Chapter Text
The university courtyard hummed with the usual noise: music spilling from an open dorm window, clusters of students laughing on the grass, the warm smell of cheap alcohol carried in the breeze.
It was the start of another semester, and for Han Jisung, third year gumiho with restless energy practically written into his blood, the only thing more intoxicating than the party was the sight of the werewolf alpha, Bang Chan.
Chan was leaned against the steps with two textbooks tucked under one arm, his broad shoulders outlined by the glow of the campus lights. He was smiling at someone—he always smiled, open and warm like he had sunlight in his veins—but Jisung wanted that smile to turn sharp, secret, meant for him alone.
He’d been trying for months. Flirty remarks slipped like darts across study sessions. “Hyung, you’d look better without that shirt.” “Ever notice you smell like cedar when you get close?”
Chan always laughed, a little bashful, but never once did he lean into the words. He’d ruffle Jisung’s hair like he was a younger brother, or pull him into a side-hug with the same casual ease he used on anyone.
It burned. Gumihos weren’t meant to chase fruitlessly—people chased them, always, dazzled by their sly grins and soft tails. Yet here was Jisung, all yearning and no reward, watching Chan’s attention gravitate to the pair of succubus girls circling him with sly touches on his forearm. Chan blushed, ducked his head, and let himself be pulled into their orbit.
Jisung’s stomach turned.
He downed another drink—something cheap and bitter that made his tongue burn—and slipped out the back of the dorm. The porch was quieter, the music thudding faintly through the walls. He sat heavily on the steps, the alcohol buzzing through his blood, his tails twitching irritably behind him even in their mostly-hidden form.
The door creaked again, and when Jisung glanced up, he saw Lee Minho. The shapeshifter froze mid-step, like he hadn’t expected anyone to be outside. His eyes lingered a fraction too long—like they always did when it came to Jisung—and then he shifted as if to retreat.
“Don’t,” Jisung said, sharper than he meant to. He tipped his cup in Minho’s direction, lips curling into a crooked smirk. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask real nicely.”
Minho hesitated. Then, carefully, he walked over and lowered himself onto the porch, leaving a polite handspan of space between them. His posture was straight, his gaze fixed on the yard like he didn’t dare let it drift toward Jisung again.
Jisung sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. The alcohol had stripped the filter from his tongue. “You can turn into anybody, right?”
Minho blinked, clearly caught off-guard. “Huh? Uhm, yeah.”
A laugh, sharp and a little bitter, slipped from Jisung’s mouth. “Funny. I know you’ve had a thing for me since freshman year. Everyone knows. But the one I want? He doesn’t even see me.”
Minho went rigid, his ears red, gaze locked firmly on the grass now.
“Yeah,” Jisung muttered, his grin twisting. “I guess you get it. You look at me the way I look at him. And he…” he gestured vaguely back toward the party, “he’s too busy blushing at succubi tits to notice me.”
The silence stretched. Then Jisung leaned closer, voice low, almost conspiratorial.
“What if I gave you a chance? One night. You can be him. Just… for a little while. I’m selfish, yeah, but you’d get me, and I’d get what I need. Fair trade.”
Minho turned finally, and Jisung met his eyes. Dark, wide, stunned.
“Just once. I know it’s a lot to ask.” Jisung said, softer now, the plea bleeding through the bravado. “But if you say yes… I’ll let you fuck me.”
The words hung in the warm night air like sparks waiting to catch.
Minho’s throat worked around a swallow. For a second, Jisung thought he’d stand and bolt, vanish into the night like the quiet shadow he always was. Instead, Minho spoke, his voice careful, steady in the way someone spoke when they were holding back something larger.
“Jisung… that’s not something I can just answer right now.”
Jisung blinked. The alcohol fuzz in his head made the words stumble before settling. He tilted his head, foxlike, studying the other boy’s profile. The sharp lines of Minho’s jaw were pink at the edges, his ears betraying the heat climbing his skin.
“You’re right,” Jisung muttered after a beat, dragging a knee up to rest his chin on. “I’m drunk. Stupid. Saying selfish shit.”
