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sungbeam · 6 months ago

Text

nonidol!jung sungchan x f!reader

at some point beneath the glittering summer sun and along evening tides, you and sungchan tripped over the line drawn in the sand.

▷ genre, warnings. brother's best friend!au, friends-ish 2 lovers, family vacay + sungchan lol, swearing, kissing, fluff, humor, sungchan does go shirtless (it's a beach), mentions of food, mentions of alcohol; lee jeno, sohee, and anton r ur brothers! (so u have the lee last name but u "look more like ur mom"); barely proofread, also im sorry if this is boring my head has not been in the game for Months

▷ word count. 10.0k

DISCLAIMER: i DO NOT actively write for or stan riize; this is literally just a birthday present T-T so if dynamics/personalities aren't right, i literally don't know these guys 💀

a/n: happiest birthday to my beloved soulmate and wife @justalildumpling :')) i hope u like it <3

OFTEN when you came back home from work, your joints and muscles ached to the point you could barely stand, your hair felt gross on your head, and your eyes stung from dehydration and sleep deprivation. That was the toll of working closing shift at the restaurant you worked at, and had been working at, for the past several years.

It wasn't out of the ordinary to see the lights in the house still warm and bright when you got home either. Your family was a handful of night owls, not discounting yourself. They had witnessed you in this particular rat-nest dump of a state time and time again, which was why you didn't worry about looking like Death Incarnate.

“Hey.”

Your soul left your body.

Sitting on your living room couch was not a family member. Though, he might as well have been a part of it from how much you had been seeing him lately. Jung Sungchan was your older brother Jeno's best friend, but Sungchan was in your year rather than Jeno's. The two met via the high school soccer team and had been good friends since.

Years later, he was sitting on the living room couch, nearing one in the morning, his hair damp from a recent shower, T-shirt sleeves rolled up his shoulders, and his phone paused from the game he was playing. Your brain was too tired to even register the amount of muscle packed onto his arms (what the fuck—).

“Sorry, did I scare you?” He chuckled sheepishly, reaching up to ruffle his dark hair, grown out slightly.

“What are you doing here?” You blurted instead. Exhaustion meant that conventional politeness was completely defenestrated. It was one in the morning on a summer night… usually your older brother was out clubbing or drinking (not that you were any different, but you worked quite a bit more nights lately).

Sungchan's eyes danced up and down your form. “Jeno and I decided we're gonna pull an all-nighter for the road trip in—” He glanced over at his phone, “—seven hours and just knock out in the car. How was work?”

Road trip? Car ride? If you could just make it to the shower… “It was fine. Tiring,” you said with a sigh. You trudged over to the far side of the room, behind Sungchan, into the kitchen. You grabbed a cup to fill with water, then drained it down your throat just as fast as it had been filled.

With water in your body, your systems were finally coming back online. Road trip. Car ride. Your eyes widened. “Oh my god. I have to pack.”

“You haven't packed yet?” He queried, tone light and teasing as he watched the progression of your panic with amusement. “Even Jeno's packed.”

You sputtered back at him, “Quiet, you!”

Sungchan's warm laugh followed you out into the hallway and all the way to your room. You couldn't understand why your face felt so hot; you should have been too preoccupied to be embarrassed, after all.

You slammed your bedroom door shut, dragging a hand down your face. You couldn't believe Sungchan just saw your I-just-worked-for-eight-hours-in-customer-service face. Not even some of your closest friends had seen the aftermath of your night shifts at work yet.

Crazy.

It wasn't every family vacation where a plus-one was invited. Your family tried to set aside time for these trips just for the six of you, but this time was an exception. Somehow—you weren't a part of the delegations—Sungchan was invited on this summer's trip to the coast. Your mom mentioned offhandedly it was because Sungchan “was a nice boy,” or something to that effect. Your family rented out a cabin right along the beach for a week, and the lot of you were going to be stuck in the family minivan for a good eight hours together.

And if Sungchan was tagging along, that meant you were going to have to fight for the middle row seat or—

“Yn—you’re in the back with Sohee and Anton.”

You came to a screeching halt on your way out of the house, a bucket hat shielding your puffy eyes from the waking world, your duffle strapped over your shoulder. It was seven hours later—an ungodly eight in the morning. “What? Nuh-uh; I don't think so.”

Jeno stood only a few meters ahead of you by the door of the minivan, his hands primed on either side of his hips as if he was the self-proclaimed guardian of the car seating chart. “Well, I said so. Sungchan has longer legs than you—”

“Why don't you sit in the back then?” You shot back with a saccharine sweet smile. You were too tired for this shit.

Sungchan scratched the side of his head as he walked out of the house to stand by you and join the argument, his flip flops thwacking against the ground. “Uhh, I can sit in the back middle seat. It's cool, dude.”

“Sungchan's too tall for the middle seat,” your dad interjected. He took yours and Sungchan's bags to add to the trunk. “Yn's in the back. Sorry, hon.”

“Dad,” you groaned.

“You can switch with Jeno half way.”

“Dad!” Jeno squawked this time.

Your father gave a tired sigh, saying more than he would ever say aloud. “Everyone in the car. Can't you two be like Sohee and Anton? At least they're knocked out.”

“They know they'll be sent to the back without question,” you pointed out as you made your way to the minivan. As you passed by your brother, you sent him a very potent stink eye, then clambered into the back row.

Like your father had said, your younger brothers, Sohee and Anton, were already dead asleep. Their mouths hung open wide enough to catch any wayward fly with their heads angled back against their neck pillows. You snorted and snapped a photo of them to add to your collection of brotherly blackmail.

Your mom was settled into the front passenger seat already queuing up driving directions to get to the coast. From your perch in the middle, you had a clear view of her phone screen—seven hours and two minutes. Yay.

You supposed there wasn't anything too terrible about the middle seat; you were out like a light as soon as the car pulled out of the driveway.

When you woke up, it was about four hours later, and your parents were having a hushed discussion amongst themselves and Sungchan. A baseball cap had materialized on top of Sungchan's head at some point when you were asleep, and the sleeves of his T-shirt were once again rolled up to expose his muscled shoulders. Did this guy not have a tank top?

“...I like it, at least—well, I don't mind all the extra requirements, and I know it'll help me reach my ultimate end goal, so.”

Your mom let out a hum of approval. “Ah, that's good that you like it. You'll be busy as a nurse.”

Right, Sungchan was in the nursing program. Your brother wasa kinesiology major, and you were going into law. It made for quite the diverse pool in the car.

You opened your mouth in a yawn and fumbled your hand around your lap for where your earbud had fallen out of your ear, carefully so that you didn't shake off Anton's head on your shoulder. (Oh no, was he drooling?)

“Yn-ah, good morning,” your mother teased quietly.

You glanced up, eyes going wide when you realized both your mom and Sungchan were now peering back at you. “Morning,” you murmured. Your fingers enclosed around your fallen earbud to tuck it into the case left in the bag at your feet.

“Sleep well?” Sungchan piped up. There was that twinkle in his eyes, the same one from last night. It made your stomach twist in a way that was more pleasant than not.

You cleared your throat, unconsciously reaching up to adjust the placement of your bucket hat and praying you didn't look like a sewer rat. “For the most part,” you replied. “How about you?”

He shrugged. “I had a decent power nap. Your mom says you're going into law. That's really cool.”

“Oh,” you blinked. “Thanks. And you're in nursing, right? That's cool, too—super admirable.”

Sungchan's mouth widened into a small grin. “Thanks. It's only our first year, but it feels like so much work already.”

“Right? Tell me about it…”

Less than fifteen minutes later, the family van pulled into the parking lot of a diner off the interstate, exactly halfway through your journey. The seven of you, weary and hungry, filed out of the vehicle and into the establishment. You and your parents slid into one booth, while your brothers and Sungchan occupied the one behind you.

There was a low-spun fan swirling above your heads, an 80s song you vaguely recognized wafting through the air at a dull decibel. Your phone was stashed away in the bag tucked into your end of the booth seat while you idly sipped on your glass of iced water.

You jolted at the feeling of something light hitting the back of your head.

A gasp from behind you.

You rolled your eyes, twisting around in your seat while picking the wadded up straw wrapper from your hair. “Who did it?” You deadpanned.

The boys table was filled with sheepish expressions, to their credit. Your younger brothers, who were sitting on the far side facing you, thrusted their fingers in each other's faces in a torrent of blame and accusation.

“Aish, never mind. I don't care who did it,” you dismissed. Your eyes caught onto Sungchan's. He sat just diagonally to your left and for some reason, his eyes on you made you feel warm.

You flicked the wrapper back; it hit Anton square in the forehead. Jeno barked out a laugh.

“Nice shot,” Sungchan nodded, extending his fist to you.

You couldn't suppress the smile from coming onto your face as you bumped his fist with yours.

Food arrived swiftly afterward, and it was demolished as quickly as it came. In the sway of a palm tree frond, the seven of you were back in the confines of the family minivan.

The remainder of the car ride carried over quickly. Though Jeno unhappily sat his ass down in your previous spot with you claiming his from before, he and your other brothers snored away five minutes in. You didn't go back to sleep despite having a full belly and less than five hours of sleep under your belt; you watched the world pass by outside the window in a blur.

Urban skylines melted into rolling emerald mountains and pastures, sank into palm trees and sandy shores that met a blue horizon as far as the eye could see.

The beach house your family rented this year was a two story cottage-type. It was small, with only one bedroom and bathroom upstairs, a bathroom downstairs, and a living room and kitchen. The rest was all beach. It was determined that you and your mom would be given the honors of the upstairs bedroom and bathroom, while all the boys piled into the living room.

Once everyone was settled in, there was little else to do but go make use of your new backyard for the next week.

“Yn! Come on, slowpoke!” Sohee shouted at you from the shoreline with cupped hands. You saw his bare back as he splashed into the waves after Anton, who was already only a speck in your vision.

Your bare feet sank into the sand, and you wiggled your toes between the warm grains. Sunshine, glorious and concentrated above the distant horizon, soaked into your skin. Ah, this was the life.

Just as you reached for the hem of your shirt to reveal your bathing suit, you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Jeno and Sungchan were coming onto the beach from the front of the house, a disassembled volleyball net hanging between them.

Your eyes nearly fell out of your head at the sight of Sungchan's back—

Before Jeno or any of your other brothers or Sungchan could catch you ogling, you gave yourself a nice, mental slap to the face. No more. You needed to stop this. When did you ever look at Sungchan like this?

(You could still remember when he was the gangly kid with the growth spurt trying out for the high school soccer team. He was paired with Jeno to test his potential, and the rest was history.)

Sungchan was the first to spot you as he and Jeno determined a place to set up the net. He beamed boyishly, his chin inclining toward you. “Hey, wanna play?”

Your eyes flickered to the corded necklace hanging from his collar and between his—Yn, shut the fuck up. “Sure,” you said simply, feigning nonchalance.

If he noticed your wandering eyes, he didn't comment. Instead, he nodded back at you. “Sick.”

You both turned back to your original tasks. Your hands went back to the bottom hem of your shirt to tug it up and off your body. (Maybe you weren't the only one with wandering eyes, though.)

You draped your clothes over the back porch railing and began making your way down to the shoreline. “I'm gonna take a dip and then come back up!” You said to Jeno and Sungchan.

“Oh, okay—ow!”

You didn't see nor hear what happened, but when you glanced back, Sungchan had his back turned to you as he furiously rubbed the back of his head, while Jeno smiled innocently.

Your older brother waved you along. “Carry on!” He said.

Walking backward for a couple steps, you shot him an incredulous look, then turned around to meet your little brothers in the ocean. Whatever.

You had been staring at the wooden ceiling above your head for the past forty-five minutes. Your mom's even breathing and the ocean waves rolling outside the window failed to rock you into unconsciousness. You'd figured the sunlight from this afternoon would have made you tired, or perhaps all the food you ate for dinner, but your eyes continued to stay wide open.

A quiet sigh fell from your mouth as you rolled over onto your side and gently peeled the covers off. With near silent footsteps across the oak floors, you slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

The cacophony of combined snoring from all the men in the living room was comparable to the volume of the waves just outside.

You barely contained your snort of amusement. You didn't worry about waking any of them up as you crossed the living room, full of a smorgasbord of limbs and bodies draped across the large couch sectional and blankets on the floor.

The back door was left unlatched when you reached its threshold. Outside, moonlight dappled across the calm sea like a sprinkling of diamonds. You slowly pried the door open, freezing.

You and Sungchan made eye contact from across the back porch. He was perched on the top step, nursing a bottle of beer in his hand. A loose breeze wafted through the strands of his hair.

“Sorry,” you whispered, moving to retreat back into the house.

“Oh, no—please.” He patted the empty space next to him on the porch step.

