raising a taunting eyebrow at the shift on Mark’s face. “Or you step up your game and make her see you differently.”
Mark exhales a cryptic laugh, shaking his head. “And how do you suggest I should do that?”
The grin on his face widens as Haechan leans back in his chair, arms crossed like a mastermind plotting his next move. “Do what you do best.”
“Why are you always so difficult?” he sighs impatiently, eyebrows furrowing in half-hearted annoyance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everybody likes you, Mark,” his best-friend repeats, now as if he’s revealing a grand secret. “You’ve got this whole golden-boy thing going for you. Top of the class, the frat guys know you, and at least half of the girls in our major have had a crush on you at some point.”
A flicker of disbelief crosses Mark’s face, huffing a laugh at the words. “Yeah? Name one.”
Giving him a deadpan look, a scoff escapes from Haechan’s mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, frowning in pretend offense. “Emma from biochem? The barista that always gives you extra shots for free? Literally all the girls who were ready to fight me just to be your lab partner last semester?”
A pin suddenly drops in his head, leaving Mark to blankly stare at his friend for a second.
Emma from biochem hated everyone except the high-achieving, textbook-perfect students.
Maybe the barista just remembered his sleep-deprived day order, rather than the regular one.
Choosing a lab partner should be strategic, especially when the grade percentage was so high.
Right?
As Mark slouches deeper into his seat, another frustrated groan leaving his mouth, Haechan only watches the spiral with a hint of playful sympathy on his face.
“You know, being your friend makes me realize that God truly is fair,” the youngest teases, his characteristic grin growing again. “Sure, you might have the brains, the looks and the superpowers, but you sure can be an idiot sometimes.”
“Thanks,” Mark snarks, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Being your friend makes me realize I actually need new friends.”
“Yeah, you don’t really mean that,” Haechan snorts, waving the words off with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Anyways, are you finally making moves or what?”
Mark drags a hand through his hair, hesitance visible in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he answers, pausing for a beat before sighing quietly, the words then coming out a bit firmer. “Maybe… maybe I should keep trying.”
“Yes!” his friend hollers, pumping a fist in the air, drawing a few curious eyes. “That’s how you get the girl, Milk!”
Yeah.
Mark isn’t so sure about that anymore.
After lurking in the shadows of New York City for a year as a vigilante, you still aren’t sure if that was the best or worst decision of your life.
It can be the best, sure, given you’ve always aimed to do something meaningful, purposeful with your abilities. It can also be the worst, especially when you’re fighting sleepless nights during morning lectures, covering bruises with make-up on a daily basis and fighting winces from aching bones after taking down criminals that just couldn’t take one damn night off.
Like tonight.
For once, you just want one damn night off.
A sigh escapes from your lips as you survey the first scene of the night.
Perched on the edge of a rooftop nearby, watching a group of masked, oblivious men clumsily attempt to break into a jewelry store, you can’t help hoping for an easy night of petty, stupid robbers like this—
“Wow, you’re real.”
The voice cuts the silence so suddenly that you nearly lose balance, gloved fingers tightening around the steel railing of the building. As instincts take over, you’re quick to whip around into action, ready to charge against whoever it is until you come face-to-face with… a blur of blue and red hanging upside down from a web.
Staring at each other for a moment, you aren’t sure what to focus on first—the city’s most beloved superhero, the Spider-Man, right in front of you or the way he’s just casually acknowledged your existence for whatever reason.
The silence stretches for a beat until he tilts his head, confusion written all over him despite the mask. “Are you okay?”
As you force yourself to recover, a huff leaves your mouth. “You’re Spider-Man.”
“Yeah,” he answers, the tone warm enough to hint a smile. “You’re Moonlight.”
Despite the fast-paced beats against your chest, you raise an eyebrow at him, trying to mask any traces of surprise off your voice. “You know me,” you start, offering an amused huff. “Should I be worried that an Avenger knows me?”
He chuckles, the sound coming off so boyish that it almost feels uncharacteristic. “I wouldn’t say worried,” Spider-Man says, somehow managing a shrug still in the air. “Maybe impressed is more like it.”
You blink, holding back a smile at his casual tone. “Why?”
Suddenly flipping his body upright in a ridiculously cool motion, he lands on the ledge across from you as if long practiced. “We’ve actually heard a lot from you. Didn’t you take down two weapons dealers last month? Also that one rogue symbiote down in Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Three,” you correct him, now not resisting a smile at his little confused hum. “Three weapons dealers. The last one wasn’t in New York.”
A gasp escapes from Spider-Man’s mouth, his shock visible even through the mask. “Damn, that was you?”
Amused, you ignore his reaction and gesture towards the chaotic commotion across the street, the thieves now pacing around inside the store. “Are you here to handle whatever that is?”
As if suddenly remembering the reason why he was swinging through Queens in the first place, Spider-Man subtly straightens his posture. “Yeah, I was going to,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand. “I just saw you and got curious.”
You raise an eyebrow, smile widening at his words. “You’re curious about me?”
He scratches his head, awkwardly clearing his throat before offering a quiet chuckle. “It’s just… I’ve really heard a lot about you,” Spider-Man starts, shrugging almost sheepishly. “You’re, like, super mysterious. It’s a little intimidating, actually.”
This definitely isn’t how you’ve imagined your first encounter with Spider-Man.
As the city’s staple superhero, you'd be lying if you said meeting him in person wasn’t something you’d secretly hoped for since joining this business. After all, every New Yorker is obsessed with him—whether through love or hate, admiration or skepticism. He’s been everywhere for years, long enough for his image to slowly become one with the city itself.
For you, shadows are your best-friends and avoiding attention is your modus operandi.
Which explains why you’d never normally run into each other.
At least, that’s what you thought until now.
Meeting Spider-Man—and accidentally discovering that not only he knows you but also somehow manages to completely throw you off with his awkward, endearing charm—wasn’t on your plans for the night.
You weren’t sure what to expect of him, but it certainly wasn’t whatever this is.
A smirk tugs at your lips as you tilt your head at him. “You’re admitting to keeping tabs on me and I’m the intimidating one?”
As he stiffens, Spider-Man promptly raises both hands defensively. “Not in a bad way, though,” he explains, rushing through the words with an apologetic tone. “It’s more like a cooler-than-me kind of way.”
Though completely entertained by his embarrassment, you decide to save him from spiraling further, interrupting him with a chuckle. “Hey, we should probably deal with these guys, right?”
He nods a little too eagerly, the answer slipping from his mouth without a second thought. “Crime-fighting first, rooftop flirting later.”
A flicker of surprise flashes across your face, a grin growing on your lips again. “You were flirting with me?”
The moment the words register, Spider-Man freezes, one hand already in the air ready to shoot webs across the building. “No? Yes? Maybe?”
As you ignore his flustered state, pursing your lips to hold back the lingering grin, you catch him muttering curses under his breath, the frown on his face visible even under the mask.
Cute.
Who’d have thought Spider-Man was this cute?
Shaking your head at the thought—because now is not the time and this is definitely your first and last meeting the guy—you turn your gaze back toward the chaos unfolding across the street, focusing on your job instead. The thieves are still wrecking the store, now tossing duffel bags to each other as they argue over the remaining pieces inside the broken displays.
Adjusting your stance by the edge of the rooftop, you raise a challenging eyebrow at him. “Ready?”
Beside you, Spider-Man clears his throat for one last time, shaking off the awkwardness as an alert, sharper posture quickly takes over. “I’ll take the back exit,” he says, a hint of tension now lacing his warm tone. “You okay with the front?”
You nod, already on your feet and poised to jump. “Try to keep up, Spidey.”
A rush of adrenaline takes over your chest as a blast of energy launches you into the air, shadows curling around your boots like a silent push.
It takes a second for Spider-Man to catch up, soon enough swinging over you in a dramatic flip, offering you a laugh mid-air. “Hey, you got a head start! That’s cheating!”
You bite back a laugh, looking up at him. “I’ll give you a handicap next time.”
As you silently land at the store’s front entrance, the chaos inside is almost disorienting—broken glass crunching under heavy boots, jewels glinting under blinding fluorescent lights, muffled voices arguing over one another.
The shadows cloak your figure like instinct as you wait for the right moment to strike, pressing your back to the wall just beside the shattered glass door. A thief moves closer, still mid-argument with a second one as he waves a flashlight outside, visibly suspicious of something.
It’s not enough for him to see you coming.
The man crashes to the floor with a thud as you hook your leg around his ankle, head hitting the ground hard enough to knock him out cold. The commotion inside swallows the sound, leaving you to move quickly before the others notice your presence.
Inside, you watch Spider-Man land on a broken display with his signature pose, shooting a web around the nearest guy’s ankles before yanking him off his feet like a rag doll.
The two of you fall into an easy rhythm of work like you’ve done this a hundred times before. As he moves intently through the place with a touch of mischief to his movements, webs flying around everywhere, you contrast him with effortless silence, weaving through the chaos with ghostlike precision, shadows following right behind.
In no time, all that’s left around you are unconscious bodies, shattered glass and scattered jewels, the sound of sirens drawing closer by the second.
“You’re having company soon,” you start, taking a quick glance outside for the blue and red lights. “I should probably go before they arrive.”
As his posture falters for a second, Spider-Man tilts his head in confusion. “What? You’re not staying?”
“I don’t really do the whole news interview and police statement thing,” you reply, offering him a knowing look as you shrug. “You’re really good at it, though.”
“Right,” he says, a subtle touch of curiosity lacing his voice. “Will I see you again?”
“Probably not,” you answer, already walking towards the back exit with a half-hearted smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve got an entire city to take care of. I’m just your local vigilante, remember?”
The sirens get louder, signaling the police approaching in a flash of blurry lights.
Spider-Man pauses, unsure whether to follow you or stay in the scene. “Hey—”
Glancing over your shoulder, you interrupt him with a chuckle. “I’ll watch you on the news tomorrow morning, okay?” you tease, your steps picking up speed as you wave him goodbye. “Take care, Spidey!”
There’s no time for him to answer.
With the shadows on your trail, you can only feel his gaze following you until there’s nothing but the distant hum of a shared night between the two of you.
Mark isn’t nervous.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
All things considered—especially the fact that he spends most of his nights fighting crime in a spider suit—this should be easy.
No, he isn’t second-guessing the words that were carefully planned with Haechan’s useless help. No, he isn’t wondering if his outfit was too casual or too fancy. No, he isn’t considering bailing at the last second because of your last interaction.
This time, Mark is ready to ask you out.
It’s easy to spot you under one of the trees in the campus garden—laptop balanced on your knees and earphones in, he doesn’t miss the way the corners of your mouth curl up to whatever you’re currently watching, eyes sparkling with a touch of amusement. Just for a second, the sight of you cracks the edges of Mark’s courage… until suddenly you look up, smile widening at him as you promptly pat the empty spot beside you in a quiet invitation.
As he draws in a breath, squaring his shoulders like he’s about to walk into a battle against evil robots from outer space, Mark approaches you with a nervous smile.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Hi, Mark,” you greet, tugging one earphone out as you glance up at him. “The seat’s all yours.”
He sits down beside you a little too carefully, conscious of his every move given your proximity. “Am I interrupting you?” Mark asks, nodding towards the laptop with a sheepish grimace. “You looked seriously locked in just now.”
“Not really, don’t worry about it,” you reply with a soft laugh, angling the screen slightly towards him. “I was just watching something.”
It’s him.
On the screen, he’s giving a semi-awkward, half-smug interview about the jewelry store robbery from earlier in the week. In full costume, Mark—or rather, Spider-Man—talks to a local reporter that’s acquainted with his superhero persona, somehow managing to sound distinctly unfamiliar behind both the camera and the mask.
Trying to mask the flicker of panic on his face, Mark clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “So… do you, uh—like Spider-Man?”
“It came up on my feed randomly,” you explain with a chuckle, shaking your head at the paused image. “He’s kinda funny.”
“Funny, huh?” he huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to the screen before coming back to you. “That’s definitely one word for him.”
You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head in curiosity. “You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that,” Mark deflects, holding up his hands as warmth spreads through his neck, his heart picking up speed. “Just… I mean, he tries a little too hard sometimes, don’t you think?”
“Maybe that’s the appeal,” you say, shrugging as you glance back at the screen again, a grin curling on your lips. “Try-hards can be a little endearing sometimes.”
The words hit him like a gentle, loving punch to his gut. If that wasn’t him trying his hardest, Mark didn’t know what it was.
Every little attentive quip he made during your conversations, every time he showed up a little early hoping to run into you after class, every casual visit to your favorite coffee place—it was all him trying.
Just... maybe not hard enough for you to finally notice it.
“Hey, speaking of trying,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck as he leans closer, doing his best to keep a laid-back tone. “I was thinking about how we haven’t hung out in a while.”
You glance over at him with a teasing smile, playfully nudging his shoulder with your own. “Didn’t we grab coffee last week?”
“Nah, that was a caffeine emergency, not a hang-out,” Mark tries, offering a small grin despite the growing rush of agitation inside his head. “There’s a big difference, you know.”
“I see,” you say, pursing your lips as you shrug lightly. “Well, if you say so.”
Hoping he doesn’t look as desperate as he feels, Mark plays the tension off with a laugh, adrenaline quickly taking over his chest. “What if we do something this weekend? Maybe grab dinner somewhere or—”
“Oh, that sounds fun!” you cut in, immediately perking up as anticipation flashes on your face. “Hyuckie and I have been dying to try this new place near Prospect Park!”
There aren’t a lot of moments that Mark can say he’s felt genuinely infuriated by his best-friend’s existence.
Yeah, Haechan might have accidentally kissed him once when they were high school freshmen, an event that haunts both of them until today. Sure, Haechan had been incredibly annoying after the bite, tailing him everywhere just because Mark was acting suspicious—and apparently had suddenly grown abs out of nowhere. Yeah, Haechan may have acted a little irresponsibly trying to help him once during a mission, only to almost get himself kidnapped by russian mafia goons.
Yet, none of those moments compare to the quiet exasperation simmering in Mark’s chest now.
Sure, he’s going on a date with you, but apparently… so is Haechan.
He forces a smile, nodding along to your suggestion despite the frustration pulling at his strings. “I mean… yeah, we can do that.”
“I’ll text him, then,” you say excitedly, already reaching for your phone. “How does Friday sound?”
“Sounds good,” Mark answers, still managing a soft chuckle at your enthusiasm through his defeat. “Let me know what you guys decide.”
Before he can say anything else, your attention flickers back to your phone. As the screen lights up, a frown takes over your features for a second before you look up at him with an apologetic wince.
“I should probably get going soon,” you start, slipping your phone into your bag in a familiar scene. “A friend’s picking me up. Do you still have classes today?”
As he shakes his head, Mark ignores the flicker of disappointment weighing in his chest. “Nah, I was just gonna head to the library and catch up on some reading.”
Giving him a knowing look, you raise your eyebrows with a teasing grin. “So I was the one who interrupted you?”
Meeting your gaze with something gentle, Mark huffs a soft laugh, the words slipping before his brain catches up. “You’re never an interruption.”
For a second, he swears that your teasing grin softens into something almost timid as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, looking a little thrown off by the sincerity in his voice.
Mark’s heart speeds up at the chance, opening his mouth to speak—
“Hope I’m not interrupting.”
The voice suddenly cuts through the quiet hum of the campus garden, both of you turning around to see a man in a dark suit and red-tinted glasses approaching, an amused smirk playing on his lips. As he takes a step closer at an easy, sure-footed pace, the cane in his hands taps smartly against the grass almost as if practiced.
“Matt!”
At loss for a reaction, Mark watches you stand up, eyes bright as you greet Matt Murdock of all people.
Matt Murdock as in Daredevil.
The edgy, brooding vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen.
As Spider-Man, he’s had a few encounters with the man, mostly when things were already spiraling out of control. Daredevil usually dealt in heavy territory—like entire crime syndicates, underground rings, full-blown mafia operations. Back when Mark had started out the gig as a high-schooler, Stark had expressly sworn him off from ever getting involved with the guy.
Now, he understands why.
The devil of Hell’s Kitchen calls for the kind of trouble that comes with bloodied knuckles, long-term consequences and scars that run deeper than skin.
That’s just one of the many reasons why Mark can’t wrap his head around the fact that you personally know the guy.
“You’re Mark, right?” Matt asks, raising an eyebrow as he offers a hand out, the shadow of his eyes hidden behind red-tinted glasses. “I’ve heard a lot about you from this one.”
“That’s me,” he replies with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound like his heart just leapt into his throat as he takes the guy’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Though the man looks nothing but polite, painting the perfect picture of the lawyer Mark’s seen on TV a few times, he can’t help but feel like he’s being quietly assessed. Since his previous attempts of prying classified information out of Tony had failed miserably, Mark doesn’t truly know what’s up with Matt’s powers—only that they go way beyond than just having good hearing.
“—in the same major?”
The rough voice quickly pulls Mark back to Earth, his gaze focusing again to find the lawyer watching him a little too attentively for a blind guy.
“I’m in Physics, actually,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We had a few gen-ed classes together, so…”
“I met Mark through Haechan,” you add casually, glancing between the two of them as you reach for the lawyer’s arm. “I’ve told you about him too, remember?”
“Yeah,” Matt answers, a smirk tugging at his lips though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s good finally meeting you.”
Mark purses his lips in a polite smile, suddenly too aware of himself under the feel of the vigilante’s scrutiny. “You too, man.”
As you turn to him again after a beat of silence, oblivious to the weight of Matt’s attention on both of you, an apologetic smile takes over your face. “I’ll text you later, alright?” you say, swinging your bag over your shoulder before giving him a playful glare. “Don’t let me interrupt you again, hm?”
Despite the lingering nerves rushing through his body, a laugh escapes from his lips. “Nah, you can interrupt me whenever you want,” Mark counters, shrugging as he grins softly. “I’ll allow it if it’s you.”
“You’re a dork,” you mutter with a laugh, giving him an eye-roll as you wave him off. “Bye, Mark!”
As the two of you walk off, he watches your retreating figures for a moment longer than he probably should, blinking after the scene as if someone just hit pause on his brain.
The second you’re out of view, Mark finds himself groaning in frustration for a second time, shoulders slumping at his defeat.
Also, of all the people in New York—
Daredevil?
Lying on the floor of Haechan’s dorm later that night, Mark recounts the entire fiasco to his best-friend, a Shin-chan pillow hiding his embarrassment as the story progresses from his failed date attempt to unexpectedly meeting the vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Haechan starts with a snort, barely sparing the oldest a glance as he focuses on the game flashing across the computer screen. “Maybe you’re just that bad at flirting. Have you thought about that?”
“I’m not that bad,” Mark groans into the pillow, ears burning under his beanie. “She’s just… bad at noticing it.”
“Right,” his best-friend deadpans, offering a dramatic eye-roll over his shoulder before turning back to the computer again. “I’m sure that’s the problem.”
“Actually, you’re the problem,” Mark argues, peeking out from behind the pillow with a frown. “She invited you to our date.”
“Well, I’m sorry if my presence is delightful,” Haechan teases, locked into the game again as a chuckle escapes from his lips. “In her defense, you literally just asked her to hang out. Did you actually say the word ‘date’?”
“I mean… no,” he mutters, sitting up as a flash of helplessness crosses his features. “I asked her to dinner! Isn’t that—like, I don’t know, kinda obvious?”
As the youngest finally pauses the game, turning his chair around with a sigh, Haechan shoots him an unimpressed look. “We go out for dinner all the time. Does that mean we’re dating?” he asks, promptly raising a hand as soon as Mark opens his mouth. “Don’t answer! I know you want to, but the answer’s no.”
Mark rolls his eyes, exhaling a breath in half-hearted annoyance. “I’ll seriously leave—”
“My point is,” Haechan continues, ignoring the oldest’s protest by raising his voice. “Dinner can mean a lot of things. You have to use the right words, Milk.”
“I tried to,” he insists, shrugging in a mix of frustration and defeat. “But then she mentioned bringing you and I just… I couldn’t say no to her.”
“Oh no,” his best-friend gasps, dramatically slumping back against his chair, a hand clutching his chest. “You mean I ruined your big romantic reveal? Tragic.”
A miserable, long sigh escapes from Mark’s lips, his body sinking into the floor again as if his soul has just left him behind. “Has she texted you yet?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Haechan says, spinning the chair around with a nonchalant wave in his direction. “Lucky for you, I’m a man of many abilities. You’ll thank me later, trust me.”
As he groans to himself again, Mark tugs the beanie over his face, wishing he could disappear as flashes of earlier linger over his brain in a humbling reminder of his failure.
Maybe he can turn invisible with Wanda’s help.
Maybe he’ll cash in a favor from Tony and ask Dr. Strange for the Time Stone so he can try to ask you out properly like a normal guy.
Actually, maybe he should just stop altogether.
“Whatever,” Mark mumbles, exhaling a muffled sigh underneath the fabric. “I’m doomed anyway.”
Haechan just snickers, back to clicking away at his keyboard with an eye-roll. “No, you’re just an idiot in love.”
For the first time since he met you, Mark almost wishes he wasn’t.
Nelson & Murdock’s office couldn’t look any more different from the gleaming skyscraper law firms that rule over Manhattan.
The place looks like it has seen better days—with scuffed wooden floors, furniture that are probably dated back to the 80s and dusty shelves paired with mismatched frames on the walls, Matt and Foggy usually attract all kinds of clients, offering their services with little to no demands.
Hence why you’re currently eating a batch of peanut butter cookies, Foggy’s payment for offering legal support to a local bakery that’s been threatened with eviction by a construction company.
Sitting across from Matt at his cubicle, you pause mid-bite as he slides a file towards you, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at your antics.
“It’s a good bakery,” he starts with a nod, the sudden quip sounding somehow both pleased and surprised. “The ingredients are fresh.”
You gape at him, quickly swallowing the last bite of the cookie. “You can tell if the ingredients of a cookie are fresh?”
Matt grins, shaking his head before opening the file. “I did some digging for you,” he starts, a chuckle soon escaping from his mouth as he shrugs. “Well, Elektra did. She says you owe her a night-out.”
As you clutch the cookie jar to your chest, you can’t help a dramatic gasp. “Don’t joke around,” you say, half-whining at the mention of his assassin ex-girlfriend. “You know I love her.”
“Turns out your guy isn’t just an ordinary con-artist,” he explains, tapping a finger against the papers, several police reports with lengthy lists of accusations against your target. “He’s connected to a few larger fraud rings operating out of Queens.”
“I knew something was up with him!” you exclaim, looking up at Matt with a shadow of sheepish doubt on your face. “Do you think Spider-Man knows? The guy’s operating in his backyard.”
Almost as if he’s suppressing a reaction, Matt leans back against his chair, clearly schooling his expression by pursing his lips. “I don’t,” he replies, a flash of amusement on his face contrasting with his casual tone. “You seem to know more about him than I do.”
Raising your eyebrows, you shoot him a confused look. “I only met him once.”
He tilts his head, smiling in an infuriatingly Matt-like way. “That you’re aware of.”
“I hate when you do that,” you scoff, frowning at another of his little enigmatic quips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you’re doing something about this guy, don’t do it alone,” the lawyer says, expertly changing the subject despite your frustrated huff, a small smile tugging at his mouth then. “It might not seem like it, but he’s got a good network around him.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, debating with yourself for a moment before sighing quietly. “Maybe I should just look for Spider-Man and—”
The front door suddenly creaks open, interrupting the conversation as a familiar aroma of spices takes over the room. As he steps into the office, Foggy glances back-and-forth between you and Matt for a second.
“Hey, not to interrupt your top-secret vigilantism conference or whatever,” he says with a grin, proudly holding a plastic bag in one hand. “I have secured another top-tier form of payment. Priorities, people.”
It only takes a laugh from you for Foggy to quickly take a seat by your side, squeezing himself into Matt’s desk before spreading out the generous serving that’s been given as his latest payment.
“I’m worried about your future as lawyers,” you tease, amused by the absurdity of the situation as you reach out for their mismatched cutlery. “Do you guys ever get paid in actual money?”
“If we got paid in money, you wouldn’t have such a wonderful reception experience,” Foggy counters, offering you a bright smile before glancing over at Matt with a frown. “Are you dragging her into something dangerous again?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Matt answers, huffing a laugh. “Is this from Mrs. Ramirez?”
Foggy manages a sound of affirmation, pausing for a second with his mouth full. “By the way, if you two get thrown into jail for whatever it is you’re planning, I am not representing you pro bono.”
“Yes, you are!” you say, teasing him by clinging onto his arm, grinning knowingly at his reaction. “You love me, Foggy!”
The conversation drifts for a while as you share the homemade meal, your little investigation taking a back seat as Matt and Foggy humorously bicker with each other, recounting a few stories of their shared university years. It’s only when the food’s almost all cleared, their back-and-forth between falling into a comfortable silence, that Matt slumps into his chair with a nod in your direction.
“So…” the lawyer starts, casually wiping his hands with a napkin as he bites back a grin. “Mark.”
Glancing up at the sudden name-drop, you find Matt’s gaze locked onto your figure under the red-tinted lenses of his glasses. “What about him?”
Mid-bite of the last cookies remaining in the jar, Foggy immediately perks up. “Oh! Is this about the science nerd?”
Matt raises an amused eyebrow, tilting his head as if he could actually see you. “You rejected him today, didn’t you?”
As your mouth drops, a frown quickly takes over your face. “What are you talking about?”
Foggy whips his head towards you, still reaching absently for the now-empty cookie jar. “That’s not nice of you,” he adds, scoffing in faux-offense. “You rejected the science nerd?”
“Mark’s not a nerd,” you protest, pausing for a second as Matt chuckles, burning warmth slowly spreading over your cheeks. “I mean—he is a little, but I didn’t reject him!”
“I think you did,” he says, sounding far too nonchalant for the annoyingly entertained look on his face. “Didn’t he ask you for dinner?”
“Yeah!” you argue, confused eyes glancing between the two lawyers. “I said yes!”
The vigilante hums, feigning curiosity as his pretend cluelessness slips right past you. “Did he say anything about Haechan?”
At his question, Foggy lets out a low whistle, raised eyebrows ready to judge. “He asked you out and you invited someone else?” he asks, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “That’s not very nice of you, Miss Shadows.”
You freeze.
As your pause stretches, Matt chuckles at your growing bewilderment.
Reluctantly, you replay the moment in your head—
Mark approaching you in his usual caring, attentive way.
The characteristic awkwardness of his small talk.
A hang-out mention.
The way his eyes lit up when you said yes… and the way they visibly dimmed when you added Haechan to the mix.
Slowly, the realization slaps you across the face like an obvious, yet startling plot-twist.
Mark was asking you on a date.
You did reject him.
“That’s—he wasn’t—” you stutter, scrambling for an excuse before ultimately surrendering with a dramatic groan, slumping into your seat as you glare helplessly at the two lawyers. “Oh my God? Did Mark ask me out?”
“Apparently, yeah,” Foggy answers, offering a pitiful, still playful pat to your shoulder. “You friend-zoned my guy in 4K.”
As he adjusts the glasses on his face, a subtle grin threatens to break Matt’s casual demeanor. “Maybe he didn’t take it that way.”
Narrowing your eyes at the shift in his expression, you can’t help a scoff from escaping your lips. “You know something,” you point out, watching his grin widen over your sulky tone. “Ugh, with your freaky senses, you must’ve picked up something! Spill it, Matt!”
Matt only tilts his head, the smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ask him out next time.”
“You know something!” you insist, leaning over the table with a mock glare in the lawyer’s direction. “Tell me!”
“I don’t know anything,” he argues, letting out a chuckle as he shrugs a bit too nonchalant for his usual attitude. “We’ve just met. He just seems like a good kid, that’s all.”
Crossing your arms over your chest in a perfect picture of an annoying baby sister, you huff at Matt’s suspicious grin. “Fine! I’ll ask him on a date!”
“Yes!” Foggy cheers, suddenly raising a cup of stale coffee in the air like a celebration toast. “Let’s go, science nerd!”
Watching the vigilante accompany his best-friend, you shoot both of them an amused eye-roll—even as the realization lingers accompanied by a tiny, unmistakable flutter in your chest.
Maybe you should really ask Mark on a date.
Maybe… you kind of want it too.
Tonight, the streets of Queens are remarkably quiet for a late spring evening.
As Spider-Man, Mark has learned to find comfort in the city’s constant buzz, even as a regular resident of the neighborhood. It’s somewhat past midnight when he swings down to an empty warehouse rooftop, clutching a bag of Cheetos in one hand before taking a seat by the ledge for a quick breather.
The air’s sticky with the looming summer humidity, leaving his suit to turn into a second skin, the gentle heat clinging to his body underneath. In his ear, the police chatter sounds nothing but ordinary—noise complaints, domestic assistance, a lost pet somewhere in a park.
Mark senses the presence before anything.
It only takes a second for his instincts to kick in, tugging the mask over his face again just as a familiar shadow steps into view, drawing a choked breath out of him.
It’s Moonlight again.
The purple and black of her suit blend seamlessly into the night, her figure quietly approaching with an effortless, laidback stride that does justice to her name. Under her hood, Mark meets the vigilante’s gaze, visibly amused by the image of Spider-Man taking a snack break at the top of an abandoned building.
“Flamin’ Hot Cheetos with a night view?” she starts, her voice laced with a playful touch. “You’re so romantic.”
“Uh—hey,” he greets awkwardly, tossing the empty bag behind him with a forced cough. “What’s up?”
Moonlight raises an eyebrow, fighting back a laugh with a scoff. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah!” Mark blurts, promptly wincing at the embarrassing slip before grimly correcting himself. “I mean, yes—I just wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”
As she hums, the vigilante shoots him a look. “Actually, I was looking for you.”
“You were?” he asks, voice tightening as his senses immediately switch into flight mode, posture straightening in anticipation. “Why? Did something happen?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not like that,” she replies quickly, waving him down with a small chuckle. “I just have some intel for you. This is definitely way bigger than I can handle… as in probably an Avengers kind-of-thing.”
Moonlight hands out a purple flash drive.
Mark blinks under the mask.
Caught in his own reverie for a second, his brain twitches out of focus at the unexpected twist in his nightly routine.
Moonlight was looking for him.
Moonlight has intel for him.
Moonlight thinks he’s romantic.
He swears there’s still orange crumbs stuck on his gloves.
Again, she thinks he’s... romantic?
As he takes the drive from her hands, discreetly shaking his head as if to ward off the stray thoughts, Mark clicks his tongue. “An Avengers kind-of-thing?”
“I’ve been tailing this guy for a while now. He was just doing odd con-jobs here and there at first,” she explains, a frown settling between her eyebrows. “Now he’s dealing modified weapons, SHIELD level stuff. I think he’s got material from the latest alien invasion too, so this is clearly out of my league.”
Flicking the device between his fingers, he raises an eyebrow at the vigilante. “Where’d you get this?”
Moonlight offers an eye-roll, an easy chuckle escaping from her lips. “Let’s just say I have friends in the right places,” she answers, subtle mischief lacing her words. “Since the guy’s working with a few rings in the neighborhood, I figured I should give it up to a true Queens expert.”
“I don’t know about that, you’re kinda killing it lately,” Mark says, scratching the back of his head as he chuckles awkwardly. “You sure you’re not here to replace me?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she counters, dramatically placing a hand on her chest before breaking into a laugh. “Everybody likes you, Spider-Man.”
The words make Mark freeze for an instant, a strange sense of déjà vu quickly sweeping over his body.
It almost feels like an itch he can’t quite reach—because suddenly, he’s easily hearing your voice instead, echoing the exact same words with one bright, oblivious smile that drives him absolutely insane in the best ways. It should feel reassuring, maybe rewarding given his daily effort of stretching himself thin just to lead two completely different lives. Apparently, everybody likes him as both Mark Lee and Spider-Man.
Everyone… except the one person he actually wants to.
Forcing out something passable as a laugh, Mark shakes it off with a shrug. “Thanks, I guess?”
“I saw you on TV after the robbery, by the way,” she adds casually, crossing her arms with a snort. “You’re a natural, the reporter was eating you up.”
“I was kinda word-vomiting, to be honest,” he grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck in quiet embarrassment. “I can’t even remember what I said. Was it too bad?”
“It was cute,” the vigilante admits, clearly enjoying his suffering with a gleam in her eyes. “You were all over social media. I’m pretty sure people are shipping you with the reporter now.”
Mark groans to himself, dragging a hand through his masked face in frustration. “Man, it’s gonna be so awkward next time.”
“Well, my mission is done so I should probably get going,” she says, pausing for a moment before nodding towards the flash drive in his hands, her tone suddenly careful. “Can I trust you to take care of that?”
“Definitely,” he answers, fingers subconsciously tightening around the device. “Are you doing anything that needs… you know, any back-up tonight?”
“I’m actually heading home right now,” she says, stepping back with a tilt of her head, almost as if she’s teasingly inspecting him. “I can’t take boys to my place, so…”
As the implication clicks in his head, Mark internally winces at himself before clearing his throat, shifting on his feet. “Right.”
A chuckle escapes from her lips, Moonlight offering a playful, apologetic shrug. “My roommate and I made a deal. No guys allowed unless they’re boyfriends.”
“That’s—good?” he stutters, his brain short-circuiting for a second as it scrambles for something normal to say. “I mean, it’s a fair policy.”
The shadows follow the vigilante as she turns towards the edge of the rooftop, her silhouette framed by the street lights below them. As she steps onto the ledge, reaching down to release the rusted escape ladder, Mark barely catches it—a sliver of skin just as her jacket meets her waist, giving a glimpse of a small bandage beneath the rough fabric.
It’s heart-shaped, a shade of purple that seems to purposefully match her suit.
There’s something oddly endearing about how out of place it looks, contrasting with the heavy look of her black combat gear-and-hood combo.
Ignoring the sudden warmth crawling up his neck, Mark forces his gaze back to her half-covered face again, though not fast enough to prevent her from catching him staring like a creep.
Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, Moonlight shoots him a look. “What?”
“Nothing!” he rushes, gesturing vaguely as a hasty goodbye. “Get home safe!”
The vigilante squints at him for a second too long, ultimately choosing to not press him as her face softens into something he can’t quite read. “Alright,” she murmurs, jumping off the ledge with a nod in his direction. “Don’t forget about it, please?”
As Spider-Man, Mark firmly nods back. “I promise.”
Then, as if she was never there in the first place, her figure smoothly disappears down the building. The metallic rattle of the ladder echoes through the quiet night for a moment longer before she’s gone, shadowed by her companions.
From below, Mark notes the hint of mischief in her voice as she calls him one last time.
“See you around, Spidey!”
An orange cat suddenly steps in beside him with a sharp, way too judging meow.
Mark exhales a breath, glancing down at his company in bewilderment.
“I know, dude.”
Mark’s daily routine is chaotic enough to include all sorts of insane things.
As a seasoned vigilante, Spider-Man’s range can easily start from petty street criminals and build up to murderous outer space creatures trying to destroy the entire city.
At this point, there’s not much that surprises him.
Yet, the sight of you outside his lecture hall on a random Friday afternoon stops him dead in his tracks.
Seemingly unbothered by the rush of students hurrying through the hallway, Mark nearly misses you entirely, overlooking your figure leaning against the wall as you casually scroll through your phone. It takes a full double take before it clicks in his brain that it’s you, almost as if he’s spotting a mirage in the middle of a concrete desert.
After three numbing, long hours of his professor ranting on about a subject he’d been barely grasping, the exhaustion suddenly shifts to a buzz of curious anticipation, leaving Mark to hesitantly call out your name.
As you look up at the sound of his voice, a sheepish smile immediately tugs at your lips. “Hey! I was waiting for you.”
“You were?” Mark blinks, his brain taking a full second to register the words. “Why? Did you need something?”
“Not exactly,” you answer, suddenly looking fidgety as you clear your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I just wanted to ask if you’re free right now?”
He can’t help a confused frown, nodding slowly despite the curiosity nagging at him. “I am, yeah. Why?”
Had Mark been anybody else, the subtleties of your attitude would’ve hardly been acknowledged, as trivial as they seemed—the shaky, discreet exhale that escapes from your lips when he greets you, the way your shoulders square up at his answer, a tiny shift of your weight as your fingers fumble with the hold of your bag, a flash of apprehension that seems to cross your features upon his affirmation.
The thing is, Mark isn’t anybody else.
At the chance of Haechan talking his ears off about how much of a loser he is, at this point, Mark just knows you. Beyond any enhanced ability he possesses as Spider-Man, being able to read you is just a consequence of… well, having a ridiculously big-sized crush on you and getting accidentally friendzoned.
Between the two of you, you’re most definitely not the one to get nervous around him.
So why are you?
The realization hits Mark like a derailed train, still it doesn’t prepare him for the blow of your next words.
“Any chances you wanna grab dinner, then?”
What?
Unconsciously skeptical if he’d heard right, Mark stares at you for a second too long, disbelief immediately kicking in. “Me?”
A snort escapes from your lips as you offer him an eye-roll. “No, the guy that’s just behind you,” you tease, breaking into a full laugh as he glances around confusedly. “I’m playing, Mark! Of course it’s you!”
Mark huffs at his own embarrassment, a familiar warmth spreads through his neck. “Sure, let’s go,” he diverts, mindlessly reaching for his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text Haechan to meet us—”
“No!” you interrupt, eyes widening slightly before you quickly backtrack with a quiet, awkward little laugh. “I mean… is it okay if it’s just the two of us?”
If his life was a blockbuster movie, Mark’s sure that the scene would be played out in slow-motion, exactly as the moment was processed by his brain. As he stands frozen in the emptying hall, mouth parted with his heart hammering inside his chest like he’s swinging between the city’s skyscrapers, it takes a few seconds for it to finally click.
You’re asking him out.
After months of half-assed invites, awkward flirtation and planned coincidences… you’re the one asking him out.
Is this what victory feels like?
He’s saved countless lives, fought all kinds of creatures and criminals. He’s literally the back-up call of the most powerful team on Earth. He’s the model student of his major, the quiet genius of research conventions and academic tournaments.
Yet, none of the options feel comparable to the ecstatic, shocked rush that’s running through his veins right now.
Maybe he wants to scream into a pillow. Maybe he wants to fist-pump the air like an idiot.
Maybe both.
“Yeah!” Mark blurts, a little too enthusiastically before clearing his throat, trying again with a nonchalant nod. “I mean—yeah. That sounds… cool.”
“Cool,” you repeat, biting back a smile with beaming eyes. “There’s this place nearby I want to try out, I think you’re gonna love it.”
Still reeling from the whiplash of having his wildest daydream suddenly come to life, Mark can’t help but freeze for a second time as you reach for his hand, your fingers easily curling around his own before pulling him forward with a gentle tug.
As he falls in step beside you, forcing his body to move as rapidly as the heartbeats thumping against his chest, Mark’s also nothing but acutely aware of his clammy palms against the soft warmth of your hold.
In a poor attempt at nonchalance, he clears his throat before tentatively squeezing your hand. “So, can I ask about the place we’re going or is it a surprise?”
You shoot him a side glance, a teasing grin curling on your lips. “You sound a little worried.”
“I’m not,” Mark prompts, pausing for a second until his hesitation turns into a sheepish wince. “Alright, maybe a little? You just kinda… caught me off guard. Wasn’t exactly expecting to be on a date tonight, you know?”
“I just wanted to make it up to you for last time,” you reply, offering a timid shrug as the tone of your voice turns softer, almost thoughtful. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
The realization settles in slowly as if a bulb flickering on-and-off inside his brain.
Every once in a while, whenever Mark entertained his reveries, a little corner of his brain would always envision the moment where things would change between you. After so long, he’s pictured a dozen different scenarios—some grand and cinematic that could easily rival romance movies, others clumsy and awkward that hit too close to reality for his comfort.
Even so, no fantasy could’ve ever prepared him to finally realize that you know.
After all the awkward invitations masked as casual hangouts, jokes that always hid a little bit of truth behind them and days he’d barely look at you without feeling like a walking, talking lovesick loser, you’ve finally noticed.
Mark swallows hard, heart leaping to his throat as the words fail on his tongue. “Right.”
It takes a stretch of silence for you to squeeze his hand again, brushing your shoulder against his as you inch closer to his side.
“My roommate’s new boy toy works at this little pizzeria,” you restart, half-heartedly rolling your eyes as a grin curls on your lips. “She’s been raving about how good the food is, but there’s a chance she might be biased because she’s dating their delivery guy.”
He lets out a laugh, the knot of nerves in his chest loosening for a bit. “That sounds like a good story.”
As you nod absentmindedly, your eyes glance over at him with newfound interest. “Can I ask you something?” you ask, lip caught between your teeth as if you’re holding back a smile. “Are you always this nervous around girls?”
Mark almost skips a step, blinking away from your lips to focus again. “What?”
Raising your eyebrows at him, you can’t help a chuckle, looking clearly entertained and a little confused. “You keep twisting your rings every 10 seconds.”
Glancing down at his left hand like it’s just betrayed him, he’s quick to shove it into the hoodie’s pockets. “That’s just… force of habit, I guess?”
“Do I make you nervous?” you try, the question coming out tentatively as your face immediately softens to something almost uncertain. “Do you not… want to do this?”
“No,” Mark protests, his hand flying out again as it runs through his face, a nervous huff escaping from his lips. “I want to, trust me… it’s not—I’m just a little thrown off by this entire thing.”
You slow beside him, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “It’s just me, Mark.”
Yes, he wants to say, that’s exactly the problem.
Thankfully, the sound of a door aggressively swinging open saves Mark from embarrassing himself further.
Nestled just a few blocks down the campus, the little pizzeria stays discreetly placed between a record store and a small building, easy to miss if one’s not looking for it. As the warm glow from the inside spills onto the sidewalk, the faint scent of garlic and melted cheese flowing in the air, a guy in a windbreaker steps out balancing a stack of pizza boxes in one arm.
The guy suddenly pauses, squinting under his cap before breaking into a wide grin by spotting you. “Oh! Look who it is!”
“No way,” you groan playfully, tugging both of you forward to greet him with a high-five. “What are you doing out here? I thought you worked the last shift!”
He shrugs exaggeratedly, readjusting the boxes in his arm with a sigh. “Contrary to popular belief, I am a valuable worker of this establishment,” the guy jokes, eyes flicking between both of you for a moment before grinning again. “Wait! Is this a date?”
You shoot him a warning look, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t you have pizzas to deliver?”
“My name’s Hendery,” he greets, straightening up before reaching out a hand with a humorous frown. “I’m her roommate’s… boyfriend. Probably. I think.”
Mark quickly introduces himself, letting out a chuckle as they exchange a fist bump. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“Oh!” Hendery snaps his fingers, eyes widening in a dramatic realization. “So this is Mark!”
Before he can answer, you’re already moving to physically steer Hendery towards a parked motorcycle, half-heartedly glaring at him for a second time. “The customers are waiting, Hendery!”
“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” he says, backing away with an exaggerated bow and a lopsided grin curling his lips. “By the way, don’t forget to try the garlic bread!”
Exchanging a few last sassy quips with you, it doesn’t take long until Hendery’s settled on his motorcycle, the engine sputtering to life as he offers a playful salute in your direction to soon disappear down the street. As the quiet settles between both of you again, Mark swears a flicker of shyness creeps into your face, immediately drawing a small, soft smile out of him just as your gazes meet.
You scrunch your nose slightly, playfully nudging his shoulder with yours. “What?”
Rubbing the back of his neck with a short laugh, Mark shakes his head. “Nothing,” he reassures, gently tugging your hand. “Come on, we should try the garlic bread.”
The little bell above the entrance jingles as you walk in. Inside, the pizzeria is warm, the yellow lightning making up a cozy ambience with a hum of music in the background, coming straight out of an old-looking jukebox. As he trails after you to a corner booth by the window, the last thing Mark’s expecting is for you to pull him to sit by your side instead of across the table.
His brain shorts out for a solid five seconds.
Too aware of the proximity, shoulder-touching close as he takes a seat, it almost feels like his whole body suddenly forgets how to exist.
“If you say pineapple on pizza, I’m walking out,” you start, giving him a humorous look before flipping the menu open, blissfully unaware of his meltdown. “Don’t break my heart, Mark.”
For a second, Mark scrambles to pull his soul back into his body, rushing for an answer. “What? Oh—uh, yeah. Never. Pineapple on pizza? Gross. Illegal.”
You squint at him, leaning closer with an arm pressed against the table. “You hesitated.”
“I really mean it, though,” he answers with a shrug, the words slipping out of his mouth before his brain catches up. “I don’t think I want to risk your heart.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth before you nod, slapping the menu closed with a look in his direction. “We should order your favorites, then.”
The place isn’t too crowded so it isn’t long before the familiar scent of tomato, cheese and crisping dough drifts over from the kitchen to your little corner. As the waiter sets the pizza between you—accompanied with a generous side of Hendery’s infamous garlic bread—the conversation easily flows again, Mark relaxing just enough to lean into the banter, watching the way your eyes light up as you talk, catching every small smile between your stolen sips of his beer.
The evening unfolds like the most absurd, delirious fever dream his brain could ever conjure.
If someone had told him that he’d be sitting on a date with you in a few hours time, carefully selecting songs for your newest joint playlist, sharing a last-minute tiramisu and making plans for the upcoming Holiday break, Mark would’ve genuinely scoffed in their face and called them insane.
Actually, that’s exactly what he did when Haechan facetimed him earlier in the morning.
Yeah.
In every existing multiverse, Mark’s pretty sure that every alternate version of him is currently facepalming over how dumb their physics student version can be.
By the time you’re both full, one lonely slice left on the plate with half-empty glasses all over the table, Mark shifts in his seat as a single question burns in his throat.
He glances over at you with a sheepish chuckle. “Can I ask you something?”
A smile curls your lips as you realize he’s mirroring your question from earlier, curiosity instantly flickering in your eyes. “Yeah.”
Mark hesitates for a second, sighing as it finally slips. “What changed?”
Clearly picking up his little cue, you pause to mull over the words, seemingly at loss of what to say before your gaze softens. “I think… I was just so focused on staying afloat. There’s always so much going on in my life,” you chuckle half-heartedly, offering a timid shrug. “I never really dared to look at you any other way. You’re a part of my life that feels safe, and… maybe I didn’t want to risk changing something that mattered to me.”
The words land softly in his chest, nevertheless shaking something loose inside him as it echoes in his head. Mark swallows dry, feeling his heart pick up speed as if it’s about to jump through his throat any moment.
You watch his dazed reaction with a growing smile. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I didn’t want to mess it up either,” he says, running a hand through his face as he slumps back against his seat, chuckling solemnly. “I kept looking for signs, dropping hints… after a while, I figured that if I kept quiet, then at least I’d get to stay close to you.”
Moving closer, you playfully nudge your knee against his. “Even if nothing happened?”
The answer undoubtedly feels like a turning point as Mark nods, offering a shy smile despite a touch of confidence in his voice. “Even if nothing happened.”
As the evening lights up the neighborhood with its streetlights and nightlife, it’s easy for Mark to forget the weight of a certain suit inside his backpack, ticking a silent clock for the next patrol. As both of you walk home between shared laughter and teasing banter, the city doesn’t seem to call for him as it usually does.
For once, Mark doesn’t feel like he has to split himself in two.
For once, Mark gets to be just a guy on a date with the girl of his dreams.
The conversation softens as your building comes into view, trailing into a lull that feels less like silence and more like an unspoken moment of comfort.
You slow to a stop in front of the steps, turning around to stand almost chest to chest with him. Mark holds himself back, blinking down at you with itching hands closed into fists against his sides.
“Thank you for tonight,” you start, meeting his eyes with an effortless, all-too-knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
A familiar warmth burns at the nape of his neck as Mark nods. “Yeah, of course,” he says, clearing his throat before daring the next words. “Want me to… pick you up after class? Grab some coffee?”
The question lingers unanswered for nothing more than a few seconds.
Just as he’s about to backpedal, a rushed apology at the tip of his tongue, you’re suddenly closing the little space left between you by brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth, kissing him soft and slow up to the little mole on his cheek.
It feels like someone unplugged every coherent thought from his head.
Mark suddenly feels like calling Wanda to make sure this isn’t a made-up scenario of his head.
Maybe Haechan will pinch him back into class in a minute.
“See you tomorrow, Mark!”
As your voice breaks his daze, Mark watches you spin on your heels to soon disappear inside the building with a soft click from the door, a sheepish but knowing smile playing on your face as you go.
Rooted to the spot, one of his hands immediately drifts up to touch his own cheek.
What the hell just happened?
It’s a rookie mistake to expect an ordinary patrol in Queens.
Though you haven’t been in the vigilantism business for as long as New York’s finest, you do know better than to trust the neighborhood’s quiet streets—especially during a Friday night. Despite the impending loom of a downpour, the approaching weekend usually has the habit of luring the exact kind of trouble that Moonlight excels at.
Still, as you effortlessly move along the long-known rooftops and alleys, blending with ease into the dark corners of the city, the last thing you’re expecting to witness is Spider-Man quite literally dropping into your night.
The unmistakable red and blue of his suit hurtles from above in a flash, hitting the asphalt before you with a solid, painful thud.
It takes a second for your brain to finally register the unmoving body half-sprawled under the dim glow of the alley’s flickering lights.
Then—
“Man,” Spider-Man groans, the words coming out hoarse but still laced with a thread of dry humor. “I really hate getting thrown off buildings.”
You release a breath at the sound of his voice, adrenaline spiking through your body as you rush to his side and immediately drop to your knees. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Why are you falling off buildings?”
“It was a calculated risk,” he jokes, attempting to prop himself up on one elbow only to wince, falling back down again with a choked laugh. “I totally meant to do that, you know.”
“You’re insane,” you answer, huffing in a mix of disbelief and amusement with a gentle hand keeping him down by the shoulder. “Take a breather, Spidey. I’ll bet this isn’t a daily occurrence for you.”
He shakes his head, letting out a half-hearted groan. “I’m fine!” Spider-Man mutters, exhaling a fatigued sigh before trying to sit up again. “This is nothing, I’ve had like—way, way worse than this.”
“No shit,” you retort, rolling your eyes as you give him a once-over, checking his body for any injuries. “Are you feeling anything broken?”
The playful grin on his face is visible even under the mask. “Nah, just my pride.”
As he manages to sit up, the distance between you closes just enough for you to finally note a rip in the fabric of his mask, exposing a sliver of his bruised jawline down to a bit of his neck.
Suddenly, you can’t look away.
It’s… maddeningly distracting.
The sharpness of his jaw, the faint curve of his neck beneath the tear, the single mole contrasting against his skin—it looks hopelessly familiar, as if it’s digging at your brain for recognition.
In your reverie, your eyes linger for longer than you realize.
Spider-Man notices.
His head tilts slightly, visibly suspicious as he chuckles awkwardly. “Uh… is there something on my face?”
You freeze, immediately turning your gaze away from him and into a dumpster ahead. “What? No!” you say, clearing your throat with a shake of your head. “I was just making sure you weren’t about to pass out on me. I can’t carry you out of here and I definitely can’t call any of the Avengers for a pick-up, so…”
Spider-Man perks up at your words, seemingly already recovered from the fall’s impact on his body. “Hey, I can definitely put in a word—”
“It’s a no, Spidey,” you promptly cut in, chuckling at the way he deflates. “I know how to pick my battles. Queens is more than enough for now.”
He pauses for a second before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. “Alright. Fair enough.”
A laugh tumbles out of your mouth before you can’t stop it. “You’re so funny,” you tease, standing back up before crossing your arms over your chest. “Can you tell me what made Spider-Man fall from a literal building?”
Reaching a hand to rub at his neck, Spider-Man winces. “Damn, it sounds so bad when you say it like that,” he quips, letting out a chuckle with a touch of embarrassment. “Actually, Venom was trying to help me—”
“Venom as in Eddie Brock?” you interrupt him again, eyebrows pinched in a baffled frown. “Eddie threw you off a building?”
As he finally stands up, Spider-Man fights a groan as curiosity nudges him. “You know Eddie?”
You blink at him, pausing for a second before huffing out a chuckle at the absurdity of your newfound connection. “You don’t want to know,” you joke, dismissively shifting the conversation with a pointed look in his direction. “How are you feeling anyway? That was a really nasty fall.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he answers, promptly squaring his shoulders as he shifts on his feet. “Not a big deal. Just—gravity, you know? My old friend.”
Raising an eyebrow, you hold back a smirk under the hood. “Right.”
Already acquainted with your powers, Spider-Man scans the shadows elegantly surrounding your figure with knowing eyes. “Were you still patrolling?”
“My night’s not as busy as yours,” you reply, shaking your head as you shoot him a half-hearted, playful glare. “I was actually thinking of heading home. After that fall, you should probably do the same.”
“Yeah…” he mutters mindlessly, his voice trailing for a second before he suddenly snaps up to look at you. “Hold on. Are you… worried about me?”
The question hangs in the air almost like a dare, the tone of his voice carrying a subtle touch of mischief instead of its usual awkwardness. It’s different—a little more confident than his usual endearing, flustered stumbles.
Again, a strange sense of familiarity strikes you.
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t let this life consume you, Spidey,” you huff, playfully narrowing your eyes at him. “You can’t save anyone if you’re half-dead. Call it a night for once.”
Seemingly mulling over your words for a moment, Spider-Man hums thoughtfully. “Do people like us even get nights off?”
As you shrug lightly, your eyes barely catch the subtle change in his demeanor. “If we want to.”
“Right,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself before suddenly shaking his head. “Anyway, you know the drive you gave me the other night? You weren’t kidding. Someone’s probably sourcing him straight from Upstate.”
You scoff, baffled at the unexpected twist. “The Avengers warehouse?”
“Most of it was under SHIELD’s possession before the Triskelion thing happened,” he explains, glancing at you with a sharp look of curiosity. “How exactly did you get those files again?”
Raising a challenging eyebrow at him, your lips curve in a knowing smirk that etches onto the tone of your voice. “Trade secret.”
“Trade secret?” he huffs, the sound edged with disbelief and a touch of playfulness. “You gave me intel that not even Captain America knew about it and I’m just supposed to roll with it?”
“Seems like you already are,” you counter lightly, shooting him a knowing look. “Besides, didn’t you just admit the info was solid?”
“Alright,” he acquiesces, lifting his hands in mock surrender for a moment before pointing a playful finger in your direction. “Don’t think you can keep being all mysterious forever. I’ll figure you out.”
A surprised laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. “Will you?”
“I mean—figure out your… sources,” Spider-Man points out, coughing into his fist as his voice lowers into a mumble. “That’s what I mean.”
You shake your head, letting him off the hook despite your amusement. “I should probably go,” you say, stepping back and tugging the edge of your hood a little lower. “Try not to fall off another building tonight, alright?”
He groans, the sound earning him a chuckle from you. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
As you head towards one of the buildings lining the deserted alley, the shadows follow closely behind.
The climb up doesn’t take long, muscle memory effortlessly guiding every pull and grip until you’re glancing over your shoulder at the rooftop, only to find Spider-Man’s sharp silhouette already perched on the ledge from the warehouse across. Against the glow of the city behind him, the vigilante looks every bit of the majestic image The Daily Bugle’s curated for him on its cover pages.
Yet, the awkward cadence of his persona can’t help but suddenly prickle at the corner of your brain with a certain someone.
Any dots being connected right now… it’s probably just coincidence, right?
“Hey!” he calls out, his voice carrying out over the space between the two buildings and startling you out of your own thoughts. “Thanks for checking if I wasn’t dead!”
Masking away any signs of your turmoil, a laugh huffs past your mouth as you wave him goodbye. “Don’t get used to it, Spidey!”
Yeah.
It had to be.
As a result of secretly living a dual life as both a vigilante and a college student, Mark Lee’s used to two things:
1) Feeling like death itself has run him over on a daily basis.
2) Keeping his distance from people in the worst possible moments.
For someone like him, learning how to live with pain is a given. Whatever one can list—bruises, cuts, split lips, broken bones that scream every time he coughs—Mark’s oddly used to it, mostly taking it in stride as just another part of his routine. The thing is, out of all the consequences being Spider-Man can impose in his life, weeks off-the-grid, missed classes and ignored texts are the bits he still can’t quite shake.
A heating pad falls off his side as he sits up against the headboard of his bed, balancing his phone while watching Haechan curse at his computer for the fifth time in the last two minutes.
“Hey, do the Avengers have labor laws?” his best-friend snorts, raising an eyebrow as he squints into the screen of his computer. “They’ve got you looking like you came out of ten rounds with a garbage truck. Have you thought about unionizing?”
Mark sighs, half-heartedly tugging a blanket over his aching body. “Do you ever think before you speak?”
“Do you?” Haechan retorts, narrowing his eyes at the camera before a mischievous grin tugs at his lips, the clacking of the keyboard pausing for a second. “I can make a whole list of all the dumb stuff I’ve heard you say. Like that one time you told her to—”
Interrupting his best-friend’s spiel with a groan, he slumps deeper into the bed. “Seriously, why did I even call you?”
The youngest doesn’t miss a beat, leaning closer to his phone with a knowing look. “Because you want to know how she’s doing while you’re holed up in your dorm like a vampire,” Haechan teases, the grin on his face widening. “By the way, she’s definitely not buying your lame flu excuses.”
As his attitude shifts into something softer, a little distraught, Mark looks all the more vulnerable. “What did you tell her? What did she say?”
“What was I supposed to say? That you got beat up by a space green jock that hates Earth?” his best-friend huffs, dramatically slouching back into his chair. “I’ve been lying through my teeth like the amazing, incredible best-friend I am, but I know she doesn’t believe me.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, not sure of what to say. “I owe you one.”
The youngest hums, nodding dismissively with his attention back to whatever game’s on his screen. “You owe me your firstborn.”
Mark chuckles half-heartedly, the sound muffled by the blanket cocooned around him. “I’ll name him Donghyuck.”
Haechan immediately clutches his chest, acting out his usual dramatic fashion with a playful sob. “Don’t even joke about that. I’ll really hold you to it.”
A moment of silence settles between them, the only sound being Haechan’s frantic clicking on the other side as his game loads another round. Mark stares at the faint glow of the ceiling, the weight in his chest suddenly feeling heavier than the blanket he’s wrapped in.
“She’s gonna figure it out,” Mark says after a beat, huffing a quiet, humorless laugh. “And when she realizes it, she’s gone.”
As he coexists with Spider-Man, learning how to live with pain is a given, sure.
This is what he hates the most.
It works like an ill-fated clockwork—the second Mark gets closer to the slightest taste of hope, gentle expectation flowing through his heart, something always yanks him back.
Before he’d left under Tony’s call for the mission, things had been good. The both of you had fallen into a rhythm that made him feel that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t screwing things up for once. From the afternoons he’d spot you furtively slipping into his class just to make him company, to the late nights you’d drag him to your place for failed recipes that eventually turned into ramen for dinner, it was easy for Mark to forget the half of his life that’s hidden in the shadows.
Now, he’s probably making you doubt him without even meaning to.
Just barely answering your texts.
Avoiding most of your calls.
Asking about you through the grapevine hoping he hasn’t fucked everything up.
The usual for a loser like him.
“Wow, you’re such a joy to be around sometimes,” Haechan deadpans, shaking his head as a scoff leaves his mouth. “Why do you always assume the worst? Not everyone’s waiting for a chance to ditch you, Mark.”
He swallows dry, words catching in his throat. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“Like what?” the youngest taunts, frowning as if to protest him. “A human being?”
A sudden knock on the door stops Mark from replying.
“Someone’s at the door,” he mutters, carefully shuffling out of the bed under the protest of every muscle of his body. “I’ll call you later.”
Tugging at the hood of his sweatshirt in a half-hearted attempt of masking the damage on his face, he drags himself to the door, for the first time ready to curse at Renjun for being such a dutiful RA.
As it opens, Mark immediately freezes.
You stand outside with your bag slung over one shoulder, worry laced into every line of your face. “Hi, Mark.”
“Hey,” he greets, clearing his throat as he takes a step back, hoping you’ll miss his agitation. “What are you doing here?”
As you carefully scan him over, a frown quickly settles on your face. “I could ask you the same thing,” you counter, lingering at the faded hoodie pulled half-tight around him, dark circles under his eyes, at the faint bruise coloring his jaw at last. “Mark… what the hell happened to you?”
Mark scrambles for the first excuse that pops into his head. “Basketball!”
The change in your expression is subtle. “What?”
“I played basketball with the guys the other day,” he quickly adds, letting out a forced, too awkward chuckle. “Things got crazy competitive with Chenle, elbow to the face and everything—you know how he is, right?”
The silence hangs between you enough to leave Mark on the edge, ready to have you call out on his bullshit. Instead, you just exhale and take a step closer.
“I actually don’t,” you answer, gaze softening the longer you watch him, almost quietly deciding to let him be for now. “Let’s get inside for a bit? I’ll help you cover that nasty bruise up.”
Even though his dorm currently looks as if a hurricane has just passed through, Mark doesn’t have the heart to say no, feeling the gap of your absence a little too much now that he’s finally seeing you again. It takes minutes until you’ve got him sitting sideways on the edge of his bed, trying not to combust while you kneel in front of him with the first-aid kit.
Gently pressing a gauze at his jaw, your voice drops to a murmur. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”
Mark frowns, covering up a wince at the sharp sting of the antiseptic. “At basketball?”
“No,” you say, amusement flickering in your eyes as you look down at him, lightly blowing at the bruise. “At lying.”
As his heart picks up speed, Mark can’t help a nervous chuckle. “What? I’m great at lying.”
You raise an eyebrow, squaring him with a half-serious, half-teasing glare. “Then convince me.”
He hesitates, pressing his lips together in surrender after a pause. “Maybe I’m, like… average at lying.”
The answer pulls a laugh out of you, now guiding him to stay put with a brush of your fingers on his cheek. “Hold still,” you order, quickly standing up and moving towards your forgotten bag by the door. “I’m giving you a cute bandage for being a good boy.”
Feeling his cheeks burn before he can catch his own thoughts, Mark watches you dig into a little Kuromi make-up bag. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”
“You do,” you object, reclaiming your spot in front of him with much less distance than before, something he can’t quite place flashing on your face as you hold it up. “Lucky for you, I always carry some.”
Mark blinks at the bandage.
A heart-shaped, purple bandage.
It just… can’t be.
No way.
As you smooth the little heart over his skin, your fingers linger for just a second longer than they should. “You shouldn’t let this life consume you, Mark.”
Every nerve in Mark’s body stilled as if someone just cut the strings barely holding him together.
He stares at you, swallowing hard as his voice wavers. “What did you say?”
You laugh quietly, eyes finding his own with a knowing glint. “You really shouldn’t let this life consume you.”
Mark pulls back slightly, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “No way, you’re just—” he stutters, taking a second to exhale like the air’s been punched right out of him by the space green jock again. “You’re Moonlight.”
The smile on your face widens, soft but still edged with a hint of amazement. “You’re Spider-Man.”
The familiarity of your words feels like a missing puzzle piece of a long-known picture.
Every night he’s run into the fellow vigilante, every quip she’d made just to tease him, every little detail about her that made him double-take with someone else in his mind. Now that Mark thinks back on it, it felt like being one breath away from something he could never quite figure out, close enough to almost touch, but just out of reach of actually feeling it.
“I feel like I’m hallucinating,” he blurts, still taken aback despite how at ease you currently look. “How did you even figure it out? That I’m Spider-Man?”
“I know you weren’t expecting anyone but you should probably look for a better place to hide your suit,” you answer, not resisting a chuckle at the way his face instantly falls with realization. “Having it out in the hamper doesn’t seem very safe to me.”
“Dude, that’s so embarrassing,” he groans, running a hand over his burning face with a sheepish chuckle. “How did you get here anyway? Doesn’t the building have rules?”
You catch his hands before he can hide, holding them closer to your lap. “I’m friends with Renjun,” you explain, offering a shrug as you play with his fingers. “I told him that my boyfriend was sick and I just wanted to check on him for a minute.”
Wait.
Did he… hear that right?
Mark stares at you, a touch distraught. “Your… boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend,” you repeat, knowingly chuckling at the stunned look on his face. “Renjun says he can’t believe a nerd like you has a girlfriend—”
Before he could second-guess it, Mark kisses you.
One of his hands curls at the side of your neck, gently urging you closer as your smile brushes against his lips. You shift on your seat, easily sliding into his lap with Mark’s help, his arms instinctively closing around your waist. It’s enough to make him forget about the ache in his body, the bruises and broken pieces until your knee knocks against his side, instinctively pulling a pained groan from him.
The sound promptly makes you pull away, scrambling off him with a gasp. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you beg, reaching for his face as an amused, guilty chuckle escapes your mouth. “Where does it hurt? Let me help you!”
Mark exhales, closing his eyes with a deadpan expression. “My pride. Again.”
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, leaning closer as you laugh at his drama, resting your forehead against his own. “I should probably stay off you for a few more days.”
“Yeah, well,” he mumbles, a small smile curls on his lips. “What’s a few more days when it means I finally get to have this?”
Before you kiss him again, holding him with just as much of his own devotion, the hitch in your breath makes Mark realize one thing.
summary: One night during freshers’ week, followed by a quiet disappearance. No promises, no numbers exchanged, no reason to ever see each other again. But when you run into Mark on campus two years later, it becomes painfully clear that some nights don’t stay in the past — no matter how hard you try to leave them there.
pairing: student!mark x female student!reader.
genre: university!au, fluff, crack, angst, strangers to lovers, smut! mdni!
word count: ~15k
warnings: emotional slow burn, blurred lines, it’s giving ✨situationship✨, mark is a sweetheart, like tooth-achingly sweet, alcohol consumption, lots of flirting and awkwardness, he’s shy but confident at the same time(?), he says ‘dude’ a lot (obvs), talks of pregnancy, menstruation and sanitary products, oc is one confused human being pls don’t judge her, smut: fingering, unprotected sex, pull out method is used (don’t be silly), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, light choking, lots of teasing, nipple play, he’s a hard!dom for like a sec and then pathetic again, multiple positions, oral (fem receiving), brief masturbation (he watches lmao), cumshot, cum eating<3, he makes her cum while she’s on her period bc he's a king (she’s wearing a tampon dw), probs more…ya'll should know how unhinged i am by now so read at your own risk.
a/n: hi hi hi hi!! After many many requests, I wholeheartedly give you Mr. top yearner himself, Mark Lee! This part is mostly smut and emotional turmoil bc I had to somehow introduce their backstory. The second part is where shit goes down, so there will be a lot more plot in that one. This story is very dear to me bc it’s basically inspired from real life events (yes, I used to be a messy bitch back in uni, sue me), but my Mark wasn’t as nice as the one in this fic. Anyway, I genuinely hope you guys love it as much as I do and pleaseeeee do let me know your thoughts!! I would also appreciate ideas and guesses for part two as I’m still currently working on it. I can’t wait to read your comments and asks. Please don't hesitate to bombard me.
Love always,
Cookie <3
Part 2 | masterlist | ko-fi
Mark squints against the morning sun, nursing the headache pounding at his temples. Coffee in hand, he trudges along campus with Giselle beside him, who’s already mid-rant about something he’s only half-listening to. Maybe a date? He’s pretty sure it’s not too important anyway.
Last night’s party is still hanging around in his skull like a bad song he can’t skip. Every step feels like it’s happening underwater — students rushing, bikes clattering, the faint smell of coffee — but Mark barely notices
“—and then he—ugh, I can’t even—” she huffs, flopping her arm dramatically against her tote bag.
“Mm,” Mark mumbles, focusing on nothing in particular, willing the throbbing to ease.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Someone rushing. Head down. Bag bouncing. Textbook late-for-class energy.
“Giselle!” a voice calls, sharp but friendly.
Mark freezes. Head still fuzzy. He glances over—and it clicks.
Y/N. Shit. What the actual fuck. No way.
His chest stutters in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Two years ago. One night. One too many drinks. Memories creeping in before his brain has a chance to protest.
“Mark,” she says, gesturing to him, “this is Y/N. We…uh, go to the same Pilates class.”
Simple. Casual. Like nothing else exists.
You raise an eyebrow, calm, clear recognition. “We actually know each other,” you say lightly, voice teasing but neutral. “Small world, huh?”
Mark’s throat goes dry. Words stick. Coffee threatens to slosh. His hangover doesn’t help. He wants to say something witty, something—anything—but his brain refuses to cooperate.
You glance at your phone, already in motion. “Sorry, I’m actually so late. Catch you later Gi!” You pause for a moment. “Good to see you.” That last bit is directed at him and all Mark can do is bob his head like an idiot.
“See you tomorrow!” Giselle exclaims, her chirpy voice penetrating his throbbing skull.
You dart off without another word, back straight, long strides taking you in the opposite direction from the library.
Mark stands frozen for a second, watching the familiar sway of your shoulders disappear down the path, stomach twisting, headache forgotten.
Giselle nudges him. “You good?”
Mark snaps back, clutching his backpack strap like a lifeline. “Yeah…yeah, fine,” he mutters, voice rough. But inside? His heart refuses to behave.
This must be some kind of joke.
“Dude.” Mark’s voice comes out in a whisper. As though he’s wary of people hearing.
Giselle takes an inquisitive look at him. “Why are your eyes so big?”
Great, now he looks insane.
“How do you know her?” Mark asks, completely ignoring Giselle’s valid question. He needs to know.
“I literally just said Pilates?”
“Oh…right.” He keeps walking and Giselle quickly follows. Her expression nothing short of baffled.
“Umm. What am I missing here?” She speaks in a rushed manner as she tries to keep up with Mark’s quick strides. Who is he even running from?
“Nothing.” Mark deflates as he quickens his step. The library couldn’t feel any further.
“Oi, spaz!” Giselle grabs onto Marks elbow. “Slow down and fess up.”
Her demands get through to him. He halts his pace and turns to face his friend properly for the first time since you walked away from them. With a heavy sigh he accepts that even the slight attempt of hiding something from her, would be futile.
“We slept together first week of uni.” The words come out so jumbled, he’d be surprised if Giselle caught them.
“Pardon?”
“We fucked. Two years ago.” He rephrases. Slower this time.
“Sorry. What?” The question more of an indication of shock than a demand of clarification.
“Ever heard of sex?” He tries sarcastically.
“Uh-huh.” Giselle’s frown almost resembles an animated character’s.
“I’ve had it. With her.” He points a thumb towards the direction you earlier walked off to and he can’t help but feel amused at Giselle’s flabbergasted reaction.
“How-”
“A party. Fresher’s week. C’mon dude, switch on please.” He’s embarrassed. Maybe even slightly irritated that his reckless escapades from freshers’ week have become such a big matter of attention.
“Okay. Sorry, I just- I pictured it and now I need someone to reset me.” Giselle pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closing as if trying to erase the picture from her brain.
Marks rolls his eyes at his friend’s exaggerated gag. “I could flick your big fat head.”
“Okay, okay. So…” She trails expectantly, completely dismissing his irritation.
Mark doesn’t really know what more he can say. He’s elaborated enough.
“Yeah..?” He gestures his hand for her to continue.
“Well, what happened after the…you know.” Giselle’s eyebrows shoot up suggestively.
“The sex?” Mark points out on purpose and snorts a laugh when his friend scrunches up her nose in disgust. He might as well make her feel as uncomfortable as he is.
“Yeah, that.” Giselle nods, the pained expression still on her face.
“I haven’t seen her since. Well, hadn’t.” He admits simply. It’s the truth.
“Shit, so you quite literally just fucked.” It’s a statement but it comes out more like a question.
“Pretty much.” Mark shrugs, struggling to keep an unbothered front. “She sneaked out in the morning and I just never saw her again.”
“You didn’t get her number or…?”
“I mean, I didn’t really get the chance. Plus…” He pauses to think. Or more like reminisce.
It was his first night out on campus, and you? You were the first person he noticed when he stepped foot in that house party. The first girl he brought back to his tiny, undecorated dorm at the time.
He didn’t really expect anything more than what he got. That’s what he approached you for initially. But he also didn’t expect you to disappear without so much of word after the night you had together.
Mark still thinks about it sometimes. Not because it was magical or anything of the sort. If anything, his performance could easily be described as bang out average.
What he really thinks about is how you two stayed up for hours. Naked. Talking, kissing, fucking then talking and kissing, then fucking again. He thinks about how he felt so comfortable. So at peace but also confused at the same time. How you’d only known him for a few hours but still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his chest, in that small first-year dorm bed.
Mark, never having been the naive type, he knew he couldn’t just date the first girl he met at the first party he went to on campus, but spending days typing your first name in his instagram search bar definitely wasn’t on his bingo card. Not only that, but unintentionally searching for you at pubs, bars, parties, uni corridors for weeks? Yeah, that certainly wasn’t on his bingo card.
“Plus, it wasn’t anything serious.” He concludes, sounding almost defensive.
“Aww, Markie poo. Did she break your heart?” Giselle pouts performatively.
“Tsk.” Mark kisses his teeth in annoyance, adamantly refusing to succumb to her mocking, as he resumes his quick steps. Giselle, of course, unfortunately for him, isn’t one to let things go. So she matches his pace.
“Oh, come on. I’m just playing-
“Wait. So, if you’re, like, friends,” Mark abruptly turns, index accusingly pointing at her, his steps coming to a halt again and Giselle exhales in relief. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”
“I literally met her a month ago. She was on a year abroad last year.” Ah. Well, that certainly explains a lot.
“Damn, that’s cool.” He utters in surprise, as though he was hoping you were some kind of loser who was hiding out in a library. Meanwhile, you were out in god knows what country, doing god knows what and god knows who.
“Damn, you falling back in love already?” Giselle coos annoyingly and Mark starts walking again, dismissive of her teasing. “Wait! I’m sorry! At least tell me if the sex was good. Oh my god, is she like the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you’re hung up on her?”
“You’re a nuisance.” He mutters grumpily.
“Awh, really? I mean I could invite her to Chenle’s on Saturday but if I’m such a nuisance then I guess I won’t bother-
“Wait. Actually?” Mark’s head snaps toward his friend a lot quicker than he can comprehend, sounding too hopeful and probably a little pathetic, and Giselle’s sinister grin makes him realise his slip up.
Damn it.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Mark’s patience started to waver about two days ago. Now it’s close to non-existent.
There’s no way you’re not toying with him. You’re everywhere. Wherever he goes. The library? Tick. The park? Tick. The main building cafeteria? Tick. The psychology building cafeteria? Tick. His favourite café? Tick.
How can someone go from not existing to occupying every corner of this plane earth?
He’d gotten accustomed to not worrying about bumping into you, but now he’s always wary. Always alert. He’s even started putting more effort in his outfits, just in case you see him. Even though, he’s pretty sure you never notice him. At least not like he notices you.
And however wary he is, he still feels taken aback each time he comes across your presence.
And now, Mark is annoyed. Because he simply can’t enjoy his Saturday night like he always does.
He can’t get absolutely plastered with his friends like he always does to forget about deadlines and assignments. Because what if you’re here, at this very party? Yeah, Giselle did invite you and of course, you gave a very vague response — something along the lines of ‘yeah, that sounds like fun’ — and of course, you’re allowed to do as you please, but what if you turn up out of nowhere while Mark is blackout drunk? What if he embarrasses himself in front of you? Or worse, what if his big gob utters something stupid? God forbid.
And so, he takes it easy tonight. Small sips. Slowly consuming whatever his cup contains. He thinks it’s vodka with some kind of tropical mixer. Not really his cup of tea, but he settled anyway.
“What sort of pace is this?” Chenle asks, sounding almost offended.
“Huh?” Mark looks up from his cup, one hand swirling the liquid in his cup, the other splayed on the back of the sofa behind Chenle’s shoulders.
“Your drinking pace is embarrassing.” The younger boy explains. “We got no practice on Monday, so the whole two-day hangover excuse ain’t gonna save you this time.”
“I got other commitments too, you know.” Mark side eyes his friend. “Basketball isn’t my only worry, I’m in final year.”
“Blah blah blah. Don’t give me that shit, you’re acing all your exams. Pretty sure you’re on for a first class.” Chenle babbles loudly, definitely tipsy by now and Mark can’t help but wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders, playfully trapping him in a headlock. Chenle doesn’t even fight him off, comfortably resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.
“Since when do you worry so much about me, huh?” Mark teases, squeezing Chenle into his side.
“Since when are you so affectionate?” Chenle questions suspiciously.
“I thought you said being a little gay for your bros is acceptable.” Mark defends, referring to the time they spooned while having a drunk, deep meaningful conversation about their childhood trauma and then fell asleep.
“Don’t remind me. I’ll get hard.”
“Get off me.” Mark shoves a giggling Chenle away, squishing him against a random girl sat next to them. And just like that, in the midst of apologising, Chenle’s already compromised attention span works in Mark’s favour, because a few minutes later, the younger boy is entrapped in a flirty conversation with the girl that laughs a little too loud at his bad jokes.
Thankfully, Mark’s gaze catches Giselle’s, who’s stood by the kitchen counter. She excitedly waves him over, holding a shot of clear liquid in each hand and he can’t help but scrunch his nose in disgust. The tilt of her head along with the disappointed expression on her face does enough to convince him.
Fuck it. One shot won’t hurt. He’s a big boy.
He spills a bit of his drink as he squeezes through the swamp of people that occupies the living room. Pitbull blares through the speakers and Mark realises that shot is definitely needed. He’s too sober for this chaos, so he rushes for the kitchen.
“Honestly, how the fuck does Chenle get girls so-
Mark is pretty sure the colour drains from his face the second he steps in the kitchen vicinity. There you are. Again. Like his fucking shadow. Haunting him. Only this time you’re mid-laugh, perched up on the counter, a filled shot glass in your hand and Mark realises that he’s walked right into Giselle’s trap.
“Hey, loser.” Giselle interrupts his trance, casually shoving the spare shot glass in his free hand. “Here. Do a shot with us.”
“Umm. Yeah, okay.” Mark doesn’t have the time to ponder his actions. As though he’s on autopilot, the second you and Giselle down your shots, he tips his head back, doing the same. He doesn’t even flinch at the burn, probably in need of it and the second his eyes land on yours, Giselle starts violently coughing.
“Jesus.” He mutters, quickly grabbing an empty glass from the counter, filling it with tap water before passing it to his struggling friend. “Down it, you idiot.”
And Giselle starts doing just that, but before she can finish the contents of the glass, she’s covering her mouth in panic. Mark steps closer, and the second he touches her shoulder in concern, she’s running out of the kitchen and down the hallway where the bathroom is.
Fucking brilliant.
“Do you think she needs help?” Your voice penetrates his ears, urging him to turn around and face you. As always, taken aback by your presence.
“I- um- nah. Nah don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Mark tries to sound reassuring, but his voice has a slight tremble to it. Get a grip, dude.
“I can go check up on her if-
“Honestly, she’ll be fine. The woman can never stomach shots. Trust me.” His words are rushed. Partly because he’s telling the truth, and partly because he refuses to miss the opportunity of whatever this is.
“Are you two together then?”
“What? No.” He shakes his head so fast his neck slightly cramps. “No, we’re not. Just friends. We live together.”
He relaxes a little when you nod. A tight lipped smile adorns your pretty face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Mark finally gets the chance to take you in.
Here you are, again. Right in front of him. So close. Looking at him. As pretty as he remembers you. Albeit looking different in a way, still carrying the same calm aura.
“What?” You ask softly, smile a little lopsided.
“Nothing. Just — don’t worry.” He shakes his head again, eyes drifting down to his hands, twirling his drink in his cup again to distract himself from his fast heartbeat. “It’s weird.”
“I like weird.” You’re still smiling when he meets your eyes again.
His eyebrows raise a little when you pat the spot next to you, silently asking him to join you on the counter as more people crowd the kitchen.
His shoulder brushes yours briefly when he hoists himself up, the warmth hard to miss. He does his best to steady his breathing but feels like he’s miserably falling when he breathes in your sweet perfume. “I dunno. Just weird seeing you. Feels like I’m seeing a ghost. Kind of.”
God, that sounds so lame. He almost winces in pain.
“Wait, how do we know each other again? I know we do, but I’m having trouble placing you.” You say in genuine wonderment and Mark feels his heart drop to his stomach. He miserably prays that you’re playing a horrible prank on him, but your perplexed eyes tell him otherwise.
“You don’t re- we- um- freshers week? C’mon. Surely you remember.” He tries subtly, hoping he won’t have to spell it out for you.
You shake your head in denial. “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”
Fuck. You have actually forgotten. Were you that drunk or was that night so insignificant to you?
This is fucking horrifying. A nightmare he's hoping he can wake up from. “Yo, seriously?”
“Remind me?” You suggest lightheartedly, with the most innocent smile. “I have the worst memory, I’m sorry.”
What the actual fuck.
“Wha- you actually don’t remember? Like no recollection whatsoever?” He checks one more time, hating that he sounds so desperate. He really finds it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten a night he remembers so vividly. A night he often has to lock up in the back of his mind.
You snort, a short laugh escaping as your face shows nothing but amusement. “You’re really gullible, you know.”
Jail. You belong in jail for that. He’s suing you for emotional damage.
He scoffs loudly, hating that he almost fell for it.
You laugh a little louder this time and he can’t help the little smile that curls on his lips. “You fucking- are you having me on?”
“Sorry, it was just too easy.”
“Dude.” He whines, hiding his face in his hands. “That is actually vile behaviour. You’re going to hell.”
“For being too funny?” Your comical expression would have normally pissed him off if you weren’t this captivating.
He doesn’t have a comeback. He just stares straight ahead, jaw clenching to retain a smile, hands struggling not to squish the plastic cup in them and he almost flinches when your foot kicks his. Intentional, playful, soft as ever.
“Of course, I remember.” Your gaze burning his side profile is so difficult to ignore. So he succumbs. Head turning to face you, eyes finding yours. “Kinda hard to forget.”
“Really? That bad?” He jokes, although, he’s worried he might be right.
You breathe out a cute laugh, eyes dropping to your fumbling hands, fingers playing with the rip on your jeans. “I’m not insulting your performance, Mark Lee.”
He’s positive he’s blushing. His face and neck feel hot, hands are sweating and he’s very aware of your proximity. The music is loud enough for you to lean closer to speak.
“What are you insulting then?”
“I could be praising you know.” You side eye him for a reaction he refuses to offer. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”
He can’t help the shocked laugh that escapes his throat. How can someone be so forward? Bringing up a kink of his you clocked back then? Outrageous. Uncalled for. And honestly? Kind of sexy.
“Well, this is embarrassing.” Mark nervously downs the remainder of his drink in a big gulp at a failed attempt to cool down as he’s pretty sure steam is coming out of his ears that don’t fail to pick up at the loud snort you let out.
“See? I remember a lot more than you think.” You tap your temple with your index finger. A harmless gesture, which Mark finds inexplicably attractive.
“Why hard to forget?” He redirects the subject, refusing to have a nervous breakdown before he finds out what’s important.
You seem skeptical, as though you’re assessing your words before you utter them and Mark’s nerves resurface. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now.”
“What?” He presses impatiently.
Did he get you pregnant or something? Oh god, is that why you disappeared? Does he currently have a two-year old child running about?
“Okay, don’t make it a big deal.”
“Shit. Do I have a kid?” He accidentally thinks out loud.
“What? No, Mark, what the- no!” Your loud laugh helps him relax a little and he can’t help but notice the way you lightly shove him by the shoulder as you throw your head back. At least one of you is amused. “I was just gonna say— that it was my first time.”
Oh.
OH.
“Huh?” It comes out louder than intended. He can’t help it. You’re definitely lying. “As in you never— before that?“
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.” He can feel his eyes widening to the max as he looks around in shock. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” You’re clearly holding back a laugh and Mark feels like he desperately needs air. Or a whole bottle of vodka. Yeah, that would do.
“I don’t know.” He panics. “I just— I mean, your first time is— you know, important. It should mean something. No?”
You narrow your eyes at him for a second and Mark decides he’s going to die. Here, tonight, in Chenle’s fancy kitchen. “First of all. That couldn’t be more of a stereotype. Second of all. Who said it didn’t mean anything?”
“I mean, it was pretty obvious it didn’t.” The words roll out like waterfall.
“What?”
“How much could it have meant if you just…left?” That seems to shut you up, your eyes wider than before, mouth slightly open. “Without a word.” He adds. He had to say it. After all this time, he finally gets to complain about something that bothered him long enough and he feels relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders.
He expects you to argue. To defend yourself, and the little nod you give, somewhat shocks him.
“Fair point.” Your attention returns to the rip on your thigh, your fingers pulling at the loose threads.
“I didn’t do anything weird, right? Like, I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable in any way, or…?” He can’t help but worry that maybe it was all too much for you, considering you hadn’t been with anyone else prior to that. Maybe that’s why you quietly escaped in the morning?
“No. Not at all.” You quickly shake your head with a sweet smile. “If anything, I don’t think it could have been any better.”
Mark feels relief wash over him, his limbs instantly relaxing. He nods with a satisfied pout on his face but inside he’s proudly gloating.
“Well, I’m glad I—ummm, you know.” He realises that whatever he’s about to say, could easily be misconstrued.
“You’re glad you took my v-card?” You ask with an amused frown and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Mostly at his stupidity, but also at your relentless teasing.
“No.” He gives you a pointed look. “Just glad I didn’t ruin it for you.”
Your fond smile makes him feel warm. In a good way this time.
“Can I ask you something?” He blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him. You simply give him a small nod as you take a small sip of your drink. “How come you didn’t say anything? Not that you had to obviously. I just feel like I would have been more careful if you had.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t.” Your purse your lips in thought. “I would have. But, with you, I figured it was unnecessary.”
“Oh, sorry, was I a little too vanilla for you?” He complains sarcastically.
“I’m not gonna give you feedback.” You retort with a grin and Mark swears your cheeks weren’t as flushed a minute ago.
“I didn’t ask you to.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
It could be his delusion, but Mark feels tension brewing, and he wonders if it’s just him. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but your silence betrays something he can’t quite decipher.
“Was it not obvious then?” You interrupt his inner thoughts, the question simple, easy to answer, but Mark’s brain short circuits for a moment.
“I mean, I wasn’t that experienced myself.” He clears his throat once. “I just thought we were both shy. Clearly that’s not the case for you anymore.”
“That a problem?”
“Nah. It’s been what? Two years? And you’ve spent a year in a foreign country. I’d be surprised if you were the exact same person.” He explains and he circles the rim of his cup slowly, suddenly a little bashful, but content at the same time.
“What about you? You think you’re still shy?” You slowly reach over, hand gently wrapping around his wrist gently before you bring his hand to your lap. Mark is about to question your actions but your fingers delicately untying the knot of his bracelet make him hold back his protest.
“At times.” He responds as he watches you fix the knot carefully.
And when you’re done and he’s about to remove his hand, your hold tightens, preventing him. His breathing stutters and so does his pulse. The heat of your skin on his, too much for him to handle, but he still obliges, letting his hand rest limp on your thigh, palm facing up, unable to properly touch you, but still enough for his brain to remember things. To remember how he touched you that night. How you touched him.
“What about now? Feeling shy?” You don’t meet his gaze when he looks at you, your eyes still on his hand as your thumb traces his pulse point. Goosebumps litter his skin, the tiny twitch of your lips telling him you’ve noticed.
“I don’t know. Do I seem shy?” Answering with a question is the only way his brain can muster.
“Hmm.” You finally eye him, carefully inspecting his face, and he feels exposed. “Maybe a little. I kinda think that’s part of your charm, though.”
His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “My charm?”
“Mhm.”
“You think I’m charming?” He can’t conceal the stupid smile that erupts on his face. Weak man. Maybe he does have a praise kink.
“You managed to get me in your bed. I’m not that easy.” You say with a casual shrug. Too casual. And Mark has to look away. If he could, he’d run away, but your damn hand is still wrapped around his arm, locking him down. It’s your fault he can’t escape and definitely not the fact that he doesn’t want to ever pull away from your touch.
“Dude, are you, like, flirting with m—“
“Do you wanna come back to mine?” Again, you’re too casual. No ounce of hesitation, just plain expectation.
“Now?” It’s the only word he can come up with.
“I mean, at some point tonight would be ideal, yes.” Your smirk irritates him. He wants to kiss it off your face. Maybe he can if he agrees to go back with you.
Should he?
“You want me to fuck you again?” He only realises he’s said the lewd words out loud by the widening of your eyes. Why does he always end up putting his foot in his mouth?
“To put it plainly, yeah, I guess I want you to fuck me again.” You say with the most demure smile.
The contrast scares him. You scare him. He should have been wise and ran for the hills the second he laid eyes on you two years ago.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He rushes to apologise but you cut him off with a squeeze around his wrist.
“Yay or nay?” You ask, a hint of impatience in your tone that makes Mark bite his lip to hide a smile. You’ve got one eyebrow raised, expression almost offended at the delay in his reply.
He quickly hops off the counter, empty cup forgotten on the surface, the skin on the arm you were touching only seconds ago, already tingling. But he’s made his decision.
You seem taken aback, the crease between your eyebrows betraying your confusion. And if Mark were to take a guess, he could say there’s a trace of disappointment in your eyes.
You’re about to hop off the counter when he cages you in. Almost in panic at the thought of you walking away from him. Your ass is on the edge of the surface and he can’t help but smile at the way you quickly grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.
“Where you off to?” He asks quietly, only for you to hear. His hands settling on each side on you on the counter as he steps closer.
“Nowhere.” You match his tone, legs parting, allowing him to take up the space between them as your hands trail down to his chest. Your touch soft on his jumper, but he can still feel the weight of it.
He’s positive you can feel his insane heart trying to jump out of his rib cage. He doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to have you this close and feel the heat radiating off your body.
“Do you think about it?” His voice comes out in a whisper but he knows you hear him. “That night?”
“Sometimes.” You admit. Eyes anywhere but on his; avoidant.
“Are you embarrassed?” He leans down a little, levelling with you and you smile bashfully as you finally meet his gaze.
“More like flustered.” Your hands travel down to his stomach as your knees squeeze him in and he moves even closer, his torso flush against yours.
“Tell me. What do you think about?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the bridge of your nose as your hands slowly slide lower, until your fingers hook into his belt loops.
“Not here.” Your breath hits his chin and he desperately wants to lean in, but he refrains, enjoying your squirming a little too much.
“Why not?” He tilts his head, your lips just millimetres away. His hands decide to move on their own, finding their way to your waist as you inhale deeply. “Whatever it is, I’ve probably already thought about it.”
Your cocky expression annoys him. “Do I often occupy your mind?”
“You used to.” He admits openly as he delicately strokes along your ribs, thumbs smoothing over the undersides of your bra, your thin top making the touch more intense.
You smile smugly as you let your fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie, finding the bare skin of his lower abdomen and he hates that the simplest of touches affects him so much. It’s all effortless. Just a trace of a finger has him weak in the knees, his breath unstable, lips aching to be on yours.
“Mark?” You lean closer, your forehead dropping on his shoulder as you exhale a trembling breath.
“Hm?” He traces his knuckles up and down your spine, his other hand splaying on your lower back, where your skin is uncovered.
“I’m so wet right now, it’s fucking embarrassing.”
“Jesus.” He whispers, lips touching your ear and he feels your shudder as his hand slithers in your hair, lightly tugging to get you to look at him.
Your hands clutch at his belt, not really initiating anything, just holding. It’s enough for his blood to rush where it shouldn’t, heart pounding. Your hooded eyes don’t help either, and if it weren’t for the people occupying the kitchen, he’d be bending you over this counter right this second. The scandalous thought very unlike him.
“There’s a spare room here. I stay in it sometimes after basketball practice.” He suggests carefully, not really possessing the patience to go back to either of your apartments. Fuck being in an uber with a hard on.
You seem skeptical for a moment. “You ever fucked anyone in it?”
“No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t really do one ni—“
“Okay, yeah.” You nod, teeth trapping your bottom lip as you not-so-subtly stare at his mouth.
He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. But when he kisses you, it’s going to be private. No people staring or interrupting.
So he pulls away. Your shaky exhale makes him smile proudly. He made you nervous.
“Come.” He takes your hand in his when you’re back on your feet and he feels giddy at how easily you comply, how you follow him, naturally clinging onto his arm as he guides you through the crowd.
You squeeze on his bicep with the hand that’s not in his to get his attention and he slightly leans down to hear you over the music. You point your chin over to the occupied sofa, cheeky smile taking over your face as you take in the sight of a perfectly healthy Giselle, laughing her lungs out at something Chenle is so passionately rambling on about.
Mark shakes his head with a smile, but mentally makes a note to later grill his friend about the totally fake throwing up incident. He doesn’t even say anything, just keeps walking down the hallway, where both bedrooms are.
When you both enter the neat spare room, he shuts the door behind him and sighs at the loud crowd and music becoming nothing but a background noise.
“Is this Chenle guy rich or something?” You ask curiously as you look around, inspecting the spacious room.
Mark lets out a quick laugh, eyes following you around, observing you. “Yeah. His parents are loaded. Pretty sure his dad owns this whole building.”
You nod with an approving pout and all Mark can think is how adorable you look as you fumble with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how it works. The second it illuminates, you let out an exaggerated gasp, your eyes widening and Mark doesn’t know what takes over him but he flicks the main lights off, surprising both of you.
He leans back on the door, resting his weight there, hands at the small of his back as he patiently waits for your next move.
“Smooth.” You comment with a small grin as you place the small lamp back in its spot.
He just shrugs, mirroring your expression as you slowly retrace your steps, walking back towards him. It’s difficult for him not to blush as you get closer and closer; his heart threatening to beat out of his chest again and again and he awkwardly lifts a hand to rub against his jawline. His eyes rake over you unintentionally, taking in the outfit you’ve got on tonight. It’s simple; an off-shoulder crop top and light-washed baggy jeans. Pretty. Easy to remove.
He feels hot at the thought of undressing you. What if he’s too clumsy? What if your earrings get tangled in your top? What if he accidentally pulls your hair?
“Are you just gonna stand there?” You speak tentatively, as though you’re enjoying the silence. You seem a lot more composed and calm than him. Not like someone who not too long ago uttered the words ‘I’m so wet right now. It’s fucking embarrassing’, but then again, maybe you’re always like this. Fluctuating.
“Where do you want me?” He asks, not intending for the words to sound sexual, but somehow, they do, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Composure slowly slipping away.
“To be honest, you look pretty good just like this” You halt in front of him, but still out of reach. “But for tonight’s purposes, ideally, I’d want you on the bed.” Fuck. “Unless you have any other ideas.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Dude.” He exhales a pained augh, hand covering his eyes in frustration. You simply just giggle at his misery.
Without him seeing, your hands are suddenly on him; one touching his chest, the other peeling his hand away from his face, forcing him to look at you. And he’s definitely not complaining. Before he has time to take in your pretty face, your palm is engulfing the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.
He’s not sure who finally closes the gap, his mind too occupied with the softness of your lips and the way they slot with his. So effortlessly. Deja vu is inevitable when your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer, and his limbs suddenly come back to life; the sliver of skin between your top and jeans so soft under his touch and so are your hands trailing from his hair down to the sides of his neck.
The kiss is slow, sensual, almost romantic and the little noise of satisfaction you let out goes straight to his already hardening cock. The way you kiss him, contrasts the demeanour you've held up until now. You’re going along with the pace he sets. You’re not leading and he wonders if it’s deliberate. Can he just do however he pleases with you or will you eventually take the upper hand?
He decides it’s worth a try by slipping a hand into your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can easily slip his tongue into your eager mouth and he’s rewarded with a low moan of yours, your lips parting for him, allowing him to taste you properly as you lazily glide your tongue with his.
He moves on autopilot, slowly walking you backwards. One hand still in your hair, the other hovering above your ass, keeping you close.
“Shoes—mph—off.” He mumbles against your lips before you obscenely lick into his mouth and he can’t hold back the grunt that escapes his throat.
It all becomes messy so quickly. His hands clumsily unbutton your jeans as you rush to kick your shoes off without breaking the kiss, both of you gasping and laughing as you stumble over your feet. You’ve somehow managed to turn the situation around and he only realises when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.
His back hits the covers with a push from you and within seconds, you’re straddling his thighs; bare legs on either side of him as you go back to kissing him. He surprises himself with the noise he lets out when both his hands grope your ass. Not just because it’s your ass he’s touching, but mainly because of the lack of underwear, and he’d love to comment on your hastiness but at this point he doesn’t really care. As long as he’s got you naked and in bed, he’s a content man.
“Take your top off.” He instructs in a whisper, and you oblige without a question, sitting up in a heartbeat and removing the last piece of clothing you’ve got on. No bra underneath and he mentally thanks the heavens. “Fuck.”
His hands caress your thighs absentmindedly as he takes in the sight above him. There’s something about the fact that you’re fully naked, while he’s not removed a single article of clothing. And you’re not rushing him either, patiently letting him enjoy the view, hands on his chest, ass directly above the very prominent bulge in his jeans. You seem comfortable in your nakedness and that turns him on even more, cock twitching in its confines.
“C’mon. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Your voice is sultry, patience clearly wearing thin as his hands remain on your thighs and he abruptly sits up, crashing his mouth onto yours. One hand holds the back of your neck as the other slips between your bodies, shamelessly cupping your entire pussy, the heel of his palm rubbing against your undeniably swollen clit.
“Fuck, you’re…” He’s not able to form a complete sentence, interrupted by the loud moan you let out against his lips.
“I told you. It’s embarrassing.” Your fingers thread in his hair, desperately pulling, driving him insane.
“It’s fucking hot.” He’s corrects, completely enamoured with the way your body responds to him. You’re literally grinding on his hand, seeking relief, kissing him like a starved woman, spit coating both of your lips as he sucks on your tongue, earning a cute whine from you.
