#as that i worry i’m going to wind up trampled under their boot soles

[aeide-thea]

there’s something really fascinating to me (and frightening tbh!) abt a worldview that says ‘i’m going to ask whatever people happen to be in front of me, who don’t have any particular credentials or relevant expertise/experience i can verify, abt X topic,’ vs a worldview that says ‘i’m going to go do my own independent research abt this’?

like. watching a whole argument unfold rn abt like. antisemitic bias in the story of jesus and ths moneychangers in the new testament and multiple Uninformed Christians have asked one of the tumblr users involved in the conversation things like ‘could you point me to some sources for this?’ and even ‘what’s wrong with the KJV?’ and i’m like. literally why would your first step here not be, idk, wikipedia even! esp when this person has already said ‘my response is a synthesis of various sources i’ve forgotten and i don’t have anywhere to point you’—that clearly isn’t someone who can provide citations and if you need them, which one always should, you should be doing some independent research, because frankly this person has a stance of their own and even if it’s largely correct, which i’m inclined to think it is bc the NT has an agenda that involves painting jesus as enlightened in all his actions and his non-christian contemporaries as benighted, you ought to be trying to confirm that with evidence from a different, scholarly source! ideally sources plural!

though of course if you don’t feel equipped to do independent research, or to evaluate the validity of what such research might turn up, then i can understand why you might look to others to spoonfeed you; but even then, god, the level of naïveté in assuming that randoms you encounter online are both sufficiently knowledgeable and sufficiently trustworthy for you to just—open up expectantly for whatever it might occur to them to offer you?

anyway, yeah, i did get the impression the folks involved were american and i do think ultimately this all speaks to how poorly most americans’ educations (which i’m pretty tempted to put in scare quotes, i admit) equip them to research and evaluate anything for themselves, such that they’re unsettlingly eager to set up total randoms as Authorities whose assertions they’ll treat as word of god (a loaded description here but honestly, i think, an appropriate one; these are christian sheep in search of a shepherd) if only the person sounds certain enough!

#no real conclusion here but like. scary tbh #i didn’t quite realize how fundamental a divide this was until my dad moved out of the city in 2020 #and it became clear that small-town ppl‚ or anyway the small-town ppl we met‚ really base their stances on what their neighbors endorse #even when said neighbors are actually just. factually wrong in ways that are easily verifiable #but actually checking would involve a very different worldview than just. believing what dick and pat down the road say abt the issue #anyway it was uh. a really eye-opening experience for me tbh #and really left me feeling. not super optimistic tbh. #anyway i thumb-typed all of this so. i will be stopping now lol #metatumbling #hard to talk abt this without sounding condescending and i don’t know that i’ve managed it #but really if anything it’s not so much that i think i’m Above ppl who think like this #as that i worry i’m going to wind up trampled under their boot soles #in their rush to soak up the preaching of every tom‚ dick‚ and demagogue

[hyu-ck]

*it’s two in the morning, you don’t know how to say no to a bet, you forgot your gloves outside, and there is something moving behind you.

Characters: Haechan, Reader, Mark

Pairing: Haechan/Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 4K

Somedays you needed to sit yourself down in front of a mirror and have a serious, personal conversation about your impulse control. Sometimes it worked out fine for you, ending with an ultimate face off with your fear of heights on a cliff edge (you didn’t even flinch on Ferris Wheels anymore) and other times it landed you in situations much like the one you were in now. The kind where you were by yourself in the middle of the night, in somewhere clearly housing a poltergeist, while your idiot friends laughed safely and decidedly not located inside an abandoned mall.

Really, you blame Mark for his stupid comments and his stupid way of knowing how to push your buttons. He always knew how to make you do something, and he was especially motivated when it would almost guarantee you being pissed or scared pissing. This was one of those times.

The worst part of it all wasn’t that you were all alone with a dim flashlight in a two-story knock-off of the Mall of America, or the cobwebs that were stuck to your elbow- no, the worst of it all was that you had left your wool gloves outside, with Mark. Your hands were cold and your jacket’s pockets offered nothing but a flimsy excuse for warmth, and you still had fifteen minutes left on your phone’s timer. The half-dozen box of donuts Mark’s wallet was going to buy you were probably warm, melting into vats of sugar after they were freshly baked.

Your stomach growled at your motivation. You couldn’t wait to get those donuts and you couldn’t wait to not share them with Mark Lee.

You walked slowly through one of the many, vast corridors, your flashlight flickering as it bumped against your thigh. The broken skylights above filtered stabs of starlight onto the dust-covered tile that used to be flooring. All of the stores were closed tightly with gates, the insides long empty and left to rot, the metallic-plastic of the black bars mattifying under the swing of your beam. A rat ran across the floor in front of you, hiding amongst a pile of long-forgotten boxes.

You really hated small rodents.

The bet was so simple, but as you travelled farther into the building you felt yourself regretting your decision more and more. The comforting skylights eventually forego into tarp covered plaster, blocking out the remnants of natural light with finality. Your skin began to crawl as the walls began to deteriorate, the feeling of small, jagged-foot ants tapping into your spine. Your foot caught the edge of a broken tile that layered over the rest, latching your boot beneath it as you pitched forward, barely regaining your balance in time.

Your shoe’s sole shuffled against the old ground, making a sound similar to a wind gush during a silent storm, calling out to ancient energies with a neon sign. Something shifted behind you.

