#candywrites

 The subject — which, by the way, you still haven’t realized is a subject — comes back yet again on a night you’re spending in his apartment. You’re coming out of the shower, a towel wrapped around you, and you’re going through your bag to find the clothes you’d planned on wearing for the night when something lands on the bed in front of you. You glance up to find Chan looking at you, leaning against the door frame.

“Just in case you get cold.”

You have, slowly but surely, made your way into November, but Chan’s place is warm, and you know you’ll have a human radiator, so you grin at him.

“I have a feeling I won’t be needing it tonight.”

Chan grins — but his ears turn red, even now.

 You do a Secret Santa, a few days before Christmas, with Chan and his friend group, at Changbin’s place. It’s an incredibly nice house, but it’s big and it’s old, and you soon find yourself huddling against Chan for warm. It makes him laugh at first, and he presses a kiss into your hair, arm solidly wrapped around you as he rubs your arm. When you don’t appear to warm up as the night keeps going, he disappears for a few minutes, ignoring your protests.

He comes back from his car and hands you one of his signature black hoodies.

“You’re my savior, babe,” you sigh as you pull it over your head.

Chan beams.

His victory is short-lived, though, because you pull away from him after that — with the hoodie, cuddling makes you too hot.

You leave the hoodie neatly folded in his car when you both go back to your place for the night.

It’s just a few days later that you meet Chan’s family for the first time. You’re all dressed-up, determined to do your best so that they’ll like you, even if Chan’s promised you that they would, no matter what, because he loves you, and that’s all they care about.

He dropped the word so easily, and you were left speechless. You haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Even now, when you’re sitting next to him, making small talk with his mom and listening to his sister tease him playfully, you have butterflies in your stomach. The hand he’s placed over yours on the table, again making it look so natural, so easy for him, isn’t helping.

“Wanna go for a midnight walk?” he offers, later that night. “It’s kind of a family tradition.”

“Sure,” you say, voice squeakier than usual, and he tilts his head as he studies you, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“You’re not dressed warm enough,” he warns you, and before you can say that you’ve brought appropriate clothing, he’s taking off his hoodie and pulling it down over your head. “There. All good.”

It’s late when you come back, so you both wish his parents a goodnight before Chan drives you back to your apartment. You wait until you’ve made it up the stairs and you’ve opened the door to put your arms around him and pull him down for a kiss. It’s soft, slow, and filled with all of your emotions.

“What’s that for?” Chan whispers against your lips. He’s warm against you, his hands on your hips, and you feel so grounded by him. You always do.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

The hoodie ends up forgotten on the floor.

You celebrate New Year’s Day with Chan’s friends, again, but really, they’re your friends by now. You get at Changbin’s house early so you can help with the cooking and decorating the place, and end up teaming up with Felix and Minho in the cooking department, while Hyunjin takes over the decorations and forbids everyone from approaching him while he works.

It’s not because he’s shy. It’s because he thinks you’re all terrible.

Chan arrives kind of late minute, busy working on songs, as always, while you’re putting out the drinks you’d brought with you. You greet him with a quick kiss. You still have a million things to do.

“I’ve got your hoodie in my bag, you should put it back in your car,” you just tell him as you rush back into the kitchen.

You miss the way he pouts at you.

It’s later that night, but still with a couple hours to go until midnight, that he approaches you while you’re outside, staring up at the night sky and enjoying the fresh air after hours cooped up inside. He wraps his arms around your waist, buries his head in your neck. You lean back into the familiar touch with a satisfied sigh — until he mumbles something unintelligible.

“What was that?” you ask with a frown.

Even with the only light coming through the windows of Changbin’s house, you can tell he’s blushing when he pulls away from you.

“Why aren’t you keeping my hoodies?”

You blink at him.

“…because they’re your hoodies?”

He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Yeah, but they’re kinda… your hoodies too, y’know?”

You tilt your head slowly, and soon, you’re unable to fight the grin that’s spreading on your lips as you watch him get increasingly pouty.

“Do you want me to steal your hoodies?”

The blush spreads.

“Do you like it when I wear them?”

You’re just having fun now.

“Yeah,” he answers, before cocking an eyebrow at you. “Think it’s hot, by the way.”

You burst out laughing, and he tightens his hold around you when that takes you away from him. God, do you love that man. Once you’ve collected yourself, you reach a hand up to gently cup his cheek.

“Okay, I’ll steal your hoodies. Anything for you, love.”

He smiles, satisfied, and kisses you softly. He brings a hand to cover yours, entangles his fingers with yours.

You don’t tell him, but the truth is, you feel warm and fuzzy all over inside whenever he’s around.

So you don’t see the point in having a hoodie when you can have him instead.

taglist: @lethallyprotected @jisuperboard

How could he ever come up with an answer for how he somehow knew every last intimate detail about you despite never having spoken to you a single day in his life?

The easiest solution was to keep his hobby a dirty little secret right up until he graduated and moved a million miles away from campus. It’s not like he could ever look you in the eye anyway—the cute little sorority girl who approached him shyly during orientation and asked him to help carry a mini-fridge up the staircase of the Kappa Delta house. You were all glitter and smiles and infectious laughter and ignoring you was like trying to ignore sunlight. It just wasn’t done. 

Dalton hadn’t smiled since long before the funeral, but you coaxed one from his lips like it was the easiest thing in the world. It was impossible for him to up and forget something like that, especially when, as he went to wipe the sweat from his clammy palms, there was pink glitter plastered across the lap of his jeans. You effortlessly infiltrated every aspect of his life, pumping through his veins like some drug he couldn’t name. His entire world revolved around you and the best part about it was that you didn’t have the faintest clue.

Watching you was more of an addiction than a hobby to Dalton. Not in person, god. Never. The last thing he ever wanted to do was freak you out—to scare you. But what was the harm in flinging his backpack across the floor, shutting off all the lights, and letting his spirit travel to your room on the second floor of the Kappa Delta sorority house? He wasn’t hurting anyone by sitting on the corner of your bed while you flipped through your homework booklets and nibbled on the tips of your perfectly polished fingernails. 

Dalton’s favorite moments were when he caught you in deep sleep, tossing and turning in one of those silky little numbers that he instantly grew to love. You had them in every color, alternating throughout the week. They hugged you in such a dangerously perfect way, riding up over your plush thighs as you mumbled under a thick blanket of dreams. He made a home for himself in the furry pink armchair across from your bed (when it wasn’t stacked high with laundry, that is), treating himself by watching you breathe. It was mesmerizing how the fabric would ripple across your body while your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

It only took a few days for that guilty pleasure to bleed into his weekly routine. Dalton only realized things were starting to get out of hand when he found himself drawing you. 

Doodles on the corners of his syllabi turned into sketches in his notebook, which eventually turned into 24x30 charcoal portraits that took up most of the wall space in his dorm room. Art was his second nature and as soon as he returned from one of his nightly haunts, he was powerless to control the charcoal nub that somehow found its way into his hand. Dalton had to immortalize you on paper. Otherwise, he would have no choice but you seek you out in the dead of night over and over again until your image was burned into the back of his eyelids. 

A full week after he first saw you during freshman orientation—informative sorority flyers stacked tall in your arms, barely hiding the Greek letters stamped across the front of your cropped shirt—he turned in his very first sketch of you for an art critique. Professor Amagan was pleasantly surprised by his change in subject matter. Goodbye bloody red door, hello sleeping beauty. 

She had wanted to pin it up in the showcase at the front of the arts building but the thought of you ever stumbling upon it made a fiery hot wave of mortification spill over Dalton’s entire body. What would you even say to a lifesize portrait of your own sleeping body drawn by someone you’ve never spoken to before? He would count himself lucky if he wasn’t expelled on the spot.

Dalton hastily accepted his passing grade and shoved the charcoal drawing to the very bottom of his portfolio, never to see the light of day again. Unless, of course, he was cram-studying for midterms and couldn’t afford the time to go and visit you. In this instance, he would lock his door and prop you up beside his desk to steal quick glances at while he worked. But it never sated that itch inside of him—the one that reared its head when he caught the faintest ribbons of your perfume in the air as he marched through the courtyard with his head down. 

Dalton wasn’t proud of himself. Not for this, anyway. White hot shame burned at his heart whenever he caught your eye from across the dining hall or the library by accident. You were forbidden fruit on campus—the sweetheart of the most powerful fraternity and the stuff of everyone’s dreams besides. He should have felt forever guilty for stealing your private moments for his own pleasure. But fuck if you didn’t make it so hard for him to quit. 

Tonight, like every other night this week, Dalton flicked off his bedside lamp and yanked the nightlight out of the wall, plunging the room into thick and heavy blackness. He counted back from ten until he no longer felt the weight of his physical body holding him down, then blinked his eyes open to see a world illuminated with an otherworldly faint blue light. 

The walk to sorority row only ever felt like seconds. The spirit realm was like a highway in that sense. He slipped through the front door of the Kappa Delta house like a ghost. He was a ghost. And you were his all-time favorite haunt. 

You were already asleep when he crept to the door at the end of the hallway with your name plastered across the frame in glittery bubble letters. You always went to sleep with your desktop lava lamp flipped on. It painted your face in a warm glow as you slept and Dalton couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you were just as afraid of the dark as he was. The thought coaxed a pleasant shiver down his spine. Maybe you were just waiting for someone like him to come around and tear that fear to shreds. 

Your face was buried in your arms, one leg hiked up to your waist over the sheets. A massive sleepshirt clung to your frame, slipping off of one shoulder just enough to highlight the fact that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

Dalton bristled at the sound of something soft and light floating through the air and reached down to pull the pair of boxy headphones off of your ears, cupping one side close to his face.

♫ “In the silence of your room, In the darkness of your dreams, you must only think of me, there can be no in-between.” ♫

You rolled over, limbs twitching with a sleepy moan as you subconsciously turned your back to the light. Dalton shook his head with a quiet chuckle, folding the headphones and setting them down on your bedside table. You shouldn’t go to sleep with your music so loud, he silently chastised you. It wasn’t good for you. But he honestly would have said anything to make this feel right—to relieve himself of even just an ounce of the guilt he felt for standing there above you in your most vulnerable state. 

He liked to think that you felt him there watching over you like some sick and twisted guardian angel. Maybe you actually took notice of all of the little things that he did for you when you weren’t even aware that he was in the room. Killing spiders, plugging in your phone when you were too sleepy to do it yourself, hiding contraband before the Kappa chapter president barged for a room sweep. 

Dalton didn’t want to believe that someone could be so effortlessly and unknowingly perfect every single moment of their life. But here you were, leaning into his touch when he failed to fight the urge to stroke your jaw with the edge of his knuckle. A shaky breath shivered past his lips in response to your sleepy exhale. 

You were so pliant. So defenseless. Swallowing thickly, Dalton took his opposite hand and brushed a flat palm over your exposed thigh, watching with sick fascination as goosebumps rose across your flesh in the wake of his gentle touches. He simply couldn’t help himself, only flinching when your face screwed up in that adorable way that it always did when someone dared to deny you of something you wanted. 

Dalton paused with his hand outstretched toward your body, a sudden tidal wave of realization washing over him. God, I am such a creep.

 “Jesus Christ,” he whispered before realizing he’d spoken out loud and slapping a hand over his own mouth. He never knew if you could hear him when he passed between the realms like this, but just to be sure he always made a point of never saying anything until he was back in his own body. 

You shifted again, pulling the blanket up over your chin to ward off the sudden chill that crept into your room. 

What am I doing? 

I need to get the hell out of here.

Dalton never considered quitting his little addiction cold turkey. But whatever spell you had put on him for the last few months had finally run its course and he was going to take back whatever semblance of dignity he could before it was too late. 

The walk back to his dorm felt decades-long and he took the time to mull over everything in his head, searching for any way to make himself feel right about this. But it was hard to do anything other than mourn the loss of what had quickly become his saving grace while he navigated this new phase of his life. Portals and demons meant nothing to him as long as he could watch you sleep, knowing that he would be there to ward off anything that tried to hurt you. 

Dalton stopped dead in his tracks outside his door. It had slid open with ease but the tension in the air was so thick that the thought of crossing the threshold made his blood run cold. His body was there, right in the corner where he left it earlier that night. 

Only…hadn’t he been lying down in bed when he left to visit you? Why was his body now halfway across the room? And why was it moving?

“What the fuck?” he breathed, drawing out each syllable as he watched it blink. The eyes of his physical body shifted to an inky black for just a split second—he saw it—before they melted right back to blue. Dalton watched frozen in the doorway as the entity inhabiting his body glanced down to inspect the hands of its new vessel, turning them over to study his palms before squeezing them into tight fists. 

Satisfied, its gaze fell to the doorway where he stood in spirit. It couldn’t see him, not truly. But it could still smell the horror oozing from him through the hole he had torn between the realms. 

“Hey!” Dalton barked, but his voice was an echo that barely reached his own ears. It bounced off of the empty space all around him. The demon compelled his body forward, walking to the mirror on the other side of the dorm and leaning all of its weight against the glass. “That’s—hey!”

It combed a hand through its hair—his hair—and ran a slack hand over the bottom half of its face. An inhuman smirk grew over its lips and Dalton shivered as it made direct eye contact with him through the mirror, testing his voice like it had gone eons without a set of lungs to force its words through. 

“Thank you,” you repeat, taking your stuff from his hands and dipping your head to stop looking at him once you get control of yourself again.

“Vanilla latte, right?” he asks, and he probably shouldn’t be this amused by the way your head snaps back up and you freeze, but it’s— It’s kind of adorable. Though you’re obviously trying to reign yourself in, there is something so sincere about it that he can’t help but be enticed by it.

“Um,” you say. “Yes.” And then you visibly search for something to say next, rolling your lips together as if they’ll figure something out of a list of socially acceptable answers. As fun as this is, Minho decides to put you out of your misery.

For now anyway.

“I’ll give you a discount on the next one,” he says, and then he’s gone before you can start saying “You don’t have to do that”.

He actually slides the next one to you over the counter and tells you that it’s ‘on the house’. You hesitate for a few seconds, and he thinks you’re going to refuse, before you bow your head politely and thank him for it. You don’t quite look up at him after that, but a bright smile has spread on your lips.

Cute, he thinks, again, and then he doesn't think of it much at all. A part of his brain was intrigued by the novelty that you represented, and that part has been satiated now.

At least, that’s what he assumes.

You get his attention again a few weeks later. It’s fairly early in the morning and, as Minho does whenever he gets a chance, he’s behind the half abandoned building near the café, setting up some food for the cats that have taken residence here. It’s something he’s not really allowed to do, but also he’s never asked permission, so no one's told him that yet, which means that he’s not not allowed to do it either.

