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Hi my lovelies, unfortunately my next work will probaby not be fully finished and released for a little while as I have traumatic tendonitis and have torn the tendon in my left wrist and typing one handed is not the most ideal.
I currently have to alternate between just a splint and a splint & sling to keep it elevated so i essentially have one functional hand.
How To Lose Your Cool In 10 Stretches: B.C Bang Chrissy x fem!reader
WC: 18.1K
CWs: Gender-Swapped!SKZ, sexual jokes, sex toy mentions, body/muscle critique (not negative), bisexual menace chrissy bang, casual references to hookups
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· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The living room of your three-bed apartment in Seoul looks less like a shared domestic space and more like a soft pink crime scene committed by someone with excellent core strength. Your yoga mat is rolled out between the coffee table and the sofa, your fitted white camisole clinging neatly over the bright pink bra-style top beneath it, the straps and neckline showing through. Your loose light-pink drawstring trousers pool softly around your legs as you slide deeper into the splits, humming under your breath like your pelvis isn't currently attempting to file for divorce from the rest of your body.
Minhee sits on the sofa with Dori draped across her lap like a boneless mackerel-patterned scarf, one hand buried in his fur, while Doongie is pressed into her side with the heavy entitlement of a landlord. Hyunjin sits cross-legged on the rug beside the coffee table, eating dried mango from the packet with the expression of someone watching a documentary about an animal that absolutely shouldn't be doing what it's doing. Soonie, enormous orange menace that he is, weaves around you with his white nose tilted proudly into the air, tail brushing your arm as he steps directly onto your thigh.
You glance down at him serenely. “Soonie-yah, your paw is on my hamstring.”
Soonie blinks at you and steps harder. Hyunjin makes a strangled noise. “That cat is ninety centimetres of pure audacity. Why is he standing on you like you're a fucking pedestrian crossing?”
“He likes pressure points,” you say, as you fold forward until your chest nearly touches the mat. “Or dominance. It can be both.”
Minhee winces so hard her whole face folds in on itself. “I love you so much, but every time you do that, my vagina crawls backwards into my body.”
“That sounds medically concerning,” you say.
“Everything in this flat is medically concerning,” Hyunjin mutters. “We live with three cats, one emotionally constipated bartender, one golden retriever with tits, and a pilates demon.”
You shift smoothly out of the splits, brace your forearms on the mat, and kick your legs up into the air. The movement is controlled and quiet, your body tipping upside down while your legs open into a clean split. Hyunjin stops chewing, Minhee grips Dori like he can protect her from the visual, and Soonie immediately circles faster, looping through the space between your arms like a tiny orange shark with no survival instinct.
Hyunjin exhales, reverent and distressed. “Whoever dates your beautiful pansexual ass will be the luckiest person alive. I could only be so lucky to fuck you and feel the gentle loving touch of your bendy body.”
“I thought you liked your coworker, unnie. The bouncer lady?”
Hyunjin’s face drops open. “You are upside down and still attacking me.”
Minhee points at you with her free hand. “She's got blood rushing to her brain. Her powers have doubled.”
You push from your forearms onto your hands, balancing in a handstand with your legs still split wide. Soonie, thrilled by this development, begins weaving faster, brushing against your wrists.
“Oh, please, Soonie,” Hyunjin says, suddenly panicked. “Do not knock her over. She may be bendy, but I don't want to explain to emergency services that a cheese tabby committed attempted murder because he wanted attention.”
“He wouldn't kill me,” you say calmly. “He'd only injure me emotionally by leaving during my recovery.”
Minhee groans. “God forbid anyone tries to break into this place. You'll snap their neck with your hidden strength or wrap your legs around their neck and twist like fucking Black Widow.”
You laugh softly as you lower yourself down, knees finding the mat with ridiculous grace. “I don't think that's part of standard self-defence.”
“It should be,” Minhee says. “I'd attend that class. ‘Murder Pilates.’ Twenty thousand won a session.”
Hyunjin wipes mango dust off her fingers. “And to answer your question, yes, I am still tragically pining over Chaebin, because apparently I enjoy suffering. Some people do yoga. I fantasise about a woman who could bench press me through a wall.”
“All because she can't hike up her tits and just confess,” Minhee says.
You put one leg behind you, arching your back as you pull your foot up until it touches the back of your head. Soonie nudges your side, then your ribs, then weaves around you faster, determined to interrupt whatever nonsense is keeping him from your hands.
“Hyunjin-unnie,” you say, voice airy and sweet, “you should tell your coworker. Life's too short not to.”
“Y/N-ah, my bendy baby, you know I love you, but your opinion is denied.”
“Okay,” you say peacefully. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Hyunjin nods, satisfied, until you add, “But you can't be surprised if someone else starts biting her biteable biceps, as you put it.”
Minhee nods solemnly. “She has a point, Jinnie.”
Hyunjin clutches her chest. “This is betrayal in a rented apartment.”
You finally return to a normal, socially acceptable seated position, and Soonie immediately climbs into your lap, shoving his head against your left tit repeatedly until you notice and start scratching behind his ears.
Minhee stares. “That's how I know Soonie has middle child syndrome. Not taking after his eomma at all. I'm an ass lady all the way, and he just wants titties.”
“Cats seek warmth,” you say, stroking Soonie’s head as he purrs like an engine. “Also, emotional security. And sometimes breasts.”
Hyunjin points at the cat. “He's just like me, for real.”
“Please don't compare yourself to my son while he’s motorboating our flatmate,” Minhee says.
You blink at the wall, as if remembering something you forgot to tell them three days ago. “Oh, the local gym offered me a full-time position. I'm no longer renting the studio once a week. They've hired me as their full-time pilates instructor.”
For half a second, the room goes silent. Even Soonie pauses with his face pressed into your chest, then Hyunjin and Minhee shoot upright so violently that Dori slides down Minhee’s thighs.
“What the fuck?” Hyunjin shrieks. “Why didn't you tell us?”
Minhee grabs Doongie before he can tumble off the sofa. “We'd have bought a cake. Or wine.”
“Cake and wine,” Hyunjin corrects, already looking emotional. “This is a cake and wine level event. This is crystals worked, bitch.”
Minhee whips her head towards her. “Crystals? I handed out flyers to half the people at Escape and told drunk women their posture was shit so they'd book Y/N's Tuesday class.”
“That was also spiritual labour,” Hyunjin argues.
You smile down at Soonie, who has resumed aggressively claiming your lap. “I was going to mention it after stretching.”
“After stretching?” Minhee repeats, standing up with Dori under one arm like a handbag. “You've been wearing yourself to the fucking bone since graduation, doing hair on the side and cramming six classes into one Tuesday like a tiny peaceful capitalist victim, and you were going to mention it after stretching?”
Hyunjin is already crawling towards you across the rug. “Come here. I'm hugging you before Minhee starts crying and pretends it's cat allergies.”
Minhee sniffles immediately. “I'm going to the store. This calls for celebration.”
“Buy the expensive cake,” Hyunjin says, wrapping her arms around you and Soonie together. “Our baby is employed.”
You pat her head gently. “I was already employed.”
“Not the point,” Minhee says, grabbing her keys. “Tonight, we celebrate your full-time bendy empire.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Chrissy Bang is halfway through a set of bicep curls, standing in front of the mirror with her cream headphones pushed behind one ear, black compression tank clinging to her shoulders and upper body, cream sports bra peeking through at the neckline, high-waisted black wide-leg sweatpants sitting low enough to make Chaebin accuse her of dressing like a bisexual fitness influencer with commitment issues. Her icy platinum hair is scraped back into a tiny knot at the back of her head, but a few long, feathery pieces have escaped around her face because apparently even her hair has authority problems.
Chaebin is beside her, doing hammer curls, her black waves cling lightly to her forehead with sweat, and her expression in the mirror is pure judgment. “Unnie, you’ve done six reps and then stared at the wall like a divorced dad. Are we training arms or are we emotionally processing the dumbbells?”
Chrissy lowers the weight slowly, eyes narrowing at the poster taped to the noticeboard near the studio corridor. “Shut the fuck up, I’m reading.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
“Pilates classes included with membership,” Chrissy reads, stepping closer. “Beginner, intermediate, advanced. Elderly tai chi every morning for sixty-plus. Yoga classes may be added if there’s interest.” She blinks at it, offended by the audacity of change happening without her permission. “Since when? I’ve been coming here since I was twenty. This place has had the same broken vending machine and the same ahjumma at reception telling us we’re too pretty to lift heavy for seven fucking years.”
Chaebin racks her dumbbells and leans in. “Maybe they finally hired someone with a spine.”
Chrissy glances at her. “Everyone here has a spine.”
“Not the men who scream during lat pulldowns, they don’t.”
Chrissy’s gaze drops to the studio number printed on the bottom of the poster. Her curiosity flares bright and nosy, which is unfortunate because Chrissy considers herself a woman of action, especially when the action involves finding out who has dared to add flexibility-based programming to her male-dominated gym ecosystem. She sets her dumbbells down and starts walking.
Chaebin looks up sharply. “Where the fuck are you going?”
“To investigate."
“Chrissy-unnie.”
Chrissy waves behind her without stopping. “I’ll be back.”
“You can’t just abandon me mid-set, you broad-shouldered goblin.”
“I can, and I am.”
The studio door is partly open when Chrissy reaches it, and she peeks through with all the subtlety of a raccoon inspecting an unlocked bin. She expects some man with a tight polo shirt and dead eyes. Instead, at the front of the studio, there is you. You stand in a matching sage-green activewear set, fitted long-sleeve top smoothing along your body, flared leggings soft around your ankles, matching headband keeping your hair away from your face, simple white trainers planted neatly on the studio floor. You look serene and somehow distant, like you’ve wandered down from a cloud to teach balance to the elderly and possibly ruin Chrissy’s entire life.
Chrissy’s mouth goes dry as her brain turns into a puddle with abs. You are guiding a group of elderly women through slow, careful stretches, your voice calm and warm enough that even the grumpiest halmeoni in the back row seems to be listening. “Shift your weight slowly. Don’t rush the movement. Your body doesn’t like being bullied before lunch,” you say gently, demonstrating with an easy turn of your shoulders. “If your knee complains, listen to it. Pain is information, not a personality trait.”
One of the older women snorts. “Tell that to my husband.”
You smile without missing a beat. “Bring him tomorrow. I’ll tell him directly.”
The women laugh, and Chrissy nearly walks into the doorframe. The primal, deeply embarrassing part of her brain begins ringing a temple bell. Pilates instructor. Advanced classes. Potential yoga. Flexibility. Endurance. Angel bending in ways that could require government regulation. Chrissy grips the doorframe like it personally owes her money.
“Be still, my pulsating vagina.”
Behind her, Chaebin’s voice arrives like a brick through a window. “Chrissy-unnie, what are you doing?”
Chrissy doesn’t look away from you. “Falling in love.”
Chaebin stops beside her and peers in. “What’s new? This happens every fucking week.”
“No, I mean it this time, Chaebin-ah. I have found the love of my life, and she does pilates.”
Chaebin studies you for about three seconds, then studies Chrissy with far less kindness. “You fall in love at least once a week with a new customer at the bar, and then you flirt, they fall, you fuck them, and move on.”
Chrissy finally turns, scandalised. “That’s slander.”
“Slander is lies. I just stated facts.”
Chrissy moves away from the door before she can be caught peeping, and she presses her back to the wall in the corridor and exhales like she’s just survived a near-death experience involving cheekbones and soft instructions about knee safety. “What do I do, Chaebin-ah?”
Chaebin crosses her thick arms, which is unfairly distracting in a different but still troubling way. “Well, this is our local gym, and she’s an employee, so you can’t Chrissy your way through this.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know exactly what it means. You flirt, they melt, you act like a walking leather-jacket fantasy, then someone ends up crying into a cocktail at Escape while Seungmi calculates whether heartbreak affects bar spending.”
Chrissy points at her. “I’m sensing a lot of bitchiness from you right now, and it’s really not appreciated.”
“Be glad it’s me watching you fall in love like a loser and not Seungmi.”
Chrissy shudders. “She’d say something dry enough to dehydrate my organs.”
“She’d be right.” Chaebin grabs Chrissy by the elbow and starts steering her back towards the weights area. “So what we’re going to do now is retreat and use our frontal lobes before going in pussy first. You need to remember you’re a business owner, which I think you forget sometimes.”
Chrissy scoffs. “I don’t forget. I pay you all, don’t I?”
“I mean with your behaviour, like when you fingerbanged the DJ from Haven in our stockroom.”
Chrissy’s face goes thoughtful. “Oh. I did do that.”
“And don’t even get me started on your office.”
“What’s wrong with my office?”
Chaebin gives her a flat look. “You peg men in there.”
Chrissy lifts her chin. “I also strap women in there. I am an equal opportunity bisexual with a lot of love to share.”
Chaebin releases her elbow with visible disgust. “You’re a community hazard.”
Chrissy glances back towards the studio door, where your calm voice floats faintly into the corridor, telling someone to soften their shoulders and breathe like they’re not about to fight the government. Her heart gives a ridiculous little kick. “Maybe I should sign up for beginner pilates.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
That night, Escape is doing what Escape always does best, which is somehow operating as both a functioning LGBTQ+ bar and a collective public breakdown with neon lighting. Tucked away in Hongdae, the place glows like a queer fever dream, packed with lesbians leaning over tables, gay men arguing passionately about choreography, enbies glittering under the lights, trans regulars holding court in the corner, and anyone else who needs somewhere to breathe.
Chrissy sits on the wrong side of her own bar, looking tragic in the kind of outfit that makes people wonder if she owns the building or has come to emotionally ruin someone rich. Her oversized structured blazer sharpens her already broad shoulders, the sheer black blouse beneath it gathered at the neck in a dramatic scarf-like collar that drapes loose over the bralette she is only wearing because Seungmi has feelings about public indecency. Which is rich, considering everyone knows Minhee and Jisu regularly use the staff booth dividers like a privacy screen for lesbian crimes, but apparently nipples are where civilisation draws the line. Chrissy’s tailored black trousers are cinched neatly at the waist, black pointed stilettos hooked over the footrest, her pale hair twisted into a low knot held by the black binyeo Chaebin bought her when Escape opened.
Behind the bar, Minhee glares at her while mixing drinks under neon signs that scream Live Fast, Scissor Hard and In This House We Scissor. The wall behind her is a beautiful mess of vinyl stickers and framed posters, Queer All Year wedged beside No Heteros After 9PM, while Sashay In, Sloppily Stumble Out hangs slightly crooked because Hyunjin keeps bumping it with crates and refusing accountability.
“Okay, unnie,” Minhee says, setting a cocktail down in front of Yujin, an enbie regular with silver eyeliner and a face made for gossip. “I’m sick of looking at that tragic face. What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?”
Chrissy sighs so dramatically, a nearby gay pauses mid-sip. “True love, Minhee-yah. Love at first sight, even.”
Minhee clicks her tongue and reaches for the soju. “Not again.”
“Why is that everyone’s response?”
“Because, Chrissy-unnie, you have sex with people like it’s your version of mandatory service.”
Chrissy gasps, pressing one hand to her chest. “How dare you say that to your boss?”
“With accuracy and unpaid emotional labour,” Minhee says. “Now, who is it? Man or woman?”
“Woman.”
“Okay, I’m with you. If you said man, you’d have to go talk to Chaebin or Seungmi. Real flesh dicks are not my forte. I only know silicone and commitment.”
Chrissy leans closer, suddenly glowing with terrible sincerity. “I haven’t spoken to her yet, so I don’t know if she’s into women. She’s a pilates instructor at my gym. She wore sage green, all floaty like a fairy. Calm voice, pretty hands, terrifyingly gentle aura.”
Minhee’s head turns towards her slowly, too slowly, like a haunted lesbian doll possessed by a petty ancestor, and Chrissy recoils. "If you ever do that again, you’re fired.”
“And what is this instructor’s name?” Minhee asks, voice suddenly delicate in a way that means violence is packing a bag.
Chrissy taps her cheek, thinking. “She’s new. It was on the poster. What was it?”
Minhee looks up at the ceiling. “Please God, if you are real and a merciful woman, let my unnie tell me any name but Y/N.”
Chrissy snaps her fingers. “That’s it.”
Minhee throws both hands up. “God, why? Why did you do this to me? I recycle. I tip well. I have never once knowingly flirted with a straight woman after the third warning sign. I’ve been a good lesbian. I’ve suffered through bad undercuts, fake doms, and women who say they’re ‘just exploring’ while crying on my tits at 3am. Why would you beseech me so?”
Chrissy blinks. “Do you want me to turn around while you speak to the Almighty Woman?”
“No. I want you to not fuck mine and Hyunjin’s flatmate.”
Chrissy freezes. “Huh?”
“The pilates instructor at your gym is mine and Hyunjin’s flatmate.”
“You and Hyunjin live with someone else?”
“Yes, you self-absorbed trouser demon. We purposely hid her from you, so you need to keep your prowler growler away from her.”
Yujin snorts into their drink. Chrissy slowly turns. “My fucking what?”
“You heard me. Your prowler growler. That flap monster between your legs.”
“My cunt has never been so insulted.”
“Maybe she needs to be disrespected once or twice.”
“You’re speaking about her like she’s a delinquent dog.”
“She is a delinquent dog. Humps everything in sight indiscriminately.”
Yujin lifts their glass. “Probably slobbers.”
Minhee slaps them a high five. “Free drink for you.”
Chrissy stares at both of them. “Honestly, the disrespect all my staff give me is outrageous.”
“You encouraged this kind of work environment by choosing friendship over professionalism,” Minhee says. “You can’t build a bar on gay chaos, dick jokes, nipple stickers, and staff emotional damage, then act shocked when one of your staff calls you a big bi slut in front of customers.”
“A bad decision on my part, clearly,” Chrissy says, though she does not sound sorry. “But seriously, Minhee-yah, how could you hide such a beauty from me?”
“Because you’re a horny heartbreaking monster, and I say that with love, unnie.”
“I am not.”
Yujin raises a finger. “You are. You’re legendary, actually. People who’ve slept with you either revere you or curse you.”
Chrissy perks up with an unwilling grin. “Really?”
“That is not something to be proud of,” Minhee snaps. “Where’s Hyunjin? I need support. She won’t let you anywhere near her bendy baby.”
Chrissy’s face changes. “Her what?”
Minhee ignores her and bellows, “Hyunjin-ah!”
Hyunjin appears from the stockroom with a clipboard in one hand. “You bellowed?”
“Tell Chrissy-unnie that under no circumstances is her prowler growler allowed near Y/N.”
Hyunjin gasps, horrified. “Keep your Venus flap trap away from my bendy baby.”
Chrissy grips the counter. “My pussy is going to need therapy after all this verbal abuse.”
Minhee reaches over and pats her head. “There, there.”
Chrissy sighs, wounded to the depths of her slutty bisexual soul, and her gaze drifts across the bar out of habit. Hyunjin immediately points at her. “Whoop, there it is.”
“What?”
“You looking for your next fuck. You wonder why we won’t let you near the human-sized woodland sprite we live with.”
“I wasn’t looking for my next fuck,” Chrissy says, deeply offended. “I was dissociating artistically.”
“You were scanning the crowd like a shark with cheekbones,” Minhee says.
Chrissy rises with theatrical suffering and rounds the counter to take her rightful place beside Minhee. She washes her hands, reaches for a shaker, and catches Minhee and Hyunjin exchanging a deeply suspicious look over her head. Neither of them believes her for a second, which is frankly insulting, because Chrissy has absolutely no intention of pursuing you carelessly. She is going to be thoughtful, restrained, respectful, and normal.
Then she remembers you in sage green, soft-voiced and bendy, and nearly crushes a lime in her bare hand.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Chrissy is pretending she is not reading the pilates poster for the seventh time in twelve minutes. She stands by the free weights in a fitted navy compression top that clings to her torso, oversized dark sweatpants hanging low on her hips with bold yellow lettering down one leg, grey trainers planted wide, black cap pulled low, her headphones resting uselessly around her neck.
Chaebin stands beside her with a towel over one shoulder and the expression of a woman who has already seen the future and found it deeply fucking annoying. “No.”
Chrissy doesn’t look at her. “I didn’t say anything.”
“No.”
“I’m merely looking at a public notice.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking with your cunt, unnie. I don’t need telepathy for that.”
Chrissy turns, offended. “When’s the last time we focused on muscular health instead of strength?”
Chaebin stares at her. “You talk so much shit. You have never cared either.”
“But we’re getting old, Chaebin-ah. We should focus on flexibility and motor ability now so we don’t end up like those ahjummas in tai chi.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“That’s almost dust.”
“I’m only coming with you to make sure you don’t act like a cavewoman,” Chaebin says, already giving in with the tragic exhaustion of someone dragged into a crime by proximity.
Chrissy places a hand over her chest. “I do not act like a cavewoman.”
Chaebin lowers her voice into a ridiculous grunt. “Ooga booga, tits, pussy, dick.”
Chrissy’s mouth falls open. “What the everloving fuck was that?”
“My cavewoman Chrissy impression.”
“That sounded like a horny troll with a concussion.”
“Exactly.”
They wander towards the studio, Chrissy walking with the determined dignity of a woman about to make a calm, sensible health choice, and Chaebin walking like security escorting a dangerous animal back to its enclosure. Inside, you are alone at the front of the room, folded so deeply at the waist that your torso presses against your legs, arms wrapped around your lower calves, forehead resting against your shins. You are dressed in light olive, a fitted wrap-style top with a twisted bust, slim straps, bold midriff cutouts, and a side tie, paired with high-waisted wide-leg trousers that fall smoothly around your legs. A matching olive headband holds your loose natural waves back from your face, and your white trainers look offensively clean.
Chaebin stops dead. “There is no planet we can bend ourselves like that.”
Chrissy silently rubs the base of her spine.
You straighten with slow, fluid ease, blinking at them as if you haven’t just unfolded from a shape that should require paperwork. “Oh, hello. Are you here for the beginner's class?”
Both of them nod silently, hands still pressed to their lower backs.
Your gaze drops to their hands, and your smile turns faintly amused. “Don’t worry, you won’t be doing that.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” Chaebin says instantly. “I’m Chaebin. This is my unnie, Chrissy.”
Chrissy waves like her brain has been replaced with warm tteok. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you say, soft and open. “Don’t worry too much. Beginner classes are breathing, warm-up, core basics, glutes and legs, then gentle stretching to wind down.” You point to the poster on the wall. “I put the lesson plan up there because people feel less frightened when the suffering is scheduled.”
Chaebin walks over and squints. “Arrival and centring sounds doable. Sitting, breathing, relaxing. I was born for that.”
“Practising breathing,” Chrissy says, leaning closer. “We’ve been doing that since birth. Elite level.”
“Pelvic tilts, marching, arm arcs,” Chaebin reads. “All doable.”
“Cat-cow stretch?” Chrissy says. “Looks simple enough.”
“You flex and extend your spine,” you explain.
Chrissy and Chaebin share an uncertain look before Chaebin clears her throat and continues. “Then more rest. I like that.”
“Bridges,” Chrissy reads. “Lifting the hips slowly off the mat to work glutes, hamstrings, and core. Modified curl-ups, small chest lifts to begin working the upper abs without straining the neck.”
“What the hell are dead bug variations?” Chaebin asks.
“They involve opposite arm and leg movements with control,” you say.
“That sounds like being humiliated on the floor,” Chaebin mutters.
Chrissy points further down. “Side-lying leg lifts sound like hell.”
“Clamshells,” Chaebin reads, looking offended. “Knees bent, opening the top knee to strengthen the glutes. Why is the shell clammy?”
“That’s not what it means,” you say, laughing lightly.
“Oh god,” Chrissy says. “Spine stretch forward. I’ll barely bend. I’m like an oak tree with tits.”
Your laugh is quiet and bright, and Chrissy looks so pleased with herself that Chaebin elbows her in the ribs.
Chaebin reads the final section with increasing horror. “Seated hamstring stretch? Supine twist? So the end is torture?”
You tilt your head, thoughtful. “Muscles are useless if all they do is lift heavy things. Eventually there’s no flexibility and mobility, and then you’ll be stiff as corpses.”
Chaebin looks at Chrissy. “She said that so sweetly.”
Chrissy nods. “Like an angel announcing death.”
Ten minutes later, people begin filtering in, chatting as they collect mats. An older man in a tracksuit tells Chaebin he recognises her from Escape, then immediately adds, “Don’t throw me out today, I’m fragile before lunch.” A university student with glitter nails asks if beginners means “for people whose bodies are fucked from sitting,” and you tell her kindly that the class welcomes the desk-damaged. Music starts low from the speaker, a playlist roaming shamelessly from BLACKPINK to Sabrina Carpenter, then Sam Fender slides in between Dua Lipa and RAYE like a pleasant little ambush.
Chrissy’s heart gives a stupid flutter. “Sam Fender?”
You glance over. “You know him?”
“My younger siblings in Australia played him when I visited. Hannah nearly fought Lucas over a playlist, then cried during the chorus.”
“Reasonable,” you say. “Some songs are emotionally rude.”
Chrissy stares at you like you’ve just proposed marriage with a resistance band.
“All right, everyone,” you say, clapping once gently. “If we have a sing-song, it makes everything feel less sucky when you’re making your body bend in ways it wouldn’t usually. If you don’t know the song but like it, whip out Shazam or Kakao and expand your horizons.”
The class starts well enough. Chrissy and Chaebin breeze through centring, breathing, pelvic tilts, marching, and arm arcs with the smugness of women who think they’ve beaten pilates. Then cat-cow arrives and immediately destroys them. Cow on inhale is fine enough, chest lifted, pelvis tipped back, belly softening towards the mat. Cat on exhale is war. Their spines seem to receive the instruction, hold a meeting, and vote no.
Chrissy watches your spine move like water as you demonstrate. “Her bones are liquid.”
Chaebin, trembling on all fours, hisses, “This is discrimination against buff babes.”
You come over, kneeling beside them with calm focus. “Chaebin-ssi, soften between your shoulder blades. Chrissy-ssi, draw your lower abdomen in here.”
Your hand presses lightly to Chrissy’s abdomen to guide the movement, and Chrissy nearly sees every queer ancestor she’s ever had. Her eyes snap to the mat. Chaebin’s head turns slowly, warning burning through her stare.
Chrissy says nothing, and Chaebin whispers, “Holy shit. Growth.”
The rest of class swings between triumph and tragedy. They love the rest positions. They manage bridges and modified curl-ups with enough competence that Chrissy starts to look smug again. Dead bug variations humble them mildly. Side-lying leg lifts make Chaebin mutter, “This is arse terrorism,” Clamshells reduce Chrissy to whispering, “My glutes are filing a complaint,” while you tell the room, serene as ever, that shaking is normal and not a moral failure.
Then comes spine stretch forward. Most of the class reaches towards their toes with reasonable human difficulty. Chrissy and Chaebin barely reach past their knees, sitting tall with their legs extended, looking like two muscular statues abandoned by God.
You crouch between them. “Don’t force it. Reach from the crown of your head first, then soften forward.”
“I am softening,” Chrissy says.
“You’re negotiating,” you reply.
Chaebin snorts. “She does that in bed too, probably.”
Chrissy glares. “I’m being respectful today.”
“That’s what scares me.”
By the time the seated hamstring stretch and supine twist arrive, both of them are humbled beyond repair. Chrissy lies on her back as you gently guide her knees to one side, your hands careful and professional against her legs. Her entire body goes rigid for one horrifying second, then she forces herself to breathe and stare at the ceiling like a woman being tested by the universe, God, and Minhee’s threatening lesbian energy all at once.
Chaebin side-eyes her so hard it should count as cardio. She is visibly praying to every queer icon dead and alive that Chrissy won’t say something vulgar about stretching you out in return. Chrissy swallows, keeps her eyes fixed heroically upward, and says nothing at all. It is possibly the strongest thing she has ever done in this gym.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
By the time you get home at 8pm, your body feels like it has been professionally wrung out by every beginner, intermediate, advanced, and elderly balance-related concern in Seoul. You toe your trainers off by the door, slip your feet into your house slippers, and immediately hear the violent thud of Soonie launching himself down from his cat tree like he has been abandoned at sea for six years instead of waiting in the living room since breakfast.
Hyunjin is sprawled across the sofa in a dramatic heap, Doongie curled against one side of her and Dori tucked against the other, both cats looking like they’ve accepted her as temporary furniture. She glances up from her phone and says, “Our bendy baby has returned from war,” while Soonie winds through your ankles so tightly you nearly have to shuffle instead of walk.
From the kitchen, Minhee calls, “How was work?”
The apartment smells like heaven and processed meat, which means Minhee is making budae-jjigae. The stew bubbles on the hob with sausage, spam, kimchi, ramen, and cheese melting into the top in a way that would probably make a nutritionist sigh and then ask for a bowl. Beside it, Minhee has gamja bokkeum glossy in a pan, gyeran mari sliced neatly on a plate, and dubu buchim resting on kitchen paper with the crisp edges you always love.
“It was good,” you say, drifting into the kitchen with Soonie attached to your feet. “I met some interesting characters today.”
Minhee doesn’t look away from the pan. “If it’s men, don’t bring that energy into the house.”
“Y/N-ah is pansexual,” Hyunjin calls from the living room. “Don’t discriminate against her for liking every available option at the metaphorical buffet.”
Minhee clicks her tongue. “Fine, but don’t talk to me about anyone with a penis and a personality that should never have a microphone or podcast.”
“It was two women,” you say. “Chaebin and Chrissy.”
Minhee’s spatula freezes mid-air, and in that exact moment, Soonie takes advantage of the distraction and hops onto the counter with the smug confidence of a criminal in a very soft fur coat.
You reach out to scoop him up before Minhee can begin her hygiene sermon, and he immediately throws his full weight at you. You grunt, arms tightening around him as he lands against your chest like a sack of warm rice with whiskers.
“He’s not fat,” Minhee says automatically, even though nobody has said anything. “He’s structurally blessed.”
“He’s very large,” you say, adjusting him carefully.
“He’s big-boned.”
“He has a pouch that swings independently.”
“That’s his wisdom pouch,” Minhee snaps.
Hyunjin sits up on the sofa so fast that Doongie gives her a betrayed look. “Wait, back the fuck up. Did you say Chaebin and Chrissy?”
“They were in my beginner class,” you say. “They were buff. Really muscular, actually, but no flexibility at all.”
Minhee looks up at the ceiling, eyes suddenly wet with theatrical despair. “God, you cruel butch bitch. Why did you send my test in the form of Chrissy Bang? Have I not suffered enough? Did I not protect this home from fuckboys, finance bros, and women who think astrology is a substitute for therapy? Why, Almighty Dyke in the Sky, would you bring that platinum menace to my innocent baby’s workplace?”
You blink at her. “Are you praying or threatening God?”
“Both,” Hyunjin says, already moving towards the kitchen. “Y/N-ah, did she flirt with you?”
“Who?”
“Chrissy.”
“No.”
Minhee squints, suspicious. “Maybe it’s a different Chrissy.”
“It has to be,” Hyunjin says. “What did she look like?”
“Hot,” you say simply, scratching under Soonie’s chin as he purrs. “Platinum blonde hair in a little bun. Ass for days. Chaebin was shorter, black hair, built like a very hot wall.”
Hyunjin presses both hands to her mouth. “Omo.”
“I feel like I’m missing something,” you say.
Minhee points the spatula at you. “You met Hyunjin’s Chaebin.”
You look at Hyunjin. “I thought Hyunjin hadn’t confessed.”
Hyunjin’s expression crumples with immediate suffering.
“So she’s not Hyunjin’s anything,” you add gently, because to you it is just a factual correction.
Hyunjin groans and bends at the waist like you have stabbed her with honesty. “Why are you like this?”
“She’s right,” Minhee says, then winces when Hyunjin glares at her. “But emotionally, she’s wrong. And Chrissy is our boss. Chrissy Bang. The bisexual menace of Seoul. If humping, dumping, and breaking hearts was an Olympic sport, she’d have golds in every department.”
Hyunjin nods grimly. “She’d thank her strap-on collection and the inventor of lube for allowing her equal opportunity to fuck men and women.”
“She’d thank her abs, her tits, and every poor soul who ever thought she was serious,” Minhee adds.
“She’d get on the podium with glitter lube in one hand and someone’s ruined self-esteem in the other.”
“She’d cry during the anthem but only because she’d be eye-fucking the flag bearer and had dry eye from maintained eye contact.”
You stroke Soonie’s head, concerned. “That sounds very tiring for her.”
Hyunjin nearly drops her phone from laughing. Minhee slaps the counter, which makes Soonie flatten his ears and glare at her. Minhee points at you again. “And she didn’t flirt with you at all?”
“I don’t think she could once we got to cat-cow. It required all of her brain power. Poor woman. Works hard, but mostly has vanity muscles.”
For three full seconds, silence sits in the kitchen before Minhee makes a sound like a kettle being attacked. Hyunjin whips her phone out so fast you flinch, camera already pointed at you.
“Say that again,” Hyunjin wheezes. “Please, for justice.”
“It wasn’t an insult,” you say, immediately alarmed by their laughter. “It’s from a sports science viewpoint. It’s clear she works hard in the gym, but she works on the aesthetic muscles more, like biceps, shoulders, abs, and quads. Vanity muscles with no stabilisation focus. She does have some go muscles, like her lats and back, that’s obvious, but not enough in balance. Her hamstrings and glutes were aesthetic but functionally useless.”
Minhee folds halfway over the hob, laughing into her own shoulder. “Vanity muscles? Oh, I can’t. I’m going to piss myself into the budae-jjigae.”
“Please don’t,” you say. “Also, it wasn’t an insult.”
Hyunjin crouches to the floor, phone still filming, because apparently her legs have abandoned her. “Chrissy Bang, destroyed by a fairy with a degree.”
“If she’s offended,” you say, frowning slightly, “it means she’s focused on mirror muscles rather than true balanced fitness, which combines vanity muscles and go muscles. That isn’t a moral flaw. It’s just inefficient training.”
Minhee makes a horrible choking noise. “Inefficient training. Fucking hell, I’m dead.”
Hyunjin gasps for air. “I’m showing her this. I need to see her live reaction.”
“No,” you say, suddenly worried. “Don’t show her if it will hurt her feelings. I didn’t mean it cruelly. She’s clearly strong and disciplined. Her muscle development is just not functionally harmonious.”
Minhee slides down against the counter, laughing silently now, one hand clamped over her mouth. Hyunjin turns the camera towards her, then back to you, delighted beyond reason.
“I don’t think I said anything funny,” you say, looking between them.
“That’s why it’s fucking hysterical,” Hyunjin says.
You sigh, lowering your face to Soonie’s head. “I think they’re being bad people, Soonie-yah.”
Soonie meows into your chin, which you choose to take as agreement, while Minhee wheezes, “My baby just called my boss functionally useless,” and Hyunjin whispers to her phone like a documentarian, “History is happening in our kitchen.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Chrissy sits on the customer side of her own bar, one ankle crossed over the other, watching the monthly Escape talent show begin like a queen surveying a kingdom made of glitter, poor decisions, and cheap stage lights. A temporary stage has been built near the back wall, and two drag queens open the night with a comedy act. Chrissy laughs with the rest of the crowd, but her eyes keep moving, sharp and watchful behind slim rectangular black blue-light glasses, because talent show nights are fun until some stupid cunt thinks the microphone is a free invitation to be homophobic in public.
She looks devastating, which is annoying because she knows it. Her oversized white button-down is open wide at the collar, sleeves pushed up, the fitted black corset-style bustier over it defining her waist and chest with delicate trim and long cord details down the centre. Her black trousers are pooled in sculptural folds over black open-toe stilettos, with cords and beads at the waist. A short necklace sits at the base of her throat, a longer beaded strand falls down the front, her wrist is stacked with a chunky metallic cuff and smaller bracelets, and an oversized ring sits on her finger.
Chaebin stands near the entrance, arms folded, looking calm enough to be mistaken for reasonable until you remember she can remove a person from the building like she is taking out food waste. Chrissy is worse, though everyone knows it. Chaebin tries diplomacy first. Chrissy only gets involved when someone has achieved cunt status of the highest order, and if she reaches you before Chaebin does, you’re not leaving on your feet. Regulars have entire videos saved of the infamous Double C removals, Chaebin and Chrissy muscling bigots and messy dickheads out together while the crowd cheers like they’re watching a national sport. #bisexualbuffbabes and #wecallthemthedoubleC have done more marketing for Escape than any paid advert ever could.
Seungmi is posted next to the stage with a clipboard, because while people sign up in advance, the clipboard always fills on the night because makgeolli, tequila, and misplaced courage are a dangerous fucking trio.
Jisu is perched beside Chrissy at the bar, dressed like a punk rock androgynous dream, which has already dropped Minhee’s productivity by at least twenty percent and her IQ by fifty points. Minhee keeps making drinks while glancing over, nearly pouring tonic into a beer, and then blaming the bottle. Jisu, oblivious and glowing, chats with Chrissy with the unstoppable energy of someone who has spent the day in the ER and decided the only way to process trauma is to turn it into dinner-table comedy.
“I’m telling you, unnie, he looked me straight in the eyes and said he slipped,” Jisu says, stirring her makgeolli mojito with a straw. “Slipped. Onto a cucumber. Fully naked.”
Chrissy nods, solemn. “Dangerous vegetable.”
“Exactly. I said, sir, was the cucumber standing upright on the floor like a tiny green soldier? Because otherwise we both know you’re lying and wasting my youth.”
Chrissy snorts. “Did he confess?”
“No, his wife did. She said, ‘He does this every few months, but usually with courgettes.’ I nearly fucking died.”
Before Chrissy can answer, a drunk baby gay on stage announces his talent is a cartwheel and begins preparing with far too much seriousness. Jisu is instantly half out of her seat, medical instincts lighting up like an ambulance.
Chrissy presses a hand to her shoulder and pushes her back down. “Sit.”
“He’s going to crack his skull.”
“Every member of staff here has first aid certification. It’s your night off. Sit, get drunk, drool over your girlfriend.”
Jisu smirks into her glass. “Drool from where?”
“Wherever you want to drool from, just relax.”
Jisu cackles and sits properly, sipping her drink as the baby gay somehow completes half a cartwheel, falls onto his side, and stands up to thunderous applause like he has won Eurovision. Behind the bar, Minhee and Hyunjin are giggling over Hyunjin’s phone between serving drinks, their heads bent together like evil schoolgirls with blackmail material.
Jisu clicks her tongue. “Either show Chrissy-unnie or stop being dicks about it.”
Minhee gasps. “You cannot call me a dick. I’m a lesbian.”
Jisu shrugs. “You’re being spiritually phallic.”
Chrissy turns, suspicious. “Show me what?”
Jisu points her straw at Hyunjin’s phone. “After you did the pilates class, Y/N-ah was talking about your muscles in her unique way.”
Chrissy’s eyes narrow. “Unique how?”
“Look, Y/N-ah is an angel,” Jisu says carefully, “but she has this little trait where she speaks, and some people may think it’s an insult, but it isn’t. Hyunjin recorded some of it because Minhee-unnie and Hyunjin want to see your live reaction, because they are evil lesbians.”
Hyunjin places a hand over her heart. “I’m preserving history.”
Minhee nods. “For queer science.”
Chrissy holds out her hand. “Give it here.”
Hyunjin hands the phone over, then immediately ducks behind the bar with Minhee. Only their eyes remain visible above the counter, both pairs shining with disgusting anticipation. Chrissy clicks play and turns the volume up as the video begins in the kitchen of Minhee and Hyunjin’s flat, where you are holding one of Minhee’s obese orange fur sons against your chest while looking genuinely bewildered.
On the screen, your voice says, “It wasn’t an insult. It’s from a sports science viewpoint. It’s clear she works hard in the gym, but she works on the aesthetic muscles more, like biceps, shoulders, abs, and quads. Vanity muscles with no stabilisation focus. She does have some go muscles, like her lats and back, that’s obvious, but not enough in balance. Her hamstrings and glutes were aesthetic but functionally useless.”
The video shakes violently because Hyunjin is laughing. Minhee’s voice in the background wheezes, “Vanity muscles? Oh, I can’t. I’m going to piss myself into the budae-jjigae.”
On screen, you look increasingly concerned, stroking the cat as if he might help you communicate with the insane people around you. “Please don’t. Also, it wasn’t an insult.”
Hyunjin’s recorded voice gasps, “Chrissy Bang, destroyed by a fairy with a degree.”
You frown at the camera, still calm but visibly worried. “If she’s offended, it means she’s focused on mirror muscles rather than true balanced fitness, which combines vanity muscles and go muscles. That isn’t a moral flaw. It’s just inefficient training.”
The real Hyunjin behind the bar makes a high, strangled noise, and Minhee slaps both hands over her mouth. In the video, you glance between them and say, “I don’t think I said anything funny.”
“That’s why it’s fucking hysterical,” Hyunjin says from the phone.
Then the camera dips to Minhee sliding down the kitchen counter, laughing so hard she looks genuinely medically unwell, while your voice says softly, “I think they’re being bad people, Soonie-yah.”
Chrissy lowers the phone very slowly. Jisu watches her face with open interest. Minhee and Hyunjin are shaking behind the bar, absolutely pissing themselves in real time, while Seungmi glances over from the stage with the tired expression of someone wondering if this counts as workplace misconduct.
Chrissy places the phone flat on the counter, folds her hands over it, and takes a measured breath. “So,” she says. “My ass is aesthetically pleasing?”
Minhee explodes. “This unbelievable fucking narcissistic bisexual.”
Hyunjin collapses against the back counter, laughing so hard she nearly knocks over the garnish tray. Jisu points at Chrissy with her drink and says, “Honestly, that is exactly the wrong lesson to take from that.”
Chrissy lifts one shoulder, mouth curving despite herself. “She said my glutes were aesthetic.”
“She said they were functionally useless,” Minhee snaps.
“But aesthetic.”
“Unnie, I swear to God.”
Chrissy leans back on the stool, looking far too pleased for a woman who has just been academically roasted by a serene pilates instructor holding a cat. “I like her.”
Hyunjin stops laughing just long enough to glare. “No.”
Minhee points at Chrissy with a cocktail spoon. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
Chrissy smiles towards the stage, where the next performer is drunkenly singing BLACKPINK with the confidence of someone who has never once met pitch. “Don’t worry. I’m only appreciating balanced fitness.”
Minhee stares at her. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“No,” Chrissy admits, eyes gleaming. “But I’d love for her to explain it to me again.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Western night at Escape is already a disaster in the best possible way. It happens a week after the talent show to keep the buzz alive, and since the customer ballot box produced Western as the winning theme, every regular with Wi-Fi and too much confidence has spent seven days spreading the word like gay missionaries in cowboy boots. The bar is now full of leather chaps, rhinestone hats, denim skirts, fringe jackets, fake moustaches, and one trans guy dressed as a sheriff who keeps pretending to arrest people for “looking criminally breedable.”
Chrissy is behind the bar in a long cow-print faux fur coat, warm tan patched with dark brown and black, structured through the shoulders and dramatic enough to sweep behind her when she turns. Under it, she wears a matching cow-print bra-style top with tiny structured cups and thin black edging, paired with washed grey-brown oversized low-rise cargo trousers that sit loose on her hips and pool slightly over pointed black cowboy boots. A black cowboy hat sits low over her slicked-back platinum hair, silver earrings swing from her ears, a bolo necklace hangs against her chest, and chunky rings glint every time she reaches for a bottle. Her eyeliner is sharp enough to commit a felony, her cheekbones are bronzed, her lips are glossy nude-rose, and Minhee has already told her she looks like she’d rob a bank then flirt with the horse.
Minhee stands beside her, dressed like a dominatrix cowgirl, all black leather, sharp waist, and a whip hanging at her side that Chrissy has decided not to ask too many questions about. “Is that thing a toy?” Chrissy asks eventually, unable to resist as Minhee pours tequila into a shaker.
Minhee doesn’t look up. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Your boss.”
“Then it’s decorative.”
“That wasn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Before Chrissy can answer, the door opens, and Hyunjin sweeps in dressed in the hot pink cowgirl costume from the Barbie movie, all flared confidence and fuck-me cowgirl sparkle. Chrissy’s eyebrows lift, ready to insult her lovingly, but then you walk in behind her, and every thought in Chrissy’s head trips over itself and dies.
You look like a sparkly western daydream. Your cropped yellow-and-white gingham shirt is tied at the waist, the embellished fabric catching the coloured lights. Your navy-blue high-waisted shorts are fitted, cheeky, and covered in tiny rhinestone-like sparkles that flash when you move, hugging your hips with small side slits that immediately make Chrissy forget how to pour liquids. White mid-calf cowboy boots with gold embroidery carry you through the bar with easy calm, and a matching gingham headscarf sits over your full retro curls. Your makeup glows warm and bronzed, gold shimmer on your lids, fluttery lashes soft at the outer corners, peachy-bronze blush and glossy, rosy nude lips, making you look unreal beneath the neon.
Minhee leans over without looking sorry. “Oh, did I forget to mention Y/N-ah was coming?”