You blinked, at odds. He was clearly out here for a reason and you'd figured he wanted some space, but if he was inviting you, then…

You closed the back door behind you and settled beside him, with a comfortable amount of negative space between your bodies. You folded your arms over the tops of your knees and stared out at the midnight horizon. It smelled of salt and sea spray, and the light wind was a refreshing crispiness against the humid evening air.

“Couldn't sleep?” He murmured, glancing over at you.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He hummed in response.

“I'm not surprised,” you said. The corners of your lips curled upward. “I wouldn't be able to sleep amongst my brothers either. Their snoring could wake a bear.”

Sungchan sputtered out a laugh as his eyes crinkled upward and he pressed the back of his knuckles against his mouth. “I wasn't gonna say it, but…”

You shared a grin with him. “I will happily say it for you, dude.”

His eyes were stunning in this lighting. The moonlight hit his irises at an angle that made them shimmer like a shade of molten copper. He licked his lips, and you saw his eyes dart from your eyes, down a few inches, then further down to the beer bottle in his hands.

“Oh, uh,” he stammered, tipping the bottle nose in your direction, “want some? I thought the alcohol would help me sleep, but it's not looking awfully promising.”

For a split second, your heart leapt at the thought—your mouth pressed against the place his mouth had been, tasting the place he'd drunk from.

You dashed the thought from your mind. It couldn't have been so significant as your brain was making it out to be. You were probably just sleep deprived.

“Thanks,” you said while reaching across the gap to accept it from him. Judging by the weight, it was just about half full, and you took a light swig.

A drop of liquid dribbled out of the corner of your lips, and you swiped it with the pad of your thumb, sticking the finger into your mouth to suck it off. You passed the bottle back over to him, catching his eyes not looking at yours.

(The organ in your chest was no longer in your chest. Was it normal for your heart to make a home in your throat instead? Why did he look at you like that?)

“Any reason for not being able to sleep?” You asked him to break the silence. “I mean, besides the symphony my brothers and dad are conducting, of course.”

His eyes shuddered, as if breaking out of a trance. “Oh, uhm—nothing in particular, I guess. Maybe it's just from all the excitement. I think it's usually hard for me to sleep in new places.”

You bobbed your head in understanding. “No, I get that. It takes me a little to get used to new environments, too. I don't know how I would have survived if I was living in the dorms at uni and not at home.” The university you attended was a decent commute from your house, so living on campus was never something you gave much thought to. The idea of living independently appealed to you sometimes, but in general, you didn't have a ton of qualms against your circumstances now.

“For sure,” Sungchan whistled lowly. He contemplated the opening of his beer bottle, then took a gentle sip of its contents. “Have you made a lot of friends? I feel like it's a lot harder than people make it seem.”

You passed him a curious glance this time. “Some, but it's definitely not as easy as high school. You haven't made a lot of friends?”

“The soccer team, mainly,” he chuckled. “The occasional ally in my classes.”

You let out a bright laugh that made his smile widen. “'Ally?’” You parroted. “What a fun word to call classmates.”

“It's true!” He insisted, chuckling. “Some of these professors are evil, man. Competitive grades? Not a chance,” He scoffed. “We're all in this together, even if the curve is against us.”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from being too loud, but the rolling waves likely covered your noise plenty. Your family were deep sleepers.

“I just figured that you meet lots of people,” you offered when your mirth died down to a giggle. You toed a pile of sand sitting on the last step of the porch. “Your socials are pretty active,” you said, “but I guess I shouldn't judge a book by its cover.”

“I could say the same about you, Miss Party Girl,” he smirked. “When are you gonna drag me to a rave?”

Heat raced up to your cheeks. “I've only been to one,” you said, rolling your eyes. He'd seen that post? First, the post-work daze, and now, the turnt raver? “I haven't gone to a party in a few weeks 'cause of finals anyway.”

Now that you thought about it, you'd been so busy as of late, you couldn't even count the amount of outings you'd declined on your two hands.

“Trust me, I get it.” He raised his hands in an act of surrender, his knees angling toward you. The negative space was suddenly a lot less negative.

Another tip of his beer bottle; it swapped hands once, twice more. The liquid dribbled smooth down your throat just as Sungchan knocked the rest back. The empty glass made a dull thunk sound as it hit the wooden porch to Sungchan's right.

“So what I'm getting,” you drawled, mimicking his position by angling your knees toward his. You felt your legs brush—the stimulus sent a jolt down your nerves that warned of addiction and tasted like the forbidden. “Is that you've never been to a rave before?”

Sungchan gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe I have.”

You mocked his shrug. “Maybe you have.”

“Or maybe it's just that I haven't gone with you yet.”

Even the waves seemed to quiet for a second. Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, and you tied down the nervous laugh ready to bubble out of your mouth. You bit your lip and found yourself nodding. “We'd paint the town red, Jung Sungchan,” you murmured.

There it was again—that flicker of his gaze to some place you both knew crossed a line. It was the beer, was what you were telling yourself. It was the beer.

Seagulls surfed the ever-blue sky. Eternal summer could be thought of as a filter of golden, glittery gauze across one's already rose-colored glasses. But summer, truly, was the shade of Jung Sungchan's tank top peeling off his body as he sprinted down the sandbank after your brother, Anton.

You watched the fabric whip around in the salt breeze before settling into a heap where his footprint melted into the mineral grains. You were giving Sohee the sunscreen spritz-down up on the covered porch, while Jeno barreled down the bank after his friend and brother.

From behind you came the scratch of the back door sliding open. You and Sohee peered back to where your mom poked her head out.

She just barely caught her sunglasses in time as they slipped off her head. “Hey, your dad and I are heading out. Watch each other, okay?”

“Got it!” You and Sohee chirped.

One more nod from your mom, and then she was gone. Your parents were going to take a date into town, just the two of them. That left you and the boys here with the surf and sand—definitely not a terrible compromise. If you wanted, you could probably have the whole house to yourself, anyway. These guys could entertain themselves.

“Yn! Sohee!”

Jeno arced one arm up into the sky to beckon you down to the sea, only to get dragged underwater by his two comrades. You and Sohee harked out twin laughs as you watched Jeno fight for his life with limbs flailing and foam flying into the sky.

You patted Sohee's shoulder as you set the can of sunscreen onto the porch step. “Alrighty, you're good to go, bro.”

“Thanks—race you down!”

“Hey!” Your laughter echoed as you bolted down the sand after him to join the fun.

As your feet dug into the wet embankment, your palms made purchase against Sohee's shoulders to shove him into the water. A yelp leapt into the air, and you turned away to avoid getting hit in the face with the consequence of your prank.

“I'm so gonna get you for that!” Sohee spat water out of his mouth, a wicked grin pulling onto his lips.

“No, you're not, actually!”

You bolted—well, stomped, your way through the knee-deep water, furiously trying to get away from karma. Water yanked down on your limbs in a forceful coax to give into your punishment, but you were determined.

You could hear your brothers’ hollers of encouragement: “Get her, Sohee!” and “RUN, YN, RUN!”

Adrenaline pumped through your veins and you pushed your legs harder.

“I got her!” Wait, was that Sungchan?—

You suddenly felt a pair of hands on either side of your waist—you swore as your legs came out of the water and your world twisted.

“No, no, no, no, no!” You squawked, squirming wildly in Sungchan's arms as he scooped you into his hold like a bride. (NO. NOT LIKE A BRIDE. WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE A BRIDE?—) One arm cradled your back and the other under your knees, and he laughed—he chuckled—as you attempted to flip yourself out of his grasp.

“You're not getting out of this, party girl,” he said close to your ear.

For a heartbeat, you lost your breath at the rasp behind his words and the grin on his face. But a heartbeat was all he needed.

There was free fall, and then all sound muffled as cold water engulfed your body. You plugged your nose and screwed your eyes shut. You felt your ass hit the sand at the bottom in slow motion, before the air in your lungs began to lift you back up to the surface of the water.

You broke out with a gasp, hair flipping back as you furiously swiped your hands down your face to get the water out of your eyes. They stung like a bitch, but you could feel the rush of blood in your ears; it was thrilling.

A hand in your vision enclosed around yours.

“You asshole!” You scowled up at Sungchan from where you knelt, though it was half-hearted.

He beamed back at you boyishly with damp hair hanging in his eyes and water running down the crevices of his stomach like a goddamn system of canals. “You're a good sport, Yn.”

“I'm really not.”

You had the distinct pleasure of seeing the smile slip off his face before you used his grip on you to yank him into the water. You swallowed a good half pint of saltwater, but the revenge couldn't have been sweeter.

When Sungchan's head broke the surface, it was followed by a dog-like shake of his head. You laughed to turn away from the spray of water; Sungchan delighted at the sound.

Amusement still lingered on your lips as your eyes snagged on the piece of seaweed that made its home on his head. You didn't think twice about it before leaning closer to reach it.

You stepped forward, and—oh boy, was that a mistake.

You had a front row seat view of a droplet of water slipping down the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the cliff of his chin. You wrestled down a swallow, and pulled the seaweed off his head, flinging it into the water.

“You had, uhm, a little…”

“Right, thanks—”

You both flinched apart as a man-made wave of water crashed into your sides. “AMBUSH!” Your three brothers declared, springing up out of the water and parading a full-blown attack with all weapons firing.

You and Sungchan were swift to launch your own counterattack.

Merriment filled the summer air as much as saltwater embedded into your skin and eyes and mouth. You almost made the mistake of thinking your racing heart was just from the determination to beat your brothers, and not from the guy on your side of the war. The heat was getting to you and the sun was getting to him.

It was about an hour later that you found yourself lazing upon the slick and smooth plane of a surfboard. The ocean rocked you gently from beneath the board; it had been surprisingly calm all of today.

At some point, you and the boys established a truce in the Great Water War, mainly because your brothers were hungry and there was a big, juicy watermelon just begging to be cut open and devoured in the house.

Suffice to say, you let your brothers figure it out.

Your consciousness faded into the foreground of your mind as a distant sound of splashing neared. You peaked one eye open, lifting the rim of the hat up to see who dared to encroach upon your isle.

You could recognize Sungchan's mop of hair from a mile away, at this point. You couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing, but why did it have to be either?

He cropped up right beside you, pushing back his hair to keep the water out of his eyes. “Hi.”

A smile curled onto your lips, teasing. “Hi. Good swim?”

“Good nap?”

“As good as one can be on the open ocean,” you said, shifting the hat up so you could see him better, but keeping your face shaded. “I don't know how dolphins sleep with half their brain on.”

Sungchan's brows rocketed toward his hairline. “They sleep with half their brain on? Crazy.”

“I know. I can't even stay awake with half my brain on.”

You and he shared a laugh, and he set a palm on the board next to your body. “Aw, no,” he assured. “If you've got less than half a brain on at all times, then I've got one brain cell.”

“Joke's on you, half my brain is half a brain cell.”

He wrinkled his nose at you. Cute. “Sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but that's not how brain cells work.”

You nearly fell off the board. “Okay, Mr. Know-it-all, do tell.”

“I'm not about to talk about neurons on my vacation.”

You challenged him with a look. “Overruled, counselor. Answer the question.”

His mouth fell open in a stunned daze, and his reaction made you break face for a moment to laugh. He blinked. “I have to be really honest with you…” Sungchan carded a hand through his hair, then pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “That was really hot.”

Was it suddenly five degrees warmer out here?

If blood rushing in your ears was akin to the sound of waves crashing, there must have been one hell of a tsunami in your veins right now.

You sputtered a laugh. “You need to get out of the sun—”

“I'm sorry I said that aloud,” he grimaced sheepishly.

“Nurse? Nurse!—” You feigned raising your head up to look around for an imaginary nurse in the middle of the ocean. “Oh, right. You are the nurse.”

He groaned, tilting his head back and playfully punching your shoulder. “You're so—”

“Hot?”

You howled at the sight of his cheekbones blooming the color of ripe watermelon. “I'm kidding; I'm teasing!”

He sighed, smiling despite the pain etched onto his gorgeous features. “Never living that down, am I?”

You shifted your position to laying on your stomach now, your arms folded beneath your chin. Sungchan carefully turned the surfboard so the tip faced him, and you were trapped in his gaze, head-on. “It was cute,” you consoled.

“So you think I'm cute?” He cocked a brow.

“And you think I'm hot.”

He flicked water at you. “Aaand, there it is!”

You laughed again, delighted at the red lingering on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. God, he was fucking gorgeous.

A beat passed for a second. Something settled between the two of you, a thing you couldn't yet put a name on, but it had been there since last night. Or maybe it had been there longer, festering in the negative space between you until said space could become something of a memory.

You weren't sure why he was here—why he'd swum out here to meet you when his best friend was back at the beach house, gorging on watermelon and getting his ass handed to him in Mario Kart by his siblings; why he all of a sudden occupied a part of your mind like the tide creeping up the embankment at four in the afternoon. At first, he was far enough for you to settle into a false sense of security; until all of a sudden, there he was, the foamy waves lapping at your feet and his smile the only thing you could see when you closed your eyes.