Still, when he hears footsteps approaching as he’s surrounded by a chorus of meows, there’s a part of him that considers making a run for it.

But then he’d have to run.

Which he doesn’t like doing.

You appear at the corner of the building before he’s made his decision. When your eyes meet, he half expects you to turn around and pretend you haven’t seen him. He’s pretty sure you’ve done that after a class, recently. You swallow, but you keep walking towards him, kneeling by his side and petting the cats as the braver ones rub themselves against your legs.

Whoever said that the surest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach clearly wasn’t obsessed with cats, because liking cats is maybe the most important requirement for Minho.

“Hi,” you say, at a surprisingly normal volume, and then, cadence a little too fast, “I have some cat food.”

Is it weird that he finds that attractive? It’s probably weird.

“Have you been stalking me?” he says more than he asks, vaguely aware of the fact that there’s something ironic about him saying those words.

Your eyes widen and you quickly shake your head.

“No! I— have classes in there,” you point at the building, “and I’ve— seen you come around here. We’ve been told we couldn’t feed the cats,” you add with a slight pout. “We still do it when we can get away with it, but it's good that someone is also taking care of them.”

And you break the law for the sake of cats. Isn’t this amazing.

“I can help you buy food,” you say. “If you’d like.”

He doesn't reply right away, and when the silence stretches a second too long, you start speaking again, faster and your voice lower now.

“Or not, you know, I don’t want to impose anything, I mean, I didn’t want to intrude—”

On the one hand, that seems more like you, based on the glimpses of you he’s been getting, and on the other, he’s not sure how to shut that down. The truth is, he can barely fit the expenses in his budget. He literally can't afford to refuse your help — but he doesn't think he’d do it if he could.

“You can help,” he says, interrupting you in the middle of a sentence where you’re basically apologizing for existing, and that seems to knock the breath out of you.

“Oh,” you say, “that’s good.”

He wonders if you walk into interactions with a prepared set of sentences and panic when anyone goes off script. That sounds kind of exhausting.

“I’ll bill you,” he adds, and the feeling he gets when you let out a light laugh is one he can’t quite explain. There’s a sense of pride in it, but also some much deeper satisfaction at the feeling of having gotten you to let that guard slip, even for just a few seconds.

“I have to go to class,” you say, getting up while you rummage through your tote bag to hand him a package of dry food. “But I’ll, uh, see you around?”

There’s an expectancy to your tone, a hope even. He wonders if you’re aware of it. Either way, that sincerity, which he’d noticed before, remains pleasantly refreshing.

“Sure,” he says.

The next time you show up at the coffee shop, Friday a few minutes after six, like always, he has your vanilla latte ready.

After that, Minho finds it fascinating to see how differently you react to him, depending on the situation. Every now and then, you meet him behind the building, usually early in the morning, before there are too many people around. They would probably recognize you, and then you’d get in trouble, you explain. Your voice is lighter then, your body more relaxed. You manage to chat with him, to make small talk.

‘Manage’ really is the word for it, because your behavior is worlds apart when he sees you in class. It’s clear by now that this just isn’t your element, so you stick to your script, and Minho just isn’t a part of it. He doesn’t take it too personally, considering that no one else seems to be either.

It’s obvious to him that you get there with the objective of being in and out of the building as efficiently as possible, and with as little interaction with others as you can get away with. He does approach you still on a couple of occasions, one of them being when the classes before yours ran late and everyone was waiting in the hallway. You're focused on your phone then, and you jump when he says your name.

“How are you doing?” he asks, leaning against the wall next to you.

“Oh,” you say, which he thinks is just your filler word to give yourself time to figure out what to say next. “Um. Good. How are you?”

“Good.”

Someone else would bristle at the awkwardness of the exchange, but Minho is mostly amused by it. After a few seconds of very visibly searching for something to say, you come up with “…and how are the cats?”, though your tone is hesitant, unsure.

“They’re good too,” he grins. “Went to visit them this morning. Also, I might have found an association that could them spayed.” He certainly can’t afford to pay for it.

“That’s great,” you say.

This time, he’s the one who takes it upon himself to save the conversation, casually pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Wanna see my cats?”

You light up at the question, and Minho feels the same sort of pride he does when Dori jumps into his lap to ask for pets — instead of ungratefully evading him like the little shit he is.

It doesn’t last long, the class before yours ends soon, and after that you get back to your ‘just getting in and out’ state. It’s almost physical when it happens. The smile disappears from your lips as you press them together, you straighten your back, but the most impressive change is the way your eyebrows tighten, a small line forming between them. Minho almost wants to reach out to wipe it from your forehead, but he doesn’t. Baby steps, that’s what you need, not him invading your personal space by that much.

He doesn’t ask himself, even for a second, why he’s willing to go through that much trouble to get closer to you. He just goes with the flow, as he always has, and that works fine for him.

He doesn’t sit next to you in class, thinks it would only stress you out more, make you too aware of his presence and of how you react to it. Instead, he takes a spot right in front of you, where he can’t see you but can easily check on you if he wants to — which he does. He refrains from doing it too much though, because on more than one occasion, he caught you looking at him, and you averted your eyes quickly, acting a little too invested in your note taking.

He still thinks it’s cute, but he doesn’t want to make you go in hiding, so he holds himself back.

Which comes back to bite him in the ass, rudely, when the teacher announces that he wants people to work in pair for an assignment.

He turns around to ask you to work with him, and sees, right in front of his eyes, as the guy sitting next to you asks you the same thing in a casual manner. You reply too fast, one of your knee-jerk answers, he can tell, but it’s still done before he even got the time to open his mouth. He also knows, instinctively, that you’ll feel embarrassed if he asks you now, so he doesn’t, turning to his own neighbor while holding back the strange urge to hiss at the guy.

…maybe he spends too much time with cats, actually.

Minho’s fine with the situation. He is. He still gets to be around you some mornings, and you now look him in the eye when you place your order at the coffee shop. You also don’t recoil as much as you used to when he leans over the counter, ostensibly to flirt with you — though he’s like, 98% sure you haven’t realized that’s what he’s doing. He’s making progress in getting you to feel more comfortable around him.

Sure, he missed an opportunity to spend more time around you in a relaxed setting, but is he upset about it? Does he get annoyed when he hears you talk with the guy behind him? Does hearing you chuckle at the guy’s stupid jokes, probably just to be polite, ‘cause he’s not that funny, make him want to claw the dude’s eyes out?

Well. Yes.

He’s been moody about it for days, to the point that Jisung pouted at him, asking him “what was wrong with him these days”, and Changbin looked him dead in the eyes to ask him if he needed help to get a girl, because he clearly needed to get laid.

A conversation he got out of by replying “do you want to die”, which is a card he’s maybe been playing a little too much these days.

He’s been in a good mood today, though. He’d seen you in the morning, and you’d helped him try to make a small shelter for the cats, because it had been announced that there would be heavy rain over the whole week-end. It had been a fun time, and maybe he’d used the opportunity to get closer to you than usual, enjoying how flustered it made you. Just brushing against you as he grabbed some planks you’d sneaked out of the building, totally accidentally touching your hand when you handed him something, that kind of things.

He had somewhat ruined the effect by accidentally dropping a plank on his foot, but that had made you laugh, so, it was— No, it still wasn’t worth it, he didn’t enjoy pain, but it made him slightly less annoyed about it.

So, as he waited for you in the coffee shop, as the skies outside darkened and fewer people than usual showed up, he wasn’t in as bad a mood as he’d been lately.

It started to rain at around half past five. He would have loved to run to get you with an umbrella, but he, unfortunately, needed his job. He did get a towel ready to hand to you, in case you didn’t have anything to protect yourself from the rain.

And then you came in.

Under an umbrella.

Which was in the hands of the one guy that was your partner in that one class.

Violent thoughts of murder flash before Minho’s eyes.

“Hey,” you say as you walk to the counter, giving him a bright smile, “this is Jooyeon, he’s in—”

“Class with us,” Minho completes with a smile that’s very much fake, “yes, I recognize him.”

Actually, technically, Jooyeon hasn’t done anything wrong, but it doesn’t help that he’s been looking at you and following you around like a damn puppy. What annoys Minho the most is probably the fact that you seem a lot chiller around him, a lot more natural than you are whenever Minho’s around. That’s— upsetting. He wants to see these sides of you, too, and not just from afar.

One vanilla latte and an americano later, you and Jooyeon sit by the window, in your usual spot, and Minho can’t stop himself from glaring. Jisung, or anyone, really, would call him out on it in a matter of seconds, because he’s not being subtle about it, but there’s no one around right now. The room, which is rarely full, is emptier than usual because most people rushed to get home to try to avoid the downpour.

That means that there is nothing to distract him from the intrusive thoughts that are trying to convince him to just throw something at Jooyeon. Anything would do.

When it starts becoming a little too tempting, and considering that he doubts anyone would brave the rain that’s falling at the moment, as thick as a curtain separating the coffee shop from the outside world, he decides to grab his computer and try to get some work done.

Of course, because some divinity out there must have decided to target him today, he’s just getting started and finding his rhythm when the lights flicker above him. He glances up. In the distance, the thunder rumbles.

There’s a flash outside.

And everything goes dark.

Fuck. His. Life.

With a sigh, he pulls out his phone to turn on his flashlight. At least, in this day and age, most people in the shop have the same idea, and soon enough he can see what’s happening.

“It’s probably just a power cut because of the storm,” he announces loudly, because it’s his responsibility to reassure the clients — if that had been something they’d tested for when he was interviewed, he would never have gotten the job. “Lights might come back on soon.” Or not, how would he know. “No reason to panic.”

He scans the faces of students, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Some people look worried, others, no doubt those who know that this happens semi-regularly on campus when there’s a storm, because why would your tuition pay to ensure that you have reliable electricity in here, just seem prepared to wait it out. Someone’s already gone back to tapping on their keyboard, though the sound of it is swallowed by that of the rain.

But then, he does a double-take, just to check on an impression that he had, and that confirms what he thought.

You’re not in the room. Most likely explanation is that you’re in the bathroom, but he has to imagine that it’s a pretty freaky experience, when all the lights turn off without warning and you’re all alone.

So, without thinking much about it, he makes his way in that direction. He’s hesitating in front of the door when it pushes open, and he’s suddenly blinded by cellphone light.

“Sorry!” he hears you apologize before he can make out your face. “I, uh, is the power out?”

“It looks like it,” he answers, and then his tone softens. “Are you okay?”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and he can’t quite discern your expression, because you’ve both lowered your lights. He resists the urge to reach for you, to inspect you to see for himself that everything is fine.

“I’m fine,” you answer. “I just—”

Then there’s the crack of thunder, and you jump, gasping, before closing your eyes in obvious annoyance.

“Fuck,” you say, and he wonders if it’s the first time that he’s ever heard you swear. And if it’s weird that he’s kinda into it.

“You scared of storms?” he asks, trying his best to contain the amusement in his voice.

“No,” you protest, a little defensively. “I don’t like being surprised— Fuck!”

Minho knows he shouldn’t laugh, that making fun of you could ruin the trust he’s been trying to build this past month, but at your annoyance for letting yourself be taken by surprise, and considering your obvious lack of fear, he can’t help it. It comes out higher than his usual pitch, a little airy. You roll your eyes at it, but you don’t seem to miss the humor in the situation, because a smile forms on your lips as well.

At that point, because he isn’t one to let an opportunity slip, he reaches out to take your hand in his. Your palm is soft, if somewhat calloused on the spot under your fingers, and after the first moment of surprise, you squeeze his hand in response.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It should be over soon.” Then a pause. “Or maybe we’ll be stuck here until we have to decide who we’re going to eat.”

You laugh at that, brief and light, and as cliché as it is, Minho thinks that is quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds in the world. Especially when he’s the one making you laugh, and not that jackass Joo— Ah, the kid hasn’t technically done anything, and it feels silly to blame him when you’re here with your hand in his.

So he’ll let it go. For now.

As much as he would like to stay here with you, in the dark, away from everyone else, Minho unfortunately has stuff he needs to take care of right now.

“Wanna go back with the others? I think I have to keep an eye on them.”

“Sure,” you say. You don’t attempt to take your hand from his, and so he pulls you along with him. He’s not going to let go if you won’t.

Things in the café are still quiet, and people don’t pay a lot of attention when the two of you come back, except for Jooyeon, who gets up from his seat.

“That must have taken you by surprise,” he says with empathy. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply warmly, and there’s a pinch in Minho’s chest again. “I think we’ll have to postpone the session though. I’ll let you know when I’m free, if that’s okay with you?”

Ugh. Minho tunes Jooyeon’s response out, only waiting for an opportunity to whisk you away. He probably shouldn’t feel this strongly about it, is aware that you’re entirely within your own rights if you want to pick Jooyeon over him, but from his perspective, that doesn’t mean he has to let it be an easy decision to make. He’s not the type to lie down and just watch as that happens.

So the second Jooyeon’s eyes flick back to his computer, Minho’s taking you towards the counter with him. He checks the register once he’s there — which he definitely shouldn’t have let unattended without verifying that it couldn’t be accessed without electricity, oops, his bad — and after having confirmed that everything’s fine, his eyes go back to you.

The spike in his heart rate when he finds you already staring at him surprises him a little. He supposes that he can’t be that jealous without also having that sort of reaction to you. It’s not… unpleasant, actually, though the strength of it surprises him. It’s not the kind of emotion he usually welcomes, he’s used to them feeling less sharp, duller. But he doesn’t reject that one.

Gently, he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, enjoying the feeling of your skin against his.

“Is there an issue between him and Jooyeon?” you ask, voice soft.

Ah. For someone who’s so completely oblivious about his interest in you, you were sure quick to notice that.

“You could say that,” he replies, and you frown.

“I didn’t know that,” you say, words coming out slow, like you’re figuring out what to say as you go, instead of defaulting to your usual pre-built answers. “Can I ask why?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. Then, wordlessly, he shifts himself so that you’re against the counter, with him standing in front of you. It’s interesting, because he’s almost exactly in the spot where he is every day, and every time he steals glances at you to make his day marginally better. He puts his hands on either side of you, hears you take a sharp breath.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

His voice comes out soft and muted, and as he asks, he feels something squeeze at his heart. Maybe because he’s not sure of what you'll answer. Maybe because he could have misread you, thought that you were oblivious when the truth was that you weren't interested. He could be keeping you away from your one true love, Jooyeon, who you’re going to go on to marry and have three k—

“Yes,” you squeak.