Now frozen to the pattern of the mall, your foot caught into a cracked linoleum square, you began to list off as many curses you knew towards Mark.

Another shuffle. The sound of faint footsteps, of calculated breathing.

Maybe donuts weren’t worth a premature death.

Your own breathing had stopped, clogging in your throat like the dust bunnies in the corner, your leg molded stiff as your left knee locked. You began to pull frantically at your foot, but your shoe was stuck tight into the valley, and the weight had shifted towards your ankle. The pour of the tile was scratched from the edge, and the terrain was cutting into the skin of your tendons- but at this point your fear was so palpable it was hazing over the pain like a memory from your childhood. It was insignificant in the scheme of things when you were about to be possessed by the angry spirit of a Paris-Hilton-wannabe mall rat who had found you on their turf.

Your breathing had changed from nonexistent to a frenetic stutter, a heavy gasp coughing out of your throat as you sucked in the musk of the air. You were going to kill Mark if you ended up dead. Your ankle was starting to sting and something wet was seeping into your socks, soaking the rim like a rain puddle.

The footsteps were heavier now, close to your shivering frame. A shrill, violent screech catalyzed your own return- your scream filtering and echoing in the once-vacant mall.

“Who’s there!” a frantic yell attacked your ears as you crouched and cowered, your hands clutching the sides of your head.

The voice didn’t sound like a ghost.

But you really didn’t know what ghosts sounded like, anyway.

“I heard someone scream!” the voice whisper-yelled, “I know someone else is here!”

You muttered prayers absently as you curled in on yourself, your leg still bleeding and hammering in pain to the tune of shuffling steps. The thing was coming slower now, and you could imagine the creature crawling- it’s head rotating as it threw its voice in a false comfort. A light coaxed from behind you, the feeling of it breaking on your skin in a lukewarm whisper as you sat, grasping your arms and predicting your imminent death.

“Whoa…” the voice came again, now paces away and shocked.

Shocked?

You shuddered. “Hey… are you okay?” the voice asked.

In a cautious rotation, you leaned and tried to crane your neck around to see the source of the mysterious voice, but in vain you were met with the view of a dim yellow light. You couldn’t see past it, but the steps were only a couple paces from trampling you (or so you expected that to be their intention).

The thing was right beside you now, and the presence felt warm, like the summer afternoon and warm coffee in early autumn. You turned your head slowly again, half-expecting to see the grudge’s final form before you. The thing was close enough this time for your eyes to adjust to their figure and expression. What you didn’t expect to see was the contorted worry of a teenage boy.

A very pretty teenage boy.

“I asked if you were okay,” he restated, slowly reaching out to shake your shoulder. You were almost certain you were blushing at this point, embarrassed of your irrational fear and mental breakdown- now extremely aware that you were crouched on the molded floor. And that your ankle was hurting, burning- badly.

“Shit,” you hissed, your hands coming to place pressure on your bone and bleeding wound, but you still couldn’t reach the real injury as your ankle was still lodged under the tile.

“That’s not a usual answer to ‘if you’re okay’, but I think I can let it slide,” the boy joked, not realizing your compromising position against the ground.

“I’m not okay,” you seethed, “I feel like someone just snapped my ankle with their bare hands and then sloshed lemon juice over the places their nails had raked.”

“Violent.”

“Well, yeah,” you rolled your eyes in a testimony to his obliviousness, “I usually get creative when I’m in pain.”

“Pain-?”

Not knowing this strange boy (who was wondering around a dark, abandoned mall on his own without reason), you resisted the urge to reach out and punch his leg in the middle of your frustrations.

“Yes. Pain, P-A-I-N,” you started gesturing towards the large four by four square of thick murder that was stabbing and crushing you, “Do you mind offering a hand here, Scooby?”

He quickly washed the beam of his light over to where you were pointing, his tan face paling considerably as he dropped to his knees to help you. He curled his fingers under the ledge of the tile, his knuckles pushing up against your bare calf, before lifting with a held breath. The tile flipped over onto it’s back, letting gravity drag it pitifully into the hearth with a loud crash. You whimpered when you finally felt the realization of the full extent of your pain, observing the awkward twist of your ankle and the gash across it- still leaking wet, hot red blood into your shoe and staining the fungi-infested cement that was revealed after the tile was gone.

“Oh,” the boy commented eloquently, “That really doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” you bit back, not able to hold your tongue as shocks of misery raced up the nerves in your leg.

He reached down and lifted you upwards, his right hand coming to grasp the circumference of your biceps, the other pushing into your back as he struggled to support your wavering body. Your head felt light.

“How did you… well, I’m not sure what you did- but how did this happen?” he asked, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders as you threatened to collapse, your balance unsteady on your one good foot and blood rushing to your head.

“I was casually exploring this horrifying building,” you started. Leaning your shoulder into his broad chest, “because my friend bet me that I couldn’t last 17 minutes in here, and then suddenly my foot was trapped and you were appearing from the ashes like a poorly executed exorcism.”

“Why poorly executed?”

“Because obviously, the demon had not left.”

He scoffed, digging the pads of his finger into your body in annoyance, and you frowned as you looked up to glare at him. His face was making it minorly hard to be pissed- from his deep eyes to pouty lips, the softness that exuded from him was enough to wisp some of the steam away from your anger. But not enough for you to hold back on insulting his dimwitted approach to the stranger (you were the stranger this time) in a dark, haunting mall.