Chrissy grips the shaker in her hand. “Yes. Yes, you fucking did.”
“She’s here to see you.”
The shaker slips out of Chrissy’s fingers and clatters into the ice well. “You couldn’t warn me, so I didn’t soak my panties without warning?”
Minhee’s mouth twitches. “Hyunjin-ah was teasing Y/N-ah about how we showed you the video, and she got really worried she’d hurt your feelings because you never came back to beginners' pilates.”
Chrissy’s expression changes at once, the heat still there but softening under something more careful. “She didn’t hurt my feelings. Pilates just really hurts my body.”
“Y/N-ah knows she says things bluntly,” Minhee says, eyes flicking towards you as Hyunjin guides you through the crowd. “She’s serene and doesn’t care what people think of her, but she worries about hurting people’s feelings.”
“You two are bitches for taking that video and showing me if you knew she’d get upset.”
“Hey now,” Minhee says, raising both hands. “It was Hyunjin who took the video, not me. I only laughed until my soul loosened.”
A lot of eyes turn as you cross the bar, partly because everyone knows Hyunjin and partly because nobody knows the pretty woman walking beside her like she’s wandered into a queer saloon from someone’s very specific dream. Yujin lifts their glass from a booth and calls, “Hyunjin-ah, is that your girlfriend?”
Hyunjin places a dramatic hand to her chest. “I could only dream.”
You glance up at her. “You dream very loudly.”
“Because I have passion.”
“You have unresolved Chaebin feelings.”
Hyunjin chokes as Minhee makes a pleased sound behind the bar. Chrissy bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing as your gaze lands on her with calm sincerity.
“Hello, Chrissy-ssi.”
Chrissy leans forward slightly, trying very hard not to look at the way your shorts sparkle under the bar lights. “Hey, Y/N-ah. What can I get for you?”
You hum, eyes scanning the board behind the bar. Hyunjin taps your arm. “Wait, look at the LGBTQ+ menu. We have cocktails for every letter.”
Chrissy pretends to rearrange bottles while secretly paying attention so hard her ears might combust. Minhee and Hyunjin have guarded the subject of your sexuality like it’s a government file, and Chrissy is absolutely not above using a cocktail order as evidence.
“I’ll have a U-Haul on the Rocks,” Hyunjin says. “From the lesbian menu, of course.”
“You don’t need to clarify,” Minhee says, already grabbing a glass. “Chrissy-unnie, me, and Y/N-ah all know you’re a big, lanky lesbian.”
You study the board for another moment. “I’ll have the Everyone’s Hot, Send Help.”
Celebratory fireworks immediately explode in Chrissy’s brain and somewhere significantly lower, because Everyone’s Hot, Send Help sits on the pansexual menu. She reaches for the bottle with a level of self-control that deserves public funding.
Minhee points at you. “Isn’t that your motto, Y/N-ah?”
You nod seriously. “That’s why I ordered it. Pansexual panic is a real condition.”
From across the bar, Yujin raises their drink. “A-woman.”
Chrissy makes your drink while Minhee makes Hyunjin’s, the latter glaring because Hyunjin has managed to get theme night off while Minhee is trapped behind the bar, dressed like she could discipline half the room and still have to clean the glasses afterwards. Chrissy slides your cocktail across, careful, polished, and definitely not imagining your mouth on the straw.
You wrap both hands lightly around the glass. “Chrissy-ssi, about the video Hyunjin-unnie and Minhee-unnie showed you.”
“It’s nothing,” Chrissy says quickly. “Honestly. You were talking as a professional, right?”
Your shoulders relax at once, and your nod is earnest enough to make Chrissy’s chest tighten. “Yes. I didn’t want to make you feel bad. You’re very strong.”
“I know,” Chrissy says, then winces when Minhee kicks her ankle under the bar. “I mean, thank you.”
You smile faintly. “Your training is just incomplete.”
Hyunjin makes a strangled noise into her cocktail while Chrissy just props her chin on one hand. “I have my break in ten minutes. Maybe you can help me devise a workout routine from a sports science viewpoint.”
Behind you, Minhee and Hyunjin start shaking their heads so subtly they look possessed by the same warning ghost. You don’t notice because you are watching Chrissy with calm consideration. “Okay.”
Chrissy’s grin spreads before she can stop it. “Perfect.”
Hyunjin grips your arm and starts steering you away before Chrissy can say anything else with her eyes. “Come on, I’m introducing you to the queens before our boss starts ovulating onto the bar.”
“I heard that,” Chrissy says.
“You were meant to.”
Chrissy watches as Hyunjin guides you towards a glamorous cluster near the booths, where the drag queens have already noticed you and are arranging themselves like predators in sequins.
“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Hyunjin announces. “Y/N-ah, this is Miso Divine, Anita Bbang, Nari Noir, Jenna Talia, Seoulstice, Joseon Jezebel, and Yuri Gasm.”
Miso Divine gasps and takes both your hands. “Oh my God, Hyunjin-ah, you’ve been hiding a doll from us.”
Anita Bbang leans in, eyes wide. “The gingham. The boots. The little sparkle shorts. I’m furious and aroused.”
“I’m not sure what to say to that,” you admit.
“Say thank you,” Nari Noir says, fanning herself with a napkin. “We’re drag queens, darling. Confusion is our native language.”
Seoulstice circles one finger in the air, making you turn gently. “Look at you. It's giving Dorothy fell into a lesbian saloon and got adopted by rich aunties.”
Joseon Jezebel presses a hand to her chest. “Hyunjin-ah’s pretty friend has cheekbones and emotional stillness. I feel judged and healed.”
“I’m not judging you,” you say.
Yuri Gasm sighs dreamily. “That makes it worse.”
Hyunjin beams as they pull you into their glittering throng, cooing over your headscarf, your makeup, your boots, your calm voice, your entire existence. You accept it all with soft bewilderment, while across the bar Chrissy watches with her mouth curved and her heart doing something stupid, and entirely inconvenient.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Ten minutes later, Chrissy manages to extract you from the drag queens with the careful diplomacy of someone negotiating the return of a priceless artefact. Miso Divine clutches your hand and declares, “No, absolutely not, we’ve only just found her,” while Anita Bbang throws a napkin over her own shoulder like she is in mourning.
Chrissy smiles with every ounce of professional charm she owns and says, “I’m borrowing her for one break, not shipping her overseas,” which only makes Yuri Gasm gasp, “That’s what they all say before stealing the pretty ones.”
You look faintly amused, one hand wrapped around the fresh cocktail Chrissy made you for free because apparently she is now bribing her way into your attention with raspberry, peach, prosecco, and pansexual affirmation. Hyunjin stays with the queens, though her gaze drifts towards the entrance where Chaebin is talking to a cluster of women in denim shorts and cowboy hats.
Joseon Jezebel hooks an arm through Hyunjin’s and says, “Oh, honey, you’re doing that lesbian yearning thing with your eyes again,” while Seoulstice pats her cheek and adds, “Don’t worry. We’ll fix you or make you worse. Either is community service.”
Chrissy leads you to the staff booth at the back of the bar floor, lifting the divider just enough to make the space feel quieter without fully shutting out the chaos. The little sign on the table, Reserved for Staff - Be Gay Elsewhere, makes you pause. “That’s quite direct.”
“It saves time,” Chrissy says, sliding into the booth opposite you with her own drink.
You settle in, boots tucked neatly beneath the table, glittering shorts catching little flashes of light every time you shift. Chrissy takes a sip of her Choose Both cocktail from the bisexual menu, tequila-soju mix with citrus, agave, and salted plum, then places the glass down with exaggerated courage. “Okay, tell it to me true. I’m ready.”
You blink at her. “You’re ready for what?”
“My dismantling.”
“I’m not dismantling you,” you say, confused. “I’m helping you, aren’t I?”
Chrissy’s smile softens before she can make it wicked. “Yeah. You are.”
You nod as if that settles the moral issue. “Okay. Your issue is that your body is strong, but it’s not efficient.”
“That sounds insulting.”
“It’s not. Strength without balance leads to inefficiency and eventually injury. You prioritise visible muscle groups, which is extremely common in people who go to the gym to sort of bodybuild. They’re easier to track visually, so people feel more rewarded when they grow.”
Chrissy leans back, tipping her cowboy hat up slightly. “You mean I like looking good.”
“Yep.”
“That’s fair. Nothing beats looking in the mirror after a workout and my muscles are all buffed.”
“However,” you say.
“Oh no.”
“Your stabilisers are underdeveloped, which means your body compensates. That’s why you struggled with spinal articulation.”
Chrissy grimaces into her drink. “Yeah, that cat-cow was humbling. I thought my spine and I were friends.”
“You weren’t engaging your core correctly.”
“I tried.”
“I know,” you say, gently, which somehow makes it worse. “But you rely on surface strength. Pilates is functional movement, and that requires deeper engagement, especially in the glutes and hamstrings.”
Chrissy rests her chin on her knuckles. “So what’s your recommendation?”
You hum, thoughtful, eyes drifting for a moment as if you’re organising a whole syllabus in your head. “Train intentionally.”
“Easier said than done. I have to unlearn old tricks.”
“Start coming to my beginner classes twice a week. You’ll feel like you’re dying at first, but I’m sure you’ll find it fun.”
Chrissy’s smile turns slow. “I’m sure I will.”
The tone is blatant enough to bend steel, but it seems to float right past you without landing. You simply nod, pleased that she is considering a healthier training structure. Chrissy has never in her life flirted this hard and received a professional development response.
You keep explaining, voice soft and airy beneath the muffled music and laughter outside the booth, and Chrissy is hooked so completely it is embarrassing. A deep, horny, deeply unhelpful part of her knows she could get off to an audiobook of you reciting Seoul business regulations if you sounded this calm while doing it.
“You should add single-leg work,” you say. “Not just for appearance. For stability. Controlled range, slower tempo, less ego.”
Chrissy lifts a brow. “Less ego? That’s a large ask.”
“I know,” you say serenely. “You have a lot of it.”
Chrissy laughs. “You say the wildest shit so calmly.”
“I don’t think ego is always bad. Yours probably helps you run this place.”
“It also helps me wear cow print with confidence.”
“That too.”
The muscle talk somehow dissolves quickly, replaced by university, work, and the way people end up choosing lives that don’t look anything like their original plans. Chrissy circles her thumb around the rim of her glass. “I moved to Seoul when I was twelve. I was an idol trainee for a long time, but I wanted my own sound, and the companies didn’t like that. Eventually, I focused more on school so I could go to university. I majored in Hospitality Management and minored in Marketing. Did mixology courses whenever I had time, got certified, got first aid certified too.”
You listen with your full attention, chin resting lightly on your hand. “So why a queer bar?”
Chrissy grins, but it lands sincerely. “Because there are never too many safe spaces in the world.” Your smile blooms slowly, and Chrissy feels it hit somewhere below her ribs. “What did you do?”
“I majored in Sports Science and minored in Hair and Makeup Design.”
Chrissy pauses. “Those do not interlink at all.”
“Exactly. I might decide I’m bored of teaching pilates one day and become a hairdresser or open a salon.”
“So I now know who to call when my hair turns brassy.”
You tilt your head, teasing so lightly she nearly misses it. “I don’t do it for free, you know.”
“I’ll tip generously.”
“How generously?”
Chrissy’s eyes gleam. “Dangerously.”
You sip your drink and seem to consider that with grave seriousness. “Acceptable.”
The conversation drifts again, turning loose and easy. You talk music, and your face lights up when you tell her about flying to Paris with Minhee in 2025 to see Sabrina Carpenter during the Short n’ Sweet tour. “Minhee pretended she was only there because I wanted to go, but she screamed louder than me during Espresso,” you say, eyes bright. “She lost her voice and blamed the hotel air conditioning.”
Chrissy laughs. “That sounds exactly like her.”
“And I went to Lisbon with Hyunjin in 2024 to see Olivia Rodrigo. Hyunjin cried during Vampire and then told a stranger in the queue that heartbreak should qualify you for government compensation.”
“It should,” Chrissy says. “Especially sapphic heartbreak. The economy would collapse if they paid us what we’re owed.”
You smile into your glass. “What concerts have you travelled for?”
Chrissy leans back, thinking. “I opened Escape when I was twenty-one, so that was 2019. My parents loaned me a big chunk of money, and Chaebin helped financially too because she’s from a well-off family. That year, I saw Shawn Mendes at KSPO Dome with Chaebin. In 2021, Harry Styles in Rio de Janeiro with Chaebin and Minhee. In 2022, Billie Eilish at Gocheok Sky Dome with Seungmi and Minhee. In 2023, Elton John on his final tour with my younger sister Hannah in Sydney. TWICE in 2024 with Chaebin and Hyunjin at KSPO Dome, and last year Beyoncé at Stade de France with Chaebin and Hyunjin.”
You stare at her. “You’ve been global for that many concerts?”
“I made profit from Escape quite quickly. A queer bar in Hongdae draws locals, people from all over Seoul, and tourists. Add attractive staff and the events we do, and it guaranteed success. We even survived the pandemic when some businesses didn’t.”
You glance out towards the bar. “It makes sense. This place feels alive.”
Chrissy looks at you instead of the bar. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Like people come here because they’re tired of pretending.”
For once, Chrissy doesn’t have a joke ready. She just watches you, warm cocktail light on your face, and thinks she might be in serious fucking trouble.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Chrissy doesn’t know if she’s ever been this dedicated to one pussy in her life without the woman attached to it actually acknowledging that she is being pursued. She has suspicions, strong ones, that you are not oblivious at all, just politely stepping around every flirtation she throws at you like it’s a puddle on the pavement. It has been three long weeks of beginner pilates, three long weeks of Chaebin being dragged into Studio Three like a hostage, three long weeks of Chrissy discovering muscles she didn’t know existed and wishing several of them would fuck off and die.
What makes it worse is that Chrissy hasn’t had sex since the first time she saw you, just over a month ago. Her vibrator and rabbit have seen more action than they did during university, back when she was too busy studying, working, and trying to build a future to entertain other human beings. Now she’s worried her neighbours think she’s doing illegal construction at 2am, either that, or assembling furniture with the determination of a woman at war.
Currently, she is in Studio Three, lying flat on a mat and regretting every vain decision she has ever made. Her white fitted long-sleeve zip top is half unzipped over a grey sports bra, oversized grey low-rise sweatpants puddled around her legs, chunky white trainers abandoned near the wall because you insisted shoes weren’t needed for this part. Chaebin has been abandoned at the free weights, because Chrissy has cottoned on quickly to the fact that you are at the gym all day, and she has shamelessly arranged extra sessions under the noble guise of improving her functional movement in exchange for free cocktails for life at Escape.
You, infuriatingly serene in a cream long-sleeve wrap top tied at the waist over a simple white tank, light blue fitted shorts, white scrunched leg warmers, and chunky silver-white trainers, kneel beside her with both hands on her knees. Her legs are in a ninety-degree tabletop position, and you are slowly guiding them from one side to the other while she tries not to disgrace herself as Sabrina Carpenter plays softly from your fantastic, cursed, spiritually dangerous playlist.
“Keep your shoulders anchored,” you say gently.
“They are anchored,” Chrissy grits out.
“They’re hovering.”
“They’re emotionally anchored.”
“Chrissy-ssi.”
“Fuck, shit, bastard, absolute motherfucking Pilates demonry,” Chrissy hisses as the stretch pulls through her spine, abs, hips, and thighs in a way that feels personally vindictive. “Who designed this? A medieval torturer with a core kink?”
You hum along to the music like the world’s dreamiest executioner, calm as a water sprite while you slowly move her knees back through centre. “Try not to fight the movement.”
“I am not fighting. I am surviving.”
“You’re twisting your torso again.”
“My torso has opinions.”
“It needs fewer.”
Chrissy lets out a laugh that turns into a groan as you guide her legs to the other side. “Y/N-ah, I swear to every god, queer icon, and expensive sex toy I own, this is unacceptable.”
“You’re doing better than last week.”
“Last week I nearly saw my dead grandparents.”
“You kept lifting your shoulder then, too.”
Her shoulder lifts again. You pause and Chrissy closes her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
“Your shoulder lifted.”
“I said don’t say it.”
“It lifted quite a lot.”
“Y/N-ah, I am suffering. This is a hate crime against my pelvis.”
“It’s not a hate crime, Chrissy-ssi. It’s your obliques discovering all the ways they can move.”
“My obliques were just happy being pretty. Vanity muscles.”
You consider this, still holding her knees. “They still are.”
Chrissy opens one eye. “Are they?”
“Yes.”
Her eye closes again. “That helped more than it should have. Also, you need to stop with the ssi stuff. Call me unnie.”
“Okay, Chrissy-unnie.”
Chrissy’s mouth curls before she can stop it. “Ooh, I like that.”
You use the tiny relaxation in her body to push her knees a fraction further to the side, and Chrissy makes a wounded, scandalised noise. “You weaponised affection.”
“It worked.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.”
Chrissy is fighting with every atom that makes up her body not to make a lewd comment. It's right there, about stretching you out in return, about what she could do if you were in her apartment, in her bed, letting that soft voice break apart. The restraint she has found over the last month is frankly award-worthy. With any other pursuit, she would have been deep in innuendo-laden waters by now, flirting until someone either blushed or climbed her like a tree. But you are too sweet, too sincere, too strangely calm, and the usual horny antics feel like throwing fireworks at a butterfly.
Then you lean over her to press her shoulders down with both hands, encouraging her to keep them flat while attempting the leg movement alone. Your upper body hovers partially over her face, close enough that your cleavage is directly in Chrissy’s line of sight. It is not looking at her, obviously, because cleavage doesn’t have eyes, but Chrissy’s brain insists there is eye contact happening. She is conditioned, spiritually and sexually, to salivate at a woman hovering over her face, and now she is expected to practise spinal mobility like a civilised citizen.
You look down at her face. “I think this isn’t helping.”
“It’s not,” Chrissy says immediately.
“I’ll do my own stuff on the mat next to you, and you focus on keeping your shoulders down.”
Chrissy nods, relieved and devastated. “Good plan.”
You move to the mat beside her and begin stretching, and Chrissy tries very hard to focus on her own body, which is difficult because your body seems to be preparing for something medically impossible. You brace your forearms on the mat and lean forward, lifting your hips before kicking one leg up, then the other, until you tip smoothly into an inversion. Chrissy’s eyes widen, already impressed, but you are clearly not done.
Once balanced, you bend your knees and let your back arch, chest reaching forward as your feet sweep slowly overhead. The deeper you move, the more your spine coils, legs folding towards your head until you are suspended in a striking, impossible shape, breathing steadily like gravity is merely a suggestion you never agreed to follow.
Chrissy whispers, “What the fuck is that?”
“Vrschikasana,” you say, voice calm despite being upside down. “It’s a yoga pose. I was thinking of introducing yoga classes.”
Chrissy nods, eyes wide, throat dry, mind an absolute horny wasteland. “I can see the educational value.”
“The gym offered more money if I do yoga too. It makes me a multifaceted teacher, and yoga presents its own challenges.”
“I can see that,” Chrissy says, which is true, because she is looking directly at you and imagining positions that would get her smacked by Minhee if said aloud within five kilometres of your flat.
You hold the pose for another few breaths, then lower yourself with control that makes Chrissy feel like applause is required. “Did you do gymnastics?” she asks, because apparently her survival instincts are still trying to gather dangerous information.
You nod as you shift easily into the splits. “Yeah, from a young age. I kept doing it through university, so I maintained my flexibility.”
“Uh huh,” Chrissy says, watching you reach over to touch your toe. “So you’re really flexible?”
“I suppose.”
“Can you get your foot to touch your head and stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Chrissy bites her knuckle the second your eyes close, because otherwise the words in her mouth are going to become career-ending. Her brain is a carousel of unspeakable images, all involving you, her bed, and exactly how far your flexibility could go before her sanity left the building. She wants to dom your brains out so badly she thinks her soul might start filing complaints. She wants to be good, respectful, patient, normal. Unfortunately, she is still Chrissy Bang, lusty heathen, sexless for a month, and currently watching a serene sex angel fold herself in half on a gym mat.
“Chrissy-unnie,” you say softly.
She hums, still staring at the ceiling. “Hmm?”
“Your shoulder’s lifting again.”
Chrissy drops her hand from her mouth and exhales in pure defeat. “Fuck my entire life.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The regulars of Escape have never been so stunned in their lives, which is impressive because this is a bar where a drag queen once sang trot in a wedding dress while Chaebin carried a drunk homophobe out. Still, nothing has prepared them for the sight of Chrissy Bang, notorious bisexual menace, sitting in the staff booth with a guest and behaving like a person with manners. Usually, if Chrissy disappears with someone, the bar later gets to witness a rumpled man or woman stumbling out of the toilets or her office looking spiritually altered, followed by Chrissy emerging with a cocky grin.
Tonight is different. Tonight, Chrissy is in the staff booth with you, and there is no kissing, no touching, no suspicious hair fixing. There is just laughter. You are both dressed in black with red details like you’ve coordinated by accident or by divine queer intervention, and Minhee has already sworn so spectacularly at three different customers for asking if you are Chrissy’s girlfriend that Seungmi has threatened to start logging verbal incidents in a spreadsheet.
Chrissy looks devastating in a sharply tailored blazer with strong padded shoulders, a deep plunging neckline, narrow lapels, and a glossy black corset-style waist panel that emphasises every inch of her upper body. Her high-waisted tailored trousers fall into a wide-leg silhouette, and her black Louboutins flash red at the soles whenever she shifts. Her hair is slicked back, extending past the nape, one loose strand falling forward over smoky eyes and deep red lips. You sit opposite her in a fitted black off-the-shoulder jumpsuit with a sweetheart bodice, tuxedo-lapel neckline, and sleek belt with a small gold clasp at the waist. The trousers hug your hips and thighs before narrowing down, your red heels making your legs look endless, and your oversized black leather moto jacket hangs around your shoulders with vivid red satin lining flashing whenever you move.
At the table beside the staff booth, Jisu, Felicity, and Innie have abandoned dignity entirely. “I can’t hear shit,” Jisu whispers, affronted.
Felicity squints. “They’re laughing. That’s worse than kissing.”
Innie nods gravely. “Laughter is foreplay for people with emotional availability.”
Jisu points at her. “That was disgusting. Say more.”
Behind the bar, Minhee and Hyunjin are pretending to work from the only angle where they can crane their necks and see into the booth. Minhee fills a glass with ice without looking and nearly misses entirely. Hyunjin is polishing the same glass for the fifth minute in a row, gaze fixed on the booth like a wildlife photographer watching a rare mating ritual.
Inside the booth, Chrissy turns her phone towards you. “There. That’s me in the back left.”
You lean closer, cocktail in hand, eyes narrowing at the idol group music video playing on the screen. “Where?”
“Back left. Blue jacket. Two seconds after the second chorus.”
You point suddenly. “There. I found you.”
Chrissy grins. “You sound like you’re playing Wollireul Chajara.”
“I am,” you say seriously. “Except Wally has better lighting.”
Chrissy laughs hard enough to tip her head back. “You just called baby trainee me badly lit.”
“You were very committed despite the lighting.”
At the next table, Felicity grips Jisu’s sleeve. “She made Chrissy laugh like that.”
Jisu whispers, “Minhee is going to chew through a bottle cap.”
Innie glances towards the bar. “Hyunjin looks constipated with concern.”
Chrissy swipes to another video and lets you find her again, this time in a group performance clip where she appears for approximately one and a half seconds behind a main dancer’s shoulder. You tap the screen triumphantly. “There. Your jawline is distinctive.”
Chrissy’s expression warms with dangerous delight. “You recognise my jawline now?”
“I’ve seen your face before, yes.”
“That was almost romantic.”
“It was factual.”
“Even better,” Chrissy says, because apparently she is now attracted to blunt accuracy like it’s lingerie.
She lowers the phone and tilts her head. “Is there nothing online of you in gymnastics competitions?”
“Of course there is.”
Chrissy immediately opens Naver, types your name, and taps videos with the speed of a woman hunting treasure. “Seokyeong University Gymnastics Team. 2023 National Finals?”
“I was very good,” you say, calm and without false modesty.
“I love when you say things like that.” Chrissy clicks the video.
A younger version of you appears on the screen, announced at twenty-one before stepping onto the floor with a stillness that makes the crowd noise seem to shrink around you. The routine begins, and Chrissy watches your body bend, turn, and flow with alarming grace. Multiple walkovers in a row make her physically wince, one hand flying to her own spine as if it might file a complaint in solidarity.
“What the fuck,” she mutters. “Your body folds like premium laundry.”
You sip your cocktail. “That’s quite a nice description.”
“Did you win?” Chrissy winds the video to the end and sees you being given a trophy, smiling with polite brightness while the crowd claps.
You nod. “I did.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
She scrolls before you can stop her, and her eyebrows lift. “There’s a video of you from 2008.”
“Ah, yes. My eomma entered me in the 2007 Super Kids Model Contest, and the award ceremony was in 2008, January, I think. I placed second.”
Chrissy looks at you over the phone. “Do you just do everything? Side quest after side quest?”
You shrug. “I was a child. My eomma picked the quests.”
Jisu makes a strangled noise outside the booth. “Second in a kids’ model contest? Pilates fairy has lore.”
Felicity whispers, “She has side quests. Chrissy loves a side quest.”
Innie nods. “Chrissy is a side quest with abs.”
Chrissy sets the phone down, the noise of the bar blurring into something warm and distant around the booth. “You’re such an interesting person.”
You look at her for a moment, red lips curved into a small smile. “Interesting people draw interesting people, no?”
Chrissy grins slowly. “That is true. Maybe we should go on a date.”
At the bar, Minhee’s whole body jolts, and Hyunjin drops the glass she has been polishing into the sink with a clatter. At the neighbouring table, Jisu clamps both hands over her mouth while Felicity and Innie lean so hard their shoulders touch the divider.
You study Chrissy with that soft, perceptive gaze that always makes her feel like you’ve noticed six things she hasn’t confessed yet. “But aren’t you the bisexual menace of Seoul? Humping and dumping?”
Chrissy blinks, smile freezing, then her head turns slowly towards the end of the bar, where Minhee is leaning forward so far she looks like she might crawl over the counter. Chrissy’s glare could curdle milk.
Minhee immediately points at Hyunjin. “She said it first.”
Hyunjin points back. “You made it catchy.”
Chrissy turns back to you, mouth opening, but you speak before she can defend herself. “I’m not a person to judge by someone’s past,” you say. “People can be careless and then decide to be careful. So I think a date sounds nice.”
For one brief, shining second, Chrissy looks like every neon sign in Escape has switched on behind her ribs. Her grin lights up her face, all menace softened into genuine delight. “You do?”
“Yes.”
Jisu silently slams both hands on the table while Felicity whispers, “Holy shit, she said yes,” and Innie murmurs, “Witnessing history is stressful.”
Chrissy leans in, still grinning. “Well, I have an invitation to a casino-themed charity event, and I don’t have a plus one.”
You tilt your head. “Casino-themed?”
“Fancy outfits, fake gambling, real donations, rich people pretending they understand queer community work, probably terrible canapés.”
“That sounds educational.”
“It’ll be more fun with you.”
You smile, small and sweet, and Chrissy looks like she might combust on the spot.
At the bar, Minhee mutters, “We’ve failed.”
Hyunjin, still staring at the booth, whispers, “Or we’ve created a monster with stabilised glutes.”
Minhee looks horrified. “Don’t say that. She’ll hear you and make it sexual.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You sit at your vanity table in your underwear and a pair of nipple stickers, serene as a temple pond, while Minhee and Hyunjin descend on you like a two-woman glam squad. You let them fuss because they seem happy, and because every time you try to help, Minhee gently smacks your hand away like you are a kitten reaching for a hot pan.
Hyunjin stands in front of your wardrobe, hands on her hips, inspecting your clothes like a commander reviewing weak soldiers. “What dress are you going to wear?”
“Black dress,” Minhee says immediately. “I’m doing makeup to go with a black dress.”
“You say that like there’s only one black dress in here,” Hyunjin mutters, sliding hangers along the rail. “This wardrobe is fifty percent pilates, thirty percent black dresses, twenty percent fairy nonsense.”
“Fairy nonsense is a valid genre,” you say.
“It is when you wear it,” Hyunjin says. “When I wear it, I look like I’m trying to seduce a haunted forest.”
Minhee cups your chin and tilts your face gently towards the mirror. “Stop talking, baby. Your mouth is being stained.”
“I can talk with my lips still.”
“You absolutely fucking cannot.”
Minhee works with terrifying focus, blending soft brown shadow through your crease, then sharpening a precise black wing into place with a hand so steady it looks almost surgical. Champagne highlight catches in the inner corners of your eyes, false wispy lashes flutter into place, and a deep berry stain settles over your lips before she slicks gloss over the top. She taps highlighter across your cheekbones and collarbones, then leans back with a satisfied hum.
“You look expensive,” she says.
“I’m wearing underwear.”
“Exactly. Expensive people are always half naked and moisturised.”
Hyunjin pulls out a black mini dress and holds it up with hope in her eyes. Minhee turns her head slowly. “Do you want to send our baby out looking like a basic bitch?”
Hyunjin shoves it back into the wardrobe like it has personally embarrassed her, then pulls out a simple maxi dress.
“No,” Minhee says before Hyunjin can even turn around.
“You didn’t look properly.”
“I felt it spiritually and rejected it.”
Hyunjin huffs and digs deeper until her hand lands on a dress bag pushed carefully to the side. “Oh. Oh, this one.”
You turn your head. “No.”
Minhee’s eyes gleam. “Yes.”
“It’s way too booby.”
“It’s the right amount of booby.”
“It shows the inner curve.”
“That’s called romance.”
“It cost too much, and I still haven’t finished paying it off.”
“Even better,” Hyunjin says, unzipping the bag like she is unveiling a royal treasure. “Chrissy-unnie should witness the consequences of credit card debt.”
You sigh softly, but you take the dress bag when Minhee hands it to you. “If I fall out of it, I’m blaming both of you.”
“If you fall out of it,” Minhee says, helping you step carefully into the gown, “Chrissy Bang will ascend to a higher plane, and Escape will need a new owner.”
Hyunjin pulls the back into place while Minhee adjusts the halter panels over your chest with brisk professionalism, the inner curve of your breasts visible in a way that makes Hyunjin mutter, “Jesus Christ, lesbianism is a blessing.” When Hyunjin zips the dress, the open back settles low, thin straps crossing cleanly across your upper back, the fabric dipping just above the top of your ass before the skirt falls in a smooth, fluid column to the floor.
Minhee and Hyunjin burst into applause.
You blink at them in the mirror. “That feels excessive.”
Minhee points at the ceiling. “God, you greedy bitch, you really put your whole pussy into making this one.”
Hyunjin presses a hand to her heart. “I’m not even dating you, and I feel like I should send flowers.”
“You’re both being strange.”
“We’re being correct,” Minhee says, kneeling to help you into black strappy stilettos. “Give me your foot, Cinderella, but make it Seoul and slightly slutty.”
Hyunjin clips a faux diamond necklace around your throat, then carefully fastens waterfall earrings that brush delicately against your neck. Minhee adds the matching bracelet, then hands you the silver rhinestone clutch with all the solemnity of passing over a sacred weapon.
“You look like you’re about to bankrupt a casino and make a woman rethink her entire attachment style,” Hyunjin says.
“I’m only going to a charity event.”
“Same thing with richer people,” Minhee says.
You study yourself in the mirror, fingers grazing the side cutout. “Is it too much?”
Hyunjin’s expression softens immediately. “It’s a lot because you’re allowed to be a lot.”
Minhee nods, still adjusting the fall of the skirt. “You look gorgeous. Also, if Chrissy acts like a dog, I’m muzzling her with my own hands.”
“Please don’t threaten my date before I leave.”
“She’s my boss, I’m allowed.”
Hyunjin taps your shoulder. “Hair now.”
She sits you back in front of the vanity, grabs a big round brush and a hair dryer, and begins sectioning your hair with the concentration of someone trying to build architecture out of strands. The dryer hums to life, warm air moving through the room as she works the brush through your hair, lifting at the roots and rolling the ends into a soft, glossy blowout. Minhee hovers beside you, touching up your gloss, sharpening the highlight on your collarbones, and muttering about symmetry like she is preparing you for a royal portrait.
You sit still through it all, calm and dreamy, hands folded in your lap, while your two flatmates orbit around you with pins, brushes, spray, and affection disguised as bullying. From the doorway, Soonie appears and stares at you like he has concerns about your exposed shoulders.
Minhee points at him. “Don’t even think about shedding on the dress.”
Soonie meows, and you smile faintly. “He says I look nice.”
Hyunjin aims the hair dryer away from your face. “He says Chrissy-unnie better behave or he’ll piss in her shoes.”
Minhee nods. “A feminist ally.”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Chrissy is outside your apartment building, leaning against her Aston Martin DB12 Volante like she has been staged there by a luxury car advert aimed specifically at women with taste and weak knees. The convertible roof is down, because apparently subtlety died before Chrissy got dressed, and she keeps checking her phone every two seconds because Minhee and Hyunjin have decided psychological warfare is the correct pre-date ritual. Her strapless black lace corset top is doing heroic work, structured cups and sheer floral lace making her breasts look like they’re threatening to spill out if she breathes too confidently. High-waisted black wide-leg trousers sharpen her waist, leopard-print pointed heels clash perfectly with the leopard clutch in her hand, gold hoops glow against her jaw, and her slicked-back platinum hair looks criminal under the streetlights. Her makeup is all smoky brown eyes, dark liner, and deep glossy brown lips, which should make her feel powerful, except right now she is being bullied by text message.
Yuri Yearner: She looks unreal. Fake Nonchalanter: Like actually unreal. Chrissy: Describe the dress or stop texting me. Yuri Yearner: Black. Chrissy: Hyunjin-ah, I swear to God. Fake Nonchalanter: Expensive black. Chrissy: Minhee-yah, I hope Jisu forgets how to use her hands and tongue. Fake Nonchalanter: That was lesbiphobia. Yuri Yearner: Her back is out. Chrissy: How out? Yuri Yearner: Emotionally damagingly out. Fake Nonchalanter: Don’t be a slut when you see her. Chrissy: Too late. I was born one. Fake Nonchalanter: We know. That’s the problem.
There is a soft beep from the apartment building entrance, and Chrissy looks up as she slips her phone into her pocket. Then you step outside, and Chrissy is entirely certain she dies, meets every queer ancestor in heaven, gets judged for her search history, and is sent back down because her date has only just started.
You emerge in a black floor-length gown that wraps high around your neck like a sleek scarf before dropping into two wide panels framing a deep plunge, the cutout long and narrow enough to show the inner curve of your breasts with an elegance that still feels absolutely dangerous. The fabric crosses and ruches through your midsection, side cutouts exposing your ribs and waist, while the skirt skims down your body in a smooth column that pools slightly behind you.
When you turn to check the door has shut, Chrissy sees exactly what Hyunjin meant by emotionally damaging. The back is low, open, and held by thin straps across your upper back, stopping just above the top of your ass in a way that makes Chrissy’s soul leave her body for a second time.
You walk towards her in strappy black stilettos, silver rhinestone clutch in hand, faux diamonds glittering at your ears, throat, and wrist. Your makeup is soft and luminous, brown shadow, black winged liner, champagne highlight, fluttery lashes, deep berry glossy lips, and highlighter catching along your cheekbones and collarbones. You look calm. You look dreamy. You look like you have absolutely no idea that Chrissy is fighting for her fucking life.
“Hello, Chrissy-unnie,” you say.
Chrissy opens her mouth, determined to be smooth. “Hello.”
“You look very attractive.”
“You look very fuckable,” Chrissy blurts.
For one horrifying moment, her entire bloodstream freezes. Then you beam at her, warm and pleased. “Thank you.”
Chrissy internally kicks herself so hard she imagines her own spirit bouncing off the bonnet. “I meant beautiful.”
“I know,” you say, serene as ever. “Fuckable is also a compliment.”
Chrissy stares at you for half a second before deciding that if she survives tonight, she deserves a medal. She opens the passenger door for you, offering her hand as you gather the skirt and lower yourself into the seat. She gently tucks the end of the dress into the footwell so it doesn’t catch in the door, closes it with careful hands, then walks around to the driver’s side and settles in, trying to look like a woman who has not just considered proposing outside a residential building.
You glance around the car as Chrissy starts it. “This is an expensive car, right?”
Chrissy nods, pulling smoothly away from the kerb. “It’s my way of asserting that I’m a rich, successful woman in a patriarchal society.”
You giggle, soft and bright, and Chrissy tightens her hand on the wheel because that noise is more dangerous than traffic. By the time you arrive at the posh hotel hosting the casino night fundraiser, Chrissy is proud of herself for not crashing an Aston Martin in the name of sapphic distraction.
She climbs out first, hands her keys to the valet, then comes around as you carefully step out. When she offers her arm, you take it, fingers resting in the crook of her elbow, and the two of you ascend the steps together. Your shoulder brushes hers, your jewellery catching the light, and Chrissy can already see a few older business types inside turning their heads with expressions like they’ve seen a scandal walk in on stilettos.
You lean closer and whisper, “Won’t the older business people be offended?”
Chrissy lowers her voice. “They can be offended by two queer women on a date all they like, and we’ll ignore them.”
You nod, reassured by the simplicity of this philosophy, as the two of you enter a ballroom that looks like Las Vegas has possessed central Seoul. There are roulette wheels, poker tables, black and gold draping, glittering chandeliers, waiters carrying champagne, and enough dramatic decoration to make the charity element feel almost shy.
“Omo,” you whisper. “How much did they spend to decorate this?”
“An obscene amount they could have donated to charity themselves, but rich people can’t do charitable work without press and big names involved.”
“Doesn’t that make the good deed redundant?” you ask, eyes moving over the room. “They’re raising money for charity, but only because it gets good press, so they’re really doing it for themselves. They’re not donating directly. They’re using other people’s money.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? The true philanthropists of the modern age are ignored because rich people bring in big names.” Chrissy writes her name and donation amount on a clipboard near the entrance.
You cough when you see the number. “Chrissy-unnie.”
“What?”
“That is many zeros.”
“That’s how donation amounts work.”
The woman at the table hands Chrissy two bags of chips, and Chrissy tucks them into her clutch, leaving it bulging in a deeply inelegant way. You stare at the clutch, then at her. “Your leopard bag looks pregnant.”
“She’s carrying wealth.”
“That sounds like something a villain would say.”
“I’m a hot villain, though.”
“Yes.” You look around the ballroom. “Where do we even start?”
“Hm. There’s blackjack, roulette, high-roller poker, baccarat, a silent auction, and a luxury raffle. Oh, and they also do a jewellery draw. You donate, draw a random box or bag, and it’s some big designer brand.”
“I see a bar.”
“Perfect. Drinks first.”
Chrissy guides you to the bar and picks up a black and gold menu, holding it between you so your shoulders brush. You scan the cocktails, then look personally wounded. “There’s no Everyone’s Hot, Send Help.”
“Tragic, I know. I think I’ll have an omija gin fizz.”
You hum. “I’ll have a bokbunja royale.”
Chrissy grimaces. “Wine?”
“Black raspberry wine and champagne. I bet it’s really fancy champagne, not the 25,000 won knock-offs me, Minhee-unnie, and Hyunjin-unnie drink.”
Chrissy snorts and waves the bartender down. Once the drinks are made, you both turn to survey the room with glasses in hand. Chrissy’s free hand settles on your waist, warm and casual, and almost immediately, she spots an elderly man staring like she has personally insulted his lineage.
“Oh, disgusted ahjussi number one already spotted.”
You giggle and wiggle your fingers at him and he looks away so fast Chrissy nearly cheers. You head to the poker table together, and Chrissy stacks some chips from her clutch. “You want in?”
“No, I don’t really know how to play. I’ll watch like a Bond girl.”
“Oh, so I’m Bond?”
You shrug. “A much sexier Bond.”
Chrissy preens so visibly that one of the men at the table looks annoyed. She sits as her two hole cards are dealt face down, then pats her lap. You glance at her, then settle there with careful grace, crossing your legs as if sitting on a woman’s lap at a charity poker table is a perfectly normal educational choice.
“I thought you needed five cards in poker,” you say.
“These are the starting cards. I look, see if I want to match the current pool, raise, or fold. Unless the two cards are horrendous, most people match or raise in the first bet. The key is keeping a poker face.”
You whisper, “Like Lady Gaga?”
“Exactly.”
Chrissy places one palm against your back while picking up her cards with the other. She looks, reveals nothing, and matches the pool. The dealer places three community cards face up, leading to another round of betting, and Chrissy watches the table with a blank, almost bored expression before matching again.
“This game is luck and bluffing,” Chrissy says quietly.
You hum. “I’m not allowed to play Go Fish anymore.”
Chrissy glances up. “Why?”
You lean closer and whisper, “I can count the cards,” then tap your temple.
Chrissy looks at you with open delight. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Lick my elbow.”
Chrissy laughs, startling the man beside her as the fourth card is placed, and one man doubles the pool with a sweaty bravado that immediately makes Chrissy’s mouth twitch. She matches him. You glance at the chips, eyes widening slightly. “That’s a lot of money.”
“He’s got jackshit. He’s hoping to bluff people.”
“How do you know?”
“I own a business. You have to read body language.”
“He is sweating a lot.”
“He’s also touching his collar every three seconds and avoiding eye contact with the cards. Amateur hour.”
The fifth and final community card is placed. Chrissy doubles the pot, three people fold, and a few match her, including the sweaty man who now looks like his soul is leaving through his pores. Cards go down around the table, groans and murmurs following, and then Chrissy reveals her hand with elegant cruelty.
You stare at the cards. “Did you win?”
“Yeah. Hands are ranked. Royal flush is the best hand you can have in poker.”
“So what happens now?”
“All those chips are mine.”
You offer your silver clutch wordlessly, and Chrissy drops a load in, both of you laughing as the rhinestone bag immediately becomes significantly less delicate and more like a glamorous brick.
“The chips are also currency here,” Chrissy says as you stand. “If you want to enter the jewellery draw, raffle, or silent auction, you can use them.”
“Ah.”
“Feeling like some pretty jewellery?”
“What? No, I’m not-”
Chrissy leads you to the jewellery draw before you can finish and hands the woman some chips. Then she gestures to the displayed boxes and bags. “Go on. Pick a bag.”
You blink at her, then select a pretty blue bag from the table. Chrissy nods towards it, and you pull out a Bulgari jewellery box. When you open it, the necklace inside gleams under the ballroom lights, white gold and pavé diamonds arranged like a coiled serpent, geometric segments resembling scales, the front gathering into a serpent’s head that appears to bite the connecting point, with a tapered diamond drop hanging beneath like a tail.
Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”
Then you find the receipt in the bag, and your expression becomes alarmingly blank as you read the price. “162,231,834 won.”
Chrissy plucks the receipt from your fingers. “It’s donated by rich people who don’t need it. The receipt is just in case of damage or resizing needs.”
“That’s a house deposit in jewellery form.”
“In some areas, maybe half a house deposit.”
“Chrissy-unnie.”
“What?”
“Hyunjin’s going to jump me to get a turn wearing it.”
Chrissy removes your current necklace carefully, then drapes the new one around your neck and attaches it at the front. Her fingers brush your skin, and your breath catches just enough for her to notice. The Serpenti necklace sits against you like it belongs there, diamonds glinting between the black halter panels of your gown.
“Hyunjin will do no such thing. If I hear her grubby fingers pinched this, I’ll tell Chaebin about her yearning.”
“This is too much.”
“You’re a woman who suits diamonds. Besides, I didn’t donate that much in chips.”
“How much?”
“Nope. You’ll never know. Accept the gift as a thank you for mending my vanity muscle focus.”
You giggle, touching the necklace lightly. “That sounds like a medical condition.”
“It was. You cured me.”
“I did not. You still lift your shoulder during supine twists.”
Chrissy sighs. “Romance is dead.”
The back room has quieter booths, dimmer lighting, and fewer scandalised rich people, so Chrissy suggests moving there. You take her arm and let her guide you through, your dress whispering against the floor, the necklace glittering at your throat. Once you settle into a booth together, a waiter comes over to take your drinks order, and you both choose the same as before.
Chrissy leans back once he leaves. “So, how’s the date going so far?”
“It’s amazing,” you say, and then you lean in and press a kiss to Chrissy’s cheek.
Chrissy’s grin spreads slowly, helplessly. “Yeah?”
“Yes. You’re very nice.”
“Nice?”
“And attractive. And you bought me a snake necklace worth an insane amount of won, which is alarming, but thoughtful.”
Chrissy points past you. “Ooh, look. Scandalised old person number two.”
You turn, then point to a woman near the doorway. “And there’s number three.”
Chrissy waves cheerfully at both offended older people, then turns back to you. “I think I need to rebleach and tone my hair.”
You hum, immediately examining her hair with professional attention. You reach up and touch one of the loose pale strands near her face. “Aish. How many times have you bleached your hair?”
“Uh, consistently since I was seventeen and realised I am sexy with colours that aren’t my natural colour.” You tut, and Chrissy straightens. “That sounded ominous.”