“Feel like I’m dripping on your jeans.” You complain, breathing harshly as the pads of his fingers slide between your drenched folds, spreading your arousal, making a mess between your legs.
“Cause you are.” He whispers with a smug grin.
He purposely avoids your clit, in the mood to tease you as his lips drag from your jaw down to the base of your neck. His tongue makes contact with your sweaty skin, tasting salt, your scent engulfing him as his hold on your hair tightens, pulling your head back to gain full access to your sensitive skin.
“Please, I really need you to fuck me.” You murmur weakly, the hoarseness of your voice causing his heart to quicken and his cock to throb painfully.
He’s so fucked. Beyond salvation. And you’re so fucking needy. But he doesn’t want to give into you just yet. It’s his turn to torment you a little.
“In a bit.” He dismisses your pleas with another suck on your neck, your crazy pulse delicious on his tongue.
“Mark—“
“Shh. You can wait a little longer.” Two of his fingers tease your entrance, slowly circling, dipping shallowly before slipping out and repeating the action.
He almost feels bad when your body starts trembling, so he snakes his arm around your middle, holding you as close as possible. Your messy kisses on his neck are cut short the second his fingers ease into you, following the curve of your cunt until they’re knuckles-deep. And when he curls them slightly, your walls tighten and so do your arms around his neck, face burying in his neck as he starts to slowly pump in and out, making sure to repeatedly hit that spot that made you tremble.
“This feel good?” He whispers against your shoulder, arm tightening around you, the pads of his fingers almost reaching your side boob.
“Yeah.” You sigh, sounding wrecked already and that urges him to quicken the pace. He starts jackhammering his fingers into you, cunt greedily sucking them inside, your slick dripping down his wrist, smearing on his jeans and the sleeve of his jumper. The filthy thought of never washing his clothes again crosses his unhinged mind.
You’re both sweating unimaginably, and now he wishes he’d at least taken a layer off, but he pays no mind to that as your body tenses. “You close?”
“Yeah. Don't stop.” Your nails dig into the skin of his nape, most likely leaving crescent moons and he desperately needs you to come before he combusts in his trousers.
He starts slamming the heel of his hand into your clit, making sure you’re being stimulated to the max and your whiny exhale reassures him. “Cum.”
And you do. Body tensing up for a moment before you start trembling against him, the secure arm around you helping you stay upright as you gasp for air.
“Oh my god.” Your hips buck up, pussy spasming violently around his fingers as he fucks you through it all.
“You’re okay.” His knuckles caressing your spine, attempting to calm you down as your body gradually goes limp on him.
“I think I just saw god.” You mumble half-conscious, causing Mark to let out a little laugh.
“Did you say hi?” He steals a little kiss off your cheek as he slowly pulls his fingers out. Your shudder makes him smile fondly and he lets his fingers lazily caress your slit, before they gently circle your swollen bundle of nerves.
“You’ve definitely been in at least one relationship since l last saw you.” The statement catches him off guard, and he pulls back a little to look at you.
“What makes you say that?”
You blink lazily, sweat dripping down the sides of your face. “You found my g-spot. Real fucking quick as well.”
“I need a girlfriend for that?”
“Well, someone’s taught you.” Your smile is teasing and so is the light touch of your fingers on his jaw.
“Situationships, I guess. No girlfriend though.” He takes in your expression, heart beating a little quicker at your silence. “Red flag?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I just came. All your flags are bright green right now”
He mirrors your expression as he leans in, silently asking for a kiss, which you easily give, slowly dragging your swollen lips against his.
“Wanna keep going?” He speaks softly, praying for an affirmative response.
“Yes, please.”
He moans at your words, hands trailing up your sides until they’re cupping your tits, tongue sloppily licking into your mouth. The whine you let out as he pinches your nipples, spurs him on, and he squeezes the supple flesh a little harder.
“Can I just fuck you? Please? I promise I’ll go down on you later.” The begging tone his voice carries almost makes him cringe. Pitiful.
You let out a yelp when he flips you over, your back on the mattress now, and he can’t help but notice the way your tits bounce a little as well as the slippery mess between your spread thighs.
“Yeah, no more foreplay.” You sit up as he stands between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. “And take that stupid jumper off right now.”
He chuckles lightly at your frustration but obliges anyway. His jumper and t-shirt are off in one go and he quickly kicks his shoes off as you start unbuckling his belt, lust-clouded eyes gazing up at him.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He rasps as his hands join yours, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping.
“Like what?” Your seductive tone clouds his head and the kisses you start leaving down his happy trail make his hands shake.
You don’t give him time to answer, immediately shoving both his boxers along with his trousers down, deeming him incapable of thinking properly. Your warm exhale hits him straight where it hurts, his throbbing length twitching the second you wrap a hand around the base.
“Get on your all fours.” He instructs, tone purposely devoid of any warmth. He’s had enough of your games now. But still, his hands engulf each side of your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. “Or I just cum on your face and we call it a night. Up to you.”
Your smirk is sinister as you scoot up the bed until your head hits the pillows and you swiftly turn on your front, knees spread wide, supporting your lower half as you arch your back like a pro, tits squishing against the mattress.
“Holy shit.” He exhales in awe.
You’re on full display. Ass up in the air, cunt staring right through his soul, inviting him in, and who is he to decline such an invite? As though the mental breakdown he’s experiencing isn’t enough, you shamelessly slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your dripping folds.
“Markie, please. It hurts.” You briefly look over your shoulder with a performative pout, shamelessly putting on a show for him.
“What the fuck.” He’s lost for words, standing there butt naked, staring at your fingers circling your clit before they slowly trail up, catching at your clenching hole and easily slipping in.
You’re an evil evil woman. He decides right there and then. And the moment you start fucking yourself, he sees red, any resolve left, completely forgotten.
He’s on his knees behind you within seconds. Hand ripping your fingers away before shoving your face against the pillows by the back go your head. His cock slips inside easily, walls vacuuming him in and he doesn’t wait for you to adjust; his free hand grabbing your waist as he starts slamming into you.
“You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” He grunts through your high pitched moaning. “Been torturing me since day one.”
Your muffled voice sounds like a song he’s been trying to find for a long time and he’s finally succeeded.
“M—markie,” You sound like you’re crying and he loves it. “Fuck, it's so good.”
“Shut up.” His thrusts become more intense, balls harshly slapping against your pussy, the wet sounds of your walls suctioning around him each time he pulls out, sending him into a frenzy. “I bet this is what you wanted—fuck—to piss me off. Huh?”
“N-no — I just wanted you.” You mumble in your delirious state, and of course, it goes straight to his head.
His eyes focus on the way his cock slips in and out of your sopping hole. A white ring of slick has already formed at his base and he’s afraid he might finish sooner than expected.
So he buries himself to the hilt to take a much needed moment. His head dips back in ecstasy, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he tries his best to compose himself and when he looks back down, your droopy eyes are already on him, neck twisted as you stare over your shoulder, face half-hidden.
You look nothing short of ethereal. Your skin glowing in sweat, back still arched beautifully, eyes glistening with want and unshed tears as they roll back briefly the second Mark experimentally grinds a little too deep.
“Mark?” Your voice is broken, his name sounding like a prayer.
“Hm?” He leans down, nose nuzzling against yous jaw as he keeps grinding his hips slowly, relishing in the mewls you let out.
“Want you close.” You whisper into the pillow, a little whimper adorning the end of your sentence. Your desperation breaks him.
“I’m here.” He reassures you with a sweet kiss on your cheek. “D’you wanna change positions?”
Your tiny nod pulls at his heartstrings in a way that’s foreign to him. He’s always been gentle by nature, soft spoken, sensitive. But this is untouched territory.
“Alright,” He leaves a kiss on your shoulder as he pulls out. Gentle hand patting your thigh. "C’mon, turn around."
With rushed movements, you eagerly flop on your back and his hips find home between your parted legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs dragging against his sides, making him shudder as he slowly slips back into you with a choked moan.
“You can still be rough. Just wanted to touch you.” You admit bashfully, eyes blinking up at him, eyebrows tensing as he bottoms out with a loud squelch.
Your hand delicately brushes the hair off his drenched forehead, your fingers threading through the strands and the clenching and unclenching of your velvety walls cause his eyes to flutter closed —the intense feeling of contentment clogging his brain up.
It’s unholy. The effect you have on him. It’s fucked. It makes no sense to him. He barely knows you, yet he welcomes everything you give him. Gives into everything you ask for, like it’s some sort of ritual. Something predetermined. A done deal with the universe. Like he’d burn in hell if he resisted.
“Do you actually want me to be rough?” He searches your face for a sign, but he only finds conflict.
“I dunno. I’m confused.”
“About what?” He carefully settles his weight on top of you, arm by your head, free hand caressing your ribs delicately, barely cupping the underside of your breast.
“I um—I liked it just now. How you were. But I kind of just—“ You sigh in frustration, hips slowly raising for some friction.
“Want it slow?” He matches your rhythm, grinding into you, going as deep as he can as he awaits for a verbal response. He doesn’t need it. Your bent legs spreading even further is enough confirmation, but he wants to hear it anyway. “You know I don’t mind vanilla.”
His joke lands. Your breathy laugh, hard to ignore as it hits warm on his shoulder.
“Don’t make jokes right now.” You scold with a little whine.
“Why not?” He gives you a chaste kiss before setting a slow pace; deep languid thrusts, his fingers fisting the pillow by your head as he tries to hold back from giving into the sensation of your warm, gummy walls enveloping his sensitive cock.
“You’re literally balls deep inside me.” Your hands pull his face closer, connecting your lips again, small pants mingling as you kiss him as slow as he’s fucking you.
“Whatever.” He mumbles dreamily in your mouth, palm finally engulfing your boob, gently squeezing the soft flesh and he involuntarily delivers a harsher thrust. “Shit, sorry.”
It’s not his fault. Your pussy tightening every time he does something new, has him reeling, losing the little control he’s got over his actions.
“No, keep going, it feels good.” You kiss him harder, holding both of his cheeks desperately as he quickens his movements a little, hips lightly slapping against yours, the lewd, squelching sounds of sex, loud enough to echo alongside your wet kisses and intense breathing. “Fuck—Mark—you—oh shit—right there.”
“Yeah?” He pants, unrestrained.
It’s pathetic. Beyond pitiful how your incoherent but praiseful words turn him into a whiny mess. He feels dizzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling on your lips as his jaw goes slack, tongue slipping out a tiny bit, attempting to taste you in the hazy mess. His eyes roll back in raw bliss as your nails scratch down his back, arms trembling on either side of your head.
He feels helpless.
Your legs lock around his hips, only allowing him to pull a tiny fraction of his cock out before thrusting back in; quick short pumps seeming to do the trick for you both.
“Shit. You gonna cum?” He asks in awe. Your suffocating walls and trembling breaths a clear sign, but he still asks, needing to hear you as he looks down, taking in your flushed body. Your bouncing tits, a sight for sore eyes.
“Mhm.” You nod quickly, eyebrows tensing in a cute frown before your face nestles in his shoulder, your hot breath hitting his damp skin as he starts scattering a dewy mess of kisses up and down your neck. “Oh my god, I'm-”
“I know, I know.” He gasps as he puts extra effort in keeping up the same rhythm as your cunt squeezes him, his impending orgasm clouding his brain.
You go completely quiet for a few moments, before becoming a trembling mess beneath him and he knows you’ve reached your peak. He relentlessly pushes past the tight grip your walls have around him, desperate to keep your pleasure going as he starts fucking you harder through it, the cry you let out against his shoulder, a reward to his efforts.
“Shit—I’m close.” He feels lightheaded, breathing laboured as he tries to hold on for a little longer.
“You have to pull out.” You utter in panic, a thread of sensibility still holding onto one of you at least.
“Yeah, I will.” He rasps, hand grabbing onto your thigh, fingers digging. “If you fucking let me.”
“Shit, sorry.” You mumble in realisation.
You quickly unwrap your legs from his waist, the tremble in them still noticeable as he sits up a little, delivering three more stuttering pumps before dragging his sensitive cock out with a grunt, his release immediately spilling all over your pussy, a spurt landing on your inner thigh, a few on your tummy, while some of it drips on the comforter. He pumps himself empty, until he’s got nothing more to give.
You hold him close when he collapses on top of you with a tired huff, not even caring about the mess between your bodies.
It’s quiet for a few moments. Just muffled music and heavy breathing. Just your hands combing through his damp hair. Just his cheek squished up against your chest. Just his fingers tracing random patterns on your ribcage.
It’s only when his index accidentally brushes against your sensitive nipple that you whine, breaking the silence and causing him to breathe out a small laugh.
“My bad.”
“You’re good.” You pet his head gently. “Dude.”
He snorts at your mocking tone. A little surprised at how not awkward this feels.
“My guy.” He says casually, still a little out of breath, but joining the silly joking session regardless, and your chest vibrates under him in a giggle that makes him feel giddy.
“You got a really peachy ass you know.” Your unexpected comment makes him raise his head to look at you in question.
“Thanks, I guess?” His eyebrows furrow in a funny expression as his hand sneaks beneath your weight, playfully squeezing your asscheek, forcing a cute screech out of you. “I prefer yours.”
“Ah, of course. An ass man.” You state with a playful roll of your eyes. He likes it.
“Hmm, I dunno. I like your boobs just as much.” He drops his gaze to your chest in a very unsubtle manner. Intentional. An action which, of course, earns him whack in the head. “Yo, that hurt!”
“Stop being a guy.”
“I am a guy!”
“And for that, you’re suffering.” Your tone is sweet and so is your smile, but there’s an edge hidden.
“I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” He retorts, making sure to add some smugness in his voice, though, it’s become abundantly clear that you’re not one to back down. Your free hand sneaks down his back, nails harshly digging into the muscle of his ass, making him yelp in pain. “Ow! Watch it with the claws.”
“I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” You imitate his tone, mocking him.
“What kind of twisted way of flirting is this?” He hides his face between your boobs, nuzzling against the soft skin of your sternum as he allows his arms to circle around you, the gentle thump of your heart easing his nerves.
“Who says I’m flirting?”
Mark is aware of how oblivious he can be when it comes to girls, but he also knows a thing or two. And it’s the way your fingers scratch the back of his scalp soothingly that betrays you. Maybe even the goosebumps on your chest, just under the spot he kissed a few seconds ago. Or maybe it’s your legs tightening around him, holding him right where he wants to be. Could be the slight twitch of your hips under him as he moves to get more comfortable. Can it be the whimper you accidentally let slip when his lips start kissing across your chest?
“My bad, my bad.” He murmurs as he presses a wet smooch just millimetres off your clearly hardened nipple. “I must be losing the plot.” He continues, sarcasm intentional, and so is the light flick of his tongue against the erect bud. “You’re not flirting.” His words sound mindless, but he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing to you. And he’s loving your cute little squirms as his release from earlier smears between your lower halves. “You’re just being a brat, as per.”
“Don’t remember you being this annoying.” You complain breathlessly, back arching as you chase his tongue when he pulls back a little.
“Mm, things change.” He feels himself getting hard again, but he ignores it. He’s got other plans. Teasing you seems to have become his priority and you don’t seem to mind either. “I don’t remember you being this needy.”
“Fuck you.” There’s not an ounce of a malice laced with your tone.
A deep moan escapes your chest the second his lips wrap around your wet nipple, sucking lazily as his tongue licks obscenely. He releases it with a lewd pop before letting the tip of his wet muscle flick, forcing louder sounds out of you.
He hopes the remaining people in Chenle’s living room can hear you, discretion the last thing on his mind.
He lifts his body a little, creating space for his hand to slip between your legs. The wet mess even worse now, but perfect nonetheless, and he doesn’t hover this time. Two of his digits find your clit in no time, circling the same way his tongue circles your abused nipple. Slow. Gentle.
He can tell you’re still sensitive, overstimulated. But he wants more. Needs more. So he takes it. And you give it.
It’s sloppy, the mixture of both your essences making everything slippery and he feels the subtle pulse of your bud under the pads of his fingers as he rubs with a little more precision; your laboured breaths nothing but an encouragement. His mouth hangs open against your chest, lips dragging aimlessly, your skin covered in his spit and he can’t help but moan lowly when you tug at his hair a little too hard.
He really needs to feel you unravel again. The desire might as well be engraved in him by now.
“Can I go down on you?” He looks up, gauging your reaction and you’re nothing but hooded eyes and flushed cheeks.
“If you feel like tasting your own cum, go for it.” You respond casually, a lazy smirk forming on your lips.
“I’m an introvert, Y/N, not a fucking prude.” He mumbles carelessly as he descends kisses down your body, no hesitation behind his actions when he reaches parts painted in his release. He just licks it all up, like he’s done it a million times. And Mark realises he actually never has. Sure, he’s kissed girls right after they’ve given him head, but eating his own cum off someone’s skin is something he’s never explored before.
He greedily makes out with your pussy the second he settles between your thighs, tongue gliding gently up and down your slit, dipping a little when it reaches your entrance, your taste combined with his own, intoxicating him. The more he teases, the whinier you get.
You get so restless he has no choice but to wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down — one hand splaying just above your pubic bone to ground you, the other just settling for your thigh — and when his fingers pull the hood of your clip up, just a tiny bit, revealing the cute but, he sucks. Hard. Then he flicks. Mercilessly. And he keeps interchanging between the two, letting your sounds guide him. Hard sucks and vigorous flicks just where you ache the most. He doesn’t need to do much more.
Within a few minutes—maybe two, maybe three—he feels the quaking of your legs, hears the intensifying cries, relishes in the hard tugs on his hair and when you’re cumming on his tongue, just like he wanted you to, he’s moaning with you, helping you ride the high for as long as possible.
“Fuck, s—stop.” You beg helplessly when it gets too much and he delivers one last kiss on your swollen bud before climbing up your body again.
Your tongue is in his mouth, tangling with his before he can process what’s just happened, arms wrapping securely around his neck, as though he would escape otherwise. You flagrantly lick in his mouth, tasting everything like you need it. And maybe you do. He doubts you need it as much as he does though.
You don’t seem to have a care in the world that his chin is smearing your combines fluids on yours. It’s dirty. Filthier than anything he’s ever experienced. And he feels corrupt. You simply have corrupted him. Ruined him without even trying, like it’s some daily routine of yours. And he’s gobbling it all up like a much needed fix.
He needs air. Needs to breathe. But all he seems to be able to do is kiss you again and again and again, until you release him.
“Do you think we’ll have to wash the bed covers?” You ask with a sincere look of curiosity, albeit out of breath.
It takes a second for the random question to register due to his hazy state, but when it does, Mark can’t help but let out a weak laugh.
“I think we might have to buy new ones.”
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
It takes you a second to realise why you feel so warm when you wake up. At first, you assume it’s the sun slipping through the curtains and hitting the skin of your back where the covers have fallen off.
But then you shift slightly. Your eyes flutter open, looking for the real source of heat.
Mark.
He’s on his side, facing you, his face tucked gently against your bare chest like he drifted there without thinking. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy and warm, hand resting at the small of your back. Not gripping. Just there. Like holding you is something he does without effort — even unconscious. Like even in a deep slumber he’s decided you’re something to hold onto.
You stay still. Still taking it all in.
He looks unfair like this.
Sleep has softened every sharp edge he usually carries. His brows, normally expressive and quick to knit together, are smooth now. His lashes rest against his cheeks — longer than they have any right to be — casting faint shadows in the morning light. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed, the corners tilted just enough to make him look younger. Gentler.
Pretty.
The word slips into your mind before you can stop it.
There’s something almost innocent about him like this. No teasing smirk. No knowing glances. Just warm skin and steady breathing and a boy who trusted you enough to fall asleep pressed this close.
The faint stubble along his chin brushes against you when he shifts, softer than it looks. You trace it lightly with your fingertips, watching the way his mouth moves in response — a tiny unconscious reaction. His nose nudges closer, breath fanning against your skin. It tickles a little.
Your heart speeds up.
You hate that it does. Why would it?
You hate that it isn’t just physical. That it isn’t just leftover heat from last night. It’s something else. Something quieter and far more dangerous. It’s odd. The way your chest feels tight just looking at him. The way you’re memorising the exact shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek in the sunlight.
He’s too handsome first thing in the morning. Too warm. Too real.
Your pulse thuds harder than you’d like, and you swallow, trying to steady yourself.
This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s too simple for it to feel like this. You’ve slept with the guy twice over the course of two years for crying out loud.
His fingers flex faintly on your skin, tightening for a brief second before settling again. Even asleep, he pulls you a fraction closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away. Just like you did last time.
Your heart betrays you again.
You brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers linger in the softness. He stirs at the touch, lashes fluttering before slowly lifting. His gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep, and then it lands on you.
He freezes.
You watch awareness dawn in real time — the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. A faint flush creeps up his neck.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough and small in the quiet room.
It’s so shy, it almost doesn’t sound like the guy from last night.
You don’t answer. You just keep looking at him, taking in the softness that hasn’t fully faded yet.
His lips press together briefly before he adds, quieter, almost unsure, “Still here?”
The way he says it makes something in you constrict.
Before you can respond, he ducks his face back into your chest, hiding like he regrets letting you see that vulnerable edge. His arm slides a little tighter around your waist, pulling you in closer. You feel the warmth of his cheek against you — and then, softly, almost absentmindedly, he presses a small kiss on the skin between your breasts before settling there again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You should say something. Make a lighthearted comment. A joke. Something. Anything.
You don’t.
Instead, you tilt his face up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw. He looks startled for a split second, brows lifting slightly.
And then you do something that you shouldn’t feel that comfortable doing. You kiss him.
It’s soft. Slow. Not teasing. Just your lips pressing against his like you couldn’t not do it.
He makes the tiniest sound of surprise against your mouth — a quiet, breathy little noise that’s so embarrassingly cute. His hand flexes at your waist like he forgot what to do with it.
But he kisses you back.
Careful at first. Shy. Still waking up into it. Then a little surer, lips moving softly against yours, warm and unhurried.
When you pull back just enough to breathe, he’s looking at you differently. Still flushed. Still flustered.
Still holding you close.
“You can’t just do that,” he mumbles, even though his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your waist now.
And your heart, traitor that it is, keeps beating too fast.
“Do what?” you whisper back, close enough that your lips almost brush his when you speak.
He hesitates. You feel it — the flicker of nerves beneath the warmth. His gaze drops to your mouth like he’s debating something with himself.
It doesn’t take him too long to decide, it seems. His lips are on yours in not time again.
Not shy this time. Not startled.
Just slow. Sensual.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor himself. It all starts soft — just the gentle press of his lips to yours — but there’s intention behind it now. A quiet hunger that wasn’t there seconds ago.
You feel the shift immediately. The undeniable throbbing between your legs. Your breathing matching his quickened one.
His mouth moves more deliberately, head tilting to deepen the kiss, nose brushing lightly against your cheek as his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for permission you instantly give. Mouth parting for him without a thought, too excited to taste him. The faint rasp of his stubble grazes your skin when he adjusts closer, and you can’t help the small inhale that slips out of you.
He hears it, of course. You feel the corner of his mouth lift against yours before he kisses you deeper.
Your fingers slide into his hair again, nails barely grazing his scalp, and he exhales into your mouth — warm, shaky, almost reverent. His arm around your waist pulls you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, the warmth of him suddenly impossible to ignore when his skin drags against your sensitive and already wet cunt.
The sound of it — soft breaths, fabric shifting, the quiet press of skin on skin — fills the room and it all feels… different compared to last night. Unrushed.
Like he’s not trying to impress you. Not trying to prove anything.
Just kissing you because he wants to.
Your heart pounds harder than you like. Harder than it makes sense. You barely know him outside of dim lights and late-night tension and shared heat — and yet the way he’s touching you now, feels careful. Thoughtful. Like he’s memorising the shape of you through his hands.
No one’s kissed you like this.
Not like they could do it for hours. Not like it could become routine.
His hand slides slightly higher along your spine, slow enough to make you aware of every inch it travels. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, leaning into him, hips shifting unconsciously closer, grinding, looking for release against the muscle of his thigh.
He makes that soft sound again — the small, surprised hum you’re starting to recognise — but this time it’s deeper. Less startled. More affected.
The kiss grows wetter, heavier, until breathing becomes necessary. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes darker now as they take in your lips. You can only imagine what they look like, judging from his swollen, glistening ones.
The innocence of it all has disappeared as his hand travels down your back, settling when it’s reached your ass, kneading softly. Once. Twice. And then just resting there. Intentional and comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
You realise, with a slow creeping clarity, how easy this would be. To wake up like this again.
To fall back into this again. Into him.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Next time you sleep with Mark, it’s in your bed. The one after that, is in his bed. And the one after that, in your bed again. And the one after that is memorable because he makes you cum in any position you can think of. The time after that, he’s rougher than he’s ever been; manhandling you like it’s his job, fucking you so hard, pain mixing with pleasure, your tears blinding you, your cries deafening you, until his hand is around your throat, shutting you up.
It gets to a point where the nights (and mornings) you’ve spent together, blur into one. It all easily becomes a habit. Calling him, texting him, meeting with him between classes. It’s all normal. Like it would be with a close friend.
For you at least. You’re not really sure how he feels, but the fact that he’s never complained, comforts you in a way. Other times, it makes you doubt everything. You try not to dwell on those thoughts.
Random hang-out sessions, that turn into lazy movie nights, become a frequent occurrence between the two of you.
Much like right now.
“What the hell?” You exclaim all aggravated, sitting up a little from your lying position on the sofa. Your feet shift on Mark’s lap and you can’t see his hand under the blanket, but you feel its warmth around your calf, through the cotton of your sock. It’s comforting. “Is that it?”
Mark chuckles lightly.
“I mean, yeah.” He shrugs casually as he pops a piece of pop corn in his mouth. “Thoughts?”
“I’m fucking sad.”
“Aww, dude, why?” He sits up a little too, getting more comfortable so he can look at you better as the credits keep rolling. “They said they’ll meet again.”
“Yeah, but we don’t actually see that.” You complain loudly, making him chuckle again. At least one of you is entertained.
“That’s the whole point.” He squeezes your calf once. “It all ends before sunrise for them, hence the title, but they get to experience so much in just one night that they don’t really need to know if they’ll actually meet again.”
“Is that why it’s your favourite movie? You’re into the whole soppy, enigmatic love trope?” You tease with a smirk, loving his flustered reactions a little too much.
The cute roll of his eyes makes you smile wider, without realising.
“I guess we’re not watching the second one then.” He says with a playful pout and you can’t help the excited yelp you let out.
“There’s a second one?”
His eyes widen a little at your excitement, tiny amused smile taking place on his face. “And a third one. But I’ve never seen it.”
“Well, we have to watch them.” You catch yourself moving closer. His hand slips higher on your leg, just below your knee, the warmth seeping through your comfy sweatpants.
“Oh, we have to?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, making your heart skip a beat at his subtle way of teasing you.
“Yes, we.” You say stubbornly, refusing to let him have his way. “You’re the one who suggested this ridiculously sad shit.”
He stares at you for a moment, in thought as he spreads his legs a little, letting your own dangle between them, bent knees hooked over his thigh. You instinctively move even closer, one of your arms stretching behind his shoulders, against the back of the sofa, as your free hand starts playing with one of his hoodie strings.
The familiar scent of his after shave mixed with a hint of detergent engulfs you. It’s distinct. The kind that could traumatise you if things ever went south with him.
“Did you not like it then?” His voice comes out quite this time.
You purposely avoid eye contact, though, you can feel his gaze on you, and you have to actively force yourself to not focus on the way his hand caresses your inner thigh. It’s nothing but innocent, but that does something to you. It feels domestic. Absentminded.
“No, I did.” Your eyes are still on your finger twirling the string on his chest. “Just hoped for a happier ending is all.”
“Hmm, you can’t always have a happy ending, though.” He says skeptically and for some reason the words sit heavy in your chest.
You ignore the unpleasant feeling and force your eyes onto his. “When did you become so wise?”
“Tsk, I’ve always been wise.” His cute nose scrunches a tiny bit as his eyes narrow in a challenge.
You try your best to mirror his expression as you tickle his chin with your index finger. “Sure, you have.”
Your teasing gets interrupted quickly. A giggle erupts from you as he playfully tries to bite your finger off. His pearly whites making an appearance; a silly imitation of a cat making you act all giddy.
He’s too cute for his own good.
And so you give into the urge to drop a very sweet kiss on his cheek. Your hand cradles his jaw as he tries to pretend an escape.
When you pull away, you have to bite your lip to hide your smile, your cheeks hurting.
He looks away, attempting to hide his own smile from you, tongue poking the inside of the cheek you just smooched a little too loudly.
“You’re still so shy with me.” You observe quietly and his frown makes you let out another giggle.
“No, I’m not.” He pouts adorably.
“It’s okay.” You lean closer as he sulks. Another kiss on his cheek, this time a tiny bit closer to the corner of his lips. “I like it.”
“Do you really think I’m shy with you?” He searches for a reaction in your eyes as he wraps a hand around your wrist, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck.
You give in too easily. It’s too difficult not to with his face so close to yours.
“Not always.” You admit, as you start playing with the hair at his nape. “You’re shy, like, maybe fifty percent of the time.”
“Fifty?!” He shrieks with an offended tone. “Dude, that’s still high.”
“And I still like it.” You scold, arms tightening slightly around him as his hands rest on your thighs, still draped across his lap.
“You just like being a pain in my ass.” He states with a knowing smirk, and you can’t even deny it.
“See? You’re not shy now.” You deflect, enjoying the back and forth dynamic you have going on with him.
“Stop flirting.” He scolds, hand squeezing your thigh softly.
“Mm, no.” You cradle the back of his neck gently with one hand as your other arm drapes casually around his shoulders.
“No?”
“No.”
“Just like that?”
You simply nod. “Just like that.”
He nods back with an approving pout. “Fair.”
The second he leans in for a kiss, a dull pain in your lower abdomen reminds you of your state and you panic.
“You can’t stay tonight.” You blurt out. The surprise evident on his face as he pulls back.
“Umm, okay?” His confusion pulls at the strings in your heart. “Is something wrong? Like, did I—“
“No.” You interrupt him, before he can make things even more awkward. Arm still around him. “I’m just on my period. So, we can’t…you know.”
Realisation downs on him. Eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. “Oh.” He nods once. “Right.”
“Mmhm.” You give him an awkward, tight smile.
You could have cancelled tonight. Should have. But you hadn’t seen him in almost a week due to a stupid essay you had to focus on. And you hate to admit it even to yourself, but you missed him. A little more than you a friend misses a friend. But that’s another story.
“Are you feeling okay?” He asks a little too casually, but still concerned.
The way he sneaks an arm around your middle, is too smooth. It’s with effort that you manage to maintain your composure as he pulls you closer into his side, his hand resting on your lower back. Gentle and reassuring.
Your heart does something weird at the intimate gesture. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s the third day, so, it’s not too bad.”
He nods understandingly. “Okay, well…I don’t know if I’m being too slow, but why exactly can’t I stay?”
The question definitely catches you off guard, but you manage to stay grounded. “I mean, you can. You’re welcome to. We’re just not having sex.”
“Yeah, fuck that, I’m off.” He moves to playfully shrug you off, but laughs at the way you childishly whine, refusing to move, stubbornly clinging onto him. He settles back with a huff and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. “Y/N, I obviously don’t care. I’ll stay if you want me to.”
His voice is too soft. Too sweet.
You exhale loudly, feigning annoyance. “Fine. Stay then.”
“Ugh. Fine, I will.” You feel the delicate nudge of his nose against your forehead and, inevitably, you look up at him, still tucked safely in his side with your legs comfortably resting on top of his spread ones. “So, like, is kissing out of the question too?”
You snort at the silly question. “No. Kissing’s allowed.”
You’ve realised over time that you have a soft spot for his cheeky side. It’s rare that Mark Lee drops his serious stance, but you’ve managed to break through a few times now and each one of those has felt like a special reward.
His lips find yours for the first time tonight. The hand cradling your jaw shouldn’t feel that good on your skin and the arm around your waist shouldn’t feel as safe as it does. But you savour everything, matching his slow pace.
The kiss becomes less innocent with each drag of his lips against yours, but you can’t bring your self to pull away. Blame the raging hormones, blame the way he’s holding you so close, blame the universe.
You need him to keep kissing you.
The whiny sound you unintentionally let out, betrays said need, but Mark doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he deepens the kiss. More intent behind his touches.
“Come here.” He mumbles against your lips as he tries to manoeuvre you, and you quickly oblige, throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs without a second thought.
He doesn’t seem to approve of your hovering as he shamelessly pushes you down by the hips, encouraging you to properly sit on him. And you do.
He lets out a delicious sound, which you hungrily swallow as your crotch meets his. Hard length familiarly nestling between your thighs, nudging against your needy clit, and you’re glad you opted for a tampon instead of a pad earlier.
“Are you comfortable?” He asks, pulling away slightly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Yeah.” You nod as you allow your hands to rest on either side of his neck.
“Is there anywhere I’m not allowed to touch?”
You smile at the cryptic question. He’s clearly testing the waters, while trying to be respectful of any boundaries. You can see right through him.
“My boobs are a little sore still, so be gentle.”
He nods. “Anything else?”
Your breath hitches as his fingers sneakily slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, eyes silently asking for permission.
You give him a chaste kiss. “You can’t finger me, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not exactly what I meant, no.” He murmurs as his hands completely slip inside your bottoms, cupping your ass over your underwear, deliberately urging you to drag your hips against his, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your bum.
He devours your lips in another kiss. Heated, but lazy. Slower than ever.
Your tongues gliding languidly makes you unintentionally grind a little harder, allowing your sensitive clit to drag against his clothed cock and you feel your underwear slipping between your folds messily. He’s got you all wet and needy when he really shouldn’t.
“Fuck, I really want you naked.” He whispers in your mouth, hands travelling up your back, taking the hem of your baggy t-shirt with them.
There’s nothing else to do other than give him what he wants. So you reluctantly break the kiss, letting him remove your top before you rush to do the same for him.
Your sports bra is gone in no time, both your top and his hoodie are somewhere on the living room floor and the second your tits are free, he’s got both his arms tightly wrapped around your middle, biceps flexing deliciously. Your nipples feel extra sensitive as they rub on his skin; breasts squished against his warm chest, the sensation comforting and arousing at the same time, you can’t help the sigh you let out against his lips.
“Don’t really know where we’re going with this.” You speak all muffled as he eagerly tries to lick into your mouth, lips a little uncoordinated but you love it.
You’re more than aware of the double meaning your words carry, and the hesitation in his eyes when he pulls away, tells you he is too. You both seem to ignore the complicated side of the statement.
“I can still make you feel good, no?” His fingers splay in between your shoulder blades as his eyes inspect your face, lingering on your spit-kissed lips for a little too long.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls you by the back of your neck, his mouth finding yours in another wet kiss, lips parted wide as tastes you with a quiet hum, and you feel more wetness seeping out of you, drenching your panties.
A buck of your hips forces a moan out of both of you as your hands bury in his hair, gripping tight, searching for an anchor. You lean your head back with a soft exhale when he starts leaving wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. He licks, sucks, bites your flushed skin, tongue swirling on each mark he leaves behind, turning you on more than ever.
This is so fucking inconvenient.
He takes you by surprise when he licks a stripe from between your tits to your collarbones, painting your skin with his saliva.
“Ah, shit.” You tighten your hold on his hair and he lets out a little grunt that vibrates against your sternum, his quick breaths hitting your damp skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your nipples harden uncomfortably, asking for attention and he must notice as his hand cups one of your breasts, gently massaging the underside.
His lips find the raised peak, kissing around it, teasing you, forcing needy sounds out of you, and when he softly sucks it in his mouth, tongue swirling, you can’t help but grind down harder with a loud whine.
“Careful.” You whisper weakly when his tongue flicks a little too hard, making you jolt.
“Sorry.” He apologises with a sweet kiss between the space of your tits, and for a few moments, he gives all his attention to your slightly swollen mounds. Licking and sucking, carefully massaging them in his palms until you pull a little too hard at his hair, singling that it’s too much for you.
You force him to lean back as you trap him between your body and the back of the sofa. The sound he makes when you wrap a hand around his throat, exhilarates you, and you give into another make out session as you let your fingers lightly press on his pulse points, loving the effect you have on him.
You’re completely lost in his kisses and the way his firm chest feels on yours. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time and you really just don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just try to relax on top of him, arms loosely wrapping around his neck as you relish in the wet smacking sounds of your lips.
It’s his hand that sneaks between your crotches that urges you to pull away, but he holds you there, his other hand on the back of your head.
“Can I try something?” He mutters as his fingers slowly start undoing the knot at the front of your waistband. “Stop me if it’s weird.”
Fuck Mark lee and his persuasiveness. “Okay.”
You probably shouldn’t. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. And you normally wouldn’t let anyone else, but when Mark slips his hand past the front of your waistband, you let him.
He’s careful. No rushed movements as he holds you close, lips brushing yours as he gauges your reaction and your mouth parts against his when you feel the warmth of his palm, engulfing the seat of your underwear. He rubs lightly over the drenched fabric until his fingers find your clit, pressing a little harder, evoking a half desperate half surprised sound out of you.
You self-consciously wonder if he felt the thin string of your tampon when his fingers brushed past your entrance, but whether he did or not, he doesn’t really let on.
He starts rubbing you in slow tiny circles, the gentle friction making you breathe harder, fingers shaking in his messy strands.
“Can I touch you properly or is that a bit too far?” He must sense your contemplation as his fingers come to a brief halt. “I’ll stay here.” His fingers press on your clit, signalling what he means. “Won’t go anywhere else.”
You pull back a smidge, the need to look at his face getting the better of you. His pleading eyes, full of adoration, overwhelm you and you cowardly hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
“What if I bleed all over your hand?” You whine dramatically. The thought of that actually happening, too embarrassing.
He breathes out an amused laugh. “I’ll live.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t.” You joke halfheartedly, but inhale sharply when he presses against the swollen bud again.
“At least you’ll die happy.” He giggles at the warning bite you leave on his shoulder, playfully shrugging you away, but his arm around your middle holds you close. “You wanna cum. I wanna help. So let me.”
“Fuck sake.” You sigh in defeat, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “If you touch anywhere other than—“
“I won’t. Promise.” He seals it with an intimate kiss on your shoulder, making you shiver.
“Okay.”
He slips his hand inside the front of your cotton panties, quickly finding your pulsing bud and you instantly melt against him with a relieved whimper, the skin on skin contact already feeling a million times better. His two fingers send you reeling, making you moan in his neck, your jaw slackening when he speeds up a little, rubbing harder, more precise circles on the bundle of nerves. His hold around you tightens when you start slightly shaking on his lap and you feel dizzy when he starts flicking from side to side, bringing you closer and closer to a dangerous high.
It’s addictive. The way he touches you, holds you, breathes on you like he’s the one being pleasured. It’s all out of this world. Too good. Too mind-numbing.
“Mmph—f-fuck—right there.” You beg, all out of breath and flustered. His fingers keep brushing a spot on your clit, too sensitive, the pleasure so intense, you can barely handle it.
“Yeah? Feels good?” His breathy tone adds to the hot sensation between your legs, your toes and fingers tingling as your eyes inevitably roll back.
“So good, Markie.”
He grunts when your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder. “Fuck, baby. Wanna see you cum.”
“Oh my god.” You whisper with a tremble, mouth ajar against his shoulder, your saliva smearing on his skin as you struggle to breathe, to keep a little bit of your sanity intact. “Mark. Ffffuck.”
Your release crashes into you with force. A muffled shriek erupts from your throat, resonating in the silence of the living room. You sound broken as he keeps rubbing fast and hard. Until your whole body shakes in ecstasy. Until the overstimulation is too much to endure.
Your walls are spasming so hard you’re worried they might accidentally squeeze the tampon out, and you have to grab his wrist in panic, forcing him to stop his torturous ministrations on your abused clit.
You slump forward. Body completely spent. Weight dropping on him in surrender as your brain floats somewhere unknown.
The gentle scratch of his blunt nails against your scalp, helps bring you somewhat back to the surface.
“Fuck, that felt—” You pant, struggling to form anything coherent. Your throat feels dry when you swallow.
“Intense?” He finishes your incomplete thought for you.
He has a tendency of doing that. Understanding you better than you can understand yourself sometimes. Unveiling thoughts and feelings you didn’t know you were capable of carrying.
You don’t like it. The grip he has on you — you feel it most when he's not even touching you. When he's not even with you.
And it’s too intimate. More than you can handle.
You often feel scrutinised under his gaze. Especially in raw, unfiltered moments like this. It never feels transactional. Whatever you have with Mark. It’s never just about fleeting pleasure. There’s always something underlying but undeniable at the same time.
Something undoubtedly there, but difficult to define in your head.
Something you wonder if his complex mind has been able to translate into words you always fail to find.
SUMMARY: As an agent, secrecy is your second nature. After all, it binds your entire life together—going as far as your marriage with Jaemin. It shouldn’t be so hard to improvise, right? With your double life on the line, Foxglove just needs to keep her secrets… a secret. Even if it means pulling off the biggest lie of your life—except this time, without double-sized mercenaries, ticking bombs and high-security buildings to break into.
GENRE: Romance, fluff, action, comedy, secret agent au, doctor!Jaemin
WORD COUNT: 10k
WARNINGS: Cursing, suggestive themes, depictions of violence
NOTES: The second installment of my NCU series is finally here! My first Jaemin fic, inspired by Charlie’s Angels and Alex & Jason’s relationship. Please let me know what you think!! It’s gonna make my day!!
Agent Foxglove had spent the last two months tracking the key code’s location.
It’s the reason why you’re currently avoiding the spotlight at this pompous, extravagant fundraising gala at the most luxurious hotel of the city, where its elite is sipping champagne while idly promising million-dollar pledges to charity as if they’re not at fault for half of the country’s problems.
Barbara Lim is your focus tonight.
More specifically, the high-security key code in Barbara Lim’s possession.
As the head of a major hospital chain, she’s one of the very few women in the city with a firm grip on her business operations. Barbara is a powerhouse in a world full of men, leading the field with a long list of accolades to back her up. Still, beneath her polished, well-crafted exterior, lies something far more interesting—a direct connection to government-funded projects involving bioweapons and illegal medical experiments.
The mission is as cliché as it comes.
Since Barbara has full clearance to one of the most secure storage vaults in the city, all you have to do is to extract the right information out of her, then let the agency take over her unofficial operation before someone else beats to it.
At first, it seems easy enough.
It’s not the hardest mission you’ve had, and even if you’ve had to grit your teeth and fake-smile at a few filthy pick-up lines from men old enough to be your grandfather, at least you’re enjoying the expensive free booze and the silky, designer dress the agency had sorted just for the gala.
You spend the night watching from a distance, blending in effortlessly by mingling in between the socialites, making small talk as if you’d ever need plastic surgeries and high-society club invitations. Having scoped the security rotations, camera locations and possible exit points, all you need to do is wait.
As you sigh for the nth time of the night, Renjun mimics the action in your ear, sounding exasperated enough to tug an amused smile at your lips.
“If you’re that bored at a high-end party, imagine how I feel being locked up in here having to babysit you.”
The words make you laugh, your brain painting a perfect picture of your ever grumpy handler—part reluctant co-worker, part begrudging friend—hunched over the multiple monitors at the operations center.
“You’d get bored without me,” you tease quietly, still smiling as your eyes follow Barbara across the venue. “Remember when the agency switched seats and paired you with Donghyuck?”
“Please, don’t remind me,” Renjun groans, his dramatic eye-roll almost audible through the comms in your ears. “That was the worst experience of my life. I don’t know how Mark does it.”
Reaching for a flute of champagne from a tray nearby, you take a few steps to follow Barbara as a snort escapes from your mouth. “He doesn’t,” you deadpan, tone somehow still humorous. “Mark just panics while Haechan wings everything and somehow gets away with it.”
Ignoring Renjun’s sassy remarks about your peculiar co-worker, your attention is suddenly captured by Barbara and the young man she’s currently chatting with, a wide smile on her face as he acknowledges a pair of businessmen accompanying her.
Unaware of your sudden interest, Renjun continues his rant about Donghyuck in your ear. “Have I told you that he keeps asking why I pretend to not like him? As if I have to actually pretend—”
“Junnie,” you cut in, frowning at the scene of Barbara beaming at the guy, her laugh ringing loud enough it reaches over the music. “Can you identify the guy that’s talking to the target right now? The cute one in glasses?”
The handler scoffs at your unnecessary quip, the sound of his keyboard soon replacing his Haechan hate discourse.
A sound of surprise escapes from Renjun’s mouth, slowly skimming through the guy’s file. “Jaemin Na, head doctor at New Frontier Hospital,” he reads, a hint of surprise in his voice. “He’s the youngest surgeon in the Neurology Department. Apparently Barbara scouted him herself.”
You hum, eyes subconsciously narrowing at the doctor, still making small talk to his crowd. “What do you think?”
“Well… there’s nothing out of ordinary in his file,” Renjun starts, his initial skepticism fading while scrolling down the doctor’s medical and university records. “He’s got a pretty solid career, actually. Maybe that explains Lim scouting him?”
“Maybe she likes pretty boys,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne to mask a grin over the handler’s half-hearted annoyed grumble. “Keep digging for me, will you?”
As pretty as he looks, Jaemin Na definitely stands out in the crowd—but not in a way that you’d expect for a good-looking guy like him.
In a room full of people wearing fabricated masks for a show, the doctor seems to be the only one who looks discreetly, almost politely unimpressed by it all, even as the Barbara Lim bats her eyelashes at him.
Along with his boss, since Jaemin’s a good few decades younger than most attendees, it doesn’t take too long for you to notice other several lingering, enamoured eyes over him. The crisp, all-black tuxedo paired with the squared glasses does look heavenly good on him after all, an ironic contrast for a doctor.
Renjun is still listing the information on Jaemin’s file when you see it.
A faint, almost imperceptible glint of metal against the massive glass windows of the venue, just barely there before it vanishes into the dark again.
“Renjun,” you interrupt again, urgency now slipping through your voice despite the discreet whispering. “I don’t think we’re alone tonight.”
It takes a second before the handler’s voice finally comes through your earpiece, clearly confused. “What?”
“I think I saw something outside the venue,” you continue, casually walking closer towards your target, a chill creeping up your spine with each step. “Check the perimeter’s CCTV, please.”
You already know what you saw, but you need a confirmation in order to act upon it.
As your pulse quickens in anticipation, you instinctively follow the angle, calculating the possible shot with ease. In your ear, Renjun just confirms your suspicions—a sniper is set up just across the street from the venue, at a high vantage point, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The problem isn’t just that Barbara is the target, but also that Jaemin is standing directly in the line of fire too, unknowingly shielding the woman.
If there’s one thing you know about snipers, it’s that collateral damage means nothing as long as the job gets done.
The champagne flute is long forgotten as you weave through the crowd with smooth, practiced steps. Attentively watching the pair, your initial plan is discreet, carefully thought as to not raise any unnecessary eyebrows. Given you’re not the only one on the clock tonight, sending the gala into disarray is probably the least productive scenario for both of you.
The sniper doesn’t seem to share the same thought.
As soon as you spot the red dot flicker on Jaemin’s back for a millisecond, you can’t help breaking into a run, heart thumping against your throat.
Then—the shot’s fired.
Renjun is frantically calling your name through the comms, but the noise barely registers as you slam into Jaemin’s back, taking Barbara down with you. The three of you crash onto the polished floors just as the bullet cuts the air above. The venue immediately erupts into screams, the orchestra screeching to a halt as the guests fearfully surge towards the main entrance.
Barbara’s security guards are quick to act, spotting her fast enough to scout the woman away by disappearing into the swarm of panicked bodies.
Turning your focus back to Jaemin as you move over, you keep his body pinned to the floor as a second shot rings out, the marble column right behind you taking the hit.
“Stay the fuck down!”
The order sounds more like a hiss, Jaemin’s body tensing beside you, breath sharp as a deep frown settles between his eyebrows.
The mission’s already ruined.
Though Barbara is still very much alive, your chances of extracting any intel about the damn key codes out of the woman are clearly blown. After tonight, you know that her security detail will probably be tighter than ever—there’s no way you’ll get close to her again soon, as far as the agency’s influence can go.
“Foxglove,” Renjun calls loudly, the codename sounding foreign in his voice, yet laced with an unusual hint of worry. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“I know,” you mutter, eyes scanning the chaos for a quick second, gaze lingering over the building outside the cracked windows. “Do you have a location for the sniper?”
“That’s a problem for another time,” he snaps, his characteristic impatience slipping through a loud scoff. “The cops are coming, just fucking leave.”
Despite the chaos, your mind’s already running through contingency plans, not expecting an easy escape under both the police and Barbara’s security. Turning back to Jaemin one last time, his brown eyes are attentively observing you.
There’s something in the doctor’s gaze that surprises you—a hint of amazement? Confusion? Maybe annoyance, if the furrowed eyebrows are anything to go by?
Before pushing yourself off the floor, you shoot him a wink, biting back smile at the look on his face. “You should stay put, alright?”
Through the comms, Renjun exhales loudly, again leaving you to picture the handler rolling his eyes at your antics. “Are you seriously flirting with him? Are you purposefully trying to get caught or something?”
Taking advantage of the now empty back-of-house, you follow Renjun’s instructions through the quietest exit route. Given it’s an employee-only, no businessman or socialite would ever dare to set foot in that area, making it the perfect escape for you.
The clicking of your heels echo over the corridor, almost giving the moment an eerie vibe.
You don’t listen to his steps, nor feel his presence behind you before a hand suddenly reaches for your wrist.
“Hey—wait—”
Acting purely on instincts, you’re quick to whip around, effortlessly swinging your leg with a forceful kick against the attacker. It takes a second for Jaemin’s legs to be swept out from under him, the doctor crashing to the floor for a second time that night, except this time you realize your mistake a second too late.
A gasp immediately escapes from your lips as you meet the attacker’s eyes, only to find a certain doctor groaning on the floor. “Oh my God, Jaemin! I’m so sorry!”
Renjun groans in your ear, very much exasperated by another interruption. “What the—why are you talking to that guy again?”
Jaemin pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking at you with a hint of both disbelief and amazement. “You know my name,” he says, pausing for a second before huffing an incredulous laugh. “What the hell was that? You just… tackled me out of nowhere.”
Moving closer, you crouch down beside him with raised eyebrows, reaching out to fix the crooked glasses on his face. “Would you rather have been shot?”
A grin curls the doctor’s lips, his expression suddenly doing a complete 180 as he chuckles. “Wow, you’re really pretty.”
Ignoring the choking sound of your handler in the comms, you can’t help grinning at the guy, doing your best to mask your surprise. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” Jaemin hums, regarding you with attentive eyes as the grin on his face widens. “Also a little terrifying, but mostly pretty.”
Amused by his unexpected reaction, a laugh escapes before you can stop yourself. “You’re really funny, Jaemin,” you mutter, offering an apologetic wince as Renjun calls out again. “I have somewhere to be, though. Unless you want to end up in an interrogation, you should also—”
“No can do,” Jaemin counters, shaking his head with an easy, almost brattish chuckle. “You don’t get to save my life and then just disappear like that.”
You smirk, intrigued by his teasing despite the urgency of the moment. “Are you challenging me?”
The doctor only tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at you with a teasing glint to his eyes. “Am I?”
Before you can fire back, your handler’s voice cuts in again, his tone sharper than usual. “The police are outside!” Renjun snaps, frantically clicking away at his keyboard on the other side. “Just fucking leave, Foxglove! That’s an order!”
It’s rare for Renjun to outright bark orders at you, even as your handler. If he’s taken the exception of doing so tonight, then you know that he absolutely means it and you’re probably pushing your luck by staying a second longer. Still, despite every warning blaring inside your head, you just can’t bring yourself to leave Dr. Jaemin Na behind.
“I’m taking Jaemin with me!”
As you blurt the words, a second of silence lingers between the three of you for a moment before both Jaemin and Renjun break it in unison.
“What?”
“Oh, you want me to come with you?”
Their voices overlap in a comic contrast, one laced with a flicker of annoyance, the other with pure amusement. While Renjun sounds half-confused, half-aggravated, as if he can’t decide whether to yell at you, work with Donghyuck instead or start drafting a resignation letter, Jaemin just looks and sounds oddly entertained by your entire ordeal.
Taking the doctor with you is a reckless, dangerous decision—and if you’re completely honest with yourself, there’s really no need for Jaemin to actually run from the authorities or Barbara’s security guards.
Yet, something tells you that he has to.
So as you rise to your feet again, offering a hand to pull him up, a knowing smile takes over your face.
“Come on, pretty boy.”
As an agent of a private intelligence agency, being in high-risk situations is almost second nature to you by now.
A regular day on the job for you usually means slipping into new identities for undercover operations where Renjun is your only company, extraction missions that always seem ready to go sideways no matter how careful you are, and intel gathering in places where a wrong move can easily put a target on your back.
Yet, sitting across from Jaemin in his apartment, trying to skirt around a conversation about… whatever the both of you are, this particular situation somehow feels like one of the riskiest, most nerve-wrecking things you’ve ever done.
The thing is, while you’re exceptionally skilled at deception, survival and strategy, talking about your feelings unsurprisingly isn’t your forte—an absolute contrast to the doctor who’s always been ridiculously open about his feelings and emotions about you, more often than not wearing his heart on his sleeve.
You don’t even realize the turn that the conversation’s taking until it’s too late.
One moment, you’re having dinner together. Taking advantage of a rare break in between your missions, you’d caved to Jaemin’s incredibly persuasive requests to spend the night at his place, watching him cook as he narrated every step of his five-star meal as if a host of a cooking show. Now, you’re sitting on his couch. Holding a glass of your favorite wine between your fingers, the air feels heavier than it was five minutes ago.
That is, before Jaemin asks the question that’s been lingering over you for months.
“So, are we doing this or not?”
As you take another sip of wine, only half-pretending not to understand the question, your silence stretches for a beat longer. “Are we doing… what?”
Jaemin instantly gives you a look, somehow caught between impatience and amusement. “You know exactly what,” he starts, eyes squinting in your direction. “You, me, and the very obvious relationship that you’ve been trying to skirt around like I’m one of your targets.”
A soft, almost too heart-felt scoff escapes from your mouth as you frown at his words. “I don’t treat you as one of my targets.”
“It’s not the end of the world, you know,” Jaemin continues, ignoring your little deflective quip with a knowing grin. “We’ve been fine so far and I’m serious about this. I’m really serious about us, Bunny, you know that.”
The nickname—a silly callback to the time the doctor had shown up at your place unannounced, only to find you fresh off a mission and still wearing a Playboy bunny costume—draws warmth to your cheeks, a reaction far too uncharacteristic for a seasoned agent like yourself.
Despite his sweet words, you can’t help the heavy sigh, setting the wine glass away before moving closer to Jaemin’s side. The doctor immediately makes room for you, humming in delight as you cup his face, seemingly ignoring the more serious touch that the conversation’s heading.
“My life is anything but normal,” you argue, tone as careful as the way your fingers brush against his cheeks, holding him gently. “Nothing about me is normal, Jaemin.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” he answers, pressing a kiss to your palm as his grin widens, eyebrows playfully wiggling at you. “My girlfriend is a badass secret agent.”
“Nana, please.” You sigh, rolling your eyes before purposefully squeezing his face for a second. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?”
Instead, Jaemin just chuckles, pulling away from your hold to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “Have I told you that I talk about you to my patients sometimes? They think I’m making you up.”
Caught off-guard by his sudden confession, your mouth parts in disbelief. “First of all, I am not your girlfriend,” you chide, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. “Second, you should not be talking about me to your patients. Are you crazy?”
“About you,” he corrects smoothly, clearly enjoying himself despite your half-hearted outburst. “Don’t worry, I just tell them that I know someone who can take down five men in under a minute and still look good doing it.”
You sigh, struggling to hold back a smile.
“Jaemin—”
“What? They love it.”
“This is serious.”
Jaemin nods, the teasing edge of his voice suddenly softening for a bit.
“I know, Bunny.”
In the short time you’ve grown closer to each other, the doctor has grown awfully aware of the way you work. As someone who’s used to secrecy and half-truths in order to survive, vulnerability doesn’t come easily to you—it takes time, caution and safety. As annoying as it can be, this is Jaemin’s roundabout way of coaxing you into opening up.
“I don’t think you understand what being with me actually means, Jaem,” you say, your fingers now unconsciously tightening around the fabric of his shirt. “This isn’t some spy fantasy movie, it’s really dangerous for you. I know people who would really use you against me if they found out how much I—”
Jaemin raises an eyebrow at the sudden pause, immediately reaching for your face so his eyes meet yours. “How much you what?”
You look away, rolling your eyes. “It’s not relevant.”
With a teasing hum, he brushes a thumb against your cheek. “Hm, I think it is.”
A sigh escapes from your lips, a hint of mock annoyance flickering on your face. “Nana.”
Amused by your little act, Jaemin chuckles, leaning in just a bit closer with a smile. “I get it, baby. I know,” he answers, his voice carrying a touch of finality as if he’s made up his mind long ago. “I know it’s dangerous. I knew that when you saved me from getting shot by a sniper months ago.”
As you frown, your eyes immediately snap back to his again, though with a hint of uncertainty. “That’s not—”
“I didn’t finish,” he cuts in, furrowing his eyebrows despite the softness in his gaze. “You’ve trusted me with your life. Why wouldn’t I trust you with mine?”
At his words, your mind immediately flickers back to the particular night—one with a mission gone wrong and a knife slicing too close for comfort. Though you’d managed to escape mostly unscathed, the deep gash on your side not stopping you from finishing the job, somehow you’d still found yourself at Jaemin’s doorstep, bleeding through the layers of tactical gear and avoiding the agency’s questions and reports.
The doctor hadn’t asked for an explanation, not hesitating even for a second before ushering you into his apartment in apprehension and half-hearted frustration.
Jaemin had patched you up with the utmost care, cracking flirty lines here and there as a distraction to the pain despite his gentleness. As the rest of the night followed in a similar fashion, he’d simply waited until you were ready to talk. It was the first time you realized that maybe—just maybe—Jaemin was someone you could trust.
“I just… worry about you,” you admit, rolling your eyes at the tenderness in your voice, as if trying to downplay the weight of your words. “I don’t have the best track record when it comes to relationships, either.”
“Well, they weren’t me,” Jaemin counters, a smile on his face that looks both confident and reassuring. “Remember what I said? You don’t get to run away after saving my life.”
As your resistance falters, shifting into something fiery, a second realization strikes you.
Jaemin isn’t backing down.
It’s the first time in your chaotic, unruly life, that someone’s standing their ground—not just against you, but for you. The doctor’s stubbornness can rival your own sometimes, so it really shouldn’t surprise you that he isn’t one bit fazed by the danger of the complications of your relationship.
Maybe that’s why, despite every logical argument screaming at you to keep him at arm’s length, you still find yourself giving in.
A sigh escapes from your lips as you frown at him, his unwavering gaze growing triumphant. “If we’re really doing this, then you have to know that I won’t be your regular girlfriend. I lie to people for a living and I disappear for missions and—”
“That’s hot,” Jaemin cuts in, completely unfazed by your half-hearted exasperation with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, shaking your head at the doctor before cradling his face in your hands again, a little more forcefully now. “Do you really want this? Are you sure?”
His grin stretches wider, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in just a little, as if sharing a secret. “You think I’d turn down the chance to date a literal action movie lead?”
You roll your eyes, but the faintest hint of amusement curls your lips. “You cannot tell your patients anything about dating a spy, Jaemin.”
Jaemin hums, pretending to be in deep thought for a second before shaking his head. “Now, that’s just boring.”
Before you can reprimand him, the doctor closes the small distance by pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. Jaemin’s hands settle on your waist, tugging you closer until you’re smoothly swinging a leg over him, sitting on his lap as your arms close around his neck. As if sealing an unspoken agreement between you, he deepens the kiss, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against your hips.
Pulling away despite his resistance, you rest your forehead against Jaemin’s, smirking against his lips. “Okay, Na Jaemin,” you exhale, a teasing touch to your voice. “You’ve got yourself a girlfriend, then.”
With a flicker of his fingers against your chin, the doctor just chuckles, ultimately shaking his head.
“You’ve always been mine, Bunny.”
Foxglove has faced armed, double-sized mercenaries, defused bombs under pressure, retrieved classified, critical intel, and more than once broke into high-security government agencies and buildings.
Yet, none of those… activities prepare you for the moment your father’s name suddenly flashes the phone’s screen on a random Thursday morning.
As the only daughter of two very devoted men, you’d most definitely grown up in a home built on love and unwavering support. Alan and Andrew truly raised you as their own—the first, as a professor that filled your young, but scarred world with knowledge and imagination, and the second, as a military lieutenant that built the strength and confidence you’d eventually channel to become an agent.
Though you’d never once questioned how deeply they cared for you, there’s still a few traces of your past that keep you from sharing everything with them—maybe exactly because of their love and support, you can’t help hesitating sometimes, trying your best to keep them from worries and disappointment.
You love both of your parents fiercely, and they sure love you just the same.
That’s exactly why you’re nothing but an ordinary civilian, just an accountant graduated with honors with a nine-to-five job, living in the city as a young, single woman.
To them, that is.
As the phone rings for the nth time, leaving you to stare at it like it’s counting to an explosion, your husband steps into the kitchen with a frown on his face, though it quickly shifts to a delighted one as soon as he reads Andrew’s name on the screen.
“Good morning, Bunny!” Jaemin greets, pressing a kiss to your cheek before walking past you, headed to the coffee machine with a knowing grin. “If you don’t pick up, he’ll keep calling.”
You sigh, picking up the phone from the counter and staring at it for a moment. “I know.”
The doctor gives you a pointed look and you finally swipe the screen to answer, subconsciously schooling both your expression and your voice as if your father would actually see you.
“Princess! We have great news!”
Andrew’s booming voice echoes through the kitchen of your apartment, warm and familiar despite your apprehension. Even through your stress, it still feels good to hear your father’s voice, the nickname—result of one of your childhood obsessions—tugging a smile at your lips.
“Hey, Dad,” you start, raising an eyebrow as you try to keep up with his cheerful tone, Jaemin watching you thoroughly entertained. “Oh, really? What kind of news?”
The line hustles for a moment until Alan suddenly chimes in with a curse, his usual dry amusement laced to a quick greeting before continuing. “The kind you’ll have to pretend to be excited about, darling.”
You can’t help frowning at his words, your unease growing tenfold over the ominous tone of his voice. “What do you mean I’ll have to pretend?”
With an excited laugh, Andrew seemingly beams through the line. “We’re visiting you next week!”
Jaemin immediately chokes with a sip of his decaf.
An internal nuclear meltdown explodes in your head.
“You’re… visiting?” you croak, clearing your throat in a poor attempt to mask your surprise, heart hammering against your chest. “Why?”
“Why are we visiting? Alan, did you hear that?” Andrew chides, sounding nothing but disgruntled at your lacking reaction. “Do I need a reason to visit my daughter? A daughter that I haven’t seen in way too long because her job keeps her hopping from city to city?”
It feels like you’ve forgotten how to function for a moment, staring at Jaemin with alarms blaring in your head post the meltdown.
Andrew and Alan are visiting their daughter, one that they haven’t seen in way too long because of her very high-demand, all-over-the-place job—visiting their daughter who they think works as an accountant, living a very normal, stable life, having absolutely no idea that she’s married to a whole beefy, health freak husband while occasionally beating people up at night for her actual job.
As you swallow, scrambling for a response, the doctor just grins at your predicament. “No, you don’t need a reason, Dad,” you answer, wincing at how artificial the words sound. “It’s just really short notice, I thought you guys were coming in the summer.”
“That was the original plan, princess,” Alan explains, sighing apologetically on the other side. “I was asked to take over a summer course at the university, though. We’re really sorry about springing this on you.”
“We’re just a couple of dads checking in on your favorite daughter!” Andrew beams, the smile on his face almost visible through his voice. “We’ll be there for a week, so clear your schedule for us, alright? I can’t wait to see what your life is like!”
Yeah, the life you’ve been lying about for years.
A highly classified, off-the-books life that involves facing armed, double-sized mercenaries, defusing bombs under pressure, retrieving classified, critical intel, and breaking into high-security government agencies and buildings.
Also, the life that got you a man you’ve been married to for nearly three years now.
As you force something vaguely human-sounding as a reaction, Alan confirms their travel details with tidbits of small talk before excusing himself in a sudden rush, seemingly having lost the track of time to leave for work.
About to end the call, Andrew calls out your name for the first time in the entire conversation. “I’m really excited to see you, princess.”
Though it’s a little choked from both distress and fondness, you can’t help smiling at his words. “Me too, Dad.”
The moment you put the phone down, slumping against the kitchen’s counter, Jaemin’s grin grows wider. If the doctor didn’t look like he was having the time of his life listening to the call, maybe you’d actually worry about his feelings over being a well-kept secret.
Approaching you, Jaemin steps closer and wraps an arm around your waist to pull you up. “This is fun,” he starts, pursing his lips to muffle a short laugh at your expression. “It’s not the end of the world, Bunny.”
The familiar words make you groan, forehead falling against his shoulder dramatically. “No, it’s worse than that.”
Jaemin rubs a slow, soothing hand up and down your back, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You could just tell them the truth, princess.”
“Yeah, only if you want me to give both of them a heart attack,” you retort, a scoff following as you look up to shoot him a sharp, pointed glance. “Also, I am not a princess. Erase that from your memory right now.”
As he chuckles at the cute, sour frown on your face, Jaemin teases you by pinching your nose. “Don’t be like that, baby.”
You swat his hand away with a huff, crossing your arms as you lean back slightly. “This is really bad, Jaemin.”
“I mean, it’s not that bad,” he muses, brushing his fingers against your cheek with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s just your parents.”
“It is that bad,” you snap, an incredulous laugh escaping from your lips. “My parents don’t even know I’m married. Is that not bad enough for you?”
The doctor pauses for a moment, a glimmer of mischief still lingering in his eyes as he hums thoughtfully, hands now resting on your waist with his fingers tracing lazy patterns against the bare skin peeking through your sleepwear.
“Alright, let’s assess your situation,” he says, seemingly deep in thought despite the playful touch in his voice. “You told your parents you’re an accountant. They think you have a normal life. They’re coming to visit for a week, and in that time, you have to pretend to be a very boring office worker and somehow explain why your very sexy husband exists.”
“Don’t summarize it like that,” you groan, closing your eyes with a deep sigh. “It makes me feel worse about lying.”
He chuckles, raising an eyebrow at you. “What’s the worst thing they could ask for?”
You shrug, frowning at the unexpected question. “I don’t know, seeing where I work, maybe?”
As his lips twitch for a second before curling into a grin, Jaemin shoots you a pointed look. “So, you’ll need a fake office.”
A sound that resembles a snarl escapes from your lips, gaze hardening at the amusement on the doctor’s face. “Jaemin.”
“Bunny,” he mimics, eyes narrowing at you with a pout playing on his lips. “Think about it. If you’re an accountant, you need a boring office. We’ll throw some fake papers around, make a business card with your name on it—”
You scoff, begrudgingly amused by his proposal. “I think being in a relationship with a secret agent is getting to your head, baby.”
Jaemin just continues his spiel, shaking his head at your words. “—and Renjun can be your secretary—”
“Now that’s the craziest thing you’ve said so far,” you joke, chuckling at the thought of your fiery handler as a regular, ordinary office worker. “Renjun would rather babysit Haechan for a month than do anything clerical. Why do you think I’m always the one filling the reports?”
As if he’s trying to jolt you into agreement, the doctor playfully tickles your sides, snickering as you push him away with a punch to his chest. “Well, I think it’s a brilliant plan.”
Honestly, if you really think about it—it’s not that much of a bad idea.
Out of all the things you’ve done in your life, building a fake office to fool your parents definitely wouldn’t be the craziest point on the list.
All it would take is a call to the agency, cashing in a few favors here and there from Haechan and maybe Jeno. The agency’s got so many front businesses across the city, at least one of them ought to have an office to be borrowed for a day. Though Renjun would definitely laugh at your face for even considering dragging him into… whatever this should be, Mark is gullible enough to possibly play a fake co-worker, if needed.
It’s not exactly a brilliant plan, but… it’s a possible one.
Something must shift on your face as your brain plays out the situation, mostly out of habit than actual intent. Jaemin immediately clocks the change, unbothered and completely entertained by your reaction.
He watches you with a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You’re actually gonna do it, aren’t you?”
“No, I just… considered it for a second,” you retort, rolling your eyes before pulling away from him with a step back. “This is your fault!”
As Jaemin feigns a frown, his bottom lip jutting out in a dramatic pout, his voice drops to a grouchy tone. “What? How is it my fault?”
“You put the idea in my head,” you accuse, poking his chest with a glare that lacks any real bite, especially as your hand traces over the fabric of his tank-top right after. “You know that I’m crazy enough to agree with whatever you say.”
The doctor grins at the admission, pulling you into his arms again with a hum of delight. “Is that so?” Jaemin teases, dipping his head to press a featherlight kiss to your neck. “Isn’t that your own fault, Bunny?”
You scoff, fingers instinctively tangling in his hair, giving it a light tug. “Sometimes I really want to punch your pretty face, Jaemin.”
“Hm, that’s not what you said last night,” he mumbles against your skin, his smile evident in the lazy kiss to your collarbone. “Plotting a fake office visit and a background story for your husband. Iconic behavior from my Bunny, honestly.”
You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “It would be fun, actually.”
Jaemin lifts his head, eyes sparkling with a familiar mix of mischief and pure affection. “Say the word and I’m in,” he says, knowingly winking at you. “We can make a whole operation out of it. Operation Accountant Bunny. Renjun can supervise.”
You laugh despite yourself, offering him a half-hearted warning glance. “Nana.”
His grin widens. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You raise a teasing eyebrow in his direction. “I thought that was me.”
Without missing a beat, Jaemin playfully amends himself. “The second best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
As you roll your eyes at his little quip, the faint smile tugging at your lips betrays you. With a quiet sigh, you just let yourself lean further into him, the weight of the situation momentarily forgotten as his embrace tightens around your frame.
Your eyes are closed in both dread and confort as the question slips.
“Ready to meet my parents?”
Jaemin is more than ready to meet your parents.
As you sit stiffly in the passenger seat of his car, watching him sing along to whatever song currently playing on the radio, there’s no doubt in your head that your husband is thoroughly ready to meet your parents, even if you’re discreetly, controllably panicking inside.
While Jaemin effortlessly looks like the perfect picture of a trophy-husband—the simple glasses and white button-up combo working wonders for him—you’re looking the part of your fake life. In your best accountant professional outfit, the black dress is passable enough as long as no one notices the few faint bloodstains the washing machine couldn’t get rid of.
It doesn’t take long until he’s parking outside the restaurant, though you make no move to unbuckle your seatbelt just yet. Instead, you stare out the window for a moment, trying to catch any glimpse of either your parents inside the posh restaurant.
Beside you, Jaemin watches your obvious stalling with an amused smirk, his laid-back demeanor ridiculously contrasting against your own.
Turning to him, you offer the doctor an eye-roll. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jaemin frowns, feigning innocence with a half-hearted pout. “Enjoying what?”
As you narrow your eyes, the smile on his face quickly returns. “The impending disaster that’s about to happen.”
“You’re so dramatic, Bunny,” he coos, a hand reaching over to pinch your cheek with infuriating fondness. “A week ago I was patching you up from a street fight. Having dinner with your parents isn’t that big of a deal, is it?”
You glare at him, resisting to melt against his touch by pulling away slightly. “I hate you.”
Jaemin clicks his tongue, tilting his head at you with an arched eyebrow. “When did you get so mouthy?”
With a scoff, you flash him an unbothered smile, way too sweet for the bite of your tone. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”
The corner of his lips betrays a smirk before he leans closer, voice immediately dropping to something softer, a touch taunting. “If anyone can handle chaos, it’s you,” Jaemin starts, shooting you a playful wink. “We’ve got this. I’m a great husband and your parents adore you, it’s going to be fine.”
Taking another look outside, you exhale an exasperated sigh. The place looks nothing but extravagant with its polished floors and dim lighting, leaving you to silently pray that the news of your two-year marriage won’t send your parents into a meltdown—especially not in front of the high-end crowd.
Inside, your parents are already seated, their contrasting personalities on full display.
Andrew practically leaps from his seat the moment he spots you, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Meanwhile, Alan just looks as if he’s about to judge one of his student’s presentations, barely acknowledging your entrance with his sharp gaze locked onto Jaemin instead.
The lieutenant is the one to reach out first, pulling you into a tight hug that lifts you slightly off your feet. “There’s my princess!” Andrew beams, giving you a firm squeeze before setting you back down. “I was starting to think you bailed on us!”
Behind you, Jaemin chuckles.
Just like that, you’re not the focus anymore.
Andrew’s eyes are quick to shift towards the doctor, his grin faltering for a second before he sizes Jaemin up with an exaggerated squint. Alan leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses with a frown—not exactly hostile, but definitely the kind that can probably make his students second-guess themselves.
“Princess,” the lieutenant starts, offering you a side-eye as a sly smile grows on his face. “Who’s this?”
Flashing an award-winning worthy smile, your husband holds out a hand, smoothly stepping into the sudden tension. “Na Jaemin,” he introduces himself, taking your father’s hand with a gentle hold. “It’s nice to finally meet Bunny’s parents.”
Alan, still frowning, narrows his eyes at the nickname. “Bunny?”
“Are you a co-worker?” Andrew asks, his curious gaze flickering from Jaemin to you in visible excitement. “Are we finally meeting your friends?”
As Jaemin places a hand on your lower back, just slightly pulling you closer against his side, the words slip as casually as the grin that grows on his face. “Oh no, I’m her husband.”
Silence.
You watch as your parents’ brain short-circuits, nothing but shock on their faces.
Alan recovers first, clearing his throat as he moves forward on his seat. “I’m sorry—your what?”
“Husband,” the doctor repeats cheerfully, still grinning as he politely holds his hand out again, your father promptly taking it despite the sudden blow. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Andrew blinks at you slowly, seemingly still processing the information. “You’re married.”
You wince. “Yeah.”
The lieutenant’s face crumbles into something melodramatic. “Since when?!”
You glance at Jaemin, then back at them. “Two years?”
Andrew makes a choking noise. “How long have you known each other?”
Offering a guilty smile, you shrug. “Two years and a half?”
As he clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him, Andrew slumps dramatically into his chair. “I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting,” Alan points out dryly, watching his husband in a mix of exasperation and amusement before waving a hand at you, offering a wary glance to Jaemin. “Both of you. Sit. Explain yourselves.”
A single peek at the doctor’s face tells you everything—as Jaemin moves to pull out your chair like the perfect gentleman he is, you can practically see the amusement dancing in his eyes, thoroughly enjoying your parents’ dramatic reaction. Under their watchful scrutiny, he’s quick to take a seat beside you, a hand resting lightly on your knee under the table as a quiet, secret reassurance.
“So,” Alan starts, adjusting his glasses as if about to start teaching one of his classes. “Let’s start with the basics. How did you two meet?”
Jaemin leans back, draping an arm over the back of your chair like he’s settling in for a fun story, a grin stretching on his face again. “Oh, it’s a great one—”
You shoot him a warning look. “Nana—”
“You see, it all started with a little breaking and entering—”
Your eyes widen in horror as you whip your head toward him. “Jaemin!”
Andrew immediately chokes on his water, coughing violently as he pats his chest. Alan just stares unimpressed like he’s trying to decide whether he’s hearing things or if his daughter has truly lost her mind.
“I’m kidding, by the way,” Jaemin says easily, chuckling as his voice drops a tone. “Mostly.”
You groan, shooting him a sharp look before turning back to your parents again. “It was not breaking and entering,” you intervene, exasperation lacing your tone. “We met at a work gala. The company I work for manages the hospital’s finances.”
Andrew narrows his eyes, still looking very much suspicious. “Hospital?”
“I’m a doctor,” your husband explains, the revelation immediately softening the hard edges of your parents’ expressions. “I work at New Frontier’s Neurology Department as a surgeon.”
Alan raises an eyebrow, visibly impressed. “That’s… nice.”
“How about the fact that you’ve been married for two years and we’re just finding out?” Andrew asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What happened to letting your parents know what’s going on in your life, princess?”
“It just kind of happened,” you counter, digging at the corners of your brain for any passable excuses. “We weren’t really planning, but Jaemin asked and so I just…”
“That was my fault,” Jaemin continues, raising a hand to his chest with a half-hearted guilty chuckle. “I admit that I dropped it on her out of nowhere. I was lucky she said yes, actually.”
A beat of silence takes over the table for a second, only for Alan to chime in with a deep, resigned sigh, drawing all eyes to him. “Honestly, we should’ve known this was a possibility when you said you’d rather become a witch than having a wedding party at ten years-old.”
Momentarily stunned, you blink at your father before a laugh of disbelief escapes from your lips. “Dad!”
Andrew immediately lights up in sudden realization. “At Minsu and Anne’s wedding! You threw a whole tantrum over the flower girl dress!” He laughs, shaking his head at you. “For a little girl that loved princesses, you sure knew how to compartmentalize those stories.”
Well, turns out that’s a skill you can still master even as an adult.
Judging by the amused look Jaemin throws your way, he’s probably thinking the exact same thing.
“So, do we have any pictures of… whatever you guys did?”
Alan’s question snaps both of you out of your reverie, Jaemin’s face immediately lighting up as he fishes for his phone, soon scrolling through his gallery for the few pictures of your whirlwind elopement, witnessed by a grumpy but touched Renjun, a confused and slightly shocked Mark and Haechan, who mostly only attended for the free dinner you’d promised to the very short-list of guests.
As the night carries on, a strangely comfortable rhythm settles over the table during dinner, the initial shock of your revelation replaced by childhood stories and laughter with Jaemin unsurprisingly winning both of your parents over his charm and witty answers.
While the lieutenant repeatedly remarks how well-matched you two are, noting every little thing Jaemin does for you, the professor stays on a quieter note, though just as taken by your husband’s knowledge—even if offering a little sarcastic quip every now and then, Jaemin taking in stride despite your protests.
Whenever you catch his eyes, a mix of pride and mischief flashes across Jaemin’s face, as though he knows exactly what’s going on in your mind.
A few hours later, as you step into the cool night air to bid your parents goodbye with warm hugs and promises of an upcoming brunch, you feel like you can breathe properly, the weight of one of your secrets finally off your shoulders.
At home, you’re quick to toe off your heels with a relieved sigh, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension as Jaemin locks the door behind you, tossing his jacket onto the couch.
“I told you, Bunny,” he starts, flopping down to the cushions with his arms stretched over the backrest waiting for you to join. “Told you it’d be fine. They loved me.”
A huff escapes from your lips as you settle beside him, head falling against his shoulder. “Sure, keep telling yourself that,” you mumble, closing your eyes for a moment as exhaustion settles. “We’re never doing this again, by the way.”
“What do you mean?” Jaemin scoffs, mocking a frown despite the playful glint in his eyes. “It was fun, I had a great time.”
“You were interrogated, Jaemin,” you deadpan, lifting your head just enough to shoot him a half-hearted glare. “Is being married to a spy seriously affecting you this much?”
“They were lovely,” he counters, a grin soon growing on his face. “I completely charmed them.”
“You shocked them,” you correct, sighing quietly. “I still can’t believe how well this entire thing went.”
Jaemin hums, his gaze flickering through your face for a second, eyes sharp despite his easygoing tone. “What’s that look on your face, hm?” he asks, nudging you lightly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how quiet you were on the ride back.”
You exhale, fingers playing idly with the buttons of his shirt. “Have you ever felt bad?”
Jaemin tilts his head, confusion flickering across his features. “About what?”
“I keep you separate from a lot of my life,” you admit, voice dropping to a quieter note. “I don’t really talk about you to people. My own parents didn’t know about us for almost three years.”
He blinks at you, a chuckle escaping from his lips with a touch of obviousness. “You keep me safe.”
“I know!” you sigh, nodding as one of your hands reaches to cup his cheek. “I know, but… it’s not fair to you, I guess.”
The doctor leans into your touch, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I don’t need people to know about us, Bunny,” he says, shaking his head softly. “I just need you. Do you need me?”
You nod again, heart clenching at his words as your lips threaten a smile. “Yeah.”
“Then you have me,” Jaemin answers, a mischievous grin suddenly taking over his face before pulling you closer, pressing an exaggerated kiss to your cheek. “I’m not letting you back out of this, remember?”
As you roll your eyes, you surrender to his antics with a groan. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You know, if you really feel bad about keeping me a secret, you could always start posting me on your social media,” he jokes, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe an appreciation post? I have a lot of husband pictures, if you want.”
“I don’t have social media,” you note, your blank expression soon shifting to a teasing one as you raise an eyebrow at him. “Besides, I wouldn’t want people actually knowing how sexy my husband is.”
“Right,” he says, playfully nodding in agreement. “Let’s keep my insane levels of attractiveness classified.”
You scoff.
“You’re insufferable.”
Jaemin grins.
“You married me.”
Right.
So you can’t resist pulling him closer, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt as your lips finally meet his for the first time that night. The kiss slowly grows deeper as his arms wrap around your waist, though you’re quick to pull back before Jaemin tugs you to his lap, a peeved frown settling on his face at the sudden interruption.
“Why’d we stop?”
The look on your face only adds to the answer.
“You deserve more than our couch tonight.”
The first thing you notice once stepping out of the elevator is your apartment’s door slightly ajar.
To anybody else, it would probably look like a slip of your mind when leaving, but Foxglove knows better. You’d only been gone for an hour—just a quick trip to the market to pick up fresh fruits upon Jaemin’s insistence of eating healthy and giving your parents a deserved in-law hospitality experience.
Thoroughly used to your modus operandi, especially being the main focus of your safety measures himself, Jaemin also knows better than overlooking such a small detail.
The hallway is too quiet.
Inside, you can barely hear low voices.
Moving without hesitation, you drop the grocery bags at the doorstep, quietly pushing it open just enough to slip inside with featherlike steps.
It takes a second for you to take in the scene of your living room. Jaemin’s sitting on the couch, wrists bound by a pair of handcuffs on his lap. Looking entirely too relaxed for someone in a hostage situation, there’s a subtle shadow of arrogance on his features as he glares at the intruders. Across from him, your parents sit in a similar fashion, except their wide-eyes are barely concealing their panic over the three black-suited men watching them.
As one of the men steps forward, carelessly tossing a folder at Jaemin’s face, you can’t help the quiet, dangerous anger from simmering in your chest. The man takes a seat on the table across from your husband, exuding a kind of arrogance that makes your blood boil as he glares at Jaemin.
“We have reason to believe you’re operating under a false identity, Dr. Na.”
Jaemin just laughs.
Sounding nothing but amused, his lips curl into something dangerously close to mockery, sharp eyes meeting the man’s gaze in nothing but unbothered defiance.
“You’re even dumber than I thought,” he starts, a scoff escaping from his lips. “Not only did you break into an agent’s home, but you also think I’m the spy?”
It takes a second for you to move into the living room, stepping behind the men and hooking an arm around the shortest’s neck, yanking him backward in a chokehold. He doesn’t even get a chance to react before you’re slamming him into the shelves, Jaemin’s books falling to the floor with the impact.
The second man reaches for his gun, not fast enough as you reach for his arm with a twist, disarming him in a quick move. The gun clatters against the hardwood, a kick from you sending it underneath the couch.
The last man—the one who had been questioning Jaemin—freezes as you turn to him.
Alan and Andrew are gaping.
Jaemin, on the other hand, looks nothing but delighted.
The man suddenly lifts his hands, unmoving as you step beside him. “Wait—”
A single punch sends him to the floor with a thud.
You wince, shaking your hand as the impact spreads through the fingers. “Ouch.”
Jaemin lets out a low whistle, grinning at the scene as if you just didn’t destroy half of your home. “Yeah, remind me to never piss you off.”
As his wide eyes flicker back and forth between you and the half-awake man by your feet, Alan snaps out of his daze first. “What the hell just happened?”
Andrew just blinks at your husband, still lounging comfortably on the couch as if this is a regular week day for him. “Did I just watch my daughter just throw a man against her bookshelf?!”
“Oh, yeah,” Jaemin answers, nodding enthusiastically with a chuckle. “Wasn’t it amazing? I do think she went easy on them, though.”
“I’ll explain everything in a bit,” you say, throwing a quick, apologetic glance at your bewildered parents. “I just need to finish this before calling Renjun.”
Alan raises an eyebrow at the new name. “Renjun?”
As he hums casually, Jaemin nods as if they’re having an ordinary brunch conversation. “That’s her handler.”
Ignoring them, you step over the man still groaning on the floor, grabbing the front of his shirt before yanking him up to eye-level to meet your gaze. Tilting your head as you study the man in front of you for a second, your voice drops to an alarmingly calm, too relaxed tone.
“Talk.”
The man’s jaw tightens, his silence stretching.
You lean closer, the words shifting into something razor-sharp now. “Are we doing this the hard way?”
His defiance cracks a little, a flash of doubt crossing his face.
Behind you, an amused snort escapes from Jaemin’s mouth. “I’d answer if I were you. My Bunny’s not exactly known for her patience.”
The man swallows nervously. “We thought he was the agent.”
“Are you telling me that you broke into my home and threatened my husband because you thought he was the agent?” you ask slowly, unimpressed. “My husband, who just happens to be one of the top surgeons in the city, an agent?”
The doctor lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, Bunny,” he starts, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re the one with a double life, and I’m the one accused of being a secret agent first? That’s crazy.”
“You’re a government operative, aren’t you?” you press further, not resisting an eye-roll upon the man’s stiff, short nod. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The second punch sends the man into dreamland.
In no time, your practiced efficiency kicks in and Foxglove’s quick on securing the intruders—zip ties, a few well-placed kicks to keep them in line, clean and controlled. As you finish binding the last one, Renjun’s already on speed dial.
“Junnie!” you greet, keeping it as light-hearted as you can so it doesn’t piss him off. “What if I tell you that three idiots just broke into my apartment thinking Jaemin was an agent?”
The line stays silent for a second before Renjun sighs exasperatedly. “Are you for real?”
“Unfortunately,” you reply, glancing at the men scattered over the floor of your living room. “Can you send a team, please?”
“ETA’s around ten minutes,” he announces, his tone then shifting into something more focused, a touch softer. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you reassure, sparing a glance at Jaemin, who gives you an easy grin and a nod from the couch. “We handled it.”
Renjun exhales sharply, almost relieved if you trick yourself into it. “Call me as soon as they’re done with the clean-up.”
As the call disconnects, you finally turn to your husband, relief settling deep in your bones. You sit beside him on the couch, working the handcuffs off his wrists with one of your tricks. The moment it clicks open, Jaemin rolls his shoulders, twisting his wrists with a small wince.
Before he can say anything, you take his face into your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you press a lingering kiss to his lips.
“Hi.”
Jaemin grins, his voice sounding nothing but warm. “Hey.”
You sigh, hands sliding from his shoulders down to his chest. “Are you okay?”
“I’m peachy,” he assures, lips curling into a grin before taking one of your hands into his own, pressing a kiss to its back. “You look the prettiest beating people up. Also, your chapstick tastes like bubblegum.”
Though the tension in your chest is still to ease up, you can’t resist a chuckle at his unwavering behavior. “You really scared me, Jaemin.”
The doctor shakes his head, leaning forward to brush a kiss to your cheek. “You got here before they could do anything. I knew you would.”
The adrenaline’s still running through your body as you take a deep breath, moving on to help your parents. Before you untie them, you meet Jaemin’s eyes for a second, a quiet reassurance passing between you before you muster the courage to address the shocked silence in the room.
“I don’t work in accounting.”
“My God,” Alan starts, blinking at his husband in disbelief. “We raised a secret agent, Andrew.”
Andrew frowns, visibly trying to process everything. “A secret agent?” he asks, giving a short pause before a surprised sound escapes from his mouth, eyes wide towards you. “Holy shit, princess, do you kill people?”
Jaemin perks up, raising an eyebrow at your father. “Oh, that’s a good question.”
Andrew turns to him, eyes wide as he pieces the details together. “Jaemin! Did you know?”
Your husband shrugs, nonchalant as always despite the grin on his face. “The breaking and entering thing wasn’t entirely a lie,” he admits, sounding remarkably relaxed. “Bunny actually saved me from getting shot by a sniper.”
You turn to him, ready to scold him for the unnecessary details of your unusual first meeting. “Nana.”
As he winces, Jaemin offers a half-hearted guilty smile. “Sorry.”
While your parents process the second shock of their week, you move closer to finally untie them. “I need to get you two somewhere safe, okay?” you explain, making quick work of the zip-ties around their wrists with an apologetic glance. “There’s no time to explain all the details now, but I promise to tell you guys everything soon.”
Something in your expression gives you away—whether it’s the lingering tension in your shoulders or the tip of apprehension in your eyes—because the moment they’re free, both Andrew and Alan lean forward without hesitation, wrapping you in a firm, reassuring embrace.
For a second, you freeze.
Caught off guard by their warmth, you hadn’t quite realized how much you were bracing for their disappointment, or anything other than the soft, quiet understanding that settles over you now.
“We’ll talk later, princess,” the professor starts, squeezing your shoulders encouragingly with a nod. “Don’t worry, alright? You’re still our daughter, no matter what.”
“A secret agent,” Andrew mutters, shaking his head between pride and exasperation, an amused sigh leaving his mouth. “Jesus, you could’ve warned us before dropping that bomb.”
You exhale a laugh, a relieved breath escaping from your lips as you hug them back. “I know.”
Jaemin sighs fondly, watching the scene with soft eyes. “Man, I should’ve recorded this.”
Taking in the chaos as you step back—the bound intruders, the wrecked bookshelf, the lingering stress in your veins—you know that the day’s far from over. There’s a mess to clean up, questions to be answered and reports to be written, a lifetime of explaining to do.
Still, if there’s one thing you know for certain is that everything’s going to be fine now.
The smile on your husband’s face is enough proof of that.
The new apartment still smells faintly of fresh paint and cardboard, the last few moving boxes scattered across the hardwood floor.
It had taken you longer than expected to make the move—between your missions, Jaemin’s shifts at the hospital and the aftermath of your parents’ visit, life flew by a whirlwind in the following months.
Now, being in a new place means a fresh start with a lot of more space, brand new safety measures at every corner and plenty of room for Luna, Lucy and Luke, the latest additions to yours and Jaemin’s chaotic daily routine.
As you stack the last box of Jaemin’s books into the shelves, the sound of his voice easily echoes through the half-empty living room.
“Bunny?”
Turning around, out of all things you’d expect your husband to be currently doing, finding him kneeling on the floor with a small, pink velvet box in hands would definitely be the last on your list.
“What the f—”
“Wow, Bunny!” he cuts in, grinning as he shoots you a look. “Language!”
Noticing the ring sitting inside the little box, your breath immediately hitches. “Jaemin, what on Earth are you doing?”
“Well,” Jaemin starts, huffing a small laugh that almost sounds uncharacteristically nervous. “I just figured it’s time for us to do this properly.”
You blink, still caught between shock and disbelief despite your amusement. “Do what properly?”
“I know we’re already married but with everything that’s happened, I thought we could do this one more time,” he says, looking up at you with playful sincerity, a touch teasing. “You still wanna stay married to me?”
A laugh escapes from your lips, a mix of exasperation and affection as you take a step closer, taking his face in your hands with a fond smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
The doctor grins. “You love me.”
The words are barely a whisper against his mouth as you nod, chuckling at the way his grin widens. “Yes, Nana,” you murmur, fisting his jacket before hastily pulling him up. “I still want to stay married to you.”
As he stands up, slipping the second ring on your finger, Jaemin’s quick to press an eager kiss to your lips, expertly hoisting you up in his arms despite your protests.
SYNOPSIS: jaemin — gangster, but also your husband — really wants to have children, but you're not ready to become the perfect housewife and raise the family he wants to build with you. so, it becomes clear to him that he has to make a compromise and retire from the criminal world and, consequently, become your perfect househusband.
PAIRING: husband!jaemin x female!reader
GENRE: fluff, domesticity, established relationship, suggestive at times
CONTAINS: mentions of jaemin being a gangster, husband and father jaemin. dreamies and other idols' appearances. jaemin is a (dedicated) father of two. fluff, domestic scenarios, suggestive content. the kids don't have official names but jaemin calls his daughter "angel", and his son "bub/bubble". more warnings to be added for each part.
PARTS: part 1 .ᐟ part 2 .ᐟ part 3 .ᐟ part 4 .ᐟ part 5 .ᐟ part 6 .ᐟ part 7 .ᐟ part 8 .ᐟ part 9 .ᐟ part 10 .ᐟ (+ more parts could be added with time)
TAGLIST: OPEN
AUTHOR'S NOTE: jaemin is the most husband material out of all dreamies, and we all know that. girl!dad jaemin... it just makes so much sense???? the way he seems written by a woman (im wailing on the streets as i write this) he'd be such a good husband and father. this is a mini series and chapters will not necessarily be related to each other, and will not be in chronological order. inspired by the manga/anime of the same name. enjoy! <3
pairing: slytherin! na jaemin x gryffindor! fem. reader
genre: hogwarts au, fake dating (hell yeah!), fluff, smut, angst
wc: 34k (full fic)
summary: It's a simple deal: fake date the Slytherin golden boy to dodge his arranged marriage. Easy. Except patrols turn into makeouts, a Quidditch win ends in a very steamy contract violation, and suddenly your N.E.W.T.s feel like the least of your problems. After one badly timed confession, it’s clear he’s not acting anymore—and neither are you.
content warnings: slow burn, explicit sexual content (2nd part), miscommunication!!!, emotional hurt/comfort, cursing, alcohol consumption, reader is self conscious/bit anxious, heavy hogwarts canon themes obvs, slytherin/gryffindor dynamics, jaemin is lowkgenuinely manipulative at the beginning, mean slytherin stereotypes, avoidance as a coping mechanism. lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: ok this is gonna be a long a/n so bear with me. this fic genuinely almost killed me. i don’t think i’ve ever struggled so much to finish something in my life and it’s 100% my fault for being too ambitious. you’ll notice i tried to weave in more hogwarts details and brit lingo to make it feel more authentic, but as you may have guessed… i am not british 😭 so that meant a lot of googling, rewatching, and rereading some of my fav hp fics just to make sure i wasn’t embarrassing myself. i did my best okay (shoutout to every hp fic writer before me, yall are the blueprint). also: yes, you may catch a hint of draco malfoy in jaemin’s character and that’s very much intentional. i am, at my core, a draco apologist and i don’t see myself changing. anyways. i really hope you enjoy reading this as much as i suffered writing it. please let me know what you think w ur comments, anons, reblogs. everything is appreciated more than you know 🖤
“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Hogwarts had always held a certain allure, with its ancient stone walls and magic that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny. For six and a half years, you'd wandered those hallowed halls, immersing yourself in a world so far removed from the mundane that at times it hardly seemed real.
Yet, for all its wonder and mystique, Hogwarts was not without its dangers.
There were cursed objects that lurked in shadowy corridors, waiting for an unsuspecting student to stumble upon them. Staircases that shifted without warning, leaving the unwary stranded or, worse, deposited in some unknown part of the castle. The Whomping Willow that stood sentinel on the grounds, its gnarled branches poised to strike at any who ventured too close. Even Peeves the Poltergeist roamed the halls, cackling with malicious glee as he wreaked havoc and sowed chaos in his wake.
In the face of such peril, you had thus far emerged unscathed, a feat that was nothing short of remarkable given the castle's rather alarming mortality rate. You attributed your survival to a simple yet effective strategy: be invisible, be boring, and for the love of Merlin, stay away from anyone interesting.
Interesting people, you had learned, were magnets for trouble. They ended up in the hospital wing with alarming regularity, usually victims of rogue hexes or potions experiments gone awry. They attracted drama the way honey attracted flies, their lives a constant whirlwind of rumor and intrigue. Interesting people had complicated social lives, with networks of friends and enemies and romantic entanglements that required constant upkeep.
You, on the other hand, were perfectly content with your quiet, unassuming existence. You had one close friend, one beloved cat, and a comfortable routine that rarely demanded more of you than attending classes and avoiding human interaction as much as possible. It wasn't a particularly exciting life, but it was safe and predictable and suited you just fine.
At least, it had until this particular moment, when your sole friend had apparently taken complete leave of her senses.
"Are you having some sort of episode?" You peered at Jo over the top of your book, brow furrowed in concern. "Should I fetch Madam Pomfrey? Is this what happens when you inhale too many potion fumes?"
Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff. "Please!" she wheedled, her voice climbing to that particular pitch that never boded well. "Please please please, I swear on Merlin's saggy ba—"
You held up a finger, cutting her off before she could complete that thought. "I'm going to stop you right there..."
"I'll never ask you for anything ever again!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. "I'll do your Potions essays for a month! I'll clean Whiskers' litter box! I'll—"
"I don't think you heard me the first time," you interrupted, fixing her with a pointed stare. "Are. You. Mental?"
The Gryffindor common room was mercifully empty save for the portrait of a tongue-less lady, who watched your exchange with rapt attention. Having gotten her tongue cut out in 1642 for "seditious gossip", the painted woman had developed a keen appreciation for drama in all its forms. Judging by the way she clutched at her pearls, this was the most excitement she'd witnessed in decades. Whiskers was curled up in your lap, observing your best friend with as much judgement as you probably were.
"Come ooon," Jo cajoled, undeterred by your apparent lack of enthusiasm. "When do I ever do things like this? You're always telling me to try new things!"