Ok, never mind.

Technically you’re in public, but it’s not like anyone’s looking your way, or like they'd see something other than silhouettes when he leans towards you.

It feels so natural when he kisses you. You lift your arms to wrap them around his neck, his hands find their place on your hips. Much to his surprise, you’re the one who presses yourself into him, lips moving softly against his, and it sends a jolt of electricity through his body. Suddenly there’s urgency running through his veins, desire, and his fingers dig harder into you. He kisses you with more intensity, like he’s trying to get rid of any space left between the two of you, and the soft sigh you let out only spurs him on further.

He’s seconds — fractions of seconds — away from doing something stupid when laughter and claps fill the room.

He parts from you, feeling his ears and cheeks turning red already, and discovers that the lights treacherously turned back on, and everyone is looking at the two of you. Protectiveness rushes through him, and he’s about to say something snappy, thinking that you’d be uncomfortable with it, when he realizes that you’re doubled over in laughter. Yes, you look a little embarrassed, but mostly, you seem fine with it.

Which is good, because otherwise he thinks he might have lost the shop a number of customers.

Everyone looks amused and happy for the two of you. Even Jooyeon’s grinning, though the look he gives Minho says, essentially, “Oh that was your problem”. It doesn’t capture people’s attention very long, but there’s something very sweet and human about the moment and how happy it seems to make everyone. Some regulars even exchange glances that seem to mean ‘I told you so’. Ha, he didn’t think he’d ever become campus gossip.

Once there are fewer eyes on the two of you, Minho leans towards you.

“I’ll take you on a date anywhere, as long as it’s not to get coffee.”

Your face lights up.

“I’d love that.”

Working at a coffee shop is not something that Minho finds very fun. Someone who enjoys human interactions more than him might, but it just feels very repetitive to him. Doing the same movements, asking the same questions, having to deal with the same issues from asshole customers who are different but also fundamentally the same person. The ding of cash register, the one of no contact credit cards, the buzzing of the coffee machine. It’s repetitive, but in a way that fills and numbs the mind.

There’s just one sound that he minds a little less now, and it’s the one the door makes when it opens.

Because, every now and again, it means that you’ve just come in.

“Hey,” you say as you reach the counter. You’re smiling so bright, and he loves it because he knows that it’s another one of those things that you can’t help. You’re smiling because he makes you happy, and isn’t that the best thing in the world?

“Dating the barista doesn’t entitle you to free coffee,” he says as he slides your vanilla latte over to you, though he has used his employee discount on everything you’ve ordered lately and he would very much give it to you for free if you didn’t insist on paying for your own stuff.

“We’re still on for tonight?” you ask, taking the coffee from the table.

“You think I’d let you get out of it?” he replies, and you laugh, before taking off to go to your usual table.

After that, he keeps going, keeps doing the same movements, asking the same questions, hearing the same noises. But sometimes, he glances in your direction and finds you focused on your computer, biting your lower lip as you’re deep in thought, or looking at him with a smile, and it makes it all more bearable.

Because you give him something to look forward to.

To be fair, it’s not a reputation you’ve done anything to counter, or something that you’d say isn’t true about you. ‘Homewrecker’, that you disagree with. You don’t keep tabs on people, and if guys happen to have girlfriends when they hook up with you, you don’t think it says anything about you. ‘Slut’ also gets thrown around every now and then. You don’t feel any type of way about it. Yeah, you like to have fun, no shame in that. Part of you is amused by the word, thinks that the second it gets dropped in a conversation, you know to stop giving a fuck about the person using it. The other’s somewhat annoyed by it. No one’s saying that about Seo Changbin, even if there’s a different girl in his bed every other day. No, he’s a lady’s man, a charmer, but you’re a Jezebel, even though— Ah, forget it. You don’t have to justify any of your actions.

You know your reputation leads to you being easily approached by dudes, specifically when you’re at a party on campus. Guys think it means you’re more likely to sleep with them, when the truth is, you’re very picky with a large number of people to chose from, and no reason to go for the bottom of the barrel.

The thing is, though, that you like having fun at parties. Dancing around, laughing with people, maybe a little bit of harmless flirting that doesn’t have to lead anywhere, that’s just part of it for you. The guys who approach you, however, have a tendency to take that as an indication that you want to fuck them. Which leaves you in the uncomfortable position of having to strike a balance between having fun, not leading people on, and not being mean to them if you’re not interested. Except you regularly do have to be mean to them.

Hence the ‘bitch’ reputation.

Tonight’s not any different on that front. You’re having fun with some guy you have no intention of fucking, laughing at his jokes, all without getting too close. It wouldn’t bother you to do that, even without doing anything with him later on, but you don’t want to deal with that much drama tonight.

What’s new — though it’s become increasingly familiar to you lately — is Chan’s attention on you, which you can feel radiating towards you from across the room. You’ve caught him staring three times in the last hour, shooting him a knowing grin when he didn’t look away fast enough, daring him to come over, if it bothered him that much. He hasn’t moved so far. But he’s been glaring for a while.

It's not like he's not busy, too. He’s surrounded by people, several of whom are talking to him. They get his attention every now and then, and he’s pretty good at pretending. He just keeps on coming back to you, like a butterfly drawn to an incandescent lightbulb.

That’s a game you don’t mind playing, but you’re starting to get bored of the conversation you’re having and, well, you’re not trying to upset Chan, even if he’s cute when he’s angry.

“I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” you say, smile turning polite, as you uncross your legs and start to get up. That works, sometimes. People let you go, and take the hint when you don’t come back.

“I’ll come with you,” the guy says, mimicking your movement immediately.

That isn’t rare either. Just means you’ll have to work a little harder to shake him off.

Though the weather’s been warm lately, a reminder that summer is just around the corner, the air outside still feels cold, compared to how hot it was inside. It would be the perfect change of pace, if it wasn’t for the presence still hovering right beside you. You’re figuring the right way of getting rid of him when he puts his sweaty, clammy arms around your shoulders, and you can’t stop yourself from jumping out of his reach, the feeling supremely unpleasant.

Oops. So much for tact.

“Look,” you say as he’s staring at you with surprise, “I’ve had fun, but I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”

Smooth. There was definitely a better way of phrasing this.

At least you didn’t tell him he’d been boring you for the past twenty minutes?

You don’t get much time to feel bad though, because his face contorts in anger — not disappointment, sadness, or even embarrassment, but anger — and then he goes “Are you for real? You’ve been fucking teasing—”

“Hey,” a stern voice comes from behind him. “I think she wants you to leave her alone.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” he snaps, turning around, and then freezing when he’s met with Chan, who’s folded his arms over his chest in his best impression of a displeased dad. “Chan, I, uh—”

It takes one look from Chan for the guy to vanish without adding another word. No one wants to cross him, all too aware of the fact that he can ruin someone’s life by even implying that he doesn’t like them — ‘cause Chan’s so nice, why wouldn’t he like you? It’s pretty suspicious of you, to be disliked by this one dude, who’s never asked anyone to take his opinion as gospel.

“My knight in shining armor,” you purr, taking one step towards Chan, mostly just so you can enjoy hearing him clear his throat and watch him averting his eyes. You both know you’re his biggest weakness, after all. “You know I was going to be fine, right?”

That brings back the frown on his face.

“He couldn’t take you telling him you weren’t interested. That shouldn’t be your problem to deal with.”

He has a point. You think. Maybe. You can’t tell for sure, because this is just so normal for you. These days, every other interaction with guys goes like this, and you’ve sometimes had to grapple with the uncomfortable question of whether it’s your reputation doing the work for you, or if you are making people think you’re interested. You know what you do when you’re trying to get into someone’s bed, know that you didn’t pull any of it with that guy, but clearly you’re not being perceived that way.

In the end, you shrug.

“I mean, I was having a good time before this. I just wasn’t going to fuck him.”

It’s always fun to see Chan react to how blunt you are. You know for a fact that he’s capable of swearing like sailor — like he does when he’s inside you — but he always seems taken aback by you being this direct.

You get another step closer. Now, you’d just have to push a little to steal a kiss from him, and his plump lips sure are looking awfully tempting.

“Were you bored without me?” you ask, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“I was—” He clears his throat, not quite looking at you. There was a time when this behavior would have annoyed him, which you also found to be fun, but these days are far behind you now. “—busy.”

You hum in amusement, not fooled by the answer whatsoever — and a little insulted he’d even try that excuse when you know he’s been staring, and he knows you know he’s been staring — but there’s still a tiny little bit of concern poking through.

“Aw,” you say, not dropping the teasing, “even at a party you can’t get a break?” And then, leaning even closer, “Want me to help you relieve some of that stress?”

The tip of his ears goes red, but this time he meets your eyes, and you think he’s going to give in, when a voice calls his name.

From behind him, in appears Mido, and you raise an eyebrow at her. One of the top students in her field, she’s also super involved in campus life. Lately, she’s been busy planning a music festival — you think, you haven’t been paying much attention — which has led her to hang around Chan a lot. She’s pretty high-strung and a workaholic in the making, but she’s kinda cute in her determination. She’s also very into Chan, which, really, who isn’t?

But that makes her, uh, not your biggest fan. You suspect that she’s caught on to some of what’s been going between you and Chan, and it’s clear that she’s not super happy about it. You can’t really blame her. You probably wouldn’t want yourself hanging around Chan that much, if you were a friend of his — not even out of jealousy, but out of fear that you’d break his heart.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, somewhat out of breath, “I’ve been working on changing the program, like we’ve discussed, and I was hoping you could take a look at what I’ve got done.”

And there goes your sympathy, replaced with annoyance in the span of a minute.

Maybe you’re like Tinkerbell, not enough space within you for more than one emotion at any given time.

You’re speaking before Chan’s gotten the time to opine and get to work again.

“Seriously?” you say. “It’s a Saturday night. It’s— Fuck, it’s almost two a.m. Can’t he get a break?”

You get a surprised look from Chan, while Mido rolls her eyes like she’d expected that reaction from you and came prepared.

“I realize that you don’t understand the concept of responsibilities, but some of us have stuff to do.”

You almost want to laugh.

“The faculty isn’t going to collapse in on itself if Chan takes a night off.”

“It’s work that’s going to accumulate and make it worse on him as it goes on—”

“Then it sounds like you need to learn to delegate more efficiently, because there is no way that he’d have to be working these hours if that was handled better.”

Mido’s turning very red now, opening and closing her mouth as she looks for a retort. You suppose that the jab at her abilities, something she probably values a lot, wasn’t that nice, but also, fuck, you mean this. Unpleasant opinions have a tendency to slip out of you without you having much control over it, but it’s not like you can take them back when you very much thought ever word you said.

“Hey, how about we calm down,” Chan says, putting a hand on your shoulder, and you know that he has a point, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to snap ‘why should I calm down’ at him. You hold back just enough to get to see him turn around towards Mido with a polite smile. “I’ll look at the schedule first thing tomorrow,” he promises her, and she’s clearly boiling, but she’s more in control of herself than you are, so she doesn’t say anything.

“Sure,” she answers, sounding like she’s stopping herself from screaming. “I’ll email it to you.”

“Thanks,” Chan nods.

He only turns to look at you once she’s left the balcony, marching back inside, no doubt beelining for her friends in order to complain about you.

“Can’t you just play nice?” Chan asks you. He sounds tired rather than pissed.

“I would if you played less nice,” you say. You know that he’s going to have something to retort to that, because he’d probably drop dead if he put himself first for one fucking time in his life, and you don’t want to play into that. So instead, you hook two of your fingers into his belt, pulling him closer to you.

“What do you say we make good use of your hard-earned freedom?”

He swallows, and you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, even if it only lasts until morning.

You’re already entangled with Chan by the time you push him through his door. His back hits the wall, and he lets out a delightful groan into your mouth. He’s kept his hands gentlemanly on your waist, but you know for a fact that the gentleman act never lasts that long when he’s with you. It’s just a matter of getting him to snap, and these past few months have given you all the opportunities you needed to master that skill.

“You sure Changbin isn’t here tonight?” you ask against his lips. “We could give him a show.” Then, with a grin, “Or we could ask him to join.”

And sure enough, that gets to him. His kiss turns more demanding, he bites at your bottom lip, and, fucking finally, he grabs a handful of your ass. You hear yourself letting out an undignified yelp.

“No way,” he growls, giving you another one of his glares, eyes dark and filled with desire.

“Hmmm, I really like you jealous,” you can’t help but tease him, pushing your hips against him where you can feel him, already half hard. You’d bet he gets off on the idea of showing you that you’re his.

But the comment seems to throw him off a little and he ducks his head sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the gentleman in him getting back on top when all you want is for him to rail you unceremoniously. “About earlier.”

He hasn’t let go of you, but he looks like he wants to get this off his chest before you can go with the festivities, so you humor him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you listen to him. If your nails graze against the nape of his neck, it sure isn’t in an attempt to get him to focus back on you.

“You were defending me,” you say with a shrug, mostly to give him in an out.

“No, I was, but—” Ugh, he’s not going to take it. “I was jealous. And I know I— I have no right to be.”

Aw. It’s kinda cute, though you wish he’d stop with the self-flagellation.

“It’s all good,” you find yourself whispering, tone soft, genuinely trying to comfort him rather than just wanting to get it over with. “I didn’t mind.”

The kiss that follows is sweet, soft. When his tongue brushes against yours, it sends shivers all the way down your spine. You’ve long known that Chan has that kind of effect on you.

You’re just not quite ready to grapple with that right now.

“I mean, we both know we can fuck whoever we want,” you add with a vague shrug. “Doesn’t mean I like seeing you being around Mido all the time either.”

“Um,” Chan says, “I don’t— I mean I’m not—”

Fuck it. He’s just too cute. The way he blushes, the way his ears turn red… You just cannot resist the urge to push yourself on your toes to bite gently at the lobe, enjoying the way his whole body shakes at the sensation, before pressing a kiss against his temple.

“Right,” you purr. “You’re only fucking me.”

You might take a little too much pleasure when you say it, if you’re being honest. It’s not purely sexual, too, but you’re choosing not to unpack that right now either. Instead, you find Chan’s mouth, press yourself closer to him, let your tongue run over his lips before he eagerly meets it with his. His left hand comes up to tilt your head back, calloused fingers pushing against your jaw. Despite yourself — because the gesture’s too gentle, too intimate — you raise a hand to cover his, entangling your fingers with his.

His following exhale sounds ragged, painful maybe.

Then he’s grabbing strongly at your waist and suddenly you’re the one with your back against the wall, and he’s pushing his thigh between your legs, spreading them open.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Gosh, you need him to worry a little less and to start taking responsibility for what he’s doing to you.