“Am I not helping you right now?” he snipped back, making obvious motions to the fact that he was the only thing helping you from getting re-acquainted with the evil flooring.

You shrugged slightly, hopping as you tried to shift your weight, letting your arm wrap around his waist as a reflexive attempt to regain stability before you pivoted forward- again. “You are helping now, but you were also giving me a heart attack three minutes ago. So, I’m sorry I’m not inclined to kiss your feet at the moment.”

“Does that mean you’ll kiss them later?” he teased and you grimaced at him, your nose scrunching up under his mischievous glance.

“Was that a poor attempt to flirt with me?”

He laughed (you decided you liked the sound), leaning into you playfully as he hefted you upwards again, righting your swaying frame. “You didn’t give me a lot of material to work with.”

“Then I’ll give you a tip.”

“Hm?”

“Try not sneaking up on girls… and avoiding lines that involve feet.”

“Noted,” he conceded, attempting to step forward and help you at the same time. You weren’t expecting the sudden movement and your other foot twisted strangely, sending you sideways and slipping from the boy’s grasp. He quickly reached out for you, his hand latching to your wrist as he spun you back towards him. You came around in a quick circle, landing before him with your forehead to his chin, your hands pressing into the soothing material of his hoodie. You cleared your throat and he took a small step back.

Now knowing what he was trying to do you were much more cooperative in moving towards an exit, taking small hops with his steps and limping back the way you had come and he had appeared from. The bottom of your jeans was now a russet color, sticking sickly to your skin- letting the cold air press into the wound.

On top of it all- your hands were still cold.

“My name isn’t Scooby, by the way,” Mall Boy told you, the sleeve of his overcoat grazing the underside of your wrist as you wobbled through the damp halls.

“I’d hope not,” you snarked, “If anyone named their kid ‘Scooby’ that would be enough to file a child abuse report.”

“What if they named them ‘Donghyuck’?” he prompted.

You smiled at him, raising your eyebrows facetiously. “Not much better in my book, but much more manageable. I’m sure a Donghyuck would only be bullied the appropriate amount through his childhood, but it may lead to weird hobbies- like sneaking around deserted shopping malls at two in the morning.”

“You can call me Haechan, then,” he stated, helping you over a rougher patch of terrain, his hand (so unbelievably warm, and so completely unfair) grasping yours to keep you standing tall.

“I guess you can call me Y/N,” you returned, slipping back into the growingly familiar stability of his arm.

“You guess?” he teased, “Are you not 100% sure about that name?”

“Well I’ve never seen my birth certificate, so…”

He hummed, pointing towards the main entrance of the building where you had come from, the lock still laying into the ground where you and Mark had popped it off earlier that week during one of your explorations.

“You might want to check up on that,” he said, referring back to your previous comment on your birth certificate, “You may be a lost princess or something equally inspirational for a Y.A. Novel.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, “I could have a huge inheritance right below my nose. I could use it to make sure no more malls get neglected and turn into horror houses.”

He agreed with you as he helped you lean against a wall, his thin fingers splayed against your hips. You dropped your head backwards, watching him carefully as he yanked the reluctant entrance door open.

He wasn’t very tall, but he was well built and proportional. He had a comfortable confidence that fell on his face (maybe a mask, maybe a truth) and his brown hair fanned across his forehead in peaceful waves. He turned his head slightly to check up on you, the soft outdoor light catching against his jawline and turning his eyes a mahogany brown. You blushed as he smirked knowingly, having caught you observing him with critical intensity.

“Enjoying the view?” he jested and you rolled your eyes even though your face was still aflame.

“It’s better than the distorted hellion I was imagining when I first heard you,” you admitted, playing through your embarrassment with purpose, trying to turn your cards back into his hands.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment… and also as your weird way for asking my number,” he said, pulling you off the wall and twisting his arm back around your waist, this time allowing his fingers to tap into your stomach through the fabric of your clothing.

“What part of ‘distorted hellion’ translated into ‘please, give me a way to contact you’?”

“English isn’t my first language.”

You laughed at that, sending his sarcastic smirk into a wide-blown grin, lighting up his face with a carelessness you enjoyed more than you should from a stranger. He watched you in wonderment, his other hand coming to hold the wrist that was covering your giggling mouth, pulling it away gently so he could see your whole face. You blushed again.

He winced slightly when your wrist had met his hand, his mind immediately taking notice of the arctic characteristics of your hand.

“God, why are your hands so cold?” he hissed, fully enveloping your bluing fingers into his warm palms, rubbing circulation back into them slowly.

“I got distracted by the thought of getting donuts after winning the bet, so I left my gloves with Mark,” you muttered, shrugging sheepishly as you both paused at the curb of the old parking lot. A flash of cold air befell onto you, reminding your distracted brain of the slow blood that pooled inside your shoe and the sting of your jagged cut.

“Mark?” Haechan asked, not noticing your hidden grimace as he maneuvered you off the raised block of cement, lifting you with ease.

“The asshole that sent me into the B-Movie horror set behind us,” you explained, falling slightly into him as you regained your faulty footing.

“Boyfriend?” he inquired sourly, a hint of disappointment clouding his focus.

You laughed. “Oh God no, I love Mark, but I saw that kid go through puberty- I could never think of him romantically.”