His tongue swiped over his lips and he cleared his throat. “So, uh, watermelon?” That was his original reason for coming out here. (He did volunteer, after all.)

You perked up. “Right, sure. Watermelon.”

“Great.” He broke into a smile, but the corners of it were softer, fonder. You could get used to the look of it.

There was this saying—the elephant in the room—but here in the cabin living room, it was definitely more of a blue whale. Just completely out of the water, weighing about thirteen tons, the size of twelve school buses… yeah, that sounded about right.

“GO FISH!” Anton flung his finger across the circle at Jeno with the glee of a kid on Christmas morning. “Suck it!”

Your mom sent an express glare his way. “Anton.”

Your youngest shrunk down sheepishly. “Sorry, eomma.”

The seven of you were settled in the living space this fine evening with a deck of cards. Your parents were on the couches watching the movie on screen and the game before them, while you, your brothers, and Sungchan huddled around the coffee table playing said game. Sunsoaked and weary, it only took one hearty and filling dinner to perk the lot of you right back up like a field of sunflowers.

“This is a stupid game,” Jeno sulked as he examined his hand of cards.

“You only say that because you're losing,” you pointed out. “Anyways, Jeno, can I have that three?”

Jeno cut you a glare as the rest of the table rolled into fits of laughter. Your smile was cheeky, reaching out to snatch the three Jeno revealed he had during his turn.

“That's cold,” Sohee snorted.

Your eyes darted over to Sungchan opposite you. His eyes were glimmering. “Yeah, I didn't know you had so much ruthlessness in you, Yn.”

“Why do you think she's going into law?” Jeno grunted. Though one card less, it meant that he had one less pair in his finished pile. At this rate, you might win and end up with the most pairs.

“Guys, it's literally just how you play the game.” You nodded over at Sohee. “Sohee, do you have a jack?”

Your younger brother handed it over without ceremony. “Unfortunately.”

“Anton, do you have an ace?”

He shook his head. “Go fish, noona.”

“See?” You said to the rest of the table, but your eyes went to Sungchan's. “The nature of the game.”

They let you off the hook because you didn't plunder everyone of their cards this round. It continued on with Sohee, then Anton, before landing on Sungchan.

He made a show of considering his cards, a furrow between his brows. He glanced up at you over the rim of his hand and gestured with a curl of his fingers. “I'd like that ace, Yn.”

“Oooh,” Anton giggled.

Jeno grinned as you extended the ace across the table to Sungchan. “Karma.”

“Thank you—” his fingers grazed against yours as he plucked the card from your grasp, “—very much.”

You pressed your lips into a small smile, nose wrinkling up at him. You had a few cards left to rid yourself of.

Your dad cleared his throat as he stood up from the couch to bring his empty bowl to the sink. “By the way, are you kids still going into town tomorrow?”

The five of you exchanged brief eye contact with one another. “Yep.”

The idea had come up during dinner after your parents came back. They'd mentioned a variety of activities and little shops to visit that might be fun for you to see, including a hand churned ice cream shop and a port side arcade building. It would just be the five of you going, while your parents would walk down to the beach trails about a mile from the cabin to go hiking.

In the morning, you and everyone else in the house took your time getting up and ready for the day. Breakfast was taken together at the table before you split off into your separate parties.

Jeno took the wheel with Sungchan riding shotgun, and you sat in the middle row with Sohee, while Anton occupied the back. You rolled down your window to rest your chin on the fold of your elbow, your sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose as you watched the scenery pass by.

Right in front of you, Sungchan also had his window rolled down with his arm propped on the lowered sill. He chatted animatedly with Jeno about whatever game he and all three of your brothers were playing this morning, but you could feel his gaze go to his side view mirror more than once.

The ride was an easy, breezy one.

The main town center bustled with locals and visitors alike in the late morning. Jeno found free parking about a block away, and the five of you walked over as one big group.

“Ice cream first!” Anton declared with one arm raised toward the sky.

“I concur,” you chimed in. You lifted your sunglasses up slightly so you could read the town directory easier. “Seems like we're close by.”

Anton nodded in approval. “Onwards, then.”

You and your youngest brother led the way. The idea of ice cream made your mouth water, especially since you could already feel a bead of sweat dribble down your spine. Why was it so goddamn hot?

The shop was a cute, little building with a pink and white striped awning and a large window in the front that gave visitors a front row view into the ice cream churning experience. You snorted as Anton pressed his nose up against the glass, a wide grin splitting his face.

“You're scaring the workers, dude,” you jested, tugging your brother along.

Anton scrunched his nose up at you. “You scare me every morning.”

“Just because you're a wimp when I put toner pads on—hey! Do you want ice cream or not?” You cackled as he attempted to flick you square in the forehead.

Jeno groaned. “Guys, can we please act normal for once?” He asked as he swung the door open for everyone.

Sungchan beat you to the punchline, slapping his friend on the back while he ducked inside. “That's rich coming from you, man.”

“Hey!”

The squabble was swiftly swept out of your mind when you stepped foot into the shop. You were nearly knocked over from the potency of the sugary waffle cone scent that occupied the room. At the sight of tubs upon tubs of frozen treats kept within the display case, your entire face lit up, eyes going glassy with wonder. “Oh no, too many to choose from,” you gasped, cupping the lower half of your face.

Sungchan chuckled beside you as he crossed his arms and assessed the dozen options before you. “I didn't know you were such an ice cream fanatic, party girl,” he mused. He glanced over at you with a fond sort of gleam in his eye.

“Don't even get her started,” Sohee groaned. “She and Anton have a sweet tooth to rival Willy Wonka.”

Anton flagged down one of the workers, having already found his targets to try. He was in here for less than two minutes and was already rattling off the entire menu to the poor girl behind the counter.

“Tiramisu sounds really good,” you muttered. Your eyes moved slowly from tub to tub. Another gasp flew from your lips, and you clasped a hand on Sungchan's shoulder. “Wait—but strawberry shortcake—hhhhh.” You wrinkled your brows together, lips pressed into a taut line.

This was not good.

“You could always get a double scoop,” Sungchan suggested.

You bobbed your head. “That's true, but I'm just worried I won't be able to finish, y'know.”

“Well, maybe I'll get one of the flavors you want and we can split.” His shrug was all too casual.

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, biting his lip through a smile.

The organ in your chest gave a hop, skip, and a leap. You weren't sure if it was at the thought of it all working out alright or if it was because of Sungchan's generous gesture. You were telling yourself it was the former, but you could be persuaded it was the latter if given a light shove in that direction.

When everyone's scoops were paid for, you fell into a loose formation to stroll around town while you finished your treats.

You and Sungchan were glued to each other's sides out of necessity since you were sharing flavors. Jeno walked on his other side, however, lapping at his cotton candy blue scoop seated upon a throne of waffle cone. The two youngest walked in front, leading you all to wherever they wished to go.

The town itself was rather quaint when you finally soaked it in. It seemed like the kind of place everyone knew everyone, and if you were new or only visiting, the locals were just as friendly and welcoming. The town center was stocked with anything a resident might need—a small grocer down the street, clothing stores and restaurants lining the boulevard, a newspaper stand at the corner, a laundromat, a hardware store, and more places you were certain you wouldn't be able to see in just one walk.

As you scooped a bite out of some of the last bits of tiramisu in Sungchan's cup, Jeno was summoned up to his brothers who were debating over which way they should turn next. You and Sungchan lingered behind to finish off the ice cream in your respective cups.

Just as you slurped up the melted shortcake ice cream at the bottom of yours, your eyes caught onto a storefront behind Sungchan. It was decked out in cliché boho-chic, with braided nets, shells, and sand dollars in the window and over the door frame. The souvenir shop seemed to embody the quintessential tourist trap, and you didn't mind falling into it.

“—guys, we're gonna go to the arcade now!” Jeno said, beckoning you and Sungchan over. They must have decided on a route then.

You made your decision. “You guys can go ahead! I'm gonna pop into this place for a second. I promised I'd get my friend Minjeong something.” Minjeong was one of the few close friends you made at university, and though you didn't promise to her face you'd get her something, you were determined to get her a little trinket as a token of your affection.

“You're gonna go alone?”

You blinked. “Yeah, I'll just meet you guys at the arcade.”

Sohee piped up, “But mom said buddy system.” Okay, you should probably honor that, but it wasn't as if the four of you always followed that rule.

“I'll go with you.”

All eyes went to Sungchan who tossed his empty cup and spoon into the nearby trash can. He gave a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. “I wanted to get my mom something anyway.”

You tilted your head to the side curiously as Jeno narrowed his eyes at Sungchan, like they were communicating telepathically. Odd.

In fact, you didn't really know what to think about being alone with Sungchan. There was a difference between coincidentally ending up on the porch together or conversing in the ocean away from everyone else, to purposefully breaking off from the group to spend time with each other.

Then again, he said he was getting something for his mom. That gave a different implication to him volunteering to accompany you. The goal was capitalism, not something forbidden.

Maybe you were thinking about this too much.

“Okay, fine,” Jeno relented. “We'll meet you at the arcade, but don't take too long or we'll leave without you.”

“Aye-aye,” you teased, raising a hand to wave goodbye to your brothers. “C'mon, Sungchan.”

You dumped your empty ice cream cup and spoon into the trash before slipping inside the souvenir shop with Sungchan following right after you. You lifted your sunglasses up on top of your head, skin prickling with gooseflesh from the draft of air conditioning wafting overhead. A soft-toned acoustic played in the background, accompanied by the cheery greeting of a staff member from behind the register.

You and Sungchan lifted your hands in warm reply, then disappeared into the aisles to explore.

Your fingers grazed along the racks of clothes branded with the beach town's name and minimalist artwork; your eyes roamed over the ships displayed in bottles on the walls, the not-for-sale surfboard hung for decor. Like many souvenir shops, there were several turning displays that boasted rows upon rows of themed keychains with specific names engraved into them.

“I will never find my name amongst these,” Sungchan mused quietly from beside you as the two of you rifled through the surfboards and seashells and sharks. “And yet, I look for the S names all the time.”

“Valid,” you nodded. “Sometimes I can't find my name either, but it's the hope that gets you.”

“And fails you,” he pointed out.

“Touché.”

Near the keychain displays stood a tower of hats and head accessories galore. There were crocheted bonnets, straw hats, ball caps, and even headbands. Your expression glittered as you plucked up a headband with twin sunflowers on the top like a pair of antennas.

After hanging your shades on your shirt color, you donned the headpiece, twirling around to show Sungchan. “Thoughts?” You asked, failing to sweep your grin away.

Sungchan beamed back at you. “Oh, you're too cute.”

You ignored the heat creeping up the back of your neck to reach for another headband—this time, one topped with red crab claws. Sungchan graciously bowed his head for you to crown him with the piece.

“Fabulous,” you declared with your hands on your hips.

He peered into the small mirror to the side of the hat rack. “You think?”

“Of course.” So much so, that you pulled out your phone to snap a picture. You tilted your head toward his to fit both of your faces and headbands in the frame.

Sungchan peered over your shoulder to take a glimpse at the photos. His tongue was jammed into his cheek, and you could feel his breath along the shell of your ear. “Send me those?”

“I'd need your number first.”

He grinned boyishly, roughing a hand through his hair before taking your phone from you. “You don't even have to ask.”

As he saved his contact information into your phone, you attempted to calm the giddy butterflies in your stomach by peering back into the mirror at the headband on your head. You squished the plush sunflower heads with your fingers, humming thoughtfully. “I low-key wanna buy this.”

He glanced up from your phone before handing it back to you. “If you buy that one, I'll buy this one,” he replied, pointing up at the crab claws on his head.

“You're such an enabler,” you jested. A beat passed. “Okay, but only if you get it with me.”

“That is what I said,” he chuckled, eyebrows arched.

The remainder of the time you and Sungchan spent in the shop was mainly to figure out what you would purchase for Minjeong and what Sungchan would buy for his mom. (Mainly, implying that there was still room for shenanigans.) It took a little more than half an hour, but you both emerged from the souvenir shop with a gift bag each, containing your headbands and the baubles bought.

The arcade was only about a ten minute's walk from your location, so you and Sungchan took your sweet time getting there. As the two of you walked—the backs of your hands grazing against one another, shoulders bumping—you nearly forgot that Sungchan was your brother's good friend. Jeno had never made it a point that you and his friends should never mix, and you knew he could care less about your love life, but this was different. (Was it?) It felt like something that shouldn't happen, and yet, why were you starting to want it so badly?

The outside of the arcade was a cream colored building, much like the others in town, but with large posters on the outside beckoning guests to come in and try their hand. Your brothers texted you to let you know they were in a game of laser tag right now, so that gave you and Sungchan a little more time to yourselves within the arcade.