“Need you inside me,” is your answer. “Now.”

And that asshole has the gall to shoot you a grin, lifting only one corner of his mouth.

“I might as well make this last, right? Since I’m only fucking you.”

You want to pout, but it’s really fucking hard to keep control over your facial features when he flexes his thigh and it takes all of your willpower to resist rolling your hips and starting to ride him. You will not be giving him the satisfaction.

…not just yet anyway.

Since two can play that game, however, you trace your fingers up his muscular thigh, watch his expression shift from amusement to anticipation as you get closer and closer to his hard cock, now clearly outlined through his pants.

“C’mon, Chan,” you plead, something you’re not above doing, as you easily unbutton his jeans, “you know you want it too.”

Your lips ghost over his neck as your hand makes its way past the band of his boxers and wraps around him, with a little satisfaction coming from the fact that he’s not just hard, he’s also already dripping precum. He groans at your touch, and you grin — though, if you were thinking about previous encounters with him right now, you’d know it’s still too early to claim victory. Your grip remains light, your hand movement slow, tantalizing but nowhere near enough to bring him release.

“I really, really,” you press your thumb against the tip of his cock, rubbing it gently, with more intensity, just so he knows what you could do if he just let himself give in, “want you inside me.” This time it’s more of a whine that he lets out, his breath coming out in tense huffs as he rests his head on your shoulder, and you think you’ve got him right where you want him.

But then he lifts his head and meets your eyes, and you immediately know you’re going to have to wait.

“Where would the fun be in that now, love?”

It’s not the pet name that sets your heart in a frenzy. It’s not. It’s his tone, how warm his eyes are, the anticipation of the pleasure that’s to come.

It’s not the pet name.

“Think you keep standing for me?” he asks you, voice low and rumbling. You blink at him.

“What—”

Then he drops to his knees.

“C’mon, love. When have I ever let you down?”

Ohhh. You think you’re going to really, really enjoy what he’s planning for you.

He takes his sweet time getting on with the program, though. His hands start on your calves, slowly making their way up your legs, and it takes everything for you not to plead with him, again, to get moving. You’re dripping wet for him by now. Your legs are starting to feel weak under you, but it’s too early to give in.

Chan’s large hands reach your thighs, his touch setting your skin on fire with every brush. When he presses a wet kiss against the inside of your thigh, so close to where you actually need him, you let out a whine. You feel him grin against you, but he keeps going, slow and steady, inching closer and closer. He easily lifts your dress up, pushing it up over your stomach so it’s out of the way. By then, you can actually feel his breath against your pussy, and you’re so fucking sensitive in that area right now, you think you’d kill to feel his tongue on you.

But he’s not done yet, no, that would be too easy. He slides your ruined panties down your legs, even when you whine for him to just leave it, it’s fine, and wraps a hand around your ankle to make you step out of them.

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, again, and your patience runs out. Threading your fingers through his hair, you pull on it, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of where his attention should be.

That asshole has the nerve to laugh at that.

He gives you what you want right after that, though. He closes his mouth around your clit, and you throw your head back, loud moans spilling from your lips. You’ve never been one to believe in restraint, and if anything, Chan loves how vocal you get. You’re rewarded by the feeling of his warm, wet tongue on you, and all you can do is hold on to him for dear life, your other hand trying to find something to brace yourself on and coming up empty.

“Fuck, Chan,” you whimper.

“If that’s too much for you,” he says, pulling away, “I can always—”

You guide him right back between your legs. And he gets back to work.

If there’s one thing you have to give to him, it’s that he never half-asses anything. His tongue dances sinfully on your skin, his teeth graze against your folds, tantalizing, and you’re reduced to moans, whines, and desperate pleas for more — you have no idea what it is you want, but Chan knows exactly what you need. He’s already got you crying out his name in a broken litany when he pushes two fingers into you. They slide right in, and you gasp for air, briefly falling quiet at the pleasure.

Your knees give in under you, and Chan catches you just in time.

“You’re all good, love,” he praises you as he lifts one of your legs. “Just hold on a little longer for me, alright?”

There’s something about him talking to you like that, about the kind warmth of his words, that turns your insides into jelly. So all you do is nod as he helps you hook your leg over his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks you, still taking the time to check up on you even though he should know by now that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

As an answer, you use your heel to push him back into you. Once you’ve got his mouth and his fingers back on you and in you, you let yourself drown into the pleasure. Because, fuck, having Chan’s undivided attention, having him eating you out like a starved man while his fingers curl inside of you, sliding in and out with a slow rhythm — if this isn’t what heaven feels like, you don’t think you want it.

Your legs start to shake as your orgasm approaches. By the time you cum, with a loud, high-pitched cry, Chan’s hand under your ass and the leg you have over his shoulder are really the only things keeping you upright. He doesn’t let you go for one second, allowing you to move your hips to ride the wave of your orgasm, even if it’s just little jerks of your hips, because you have zero control of your body right now.

You’d hate that on any other occasion.

Right now, you don’t mind.

You feel yourself slide to the floor as you slowly regain your brain cells. Chan’s still all around you, his heat, his arms, cradling you while you come back to your senses. He rubs your back, mumbling praises into your ear, and it’s good, it’s so fucking perfect, but you need— you can’t let this go that route, not just yet. He already knows you get a little cheesy towards the end of the night, so that’s fine, but it’s too early to succumb to that.

“Wanna move this to the room, or do you also want to fuck me against the wall?” you ask him, turning your head so you’re facing him.

His nose brushes against yours. It’s funny, after everything he’s just done to you, that this still gets him to blush.

“R—” He clears his throat. “Room. I’ve got— I’ve got condoms in there.”

He gets up and pulls you back up to your feet with ease, which, damn, you know he lifts, but it’s still impressive. You let yourself fall into his arms, enjoying a nice squeeze of his biceps while you get the chance. You need to get him out of his shirt, you remind yourself, and you immediately get to work on the buttons, tracing his skin with every inch you uncover. Goosebumps form under your nails, and a jerk of his hips when you brush over his nipple reminds you that he has yet to be taken care of.

Aw. You just can’t have that now, can you?

“Hm, I’ve been thinking we could try without that,” you say. Your voice comes out light, but you know that it’s not as nonchalant as you’re trying to make it sound. Chan tenses against you. Clearly, he realizes it as well.

“I mean I— I’d love to, but it’s—” His eyes are wide as he searches yours. You wonder if he thinks that was a throwaway line, something you said just to say something. Surely he knows that’s not the case. You’ve always been adamant about protection.

“I’m on the pill, I’m clean, I’ve gotten tested,” you shrug. “Are you clean?”

“Yeah, I am,” he nods, and it’s adorable how eager he is, “just— when— have you—”

It’s so obvious that he’s trying not to hurt your feelings. He should know that these conversations would never do that. That doesn’t stop a pit from forming in your stomach. What you’ll say next will change things. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but it’s been a long time coming. Maybe since the first time Chan gave in to his desires against his better judgment, maybe since the first time your eyes met.

“It’s all good, I haven’t been with anyone else for a couple months,” you say.

Chan freezes. You can only imagine what’s going on through his mind right now, but you— can’t have that. Not right now. So, of course, you have to defuse the situation. You grab his chin, smile seductively at him.

“Why would I when I have the best right here?”

All you know is that after that, you crash through the door to Chan’s room, and he throws you onto his bed while he practically rips off his shirt and pants. You push yourself up on your elbows, but you don’t have the time to take off your heels or your dress before he’s kneeling between your legs, spreading them open. He’s not playing games anymore, there’s no playfulness in his eyes, just hunger — and maybe the tiniest speck of uncertainty.

So you reach for his face to kiss it away, soft and gentle, and for a second, he melts into you. As you move away, you keep your forehead pressed against his, and he exhales a trembling breath.

Neither of you says a word. The moment passes.

A second later, he plunges into you with one harsh movement of the hips and you fall onto your back with a cry, arching against him. Feeling him for the first time without anything between you is… different, for sure, but it’s a good different, fuck, it’s so perfect that you don't think you’ll be able to go back on that. You have no way of knowing what’s going on in his mind, but you do hear him moan once, loud and without restraint, before he falls into your arms as his hips start moving with an animalistic pace. You grab onto him, nails digging into his back — this is going to leave a mark for sure, but you kind of like the idea, so. Now you regret not having taken off your dress, because you’d love to feel him against you. There isn't much space in your brain for those thoughts though, not when the pleasure is so overwhelming.

You’re still all sensitive from your orgasm, and Chan’s fast thrusts into you only heighten the sensations. Soon, warmth is building up into you again, but Chan’s showing no signs of slowing down. His head’s buried in your neck, his hands clutching the sheets on either side of you. When your legs start shaking with a second orgasm, all you can do is let out desperate moans while he keeps fucking into you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans again, which is uncharacteristically vocal of him — and fucking hot, by the way. “So good for me.”

“All for you,” you whimper in response. “Just for you.”

You reach for his face, kiss him, tongue messily intertwining with him.

He comes inside of you without a warning, just with a long, low groan, before collapsing on top of you without even pulling out.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles after long, blissful seconds. “Did you not want me to—”

“You’re good,” you interrupt him before he can start freaking out. “Just— Think you can carry me to the bathroom?”

“Of course,” he replies. Then, voice lower, barely above a whisper, “Anything for you.”

You used to have this rule against staying the night after sleeping with a guy. Felt it made them act all territorial, and you liked doing the walk of shame in the middle of the night better than at dawn, if you had to choose. But it’s different with Chan. It’s always been different with him, no matter how hard you try to deny it.

You slip back into the bed after cleaning yourself up, and he wraps himself around you, body slotted together perfectly.

“That my shirt?” he asks as he presses a kiss against your neck.

“And your boxers,” you inform him. “You mind?”

“Nah. It’s kinda hot, that’s all.”

You grin, twisting yourself around so you can get another kiss from him, and he indulges you, not leaving you to wait for even a second. Neither of you adds anything, and you settle yourself comfortably for sleep.

It’s obvious what’s going on between the two of you, what this is all leading up to, even with you not putting words on it just yet.

All in due time, as long as you’re by his side.

Last part of this, and another one where the couple is one I've had in mind for a while lol. I'd headcanon that in the morning, the reader joins the commity that's organizing the festival and is weirdly good at it bc she actually goes to a lot of festivals (she's mostly doing it to ensure that Chan isn't overworked tho). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the series, if you want to give feedback, reblog or comment, I'd be super grateful, and I'll see you for future works!

You should probably find something else to do. You could get a hold of Jisung, he’s always fun to be around; find out what Minho’s up to and how he’s going to ensure that the party descends into chaos; or, more simply, go sit down next to Seungmin and enjoy a nice conversation — until Minho inevitably recruits the both of you for his scheme, of course.

Or you could stay here and keep watching Hyunjin like you’re interested in the game of pool — what are the rules again? —, knowing full well that he’s aware of your eyes on him and that he’s enjoying the attention.

“Oh, I am so going home with him tonight,” a voice comments to your right, just a little too loud, making you glance in that direction.

There are two girls there. The one that spoke is tall, with legs for days. She has a beer in her hand, and she's twirling a lock of bleached blonde hair around her finger. Her eyes are, without a doubt, set on Hyunjin. And you’d bet she wanted you to hear it.

“He looks like sex on legs,” her friend comments, clicking her tongue appreciatively.

The remark makes you grimace, though you try to hide it. It’s not that you don't get the feeling behind the comment, it's just that it feels weird to hear people actually talk about Hyunjin like that in front of you. If you were more confrontational — or if you’d had a little more to drink — you probably would have snapped.

Shit, you should have gotten Minho when you had the chance. He would have said something.

“You’re not the only one who's going to be shooting your shot,” the friend adds, like an afterthought.

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who’s in the same league as him,” the blonde chuckles, and you see her eyes darting in your direction for less than a second.

You raise an eyebrow. So that was the point she was trying to make. There’s probably a time where the comment would have made you shrink on yourself, thrown you into a self-deprecating loop. Right now, you just hide the smile that threatens to break on your face by taking a sip of orange juice.

‘Cause you’re the designated friend-who-has-to-stay-sober-just-in-case of the night.

You still don’t say anything, this time less because you don’t want to fight and more because now, you kind of want to see where this goes.

As if on cue (ha), the game of pool ends. Blondie sees an opening and takes it immediately.

Maybe you’d be happy for her, or a little impressed, if she hadn’t already proved to be such a bitch.

You watch as she saunters close to the table and asks if she can play, as Hyunjin hands her a cue and she makes sure to make eye contact and brush her fingers against his. There’s an ever so slight slip of the mask during which Hyunjin’s eyes move towards you, before he gets back on script.

It doesn’t take long for blondie to start missing shot after shot, and to turn around at Hyunjin, pouting and asking if he can give her a hand.

It’s well done, you’d give her that if she wasn’t trying to fuck him and if she hadn’t practically insulted you to your face.

Hyunjin’s the perfect mix of helpful and gentlemanly. He doesn’t wrap himself around her like she clearly wants him to, but he does give her pointers, and you can’t help but frown when he puts his hand on her back to guide her. She looks delighted, clearly seeing it as a victory. Hyunjin glances in your direction, and you reply by raising your eyebrow.

It would be easy, really, to walk over and start fighting for his attention as well, but that would make you just another part of the show, and that’s not what you do. It’s not that you can’t perform, it’s that you won’t do it for people’s entertainment — and this would entertain them.

So, once Hyunjin’s eyes are back on the table, with a tint of red coloring his ears, you let yourself slip away. It is something you have a hard time understanding about him, how hard it is for him to do things that would displease the people around him, things that don’t fit with his role. Especially because, underneath it, he’s nothing like the character he portrays.

Having gotten out of the sea of drunken bodies, you find a window that’s unoccupied, in an empty corridor, and you lean outside, taking a deep breath. It’s not exactly ideal; there are people smoking two windows to the right and it makes your nose scrunch in disgust, but at least it’s colder inside than out. The night is filled with the sound of cars rather than the silence you’re craving, and the stars shine dimly with all the light pollution. Still, it’s outside, and it may not be great, but it’s truthful. What you see is what you get.

The word people used most to describe Hyunjin was mysterious. Though he was at every party, he stuck with a small group of friends, and sometimes the people who danced in the same company as him. He was quiet, but he was also a good listener, and there was something about the way he held himself — tall, shoulders straight —, about the way he grinned, about how his eyes took in the people around him, that fascinated them.

There were lots of other words thrown around to talk about him. Arrogant, confident, cold, hot, scornful, selective — enough contradictions to make your head spin.