“Oh,” Haechan smiled, “good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, good,” he stressed as you walked across the parking lot, towards the area you had left Mark in, “it would be really hard to flirt with you if you were in a relationship.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re very forward, you know?”

“It’s not everyday I get the chance to meet a pretty girl inside a creepy ass mall, then help her hobble outside after scaring the shit out of her, so I’m taking it as a sign from God,” he told you seriously and you smirked at him, amused by his over-dramatic interpretations of your meeting.

“Fair enough.”

“So that means I get your number, right?”

“Only if you use it for good.”

“Fair enough,” he mimicked you, smiling happily as you paused under an inactive street light.

“Y/N?” a surprised voice yelled from an unknown corner, and Mark appeared from the shadows of a small grove, his face screwed into worry.

“Geez, I thought you were dead- it’s been a lot longer than seventeen minutes,” he panted, running towards you and Haechan before stopping in confusion, his thumb coming up to point at Haechan’s amused expression.

“Who is this?”

“Crazy mall boy who is trying to create a new ‘Mystery Gang’,” you replied, still holding onto Haechan.

“What’s with you and Scooby Doo references?” Haechan asked, giving you a perplexed look. You shrugged, ignoring the still confused expression on Mark’s face.

“We used to watch them religiously when we were kids,” Mark interrupted.

“Really? Cool.”

Mark nodded, his body posture screaming stand-offish, hands stuffed deep in his coat’s pockets as he flickered his eyes between yours and Haechan’s bodies. Your two still very close bodies. You flushed under Mark’s watchful gaze, prying yourself away from Haechan’s heat slightly.

“I hurt my ankle,” you blurted out as a serving to explanation, your hand pointing to your stained jeans and lifted foot.

“Oh- yikes,” Mark shuddered, “How the hell did you pull that?”

“Some dislodged tile decided to launch a surprise attack on me, and then Haechan showed up and saved my sorry ass- but only after he scared the living hell out of me.”

“I said I was sorry,” Haechan protested, his bottom lip puckering as he widened his eyes.

“You literally never said ‘sorry’,” you corrected, squinting at him.

“Well, I’m saying it now,” he whined, poking your ribs.

Mark cleared his throat before you both got lost in your sparring again. “Okay, as seriously entertaining as this is- who are you?”

“Haechan,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t on you to Mark, clasping the older boy’s palm and shaking it loosely.

“I’m Mark.”

Haechan let a spark of recognition light on his face before turning to you. “He made the bet?”

“Yeah,” both you and Mark said, the latter scratching his neck and shifting his weight- still unsure of the situation.

“You mentioned there were donuts involved,” Haechan said.

“I did,” you replied slowly, still not catching on to what Haechan was trying to say.

Haechan wrapped you tighter in his arm, pulling your body back towards his like you were old friends and not a pair of strangers that had met at two in the morning in an empty mall. His hand pulled the edges of your coat tighter together, letting his curled fist rest on your abdomen. It felt weirdly domestic and entirely strange for this boywho you had greeted by insult ten minutes ago. But for some reason, you didn’t step away- you didn’t stop him.

“I vote we fix your ankle and then Mark gets donuts,” Haechan offered looking between the two more experienced friends.

“Why do you get donuts?” Mark asked.

“Because I had to drag your bestie through a creepy mall at two a.m. and now I really want a donut,” Haechan explained as if it made perfect since, and you shrugged while looking towards Mark- not seeing a fault in his logic. Except-

“You didn’t seem to mind ‘dragging’ me, Haechan, so I don’t know why you get a reward,” you teased, tugging on one of the strings of his hoodie.

“I second that,” Mark agreed.

“You just don’t want to buy more donuts,” Haechan said to Mark before turning to you, “And I didn’t mind dragging you, I minded the fact that I felt serial killer eyes all over me when I was walking through there.”

“Yeah, that’s understandable,” you conceded, turning back to face Mark as your finger lingered on Haechan’s hoodie, “he has a valid point Mark- it’s creepy as fuck in there.”

“Fine, but first you need medical attention,” Mark said, coming towards your other side and hauling your arms around his neck to help carry you- much to Haechan’s sarcastic thanks as he acted like supporting you had given him more back pain than a wheelchair ridden seventy-year-old man.

“I also want coffee,” you told Mark, leaning most of your weight into Haechan (you couldn’t help it, he was just so warm), “as compensation for my injury- either that or I pull out my lawyer.”

“I’d rather get sued than give you what you want,” Mark rolled his eyes, turning in the direction he had parked his car an hour earlier.

Haechan’s breath fanned against your ear as he leaned down. “I’ll get you a coffee,” he amended and you nodded your head with a smile as you looked at him. The pain in your foot had lessened and you could either attribute that to the comfort expanding in your stomach under Haechan’s gaze or to the spreading numbness in your ankle’s bones.

“Oh come on,” Mark’s annoyed huff let out, “I am three inches away- can you not wait to flirt when I’m not close enough to hear both of your dumb heartbeats?”

You laughed at Mark’s frustration, knowing to him it was like watching his younger sister sweet talk a boy right in front of him, but it didn’t stop you from pushing the hand wrapped around Haechan’s back into the pocket of his overcoat- finally finding a warm place for your fingers.

“Don’t be bitter just because you lost a bet, Mark,” you laughed.