“I have an idea!” Sungchan grabbed your free hand and hauled you off toward something in the distance.

The feeling of your fingers slotting with his had more than just your steps skipping. “Hey, man—you and your long legs need to chill!” You hollered at him through a laugh.

He sent you a look over his shoulder before stopping at one corner of the arcade. With jazz hands, he presented his marvelous idea. “Ta-da!”

Before you was an all-time classic: Dance Dance Revolution.

Your eyes widened just as your smile did. “It's like you read my mind,” you marveled.

The machine was just like the movies with a multicolored screen of bright blues and purples, a platform with two sets of arrows in the floor, and two arched rails at the back for each player to hold onto as they danced the night away.

Sungchan marched up onto the platform and fished a wadded up paper bill out from his wallet. “Have you played before?”

When the machine devoured his money, the screen leapt to life and blasted its opening music to announce that somebody was willing to step up to the challenge.

You set your gift bag down at the foot of the platform and climbed up to join him. “I've only seen it done before, but I've always wanted to try it.”

You and he locked eyes, and you were sure the twinkle in his was a reflection of just how excited you were.

“Well, today is your lucky day, party girl,” he chirped. “Let's see what you've got.”

It didn't take long for you to figure out that “what you've got” was a lot less than whatever Sungchan had.

You grappled onto the railing behind you tightly as you stomped your feet against the coordinating arrows that flashed on-screen. How long had it been since that fateful first round? Ten minutes? Two days? It was all mashing together.

“This is unfair; you have longer limbs,” you groaned after missing a few arrows in a row. Why were you so out of breath?

A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Sungchan's head. It was almost comical how serious you were both taking this game. “I have practice,” he corrected cheekily.

“Same difference!”

“A master never blames his tools.”

You huffed. “Bullshit.”

At this point, your losses were becoming ridiculous. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

For a sequence you knew you were going to miss, you leaned over and pinched his side. Sungchan jolted—it did the trick, and he missed the steps. His head whipped over to you, an impish gleam in his irises.

“Oh ho ho… you wanna play that game?”

You placed your hand on your hip as the round ended. “If I'm gonna lose, might as well go out with a bang.”

His tongue swiped over his lip. “You're on.”

The next round commenced, and adrenaline spiked through you like a spear, more powerful than before. You knew to expect Sungchan's revenge, but you struck first.

A poke at his side resulted in a tickle at your waist. You returned his parry with a blind poke at his stomach.

Anticipating his response, you spotted his arm incoming out of your periphery and moved to step out of his reach. Instead of solid platform, however, your breath hitched at the feeling of half your sandal slipping off the edge.

Sungchan's eyes went wide and his arm instead curled around your waist and hauled you to him. “Shit,” he muttered, “are you okay? Sorry, that was totally my fault.”

Your palms had landed on his chest, your heart rate slowing but not fast enough. All of the excitement in your veins was likely more so from the game itself, and not from almost falling off the platform… and perhaps, another part of it was you realizing just how close you and Sungchan were now.

You nodded. “Yeah, I'm completely fine; don't even worry about it. And it wasn't your fault—I miscalculated my step and I started it anyway.”

He pressed his lips together. “Still.”

“Nice catch, by the way,” you said quietly.

You saw his eyes leave your gaze, and this time, you followed in his movements. He ducked his head, almost shyly. “I guess so,” he chuckled. “I'm glad I caught you.”

If anything, your heartbeat was gaining speed again. The hand pressed into your waist was a little more addicting than you would have liked, and his mouth was closer than you thought it had been.

In the neon glow of the Dance Dance Revolution screen, you and Sungchan leaned toward one another with one aim, and one aim only.

“Hey guys!”

You leapt off the dance platform at the same time that Sungchan zipped to his side, gripping the railing with an expression akin to a deer caught in headlights.

You pressed a hand against your palpitating heart and turned to find all three of your brothers bounding over to where you and Sungchan were.

“Oh my god,” Anton gasped, “is that DDR?”

It seemed that Anton and Sohee were more focused on the game than yours and Sungchan's compromising position. But Jeno… you noted the suspicious narrowing of his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest…

You swore you and Sungchan swallowed at the same time.

“Did we interrupt something?” Jeno drawled.

“Nope!”

You and Sungchan looked at each other at your simultaneous answer. Great. That definitely wasn't even more conspicuous or anything.

Jeno pressed his lips together. “Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. “Well, Mom and Dad texted and asked for us to meet them at the house, so we've gotta go.” He lifted the screen of his phone up for you to see. Dear god, you hadn't even realized they'd texted the group chat.

You cleared your throat. “Right.”

You picked up your gift bag, and your younger brothers immediately flanked you on either side to gush about the game of laser tag they had just partaken in. Though you nodded and engaged in their conversation, your mind was elsewhere.

Plus, it was hard not to be hyper aware of the fact that Sungchan was now alone to face Jeno somewhere behind you. You were not looking forward to the car ride back.

There were always some, unspoken fine lines that should not be crossed—at least, purposefully. In retrospect, you knew Jeno didn't care about who you chose to spend your time with, as long as they treated you right. In the same vein, you didn't care much about what he thought when it came to your own decisions, and yet, you found yourself caring a little more because this was one of his friends. Not yours.

But feelings were feelings… and you were slowly coming to terms with yours.

It was like déjà vu when you crept down the stairs in the dead of night for the second time this vacation. You simply could not bear staring at that wooden ceiling any longer with your mind reeling from this afternoon's events.

The living room was yet again a cacophony of light snoring, and you crossed the room toward the back door once more.

You paused again, the sight of Sungchan's back a familiar one. Instead of sitting on the porch steps, though, he leaned against the railing, gazing out at the dark waves. It was yet another calm night out on the embankment, but the moon tonight was hidden away behind a few wisps of cirrus clouds.

He glanced over his shoulder at you. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you greeted softly, gently closing the door behind you so you could join him at the railing. It was funny how you both were on the same wavelength. Fate had a funny way of encouraging you.

You and he hadn't properly spoken since the arcade, and Jeno hadn't said a word about it to you either. Dinner had gone on normally enough, so you were unsure of where this all stood.

“I wanted,” Sungchan began, “to talk to you about something.”

You glanced over at him and found his eyes already on you. “Sure, of course.”

He straightened, gesturing to the sandy beach beyond. “Walk with me?”

You nodded and followed him down the porch steps. Your feet met the cool grains of sand, and a sense of calm seeped into your bones from the bottom up.

A hand outstretched in your vision, uncertain. You clasped your hand in his palm, and the pair of you began to walk. You couldn't recall whether you began to adore the feeling of your hand wrapped up in his earlier or just now.

“So…” you trailed off.

“So,” he picked up. “About earlier today. I wanted to, uhm, make sure we were on the same page about something.”

He stopped you both when you were a good distance from the house, where the waves slipped along the sand louder than the snores.

“I had a really fun time with you today,” he said.

You nodded your head in earnest. “I had a great time with you, too.”

He smiled then, hand letting go of yours to drag over his face. “I'm—I’m happy to hear that,” he replied, and you were sure he was trying to hide his growing giddiness.

You reached over and gently pried his hands away from his face. “Did Jeno talk to you about today? Did he say anything?” Before he could reply, you added, “Because I know he means well, but who I choose to spend my time with is my decision. If he can't handle us together, then he'll have to learn to suck it up.”

“He did say something to me about it,” Sungchan admitted, “but it was just to make sure I wasn't playing around.” With his hands locked in yours, he gave your palms a reassuring squeeze. “And Yn, I'd like to take you out sometime—properly. No playing around.”

No more toeing the line in the sand.

Your heart rattled violently in your chest. “I'd really like that.”

His expression melted into something tender, like the dark swirls of molten chocolate in the scoop of tiramisu ice cream. His thumb grazed over the back of your hand. “Okay,” he murmured, barely audible over the soft laps of the waves, “good.”

He considered you for a moment longer, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “I also—I did intend on kissing you earlier today, and I probably should have prefaced it, but—mmmh!”

You looped your arms around his neck and pulled his mouth over to yours. He sank into your hold with a content hum, his hands slipping around your waist to tug you closer to him. You'd never really thought about what kissing Jung Sungchan would be like, but you knew that your imagination couldn't have been better than this.

When you broke apart with your foreheads pressed against each other and sharing breathing air, you let out a small laugh. The sound coaxed a warm chuckle out of your counterpart.

“Sorry,” you breathed against his lips, “I probably should have asked first.”

He smiled against you. “You can apologize by kissing me again.”

He most certainly didn't have to tell you twice.

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed! (idek if that was good, im off my Game and off my Rocker dkfnrj)

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thewolvesofthenorth · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter Three

Chapter Three of Man of Honor

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ House Of The Dragon Masterlist

Rating: 18+ Word Count: ~3k Summary: Sara gives you some much needed advice and Cregan finds that dreams can be overwhelming, but so can reality. Warnings: Angst angst angst, language, fluff, slow burn, pining, smut (p in v and fingering)

⟸ Previous Chapter ❖ Next Chapter ⟹

It was just a dream.

You were wrapped Cregan's arms, his body radiating a warmth that not even a fire could offer. He had held you all night, keeping a firm hold on you as you soundly slept against him. And he had laid a kiss on your cheek before pulling you into a passionate kiss.

The near silent closing of your door had drawn you from your slumber and when you opened your eyes, you found yourself nestled beneath the furs of your bed and felt a tingling sensation on your cheek.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and let them adjust to your surroundings. It was still dark, so you guessed it was around the hour of the owl, which meant you hadn't been sleeping for very long. You were confused because you were certain you'd fallen asleep on top of your bedding the night before.

Stretching your limbs, you rolled over and caught a whiff of something you hadn't smelled in a very long time. A mix of oak, chestnut, and leather, with a hint of cinnamon. The distinct musk of a man who you'd been chastising mere hours ago.

Was it truly just a dream?

A hundred thoughts swam through your head as you sat up and looked at the spot beside you. To the untrained eye, the furs looked undisturbed, but to you there was a clear sign that someone else had been there. You placed your hand on the empty space and felt a lingering heat. Someone had laid beside you for much of the night and had left just moments ago.

You knew of only one person who would be brave enough, or in this case, foolish enough to come into your chambers. You rubbed your temples, unsure if your mind was playing tricks or if you were still dreaming, or if he had truly been there.

Why would he have been in here?

And why would he lay beside me?

You tried to think of every possible reason why Cregan would do such a thing and kept coming up blank. You let out a huff as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded over to your open window. The North was a cold and unforgiving place to those who were unaccustomed to such a cold climate, but to you it was home.

You leaned against the frame and admired the rare sight of the moon. Due to how cold it was, snowfall was not out of the ordinary, and the sky was often blanketed in clouds, but tonight the sky was strangely clear and the night peaceful.

You let out a sigh, reflecting on the events of the day. You’d given Cregan a piece of your mind, and then he’d decided to come into your room and lay beside you. You were conflicted. Cregan’s words in the godswood had cut into your heart like a knife, and yet his actions spoke differently.

You were a jumble of emotions. Irritation. Sadness. Anger. But beneath it all was also happiness. Knowing that Cregan had laid beside you made your heart flutter. As much as you claimed you hated him, you still loved him and couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of him lying next to you in such an intimate way.

You groaned at how childish you felt and how you still clung to the idea that he felt something for you. You huffed and stood back from the window, shaking all the thoughts from your head and decided to go to bed.

I need to talk to Sara tomorrow about what happened.

Cregan must have said something to her at least.

The next morning you’d woken up at the hour of the nightingale and quickly dressed, making it your goal to find Sara and talk to her about what had happened yesterday. Your head was still a mess of thoughts, and you needed her perspective on things.

You tip-toed through the halls as quietly as possible in case anyone else was awake at the same time, a certain Lord of Winterfell in particular, and made your way to the kitchens. As you crossed the courtyard, the hairs on your neck stood up and you felt like you were being watched. You paused and turned to look behind you and spotted his silhouette.

So much for trying to be sneaky.

Your eyes met his and even in the cover of near darkness, you could tell that he did not sleep well.

That makes two of us.

You broke eye contact and shook your head, tugging your pelts tight around you, and quickened your pace. You were already anxious about speaking to Sara about what had transpired, but at the sight of him your anxiety doubled.

He had looked very tired, but he also had an unreadable expression on his face, and if your intuition was correct, he had probably kept watching you as you walked away. After a moment, you crossed the threshold to the kitchens and spotted Sara bent over a steaming bowl of soup.

“Good morrow,” Sara greeted as you approached, her voice soft yet curious.

“Good morrow, Sara,” you replied, anxiously gnawing at your lip. Her eyes narrowed as she noted your restless fidgeting.

“What’s the matter?” she inquired, tilting her head. “You’re never so troubled at the day’s first light.”