“Not stupid,” Minho said quickly, then paused, as if realizing how it sounded. He looked away again, hands curling into fists on his thighs. “Just… it’s a lot.”
That earned him a lopsided grin from Jisung, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. I know. I wouldn’t have the guts to ask sober.” He waved a hand like he could dismiss the whole embarrassing mess, but the weight in his chest didn’t budge. “Think about it. Or don’t. I won’t hold it against you.”
For a long moment, they sat there—two third-years, the muffled thump of bass from the dorm behind them, the night breeze carrying the faint scent of cedar and cigarette smoke. Jisung tried not to sway toward him, tried not to notice how Minho’s gaze flickered to him and away again, like the pull was magnetic and unbearable all at once.
Finally, Minho pushed up to his feet. He hesitated, then said quietly, “I’ll think it over.”
Jisung’s heart stuttered. He masked it with a shrug, raising his cup in a mock-toast. “Fair enough, hyung. Just don’t take too long. Gumihos don’t like waiting.”
Minho’s mouth twitched—maybe at the joke, maybe at the title—but he gave a small nod and slipped back inside, leaving Jisung on the porch with the weight of his own words and the ache still gnawing deep in his chest.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Minho didn’t remember walking back to his room.
The noise of the party faded somewhere behind him, swallowed by the quiet hum of the hallway, then the soft click of his door shutting. Only then did the silence hit—thick, suffocating, pressing in on his chest.
He stood there for a long moment, unmoving.
Then slowly, mechanically, he started undressing.
His jacket first. Then his shirt.
The fabric slipped from his fingers and pooled on the floor, but Minho barely noticed. His gaze had already dropped—to his own body, to the thing he never quite managed to ignore.
The scar.
It cut across his stomach in a pale, jagged line, too long, too uneven. Old, healed years ago, but still there. Still visible. Still wrong.
Minho’s fingers hovered over it before finally brushing along the raised skin.
An ugly reminder.
Not of the surgery itself since he was young he barely remembered that, but everything that came after: the looks, the hesitation, the subtle shift in people’s expressions when they saw it for the first time.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders tightening.
Every single one of his exes had said it differently.
“You know, you don’t have to stay like this…”
“You could just shift, right?”
“It’d be easier if you looked… you know…”
Better. Whole. Normal.
Minho’s jaw clenched.
He could have done it. It would’ve been easy. A flicker of power, a smooth stretch of skin, a body no one would question or hesitate over.
But it wouldn’t have been his.
So he adapted instead.
Dim lights. Half-dressed. Positions that kept him out of view. Always controlling the angle, the distance, the exposure—anything to keep their eyes from lingering too long.
And when that wasn’t enough, they left.
Too quiet. Too intense. Too much. Or not enough, depending on what they were looking for.
Minho let his hand fall away from his stomach.
“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.
Because even after all that—after promising himself he wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t pretend, wouldn’t change for someone else’s comfort.
Jisung had asked. And Minho hadn’t said no.
His reflection stared back at him from the darkened window, faint and distorted. Bare shoulders, tense posture, eyes shadowed with something he didn’t want to name.
Jisung.
Bright. Untouchable. Beautiful in a way that made people stare without even realizing it.
Minho had never gotten close.
He’d watched from a distance for years, stealing glances when he thought no one noticed. Memorizing small things—the way Jisung laughed, the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair caught the light.
That was enough.
It had to be.
Because someone like Jisung would never want someone like him.
Minho huffed quietly, shaking his head.
And yet, tonight, Jisung had looked at him and asked for something so personal, so intimate, it felt like a blade sliding between his ribs.
Be him.
Not you.
Never you.
Minho swallowed.
Of course not. Jisung didn’t want him. That much was obvious. This wasn’t about Minho—it never could had been.
He was just… convenient, a means to an end, a way to get over someone else.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Bang Chan.
Minho’s expression tightened, something bitter flickering beneath the surface.
He didn’t get it. He really didn’t.
Jisung was stunning. The kind of person people chased without hesitation. The kind of person Minho couldn’t even bring himself to approach properly.