You’re convinced that no one would use those words to describe Hyunjin by anyone who actually knows him. Hyunjin is— He’s one of the sweetest people you know. He gets embarrassed when complimented and avoids eye contact. He’s shy, not arrogant or scornful, and forging genuine relationships takes him time and energy, two things he rarely has to spare. He ugly cries when watching dramas. He doesn’t like the attention nearly as much as he likes the effort itself, likes knowing that he does well. He gets exhausted after every performance, whether it’s being out in public or on stage, and afterwards, he just wants to stay inside, and get taken care of.

Ideally, by you.

Large hands come to rest on either side of you as you feel a chest against your back and a quick kiss pressed against your neck.

“Everything okay?” Hyunjin asks.

It’s interesting to you how even his voice changes. It’s always softer with you. Even when you’re hanging out with his friends and when he’s joking around with Felix or Minho, it’s like he’s not— projecting it. Like he’s not performing anymore.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Hyunjin mumbles into your neck, breath warm against your skin, and you turn around with a smile.

The worry in his eyes dissipates as you wrap your arms around him, threading your fingers through his hair. It’s black at the moment; you recently helped him go back to the color after he got tired of being blonde. It’s damaged still, but that doesn’t stop you — and you enjoy the shiver that goes through him when your nails graze against the nape of his neck.

“I thought you liked it when I get jealous?”

Immediately, his hips stutter into you and his eyes go wide.

“I—” He clears his throat, hands tightening around the railing behind you. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, dodging the remark.

“I’m not hurt,” you hum. Truth is, you’re not really the jealous type. You don’t think you could be with Hyunjin if you were. You’ve had a few… outbursts, though, at the beginning of your relationship, which left you ashamed at first — at least until you realized that Hyunjin was very much into it. You wouldn’t have expected it, considering the fact that he was clearly uncomfortable with other people’s possessiveness over him, but he seems to feel differently about you doing it.

Which is why you don’t hesitate too much about pushing one of your legs between Hyunjin’s legs and pressing your thigh against his crotch.

“But I could be jealous.”

Hyunjin remains still, but there is a tension to his body. It’s obvious to you that he’s trying to hold himself back, to resist the temptation of humping your leg like a dog. As his eyes search yours, trying to figure out what’s going on in your head, you can feel him growing half hard against you, can see his tongue darting out to wet his lips, can see the way they part as he draws in a quick breath.

“A-are you?” he asks when he only finds playfulness and teasing in your demeanor.

“Hmm,” you say, flexing your thigh just to hear a low hiss coming from him, tracing small circles on his neck with your index finger, “I certainly think that it wouldn’t hurt to give a little reminder of what's mine.”

It’s always a delight to see Hyunjin give in. It rarely takes much pushing — you wouldn’t try to get him to do anything he doesn’t want — but the thrill is not in the chase. It’s in the way his eyes widen, in how he bites his lip as the tiniest of whimpers rises from the back of his throat, and it's in the jerk of his hips into you.

In this moment, you know you have all of his attention, in a way none of the people that surround him ever will. That look in his eyes right now, behind the desire, is the same you see when you wake up in his arms, is the same you sometimes catch him giving you when you’re working at the table of your apartment and he’s on the sofa watching his dramas.

It’s a look that is exclusively yours.

“Would you like that, Hyunjin?” you purr. One of your hand comes to cup his face, thumb gently brushing against his jaw. His skin is soft under your fingers.

You see him hesitate, let him take his time. Finally, he leans towards you and kisses you, soft and slow. You let him set his rhythm, feel him get more impatient when you don't take the lead. His hips move once more against your thigh, more demanding this time, and you can feel him growing harder.

You pull away from the kiss and he chases after you before stopping himself. You suspect he probably had to fight himself to avoid letting out a whine in protest.

“We should probably take care of that, don’t you think?”

It’s not that you wouldn’t like to see him humping your leg until he comes in his pants, but you don’t think the setting is ideal for that. The two of you still need to get home after that, and you know Hyunjin would absolutely hate having to walk around in sticky underwear — though you don’t doubt that he would very much enjoy the moment preceding that.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin replies, voice low and raspy. “Yeah, we, er, we should.”

You grab his hand, pulling him after you. He offers no resistance, is perhaps even just a little too eager to walk after you. Most times, you think there is something feline about him, about the grace with which he moves. In times like these, though, he’s much more like a puppy, and that’s just as cute.

You beeline for the bathroom, pushing Hyunjin inside when you see it's empty. You might piss off a few people, but you can't find it in yourself to care when you finally give in and press yourself against Hyunjin, hands roaming over his body, and kiss him hungrily. The moan he gives comes muffled by your mouth. Much to your regret, you won’t be able to hear him get loud in here.

Oh well. The night’s still young. Ditching this terrible party surely won't hurt.

You don't hesitate to palm him through his jeans. He’s rock hard now, pants tight around his cock, and he pulls away, biting his lip to keep himself from crying out. There’s loud music outside, and there are definitely other people fucking somewhere else in the building, yet you still tease as your fingers trace his length.

“You can’t make too much noise in here or they’ll hear you, babe.”

Hyunjin nods, pressing one hand against his mouth. You know your touch is too light to provide him much relief — it just gives him an idea of the pleasure — yet he’s already blushing up to the tip of his ears. You can’t resist adding a little bit of fuel to the fire.

“Do you want everyone in here to know that you’re mine?”

The effect is immediate. He pushes himself into your hand and his eyes open to give you a pleading look.

How could you ever resist him?

After a glance at the floor — it looks clean enough and you’re going to leave it at that —, you drop to your knees. You take a little more time than you need to unzip his pants and pull them down over muscular thighs, mostly so you can hear him whine your name in protest. Then, finally, you free his cock, and it springs out of his boxer, hard against his stomach.

Now, you’re not someone who pays that much attention to guys’ dicks in general. It’s not the tool it’s the way you use it and all that, plus you’ve found that some guys assume that size is all that matters and don’t bother putting it any effort. That being said, even you know that Hyunjin is big. Just thinking about the way his cock stretches you makes you press your thighs together. You’re growing wetter by the second, and seeing that Hyunjin's already dripping with pre-come doesn’t help. You reach up to tease his tip with a finger. Hyunjin whimpers into his hand.

“So hard for me, babe,” you coo. “All for me, right?”

You see his cock twitch, and he nods fervently.

“Yes, yes, just for you, puh-please—”

He’s just too cute, you think, and then you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, glancing up to see him throw his head back. The hand that’s not pressed against his mouth and doing a poor job of keeping the moans to spill out comes to grab your head, though he doesn’t try to push himself deeper. You move your tongue against the head, taking your time to wet it properly. You can feel the muscles of Hyunjin’s thighs twitching desperately, and the knowledge of how much you’re affecting him is insanely hot to you.

With one hand, you reach between your legs, easily sliding a finger inside yourself, soon followed by another. You take his cock in deeper as you keep fucking yourself with your hand. Your eyes are focused on him, on all the delicious ways in which he expresses his pleasure. You know he’s trying his best to control himself, yet his hips keep jerking forward, shallowly fucking your mouth even as he’s trying not to. You moan around his shaft, and a more high-pitched sound comes out of his throat when he feels the vibrations.

As his hand isn’t enough, you see him pushing two fingers inside his mouth and biting down on them softly. The sight is absolutely sinful, and you can’t resist rewarding him by hollowing your cheeks around him. Of course, that only makes him try harder to contain the noises, but that just adds to the fun.

“God, Hyunjin,” you groan, pulling off of his cock briefly, giving him a reprieve, “you’re so fucking hot for me.”

He blubbers something around his fingers — ‘just for you’, you suspect — and you get back to his cock with a grin. You press wet kisses along his length, flicking your tongue against it, and wrap your hand around the base to stroke it carefully. You don't want him to come just yet, though the moment is definitely approaching. Can’t hog the bathroom all night, after all.

You interrupt your ministrations for a few seconds, which is enough for Hyunjin to glance back down at you, pouting slightly.

Cute.

Without any more hesitation, you take him your mouth as far as you can. There’s no way for you to fit him all inside your mouth, but it’s more than enough for him to choke around his own fingers as he desperately tries to contain his noises and throws his head back. His legs are trembling now, back arched against the wall. You would give a lot to see him from another angle, because you’re sure he’s a sight right now.

Pictures, maybe. He might be into that. Hm, you’ll have to bring that up later.

For now, you focus on making the moment as pleasurable for him as possible. Pressure is growing stronger between your thighs too, and you've started teasing your clit, hips rocking as you get closer to your own orgasm.

Hyunjin whines, begs around his fingers, you think, but it’s when you feel him twitching in your head that you pull back. He blinks, eyes blurry, and gives you an adorable pout.

“W-why…?”

You push yourself up to kiss him briefly, swollen lips just absolutely irresistible to you. You know he doesn’t mind tasting himself on your lips, but you don’t drag the kiss on for too long. You’re reaching your limit as well.

“Do you want to come inside my mouth or my pussy, babe?”

Being given the choice when he’s already half fucked out means that Hyunjin hesitates, both options clearly appealing to him. You give a light, gentle squeeze to his cock as you pepper kisses down his jaw.

“C’mon, you have to give me an answer or I’ll just use my hand,” you grin against his skin.

“N-no,” he’s quick to reply, “your pussy, I want your, uh, your pussy.”

You chuckle, then wrap a leg around his waist. A strong hand grabs to your thigh for support, fingers digging pleasantly into the supple skin.

“Then go for it,” you hum, “I’m all ready for you.”

His cock presses against your wet folds, and Hyunjin whines. You take him in your hand, lining him against your entrance. As he pushes into you, slowly, to make sure you have the time to adjust yourself to him, you pull his head to yours, kissing him once more. You swallow all of the little noises he makes as he gets inside you, and that way you make sure any sound you make isn’t too loud. You usually have good control over yourself, but this position — with you standing up against the wall, one leg around Hyunjin — often has you weak.

Tonight, though, it seems that Hyunjin is the one who has a harder time controlling himself. Once he’s all inside you, the movement of his hips becomes erratic, and he buries his head in your neck, teeth worrying your skin in a surprisingly pleasant way, as his whines get more high-pitched and desperate.

You reach between your legs to rub at your clit. The stretch you feel is perfect, and even if Hyunjin fucks you sloppily, chasing his pleasure with irregular movements, the sight and the thought that you got him like that, that you are the only one who could ever get him like that are enough to get you to the edge.

“That’s it, Hyunjin,” you whisper in his ear, knowing you won’t last long now, “come for me, babe, all for me, show me that you’re mi—”

Hyunjin spills himself inside you with a final moan, and in those final moments you arch yourself into him, allowing the pleasure to blind you for some delicious seconds after being in control the whole time. You ride the orgasm on his cock, eyes closed, with one hand in his hair and the other holding on tightly to his shoulder.

As you come down from your high, you think he’ll be lucky if your nails don’t leave a mark.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin whispers in your neck, “fuck, I, that was—“

Yeah, you think he surprised even himself there, and you smile as you press soft kisses to his temple.

“You okay?”

“More than— More than okay, yeah.” Then he finally looks at you. The blush hasn’t subsided at all. If anything, it’s more present right now. “Was that— was that okay for you? I didn’t—”

Oh.

“I enjoyed myself very much,” you reply softly. “You were perfect, Hyunjin.”

“I’ll— make it up to you. I promise.”

“You have nothing to make up for,” you grin, “but I’m sure we can figure something out.”

He pulls out of you carefully. Now that he’s come, he’s much more attentive, hands on your hips so you don’t have to put too much weight on your legs just now, and now you’re the one whose breath catches in your throat. That look on his face, when he’s careful, considerate, gentle with you, that’s when you get weak for him. You don’t think he’s fully aware of that just yet, especially because you’re the one who leads in the bedroom more often than not.

You’ll show him, eventually. You’re not the best at demonstrations of affection, but you try. You can only hope he knows how much he matters to you.

“All good?” he asks you, and you can’t find anything to say at the way he looks at you then, so you pull him down for an urgent kiss — no lust, this time, just the absolute need to feel him against you. He smiles at you when you part, looking a little surprised.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you say. The other confession doesn’t make it past your lips, not tonight, but still Hyunjin softens, and you think — you hope — he knows.

“I wouldn’t ask for anyone else,” he replies.

Then someone bangs on the bathroom door, and the tenderness of the moment is broken.

“I’ll clean myself up,” you say with an eye-roll, “you can get out there. I’ll be here in a minute.”

Hyunjin licks his lips, then nods.

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

He kisses you, soft and sweet, completely unlike you, and then he’s out.

When you follow — it takes you a little more than a minute, and even then you can’t wait til you get home and take a shower — your eyes look for him instinctively.

Ha.

You’d almost feel bad for the girl who’s trying to get his attention, touching his arm and flirting with him, right after he’s come inside you. Normally, you’d let it slide once more. Hyunjin isn’t big on pda, tries to keep that part of his life more private, and you can’t say you care for it either. As a result, it’s pretty easy for people to be unaware that you’re a couple, particularly since you’re such a, er, unexpected one. The girl just doesn’t know.

But she kinda had it coming too.

You make your way to Hyunjin and casually slide your hand down his arm so you can intertwine your fingers with his. The look he throws you then is surprised — but it’s also delighted, and you reply with a smile.

“I’m thinking of heading home soon, babe, you’ll walk me back?”

The slow understanding on the girl’s face, the way her mouth drops open like it would in a comic book, and the flash of, you think, embarrassment in her eyes is fucking priceless. It would be enough to make you coming over worth it. Yet it’s nothing compared to the butterflies you get in your stomach when Hyunjin gives you the brightest smile — the one that makes his eyes almost close, the one you never see at this kind of parties.

“Sure.”

And if, later, he teases “since when do you call me babe outside of the bedroom?”, well… it’s still all more than worth it.

“You think that’s going to work on me?”

You grit your teeth. Well, rationale and logic weren’t getting you anywhere so far, so this was at least worth a try.

“I’m not looking forward to you tanking my grade,” you reply with a shrug, attempting, and probably failing, to look nonchalant.

This time he scoffs before going back to the computer.

“It’s not going to tank our grade. The teacher values quality more than following the rules, and even if he didn’t, you shouldn’t change yourself to make someone happy.”

Valuable life advice, you’re sure. It just does not apply whatsoever when a grade is at stake. Unfortunately though, he is right about this teacher valuing ‘quality’, though you don’t like how subjective his view of it appears to be. You think there should be metrics when it comes to grading your students. Either way, so far Changbin’s been fucking breezing through this class because the teacher just adores everything he puts out. You think it’s a gross display of favoritism and you suspect that it has a lot to do with 3racha’s popularity, but everyone’s too busy making heart eyes at the golden boy to think about it.