“Erm—Cregan… ambushed me in the godswood,” you confessed, casting a quick glance at her. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything of that, would you?”

Sara set down her spoon with a sigh. “I may have told him where to find you.”

“Why?” you pressed, frowning deeply.

“Well, he wouldn’t stop hounding me, for one,” she admitted, waving her hand as if to dismiss the gravity of it.

“That does not answer my question,” you said sharply. “He’s been avoiding me for months, pretending I don’t exist, so why would he ask where I was?”

Sara winced, clearly withholding something. “He and I spoke of… certain matters. And no, I won’t tell you the details. Just know that I knocked some sense into him—or so I thought.”

You huffed in frustration, shaking your head. “And how did that go?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Not well,” you muttered.

“What did he say?”

“He said… enough.”

Sara groaned in irritation. “Let me guess—you did not like his words.”

“Seven hells, no,” you scoffed. “He tried to apologize, then turned the blame on me. Said I’d been avoiding him too and claimed we were children when he swore to marry me, so it didn’t matter.”

“Ugh, he said that again?” Sara’s face twisted in disgust.

“Again?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “When we spoke, I told him why you had been avoiding him. And before you start, know that I care for you both, but he is still my brother—an utter fool, but my brother nonetheless.”

“So, he truly said the oath was made in youth, as though it carried no weight?”

“More or less,” Sara said, leaving out the part where she told him of your feelings. “But that’s all we spoke of.”

“I see…,” your voice trailed off, thinking about what had happened later that night after speaking to him. You were snapped back to reality when you heard Sara speak.

“What else happened?” she asked, not letting you slip away that easily.

“Nothing… Well, no, not nothing,” you began hesitantly. “I… I fell asleep in my chambers—”

“As one does,” Sara quipped, earning a sharp glare from you.

“—and I awoke later, likely around the hour of the owl, and… I believe he had been there.”

“What makes you think that?” Sara asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well… for one, I awoke covered by my furs. And…”

“And?”

“I could smell him,” you sheepishly admitted, wringing your hands nervously, recalling how his scent had filled your nose. Sara cleared her throat and shook her head.

“Smell him?” Sara’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Are you a direwolf now?”

“Do not mock me,” you snapped. “You asked, I answered.”

“I’m surprised that he would do that.”

“As am I,” you admitted. “Considering how we parted in the godswood, he had no reason to come to my chambers, let alone lie beside me.”

“Wait, he laid beside you?” Sara’s eyes widened.

“Uh… yes,” you confessed, blushing. “Which only confounds me further.”

“I would be as well if I were you.”

“I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m just wasting my time waiting for something that will never happen,” you said dejectedly. “Waiting for someone to love me the same way that I love them.”

“Then perhaps it is time to stop waiting,” Sara suggested, her voice firm yet gentle.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it may be time to consider other suitors. Since your sixteenth name day, you’ve had suitors practically throwing themselves at you, and you’ve turned them all away. Maybe it’s time to think about your future.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. You knew she spoke the truth, and you had been wrestling with the same thoughts, but hearing it aloud made it feel real.

“I - I don’t know,” you stammered, torn.

Sara took your trembling hands in hers. “I know it is hard. But you deserve happiness, and my brother cannot offer that.”

Your chest tightened, tears welling in your eyes. “Winterfell is my home,” you whispered. “If I wed another, I’ll have to leave… And I don’t know if I can bear it.”

Sara’s eyes softened with sympathy. “You deserve more. As much as I love Cregan, and as much as I wish things were different, he cannot be the one to give you what you need.”

Tears began to fall, and Sara pulled you into a warm embrace. “I don’t want to leave him,” you sobbed. “I love him, Sara. I love him.”

“I know you do,” she said comfortingly. “But he does not deserve that love. You deserve a man who will cherish you, not one who makes empty promises.”

You wiped your tears and nodded.

Sara offered you an encouraging smile. “In the next moon’s turn, we’ll hold a banquet to welcome the summer. Many of the Northern lords will be there, and it may be the time to consider your options.”

Your heart ached at the thought, but you nodded again, knowing she spoke the truth.

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room as the warmth of the flames bathed the stone walls. Cregan watched you standing by the window, your thoughts drifting like the cool night breeze that seeped through the cracks. His presence was quiet but undeniable as he crossed the room, the sound of his boots against the floor echoing softly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his deep voice gentle, fearing that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile peace that hung between you.

When you turned to face him, your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, heavy and thick. Cregan’s gaze softened as he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him even before he touched you.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Cregan lifted his hand, carefully brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

There was a vulnerability in your eyes that he had not seen before, a vulnerability that mirrored his own. Without thinking, you leaned into his touch, and the space between you seemed to collapse. Cregan’s other hand found its way to the small of your back, drawing you nearer, his breath warm against your temple as he rested his forehead against yours.

Time slowed, the world outside falling away until it was just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the moment.

“I should have said this a long time ago,” he whispered, his voice strained with emotion. “I…. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m sorry it took so long for me to see it.”

I’ll watched as your heart pounded visibly in your chest, the weight of his words sinking in. You closed your eyes, breathing in his scent—familiar, comforting, yet laced with the tension that simmered between you for what felt like an eternity.

The confession hung in the air, fragile and raw. Cregan’s fingers gently tightened against your skin, as if he feared you might slip away, but you remained still, rooted in the moment.

Slowly, as if giving you the chance to pull away, he tilted his head, allowing his lips to lightly brush yours. The kiss began softly, hesitant, but as you responded and pressed closer, it deepened into a dance of emotions that had finally boiled over.

You melted into him, the feel of your warmth grounding him amidst the storm of feelings surging through him. Each kiss was a promise, slow and intense, whispering the truths he had long kept hidden.

When he finally pulled away, his breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours once more. “I am yours,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “If you would still have me.”

You opened your eyes, searching his face for any trace of doubt, but found none. There was only the truth of his words, the sincerity that echoed in the deepness of his gaze.

“Yes,” you said so softly that he almost didn’t hear it.

A smile broke across his face, and he dipped his head to capture your lips once more, pulling you flush against him as he wrapped his arms around you. The air in the room grew thick with desire as his tongue battled yours for dominance.

He kissed you like a man starved, as if you were the very air he needed to breathe. As he began tugging at the laces of your dress, you pulled at his tunic, the urgency of the moment igniting a frenzy.

Both your movements suddenly grew frantic, a flurry of clothes being haphazardly discarded onto floor as Cregan picked you up by your thighs and carried you to the bed, your lips never breaking contact.

As your back met the soft furs, he finally broke the kiss, his steel grey eyes meeting your own. In the depths of your gaze, he saw a fiery blend of longing and desire that matched his own in their intensity.

Cregan took a moment to take in your features—cheeks flushed, hair tousled, lips swollen—each detail stirring the emotions he had finally dared to embrace.

I almost lost her.

I can’t let it happen again.

It won’t ever happen again.

His heart was pounding in his chest as you threaded your fingers through his hair and brought his lips back to yours, a tenderness in your touch that lit a fire in him.

He wanted you.

He needed you.

And he was going to have you.

In that moment, something in Cregan snapped. He trailed a hand down your body to the apex of your legs and groaned at the wetness that greeted his fingers as he slipped one into your heat. You moaned at his touch, arching your back as he peppered your neck with kisses. The sounds he pulled from you spurred him on as he added a second finger and swirled them inside of you, pulling another loud moan from your lips.

He groaned when he felt your hand wrap around his length and began to pump, matched the rhythm of his own fingers. As he quickened his pace, your teeth met his shoulder in an attempt to quiet your moans of pleasure, and he grinned against your skin.

Cregan draw circles on your sensitive bud with his thumb, and he was filled with pride when he felt your walls clench around his fingers as you came with a small wail.

He brought his fingers to his lips and groaned at the taste of your essence. Never had he tasted something so sweet before, and he wanted more, but before he could make his way down, you wrapped your legs around him, pulling his hips to yours.

He nearly lost it when you guided him to your opening and rubbed the tip of his hardness with your juices, but he managed to stay in control for just a moment longer as he looked at you.

“Are you certain?” he asked, knowing that there was no going back for the two of you after this.

“I want it to be you,” you answered. “Take me, Cregan.”

Cregan saw stars as he finally sank into you. You felt so good. So soft. So tight. So perfect. He gave you a moment to adjust before he began to slowly move, groaning at the way your walls squeezed him. You felt good, too good, and he wasn’t sure how long he was going to last. You fit him like a glove, and he was in paradise.

Cregan’s breathing grew heavy as he looked down at you, admiring the way your face contorted with pleasure as he thrusted into your heat. The way your mouth fell open when he hit just the right spot, the way you dug your nails into his arms, and the way you sounded, pushed him closer to the edge. He was lost in the moment, plunging into you over and over, driving himself deeper and deeper, when he heard it.

“Cregan. Cregan, please.”

Cregan buried his face in your neck as he reached his peak and spilled inside of you with a grunt, your melodious voice being the catalyst to his release.

After a moment to catch his breath, he carefully withdrew himself out of you and rolled onto his back, pulling you to his side, with your head resting on his chest. You both lay there in peaceful bliss, savoring the intimate moment you had just shared—Cregan with his eyes closed, tenderly caressing your back while you drew small circles on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. The room was quiet, save for the light crackling of the fire, and as Cregan began to drift off, he heard it.

“I love you, Cregan.”

Cregan woke with a start. He sat up in bed and looked around frantically. The sky was dark but slowly starting to lighten, and he was alone in his chambers.

It was just a dream.

⟸ Previous Chapter ❖ Next Chapter ⟹

#cregan stark #house of the dragon #cregan stark x you #cregan fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #tom taylor #cregan stark fanfic #cregan x you #man of honor fanfic #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x y/n #hotd cregan

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mustainegf · 1 month ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ¹⁹⁸⁵

James and I had been together since we graduated high school in '81. Already, it seemed to be a lifetime ago, in reality it had only been four years. We had a good life, sharing the same house with his bandmates Cliff, Kirk, and Lars. The house was never not some kind of crazy, always ripping with loud music, stale beer smells always, but it was home.

Tonight, it was just the two of us. Already the guys had taken themselves to their rooms, leaving James and me to each other. Cozy but nothing special, this small place of our own had the posters of our favorite bands-mainly James'-tacked on every inch of the walls.

James lay on his back, his long sandy hair splayed over the pillow, staring at me with blues that I knew too well. The fact that we were both in our underwear was one thing that had become second nature to us, Just underwear, I hadn't even bothered with a bra. That's just how it was with James. Skin to skin was the warmth of each other's bodies where we found ourselves closest.

"C'mere," he mumbled, a grin spreading across his face. I could make out the faint stubble on his jaw line, the way his lips curled up at the edges, as he was trying to hold back a laugh. I climbed over him, straddling his hips, and leaned down, our faces just inches away. His hands found my hips, yanking me closer until our noses grazed.

"You're such a dork, you know that?" I teased, tracing the outline of his lips with my finger.

"Yeah? And what does that make you?" He quirked an eyebrow, his fingers trickling up my back.

"Your dorky girlfriend, obviously." I giggled, pressing my lips against his. He tasted like the beer we'd shared earlier, with just a hint of sweetness that was always, and only his.

As I kissed him, an idea was hatching in my brain, one I knew could stir up some fun. I gently pulled back a bit, then looked up into his eyes before starting to trail kisses along his neck. I could feel him quiver beneath me as my mouth meandered lower. I knew well enough just how sensitive his skin was, and I took full advantage of it, kissing and nibbling and lightly sucking the places I knew would leave a mark, the places I knew he was weakest. His skin was oh so warm under my lips, and I could already see the red marks forming, light but unmistakable.

"Hey... what're you doing?" he questioned.

"Mmm... Nothing," I said innocently, but we both knew the truth. Further I went, pressing my lips against his neck, down his collarbone, and finally to his chest, leaving hickeys on his fluttering skin, like a painter adding color to the canvas. Each one was a love note, gushing with how much I adored him.

He groaned softly, never stopping me. Instead, his hands slid up and down my sides, his fingertips speaking more tan any words he could've uttered. The room was filled with our quiet giggles and the sound of our breathing, the only music we needed.

When I was satisfied with my handiwork, I looked up at him in all his glory, just a big patchwork of reddish purple marks on his skin. He almost looked proud, eyes half closed as he smiled lazily up at me. My god, he was completely covered!

"Now I'm all yours," he murmured huskily.

"You've always been mine," I whispered back, leaning in for another kiss.

With bodies pressed close, I sank down to lay on his chest. It wasn't long before we were mumbling our goodnights and sleeping off in each other's grasp. All those hickeys, all that laughter, it was all just part of our regular, nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

I got up the next morning before the sun did, a habit of mine because I lived in a house full of night owls. These guys went to bed at the crack of dawn, usually after practice, after parties, or just fucking around, meaning it was pretty quiet in the mornings.