And Chan… just smiled, laughed, treated him like anyone else.
Like he didn’t see it.
Like he didn’t want it.
“Does he not have eyes…” Minho muttered, voice low, almost incredulous.
Or maybe he just had better control. Better boundaries.
Something Minho clearly lacked, considering the situation he’d just walked himself into.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before stopping again.
He shouldn’t do it. He knew that.
Shapeshifting for someone who mattered—this much—was a line he’d drawn for himself a long time ago.
Because it blurred things and hurt.
Because it left something behind that didn’t fade easily.
And for Minho, Jisung mattered more than anyone ever had.
Which made this a terrible idea.
A stupid one.
A self-destructive one.
“But it’s not like he’ll ever want me,” Minho said quietly, the words settling heavy in the air.
There it was.
The truth, stripped bare.
Jisung wouldn’t look at him twice—not like that. Not beyond this. Not beyond what he could offer in someone else’s shape.
So what did it change?
If this was the only way Minho would ever have him—even briefly, even under a lie—
His chest tightened.
At least it would be something. A memory to cherish forever.
Something real, even if it wasn’t honest.
Minho’s gaze dropped again, lingering on the scar before he reached for his shirt, pulling it back on like armor.
“Just once,” he murmured.
He could do that much, give Jisung what he wanted.
And in return…
Minho hesitated, then let out a quiet, shaky breath.
“Don’t call me Chan,” he said to the empty room, testing the words like they might break. “Or alpha. Just… hyung.” Something small. Something he can ask in return. Something that would let him pretend—just a little—that it wasn’t entirely about someone else.
His grip tightened briefly in the fabric of his sleeve.
“That’s enough,” he added under his breath, like a warning to himself.
Don’t ask for more.
Don’t expect more.
Don’t get greedy.
Minho turned off the light and lay down without bothering to get fully comfortable, staring up at the ceiling as the darkness settled in around him.
Tomorrow, he’d start paying attention.
Watching. Learning. Becoming.
And when the time came, he’d give Jisung exactly what he asked for.
Even if it broke something in him to do it.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Morning came too fast.
Minho barely slept.
He gave up on trying around sunrise, dragging himself out of bed and pulling on the same oversized hoodie he always wore. The fabric swallowed him whole, sleeves falling past his hands, hood tugged low even before he stepped out of his room. His bangs were a mess, long enough to shadow his eyes—good. He didn’t bother fixing them.
Less chance of being looked at.
Less chance of being seen.
Campus was already buzzing by the time he crossed the quad. Late-summer sunlight spilled over everything, warm and golden, students scattered across the grass in loose groups, laughter carrying easily in the air.
Minho kept his gaze down.
In. Out. Don’t draw attention.
It worked. It always did.
People moved around him without noticing, like he was just another shadow slipping between buildings.
Until he heard laughter. Bright. Familiar.
Minho’s steps slowed before he could stop himself.
Across the quad, it was like a different world.
Jisung and Felix.
They didn’t just walk—they glowed. Two points of gravity in the middle of campus, pulling people in without effort. Felix’s sunshine-bright grin, Jisung’s sharp, playful smirk—both of them surrounded by a loose orbit of students trying to get a word, a laugh, anything.
Half the campus had a crush on one. The other half on the other.
Minho knew that wasn’t even an exaggeration.
Jisung tossed his head back laughing at something Felix said, burgundy hair catching the sunlight just right, his eyes crinkling in a way that made something in Minho’s chest ache on instinct. His tails weren’t visible—not fully—but there was always something there, something magnetic in the way he moved, the way people leaned closer without realizing it.
Gumiho charm. Effortless. Dangerous. Beautiful.
Minho stopped walking, just for a second. Just long enough to look.
He always told himself he wouldn’t stare. That he’d stop doing this, stop getting caught in the same loop every time he saw him. But he failed each and every time.
Jisung reached out, grabbing Felix’s sleeve, leaning into him as he spoke, animated and bright and alive in a way Minho had never quite managed to be.