And, look, you like 3racha. You think they’re talented. You don’t know where Chan finds the time to do music while being captain of the swimming team and all the other stuff he’s doing — seriously, when does he sleep —, you think Jisung’s a very talented singer, rapper, producer — basically a one man group already without needing to add the other two in— and Changbin’s… Yeah. Changbin’s good. There’s no way you could deny that. That’s not the problem.

The problem is that it doesn’t seem to have crossed his mind that there are some people in here who don’t have a record deal lined up for them as soon as they walk out of their graduation. Some people who are not going to have full creative control over their stuff until they’ve really established themselves, if that ever happens. Some people who also just simply enjoy figuring out a way of making something interesting, something good in ways they wouldn’t have thought of if they hadn’t been forced to deal with an obstacle of some sort barring them from picking the easiest solution.

The problem is that, as you reluctantly have to admit, Changbin isn’t picking the easiest solution. In fact, once you notice what he’s doing, you can’t help but lean forward on your seat, all your attention on him and his hands moving on the keyboard. Shit. It seems, infuriatingly, that he had a point.

“What’d you think?” he asks once he’s done, and you blink yourself back to reality after having watched him work his magic.

“It’s smart,” you admit. You’re not the type to lie just because you have an issue with him. “Using tertiary rhythms in 4/4 to give the impression of another time signature… Yeah. It’s good.”

You can practically see his ego getting bigger with every word you say. Dammit, you almost wish he were a hack.

“But,” you add, a little too be annoying and a little because you have an actual point to make, “I think you should start off with binary rhythms.”

Changbin visibly deflates, then frowns, and you realize belatedly that you might have been able to push back on the use of the time signature then and there. You think he’d have given in, if you still didn’t like the end result, but that hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Why?” he asks, folding his — impressive — arms over his chest. “That’d be boring.”

You shake your head, pushing yourself up next to him and taking the mouse out of his hands to start making the changes that are clear as day in your mind. The gesture seems to outrage him, but if you’re being honest that’s actually a plus in your book, so, tough to be him.

“You start out with something familiar,” you explain as you’re working, “to lull the listener into a false sense of security. Then you hit them with the unusual to have a bigger impact and to make them wonder how the piece got there. That way, they’ll think they’ll know exactly what you’re going for from the start and be more surprised when you go for something else.”

There are a few seconds of silence after that, before Changbin also leans forward, his body suddenly much closer to yours.

“You have to work on the transition some more if you’re going for that,” he says, and his breath tickles your cheek. “’cause it’s just gonna feel jarring if you don’t.”

“I was getting to that,” you say with a click of your tongue, elbowing him in the stomach in an attempt to keep him from messing with your work. Through the first, soft layer, you come in contact with strong abs, which doesn’t surprise you considering how much time he’s rumored to spend at the gym.

Not that you’re paying attention to these rumors or anything. It’s just— Know your enemy, or something.

He does manage to use his muscles pretty easily to get the mouse back, and after an undignified shriek when he wraps an arm around your body to lift you up and get you away, you admit defeat. If your cheeks are warm now, it’s just because of the effort.

It’s also the reason your heart beats faster, and it’s got nothing to do with the satisfied grin Changbin shoots back at you once he’s back in front of the computer.

“Hey,” he says as he’s working, “you know 3racha’s having a concert tonight?”

Of course you do.

“I heard about it.”

“You should come. I can get you in.”

You raise an eyebrow. You’ve never actually seen 3racha perform. Tickets to their stuff aren’t that easy to get on campus or around i, and you’re also busy working your ass off most of the time, whether it’s for classes or at your part-time job. But you have tonight off, and considering this assignment is going nicely…

You bite your lower lip as you consider it. You’re not really looking forward to the screaming crowd looking at Changbin like he’s a god, but you are interested in the actual show. You’ve heard so much about them, and the stars aligning for a ticket offer and not having to work…

Ah, fuck it.

“Okay.”

Changbin’s head whips back in your direction.

“What?”

You take a step back, shoulders instinctively coming up to your ears. Your defenses come back up in a matter of seconds.

“If you don’t want me there, you shouldn’t have—”

“No, you should come!” he protests, and then his voice gets softer. “I’d be super happy if you came, I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Of course I am,” you say with a shrug.

Changbin turns around towards the computer, but not before you catch a bright smile on his lips. Not his signature smirk. A bright, genuine smile.

And this time, you have no excuse when your heart skips a beat.

It doesn’t come off as a shock to you that 3racha are really fucking good on stage. You didn’t have any trouble getting into the bar after giving your name, which Changbin had told you would be enough. It had taken a little more, uh, elbow work to get reasonably close to the stage, because the place was already pretty filled up. The people there are almost all from the college, but there are a few groups of mostly young men — some looking like they’re too young to have been let in — that stick out as well.

You make yourself comfortable as you wait, sending the occasional glare at people pushing you. Lots of girls there, you note, and you don’t think they’re all there for the music, which you find amusing. You certainly don’t judge. That’s something that the people from the labels would have noted, and it’s not like there’s a wrong way of enjoying a group.

The crowd goes wild around you when Jisung — or rather J-One, his stage name — jumps on stage, practically vibrating with energy. You don’t really catch what he’s saying, both because it’s too loud and because he’s speaking too fast. You are, however, acutely aware of the way he presents himself, of his cocky grin, of the way he sticks his tongue out and wipes at his lower lip with his thumb.

He’s followed on stage by Changbin, who, unlike him, barely looks like he’s acting. Yeah, his stage persona is raw confidence, supercharged with charisma, but he doesn’t bother doing much of anything — though you think he’s flexing his muscles a little more than usual. Except, of course, when he gives the audience that fucking smirk of his.

And suddenly, you’re very, very aware of how hot it is in the room.

Chan’s the last one to get on, and he does so with a roar of “Are you ready?”. Everyone goes insane, and you find yourself being pushed around by the people around you jumping up and down. Though you’re not quite giving in just yet, you do enjoy the enthusiasm. If half of what you’ve heard about them is true, they certainly deserve the hype. Seeing the wide, uncontainable smile on Chan’s face at the crowd reaction, as he can’t keep up with his stage persona for a few seconds, just makes your heart swell.

Then, after getting the crowd even more riled up, they get started with their set. You’re familiar with all the songs, of course. Music is ideally going to become your job and you want to keep yourself updated, but also, you do find them to be good. Even the stuff that’s not to your personal taste is always backed up by an actual creative idea, which is not something you’d say about a lot of pop songs that get blasted on the radio every day. It makes their music feel new, and yeah, sometimes it means it’s not that easily accessible and it’s going to turn some people off, but it sure makes you respect their artistic integrity.

They’re also giving themselves on stage, 100%. And, because there’s just no point in denying it now, Changbin looks ridiculously fucking hot doing it. It makes all sorts of things tingle in your stomach and lower when he growls in the mic. You haven't been able to look away for a second.

Outside of the general hotness — you’re human, what can you say — you can’t help but appreciate everything else, everything musical. How easily he rides the beat, how music seems to inhabit his body, how skillfully he’s crafted the verses and choruses and made them feel— You’re not sure how to phrase it. They’re not predictable, but they are obvious. It feels like there would be no other way of doing them, no better way of phrasing them, no arrangement that would be more efficient. It has to be that way.

And it’s as they’re reaching the peak of their last song that dread washes over you, seeping straight to your bones.

You find Changbin annoying. You think he’s cocky, overconfident, and that he doesn’t pay enough attention to others. You also don’t like the way he gets everything handed to him on a silver platter and that, unlike you, he doesn’t have to split his time between work and college. But if you’re being honest, that’s not nearly enough of a reason to dislike him. The guy wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s always happy to help out, maybe even lets people take advantage a little bit. And he’s so, so fucking talented. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find all of that attractive.

The problem, as you’re staring at him on stage, is that the question that is truly at the center of it all, the one you’ve refused to ask yourself all this time as you kept working your ass off and he kept doing better than you, just came up to the surface, and you can’t avoid it any longer.

What if you just don’t have it?

Look, you believe in hard work, but you find it hard to deny that some people just have something else. Call it talent, call it luck, whatever. Changbin’s got it.

You’re not sure you do.

You just might keep working and working and working and never get to the level he’s at. You might just not have the thing that makes him able to come up with hooks that stay inside your head for days on end.

What’s been your dream job for almost a decade now might remain forever out of reach.

As the crowd erupts in cheers around you, and 3racha stay on the stage, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down their forehead, the future you’ve always wished for doesn’t quite shatter completely in front of your eyes, but it takes a nasty crack that ripples onto its entire surface.

You turn around, away from the stage. You hadn’t planned on that, but fuck it.

You need a drink.

Even as you down two drinks a little too quick and gesture for a third, you know this is a bad idea. You’re running straight into a wall, you’re going to regret this so much tomorrow, and you’re doing it anyway. This isn’t like you. You make the good decision, the right decision, you do what’s smart, what you should do.

Except apparently, none of that is enough, and that thought gets you to ingest the third drink as well, the burning taste of alcohol a welcome distraction.

“You can really knock these back,” a voice comments next to you.

You glance at the guy who’s already way too close in your personal space for a stranger. Normally, you would roll your eyes and you’d never even consider entertaining it. Who even hits on someone after they’ve seen them try their best to get intoxicated in as short an amount of time as possible?

Tonight though, his maths has paid off, because you welcome the distraction.

If you’re going to be making bad decisions, why stop at one, right?

You spin yourself towards him, rest your elbow on the counter and put your head on your hand in a pretty unnatural pose. You’re not quite coordinated — not usually, and certainly not with that amount of alcohol in your blood — but it doesn’t appear to throw him off.

“Sure can,” you say — it might come off slurred, you can’t tell, “but the question is, can you?”

He raises an eyebrow, but he looks amused. Honestly, he’s giving sleazy vibes, a little too happy to be running into someone trying to get wasted, you just— you just don’t give a fuck right now. You feel like you’ve watched the life slip forever out of your reach, and you just want to forget about it, forget about how you may never get a job and never live from what you want to do most in the world, forget about fucking Seo Changbin and how ridiculously talented he is when you’re— Yeah, you’re ordering another drink.

The guy offers to pay for you, and you’re not going to say no. He makes a dumb comment about it which you think is supposed to be a joke and you laugh way too hard, throwing your head back in a tried and tested move.

As you make painful small talk with him while waiting for your drink, you’re struck by how mediocre he seems to be. When you’re around Changbin, as annoying as he can be, the conversation’s just… brilliant. He’s interesting, he’s actually smart, he has stuff to say, and talking to him makes you feel, well, annoyed, sure, but it’s also challenging. He never bores you.

It’s been less than a minute, and you already wish that guy would shut up.

He doesn’t. He seems intent on smothering you with facts about his life that he probably believes to be impressive — his money, his job, his connections —, like you don’t know why he’s doing it. It’s almost insulting that he seems to believe that he’s seducing you with all of that fairly mundane stuff, when really, the attention you’re giving him has nothing to do with, well, him.

He’s moved on to putting his arm around your shoulders in the least subtle way known to man when you hear your name and you turn back around.

There’s Changbin, eyeing you and the guy, looking half pissed, half concerned.

“Oh, hey,” you say. “You were really good.”

His eyebrows knit, but then a smile that he can’t seem to hold back lifts a corner of his lips. It’s not arrogant for once, almost bashful actually.

“You thought so?”

So good that it gave you an existential crisis, so, yeah, you did.

“Yeah, you guys weren’t bad,” the dude behind you chimes in, and since you’ve got your back turned to him, you openly roll your eyes, which Changbin can’t miss. You doubt the guy knows shit about the time and efforts that had to go into that set, or into the writing of the song before even getting onto the stage, for that matter. “A bit derivative,” he adds, like an asshole, “but you might go on to do great stuff.”

There’s nothing bashful about Changbin’s smile now. He doesn’t look hurt or anything, but he seems to be thinking that the guy’s a real fucking moron.

“Thanks,” he says, sarcasm dripping in his voice which the dude doesn’t catch. Then his eyes fall on the glasses in front of you, and back to the hand on your shoulder. “Is that all yours?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m questioning my existence,” you reply with a shrug. “So that seemed like a good idea.”

Changbin looks confused for a second, but not completely deterred by your lack of coherence.

“’kay, then I think I should take you home.”

That’s objectively a good idea, and the more time you’re spending looking at him and talking to him, the less you want to keep talking to the other dude, actually.

“Hey,” the guy in question says from behind you, “I got there first. Find someone else, dude.”

Changbin’s eyes harden instantly and he takes a threatening step forward. He’s shorter than the man, but significantly larger. You just so happen to not be drunk enough to watch them fight. You blame your dad’s genes for making you somewhat good at handling your alcohol, because you wish you were hammered enough not to care right now. You push yourself on your feet, a bit unsteady, and put your hand on Changbin’s arm — totally to stop him and not at all to stop yourself from face planting. His muscles, you discover with some interest, are not just impressive but also extremely hard, perhaps because he’s prepared to fight.

“It’s good,” you say, “thanks for the drinks but he’s right, I need to get home.”

The man’s face contorts with anger.

“You can pay for your own drinks, you fucking—”

One of Changbin’s arms wrap around your waist, and then he takes a step forward, easily getting you out of the way while keeping you against him, to grab the man by the collar.

“Want to finish that sentence, asshole?”

If you were sober, you’d think something judgmental about men and aggressiveness. Right now, you mostly, uh, think it’s very very hot of him. Being pressed into his hard body makes your heart rate spike up, and in that state, it’s so hard to deny how attracted you are to him.

The guy backs down quickly, sputtering an apology, and then Changbin’s dragging you away, keeping his arm around you to ensure you stay on your feet.

“You okay?” he asks. His eyes scan your body, focusing back on your face when he finds nothing.

Alcohol has a tendency of making you even snappier than you usually are. Right now, though, hearing the genuine worry in his voice, you feel that part of you melting away.

“I’m good, Changbin. I think I just— I just need to get home.”

And though he’d be the last person you’d take help from if you were sober, he seems like the perfect pick at the moment.

You make it to the campus without too much trouble. It’s not like your legs don’t carry you anymore, just that you don’t walk quite straight, but Changbin doesn’t let go of you for one second of that walk, monitoring you the whole time, and then he insists on getting you back to your room as well. At least you live alone, because that is not something you’d like to have to explain.

“Did something happen?” Changbin asks, finally, as you’re making it up the steps, like he just can’t keep it in anymore. Your mind, which had been peacefully quiet this whole time, filled with his warmth and his presence, is flooded with noise again. It takes you a few long, painful seconds before you come up with something to say.