I slipped out of bed, not wanting to wake James, who was sleeping softly beside me, snoring like always. I picked up one of the Kerrang magazines from the pile on the floor before making my way out to the living room.

I curled up on the couch, flipping through the pages absent mindedly, reading the words I had a thousand times before, but never grew boring.

One by one, the guys got up, coming out of their rooms like they'd been hit by a truck. Lars was first, shockingly, trudging into the kitchen with his hair sticking up in every direction possible. He grunted my way, giving a half wave as he grabbed a beer. Because of course he was. Kirk followed soon after, eyes half-open as he plopped down beside me on the couch, offering a half-hearted "morning."

"Morning," I said, smiling at both of them. Taking in the sight of Kirks poofy, messy bed head.

"Mornin'," Kirk said finally, after a moment of silence. "You're up early."

"Always am," I shrugged flipping another glossy page in my magazine. "How was last night?"

Lars groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Loud. But when isn't it?"

Cliff was the last one out, that long hair falling partway across his face as he yawned and stretched. He took in the scene and nodded my way. "Where's Het?" he asked, voice all husky. "Still sleeping," I said, not looking up from the magazine just yet. "He'll be up soon, though. You know how he is."

Right on cue, we heard that familiar sound of James' heavy footsteps coming down the hall. I looked up just as he rounded the corner, his hair a mess, and his eyes barely open. His boxers riding low on his hips, showing off the light trail of hair that came from beneath, his skin still warm from sleep.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, running a hand through his mane he called hair.

"Morning, lover boy," Lars snickered, smirking while his gaze riveted on James's chest.

James looked at him confused, then turned to the rest of us, where both Kirk and Cliff were grinning like idiots.

"What?" he asked confused, rubbing his eyes. "Why is everyone staring at me like that?"

"Oh, nothing..." Kirk said holding in his laughter. "Just... nice fashion statement you've got there."

James frowned, looking down at himself. It took a sec, but I saw the exact moment it hit him, his eyes shot wide, his mouth opening slightly in realization. His entire neck, chest, and shoulders were covered in hickeys, the marks I'd left so deliberately last night.

"Oh, shit-" he muttered, his face turning a deep shade of velvet. "Seriously?"

I couldn't help but laugh at him. He looked so flustered, so out of it, and it was the cutest thing I'd ever seen.

"Wow, man, she really went to town on you," Cliff added, clearly amused.

Lars practically doubled over with laughter now. "Dude, how did you not notice? You look like you got attacked by a vampire!"

"I forgot about them, okay?" James then stared at me, looking embarrassed, but not at all upset, and I just shrugged, smiling innocently.

"You're welcome, baby," I said sweetly.

He shook his head, trying to hold back a grin. "You're evil, ya know that?"

"Maybe," I smiled, "but you seem to love it."

He let out a deep sigh, running a hand over the love bites. "Yeah.. Yeah, I do."

The other guys teased him some more, with a lot of jokey jabs in his direction, how he'd have to wear turtlenecks for the next week, or how the fans at the next gig might think he was trying on a new look, or even got attacked by groupies. James took it all pretty well, a pink fluster no longer staining his cheeks. He didn't bother covering up the marks, even when the jokes got relentless.

He just stood there, his arms across his chest, a sheepish grin. He looked so handsome, his skin warm and marked with the memory of my lips.

"Come on, guys, lay off him," I finally said, although I was smiling with a roll of the eyes. "He's had enough."

"Yeah, yeah," Lars said, waving his hand dismissively. "We're just fawkin' with him."

James rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance there. He was still smiling as he walked over to me, leaning down to press a quick kiss to my lips.

"Thanks for that," he whispered, sarcastic, but still in love.

"Anytime," I whispered back.

He straightened up, looking down at me with that toothy, lopsided grin that I loved with all my heart.

"These look sexy by the way," I whisper, gently brushing my fingers over the fragile marks on his neck.

"Guess I'll have to give you some of your own then, hmm?"

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jmscornerlibrary · 4 months ago

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Hogwarts Professors Shenanigans: Severus and Minerva.

So I got this idea after seeing a headcannon: McGonagall and Snape being sort-of friends in Hogwarts and getting up to all sorts (laughing at student assignments, house rivalry, severely judging Umbridge together, etc) (A.k.a: Minerva having enough of Severus' everybody's drama) and dabbled a bit in my spare time.

In this one, Severus is having a bad day (definitely not Harry's fault) and Minerva finding out why.

Disclaimer: this is not a pairing and there is no romance. It's just the Slytherin and Gryffindor Heads being chaos.

Enjoy!

***

It was evening, and the staff room was empty. Or, at least, of all visible feelings, for Minerva and Severus were sitting on opposite sides of the room, pretending that nothing was amiss as they sat almost buried in piles of scrolls, marking homework. It was dark; candles were lit on the chandeliers and were hovering over the two microclimates that the Gryffindor and Slytherin head of houses had unwittingly created with their silence and expressions.

Severus was epically stone-faced and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. The movements of his quill were quite irregular. The quill hovered in mid-air, then swooped down like a carrion bird and slashed viciously at the parchment, then went back to hovering, scratched slightly upon expressing something with more words than one, then hovered again.

Minerva’s quill was similar, though it was poised rather like an owl, and was similar in movement. It glided over parchment and never slashed, barely audible in the silence of the room, rounded in both experience and patience that the dark-haired and young were yet to learn.

Nobody would have thought any conversation would have sparked between them, for speech was never thought necessary to fill silence between this particular pair. They both possessed a tolerance of it, which stemmed rather from the long friendship between their own selves and absence of a counterpart to embark themselves on, than giving others a cold shoulder. Though perhaps it was a more familiar aspect for the younger of the two; Severus Snape.

But conversation did spark.

Minerva shot out a traceable sigh through her nose.

“Eighty-five.”

Severus placed three rather vicious dots on the essay without raising his head. They didn’t need to maintain eye-contact, for their minds were very specifically wired to detect through other senses first, rather than with vision, from situations both ordinary and perilous.

“Eighty-seven,” Severus murmured, bestowing an update on his older colleague.

Minerva’s brows crept together a few millimetres, but other than that, both their eyes remained on the tasks they were both immersed in. Silence sank between them for another few moments, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment and scratching of nib against paper, before Minerva spoke again.

“Ninety-two.”

The faintest smile crept over the Slytherin Head’s thin lips.

“Ninety-three.”

Minerva’s eyes left her parchment this time, and flicked over to her reserved colleague.

“Ninety-three,” she repeated, incredulity only-just detectable around its rims. “You’re bluffing.”

Severus picked up a scroll and embellished the action of dropping it onto his ‘completed’ pile without as much as raising his eyes, then pulled another from a much smaller pile and resumed the vehement task of taloning essays with red ink. Minerva sucked her teeth and turned her sharpened eyes back onto her own pile, skillfully hiding the mild interest and scrutiny behind the steely glint of her spectacles, as her quill began to glide up and down and her eyes stumbled over, currently, Seamus Finnegan’s Transfiguration essay.

Quite a few flickers of the candle flames later, the head of the Gryffindor house potted her quill and shifted, directing her eyes at her younger counterpart. She observed him, taking note out of habit of all the miniscule details which had not changed for the past ten years: Severus Snape still sat as though his spine was a brittle, iron rod, to which his neck was connected; his hair had not been cut since 1990 and was rather neglected; black was still the only colour he wore, as though he wished to dress himself in his silence and reservation; his thin build was skilfully hidden beneath the dark drapes he clad himself in, visible only through the small circumference of his fingers and wrists and in how sharply the bones in his face stuck out. Not much had changed, since Minerva had taught him at Hogwarts, when he was still an adolescent and capable of earnest laughter and smiles, except for the latter and that he had grown taller than her. Nowadays, Severus Snape could have been compared to a very dark, thick bog, which was very hard to navigate through without sinking into its sludge, and there was simply no use looking into the green webs of puddles for any glimmer of lingering light. She wouldn’t have put it past the Potion’s Master to have made it seem so on purpose, as a way of not being disturbed by the less observant.

Minerva didn’t react to these thoughts at this moment, for she had made this comparison many times over the course of her life, especially the last twenty years, quite a few times in different mindsets and circumstances of feeling. It wasn’t a pleasant thought to dwell on and pursue, and she had deemed her opinion on this particular man drawn up and asserted.

Yet, recently, on a day free from his vehement scowls, glares, displays of house-bias and downright snappish tones which seemed to be tailored to the Potions Master’s colour of clothing, when there had been less dark clouds and more light-hearted skies of sleet under his surface, Minerva had admitted to herself with pursed lips that she had actually grown fond of this strange, bat-like creature appointed as the guardian of the Slytherin house. They shared many qualities which prevented them from completely detesting one another or becoming intolerant to one another’s presence. For one, they were both too observant for their sanity’s own good; they were both accustomed to silence and coping alone, when need be; they both generally bestowed the crown of idiots onto more people than anybody else and for good reason, though Minerva was perhaps better with concealing her opinion; both knew very well when anything was amiss, whether that was a more complex plan of students drawn up to cause havoc or something of a greater degree, like the Ministry or any other conspiracy, and often shared silent glances upon sensing it. Also, both detested idiocy and stupidity.

Yes, Minerva thought, as she furrowed her brows and looked at Severus viciously slashing out the marks on his essays, we both detest idiocy and stupidity.

But other than these more outright comparisons which both were aware of, there was another which Minerva kept to herself: both had lost far too much to speak about and both knew very well what it was like to suffer. That their tolerance and even amiability towards silence didn’t stem completely from possessing introverted characters, but because of what life had made them endure.

Minerva sniffed those thoughts away and spoke, turning her eyes away from the dark, almost isolated figure on the opposite side of the classroom to the scrolls, which she began to organise with both hand and wand.

“One-hundred.”

Severus didn’t move, but kept scribbling on. Once he let go of the curling bottom of the parchment, he dipped his quill in his red inkpot and replied as Minerva had: without a glance from his current train of occupation.

“Ninety-three.”

Minerva paused, then directed her eyes at him, suspicious and incredulous behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. The candles seemed as surprised as she was, leaning over to look at Snape.

“Ninety-three?”

Severus didn’t pause, but neither did the small smile which flitted through his mask of stone, which Minerva, having eyes as keen as an owl’s when her glasses were on, caught, then rolled her eyes and pulled her eyebrows back down.

“Of course,” she said. “I should have known what tactics you would have resorted to. Still, perhaps next time, Severus.”

“Twenty points to Gryffindor,” he muttered dryly in reply.

“Oh, don’t be so sour,” she said, flicking the last of the scrolls into a neat stack. “Practise spurs on perfection.”

“And yet, I sensed your unrest, Minerva,” he said, looking up this time and watching her face carefully. “You thought I was going to beat you at your field of expertise, at long last.”

McGonagall sniffed. It had been eight years, and Severus was still to perfect the art of marking with both speed and accuracy.

“Perhaps I did.” She hid an eye-smile behind her spectacles. “I do hope it was worth the effort.”

“Ruffling the wise, Gryffindor matriarch’s feathers?” Severus smirked, then directed his gaze back to his marking. “It’s always worth the effort.”

“Don’t sit up too long.” Minerva bustled to the door. “We don’t wish for any proud, black feathers to be raggled in the morning. Snapping at the striplings is exhilarating.”

“You mean refreshing,” he replied, but that was mainly to himself, for Minerva had stopped at the door and after a ‘good night, Severus’ had apparated to wherever she wished to be. Severus looked at the candles still shivering over where she had sat, felt the cold of the room and the darkness lingering in the corners, then sighed without quite knowing he did so and returned to his marking.

“... by implementing these new tactics, retention of information will be increased and they will excel in their exams. We hope to bring up the scores in OWLs and NEWTs by at least ten percent next year.”

McGonagall was sitting with her eyes fixed on the board which Mr Piccadilly, the wizard responsible for informing teachers of programme changes and expectations, stood, retaining everything with ease and out of habit. She didn’t need to look at the speaker, but she did, for it was polite, though sometimes her eyes traversed around her colleague’s faces out of a curiosity that even her old age hadn’t managed to vanquish within her. Curiosity. What had Albus Dumbledore once told her?

‘My dear Minerva, if you were any less of a lioness, you would have been undoubtedly placed in the house of Ravenclaw.’

Perhaps the Headmaster was right, but McGonagall held a deep regard for her own house, even so. A feeling so deep and long-lasting that it was like it grew a vein within her, connected to her heart, and so anything which tried to shame or disregard what had grown this vein was firmly shunned and put into place, for it twanged it most aggravatingly.