And Minho couldn’t look away.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his feet to move again.
Because of course Jisung belonged there. In the center. In the light.
Minho adjusted his hood slightly, pulling it lower as he passed behind a group of students, slipping further into the background.
Not with someone like him.
Still, his gaze drifted back again, traitorous.
Because there was someone else there, too.
Bang Chan.
Leaning casually against the low stone ledge, shoulders relaxed, expression easy. He looked exactly the way he always did—approachable, warm, like the kind of person people trusted without thinking twice.
And lately, he wasn’t alone. Two succubi girls stood close to him, one on either side.
Mina and Yuri.
Minho recognized them easily—everyone did. They weren’t subtle, not in the way they leaned in just a little too close, hands brushing Chan’s arm when they laughed, voices dipping low in a way that carried even from a distance.
Chan scratched the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly at something Mina said, his ears faintly red. Still, he didn’t pull away. He never really did.
Minho watched the interaction longer than he should have.
Something tight twisted in his chest.
Because that—that right there was the closest Chan ever got to flirting.
Not Jisung. Never Jisung. Despite the constant teasing. The comments. The obvious, shameless flirting Jisung threw his way like it was second nature.
Chan always laughed it off, dodged it, redirected, like he didn’t see it or didn’t want to.
Minho’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Seriously,” he muttered, barely audible.
He didn’t get it. He really didn’t.
Jisung was right there, and Chan was letting a pair of succubi wrap themselves around his attention instead. Like that was somehow more interesting or more appealing.
Minho looked away sharply.
It wasn’t his business. Didn’t concern him.
“Chan!”
Jisung’s voice cut across the quad, bright and easy.
Minho’s head turned before he could stop it.
Jisung was waving him over, grin wide, Felix already laughing at something under his breath. Chan pushed off the ledge, excusing himself from Mina and Yuri with that same polite, apologetic smile, then jogged over to them.
And just like that, the group shifted. Centered. Complete.
Felix on one side, Jisung on the other, Chan in between them like something steady anchoring the chaos.
They fell into step together, heading toward the academic buildings, their conversation flowing effortlessly. Jisung bumped Chan’s shoulder. Chan bumped him back. Felix cut in with something that made both of them laugh.
Easy. Natural. Untouchable.
Minho stood there for a second too long, watching their backs disappear into the crowd. Then he pulled his hood lower and kept walking in the opposite direction.
No one noticed. No one ever did. And maybe that was for the best because the more he watched, the more obvious it became: Jisung wasn’t just out of his reach, he was in a completely different world.
Minho exhaled slowly, fingers curling into the sleeves of his hoodie.
And yet, despite everything, despite knowing exactly where he stood, Jisung’s voice from the other night still lingered in his head.
Just once.
Minho’s steps faltered briefly before he forced himself forward again.
“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath.
Just once.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
A couple of days later, Minho finds Jisung sprawled across the couch in their shared common area, completely at ease in a way Minho has never quite understood.
Headphones in, one leg thrown over the armrest, tails lazily fanned across the cushions like he hasn’t even bothered to hide them—soft, warm, taking up space like the whole room belongs to him.
Minho pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary. Just looking.
Jisung’s hair is a mess, burgundy strands falling into his eyes, lips parted slightly as he mouths along to whatever he’s listening to. There’s no performance in it, no flirting, no sharp edges—just… Jisung, unguarded.
It does something strange to Minho’s chest.
He steps in quietly, letting the door shut behind him with a soft click.
The sound is enough.
Jisung’s ears twitch first—subtle, instinctive—before he looks up, pulling one earbud loose. His expression shifts almost immediately, the easy laziness sharpening into something more cautious.
“Hyung?” he asks.
There’s hesitation there, like he’s not sure what version of Minho he’s about to get, like he’s been thinking about that night, too.
Minho swallows, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of his bag before he forces himself to move. He sets it down by the door, buying himself a second to breathe, to steady the way his pulse is already starting to climb.
This is stupid.
It shouldn’t be this hard to say yes.
But it feels like stepping off something high without knowing if there’s ground below.