“I’m not bitter,” he muttered bitterly.

“And I’m not getting a dozen donuts later- oh wait!” you said, placing a finger to your chin as if you had just remembered something.

“We agreed on half a dozen,” Mark argued, unlocking his car with his clicker before opening the backseat for you to slide in, letting you prop your foot across the bench seat.

“That was before I got hurt,” you said.

“Also I have a big appetite,” Haechan supplied, his hand slipping from around your ankle as he pulled away with Mark to enter the front seats.

“You two are going to be an insufferable duo,” Mark sighed, starting the ignition and pulling out into the faded night.

You and Haechan laughed, his eyes catching yours in the rearview mirror as they curved upwards. Small shop lights fluttered through the windows, catching on Haechan’s grin in a fluorescent haze, ghosting across his tan features like paint strokes. You decided Mark wasn’t going to get killed for sending you alone into the mall, because you wouldn’t have stumbled across this peculiar boy with mirth that dripped off his lashes like Hermes’ himself. You let your head rest against the cool window, closing your eyes with the flame of Haechan’s gaze still on you like an electric current, seeping into the quiet of the song on the late-night radio station you and Mark loved.

You had won two things from the bet that night, and both would leave a sweet taste in your mouth when the sun rose.

FIN.

read another piece of this universe here!

#nct #nct dream #nct 2018 #nct 127 #nct u #nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct dream fic #nct 127 imagine #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 fic #haechan scenarios #haechan imagines #haechan fic #haechan #fluff #this is goofy i love it #sol-peaches

[haechan-haedamn]

it’s two a.m. - Haechan

*it’s two in the morning, you don’t know how to say no to a bet, you forgot your gloves outside, and there is something moving behind you.

Characters: Haechan, Reader, Mark

Pairing: Haechan/Reader

Genre: Fluff 

Word Count: 4K

Somedays you needed to sit yourself down in front of a mirror and have a serious, personal conversation about your impulse control. Sometimes it worked out fine for you, ending with an ultimate face off with your fear of heights on a cliff edge (you didn’t even flinch on Ferris Wheels anymore) and other times it landed you in situations much like the one you were in now. The kind where you were by yourself in the middle of the night, in somewhere clearly housing a poltergeist, while your idiot friends laughed safely and decidedly not located inside an abandoned mall.

Really, you blame Mark for his stupid comments and his stupid way of knowing how to push your buttons. He always knew how to make you do something, and he was especially motivated when it would almost guarantee you being pissed or scared pissing. This was one of those times.

The worst part of it all wasn’t that you were all alone with a dim flashlight in a two-story knock-off of the Mall of America, or the cobwebs that were stuck to your elbow- no, the worst of it all was that you had left your wool gloves outside, with Mark. Your hands were cold and your jacket’s pockets offered nothing but a flimsy excuse for warmth, and you still had fifteen minutes left on your phone’s timer. The half-dozen box of donuts Mark’s wallet was going to buy you were probably warm, melting into vats of sugar after they were freshly baked.

Your stomach growled at your motivation. You couldn’t wait to get those donuts and you couldn’t wait to not share them with Mark Lee.

You walked slowly through one of the many, vast corridors, your flashlight flickering as it bumped against your thigh. The broken skylights above filtered stabs of starlight onto the dust-covered tile that used to be flooring. All of the stores were closed tightly with gates, the insides long empty and left to rot, the metallic-plastic of the black bars mattifying under the swing of your beam. A rat ran across the floor in front of you, hiding amongst a pile of long-forgotten boxes.

You really hated small rodents.

The bet was so simple, but as you travelled farther into the building you felt yourself regretting your decision more and more. The comforting skylights eventually forego into tarp covered plaster, blocking out the remnants of natural light with finality. Your skin began to crawl as the walls began to deteriorate, the feeling of small, jagged-foot ants tapping into your spine. Your foot caught the edge of a broken tile that layered over the rest, latching your boot beneath it as you pitched forward, barely regaining your balance in time.

Your shoe’s sole shuffled against the old ground, making a sound similar to a wind gush during a silent storm, calling out to ancient energies with a neon sign. Something shifted behind you.

Now frozen to the pattern of the mall, your foot caught into a cracked linoleum square, you began to list off as many curses you knew towards Mark.

Another shuffle. The sound of faint footsteps, of calculated breathing.

Maybe donuts weren’t worth a premature death.

Your own breathing had stopped, clogging in your throat like the dust bunnies in the corner, your leg molded stiff as your left knee locked. You began to pull frantically at your foot, but your shoe was stuck tight into the valley, and the weight had shifted towards your ankle. The pour of the tile was scratched from the edge, and the terrain was cutting into the skin of your tendons- but at this point your fear was so palpable it was hazing over the pain like a memory from your childhood. It was insignificant in the scheme of things when you were about to be possessed by the angry spirit of a Paris-Hilton-wannabe mall rat who had found you on their turf.

Your breathing had changed from nonexistent to a frenetic stutter, a heavy gasp coughing out of your throat as you sucked in the musk of the air. You were going to kill Mark if you ended up dead. Your ankle was starting to sting and something wet was seeping into your socks, soaking the rim like a rain puddle.

The footsteps were heavier now, close to your shivering frame. A shrill, violent screech catalyzed your own return- your scream filtering and echoing in the once-vacant mall.