"I meant take up knitting! Join the Gobstones Club! I did not mean sneak out of the castle in the middle of the night to meet some potentially lycanthropic stranger you've been corresponding with!"
"He's not a stranger, I've been writing to him for months—"
"Which is exactly what every person who's ever been murdered by a pen pal has said—"
"And he's not a werewolf, he's perfectly lovely! I saw him in Hogsmeade last month, I just couldn't say hello because McGonagall was watching me like a hawk."
"Seeing someone from a distance hardly counts as a proper introduction," you argued, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as if to punctuate your point.
This was the problem with having just one close friend. You knew Jo too well, could read her every expression and intonation better than anyone else. That gleam in her eye, the set of her chin, the way she twisted her fingers in her lap - you recognized the signs of a course already plotted, a decision already made. She would go through with this mad scheme with or without your help, and if you refused, she'd likely end up dead in a ditch somewhere and you'd be left to drown in guilt for the rest of your days.
Guilt, you thought grimly, was a most effective motivator.
With a weary sigh, you closed your book and met Jo's hopeful gaze. "Fine. Fine. What exactly do you need me to do?"
Jo's answering grin could have lit up the entirety of the Great Hall. "Just swap patrol shifts with Sophie Crockett tomorrow night? She's an absolute nightmare, and if she catches me out after curfew she'll go straight to McGonagall."
You could feel a headache blooming behind your eyes. "And when Sophie asks why I'm suddenly so eager to take on the worst patrol slot in existence?"
"Just make something up! She's not going to turn down a chance to skive off for an evening, is she?"
Rubbing your temples, you silently cursed the fickle twists of fate that had led you to this moment. "And the other prefects? I'll still have to deal with them, you know."
Jo waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you're all right. The only other one scheduled is Na Jaemin, and everyone knows he never actually patrols. Just goes and snogs girls in the library all night, doesn't he?"
You raised an incredulous eyebrow. "How would you know that?"
"Everyone knows," Jo said with a shrug. "It's common knowledge."
"Well, I didn't know."
"That's because you never pay attention to gossip," Jo pointed out, flopping down beside you on the couch. "Honestly, you're missing out on prime entertainment. Anyway, I'm sure Jaemin's got better things to do than patrol corridors. You'll probably have the place to yourself.”
You made a noncommittal sound, trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin and his extracurricular activities.
It was funny, really. Or rather more like cosmically ironic. First and second year, Jaemin had been an absolute pest. Always lurking around corners, waiting to charm your bag so your books would spill everywhere, or jinx your quill during tests so it would only write rude limericks. He’d found you endlessly amusing, apparently, a never-ending source of entertainment. You’d gone to bed countless nights fuming, plotting revenge you’d never actually carry out, wishing he’d just leave you alone.
And then, somewhere around third year, he just stopped. He stopped seeking you out, or looking at you entirely. As if you’d ceased to exist the moment you stopped being fun to torment.
By fourth year, he’d transformed into a whole different person entirely. Suddenly he was all smoldering glances and that insufferable “playboy” swagger, a different girl on his arm every week. Too cool for pranks and too sophisticated for something as juvenile as tormenting students. He’d become exactly the sort of person you’d made it your mission to avoid: interesting, magnetic, drowning in attention and drama.
You supposed you should have been relieved. You’d wanted him to leave you alone, after all. But there was something particularly galling about being so thoroughly dismissed, about going from his favorite target to utterly beneath his notice. At least when he’d been pulling pranks, you’d existed to him.
Now you were just… nobody. Which was exactly what you’d wanted, you reminded yourself firmly. Exactly what you’d worked so hard to achieve.
“You’re probably right,” you said to Jo, pushing thoughts of Jaemin firmly out of your mind. “I’ll probably have the whole patrol to myself.”
Privately, you rather doubted that. In your experience, the universe had a way of placing you in the path of people and situations you'd much rather avoid. Still, Jo was clearly determined to see her plan through, and short of physically restraining her (a tempting prospect, but ultimately impractical), you saw no way to dissuade her.
"Fine," you said again. "I'll take Sophie's patrol. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster."
"You're the best." Jo pulled you into a rib-cracking hug, her hair tickling your nose. "Seriously, I owe you one."
"You owe me several," you grumbled, but you returned the hug all the same.
Later that night, as you lay in bed listening to the soft snores of your dormmates, you tried to ignore the sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Rationally, you knew the odds of anything truly catastrophic happening were slim. It was just one night, one patrol, one tiny favor for your best friend. Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel as to upend your careful, boring routine over something so trivial.
But then, you thought wryly, life did seem to have a twisted sense of humor where you were concerned.
With a sigh, you rolled over and buried your face in your pillow, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, all you could do was hope that, just this once, the cosmic forces that governed your life would decide to give you a break.
Poorly planned rule-breaking never worked out the way you expected it to.
There was the first year incident, for instance, involving a misplaced curiosity about the Restricted Section and a borrowed invisibility cloak that was, crucially, not yours. You’d lasted exactly twelve minutes before knocking over a stack of cursed folios and alerting Madam Pince.
Second year had been defined by an ill-advised attempt to brew Pepper-Up Potion in a bathroom sink, resulting in steam, screaming, and a week-long ban from practical spellwork. Jo still insisted it would have worked if you’d stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise. You maintained that the problem was attempting potion-making in plumbing never designed for magic.
After those things, you'd like to say you saw the impending disaster coming from a mile away, but honestly? You were too preoccupied with figuring out how to convince Sophie Crockett to swap shifts without making her suspicious.
As it turned out, Sophie was pathetically easy to persuade. You caught her after Charms, mentioned something vague about "wanting to study for the Divination exam in the morning" (there was no Divination exam, but Sophie didn't take Divination, so she was none the wiser), and she agreed immediately, no questions asked. Just a breezy "Oh, thank Merlin, I've got an Astronomy essay I haven't even started" and that was that.
In hindsight, that should have been your first warning sign. When things fell into place too smoothly, it usually meant the universe was just winding up for a truly spectacular cosmic sucker punch.
At nine sharp on Saturday you pinned your prefect badge to your robes and made your way down to the Entrance Hall, silently cursing your inability to say no to Jo's puppy dog eyes.
The castle took on a different character at night. Not peaceful, exactly. More... haunting. The portraits whispered conspiratorially as you passed, and the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and deepen weirdly. You'd walked these corridors countless times before, but they never quite lost their eerie quality after dark.
You were supposed to meet Jaemin at the main staircase to divvy up patrol routes. But in theory, if the rumors about his extracurricular activities were true, you'd never actually know have to interact with him at all.
That was the theory, anyway.
The reality was that when you arrived at the designated meeting spot, Na Jaemin was already there, leaning against the banister and looking distinctly un-snog-ready.
Jaemin was the sort of boy who looked like he was born in moonlight and named by a poet. Even in the sallow torchlight, his hair glowed, silver-gold and a little too long for regulation. There was always something quietly triumphant in the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his smile, as if every corridor was a stage and every passing student a captive audience.
You stopped short, your feet suddenly rooted to the spot. Some ancient, reflexive part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to flee, to avoid him the way you’d been so carefully avoiding him for the past four years. The last time you’d been alone with Na Jaemin you’d been twelve years old and he’d been too entertained by your mortification to let you escape.
Now you were seventeen, and he was looking at you with an expression that was completely different and all too intense. He was supposed to be off in some secluded corner of the library, doing unspeakable things with whatever girl was lucky enough to be on his arm that week. He was absolutely not supposed to be here, looking alert and purposeful and like he was actually planning to do his job.
Even more concerning, he looked annoyed.
"You're the Gryffindor prefect," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question.
"...Yes?" Really, what else could you say?
"Where's Crockett?"
"We swapped shifts."
His eyes, a rather striking shade of dark brown that you'd never had occasion to notice before, narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
"Does it matter?"
He closed his eyes briefly, and you got the distinct impression he was counting to ten in his head. When he opened them again, he fixed you with a look that could have flash-frozen a cup of tea. "I needed Crockett on duty tonight."
Well. That was... odd. Extremely odd. Highly, suspiciously odd. Why would Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general too-cool-for-this-nonsense type, care which prefect was patrolling with him?
"Well," you said, channeling every ounce of polite defiance you possessed, "we've already swapped, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Unless you've got a Time-Turner hidden somewhere, which would be highly illegal, so I'm going to assume you don't."
Jaemin's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "This is—" He stopped himself, visibly recalibrating. "Fine. Right. You take floors three through five then. I'll handle the lower levels and the grounds."
And that's when your brain, which had been operating at half capacity due to stress and sleep deprivation, finally caught up with the situation.
The grounds.
Jaemin wanted to patrol the grounds.
The same grounds where, at this very moment, your best friend was likely rendezvousing with her mystery man.
Oh no.
"Actually," you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out in a slightly manic rush, "I was rather hoping to get some fresh air tonight. Bit stuffy in the castle, you know. Mind if we swap? You take the upper floors, I'll do the grounds."
His expression shuttered faster than a shop window in Knockturn Alley. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"Well, that's not very cooperative of you," you said, mentally calculating how quickly you could sprint to the grounds to warn Jo. "Aren't prefects supposed to work as a team?"
Jaemin raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why so keen on the grounds all of a sudden?"
"No reason." Your voice came out at least an octave higher than usual. "Just thought it would be nice to get some air. Lovely night for a stroll, don't you think?"
"You're an atrocious liar," he informed you, taking a step closer. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that he was quite a bit taller than you, and that the height difference was doing absolutely nothing to bolster your confidence in this situation. "What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Of course not. And I suppose you just happened to swap shifts with Crockett tonight for no particular reason, and now you're coincidentally desperate to patrol the grounds."
Okay. This was getting out of control. You needed him. away from the grounds, away from Jo, away from this entire situation. And there was only one thing you could think of that might actually work.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”
“You know.” You waved a hand vaguely, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s Saturday night. I just thought you might have… plans.”
“Plans,” he repeated flatly.
“Yeah, well… You don’t actually patrol on Saturdays.” The words came out in a rush, ungraceful and desperate. “So if you want to go do whatever it is you usually do, I can handle this. Really. You don’t have to—”
“Whatever it is I usually do,” Jaemin said, his lips twitching. “And what exactly do you think that is?”
Oh god. Why had you started this?
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of your schedule.”
“Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be standing here trying to… what? Give me permission to skive off?” He was definitely smiling now, the bastard. “How thoughtful of you.”
“I’m just saying, if you have other commitments—”
He laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it? Commitments?”
Your face was absolutely burning now. “Look, what you do with your time is none of my business.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Because I’m trying to be helpful!” You gestured wildly at the empty entrance hall. “The library’s right there. I’m sure whoever you’re supposed to meet would appreciate you actually showing up—”
“Ah.” Jaemin’s grin widened, showing teeth. “You think I’m supposed to meet someone in the library.”
“That’s what people say,” you muttered, unable to meet his eyes.
“People say a lot of things.” He leaned back against the banister, looking thoroughly entertained now. “And you believe all of them?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Tell me, what else does everyone say about me? I’m curious.”
This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. “Forget I said anything.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so.” He pushed off the banister, taking a step closer. “You started it. Come on, don’t be shy now. What exactly are these Saturday night activities I’m supposedly abandoning patrol for?”
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “You already know what people say.”
“I do. But I want to hear you say it.” His eyes were dancing with so much glee. “Go on. Don’t spare my delicate sensibilities.”
“This is ridiculous—”
“Go on.”
You took a breath, lifted your chin, and forced the words out with as much dignity as you could muster. “Fine. People say you spend your patrol shifts in the library doing…things.”
“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He was enjoying this far too much, the absolute prat. “They say you… meet girls there.”
“Meet girls,” he said thoughtfully. “Like a book club?”
“Not like a book club,” you gritted out.
“Then what?”
You threw your hands up. “They say you snog girls in the library instead of doing your prefect duties! There! Are you happy?”
Jaemin laughed. “Merlin’s beard, is that it?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“And you believed it?” He shook his head, still grinning. “That’s adorable, really.”
“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.
“Well, you are when you’re trying to delicately inform me about my own scandalous reputation.” His eyes glittered with delight. “How very considerate, giving me an out like that. ‘Oh Jaemin, don’t let me keep you from your library assignations.’”
He said it in a high pitched tone, clearly trying for a very inaccurate impression of you.
“I was only trying to be nice.” You huffed.
“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he corrected, but he didn’t sound annoyed about it. If anything, he seemed more intrigued. “Which brings us back to the question of why you’re so desperate for me to not patrol the grounds tonight.”
Damn it. You’d played right into his hands. “I’m not—”
“You just tried to use my supposed promiscuity as an excuse to get me to leave.” He tilted his head, studying you. “So either you’re deeply concerned about my social life, or there’s something on the grounds you don’t want me to find.”
Your heart was hammering again. He’d out-maneuvered you completely, turning your own attempt at manipulation back on you.
“Well?” he prompted. “Which is it?”
“The first one,” you lied weakly. “I’m very concerned about your social life.”
“Right.” His smile was sharper now, more predatory. “In that case, you’ll be delighted to know I’m completely free tonight. I have no library dates or clandestine meetings. Just a nice, thorough patrol of the grounds.” He paused. “With you, apparently, since you seem so determined to tag along.”
You rolled your eyes. “You are so irritating.”
“There’s the Gryffindor honesty I remember,” he said cheerfully. “Come on then. Let’s go catch whoever it is you’re trying to protect.”
Wait. What?
“I’m not—there’s no one—”
But he was already turning toward the entrance hall, and panic clawed at your throat. You needed to try something else, anything to keep him from the grounds.
“Look,” you said, a note of genuine desperation creeping into your voice, “patrolling the grounds is easily twice the work of the upper floors. I’m offering to take on the extra effort here. What’s the problem?”
He paused, glancing back at you with an expression of exaggerated surprise. “You? Volunteering for extra work?” He pressed a hand to his chest in shock. “I’m sorry, have we met? I’m Na Jaemin, and you’re the girl who once hid in a broom cupboard for twenty minutes to avoid helping set up for the Yule Ball.”
“I did not—” You stopped, because you absolutely had done that, and he somehow knew about it. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it though?” He was grinning again, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, admit it. You’ve spent six years perfecting the art of doing the absolute bare minimum. I’ve seen you let third years wander the corridors after curfew as long as they promised to go straight to bed.”
Your face burned. “I was tired that night—”
“You’re always tired.” He tilted his head. “So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about this sudden burst of civic responsibility. It’s very out of character for you.”
The sheer audacity. The unmitigated gall. To accuse you of apathy and then dismiss you without so much as a backward glance? An ember of indignation flared to life and burned away the last vestiges of your tattered patience. He had no right. No right to stand there and act like he understood anything about you when he was the reason you’d learned to make yourself invisible in the first place.
And now here he was, cataloging your flaws with that same amused smile, like you were still just entertainment to him.
“Fine,” you bit out. “Don’t take my offer. See if I care.”
“Oh, I won’t.” He turned back toward the entrance hall, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’m patrolling the grounds. You can join me or check the upper floors. Your choice.”
“Why do you just get to decide that on your own? The grounds aren’t even part of the standard patrol route!”
"They are tonight," he tossed over his shoulder, not even bothering to turn around.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
And with that spectacularly unhelpful explanation, he walked out the front doors, leaving you standing slack-jawed and sputtering in his wake.
This was it. The moment of truth. You had approximately five seconds to make a decision that would either save your best friend from expulsion or doom her to a fate worse than death.
Option one: let Jaemin go off on his own. He'd catch Jo, she'd be expelled, and you'd spend the rest of your life weighed down by the guilt of your inaction.
Option two: follow him, try to run interference, and most likely fail spectacularly but hey, at least you could say you tried.
In the end, your choice was clear. The reckless, devil-may-care loyalty that had landed you in Gryffindor in the first place reared its noble head, and before you quite knew what you were doing, you were hurrying out the doors after Jaemin, resignation and foreboding dogging your every step.
"I'm coming!" you called after him.
Jaemin spun around, one eyebrow quirked in a way that suggested he'd interpreted your words in a decidedly less innocent manner.
"To the grounds," you clarified hastily, feeling your face heat up. "To patrol. With you."
“I gathered that much,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Though I appreciate the clarification. Wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”
You glared at him, but he’d already turned back around, that damned smirk still visible in profile.
Beyond the castle corridors, the night grounds felt twice as ominous. Shadows stretched from the Forbidden Forest, where twisted branches reached toward the sky like gnarled fingers against the dark. Nearby, the Black Lake remained a silent mirror, its surface only occasionally broken by ripples that hinted at the heavy, mysterious life lurking in the depths.
Jaemin had conjured a floating orb of soft white light to guide your path, which was considerate yet irritating, as it seemed to delight in hovering mere inches from your face and nearly blinding you. He walked with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like this was just a casual evening stroll and not a patently absurd situation that could land you both in a world of trouble.
You, on the other hand, were so tense you could practically feel your muscles vibrating. Your mind raced as you tried to remember what Jo had told you about her planned rendezvous.
They’d be in the grounds, obviously, but beyond that? Hogwarts' grounds spanned nearly a thousand acres and included everything from dense forest to rolling hills to a literal giant-squid-infested lake. If you were going to have any hope of intercepting Jo before Jaemin did, you needed a clearer idea of where exactly to look.
And you needed to keep him distracted.
“So,” Jaemin said, his voice cutting through your rising panic, “care to tell me what’s really going on here?”
“We’re patrolling,” you said, keeping your eyes fixed firmly ahead. “That’s what’s going on.”
“And I suppose you always volunteer for extra patrols on Saturday nights, do you? Just for the exercise?”
“Maybe I do. Fresh air is good for you.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound like he believed you for a second. “And here I thought you preferred to spend your evenings in the Restricted Section, avoiding human interaction as much as possible.”
You shot him a sideways glance. “Have you been spying on me?”
“It’s called being observant,” he said lightly. “You should try it sometime. Although I suppose that would require you to take an interest in something beyond your very busy schedule of going through the motions and avoiding anything that might resemble effort.”
There it was again, that annoying assessment of your character, delivered with a smile that made it impossible to tell if he was genuinely criticizing you or just winding you up for his own amusement.
Bristling, you planted your hands on your hips and glared up at him. "I put in effort when it matters."
"And I'm sure swapping shifts with Crockett was a matter of utmost importance, then?" His lips curved into a smirk that made you want to hex it right off his unfairly symmetrical face. "Go on. What’s so crucial about tonight? Did you lose a bet? Secret passion for night-time groundskeeping?”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because you’re terrible at being subtle, and watching you try is genuinely entertaining.” He grinned at your affronted expression. “Plus, I’m curious. You’ve spent the better part of six years being aggressively unremarkable, and now here you are, practically begging to patrol the grounds with me. It’s very out of character.”
“Stop acting like you know everything about me.”
“I might not know everything about you,” he said, his voice taking on a knowing tone, “But I know you’re trying to protect someone.”
Your heart skipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The floating light cast strange shadows across his features, making his expression harder to read. “Here’s what I think is happening. There’s someone out here meeting someone they shouldn’t be meeting. You agreed to swap with Crockett to cover for that person, expecting me to skip patrol like I apparently always do. But I didn’t, so now you’re stuck trying to run interference while pretending this is all perfectly normal.”
You stared at him, your mouth going dry. He’d worked it out. As expected, Na Jaemin might be annoying and smug and entirely too pleased with himself, but he’d never been stupid.
“That’s…” you started, but your voice came out weak. “That’s a very creative theory.”
“You’ve gone red again.” He tilted his head, studying you. “Dead giveaway.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but closed it again, floundering. There was absolutely no way to explain your actions without either incriminating Jo or making yourself look even more suspicious. You were well and truly cornered, and the triumphant gleam in Jaemin's eyes told you he knew it.
But before you could cobble together a halfway coherent response, a sound drifted through the night air that made you stop cold.
Laughter.
More specifically, Jo's laughter, bright and carefree and coming from somewhere worryingly close by.
Jaemin froze too, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" you asked, feigning ignorance even as your heart threatened to beat its way out of your ribcage. "I didn't hear anything. Probably just the wind. It howls around the turrets sometimes..."
"That wasn't the wind." He was already moving again, long legs eating up the ground as he strode purposefully toward the source of the sound. "That was a person, maybe two, from the sounds of it"
"What? No, that's—I really think it was just the wind. Or maybe Peeves playing a prank. You know what a menace he is, always causing trouble, we should probably go back inside and—"
But he wasn't listening. Because he'd caught the scent of rule-breaking, and Merlin forbid he let it go in favor of the much more appealing option of minding his own damn business.
You had no choice. You were either going to have to physically stop him (a laughable notion - he had a good six inches and probably thirty pounds of muscle on you), or you were going to have to get to Jo first.
The words were out of your mouth before you could think better of them. "Wait!"
Miraculously, he actually stopped walking and turned to look at you, one eyebrow arched expectantly.
"I—" Your mind raced, grasping for any excuse, any diversion, anything to keep him from taking another step. "I think I saw something. Over there." You pointed vaguely off to your left, in the opposite direction of Jo's laughter. "We should go check it out."
Jaemin regarded you with exasperation. "You know, for someone who's spent the better part of six years avoiding attention, you're shockingly bad at subterfuge."
"I–I'm just being cautious. It's dark out here, and there could be...things. Dangerous things. Like snargaluffs, or...or a moke on the loose."
"A moke," he repeated flatly. "An invisible lizard the size of a mouse. You think I should be worried about a moke ambushing me.”
“They can be vicious!”
“They’re ten inches tall.”
“Size isn’t everything,” you shot back, then immediately regretted it as his grin widened into something positively wicked.
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said smoothly, and you felt your face flame.
“That’s not—I didn’t mean—oh, for Merlin’s sake.” You covered your face with your hands, wondering if it was possible to die of embarrassment. “Can we please just check the trees?”
“Why?” He took a step closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “What are you so afraid I’m going to find if we keep going this way?”
You hesitated, weighing your options. On the one hand, the truth was unthinkable. You couldn't just throw Jo to the wolves like that, not after you'd promised to cover for her. On the other hand, you were rapidly running out of plausible lies, and Jaemin clearly wasn't buying any of them.
“Nothing,” you said, but it came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Nothing,” he echoed. “Right. So you won’t mind if I just—”
He made to move past you, toward where Jo’s laughter had come from, and you did the only thing you could think of.
You grabbed his arm.
The moment your fingers closed around his sleeve, you realized what a monumentally stupid mistake you’d made. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric and the solid muscle beneath. He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to where your hand clutched at him, then slowly lifting to meet your eyes.
“Please,” you said quietly, all pretense abandoned. “Don’t go over there. Just—just forget you heard anything, and I’ll explain later. I promise.”
He studied you for a long moment. You were acutely aware of how close you were standing, of the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.
"So you are covering for someone," he said at last. "A friend, I'm guessing. The one you're always with? The loud one, with the"—he gestured vaguely—"the hair?"
"Her hair is perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I don't see how that's any of your business."
"It absolutely is my business, seeing as there are students out of bed and I'm a prefect. I'm supposed to report this sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, well, I'm also a prefect, and I'm asking you not to." Desperation bled into your voice, and you hated it, hated that you were practically begging him for something that you had no right to ask for. “Please, Jaemin. Can't you just...look the other way? Just this once?"
He was silent for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable. For the sneer, the cutting remark, the gleeful reminder that he was a Slytherin and Slytherins didn't do favors without expecting something in return.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "You really care about her, don't you? Your friend."
You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "She's my best friend. I'd do anything for her."
"Even lie to a fellow prefect and risk getting in trouble yourself."
"Yes." You met his gaze squarely, unflinching. "Even that."
Another long silence, and then he sighed. "All right, fine."
You blinked. "Fine?"
"Fine, I won't report her. But"—he held up a hand as you opened your mouth to thank him—"I want something in return."
There it was. You should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Slytherins always had an angle, and Jaemin was Slytherin to the core.
Wariness crept into your voice as you asked, "What sort of something?"
His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as predatory. "A favor. One favor, to be determined by me, at a time of my choosing. Do this, and I'll conveniently forget I heard anything tonight."
Your stomach dropped. A favor. An open-ended, unspecified, could-be-anything favor, owed to Na Jaemin. Well. This was how you died, not in a blaze of glory like a true Gryffindor, but in the thrall of a serpent's forked tongue and devastating jawline.
But what choice did you have? If you refused, Jo would be caught for sure. And then she'd be expelled, and it would be all your fault, and you'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. A life which, frankly, was looking shorter and shorter with each passing minute as Jaemin stared you down, waiting for your answer.
"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "One favor. But nothing illegal or dangerous or humiliating."
His smile widened, showing far too many teeth for your comfort. "Look at that. You’re negotiating. Will wonders never cease?"
"Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."
"Oh, I'll take them." He held out a hand, long fingers uncurling in an inviting gesture. "Shall we shake on it?"
You glared at his hand like it might bite you (and really, with Jaemin, who knew?) but reluctantly reached out and grasped it. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and you tried very hard not to think about how nice his hand felt in yours.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured, and was it your imagination or did his thumb just stroke across your knuckles?
You snatched your hand back like you'd been burned, face flushing. "Yes, well. You'd better hold up your end of the bargain."
"I'm a man of my word." He sketched a mocking little bow. "Your friend's secret is safe with me for now."
The words 'for now' hung there as a silent threat, and you suppressed a shiver. What had you just agreed to? What price would you have to pay for your loyalty?
As if reading your thoughts, Jaemin's smile turned sly. "Don't look so worried. I promise I won't ask for anything too dreadful. Probably."
"Probably," you repeated faintly.
"Probably," he confirmed, and then he turned on his heel and started back toward the castle, leaving you to trail after him in a daze.
The rest of the patrol passed in a blur. You walked in silence, Jaemin seemingly content to let you stew in your own anxiety, and by the time you returned to the Entrance Hall, you were a nervous wreck. You kept imagining all the horrible things he might ask for—doing his homework for the rest of the term, being his personal servant, confessing to McGonagall that you were the one who'd let those nifflers loose in the staff room last year (even though that had been entirely Jo's doing and you'd just been an unwilling accomplice).
At the foot of the stairs, Jaemin paused and turned to face you. In the dim light of the entrance hall, his eyes were pools of shadow, unreadable and fathomless.
"I'll be in touch," he said, his voice low and full of dark promise. "Sweet dreams."
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows like he'd been born from them, leaving you with a racing heart and the sinking certainty that your life was about to become a lot more complicated.
The next morning, you cornered Jo in the common room before breakfast, pulling her into the corner by the window where no one could overhear.
“Tell me everything went okay last night,” you demanded without preamble. “Please tell me you didn’t do something insane—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Jo held up her hands, her eyes wide. “I’m fine! Everything went perfectly. Well, mostly perfectly. There was a weird moment where I thought I heard someone coming, but then nothing happened, so…” She trailed off, then grabbed your shoulders. “Wait. What happened to you? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“That’s because I haven’t.” You started pacing anxiously. “Jo. I think I might have done something really, really stupid.”
Her expression changed from concern to dread in the span of a second. “What kind of stupid?”
“The kind that involves Na Jaemin and a debt to repay.”
“Oh no.” Jo’s face went pale. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” You tugged at your hair, feeling the full weight of last night’s decision crushing down on you. “He wanted to patrol the grounds, Jo. He would have found you. I couldn’t let that happen, so I… I made a deal with him.”
Jo stared at you like you'd just confessed to murdering the Minister of Magic. "You made a deal with Na Jaemin. The boy who once convinced half the school that Professor Flitwick was secretly a goblin in disguise."
"To be fair, he has a dash of goblin blood..."
"Not the point!" She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to stop pacing. "What kind of deal are we talking about here? What did you promise him?"
You took a deep breath. "A favor."
"A favor," she repeated slowly. "What kind of favor?"
“The unspecified kind. The ‘to be determined at a later date’ kind. The ‘I now owe Na Jaemin a debt that he can collect on whenever he wants’ kind.”
She looked about two seconds away from fainting. “You didn’t.”
“I panicked!” you wailed, not caring that you were probably drawing attention from the other early risers scattered around the common room. “It was either agree to the favor or let him catch you with Mr. Mysterious! What was I supposed to do?”
“Not sell your soul to a Slytherin, for starters!” She released you and began pacing, chewing on her thumbnail in that way she only did when she was truly stressed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad. Na Jaemin with a favor from you? He could ask for anything. Anything.”
“You think I don’t know that?” You dropped your head into your hands. “I’ve been up all night imagining the horrible things he might ask for. What if he wants me to do something illegal? What if he wants me to sabotage someone? What if he wants me to—” You shuddered. “—publicly humiliate myself somehow?”
Jo stopped pacing, her expression shifting from panic to determination. “Okay. Okay, we’re not going to catastrophize. Yes, this is bad. Yes, owing Jaemin a favor is potentially disastrous. But it’s not the end of the world.”
“Isn’t it though?”
“No.” She sat down beside you, taking your hand. “Listen to me. You did this to protect me. You put yourself on the line because you’re a good friend, the best friend, and I’m not going to let you face this alone. Whatever Jaemin asks for, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”
You wanted to take comfort in her words, in the fierce loyalty shining in her eyes. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just made a deal with the devil, and the bill would come due sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” you said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Together.”
“Together,” she confirmed. Then her expression turned mischievous. “Besides, who knows? Maybe he’ll ask for something simple. Like help with his Potions essay or something.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Jaemin doesn’t need help with Potions. He’s annoyingly good at everything.”
“Well then maybe he’ll ask you to—I don’t know—organize his sock drawer? Polish his prefect badge?”
“Jo.”
“I’m just saying, it might not be as bad as you think!”
But even as you tried to let her optimism buoy you, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had just changed irrevocably. That in agreeing to owe Jaemin a favor, you'd set into motion a chain of events that you couldn't possibly predict or control.
Whatever he wanted from you, you had a feeling it wouldn’t be something as simple as organizing his socks.
A haze of anxiety and paranoia defined the following week, one that had you reaching a level of vigilance that would have impressed even Mad-Eye Moody.
You jumped at every sudden noise, flinched every time a Slytherin so much as glanced in your direction, and spent an inordinate amount of time scanning the Great Hall for any sign of Jaemin’s blonde head bent in whispered conversation with his housemates, plotting your doom.
To avoid him, you mapped out convoluted routes to class, opting for deserted corridors even when they made you late. Mealtimes were rescheduled to avoid the rush—breakfast at dawn, lunch in the late afternoon, and dinner only when the Hall had emptied to a few stragglers. In Potions, which was the one class you shared with him, you positioned yourself as far from his usual spot as physically possible, practically pressed against the dungeon wall, and refused to so much as breathe in his direction.
Not that it mattered… Because he didn’t approach you at all.
He just watched you.
From across the courtyard, his gaze would find you through a flurry of Slytherin green. Other times, your eyes would drift upward in Potions only to find him already staring, head propped lazily in his palm. He looked for all the world as if you were far more entertaining than any lecture Professor Slughorn could provide.
You started second-guessing everything. The way you sat, the way you spoke, the way you tugged at your sleeve or tucked your hair behind your ear when nervous. You found yourself becoming a caricature of yourself: rigid, overly cautious, desperate to give nothing away.
By the end of the week, you were a nervous wreck. You’d bitten your nails down to the quick. Developed a stress-induced rash on your neck that no amount of Essence of Dittany could soothe. And even started having vivid nightmares about Jaemin cornering you in increasingly absurd locations like the Prefects’ bathroom, or memorably in the middle of a Quidditch match where he’d swooped down on a broom to demand you juggle puffapods while the entire school watched.
“You need to sleep,” Jo said on Friday night, eyeing the bags under your eyes with concern. “This is getting ridiculous. You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus Charm.”
“I can’t sleep,” you muttered, your third cup of coffee cooling forgotten beside your Transfiguration essay. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see his face. That stupid, smug, infuriatingly perfect face.”
Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Perfect?”
“Putrid,” you corrected hastily, feeling your face heat. “I meant putrid. The point is, I can’t relax knowing that at any moment, he could just… appear and demand whatever horrific thing he’s been planning.”
“Maybe he’s forgotten about it,” Jo suggested, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Maybe he was just messing with you, and he never actually intended to collect.”
You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you’d seen the satisfied glint in Jaemin’s eyes when you’d shaken hands.
No. He hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The weekend dragged on with NEWTs studying, failed naps and increasingly creative avoidance techniques. By Sunday morning, you were so on edge that when an owl swooped down at breakfast and dropped a letter directly onto your plate, you actually screamed.
Half the Gryffindor table turned to stare.
“It’s just the post,” Jo said soothingly, though she was eyeing the letter with nearly as much suspicion as you were. “Probably from your mother.”
Your hands shook as you picked up the envelope. The handwriting was your mother’s, thank Merlin, and you sagged with relief as you broke the seal.
“See?” Jo said. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Can you blame me?” you muttered, scanning your mother’s cheerful recounting of your aunt’s latest garden gnome infestation. “It’s been a week, Jo. A whole week of nothing. It’s unnatural.”
“Psychological warfare, that’s what this is. Classic Slytherin mind games. He’s letting you stew, letting the anticipation build, until you’re so wound up that you’ll agree to anything just to put yourself out of your misery.”
“Thank you, Jo,” you said through gritted teeth, stabbing your sausage with enough force to make your fork screech against the plate. “That’s incredibly comforting.”
“I’m just saying, it’s textbook manipulation.” She reached for the marmalade, unbothered by your glare. “My cousin Fergus dated a girl from that house once, and she used to—”
But you never found out what Jo's cousin's Slytherin ex-girlfriend did, because at that moment, a hush fell over the Great Hall. You looked up, already knowing what you'd see, and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Jaemin was walking toward the Gryffindor table with purpose and intent, his long strides eating up the distance between the Slytherin table and yours. His eyes were fixed on you with such singular focus that you couldn’t have looked away if you tried.
There was a small satisfied smile playing on his lips.
He was enjoying this, the utter bastard. Enjoying the way every eye in the hall was now fixed on you, the way whispers erupted in his wake like the hissing of a hundred snakes.
He came to a stop directly across from you, and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, and you had the sudden, wild urge to tip your pumpkin juice into his lap.
"Good morning," he said, for all the world as if this were a perfectly normal interaction and not a blatant violation of the unwritten rules that governed breakfast seating arrangements. "Sleep well?"
You gaped at him, too stunned to formulate a response. Beside you, Jo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.
Jaemin’s smile widened, showing a flash of teeth. “I’ll take that as a no.” His gaze swept over you, taking in the bags under your eyes, the coffee stains on your robes, the general air of sleep-deprived panic you’d been cultivating all week. “Have you been avoiding me?”
The question was delivered lightly, almost teasingly, but there was an undercurrent to it. A knowing edge that said he was perfectly aware of every corridor you’d ducked down, every meal you’d skipped, every desperate attempt you’d made to stay out of his path.
“Avoiding you?” you repeated with a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I’ve been—I’ve been busy. Studying and stuff.”
“Mm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “Well, you’re not busy now, are you? I need to talk to you.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep meaningfully across the rapt faces surrounding you. “Privately.”
Oh no. Oh no no no.
"Huh?" you said eloquently.
"Talk. Privately," he repeated, enunciating each syllable as if you were a particularly slow-witted troll.
“I’m eating breakfast,” you said weakly, gesturing at your plate where your eggs had gone cold and congealed.
“You can eat later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “Come on. This won’t take long.”
Every fiber of your being wanted to plant yourself in your seat and force him to either leave or make a scene. But you could feel the weight of the entire school’s attention pressing down on you.
You glanced around, taking in the avid stares, the blatant eavesdropping, the gleeful anticipation on every face. Even the staff table looked uncommonly interested, with Professor McGonagall peering at you over her spectacles and Flitwick not even pretending not to listen in.
"Fine," you bit out, shoving back from the table with enough force to make the dishes rattle. "Lead the way."
Jaemin inclined his head, that infuriating smile still playing about his lips, and turned to walk out of the hall. You followed, determinedly ignoring the explosion of chatter that erupted in your wake.
He led you out of the castle, across the dew-damp lawn, all the way to the edge of the lake where a lone beech tree stretched its branches over the water. It was, you noted sourly, an incredibly picturesque spot for a clandestine meeting. Almost as if he'd planned it that way.
"All right," you said, crossing your arms and fixing him with your best glare. "What do you want?"
He leaned against the tree trunk, the picture of nonchalance, and regarded you with a calculating expression. "I think you know."
"The favor," you said flatly.
"The favor," he agreed. "Time to pay up, I'm afraid."
Your heart began to race at this, palms turning clammy as every horrible scenario you'd imagined over the past week came rushing back.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Fine. What is it? What do you want me to do?"
Jaemin pushed off the tree and took a few steps toward you until he was so close you could see the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
He looked down at you, his expression turning serious, almost solemn. "I need you," he said softly, "to be my girlfriend."
What the fuck.
You stared at him dumbly. Surely he'd said something else—"be my guard friend" or literally anything that made more sense than what you thought you'd heard. But after several seconds of awkward silence he simply stood there, staring back.
"I'm sorry," you said at last. "I must have misheard you. It sounded like you just said—"
"Be my girlfriend," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "That's the favor I'm asking."
You searched his face for any sign that this was a prank, or at the very least a bizarre figment of your overtired and overstressed imagination.
But he looked deadly serious, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw set in a way that suggested he was bracing himself for your reaction.
"Right," you said slowly. "Okay. So you've clearly been hit with a Bludger recently. Or maybe you inhaled some dodgy spores from the Forest?" You peered at him more closely, genuinely concerned now. "I think you might be having some sort of mental episode—"
"I'm not having a mental episode."
You started backing away slowly, hands raised placatingly. “Just stay there, I'm going to go get help. Maybe Madam Pomfrey has an antidote for whatever's happened to your brain—"
"My brain is fine," Jaemin said, and he actually had the audacity to look amused. "I'm completely serious."
"That's even more concerning!" You threw your hands up. "Jaemin, you can't just—I mean, we barely even—we're not even friends! You spent two years torturing me and then four years pretending I didn't exist! And now you want me to be your girlfriend?"
"Fake girlfriend," he corrected.
"Oh, well, that changes everything," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fake girlfriend. Of course. How silly of me. That makes perfect sense."
"It does, actually, if you'd let me explain—"
"No. Absolutely not. This is—this is insane. You've lost your mind. Gone completely round the bend." You started pacing frantically. "You could have literally any girl in this school. Any girl! I’m sure there’s probably a waiting list even. And you want me to pretend to date you?"
"Yes."
"Why?!"
"Because you're perfect for this," he said with a shrug.
You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm what now?"
"Perfect," he repeated, and there wasn't a trace of humor in his voice now. "Think about it. You're a half-blood—"
"Oh don’t start with that blood purity crap—"
"No, I mean that it works perfectly because you're not involved in pureblood politics. You're not part of my usual social circle. You have no reason to want anything from me or my family beyond this one favor." He was ticking points off on his fingers now. "If we start dating, it'll be believable precisely because it's so unexpected."
"You think people will just believe that we're dating. You and me."
"Why not?"
"Because—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "—because look at us! You're you, and I'm—I'm me! I spend my free time reading in corners and avoiding human interaction! You spend yours being disgustingly popular and having your pick of the female population! We have nothing in common! We don't even like each other!"
"All excellent points for why no one will suspect it's fake," he said smoothly. "If I were trying to stage a relationship, I’d pick someone more obvious. Someone from my house, someone I'm already friendly with. The fact that it's you makes it more authentic."
You stared at him, your brain struggling to process this absolute madness. "Have you been Imperisued or something? Seriously, I'm genuinely worried about you right now."
"I appreciate your concern," he said dryly. "But I assure you, I'm thinking perfectly clearly."
"Then explain it to me," you demanded, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Because from where I'm standing, this makes about as much sense as trying to teach a troll how to read. Why on earth would you need a fake girlfriend? You're Na Jaemin! Half the school is in love with you! If you wanted a real girlfriend, you could probably just point at someone and they'd swoon into your arms!"
"That's actually part of the problem," he muttered, and was that... was that a hint of frustration in his voice?
You blinked. "What?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There's a girl. Yuna. Her family and mine... they move in the same circles. Have for generations. Old pureblood families, lots of money, all that tedious rubbish."
"Okay...?"
"And lately, she's gotten it into her head that we're meant to be together. That it's our destiny to unite our families, carry on the pureblood tradition, produce the next generation of perfectly bred wizarding heirs." His voice was slightly tinged with disgust. "She won't take no for an answer."
Despite yourself, despite the absolute insanity of this entire situation, you felt a bit of sympathy. "And you don't want that."
"I'd rather wrestle a Hungarian Horntail," he said flatly. "But she's not listening. Every time I tell her I'm not interested, she just smiles and says I'm playing hard to get. That I'll come around eventually."
"That's..." You searched for the appropriate words. "That's actually kind of disturbing."
"It's extremely disturbing," he agreed. "And I can't just tell her to fuck off, because our families... it's complicated. There's business deals, social connections, generations of intertwined pureblood nonsense. If I publicly reject her, it could cause all sorts of problems."
"So you need a girlfriend," you said slowly, finally starting to understand. "A visible reason why you can't be with her."
"Exactly." He gave you a hopeful look. "Someone who won't get caught up in the drama and then can walk away clean when it's over. Someone like you."
You covered your face with your hands and sighed. "This is still insane."
"Is it though?"
"Yes! Completely, utterly, absolutely insane!" You started pacing again. "Jaemin, in case it's escaped your notice, we can barely stand each other! We've barely had a conversation longer than five minutes that didn't involve you annoying me or me wanting to hex you! How exactly do you propose we convince anyone we're madly in love?"
"We don't have to be madly in love," he said. "Just... dating. You know, just act like a regular couple, sit together at meals, go to Hogsmeade on weekends. People see us together, word gets back to Yuna, she backs off. Simple."
"Simple?” you repeated incredulously. "You think any part of this is simple?"
"More simple than the alternative." His expression turned serious. "Look, I wouldn't ask if I had any other choice. But I'm running out of options here, and you're—" He paused. "You're the only person I can trust with this."
That brought you up short. “You barely know me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're loyal. I know you'd do anything for your friends, you proved that when you made our deal. I know you're not interested in status or popularity or any of the things most people want from me. And I know that when this is over, you'll keep your word and walk away."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. This wasn't the smug, teasing Jaemin from the patrol or the cold, dismissive one from your earlier years. This was someone... genuine. Vulnerable, even.
"I think I need to sit down," you said faintly.
There was a convenient rock nearby and you sank down onto it, your head spinning.
"So just let me make sure I got it right," you said, staring out at the lake. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend. To protect you from an obsessive pureblood heiress who won't take no for an answer and so you won’t get trapped into a marriage of convenience.”
"That's the gist of it, yes."
"For how long?"
"A month? Maybe two at most."
"Two months?!" You whipped around to stare at him. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for two months? Are you completely off your rocker?!"
“Come on, two months isn’t even that long—"
"Two months is eight weeks! Sixty days! Over a thousand hours of my life spent pretending to be in love with you!" You were nearly hyperventilating now. You shot to your feet, pacing again.
“Again, no need to be madly in love—"
"And have you thought about the logistics of this?" You spun to face him. "Every girl in this castle is going to hate me! They already probably think we're shagging or something after your little breakfast stunt, and that was two minutes! Imagine two months of that! I'll need to go into witness protection!"
“I think that’s a bit of an overreaction.”
"Jaemin, people will actually want to murder me. There will be attempts on my life. I'll have to taste-test all my food for poison. Sleep with one eye open. Practice a good shield charm—"
"Nobody's going to try to murder you."
"You don’t know that!"
“And we wouldn't even be together the entire time," he continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Just... in public. Where people can see us. The rest of the time you can go back to pretending I don't exist."
You let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Oh, well, that makes it so much better. Thank you for that generous concession."
"Are you finished panicking?" he asked mildly.
You glared at him. "No. No, I'm not finished. I'm just getting started. Do you have any idea how exhausting this sounds? How mortifying? I've spent six years perfecting the art of being invisible, and now you want me to voluntarily become the center of attention? The subject of gossip and speculation? Do you know what that will do to me?"
“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”
He seemed too casual about all this. It made you wonder if he did this sort of thing often. Not that it would be surprising, purebloods had weird customs that you could never begin to understand.
"Okay," you said slowly after a few seconds of gathering what little patience you had. "Okay. Let's say—and I'm not agreeing to anything—but let's say I did this. Don't you think people would find it a bit suspicious? Us dating out of nowhere? We've barely spoken in years. We're not friends or even friendly. People aren't stupid, Jaemin."
"We'll say we've been keeping it quiet," he said, like he'd already thought this through. "We didn’t want the attention, wanted to make sure it was real before we went public. No one will question it if we sell it right."
"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" You fixed him with a glare.
“Easy. We make it look like we can't keep our hands off each other. You know, hold hands, and that sort of thing. Make it look convincing."
“You want me to hold your hand?”
"Among other things."
"What does that even mean…?”
"Well, we'd have to play it convincingly," he said reasonably. "Couples don't just hold hands. They sit close. They touch. They..." He paused, his eyes glinting with amusement. "They kiss occasionally."
"KISS?!" The word came out as a strangled shriek. "You want me to kiss you?!"
"I mean, not right now necessarily—"
“Oh, you’re barking mad if you think I will kiss you!”
"Come on, y/n. It's just a bit of acting. Surely a clever girl like you can manage that?" His voice dropped, turning silky and persuasive.
You bristled slightly at the blatant flattery even as some traitorous part of you warmed at the compliment. "And what's in it for me? Besides the joy of being glared at by every girl in this castle and kissing your dumb face?"
"The fact that I won’t tell McGonagall about your little friend’s nocturnal escapade isn’t enough for you?” he reminded you.
You froze, shoulders tensing. "You're really going to hold me to that? For something this insane?"
"A deal's a deal. I helped you and nowI need your help."
"I don't know," you said slowly. "This is...it's a lot to ask."
"I know." He took another step closer, his eyes intent on yours. "But I'm asking anyway. I need your help, y/n. Please."
You had agreed to this. You had shaken his hand, accepted his help, promised him a favor. And now he was calling it in.
"This is blackmail," you said weakly.
"It's really not."
You stared at him, at his stupidly handsome face and his infuriating certainty, and felt the trap closing around you. You still could refuse, tell him to shove his favor and walk away. But then he could—would—tell McGonagall about Jo. And Jo would be expelled. And it would be all your fault.
"Fuck," you groaned.
"Is that a yes then? he said.
You truly hated everything about this.
Still, you heard yourself say, "Two months. That's it. And we need to set ground rules, boundaries. I'm not going to do anything that makes me uncomfortable."
Relief flashed across his face, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. "Okay, that’s fair."
"And when it's over, we go back to normal. No hard feelings. We just... end it and move on."
"Agreed." He held out a hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "So. Do we have a deal?"
You hesitated for a long moment, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he must be able to hear it. This was, without question, the most insane thing you had ever considered doing. It was reckless and impulsive and had the potential to blow up in your face in a truly spectacular fashion.
But looking up into Jaemin's eyes, seeing something that might have been hope or desperation or both, you found yourself reaching out and taking his hand anyway.
"Deal," you said, and sealed your fate for the second time in a week.
"Excellent." His smile was pure satisfaction. "I'll pick you up for breakfast tomorrow. Try to look a little pleased to see me and not like you want to murder me."
"I make no promises," you muttered.
As you walked back toward the castle, your mind whirling with the absolute insanity of what you'd just agreed to, one thought kept circling back:
Na Jaemin, Slytherin prince and general menace to your sanity, wanted you to be his fake girlfriend.
Jo was never going to believe this.
A waking nightmare—that was the only way to describe the days following the grand revelation of your supposed relationship.
It felt as though Hogwarts had contracted a plague, a virulent strain of "Y/N-and-Jaemin" fever that consumed everyone from the dungeons to the astronomy tower. No one could quite wrap their heads around the unlikely pairing of a Gryffindor nobody and the Slytherin prince, and that confusion turned into a collective obsession.
Everywhere you went, eyes followed. First-years openly gawked as you passed. Third-years whispered behind their hands, their eyes following your every move with ravenous curiosity. Even the portraits seemed more interested in your comings and goings, their painted heads swiveling to track your progress through the corridors.
Horrible as the attention was, the rumors were worse. Wild, baseless theories seemed to spawn from thin air, multiplying with the rapid, disgusting speed of Horklumps in a garden.
“They've been secretly dating since third year,” one voice hissed in the corridor, “before he was even popular, I heard.”
The theories only grew more ridiculous from there. According to a Ravenclaw, you had saved his life during a Quidditch match—or perhaps from a rogue curse. One Hufflepuff swore on her life she’d seen the two of you kissing in the Astronomy Tower a year ago. Most sinister of all were the whispers of blackmail or pranks, culminating in the one theory that nearly made you choke on your pumpkin juice: “Oh Merlin, do you think she’s pregnant?”
The attention was suffocating, oppressive, like being trapped in a greenhouse in the middle of summer with no windows and too many people pressing their faces against the glass. You couldn't breathe without someone noting it, vouldn't eat without a dozen pairs of eyes watching every bite, and couldn't so much as sneeze without someone speculating about whether Jaemin would find it endearing.
And as if the whole thing wasn’t a nightmare already, there was Jaemin himself. Whatever level of insufferable he had occupied before was nothing compared to this new persona: the devoted boyfriend that was attentive, affectionate, and clearly determined to make the charade as mortifying as humanly possible.
He'd materialize at your elbow between classes, his arrival heralded by the subtle scent of broom polish that never quite left his robes and that you were beginning to recognize with Pavlovian dread. He'd fall into step beside you with that athletic grace of his, his hand finding the small of your back with proprietary confidence.
“There you are,” he’d say, his voice carrying an affected breathlessness as if he’d been searching the entire castle rather than simply memorizing your schedule. “I was looking for you.”
“Were you,” came your flat reply, as you struggled to ignore the sudden weight of a hundred curious stares pinning you to the spot.
“Mm.” Without an ounce of hesitation, his hand would slide around your waist, hauling you firmly against his side. “Missed you in Charms. You disappeared before I could catch you.”
“I was in a rush,” you’d mutter, omitting the fact that the rush was specifically to escape him.
“I know.” His smile would be warm and intimate, a masterpiece of conviction. “Let’s walk together next time. I can’t stand being away from my princess for too long.”
A collective swoon would ripple through the nearby students at the display.
Mealtimes offered no reprieve. He'd bypass his usual spot at the Slytherin table entirely, crossing the Great Hall with long strides to slide onto the bench beside you at Gryffindor. The first time he'd done it, the entire Hall had gone silent, hundreds of heads swiveling to watch as Na Jaemin—too cool for cross-house fraternization—planted himself among the lions.
“Morning, princess,” he’d announce, his voice projecting just far enough for half the table to catch. A casual kiss to your temple followed, delivered with such affection that you nearly lost your balance on the bench.
A sharp kick from Jo connected with your shin under the table. Smile, her wide-eyed expression screamed. You’re supposed to be in love with him, remember?
Obediently, you’d attempt a smile. Though it likely looked more like a pained grimace, Jaemin seemed satisfied enough. His arm draped across your shoulders as he reached for the orange juice, acting as if this were the most natural routine in the world.
Every meal followed the same suffocating pattern. He was always there, a solid line of warmth pressed against your side. Beneath the table, his thigh would brush against yours, making you hyperaware of his every shift. Often, his hand would rest on your knee, his thumb tracing absent patterns that felt far too intimate for public consumtion. Occasionally he’d lean in, murmuring something pointless like “Pass the salt” or “Your hair looks nice today” into your ear—but to the rest of the room, it looked like he was whispering sweet nothings.
The Great Hall devoured every crumb of the spectacle.
But while the general student body watched with wide-eyed fascination, you were forced to contend with a far more dangerous audience: the inner circle.
Jaemin’s friends were not merely students; they were the closest thing Hogwarts had to a royal court. To exist within the castle walls was to know them by reputation—a collection of wealthy, beautiful purebloods who navigated the drafty corridors with the effortless entitlement of aristocrats. Yet, observing them from the safety of the Gryffindor table was entirely different from being the direct target of their scrutiny.
Giselle led the first offensive.
She didn't walk so much as glide, approaching the Gryffindor table like an elegant snake. Everything about her was designed to intimidate, from the lethal sharpness of her cheekbones to the glossy waves of hair that fell perfectly down her back. Even her uniform defied the rules; her tie was knotted into an oversized, rebellious bow that no prefect would ever have the courage to cite as a dress-code violation.
“Jaemin,” she purred, ignoring your existence entirely as she draped herself against the table. “We’ve missed you at breakfast. The Slytherin table is positively bereft without your presence.”
“I’m sure you’re all managing,” Jaemin replied, his tone conversational and mild. He didn't move his arm from its proprietary position across your shoulders.
“Barely.” Only then did her eyes slide toward you in a slow, assessing sweep that made you feel like a piece of furniture being appraised for auction. “And this must be the famous girlfriend. Y/N, was it?”
“Yes,” you managed, forced to swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat to keep your voice from cracking.
“Mm.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “How… unexpected. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken before, have we? What house are you in again?”
The question was a blatant insult, considering you were currently sitting at the Gryffindor table draped in scarlet and gold.
“Gryffindor,” you ground out through gritted teeth.
“Oh, right. Of course.” She paused to examine her dark green nails. “I always have trouble keeping track of the… quieter students. You must be one of those studious types. The ones who hide in the library all day.”
Boring. Forgettable. Beneath notice. The implication was clear. Beside you, Jo’s hand whitened as her grip tightened around her fork.
“I suppose so,” you said, choosing caution over a confrontation you weren't prepared to win.
“Cute.” Giselle’s smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. “Jaemin’s never been much for books, have you, Jaem? More of a... social creature. Though I’m sure you two have found something in common to keep things interesting.”
Beside you, Jaemin remained a statue of calm, taking a slow sip of his tea as if he were watching a particularly dull play rather than a verbal execution.
The pressure didn't let up as the days went on. A few days later, Changmin intercepted the two of you in the crowded corridor between Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Towering and broad-shouldered, he possessed the rugged, athletic build of a seasoned Beater. He didn't need words to dominate the space; his presence alone caused younger students to scatter like leaves. When he looked at you, his smile was so predatory and sharp it made you think of a wolf finally closing in on a scent it had been tracking for miles.
"So this is her," Changmin said, his eyes traveling over you with clinical detachment. "Have to say, mate, when you said you were seeing someone, I pictured… I don't know. Someone different."
Jaemin’s voice remained light, though his eyes turned piercing. "What do you mean?"
"Just… different." A shrug followed, along with a dismissive flick of his gaze. "No offense, of course."
"Of course," you echoed through a tight jaw.
"It’s just surprising, is all." Changmin gestured vaguely with one hand. "You’ve always gone for a certain type, and she’s… well, not that."
Not pretty enough, you knew he meant.
Jaemin’s arm hooked around you, pulling you into his side. "She’s exactly my type," he countered. "Perfect, actually."
His words were meant to be reassuring but they'd just made you feel more like a prop in whatever game he was playing.
A shift in strategy occurred by the following week. The subtle snubs evolved into a coordinated siege as Changmin and Giselle began appearing together, a united front of immaculate hair, expensive robes, and thinly veiled hostility.
They seemed to materialize in every common space you frequented, armed with false smiles and poisonous pleasantries. Every interaction was a minefield; every question was a calculated probe designed to expose the fraying seams in your story.
Their interrogation didn't stop at the legitimacy of your relationship. They began taking aim at the very fabric of your life... Quite literally.
"Those robes," Giselle remarked during a chance encounter in the corridor, her eyes sweeping over your silhouette with a look of practiced pity. "Are they... vintage? They have that distinctive, worn quality. That 'hand-me-down' aesthetic."
The fabric felt suddenly heavy and scratchy against your skin. They had been your mother's, mended with care and kept clean through sheer effort, but they lacked the shimmer of new silk. Heat flooded your face, a hot prickle of shame you hated yourself for feeling.
"They're fine," you muttered, clutching your books tighter to your chest.
"Oh, I'm sure they're perfectly serviceable," she added, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Not everyone has the luxury of replacing their wardrobe every season, after all."
Changmin leaned across the table, his expression open and conversational, though his eyes remained predatory.
"So, what does your father do for work?" he asked, swirling the pumpkin juice in his goblet as if it were a fine vintage. "My father sits on the Wizengamot, of course. And Giselle’s family runs one of the largest potions corporations in Europe. It's always so interesting to hear what other families do."
"He works for the Ministry," you said shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on your plate.
"Oh? How prestigious. Which department? International Magical Cooperation? The Auror Office?"
"Magical Maintenance."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. You didn't need to look up to feel the shockwave of silent communication passing between them. You could practically hear the click of the mental locks falling into place: the suppressed smirks, the shared glances, and the smug, knowing silence that broadcast exactly what they thought of your family’s status. You weren't just the 'wrong type' for Jaemin; in their eyes, you were a glitch in the social order.
"Very honest work, I’m sure," Giselle added finally, her voice carrying just enough to be heard at the neighboring tables. "Someone has to keep the toilets functioning."
Jo who'd been next to you the whole time, bolted upright, her face flushed a dangerous shade of scarlet. You moved instinctively, grabbing her arm and hauling her back into her seat before she could cause a scene.
The real ambush, however, didn't come until Friday evening.
You'd been in the library trying to calculate the magical decay of a complex curse for your Arithmancy assignment. Beside you, Jaemin had been hovering for the better part of an hour, his presence a persistent distraction.
"If you carry the nine there," he whispered, his long finger hovering over your string of equations, "doesn't the probability of a backfire increase by 12%?"
"No, Jaemin," you huffed, rubbing your temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "This isn't Divination. You cannot simply guess your way through Arithmancy. Seven is a powerful magical prime, but in an inverted sequence, its weight is halved. I am trying to ensure you don't accidentally liquefy your own bones during the NEWTs."
"Right, right. Half the weight, double the trouble," he murmured. He wasn't even pretending to look at the numbers anymore; his gaze was fixed on the way you were biting your lip in concentration. "Explain the Pythagorean bridge to me again? That was very sexy."
A sharp retort about his lack of focus was halfway up your throat when the shadows fell over the table.
Giselle and Changmin. They were flanked by Sungchan, another Quidditch type you vaguely recognized, and a fourth person whose presence made the air leave your lungs in a rush.
Yuna.
She stood there, ice-blonde and perfectly beautiful. You felt Jaemin’s posture stiffen beside you. You hadn't known. He’d never mentioned she was part of his circle, that she was this close to the people he spent every waking hour with. The "fake" part of your relationship suddenly felt dangerously flimsy.
"Study date?" Giselle asked, sliding into the seat directly across from you. "I’m sorry, is that a textbook, Jaemin? I thought you used those as coasters."
Jaemin didn't look up from your parchment. "We're just working."
"It’s Friday night," Sungchan cut in, leaning heavily against a nearby bookshelf. "The guys are sneaking kegs of firewhisky into the common room as we speak. There’s a party starting in ten minutes, mate. We’ve been looking for you for an hour."
Yuna stepped forward, her dark eyes narrowing as she focused on you for the first time.
"Y/N, right?" she said, her voice a soft, melodic contrast to the tension. "What exactly have you done to him? Jaemin hasn't missed a Friday night since third year. And yet, here he is, looking at... what is that? Arithmancy?"
"It’s important for the exams," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "And he's actually quite good at it when he tries."
A snort of pure skepticism escaped Yuna. "Since when is calculating the weight of a hex more entertaining than a party?"
"Since I realized I was failing," Jaemin interjected smoothly, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours atop the table. You knew it was a calculated move, a public display for the one person who mattered. "Y/N pointed out that if I don't pass the Arithmancy boards, I won't be able to take the advanced Theo-Magic track next year. She's very persuasive when she wants to be."
"Persuasive, huh?" Giselle repeated, though her eyes flicked toward Yuna to gauge her reaction. “I can only imagine the things she can do, if she’s managed to make you skip every single party since you started dating.”
Giselle’s implication was blatant, dripping with enough tawdry subtext to make your cheeks flame. You looked at Jaemin, waiting for him to shred her with his notorious silver tongue. Instead, he remained maddeningly static. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.
“Did you know there’s actually a betting pool regarding how long youll two last?” Yuna asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the Quidditch scores than your social execution. “The smart money says two weeks. That is, if the novelty doesn’t wear off by Tuesday.”
The news hit your stomach with a cold, hollow thud. “There’s a what?”
“Don’t look so scandalized.” she waved a hand, her emerald ring catching the light. “It’s nothing personal, darling. People adore a spectacle, and this is a bewildering one. Jaemin has spent years as the prize everyone was chasing, and then he suddenly chooses...”
She trailed off. Her silence was more eloquent than any insult.
"The weird girl who hides in corners," Sungchan supplied helpfully. "No offense."
"Loads taken," you snapped before you could stop yourself.
“So defensive.” Yuna chuckled cruelly.
“That’s enough,” Jaemin said. His voice lost its playful lilt, replaced by a low edge. It was the sound of a predator deciding a conversation had reached its conclusion.
“We’re just teasing, Jaem. Don’t be so sensitive.” Giselle stood, smoothing her robes. “If Y/N is going to be part of our inner circle, she’ll need a thicker skin. We aren't known for our gentleness.”
“I am dating Jaemin,” you said, your voice finally steady. “Not applying to be your friend.”
The temperature at the table dropped approximately ten degrees.
“Well,” Yuna said, her delicate features arranging themselves into an expression of theatrical, wide-eyed surprise. “It seems the little bird has claws after all."
They had successfully poked at the seams of your composure and were now departing before the scene became truly messy.
"A little parting advice, Y/N," Giselle said, pausing as she turned. "The more defensive you become, the more it appears as though you’re hiding something. And in this school, secrets are the only currency that matters."
Then they were gone. The only sound left was the rustle of their expensive robes fading into the library stacks. You sat there, shaking, while Jaemin’s fingers remained locked with yours.
“They’re foul,” you muttered, the sharp thud of your textbook echoing too loudly against the mahogany table. “Your friends are actually vipers, Jaemin.”
“I know.” His reply was flat, lacking any of the heat you were looking for. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” You yanked your hand away from his, suddenly angry at him. “Because you just sat there like a statue. You let them say all that, and you didn't even blink.”
“And what did you want me to do? Start a row in the middle of the library?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe defend me!” The words burst out, earning a sharp, hawk-like “Shh!” from Madam Pince.
You leaned in, dropping your voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell them they’re being cruel. Tell them to sod off! But you just sat there looking like you were enjoying the show.”
Jaemin didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as he studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“If I get too defensive, they’ll know something’s up,” he said eventually. “You heard Giselle, she's looking for a reaction. That’s what they’re all doing. They're looking for proof that we’re lying. The more I protest, the more suspicious they get.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?” You felt a hot sting behind your eyes and hated yourself for it. “I have to let them slag me off and talk rubbish about my family, all to keep your precious cover story alive?”
“Just for a bit,” he insisted. “Once they’re convinced it’s real, they’ll back off. But right now, they’re testing us. They’re testing you. And if we want this to work, you have to pass.”
“I’m trying to pass the bloody test!” you hissed, your voice rising again.
“Trying, yeah.” He leaned forward, his shadow falling over your parchment. “But you’re not being very convincing, Y/N.”
Your face flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you always look uncomfortable.” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure finally fraying. “You look miserable, Y/N. Constantly. Like being near me is a form of torture.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly a holiday,” you shot back.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” he continued, ignoring the jab. “I know you didn't want this. But we made a deal, and if you keep acting like I’m a Dementor every time I come within a foot of you, no one is going to believe this.”
“So what? You want me to swoon? Hang off your arm like a mindless doll?”
“I want you to look like you can at least tolerate me,” he cut in, his tone sharpening. “I want you to stop flinching when I hold your hand. Lean into me instead of going rigid as a board. Smile, Y/N. A real one, not that grimace you do when people are watching.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“Well, your best isn’t good enough.” He looked at the library door, then back at you. “Giselle asked me why you’re so tense all the time. I told her you were shy about public affection, but that excuse only works for so long.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with a cocktail of fury.
“Maybe you should’ve picked someone who actually wanted to be your girlfriend.”
“I picked you because I thought you were smart enough to pull this off, but if you can't... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. "If you can’t even manage to stay in the same room as me without looking like you’d rather be drowning in the lake, the whole thing falls apart.”
"So will you be satisfied if I start kissing the floor you walk on? " you asked bitterly.
“It’d be a start,” he said simply. “Look, I know they’re awful. But you need to try harder. Stop pulling away. Stop acting like my touch is burning you.”
“It is burning me,” you muttered. You didn't mean to say it out loud, and you immediately wished you could swallow the words back down.
Jaemin’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” You stood up abruptly, gathering your things with fumbling hands. “Forget it. I’ll try harder, alright? I’ll be more convincing. I’ll smile and lean in and act like I’m absolutely mad about you. Is that what you want?”
“Y/N, wait—”
“I’m going back to the common room.” You slung your bag over your shoulder, refusing to look at him. “I’ll see you at breakfast. I’ll be sure to put on a proper show.”
“That’s not what I—”
But you didn’t stay to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, your vision blurring slightly as you navigated between the towering bookshelves, Madam Pince's disapproving glare following you all the way to the exit.
Behind you, you heard Jaemin sigh, but he didn’t call after you.
Just as well. You needed to be anywhere but near him.
Expectations of a smooth public performance next morning were shattered the moment Jaemin actually appeared. You had braced yourself for the usual, the effortless slide onto the bench, the heavy weight of his arm claiming your space, and that charming attitude that suggested your library row had been nothing more than a minor blip.
Instead, the Jaemin who approached the table looked like he’d gone several rounds with a rogue Bludger. His tie was a shambles, hanging loose around his collar, and his hair was a chaotic nest of blonde strands as if he’d spent the early hours of the morning dragging his hands through it in frustration. He didn't sit, but lingered at the edge of the bench with a strange, jittery energy.
"Can we talk?"
The question was a mere breath under the noise of clattering plates and the morning owl post.
You looked back down at your porridge. "About what?"
"Yesterday." He sounded nervous, not the polished Pureblood prince, but a boy who was genuinely out of his depth. "Please?"
Jo delivered a sharp kick to your shin under the table. Why did she keep doing that?! You winced, the sting jolting you out of your stubborn trance. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.
"Fine. Where?"
"Third floor. The corridor by the one-eyed witch statue." He checked his watch, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the wood of the table. "Ten o'clock?"
"That’s oddly specific," you muttered, finally meeting his eyes.
"Just—trust me on this. Please?"
There was that word again. Please. It was a far cry from the boy who had told you your best wasn't good enough yesterday. And because you were apparently a glutton for punishment, you felt your resolve crumble.
"Ten o'clock," you agreed.
He didn't offer a smirk or a wink for the benefit of the watching Great Hall. He simply gave a tight nod and sat down, keeping a conspicuous gap between your shoulder and his.
Stone walls and guttering torches made the third floor just as drab as the rest of the castle. A few portraits dozed in their frames, and the statue of the one-eyed witch stood sentinel at the far end, her painted eyes seeming to follow your every move with an almost unsettling intensity.
Five minutes of waiting had already passed, which was roughly four minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to start feeling like a total idiot.
Just as the urge to bolt back to the safety of the common room became overwhelming, the rhythmic scuff of boots echoed against the flagstones. Jaemin rounded the corner, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff gait. You drew a breath, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove this clandestine little meeting, but he hoisted a hand to silence you.
"Before you lay into me," he started, coming to a halt just out of arm’s reach, "I want to apologize. Properly. For yesterday."
The anger you’d been carefully stoking for the last twelve hours flickered and died, leaving you feeling strangely hollow. "Oh."
"I was frustrated, and I took it out on you. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He dragged a hand through his hair, a sign of genuine nerves that made him more like a tired teenager. "You’re right. This situation is mental. My friends are absolute vultures, and I’ve been asking you to stand in the middle of the pack without giving you a single bit of support."
"I mean... yeah." You leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to hide how much that small bit of validation actually mattered. "That has been the arrangement so far, hasn't it?"
"Well, it’s a rubbish arrangement." He stepped into your personal space, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that felt far too real. "I want to make this bearable for you. But for that to happen, I think we need to... practice."
"Practice?"
"At being comfortable," he explained, as if he were simply suggesting a bit of extra Quidditch drills. "You said my touching burns. Not literally, I hope, but—" He gestured between the two of you. "There’s this tension. This massive wall between us. People can see it, Y/N. It’s written all over you."
"Right. So your grand plan is..."
"Exposure therapy," he said. "We need to get accustomed to one another. And we need to do it without an audience watching your every flinch."
A snort almost escaped you as you processed the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. It felt like a scene ripped straight from one of those tawdry novels Jo kept hidden in her trunk, the ones with titles like The Warlock’s Wicked Whim.
But beneath the embarrassment sat a cold, hard logic you couldn't ignore. Every time his skin brushed yours, your heart panicked. You went rigid, your breath hitched, and your pulse became a frantic drumbeat in your ears. If you could feel that visceral wrongness vibrating through your bones, then vipers like Giselle and Yuna could definitely tell too.
"And you want to do this here?" A wary glance down the drafty corridor followed, half-expecting a gaggle of students to peek around the corner, eager for a glimpse of the castle's most talked-about couple. "What if someone comes by?"
"They won't." Jaemin started walking again, gesturing for you to follow. "That’s the whole point of meeting on this floor."
Confusion was about to mount into another argument when he came to a sudden halt in front of a completely unremarkable stretch of stone wall. Without a word, he began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, his brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration.
For a moment, you just watched him, convinced that he'd finally cracked under the pressure and that this whole fake relationship scheme had driven him round the bend. You were seconds away from suggesting a firm dose of Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey when the masonry began to ripple.
Solid stone blurred and shimmered like the surface of the Black Lake under a midday sun. Then, with a low, tectonic grind, an ornate wooden door bled into existence.
Your mouth fell open. You'd heard of this, of course. Read about it in 'Hogwarts: A History'. But reading about something and seeing it happen right in front of your eyes were two very different things.
"The Room of Requirement," you breathed, awe temporarily overriding your general state of irritation.
"The Room of Requirement," Jaemin confirmed, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I figured if we're going to do this, we should do it somewhere we won't be interrupted."
"Unless you don't want to?" he asked, and there was a carefulness to the question, an unspoken offer of an out. "I know this is... I know it's a lot to ask. But I really think it'll help. I do."
You stared at the door, your mind whirling. This was insane. Completely, utterly, certifiably insane. Practicing feeling comfortable with Na Jaemin in a magical room that appeared out of thin air? This was your life now? This was what your Hogwarts experience had come to?
But what was the alternative? Continue on as you had been, flinching and grimacing your way through this charade until even the most gullible Hufflepuff could see right through you? Let Jaemin's awful friends pick and prod at you until you broke?
No. No, as much as it pained you to admit it, Jaemin was right. If you were going to make it through this with your dignity remotely intact, you had to stop being the weak link. You needed to become a better liar.
And if that meant subjecting yourself to Merlin knows what kind of 'practice' in a secret magic room... well. So be it.
“I swear if this is some kind of prank…”
"It's not." He pushed open the door, warm, inviting light spilling out into the corridor. "I promise."
The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt a strange sensation wash over you. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long, cold day. The room was...not at all what you expected. It was smaller, cozier. There was a plush sofa against one wall, a few cushy armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. The lighting was soft, emanating from no discernible source, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. It felt safe, somehow. Comforting. Which only served to put you more on edge.
"So," you said, crossing your arms over your chest as the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final-sounding click. "You brought me here to practice. Practice what, exactly?"
Jaemin had the grace to look slightly abashed. "Intimacy."
"I'm sorry, what?”
"Not—not like that," he said quickly, and was that a hint of a flush on his cheeks? Surely not. Na Jaemin didn't get flustered. It must be a trick of the light. "I mean... being close.. and comfortable enough to casually touch each other. You know, the things couples do in public that you keep shying away from."
"You make it sound so simple," you muttered, feeling a blush rise to your own cheeks despite your best efforts.
"It’s not that big of a deal." He gestured to the sofa. "Look, we're going to have to spend the next two months being physically affectionate in front of the entire school. And right now, every time I so much as brush against you, you look like you'd rather be facing a herd of centaurs. So we need to practice. To make it feel normal."
Normal. What a ludicrous concept. There was nothing normal about this. But you bit back the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. You’d agreed to this madness, and backing out now would only make you look more pathetic.
"Right. So you want me to get used to you pawing at me."
"I do not paw—" He cut himself off, taking a visible breath to steady himself. "I want you to get used to me touching you in a completely respectful, non-pawing way.
You stared at him and he stared back. You could practically hear the seconds ticking by, feel the weight of the impasse settling over the room.
"Fine," you said at last, the word feeling like it was being dragged out of you with fish hooks. "Fine. What do you want me to do?"
His shoulders relaxed, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. "Just… come sit with me. We'll start slow."
He settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. You approached warily, lowering yourself onto the opposite end and putting as much distance between your bodies as physically possible. Jaemin looked at the three-foot chasm of empty space and raised an eyebrow.
"You're going to have to get closer than that."
"This is close."
"You’re barely sitting on the couch."
"Baby steps," you muttered.
"We don't have time for baby steps." But his voice was gentle, coaxing. "Come on. I don't bite."
That remains to be seen, you thought. But despite every instinct screaming at you to run, you scooted closer. Then a bit closer still. You stopped in the middle of the sofa, a foot of space still separating you, but closer than you'd ever voluntarily been to him outside of your mandated public displays.
"Better," Jaemin said, and the soft, approving lilt in his voice sent a traitorous flutter through your stomach. "Now, I'm going to put my arm around you. Like I do at meals. And I want you to try not to tense up. Okay?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice not to shake.
Slowly, broadcasting his movements like he was approaching a skittish animal, he lifted his arm, draping it across the back of the sofa. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, the weight of it startling in its warmth, its solidity.
Instantly, you felt your entire body go rigid, your muscles locking up like you'd been hit with a full body bind curse. Every nerve ending was suddenly alight, hyper-aware of the exact dimensions of his palm, the precise pressure of each individual finger.
"You’re doing it again," he murmured. His voice was much closer than you’d expected. "Tensing up."
"I know," you gritted out. "I’m trying."
"Here." His other hand hovered just shy of your arm, hesitant. "Just breathe. Focus on that."
Breathe. Right. You could manage that.
You sucked in a breath, held it for a count of three, and forced it out. You repeated the cycle until the iron bands of your muscles began to slacken, slowly adjusting to the foreign sensation of him.
"Good," Jaemin whispered. "See? Not so terrible."
"It’s weird," you countered. It was unsettling and entirely too much. "You’re weird. This whole thing is mental."
"Noted." There was a definite streak of amusement in his tone now. "But you aren't flinching. That’s progress."
He was right. The initial shock of the contact was fading, replaced by a strange sort of...not comfort, exactly. Awareness, maybe. You were intensely conscious of the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you.
The feeling wasn't the searing, blistering heat you'd stupidly mentioned yesterday in a moment of unthinking frustration. But it was a lot. Intimate in a way you weren't at all prepared for, in a way that made your heart thud traitorously against your rib cage.
"Okay," Jaemin said after the silence had stretched out just long enough to teeter on the edge of uncomfortable. "Next step. I'm going to pull you a bit closer. Like I do when we're walking to class."
"Do you really need to narrate every little thing?" You couldn't help the note of exasperation that crept into your voice.
"I'm trying not to spook you."
"I'm not a skittish woodland creature."
"Could've fooled me," he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
Before you could formulate a properly scathing response, he drew you firmly into his side. Your instinct was to lock up again, but you fought it. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming—clean linen, and a subtle hint of broomstick polish.
It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But...not entirely unpleasant, if you were being honest with yourself. Which you absolutely were not going to be, because that way lay madness.
"Are you okay?" Jaemin asked, and his voice lacked his usual arrogance, sounding instead like he was actually concerned about your boundaries.
For a dizzying second, you wondered if there was more to him than the unflappable, silver-tongued Slytherin. Was this just as strange and unsettling for him? You pushed the thought away immediately. Thinking of Jaemin as a real person with real nerves was a one-way trip to jagged rocks and shark-infested waters. He was a means to an end. A necessary evil.
"It's fine," you said, and if your voice came out a little breathier than usual, a little less steady, well. That was nobody's business but your own. “Not terrible, I suppose."
"High praise, coming from you," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, could practically feel the curve of his lips where they brushed against your hair.
You chose to ignore that, focusing instead on keeping your breathing steady and your heartbeat under control.
Time passed, seconds or minutes or hours, you couldn't quite tell. The room had narrowed down to the weight of Jaemin's arm around you, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the soft sounds of your breathing intermingling in the quiet room.
The whole thing was almost peaceful, provided you let yourself forget exactly who he was and why you were here.
“How much longer do we have to do this?” you asked eventually, when the silence and the sensation started to feel like too much.
Jaemin shrugged, the movement jostling you slightly. “Until it feels normal, I guess. Or at least not horribly awkward.”
You let out a long sigh. “We’re going to be here a while, then.”
He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the small room. “Probably. But look on the bright side—at least the couch is comfortable, right?”
You made a noncommittal noise, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an agreement.
“Just think,” he continued, a teasing lilt returning to his voice, “a few more of these sessions and we’ll be the most convincing couple Hogwarts has ever seen. We’ll put the real ones to shame.”
“Be still my beating heart,” you deadpanned. “What a glittering future.”
“We’ll practice the basics for now. Then we’ll work our way up.”
“Work our way up to what, exactly?” You regretted the question the moment it left your lips. His arm tightened slightly, and his voice took on a silkier quality.
“Well,” he said, “eventually, we’re going to have to practice kissing.”
You practically launched yourself off the cushions at that. You scrambled to the very edge of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The distance between you was back to a yawning three feet in a matter of seconds.
He’d mentioned kissing when he proposed this mad arrangement in the first place but you genuinely thought he’d been trying to ruffle you. The prospect of actually kissing Na Jaemin was so far outside your comfort zone it felt like another planet.
“Absolutely not!” you gasped, your eyes wide with genuine alarm. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”
Jaemin stared at you, his arm still draped over the empty space where your shoulder had been a moment ago. He looked startled by your sudden flight, but it only took a second for that lazy amusement to crawl back onto his face.
“It’s going to come up, Y/N,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning back comfortably, as if he hadn't just suggested something world-ending. “Couples kiss. Especially 'new' couples who are supposedly mad about each other. If the first time I kiss you is in front of the entire Great Hall and you look like you’re about to be sick, the game is up.”
“I get it,” you snapped, your face feeling like it was being held over a Bunsen burner. “I get it. But we’re not—I mean, we don’t need to do that. It’s way too much.”
“We don’t have to do it today,” he agreed, his voice surprisingly gentle as he watched you vibrate with nerves at the end of the sofa. “We’ll work up to it slowly. Baby steps, remember?”
“I hate this,” you mumbled, slowly sinking back into the upholstery, though you stayed firmly out of arm's reach.
“I know,” he said, his eyes tracking you with a look that was far too observant for your liking. “But you’re getting much better at pretending you don't.”
The witching hour, that eerie stretch of night when all respectable souls should be tucked safely in their beds, found you instead padding down the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, your dressing gown pulled tight around you and your wand tip illuminating the way.
It was a terrible idea, really, wandering the castle at this hour. You were a prefect, for Merlin's sake. You knew the rules better than most. Out of bed after curfew, risking detention or worse, all for what? A craving for something sweet that couldn't wait until the civilized hours of morning?
But sleep had proven elusive, your mind refusing to quiet, insisting instead on replaying the events of the past week in excruciatingly vivid detail. The practice sessions with Jaemin in the Room of Requirement featured most prominently, of course. The steadily shrinking distance between your bodies, the way his touch was beginning to feel almost... familiar.
You were making progress. Which was precisely the problem.
So now, at an absolutely unreasonable hour, you found yourself seeking solace in the kitchens. If you were going to be awake anyway, you might as well have a biscuit to keep you company.
You reached the portrait of the fruit bowl, tucked away in a corridor no one ever noticed, and tickled the pear. It squirmed and giggled, as it always did, before transforming into a door handle.
The kitchens were a welcome oasis of warmth, the vaulted ceilings echoing with the industrious sounds of house-elves going about their nightly duties—kneading dough for the morning's bread, organizing the pantry, scrubbing the massive cauldrons until they shone. They looked up as you entered, surprise evident on their wrinkled little faces.
"Miss!" squeaked a particularly diminutive elf, hurrying over to you, her tea towel toga flapping about her knees. "Miss should be in bed! Is Miss hungry? Was something not to Miss's liking at dinner?"
"No, no," you assured her quickly, crouching down to her level with a smile. "Dinner was wonderful, as always. I just couldn't sleep and thought a little something sweet might help."
The elf's large eyes widened further, a delighted smile stretching her mouth. "Oh yes, yes! Dipsy can help! We has treacle tart left over from dinner, and chocolate biscuits, and Dipsy can bring fresh cream for Miss's tea—"
"Just a biscuit or two would be lovely," you said. "And maybe a bit of that apple tart, if there's any left? I don't want to make extra work for you."
"Is no work at all!" Dipsy insisted, already scurrying off toward the enormous cooling racks that lined one wall. "Is Dipsy's pleasure to serve! Miss sit, sit! Dipsy will bring tea!"
And so you found yourself perched on a stool at one of the long preparation tables, watching with a mix of amusement and awe as Dipsy and two other elves fluttered about, assembling a plate of biscuits and tart and a pot of fragrant, steaming tea.
"Thank you," you said sincerely as they presented you with your midnight feast. "This is exactly what I needed."
Dipsy beamed, her bat-like ears quivering with pleasure. "Miss is always so kind, so polite! Not like some students, so rude and demanding they is. But Miss is a good student, yes she is!"
You felt a pang at that, remembering all the times you'd seen your classmates treating the house-elves like mere servants. "You work so hard," you told her. "The least I can do is be polite."
The ancient elf in the tea towel toga shuffled up then, setting a small pot of jam next to your plate. "Special raspberry preserves," he croaked. "Made 'em myself. Good for what ails you, they is."
"That's very kind, thank you," you said, touched by the gesture.
You passed the next quarter hour in the warm bustle of the kitchens, savoring your illicit snack while the elves worked around you, peppering you with questions—did you need anything else, what did you think of the new recipe they'd tried at lunch, would you like to take some extra tarts back to your dormitory? It was soothing, the cheerful chatter and clatter, so different from the brooding silence of your room.
By the time you'd drained your teacup and consumed a frankly inadvisable number of biscuits, you were feeling considerably more yourself.
"Thank you," you said again as you rose to leave. "I feel much better."
"Miss is welcome anytime!" Dipsy assured you earnestly. "Dipsy is always here if Miss needs a little pick-me-up!"
You left with a smile and a promise to visit again, slipping back out into the dark and drafty corridor.
It was deserted, as you'd expected. Or so you thought, until a voice emerged from the shadows some twenty feet ahead, stopping you in your tracks.
"Out for a midnight stroll?"
You nearly leapt out of your skin, your wand raised defensively before you'd even fully registered the words. But then a familiar figure stepped into a pool of torchlight, and your racing heart stuttered for an entirely different reason.
Jaemin. Even in the middle of the bloody night, he managed to look put together, his school robes immaculate and his prefect badge gleaming. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, and there was a glint in his eye that might have been amusement.
"Merlin's beard, Jaemin," you hissed, lowering your wand. "Are you trying to get hexed? You can't just lurk in the dark like some sort of—villain!"
"I'm not lurking, I'm patrolling," he countered. "It's my job to accost students out of bed after hours. Which, need I remind you, you currently are."
"I’m a prefect too," you shot back, though you were painfully aware that your current attire—dressing gown, fluffy slippers, and basically a bird's next on your head—didn’t exactly command authority.
"A prefect who's very much off duty," Jaemin pointed out, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made you acutely conscious of your bare legs and messy hair. "And wandering the castle at two in the morning, no less."
You crossed your arms, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. "I couldn't sleep. Not that it's any of your business, but if you must know, I was hungry. I went to the kitchens."
"The kitchens," he repeated slowly.
"Yes, the kitchens. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? Big room, lots of elves, food comes from there?"
Jaemin, looking awfully like he was trying not to smile, said again, "You went to the kitchens. At two a.m. In your dressing gown."
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt a little. "Yes, that's what I just said. Is there an echo here I'm not aware of?"
"Y/n y/l/n, prefect and notorious rule-follower, snuck out of bed and all the way down to the kitchens in the dead of night...for a biscuit?"
"What, like you've never had a late-night snack craving?"
"No, I can't say I have." He was definitely fighting a smile now. "I'm just surprised. I didn't take you for the type."
"Yes, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," you muttered, brushing past him to continue your trek back to Gryffindor tower. To your great chagrin, Jaemin fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.
"And here I was thinking I had you all figured out... Now I come to find you have a dark side. Late-night wanderings, clandestine trips to the kitchen...so scandalous. Merlin only knows what other secrets you're hiding behind that prim prefect exterior."
"Oh, yes," you agreed dryly. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. Careful, Na, or I'll file you away in my mental 'too curious for his own good' cabinet with all my other deep, dark secrets."
It was possibly the most ridiculous thing you'd ever said, made all the more absurd by the fact that you were padding through the halls in slippers, being relentlessly followed by the boy you were supposed to be pretending to date. Who was going to write your biography one day? They'd have a field day with this.
"So why are you lurking about in the dark, anyway?" you asked, feeling the need to shift focus away from your own nocturnal misadventures. "Isn't this usually when you abscond to the grounds to catch hapless rule-breakers?"
"Wasn't in the mood," Jaemin said with a shrug. "Thought I'd switch it up tonight. Catch hapless biscuit thieves instead."
You shot him a withering look. "I'm not a thief. The elves gave me those biscuits fair and square. And anyway, you're one to talk about avoiding the grounds. What, did our last excursion awaken a sudden fear of the dark?"
"Hardly." A pause. "Just wasn't the same without my favorite patrol partner, I suppose."
Your steps faltered a bit at that, and you hoped desperately that the darkness was enough to hide the flush you could feel creeping up your neck. Favorite patrol partner. He had to be mocking you. Nevermind that he'd said it almost...softly. Sincerely, even. A trick of the acoustics in this drafty old castle, no doubt.
“I’m flattered,” you managed, arranging your face into an expression of arch disdain. "Though I think we both know I'm likely the only patrol partner you’ve terrorized on the grounds. Bit of a low bar, as far as favoritism goes."
“I'm grading on a curve," Jaemin said with a smirk. "Bumping you to the head of a class of one."
"How magnanimous of you."
"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."
A slow shake of the head was the only response you could muster. Between the amusement and the sheer exasperation, it was hard to keep track of your own feelings. This boy. This ridiculous, irritating, unfairly handsome boy. How had your life come to revolve around verbally sparring with him in darkened hallways in the middle of the night?
You'd reached the stairs leading up toward Gryffindor Tower, and you paused at the base, turning to face Jaemin. He was looking at you intently, as if he wanted to say something.
"You've been better this week," he said abruptly.
You blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. "What?"
"At pretending," he clarified. "You don't flinch anymore when I touch you. That thing you did yesterday, with your hand on my chest when you were laughing at Jo's joke - that was good. Natural."
Heat crept up your neck at the memory. You'd surprised yourself with that gesture, the easy intimacy of it. It had just...happened. No thought, no awkwardness. For a moment, it had felt real.
"Oh," you said eloquently. "Um. Thanks?"
Jaemin nodded. "I can tell the practice is helping. People are buying it. Even Giselle's backed off a bit."
"Only a bit," you muttered. Jaemin's prickly best friend had been keeping a hawkish eye on you. She'd cornered you just yesterday, demanding to know Jaemin's favorite Quidditch team. You'd guessed the Falmouth Falcons, only to be informed with a triumphant sneer that he was actually a die-hard Montrose Magpies supporter, had been since childhood, and really, what kind of girlfriend doesn't know that?
"She's protective," Jaemin said, as if reading your thoughts. "But she's coming around. Slowly."
"Hooray for small mercies," you said dryly.
Jaemin's lips twitched. "Anyway, I didn't just track you down to compliment your acting skills."
"So why did you track me down, then?" You folded your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up at his words. "Other than to save me from death by biscuit overindulgence, of course."
"Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said.
You nodded slowly. "I'm aware."
"It's also Valentine's Day."
"Oh." You blinked. "Right." Somehow, in the midst of all the fake dating drama and NEWTs prep, you'd completely forgotten about the most romantic day of the year. "That's...a thing."
"A thing we should probably do together," Jaemin said. "I mean, it would look weird if we didn't, wouldn't it? The whole school will be there, all the couples will be out in force..."
Suddenly your hands felt clammy. He was right, of course. If you were really dating, you'd be all over each other on Valentine's Day. Holding hands, sharing butterbeer, probably snogging in some corner of Madam Puddifoot's like every other disgustingly happy couple.
But you weren't really dating. And the thought of upping the ante on this charade you were already barely keeping up with...it made you feel a bit sick.
Jaemin must have seen some of this on your face, because he quickly added, "We don't have to make a big deal of it. Just walk around together, maybe get lunch at the Three Broomsticks. I could buy you some chocolate from Honeydukes, let people see me being a good boyfriend. That's all."
"Right," you said faintly. "Sounds...great."
He studied you for a moment. "I mean, if you had other plans, or if you think it's too much—"
"No," you said, more firmly than you felt. "No, you're right. We should go together. For appearances' sake, if nothing else."
His eyes flickered at your words, a brief shadow passing over them before he straightened up. "Great," he said briskly. "It's a date then."
You took a step back, suddenly desperate for the safety of your dormitory. "I should go. It’s late."
Jaemin nodded. "Get some rest, Y/N. I’ll see you in Potions."
"Can't wait." You started up the stairs, but paused at the landing to look back. "Goodnight, Jaemin."
"Goodnight." He waited a beat, his voice dropping to a low, melodic murmur. "Sweet dreams, baby."
You huffed a laugh to hide your skyrocketing pulse and hurried up the stairs, feeling his gaze on your back until you turned the corner.
Valentine’s Day with Jaemin. It was just another scene in the play. You could handle it.
Right?
But as you climbed the stairs to your bed, you had the sinking feeling that 'sweet' dreams were the last thing you were going to get.
The Hogsmeade trip came around quicker than expected. It had barely stopped raining for weeks, but on Saturday the sun was a weak golden disk behind a scrim of clouds, and every student with even a shred of romantic aspiration was queued up to be let out the gates, Gryffindor and Slytherin and the rest all jostling close, careful to keep up appearances for whatever audience they believed themselves to have.
You, on the other hand, spent the first half of the walk pretending that the clumps of snow along the path were of great zoological interest, then the next half pretending you couldn’t feel Jaemin’s hand cradling your elbow, like you were some frail Victorian damsel and the uneven ground posed a mortal peril.
“This is a bit much, isn’t it?” you muttered, as you reached the crest of the hill and saw the town below.
Every shop window had been transformed into a shrine for Valentine’s Day: Sugar quaffles in the shape of anatomically correct hearts, boxes of chocolates spelled to whisper eternal devotion when opened, bargain bouquets of roses that swatted at you if you tried to walk by without paying them a compliment. Even the cobblestone streets seemed to have been scrubbed up for the occasion, each puddle reflecting a film of pink and red banners strung overhead.
Jaemin grinned at your side, unbothered by the spectacle. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though you eyed the brightly colored display tray warily. “I just don’t want to accidentally eat one of those chocolates that makes you recite poetry. Last time Jo had one, she spoke in haikus for three hours. It was a nightmare.”
“That sounds amazing, actually,” Jaemin said, a devilish glint in his eye. He veered off the main path, his long coat swishing around his ankles as he approached the sugar-dusted worker hawking the tray. “Let’s see if we get Lord Byron or... Byron-but-make-it-sexy.”
“Those are the same thing, Jaemin.”
He snagged two samples before you could protest, pressing a heart-shaped truffle into your gloved palm. The chocolate was dark, dusted with shimmering pink edible glitter. “Go on. What’s the worst that could happen? A little rhyming couplet never killed anyone.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smell of rich cocoa was overpowering your common sense. You took a tentative bite.
The chocolate was velvety, melting instantly over your tongue with notes of dark cherry and espresso. For a second, you thought you were safe. Then, a strange warmth bloomed in your diaphragm. It wasn't the heat of the candy, but more like a physical compulsion, like a marionette string tugging at your vocal cords.
Your lips parted against your will. You tried to say ‘It’s good,’ but your voice, suddenly projecting with a nasal, theatrical vibrato that echoed off the cobblestones, intoned:
“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove!”
Jaemin doubled over, nearly dropping his own sweet, his laughter bright and loud in the crisp air. “Oh, brilliant! Shakespeare it is! Give it some more feeling, come on!”
“Shut up!” you tried to hiss, but the magic ignored your intent completely. Instead, you threw a dramatic hand over your heart, your eyes fluttering shut as you bellowed, “O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken!”
You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, as a group of Ravenclaws walked by, giggling. The spell finally sputtered out, leaving you breathless and flushed.
“I hate you,” you mumbled into your palm, though the lingering taste of cherry was admittedly delicious. You looked up at him, realizing something didn’t add up. “Wait. How do you even know that was Shakespeare? Or who Lord Byron is?”
Jaemin finally straightened up, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He popped his own truffle into his mouth, looking entirely unbothered.
“We have a library at the Manor that rivals the one at Hogwarts,” he said casually, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “My parents… well, they’re traditionalists, obviously. But my mother has always insisted that a true wizarding education is incomplete without understanding the ‘arts of the common man.’”
He swallowed, and for a second, his eyes went wide. You braced yourself for a poem, but he just cleared his throat and smirked. A dud candy. Typical luck.
“She thinks Muggles are tragically fascinating,” he continued, offering you his arm. “She insisted I read the classics. ‘If you are to rule the world, son, or simply live in it, you must understand how the other half feels.’ Or something like that.”
You stared at him in slight awe. You had never really considered that wizards from old, sacred twenty-eight families cared much about the Muggle world, other than to look down on it. As a half-blood who spent most of your childhood navigating the regular world and reading paperbacks, you assumed Jaemin’s world was entirely insulated.
“I’m just glad they’re using good material this year,” he finished, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Sonnet 116? ‘It is the star to every wandering bark’? Very romantic choice, Y/N. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
You tried to glare at him, to maintain your annoyance at being made a public spectacle, but his smile was so wide, so full of genuine delight, that your irritation evaporated like breath on glass.
“I’m telling you that you’re paying for these sweets,” you said, linking your arm through his.
“Fair enough,” he hummed. “Where to next?
Before you could answer, a shrill voice cut through the chatter of the crowd. "Jaemin! Yoo-hoo, over here!"
You turned to see Yuna Bae waving at you from the doorway of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She was resplendent in robes of pale pink, her dark hair arranged in perfect curls. Beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, was a Ravenclaw you recognized from your Charms class. Taehyun, you thought his name was.
Jaemin's grip on your arm tightened imperceptibly. "Yuna," he said, his smile never wavering. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Oh, you know me," Yuna trilled, her eyes raking over you dismissively. "I never miss a Hogsmeade weekend. Taehyun was just treating me to tea. Why don't you join us? I'm sure we could squeeze you in."
The way she said that made it clear she was referring solely to Jaemin. You might as well have been a Flobberworm for all the attention she gave you.
“Y/N and I were just heading to Tomes and Scrolls. She’s been telling me about the new research into the Goblin Wars that just arrived and you know I can never resist a good history tome.”
Well, that was a blatant lie. You’d mentioned the book in passing a week ago, but Jaemin would rather drink Bubotuber pus than read a dry history text. Still, you appreciated the save. Yuna’s smile dimmed a fraction, her eyes flicking to the modest storefront of the bookstore as if it were a contagious ward at St. Mungo’s.
“Is this what you’re prioritizing now, Jaemin? This… little excursion into the mundane?”
Her eyes raked over your clothes down to your scuffed shoes. “I’m simply fascinated, Jawm. Your family has spent generations cultivating a certain standard, and you're playing the role of the benevolent saint. Taking pity on the less fortunate is a fine hobby, but surely you’re bored of the charity work by now?”
You felt your heart drop to your stomach. You started to speak, but Jaemin’s voice cut through first.
“Yuna.” The word was a warning, low and dangerous. “Watch yourself.”
“I’m being perfectly transparent,” she snapped, her feline eyes flashing. “It’s embarrassing, Jaemin. People are laughing. They’re wondering how long this little ‘experiment’ has to last before you regain your senses and return to your own kind. You’re a Na. Act like it.”
“I am a Na,” Jaemin said flatly, his arm sliding from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “And Y/N is my girlfriend. She isn't an experiment, and she isn't someone you get to talk down to. If you can’t show her the respect she’s earned, then you and I have nothing left to discuss.”
Yuna’s jaw tightened, her composure finally cracking into a mask of pure venom. “Earned? She’s a nameless Gryffindor with nothing to her name but a few decent marks and a tragic wardrobe. Don’t think for a second this won't reach your father, Jaemin. He won't be as ‘charmed’ by your rebellion as you are.”
“Send the owl tonight if you like,” Jaemin countered, his voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Yuna’s eyes flicked to you one last time. “Enjoy your biscuits while you can, darling. The higher you climb, the harder the fall.”
You simply smiled, though your chest was tight with fury.
"Oh, I’ll keep that in mind. Do enjoy your tea, Yuna. I hear the service is wonderfully… swift today.”
As she turned on her heel to sweep into the tea shop, you kept your hands tucked inside your coat pockets, your fingers curling around the smooth wood of your wand. With a sharp, silent flick of your wrist and a jagged thought of Ventus, you sent a precise jinx whistling through the air.
The effect was instantaneous.
Just as Yuna reached for the heavy brass handle of the shop door, an invisible, violent gust of wind caught the hem of her pristine pink robes. They billowed up like a startled peacock’s tail, tangling around her head and blinding her just as she stepped forward.
Thwack.