“Any more bleach and your hair will resemble beautifully blonde straw.”
“A crisis.”
You nod solemnly. “But if you still want a dye fix, a healthy dye without bleach or ammonia would be fine.”
“I’ve been blue, red, silver, pink. I’ve had multishade hair.”
“What about purple?”
Chrissy pauses. “You think?”
“You’re bisexual. You’ve done blue and pink. All that’s left to complete the flag is purple.”
Chrissy grins. “Will you dye my hair for me?”
“Sure. I can give you some more layers for volume too. Especially because you have a mullet look going on. I think it needs more layering.”
“You think I’ll look good purple?”
“You’re very attractive. I think you’d be hard pressed to find a colour you couldn’t pull off.”
“Neon green?”
You grimace. “You’d look like one of the aliens from Toy Story.”
Chrissy snorts, then wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little closer in the booth. You lean into her touch easily, taking a sip of your drink like you are not detonating her entire future with one small movement. Chrissy looks at you, at the diamonds around your throat, at the soft curve of your smile, at the way you fit against her without hesitation, and she knows without a doubt that she is going to marry you.
The thought arrives with terrifying clarity, utterly ridiculous and completely certain. She sees Australia, sunlight, a beach wedding, because same-sex marriage still is not legally recognised in South Korea, her Australian-Korean citizenship suddenly feeling like a romantic plot device instead of paperwork. She imagines you barefoot in white, laughing softly while Minhee sobs into Jisu’s shoulder and Hyunjin threatens to throw herself into the ocean because Chaebin looks good in formalwear. She imagines rings, vows, all that gay stuff she used to pretend was too sentimental for her.
You glance up. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Chrissy looks down at you, arm warm around your shoulders, and decides not to say any of that yet because it is a first date and she does still possess some survival instinct. “I was thinking purple hair might make me hotter.”
You nod, serious as anything. “It might.”
Chrissy laughs, presses her cheek lightly against the side of your head, and thinks, fuck, I’m absolutely ruined.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Thirteen months later, Escape feels less like a bar you visit and more like a strange, neon-lit second home that happens to serve cocktails with names that would make most grandmothers faint. You sit in the staff booth with Han Jisu, dividers down so the two of you can watch the monthly talent show while drinking and heckling with your eyes.
You are closer to Jisu now, mostly because you spend so much time here, but also because your original opportunities for friendship had been limited by the fact that whenever Jisu came over to your apartment, you and Hyunjin usually pulled on shoes and fled the apartment before Minhee and Jisu could start their volume-uncontrolled kinky sex terrorism. Chrissy had given you a key two months into dating, which means your escape plan has become much more comfortable than the old one, when you and Hyunjin used to drive aimlessly around Seoul until Minhee texted an all-clear.
You are wearing the mesh mini dress Chrissy bought you because she said it looked like fairy wings if fairies had excellent taste and a dangerous boyfriend budget, though you reminded her she is not a boyfriend, and she replied that girlfriend didn’t have the same comedic weight in that sentence. The dress is fitted, semi-sheer, and covered in soft abstract butterfly-wing colours, blue, sage, rust, orange, yellow, and charcoal, the front tied with thin closures that create cutouts over your chest, waist, and stomach. Clear chunky platform heels lift you slightly, your hair is swept into a fluffy tousled bun with curled pieces framing your face, and muted olive, warm brown, and rust shadows soften your eyes. Around your neck sits the Bulgari Serpenti Viper necklace from your first date, white gold and pavé diamonds coiling like a snake, matched now by the Serpenti Viper hoop earrings Chrissy gave you for your one-year anniversary.
Jisu eyes the jewellery, then looks back at the stage where someone is juggling three limes with the haunted confidence of a person who has never once feared consequences. “You’re lucky Chrissy-unnie is built, because you’re walking around in almost three hundred million won worth of Bulgari diamonds.”
You hum in agreement. “I know. Hyunjin still asks to wear them while pretending she’s asking as a joke.”
“She’d sell Minhee’s cats for a turn.”
“Minhee would kill her.”
“Soonie would survive. He’s too heavy to move quickly.”
Chrissy appears a moment later, sliding into the booth beside you while adjusting herself so she can still see the bar, the stage, the door, and Chaebin’s position in one glance. Innie and Felicity had been in the booth ten minutes ago but disappeared for a “smoke break”, despite the fact that neither of them smokes and Felicity only vapes when she’s drunk enough to call it “mist”.
Chrissy looks ridiculous in the best way, oversized black leather blazer over a crisp white button-up and slim black tie, black leather trousers fitted through the hips before flaring at the bottom, chunky black platforms planted beneath the table. Her hair is vivid cool-toned purple with lavender highlights now, shaggy layered mullet maintained by your hands. The tiny gold butterfly bracelet you gave her glints at her wrist when she wraps one arm around your waist.
You drape your legs over her lap, settling into her like it is instinct, and she strokes your side with a slow thumb. Jisu watches the two of you with theatrical disgust. “I can’t believe pilates is what finally tamed Chrissy Bang.”
You smile, then look towards the stage as the lime juggler is replaced by someone attempting a backbend with frightening ambition. “Omo, they’re going to pull a muscle.”
Chrissy raises one eyebrow, watching the person wobble with about the same amount of flexibility she had before three months of pilates humbled her into a new woman. “That spine has not signed the consent form for what they’re trying to do.”
You and Jisu both cover your eyes, peeking through your fingers, but fortunately Seungmi steps onto the stage with her clipboard and politely prevents a public neck-breaking. The audience claps anyway, because Escape supports queer delusion until it becomes a medical emergency.
“You should get up there, Y/N-ah,” Jisu says.
You hum. “It would be unfair. I’ve trained my whole life to do a talent.”
“Everyone would be impressed.”
“I’m not wearing safety shorts.”
Chrissy grins against your shoulder. “Or panties.”
Jisu makes a face. “Disgusting.”
You look at her calmly. “I don’t think you have a place to complain when I’ve caught you and Minhee fingerbanging each other in this booth, and I don’t feel like I even need to bring up the loud sex you and Minhee have in the apartment.”
“You just brought it up.”
You lightly tap your mouth with one finger, smiling slyly. “Oops.”
Minhee slides into the booth with the energy of a woman who has been personally victimised by employment. “I have my break now. Seungmi’s covering me on the bar because the person who was supposed to cover my break needed to be with her girlfriend.” She shoots a pointed look at Chrissy.
Chrissy shrugs shamelessly. “I’m emotionally attached.”
Jisu immediately climbs into Minhee’s lap, and Minhee’s grumpy face softens so fast it’s embarrassing for everyone watching. The four of you turn back to the stage as two girlfriends start butchering IU with loving sincerity and absolutely no pitch stability. Minhee winces. “Aish, we need to vet some people first.”
You and Jisu clap along supportively while Chrissy touches her ears. “Jagiya, are my ears bleeding?”
You whack her arm lightly with the back of your hand. “Be nice, yeobo. Not everyone had idol-level training like you.”
“There’s training, there’s talent, and then there’s strangled cats.”
You give her an unimpressed look, so she immediately starts clapping along, though she winces at every destroyed high note like each one removes a year from her life.
Minhee suddenly makes a noise of disgust. “Eugh.”
Everyone follows her line of sight to where Hyunjin and Chaebin are near the door, flirting in the most excruciating way possible. Hyunjin is laughing too hard at something Chaebin says, and Chaebin is pretending not to look pleased while leaning one arm against the wall.
“This is ridiculous,” Chrissy says. “We’ll all be old age pensioners before those two finally get together.”
Minhee cups one hand around her mouth. “Fucking kiss already!”
Hyunjin and Chaebin both look over instantly. Everyone in the booth looks around with exaggerated innocence, including Minhee, who is literally still facing them.
Jisu pats Minhee’s thigh. “Subtle, jagi.”
“I’m helping.”
“You’re heckling,”
Minhee sips her water as if she has done nothing wrong, while Jisu starts telling her about two wannabe influencers who came into the ER the day before, after trying to film a viral challenge. “One of them kept asking if the lighting in the treatment room was good for a story,” Jisu says. “I told her the only story she needed to post was an apology to her coccyx.”
While they talk, Chrissy leans closer and whispers filthy things in your ear, low enough that only you can hear. “When we get home, I’m peeling this dress off you carefully because I bought it and I respect craftsmanship, but after that, jagiya, I’m putting you on the kitchen counter and finding out how many times I can make those pretty legs shake before you ask me nicely to carry you to bed.”
You giggle into your cocktail before Chrissy’s mouth brushes your ear again. “And if you call me yeobo in that soft little voice while I’m between your thighs, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
Jisu snaps her gaze to you both. “Stop foreplaying verbally at the table.”
Chrissy leans back as if innocent. “Oh right. Minhee-yah, we have something to talk to you and Hyunjin-ah about.”
Your eyes widen, and you subtly shake your head, but Minhee clocks it immediately. Her expression hardens with protective suspicion. “What is it?”
Chrissy clears her throat. “Y/N-ah and I were talking, and also talked with Chaebin.”
“No,” Minhee says instantly. “I know what you’re going to say. Absolutely not.”
“But then there’s space in your apartment for Jisu-yah.”
“And you want to take my baby away?”
“We’ll still see each other nearly every day,” you say gently.
“Only nearly every day?”
Jisu strokes Minhee’s hair. “Jagi, deep breaths.”
Minhee points at Chrissy. “You are stealing my bendy baby.”
Chrissy raises both hands. “It also means me and Y/N-ah can have sex without you trying to strap-block me.”
You nod. “That is a practical benefit.”
Minhee looks betrayed by your agreement, before she sighs, dramatic and wounded. “If you ever upset my Y/N-ah, even over redecoration choices, I will skin you alive and feed you to my cats.”
“They’re definitely fat enough to devour a whole human.”
“They’re big-boned!”
“Yeah, my bad. Big-boned.”
Minhee narrows her eyes. “We’ll keep your room as a guest room, because Jisu will move in with me. I mandate four sleepovers a month or else I won’t approve this.”
“Okay, unnie.”
“And you visit Soonie frequently. I don’t want him getting depressed.”
“That furry land seal will cope just fine,” Chrissy says.
“He is not fat. He is big-boned and well-loved.”
“He jumped on my chest in the night when I stayed over in Y/N-ah’s bed, and I thought I was going to see the pearly gay gates.”
Minhee clicks her tongue, nudges Jisu off gently, then shoves Chrissy just enough to clamber over her and hug you like you are moving continents instead of ten minutes away. “Four sleepovers a month, and you come over for dinner at least twice a week every week.”
You let her cling to you, stroking her back with one hand while sipping your drink with the other. “Yes, unnie.”
Felicity and Innie return then, Felicity glowing suspiciously and Innie looking far too proud of herself. Jisu takes one look at them. “The back alley? Really?”
Felicity smirks, entirely shameless, and Innie shrugs. “She looked too good.”
“One day you’re going to kneel on a shard of glass or something in the name of cunnilingus,” Chrissy says.
“And I’ll eat pussy through the pain,” Innie replies.
Felicity glances at Minhee, who is still latched around you. “Why is Minhee-unnie attached to Y/N-ah?”
“She’s leaving,” Minhee whispers forlornly.
“Don’t say it in the terminally ill tone,” Chrissy says. “Jesus, Minhee-yah.”
“A part of me is dying.”
You only smile, cheek pressed lightly against Minhee’s hair, because this is what your life has become. Escape is noisy, filthy, chaotic, full of terrible singing and worse flirting. Hyunjin is still pretending not to pine. Chaebin is still pretending not to enjoy it. Minhee is mourning a move that has not happened yet while Jisu prepares to take your room. Felicity and Innie are glowing from alley-based crimes, Seungmi is judging everyone with a clipboard, and Chrissy is beside you, purple-haired, ridiculous, beautiful, and yours.
Chrissy catches your gaze over Minhee’s shoulder and mouths, “My place later?”
You mouth back, “Our place.”
Her face softens first, then breaks into a grin so bright it could power the neon signs above the bar. Minhee squeezes you tighter and mutters something about betrayal, Jisu laughs, someone on stage starts singing off-key again, and you sit there in the middle of all of it, calm and happy, knowing you have found your loud, strange, glittering place to land.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0 @jchotch726
General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65 @bingussthirdtoe @btch8008s @ivaviavi @trickstershinigami @pizzalove5000 @insert-fangirl-screech-here @skyearby @nojerama-writes @rougegenshin @luna585
If good karma is real I will get Run It UK 2027 tickets (by me I mean my mum, I am NAWT mentally strong enough for a Ticketmaster war)
i love this life...everyday there is a new ick from a man
How to Lose Your Cool in Ten Stretches
Patreon Release Date: 27th June
Tumblr Release Date: 11th July
WC: 18.1K
CWs: Gender-Swapped!SKZ, sexual jokes, sex toy mentions, body/muscle critique (not negative (professional)), bisexual menace Chrissy Bang, casual references to hookups
Decorated in Diamonds
Patreon Release Date: 11th July
WC: 15.4K
CWs: Explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetration (fingers and strap-on), mutual masturbation, and multiple orgasms, light dom/sub, restraint (wrists held), commands and obedience, praise and degradation, overstimulation
This one has been in the draft for a WHILE as I always worry with Yuri about how it comes across and how it will be received so I constantly edit and adjust parts and the smut took me three weeks on and off, getting writers block constantly
Girls, Gays and Theys, my 2026 has been made. Yesterday, I went to see ShxtsnGigs at the eventim apollo in London and my friends and I paid full VIP so we got to do the meet and greet with them because we'd saved up when the tour was announced
When I tell you all I nearly ASCENDED when James called me sweetheart and Fuhad called me darlin'. My friends and I took pics with them group and solo, hugged them, I nearly fainted because I was so anxious.
If you EVER get the chance to do something like this, I'm telling you it is so worth it. Go with your friends, meet the celebs you all like, take group pics with them, make those memories
Also, side note: their staff that were in the meet and greet room were so accomodating for both my back and my epilepsy. I have an epilepsy lanyard for events which I hang from my bag or neck and the standard guess is obviously photosensitivity so one of the staff members came over and asked if I needed the lights in the room dimming so I would be more comfortable (I'm not photosensitive so it was fine). THAT IS THE FUCKING ACCESSIBILITY STANDARDS OF EVENTS! It may not seem like a lot to people but to someone with epilepsy sometimes you don't get small things like that
Which Hogwarts AU should be next?
Bang Chan - academic rivals
Seo Changbin - tutor x tutee
Hwang Hyunjin - secret admirer
Lee Felix - kinda tutor x tutee too but felix wants to learn duelling
Kim Seungmin - sees the brains beneath the beauty trope
Yang Jeongin - common interest bringing 2 strangers together
Still just under three days to have your say on which AU fic I start working on next <3
Historical AU:
Poly!Demon!SKZ
Robin Hood Jeongin
Historical AU?
Yay!
Nay
Set in the 1400s under the tyrant rule of Yeonsangun of Joseon, the 10th monarch and considered the worst tyrant.
Kinda Robin Hood/Maid Marian-esque story
Stray Kids - Band of Rebels robbing the rich to feed the poor
Reader - foreign concubine (I'm thinking kinda princess jasmine vibes, Aladdin live action inspired fashion)
Not sure on LI yet - stuck between Hyunjin or Jeongin or Seungmin
Chrissy Bang Fic Banners:
Main Fic:
Patreon Piece:
What Do We Think?
Yay! Go Gays!
Nay (tell me ideas to improve)
Neutral: don't hate, don't love
The Greek Tragedy of Han Jisung’s Love Life: H.J Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)
WC: 16.6K
CWs: Physical Violence, Slut-shaming & Public Humiliation, Escorting, Hot!Loserish!Jisung, Gay Chaos, Best Friend Enabling, Aggressively Supportive Frat Boys, Group Chat Horror mention, Fake Dating
General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist
Han Jisung is face down on his bed, limbs sprawled across a tangle of sheets like a man who's given up on life. His room smells like peach body mist and a faint hint of the pepperoni pizza he ate last night at 3 a.m., which still sits half-finished on the desk, mocking him. The glow from his laptop casts a soft blue light against his wall, but he's not using it. Nope. He's just lying there, stewing.
He groans into his pillow dramatically.
"I'm gonna die alone," he mumbles.
The floor creaks, and the door swings open.
"What's got you thinking so hard, Hannie?" Felix's voice floats into the room, casual and a little too chirpy for someone who just climbed out of Minho's bed.
Jisung lifts his head just enough to glare at his best friend. "The Greek Row Awards dinner."
Felix tilts his head, already seeing where this is going.
"I'm the only fucking person in this house who doesn't have a date," Jisung continues with a tragic sigh. "If I show up alone, I'll get fucking roasted by every Sigma Chi asshole in the room. Then I'll get drunk out of shame and do something embarrassing, like fall into a punch bowl or karaoke Wonder Girls. Again."
Felix snorts and flops onto the bed beside him, feet tucked under him like a cat. "Okay, one, only Hyunjin and Changbin, and Minho and I are real couples. The others are just going with dates. Casual. No big deal."
"YES, BUT I HAVE NO ONE! Not even a casual."
Felix leans over and rests his chin on Jisung's shoulder. "You're so dramatic. It's cute."
"I'm gonna get laughed at. Sigma Chi will say some shit, and I'll fight someone, and then I'll eat my weight in ice cream."
"You'd eat that much ice cream regardless," Felix points out helpfully.
"Not the point," Jisung mutters.
There's a moment of silence before Felix perks up. "Okay, I have a friend."
Jisung doesn't move. "Is this going somewhere?"
"Yes. She's my best friend, actually. But I hide her from all of you because she's too fucking pretty. Like criminally hot. Only Minho knows her, and that's just because he has big gay eyes for me and my waxed asshole."
Jisung groans into the pillow. "God, why?"
Felix grins. "Anyway. My friend? She kind of does this... rent-a-girlfriend thing. Like, guys pay her to pretend to be their girlfriend. Mostly for events like this. She's vague enough that no one asks questions. People just believe it."
Jisung finally lifts his head fully. "I'm listening."
"Her name's Y/N," Felix says, tugging at a thread on the bedspread. "She's fucking cool. Funny, sweet as hell, insanely pretty. If I ask, she'll give you a discount."
"Wait, would the guys believe I'd date her?"
"Oh my god, Jisung, she's so your type," Felix says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "She's got this long hair, black and platinum silver, like actual stripes. Frankie Stein realness. It's soft as fuck and reaches her lower back. I did the dye job myself. She's drop-dead gorgeous. Knockout. And she's so nice, like makes-you-want-to-be-a-better-person nice. That kind of soft that makes you want to protect her, but also bend her over the nearest desk."
Jisung makes a dreamy sigh.
Felix grins wider. "Told you."
"This plan is great! Or is it incredibly sad? I can't tell."
"A bit of both," Felix says cheerfully.
Jisung pouts. "Is it me? Am I just not fuckable anymore? Does no one want a slice of Hannie pie?"
"Oh, baby, no," Felix coos. "You are so sexy."
"Liar," Jisung mutters.
"Girls are always all over you."
"Not anymore! Be honest, is it my hair? Did growing it out make me ugly?"
He gestures dramatically to his black modern mullet, layered and sleek and tucked behind one ear. It falls in gentle waves past his chin, framing his face and drawing attention to his pouty lips and sharp jaw.
Felix gasps. "Don't you dare slander the mullet. It's iconic. You look like a hot anime villain. Like... the one who seduces the protagonist's girlfriend and then kills a guy with his bare hands."
"Really?"
"Yes. You are deceptively muscular for your height. Broad shoulders, those massive pecs, biceps that could choke someone if you wanted. And let's not forget the tiny-ass waist. You've got these chubby cheekies that make people think you're soft, but then BAM! shirt comes off and it's like holy fuck."
"Go on."
"Heart-shaped lips, big brown eyes like a Disney prince possessed by a demon."
A smile starts to tug at the corners of Jisung's mouth.
"And let's not even start on your dom energy. You walk into a room, and the girls can feel it. Like, you just look like you'd tell someone to be quiet and they'd say yes, sir."
Jisung lies back with a sigh. "This is exactly the kind of ego stroke I needed."
Felix nods solemnly. "And don't get me started on your ass."
"Start."
"That ass," Felix begins reverently, "is a fucking peach. A bubble of joy. Every time you walk into the kitchen in boxers, the entire house goes silent. It's got a gravitational pull. You bend down, and Chan forgets his own name. It's so firm and round. And the best part? You don't even care when we all grope it."
"I really don't,"
"Your ass deserves its own postal code. It should be protected by the fucking government."
Jisung is pouting now, eyes big and sad in an obvious attempt to get Felix to keep going.
Right on cue, the door opens, and Minho walks in wearing grey joggers and a tank top, hair mussed from sleep. "Felix, you left the fucking-" He stops when he sees the tragic sprawl of Jisung. "Oh, what happened to Jisung-ah Juicy Butt?"
Jisung lifts his head with a pitiful groan. "The awards dinner."
Felix fills Minho in. "He has no date. Feeling sad. I offered Y/N to escort him, but now he's questioning his self-worth."
Minho walks over, rolls Jisung onto his stomach, and grabs two handfuls of Jisung's ass through his pants like he's squeezing a stress ball. "You're being dumb. We've all seen you naked in the locker room. You've got a massive dick soft. I'm scared to see it hard, and I'm a top."
Felix fans himself. "As a bottom gay, my timbers are shivered every time I think about it."
"Your proportions are like some kind of math-defying hentai character," Minho adds. "Tiny waist, huge pecs, thick thighs, long dick. It's like God was overcompensating for your height."
Felix wheezes. "He said 'math-defying hentai character.'"
Minho keeps going. "Your voice? Like smooth honey mixed with chaos. You laugh like a gremlin, then suddenly your voice drops three octaves and girls are biting their lip."
Jisung basks in the attention. "You guys can keep going."
Minho smirks. "Jisung-ah Juicy Butt, all the things I would do to this plump ass if I were single and you were gay... it's a crime you're straight."
Minho wiggles his eyebrows. Felix giggles.
"Anyway," Minho says, patting the ass fondly, "we've got cheesecake in the kitchen."
Jisung lifts his head. "The New York-style vanilla one?"
"The very one. Will that help the slump?"
Jisung immediately perks up. "Best night ever."
"We'll put on Howl's Moving Castle," Minho offers. "You can sit between me and Felix so there's no kissing and you're not third-wheeling. We'll make it a Make-Jisung-Happy night. Chan and Changbin'll go out and buy that beer you like."
Jisung practically leaps out of bed. "Let's fucking go."
Felix jumps up too. "We'll keep complimenting you the whole time."
"I need it. Don't stop."
As they head downstairs, Felix wraps an arm around Jisung's waist. "You smell like sexy angst."
"Your arms are stupidly veiny," Minho adds. "You look like you bench-press sins."
"Your hair makes you look like a rockstar who also reads poetry in bed."
"Your jawline could cut a bitch," Felix says. "But your eyes say 'cuddle me.' It's a perfect balance."
"Your nipples are weirdly pretty," Minho throws in.
Jisung laughs so hard he stumbles halfway down the stairs. "What the fuck, Minho?"
"Just saying. They're symmetrical."
Felix claps. "He's right."
"You two are insane."
"But you love us," Felix sings.
Minho shrugs. "Your ass jiggles like a guilty pleasure, Juicy Butt."
"Stop calling me that."
"Never,"
The café smells like roasted hazelnut and something cinnamon-spiced, as Jisung walks in, hands shoved into the pockets of his bulky black puffer jacket. His bright yellow baseball cap is pulled low over his brow, his face barely visible save for the sharp slant of his cheekbones and the pout on his lips. His extra-long white t-shirt peeks out from beneath the hem, fluttering slightly as the door swings closed behind him.
Jisung's eyes scan the room until they fall on the window seat. And then he sees you.
You're sitting with a porcelain pot of tea beside you, fingers wrapped around a cup as steam wafts into the air. You're not even looking at him, but Jisung almost fucking trips on the welcome mat.
Your black spaghetti-strap mini dress hugs your form just enough to be classy and sinful at the same time, the hem brushing mid-thigh where your over-the-knee platform boots take over. Layered underneath, the fitted off-the-shoulder white top clings to your arms and curves, just enough skin bared to make his brain stutter. A cream beret rests lightly on your head, slightly tilted, your long, black and platinum-striped hair cascading in loose curls over your shoulders and down your back.
Your makeup is subtle but sharp, flawless black eyeliner and a bold red lip that makes you look like a living painting. You look like someone who belongs in a glossy fashion spread and also someone he might see sipping tea in a soft, dreamy Parisian cafe. His throat is suddenly dry.
He walks over with a mix of nerves and curiosity, sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. You look up at him just as he stops in front of your table.
He clears his throat. "Are you Y/N?"
"Yes," you say sweetly, then squint as you rotate your palm to read the smeared hangul on your hand. "And you must be... Han Jisong?"
"Han Jisung," he corrects, chuckling as he slides into the seat across from you.
"Oops. It got smudged."
"No big deal," Jisung says, shrugging off his puffer jacket. "Did Felix give you the rundown?"
You squint at your hand again. "The annual dinner for... something that's now rubbed off."
Jisung snorts, head tilting as he watches you with amused eyes. "The Greek Row Awards. It's dumb. Awards for stuff like best parties, best fundraisers, dumbest initiation, whatever. All the Alpha Phi guys are bringing dates. Everyone except me."
"Felix mentioned something about a rival frat?"
He groans, nodding. "Yeah. Sigma Chi. They're gonna be talking shit if I'm the only one there alone. Like vultures. It's not even formal-formal, but the politics are real."
You sip your tea again and nod slowly, thoughtful. "Okay. So we need to go shopping next week. Matching outfits."
He blinks. "Wait, what?"
"I said what I said," you reply, completely calm. "If we're gonna be fake dating for the night, we're gonna coordinate. Make an entrance. Aesthetic cohesion is vital."
Jisung grins. "I already have my outfit. But I'll help you pick yours out."
"Fair," you nod. "So what are you wearing?"
He leans forward, his voice low like he's about to drop a bomb. "All white. White blazer. Tight white turtleneck. High-waisted, tailored white trousers. White belt. White dress shoes. Chunky silver bracelet. Chunky silver rings."
"Making a statement, huh?"
Jisung shrugs with a little grin tugging at his lips. "Why not?"
"So I need to look like a bride?" you tease, tilting your head.
"You could wear silver. It's complementary to white, at least, that's what Jeongin says. And it would go with your hair."
You hum thoughtfully. "Next Tuesday?"
He nods. "Yeah! We could make a day of it. Go shopping, get boba, maybe eat somewhere good. Could be fun."
"That sounds good," you say, lips curling in a smile. There's a gentle sort of glow about you when you smile, something warm and genuine. It makes his chest feel weird.
"I'll pay for your dress," he says suddenly, like it's nothing. "I've got money to burn, and spending it on a pretty girl is no hassle."
Your eyes widen slightly, surprised. "Oh, really? I mean, I didn't assume that was part of the deal..."
"Seriously," he waves a hand. "It's cool. I want to. And let's be honest, I should at least pay for my fake girlfriend's outfit."
"Thank you, Jisung."
He grins again, a little toothy this time. "Anytime."
A small silence settles for a moment before Jisung clears his throat. "Okay, uh, the other thing, pricing?"
"How long is the gala?"
"Four hours, plus like... two hours afterparty. Give or take."
"So six hours," you nod. "That'll be 370,000 won."
Jisung blinks. "And that's the discounted rate?"
You nod again. "It's usually 70,000 won per hour. You're paying 61,666. Felix discount."
He laughs. "Fair. Got Kakaopay?"
You pull out your phone and tap open the app, showing him the QR. He sends the money without hesitation, barely even thinking about it. His allowance from his parents alone is enough to support three people, and Alpha Phi gets donor money like they're a fucking non-profit. It's honestly stupid how rich he is.
"Done," he says, and you confirm with a little nod, putting your phone away.
"So," he says, folding his arms on the table, "how do you know Felix?"
Your face lights up a little, nostalgic. "I met him at a Freshers Festival when I first got to Miroh. I was alone and I was standing in line for takoyaki when he just... latched onto me. Told me I was too pretty to stand by myself and that I was his now."
Jisung snorts. "That sounds exactly like him."
"Yeah. I didn't even know his name yet," you giggle. "He just started telling me about his skincare routine and then offered me a sip of his smoothie. We've been best friends ever since."
"Sounds like Felix, alright. He's a menace."
"I love him," you say sweetly. "He kept me away from Alpha Phi, though. He didn't want to share me."
"He said that," Jisung nods. "He told me he kept you hidden because you were too pretty."
You laugh again. "Eventually, I met Minho, though. Through Felix. Minho adopted me. Now I have two gay dads. They spoil me rotten."
"Yeah, sounds like them," Jisung agrees. "Minho's probably the scariest person I know, but also... the kindest? Like, he'll threaten to break someone's knees for you and then make you soup."
"Exactly!" you nod enthusiastically. "He's the best."
Jisung finds himself smiling again. You're easy to talk to. Comfortable. Sweet. And funny in that dry, blink-and-you'll-miss-it way. He likes that.
"So what's your major?"
"Real estate," you reply easily. "Finance minor."
Jisung raises his brows. "Shit, really?"
"Yeah," you laugh. "Why? Do I not look businessy enough?"
"I mean... with the whole vibe you've got going on, I kinda expected something artsy. Like fashion design or literature."
You grin. "Nope. Capitalist Barbie."
Jisung laughs again, loud and bright. "Okay, that's hot."
"Thanks. What about you?"
"Investigative journalism major. Criminal Psych Minor."
You blink. "Huh."
"What?" he asks, eyebrows lifting.
"I don't know, I expected something musical. With the way you dress. The hair. You just have rockstar energy."
"What's wrong with my hair?" he gasps, mock offended.
"Nothing! I like it!" you reassure quickly. "It's hot! Just unexpected. You walked in and I was like, okay, this man either plays in a punk band or robs banks for fun."
"That's kind of a compliment,"
"It is," you grin.
And for the next hour, the two of you talk. About dumb Miroh campus gossip, about the overpriced vending machines in the East quad, about the time a squirrel attacked a student, and someone posted it on the university subreddit. You make him laugh so hard he snorts, and you laugh in a way that makes his chest warm. There's something weirdly easy about this, something comfortable and kind of addictive.
He finds himself thinking that if this were a real date, he wouldn't mind at all. Not one bit.
When Jisung kicks open the door to the Alpha Phi frat house, it's with the kind of drama typically reserved for grand declarations of war or discovering your enemy ate the last slice of cheesecake. His yellow cap is askew from the wind, his puffer jacket hanging off one shoulder like he's been through some kind of battlefield, and he doesn't even bother to kick off his sneakers as he stomps into the kitchen.
Felix is perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly, drinking some kind of hideous green smoothie that smells like regret. Minho is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something that looks suspiciously like ramen but with way too much cheese dumped into it.
"Sooooo," Felix says, drawing out the syllable with an exaggerated grin, "how'd it go, lover boy?"
Minho glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "You come back looking like you just saw God."
Jisung drops his bag to the floor, slams his jacket over a chair, and points an accusing finger at Felix. "You. Are a fucking terrible best friend."
"WHAT?! I literally- what the fuck- why?!"
"You undersold her! You undersold the absolute angelic vision that is Y/N. That is BAD FRIENDSHIP from you. Who the fuck doesn't hype up their friend when they're that stupidly hot? Felix, what the fuck is wrong with you?!"
Minho chokes on air. "Oh my god."
"I told you she was knockout levels pretty!"
"Exactly!" Jisung bellows, slamming his palms on the kitchen island. "You said knockout. You didn't say heart-stopping. You didn't say jaw-dislocating. You didn't say she looked like a fucking dream from an indie romance film directed by a French genius who hates men and only casts ethereal women with perfect cheekbones and vintage boots!"
Minho puts down the ladle and joins in with a deadpan tone, "Bad Felix. Naughty Felix."
"Thank you!" Jisung says, pointing again like he's just won a court case. "You sent me in underprepared, emotionally and spiritually. I was vulnerable, Felix. That's on you. Boo. Booooooooooo."
And just like that, Jisung starts full-on booing. Loud, obnoxious, dramatic-as-fuck boos echoing through the kitchen like he's at a goddamn football match and the ref just made the worst call in recorded history.
"Booooooooo!" Jisung bellows again
"What the actual fuck is wrong with you?! I did hype her up! I said she was too pretty to meet you clowns and that I was HIDING her! That's the highest compliment I give anyone!"
"Oh, hold the fuck on!" Jisung suddenly spins on his heel to face Minho. "YOU'VE MET HER. Why the fuck didn't you warn me?!"
"Oh, I absolutely could have warned you."
"You asshole!" Jisung shouts, grabbing the dish towel off the counter and throwing it at him. "Boooooooo Minho! Booooo!"
Minho catches the towel mid-air, bows like he's accepting an Oscar, and says proudly, "Drama Queen of the Year goes to Han Jisung!"
"I hate you both," Jisung huffs, crossing his arms.
"You love us," Felix chirps, smug.
"Yeah," Jisung mutters. "Which is unfortunate."
Minho flops onto a chair with his bowl of cheesy ramen and waves his spoon. "Wait, wait, wait. Who's worse? Me or Felix?"
Jisung doesn't even hesitate. "Felix."
Felix's mouth drops open in slow horror. "Excuse me?"
"You're a bad best friend to the prettiest woman I've ever seen," Jisung says dramatically. "Y/N deserves a better best friend."
"HOW DARE YOU-"
"I might introduce her to Seungmin,"
Felix looks like he's been stabbed. "You wouldn't."
Jisung just grins. "I might."
"Seungmin is a grump who cannot hype anyone up to save his fucking life!" Felix screeches. "He called me a sentient tampon last week!"
Minho bursts into laughter. "Honestly? Accurate."
"I am an excellent best friend!" Felix declares, fists on his hips.
"You're a traitor," Jisung replies.
"You're a fucking asshole!"
"You're a crusty bitch!"
"Oh fuck off, you sad-looking, half-baked gremlin fetus!"
"Oh, you wanna go, you over-waxed lizard twink?"
And that's all it takes.
Felix launches himself across the kitchen like a caffeinated koala, tackling Jisung to the floor. Felix is getting Jisung in a headlock while Jisung is cackling like a maniac, trying to flip them over.
Minho doesn't move to help. He just sits, filming it on his phone and giggling like a child.
"You fake-ass short king!" Felix yells.
"You K-pop reject with the personality of expired yoghurt!" Jisung grunts, flipping Felix onto his back.
"You smell like burnt crayons!"
"Your hairline's receding from sheer embarrassment!"
"You cry every time a dog dies in a movie!"
"You use baby shampoo because you have weak bitch scalp!"
Felix snarls and kicks, managing to land a foot on Jisung's thigh. Jisung groans, rolls him over again, and pins him with one knee on his chest.
"Say you're a fake friend!" Jisung demands.
"Eat shit and die!"
"Oh, you wanna play dirty?"
"Try me!"
"Okay," Jisung grins like the devil, "remember that one time you asked me to check if your asshole was fully waxed before you got rimmed by Minho?"
Felix freezes. "...Yeah?"
"There was one long ass hair. You missed it. I never told you."
"No, you fucking didn't-"
"You had one long Rapunzel strand hanging off your asshole, and I let it be."
"YOU FUCKING BASTARD."
Minho, howling with laughter, adds, "Oh my god, I remember that! I had to pretend it didn't touch my tongue when I rimmed you, but it fucking did. It tickled. It tickled my fucking tongue."
"HAN JISUNG, LOOK WHAT YOU DID. MY BOYFRIEND LICKED MY SINGULAR RAPUNZEL ASSHAIR."
Jisung is doubled over, laughing so hard he can't breathe. "You are never living this down."
"You're dead to me!"
"You smell like the inside of a mouldy gym sock!"
"You look like a sentient STD!"
"You wear matching socks maybe once a fucking month!"
"You once cried because you couldn't find your left earring, and it was IN YOUR FUCKING HAIR."
Minho chimes in helpfully, "He did. I remember that. I was there."
"You have the emotional range of a dying poodle!" Felix roars, now straddling Jisung's back as he tries to choke him out with his thighs.
"You look like a Starbucks barista who got kicked out of clown school!" Jisung shouts, flipping him again.
Minho is just eating ramen and watching like it's a pay-per-view special.
Despite all of Felix's taekwondo training, Jisung is simply too muscular. Deceptively so, but those thick-ass biceps and solid core strength mean he always wins eventually. He finally manages to pin Felix flat on the ground, face down, sitting on his back.
"I win," Jisung pants, breathless.
"You're a fucking animal."
"You love it."
Minho grins. "This is why we don't buy cable. You two are better than anything on TV."
As Jisung wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and finally climbs off Felix, Minho claps once. "So what's the plan, loverboy?"
Jisung grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a long swig before answering. "We're going dress shopping next week. She wants to match. I told her I'm wearing all white, white blazer, turtleneck, high-waisted pants, the whole shebang. So she's thinking maybe silver, or something sparkly to match. Honestly? I'm fucking into it."
"Of course you are," Felix mutters, still on the floor, face squished against the tile.
"She's gonna look like a goddess. Her hair's already got that silver streak thing going on. It's gonna match so well. It's gonna be a whole moment."
Minho raises his brow. "You're starting to sound like this isn't just a fake date anymore."
Jisung snorts. "Chill. I'm not catching feelings or anything. Just saying, it's gonna be a good look. She's... really cool."
Felix lifts his head just enough to glare. "If you steal her from me as a best friend, I'll replace all your shampoo with lube."
Jisung grins. "She deserves better than you anyway."
"You crusty bitch."
"You bedazzled gremlin."
"Your socks have holes in them!"
Minho sighs contentedly. "I love this house."
Jisung weaves through the bustling streets of Seoul with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized black zip-up hoodie. It's zipped halfway up, layered over a black shirt with an uneven, rounded hem that peeks out beneath like he forgot to do laundry and just layered whatever was on his floor. Wide-legged black pants swish around his ankles, each step landing with a low thud thanks to his heavy, chunky black shoes. The only splash of colour is the pair of blue light glasses perched on his nose, comically oversized but weirdly working for him. He doesn't even need them today, but they're part of the look. He looks like he just walked out of a documentary about misunderstood geniuses.
Lotte Department Store looms ahead, its glass front catching the afternoon light and throwing it in sharp angles across the pavement. Jisung shoulders past a group of teenagers taking selfies near the entrance.
You'd texted earlier saying you'd already arrived and were just waiting by the west entrance, so Jisung angles toward it, eyes scanning until he spots you.
You're leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, scrolling casually through your phone. Your white cropped top with black trim buttons and detailing hugs you in a way that's modest and flirty all at once, matched perfectly with a high-waisted, tight black mini skirt that clings to your hips and is accented with a double-strand chain belt that glints slightly in the light with a delicate pearl charm. Your platform Mary Janes add a few extra inches, and the white ruffled ankle socks shouldn't look sexy, but on you, they do. Your hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, but strands have been left out deliberately, framing your face like you just stepped out of a K-drama styling trailer.
"Yo, Y/N!"
You glance up from your phone and smile, soft and genuine, lifting a hand in a small wave. "Hey, Jisung,"
Jisung's smile falters as he gets closer and sees the goosebumps on your arms. "You've got goosebumps," he says, immediately pulling the zipper down on his hoodie and shrugging it off. "What the fuck, it's freezing today. Why didn't you bring a jacket?"
You look down at your arms and shrug. "It's not the warmest, no. But beauty is pain."
Jisung snorts, already holding the hoodie out to you. "Put this on. I swear to god, you're gonna catch a cold and then Felix will blame me."
You hesitate for a second but then smile and take it, slipping it on. It drapes past the hem of your skirt and makes you look ten times smaller in it. The sleeves are long and hang past your hands a little, and the hoodie itself smells like laundry detergent and Jisung, which is oddly comforting. You shift, adjusting the hood a little, and glance down at yourself.
"I look like I'm wearing my boyfriend's hoodie," you say with a laugh.
Jisung blinks. "Not complaining."
You grin, and the expression turns something in his chest into soup.
He coughs and looks away quickly. "Alright, come on, let's find you a dress. White, silver, or something sparkly."
You clap your hands once, all excited energy. "Let's do it."
The next two hours are a whirlwind of boutique hopping, judgmental salespeople, and a growing collection of sarcastic commentary from both sides. The first store is sleek and overpriced, and Jisung immediately hates everything about it. You try on a floor-length sequined dress with a weird ruffle down one side, and when you step out, Jisung winces so hard his glasses slip down his nose.
"You look like a disco ball that got attacked by a bird," he says, and you laugh so hard you almost trip on the hem.
"Yeah, I hate it," you agree, ducking back into the changing room.
The next store has better lighting but worse colour selection. You pull a silvery strapless number off the rack, hold it up to yourself in the mirror, and Jisung squints.
"I don't know," he says. "That one looks like it'd make your boobs sad."
"Okay, that's a new critique," you reply, grinning.
"I stand by it."
You try it on anyway and confirm that yes, it does in fact make your boobs sad.
Store after store passes like that, both of you getting more and more opinionated with each dress. There's one that has an asymmetric neckline that makes you look like you're leaning sideways. Another is glittery but has weird mesh cutouts, and Jisung mumbles something about "underboob coffin vibes" and makes a face like he's smelled a corpse.
The turning point comes when you slip off your platform heels in one changing room to try on a floor-length satin gown. Jisung is leaning against the wall outside, scrolling through his phone, when you step out barefoot, smoothing the fabric down as you walk.
The first thing he notices is that the dress is a no. It hugs weirdly, the neckline is unflattering, and it wrinkles in weird places. But the second thing he notices, the one that actually makes his mouth fall open a little, is that you're shorter than him.
Not by much. Maybe an inch. But still. He pushes off the wall and points dramatically. "Oh my god."
You blink. "What?"
"You're shorter than me!" he cries, voice triumphant.
You laugh, and he flaps his hands.
"No, no, this is huge. Most girls I know are taller than me in regular shoes. I always have to do mental gymnastics to feel tall. But you? You're my new favourite person."
"I'm honoured," you say, deadpan.
He walks a little circle around you just to rub it in. "I've got at least two inches on you. You're not even eye level."
You shake your head, amused. "Enjoy it while it lasts. I'm putting the shoes back on after this, and I'll tower over you again."
"Worth it," he says. "I'll savour this moment forever."
Eventually, hunger and exhaustion catch up to you both. You end up collapsing into seats at the food court, boba teas in hand, Jisung's glasses slightly askew from rubbing his face with both hands in frustration.
"We'll find something," he says, nodding solemnly like a prophet. "I feel it in my left nut."
"What the fuck?"
"I'm serious. My journalist instinct is tied directly to my left testicle. It never fails me."
"That is the single dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Hey, Luke Skywalker had Yoda. Harry Potter had Hermione. I have my left ball. Don't disrespect him."
You dissolve into giggles, and Jisung smiles over his drink, watching you laugh with that bright kind of fondness he's not fully ready to acknowledge yet. But it's there.
You finish your boba and toss the cups, stretching your arms over your head with a groan. "Alright. One more boutique and then I give up."
"Let's do it. Left Nut says it's gonna be the one."
The last boutique is smaller, tucked away between a stationery store and a luxury bag outlet. The interior is lined with velvet and gold accents, and the dresses are displayed on platforms instead of racks. It feels fancier, somehow more serious. And the second you both walk in, Jisung's eyes lock onto a dress near the back.
"That one," he says, pointing with purpose.
You follow his gaze, brows lifting slightly. "That one?"
"That one."
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. Try it on. I have a feeling."
You grab it and disappear into the changing room. Jisung stands by the mirror, arms folded, watching other people filter in and out of the boutique. A teenager beside him picks up a fluorescent green dress and asks her mom if it's "too subtle." Jisung mentally facepalms.
And then you step out. He turns. Sees you. And his jaw drops.
"YES," he shouts, pointing dramatically. "YES! I am a GOD. From now on, call me Fashion-shin. I reign supreme! I am ALL POWERFUL!"
You laugh, twirling slightly. "It's that good?"
"Are you fucking kidding? You look like a hot, sparkly fever dream. I want everyone at the awards dinner to cry blood when they see you."
"Alright then. Let's buy it."
The smell of Minho's soy-glazed eggplant and Felix's kimchi jjigae fills the Alpha Phi dining room like a divine blessing from above. All eight of the Alpha Phi guys are squabbling over rice portions and flicking bits of radish at each other like the grown man-children they are.
Chan clears his throat from his spot at the head of the table. "Alright, listen up, you animals, we've got logistics to sort for the awards dinner."
Everyone groans like they're being asked to do their taxes.
"No, seriously," Chan insists, "it's two nights from now, and I want no fuck-ups. Jennie's coming here early, and I told her we'd do pre-drinks here since it's easier than coordinating everyone separately. So all the dates are meeting us at the frat. We've got the limo confirmed, twelve seats."
"Twelve?" Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, shovelling rice into his mouth. "That's unnecessary, isn't it? Only eleven of us are going. Ji doesn't have a date."