“Do you think I’m any good at this?” you ask just as you’re reaching your floor.

He shoots you a weird look.

“Good at what?”

Right, he wasn’t privy to everything that was going on in your mind.

“You know,” you say with a vague gesture. “Music. Producing. What we do.”

“Of course you’re good at it,” he scoffs like it’s the most obvious thing ever. “You’re super creative. You can follow all the stupid rules the teachers give us and still turn something good in. You think I’d let you work on my stuff in my studio if I didn’t think you were good?”

It’s his tone that gets to you, you think. Changbin’s honest to a fault, from what you’ve seen, but he says this so matter-of-factly, so casually, that it’s hard to question, even for just a second, that he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. You know it will take a moment to sink in, that Changbin has that kind of confidence in you when even you don’t, but, even if the thoughts will definitely come back later, it’s like he dispelled them all in just a few sentences.

It’s as you’re coming to a stop in front of your door that he almost jumps with realization.

“Wait a second. Did that fucker say—”

And then you kiss him. It’s not that hard, from the position you were in, to pivot into wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his, which you find to be soft and plump. He tenses for a second before his hand tightens on your waist and he kisses you back hungrily. If he can taste the alcohol on your lips, it doesn’t seem to bother him. His hand holds you close to him with almost bruising strength, but it remains chastely on your waist, his only movements coming from his lips and tongue.

His teeth graze against your lower lip, pulling on it, and it sends shivers through your whole body, but this is when you pull away from him. Despite his previous stillness, his head moves forward, chasing your lips for just a few seconds longer.

When you open your eyes, you find him panting, cheeks and ears a pronounced shade of red. It’s— extremely cute, if you’re being honest.

“Thank you for taking me home,” you say.

“Y—Yeah,” he says, glancing away when his voice cracks. “Yeah,” he repeats, “any time.”

“I’m gonna go to bed now,” you say, though you still haven’t taken your arms from around him.

“That’s good,” he says with a decisive nod. “’cause, you know, you’re drunk, and I wouldn’t wanna— You should go to bed.”

It makes you giggle, but you still decide give yourself a second more, during which you put your head on your shoulder, and Changbin just lets you, his hand rubbing circles on your back. When you still don’t move, he clears his throat.

“D’you want me to carry you?”

“Seriously?”

His response to that is to lift you up princess-style, one arm under your knees and the other under your back. He lets out a grunt as he lifts you, but then stabilizes himself and manages to get you through the door.

You know that you’ll have some things to seriously think about when you wake up with a throbbing headache, but in that moment, you just laugh and let him carry you to your bed, because having his arms around make you feel safe.

He makes you feel like you’re going to be okay.

“Is that a new hair cut? It looks great!”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide a smile in return.

“See, you’re here so often you notice that kind of things.”

“Of course I’d notice!” he protests, sounding offended as he’s weirdly good at doing — to be fair, it does still get him out of trouble most of the time.

She gestures for him to go to his place, but she doesn’t seem too mad, and he has a satisfied smirk on his face as he does. It’s as he’s doing so that he spots you, and his eyes go wide. He looks around like he thinks he’s gotten the wrong room, before altering his course to let himself fall down on the table next to yours

Your heart is beating like crazy in your chest and you do your best to smile at him the right way — you know, not too briefly so he doesn’t think you’re rude, and not too long so he doesn’t think you’re interested because, ahah, that’d be ridiculous, that’d be soooo embarrassing, there’s no way that would happen.

You may or may not have a raging crush on him.

Look, he’s funny. He’s cute. He looks at you when he makes a clever joke to see if you’re laughing. You don’t hang in the same circles, and you know it’s stupid to entertain your thoughts about him, but you just can’t help them. You wish you could quash your feelings before they hurt you. Because they will. Undoubtedly. Been there, done that. Love hasn’t worked for you, and you’d rather not delude yourself into hoping it could this time.

All these good resolutions vanish when Han leans towards you.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding so confused. “Did you get lost?”

You sigh.

“I was accused of cheating on a test,” you mumble, trying to sound casual about it and not like it makes you want to cry.

“What?” His eyes look like they’re trying to pop out of his head. “That’s ridiculous.” Then he leans closer, conspiratorially. “Want me to try to get you out of here?”

Your heart is beating so fast.

“No,” you squeak despite trying not to. “It’s fine. I guess that’s— part of the high school experience, right? I should live through that at least once.”

He looks deeply confused for a second, then chuckles as he settles back in his chair.

“You’re the only person who’d think that way,” he says, and you think he sounds fond as he says it, but you know that your brain is prone to wishful-thinking. Then, with a regain of interest “Tell me if you change your mind, it’s not too late.”

He settles comfortably on his desk, resting his head on his backpack. It’s already dark outside, as it usually is at this time of the year. Cold, white streetlights have turned on over the football field, and the cloudy, starless sky gives the school a gloomy vibe. It doesn’t help that it’s eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that you’ve only heard when you’d lingered too long in the library. Lively halls are empty now, as are the classrooms. On this last night before winter break, no one has stuck around. Even clubs have taken pity on their members and let them escape tonight. It’s only the six of you left in the building, and maybe a few lingering staff members and guardians.

You glance around at what others are doing, trying to figure out what you’re even meant to do in here. Jisung has closed his eyes and is clearly intent on taking a nap. Nari has pulled out a notebook and is writing in it dutifully. Hanseok is looking out the window with a blank look on his face. Taewoon seems to be sleeping as well. Finally, Ms Kim is reading a book — romance, by the looks of it —  and seems to have no plan of acknowledging your existence until the bell rings and frees her of your presence.

With a sigh, you start pulling out your books. Jisung opens an eye. With his face smooshed against his backpack, his cheeks look even rounder.

“I can still get you out,” he whispers.

You smile, but shake your head.

“It’s fine. It will all be over in an hour anyway.”

Ms Kim clears her throat to remind you to stay quiet. You jump at it, and she gives you an apologetic look, but you’re already back to burying your head in your books, trying to be small and inconspicuous and most importantly, not to anger anyone. That’s what you do after that, even once the room gets quiet again, and that’s where you still are, half an hour later, when the lights suddenly go off.

You look up, startled, and for a second you can’t see a thing, until your eyes get accustomed to the unexpected darkness. In the meantime, someone stands up, not far from you, and surprised shouts rise in the room.

“Everyone stay where you are!” Ms Kim shouts. Phones are starting to come out, lighting up the room, and soon you see that Jisung’s standing next to you, with one hand on the back of seat. He’s so close he’d brush against you if he moved just a little to the left. “It’s either the electricity or someone forgot we were still here. I’ll go see what’s happening and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Can’t we just go home?” Nari whines. “C’mon, there’s, like fifteen minutes left.”

“Make it thirty,” Ms Kim corrects sternly. “Everyone better stay here. Anyone who leaves will get detention for the first week when we’re back in class.” When protests erupt, she raises her voice. “I’ll let you off the hook if there’s an issue with the electricity, but for now, you guys need to stay there.”

She leaves the room as more people are protesting, not paying one ounce of attention to it. It looks like it’s not the first time something like that has happened to her.

Her footsteps in the hallway have barely faded that Taewoon is already getting up.

“Fuck it,” he says, making a whole show out of it. “I’m not sticking around.”

“You’re going?” Jisung asks. Clearly, he’s thinking of doing it as well. He glances around at the rest of the group. None of you have moved from your seat. “What about you guys?”

“I can’t miss practice,” Hanseok says.

“I’ve got a part time job, I can’t lose it,” is Nari’s answer.

That leaves you, and it takes you a second to realize that Jisung is looking at you and waiting for an answer.

“I— I don’t want to get detention again,” is all you can manage to mumble. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but he nods all the same.

“What are you doing?” Taewoon asks him again.

“I’ll stay behind this time,” Jisung sighs dramatically. “Live your life to the fullest for the rest of us, okay?”

Taewoon snorts.

“Sure. Enjoy yourselves here. I’ll see you after the break.”

You feel envy as he escapes the room. You wish you could care this little about all the trouble you’d get into. At the same time, being in your shoes brings advantages that you quite enjoy. Just not particularly tonight.

Then, Jisung pulls his chair to come sit next to you, setting his phone on your table so you can both see each other’s face, and you change your mind.

“You should have taken my offer,” he smiles at first, before his expression shifts to a more serious one. “You okay? It’s happened before, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m fine,” you answer, maybe too quickly. Mostly, you’re wondering why he feels the need to tell you that and if you look so fragile to him that he thinks this would send you into a breakdown. “Does it usually come back on?”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, most of the time. Sometimes there’s a tree that’s fallen somewhere it shouldn’t and she lets us go.” He glances out the window. “It’s pretty windy tonight. Maybe it’s the case.”

As you look out, you see Taewoon crossing the football field, before disappearing under the bleachers, from where he can reach the parking lot. At least one of you has gone free, you think, feeling bitter about all the things that have kept you in this spot.

“Hey, you’re getting the full, five-star high school experience,” Jisung’s voice brings you back to the present. “I can get you in trouble more after that, if you’d like.”

A small laugh escapes your lips.

“I think I’m good.”

“You could see the boys’ locker room from the inside,” he insists, and you laugh again.

“That does not sound like a good experience!”

“The inside of the teachers’ lounge,” he offers as you roll your eyes. “Steal exam questions. Change your grades. Give lower notes to your rivals.”

“What rivals,” you protest, though you’re grinning from ear to ear at this point.

“Are you saying that no one’s good enough to compete with you? And here I thought you valued my intelligence, wah, you think you know someone—”

His chatter takes your mind off your situation. There’s something about having Jisung’s undivided attention, about him clearly having noticed how down you were feeling and trying to cheer you up, that makes you feel all fuzzy inside. You’re not used to someone’s eyes staying on you for that long, certainly not his eyes. And yet he’s choosing to use time that could so easily be spent doing something else with you. Your heart beats so fast you think it’s going to fall right out of your chest.

Ten minutes go by before Nari’s voice interrupts your talking.

“Shouldn’t Ms Kim be back by now?”

Her expression is composed, she’s leaning back in her chair to look at you, but her voice is at a higher-pitch than usual. A glance at your watch tells you that she’s probably right and a cold hand comes wrap around your heart to squeeze it, before you shake it off. No need to feel that way. There’s likely a completely fine explanation.

“Maybe she’s run into Mr Park,” Jisung offers, smoothly. Then, with a gasp, “Maybe they’re having a quickie in the principal’s office.”

You chuckle quietly, but Nari’s not amused.

“Shouldn’t someone go look for her?” she asks. When no one volunteers, she continues, “She’ll never believe me if I go and I really can’t lose my part time job, but, you know, maybe if it was someone else…”

You know where this is going, and she’s not exactly wrong, yet you worry about getting in trouble all the same. Stupidly, you’re afraid you’re going to get yelled at. You hate getting yelled at. You’d probably cry if that happened.

“I’ll go if you go,” Jisung says, eyeing you, saving the day once more — saving your day at least.

“Okay,” you reply, and you surprise yourself at how quick and easy that was. You blame it on the relief you feel for not having to go out there alone. “I’ll come.”

He smiles at you when you say that. It’s kind of embarrassing how it makes butterflies take off in your stomach.

“Everyone be good,” he chastises the other two as you open the door. “Nari, you’re in charge while we’re gone, okay?”

She sticks her tongue out at him while Hanseok scoffs. Still, they’re both grinning as the two of you venture out into the quiet, dark high school.

You’re not one to believe in supernatural creatures. You like logical, provable, tangible things. Still, out there, irrational fear seizes you, wrapping its tentacles around you. Your footsteps echo loudly in the hallways, and the measly flashlight from your cellphones are nowhere near enough to light up the entire place. No matter how your orient them, there remain dark patches all over.

“It’s kind of cool,” Jisung comments as you’re starting to bury yourself in your thoughts again. This time, you don’t know if he’s doing it for your benefit or if he doesn’t like it when things stay quiet for too long. “Who knows, maybe we will see her with Mr Park.”

“I think they’re both very much married,” you reply, and some of the worry washes away when you hear your own voice. Suddenly, you’re not in this unfamiliar place anymore, but back in the halls of the high school that you walk in every single day.

“Like that’s ever stopped people,” Jisung grins. “C’mon, he’s not bad-looking for his age.”

This time, a very genuine laugh bursts out of you.

“That’s not an image I needed!” you protest.

“Like you’ve never thought about it before,” he teases, and as you let out noises of disgust, his flashlight sweeps over the floor. “What do you think? Do we start with the custodian and the principal’s office, or do we go for the basement? That’s where she’d be if it’s a problem with the electricity?”

“She’s probably in the basement if she’s been gone all this time,” you reason, but you really do not want to venture down there at the moment. Even with Jisung by your side, you don’t think you’d enjoy this small of a space with no lights other than your own. Just thinking about it has your throat becoming tighter. “But, uh, maybe we can start with the principal’s office?”

Jisung agrees to that with more enthusiasm than it warrants, and then you listen to him dramatically offer possibilities about how Ms Kim and Mr Park could have gotten together. You laugh more than you should, more than you would were you with anyone else in the same situation, and it’s not the right place nor the right time, but you know you’re falling in love with him. You’ve always suspected that it was just a matter of spending more time with him, always told yourself that it was therefore not a good idea. But here you were now, and there was not a thing you could do about it.

“Okay, here we are,” you say, interrupting a truly wild scenario in which the teacher and the principle are Russian spies who got married as a cover but were actually high school sweethearts. “Should I, uh, knock?”

Jisung shrugs, moving past you to try the handle. As he does so, you’re struck by how quiet it is. There’s no way she’s in there, we’ve wasted our time, you think.

Then, to your surprise, the door opens. Jisung walks in. Then freezes in the opening.

“What’s going on,” you ask, taking a step forward to look over his shoulder, “don’t tell me they’re really—"

But you’re not met with the sight of two lovers. Instead, your eyes first find Mr Park, slumped on his desk, something that you can’t identify sticking out of his back. On the floor, right in front of Jisung, is Ms Kim. She’s lying on her back, her eyes wide open and her pupil still and empty. It takes you a second to realize that the angle her head is at with her body is wrong, and a second longer to understand that that’s because her throat’s is nothing more than a wide, gaping wound. Underneath her, a puddle of blood that you realize you’ve stepped into. She looks so pale, compared to how she was just a few minutes ago.

You open your mouth to scream. Before you can, though, Jisung’s hand comes to cover it, and you only let out a whimper as your eyes search his. For the first time tonight, he’s lost his nonchalant confidence.