She walked straight into the doorframe with a dull thud. Her scream of outrage was muffled by her own silk skirts, and as she scrambled to untangle herself, her designer boots skidded on a patch of black ice you’d surreptitiously greased with a bit of Glacius. She performed a frantic, uncoordinated flailing dance that sent her expensive handbag flying into a nearby slush pile.
Taehyun made a strangled noise that was either a cough or a repressed sob of laughter.
Jaemin stood perfectly still beside you, watching as a disheveled Yuna finally managed to shove her way inside the shop, her perfect curls now looking like a bird's nest and her dignity in tatters. He slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes wide delight.
"Did you just…?"
"The wind in the Highlands is so unpredictable this time of year," you said, keeping your gaze fixed on the shop window as Yuna frantically tried to wipe slush off her bag. "It’s a real hazard for those who aren't used to the climate."
"You're terrifying," Jaemin whispered, a grin breaking across his face. Absolutely terrifying. I love it."
"I told you," you said, finally meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. "I'm a woman of endless mysteries. And I really, really hate being called a charity case."
"Fair point," he laughed, steering you away before she could recover enough to look back. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's check out the books."
Tomes and Scrolls was blessedly quiet, the heavy wooden door acting as a silencer against the bustle of the High Street. You inhaled deeply, loving the smell of aged parchment, beeswax, and the faint, ozone-like spark of old magic trapped in ink. This was your happy place.
You moved instinctively toward the back, trailing your fingers along the spines. Some books hummed under your touch; others, like the Compendium of Common Curses, seemed to shy away.
“There,” you whispered, spotting a thick, midnight-blue spine with silver embossing The Iron Quill: Unfiltered Testimonies of the 1612 Rebellions.
You pulled it from the shelf, cradling it like it was made of glass. “I’ve been waiting for this for months, Jaemin. It’s based on the personal journals of Ug the Unreliable that were found in a sealed vault in Gringotts last summer.”
You opened it to a random page, your eyes lighting up. “Look at the diagrams! Everyone thinks the rebellion started because of the wand-ban, but these letters suggest a secret trade embargo on silver-threaded lace. It could completely rewrite the seventh-year curriculum. If the economic tension preceded the legislative one, it changes the entire motive of the Goblin liaisons!”
You turned a page, your voice gaining speed and volume as the academic thrill took over. “And look at the footnotes! There’s a cross-reference to The Tales of Beedle the Bard that suggests the ‘Warlock’s Hairy Heart’ was actually a coded political allegory for the Minister of Magic at the time. It’s brilliant. It’s... it's...”
You broke off, suddenly aware of the silence. Jaemin wasn't looking at the book. He was leaning against the mahogany shelf, watching you with with interest.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You started to close the book. “I’m boring you to death, aren't I? You probably want to go look at the Quidditch supplies or–”
“No,” Jaemin said softly. He stepped closer and reached out, not to take the book, but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Not at all. I like seeing you like this. Passionate. A little bit nerdy. It’s... it's really cute, Y/N.”
You froze, the heavy tome suddenly feeling very light compared to the way your heart was thudding against your ribs. You looked down, pretending to be intensely interested in a footnote about goblin-wrought armor, trying to ignore the way his thumb lingered near your temple.
“It’s just history,” you whispered, though your pulse was racing fast enough to win a broom race.
“But you love it,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “And that’s why I like listening.”
You didn’t quite know what to say to that so you busied yourself with the book, pretending to be engrossed in the table of contents, trying to ignore the way your pulse was racing.
It was just an act, you reminded yourself. A show for the onlookers. Jaemin was a good actor, that was all. There was no real feeling behind his words or his looks.
You lingered by the history section for a moment longer before a small, unassuming sign caught your eye toward the very back of the shop, nestled under a low, sloping ceiling: "Non-Magical Curiosities & Literature."
“Wait,” you said walking towards it. “I didn’t know they kept a Muggle section here.”
Jaemin followed as you navigated the narrowing aisles. This corner of the shop was more cramped, the books bound in plain cloth or faded dust jackets rather than dragon-hide or shimmering silk.
You scanned the titles until your eyes snagged on a familiar, battered spine. You pulled out a well-loved copy of Wuthering Heights.
“Since you’re so well-versed in Byron and Shakespeare,” you said, holding the book out so he could see the cover, “did your mother ever make you read the Brontës?”
Jaemin took the book, his long fingers tracing the silhouette of the moors on the cover. “I don’t think this one made the library list. Is it another tragedy?”
“The best kind of tragedy,” you sighed as you leaned back against the shelf. “It’s about a love so intense it’s practically a curse. Heathcliff and Cathy... they’re terrible for each other, really. They’re vengeful and cruel, but they’re also part of the same soul. There’s this one line—” you paused, closing your eyes for a second to recall the words that had lived in your head since you were twelve. “‘I am Heathcliff. He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’”
When you opened your eyes, Jaemin was staring at you with an intensity that made the air in the cramped corner feel suddenly very thin. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something much more sincere.
“That’s a bit more intense than a Honeydukes poem,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the pages.
“Muggles don’t have magic to fix their problems,” you explained, feeling a rush of that deep-seated passion again. “They don’t have Amortentia to force a feeling or Cheering Charms to dull a heartbreak. They just have words. They have to build these massive, sweeping worlds of emotion just to explain how it feels to be alive. I think… I think sometimes that’s more powerful than any spell we’re taught.”
Jaemin looked from the book back to you, a small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You talk about them like they’re the ones with the real power.”
“In a way, they are,” you whispered.
He handed the book back to you, but as your fingers met on the cover, he didn't pull away. “Well, if it’s that good, I suppose I should read it. But only if you promise to highlight the best parts for me. I want to see the world the way you see it.”
His words caught you off guard. You looked down at your joined hands, the scent of old paper and Jaemin’s expensive, woody cologne swirling around you.
“I can do that,” you promised softly.
The afternoon bled away as you drifted from one storefront to the next. It was…nice. More than nice, actually. Despite yourself, you found yourself relaxing and enjoying the banter.
Despite the frantic warnings screaming in the back of your mind, you found the armor around your heart beginning to flake away. You were relaxing, leaning into the sharp cadence of his banter and the way his shoulder occasionally brushed yours
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold, Jaemin suggested one last stop.
“Three Broomsticks?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
Jaemin shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. “It’s tradition, isn’t it? Can’t come to Hogsmeade and not have a Butterbeer.”
He had a point. The warmth of the pub sounded inviting after the chill of the February air. “Lead on, then.”
The place was packed to the brim with students crowding every table, their cheeks flushed from the cold and the Butterbeer. You wove your way through the throng, Jaemin’s hand at the small of your back.
“Y/N! Jaemin! Over here!”
You turned to see Jo waving at you from a table in the back. Beside her, was a handsome boy you vaguely recognized as a seventh year Hufflepuff. Won-something?
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Jo said as you approached, her eyes bright. “Y/N, this is Wonbin. Wonbin, this is my best friend, Y/N. And her boyfriend, Jaemin.”
Wonbin smiled at you. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Jo’s told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” you said, sliding into the seat across from them. Jaemin settled beside you, his thigh pressing against yours under the table.
“Oh, definitely,” Wonbin said, grinning. “Though she did mention something about an incident with a Niffler and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion…”
You groaned, shooting Jo a look. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the Niffler got loose, I maintain that to this day.”
Jo laughed, leaning into Wonbin’s side. They looked so comfortable together, so at ease.
Not for the first time since you arrived at Hogsmeade and finding yourself surrounded by dozens of loving couples, you felt a pang of something that might have been envy. What must it be like, to have that? To not have to question every look, every touch, every flutter of your heart?
You glanced at Jaemin, only to find him already looking at you. His eyes were the color of dark mahogany in the firelight.
If this were a real date, he would lean in. If you were a real girlfriend, you would let him.
The thought of his lips on yours, not as a tactical maneuver to thwart Yuna, but as an answer to the restless, poetic ache that had started in the bookstore, sent a shiver through you that was violent in its intensity. You wondered if his mouth would taste like the dark chocolate he’d eaten earlier, or the butterbear he was having now.
Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a drumbeat of "what if" that threatened to drown out your common sense. You looked away quickly, grabbing your Butterbeer and taking a long swig to hide the sudden heat in your cheeks.
The conversation kept flowing around you, but you found it hard to concentrate. Everywhere you looked, couples were leaning into each other, hands entwined, heads bent close. All you could hear around you was the sound of laughter and the soft smack of lips meeting in chaste kisses.
Suddenly, your skin itched with a restless sort of energy. You were hyperaware of Jaemin beside you, the solid warmth of him, his hand on yours on the table.
This was supposed to be a date. A fake date, yes, but a date nonetheless. And what did couples do on dates?
They kissed.
The thought was terrifying and… exciting. Kissing Jaemin, how would that feel? Putting your mouth on his mouth in front of all these people.
“Y/N?” Jaemin’s voice was barely audible over the din, but it vibrated through your very bones. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, his scent of cedar and winter air enveloping you. “You’ve gone very quiet. Where did you go?”
You took another gulp of Butterbeer, trying to drown the sudden dryness in your throat. There was no need to get so worked up about it, really. It was all part of the act. Just one more scene to play, one more line to deliver.
You could do this.
Setting your tankard down with a thunk, you turned to Jaemin, determination surging through you. His eyes widened slightly as you leaned in, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.
“Y/N,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”
“Improvising,” you murmured, and kissed him.
For a moment, he was utterly still beneath your lips. Then, just as you were about to pull away feeling completely humiliated, he came to life, his hand cupping your cheek, his mouth slanting over yours.
It was…Merlin. It was everything. His lips were soft and warm but still demanding, the scrape of his calluses against your skin sending goosebumps down your arms. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the soft wool of his sweater, anchoring yourself lest you float away entirely.
Someone wolf-whistled, probably Jo, and you jerked back to reality, breaking the kiss with a gasp. Jaemin looked as dazed as you felt, his eyes dark, his lips kissed-red.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough. “That was…something.”
“Um… yeah,” you said weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Gotta be convincing, right?”
Jaemin’s pupils were more dilated than before. “Right,” he said. “Of course.”
He turned back to his drink, and you did the same, trying to ignore the way your lips were tingling, the way your heart was doing a complicated tap-dance against your ribs.
That wasn't real, you reminded yourself as you gulped down the rest of your Butterbeer, the alcohol doing little to steady your nerves. None of it was real.
Jo was grinning at you across the table, her eyes knowing. You glared at her, silently daring her to say something. Wisely, she didn’t, but her smile spoke volumes.
As the evening wore on and the empty tankards accumulated, you found your tongue loosening, your inhibitions lowering. The pub seemed overly warm, the laughter too loud, the press of bodies too close. You needed air, needed space. You needed…
“I need to pee,” you announced loudly, lurching to your feet. The room swayed around you, and you grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself. “I’ll be…I’ll be back.”
You wove your way through the crowd, ignoring Jo’s concerned call of your name and the way Jaemin slightly rose from his seat, his hand outstretched as if to stop you.
You didn’t need his help or anyone’s help. You were fine. You were absolutely, totally fine.
Outside, the night air was a blessed slap of cold. You took in great lungfuls of it. Merlin’s beard, how much had you had to drink? The empty tankards swam before your eyes in a hazy blur. Three? Four? More? It was hard to keep track when the Butterbeer had been so sweet and the pub so warm and Jaemin’s lips so soft against yours…
Oh no. Oh no no no. You’d actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone. What were you thinking?
Well, it didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting away, finding a quiet place where you could think. Somewhere without Jaemin’s eyes on you.
You picked a direction at random and started walking with unsteady steps. The high street was nearly deserted now, the lovebirds gone home to their castles and their common rooms and their cozy little romances.
Leaving you alone with your thoughts and your too-fast heartbeat and the sinking realization that you were, perhaps, a bit drunker than you’d initially thought.
“Y/N!”
You closed your eyes briefly, both thrilled and terrified by the sound of his voice.
“I’m fiiiiine,” you slurred without turning around. “I just need a minute.”
Jaemin caught up to you in two long strides, his face tight with concern as he reached out to steady your swaying frame. "You're completely blasted. Please, just stand still for a second before you fall into a ditch."
"I am not blasted," you informed him with great dignity, though you tripped over your own feet and ended up slumped against his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but swimming with a sudden honesty. "You're the one who’s blasted— Blasted with... with your perfect hair and your Byron talk."
“Let’s just get you back first, okay?”
“I can get there by myself, thank you very much.” You slurred, starting to walk in the opposite direction of the castle.
“I’m sure you can. But I'd rather help you get there in one piece.” He said, sliding his arm around your waist and gently veering you in the right direction.
You tried to pull away, a whine building in your throat. “Don’t wanna. M’having fun.”
“I think you’ve had quite enough fun for one night,” he replied, his voice dripping with that dry, aristocratic patience that made you want to kick his shins.
“Are you mad at me…” You said softly after a second. “Because of the kiss? I—I didn’t mean—”
Your eyes smarted. Tears, sudden and hot, pooled and fell freely. You felt mortified and ridiculous and very impervious at once. The laugh you tried to force came out more like a sob.
“M’sorry,” you hiccuped. “What was I thinking? I’m awful.”
He stopped walking and turned to face you. For a moment, he was quietly furious and perhaps even a little bewildered, which made him look achingly human.
“Don’t say that,” he breathed. He did not sound like someone who believed in platitudes. “You’re not awful. You’re just tired and you’ve had too much to drink.”
“M’drunk, not dumb. I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. Jus’ got…got lost in the moment.”
“Let’s just go back to the castle first” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “We can talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”
You sniffled weakly, wiped at your face with the back of your hand, and let him shepherd you back toward the castle.
By the time you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you were barely keeping your eyes open, your body growing heavier with each step.
“Password?” the Fat Lady trilled, eyeing Jaemin suspiciously.
You tried to form the word ‘Flibbertigibbet,’ but your tongue felt like a thick piece of wet paper and it came out as something closer to "Flub-a-dub". The Fat Lady, mercifully, just sighed and allowed you access anyway.
“I’ll help you,” Jaemin murmured, his arm tightening around your waist to keep you upright as the portrait swung open.
But as he made to step over the threshold, you planted a hand firmly on his chest.
“You can’t come in,” you said, shaking your head slow and wide.
He raised an elegant eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
“Cause you’re a snake,” you told him seriously. “And the Fat Lady… She doesn’t like snakes. Nope! No snakes ‘llowed in the lion house. S’the rules.”
You dissolved into giggles, finding this logic unbearably funny. The look on Jaemin’s face only made you laugh harder, a snorting, hiccupping thing that had you clutching at the portrait frame for support.
“Right. God forbid I upset the natural order,” he said, a reluctant, lopsided smile finally tugging at his lips.
He reached out, gently tucking a messy strand of hair behind your ear. “I think that’s quite enough out of you. Go on, get to bed.”
You sketched a salute, barely avoiding smacking yourself in the face. “Aye aye, cap’n,”
And with that, you let the portrait swing shut, cutting off the sound of Jaemin’s laughter. You made your way up to your dormitory on unsteady legs, collapsing into bed fully clothed.
As sleep claimed you, dragging you down into dreamless oblivion, one last thought chased itself around your fuzzy brain.
No snakes in the lion’s den. Not even pretty ones with soft lips and warm hands.
It was a good rule, you decided muzzily. A very good rule indeed.
my heart is racing. i’ve gasped too many times to count. how on earth have I managed to come across gold.
this fic is DELIRIOUSLY good. every line is so intentional. and I am no stranger to a hogwarts au. like i actually have no words holy moly i feel so alive after reading that.
pairing: lee donghyuck x fem reader
genre: college au, academics rivals to lovers, kinda fake dating, forced to work together on a project, smut, fluff, humor (idk), music major!haechan, music major!mc | not really requested but thank you 💌 anon for the inspo
summary: your indifference toward Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, becomes rivalry when he decides to sabotage you. The battle turns into a war, the war turns into a plan, and the plan, well, the plan fails miserably... or succeeds wonderfully. After all, it’s all about points of view.
Or, Haechan thinks he found a way to distract you and be better than you, but doesn’t think it thoroughly and screws it up.
warnings: smut, weed/alcool consumption, thigh riding, oral (receiving, giving), unprotected sex, teasing, etc | inclusivity notes: reader wears different hairstyles (no mention of texture, type and color), no mention of body type (but haechan lifts her a few times), no mention of skin color, no use of y/n
wc: 20.3k (out of 42k)
a/n: here’s the second part. please if you liked it leave feedback (comments, reblogs, asks), i love knowing your opinions and it keeps me motivated to keep posting my writing. enjoy!
After too many dates, too many studying sessions together, and in general too much time spent together —even with his group of friends— you feel like this is a relationship that simply hasn’t been named, yet. Something about everything doesn’t feel like just sex and hate.
You’re fine like this, for once believing you can let loose a little and still do well in your studies.
Haechan, instead, thinks his plan is going amazingly. He knows he has you distracted, he knows he takes away your time, and he knows everything is technically perfect. But the plan is not the best made of his life, and the more time passes, the more he forgets about it, and the more he thinks about you.
He never planned to use you, that had to be clear. He just wanted to distract you with sex —something you both wanted to have— and give you a boyfriend experience so you could write the song in the best way possible. But in doing all that, he is more caught up in you —and not only because of the plan, he is just caught up in you— than in his studies.
It’s nine pm on Sunday after he dropped you home around four pm this afternoon. He made you meet his girl friends too for lunch and then you went back to his place to stay together for a while. But even if you spent almost the entire day together, he still misses you.
He rolls on his back as he goes into his contacts to text you again, he doesn’t have to scroll down, you’re second on the list since he last annoyed you forty minutes ago but you still haven’t replied.
haechan:
can you answer me?
haechan:
i miss you : (
haechan:
you didn’t even let me eat you out
haechan:
you looked so pretty in that skirt i think it looks better with my head underneath it
haechan:
fuck and now i’m hard thinking about you
mortal enemy:
the only hard thing should be the books you should be studying on, remember we have a test tomorrow?
“Fuck,” he screams, sitting up. “What?”
He never forgets these things. He always writes them down in his agenda that he maniacally reads every day to make sure he’s always on time with his studying schedule. He can’t have forgotten about it. But, apparently, he did.
His thumb quickly wipes to call you and your answer doesn’t let him wait.
“I’m studying,” you huff annoyed as you pick up his phone call right away.
“Why would you go out with me if tomorrow we have a test?”
Your chuckle reaches his ear through the phone before he gets to hear your voice again. “Why not?”
“Don’t you want to be the top one? What about your grades? This adds up for the finals.” Panic fills his voice, he’s hoping you remembered just now and haven’t been studying since you went back, but you’re too relaxed for that to be true.
“Yeah, I know,” you reply, too calmly for his liking. Was his plan working? No, because you knew about it. And he completely erased the test, too busy thinking about you.
“And you go out?” He asks again as anxiety starts to take over him.
“Why would I lock myself up before a test? It’s not even that serious. There’s the topic you pick, and then like four questions that will surely be the main things we discussed in class, Professor Kim only knows one way of making tests.”
He groans, he can’t believe you’re always so ahead of him. “How do you know these things?”
“I use my brain,” you reply nonchalantly.
“So you started studying… when you got home?”
“Last week.”
“Last week? Are you kidding me?” He screams so loud that he’s sure you have to move the phone from your ear.
You sigh, rubbing your temples, Haechan knows it, you always do that when he pisses you off somehow. “You didn’t open the book at least once until now?”
“I…” I would usually read through the notes at least once a week, but I’ve been too busy. “I’ve… I read the notes, until some weeks ago. I got busy, okay?”
“Were you perhaps distracted by something Hyuck?” You ask teasingly, and he can see you twirl the end of your hair in your fingers while your tongue pokes at your cheek.
“Nothing distracts me,” he mutters, frowning even if you can’t see him.
“Then hang the call and try to read the notes at least, I’ll send you the recordings of the lessons, play them all night maybe something will stick to your brain.”
“Okay, bye. Wish me good luck, please,” he says, and you chuckle. “No seriously, don’t manifest against me, I need all your good energy.”
“I will, Hyuck. Just give it a quick read and then try to get as much sleep as possible. You have a brain and you’re smart with it, it’s better for you to be active tomorrow than force information that just won’t get in, alright?”
He hums, weirdly feeling a bit calmer at your words. “’kay, goodnight, babe.”
“Goodnight.”
Haechan sighs, slumping on the bed, boner long gone and anxiety on his chest, until the screen lights up again and a few messages from you show up.
mortal enemy:
10 audios
+ 10 files ‘music theory notes’
sent the audios anyway but my *perfect* notes should be enough to not make you pull up an all-nighter
also don’t stress too much, I appreciate the act of chivalry to make me top this class grades again :;
He forgot about an exam, he didn’t study for it, yet he’s smiling like an idiot because of you.
Haechan’s screwed.
“So, how did it go?” You ask, blocking Haechan as soon as the bell rings and Professor Kim dismisses the class, letting you know the results will be in next week.
Haechan glares at you, and you suck your teeth. “Come on, it wasn’t that difficult,” you say, sitting on his desk, as he looks for something in his bag.
“I did great, I just don’t want to admit your notes are perfect and were enough to save my ass,” he says, and you can’t hold back the smile.
“You’re welcome,” you say, standing up and kicking him playfully with a swing of your hips.
“Hey! You could’ve made me fall,” he jokes, grabbing his bag before taking a step back so you can lead the way out of there. “And thank you.”
You chuckle, lowering your head to hide that dumb grin on your face. “You know, I wanted to ask you why we never revisited music theory but I thought you wanted to do it on your own, maybe you were scheming something against me.”
“What? I would never scheme against you,” he says as you start walking to lunch.
You stare at him with a raised brow, and he huffs. “It was in the past and you did it too. Also, what would I scheme?”
“I don’t know, maybe you sneaked into his office and stole the test to already know the answers?”
“That would be cheating, not beating you. There’s no fun in that,” he says, holding the door of the cafeteria open for you.
“You’re such a fair rival,” you joke as you head to the buffet to grab something to eat.
“Wait,” he stops you when your plates are full. “Why don’t you sit at our table? I hate seeing you eat alone.”
“Have you ever considered I can’t stand how loud your friends are?”
“Oh come on, you already deal with them when you come to my place.”
“Exactly.”
Haechan huffs, standing in front of you to stop you from going toward your table. “We can go to yours today.”
You furrow, lightly tilting your head to the side. “We don’t have anything to study.” You try to decipher his expression and think if you could get so distracted to forget something you had to work on or revisit. “The song?”
He shakes his head. “I might…” he pauses, trying to find a way to say what he wants to say that’s not so humiliating, but then he gives up with a heavy sigh that rolls from his lips. “Okay, I need help.”
“You?” You scream, attracting some attention on you, and Haechan glares at you, pulling you to the sides so that the curious gazes can linger away from you.
“Yes, me,” he replies through gritted teeth. “It’s just a small thing, but I don’t get it.”
You smirk smugly and he rolls his eyes. “Fine, I can’t wait to tutor you,” you reply, starting to walk to his group of friends’ table.
“Why can’t I ever win with you?” He whispers, shaking his head and following you.
You’re not sure Haechan told you the truth. He is smart but he isn’t the best actor ever, and when he came to your place to try to understand that small thing he didn’t understand in sociology, you were pretty sure it was just an excuse. You explained it in less than five minutes, he got it too quickly and immediately started messing around.
You don’t mind it, though. You enjoy spending some time with him. He’s a good distraction. Surely you would’ve fixed some notes or listened to some lessons instead of… well, instead of being on his lap with your fingers in his hair and his hands on your ass, grinding on him.
You hold in a moan when he concentrates on your neck, kissing, biting, and sucking the spot that makes you shiver. And you’d like to go on like this, but you need more. So you shift on top of his thigh, while yours presses against his hardening dick and makes him growl.
“What are you do—”
“Shh,” you shush him quickly, pressing your thumb on his lips before replacing it with your lips. “Ouch,” you gasp when he bites on your lower lip. “Why did you do that?”
Haechan chuckles, shrugging before leaning close to you again. “Why not?”
You frown but have no intention of carrying it any further. You can feel your panties stick to your skin and you just want to come, not really caring if it’s just like this.
But the moment of intimacy, if you could call it that, gets interrupted by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.
“God, just answer,” you yell when Haechan ignores the third call but whoever is on the other line has no intention to stop trying.
Haechan rolls his eyes as his right hand leaves your ass to search through his pocket and huffs annoyed when he sees the name on the screen.
“Jaemin, what?” Haechan groans as you keep moving on his thighs, ignoring his deadly glare. “No, I’m busy.”
You faintly make out an angry reply from the other side, but you don’t care enough to understand what Jaemin’s saying.
“No, I can’t go out with you.”
“We can,” you reply loudly enough so that Jaemin can hear while Haechan scowls at you again, muttering a scold under his breath, but his anger is quickly addressed to his friend on the other side.
“Yes, I’m with her,” he huffs, rolling his head back, trying to stop your movements but failing. “Don’t ask questions. And yes, fine, fine.”
When he hangs the call after mumbling a quick, annoyed goodbye, you chuckle. “Thought you didn’t want to hear my annoying friends?” It’s all he asks, leaving a small, teasing slap on your asscheek.
“What were we supposed to do? Stay inside all day?”
“Yes, we have everything here,” he says, spreading his arms to point around. “And you’re still grinding on me.” He looks down, eyes narrowing as he stares at your hips.
“I’ll finish and then we’ll get out,” you wink, starting to move faster but he has no intention to get back into the mood, not yet, at least.
“You’ll stain my pants and where do I come?” He huffs, and you’re sure he’s trying to find an excuse to don’t go outside rather than one to don’t fuck with you. He would never say no to that, especially when you two are already in the middle of it.
“Take them off,” you urge, jumping off him, waiting for him to get undressed as you do the same, your panties the only thing staying on. “Come on. You don’t want to be late.”
Haechan groans, “you’re so… so greedy. You just want everything.”
“Yeah, am I allowed to have one flaw?” You bat your lashes at him, grinning when his eyes roll in the back of his head. “Oh, will I stain the underwear, too?” You ask when his lower half is completely bare to your eyes.
“Honey, I’m not coming inside my boxers, can’t wear your panties to hang out with the boys,” he says annoyed.
You chuckle, climbing on his thigh again, watching him whimper when your bare leg brushes against his dick and you press on him to be as close as you were before.
He doesn’t know why you didn’t take the panties off, but he knows he doesn’t want them there. He wants to feel you on his skin. As hot as this is, he wants to feel your pussy drip down his thigh, and your panties are stopping the full experience.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Donghyuck!” You scream when the sound of the fabric ripping hits your ears and the chill air of the room hits your warm core.
He groans. “It’s so hot when you say my real name with an angry tone, makes it hard to hold back fucking you.”
“You need to stop ripping my stuff,” you complain, trying to hide how hot you found that, the ripping of the panties and that fucking smirk on his face now that he lays back against the headboard of your bed, so proud and snotty that is hard for you to hold back fucking him.
“Shut up, you love it,” he says, pulling you into a rough kiss, pushing your body closer while his hand rests on your hips to guide you in the movements. “Also they weren’t a good pair, if you were in lingerie I would’ve asked you politely to take them off.”
“You will never see me in lingerie,” you retort, pulling away as your hand sneaks down and starts moving up and down on his throbbing cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, “at least warn me?”
“I’m half naked, grinding on top of you and I have to warn you when I grab your dick?” You ask. “If you don’t want, I won’t make you come.”
“No, just —fuck,” he glares at you when you concentrate on the tip, “don’t be a bitch.”
“Sorry, sorry,” you chuckle but still move your hand quickly, following the steady rhythm of your thighs. Your head rolls back when one of his hands creeps under your shirt and cups your boob, his thumb brushing against your hard, sensitive nipple.
Haechan sucks in a deep breath when your thighs start shaking around his and your cum drips down his thigh. “Fuck,” he moans, eyelids fluttering as he looks at you, head reclined back as you hold onto him with only one hand, the other still busy taking care of him. “This is so hot, you are so hot.”
The compliment pushes you closer to reaching your high and when he lifts your shirt to wrap his lips around your sensitive nipple, you lose it.
You whimper and quiver, hips moving messily as you keep riding your high, breath getting stuck in your throat when he accidentally bites you as his orgasm washes over him unexpectedly.
“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, and if you weren’t still so lost in your pleasure you would let him know you liked it.
When your hips still, and the dizzying sensation calms down, you lay your head against his shoulder for a while as his arms wrap around your waist.
“Can we stay in?” Haechan pouts when you try to get away from him, reaching for your hand to keep you next to him before he rolls over when you shake your head and jump off the bed. “Please.”
“We can’t always fuck and study and study and fuck,” you reply, cleaning yourself up, holding in a sigh when you realize he stained the cover of your bed with his cum.
“Who said I want to do either of those things?” He says, looking up at you with puppy eyes, pushing his lower lip out to pity you.
“I know you,” you reply, glaring at him before pulling your pants back on, not even caring about putting on another pair of underwear, you would’ve had to wash all those clothes anyway after taking a well-deserved shower, but for now you only had to pick some clothes to go out with the boys.
“No, let’s stay in and, I don’t know. Should we sing?” He proposes, jumping on his feet and putting his discarded underwear on.
You laugh, staring at him in shock. “You want to sing?”
“Yeah, you have a guitar, right?”
You nod, turning around the corner where your guitar is.
“Don’t you want to hear my angelic voice?”
You take a deep breath at his brag and then exhale loudly. “But Jaemin?”
“Fuck him, I don’t care,” he says while a small victory grin already starts widening on his face. He knows you’re about to give in.
You huff, rubbing your temples and giving up fighting him when his fingers are already typing on the phone to tell his friend you two can’t come anymore.
When he puts the phone away and smiles at you in anticipation, you sigh. You really are stuck with him, aren’t you?
“Why don’t we prepare biscuits?” You suggest. You wanted to bake something for a while now, but you never really find time to dedicate to the kitchen.
“Biscuits?”
You nod, stealing his sweatshirt to wear on top of your shirt before walking to the kitchen —that space you consider the kitchen.
“I’m a mess when it comes to cooking, you know, right?” He confesses as he leans against the countertop, watching you move around to grab all the ingredients and tools you need.
“You? Admitting you’re bad at something? To me?” You ask with a teasing tone, but you’re genuinely surprised he let you know without turning even this into a competition.
He fakes a laugh. “Very funny,” he says. “I just don’t want to hear you complain if I make some mistakes and ruin your perfect biscuits.”
You chuckle. “Can you weigh the ingredients and then put them all in a bowl?”
“All at the same time?”
You nod, handing him what he needs and showing him where the scale is. “Is not that hard, even you can do it. Plus, it will be another thing I teach you today,” you wink.
“Careful, baby. Don’t start thinking you’re so much better than me,” he says, starting to weigh the ingredients and putting them in each separate bowl.
You scoff. “Honey, I won’t start thinking that,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder, “I already think that.” You leave a teasing kiss on his cheek before he hits you with the flour and you gasp.
“Oh, no, we’re not doing that,” you warn, taking a step back, seeing how he’s ready with another handful of it.
“Then take it back,” he says nonchalantly.
“I never take back the truth —oh, Jesus Christ, Donghyuck!”
He laughs loudly, bending forward as he glances at you, flour on your face and well, his sweater. “Don’t call my name like that again, though. I won’t resist this time,” he says when he finally stands up and stands right in front of your face. “Now, will you take it back?”
“Never —Ah!” You scream when he lifts you up without a warning and sits you on the table before he starts tickling you. “No, no, please,” you babble, shaking your head and trying to stop his hands on you but he’s faster. “Okay, fine, I’m not better than you — I’m not better than you!”
“Good,” he says, stopping his torture and smiling proudly. “I love it when you listen,” he jokes, kissing you again.
You should hate it —or at least don’t like it so much— when he kisses you like this, out of nowhere, for no reason at all other than wanting to shut you up, or maybe to feel you. But you truly don’t mind. Actually, you lean in for another one, and another one and another… until you feel this is once again going in another direction and, as much as you’d love to indulge in the moment, you want to prepare those biscuits.
“Enough,” you say, pushing him away and jumping off the table. “No more food waste and we’re doing this together.”
You discover you and Haechan work better in the kitchen than in other fields, maybe because there’s no tension pushing you to do better but you are listening to each other, teaching tricks, and simply having fun. And this atmosphere stays with you even when he grabs the guitar and starts playing the tune of your song, you sing some bits of the lyrics and then jokily propose to add some about baking cookies on a cloudy spring afternoon, expecting him to laugh at it but he just smiles and tells you to go on. And you do, mumbling something about being in the kitchen, humming, baking, and laughing. You think it’s too cliché, and you will surely go back to it obsessively until it comes at you like you want it, but he loves it.
Then the oven rings, signalling the biscuits are ready and none of you can believe they came out good, nothing burned, and they’re tasty. Somehow, those cookies, feel like the biggest achievement you two ever made together.
“Maybe we should stop fighting each other,” he mumbles, after chewing his last bite. “We make a pretty great team.”
You smile, cleaning your lips with a napkin, crumbs falling on the table. “Hate to agree, but we do,” you say. “I mean… we kinda teamed up months ago, don’t you think so?”
“We want to kill each other, and you call that teaming up?”
“It’s our way of teaming up,” you reply, handing him a clean napkin so he can clean himself, and he takes it. “We just like to keep the flame alive, if we stopped bickering at all, it wouldn’t be so funny.”
Haechan shrugs, he guesses so. “Not like anybody else ever stood a chance with us on top.”
You chuckle. “Imagine if someone is using our rivalry to get to the top and we never noticed them.”
“Honey, trust me, I would’ve noticed.”
Once you’re done eating, you push him into the shower. There’s flour, and dough on all your clothes, and you still need to wash off the sex of before. You’d opt to shower separately but you’re tight on water and you have to make the best out of the confined space, reason why his plan to fuck another time fails.
“Why are you wearing my pink robe?” You turn around two seconds to grab the towel you prepared for him, and he betrays you. “This was for you,” you say, holding up the white towel as you stand there naked.
“I already put it on, it’s wet,” he says. “Come on, it’s pretty.”
“Yeah, that’s why is my favourite robe,” you pout, but still wrap the towel around you because you don’t want to freeze.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and, before you can even think how, you don’t feel the ground under your feet anymore. Your arms immediately wrap around his shoulders for more safety as you let him carry you outside. You have no idea what is going on today, but you like this, how he’s taking care of you —in his way, of course— and how this feels good.
“You have to change it anyway,” he says when he drops you on the bed and, as soon as you open your mouth, he knows you’re about to complain about the wet towel on the dry covers. “I’ll help you change it later.”
While you change into your new clothes, your pink pyjamas with small black hearts as a pattern, you watch him walk around as if he’s so familiar with the place —not that it would take much for anyone to know where everything is, considering how small it is— but something about it makes a feeling of comfort and warmth spread in your heart. Nobody else had ever been inside that place.
But then you snap out of it and realize he’s naked, and his clothes are dirty, so you rush to the closet to find something to give him.
“So, mhh,” you say, making the things you grabbed fall in front of him, who’s sitting at the table. “I have those sweatpants and a sweater, or these pyjamas if you want it, it’s pink, but it doesn’t look like you care much,” you note, looking at how much he’s rocking your robe.
“Pink pjs! We’ll match,” he says, eyes lighting up as he wastes no moment getting out of the bathrobe.
“Out of the kitchen!”
“There’s not even a wall?”
“Still, get out,” you say, pushing him with force away from there. “Better.”
He rolls his eyes but still grabs the shirt and pulls it on him, blinking when he sees a pair of clean boxers. “Why do you have these?” He still studies them, thinking he has seen them before.
“Because they’re yours,” you say nonchalantly while fixing your hair in a braid.
“They’re mine? I left them here?”
“I might’ve accidentally dragged them with me once,” you confess, looking at him with a big, awkward smile.
“When?”
“When Jaemin almost pushed the door down and we had to rush to get dressed. I just stuffed everything in my bag and your underwear was next to mine so, ta-da,” you say, stretching your arms and shaking your hands to complete the sound effect.
Haechan sighs, nodding. “Of course, it must have been because of Jaemin, somehow.”
“Well, it turned out useful, just put them on. I don’t want to see your dick more than necessary.”
Haechan scoffs and bites back a comment as he finishes getting dressed. “You have to admit I look really good in pink.”
You look at him up and down while he twirls, and you smile. “You would be my favourite Barbie at the mall if they sold you in boxes.”
“God, you’re so annoying, can’t ever make normal compliments,” he complains. “Come on, help me with the bed. It won’t clean itself.”
Making the bed with him is tiresome. His weird way and theories about making it lead you two to bicker more than you should and remake it twice to see who is right —you, obviously. So, once you’re done with it, laying on it with him by your side, you know not even God himself will make you stand up to cook dinner. You don’t need to say a word, Haechan already has his phone out ready to order, and you couldn’t be happier.
You spend ten minutes deciding what movie to watch and another five bickering because you don’t want to eat on the bed, but he insists you won’t make a mess, and if you do, he will help you clean up. It ends with you giving up and the bell ringing with your order ready.
You never have nights like this. You always try to cook on your own and don’t waste money on eating out, and you also never finish the movie or the series you start, either too tired halfway or with something more important to care about, for example, some notes to copy, or lessons to listen.
But this is nice.
You two joke, laugh, eat, and then you start to feel the sleep take over you, and you don’t think about sending him home or falling asleep on the pillow.
And as you rest your head on his shoulder, Haechan’s more and more sure that his plan failed.
“You’re playing with me, right?” You ask when Haechan messes up for the nth time. The end of the year is approaching, and you two are getting ready for yet another test, the last before the finals, but right now he’s testing your patience not getting a single answer right. You’ve been stuck in his room for hours now.
“I wish I was, my brain is fried,” he huffs, throwing his head back on his chair.
You’re speechless and you shake your head. “It’s super easy, you were better than me in this class, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
“Hey! Why are you so pissed? Shouldn’t you be happy you’ll beat me even in this?”
“Be serious,” you say, sending him a deadly glare. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m…” he huffs, shaking his head, and turning around in his chair to avoid you. “I’m just stressed for a lot of things. I’m tired, I didn’t sleep tonight.”
“You struggled even last week. And when the Professor asked you something in class you gave an answer that is just not you,” you say, cutting off his bullshit, grabbing the armrest of the chair, and forcing him to face you with a rough tug on the chair.
“There are too many things to remember,” he says, after frowning at how harsh you have been. “It’s not that I don’t know, it’s that I mess it all up.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Do I have to motivate you?”
He lifts his head, staring at you with a furrow. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s play a game,” you say, sitting better on the chair, and Haechan gulps when doing so your skirt —short skirt, incredibly short skirt— rises. He will never tell you, but the way you show up on your dates is another reason why he can’t concentrate. It’s May, it’s so hot. It’s your excuse, but he would bet you’re also doing it to mess up with him.
“No,” he replies, already fearing your proposal.
“Why not? You didn’t hear it, yet.”
He sighs but signals you to go on with a quick movement of his fingers.
“So, we’ll revisit once again, I’ll try to explain all your doubts. Then, I’ll ask you a question, if you get it right, I’ll take off one piece of clothes, if you get it wrong, you’ll take off one, and vice versa.”
“How studying with you butt-naked would make me learn more things?” He almost screams in a high-pitched voice.
“See!” You say. “You’re already starting with the idea you’ll lose.”
“Because I can’t get anything in my brain, and if I get it right then you’ll have to take something off and all I’ll think about will be… you.” I already only think about you, he’d like to add, but that’s too humiliating. Just like the grin on your face. He hates how weak he is. He hates how easy it is for you to win battle after battle. And he hates even more that his plan is showing flaws with each passing day. He doesn’t want you to be his Waterloo, but he’s not sure he can come up with another strategy soon enough to beat you.
“Fine, then no study-strip-poker,” you give up, but the smug smirk on your face doesn’t drop when you start to think of something else that could motivate him, it only grows bigger when you finally get it. “If you answer right to at least ten of the fifteen questions, I’ll suck your dick.”
Haechan gulps. His eyes immediately fall on your lips as his brain starts to wander on lands he shouldn’t think about, not now at least, not when he has a bigger obstacle to face if he wants to get there.
“Hey,” you call his attention, snapping your fingers and waving them in front of his face. “It has to be motivation, not distraction. Do you want me?”
He huffs, throwing his head back. “Can’t we just fuck and then we’ll start again?” He pouts like he does every time he wants something from you.
“No,” you reply sternly, stealing his sweatshirt from his chair and putting it on you. “You don’t get the prize if you don’t win.”
“That’s not fair. And why are you covering up?”
“So you can’t distract yourself,” you say. You might like to tease him with more revealing clothes, but your intent is never to get him to be this distracted. You don’t want to be the reason he will fail this last test.
“You’re not my distraction,” he scoffs, diverting his gaze, and moving closer to his desk.
You decide to ignore him, you know the truth, and as much as the idea of him starting to lose because he’s too busy thinking of you, sends you on cloud nine, you also don’t want him to do terribly, especially in a class you know he loves and is good at.
“I know the theory,” he says, stopping you from going back to the start. “I wouldn’t be able to produce songs if I didn’t.”
“Yeah, but you just failed to explain how you create and add effects, and you forgot the basic difference between the dry sound and the wet sound, so revisiting some theory won’t hurt.”
Haechan sighs but soon gives up as you hand him your notes. He always thought you were crazy for also having printed pictures of how the software works but now that he needs it, he couldn’t be more grateful that you’re so precise with everything.
You start explaining things once again, cutting short about the most basic notions and diving deeper into the last lessons, as you try to stop as much as you can to make sure he’s still following you. And, after almost an hour, you’re done.
“What are you doing?” He asks when you take off his sweater again. “What about my concentration?”
“I needed your focus while I was explaining, now you have to answer even if you have distractions.”
He huffs loudly, throwing his head back. “But don’t play dirty, you can’t touch yourself or anything like that.”
“I’m not that cruel, I just want you to answer me,” you say. “So, let’s start with an easy one, should we?”
Haechan answers the first questions with ease, not like he usually would, but it’s still better than the mess of before. And he would be so close to getting the last one that keeps him on thin ice, he only got five wrong...
“No, no, no, please,” he begs, trying to stop you in place. “Please, give me one last chance. Ask me just one last question.”
“You got six wrong, babe,” you reply, loving how he’s almost on the verge of tears as his big brown eyes look up at you.
“But it was hard, I will never remember all the types of old reverbs unit,” he whines, coming closer to you.
“Then why do I?”
“Don’t lie, you don’t remember them either, I can’t even pronounce some of those names.”
You chuckle. “Oh, it’s really funny when the lack of a good fuck gets in your brain.” It’s not about sound design anymore. It’s about the desperation behind his eyes; knowing he wants you so much even if you’re the biggest reason for his despair gets your body hot and your pussy wet.
He groans, slumping back on his chair as he gives up on you. Or so he thinks because when he doesn’t pity you enough and you’re still packing your things to leave, he’s back again with his complaint.
“Please, one last chance? I didn’t mess the others up, I just made some tiny mistakes.”
“And you didn’t answer to two,” you say, ignoring him, trying to keep a serious face to not show your true emotions.
“Do I have to get on my knees?”
You snicker. “You look good on your knees,” you taunt but you don’t expect him to do that. “Get up!”
“Not until you give me another chance,” he retorts. “Please.”
You huff, rolling your eyes. “Fine, but just one.”
He nods enthusiastically, almost looking like a puppy being teased with a treat before he sits up in front of you.
“The differences, all the differences, between the shelving equalizer and the peaking equalizer.”
“Okay, I know this one, I know it,” he says before he starts explaining without missing a single detail. “So?” He asks with eyes full of hope as if he doesn’t know he just gave you a perfect answer.
“It was… great,” you tease him but you can’t keep a straight face when you see the pout on his face. “Kidding, kidding, you answered perfectly. So, I guess you deserve your prize.”
“Yes,” he screams, and in a second he throws himself on you but you shake your head and push him back on his chair. “What?”
“You sit there and let me handle this,” you say, placing your hands on his thighs. “Take them off,” you order, tilting your head to point at his grey pants. You see he’s confused about where you want this to go, but he obeys you anyway. “Everything,” you add when he’s still in his boxers. “Good boy, come here,” you say, patting your lap.
Haechan frowns. “You said you were going to suck me off.”
“I know, and have I ever break my promises?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just trust me and come here,” you order, waiting for him to follow. “Can’t believe you’ve been this hard all this time,” you say, wrapping your hand around his hard cock, starting to pump the pre-cum that leaked.
“You teased me,” he huffs, trying to keep his composure as he watches your hand moving on him delicately.
“I know, babe. I’m sorry,” you pout, one hand sneaking under his big white shirt to tease his nipples.
“Don’t,” he mutters, but you only laugh.
“Don’t, what? Let me take care of you, you’re stressed.”
He doesn’t reply, his head falls back as your movements on his dick quicken. He feels so small in your hold and he should find this more embarrassing but he doesn’t care. He loves the way your hand wanders delicately on his body and your lips leave pecks on his neck while the movements on his dick are fast enough to give him what he wants but not too fast to ruin this moment.
Your hands keep moving while your lips kiss his neck and jaw.
“Feels so good,” Donghyuck hums, shifting in your lap.
“I told you,” you chuckle, watching him roll his head back on your shoulder as his eyes close. “The others will hear you,” you say when his whimpers get louder.
“Don’t care,” he moans. “Feels too good.”
You smile and shrug. If he doesn't care, who are you to worry about it? It’s not like they don’t know what happens between you two.
So you quicken your hand, sliding up and down his sensitive dick so fast you make him tremble in your hold.
“You’re so cute like this, you know?” You say. “You look so small and delicate.” You expect him to get mad but instead, he moans and nods swiftly. And you know that stress got him good. Donghyuck, admitting to be vulnerable in your hands? You can only thank the weight the University is putting on his shoulders. But if that’s a way to make it go away, you can’t complain.
“I’m gonna — gonna come,” he whimpers when you start rubbing your thumb on his tip. “Fuck.”
You trap his scream with your other hand, staring at him as he slumps against you as his orgasm washes over him, squirting white strings of cum on your hand and his crumpled shirt.
“Get on the bed,” you urge while lifting the shirt off his body, leaving him naked. He barely has time to put himself together, but you don’t care and you know he needs more too.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit unfair that you’re still all dressed up?” He asks, still sitting on top of you.
“Do you want me to suck your dick, or do you want me to leave?” Is the only thing you have to say to make him obey with no more complaints. “Good. You should be thankful I gave you another chance. Right now you would be masturbating all alone and have no knowledge of sound design, so… what do we say?”
“What do you want me to say? You didn’t—”
“What do we say?” You shut him up, pulling his hair back harshly as your body weights on his lap, eliciting a broken groan.
“Tha — thank you,” he mumbles, cock throbbing right against your thigh. “Thank you but, please, do something, I’m… I need you.”
You snicker, letting go of his head and crawling back on the bed. “You’re so pathetic,” you mock, grabbing his dick again. “Begging on your knees just because you wanted my mouth.”
Haechan groans, throwing his head back but the harsh slap on his thigh makes him snap his eyes open.
“Why?” He squeaks.
“Eyes on me when I’m talking to you,” you order before lowering down so you can tease his tip with your tongue, making him bite back a loud moan.
“Please,” he pleads, and you finally give in. When you take him in your mouth, the broken breath that rolls from his lips makes your pussy clench around nothing.
“Shit,” he moans, fists clenching in the sheets as you suck harder, moving your head up and down in quick movements. He wants to look at you, knowing it will be even harder to not come on the spot, but he’s fighting with so many parts of him, he doesn’t know what to do.
When you pull away to look at him, he whines, hips bucking up in search of physical contact. You snicker, “and then I am the greedy one?”
“You’ve been teasing since you stepped inside the house,” he whines, trying to grab your hand but you don’t let him. “Come on, I’ve been good.”
It’s true, he has been good, but you don’t want him to come yet. “You can’t come, not yet.”
“Fine, just — just don’t tease me. Please,” he cries, begging you with his eyes.
You start taking care of him seriously; bobbing your head up and down while your hand wraps at his base to touch him where you can’t reach. Your movements are quick, but not too messy, since you’re trying to avoid creating a pool of spit and pre-cum all over his lap.
“Your mouth, fuck,” he groans, involuntarily fucking into your throat and uttering a slurred apology. “You’re just so good. God,” he curses, and you catch him rolling his eyes. “Even at — even at this you’re good.”
You snicker to yourself and keep focusing on his dick, heavy on your tongue as you suck with force.
You might be too good, cause it doesn’t take a lot for him to explode in your mouth; a brief warning for you to choose if you want to pull away and then the pleasure runs through his body for the second time.
You barely have time to clean your chin from the cum that dripped down that Haechan pulls you close to him, kissing you intensely while his hands are all over your body. “Want you, please, please fuck me,” he begs against your lips.
You slip out of your panties, quickly grabbing the base of his cock to line it with your soaked entrance because you can’t wait anymore.
“Oh, fuck, you’re so wet,” he hums when you sink, wrapping your hands around his shoulders.
“Want to take merits for this, too?”
“Well, yes,” he retorts. “Shit, don’t move, it’s not fair.”
“Everything is fair between us,” you say, starting to pick up a rhythm that makes him struggle to come up with a snarky reply. “Loss of words?”
He groans, throwing his head back and tightening the hold around your waist. “You can —mmph— you can talk all you want but —ugh— I am the reason why you’re soaked.” Somehow the way you’re bouncing on his dick it’s not enough to wipe away that smug smirk off his face, and you can’t stand it.
“Just shut the fuck up and enjoy this, will you?” You snap before kissing him roughly, cupping his chin with force before nibbling his lower lip, making him hiss. “I like it when you moan, so please, just fucking moan. The only words I want to hear are my name and begs.”
Your “threat” is effective because he doesn’t dare to open his mouth again.
“Good boy,” you praise without ever stopping to kiss him and moving your hips at a quick but regular speed.
You quickly realize that stress has gotten to you, too. You love to pretend it doesn’t affect you, and that you don’t need to let off steam, but you do. You are desperate to feel carefree for a few moments, put all the books and papers behind and have fun. And worst, you need him.
Donghyuck is what makes you feel good. It doesn’t matter if it’s mostly physical, he takes you to another world every time. He makes you feel wanted, he puts you through the test, but he makes everything worth it.
You’re so sure of it as you let your body crush against his, your fleshes meeting in a messed-up tangle of flaws. The kinds of flaws you both grew close enough to show each other.
In a few minutes, waves of pleasure hit you both and your bodies collapse into each other as you keep lazily riding that sensation; muscles on fire, lips meeting in messy kisses, moans panting the room, and your hands looking for each other.
When you lay on the bed side by side, you feel disconnected, and, truly, the only thing you’d like to do is to close your eyes and fall asleep, but your eyes fall on the clock against the wall and remind you why you went to his place.
“Five minutes and then we’re revisiting again,” you say, knowing the only way to get up is to say that thought out loud.
Donghyuck groans, pressing his face against you and mumbling, “can I eat you out if I make no mistakes this time?”
“We’ll see.”
You’re woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of the piano playing from the living room. The other side of the bed is empty, and the sheets are crumpled up, signalling you Haechan got up somewhere during the night.
You two went on a trip the whole weekend. Not like you had a choice when he passed by your place and told you to get in the car without giving you any information. You got mad at him when he told you it wasn’t a one-day thing, but you were too far from town to even think of going back. And even if initially you were angry because your plans for the weekend were different —studying all day for three days— your anger disappeared quickly.
This is the second night out; you spent the entire day wandering around a town you didn’t even know before and got closer to each other. You love the thrill with him, but you soon realize you also love it when there’s peace between you. It’s impossible for you to don’t bicker, but you learned how to balance everything. And the more you get to know him, the more you like him.
“Can’t sleep?” You ask, watching his features being lit up by the faint moonlight and a small lamp at the side of the piano. It’s an old one, almost left abandoned in the living room of the small, cheap house you’re staying in for the night.
Donghyuck shakes his head. “Got a tune I couldn’t get off my mind so… here we are.”
You smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you sit next to him. You don’t talk, you only watch his fingers move on the notes looking like ballet dancers. You’ve never seen him play the piano before, you weren’t even sure he could. But you’re amazed at how many things he’s talented at, the guitar, the piano, production, singing, dancing —and making your days less grey.
You don’t tell him, you only lean in, resting your head on his shoulder as he keeps playing the sweet melody.
“It’s…” he huffs, stopping for a second. “Doesn’t it sound messy?”
“Not at all,” you reply. “It sounds upbeat. Happy.”
“Out of all the ways you can describe music,” he chuckles, looking at you.
You look up, shrugging. “I’m describing how it’s making me feel.”
“Yeah? And what does it feel like?”
“Play it again,” you say, closing your eyes and letting the tune lull you. “It feels like spring. Like a field full of sunflowers, the ones you see at the side of the highway, passing by so fast before you can even get lost in their beauty.”
Haechan chuckles, holding back the big smile on his face. “It reminds me of those late summer evenings, when the heat dims a bit and the sky is pale pink and purple and blue, and time is frozen.”
“Yeah, when you’re ten and you don’t want summer to end because it means you have to go back to school,” you smile. “When you would stay out all day and come home with the smell of your favourite cake that your mom just baked.”
“Really? Your mom would bake that too?”
You nod. “Chocolate cake, basic and too messy for the heat of summer. But my mom loves me too much to don’t bake it for me, even if it’s 30° outside.”
Haechan chuckles, and his fingers start moving faster, starting the melody of what could be the chorus of the tune.
“In this part, it feels like a wave. I’m picturing running on the beach as the waves crash at your feet and the wind blows against your face.”
“Why are you smiling?” He asks.
You shake your head. “I — I can… it feels oddly romantic, a bit tormented, maybe confused, but in love,” you whisper. He gives you a weird look, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re not using technical words to describe it or because you’re just weird. But there’s a reason you’re not being technical, you’re saying what it makes you feel, the vivid pictures in your mind. And, somehow, there’s you and him.
You two on the beach, walking on the sand before he starts running, teasing you to follow him. There’s the scent of the sea filling your nostrils and your lungs burning up as you reach him and then fall in his arms and feel your heart explode.
“It’s an unexpected feeling, something that wasn’t supposed to happen and then… changed everything. It’s thrilling. Scary, but satisfying.” You avoid his gaze but hear him hum in agreement, and wonder if he’s thinking the same, if he can feel this tension.
“So, something that sweeps everything like a wave,” he asks, and you nod. “Sunset,” he adds, smiling at you, slowing down the rhythm of his fingers. “I can also see the sunset colouring the scene. The kind that makes you look up and stare in awe like a child.”
“The one we saw yesterday,” you reply shyly. “It made your eyes look even more brown,” you confess, watching his cheeks tint up of rose.
“The kind that leaves you breathless,” he whispers. His fingers are still moving but they’re playing the same notes, he’s too busy staring into your eyes, leaning closer to you.
“And speechless.”
And a bit closer.
“And grateful you’re on earth.”
And closer.
You move back, coughing and lowering your head because you feel on fire. Is he making fun of you? Does he feel this? Why is he so confusing?
“It feels like a road trip with nowhere to go,” you say to fill the silence, and your words make him play again. “The calm while everything outside is falling apart.”
“Like running to your safe place?”
You nod. “It feels like… home.”
He smiles, looking in your direction while his fingers still play that sweet melody. “I always believed home is a person, even people, but not a place.”
You swallow, staring at his lips before your eyes meet his. “I’ve forgotten that feeling quite some time ago,” you whisper, feeling your head spin. You left home and never looked back, eager to chase your dreams, the ones you’ve been fighting hard to achieve since you were a child, but in that marathon to success, you’re starting to realize you lost something.
“You just need to find the right people, and then never let go.” He leans closer to you, hands falling from the piano as he leans in completely to trap your lips in a kiss. His hand cups your face while the other moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer and moving his thumb in small circles. You feel like your lungs are on fire, and your legs are weak, but your heart never pumped harder than this. And when he slowly pulls away, you’re staring into each other’s eyes.
You know all the words to your song.
It’s true you’ve tried to avoid Donghyuck’s group of friends as much as you can —mostly to preserve your brain from early injuries— but it’s also true that the end of the second academic year is tearing you apart and you need to do something to don’t go insane.
So here you are, it’s Friday night, at their place, and you’re surrounded. Haechan has left you alone for a moment, busy talking with Mark. Jeno is trying to set up the table in the living room, while Renjun runs after him because ‘things are not perfect enough.’ Yangyang —no, he doesn’t live with them, but for some reason, he is always around— is in the kitchen doing only God knows what.
For your luck, you have Jaemin and the girls by your side. Ningning, who apparently has something going on with Mr Loverboy at your side. Yeri, who is there just to bully Haechan, Mark and Yangyang —an old tradition that goes on since high school, and you love her for that. And Minjeong, who’s the nicest and yet smartest person you know, you are relieved she is in creative writing with Jaemin. You met them all before, one of the thousand times Donghyuck dragged you around with him, and the four of you got along right away, quickly becoming friends.
“They’re so loud, I would have a constant headache living here,” Yeri huffs loudly, rolling her eyes and falling backwards in Ningning’s arms.
You raise a brow as a ‘told you’ moment.
“They’re not that bad usually,” Jaemin defends, looking at his friends, now all too interested in something that regards what they are supposed to eat.
“Pfft, please, Jaem,” you say, glaring at him.
“How would you know?” He says. “Oh, no, yes, actually you would, you’re always here.”
“See, so stop defending them,” you say before becoming aware of the three sets of eyes boring holes into you. You turn around meeting your three friends and lift a brow in a questing look.
“Why would you always be here?” Ningning teases, nudging you.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t wander too far with your brains. I’ve got a project with Hyuck.”
“Hyuck? You used to go around calling him by his stage name just a few months ago and now it’s Hyuck?” Yeri points out, smirking smugly.
You throw a pillow at her. “He’s always attached to my hip, of course, we got closer,” you explain, frowning.
“Sure, sure,” she laughs. “Not even the boys call him Hyuck.”
“They do,” you retort.
“Of course you know, you’re always here,” Minjeong giggles and you gasp.
“You traitor!” You say, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her as you both laugh.
“Move your asses over here, motherfuc—” Yangyang screams before Renjun slaps a hand on his face.
“I will kill you all one day,” Renjun says, storming into the kitchen to bring more drinks as you sit down around the table.
“Please leave us out of it,” Yeri screams loud enough so he can hear.
“Sure, you can even help me get it done if you want to,” he says, sitting between Jeno and Yangyang, handing the bottles around.
“I’m in,” the four of you say simultaneously, raising your hands and they all gasp as they glare at you.
“Guess we better sleep with our eyes open tonight,” Yangyang mutters.
“You should always sleep with one eye open,” Yeri threatens, smiling creepily.
You chuckle at their antics, but your attention is caught by Donghyuck who sits by your side. “Would you kill me?”
You smile, caressing his hand on his thigh. “Honey, what are you saying? You would be the first that has to go.”
The smile on his face drops and you laugh, turning to the table to grab something to eat.
“You know,” he whispers, leaning in so only you can hear, “no dick tonight.”
You lower your head, trying to hide the embarrassment, but then lift it up and shake it, fixing your hair behind your ear, and turning to him. “Not like something could’ve happened tonight anyway.”
“Period?”
“People,” you say and he chuckles, opening a can of beer before taking a sip.
“As if that ever stopped you.”
You roll your eyes, stealing the beer from his hand, “as if that ever stopped you.”
He smiles, resting his head on his palm as he looks at you. “You never said no, though.”
You wave him off, returning your attention to the table, but it doesn’t last much, they’re deep in a heated conversation and you’re missing something. “Why are they bickering… again?”
Haechan chuckles, shaking his head, grabbing a spring roll, dipping it in the soy sauce before taking a bite. You roll your eyes because you need to be updated right away but when you look at him munching happily you can’t hold back a smile.
“So,” he says, cleaning his lips after he swallowed, “Jeno wants Renjun for a project, but Renjun has war traumas of the last time they did a shooting together and doesn’t want to.”
You giggle, grabbing a spring roll too, and dipping it in the same small cup of Donghyuck, while you both pay attention to the conversation.
“But you’re perfect for it,” Jeno insists, shaking Renjun from his shoulders, not caring about the pissed-off expression of the older.
“I’m literally not, ask anybody else but me,” Renjun repeats, a deep crease visible on his forehead.
“But you look like an angel,” Jeno pouts, finally stopping his movements and batting his lashes to gain some pity.
“I might look like an angel, but I feel Satan rising in me every time you talk,” he says, making everybody laugh before he glances, and the room goes quiet.
“Come on, how bad can it be?” Minjeong says, and you see her shift closer to Mark, but you don’t say anything.
Renjun groans, throwing his head back. He can’t believe he might be convinced into this by the end of the night. “He’s too much of a perfectionist, and I’m not comfortable in front of the camera. Also, he’s not rich enough to have a studio and he always takes ages to put the light boxes in their place once he’s done.”
“Oh, I won’t annoy you, I promise,” Jeno begs again.
“We can rent a studio,” you say, all eyes on you. “I mean,” you cough, placing the small bite of the roll left on the plate in front of you, “me and Hyu— Donghyuck have to shoot the cover for the songwriting project, I don’t think we can wait any longer since we also have to record the song and then come up with an advertising strategy.”
“Then rent a studio?” Renjun says, coming out colder than he intends to. “No, wait, I just don’t get why you have to drag me in this.”
“Jeno proposed to be our photographer, but I doubt we can do it at home. And since we wouldn’t be paying for his job. Sorry,” you mouth quickly glancing at Jeno who shrugs and smiles at you. “We can at least put the money for the studio.”
“And where do I fit in this,” he cries, shoulders slumping as he knows there’s no way out of this, no matter what you say next.
“Well, since you pay the studio per hour, I don’t think Jeno will torture you much. He takes two hours with you and two hours with us and in a day, we are done. Also, if there are four of us, we can be quicker,” you finish explaining, hearing some hums of agreement from your other friends.
Jeno doesn’t say a word, he’s only smiling widely with his face close to Renjun’s as the latter regrets all the life choices that brought him here. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he exhales, groaning when Jeno hugs him and screams a cheer in his ear. “Step away before I change my mind,” he warns, slapping Jeno’s arm and glaring at him when he does as told.
Yeri sighs deeply at your side, rolling her eyes and muttering, “children.”
You chuckle, finishing your roll, and stealing Donghyuck’s beer again before talking to him. “So, I guess we’re almost done.”
“Almost done? You still didn’t show me the lyrics, have you even written them?”
“Hey,” you scold. “Are you doubting me?”
“I don’t know, last time I checked, you were the one struggling. I offered you four bases, and all the words I’ve read from you ended up crumpled in the bin.”
You sigh. “I’ve got the song,” you reassure him.
“Really?”
“Yeah, and I also picked the production. I mean, I… I wrote it because of that production.”
Haechan’s smirk widens when you start stuttering and looking away, trying to look unsuspicious in your friends’ eyes. “Really? And why are you shying away?”
You almost jump when you feel his hand on your thigh, resting on your bare skin under the skirt. “I’m not,” you whisper, trying to keep cool.
He snickers. “You know I’ll have to see it and you can’t keep it a secret from me, right?”
“I know, I don’t want it to be a secret. You’ll read it.”
He squeezes your thigh, and you glare at him. “Not now.”
“Right, later, under the cover when we’ll watch a movie,” he jokes.
Yeri coughs beside you and you see your entire life pass in front of your eyes, but you fake nonchalance and turn to her. “Need something? Some water?”
“Some tea, honey, some tea,” she says, raising a brow and pointing at the man at your side, now busy talking with Yangyang.
“I can make some.”
“Stop playing me,” she whispers, sending you a deadly glare. She can be scary at times, you’re not surprised the boys listen to her in the blink of an eye.
“He’s just being stupid, he flirts even with walls,” you say.
“Does he touch their thighs?”
“No, he’s not,” you say, only to gasp when she looks down and his hand is still on you. You push it away but he puts it right where it was and you can only sigh.
Yeri snickers. “Ah, l’amour.”
Your head rolls back as you let out an annoyed sigh. “Love my ass.”
Yeri shrugs, sipping from her small bottle of soju. “Don’t care, there’s still something going on, and I’m interested.”
“I’d love to mock you with somebody but you’re more closed than an unopened can of beans.”
“You are so bad with words. How do you write songs?”
“I don’t write about beans, clearly,” you say seriously before you both laugh.
“You two, mind to share what’s funny with the class?” Ningning calls you out.
“Sorry Professor Ning, we’ll be even more annoying next time,” Yeri retorts.
“Why do I feel you’re quoting something we can’t understand?” Renjun says.
“Because you’re right,” Yeri replies.
“Yesterday Yeri almost got us expelled,” Ningning says with a forced smile on her face, making you all gasp.
“What happened to sharing information?” Mark screams, leaning in with interest.
“Why do you care so much?” Yeri shrugs, grabbing a bowl of tteokbokki to eat.
“Mh, hello? You got your asses out of Uni,” Minjeong says.
Yeri only rolls her eyes, resting her head on Ningning. “If a tteokbokki falls on my clothes you’re dead,” the blonde-haired warns before bringing her gaze to all of you. “In her defense, it wasn’t her fault. Not at the start, at least.”
“No,” Yeri retorts, sitting up straight again, and placing the bowl on the table, “it wasn’t my fault, period.”
“Here she goes again,” Ningning sighs, puffing and shaking her head, making you chuckle. But Yeri is not paying her attention, too busy telling the facts right.
“Professor Choi hates us and treats us like kids. Not only his lessons are boring, and I would like to add, useless, but he also thinks we’re in kindergarten.”
“Did you fight with him?” Jeno questions, frowning, already fearing a positive answer.
Yeri gulps, looking around to take time to answer.
“Oh, God, tell me you didn’t,” you say, staring at her with a worried expression.
“He asked for blood,” she says, getting fired up.
“You fought a Professor?” Jaemin gasps loudly.
“She didn’t,” Ningning intervenes when Yeri is about to open her mouth again. “Just because I was there to babysit her, but she didn’t.”
“I didn’t come here to be treated like a child,” she says, crossing her arms on her chest. “We weren’t even being loud. We were sitting in the back of the class, minding our business and he called us out. There was a group of boys in the middle row watching fucking porn and he called us out.”
“Ew,” it comes out collectively.
“But unless the headphones weren’t connected how would he know?” Yangyang asks.
“I don’t care! He hates us,” she groans.
“So you decided to make him hate you even more? Smart move, Yerim, smart move,” Renjun says sarcastically, and she glares at him.
“I just decided to drag her out when things got a bit heated,” Ningning says.
“Not in a Beyonce way I guess,” Haechan jokes, and Yeri slaps him as you move back to give her space to hit him.
“Hey! Why are you helping her bully me?” He asks offended.
“Cause you deserve it?” You shrug.
Donghyuck looks around in disbelief, groaning when everybody agrees. “Fake ass friends, can’t even trust your own shadow in this group.”
“Back to what matters, safe to say you won’t pass the class,” Renjun says.
“We will, there’s only one lesson left, and we’ll pay attention,” Ningning says and Yeri raises her brows. “We will pay attention. He might hate us, but, you know, a bit of boot-licking and we’ll be fine.”
“Fine,” Yeri gives up. “But only because I don’t want to see him ever again.”
“We once fought so hard we got kicked out,” Haechan confesses, bringing the attention to him.
“You and?” Jeno asks.
“Dumbass, Miss Better than him, thought you heard them bicker every two seconds,” Renjun replies instead, pointing at you with his index finger.
“Hey!” You say. “I mean, thank you for acknowledging I’m better than him but it wasn’t so bad.”
“Oh, trust me, it was,” Mark comments before drinking his beer.
“And you were teaching us a lesson, uh?” Yeri teases, eyebrow raised at you two.
“We didn’t insult the Professor,” you explain. “We were just at each other’s throat.”
“Why?” Minjeong asks.
“Honestly? Can’t remember, we fight about everything,” Donghyuck replies.
“We don’t fight,” you clarify. “We discuss. And sometimes things take a bad turn. Not anymore, we learned how to survive with each other.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” giggles Yeri and you kick her knee with yours, making her groan.
Haechan sends you a look you ignore, and you go on explaining. “We were just stating our thoughts, but we weren’t exactly agreeing, and we couldn’t stop, so the Professor told us to take it somewhere else.”
“And you did? You simply could’ve stopped,” Renjun asks in disbelief. He can’t believe he thought you were normal.
“We had business to settle, okay?” You explain.
“Oh, and we sure did,” Haechan chuckles under his breath or so he thinks because the room goes quiet, and you think you want to strangle him.
You have to come up with something.
“You only won because I gave up,” you say, looking into his eyes, seeing the devilish glint behind, warning him to not say a word more.
“You always give up if there’s a prize you can take,” he clicks his tongue and you gulp.
“Oookay, weird tension in the room, it’s clear the only one not getting laid is me,” Yangyang cheers, bringing you two out of your competitive stare. You’d like to complain, saying it’s not what he thinks about, but you’re still stuck, brain busy thinking about something else.
“This night it’s boring, if we don’t do something funny, I’ll act out my plan of killing you all,” Renjun says, standing up.
“I still don’t know whether you’re joking or not,” Mark says.
“Because I’m not.”
“Caught you!”
“Hyuck!” You scream, turning around, holding a hand over your chest as his arms wrap around your waist and his chin rests on your shoulders. “You could’ve killed me.”
“You’re eating cake without me, that’s the crime,” he says, pulling your hand to his face to take a bite.
You roll your eyes. “Jaemin told me he had to store it away because Jeno and Minjeong were eating it all.”
“So, you were hiding, uhm?”
You hum, cutting another piece and diving it in two to give it to him. “He said I could eat it. Also, I think I had too much alcohol and I need to put something in my stomach.” You sit on the countertop and he takes his place between your legs.
“Am I allowed to eat it?”
“I guess so, I’ll take the blame if he says something,” you giggle.
“Don’t think he will notice, too busy dancing with somebody,” he says, hinting at Ningning.
“They look cute together,” you say, smiling fondly.
“Oh, they do. If only he could grow some balls and confess,” he says.
“Do you confess, Casanova?” You tease.
Donghyuck smirks. “How does it look like?”
You shrug. “Don’t know, you tell me.”
He rolls his eyes before he realizes you two are not together. “Wait, are we… no, never mind,” he says, pulling away, and turning to the door.
You grab his hand, stopping him. “What?”
“Jeno called,” he lies, trying to escape your hold.
“No, he didn’t. He’s sitting with Yangyang passing the blunt around,” you jump off the top and face him. “Are we?” You’re not sure what you expect him to say.
Donghyuck gulps, struggling to keep his eyes on you. “Are you fucking somebody else?”
Whatever you were expecting, that wasn’t it. “Are you?”
“I asked you first,” he retorts.
You blink. “Oh, really?
“Yeah, really.”
“Do I look like I know somebody else besides us?”
“Jeno likes you, and he told me you two are texting.”
“As friends, Hyuck. I already told him I’m taken — I’m not, I’m… I’m taken by other things in my mind. Uni, fighting you, especially fighting you.”
Donghyuck snickers, not really what he expected from you, but deep down —not even so deep, truly— what he wanted to hear. “Yeah, I agree, you’re taken, mostly by me.”
You’re about to retort but he slips from your hands too soon, leaving the small kitchen to reach the others. But you’re smiling. It’s a dumb, small smile that lights up your face in the dark of the night, and your heart pumps. You two didn’t name any of this, but —bickering aside— you objectively know you acted like a couple. It’s not about the sex, it’s about everything else. He started to pick you up before lessons so you could go to class together and sit next to each other —while he did everything he could to distract you. You ate at your friends’ table at lunch, went out for dates, and occasionally even slept over. You are taken and probably for longer than you even realise. Donghyuck started filling your days months ago, and even your life.
You’re still caught up in your thoughts that you don’t hear Ningning enter the kitchen.
“I spy with my little eyes something suspicious,” she sings while pouring herself a glass of water, leaning against the countertop where you were before.
“First Yeri, and now you?” You ask, a small smile curling your lips while you walk to lean next to her.
Ningning gasps offended. “She knew before me? Is this how you betray me? After I helped you style your hair?”
You laugh, resting your head on her shoulder, and inhaling deeply; she always smells nice. “I didn’t tell her,” you confess. “Honestly, I don’t even know myself.”
You can’t see her, but you know she’s smiling when her arms wrap around your body.
“So, what is that, love?”
You hum. “I don’t know what it is, but I know I like it.”
“I knew you were a romantic at heart,” she jokes, pulling away to squeeze your cheeks.
“I’m just happy. I don’t think I need to put a name on this… on this happiness.”
A big smile spreads on her face and her eyes crinkle, her hand softly caresses your cheeks. “It’s not only Donghyuck, is it?”
You nod, pressing your lips in a flat line because something about this feels too emotional for you. It’s 11 pm and there’s faint music playing in the living room while people laugh, and joke, sharing a blunt or bottles of alcohol. And you’re in the kitchen talking about a boy you want to kiss and strangle with who, you’re sure, can now consider your best friend. It’s the stupid fun of the early 20s. It’s the sense of something you’ve been missing for too long since you only let yourself be absorbed by your studies, leaving friendship behind.
And when a lonely tear rolls down your eyes, Ningning coos, gently wiping it away. “I’m happy,” you say, nodding.
“I know,” she replies, cupping your face.
“I’ve been on my own since I came here and I never regretted believing in my dreams even if it meant leaving the ones I loved the most behind, but now I realize what I’ve been missing,” you confess. “I love that they’re so loud they give me a headache.” You both chuckle and your hands intertwine. “And I love that we all sit together at lunch even if most of you have to run from the other side of the building. I love how none of you hesitated one moment to consider me part of your group.”
“I’m so happy you’re with us,” she says, smiling. “I guess Donghyuck does something right sometimes.”
You both laugh.
“Yeah, he definitely made my second year less boring than the first one,” you admit.
“Come here, I guess we both could use a hug,” she says, not giving you time to reply before you’re into her arms. You stay like this for a while, and you know more than before that this is what you missed the most. This is what college means. It isn’t in the loud parties, the sex, and the drugs, it’s in the people you do things with. Nine young people like you, trying to survive this craziness by being each other’s strength. You can still look at your goal right in the eye even if you have fun, even if you date, even if you have someone to walk down this road with.
“You know, I knew you were a good one when you slammed your fist on the table at lunch when he made you fuck up the essay,” Ningning confesses when you pull away.
You laugh, wiping away another tear. “I’m glad he did, I wouldn’t be here today if he didn’t.”
“You and Ning disappeared in the kitchen before,” Donghyuck says, searching in his closet to find something to make you wear for the night.
“Yeah, we talked about us. I know I might not show it, but I’m glad I found this,” you sigh. “I like them.”
Donghyuck smiles, sitting next to you. “They all like you just as much.”
“It’s like I finally have a place where I belong. I have people to rely on, so maybe I’ll learn to stop wanting to deal with everything by myself.”
“I told you life doesn’t have to be lonely,” he says. “I know that coming from me sounded like sabotage but I meant it. Having someone by your side makes everything easier.”
You smile and nod, grabbing the shirt he’s handing you. “I hate to say it, but you were right,” you chuckle. He doesn’t reply and you don’t drag the conversation, simply enjoying the thousands of words you two should be telling each other, but are not ready to face, yet.
“Can I use the bathroom? I need to freshen up a bit,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence. Most of the others are crushed in the living room, you think you saw Ningning sneak into Jaemin’s room but you were too caught up in Donghyuck to be sure of that, Renjun and Jeno might still be awake but you’re sure that all the weed they smoked won’t make them pay attention to you.
“Sure, if you need towels they’re in the cabinet under the sink,” he tells you, and soon you’re out of the room.
It doesn’t take you long to clean yourself up; you wash your face and steal someone’s products to get rid of your make-up, quickly get rid of your dress, put on some perfume —you’re pretty sure it’s Donghyuck’s cause you smell like him— and then wear the shirt he borrowed.
Once you’re done, you quickly make your way to the kitchen, and, passing in the living room, you see your assumptions are right; there’s no sight of the two love birds, and the only ones awake are Renjun, Jeno and Yeri, while the others are crushed on the sofa. You expect a remark from the girl, but she barely notices you, too busy playing —trying to— something with the other two.
After a few minutes, you’re back in Donghyuck’s room, and you notice he’s changed into something comfortable, too. He’s lost folding his clothes, and you let yourself get lost in his beauty. Too busy fighting him and trying to prove something, you realize you never noticed the smallest details that make him so handsome. The bridge of his nose, his soft lips, the moles on his cheek, his soft brown hair falling around his face.
“You alright?” His voice brings you out of your daydreams and you nod shyly, feeling embarrassed for being caught staring.
“Yeah, everything fine,” you reply, quickly walking to the bed. You see him staring at you with a confused expression, but avoid any awkward moment by reaching for your phone and pretending to be busy. But you’re not busy, you’re confused. You’re not used to this, any of this. Your nights have always been filled with yourself and books (whether for school or your entertainment), and if you felt wilder a movie, rare were the occasions when you would go out with your friends. And regret is creeping on your back. You feel like you lost a lot, you feel like you’ve punished yourself to get where you are now. And you think about love, how you treated your relationships, how little weight you gave them. And when you think about what you felt in these past months you wonder if you have ever even been in love.
“Remind me to never make you drink again if you get this sulky.” Once again, Donghyuck’s voice brings you back to earth, and when you turn toward that sound, you see he’s sitting next to you.
“I’m not sulky,” you chuckle. “I was just thinking about what I said before.”
He hums. “And?”
You shrug. “Nothing. You can’t change the past, I was just… having some bittersweet emotions.” It’s the truth, but you know that deep down your brain is trying to make you focus on the friendships because you don’t want to think about your biggest problem: the man you have by your side. This wasn’t supposed to be whatever it is. It wasn’t supposed to happen. And you don’t hate that it did, but you don’t know how to feel and act about it, cause you didn’t plan it. You couldn’t study this, you couldn’t put this on a PowerPoint and have it all laid out for you to understand it, it’s not logical, it’s not a theory, a study, a thesis, it’s emotion.
“You seemed happy before,” he whispers after a few minutes of silence passed. His hand gently rests on your stomach and you feel your heart race.
“I was,” you reply. “I am. I just wish I found this sooner, I always focused on my studies and career, and looking back at it now, it was lonely. And…” you sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, “I’m jealous of you, ‘cause you managed to be at the top with all of this.”
He chuckles, but it’s a tender sound, and then smiles at you. “Well… I managed until you came around. You…” he coughs, struggling to confess, “you distracted me a bit, so I think you’re better than me at this socializing and rocking your career at the same time thing.”
You laugh. “I distracted you?”
“Just a bit, don’t get too excited,” he warns, falling deeper into the mattress and laying in silence. You have your thoughts tormenting you, but for him, it’s no different. He knows his plan failed. You’ve been filling his thoughts, days and seconds for a few months now. Even when he was studying or recording, somehow, you were always there. At first, for spite, surely, but then, it turned into something else. Hate turned into teasing, teasing turned into lust, and lust turned into something more. He knows he doesn’t just simply want you or need you. He craves you and your company, your study sessions together, your smart talks, your witty words, your annoyed eye-roll when he’s right, and the soft eyes when you listen to him. He craves you and your laugh, the suppressed one during lessons and the loud one when you are alone, or your hidden smirk when he makes you smile even if you don’t want to.
He constantly comes back to you.
“Are you listening or are you avoiding me?” You ask when he doesn’t reply to your question and he shakes his head, mumbling an apology.
“Sorry, I was thinking.”
You chuckle. “It’s alright, it was a bitter question anyway.”
“No come on, ask me again.”
“It was just for fun. I wanted to know if I was the reason why you’ve been doing a bit worst than me lately,” you say. There’s no mockery in your tone, instead it’s light and hides a timid blush as the words roll down your tongue.
Donghyuck’s body shuffles next to yours and only then you realize how intimately close you are, with your legs almost intertwined, his hand still on your stomach and his face resting on your chest. “Well, yes, you were an unexpected presence in my life, so…”
“So…?” You laugh. “Am I so hot I got you horny all the time?” You joke but he doesn’t crack a smile, instead he furrows and stands up to sit on the bed with his arms crossed.
“I’m not that horny,” he murmurs.
Your body mirrors his, and then your hands lift his chin up. “Sorry, I was kidding. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just didn’t think you thought about me that much. I wanted to be on top but not like this.”
“Technically, you’re not on top of everything, but anyway, we just spent a lot of time together, you know? So different studying methods and so on, shocked me a bit.”
You raise a brow, not because you’re so pretentious to think you distracted him that much, but because you think you learned to read him a bit and he’s not being honest at all. “Sure, and you weren’t busy thinking of me after our… dates? Coming home and texting me, and telling me how you should’ve been between my thighs instead?”
He blushes, and you can’t believe your eyes. “It only happened once, and either way I never study at night, my pretty brain can’t handle it.”
You laugh. “Your brain is pretty, now?”
“Yeah, of course, everything about me is pretty.” He shrugs.
“You’re a bit of a liar, you know? First telling me I distracted you and then taking it back, but it’s alright, I think we settled this war. We’re equal now, right?”
“I guess you could say that.”
You huff rolling your eyes. “You’re so competitive, God.” You fall on the mattress again. “But maybe it’s good, we can keep this healthy and competitive.”
He hums, thinking about it and then nods. But you don’t expect him to cage you with his body as he sits on top of you and reduces the distance between you. “Doesn’t sound bad, we could try.”
You smile, trying to act nonchalantly, but it’s hard when he’s so close; hair a mess, face tired but still so fucking handsome, and plump lips so temptingly close to yours.
“I want you,” you whisper, looking straight into his eyes even if they make your knees buckle.
“I want you, too,” he replies before diving in and kissing you.
The last weeks before finals are hectic. You and Donghyuck spend all the time studying together. When you’re not locked in the library you’re either at your or his place, and most of the time you end up sleeping over with the excuse of “spending just a few minutes together without thinking about exams.”
Yet, none of you confess anything. Your relationship lingers in that limbo.
In all that chaos, what takes you more time is the songwriting project. You spend days in the studio to record and mix it. Then when you are done, you move to the studio with Jeno to shoot the concept photos. And it would been enough for the exam, but you and Donghyuck just have to go an extra mile, making an entire booklet with the photos and the lyrics inside, the physical CD with the track, the instrumental, and an acapella version.
Even if the shooting is long and tiring, since you have to style and do each other’s make-up, and the only help is from Renjun, you have a lot of fun.
If at the start you feel a bit insecure with the poses, Donghyuck is the perfect partner to have to feel at ease. And Jeno knows how to do his job, making you feel like a queen after the first awkward shots.
“I love how the photos turned out,” Jeno cheers happily on your way to their place. “The three of you are the perfect models. I will annoy you again to build my portfolio.”
Renjun rolls his eyes as his head slams against the bus window.
You chuckle. “Come on, Jun,” you say, pinching his cheek. “You had fun too, you can’t deny that. Also, you got so many beautiful photos for free, I wouldn’t complain.”
“Free? I’d like to remind you I helped you pay for the rent,” he retorts, sitting straight again. “But yeah, I had fun,” he admits, making Jeno clap happily. “But, I will do this again only if she comes with us.”
Jeno bats his eyes at you and you snicker. “Yes, if I am what he needs to be dragged into the studio, I will come with you.”
“I love you,” Jeno screams, hugging you tight. When you hug him back, you make eye contact with Donghyuck, but he swiftly turns his head. Not quick enough to hide he’s not enjoying this so much; jaw tense, fingers closing in a fist.
You find his jealousy of Jeno quite interesting. Even if it’s true you got very close to him, it’s hilarious how Donghyuck thinks anything would happen between you two when Jeno is clearly taken by someone else; someone too busy plotting his murder to realize his feelings, but that’s another matter.
And Donghyuck shows his jealousy even more when, once at home, you sit around the table to watch Jeno post-produce the photos and create the mock-up for the entire project with your supervision.
His arm wraps around your shoulder as he keeps his leg pressed against yours, and you have to hold back a chuckle. Yes, it’s obvious there’s nothing between you and Jeno, but this makes you feel wanted, and you let him show it.
You know you’ll have to deal with other menaces tomorrow; a hangout is already scheduled in the group chat with the girls after a quick text sent right away by Yeri. You love her, you do, but without that, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t have four other pairs of eyes set on you — Jaemin and Yangyang are very curious when they want to.
“Are you listening?” Jeno’s voice brings you out of your thoughts.
You blink twice and then mumble, “what?”
He shakes his head. “Do you like the font?”
“Oh,” you whisper. Your eyes adjust again on the screen that you were mindlessly staring at and focus on the project. “Yeah, I love it.”
“We were thinking of not putting our name on it since it’s more trendy lately,” Donghyuck says.
You nod. “Yeah, I think it’s better like this. I also love the picture, I think it would be more powerful without the name on it but we’re not that famous, yet,” you joke making them laugh.
“That’s why I didn’t make it too big, so the focus would be on you two.”
“Love it, that's perfect,” you praise. “Honestly, seeing it all almost done, I feel guilty for not giving you anything.”
Jeno shrugs. “It’s alright. I’m having fun doing this and can put it in my portfolio anyway. I did much worse and less fun for some courses.”
“We will offer you a dinner,” Donghyuck says. “Somewhere cheap, though.”
After a few hours, everything is almost done. Jeno still wants to double-check everything tomorrow before sending it to be printed but the final results won’t differ much.
“So, I think we should celebrate the project that brought you two so close,” Ningning says, winking at the last words, before raising an empty cup.
You chuckle, trying to escape Donghyuck’s hold, but it’s still firm on you. “It’s just a Uni project, there's nothing to celebrate.”
“Well, mine and Mark’s is not that good,” Yangyang snorts. “I don’t understand why you two always want to do so much extra work but whatever makes you happy.”
“We love the song,” Donghyuck replies. “And we’re proud of it so we might as well fool ourselves it might get more than 30 listens on SoundCloud.”
“For me,” Ningning says, “this is huge. One day you’ll be famous and we will get to say we were here from the start, so we need to treat ourselves and party.”
“Yes, let’s treat ourselves to the cheapest pizza on the block. Oh, how I love being an adult,” Yeri huffs, slumping on the couch. “No, but really, this is something to celebrate.” She then moves closer to you so that only you can hear. “And maybe if we get you drunk enough we’ll get juicy info before tomorrow.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head. “Fine, order these pizzas and let’s celebrate.”
The girls don’t get you drunk enough to spill anything but get themselves drunk enough that Jaemin has to drive them back to their place. Truthfully there’s nothing to say anyway. You and Donghyuck still didn’t talk, you didn’t even have sex lately. Too busy with everything, that was the last of your thoughts. But you did sleep together and basically lived in symbiosis. So?
You should feel happy about this project. Academically it will be another success, and honestly, one of your best works so far. So why do you feel this emptiness in your chest now that you’re sitting on a chair in Donghyuck’s bedroom?
This is the end. Now nothing holds you two together, and you fear that what you built over these months might not be strong enough for you to still hang out with you. You wonder if this meant anything to him. Sure, he likes you, but how much? Sex means nothing, and even if said between the lines, he got you to try out romantic things to make you come up with the song. And he succeeded. You have the song, the lyrics you tried so hard to put down. Fake dates, fake flirts, fake everything, but everything you put down is real. And it’s terrifying.
So absorbed by your torments, you don’t see Donghyuck stare at you, standing in front of you changed into fresh clothes.
“Hey.” His voice makes you flinch in surprise and quickly look up at him. There’s a frown on his face. “What’s with that face?”
You shrug, diverting the eye contact.
“Are you not happy with the result?” Donghyuck asks, grabbing the closest chair so he can sit right in front of you.
“No, I love it. I loved everything so much and that’s why I’m sad.” There are many reasons why, and you’re not a master at dealing with too many emotions at once. Subjects? Books? Essays? Projects? They can fall and pile up on you and you won’t feel the weight of it. But real life? Feelings? Not where you excel.
“Cause you won’t have any excuses to spend time with me and see me?” He teases, chuckling. He’s still the same person you met one year ago but behind his playful voice and acts there’s something tender, at least you like to see it this way.
“Uhm, I hope we will keep seeing each other,” you confess shyly, doing everything in your power to not meet his warm gaze. His hands on his lap are a beautiful view now. “But no…”
His teasing smirk turns apprehensive. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
You shrug. This should be the easy thing to confess. A bit humiliating considering showing some weakness to him still feels like letting your mortal enemy pour salt in your open wounds, but you’re hiding more vulnerable things from him.
“Nothing but… I was so sure I didn’t want to be a singer, and I was more and more sure of working in Pr, and now… I don’t know. I loved writing the song, like I always do, but this time felt different, as if… that’s what I’m supposed to do in my life, you know?” You look up because even if you can’t take a mocking look you have to see his reaction.
He smiles, caressing your cheek. “I think you’re good at it so yeah, you should.”
You’re taken aback by that reply. Deep down you wanted him to shred your dreams cause you feel like all of this is insane, and if you have nobody supporting you maybe you won’t indulge in it. But it’s clear that Donghyuck is not an enemy anymore and has your back now.
“Yeah but… I loved singing and doing it with you. Being in the studio, recording, but even before when we were working on the melody and everything. And working on the concept? We did all that with just one song, can you imagine what working on an album feels like?”
He smiles and nods. “Well, yeah, I fantasized about it a lot, so yes. But why is it a problem? Why can’t you pick this as a career?”
You can see in his eyes that he’s confused. Not by your change of path, but by your sudden insecurity. Deep down you’re shocked by that too. You have changed goals a few times in your academic career but somehow this feels so different.
“Cause it’s rare to make it,” you mutter, nervously playing with your hands. Truth is, the chances of failure are so big, and you’re not sure you could take it. You and your perfectionism and your need to succeed on the first try.
“Can’t say you’re wrong, it’s hell out there, but… you’re good, and beautiful, and I’m sure that with your songwriting skills and your voice, someone will notice you.”
He had tried to make a name for himself longer than you, he knows it. During some vulnerable night conversation where you showed him your songs, he told you how many demos he had sent, and how hard he tried to build something at least on the socials. So you don’t care if his words are driven by sympathy, he could discourage you, but instead, he’s supportive, and that’s all you need.
“And what am I without your production? Will you be my Jack Antonoff?”
Donghyuck laughs. “I’d prefer to be your Aaron Dessner.”
“Yeah, fine. I like that Haechan,” you say, highlighting that name that now sounds foreign.
“I don’t want to hear that name roll from your lips anymore,” he chuckles and you hum laughing.
“Talking about lyrics,” he says after a few seconds, the phrase lingers in the air… “this song was interesting.”
“Interesting? What do you mean? Is it bad?” Your eyes widen and the anxiety that left you jumps at you again.
He shakes his head. “I said interesting, not bad. You should know the difference.”
“It’s not funny, interesting means nothing.”
He chuckles. “Some phrases are interesting… that’s it. They look familiar.”
You feel your body burn up in flames and you have to shift your gaze from him. You should’ve scrapped that, he isn’t dumb. (You believed he was up until two seconds ago, but apparently, he was just waiting for the right moment to trap you.)
“I wonder if something, or someone,” he winks, “inspired you.”
“The sea. When we went there together. The sea inspired me,” you whisper swiftly, nervously biting the inside of your cheek. “That’s why I called it wave.”
Donghyuck laughs. “I’m not talking about the title, and you know it,” he says, resting his hand on your knee. “Flow that I’ve never felt before? Meeting you through distinctive distraction is a miracle?”
“You told me you liked it,” you say, playing innocent.
He rolls his eyes. “I do. I love it, actually. I just wanted to analyse it with you.”
You gulp when his fingers start rubbing on your skin. “We should’ve done it before recording it, don’t you think?”
He clicks his tongue. “Nah, I want to do it now. I think I already know who inspired you.”
“The sea —”
“Drop it,” he retorts sternly, squeezing your knee. “I think our plan worked. Well, unless you found someone else who inspired you to write a love song.”
“It’s barely a love song,” you stutter, body heating up.
“Right, some lyrics felt sexy,” he giggles. “You’re such a master in holding me here and there and going up and up down and down again.”
You try to scoot away, but he blocks you by putting his feet under the leg of the chair. “So what? Also, you’re dirty-minded, that’s not what it means…”
He snickers, rubbing his thumb on your cheek. “Why are you so flustered then?”
“Cause you’re too close to me, I can barely breathe.”
“Mhh… it reminds me of something.”
You roll your head back and mutter a curse under your breath. “Isn’t it what you wanted? To inspire me? I did it. I romanticized everything and we got the song.”
“Romantized everything,” he hums. “In this wave called you that’s pushing in, I fall in love. You are the center of my heart. Feeling new, feel now. The wave that started because of you, babe. Dive into the world called you. Damn, your creativity is so good, you are talented.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“No, I…” he sighs annoyed. “If you wrote it down in a song, why can’t you say it to my face?”
You gulp. “I have nothing to tell you.”
He raises a brow. “So you’re still confused. Should I satisfy you to hear you say it?”
You hide your face in your hands and groan. “Fine,” you snap. “I — I wrote that about you. And I, God, this is humiliating. You heard the song, you sang it. Do you want me to say it out loud? Was that not enough?”
Donghyuck smiles, and, for a moment, you fear he will break into a mocking laugh, but instead, his smile gets bigger. “Yes, I knew it,” he screams.
“Oh… of course it’s funny to you, maybe this is what you wanted all along, make me fall in love and then make fun of me.”
“Fall in love?” He whispers, stopping in his tracks to look at you, and only then you realise you said it loud and clear. And it’s worse than saying it in a song. “You love me seriously? Like it’s not just attraction and maybe liking me?”
You feel like choking up on tears but try not to show it. “So you can laugh at me more?”
“Why would I laugh at you? I just want to know if what you feel is real,” he replies, and somehow he sounds even more annoyed than before.
You hum and nod, no words can leave your mouth.
“Did you really think I would use this against you? Don’t you trust me?”
“I — I… I don’t know, okay? I do, but also, this was… this was all fake, just to write that song and now it’s real. And it was never supposed to be real, and maybe you never wanted me, cause I’m not your type and you hated me and we both wanted this to be over and now I feel like I can barely breathe without you, and I know that in the song I said I would’ve left the decision in your hands but the idea of you not wanting me back makes me sick and I —”
Your words fall into a void as he kisses you with no hesitation. Hands cupping your wet face and holding the back of your neck to keep you close.
“You’re so fucking stupid. So, so smart and yet such an idiot when it comes to feelings,” he chuckles when he pulls away. “You said I was an unexpected thing that completely changed your flow but do you have any idea of what you were to me? You ruined my second year,” he confesses, and your face quickly shifts into a worried expression, but he clears your doubts right away.
“I thought I could beat you, I thought I could have the upper hand and… you messed up my days and nights. I thought you couldn’t fill up so much of my time when I already had so many friends but, fuck, I was wrong. And instead of distracting you, I let you distract me.”
“But I — I didn’t plan it, I didn’t want to —”
His thumb shushes you as his eyes crease in a smile. “You didn’t do anything, I just miscalculated. I didn’t know the amazing person you are, and let jealousy consume me before love took its place without me even noticing.”
You almost gasp. “Love? So, you do love me back?”
He nods. “Strong word, I know. But goddam, you were ten times cheesier in the song.”
You laugh and he does the same.
“But I am hurt, though. I can’t believe you thought I was playing you.”
“What were the chances you were going to fall for me, too? Nobody ever falls for me.”
“Good thing you only needed me to fall for you,” he says, kissing you. “So… did you fall for me at the beach?”
“I was confused back then. I knew I felt something but I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was only attraction, but at the same time, I felt like I needed you, you know?”
“And to think I wasn’t even sure of taking you there,” he giggles.
“Really?”
He nods. “I wanted to study, I already felt like I was falling behind and I thought I could use those three days to catch up, but then you crossed my mind and I forgot about the rest.”
You look down to hide the big smile on your face. No, you’re not happy you almost made him fail his second year in this war, but you love knowing how much he cares about you. The old Donghyuck would’ve never confessed this, he would’ve never shown how weak you make him. But now he’s proudly telling you how you genuinely occupied his thoughts.
“I know I didn’t show signs of failure, but you did succeed in your plan just a bit.”
He snorts. “Don’t need fools gold.”
“No, I’m serious. I mean, maybe you’re right, you didn’t, but I think you succeeded in something better. You showed me I can achieve my academic goals and still live life. You showed me so much. I had fun on my own, and I loved it, but I also only had myself and nobody to count on, and that sucks.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Yes you did, you pushed me out of my comfort zone and trust me, I did panic sometimes. I just hide it better. But you gave me the chance to meet seven amazing people allowing me in your friend’s group. Some of you have known each other for so long, that’s probably when I should’ve put my heart at ease and realised you truly cared about me.”
“You fail to understand how likeable you are. Everybody loves you, you just don’t pay them attention.”
You shrug. He’s probably right. You never cared about that, but you won’t start caring about it now. You found your people, you found your place.
Staying at his place for the night is tempting, but, truth be told, you two want to be on your own on your first night as lovers. So, with the excuse of wanting to eat an ice cream (not an excuse, you will eat ice cream), you slip out of the place.
The others don’t care. Honestly, it’s clear that everyone except you two was expecting this ending, but you will deal with this tomorrow at lunch with the girls. For now, you chuckle at Jeno’s wink before he rests his head on Renjun’s shoulder again, who barely waves goodbye before going back to the movie they’re watching. Mark seems to be the only one confused at the way your arms are linked when you walk through the living room, but you’re sure that Yangyang, who has a teasing smirk on his face, will fill him in as soon as you’re out of the door. Jaemin will sneak at the girls’ hang-out tomorrow, his face lets it all known.
“I love this place,” Donghyuck says when you enter your apartment.
“Really? This hole?” You chuckle, leaving your bag at the door and getting rid of your shoes.