He straightens, lifts his head and meets Jisung’s eyes properly. For once.
“I thought it over.”
Jisung stills. Really stills this time.
One of his tails flicks once behind him before settling again, like he’s trying not to react too quickly, not to scare the moment away. He pushes himself up from his slouched position, sitting a little straighter, attention locked in fully now.
Minho can feel it. That focus. That gravity Jisung always carries without trying.
“You asked me if I’d do it,” Minho continues, keeping his voice even, controlled, even though his heartbeat is loud enough he’s sure Jisung could hear it if he tried. “If I’d… shift. Just for one night.”
Jisung doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t joke, doesn’t deflect. He just watches him, lips parted slightly, like he’s bracing for the answer. For rejection.
“I’ll say yes.” The words land between them, quiet but heavy.
For a second, nothing happens. No movement. No sound. Just that thick, suffocating silence stretching out, like neither of them quite believes it yet. Then Jisung lets out a breath that turns into a soft, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You’re serious?” he asks, voice a little uneven despite the grin he tries to put on.
Minho nods once.
He doesn’t trust himself to say more right away because if he starts explaining, he might stop himself, and he’s already decided.
“If that’s really what you want,” he adds after a beat, quieter now.
Jisung’s gaze flickers over his face, searching. There’s something raw underneath his usual confidence—something almost nervous—and it throws Minho off more than anything else.
Like this matters to him more than he expected.
“I’ll do it,” Minho repeats, then he hesitates for a second because this part is the only thing he’s allowing himself. “But…” His voice dips slightly, softer, but steadier than he feels. “Don’t moan his name.”
Jisung blinks, caught off guard.
Minho holds his gaze this time, doesn’t look away.
“Call me hyung,” he continues. “Nothing else.”
The words sit heavier than they should. Not a demand. Not really. More like a line drawn quietly in the sand.
“That way it’s fair,” Minho adds, almost as an afterthought, though they both know it’s not entirely true. His mouth twitches faintly. “You get what you want… and I get to pretend, too.”
For a second, something shifts in Jisung’s expression. The grin falters. Just slightly. Enough to let something more vulnerable peek through—the realization of what Minho is actually giving him. What he’s giving up to do this.
His breath hitches.
Then, just as quickly, he covers it, lips curling into that familiar crooked smile, tails swishing a little faster behind him like he needs to burn off the sudden tension.
“Deal,” Jisung says. Too quick. Too easy. But his voice isn’t as steady as before.
Minho sees it but he doesn’t call it out. He just nods once, sharp, like sealing something neither of them fully understands yet.
“Then… tonight at 7.”
The words feel final.
Irrevocable.
“Your room.”
Jisung’s ears flick again, subtle but telling. His gaze lingers on Minho for a second longer than usual, like he wants to say something else—ask something, maybe.
He doesn’t.
“Yeah,” he says instead, softer this time. “Tonight.”
Minho’s lips twitch into something that almost resembles a smile—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He looks away first.
Because if he keeps looking, if he lets himself linger here, in this moment, with Jisung looking at him like that, he might start wanting more than he promised himself.
And he can’t afford that.
So he turns, already reaching for his bag again like he just came in for something trivial, like this wasn’t the biggest decision he’s made in years.
“Don’t be late,” Jisung adds lightly, trying to bring back the teasing tone, even if it lands a little off.
Minho pauses at the doorway, just for a second.
“I won’t.”
Then he leaves before Jisung can see how tight his grip is, how carefully he’s holding himself together.
Because tonight he won’t get to be himself and somehow, that hurts more now that Jisung has agreed.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Minho spent the day in silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the heavy, distracted kind that made everything feel slightly out of sync. Lectures blurred together, words sliding past him without sticking. He answered when called on, wrote notes when he had to, but his mind was elsewhere.
Split in two. Half of him going through the motions, the other half… locked onto a single, consuming task. If he was going to do this, he would do it right.
Minho didn’t watch Chan the way other people did. No obvious staring. No lingering glances that could be caught and questioned. He’d learned long ago how to look without looking—how to track movement from the edge of his vision, how to memorize without drawing attention.