Her eyes flicked around the room briefly. Filius Flitwick was reading the information leaflet Mr Piccadily had provided. Sybill didn’t quite look as though she was paying attention, her expression dreamy and her magnified eyes half-closed as they stopped being of use for the moment she was in her mind’s eye. Albus was present for this meeting, and was nodding at what Piccadily had said as though he really was taking his words into consideration, running his knobbly fingers over his long, white beard.

Minerva glanced at Severus Snape and repressed the urge to snap at him to pay attention in class and sit up straight. Some habits really do never go away, she thought as she studied him, regardless of whether they had been out of use for more than twenty years. Then, her eyes narrowed and her own attention was most disrespectfully averted away from the speaker and towards the dark smudges beneath Severus’ eyes and the way he looked most strangely pitiable this morning. At least from her perspective.

“Thank you, Mr Piccadily,” Dumbledore spoke, after the speaker had wrapped up the meeting. “We will be sure to adjust to this practical advice; it is good one. Though, I regret to say, the stubbornness of some students to avoid the chances of retaining information is, whilst even impressive, an obstacle that even these refined methods will have trouble overleaping.”

There were a few mutters of agreement, most were fond. Minerva gathered up the leaflets as the rest of her colleagues did, aligned them with a few taps upon the desk, then swept out to match a certain person’s steps and billowing of dark cloak.

“Good morning, Severus.”

Severus spared her a glance. He even sounded relatively polite when he replied, which could have been mistaken for a bout of better mood if anybody but Minerva McGonagall had been on the receiving end of it.

“Good morning, Minerva. I trust the meeting was to your benefit.”

His tone was sardonic. For once, Minerva agreed with him, though it was with reluctance.

“It was nothing new,” she said. “Many of us have been implementing those methods since 1972, or earlier. They simply resurfaced after gathering some dust.”

“Certainly,” came the quiet, scoffing reply. “Dressed up in brighter clothes and introduced as though to idiots. I suppose Piccadily thought he had made a breakthrough in teaching techniques.”

She didn’t comment, though she pursed her lips and took this moment to run her eyes over his form. Severus must have felt them.

“Why do you scour me?’ Minerva was never one for sugarcoating, unless absolutely necessary. She was too old to spin words and Severus too sardonic to appreciate doing so.

“You look awful today.”

“Ooh,” he scoffed. “Worse than usual?”

“Indeed.”

He chuckled darkly in reply, then snapped at some Gryffindors to keep a single file on the corridors, not even bothering to send her a glance at the obvious unruliness of her house. Though he did not answer and Minerva was intrigued as to the cause of such an impressively irritated and almost black expression, as to the sudden clenching and unclenching of his white fists, she did not press him. For one, it would be useless to do so as he would snap and skulk for the rest of the day and pretend his problems didn’t exist, secondly, she wouldn’t receive an answer anyway. So Minerva merely sniffed and acknowledged him when they parted at the second staircase - she went up, he went down to the dungeons for lessons to start.

For the purpose of convenience, Minerva kept the timetables of her colleagues stuck to the wall beside her desk. It came in useful multiple times, for classrooms were often changed and it came in useful when needing to find a co-worker during the school day. She swept into her second-year class, introduced the lesson, then in the brief pause in which they all stooped to fumble in their bags for their books, she glanced at Severus’ timetable.

Gryffindor and Slytherin, year one.

Oh boy, she thought, raising her eyebrows, then made a mental note to check the house point chart in the main corridor as soon as the lessons were over and break began. She was teaching Ravenclaw - a good lot, for most were too intrigued in the lesson to talk about anything which wasn’t related to the matter at hand; in this case, turning teapots into porcupines - so the double period was over fairly quickly and without ordeal.

The ordeal arrived when she passed Hermoine Granger on her way down to the main corridor. She paused, eyes flickering up and down the small figure with bushy, brown hair, then stepped forward and apprehended her.

“Miss Granger? Is everything well?”

Hermoine looked up at her from under her smoking fringe and regarded her with wide eyes and full attention.

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” came the reply, though its usual eagerness was staunched as the black ends of bushy brown were fingered sadly. “Simply some debacle in potions… The cauldron exploded, it burnt a few desks…”

“Humph. I thought so.”

Minerva took out her wand, then twirled it and restored the chunks of missing hair, burnt robes and the admiring smile and light in Hermoine’s eyes.

“The potions can be quite hard to comprehend, at first. Better luck next time.” She was about to step away, then regarded her favourite student once more. “Many points were taken, I suppose.”

Hermoine dropped her eyes, then looked up at her again.

She sighed quietly. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid, Professor.”

Minerva almost rolled her eyes, but restrained herself, as she restrained herself from patting the glowing student on the head.

“Move along, Miss Granger,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll restore any losses in our glory in no time.”

McGonagall’s lip twitched as Hermoine flushed pink with pleasure and all but skipped off happily with a ‘thank you, Professor McGonagall, I’ll certainly try’, then paused in front of the point board. Usually, they were either up or down five, from different contributions and losses all across the school. Now, unless Minerva was much mistaken, they were down by no less than five and thirty.

She folded her arms as she studied it, then as she debated on the fors and againsts on going down to the dungeons and trying to wrangle out whatever poison was festering in the Potion Master’s chest that morning. If it was just after the incident and the classroom was still smoking, that wouldn’t be wise and, in fact, counter-productive. He would probably be steaming in no lesser magnitude than whatever concoction had been in the unfortunate cauldron before it had exploded. Not to mention that Argus Filch would most probably be overseeing detention that night and Minerva would have been inclined to bet ten galleons that a certain duo of a Potter and a Weasley would be on the receiving end of it. It was common knowledge - at least between her and Dumbledore and a couple of others - that Potter wasn’t exactly Severus’ favourite student. Reasons for why that was aside, it was fact, and so the against weighed more and Minerva directed her steps to the staff room instead.

She didn’t see the Potions Master until it had grown dark and it was an hour until student curfew at the hour of ten. Instead of resuming her marking in her office, she took up her fifth-years’ essays and waltzed off towards the staff room, in which she sensed she would find her sought object of interest, and when she pushed open the door and found nothing but darkness, she thought she was proved wrong.

Having gotten here, she didn’t quite feel the sense to go back, so she waved her wand and made her way over to the usual table she sat at to at least get through what she intended to. But when she lit the candles and the yellow, warm glow settled on the dark furniture and surroundings, she saw she was disproved again, this time in a way that she would have never liked to be.

She stopped, too surprised to even frown down her nose or furrow her brows. If she wasn’t Minerva, her voice would have perhaps gone for a moment, but this was Minerva, so instead it was present, full force.

“Severus?”

She placed the parchment to the side and took a few firm steps towards his form; he was sitting at the table, drooped over it, an empty glass in one hand and an empty bottle of Ogden’s by his head. She shot out a hand and grasped his shoulder.

“Severus Snape!”

“I am not dead, Minerva,” came his voice. It was quiet and rather rough, though still impressively bothered, given his state. “You can sit down and mark the essays. I’ll be just over here.”

She picked up the bottle of firewhisky and placed it back down with a thunk in reply. “Did you drink all of this?”

“As you can see.”

“By yourself?”

His voice had only one tone and it was drawling one. “Who in my right mind would I share it with? Filius?”

She made a sound which could have been frustration and put her hands on her hips as she stared down at him.

“Is this because of Potter?”

At this, she saw his eyes flash through the parting in his hair. He didn’t reply, but he shifted until he was almost in an upright position, and would have looked impressively in control if his hands weren’t taught and white in effort of keeping himself rigid.

“No, this is not because of Potter,” he spat, words slightly slurred. “Why are you even here? Yes, I took fifty points off your house. Fifty points. Should’ve taken more.”

Minerva looked at him, then went and removed all the glass items off his table before anything happened.

“Severus, go to your office.”

He snorted.

“There’s nothing I would love to do more. My office. My […] office.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened at the expletive. She didn’t move as he rose, watching him clutching at the table, two dark caverns in the place of his eyes.

“I hate this. I loathe it,” he breathed, swaying. “I wish I could burn it, this place, right down to the ground.”

Minerva felt her temper flare. Her voice was sharp and quite appalled as she cut him off.

“Severus, control yourself.”

He opened his mouth and forced out a laugh, his head hanging low, his hands slowly constricting with such force they almost left scratch-marks on the wood. It was an awful sound, this laugh, scraping like talons against iron. Devoid of light, hopeless; almost like sanity hanging by a thread. Minerva almost shivered.

“Control myself?” he whispered. “Yes. Control myself. That is what I have been doing for my whole life. I’ve perfected it in so many different ways. I have channelled all within me into one cold mass of iron and stone, and yet nothing I do… nothing I do will stop this hell I’ve walked right into. This hell which I have paved with my efforts and energy.”

Minerva listened, now that the initial shock had worn off. She looked at the man before her, remembering the dark, sparrow-like creature from twenty years back, looking up at her with wide eyes and a slight flush after a particular assignment had been written well and received top grades.

Good work, Snape, she had said with a nod, making herself smile at him, for she could tell from his nature, his malnourishment and the way he flinched at loud noises and skulked away from fights, from what background he had come from. Keep that work up, and you may just get to the places you want.

Yes, professor, he had said, smirking sheepishly, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes and tried to assume nonchalance. Thanks, professor.

Now, that sparrow was dead and this man stood before her, with his hands tainted black with murder, his head filled with memories which twisted his mood and his world a dark swamp which he could not navigate, his voice rough and splintered as he drowned in his faults and his silent tears.

She withheld her words and tears with effort, instead standing and listening, the best thing she could do for now.

“I teach little gargoyles the arts, like a fool,” Severus continued, unmoving though his shoulders moved as he steadied himself. “I teach them potions. People, my equals pretend in front of them that I’m one to look up to, a good representative of the Slytherin house, then frown and whisper behind my back. I hear them. Ha! Masks everywhere, and I’m sick of wearing them and drowning in their laughter and babble. I’m bloody sick.”

“You will be, if you keep this up,” she said, firmer than she ought to, but it was just a way of keeping her voice from wavering. “Sit down, Severus. Now.”

He swayed upright some more to make his point, then collapsed on his chair with a sigh heavy as a rock, burying his face in his bony hands. McGonagall drew out a chair and sat opposite him, waiting, her lips pursed.

“I always hear,” he muttered, his voice splintering. “It’s what I’ve been good at since I was a brat. I’ve been able to use information, retain it, piece it together, manipulate it…”

He took his hands away from his face and leaned heavily against the table. Minerva watched in silence as tears began leaking down his face and dripping into the collar of his robes. His face seemed indifferent, moulded into stone, yet his eyes and lips gave it away, as he sneered at himself and the world as tears stained his face thickly.

“I’ve passed it on… Oh, like a fool. And others listened to what I had to offer. They digested it, basked in it, then thanked me as I … As I passed it on.”

The last words were barely audible; his voice went. McGonagall watched as he bent his head and began to shake in silent sobs, miserable and pathetic, tears running down her own face and from underneath her glass as she watched him.

“It’s useless to move forward, Minerva,” he breathed, his head hanging limply. “It’s my fault. I should have died, instead of her... Damnation, I should have died instead of all those people. The pathetic wretch that I am.”

“Severus,” Minerva says, though where she gets this softness of voice from, she has no idea. Perhaps it's because of the idea of what could have been that they can both see, or perhaps both of them feel this sense of blame and twisted justice. Severus, after all, had served the Dark Lord freely. He had killed and tortured, and the Death Mark emblazoned on his left forearm is proof of all that. And yet, Minerva pushes it out of her mind as she looks at his crumpled form that she had only ever seen erect in its own way and storming or sweeping through the corridors like an evil force, black cape billowing and students scattering left and right. The students have no problem with choosing their antagonist, in their own little worlds where everything is still black and white. But this man wasn’t an antagonist; he was just as lost as the first-years, in a sense, that he was teaching.

She swallowed and regained herself.

“Severus. We all make wrong choices in life.”

He breathed out a strangled laugh and slapped the wet off his face, though it was everything but amused.

“Oh, yes. We certainly do. Though my existence is a torrid rift of spectacular failures, whereas what you are referring to is something as trivial as… choosing whether it is a good idea to have three coffees in a day instead of… one.”

He dropped his hands and wept on, voiceless, his torn breathing the only noise in the room. Minerva had no idea how to comfort him, this dubious character full of clashing opposites. A day ago, she would have believed that he still scorned all within his head and still pondered the acts which would have put him in Azkaban if Dumbledore hadn’t stepped up, but now, she didn’t think that was true. She did the only thing she knew: she insisted he go to bed.

“This won’t help, now, Severus,” she said, standing, and approaching him. “You cannot destroy yourself now.”

“Why not?” he whispered between silent sobs. “It won’t make a difference. It would do the world a favour. There is not a single benefit of me remaining alive.”

This, in turn, made old Minerva McGonagall very angry. She stood erect and clenched her fists, her nostrils flaring and eyes flashing in the glow of the candlelight.