He nods. “It’s cosy and quiet, and I get to have you all to myself.” Before he finishes the phrases he pulls you in his hold, almost making you lose your balance and you scold him.
“Can you be less clumsy?”
“Mhh... no.”
“Also, it’s not like not being alone ever stopped you from being the clingiest man on earth.”
He huffs, throwing his head back as he slowly starts walking backwards to reach the bed. “As if you don’t like it.”
“You got us many suspicious looks,” you complain.
“Girl, everybody knew about us,” he says, falling on the bed with you. “I fear they were betting on a situationship but well, we didn’t do anything to keep this on the low.”
You shrug. “Whatever,” you say, caressing his face to move the hair on his eyes. “I don’t care. Tonight I just want to think about us.”
“Now you’re talking,” he hums happily. “Can I get a chocolate-less kiss?”
You laugh. “You can get all the kisses you want.”
Your lips connect to his to start a sweet kiss that lasts for a while. You never truly pull away as your hands start moving on each other to get rid of the clothes and leave you half-naked on the bed.
“Wanna taste you,” he murmurs, rolling around so your back is on the mattress before he starts going down. His fingers hook with the band of your panties and pull them down. “A bush?”
You huff. “I was just a bit busy, and didn’t have time to shave.”
“Good. I hope you don’t find time to do it ever again,” he says making you laugh.
“You like it?” You ask.
“I love it,” he replies.
You don’t have time to react because his lips are on you as soon as he's done talking. Your hips buck up and you fail to hold back the moans.
Donghyuck takes his sweet time, licking up stripes to get you wet before he starts sucking on your hardening clit.
Your head rolls back against the pillow and your hands can’t help but tangle in his hair to pull him closer. The groan of pleasure that comes out of his mouth at your gesture makes you tremble.
“So fucking sweet for me,” he mumbles against you. “My sweet girl.”
A dumb grin curls your lips and your eyes try to open to get a glimpse of him. You regret that action cause his pretty face smashed against you as he eats you out as if you're his last meal sends shivers straight to your core.
“Please,” you whimper, making him open his eyes to stare at you. Your throat tightens and you feel like you might pass out from that, but still force yourself to finish the phrase. “Don’t stop, you’re so good. I — I never felt like this.”
He grins, pulling away only to reply. “Yeah? Am I that good?”
You groan. He’s still so competitive and always has to prove a point. But you don’t care. That’s fun. That’s what you love about him. “Yes, you’re that good. Just please, keep doing it.”
“Never planned of stopping.”
When his mouth starts moving on you again you see stars. Your neck falls behind, enjoy the softness of the pillow, and you stop trying to keep it together, moaning loudly and chanting his name.
His hands wrap around your thighs, keeping you close to his mouth. And each flick of his tongue pushes the climax closer, making you see stars.
Your breath gets messier as you hit your peak and pleasure takes over your body as you let go to that blissful sensation running inside you.
You’re still gasping for air when you feel his fingers prodding at your entrance, slowly entering you.
“Hyuck, what are you—?”
“I want you to be ready for me,” he says. “I won't make you come another time, I promise. Just getting you wetter.”
You mumble a sound that makes no sense before you decide to relax and enjoy the sensation. It’s not like you would ever complain about his fingers, you simply don’t want to be too sensitive already. But he’s true to his words, his two fingers fuck into you, curling up right on your sweet spot, turning you on more and coating them white.
“Always so good for me,” he praises when he pulls out, sucking them harshly before he leans in to kiss you. Your hands wrap in his hair as you pull him closer, letting your legs wrap around his waist to pull him down. “Damn, calm down,” he chuckles close to your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know, but I want you close.”
Donghyuck smiles. “Unhook your legs for a moment and I’ll be as close as possible.”
Reluctantly, you do as ordered, knowing that as soon as he’ll slip in, your legs will be exactly in the same place.
You barely pay attention when he does, too focused on the gentle kisses he's leaving on the crown of your head, cheeks and neck. Your eyes only open when he bottoms in and brings your legs around himself.
“Happy now?” He asks, brushing behind a few strands of hair that fell on your face.
“More than happy,” you reply smiling. Your body moves on its own when your hips buck up against him, eliciting a deep moan to slip past his lips.
That’s the sign he needs to know he can start moving. One hand places on your waist to keep you in place and the other supports his body as he starts dragging his hips out.
You can feel your heart skip a beat when he leans down and hides in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “You always smell so good, that’s what tricked me to always be close to you,” he mumbles, nibbling your skin.
You chuckle, shaking your head. Even now he has something to say. Still, his words don’t distract him from his actions. With each stroke, he hits deep inside of you, hitting sensitive spots that make your toes curl and your fingers close into fists on the sheets.
After finding the perfect angle, Donghyuck starts speeding up, his thrusts not harsh but fast enough to build up a steady rhythm. And, with each one, you feel a wave of pleasure invading you.
“Come here,” you whisper, cupping his face to pull him close. “Wanna kiss you.” Your lips are on his right away and you both let go to a long passionate kiss as the hold of your legs around his waist tightens. One hand leaves his face to run on his back, feeling his muscles flex.
Your moans get louder with every passing second but they end up muffled in the messy kiss you’re still sharing.
When his hand sneaks between your bodies, so he can touch your clit in quick circular motions, you know you won’t last much longer. Your walls clench hard around him, and more wetness coats him as your hips buck up for more friction. And the last drop comes from his lips, leaving yours to wrap around your sensitive nipples.
“Hyuck,” your voice trembles as you call for him. Pleading eyes looking up at him. You should say something sex-related, maybe praise how good he’s making you feel, or how close you are, but even if those are the thoughts on the tip of your tongue, the words that come out are completely different. “I love you,” you whisper in a hush, feeling the weight disappear from your chest. Saying it clearly is like finally coming to the real realization.
Donghyuck smiles, kissing you repeatedly on the lips. “I love you, too.”
And soon after, you both reach your peak. The pleasure shoots through your bodies like fireworks in the sky.
You stay like that for a few minutes, kissing each other as you wait for your bodies to calm down.
When he slips out of you gently, putting his shirt under your body to avoid a mess, you still have a dumb, but content, smile on your face.
You don’t have the energy to move, so you lay there as you watch him move around to grab new clothes and two glasses of water. Just the time to pull yourself together, and you’re once again under the bedsheets, cuddled up against each other. You relax at the feeling of his fingers rubbing circles on the back of your neck and let his heartbeat be a sweet melody.
Mamma Mia is playing on the TV, but none of you has much energy to sing along to ABBA’s songs —he has a bit more than you as he hums the words.
When he chuckles, you look up at him.
“What’s so funny?” You ask, staring at the tv with a frown on your face. The SOS scene not being exactly one of the funniest one.
“I was thinking about us,” he says.
“I do hope we won’t end up like this.”
“Yeah, no, but you ended up being my Waterloo, I guess,” he whispers, looking at you. And then you get it, remembering when he sang it to you.
“I told you,” you reply, making him gasp offended. “What? You expected me to say something nice? You mocked me, you bragged and I cursed you with eternal love for me.”
Donghyuck laughs and then wraps his arms around you to pull you flatter against him, resting his chin on your head.
“You know this doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to beat you, right?” He chuckles, but when you lift your gaze, getting a glimpse of him, you see his serious expression. And you hope he's true to his intention and that that spark set by your ambition will never die.
You smile smugly before relaxing against his warm embrace. “Yeah, but we’ll see if I’ll let you.”
YEARS LATER
“Is everything alright? Why are you looking at us like this?” You ask, shifting on your seat on the couch, looking at the girl in front of you.
“Is it true?”
“What?” Donghyuck says.
“Is it true that you two couldn’t stand each other?” She says, big brown eyes staring at you with curiosity.
You quirk a brow, giving your full attention to your daughter. “Why this sudden question?”
“Cause it’s embarrassing to see tweets of people going insane over you two, but also I think it’s unfair how these strangers seem to know more about my parents than me.”
You and Donghyuck laugh. “And what do they say?"
She rolls her eyes. “That they can’t believe you hated each other and that you started dating her to distract her but ended up falling for her?”
You look at each other smirking before a tender, nostalgic smile takes its place.
“Would it be so terrible?” He asks, tilting his head.
She thinks about it for a moment and then replies. “It would be a bit embarrassing for you, Dad. But also... cute. So?”
“I’d say it’s true,” he replies, shrugging.
“Wait, so you really started dating because you hated each other?” She screams, sitting straight on the loveseat, leaning toward you with her body.
You chuckle. “We didn’t hate each other. We believed we could outdo the other. And your father did too much, as always.”
“You were miserable before me,” Donghyuck replies, tightening his hold around your waist. “I had a plan, and it would’ve worked.”
You roll your eyes. “Imagine thinking you could make me fall in love and not fall in love with me,” you say to your daughter. “I was a real heartbreaker back then.”
“You still are,” she replies, smiling. “My friends go insane every time they realize who my parents are.”
Your daughter never brags about being your child. The famous singer, producer, and dancer Haechan, and you, who had a good launch as a singer before you realized that wasn’t your world and decided to stick to be a choreographer and PR manager (well, mostly Donghyuck’s choreographer and his manager). But everyone close to her knows who she is, and it’s not easy to act nonchalantly about it.
She has heard many stories about you two. The gossip about your story running wild since you broke into the industry. But you never sat down and explained it to her, not until now.
“We still have our charm,” Donghyuck laughs.
“I think the most important thing is your love and that you might be the best parents in the world. But I’m saying it officially only if you don’t turn it into a race.”
“Us? Turning something into a competition? We would never,” Donghyuck jokes.
She rolls her eyes, huffing loudly. And you can’t help but smile thinking how similar to your husband she looks right now.
“Honey, forgive us. How do you think we’re still having so much fun after all these years? That’s how we thrive, we learned how to push each other healthily.”
“Yeah, fine, I’m glad your love story is still perfect, but seriously, no competition when it comes to me. I love you both so much.”
“Come here,” you say, patting the space in front of you on the couch. Hugging her when she sits down between you two. “You are the only thing we won’t turn into a competition.”
Donghyuck hums in agreement, wrapping his arm around you two. “We both won with you.”
general taglist: @froggyforhyuck, @wingsss45, @tddyhyck, @technologyculturedneo
pairing: grad student!haechan x grad student!reader
genre: fluff, slight angst
word count: 10.2k
synopsis: academic validation and beating lee donghyuck are your only motivations in life. spoiler alert: you end up achieving only one of the two.
author’s note: this was supposed to be released for holo LMAO better late than never? anyways ladies this is fiction <3 do NOT ever give a male english major the time of day - signed an english major (p.s. i mention christmas exactly one time in this so this counts as a holiday fic)
warning(s): sexism in academia, brief descriptions of sexual harassment
playlist: rose-colored boy by paramore ― enemies by lauv ― always, everytime by the wrecks ― let it happen by gracie abrams ― running home by jade lemac
Act I) And when I close my eyes, I see you for who you truly are, which is UUUG-LAY.
When it comes to receiving bad news, you would consider yourself pretty good at handling it. You’ve always been the type to compartmentalize and try to find the most rational way to react. Having such an analytical personality is part of the reason why you decided to pursue an English degree in college. Sure, some may consider you cold and elitist, but to that you respond―well, yes!
That being said, you’re about 30 seconds away from hurling up your breakfast burrito and $8 matcha latte in a projectile fashion.
You stare at Dr. Min, the Program Director of the English Department and your mentor, like she just dropkicked you in the gut. Normally, your mouth would be agape with despair and horror, but you smartly keep your lips sealed tight due to previously mentioned urge to spill chunks all over her pristine office.
The situation is worsened by the fact that there is a creature standing right beside you, looking only slightly disgruntled. Like he just received a cup of cold coffee level of disgruntled. As if Dr. Min didn’t just casually destroy your entire world.
The creature goes by the name of Lee Donghyuck. He’s barely a human, simply masquerading as one with his fluffy hair and glowy skin. Rather, he’s just a walking, talking literary reference to the most pretentious authors ever. His sole reason for existence is to compete with you for teacher’s pet. The two of you have been vying for Dr. Min’s attention since you both got into grad school. More specifically, you both have been competing for the eventual letter of recommendation that you’ll need from her in order to get into the highly prestigious PhD program. She’s super selective of who she will write the letter for, so you and Donghyuck essentially have been in a constant WWE brawl to kiss her ass.
“Two graduate faculty members are on sabbatical, so the amount of staff available to vote on your papers are an even number,” Dr. Min had explained, “Hence, why we’re in this situation. You both have the same amount of votes.”
“Can’t you just be the tiebreaker, Dr. Min?” Donghyuck asks, carding a hand through his brown hair. It’s still tinted a light purple hue from when he dyed it to cosplay Rafayel from Love and Deepspace for Halloween. Yes, he does play a gacha dating sim about random men who look AI-generated. Of his many sins, this is low on your list.
Dr. Min shakes her head, smiling apologetically. “You know I always abstain from voting when it comes to my mentees’ papers.”
“So, what’s going to happen now? Which one of us will be going to the symposium?” you ask, finally managing to gather yourself and speak up. Despite your best efforts, you feel another wave of nausea hit you when Dr. Min glances your way. There’s something about the way she’s so poised and collected that always makes you think she’s silently judging you.
“That’s what I’ve called you both here for,” she trails off, clapping her hands together. “I’ve decided that, for the first time in this university’s history, we will be sending two representatives to the annual Shakespeare Scholars Research Symposium!”
Dr. Min pauses, most likely expecting celebratory cheers from the two of you. However, she’s met with stone-cold silence. You and Donghyuck just stand there stiffly, arms hanging limp by your sides and faces scrunched like you just ate the dog food flavored jelly bean from the BeanBoozled game.
“Don’t get too excited, now,” Dr. Min jokes awkwardly. “Why the doom and gloom?”
“But…our papers are way too similar. It wouldn’t make sense for both of us to go,” you protest.
As much as you hate to admit it, you and Donghyuck are often interested in the same topics and themes when it comes to your research papers. This time is also no exception. For this paper, you decided to write about the female empowerment in the classic 1999 romcom 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the original source material, Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Meanwhile, Donghyuck (because he’s incapable of not riding on your coattails) decided to write about gender identity in the classic 2006 romcom She’s the Man compared to Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
“Well, the concepts are certainly similar, but the actual content is different,” Dr. Min replies, “Besides, I think we need more pop culture in academia.”
When you and Donghyuck fail to respond again, she huffs. “Come on, you guys! I know the two of you are competitive, but it’s a wonderful opportunity. This is going to look amazing on your CV when you apply for the PhD program.”
The mention of the PhD program makes you and Donghyuck perk up like meerkats, and you know Dr. Min did it on purpose.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Dr. Min. We would be happy to represent the university together,” Donghyuck quickly says, putting on the fakest smile you’ve ever seen. His eyes sparkle in a way that reminds you of those shiny plastic dolls that end up having a demonic spirit in them. Then he looks over at you and beams through grit teeth, “Wouldn’t we?”
A fake smile of your own slowly spreads across your face like paralyzing venom as you glare at Donghyuck. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Dr. Min nods, satisfied. “I’m glad to see that you two are getting along better. I’ll see you on Friday at the airport, bright and early.”
You and Donghyuck say your goodbyes to her before marching out of her office like the twins from The Shining. The moment the door closes behind you, the two of you recoil from each other like being within 6 feet of one another will make your skin melt off. You both start speedwalking to the exit of the building at the same pace, completely parallel to each other on opposite sides of the hallway.
“You are such a two-faced liar,” you hiss in a hushed whisper, “Always making me look like the difficult one while you’re all happy-go-lucky, kumbaya.”
“Well, if it always looks like it, then maybe it’s the case, don’t you think?” Donghyuck sweetly retorts.
“Ooh, burn,” you say sarcastically, “Your words might actually have some merit if there wasn’t steam coming off the top of your overinflated, egoistic head. I know you’re just as pissed about this as I am.”
“Oh, Y/N. You are always so shortsighted,” Donghyuck sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Don’t you see the bigger picture?
“Oh, this will be good,” you say wryly, crossing your arms and waiting for him to continue.
“Elementary, my dear Watson―” he starts.
“Doyle never wrote that line―” you quickly interrupt.
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t deserve to be Watson. You’re Moriarty.”
“Why do I feel like I have to go through the Labors of Hercules in order for you to get to your point whenever I talk to you?” you demand.
“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, this symposium will be a great opportunity to settle this once and for all. You know they always give out a Best Research Paper award at the end. We may have tied today, but our tiebreaker can be that award. Whoever wins gets the recommendation letter from Dr. Min,” Donghyuck smugly explains.
“You know, maybe there’s not just Helium in that skull of yours,” you smile, “I think that’s a great idea. I suppose a broken clock is right twice a day. ”
“You are so eloquent when it comes to insulting me, yet I don’t see any of that fire in your actual writing?” Donghyuck questions, blinking innocently.
“Oh, I’ll show you―”
You’re just about to rattle off another one of your eloquent insults when a loud howl of wind from the outside interrupts you, making the two of you jolt. Just as you reach the doors to the building, you see through the glass that the sky is a smoky, hazy gray. Rain is starting to fall, and it looks like it's about to become a torrential downpour in a little bit.
You curse under your breath, thinking about your five minute walk to the bus station and whether or not you can beat out the thunderstorm.
“Well, this certainly has to be a bad omen,” Donghyuck says unhelpfully.
You jerk your head towards him and jab a finger in his direction. “This isn’t over. I have to catch the bus before I get waterboarded by this rain. I’ll deal with you on Friday. Until then, stay out of my sight.”
Donghyuck shrugs, fishing out an umbrella from his backpack. Because of course he needs to flaunt the fact that he has an umbrella and you don’t.
“Sounds good to me,” he replies casually.
Steeling yourself for the rain and wind to pelt your face, you open the door in one fell swoop and walk outside―except you’re not getting wet because Donghyuck is trailing behind you and holding his umbrella above your head.
“Uh, why are you following me?” you ask as he moves to walk beside you, even though you know his car is parked in the opposite direction.
“Curb your main character syndrome, Y/N. I have somewhere to be, and it happens to be in the same direction,” he sighs.
“Where?” you probe, suspicious.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” he answers snottily.
“Then why are you sharing your umbrella with me? Did you get visited by three ghosts on Christmas?” you demand.
“Is it really sharing if you’re just standing next to me and happen to be in the radius of my umbrella?” he ponders.
“You’re like a bridge troll that asks people three riddles before letting them pass,” you sigh.
“Please. As if you could ever solve my riddles.”
You respond by flipping him off, and he just grins.
The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence, the sounds of the rain growing heavier and cars speeding by serving as your only background noise. Occasionally, his elbow bumps your arm due to your proximity to each other. The mixture of the thick humidity in the air and the drifting scent of his fabric softener makes your head swim.
When you make it to the bus station, you don’t say bye to him, nor does he say it to you. Instead, he swiftly turns on his heel and walks back. He doesn’t look back at you either, so your eyes linger on his back for just a tad longer than they should.
You notice that one of his shoulders is damp, the sleeve of his shirt sticking to his skin, as raindrops roll down his arm.
Act II) Ooh, see that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?
Donghyuck is being eerily quiet this morning, and it’s starting to unnerve you.
He didn’t even jump at the opportunity to compliment Dr. Min’s new haircut (that she got specifically for this conference) the moment she arrived at the airport. When the three of you walked over to the security check line, he just stood there, thumbs tucked underneath the straps of his backpack as he bounced on the balls of his feet. If he heard even a second of the conversation you and Dr. Min were having, he gave no indication of it.
He’s never this silent unless he’s scheming something.
At one point, you started eyeing the security cameras nearby to see if you had accidentally gotten yourself on a prank show. As if this was all an elaborate setup by Donghyuck in order to humiliate you, and you weren’t going to the symposium after all. For a brief moment, you imagine Dr. Min also being in on the ruse and laughing with him about how awful your paper was and how funny it is that you actually thought you had a chance.
Maybe your therapist was right about you having paranoia issues.
Your delusions begin taking over your mind until you finally can’t take it anymore. Once the two of you get situated on the plane (Dr. Min got put up in first class, and you and Donghyuck were relegated to economy as lowly grad students), you finally ask:
“Okay, what is your problem? You’re acting weird―er than usual.”
Donghyuck is looking straight ahead, peering at the folded tray table on the seat in front of him. It takes him a second to acknowledge your words, turning towards you with a strained smirk.
“Wow, are you worried about me?” His voice trembles.
It isn’t until he turns towards you that you finally get a good look at his face. His normally glowing complexion is completely blanched, and his expression is strained, twisted into a grimace. In other words, he looks completely terrified. It scares you a little too.
“Jesus,” you breathe, leaning in, “now I kind of am. Are you sick?”
“I guess that’s one way to describe it,” he laughs, closing his eyes and leaning back. “Mentally and physically, yes. But not, like, in a stomach flu kind of way.”
You pause, studying his face. “Are you…afraid of flying?”
He opens one eye and glances over at you. “How much aura would I lose if I said yes?”
You lightly shove his arm. “Be serious. You have no aura anyways.”
“Ouch. That’s one of the more hurtful things you’ve said to me recently.”
“Seriously, are you okay?” you ask firmly.
“Of course,” he replies, inhaling but his breath hitches, “I’ll have to be. This paper isn’t going to present itself.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“What good would that do? Besides look super lame and give you another thing to hold against me,” he jokes.
You snort. “Why would I hold this against you when I have actual legitimate reasons to find you lame?”
Donghyuck looks genuinely taken aback, eyes widening like a newborn doe. His voice is quiet and hopeful, almost innocent, when he says, “...Yeah?”
He sounds so sincere that you feel your face grow warm. “That is so rude. What kind of monster do you think I am? No matter how much I hate you, I’m not such a terrible person that I would make fun of your phobias.”
He blinks. “No, that’s not what I meant―”
“Whatever. I don’t want you to think I have something over you now, so we’ll make it even,” you announce, “I’ll tell you one of my fears too.”
“Y/N, you don’t have to―”
“When we were going through security earlier and you were being super quiet, I fully thought you and Dr. Min had planned an elaborate prank on me in which I wasn’t actually going to the symposium and that you were only letting me believe I was when, in fact, my paper was terrible,” you confess, blurting everything out in one breath.
Donghyuck stares at you, completely bewildered. “So, you think I’m such a monster that I would―”
“My point being,” you continue, “that I have an irrational fear of being left out. Because I’m not good enough.”
“Y/N―”
“But this doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna kick your ass at the symposium. I will be getting that award. Just…sometimes I gaslight myself into thinking the opposite,” you quickly add, realizing that you may have just given away a little too much of yourself.
That’s the thing with Donghyuck. It’s really easy to forget about everything else when you’re bickering with him. You’ve never had to worry about what to say to him. He’s so smug and annoying and irritating that it makes you feel like you can do anything if it means being able to beat him.
Maybe that’s why you freaked out so much when he was so quiet this morning. Maybe that’s why you’re telling him this now.
“You know, you could’ve just said spiders or something,” he finally says after a long pause, a shit-eating grin finding its way to his lips. The color has come back to his face, and he’s got that mischievous spark in his eye again.
“Firstly, I’m not afraid of spiders. Secondly, you’re an unbelievably huge asshole.” You cross your arms. “I can’t believe―”
“Y/N.” Donghyuck reaches over and gently tugs on the sleeve of your sweater. His touch makes you fall silent. “I’m only going to say this once. And if you try to bring it up again, I’ll deny it, so listen carefully.”
You roll your eyes, waiting for another terrible joke.
“Look at me,” he whispers, leaning in to make sure your eyes meet his. His brown eyes are so dark that they almost look black, like pools of obsidian, yet his gaze is so warm and firm as if you were being enveloped by a warm sunrise. The soft expression on his face anchors you to your seat, and you can’t bring yourself to look away despite knowing you probably should.
“You are brilliant,” he states, as if they’re the truest words in the world.
His sincerity catches you completely off guard, and your mind goes blank. All you can think about is the way he’s looking at you like he’s never been more sure of anything else.
The two of you flinch when you hear the roar of the airplane’s engine, indicating that it’s about to take off. Donghyuck clenches his jaw and pulls away, and you can see his entire body tense as he grips the armrest so hard that his knuckles turn white.
Ripping your eyes off of him, you reach under the seat for your backpack and fish out your AirPods with trembling fingers. You’re still so shaken from earlier that you randomly select a playlist before handing one of the AirPods to Donghyuck. When he raises an eyebrow, you simply reply, “To help you relax.”
He wordlessly takes it and puts it in his ear, taking in the song. A few more seconds pass by before he, stifling a laugh, asks, “So, your idea of relaxation is playing death metal at full volume?”
You gasp, looking back down at your phone and realizing you had selected your road rage mix by accident. Too embarrassed to admit it, you reach over to take the AirPod out. “Fine, be ungrateful then. I’ll listen by myself.”
Donghyuck tuts and leans his head away from your hand, nearly hitting it against the window. “Excuse me, I am trying to relax.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“Can’t hear you over the sounds of my relaxation,” he says in a sing-song voice.
“Whatever,” you sigh, but you’re fighting a smile.
Throughout the flight, you occasionally sneak glances at Donghyuck, checking to see if he’s uncomfortable. He’s always fast asleep, head leaning against the window and lips slightly parted. To your relief, he looks much more serene than he did at the start.
He still doesn’t budge when the flight attendant comes around to hand out Biscoff cookies, and you’re tempted to steal his pack for yourself but decide against it. Instead, you begrudgingly put them in his lap. If you were anywhere else, you one-hundred percent would, but it doesn’t feel right this time.
After scarfing down your cookies, you drift off yourself and don’t wake up until a crackly announcement from the captain that your flight will be landing soon startles you awake. When you look over at Donghyuck, he’s still asleep. Shifting in your seat, you hear plastic crinkling in your lap, and you look down in confusion.
A pack of Biscoff cookies.
Taking a shaky deep breath, you lean back against your seat. The two-pack, cinnamon-flavored shortbread cookies sit in your lap like a ticking time bomb. You think about sharing an umbrella under the rain. You think about Donghyuck’s fear of flying. You think about how he thinks you’re brilliant. You think about these damn Biscoff cookies.
Suddenly, you wish you weren’t sitting arm-to-arm with Donghyuck; you wish he was always a hallway’s distance from you. Because that was the distance that you can think clearly when he’s around you. Because that was the distance before―
Before.
Act III) Nonsense! You don't need a man to wear a beautiful dress!
“Somehow, there was a misunderstanding and only a single room was booked for the both of you.”
Well, so much for distance.
Dr. Min looks like she wants to crawl in a hole. “I am so sorry, you guys. The hotel is used to each university only bringing one student, so they weren’t expecting two. And the hotel is fully booked for the symposium, so they don’t have an extra room.”
You and Donghyuck exchange defeated glances, too exhausted from the flight (for many reasons) to even react.
“None of the nearby hotels have any available either,” Dr. Min continues, “so, I can’t believe I have to ask this of you guys, but would you mind sharing a room? The room also has a sofa pull-out bed, and maybe you guys can rock-paper-scissors for it.”
This certainly throws a wrench in your Avoid Lee Donghyuck Like the Plague weekend plans, but Dr. Min looks so stressed that you really don’t want to further complicate things for her. When you look over at Donghyuck (something that you had been explicitly trying not to do), he’s already looking at you, waiting for your answer.
“It’s fine,” you finally say, sighing, “We’re all grown-ups, after all.”
Dr. Min turns to Donghyuck, expectant. He just shrugs, replying, “If Y/N’s okay with it.”
“Great. Thank you guys so much!” Dr. Min exclaims, clapping her hands together before handing you the room key. “You guys can take some time to get some rest and freshen up. Don’t forget we’re going to have dinner with a few of my colleagues tonight too. Meet me here at 7:30 sharp.”
The two of you say your goodbyes before trudging over to the elevator. You don’t say anything to each other even as you enter your cramped room, equipped with a single queen-sized bed and a sofa pull-out couch that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 60s.
You and Donghyuck just stare in disbelief for a moment before he turns towards you and holds out a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Huh?”
“Rock, paper, scissors!” You don’t even have time to react as Donghyuck starts counting down, lowering his fist on every word.
Without thinking, you pick scissors, only for him to pick rock.
“Looks like I get the bed,” he says smugly.
“You ambushed me. That’s not fair,” you demand, crossing your arms.
“Two out of three?”
“Rockpaperscissors!” you blurt at the speed of light, trying to catch him off guard.
This time, he picks scissors while you pick paper.
“You suck,” you snap, shoving his hand away and stomping towards the pull-out couch before dropping your bag on it. Donghyuck’s laugh rings throughout the room like a bell from behind you.
This feels more like before―when he pissed you off more than anything. Donghyuck from before was too nice, too soft. It’s actually better that you’re sleeping on the musty pull-out couch; this is more of your dynamic with him. Before he shared his umbrella with you. Before he told you about his fear of flying. Before he called you brilliant. Before you nearly had a panic attack over some Biscoff cookies.
“I’m getting ready first,” you say petulantly.
“Be my guest,” he replies, raising his hands up like he’s surrendering, “Take as long as you need.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Because of the double standard, of course. Women have to uphold a much higher beauty standard, and there is more societal pressure for them to feel like they have to dress up―”
“Holy performative male.” You roll your eyes. “Do you cry when you think about women getting their periods, too?”
“Only when I’m drinking my matcha and reading Sylvia Plath.” He winks.
After grabbing a change of clothes and your skincare regimen, you promptly push past him and close the bathroom door in his face.
.
.
.
In the end, it does take you a while to get ready. Between doing your skincare, putting on a full face of makeup, and styling your hair, you made sure to put in extra effort since you could be potentially networking with Dr. Min’s colleagues. You even brought your best evening gown in anticipation.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Donghyuck is sitting on the bed with his laptop, furiously typing away. His eyes briefly glance up at the sound of the door opening and returns to the screen before he does a double take, eyes widening when he finally sees you.
“What are you doing?” you ask, nodding towards his laptop.
“Oh.” He stops for a moment. “My presentation notes. For the presentation. Tomorrow.”
“What a vast vocabulary you have there, English major,” you tease, sitting on the edge of the bed so that you can slip your heels on. “Are you that nervous for tomorrow?”
Donghyuck laughs, but it’s more like a breathless huff that he releases. “Something like that.”
“You’re talking in riddles again. Whatever, just hurry up and get ready. We have to be down there in forty minutes,” you say after glancing at your phone.
Clearing his throat, he gives you a quick two-finger salute before closing his laptop and grabbing his stuff. He stiffly walks around you at an odd angle, as if you had an invisible force field around you, and keeps his eyes straight ahead.
While Donghyuck is getting ready, you scroll on TikTok, watching meditation videos and tutorials on breathing exercises in order to relax. You so badly want to make a good impression on Dr. Min’s colleagues (and, subsequently, on Dr. Min too) that you’re making yourself nauseous from imagining all the ways things could go wrong.
You’re in the middle of a third attempt to completely clear your mind for a meditation exercise when Donghyuck steps out of the bathroom. Like the pain he is, he completely destroys any hope of a clear and sound mind as he walks over to you.
Donghyuck is wearing a navy blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the top two buttons undone, tucked into a pair of black slacks. His hair is lightly gelled, and you hate how effortlessly handsome he is.
“What are you doing?” He asks, gesturing to your phone that’s still playing a video of a woman sitting cross-legged and telling you to breathe in and out.
Hurriedly, you lock your phone and put it away in your purse. “Nothing.”
“Why are you watching meditation videos? Nervous?”
“Why do you ask if you already know?” you retort.
“I enjoy the validation,” he replies smoothly, “So, is that a yes?”
“Yes, if you must know, I am nervous. Not all of us are natural-born ass-kissers, you know,” you hiss, “I need to get on their good side. Connections are everything in academia.”
“Ah, but you don’t need meditation or ass-kissing to make a good impression. You forget the simplest method of all,” he points out.
“And that is?”
“Being yourself,” he beams.
“Thanks for the advice, Sesame Street. You think I wouldn’t be doing that if it worked?” you ask wryly.
“How would you know if you’ve never tried it?” He crosses his arms.
You stand up, suddenly feeling slightly offended. “What are you implying?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
“That is so rich coming from you. You’re the fakest of us all,” you snap, jabbing a finger in his chest.
“I never said it works for me.” Donghyuck smiles, tilting his head.
You pause, blinking as your hand falls limply to your side. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?”
When you can’t think of a response, he shrugs. “Or maybe you don’t.”
You watch him walk past you to get the room key from the nightstand, slipping it into his wallet, before grabbing your purse from the bed and handing it to you. “Come on, we’ll be late for dinner.”
And just like that, dinner is the last thing on your mind.
.
.
.
“It’s so surreal seeing you two in such fancy clothes. You guys look amazing!” Dr. Min gushes, as the three of you take your seats inside a fancy restaurant whose name you can’t even pronounce. A salad from here probably costs a month’s worth of rent. Luckily, you’re not paying.
“You look stunning tonight as well, Dr. Min,” Donghyuck instantly responds, turning up his ass-kissing to 100.
You just sip on your glass of water, trying to distract yourself with a task by picking up and setting down your glass continuously. Eventually, a waiter comes by and dramatically refills your glass without you even asking. You murmur a quick thank you before going right back to your routine.
“Oh, here they are!” Dr. Min stands up and waves to someone behind you, and you quickly set your water back down. You smooth out the bunched up dress in your lap and tuck your hair behind your ears. As Dr. Min ushers her colleagues over to your table, you feel Donghyuck’s warm hand gently on your knee, stilling your leg that you didn’t even know you were furiously bouncing.
He doesn’t say a word, only looking at you for a second before pulling away, standing up and plastering on a big grin to greet Dr. Min’s colleagues. Your leg burns like his fingerprints individually branded you.
Mind whirring, you shakily stand up and hope that your face is doing something similar to a smile.
“Donghyuck, Y/N, these are my colleagues. This is Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory,” Dr. Min introduces, gesturing to two middle-aged men in suits who are both wearing glasses. Frankly, they look identical to you, but such is the case with the elites in academia.
You all say your greetings before sitting down, and thankfully, Dr. Min orders the food for you, rattling off fancy French dishes that you couldn’t even begin to spell. She also orders a few bottles of super expensive wine, though you and Donghyuck choose to abstain. Despite your initial nerves, the dinner isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. The conversation flows naturally between everyone, and you even get a few laughs from Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory, which gives you a slight confidence boost. It isn’t until dinner is starting to wind down, and the professors are flushed and slightly slurring that Dr. Gregory turns towards you, saying, “You know, Y/N, you’re such a pretty girl. If only you would smile a bit more. You’d be a real stunner if you smiled more.”
The pungent scent of wine on his breath wafts over to you as he continues, “Don’t be so uptight, you know?”
Your entire body freezes, and you suddenly feel sick to your stomach. This isn’t exactly your first time dealing with creepy old men, but you’ve never had to do so with creepy old men that could control your future in your career. Especially not with your mentor’s colleagues―the mentor that you revere and want so desperately to impress.
You feel your face burn with shame and humiliation, as you try to think of something to say that will diffuse the situation but also not offend Dr. Gregory. Dr. Min and Dr. Collins look uncomfortable as well, but they don’t seem like they know what to do either.
“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke,” Dr. Gregory finally says after noticing the tense atmosphere, “You young people never have a sense of humor.”
“Pray tell, what was the joke?” Donghyuck asks, his words dripping with a venomous sweetness. He’s gripping the cloth napkin in his lap with such strength that you think he might rip it. He’s seething with so much rage that you can feel it radiate from his body like heat waves. You’re worried he’s about to jump across the table and attack Dr. Gregory, so you slowly reach under the table and place your hand on top of his.
It’s not worth it, you want to tell him.
Without looking at you, Donghyuck releases the napkin and flips your hand with your palm facing upwards before lacing his fingers through yours, keeping your entwined fingers tucked into his lap. He holds your hand tightly but not enough to hurt. Just enough that you know he’s not going to let this slide.
“Explain the joke,” Donghyuck continues to press, “What’s so fucking funny?”
Dr. Gregory just stares at him in a drunken daze, and Dr. Min hesitantly glances between the two, finally stammering, “N-Now, that language isn’t appropriate, Donghyuck. However, Dr. Gregory needs to apologize to Y/N, too. Gosh, Dr. Gregory, you always get too drunk for your own good.”
“You know, Dr. Gregory,” Donghyuck starts, completely ignoring her, “you’d be a real stunner if you went to an AA meeting instead of lurking around at research symposiums and sexually harassing female students.”
“How dare you accuse me of―” Dr. Gregory begins sputtering, face turning even redder.
“Oh, lighten up! It was just a joke. What, you old perverts don’t have a sense of humor?” Donghyuck raises his voice, so that the surrounding tables can hear him. He stands to his feet, taking you with him, before using his free hand to slam a glass of water in front of Dr. Gregory. He uses so much force that the glass clatters loudly against the wooden table, and water splashes all over the table and Dr. Gregory’s lap.
“Sober up, you piece of shit. Talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure you’re drinking your fancy wine through a tube in your neck.”
Donghyuck drags your chair out of the way, making sure to scrape the metal against the floor so that it makes a screeching noise, and leads you away from the table and out of the restaurant. Against your better judgment, you look back at the table. The three professors just sit there, shoulders slumped, looking smaller and smaller as you walk away. In the past, they stood tall like the highest peak of a mountain that you could never reach. Now, you can’t help but think that they look so…pathetic.
Donghyuck doesn’t speak to you as you make your way back to the hotel; he just holds your hand like you’ll slip away if he doesn’t. After a few minutes, he takes your intertwined fingers and puts them in his pants pocket. He’s walking so fast that you start to stumble over the uneven pavement in your heels.
“Wait, Donghyuck―”
You nearly trip, but he quickly turns around and catches you. His hands are on your waist, warm and firm, as he carefully steadies you.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say quietly.
Donghyuck takes in a deep breath, his hands linger around your waist as if he was the one being steadied. When he speaks, he unconsciously pulls you in a bit closer. “Yeah, I should’ve done a lot worse.”
“Come on, you’re a grad student who’s cooped up at home all day writing research papers. You’re not exactly Mike Tyson,” you try to tease. You’ve never seen him this angry before.
“I could definitely kick his teeth in.” He looks a little too determined for your liking.
“And then get an assault charge?” You sigh. “I’m not paying your bail.”
He seems to soften up a bit as he studies your face. His hands flinch at your sides, seemingly realizing that he’s cradling you against him, before he takes a step back. His palms drag against your dress as he lets go of your waist.
“Are you okay?” Donghyuck doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, as he lifts them back up before putting them back down.
“Of course.” You give him a halfhearted smile. “Not exactly my first rodeo with this kind of stuff.”
You can see a muscle in his jaw spasm.
“It was nice seeing you cuss him out though. Took the words right out of my mouth. But, you know, I would probably get called a bitch or something if I said it.” You shrug.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Misogyny?” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you on your performative male shit again?”
“Well, anyone who knows me knows that I am a staunch feminist. An ally, if you will.” Donghyuck raises a fist in the air, and you roll your eyes, though you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. When you meet his gaze again, he hesitantly chews on his lip for a moment before continuing, “But…I’m also sorry that you had to listen to him speak to you like that. I wish there was something I could do that was more productive than kicking his teeth in.”
“Hm,” you hum, tapping your chin, “I suppose I could forgive you if you ordered room service. I’m starving. All that bougie French finger food Dr. Min ordered basically evaporated into thin air the moment I put it in my mouth.”
You give him a mischievous grin, and the tension visibly leaves his body.
“Deal.”
.
.
.
That’s how the two of you end up lounging on the bed together, a pepperoni pizza and chicken and waffles feast sprawled out in front of you. One of the television channels is playing a rerun of The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, so you and Donghyuck keep your eyes glued to the screen like children with their iPads. Occasionally, one of you will comment on how much both of you hate Gale and kick your feet when Peeta says his iconic “if it weren’t for the baby” line.
Once the movie is over and the food is completely cleared out, you both flop onto your backs, feeling like stuffed turkeys with how much you ate. The two of you lay there in content silence for a second before you let out a sigh.
It was a lot easier to not think about anything when you had all these distractions, but now that the night is winding down, reality is setting in quickly.
“Tomorrow is going to be so awkward,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Dr. Min is probably pissed.”
Donghyuck furrows his eyebrows. “Surely, you don’t mean she would be pissed at us. Not when it was her creepy ass friend’s fault.”
“Well, we certainly didn’t act very professional either.”
“Y/N. Look at me, please.” You feel his hands gently swat yours away from your face.
Begrudgingly, you turn your head towards him. His face is a lot closer than you’re expecting, and your eyes wander as you start to count all of the moles on his smooth skin. Your gaze briefly flickers to his heart-shaped lips before hurriedly traveling back up to his eyes.
“You are not the one who should be worried about tomorrow,” he states firmly, “Dr. Min is the one in a position of authority. It’s her job to protect you.”
“I hope that’s the case,” you mutter.
“It is. She will.” He sounds so sure.
“Well, it doesn’t matter―”
“It does.”
“―I just need to get through this presentation, and I’ll never have to see any of these people ever again.” Truthfully, you probably will since academia circles run small. Donghyuck knows that too.
“Do you―” He hesitates, scanning your face carefully. “Are you going to file a report against Dr. Gregory?”
You laugh humorlessly. “Would anyone believe me?”
“You have three witnesses.”
“That I would be asking to jeopardize their own careers for me,” you point out, “I know we’ve had quite a spirited rivalry, but even I wouldn’t try to sabotage you like this.”
His expression is twisted into something you can’t quite discern. “What―”
“I’m not going to file a report,” you state matter-of-factly, “It’s not worth it.”
Donghyuck goes quiet, clearly trying to collect himself, before whispering hoarsely, “It’s your decision.”
He stares at you for a very long time when you don’t respond. Without even realizing it, the two of you had turned your bodies toward one another on the bed. Your legs are curled upwards, and if you wanted to, you could shift just slightly and bump his thighs. If you wanted to, you could reach out and brush the stray curl from his eyes.
“Y/N.” He murmurs your name so softly that you almost don’t hear him. In fact, the syllables blend together almost as if he were sleeptalking.
“Yeah?” You hold your breath.
“Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever you decide to do, just know that I’m on your side. Always.”
You don’t remember what you said back; you don’t even remember what he looked like when he said it, no matter how desperately you try. You almost wonder if it was just a dream.
All you know is that you wake up wrapped in Lee Donghyuck’s arms the next morning. His bicep is under your neck while his hand is cradling the back of your head. His other arm is slung over your waist, fingers splayed across the small of your back. The hem of your evening gown has ridden up to your thighs, and your bare legs are tangled with his. Your cheek is tucked snugly into the crook of his neck, and every time he exhales, you feel his lips brush the crown of your head. He smells like faded cologne and warm skin.
Sunlight streams into your eyelids when you blearily blink, but you’re so distracted by the peaceful expression on Donghyuck’s face that you barely notice. Without even thinking, you brush the stray curl from his eyes. He slightly stirs at the movement before pulling you in closer, stilling once again after another second.
Against your better judgment, you lean forward, burrowing your face into his neck and feeling his skin against yours. As you listen to the sound of his breathing, it doesn’t take you long to fall back asleep.
Act IV) But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
When you wake up, you’re under the covers. Donghyuck is gone.
Except when you turn to the right, he’s curled up in a cramped fetal position on the pull-out couch with no blanket. His back is facing you, but you can see his shoulders steadily rise up and down.
You’re more impressed by how deeply you were sleeping to not notice him tuck you under the covers and then set up the couch.
Shit, what if you drooled on him and that’s why he moved?
Your hand frantically flies to the corner of your mouth, but it’s dry. Almost cracked. Then you realize that you slept in your makeup, and your skin is probably gasping for any sort of hydration.
Swinging your feet over the side of the bed, you tip-toe your way to the bathroom. Carefully shutting the door behind you, you quickly begin your morning routine of brushing your teeth, washing your face, and taking the hottest shower you can handle. You stand still, letting the scorching water run down your body, as you recall the events from the night before. In the end, not even the scalding temperature can burn away the feeling of being enveloped in Donghyuck’s arms.
Furiously scrubbing your face, you wish you had just gotten up and moved to the pull-out couch when you woke up the first time. Instead of cuddling Donghyuck like a psycho. He probably felt you clinging to him like a koala and promptly escaped, even though you were the one who lost rock-paper-scissors.
Better yet, you wish you had never come here in the first place. Maybe then your professional and…personal lives wouldn’t be in complete shambles.
Eventually, the water starts to run cold, and you have no choice but to step out into the steam-filled bathroom. Your phone chimes on the corner of the sink, and you reach over to check it―
Your heart is nearly regurgitated out of your mouth.
It’s a text from Dr. Min inviting you to breakfast. Just you and her.
.
.
.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me privately.” Dr. Min is nervously wringing her hands as you awkwardly push around the omelette in front of you.
Honestly, you had contemplated waking Donghyuck up and dragging him down with you, but then you came to your senses. You’re not sure when the switch happened that he’s the first person you turn to for help, and it freaks you out exponentially. Especially when just 48 hours ago, you would’ve rather hacked off your arm than ask him for anything.
Besides, this is nothing you can’t handle. You’re pretty sure.
“No problem.” You try your best to look cool and composed.
“I wanted to apologize for Dr. Gregory’s behavior last night. He got way too drunk, and it was completely unacceptable. He also wants to extend his sincerest apologies. I will make sure this never happens again.”
You’re not sure what to say in response. She’s waiting for you expectantly, almost as if she wants you to exonerate her from her guilt. Normally, you would rush to tell her that everything is okay and it’s all in the past now. But the expression on her face reminds you too much of last night, of how small she seemed.
“Okay.” You nod stiffly. “I appreciate you letting me know.”
There’s an awkward, drawn out pause between the two of you before Dr. Min clears her throat. “Okay. Good.”
You start getting up to leave, but you hear a shrill, “Wait!”
In all your years of knowing her, you’ve never seen Dr. Min look this nervous before. She can barely even maintain eye contact with you as she fidgets with her sleeve. “I, um, need to talk to you about something else. About the symposium.”
So much has happened that you’ve barely even thought about the symposium. It almost relieves you to hear about something so normal, considering how…not normal everything has been.
That is, until she says her next words:
“There’s been a bit of a mix-up. Initially, they were planning on having a keynote speaker. However, the speaker ended up canceling, so the schedule was made without his inclusion. The problem now is that the speaker informed us last-minute that he’ll be able to make it after all. So, I’ve been asked by the organizers to cut one of my students from the program, since I was the only one who brought two.”
You shakily inhale when it dawns on you that this is the real reason she called you down here. That it was always going to be you. The truth of being inferior feels like someone just knocked the wind out of you. You’re struggling to breathe properly, but you will yourself to maintain your composure; you’ll be damned if you have a panic attack in front of Dr. Min.
But all that goes through your head is not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
“It’s not because your paper isn’t up to par,” she quickly insists, “in fact, your paper was brilliant―”
She couldn’t have picked a shittier adjective. That word is another gut punch.
“―it’s just that Donghyuck is more of what they’re looking for. What they’re expecting.”
That makes you pause. “What?”
“The judges have their…biases. They’re much more inclined to respond to him,” Dr. Min responds vaguely, almost as if she’s too afraid to say what she really means aloud.
“Because Donghyuck is a man?”
“Trust me, as a woman, I understand. It’s ridiculous that academia is still such a deeply patriarchal system. I’m just trying to play by their rules. If Donghyuck gets the Best Research Paper award, it’ll look really good for the university,” she explains as if it’ll all make sense to you now.
“So, you acknowledge how academia has fostered an incredibly sexist environment, yet you want to continue upholding that culture?” you ask incredulously, “Or is it because you’ve, against all odds, already succeeded in this environment so you don’t want to upset the status quo? You’re willing to close the door behind you if it means that you can retain your position?”
“I have always championed for more female scholars in our field, Y/N. This is different. It’s beyond that,” she answers defensively.
“Because your reputation is on the line?”
Dr. Min purses her lips. “I am doing what is best for our school. I hope you’ll understand that some day. I’m sure Donghyuck will as well.”
“We’ll see about that.” You clench your jaw.
“Don’t further complicate things,” she warns, clearly perceiving your words as a threat, “I really am sorry that this happened. I know this would have been a wonderful addition to your CV and your application to the PhD program. I promise I will write you that letter of recommendation if things go smoothly today.”
You actually laugh at her, a hysterical shriek bubbling in your throat. “You were my hero, you know.”
Without waiting for her response, you get up from your seat and walk away, never once turning around to look back at her. You’re not sure how you gathered up the strength to return to your room without collapsing once, but you swear you’re going to faint when Donghyuck peeks his head out of the bathroom when he hears you come in. He has a running blowdryer in one hand and a round brush in the other. He looks so happy to see you that you feel nauseous.
“Hey! I was wondering where you went. For a moment, I thought my snoring scared you off―what’s wrong?” In an instant, he’s set everything down and is making his way over to you.
You sidestep him before dragging your numb body to the edge of the bed, sitting down with your back turned against him. Squeezing your burning eyes shut, you try to remember the breathing exercises you had been watching the day before.
“Are you sick?” You hear Donghyuck’s soothing voice in front of you, but you don’t dare look at him. “Do you need anything?”
You shake your head, feeling a sob rack your body.
“Please tell me what’s wrong. What can I do? Tell me what to do, Y/N.” He sounds so scared that you know you won’t be able to tell him the truth. You’re not cruel enough to make him throw away this opportunity for you.
“Nothing,” you finally manage to get out. When you open your eyes, he’s kneeling in front of you, desperately scanning your face. What a sight he’s probably getting with all the tears and snot. “I’m not presenting today. There was a scheduling issue, and they had to cut someone from the program.”
“What? Why would they cut someone when it’s their own fault? And why you?”
You shrug halfheartedly. “Dr. Min didn’t tell me. Maybe my paper was just not as good as yours.”
“No,” he responds immediately, “that’s impossible. There had to have been another reason. If anything, Dr. Min should have cut me. I was the one who acted out of line.”
You smile bitterly. “When you do it, you’re a badass. When I do it, I’m a bitch.”
It was a sentiment you had echoed last night, but you had no idea just how ironic those words would turn out.
“Then take my place.” Donghyuck says it like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
“What, no,” you say in bewilderment, “Dr. Min has made it clear that she wants you to present. Besides, your name is on the program.”
“Fine. I won’t present either.” He crosses his arms and looks away like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Are you insane? What’s the point of all this if neither of us presents?” you demand.
“I’m not going to do it if you’re not.”
“Don’t you want the recommendation letter from Dr. Min?”
He stares at you in disbelief. “You think I care about that?”
“In case you forgot, you’re the one who suggested the competition―”
“Y/N, that was before―” he pauses, wetting his lips, “before this.”
Neither of you seem to know what this is.
“It hasn’t been a competition to me for a while now. The letter, the award, this whole symposium, none of that matters to me. I just care about you.” Donghyuck’s voice breaks slightly. “The only thing I want is you.”
“But you hate me. We’re…sworn enemies.” Your voice is barely a whisper.
That gets a chuckle out of him. “Maybe, initially. Maybe I didn’t like how much smarter you were than me. Maybe I didn’t enjoy the way you would always rip me a new one during class discussions. But―no matter how much I fought it, I started looking for you in every room I stepped into and only cared about what you had to say. I told myself a million different reasons for why I was acting the way I was. I thought whatever was forming was loathing, that you were just someone that I needed to prove I was better than. I convinced myself that I needed to tease and annoy you in any possible way because it was a tactic to gain the upperhand. When in reality, I was just doing whatever I could to get your attention. I suggested the competition because I would finally stop thinking about you if we settled our rivalry once and for all. But, Y/N―”
Donghyuck gently reaches up and cups your cheek with his hand, running his thumb along your cheekbone. You subconsciously lean into his touch, eyes fluttering.
“Y/N, the award has always been yours. You’ve won from the very start, and I never stood a chance. I’m not doing this without you.”
The boy you’ve spent your entire college career trying to outshine looks at you like you’re his North Star.
Your fingers slide up his forearm before gently closing around his wrist, cradling his hand against your face. Tilting your head downwards so that you’re level with his kneeling position, you place your forehead against his. Donghyuck lets out a soft gasp like you just sent an electric shock through his body.
“You have to do it. Something good has to come out of this shitshow,” you insist firmly.
He tries to pull away to protest. “No―”
“You said you’d be on my side.”
He looks at you like you’ve physically hurt him.
“Okay.” He finally relents, slumping his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
You surge forward, wrapping your arms around him. Donghyuck catches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, burying his face in your neck and holding you like he exists only to do so. He holds you so lovingly that you almost break and tell him the truth.
But you don’t.
Instead, you let him go and tell him to hurry up and get ready. You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on you even as he walks away.
When the two of you finally make your way down to the conference room where the symposium is being held, Dr. Min is already waiting. You slightly flinch when you see her, and to your dismay, Donghyuck seems to notice. He gives you a quizzical glance before looking at Dr. Min, gauging her facial expression. Dr. Min, on the other hand, pretends like nothing happened, and it scares you how good she is at it.
“There you guys are! Come on, Donghyuck is up first.” She ushers you both behind a makeshift stage that they’ve set up. “Okay, make sure to take a few deep breaths. Don’t bury your nose in your notes. Make sure to make eye contact with the audience.”
Donghyuck isn’t paying attention to her whatsoever. Instead, he’s peering around the stage, clearly up to something. You don’t even have time to ask him what he’s planning before the announcer calls his name.
Suddenly, Donghyuck doubles over, clutching his stomach in pain. “Owww!”
He drags the last syllable, getting progressively louder the longer he holds the word. Both you and Dr. Min slightly jump at the volume of his voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asks frantically.
“Oh, my stomach is killing me,” he moans dramatically, “I think it might be the shitty French food we ate last night. Oh, I’m going to throw up.”
He makes dry heaving noises, and Dr. Min takes a step back. “Um, okay. Let’s get you to a bathroom.”
“What about the presentation?” he asks in between vomiting sounds.
“You can’t present if you’re sick. We’ll―”
“Oh, I have a wonderful idea.” He claps his hands together. “How about Y/N presents in my place?”
You should’ve known Donghyuck would have something up his sleeve.
“And look! A copy of Y/N’s paper magically showed up, so she’s all set! Wow, Shakespeare must be in the building with us on this beautiful afternoon.” He whips out the folded pieces of paper in his back pocket that you had thought was his paper. When he notices your death glare, he places the back of his hand on his forehead. “Oh, I feel so sick…”
“Lee Donghyuck, I’m going to kill―”
“We don’t have time for this,” Dr. Min snaps, snatching the paper from Donghyuck and shoving it into your arms. “I don’t know how you two planned this, but I’ll deal with you afterwards. Just go and present.”
“But I―”
Dr. Min grabs your shoulders and essentially manhandles you onto the stage. You stumble out in front of a giant crowd full of confused scholars who definitely just heard all the ruckus Donghyuck made. Awkwardly shuffling over to the podium, you clear your throat into the mic by accident, causing a piercing feedback noise.
“Oh, uh, sorry about that. I’m not Lee Donghyuck. He had…other issues to deal with. My name is Y/N, and I’m here to present on―”
You pause for a moment when you look down at your paper. Written in red ink are loopy, sprawling letters at the top of the page that read:
You are the badass.
Looking back up at the expectant crowd, you take the pages of your paper and rip them in half, the sounds of paper tearing echoing throughout the room.
“I originally planned on presenting about female empowerment in the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You compared to the source material, The Taming of the Shrew. However, I cannot, in good faith, speak on this topic without first recounting my own experiences this past weekend. Isn’t it a Shakespearean twist that all we do is sit around and discuss political and sociological issues being acknowledged in works of literature yet we can’t recognize those same problems in our own field? I hope my words force us to acknowledge our own internalized biases.”
.
.
.
In the end, you don’t receive the Best Research Paper award.
In fact, security escorts you out of the conference room shortly after you finish speaking.
You’re not sure what the repercussions of what you just did are going to be, but you can’t find it in you to care. When you’re deposited in the hotel lobby, Donghyuck is already waiting for you.
“How’s your stomach?” you ask sarcastically.
He just shakes his head and chuckles incredulously. “You always find a way to one-up me.”
“So, you’re admitting defeat?” You close the distance between the two of you, stepping so close that your chests nearly touch.
Donghyuck swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Y/N, I―”
You throw your arms around his neck and bring him down to press your lips against his. He snakes an arm around your waist and lifts you up, pulling you tightly against him. He kisses you like he’s on his dying breath, and he holds you like you’re everything he ever dreamed of. For the first time in your life, you know you are.
“Complete and utter defeat,” he whispers against your lips.
Academic validation and beating Lee Donghyuck are your only motivations in life. You end up achieving only one of the two.
.
.
.
It isn’t until when you get back from the symposium the next week that you discover multiple sexual harassment claims were filed against Dr. Gregory after your speech and he was fired by the university. Additionally, Dr. Min was put on administrative leave for allegations of discrimination and abuse of power. She apparently is also being investigated separately by the organizers of the symposium for attempted bribery of the judges by not disclosing the fact that she habitually took them to dinner (who were actually Dr. Collins and Dr. Gregory).
“Now, that’s some Shakespearean karma.” Donghyuck winks when he shows you the news article.
“I guess we’re not getting those recommendation letters.” You sigh.
He throws his head back and laughs.
Lacing your fingers through his, you lean your head against his shoulder as the two of you walk down the sidewalk―the sounds of the rain growing heavier against your shared umbrella and cars speeding by serving as your only background noise.
after getting evicted out of your old place, you're left with no other choice but to look for a cheaper alternative. which is how you end up becoming neighbours with lee haechan, who has a passion for music and disturbing whatever peace and quiet there is.
or in which you found yourself a very nice apartment, the only issue? your neighbour is your friend's somewhat ex-situationship who won't stop playing his guitar at 2 am in the night.
extras ; haechan is kinda an asshole | boy next door + likes everyone but you trope-ish | profanity and death jokes because they’re silly! | probably romantic tension | some mark x reader here and there | renjun and jaemin having their own e2bffs moment | probably inaccurate depiction of how someone would get evicted pls don’t shoot me 😅
notes ; i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan i love haechan <333 idk i got nothing better to do now so i’ll just start this because i know i won’t be posting any of the other long fic wips any time soon 😭
PLAYLIST ; She , Tyler The Creator — For The Night , Chloe Bailey — IDK WHAT TO TELL YOU , Bktherula — Surprise , Chloe Bailey — I Wanna Be down , Brandy — Suite Life , FLO — Is It A Crime? , No Guidnce — Round&Round , NCT U .
synopsis — jeno is a legend written in midnight asphalt, too fast to catch, too reckless to forget, the kind of driver who disappears into smoke and sirens with your pulse still racing. you were never meant to touch that world—underground races, rigged bets, bloodstained payoffs but you’ve always known how to gut it from the inside. your job? dig up the dirt, rip through the rot, and run the exposé that takes down the syndicate from the top down. he was supposed to be your double-cross, your decoy and your downfall wrapped into one. you were supposed to stab him twice, once for the story, once for survival but instead, you let him fuck the truth out of you. now you’re in too deep, hips grinding in the front seat of his getaway car while your recorder’s still running, chasing headlines with your back arched and your mouth gasping his name. and the closer you get to the finish line, the more you realise—some stories don’t break, they burn.
fic warnings/contents — explicit language, explicit content, dark themes & moral ambiguity, violence, corruption, and crime, includes sabotage, mechanical tampering, crashes, assault, threats, illegal racing, blackmail, hacking, emotional dissociation, trauma aftermath from car crashes and near-death experiences, lots of fucking in this phew, explicit sex, semi-public settings (garage, racing tracks, in cars), mid-race blowjob scene, public/risky sex, oral sex while driving, power dynamic, dominance, sensory overload, rough, emotionally charged sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), praise, begging, name-calling (good girl/baby/slut/reporter girl), dirty talk & possessiveness, jeno is quite vulgar, dominant and unwelcoming at first and very hot, just wait, appearances from nct dream ‘00 line and mark, lots of racing (duh), badass hot y/n who races too, lots of technical talk, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, choking, spit, mild breathplay, light bondage, physical restraint. plot moves quite fast, did as much world building as i could. i hope you enjoy 🖤 been working on this a few weeks actually, this won the poll but i knew it would win any poll 😭 that’s why i’ve managed to upload it a week before jeno’s birthday <3
likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated 🖤 banner made by my lovely @umwaitwhatwhy
You tell yourself you won’t feel anything walking into this building. You practised it all morning, the tight jaw, the steady breath, the look of quiet indifference that could carry you through a firing squad without blinking but he moment you step into the thick glass lobby of Han & Associates, so blandly named it makes your teeth ache, sterile and sharp in its simplicity, it all feels like a weight sinking against your ribs. Cold marble floors gleam beneath your shoes, harsh with the echo of each step, and the walls rise tall and unfeeling, lined with a history of racing prints yellowed by smoke and dust. A history Taeyong once belonged to, long before he sold out his soul for ink and scandal. Long before he fastened his claws into your neck and called it mentorship.
The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She just tips her head toward the far office door, like she’s seen a thousand broken people walk this hallway before you. Maybe she has. Inside, the air is stale with old whisky and the scratch of metal blinds rattling in the breeze from the half-cracked window. His office isn’t flashy. No, Taeyong never believes in flash. He believes in power that sits quiet beneath the surface, like oil slick under water, waiting to catch fire. Framed covers of his greatest hits hang crooked on the walls, headlines that have dismantled careers in six-inch fonts. They watch you now like ghosts of every mistake you’ve ever made.
He doesn’t look up as you step in. He just flips a page in the file spread across his desk, fingers stained faintly with nicotine. "You know why you’re here," Taeyong says, voice flat like the ash at the bottom of his glass. His tone is sharp, old Seoul roughness beneath the polished newsman accent. "Sit."
You sit, spine stiff against the chair, hands knotted in your lap because you know better than to let them tremble.
He slides the folder across the desk. A slick of photographs spills out: Soul Line Motors, chaos captured in still frames. One of the racers, lean and sweat-drenched, jaw set in grim fury as he stands beside a car swallowed in smoke. Another, caught mid-brawl, fists raised and eyes wild beneath a mess of dark hair. A third, covered in grease from cheek to collarbone, mouth pressed tight like he’s swallowed a curse. There’s a scan of betting slips too, edges worn, one name circled in red ink like a target. The file reeks of desperation, theirs, yours, his.
“Officially,” Taeyong says, pausing to swirl his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it’s molten gold, “you’re their compliance monitor. League assigned. Eyes and ears inside the garage.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed, but he doesn’t rush the moment. He lets it stretch, like he wants you to sit with it, feel the weight pressing into your chest. “They need you because they’re drowning,” he adds, voice dropping lower, rough like gravel beneath tyres. “That whole team’s hanging by threads and they know it. Race-fixing charges. Illegal betting syndicates. Dodgy sponsorship money bleeding into their books. They risk clawing at the bottom of the league’s and now they’re crawling to you, begging for a way out.”
You say nothing, but your pulse tightens beneath your skin. He sees it. Of course he does.
“They’ve agreed to it publicly,” he continues, swirling the whisky in his glass until it laps against the sides. “They think you’re their saviour. League compliance, external oversight, someone to parade in front of the cameras so the sponsors start breathing easy again. They’ll give you access to everything. Garage, transport, race strategy. They’ll feed you what they think you want to see. Give you a pretty little show of redemption.”
His lips twist, sharp and knowing. “But unofficially,” he says, and this time he leans forward, placing the glass down with a quiet, final clink against the desk. He lets the word hang there between you like a blade suspended over your throat. “You’re my goddamn guillotine.”
The words land hard, heavier than they should. You hold his stare, forcing your expression flat, emotionless. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing the old panic ripple beneath your skin. “You burn them properly,” he goes on, steady and merciless, “you give me something with blood on it, and maybe” — he tips his head, smirking like the outcome is already sealed — “maybe we’ll scrub your name clean.”
You say nothing. Not yet. But the fire builds in your chest, slow and choking. “Fail me, sweetheart,” Taeyong finishes, voice soft as a blade at your throat, “and I’ll bury you deeper than the racers.”
But it’s not enough for him to leave it there, and you know it. He’s the kind of man who likes to carve the knife in slow, twist it until it scrapes bone. He draws the folder closer, flipping it open again, letting the photographs spill across the desk like crime scene evidence. His fingers tap the image of the team’s car mid-spin, smoke curling from the tyres like breath from dying lungs. “They trust you,” he murmurs. “They think you’ll save them. But you’re not there to write them a fairytale, are you? You’re there to build me a fucking obituary.”
Your eyes flick over the faces in the photos — strangers, for now. Faces that will soon become names, names that will become weapons in your hands if you play this right. Or chains around your neck if you don’t. You inhale slow through your nose, sharp enough to cut through the staleness of whisky and dust. “I don’t need a maybe,” you say, voice low but clear, each word carved from the stone of your ribs. “I need my career back.”
Taeyong’s grin sharpens, cruel and thin. “Then make me bleed for it.”
He pushes the folder across the desk until the edges brush your fingertips, like a final transaction sealed not with a handshake, but a dare. You let your fingers close around it slowly, deliberately, as though by holding it you’ve already begun the execution. And as you rise from the chair, his gaze doesn’t follow the file. It follows you. Tracks you like a predator watching prey too confident to run.
“Bring me their ashes,” Taeyong says, the final word curling like smoke from his tongue, “and we’ll talk.” Your pulse beats hard at your wrist as you turn away, the weight of the dossier under your arm a cold reminder of the fire he’s asked you to set. You can feel him watching you as you leave, heavy and certain, like he already sees the blood on your hands.
The garage breathes like something alive. Heat coils in the ribs of the building, simmering beneath the fluorescent lights that flicker as if they, too, are choking on the weight of oil and sweat and smoke. You taste it at the back of your tongue, thick and acrid, sharp as the cut of gasoline in the air. The walls feel too tight for the number of bodies inside, men scattered around a makeshift briefing table, chairs scraped out at angles like they’ve already abandoned any notion of formality. It isn’t a room built for you, and you feel it instantly, the moment your shadow crosses the threshold.
Outside, above the main bay door, a crooked neon sign hums faintly through the haze, tubes buzzing a sickly red. ‘THE PIT’ it reads, jagged letters flickering behind a cracked plastic shell, an arrow beneath it scrawled like graffiti, pointing you straight into the belly of the place. No need to ask what they call it. The name hangs in the air like everything else here — burnt, broken, and permanent.
Eyes slice across your skin before you even take your seat. Heavy, unwelcoming. They don’t bother to mask their distrust, their disdain curling like exhaust smoke between their teeth. You keep your spine straight, folder pressed beneath your palm, your compliance badge clipped clean to your lapel, though it feels less like authority and more like a target painted over your chest.
You settle into the corner without a word, let their tension simmer unchecked as they shift in their seats, restless energy bouncing off the scuffed concrete floor. You watch them the way you’ve been taught to watch: quietly, precisely, as if they might confess something in the way their knuckles flex or their shoulders stiffen against the press of your presence.
There are seven men carved from collisions and chaos, every one of them carrying the wreckage of races gone wrong in the set of their jaws and the shadows beneath their eyes. Their faces you do not yet know, not in the way that matters. You know the leaked reports, the back-page headlines, the photographs that Taeyong had spread before you like playing cards in a rigged game. But here, in the raw heat of their den, they are something else entirely.
The principal, Lee Doyoung, stands at the head of the table like he’s bracing against a storm he already knows is coming. A former racer turned league-forced team manager, he carries the look of a man who’s seen too many podiums crumble and too many egos catch fire. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, but he offers a nod — clipped, formal, like it costs him something to say. “Welcome to Soul Line,” he says, voice rough, thick with the gravel of old track injuries and older disappointments. “You’ll find we run things tight here. Fast. Loud. Occasionally off the rails.”
His gaze sweeps over the group, then lands on you like the weight of a steel girder. “But we know why you’re here. League oversight. Full compliance.” A beat. His eyes don’t blink. “If we want to see the season out, we give you what you need.”
A scoff breaks from one of the drivers before the sentence is cold. He sits with his chair tilted back on two legs, arms folded loose across his chest, mouth curled into something between amusement and threat. His eyes track you slowly, too slowly, a mockery of interest as he drags them down the line of your body and back up again like you are not worth the respect of subtlety. “Guess we’re really fucked if they’re sending babysitters now,” he drawls, earning a few low snickers from the others.
You keep your expression blank, though your pulse sharpens in your throat. You have known men like him your entire career. Men who mistake cynicism for cleverness, who wield bravado like a shield against their own creeping fear. You will make him eat those words soon enough.
Your gaze slides past him, past the sneering technician polishing a wrench like it might become a weapon, past the mechanic whose arms are folded tight across his chest as if he’s physically holding in his disdain. But it’s the last man who catches you hardest. The one who entered late, who carries the weight of the room like it is stitched into his spine. He doesn’t look at you right away. He drops into his seat with the fluid ease of someone who has spent his life in the cockpit, on the razor’s edge between glory and ruin, and when he does finally glance your way, it isn’t a look. It’s a strike.
Dark eyes pin you where you sit, sharp and dissecting, as though he’s already found the weakest seam in your composure and is toying with the idea of pulling it loose. He says nothing, but his mouth curls, the smallest twist of disdain, and then he looks away, like you’re beneath even his scorn. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself against the heat blooming beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know you yet. Not properly. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, or the ruin you’ve been sent to deliver.
The principal barrels on, dragging the meeting into its grim necessities. Racing schedules. Sponsor obligations. League deadlines. Fines stacking like storm clouds on the horizon. You listen, tuning the words against the rhythm of your own thoughts, already fitting pieces into place. You can feel it in your bones — the edges of something bigger, something rotted beneath the surface of their bravado. They are bleeding, and they know it. The league has forced you into their camp as a measure of survival, but Taeyong made it clear before you ever stepped foot in their garage: you’re not here to save them. You’re here to light the match.
You wait for your moment. Then you take it. “Your last race transport logs are incomplete,” you say, your voice clean, sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Several discrepancies in reported fuel usage and unaccounted travel hours. I’ll need immediate access to your internal records. Financials. Telemetry. Pit strategy.”
The silence that falls is not empty. It is electric.
His gaze snaps back to you, and this time it isn’t passive. It’s fire. His chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts forward, forearms braced heavy on the table, like he might devour you whole. “Maybe try watching a race before you question our pit stops,” he bites, his voice low and rough, edged with venom meant to sink beneath your skin.
It burns, but you welcome the heat. You meet his glare without flinching, without yielding an inch of ground. You’ve weathered worse storms. You’ve stood in boardrooms with men far more dangerous than him and watched them collapse under the weight of your evidence. You will watch him fall, too.
Before the tension can snap fully, the principal slams a hand down on the table, the crack of it loud enough to startle a few of the younger crew. “Enough,” he growls. His eyes are locked on the star driver, sharp with warning. “Cooperate. Our image is all we have left.”
The driver’s mouth tightens into a grim line, but he leans back in his seat, exhaling a slow, disdainful breath through his nose. His compliance is a farce, but it is compliance all the same. You press your advantage. “Full access,” you repeat, flipping the page in your folder, letting the rustle of paper cut the silence. “No exceptions.”
They bristle, but no one argues. The meeting fractures slowly, the tension bleeding out in all directions, footsteps retreating into engine bays and shadows, muttered curses tossed between teammates like tired rituals but he doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, anchored to the far end of the garage like the heat itself comes from his body — and maybe it does, because you feel it before you see him.
That awareness creeps up your spine like a lit fuse, slow and warm and unforgiving. You turn, too slow to play it off, and he’s already watching you. Not staring. Watching. Like you’re the track and he’s waiting for the moment you crack open. He’s stripped the fireproof suit halfway down his body, sleeves bunched around his waist, bare skin sheened with sweat under the flickering fluorescents. There’s oil smeared just under his collarbone, and something about that detail makes your throat go tight. The way he moves is thoughtless, practiced — wiping his jaw with a grease-stained rag, tossing it to the floor like it offended him — and then his gaze drags across your face, down the line of your throat, slow enough to sear.
He doesn’t smirk, not right away. It takes a moment. A shift in weight, a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and then his mouth curves — not amused, not mocking, but like he’s already three steps into a game you haven’t agreed to play. Like he knows what you taste like when you lie. Like he’s betting you’ll do it again.
Your eyes drop. Not because you want to, but because something pulls you there, to the sharp angles of his chest, the flush of his skin, and then lower. The suit at his hips is half-unzipped, loose where he’s shoved his hands into the waistband, and just above his belt line, the stitching catches your eye. A name. White thread on black fabric, the kind that isn’t meant to be read up close, only seen in motion, on a screen, under floodlights.
Lee Jeno.
The name tastes electric in your mouth, even unspoken. Of course it’s him. The face of Soul Line. The firebrand. The golden boy you once dragged in an article so brutal it got syndicated across three continents. You’d called him borrowed brilliance, fame wrapped around arrogance, a wreck waiting for the right turn. And here he is. Real. Sweat-slicked and simmering. Looking at you like the headline still bruises.
His voice comes low, too low, like it’s meant to hit somewhere private. “Thought you’d be older.”
You blink.
“More polished,” he adds, stepping forward a little. Not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air. “More bitter. Guess I expected someone who writes like that to look less…” His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, and the words coil hot between your ribs. “Soft.”
Your fingers tighten around the folder in your hands.
And then, finally, with a quiet breath that sounds too close to laughter — “You watching me, reporter girl?”
The words drip with something more than mockery, something darker, more deliberate, like he’s testing to see whether you’ll flinch or lean closer, whether you’ll break the standoff or let it stretch. He doesn’t know you’re not here to write a story, and you don’t offer him the truth. You meet his stare with a calm that costs you nothing on the outside but everything beneath your skin, letting the silence rise and settle like ash in the space between you. His jaw tenses, subtle, but sharp, like he’s not used to being left without the last word, like your stillness disrupts a rhythm he’s always been able to control. You don’t move. You let him sit in it. Let the tension braid itself through the heat of the garage, through the pulse low in your stomach, through the wire pulled tight between your spine and his. It’s not a line anymore. It’s a fuse. Not a story, you think, gaze still locked on his. A reckoning.
The pit doesn't sleep. Not really. Even now, hours after the meeting, the place hums like something alive beneath your skin. Doyoung’s words still sting, but they echo even louder once he’s gone, once it’s just you and the low thrum of the garage and the weight of what comes next. He gestures for you to follow with a jerk of his chin, and you do—past towers of stripped tires, the wet slap of coolant against concrete, the clatter of tools tossed onto workbenches like punctuation marks to arguments you haven’t earned the right to hear.
He doesn’t speak. Just leads you through the cluttered belly of the team’s world, deeper into the haze of oil and engine heat, until you find it: a narrow staircase, half hidden behind thick cables and hanging fire blankets. Upstairs, a converted office no bigger than a janitor’s closet. A mattress shoved in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. A flickering lamp. Two cracked windows with grime crusted into the corners. A desk that looks like it’s lost more battles than it’s won. It smells like oil, aftershave, and sleep deprivation. There’s a mug ring on the windowsill, long gone dry.
Too close to the noise. Too close to him. You’re in their lungs now. Daylight burns through the haze the next morning, and you’re dropped into their rhythm like a stone in the mouth of a river. No one slows down to make room for you. The introductions aren’t warm. They’re tests. You can feel it in every glance.
Renjun doesn’t look at you. Just turns a bolt harder when Doyoung says your name. Jaemin grins too wide and doesn’t blink long enough. His eyes skim your badge like he’s already calculated what it would take to strip it from you. Mark’s nod is brief, his eyes flicking from your clipboard to your boots to your mouth, then away. Donghyuck says, “Hey, compliance queen,” like he’s tasted the words before and decided they weren’t sweet enough. Eric mutters something under his breath. You catch “babysitter.” Sunwoo doesn’t say anything at all, but his eyes follow you with the patience of someone waiting to see where you’ll crack. And Jeno—Jeno doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look. You try not to flinch. Try not to look like the heat in the room is coming from more than the furnaces humming behind the walls.
You watch them prep for Daegu. That’s what they call it, like it’s a war and not a race. The Daegu Circuit. One of the tightest, most closely surveilled tracks on the internal league run. Only the top four teams are allowed to qualify, and Soul Line’s barely clinging to their spot. One more DNF— Did Not Finish, the league’s clean term for crashes, mechanical failures, disqualifications or some other issue that prevents them from crossing the finish line— and they’re out. No second chances. You know the pressure it puts on them. You feel it in the sharpness of their movements, the way even the laughter is clipped now, short-lived.
Jeno’s scheduled to run solo for the first lap trials tomorrow. Sunwoo and Jaemin will alternate team sets after that, and you’re expected to be there for all of it—every checkpoint, pit stop, and debrief. League orders, official oversight. You’re embedded under the guise of compliance monitoring, positioned as the league’s neutral eye, a silent safeguard to ensure they play by the book. That’s what they think you’re here for. What they don’t know is that your real assignment started the second you stepped inside. Last night, while the rest of the garage ran on fumes and noise, you stayed in the loft with the lights off, watching from the window and writing notes no one asked for. Notes meant to kill careers.
The garage operates nonstop, no digital logs, no formal security system. A direct violation—the league requires time-stamped movement for every staff member on the floor, and Soul Line tracks nothing. The main car still bears a sponsor logo flagged last season for money laundering—tied directly to illegal betting rings. It’s currently under investigation, not cleared, not safe, and definitely not allowed to be plastered across a vehicle that’s meant to represent professional sport. You clocked Renjun and Mark mid-argument near the toolshed, whispering about a part being “too hot to use again,” something that sounded like it could cost a race or a life. Renjun slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wall.
Later, after lights out, Sunwoo and Jaemin sat hunched over a tablet replaying what looked like race footage but you know the league archive doesn’t release raw data without clearance. It was off-grid, off-record, and all the more valuable because of it. Everything you’re gathering is being dressed up as routine monitoring. It’s not. You’re here to help them dig their own grave, and they don’t even know they’ve handed you the shovel.
When you asked for the transport and fuel logs, Donghyuck smiled too easily. “We clean them up before inspection,” he said, then laughed—too sharp, too knowing, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask to be questioned. Not long after, you caught Eric hauling crates labeled SCRAP, only to spot the corner of a box split open, revealing modded engine parts you’ve never seen on any licensed schematic. And Jeno—when you approached him about accessing his telemetry files, he didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “They’re encrypted,” he said flatly. “Ask again and we’ll all pretend this meeting never happened.”
You logged every word.
But it’s more than just infractions. It’s how they move. How they function. Like a body. Flawed, bruised, stitched together by necessity and something more raw. You watch Jeno check Sunwoo’s wrist mid-conversation, eyes darting to a bruise like it offends him. You catch Mark slipping electrolyte tablets into Eric’s water bottle. No fanfare. Just instinct.
They aren’t clean. Not even close. But they’re not monsters either. And that’s what makes it worse. Because if they were easy to hate, this would be easy to do. If they were just reckless boys with oil on their hands and arrogance in their veins, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But they’re more than that. They fight. They bleed. They care, even if they pretend not to. And somehow, in the thick of all that noise and grime, they’ve started to feel more real than anything you’ve had in months.
Your notes are ready. Your evidence stacks high. But you still feel it—the ache under your ribs when Jeno walks by without a glance, the itch in your spine when the music dies just as you step into the room. You’re the knife. You know it. The one thing they didn’t see coming. The quiet cut that could end all of this. You keep telling yourself your career is on the line. You keep pretending you don’t like how the pit smells like sweat and steel and something real, that it doesn’t settle under your skin in a way your last newsroom never did, that it doesn’t feel like the first place in years where the silence is honest.
The floorboards creak as night settles into the pit, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just pause. You can still hear the click of cooling metal, the soft thrum of a charger left humming too long, the faint static of the radio someone forgot to turn off. But it’s him that makes the air shift. Jeno walks back from the showers, shirtless, a towel slung low over his shoulders, jaw set in brutal silence. Water clings to his skin in thin rivulets, tracing over bruises like old maps, burns like ghosts. His body is carved in motion, every step too fluid, too confident, like he doesn’t know how to exist unless he’s in control of the room. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. But the moment the lamp in your window flickers against the glass and casts your silhouette into the open air, he slows. Not much. Just a fraction. A stutter in his stride like muscle memory reacting to something it doesn’t know yet but already wants to learn. Then he keeps walking.
Your chest aches. Not soft or sweet, it burns. Like friction. Like pressure. Like heat trapped beneath skin. It’s not affection. It’s not even desire. It’s something more dangerous. Hot and reckless and wrong. You think that’s the end of it. You think you can breathe again. You’re wrong. The garage has emptied—mostly. The lights are low, the shadows long. You’re bent over a stack of reports by the storage wall, trying to focus on the ink, on the facts, not the way your blood is still pulsing too loud in your ears. You don’t hear him approach but you feel him. That heavy, quiet presence that always moves like a storm forming behind your spine.
“Looking for cracks in the concrete?” he asks, voice rough and too close, low enough that it vibrates behind your ribs. You turn. He’s cornered you, not physically—not yet—but the space between you feels paper-thin.
You don’t blink. “No, looking for the truth.”
His eyes darken. “You think you’re gonna catch us slipping, compliance girl?”
“You don’t know me.” The words slice out before you can stop them, low and sharp, but not enough to cover the crack in your voice. He hears it. You can tell by the way his eyes narrow—not surprised, not amused, but focused, like he’s finally found something worth pressing into. The air between you stretches tight, thick with heat and history neither of you want to name.
“No?” he murmurs, stepping in closer. His voice drops, gravel-edged and deliberate, like he’s chewing on something filthy he intends to spit at your feet. “I know exactly what you are.”
Your back tenses. “Then say it.”
He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough to make the space between your mouths feel criminal. “You’re not here to fix anything. You’re not here to save us. You came to prove what you already think is true. That we’re cheats. That we’re dirty. That we’re broken boys who never deserved a shot at the circuit. You came with a shovel, and you’ve been digging since the minute you walked through that door.”
His breath grazes your cheek, hot and damp and way too close. Your fingers twitch against the folder at your side, but you don’t move. You hold your ground. He’s trying to get under your skin, and the worst part is—it’s working. “You’ve been here less than a night,” he continues, and now there’s a darker undercurrent curling beneath the heat of his voice, “but you already know where to look. You already know which bolts to count, which questions to ask, where the smoke’s thickest. You don’t talk much, but your eyes don’t stop moving.”
He takes a step closer, and you swear the air gets hotter, heavier, like he’s dragging all the oxygen into his orbit just to see how long you can go without it. Your back hits the metal siding behind you, a cold kiss against the heat burning beneath your skin. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence presses in, devastatingly close. “You think you’re subtle? You think we haven’t seen your type before?” he says, voice quiet now. “You’re not. You think we haven’t seen people like you before? Girls with pens and clean nails and that little moral high ground look in their eyes? You came here with a target and a deadline. You came here to catch us in the act, I don’t think you understand how obvious it is.”
Your stomach drops. Because that’s the truth. And he’s not supposed to know it.
He leans in, just enough that your shoulders brush when you inhale. “And I bet you already have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Already scribbled something down about Renjun’s parts, or Jaemin’s footage, or the decal on the front wing. I bet you can’t wait to file it, can you?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s a roaring in your ears, and it isn’t from the garage anymore. You came here with leverage. You came with power but suddenly, he has all of it.
“I asked you a question.” His breath is on your neck now, burning at the base of your throat. “Are you gonna pretend you’re still neutral? That you’re not already writing our autopsy in that pretty little head of yours?”
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Because you thought you were playing a long game. You thought you had time. You thought they’d be easy to fool but he’s already seen through you and somehow, that terrifies you more than the exposure. Part of you wonders what else he sees and worse—how much of you he’s seen.
You expect to be gone by morning.
It’s the first thought that surfaces when the light cracks through the warped blinds above your head, thin and bleached and too sharp for how little sleep you got. You sit up slow, spine aching from the floor mattress, mouth dry, stomach tight. Last night, the way he cornered you, the way he looked at you like you’d already bled the truth all over the floor, you were sure it meant the end. You were sure Doyoung would be waiting outside the door, clipboard in hand, ready to escort you off the premises with a warning not to come back but when you step down into the pit, no one says anything.
Doyoung doesn’t even glance your way. The rest of the crew moves around you like smoke — clipped greetings, loud tools, sharp energy that crackles beneath the concrete. And Jeno? Jeno walks past you like you’re air. No nod. No look. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just the firm, deliberate press of his shoulder brushing yours, like he’s reminding you that you’re still in his way.
And yet — you’re still here.
You follow them to Daegu in the back of the team transport. No one talks to you. Jaemin scrolls through footage with Sunwoo, muttering under his breath. Donghyuck hums something tuneless, tapping out a beat on his knee. Renjun’s buried in his notebook. Mark sleeps with one earbud in. Eric keeps glancing at you like you’re the threat no one’s acknowledging but still, no one tells you to leave.
The Daegu Circuit rises like a concrete beast against the sky — industrial grey carved into sunlit asphalt, flanked by swarming paddocks and glass-walled control towers that glint like they’re watching. Heat shimmers off the ground in waves, thick with burnt rubber and sweat and the static buzz of engines throttling into warm-up. The scent hits first — scorched tires, petrol, synthetic lubricant — and then the noise swallows you whole. Every few seconds a car screeches down the trial lane, tires screaming against the edge of control. Officials are shouting orders from booths and radios, pit crews hauling gear across the compound in a chaos that only makes sense to those who’ve lived inside it too long to question. You follow the Soul Line crew at a measured pace, clipboard in hand, badge clipped neat to your jacket, your eyes sharp behind your sunglasses even as your chest coils tighter with every step. You’re not supposed to be here. Not really. Not after last night. Not after what he said. But your name hasn’t been stripped from the roster. Your badge still opens the gates. And no one’s told you to leave.
Not even him.
The Daegu Circuit isn’t kind. It stretches wide beneath a noon-struck sky, every surface gleaming with heat and speed and warning. The concrete hums under your boots as you walk behind the Soul Line crew, the pit lanes lined with cables and sun-bleached crates, radios crackling in sharp bursts, tyre stacks sweating under plastic sheeting. The official sectors shimmer in the distance, white and silver, pristine in a way that only makes Soul Line look more like a threat. Their garage bay is one of the smallest, pressed against the wall like an afterthought, tools half-unpacked, engines still being tuned like they’ve only just made it in time. Inside, the tension breathes. Renjun’s crouched low beneath a console, swearing into his headset, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to salvage something from the tangle of wires. Mark hovers behind him, flicking between telemetry maps on a smudged tablet. Jaemin’s pacing, muttering about torque splits, while Eric hauls tyres across the back wall with his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Sunwoo’s in the corner, quiet as always, arms crossed but eyes sharp. They don’t acknowledge you when you step inside, but you didn’t expect them to.
You find Jeno almost instantly — not because he says anything, but because the gravity around him shifts the moment you’re near. He’s standing near the centre console, suit rolled to his waist, shoulders drawn back like he’s already locked into race mode. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just nods once at Doyoung, low and clipped, before slipping his gloves on without looking away from the track layout glowing in front of them. You catch yourself staring. You always do. His focus is a weapon in itself, hard and quiet and absolute.
But just as Mark adjusts the last split screen, the telemetry panel behind him flickers — once, then again — and dies. Not all at once. It stutters first, a blink too long to be a delay, then freezes mid-read. Data spikes flatline. The right side of the monitor collapses into black, a red alert flashing in the corner like a wound torn open. You hear the sound more than see it, a high whine of static cutting through conversation, pulling all eyes to the screen.
Renjun curses louder, diving back under the system rig. Mark blanches, tapping the screen again, again. It doesn’t blink back. The air in the garage thickens, seconds dragging in real time. This trial run is Jeno’s solo, a compliance-mandated lap that needs to be broadcast live, internally tracked, and logged in the system for Daegu to count as cleared. The league officer walking toward them clearly knows that too. Clipboard already open, expression unreadable. You feel the current change, flicking sharp as a blade through the air.
Doyoung hesitates. “We’re resolving it,” he says, already one breath behind.
“You’ve got two minutes,” the official replies, watching the garage like a hawk. “No recorded data, no compliance confirmation then the run will be void. You’ll have no other choice but to forfeit.”
You don’t wait. You already saw the clause in the league documents. You made sure of it. You take a step forward, voice level, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Fallback protocol. Clause Twelve, subsection three. In the event of a system crash during a compliance run, the assigned league officer may ride passenger to record manual telemetry.”
Doyoung’s head jerks up. “That’s not—”
“You signed it,” you say. “Three weeks ago. When the league granted your provisional license. Page seven.”
The official nods. “She rides. Log everything manually. If she doesn’t get in now, you lose the lap. Final call.”
Jeno turns, and the air inside the garage locks around your throat like a vice, like every breath between now and the next word could be your last. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just looks at you, slow and measured, gaze slicing clean down your body before dragging back up to meet your eyes, and what you see there isn’t anger, not exactly — it’s colder than that, more precise, the kind of quiet that only comes before something breaks. His jaw ticks once. His fingers tighten around the edge of his helmet, the leather glove groaning faintly beneath the strain, and when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not a voice that comes out, it’s a verdict. “No one gets in my car.”
“She’s cleared,” Doyoung says, the words low, reluctant. “You knew this might happen.”
“No one’s ever ridden with me,” Jeno says, sharper this time, a little louder, like the rest of the garage might’ve forgotten. He looks at Doyoung, not at you. “No one.”
“And if you refuse,” you say evenly, not moving, “the league will log a compliance rejection. Which means a penalty. Which means disqualification. Which means you don’t race again today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”
Jeno’s jaw ticks. You can almost feel the tension coming off of him in waves now, tightening the space around you until it’s hard to breathe. For a second, you think he might really say no. Just walk off the track, consequences be damned but he looks at Doyoung again, then the league officer, then at you.
And then he turns away.
You don’t wait for permission. You hand off your clipboard to Mark, strip off your jacket, and climb into the passenger side of the car. The cockpit is already sweltering, every inch of metal radiating heat, the air thick with engine fumes and burnt rubber and something deeply, unmistakably him. You pull the harness across your chest, snap it tight, adjust the mic at your collar. He doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the helmet over his head, flips the switch on the ignition, and settles into the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for war.
The cockpit is brutal. Not just the heat, though that clings to your skin like a second suit but the size of it, the pressure, the closeness. Every surface smells like metal and flame retardant, burnt rubber and sweat. You pull the harness across your lap and shoulders, click it into place, but your hands aren’t steady. The helmet’s bulkier than the ones you trained on. You miss the chin strap the first time. Then fumble the latch. Your fingers scrape against the buckle, trembling just slightly, just enough to piss you off. And then you feel it — that shift beside you, the weight of someone watching, the silence tensing.
Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look but he reaches over, short and sharp, and his fingers slide under your jaw to catch the edge of the strap. He tightens it with one quick pull, firm enough that your breath hitches, not from the pressure but from him. His arm brushes your chest as he pulls back. The side of his hand grazes your collar. Still, he doesn’t look at you. Just settles into his seat like the interruption didn’t happen, like he didn’t just touch you like that.
Your knees graze again when he shifts, suit creasing against your thigh. You try to breathe. Try not to notice how loud the engine sounds, how much hotter the air is inside the cockpit. Your fingers go for the mic clip at your collar, but before you can adjust it, his hand is already there — securing the wire, fixing the placement. His breath ghosts your temple when he leans in. The scent of him is clean sweat and smoke, and something electric underneath. The car hums beneath you, but it’s his voice that rips through your nerves.
“Don’t speak unless I ask a question,” he says, quiet, controlled, like each word is measured against the beat of your pulse. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you so much as breathe out of rhythm…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll eject you mid-lap.”
You don’t answer. Can’t. The words knot somewhere behind your ribs, too tight to untangle. But then he speaks again, low, like the cockpit was meant to carry his voice straight to your spine.
“I can feel everything in this seat,” he murmurs. “Every twitch. Every shift. So sit still. Unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”
You go still. Not because he told you to but because you don’t trust what’ll happen if you don’t. The heat rises. The harness digs into your hips. His thigh presses back into yours, and when the engine roars to life, it doesn’t drown him out — it amplifies him. He still hasn’t looked at you.
The engine roars and every other sound is swallowed whole, like breath caught in the chest and held too long, like the track outside has cracked open its jaw just to take you. The world becomes motion, breath and pressure. The engine screams, your spine slams back, and the air between you and Jeno becomes blistering. His voice is in your ear — low, rough, pure focus. Every sharp inhale echoes through your headset. His grip on the wheel is brutal. Controlled. Every turn pulls you with him, the G-force snapping through your ribs like a wire strung tight.
You don’t speak at first. You’re just observing. Watching. But not neutrally. Never neutrally. The cockpit hums with vibration, every shift of his body dragging your attention deeper into the tension between movement and control. His thighs tense when he shifts gears — a sharp flex and release, muscle tightening against the harness straps. There’s sweat on his neck, a glint of it catching the light where it gathers just beneath the helmet. His knuckles are pale against the wheel, movements exact, like he’s not driving but commanding the track to yield.
Then Seoul unspools around you.
Through the side panel, the city blurs — silver and glass and colour. Neon flickers on the edge of your vision, signs in hangul flashing past like constellations blinking out mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, you catch the Han River in full view, stretched like a ribbon of mercury beneath the sun, cutting the skyline open — and in that same breath, Jeno takes a turn so sharp your shoulder slams into the cockpit wall and he doesn’t so much as flinch. You swear the car lifts, even for just a second. He brings it back down like gravity answers only to him.
It’s electric. Blinding. Your pulse doesn’t match the engine anymore — it’s faster. Hotter. You can’t tell where your breath ends and his begins. You call the data aloud, sharp and steady, even when your hands tremble across the board, even when your legs are shaking, even when you’re sure this — this right here — isn’t compliance anymore. It’s something else. Something living. Something hungry.
The fourth lap coils around you like a whip, tighter than the last. Speed builds with a different weight now — not just velocity, but violence. The track narrows in sector three, the turn pinched between two cement barriers, and the pressure doesn’t let up. You feel it in your chest. In your teeth. In the low, steady growl of Jeno’s breath through the comms. His hands are surgical on the wheel, knuckles bloodless, every movement calculated — until the blur in the left mirror shifts.
Onyx Line. You catch it first — that flicker of silver, too fast, too close. They aren’t just overtaking. They’re closing in. The rear of your car jolts, the slightest kiss of impact, subtle enough to slip under compliance review but hard enough that you feel your harness snap tight across your ribs. The car pulls slightly left. Jeno curses under his breath, sharp and low, already correcting but the pit doesn’t flag it. No one calls it out. Not a sound comes through the headset but static.
You lean forward before you can think better of it, your voice breaking the seal of silence like a blade slicing clean through water. “They’re trying to box you in.”
He doesn’t respond. Not right away. But you see the way his shoulder tenses, just barely, and that’s answer enough. “Sector five’s downhill,” you continue, voice tight, fast. “They’ll try to push you into the brake zone. Cut your line.”
His voice hits like a strike. “Stay out of it.”
You snap your head toward him. “I’m not trying to win,” you bite. “I’m trying to keep your fucking car on the track.”
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch but the way he exhales, harsh, through his teeth, feels like a warning. Still, you see it. The hesitation. The gear shift that’s half a second late. The doubt crawling under his skin. “They’re baiting you inside,” you say, lower now, steadier. “But the outside gives you more line. You’ll see it on the curve. Take the edge early. If you time it right, you can box them in.”
Another beat passes. Long. Stretching over the scream of the engine, the blur of the city flashing by in streaks of steel and sun. You think he’s going to ignore you again but he moves. He takes the curve just before the downhill, earlier than regulation, tighter than safety and for a split second, you’re convinced you both might die. The tires scream. The car skids by inches and then Onyx Line is behind you, choking on your tailwind, and the pit erupts in your headset, all voices shouting over each other, asking how the fuck he pulled it off.
Jeno doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even breathe for a second. Then his hand slams the gear forward. The car launches into the next sector like it belongs to the sky. His shoulder knocks into yours on the turn, hard and deliberate. His voice cuts in through the headset — lower now, rougher, something carved out of disbelief and heat and something you can’t name. “You’re in this now, compliance girl.”
The pit explodes in static, voices tripping over each other as the comms erupt, but you keep going, eyes locked on the telemetry feed as it scrambles to catch up. “Brake late at the next split,” you murmur, voice steady despite the rush burning through your limbs. “Sector five runs hot. It’ll mess with the tire balance.” You don’t expect him to listen, not really, but he does. He obeys without thinking, not out of trust but instinct, and the car veers tighter into the split than it should, clinging to the curve like it’s magnetic.
“There’s a blind curve in six,” you add, just before the track swallows it whole. “Ride the left edge. You’ll see it before they do.” His hands adjust again, every muscle in his arm taut beneath the suit, the twitch in his wrist perfectly timed. The car cuts clean through the turn, a whisper’s width from the wall, and Onyx disappears from the rear feed like smoke blown out a window. The tension in the cockpit doesn’t ease, but it changes, shifts into something harder to name. It’s just the two of you now — and for the first time since the engine kicked, you know he’s not ignoring you anymore.
“You trained for this?” he mutters, the words rasping low beneath his breath, unreadable but laced with something that might be curiosity, might be wariness.
“I watched you,” you say, your voice quiet but certain, your pulse a war drum beneath your skin. “You telegraph more than you think.” You don’t hear a reply at first, only the sound of his breathing, the precise tension of his fingers tightening on the wheel, the cabin pulsing with every heartbeat.
Then something shifts. He leans in slightly, like he wants to feel your words closer, and adjusts the mic at his collar. His voice crackles through your headset again — low, direct, enough to drive a current down your spine like exposed wire. “Keep talking.”