“Who’s there!” a frantic yell attacked your ears as you crouched and cowered, your hands clutching the sides of your head.

The voice didn’t sound like a ghost.

But you really didn’t know what ghosts sounded like, anyway.

“I heard someone scream!” the voice whisper-yelled, “I know someone else is here!”

You muttered prayers absently as you curled in on yourself, your leg still bleeding and hammering in pain to the tune of shuffling steps. The thing was coming slower now, and you could imagine the creature crawling- it’s head rotating as it threw its voice in a false comfort. A light coaxed from behind you, the feeling of it breaking on your skin in a lukewarm whisper as you sat, grasping your arms and predicting your imminent death.

“Whoa…” the voice came again, now paces away and shocked.

Shocked?

You shuddered. “Hey… are you okay?” the voice asked.

In a cautious rotation, you leaned and tried to crane your neck around to see the source of the mysterious voice, but in vain you were met with the view of a dim yellow light. You couldn’t see past it, but the steps were only a couple paces from trampling you (or so you expected that to be their intention).

The thing was right beside you now, and the presence felt warm, like the summer afternoon and warm coffee in early autumn. You turned your head slowly again, half-expecting to see the grudge’s final form before you. The thing was close enough this time for your eyes to adjust to their figure and expression. What you didn’t expect to see was the contorted worry of a teenage boy.

A very pretty teenage boy.

“I asked if you were okay,” he restated, slowly reaching out to shake your shoulder. You were almost certain you were blushing at this point, embarrassed of your irrational fear and mental breakdown- now extremely aware that you were crouched on the molded floor. And that your ankle was hurting, burning- badly.

“Shit,” you hissed, your hands coming to place pressure on your bone and bleeding wound, but you still couldn’t reach the real injury as your ankle was still lodged under the tile.

“That’s not a usual answer to ‘if you’re okay’, but I think I can let it slide,” the boy joked, not realizing your compromising position against the ground.

“I’m not okay,” you seethed, “I feel like someone just snapped my ankle with their bare hands and then sloshed lemon juice over the places their nails had raked.”

“Violent.”

“Well, yeah,” you rolled your eyes in a testimony to his obliviousness, “I usually get creative when I’m in pain.”

“Pain-?”

Not knowing this strange boy (who was wondering around a dark, abandoned mall on his own without reason), you resisted the urge to reach out and punch his leg in the middle of your frustrations.

“Yes. Pain, P-A-I-N,” you started gesturing towards the large four by four square of thick murder that was stabbing and crushing you, “Do you mind offering a hand here, Scooby?”

He quickly washed the beam of his light over to where you were pointing, his tan face paling considerably as he dropped to his knees to help you. He curled his fingers under the ledge of the tile, his knuckles pushing up against your bare calf, before lifting with a held breath. The tile flipped over onto it’s back, letting gravity drag it pitifully into the hearth with a loud crash. You whimpered when you finally felt the realization of the full extent of your pain, observing the awkward twist of your ankle and the gash across it- still leaking wet, hot red blood into your shoe and staining the fungi-infested cement that was revealed after the tile was gone.

“Oh,” the boy commented eloquently, “That really doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” you bit back, not able to hold your tongue as shocks of misery raced up the nerves in your leg.

He reached down and lifted you upwards, his right hand coming to grasp the circumference of your biceps, the other pushing into your back as he struggled to support your wavering body. Your head felt light.

“How did you… well, I’m not sure what you did- but how did this happen?” he asked, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders as you threatened to collapse, your balance unsteady on your one good foot and blood rushing to your head.

“I was casually exploring this horrifying building,” you started. Leaning your shoulder into his broad chest, “because my friend bet me that I couldn’t last 17 minutes in here, and then suddenly my foot was trapped and you were appearing from the ashes like a poorly executed exorcism.”

“Why poorly executed?”

“Because obviously, the demon had not left.”

He scoffed, digging the pads of his finger into your body in annoyance, and you frowned as you looked up to glare at him. His face was making it minorly hard to be pissed- from his deep eyes to pouty lips, the softness that exuded from him was enough to wisp some of the steam away from your anger. But not enough for you to hold back on insulting his dimwitted approach to the stranger (you were the stranger this time) in a dark, haunting mall.

“Am I not helping you right now?” he snipped back, making obvious motions to the fact that he was the only thing helping you from getting re-acquainted with the evil flooring.

You shrugged slightly, hopping as you tried to shift your weight, letting your arm wrap around his waist as a reflexive attempt to regain stability before you pivoted forward- again. “You are helping now, but you were also giving me a heart attack three minutes ago. So, I’m sorry I’m not inclined to kiss your feet at the moment.”

“Does that mean you’ll kiss them later?” he teased and you grimaced at him, your nose scrunching up under his mischievous glance.

“Was that a poor attempt to flirt with me?”

He laughed (you decided you liked the sound), leaning into you playfully as he hefted you upwards again, righting your swaying frame. “You didn’t give me a lot of material to work with.”

“Then I’ll give you a tip.”

“Hm?”

“Try not sneaking up on girls… and avoiding lines that involve feet.”

“Noted,” he conceded, attempting to step forward and help you at the same time. You weren’t expecting the sudden movement and your other foot twisted strangely, sending you sideways and slipping from the boy’s grasp. He quickly reached out for you, his hand latching to your wrist as he spun you back towards him. You came around in a quick circle, landing before him with your forehead to his chin, your hands pressing into the soothing material of his hoodie. You cleared your throat and he took a small step back.