Jisung, mid-reach for a piece of beef, freezes. "Oh, fuck off," he mutters under his breath, barely restraining himself from grabbing the sizzling-hot pan and launching it at Hyunjin's gorgeous, annoyingly symmetrical face.
"What? It's a valid point. One seat's gonna be cold and empty, just like Jisung's love life."
"Hyunjin," Chan warns, shooting a look across the table.
But it's too late. Jisung is already staring at the frying pan again, his fingers twitching with the need to commit violence.
"You know," he says slowly, voice syrupy and calm in that terrifying way only the truly enraged can manage, "I've never fantasised about melting someone's face off before, but right now, the idea of pressing this pan onto your cheek until it sizzles is actually kind of poetic."
"Oh my god," Jeongin whispers.
"I can hear it already," Jisung continues, voice dreamy, eyes distant. "The skin bubbling. You screaming. Music to my ears. It's like therapy, but free."
Chan rubs his temples. "Hyunjin, seriously, stop. He's gonna snap and we're gonna have to replace the floorboards again."
Changbin, seated beside Hyunjin, elbows his boyfriend. "Stop teasing. You know Jisung gets worked up."
"He's fun when he's worked up!" Hyunjin says cheerfully. "It's like poking a bear with a stick. A short, rage-filled bear who shops at underground fashion warehouses and listens to true crime podcasts for fun."
"I'm not short," Jisung snaps.
"You're... dimensionally efficient," Seungmin offers helpfully, face completely deadpan.
In Jisung's head, the fantasy of the pan-slap is vivid. He imagines holding it by the handle, the heat radiating up his arm. He imagines Hyunjin's shocked face as it connects, the hiss of burning flesh, the sudden silence in the room. The drama. The satisfaction. It's so vivid he almost moans.
He once considered actual therapy. He really did. He even went to a session. The therapist was nice. Talked about "processing anger constructively." But then the therapist said something about "nonviolent coping methods" and Jisung realised he'd rather spend that 80,000 won on anime figures and imported ramen. And now, apparently, on paying for a beautiful woman's dress. Which, honestly, had been more relaxing than anything that therapist had offered.
Now that he thinks about it, that dress-shopping trip had been like spiritual fucking healing.
"Hey, Hyun," Felix chirps suddenly, voice sugary-sweet, "Jisung does have a date."
The table goes dead silent. Even Chan pauses mid-sip of his beer.
"No shit?" Chan says, turning to Jisung.
"No shit," Jisung replies smoothly. "Felix introduced me to his friend Y/N a few months ago. Kept it quiet because it was new"
Changbin slaps him on the back so hard Jisung faceplants into his bowl of jjigae. "Good for you, man!"
Jisung lifts his face, soup dripping down his cheek, and considers drowning Changbin in the pot for half a second. "You motherfucker."
"Love you too."
Minho, unfazed, speaks up. "Y/N's a knockout. Ji took her dress shopping two days ago and paid for her dress. They're gonna be the it couple."
"After us, obviously," Felix adds, wrapping his arms around Minho's neck and planting a loud kiss on his cheek.
Chan nods approvingly. "Will she be coming here for pre-drinks, or should we reroute the limo?"
"Reroute," Jisung says immediately. "I'm not bringing her into this asylum. She's too good for this house. The limo can swing by hers on the way."
Jeongin, who's been quietly sipping on his drink and texting his date, perks up. "Oooooh, show us a picture of your girlfriend!"
Jisung pulls out his phone, scrolling for the selfie you two took at Lotte Department Store. It's one of the two of you holding your boba cups up to cover your faces completely. He turns his screen toward the table. "Boom."
"We can't see her face. She could be ugly as sin."
Chan doesn't hesitate. He slaps Hyunjin across the back of the head so hard, Hyunjin's forehead bounces off the edge of his plate.
"OW! WHAT THE FUCK?!"
"Don't be a dick,"
"That's Jisung's girlfriend and my best friend," Felix says with a frown. "You can't say stupid shit about her."
Minho flicks a piece of pickled radish at Hyunjin. "You brought this on yourself."
One by one, everyone joins in. Seungmin drops a piece of tofu in Hyunjin's lap. Jeongin slaps a fishcake onto his arm. Even Changbin sighs dramatically before dumping a spoonful of rice on his own boyfriend's head.
"You deserved that," Changbin says when Hyunjin turns to glare at him.
Jisung settles back in his seat, finally able to eat his beef in peace as Hyunjin grumbles and wipes rice out of his hair.
They drive each other insane, but it's always been like this. Jisung and Hyunjin fight like rabid alley cats in a trash fire, but when it counts, they've always had each other's backs. It's just that they show love by setting each other on fire and then putting the fire out with beer. That's just how it works.
Jisung glances at the boba photo again and smiles, thumb brushing over the screen.
He can't wait for everyone to see you.
The limousine pulls to a slow, glossy stop outside your apartment building, the sleek black stretch vehicle glinting under the city lights. Inside, the chatter is loud, the music is thumping low from the sound system, and champagne is already flowing like it's a damn awards afterparty instead of a pre-drink on the way to the event.
Before anyone inside can move, Jisung is already halfway out the door, his white shoes landing crisply on the pavement. He's a vision, head to toe in all white. His sharply tailored blazer hugs his shoulders perfectly, crisp and clean over the form-fitting ribbed turtleneck that shows off the subtle lines of his chest and arms. The high-waisted white trousers cling to his narrow waist, cinched in with a white belt, and the matching dress shoes complete the monochrome look. Silver rings catch the light as he gestures behind him, and a chunky bracelet clinks with the movement.
"All of you keep your asses in the limo," he snaps over his shoulder before slamming the door shut with dramatic flair.
Immediately after it shuts, two heads pop out of the fucking sunroof like nosy, fashion-forward ostriches.
Hyunjin and Changbin look like twin devils, their outfits a perfectly matched red-on-red explosion. Hyunjin's in a deep crimson velvet blazer over a black mesh shirt that shows just enough of his collarbones to be infuriating, while his red leather pants make a statement nobody asked for but everyone acknowledges. Changbin is more structured, classic red double-breasted suit with a clean black dress shirt underneath, the fit sharp and military-chic, like he's going to seduce and then fight someone. Their heads swivel as one, both grinning like demons.
"Oh my god," Jisung mutters, rubbing his temples. "Oi!"
From the side windows, more heads emerge like they're part of some weird synchronised musical.
Chan is leaning out his window in a navy three-piece suit, clean and pressed like a magazine cover, his black hair styled immaculately. Beside him is Jennie, the sorority queen of Kappa Tau, wearing a floor-length navy satin gown with a high slit and shoulder cutouts, her hair slicked back into a low ponytail.
Jeongin's grinning like a child from his window seat, dressed in a rich plum single-breasted suit with subtle embroidery on the lapels. His date, Chan-hee, another frat guy from Delta Nu, is wearing a matching plum blazer and black dress slacks, his tie patterned with tiny grape motifs that Jeongin finds hilarious and adorable.
Seungmin has one arm resting casually out the window, looking painfully elegant in a sky-blue suit with silver pinstripes, the collar of his crisp white shirt popped just slightly. Lalisa, his date, is beside him in a sparkling sky-blue bodycon dress with sheer panelling and crystal embellishments that glitter every time she turns her head.
"I said keep your asses in the limo!"
Chan grins. "Our asses are in the car. That's what you said."
Jennie hums in agreement. "He's right."
Lalisa nods serenely. "Legally, we are following the rules. No asses are out of the car. Just heads."
"I hate all of you."
Inside the limo, Felix and Minho are taking full advantage of everyone's distraction. Minho has his arm deep in the ice bucket, fishing out bottle after bottle of expensive champagne and stashing them in a cloth tote bag he brought specifically for this reason.
"They're gonna get drunk and sloppy," Minho mutters. "We deserve the good shit before their grubby mitts ruin it."
Felix, in a luscious emerald green cropped blazer and wide-leg trousers, snickers as he hands Minho another bottle. Minho matches him perfectly, in an emerald suit with a black silk undershirt, the top buttons undone and his collarbones peeking out like he's on the cover of Vogue.
"You're so sneaky," Felix whispers, kissing Minho on the cheek.
"I'm a genius."
Outside, Jisung walks up to the call box and buzzes your apartment.
"Y/N, it's me," he says, shifting from foot to foot, trying not to fidget too much. "The idiot parade's waiting."
It takes two minutes. Two long, cold, loud minutes of his friends whisper-yelling through sunroofs and windows.
And then the front door of your building opens.
The streetlamp overhead catches the tiny embellishments on your dress, sending flickers of light in all directions. The off-the-shoulder neckline shows off your collarbones and shoulders perfectly, the ruching of the bodice accentuating your waist like it was sculpted just for you. The skirt flares slightly, flowing with every step, the slit up one thigh giving just a flash of skin before the fabric follows behind like a whisper of movement. Your black and silver hair is curled, perfectly styled and cascading around your shoulders, and your earrings sparkle with every turn of your head. You look like you stepped out of a fantasy.
Jisung is silent. He's seen the dress before, he picked it. Paid for it. But this? You, in it? Glammed up, radiant, so stupidly beautiful it makes his chest ache?
He's speechless.
Hyunjin, still sticking out of the sunroof, lets out a low whistle. "Holy shit. Look at the pair of them."
Jisung finally moves, offering you his arm like a gentleman, his other hand flipping Hyunjin off. You smile sweetly and rest your hand on his arm.
"Ignore the zoo," he says under his breath.
As you walk with him towards the limo, Jeongin lets out a soft, awed, "They've put all of us to shame."
Changbin nods solemnly. "I'm questioning my outfit now."
"Same," Jennie admits, eyes wide.
Jisung opens the limo door for you and helps you in first, his hand warm in yours as you slide into the plush seats. You sit gracefully, legs crossed at the ankle, your dress settling perfectly around you. Jisung climbs in after, sitting right beside you, pressed thigh to thigh.
He gestures casually to the group. "Alright, baby, this is the circus. Chan, his date, Jennie. Seungmin, his date Lalisa. Jeongin and Chan-hee. Hyunjin and Changbin are a couple. You already know Minho and Lix's gay asses."
You smile warmly. "Hi, everyone."
Everyone is just... staring. Open-mouthed. Silent. Until Jisung picks up a handful of ice cubes from the champagne bucket and starts hurling them across the limo, aiming mostly for Hyunjin. One hits him square in the jaw.
"FUCK!" Hyunjin yelps.
"You deserved that," Jisung grumbles.
Felix and Minho instantly pull you into a warm cuddle pile, Felix wrapping his arms around your waist and Minho pressing a kiss to your temple.
"You look fucking phenomenal," Felix says.
"Gorgeous," Minho agrees. "Jisung did good."
You lean into them with a laugh, instantly more relaxed as Jennie and Lalisa both start chatting you up about your makeup and jewellery.
Jisung continues his ice war, now specifically trying to get ice cubes down Hyunjin's red mesh shirt. One succeeds.
"YOU ABSOLUTE LITTLE SHIT."
"Keep talking and I'll put one in your underwear next,"
Minho slides you a whole unopened bottle from the stash. "It's the good stuff."
You take it gratefully.
As the laughter continues and the limo finally starts rolling toward the awards venue, you lean closer to Felix and murmur, "Are those two always like this?"
Felix chuckles. "Ji and Hyun? Oh yeah. But if one of them's ever in trouble? The other's the first one swinging." He grins fondly. "They're each other's ride-or-die."
You glance at Jisung, who's now got Hyunjin in a headlock with one arm while still managing to hold your hand with the other, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.
Yeah. That makes sense.
The limousine pulls smoothly into the circular driveway of the venue, and Jisung is already reaching for the door handle the moment it stops. Before the driver can even make a move, he's slipping out, the sound of his pristine white dress shoes tapping sharply against the concrete.
He turns back to offer you his hand, and you take it without hesitation, sliding gracefully out of the limo. The moment your heels touch the pavement, you hear the limo erupt into excited noise again, whoops, claps, someone slapping the roof for god knows what reason.
"Fucking hell," Jisung mutters under his breath as he laces your fingers with his, leading you up the steps toward the grand entrance. "You'd think we just pulled up to the Met Gala."
"Why is this so much for some silly awards?"
Jisung snorts. "Legacy parents. Overly involved alumni. A few donors who think Greek life will save the world. They throw money at this shit every year like it's the damn Oscars."
"Is that how you forked out nearly 400,000 won in one payment like it was pocket change?"
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. "Alpha Phi alumni give us allowances. Monthly. Some big names in business, entertainment, law. They love throwing cash at their former frat. I used a chunk of mine. Worth it."
You look at him, amused. "That's still a crazy amount of money."
"It's not like I was gonna buy another Gundam model this month," he says with a wink. "You were way more fun."
You shake your head fondly as he pushes open the grand doors to the venue, and together you step into the lavish banquet hall. The room is bathed in soft amber lighting, with glittering table settings, floral centrepieces, and servers walking around with trays of tiny hors d'oeuvres that look like they cost half your tuition. Round tables are spread throughout the hall, each one marked with a Greek letter. Jisung leads you toward Alpha Phi's table, a long rectangle near the front stage.
"Come on," he says. "Our kingdom awaits."
He pulls your chair out for you and helps you sit before settling beside you. Around the table, the rest of Alpha Phi and their dates are already seated or just settling in, chatting excitedly, clinking glasses of champagne.
The starters are already set on the table, tiny plates of amuse-bouche style dishes, like miniature beef tartare, smoked salmon crostini, and a weird-looking tomato sphere that bursts in your mouth. You pick delicately at one of the starters while Jisung reaches across you for a bread roll, immediately buttering it with chaotic aggression.
Across from you, Hyunjin is squinting in your direction like he's sizing you up. You meet his gaze and offer a pleasant smile. He doesn't smile back. He's concentrating.
"So," he starts, head tilting slightly, "your hair."
Jisung immediately looks up like he's preparing to dive across the table and strangle him.
But Hyunjin continues, unfazed. "How long did that dye job take? Did Lix do it?"
You blink, then nod slowly. "Yeah, Felix did it. It took four hours, maybe four and a half. He sectioned everything and did it all by hand."
Changbin groans beside him. "Hyun, don't."
Hyunjin ignores him entirely. "It's gorgeous. The black and platinum alternating, that's hard to pull off without it looking streaky. Yours is super clean."
"I helped him pick the tones," you say with a little smile. "We were going for Frankie Stein meets elegant villainess."
Hyunjin leans closer, eyes still fixated on your hair. "You think it'd look good on me? Like, if I did silver with black underlayers?"
Changbin groans louder. "Baby, no. Please. You cried the last time you tried bleaching your hair on your own. You curled up on the bathroom floor for three hours and said you were dying."
"I was dying," Hyunjin snaps.
"You fucking screamed when it started itching!"
"It was a chemical burn!"
You, completely undisturbed, nod thoughtfully. "If Felix does it, he can walk you through the aftercare. The black base will help anchor it, especially if you keep the silver just to the surface. Your hair texture could handle it if you prep with bond-building products."
Hyunjin looks like he's just found god. "I need to book in with Felix."
"Do it," you say. "He loves dramatic transformations."
"Fuck yes."
Changbin just drops his face into his hands. "This is gonna end in tears and a ridiculously high salon charge. Again."
As the night unfolds, the room buzzes with anticipation, wine glasses clinking and waiters weaving through the crowd. A few older alumni mingle near the stage. Then, with minimal fanfare, a bored-looking third-year student steps up to the mic to kick off the awards.
"Alright," she drawls. "Welcome to the annual Greek Row Awards. You all look hot. Let's get this shit started."
Applause breaks out around the room, more sarcastic than sincere, and the awards begin.
First up, "Prettiest Frat Boy."
The announcer calls it out with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "And the winner, by an absurd landslide, Lee Felix of Alpha Phi."
The room bursts into cheers. Minho cups his hands around his mouth as he hollers. Felix stands and curtsies dramatically, his green blazer glinting under the lights.
"Thank you, thank you. To every bitch who said mullets weren't sexy, you were wrong."
Minho stands and whistles so loud it echoes.
Next up: "Sluttiest Waist on Greek Row."
You almost choke on your wine when the announcer says, "Congratulations to Han Jisung for making more people drool with his waist-to-hip ratio than any K-pop idol."
You clap enthusiastically, laughing as Jisung stands, throws his arms up like he just won an Olympic medal, and saunters to the stage.
"I dedicate this to my parents," he says solemnly, "who gave me these genes. And to every pair of jeans I've destroyed. You did not die in vain."
You're practically doubled over in laughter when he returns, high-fiving Felix on the way.
Chan wins "Best Frat Leader" and Jennie follows with "Best Sorority Leader," both of them bowing dramatically, Jennie blowing kisses, and Chan doing his stupid captain salute that has the whole table groaning.
Minho's award is more heartfelt, "Best Fundraiser Idea," for when he organised a mini cat café at an animal shelter to raise money. Even the alumni clapped for that one.
You glance at Jisung. "So this is like... serious but not?"
He grins, topping up your champagne. "It's like half-serious. Some of the awards are dumb as fuck. Some actually mean something. But it's mostly an excuse to dress up and get wine-drunk while yelling compliments at each other."
"Got it," you say. "Greek Row in a nutshell."
He nods. "Pretty much. You're doing great, by the way."
More awards come quickly, Changbin wins "Sexiest Chest" and takes off his jacket to flex mid-stage like an absolute maniac while Hyunjin fake-faints into his arms.
Hyunjin then wins "Best Future Malewife" and gives a passionate speech about his soup-making skills and devotion to emotional vulnerability.
Seungmin's win is unexpected, "Most Likely to Run a Cult."
He accepts it with no emotion, nods once, and simply says, "It's true," before walking back to his seat in complete silence.
You lean into Jisung, giggling. "I love your friends."
He grins. "They're fucked, but they're my family."
The moment Janghoon takes the stage, you feel your spine go rigid. He's holding the mic like he owns the air in the room, his tailored suit sharp and smug as hell. You sit still, hoping that he'll just give out some irrelevant Sigma Chi award and get the fuck off the stage.
"And now," he begins, tone faux-cheerful, "we've got something real special. Something a little unorthodox for our Greek Row Awards. I know tradition is sacred. But this year, we decided to acknowledge someone outside the row. An entrepreneur of sorts. Someone we all know and love."
Jisung glances at you and leans in, voice low and concerned. "You okay?"
You smile, even though it hurts. "So great. Don't worry about it."
Janghoon's voice rings out again, too fucking loud, too goddamn smug. "Campus escort. Most purchased. Most money made."
Jisung's hand freezes where it rests lightly on the back of your chair.
"L/N Y/N," Janghoon finishes with a wide grin.
Your eyes snap to the stage, and your blood runs cold as Janghoon lifts a laminated certificate in one hand. It's printed in obnoxiously large font with one word in the middle.
SLUT.
He lets it flutter from his fingers, letting it fall off the stage and onto the floor with a little rustle.
Every pair of eyes in the room shifts to you.
You rise from your chair, walking forward and reaching down slowly to pick up the certificate. You turn away from the stage, from the table, from Jisung, from the entire room and their pity or curiosity or judgment. You walk until the banquet hall doors swing closed behind you.
Jisung's hand clenches into a fist so hard his knuckles crack. His jaw tightens, muscles ticking beneath his skin. He looks at Felix. Then Minho. Both of them look like they're seconds away from flipping the table.
But it isn't any of them who speaks first. It's Jennie.
She slams her hand on the table so hard her champagne glass topples and shatters against the marble. "What the fuck are you doing?" she shouts, voice slicing through the stunned silence like a blade.
Janghoon raises an eyebrow, like he's amused. "What? You guys didn't know? Y/N here rents herself out for seventy thousand won an hour. I just figured she deserved some recognition."
Lalisa's chair screeches as she stands, her earrings swinging with the force of it. "So what?!" she snaps. "What the fuck is it to you? Did she turn your ugly ass down and now you're bitter?!"
Around the hall, the sorority girls are on their feet. Zeta Thi, Gamma Phi, Chi Omega, Kappa Tau. Shouts fill the air.
"She's got more hustle than you ever will, dickhead!"
"She wouldn't fuck you with someone else's pussy!"
"YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS NO ONE WOULD PAY FOR YOU!"
"You mad because she got paid and you couldn't even pay someone to look at you?"
"You're fucking disgusting!"
"FUCKING LOSER!"
"GO CRY TO YOUR FUCKING LEFT HAND!"
Jisung stands slowly, the movement deliberate, controlled. He shrugs off his blazer and tosses it onto his chair. His eyes don't leave the stage. He doesn't blink. Doesn't even breathe.
He glances sideways, and Hyunjin meets his gaze and nods once. Then he slips out from his seat and heads for the door, not saying a word. Because he knows. Jisung doesn't need to say it: Go to her. I can't right now. Not like this. Hyunjin has always been the only one who understands when Jisung's fuse is seconds from igniting. He won't try to calm him down. He'll do what Jisung can't.
Jisung walks toward the stage. He doesn't rush. He just moves like something feral that's locked onto its target. Janghoon sees him coming and takes a step back. Maybe it's the silence on Jisung's face. Maybe it's the wildfire in his eyes. But something in Janghoon falters.
Jisung climbs the steps with all the grace of a predator. There's a smirk playing on his lips now, slow, sharp. The crowd doesn't even have time to fully react before Jisung crashes into Janghoon like a bullet, and both of them go sprawling across the stage. The mic falls with a high-pitched screech, and then Jisung is straddling him, fists swinging.
The first punch lands with a sickening crack. Then another. And another. The hall erupts.
Changbin is howling, pounding the table with both fists. "DON'T STOP UNTIL HE CRIES FOR HIS EOMMA!"
Jeongin's on his chair, whooping like he's at a sports game. "FUCK HIM UP, JISUNGIE-HYUNG!"
Seungmin is standing now, phone out, filming the entire thing. "MAKE HIM EAT HIS FUCKING TEETH!"
Jennie is yelling over the noise, "YES, BABY WHITE SUIT, MAKE HIM BLEED!"
Lalisa climbs onto Seungmin's back, screaming, "BEAT HIS ASS, JI!"
Jisung's knuckles are bloodied, but he doesn't stop. Janghoon gets one hit in, a wild swing that connects with Jisung's lip, splitting it. Another to the ribs. But it doesn't matter. Jisung's back with another punch almost instantly, eyes blazing. He grabs the front of Janghoon's shirt and slams his head back against the stage with a grunt of effort.
"Talk shit again. Say her name again, you fucking shitstain. I dare you."
Felix is banging the table, yelling, "KNOCK HIS FUCKING TEETH OUT, JI!"
Minho's voice is just as wild. "END THAT FUCKING RAT, SUNG-AH!"
Janghoon tries to roll, to throw Jisung off, but he's slower, weaker. Jisung grabs his collar and yanks him forward, slamming a knee into his gut.
Then, at last, Chan moves. He's been standing the whole time, arms crossed, letting it happen. But now he steps forward, onto the stage. He grabs Jisung by the shoulders and hauls him back with a grunt. "Ji, he's done. You did it. You fucking did it."
Jisung breathes hard, chest heaving, lip split and dripping red onto his white shirt.
He nods once, and Chan lets go of him and, without missing a beat, drives his foot into Janghoon's ribs with a sharp, precise kick. Chan spits next to his body, face cold. "Fucking piece of shit."
He turns to Jisung and throws an arm over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get your face cleaned up."
Jisung lets Chan guide him off the stage, through the now-cheering crowd. "I need to find Y/N,"
Chan squeezes his shoulder. "You're in no state to comfort her tonight, Ji. Let Hyunjin take care of her. Right now, you've got blood on your hands, a split lip and a busted rib. Let's patch you up."
Jisung sags into him a little. "Tomorrow," he mutters. "I'll see her tomorrow."
"Yeah. You'll make sure she's okay tomorrow. But right now? Let me fix you up, fighter boy."
Hyunjin pushes the heavy doors open and walks out into the night air. He doesn't have to look far. The limo is sitting exactly where it was left, sleek and shining under the overhead lights, and through the tinted window, he catches a silhouette, shoulders hunched, movement small. He moves quickly, stepping off the pavement, yanking the door open without preamble.
You're curled up on the seat and your eyes are unfocused, but not glassy. Just dull. Next to you, the certificate sits like it belongs there, like it's earned its place.
Hyunjin spots it, and his face contorts into something sharp. "Oh, fuck no," he mutters, reaching out, snatching it up. He holds it with two fingers like it's filth. "Absolutely not."
Then, right in front of you, he rips it in half. Then in quarters. Then again and again until it's nothing but shredded paper. He opens the limo window, sticks his hand out, and lets the pieces scatter into the wind.
"Fucking pathetic excuse for a man," he mutters, sitting back and slamming the window shut. "Sigma Chi can suck my bisexual balls."
You let out a small noise, something between a hiccup and a laugh, and Hyunjin flops down dramatically beside you, stretching his long legs out. He pulls a full bottle of champagne from under the seat like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and twists the cork with a flourish, then takes a deep gulp before passing it to you.
You accept the bottle, the cool glass grounding in your hand. "You know," you murmur, your voice raw, "I just pretend to be their girlfriend. That's all it is. That's the job."
Hyunjin leans his head back against the headrest and turns to you, gaze soft but serious. "And that's your fucking business. You help out dateless losers. You get paid. It makes Janghoon a loser, not you. Fuck him."
You let out another weak laugh, shaking your head. "Thanks."
A beat passes, then Hyunjin blinks. "Wait-" He sits up suddenly, staring at you like you've just told him the moon is fake. "Wait. Wait. Jisung rented you?"
You press your lips together.
"Just to be clear," Hyunjin adds, waving his hands, "I am not judging you. I am judging Jisung. That little rat bastard, he rented you?"
"It's different with him," you say quietly, curling your fingers around the bottle. "We didn't just show up together tonight. We went dress shopping. He picked this dress out for me. He paid for it. We had boba after. He gave me his hoodie when I was cold. It was... I don't know. It was nice."
Hyunjin blinks again, stunned. Then his nose scrunches, and he says, "Your bar is so low. Like, I think it's underground. It's with the worms and dead people."
You laugh for real this time, a short burst that makes your shoulders relax.
"But," Hyunjin continues, tone softer now, "for what it's worth, I don't think this is just a thing to him. I think Jisung likes you. Really likes you."
You look down at your hands. "It feels transactional. That's what it's meant to be. That's the whole point."
Hyunjin shakes his head. "Nah. I don't think so. Jisung wouldn't go dress shopping with just anyone. He orders his clothes online so he doesn't have to leave the fucking house. You know what I think?"
You tilt your head. "What?"
"I think you two need to go on a real date. Just you two. Something fun, something real. Then you'll figure out if it's transactional or if it's actually something."
You're quiet for a second. Then you nod slowly. "You might be right."
"Darling, I usually am."
He lifts his arm, and you lean into his side, your head resting on his shoulder. His cologne is soft, airy and floral, something expensive and distinctly him. Comforting.
"You smell nice," you mumble, a smile tugging at your lips.
He preens. "It's the bisexuality, darling. It makes me smell beautiful."
You giggle again, a little freer now. The noise is soft, but it's enough to make Hyunjin grin.
The limo rocks gently as he kicks his feet up onto the seat across, getting comfortable. He takes the champagne back and takes a long drink. "Alright, since I've got you," he says, tone suddenly playful, "let me tell you some very important secrets about Jisung."
"Secrets?"
"Embarrassing stories. I'm talking real dirt."
"I'm listening."
He leans in conspiratorially. "So. This one time, Ji got locked out of the frat after coming back from a party. It was like three in the fucking morning, he was drunk off his ass, and he forgot his keys. And for reasons unknown to god or man, he was wearing only his underwear."
Your brows lift. "You're kidding."
"I fucking wish," Hyunjin snorts. "Now, the normal person response would be to ring the bell, right? Wake someone up. But no. He decides to climb in through the bathroom window. Tiny bathroom window, by the way. He gets halfway through, right? And then he fucking gets stuck."
You're already starting to laugh.
"His juicy ass is hanging out over the garden shrubs," Hyunjin continues, wheezing now. "And what does Minho do when he finds him? Does he help? No. That demon comes outside and starts taking a lot of photos. Hundred minimum. Slapping his ass while Ji's just flailing."
You're laughing harder now, hand over your mouth.
"Chan eventually comes out," Hyunjin says, wiping his eyes, "and he just stands there like he's mentally calculating if murder is worth it. Then he grabs Ji by the ankles and yanks him out, just fucking pulls him, and Ji faceplants into the fucking dirt and just lies there like a corpse until Chan hauls him up and drags him to bed and tucks him in so tightly he can't move."
You giggle, gasping. "Stop. Stop. I can't breathe."
"You're welcome," Hyunjin says, smug. "But I'm not done."
You gasp. "There's more?!"
"Oh, sweetheart," he says, sipping dramatically. "I haven't even gotten to the group chat dick pic."
"...Excuse me?"
"One time," Hyunjin says, eyes wide, "he sent a full dick pic to the Alpha Phi group chat. Me, Chan, Minho, Seungmin, Changbin, Felix, Jeongin. All of us."
Your jaw drops.
"He was trying to send it to someone else and just fat-fingered the group chat. We all opened it and were like 'uhhhh??' Chan sent a crucifix emoji. Minho sent some fucking horny cat meme. Felix was laughing and was also, like, intrigued. And we all heard Jeongin scream from his room. Like, audible scream. Through the walls."
"What did Jisung do?!"
"He texts the group," Hyunjin says flatly, "'my bad.' That's it. My bad. Like, he fucking sent us the wrong menu order. Not his dick."
You're in full hysterics now, unable to breathe.
"He's shameless," Hyunjin says with a fond grin. "Absolute menace. But he's our menace."
You lean back against the seat, breathing hard, champagne bottle in your lap, chest warm with laughter and bubbles. The ache from earlier, the hurt and humiliation, it's not gone, not really. But it's faded now, dulled under layers of comfort and ridiculousness.
Hyunjin's beside you, smug and glowing. "Feel better?"
You nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Good," he says, nudging your arm. "Because if that dickhead Sigma Chi freak makes you upset again, I'll superglue his dick to his thigh."
And you believe him.
The morning light filters through thin curtains, catching softly on the floor and climbing the rumpled duvet, casting a faint golden hue over everything. You groan before you're even fully awake, your head a throbbing, dull drum behind your temples, mouth cotton-dry, limbs heavy. There's a warm body at your back and another at your front, and for a few seconds, you're completely disoriented. All you know is that you're cocooned in warmth, the scent of something sweet and citrusy in the sheets, the muffled sound of someone's even breathing in your ear.
You blink a few times, squinting at the unfamiliar ceiling, then slowly shift, your nose brushing against someone's shirt, soft, oversized. It smells like detergent and boy. Your thigh brushes another leg. Your brain stutters as you realise you're wearing a pair of shorts that aren't yours and a t-shirt that also isn't yours. The fog in your brain parts just enough to whisper: Felix. Minho.
"Morning."
"No. Cancel morning."
Minho chuckles, his hand sliding over your back in a lazy, soothing arc. "Yeah, you and Hyunjin got fucking trashed last night. Like, properly wasted. We came out to the limo after cleaning up the whole Jisung situation, and the two of you were in a fucking cuddle pile with four empty champagne bottles between you."
You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, trying to will away the memory of champagne and embarrassment. "Fuck."
Minho continues casually, like he's narrating the weather. "Yeah, and Jisung? Went full beast mode. Beat the absolute shit out of Janghoon. Fucked up his knuckles, got a split lip, some bruised ribs, Chan had to drag him off the guy. But he didn't try to find you. Said he was too angry to comfort you without making it worse. So he sent Hyunjin instead."
You lift your head a little, blearily peering up at Minho. "Is Jisung okay?"
"He's fine. Chan iced his hands, patched up his lip, gave him a full-on dad lecture, then ended it with, 'well done.'" Minho smirks. "Ji left the conversation visibly confused. But yeah, he's okay."
You nod, dropping your head back to Minho's chest with a sigh. "I get it. Janghoon was one of those clients, you know? Thought because he paid, he had the right to touch. I always had to hold my ground with him harder than anyone else. He was a dick."
"I can go beat him up too if you want," Minho offers without hesitation, his voice completely serious. "I mean, Jisung already wailed on him, and Chan booted him in the ribs, but I'm sure a few more hits would feel real fucking therapeutic."
You manage a small, grateful laugh, squeezing your eyes shut again. "No, it's fine. I talked with Hyunjin last night. He thinks I should go on a date with Jisung. Even though I've known him, what, three weeks?"
Minho hums thoughtfully. "I agree. I mean, Ji's an idiot, but he's not a bad guy. He's got a dumb heart of gold buried under all the fuckboy nonsense."
A deep, gravelly voice cuts in from the other side of you. "I also agree."
You both turn your heads slightly to look over and see Felix half-awake, his face buried in your shoulder, blinking slowly up at you with bleary, sparkly eyes. He latches onto your waist, practically throwing himself across you like a koala. "You're never leaving. I'm latching onto you forever. My baby."
You giggle despite your hangover, one hand coming up to stroke his hair. "Hi."
"Oh my god," Felix says dramatically, lifting his head slightly to stare at you. "You should have seen Jisung beat the shit out of that prick. It was like watching a fucking anime fight. You know that moment when the hero takes off the jacket and the music kicks in? Ji climbed onto the stage, smirked like a goddamn villain, and then just boom! Threw the first punch. It was hot. I'm not even into him, but I considered it."
Minho snorts. "It was not that dramatic."
"Let me live," Felix snaps. "He was like, 'you think you're funny, bitch?' and then just fucking decked him. Janghoon got like one punch in, caught Jisung in the ribs, but Ji just kept fucking going. It was glorious. Seungmin was screaming, Jeongin was on a chair yelling, 'FUCK HIM UP, JISUNGIE-HYUNG!' like he was a goddamn cheerleader."
You blink, your mouth twitching as you try not to laugh and fail. "Why is that weirdly hot? Why is that making me kind of horny?"
Minho laughs, low and delighted. "Oh, you've got it bad."
Felix cackles and burrows deeper against your side. "You've got Ji-fever. It's terminal, sorry. Only cure is kissing that idiot."
You groan into the pillow. "Don't tempt me. My head feels like it's about to split open."
Felix lifts his head enough to plant a kiss on your temple. "He likes you, you like him. Let's stop pretending this is just about a paid date."
You sigh, heart a little lighter than it had been the night before. With Felix clinging to your waist like a koala, Minho's hand rubbing soft, gentle circles on your back, and the two of them giving you space to process while still loving you fiercely, it feels okay. It feels safe.
And maybe, just maybe, you're starting to believe that this strange, glittering thing between you and Jisung might be more than just a transaction after all.
The floorboards are cool under your feet as you pad downstairs, each step sending a mild throb through your skull. You rub your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to blink the haze of sleep and hangover out of your vision. Everything feels just a touch too loud and far too bright, but the smell of coffee pulls you like a magnet straight toward the kitchen.
You're expecting to find it empty, but instead, Jisung is sitting at the kitchen island, shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, showing off the carved muscle of his torso. He's hunched slightly, pressing a large ziplock bag of ice to his ribs, the sharp line of a bruise peeking out beneath his right arm. His lips are split, a dark scab forming over the corner of his mouth, and there's a tired slump to his shoulders, like the adrenaline has long since drained and left nothing but sore muscles and lingering rage in its place.
His head snaps up the moment he hears you, and those dark eyes go wide, frantic in the soft morning light. Jisung drops the ice immediately, and he's up and moving toward you. He folds himself around you like he's been waiting all night just to feel you in his arms. His arms slide up your back, curling over your shoulders, and he tucks his face into your hair, breathing you in.
"Fuck, Y/N," he whispers against your scalp. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. You didn't deserve that, none of that should've fucking happened."
You shake your head softly, burying your face in his neck, and let yourself be rocked gently side to side, his hands holding you like something precious, like glass he's terrified of breaking. "Are you okay?" you ask, muffled into his skin.
He makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "I should be asking you that."
"I'm okay," you say, and you mean it. What you need now, what you didn't even realise you were aching for, was this. Jisung. His warmth. His presence. The comfort of his arms around you like nothing else mattered.
He holds you tighter, resting his chin on top of your head for a beat. "I should've two-footed that fucker. Or fly kicked him, like, something more dramatic."
You giggle against his chest, and he huffs a small laugh. "You're such a dumbass."
"Certified dumbass, thank you." He leans back enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face. "You look hungover as shit."
You nod solemnly. "I am. Like, on a molecular level."
He chuckles and kisses the crown of your head instinctively before he seems to realise what he's done, freezing slightly. You don't pull away, just lean more into the touch, your fingers still resting lightly on the bare skin of his sides. His breath catches, but he doesn't move.
"I talked with Hyunjin last night," you murmur, stepping back a little so he can move without hurting his ribs. Jisung immediately starts making you coffee, reaching for one of the many, many mugs stacked on the counter.
"Oh god," he groans, pouring hot coffee carefully into a mug that reads, 'World's Okayest Human.' "What did he say?"
"He thinks I should try going on a real date with you. No transactions. No pressure. Just you and me."
Jisung freezes, mid-pour, then sets the pot back down slowly. "Hyunjin said that?"
You nod, sitting on one of the stools at the island. "Yep."
He blinks, looking mildly stunned. "Well, fuck. I agree. Like, a lot. A hundred percent. I am in firm, intense agreement."
You raise an eyebrow. "Okay, so what would you want to do? Something fun, something both of us would like."
Jisung lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. "Oooh, laser tag?"
You gasp. "Fuck yes."
Then you immediately groan and clutch your head. "God, even excitement hurts."
He laughs and slides the mug over to you. "Here. Coffee. You'll live."
You wrap your hands around the warm ceramic and smile. "I also vaguely remember something about someone's ass being too fat for the bathroom window?"
Jisung makes the most pitiful groaning noise. "I hate Hyunjin so much."
"Oh, but I love him," you say sweetly, sipping your coffee with far too much joy.
Before he can retort, the door swings open and Jeongin walks in, closely followed by Seungmin. Both men spot you instantly and pause, just for a beat, then shuffle over and wrap you in the most careful, kind hugs they can manage.
"You okay?" Jeongin asks softly.
You nod, smiling a little. "Yeah. I'm okay."
Seungmin grabs a mug and fills it, eyes on you. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I promise."
Jeongin eyes Jisung for a second, then leans against the counter. "Well. We've got some ideas."
You blink. "Ideas?"
"For revenge," Seungmin says plainly. "Petty, chaotic, devastating inconvenience revenge."
Jeongin starts rattling off suggestions immediately. "Put cheese in his shoes. Fill his shampoo with honey. Subscribe his phone number to every spam caller in South Korea. Put the Sigma Chi house on every junk mail list."
Seungmin adds, "Fill his car with glitter. Or hot glue all the zippers on his jackets."
Jisung throws one in. "Take all the labels off his canned food, put them on dog food, put them back in his cupboard. Bark, bark, bitch boy"
Seungmin immediately starts scribbling on a notepad. "Okay, that one's going on the master list."
Jeongin claps once and pulls out his laptop from a tote bag on the floor. He opens it, typing furiously. "Operation Ruin His Life begins."
You watch as Jeongin starts signing Janghoon's number up for every spam site imaginable. Insurance quotes. Crypto ads. Diet pill trials. Adult toy shops. Anything that would ping constantly.
Seungmin watches over his shoulder, then sighs. "Jeongin."
Jeongin looks up innocently. "What?"
"Let me go grab my laptop and the others. We could have this fucker on two thousand spam lists by lunch."
You choke on your coffee. Jisung pats your back lightly as Seungmin sprints upstairs bellowing, "CHAN! BIN! HYUNJIN! FELIX! MINHO! LAPTOPS. KITCHEN. NOW!"
In less than five minutes, the kitchen is full. Laptops are open. Seven frat boys are hunched over their devices, each typing furiously. Felix and Minho arrive first, dropping kisses to your cheeks before grabbing chairs and setting up. Hyunjin gives you a wink and a glass of water. Chan is already plotting a spreadsheet. Changbin's cackling. The chaos is glorious.
Jisung slides into the seat next to you, not on his laptop, but with a pen and a notepad, tallying how many times Janghoon gets signed up for something.
You sip your coffee and lean against Jisung's shoulder, the weight of yesterday lighter than it's felt in a long time. You're safe here. Protected. Wanted. And judging by the manic laughter around you and the gleam in Jisung's eyes, you're surrounded by people who would now burn the whole world for you without hesitation.
And honestly, that might be the best kind of love there is.
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting soft orange light over the Vaunce signage as you approach, the neon of the logo glowing like a goddamn promise of fun and potential danger. You spot Jisung before he sees you, leaning against the railing by the entrance like some edgy magazine ad. His all-black denim fit is criminally good, oversized jacket buttoned up over a tank top, chunky platform boots making him taller than usual, silver chains catching every flick of light, and the silver in his earrings twinkling as he glances at his phone.
You walk right up without saying a word and poke him in the ribs. He jumps a full three inches off the ground and immediately scowls when he sees it's you. "You scared the shit outta me!"
You just smile sweetly, resting your hands on your hips, your plaid mini dress flaring slightly with the motion. The black-and-white pattern contrasts sharply against your silver-and-black streaked hair, half up in a cute little knotted bun, while the rest cascades down your back. Your boots reach your knees, thick-soled and glossy under the streetlights, and the whole look screams brat and menace in the best possible way.
Jisung blinks. "Holy shit, you look fucking illegal."
"You don't look so bad yourself, Han. Ready to get destroyed in laser tag?"
"Destroyed?" he scoffs. "I'm gonna wipe the floor with your ass. You're gonna be crying by the end of it."
You extend a hand with mock innocence. "Sure, let's go."
Hand in hand, you both walk through the doors into Vaunce, checking in quickly before you're both led toward the back where the laser tag arena is set up. It's a one v one setup, just the two of you in a darkened maze with neon lights, fog machines, and the soundtrack of your own breath and blaster fire.
An attendant greets you both with two vests, one green, one blue, and explains the rules. You each have thirty minutes to rack up as many hits as possible. The winner is the one with the highest score. And yes, he confirms, you're allowed to taunt each other. Encouraged, even.
You grab the green vest and glance at Jisung. "Turn around, I'll strap you in."
"Oooh, getting handsy already?" he teases, but obediently turns. You tighten the straps snugly over his denim jacket, careful not to crush any of his shiny accessories. The moment his vest lights up blue, he pumps his fists like he just won a fucking championship.
"Your turn," he says, grabbing the green vest and holding it up. You turn, and he gently buckles it around you, fingers brushing your waist, adjusting the side straps and tugging the ribbons tighter with care. "There. All secure. Try not to cry too hard when you lose."
You spin around, already holding your blaster. "You're so on."
Just before you walk into the arena, you tiptoe and plant a kiss on his cheek, leaving a perfect glossy lip print right on his skin. He freezes like someone unplugged his brain.
"You're fucking cheating!" he accuses as the doors slide open.
"All's fair in love and war!" you call, disappearing into the mist of the maze.
Jisung enters a beat later, grumbling but grinning. The doors seal behind you both, and the arena floods with pulsing music and flickering strobe lights.
The first shot is yours. You pop out from behind a fake wall and peg him right in the chest. His vest flashes green.
"FUCK!" he yells, spinning around.
You giggle and vanish again.
The next half hour is absolute chaos. Jisung attempts stealth and fails miserably when he sneezes in a corner, and you shoot him in the back. You trip over a fog machine hose and faceplant into a crash mat while Jisung laughs so hard he accidentally shoots himself. There's one point where you both sprint toward each other, firing wildly, and collide so hard you both fall over, your blasters clattering to the ground as you wheeze with laughter.
"Did you just shoulder tackle me?!"
"You ran into me, asshole!"
"Oh, we're doing violence now?"
"I've always been about violence."
You roll off each other, still breathless, and Jisung gets a shot in before you can stand up. "BOOM! Headshot! Or like torso shot. But still. Point me."
You scramble up and chase him through the maze, shrieking with laughter, cornering him in the neon-lit alcove where he does a fucking anime-style combat roll and slides across the floor on his side like he's in a goddamn action movie.
"What the fuck?!"
"Fuck yeah, that's what I'm talking about!" he yells, scoring another hit as you fumble behind a fake barrel.
You retaliate by hiding in the shadows and ambushing him while he tries to fix his hair in the reflective panel near the loading zone. "Bitch move!" he cries.
"You were doing your hair in a war zone!"
You both laugh so hard it's a miracle the vests aren't tracking heart rate. You use every dumbass hiding spot available, under the ramps, behind smoke vents, in the neon-painted crawlspaces. Jisung tries to hide by standing still like a statue at one point. It works for like four seconds until you whisper "boo" in his ear and he yelps so loud it echoes.
By the end, you're both breathless, sweating, and gasping for air as the final buzzer sounds and the score flashes up on the screen.
Jisung: 13 Y/N: 12
He throws his hands up in the air like he just won a fucking Nobel Prize. "YESSSSS! Victory is MINE!"
"You dramatic shit," you huff, collapsing on a bench inside the loading bay.
"Say it," he says, strutting up to you with his vest half off.
You roll your eyes. "You're the Laser Tag Champion of the Fucking Universe."
He bows. "Thank you, thank you."