So you do. You trace every turn as if you were born in his blind spots. You anticipate the angles before the corners show, you call out variances in downforce before the system even flags them, your voice slicing through the cockpit in rhythm with his hands. You read the patterns, warn him about the tire rotations from other teams, the lift coming off the left apex that’ll cause drag if he doesn’t compensate. He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But he listens. You feel it in every adjustment, in every calculated risk he lets you steer him into, in the way his body keeps echoing your commands before the pit can even breathe.
When the final sector looms — fast, brutal, and risky — you barely have to think. It’s already mapped in your head. But his voice returns before you can speak, deeper this time, more grounded, like he’s testing something. “Your move, compliance girl,” he says, and it’s not mocking anymore. It’s an invitation. “What’s the play?”
And you give it to him without pause, without flinching, because you’re not observing anymore, not monitoring, not logging. You’re in it. Like you’ve been racing beside him your entire life.
You barely make it off the track before he grabs you.
Not rough but fast enough that it startles the breath from your throat. One second, you’re caught in the afterglow of chaos, the echo of the crowd still humming in your chest, the thrum of victory laced tight around your ribs. Then his hand is on your arm, all heat and command, dragging you off-course, away from the crew, away from the laughter and the noise. No warning. No words. Just Jeno, moving like something’s clawing at the inside of his lungs. You think, for a moment, he might take you upstairs, toward the office loft or the van where your things are. Somewhere private, but neutral. But he doesn’t. He leads you past the edge of the paddock, past the backup tires and crates of gear, and then down — a stairwell tucked behind the west bay, steep and shadowed, concrete cracked like it’s holding old confessions in its bones.
He doesn’t speak as he pushes you against the wall. It’s not violent, but it’s firm — his hand braced beside your head, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and burned rubber, like victory bleeding into adrenaline. His suit is peeled halfway down, clinging low to his hips, and his breathing hasn’t evened out. His jaw is locked. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are full of something you can’t name. It isn’t fury. It isn’t triumph. It’s raw.
"You’re done," he says, voice frayed and low.
You blink once. "What?"
"You don’t ride again. You’re finished."
You almost laugh, because it’s ridiculous. "Because I helped you win?"
His eyes cut into yours. "Because you could’ve fucking died."
And there it is. Not anger. Not pride. Fear. Laid bare in the rasp of his voice, in the way he looks everywhere but at your mouth, your throat, the line of your collarbone — like he wants to forget the sight of you pressed into his cockpit seat, your breath uneven in his headset. “You didn’t care when I got in the car,” you say quietly.
He exhales sharply. "I cared the second they clipped us."
The air between you crackles. That hit — Onyx slicing in like a blade — you’d both felt it. But where you’d felt the lurch in your chest and anchored yourself with facts, data, instinct, he had felt something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name.
You step closer before you can think better of it, and his shoulder stiffens like your nearness brands him. “So that’s what this is? Fear?”
He shakes his head once, slow. “No. This is me not making the same mistake twice.”
You frown. “What mistake?”
“Trusting you.” And now it sinks in. You should’ve seen it coming — the shift in his tone, the sharpness of his silence in the car, the way his hand tightened on the wheel every time your voice cracked through his headset. This was never just about the race. It was about you. About what you did. What you wrote.
“Picture this,” he says, and his voice isn’t angry yet — just low, heavy, like he’s dragging the memory up from the wreckage. “I’d just graduated. Fresh out, brand new to the circuit. Doyoung tells me there’s a profile being done — says your company’s covering my debut, and that you would be writing it. I was fucking proud. More than that. I was excited. It felt like everything was falling into place.”
He steps closer, and this time his eyes don’t leave yours. “I looked you up. Read every article. Not one hit piece. Not one cheap headline. You wrote with bite, yeah, but it was honest. It gave people a chance. I thought maybe I’d get that too. Something that said I was worth watching. Something that said I belonged.”
His breath catches, sharp. “I waited for that article like it meant something. Like it’d be the start of a career that wasn’t just noise and sponsorships and pressure. I thought maybe you’d see me.” His jaw tenses. “And then it dropped.” His words hit like rubber burning on pavement. “The article you fucking wrote.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.
“You called me a ‘golden boy burning on borrowed fuel.’ Front page. Bold font. Byline gleaming like a fucking trophy. You made me a headline, a punchline, a warning to every sponsor with a checkbook. You didn’t just report on me — you defined me before I even got a chance to drive.”
He shakes his head once, slow. Bitter. “And then I see your name again. This time on the roster. Walking in like some league-appointed savior, like you’ve got our best interests at heart. Flashing that badge like it means something, talking like your clipboard’s gonna fix what you broke.”
His gaze turns hard.
“You don’t get to ride with me ever again. Not after that.”
Your breath catches before you can steady it. You weren’t ready for that—him. Not like this. Not with every word sharpened to a blade and dragged across your name like it deserved to bleed. You knew there’d be fallout. You braced for resentment, for jabs and silence and looks that cut like wire but you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to speak like the memory of your words still echoes in his bones, like you didn’t just write a headline—you carved a scar.
You open your mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Just air. Shaky and shallow. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard like it can anchor you, like it can excuse you. “That article,” you start, voice thinner than you want it to be, “it wasn’t supposed to—”
He doesn’t say anything, but you see it. The way his jaw flexes. The way he looks away like he might lose it if he doesn’t.
“I was given a brief,” you continue, forcing the words out now, faster than you can clean them up. “I had a deadline. I didn’t—I didn’t know who you were yet. I only had what they fed me. I didn’t have access to the real—”
He laughs. It’s hollow. Like a backfire. “You mean the story they wanted you to write?”
You flinch. Your throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you. I swear to God, I didn’t know it would get that kind of traction. I thought—I genuinely thought I was doing my job. That if there was pressure around your name, maybe it would spark a second look. Maybe someone would pay more attention, take a deeper interest, give you the shot you—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. Not loud. Just final.
You fall quiet. Shame clawing up your spine, curling beneath your ribs. Because it sounds stupid now. So fucking naive. Like anything about this world was ever that simple. “I didn’t think it would follow you,” you say eventually, quieter. “I didn’t think it would haunt you.”
He looks at you then. Really looks. And you wish he hadn’t. Because there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn—anger, yes, but beneath it, hurt. Deep. Unshakable. “Well, it did.”
You nod slowly, swallowing back the sting in your throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I need you to know I carry it.”
His stare is merciless. “So what? You come back to rewrite it? Give the golden boy a redemption arc so you can fix your reputation?”
His voice bites like asphalt in a crash, but it’s the next words that land deeper, lower. “You're a fucking liar.” He steps closer, jaw tight, the fury in his eyes steady, unwavering. “You walk in with your badge and clipboard, talking about compliance and reform like you’re here to save us, but you reek of motive. You want to document a downfall. You want to be the one who caught us mid-sink, wrote the article that buried the last illegal thread of racing alive. You think I can't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're doing?” His breath shudders, close enough now that you feel it trace your collarbone. “I won’t let that happen. I won't let you turn us into your fucking headline.”
You freeze. Because he’s not wrong and that terrifies you. Not because you slipped up. You haven’t. Not once. You’ve kept every expression measured, every line rehearsed, every observation veiled under the perfect sheen of professionalism. But somehow, he knows. He sees straight through the armor. Reads the red under the ink. You should hate it. You should push back but your heart is thudding too loud to think straight, and for a moment, all you can feel is the echo of his words inside your chest.
You lie. To him. To yourself. To whatever compass used to point toward your version of right. “No,” you say, swallowing down the tremor in your voice. “I came back to tell the truth this time. All of it. Even if it buries me.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his lip twitches. But you keep going anyway. “Soul Line matters,” you say. “You all do. Mark. Renjun. Jaemin. Sunwoo. Eric. Donghyuck.” You meet his eyes. “You.”
Your voice softens, not with guilt but with something closer to conviction. “People need to see what this team is. Not just the grit, not just the mess. The heart. The way Mark checks the tire heat twice when no one’s looking. How Renjun runs his hands over the frame like it’s skin, not steel. Jaemin never stops running his mouth but he always knows where everyone is. Sunwoo barely speaks, but he watches everything. Eric’s bruised to shit and still carries half this team on his back. Donghyuck acts like this is a joke, but he’s the one who checked on me after the lap.” You swallow, hard. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this place is?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “And you— You didn’t say a word to me. Not once but you reached for the wheel differently when you thought I was scared.” You breathe in, shaky. “So don’t tell me that you don’t care.”
You hesitate, because the words don’t come easy, not when they feel like confessions. “The way you raced today,” you murmur. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your voice is low, measured, like saying too much too fast might break the moment. “The control, the instinct—after they clipped us, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You adjusted mid-corner like you’d already accounted for it. Like your body knew before your brain did. That’s not luck. That’s not just talent. That’s precision. That’s discipline.”
His face doesn’t move, but you catch it — the flicker behind his eyes, the twitch in his jaw. You keep going. “And you shielded me,” you say. “No hesitation. Just one arm across the cabin. One second, and you were already moving. You didn’t look at the track, you looked at me. You made sure I was still breathing before you even thought about finishing that lap.”
Your voice slips softer, but firmer too. “That’s why I respect you. As a racer, yeah. But also—” your breath catches for a second, and you force yourself to hold his gaze “—as a man. You don’t just drive like you want to win. You drive like you’re protecting something. Even if you don’t admit it.”
He blinks. The silence between you deepens, too thick to step through. So you stop thinking. You step back, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt before you even realise what you’re doing. It peels over your head and falls to the floor in a single, soundless breath. You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the charge still running hot beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have been stripping you bare since the second lap. Maybe you just want to see if anything can crack that iron control.
“Fuck, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s said your name. And it breaks something open.
His gaze doesn’t drop. “So teach me,” you whisper. Your voice is softer now, trembled but sure. “Teach me what the truth is.”
His jaw locks. His head shakes once. “Don’t do that.”
You step into him like you’re crossing a threshold, not a room. His breath hitches when your hand curls around his wrist, dragging it slow across the line of your waist, then higher—up, over the swell of your ribs, until his palm rests against your bare skin. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t breathe. You guide him like you want him to feel every shiver, every beat pulsing under your skin. When you reach behind you, fingers finding the clasp, you don’t break eye contact. The snap is quiet. The fall of the straps even quieter. Your bra slips off your arms and hits the floor, and his hand is still there—hot, motionless, like the heat’s bleeding straight through his skin into yours.
“Come on,” you whisper, breath skipping, mouth parted just enough to taste the tension between you. “Am I really so bad?”
His stare drags like a touch, slow and hungry, not blinking, not breathing, just devouring every inch of skin you’ve exposed. His gaze catches on your tits first, bare and flushed, then your mouth, still wet from biting back sound, then your eyes—dark, blown wide, waiting. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at you. It’s possession, plain and fucking filthy, like he’s already imagining what you’d feel like with your legs spread and your voice wrecked. His jaw clenches, hard, sharp, and you watch the muscle jump as he swallows it down. His voice, when it comes, is ruined—low, gritty, like it scrapes out from the back of his throat with too much want behind it. “No,” he says. “I am.”
And then he’s on you. His hands crash into your waist like they’ve been starving for the shape of it, fingers spreading wide and squeezing hard enough to bruise. You don’t get a chance to brace for it—your back slams into the wall with a dull, shuddering thud, and then his mouth is on yours, open and wet and biting. His teeth clamp down on your lower lip like he’s trying to punish you, dragging it between his before sucking the sting away with a tongue that doesn’t ask for permission. Your moan slips out before you can stop it, high and trembling, thick with want, and he swallows it like it feeds something in him. He kisses like he’s coming undone, like breathing doesn’t matter, like the only thing that exists is your mouth and how filthy he can make it. There’s no rhythm, no pause for air, just spit and teeth and tongues clashing, everything loud and hot and desperate. One thigh wedges up between your legs and pushes until it slots perfectly under your cunt, grinding up with bruising pressure. Your hips jerk, rolling down hard without thought, chasing that friction like a drug, grinding against the dense, flexing muscle of his leg until your clit starts to throb.
You claw at him, frantic, hands bunching the fabric of his fireproof suit as your fingers scramble for something—his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head—anything you can cling to while your body rocks shamelessly down on his thigh. The friction is sharp and constant, your thin layers doing nothing to soften the ache, and every shift of his body presses him harder into the soaked heat between your legs. You can feel how wet you are, can hear it when he shifts, the drag of your cunt sticky and slick against his thigh. You moan again, louder this time, and his breath catches like he’s unraveling just from the sound.
“Jeno—” you gasp, broken and shaky, but he doesn’t let you speak. His growl vibrates against your lips, rough and low and filthy, and he drags his mouth down your throat, licking a slow, hot stripe over the pulse hammering at your neck. He sinks his teeth into the skin just beneath your jaw, not hard enough to break it but enough to make you whimper, then trails lower, mouth latching over your collarbone and sucking until it stings. You shiver as he shifts his attention to your chest, mouth pressing over your shirt, tongue tracing where your nipple sits beneath the fabric before his teeth catch and tug. Even through the layers, you feel it. It burns straight through your chest and down between your legs, making your thighs twitch around his. You arch off the wall, grinding harder, desperate for more, your head falling back with a curse when the pressure gets too good to handle.
Your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, the movement automatic and hungry. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you in one swift pull, gripping tight until you’re pinned between him and the wall, his hips rocking up into yours with a force that makes you gasp into his neck. The grind is brutal. He fucks up into you through the layers of your clothes like he means to leave a memory of it in your bones, his cock thick and hard and straining against his suit, dragging against the soaked seam of your underwear every time his hips jerk forward. You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, mouth open and panting against his skin as the pressure builds and builds and builds. You roll your hips with him, chasing every harsh thrust, every obscene press of cock against clit, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You can feel how close you’re getting—how the wet heat between your legs starts to pulse, how your thighs start to shake, how your voice starts to break with every breathless moan.
He’s cursing now, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, and he mouths it against your skin like a prayer turned blasphemy. “You hear that?” he grits out, voice low and wrecked, hips snapping up again so hard your moan turns into a cry. “That’s you. That’s how fucking bad you need it.” His hand curls into your hair and yanks your head back so he can look at you, so close his nose brushes yours, his forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “Say it,” he growls, grinding into you again, his cock rubbing right where you’re soaked through and throbbing. “Say it’s mine.”
Your voice catches, slips out soft and slurred, “It’s yours,” but it’s not enough. He slams into you again, harder, until your body jolts against the wall. “Jeno, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”
“Then take it,” he growls, his mouth crashing into yours again. “Take everything.”
He doesn’t give you a second to react. One hand wraps around your wrist, tight and unrelenting, dragging you across the dim space until your knees knock against the sleek side of a car you haven’t seen before. It’s tucked behind the main garage bay, half-assembled, stripped for parts, wires hanging loose from the open console. The floor is stained with oil, and the air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber, engine coolant, and old heat. Fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing your shadows across the walls in broken stutters. Before you can steady yourself, he spins you, forces your chest down onto the hood. The metal is still warm from testing, hot against your ribs. Your palms slide over the surface, searching for grip, but he’s already there. One hand plants flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, the other bunches your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug that makes your breath catch.
His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “You wanted the truth?” he murmurs, the words thick with hunger and need, it pressed into you like a brand. His hand flexes at the base of your spine, anchoring you there, and then his hips drive forward in one brutal thrust. The sound you make is a strangled cry, punched out of your chest as your body jolts forward against the hood, metal squealing beneath you. The burn is instant. Sharp. Hot. Stretching you full in a single stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you trembling. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just breathes heavy against your neck as his cock pulses inside you, thick and unforgiving, dragging heat through every nerve. You clutch at the edge of the car, gasping, because nothing in you feels untouched anymore—not your body, not your pride, not the part of you that wanted to win this. He thrusts again, and it feels like truth. Violent. Inescapable. Yours.
The first thrust knocks the wind out of you, the second drags a moan from somewhere low and guttural, and then he stops pretending there’s rhythm. It’s just force now, just the slap of skin against skin and the raw scrape of breath in your lungs. He fucks into you like he’s hunting something he lost in you. Your thighs are slick and trembling, knees starting to buckle under the pressure. The hood rattles beneath your stomach as you clutch at it for balance, palms sliding over the gloss. He slaps your ass—hard, fast—then grabs it, fingers bruising deep as he mutters against your shoulder, voice all gravel and heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and dark, “making a mess all over my cock, crying for it like you didn’t come in here thinking you were above all this.” Then he thrusts again, hard enough to knock the thought from your brain, deep enough that your mouth drops open around a gasp that never gets the chance to land. The metal screams under you. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. His hand slides up the curve of your body, wraps around your throat like he owns it, and then he leans in, chest hot against your spine.
“You wanna act like you’re here to help?” he snarls, teeth dragging along your ear. “Then fucking take it. Prove it.” You barely register it—just the shift of his weight, the grind of his pelvis—and then his spit hits your tongue, thick and warm. Your lips part for it like they know better than you. You swallow, loud and deliberate, and the growl he lets out rips straight through you. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand it into memory, every sound you make echoing off the walls, every curse from his mouth driving you closer to the edge. You don’t even notice your moans getting louder until his hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the cries that come with the next thrust.
“Quiet,” he mutters, hot against your ear. “You don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the man you tried to destroy.” It hits too close. Shame and arousal twist inside you, something dark and desperate, and you grind back against him harder.
The heat off the car hood is blistering, licking up your stomach, sweat sliding down the dip of your spine in a slow, stinging crawl. Your thighs ache from how wide he’s forced them, every thrust a punishing slam that jars your ribs against metal. His grip on your waist is bruising, teeth gritted behind every ragged breath as he watches your body fold and tremble for him. He’s deep—so deep—cock splitting you open raw, dragging against every nerve ending like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. But it’s not enough. Not when you start pushing back harder, grinding on him like you need to feel every vein, every ridge, every hateful inch. That’s when he shifts.
His hand slides up from your hip slow, the drag of his fingers steady and possessive as they coast over the sweat-slick plane of your stomach, trailing up past the swell of your ribs until he’s curling them under your chin. He tilts your head up, not gently—just enough to force you open, to bare your throat to the hot, smoky air, mouth slack as your breath stutters out. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds you there like you’re something to own, something to break open and rearrange. His mouth is right at your ear now, the shape of his words scraping across your skin like gravel. “This what you wanted?” he rasps, voice all venom and heat, hips still pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. “To fuck the man you tried to bury? Say it.”
You hesitate. It’s instinct. A flicker of resistance, a breath too long—but that’s all it takes. He punishes you for it instantly, hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you, slamming your stomach against the car. You cry out, hands scrambling to brace against the hood, body jolting with the force of it. His grip tightens, not choking, but controlling—commanding the angle of your head, forcing you to feel everything. “Say it, reporter girl,” he snarls, mouth at your cheek, tongue hot behind clenched teeth. “Or I’ll stop. And you’ll beg for me next time.”
You manage something—a broken whimper, a plea that barely makes it past your lips—and it’s enough. But he’s not done. Not even close. His fingers slide between your lips next, two thick digits forcing their way into your mouth until you’re gagging around them, drool spilling out past your chin. “That’s it,” he grits, pace vicious, cock driving into you so hard the whole damn car shudders. “Take it. Choke on it if you have to.” You suck around them desperately, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and he watches with something dark and starved gleaming in his eyes. Then he leans in and spits into your mouth again—slow, messy, deliberate—watching the way your throat works as you swallow it down like you’ve been starved for it.
And then his hand comes down. Fast. Sharp. The slap cracks across your ass, lower this time, angled to sting—and it does. Fire lashes up your spine and your knees nearly buckle. Another lands before you can recover. Then another. Until your thighs shake and your breath starts to hitch, your body trembling under the weight of every mark he leaves behind. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls, breath ragged against your ear, “so every step back to the team hurts. Let them see who you belong to.” You whimper again, half-lost already, and he doesn’t waste another second—rips your panties the rest of the way off, shoves the soaked fabric into your mouth without hesitation. “Quiet now,” he mutters, slapping your thigh one more time, rougher than before. “Earn it.”
He moves again. Shifts his stance—one knee braced on the bumper, hands planted on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the car—so he can fuck up into you with more force, more depth, the angle cruel and perfect all at once. Your cries are muffled, swallowed by lace and cotton, but your body can’t lie. You’re shaking. Tightening around him. One of his hands slides down, rough fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision, rubbing fast, merciless, until your vision whites out and your legs give. You’re close. Too close. You feel it crash up your spine, that blinding wave about to drag you under—
“Don’t cum,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your cunt clenches, high-pitched whine muffled behind the panties, and his pace only gets rougher. “Not until I say,” he snarls, fucking you harder. “Not until you beg me to fill you.”
You sob around the fabric, shaking your head, then nodding frantically, fingers clawing at the edge of the hood as you choke out, "Please—please, Jeno—need it, need you to fuck me full, need to feel you drip out of me when I walk—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just don’t stop."
He hisses a curse, pulls out too fast, too rough, and before you can protest, he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. "Up." He hauls you with him, dragging you behind a stack of tires near the far end of the garage. You trip over something—rubber, crates, you don’t care—but he catches you, spins you, and sits down hard against the slicks, dragging you onto his lap in one violent motion. "Ride me," he says, voice cracked open. "Fucking ride it out."
The space back here is secluded, shadowed, almost intimate in the way the light cuts low across the floor, catching on chrome rims and glinting off metal. The rubber smell isn’t harsh; it’s heady, grounding, mixing with sweat and sex and the sharp bite of gasoline in a way that makes your head spin. The walls are close enough to press against, heat rising from the stacks behind you, from the slick surface of his fireproofs, from the furnace of his body beneath yours. It’s filthy, but it’s beautiful—hot and heavy and yours.
Your thighs tremble but you obey, dropping onto him like you’re starving for it, the stretch instant and obscene. His cock drives into you thick, soaked, and you swear you feel him everywhere at once—under your ribs, punching up into your lungs, deep enough to make your whole body jolt. You gasp, clawing at his chest as he groans, head tilted back against the wall, sweat beading down his throat.
You wrap your arms around his neck, press your chest against his, and move—grinding, lifting, fucking down on him with a pace that’s feral, greedy, loud. He holds your hips tight, knuckles white against your skin, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits against his chest, the way your mouth drops open when you take him deep. You whine, high and shameless, your moans echoing through the cavernous space.
He thrusts up to meet you, fucking into your heat with brutal rhythm, each stroke a wet slap, each drag of his cock filthier than the last. "That’s it," he pants, voice wrecked. "Make a mess. Drench me. Let it pour." One hand slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, vicious circles, the other wrapped around your throat again, holding you just at the edge of too much.
"Gonna cum on my cock like a good little whore?" he murmurs, lips at your jaw, breath hot. "Do it. Paint my dick, make it fucking messy."
You sob out a gasp, cunt pulsing, bouncing faster, chasing that brutal edge. The way he fucks you from below—rough, precise, desperate—makes your whole body seize, and you’re so wet you hear it, the slick suck of every thrust. He slaps your ass once, then grabs it, bouncing you harder, fucking up as you fall down, and the rhythm is animal, unhinged, ruined.
"You hear that?" he growls. "That’s your pussy, baby. Fucking greedy. You love this shit, don’t you?"
You nod frantically, tears caught in your lashes, babbling nonsense against his mouth—"Yes, yes, need you, so full, can’t stop, don’t stop, please"—and he snaps, slamming into you harder, chasing his own high now, sweat slicking your bodies, his mouth dragging over your throat, your tits, your shoulder.
"Keep going," he grits out, voice raw. "Let the whole fucking circuit hear you."
And you do. You fall apart with his name on your tongue, his cock splitting you open, the taste of him still thick in your mouth, the sound of skin and breath and heat echoing around you like thunder.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He growls your name through clenched teeth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane, like he’s driving blind and you’re the last red flag waving before the finish line. His grip bruises into your hips as he fucks up into you like he’s still chasing time, like the race never ended, like the adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream and he needs this—needs you—to come down. But he can’t. He won’t. You’re the sharpest corner he’s ever taken, tight like a hairpin turn, and every thrust is a gamble between glory and total wreckage.
Your body jolts with each impact, spine pressed to the wall, hips crashing down against his with unrelenting pace. It’s not rhythm—it’s instinct, pure reaction. Your hands twist in his hair, your teeth catch on the side of his throat, and you can’t even feel your thighs anymore. You ride him like you’re trying to outrun something—maybe the shame, maybe the fear, maybe the way your chest cracks wide open every time he moans like that for you.
“Fuck—fuck—Jeno, someone could walk in—someone could see—” You whisper it, voice shredded, barely there between gasps. But you don’t slow down. You can’t. Your cunt clenches around him every time your body bounces, muscles fluttering with aftershocks and overstimulation. The thrill of being seen sharpens everything—your moans louder, your movements filthier, like you're taunting the risk of exposure.
“Let them,” he snarls, voice guttural, mouth dragging over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His eyes are glassy, wild, his entire body wound tight as a snapped throttle cable. “Let them see what it looks like when you get fucked open by me. Let them hear how wet you are when you take me this deep.”
And you are—wet, noisy, shaking. The sounds your bodies make are obscene, echoing between tire stacks like muffled gunshots. Your back hits the wall again, and you arch into it, your nails dragging down his back so hard they tear through the thick fabric of his fireproofs, scraping welts over burning muscle. You want to leave marks. You want to ruin him like he’s ruining you.
“You’re wrecking me—” you cry, voice high and broken, “worse than any crash.”
He grunts, slamming into you harder, more erratic, his control unraveling with every breath. “Good. I want you fucking totaled. Want you so ruined you can’t walk back out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”
You sob into his shoulder, body locking, heat spiraling fast and brutal. Your clit drags against his pelvis, your cunt so swollen and sensitive you’re already teetering again. The tension inside you coils sharp and thin like tire rubber screaming over asphalt.
“Cum again,” he demands, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Right fucking now.”
You do. It rips out of you with a scream, your whole body seizing up, mouth slack, eyes wide, and you swear you see white. It doesn’t crest—it detonates, a chain reaction through every nerve ending. Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. You cum so hard your body goes limp against him.
And still—still—he’s not done. He wraps his arms around your back, locks you in place, fucking up into your oversensitive cunt like he needs to leave a permanent imprint. Like he can’t stop until he’s emptied himself inside you so completely that nothing else exists. You can feel it building, the way his thrusts stutter, the way his jaw locks, the way he gasps your name like he’s about to crash into something massive and final. You drag your nails down his spine one last time and beg, “Inside. Please, finish inside.”
He slams into you once—twice—then again with a guttural growl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in your cunt. Heat floods you, thick and hot, and his whole body shudders with it, chest pressed to yours, breath caught between a moan and a curse. You stay wrapped around him, shaking, dripping, ruined. And for a long, breathless moment, all that’s left is the smell of sweat and rubber, the echo of moans, and the heat of his body buried deep inside you like he never plans to leave.
After that night in the garage, everything shifts. You fall into a pattern—not routine, not schedule, just moments stolen between obligations and lies. A blur of weeks, shadows of time lost to bodies instead of words. You haven’t touched your bed since the race. Every night ends in Jeno’s room or doesn’t end at all. You lie to everyone, skip out early, fake texts about being home when you’re already naked on his sheets. It becomes the only place you sleep, wrapped in warmth and sweat, in his chain brushing your collarbone, in the slick drag of his fingers pushing back into you before you can drift off. Every orgasm tastes like betrayal. Every moan feels like a secret wedged deeper into your chest.
The first time after the race, it’s in his car—on the track, engine ticking beneath you, heat rising from the hood. You crawl into his lap, knees scraping leather, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air. His gloves are still on. His racing jacket is unzipped just enough for your hand to slide inside. He mutters something about visibility—how anyone could see—but he’s already hard, already guiding your hips down onto him. You ride him with your forehead pressed to his, moaning into his mouth as the last of the floodlights dim behind the fogged glass. Your thighs slap into his, slick and fast, and when you come, it’s soundless, breathless, your spine curling like you’re trying to hold it in.
The next time it’s the underground garage storage. You trip over a loose axle and he catches you, laugh breaking into a grunt as he spins you around and throws you into a crate stack. Oil drums knock together. A motion sensor light blinks overhead, buzzing faintly. He kisses you like he’s daring the shadows to look—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth scraping your jaw as he yanks your shorts halfway down and shoves inside you with one sharp thrust. You gasp into the collar of his hoodie, nails clawing for purchase against slick rubber and metal. He fucks you like the world’s ending—like the only thing that matters is the sound of your cunt swallowing him whole.
Some nights, you find him already under the car in the maintenance pit, oil-slick and shirtless, flashlight swinging from above. He sees you crouch down, doesn’t say a word—just grabs your hand and pulls you under with him. The air’s warm, still, heavy with grease. Your shirt rides up the second he lays you back. He mouths at your chest while his fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your underwear aside with one curl of his wrist. When his cock slides in, you both freeze—because someone’s walking overhead, boots clanging against the grates. You taste metal in your mouth from how hard you’re biting your lip. His hand covers it anyway, palm hot, thumb pressing into your cheek. He fucks you in slow, aching thrusts, each one dragging moans that barely make it out. When the footsteps vanish, he grabs your thighs tighter, slams deeper, makes the wrenches rattle.
Then the tow truck. He drives it out to the backlot under the excuse of testing hydraulics. You’re half-asleep in the passenger seat until he reclines it back and pulls you on top of him, his mouth already on your throat. You straddle him in the flashing pulse of red emergency lights, each blink casting sharp shadows across your ribs. You grind down hard, thighs burning, his grip brutal on your waist. The windows fog fast. Your moans echo inside the cabin, breathless and high, and he doesn’t stop even when your body shakes from release. You fall asleep on his chest after, heart hammering against his, the lights still blinking over you like warnings you ignore.
Another time, it’s the tarp-covered car shoved into a corner of the lot. It’s old, useless, rusted around the edges. He peels the tarp back halfway and tosses you onto the hood like he’s done it before in dreams. The metal’s freezing, biting into your back, but his mouth is fire on your skin. He fucks you like he wants to erase every second you spent away from him—fast, messy, teeth on your shoulder, hips rutting so hard the car rocks. You’re crying out nonsense, body seizing around him, legs locked tight behind his back. He doesn’t say anything after. Just watches you breathe, watches the way your chest rises and falls. Wipes sweat from your lip with the pad of his thumb.
The sex doesn’t stop. It never stops. You miss meals. Miss calls. Your inbox floods with messages you leave unread. You sneak out of meetings early. Sometimes you forget where you’re supposed to be—because you’re pressed against his door, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock. Your skin smells like him, tastes like spit and motor oil and need. His touch lingers in bruises: purple kisses blooming on your hips, teeth marks under your jaw, fading welts down your thighs. No one’s caught you yet—but people are watching.
Sunwoo lingers too long in doorways. Mark keeps looking up at the wrong moments, brow tight, mouth tighter. Jaemin asks about a missing route log one day in a meeting, and Jeno cuts him off so fast you flinch. Someone else jokes that you always look exhausted lately. Someone replies, “Jeno looks more relaxed.” He won’t look at you in those meetings. Won’t speak. But afterward—after—he corners you in the stairwell, lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times, thighs around his waist, your back against the concrete wall, his hand pressed over your mouth like silence is safer than truth. His hips snap up and he growls against your throat—he can’t stop, he won’t, if anyone finds out he’ll lose it but he’s long past caring. He pulls you into his room and locks the door after.
You haven’t spent a night in your own bed since the race. Every night ends here—in his room, in his sheets, in a silence that tastes like sweat and unraveling. You wake up in different positions but always touching. His arm over your waist. Your leg between his. Your hand pressed flat to his chest like you’re anchoring something there. Jeno talks more when he’s tired. When your body is tangled with his, when your cheek is warm against the slick skin of his chest, when both of you are too sore to move and the air tastes like sex and silence. He tells you things no one else knows. how his dad measures love in achievements. How silence was louder than screaming in his house. How he learned to be useful before he learned to be loved. you hold your breath when he speaks, like you’re afraid the truth will slip through the seams if you exhale too hard.
You’ve learned that Jeno remembers everything he shouldn’t. Birthdays of people who don’t talk to him anymore. License plate numbers of teammates that quit years ago. The names of every street he’s ever raced on. He recites them to you at night, half-asleep, hand on your hip like you’re a part of the archive too. He tells you he never had a baby book, never had keepsakes, so he stores it all in his head—every win, every loss, every person that left. You find out he doesn’t keep photos on his walls because he hates proof that people grow distant. His memory’s obsessive, and somehow, he makes you feel like he’s memorizing you too.
He tells you he used to be angry all the time. That he still is, sometimes, but it doesn’t come out in fists anymore—not since he got kicked off his first circuit for breaking a guy’s jaw. That every scar on his hands meant something. That every win still feels like punishment. He hates the way people look at him. Hates the idea of being reduced to a pull-quote, a punchline, a headline he can’t rewrite. He tells you that if you ever wrote something about him—if you turned this into content, into evidence—he wouldn’t survive it. “Not ‘cause I’d be pissed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. “Because it’d mean none of this was real.” You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter.
You learn he’s good with his hands beyond racing. The kind of boy who takes things apart just to know how they work, then puts them back together better. He builds things without instructions. Knows how to fix a leaking pipe, change his own tires, gut a dashboard and solder it new. He tells you he likes when his hands are busy because it stops his mind from going places he hates. That’s why he fucks with his rings so much. Why he always asks to fix things for people but never asks them to stay. He’s never said it aloud, but you realize: he’d rather be useful than loved.
You learn that he once got stranded in a thunderstorm and walked three hours home rather than call his father. That he’s afraid of deep water because he almost drowned once but won’t admit it out loud. That he hates cucumbers, doesn’t trust people who wear sunglasses indoors, and always triple-checks that his windows are locked before he sleeps. He tells you he never used to sleep through the night—until you. He says it so casually, you almost miss it. His trust is quiet, handed over in fragments, never begged for and you carry every one of those pieces like a secret map back to him.
Hope is the thing he fears the most. He doesn’t say it like that—but you hear it in the way his voice falters when he talks about the future. About the car he’s been building since he was sixteen. About the idea of leaving everything behind one day, driving until the roads run out. “I used to think I’d go alone,” he says one night, fingertips brushing lazy circles on your hip. “But now I think… fuck. I think I’d want someone there.” You’re quiet. He’s not asking. But the way he looks at you after—raw, hesitant, like he’s already bracing for the disappointment—makes your chest tighten until it hurts. He trusts you. And it terrifies him.
That night, he touches you differently. Slower. Like he’s scared he won’t get to again. His mouth moves across your skin in a blur of reverence and need, every kiss a silent plea to stay. He slides into you like a prayer, slow and deep, groaning against your throat when you wrap your legs around him. There’s no rush, no anger, just pressure building in waves, rolling through your body like heat caught beneath your skin. He keeps murmuring things against your lips, “I don’t want this to end… I can’t lose this… I need you to be real with me.” You kiss him like you’re answering, like the words are trapped in your chest and only your body can speak them.
His hand wraps around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low, not a question. “Tell me you’re not gonna write about me.”
You hesitate. Your thighs tremble around his hips. He sees it. Feels it. You still haven’t said anything, and the moment stretches thin and hot between you. He thrusts in again, slow and heavy, and again—a rhythm that builds without mercy. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make me feel this and then turn it into something cheap.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s something far worse—broken.
“Jeno…” You breathe his name like it means something. Like you mean something. But it’s not enough.
“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fuck me over.” His voice catches like he already knows you will. “If you do this… if you turn this into an article, if you sell me out—it won’t just hurt. It’ll kill something in me. You understand? I won’t come back from that.”
You blink up at him, dazed, flushed, heart in your throat. “I… I promise. I won’t. I couldn’t. I swear, Jeno. I swear on everything.”
He groans, loud and guttural, like it splits him in two. He fucks into you deeper, harder, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his spine. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”
“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice shaking, hands fisting the sheets beneath you like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. “I won’t. You’re safe with me.” He doesn’t answer—not with words—but the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, mouth brushing yours like he’s breathing you in, like the taste of that promise might be the only thing keeping him sane. His lips trail down your throat, along the slope of your collarbone, across your chest, every inch kissed like it’s sacred, like he’s trying to commit it to memory before it’s ripped away. His thrusts never falter, just slow to a rhythm that feels almost too intimate—hips rolling deep, dragging the pleasure out of you inch by inch, groaning softly every time you clench around him. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, his fingers trembling where they brush the underside of your knee, and when he finally comes, it’s with his mouth on your skin, soft curses breathed against your neck like prayer. This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s survival. It’s surrender. It’s everything that might ruin you if you let it—but you can’t stop now. You wouldn’t even know how.
It’s the penultimate race in the league season, and tension clings to the night like smoke. Jeno’s team is neck-and-neck with their biggest rival—a flashy, overly sponsored crew known for bending rules and pushing boundaries under the guise of innovation. The circuit tonight is brutal. Carved through an abandoned industrial sector downtown, the track is lined with rusted scaffolding, sharp corners, and overhead floodlights that flicker like they’re watching. Underground and invitation-only, it’s one of the most dangerous courses in the league—high-speed, high-stakes, and reserved only for the elite. The air tastes like oil and ozone. Thunder rolls overhead, low and distant, as if the city itself is holding its breath.
Paranoia has gripped the circuit for weeks. There’ve been engine failures that don’t add up, drivers pulled from wrecks they swore weren’t accidents, and rumours of tampering passed between pit crews like cigarettes. Whispers say someone is rigging results, crashing contenders, tilting the balance in favor of a shadow player no one can name. The league board is on edge. Every pre-race inspection is stricter than the last. Every car is scanned, stripped, tested. No one trusts anyone.
Hours before the race, Jeno’s car throws a red flag during inspection. A supposed glitch in the turbo system—something about throttle torque maps and inconsistent boost ratios. He shrugs it off, says he’ll need a second in the car for calibration checks. The board’s backup tech is MIA. Chaos spirals. The committee wants the race to run on time. A lead official says, “Just send her in. She’s cleared the seat before.” The calibration error is bullshit. Everyone knows it—except the board, except the cameras, except the ones so desperate for order they’d believe anything wrapped in technical jargon.
Jeno plays his part too well: straight-faced, tight-lipped, pointing to the interface and muttering about turbo sensors, drive lag, cornering offsets. The rival team is already in position, tension thick enough to feel in your teeth. This race matters and if the standings shift tonight, everything burns or everything ascends. And of course, there’s only one person they trust to monitor from the inside. One person who’s already survived the passenger seat. You. The board insists. The crew nods. Someone claps your shoulder. You see the smirk on Jeno’s mouth before you even slide into the car. This was always the plan. His hand brushes your thigh when you buckle in. You let him.
The tarp over the car is standard: a cooling technique for elite vehicles with borderline-illegal mods. But tonight it’s a veil. Steam clings to the edges, the outside world reduced to shadows and noise. Inside, you’re already fucking him. His gloves are off. His jacket’s unzipped to the sternum. You’re grinding in his lap, head tilted back, thighs shaking as his hands dig into your hips. The seat’s pushed as far as it can go. The scent of sweat and leather and exhaust coils around you. He fucks up into you slow, dragging the rhythm out like he wants to memorize it, like he’s burning your body into the shape of survival.
Your voice breaks on a moan, soft and mocking. “You faked the error, didn’t you?” His mouth finds your neck, biting down like a confession. “You lied—just to get me in this seat again.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. The way he’s breathing says everything. His cock twitches deep inside you. His hand wraps around your throat, not to squeeze—just to feel the sound of you coming apart against him. “Tell me I was wrong,” you whisper, cunt clenching again. “Tell me this wasn’t the plan.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, breath broken. “I wanted you here. I always want you here.” He’s shaking beneath you, muscles locked as he slams up harder, your soaked thighs slapping against him. “I don’t want to race without you anymore.”
“You have five minutes,” he growls, voice jagged now, mouth dragging along your collarbone. “Three to come. Two to remember who you belong to.” You clench around him, shuddering, nails clawing into his shoulders. He slaps your ass, mutters something guttural—Mine. Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, your world narrows to the stretch of your cunt and the way his cock owns every inch of it.
He tells you to get off but you don’t. Not like he means. You slip from his lap, knees hitting the floorboard, breath hot against the zipper of his racing suit. Rain drums faintly against the tarp above, muffled only by the thunder of engines in the distance. Jeno grabs your wrist, panic flickering through his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he rasps, but you’re already palming his cock, dragging it out with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes him hiss through his teeth.
“Focus on the road,” you whisper, lips brushing the head. “Let me handle the rest.” You take him into your mouth, wet and warm, sucking slow as the tarp flaps open. The lights burst through the mist. The flag drops. And Jeno’s foot slams the gas so hard the tires scream.
The car tears forward, jolting your body, but you steady yourself with one hand gripping his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His hand flies to the wheel, the other buried in your hair, not pushing—just holding. Like he needs the weight of your mouth to ground him. You suck deeper, tongue circling the swollen head, spit slicking down your chin as he moans, low and brutal. The track blurs past the windows. His body tenses, hips twitching every time your lips drag down his shaft.
“Jesus, baby… you’re gonna make me crash,” he mutters, voice strangled, one eye on the curve ahead, one hand yanking the gearshift while his knuckles go white around the wheel but he doesn’t stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. Your head bobs faster, sucking him down until your throat flexes around him, warm and tight and relentless. The sound of your mouth, the hum of your moan, the obscene slap of your spit and skin—it fills the cockpit like smoke.
He comes with a choked groan, thighs clenching, cock pulsing between your lips. Cum spills hot across your tongue, and he nearly veers off course from how hard he jerks the wheel. You swallow it down, kiss the tip with a smirk, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He glances down, dazed, blown open from the high, then back to the road like nothing happened.
You strap in, settle beside him, still panting. He says nothing at first, only breathes. Then he mutters, voice raw: “You’re fucking insane.”
You grin, eyes on the track. “And you’re still hard.”
The race embodies a scream. Smoke off the line, headlights carving through the dark, engines snarling so loud your bones vibrate. The track is narrow, brutal, a looped-out stretch of urban circuit walled in by concrete and shadows. Jeno’s hand finds yours just before the first corner, fingers tight, jaw clenched, the city reflected in his visor. You’re both strapped in, breath synced, heart rates out of control. He looks insane—sweat along his temples, hair damp under the edge of his helmet, one glove peeled halfway down his wrist as he shifts with surgical force. You watch the veins flex in his forearm every time he takes a turn. He looks like control itself. Like speed and danger and sex all wrapped in smoke. His voice cuts through your headset, low and cocky. “Next turn—cut left before the barrier. I’ll slide under them. Trust me.” But it’s you who leans forward, watching their tail, catching the hesitation—“Don’t. Brake now, feint wide, then drift in. They’re bluffing on the inside.” He does. You shave two seconds off the lap time. You don’t speak for a full minute after that, too breathless, too aware of the way your fingers are still laced tight. You’ve never felt more alive. Or more fucked.
Somewhere between the fourth lap and the chaos that follows, it hits you. He’s yours. Not in words. Not in soft post-sex whispers. But here, in this — the wheel under his grip, the blur of his jaw as he glances at you like you’re his compass, the way he speeds up just to hear you gasp. There’s something lethal in how you crave him. Something doomed in how easily you lean closer every time he glances back. There’s a moment—late, fast, brutal—where another racer jerks into your lane too early, trying to squeeze through a gap that doesn’t exist. Jeno doesn’t see it. But you do. “Right! Now!” you scream, grabbing the wheel. The car fishtails. The tires scream. You both slam sideways into the drift, metal sparking against the wall. But you pull through. His head whips toward you. There’s no sound in your earpiece, just the way his chest heaves, the wild throb of his pulse in his neck. You saved him. You don’t say it. You just squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.
But that’s when the quiet changes. Something in the car flickers—a stutter in the dashboard feed. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a line of numbers that shouldn’t be moving. It’s not telemetry. Not yours. Not his. Something foreign. Embedded in the system like rot. You track it with your eyes while Jeno shifts into fifth, one hand still on your thigh. The feed updates again. A line of override commands, blinking too clean. You tap into the comms panel. There’s a secondary frequency active. B32-NT. It’s not familiar. Not part of the team. What bleeds through makes your stomach drop: engine values, route adjustments, foreign mod control codes. Someone is piggybacking Jeno’s system. You don’t know who. But it’s real. You stare at the display, reading it again and again—external override logged, failsafe pressure spike pending. Your throat closes. You realise what it means. Someone is trying to crash this car.
Jeno feels your stillness before you say anything. His voice flickers into your headset, hoarse. “What did you just see?” You don’t speak. Not yet. His knuckles whiten on the gearstick. The car rockets into the final lap. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes locked forward. “Shit.” He knows, he knows but it’s not over. You wait. Let the race end, let the asphalt burn and the smoke rise and the flag drop.
Only after—only after—do you pull him away from the others, into the dead space behind the pits, where the shadows bleed deeper and his breath hits the air like mist. “What the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking.
He doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you like he’s drowning. “I’ve been seeing traces for months,” he finally says. “Not our crew. Not my mods but someone’s in the system. Ghost signals. Live feeds but there’s no names or trace. Nothing solid.” You blink. Your blood roars. “You knew?” He nods. “I didn’t know who. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I come to a dead end every single time I try.” You don’t respond. You remember the override code. You remember the kill-switch. You remember the moment the data blinked red but none of it’s concrete. There’s no fingerprint. No face. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You think of your exposé. You think of Jeno. And for the first time, you don’t know which truth will hurt more.
You’ve spent months convinced you were chasing the right story. That if you followed the mods, the maps, the margins, it would all point back to him—to the crew, to the boys who let you in without knowing what you carried. But it doesn’t. This doesn’t smell like Jeno. It reeks of strategy. Of bureaucracy. Of someone older, higher, smarter. Someone with reach and reason. Your fingers shake when they curl into his jacket.
“If I hadn’t caught it…” you start, then stop, the thought unfinished. Jeno nods once, sharply. “I know.”
There’s a silence. Heavy. Final. The kind that feels like the edge of something. He stares past you toward the track, then back to your face. “They’re going to keep trying,” he says quietly. “Whoever they are, they’re not done. Not until someone crashes. Not until someone gets hurt.” And for the first time, it clicks. The engine failures. The stray crashes. The random spikes in pressure gauges across other teams. None of them were random. They were tests.
The next one was meant for him.
And now it’s war.
Your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. You don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.
taeyong — why haven’t you given me any update?
taeyong — i told you to watch how the team responds to pressure and this won’t cut it.
taeyong — i told you didn’t i? if you don’t make this report good enough then it’s your job on the line.
To Taeyong,
I understand the expectations placed on me in observing the Soul Line team. While the environment has been intense and often volatile, I have witnessed a culture built around high-risk strategy and deeply embedded loyalty. There is a pattern of behavior that raises concern — particularly the team’s obsessive relationship with performance pressure, their willingness to override safety protocols, and their instinct to close ranks when challenged.
My observations suggest a structure driven by emotion over reason. The lead driver, in particular, displays erratic decision-making and a deep mistrust of external oversight. While I cannot definitively name breaches at this stage, I would strongly advise close review of their telemetry and performance mods pre-race. This team operates with intensity, but also secrecy — which makes it difficult to assess intent versus instinct.
This is not a final report. More information to come.
Sincerely, Y/N.
You close the thread before it finishes loading. Your fingers tremble as you paste in the draft you’ve barely looked at since you wrote it. It’s nothing. A paragraph stitched together from half-truths and safe language, dressed up in professionalism but stripped of anything real. No names. No details. No conviction. It’s a lie written to hold off the blade. A submission designed to survive. You hit send. Jeno doesn’t know and that’s the worst part.
You find him in the garage two hours later, crouched beside the front wheel of his car, palms greasy, face shadowed beneath the low fluorescents. He looks up, just once, and it’s enough. The guilt finds your spine and crawls up your throat like poison. You kneel beside him. “We need to talk.”
He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen pieces of it before,” he murmurs, voice flat, quiet like he’s trying not to scare it away. “Data drops that didn’t make sense. Logs changed when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was glitching. I didn’t know it was gonna get someone killed.”
You look at him and it hits you all over again—he’s been carrying this. Alone. He rises slowly, wipes his hands on a rag, leans back against the worktable like the weight of everything has finally caught up to him. “I’ve been trying to trace whatever this is. For months. It’s not coming from our systems. It’s not a mechanic’s fault. It’s deeper. Admin-level. Someone’s been piggybacking my drives. Someone powerful. Someone who wants this team erased.”
Your heart skips once. Then again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—the fear beneath the fury, the exhaustion hiding behind his arrogance. “Because I didn’t know who I could trust,” he says. Then after a breath, quieter, breaking: “But I trust you.”
It cracks something open inside you. A sound escapes your mouth like apology. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his jaw, tilting his head toward you until your foreheads brush. His breath is ragged against your cheek. Your voice stumbles out between whispers. “You can trust me. I swear. You can.” He kisses you like he’s sealing a pact. Slow. Rough. Desperate. Your hands wind into his shirt, pulling him closer until you can’t tell where the lie ends and the truth begins.
That night, you hatch a trap.
You write a new report. Not for submission. Not for truth. For exposure. For whoever’s been listening in, trailing wires through Jeno’s system, shadowing every frequency like a ghost behind the wheel. The document is clean. Clinical. Just enough detail to sound legitimate—technical weaknesses, isolation tactics, a lone vehicle running test laps with no team support. You embed it deep, tuck it into a shared circuit file with just enough metadata noise to get picked up by the wrong person. The language is quiet, coded, nonchalant. But the subtext is loud: this car will be alone. this car will be vulnerable. this car is yours to take.
You don’t tell the others. Not yet. Just Jeno. You find him hunched over the console in the garage, sweat curling down the back of his neck, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the dashboard. He doesn’t turn when you enter. Doesn’t speak. You stand beside him in the hum of silence, until you finally say, “It’s sent.” His jaw tightens.
“And they’ll believe it?”
You nod once. “If they’re watching, they already have.” That’s the moment the tension shifts. From fear to strategy. From prey to predator.
But you need help. Someone who knows the systems deeper than you do. You meet them in a subterranean parking structure before sunrise. Jeno calls them a friend. You’re not sure what to call someone with knife scars and navy-black eyes who speaks in server terms and war metaphors. “Whoever’s behind this has admin keys,” they say, tapping their comm device hard against the dashboard. “That’s not sabotage. That’s infiltration.”
Jeno stiffens. His voice drops an octave. “Then we pull them out.”
It starts slow. Not with confrontation, not with grand declarations but with the quiet shifts only people who’ve bled for the same cause can feel. Jaemin’s the first to notice. He watches Jeno after a silent test lap, leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and something unreadable in his eyes. When Jeno climbs out, doesn’t meet his gaze, Jaemin says, “You’ve been hiding something.” It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like heartbreak. And when he says, “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you carry it alone,” no one argues. He’s the one who stays up all night with the code—hands steady, eyes burning—until he writes the patch that helps intercept the next signal. When you find him hours later, blinking against the harsh light of the garage monitor, he just asks, “You’re really with us?” And you nod. Because it’s the only answer that matters.
Sunwoo takes longer. His trust was never easy but one night, as you head out after a late strategy meeting, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, expression sharp. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re not saying it but I can feel it.” He doesn’t ask for proof. He doesn’t even ask for the truth. Just watches you like he’s weighing every word you don’t say. And when the board tries to shut everything down on the eve of the final race, claiming rule violations and internal instability, it’s Sunwoo who steps forward. “She’s with us now,” he says in front of the entire committee. And he doesn’t flinch when they look at him like he’s signed a death warrant.
Renjun uncovers the siphon like it’s a wound he should’ve noticed sooner. He’s reviewing fuel data for the last ten races, his fingers jittering over graphs and overlays, until he goes still. The numbers don’t lie. “They weren’t trying to crash you,” he says, voice tight. “They were trying to drain you.” The fuel bleed is too small to flag, but over time, it chips away at power, speed, endurance. It’s sabotage disguised as sloppiness. He steps back from the console like it burns, shaking his head. “They made us think we were the problem.” And you don’t say it, but you think it, too. They still do.
Haechan’s the one no one expects. He laughs too loud, talks too much, flirts with danger and drinks like it’s sport. But in one meeting—mid-story, mid-smirk—he stops cold. “Wait,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t those two managers last month mention something about a new supplier?” He says it like a joke. But no one laughs. The room goes dead silent. You realise then that every piece was scattered across mouths and memory, too fractured to matter until now. Until Haechan put the last line on the page. His voice drops. “Fuck. I didn’t know I was saying it until I heard myself.”
None of them knew. That’s what hits the hardest. They thought they were slipping. Misjudging turns. Fumbling starts. Missing cues. They blamed themselves. Worked harder. Slept less. Pushed further into exhaustion trying to make up for mistakes that were never theirs to begin with. The kind of sabotage designed not to destroy in one clean blow—but to wear you down. Quietly. Slowly. Until you forget what it felt like to win without guilt.
This isn’t just about the team anymore. It’s about everyone who’s ever been chewed up by the machine and told it was their own fault for bleeding. Every mechanic who got blamed for a fault line they didn’t draw. Every rookie driver who was thrown onto the track like bait and then discarded the second the numbers dropped. Every sponsor deal that vanished without reason. Every whispered threat behind closed doors. Every statistic twisted into a weapon to justify silence. It’s about how power rewrites failure to look like yours. How they make you believe the crash was always coming because you weren’t fast enough, sharp enough, worth enough. It’s about the way guilt is planted like a virus, how doubt infects belief, how easy it is to punish passion when it stops being profitable. And now, you see it. You feel it. This was never just a race. Never just about winning. It was about survival. About memory. About saying: We were here. We mattered. And we won’t let you erase us.
And this time, no one’s backing down.
The car gets rewired that night. Jeno tears the system down to its bones, exposing every wire like a threat. Jaemin shadows him, rerouting frequencies, faking damage patterns, embedding a signal loop with just enough heat to draw attention. Renjun adjusts the fuel map, codes in a deceleration script that mimics failure. Haechan throws a tantrum in the middle of the garage, screaming about “another shit-tuned engine,” loud enough to echo through the lot. Sunwoo leaks it to the wrong board member. Lets them think the team’s imploding. That they’ve already lost. And you? You pull it all together. Stitch the lie into shape. Fold the tension into every look, every breath, every step you take beside them. You never say what you’re doing. Just that it’s time.
And beneath it all, that signal—the one you planted, the bait laced in weakness and noise—pulses steady in the circuit. Waiting. Watching. Daring someone to bite. The bait pulses like a heartbeat in the circuit. Waiting to be bitten.
Later that night, Jeno takes you to the edge of the city, where the asphalt is cracked and the streetlights flicker like bad memories. The car hums under your thighs, parked in a quiet stretch of road carved out from the ruins of an old industrial district. It's too late for traffic. Too early for dawn. The world feels suspended, caught between one breath and the next. You're wearing one of his jackets, oversized and half-zipped, thighs bare against the leather seat. When you look at him, he's already watching you.
"If you ever have to get out," Jeno says softly, tapping the wheel, "I want you to know how." You don't ask what he means by get out. You already know. And you don't ask why he sounds like he's preparing for goodbye. You just nod.
He shifts, pulling you across the center console until you're sitting on him. His hands settle at your hips, warm and grounding. The engine is off, but everything else hums—his breath, your pulse, the tension tangled between you. "I need you to feel it," he murmurs, guiding your hands to the wheel, then lower, to the gearstick. "Know where to shift. Know when to let go."
You nod again, but it doesn't feel like enough. You're trembling slightly, the nerves creeping in, but then he leans up, lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s almost reverent. "You're okay," he whispers. "I'm right here."
You adjust your thighs over him, the heat between your legs almost unbearable with the layers barely separating you. You feel him hard beneath you but there's no rush. No desperation. Just this. Proximity. Breath. Touch. His fingers graze up your thighs, slow and coaxing, sliding beneath the edge of the jacket as his lips press to your jaw. You start to move your hips, instinctive, grinding back against him in a slow rhythm that makes both of you groan.
Your palms are slick against the wheel, pulse jittering beneath your skin, and your thighs are still stretched across his lap when he reaches forward—slow, steady—one hand curling over your wrist to guide you. His voice is soft, nothing like the chaos that lives outside the car—just him and you, the silence between gear shifts, the scent of sweat and fuel hanging thick in the air. “Don’t oversteer,” he says, chin brushing your shoulder, breath warm at your jaw. “Feel the curve before you take it.” Your foot hovers too light over the gas, and he nudges it down with his own, body flush behind you, his hands covering yours on the wheel like a second skin. The car hums beneath you both, eager, alive. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”
The engine purrs when you accelerate, and his arm tightens across your waist, anchoring you back into him, your ass dragging against the hard line of his cock still barely tucked back into his jeans. You feel everything—every twitch of muscle, every exhale when your fingers catch the turn just right. “Good girl,” he says under his breath, and you shiver. He teaches with tension, with touch, with the controlled burn of letting you drive while still having the power to take over. “Brake before the turn. Ease off just before the apex. You control the car—don’t let it control you.” His thigh shifts under yours, coaxing you into the perfect seat alignment. “And remember,” he whispers, dragging his lips along your neck, slow like sin, “you’re not just riding this thing. You’re fucking taming it.”
Your breath stumbles as the car surges forward, tires kissing pavement in the smooth glide of power managed, not forced. His hands roam—over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—as you take the wheel again, this time more confident, every instruction melted into the rhythm of your bones. His voice drops lower, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what the real thrill is?” he asks, hand slipping between your thighs to grip the inside of your knee. “Knowing exactly when to let go. And exactly when not to.” You squeeze the wheel harder. You don’t want to let go of any of it. Not the speed. Not the heat. Not him.
The curve winds in before you can think, but your body knows the rhythm now. You let go—really let go—hands light on the wheel, breath in your throat, smile spreading slow across your face as the speed pours into your bloodstream like electricity. The road unfolds like it’s yours to take, every shift smoother than the last, every press of the pedal syncing with the thrum of your pulse. You laugh, breathless, winded, heart flying, and Jeno’s grip tightens at your waist. “There she is,” he whispers against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Knew you were made for this.”
His hands move over you constantly—along your thighs, between your legs, curling under the hem of your skirt like he needs to feel you grounded in this moment. His voice drips into you between instructions, between praise. “Tighten your angle—fuck, good girl—just like that, you feel it?” And you do. Every word, every inch of his body behind yours, heat sliding down your spine in slow waves. You drive like you’re weightless, like the car is an extension of your body, like the world outside the windows no longer matters.
You ease the car into park with your hands still shaking. The engine idles beneath you, cooling slow, ticking in rhythm with the breath in your chest. Jeno doesn’t say a word. Just reaches behind him, clicks the seat all the way back, and reclines. His eyes lock onto yours in the rearview mirror. There’s no command, no invitation. Just him, waiting. And you—already turning, already climbing back into his lap like instinct, like muscle memory, like gravity.
You don’t pause. Don’t tease. You pull your panties to the side, reach between you, and slide down onto his cock in one smooth, breathless motion. His hands catch your hips like they always do—tight, reverent, greedy—and your knees dig into the leather seat as you start to bounce, fucking him hard and deep, the way he needs it, the way you need it more. His mouth finds your throat. Your moans fill the car. And everything else—the engine, the silence, the stars behind fogged glass—just disappears.
The car isn’t moving—not in the way it was meant to—but your body is. His seat’s all the way down, legs spread, and you’re perched above him like gravity gave up on rules. His hands frame your hips, fingers digging into the muscle like he can feel every inch of tension you’ve carried, every sharp breath you’ve been too afraid to exhale. The engine ticks quietly beneath you, warm like a secret. “You’re gonna need to know this someday,” he tells you again, softer this time, but not any less serious. “If it all falls apart, if I can’t drive… I need to know you’ll keep it alive. I need to know you can.”
You nod, even though you don’t understand all of it, even though the weight of what he’s saying lands in your gut like something hot and heavy and terrifying. You nod, because the way he’s looking at you makes your chest pull tight. Because this doesn’t feel like a lesson—it feels like a handover. Like trust being transferred with every breath, every stroke, every sound that slips out between you. He doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He doesn’t have to. He just touches you like he’s answering the question before you ask it. “Don’t think,” he murmurs again, low and careful, fingers sliding up the back of your neck. “Just feel me. Feel this. That’s what racing is.”
You do. You feel him hard against your thighs, cock resting right at the seam of your panties, your skirt bunched up around your waist. His voice is right in your ear, his chest under your hands, and when you roll your hips down slowly, it sends a shock through you both. “That’s it,” he whispers, breath catching. “Right there. That tension—that edge—that’s what you ride.” The metaphor’s thin now. Barely there. Because the pressure between your legs isn’t symbolic, it’s slick and real and throbbing, and you’re so wet you can feel the way your panties stick when you shift again. He growls low in his throat. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel what you do to me?”
You gasp, whisper his name, and this time he doesn’t stop you. He helps you pull his jeans down just far enough, his cock already leaking against his abs. You guide him in slow, your hand wrapped around the base until the stretch hits, and your mouth falls open like it’s holy. “Jeno—” It’s barely a sound. Just breath and need. He grabs your hips again, holding you steady as you sink the rest of the way, clenching around him so tightly he curses through his teeth. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good—so perfect.”
You start to move, hips rolling in shallow, trembling circles, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only thing holding you together. He lets you take your time. Lets you find the rhythm. “You’re doing it,” he breathes, kissing under your jaw, sliding one hand down to guide the pace of your hips. “You’re riding it—fuck, that’s perfect—just like the curve, just like I taught you.” You moan, loud and desperate, because it’s so much—his cock filling you deep, the praise in his voice, the way he never stops touching you like he’s trying to memorize your skin. “Jeno,” you gasp again, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t stop. He fucks up into you hard, once, twice, catching your rhythm, slamming deeper with every bounce. The car seat groans beneath you, the sound of wet friction loud and obscene, your moans catching on the rise of your breath. “Ride me like you own it,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Like it’s yours.” His hands slam you down harder and you cry out, head falling back. "You feel that? Every inch of you takes me so fucking well.”
“I love this,” you whisper. “Fuck—I love this.” He kisses you like the confession cracked him open, mouth devouring yours, tongue pushing deep, like the only way to breathe is through you. His hands are everywhere—your ass, your waist, up your shirt, gripping your tits through your bra and squeezing hard. “This is how I want you before every race,” he mutters against your lips. “Full of me. Fucked out. Focused.”
You ride him like it’s instinct, like every shift of your hips is mapped into muscle. You lean forward and lick up his throat, whisper, “Then win it for me.” He growls. Thrusts harder. “I will. You survive the track, you can survive this.”
You clench around him again, tighter this time, and he falters. “You’re gonna make me come,” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck—baby, keep going. You’re so good to me. So fucking good.” You press your forehead to his, eyes locked, and whisper, “Don’t pull out. I want it. Want it all.”
That’s what does it. That’s what undoes him.
He comes with a guttural sound, cock pulsing deep inside you, his hands shaking against your skin. And you—eyes fluttering, breath stuttering—come with him, thighs quaking, mouth open against his throat, everything in you breaking loose.
When it’s over, you don’t move. He holds you there. One hand tangled in your hair. The other still on the wheel. Like he’ll never let go. Like you're his now. Like this was never about racing. It was always about you. You stay curled over him, skin damp, chest heaving, his cum still warm and dripping down your thighs. He hasn’t let go of you, arms locked tight around your waist like if he loosens his grip you’ll vanish with the air. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, breath still broken, fingers dragging lazy, reverent lines over his collarbone like you’re drawing a map only you can follow. “I’ll race the world for you,” you whisper, soft, certain, like it’s already been decided. He exhales like it breaks him. Doesn’t say anything back. Just kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—and lets his heart beat out the truth against yours.
The final league race doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like a reckoning. Night drapes over the circuit like oil, thick and untouchable, swallowing the edges of the stadium until all that’s left is light—too much of it, everywhere. Giant flood beams cut the air like surveillance drones, tracing arcs of brilliance across the gleaming hood of the Soul Line car. The stadium is full to the edges with noise, bodies stacked in metal seats, live feeds blinking across jumbotron screens but you don’t hear any of it. Not really. You only hear the low hum of the engine cooling beside you. The steady inhale-exhale of Jeno’s breath as he straps his gloves on.
Then he reaches across you, slow and deliberate, one hand slipping under the curve of your ribs as the other pulls the seatbelt across your body, locking it into place with a sharp, metallic click. His fingers linger at the buckle, brushing the inside of your thigh, and when he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear, it’s softer—more dangerous. “Make sure you stay strapped in, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
You smile—tight, breathless, too aware of the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. The belt presses across your chest, snug and final, but it’s his voice that really pins you there, low and possessive, crawling under your skin like voltage. He’s already leaning closer, his weight shifted toward your side, sex dark in his eyes like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say with his mouth. “I’m not,” you whisper back, turning just enough that your mouth grazes the corner of his jaw. “Not unless you tell me to.” It’s not a flirt. It’s a vow. Because you know what’s coming—you know the track won’t forgive a single mistake, that the walls are closer than they look, and the enemy is watching from the sidelines. They’re inside the system. Inside the car and the only thing holding it all together is him. And you. And this.
Everything was already rigged to burn. A corrupted file wiped his telemetry logs four days ago—Jaemin caught it, barely, running backups at 3AM with trembling fingers and a whiteboard full of loops no one should’ve had access to. Renjun found brake inconsistencies again, this time not random. Targeted. Precision siphoning of his system only. Sunwoo nearly broke a monitor when he realised the race order had been tampered with—they were always supposed to run last. Now they’re first. No time to adapt, no time to pivot. The garage was chaos. Accusations, calculations, pacing but when the yelling stopped, the decision was unanimous. This isn’t about placing anymore. It’s about making it out alive.
So you laid the trap. Every member of Soul Line laced the circuit with blood. Jaemin coded a fake vulnerability into the car’s telemetry—just enough to look like an opening, a mistake. Renjun reconfigured the fuel intake readings to simulate a leak. Haechan played his part loud and reckless, laughing too hard, spilling the line you’d planned—“If Jeno hits 220, the whole thing might blow.” And you, sat in the shadows of the comms tower, uploaded a ghost report seeded with doubt. Analysis that said the team was cracking, that they wouldn’t survive the night. The bait was placed. All that was left was to wait.
Jeno starts strong. The engine growls under his touch, tyres hugging the corners like they were born for them. The route is brutal—tight bends, blind drops, no rails, a custom course knotted through the dead zone east of the city. A stadium-circuit hybrid, carved like a scar through concrete and gravel. You sit beside him under the guise of safety telemetry. The board doesn’t know you’ve simmed this race a hundred times. Jeno does. He’s the one who made you run it. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I want you next to me.” You said yes before your heart could catch up.
The first two laps are clinical. Calculated. You can feel the math of it in every turn he takes—precise, deliberate, clean. He’s all reflex and rage in perfect sync, slicing through corners like they’re nothing but slits in fabric, every movement mapped and burned into his bones. The engine purrs beneath you like it knows him, the track bends as if it wants him to win. It’s beautiful to watch but you feel it before he does—something small, off-tempo. The cadence of his breathing stutters. His right arm tenses longer than it should and his eyes, usually calm and locked forward, flicker just a little too often toward the apexes.
By lap three, it’s not subtle anymore. The steering wheel jerks in his grip. Not much, but enough. Enough to make him snarl and wrench it back like he’s fighting something beneath his skin. “Shit,” he bites out, jaw locked tight. “Something’s—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His knuckles are white, his chest rising faster now, the calm unraveling thread by thread. You glance over. His pupils are blown wide, trying to recalibrate, but the lights on the visor dance wrong—too quick, too loud, blinding instead of guiding. “It’s blurring,” he says finally, voice cracked with disbelief. “Fuck. I can’t—they tampered with my neuro visor.”
Then it hits again. This time, lower—his right glove spasms, not violently, but wrong. It twitches against the shift handle, gripping like it’s trying to pull control back from him, not support it. You watch his body stiffen, like he’s fighting his own limbs, not just the track. “They rigged the actuator,” he growls, the words jagged between clenched teeth. “It’s not syncing to my neural pattern.” That’s when the car bucks slightly under you, not enough to crash. But enough to warn. Enough to say this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a hijacking and if you don’t move now, one of you won’t make it past the next turn.
The car lurches violently as the front wheel clips the edge of the track, the left fender skimming the barrier with a screech of metal that cuts through your spine like a live wire. You jerk forward in your seat, only held back by the belt he buckled for you minutes ago, and beside you, Jeno curses under his breath—short, raw, guttural. His gloved fingers fumble at the wheel, desperate to correct the turn, but it’s already too late. The steering isn’t responding. It’s not syncing with him anymore. You glance over and see the panic bleeding through his control—jaw locked, brow furrowed, sweat shining on his temple even under the floodlights. His arm jerks once, then again, not from the G-force, but from something worse. Artificial tension. Programmed resistance.
The glove—designed to sync with his neural output, to amplify his reflexes—is hijacked, every movement overcorrected, jerky, wrong. His hand twitches when he tries to shift gears, and the whole car jolts as the actuator fights back. “Shit,” he growls, mouth barely moving. “They did it. They fucking did it.”
You reach out without thinking, one hand gripping the wheel, the other bracing on the console. “Let go,” you say, low but steady, voice cutting through the static buzz in the cockpit.
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He keeps trying, keeps pushing, glove spasming, head shaking as his vision struggles to sync. “No. No—don’t. This is my race. You don’t—this isn’t—”
“You can’t drive like this,” you snap, tightening your grip on the wheel as the next curve barrels toward you like a dare. He hesitates. Too long.
The tires shriek as you scrape another edge, rubber burning hot under the strain. Jeno swears again, chest heaving, both hands locked on a wheel that no longer listens to him. You turn to him fully, eyes locked on his, and say it with no room for negotiation. “Move.”
“Don’t fucking tell me to—”
“You’ll kill us.”
That’s what cracks him. Not the heat, not the pain, not the way the car’s barely clinging to the track anymore. It’s the way your voice breaks on the word kill. Like you’re scared. Like this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a goddamn trap.
His throat bobs. His fingers flex once. “Then who the fuck—”
“Me.” Your voice is steel, even as your heart pounds so loud it fills the cabin. “I’ve trained for this. You taught me. You said if anything ever happened—”
“That was theory,” he bites out, furious. “It wasn’t meant to be real.”
“It is real.”
He still won’t move. Not yet. His eyes flicker to you, then to the road. He doesn’t want this. Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he does, giving up control means risking you. Means putting you in the same danger he’s spent the whole fucking season trying to shield you from.
The car jerks again. The glove spasms. And finally, finally, he says it—hoarse and barely audible: “Don’t crash.”
You don’t answer. You crawl over him while the car flies forward at 210, knees knocking against his thighs, chest pressed to his as you shift across the console, hands never leaving the wheel. His hand catches your hip instinctively, holding you steady as you straddle the seat, and for a second it feels obscene, intimate, terrifying. Your faces are inches apart. His voice is shaking. “Please. Just—come back to me.”
“I will,” you whisper, breath against his mouth. “But only if you let me save you first.” And just like that, the seat shifts. The balance tips. You slide into position. The car keeps going. But now—you’re the one driving.
The world opens beneath you, a map of lines and breath and velocity, and you take the next curve with your entire body—lean into it like a lover, like the wheel itself is an extension of your spine. It responds instantly, shivering under your grip, humming with every calculated twitch of your hands, every demand you make of it. The engine doesn’t roar—it purrs. Like it knows it’s yours now. Like it always was. Jeno’s voice stays low in your ear, even as his chest heaves beside you, even as his hand—still trembling from the override—clutches the edge of the console like he’s holding onto the edge of a dream. “Brake before the ridge. Downshift out of turn six,” he breathes, but it’s different now. Less instruction. More awe. “That’s it, baby—just like that. Fuck, you feel that? That’s you.”
You follow it. Feel it. Own it. The track stretches wide and brutal ahead of you, but you don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Your nerves burn clean. Your thighs shake from the G-force but you never loosen your grip, not once. You taste sweat. You smell scorched asphalt. You are inside the rhythm now, part of the car, welded to every scream of the tires. And he knows it. “You’re doing better than I did,” Jeno mutters, almost stunned, and there’s reverence in the words, thick and raw and his. “You were made for this. Made to drive me fucking crazy. Made to win. My girl—fuck, baby—my girl’s got it.”
You take the next corner smoother than silk, the car humming obediently beneath you like it knows who’s driving now. You brake just enough to eat the turn and burst out of it cleaner than before. The curve releases you like a breath, and Jeno groans something low and ragged beside you—pride, arousal, disbelief, maybe all three tangled.
It happens subtly, almost like a whisper against the throttle. There’s a flicker in the dash—quick, irregular, a spike that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t come from your car. Your eyes narrow, trained now not just for speed but for sabotage. You shift your grip, steadying the wheel with one hand as your other moves to the console beneath. Jeno had wired in a private panel weeks ago, veiled beneath the false skin of a basic diagnostic feed. You access it without hesitation, fingers flying across the touchpad. The interface lights up in pale green, jittering with static, revealing a pulse signal threaded deep within the network. It loops, unnatural. You trace it.
The override isn’t yours. It doesn’t mimic your engine’s behaviour or Jeno’s previous telemetry. It’s foreign. Behind you, the crowd screams, the pitch shifting into something shrill. A rival car veers on the external feed, a sudden break in formation. You watch it spin, metal shrieking as it hits the side barrier. The violence is too precise to be clumsy. No driver reacts that late unless they’re fighting something stronger than themselves. You feel it all around you now—the wrongness crawling under your skin, sinking into your bones. Jeno’s jaw tightens beside you. His voice comes hoarse, barely audible over the roar. He tells you they’ve widened the net. This was never just about him. It never was.
The wheel vibrates beneath your hands. Not from the road. From the interference. The override is spreading like contagion, not targeting a single unit but siphoning through every admin-allowed frequency. It’s a lattice of control, invisible and lethal. You slam the brakes during a straight, heart hammering as the car jolts. You only need a few seconds—long enough to freeze the signal. Long enough to crack it. Jeno reaches down, retrieving the final card you both agreed on: the burner drive from the tech informant. He plugs it in. The interface floods with code. Terminal access granted. Live keys blinking red.
The track breaks apart in screams and smoke. Ahead of you, Vulcan’s lead car stutters mid-turn—then jerks violently sideways like something yanked the steering column out of his hands. He spins, crashes into the barrier so hard the right wheel flies off in a blur of shrapnel. Another vehicle—Strix blackline, number 08—loses throttle input entirely, the engine coughing once before the back half lifts clean off the road and scrapes into a wall. Sparks bloom across the asphalt. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or panic. One by one, the remaining competitors jolt off pattern, their telemetry collapsing like dominoes. It’s not random. The sabotage is systematic, precision-led, triggered by control bursts hidden inside the league’s own admin shell. No warning, no way out. They weren’t just watching Soul Line. They were studying everyone. And now they’re erasing the field.
“What the fuck,” Jeno breathes. His hand clamps your thigh, grounding himself as the dashboard explodes with an influx of encrypted signals. You reach forward again, fingers flicking over data lines, your breath caught behind your teeth.
“It’s not a virus,” you say. “It’s remote access. Someone’s inside the race feed right now.” You peel back the firewall layer, revealing a user ID pinging off internal relay towers with near-zero latency. “They’re not spoofing. They’re using board credentials.”
Sunwoo’s voice crackles through the comms. “Is this linked to the Vulcan crash?”
“Confirmed,” you answer instantly. “The override was triggered three seconds before Riku lost control. They injected a counter-steer command into his stabiliser.” You glance at Jeno. “This isn’t random. They’re targeting specific cars. This is a cleanup.”
Jaemin chimes in from the garage, breathless. “I’ve got a mirror trace running. It’s bouncing back from Admin Sector B.” There’s a pause. A tension shift. “Wait—there’s a burn key active. Top-level. It’s logging telemetry edits live from inside the circuit’s main control shell. It’s—” His voice drops out.
“Say it,” Jeno grits, eyes still locked on the feed.
“It’s someone in the oversight box,” Jaemin finishes, quiet now. “Someone who’s not supposed to be coding during the race. Someone high up.”
Another pause. This time, it’s Renjun who cuts through the silence. “The signal’s tag is TYX-019.”
The breath catches in your throat as the signal source surfaces. It's not masked. Not anymore. The encryption falls away, layer by layer, until what’s left is an IP address that doesn’t belong to any racer. It’s rooted inside the circuit’s oversight tower. It isn’t just plugged into the system. It is the system. Your head snaps up. Across the track, above the noise, you see the glass flash once. Behind it, someone rises from their chair. They rip their headset off. Turn without urgency. Like they never needed to watch the race to control it.
Your blood runs cold. Jeno is staring, frozen, a thousand unsaid thoughts carved into the furrow of his brow. You recognise that posture. The shoulders, squared and sure. The tilt of the head, casual, confident, careless. You see the control in it, the certainty. The familiarity.
It had always been him. The man who spoke in strategies and punishments. The man who told you what this team could never be. The one who warned Jeno not to rely on anyone who wasn’t willing to bleed for the machine. You never needed to say his name. Jeno never needs to say it either. The fury in his silence says enough. So does the betrayal laced into your breath.
The trap didn’t fail. It led him right into the open. The second the terminal lit up, the signal twisted back on itself—mapped, mirrored, exposed. It spread like voltage across every comm channel, a live hemorrhage of data, every byte blinking red. He tried to jam it, tried to bury it in backup layers, but Jaemin had already rerouted the failsafe. Sunwoo stalled the system alert. Renjun mirrored the trace. Haechan flooded the admin server with junk code, forcing the saboteur’s controls into full manual override. One by one, every defense he built was stripped bare—until the only thing left was the truth, screaming out from every feed like fire through oil. You and Jeno blocked each strike before it could land, swerving hard when the traction sensors spiked, gripping through wind shear when the brakes tried to lock. There’s no hesitation anymore. No fear. Just two of you, wired into the machine like bone and blood, carving a path straight through his empire of ruin.
You don’t look back. Not when you know he’s watching. Not when the trap is already tightening around his neck. Your focus is blistered into the track now—the ridges of rubber burned into the corners, the flash of red lights in the haze of smoke, the way the heat shimmers off the asphalt like warpaint. The track curves like a scar beneath the stadium lights, hard and brutal, a dead-zone circuit spliced together by black-market engineers and forgotten league veterans. The barriers are unforgiving. The crowds press in like gods waiting for blood. This is where everything ends. Or begins.
Jeno groans beside you, fingers digging into your leg like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t collapse. His voice comes in bursts, broken from strain but steady in command—“Downshift now. Pull left. Clip the turn, don’t fight it.” He’s half-folded against the passenger seat, chest rising like thunder, sweat gleaming against his temple. And you—you’ve never felt more alive. The wheel pulses under your palms. The engine snarls with every push. The car doesn’t obey you, it belongs to you. Like it knows the stakes. Like it remembers every loss.
The sky above is black, endless, starless, but the finish line glows ahead in raw electric white. It isn’t hope. It isn’t mercy. It’s the reckoning they tried to erase. You take the curve clean, back wheels skimming the outer line like the track’s been carved into your muscle memory since the beginning. The engine doesn’t stutter. It listens. Breathes. Obeys. The final straight opens like a corridor built from velocity itself, the crowd screaming in a blur on either side, and you don’t hesitate—you fucking floor it. Jeno’s breath is ragged beside you, one hand braced over your thigh, voice cracking through the comms as he guides the last line. Your pulse pounds louder than the engine, louder than the cheers, louder than the sound of history reconfiguring beneath your tires and somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you—this is why you’re racing. Because the trap didn’t fail. It worked. It lured him into the open, and now that the signal’s exposed—now that the grid runs red with proof—there’s no rewriting it. No mercy. Not when the boys gave you their faith. Not when Jeno trusted you enough to give up control. Not when every crash, every failure, every fucking death was orchestrated beneath the hands of a man who never planned to let them win. And now? You take everything back. Wheel first. Fire second. The finish line ignites in your reflection—close, closer—and you don’t blink. You burn through it.
The roar that greets you as the car skims the final straight could’ve shattered glass. The crowd is a blur, a heaving wall of noise and motion and light, but you barely register any of it. The world narrows to the strip of tarmac ahead, the tremble of the wheel in your hands, the heat of Jeno’s palm pressed over your thigh as he braces beside you, half-bent over from strain, voice breaking with every breath as he tells you where to go. The interface lights surge around the dashboard, warning signals flickering and dying, but the engine purrs like it was born under your command. It doesn’t fight you. It flies.
The car dips into the final curve, tyres screaming against the track’s brutal incline, and Jeno’s voice rasps through the static: "Ride it out, baby. This is it." The finish line pulses ahead like a horizon set on fire. A wind tunnel of adrenaline and steel rushes past your skull, but your grip doesn’t falter. You remember every simulation. Every late-night drive with his hand wrapped around yours on the stick. Every time he made you take control when you were too scared to. You drop gear, shoot forward like a bullet, and the final lap opens for you like a mouth to devour.
The line blurs. The car screams. You pass it.
And then—silence. Not in the arena, not really, but inside the car. Inside your chest. A stunned, ringing, breathless pause. You let go of the wheel. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what you did crash into you.
The Soul Line pit erupts. You see bodies flood forward from the sidelines, arms raised, mouths open in shock and triumph. Jaemin is the first out, sprinting before the gate’s even lifted, tablet still clutched in his hand, screaming into his comms. Haechan throws something in the air—his gloves maybe—yelling at no one and everyone. Renjun shoves him, shouts back, then runs for the barrier. Sunwoo stands frozen for a beat before he turns and punches the wall behind him with a sob you can’t hear. You did it. They did it. You won.
The car skids to a halt just past the barricade, engine whimpering as it cools. Jeno exhales like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. You lean forward, forehead pressed to the wheel, tears burning behind your eyes. It’s over. It’s done. The rule was clear—if the lead driver is compromised mid-race, the assigned onboard co-monitor is allowed to assume control. Legal. Binding. Iron-clad.
Jeno unstraps first, shoulders heaving as he yanks off his glove, arm trembling from the aftershocks still tearing through his system. He leans across you, lips parted, breathing hard, and the second he unclips your belt, his fingers brush your chest—slow, steady, deliberate. It’s not a rush. It’s reverence. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he needs to feel your heartbeat with his own hands before he can believe you’re still here. Then both hands cradle your face, thumbs pressing along your jaw, and his eyes lock to yours, wild and glazed and wrecked. “You fucking did it,” he says, voice raw like smoke. Then he kisses you—hard, filthy, all teeth and breath and tongue, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Your legs shake. Your mouth opens to him. Your hand curls into his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear. And when you whisper it back against his ear, hot and breathless—“I’d race the world for you”—he groans like it guts him, like you just said something sacred. “I’ll never let you drive alone again.”
It doesn’t end with the kiss. It spills over. He kisses your throat next, his hands gripping your waist, then pulls away only to press your forehead to his. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, shaking from speed and adrenaline and survival. When the door opens and the air hits, it’s chaos—blinding lights, roaring screams, footsteps pounding toward you like thunder. But all you feel is his hand in yours as you climb out, legs barely holding steady. Jaemin gets to you first—pulls you into him like he’s been holding that breath the whole race. His hug is rough, arms locked around your shoulders, face buried in your neck. Haechan grabs your hand and kisses it, his grin so bright it hurts, then spins you like a trophy, shouting something incoherent. Renjun’s eyes are wet. Sunwoo won’t stop staring at Jeno like he’s still not sure if he’s alive. Everyone is touching you. Pulling you in. Wrapping you in something thicker than celebration. It’s family. It’s relief. It’s reverence.
And then it happens—someone screams your name. The crowd erupts behind it, all at once. Your name. His. Soul Line. Again. Again. Louder each time, until it drowns the rest of the world out. You don’t know where the sound begins or ends, only that it surges through your bones like a second heartbeat. You’re turning, eyes wide, and Jeno’s already there—grinning like a fucking maniac, face flushed, eyes lit up like he never stopped burning. He bends, grabs your thighs, and lifts you clear off the ground, spinning in a full circle like it’s muscle memory. You shriek, laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders, the whole world tilting with you. You’re still full of him. Still dizzy. Still slick between your legs. But none of it matters. You won. You lived. You burned through every trap and brought the entire empire down at your feet. The sky above is fire. The ground beneath you doesn’t exist. You’re in his arms, and the world is screaming your name.
Your voice breaks first—calm but serrated—as you speak into the open comms: “We caught him.” You don’t say his name. Not yet. The air inside the circuit seems to freeze, every signal cutting to static, every head turning, like the entire league leans forward at once, breath held. Behind the control booth’s tinted glass, a figure jolts. and in that instant—everyone sees it. Jaemin’s rerouted trace flashes across every display. A single admin key, red and blinking, logged into the override terminal. L.T. SEO / ADMIN OVERSIGHT / LEVEL 7 ACCESS.
The crowd erupts with gasps, shocklike a body blow. Someone screams from the back row. The feed cuts to a security camera view: the oversight box, backlit and exposed and there, in a suit that no longer fits the shadows, Taeyong stands. Still. Caught. Burned by every frame of proof lighting up the jumbotrons like a fucking execution.
Sirens split the air. Stadium security floods the stands, pouring into the VIP box. Jeno sees it first, on the in-car monitor. “He tried to kill us,” he mutters, voice low, deadly, shaking with rage he’s swallowed too long. “He tried to erase us.” You don’t flinch when the guards tackle Taeyong. You don’t blink as he’s dragged into the aisle. But you do feel Jeno’s hand slide over yours, tight, grounding, fierce. His other arm stretches out in front of you instinctively, shielding without a thought, the others closing in behind.
Taeyong thrashes once, face contorted, blood at the corner of his mouth from where he bit his cheek screaming. But when he catches your eyes through the chaos, he stops fighting. Just for a second. Something in him twists. He leans forward, teeth bared, throat raw. And then he spits the last thing he’ll ever get to say: “You think this ends with me?” His voice claws out, desperate, wild. “You haven’t won. You’ve only lit the match.”
Security hauls him back. The doors slam. The stadium shakes but you don’t look away. You can’t. Because this isn’t just victory. This is justice with blood under its fingernails. This is what it means to survive. This is Soul Line, standing where they were never supposed to. Jeno’s mouth brushes your temple. Jaemin’s hand curls at the nape of your neck. Sunwoo and Renjun step in tight, front and back, a wall around you, all of them watching, all of them ready for the next war.
The system is on fire and it’s your name they’ll remember.
You sink down onto him like it’s instinct. Like your body was made to take him. The backseat groans under your knees, the slick warmth of his cock stretching you inch by inch until your head falls forward and your lips part with a gasp. He’s already breathless beneath you, chest rising hard, hands splayed wide over your thighs like he’s scared to move. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Slow. Let me feel it.” You do. You go slow—not because you have to, but because you want to, because this isn’t about chasing a high or proving something. This is about him. About the way his eyes hold yours, the way his fingers curl tighter every time you rock your hips, the way his breath catches when you clench around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers. “So warm. So perfect.”
He sits up and buries his mouth against your throat, lips parting over skin that still tastes like adrenaline and gasoline. “I don’t care what happens to this league,” he says, words hot against your jaw. “They can burn it to the fucking ground. I’ve got you now. That’s all I give a shit about.” His hand moves to your back, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, like he needs to memorise you. You roll your hips again and he groans, forehead pressed against yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “I knew you’d save us,” he says again, almost to himself. “Knew it the second I let you in that car.” You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “You’re mine.” His answer is immediate. “Always fucking mine.” He thrusts up into you, slow and deep, and your whole body shudders from the contact.
The car rocks gently with your rhythm. Your thighs ache from how wide you’re spread over him, knees jammed against worn leather, but it’s nothing compared to the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you like it’s claiming every inch you’ve ever called your own. “Jeno,” you whisper, dizzy from the heat in your belly. “I’m—fuck—I’m not scared anymore.”
He nods, hands coming up to cradle your face, eyes locked on yours. “Me neither,” he says, voice breaking. “Not if I’ve got you.” And he means it. You feel it, in the way he touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re not just the girl who took the wheel but the one who became the road, the one he trusts with his life, with his name, with every bruise he’s ever been too proud to show.
He fucks you gently but thoroughly. Like there’s no rush now. Like he’s waited his whole life to make you feel safe enough to fall apart on top of him. His hands trail under your shirt again, palms wide and firm against your ribs, and you shift your hips just right until you both groan, helpless, already too close again. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “You’re everything, baby.” Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again, tongues brushing, noses bumping.
“Say it again,” you murmur. “Tell me I’m yours.” He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Mine,” he whispers, again and again, like it’s the only word he remembers. “Mine, mine, mine.” His thrusts grow uneven and your body clenches, slick and hot, your orgasm curling like smoke in your belly.
You cry out softly when you come, back arching, cunt spasming tight around him, and he follows with a grunt, hips jerking up as he spills deep inside you, pulsing with it. His arms lock around your waist, holding you flush to him, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You collapse together, his cock still buried inside you, both of you trembling. For a long moment, there’s no sound except the distant buzz of overhead lights and the ragged drag of breath. He doesn’t move, he just keeps you close. Keeps you his. His hands slide slowly up your spine, fingers tracing shapes you’ll never see but will feel for hours after. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes close. The world doesn’t matter right now. Just this. Just him.
Because that’s the thing. He is beautiful, but not in the way people talk about. Not in the way magazines photograph or fans obsess over. He’s beautiful like a war-scarred city. Beautiful like danger dressed in silk—sharp where it shouldn’t be, and begging to be bitten. He’s beautiful like overdrive—too fast, too hot, made to ruin. Beautiful like the stretch of track you take without braking, knowing it’ll hurt, knowing you’ll do it anyway. His mouth tastes like sin with no exit plan, and he looks at you like he’s already bitten down, like you’re bleeding and he’s still hungry. He’s beautiful like a coffin carved for royalty, all cold elegance and finality, like something buried in silk but meant to haunt. Beautiful like the bruise you press again and again just to make sure it’s real. Like a hunger that’s learned your name, like the sound of metal scraping asphalt at 220, like the ache you begged for even when you swore you’d never need. He’s beautiful like the moment the engine blows out and the world still spins. Like blood on glass. Like the wreckage after the win.
His eyes dark and bottomless, mouth set in a line that knows disappointment intimately, jaw sharp like he’s always one second from grinding through it. You didn’t know his name when it started, but you knew his type. The kind built to break records and people in the same breath. The kind Taeyong sent you here to kill. He held your gaze too long that first night, saw you in a way that made your skin crawl, made your chest ache. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Recognition. Like he already knew the ending and was daring you to change it.
That was the night you learned what kind of danger he was. Not the explosive kind. Not even the cruel kind. The kind that watches. The kind that waits. The kind that strips you down without ever touching you. And back then, when he tilted his mouth and looked away, it felt like rejection. Now, it feels like memory. Now, it feels like fate. Because somehow, some way, the man you were sent to bury is the man who saved you. He’s the one who handed you the keys. The one who let you drive. Not just the car. Not just the race but everything. The whole fucking future. And now he sleeps under your fingertips, tangled with you in oil-stained leather, his heart beating like it belongs to your hands.
His cock is still inside you when you press your palms flat to his chest and shift, slow, dragging yourself up over his body while your thighs tremble and your skin clings to sweat-slick leather. Jeno’s still catching his breath, mouth parted, chest rising in ragged bursts beneath you—but the moment your cunt leaves him, soaked and pulsing, he groans like it hurts. His hands find your hips again, still possessive, still grounding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “Where you going, baby?” he breathes, eyes dark, voice hoarse. You don’t answer. You just keep crawling up, knees on either side of his ribs now, fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. His tongue flicks out when you reach his collarbone, and you feel the change in him before he even opens his mouth. “Fuck. You gonna sit on my face?” It’s reverent. It’s ruined. It’s like he’s begging without saying please.
You tilt your head, smirk down at him, and whisper, “Thought you’d never ask.”
He adjusts under you, eager now, both hands sliding down to cup your thighs, spreading them, dragging you higher with a low growl that vibrates through your skin. You brace against the roof of the car, knees wide, your slick already dripping down the inside of his neck, and when you lower yourself onto his mouth, it’s like dropping into fire. His tongue is hot, fast, greedy from the first second. He licks into you like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. You moan—loud, unfiltered, so fucking gone—and grind down harder, your thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He pulls you closer, buries his face deeper, tongue working in tight, relentless strokes, lips sealing over your clit with a groan that sounds more like mine than anything else. His eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his grip bruising, keeps his rhythm perfect. It’s not just hunger—it’s worship.
You rock against him, hands scrambling at the car roof for balance, body jerking every time he sucks harder. The heat is unbearable. Your skin’s flushed, hips twitching, moans turning breathless. “Jeno—fuck, baby—don’t stop,” you pant, your voice barely holding together. He hums under you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine, and that’s when it hits you—how good he is at this. How much he knows your body now. Every flick of his tongue is intentional. Every moan from your mouth makes him devour you deeper. He wants to ruin you like this. He wants to be the reason you fall apart again, even after everything. Especially after everything. You grip his hair tighter, thighs trembling. “You love this, don’t you?” you gasp. “You love me like this.” His eyes open, blown wide and black, and he nods against your cunt, never breaking rhythm, never once letting you up for air.
Your orgasm builds hard, brutal, all at once. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, body locked in place as his mouth works you to the edge and shoves you right over it. You scream when you come, a high, broken sound, hips jerking, hands flying back to your own chest like you can hold it in somehow—but it’s too much. You grind against his mouth, riding it out, soaking his face, and he just takes it. Moaning like he’s the one coming, like this is what he’s made for. When you finally lift off him, everything’s soaked—his lips, his jaw, his hair, your thighs. He’s panting, looking up at you like you’re divine, like you own him. You lean down and kiss him, taste yourself on his tongue, and he grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in tighter. “Let me keep you,” he whispers. “Let me keep doing this forever.”
You nod, body still trembling, cunt still dripping, and slide back into his lap—right over his hard cock, still soaked from before. “Then show me,” you murmur. “Show me what forever feels like.”
He doesn’t stop kissing you, even as you come down, even as you breathe out his name like it’s the only thing that’s ever fit right in your mouth. His lips trail along your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, reverent and soft like prayer, but the way he shifts his weight tells you he’s not close to done. His hands move with purpose, calloused palms sliding over your hips, guiding you back with him until the cool glass of the Soul Line car presses against your spine. He crowds in, chest against yours, heartbeat wild beneath all that black and gold, and when he kisses you again, it’s messier, needier, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that’s barely held back. “Turn around,” he murmurs, already spinning you by the waist, already gathering your hair in his fist. “Hands on the glass. Let them see what I get to keep.”
The breath punches out of you when he yanks your hips back, the curve of your ass meeting the sharp line of his pelvis. The engine’s long gone cold, but the metal burns against your chest as he presses you flat to the window, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging your panties down and off with one clean pull. You gasp as his fingers return between your legs, two thick knuckles sinking deep into your soaked cunt, curling up until your forehead thuds against the glass. “Still so wet for me,” he growls, kissing the shell of your ear. “You never stop wanting it, do you?” Your thighs tremble as he scissors you open, as his voice goes darker. “Bet you were wet during the race too. Bet you loved knowing everyone was watching you take control with my cum still dripping down your thighs.”
He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one harsh thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. You moan—raw, full-bodied—and the sound fogs the glass in front of you. His grip is punishing, one hand wrapped around your throat now, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. “Say it,” he pants into your ear. “Say you’re mine.” You gasp his name, whimper it, choke on it, and he fucks you harder. “Louder.” You scream it this time, legs shaking, nails dragging streaks into the paint of the car. “I’m yours, Jeno. I’m yours—I’ve always been.” He groans at that, lets go of your throat to grab both hips and slams into you with bruising rhythm, each thrust sending you forward against the glass.
You come hard, again, cunt squeezing him so tightly he has to pause, cursing, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. “Fuck—baby—fuck, you feel too good—” He thrusts again, again, until he’s spilling inside you, jaw slack, voice low and broken, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind. He doesn’t pull out. He never does. He stays buried, arms wrapped around your waist, chest to your back, breath ghosting over your skin like he’s never going to let you go.
And you don’t want him to. You’d let him fuck you into every wall of this goddamn garage. You’d let him fill you up before every race just to remind you where you belong. With him. Always him.
"Overdrive: How Corruption Nearly Killed the Circuit and the Racer Who Survived It"
— By Y/N.
They said speed was a measure of control. That the one who steered best survived longest. That the track didn’t care about legacy or blood, only how tightly you could hold a corner without breaking. They were wrong. The truth is, speed doesn’t save you when the system wants you dead.
For years, we’ve watched the League operate beneath the illusion of merit. Wins attributed to grit. Losses to lack of talent. The bodies left behind in the wreckage? Written off as unfortunate. A risk of the sport. But what if the danger wasn’t in the curve? What if it was in the hands behind the system?
I came to this team—Soul Line Racing—believing what I was told. That they were chaos in chrome. Unruly. Dangerous. A liability to the League’s reputation. I was sent to observe, to report, to deconstruct the myth of their underdog status. I came with suspicion in my chest and a deadline on my back.
And then I saw what happened when the lights went green.
Override signals triggered mid-race. Glove actuators seizing against their users’ neural maps. Visors blurring at the most dangerous moments of the track. Brake systems delayed by milliseconds—just long enough to kill. I watched a machine betray its driver, and I watched that driver—Lee Jeno—keep going.
I tracked the telemetry. Compared it. Cross-referenced accidents dating back three years. I found patterns. Rewrites. Dead code. I found an embedded signal hiding in the admin relay, quietly issuing commands that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with control. I followed the money. I followed the silence.
And I found Lee Taeyong.
Director of Oversight. Champion of “reform.” My boss. The one who stood at every podium claiming to love the sport while quietly orchestrating its downfall from within. His signature appears on system update logs that correlate to crashes. His admin credentials were used to access override commands during races that ended in injuries. His network of offshore sponsors kept drivers silent. When Soul Line gained traction, Taeyong clipped their wings. When other teams refused to play along, they crashed too.