Now knowing what he was trying to do you were much more cooperative in moving towards an exit, taking small hops with his steps and limping back the way you had come and he had appeared from. The bottom of your jeans was now a russet color, sticking sickly to your skin- letting the cold air press into the wound.

On top of it all- your hands were still cold.

“My name isn’t Scooby, by the way,” Mall Boy told you, the sleeve of his overcoat grazing the underside of your wrist as you wobbled through the damp halls.

“I’d hope not,” you snarked, “If anyone named their kid ‘Scooby’ that would be enough to file a child abuse report.”

“What if they named them ‘Donghyuck’?” he prompted.

You smiled at him, raising your eyebrows facetiously. “Not much better in my book, but much more manageable. I’m sure a Donghyuck would only be bullied the appropriate amount through his childhood, but it may lead to weird hobbies- like sneaking around deserted shopping malls at two in the morning.”

“You can call me Haechan, then,” he stated, helping you over a rougher patch of terrain, his hand (so unbelievably warm, and so completely unfair) grasping yours to keep you standing tall.

“I guess you can call me Y/N,” you returned, slipping back into the growingly familiar stability of his arm.

“You guess?” he teased, “Are you not 100% sure about that name?”

“Well I’ve never seen my birth certificate, so…”

He hummed, pointing towards the main entrance of the building where you had come from, the lock still laying into the ground where you and Mark had popped it off earlier that week during one of your explorations.

“You might want to check up on that,” he said, referring back to your previous comment on your birth certificate, “You may be a lost princess or something equally inspirational for a Y.A. Novel.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, “I could have a huge inheritance right below my nose. I could use it to make sure no more malls get neglected and turn into horror houses.”

He agreed with you as he helped you lean against a wall, his thin fingers splayed against your hips. You dropped your head backwards, watching him carefully as he yanked the reluctant entrance door open.

He wasn’t very tall, but he was well built and proportional. He had a comfortable confidence that fell on his face (maybe a mask, maybe a truth) and his brown hair fanned across his forehead in peaceful waves. He turned his head slightly to check up on you, the soft outdoor light catching against his jawline and turning his eyes a mahogany brown. You blushed as he smirked knowingly, having caught you observing him with critical intensity.

“Enjoying the view?” he jested and you rolled your eyes even though your face was still aflame.

“It's better than the distorted hellion I was imagining when I first heard you,” you admitted, playing through your embarrassment with purpose, trying to turn your cards back into his hands.

“I'm going to take that as a compliment… and also as your weird way for asking my number,” he said, pulling you off the wall and twisting his arm back around your waist, this time allowing his fingers to tap into your stomach through the fabric of your clothing.

“What part of ‘distorted hellion' translated into ‘please, give me a way to contact you'?”

“English isn’t my first language.”

You laughed at that, sending his sarcastic smirk into a wide-blown grin, lighting up his face with a carelessness you enjoyed more than you should from a stranger. He watched you in wonderment, his other hand coming to hold the wrist that was covering your giggling mouth, pulling it away gently so he could see your whole face. You blushed again.

He winced slightly when your wrist had met his hand, his mind immediately taking notice of the arctic characteristics of your hand.

“God, why are your hands so cold?” he hissed, fully enveloping your bluing fingers into his warm palms, rubbing circulation back into them slowly.

“I got distracted by the thought of getting donuts after winning the bet, so I left my gloves with Mark,” you muttered, shrugging sheepishly as you both paused at the curb of the old parking lot. A flash of cold air befell onto you, reminding your distracted brain of the slow blood that pooled inside your shoe and the sting of your jagged cut.

“Mark?” Haechan asked, not noticing your hidden grimace as he maneuvered you off the raised block of cement, lifting you with ease.

“The asshole that sent me into the B-Movie horror set behind us,” you explained, falling slightly into him as you regained your faulty footing.

“Boyfriend?” he inquired sourly, a hint of disappointment clouding his focus.

You laughed. “Oh God no, I love Mark, but I saw that kid go through puberty- I could never think of him romantically.”

“Oh,” Haechan smiled, “good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, good,” he stressed as you walked across the parking lot, towards the area you had left Mark in, “it would be really hard to flirt with you if you were in a relationship.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re very forward, you know?”

“It's not everyday I get the chance to meet a pretty girl inside a creepy ass mall, then help her hobble outside after scaring the shit out of her, so I'm taking it as a sign from God,” he told you seriously and you smirked at him, amused by his over-dramatic interpretations of your meeting.

“Fair enough.”

“So that means I get your number, right?”

“Only if you use it for good.”

“Fair enough,” he mimicked you, smiling happily as you paused under an inactive street light.

“Y/N?” a surprised voice yelled from an unknown corner, and Mark appeared from the shadows of a small grove, his face screwed into worry.

“Geez, I thought you were dead- it's been a lot longer than seventeen minutes,” he panted, running towards you and Haechan before stopping in confusion, his thumb coming up to point at Haechan's amused expression.

“Who is this?”

“Crazy mall boy who is trying to create a new ‘Mystery Gang’,” you replied, still holding onto Haechan.

“What’s with you and Scooby Doo references?” Haechan asked, giving you a perplexed look. You shrugged, ignoring the still confused expression on Mark’s face.

