good advice
after hoursa/n: this isn't the reality i wanted
tagged: NONCON LIKE NO OTHER, possessiveness, kris fail sleuthing skills (just a bit, y'know), last bg part i swear, gonna write forward from this point on, i'm not ok, these aren't tags anymore omf, explicit language (from minseok, too, omg what), this all happens before the first & second chapter, some of it during the second, this is chronologically effed up i'm srs, LONGEST UPDATE!!1!!
after hours
(one grows curiouser and curiouser)
"If I listened earlier I wouldn’t be here!" said Alice. "But that’s just the trouble with me."
"I give myself very good advice... but I very seldom follow it."
No one ever knew about what happened. They don’t know it’s still happening, that it will continue to happen until either one backs off or stands up. But still, the signs were apparent after Jongdae moved—especially after Jongdae moved, because he might as well have been the reason it transgressed past something manageable to something out of control. Of course, he would’ve never known because Jongdae hardly knew about Luhan, other than the things everyone else says, but then again Jongdae was too wrapped up in the sound of his own voice to care about what others had to say.
Kris, of all people, hated moseying into people’s problems but it was different when could smell trouble brewing from a mile away. He was the first to notice Luhan’s behavioral shift. Once, he tried to follow Luhan after last period had ended one day, a feat that ended in dismal failure, because their school made no sense. The building could only navigate from floor one to floor two on the west wing, and in the east wing, supposedly, there were a pair of elevators that chuted between the third and fourth floors, except Kris, in his three years of high school, never had to use them, so he automatically assumed they were things of legend.
Only students that took accelerated courses or met for seminar training ever actually went up to the third or fourth floors and Kris wasn’t about that life, so he never actually knew how to get up there. Kris ended up losing him midway. Cunning as his classmate is, Kris thinks Luhan intentionally covered his tracks and led him through some little game, because he somehow ended up in the recreational center track on the second floor that looked over the volleyball courts and suddenly girls were hanging from his arms like clingy little octopus things.
Peeling off their tiny wrists and thin arms from his shoulders, Kris heard a door slam shut down one of the adjacent hallways and knew he’d been thrown off the other’s trail. He didn’t bother to try trailing him again because Luhan could pull cunning on the spot, and besides, Kris could never pull off the stealth act. Yixing, maybe, but not Kris. There was nothing about Kris that could move silently or without notice—he was simply too big and too awkward with his limbs to attempt.
If Kris had kept on his trail, though, maybe all of it could have been avoided.
Making his way back to the field, a tiny boy bumps into his chest, hair parted horribly down the middle, cartoonish rounded frames that made him look beyond his years, his body exuding heat like it wasn’t used to the whole breathing and running business. There’s a thick playscript in his arms and he looks genuinely in a mix of petrification and haze.
“Sorry—I’m—sorry, um, excuse me.” The boy takes off, albeit with flair, and Kris sort of looks after him with downed eyebrows. After a second, he snaps his fingers in recognition.
“Oh—right. That’s that one kid—the theater kid Luhan talks about.” The huge wad of spiral-bound papers and dramatic happenstance made sense now. Kris doesn’t think any more of it. It’s nice to put a face to a—hmm. Kris doesn’t recall his name.
Luhan never said he had one, mainly referred to him with pronouns but Kris can’t recall a name. Knowing Luhan, he probably didn’t know it either. He never cared to know about anyone but himself, not in selfishness, but because to care meant to be attached, and the kid only works in patterns and games. It would just be fate that both parties end up at each other’s wits, because Luhan always has a game plan ready for deliverance at any given moment.
Soccer isn't really his forte—basketball is more his thing, but Kris has played soccer with Luhan before, and the kid always bends and twists his way through until he gets what he wants. He imagines it would go down the same way in any other circumstance.
Minseok’s hand slaps against the doorframe, hanging on to it for support.
“I’m—“ He in air like a vacuum, speaking quickly between breaths, “—here. I’m here. Made it. Not—late.”