“If I hear another foolish word out of your mouth, Snape, I’m going to take fifty points from Slytherin.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Minerva shook her head slowly and scowled in a way which only stern, elderly witches can.

“O, ho, ho!” she cried, planting her hands onto her hips. “I’ll take one-hundred points off Slytherin, if you say another word on that awful topic. Fear my wrath, Severus Snape! It will be a terrible one, for I simply cannot stomach such foolish nonsense.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered. “You can’t take points off me, I’m the head of house.”

“You watch me, young man,” she said, then shook her head and rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “Come, now. There’s going to be enough trouble when you’re hungover in the morning and have first-year classes to teach.” Severus slumped onto the table instead, his hair splayed over the surface, his form still shaking. Minerva pursed her lips, though her heart was softened. She mildly considered having a gillywater after this, too, for this was really too much. She had done her fair share of conquering and convincing and all she wanted was a quiet rest of her life amidst her tartan couches and shortbread biscuits, with an ample amount of malt tea and fiction at her elbow.

Instead, she stared down at Severus Snape’s disobedience and despair in the darkness of the staff room, at the empty bottle and glass at the side and pursed her lips so tightly that anyone watching would have marvelled at the way her mouth vanished. The candles certainly did.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I cannot help listening to you,” he muttered darkly. “You’re shouting right into my ears.”

“Then stand up.”

It took him a while. He raised his head off the table, first, stared down at its surface on which a puddle of his own tears glinted, slapped at it clumsily with a scowl, then got up. He tottered on his feet.

“Can you make it to the door?” she said doubtfully.

“Don’t be foolish, McGonagall. My legs still work.”

Thunk. Clank, bang, ba-dum.

She looked at the form on one knee holding onto the upturned furniture without a change in expression.

“Are you quite done?”

Severus groaned quietly in reply, then heaved himself upwards and clutched at the table. He paused, grasped at his left arm, looking stricken, then looked around in a daze.

“My wand.”

Minerva held the black instrument up for him to see. She had picked it up a few moments before, when it had slipped when he tried to swat at the chair to grab it.

“I have it.”

“Give it to me.”

She sniffed, looking at how dark his eyes were. “I don’t really don’t think so. You’ll receive it first thing in the morning.”

He scowled, then pushed himself upwards from the table, balanced himself, then stood there with his shoulders squared.

“Give me the wand, Minerva.”

“No.”

“You will not confiscate my wand.”

“I really just ought to use levicorpus on you,” she muttered under her nose, then directed her gaze into his eyes. “I told you what my conditions are. I’d be mad if I gave it to you in this state.”

He sneered. “I’m hardly in a state.”

“Now, really!” she cried, just about keeping herself from waving his wand around in exasperation. “Just now you have been talking about ridding the world of yourself! Seriously and with a straight face! Give you your wand? Absolutely not. Now, move, professor. It’s almost student curfew - there will be very few students about, and you are going back to your office.”

“Don’t make me curse, Minerva,” he hissed out through gritted teeth. “I’ve very little patience.”

“And so, quite frankly, do I!” she retorted, wagging her finger at him. “Don’t make me follow through on my word about points, young man, because I will do so!”

“Oh, you…” He snarled. “You’re a witch, McGonagall.”

They both looked at one another in incredulity. Snape looked rather baffled at what had just left his mouth.

“Yes, Severus, I believe I am, indeed, a witch,” she said with a twitch of her lips. “Now, let us go, before anybody else sees you in such a state.”

She moved forward as though to support him, but he lifted up a hand and scowled. The remnants of tears still glistened on his cheeks and on his lower eyelids.

“Spare it, Professor. I’ll manage perfectly well. Always have,” he said bitterly, walked a few steps, then stopped by another chair for support. “Always will.”

She watched him hobble off without a word, still holding his wand.

“Severus,” she called, when he was halfway through the room, then hesitated, but followed through thoroughly after that. “You are not completely lost. You are aware of your faults and do not deny them, and that’s always a first.”

He stopped by one of the couches, swaying. Minerva shook her head at him, then tried to lessen the force of her words.

“I can imagine what you are going through-”

“No.”

His voice was dark and scraped like stones being dragged across the floor.

“No, you cannot imagine what I am going through Minerva.”

“Do you think you are the only one who has suffered!” she cried, unable to keep herself together for longer. “Do you think you are the only one who has had people… who has had friends torn from you?”

Her voice wobbled at the end, and she clutched at the piece of wood in her hand, her whole frame rigid.

“You are not the only one who knows well and truly what it is like to be alone, Severus Snape! The war was hell for all of us. We’ve all seen parts of it. We’ve chosen to keep going regardless of what we have seen, because it’s the only sensible thing to do!”

Severus stood there long. Minerva could see his body as stiff as her own was, trembling, his fists clenched so hard into the material of the couch, it was a wonder the fabric hadn’t torn in their grasp. Then, he turned to look over his shoulder at her.

“You are not responsible for the death of your friends, professor.”

His voice was barely a whisper, though it was trembling like a creature caught in an iron grip.

“Your dreams aren’t full of reliving the death of the ones you had betrayed. You do not hold them lifeless in your grasp…”

He had to pause, for tears were running down his face in torrents, now.

“You do not relive the moments in which you could have made a decision to turn things your way, and instead did the opposite. The suffering of others was not your fault, and so many of you can live with yourselves, for it has been you that’s been wronged. I do not possess that luxury. I am the murderer in my story, the one to blame, the one to hate.”

His voice broke and he choked, then lifted a hand and furled it tight into the fabric of his robe, clutching at this chest. “You do not regret almost every word you have spoken, every thought which has crossed your mind, every step and motion which was entirely down to you and your mistakes. Your pettiness. Your pride-!”

He raised his voice, teeth bared in a snarl, tears running down into his collar in streams. Minerva was crying too, as she watched him, but her face was arranged carefully into something hard and unfeeling. Still, he saw her tears and scoffed.

“That’s right, Minerva. Cry for a wretch of a man. It’s an honour to be graced with the tears of a woman of stone-”

Another sob choked him and he hung his head, averting his eyes from hers. After a moment, he smiled, bitter and forced.

“As you can see, I am incapable of change. I’m my own torturer and my own prison. Azkaban…? Ha! What can Azkaban do to me, when I’m already in hell? The dementors would have a downright feast with all the happy emotions hidden inside me. Especially as I teach and look upon the son of the woman I betrayed. Damn all rivalries. James Potter I loathed, and, help me, I still do, though I saw him dead beside his wife and his living son. Merlin, I’m a wretch. Now you know this, Minerva. You can wrinkle your nose at me in disgust. I’m beyond the point of return… beyond the point of hoping for the better. I am scum… I am scum.”

He put a hand up to his temple, then dragged it down his face, moved awkwardly, half-crouched, then collapsed on the couch, bending inwardly, his thin arms pressed around himself, and wept, pressing his face into the couch, hiding it from the world.

“Don’t listen to me, I’m drunk,” he managed. “Is all,” then he broke down completely.

Minerva dearly wished she was in bed. She put her hands up to her temples and screwed her eyes shut. She was far too old for this. Far too old for all of this.

“Severus Snape.”

He sobbed in response. She dragged a hand down her face, then sighed and marched forward.

“That’s enough, Severus Snape,” she said, then did something she had never done before: she sat on the couch and pulled the man into a firm embrace.

He stiffened, this adult, this Slytherin head of house, this murderer, death eater, whatnot, then wilted and ducked his head, allowing his head to be covered in arm and shielded from the world as though he was back to being eleven.

“There,” she muttered with a sigh, patting his back, half a mind to make a cup of tea. “Stop that, now. None of this is your fault. Nobler than you have faced horrors which you have and turned down the dark path. But you turned from it of your own accord. You must remember.”

She placed her hand on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

“Do you hear me? You still have a road ahead of you. You can choose which path you walk. Stop this talk of ending yourself. You’re still young.”

He swallowed, pursed his lips, then nodded his head once. Minerva rose.

“Come, now. I will give you your wand, but you must keep its point far away from yourself, am I clear?”

He sighed, sniffed, then swallowed.

“Like a crystal.”

His sardonic nature returned. A good sign. McGonagall nodded.

“Fantastic. Can you stand?”

“Probably.”

He rose and made it halfway up, though Minerva had to grab his arm to pull him upright.

“I’d appreciate it if nobody knew about this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stumbled. “Not even the headmaster.”

McGonagall snorted as he leaned on her for support. “Of course not. Who do you take me for?”

“A Gryffindor. The ones who always do the right thing.”

“At least your senses haven’t left you completely.”

“Fear not. They will, soon.”

They made it across the staff room, then upon checking whether the corridors were clear - Minerva’s beak-like nose poking out and her hawk eyes narrowing as they scanned the vicinity - they began their journey across two of them, towards Snape’s office.

“Be glad we don’t have to climb any staircases,” Minerva muttered, her brows pulled together sternly as she scanned for any students and frowned at the gawking and gossiping people in the paintings. “That would be a task and a half.”

Snape made a sound which sounded like half a scoff, half a sigh. His head was pounding and his throat was raw from crying. Pathetic.

“I could just apparate, if it’s any use suggesting it. I don’t want to be the reason for any rheumatisms acting up later, Professor.”

“Silence, or I’ll let go of you,” she snapped, driving a sharp elbow into his ribcage as they stumbled, probably on purpose. "Insolent boy. Arthritis. And I was heavier than you when I was your age. There are first-years heavier than you, you impervious skeleton frame. Rheumatisms acting up, indeed.”

His lips twitched at his colleague’s grumbling. “I do apologise.”

Minerva scoffed, her eyes sharp and hawk-like behind her glasses. “Of course you do. And no, you couldn’t just apparate. You’d split yourself into two in this state.”

“Right you are.”

They stumbled across a corridor, then Minerva sighed.

“I should keep you like this for a little longer. You’ve never willingly agreed with me, yet.”

“I already said, I’m far from sober. I’ll be back to my own charming self in the morning.”

“You better be. There are quizzes to mark and Quidditch matches to oversee.”

They reached his door just as he moaned. “Quidditch… How could I have forgotten?”

Within moments, he was sprawled on his bed, face-first. McGonagall placed her hands on her hips and scowled at him.

“Just leave me here,” he said, though it sounded barely decipherable due to his face being muffled in duvet. “I will manage.”

She didn’t have to speak; even the silence was severely doubtful.

“I will manage,” he repeated obstinately.

Severus twitched, rolled from side to side, only to come to a stop in the same position as he collapsed on the bed in the first place.

“... There we go,” he muttered weakly.

Her voice was as point-blank as it usually was, but Severus wasn’t fooled as he felt her eyes on his back, no doubt amused. “Be glad nobody but me can see this.”

He severely doubted that was a cause for relief, as much as he was sure that he wouldn’t be hearing the end of this, though perhaps in subtle insinuations rather than direct statements of ‘Severus Snape being so incredibly wasted he couldn’t even get himself into bed’.

He heaved himself up, sat back down, then bent over to unfasten his shoes. Then, he paused, remembered he had a wand and looked up at the stern, elderly woman watching him with a frown. Perhaps this is what it would have felt like to have a grandmother present in his life.

“My wand.”

She pursed her lips. He sighed.

“Please may I have my wand, ma’am?”

She stood there some more, then shook her head at him and withdrew it from her sleeve.

“You are by far the most difficult student in this castle, Severus Snape,” she said as she handed it to him. He took it and heaved out a sigh.

“I won’t argue.”

He undid his shoes, took off his cloak, then climbed into bed, leaving his wand on the bedside table. His candles were still glimmering after McGonagall had lit them, drilling holes into his brain. He had no energy to put them out, but he didn’t need to.

“That’s that,” Minerva said, blowing them all out but one, which she took with her. “End of today’s nonsense. I expect you to be up at the normal hour tomorrow, Severus, or I’m afraid there will be consequences for you to face.”

He muttered something rude, then bit his tongue and opened his eyes a sliver, just to see her form sweeping to the exit.

“Goodnight, Severus.”

He breathed out a sigh, then spoke.

“Thank you, Minerva.”

She paused, then turned from the door to him, frowning, as though he was being insolent; but he wasn’t.

“I’m being genuine,” he muttered, feeling his head slowly sinking into the softness of his covers. “I don’t really have anybody else in this castle to turn to. You’re quite a good ear to talk into.”

He didn’t quite manage to stay genuine and sarcasm bled into his tone. He expected to hear something witty back, but the elderly woman just sighed and spoke in a slightly softened voice:

“Don’t hesitate to speak to me, Severus,” she said. “These matters are nothing to joke about, and you cannot do this alone. Plus,” she added, “I do enjoy your futile attempts to brush up on your grading abilities. Maybe one day, you will surprise me, and that will be the day in which I shall, perhaps, finally retire.”

“Looking forward to it,” he managed to mumble, before sleep took him, and that was that, for that day.

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