Racing was never about the engine. It was about the illusion. That you could beat the odds with enough grip and guts. That if you were good enough—fast enough—you could outrun whatever was chasing you. But that’s the first lie the league teaches you: that merit gets you further than obedience. That surviving the track means you’re worthy. The truth is harder to swallow because what really determines who crosses that line isn’t reflex or training. It’s who the system decided would win long before the race began.
They told us Soul Line was reckless. Disobedient. Unfit for the spotlight. But I’ve never seen a team more precise in chaos. More united in disaster. They didn’t crack under pressure. They cracked through it because they had to. Because they were the only ones racing with a target on their backs and knives in their hands, trying to drive through a warzone masked as a sport. The league called them volatile. What they meant was: uncontrollable. What they feared was: unbought.
Jeno was never meant to live through that final race. That’s what haunts me. Not just that they tried to end him, but that they expected the world to clap for it. That they disguised the sabotage with press releases and data anomalies and thought we’d be too dazzled by the speed to notice the blood. He didn’t win because they let him. He won because we caught them first because his hands never stopped gripping the wheel, even when it was wired to betray him.
Taeyong didn’t build a racing empire. He built a weapon. One he used to silence, distort, erase. He turned racers into pawns. Data into death sentences and every time someone came close to exposing the pattern, he made sure their season ended early. What he underestimated was what happens when one of those pawns writes it down. Records the glitches. Maps the override spikes. Names him.
This isn’t just corruption. It’s psychological warfare. It’s grooming a generation of drivers to believe that failure is their fault, that crash means weakness, that burnout is proof they weren’t strong enough. It’s hiding the kill-switch inside the glove and calling it a feature. It’s rewriting telemetry mid-lap and blaming the body for not adapting. It’s trauma dressed in sponsorship.
We don’t need reform. We need demolition. Burn the tracks. Rewrite the oversight architecture. Install external forensic audits after every circuit. We need new language—terms that account for technological interference, for override injury, for sabotage trauma. Because this was never just about Soul Line. They were just the loudest ones screaming. Now the rest of the world needs to start listening.
THREE MONTHS LATER
The pit smells like torque and heat and victory now. Not desperation. Not danger. There’s a difference in the air that only those who lived through the fall can feel. It’s in the way the tools are stacked sharper, the way the boys walk like nothing can knock them down anymore. It’s quieter, somehow, even with the press screaming outside the gates. Seoul hasn’t seen peace since the article dropped. Since the expose tore through the league’s skin like shrapnel and bled everything open. Reporters started camping in the alleys around the pitt. Drones buzz low over the garages. Black vans idle outside at all hours. One news anchor called it “the Great Recalibration.” Another said you’d sparked “a new militant journalism.” You didn’t ask for any of that. All you did was write the truth but now the truth has teeth, and the world can’t look away.
Inside Soul Line’s garage, it’s not silence. It’s something stronger. Unspoken rhythm. Renjun wiping oil from his cheek with the back of his hand. Sunwoo muttering to himself as he calibrates a new telemetry mod that he swears can’t be hacked. Jaemin bent over the console, fingers flickering like they’re tracing god. None of them talk about the fallout. They don’t need to. They’re too busy building something no one can touch. And you’re in it. Fully. Woven into every thread. They don’t talk about Taeyong either. Not out loud. His name is sealed in court files and blacklisted from every league hall but they still flinch when telemetry glitches. Still watch the monitors like ghosts might crawl out of the data feed. You see it in Jeno’s shoulders, in the way he holds the wheel tighter now but he’s healing. They all are. Slowly, collectively, like bones re-setting.
They handed you the jacket this morning without warning. Matte black, sleeves heavy with gold circuitry. It looked like it belonged to you before it even touched your shoulders. The emblem glinted in the light like it knew. Like it always knew. Soul Line. Underneath it, stitched in clean, neat thread: your initials. Renjun didn’t say a word when he gave it to you. Just nodded, once. Jaemin met your eyes across the garage and didn’t look away. Sunwoo smacked your back and laughed, too hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion in his chest. “Told you you were crew,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Passenger-seat ace. Journalism prodigy. Resident saboteur hunter. You’re one of us now.”
You wore the jacket all day. You still haven’t taken it off.
Jeno watched it all from the far side of the room, leaned against the frame of the garage door like he was guarding it. Or maybe just you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tracked every movement, arms crossed, mouth unreadable. But later, when the boys cleared out and the light from the pit dimmed to a golden haze, he pulled you into the shadow of the garage and kissed you like it was a promise. Like it had always been you. “My girlfriend looks hot,” he said, voice hoarse. You touched the emblem on his chest and felt your own beat beneath his. Matching. Aligned.
You grinned, fingers toying with the edge of his jacket, voice light but laced with heat. “Leader now, huh?” you teased, tracing the gold threading with slow, deliberate circles. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you sir. Or would you prefer ‘daddy?’”
Jeno’s eyes darkened instantly, hands sliding down your ass to squeeze, rough and possessive. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “You’ve been calling me that since the day we met.”
You tilted your head, smiled like sin. “Yeah, but now you run this place,” you whispered, lips barely ghosting his jaw. “Which means if I ride you right here, the whole league has to listen when you moan.” His breath hitched. His grip tightened. And just before he kissed you again, he growled low, “Get in the fucking car.”
The leadership changed with the speed of a whipcrack. Doyoung retired the same week the system crashed. Not in shame, but in solidarity. He stepped down from the circuit, stripped his badge, and walked straight into the fire. He joined the oversight board as its loudest reformer, made it his mission to burn every corrupted clause down from the inside. They tried to muzzle him with politics—he cut through them with statements and statistics, with field testimonies and footage only someone who’d been trackside for a decade could name by timecode. And Jeno? Jeno was never just the team’s driver. He was its spine. Its compass. Its command. The moment Doyoung stepped off the track, Jeno stepped up to the tower. Not as a poster boy. As a leader. As the one they now called captain. The racers followed him. The crew listened to him. The new rulebooks printed with his footnotes still scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t official but everyone knew. The face of the league wasn’t a boardroom name anymore. It was a racer with oil on his collarbone and your name whispered against his ribs.
The article detonated globally. Seoul moved first—broke their entire telemetry contract and formed a cleanboard task force within twenty-four hours. You sat in front of their oversight committee and explained how gloves could be re-rigged to force overdrive. How visors could scramble neural input without alert. You described how Jeno’s pupils blew wide and his hands twitched out of sync with his own mind. You showed them the data. You made them listen.
Then Japan paused its regional league entirely. “Under investigation,” they said. California followed—drivers unionizing, walking out mid-season until neural protections were guaranteed. Sweden leaked its own review. Four seasons compromised. Four years erased. Protest signs started appearing in circuits across Europe. “This track kills racers.” “No more ghosts behind the wheel.” “Override is not a malfunction.” It wasn’t just exposé anymore. It was revolution. It was all your words and Jeno’s voice and Jaemin’s code turned into a weapon.
They called your article the fuse. They called you the match.
And still, every time you come back to the pit, it feels like home. Like rebirth. Like the kind of place you weren’t born into but fought to earn. Jeno still tunes the cars like they’re alive. Renjun still calls you trouble. Jaemin still tracks your heart rate without asking. Sunwoo still tells you the only way to win is to never stop moving. You believe him now. More than ever. Inside the garage, the world is burning but it smells like fuel. Like the future. Like something no one can take from you now. Lastly, sitting just outside the frame—head tilted back, grease smudged across his jaw, eyes half-lidded from laughter—is the boy you didn’t mean to love, the one who handed you the keys anyway. Jeno. All yours.
The door shuts behind you with a muted click, and suddenly it’s like the world forgets how to be loud. The lights of the pit still cast a golden haze across the car’s shell, but inside it’s dim, thick with the kind of silence that feels earned, like the end of a war you both survived. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just look at him—at the boy who taught you how to survive fire by becoming it—and reach for his wrist as he drops into the passenger seat. He doesn’t stop you when you climb across the console and straddle him, your thighs spread, your breath caught somewhere between grief and victory. His fingers find your hips and squeeze like he’s checking if you’re still real. You are. Every inch of you aches with it.
Your mouth grazes his first—barely, softly, like a warning—and then he’s kissing you like he needs to know how you taste after all this. How you feel now that everything’s different. Your lips part and you take him deeper, tongue brushing his, pace unhurried and sensual, like you’ve got all night to relearn each other. He moans softly into your mouth when you grind down into his lap, his hands sliding under your shirt with a reverence that makes your pulse spike. You undo his belt one loop at a time, slow and teasing, until the leather falls open and he’s twitching against you, already hard, already waiting. There’s something frantic under his breath when he speaks, something that doesn’t match the calm in his touch. “I love you,” he says, hoarse, his mouth trailing kisses across your jaw. “Reporter girl.”
You huff out a laugh, half breathless, half scandalized, and jab your fingers into his ribs, just enough to make him flinch. “Did you really just call me reporter girl while I’m literally on top of your dick?” you murmur, squinting down at him like you might disqualify him on the spot.
He grins, shameless and crooked, even as his cheeks flush. “Sorry, sorry—baby,” he amends quickly, voice dropping as his hands roam lower, possessive now. “Sweet girl. The love of my life. The only person I’d let hijack my racecar and my heart in the same month.”
You pretend to consider it for a second, then lean down again, kiss him long and deep and slow until he’s groaning into your mouth, fingers bruising around your hips. “That’s better,” you whisper against his lips, and when you roll your body down again, just to feel him jerk under you, you smile. “Now say it again but beg this time.”
His breath stutters, head tilting back against the seat as his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you down harder. “Fuck—please,” he groans, voice wrecked, all cock and desperation now. “I love you. I fucking love you. Say it back. Say it while you’re riding me, baby, come on—” His mouth finds your neck, biting down, kissing over it like it’s sacred, like you’re something holy and forbidden all at once. “Need to hear it,” he mutters, words caught somewhere between a moan and a command. “Say you love me.”
You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years, spine arching into his hands, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whisper, and then louder, filthier, “I love you so fucking much, Jeno— with my entire heart.” He groans like it undoes him, like that’s what he’s been racing toward this whole time.
You sink deeper into him with a sharp inhale, your head tilting back as your body takes all of him in one deep pull. He curses under his breath, hands scrambling to hold your waist steady as your walls flutter around him. You start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until he’s buried so deep you feel the tremor in his thighs. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there like he wants to mark it, but he doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the spot instead. Gentle. Lingering. “This,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your skin. “This is everything I didn’t know how to ask for.”
You rock against him with slow, aching purpose, your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest pressed to his like you’re trying to fuse together. Each thrust feels like a vow unspoken—like you’re rewriting the way your bodies understand each other. The seat creaks beneath you, windows fogging with heat, your moans low and broken as you chase the edge. He holds your gaze through it, eyes dark, lashes wet. “Don’t stop,” he breathes. “Please, don’t stop.” You don’t. You ride him until he’s shaking, until your thighs burn, until the only thing left in the universe is the way he fucks up into you, whispering things that sound like prayers but hit like promises.
When you come, it’s with his mouth on your chest, your name falling apart on his tongue. His orgasm follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills inside you, breath caught on a groan that curls straight into your spine. Afterwards, he doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the anchor and he’s been lost at sea. You press a kiss to his temple, then another to his collarbone, and feel the thud of his heart matching yours.
The windows are fogged. The world outside hums with what comes next—media, interviews, the shift of an industry—but none of that matters right now. Not when you’re still straddling him, still pressed chest to chest, still filled with everything you both needed to say and didn’t. You stroke his hair until he falls asleep against your skin, your palm steady over the back of his neck. Outside, the car glows beneath the pit lights like a secret. Inside, you close your eyes and breathe him in. This is where the story ends. Not with headlines. Not with a trophy. With a breath. A body. A boy. A promise.
And as you leaned your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, you whispered the last line of the story neither of you thought would be yours—
“We won.”
tag list — @clownnationrey @ohmysion @euphormiia @jaemjeno
asks, likes, reblogs and comments always welcome <3
accidentally falling back — lee jeno by @haeiheart [part two out of two]
summary! You were bored, a little tipsy, and way too online— so you tweeted a dramatic ranking of your exes, complete with oversharing and emotional damage. You didn’t think they’d actually see it, much less respond. But only one caught your eye. The quiet one. The one who never said much but always seemed to say the right thing. And somehow, Lee Jeno’s reply does something no one else’s could: it makes you feel everything all over again.
pairing! ex! lee jeno x reader genre! exes 2 lovers, slow burn?, second chance, fluff, angst (angst time people!!)
warnings/mentions! reader interacts with other ex dreamies! sakura (lsrfm) and jiwoong (zb1) as y/n best friends! they both painfully want each other! kind of stupid break up? jeno is a cutie (a real one at that) very sulky asw, not exactly miscom… but beware of the arguements that eventually happens. nct frat once again (bye i cant help myself), some 127 members appear!!!
notes! this is a continuation of “ranking dreamies as ex bfs! post!” I wasn’t planning to give it a written fic continuation but i caved in after someone asked for it which i will gladly give to yall!! i hope you enjoy the two parts i had to make because this was too long that it exceeded the word limit… also this was not proofread so umm hopefully there’s no embarrassing mistakes. here is the twitter thread also the context behind this fic -> here!
word count! 10.4k out of 34.6k
PART ONE -> here!
It didn’t take long after that night for things to fall into a new rhythm, if you could even call it that. A rhythm implies stability, some kind of predictable beat, and this? This thing between you and Jeno was a chaotic symphony of kisses stolen between class, fingers laced under the table at someone’s afterparty, him tugging you down onto his bed with that needy look in his eyes that made your knees weak no matter how many times you swore you’d “take it slow tonight.”
You still had your own apartment. Technically. But the truth was, you hadn’t slept there in days. Your spare toothbrush was now sitting in a cracked blue cup in the frat’s shared bathroom (Jaemin had stolen it once as a joke and Jeno nearly went to war for it). Your charger was permanently plugged into the outlet by Jeno’s bed. You knew which of the guys snored, which ones left the milk out, and who always tried to eavesdrop outside Jeno’s room whenever things got too quiet between you two.
You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it. You liked how easy it was to fall into Jeno’s world. How he’d quietly shuffle into the kitchen in the morning and pour you cereal before you’d even asked. How he’d tug you onto his lap during movie nights, arms caging you in like you belonged there. How he kissed you so often, so deeply, distractedly like he couldn’t help himself.
It was easy. Natural. Maybe even too natural.
Because then came the little cracks.
You’d been curled against him on a slow Thursday evening, your head on his chest while the movie played forgotten in the background. His fingers had lazily traced your spine through your shirt. And it was so intimate, so safe, you let yourself ask—
“Do you ever talk about me to the guys?”
Jeno hummed. “All the time.”
“What do you say?”
He didn’t answer immediately, just chuckled and tucked your hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “They know I’m crazy about you.”
Your heart fluttered at that but it wasn’t exactly what you’d asked. Still, you smiled, leaned into him. Let it go. For now.
Another time, someone had asked if you and Jeno were “a thing” in front of him. You froze, watching him expectantly. But Jeno had just laughed, mumbled something like “yeah, whatever you wanna call it,” before moving on to refill his drink. You told yourself not to read into it. You told yourself you knew how he felt.
But then came the silence in the quietest spaces. The kind that crept in after he kissed you goodnight, but didn’t say anything else. The kind that settled when you woke up next to him and he was already on his phone, scrolling through something with a sleepy smile, without a single word. Not cold. Not distant. Just… comfortably unbothered.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Because in his head, everything was fine. You were his. He treated you like it, talked to you like it, held you like it. But never once, not once, did he actually say the words.
And no matter how many kisses or lazy mornings or nights tangled in his sheets you shared, that absence began to echo.
You started to wonder if this was it. If this was all he’d give. If he thought the pieces he offered were enough to build a whole future on.
And maybe they should’ve been. But it was the not-knowing that killed you.
So when he held your hand under the table, when he brushed his lips over your knuckles with that soft smile, your stomach twisted. Because how could he not see it? How could he not know that you needed to hear it?
That love, real love, wasn’t always silent.
That sometimes, it needed to be said.
And yet… he hadn’t asked. Not officially. Not once.
He never said you’re mine or do you wanna be my girlfriend or even something low effort like so, this is a thing now, right? Nothing. Just the kisses. The clinginess. The soft smiles that felt like promises.
You didn’t know if it was just you overthinking, overreading. But at night, curled up beside him in that too small mattress, when he’d kiss your shoulder or whisper dumb things into your neck while half asleep, a part of you always wondered. Does he think this is real? Or am I just convenient now?
Jeno, on the other hand, had no clue you were spiraling. Because to him? You were his. Full stop. As far as he was concerned, the moment your lips crashed into his at that party, when you tangled your fingers in his hoodie and moaned into his mouth like you couldn’t get close enough, yeah, that was it. That was his internal “she’s mine now” switch flipping.
He didn’t need to ask. In his brain, the way he spoon-fed you spicy ramen when you were hungover, the way you wiped ketchup off his cheek with your thumb, the way you whispered his name when you were curled up in his sheets, that was already the answer.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to ask. It was just... he already believed it was true.
So he kissed you like he was kissing his girlfriend. He gave you that boyish, sleepy grin like you were his person. He curled his fingers around your waist under the covers like it was a given.
And you let him. Because you wanted it too. But still, something inside you itched every time someone referred to you as “Jeno’s girl,” and you couldn’t quite figure out if it made you warm or made you worry.
Still, neither of you said a word.
So days turned into weeks. Kisses turned into patterns. His room turned into a shared sanctuary. The boys rolled their eyes when you emerged from Jeno’s room wearing his hoodie again. You rolled yours back, but part of you loved it.
Because he looked at you like you were it.
And you touched him like he was yours.
But somewhere between his steady hands and your tangled sheets, a question was still waiting to be answered.
And neither of you knew when or if it’d finally come out.
The memories you had with Jeno after the kiss were the ones you found yourself replaying at the oddest moments. Half asleep at your desk. In line at the campus café. Walking home after class with your headphones in but no music playing. They weren’t just memories, they were anchors. Little flashes of warmth that reminded you how real it all felt.
You remembered the late night he’d taken you to the bookstore downtown. It had been pouring, and instead of waiting for the rain to let up, he grabbed your hand and ran for it, both of you slipping and shrieking through puddles until you slammed into the warm glass doors. You were both soaked. The store was nearly empty. The clerk gave you a look that screamed please don’t drip on the papers.
But Jeno had just laughed and pulled you deeper into the aisles. You ended up huddled together in the graphic novel section, reading snippets out loud to each other in the soft, fluorescent glow. He pointed to a panel and went, “That’s you. The chaotic raccoon character,” and you slapped his arm. “Excuse me, I’m obviously the heroine. You’re the one with the emotionally repressed villain arc.”
He just grinned. “Can’t lie, I do like knives.”
You kissed him in the corner of that bookstore, rain still lashing the windows, and he held you like he never wanted to let go.
Then there was the night he made dinner at the frat house, like actual dinner, not cereal or ramen. He’d kicked everyone out of the kitchen and cooked while you sat on the counter, watching him dance to some dorky playlist.
He’d stirred pasta like it was a military operation, then turned to you, tomato sauce on his cheek. “Chef Lee Jeno’s specialty,” he’d announced proudly, handing you a bowl.
You blinked. “This is just spaghetti.”
“Shut up and eat it.”
You did. It was salty. Horrible. He looked so smug.
You kissed him anyway.
There was also that time he surprised you with a thrift store date and said you both had ten dollars and thirty minutes to find the dumbest outfit possible for each other. You’d picked out a neon green windbreaker and a trucker hat that said “MILF hunter” (which he wore for the rest of the day, unironically). He chose a ruffled pink blouse and sparkly tights for you and nearly cried from laughter when you walked out of the dressing room.
“It’s giving... magical disco grandma,” he gasped, leaning on the nearest rack to keep himself from falling over.
You were breathless from laughing too hard. “You’re so lucky I like you.”
And then he’d said it.
So soft you almost missed it.
“I’m lucky, period.”
Your heart had clenched. You didn’t say anything. But you held his hand for the rest of the day like you were afraid it might slip out of yours.
Those moments were yours. Undeniably.
But still.
Still, he never clarified anything.
He never called you his girlfriend. Never said it out loud. Never had the “talk.” And at first, you didn’t need it. You didn’t even want it. The feelings were too new, too tender, too beautiful to define so soon. But days blurred into nights and weeks into months, and each kiss piled on top of the last like bricks in a home you weren’t sure you were allowed to claim.
You’d spend a full afternoon with him and go home aching with joy… only to spiral at 1 a.m. because someone asked if you were together and you didn’t know how to answer.
Because what if you said yes and he said no?
What if you looked at him and saw a future and he looked at you and only saw now?
You didn’t want to ruin it by asking. But not asking was starting to ruin you.
So you let the memories carry you, like echoes of a love story halfway written. You held on to the laughter, the cooking disasters, the way he said your name like it was something sacred.
But somewhere in between all the soft touches and jokes and early mornings with tangled sheets and tangled hearts, the silence had grown too loud.
And all you wanted more than anything was for him to say it.
Just once.
You didn’t plan to go insane. Honestly, you didn’t even realize you were insane, not at first. It wasn’t dramatic, not this grand emotional unraveling. It was smaller than that. Quieter. Just little things you’d been stuffing into the corners of your mind for weeks. A slow, creeping discomfort you couldn’t name at the time. Things like the glance Jeno didn’t return when you looked at him too long. Or the way his fingers sometimes brushed yours without catching, without holding on. The way he touched you so gently, so confidently, like you belonged to him already.
Like he’d already decided you were his without ever asking if you agreed.
And maybe that was the part that made your chest ache the most. That somewhere along the way, the affection turned habitual. The kisses came easier than words. The late nights curled into each other’s limbs began to feel like routines. But in all the moments of closeness, you were still waiting. Waiting for the part where he said it. Where he made it real. Where it wasn't just the way he smiled at you like a promise, but the way he said it out loud, clear and honest.
You didn’t need grand gestures or some romantic speech. You just needed the clarity that you were his girl and not just because you acted like it.
Which is why it hit you sideways that afternoon, lazily folded into the lumpy couch in the frat house living room, with Jaehyun’s voice pulling you out of your thoughts mid conversation. You were talking about your evening plans, maybe grabbing drinks with Kkura, maybe seeing if Jaemin wanted to go somewhere stupid like that claw machine café you both found hilarious.
“Oh, I should probably text Jaem back too,” you said without much thought, aimlessly scrolling through your phone. “We all might grab dinner near his old place.”
Jaehyun looked up from his drink, expression half focused, brows lifting slightly. “That cool with Jeno?”
You blinked, still caught in the haze of your phone screen. “What?”
He gave you a mild shrug, like it wasn’t even a weird question. “Just figured. I mean, you two are basically joined at the hip. Thought he’d be coming with or something.”
You tilted your head, genuinely confused. “Why would I have to run it by him?”
Jaehyun paused, squinting like he was making sure you were serious. “...Because you’re dating?”
Your heart skipped something ugly. “Wait, what?”
His face changed then, surprise softening into disbelief. “You’re not?”
You sat up straighter, like your body was trying to escape the weight of the conversation. “No. We’re not. He never—” You faltered. “We never talked about it.” Though you had been feeling down about it, you wouldn't have guessed everybody thought that you two were real. Everybody felt that you two were real, besides you.
Jaehyun’s lips parted, like he had more questions, but he stopped himself. Instead, he leaned back, blowing out a slow breath, gaze flicking toward the wall like it held better answers than you did. “Huh. Wild.” He didn’t sound judgy. Just surprised. “Could’ve sworn. You two act like… you know.”
“Yeah,” you said, quieter now. “I know.”
He nodded, not pushing. “Well. Shit. You guys do you, I guess.”
That was it. That was all.
And somehow, it felt like your entire chest caved in.
Because it wasn’t just Jaehyun. It wasn’t just some misunderstanding. It was that everyone thought you were already something. And maybe Jeno thought that too. But you didn’t know for sure, not really, and the fact that you had to hear it from someone else before confronting it yourself? That made it worse.
Worse than every unspoken kiss. Worse than every moment you leaned into him and felt him hesitate. Worse than the fact that it wasn’t even the first time you'd wondered, is this it? Is this enough?
Now you were left with the awful question of why he hadn’t said anything. Why he hadn’t asked. Why did he look at you like you were his but never gave you the courtesy of making it true?
The couch suddenly felt suffocating. The frat house is too loud. Your throat thickened with the weight of pretending you hadn’t just been gutted by the simplest misunderstanding in the world.
Because maybe that’s all it was to him. Just something simple. Just assumed.
But not real.
Not to you.
It started accidentally.
You didn’t mean to start spending every day with Jaemin, Kkura, and somehow Haechan. But after that offhand conversation with Jaehyun left your stomach in knots, the idea of returning to the frat house felt suffocating. You needed air, space, clarity, and without meaning to, Jaemin gave it to you.
It started with a casual text:
[jaemin]: “yo i need you to save me. I almost bought cargo pants with embroidered skulls.”
He was joking. Probably. But you were already halfway to the thrift strip he mentioned before he could follow up with a location pin. And somewhere between talking him out of the skull pants and getting into a passive aggressive argument over which candle scent was more “emotionally healing,” Haechan appeared. Apparently, he and Jaemin bonded over beer pong at the last party, and now, somehow, Haechan was just there.
You might’ve raised an eyebrow at first, but then Kkura showed up for “moral support” and just like that, the four of you were a unit.
One day melted into the next, coffees that turned into late lunches, spontaneous thrift store raids, trips to claw machine arcades where Haechan kept winning tiny plushies and pretending to give them away before stuffing them in his own pockets. Jaemin dragged you into dressing rooms just to spin dramatically in jackets he wasn’t going to buy, and Kkura began documenting every hangout with blurry candids, some of which were suspiciously well-timed to catch your reactions to Haechan’s dumb jokes.
You'd barely notice when the sun dipped below the horizon because you were too busy arguing with Jaemin over whether or not a hideous crocheted vest counted as “ironic hot.”
“It’s giving... decaying garden gnome,” you told him, arms crossed, tilting your head at his reflection in the dusty thrift store mirror.
“Exactly,” Jaemin said, striking a pose like he was on a runway. “Avant-garde. Revolutionary. I am fashion.”
“You are delusional,” Haechan muttered from the corner, clutching three different denim jackets he was trying to get you all to help him pick between.
“Take the one that doesn’t make you look like a backup dancer in an early 2000s boy band,” Kkura offered, barely glancing up from her phone as she snapped a picture of Jaemin mid-pose.
It was blurry, but your laugh in the background was clear. She smirked. “That’s going on the album.”
There was an album. Kkura had started it half as a joke, uploading blurry candids of the four of you under the group chat name: Himbohub.
Most of them were from the arcade. That became your usual stop after class when no one wanted to go home just yet. It was loud and colorful and kind of sticky, but in a charming, childhood nostalgia way. Haechan took the claw machines as a personal challenge. He won something almost every time, usually a squishy animal or one of those weird bootleg characters that looked just off enough to be cursed.
“This one’s for you,” he said solemnly, holding out a wonky looking pink cat with one eye half-sewn shut.
Your hand had barely reached out when he jerked it away.
“Psyche. She’s mine now.” And he shoved it into his hoodie pocket like it was treasure.
You hit him. He grinned like it was worth it.
Jaemin, meanwhile, kept wasting tokens on the photo booth, not for the photos, but because he liked watching the countdown stress you out.
“Three… two— oh no you blinked, let’s do another.”
“I swear to God, if I see one more photo of me mid-blink—”
“Too late. Already printed. Frame it for your wall.”
Kkura usually sat on the edge of the dance game machine, snapping pictures, yelling out scores, and stealing sips from whatever drink was closest. She once forced you and Jaemin to compete on DDR, but Jaemin started voguing halfway through and lost spectacularly.
“Performance over perfection,” he said, flipping imaginary hair as Haechan booed him.
You’d find yourself laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Sweating from too many games, buzzing from sugar and soda and the warmth of having people who made the world feel big and safe and full of light.
You’d pile into someone’s car after, limbs tangled, fries shared, music blasting. Sometimes you’d end up back at your place, all of you crashing into the couch, talking about everything and nothing.
“Do you think ghosts get bored?” Kkura asked once, lying upside down with her legs thrown over the back of the sofa.
“They haunt people for fun, I think they’re good,” Haechan replied, mouth full of Cheetos.
“I hope I come back as one that just steals socks,” Jaemin added.
You had no idea how the conversation had ended up there, but you didn’t care. The night stretched on and on like it didn’t have to end.
Somewhere in between, Jaemin started walking closer to Haechan, their shoulders brushing more than necessary. Kkura began taking photos without telling anyone, catching the little in-between moments. Haechan started giving away his plushies without faking it. And you started feeling... good again. For the first time in a while.
They weren’t trying to fix you.
They were just with you.
Present.
Loud.
Warm.
And every time you laughed so hard you had to cover your face, every time Haechan shoved a drink into your hand or Jaemin swung an arm over your shoulder or Kkura silently handed you a tissue after an emotional overshare, you felt a little more like you again.
Even if the ache of Jeno still hovered under your skin like a bruise, even if his name still lived quietly in your mouth, even if your heart still tripped over itself every time your phone lit up...
For a while, in those days, in that haze of fried food and photo booth printouts and claw machine prizes, you almost forgot to hurt.
Almost.
It felt easy for now. Light. Uncomplicated in the way your life hadn’t been for a while.
Which is why, when Jaemin casually said, “Let’s swing by the house real quick, I forgot my charger in the living room,” you didn’t even blink.
You followed him up the walk to the frat house, familiar steps but a completely different feeling in your chest. The four of you were still talking as you came in through the side door, laughter carrying as you stepped into the kitchen. Haechan was saying something stupid, something about how you all should enter a reality show together as “the hot disaster friend group” and you were still wiping tears from your eyes when the air shifted.
It was small. Subtle.
But you felt it. That shift.
And then came the voice. Low. Pissy.
“What is he doing here?”
You froze like the words had been pointed directly at you. And in a way, they were.
Jeno stood just past the kitchen threshold, hand curled around a bottle of water, eyes locked on Haechan with something sharp in them. He didn’t even look at the rest of the group. Just you. Then Haechan. Then you again.
Your throat went dry. “We’re just hanging out.”
Jeno scoffed. Not even subtle about it. “Yeah, I can see that. Been doing a lot of that lately, huh?”
Jaemin’s brows furrowed immediately. “Yo, what’s your problem?”
“My problem?” Jeno’s voice dipped lower. “I haven’t seen her in days, and suddenly she’s just hanging out with—” his gaze flicked to Haechan again, “randoms.”
“We’re not randoms,” Kkura cut in sharply, her tone clipped. “Chill.”
But you were already stepping forward, heart thudding hard. “Jen, what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer you right away. Just looked at you with that same expression, something tight in his jaw, in his shoulders. It wasn’t just irritation. It was that ugly, festering thing that had clearly been building. And now it was cracking through the surface.
“Why are you hanging out with him?” he asked, barely masking the frustration. “Of all people?”
You blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Haechan,” he clarified, like it wasn’t obvious. “Your ex?”
You stared at him. “Jaemin is also my ex.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not,” you snapped, eyes narrowing. “What’s your deal?”
“My deal is we’re dating.”
The words hit like a slap.
The silence that followed was loud, too loud. You could hear the soft hum of the fridge, the distant noise of someone moving upstairs. And you could feel every eye in the room shift between you and Jeno, but it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was the way your heart stuttered in your chest.
You stepped closer, voice suddenly low. “No we aren't you never asked…you thought we were dating?”
Jeno looked at you, confusion threading through the anger now. “Yeah? I mean, we’re always together. We’re kissing. We sleep next to each other. You’re always at the house.”
“And you never asked me,” you said, your voice cracking just slightly. “You never asked. You never even talked to me about it. You just assumed.”
Jeno opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him.
“You assumed I was yours because you touched me like I was. You kissed me like I was. But none of that ever came with a conversation, Jeno. None of it came with a single goddamn word. You just started acting like we were something and thought that was enough.”
He looked stunned. Like he couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. “I didn’t think I had to say it. I thought it was obvious.”
You let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Well, it wasn’t. And now I’m standing here, trying to explain why I’m allowed to hang out with my friends, and you’re losing your shit over something you never even claimed.”
Jeno looked at you, eyes wide, hurt, finally sinking in behind the disbelief.
“I’m not your girlfriend,” you said, voice shaking. “Because you never made me one.”
No one said anything.
Jaemin’s eyes dropped. Haechan looked away. Kkura put a gentle hand on your arm, but you barely felt it.
Jeno looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
But you didn’t take it back.
You couldn’t.
Because the truth was, no matter how many kisses, how many laughs, how many nights tangled together on that shitty frat couch, none of it meant anything if it never came with a choice. A real one.
And you were done waiting to be chosen silently.
You didn’t even realize how tense your hands were until Kkura gently touched your arm. Just enough pressure to ground you. Just enough to remind you that you were standing in a room with three of your closest friends and Jeno was about to unravel something personal in front of all of them.
You could feel their eyes on you, Jaemin’s confusion, Haechan’s discomfort, Kkura’s concern and the longer you stood there, the more your pulse pounded like a war drum in your ears.
“We’re not doing this here,” you muttered, shooting a pointed look at Jeno.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. Silent, jaw tight, he followed you down the hallway to the same spare room you’d stormed into days ago, only this time the air was already thick before the door even shut.
You turned to face him. Your arms were crossed, but it wasn’t for defense, it was to keep yourself from shaking.
“What the fuck is going on with you?” you asked, sharp.
“Yes, I’m serious!” you snapped, taking a step forward. “You humiliated me back there in front of everyone because what— you’re mad that I haven’t been glued to your side for three fucking days?”
“I’m mad because you’ve been with him!” Jeno shouted back. “You and Haechan and Jaemin, running around like— like none of this means anything to you.”
Your chest caved with disbelief. “None of this means anything to me? Are you listening to yourself right now?”
“You didn’t even tell me where you were,” he said, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair. “You just disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear. I needed some goddamn space, Jeno. Because being with you feels like trying to read between the lines of something that never fucking ends.”
He stepped closer, voice rising. “You could’ve just said that.”
“I have! I’ve been trying to talk to you, trying to figure out where I stand, but every time I get close to asking, you kiss me instead or look at me like I’m already yours.”
“Because you are.”
“No, I’m fucking not!” you yelled. “You never asked. You never chose me, not really. You just assumed I was yours because it was convenient.”
Jeno looked like you’d slapped him. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is being strung along like this,” you said, voice breaking. “You get all the perks of being with me, but none of the responsibility.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s not true.”
“Then what are we, Jeno?” you asked, pushing the words out like venom. “Because I’m tired. I’m tired of pretending to be okay with not knowing what we are. With everyone else thinking I’m your girlfriend, while I sit there not even knowing if you’d claim me if someone asked you to your face.”
He exhaled sharply, eyes gleaming with something, rage or pain or both. “You want me to say it now, then? Is that what this is?”
“I want you to stop acting like loving me is implied!” you shouted. “Like I should just know!”
He looked at you, something behind his eyes shifting, snapping.
His voice snapped louder than you expected. “Well, maybe I didn’t think I needed the label when you were already acting like you’d say yes to anyone who gave you attention.”
Silence.
It was one of those moments where the world didn’t stop, it just went quiet.
Your heart dropped.
He saw it the second it hit you, the way your expression shifted, like the words physically landed. Like they’d taken root in the one place he swore he’d never aim to hurt.
Your voice, when it came, was hoarse. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
Jeno’s face paled, the words hanging in the air like smoke.
“I didn’t mean—” he started.
“No,” you cut in, your tone cold, shaking, wounded. “No, say it again. You think I’d say yes to anyone? Is that what all of this was to you? Me being easy? Me being just another girl who gives you attention or seeks it?”
“Y/N, that’s not—”
“Save it.”
He reached for you, but you took another step back like his hand might burn.
And it did. It would’ve.
You weren’t even sure if it was anger or heartbreak swelling in your chest, but whatever it was, it made it hard to breathe.
“I can’t believe you just said that to me,” you whispered.
And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, quiet, final, leaving Jeno alone with the echo of his own mistake.
It was silent after the door slammed shut.
Too silent.
You didn’t say a word when you walked back into the kitchen, face blank, fingers curled tightly around the edge of your phone. Jaemin, Haechan, and Kkura all looked up at you, wide-eyed, waiting, but no one pushed you for anything. You didn’t need to say what happened. Not really. It was all too loud in that house, even when no one was speaking.
“Get your shoes,” Jaemin said gently, standing.
“Wha— Jaem, it’s not—”
“We’re going out,” Kkura added, taking your hand before you could protest further. “You need a change of air. And probably sugar.”
Haechan stood too, more serious than usual. “We’ll trash talk him later.”
You let out the tiniest, exhausted laugh, and that was enough for them to rally. Ten minutes later you were out of that house and in the passenger seat of Jaemin’s car with your knees pulled to your chest, the wind pulling at your hair through the window crack. You didn’t even know where you were headed, just that it wasn’t back in there.
The rest of the day blurred.
A quiet lunch at a half empty diner, milkshakes passed around, bad gossip and even worse impressions of your professors. Jaemin forced you to help him shop for an ugly beanie “for the sake of fashion crimes,” and Kkura pulled you into a skincare aisle like your life depended on you finally buying lip balm that wasn’t expired. Haechan, for once, didn’t push too many jokes, just stuck close, annoyingly gentle in the way only he could get away with.
“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” he muttered when he bought you that pastry you barely glanced at.
You didn’t say it aloud, but you knew what they were doing. You knew it was a distraction, a giant group hug disguised as retail therapy and chaos. And it worked, kind of. The ache was still there, lodged under your ribs, but it didn’t choke you the way it had earlier. At least not with them.
Meanwhile—
Jeno didn’t leave his room.
He hadn’t moved much since you walked out. The door stayed shut. The blinds stayed down. His phone buzzed a few times, probably Jaemin or even Kkura trying to feel things out, but he didn’t look at it. He didn’t want to look at anything.
What he said played on loop.
He hadn’t meant it, not like that. Not to cut you like he did. But the words had flown out sharp, too fast to catch, and by the time he saw your face, it was too late.
Now the guilt sat in his chest like concrete, weighing down every breath, every thought. The silence was loud. The house didn’t feel like home with you gone, and the room felt colder with the echo of your voice still bouncing off the walls.
And Jeno, for once, didn’t know how to fix it.
You were fine.
Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself like a mantra. The kind of lie you repeat until it sounds true. Like if you stared at your reflection long enough and said, “I’m fine” with the right tilt of your head, the puffy eyes and cracked lips would look intentional like maybe you’d chosen to fall apart a little, like it was a vibe.
But the truth was uglier. It sat heavy in your chest, coiled somewhere between your lungs and your throat, stubborn and choking. You hadn’t touched your assignments. You hadn’t left your apartment since you stormed back from the frat house three nights ago. Your coat still hung half-off the hook by the door, the sleeves twisted like they’d given up mid-shrug. The air inside felt stale, thick with the scent of uneaten leftovers and lavender wax melts that had long burned out.
The first night you didn’t cry. Not really. You just lay there fully clothed, face buried in the pillow Jeno used to sleep on when he stayed over. You’d kept it there even after he started asking you to stay at his place more often. You said it was “for backup.” But really, you just liked how it smelled like him. Now it didn’t. It smelled like time passing. Like something fading.
It wasn’t until the second day, when you opened the fridge looking for something, anything, to fill the silence, that it hit you. The coconut yogurt. The stupid probiotic coconut yogurt Jeno made fun of and then started buying for you anyway because he said, “Fine, be healthy and mysterious.” You stared at it, hand frozen on the fridge door, and everything unspooled. Your throat burned. Your chest cracked. And you cried, not in the gentle, cinematic way people cry in the movies, but in hiccuping sobs that came out too fast to breathe through. You slid down to the floor in front of the fridge and wept until your hands went numb from clutching your knees so hard.
You didn’t call anyone. But they showed up anyway.
Kkura was the first. She didn’t knock. Just let herself in, arms full of iced americanos, her bag weighed down with a ridiculous number of face masks. “Get up,” she said, as gently as possible. “We’re not doing this.” You blinked at her from the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like old detergent and defeat. She handed you a drink and held up a pastel pink sheet mask. “We’re exfoliating the sadness today, babe. You don’t get a say.”
A few hours later, Haechan let himself in with his usual flair, kicking the door open like he owned the place. “Emergency delivery!” he sang, hoisting up an obnoxiously large pizza box. Two flavors of soju dangled from his fingers. “Healing comes in slices, bitch!” He didn’t wait for an invite, just made a beeline for your bed and collapsed onto it, scattering your pillows like flower petals. “What do we think? dramatic crying playlist, or trashy Netflix romance marathon?”
Jaemin trailed in after, as if he hadn’t spent fifteen minutes arguing about whether or not to come. He dramatically flopped onto the floor, arms splayed like he was in a crime scene photo. “I brought emotional support gummies,” he announced, shaking a bag of sour candies like they were sacred. “Also, I wore this shirt because I know you hate it and thought maybe insulting your eyes would distract you from your existential collapse.”
You peeked up from your blanket cocoon. “I don’t hate that shirt.”
“Yes you do,” he scoffed. “It’s literally neon.”
Somewhere in the mess of wine-stained paper cups, greasy pizza crusts, and Haechan trying to teach Kkura how to do a TikTok dance while balancing a slice of pepperoni on his head, you laughed. Just a little. Just once. But it cracked through the fog like sunlight.
The next night, Jiwoong FaceTimed you from a beach you didn’t recognize. The ocean stretched behind him in shades of blue that looked fake, the kind you’d only see in ads. He answered without a hello, tilting his head at the sight of your face and greeting you flatly with: “You look like you’ve been losing a custody battle with your emotional stability.”
Your lips twitched. “You’re in a postcard and still bullying me?”
“I’m multitasking.” He angled the camera to a puppy lying belly up in the sand, tongue flopped sideways like it had never known hardship in its life. “This is you. No thoughts, just vibes. You’ll be back to this version of yourself soon.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I’m trying.”
“I know. That’s why I called.” He paused, the sound of seagulls echoing in the distance. “You need me to fly back and beat him up?”
You choked a laugh. “No. Maybe.”
“I’ll bring churros.”
“Okay, that’s tempting.”
And in the quiet moments between calls, in the laughter that felt just a little forced but still better than silence, you started to feel like maybe you’d be okay.
You weren’t there yet.
But god, you were so lucky to be loved like this.
However on the other side…
Jeno hadn’t left his room in three days.
The air inside felt stale. His sheets were tangled around his legs, hoodie tossed somewhere across the room like it couldn’t bear to stay on him. His phone lay face down on the desk, buzzing a few times that morning but he ignored it.
He couldn’t tell if he was still angry or just…hollow.
His mind kept going back to the look on your face when he said it. That sharp second where your expression cracked like glass. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even look surprised. Just hurt. Tired. Like you’d finally hit the wall you’d been dancing around.
And then you left.
He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve run after you. But instead, he just sat there, mouth still parted like a fucking idiot, the weight of his own words echoing in his chest.
It wasn’t until the third night, after skipping dinner, again, and hearing a faint knock on his door for the fifth time that the sound of the lock clicking open made him sit up.
He expected Jungwoo or Jaemin.
He did not expect Johnny to walk in, followed by Jaehyun, Doyoung, and Yuta, holding a tray of food and a six pack of soda.
“Okay,” Johnny said, glancing around. “This is disgusting.”
“Jesus,” Doyoung muttered, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like sadness and Doritos in here.”
“I bet he hasn’t showered,” Yuta added, eyeing Jeno. “Have you showered?”
“Leave him alone,” Jaehyun said mildly. “We’re here for a heart to heart, not an intervention.”
“I’m fine,” Jeno croaked, voice dry.
“No, you’re not,” Johnny said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Which is why we’re here.”
They didn’t force him to talk right away. Just passed him the food and turned on some shitty rerun of a zombie drama they all half watched. It was quiet, strangely comforting. But after the silence stretched long enough, Jeno sighed and set down the sandwich he hadn’t touched.
“I fucked up,” he said.
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “We know. We heard.”
“I said something worse than I ever should’ve said to her. I didn’t mean it the way it came out, I just…” He rubbed his eyes. “I was so angry and scared and fuck, I was jealous. I didn’t even think. And now she probably hates me.”
“Jealous of Haechan?” Jaehyun asked.
Jeno nodded. “But it wasn’t just him. It was all of it. Her being gone. Hanging out with other people. Laughing with them and not me. I thought we were…” He trailed off.
“You thought you were dating,” Doyoung filled in.
Jeno looked down. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
Yuta leaned forward. “But you never asked?”
Jeno shook his head. “I just thought… I don’t know. We were acting like it. It felt like it. She stayed over. We kissed. She laughed at my dumb jokes. She wore my hoodie.”
“Bro,” Johnny said, deadpan. “You just described half the frat. That’s not a relationship.”
“That’s a sleepover,” Doyoung added.
Jeno dropped his face into his hands with a groan.
“I should’ve just said something. I thought if I asked, I’d mess it up somehow, or she’d get scared off. I thought if I held onto it tight enough, it’d be real.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Jaehyun said, not unkindly.
“I know that now,” Jeno muttered. “She was right. She waited. I didn’t ask. I made her feel like she wasn’t worth the actual words.”
“Sounds like you need to say them now,” Yuta said.
“Yeah, like yesterday,” Doyoung muttered.
“But how?” Jeno whispered, looking up. “She probably doesn’t want to see me again. I said something that if someone said that to her, I’d punch them.”
“She might be mad, yeah,” Johnny said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “But if you mean it, if you’re honest, if you’re real, she’ll hear you out. If you care about her, and you want to do this right, you have to start with accountability. No excuses. Just truth.”
Jeno laughed, weak but real, and the others chuckled with him.
But even with the weight still heavy in his chest, something in him settled. Maybe it was the clarity. Maybe it was just hearing it all out loud. But he knew what he had to do now.
Whether you wanted him back or not he needed to tell you that you were always worth the words.
Before this interrogation It had been four days since anyone had heard Jeno’s voice through the door.
Jaemin hadn’t pushed.
He hadn’t knocked more than once. Hadn’t tried to start some forced, clumsy heart to heart the way others might have. Because Jaemin knew Jeno, knew that the kid only came out when he was ready, when the storm had passed far enough that he could walk through the wreckage without shaking.
Still, that didn’t stop him from checking in the only way he knew how.
A bowl of rice. A cup of miso soup. Sometimes instant ramen, other times leftovers from whatever late lunch Jaemin grabbed with you and the others. He’d quietly leave the tray just outside Jeno’s door before retreating back downstairs, back to the makeshift “therapy hangouts” with you, Kkura, and Haechan.
He didn’t talk about Jeno during those meetups.
Didn’t talk about you when he was home.
It was hard. Torn didn’t even begin to describe it.
But this was how he could at least care for both of you. Quietly, in the background, where his loyalty didn’t have to be loud or obvious or make anyone choose.
So that morning, just like the others, Jaemin reheated some dumplings and poured a bit of tea into a small insulated bottle. It wasn’t fancy. But it was warm. It was something.
He was halfway down the hallway, tray in hand, yawning as he turned the corner, when the sound of a door creaking open made him stop short.
And there Jeno was.
Hair still damp from a long overdue shower. Face bare, hoodie replaced by a fresh t-shirt. He looked tired, but cleaner. Human again.
And he was staring at Jaemin.
More specifically, at the tray in Jaemin’s hands.
They stood there in silence for a second. Not tense. Not quite awkward either. Just… unsure. Cautious. Like two friends on opposite sides of a line neither of them meant to draw.
Jeno’s gaze dropped to the dumplings, then back to Jaemin’s eyes.
A beat passed. Then he gave a soft, crooked smile. The kind that didn’t reach all the way to his cheeks but still managed to feel real.
“I guess it was you,” Jeno murmured. “You’re the one who’s been feeding me.”
Jaemin didn’t move at first. Then his lips twitched into something close to a smirk.
“Well,” he said, voice dry, “you clearly weren’t going to feed yourself.”
Jeno chuckled, just barely. “Fair.”
Another pause. Jaemin stared at him, then finally extended the tray. Jeno reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edge.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Jaemin shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. They both knew that.
Jeno looked at him again, something fragile in his expression. “I heard you were with them a lot. With her.”
“Yeah.” Jaemin’s tone didn’t waver. “She needed people.”
Jeno didn’t ask if she’d talked about him. Didn’t ask if she cried. He just nodded, lips pressed in a line. “Makes sense.”
They stood there again in the quiet.
And then Jaemin exhaled. “I’m mad at you,” he said bluntly. “You know that, right?”
Jeno nodded again. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know how long I will be. But I still care. So… don’t starve. Or die. Or whatever.” His voice softened at the end. “That’d piss me off even more.”
Jeno huffed, biting back a tiny smile. “Got it.”
Jaemin gave a short nod and started walking away, but not before glancing over his shoulder once.
“You’re gonna have to fix it yourself,” he said. “If she ever lets you.”
Then he disappeared around the corner.
Jeno stood there, holding the tray.
And for the first time in days, he felt the smallest flicker of hope pulse somewhere inside his chest.
It started with a text.
[jeno]: hey. Can we talk?
You didn’t answer.
The screen stayed quiet for an hour. Then another.
Then another text.
[jeno]: i get it if you’re not ready. just… please let me know you’re okay.
Still nothing.
The next morning, he tried again.
[jeno]: i shouldn’t have said what i said.
[jeno]: i didn’t mean it.
[jeno]: i was angry and stupid. and scared.
He waited. Refreshed the screen. Waited some more.
You saw it. You always did. But your fingers never moved. You couldn’t make them. Not when the sound of his voice in your head still made your chest twist. Not when the memory of him, of that night, still throbbed like a bruise under your skin.
Jeno started calling.
The first time, you watched it ring out.
The second time, you let it go after two seconds.
The third, your phone buzzed in your hand while you were out with Jaemin and Kkura, and Jaemin glanced over with a tight expression, like he wanted to answer for you.
You tucked it back in your pocket and said nothing.
He stopped calling after that.
Two days passed.
You assumed he got the hint.
But you should’ve known better.
Because when the knock came that night, gentle, tentative, barely there, you thought it might be Kkura. Maybe even Jaemin, checking in. But when you opened the door, your heart stumbled.
Jeno stood there.
Not in frat clothes. Not with that hood pulled low over his eyes like he’d been avoiding the world.
He looked… like he tried.
Hair brushed down neatly. Sweater a little wrinkled. Eyes tired. Hopeful. Frantic. He’d showered, you could tell. He looked cleaner, less like the shell he’d been hiding inside. But his expression was barely holding together.
Your breath caught.
“Hi,” he said, voice rough. “I know I shouldn’t have come here. But you weren’t answering and I—I didn’t know what else to do.”
You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, like if you blinked, he’d disappear.
Jeno shifted, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Please, Y/N. Just let me talk. I won’t push for anything. I just—let me be in the same room as you again.”
You looked at him. The small way his chest rose and fell like he hadn’t breathed right since that night. The way his hands trembled slightly, fists unclenching at his sides.
You were angry. Still were. Still hurt.
But something in you, the part that once stayed up talking with him until 3 a.m., the part that remembered his dumb laugh in between kisses and how he’d hold your hand without thinking, couldn’t close the door.
You stepped aside.
He didn’t move until you spoke.
“Come in,” you said, quietly.
And Jeno, relieved, stunned, exhausted, stepped over the threshold like it might break him.
You didn’t say anything after he stepped inside. Just walked back toward your small living room and left the door slightly ajar, like maybe you still hadn’t decided if you wanted to keep him in or not.
Jeno followed slowly, quietly, like he was afraid any sudden movement might make you vanish. His eyes scanned the room, the half empty cup on the coffee table, the throw blanket you’d probably curled up under when you weren’t speaking to him, your phone tossed aside, screen dark.
You sat on the edge of the couch and didn’t look at him.
He stayed standing.
And then he started.
“I meant to say it.”
Your gaze flickered up, sharp, uncertain. He swallowed.
“I meant to say I wanted to be with you. That I already felt like I was. That I didn’t realize how fucking much it meant to say it out loud until it was already too late.”
You said nothing. Just pulled your sleeves over your hands, eyes low.
Jeno sighed, stepping closer but still giving you space. “I thought we were on the same page. I know that sounds stupid now, but I really thought… you felt what I felt. I thought we didn’t need to talk about it because it was just there, in the way we were with each other. In the way I looked at you. How I always wanted to be around you. How I couldn’t sleep unless I was texting you goodnight, or hearing you breathe next to me.”
You looked away.
“I didn’t say it because I was scared,” he continued, voice cracking now. “I didn’t want to ruin whatever we had. I thought if I pushed too much, or made it official, you’d think it was too much too fast. You’d… leave. I didn’t want to risk losing you.”
You didn’t answer, but your shoulders tensed.
He noticed. And for a moment, he was quiet again. Then—
“But that’s not an excuse. I should’ve said something. I should’ve fucking said something the first time we kissed, or the morning after, or that time you stayed over and didn’t even bother with your apartment for three days. I should’ve asked. I should’ve told you you weren’t just some girl I was messing around with. You’re not. You never were.”
He rubbed a hand down his face, voice hoarse. “I didn’t just like you, Y/N. I loved you. I still do.”
You blinked hard. Your throat burned, but you kept your jaw locked.
“I know I hurt you,” he said, softer now. “That night… I was frustrated. I was confused, and I saw you laughing with him, Haechan, of all people, and it just flipped something in me. It wasn’t about trust. It wasn’t even jealousy, not really. It was fear. Because for once, I actually had something I didn’t want to lose.”
You finally looked at him then, and something about your expression made him pause. You weren’t angry. Not exactly.
You were exhausted.
So he kept going.
“You don’t owe me forgiveness. Or another chance. I get that. But I needed to come here because… I needed you to hear it from me. Not through a text. Not through Jaemin. Me. I wanted to tell you I was wrong. That I shouldn’t have expected you to just know what we were. I should’ve said it. I should’ve asked you.”
He looked down, hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like an option. I never wanted that. Not for you. Not for us.”
He took a shaky breath.
“And I’m sorry I said what I said that night. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”
The room fell silent. You stared at the wall past him. Your throat was so tight it ached, your chest heavier than it had been in days.
When you finally spoke, your voice was low.
“You really hurt me.”
Jeno looked up slowly, like the words had physically struck him.
You still didn’t meet his eyes.
“I thought I was going crazy,” you said. “One day we’re acting like we’ve been together forever, and the next I’m being avoided when it comes to the serious questions. That it almost felt like you didn’t think I’d stay.”
Jeno opened his mouth to say something, but you kept going.
“You didn’t say it, Jeno. You didn’t ask. You just… assumed. And then got mad when I didn’t read your mind.”
He shut his mouth. Nodded once, tightly.
You took a breath. It hurt. “I needed to hear it. I needed to know I wasn’t just building something out of nothing. And when I didn’t hear it, when you didn’t say it, I started to believe maybe I made it all up.”
That broke him a little.
You could see it in the way his shoulders folded inward, in the flicker of panic across his face. Like he was suddenly watching every moment with you through your eyes, and finally saw the cracks.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time.
You nodded, arms hugging yourself. “I know.”
And then neither of you spoke. The silence didn’t feel peaceful—it felt fragile, like something raw still bleeding just under the surface.
Jeno stepped forward, one pace.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
You looked at him. Finally. “Then don’t say things that make me feel like I was never yours to lose.”
And Jeno’s heart splintered clean through.
Next thing you know, you witness something you never thought would unfold in front of your eyes.
You hadn’t seen him cry like that before.
Not like this.
At first, it was just the way his eyes glossed over. A quiet blink, a shift in breath. But then it cracked, a tremble in his jaw, a sound he barely swallowed down. And then the tears fell, slow and then all at once, as if holding it in had finally run out of room inside him.
He turned away for a second, dragging a shaky hand over his face like that might stop it.
It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice breaking. “God, I’m so sorry, Y/N. I fucked this up. I fucking ruined it. And I don’t even know how to fix it because—”
His voice choked off.
You stared, frozen for a beat. You didn’t expect this much. You didn’t expect him to crumble in front of you like the words he’d been holding in had cracked something wide open. Jeno was always so composed, so quiet in his sadness, but this?
This was him unraveling.
You stood slowly and stepped toward him.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, still trying to catch his breath, his voice hoarse and wet with tears. “I thought I was protecting us by not saying anything, and all I did was make you feel invisible. I made you think I didn’t care, when that’s all I’ve ever done. I don’t know how to stop caring about you.”
Your chest squeezed.
“Jeno,” you said gently.
“I kept thinking about the look on your face that night,” he mumbled. “How you just… shut down. And it’s all I’ve been thinking about. That I did that. That I pushed you to a place where you had to convince yourself I didn’t mean anything to you. And I hate that. I hate myself for that.”
You touched his arm, tentative. His whole frame shook under your hand.
“I still love you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I still want this. I want you. I’ll do it right this time, if you let me. I’ll say it every day. I’ll make it clear. I just— I need you to know that it was real. It’s always been real.”
Your throat was tight. You didn’t realize tears were welling in your own eyes until you blinked and one slid down.
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know it was real.”
He looked at you like your voice alone was something to hold on to.
You hesitated, then added, “And… I’m sorry too.”
Jeno’s brows knit, confused.
“I’m not saying I take it all back,” you said. “Because you needed to hear what I said that night. But I know I got… cold. Defensive. Angry. And I didn’t mean to shut you out like that. I just—when you said those things, it felt like everything I’d let myself believe was fake. And I didn’t want to feel that again. I didn’t want to feel small.”
You sniffled, laughing bitterly. “So I built a wall so fast I didn’t even realize I locked myself in, too.”
Jeno stepped closer. His eyes were red, lips parted like he was still trying to catch his breath.
“I forgive you,” you said.
His breath hitched.
You nodded slowly. “I forgive you, Jeno. And I still love you too. That didn’t go away.”
He looked like he might cry again at that.
And maybe you did too, because when he reached for your hands this time, you didn’t flinch. You let him hold them, fingers trembling against yours. He pulled you close like he didn’t want to risk you slipping away again, and when you let him, that’s when the tears really came again for both of you. Quiet and full of everything you hadn’t been able to say until now.
His forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m gonna do better,” he whispered. “I swear I’ll do better.”
You nodded, hands curling around the fabric of his hoodie.
“We will,” you murmured back. “We’ll do better.”
And just like that, the hurt didn’t disappear. But it settled, softened into something that could finally begin to heal.
Together.
Jeno’s breath was still uneven, but the storm behind his eyes had settled into something else now, something quieter, more certain. He pulled back just enough to look at you fully, eyes tracing every part of your face like he needed to memorize this moment.
His thumbs brushed your knuckles, slow and reverent, before he took a steadying breath.
“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.
You nodded.
He hesitated for a beat, not out of doubt, but weight. Like the question had been sitting in his chest for a long, long time.
“Will you be mine?” he asked. His voice cracked, not out of fear, but sincerity. “Like... officially. No more almosts. No more blurred lines or half steps. Just mine. My girlfriend. And of course without a doubt I’m yours”
The way he said it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was raw. Honest. Like this wasn’t just about claiming you, but about finally choosing you out loud. Finally giving the love between you a name that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
He swallowed. “Because I should’ve asked you a long time ago. And I don’t want another day to go by where you don’t know exactly where we stand.”
His gaze never left yours. “So…will you?”
The room held its breath.
And this time, he waited.
Your breath hitched, just a sharp, shaken inhale because everything inside you cracked wide open the moment he said it. All the anger and confusion and weight of the past few weeks lifted just enough for your heart to finally speak louder than your fear.
“Yes,” you whispered. Then again, stronger, like it needed to echo. “Yes, Jeno.”
And you didn’t wait.
You surged forward, crashing into him like you’d been holding back for years, not days. Your hands tangled in the collar of his hoodie, yanking him down, and he met you halfway, mouth already parting, gasping against yours like he’d been dying for air and finally found it in your kiss.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was weeks of everything unsaid exploding in between the seams of your mouths, desperate, messy, clumsy in the way that it could be. You pushed him back, lips never breaking, until his back hit the door and he groaned into you like he didn’t care if the world burned around him so long as you stayed pressed against him like this.
His hands found your waist, gripping like he was terrified you’d disappear again. Your fingers slid under the fabric of his hoodie, palms running up his chest, nails grazing just enough to make him shiver.
“You’re mine,” he murmured into your mouth, breathless. “You’re mine now.”
You kissed him harder in response, like yes, fuck yes, I’m yours, but only because you chose me.
His mouth dragged across your jaw, then lower, tongue hot as he kissed down your neck, hands still trembling as they held you close. You weren’t thinking anymore. You couldn’t. All you could feel was the heat of him, his body, his words, the way he whispered your name like it hurt to say but he needed to keep saying it just to believe this was real.
When you finally pulled back to breathe, your foreheads touched, your lips swollen, your hands still gripping his hoodie like you might fall if you let go.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I missed us.”
You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Then don’t fuck it up this time.”
“I won’t,” he promised, eyes wide, lips twitching like he might cry or smile or do both. “I swear to God, I won’t.”
And just like that, you kissed him again, so deep, so consuming, it felt like starting over. But this time, you weren’t drifting through some unspoken dream.
PAIRING. sneaky link!fwb!haechan x fem!reader
GENRE. smut, fluff, mild angst, some humor
CONTENTS. mentions of marijuana, explicit smut (unprotected sex, oral (receiving), overstimulation, praise kink, dom!haechan, switch!reader, breast play, nothing too crazy in this fic dw)
WORD COUNT. in total, 40.4k, part three has 7.9k
SUMMARY. you and haechan have undoubtedly had tension for the majority of your friendship. what happens when you act on it?
PLAYLIST. the need to know (feat. sza) - wale // notice me - sza
NOTES. tada!! here’s the third and final part! it’s a lot shorter than the other two because logically it made sense to split them up like this 😁 i hope you enjoy!! your positive feedback is always appreciated 💖 thank you for reading!!
READ PART ONE HERE. — READ PART TWO HERE.
Later in the week, you’re lying cozy on the couch, scrolling through Twitter, when you’re suddenly reminded that you and your friends had plans for later today. You switch over to your Messages group chat and shoot off a quick text to put out feelers to see if everyone’s still free.
you [15:02pm] hii y’all are we still on for pottery today?
chuu chuu train [15:03pm] um….. no actually 😟 i got called in for a shift at the hospital last minute
mark [15:07pm] this girl at my job asked me to get drinks with her… she’s really cute…
jeno [15:10pm] go get her mark 😎 i have a new client today and this was the only time she had free for her consultation :/
jaemin [15:12pm] i’m technically still free but like . kinda think i’m coming down with something
you [15:14pm] sigh why must you all let me down like this 😞
renjun [15:16pm] why are you all blowing up my phone 🤨 cut it out
you disliked “why are you all blowing up my phone 🤨 cut it out”
you [15:17pm] okay cranky pants… you signed up to be friends with us
chuu chuu train [15:19pm] yeah this gc isn’t called “the platonic polycule” for nothing!!!
chuu chuu train [15:19pm] now can you make it to pottery today?
renjun [15:17pm] no i can’t sorry 😕 like i’m free but i have a design for a site due by the end of tonight and i haven’t finished…
you [15:20pm] brb entering the deepest of depressions
You knock three times on Jihyo’s door, waiting for her to reply before flinging her door open with a wail. “Jihyo, everyone’s bailing!”
“I saw,” she says sympathetically.
“Only ones going are you, me, and Haechan.” you lament, collapsing onto her bed.
“Well, if that’s the case,” she says thoughtfully, “I’m not going, either.”
“What?!” you exclaim, looking up at her with an incredulous expression.
“You think I want to sit there and third-wheel whatever it is you two have going on?” she chuckles, stroking your hair soothingly. “Take it as an opportunity to do more of… whatever you two call your arrangement.”
“You’re… well, I can’t decide if I want to thank you or hit you with a pillow.” you sigh dejectedly, and she chuckles understandingly.
you [15:30pm] haechan please say you’re going… jihyo just bailed (verbally) and now i’m all alone 😞
haechan [15:32pm] my schedule’s all free for you 😌
you loved “my schedule’s all free for you 😌”
you [15:33pm] AND THAT IS HOW TO BE A RELIABLE FRIEND, EVERYONE. TAKE NOTES!!!!
you [15:34pm] anyway that concludes this conversation. everyone but haechan is in the dog house until further notice. farewell
You lock your phone and look up at Jihyo with a small smile. “You’re not in the dog house.” you inform her, and she smiles, running her fingers through your hair.
“Thank you for that. Want help picking out your outfit for your little pottery date with Haechan?” she offers, wiggling her eyebrows excitedly.
“It’s not a date,” you stress, sitting up. “It’s two friends hanging out and making pottery together.”
“Okay, do you want help picking out an outfit to look super duper cute for your date that’s totally not a date?” she amends with a sly grin, and you scowl, deciding to hit her with a pillow after all. “Hey!”
“That’s for teasing me.” you huff, setting the pillow back down. “But yes, I would like help.”
“Expecting help after you assaulted me is beyond crazy, by the way.”
“Please?” you plead, giving her your best puppy dog eyes, and she sighs in defeat, closing her laptop and flinging her covers off her legs.
“Fine. Lead the way.”
“Are you nervous?” you ask as you two walk up to the building your pottery class is in, and Haechan shakes his head with a chuckle.
“Of course not,” he replies confidently. “I’m good with my hands; you should know that.”
“I don’t think this activity requires the exact same skill set as the one you’re talking about, but okay.” you say with an amused expression, and he shrugs.
“I’m a fast learner.”
As it turns out, Haechan is not, in fact, as fast of a learner as he thought he was.
You giggle to yourself as you watch him struggle to make a decent looking pinch pot. “I thought you were good with your hands?” you tease as you smooth out the thumbprints in your own surprisingly pretty pinch pot, and he frowns in your direction.
“Apparently, my hands’ skills are best applied elsewhere.” he huffs, much to your amusement.
“Evidently,” you remark, smiling to yourself. “Do you want help?” you ask, and he shakes his head.
“No… I’m hoping I have better luck when we start using the wheel.” he answers, and you raise your eyebrows.
“Okay… well, good luck with that.” you say, returning your attention to your work as you diligently make the rim of the bowl even and level.
After some time, you’re all instructed to switch to throwing on the wheel, and you’re surprised to find that it comes naturally to you, your hands sculpting a lovely bowl with a wide mouth.
“Haechan, are you sure you don’t need help?” you offer again as you see him accidentally dig his thumb into his pot too harshly, resulting in an uneven, deep dent going around half of the bowl.
“Maybe a little assistance would be nice,” he admits in defeat, and you smile, turning off your wheel and coming to stand behind him.
“I’m gonna show you how to do it, okay?” you say softly, taking his clay covered hands in your own and guiding them to the clay on his wheel. “Wanna start over?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, pouting, and you nod, moving to sit behind him. You rest your chin on his shoulder as you guide his hands through reverting his misshapen bowl into an even mound of clay.
“Wet your hands a little bit,” you explain, gesturing to the bowl of grayish water beside his wheel. “It’ll help you manipulate the clay better.” He dips his hands in the water, shaking them off slightly before returning his hands to the clay, tentatively placing his hands on either side of the clay.
“Spread it out like this,” you say gently, showing him how to use his thumbs to carefully widen the surface area of the clay. “Keep your palms close like a guide for how wide you want it to get.”
“Mhm,” he hums distractedly, brows furrowed in concentration, and you help him shape the base of the bowl he’s making, forming a sort of stout cylinder of clay.
“Good,” you encourage him, and he cracks a shy smile at the compliment, turning his head slightly to look at you. “Pay attention to what you’re doing.”
He sighs loudly, momentarily attracting the attention of some other students, but he relents, turning his head back to focus on his bowl.
“Next, you’re gonna make a small dent with your thumb in the center of the clay, and we’re gonna slowly drag the dent outwards with our thumbs to deepen and open up the mouth of the bowl.” you say next, and he nods, tongue poking out slightly as he tries to do what you’re asking him to do. “Carefully,” you remind him, guiding his thumbs as he methodically opens up the dent he made, his bowl now looking much better than before.
“Hey, it’s working!” he says excitedly, and you smile fondly, nodding. You hesitate before your next action, but decide to follow through with it anyway, turning your face in towards him to peck him gently on the cheek. He takes his hands off the wheel abruptly, turning his face towards yours as he searches your eyes with curiosity. “You kissed me.”
“I did,” you confirm, wishing he wouldn’t make such a big deal of it.
“What was that for?” he asks curiously, and you give a small shrug.
“A reward for doing a good job? And incentive to keep doing a good job.”
“So… if I make a pretty bowl, I can get another kiss?”
“Perhaps.”
“On the lips?”
“Don’t push it.” you say, rolling your eyes with an amused smile.
“Fine,” he relents, pouting slightly. “Hey, have you seen that movie, Ghost?”
“With Jennifer Love Hewitt?” you ask, and he nods. “I haven’t, but I’m pretty sure I know where you’re going with this.”
“The pottery scene?” he questions, testing you, and you nod with a smile. “Can we?”
You pause, thinking about it, before you nod. “Sure.”
He bounces in his seat excitedly before he refocuses his attention on his bowl, practically vibrating with excitement as your hands close in over his.
Wordlessly, you help him shape his bowl, deepening the inside and lengthening the body. Your hands glide together smoothly and you’re so focused on doing a good job that it takes you ages to realize that Haechan isn’t even looking at the bowl anymore, his gaze now focused entirely on you with a mix of wonder and fascination on his face.
“Please pay attention before you distract me too and we fuck this bowl up.” you say with a small, amused smile, and he shakes his head.
“I think I need more incentive.” he states, and you look at him with a slight roll of your eyes.
“Just say you want me to kiss you again.”
“Okay, I want you to kiss me again.”
“No. Focus on the bowl.”
“What?! You just told me to say I want another kiss.” he complains, frowning.
“I didn’t say I was going to give you one. I just wanted you to be upfront about what you want.”
“I want a kiss,” he says, stubbornness creeping into his voice, and you sigh.
“If I give you a kiss, will you focus?”
“Yes, ma’am.” he agrees, nodding to seal his promise, and you purse your lips thoughtfully as you think it over.
“Okay.” you say finally, and he beams at you before removing his hands from the wheel entirely and turning in his seat to face you. You lean in, Haechan moving with you, and connect your lips in a sweet kiss.
He hums, pleased, and moves to cup your cheek before you grab his wrist and set it down on his lap.
“You have clay all over your hands, and I don’t think that’d look too good on my face.” you murmur against his lips as you two part, and he laughs, the sound surprisingly sheepish for him.
“Sorry, I forgot.” he chuckles, nodding in understanding. “Thanks for the kiss, baby.”
“You’re welcome. You think we can finish the bowl now?”
“I think your kiss gave me enough strength to push through and finish strong.” he remarks with a cheeky grin, and you snort.
“That is so dramatic. You’re lucky you’re cute.” you huff, and he beams at you.
“Sure am.”
By the time you two make it back to your front door, the sun is starting to set, streaks of orange, gold, and a beautiful shade of rose filtering in through the window in your hallway.
“I had a really fun time today,” Haechan says, looping his pinky around yours and swinging your hands back and forth.
“Me too,” you agree, smiling. “Are you gonna tell me what you painted at the bottom of your bowl now?”
“Nope,” he replies with a grin. When you pout, he coos fondly, mirroring your expression. “You’ll see when they’re finished and we go to pick them up.”
“Fine,” you huff. “Hey, do you… maybe want to come in? Jihyo and Jiwoo are still out.” you ask, nibbling your bottom lip nervously.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits with a sheepish grin, and a relieved smile overtakes your face as you unlock your front door and lead him inside.
“So, you’re telling me you’re not even the slightest bit curious what a parallel universe might look like for you?” you ask incredulously.
“Oh, I’m definitely curious,” he replies. “I just can’t imagine wanting to live in that reality.”
“Really? What if in your parallel universe you were a hot shot musician?”
“Still no.”
“You’re insane,” you gasp, and he chuckles softly, the look in his eyes incredibly raw and vulnerable, and you find yourself scrambling over your words in an attempt to protect the quivering heart Haechan’s presenting to you in his gaze. “Well—why this universe, hm? Why, out of all the universes you could be a part of, do you want this one?”
“I wouldn’t want to live in a parallel universe,” Haechan says slowly, “if it means I might not meet you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, the gravity of his words weighing heavy in your heart, and now you think you understand the look he was giving you earlier. “Do you mean that?” you ask softly, and he nods, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek.
“Every word, pretty.” he confirms, and you’re grateful you’re sitting down because you would have visibly swooned otherwise.
“Jeez, Haechan, are you trying to woo me?” you joke softly, and he tilts your chin up with one finger, turning your head to face him.
“Mm, depends,” he sighs, brushing his lips against yours with a hint of a smile. “Is it working?”
“Not gonna lie? Yeah,” you murmur, smiling bashfully when he chuckles.
“Good,” he chuckles, kissing you softly. Like the others, this kiss ensnares your mind and body, but there’s a tenderness, a hesitance you don’t see from Haechan often. He molds his lips with yours slowly and sweetly, chasing after you when you pull back slightly for air before breaking the kiss and nuzzling your nose with his. “Hi,” he says softly, smiling shyly.
“Hi,” you giggle, kissing his nose lightly. He beams at you and leans in for another kiss, his hand gently resting on your knee. As you two kiss, his hand moves up gradually, pushing up the hem of your sundress until it’s bunched up your thigh just before your underwear.
His kisses grow in passion, in need, until he’s greedily kissing you as you run out of air and have to break the kiss with a gasp. “Let me kiss you,” he whines, clutching at your thigh as he leans in again.
“Let me breathe for a second,” you laugh, and he chuckles quietly.
“Sorry. You done breathing yet?” he asks, and you snort, bursting out into laughter. He joins you, tickled by your amusement, and when you manage to control yourselves, he sighs happily. “So—”
“Yes, I’m done breathing.” you say with a small roll of your eyes and a smile, and he grins, leaning in to kiss you again.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?” he wonders, and you shake your head. “I’m an idiot, then,” he continues, “because you look stunning.”
“Oh, yeah?” you ask, and he nods firmly.
“This little white and pink number you have on,” he murmurs, tugging at the strap on your shoulder until it slips off, “is driving me crazy.”
“Is it, now?” you hum, goading him on, and he nods again.
“It matches your cute little bow.” he points out, and you smile, pleased.
“It does,” you confirm, and he smiles before kissing you again. “You know what else it matches?”
“Mm, what, baby?” he mumbles against your lips.
“My underwear.” you answer, and he stills, looking at you with wonder and desire in his eyes.
“You’re joking,” he breathes, and you shake your head, smiling. “Let me see?” It’s phrased like a question, but it’s anything but if the way Haechan is already lifting your dress is any indication. “Please?” he adds almost as an afterthought, and you giggle, allowing him to pull your dress up enough to see your baby pink underwear. “Fuck,” he groans, his head falling into your lap, and you laugh as he presses his face between your legs, quickly maneuvering himself so your thighs are on either side of his body. He presses a loud kiss to the front of your underwear, then another slightly lower, and when his lips graze your clit through the fabric, you jolt, and he smiles. “You liked that?”
“A little,” you fib, and he nods in smug confirmation, leaning back down to press another kiss to the fabric over the seat of your underwear where a damp spot is gradually forming.
“A little?” he echoes skeptically. “This doesn’t feel like a little.” he points out as his lips brush against your dampened underwear.
“Don’t get cocky,” you breathe, tugging on his hair as a warning.
“You make it so hard not to, baby,” he coos, trailing one finger up your slit through the underwear and around your clit in circles as you squirm slightly and keen for his touch. “Look how well you react to me, pretty girl—you expect that not to make my head a little big?”
“Whatever,” you huff, frowning petulantly. “Just stop teasing.”
“What is it you want me to do?” he asks innocently, and you roll your eyes.
“Same thing you wanna do.” you reply, and he raises an eyebrow.
“I want to taste your pretty pussy,” he says slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole while. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” you agree instantly, and he smiles. “What now?”
“Say it,” he urges softly, lifting himself up to bring his lips to yours. “I want you to say it.”
“Haechan, please don’t tease me,” you plead, and he shakes his head.
“Wanna know how bad you want it.” he replies, and you sigh loudly.
“I want you to… do that.” you mumble, and he shakes his head with a growing smile.
“Do what?”
“Haechan!”
“Baby, say it and I’ll make your eyes roll back, I swear,” he says seriously. “I just want you to say it.”
“I want you to… go down on me.” you murmur shyly, and he beams, returning his head to between your legs.
“Now was that so hard?” he asks, and you roll your eyes in exasperation.
“Yes, actually.”
“Aw, poor baby,” he teases, his words almost distracting you from the way his fingers tug your underwear aside. “You’ll live,” he assures you before leaning in to kiss you right on the clit. You jolt at the sudden sensation, moving away from him, but he loops his arms around your thighs and pulls you back to his face, tongue stroking against your folds before delving in between them. His nose bumps your clit with every lewd wet glide of his tongue along your core, and your breath catches every time, your body wired with desire and anticipation as he messily but expertly devours you.
“Feels good,” you whine breathlessly, and you can feel him smile against your core.
“I know, baby, you’re so wet,” he purrs, sucking on your clit with a groan and a loud, wet pop as he pulls back. “Am I that good, or do you just like me that much?”
You don’t know what comes over you, especially given that Haechan gave you an easy out, but you moan out, “I like you,” heat warming your cheeks as you realize what you just said.
“Yeah, baby? You like me?” he echoes, pressing two fingers against your entrance. “How much?”
“So much, Haechan, like you so much,” you gasp, wanting nothing more than for him to continue, and he moans in delight before doing just that, fingers pushing into you greedily before he litters kisses all over your inner thighs and drags his tongue in wet stripes up your thigh to your core.
“Like you too, baby, so fucking much,” he grunts, pumping his fingers inside of you as he flicks his tongue over your clit. “Tastes so good, baby, pussy tastes so good—”
“Haechan—”
“Let me make you cum, baby, I wanna make you cum,” he groans, curling his fingers inside of you to fuck into your g-spot. “Please cum for me, please, please, please—” His lips are wrapped around your clit, sucking and kissing and tongue flicking and swirling around the sensitive button, and his throaty pleas for your release send vibrations through your clit, your body electrified with jolts of pleasure.
“Gonna—you’re gonna make me cum, Haechan—” you whimper breathlessly, and he links the fingers of his free hand with yours as he looks up at you, watching in wonder as you start to fall apart. His tongue works against you fervently, lapping up every bit of arousal that gushes from your entrance around his fingers, and your back arches off the bed, your abdomen tensing as your peak hits. Pleasure shoots through you like a dose of adrenaline, your stomach coiling in on itself as the aftershocks of your climax start to appear.
Haechan moves with you every bit of the way, craning his neck upwards to keep licking at your core, desperate for every drop of pleasure he can get from you. Your hips drop to the bed, your body feeling spent as he languidly swirls his tongue around your clit and his fingers inside of you.
“Felt good, baby?” he asks throatily, and you nod with a blissed out smile.
“Felt amazing.” you assure him, and he beams up at you, your cum glistening on his chin.
He crawls up your body to kiss you, quickly deepening the kiss as he reaches to open his pants. You reach your hand inside his boxers when he’s finished, wrapping your hand around his base and starting to stroke him up and down. He groans and lowers his head to kiss down your neck and when he gets to your collarbone, he nips at the thin flesh there, making you hiss in pleasure.
“Need you inside,” you moan, and he nods eagerly, pushing his boxers down and out of the way as his length emerges from its confines.
Without further ado, you bring the head of his shaft to your entrance, pushing it in as far as you can manage, and he whimpers with pleasure, breathing in loudly through his nose.
“Feels good?” you coo against his lips, and he nods vigorously, his eyebrows knitting together.
“Feels so fucking good, baby, you have no idea—your pussy drives me crazy.” he grunts before thrusting in more. “Need more, baby, I need it so bad—” he rasps out, and you nod encouragingly, pulling him closer to you.
“Take it, Haechan, it’s yours,” you assure him, and his eyes roll back into his head in bliss before he’s kissing you again, lips molding with yours feverishly as he thrusts into you until he’s bottomed out fully. “So full,” you moan, and he grins distractedly, brows still furrowed as he moves in and out of you in slow, fluid strokes.
“Love filling my baby up,” he coos as his hips settle into the rhythm he’s set for himself. “Pretty baby’s pussy loves sucking my cock in, doesn’t it?”
“Mm—love it, Haechan, feels so good—”
This time around feels… different. Not bad-different at all, just… intimate. There’s the possessiveness from that night at the hotel in Fire Island, then there’s this, a heady blend of devotion and belonging to each other and you just about lose your mind as his length twitches inside of you.
“Gonna fill you up, baby, gonna make you all mine,” he pants, and you nod with a whimper, reaching for him for another kiss which he reciprocates eagerly. As you kiss him, his length throbs inside of you, pulsing with need, and you can tell he’s close. “Want to cum, baby, but I want you to cum with me.”
You reach between your bodies and start to rub at your clit rapidly, free hand clutching your clothed breast as your whines and cries escalate in volume. His lips find their way to your neck and you just about pass out from all the pleasure, a deep shudder traveling through you when his mouth seeks purchase behind your ear, tongue trailing up and down the small crevice.
Your climaxes come right around the same time; Haechan’s starts first, but yours comes in with all the force of a wildfire, burning through everything in its path. Gasps and moans and the sounds of the sheets rustling are all you can hear as you two ride out your highs, and your eyes screw shut, white stars twinkling and flooding your vision as you rock down onto him to milk your climaxes for all they’re worth.
When you’re both fully depleted of energy, he pulls out of you and lies down beside you, both of you breathing loudly. After a moment of rest, Haechan gets up and heads out of the room, returning shortly after with a damp cloth which he uses to wipe you down.
“Thanks,” you sigh sleepily, and he nods with a smile, cupping your chin and kissing you sweetly.
“It’s getting late,” he sighs. “I should probably get going.”
“Wh—well, why?” you ask with a frown, and he smiles sadly.
“I have a lot of coding to do tomorrow.” he explains, and you nod slowly, carefully thinking over your next words.
“Do you wanna just… spend the night here?” you ask tentatively, and he looks over at you, hope alight in his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I mean,” you start to say, stumbling over your words slightly. “I feel like it’s late—”
“So late.” he agrees.
“And Ubers are probably expensive back to your place right now—”
“Don’t even get me started on the surge pricing.”
“Right! So, I mean, financially, it just makes sense for you… to stay… here… with me.” you finish, and he looks you over slowly with a budding grin on his face.
“I think that’s clearly the most economically sound decision.” he agrees, and you smile, relieved.
“Great. Now come back here.” you say, patting the spot next to you, and he obliges eagerly, climbing onto the bed and snuggling up to you. “Y’know, we’ve broken, like, all the rules basically.” you mumble, and he scoffs dismissively.
“Maybe those rules are outdated and stupid.”
“I mean, we did put them in place for a reason,” you sigh, and he lifts his head up to look at you skeptically. “But, I mean, maybe they don’t really apply to our scenario anymore…”
“Exactly.” he replies with a hint of smugness in his tone. “So cuddle me and go to sleep.”
And so you do just that, wondering all the while how Haechan might define your scenario now.
When you wake up in the morning, Haechan is hugging you to his chest, your legs tangled together. You peek up at him, smiling at his puffy lips slightly parted as he breathes softly.
“Haechan?” you say softly, and his nose wrinkles slightly before it relaxes, the male not stirring. “Haechan,” you hum gently, and he scrunches his eyes closed before he barely opens them to look at you. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he mumbles sleepily.
“Are you hungry?” you ask, and he breathes in deeply before nodding. “Want me to make, like, pancakes or something?”
“Please?” he rasps, and your core tingles with need at his low voice.
“Okay,” you whisper, moving to untangle yourself from him. He groans in protest, clutching you tighter, and you chuckle lightly. “I can’t make the pancakes from the bed,” you remind him, and he frowns before loosening his grip on you, allowing you to extract yourself from his arms.
You climb out of the bed, grabbing some clothes to wear around the house and going to the bathroom to wash up. When you’re done, you make your way to the kitchen and start setting up to make pancakes, eggs, and bacon as a treat.
You’re letting the pan warm up on the stove as you mix the batter when Haechan emerges from the hallway, sleepily shuffling towards you.
“I have so much work to do today,” he groans, sitting down at the kitchen island and putting his head down.
“Aw, poor Haechan.” you coo sympathetically, and your soft tone is enough to evoke the whininess from him that you knew was waiting to come out.
“I don’t wanna,” he complains, and you nod understandingly.
“I bet.” you sigh, pouring the first pancake into the pan. The sizzle starts slow and builds gradually as the batter cooks, and you turn to face Haechan, walking around the kitchen island and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and resting your cheek on his back. You feel him relax in your embrace, Haechan turning around to face you so he can hold your waist and press his lips to your forehead.
“You’re the best.” he mumbles against your forehead. He pulls back slightly to look at you, something tender in his eyes that you haven’t seen before to this extent. It thrills you and yet, something in you is holding back, waiting for the bad news to hit.
Sure enough, a moment later, a dopey smile crosses his features and he parts his lips to speak, the words “I l—” barely making it out before he snaps his mouth shut with a look of alarm, provoking you to raise your eyebrows in confusion.
“You l—” you prompt him, and he shakes his head, extracting himself from you.
“I should, um, go get started on my codes for my boss.” he mutters, that same hint of panic weighing on his every action as he starts to walk towards your room, turns back to face you, then shakes his head and finally heads to your room.
“What the hell was that?” you wonder aloud, hurt and confused, but you don’t have much time to deliberate, because he’s entering the kitchen once more, now looking significantly more awake and, more importantly, ready to leave. “Oh, you’re leaving?” you reply, even more confusion swimming in your head.
“Yeah, I, um, I have to get a head start on my work if I don’t want to be up all night,” he mumbles with a chuckle, and the hollowness of it makes your heart ache.
“Haechan, did I do something?” you ask carefully, trying not to sound as wounded as you feel.
“No,” he’s quick—perhaps too quick—to say, shaking his head vehemently. “I just really have to go.” he insists, heading to your front door without a single look back.
When your door shuts, you stand there, contemplating what just happened and what could have gone so wrong that it made Haechan up and leave like that. You flip the pancake in the pan over half-heartedly, observing the golden brown cooked side before your vision clouds with unshed tears.
“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping your eyes. You hear footsteps heading towards the kitchen from what sounds like Jihyo’s room, and sure enough, she steps into the kitchen, regarding you curiously.
“Hey,” she says carefully, watching you with increasing concern as you try and fail not to cry. “You okay?”
“Want pancakes?” you ask, your voice cracking on the last syllable, and she rushes over to you, pulling you into a tight, warm hug as you break down quietly in her arms.
“Hey, hey, hey,” she soothes you, rubbing your back in comforting motions. “What happened?”
You sniffle pathetically as you start to tearfully explain everything that went down, from last night to this very strange morning, and Jihyo listens intently, her brows furrowing in sympathy as your bottom lip trembles when you get to recounting the activities of this morning.
“Wow,” she finally says. “Okay, get dressed. No more sad pancakes. We’re gonna get brunch, my treat, and we’re gonna talk this out until you feel better.” she urges, patting your butt lightly to push you forward.
“Okay,” you say sadly, heading to your room to get dressed.
“So,” Jihyo says as she stirs her coffee. “How long has this been going on?”
You take a break from listlessly poking at your crepes and think back. “About two weeks,” you answer, and she raises her eyebrows.
“It took two weeks for this whole thing to get this off-track?” she asks, surprised, and you nod. “You definitely have feelings for each other.”
“I mean, I have feelings for him,” you explain. “I don’t know if it’s reciprocated.”
She shoots you a blank look over her coffee mug as she takes a tentative sip. “My love?”
“Hm?”
“You know I love you, right?”
You sigh. “What is it?”
“You sound like an idiot.”
“Hey!”
“You do! You two made rules, he broke virtually every last one of them, and you think he doesn’t have feelings for you?” she exclaims in disbelief.
“Well, he said he wanted it to be casual.” you defend yourself petulantly, and she rolls her eyes.
“Is it casual now?”
“Well, no…”
“And whose fault is that?”
“...Mine?” you ask, and she tsks in disapproval.
“No. Well, slightly, because you allowed it, but Haechan is the one who made things complicated! Sure, he said he wanted it to be casual, but he’s being anything but. He’s walking around acting like your straight-up boyfriend, and you can’t tell if he likes you or not?” she says incredulously, and you pause, thinking over her words.
“Well, then, why would he say he wanted to keep things casual?” you huff, frowning.
“One of two reasons: he might have thought you weren’t interested in dating him and just wanted to be with you in any way he can get.” she explains, and you nod thoughtfully.
“And the other reason?”
“Well, sometimes guys say they don’t want anything serious so they can use it as an excuse to fool around with other girls.” she says honestly, and you blink several times before speaking next.
“You think he’s fooling around with other girls?” you ask worriedly, and she stares at you blankly.
“That should not have been the only takeaway you got from what I just said.”
“Oh, sorry.” you mumble, sipping at your iced coffee.
“Look, can I be honest with you?” Jihyo asks, continuing on before you can answer to say, “Great; I feel like you already liked him before this happened, he definitely liked you too, and now you’re conflicted because of feelings that were present before this was set in motion.”
You think over her words once more before saying, “So, you don’t think he’s fucking around with other girls?”
Sighing loudly, Jihyo pinches the bridge of her nose. “You are about as stubborn as a mule, you know that?”
“Yes,” you reply with a doleful look. “It’s one of my specialties.”
“Does Jiwoo know about all of this?” she asks, and you shake your head.
“I haven’t told her anything, so I don’t think so.” you sigh, and she screws her face up in thought.
“Maybe we should consult her and see what she thinks.” she suggests helpfully, and you shrug. “Now, I’m not sure if you know this, but the crepes are supposed to make you feel better… but you have to actually eat them to feel the benefits.”
You smile sheepishly and separate a forkful, placing the now-room temperature food in your mouth and chewing. A small smile starts to grow on your face, and she smiles, pleased.
“Now, I want you to think about this carefully; like, do you really want to do this?” Jihyo asks, and you shrug.
“I want things to stay the way they were before this morning.” you lament.
Jihyo raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to be his girlfriend?”
“Oh! Oh, I do. I very much do, yes.” you say, nodding emphatically, and she smiles fondly.
“Then I think we should see what Jiwoo says. She’ll probably agree with me because, well… I’m right.”
“Says you,” you mumble under your breath, and she raises a challenging eyebrow.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Thought so.”
“I think you always liked him,” Jiwoo says. “Like, I could tell from a mile away; anyone could tell. It’s in the way you guys look at each other.”
“Wait, you guys really think he likes me back?” you ask, hopeful and bewildered.
“Yes, dummy, he likes you back.” Jiwoo says with a roll of her eyes.
“Well… that’s not enough!” you exclaim, and Jihyo and Jiwoo groan, exasperated. “I need him to say it!”
As if the heavens were listening, your phone lights up with an incoming call notification from none other than Haechan. “Oh, shit,” you mumble, staring at it blankly.
You snatch the phone up from the bed and answer it, calling, “Hello?” into the phone and waiting with bated breath.
“Speaker!” Jiwoo mouths, and Jihyo nods vigorously in agreement.
You put it on speaker in time for Haechan’s voice to filter through the phone. “Hey, are you home?”
“Yes, I am,” you answer casually, as if your last interaction didn’t literally reduce you to tears.
“Are Jihyo or Jiwoo home?” he asks, and all of you make the same confused expression at each other, looking at the phone in bewilderment.
“Say no!” Jihyo whispers, and you wave her off.
“They’re home,” you answer, and she throws her hands up in the air in exasperation. “Why?”
“Can you come outside for a second? I need to ask you something.”
“Y’know, Haechan, phone calls were invented so people could ask other people things.”
“I know, but I want to see you,” he stresses hopefully, and you look between Jihyo and Jiwoo, both of whom are nodding vigorously. “Please?”
“Okay,” you agree, and Jiwoo collapses on her back, Jihyo heaving a relieved sigh. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Great,” he says, abruptly ending the call.
“What if he wants to cut things off?” you worry aloud, and Jihyo grabs your shoulders, shaking them firmly.
“He’s not gonna cut things off. You’ll never know what he wants to do if you don’t go down there and talk to him.” she says sternly, and you blink at her petulantly.
“Fine,” you lament, getting up from the bed and trudging to the front door.
When you get downstairs, you can see Haechan waiting through the glass doors of your lobby entrance, and he perks up visibly when he sees you, a good indicator.
You step outside and look at Haechan, whose smile widens when you’re standing in front of him.
“Hi,” you say carefully, and his smile turns sheepish.
“Hi,” he says, and it dawns on you that he’s holding his hands behind his back.
“What are you hiding?” you ask curiously, and he smiles wider, presenting you with something wrapped in grayish brown craft paper. You take it and hold onto it, but Haechan frowns, making you let out a noise of confusion.
“Open it!” he urges, and you can’t help but smile at his eagerness, obliging and opening the wrapping. There, in your hands, is the bowl you helped Haechan make; it’s been lightly glazed with your favorite shade of pink, and it looks prettier than it did when you two made it, somehow.
“Oh! Thank you,” you say with a smile, and he gestures for you to continue, making you let out yet another confused sound.
“Look at the bottom of the bowl.” he says excitedly, and you do just that, peering inside to see—
“Oh,” you gasp softly.
There, in Haechan’s handwriting, are the words “Be Mine?”
“That’s why I wouldn’t let you see when I was done painting.” he says, bashful now, and you smile widely, looking up at him with bright eyes. “Sorry I’ve been so weird and quiet today; I already liked you, but it hit me last night that I really like you, and this morning I realized that I might even love you.”
“Oh?” you say, smiling so widely it hurts.
“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding proudly. “I went to the pottery place and paid the instructor to bake mine early so I could bring it to you.”
“Oh, Haechan,” you say softly, your heart swelling in your chest until you fear it might burst.
“I know I said I wasn’t ready for a relationship, but I’m willing to try it if it means I get to be with you—properly this time.” he finishes, and you look up from the bowl to see a hopeful look on his face.
“Oh, thank God,” you sigh, relieved, and Haechan visibly relaxes, a wide smile on his face. “I’ve liked you for ages, actually—like, long before we started this whole arrangement.”
“Me too,” he echoes shyly, and you step closer, throwing your arms around his neck for a tight hug. He wraps his arms around your waist and stays there, holding you tightly. You turn your face inwards to kiss him on the cheek, only for Haechan to look at you like you just slapped him in the face.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, confused, and he huffs petulantly.
“I just professed my undying love for you and all I get is a kiss on the cheek?” he squawks, affronted, and you snicker.
“‘Undying love’ is a little crazy, Haechan,” you point out, and he glowers at you.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a little crazy.” he counters, and you feign surprise.
“Wow… no way… I had no idea… I am just so shocked.” you drawl, and he narrows his eyes.
“Ha, ha, ha. Stop mocking me and put that mouth to better use,” he huffs, pulling you into him for a kiss. It’s deep and slow, Haechan kissing you like he has all the time in the world.
You hear familiar voices cheering, and you look around before looking up to see Jihyo and Jiwoo sticking their heads out of your window, watching you two with smiles on their faces.
“Didn’t know your roommates and our friends were Peeping Toms,” he jokes, and you giggle.
“Less talking, more kissing!” Jiwoo calls out.
“Mind your business, perverts!” you splutter indignantly.
“No, no, no, why don’t we do what the perverts say?” Haechan suggests with a grin, and kisses you before you can respond, breathing in deeply as he wraps his arms around you tighter.
As you stand on the street, kissing Haechan in front of your best friends, all you can do is smile.
“I don’t think I can eat anymore,” Jaemin groans, rubbing his stomach as you all trudge down the boardwalk. “When they call it a food truck crawl, they’re not kidding; I feel like I should be on my hands and knees right now.”
“No, but I really can’t.” Jaemin protests, and Jihyo chuckles. “What’s so funny?”
“You said that three trucks ago.” she points out, and Jaemin frowns.
“Yeah, but I feel like I’m about to burst—” Jaemin bemoans before stopping short. When you all follow his gaze to a fried dough truck, you burst out laughing.
“What was that about you being about to burst?” you tease, and Jaemin makes a conflicted face, rubbing his stomach.
“Well… maybe I can make room for something sweet…” he mumbles, and you nod in understanding.
“You definitely can,” you encourage him, and he smiles before leading the way to the food truck.
“You’re a bad influence,” Mark laughs, and you shrug.
“He wanted it! I just let him know he could probably fit it in his stomach.”
“Yeah, leave my girl alone.” Haechan gripes, looping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his side.
“Yeah, leave his girl alone.” you huff, scrunching your nose at Mark, who rolls his eyes.
“You’re definitely more insufferable together,” he comments, and you smile, shrugging.
“Too bad.”
“Yeah, deal with it.” Haechan chuckles, kissing you on the cheek.
“Petition to make them break up?” Renjun proposes, and Jihyo reaches over to swat his arm. “Hey!”
“Hey, yourself,” she counters. “I think they’re cute.”
“Why, thank you, Jihyo, my dear friend.” you sigh happily, resting your head on Haechan’s shoulder.
You’re finally at the food truck, and after the attendant takes your order, Haechan steps forward, tapping his phone to the card reader when it prompts him to pay.
“Haechan, baby, you’ve paid for all my food; the pretzel bits, the funnel cake, the loaded hot dogs, the ice cream—”
“I know—”
“The mozzarella sticks—”
“I want to!”
“The tater tots—”
“Baby.”
“And now the fried dough!” you finish off as if he’d never spoken, and he smiles fondly, cupping your face in his hands.
“You’re my girl, right?”
“Of course,” you reply, the words slightly distorted due to his hold on your face.