Luhan doesn’t move, simply stays half-seated on the desk propped against the board, tossing an orange in his palm. It would’ve seemed as if he didn’t even hear Minseok at all except for the fact that he slowly turns his head at how Minseok gathers himself together until he’s breathing like a normal human being again.
“It’s really hard to get here when the practice rooms are so far,” Minseok continues on, stepping into a fog of discomfort when Luhan looks back forward like he doesn’t care. It’s insulting, really, because Luhan’s the one who set up this little meeting and made him rush his tiny legs all the way over here, to the fourth ing floor, and he’s not even going to pay attention? Ludicrous. “It’s just that Jongdae-yah really had to—“
“Him again?” Luhan breaks through suddenly, softly, and yet it lands at anything but gentle. Minseok’s heart catches into his throat the second Luhan steps away from the desk, quickly stuffing the orange into the front pouch of his hoodie. “What’s with you and him, huh? Buddies, members, cohorts,” he lists them out like a multiple choice quiz. He pauses before the last one, before breathing it into Minseok’s ear, simultaneously swinging an arm around his classmate’s waist to grip a feel into the small dip of his lower back. “Lovers?”
Minseok pulls a sour face.
“What—no,” he chops Luhan’s arm away playfully. “Jongdae is Jongdae. Not those things—I hardly talk to the guy. Acquaintance might better suit the situation.”
“Then stop talking to him.” Luhan cuts straight to the point, more than hard-pressed, and Minseok cringes on impulse.
“What?” This isn’t—what the hell. Minseok can’t comprehend. “What are you saying—“
“I’m saying, you don’t need to be talking to anyone else,” But me, except Luhan doesn’t explicitly say that, though Minseok should get the message either way.
“Luhan,” Minseok returns, shaking his head, utterly offended, taking the defensive. “You’re not someone to tell me what I can or can’t do. You don’t own me. Is this all you called me out for because— you. You and your stupid games.” Thinking I’ll do whatever you say.
Minseok stomps off, bitter and indignant, though he ends up regretting it a day later because maybe that wasn’t why he was called there but it’s not like Luhan tried to object or hold him back. Though really, having Luhan off his case brought a lot more freedom to his daily life he never knew existed before and it turns out that Jongdae is better buddy material—not that he ever considered Luhan a buddy. He got close, maybe, but most of the time, he was just there like some sort of leech. As horrible as it is to refer to someone like a leech, but dealing with Luhan took a lot out of him some days, ultimately ending up with Minseok developing a sort of immunity towards his classmate's need to leech off his entire existence.
It still appalls him, to think that some outsider would breach into his life and demand to run him like a machine. What a crock.
Honestly, Minseok should have listened to himself earlier, to the little siren going off in his head about how someone like Luhan would only disrupt the status quo, eat up the precious time he could use on other things that deserved attention, because people walk in with issues, and strew them about ever-present even on the way out.
In the end, they don’t speak again, not even after Jongdae moves to some distanced music school after the semester ends. Not until Minseok finds a letter in his usual spot on the rooftops, scribbled with a threat that looks and sounds more like a joke, mostly because it’s on girlish pink stationery, but the come or they’re mine, you’re next with a poor excuse for a pair of eyeglasses drawn underneath seems like the archetypical beginning of any video game. To Minseok, it seemed like the perfect excuse to make up and get back on mutually speaking terms again, except that clearly wasn’t what Luhan had in mind. Turns out the threat disguised as a joke was just a threat, after all.
But there’s only so much he could have known—no one plans murder out loud, so to speak—and it wasn’t like he could ever tell he was the one being played until after the fact.
e x t r a →
Playing this game left no ounce of joy for either party, because Luhan only brings pain and hurt and tears and if it could bear any consolation, it’s kind of obvious that Luhan has lost his mind, and that's where Minseok cowers, enfeebles within his own shell, careful not to antagonize, to resist or fight back because that's the kind of resistance that plays prelude into a waking nightmare. No matter what, no matter how much he wants Minseok to open up, even if he forces himself on the boy, burying into his body, tearing him, scarring him, making him feel how much it hurts, how miserable it must feel, how Luhan needs to make Minseok bend under him—no matter what, it won’t happen. That, paired with Luhan’s horrible attachment to all things tiny and easily beguiled inspire something dark, something ugly and marring to run through his veins.