But today, that quiet observation sharpened into something precise. Deliberate.
At lunch, he sat a few tables away, head slightly bowed, chopsticks moving absently through his food while his attention flickered elsewhere.
Chan leaned forward over the cafeteria table, laughing at something Felix said, his shirt collar shifting slightly with the motion.
Minho’s gaze flicked up—quick, efficient.
Pale skin.
Noticeably so, especially in the sunlight spilling through the windows. It caught the light easily, almost too bright against the darker fabric of his clothes.
Smooth, unmarked skin along his chest, freckles on his face. Light. Faint enough that they nearly disappeared unless the light hit just right, dusted softly across his cheeks.
Minho adjusted the detail in his mind. Important because everything had to perfectly match.
His focus dropped lower, subtle, instinctive, to the way fabric shifted when Chan moved, the way his waistband dipped slightly when he leaned, revealing just the edge of skin at his lower back.
Minho’s eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer.
There. A mole, tucked on the right side near his hip—easy to miss, hidden most of the time unless his shirt rode up. Minho committed that too since every detail mattered.
Across the table, Jisung said something—Minho didn’t catch what—but Chan ducked his head with a shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
The motion pulled his sleeve up just enough.
Scar tissue. Faint, pale against already pale skin, a slightly raised curve along his forearm like a half-forgotten story. Minho noted the shape. The placement. The way it stretched when Chan flexed his hand. Filed it away.
He looked back down at his food before anyone could catch him staring.
By the time lunch ended, he hadn’t tasted a single bite.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Study group was worse.
Closer. Too close.
They sat around the same table, textbooks spread out, voices low and overlapping as they worked through problems. Minho stayed quiet, as usual, speaking only when necessary—but his awareness never slipped.
Chan ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back absentmindedly.
Minho tracked the motion.
The way his fingers moved. The rhythm. Not too slow, not rushed—casual, habitual.
He mirrored it once under the table, subtle, testing the muscle memory.
Then stopped.
Chan stretched a moment later, arms lifting, shoulders rolling back.
There was strength there—obvious—but it wasn’t just bulky. Lean muscle, built for endurance rather than show. The kind that moved easily, efficiently.
Minho memorized the slope of his shoulders, the line of his collarbones, more defined against his pale skin, the shallow hollow at the base of his throat where shadows gathered when he leaned forward again. Even the way he breathed—steady, deep, chest expanding just slightly more on the left than the right.
Minho’s fingers tightened around his pen. He forced himself to write something down. Anything.
Because the longer he watched, the more it stopped feeling like observation.
And started feeling like something else.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
By late afternoon, he had Chan mapped out in pieces. Fragments stitched together in his mind.
The mole at his eyebrow. The faint freckles across his face. The scar on his arm. The hidden mark near his hip. The pale tone of his skin—how it caught light, how shadows settled differently across it. The cadence of his voice—warm, husky at its base, dipping when he got embarrassed, lifting when he laughed too hard.
Minho tested it once under his breath, barely audible.
“—yeah, I guess—” It wasn’t right yet. Too flat.
He adjusted, tried again silently, shaping the pitch in his throat, the breath behind it.
Closer.
He could get it.
He would get it.
Because anything less than perfect would break the illusion, and Minho couldn’t afford that.
Not tonight.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
By the time the day ended, Minho felt wrong in his own skin. Too aware.
Like something else was already sitting just beneath the surface, waiting to be pulled into place.
Chan’s posture, Chan’s voice, Chan’s presence.
Not fully there but close enough that Minho could almost reach it. Like a costume he hadn’t put on yet, but could feel draped over him all the same.
He stood alone in the hallway after his last class, watching people pass by without really seeing them. His fingers flexed at his sides.
Tonight. The word settled heavy in his chest.
Tonight, he would stop practicing. Stop observing. And become.
Minho exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
“Perfect,” he murmured under his breath.
Because it had to be.
For Jisung, it had to be indistinguishable.
And for Minho, it had to be enough, even if it wasn’t really him.