You toss your vest at him, and he catches it against his face. "Next time I'm aiming for your dick."
"I'll wear a cup," he says smugly, and plops down next to you, nudging your knee with his. "Admit it, though. You had fun."
You look over at him, panting a little. "I had so much fucking fun."
He grins widely, sweaty and flushed and looking so stupidly pretty in all-black denim that you briefly forget how to form a coherent sentence. So you let your head fall onto his shoulder as you both sit there, catching your breath in the afterglow of thirty minutes of war. He drapes an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in, and neither of you says a word for a minute. Just the hum of the cooling fans, the fog settling, your racing hearts gradually calming.
You and Jisung stumble out of the laser tag maze like you've just emerged from battle, sweaty, breathless, half-laughing and clutching at each other for support. The staff at the front desk gives you both mildly concerned glances, clearly unsure if you're unwell or just unhinged, but neither of you cares. There's a mutual look passed between you, something smug and silly, like two kids who just pulled off a crime and got away with it.
"We are a menace to society," you say.
Jisung nods proudly. "Unapologetically."
The transition from war zone to trampoline paradise is oddly seamless. You're led to the locker area where you both yank off your boots and trade them in for the mandatory grippy socks. They're offensively neon, bright green for you and a disgusting shade of orange for him, like the sock version of radioactive slime.
"I hate these already,"
"They're fashion-forward. Runway couture."
Jisung looks down at his feet and winces. "Runway to hell."
You both make your way to the main trampoline area, a massive stretch of springy squares surrounded by foam pits and walls padded thick enough to survive a nuclear war. The sound of kids shrieking and shoes squeaking, and bodies thumping against trampolines fills the air. The moment your socks hit the black mat, you bounce experimentally. A small hop. Then another. And then Jisung joins in and it's game fucking on.
It begins like a simple game: who can bounce higher. You start synchronised, bouncing in unison with gleeful grins, your hair flying around your face and his silver chains jangling with every lift off. But it devolves quickly. Jisung throws his arms in the air, knees bent like he's going to launch into orbit, yelling, "I'm gonna bounce so high I hit the goddamn ceiling!"
"Do it!" you laugh. "Break the laws of physics!"
He tries. He really does. But what actually happens is he kicks off too hard, wobbles in the air like a terrified cat mid-jump, and lands flat on his ass with a wheeze.
"Holy fuck!" he gasps, flailing backwards.
You nearly collapse from laughter, falling onto your knees mid-bounce, trying not to piss yourself. "You looked like a dying fish!"
Jisung sits up, brushing imaginary dust from his pants, and says with complete confidence, "Okay, watch this. Actual trick time."
He bounds up again, jumping twice to get a good rhythm, then throws his body backwards like he's going for a backflip. What he does instead is manage half a spin, panic in mid-air, and crash onto his side.
"You good?!"
"Define good," he groans from the mat.
"Like... conscious and not pissing blood?"
"Then yeah. Good."
You crawl toward him, holding your sides from laughing so hard. "I'm gonna show you how it's done."
"Big talk for a tiny menace."
You grin and get to your feet, taking a few prep bounces before hurling yourself backwards in a perfect, clean backflip. Your cycling shorts flash as the hem of your dress flutters up slightly mid-spin, and you land with the grace of a damn Olympic gymnast, arms up, hair flying.
Jisung blinks. "Holy fuck."
You strike a pose. "Ten outta ten?"
He lunges at you and you squeal, trying to run, but your bounce timing is off and he easily catches you around the waist, lifting you and dramatically shoving you into the massive pit of foam cubes.
"TRAITOR-!"
Your scream cuts off as you plunge into the pit, disappearing under the blue and grey cubes with a muffled thump. There's a long silence. Jisung leans over the edge, peering down.
Then you pop up like a pissed-off meerkat, foam stuck in your hair, arms flailing as you try to wade through the chaotic mess of cubes. "I'm going to murder you!"
"Worth it!" he cackles, doubling over.
You pout hard, lifting both hands like a kid asking to be picked up. "Get me out, asshole."
He grabs both your wrists and hauls you up, but you're heavier with the cubes sticking to you, and you flail again. Jisung is wheezing by the time he pulls you fully out. You land in a heap on the edge, hair a mess, lipstick smudged, but you're grinning, cheeks flushed from the effort and laughter.
"We're getting boba after this," he pants.
"Later!" you shout, hopping up and sprinting back onto the trampolines. "We're not done here!"
"Oh fuck me," he groans, chasing after you.
And then the true chaos begins.
You start playing chase across the trampolines, full-on tag, but with the added madness of bounce physics. Every time he gets close, you double back, springing off the pads like a deranged fairy. You fake left, bounce right, and vanish behind a column.
"I'm gonna fucking get you!" he yells, chasing after you.
"Not if I out-bounce you!"
He tries to tackle you mid-air at one point and ends up somersaulting over your back with a surprised yelp. You spin, stunned. "You just somersaulted!"
"Unintentionally!"
Your laugh echoes through the whole arena. He gets revenge by pelting you in the face with a foam dodgeball from the other end of the mat. It bounces off your forehead, and you just stare at him, betrayed.
"You whore."
"You love it."
"Prepare for war."
You both descend into childish mayhem, grabbing every soft object you can find and using it as artillery. Foam sticks, dodgeballs, tiny pads, they all go flying. You're giggling so hard you have to sit down on the trampoline at one point, just flopping like a broken doll as Jisung pelts balls around you and tries to do a flying ninja kick over your head, only to land with a horrible, "Oh fuck, I crunched my ankle."
"Is it broken?!"
"No, it's fine, just gave myself whiplash."
He rolls over to lie beside you, both of you breathing hard, sweat dampening your clothes, hair sticking to your foreheads. You lie on your backs, side by side, staring up at the padded ceiling and the flickering lights of the trampoline arena.
"I haven't laughed like this in forever,"
"Yeah. Feels good, huh?"
"Really good."
He turns his head toward you, eyes soft. "You're good."
Your gaze meets his, and there's something unspoken that lingers in the silence, something that stretches like a held breath, and for once neither of you makes a joke. Instead, you just smile.
"Okay, but seriously, I think I dislocated my dignity back there."
"You never had dignity to begin with."
"Fair," he says, laughing again. "You ready for boba now?"
You sit up, nodding, brushing hair out of your face. "Hell yeah. Let's go ruin our blood sugar."
He gets to his feet first and offers you a hand. "Winner pays."
You grip his hand tightly and pull him forward, making him stumble. "You're buying then, Laser Tag Champion of the Fucking Universe."
"Shit," he grins, tugging you to your feet and into a hug. "You really never let me have anything, huh?"
"Nope. Never."
It's been four months since that god-awful awards night, three months since you and Jisung officially started dating, and two since you quit your rent-a-girlfriend job for good. You can barely believe it yourself. Sometimes it feels like it was a fever dream, a fucked up chapter in a long-ass book you didn't even remember signing up to read. But now? Now you're curled up in Jisung's bed, legs tangled with his, wearing one of his ratty old Michael Jackson t-shirts and a pair of your fluffiest socks, blue light glasses perched on your nose as you scowl down at the spreadsheet Chan begged you to complete. Your laptop is open in front of you, and a stack of frat receipts is spread out like the petals of an extremely disorganised flower of doom. You sigh heavily.
"Why the fuck did I agree to this again?"
Jisung, sitting beside you in nothing but black boxers and looking so far from helpful it's borderline offensive, leans over and nudges your shoulder with his. "Because you're a sweet, kind, gentle angel who Chan emotionally manipulated and bribed with iced lattes?"
"Right, I forgot about the fucking latte clause."
It had started because you were bored one afternoon, sitting on the floor of Jisung's room while he was trying to sort through his frat expenses to give to Chan, who handled the Alpha Phi budget. And you started sorting them out by date and category, muttering to yourself about the inefficiency of the entire process. Chan had walked in, seen you with your neat piles and colour-coded highlighters, and dropped to his knees.
He had begged. He had pleaded. He had claimed the paperwork was going to kill him, and he couldn't take another semester with Jeongin and Hyunjin turning in receipts crumpled up like gum wrappers. When you hesitated, he went into full meltdown mode, swore he'd get Alpha Phi alumni to pay your salary if he had to. You had laughed at him.
But two days later, he'd come back with an official offer, a contract, and a salary that matched what you were earning as a rent-a-girlfriend. Then came the desperate sobbing. Chan wept. He promised you iced lattes for the rest of eternity, and when you said you wanted one from each frat member per week, he agreed. Actually agreed. Wrote up an agreement and made everyone in the house sign it. You now have eight iced lattes delivered to you per week, one each day, two on a Monday, and honestly, you are kinda thriving.
"I'm still mad he cried,"
"I'm mad he roped you in with basic caffeine bribery,"
"Fuck off, you'd sell your soul for a strawberry matcha."
"I have sold my soul for a strawberry matcha. Ask Hyunjin."
You glance up at him. His hair is shorter now, layered around his ears and nape, soft and feathery with this deep mercury-blue tone that makes his eyes pop. He looks like some kind of expensive idol boyfriend. He had said, and you quote, "My sexy girlfriend has cool ass hair so I need cool ass hair," and then dyed it the next day. You love him so much it's annoying. You lean over and kiss his shoulder, just because.
Jisung's helping you today, kind of. He's meant to be sorting receipts into the colour-coded folders you made for each of the frat members: Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, his own, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin. Right now, he's stapling Chan's already neat stack together with extreme focus and tucking it away into the plastic sleeve.
You, meanwhile, are working through Minho's pile because it's small and tidy, and you need a win before tackling the disaster zones that are Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin.
"Ahhh, Minho," you sigh fondly, flipping through the three tidy receipts. "If he weren't gay, I'd marry him. Sensible amounts of money, small amounts, dates written, and even a fucking smiley face. This is what responsible finances look like. My job? Made easy."
There's a dramatic gasp, and then suddenly, Jisung is tackling you, pushing you back into the mattress with a manic gleam in his eyes.
"Take it back,"
"JISUNG, NO-"
"I SAID TAKE IT BACK!"
You dissolve into giggles as he starts tickling your sides, mouth grinning wide as he pins your wrists down with one hand and attacks your ribs with the other. You're thrashing, kicking your legs, but he has the advantage, leaning over you, wild-haired and smug.
"Say I'm the sexiest-"
"No!"
"Say I'm the sexiest, dommiest man you know!"
"Never!"
"Say you'd never marry Minho, even if he came out as straight tomorrow and declared his undying love for you!"
"FUCK YOU!"
"Say it or I'm going for the feet."
"OKAY, OKAY, YOU WIN!"
He smirks, sitting back on his heels, victorious. "Go on then."
You pant, hair a mess, glasses askew, still giggling. "You're the sexiest, dommiest man I know. I would never marry Minho even if he were straight."
Jisung nods seriously. "That's better. Now be a good little finance gremlin and finish the spreadsheets,"
"Or what?"
"I'll fuck up your folders."
You gasp. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
The bedroom door creaks open, and Minho's head pops in like he's been waiting, lurking even, for the exact moment to interrupt. His hair is perfectly tousled, one hoop earring glinting in the hallway light, and the look on his face is that signature smirk that always means chaos is imminent.
"If I were straight, Y/N and I would get married. Have babies. Probably win parenting awards. We're too flawless not to. It's science."
Jisung gasps like Minho just declared war. "You bitch."
Before you can react, Jisung's already lunging at you again, tickling furiously. You scream and thrash, laughing so hard you can't breathe. "MINHO HELP!"
Minho doesn't miss a beat. He saunters into the room like a cat who just knocked over a priceless vase and feels no remorse. "Jisung-ah, come to Daddy Minho, I'll treat you so good," he coos, wiggling his fingers. "Come to Daddy"
Jisung freezes mid-tickle. "WHAT THE FUCK-"
Minho takes a step forward, eyes narrowing playfully. "Don't make me chase you, Juicy."
"YOU'RE A FUCKING PREDATOR!" Jisung screams and bolts, flying out the bedroom door, barefoot and still in just his boxers. You hear the pounding of feet as he sprints down the hallway. "CHAN! CHAN, MINHO'S TRYING TO CLAIM ME!"
"Jisung-ah! Don't run from love!"
Peace returns for a full two minutes before the door bursts open again and Jisung stumbles back in, slamming it shut behind him and clicking the lock. He leans against the door, panting, hair tousled like he's been through a war zone.
"I'm safe," he gasps, and then adds dramatically, "For now."
"You good?"
"I've seen things. He started quoting Fifty Shades of Grey."
You snort. "And you came back here, why?"
"Because," he says with a dramatic sigh, "I'm gonna be a good boyfriend. We're tackling Changbin and Hyunjin's piles together. I will not let you suffer alone."
You sit up and press a hand to your chest. "Oh my god. He's growing. Character development."
"I'm growing a hernia, but sure."
You both drag Changbin's massive pile into the centre of the bed and begin sorting through the chaos. Every single receipt is a goddamn disaster. Half are for unnecessary gym equipment or niche protein powders, he definitely didn't get permission to buy. One is for five crates of bananas. Another is for a flamethrower that just says "thematic party decoration" in Changbin's sprawling scrawl.
You pick one up and read it aloud. "Fifty-thousand won for Swole Daddy Chains?"
Jisung blinks. "What the fuck is a swole daddy chain?"
"There's a little note. He wrote Decorative. Sexy. Adds to the vibe."
Jisung's laughing so hard he falls over. "He's unhinged. Absolutely gone. Call a priest."
You keep going, sorting the receipts into semi-logical groupings while Jisung staples and labels. At some point, you find a dry cleaning bill for a single, custom bedazzled tank top that says "Thighs Save Lives."
"I don't even want to know what this was for."
"Oh no," Jisung says, peering over your shoulder. "That was for Hyunjin's birthday last month. He made Binnie wear it to dinner. It had rhinestones shaped like chicken thighs."
Eventually, you finish the stack, and Jisung dramatically drops the final receipt into the folder like he just defused a bomb.
"Hyunjin's next?" he asks.
You nod, already dreading it.
He eyes the pile and shudders. "That's not a pile. That's a receipt hydra."
You tackle it anyway, grabbing a few at random. "Oh my god. Half of these are from romantic dates with Changbin. Couples massages, matching face masks, cute-ass brunch places. You two are gonna bankrupt the frat."
Jisung leans over to peek. "They charge this shit to the house card?"
"I mean, technically, anything group bonding or community-building can be expensed."
"They're bonding, alright," he mutters.
And then, Jisung freezes. He picks up a receipt and stares. "What is it?" you ask.
"It's a sex shop receipt."
You peer over. "Jesus. That's a lot of lube."
He starts flipping through more of them, horrified and fascinated. "This one says 'anal beads, glitter variant.' This one's for a leather harness. And oh my fucking god, is that a-?"
He cuts off, bursting into laughter.
You laugh so hard you almost fall off the bed. "That's a dragon dildo."
"Oh, I'm taking pictures. I am blackmailing the fuck out of Hyunjin later."
You hand him his phone and help arrange the receipts like a perverse art collage.
"It's art," Jisung murmurs reverently. "Gay, horrifying, majestic art."
You work through the rest of the pile between gasps of laughter and occasional moments of stunned silence when you find a particularly expensive toy or some item so oddly specific it leaves you questioning your entire understanding of the human body. Eventually, after what feels like hours of cackling and paperwork, Hyunjin's receipts are finally filed, sorted, and safely stashed away, minus the photographed ones that Jisung gleefully saves to his camera roll in a folder marked "for chaos purposes."
You stretch your arms over your head, letting out a long groan. "Fucking finally."
"You're amazing. You did it. You tamed the beasts."
"I deserve an iced latte and a foot massage."
"I'll make you one."
"The latte?"
"No, the foot massage. I will not touch an espresso machine ever again. The last time I did, I nearly set it on fire."
You laugh and comb your fingers through his hair, letting the silky blue strands slide through your fingers.
"Thanks for helping," you murmur.
"I'd help you do anything. Except taxes. Fuck taxes."
You hum, heart warm and full. The chaos, the receipts, the laughter, it's all a mess, but it's your mess now. And honestly, you wouldn't trade it for the world.
28/07 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post as a sequel to this fic and it will be titled: The Taste of You, Again and Again
1 Tier - MANIACS
- Access to unique works unavailable on tumblr
- Sneak Peeks Will Be Posted On Patreon to Members
- Requests Can Be Comissioned By Members
- Access to Smut not available on Tumblr
Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld
General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65 @bingussthirdtoe @btch8008s
Proofread and hyped by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3
Another one of my personal faves, hopeless loser Jisung is my favourite genre of fic besides plug!jisung which is an idea I NEED to do like dumb plug with the best weed
Frequency Of Studio Three: B.C Bang Chan x fem!reader (College AU)
WC: 16.3K
CWs: Sexual References, Themes surrounding epilepsy, including tonic-clonic and focal seizures, descriptions of seizures (both tonic-clonic and focal) and aftermath, discussions of medication and management, (a very personal fic as someone who has both focal and tonic clonic epilepsy <3)
General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist
Chan drags a palm over his face as he stomps down the corridor of the Miroh College music building, the old linoleum floors creaking under his sneakers. His hair flops into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother to sweep it back because he’s too fucking annoyed to care. The admin office just called him, their voices annoyingly chipper, explaining that there’s been a “minor scheduling mishap,” which is a polite way of saying, “We fucked up your entire day.” So now he has to share Studio Three, the only room with a decent set of monitors and a half-functioning mixing board. He huffs, shouldering the strap of his laptop bag higher on his arm, and pushes through the door with more force than necessary. The first thing he sees is you.
You’re sitting at the big desk, the one usually reserved for professors or grad students. A sleek silver laptop glows in front of you, its screen crowded with what looks like sheet music and audio waveforms. You don’t look up. You don’t even flinch when the door slams. Instead, your fingers are picking at the fabric of your khaki trousers, tugging at an invisible thread over and over. Your lips twitch like you’re halfway between a laugh and a grimace, and your eyes are fixed on the scuffed wood of the desk.
Chan blinks, thrown off. For a second, he wonders if you’re ignoring him on purpose. He shifts his weight and clears his throat.
“Hello?”
You don’t move. Not a flicker.
He steps closer, setting his bag on the floor with a soft thump. The tension in the room feels weirdly electric, like you’re about to spring to life or explode.
“Hey- hello?” he tries again, louder this time, waving a hand in front of your face.
Nothing.
“Oh god, she’s died.”
As if on cue, your eyes flutter, blinking fast. You lift your gaze, confusion etched across your features. For a moment, you look so adorably bewildered that he forgets how pissed he is.
“Uh,” you say, voice scratchy. “Who are you?”
Chan gapes. “I’ve been in this fucking room for, like, fifty seconds!”
A crooked smile curves your lips. “Ah. I see what may have happened here.” You rub your temple. “Was I staring?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Pretty much drilling holes in the desk with your eyeballs.”
“Fidgeting?”
Another nod.
“I was having a seizure.”
Then you spin back to your laptop and pull a chunky pair of headphones over your ears like that’s the end of the conversation.
Chan’s jaw drops. He reaches out, plucks the headphones right off your head, and holds them just out of your reach. “A seizure? What the fuck?”
You look up at him again, calm as can be. “Yep.” You reach for the headphones, but he doesn’t hand them over. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”
“Uh. Chan.”
“Nice to meet you, Chan.” You give him a sweet, patient smile and gently pry the headphones from his fingers before settling them back over your ears. But he notices you don't hit play.
He’s still standing there like an idiot, so he finally drops into the rolling chair across from you and flips open his laptop. His brain is buzzing, curiosity gnawing at him. He types quickly, pulling up a search window.
“Staring seizure,” he mutters, hitting enter. A whole list of results pops up: absence seizures, focal impaired awareness seizures, epilepsy symptoms. He clicks the first link and starts scrolling. The more he reads, the less sense it makes, he has no fucking clue what any of this medical shit means.
He feels your gaze on him and glances up. You’re watching his screen, your lips twitching again. “That’s a bad website for epilepsy knowledge,” you say mildly. “Just ask me. I have the focal ones and-” You lift your hands and do a tiny drumroll on the desk. “I have the big ones too!”
“The big ones?” he echoes, staring.
“You know.” You mimic jerky, exaggerated convulsions, pulling a ridiculous face like you’re trying to scare a toddler.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” you say, grinning. “It’s a good time.”
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re kind of fucking hilarious, you know that?”
“Thanks.” You flash him a grin. “It’s a gift.”
He leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Okay. You have to tell me more. What does it feel like? How do you know it’s happening?”
You purse your lips thoughtfully. “Well, for the tonic-clonic ones, I get this aura thing. Usually, I taste blood or feel really nauseous. Like I’m gonna puke all over the place.”
“That’s fucked up,” Chan says bluntly, then winces. “Sorry.”
You laugh, the sound warm and amused. “It is pretty fucked up. But when I was, like, thirteen? I used to mess with people.”
He tilts his head, intrigued. “Mess with them how?”
“Well,” you begin, propping your chin in your hand. “I’d feel the aura coming on, and I’d look at whoever was next to me and say, ‘I see dead people.’ Real serious, you know? And then boom.” You slap the desk for emphasis. “Seizure. Kids would scream bloody murder.”
“No fucking way.”
“Swear to god. Half the kids in Busan were terrified of me. One kid, I don’t remember his name, literally pissed his pants.”
Chan barks out a laugh so loud it echoes off the studio walls. “You little shit.”
“I was a menace. Halmeoni was so mad when she found out. She said, ‘Y/N, you can’t tell people you see dead people just because your brain is glitching.’”
“Halmeoni?”
“My halmeoni, Boram, she raised me. She’s a badass civil lawyer. She has tattoos and everything.” You glance at your laptop like you’re about to start working, but then your eyes flick back to him. “My parents died when I was a baby. Car accident. So it was just me and her.”
“I’m sorry,” Chan says, voice softer.
You shrug one shoulder. “It’s okay. I don’t remember them. Halmeoni’s all the family I need.”
He watches you for a long moment. There’s something about you, something open and warm, even when you’re talking about shit most people would never say out loud. He feels this weird urge to keep asking you things, to peel back every layer until he knows exactly what makes you tick.
Instead, he clears his throat and gestures at your screen. “So, what are you working on?”
“Composition project,” you reply, perking up immediately. “The mixing board in my dorm is a piece of shit, so I booked this studio. Or, apparently, half-booked it.”
“Yeah, fucking admin.” He snorts. “I’m working on some production stuff”
“Oh?” Your eyes light up. “What kind of stuff?”
He can’t help grinning a little. “Synth-heavy pop. Real overproduced shit. My professor hates it.”
“That sounds fun.” You tilt your head. “Play me something.”
He hesitates, then hits play on one of the demos. The beat pours out of his laptop speakers, and you nod along, tapping your fingers against the desk in time with the music.
“Catchy as fuck,” you declare when it ends.
“Thanks.” He feels oddly pleased by your approval.
You beam at him, and for a while, you both fall into a comfortable rhythm, working side by side, swapping notes, cracking jokes. You’re so easy to talk to, so bright and genuinely interested in everything he says, that he loses track of time.
At some point, he notices your hand drifting toward your temple again, your eyelids flickering. He opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, but you shake your head faintly, and a moment later, you’re back, like nothing happened.
“Don’t worry,” you murmur before he can say anything. “Just a little one.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Does that happen all the time?”
“Often enough.” You shrug, unbothered. “I have a private dorm room, so it’s not a big deal. No one has to babysit me.”
He frowns. “Still. If you have a big seizure alone-”
You sigh dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re about to volunteer as my personal epilepsy safety monitor.”
“Well, someone fucking should,” he shoots back, but he’s grinning. “You can’t just live by yourself with this shit.”
“I’ve been doing it for years.” You reach for your headphones again. “I’m fine.”
He hesitates, then glances at the clock on the wall. Two hours have passed in a blink. His own project is further along than it’s been in weeks, and he has a dozen new ideas he wouldn’t have thought of without your input.
“You know,” he says slowly, “I wouldn’t mind double booking again. Just in case you have a big seizure. And also you’ve got a good ear.”
You look up at him, surprise flickering across your face, then something softer. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Every Tuesday?”
Your smile is so bright it makes something in his chest flip over. “That sounds great.”
“Cool.” He clears his throat, pretending he doesn’t feel like an idiot for how happy he is. “Cool. See you next Tuesday.”
“See you then, Chan.”
He gathers his things, slinging the laptop bag over his shoulder. When he turns to leave, he catches sight of his reflection in the studio window and realizes he’s still grinning like a complete fucking idiot.
The late afternoon sun spills across the campus in long golden streaks that warm Chan’s face as he cuts across the courtyard behind the music building. He feels almost drunk on how good it feels to walk out of Studio Three with his mind spinning in the best way, ideas still bouncing around in his skull like loose change. His lips keep twitching into a stupid grin he can’t fight off, and every time he thinks about you, he feels another wave of bright, ridiculous interest.
He passes a couple of underclassmen carrying folders stuffed with sheet music, and they stare at him like they’ve never seen the captain of the football team look this fucking blissed out. He doesn’t care. He’s too busy replaying the sound of your voice in his head, how soft it was when you told him about your seizures, how funny you were when you did that little drumroll. You’re actually interesting. You have real stories, real personality, and no filter. He wonders if it’s shitty to think so, but he likes that you’re unbothered by something that would terrify most people.
The frat house sits at the end of Greek Row, a sprawling three-story brick monstrosity with ivy crawling up the walls and a hand-painted Alpha Phi flag hanging from a pole over the porch. When he pushes the door open, he’s greeted by the familiar riot of noise and chaos.
“Hyung!” Felix’s voice comes from somewhere in the living room. “You better get your ass in here! Jeongin says the blender’s haunted again!”
“Fuck’s sake,” Chan mutters, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him.
The main room looks like a warzone. Jisung is sprawled across Minho’s lap on the couch, aggressively burying his face in Minho’s bare chest like he’s trying to suffocate himself in pecs. Minho, completely unfazed, is scrolling on his phone, one hand resting on the back of Jisung’s head. Seungmin is sitting cross-legged on the floor with a law textbook balanced on his knee, a disgusted look twisting his mouth as he watches Jisung motorboat Minho’s pecs. Changbin is perched on the arm of the couch, eating a bowl of cereal, milk dribbling down his chin as he laughs at something Hyunjin is sketching in a massive art pad on the coffee table.
Jeongin is standing in the corner, gesturing at the kitchen doorway with a spatula. “I’m serious! The blender turned itself on!”
Chan sighs and drops his bag by the stairs. “Jesus Christ, can you all stop screaming for two minutes?”
Seungmin looks up, arching a brow. “You look like you just got laid.”
“He definitely looks like he got his dick sucked behind the music building,” Changbin says around a mouthful of cereal.
“Gross,” Seungmin says, wrinkling his nose.
“Can’t a man smile without you fucking vultures assuming it’s about sex?”
Minho lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “What’s got you all smiley, then?”
Jisung doesn’t even pause in his motorboating, his voice muffled against Minho’s chest. “Yeah, hyung, spill the tea.”
“I met a girl.”
Minho tilts his head, expression going shark-like. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Chan says, feeling his cheeks warm. “Her name’s L/N Y/N. There was a booking fuck-up in the music building. We had to share Studio Three.”
Felix props his chin in his hand, grinning. “Was she cute?”
“Pretty,” Chan admits, fighting the way his smile stretches wider. “And she’s…interesting. Like, actually interesting.”
Minho raises a brow as Jisung finally peels his face away from his chest, lips shiny with sweat. “Sounds like love at first sight.”
Chan makes a face. “It wasn’t- fuck off. It wasn’t love. She was just…different. She was having a seizure when I came in.”
Seungmin lowers his book, frowning. “What?”
“Yeah,” Chan says, running a hand through his hair. “Just sitting there, staring at the desk. She was so fucking chill about it. I thought maybe she does coke or something, she’s so damn happy all the time.”
Felix blinks. “You think she’s on coke because she has epilepsy?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Chan says defensively and then Jeongin pipes up.
“Wait. Wait. L/N Y/N’s here? Like, at our college?”
Chan blinks, surprised. “You know her?”
Jeongin nods slowly. “She’s still epileptic?”
The room goes dead silent.
Jisung lifts his head completely, eyes bugging out. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”
Seungmin makes a disgusted noise. “Bro, you can’t just ask if someone’s still epileptic. What the fuck?”
Hyunjin snorts. “Jeongin, are you brain-dead?”
Changbin nearly drops his cereal. “You dumb fuck.”
Felix claps a hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling with laughter. “Jesus, Jeongin.”
Jisung points a finger at Jeongin, scandalised. “Did you think epilepsy was, like, a seasonal allergy? Like she could just outgrow it?”
“Jeongin,” Seungmin says slowly, “that is the stupidest shit I’ve heard all week.”
Jisung lifts a hand. “No, wait. Remember when Hyunjin thought dolphins were fish?”
“Shut up,” Hyunjin snaps.
Chan shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “Seriously, man. What the fuck?”
Minho finally sets his phone down on his thigh. “Explain yourself before we revoke your brain privileges.”
Jeongin throws his hands up, indignant. “What?! The brain grows and changes until you’re, like, twenty-five! It’s not outrageous to think she could’ve outgrown it!”
Seungmin purses his lips, considering. “I mean, technically, he’s not wrong. I’ll give him that one.”
Jeongin beams triumphantly. “Thank you!” He strides over to the wall by the TV, where a massive chart is pinned up, columns labelled with all their names, tally marks under “Valid Stupid Questions.” He picks up a red marker and carefully draws a slash in his column. “One point for me.”
Felix groans. “You’re a fucking menace.”
Minho sighs, ruffling Jisung’s hair. “Alright, genius. Spill. Who is she?”
Jeongin leans back against the wall, crossing his arms. “Everyone knew L/N Y/N. She was raised by her halmeoni, Boram. That’s all I know, really. But she was famous at our middle school.”
Hyunjin raises a brow. “Famous how?”
“Oh, you want a story?”
Changbin waves his spoon. “Obviously.”
Seungmin sets his book aside with a resigned sigh. “Go on.”
Jeongin clears his throat dramatically. “Picture this. Busan. Twelve years ago. I’m a fresh-faced little first-year. She’s in second year, right? So, thirteen.” He pauses for effect. “She was already kind of weird. In a cool way. She’d paint her nails black and listen to old rock music on a shitty MP3 player. Everyone said she was a witch.”
Felix laughs. “A witch?”
“I swear to fuck,” Jeongin says, nodding solemnly. “And then, one day, I’m sitting in the courtyard eating a Choco Pie, minding my own business. She walks right up to this group of girls, looks dead at them, and goes ‘I see dead people.’”
“No fucking way.”
“Swear on my eomma,” Jeongin says. “And the girls are like, ‘What the fuck?’ But before anyone can react, she just drops. Starts seizing right there on the ground.”
Changbin’s jaw falls open. “Holy shit.”
“I was twelve! I pissed my fucking pants! I thought she was possessed!”
Seungmin is wheezing. “You actually pissed yourself?”
“I did!” Jeongin says indignantly. “I ran away crying! My eomma had to bring me fresh shorts!”
Minho bites his lip, trying to hold back a laugh. “You’re such a little bitch.”
Chan raises his hand. “Wait, she told me she made someone piss themselves once. I don’t think she remembers it was you.”
“Oh my god.”
Jisung tilts his head, thoughtful. “Honestly iconic.”
Seungmin shakes his head. “Fucking legend.”
Hyunjin looks up from his sketchpad, his eyes gleaming. “We have to invite her over sometime.”
Minho smirks. “Yeah, so she can make Jeongin piss himself again.”
Jeongin glares. “I was twelve!”
Felix leans over, patting his shoulder consolingly. “And now you’re, what, twenty? Progress.”
Changbin snickers. “Barely.”
Chan slumps into the recliner by the window, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You guys are fucking idiots.” But he can’t stop smiling, the image of you still bright in his mind. He’s never met anyone like you, someone who can talk about seizures and dead people with the same ease most people order a latte. He wonders if you’d think it was funny to know your story is still getting told all these years later.
Jeongin sighs dramatically, flopping onto the couch beside Jisung and Minho. “I swear, I’m never living that down.”
“You shouldn’t,” Seungmin says, smirking. “It’s your origin story.”
Minho raises a brow, voice dry. “The legend of Jeongin: The Boy Who Pissed.”
Felix cackles. “Put it on your fucking resume.”
Hyunjin adds, “Special skills: public urination under stress.”
Chan just shakes his head. He’s never brought a girl up in conversation like this before, never felt the need to share every tiny detail. But something about you makes him want to tell everyone. Makes him want to know every story he’s missed about you.
He leans his head back against the chair, closing his eyes as the chaos keeps swirling around him. He can still picture you sitting there in the studio, hair piled up in that messy bun with pens stuck through it like a makeshift crown. The way your voice softened when you said, “I was having a seizure.” The way you laughed when he called you hilarious.
Yeah. He thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing you every Tuesday. Maybe more than that.
Chan pushes through the door of Studio Three exactly on time, and the first thing he registers is the sound of your humming. It’s not loud, just a soft thread of melody weaving through the quiet, but it’s so clear and sure it stops him right there on the threshold.
You’re perched at the desk in the middle of it like you belong in some kind of old oil painting. Your hair is piled up in the same messy bun as last week, the three pens jammed through it at odd angles like you just forgot they were there. You’re wearing a tight-fitted black crop top that shows a sliver of your waist every time you move, paired with loose, high-waisted cargo pants with silver buttons that catch the light each time you shift. Your black Converse are kicked out in front of you, tapping gently in time with whatever tune is playing in your headphones.
Your eyes are closed, and your fingers move along the edge of the desk like you’re plucking the notes out of the air. He knows that look, he’s felt it himself a hundred times, the way your mind turns completely inward and starts constructing a melody you can’t even hear yet, only feel. It’s like the music exists somewhere behind your eyelids, waiting for you to drag it into the real world.
He feels his mouth curl into a smile before he can stop it. Part of him wants to announce himself right away, but he hesitates, not wanting to break whatever spell you’re under. So he closes the door quietly, the latch clicking into place, and edges across the room until he can drop his bag next to the second rolling chair.
He sits, studying you in the golden afternoon light. He notices the details he missed before, the silver chain around your throat, the little mole just under your jawline, the faint smudge of green on your thumb where you must have been scribbling notes or doodling on something earlier. Your lips move faintly as you hum, and your brows pinch together like the tune is almost right but not quite.
Chan leans back, folding his arms over his chest, and lets himself watch you work. There’s something about the way you concentrate that makes him feel weirdly at ease, like nothing in the world could possibly be more important than what you’re doing right now. He wonders how long you’d sit there if he never said anything, hours, probably.
It takes a few minutes before you finally seem to realise you’re not alone. Your humming cuts off mid-phrase, and your eyes flutter open. You blink at your laptop screen, then glance over your shoulder, and jump a little when you see him sitting there.
“Oh, hi!” You grab the tall iced matcha green tea latte sitting by your elbow and take a long sip.
“Hey,” Chan says, nodding toward your screen. “Any good?”
You pull off your headphones with a sigh, your mouth twisting into a pout. “It’s not tickling my brain right. It’s just ugh.” You take another sip of your latte, scowling at the screen like it personally insulted you.
Chan chuckles and drags the other wheely chair closer until he’s right beside you. “Play it. Let me help.”
You make a face, but unplug your headphones and hit play. A soft, eerie piano line pours out of the laptop speakers, layered over a low swell of strings and what sounds like an old music box. It’s haunting and lovely, but he can hear what you mean; it’s missing something. Some edge of dread that should be there but isn’t.
“I was inspired by, like…the tragedy of Lady Jane Grey,”
“Who?”
You light up, like you’ve been waiting for someone to ask. “Oh! Okay, so Lady Jane Grey was this English teenager who got shoved onto the throne because some guys wanted to manipulate her. She was queen for nine days. And then she was executed.”
He leans in, intrigued. “Executed for, what, being queen?”
“Yes!” You wave your hands for emphasis, the pens in your bun wiggling dangerously. “She didn’t even want the job! She was a political pawn. They locked her in the Tower of London, and she was like sixteen or something. And then her head was just twatted straight off! Nine days on the throne and then headless.”
“Jesus,” Chan says, staring. “That’s fucking grim.”
You nod enthusiastically, like you’re discussing your favourite pop star and not a teenager getting beheaded. “Right? But also kind of fascinating. Like, imagine knowing you were about to die for something you didn’t even choose.”
He feels a weird, guilty laugh bubble up in his chest. “You’re such a fucking weirdo.”
You beam. “Thank you.”
The music loops again, and you let out a groan, dropping your forehead to the desk. “It’s just not haunting enough. It’s supposed to feel like the ghost of Lady Jane is stuck in the melody. But it’s not bleeding through.”
Chan props his chin in his hand. “How do you even make something sound like a ghost?”
You lift your head, expression deadly serious. “You know the Grey Lady? Like, the English ghost that supposedly haunts old castles?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Some people think she’s based on Lady Jane Grey,” you say, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Like her spirit’s still wandering around because she got fucked over so badly.”
He raises a brow. “That’s metal as shit.”
You nod solemnly. “Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to do with this piece. Make it feel like she’s lingering. Haunting the melody. But it’s not working.”
Your gaze drifts off as you start fiddling with the drawstring on your cargo pants. “It’s like I can hear it in my head, you know? This whispery, sad undercurrent. But when I put it in the track, it just sounds cheesy.”
He watches you tug the string, your fingers moving restlessly. “Maybe it needs more dissonance,” he suggests carefully. “Like, make it a little uglier. Less polished.”
You look thoughtful, then nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”
You start to say something else, but your words trail off mid-sentence. Your eyes unfocus, and your hand goes slack on your pants. Chan holds perfectly still. He’s been reading all week, how to recognise the signs, how to help without making it worse. He counts silently in his head, waiting for the moment you come back to yourself.
It takes about ten seconds. You blink, frown, and look down at your hand like you forgot what it was doing there.
“Sorry,” you murmur, voice sheepish. “What was I saying?”
“You were talking about the Grey Lady and how you want her sadness to bleed through.”
“Right!” You snap your fingers, brightening immediately. “Okay, so some people think she’s the Grey Lady because her story was so fucking tragic. That’s what I want. For people to feel haunted when they hear it.”
You pause, tugging your bun tighter with both hands. “It’s just not bleeding right. My brain isn’t haunted enough.”
Chan laughs under his breath. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s mad about not feeling haunted.”
You grin at him, all teeth. “Well, if you’re gonna do tragedy, you should commit.”
He watches you drain the last of your latte. You toss the empty cup into the trash and swivel to face him fully. “Do you ever get that? Like, you can hear the music in your head, but when you try to make it real, it’s just shit?”
“All the time,” he admits. “I think that’s just part of the process. You chase the idea, and it never quite matches the picture you started with.”
You sigh, resting your cheek on your palm. “I hate that.”
He tilts his head, studying your face. “Want me to help you fuck it up a little? Make it uglier?”
Your eyes brighten. “Yeah. Let’s make it weird.”
And just like that, you’re both leaning over your laptop, heads almost bumping as you start layering discordant chords over the pretty piano line. You hum under your breath, tapping your pen against the desk as you tweak settings, and every time you lose your train of thought mid-sentence, he just waits, counting seconds until you come back.
Every time, you blink yourself back to awareness and pick up right where you left off. He never points it out. Never makes it weird. It feels natural, like a rhythm you’ve both settled into without thinking.
Half an hour later, you sit back and play the track again. The melody is warped and a little eerie now, minor chords bleeding through the sweetness of the piano. You close your eyes, swaying gently, and for the first time since he walked in, your smile is satisfied.
“Better?” he asks softly.
You nod, still listening. “Yeah. It’s haunting me now.”
And you grin at him like that’s the highest compliment you can give.
Chan has never walked into Studio Three without expecting to see you exactly as you always are, humming, fiddling with dials, hair twisted into that same messy bun with your arsenal of pens sticking out like crooked arrows. But the second he pushes open the door today, the familiar anticipation dies in his throat, replaced by a sudden, cold panic.
You are on the floor, sprawled flat on your back, your fitted white crop tank twisted slightly at the hem, the loose sage cargo pants bunching around your thighs. Your sneakers are scuffed from kicking, and your eyes are rolled back, lids fluttering as your body jolts in a violent, uncontrolled rhythm. A terrible, soft sound keeps slipping from your throat, half groan, half broken cry, and Chan’s heart lurches so hard he nearly forgets how to move.
Then his training, every late-night article, every epilepsy blog, every stupid pamphlet he printed, kicks in. He drops to his knees beside you, forcing himself to take a slow breath. His hands hover for a moment because he doesn’t want to hurt you, but he knows he has to do something.
“Okay, Y/N, I’m here. You’re safe. Just hang on.”
Your arm flings out and thumps the floor, and he sees the way your body arches and twists. He quickly shifts to kneel behind you, sliding one hand under your shoulder and carefully rolling you onto your side. Your head lolls, and he cups it gently to keep it from banging against the hard studio floor.
He glances at your hair, the bun threatening to come undone with every shudder. He sees the pens and his stomach twists. If your head slams down, the plastic could jab into your skull. Carefully, he pulls each pen free, one by one, tossing them onto the desk out of the way.
He feels utterly helpless watching you seize, your body jerking in brutal waves, your breath coming in ragged, strangled bursts. But he keeps his hand on your cheek, cradling your head so it won’t hit the floor, and forces his voice to stay soft.
“You’re okay, Y/N. I promise. You’re doing fine.”
Another pained groan bubbles out of you, and Chan squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, wishing he could do something to make it stop. But all he can do is stay here, hold you steady, keep talking so you’re not alone in the dark.
“You’re strong as hell,” he whispers, thumb brushing just above your ear. “You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your legs twitch again, and he shifts his knee to brace your hip so you don’t roll onto your back. Time stretches unbearably, but eventually, he notices the shudders starting to slow. The tension bleeds from your limbs in tiny increments until finally, your body goes limp.
He doesn’t move yet. Everything he read said you might be confused, exhausted, unable to speak. So he just keeps that steady pressure of his hand against your hair, grounding you, and waits.
After a minute, your eyelids flutter. You take a shallow breath, then another, and your fingers twitch against the floor. He can tell you’re trying to understand where you are, what happened.
“Hi,” he murmurs, voice warm and gentle. “You had a seizure, but you’re okay. I’m here.”
Your eyes open, glassy and unfocused, and you blink at nothing for a long moment. He rubs a slow line up and down your arm, hoping the motion is comforting.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
Your gaze drifts toward him, and after a moment, you manage the tiniest nod.
“Can you talk?” he asks, watching your face.
You swallow and try to open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Slowly, you shake your head.
“That’s okay,” Chan says, smiling a little. “I can talk for both of us. That sound good?”
You nod again, your breathing still uneven.
“Alright, do you want to sit up?”
You close your eyes for a second, then tip your head in a tiny nod.
“Okay. I’ve got you.” He slides an arm around your shoulders, then props his other arm behind your spine and eases you upright. Your head sags forward, heavy with exhaustion, so he shuffles around and settles behind you. He sits, legs bracketing your hips, and gently guides you back until you’re resting against his chest.
“You did really fucking well,” he murmurs, wrapping one arm around your front to hold you steady. “I’m proud of you.”
You’re breathing more evenly now, though you don’t lift your head. You just lean into him, your whole body boneless.
“When you feel good to stand and walk, I’m gonna take you to the frat house,” he says, his mouth near your temple. “One of the guys there, Minho, he’s got first aid certification. He can check you over, make sure you’re alright. Is that okay?”
You don’t lift your head, but you nod, your cheek brushing his collarbone. He doesn’t expect you to say anything. So he just keeps talking, rubbing his hand up and down your arm in slow, reassuring strokes.
“I’m not in a hurry,” he says lightly. “We’ll wait as long as you need. No rush.”
You shift a little, settling heavier against him, and Chan figures you’re listening even if you can’t respond. He glances around the studio, then takes a slow breath.
“Want to hear something stupid? Felix made gnocchi last night. Like, homemade. Spent all day talking about how it was gonna be the best meal of our lives.”
Your head shifts just enough that he knows you’re paying attention.
“It was fucking awful,” he says, trying not to laugh. “Like gluey little potato nightmares. Jisung took one bite and looked like he was gonna cry. Minho was polite for exactly thirty seconds before he said, ‘I’d rather eat literal dirt.’”
You huff out a tiny, tired breath that might be the ghost of a laugh.
“So, obviously, they made signs,” Chan goes on, smoothing your hair back from your forehead. “Minho wrote ‘It’s a gno from me’ in giant letters and taped it to the kitchen door. Jisung made one that said ‘Gnope.’”
He feels you breathe, slow and steady, your body finally starting to relax against his.
“Then they hung up one that said, ‘Gno-thank you, never again.’ Another one just said, ‘Gnot today, Satan.’” He snorts. “They covered the kitchen walls in them. Felix tried to act tough, but he started crying, and then everyone felt like shit.”
Your hand lifts just a little, fingers curling in the fabric of his pants.
“So to make it up to him, Minho and Jisung bought this stupid potato plushie, like, the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Felix immediately forgave them because he’s a giant softie. He was hugging it all night.”