Holding Minseok from buckling hard against the desk, Luhan places his free hand right below the other boy’s stomach and grinds down into him. A silent cry mouths into his palm.
It doesn’t go in—that’s impossible. No lube or tongue or fingers—his entrance pushes against Luhan with the same force he’s pushing into him, body reflexively closing the gap between his thighs. Luhan panics, thinking either he’s too big or Minseok’s too small, and he’s not well-informed or even experienced in this sort of thing, but for girls, the tongue gateways everything. He removes his hands from Minseok's face and stomach to drop onto his knees. Minseok grips tighter against the wood, legs tensed straight, calves strained and tight as wetness brushes thick and full against his hole. Luhan salivates a bit on it and traces with his finger before pressing in, and it’s the most violated Minseok has ever felt in his life.
And Luhan becomes fascinated by how it stretches open more and more as he continues to stab into it, even curls his finger on occasion and waits to see how Minseok hikes his hips to the sky, back arching naturally and he adds another finger just to see what happens.
Minseok gasps, a short shudder, followed by a hollow whine that grounds Luhan to his toes, on edge for another reaction. He curls both fingers and pulls them along, and Minseok actually lets out a low, drawn out moan that inspires repeated finger burrowing at how Minseok involuntarily moves and grinds into every .
“Minseok-ah,” Luhan groans, breath hot, body hotter, and he jumps back to his feet, kicking Minseok’s legs wider before positioning himself a second time.
It works its way in, a little each time; Luhan ruts in brisk staccatos the first few times that has the desk legs screeching, lurching their bodies forward, but it ends up working in Luhan’s favor because the momentum sinks him that much further. Minseok sounds off in a voice that screams nothing short of wounded. He tries to ease his body into the feeling, letting Luhan fill him until it can’t go any further. Their bodies settle into a heated movement, sporadic and poorly-timed, but Luhan supposes it gets better with time. A hand grips at the hilt of the older's , and like clockwork, Minseok releases a moan, barely audible, carrying the tiniest semblance of how pleasure might sound, and it all goes downhill from there.
Luhan forgets everything then, blacks out completely. When he slips back into his own body, there is wetness dripping down his face and neck, palms framing the sides of the locker room sink, faucet screeching an icy waterfall. The bones in his body snap back into place when he breathes—a shuddering, frightened gulp of oxygen that ices his lungs blue. Feeling a chill prickle down his spine, he splashes his face again and grabs a towel on his way to dress out for practice. There's an orange sitting in his locker when he reaches in to grab his clothes. His chests heaves deeply, like he’s been out for a run, but the beating subsides by the time he changes into his cleats.
Even then, there’s still something eating into his focus. The lingering ache thrumming against the front of his pants.
The boy gets hit by sudden hunger pangs effectively distracting his thoughts for the moment. How good for him, that he'd keep an orange in his locker for situations like this, and he peels it easily, devouring it slice by slice. Thinking, trying to recall the last half hour, Luhan chews on the fruit before slowly erupting into a smile. That’s right—that’s all he wanted—just Minseok. And he grins madly to himself at how Minseok is his, marked thoroughly from the inside out. No one else can take him.
(Maybe someone should break it to him—that’s not how it works)
post a/n: someone asked me to write about their first time & i honestly hate writing non-fluff and i couldn't bring myself to do it (sad face), like i tried, but i totally skipped the actual gory details and aftercare (not that there was any, obviously, but a lack thereof) idk if this is even ok--but /nervous laughter. IMAGINE AWAY IT'S BETTER THAT WAY TRUST ME k i'm done. ;;u;; ask me things--prompt me, spam me, whatever you like
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