“That’s right. You’re my girl, so I got you.” he answers simply, and you feel heat rushing to your face.
“Fuck, why was that attractive?” you mumble to yourself, and he chuckles, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to your lips.
“I’m glad you like it, because I’m not stopping any time soon.” he informs you. “Got it?”
“Got it.” you reply, and he nods in satisfaction.
“Good.” he says, releasing your face and taking your hand. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand, and you smile fondly, happier than ever.
“Hey, Haechan, if I bat my eyes all cute like her, can I get free food, too?” Renjun asks, and Haechan snorts.
“Good luck looking as good as she does when she does it.”
“Did you just call me ugly?!” Renjun splutters, and Haechan raises his hands defensively, your linked hand coming up with his involuntarily.
“No one said that. I just said you’re not gonna look as good to me as she does when she does it.” he replies calmly, and Renjun narrows his eyes at him.
“Tread carefully, Lee Haechan.” Renjun warns him.
Haechan rolls his eyes. “I’m so scared.”
“I’ll deglove you!” Renjun threatens, and you raise an eyebrow.
“I’ll castrate you if you even think about it for too long.” you tell him.
Renjun frowns. “I hate when they’re on the same side, and now they’re gonna be on the same side forever!”
He stomps off to another food truck in the distance, and your friends, after receiving their orders, follow after him. You and Haechan fall to the back of the group, and Haechan hums thoughtfully, prompting you to turn your head to look at him.
“What is it?”
“I like the sound of that.” he muses, and you make a face.
“Surely we’re not talking about the castrating and degloving.”
“We most certainly are not.” Haechan assures you, and you relax. “The ‘forever’ part.” You promptly inhale so sharply that you choke on the bite of fried dough in your mouth, and Haechan rubs your back soothingly as you cough and hack and gasp for air. “You alright, baby?”
“I’m good,” you pant, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “Before I almost died just now, I was going to say that… I like the sound of ‘forever’ too.”
“With me?” he asks hopefully, and you roll your eyes.
“No, with Jeno.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “Not funny.”
“Wasn’t laughing. Yes, with you, dummy.”
“I may be a dummy, but I’m your dummy. And you’re stuck with me. Forever.” he draws out the last word with a bright grin.
And as you lean in to kiss him, you murmur, “I definitely can live with that.”
and that’s the end! i hope you enjoyed!! stay tuned for a bonus scene of this fic, exclusive to patreon!!
PAIRING. sneaky link!fwb!haechan x fem!reader
GENRE. smut, fluff, mild angst, some humor
CONTENTS. mentions of marijuana, explicit smut (unprotected sex, oral (receiving), overstimulation, praise kink, dom!haechan, switch!reader, breast play, nothing too crazy in this fic dw)
WORD COUNT. in total, 40.4k, 13.5k in part one
SUMMARY. you and haechan have undoubtedly had tension for the majority of your friendship. what happens when you act on it?
PLAYLIST. the need to know (feat. sza) - wale // notice me - sza
NOTES. i hope you enjoy! if you’re subscribed to my patreon, this fic is already published in full over there :) the next part will be up on wednesday, december 11th! :) friendly reminder that leaving nice feedback is incredibly sexy and very appreciated!
“I feel like we’ve been in line for these bumper cars for twenty minutes,” Haechan groans.
You check your phone and roll your eyes. “It’s been eight.”
“Well, eight too many! What’s taking so long?” he complains, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the numerous heads in front of you.
“Patience is a virtue,” Jihyo chimes in, and Haechan huffs.
“Well, I’m running out of virtue.” he mutters, and you snort. He looks over at you with a small grin. “You liked that, huh?”
“Yeah, that was kinda funny.” you admit, and his smile widens as he turns fully to face you.
“Well, you know what they say about funny guys,” he muses, and you look off into the distance thoughtfully.
“I don’t think I recall.” you say after a moment, and he narrows his eyes at you.
“They say funny guys are dangerous. They’ll make you laugh and chuckle and then they’ll make your knees buckle.” he announces proudly, and you shoot him a look.
“Literally who is saying that?”
“They are!”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Haechan? I want names and receipts, because I feel like you made that up.”
“Well, I don’t have names or, like, timestamps, but—”
“You have nothing to back you up, is what I’m hearing.” you reply with raised brows, and he scowls at you.
“You’re no fun. Why are you my favorite?” he mutters to himself, and you laugh.
“I’m your favorite?” you coo, leaning onto him with a smile, and he looks over at you with a smile he tried and failed to restrain.
“Unfortunately.” he grouches. “Hey, look, we’re moving!”
“See how time flies when you stop complaining?” you say as the eight of you move up. Shifting slightly behind you, Haechan steps on the back of your shoe, making your heel slip out of your sneaker. “What is your deal?”
“What are you talking about?” He’s the face of innocence, if you ignore the mischievous glint in his eyes.
“You did that on purpose.” you point out.
“What’d he do?” Jiwoo asks curiously, and you turn to her with a pout.
“He stepped on my shoe so it came off.” you complain, and Jiwoo rolls her eyes in Haechan’s direction.
“I did not!”
“You’re a bad liar.” Mark points out, and you smile, satisfied that your friends have your back.
“I haven’t done anything wrong.” he replies, maintaining his innocence, and you huff, glowering at him before turning back around. When the line moves up, he does it again, and you growl under your breath, whirling around to face him once more. “Hi.”
“Shut up.”
“Ouch?” He places a hand over his heart like he’s been wounded, and you roll your eyes dramatically. “Words hurt, you know.”
“Not nearly as much as I wish they did.”
He gasps, loudly and obscenely, and points at you accusingly. “You want to hurt me?” He looks you up and down with budding intrigue. “Why is that kind of hot?”
You sigh loudly, resting your hand on his shoulder as you fix both of your sneakers. “You’re insane, and you’re a nuisance, Haechan.”
“Only to you,” he coos, and Renjun clears his throat pointedly from his spot in front of you two.
“Not true. I also find you to be a nuisance.” he adds.
“I thank you for the support, Renjun, but you find most things to be a nuisance… so that’s not really a surprise.” you say carefully, and his brows knit together thoughtfully before he shrugs, nodding in agreement.
“Fair point. On the bright side, we’re almost at the front of the line,” he points out, and you shift to Haechan’s side as you all step up.
“Aw, you wanted to stand next to me?” he teases.
You blink at him. “You can’t fuck with me if I’m standing right next to you.”
“Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.”
“And if I throttle him?” you announce to your friend group.
“He’d probably moan,” Jaemin says regretfully, and Haechan nods, eyes wide with glee as he presents you with his neck.
“I definitely will. Go for it.”
“Have you no shame?” Jaemin remarks, scandalized, and Haechan pauses to think.
“No.”
“Lovely. Great.” Jaemin mutters to himself, and Haechan smiles, pleased. “Can this line move so I can hit Haechan with my bumper car?”
“Agreed,” Jihyo says.
“Amen,” Mark chimes in.
“Retweet!” Jiwoo adds.
“Period.” you agree.
“Damn, even you?” Haechan exclaims, looking at you with a frown.
“Do you have short term memory loss? Did you forget how you deliberately made my shoes come off, like, two minutes ago?” you ask incredulously, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I’m going to harm you physically.”
“Maybe come stand next to me,” Jihyo offers, gently pulling you forward in the line towards her.
“Yeah, and you come here.” Jeno suggests, yanking Haechan backwards in line by the collar of his jacket.
“I don’t wanna stand next to you!” Haechan complains. “You smell like weed.”
“I took an edible today.” Jeno remarks plainly, and Haechan wrinkles his nose.
“The stench is embedded in your clothes.”
“I washed this jacket yesterday.” Jeno answers flatly.
“Well, in my defense, how was I supposed to know that?” Haechan huffs.
“Can you shut up and move up? We’re next, I think.” Jeno pushes Haechan forward in the small of his back, and Haechan crumples with a wail, stumbling forward to clutch onto you.
“He stabbed me!”
“Poor baby,” you coo, embracing Haechan as he clings onto you.
“I cannot, for the life of me, make sense of you two.” Jihyo chuckles with a shake of her head, and you shrug, the movement difficult due to Haechan holding onto you.
“He’s cute when he whines.” you answer, and Haechan coos at you fondly, nuzzling his nose into your neck affectionately.
“I think you’re the only person who thinks that,” Jeno chuckles, and you shrug again.
“Don’t listen to him,” Haechan mumbles, words muffled by his face being squished against your neck. “He’s mean. He stabbed me.”
“I poked you.” Jeno sighs with a roll of his eyes.
“You jabbed me!” Haechan counters, and you stroke Haechan’s hair, shushing him gently.
“It’s okay,” you hum soothingly. “You’re safe over here as long as you don’t get on my nerves again.”
“I’ll be such a good boy,” Haechan promises, and your eyes widen in surprise, your sharp intake of breath catching in your throat and making you cough for a second.
“Did not expect you to say that,” you mutter when you recover, and he chuckles, tilting his head up to look at you.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” he teases, and you blink down at him blankly.
“Shut up before I make you stand with Jeno again.”
“Shutting up.”
Finally, your group moves up to the very front of the line, the attendant briefly going over the rules. The eight of you agree to follow the guidelines and he lets you in, all of you scurrying to get in a car. You spot a cute, baby pink bumper car and get in that one, strapping yourself in and quickly familiarizing yourself with the controls.
The attendant hits the buzzer to begin the timer for your session, and you all start to drive around the course, quickly getting the hang of the controls and maneuvering the small vehicles.
You’re careening down the course when you’re bumped from the side, sending your car veering into the guards on the wall. You glare over at the culprit, Haechan grinning flirtatiously as he surges forward, repeatedly bumping your car closer and closer to the corner and more off-course.
“Haechan, pick on someone else.” you complain, and he scrunches his nose as he shakes his head.
“You’re so fun to mess with, though.” he says with an attractive pout.
“God, you’re lucky you’re cute.” you mutter, missing too late the way his eyes flash with satisfaction and budding mischief.
“What was that?” he calls over to you, placing a hand behind his ear.
“I didn’t say anything.” you huff, and he raises an eyebrow skeptically.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Too bad? Not my problem.” you reply with a shrug, and he narrows his eyes.
“Don’t make me come over there.”
“How are you gonna come over here when we can’t leave our bumper cars?” you ask, rolling your eyes.
“I’ll get out and come over there and climb right onto your bumper car.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Jeez—” you mutter, huffing and puffing before admitting, “I said, ‘you’re lucky you’re cute.’”
He grins widely and runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up casually before he speaks. “How lucky am I, hm?”
You shoot him a wary look. “Haechan, what are you talking about?”
“I wanna get lucky tonight.” he says slowly, wiggling his brows, and you blink at him, waiting to see if he’s serious before an incredulous scoff-laugh escapes you involuntarily.
“I suggest you get real acquainted with your hand, Haechan.” you chuckle, starting to drive forward and bump him out of your way.
“You’re cruel,” Haechan laments. “What happened to me being cute?”
“You’re still cute,” you assure him, blowing him a kiss. “Just not that lucky.”
“Next time,” he calls out to you as you drive away, and you wave him off dismissively.
You half-wish you hadn’t brought up the image of Haechan touching himself, because now it’s all you can think about; his hand gripping himself, the way he might stroke—fast, slow, tight, with a flick of the wrist—
“Pay attention, girl!” Jihyo laughs, bumping into you as she drives by. Rapidly blinking out of your reverie, you realize you’ve been slowly veering in towards the center of the rink, your car riding along the guard rails, and you do your best to clear the Haechan-induced fog in your mind.
The rest of the bumper car session passes fairly quickly, with shrieks and giggles of delight and Haechan repeatedly bumping into you “by accident.” When you get out of the bumper cars, your legs are a bit wobbly, but the light, bubbly feeling you have in your heart more than makes up for it.
“Can we please go on a roller coaster next?” you say hopefully, and Jihyo frowns instantly.
“Those make my stomach drop… I’m gonna pass this time.” she says apologetically, and you nod in understanding, although your face falls a bit.
“We just ate corn dogs and funnel cake, like, right before the bumper cars, and if we go on, we might blow chunks.” Jeno explains, gesturing between himself, Mark, and Jaemin.
Jiwoo looks over at them in confusion. “When did you have time to get food?”
“We snuck off,” Jeno admits sheepishly. “Well, I snuck off… Mark and Jaemin just followed me.”
“You just sensed corn dogs and funnel cake so you wandered off?” Jihyo snorts, and Jeno looks even more embarrassed now than he did earlier.
“I smelled them…” Jeno admits quietly, and you blink, surprised.
“Okay, bloodhound.” you joke, and Jeno snorts in amusement. “So Mister Super Sniffer and his greedy nosy companions are out, Jihyo’s out… I can tell by the look Renjun’s giving me that he’s also out…”
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Jiwoo? Haechan?” you ask hopefully.
“I’m sorry, girl, I’m just—I’m kinda scared.” she admits quietly, a small frown on her face.
“Aw, okay,” you reply sympathetically, squeezing her hand gently. You look over at Haechan hopefully, and to your relief, his face softens into a fond smile. “That’s the smile you give me when I’m about to get my way,” you say excitedly, and he chuckles, something warm and inviting in his eyes.
“I’ll go with you.” he agrees, and you squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck for a hug. “Careful, now, before I ask you to ride something else.” he murmurs in your ear suggestively, one hand moving to clutch at your waist, and you gasp, releasing him instantly.
“You’re gross.” you scold him.
“What’d he say?” Jiwoo asks curiously, and you narrow your eyes at Haechan before waving your hand at her dismissively.
“You don’t want to know. Let’s go, Haechan!” you chirp, grabbing his hand and pulling him after you to the biggest, baddest roller coaster you can find.
When you get in the line, Haechan sighs loudly as he looks at the numerous people ahead of you.
“We’re gonna be in this line forever, you know.” he complains.
“Worth it if I get to ride this thing.” you say, looking at the rollercoaster lovingly.
“You are so cute.” Haechan coos, squishing your cheeks until your lips pucker out.
“Can you unhand me, you fiend, you?” you huff, pushing his arms until he releases you with a frown. “You like being treated like a baby; I don’t.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, brows raised in a challenge. “So if I offered to hand feed you and tie your shoelaces and coo at you all the time, you wouldn’t like that?”
“Oh, I’d love that. But that’s being pampered, not being treated like a baby.” you say, and Haechan rolls his eyes.
“Same thing.”
“Nuh-uh! Pampering is treating me like a princess, not a baby.”
“Is that right?” he muses thoughtfully. You nod, and he chuckles, continuing on to say, “So I’m dealing with a little pillow princess, huh?”
“Hey!” you exclaim, looking over at him in surprise.
“Relax, I happen to love pillow princesses.” he assures you, and you eye him warily. “I do! Something about the idea of a pillow princess lying back and letting me do whatever I want to you…” he trails off with a dreamy smile, and you blink rapidly in alarm.
“Her?” you suggest, and he looks over at you, brows furrowed in confusion.
“Huh?”
“You said ‘you’ instead of ‘her,’” you point out, and he nods slowly, clearly not getting your point. “The way you said it made it seem like you were fantasizing about… doing that… to.. me…” you say, trailing off slowly as his brows lift as if to confirm what you’re saying. “Oh.”
“Oh,” he copies you, stepping closer with a grin. “Now what, hm? What’s so wrong with me thinking about you like that?”
“We’re friends, Haechan. Friends don’t typically fantasize about their friends.” you remind him.
“Friends should be allowed to fantasize about their friends,” he counters, “as a treat. Especially when their friends look as good as you do.”
“You’re such a flirt.”
“You know you’re lowkey into it.” he replies confidently, and you hate that he’s right.
“Move up, I think we’re gonna be in the next group.” you say, deliberately shifting the topic.
Haechan eyes the moving line ahead of him and looks back at you with a smile that says he knows exactly what you just tried to do, but relents and moves forward regardless.
As he turns to move, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, realizing that maybe, just maybe, Haechan’s a bit more serious about his flirting than you thought he was, and you have yet to determine how you feel about that.
The smell of cheese and pepperoni pizza fills the bowling alley, almost a pleasing enough aroma to mask the faint but still present smell of sweaty socks and shoes. You sip your diet Pepsi and look around the room; there are birthday parties for children, teenagers congregated by the fountain soda machine, and a smattering of tired parents sitting in the chairs by the bowling ball dispensers—and then there’s your group of friends, eight twenty-somethings far more rambunctious and chaotic than the younger age groups present.
“You’re up,” Jihyo calls to you, nudging you gently, and you sigh heavily before setting down your drink and standing up, making your way to the bowling balls.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you announce loudly to your friends, and you pick up a sparkly pink ball, walking over and just rolling it down the lane with no thought towards strategy or physics or anything of the sort.
To your surprise, you manage to hit three of the corner pins, your ball coming dangerously close to landing in the gutter, and you hear Haechan snicker behind you.
“Laugh it up, Haechan; not everyone is good at bowling. Some of us have other strengths.” you huff, glowering at him, and he raises his hands in defense.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything!”
“You laughed. That’s arguably worse than saying anything.”
“Maybe you should stick to the influencer thing… live life on easy mode, you know?” he says with a wry grin, and you watch as Jiwoo freezes, Jaemin audibly gasps, Mark smacks Haechan on the arm, and Jeno and Renjun exchange a look of disapproval.
“Oh, that’s not–” Jihyo starts, but you hold up a hand to silence her.
“Haechan, do you have any idea how difficult my job is? Just because I don’t spend my days learning the intricacies of Cobra—”
“Python,” Haechan corrects.
“Whatever! Just because I don’t have to submit pages upon pages of technical jargon to my boss, that doesn’t mean I have it easy.” you huff, placing your hand on your hip as you stare him down.
“How hard can it be to be an influencer?” Haechan says with a dismissive roll of his eyes. “I have to submit a code to my boss by midnight, and you have to, what? Do a TikTok?”
You glower at him. “You’re horrible. My job comes with the constant pressure of maintaining public approval, and you know how they have hive minds on TikTok! One day, you’re good, the next week, you could be nothing and everyone’s in your comments talking about, ‘Oh, you fell off,’ or, ‘Not you flopping.’”
Haechan levels his gaze at you, raising an eyebrow. “You get to go on social media and shake your cute little ass for a living… stop whining.”
You blink at him for several beats, processing which part of his statement to address first. “...Did you just call my ass little?”
He rolls his eyes and stands up from his spot, walking in the narrow space between you and the bowling ball dispenser. “More importantly, I called it cute.” he points out, and you can’t help but smile. “Personally, I think your ass is perfect.” He murmurs in your ear, and you hum softly in acknowledgement.
“Oh, yeah? Is that why you spend so much time looking at it?” you ask, and he grins.
“Absolutely. How else do you think I made such an astute observation?” he chuckles, picking up an emerald green bowling ball and lifting it in the air. You watch as his forearm muscles tense with the strain of managing the extra weight of the ball and do your best to hide your staring. “Why? Does that bother you?” he wonders, raising his eyebrows handsomely.
You think about it for a second. “It probably should, huh?”
Haechan grins brilliantly. “Does that mean you like it?”
“I never said that.” you reply, shooting him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He chuckles and turns from you briefly to bowl, the ball rolling down the lane in a perfect straight line before it hits the center pin and subsequently knocks every other pin down. He turns back to you, smiling smugly, and says, “It’s all in the subtext, baby.”
“Baby?” you echo incredulously.
“Yes?” he answers as if you’ve called him, eyes glinting with mischief, and you roll your eyes with an undeniable smile growing on your lips.
“You’re too much.” you mumble, laughing softly, and he smiles at you, his eyes twinkling.
“Can’t handle it?” he murmurs in your ear as he passes by you, heading back to his seat.
“Never said that, either,” you say as you walk over to him and sit beside him. “Just think it’s kinda crazy to call me ‘baby.’”
“Why is that crazy?” he hums, reaching behind you to rest his arm on the bench behind you, his fingertips grazing your shoulder. “Should I call you something else? Honey, baby girl, angel, babe—”
“Shh!” you giggle, reaching to cover his mouth, but he dodges your attack smoothly, eyes alight with mirth as he joins in on your laughter.
“What? Pretty, gorgeous, cutie, sexy—” he continues, dodging your attempt to silence him again and grinning cheekily. “I could do this all night.”
“Please don’t,” Mark and Jeno pipe up in unison. You look over at them with a slight jump, having temporarily forgotten you and Haechan aren’t even remotely alone in this building.
“Killjoys.” Haechan mutters mostly for your ears, and you laugh quietly, covering your mouth to remain inconspicuous. “It’s your turn again,” he points out with a jerk of his chin at the lanes as he pops a piece of gum in his mouth, and you manage to tear your gaze away from his jaw and the attractive way it moves as he chews for long enough to stand up and walk over to the lanes again. “Want them to put up the rails?” he teases, and you turn back to glare at him. “I’m just trying to help you out,” he says, hands raised defensively, and you raise an eyebrow.
“Maybe you should come show me how to do it, then.” you suggest with a small smile, and he chuckles before rising to his feet and striding over to you.
He’s quick to place his hands on your sides, squeezing gently before carefully repositioning you. It doesn’t take long for his hands to slide down to your hips, pulling you back against him so close you can feel his chest rising with every inhale he takes.
“You wanna start with your feet like this,” he murmurs in your ear, manually moving your legs by holding under your thigh just above the back of your knee until he’s satisfied.
“Like that?” you muse softly, looking over your shoulder at him, and he sucks in a breath before chuckling to himself under his breath and nodding.
“Just like that.” he assures you, but the way his voice dips when he says it leads you to believe there’s a suggestive meaning to his words. “Next, you’re gonna bend your arm like this and hold the ball just a bit in front of your shoulder.” he instructs gently, and when you do as he says, he smiles, pleased. “That’s it,” he encourages you, his voice dropping to a deliciously low pitch with that same suggestive lilt. “Bend your knees a little bit and put the foot that’s gonna slide slightly behind the foot that’s gonna stay still.” You do, looking back at him for approval, and he nods proudly. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” you say confidently, and he squeezes your hips slightly before releasing you. You send the ball rolling down the lane in a perfectly straight beeline for the center pin, the ball knocking it and all the pins behind it over, and you squeal with excitement, wrapping your arms around Haechan’s neck and pulling him in for a hug. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer, and just like that, the vibe of the hug shifts, his touch electrifying you as he tucks his face in your neck, breathing in deeply.
“Good job,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your skin ever so slightly but making you shudder nonetheless.
There’s a loud, obscene retching noise from behind you two, and you both break apart in alarm, turning to look at the source of the noise, Renjun sitting with a very displeased expression on his face and his arms crossed.
“Can we help you?” Haechan asks slowly.
“Yeah, you can get a room.” he says with a grossed-out scowl, and you remove your arms from around Haechan’s neck sheepishly, warmth blooming in your cheeks.
Haechan doesn’t release you just yet, though, still maintaining a firm grip on your waist and the small of your back until you clear your throat gently and his gaze shifts from glowering at Renjun to looking down at you with a question in his eyes. Your throat dries, not expecting his full attention so suddenly, and he lets out a tiny chuckle, lips quirking up into a smile before his eyes drop to your lips.
Your lips part subconsciously, and his grip on you tightens slightly before Jeno clears his throat pointedly, garnering your attention once more.
“Yes?” Haechan asks impatiently.
“A room. Get it.” Jeno remarks with a grimace, and you carefully pry Haechan’s hands off of you, since it seems like he won’t be doing it himself.
“Don’t be a hater,” Haechan remarks with a huff. “It’s not a good look on you.”
“Desperation isn’t a good look on anyone, either, but here you are.” Jeno counters, and Haechan frowns before he looks back at you with a pout.
“He’s so mean,” Haechan whines dramatically, pulling you to stand in front of him. He points at Jeno accusingly. “He hurt my feelings.”
“Don’t worry, Haechan,” you coo, turning to face him. “I happen to think you look very cute when you’re desperate.”
He grins. “Thanks.” His brows furrow in thought a second after, and you wait patiently, eyebrows raised expectantly, for the rest of the sentence to kick in. “Wait—hey!”
“There it is.” you chuckle. “For a software designer, your processing is surprisingly slow.”
“You’re mean, too.” he laments, pouting in a way that’s somehow both cute and handsome. “You’re lucky I kinda like it when you’re mean.”
“Oh, do you?” you muse thoughtfully, reaching up and running your hand through his hair. His eyes flutter shut and a blissful smile makes its way onto his face. “Do you prefer it when I’m mean or nice?”
“Nice, for sure.” he sighs happily as you repeat your motions of playing with his hair. “I like when you dote on me.”
“Is that why you’re such a whiny baby?” you chuckle, and he nods.
“Only for you.”
“Aren’t I lucky?” you drawl sarcastically, and Renjun snorts.
“I’d consider the rest of us deeply unlucky for having to witness it.” he chimes in, and you look back at him.
“Then close your eyes.” you hum dismissively, and Renjun gasps in disbelief.
“I think they’re worse when they’re on the same page.” he remarks to Jeno, who nods.
“They’re definitely worse together, if you ask me.” he agrees, and Haechan opens his eyes to narrow them at Jeno.
“Good thing I didn’t ask, then.” you reply, and Haechan grins at you.
“That was hot.”
“Down, boy.” you warn him playfully, and he wets his lips slowly and deliberately, grinning when your gaze drops to his mouth. “What did I just say?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening.” he says with a cheeky grin. “Got distracted.”
“By what?”
“Take a guess.” he suggests, raising an eyebrow pointedly as he looks you up and down.
“There’s, like, no hope for you, is there?” you laugh, and he shakes his head.
“No, ma’am.”
(You ignore the way the term of respect makes something tingle inside of you.)
“Guys, I think Deadpool tickets sold out,” you say worriedly as you enter the movie theater.
Jihyo looks over at you, confused. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, it says ‘Deadpool sold out’ right under the movie time listings, so… that kinda gave me a hunch.” you explain, pointing right at the sign, and Jihyo frowns.
“Maybe that’s an old sign,” Haechan says, striding over to the front desk confidently. “Hi, can we get eight tickets for Deadpool, please?” You don’t get to hear the woman’s response, but you do see her point behind herself at the sign you very much just pointed to. Haechan’s shoulders slump slightly and he walks up to your group once more. “They’re sold out.”
“Gee, how unfortunate. If only there was some way we could have known… some sort of sign, perhaps… maybe one that your dear friend already pointed out…” you lament sarcastically, and he narrows his eyes at you.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Oh, I can. Not only can I, but I will.” you retort, and he scrunches his nose at you.
“Well, can you two stop doing that weird foreplay banter thing you do so we can pick a new movie to watch?” Mark asks, and you splutter, surprised.
“That is not what we’re doing—” you start to defend yourself, but Haechan cuts you off.
“No, no, no, that is what I’m doing.” he says, and you slowly turn to look at him in disbelief.
“You shut up.” you huff, crossing your arms. “What are we gonna watch now?”
“We could watch The Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” Renjun suggests. “They’re re-releasing it.”
“How about we not?” Haechan says instantly, brows knitting together in distaste.
“No, I think it’d be fun!” Jiwoo chirps.
“I’d rather actually be able to sleep tonight, thanks.” you disagree, shifting to stand next to Haechan.
“Well, how about we just split up and see what we want?” Jihyo suggests, and you shrug, looking over at Haechan.
“Wanna see a romcom or something?” you ask him, and the corner of his lips quirks up into a smile.
“Sure thing.” he replies, and Renjun gags.
“Can we go get the tickets now?” he half-requests, half-pleads. “I can’t bear witness to whatever these two have going on for much longer.”
“You dramatic ass whiny baby.” you scoff, and Renjun glowers at you.
“You call me a whiny baby, but when Haechan goes on his whiny baby tirade, it’s all ‘poor Haechan,’ and ‘poor baby;’ what about me?!” he complains, and you raise an eyebrow in amusement.
“Renjun, if you want me to baby you, you could just ask.”
“No, you can’t,” Haechan cuts in, taking your hand and pulling you towards the ticket booth.
“Wh—Haechan!” you laugh incredulously.
“I’m the only one you can dote on,” he huffs petulantly at you before turning his attention to the attendant at the ticket booth. “Good evening; could we get two tickets to, uh…” he looks over at you and you roll your eyes with a smile before scanning the movie listings briefly.
“We Live In Time,” you finish, and he nods resolutely.
“We Live In Time,” he echoes, and the attendant smiles and nods, typing something into the computer.
“That’ll be $20,” she says, and Haechan reaches into his back pocket and pulls his phone out, tapping it to the card reader.
“Ooh, and you paid? What a gentleman,” you pretend to fawn over him, and he chuckles.
“You know I’ve got you, baby.” he remarks casually, and his sincerity stops you in your tracks.
Why was that so attractive?
The attendant prints out two tickets and hands them to Haechan, who takes them with a smile and a “thank you” before looping his fingers with yours once more and leading you further into the movie theater.
You want a snack from the concession stand?” Haechan asks as you two walk by it, and you look over at him.
“Maybe? Why; are you buying?” you half-laugh, not expecting him to agree.
“Yeah, come on.” he urges, leading you over to the snacks. “What do you want?”
“Sour Patch Kids,” you answer, pointing at the box. “The strawberry ones.”
“Good choice,” he remarks, amused as he takes the box from the display and hands it to the guy behind the counter. “Can we also get a large popcorn?” He turns back to look at you. “You want something to drink?”
Taken aback by but admittedly attracted to this energy from him, you nod—obediently, even. “Sprite, please—no ice.”
“Large Sprite, no ice, and a large Mountain Dew, please?” he finishes the order and you step forward to stand beside him, trying your best not to look at him with hearts in your eyes.
When you two get to the theater where they’re showing your movie, Haechan gestures for you to lead the way, so you do, picking a spot close to the back of the theater and sitting down.
He sits down next to you, setting the popcorn between your seats, and drapes an arm over the back of your chair.
“How smooth,” you drawl sarcastically, and he grins, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“You know you like it.” he replies confidently, and you try to hide your smile as you focus your attention on the screen as the trailers start to play.
It’s about thirty minutes into the movie, and paying attention is harder than you thought, considering Haechan’s doing everything in his power to make you focus on him instead.
At one point, you reach for popcorn, startling yourself when instead of feeling a buttery popcorn kernel, you feel the warmth of Haechan’s fingers.
“It was fate,” he coos sweetly at you, and you narrow your eyes at him playfully.
“Move your hand or I’ll throw popcorn at you.” you threaten, and he laughs, tipping his head back in mirth.
“You’re so cute,” he sighs in delight, eyes twinkling as he watches you fondly. “Fine, I’ll move my hand—”
“Great.”
“But you have to feed me a piece of popcorn.” he says with a smirk, and you blink at him incredulously.
“You’re really something, you know that?” you chuckle, picking up a piece of popcorn and bringing it to his lips. “Open.”
He obliges, sticking his tongue out flat, and you place the fluffy popped kernel on his tongue, trying the whole time not to think about how nice his tongue looks, glistening in the light from the movie screen.
“Thank you,” he hums, chewing happily, and you snap out of it, clearing your throat and returning your attention to the movie. “What a coincidence that it’s just the two of us,” Haechan remarks quietly, and you turn your head to look at him. “Are you sure you didn’t just want a chance to be alone with me?”
You sigh. “Haechan, this movie was my idea. You followed me in here.”
“Watch that cute little mouth of yours before I revoke your snack privileges.”
“You touch my snacks and I’ll make you wish you were at the mercy of that Texas Chain Saw Massacre killer.” you promise him, and he exhales quietly through his nose in amusement.
“Don’t worry, baby; I wouldn’t actually dream of getting between your snacks and your little sweet tooth.”
“Good.”
“Actually,” Haechan muses, and you turn to look at him again. “That’s probably why you and I get along so well.”
It’s your turn to exhale through your nose in a quiet laugh. “Why, because you have a sweet tooth, too?”
“Because I’m sweet.” he answers plainly, like it was obvious, and your snort of amusement is loud enough that someone else in the theater shushes you.
“Is that what your mom tells you?” you tease, and he glowers at you.
“Hey! I’m a delight!”
“Didn’t say you weren’t,” you reply with a smile, and he matches it, leaning a little closer as his eyes drop to your lips.
“Wanna see how sweet I can be?” he asks softly, and you find your breath hitching as he leans even closer.
His lids drop slightly in preparation for the kiss, but you press a Sour Patch Kid treat to his lips instead, smiling innocently when he opens his eyes with a slow flutter.
“What was that for?” he whines slightly, and you raise your eyebrows.
“You seemed like you wanted to taste something sweet.” you hum, and he frowns handsomely at you.
“You know what I wanted.” he huffs, and you shrug, returning your attention to the movie.
“Pay attention to the movie.”
“I’d rather pay attention to you.”
“And as much as I love attention, I’m trying to pay attention to the movie, which I am struggling to do with your repeated attempts to put the moves on me.”
“Oh? I’m distracting you?” he murmurs, a smug smile audible in his voice. “Sorry, baby.”
“It’s okay, baby,” you say as he pops a piece of popcorn in his mouth, and he sucks in a sharp breath, promptly choking on the piece of popcorn and making you whip your head around to look at him in alarm.
He glowers at you as he recovers, your eyes bright with amusement once you’ve assessed that he’s in no real danger. “That was evil.”
“I’m evil.”
“That’s hot.”
“Haechan?”
“Yes, baby?”
You roll your eyes with a chuckle. “Pay attention.”
“Maybe I could if you weren’t flirting with me.”
“Get real, Haechan.” you snort.
“Baby, there’s no one realer than me.”
“Baby,” you say, stressing the pet name, “pay attention and stop flirting with me before I stuff more popcorn down your throat.”
“Damn, that’s kinda hot.”
“Haechan!” you whisper loudly, laughing in surprise and incredulity, and several voices shush you from around the theater.
“Can’t help it; you’re kinda hot when you’re bossing me around.” he defends himself, and you roll your eyes.
“Get a hold of yourself.” you huff, and he frowns.
“I’d rather get a hold of you instead.”
“I’m sure. Too bad.”
“God, you’re a tease.” he sighs dreamily, and you shoot him a funny look out of the corner of your eye.
“Sure, if that’s what’ll make you shut up.”
“I kinda love it.”
“Shut up before you get us kicked out!” you whisper insistently, your cheeks warming at his incessant flirting.
“Mm, yes, ma’am.” he groans, the sound so suggestive you whip your head around to look at him in surprise, scandalized. “I like when you’re bossy.”
“I’m ignoring you now.”
“You can try.”
“I will succeed.”
“You’re already failing,” he points out with a grin, and you scowl at him, pointedly looking forward at the screen without another word.
Even with the music filling the room and the numerous bodies in between you two, Haechan’s staring is getting harder and harder to ignore. His eyes bore into you from all the way across the room where he stands talking to Jeno and Mark, and it’s so intense it’s almost palpable, prompting you to meet his gaze with a raise of your eyebrows.
He grins, flicking his eyebrows upwards, and you chuckle, turning your attention back to Renjun’s rant about his neighbor.
“...and then he had the nerve to tell me to ‘keep my music down’ as if he’s not up at the asscrack of dawn doing construction in his apartment!”
“What a hypocrite,” you say with a grimace, and Renjun nods vigorously, relief written all over his face.
“I’m surprised you even heard any of that,” Jihyo remarks, raising an eyebrow at you as she sips at the straw sticking out of her drink.
You shoot her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Well, with all the eye-fucking you and Haechan keep doing, I figured you were a little preoccupied.” she comments, and you narrow your eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you lie, turning your nose up with a sniff.
“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me.” she says with a playfully stern look. “Now, what’s going on with you and Haechan?”
“Yeah, what is going on with you and Haechan?” Renjun asks curiously, leaning forward in anticipation to hear you better.
“Nothing!” you say defensively, and Jihyo arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, yeah? Then why is he coming over here?” she asks with a knowing smile that only grows when you subconsciously fix your hair as, sure enough, Haechan approaches, eyes on you the whole time. “Hi, Haechan.”
“Hey,” he replies distractedly, tilting his head to the side as he regards you. “Hi,” he says to you, his lips quirking up into a smile.
“Hi,” you answer, mirroring his expression.
There’s a beat of silence before Renjun speaks. “‘Hi, Renjun. How was your day? I totally see you standing to my right, and I’m definitely not ignoring you like a piece of lint—’”
“Hi, Renjun.” Haechan says with a laugh, and Renjun glowers at him, muttering something under his breath about going where he’s appreciated before stalking off, presumably to subject another one of your friends to his tirade about his neighbor. “You having fun?” he asks you, and you nod, prompting him to smile widely and puff out his chest slightly before saying, “More now that I’m here, right?”
“Sure, Haechan,” you reply with a small laugh, and Jihyo just raises her brows at both of you.
“I’m gonna go find Jiwoo,” she says, shooting you in particular a secretive smile before disappearing into the crowd of people.
Haechan immediately steps into the space she occupied, now much closer to you, and his smile widens even more before he speaks, murmuring, “I like your top. You look so good tonight, but I’m sure you knew that.”
“I did,” you confirm, and he snorts. “But thank you. You look good, too.”
“Oh, yeah? We’re kind of matching.” he points out, gesturing to your black lace up top and his dark gray Nirvana t-shirt.
“Are we? That’s gray.” you reply with a growing smile.
“Dark gray and black are practically the same color.”
“But are they actually the same color? No.”
“Why are you being difficult?” he says with narrowed eyes, and you shrug.
“It’s my specialty.” you answer with a beguiling smile, and he rolls his eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips even as he feigns exasperation.
“Anyway,” he stresses the word, shifting the conversation. “Do you wanna get some fresh air with me?”
“Mm, not really; it’s kinda cold outside.” you say with a small pout.
“You can wear my jacket,” he offers, and you pause, thinking about it.
“Maybe later. For now, do you wanna come with me to the kitchen? I want a snack.” you ask, and he smiles at the invitation before nodding.
“Lead the way, baby.” he coos, and you roll your eyes with a smile as you do just that, reaching back to link pinkies with him.
“So we don’t get separated,” you explain.
He beams. “Good idea.”
You two make your way through the throng of bodies and into the kitchen, where you promptly start raiding the cabinets.
“I love Jeno and Jaemin to death, but their snack selection is shit.” you huff in disappointment, turning back to Haechan to see that he’s propped himself up against the kitchen counter, watching you with amusement and intrigue.
“Jeno went on a snack purge the other day,” he reminds you. “Said something about overly processed foods and saturated fats.”
“Well, sorry if I like my foods overly processed and my fats saturated.” you gripe, and Haechan laughs, pushing off the counter to walk over to you.
“I think they have fruit in the fridge,” he says, leaning into your space to open the refrigerator door. He pauses before he pulls back, eyes trained on your lips and his own lips part in a soft sigh, tongue poking out to wet them.
“The snacks?” you remind him with a growing smile, unable to resist glancing at his very tempting mouth.
“I’m looking at one,” he breathes, and you burst out laughing, pushing him back gently.
“That was very cheesy.” you giggle, and he shrugs shamelessly.
“It made you laugh, so I consider it a win.” he says with a soft, fond smile.
Your cheeks flare with warmth, not used to the gentleness and sincerity in his eyes, and divert your attention to the now open fridge, picking out a container of grapes that you hope are washed as you pop one into your mouth and chew. The burst of sweetness is very welcome on your tongue, and you lean back onto the fridge, closing your eyes in bliss.
“Better?” he chuckles, and you nod.
“Want one?” you say, offering him a grape, and he nods, leaning in to eat it from your fingers. Before he pulls back, he looks at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his sultry gaze too much for you at the moment and making you return your attention to the container of grapes with an urgency that doesn’t go unnoticed by Haechan.
“Cute.” he murmurs softly, and you huff, trying (and failing) to hide your budding smile at the compliment.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” you say, carefully extracting yourself from the small space he’s got you cornered in.
His eyes twinkle with amusement as he raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Was that an invitation?”
“It most certainly was not.”
“Aw, man. Next time?” he asks hopefully, and you snort.
“Don’t count on it.”
You do your best to hold your breath as you make your way through the hallway, stopping by the window for a moment before sticking your head out and breathing in the fresh air gratefully. After a moment of relief, you decide to open the window wider, climbing out and sitting on the windowsill, feet carefully resting on the fire escape attached to the side of the building.
It’s quieter over here, you note, pleased with your newfound situation as you scroll through your phone. Sure enough, when you open Instagram and tap on Jeno’s story, you see two boomerangs; one of him and his friends sitting in a circle around his bong, and one of him blowing smoke out of his mouth.
You tap the heart for both posts before footsteps pull your attention away from your phone, making you turn your head to see the newcomer.
Haechan stops about a foot away from the window, leaning against the wall. “I thought I’d find you out here. Thought you said it was too cold?”
“It is, actually, but this air doesn’t reek of weed.” you explain, and he nods in understanding.
“Mind if I join you?”
You wordlessly scoot over to make room for him, and he smiles, climbing out and sitting beside you. The side of your leg presses against his as he makes himself comfortable, but you don’t really want to move it.
So you don’t, and you just silently appreciate the warmth radiating from his body as he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
“Thank you,” you say sincerely, and he smiles at you, nodding.
“The city looks so pretty like this,” Haechan sighs, and you direct your gaze straight ahead of you, taking in all of the city lights in the nearby buildings and the bridges in the distance. “It’s almost as pretty as you,” he says, nudging you with a cheeky grin, and you exhale through your nose in amusement.
“It is pretty,” you agree. “Someone’s feeling flirtatious, I see.”
“Can you blame me? You show up tonight looking as good as you do and expect me not to want to be all over you?” he snorts, and you raise your eyebrows, slightly surprised by how forward he’s being.
“‘All over me?’” you repeat, and he nods, looking you directly in the eyes. “Like… all over me?”
“You interpret it however you want to, baby.”
“You’re gonna have to stop calling me ‘baby,’ by the way; it’s starting to confuse me.” you tell him, and he raises an eyebrow.
“How so?”
“I think I kinda like it,” you confess, and his gaze drops to your lips instantly, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips.
“Oh, really?” he murmurs suggestively, running one finger around one of the rips on the thigh of your jeans, and he chuckles softly as you shiver slightly, goosebumps raising on your arms. “Cold?”
“Something like that.” you reply evasively, and he snorts, his smile widening.
“Back to what you were saying… about liking when I call you ‘baby,’” he quickly returns to the previous topic, and you roll your eyes slightly in amusement. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“Friends don’t typically call each other ‘baby.’” you point out, and he shrugs.
“Maybe we can be special friends.”
“Oh, yeah? Special how?”
“Maybe we call each other cute names… touch a little bit… kiss a little bit…” he trails off, and you look over to see that he’s watching your lips again, a small grin on his lips.
“Mm, that could get messy though.” you murmur, and he gazes at you, longing openly written all over his handsome features.
“Life is messy.” he points out.
“This doesn't have to be.” you reply, gesturing between the two of you. Haechan links his fingers with yours and sets your linked hands on top of your touching thighs, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “That feels nice,” you sigh, leaning against him slightly.
“I bet I could make you feel even nicer.” he muses suggestively, and you snicker.
“Won’t lie and say I’m not a little curious.” you admit, and he sucks in a sharp breath of surprise.
“Don’t tempt me,” he murmurs. “I don’t particularly feel like holding back right now.”
“Oh, is that what you usually do?” you reply, speaking as soft and low as he just did.
He nods. “You always tempt me, actually—I’m just not feeling like beating around the bush right now.”
You raise your eyebrows in surprise and—you won’t lie—intrigue. “And what’s making you feel like that right now?”
“A number of things,” he replies. “How unbelievably good you look tonight, the way I can see the goosebumps on your skin when I touch you, and,” his voice gets even softer but carries an urgency you don’t believe you’ve heard from him before, “the way you’re looking at me.”
“And how am I looking at you?” you question, tilting your head to the side curiously.
“The same way I’m always looking at you.” he answers, and you don’t need him to elaborate.
“So if that’s all true,” you muse, regarding him carefully, “then why aren’t you doing anything about it?”
“I like what we have,” he says in reply, and you smile. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it.”
“And what if I said I kind of want you to ruin it?” Your words are quieter than ever, tentative even, but by the way the fire in Haechan’s eyes intensifies, you know he heard you all the same.
“What did I just say about tempting me?”
“It wasn’t a temptation,” you say carefully. “It was an invitation.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. “You know, I’ve never been one to ignore my urges before,” he admits. “If I want something, I get it.”
“Oh, yeah?” You can’t even try to hide the arousal building in you as you watch his lips with uninhibited longing.
“Yeah.” His gaze matches yours, unbridled desire swimming in his eyes as he slowly leans in, and you find yourself mirroring him, the two of you moving painfully slowly as you get closer and closer.
“And what is it that you want right now?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I bet you can guess,” he murmurs as his lips brush the corner of your mouth.
“Give me a hint.” you reply, and he grins, turning your face towards him gently and bringing his lips to yours.
It starts slowly, his lips gently moving with yours, before he pulls back ever so slightly, your eyes opening to see him watching you carefully.
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Good,” you confirm, and he smiles before leaning back in to close the gap between your lips. This kiss is much less tentative, his lips parting to suck gently at your bottom lip, and when you whine softly, he pushes forward, reaching up to cup your cheek as he captures your lips with his over and over again, each kiss more dizzying than the last until his mouth is moving fervently against yours, his tongue tracing along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth with a quiet groan.
Your hand finds its way to his thigh, and as soon as it makes contact, it’s like a switch flips in Haechan, his lips leaving yours to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek and along your jaw before finally settling comfortably on your neck, mouth kissing, sucking, and licking at your pulse point.
“Haechan,” you whimper, and he hums against your neck, but you can tell he’s not really listening. “Haechan,” you sing-song softly in another attempt to get his attention, but he just slips his hand under your thigh farthest from him, scooping your legs up and moving them to drape over his lap. “Haechan,” you whine urgently, and his kisses finally falter, the male pausing but not moving away from you as he waits for you to speak. “Can we go somewhere more private and… less chilly?”
He pulls back, lips deliciously puffy from kissing, and nods with a dazed look in his eyes. “Jaemin’s room?”
You don’t even have it in you to be considerate of your friend, the lust clouding your mind and doing away with your judgment as you nod. He grins and ducks back into the apartment, helping you do the same before leading you to Jaemin’s room, never once letting go of your hand.
When you two get to Jaemin’s room, you’ve barely cleared the doorway before Haechan shuts the door and pushes you up against it, kissing you ardently and clutching your waist to drag you closer to him. He nips at your bottom lip briefly before kissing down your neck and sliding his hands up to cup your breasts, squeezing them and looping his finger in the string tying your top together.
“Why don’t we take this off, hm?” he murmurs, slowly pulling the string with a growing grin as the bow—the one Jiwoo so carefully tied for you earlier this evening—comes undone, leaving no resistance when Haechan pulls your top over your head.
He eagerly returns to kissing you, hands groping at your chest as he traces circles around your slowly hardening nipples. He pulls back from the kiss slightly and moves like he’s about to kiss down your neck, only to whine and bring you back in for another kiss, panting against your lips, “I wish I had more mouths.”
“You what?” you say, bursting into giggles so strong that you can barely manage to kiss him back, and he joins you in your laughter.
“Stop, I’m being serious!”
“I know—I think that’s why it’s so funny,” you say through your laughter, and he growls in lighthearted frustration before whirling you around and all but shoving you onto the bed. You squeal in surprise, giggling still as you bounce on the bed, and he rolls his eyes, climbing on top of you. “What kind of eldritch horror are you thinking of becoming? Like how many mouths and where?”
“Can we just—forget I said that?” Haechan whines, and you shake your head with a gleeful giggle.
“I don’t wanna,” you say with a pout, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he groans in exasperation. “I’m kind of a monsterfucker, so you saying that really got me going.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” you ask, looking up at him, and he slowly shakes his head—whether it’s in disagreement or in disbelief, you’re not sure, but when his lips start trailing down to your collarbone, you’re not entirely sure it matters anymore.
“I’d want mouths on the palms of my hands,” he grunts, cupping your breasts again through your bra, “so I can kiss you and suck your tits at the same time.” Before you can respond, his wet, swollen lips fall to your chest, tongue trailing all over your exposed skin before he’s tugging the cup of your bra down and taking your nipple into his mouth.
A whimper escapes you, spurring Haechan on further, and he wraps one arm around you, pressing between your shoulder blades to bring your chest closer to his mouth. His tongue is warm and wet as it flicks at your nipple, Haechan groaning as he swirls it around and around your stiffened bud.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he mumbles around his mouthful of your breast, and his other hand trails down your body to settle between your legs, Haechan delivering two gentle pats to your inner thighs in a wordless request for you to spread them. When you oblige, he smiles around your nipple before wetly licking and sucking his way from one breast to the other. His fingers quickly and deftly unbutton your jeans, barely yanking them down before his hand slips into your pants, stroking along the seat of your underwear, pressing down harder when you whine.
“Haechan, please,” you moan, running your fingers through his hair and tugging gently when you reach the ends.
“Mm, what is it, pretty? What do you want?” he teases with a quiet laugh, looking up at you as he pushes your underwear aside and trails two fingers up your slick folds, hissing in delight. “Is this what you want?” he asks, dipping his fingers into your entrance slightly and relishing the groan of frustration you let out.
“Yes,” you moan, tugging his hair a bit harder in retaliation for his teasing.
Finally giving into your demands, he pushes his middle and ring finger into your core, lapping at your nipple as you whimper loudly in relief. “Shh, shh, shh—I know, baby, I know.” he soothes you in a hushed murmur, slowly starting to pull his fingers out before pushing them in deeper.
“Feels good,” you exhale shakily, and he coos in understanding.
“It’ll feel even better in a second,” he promises, starting to move his fingers in and out of you. “Just gotta open you up first.” He releases your nipple, giving it one last lick before moving back up to hover above your face, gazing down at your pleasure-filled expression in wonder before he’s leaning down to kiss you, silencing your cries of pleasure as he starts to twist and scissor his fingers inside of you. “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet. All this for me? Hm?”
“No, it’s for Renjun,” you huff sarcastically, breaking the kiss momentarily to glower at him. “Of course it’s for you, dummy.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “There is a time and place for your sass, and it’s not when my fingers are literally inside of you. Besides,” he says, curling his fingers inside of you and making you gasp in pleasure, “why would you be mean when I’m making you feel so good, hm?”
“S-Sorry,” you stammer as his curled fingers massage at your inner walls in search of your g-spot, which he finds quickly, eliciting a sharp whimper from you as you clench around his fingers. “It’s all for you,” you confirm breathlessly, and he grins before kissing you again.
“Good girl. You’re gonna have to make it up to me, though.” he murmurs against your lips, and you pout, prompting him to coo fondly and kiss you again. “Even with that cute little pout.”
“I said sorry,” you complain, and he shrugs, fingers quickening their pace inside of you.
“I’m sensitive.” he replies simply, kissing down to your neck and sucking and biting at various spots until you’re sure there are marks blooming all over your skin. “It’s okay, though—I know how you can make it up to me.”
“H–How?” you ask warily, voice catching as the pleasure builds inside of you, his repeated stimulation of your g-spot bringing you closer and closer to climax as your insides tighten in anticipation.
“Cum for me?” he grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s a request or a stated demand, but you nod, breath hitching and your cries escalating in pitch as you start to do just that, your climax washing over you as your abdomen tenses repeatedly, your body curling in on itself as much as possible given that Haechan’s practically pinning you in place.
“That’s it, baby,” he purrs, coaxing more of your climax out as he keeps fucking you with his fingers, milking your orgasm for everything he can get, your entrance drooling clear evidence of your arousal all over his fingers and into the seat of your underwear. “Making such a pretty little mess for me,” he breathes, kissing you again as his fingers urge the last convulsions of your climax out of you.
You’ve barely recovered before your hands reach for his pants, fingers clumsily unbuckling his belt, undoing his button, and yanking down his zipper. He chuckles fondly and pushes them down to his knees, your eyes locking in on the imprint of his length in his boxers as he palms himself through his underwear.
“You like what you see?” he teases, and you furrow your brows.
“Your underwear’s in the way.” you grouch, and his eyes brighten with amusement, thumbs hooking into his boxers and pulling down until his length springs free. “Much better,” you hum, pleased as you rest your head down on Jaemin’s pillow.
“Look so pretty laying like that.” he grunts as he slowly fucks his fist. “Wish I could take a picture and keep it forever.”
“I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully.” you say, and he raises a brow expectantly. “Please fuck me.”
The brightness in his eyes remains, but now there’s a heavier, darker edge to his gaze as he leans over you, lips teasing yours apart.
“Did you just beg for me?” he coos tauntingly, and you sigh.
“I did not beg. I asked nicely.”
“Sure, baby. I’ll give you what you want,” he promises, lining the head of his cock up with your entrance and slowly pushing into you, making your breath catch in your throat. He exhales deeply and dips his head down to your neck, latching onto your skin and sucking as he starts to drag his length out and back in, building a teasingly slow rhythm.
“So full,” you gasp, and he chuckles, kissing up your neck to your lips.
“You feel so good, pretty girl. Tight little pussy keeps sucking my cock back in; you like this that much?” he coos, one hand groping your breast.
“Don’t tease me,” you huff, and he grins widely.
“How are you gonna stop me?” he counters smugly, choosing that moment to speed up the movements of his hips until the sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room, each thrust punctuated by a whimper from you. “You’re not going to do anything about it; you’re just gonna lay here and take this dick nice and deep in your little pussy until you cum all over it.”
“Fuck, Haechan—” you mumble, dazed by his thrusts and even more by his filthy language.
“You love it, don’t you?” he teases, capturing your lips in a filthy kiss where he plays with your tongue almost lazily.
“Uh-huh,” you can barely manage to get out, and he hums in satisfaction.
“Show me how much you love it.” he urges, rolling his hips against yours sensually. When you start to move your hips against his, rocking up into his every thrust into you, he rewards you by sucking on your bottom lip and flicking your nipple back and forth with his thumb. “Fuck, that feels so good, pretty girl, keep doing that.”
You fuck him back to the best of your ability, that familiar tightening sensation in your stomach alerting you to your impending climax. “Haechan, think I’m gonna cum—” you warn him, and he nods, pinching your nipple just enough to make you squeal.
“Cum, baby; wanna feel you clench around my cock.” he purrs, and your climax hits a moment later, a cry slipping from your lips as your back arches, your hand clutching his arm for something to ground yourself as your body curls in on itself involuntarily. “That’s it, pretty girl—doing such a good job—squeezing my cock so tight, baby, fuck—”
By the time your climax has passed, you’re still trembling slightly as aftershocks of pleasure travel through you with every thrust from Haechan, and you’re so wet you can hear his length moving in and out of you, hear your pussy sucking him back in as it hugs his length tightly, and heat rises to your face.
“My turn, baby; think you can take my load?” he grunts, and you nod instantly, clenching around his length every time he bottoms out in you. “That’s my good girl,” he coos fondly, his brows knitting together as he starts to release into you. “Milking me dry, baby, fuck—” he hisses, and you smile in satisfaction as he shudders, lowering himself to kiss you as he fucks the last bit of his cum into you.
Finally, when his length stops throbbing inside of you, he pulls out and lies down next to you, both of you breathing heavily.
“Hey,” he says, turning his head to face you.
“Hi,” you reply with a smile, and his lips curl into a matching smile.
“You okay?” he asks gently, and you nod.
“Better than okay.” you assure him, and he sighs, relieved. A thought comes to your mind and you nudge his leg with your knee. “Hey.”
“Hi?” he answers curiously, and you roll onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow.
“If you had multiple mouths—”
“Please let it go, it was silly—” he interjects with a half-chuckle, half-groan.
“I like silly!” you counter, and he looks over at you skeptically, his features relaxing when he reads the sincerity in your face. “If you had multiple mouths, would you have them anywhere besides your hands?”
He thinks about it for a moment before he nods. “I’d have one on each thigh… so while I’m kissing you, I can grope your tits with my hand-mouths and have you sit on my thigh so I can eat you out, too.”
You shudder slightly, and he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I got a little excited.”
“You’re joking… damn, you’re kinkier than I thought. That’s hot,” he grunts appreciatively.
“I think we should get up before Jaemin comes in here and chops our heads off.” you say suddenly as the reminder that this is not somewhere you want to be caught fucking dawns on you.
“You’re so right,” he agrees, sitting up and helping you off of the bed. You both hurriedly redress, Haechan stumbling as he pulls his pants up and making you both giggle. “Ready?” he says finally, fully redressed.
You ruffle his hair, messing with it until it’s back in place, and hold the strings to your top out to Haechan. “Tie it for me?”
He smiles fondly and steps closer, tying a cute bow into your top and leaning back to inspect his handiwork. “You’re good, baby.”
“Thanks,” you say sincerely, opening the door and heading back to the party. You two give each other a knowing look before you enter the living room and go your separate ways, Haechan heading for Jeno and Renjun while you head for Jiwoo and Jihyo. “Boo!” you say from behind them, and Jiwoo whirls around, clutching her chest.
“Shit!” she exclaims. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry,” you reply without a hint of remorse.
“Where’d you go?” Jihyo asks curiously.
“I was on the fire escape,” you explain, deciding to tell a half-truth. “I didn’t want to smell Jeno’s weed.”
“Ah, fair.” she answers with a nod.
“Hey, your bow is different.” Jiwoo points out, pointing at the bow on your shirt that Haechan tied. “Did you take your top off or something?” she snorts, amused with her little joke, but Jihyo looks over at you carefully, shrewd gaze scanning your body for anything else out of place.
“No, I just had to re-tie it because one of the strings got caught on one of the screws on the fire escape and it looked all wonky,” you lie, and Jiwoo nods in understanding.
“Copy that. Well, I’m hungry; wanna go raid their fridge?” she offers, and you start to nod, but you freeze when you feel something drip out of your core.
“I am totally in, but I have to use the bathroom first.” you say, clasping your hands together in a pleading gesture. “Wait for me?”
Jihyo’s still staring at you like she’s silently interrogating you, and you won’t lie and say you’re not unnerved. “Earth to Jihyo?”
She blinks slowly before focusing her gaze on you once more, eyes now softer and less scrutinizing. “Sorry, I was just… thinking. Yeah, we’ll wait for you.”
“Cool,” you say, relieved, before making your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You make quick work of peeing and sorting yourself out, washing your hands and drying them before heading back to the living room where Jihyo and Jiwoo and, to your surprise, Haechan stand. “I’m back!” you chirp before looking over at Haechan. “You weren’t here a minute ago.”
“Jeno and Renjun started bickering about something, so I left.” he replies with a shrug. “You don’t mind if I join you guys, right?” he shoots you a knowing look with a secretive smile, and it takes everything in you not to start giggling like a schoolgirl.
“I guess you can,” you say nonchalantly, and he beams at you.
“Great! Where are we going?” he asks curiously, and you point towards the kitchen.
“To find snacks!” Jiwoo says eagerly, and you all walk to the kitchen, you and Haechan starting to fall to the back of the line until he’s side by side with you.
“You already said their snack selection was garbage,” he remarks, confused, and you shush him.
“Yeah, but I’m not getting a snack; Jiwoo is. So we’ll let her figure that out for herself,” you explain, and he nods in understanding.
“I see,” he hums thoughtfully. “Well… did you tell them? About earlier—”
“No,” you answer, and he sighs in relief. “Don’t worry, it’s our little secret.”
“Copy that,” he chuckles, fingers brushing against yours before they intertwine and he squeezes your fingers gently. When you look down at your linked hands and back up at him, he smiles cheekily. “So we don’t get separated,” he says with an upwards flick of his eyebrows.
You roll your eyes but pull him forward, finally entering the kitchen in time to see a cranky Jiwoo.
“Their snack selection is ass. What am I, a rabbit?” she laments, and you smile in amusement.
“They’re great at house parties, bad at refreshments.” Haechan says, and Jihyo looks over at you two before her gaze drops down to your linked hands, an eyebrow raising in suspicion.
You carefully and casually let go of Haechan’s hand by running your fingers through your hair, and Haechan fixes his mouth to complain before he looks in Jihyo’s direction and seems to understand, relaxing slightly.
Between Haechan’s need for attention, your inexplicably magnetic attraction to each other, and Jihyo’s deeply suspicious and perceptive gaze, you know you have quite a night ahead of you.
The following morning finds you back at home sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through your phone and checking your engagement before a text banner notification drops down from the top of your screen.
haechan [10:08am] good morning 😌 did you miss me?
you [10:10am] sorry……who’s this?
haechan [10:11am] you’ve GOT to be joking 😟
you [10:13am] i very much am 💖 good morning haechan ☀️
haechan [10:15am] don’t play with me like that i almost crashed out
haechan [10:15am] can i come over? i have a question for you
you [10:16am] haechan what are we doing rn
haechan [10:17am] ….talking?
you [10:17am] right… and would you consider talking a synonym for ‘having a conversation’ or no?
haechan [10:18am] ……….yes……….. is this a trick question
you [10:20am] so if we’re already having a conversation, by your definition….. why, pray tell, can’t you just ask me NOW 🤨
haechan [10:22am] *Message sent with Invisible Ink* maybe i just wanted a reason to see you ☹️
you [10:24am] oh… well that’s cute actually
haechan liked your message “oh… well that’s cute actually”
haechan [10:25am] awesome…… so can i come over? 😁
you [10:26am] ofc you can 💖
haechan [10:27am] great can you let me in 😁
You tilt your head, confused by his message, but a knock on your door makes you practically jump out of your seat. You make your way to the front door and look through the peephole, barking out an abrupt laugh when you see Haechan sporting a cheesy grin on the other side of the door.
“You are insane,” you laugh as you open the door for him, inviting him inside. He enters, still sporting the playful smile, and shuts the door behind himself.
“In, like, a cute, hot, sexy way, though, right?” he asks hopefully, and you roll your eyes with a smile before shrugging and nodding, watching as relief floods his features.
“Your question?” you ask, getting straight to the point, and he visibly balks, the normally shameless Haechan becoming quiet and shifty. “Haechan?” you call his name with a tinge of worry in your voice.
“Did you have a good time last night?” he asks, and you raise your eyebrows.
“That’s your question?” you question, in disbelief.
“I’m building to it,” he explains. “Now: did you have a good time last night?” he repeats, and you blink at him impassively before sighing in slight defeat.
“I did,” you answer, not sure if he meant the party or… well, the sex… but you had a good time regardless of which he meant. “Did you?”
“I had an amazing time.” he says sincerely.
“Great,” you reply, just as sincerely. A small silence passes before your impatience gets ahold of you. “Haechan…”
“Yes?” he responds, nervousness creeping into his voice.
“Your question?”
“Right,” he mutters, clearing his throat as he prepares to speak. Meanwhile, you move to sit back down in your chair, swiveling around in the seat as you wait for his question. “Um—look—I really enjoyed last night. It was amazing, actually, and—I’m talking about the sex, by the way.” he stammers, his sudden clarification at the end making you giggle, regarding him fondly.
“I figured, yes.” you assure him, and he nods, somewhat relieved. “Go on,” you urge him gently, and he swallows visibly.
“I would love to, um… do that again… but I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship right now. I’m still getting used to juggling my job and my social life, and I really don’t want to fuck up our friendship—”
“And you want to be friends with benefits,” you finish for him, and he pauses, body tense as he rapidly tries to read your reaction.
“...Yes?”
“Okay,” you agree, and he just about crumples with relief, leaning against the kitchen island for support. “I’m down. But if we don’t want it to ruin our friendship or the friend group, maybe we shouldn’t tell them?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he sighs, significantly more relaxed than he was a moment ago. “Plus, it could be kinda fun, y’know? Us… sneaking around… together…” he says, gesturing between the two of you with a suggestive wiggle of his brows.
“I couldn’t agree more.” you say sweetly, and he beams at you, all traces of his earlier nerves gone. “Do you think we should have some ground rules? So we don’t complicate things?”
“Sure, yeah,” he agrees instantly, and you smile, patting the chair next to you invitingly as you pull up the Notes app on your phone.
“So we want sex with virtually no emotional connection, right?” you clarify, and he nods, his reaction a second too late to process as casual. Ignoring it politely, you continue on. “So, maybe ‘no cuddling’ should be a rule.”
“No cuddling?” he laments, and you nod resolutely.
“Cuddling encourages emotional intimacy.”
“Fine,” he sighs, frowning slightly. “Can I still hug you?”
“Hugging and cuddling are… not the same thing, so yes.” you answer with a laugh as you type the first rule, and he smiles, chuckling lightheartedly.
“Maybe… we shouldn’t spend the night after we have sex?” he suggests, and you nod, typing it into the note you’ve made.
“Is this, like, exclusive?” you ask, gesturing between the two of you, and he tilts his head thoughtfully.
“I guess not…” he says, an air of reluctance to his words that makes you pause and look at him carefully.
“Haechan, speak now or forever hold your peace.” you warn him, and he nods firmly.
“We don’t have to be exclusive if you don’t want to be. It’s up to you.”
“How about we leave that part open-ended for now, but make the next rule ‘no jealousy?’” you offer as you type in the next rule.
“Okay, that sounds good.” he says, nodding slowly in agreement. “Next rule?”
“Um, no romantic gestures? Like, no buying each other special gifts you wouldn’t buy for another friend, no flowers, no making each other romantic playlists—stuff like that.” you say, and he looks off into the distance pensively.
“What about pet names?” he asks warily, and you half-sigh, half-laugh.
“Haechan, I think you would pop a blood vessel if you had to restrain yourself from calling me pet names.” you state, and, eyes wide, he nods vigorously in agreement, making you laugh.
“It’s true!” he insists, and your laughter grows.
“I know! That’s why I said it,” you giggle as you type in the next rule, and he starts to chuckle before joining in on your laughter. “So pet names are fine, but—”
“But?” he asks hesitantly.
“‘No PDA’ should definitely be a rule.” you suggest. “It’d definitely blow our cover.”
“Okay… agreed.” Haechan says slowly, his subsequent nod more confident than his words.
You type in the new rule and sit back, regarding the list carefully. Haechan peers over your shoulder at your phone screen, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Does this look good to you? Do you think we’re missing anything?”
“No, I think it’s perfect,” he says, sounding sure of himself, and that’s enough to comfort you.
“Well, great!” you say, taking a screenshot of the list and texting it to him. His phone pings on the kitchen table with your incoming text, and he looks at it briefly before tucking it into his pocket. You rise to your feet, Haechan straightening back up as you stand, and turn to face him, extending your hand. “Wanna shake on it?”
He takes your hand with a small smile, lips quirked up in amusement before he looks up at you and tugs gently, pulling you against his chest. “Honestly? I’d rather kiss on it.”
You blink twice, stunned slightly by the sudden intimacy, but you nod. “We can do that.”
He grins, tilting his head and nudging your nose with his gently. “Good,” he breathes before he kisses you. It doesn’t take long for his hands to move, one hand cupping your jaw and the side of your neck while his other arm wraps itself around you, resting on the small of your back as he pulls you in close. His lips mold with yours so smoothly that it’s like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime, but every nip and suck from him winds you up even more than you thought possible, making for a beautiful combination: all of the comfort, no stilted awkwardness, with all of the excitement.
When you two finally break apart, it’s for air, your hand gently resting on his chest, still clutching his shirt—you don’t even know when you started doing that—as you both attempt to catch your breath.
“Good talk,” you pant, and he grins.
“Great talk.” he agrees breathlessly. “I actually have to go home to work on a code for this new program we’re building, but I’ll see you? Hopefully before our trip to Fire Island with everyone else, but if not, then I’ll text you?”
“It’s kind of criminal that you have to do work on a Sunday when you have actual work days to work on stuff.” you say with a pout, releasing his shirt and gently smoothing out the small wrinkles you caused. “Yeah, I’ll see you for the Fire Island trip.”
“I know.” he agrees with a frown. “Alas—not all of us can make it in life by being cute and likable.” he teases, and you shoot him an empty glare, making him laugh. “But I’ll see you soon, pretty girl.” he says, thumb carefully brushing your cheek.
“Okay,” you hum, trying your best to avoid leaning into his touch and closing your eyes.
“Later,” he says, reluctantly releasing you and walking backwards to your front door until he bumps into the corner he has to go around, a sheepish chuckle escaping him as he waves once, turning and exiting your apartment after you wave back.
Now alone, you look at the list you two compiled, carefully reading over each word.
1. No cuddling.
2. No sleepovers after sex.
3. No jealousy.
4. No romantic gestures.
5. No PDA.
They seem like simple enough rules to follow; straightforward and to the point, carefully designed so you don’t blur the lines too much between platonic and romantic.
But, given the way he embraced you earlier and the way you so badly wanted him to stay longer, you can’t help but wonder if the lines were already blurred to begin with.
tada!!! i hope you enjoyed, and stay tuned for part two, coming out on wednesday, december 11th!
DON’T WANNA WAIT? parts two and three are currently posted on my patreon here :)
❯ summary: Hyuck doesn’t care that high school was years ago; after learning his girlfriend’s experience was shitty, he’s determined to rewrite it for you. After all, he’s nothing if not smitten.
❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader
❯ genre: established relationship, fluff, eventual smut
❯ words: 6.4k
❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, swearing, fingering, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, exhibitionism, reader uses she/her pronouns, lots of gendered female terms, slight begging, brief possessiveness and jealousy bc it’s me, a brief cheating accusation but it’s stupid, hyuck being a cute boyfriend for 6k words.
an: did someone say haechan lover boy smut for valentine’s day? (they didn’t, lol. i wrote this for me, i love men in love)
“I fucking loved high school,” Hyuck says, placing down his yearbook on the coffee table.
It had to be a few years old by now, stuffed at the back of one of your bookshelves. You’d found it while doing an annual declutter and handed it to him on a whim. Knowing your boyfriend, you figured he’d find it nostalgic, or funny, or both.
You glance at him from your spot on the couch, eyebrow arched. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shifts, sitting up straighter.
“You were on the football team, babe. Voted prom king, had good grades, and probably never had to eat lunch alone,” you list off, counting on your fingers for dramatic effect. “I’d be shocked if you did hate high school.”
He laughs with a shake of his head, sinking back further into the sofa. “Okay, fine, maybe I was a little... popular.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can help it. “A little? I bet you walked through the hallways like you were the lead in a drama or something stupid like that.”
He nods. “Damn right. I was the shit.”
You scoff, tossing a pillow in his direction. He’s such a cocky bastard—but you love that about him.
“Jealous?” he shoots back, smirking.
You try to playfully roll your eyes, but instead, a small frown pulls at your lips. You know he’s just teasing, messing around, but memories of junior and senior year creep into your mind uninvited. You’d never been outright bullied, but high school wasn’t exactly a highlight reel for you.
It was a blur of sitting in the back row, trying to make yourself small enough to avoid attention. Lunches alone in the library. No group of friends. No teenage dream. Dances you skipped, pretending you didn’t care when your chest ached from watching your classmates gush over photos the Monday after.
So yeah, you were a little jealous.
“Yes, actually,” you say finally, voice quieter. “High school sucked for me.”
His grin falters, posture straightening. “What?”
“I mean, it wasn’t all bad,” you rush to explain, suddenly self-conscious. “I got through it, you know? I just wasn’t... you.”
Hyuck leans back, studying you with a look you don’t see often on him—concern, worry. “What do you mean you weren’t me?”
“I wasn’t popular or cool or good at sports. I didn’t have a big friend group, and I definitely didn’t win prom queen…not that I even went.”
Hyuck doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally glance up, you find him staring at you with an expression you can’t quite place. There’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no cocky smile playing at his lips. He just looks... sad.
“Wait,” he says, his voice softer now. “You didn’t go to prom?”
You shrug. “Didn’t really have anyone to go with.”
He blinks at you like you just told him you spent your teenage years stranded on a deserted island, which for the likes of Hyuck, not attending prom was the justified equivalent.
“Are you serious?”
“Hyuck, it’s not a big deal,” you say quickly, waving him off. “High school just wasn’t my thing.”
“Not a big deal?” he repeats. “Babe, prom is like... the peak of high school. It’s the one night everyone remembers forever. How did no one ask you? I can’t wrap my head around that.”
You can’t help but laugh, despite the tightness in your chest. “Not everyone peaked in high school, Hyuck. Some of us just... took it for what it was: school.”
His expression softens even more, guilt creeping into his features as he scoots closer, his thigh brushing yours. “You know you deserved better than that, right?”
“Hyuck—”
“I mean it,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “If I’d been there, you would’ve been my prom queen. Hell, I’d have skipped the whole damn thing just to hang out with you if you didn’t wanna go.”
The honeyed warmth in his voice makes your throat tighten, and you hate how easily he can do this—take the ache of old memories and replace it with something softer, lighter. Something you almost want to believe.
“Too bad we didn’t meet until after high school,” you say, forcing a smile.
Hyuck falters—but only for a moment. His gaze lingers on you as if a thought is forming behind his dark eyes.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your forehead. “Too bad.”
You don’t think anything of it when he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on your head as the conversation drifts elsewhere. But later, when he’s holding you close and you’re half-asleep, Hyuck is still thinking. Planning.
Because Lee Donghyuck might not be able to rewrite your past, but he’s damn sure going to be the best part of your future—trust.
Hyuck just couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The coolest person he’d ever met—his girlfriend, his soulmate—hadn’t gotten to live the high school teenage dream. No prom, no stupid corsages, no dancing barefoot at the end of the night because the heels were too much. Nothing.
It didn’t make sense. You were too fucking beautiful to be treated as background noise by those losers. Hyuck remembers the day he met you—a fully grown man—and you made him a stuttering mess. He’s never asked Mark for flirting advice ever in his life, but fuck, he wasn’t about to miss his chance with you.
How could they just disregard you?
He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. How did no one ask you out? Were they blind? Or just stupid? What kind of idiot couldn’t see what he saw every day?
The thought of you sitting at home on prom night, like it didn’t matter, made his chest ache. He couldn’t picture it—because you were you, the type of person every cheesy teen movie was written about: beautiful, funny, and so damn perfect. And yet... those assholes in high school had somehow missed it.
And even though the sick, selfish, possessive side of him is so fucking grateful that he’s the only one that’s ever had you, and those assholes missed out, he still can’t help but obsess over it. He couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he wanted to, and that realization burned.
Hyuck groans, tipping his head back. “I’m losing it,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
But he couldn’t let it go. And because he was Lee fucking Donghyuck, when something got under his skin, he acted on it. Which is why, two days later, he finds himself standing in the middle of a small-town gymnasium, arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene in front of him.
“Is this the best you can do?” he asks, unimpressed.
Mark, balancing precariously on a ladder while stringing up fairy lights, glares down at him. “Dude, shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “You gave us two days to put this together. Do you even know how hard it was to convince the principal? I had to name-drop you!”
Hyuck ignores him, his eyes sweeping over the room again. Mark wasn’t wrong—he had given his friends next to no time to work with. But that didn’t stop him from wanting it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.
A cheap speaker sits on the ground, currently blasting some old prom playlist Mark had found online. The string lights slowly started taking shape, casting a soft glow across the gym. There is a table in the corner with a bowl of something pink and suspicious-looking, and a few chairs scattered around. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.
Mark climbs down from the ladder, dusting his hands on his jeans. “I think it looks fine.”
“Fine?” Hyuck repeats, scoffing. “Mark, this is a high school prom. It’s supposed to be magical or whatever. This just looks like... a school event.”
“Because it is a school event,” Mark shoots back, rolling his eyes. “Look, man, if you wanted a five-star gala, maybe you shouldn’t have sprung this on me last minute.”
Hyuck sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t trying to be an ass, but he wanted, needed, to do this for you. You’d brushed off your high school experience like it was no big deal, but he could tell it meant something to you. Maybe not in a way you wanted to admit, but it was there.
And now it was his job—no, his mission—to fix it.
“Just... add more lights,” Hyuck says finally. “And maybe some balloons? Chenle, do we have balloons?”
Chenle, who was sweeping the floors, looked back with a shake of his head, scurrying off before he got caught in the crossfire.
Mark groans. “Hyuck, if we add any more lights, the entire gym’s gonna blow a fuse. And no, we don’t have balloons. You’re lucky I even managed to get lights.”
Hyuck sighs again, running a hand through his hair. He had money, sure—that was the only reason he’d managed to rent out the gym on such short notice—but even he couldn’t buy time.
Still, as he looked around the gym, he felt a flicker of pride. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. He’d move mountains for you if he had to. And if this half-assed prom was the closest he could get, then so be it.
Mark claps a hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “She’s gonna love it, dude. Stop stressing out.”
Hyuck nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
Your boyfriend’s acting weird. Well, weirder than usual.
Hyuck’s always been a little odd—but that’s one of the things you love about him. The endless hobbies he picks up and abandons in a week like juggling, the random facts he collects from late-night YouTube rabbit holes, and his never-ending need to one-up his friends in bets and challenges. But this? This feels different. Like it’s more than some dumb dare or fleeting obsession.
For the past two days, he’s been unusually secretive. You’ve caught him whispering with Mark on the phone more than once, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush whenever you’d walk into the room. And then there was yesterday—when you brought coffee to his rehearsal. You barely stepped inside before the entire group went awkwardly silent, and Hyuck practically herded you back out the door. Hyuck, who usually couldn’t keep his hands off you in public and loved showing you off, suddenly turning shy…suspicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.
And let’s not forget the disappearing act last night. He came home late, shrugging off your questions with a grin and the vague excuse of “guy stuff.” Guy stuff. That was the moment you knew something was up.
And so, you’ve been sitting on the couch, stewing, waiting for him to get home from rehearsal. The seconds drag, and with each passing minute, your frustration builds. By the time you hear the jingle of his keys in the door, you’re ready to burst.
Hyuck stumbles in, his hair slightly mussed, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exhausted but excited, strange. He barely gets a foot inside before you’re on him.
“Are you cheating on me?”
His jaw drops, the grin on his face disappearing instantly, eyes blinking at you like you’ve just accused him of arson. You’d honestly prefer it if he had. “What?! No! Why would you even—what the fuck?”
“You’ve been acting so weird!” you snap, crossing your arms. “The sneaky phone calls, the late nights, the whispering, the weird excuses—guy stuff? Do you think I was born yesterday?”
That makes him laugh and you swear you see red. He thinks this is funny? You’ll show him funny.
“If you wanted to break up with me, Hyuck, don’t insult me by sneaking around! Just—just tell me to my face!” Your voice wavers, hurt bubbling in your throat as you glare at him.
Hyuck’s expression softens instantly, his eyebrows furrowing. “Hey, hey, wait—babe, no. That’s not what’s happening here, I swear.”
You narrow your eyes, pointing at the garment bag. “Oh yeah? What’s that, then? Some outfit for your other girlfriend?”
His mouth drops open, and then he barks out a laugh, though he quickly smothers it when he sees your glare. “No! Oh my God, no. Look, just… this isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he pinches his temples “Could you just go upstairs and put this on, okay?” He holds the bag out to you, practically shoving it into your hands.
“Excuse me?” you quirk an eyebrow.
“Just—trust me, babe. Please. Go upstairs, put this on, and come back down when you’re ready.”
You stand there, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Because he must have. “Hyuck, I am not—”
“Please,” he interrupts, his voice softer now. “Just this once. Do this for me. It’ll all make sense.”
His eyes meet yours, and for all the frustration boiling under your skin, you can’t ignore the quiet sincerity in his voice. Because even though his recent actions have been enough to make your paranoia spike, he’s still your Hyuck—and you trust your Hyuck.
With a sharp huff, you snatch the garment bag from his hands and stomp upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you before he can say another word. Your pulse is racing, irritation curling hot in your chest as you yank the zipper down and pull the dress out with more force than necessary.
It’s beautiful. And that pisses you off even more.
Who does he think he is? Sneaking around all week, ignoring you for days, then showing up with a pretty dress and expecting you to put it on without question?
Annoying. He’s so annoying.
Still scowling, you step into the dress, the silky fabric gliding over your skin like it was made for you, and knowing Hyuck he’d probably ask someone to do that for him. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your anger stutters—just for a second. It’s beautiful. You look beautiful.
Damn it.
You swipe at your eyes before anything ridiculous like tears can form and square your shoulders. Fine. You’ll wear the dress. But you’re not going to let him off the hook so easily. Throwing the door open, you march downstairs, irritation simmering beneath the surface of your foundation. “Lee Donghyuck, you better—”
But you freeze.
Because he’s standing at the bottom of the steps in an equally beautiful suit, rocking on his heels, with a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. He’s holding a corsage in his hands—delicate flowers wrapped in silk, matching your dress perfectly.
And then, all at once, it clicks.
That fucking yearbook you found. The conversation that came after it. The sneaking around. The secrecy.
Your breath catches in your throat, warmth creeping up your neck as a blush dusts his skin. He chews his lip, eyes flickering up to meet yours, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d swear he was nervous.
Hyuck never gets nervous.
“Do you wanna rewrite prom with me?”
And just like that, you break.
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them, and Hyuck’s smile falters just slightly as he steps forward, hand reaching out to you, as if he’s ready to catch you, to hold you close, if you were to fall. But you don’t fall. You just nod, because it feels impossible to do anything else.
How could you say no to him? How could you possibly deny the one person in the world who would do something like this for you—not because he had to, but because he wanted to, because he loves you to a point you never thought possible because he needs you to be happy.
“I love you,” you choke out through your happy tears, the words tumbling from your lips before you can stop them.
Hyuck’s worry shifts into something warmer, something softer. He steps closer, brushing his thumb gently against your cheek to wipe away the tear.
“Does that mean we’re not breaking up, then?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a tenderness underneath, a soft hope in his eyes that mirrors the love you just confessed.
Your heart skips a beat, and you nod through blurry eyes, a small smile breaking through. “Not even close.”
His face splits into the brightest grin you’ve ever seen, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, rocking you side to side like he’s never going to let go. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. And for once, you let yourself lean into it, let yourself feel just how much he loves you, because God, does he know how to show it.
“I love you too, you know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, meant just for you. “Like, stupidly. Like, I’m gonna remind you every day until you’re sick of me, because I never want you to think I’m cheating on you ever again.”
You huff a laugh, sniffling. “I don’t think I could ever be sick of you.”
“Mm, we’ll see about that.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, taking in the glassiness in your eyes, the heat in your cheeks. Then, with a smirk, he presses the corsage into your hands. “Your favourite colour.”
“Now,” he says, stepping back and offering his arm, “if we don’t leave soon, Mark might actually rip my balls off.”
It takes you a second to register what he means, and when you glance past him, you see Mark leaning against his car, arms crossed, exuding pure suffering. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, but you know your Hyuck can be very convincing.
“Are you two done?” Mark calls, exasperated. “Because I have better things to do than play chauffeur for your little rom-com tonight.”
“Liar!” Hyuck yells, dragging you toward the car. “If you weren’t here, you’d be playing video games with Chenle or something. Your life is boring and bitchless!”
Mark groans but doesn’t deny it.
“Wait! One more thing,” Hyuck gasps, stopping you just as you’re about to step into the car. Before you can question it, he’s already sprinting back inside. A few seconds later, he bursts through the door, holding up a letterman jacket that doesn’t match your old school’s colours, but his.
And when he drapes it over your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary, his gaze catches on his surname stitched across your back. His cheeks flush that familiar shade of pink, and for once, he’s the one left speechless.
You clutch your hands to the jacket, making sure it doesn’t fall off and you can’t stop smiling. Because even though he was just being a fouled-mouthed menace to his friend. He’s clearly only ever sweet and soft with you. Hyuck opens the car door for you and he slides in beside you, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s second nature, like they belong. You look down at your joined hands, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin, and warmth blooms in your chest.
The corsage, the letterman, the chauffeur to prom. It’s silly. It’s cheesy. It’s the kind of thing you used to roll your eyes at in movies as a teenager. But right now, with him, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Because he’s rewriting how you feel about the cheesy stuff, giving you the giddy, reckless kind of love you never got to have.
Letting his hand rest on your thigh, making you stifle your sighs as it slowly crept up your flesh. His touch is heedless and uncaring as if Mark wasn’t inches away in the front seat. It’s compulsive, carless, and so ridiculously juvenile—it’s so high school.
Which feels very on-brand as you pull up to an old brick building. Mark cuts the engine, allowing Hyuck to round the car and open your car door before holding your hand tight and walking you towards the football field.
So many memories flooded back to you as soon as he opened the gate that led to the field. Heels on the grass, on the sacred sanctuary you never had the chance to belong on. Suddenly you’re sixteen again and Hyuck leds you over to the bleachers, climbing up several rows before taking a seat and pulling you down next to him.
"Are we trespassing right now?" you ask, slipping your arms into his letterman to ward off the winter chill. "I know you love me, but you don’t have to commit a crime for me."
Hyuck scoffs, a playful smirk on his lips. "Please, you know I wouldn’t think twice about committing a crime for you if you asked me to." He pauses, then adds, "But no, we’re not trespassing. This is my old high school, and since I'm such an outstanding alumni, I had some strings pulled. They left me the key for tonight."
You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "So they did all this just for you, huh?"
“Don’t look at me like that, this is for us.”
"Uh-huh," you tease. "I must say, knowing how to ball in high school seems to have its perks. I was in the wrong clubs clearly. You’re basically the only person I know who managed to continue peaking after high school."
Hyuck’s smile falters, a flicker of something sad crossing his face. His eyes drift downward, and you catch that same troubled look he had when you found his yearbook—when he learned how different your high school experiences were. You don’t want him to feel like that, not when he’s trying so hard to fix it. But you don’t want him to fix it either, because as messed up as your teenage years were, they led you to him. No one’s ever had you. Not like him anyway.
You slide your hand over his, squeezing gently as you move closer. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, you know?”
Hyuck chuckles, that flicker of sadness vanishing as quickly as it came. “Don’t say that. You haven’t even seen what I’ve got planned inside yet. I had all the boys stressed over fairy lights and balloons all week.”
Knowing how much effort he’s put in makes you smile, your fingers drifting up to trace the curve of his cheek. He’s so beautiful. So in love. So undeniably yours.
“I’m excited to see it,” you say. “But right now, I just want to be here. Is that okay? I never really got to hang out on the bleachers.”
“Will you yell at me if I say that a sick part of me loves that you never cheered for other guys playing football?”
You shake your head with a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, undeterred. “Yeah, I wanna kill those assholes for never inviting you to a game, for not taking you to prom. But I also love that I get to be the one to do it with you. Even if we’re adults.”
You bite your lip, feigning hesitation. “Well, I have some information I think you might like.”
Hyuck raises a brow. “Oh?”
“I always wanted to make out under the bleachers,” you admit, heat creeping up your neck. “Call me cliché, but when I was a freshman, I imagined having my first kiss with Lee Felix under there.”
His nose crinkles instantly. “I don’t know who that is, but I hate him.” Hyuck scoffs, but his hands are already sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. “Still… this night is about me making your fantasies come true. So fuck that guy and let me kiss you, baby.”
And you do—let his lips capture yours, kissing you until they’re swollen and puffy, until they mould perfectly to his, like they were always meant to. Until there’s no doubt that they, and you, belong to him.
Hyuck wastes no time, scooping you into his arms with ease, carrying you into the shadows beneath the rickety metal frame. And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting. It’s everything you ever imagined. No—better. Because it’s him and you.
His hand trails up your body as he presses you against one of the cold metal pillars, calloused fingers graze your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Years of football have roughened his touch, but it’s the way he holds you—like he can’t get enough, like he never will—that really makes your breath hitch. And you almost want to laugh, because you’re pretty sure most people fuck after prom, not before it. But this is you and Hyuck. You’ve never played by the rules, never followed the scripted path. You never wanted to.
And that’s exactly why a soft, desperate “Please,” slips from your lips as his fingers venture higher, until they’re brushing against the hem of your panties.
“Cute,” he smiles and murmurs against your lips, grinning as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, his cool touch grazing your clit. You shiver, and it only makes him that more pleased—more proud. His other hand glides up your stomach, sneaking beneath your dress until he’s palming your breast, his thumb teasing over your nipple.
“You know…” he muses, voice dripping with amusement, “I paid good money for this dress. It’d be a shame to ruin it.”
“Please. You’d never buy me a dress you didn’t plan on ruining.”
Hyuck giggles, shaking his head, but before you can run that smart mouth of yours again, his finger slips so easily into your pussy, and you gasp, clinging to his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with need. “I love that you know me so well.”
His fingers keep working you, desperate and wild—because if you know Hyuck so well, he knows you even better. Knows your body like it’s his to worship. And when he adds a second finger, stretching you open, pleasure floods through you so intensely your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping back as a moan catches in your throat.
But that won’t do.
Hyuck likes to watch you. Likes to see the way your lips part, the way your brows knit together, the way your pupils blow wide with nothing but him. He wants you to know—no, needs you to know—that he’s the one making you feel this good. That it’s his touch unravelling you, his name you should be thinking about, whimpering, crying out.
So the second your lashes flicker, his fingers slow, teasing, withholding. You whimper, forced to open your eyes again, hazy and weak—just the way he likes them—just the way he needs them to be before he picks up his pace.
He’s meticulous, careful—determined to make you cum right here, right now. If your fantasy was just to make out under the bleachers, Hyuck is going to take it further, push it past anything you ever imagined. He’s going to make you cum here, again and again, until this moment is burned into your memory. Until you can never think about high school, about this field, about these bleachers, without thinking about him. About the way he touched you. About the way he made it perfect. He always makes everything perfect.
“Need you to cum all over my fingers, pretty girl. Come on,” he murmurs, pinching your clit as he tries to coax an orgasm out of you. And it doesn’t take long. The honeyed rasp of his voice, the relentless rhythm of his fingers, the way his eyes stay locked on yours—it’s all too much. You shatter around him with a high-pitched moan.
“Atta girl,” he breathes, watching you with nothing but admiration. “So fucking pretty when you cum for me.”
Your mind is fuzzy, his words melting into white noise as you come down from your high on shaky legs. If it weren’t for the pillar at your back, you’re certain you’d be a puddle on the floor. Hyuck holds you close, his hand stroking your hair as he murmurs soft praises against your ear—something about being so pretty, so good, so his. But all you can focus on is the growing bulge in his pants, the evidence of just how much he wants you. A bulge you put there. One you’re aching to take care of.
You start to drop to your knees, and he sucks in a breath, his eyes locked on yours.
“Stop,” he commands harshly, stepping back as if something’s shifted. It forces you to stand up straight again, confusion crossing your face.
“Don’t you want me to—”
“Oh, I fucking want you to, and you’re going to,” he growls. Then, he peels off his suit jacket and drapes it on the concrete floor between you two. “Now, you can get on your knees for me, Y/N,” he orders, his voice rough and commanding, but then it cracks, desperately. “Please.”
You lower yourself onto his suit jacket, kneeling before him, palms pressing firmly against his thighs. His erection is hard, straining through his suit pants, but he’s waited—waited until he knew you’d be most comfortable because that’s just who he is.
“Look at you,” he says, running his thumb over your mouth. “Puffy lips parted and ready for me. Big fucking eyes, so innocent, so needy.”
“Only for you, Hyuck,” you breathe softly as you start undoing his belt and his jaw visibly ticks.
You’ve sucked his cock before—of course you have, and you love it. And still, he looks at you like it’s the first time, nostrils flaring, pupils dilated, as he drinks in every detail of your eagerness. He’s so hungry to feel you, to get lost in you—so feral.
Using his forefinger, he lifts your chin, forcing your chin and attention on him. “I know, baby. Only me. Always me.”
You run your tongue over your lower lip, and he tracks the entire thing, looking like some kind of predator.
“Take it out.”
You comply, dropping his pants to his ankles and tugging his boxer briefs down with them. His cock springs free, angry veins visible and the tip glistening. The sight of his straining cock right in front of you pulls this desperate sound from deep in his throat. He traces every inch of your face as if he plans to paint it soon, and you’d let him.
His palm glides over your head again, fingers weaving through your hair, cupping the back of your skull to keep you anchored in place. Rough and dominant—just how he likes it, and just how you crave it.
“I need to fuck your mouth, baby. Seeing you cum in my letterman has got me so damn hard. I need this pretty mouth,” he whimpers as his palm rests on your scalp. “You’re gonna let me do that aren’t you? Because you’re such a good fucking girl.”
You nod and squirm in anticipation, using the tip of your tongue to lick a path over his slit, savouring the salty taste from the bead of precum. His eyes instantly roll back and you grip his shaft with one hand and lick a path from root to tip.
“Mmm,” he hums. “Just like that,” he hisses between his teeth as his entire body vibrates.
You look up at him, fluttering your lashes over heavy eyes. Because the only thing Hyuck craves more than his own pleasure is the sight of yours. You round your lips, sucking him in slowly. Your head bobs as you work your tongue in sync with your lips, but he’s so big, a fact you’ll never get used to. He hits the back of your throat and you hold him there, swallowing around his tip, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your throat tightens with a gentle choke.
"Fuck—" He lurches forward, one hand gripping the pillar for support while the other tugs at your hair, pulling you off him just long enough to catch your breath—because he's nothing if not considerate.
Hyuck runs his thumb by the corner of your eye, gathering the moisture that pooled there.
“I’m ruining your makeup,” he muses, lips curling into a smirk. “I had prom pictures planned.”
A blush creeps on your cheeks, “We don’t have to take them.”
“We’re taking them.” There’s no question in his tone. It’s simply a statement. A demand. “Then I’m keeping a copy in my wallet, so next time I’m on tour, fisting my cock, I can think about you. About this."
You nod, breath hitching. "O-okay."
"Okay." His thumb drags over your lip again, teasing until you part for him, wrapping around it. He presses down, tugging lightly. "So agreeable. So obedient. Aren’t you?"
"Yes," you breathe.
His smirk deepens. "Good. So you'll keep sucking my cock, won't you?"
You don’t even bother with words—too eager to please, too determined to finish what you started. Your fingers wrap around him, stroking once before you take him back into your mouth, sucking deep before pulling off with a lewd pop. Then you do it again, following his cues, giving him exactly what you know he loves. A slow flick of your tongue along the underside of his head, a firm squeeze as you cup his balls, and then you’re taking him to the back of your throat. His entire abdomen tenses. His breathing turns ragged.
"Fuck." His curse is sharp as he pulls back, just enough to look at you. "I’m gonna cum. You gonna let me cum in your mouth, baby?"
You nod eagerly, mascara streaking your cheeks, spit glistening at the corner of your lips. "Please, Hyuck."
His smirk is wicked. "Are you gonna be a good little girlfriend and swallow it all for me?"
You nod—far too enthusiastically.
"Good. Now, take a deep breath, baby—'cause it’s the last one you’re getting for a while."
He runs a gentle thumb over your cheekbone before guiding your head forward. Your lips part instinctively, wrapping around him as he sets the pace, fucking your mouth with a steady rhythm. His palms cover your ears, his hips roll with precision—nothing but pure pleasure as he chases his high. And you let him. You take it, let him use you because he’s done all of this for you tonight. Because he deserves his reward.
Truthfully, watching Hyuck unravel beneath you—knowing you’re the one making him this needy, this desperate to cum—is your own reward. Because seeing him lost in pure bliss is the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.
Your fingernails dig into his skin, leaving faint crescents as he keeps his pace—steady, deliberate—but always mindful, always making sure you can breathe. He checks in with his eyes, just like you said—considerate.
You moan around his length, hips shifting instinctively, searching for friction. And of course, Hyuck notices. He always notices.
"Are you getting turned on from sucking me off, Y/N?" he taunts, through a tight restraint breath. "So wet, even after I already made you cum." He pulls out of your mouth, gaze dark. "Show me. Show me how wet sucking my cock has made you.”
Heat prickles your skin as you reach under your dress, the one he bought, and gather your arousal on two fingers. You bring them up, letting him see the proof, the evidence of just how much you want him.
“Fuck,” he growls, as deep brown eyes turn black as they lock on your fingers. “So fucking obedient.”
Hyuck leans in, grasping your wrist before guiding your fingers into his mouth. His tongue flicks over the tips, slow and careful, savouring the taste—the proof of how badly he’s wrecked you. Of how much you like him, love him.
He nods toward his cock, covered in your saliva, hard and twitching, ready to cum. "Make me cum, baby. Please."
You hold his eye contact, grip his cock, and bring your mouth back to cover him. He moans, head falling back, and you work his length with your mouth and hand, doing your best to take what you can’t handle. It doesn’t take long until his hips jerk in short, sloppy movements. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, moans soft but pitched, the sound of him unravelling.
“Y/N,” he cries out your name in a whimper of desperation. One hand finds yours, holding it tenderly, while the other braces on the pillar behind you. Then, he cums—hard.
He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, because that’s his favourite part, but the sensation overwhelms him, and he has to shut them. Every muscle in his body tightens as hot, forceful pulses hit the back of your throat.
“So pretty like this,” he pants breathlessly. “Mouth full of my cum.” The pad of his thumb traces down the line of your throat. “You’re gonna swallow it, aren’t you?”
It’s not a question, and you don’t hesitate. You swallow all of him, but it’s not enough. You need more—need him inside of you.
“Fuck me, please, Hyuck.”
He shakes his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips and then he laughs. He uses the hand he’s had entangled with yours to pull you up to your feet, steadying you gently. “I can’t. Not here.”
You pout, disappointed, your body aching for him. “Why not?”
His smile widens as he adjusts your dress, pulling the fabric down to cover you properly, the moment feeling suddenly too sweet considering he was just fucking your throat.
“Because,” he draws out playfully, “I planned a prom, and like all cheesy teenagers, I don’t plan to fuck you here.”
You quirk a brow, crossing your arms across your body. But before you can say anything, Hyuck fumbles with his suit jacket, dropping to the floor to search the pockets. His hands hover for a second before he pulls out a room key, holding it up like some kind of trophy.
You scoff with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Very cliché.”
He grins at you. “I think we have pictures to take.”
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