You’re quiet for a long moment, just breathing against him. Finally, your fingers flex again, almost like you’re trying to tell him you’re still here, still listening.
Chan keeps his arm snug around you and talks about everything and nothing, about how Seungmin fell asleep face-down on the coffee table, how Jeongin swears the blender is haunted again, how Hyunjin threatened to paint a mural of Jisung’s butt on the living room wall. He doesn’t know if you care about any of it, but he figures it doesn’t matter. You’re here, and you’re safe, and he’ll keep you company for as long as it takes.
Inside the frat house, it’s just Minho and Jisung in the living room, sprawled across the couch in their typical brand of borderline obscene domesticity. Both of them are shirtless, skin gleaming under the light, and Minho is half-reclined against the cushions, a book open in one hand while his other arm is looped lazily around Jisung’s waist. Jisung is perched across Minho’s lap like a feral cat, gleefully burying his face in Minho’s chest. He’s not just nuzzling either, every few seconds he tips his head and licks one of Minho’s nipples, then giggles under his breath when Minho’s stomach jumps.
“Jesus fuck, Han,” Minho drawls. “You’re such a little menace.”
“Your fault for having such nice tits,” Jisung mutters, words muffled against Minho’s skin. He licks a slow stripe over the curve of Minho’s pec, then closes his lips around the nipple and sucks lightly.
Minho sighs, flipping a page. “If you make a hickey on my chest again, I’m not wearing a shirt for a week just to embarrass you.”
“I’ll lick the other one to make it symmetrical,” Jisung promises, and promptly does exactly that, his shoulders shaking with glee.
“Do you ever get tired of acting like a complete fucking pervert?”
“Nope.” Jisung grins up at him, teeth flashing. “Love you.”
“You’re disgusting.” But Minho’s mouth softens when he looks down, and he curls his hand around the back of Jisung’s neck.
The door swings open with a creak that neither of them registers at first. Then Chan steps inside, and they both look up, blinking in surprise. It only takes one glance for Minho to drop his book, all amusement gone in a blink. You’re slumped against Chan’s side, your hair a wild halo around your face. Your head is tucked into the curve of Chan's neck, and you’re clearly not steady on your feet.
“Minho,” Chan says, his voice careful, pitched low and steady. “This is Y/N. The girl I told you about a few weeks ago.” He adjusts his grip on your waist, shifting his backpack further up his shoulder so he doesn’t drop it. “She had a seizure in the studio. I was wondering if you could just check her over? Make sure she’s okay?”
Minho is already moving, sliding out from under Jisung and crossing the room. “Of course. Bring her here.”
Jisung scrambles after him, all traces of mischief wiped clean. “Shit. Is she conscious?”
“She’s awake, just out of it,” Chan says, his arm tightening around you when your knees buckle a little. “I think she’s exhausted.”
“Let’s get her on the couch,” Minho says. He glances at Jisung. “Help me move the cushions.”
They work together in quiet efficiency, as Chan eases you forward, murmuring to you so you know what’s happening. Your head lifts a little, your eyes bleary as they flick between the three men.
“It’s okay,” Minho says, voice warm and calm. “We’re just going to get you lying down so you can rest.”
You don’t reply, but you don’t resist when they guide you down onto the couch, either. Chan crouches to help ease your legs up, careful not to jostle you. You’re still trembling faintly, your breaths uneven.
Minho kneels in front of you, studying your face. “Hello,” he says softly, his tone so different from the dry sarcasm he usually reserves for the general population. “I’m Minho. It’s nice to meet you, even if the circumstances suck.”
Your lips twitch in a weak, tired approximation of a smile.
Chan rubs your shoulder, looking uncertain. “I don’t think she can talk after seizures. At least, she hasn’t yet.”
“That’s normal. It depends on where the seizure originates in the brain. Y/N?” Minho waits until your eyes focus on his. “Is yours in the left hemisphere?”
Your eyelids flutter as you nod once.
Minho glances over his shoulder at Chan and Jisung, who both look slightly bewildered. “Left hemisphere controls a lot of language functions. Specifically, Broca’s area, speech production, and Wernicke’s area, language comprehension. I’m guessing it hits her Broca’s area.”
Your hand shifts weakly on the blanket, your index finger tapping once against your thigh in confirmation.
Minho nods back, satisfied. “Alright. I’m going to check your pulse, okay?” He takes your wrist gently between his fingers, counting under his breath. “Elevated, but that’s expected.” He releases your wrist and moves his hand up to lightly palpate along your scalp. “Did you hit your head when you went down?”
You manage to shake your head, though the movement is small and unsteady.
“Good,” Minho murmurs. He feels along your hairline anyway, careful but thorough. “No bumps or tenderness. That’s a good sign.”
Jisung shifts from foot to foot, fidgeting with the hem of his shorts. “Should I, um…make tea? Or something?”
“Decaffeinated, please, jagiya,” Minho says without looking up, his hand moving to check the pulse at your throat for a second opinion. “Until I know what she can and can’t have, no caffeine. Some epileptics have restrictions.”
“Right. Okay. Decaf.” Jisung nods rapidly, hair flopping into his eyes as he bolts for the kitchen. The cupboards bang open, the kettle clicks on.
Minho tucks a folded pillow under your head, then reaches for the blanket Jisung left draped over the back of the couch. He unfolds it and spreads it carefully over you, smoothing the edges along your shoulders.
“You’re safe here,” he says, his voice softer than Chan has ever heard it. “Just rest. You’ll feel better after a nap.”
Your eyes drift closed, lashes fluttering against your cheek.
Minho glances at your hand, then back to your face. “Want to hold my hand so you can squeeze if you feel another seizure coming?”
Your fingers twitch again, and you nod, eyes still shut.
“Alright.” He threads his hand gently through yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll stay right here.”
Chan exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. He feels strung out, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins from carrying you all the way across campus.
Minho looks up at him. “Go tell the others to keep it down for the rest of the day. She might have to stay here overnight. Epileptics shouldn’t be alone for at least twenty-four hours after a tonic-clonic.”
“She can stay here.”
Minho nods once, his expression steady. “She’ll be fine. You did everything right, Chan.”
Chan meets his eyes, and something unspoken passes between them. Then he turns and heads down the hall to find the others, already mentally preparing to shush every single one of them for the rest of the night.
Minho shifts on the floor, adjusting so he can sit cross-legged without jostling you. He keeps your hand clasped in his, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles as your breathing evens out and the lines of tension gradually fade from your face.
You come back to yourself slowly, like waking up underwater, the edges of your thoughts fuzzed out and slippery. The first thing you notice is the warmth of a hand wrapped around yours. The second thing you notice is that you’re not in Studio Three.
You open your eyes properly and blink up at the ceiling fan whirring lazily overhead. Your gaze drifts sideways, landing on the man sitting cross-legged on the floor beside you. He’s got sharp feline eyes, a mouth that tilts in an amused little smirk even at rest, and a sweep of dark hair. He’s scrolling on his phone, but when he feels your hand twitch, he glances up, and his mouth softens into something gentler.
Next to him, there’s another guy sprawled on the rug, head pillowed in the cat man’s lap, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He has the bright, twitchy energy of a squirrel, though right now he’s unusually still, watching some loud variety show on the TV with a slack-jawed grin.
You shift a little, your joints aching in that dull, faraway way they always do after a seizure, and your eyes scan the room. In the worn armchair across from you, Chan is slouched sideways, one ankle balanced on his knee, watching you like he’s been doing it for hours.
He straightens a little when he sees you looking. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He nods toward the two guys you woke up with. “This is Minho-” He tips his chin at the one still holding your hand. “And Jisung.” He gestures at the squirrel man on the floor.
Minho shifts, tugging his legs out from under Jisung’s head so he can turn to face you better. “Hi,” he says, his voice low and calm in a way that’s instantly reassuring. “You probably don’t remember meeting us earlier. You were pretty fresh out of the seizure, but you were okay. No bumps on your head, I checked just in case. You napped for about two hours. No more seizures while you were sleeping.”
Jisung blinks, seeming to realise you’re awake, and sits up so fast he nearly cracks Minho in the chin. “Oh shit! I’ll go make you fresh tea! I drank your other one while you were out.” Without waiting for a response, he darts toward the kitchen, mumbling to himself about tea bags.
Minho rubs his thumb over the back of your hand again. “Do you live alone?”
You swallow, shifting a little. “I stay in the dorm building. Private rooms.”
He glances briefly at Chan, then back at you. “I don’t feel comfortable sending you back there tonight. Would you feel okay staying here? You can have one of our rooms.”
The idea of going back to your dorm alone makes your stomach twist. You nod once.
“Alright,” Minho says, sounding satisfied. “I can go to your dorm and grab any medication you need, if that’s okay with you. I can grab clothes, too, if you give me a list.”
Your voice comes out thin but certain. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us for being basic decent human beings.”
From the kitchen, there’s a muffled crash and Jisung’s panicked voice. “Min, I can’t find the decaf!”
Minho sighs like a man whose patience is on a hair-trigger. “I’ll be right back.” He gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go, standing up in one fluid motion and stalking off to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about incompetent boyfriends.
Chan gets up from his chair and crouches down next to the couch so he’s level with you. His eyes are warm, a little tired, but he manages a small smile.
“Were you scared?”
He lifts one shoulder, exhaling a slow breath. “A little. Mostly just worried.”
You let your head rest against the back cushion. “I didn’t get to say I see dead people and really fuck you up.”
“God, you’re such a little shit.”
You grin, faint but genuine, and a tiny giggle bubbles up in your throat.
He rubs a hand over his face, chuckling. “I can see how you made Innie piss his pants.”
You blink. “Who?”
“Oh,” Chan says, realisation dawning. “I forgot to tell you. The kid you made piss himself? That was Yang Jeongin. Our frat maknae.”
You frown, thinking back. “Oh. He looks like a fox, right? All pointy and sweet?”
“Yeah,” Chan confirms, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Yeah,” you sigh, your smile going lopsided. “He was always nice. Until I, you know, scared the piss out of him.”
Chan’s shoulders shake as he tries not to laugh again, but it’s too late; he’s already snorting.
Minho comes back in carrying a mug, Jisung trailing behind him like an eager puppy. They both hover until Chan helps you sit up, his hands steady at your back. You lean heavily into the cushions, your head swimming a little.
Jisung hands you the tea with both hands, like it’s a priceless offering. “Here! I promise this is decaf.”
You wrap your hands around the warm mug. “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem,” Jisung chirps. “Do you need anything else?”
Before you can answer, a new voice pipes up from the doorway. “Hi!”
You look over and find Jeongin poking his head in, eyes wide and hopeful.
You smile. “Long time no see.”
“No more dead people seeing, right?” Jeongin asks warily, edging into the room.
You sigh dramatically. “I didn’t get to pull it on Chan. He got there after I started. But I have to say, you were impressive all those years ago. You were like one of those little cherub fountains.”
Jeongin groans, covering his face with both hands as the others burst into laughter. Chan tips forward, forehead nearly touching the couch arm, howling. Jisung makes an unholy noise that might be a scream-laugh, and even Minho’s face cracks into an unwilling grin.
“You’re evil,” Jeongin moans through his fingers.
“Probably,” you agree, sipping your tea.
Jeongin finally drops his hands and shuffles closer. “Are you feeling okay now?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I think so. But apparently I’m staying here tonight.”
Minho nods, crossing his arms like it’s non-negotiable. “You are.”
“Ooh,” Jisung says brightly, clapping his hands. “That means we can become besties!”
You blink at him, unsure how to respond. He’s staring at you with huge, hopeful eyes and a grin so wide it’s almost alarming.
“Sure,” you say finally, because really, what else are you supposed to say?
“Great!” Jisung practically shoves Minho and Chan aside so he can flop down on the couch next to you. He tucks one leg under himself and leans in, already vibrating with excitement.
“So! You probably don’t care, but I’m gonna tell you anyway,” he starts, his words spilling out in a fast, unstoppable torrent. “I’m an investigative journalism major, right? But I’m also minoring in criminal psych. So this semester I’m doing this massive project on criminal profiling and it’s fucking fascinating. Like, did you know that a lot of serial offenders escalate from smaller crimes like arson or animal cruelty before they move on to actual murder? And there are typologies, like, organised versus disorganised offenders, and I’m pretty sure this one case I’m studying is totally disorganised, but my professor thinks it’s mixed typology because of how the crime scene was staged. It’s a whole debate.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed, but nod slowly as you sip your tea.
“And oh my god,” he barrels on, “I’ve been trying to get this interview with a retired profiler who worked on some huge cases in Busan, but she’s like ninety years old and only uses a fucking landline, so I’ve called her five times and she keeps thinking I’m trying to sell her health insurance. I swear, I’m going to lose my mind. But I will get that interview.”
Any time the blanket slides off your shoulders, he pauses long enough to tuck it back around you, his hands surprisingly gentle before he launches straight back into his monologue.
“And you know what’s crazy? A lot of these guys, like, the ones who get away with it for years, they have this weird charm. Like, they can fake empathy so well that people trust them. That’s why I’m taking a psych course. To understand the mechanics of manipulation. It’s fucking wild.”
You nod again, making the occasional encouraging noise so he knows you’re listening, and he looks delighted every time you do.
“Anyway,” he says, drawing in a big breath like he’s finally winding down, “if you ever want to talk about, you know, anything, like music or seizures or how Chan is a loser, I’m here. Besties forever.”
You can’t help it, you start to laugh, soft and warm, the first real laugh you’ve felt since before the seizure, and he beams at you, proud, like he’s just sealed a lifelong pact.
The next morning, you wake up warm, comfortable in a way that feels almost decadent. For a moment, your brain can’t quite place it. The mattress under you is thick and soft, your weight sinking into it like it’s made of memory foam and clouds. The duvet is plush and heavy in that comforting way that makes you want to stay buried in it forever, and the pillows cradle your head so perfectly you almost want to weep with gratitude.
It takes a moment longer for the rest of your senses to check in. You’re wearing your Minnie Mouse pyjama shorts and matching camisole, and your hair is bundled on top of your head in the same messy bun you went to sleep with.
When you blink your eyes open properly, you remember exactly where you are. Chan’s room.
You remember how you ended up here, how, after Minho insisted you eat a proper meal and drink more water than you thought humanly possible, you’d started nodding off on the couch. Chan had gently helped you up the stairs, one of his hands braced on your lower back as you swayed with exhaustion. He’d let you take the bed without argument, hauling an air mattress in from the hall. You’d been too tired to protest, even when you watched him pile three blankets over himself like he was bracing for an Arctic expedition.
Now, in the morning light, he’s exactly where you last saw him, sprawled out on the floor, cocooned under a mountain of bedding. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and he’s propped on one elbow, scrolling on his phone. When he senses you’re awake, he glances up, his mouth curving into a crooked smile.
“Morning. How’s your head?”
“Fine,” You stretch a little, your body protesting with a chorus of aches. “Your bed is dangerous. I might never leave.”
He snorts. “It’s better than those shit dorm mattresses.”
You hum in agreement, sinking back against the pillows.
“Minho and Felix are downstairs cooking breakfast for everyone,” Chan says, dropping his phone onto the floor beside him. “You ready for the chaos?”
You consider that for a moment, then nod. “Yeah.”
He watches you for a second, his eyes thoughtful. “Minho messaged me earlier. He wants to know if there’s anything you can’t have because of your meds.”
“Grapefruit,” you say automatically. “So no juice, no tropical stuff. It fucks with my levels.”
Chan nods, filing that away with the rest of the things he seems determined to remember about you. “Got it.”
He hesitates, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everyone will be downstairs. You sure you’re okay with that?”
“I’m fine,” you say honestly. “It’s not like I haven’t been stared at before.”
He makes a low noise in his throat, something almost like a laugh, and gets to his feet with a groan. He rummages in his closet for a second, then tosses something across the bed. “Here. It gets cold down there.”
You unfold it, a faded black hoodie that smells like him. You don’t think twice about it before pulling it over your head. The sleeves hang past your fingers.
Chan tries not to look too pleased. He’d picked that one specifically, partly because it was warm and soft, but mostly because he knew none of the other guys would so much as think about flirting with you while you were literally wearing something of his. Not that he thought you’d be interested in any of them, but still. He liked the idea of you in his hoodie more than he’d admit out loud.
He retrieves the duffel bag Minho had brought from your dorm and unzips the front pocket, pulling out the small zippered pouch that holds your medications. He hands it to you carefully.
You sit cross-legged on the bed, unzipping the pouch and taking out a blister pack of white tablets. “So,” you begin, arranging them in your palm, “this is fifteen hundred milligrams of levetiracetam. Morning and night doses, for the tonic-clonic seizures.”
Chan crouches to watch, nodding slowly.
“These are zonisamide, two hundred milligrams, also morning and night. For the focal seizures.”
He memorises the words like they’re lyrics he’s trying to learn. “Got it.”
You pop the pills into your mouth and glance up expectantly. Chan fumbles for the water bottle in the little fridge next to his desk and hands it over. You swallow the tablets in three gulps, then lean back on your palms, making a face. “I fucking hate those. They taste like dust and sadness.”
He grins, relieved to see you sounding more like yourself. “You good?”
“Yeah. Let’s go meet your circus.”
Together, you head downstairs. The kitchen is warm and bright, filled with the chaotic noise of eight grown men trying to exist in one space without combusting. Minho is at the stove, a tea towel tossed over his shoulder, stirring something in a heavy pot. Felix stands next to him, plating kimchi and pajeon with the intense focus of someone assembling an art installation.
Chan touches your elbow lightly. “Alright. Roll call. You obviously know Jeongin.” He nods at the fox-faced man who’s perched on the counter, eating an apple. “And you met Minho and Jisung yesterday.”
Minho lifts a spatula in greeting without looking away from the bubbling pot.
“Then you’ve got Felix,” Chan continues, gesturing at the freckled blond who flashes you a sunny grin. “Changbin.” He nods toward the short, muscular guy rummaging in the fridge. “Hyunjin.” The tall, ethereal blond who gives you a slow once-over before dipping his chin in a polite nod. “And Seungmin.” The most severe of the bunch who raises a hand in greeting.
You lift your hand in a small wave, smiling shyly.
Hyunjin steps forward first, his gaze appraising. “It is an honour,” he says gravely, “to meet the woman who made little Innie piss his pants.”
You let out a startled laugh as he bows deeply, one arm folded across his stomach. “I’ve been waiting to meet you,” he says solemnly, straightening up. “Truly iconic behaviour.”
You cover your face with one hand, giggling. “Oh my god.”
Hyunjin guides you to a chair, pulling it out like a gentleman. “Please, sit. We’re all determined to make this the least terrifying breakfast of your life.”
Felix and Jisung waste no time in flanking you on either side, practically vibrating with excitement. Minho dishes up steaming bowls of galbitang and jeonbok-juk while you get comfortable.
Felix is the first to lean in, bright eyes wide. “So, do flashing lights set you off?”
“No,” you say easily. “Only about three percent of epileptics are photosensitive. But because games and movies all have warnings, everyone thinks it’s way more common.”
Changbin looks up from where he’s hacking a cucumber into pieces. “How do they even test for that?”
“They sit you in a hospital bed,” you explain, grinning when Hyunjin makes a face. “And they flash strobe lights in your eyes.”
“They try to induce a seizure?” Hyunjin asks, scandalised.
“It’s a controlled environment,” Minho says mildly, setting a plate in front of you.
You nod. “Exactly. I’m not photosensitive, so I just sat there blinking while the nurse looked disappointed.”
Jisung tilts his head, thoughtful. “So how does sex work?”
You blink, caught off guard. The entire kitchen goes quiet.
Changbin looks ready to strangle Jisung on the spot. “Bro-”
But Jisung barrels on, earnest. “I just mean, is it too strenuous for you?”
You take a slow sip of your tea before answering. “No. I can have sex like a normal person. I just know my limits. I can’t, like, ride for thirty minutes straight or something. I’d get too tired.”
Jisung lets out a relieved sigh. “Same, honestly. I have, like, two minutes of riding dick in me before I tap out.”
Minho snorts. “Yeah, but you don’t have a medical excuse. You’re just lazy.”
Jisung whines, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Minho tells me I’m lazy all the time. But it’s hard!”
You laugh, covering your mouth. “I literally have a doctor’s note. You, however, do not.”
Minho smirks, returning to the stove. “Exactly.”
Jisung throws his hands up. “You try riding Minho’s dick and tell me it’s not like doing squats with a weight belt. It’s a workout!”
You giggle, utterly charmed by how unfiltered he is.
“And don’t even get me started on how much he-” Jisung lowers his voice conspiratorially. “-thrusts up while I’m trying to keep a rhythm. It’s like riding a mechanical bull.”
Minho rolls his eyes heavenward. “Oh my god.”
“No, seriously!” Jisung insists, pointing at you. “Imagine you’re doing all the work and he’s down there going-” He mimics Minho’s hips snapping up. “-and you’re trying not to die.”
Minho looks like he’s contemplating homicide. “I only do that because you’re flopping around like a ragdoll.”
“I’m exhausted!” Jisung cries. “You don’t get it. You just lay there with your pretty face all smug.”
“I’m participating,” Minho argues.
“Yeah, by making it harder!” Jisung counters, gesturing wildly.
Changbin leans across the table, stage-whispering, “This is every morning.”
Felix nods solemnly. “Every. Single. Morning.”
You press a hand to your chest, laughter bubbling up again. “You are incredible.”
Minho sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m just saying,” Jisung insists, ignoring him completely. “It’s a lot of work. But apparently, I’m lazy.”
Minho fixes him with a flat look. “You are lazy.”
Jisung flips him off, grinning. “Love you, too.”
And somehow, despite the chaos, you feel completely at ease, tucked between all of them as they bicker and tease and pass plates back and forth like you’ve been part of this mess all along.
You end up spending the entire day in the living room, somehow feeling like you’ve lived here forever instead of just arriving last night. After breakfast, most of the guys scatter to lectures and labs, the house gradually quieting until it’s only you and Felix left behind. He seems perfectly content with that arrangement, tugging you by the hand to the massive sectional couch and declaring that you need “a proper education in Australian television.”
He digs around under the TV stand for a moment, muttering to himself, and finally emerges victorious with a stack of old DVDs. “You ever seen H2O: Just Add Water?”
You blink at the cover, taking in the three girls posing dramatically with tails. “Nope.”
“Unacceptable. We’re fixing this.”
So you let him settle you against the corner of the couch, your knees drawn up under one of the soft knit blankets. Felix slides the DVD into the player and practically bounces with excitement as the theme song starts, singing along under his breath in heavily accented English. He narrates over the opening scenes, explaining who everyone is in a rapid-fire whisper, so invested that you can’t help giggling.
Two episodes in, you’re hooked. The cheesy acting, the ridiculous mermaid mythology, the bright Australian sunshine, it’s perfect comfort viewing.
Mid-afternoon, the front door bangs open, and Jisung appears, looking slightly dishevelled with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He freezes when he sees the two of you curled up in front of the TV, then tips his head. “The fuck is this?”
Felix doesn’t look away from the screen. “Sit down. We’re on season one. You’re joining.”
Jisung drops his bag with a dramatic groan before climbing over the back of the couch to wedge himself between you and the armrest. He slumps sideways so his head nearly lands in your lap, scowling at the screen.
“What is it even about?” he asks, already suspicious.
Felix takes a deep breath, fixing Jisung with the same wide-eyed intensity he used on you earlier. “It’s about three Australian girls who fall into a magical pool on Mako Island and turn into mermaids. But they can’t touch water without sprouting tails, so they have to hide it from everyone.”
Jisung narrows his eyes. “That’s fucking stupid.”
“It’s perfect,” Felix corrects, pressing play.
You can’t stop laughing as the opening credits roll again, the theme song blasting from the speakers. Felix sings along, leaning into you so your shoulders bump. Jisung groans and buries his face in the blanket, but after about ten minutes, he starts sneaking glances at the screen. By the time the second episode finishes, he’s sitting upright, completely invested.
“This is such trash. I love it.”
“Told you,” Felix says smugly, elbowing him.
You watch three more episodes, your legs tucked under you and your head propped on Felix’s shoulder. Every time something dramatic happens, Felix gasps loudly and clutches your arm. Jisung offers a running commentary about how much of a menace Rikki is and how Lewis is obviously in love with Cleo.
Eventually, during a lull in the action, Felix tips his head back to look at you. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How old were you when you got diagnosed?”
You pause, considering how to explain it. “I had my first tonic-clonic seizure when I was six. But I was having focal seizures before that, just nobody realised what they were. My halmeoni knew something wasn’t right from when I was about two.”
Felix’s brow furrows. “But it took four years to diagnose you?”
You nod, exhaling. “Yeah. My parents died in a car crash when I was one. My halmeoni raised me. She already had seven kids, so she knew what normal toddler behaviour looked like. But every time she brought me to the doctor, they basically dismissed her. Said she was just worrying too much because she hadn’t parented a young kid in decades.”
Jisung makes a disgusted noise. “That’s fucked.”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder. “They only took her seriously when I had a big seizure in the middle of a grocery store”
Felix looks stricken. “That’s rough.”
You nod again, resting your cheek on the back of the couch. “It sucked. But my halmeoni never gave up. She’s a civil lawyer, so she sued every single doctor who ignored her. Made a shitload of money off it.”
Felix’s eyes go wide. “Seungmin would worship her.”
“She’s kind of a badass,” you admit, smiling a little. “Tattooed, sixty-seven years old, still works cases.”
Felix clutches his chest dramatically. “I think I’m in love.”
You snort, digging your phone out of the pocket of Chan’s hoodie. You swipe through your photos until you find one of your halmeoni at your last birthday, she’s wearing a leather jacket over her work blouse, grinning and flipping off the camera with a bright pink manicure. You hold it out so they can both see.
“Her name’s Boram.”
Jisung leans in so close you can feel his breath on your hand. “She’s a fucking icon.”
Felix sighs dreamily. “Absolute goals.”
You giggle, feeling a little lighter with the weight of that old story finally shared with someone who didn’t look at you with pity. Instead, both of them look impressed, a little starstruck. You can’t help thinking that your halmeoni would probably love them both.
Chan sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor at nearly two in the morning, completely wired. His laptop is propped open in front of him, the glow of the screen washing over his face. A stack of empty energy drink cans litters the carpet around him, the sugary chemical smell mingling with the faint scent of laundry detergent and the leftover pizza someone shoved under his door earlier. His insomnia is in full, punishing swing tonight, worse than usual because he forgot to take his meds at six, too distracted by Hyunjin nearly burning the goddamn kitchen down when he decided to microwave a metal spoon in a bowl of ramen.
Chan scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the sting in his dry eyes. He tries to remember the last time he blinked properly. Probably hours ago. He exhales, trying to shake off the bone-deep ache in his spine, and looks down at the mess of scribbled notes in his lap.
He’s been working on this song for days now, unable to shake the way it’s taken up permanent residence in the back of his mind. The track itself came together almost effortlessly, bright, punchy percussion layered over synth lines that practically demand you dance along. It’s the kind of music that feels like a sugar rush, heady and electric. But the lyrics, those are what’s been killing him.
He wants to get them exactly right. He needs them to feel like this, like that stupid, weightless feeling he gets every time he sees you. Like he’s not sure if he’s about to start floating or implode.
So far, he’s only managed to nail down the first verse and the pre-chorus. He reads them over for what has to be the thousandth time.
I always get this funny feeling Every time you come around It’s like I’m walking on the ceiling Both feet off the ground
He taps his pen against his knee. He loves that image, walking on the ceiling, like gravity stops working when you’re close. But he’s convinced he can make the chorus hit harder, that he can distil the mess in his chest into something universal.
It’s nearly three when he finally drags the pad of paper closer and starts scribbling again, trying to pull the chorus into focus.
You got me like upside downYou standing there, I swear, my whole world turned around
He mutters the words under his breath as he writes them, testing the rhythm against the beat looping in his headphones. He can feel the way the melody lifts, the swell of the chords right before the drop. It feels almost stupid, how euphoric it sounds, like falling in love at seventeen, when everything feels cataclysmic.
He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, chasing the next line. All he wants is for it to feel like you, like the way you smile, the way you tilt your head when you’re about to say something funny. The way you looked in his hoodie, blinking at the chaos of the kitchen like you were torn between fleeing and laughing yourself sick.
It takes hours. He scratches out whole sections, rewrites them, only to erase them again. His hand starts to cramp around the pen. His eyelids ache with every blink. But he can’t stop. He wants it perfect.
Around five in the morning, he starts working on the bridge.
You got me spinningFrom the moment you walked in the room
He presses his fist to his chest, trying to will the rest of the words out. He thinks about that first day in the studio, how you didn’t even flinch when he caught you in the middle of a seizure. How you’d turned to him like it was nothing and said, I was having a seizure. Like you were telling him the weather.
There’s nothing I can do but fall for you
He feels like an idiot, grinning at the page. But he doesn’t care. It’s the truest thing he’s ever written. When he finally scrawls the last words, the first pale threads of dawn are starting to creep under the blinds. The song is done. He reads over it one last time, his heart hammering in his ribs. The chorus loops in his head.
You standing there, I swear, my whole world turned around
Chan lets out a whoop so loud it rattles the cup of pens on his desk. He laughs, dizzy with relief, and rubs both hands over his face. He should probably try to sleep, but the adrenaline is buzzing too strongly in his veins. He needs someone else to see it, to tell him he isn’t crazy for thinking it’s the best thing he’s ever made.
He bolts out of his room, notebook in hand, and stomps down the hall to Jisung’s door. He doesn’t even bother knocking before he nudges it open.
Inside, Jisung is cocooned under a mound of blankets, only the tip of his nose visible. Chan crosses the room and starts prodding him in the shoulder with one insistent finger.
Jisung lets out a muffled groan. “Stop molesting me with your finger.”
“Jisung,” Chan hisses, leaning over the bed. “I am running on no sleep. I am high on caffeine. And I have written a fucking love song.”
That gets Jisung to stir, his head emerging just enough for one bleary eye to crack open. “A love song?”
“Yes!” Chan shoves the notebook into his hands. “Read it.”
Jisung squints at the page, then props himself up on one elbow, blinking hard. He starts reading, his lips moving silently.
Chan shifts his weight from foot to foot, too jittery to stand still. “Well?”
Jisung drags his gaze to the top of the page again, rereading the first lines. “This is-” He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “It’s good, dude. Like really fucking good.”
Chan lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jisung scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s the perfect amount of cheesy. You drop this with a label and you’d have a chart topper, no question.”
A laugh bubbles up in Chan’s throat. He feels like he might actually vibrate out of his skin. “Fuck.”
Jisung keeps reading, eyes darting down the page. “Seriously, no notes. You nailed it.”
Chan collapses onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Thank god.”
“Now go the fuck to sleep.”
“I can’t,” Chan mumbles. “I’m too wired.”
Jisung sighs like a disappointed parent. He sets the notebook aside and reaches out to grab Chan’s wrist, tugging until Chan topples sideways onto the mattress.
“You’re feeling very sleepy,” Jisung intones, draping an arm across Chan’s chest. “Verryyyyyy sleepyyyyy.”
Chan snorts, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
When the hypnosis trick doesn’t work, Jisung makes a frustrated noise and simply slaps his palm over Chan’s face, holding his eyes closed.
Chan wheezes, trying to pry the hand away. “What the fuck-”
“I swear to god, if you don’t sleep, I’m drugging you.”
The door creaks open, and Minho pokes his head in, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Why are you pinning Chan down?”
Jisung doesn’t look up. “He’s had an insomnia night. Written a banger. Now he needs sleep.”
Minho considers this, then shrugs and steps into the room. He walks around the bed and climbs in on Chan’s other side, sandwiching him between them.
“Go to sleep,” Minho says, and then he yells it directly in Chan’s ear. “GO TO FUCKING SLEEP.”
There’s a beat of silence before the rest of the house decides to get involved.
From the hallway, Changbin bellows, “GO TO SLEEP!”
Seungmin’s voice follows, droll and unimpressed. “For fuck’s sake, Chan. Sleep.”
Felix adds, “You need beauty rest!”
Hyunjin, from somewhere downstairs, shrieks, “SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SLEEP!”
And Jeongin’s voice drifts faintly from the kitchen, “You’re ruining my breakfast, hyung!”
“This is like a gay weighted blanket.”
“Good,” Jisung huffs, tightening his grip. “Let the gayness of mine and Minho’s love soothe you into unconsciousness.”
Minho sighs, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t move away. “Think about your epileptic muse. And fucking GO TO SLEEP.”
And just to make sure it works, both of them slump their full weight on top of him, a living, swearing, affectionate pile of body heat and exasperation.
Chan wheezes again but can’t fight the wave of exhaustion finally catching up to him. He closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the softness of the mattress, the steady thump of Jisung’s heartbeat against his shoulder. He drifts off to the sound of Minho muttering curses and Jisung’s muffled snores, a smile still tugging at his mouth.
Chan pushes the door open to Studio Three and pauses just inside the threshold, taking in the sight of you. The sunlight through the tall windows catches in your hair, this time not a messy bun but perfectly straight, glossy strands falling past your shoulders all the way to your ribs. It takes him a second to reconcile this polished version of you with the girl who wore a hoodie that swallowed her hands and giggled like a gremlin at breakfast the other morning. He’s pretty sure you could wear a literal trash bag and still look good, but there’s something about the sleek black satin corset top, the sweetheart neckline that makes his brain short-circuit for half a beat.
You’re hunched over your lyric book, completely focused, the Lady Jane Grey demo looping quietly through your laptop speakers. You tap your pen against your cargo pants, olive green, loose-fitting, cinched around your ankles above your black Converse, as you scribble words across the page in messy, determined strokes.
He lets the door shut behind him and wanders closer, trying to read upside down over your shoulder. The entire spread is chaos in a way that only makes sense to songwriters: scrawled words surrounded by looping arrows and circled phrases, half-thought metaphors and fragmented lines. You’re building something here, the foundation of lyrics that will eventually make sense even if, right now, it looks like the notes of a madwoman.
You don’t look up when he drags a chair over. Instead, you nod vaguely in greeting, pen still moving. “Morning.”
“Morning.” He props his chin on the back of the chair, watching you work. “How’s the ghost queen today?”
“Picky. Nothing sounds right. I keep trying to figure out how to phrase the idea that she never wanted the throne but died for it anyway. It’s either too fucking dramatic or not dramatic enough.”
“Can I see?” he asks, already knowing you’ll let him.
You turn the book toward him, and he drags it closer. His eyes skim the page, taking in the spiderweb of half-formed ideas. “I like this line,” he says, tapping his finger next to where you’ve scrawled ‘Nine days crowned, a lifetime damned.’
“Really?” You tilt your head, studying it critically. “It feels like something a moody teen would post on Tumblr.”
“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But in a cool way.”
You huff, rolling your eyes, but he can see you’re secretly pleased. You tug the book back, flipping to a fresh page. “Anyway, what have you been working on? You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
He smirks, feeling a blush crawl up the back of his neck. “I, uh. I wrote something a couple nights ago.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Yeah? Can I hear it?”
“Sure,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it and scrolls to the track he exported, tapping play before he can overthink it.
The first bright chords pour from the speakers, upbeat and summery, completely at odds with the sombre tone of your Lady Jane Grey project. You go very still, your eyes fixed on nothing as his voice fills the room, warm and unguarded in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever let anyone else hear.
He watches you as you listen, trying to read your expression. There’s a small furrow between your brows, but your mouth is soft, and when the chorus hits, you let out the tiniest, involuntary laugh.
When it ends, there’s a moment of silence. You blink and look at him, wide-eyed. “Chan, that’s-” You break off, searching for the right word. “That’s, like, the best kind of cheesy love song.”
He feels his entire chest go warm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You set your pen down and press your hands to your face, groaning. “God, it’s so fucking sweet. I love it.”
He beams at you, his heart thumping so hard he wonders if you can hear it.
You reach for your canned caramel latte and crack it open, taking a long sip, still shaking your head in disbelief. “You wrote that in one night?”
“More like an insomnia marathon,” he admits.
You snort. “Of course you did.”
The quiet stretches between you, comfortable. He almost leaves it there, lets you think it was just a song he wrote for the hell of it. But then he remembers the feeling he had at five in the morning, when he knew exactly who the whole song was about. He promised himself he wouldn’t chicken out.
“I wrote it about you.”
The can slips from your hand as you choke, spluttering caramel latte all over your lyric book. You slap a hand to your chest, coughing, and he leaps up to thump you between the shoulder blades.
“Jesus,” you wheeze. “Warn a girl before you say shit like that.”
He rubs your back, fighting a grin. “It was supposed to be a romantic gesture. Warnings ruin it.”
“This is humiliating,” you groan, mopping at your notebook with a spare napkin.
“It’s not,” he insists, sitting back down. “But, uh. Anyway. Would you maybe want to go on a date with me?”
You look up at him, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. Sure. Just don’t try to kill me on the date.”
He laughs, the tension draining out of him all at once. “Deal.”
You shake your head again, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “God, you’re so fucking corny.”
“Yeah. But you love it.”
“Maybe.”
Chan stands outside the private dorm building with his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers, trying not to fidget. He’s pretty sure his heart has been lodged somewhere in his throat for the past ten minutes. Every time the front doors hiss open, he holds his breath, expecting to see you emerge. Each time, it’s someone else, students bundled in hoodies, a couple bickering quietly, one girl balancing an entire tower of textbooks. The third time he catches himself shifting from foot to foot, he forces himself to stand still, shoulders back. He reminds himself he looks good, objectively, thanks to Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Felix swarming him for over an hour earlier, determined to make him look “fuckable but not like you’re trying too hard.”
It worked, he guesses. The sleek black satin shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show a tantalising glimpse of his collarbone and the top of his chest, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins and muscle in his forearms. His trousers hug his hips perfectly, the crease sharp enough to probably slice someone open if he kicks too high. Felix insisted on the silver bracelet, Hyunjin on the earrings, and Jeongin fussed with his hair for twenty minutes until the strands at the front framed his face exactly the right way.
He’s never in his life put this much effort into a date. But then, he’s never asked out a girl who made his heart feel like it was stuck on a fucking rollercoaster.
When the doors open again, this time you appear, and every single thought in his head short-circuits.
You step into the light spilling over the entrance, your hair tumbling in loose curls all the way down to your ribs, glossy and impossibly soft-looking. The dress is black chiffon, asymmetrical and fluid, the sheer panels shifting around your legs when you walk, catching hints of the city lights. The plunging neckline shows off the graceful line of your collarbones, the shimmer of the silver necklace resting above your heart. Your earrings glitter when you tilt your head to look for him, and his eyes drift down to the snake ring that coils around your finger, somehow managing to look both elegant and dangerous. Then there are the boots, tall, over-the-knee, and skin-tight, the heels adding several inches to your height.
For a second, all he can do is stare.
“Wow,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “fuck.”
You smile, adjusting your small purse on your shoulder. “We’re going to the oldest jazz bar in Seoul. I figured I should dress up a bit.”
He drags his gaze back up to your face, unable to stop the slow grin that spreads across his mouth. “I love it. You look beautiful.”
Your cheeks flush as you duck your head, tucking a curl behind your ear. “Thanks.”
He steps closer, offering his hand. “Okay, to the subway. We’re taking Line 6.”
You slide your fingers into his, your palm warm and a little cool from the night air. “Okay.”
He can’t help noticing the way your rings press cool against his skin. He glances down, tracing the silver snake with his thumb before he lifts his gaze back to yours. “You can drink, right?”
You laugh softly, squeezing his hand. “Yep. I can do most things other people can do. I mean, I can’t drive, and I probably shouldn’t skydive or anything, but I can drink and party like a normal person. I can get drunk, just not black out.”
"Got it. No skydiving tonight.”
“Damn. That was my backup plan,” you tease.
He grins and swings your joined hands a little as you walk toward the station. It’s only a five-minute stroll, but he draws it out, matching your slower pace because of the boots. Every so often, you have to pause to adjust the slit in your dress or tuck your hair behind your shoulder again, and each time, he takes the opportunity to just look at you, committing every detail to memory.
When you reach the station entrance, he automatically moves in front of you, offering his other hand as you navigate the steep steps. “Careful,” he murmurs.
You glance up at him, one eyebrow arched. “You know I’ve walked in heels before, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, not letting go, “but have you walked in heels while looking this good?”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you like it.”
“Unfortunately,” you sigh dramatically, letting him help you down the last step.
Inside, the station is pleasantly quiet, the evening rush long past. The fluorescent lights wash everything in a pale glow as you head to the platform. You lean into his side when the train whooshes up, the breeze lifting your hair so it brushes against his jaw. He wonders if you can feel how fast his pulse is racing.
When the doors slide open, he waits for you to step in first, his hand still at your back. The car is nearly empty, a few people scattered along the seats. You claim a pair in the corner, and he slides in next to you, the faux leather squeaking under his weight.
He drapes an arm around your shoulders without thinking about it. You go perfectly still for a second, then slowly relax, settling into his side. Your hair smells like something soft and expensive, and he has to remind himself not to bury his nose in it like a lovesick idiot.
You tilt your head just enough to look at him, your eyes warm. “Thanks for planning all this.”
He shrugs, trying to play it cool even though he feels like he’s about to combust. “Of course. You deserve a good night out.”
You laugh quietly, fingers playing with the edge of your dress. “It’s cute how hard you try to act chill when you’re not.”
He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re not supposed to be able to tell.”
“Too bad,” you murmur, and he feels you smile against his jaw.
The train lurches into motion, and he squeezes your shoulder gently, trying to memorise exactly how this feels, your soft hair against his arm, the warmth of your thigh pressed to his, your perfume sinking into his skin. If he could, he’d stay on this train all night, just you and him in this perfect little bubble.
Instead, he watches the stations flick past out the window, counting down the stops until he can show you the jazz bar, until he can see your face lit up by candlelight, until he can maybe, if he’s feeling brave enough, kiss you in the dark corner of a place older than either of you can imagine.
When you and Chan step into All That Jazz, it feels like you’re walking into a little hidden world, sealed off from the rest of Seoul by warm golden light and the low thrum of a stand-up bass tuning in the corner. The place is smaller than you’d imagined, intimate without feeling cramped, the walls lined with framed photographs of past performers and faded posters from decades of jazz nights. The air smells like old wood, something citrusy drifting from the bar, and a thread of cigarette smoke that clings to everything even though no one’s lit up tonight.
Chan’s hand is still wrapped around yours, steady and reassuring as you both look around. You can already see the staff preparing for the rush of late-night patrons—polishing glasses, lighting votive candles on every table, adjusting the little card signs that say Reserved. But because you’re early, there’s no wait yet. The hostess smiles at you and leads you to a table tucked against the far wall downstairs, close enough to the tiny stage that you could almost reach out and touch the band once they start playing. You sink into the chair, the candlelight catching on your earrings and scattering little glints of silver across your collarbone.
Chan sits across from you, folding his long legs under the table. He doesn’t let go of your hand until he has to pick up the menu. When you look up, he’s watching you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to blink.
“Stop staring.”
“Can’t, you look fucking unreal.”
You roll your eyes, even though you’re secretly glad he keeps saying it. It makes the nervous flutter in your stomach ease just a little bit.
When the waitress comes by, Chan orders without even glancing at the options again, like he’d already decided what he wanted the second you walked in. “The vongole pasta, a margarita pizza, and-” He looks at you, a question in his gaze. “Blue Hawaiians?”
You nod, propping your chin on your hand. “Perfect.”
“Two Blue Hawaiians,” he finishes, handing back the menus.
She disappears, and you take a sip of the water she’d left behind, feeling the chill spread through your chest. You look around again, taking in the shelves of records behind the bar and the couple tucked into the corner booth, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
“This place is really nice,” you say finally. “It’s got a vibe.”
“Yeah,” Chan agrees, tapping a rhythm on the table with his thumb. “I came here once with Felix, and I thought if I ever took you on a date, it’d be here.”
Your heart does a little lurch in your chest, but you manage to keep your expression casual. “You planned this a while ago, huh?”
“Maybe,” he says, grinning.
You reach for your cocktail when it arrives, swirling the straw around the crushed ice. The bright blue liquid looks almost neon under the candlelight. “So,” you say, peering at him over the rim of the glass, “what’s your dream with music?”
He leans back in his chair, considering. “Producing, I think. I mean, writing and performing is fun, but there’s something about building a song from the ground up. Watching someone else’s ideas turn into something real.”
You nod slowly, understanding that more than you can put into words. “Mine’s writing. I want to write songs for people, stuff that feels like theirs, even if they didn’t know how to say it themselves.”
Chan’s gaze softens. “You’re really fucking good at that, you know.”
You shrug, embarrassed. “I’m trying.”
He takes a long sip of his cocktail, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe we should open a label together someday.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He grins, wide and boyish. “You write, I produce. Perfect combination.”
“Not a bad idea,” you admit, twirling your straw. “But should we mix business and pleasure?”
He shrugs, unfazed. “Probably not. But it’d be fun as hell.”