“We used to watch them religiously when we were kids,” Mark interrupted.

“Really? Cool.”

Mark nodded, his body posture screaming stand-offish, hands stuffed deep in his coat’s pockets as he flickered his eyes between yours and Haechan’s bodies. Your two still very close bodies. You flushed under Mark’s watchful gaze, prying yourself away from Haechan’s heat slightly.

“I hurt my ankle,” you blurted out as a serving to explanation, your hand pointing to your stained jeans and lifted foot.

“Oh- yikes,” Mark shuddered, “How the hell did you pull that?”

“Some dislodged tile decided to launch a surprise attack on me, and then Haechan showed up and saved my sorry ass- but only after he scared the living hell out of me.”

“I said I was sorry,” Haechan protested, his bottom lip puckering as he widened his eyes.

“You literally never said ‘sorry’,” you corrected, squinting at him.

“Well, I’m saying it now,” he whined, poking your ribs.

Mark cleared his throat before you both got lost in your sparring again. “Okay, as seriously entertaining as this is- who are you?”

“Haechan,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t on you to Mark, clasping the older boy’s palm and shaking it loosely.

“I’m Mark.”

Haechan let a spark of recognition light on his face before turning to you. “He made the bet?”

“Yeah,” both you and Mark said, the latter scratching his neck and shifting his weight- still unsure of the situation.

“You mentioned there were donuts involved,” Haechan said.

“I did,” you replied slowly, still not catching on to what Haechan was trying to say.

Haechan wrapped you tighter in his arm, pulling your body back towards his like you were old friends and not a pair of strangers that had met at two in the morning in an empty mall. His hand pulled the edges of your coat tighter together, letting his curled fist rest on your abdomen. It felt weirdly domestic and entirely strange for this boy who you had greeted by insult ten minutes ago. But for some reason, you didn’t step away- you didn’t stop him.

“I vote we fix your ankle and then Mark gets donuts,” Haechan offered looking between the two more experienced friends.

“Why do you get donuts?” Mark asked.

“Because I had to drag your bestie through a creepy mall at two a.m. and now I really want a donut,” Haechan explained as if it made perfect since, and you shrugged while looking towards Mark- not seeing a fault in his logic. Except-

“You didn’t seem to mind ‘dragging’ me, Haechan, so I don’t know why you get a reward,” you teased, tugging on one of the strings of his hoodie.

“I second that,” Mark agreed.

“You just don’t want to buy more donuts,” Haechan said to Mark before turning to you, “And I didn’t mind dragging you, I minded the fact that I felt serial killer eyes all over me when I was walking through there.”

“Yeah, that’s understandable,” you conceded, turning back to face Mark as your finger lingered on Haechan’s hoodie, “he has a valid point Mark- it’s creepy as fuck in there.”

“Fine, but first you need medical attention,” Mark said, coming towards your other side and hauling your arms around his neck to help carry you- much to Haechan’s sarcastic thanks as he acted like supporting you had given him more back pain than a wheelchair ridden seventy-year-old man.

“I also want coffee,” you told Mark, leaning most of your weight into Haechan (you couldn’t help it, he was just so warm), “as compensation for my injury- either that or I pull out my lawyer.”

“I’d rather get sued than give you what you want,” Mark rolled his eyes, turning in the direction he had parked his car an hour earlier.

Haechan’s breath fanned against your ear as he leaned down. “I’ll get you a coffee,” he amended and you nodded your head with a smile as you looked at him. The pain in your foot had lessened and you could either attribute that to the comfort expanding in your stomach under Haechan’s gaze or to the spreading numbness in your ankle’s bones.

“Oh come on,” Mark’s annoyed huff let out, “I am three inches away- can you not wait to flirt when I’m not close enough to hear both of your dumb heartbeats?”

You laughed at Mark’s frustration, knowing to him it was like watching his younger sister sweet talk a boy right in front of him, but it didn’t stop you from pushing the hand wrapped around Haechan’s back into the pocket of his overcoat- finally finding a warm place for your fingers.

“Don’t be bitter just because you lost a bet, Mark,” you laughed.

“I’m not bitter,” he muttered bitterly.

“And I’m not getting a dozen donuts later- oh wait!” you said, placing a finger to your chin as if you had just remembered something.

“We agreed on half a dozen,” Mark argued, unlocking his car with his clicker before opening the backseat for you to slide in, letting you prop your foot across the bench seat.

“That was before I got hurt,” you said.

“Also I have a big appetite,” Haechan supplied, his hand slipping from around your ankle as he pulled away with Mark to enter the front seats.

“You two are going to be an insufferable duo,” Mark sighed, starting the ignition and pulling out into the faded night.

You and Haechan laughed, his eyes catching yours in the rearview mirror as they curved upwards. Small shop lights fluttered through the windows, catching on Haechan’s grin in a fluorescent haze, ghosting across his tan features like paint strokes. You decided Mark wasn’t going to get killed for sending you alone into the mall, because you wouldn’t have stumbled across this peculiar boy with mirth that dripped off his lashes like Hermes’ himself. You let your head rest against the cool window, closing your eyes with the flame of Haechan’s gaze still on you like an electric current, seeping into the quiet of the song on the late-night radio station you and Mark loved.

You had won two things from the bet that night, and both would leave a sweet taste in your mouth when the sun rose.

FIN.

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