“Someone could still be there,” he whispers to you. “We shouldn’t stay here.”

With one last look at your teacher, he closes the door.

Things are blurry after that. You remember him grabbing your wrist as he drags you away from the scene. You remember him trying a few doors before pulling you into an empty classroom. You remember him vomiting in a trashcan and self-consciously wiping his mouth afterwards. You remember sitting on a table in silence for you don’t know how long.

“We have to get out of here,” he says at some point. He sounds sure of himself again.

“We have to— we have to go get Nari and Hanseok,” you answer. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel guilty for not having thought of them immediately. Shit, they must still be waiting for the two of you to return. Someone could have— someone could have already—

You’re on your feet before you think. It’s unlike you, but it says a lot that your brain doesn’t harp on that in the moment. There’s an urgency in your chest that you’re not used to feeling.

“We need to go get them.”

Jisung studies you for a second, then swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Okay,” he says. His voice is weak. “Okay. We’re getting them and then we’re going out of here, right?”

You nod. Guilt and fear are battling within you, but both feelings are directed towards the people you’ve left behind. You think it would kill you if something happened to them that you could have stopped.

The walk back to the detention is faster, but it feels like it take ages. Jisung keeps close to you, checking behind you while you keep your eyes on what’s in front of you. You see nothing, hear nothing. Just like earlier, the high school feels empty. Unlike earlier, you know it is not.

You’re almost there, starting to breathe again, starting to think you’ll make it, when you hear the screams. Terrified, you back into Jisung, who wraps his arm around you.

“Light,” he hisses, “light out, now.”

You’re too scared to do anything other than what he suggests. It overtakes your whole body, freezes your muscles into place. His chest is pressed against your back as you stay perfectly still, and you can feel his heart beating wildly, betraying the fact that he’s in the same state as you. In the distance, a door slams open.

“Don’t leave me here!” Nari screams.

In the dark, someone that you have to assume is Hanseok rushes past you. He’s fast, powerful. Whoever you hear after him is fast too, footsteps squeaking in the hallways, and all you’re thinking is that Nari is wearing heels.

At least Hanseok’s making it out is the thought that follows — for a second at least, because it isn’t long after that there’s a shout of frustration and the sound of someone struggling with a door. Then screams, intercut with disgusting, wet sounds that you can only imagine are what a knife produces when it’s brought down into someone. Tears stream down your face in silence. The front door’s locked and Hanseok— Hanseok is—

“Nari,” you whisper, choking on the word.

Jisung nods and pulls you forward, but by the time you get to the detention room, it’s empty. You check for a body, turning your cellphone’s light back on, terrified you’ll find one, and you can breathe again when you don’t find her anywhere.

“Now we have to go,” Jisung insists.

“But she’s—”

“We’ve done what we could. C’mon, we have no way of knowing where she is, she could be out by—”

The speakers creak horribly.

“Attention, students,” a man’s voice comes through. It’s loud and booming, but more than anything, it’s even. It doesn’t shake, doesn’t have the hysterical accents that you’ve heard in movies. If anything, it sounds like he’s playing the role of a school announcer, and the thought makes you sick to your stomach. “Lee Nari. Han Jisung. Kang Won— Ah, no, I suppose that’s been taken care of, hasn’t it. Im Taewoon.” Then he pauses for a second, before reading your name, and you feel overcome with helplessness. Before that, it felt like it was— You’re not sure what you were feeling, but it didn’t feel targeted. Now, you think that even leaving the school might not make the nightmare end. “Well, you might not be who I’m looking for,” the man chuckles— he fucking chuckles — after saying your name. “We’ll see. If you’re good, I’ll consider letting you off the hook. The rest of you though… you won’t cause trouble again.”

This is like a bad slasher movie with a stupid premise, something you’d make fun of if you weren’t caught in the middle of it.

“Windows and doors are locked,” he announces dramatically. “Breaking out only means that I’ll come get you, so do yourself a favor and surrender, hm? I promise to make it quick.”

Then he hangs up.

“What do we do?” you whisper to Jisung. “You— you love horror movies, right? What should we do?”

He stares at you.

“Yeah, I— I do. I didn’t think you’d remember.” It’s not the moment, but for a second — less than that, a fraction of it — you’re no longer a terrified prey but a teenager again, feeling like you’ve just exposed your crush. “I— one of us should leave.”

You shake your head.

“He said he’d hunt us. He could show up at our parents’ house—”

“I know,” he interrupts you. “But that’s— that’s why one of us should stay here.”

Again, you shake your head, more vehemently this time.

“No. No way. We’re not— We’re not doing that.”

He grabs your arms, the motion gentle instead of forceful, like one more attempt at comforting you as he looks straight into your eyes.

“Listen. One of us needs to leave. I— I think he’s probably watching the windows. He must know that we’d try to leave, right? So he’s— probably ready to give chase.” He swallows thickly. “If he— If he has a rifle or something— But that’d give someone else time to escape, if he leaves too. If not… Someone could go get help. Nari might have called the cops already, but that— that doesn’t mean they’re coming right now.”

“No,” you repeat, because you think you know where he is going with this.

“I’ll— What do you want to do? I— I think I should go.”

He’s close enough that you can see there are tears in his eyes.

“You should— you should be ready to leave from the other side when I do,” he whispers, and you want to cry too. “I’ll distract him.”

You shake your head, but you don’t think you can change his mind.

“Hey, I can be really fast, okay?” His tone gets lighter. “Maybe I’ll outrun him.”

You’d be more inclined to believe that if the man hadn’t been able to catch up with Hanseok — though you suppose that he wouldn’t have on open grounds, and that gives you some hope that you desperately cling to.

“You better,” you hear yourself say.

Jisung lets out a long, deep breath, then turns around to face the window. It’s true that they’re locked; they always are at the end of the day. But they’re not known for being particularly solid. As a matter of fact, they regularly get broken by football players. You wonder if that’s what got Hanseok in trouble, then shove the subject as far down as you can, because it reminds you that he’s— he’s—

“Okay,” Jisung mumbles, grabbing a chair and getting ready to swing it at the window. Just as he lifts it above his head, though, he stops himself and sets it down to face you.

Something passes between the two of you. It’s hard not to think that this might be the last time you see each other, however his escape attempt goes. Jisung swallows thickly.

Then he’s grabbing your shoulders and pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief, kind of clumsy. Nothing about it is how you envisioned your first kiss. But his lips are soft and warm, and he’s holding on to you like he never wants to let go.

He does anyway, looking at you with wide eyes.

“F–For luck,” he mumbles.

“Sure,” you choke out in response. “No, uh, no problem.”

You’ll die of embarrassment at that later on, if you don’t just die tonight.

His chair smashes through the window, the sound unbearably loud in the silence of the school, and he doesn’t stick around to see what happens. Cutting his hands on the broken glass, he jumps out while you back out of the room to go crouch in a dark corner. You peek to see him sprinting through the football field, waiting with baited breath to see the killer following after him.

He doesn’t.

You wait longer.

Still nothing.

And you realize you’re stuck in the building with him.

“Well, well,” the voice in the speaker says, right as the realization settles, as calm as it was the first time. “Seems like we’ve had an infraction. Too bad. Seems I’ll have to go hunting once I’m done with you.”

Then it cuts again. For a while, you can’t hear yourself think over the terrified thoughts that fill your mind. You think of following after Jisung, but you have no way of knowing if the killer would let it slide twice. Truth be told, with Jisung gone, you feel your old patterns of thinking catching up with you. You’re too scared to go, and the more you wait, the more you think it’s now too late to go. Your anxiety has you in a chokehold, with no intention of letting go.

What does get you to move is the greater fear that the killer could come inspect the place, now that Jisung’s left. He must have noticed that only Nari and Hanseok were in the room — if he thinks Taewoon was still here, probably because he was murdering Ms Kim at that point, that would have to mean the three of you were together, in his mind. It begs the question of how Taewoon got out, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he had his ways of doing it, even with the windows closed.

You don’t turn your light off, listening closely as you cross the hallways. You’re aiming for the kitchens, though you haven’t actually stopped to think about it. All that your mind can supply with as a justification is that you need a weapon. Realistically, you don’t think it would do you any good. You probably wouldn’t be able to use it against anyone. But who gives a fuck about realism right now? You might die here tonight. Three of the people you used to see around every day are gone forever already. If finding a knife makes you feel better, you’ll get yourself a knife, dammit.

You regret it when you make your way through the cafeteria. Because of how it’s situated, there is more light coming from outside in here than there was elsewhere. You’ve already started to see the dark as an ally, and leaving it makes you feel incredibly exposed. Despite that, you run through it, bent in half, trying to stay behind the tables, and get into the kitchens.

You’re searching through the drawers for a knife when the most terrifying sound you can think of right now resonates behind you.

The door. Someone’s opened the door.

You crouch behind one of the many kitchen isles. Silent tears are running down your face, but adrenaline is keeping you from completely giving up — for now, anyway.

“Who do we have here?” the voice asks, and you press a hand against your mouth so you don’t accidentally give yourself away. It doesn’t just echo in the cafeteria though, no, it comes out through the speakers as well. Like he wants the survivors to know that he’s gotten one of you, and that they never had a chance in the first place. “I’ll be very disappointed in you if it’s you, (Y/N). If you’d stayed put, you might have had a chance. Now, I have to wonder if you helped your friend leave, too.”

Glancing over the corner, you see a man in a mask slowly walking through the kitchen. Slowly, you start backing up, careful not to make a sound. If you run, maybe you’ll get to the door. If you get to the door, maybe he’ll lose you and you’ll be able to hide better.

Please. Please. You just want to make it out of here. You want— you want to go to college. You want to ask Jisung what that kiss meant. You want to get home to your parents.

It’s as you’re getting up that you bump your head into one of the drawers that you’ve left open. Once it happens, you’re on your feet in an instant, making a dash for the door, but the man intercepts you before you can get away. You fall on your back when he pushes you, and he shakes his head at you.

“I thought you were better than that,” he sighs. “It truly is a shame that you got caught up in this, but I suppose you weren’t as good as you made yourself out to be.”

He raises the knife. Tears blur your vision.

Then there’s a loud smack. Nari appears behind him, a bent plastic tray in her hands and tears streaming down her face.

“I’m s–so sorry you got detention because of me,” she sobs out, chest heaving, and all you can do is stare — though a part of you that right now is very far from the surface appreciates the sentiment. You note, vaguely, that she’s barefoot, probably having ditched the heels when she realized they would only get her in trouble.  She holds her hand out, and you take it without hesitation, pulling yourself to your feet just in time to see the man rise again behind her. He’s rubbing the back of his head, but he’s nowhere near unconscious, and he’s close. You pull Nari away, but his knife still slashes across her back and she falls forward, screaming.

You back up, but his eyes aren’t on you. Instead, he goes to stand above Nari. She tries to crawl forward, crying, and you see him lowering himself above her.

If you don’t want to watch her die in front of your eyes, you need to find the fucking knives.

The first two drawers you stumble into as Nari struggles and desperately hits at the men are empty.

The third one has knives.

You can’t afford to think as you rush back towards them. The man raises his knife once, and Nari catches the blade with her bare hand. You try to tune out both the screams and the sounds. Then he grabs her wrists with the one hand. Raises the knife again.

You’re out of time.

You stab him in the chest, and he lets out a sharp, horrified gasp. You push him backwards while his blade catches at your arms, the adrenaline too strong to feel it for now. You drive the blade into him, again and again and again, until he’s fallen and his knife has gone still, and all that fills the room are Nari’s tears and whimpers of pain.

It’s only as your own pain catches up with you that you admit what’s just happened.

You did it.

You lived.

 They take Nari and Hanseok to a hospital first, both of their wounds being much more significant than your own. Hanseok’s condition, from what you’ve heard, was ‘critical’. You’d felt hope at that, at first, but the looks people had exchanged had soon quashed that.

They weren’t optimistic.

As they leave, you stay wrapped in a blanket, sitting in an ambulance as your arms are being disinfected as the cops search the building. All of your limbs ache like you’ve just run a marathon, but you can’t make yourself look away, no matter how hard you’ve tried. Staying there, you hear, vaguely, that the killer was a former member of staff that had been let go earlier in the year. He’s alive too, for now, because you hadn’t known where to aim when you’d attacked him — ironically, that’s the same reason Hanseok’s still breathing. His exact motive was being debated still, but you found unable to care. Why would you give a shit about why he'd done that? All that mattered was that he’d done it.

You’re sitting there, stewing in those thoughts, when Jisung appears. You don’t think they were supposed to let him through, but it looks like he managed to sneak in. He’s clearly been crying, his eyes all red and his face puffy.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chokes on the words. “I didn’t think— I didn’t think I’d be leaving you alone in there with him. I— I did as fast as I could, I promise, but they— they thought it was a prank call and I—”

“It’s—” You want to say ‘It’s fine’, but the words refuse to come out of your mouth. “It’s not your fault,” you manage to say instead. “You had no way of knowing. I’m— Nari and I should both be fine. You did— You did the best thing you could have done.”

Nari had mentioned, as you were lying with her on the cold floor of the cafeteria, that she’d seen you walk in, soon followed by the man. She hadn’t found herself able to stay away. Who knew, if she hadn’t felt so guilty, maybe she wouldn’t have gone in. Maybe if it had been Jisung, he’d be gone by now. Maybe if you’d left through the window, the killer would have followed you.

There are too many what ifs to let him blame himself.

“I’m glad you made it,” you say softly, trying not to cry again.

He nods, opens his mouth, then shakes his head as tears flow once again, and just comes to sit next to you. It’s not so often that you see Han Jisung so completely quiet. You rest your head on his shoulder, trying to bring him what comfort you can, certainly taking all that you are able to from his touch.

You know, in that moment, that the consequences of tonight would likely follow you for the rest of your life. You don’t know if there will be a single day in the future where you don’t think of it. But right now, the thought that maybe, just maybe, not everything that comes from tonight has to be horrible and dark and crushing helps you to just keep breathing.

Jisung’s fingers quietly rub circles on your skin. He presses a kiss into your hair, mumbles ‘Thank you’s to no one in particular.

Finally, you allow yourself to close your eyes.

since this is different from what I usually write (and gets brutal), I'm exceptionally not using my taglist.

i enjoyed writing this and wrote almost 4k for it today, so, uh, sorry if it stops making sense at around 3k in. something that i particularly enjoy is breaking genre expectations by jumping into another genre. here, the first half is inspired by your typical high school movies, before veering into a thriller/horror movie, which i quite like (but it can also be disorienting and i'd get it if you didn't enjoy it). anyway.