Before you can answer, the lights over the little stage dim, and the first band shuffles into place. A quartet, upright bass, saxophone, piano, and a drummer with a mop of curly hair that almost hides his face. They launch into something bright and fast, the notes tumbling over each other in a way that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a movie scene.
Chan leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Okay, hypothetically,” he says, “if we actually started this label, we’d need the rest of the guys.”
You nod, immediately invested. “Obviously. Can’t leave them out.”
“So,” he continues, ticking them off on his fingers, “Jisung does our press. He’s already good at spinning bullshit into something that sounds impressive.”
You snort. “Accurate.”
“Felix handles all the photography,” Chan says. “Hyunjin can do our album art. Seungmin’s the lawyer, obviously. He’s terrifying.”
“He is,” you agree, thinking of Seungmin’s quiet, pointed questions the first night you stayed over.
Chan grins. “Changbin?”
You tap your lip thoughtfully. “The muscly one?”
He nods.
“Security,” you declare. “No one’s gonna try shit if he’s standing behind us.”
“Excellent,” Chan says. “Jeongin?”
“Stylist for our signed artists,” you say immediately. “He’s already obsessed with clothes.”
“Perfect.” Chan leans back in his chair, looking smug. “Minho?”
You bite your straw to hide your grin. “My personal first aider. Or Jisung’s assistant.”
He snickers. “I think he’d be fine with both.”
You nod solemnly. “Good. That’s settled.”
For the next hour, you keep talking, the conversation darting from the label you’ll probably never open to the dumbest stories from their frat house. At one point, you’re wiping tears of laughter from your eyes, your ribs aching from how hard you’re giggling.
Chan takes a sip of his cocktail and leans in conspiratorially. “You want to hear the best one?”
You nod eagerly.
“So,” he begins, “last year, Jisung and Minho decided they were going to hang pride flags from the roof for Pride Month.”
“Cute,”
“Yeah, except they both have a phobia of heights.” He pauses for effect, his mouth already twitching. “They were fine getting up there. But the ladder fell.”
“Oh my god.”
“They were stuck,” he continues, wheezing now. “And instead of calling someone, they decided to start singing Feel Special by Twice at the top of their lungs to get our attention.”
You gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth. “No fucking way.”
“Swear to god,” he says. “Felix and I were the first to hear them. It took us, like, thirty minutes to figure out where it was coming from. We walk out, look up, and there they are, clinging to the chimney, screaming the chorus like their lives depended on it.”
You dissolve into laughter, nearly tipping over in your seat.
“And then,” Chan says, wiping his eyes, “we tried to get them down, but the ladder was fucked. So we had to call the fire brigade.”
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “I’m going to die.”
“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand, “it gets better. The firemen get up there, right? And Minho goes, ‘Since you’re already up here, can you hang the flags for us?’”
You clutch your stomach, laughing so hard it hurts. “And did they?”
“Yeah,” Chan says, grinning so wide it makes your chest ache a little. “They fucking did.”
By the time the plates are cleared and the band is winding down their set, you feel like you’ve known him for years instead of weeks. You sit there, your empty glass in front of you, and think that maybe, just maybe, you’re already in deeper than you meant to be. But when Chan catches your gaze across the table, his smile wide and warm, you decide you don’t mind at all.
You and Chan push through the front door of the frat house, your hand firmly in his, and your laughter carries into the hallway ahead of you. You’re practically bouncing at his side, every step a little skip. He’s smiling so wide his face probably hurts, but he doesn’t even try to stop it. Your excitement is contagious, something fizzy and golden that makes his chest feel too small for how much he wants to grin at you.
“I swear to god, I think this might be the catchiest thing I’ve ever fucking written.”
“I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned,” he says, squeezing your hand as you both kick your shoes off near the mat.
You stop just past the threshold to face him, one hand gesturing animatedly. “Okay, but listen. The chorus is this-” You clear your throat, lowering your voice to something richer, a little twangy, and you sing, “I’m a cowboy I’ve been told, dirty boots, October roads, I’m just moving where the cold wind blows-”
You wiggle your shoulders, grinning like the devil. “It’s catchy, right?”
“Yeah, it’s catchy,” He sighs, already resigned to the fact that this is going to be stuck in his head for the rest of the week. “I cannot fucking believe you wrote a song about being a player while I’m right here.”
You bounce on your toes again, nearly vibrating with energy. “Okay, but do you have a line that goes, ‘I can love you better than you’ve ever known, but you won’t hear me when I go?’ No, you do not.”
He throws his head back with a groan. “Fuck’s sake, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” you say sweetly, “you keep going on dates with me.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, trying and failing not to smile, “I’m a fucking idiot.”
You both turn to head into the living room, your hand still tucked in his, your face lit up with the glow of a thousand song ideas. He can feel your happiness like static in the air. It makes something warm and heavy settle in his chest, something he doesn’t want to look at too closely in case it scares him.
As soon as you step into the living room, you both stop dead.
The entire frat is there, all arranged like some deranged council. All seven pairs of eyes turn to you at once, and you suddenly feel like you’re walking into an intervention.
Jisung lifts one hand with a solemn flourish. “We have gathered here today for a reason most foul.”
You look up at Chan, who looks down at you with the exact same bewilderment you feel.
Changbin leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Why are you two not official yet?”
Felix makes a wounded little noise. “We’re all so invested!”
Hyunjin nods sagely. “And you two are what? Just slow burning? Going on dates and kissing and shit but not labelling your relationship?”
Chan blinks. “Are you guys serious right now?”
Minho lifts a hand in a show of solemnity. “Deadly serious. Jisung wants to go on double dates. I want what my boyfriend wants. But you two are not official. This-” He gestures broadly at you both. “-is emotional edging.”
Seungmin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the worst kind of edging. The level of blue balls I have in my soul is frankly criminal.”
Hyunjin props his chin on his hand, looking mournful. “It’s like watching two characters in a drama almost kiss for twelve episodes straight.”
Felix pouts. “It’s gotten to the point where I’m emotionally blue-balled so bad I have nightmares about it.”
Jeongin raises his hand. “I second that. My emotional balls are so swollen I can barely function.”
Jisung looks right at you, eyes wide. “I’m so emotionally edged, I feel like I’m going to explode. My soul has blue balls, Y/N.”
Changbin holds up both hands, deadly serious. “My heart’s nuts are purple.”
Hyunjin gestures to himself. “I have a spiritual hard-on, and it’s all your fault.”
Felix leans into Jeongin, whispering something, and Jeongin nods solemnly before looking at you and Chan. “We are all emotionally jizzing dust.”
Your mouth falls open in horror. Chan just stands there, slack-jawed, like his brain has completely short-circuited.
“Okay, what the actual fuck,” you finally manage.
Chan rubs his face with both hands. “You guys are all fucking insane.”
Minho lifts a brow. “Yet here you are, still not officially dating.”
Chan drops his hands, exhaling a long, suffering sigh. He turns to you, his expression softening even though his cheeks are bright red. “I was gonna ask you under a lot less pressure and without-” He gestures vaguely at the seven lunatics staring at you. “-an audience. But…would you like to be my girlfriend?”
Despite your mortification, something warm blooms in your chest. You can feel your smile coming before you even try to stop it. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Chan grins, and before you can overthink it, he leans in and kisses you. It’s soft and a little clumsy, your mouths smiling too much for it to be smooth, but it feels perfect anyway.
The moment you pull back, Jisung lets out an unholy screech and starts blasting the love song Chan recorded for you on his phone, the speakers turned up so loud the floor vibrates.
Hyunjin throws his head back and yells, “I have emotionally climaxed!”
Felix clutches his chest, eyes wide. “Oh my god, same. That was an emotional orgasm.”
Changbin wipes fake tears from his eyes. “I just emotionally shot my load, thanks.”
Minho nods solemnly. “My heart just came so hard it blacked out.”
Jisung is bouncing in Minho’s lap, shrieking, “I just emotionally splooged all over the walls!”
Seungmin sighs. “I have never been so emotionally fulfilled. My soul is smoking a cigarette.”
Jeongin lifts both arms. “My emotional nuts are finally drained!”
You look around at them all, your jaw hanging open, and then you turn back to Chan. “I need a fucking drink.”
He nods, looking equally horrified. “Yeah. Same.”
Jisung pouts. “Aww, look at them all in couple sync, so cute!”
All seven of them chorus in perfect, obnoxious unison, “Awwwwww!”
You don’t even look back as you grab Chan’s hand and haul him toward the kitchen. The second you’re through the doorway, you lean against the counter, pressing a hand over your face.
Chan opens the cupboard, grabs two glasses, and starts pouring soju with the focus of a man trying not to have a nervous breakdown. “We can never speak of this again.”
“Agreed.”
He hands you a glass and clinks it against yours. “To surviving this house.”
You take a long drink, letting the warmth settle your frayed nerves. Chan sets his glass down, slides an arm around your waist, and pulls you close.
You melt against him, your head resting against his shoulder. He’s still warm from embarrassment and laughter, and the steady thump of his heart calms you more than the soju does. He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one to the corner of your mouth.
You tilt your head up to look at him. “You realise they’re never going to let this go, right?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, kissing your jaw. “But I’d still pick this over being slow-burn emotional edging again.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Fair point.”
He nudges your nose with his. “Besides, you’re worth it.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way your smile grows. You tip your head forward and kiss him again, soft and unhurried. When you pull back, you let out a long breath, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.
Chan brushes your hair behind your ear and grins. “Ready to face the idiots again?”
“Absolutely not,”
“Then let’s just stay here a bit longer.”
He doesn’t let go of you, and you don’t ask him to.
10/07 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post for Frequency Of Studio Three
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Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0 @jchotch726
General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65 @bingussthirdtoe
Proofread and hyped by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3
This fic is so so personal to me because while it's not the first fic where I had an epileptic!reader, it's one where I felt I covered the effects more, even using the same meds I use so PLEASE reread, love it, reblong it<3
I already have an idea on my notes for a Jeongin x Chan sister where Jeongin doesn't know she's chan's sister and reader doesn't know he's an alpha phi boy because she doesn't associate herself with alpha phi (she doesn't want the label of Bang Chan's sister to be what she's known for)
Thank youuuuu it was sitting in my drafts for an eon because I was so nervous to release it
That sounds amazing and I'd love to hear more ideas on that so please send them my way!
4. That's such a good idea for either Hyunjin x Jeongin or Chan x Jeongin or even Jeongsung, I'll have to sit and have a ponder
5. I've had a Felix x Jeongin best friend! reader sitting in my drafts since last halloween because I lost motivation, but the gist of the plot is Felix and reader getting close and Jeongin being STRESSED about hearing his best friend and hyung fucking and it's just silliness
6. I'm not a HUGE trauma writer tbh, I've done a few piece but I prefer insanity because I like making myself giggle as I write not cry#
7. Cinema (Lee Know & Seungmin), Updraft (HAN), Burning Down (Alex Warren (Live was amazing)), People Watching (Sam Fender), DIVINE (Stray Kids) - I listen to a lot of stray kids obviously but I have some faves and these are my top songs that I loop at the moment
8. I am still taking requests, my inbox is open until I say otherwise so PLEASE send as many requests as you like and I want to do a Hyunbini fic I'm just stumped for ideas at the moment
9. Thank youuuu, I return your love and I hope you had a good time devouring
SOME OF THESE ASKS ARE OLDDDD PLEASE FORGIVE ME
The Art Of Horny War: L.M Lee Minho x fem!reader (college!au)
WC: 14.7K
CWs: fake dating/emotional manipulation for jealousy, public displays of affection/sexual humour in public settings, Jokes about therapy avoidance, sexual references and innuendo, everyone is a menace, chanlix subplot
General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist
The bass is thumping hard enough to rattle the walls and shake the posters off the door. It’s some chaotic blend of Lady Gaga, Ariana Grande, Chappell Roan, and Sabrina Carpenter bleeding together like a hyperpop fever dream.
You’re curled up in Felix’s bed, your legs tangled over his, your head resting against his chest while his arm is tossed over your shoulder like he’s claiming you as his weighted blanket. You're both one bottle of wine deep. Each.
You're in your pastel yellow silk sleep shorts and matching crop cami. Your wine bottle is gripped between your thighs because your hands are too busy making dramatic gestures every time you speak, which is constantly. Felix’s bottle is resting precariously on the pillow beside him like it deserves a spot on the guest list.
You stretch your toes and groan contentedly. “Am I good to crash here tonight? I’m already feeling the wine and I don’t wanna stumble across campus like a fucking cautionary tale.”
Felix doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course, my bestest friend ever. My bed is your bed. Your drawer is already here. You basically live here. You’re just squatting at this point, and I support it fully.”
You giggle, pressing your face into his shoulder and snuggling closer. “I bring wine. I bring vibes. I bring emotional trauma. I pay my rent in affection and unhinged commentary.”
Felix chuckles, tilting his head against yours. “You’re literally the best thing I’ve ever illegally adopted. Like if a raccoon came into my house, drank all my wine, and then refused to leave.”
“I would make a fabulous raccoon. I’d wear a tiny silk bow and cause chaos in people’s gardens.”
There’s a beat of comfortable silence as you both sip your wine and let the music play. You both hum along until Felix suddenly slams his wine bottle down onto the bed, nearly spilling it.
“I’ve flirted,” he says, deadly serious. “I have done everything short of stripping and bending over and showing Chan my prepped asshole with a jewelled plug up my ass.”
You wheeze into your wine, nearly spitting it across his comforter. “Jesus fucking Christ, Felix-”
“What should I do?” he demands dramatically, eyes wide and wild. “Do I tattoo ‘I want you’ across my chest and stand shirtless outside his room like a ghost whispering ‘give me your willy’ until he does in fact give me said willy?!”
You dissolve into laughter, clutching your stomach. “No idea, I’m too busy trying to figure out if when Minho looks at me, it’s just his normal emotionless look or if he’s actively judging me. And then trying to figure out why the thought of him hating me kinda turns me on.”
Felix chokes on his wine. “Probably because you grew up in care, babes.”
You nod solemnly. “Yeah. Yeah, that tracks. Maybe I should try therapy.”
There’s a long pause.
“We don’t do therapy.”
“We can’t afford therapy.”
The music swells again, something anthemic and vaguely slutty blasting from the speakers as Felix suddenly gasps and sits up so fast you nearly topple off the bed.
“I have an idea!”
“Oh, this should be good.”
“What if we fake date?” he says, eyes glittering. “Make Minho and Chan super jealous and then boom, they confess to us, fall to their knees, and beg to be our sex slaves.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Felix.”
“Yes?”
“You may be bisexual, but everyone knows your girlfriends peg you. No one is gonna believe I peg you.”
Felix waves a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “I’ll say I found my inner dom. Or we could say we bought a double-ended dildo and ride it together as a couple.”
You hum thoughtfully. “The ‘you finding your inner dom’ story could work.”
“I’ll be so dommy you literally won’t believe it,” he promises, voice dropping an octave. “I am gonna fake dom your subby ass so hard-”
You snort so hard wine goes up your nose. “Okay, okay, fuck, stop-”
“Come here, girlfriend,” he coos, wrapping his arm around you tighter and dragging you into his chest. You collapse against him, laughing.
“So tomorrow morning,” he says, “you’re just gonna sit in my lap and we’ll be all coupley in front of Chan and Minho.”
“Sure, why not?” you say breezily. “What’s life without a little unhinged public deception?”
“This is why you’re my best friend. No one else would do this with me. No one else is this chaotic.”
You flop backwards onto the bed, arms wide, your voice turning dramatic and theatrical. “It’s the trauma. No true parental figures. Just bouncing from group home to foster home to group home. No love. Just watery ramyeon to feed the unloved, abandoned children. Huddled in corners like Dickensian orphans while other kids had iPads and birthday cakes that weren’t store-bought clearance items. Our bedtime lullabies were the sounds of other people fighting and microwaves beeping.”
Felix lets out a high-pitched shriek of laughter. “Shut up!”
You grin, loving how hysterical he sounds. “I once stole a mini cheesecake from the fridge at my third foster home and blamed it on the actual child of the family. They grounded him for a week.”
“Oh my god, you fucking menace.”
“Trauma gives you creativity. We had no iPads, Felix. Just trauma and imagination.”
Felix is now fully cackling. “Stop, stop, I’m gonna piss myself.”
You grin, then blink when he suddenly goes quiet. He looks at you, all warmth and teasing gone. “Wait- Are you serious? Are you actually, like, traumatised from growing up in care?”
“I mean... yeah. Probably. But, like, it’s whatever. I cope by being sexy and funny and wine-fueled.”
Felix reaches out and cradles your face in his hands, his expression all exaggerated horror. “Girl, do we need to do a deep talk?”
You swat his hands away with a laugh. “You grew up in Australia with a loving family and holiday dinners and siblings who liked you. You wouldn’t understand.”
Felix pouts dramatically. “But I could try to understand. I would try.”
You look at him for a beat, and your voice softens. “And I love you for that.”
He beams and leans in to kiss the tip of your nose. “And I love you, even if you're broken and emotionally volatile and raised in the same system that probably inspired half of ‘Les Misérables.’”
You gasp. “Bitch.”
“I say it with love.”
The smell hits you before your heels even hit the bottom step. Miyeok-guk, rich and savory and comforting, like someone’s halmeoni is resurrected in the Alpha Phi kitchen just to stir the pot herself. There's something sizzling too buchujeon crackling in oil. And beneath it all, the faint sweetness of bibimbap ingredients being prepped: sesame oil, sautéed vegetables, rice frying just slightly at the edges.
You’re dressed to kill. You’re in one of your outfits from the stash you keep in Felix’s room, because let’s face it, you practically live there. A crisp white button-up under a sleek black waistcoat, a tailored black blazer artfully draped over your shoulders. Your pleated black mini skirt brushes mid-thigh, thigh-high sheer stockings accentuating your legs, and the sharp pointed-toe stiletto heels click satisfyingly against the polished hardwood as you descend with theatrical elegance.
Felix is right behind you, dramatically dressed in an all-black ensemble he cobbled together after consulting the internet on how to look like a dom. He's got on some fitted leather pants you didn’t even know he owned, a mesh shirt layered under a loose black silk button-up, and his shaggy brown mullet is brushed back with what looks like a shit ton of hair wax. The man read a WikiHow titled How to Dom Like a Boss and took it personally.
“You look like you’re about to audition for the role of 'K-pop vampire who sells sex toys on the side.’”
Felix smirks. “That’s the vibe. Now remember, you’re my submissive. We’re in love. You crave my dominance.”
You snort. “I crave carbs and emotional stability.”
He gives your ass a light pat. “Stay in character, babe.”
You enter the kitchen with the poise of a girl who knows her outfit makes her look like the hot villainess from a drama. Minho is at the stove, shirtless, his back facing you as he stirs the miyeok-guk. Grey sweatpants hang low on his hips and his broad back glistens slightly with steam and effort. You catch a glimpse of his profile when he turns, sharp jaw, soft stomach that’s sexy, hair falling in fluffy waves over his forehead. Your brain promptly short-circuits.
He doesn’t immediately notice you, too focused on flipping pancakes with the intensity of a man trying not to let his feelings show through food. But when he does glance over his shoulder, his eyes land on Felix first, then flick to you and freeze.
You’re perched in Felix’s lap before Minho can even say anything, settling yourself on his thigh as he pulls your legs over both of his. His hand wraps casually around your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt like it’s nothing.
Minho’s expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his hand tightens on the spatula like he’s trying to crush it.
“Morning, darling,” Felix says smoothly, pressing a kiss to your temple with dramatic flair. “Sleep well in my bed, hmm?”
“Like a dream. Your cuddles cure insomnia,”
The clatter of a mug startles both of you. It’s Chan, bleary-eyed and shirtless under an unzipped hoodie, his hair a chaotic mess of fluff. He pauses mid-step, his gaze zeroing in on the two of you.
You make brief eye contact with Minho. He looks back at the stove. Chan stares at Felix. Felix stares at the wall like he’s the most dominant man in South Korea. You smile innocently and sip from the water bottle you grabbed from the table.
Chan finally clears his throat. “Coffee?”
Minho grunts. “Already boiling water. Mugs are up there.”
Chan moves to the cabinets and starts making his rounds. He moves on autopilot, which is weirdly hot in a domestic way, and you have to force Felix to look away.
Felix leans into you, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Minho looks like he wants to fold you into a burrito and die.”
You smile through your teeth. “That’s the dream.”
Felix’s hand inches higher up your thigh. “If this doesn’t make Chan’s dick twitch, I swear to God-”
Minho sets down two plates of buchujeon with enough force to rattle the table. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Thank you, chef,” you say cheerfully, taking a bite. “Mmm. Holy shit, Minho. This is fucking amazing.”
Minho nods, his gaze flicking briefly to your mouth as you chew. He immediately looks away and returns to stirring the soup.
Chan sets down your flat white in front of you and then slides Felix’s tea over without a word. He doesn’t sit, just hovers like he’s waiting to understand what the fuck is happening.
Right then, the rest of the frat filters in. Hyunjin, Seungmin, Jisung, Changbin, and Jeongin shuffle in like a fucking boyband of chaos, some shirtless, some in hoodies, all of them clearly in desperate need of caffeine.
Hyunjin’s the first to notice you on Felix’s lap. He pauses mid-step. “Okay, what the fuck is this?”
“Power couple reveal,” Felix says smoothly. “We’re in love. She wears heels, I wear leather pants. Together, we have exactly one functional brain cell.”
Seungmin sits down without a word. “Took you long enough,” he mumbles. “Everyone already thought you were dating.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
Jisung nods around a mouthful of rice. “Yeah, you’re literally always cuddling, sharing snacks, giggling over shit in corners like you’re in a drama. The only thing missing was the public lap-sitting, and now we’ve got that too.”
You exchange a glance with Felix. Felix beams. “Told you we had chemistry.”
Hyunjin squints. “Okay but real question. Felix, we all know your girlfriends peg you. And Y/N? No offence, but you do not give off ‘I peg men’ energy.”
“None taken,” you say cheerfully.
Felix sits up straighter. “I found my inner dom.”
Everyone stares at him for a beat. Then, collectively, they all just nod.
“Good for you, Lix,” Changbin says, clapping him on the back.
Felix grins. “We also bought a double-ended dildo.”
Jisung chokes on his rice and laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bench. “I fucking knew it!”
You pretend to hide your face in Felix’s chest and giggle like a drunk socialite. Meanwhile, Minho's back is stiff, his jaw set, and he's not looking at anyone. He's focusing very intensely on plating the bibimbap like it's the last meal he’ll ever serve.
Chan sits down finally, eyes flicking from Felix to you and back again. He’s not saying anything, but his ears are bright red. Like, visibly red. Felix catches it and smirks.
You loop your arms around Felix’s neck, playing with the ends of his hair. “You’re being so attentive this morning. I should let you dom me more often.”
Felix lowers his voice. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Wait until I tie you to a chair with my apron.”
Jisung wheezes and shovels more bibimbap into his mouth. “Can’t wait for that breakfast show.”
The entire kitchen erupts into chaotic conversation, food being passed around, music starting up again from someone’s phone speaker, and through it all, you and Felix stay in character, handsy, giggly, completely consumed by each other.
And Minho doesn’t say a word. But you can feel his gaze flick to you when he thinks you’re not looking. And you hope to god this ridiculous plan works because if it doesn’t, you’re gonna end up accidentally dommed by Felix and still pathetically in love with the shirtless grump frying pancakes in the corner.
The frat house is oddly quiet after breakfast, like the building itself is trying to recover from the auditory whiplash of morning chaos. Somewhere downstairs, the dishwasher hums to life with an alarming creak, and someone curses at it before giving up entirely. Chan nudges the door to his room open with his foot and flops backwards onto his bed with a groan. Minho trails in after him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with suspicion that’s been brewing since Felix dragged you out the door like a proud dom with his prized sub.
Chan props himself up on his elbows. “You buying that?”
Minho snorts. “Not for a fucking second.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, sitting up straighter. “The others might’ve bought the act, but c’mon. Felix gets pegged by his girlfriends. Aggressively. The man owns a bottle of organic lube with a fucking pump nozzle.”
Minho cackles. “Right? And Y/N’s like the subbiest girl on earth. She says ‘thank you’ when she gets passed the soy sauce.”
Chan shakes his head. “And Felix does not have an inner dom. That was wikiHow energy. He Googled ‘how to be a dominant top’, I guarantee it.”
Minho leans against the wall near Chan’s window. “Honestly? I think Felix has a massive crush on you.”
“Wait, what? You think?”
Minho gives him the most unimpressed look in the known universe. “Dude. Really? The way he acts around you? He’s like one step away from lying on your bed, legs spread, naked, with a neon sign flashing Mount Me Daddy Bang above his fucking head.”
Chan stares at him, mouth slightly open. “What?! He does not-”
“He does,” Minho cuts in, pushing off the wall and walking toward him. “You ever actually watched him around you? He goes all soft-eyed and sparkly. You say his name and he turns into a goddamn anime schoolgirl. Felix has, like, Chan brain rot.”
Chan blinks slowly. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” Minho replies. “And I think the fake dating thing is him just flailing because he doesn’t know how to actually approach you. So he ropes Y/N into this whole ridiculous charade, hoping you’ll get jealous and jump him.”
“Well, you know what’s fucking hilarious?”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “What?”
Chan gestures at him. “Y/N has a massive crush on you.”
“I- What?” Minho’s voice comes out slightly strangled, which for him is basically a full-blown emotional breakdown.
“Dude. Seriously? You really didn’t know?”
Minho stares at him like he’s trying to calculate the mass of the sun using only chopsticks and a taco shell. “I thought- I mean, I always figured she just... thought I was boring. Or, like, grumpy. Or maybe vaguely terrifying.”
Chan groans. “Minho, you gawk at her like you’re trying to figure out how to worship at the altar of her thighs, and she blushes every time you fucking speak. How have you not noticed?”
“Fuck. That’s- I mean. That’s great!”
Chan frowns. “No, dumbass, it’s not great. They’re fake-dating now.”
“So?”
“So?!” Chan sputters.
“So,” Minho says, voice low and smug, “what if we flipped the script?”
Chan pauses, tilting his head slightly. “I’m listening.”
Minho walks over and collapses next to him on the bed. “Okay. Think about it. You’re hot. I’m hot. We’re best friends. The others already think we’re married anyway.”
Chan nods slowly. “...true.”
Minho spreads his hands like he’s offering a divine revelation. “We fake date. We become the drama. We confuse the fuck out of those two cute little bottoms. They won’t know what hit them.”
“That’s actually so fucked up. I love it.”
They sit there in companionable silence for a second before they fist bump, grinning like they just solved world hunger through sheer petty gay vengeance.
Then Chan frowns. “Wait. What if Y/N forgets you’re bi and thinks you’re just... fully gay?”
Minho scoffs. “She’s not that stupid.”
Chan nods after a beat. “True. She’s way too into your arms and thighs to not remember that. This could actually work. I say we do it.”
“Oh, we can so do this shit,” Minho says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s break the bottoms’ brains.”
“This is gonna be amazing,” Chan says, standing up too.
They fist bump again. Then immediately pause and stare at their hands.
“Okay, we need to stop that,” Minho says. “That’s not selling whirlwind bisexual romance. That’s selling homies.”
Chan nods solemnly. “Right. We need something else. Something gayer.”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “Kiss on it?”
Chan shrugs. “Sure.”
So they lean in and peck, just a fast, ridiculous brush of lips that somehow cements the pact more than anything else could have. They both pull back, nod like generals preparing for war, and immediately begin planning the kind of emotionally deranged fake relationship that would make even the most dramatic K-drama writer go maybe tone it down.
On the third day of the Great Fake Relationship Scheme, the world ends. Or at least, it feels like it.
You and Felix burst through the front door of the Alpha Phi frat house just after four in the afternoon, laughing at something dumb he said on the walk from the subway. The weather’s cooling off, a little breeze whipping through Gangnam earlier when he met you after your final firm visit for your architecture course. You’d taken one look at yourself in the mirror this morning, tilted your head, and thought: “Yeah, today I’m dressing like I’m about to get spanked in a boardroom.”
So here you are. Wearing an oversized tailored black blazer, cinched at the waist with a thick belt, styled as a dress over a sharp white collared shirt and black tie. Garter straps peek from under the hem, connected to sheer black thigh-high stockings that cling up your thighs like sin incarnate. The heels are black platforms that give you extra height and dramatic click-clack power with every step. Felix had whistled so hard when he saw you earlier that a man on the street flinched.
Your makeup’s still pristine. Hair curled just right. You feel like you’re worth a million won and ready to emotionally traumatise every man in your vicinity.
You are vengeance.
You are desire.
You are... blinking dumbly at the sight of Minho and Chan making out on the couch.
Minho is shirtless, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand gripping Chan’s waist like he owns him. Chan is also shirtless, seated fully in Minho’s lap, arms looped loosely around Minho’s neck, one hand visibly feeling the soft curve of Minho’s stomach. Their lips are very busy. Tongues. Teeth. Moans.
Your mouth falls open in slow motion.
Beside you, Felix makes a sound like a broken kettle. “What the actual fuck?”
You stare. You cannot blink. You cannot move. “Why are their mouths doing that?”
“They’re kissing,” Felix says blankly.
“They’re kissing,” you repeat.
Chan’s hips roll ever so slightly in Minho’s lap. Their lips part just enough for a gasp, you don’t know who made it. Minho’s fingers slip under the waistband of Chan’s sweatpants. Your brain shuts off. Blue screen. No signal.
“They’re still kissing,” you say helplessly.
Felix’s voice goes shrill. “They’re kissing like they mean it. Like, like real kissing. Like the kind of kissing you do before a seven-hour fuck session where someone ends up crying on the floor and there’s a towel under someone's ass.”
“I dressed this hot for what?”
Felix clutches his chest like he’s been stabbed. “You dressed to be ruined sexually, not emotionally.”
You grab his hand and squeeze it. “We were gonna make them jealous.”
“We were the drama,” Felix whispers.
“Now we’re the audience,” you murmur.
You both just stand there, too horrified to look away and too stunned to run. Minho kisses down Chan’s throat, and you think, maybe I’ll just ascend. Maybe if I die here, I’ll be reincarnated as a tax accountant, where this pain cannot follow me.
Felix makes a high-pitched keening noise beside you, his bottom lip wobbling. “I think they’re actually... dating.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “We’re so stupid.”
He nods, lip quivering. “We have one brain cell between us. And it’s on fire.”
As Minho bites Chan’s lower lip, you think about every second you’ve spent pretending not to have a thing for the man currently groping his best friend. The way he’d flip your omelette with one hand and barely look at you while you tried not to combust. The way he once knocked a beer out of a guy’s hand at a party because “she said no, you dumb fuck.”
All of that. For this.
“Is this what hell looks like?”
Felix is frozen. “I want to believe this is fake. But Chan’s got nipple in between his fingers.”
Minho moans against Chan’s throat. That does it. Felix suddenly spins you, gripping your jaw with surprising force and slamming his mouth onto yours.
You gasp against his lips, your surprise only lasting a second before muscle memory kicks in. You’ve made out with Felix more times than you’ve checked your bank balance this month. It’s always been casual. Usually drunk. Always over the clothes.
This time? This time it’s fucking war.
Felix grabs your thigh and hitches it up around his hip, pressing you flush against him. His mouth is hot and commanding, and he kisses you like he’s got something to prove. Like this is an Olympic sport. Like the gold medal depends on tongue. You whine into it, fingers grabbing at his hair, and he tilts your head back and bites at your bottom lip before dragging his mouth down to your neck.
“Louder,” he murmurs against your skin. “Sell it. Moan, bitch.”
You let out a high-pitched gasp that is not entirely fake.
From the corner of your eye, you see the couch kissing stop. Felix yanks your head back by your hair and goes in for another kiss, deeper, wetter, shamelessly dramatic. It’s all tongue and lip and soft groaning. You whimper into his mouth and feel him smirk. He shifts his grip, palm flattening against your ass, and presses you even closer.
When you both finally break apart, breathless and flushed, you look back toward the couch.
Minho is frozen, his eyes fixed on you. His mouth slightly open, lips pink and kiss-bruised, sweat clinging to his temples. He looks like someone just slapped him with a fish. Chan’s expression is almost identical, except he’s staring at Felix like he wants to crawl into his skin and live there.
You and Felix giggle like drunk fairies and give them a simultaneous finger wiggle. “Hi boys,” you chirp.
Then you turn, grab Felix’s hand, and strut upstairs.
Minho doesn’t blink until your heels disappear around the corner. Chan is still on his lap. They haven’t moved. Haven’t spoken. Just breathing like two people who just watched their collective fever dreams come to life and then walk away without mercy.
They sit in silence for a full minute, processing. Then Chan slowly peels himself off Minho’s lap and flops sideways, landing face-first into the couch.
“I’m not going any further than kissing you,” he mumbles into the cushion. “That’s my limit. Everything’s over the clothes.”
Minho nods, rubbing his temples. “I’m not seeing your dick. I can’t come back from that. I need to see Y/N naked one day. If I have the image of your dick burned into my brain, it’ll ruin my life. My ability to get hard. I’ll have to walk into the fucking ocean.”
“You can’t swim.”
“Exactly why I’ll walk into the ocean. Because I’ll drown.”
Chan groans. “I need Felix. Carnally. Sinfully. Biblically. How the fuck do we beat two brats at their own game?”
Minho’s brows furrow. He taps his chin thoughtfully, pacing like a madman. “Jealousy doesn’t work. They’ll just keep making out with each other. We need a new strategy.”
Chan lifts his head. “Can we plan later? My heart’s broken and my pants are tight.”
Minho nods. “Good idea.”
Chan sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “How does Y/N dress like a dominatrix and yet is one of the most subby women I’ve ever met?”
Minho closes his eyes, breathing deep. “I don’t know. But my head brain and my penis brain love it. I wanna ruin her. I want her on all fours crying as she takes my dick. That’s my head brain and penis brain’s hopes and dreams.”
Chan moans. “My head brain and my penis brain just want Felix to be under me. Or bouncing on my dick with a little belly bulge. You know, the important things in life.”
Minho turns and looks at him solemnly. “We are sick.”
Chan nods. “We are unwell.”
“Clinical horniness.”
“Chronic and untreatable.”
They sigh in unison and collapse together onto the couch.
War is still on. And the stakes have never been hornier.
You and Felix don’t say a word as you ascend the stairs. Not because you’re not thinking, no, your brains are doing absolute gymnastics, flipping and spiraling and flailing like two gremlins in a washing machine, but because if either of you do speak, you will both start crying, screaming, or hurling yourselves down the stairs. Possibly all three.
You reach the landing, and it’s like something shifts in the air between you. You both stop walking, standing still in the hallway in silence, processing. Felix turns to you, face flushed and eyes wide, his mouth opening like he’s about to say something profound.
“Y/N.”
“Yeah?”
“We need backup.”
You nod, solemn and shaken. “Agreed.”
There’s only one option. One solution. One path to victory when all logic and self-control have failed: call in the devious babies.
You whip around and head straight for Jeongin’s door with righteous purpose. Felix, without hesitation, spins on his heel and marches into Seungmin’s room.
You barge into Jeongin’s room dramatically, hand on the doorframe like you’re about to faint. “Jeonginnie.”
He’s sitting at his desk, sketching something on his iPad, probably another outfit for a future fashion show he’ll pretend not to care about until everyone compliments him. He lifts his gaze, raises a brow, and looks you up and down slowly.
“I love to see someone actually fashionable in this house,” he says, tossing his Apple Pencil onto the desk. “God forbid I ever see another pair of cargo shorts in my lifetime.”
You twirl on the spot like a catwalk model. “I need your help,” you say, hands outstretched, pouting with exaggerated flair.
Jeongin exhales loudly like your very existence drains him, but he stands anyway, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” and takes your hands. You beam, wiggling your fingers in his. “You’re lucky I like you,” he grumbles.
“I'm lucky and cute,” you remind him as you drag him toward Felix’s room.
When you get there, Seungmin’s already sprawled across Felix’s bed like a cat in sunlight, hands behind his head and eyes fixed lazily on the ceiling. He doesn’t even blink when you and Jeongin enter. Felix is pacing back and forth, visibly distressed.
Seungmin turns his head, blinking slowly. “What the fuck is going on?”
Felix throws his arms in the air. “Y/N and I aren’t dating.”
“You’re not?” Seungmin says, eyes narrowing.
Jeongin squints at you, clearly recalculating his entire understanding of the world. “Since when?”
“Since always!” Felix says, throwing himself onto the bed dramatically. “We’ve just been fake dating.”
Seungmin and Jeongin exchange glances. Jeongin’s voice is flat. “Why?”
Felix sighs like a dying man. “Because I want the BCBC, the Bang Chan Big Cock, in my mouth and in my ass and my soul, and Y/N wants Minho to ruin her in every way that counts.”
You nod sadly, leaning against Jeongin with a dramatic sigh. He blinks in mild horror but lets you drape yourself against him anyway, his arm wrapping around your waist out of habit. You snuggle into his side and bury your face in his shoulder with a muffled groan.
“You’re both dumb as shit,” Seungmin says, but he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds resigned, which somehow feels worse.
Felix looks like he’s aged twenty years. “It gets worse. We came back just now, and Chan and Minho were making out on the couch.”
Jeongin’s eyes go wide. “What?!”
“Tongue. Sweaty. Groaning. Minho’s hand down Chan’s pants,” you say, face still buried in Jeongin’s hoodie. “I have seen hell and it has perfectly shaped pecs and tree-trunk arms clinging to it.”
Seungmin flops back on the bed. “So you need us to help you?”
Felix nods like a man on the verge of spiritual collapse. “We’ve lost. Our hopes and dreams are dead. We read it all wrong. We might have to actually date.”
You gasp, horrified, and stand upright. “No way. I am not pegging you.”
Felix sits up with a matching gasp. “Oh my God, Y/N, compromise!”
“I will not! I like to be ruined! I want to be dommed until I cry! You can’t give me that, you bottom.”
Felix throws a pillow at you. “Well, sorry I’m not Minho with his fucking shoulders and judgmental eyes and thighs that could crack a watermelon.”
You cross your arms. “And I'm sorry I'm not Chan with his soft voice and leadership skills and absurdly wide shoulders and I-know-how-to-make-coffee-for-everyone energy.”
Jeongin blinks between the two of you, baffled. “You two are fucking unhinged.”
“Welcome to hell,” Seungmin says dryly.
You and Felix flop down on the bed simultaneously, heads hanging in defeat. “We are loveable idiots,” Felix mumbles.
“The loveliest of idiots,” you agree.
Seungmin sighs and sits up, rubbing his temples. “Look, I doubt Minho and Chan are actually dating. Those two aren’t compatible like that.”
Jeongin runs his hand soothingly through your hair. “No offence, but you’re both way too in your heads. There’s still a chance.”
You pout, eyes wide, and he pats your head like a distressed puppy. “We’re gonna fix this. And we’re gonna do it in the most dramatic, chaotic, and slutty way possible.”
Seungmin’s expression sharpens. “The Greek Gods and Goddesses party is next week.”
You and Felix blink at him. “Go on,” you say slowly.
Seungmin sits up properly now. “Minho’s going as Poseidon. Chan’s going as Zeus.”
Jeongin grins. “And the gods are notorious for loving nymphs.”
You and Felix sit upright like puppets on strings. “Oh my God,” Felix whispers.
Jeongin flicks your forehead. “You. Sea nymph.”
He turns to Felix. “You. Forest nymph.”
Seungmin nods solemnly. “Zeus had an eternal boner for forest nymphs. And Poseidon was all about dragging sea nymphs underwater and doing things to them that were probably not PG-13.”
You and Felix look at each other. Then high-five so hard it echoes.
Jeongin starts sketching on his iPad. “Y/N, you’re going full siren. Long, flowy sheer fabric, glitter, pearls, wet-look waves in your hair."
Seungmin points at Felix. “You? Mischievous little forest slut. We’re talking greens, vines, messy curls, glitter freckles. Horny fae vibes.”
Felix clasps his hands in front of him, eyes shining. “This is the best day of my life.”
You grin. “We’re going to seduce them, aren’t we?”
Jeongin and Seungmin nod.
You and Felix throw yourselves back on the bed with dramatic groans of anticipation.
The nymphs are rising. And the gods have no idea what’s coming.
The frat house is packed to the goddamn brim. The air buzzes with pounding music, bass shaking the floors under everyone’s feet. The lights have been dimmed, golden and warm, fake Greek columns propped against walls like a mythology-themed fever dream, and everyone looks like they either belong in a museum or should absolutely not be allowed within fifty meters of one.
Chan stands near the bar in the corner of the living room, nursing a red plastic cup, sweating slightly despite the air-con rattling uselessly above the windows. His toga’s clinging to his chest and shoulder, muscles glistening faintly under the light. Lightning bolt patterns are painted meticulously across his torso, layered over the swooping edges of his tattoos. The gold trim on his toga catches every flicker of the light, and the sculptural shoulder armour piece makes him look like Zeus mid-battle. He adjusted his laurel crown five times already, half for comfort, half because he's pretending not to be anxious.
“Fuck,” Chan mutters, scanning the crowd again. “I hope Felix looks hot.”
Minho hums, sipping his drink, his own toga pristine, his chest bare except for a drape across his right side. The gold seashell crown sits slightly crooked on his head, and the fishnet pinned to his side flutters every time someone brushes past. His tattoos are visible, stark against his skin, and the plastic trident he carries clacks against his leg as he shifts his weight. He’s trying to play it cool , Poseidon incarnate, unmoved by the crowd, confident and in control, but his eyes flick to the stairs like a man about to be hit by a tsunami of his own goddamn feelings.
“We’ve tried everything,” Minho mutters under his breath. “The kissing, the lap-sitting, the shirtless flexing. I even fucking made him a latte with a heart in the foam. What did it get me? Felix lifting Y/N onto the counter and dry humping her in broad daylight like a pervert.”
Chan sighs into his cup. “I really thought the fake dating would crash and burn. Not whatever the fuck this is.”
Suddenly, the room hushes in a wave of drunken murmurs and nudges. Heads turn toward the stairs. Someone wolf-whistles. The speakers boom into a fresh remix of some ancient-sounding harp-laced club track, and the mood shifts like the music itself knows what’s about to happen.
You descend first. You’re a vision. A menace. A sin.
Your white bra-style top shimmers under the lights, draped in delicate pearls and seashell accents that glisten with every step. The pearls cascade down your torso, swinging with motion, layered and glinting. Your skirt hugs your hips, flowing silk pooling at your ankles with a dramatic high slit that flashes your whole left thigh up to the garter line. The pearl strands wrapped around your waist dance with every movement. Your hair is perfectly tousled, soft curls spilling around the delicate water lily crown resting on your head. You look like you emerged from the sea with the sole intention of giving someone an erection.
Minho chokes on his drink.
Right behind you, Felix appears in green. A cropped forest-green top clings to his torso, vines trailing down his arms and wrapping around his waist and legs, leaving very little to the imagination. His pants are tight, and his glittery cheeks make him look like he’s glowing. His hair is styled just messy enough to look intentional, curls bouncing, and when he smiles, it’s pure brat.
Seungmin and Jeongin follow behind, smug and satisfied like parents watching their chaotic children commit aesthetic arson. Seungmin is in a striking navy and silver warrior outfit, a male Athena with an owl pin fastened at his collar. Jeongin looks smug as hell in gold, an unapologetically hot Apollo with a lyre-shaped accessory on his belt and enough eyeliner to make Cleopatra weep.
“Holy fuck,” Minho says under his breath.
Chan doesn’t look away. “They bratted up the game again.”
“They matched us,” Minho hisses. “Poseidon and a sea nymph. Zeus and a forest nymph. They planned this. Fuck this.” He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and slams the cup onto the bar.
Without another word, he pushes through the crowd like a man on a mission from the gods.
You catch sight of him halfway to you. Your mouth twitches up in a smile, soft and almost shy. Minho reaches you, eyes devouring every inch of your outfit, lingering on the pearls at your waist, the way your crown sits on your head like you’re meant to be worshipped.
“Y/N,”
“Minho,” you reply sweetly.
“Want to dance?” he asks, stepping close, hands twitching like he’s stopping himself from grabbing your waist right then and there.
You glance at Felix beside you, who tilts his head dramatically. “Uh, that’s my girlfriend.”
Minho snorts. “No, it’s not. We figured it out day dot.”
Felix throws up his hands. “Fine. Go nuts. Where’s Chan?”
Minho jerks his chin toward the bar.
Felix’s face lights up like a fucking fireworks show. “Thanks!”
And he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
You turn back to Minho just as his hand gently rests on your waist, the other lifting to your hand. He’s warm and steady, surprisingly gentle for a man built like he could break ribs with a hug.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs.
You grin. “You’ll have to thank Jeongin. He designed this whole thing.”
“I’m gonna kill him.”
You laugh as he pulls you closer, your bodies moving in time with the music. His fingers tighten slightly on your hip, guiding you subtly into the rhythm. The bass hums in your chest. You’re aware of every inch of him, the warmth of his palm, the muscles shifting under his toga, the way he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Felix slides up to Chan and grips his arm. Felix leans in close and whispers into his ear. “Give me your willy.”
Chan stares at him for a split second.
Then nods. “Okay.”
“Oh my god. It worked?!”
Chan grins, grabbing his hand, and together they disappear up the stairs like thieves in the night, making very sure you and Minho don’t see them go as Minho pulls you tighter, your hips brushing, your legs tangling slightly as you dance, the air between you thick and hot.
Minho’s hand rests heavy on your waist as you sway together, the music thumping through the floor and rattling your ribs. Your hips move lazily with his, one of his hands curled against the small of your back, the other trailing lightly down your arm.
You glance up at him through your lashes. “It's bold of you to assume Felix and I aren’t dating.”
Minho scoffs, loud enough to be heard over the beat. “You and Felix are both bratty fucking bottoms. You’re not compatible. That’s a relationship destined for tears and one of you getting emotionally ruined.”
Your brows lift. “Excuse me?”
He leans in, eyes gleaming. “Felix would be crying because you won’t peg him, and you’d be crying because you’re not getting dommed. You wouldn’t be able to use a dildo on yourself, let alone fuck another human with one strapped to your hips.”
You hum softly, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s mean.”
“It’s true.”
You tilt your head. “Drink?”
Minho nods. “Please. I need to drown my horniness.”
He keeps a hand wrapped around your waist, his palm splayed across the exposed skin of your side, pressing you flush against him as he guides you through the crowd. He’s like a damn heat source behind you, body firm and practically glued to your back as you weave your way toward the kitchen. Every time someone brushes past, he tightens his grip like he’s staking a claim.
The kitchen is somehow even more chaotic than the living room, and in the middle of it all, Changbin and Jisung, self-appointed bartenders, are currently doing shots between shaking mixers.
Changbin, shirtless with a red leather chest harness and a fake bronze sword strapped to his side, looks every bit the chaotic embodiment of Ares. Jisung, his Hermes counterpart, is dressed in gold shorts and a white cropped tank top with tiny wings glued to the back of his shoes. He’s got glitter all over his collarbones and a grin that screams trouble.
“Drinks, please!”
Jisung grins. “What are we feeling?”
“Strong and fruity,” Minho answers immediately.
“You mean like Felix?” Changbin snorts.
You smack Changbin’s arm and he winces dramatically as Jisung throws together two concoctions with flair, pouring vibrant, dangerous-looking mixes into tumblers and tossing in paper straws.
“Here you go. Try not to fuck on the counter.”
Minho grins. “No promises.”
You take your drinks and escape with Minho through the sliding door to the garden, the music dulling to a background hum. The garden is scattered with lights and people lounging on beanbags, the pool glowing a soft blue under string lights. You make a beeline for a poolside lounge chair tucked slightly away from the main crowd and plop down, sinking into the cushion with a sigh.
Minho follows and sits beside you, but you’re pressed up against him before he even settles, your thigh against his, shoulder brushing his bicep. You sip your drink slowly, your head lolling a bit onto his shoulder.
Minho chuckles under his breath before he shifts, and suddenly, you’re fully pulled into his lap, your legs curled across his, your back pressed to his chest, your drink still in hand. His arm curls around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. With his other hand, he reaches up and twirls a loose strand of your hair around his finger.
You close your eyes for a second and hum. “So, you and Chan,” you say eventually, tapping your fingers against your glass. “I have to ask-”
Minho sighs. “We figured if you and Felix were fake-dating to make us jealous, we could do the same.”
You twist in his lap to blink up at him. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Didn’t work. You two are too bratty. Watching Felix dry-hump you on the kitchen counter made me consider exorcism.”
You snort into your drink as Minho tugs gently on the strand of hair he’s still twirling, making you swat at his hand playfully. “God, you’re such a hater.”
“Not a hater. Just a traumatised witness.”
You sip again, the alcohol warming your chest, cheeks tingling. “So, how was making out with Chan?”
“He has nice lips.”
“Tell me more!”
Minho narrows his eyes and pinches your side, making you squeal and twist in his lap. “You’re such a little shit.”
You grin, victorious, and drain the rest of your drink in one go, letting the empty cup drop to the grass beside you. “Come on, Min,” you say, hopping out of his lap and grabbing both his hands. “Let’s swim!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Coward.”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “Y/N.”
You release his hands with a huff, taking a few steps back. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
Then you hop into the pool. Water splashes high around you as you sink beneath the surface, the shock of it making you gasp and laugh as you surface, flipping your hair back dramatically. Your flower crown floats off your head and bobs beside you. You paddle backwards, treading water and grinning.
Minho stands at the edge, watching you with the expression of a man who’s just been shot in the chest and liked it. He watches the water glisten on your skin, the pearls clinging to your top like they belong there, your eyes glowing under the string lights. You look less like a person and more like something pulled straight from the sea, some divine punishment for every bad thing he’s ever done.
He doesn’t think. He just climbs in. He steps into the shallow end, still in his sandals, still fully dressed in his toga, wading into the water like a cursed sailor following a siren. He stops when it reaches his waist, close enough to touch you if he stretched.
“I thought you said you weren’t getting in,” you tease, floating closer.
He stares at you. “You literally look like a fucking sea nymph. What was I supposed to do? Stand there like a dickhead and watch you sparkle?”
You paddle forward until you’re right in front of him, your hand reaching up to trace along the tattoos on his chest. You drag your fingers across his collarbone, down the dip between his pecs, over his ribs and around the curve of one arm, mapping out the ink like it tells a story only you’re allowed to read.
Minho’s breath catches, his hands twitching at his sides. You look up at him, biting your lip, mischief burning in your eyes, and then you slip away again, giggling as you paddle backwards, out of reach.
“Little brat,”
“I heard that!"
“You were meant to!”
And he follows you into the deeper water.
Two hours after disappearing upstairs in a tangle of limbs, laurel crowns, and horned-up god energy, Chan and Felix finally reappear on the ground floor of the frat house. Their costumes are slightly dishevelled and they both look like they just emerged from a different plane of existence.
Felix is glowing and walking with a noticeable limp, each step a reminder that Chan has a very powerful core and very few inhibitions when properly motivated. Chan, on the other hand, is doing his best to look composed, which is difficult when his toga is still slightly off-centre and his chest paint has smudged in a way that looks distinctly like fingernail drag marks.
Felix adjusts the vine draped over his thigh and starts scanning the crowd. “Where the fuck are they?”
Chan grunts. “I haven’t seen them since before we went upstairs.”
Felix’s eyes flick toward him, smug. “Before you destroyed me, you mean.”
Chan shrugs, trying not to grin. “You’re the one who asked for the full Greek experience.”
Felix fans himself dramatically. “And I got it. I saw the gods. I died and came back gayer.”
They move through the crowd, asking around, Changbin shrugs, says he hasn’t seen Minho in hours. Seungmin waves them off with a “not my responsibility” energy. They finally find Hyunjin pressed up against Jeongin in a corner, the two of them deep in a drunken, glittery makeout session under a faux grapevine. Hyunjin’s costume is, of course, Dionysus, deep purple fabric draped across his body in a toga that’s barely staying on, gold body paint streaked across his chest, and golden grape clusters tangled into his hair.
“Hey,” Felix interrupts loudly. “Have you seen Minho or Y/N?”
Hyunjin doesn’t even stop kissing Jeongin, just raises a limp hand and gestures vaguely. “Nymphs... or something.”
Chan sighs. “Fucking helpful.”
They finally corner Jisung near the kitchen. He’s still in Hermes mode, shirt off now, covered in glitter and drinking from a half-full wine bottle. “Oh,” Jisung says when asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Minho and Y/N went out to the garden, like, two hours ago. Haven’t seen ‘em since.”
Felix grabs Chan’s hand and they head out to the garden with purpose. “I swear to god, if he kissed her in the moonlight or fed her a grape or some other romantic bullshit, I’m gonna drown myself in the fucking punch bowl.”
They push open the sliding glass door and step out into the garden, the string lights twinkling overhead. The pool glows cerulean in the night, surrounded by a few lingering partygoers on bean bags and two familiar figures splashing in the water like children on a sugar high.
You’re on Minho’s back, arms wrapped around his neck as you attempt to dunk him. He’s laughing, his arms flailing dramatically, water flying everywhere as he lets you push him under the surface. He resurfaces moments later, spluttering, his hair sticking to his forehead. “Oh nooo,” he groans dramatically, “Please don’t dunk me, goddess of the sea.”
“Holy shit,” Felix whispers. “He’s letting her win.”
Chan stares. “He’s being playful. Minho doesn’t do playful.”
Felix grins like he’s just caught Santa Claus in a threesome. “Minho’s in love. Like, actual brain-meltingly, dick-hardeningly, soulmate-level in love.”
You look up from the pool and your eyes immediately zero in on Felix. Your smile grows wicked, and you point at him with a triumphant shriek. “YOU’RE LIMPING!”
“No, I’m not!”
“YES YOU ARE,” you cackle. "That’s a post-sex hobble.”
Felix dramatically throws his hands up. “You all suck. Every single one of you.”
Then he sprints, well, limps quickly, and cannonballs into the pool, tackling you in the water. You shriek as he hits you, water exploding around you both. He grabs you under the arms and tries to flip you, but you thrash and grab hold of his vines.
“NO! I’m not done making fun of your wrecked ass!”
Felix grips your waist, grinning. “You’re just jealous I got to taste the divine dick of Bang Chan!”
“SHUT UP!” you screech, trying to shove his head underwater.
Felix goes willingly but resurfaces laughing, water streaming down his face. “He rimmed me for like twenty minutes.”
“NO!”
“Yes! Ass-munch Bang Chan!” he yells, throwing his hands up like he’s just won an Oscar.
You shriek with laughter, ducking under the water to escape the embarrassment, only to pop back up and glance over at Chan, who is now standing stiffly at the pool’s edge with a look of existential horror on his face.
Chan mutters, “I’m gonna die.”
Minho is laughing so hard beside him that he nearly loses grip on the drinks. “You did this to yourself, man.”
You and Felix keep fighting in the water, splashing and grabbing and shrieking, utterly chaotic and wet and way too loud. Chan sighs, hands two drinks to Minho, one clearly yours, based on the sparkly cup and obnoxious garnish, and climbs down into the shallow end of the pool.
Minho takes a sip of your drink and passes it to the edge of the pool nearest where you’re flailing. “Do we break it up?” he asks, eyeing the mess unfolding in the deep end.
Chan sinks into the water with a groan. “Pfft. No. Let ‘em tire themselves out. They’ll get thirsty in a minute and come running for booze.”
Sure enough, like clockwork, you and Felix start paddling toward the shallow end, still attempting to dunk each other as you swim. You practically crawl over Minho to get your drink while Felix clings to Chan’s shoulders and grins like the menace he is.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Felix shoves Chan’s head underwater, cackling as Chan yells and splashes in retaliation. You watch for two seconds before you immediately turn on Minho, who sees it coming and just laughs, catching your waist mid-lunge and lifting you out of the water with a triumphant growl.
You squeal, legs kicking, hands grabbing at his shoulders. “No fair!”
Minho grins, water dripping from his hair and nose. “Shouldn’t have attacked Poseidon.”
“You’re lucky you’re hot,”
He just grins wider, his arms tightening around your waist.
And around you, the garden party continues, but none of you notice. You’re too busy being idiots in the pool, four hot disasters clinging to each other, drunk on booze, chaos, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you somewhere between a toga and a trident.
The morning after the party feels like a combination of hangover, post-orgy regret, and emotional confusion wrapped in soft pillows and silk sheets. Sunlight cuts through the sheer curtains of Felix’s bedroom, slicing your eyelids in half. You groan, throwing an arm across your face, your legs tangled with Felix’s. Neither of you are wearing much, just sleep shorts and vibes, and both of you smell faintly like pool chlorine, leftover perfume, and bad decisions.
Felix groans next to you, voice hoarse and full of betrayal. “Oh my god. They didn’t even ask us on dates.”
“What?”
“They didn’t ask us. On. Dates. We gave them nymph cuntiness, Y/N. Nymph! Cuntiness! I gave Chan’s dick access to my ass!”
You snort before the hangover slaps you across the face. “Ow, fuck,” you groan, flopping back down, dragging a pillow over your face. “Too loud. Brain hurts. Thoughts bad.”
Felix rolls dramatically onto his stomach, kicking his feet against the mattress. “I had sex with Bang Chan. Biblical, messy, ass-munching sex. And he didn’t even text me a heart emoji. Nothing.”
“I didn’t even have sex with Minho.”
Felix gasps. “Emotionally, you did!”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Is that not worse? You got emotionally raw-dogged by a man with a trident and still nothing? What the fuck is our life?”
You drag the pillow off your face and glare at him. “This is your fault. You made us fake date. You told everyone we had a double-ended dildo.”
“I maintain that was a power move.”
You both go quiet for a beat, then sigh in unison.
Felix suddenly perks up, eyes glittering. “That’s it. We up the ante.”
You groan. “No. I need sleep and soup and not this.”
Felix ignores you, jumping out of bed and going to his closet. “We go downstairs in our cutest pyjamas and make out on the couch. Publicly. Obnoxiously. In daylight. In goddamn HD.”
He tosses a silk blue nightie at you. It lands on your face.
You pull it off slowly. “This barely covers my vagina.”
“Exactly.”
He holds up a forest-green silk pyjama set for himself. “We’re about to give them the Oscar-worthy performance they don’t even deserve.”
You sit up, squinting at him. “Brush your teeth first. I don’t want Chan’s dick transferred from your mouth to mine.”
“Fair. He did shoot a load down my throat.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He grins, already digging through his toiletries. “I contain multitudes.”
You groan and climb out of bed, changing into the tiny blue nightie without shame. Felix doesn’t even blink. You brush your hair quickly, catching your reflection in the mirror and deciding you look chaotic enough to be sexy.
You step into the ensuite and brush your teeth using your own toothbrush, the pastel pink one with a rhinestone-sticker heart on the handle. Your skincare products are in the cabinet, your robe hangs next to Felix’s on the hook. His room is basically half yours at this point.
Felix joins you, using your toothpaste because he refuses to buy his own, humming as he glares at his hair and fluffs it for volume.
Once you’re both cleaned, minty-fresh, and questionably clothed, you pad downstairs with evil in your hearts and chaos in your souls. The living room is mostly empty, save for the faint sound of someone frying something in the kitchen.
Felix throws himself onto the couch. “Alright, bestie. Makeout time.”
You laugh, letting him pull you onto the cushions. He sprawls on top of you, straddling your waist with his silk shorts riding up, and kisses you full on the mouth. Your hands tangle in his hair, and you both moan dramatically like you’re filming a soap opera.
Footsteps echo on the stairs. Minho and Chan walk into the room looking way too fresh for men with hangovers. Both are wearing sweats and hoodies, Minho still drying his hair with a towel, Chan holding two iced coffees.
“What the fuck?” Minho barks. “I thought this was done! Why are you two making out again?!”
Felix pulls away from you with a flourish. “Because you two are failures!”
Then he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and mounts you. You burst out laughing, face buried in the throw pillow as he fake humps you from behind.
“Take my dick like a good girl!” Felix shouts, thrusting dramatically as you wheeze into the cushion, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Chan drops one of the iced coffees. “Oh my god!”
“What the actual-” Minho looks like he’s witnessing a murder.
Chan stares, face horrified. “What are you talking about?!”
Felix doesn’t stop humping. “We woke up this morning, realised we are dateless, plan-less, unclaimed little sexy creatures! So we’re back to fake dating! And this time, we’re committing!”
You’re howling with laughter, muffled by the pillow, tears squeezing out the corners of your eyes as Felix picks up speed like he’s trying to train for a dry humping competition.
Minho rubs his face. “This is unhinged.”
Chan sighs. “You two are ridiculous.”
You lift your head just enough to gasp, “This is the closest I’ve gotten to action in months. Don’t stop him!”
Minho snaps, “Stop pile-driving her into the couch!”
Felix yells, “No!”
“Felix!”
“She said don’t stop!”
Chan looks like he wants to dissolve into the wall. Then Changbin walks in, shirtless and holding a half-eaten granola bar, his hair a disaster. He stops dead, blinking at the scene.
Felix is still humping you. You’re still wheezing.
Chan is red. Minho is on the verge of calling for an exorcist.
Changbin slowly turns to Chan. “Am I hallucinating?”
Chan grabs him by the shoulders. “You’re dreaming. This is a dream. Go back to bed.”
Changbin nods solemnly, chewing slowly. “Right. No more cheese before bed.”
He turns around and walks back upstairs.
Felix freezes mid-thrust. “Okay. Now that was a sign.”
Minho grabs him by the waist and yanks him off you like a deranged parent separating toddlers.
You roll over, tears still in your eyes, and glance at Minho. “Hi, wanna ask me out now?”
Minho sighs. “Yes. Please. For the love of god, let’s go on a real date.”
Felix wiggles his eyebrows at Chan. “You, too, Big-Back-Bang. Ask me like a gentleman.”
Chan rolls his eyes. “Wanna go on a date, Felix?”
Felix blows him a kiss. “I thought you’d never ask.”
You step out of your apartment building, the door clicking softly behind you as the late afternoon sun hits the pavement with a golden glow, and you spot Minho almost immediately. He’s leaning against a lamppost like he walked out of a fucking K-drama, except hotter, because the man is all sharp edges and thick thighs, dressed in a sleek, tight-fitting black top with a zip that dips dangerously low over his chest. There's a chunky choker around his neck, like he’s personally trying to ruin your life, and his black cargo pants hug his waist perfectly, the harness straps and heavy silver hardware glinting under the sunlight like the man is about to either fight crime or step on your neck. The thick utility belt only adds to the whole situation, cinching his waist like he’s some post-apocalyptic thirst trap. The final insult? Black platform Converse that make him just a little taller, like your brain needed help making him more attractive.
“Holy shit,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself.
Minho catches you staring, lips curling into the smuggest little smirk you've ever seen on a human face. “You good?”
You blink. “No. You’ve made it impossible for me to have thoughts.”
“Nice outfit,” he replies, looking you up and down with absolutely no shame. “You dressed like that for me?”
You shrug, pretending you don’t know exactly how good you look. The fitted black bustier hugs your chest in all the right ways, the scalloped neckline pushing your tits up enough to be both classy and horny, and the high-waisted tailored trousers with the bold white waistband practically scream ‘I have my shit together but also might suck your soul out in an alleyway.’ Your stilettos click against the pavement as you shift your weight, and your hair, done up in soft waves, falls neatly down your back.
“I dress like this for me,” you say sweetly, batting your lashes. “But if you want to stare, I won’t stop you.”
Minho snorts. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“Thank you.”
He straightens up, sliding his phone into his pocket, and holds out a hand. “You ready?”
You take it, the contact warm and grounding. “Where are we going?”
His grip on your hand tightens slightly as he starts leading you away from the building. “Hongdae.”
You frown. “Hongdae?”
Minho nods once but doesn’t elaborate. Of course, he doesn’t. This is Lee Minho you’re dealing with. The man acts like each sentence costs him 50,000 won and his soul.
You narrow your eyes at him as you both walk to the bus stop. “You’re being shady.”
“I’m being hot and mysterious,” he counters without looking at you. “It’s part of the charm.”
“Charming, huh? That's what we’re calling emotional constipation these days?”
He finally glances at you, raising a brow. “Still holding my hand, aren’t you?”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t let go. “Because if I let go, I’ll fall for someone with actual communication skills.”
“Sounds fake,” he mutters.
The bus stop is packed, and when the bus arrives, it’s standing room only. The two of you squeeze into the middle section, surrounded by strangers, warm bodies pressing close in the confined space. Minho grabs the overhead rail with one hand, the muscles in his arm flexing, and your brain decides that’s the perfect moment to glitch. So you do what any chaotic soft girl with a crush would do: you wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face in his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Minho doesn’t even flinch. He just shifts his stance, sliding one arm down around your waist, holding you steady against him. You’re pressed against his solid chest, your cheek against the zipper of his shirt, and you can hear the thump of his heart beneath your ear.
“This feels illegal,” you murmur.
“I’m just being polite,” he says calmly.
“Polite is a hand on the small of my back. This is second base.”
Minho leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You complaining?”
You immediately shut the fuck up.
The ride is short but borderline erotic, every swerve of the bus sending you further into Minho’s arms, until you’re basically just a boob in a bustier held up by 70% horniness and 30% the muscles of a dangerously attractive man. When the bus pulls up to the stop in Hongdae, Minho doesn’t even wait for you to move; he gently untangles your arms from around him and takes your hand again, tugging you off the bus like you’re both in some indie music video. You don’t even know if you’re breathing anymore.
You follow him down the bustling street, the air alive with the sounds of street performers, music spilling from cafes, and the low hum of a city that never fucking sleeps. You dodge drunk uni students and couples taking mirror selfies and at least two overly enthusiastic people in Pikachu costumes before Minho finally pulls you down a quieter side street lined with neon signs and graffiti walls.
“Here,” he says, stopping in front of a bar with glowing pixel art above the door.
You look up. “Is this...?”
Minho nods, pushing the door open. “Gaming bar.”
“Oh my god, are we about to have a nerd date?”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, cheeks a little pink now. “I thought you’d like it.”
You do. You love it. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction just yet.
The inside of the bar is dim but colourful, all LED lights and old-school arcade music mixed with the scent of chicken wings and sweet cocktails. There are booths with monitors, arcade machines lining the walls, and even a few private console rooms. People are yelling about combos and screaming over button-mashing, and it’s honestly perfect.
Minho gestures to a staff member behind the bar, and the girl waves in recognition. “We’ve got a booth reserved,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “I’ll go check in. You look around.”
You nod, letting your eyes wander the space while Minho talks to the bartender. The place is alive with energy, flashing lights from the screens, bursts of laughter, someone screaming “FUCKING HELL” in the corner as their Street Fighter character gets KO’d.
You smile. You’ve been to fancy wine bars, high-end rooftop lounges, and enough pretentious cafes to fill an Instagram feed, but this? This is fun. This is you. And maybe, just maybe, this is Minho trying. Really fucking trying.
You glance back at him, watching as he leans over the counter, chatting easily, the pink flush still staining his cheeks. You feel your heart skip, just a little.
You think maybe this is going to be a great fucking date.
You follow Minho into the private booth, and immediately your brain short-circuits. One entire wall is just a fucking screen, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, lit up in soft blues as the gaming interface waits for you to pick your poison. The other side of the room is pure indulgence: soft mood lighting, plush carpet, and the centrepiece, a massive beanbag chair, clearly engineered for two people to sink into and never get up again. You look at the couch, but Minho is already heading to the beanbag, plopping down with a grunt and spreading his legs in that annoyingly hot guy way that makes your neurons misfire.
He pulls out his phone and orders drinks without even asking. “I got three pitchers for each of us,” he says casually. “So we can be left alone. I’m not tryna have some teenage server come in every fifteen minutes while you’re trying to seduce me.”
You slide into the beanbag next to him and immediately fall sideways into his shoulder. “Who said I was seducing you?”
“I just assume it’s a constant effort on your part,” he replies, adjusting slightly so you’re curled into his side, his arm slung across the top of the chair behind you. “And I respect the commitment.”
You snort, reaching for the game controller in front of you. “Alright, hotshot, what’re we playing?”
Minho starts scrolling through the options, his finger pausing on one that makes you lean forward. The title glows dramatically in blood red font across the wall: Crimson Surrender: Blood & Betrayal.
You raise a brow. “Why does that sound like it belongs in a really bad Wattpad fanfic?”
Minho grins. “It’s a sapphic vampire-hunter game. Rated 19+. Very gay. Very dramatic. Very us.”
“Oh my god.” You laugh, immediately selecting it. “Yes. Absolutely. I call vampire.”
“Fine,” Minho says, smug. “I’ll be the vampire hunter. Obviously.”
You both configure your characters, both of you choosing the most ridiculous body proportions possible: big tits, tiny waists, asses that could cause car accidents. Your vampire character has blood-red eyes and silver hair, and Minho’s hunter looks like she moonlights as a dominatrix. You blink at the screen.
Minho sits back and sighs. “Yes. If I were a woman, that’s what I’d look like. Powerful. Hot. Mildly terrifying.”
“Rated 19+, huh?” you mumble, scrolling through the tutorial screen. “It’s probably just lesbianphobia. It’s 19+ because of the gay shit, not because there’s actually, like, content.”
Minho makes a thoughtful noise. “Right? I bet there’s not even a single nip slip. Let lesbians be unhinged and horny in peace.”
You shake your head, grinning. “God forbid two hot bitches kiss in 4K.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Meanwhile, if it was two men fighting over a sword, it’d be PG-13 and have a full-on shirtless wrestling scene.”
“Justice for sapphic gamers,” you declare solemnly, taking a sip from the first cocktail pitcher that arrives.
The game starts, and the opening scene is a dramatic cinematic: your vampire character stands atop a blood-soaked castle tower, eyes glowing, a smirk playing on her lips. Minho’s hunter character is scaling the walls with nothing but sheer rage and what looks like an aggressively tight corset.
“She’s so mad,” you mutter. “What’s her problem?”
“You. Her problem is you. You keep killing villagers and seducing their wives.”
“God forbid I have hobbies.”
The gameplay kicks off and immediately devolves into chaos. You’re trying to lure an NPC into your castle for a blood-sucking dinner party, and Minho is trying to stealth-kill you from the shadows. Neither of you succeed. Mostly because you both keep pausing to make your characters do sexy poses at each other.
“Do the thigh-straddle emote again,” you say, pointing at the screen as your vampire character lounges on her throne.
“I’m trying to knife you in the kidney,” Minho replies, but he still does the emote.
You laugh so hard you nearly fall out of the beanbag, which causes Minho to reach over and catch you, one hand on your waist as he pulls you back in. You’re still laughing when he rests his chin on your shoulder and peers at the screen like it’s not the most intimate thing in the world.
The plot picks up. Your characters are locked in a reluctant alliance because of a mutual enemy, some ancient demon king trying to destroy the world. It’s pure dramatic fantasy trash, and you eat it up like it’s a four-course meal. There’s a training montage, a betrayal arc, and a one-bed scene during a storm. The game even gives you romance dialogue choices.
“I’m picking the ‘accidentally brush her hand’ option,” you say, giggling.
“Coward,” Minho replies, clicking the ‘kiss her like you’ll die tomorrow’ option on his side.
Your characters kiss. It’s awkward, polygonal, and borderline chaste, but the lighting is good.
“They’re in love now,” you say seriously.
Minho nods. “Forbidden romance. One is cursed with darkness. One is cursed with morality. It’s very deep.”
You lean into his side. “This is our relationship now.”
“You’re the vampire, I’m the hunter?”
“Yep. You’ve vowed to kill me but secretly want to bone me.”
“That does sound like me.”
You both pause to refill your drinks. The second pitcher is halfway gone, and you’re officially at that stage where everything is slightly funnier, slightly warmer, and definitely more chaotic. Minho nudges your leg with his knee, and you nudge him back, until you’re play-fighting with your thighs while still trying to get your characters to unlock a secret level together.
There’s another cutscene. The vampire gets injured. The hunter has to choose between finishing her mission or saving her. Minho doesn’t hesitate, he chooses to save her.
You blink. “Aw.”
Minho sips his cocktail. “Shut up.”
“Is this a metaphor?”
“I will throw you out of this beanbag,” he says without heat.
You press your foot against his thigh. “Do it.”
Minho grins, then tackles you sideways into the beanbag with a loud oof, and you both end up laughing like idiots, tangled up and surrounded by neon lights and gay vampires. The game is still running on the massive wall-screen, the characters frozen mid-conversation, as you both lay there catching your breath.
“You’re such a brat,” Minho mutters, nudging your nose with his.
“Obviously,” you say sweetly. “That’s why you like me.”
He says nothing, but the way he tugs you closer into his side and presses a kiss to your temple kind of says it all.
Neither of you is ready for it.
One minute the vampire is dramatically slicing through a horde of silver-clad enemies with claws and blood magic, the next she’s pinned against a stone wall by the hunter, all low snarls and lustful eyes. You both lean in slightly, drinks in hand, genuinely invested in whether this forbidden sapphic romance will finally deliver on the tension. And then, out of nowhere, it happens. The vampire slides down, straddling the hunter’s thigh, their clothes vanish in a tasteful burst of light, and then suddenly, very clearly, the two characters are scissoring. Animated, unmistakably, and aggressively.
You blink.
Minho chokes on his drink, sputtering like he’s been gut-punched with glitter. “What the actual fuck-”
You can’t even form words. “Oh. Uh-”
There’s a beat of silence where both of you just stare, cocktails half-raised to your mouths, eyes wide as the two overly animated women grind against each other on a stone altar, moonlight washing over them as orchestral music swells dramatically. The screen shows close-ups. One of them is biting her lip. There’s toe-curling. Literal toe-curling.
Minho recovers first, swiping a hand down his face, then snorting. “Okay. Hot. I’d scissor you if I were a girl.”
You turn to him, grinning. “Awwwww.”
He winks without hesitation. “But I’m a man, so I can only dick you down. Sorry.”
You pull a face. “Boooooo. Boring!”
Minho gasps, pressing a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “How dare you disrespect the dick down.”
“Dick down is fine, I guess,” you say, sipping your drink with faux sophistication, “but scissoring is powerful. This-” you gesture at the screen, “this is art.”
He shrugs. “Fair. I mean, they’re not even pretending to have a plot anymore. What happened to the demon king? Now it’s just wet pussies and violins.”
You snort, fully snuggled into Minho’s side, legs tangled with his. The room is warm from the low lighting, the beanbag chair is swallowing you both whole, and there’s a comfortable haze from the cocktails you’ve nearly finished. The on-screen moaning is absurd now, overly dramatic, like a soap opera had a baby with a hentai.
Minho sighs, watching the screen with his drink half empty. “We might as well have just watched lesbian porn on this date.”
You nod thoughtfully. “Lesbian porn is better than straight porn anyway.”
He slowly turns his head to stare at you. “Wait. You’re not straight?”
You raise a brow at him. “Me? Straight? I’m pansexual. Anyone and everyone is welcome between my legs, assuming they meet my standards and buy me snacks.”
“How did I not know this?! It all makes sense now. The outfits you wear? The power suits? They scream ‘slay gay lady.’ I’ve been getting bricked up by a pansexual queen this whole time.”
You hum, sipping your drink like the problem is his and not the fact you’ve both been dumb and horny for weeks. “I’m very mysterious.”
“More like emotionally unavailable with bisexual lighting.”
“Pansexual,” you correct.
“Pansexual lighting,” he amends with a nod. “Even more powerful.”
Finally, the game transitions back to gameplay after what feels like a ten-minute sex cutscene that might as well have had its own composer. You both pick up the controllers again, giggling under your breaths. The characters are back in armour like nothing happened.
Minho groans. “Finally. I don’t know how many more zoom-ins of animated wet pussy I could take.”
You turn to him, eyes glinting. “Wait, have you never made a woman wet before?”
He gapes at you, jaw falling open. “I have! Fuck you! I’ve absolutely made women cum, you little demon!”
You burst out laughing, nearly dropping your controller. “Relax, Minho. I’m just being a menace.”
He pouts. “This is homophobia. You’re attacking me.”
“I’m pan, I legally cannot commit homophobia.”
“God, you’re the worst,” he says, but he’s grinning as he downs the rest of his pitcher. Then he orders more. “We need reinforcements. I want to see what other ridiculous scenes this game throws at us.”
You both get tipsier, nursing your fourth pitcher each, and continue watching the chaos unfold. The storyline derails further, more sex, less plot. The vampire and hunter get separated, reunite dramatically, then start fucking again, this time with the hunter pulling out a strap-on from nowhere.
Minho raises both brows. “Where the fuck was she hiding that?”
You’re too busy taking a photo of the screen, cackling and you send it to Felix with no caption.
A few moments later, your phone buzzes. You check it and immediately snort, holding the screen up to Minho. It’s a selfie of Chan grinning wildly at the Love Museum in Hongdae. In the background, Felix is perched proudly on a giant model penis, flashing peace signs.
Minho wheezes. “Oh my god. That tracks. That’s so them.”
“They’re so gross, I love them.”
You settle back, curling into Minho’s side as the game continues. Eventually, you stop paying attention. The screen is playing another emotionally intense sex scene, but you’re more focused on the way Minho’s hand has found your thigh, resting there like it belongs.
You tilt your head to look at him. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?”
Minho raises a brow. “I thought you’d never shut up and let me.”
He sets his drink down, and then his hand moves to your jaw, fingers brushing lightly under your chin as he guides your face to his. The kiss is slow at first, unhurried. You melt into it easily, one hand bracing on his shoulder as the other slips around his neck. Minho kisses like he means it—like he’s wanted to do this forever. He takes his time, mouth warm and coaxing, tongue flicking gently against yours, drawing a soft noise from your throat you’re not entirely proud of.
When he finally pulls back, you’re breathless, heart racing.
He grins. “You’re kinda good at that.”
“Kinda?” you echo, indignant.
He leans back in, brushing his nose against yours. “Shut up and kiss me again.”
You do, happily. Between kisses, you sip your drinks, passing one pitcher back and forth, giggling against each other’s mouths. You make out like horny teenagers on the oversized beanbag, the game long forgotten as more ridiculous sex scenes play on the screen. Minho shifts you so you’re straddling his lap, hands on your hips, thumbs brushing bare skin where your top rides up slightly.
At some point, he presses his forehead against yours. “I like you.”
You smile, slightly buzzed, cheeks flushed. “I like you too.”
“Even though I didn’t scissor you?”
“You still could,” you offer, giggling. “Just get real flexible.”
Minho groans, tipping his head back. “You’re a menace.”
You kiss him again just to shut him up.
Minho is lounging on the couch, legs sprawled out, remote in one hand and his phone balanced on his chest like a makeshift tray for a snack he hasn’t gotten up to grab yet. He’s dressed for maximum lazy comfort, in light grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a simple white oversized t-shirt that’s somehow already got a suspicious stain on the hem from a fight with leftover tteokbokki. A black baseball cap sits backwards on his head, messy hair tucked under it.
He’s deep into doing absolutely nothing when his phone buzzes with a FaceTime call. The screen lights up with your name and a tiny heart emoji. Minho grins, lazily accepting the call, and your face immediately fills the screen. You’re perched on the edge of a street curb, phone clearly propped up against something random, maybe a handbag, maybe divine intervention. You’re pouting like a kicked puppy, your chin in your palm and your shoulders slumped. It’s golden hour, and the light makes the strands of your stylishly messy bun look practically angelic, a halo of chaos around your head.
“Jagi,” Minho says, instantly sitting up, voice full of faux dramatics, “Why so sad? That pout is breaking my whole damn heart. I’m seconds away from writing sad indie lyrics about it.”
You heave a dramatic sigh, lifting your phone slightly to show off your outfit, a tailored black blazer cinched at the waist, giving your silhouette lethal power, paired with sleek shorts and sheer tights that glint under the sunset. You look like you just walked off a runway and got personally victimised by karma.
“You want to be my boyfriend, right?” you ask, tone suspiciously sweet.
“Yes?” Minho blinks.
“And you’d do anything to become my boyfriend, right?”
“…Yes?” he says again, warily.
You lift one of your pointed-toe heels into view. The heel is snapped clean off. “Emergency. I’ve been personally attacked by physics. I cannot walk. The bus driver wouldn't let me get on the bus. Said it was a safety hazard. I’m stuck here. Like a tragic side character.”
Minho bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “God, you’re such a mess. But you’re my mess.” He tilts his head. “Send me your location pin, I’ll grab the glue and drive to get you.”
You beam. “You’ll get boyfriend status if you do!”
“Damn, bribing me with official titles?” He chuckles. “You better hold me to it.”
As you text over your location, Minho’s already leaping into motion. He grabs super glue from under the kitchen sink, the tube looks like it’s seen war, but he figures it’ll survive one more battle. He slides on his white sneakers and grabs his keys.
“I’m on my way,” he says, tucking the phone into the holder on his dashboard so he can keep talking while driving. “Keep talking to me, Jagi.”
“I was going to anyway,” you huff. “I’m emotionally fragile and deserve attention.”
You adjust the angle of your phone again. Behind you, a pigeon waddles ominously into view, inching closer like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. You glance over your shoulder, freeze, then slowly turn back to the camera.
“There’s a pigeon.”
“Uh-oh,” Minho says, already grinning.
“A huge one,” you whisper. “Like, gym rat pigeon. That thing has been eating protein bars. It’s got muscles. Why is it looking at me like I insulted its mother?”
“It probably smelled your fear.”
“Minho, if that thing charges at me, I will scream. I will cry. I will call animal control. I have rights.”
He’s laughing as he turns onto a main road, the late afternoon traffic light. “Babe, it’s a pigeon. It’s like thirty centimetres of bird.”
“It’s thirty centimetres of evil!” you cry. “It’s fucking inching closer! If I die, tell Felix I want to be buried in my white pleated skirt and my black stilettos. The ones with the gold buckles. And tell Seungmin he still owes me 15,000 won for that bubble tea he never paid me back for!”
Minho snorts. “You are the most dramatic human being I’ve ever met.”
“I’m being hunted!” you yelp, sliding your bag closer to you like a shield. “This is how it ends. I survived twenty years of bullshit and now I die in the middle of Seoul, taken out by a bird with a grudge.”
“You know what this reminds me of?” you say, voice turning nostalgic even as your eyes flick nervously to the pigeon again. “When I was four, I ran away from this group home I was living in because some older boy cut my hair and then stole my nose.”
“He stole your- Wait. What?”
“My nose!” you exclaim. “You know. Thumb between fingers. Classic ‘got your nose’ trick. But I was four. I was dumb. I believed him.”
Minho wheezes with laughter as he takes a left turn. “You really thought he stole your nose?”
“I sobbed. For like an hour. Then I packed my Hello Kitty backpack and left. I walked like twenty minutes away and sat on a curb. It started raining. I stayed there. For four hours.”
“Oh my god,”
“Eventually the cops found me,” you continue, not missing a beat. “And I bit the police officer who tried to take me back.”
“You what?!”
“He was trying to return me to a crime scene! I didn’t want to go back to the Nose Thief. I had trauma!”
“Jesus, you’ve always been like this.”
“Like what?”
“Chaotic. Terrifying. The cutest menace alive.”
There’s a pause. Then, shyly, you say, “Still want to be my boyfriend?”
Minho softens. His voice drops just enough to make your heart trip. “Yeah, Jagi.”
Before you can swoon too hard, the pigeon flaps its wings aggressively. You squeal and scramble backward, tripping slightly on the uneven pavement and shrieking like it’s the finale of a horror film.
“MINHO GET HERE FASTER OR I’M GOING TO END UP PECKED TO DEATH AND I’M TOO CUTE TO DIE!”
“Almost there, hold on. Operation Save Jagi from Killer Pigeon is a go.” he says, grinning into the camera and then you hang up the phone.
Minho pulls up to the curb and sees you exactly as described, miserable, dramatic, your whole soul visibly shattered by a rogue heel. You’re slumped forward slightly, elbows on knees, your phone propped up on your massive portfolio folder like it’s an altar to tragedy. The screen is facing you, and from the open window, Minho hears Felix’s voice immediately.
“She deserved better. She was loyal. Sexy. Pointy. And now...” Felix sniffles on the call. “Now she’s snapped in two. Like my heart.”
“Baby, please,” Chan groans in the background.
“No! You mourn with me, Christopher. This is a shared trauma. You can’t just move on from what we lost!” Felix demands, dragging Chan emotionally into your heel’s funeral like it’s a group obligation. Chan appears briefly on the screen, holding up a tissue and sighing.
“She was a good shoe,” Chan mutters.
Minho exhales a laugh, turning off the engine and stepping out of the car. “What the actual fuck,” he mutters to himself, smiling despite everything. He approaches you slowly, eyes flicking to the bloated pigeon a few feet away. You immediately point at it.
“There it is. The monster,” you hiss.
“Jagi,” he says gently, crouching beside you, “it’s a fucking bird.”
“It’s a fucking demon in feathers,” you reply.
Minho carefully steps forward and clicks his tongue softly, holding one hand out toward the pigeon with the kind of practised calm only a vet student can manage. “It’s okay, bud,” he murmurs, coaxing the beast into waddling away from you with the grace of a Disney princess. You watch, mesmerised.
“You’re some kind of bird whisperer,” you murmur.
“No, Jagi,” Minho says, turning back to you with a grin. “I just don’t radiate unholy terror like you apparently do.”
You scowl. “That bird wanted me dead.”
Minho ignores your dramatics, crouching beside you to grab the broken heel. He pulls the superglue out of his hoodie pocket, shakes the bottle once, then carefully applies a precise line of glue to the snapped base. “Can’t believe I’m doing surgery on footwear,” he mutters.
“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” Felix says solemnly from the phone. “We’ll never forget this moment.”
Minho rolls his eyes and grabs your heel with one hand and your phone with the other, ending the FaceTime call as he heads back to the car. He carefully places the shoe on the dashboard to let it set, then returns to you, crouching low and holding his arms out. You blink.
“What are you-”
Before you can protest, he lifts you like a princess, arms braced under your thighs and back, rising to his feet. You squeal and cling to his shoulders.
“Holy shit,” you mutter. “Okay, yeah. You’re definitely my boyfriend now.”
“Damn right I am,” Minho says, cocky grin blooming across his face. He carries you to the passenger side, gently setting you down in the seat. Then he walks around to grab your phone and your portfolio folder, shoving the folder into the footwell and clipping your phone back onto the dashboard mount.
You wiggle into the seat like you’re testing the vibes and let out a satisfied hum. “Alright. Let’s go, boyfriend.”
Minho starts the engine again. “Coffee? Drive-thru?”
“You’re dangerously close to being upgraded to husband,” you warn.
“What’s stopping you?” he asks, grinning.
You tilt your head. “You still haven’t scissored me.”
Minho sighs dramatically. “We’ve talked about this, Jagi. I don’t have the right parts. I’ve got so many extra pieces down there. There’s just… a lot happening. I’d have to tape them all away. Flatten the entire region. Get a prosthetic pussy or something.”
You sigh wistfully, gazing out the window. “I just want to be scissored. Is that so much to ask?”
He snorts, turning into the nearest coffee drive-thru. “You want me to play Barbie with my junk to fulfil your sapphic fantasy?”
“I’m pansexual. It’s a realistic fantasy,” you mutter. “You’re the only thing standing in the way of my dreams.”
Before Minho can respond, a tinny voice comes from the phone speaker.
“Shameful, really. Minho, do better. Scissor your girlfriend!"
“Yeah! Give her what she wants!”
Minho freezes, eyes darting to your phone on the dashboard. “We didn’t hang up?!”
You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, they heard everything!”
“You’re all fucking unhinged!” Minho says, but he’s laughing too, face pink as he pulls up to the drive-thru window. “Why are you two still here?!”
“Because,” Felix says smugly, “you forgot to press end, dumbass. And now we’re invested. Figure it out, Minho. Make her dreams come true.”
“I physically cannot scissor her!”
“Not with that attitude!” Felix huffs. “Stick a pocket pussy between your thighs and go to town! Use props! Use innovation!”
“I’m a man! I have balls! I can’t just magically create a vagina!”
“Boo!” you and Felix shout in perfect harmony.
“Boooooo!” Chan adds, clearly only half aware of what’s going on but eager to participate in the bullying.
Minho pulls forward to the payment window, groaning. “I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” you say sweetly, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.
He sighs, handing over a few thousand won to the cashier while giving her the most tired smile imaginable. “Just ignore them,” he mutters. “They’re crazy.”
“You’re the crazy one!” Felix barks from the phone. “You got yourself a girlfriend who wants to be scissored, and you’re just throwing that opportunity away?!”
The barista hands him two iced coffees. “Good luck, sir,” she whispers, clearly trying not to laugh.
Minho takes the drinks with a sigh and rolls up the window. “You’re all gonna haunt my dreams.”
“Oh, hush,” you say, accepting your coffee. “You love it. You love me. You love being emotionally tortured.”
“You’re not wrong,” Minho mutters, finally ending the call and turning off the phone screen. He glances over at you as you sip your drink, legs crossed and smug as hell in your repaired shoe. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“I’m also hilarious.”
“That too.”
Minho leans over at the next red light and kisses you hard, hand cradling your jaw like he’s trying to brand you with his lips. You hum against his mouth, your free hand sliding into his hair. He pulls back with a soft sigh.
“So,” he says. “Still want to be scissored?”
You grin. “I’ll settle for cuddles. And coffee.”
“Fucking finally,” he groans, pulling off the main road. “I can do that.”
You glance down at your foot, wiggling the newly glued heel in triumph. “She lives.”
“She’s a survivor,” Minho agrees.
You smile, leaning your head back against the seat as the sun filters through the window, a full cup of coffee in your hand, your boyfriend beside you, and your pigeon trauma behind you. Life is good.
Even if you never get scissored.
25/06 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post for The Art Of Horny War
1 Tier - MANIACS
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Lee Minho Taglist: @0haerireah0 @linowzzzz @puppymsworld @jchotch726
General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65
Proofread and hyped by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3
